Esterka Regina!...

That was what we school-boys used to call her when we returned home for the midsummer holidays from the gymnasium at Taropol, or from that at Czernowitz; and later on, when we were students at the University of Vienna, we called her by the same name whenever we talked of the girls at Barnow during any of our meetings with each other. Her real name was Rachel Welt, and afterward, when she married lanky Chaim, the cattle-dealer, Rachel Pinkus. She was a poor girl who lived in the Jewish quarter in Barnow. She lived in the small dwelling close to the Jewish slaughter-house, and her father, Hirsch Welt, was a butcher. He was a big burly man, and was disliked because of his rough ways.

But that did not prevent us admiring her from a distance, and the Christian ÉlÉgants of Barnow did the same with less reserve than we. The unmarried members of the provincial court, instead of walking in the Graf's garden during their leisure hours—a place where they would have enjoyed plenty of fresh air and the perfume of flowers—chose rather to wander up and down the narrow street in front of the slaughter-house, where but little fresh air and no aromatic odors were to be found. Even the officers of the garrison never seemed to tire of watching Hirsch Welt as he used his butcher's knife in strict accordance with Talmudic law. One and all of these loungers were actuated by the desire to catch a glance from the bright eyes of Esterka Regina!...

It was a name that suited her exactly, and there was nothing exaggerated in it, although a poet had given it her. This poet was Herr ThaddÄus Wiliszewski. He had studied philosophy in Lemberg, but unfortunately had been unable to pass his examination—a hopeful youth, who always wore a tightly buttoned Czamara and long hair, and who wrote verses, either for home use or for the Krakau "Ladies' Journal." The first time that Herr ThaddÄus saw Rachel Welt walking by the river in her poor Sabbath frock, he exclaimed in delight, "Now I understand the Bible at last! Esther must have looked like that when the King of Persia turned away his face and ordered that Haman should die on the gallows; and so must that other Esther, who induced our good King Kazimirz, the peasant's friend, to allow the Jews to settle freely in Poland, after the wise Germans had turned them out. She is Esterka, the queen!" And from that time forward all the educated people in Barnow called her nothing but Esterka Regina.

I repeat that there was no exaggeration in this name. Perhaps I had better content myself with making this assertion. For were I to add that her eyes were deep, dark, and bright as the sea on a star-light night, that her hair was black and perfumed like a southern night, and that her smile resembled a dream of spring—you would even then have no clearer idea of her beauty. I knew her, and remember her well. But the thought of that lovely creature fills my heart with sorrow. Her beauty was anything but a blessing to the dear child—nay, it was perhaps a curse. Beautiful, queenly Esterka was very unhappy.

She is so no longer, nor has she been so for many years. She is happy now. She is sleeping in the "good place." They laid her there to rest in peace one spring day long years ago.

May her sleep be calm and sweet, for she suffered much, and her sorrow was even greater than her beauty. The cause of her death was entered in the register as heart complaint, and truly so, for she died of a broken heart.

A most unusual thing to die of—far more unusual than any one thinks. Very few people die of it, and those who most loudly bewail their misery, and say that they are sure to die of a broken heart, generally live a long time, and at last die of old age or indigestion.

Rachel never complained of her lot by word or sigh. She went about the house as usual, and did her work as long as she could. When her strength failed her, and she knew that her end was at hand, she sat down tremblingly and wrote a long letter in the Hebrew character, sealed it, and then tottered out to the post-office with it. She asked the clerk to write the address for her in German: "An den wohlgeborenen Herrn Dr. Adolph Leiblinger, hollÄndischen Stabsartz in Batavia." The young man smiled when she dictated this address to him, but on glancing at her face and seeing that the hand of death was upon her, his smile died away. She got a receipt for the letter which she registered, and then tottered home and died.

Hers was a very simple story—simple as all the stories one meets with in real life, which differ from those thought out in a poet's brain—inasmuch as life is the greatest and most unrelenting of poets. When I attempt to transcribe the events of this story, I can not remain calm and unmoved, for I knew beautiful, unhappy Esterka Regina!...

I knew her when she was a little girl of seven years old, and I was a mischievous boy, grumbling at the strict discipline of school. I used to see her every day at that time. When I ran down the gloomy little street on cold winter mornings with my satchel of books on my back, I was in the habit of stopping at the door of the house in which she lived, and calling out "Aaron! Aaron!" for one of my school-fellows—black Aaron—lived in a poor garret of the same house with his mother. Hirsch Welt had given the use of this room out of charity to Chane Leiblinger, who was the widow of a butcher's man; for she was very poor, and could scarcely keep herself and her boy from starving by the exercise of her trade of fruit-seller. The moment I had called Aaron, the door opened very softly, and little Rachel came out, her hands hidden under her pinafore. Then the poor boy came down the worm-eaten wooden stairs, dressed in threadbare clothing, and Rachel hastily thrust the food she had been hiding in her pinafore into his hand.

He took it, often with hesitation, and always without a word of thanks; but he would look at the child strangely and smile. No one who had not seen it could have believed that that grave, stern-looking boy could smile, and smile so kindly too!...

"Aaron, will you come with me to the ice? I am going to slide."

"No."

"Why not? You're always so quiet, and your eyes look so gloomy!"

"What reason have I to be happy? Is poverty such a cheering thing? Cold is very disagreeable, and so is hunger. Or is it the blows I have to endure that should make me happy? The schoolmaster beats me, and so do all the Christian boys; and why? Because we crucified Him? I didn't crucify Him. Why do they beat me?"

"Oh, it'll be all right when we're grown up and are barristers."

"I shall never be a barrister; I intend to be a very great and very rich doctor. Then I shall come back to Barnow and say to old Hirsch, 'Here are a hundred ducats, which will pay off all our arrears of rent.' After that, the Poles will come to me and entreat me to cure their diseases and to lend them money; but I shall turn upon them and say, 'Go away, you dogs!'"

"And Rachel?"

"What's that to you? Well—if you really want to know—I intend to marry Rachel, and when she is my wife she shall wear silk gowns; but they must be a thousand times more splendid than those that the GrÄfin...."

Aaron Leiblinger was strange and somewhat eccentric even as a boy. There was nothing very noticeable in his appearance: he was short and insignificant-looking, and his face was almost ugly, but it was redeemed by beautiful and expressive eyes. His forehead was low, and the hair that hung over it was black and curly. He was of a thoughtful disposition, and many of his ideas were surprising in a boy who was the son of an ignorant hawker, and who lived in a miserable garret. He made, or rather forced, his way through life by his quick intelligence, firmness, and energy. For a time it might have been said of him that he succeeded in all his aims and desires. His mother had intended him to help her in her labors as fruit-seller as soon as he had learned to read the Prayer-book; but Aaron wanted to go to a Thorah school, and he went. He wanted to learn the Talmud, and to know it better than his school-fellows, and he succeeded. After that, he wanted to go to the Christian school—an unheard-of thing—and yet he had his own way.

The means he employed were unusual. First of all he told his mother of his determination. The woman was pious and narrow-minded, so she cursed and swore, and then hastened to tell the members of session with loud cries and lamentations that her son intended to become a Christian. For what other reason could induce a Jewish boy to go to a Christian school? The doctor certainly sent his sons to it; but then, the doctor was only half a Jew, and wore a "German" suit of clothes. The chiefs of session praised the woman for her pious zeal, and sent for the boy. He came, and before they could overwhelm him with the remonstrances and threats they deemed suitable for the case, he said: "I know all that you would tell me, so you may save yourselves the trouble of speaking to me. Now, listen to me, for you don't know what I have to say to you. I intend to go to the Christian school, for I am determined to learn everything that can be learned. We need not discuss that point, because my mind is made up. What we have to settle is, whether I am to do it as a Christian or as a Jew. My mother can no longer support me—she is growing old—so I tell you plainly that if you will give me food, clothes, and books, I will remain a Jew, and will teach the children for that remuneration. If you refuse, I shall become a Christian—the fat dean will do anything to secure the salvation of a soul."

This strange and eccentric address was not ineffectual. The elders of the congregation bowed before the iron will of the boy, and gave him the small help that he demanded. He went to the monastery school as a Jew, in caftan and curls. It was dreadful what he suffered in consequence of this dress. Perhaps God counted the tears he shed and the blows he received; he grew tired of counting them, tired of weeping. He bore everything—injustice and blows, hunger and cold, or the few, very few, acts of kindness shown him—with the same gloomy and defiant composure. An unquenchable longing for knowledge and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance sustained him. His face even quite lost its youthful expression. My school-fellow, Aaron Leiblinger, was much, very much, to be pitied.

But even the poorest life possesses some treasure to which it clings. The gloomy, reserved boy loved little Rachel dearly. His face softened strangely and touchingly when he was talking to her. I used to feel, though I could not have told why, that it did him good to speak to him about the child. I believe that he would have died for her unhesitatingly. And once a very curious thing happened—he wept—when Rachel had small-pox.

He scarcely shed a tear when his mother died. Her death made no great void in his life, and apparently did not much move him. He lived alone in the garret now—that was all. Burly old Hirsch Welt provided him with food after that, but he did not trespass long on his kindness. One summer morning he came to see me very early. "Good-by," he said; "I've come to say good-by, because you were always kind to me. I'm going away from Barnow to-day, that I may become a rich man."

"But you'll starve by the way."

"Oh no; I have the money that my mother left—three florins. I'm going to Lemberg—good-by."

So he went away, and I did not hear of him again for a long, long time.

Esterka Regina!...

It was a summer day—a bright, beautiful afternoon in July. The sun was shining on the heath, which was sweet with flowers and musical with the hum of insects. Although a dull solitary place during the greater part of the year, it was full of color, perfume, and life in summer. All was quiet and still in the Ghetto; no one was moving about in the street; the bustle of trade was hushed.

The young people were walking by the river-side, dressed in their best clothes. The young men looked pale and old of their age, and their conversation was no more suited to their years than their appearance. They discussed their Talmudic studies and their business; it seldom happened that one of them whispered to his friend that he thought the girl who had just passed was very pretty, and that he should esteem himself lucky if his father were to fix upon her for his bride. It would be hard to say what the girls talked about. Who can tell what thoughts fill the head of a Jewish maiden, or why she titters as she passes down the walk in her best gown on a fine Sabbath afternoon.

Why? Well, perhaps at the sight of the young gentlemen who, in spite of their wearing neither caftan nor curls, came to walk on the "Jewish promenade" by the river, as if it were a matter of course for them to be there. And yet it was an unusual sight to see them there, for they were Christians, and grand people; and such do not generally haunt Jewish resorts. But it was worth while to make a sacrifice for the chance of seeing Esterka Regina—even a greater sacrifice than that of spending an hour or two on the Jewish promenade. The three groups of ÉlÉgants waited patiently, watching the stars of the society—the Rebeccas, Miriams, and Doras—until at length the sun appeared—the butcher's beautiful daughter. There were three groups, I said. There were the military cadets and lieutenants of the Lichtenstein Hussars, in their light blue uniforms, led by fair, talkative, little Szilagy; there were young Polish nobles and literati, with the long-haired poet, Herr ThaddÄus Wiliszewski, at their head; and lastly, there were a number of boys at home for the holidays, among whom was a youth, who is no longer a youth now, and who feels sad at heart whenever he thinks of that glorious summer afternoon. For its glory has long since departed, and that lovely girl sank into her early grave years ago, a broken-hearted woman.

But I can see her now as distinctly as I did on that day when she came slowly down the lime-tree walk leaning on the arm of a girl-friend. There was a stir among all at her approach: even the Jewish youths felt the influence of her beauty, and many of them involuntarily straightened their caftans and the long curl at either side of their faces. The three groups that I mentioned before prepared for the encounter. The blue-coated hussars took up the first line as beseemed brave warriors, and fore-most among them was little Szilagy, for he was the most audacious. She walked on slowly, and at last came close to him, he having placed himself directly in her way. She did not cast down her eyes like the other girls on passing these would-be lady-killers, but, on the contrary, held up her head and looked about her as calmly and indifferently as if the blue-coated hussars had been nothing but blue mist. When, however, she was forced to stand still, because the impudent little man had placed himself so that she could not pass him, her expression changed. This was clearly shown by Szilagy's conduct: he flushed as red as a peony, stepped back, and—incredible as it may sound—saluted her awkwardly. When Herr von Szervay laughed at him afterward for having been routed with such disorder, he said, "I have plenty of courage, and have often proved it, but I couldn't stand the way that she looked at me...."

The second group, who had witnessed the defeat of the hussars, thought discretion the better part of valor, and drew back betimes, the long-haired poet gazing with great eyes of astonishment and delight at the beautiful girl who was passing him. It was at that moment that Herr ThaddÄus's poor little brain, which hitherto had only been capable of making verses for home use or for the Krakau "Ladies' Journal," was suddenly inspired to invent the name that I have put at the head of this story....

And the third group! The school-boys were neither irresistible nor had they any ambition to appear so; they had hardly courage to look at the sparkling black eyes of the lesser lights, and when they saw the loveliest of all the Jewish maidens approaching them, they huddled together like a flock of frightened sheep. But one of their number—I can not tell to this day how I found courage to do it—stepped forward boldly and spoke to the girl—a good deal less boldly....

"Pardon me, FrÄulein," I stammered, touching my hat, "perhaps you don't remember me—little Aaron...."

"Yes, I remember you," she answered kindly; "you were always a good friend to him. Have you heard of him lately?"

"No, I haven't heard anything about him since he went away."

"Then I know more than you do. Old Itzig TÜrkischgelb, the 'Marschallik'—you know the silly old man—was at Lemberg a short time ago, and when there he chanced to meet Aaron, so he stopped and spoke to him. He hardly knew him at first; for just fancy what our poor little Aaron has become! He has become a gentleman, and dresses and speaks like a German. He left the Latin school three years ago, and ever since then he has lived at Vienna, where he is learning to be a doctor! Who ever would have believed it? And," she added, hesitatingly, "the 'Marschallik' says that he has grown very proud, and will not speak to a Jew. Only think, he calls himself Adolf now, and they say that he is going to become a Christian. I can't believe it, though—can you?"

I would not have believed in the possibility of anything that was disagreeable to the girl for the world.

"No," I answered with decision, "I don't believe it either. However, I shall soon have an opportunity of knowing for certain. I'm going to Vienna in a few weeks, to the university; and when I am there I'll look up Aaron or Adolf, whichever he calls himself."

"Yes, do," she said, quickly. "How glad he will be to see you again! And," she added, her cheeks flushing, "remember me to him if he hasn't forgotten me. But—you understand—only if he hasn't forgotten me...."

"Oh," I exclaimed, boldly and enthusiastically, "who could forget you?"

I was so terrified by my own boldness that I at once touched my hat and withdrew, stammering some words of farewell. But I managed to regain sufficient mastery over myself, before I joined my companions, to be able to receive the storm of curiosity, envy, and admiration with which they greeted me, with dignified calmness.

I did not set off in search of Aaron or Adolf Leiblinger as soon as I arrived in Vienna, although I had fully determined to do so. Who will not at once understand the reason? Imagine a lad of eighteen years of age, shy, poor, ignorant of the world, and brought up in a small country town, suddenly removed from all his accustomed surroundings and transplanted to one of the great capitals of Europe. He would naturally feel lost and dazed in the crowd hurrying past him, and among the endless streets and houses stretched out before him. He would need time to grow used to the change in his life, and to gain courage to face it. It was so with me. And then again, how was I to find him among the four thousand students who attended the university classes? I gave up the idea, and trusted to chance.

It was on a dismal afternoon in December that we met at last. There had been a thick mist all day, which after a time became a fine persistent and very wetting rain. It was so disagreeable that I was driven to take refuge in a large crowded cafÉ in the Alster suburb, in hopes of the shower passing off. Every seat was occupied, but at last I succeeded in finding a vacant chair in the billiard-room. The rain lasted so long that I grew tired of watching the drip from the leaves of the plants in the garden, and turned my attention to the game that was going on.

Three young men were playing at pool. The marker addressed them all as "Herr Doctor," so I saw that they must be medical students. My attention was particularly drawn to one of the three—a slender and rather delicate-looking man of middle height, with marked but finely cut features. He would have looked pale anyhow, but the intense blue-black of his wavy hair and beard made him appear almost startlingly pallid. His face could not be called handsome—his lips were too thin for that, and his forehead too low. The moment I caught sight of his face, I saw that he had a story; it did not occur to me at first that I had ever seen him before. But suddenly, when the thin lips were firmly pressed together, and the low forehead was contracted into a frown at some jesting remark of one of his companions, it flashed upon me all at once—"That is black Aaron!" And so it was. I can hardly tell whether our meeting was a pleasurable one; at any rate, our pleasure was not unmixed. When two young people have been separated for some time, they are apt to be rather shy with each other when they first meet, for they hardly know how much change may have taken place in each other's ways and ideas. This is doubly the case after a long separation, such as Aaron's and mine. We strove hard to bring back the old footing that had existed between us, but in vain. Our conversation was disjointed, and threatened to come to a speedy conclusion, when I suddenly remembered the message with which I had been intrusted.

"Somebody at Barnow," I said, "is very much interested in your career. Can you guess who it is?"

"No." And so saying he blew a cloud of tobacco-smoke nonchalantly in the air. "My dear boy, you have no idea how much trouble I have given myself to forget the people at Barnow, entirely—absolutely."

"Even your guardian angel, little Rachel?"

"What, was it Rachel?" he exclaimed, eagerly. And then resuming his indifferent manner: "What has become of the little girl? She must be pretty big now, though—sixteen years old or thereabout."

"And very beautiful too," I replied.

I then proceeded to give him such an enthusiastic description of her beauty and intelligence, that he could not help smiling. But when I had finished, he said, gravely—"I am very sorry to hear it—very!"

"Why? What do you mean?"

"I am very grateful to the little guardian angel of my boyhood, and should like her to be happy. But there's very small hope of that, if she is really as beautiful and intelligent as you say. She will either be tempted beyond her power of resistance, and fall a prey to some Polish or Hungarian swell in spite of all her wisdom...."

"Impossible!" I cried, indignantly.

"Or else she will remain the good obedient child of a father who will one day give her to wife, whether she will or not, to some rude illiterate member of the Chassidim. And as she possesses more intelligence than most women, she will sooner or later feel the whole misery and humiliation of her lot very keenly, and will at length die a poor broken-hearted creature in some corner of a Podolian Ghetto."

"You take too black a view of the subject."

"I see things as they are. You need not tell me what the Chassidim are. Don't let us discuss the matter further. Good-by for the present."

So we parted, and although we spoke of meeting again, our words were cool.

We did not give ourselves any trouble to bring about another meeting. But accident at length brought us together again, and for a longer time.

Early in spring, I moved into new lodgings, and the first time that I looked out at my window, I saw the face of my old school-fellow at Barnow, in an opposite window, side by side with that of the skeleton he was studying. He lived in the same house and in the same quadrangle as I did. We therefore renewed our acquaintance in some measure, and gradually even became friends—that is to say, as far as it was possible for students of such different standing (he was in his fourth year, I only in my first), and for characters so dissimilar as ours, to be friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very interesting," he replied, scornfully.

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

"How flattering!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly not!" he said, emphatically.

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

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

But at this moment they separated.

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

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

I went up to him.

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

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

"I heard some one say so just now."

"To whom?"

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

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

That was their first meeting.

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

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

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

At last he addressed me suddenly.

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

"Go on."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would have spoken, but she interrupted me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he continued:

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Every day—and waited and waited!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I stared at her in amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So we parted...."

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

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

"Yes," he answered.

"And were you successful?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

"I'll tell you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? Did you hear that she was?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Not till then?"

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

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

"Who told you?" I asked.

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

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

"Poor fellow!" I answered, compassionately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His old housekeeper came out to meet me.

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

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

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

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

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

"Rachel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A letter!"

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

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

"Yes; she died four weeks ago."

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

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

He put it in my hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was right, and I do not complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rachel."

I silently returned the letter to my friend.

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

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

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

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