"Did you explain to him that we no longer keep open house, since we have plainly been given to understand that we, citizens of a lower estate, have no right to and no part in the holidays of the others?" Deep resentment lay in his words.

She looked at him as though her thoughts were of another world, while her father said in irritation: "Can't you grant us a moment's respite from your indignation and your scorn? You display your malice at every opportunity. It is really ridiculous for you to ask Rita whether she met the politeness of a visitor with such an unpleasant reception."

Rita cast a grateful glance at her father; her eyes shone with the brightness of suppressed tears.

"It is enough that we conduct ourselves as our injured pride demands, but always to throw it up to others is improper and stupid. I tell you those were pleasanter and happier times when we used to celebrate the New Year's eve with a ball, and then the next morning received congratulations, and in the evening, instead of sitting sadly alone as we three are, there was a gathering of gay friends for a dinner."

"They may have been gayer times," said Hugo, nettled, "more amusing, too, and more comfortable, but they were only transient. They were in a condescending mood, and because of an amiable caprice on their part we were allowed to celebrate their feast days with them, and to take part, humbly, in certain civic and public holidays. But religion, despite all, raised an impa.s.sable wall between us and them. We were allowed to enjoy pageants, illuminations, parades, patriotic celebrations of all kinds, and then Christmas and New Year, when you're called upon to give in charity. How tolerant! O, how liberal! O, how I hate that word.

Sufferance I call it. Sufferance! To be tolerated! You're kindly tolerated, partly as a partic.i.p.ant, partly as an observer. And you're perfectly aware that you may be pushed aside at any moment when found _de trop_ or too forward. It surely is a thousand times better to be as we are now; without the loud gayety of people to whom at bottom we are strange, and must always remain so. I remember, during my upper cla.s.s days, the last formal New Year's dinner at this house, how Herr von Knesebeck proposed a toast to the Emperor coupled with the toast for the New Year. And how jovially and with what amiable condescension the attorney-general, Herr von Uckermarck, proposed a toast to mother. What an honor! And the way in which you welcomed the guests, the honored friends of the house--strangers then, to-day, and forever! What led them to us was not our company, but the choice pleasures and the agreeable times our money afforded. And to-day they dispense with all that. It would be impossible to get the best of them to come to us now; but the best of us are those who gratefully reject the honor."

His father was visibly annoyed, and Rita looked anxiously at her brother, who seemed particularly harsh and relentless. If he suspected!

A dread possessed her, and pallor overspread her face. The dinner pa.s.sed off in no very pleasant mood. The three missed the conciliating gentleness of the mother, who shared the son's views without his rancor, and who had opened her husband's eyes to the altered social conditions, while yet appreciating and sympathizing with his regret over the sad changes.

Everyone was glad to have the meal over. Rita excused herself at once.

Hugo and his father could find no congenial topic for conversation; and so the first day of the new year drew to an unhappy end.

The next morning Rita received a letter. She was at breakfast with Mlle.

Tallieu and could with difficulty conceal the excitement into which the reception of the letter had thrown her. Fortunately her companion was absorbed in the "Figaro," and paid no attention to Rita, who was thus able to hide the letter in her pocket without its being noticed.

"_De maman?_" she asked, without looking up from her journal.

"_Ceca!_" Rita answered in a low voice.

"_Oh! ce pauvre Henry .... pauvre! Il est mort .... mon dieu! Quel malheur pour ma grande patrie .... cette canaille de D .... C'est vraiment ...

cette blamage irreparable._"

Rita arose. She was accustomed to hear Mlle. Tallieu grow enthusiastic, one day over Zola's "_J'accuse_," and the next day equally so for _l'armee_. One of the uncultured or rather half-cultured, she was swayed by the force of pathos, and was ever of the opinion of others, if they were forcibly expressed.

At all events Mademoiselle was at this moment fully occupied and well provided. There was an abundance of sliced meat on the table, plenty of marmalade, and other good things; the tea-pot was bubbling; and Rita could hope to remain undisturbed for a long time. She stepped into her mother's room, and, with a timid glance at the "family tree," she sat down to read her letter. Her heart was beating violently, and the sheets rustled in her trembling hands. Several minutes pa.s.sed before she could gain sufficient self-possession to look at the writing. The words swam before her sight:

"My dear, precious girl, my Rita, my bride! This word fills me with delight, and I know it awakens an echo in your heart; you say it softly to yourself, and you are filled with bride-like thoughts, thoughts that belong to me. Whatever might interfere with the union of our hearts from without, within us reigns love, joy, hope. I know I want to win and possess you, and I know you are willing to belong to me.

"Need I beg your pardon for giving in to the impulsive joy of my heart, to the violent longing of my soul, for not waiting to sue for you soberly and sensibly, as is proper for a man so much older than you are, but stormed you with a youth's love of conquest, throwing prudence to the winds, and scorning careful consideration? I was young again when I saw you before me yesterday in the sweet loveliness of your youth, and I shall be young so long as your love remains the fountain of youth in my soul.

"Do you want to know how it came about? I might answer you, 'Do not ask, be sensible only of the strong, exulting love that arose within us as a marvellous, convincing, dominant fact, as a law of nature.' But I see your earnest, wise eyes, which in the past weeks have rested searchingly upon me so often,--I see them before me in all their sincerity, their sweetness, their purity; and it seems to me that I must explain to the little interrogator all about myself and how it happened.

"You know, my love, how I was left alone in the world at an early age.

Without father or mother, having no connections or relatives--quite orphaned; but healthy, full of vigor, happy and independent in every way. And all at an age in which one is in need of love, in need of wise guidance, of intimate intercourse with congenial spirits and the home feeling of a large family, the feeling inborn in the sons and daughters of our race, because it is their only home. But I was quite homeless!

With the fearless courage of youth I decided to found a home for myself.

It was not difficult for me; my independence, my large income, and perhaps, too, my personal abilities, admitted me to the best society. At the University, among my fellow-students, in the homes of my teachers, I was considered, and I felt myself to be as one of them. Nothing stood between us, nothing tangible, nothing out-spoken. Neither my external appearance, nor my interests distinguished me from them,--so entirely had I become a part of their world. There never came a word from the other world within to recall me to my true self. I knew nothing of my former life; no recollection flitted through my mind, because nothing happened to awaken me; and the soft voices that may have made themselves heard occasionally in the early years, were entirely quieted as the new life attracted me and seemed to wipe out the past. I had entirely forgotten at that time to what faith I belonged, and my friends surely never thought of it. One of them especially attracted me. He was two years older than myself--a talented and refined man. Like myself he was alone in the world and independent. That was the circ.u.mstance that led us to a sincere friendship. He was a devout Catholic, and after my examinations we journeyed together to Rome. There, under the overpowering impressions of his art-inspiring belief, we were drawn still closer together. Finally the wish was born in me to share with him the faith that was the basis of his inner life, and which he, I know not whether consciously or unconsciously, had nurtured in me, and had brought to fruitage.

"Think of it, my wise, good girl, how young I was then, how enthusiastic, how entirely I had dedicated myself to friendship, and how easy it was for me to succ.u.mb to the magic and mystery of a cult whose splendors and a.s.sociations, there in Rome itself, possessed us heart and soul. Think of it and you will understand me. The reasons that brought me to the momentous decision were not of a practical kind. I took the step in a state of ecstatic excitement and romantic enthusiasm. I had nothing to forsake, for I possessed nothing that had to be sacrificed for the new faith--neither father, nor mother, nor family,--nothing except my own self, and that belonged to the forces that were then mightiest in me: friendship and imagination. The recollection of an incident of those days comes to me with such remarkable clearness that I will tell you of it. It was the only thing that reminded me of my youth, pa.s.sed under such wholly unlike circ.u.mstances. A few days after the fateful step we were in the galleries of the Vatican. I had again become entranced by the glories of Raphael. Suddenly my eye was caught by a portrait in an adjoining corridor. It was the tall, lean figure of a man who was resting his head in his hand, and looked up thoughtfully from an open book lying before him. In the deeply furrowed countenance a meditative, mild seriousness. Eyes expressing endless goodness. A questioning look in them, questioning about the thousand riddles of the universe. The hand resting upon the book was especially remarkable. It spoke a language of its own. Its lines and shape expressed tenderness, gentleness, kindness, as if it could dispense only blessings.

"I was spell-bound, and could not tear myself away from the picture.

There was something familiar in it, as if it were a greeting, a reminder from my youth. Suddenly the thing was clear to me. This man, whose characteristic features unmistakably showed him to be an old Jew looking up from his Talmud, and pondering its enigmatic wisdom, reminded me of my uncle Leopold Friedlander. In a flash the whole scene came before me: how he pored over his Talmud when, led by my mother, I came before him with childlike awe; and how he looked up from his volume and regarded me so kindly, so meditatively, exactly like the man before me in the picture. And while I reeled off what I knew of Hebrew lore, he leaned his head upon his left hand, and his right was placed on his book; then he raised his hand and laid it in blessing upon my head, and the tender lips spoke the Hebrew words of the benediction. It seemed to me as if I heard again the soft, insistent voice; and as if the high-vaulted corridors of the Vatican were transformed into the low, simple room of the Jew's house at Rawitsch. I was as one in a dream. It made a strong impression upon me. Like one possessed I gazed at the picture, and I believe my lips mumbled half-aloud '_Yevorechecho Adonay ve-yishmerecho_.' Never since that day have the words left my memory.

They remain like a faint echo in my soul. Suddenly I felt a hand upon my shoulder. 'A fine picture, is it not,' said Francis to me, 'this Hebrew of the sixteenth century? I believe he was a Portuguese Jew, who was exiled to some Italian Ghetto, to Trastevere or the Ghetto Vecchio of Venice. Somewhere or other the artist came upon this fine, characteristic head, whose portrait places him amongst the immortals, although his very name is uncertain. He belongs to the Florentine school, possibly a pupil of Del Sarto. The realistic expression of the hand suggests Master Andrea himself; or it may have been Pontormo, or Puligo; at all events, a masterly painter.' While my friend gave these explanations, I had time to recover myself, but it was with difficulty that I threw off the spell of my imagination. So it was a Portuguese Rabbi of the sixteenth century, not my uncle Leopold! And yet he.... I knew it positively. Perhaps there was a talisman bequeathed from one to the other that made these Talmudic scholars of all times so much alike; or was it the Law, to which they devoted themselves with like zeal? Or the similarity of their att.i.tude toward life? Or the tradition that remained unaltered through the centuries? When we left the Vatican soon after I could not dismiss the thought that my uncle Leopold Friedlander had a place among the portraits of the Vatican Gallery.

"Years pa.s.sed. The incidents of those days had long been forgotten. I was drawn into the great and mighty currents of life. I enjoyed it to the full. After the completion of my examinations for the a.s.sessorship, my friends at Bonn advised me to enter the service of the Government.

There was nothing to prevent me, and the position offered me was quite to my liking, and satisfied the ambitions then mastering me. With the death of Francis Siebert a great void had come into my life; he had died of typhoid fever on a journey of investigation. In the stormy come and go of life, in the restless haste of existence, such things happen daily; and although painfully shocked by his death, I continued my way.

It came at a time in my life when I was battling with a great inner struggle that made me wholly self-centered. I prefer not to speak of this to you, at least not to-day. But one thing I may tell you, the experience did not make me unworthy of you. Conflict and suffering do not degrade a man, and whatever fails to overcome us, makes us all the stronger. But I became more and more lonely, and I fell into the habit of thinking that it was my lot in life to be lonely. I tried to be content alone. It seemed the easier for me since my career was a happy one and gave me contentment; and so did the kind of life it brought with it. I resigned myself to remaining a bachelor. So much of the married life of my friends as had come under my observation did not make me regret that I had renounced it. My calling, my books, my journeys, gave me sufficient satisfaction. I avoided social gatherings as far as my position allowed me to. In this way, time pa.s.sed in work and recreation, and the even tenor of my days brought me comfort and satisfaction. There were many hours in which this exclusiveness seemed very pleasant to me; and the longing for intimate fellowship with others grew ever weaker.

"Then, a few weeks ago, I happened upon the notice of Rabbi Friedlander's ninetieth birthday. The rest you know. What you do not know, is that on my desk, where I had found the journal containing the notice, I seemed suddenly to see the portrait of the Vatican before me; and an unaccountable a.s.sociation of ideas made me see myself standing before it, not as I was in Rome, but as a small boy before the old man, whom I thought I had found anew in the portrait--in the presence of the devout, kindly man, as he sat poring over his book in his humble room.

And then I heard the words of the blessing again--I felt them in my heart, the heart of an experienced, mature man,--and all in the language of my childhood, the language of the childhood of my race. And suddenly the world vanished from before me, the modern world that claimed me, and the old arose in the clear light of holy recollections. Father, mother, the whole family came back to life within me! Then I sought your family, sought you! And how I found all of you--how I found you--

"The subtle charm of true family happiness, the aristocratic security of a settled life, entranced me, mingled though they were with secret anguish over the unjust, the foolish prejudices under which the Jewish community suffers. Such depth of feeling underlies the splendor of your life. There is something so cheerful, so intimate among you. On the very first evening I felt at home with you. Your wise, able father, your n.o.ble, sensitive mother, your brother with his splendid vindictiveness, and his proud ideals, all interested me as something new, strange, and yet familiar.

"I had never known a Jewish home of refinement and respectability; I did not realize how such home-life had developed in spite of the unfriendliness and the slights that beset it, and in the midst of hostility that seeks its very destruction. Your friends are of the same admirable type. The men serious, capable, intellectually distinguished, and prominent in their various callings; the women bright, artistically gifted, beautiful; the young people ambitious, well-educated, impressionable, enthusiastic. So I learned to know you and your kin,--my kin. May many be like you, I say to myself. Among the Jews are all too many who under oppression and necessity cannot develop. But how could it be otherwise? By the side of the few, one always finds the ma.s.ses; by the side of the elect, the average.

"And now you, my girl, my precious Rita, you have seen how your sweet disposition has influenced me, how it awakened within me new and happy feelings, how my very soul goes out in longing to you. I have regained my youth, and it calls to me exultantly: 'Return to your own!'

"These are my confessions. It does me a world of good to be allowed to speak to you in this way; and now you will comprehend why it was that I could not restrain myself, but had to take you in my arms, in the happy a.s.surance that you were willing to be mine.

"Have courage! I will never give you up, and we shall surmount all the difficulties they may put in our way. I shall see you again when your mother returns, and I may be allowed to come. Have faith in me!

Victor."

Tears streamed down Rita's face. He had laid bare his soul to her. She remained for a long time lost in thought, considering what had best be done. She did not conceal from herself that her marriage with Dr. Weilen would encounter strong opposition; that disquiet, excitement, and heartache would enter into her peaceful home when the relation between her and Victor was known. Her father's opposition would be the easiest to overcome, but her mother's? And Hugo's? And Elkish's? And the rest of the relatives? And herself? Was there no inward protest against what she was about to do? Now in these saddest of times, to tear herself away from those who suffered and struggled?

An inexpressible fear possessed her. If only her mother were back at home! Disquieting thoughts again besieged her. How happy she might have been, to love a man like Dr. Weilen, to be loved by him! And now alarm in her hopes, doubt in her wishes. She arose slowly and went to her room, and locked the letter in her desk.

On the fourth of January Mrs. Benas returned. She was in good spirits, and she had found her uncle hale and hearty. Her relatives in the little town were already excited over the coming event, and busy planning and preparing for it. This year _Pesach_ came early. The birthday, according to Jewish reckoning, was on the twenty-sixth day of March, the first day of the festival. She told them that in Rawitsch all arrangements had been made for a celebration on a grand scale. Whatever could not be obtained at Rawitsch was to be ordered from Berlin. Arrangements were all the more complicated because of the Pa.s.sover observances; but not one of the peculiar customs was to be slighted; everything was to go on as usual on this holiday. The great number of the family who would be present necessitated especial provision for the Seder evening celebration and the days succeeding. It was a mere question of expense, and that need not be considered. On the contrary, it was a pleasant feature, that the unusual event would take place amid unusual circ.u.mstances, and instead of bread and cake and the every-day dishes, unleavened bread would be eaten. The distinctive festival, as it has survived in unchanged form, but added glamour to the ninetieth birthday celebration of Uncle Leopold.

The family were gathered at their evening meal when Mrs. Benas reported on her trip. With happy eagerness she told of her visit, how she found everyone, and what were their plans.

"But, f.a.n.n.y, dearest," teased her husband, "do you realize that you are to feed sixty people on _Matzoth_, and for two entire days! Because, you know, no one may leave before the evening of the second day of the holiday."

"Everything has been taken into consideration," she answered good-humoredly. "Do not worry, Joshua, you won't go hungry, and neither will the others. All kinds of nice things, even the finest pastry can be made out of Matzoth and Matzoth meal--cakes and tarts, and dipped Matzoth and _Chrimsel_, the specialties of the season, and the rest of the delicacies. You're no scorner of the good things of life, and you will enjoy eating these dishes again."

"I'll enjoy the indigestion, too, I warrant. But you're right, dearest, those fine dishes are as unforgettable as they are indigestible, and I am quite ready to risk a Karlsbad Kur in May, in order to eat properly in March."

"It will not be so bad as all that. We shall be careful to combine the prescribed with the palatable. And oh! children, it will be beautiful; I am happy about it now. It will be an occasion on which I shall gladly show what and who we are--we Friedlanders."

"Now, don't forget the rest of us," her husband bantered.

"The rest of you belong to us, too," she answered with emphasis. "That's just what const.i.tutes the greatness and the strength of the Jewish family--that it grasps so firmly whatever is attached to it. You cannot imagine who all are coming to this celebration in Rawitsch. Some relatives have announced their coming whose names you hardly know, in addition to those in direct descent from Rabbi Akiba. They are descendants of the brothers and sisters of Rabbi Akiba. Then there will be the relations, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the sisters and brothers of our grandfather. From the letters received in Rawitsch they would not have been able to trace these relationships, if Uncle Leopold's wonderful memory had not helped to place them. It would have been best if we had had our 'family tree' there as a help in recalling them."

Her husband was much amused at Mrs. Benas's pride and zeal. He had not seen her in so happy a frame of mind since a long time. When she was telling of her trip, he felt himself transplanted back to his youth. He saw before his mind's eye the Seder in the house of his own parents, with the consecration and devout importance at that time attached to the various customs. And a deep emotion stirred this man, usually so cool and skeptical.

"But, tell me, I should really like to know how they will manage. It is no small matter; for instance, at the Seder, how many do you expect?"

"Well, pay attention, Joe, and you children, too," she turned to Rita and Hugo, who had followed her report with interest. "I'll tell you the whole programme. We expect from fifty to sixty persons. Of these the ten or fifteen who are extremely orthodox will lodge with the relatives of Uncle Leopold's wife. They are the sons and a daughter of his deceased nephew. These three families are wealthy and keep a strictly orthodox household, as do most in the town. So the pious ones can be comfortably housed there, and need have no fears on the score of religious observances. The rest will be lodged in the comfortable inn on the market place. I looked at the rooms there, and they are quite possible, allowing for the sort of place Rawitsch is."

"Well, no one will expect to be provided with the accommodations of the 'Kaiserhof' or the 'Palace Hotel.'"