Gabriel read on:--

"This proof of his affection encouraged me on that day to the timid question, what was the meaning of the purple streak upon his forehead, a mark, that also at time showed itself on us children when we were violently excited. I had expected a monosyllabic answer from my taciturn father, but contrary to his wont he recounted to us with the whole power of his mournful recollection the terrible events of his life. These we now learnt for the first time, we learnt for the first time, the place of our mother's grave.... 'The spot, that sparkles on my, on your foreheads,' concluded my father, '_is a remembrance of the man from whom we are descended_, who suffered the most painful death in sure trust upon G.o.d.... May it be ever remind you to be worthy of your ancestors....'"

Gabriel laid down the ma.n.u.script. The fiery mark upon his own forehead now seemed to burn him painfully.... Was he, just at the moment when he desired to come to a violent and complete rupture with his earlier past life, was he, just at the moment when he was giving up all hope of finding his father, that n.o.bler aim of his life, was he just at that very moment to find a direction post? Might not the mark whereby to remember, be also a mark whereby to recognise? After short reflection he once more seized the ma.n.u.script with feverish haste and read further:--

"These confidences made an immense impression upon us children, and often, as we sat idly by twilight before the gate of the synagogue, we discussed our father's narrative with mournful emotion, always coming to the conclusion, that we would do all in our power to sweeten our father's life, and some day, when we were grown up, to wander to Cologne to pray at our mother's grave.... I have already mentioned, that we, I and my brother, had no playmates; but in truth we did not care to a.s.sociate with other children; the infelt brotherly love, with which we were mutually penetrated, quite filled our young minds.

Chance, or rather G.o.d's providence, guided me however to a young friend, a friend who became the stay of my life.... I had once gone on a commission from my father to an artisan who had some work to deliver for the house of the Lord. My way home led me by the banks of the Moldau. A pack of wild schoolboys were insulting and ill-using a delicate Jewish boy, apparently of about my own age. His cry for help aroused my warmest sympathy. Born under a hot Southern sun, I did not reflect that I was but ten years old and alone, but threw myself into the thick of the throng, and came to the a.s.sistance of the poor maltreated child at that moment when two of the worst, irritated by his feeble resistance, would have tossed him into the river. 'Do you want to kill the lad?' I cried with the whole force of my young voice, 'the river is deep, he will be drowned! The first that touches him is a dead man!'

"My arrival, the decided tone of my speech, made the wild troop hesitate for a minute; but immediately afterwards a scornful horse laugh resounded. Naturally strong, indignation gave me double force.

With a powerful blow of the fist I compelled the biggest of them, who had got tight hold of the poor sufferer, to let him go. I disengaged the little pale Jew-boy who was bleeding at mouth and nose, and whilst I encircled him with my left arm, I threatened with the right to fling into the river whoever dared come near us with hostile intention.

Twenty strong clenched fists let fly at me. I accepted the unequal struggle with superior numbers, and they soon perceived that they had to do with an antagonist, at least much surpa.s.sing any single one of them in strength.... I resisted till my call for a.s.sistance brought up some Jews who fetched the watch. The wild troop dispersed on their arrival with a loud shout, and I carried, though myself bleeding from many wounds, the fainting boy to the door of his house. The boy was your father dear Schlome; Carpel Sachs, son of the wealthy Beer Sachs.--Arrived at home, as soon as I had told my father what had happened, I fell down and fainted.... My father poured some drops from a flask into my wounds, kissed the blood from my face and smiled kindly.--I was well again, I was happy! Next Friday the wealthy Reb Beer Sachs sent me a beautiful new Sabbath-dress and three gold-pieces, but the present was resolutely refused. The little Carpel had, in consequence of the fright and the ill usage he had been exposed to, been obliged to keep his bed for a week. The first time that he was allowed to leave the house he came to thank me. The tears in his eyes, the profound grat.i.tude, the beautiful words with which the dear boy knew how to give such a true and warm expression of this feeling, won my heart. Carpel asked if he might often visit us, and as my father had no objection to make, Carpel came to us as often as he had time, and a firm bond of love and friendship was knitted between us, in which my brother, also a n.o.ble-looking handsome boy took the warmest sympathy.

Carpel looked upon me, not unjustly, as his preserver, and his to a certain extent respectful behaviour towards me, that he kept up even to old age, caused almost the only difference in our kindly intercourse.

On the occasion of his frequent visits he not unseldom took part in our lessons, and on his side only regretted that we, my brother and I, could not make up our minds to come to his house; but the present of the wealthy Reb Beer Sachs, who had never considered it necessary to thank me in person for the real service which I had rendered his son, had wounded us too deeply; and so it happened, that he scarcely knew his son's preserver by sight.

"We boys spent our time monotonously and quietly, our life was now made beautiful by the love of our little friend Carpel. But on a sudden the hardest blow that could befall us, destroyed our calm happiness. It was that feast of atonement when I and my brother, as we should in a few days be thirteen years old; were fasting for the first time. The day was declining, the departing sunbeams cast their red light, that gradually faded before the advancing darkness, through the lofty narrow windows of the Old-Synagogue, and the tapers were already dimly burning. A profound silence prevailed in the vast s.p.a.ce filled with worshippers, when my father stepped to the desk to offer the appointed evening prayer. I myself, though weary and excited, leant against the marble enchased wall which incloses the steps that lead up to the tabernacle in order to look my father in the face as I listened. He was a wonderfully glorious man and at that moment was like an angel. Thus had my childish spirit pictured the Prophet Elias!--His form was tall and unbowed. The dark beard, but scantily sprinkled with grey, fell down upon his breast and curved strikingly upwards against the long white robe, while the locks of his hair, which forced their way from under his turban, were already shining in the silvery glimmer. His n.o.ble face now bore a stamp of the deepest devotion, and over his flashing eyes, whose glance kindled enthusiasm, there glowed a dark purple flame in the centre of his forehead. The prayers on the day of atonement are striking, but in my father's mouth they made an extraordinary impression. He did not look into the prayer-book that laid open before him, but gazed heavenwards, so that it seemed as if what he was saying came from the inspiration of the moment, as if he was a divinely inspired seer. Every word that sounded with the full melody of his voice from his lips penetrated victoriously and irresistibly into the hearts of all present. As he repeated the confession of sins with agitating expressiveness all were melted into tears, and when on the other hand he gave utterance in prayer to a devout trust in G.o.d's mercy, all felt exalted and strengthened. At length he came to the end. With pious confidence in G.o.d he intoned seven times at the top of his voice: 'The everlasting is our G.o.d' and as the thousand voiced loud chorus of all who were present broke magnificently against the vault of G.o.d's temple, my father sank suddenly down:--I caught him in my arms....

"'I die,' he said in a feeble but audible voice. 'Lord of this world! my father dared to breathe his life away upon the scaffold for the glory of Thy holy name.--Me Thou hast not accounted worthy of this favour.... but Thou permittest me to die here, on holy ground, reconciled to Thee, at the conclusion of the festival of atonement.--Father of all I thank thee!'--then he signed to my brother also to draw near him, and said in faint dying voice that grew ever weaker and weaker: 'My children, time presses.... Your mother rests in the grave at Cologne.... In Prague, as attendant in this consecrated house, I have pa.s.sed the loveliest most tranquil years of my life....

Love one another.... sorrow not, despair not!... What G.o.d doeth that is well done.... this world is but the vestibule of the next, bear this ever in mind, and some day _on your own deathbeds inculcate it on your children_--a benediction--a faint 'Hear oh Israel,' and the n.o.ble man was no more!

"The day but one after we stood weeping at his grave as we returned to our now desolate house, I asked my brother: 'What shall we do now?' The sensible boy fixed his bright eyes upon me. 'Didst thou not hear what our father said at his decease? Your mother lies buried in Cologne ...

We have prayed to-day at our father's grave, shall we not also visit the last resting-place of our dear forsaken mother?'

"'Yes, yes dear, brother,' I cried, casting myself with loud sobs on his breast, 'to Cologne, to Cologne, to our mother's grave.'

"During the seven days of mourning we arranged that directly after the feast of tents we would start on our long journey. To our single friend the little Carpel we made known our intention to his deep and infelt regret. Tears rose in the poor boy's eyes, but he repressed them like a man, that he might not vex us still more. On the feast of Tabernacles we both, my brother and I, kept our 13th birthday. It was just the day on which expositions are made. We attended the early service and got ourselves called upon to expound. Then we went to the burial ground, where the rulers of the Old-synagogue had caused a handsome gravestone to be erected to my father, on which a bunch of grapes and the symbols of a Levite were chiselled.... and then with slender bundle on back and staff in hand went forth from the gate. Carpel accompanied us for an hour. He pressed a small purse into the hand of each of us, and a.s.sured us, that it consisted entirely of his own savings and that he had said nothing to his father about this present. Then we renewed once more our covenant of eternal friendship....

"'Forget me not, dear friends,' said Carpel as he took farewell....

'Mosche! I thank thee once more; we are still boys, but shall some day be men, do not forget, Mosche; that in Prague you have a friend, whose life you have saved, who is for ever thy debtor, who is prepared every moment of his life to pay the heavy debt.... Forget me not, as I will never forget thee! Carpel kissed me, my brother, then flung himself once more sobbing aloud on my breast. Exerting all the force of my soul I at length tore myself away.... We set off, Carpel sat himself down upon a hillock and gazed weeping after us.... He was very sorry for us.... We were so lonely, so forsaken. Father and mother lying in the grave, and our one faithful little friend staying behind in despair!--Ignorant of the road we wandered over all Germany. We experienced many a sorrow, many a pain, but were sometimes entertained compa.s.sionately and sympathetically. After a difficult journey of many months we at length arrived at the end of our travel, at Cologne. Our hearts beat high as we pa.s.sed through the city-gate. But the unwonted fatigues of the long way, had exhausted my brother's strength, and the poor boy fell down, sick and worn out, in the open street. I was alone with him in a strange city, my burning eyes sought help despairingly--then G.o.d sent us a preserver. An elderly gentleman stepped out of the house on the threshold of which my brother was lying unconscious.

"'A sick child in the open street?' he enquired, 'who is the boy?'

"'It is my brother,' I answered shyly, 'we are orphans, we have come from far away out of Bohemia, to visit our mother's grave....'

"'Carry the boy into the room upstairs,' was the gentleman's order, 'lay him in bed, let him have some broth, I will attend to him directly....'

"'We are Jew-boys, gracious Sir,' I cried quickly.

"'I too am a Jew,' smiled the worthy man, 'I am Baruch Suss, favourite physician to our gracious Elector, the Archbishop of Cologne.'"

Gabriel shuddered but read on:--

"Bustling servants carried my sick brother up the broad stairs into a splendidly furnished room and laid him in bed. I stayed with my brother. The n.o.ble humane Baruch Suss examined him with the greatest attention and found that he was lying sick of an inflammatory fever, that he probably would require nothing but complete repose, and that it would not be possible to form a decided opinion as to the further progress of the disorder till after a lapse of one and twenty days.--Suddenly fresh childs' voices were heard at the door, which was pulled open and two lovely maidens peeped into the room. The roguish smile on their face rapidly yielded to the deepest emotion, as their father enjoined silence by a sign, and informed them in a low voice that they must give up their room for the present to a poor parentless boy, who had fallen suddenly ill in the street. _The two maidens were the daughters of Baruch Suss, Miriam and Perl_."

The ma.n.u.script escaped from Gabriel's nervously trembling hand. Must the memory of his grandfather, of his mother, just to-day, in the hour when, obstinately advancing, he wished to cut off the last possibility of retreat, must it just to-day be awakened in him in such a strange, unexpected, he was obliged reluctantly to admit, in such an almost miraculous manner? Was he perhaps to discover in this writing, that a curious accident had played into his hands at a critical moment, a solution of the mystery of his birth? And if he did find it, should he account all these remarkable coincidences as chance, or rather as a wonderful proof of that all powerful providence which he had often so defiantly challenged? These thoughts a.s.sailed Gabriel with all the compa.s.s of their fearful import, and worked upon him all the more effectually, as the tide of the swiftly succeeding events of the day was calculated to shake the strongest determination. He paced impetuously up and down the room. "I must not read further," he muttered to himself, "till I have embraced a resolution. If I should find a disclosure about my father in this ma.n.u.script, if I durst hope that he would fold me in his arms, that he would press me lovingly to his breast, Gabriel, what in the whole past, what in the future would matter unto you? If I could find my father, if I could find him such as I have always pictured him to myself in the short moments of blissful dreams, if such I could fold him in my arms--though it were but for the most infinitesimal instant of time that the human mind can conceive--_G.o.d_!"

Gabriel's pa.s.sionate excitement had attained a height that may easily be imagined. In the most violent excess of a feeling that eagerly sought an escape he had uttered the word, that, at least in his self-communings, had not pa.s.sed his lips for a long series of years, and he almost shuddered, as the strange sound fell, if involuntarily, almost believingly from his mouth....

"But if he be dead, and gone," cried Gabriel, looking up suddenly almost joyfully, "if I should learn precisely out of this ma.n.u.script, that he is irrecoverably lost to me.... if then no other tie than vengeance, continues to bind me to this life, _then_, _then_, ... my purpose remains immoveable."

He sat down, and his eyes could not fly over the somewhat faded characters with sufficient swiftness. He read on:--

"My brother was taken the best care of. Death had once ravished from our benefactor Baruch Suss two hopeful boys in one week. These boys must have been of about our age, and this circ.u.mstance heightened the sympathy that his n.o.ble heart felt for us, especially for my sick brother.--It happened just as Baruch Suss had prophesied. For three weeks my brother lay in fever and delirium: on the twenty first day he dropped for the first time into a profound and peaceful slumber. Suss waited for the sick child's waking with almost fatherly compa.s.sion. At length my poor brother to my inexpressible delight opened his beautiful dark eyes, raised himself in bed, and looked about him in wonderment.

'Where are we? Mosche!' he asked in a feeble trembling voice. I threw myself pa.s.sionately on to his neck and my tears bedewed his pale sunken cheeks.

"'Thou hast been ill, poor child,' said Suss, 'G.o.d has permitted thy recovery, thou must be grateful to him.'

"I related with an overflowing feeling of grat.i.tude, with how much goodness our benefactor had behaved towards us, and as my brother seized the n.o.ble man's hand in deep emotion, pressed it to his quivering lips, and vainly struggled after words to express his heartfelt thanks, a strange convulsive movement pa.s.sed over the face of Suss, and his eyes filled with tears.... 'You are dear good boys!' he said, profoundly agitated.... The memory of his two early lost sons may have combined with the warm sympathy of his own great heart. He hurried out of the room, that he might not depress the spirits of the convalescent by his unwonted emotion. We remained alone. At this moment we felt ourselves infinitely calmed, we did not stand any longer so entirely alone, so entirely forsaken! Suss allowed the convalescent to take fresh air in the garden attached to his house, and it was there, that we became better acquainted with his daughters. They were probably rather younger than ourselves. Both of them, but especially Miriam the elder, had been endowed with the most excellent natural gifts. Their extraordinary and, especially for maidens of their age, almost unparalleled beauty most perfectly harmonised with a subtle, comprehensive, deeply penetrating intellect, with a disposition that seemed formed to be a shining example to youthful womanhood. The friendly, confiding, almost sisterly behaviour of the girls which their good father manifestly approved of, made a profound, inerasable impression upon us.

"So long as my brother was not quite recovered, we dared not think of accomplishing the aim of our journey, of visiting our mother's grave.

It cost me a severe struggle, not to hasten alone to the burial ground, but it would have vexed my poor brother, and I loved him so fervently!

"At last he was strong enough.... we walked out to the burial ground.

Our father had given us a sufficient description of the stone that covered our mother's grave; we found it easily, and the long desired aim of our journey was reached. The frame of mind in which we found ourselves I cannot paint to you, my dear children? The most reverential fear, the most sorrowful emotion seized powerfully hold of our young minds.... We prayed long and softly, and when at length we were forced to tear ourselves away in order to return home, we flung ourselves with loud sobs into each other's arms. 'We have no father, no mother, ...'

said my brother, deeply moved. 'I have only thee, thou hast only me!--I will love thee for ever, for ever, I will never forsake thee, never!

Brother, love me too, as I love thee!...'

"I could not answer from excitement. I folded him impetuously to my loud-beating heart, and pressed my hot lips to his pale forehead, on which at that instant a bright streak of flame was burning. The firm bond of brotherly love was to be knitted if possible still more closely, the beautiful covenant was anew concluded, in a sacred hour, in a spot that was infinitely holy to us children!

"'What will you do now?' asked Suss, when we returned, grave and agitated, to his house. This question surprised us. Since our father's death we had entertained no other thought, could not have grasped any other thought than to pray at our mother's grave. It had so entirely filled our young minds, had kept our spirits in such perpetual excitement, that we had not even for a moment considered what was to come after, that we now for the first time cast a scrutinising look upon our future. We stood with downcast eyes for a while in silence before Suss. My brother recovered himself first. 'What do we propose to do?' he repeated.--'Before anything else to render thanks to you, dear benefactor, for your inexpressible goodness, for the kindness, for the fatherly affection that you have devoted to us poor forsaken orphans in such abundant measure, to thank you for tending me a poor boy, and with G.o.d's a.s.sistance healing me in a sore sickness--to thank you, ye dear good girls for your compa.s.sion, for that ye were not proud towards the poor stranger boys, that you weeped when I was sick and rejoiced, when the good G.o.d let me recover,--for that you were kind to us as sisters, you rich beautiful maidens to us poor, poor boys!' ... and next he continued after a short pause during which he strove to overcome his deep emotion, and swallowed with an effort his hot tears, next we shall pursue our journey, go to some school, study G.o.d's word, and endeavour to become worthy of our father Reb Jizchok Meduro, to become worthy of our grandfather, who ended his life heroically upon the scaffold, in remembrance of whom the fiery mark sparkles on our forehead in moments of sanctification!'

"My brother ceased; he was glorious to look upon, his eyes flashed beaming with soul, and the fiery mark of which he spoke, even then rose splendidly and contrasted with the pale, still somewhat sickly, child's face, with the pure forehead white as alabaster.--I gazed with a sad fraternal pride on my twin-brother, who seemed to draw his words in strange wise out of his breast. The two girls sobbed softly, and Baruch Suss required some time to collect himself.

"'I will not let you go, you dear fine boys,' he cried, 'never, no never G.o.d forbid that I should let you go out into the wide world, forsaken, orphaned. Seeing that a fortunate dispensation caused you to cross my threshold, you must now remain with me. I too had once two beautiful good boys.... The Lord hath taken them from me. Will you supply their place to me? Will you be my sons, will you be the brothers of these girls?'

"This unlooked for offer took us by surprise. The blissful feeling that we had suddenly, unexpectedly, found a new home struggled with an innate proud reluctance to accept a benefit for which we could make no return save our boundless grat.i.tude.--We wavered for an instant and knew not what reply to make; but when Miriam grasping our hands with tearful eye and trembling voice implored us not to go away, to stay with her father--it seemed to us as if no opposition could be thought of; we stayed.

"Baruch Suss treated us ever with fatherly kindness, and we always succeeded in preserving his favour. Our late father had already initiated us in the study of G.o.d's word, and so it came to pa.s.s, that in spite of our youth we had soon made rapid progress. In the house of Suss we had now full leisure to indulge in our wonted occupations. All our wants were cared for in the kindest manner, and we soon felt as much at home as in the house of our parents--Baruch Suss was besides so good as to let us be instructed in those sciences, of which our father in the tenderest years of our boyhood had only been able to give us the first indications. His exertions in our favour had the best consequences. The examples of our forefathers continually hovered before our souls, and urged us to the greatest industry, to the highest sacrifices. We were soon proposed as a brilliant pattern to the Jewish youth, not only in Cologne, but in the whole Rhine-country--our names were every where mentioned with distinction, and Baruch Suss felt himself thereby richly rewarded. We lived happily and contentedly, and grew up.--I may now when all that is over say so--two splendid youths, equally well developed in mind and body, while Miriam and Perl blossomed into exquisitely lovely young women.

"I had arrived at the age, when the heart willingly opens to love.

Miriam's infinite attractiveness, the enrapturing grace of her demeanour, her n.o.ble heart, her wonderfully penetrating mind, had made a powerful, ineffaceable impression upon me, an impression that soared to the height of love. I did not make the slightest attempt to conquer this n.o.ble pa.s.sion. Miriam's most friendly kindest sympathy did not permit me to regard my bold hopes as unattainable, the less that Baruch Suss too, when we became young men, made no difference in his domestic economy, allowed us to make use of the intimate 'Thou' to his daughters, and recognised our deserts with almost fatherly affection.--His immense wealth, his influence, his position at the electoral court, made it moreover possible for him in the choice of his sons-in-law to neglect the petty considerations which so frequently stand in the way of the dearest wishes. I rocked myself in dreams of a happy glad future, but I avoided giving expression to these sweet dreams and my hopes remained for months a secret even to my dear and infinitely loved brother, to my brother whom in fact I loved more than myself! At length it seemed to me treachery against my fraternal affection, if I should any longer preserve silence with respect to a feeling that struck daily deeper root in my soul. We occupied a room in common, and in the dusk of a fading summer's day I opened my heart to him. I held my arms twined about his neck, and leant my head on his cheeks. It seemed to me, as if he suddenly shivered and began to tremble; but I convinced myself that it was a delusion, and as he gazed for a long while fixedly before him, I thought, that liveliest sympathy for me had plunged him into a deep reverie. I sought to read his features, but the increasing darkness made this impossible. 'Art thou then convinced that Miriam loves thee?' he enquired at length in a dull voice. I had often put the same question to myself, and ever given it an answer favourable to myself, and Miriam's behaviour justified me in doing so; but I forgot that she behaved exactly in the same way to my brother, and it was only the later unfavourable turn, which this connection, that at first caused me so much happiness, took, which directed my attention to that fact, without however my being ever able to fully make out the real state of the case: and even to this day, when manifold experiences have increased my knowledge of human nature, I cannot say for certain whether Miriam then loved me or my brother, or whether her virgin heart hovered in anxious timorousness between us. At that time I believed that I could answer my brother's question with an honest yes. The dejected silence into which my brother sunk anew, was equally misunderstood by me, I thought that I saw therein only an excessive fear lest Baruch Suss should refuse me his daughter's hand. I remained but a short time involved in this error; I was suddenly bitterly undeceived. Some days afterwards I awoke in the night and heard a loud and violent talking and weeping in my room. I sprung swiftly from my couch. It was a clear starlight night, and the pale moonlight fell just upon my brother's bed--he, as was often the case with him, was talking in his dreams. The sorrow, that was printed on the sleeper's face, the large tears, that welled from under his closed lashes and rolled over his pale cheeks, filled me for a moment with a strange pensive grief; but I soon smiled at my childish pity. I would wake him, scare away the evil dream, that enchained his mind--but as I was about to call him, there fell on my soul, as it were a quivering flash of lightning, followed by a roaring thunderclap, and the words which escaped slowly from his lips became on a sudden clear and transparent.--I listened with restrained breath.

"'I love my dear brother more than life,' he said, 'and he loves Miriam!... Hush, Hush! No one shall hear of it, but Thou, my G.o.d and Lord; Thou that beholdest my writhing, lacerated heart.... I will be silent, silent as the grave for ever.... not Miriam, not my brother, no man shall hear of it.... Oh! indeed I am glad, brother! dear brother, take Miriam for thy bride.... and, I can surely die! I will not trouble the joy of your wedding day, I will not weep.... No! I will be glad and laugh at your happiness, will laugh so right heartily, as on my brother's day of rejoicing, on the wedding day of him whom I most ardently love.... Oh, mine is no forced laugh, I laugh so truly from my whole heart; see--ha, ha, ha!...'

"But my brother did not laugh, but sobbed convulsively. My heart contracted frightfully, an indescribable, almost physically painful grief thrilled through me--I could not at first speak for maddening sorrow, but then cried aloud, casting myself upon the bed of my sleeping brother: 'no, dear one, no, thou shalt not give her up....

Miriam shall be thine.... thine, thine, for ever.'

"My brother awoke.--What I said, showed him clearly, that I was acquainted with his heart's secret. I lay upon his breast sobbing aloud.

"'A woman, dear brother!' he began at length with trembling voice vainly striving for composure--'a woman, though it were the glorious Miriam, shall not divide our hearts. Thee only I possessed in the wide world, thou wert my all, brother! Dost yet remember, how thou, thyself sick and weary, didst carry me in thy arms, when on our journey to the mother's grave I had wounded my foot? Dost yet remember, how thou didst watch at my sick-bed for three weeks together, and didst scarcely get any sleep? Dost yet remember, how our dying father exhorted us to love one another? Dost yet remember, how we renewed the covenant at our mother's grave?--And do you think that I, that I have forgotten all that, all that? No, brother: take thou Miriam to wife.... be happy!

"A n.o.ble strife arose between us. Each of us wished to give up with bleeding heart, and neither would accept the sacrifice offered by fraternal love.--The most curious, the strangest ideas, such as could only be born of so desperate a situation, danced in rapid succession before us.--Lot, Miriam herself should decide; but they were rejected as fast as entertained. At last a manly resolution the fruit of a long painful struggle ripened in us: _we would both give her up_. Neither of us should possess Miriam, and our love should remain a secret for ever.

In our mutual pa.s.sionate brotherly love we determined to forget the infinite sorrow that filled us.--

"We wished, we were bound to leave the house at daybreak, to which the mightiest ties enchained us. On the next day we stood pale, confused, with tears in our eyes before our friend Suss who had loved us as a father, and declared to him with hesitating voice our suddenly formed resolution of leaving his house, of proceeding farther on our journey.

Suss was alarmed, he glared at us speechlessly, our fixed purpose seemed to have overthrown one of his favourite schemes. He vainly endeavoured to detain us, fruitlessly enquired the reason that had caused us to take a step so unexpected. 'Stay with me, I have good designs for you....' repeated Suss over and over again sadly, and when he saw how immovably we remained true to our purpose, he said at length painfully subduing his pride: 'Stay with me, be my sons.... I have only daughters, two lovely glorious daughters.... but I wish also to have two sons.... Will you not be my sons? My daughters, I have good ground for thinking so, are affectionately disposed towards you....' Suss said no more, his parental pride struggled with his parental love.--To us it was clear that Suss had intended to make choice of us as his sons-in-law, and that his daughters had fully shared the wish. I and my brother, as twins usually are, were almost exactly like one another, for which of us would Miriam have decided? A painful torturing pause ensued. Suss could not divine the real reason, why we who had entered his house as poor orphan boys, despised his exquisitely graceful daughters, the loveliest, wealthiest, n.o.blest maidens among the German Jews. We, my brother and I, needed all the strength of our manhood, not to succ.u.mb to the unutterable pain of despair. One of us must of necessity be standing close to that hotly desired aim, that we both, each with the fullest force of his will, were striving to attain--and now to be obliged to draw back, to be obliged to draw back in silence, and by so doing to inflict an injury perhaps mortal on him whom we loved beyond measure--that thought annihilated us.

"Suss, wounded in the most sensitive place of his heart, in his pride as a father, was profoundly mortified. 'I cannot and must not detain you any longer,' he said with bitter grief.... 'Go!... may you never repent having thus departed.' Then he stepped hastily to the door and said with an accent that rent our hearts: 'Oh, would that you had never crossed the threshold of my house!...'

"We would not thus separate from our benefactor. We hastened after him to his room--it was closed against us: We sent by an old servant of the house to ask that we might as a favour be allowed to take farewell of his daughters, it was refused us. We almost succ.u.mbed to the unutterable grief of despair..... On the evening of that same day we proposed to leave Cologne, the inexhaustible goodness of Suss furnished us with an abundant outfit for our further journey--but he would never see us again. At night-fall we got into the travelling carriage, that waited for us at the back door of the house. We cast a sorrowful look at the window of that room which Miriam occupied.... two maiden faces looked forth into the gathering twilight, and the violent trembling of one of them, who pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, showed that she was sobbing impetuously--it was Miriam!