TOWARD the close of Friday's sitting Elias said: “You know, Berlioz has taken great liberties with Goethe's text—quite altered the story, indeed, and given it an ending to suit himself.”
“That won't matter much to me,” responded Christine, “because I've never read 'Faust,' and I have only the vaguest notion of what the story is.”
“Did it suffer a like fate to 'Wilhelm Meister's?'”
“No; but I can't read German, and I didn't know whether there was any good translation. Is there?”
“Oh, yes; 'Bayard Taylor's is beautiful. You ought to read it.”
“Then, besides, I had an idea that it was very deep and obscure—very hard to understand. Do you think I could understand it?”
“I'm sure you could—all that's essential. You could get the story and the human nature. I believe you'd find it even more moving than 'Adam Bede.'”
“Can't you tell me the story? Won't you tell it to me now?”
“Oh, I should only spoil it.”
But Christine begged him to give her the outline of it, pleading that she would enjoy the music so much more intelligently if she were not altogether ignorant of the plot. So, during their luncheon, Elias related as best he could something of the love-story of Faust and Margaret. Christine listened with bated breath, and wide eyes fastened upon his face; and at its conclusion she drew a profound sigh, and murmured: “Oh, how sad, how sad!”
“Now,” said Elias, “I must explain how Berlioz has tampered with it.” Which he proceeded to do.
They walked as far as Seventh Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, where they took the University Place car. Elias thought he had never been so happy. It was an exhilaration merely to share this young girl's presence, breathing the same air that she breathed. The sunshine caught new radiance from her hair. Lambent fires burned in her eyes. There was no music that Elias would rather have heard, than the music of her voice as she talked to him. They had the car to themselves for the first few blocks; but then it began to fill up with ladies, and at last chivalry compelled Elias to sacrifice his seat at Christine's side. He clung to the strap in front of her, and looked down at her; and she looked up at him; and so, with their glances, they communed together, very rarely opening their lips, until, having reached Fourteenth Street, it behooved them to dismount.
The music began. Christine sat forward in her chair, and listened with manifest appreciation. But she made no sign to her companion till the musicians had played, and the chorus sung, the first bar or two of the “Peasants' Rondo.” Then she turned upon him suddenly, with eyes dilated and lips apart, and drew a quick breath, and uttered an ecstatic little “Oh!” The syllable sped straight to his heart, and started an unfamiliar palpitation there. From that moment until the concert was terminated, both of these young people were in Heaven; she, thanks to the marvelous music, which seized hold of her, and bore her away, like a blossom upon its bosom: he, thanks to the beautiful girl who was seated next to him, and whose eyes kept smiling into his, and whose breath for one priceless second fell upon his cheek. Every most trifling incident of that afternoon somehow engraved itself upon Elias Bacharach's memory. Long afterward he recalled it all: how Christine was dressed, the shape of her bonnet, the color of her gloves, the fragrance of the rose that she wore in her breast; how he had wrapped her cloak about her shoulders when she complained of a draught; how she had beat time with her fan when the students sang their drinking song, and laughed when Brander sang the ballad of the rat, and looked grave when Gretchen sang “There was a King in Thule,” and started, and paled, and caught her breath, and put her hand impulsively upon Elias's arm, when Faust and Mephistopheles began their tempestuous ride into hell. He remembered it all, in exceeding bitterness of spirit. He would have followed Faust's example, and pledged his soul to eternal bondage, gladly, eagerly, if by doing so he could have won back the possibilities of that vanished afternoon.
Old Redwood met them, as he had promised, on the curbstone in front of the exit.
“You'd better come up town and dine with us, Mr. Bacharach,” he said.
“Oh, yes; do, please,” urged Christine.
“I wish I could,” said Elias; “but, unfortunately, I must go home. The concert has lasted longer than I thought it would; and now they—my uncle, I mean—will be expecting me at home. Good-by.”
Christine gave him her hand. He watched her till she was lost to sight in the crowd. It had cost him a pang to separate himself from her. Now, as he saw her departing further and further away, it was like the gradual extinction of the light and the warmth and the beauty of the day. His heart sank. A lump began to gather and ache in his throat. He turned about and walked slowly home.
Crossing his own threshold, he shivered, as one might upon entering a tomb. Somehow, his house seemed darker, bleaker, bigger, and more cheerless than it had ever seemed before. It was, as it always was, intensely silent. His footstep upon the marble floor of the hallway resounded sharp and metallic. He joined the rabbi in the latter's study. They exchanged a few quiet words of greeting, and then sat motionless, without speaking, as though waiting for something to happen..The daylight slowly faded. By and by a star could be made out, shimmering through the window. Both of these men rose to their feet, and put on their hats. The rabbi lighted a candle, and, with hands uplifted, intoned a blessing over it in Hebrew. With the candle flame he lighted the gas. Then, picking up a bulky calf-bound volume from the table, he began to read aloud from the Thorah, also in Hebrew. Elias paid scant heed. He heard the rabbi's voice rise and fall in sonorous periods; but his heart and his mind were elsewhere.
“Now, Elias,” said the rabbi suddenly, “you read on from where I have left off.”
He handed Elias the book, pointing with his finger to the place. Elias took it, and read mechanically, pronouncing the words clearly enough, but giving no attention to the sense:
“And when the Lord thy God shall deliver them before thee, thou shalt smite them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor show mercy unto them. Neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy. son. For they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods; so will the anger of the Lord be kindled against you, and destroy thee suddenly. But thus shall ye deal with them: Ye shall destroy their altars, and break down their images, and cut down their groves, and burn their graven images with fire. For thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God: the Lord thy God hath chosen thee to be a special people unto himself, above all people that are upon the face of the earth.'” *
* Deuteronomy, vii., 2-6.
“'Above all people that are upon the face of the earth,'” echoed the rabbi. “Amen.”.
With the melancholy December nightfall had come the Jewish Sabbath.
THOUGH nothing had been said about it, Elias took for granted that the Redwoods would expect him Sunday morning; and accordingly, in the neighborhood of nine o'clock, he rang their door-bell. He found them ready for him. Old Redwood sat behind him as he worked at the portrait, and conversation was general throughout. They asked him to stay to dinner, but he was afraid of abusing his welcome, and declined. He went home, shut himself up in his studio, and spent the afternoon thinking regretfully of the good time that he might have been having if he had only accepted.
The first post Monday morning brought him a ticket for the private view of the Academy exhibition to be given that evening. The ticket said, “Admit Mr. E. Bacharach and one.” Elias went to his writing-desk, and, on the spur of his impulse, wrote the following note:
“No.— East Fifteenth Street, Monday.
“My Dear Miss Redwood:—I wonder whether you would care to attend the private view of the coming exhibition this evening? There will no doubt be quite an interesting lot of people there, not to mention the pictures; and perhaps it might amuse you to look in for an hour or so. If you will say yes, I shall be very glad.
“Yours sincerely,
“Elias Bacharach.”
This he inclosed in an envelope, and addressed. Then he sallied forth to the nearest messenger office, and had it sent. Then he returned to his studio to await her answer.
But pretty soon he began to repent what he had done. Surely, upon such brief acquaintance, he had taken too great a liberty. What sort of an opinion would she have of him? Of course, she would say no to his invitation. Oh that he could recall the note—the rash, impetuous note! It was too late to do that; and now he must suffer the consequence of his indiscretion, which would at least be a fall of great distance in her esteem. She would regard him as presumptuous and pushing. She would laugh at him to herself, and with her father, to whom most likely she would show what he had written. Perhaps she would imagine that he was in love with her—girls are notorious for imagining such ridiculous things upon such slight provocation. He, certainly, would never have the hardihood to look her straight in the face again. He walked up and down the floor. Why didn't the messenger bring her answer? Though he knew, or thought he knew, that it would be a snub and a refusal, he was anxious to get it, all the same. Would the boy never come? Was he purposely delaying? Taking a malicious delight in making his employer wait? Stopping upon some street-corner to spin his top? Or—or had she simply disdained to vouchsafe to his request any reply whatever?—— Ah! The door-bell! Elias's heart jumped into his mouth. He stepped into the hall, leaned over the banister, and listened.
He heard the maid undo the chain, and open the door. There was an interval of silence. Then he heard her shut it. Then, in a voice tense for excitement, “Maggie,” he called, “is it something for me?”
“Yes, sir; a note.”
He ran down stairs, and met the servant half-way. She gave him the note. “Mr. Elias Bacharach, No.— East Fifteenth Street, N. Y. C.,” was its superscription, in a pretty, girlish hand. The paper had a faint, sweet smell—something like jasmine, something like mignonnette. He carried it back to his studio, unopened. There, having closed the door, he went to his window, drew a long breath, and with trembling fingers broke the seal. Could he believe his senses? Christine's note ran thus:
“Dear Mr. Bacharach:—Thanks ever so much, and I shall be delighted to go. I have always wanted to go to a private view, but have never been. I hope there are some of your pictures to be seen; are there? You don't tell me at what hour to expect you; but I'll be ready at half-past seven. Sincerely yours,
“Christine Redwood.”
Elias's cheeks burned, his fingers trembled, his temples throbbed, he could feel the blood leap in his veins, as the meaning of this document became apparent to his mind. He read it again and again. He brought it close to his face, and breathed the dainty perfume it exhaled. The pleasure he derived from doing this was wholly disproportionate to the sweetness of the scent. By and by he put it back in its envelope, and deposited it in the drawer of his desk. But he did not leave it there long. In a little while he had it out, and was reading it again, and again inhaling its perfume—which, faint to begin with, had now almost quite evaporated. Still, enough of it remained to send an electric tingle along his nerves, and to cast a wonderfully vivid image of Christine upon the retina of his mind's eye. For the rest of that day he was incompetent. He could not paint. He could not read. He could not sit still. He could only roam listlessly from place to place, and wonder whether half-past seven would ever arrive.
At twenty minutes past seven precisely, as he learned from his watch, he found himself at the foot of Redwood's stoop. No: he had traveled on the speed of his desire; it would not do to be beforehand. The ten eternal minutes that lay between him and the appointed time he would while away by walking around the block. He walked slowly, trying to calculate just how many seconds, or fractions of a second, were consumed by each step. At last he had regained his starting point. He mounted the stoop, and rang the bell.
The parlor was empty. Elias picked up Christine's volume of Rossetti, and absent-mindedly turned the pages. Oh, at what a break-neck pace his arteries were beating.
Hark! He heard a light footstep coming down the stairs. He rose. All at once, it seemed to him, there was a burst of sunlight and oxygen. She had entered. She was standing before him, smiling and bidding him welcome. She had on a tiny bonnet of dark red velvet, under which her golden hair, and her lily-white forehead, and her deep brown eyes, shone at their best. She carried her wrap over her arm—a fur-lined circular. In her left hand she held her gloves. Her right she gave to Elias. His heart fluttered to the verge of fainting as he touched it. How small it was; how warm and soft! How confidingly it seemed to nestle in his! By a mighty effort he subdued an impulse to carry it to his lips and kiss it. He had no idea of letting it go, and perhaps would have continued to hold it to this day, if she by and by had not drawn it away.
“Here are a couple of roses,” he said, handing her a tissue-paper parcel.
She took them, and marveled at their loveliness. She fastened one to her dress, and forced him to wear the other in the lapel of his coat. She stood on tip-toe and pinned it there. The trimming of her bonnet brushed, his cheek. It was an instant of intoxication. He wondered whether she could hear his heart beat.
“It was kind of you to say that you would go. I was afraid you might not care to,” he began.
“On the contrary, it was kind of you to ask me. I am very glad.”
She sat down, and drew on her gloves. He saw that she was having difficulty in buttoning one of them.
“Can't I help you?” he asked.
Then he held her hand, and buttoned her glove for her, and breathed the incense that rose from the flower at her breast. Then he wrapped her in her circular; and they left the house. He offered her his arm. Her little hand perched like a bird upon it.
“I am so happy,” he said softly, and immediately regretted that he had said it.
“So am I,” she said, still more softly; and straightway his regret died.
He looked into her eyes. Far down in them palpitated a mystic, tender light. Elias had to bite his tongue to keep from telling her then and there that he loved her.
At the exhibition he pointed out the distinguished people to her, and showed her the pictures which he thought were the best, and was happy, happy, happy. Now and then somebody would nod and say: “How d'ye do, Bacharach?” and cast an admiring glance at his companion, which stirred his pride. Once a gentleman stopped and spoke a few words to Christine, and won a smile from her, which pricked his jealousy. He feared that it was not at all the proper thing to do, but he could not help asking, “A friend of yours?”
“Oh, no,” she answered; “only our old drawing teacher at the Normal College.” At that he was happy again. She wanted him to lead her straight to his own picture at once. By and by they had reached it. The subject was “The Song of Deborah.” The prophetess was represented as a woman of about fifty years of age, tall, stalwart, imperious-looking, with iron-gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a head of stern and majestic beauty. Christine thought the coloring was superb, and, “Where did you ever find such a wonderful face?” she asked. “It is a face to make you afraid, it's so strong, so proud; and yet it is a face that you could not help loving; there is something sogoodabout it. Oh, I like it the best of all the pictures here.” Elias felt that he had not worked in vain.
There was a great crush of people, and the air was close and hot, and the few seats where one might rest one's self were all occupied; so presently Elias asked whether she wasn't tired, and she confessed that she was—a little; and they left the building.
“Now,” said he, “it's still early, and I for one am ravenously hungry.”
“Oh, are you? That's too bad,” was her guileless response. “But at home I shall be able to give you”—timidly—“some—some cold turkey.”
“No,” he said, “I shan't put you to that trouble. Let's go to a restaurant.”
And he led her to Delmonico's.
There, the momentous question, what they had better order, occasioned much grave debate, and resulted finally in the selection of a sweet-bread garnished by green peas. Elias thought that Beaune would be the wine best adapted to moistening a sweet-bread, and accordingly Beaune was brought, as Christine remarked curiously, “in a little basket.” She applied herself to the edibles with undisguised relish; but all at once, pausing and looking reproachfully at Elias, she exclaimed, “Why, you said you were ravenously hungry, and now you're not eating a thing!” Indeed, she spoke the truth. His knife and fork lay unemployed beside his plate; and he was doing nothing but gaze at her with fond, caressing eyes.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said, and began to eat and drink.
They chatted busily during the repast—about the people who came and went, about the marvelous toilets of some of the ladies, about the decorations of the restaurant, about the haughty mien and supercilious manner of the French gentleman in evening dress who served them, about the view of electric-lighted Madison Square that they got through the window at which they were established—about a thousand trifles. Afterward Elias preserved but a very dim remembrance of the words that they had spoken. He preserved a very vivid one of Christine's appearance—of how her eyes had glowed beneath her red bonnet, of how the rose he had given her had shone like a spot of flame in her bosom—and of the bliss that he had experienced in sitting opposite her, and watching the varying expressions of her face, hearkening to the varying modulations of her voice, and realizing that she was trusting herself entirely to his protection.
Again by and by he had the privilege of helping her on with her circular, and of buttoning her glove. They got into a street car to go up town. The first half of that journey Elias found delightful. They had to sit very close together, to make room for other passengers; and all the while Elias was conscious of the touch of her shoulder upon his arm. But, as he saw the end drawing near, and knew that the moment was not far off when he would have to leave her, his spirits began to sink. Why could not the distance be doubled, trebled? What possessed the driver to race his horses so? Surely, street car had never covered its tracks at such reckless speed before. He rang her door-bell for her, and tried to harden himself to the thought that in another minute he would have to say good-by.
Old Redwood himself answered the door-bell.
“Come in for a moment, Mr. Bacharach, and get thawed out,” he said.
Elias breathed freely. Here was a reprieve, at any rate. They went into the back parlor, and gathered around a cheerful grate fire. Christine gave her father an account of the evening's doings. At last Elias screwed his courage up, and tore himself away. Christine went with him to the vestibule. He got hold of her hand, and clung to it for the entire five minutes that it took him to pronounce his valedictory.
Body burning, brain whirling, as if with fever, he walked home. A wild joy trembled in his heart; a wild pain, too. He loved her. To-night, at last, for the first time, he had recognized this very palpable and patent fact. He loved her. There could be no doubt about it. With a sensation of genuine surprise, the simple fellow acknowledged to himself that he loved her—with genuine surprise and consternation. Perhaps some time she might love him a little in return. But even so, he knew that between her and himself there yawned a gulf, fathomless and impassable; and in spite of his desire and his passion, he cried out, “God forbid!”
He let himself into the house with his latch-key. Through the glass door of his uncle's study, at the end of the hall, he could see that a light was still burning within. He threw off his hat and overcoat, and marched into the rabbi's presence.
“How that good man would start,” he thought, “if he should guess!”
THE rabbi's study was a bare enough apartment, furnished with a faded carpet, three or four chairs, and a writing table. The walls and ceiling were kalsomined in slate color, the former being lined half-way up with book shelves. A student's lamp, with a green shade, burned on the table. The oil in it must have been pretty low, for it shed but a dim light, and gave off a strong, offensive odor. The rabbi sat with his back to the door, bending over what looked like a manuscript sermon. The top of the rabbi's head was perfectly bald, and it reflected the lamplight like a surface of polished ivory. His little remaining hair and his beard were bluish black. His eyes, behind thick spectacles, were black, too—small, deep-set, bright, restless black beads. But his skin was intensely white, as white almost as the clerical collar that encircled his throat, and it looked as though it would feel chilly to the touch, like marble. The rabbi was a very little man, short of stature, spare of habit, with a frame and with features as slender and as delicate as a maiden's. Yet he had not at all the appearance of a weakling. You felt at once the presence of a strong will and of an active, if not enlightened or profound, intelligence. You felt the presence of a person who could, if he chose, be sufficiently good-natured, but who possessed also the capacity of becoming as hard and as cold as ice.
At his nephew's entrance the rabbi glanced over his shoulder.
“Ah, Elias,” he asked, in a tone which, though amiable, denoted very little interest, “where do you come from?”
“The Academy of Design. I've been at the exhibition.”
“So? Have you any pictures there?”
“Only one. 'The Song of Deborah.'”
“Ah! Is it well hung?”
“Oh, yes—on the line.”
“That's good. Some day I must drop in and see it.”
On both sides the dialogue had been perfunctory. Now there befell a silence. The rabbi returned to his reading. Elias sank upon a chair, thrust his hands deep into his trowsers pockets, and fixed his eyes upon the carpet. For a while the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was the only sound.
All at once Elias said: “Oh, yes—I forgot—I've been at Delmonico's, too.”
“Ah,” rejoined the rabbi, “eatingtrephafood.”
“I ate neither pork nor shellfish,” Elias submitted. “I ate a bit of sweet-bread. Of course it hadn't been killedkosher. But is that such a great sin? Some of our most pious Jews go to Delmonico's. To-night, indeed, I saw Judge Nathan there, with his wife and daughters; and he's president of his congregation.”
“Small sins beget larger ones. It's better not to commit even peccadillos,” said the rabbi. “And eatingtrephafood isn't merely a peccadillo. However, you're of full age. It's not my place to call you to account.”
“Speaking of sins, Uncle Felix,” Elias presently went on, “tell me, what is the worst sin that a Jew could commit?”
The rabbi's eyes had strayed back to his manuscript. Lifting them, “How?” he queried.
Elias repeated his question.
“Why,” said the rabbi, “there are the ten commandments, which you know as well as I do. They're of equal force. Theft, adultery, murder—one is as bad as another.”
“That isn't exactly what I meant. I meant the worst sin which a Jew, as a Jew, could commit—the worst infraction of the Thorah as it applies peculiarly to Israel. The ten commandments embody the common law of morality, which is as binding upon Christians as it is upon Jews.”
“Oh,” said the rabbi, “that's another question.”
“Would it be, for example, the desecration of Yom Kippur?”
“The desecration of Yom Kippur would be a deadly sin; so would the desecration of the Sabbath; so would disobedience to parental authority. But the most deadly of all, in my opinion, would be a forbidden marriage.”
“That is, marriage with a Christian?”
“Yes—with a Gentile, a Goy—with any one not of our own race.”
“That, you think, is the one sin which would be most unpardonable in the sight of the Lord? For which He would inflict the severest punishment?”
“Yes, I think so. And it's rather odd that we should speak of this just now, for at the moment when you came in I was reading a sermon on the very subject—a sermon written by your own greatgrandfather, the Reverend Abraham Bacharach, of New Orleans, the first of your family who came to America. I was reading a sermon that he preached at the excommunication of a young man of his congregation, who had married a Frenchwoman, a Catholic. Here it is.”
The rabbi pointed to the manuscript that lay upon his table.
“Indeed?” questioned Elias. “What does he say?”
“Oh, he agrees with me, that it is absolutely the most deadly of sins. He denounces it with a good deal of energy. There's one paragraph here somewhere that struck me as especially fine. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, I shouldn't mind,” Elias assented.
The rabbi picked up the manuscript and began to run over the pages, searching for the place.
“Ah, I've got it,” he said at last. “It comes just after a statement of the circumstances, as a sort of summing up. It's in German. Shall I read the original or translate?”
“Translate, if you will.”
The rabbi cleared his throat, brought the manuscript close to his eyes, knitted his brows and proceeded thus:
“Well, it runs this way: 'He has defied the law of the Lord our God. Let him tremble and be afraid. He has dishonored the memory of his ancestors; he has besmirched the name of his family; he has broken the tie that bound him to his kinsfolk; he has sent the father that begot him, and the mother that bore and suckled him, weeping on the way to their graves. Oh, let him cast down his face and be ashamed. To his brothers and sisters, to those who were his friends and loved him, to the rabbi, the chazzan, the parnass, and the people of this congregation, and to all faithful Jews from one end of the earth to the other, he is as one who has died a disgraceful death. The anger of the Most High shall single him out. His cup shall be filled to the brim with gall and wormwood. The light of the sun shall be extinguished for him. A curse shall rest upon him and upon all that concerns him. His wife shall become as a sore in his flesh. With a scolding tongue she shall be-shrew him. As a wanton, she shall shame him.
“His worldly affairs shall not prosper. Misfortune and calamity shall follow wherever he goes. Whatsoever he puts his hand to, that shall fail. An old man, homeless and friendless, he shall beg his bread from door to door. His intelligence shall decay. He shall be pointed out and jeered at, as a fool that drivels and chatters. His health shall break. His bones shall rot in his body. His eyes shall become running ulcers in their sockets. His blood shall dry up, a fiery poison in his veins. And his seed also shall be afflicted. From generation to generation, a blight shall pursue those that bear his name. For the blood of Israel mixed with the blood of a strange people, is like a sweet wine mixed with aloes. His sons shall be weak of mind and body. His daughters shall be ugly to look upon. To him and to his the Lord our God will show no mercy, even unto the brink of the grave. They shall be as if touched with the leprosy, shunned and despised of all men. To the Goy they will continue to be Jews; but to the Jew they will have become Goym. The Lord our God is a jealous God. His love knoweth no bounds. His wrath is like a great fire that can not be put out. He showereth favors abundantly upon them that love Him and keep His commandments. The iniquity of the fathers He visits upon the children and the children's children, even unto the third and fourth generations. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
The rabbi had begun this reading in low and matter-of-fact accents; but as he proceeded, his voice had increased in volume and emphasis, and the last words rang forth, loud and resonant, as though they had been addressed to a multitude in the synagogue. The veins in his forehead stood out blue and swollen against the white skin, and behind the thick lenses of his spectacles you could see that his black eyes were flashing fire. He paused for a little, breathing deeply. By degrees the veins in his forehead grew small and smaller, becoming pale, flat lines, like veins in marble. Presently, laying aside the manuscript, “There, Elias,” he added, quietly, “that is what your great-grandfather thought about intermarriage, and I guess there has never been a Bacharach to think differently. I hope there never may be one, I'm sure. Why—why, what makes you so pale?”
“Am I pale? I didn't know it. The denunciation is bitter—terrible. It gave me cold shivers.”
“Yes, terrible, so it is. But not exaggerated. It sounds pretty strong, but it couldn't be called exaggerated. For really it's only a simple statement of the truth, the facts. I'm going to quote it in my own discourse next Sabbath. It's just like every thing else. Break a law, whether it be a law of nature, a law of the land, or the law of God, and you must expect to suffer the consequences, to be punished.”
“Yes, of course. And yet, somehow, it seems as though the punishment ought to be in proportion to the offense. Do you seriously, literally, believe that the Lord would punish such a sin with such frightful, far-reaching penalties?”
“With worse, even. No mere human mind can conceive, much less describe, the fearful forms the Divine vengeance would take. All we can do is to picture to ourselves the worst, and then say: It will be as bad as that, or worse. That's what your grandfather has tried to do here. The Lord has expressed in perfectly plain language His desire that the integrity of Israel should be preserved. That was the purpose for which this world was created and mankind called into existence. Now, to enter into matrimony with a Gentile is such a flagrant setting at naught of the Lord's will—why, common-sense is enough to show the inevitable consequences.”
“But suppose a Jew shouldlovea woman of another race—a Christian, for example; what would you have him do? Leave her? Never see her again? Give her up? If he loved her, no pain that the Lord could inflict would be worse than the pain of that.”
“Hold your tongue, Elias!” the rabbi cried sharply. “What you say is blasphemous, is a denial of the Lord's omnipotence. May the Lord forgive you. No, no. His power to inflict pain, as well as to confer blessings, is measureless. What would I have the Jew do? Why, of course, I would have him give her up, no matter how much the sacrifice might cost him. But the case you put is not likely to arise. Love for a Christian woman never could enter a Jewish heart. Such a sentiment as a Jew might perhaps feel for her would be an unholy passion. She might fascinate his senses, but of true love, she could inspire none at all.”
“And yet, suppose, for the sake of argument, suppose that she could—that she had—that the Jew really did love her with true love, what then?”
“Why, then, as I say, I would have him renounce her, and abstain afterward from any sort of communication with her. I would have him pray, also, that his heart might be cleansed and restored to health; for such love would be a spiritual disease.”
Elias made no answer. The rabbi turned his attention to his lamp, the flame of which was spluttering and palpitating, preparatory to going out.
“Pshaw,” he said, extinguishing it, “I must have forgotten to fill it.”
Then he struck a match, and lighted the gas.
“You have made me hungry and thirsty with so much talking,” he continued. “Now I'm going down stairs to forage for something to eat. Will you come along?”
“No, I guess I'll go to bed,” said Elias. “Good-night.”
But he did not go to bed, nor even to his bed-room.
He went to his studio, and sat down in the dark at the window.
It was a wondrous night—the sky cloudless, the air as clear as crystal. The moon, waning, was up, but out of sight in the south, hidden by the housetops. Its frosty light bathed the prospect, like an ethereal form of dew, as far as eye could see. The branches of the trees were silvered by it. Their shadows were sharply etched upon the turf beneath. The yellow flames of the street lamps flared faint and sickly. The few human beings who now and then passed on the sidewalk opposite, had the appearance of mere black spots in motion. Only the largest of the stars dared to show themselves, and they trembled, and were pale, as if cowed by their luminous rival. In the north-west, the spires of St. George's Church stood in massive profile against the deep, shimmering vault of sky. An impressive outlook, cold, serene, passionless; of a sort to remind one of the magnitude and the inexorableness of the material universe, and of the infinitesimal smallness and insignificance of one's self, and to fill one's mind with solemn doubts and questions. But it had no such effect upon Elias Bacharach. Never had his own self loomed larger in his eyes, never had it more exclusively absorbed his faculties, than at this moment, in the face of this moonlit view.
Elias had been bred in the straitest sect of his religion; a rare thing in this country in these days of radicalism and unbelief. From his earliest boyhood down, his training, his associations, his family life, nearly every influence that had borne upon him, had been of a nature to make him intensely, if not zealously or aggressively, a Jew—to imbue his mind thoroughly with the Jewish faith, and to color his character to its innermost fibers with strong Jewish feelings. Besides, the blood of generations of devout Jews coursed in his veins; it was tinctured through and through with Jewish prejudice and superstition. He had never been sent to school, lest in some wise his Judaism might be weakened by contact with the Christians. His uncle, the rabbi, had taken sole charge of his education. Pride of race had been an integral part of the curriculum. “Never forget that you are a Jew, and remember that the world has no honor to bestow upon you equal to the honor that attaches to your birth. To be born in Israel is more illustrious than to be born a prince; the blood of Israel outranks the blood royal; for the Lord our God created the heavens and the earth, the birds and the beasts, the flowers, the trees, the air, the sunlight, for the especial enjoyment of His chosen and much-beloved people. But remember, too, that if the Lord has vouchsafed to you this great and peculiar privilege, so He will exact from you great and peculiar devotion. Though a Gentile—because the Lord pays no heed to him—may commit certain sinful acts with impunity, for you—upon whom the eye of the Lord rests perpetually—for you to commit them, would entail immediate and awful punishment. Though a Christian, for example—because he is of infinite smallness in the sight of the Lord—may transact business on the Sabbath, if you—a Jew—were to do so, the Lord would surely visit you with some frightful calamity. You might be struck by lightning; you might be afflicted with an incurable disease.” This was the sort of doctrine that had been dinned into Elias Bacharach's ears from the time when he had first begun the studies preparatory to becoming Bar-Mitzvah, and to assuming, as the saying is, the Yoke of the Thorah. Heredity predisposed him to accept it. The occasion had never arisen for him to doubt it, or even to consider it in the light of his own intelligence. He had taken it for granted, just as he had taken his geography and history for granted, just as many wiser people than he, the world over, take their theology for granted every day.
To a Jew such as this, nothing can be more intrinsically repugnant than the idea of marriage with a Christian—or, more accurately, with a Goy, which term is applied equally to all human beings who are not of Jewish faith and lineage. The average Caucasian would pretty certainly hesitate at the idea of marriage with a Mongolian. How much more positive would his hesitation be, if race antipathy were, as it is in the case of the Jews, reenforced by the terrors of a supernatural religion. It is no figure of speech, but a literal statement of the fact, to say that an orthodox Jewish father would rather have his son die than marry outside of Israel. He would prefer a funeral to such a wedding. Indeed, such a wedding would be regarded as equivalent to a funeral. The name of the bridegroom would be published among the names of the dead in the Jewish newspapers. His parents, his brothers and sisters, his nearest relatives, would put on mourning for him; and henceforward, if they should pass him in the street, they would refuse to recognize him. In the synagogue he would be excommunicated and cursed. All pious Jews would be enjoined from holding any intercourse whatever with him; from speaking with him; from buying of him, or selling to him; from giving him food, drink, clothing or shelter; from succoring him in danger or in sickness; even from pronouncing his name. “Be he accursed, and be his name forever accursed among men.” Furthermore, all pious Jews would cherish the conviction that sooner or later the vengeance of the Lord would overtake and overwhelm him. They would predict the direst calamities, the most fearful retribution. Superstition never pays attention to statistics, and is never shaken by them. No conceivable misfortune that can fasten upon a human being in this world, but they would promise it to him. Poverty, disease, disgrace; an adulterous wife; deformed children, unsound of mind and evil of heart; whatever the imagination can depict of horrible and disastrous would inevitably fall to his lot.
In this faith, among these traditions, Elias Bacharach had grown up. For hundreds, for thousands, of years, his ancestors on every side had nourished these superstitions. *
* It would seem hardly necessary, yet it is no more thanfair to say that among the better-educated and moreintelligent Jews in America, orthodoxy of this stripe is notcommon. Even among them, notwithstanding, it prevails to asufficient extent; and among the ignorant classes it is therule. It is a curious circumstance, however, that, in themajority of cases, those very Jews who have cast quite loosefrom their Judaism, and proclaim themselves “free-thinkers,”“agnostics,” or what not, retain their prejudice againstintermarriage, and even their superstitions anent itsconsequences.
And yet, an hour ago, when Elias had taken leave of Christine Redwood, his heart was palpitating with a myriad new and sweet emotions, for which, suddenly, at last, he realized that the right name was love—realized it, as has been said, with surprise and with consternation, for he had been unaccountably blind to his own condition until to-night. And during his walk home he had pictured to himself the exceeding joy that would be his if she should ever come to love him in return. And even now, the light of her eyes still shone in his memory, the scent of her garments still clung in his nostrils, the sound of her voice still vibrated in his ears, the touch of her hand was still warm upon his arm. Even now, as he looked out into the vast moonlit sky, and spoke her name softly to himself, a thrill swept electrically through his body. He loved her, he told himself; and if he could not win her love, if he could not have her for his wife, the world would become a desert to him, his life would be wasted, he would rather die, here, now, at once. Perhaps Christine, too, was at this hour looking out of her window. Perhaps her eyes, as well as his, were filling themselves with the glory of the night. In this fancy, highly improbable as it was, he found much comfort. It was good to think that he and she were enjoying something in common. The moonlight was like a palpable link connecting them, like a gossamer cord stretching between them and binding them together. Would that it might bear a message from him to her, and let her know of the love that was yearning in his bosom. Again he spoke aloud her name, caressing it as it passed his lips. And again his heart thrilled, intoxicated with love and hope.
But all at once his superstition sprang upon him. All at once, like a flash of lightning in the darkness, the fear of the Divine wrath lit up his imagination. Every drop of blood in his body came to a standstill and grew cold. He could feel his flesh creep, his hair rise on end. For a third time he pronounced her name; but this time it escaped like a gasp of pain from between clenched teeth. Why had he ever seen her? Why had he not understood the peril that he was running, and avoided it? Henceforth, at any rate, he would never see her again. He would do as his uncle had said, give her up, tear her from his heart. No matter how hard it might be, he would do it, and so save her and himself from perdition. But the resolution had not taken shape in his mind before Christine's face, pale and pleading, with pathetic, passionate eyes, came up visibly before him; and then he was conscious of nothing but of a great tenderness for her, an infinite need of her, a sharp pang of remorse that he should have been disloyal to her for an instant, a strong throbbing in his temples, a wondrous tremor through all his senses. Yet, even while this vision was still haunting his sight, the voice of the rabbi began to ring hideously in his ears, repeating the anathema that his own ancestor had written; and all the Jew in him shuddered at the sound.
He covered his head and prayed.
He remained in prayer until the dawn had begun to whiten the walls of his room.
Then he sat down at his window, and watched the red and gold burn in the eastern sky, and wondered at the strange calm that had come to him. His prayer had been answered, he believed. He had prayed that his heart might be purged of the unholy love that had stolen into it. Now he could think of Christine with complete indifference. Not a trace was left of the agitation which that thought had aroused in him a little while ago.
“The Lord has heard my prayer. I am not in love with her any more,” he said.
He went through the rest of that week in the same indifferent condition—ate, drank, slept, painted, chatted with his uncle, kept the Sabbath, precisely as though Christine Redwood had never crossed the horizon of his world.
“I am not in love with her,” he assured himself. “She is a pretty and pleasant girl; but I am not in love with her, and never shall be.”
The Jew had got the better of the man.