CHAPTER XI
On one of these days old Trendellsohn went to the office of KarilZamenoy, in the Ross Markt, with the full determination of learning intruth what there might be to be learned as to that deed which wouldbe so necessary to him, or to those who would come after him, whenJosef Balatka might die. He accused himself of having been foolishlysoft-hearted in his transactions with this Christian, and remindedhimself from time to time that no Jew in Prague would have been sotreated by any Christian. And what was the return made to him? Amongthem they had now secreted that of which he should have enforced therendering before he had parted with his own money; and this they didbecause they knew that he would be unwilling to take harsh legalproceedings against a bed-ridden old man! In this frame of mind he wentto the Ross Markt, and there he was assured over and over again byZiska Zamenoy--for Karil Zamenoy was not to be seen--that Nina Balatkahad the deed in her own keeping. The name of Nina Balatka was becomingvery grievous to the old man. Even he, when the matter had first beenbroached to him, had not recognised all the evils which would come froma marriage between his son and a Christian maiden; but of late hisneighbours had been around him, and he had looked into the thing, andhis eyes had been opened, and he had declared to himself that he wouldnot take a Christian girl into his house as his daughter-in-law. Hecould not prevent the marriage. The law would be on his son's side. Thelaw of the Christian kingdom in which he lived allowed such marriages,and Anton, if he executed the contract which would make the marriagevalid, would in truth be the girl's husband. But--and Trendellsohn, ashe remembered the power which was still in his hands, almost regrettedthat he held it--if this thing were done, his son must go out from hishouse, and be his son no longer.
The old man was very proud of his son. Rebecca had said truly that noJew in Prague was so respected among Jews as Anton Trendellsohn. Shemight have added, also, that none was more highly esteemed amongChristians. To lose such a son would be a loss indeed. "I will shareeverything with him, and he shall go away out of Bohemia," Trendellsohnhad said to himself. "He has earned it, and he shall have it. He hasworked for me--for us both--without asking me, his father, to bindmyself with any bond. He shall have the wealth which is his own, but heshall not have it here. Ah! if he would but take that other one as hisbride, he should have everything, and his father's blessing--and thenhe would be the first instead of the last among his people." Such wasthe purpose of Stephen Trendellsohn towards his son; but this, his realpurpose, did not hinder him from threatening worse things. To preventthe marriage was his great object; and if threats would prevent it, whyshould he not use them?
But now he had conceived the idea that Nina was deceiving his son--thatNina was in truth holding back the deed with some view which he couldhardly fathom. Ziska Zamenoy had declared, with all the emphasis inhis power, that the document was, to the best of his belief, in Nina'shands; and though Ziska's emphasis would not have gone far inconvincing the Jew, had the Jew's mind been turned in the otherdirection, now it had its effect. "And who gave it her?" Trendellsohnhad asked. "Ah, there you must excuse me," Ziska had answered; "though,indeed, I could not tell you if I would. But we have nothing to do withthe matter. We have no claim upon the houses. It is between you and theBalatkas." Then the Jew had left the Zamenoys' office, and had gonehome, fully believing that the deed was in Nina's hands.
"Yes, it is so--she is deceiving you," he said to his son that evening.
"No father. I think not."
"Very well. You will find, when it is too late, that my words are true.Have you ever known a Christian who thought it wrong to rob a Jew?"
"I do not believe that Nina would rob me."
"Ah! that is the confidence of what you call love. She is honest, youthink, because she has a pretty face."
"She is honest, I think, because she loves me."
"Bah! Does love make men honest, or women either? Do we not see everyday how these Christians rob each other in their money dealings whenthey are marrying? What was the girl's name?--old Thibolski's daughter--how they robbed her when they married her, and how her people triedtheir best to rob the lad she married. Did we not see it all?"
"It was not the girl who did it--not the girl herself."
"Why should a woman be honester than a man? I tell you, Anton, thatthis girl has the deed."
"Ziska Zamenoy has told you so?"
"Yes, he has told me. But I am not a man to be deceived because such aone as Ziska wishes to deceive me. You, at least, know me better thanthat. That which I tell you, Ziska himself believes."
"But Ziska may believe wrongly."
"Why should he do so? Whose interest can it be to make this thing seemso, if it be not so? If the girl have the deed, you can get it morereadily from her than from the Zamenoys. Believe me, Anton, the deed iswith the girl."
"If it be so, I shall never believe again in the truth of a humanbeing," said the son.
"Believe in the truth of your own people," said the father. "Why shouldyou seek to be wiser than them all?"
The father did not convince the son, but the words which he had spokenhelped to create a doubt which already had almost an existence of itsown. Anton Trendellsohn was prone to suspicions, and now was beginningto suspect Nina, although he strove hard to keep his mind free fromsuch taint. His better nature told him that it was impossible that sheshould deceive him. He had read the very inside of her heart, and knewthat her only delight was in his love. He understood perfectly theweakness and faith and beauty of her feminine nature, and her trusting,leaning softness was to his harder spirit as water to a thirstingman in the desert. When she clung to him, promising to obey him ineverything, the touch of her hands, and the sound of her voice, and thebeseeching glance of her loving eyes, were food and drink to him. Heknew that her presence refreshed him and cooled him--made him youngas he was growing old, and filled his mind with sweet thoughts whichhardly came to him but when she was with him. He had told himself overand over again that it must be good for him to have such a one for hiswife, whether she were Jew or Christian. He knew himself to be a betterman when she was with him than at other moments of his life. And thenhe loved her. He was thinking of her hourly, though his impatience tosee her was not as hers to be with him. He loved her. But yet--yet--what if she should be deceiving him? To be able to deceive others, butnever to be deceived himself, was to him, unconsciously, the glorywhich he desired. To be deceived was to be disgraced. What was all hiswit and acknowledged cunning if a girl--a Christian girl--could outwithim? For himself, he could see clearly enough into things to beaware that, as a rule, he could do better by truth than he could byfalsehood. He was not prone to deceive others. But in such matters hedesired ever to have the power with him to keep, as it were, the upperhand. He would fain read the hearts of others entirely, and know theirwishes, and understand their schemes, whereas his own heart and his owndesires and his own schemes should only be legible in part. What if,after all, he were unable to read the simple tablets of this girl'smind--tablets which he had regarded as being altogether in his ownkeeping?
He went forth for a while, walking slowly through the streets, as hethought of this, wandering without an object, but turning over in hismind his father's words. He knew that his father was anxious to preventhis marriage. He knew that every Jew around him--for now the Jewsaround him had all heard of it--was keenly anxious to prevent so greata disgrace. He knew all that his father had threatened, and he was wellaware how complete was his father's power. But he could stand againstall that, if only Nina were true to him. He would go away from Prague.What did it matter? Prague was not all the world. There were citiesbetter, nobler, richer than Prague, in which his brethren, the Jews,would not turn their backs upon him because he had married a Christian.It might be that he would have to begin the world again; but for that,too, he would be prepared. Nina had shown that she could bear poverty.Nina's torn boots and threadbare dress, and the utter absence of anyrequest ever made with regard to her own comfort, had not been lostupon him. H
e knew how noble she was in bearing--how doubly noble shewas in never asking. If only there was nothing of deceit at the back tomar it all!
He passed over the bridge, hardly knowing whither he was going, andturned directly down towards Balatka's house. As he did so he observedthat certain repairs were needed in an adjoining building whichbelonged to his father, and determined that a mason should be sentthere on the next day. Then he turned in under the archway, not passingthrough it into the court, and there he stood looking up at the window,in which Nina's small solitary lamp was twinkling. He knew that she wassitting by the light, and that she was working. He knew that she wouldbe raised almost to a seventh heaven of delight if he would only callher to the door and speak to her a dozen words before he returned tohis home. But he had no thought of doing it. Was it possible that sheshould have this document in her keeping?--that was the thought thatfilled his mind. He had bribed Lotta Luxa, and Lotta had sworn by herChristian gods that the deed was in Nina's hands. If the thing wasfalse, why should they all conspire to tell the same falsehood? And yethe knew that they were false in their natures. Their manner, the wordsof each of them, betrayed something of falsehood to his well-tunedear, to his acute eye, to his sharp senses. But with Nina--from Ninaherself--everything that came from her spoke of truth. A sweet savourof honesty hung about her breath, and was a blessing to him when hewas near enough to her to feel it. And yet he told himself that he wasbound to doubt. He stood for some half-hour in the archway, leaningagainst the stonework at the side, and looking up at the window whereNina was sitting. What was he to do? How should he carry himself inthis special period of his life? Great ideas about the destiny of hispeople were mingled in his mind with suspicions as to Nina, of which heshould have been, and probably was, ashamed. He would certainly takeher away from Prague. He had already perceived that his marriage with aChristian would be regarded in that stronghold of prejudice in whichhe lived with so much animosity as to impede, and perhaps destroy, theutility of his career. He would go away, taking Nina with him. And hewould be careful that she should never know, by a word or a look, thathe had in any way suffered for her sake. And he swore to himself thathe would be soft to her, and gentle, loving her with a love moredemonstrative than he had hitherto exhibited. He knew that he had beenstern, exacting, and sometimes harsh. All that should be mended. He hadlearned her character, and perceived how absolutely she fed upon hislove; and he would take care that the food should always be there,palpably there, for her sustenance. But--but he must try her yet oncemore before all this could be done for her. She must pass yet onceagain through the fire; and if then she should come forth as gold, sheshould be to him the one pure ingot which the earth contained. With howgreat a love would he not repay her in future days for all that shewould have suffered for his sake?
But she must be made to go through the fire again. He would tax herwith the possession of the missing deed, and call upon her to cleanseherself from the accusation which was made against her. Once again hewould be harsh with her--harsh in appearance only--in order that hissubsequent tenderness might be so much more tender! She had alreadyborne much, and she must be made to endure once again. Did not he meanto endure much for her sake? Was he not prepared to recommence thetroubles and toil of his life all from the beginning, in order thatshe might be that life's companion? Surely he had the right to put herthrough the fire, and prove her as never gold was proved before.
At last the little light was quenched, and Anton Trendellsohn feltthat he was alone. The unseen companion of his thoughts was no longerwith him, and it was useless for him to remain there standing in thearchway. He blew her a kiss from his lips, and blessed her in hisheart, and protested to himself that he knew she would come out of thefire pure altogether and proved to be without dross. And then he wenthis way. In the mean time Nina, chill and wretched, crept to her coldbed, all unconscious of the happiness that had been so near her. "If hethinks I can be false to him, it will be better to die," she said toherself, as she drew the scanty clothing over her shivering shoulders.
As she did so her lover walked home, and having come to a resolutionwhich was intended to be definite as to his love, he allowed histhoughts to run away with him to other subjects. After all, it wouldbe no evil to him to leave Prague. At Prague how little was there ofprogress either in thought or in things material! At Prague a Jew couldearn money, and become rich--might own half the city; and yet at Praguehe could only live as an outcast. As regarded the laws of the land, he,as a Jew, might fix his residence anywhere in Prague or around Prague;he might have gardens, and lands, and all the results of money; hemight put his wife into a carriage twice as splendid as that whichconstituted the great social triumph of Madame Zamenoy--but so strongagainst such a mode of life were the traditional prejudices ofboth Jews and Christians, that any such fashion of living would beabsolutely impossible to him. It would not be good for him that heshould remain at Prague. Knowing his father as he did, he could notbelieve that the old man would be so unjust as to let him go altogetherempty-handed. He had toiled, and had been successful; and something ofthe corn which he had garnered would surely be rendered to him. Withthis--or, if need be, without it--he and his Christian wife would goforth and see if the world was not wide enough to find them a spot onwhich they might live without the contempt of those around them.
Though Nina had quenched her lamp and had gone to bed, it was not latewhen Trendellsohn reached his home, and he knew that he should find hisfather waiting for him. But his father was not alone. Rebecca Loth wassitting with the old man, and they had just supped together when Antonentered the room. Ruth Jacobi was also there, waiting till her friendshould go, before she also went to her bed.
"How are you, Anton?" said Rebecca, giving her hand to the man sheloved. "It is strange to see you in these days."
"The strangeness, Rebecca, comes from no fault of my own. Few men, Ifancy, are more constant to their homes than I am."
"You sleep here and eat here, I daresay."
"My business lies mostly out, about the town."
"Have you been about business now, uncle Anton?" said Ruth.
"Do not ask forward questions, Ruth," said the uncle. "Rebecca, I fear,teaches you to forget that you are still a child."
"Do not scold her," said the old man. "She is a good girl."
"It is Anton that forgets that nature is making Ruth a young woman,"said Rebecca.
"I do not want to be a young woman a bit before uncle Anton likes it,"said Ruth. "I don't mind waiting ever so long for him. When he ismarried he will not care what I am."
"If that be so, you may be a woman very soon," said Rebecca.
"That is more than you know," said Anton, turning very sharply on her."What do you know of my marriage, or when it will be?"
"Are you scolding her too?" said the elder Trendellsohn.
"Nay, father; let him do so," said Rebecca. "He has known me longenough to scold me if he thinks that I deserve it. You are gentle to meand spoil me, and it is only well that one among my old friends shouldbe sincere enough to be ungentle."
"I beg your pardon, Rebecca, if I have been uncourteous."
"There can be no pardon where there is no offence."
"If you are ashamed to hear of your marriage," said the father, "youshould be ashamed to think of it."
Then there was silence for a few seconds before anyone spoke. The girlsdid not dare to speak after words so serious from the father to theson. It was known to both of them that Anton could hardly bring himselfto bear a rebuke even from his father, and they felt that such a rebukeas this, given in their presence, would be altogether unendurable.Every one in the room understood the exact position in which eachstood to the other. That Rebecca would willingly have become Anton'swife, that she had refused various offers of marriage in order thatultimately it might be so, was known to Stephen Trendellsohn, and toAnton himself, and to Ruth Jacobi. There had not been the pretence ofany secret among them in the matter. But the subject was one whichcould hardl
y be discussed by them openly. "Father," said Anton, after awhile, during which the black thunder-cloud which had for an instantsettled on his brow had managed to dispel itself without bursting intoa visible storm--"father, I am neither ashamed to think of my intendedmarriage nor to speak of it. There is no question of shame. But it isunpleasant to make such a subject matter of general conversation whenit is a source of trouble instead of joy among us. I wish I could havemade you happy by my marriage."
"You will make me very wretched."
"Then let us not talk about it. It cannot be altered. You would nothave me false to my plighted word?"
Again there was silence for some minutes, and then Rebecca spoke--thewords coming from her in the lowest possible accents.
"It can be altered without breach of your plighted word. Ask the youngwoman what she herself thinks. You will find that she knows that youare both wrong."
"Of course she knows it," said the father.
"I will ask her nothing of the kind," said the son.
"It would be of no use," said Ruth.
After this Rebecca rose to take her leave, saying something of thefalseness of her brother Samuel, who had promised to come for her andto take her home. "But he is with Miriam Harter," said Rebecca, "and,of course, he will forget me."
"I will go home with you," said Anton.
"Indeed you shall not. Do you think I cannot walk alone through our ownstreets in the dark without being afraid?"
"I am well aware that you are afraid of nothing; but nevertheless, ifyou will allow me, I will accompany you." There was no sufficient causefor her to refuse his company, and the two left the house together.
As they descended the stairs, Rebecca determined that she wouldhave the first word in what might now be said between them. She hadsuggested that this marriage with the Christian girl might be abandonedwithout the disgrace upon Anton of having broken his troth, and she hadthereby laid herself open to a suspicion of having worked for her ownends--of having done so with unmaidenly eagerness to gratify her ownlove. Something on the subject must be said--would be said by him ifnot by her--and therefore she would explain herself at once. She spokeas soon as she found herself by his side in the street. "I regrettedwhat I said up-stairs, Anton, as soon as the words were out of mymouth."
"I do not know that you said anything to regret."
"I told you that if in truth you thought this marriage to be wrong--"
"Which I do not."
"Pardon me, my friend, for a moment. If you had so thought, I said thatthere was a mode of escape without falsehood or disgrace. In saying soI must have seemed to urge you to break away from Nina Balatka."
"You are all urging me to do that."
"Coming from the others, such advice cannot even seem to have animproper motive." Here she paused, feeling the difficulty of her task--aware that she could not conclude it without an admission which nowoman willingly makes. But she shook away the impediment, bracingherself to the work, and went on steadily with her speech. "Coming fromme, such motive may be imputed--nay, it must be imputed."
"No motive is imputed that is not believed by me to be good and healthyand friendly."
"Our friends," continued Rebecca, "have wished that you and I should behusband and wife. That is now impossible."
"It is impossible--because Nina will be my wife."
"It is impossible, whether Nina should become your wife or should notbecome your wife. I do not say this from any girlish pride. Before Iknew that you loved a Christian woman, I would willingly have been--asour friends wished. You see I can trust you enough for candour. WhenI was young they told me to love you, and I obeyed them. They toldme that I was to be your wife, and I taught myself to be happy inbelieving them. I now know that they were wrong, and I will endeavourto teach myself another happiness."
"Rebecca, if I have been in fault--"
"You have never been in fault. You are by nature too stern to fall intosuch faults. It has been my misfortune--perhaps rather I should saymy difficulty--that till of late you have given me no sign by which Icould foresee my lot. I was still young, and I still believed what theytold me, even though you did not come to me as lovers come. Now I knowit all; and as any such thoughts--or wishes, if you will--as those Iused to have can never return to me, I may perhaps be felt by you to befree to use what liberty of counsel old friendship may give me. I knowyou will not misunderstand me--and that is all. Do not come furtherwith me."
He called to her, but she was gone, escaping from him with quickrunning feet through the dark night; and he returned to his father'shouse, thinking of the girl that had left him.
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