WHEN Elias woke up Sunday morning, he saw that it was snowing. He lay abed for a while, with eyes turned upon his window-pane, and watched the snow-flakes float lightly and silently earthward through the still air. The street below was noisy with the sound of shovels scraping the pavement. The daylight had caught a deathlike pallor from the whiteness round about. Elias wondered whether he would be expected in Sixty-third Street, despite the storm. He got up and dressed, all the while balancing this question in his mind. But presently the weather itself decided for him. The storm ceased. The snow fell no more. The sun came out.
He went up-town, entered Redwood's parlor, and sat down facing the folding-doors that led into the back room.
He was not in love with her. She was a pretty and pleasant girl, and all that; but he was not in love with her, and never would be. This is what he had repeated to himself again and again during the past few days. So be it. But then why—when all at once she appeared in the opening of the folding-doors, and advanced toward him, proffering her hand, and wishing him good-morning—why did his heart stop beating? Why did his breath become labored and tremulous? Why did his lips quiver, his cheeks burn? Why should the sight of her have had this effect upon a man who did not love her, who was not even on the point of loving her? And then, when he took the proffered hand in his, and gazed down at her face, and breathed the air that her presence sweetened, why was his breast suddenly pierced by a strange emotion, half a pain, half an ecstatic pleasure, and why did he have to exert his utmost self-control, to keep from catching her in his arms, and kissing her? What is the psychology of these phenomena, if he did not love her? She wore the same blue gown that she had worn at all their sittings; but it seemed to him that her face was paler, and that her eyes were larger and darker, than their wont.
She bade him good-morning and withdrew her hand, and remained standing before him; and he remained standing before her, vainly striving to think of something appropriate to say. But—such perturbation did her mere nearness cause him—his senses were dispersed, his tongue was tied. At last, however, he contrived to articulate five words. The sentiment was neither very novel nor very witty; but it was at least creditable, and, let us trust, sincere.
“I hope you are well?”
“No,” she answered, “I don't feel very well.”
“Indeed? I—I hope it is nothing serious.”
“Oh, no; only a headache. And I feel lazy and chilly. I'm afraid I have caught a cold.”
“Then I shan't think of letting you sit for me this morning. We'll wait about our next sitting till you are better.”
“It's too bad to delay you so.”
“No, no, not at all. It won't make the slightest difference. And now, I know you ought to go and lie down. So I'll take myself off. Good-by.”
The last words were forced out with a manifest effort; and the speaker made no visible move to accompany them by the act.
“Oh, must you go?” she asked; and Elias thought her voice fell.
“Why,” he confessed, “I should like nothing better than to stay; only, I was afraid I might be in the way.”
“Oh, what an idea! Won't you come into the back room? It's warmer and cozier there.”
In the back room a bright fire crackled in the grate. Old Redwood sat before it, feet on fender, reading his newspaper. He greeted Elias, without rising; “Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Bacharach? Glad to see you,” and went on reading.
Christine sank into a deep easy-chair at her father's left. Elias seated himself next to her. He did not speak. He had no desire to speak. He would gladly have sat there all day in silence, simply enjoying the sight of her, and his sense of closeness to her.
She said, “It is a pity to have brought you clear up here for nothing, Mr. Bacharach. It makes me feel guilty to think of the time you are losing.”
“My time,” he protested, “is not of such great value; and there's no place where I could spend it so pleasantly.”
“I should have written you a note,” she added, “telling you not to come; but I had no idea I was going to feel out-of-sorts. I felt as well as usual last night.”
“I'm very glad you didn't write the note,” he said, with haste and emphasis.
“Any way,” she reflected, “you couldn't have received it, could you? To-day being Sunday, it wouldn't have been delivered till to-morrow.”
He made no answer. At that moment he was gazing at a tiny white hand that rested on the arm of her chair, gazing hungrily at it, and thinking how he would like for a single second to touch it, to stroke it, to press it to his lips. The hand must have felt the influence of his gaze, for it began to move about in a restless, uneasy manner, and ended by hiding itself among the folds of her garment in her lap. Elias sighed, as it disappeared; and then, with no obvious relevancy, remarked, “This is the first snow of the year.”
“Yes,” she assented; “and now Christmas will be here pretty soon, and then my birthday. Do you know, Mr. Bacharach, it's very unfortunate to have your birthday come right after Christmas? Because, of course, you can't expect to get presents so soon again. I want my father to change my birthday to July—make believe I was born on the third of July, instead of the third of January. That would have a double advantage. It would make me six months younger.”
“But if I should do that,” argued the old man, “I should have to apply to the legislature to have your name changed, too. We named you Christine, on account of your being born so near Christmas. If we shift your birthday over to July, we'll have to call ye Julia.”
“Oh, then I'd rather have you leave things as they are. I should hate to be called Julia. Do you like Julia, Mr. Bacharach?”
“Not nearly so well as Christine.”—It was delightful—so intimate, so confidential—thus to be allowed to speak her name in her presence.—“Christine,” lingering upon the word, “Christine is the prettiest name I know.”
“Your name,”—shyly—“your name is Elias, isn't it?” she asked.
“Yes, Elias. There have never been any names but three among the men of my family—Ephraim, Abraham, and Elias. My father's name was Abraham, his father's Elias, and so on back. The younger son, when there has been one, has always been called Ephraim. Old-fashioned, Bible names, you see.”
“I had a second-cousin named Ephraim,” old Redwood volunteered.
Christine said, “I'm glad they didn't name you Ephraim or Abraham. But I like Elias.”
“Do you, indeed? Most people find it exceedingly ugly. When I was a boy, it used to make me quite unhappy. My playmates used to tease me about it.”
“How heartless of them! And how stupid! For it isn't a bit ugly. It's strong. It has so much character, so much individuality—Elias.”
If it had been agreeable to be allowed to pronounce her name, it was trebly agreeable to hear her pronounce and applaud his own. Indeed, the quality of the name hereby underwent a considerable transformation, and acquired a euphony to his ears that it had never possessed before.
“Speaking of names,” continued Christine, “do you remember those names that Rossetti mentions in 'The Blessed Damozel,' and calls sweet symphonies?”
“I think Rosalys was one, and Gertrude another, weren't they? There were five altogether.”
“Magdalen was a third. But the book is right there on the table. Let's look and see.”
Elias got the book, sought the place, and read aloud:
“'—Whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.'”
Christine said, “I wonder, Mr. Bacharach, whether you will do me a kindness?”
“You need not wonder. Of course I will, and gladly. What is it?”
“Read the whole poem aloud to me.”
Elias read it to her. He read it with a good deal of fervor. To be permitted to read aloud to her a poem fraught with intense passion like “The Blessed Damozel,” was the next best thing to being permitted to talk to her of his own love. And all the while, as he was reading, he was conscious of a dainty, subtle fragrance being wafted toward him from where his auditor was seated, and penetrating to his heart, and making it thrill. And whenever he lifted his eyes from off the page, they encountered hers, in the depths of which he could see burning a pale, strange fire; and again his heart vibrated with a keen, exquisite thrill.
When he had done, she exclaimed, softly but earnestly, “Oh, how beautifully you read it! You made methrillso here,” placing her hand upon her breast.
At that he experienced the keenest and the most exquisite thrill of all.
Pretty soon. “Tell me,” she went on, “which one of Rossetti's poems do you like best of all?”
“Oh!” said he, “I should have hard work to choose. Yet, perhaps, I like 'The Bride's Prelude' as well as any. But which do you?”
“You'll laugh, if I tell you.”
“Oh, no, I sha'n't. Tell me, please.”
“Well, the one that somehow moves me most deeply—it is one that I have scarcely ever heard praised or quoted—may be you haven't even read it. It's a little mite of a lyric—this.”
She took the book, and quietly, slowly, intently, musically, read aloud the song, “Even So.”
“Those last lines,” she added, “sound like the wail of a soul—they are so hopeless, so passionate, so despairing. Theysuggestso much more than theysay—such a deep, dumb grief. Sometimes they haunt my mind for hours and hours together, and give me such a strange heartache. What could it have been, the thing that separated them? I suppose he must have done something base—something that killed her love, so that he lost her forever. Yet I can't understand why it should be so absolutely hopeless. If they really were all alone together, as he says, and she saw how dreadfully he had suffered, I don't understand how she could help forgiving him and loving him again. Do you?”
And she repeated the verse:
“Could we be so now?—
Not if all beneath heaven's pall
Lay dead but I and thou,
Could we be so now!”
She repeated the verse, and at the end she drew a long, tremulous breath. If she had noticed Elias Bacharach's physiognomy, while she was speaking, she could not have failed to guess his secret. Pale cheeks, parted lips, and eyes riveted upon her face, told the whole story more eloquently than his tongue could have done. But her attention was all for Rossetti's poetry.
“Well,” exclaimed old Redwood, “that may be very fine sentiment. I'm not denying it is. But the grammar is what stumps me. When 'but' is used as a preposition, in the sense of 'except,' it governs the accusative case. At least, that's how I was taught at school. The line ought to read: 'Lay dead but me and thee,' or 'me and you.' Ain't that so, Mr. Bacharach?”
“Well, I suppose it's poet's license,” said Elias.
Folding his newspaper, and getting upon his feet, the old man continued, “Well, I guess I may as well go out and get shaved, Chris. I'll leave you in the charge of Mr. Bacharach. Take care of her, Mr. B.” And he went away.
Elias was alone with her.
She sat far back in her chair, looking through half-closed lids into the fire. He sat forward, upon the ultimate edge of his chair, and looked at her. His breath was coming hard and fierce. The blood was bounding in his veins.
For a while neither of them spoke.
By and by Elias broke the silence.
“Miss—— Miss Redwood,” he began; then stopped.
“Yes?” she queried.
He began again, “Miss Redwood—” Again he stopped. His throat felt compressed, his mouth hot and parched. He knew perfectly well what he wanted to say; but his heart trembled so, he could not say it.
She, puzzled no doubt by these successive repetitions of her name, lifted her eyes inquiringly to his.
For an instant their eyes staid together.
That was a memorable instant for Elias Bach-arach. A great wave of emotion took away his breath, made his body quiver, his head swim, as if with vertigo. He tried to speak. His tongue lay paralyzed in his mouth.
Suddenly she looked down; and a scarlet blush suffused her throat and cheeks.
He leapt forward, fell upon his knees before her, caught her hand, and whispered—a tense, eager whisper, that clove the air like a flame—“Christine—my darling!”
She drew her hand away. She trembled from head to foot.
“Don't be afraid, my darling. Don't tremble,” he whispered.
But she did not cease to tremble. She neither raised her eyes, nor spoke. Her blush had died away, leaving her face very pale. Even her lips had lost their color.
“Christine,” he whispered, “I could not help it. I love you. I could not keep it secret, Christine.”
Shrinking from him, deeper into her chair, “Don't—please don't,” she pleaded, in a weak, frightened voice.
Still in a whisper: “I could not help it. I—I had to tell you. Oh, why do you shrink away from me, like that, and tremble? Is my love hateful to you?”
“Oh, no, no, not that,” impulsively; but then she blushed again, as if ashamed.
“Oh, my God! God bless you!” he cried, with a great sigh of relief. “I was afraid it might be.”
He leaned toward her, breathing swiftly; and his eyes consumed her face. By and by, very gently, he spoke her name, “Christine!”
Her lips parted—“Yes?”
“Christine—I love you—with all my heart and soul.”
No response.
“Christine—do you believe me?”
A long breath; then a scarce audible “Yes.”
“Do you think,”—he paused to gain courage. “Do you think it will ever be possible for you to care for me?”
No answer.
“Christine—won't you answer me?”
She raised her eyes; and for an infinitesimal fraction of a second they rested upon his. But then they hastened to seek refuge behind dropped lids, as if afraid of what they had seen and of what they had revealed. Again her cheeks blushed scarlet.
Elias started. Suddenly, he threw his arms around her, and drew her to him hard and close. Her face lay against his shoulder. There was no sound in the room, save the sound of their breathing. At last she broke away.
“Christine—do you think—perhaps—you do—care for me—a little?”
“I don't know,” in a timid whisper.
“Not—not the least bit in the world?”
“I d-don't know,” in a smaller and more timid whisper still. “I—I never thought of it till—till you spoke.”
“Oh, but now that Ihavespoken—now that youhavethought of it—say—say that you don't hate me.”
“Oh, no; I don't hate you at all.”
He took her hand and kissed it. It was burning hot. She drew it gently away.
“Don't—please,” she said, very low.
Again no sound.
Again at length, “Christine!”
“Yes?”
“Do you mind my calling you by your first name—Christine?”
“No—not if you like to.”
“Do you think—you—could ever call me—by mine?”
“I don't know.”
“Won't you try? It—it would make me very happy.”
“El-El-ias—” so softly that it sounded more like a little sigh than like a word.
“Oh! You make me so happy! But do you want to make me happier still?”
“What shall I do?”
“Tell me you are not sorry I love you.”
“Oh, no; I am not sorry.”
“Tell me—tell me that you are glad.”
“Yes—I—I think—I am—glad.”
“Oh, my love! Can't you say just one thing more? You know what. Please.”
She breathed quickly. “Perhaps,” she whispered.
Again Elias threw his arms around her, and drew her close to him. This time she offered no resistance. Their eyes met. So did their lips.
“Oh, how hard your heart is beating!” she murmured softly.
Presently they heard a footstep in the hall.
“It is my father,” she said, moving away.
“Shall we tell him?” Elias asked.
“No, not yet. I will tell him after you have gone.”
The old man entered, clean-shaven, and redolent of the barber's balmy touch. It was edifying, the matter-of-fact, unsentimental manner in which these young hypocrites thereupon began to talk and act. Yes, itwasstrange, how rapidly the snow had melted; and itdidlook as though they might have a green Christmas after all; and they neither of them believed in that lugubrious old proverb about a fat church-yard, any how; and, of course, Mr. Bacharach would stay to dinner, wouldn't he? and, well, he would like to, very much indeed, but he didn't want to wear out his welcome; and, oh, there wasn't the slightest danger of his doing that, was there, father? etc., etc. But whenever the old gentleman's back was turned, they stole an eloquent glance at each other; and now and then Elias found an opportunity slyly to snatch and press her hand.
When he left, Christine went with him to the door. Never before had the simple process of leave-taking required such a length of time.
He wandered about the street for a long while, ere he went home. There, he mounted to his studio, and, as usual, sat down at the window. Could it be the same studio that he had worked in, the other day? Could he be the same man? He was as nearly delirious as a person in sound health can be, without going sheer out of his senses. His brain whirled round and round. It was impossible for him to carry on a consecutive or coherent process of thought. Dazzling glimpses of the happiness that the future held in store for him, alternated with exquisite throes of joy, as he recalled what had happened that very day. His heart kept thrilling, and swinging from hot to cold, like a thing bewitched. A sweet smell clung to the palm of his hand, at the spot where hers had lain.
In bed he tossed about all night, murmuring Christine's name, and remembering the way she had looked, and the words that she had spoken, and the kiss that she had given him, and all the rest. At last, without apparent why or wherefore, there began to haunt his mind that verse of Rossetti's poetry, which, she said, had haunted hers. He could not silence it. It repeated itself in a hundred keys. Toward dawn he fell into a restless sleep, to the rhythm of it:
“Could we be so now?—
Not if all beneath heaven's pall
Lay dead but I and thou,
Could we be so now!”
But waking up, late next forenoon, he came to his senses—realized what he had done, and reflected upon it. He hardly dared to credit his memory. He hardly dared to believe that what he remembered was the very truth, and not an hallucination born of his desire. And yet—No; dreams were not made of such circumstantial stuff.
“I love her, I love her,” he cried exultantly. “And she loves me!”
What had become of his Judaism? his race-pride? his superstition? Love, apparently, had swept them clean away. Not a vestige of them remained. At a touch, it seemed, love had converted Elias Bacharach from the most reactionary sort of orthodoxy, to a rationalism, the bare contemplation of which, a few days ago, would have appalled him.
“Surely,” he argued, “the Law of God as the hands of men have written it in books, is not to be weighed against the Law of God as the hand of Nature has written it in my own heart.”
He could not realize that he had ever thought otherwise. He could not realize that he had ever shrunk in terror from the idea of marrying Christine Redwood. He could not realize that he had ever professed a creed by which such a marriage would have been accounted sin. When he recollected how, less than a week ago, that same creed had kept him awake, praying, all night long—when he recollected how, for six days, he had told himself that he did not love her, and never would—he was nonplused; he could not admit it; it was like the recollection of a bad, fantastic dream.
The man had got the better of the Jew.
THE man had got the better of the Jew; and the man retained the upper hand. There came no reaction. Elias Bacharach's Judaism—or so much of it, at least, as bore upon the question of matrimony—had apparently suffered sudden and total annihilation. Under the light of love, it had apparently behaved as those hackneyed images in the Etruscan tombs behaved under the light of the sun—collapsed into nothingness. Looking backward, and repeating to himself the views upon intermarriage, which, the rabbi said, there had never been a Bacharach to doubt, he was amazed at their glaring unreasonableness, at their enormity even, and could only ask incredulously, “Is it possible that I ever believed that rubbish?” The philosophy of the matter was extremely simple. Elias had never bestowed upon the rabbi's religious teachings any skeptical consideration. He had accepted them as facts stated upon authority—had taken the rabbi's word for them, just as he had taken the rabbi's word for the boundaries of the State of Nebraska, and for the date of the Battle of Bunker Hill. But, now, when, for the first time, circumstances had led him to bring to bear upon them a little analysis and common-sense, to exercise a little his right and his power of private judgment, now their absurdity had become startlingly conspicuous. Then, of course, his wish fostered his thought. Every spontaneous impulse of his nature aided and abetted his intelligence in its iconoclasm. He wanted—he wanted—to marry Christine Redwood; and a theology which taught that, merely because the accident of birth had made of him a Jew, and of her a Christian, such marriage would be sinful, thereby proved itself to be the offspring of prejudice and superstition.
Christine had said that she would tell her father; but on second thoughts she found that she lacked the proper courage; and so Elias, not without some trepidation, had to take the mission upon himself. The old man, at the outset, professed no end of astonishment, and considerable indignation. “So!” he cried. “I engage you to paint my daughter's portrait, and you spend the time making love to her! A pretty kettle of fish, as I'm alive!” But by degrees his amiability was restored; and finally he remarked, “Well, Mr. Bacharach, though you are a Hebrew, you're white; and any how, religion don't worry us much in this household, and never did. I'm a Universalist, myself; and Chris—well, I guess no one knows what she is. One thing's certain—she might have gone further, and fared worse; she might, for a fact. You're a perfect gentleman; and you can't help it, if youwereborn a Jew. You don't look like one, and you don't act like one. Of course, there's your name—Bacharach—a regular jaw-breaker; but I shan't stick on a name. It ain't I that's got to bear it; and so long as Chris is satisfied, it ain't for me to grumble. I guess she'll smell about as sweet under it, as she does under her present one. You see, I agree with the Great Bard. Any how, if she's made up her mind to have ye, I suppose I'll be obliged to say yes, sooner or later; and it'll save time and trouble for me to say it sooner.” So it was arranged that they should be married early in the spring, that they should spend the summer traveling in Europe, and that in the autumn they should return to New York, and domicile themselves under Redwood's roof.
“The man who marries my daughter,” stipulated the old gentleman, with a grim smile, “has got to marry me. I ain't pretty, but I'm solid; and I'm not going to be separated from her in my old age. He's got to fetch his traps, and live in this house, besides, because I'm used to it, and I don't mean to quit it till I'm carried out horizontally. It's big enough, and to spare, the Lord knows. Come and look it over.”
Elias followed the old man from cellar to garret. On the third floor his conductor threw open a door, and announced. “This is her room.” Elias's memory of the few brief seconds that he had been permitted to pass upon Christine's threshold, looking into her room, breathing the sweet air of it, and noting its hundred pretty little girlish fixings—inanimate companions of her most intimate life—thrilled in his heart many a time afterward. Was it not for him, her lover, like a glimpse into the Holy of Holies?
They were to be married in the spring. Now it was December. Meanwhile they had nothing to do but to make the most of the present. They saw each other nearly every day; and those days on which something prevented them from seeing each other, were very long and very dark days to Elias Bacharach. How did they amuse themselves? Innocently enough, and with no sort of difficulty. If an exhaustive account of their doings were reduced to writing, it would seem very trivial and very monotonous; but to them, basking in the light of new-born love, the trivial and the monotonous did not exist. High and low, far and wide, the world had been invested with the splendor, the mystery, and the majesty of the golden age. Yes, indeed: the period, long or short, during which first love holds sway over our hearts, tyrant though the ruler be, is notoriously our golden age, never to come but once. In this respect history does not repeat itself. Elias felt that each of his five senses had been sharpened, and that, moreover, he had acquired a sixth sense, a super-sense. The homeliest things, the most familiar sights, the commonest occurrences, took on a beauty, a significance, a suggestiveness, undreamed of until now. They aroused thoughts in his brain, emotions in his breast. He had used to regard New York as a somewhat sordid and unpicturesque metropolis: now he held it to be the most romantic city of the earth. Did she not dwell within its walls? Certainly, in former years, the Eighth Avenue horse-railway, with its dingy cars and shabby passengers, had had no special fascination for him; but now the bare mention of its name would rouse a sentimental tenderness in his bosom. Was not that the line by which he traveled when he went to see her? Everywhere he became aware of new aspects and new influences, to which heretofore his consciousness had been hermetically sealed. In a letter written by him to Christine at about this time—for, despite the frequency of their meetings, they found it necessary to keep the post-office busied on their behalf—Elias indulges in the following rhapsody:
“I have waked up from a long sleep, a period of torpor, diversified by vague dreams, into fresh, keen, sensitive life. I have begun to love; and until one begins to love, one is only half born. Until one loves, half the faculties, half the activities, which one possesses, lie in a dormant state, are merely potential, latent. For love—is it not the very soul and life of life itself? I know a poem which says: 'Through love to light! Oh, wonderful the way, that leads from darkness to the perfect day!' That expresses exactly what I mean. The life I lived before I knew you, and began to love you, compared to the life I live now, as the dusk of early morning compares to the brilliant day that comes with the rising of the sun. Where there was chill, now there is warmth. Where there was silence, now there is music. Where there was gloom, now there is glory.
“Things that were before invisible or insignificant, now force themselves upon my attention, and have a meaning and a solemnity. It is as though you had touched me with a vivifying wand—as though you had given me to drink of the elixir of life. Well, youhavegiven me to drink of the elixir of love; and that is even more potent and marvelous in its effects. These are not mere phrases, Christine, dashed off in enthusiasm, without being weighed. They are an imperfect expression of very real and practical facts. See the direct and manifest influence that my love of you has exercised upon my work, my art. I used to tell myself, with a good deal of complacency, that the artist was a sort of priest; that he ought to be a celibate, that he ought to consecrate the whole of himself to his art, that the muse should be his wife, that no mortal woman should divide his homage with her. I had one formula that pleased me especially. I said,4 The muse is a jealous mistress. She will brook no rivalry. To win her favor, one must renounce the world, and devote himself exclusively to her service.' And I used to fancy that I really believed this high-flown nonsense. But what sophism! What cant! What puerile pinning of my faith to a hollow set of words? For the very first requirement to successful accomplishment in art—what is it? Isn't there a spiritual equipment as much needed by the artist, as indispensable to his productiveness, as his material equipment of palette, paint-tubes, and brushes? Why, the very sinequa-non is this; that he shall live. I mean, that he shall be intensely human; that he shall think clearly, feel deeply, and see truly—see the truth, the whole truth, and the very heart of the truth. Until one has lived in this sense, one's art will never be real art. It will only be a nicer, a more complex, species of mechanics. It will be the body of art, without the spirit of it. Well, did I live, did I think, feel, see, before I knew you, and loved you? A little, perhaps; vaguely, incompletely; by fits and starts; as in a glass, darkly. But now? Oh, it is as though you had given me a soul! You have quickened the dormant soul that was in me, given it eyes, ears, perceptions, sympathies. At last I am alive, tingling and throbbing to my finger tips with life, with warm, buoyant, intense, eager life. My existence now is a constant exaltation, a constant inspiration. Whatever my eye looks upon, whatever my ear hears, whatever my fingers touch, means something, says something to me, and wakes a response in my own heart. I think, feel, see, and consequently paint, with a zest, an impetus, a power, and yet a serenity, a repose, of which I never even had a conception in the old days, Christine! Oh, my love! '...When I look at you, Christine, and realize that you are my betrothed—that you love me, and that you have promised to be my wife; and when I take your little hand in mine, and stroke it, and feel its wondrous warmth and softness, and bring it to my lips, and breathe that most delicate fragrance which ever clings to it; and when I gaze into the luminous depths of your eyes, and behold your spirit burning far, far down in them: oh! my blood seems to catch fire; each breath is like a draught of some magic, intoxicating vapor; I come near to fainting, for the great joy that fills my heart—fills it, and thrills it. I dare say all men who love, and are loved in return, are happy. But none can be so supremely happy as I am, so miraculously happy; because no one else loves you, and is loved by you. And other women are no more like you than—than dust is like fire, than glass is like diamond, than water is like wine. You mustn't laugh at me for saying this. It is really, honestly true. They resemble you in outward form, of course; they, too, have hands and feet, shaped more or less upon the same pattern that yours are shaped upon. But you—you have something—something which I can not name or describe—something subtle, impalpable, and yet unmistakable—something supersensual, celestial—which makes you as different from them as—it is a grotesque comparison, but it will show you what I mean—as a magnet is different from common iron. It is a difference of quality, which I can not find any words exactly to define. I suppose really that it is simply your soul—that you have a purer, finer soul than other women. Whatever it is, I recognized it, and felt it, with a thick thrill, as one feels an electric spark, the first time I ever saw you—reflected in that old, time-stained looking-glass, between the windows in your father's shop. I recognize and feel it perpetually, everywhere I go. All the other women that I see have about them a touch of the earth, from which you are free; and they lack that touch of heaven, which you have....
“Why, from among the millions of men upon this planet, why should I have been the one chosen to enjoy this unique rapture? What have I done to deserve that the single peerless and perfect lady should be mine? It is incomprehensible. In a world built up of marvels, it is the prime, the crowning, the over-topping marvel. It would be incredible, were it not indubitably true. But sometimes, true though I know it to be, I become so acutely conscious of the wonder and incomprehensibility of it, that I doubt it in spite of myself. Then I think: may be, after all, it is a dream. At such moments, I hasten to see you, to verify it. I can not reach you quickly enough. At what a snail's pace the horse-car drags along! How endless are the intervals when it stops, to take in or to let off a passenger! I count the seconds, I count the inches. All the while, my soul is trembling within me; nor does it cease to tremble, till I have crossed your threshold, and beheld you with my eyes, and touched you with my hands, and thus, so far as seeing and feeling are believing, convinced myself that you really exist, and that my great happiness is not a phantasm—unless indeed, my whole life is one long phantasm, one continuous dream, which sometimes I think may be the explanation of it. This great, vast happiness! It would be ungrateful and irreverent to suppose that it has fallen to my lot by mere chance or accident; and yet I can not understand why God should have so favored me above all other living men; why He should have selected me to receive the greatest blessing that He had to bestow—your love, my queen!”
And in a letter written by her to him, she says: “What if we had never known each other? That would have been very possible, wouldn't it? The world is so large, and there are so many, many people, and the likelihood of any two happening to come together is so very slight, it would have been quite possible for us to have gone through life, and died, without ever having known each other. Think of the many years that we did dwell right here in the same city, without ever even knowing of each other's existence! And yet often, perhaps, in the course of those years, we came very near together. Who can tell but that we may have sat together in the same concert-hall, listening to the same music? We may have passed each other in the street a great many times. We may even have ridden in the same horse-car together, and not have noticed each other. Isn't it strange? But think, if I had not happened to go to my father's shop that afternoon! Or, if you had not happened to go there, too, at just the same time! Why, then we might never have known each other at all! It takes my breath away, to think of it; doesn't it yours? How strange and empty and incomplete our lives would have been? We should have gone through life, without ever really knowing what life meant—without ever realizing the greatness and the richness and the wonder of it. I should never have known what it was to love—for I never could have loved any one but you. Oh, how lonesome I should have been! But you—do you think you might have loved somebody else, and married her? There are so many women; but there is only one you.—— Oh, if I could only feel sure that you would always, always love me, and never get over loving me! Whenever you are away from me, I can't help being afraid that you do not love me any more. I long so impatiently to have you come back and tell me that you do. If you ever really should get over loving me—oh, I—I would rather have you kill me right away.”
Thus these young persons pursued their billing and cooing. Thus they played their parts in the oldest of old plays, never for an instant suspecting that the same songs had been sung, the same lines declaimed, the same little scenes enacted, the whole worn threadbare, by myriads of similar personages, ever since the world began; and scarcely giving a thought, either, to the time when, by and by, the curtain would be rung down, and the theater emptied, and the foot-lights put out. So shortsighted, so self-absorbed, is love. The two letters from which I have just quoted, lie before me now. It is not such a great while since they were written—not such a great while since the paper grew hot tinder the writer's hand, and fluttered as the reader's breath fell upon it. But the paper is quite cold now; and already the ink has begun to fade. Yet, to Christine's pages there still clings, singularly enough, the ghost of a faint, sweet smell.
Numberless were the delightful hours that Elias spent painting at her portrait; and long before the spring came he had it finished. Of course, he was not satisfied with it. Of course, he found it tame and poor when compared to the original. But what true artist ever is satisfied with his own handiwork? What true lover but always will find tame and poor a portrait of his mistress? He made, besides, a great many pencil and water-color drawings of her. He never tired of striving to transfix something of her exquisite beauty upon the pages of his sketch-book. The effort was always a pleasure. The result was always a disappointment. He did not, however, by any means, confine these experiments to his sketch-book. All the blank paper that passed his way, ran an imminent risk of being seized upon, and made to bear an attempt at her likeness. I have on my desk that volume of Rossetti's poems, from which, on a memorable Sunday morning, Elias read aloud “The Blessed Damozel.” Scattered over the fly-leaves and the margins of the pages, I have counted no fewer than sixty-nine pencil studies of Christine's face, in various stages of completion. Beneath one of these is written in Elias's hand, “Oh, what a wonder of a woman!” and immediately following, in Christine's, “Oh, what a goose!”
Often, if the sun shone, they would take long walks in Central Park; and Christine kept her promise to show him some of those nooks and corners which she had preempted, and which nobody else knew the existence of. One of these speedily became a favorite resort of theirs. It was a high rock, the top of which was carpeted with many generations of pine needles, and screened from the vulgar gaze by a girdle of pine trees. Here, when the weather was warm enough, they would stop to rest for a little after their jaunts; and here, though he never suspected it, the final chapter of Elias Bacharach's story was destined to be acted out. The pine trees are still standing and flourishing: but they are inscrutable, and bear no record, breathe no hint, of the tender passages between these lovers, at which they were wont to assist.
Often, in the midst of his work in his studio, Elias would be seized by a sudden and uncontrollable desire to pay his sweetheart a visit; and would fling aside his brushes, discharge his model, hurry up-town, and ring her door-bell. Of course, unapprised of his coming, she would not always be at home; but if the maid could inform him whither she had gone, he would be sure to follow; and on more than one occasion he caught a fine cold, standing in the wind-swept-street, watching the door of the house where he knew that she was calling, and waiting to join her at her exit.
Christmas came, and New Year's Day, and her birthday, and his. They celebrated all of these festivals in company. For New Year's Eve, one of Christine's Normal College classmates had invited her to a party. Elias naturally was her cavalier. He suffered torments indescribable, as she whirled through the waltz on the arm of another man—he could not dance, himself; had never learned how, poor fellow—but when, from the corner in which he was sulking alone, he saw that the heel of her slipper had broken off, and that her partner was holding that heel in his hand, and inspecting it with curious eyes, he could no longer contain himself. Another man to profane with his touch the heel of Christine's slipper! He advanced upon the couple, scowling savagely; and addressing the young man: “Give me that,” he commanded gruffly. He got hold of it, and stuck it into his pocket. Christine shot dagger-glances at him. On their way home, in the carriage, she scolded him roundly for his jealousy and his bad manners; but before they separated, she had forgiven him; and the padded carriage walls had witnessed a very pretty reconciliation. That night he sat up till daybreak, writing her a letter, very penitent, very affectionate, very voluminous. “That we should have begun the New Year with a quarrel!” was its remorseful burden. At eight o'clock he dispatched it by a messenger. Yet he knew that at ten o'clock that very forenoon she would be ready to receive him in proper person. But ten o'clock!
Two mortal hours! It seemed years and years away.
Time moved steadily forward. The winter passed. March came, an exceptionally mild, sunshiny March, much of which was spent among the pine trees in the park; then April. Their wedding-day was definitely fixed for the second of May. On the third, they were to set sail by the French steamship for Havre. Their tickets were bought, their plans were all made. The services of the clergyman who was to tie the knot, had been secured. And yet, in all these months, not a whisper of his engagement had Elias breathed to his uncle, the Rabbi Felix. From day to day, from week to week, he had put off the inevitable moment. He knew that nothing which the rabbi could say or do, would have the slightest effect upon him, so far as shaking his resolution was concerned; but he supposed that there would be a scene, and a very stormy and disagreeable one, and he dreaded it; and so he had procrastinated—or, as he phrased it, had waited for a favorable opportunity. He had gone on living in the same house, eating at the same board, with this old man, his uncle; chatting with him, even, as a precaution against possible suspicions, saying his prayers and reading his Bible with him, and all the while keeping the one dominant fact of his life shut close in from sight. Sometimes the secret weighed very heavily upon his mind, pressed hard for utterance, got even so far as the tip of his tongue. But then, asking himself, “What good—what but bad—could come of my telling him?” he would decide to wait for yet another while. Perhaps the rabbi, on his side, had noticed that Elias was absent from home a good deal; but, considering his youth, and that his home was such a dull, unattractive place, what wonder? What else could be expected? I must not forget to state that some rumors to the effect that Elias Bach-arach intended to get married, were circulating in the Jewish world—which is, of all worlds, the one most prone to gossip—but these failed to specify the lady's name, and took for granted that she was a Jewess; and the rabbi was far too much of a recluse to be reached by them, any how.
With the Redwoods Elias had been perfectly frank. He had said to the old man: “I suppose you will think that the only relative I have in this quarter of the world—my uncle, Dr. Gedaza—ought to call upon you; and I suppose you'll think it very singular if he doesn't. But I had better tell you candidly that he will strongly disapprove of my marriage, simply and solely on the ridiculous ground that Christine happens not to have been born a Jewess. I hope you won't let this have the slightest influence whatever upon you; because I'm a man, of full age and sound mind, master of my own purse and person, and he's only my uncle; and, with all due respect, I can't see that my marriage is any of his business.” In the end, both Christine and her father had accepted Elias's view of the case.
Time moved steadily forward, and now it was the night of Tuesday, the first of May, and to-morrow Elias's happiness would be sealed and consummated. He and Christine had spent a very ecstatic evening with each other; but, of course, by and by it behooved him to take his leave; and so, toward eleven o'clock, he rose and began the process. About midway in it, however, he broke off and said abruptly: “Oh, by the by, I forgot to tell you something.”
“Ah?” she queried. “What?”
“An idea I had.”
“An idea?”
“Yes; about—about breaking the news to my uncle.”
“News? What news?”
“Why,thenews—the news of our marriage.”
“Why!” she exclaimed, with an expression of very serious surprise. “Do you mean to say that—that you haven't done that yet?”
“No; not yet. That's just the point. You see——
“Oh, Elias,” she interrupted, in a tone of emphatic rebuke, “I supposed, of course, you had told him long ago. You ought to have told him. That wasn't right.”
“What difference does it make? I have waited about it, because it would only have raised trouble between him and me, without doing a particle of good to either. There's no end to the bother and complications it would have caused. He lives in my house, you know; and if we had had a row, he would have felt obliged to clear out, and all that. So I kept my own counsel; and I'm very glad I did. For now my idea is to say nothing to him at all; but after we're safely aboard-ship, and started for the other side, I'll send him a letter by the pilot. That will spare both of us a very painful and unprofitable interview.”
“Oh, but it's not fair, it's not honorable, it's not respectful. He's your uncle—your own mother's brother—and you owe it to him not to do that—not to go and get married without even letting him know. You ought to have told him long ago. It will hurt his feelings awfully, when he finds out how long you have kept it from him—when he finds that you have waited till the very eleventh hour. Now you must tell him right straight away—as soon as you possibly can—to-night, as soon as you reach home. Promise me that you will.”
“But, Christine—”
“No, no, no! Unless you want to make me very unhappy, you'll promise to tell him right away. That letter by the pilot! I don't understand how you could have thought of such a thing! It would be cruel and—and it would becowardly!There!”
Elias tried to argue the matter. But Christine put her foot down, and vowed, with a look of inflexible determination upon her gentle face, that she would never, never, forgive him, unless he made a clean breast of it to the rabbi that very night.
“But it is late. What if he should have gone to bed?” he suggested feebly.
“Then wake him up.”
Of course, before they parted, he had pledged himself to do exactly as she wished; and she, pacified, went off to bed, whether to sleep or to lie awake, in either case, we may be sure, to dream of the happiness that was ripening for her in the womb of time.
Elias did not enjoy his journey home that night. His frame of mind was by no means such as, on general principles, one would expect of a man in his position—a man who had just said his last farewell to the lady whom he loved, and whom the morrow was to make his bride. His imagination running on ahead of his person, entered the rabbi's study, and rehearsed the scene that would there shortly have to be enacted in very truth. Elias was surprised at the excessive dread he felt. He strove to reason it away, repeating to himself, “He can do nothing, absolutely nothing. He can only talk; and talk doesn't hurt.” But all the same, when he arrived in front of his house, and realized that the long-deferred moment was actually at hand, his heart quaked within him, and a sudden perspiration broke out upon his forehead. However, there was no help for it. He had promised; and he was bound to keep his promise. So, drawing a deep breath, and swallowing his reluctance he opened the rabbi's study door.