Trachtenberg

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7. Chapter VII



Raphael returned from his sad walk as he had started, pale, rigid, and upright. There was not only pity, but even admiration for him in the minds of all, for he gave no heed to his own sorrow and fatigue; he thought only of the wants of others. He called together all the poor to whom his father had been a benefactor, and told them only the giver was changed, not the gift. And to none of those humble and afflicted ones was he more friendly and pitiful than to the old woman who had entered his presence with a fainting heart, Miriam Gold, whose daughter had become a Christian. "Do not tremble, Miriam!" he said. "Such disgrace may be incurred innocently."

This was his own consolation in the first hours of terrible suffering which he had to undergo after his filial duties were ended. He would crouch down in a corner of the death-chamber and keep vigil for the dead, staring into the dim light of the "soul-lamp," and think of the way in which his presentiments had been realized, and the warnings he had vainly given.

"Were we ourselves free from blame?" Nothing hurt him more than this doubt. But he discharged the thought when he remembered the depth of the disgrace his sister had brought upon herself and him. The commonest wench of the Ghetto, he thought, grinding his teeth, would die rather than surrender her honor, and yet the daughter of the best man in the place could defile herself. She deserved his contempt, and he awaited the reading of the will with fear, lest the dying man should have exhorted him to clemency.

His anxiety proved groundless. In the document, written to express Nathaniel's last wishes, Judith was mentioned only in the assignment to her of her portion. He left his blessing to Raphael, with the option of taking up the business or of continuing his studies, but particularly urging him not to allow the action which Rosenberg, the lawyer, had undertaken to fall through. Neither Judith nor the count was involved in it, only Wroblewski. "Such a man should not be a law-giver."

Raphael's mind was soon made up. He assured his guardian he would remain in Galicia, continue the business, and pattern his life after his father's. When the first week of mourning was past, he undertook the management of the factory. What he lacked in years he made up in zeal and diligence.

The government appointed the burgomaster as guardian to Judith. This gave little inconvenience to the good man after he had sent her a copy of the will, to the count's address, and he had put out the money advantageously.

Time passed, but no answer came from her. This surprised no one. They knew she was somewhere on the Continent with the count--where, no one knew exactly, not even Raphael. He was the only man in the town who never mentioned her name.

Week after week slipped by. Winter came and buried moor and town in snow, and people spoke less and less of the beautiful sinner who had broken her father's heart, and was now living with her lover under Southern skies, amid a thousand delights.

Another topic of conversation cropped up. It was the downfall of the magistrate. It was first rumored that he was less firmly seated in his position than formerly, then that Rosenberg had secured an investigation; and then came a day in February when all, young and old, were on the street to catch a glimpse of the commission--a district judge and his secretary. Every one found it most natural. "It was bound to come!" they declared, and all rejoiced.

But they were mistaken. The result was what could hardly be expected. The first weak step leading to this result was the suppression of any display of ill-feeling against Wroblewski by members of the congregation, at Raphael's request, and by command of the elders. It is true, proofs which the deceased as well as Raphael had collected effected a good deal. But although the Lemberg government did at last become attentive and read these accusations more carefully than previous ones, yet Lady Anna's uncle was a prominent member, and he assured his coadjutors that they were all lies, and any contradiction on the part of the other gentlemen would have been rude. And these high officials were exceedingly polite to each other in Austria before March, 1848!

At times even Rosenberg was inclined to give it up, and to Raphael's despairing cry, "How can a government exist where such things are possible?" would answer: "It exists only in proportion to these circumstances." But suddenly the uncle became ill, and had to take a holiday. This would not have availed much had not the doctors said he would never be able to return to his official duties. Then it was decided that such a disgrace was no longer to be borne, and an investigation was ordered. The result was known beforehand--deposition and punishment. An official who deserved deposing merely was never tried in Austria. The machinery of the courts would otherwise have become clogged, and there would have been too many vacant offices.

Herr von Wroblewski knew all that. For the first three months he was kept in continual suspense between fear and hope--fear of the dead, and of the pale, gloomy youth who glanced so contemptuously at him whenever they passed each other that he clenched his fists without daring to raise them--and hope in the politeness of the Lemberg officials. There came a time when he was again able to enjoy the monthly checks brought him by the count's bailiff. The larger proportion he kept, the balance he sent to Russia, to the address of "Herr Antonius Brodski, in Mohilev." Inside the cover was written: "Here, Herr Tondka, is the money the count has sent for you. I hope you are satisfied; but if you are not, it will do you no good. We are not afraid of you." All the notes were in the same strain, some more, some less rude, according to the amount enclosed. As to the other matter, he could rejoice. "The stupid Jews laughed before their time." But when news of the impending investigation reached him, he gave up hope. It was fully determined upon, and there was no use in fighting. He had known for twenty years the way in which these investigations ended. His office was lost, and he must make an effort to escape punishment.

With the air of a man of injured honor, he stepped up to the judge and handed in his resignation. "The investigation will establish my innocence, but I will not remain after these insulting suspicions. I owe this to my dignity, the dignity of my position and of my colleagues, who have acted with the same zeal. I can affirm this with confidence, for I know their manner of conducting business," and he named a number of officials, each of whom had a worse reputation than the other.

The judge listened. A tremendous scandal was threatened. He commenced the inquiry, but reported this at Lemberg. The government reflected, the scamp was out of harm's way, and it mattered little to the state whether he got a pension or some years' imprisonment; besides, the cost would be the same, for he would be certain to drag a number of companions down with him, and his patron was still alive. So the investigation was stopped after two months, and Herr von Wroblewski was pensioned off.

The result was unsatisfactory to all parties, but chiefly to Raphael. Though displaced from office, the magistrate had escaped his well-earned punishment, "because he sinned mostly against Jews," thought Raphael, and the reflection made him more bitter than ever.

On the other hand, after Wroblewski was over his first annoyance, he was well satisfied with his lot. The dignitaries of the town and the nobles in the neighborhood were cold towards him, it is true; but a little philosophy made that endurable, especially when there were always some amiable people to be met who would appreciate his and his wife's social talents. He was free from the tiresome duties of office, and could stand the reduction in pay, since a brief note to the count was always effectual in producing any sum, he chose to ask for.

Agenor never wrote. In all this time Wroblewski had not received a line from him, and consequently knew as little as others where the lovers were staying. The bailiff, Herr Michael Stiegle, a silent, grumpy Swabian, forwarded the letters punctually, and brought the replies in a form which delighted the heart of the ex-magistrate more than the tenderest epistle could have done.

True, Herr Stiegle made sour faces; and when Herr von Wroblewski, after he had been turned out by Raphael, desired a wing of the castle to be prepared for him, the bailiff threatened even to be rude. But a letter from the count caused him to carry out this wish too. In short, Wroblewski lived as pleasantly as formerly, and much more free from care.

The letters from Russia did not disturb his equanimity, and the more threatening they became the more amusement they afforded. "What fools try to be scamps nowadays!" he said, contemptuously. "Such a stupid fellow, and yet he wishes to be a scamp!"

What did Ignatius Tondka want? Of the three hundred gulden the count promised him monthly, he received one hundred, a sum upon which he could live very comfortably in Mohilev. It was impertinent for him to demand the entire amount and to recall Agenor's promise. "The count refuses to give more," Wroblewski had written repeatedly. "He knows you. You would not dare to betray him, or to return to Austria, for your own sake."

The impudent fellow, however, was not content with this, but kept on writing. "I will ruin you both, though I perish myself." It was too comical!

So the days sped by, pleasant days of leisure for the former official; and as neither the Rittmeister nor the prior belonged to those narrow-minded men who had given them the cut because of the court of inquiry and its results, Lady Anna was also content.

The couple did not envy their successors, who had hired their apartment at Trachtenberg's, the magistrate Graze and his wife, vulgar people and poor creatures. The new judge actually lived, with wife and children, on his salary. A Puritan--he even paid his rent.

Certainly, living in the castle was not only pleasanter, but cheaper. There was the splendid park before their windows, in which no Jew could be seen again. For the first act of Wroblewski, after his transmigration, had been the resurrection of the "notice board." Stiegle, the boor, had striven against it, and had even asked the count about it, but had been forced to give in. The flowers seemed to smell sweeter in spring, and the arbors afforded a cooler shade in summer to Herr von Wroblewski, since the board was in its old place.

The summer passed, and the anniversary of the count's introduction to his inherited estates came, and was celebrated by a mass in the parish church. Herr Stiegle distributed alms by request of the count, but the donor's whereabouts none knew. A nobleman in the neighborhood reported that he had seen the young couple in Verona, in the garden which contains the grave of Juliet; that they looked very happy, and that the servant addressed her as Madame la Comtesse. But the man had the reputation of being a liar; so that even if he spoke the truth accidentally this time, it was valueless without further confirmation, for no one believed that Agenor could marry the Jewess.

Towards the end of November another anniversary occurred, the particulars of which were firmly cemented in the memories of the people. The old synagogue could scarcely contain the worshippers who had assembled to attend the first celebration of Nathaniel's death. The services over, young and old went to the cemetery and listened with deep emotion to the prayer which Raphael delivered at the grave. "Amen! Amen!" was echoed from all sides. Afterwards the throng viewed the beautiful memorial stone erected there, and repeated the words carved upon it, better than any eulogy--"The remembrance of the righteous never faileth."

Between this grave and that of Nathaniel's wife was an empty place. Weeds covered the narrow space, and thorn-bushes spread out their ugly branches. Very few besides the elders and members of the burial guild knew that this ground, too, had been dug up a year before, and something buried there. Others suspected it, but no one asked, and of the hundreds present not one mentioned Judith's name as long as they were in the "Good Place."

"The name of the righteous never dies; but whoso dies in sin, that name shall never be mentioned." Only when they had passed that gate which separates the world of peace from that of battle did they curse the outcast.

But one was silent. He paced by the side of the elders, his form erect, his face set. Since his return, no one had seen a smile on his lips or a tear in his eye. It was only when the procession passed the Baranowski castle that his mouth quivered; and by the glance which he gave towards the white building, which stood in the midst of the leafless park, one could see his implacable hatred.

Perhaps it would have comforted him in his anguish had he known what was transpiring in one of those rooms where the manager was sitting. There Herr Michael Stiegle had sat at his writing-table since morning, and had reckoned, shaken his head, reckoned again, and then growled. He stared at the ceiling a long time, and at last plucked up courage and wrote a short, plain letter to the count, saying that when he became bailiff his intention had been to get rid of the debts with which the late lord had burdened the estate; that after the interest on the debts had been paid, twelve thousand gulden had been netted, but he had expended at least ten times that amount, while the new loans had been negotiated under very hard conditions. Would the count not lessen his expenses, and, if possible, look after his affairs a little more? Otherwise he, Stiegle, would be obliged to relinquish his position. He understood agriculture, but not the mode of dealing with usurers. The letter bore the address of "The Bank of M. L. Biedermann, Vienna, for Count Agenor Baranowski," for neither did he know of the count's whereabouts. This oppressed Herr Stiegle's mind, like some other mysterious circumstances.

Possibly it was owing to that state of mind that the announcement of a servant that a Capuchin monk was outside, who refused to leave, made him more brusque than usual, so that he fairly shouted at the bent old man, with long white beard, who entered the room with hesitating step. The monk's inquiry also annoyed him, for it was for the address of Count Baranowski.

"It is none of your business," he growled.

The monk stepped near. "It is very important," he urged, with shaking voice; "by God and all the saints, it is very important!"

"Write a letter, then, and I will forward it."

The monk shook his head. "Perhaps the good director would aid him. It was concerning his cousin in Russia, a poor fellow, Ignatius Tondka by name, whom the count had allowanced three hundred gulden a month, in consideration of important services; but Herr von Wroblewski only paid him one third of the amount, and that very irregularly. Could the Herr Director not pay it now?"

As he said this he glanced at the papers on the desk, and noted the address of the letter which was there.

"No!" said Herr Stiegle, "I know nothing of the affair. You must go to Wroblewski. Adieu!"

The monk stood doubtfully for a moment, and then quitted the room, with a pious salutation. In the corridor he drew out his breviary, and hastily wrote the address. He then went to Wroblewski. There he seemed to have suddenly shaken off the infirmities of old age. His figure was straight, and his voice firm. "You need not start, Wroblewski; I have only come to arrange matters by word of mouth, it seems so difficult to do it by correspondence."

Herr von Wroblewski grew pale, but quickly regained his composure. "Why should I start?" he asked, with a smile. "You are only risking your own neck. I am not in your debt. All the count has sent I have forwarded. Nothing has been as yet received for November."

"Every word is a he. My money, or I will write to the count."

"Why don't you? I have not the address or I would give it you. Herr Stiegle forwards the letters. But consider which the count is most likely to believe, you or me. Will you send him my letters? And if you do, is there any sum specified in them?"

The monk was still. Then he burst out into violent invectives, declaring he would confess all; that it would be more pleasant to have enough in prison than to starve in Mohilev, and the good company he would have would compensate for his loss of liberty.

Wroblewski heard him with a smile. "Good!" he answered. "Of course, if you must, you must. But hearken to my last word. Here," drawing out his purse, "are two hundred gulden. I place them in this envelope. On the envelope I write--do you see, my dear Tondka--'Herr Anton Brodski, in Mohilev.' My servant will now take the letter to the post and you will accompany him. Here are twenty gulden besides for your journey home. I shall ring the bell for the servant, and he will either go with you to the post, or he will kick you out of the house!"

When Wroblewski saw the monk walking peacefully by the side of the servant, a few seconds after, he laughed aloud. "He hurries towards Mohilev on the wings of desire!" Perhaps, however, he would have been less merry had he known the workings of the rogue's brain.