Simon Eichelkatz; The Patriarch. Two Stories of Jewish Life

"Why so late, Elkish?" he called to him cheerily. "What brings you here? Pity you did not come sooner. You should have heard Dr. Rosenfeld this evening; it would have warmed the cockles of your heart."

"My heart in this old body cries and laments. Hugo, what will it all come to? I'll never laugh again, Hugo, never. With Tzores I shall go to the grave."

"What are you talking about, Elkish? Before that happens, you still have a lot to do; and you really would have been pleased to see our friends here this evening – Dr. Rosenfeld, Dr. Magnus, and Sternberg."

"What do I care about doctors and lawyers when, God forbid, danger threatens us?"

"What danger?"

"Are you blind, Hugoleben, and deaf? Don't you want to see and hear, or don't you really see and hear? On this floor, you form Jewish societies, you and your friends. Rosenfeld talks, and Sternberg scolds, and the 'Olive Branch' hopes, and you think, – but you don't think of what's nearest to you, of what is going on below. Day after day that Posheh Yisroel, the aristocratic Herr Regierungsrat, comes and makes himself agreeable, and poses as being one of the Mishpocheh and Chavrusseh, and Rita is there, my Ritaleben, and listens to the Chochmes and the brilliant conversation, and gazes at the handsome, noble gentleman … and … and…"

"But, Elkish, don't get excited. What's gotten into your head? Papa and mamma are there, and I, too, and very often the other relatives."

"Just because of that! I am not afraid that he will seduce her the way a Baal-Milchomoh seduces a Shicksel. Such a thing, thank God, does not happen with us Jews. But he will lead her astray with his fine thoughts and noble manners, and his great position, and heaven knows what else, and he will make her forsake her religion, become an apostate as he himself is."

Hugo, himself suspicious of the friendly intercourse growing up between Dr. Weilen and his own family, was alarmed at the old man's outburst.

"You see things too sombrely, Elkish. There have always been people of high position, even Christians, that have visited us."

"Those were original Goyim, dyed in the wool, not such as he, and not related, God forgive me that I must admit it. And when they came, it was for the good dinners, and the fine champagne direct from France. I ought to know, for I paid the bills. Those real Cognacs, and the cigars with fancy bands! A small matter! Herr Geheimrat can well afford it. Why object? We merely shrug our shoulders – and despise them. When they came and made genuflexions, and were never too tired to find us, then they wanted money – much money – for charity, and for monuments, and for foundations, and for all sorts of things – even for churches. Why not? The Jew has always been good enough for that. I never dissuaded your father from such gifts. He still takes my advice occasionally; and when he says, 'I am well advised, Elkish,' then he merely means, 'What is your opinion of the matter, Elkish?' And I have always thought, there is no harm in giving, and surely not in taking. And when those other fellows, the artists, came and told your mother of their paintings and their busts, and invited her to their studios; and made music to the tune of one thousand marks an evening, and some concert tickets besides, I never protested, but I did some thinking, and I wondered what Mr. Mendel Benas of Lissa would have said, had he seen where our good money goes to. But we've grown so great, why should we not give? The time came when they paid us back more than we need. That's all right. Perhaps not for the individual, for he grieved, like your father or like Friedheim or Freudenthal, or all the great folk among the Jews; but it was good for the rest. The Christians began to think that they have a right to be considered, and we began to feel we were what we are – Jews."

When Elkish flew into a passion, it was not so easy to calm him. Hugo therefore did not interrupt his harangue, a mixture of indignation, scorn, and disappointment. With most of it he himself agreed, and even though he viewed events from a more modern standpoint, yet at bottom he held the same opinions as the embittered old man. It did not seem strange to Hugo that Elkish had dropped into his native jargon, for the sake of emphasis. He always did so when excited.

"And therefore I always said," he continued, after a short pause, "'Mr. Benas,' I said, 'as you like.' But now I do not say 'as you like.' For this fellow wants not only our money, but our child, too, – our darling Rita."

His voice turned hoarse, and the last words sounded like a plaint.

"Elkish!"

"Yes, yes, Hugo, that's what it is! Why did he never come before? He has been in Berlin a long time, and he's always known who Joshua Benas was, and in what relation he stood to him."

"But a special occasion brought him to us, Uncle Leopold's birthday – "

"Nonsense! That is a pretext! He had to say something. He had it all planned. He wishes to celebrate Reb Löbl's birthday! Oser! not a word of truth."

"There was no necessity for an excuse to visit us; he knew quite well that my parents would have received him, even if he had only said that he wished to become acquainted with his mother's relatives."

"But the other story sounds better, more romantic. That attracts a young girl like Rita. You may believe me, Hugo. I know her. She has not said a word about him, and she goes about as if in a dream. She used to tell Rosalie and me about everything, about Jedlitzka, with whom she plays, about Skarbina, with whom she paints, about the theatre and the concerts, and the lessons in philosophy with Rosenfeld, and whether 'Olive Branch' dances better than Cohnheim of Bellevue Street. My sister and myself got all our entertainment through her, on Shabbes afternoons, when she came to us, just as when she was a little girl. But she's never spoken a word about him, not a syllable; as if he did not exist. And yet he comes every afternoon to tea, and evenings, and noon; and they meet at the Opera House, by chance, of course, and by chance, too, in the skating rink, on the Rousseau Island. Mlle. Tallieu is always present, and she told my nephew Redlich, who studies French with her. She even told it to him in French."

Hugo listened thoughtfully.

"But, my dear Elkish, there is nothing to be done about it. Papa and mamma have begged me expressly to treat him with the utmost courtesy, even though I found it hard from the very beginning. So I withdraw as far as possible when he comes; because it goes without saying that a man of his station must be met with consideration. There really is something very simple and engaging about him."

"There you have it, there you have it!" wailed Elkish. "It would be much better if you did not withdraw, but remained, and took care that she did not fall in love."

"It wouldn't do any good."

"Why not?"

"Do you believe, Elkish, that a girl like Rita becomes enamored of externals? Because some one pays her compliments, or casts languishing looks at her, which the presence of a third person might hinder?"

"Well, then, with what do girls fall in love?"

"They fall in love with the personality of a man; with his spiritual nature and his appearance, when the two are united in a congenial individuality – in a man who appeals to or supplements their own character, or charms them."

"I do not understand such stuff, Hugo. Thank God, I am not meshugge. But it is enough to make you crazy to think that a good Jewish girl cannot be kept from falling in love with a Posheh Yisroel. I always advised your father to arrange the match with Reinbach of Mannheim. If he had followed my advice, she would have been married long ago; and I am curious, very curious, to know whether in such circumstances it would have occurred to the Regierungsrat to wish to celebrate the birthday of Reb Löb Friedländer."

"But Rita did not care for young Reinbach; and I am sure no one can blame her. Such an arrogant upstart, without any ideals."

"There are some with ideals and some without. Reinbach is so rich that I cannot see why he needs ideals."

"Well, to be sure, Elkish, he cannot buy them. But we need not complain of our financial position, either, and yet we are moved by ideals in our demands and hopes. Or look at Magnus. His father is a millionaire, and yet he thinks of nothing but the fulfilment of our plans. And look at Sternberg, and Rosenfeld, and myself, and others who might pass their lives seeking pleasures of all kinds, instead of worrying over the sorrows of our nation. And here comes a South German dandy, a man about town à la mode de Paris, a Jew, the type that is now being persecuted and maligned as never before, and whenever we come to the subject that absorbs us all so much, he curtly remarks, 'Judaism is a misfortune.'"

"That is a phrase, nothing more."

"It seems to me this is not the time for empty phrases," he answered gloomily. "The man that uses them, and uses them with such an air of superiority, is a fool. And that Rita should not accept such a fellow, you should find quite proper."

"I prefer a Jewish fool to a baptized philosopher."

"There are also Jewish philosophers." Henry's fine, pale face suddenly came to his mind. He arose and paced up and down the room lost in thought. Then he said:

"It is very late, Elkish."

"A Jewish philosopher, however, is no good match," he persevered.

"Rita must decide that, not we. So let us go to bed now."

"But, Hugo, you must promise me one thing. Be on your guard, – be on your guard."

He shook the old clerk's hand: "Rest easy, Elkish. I share your fears, and also your dislikes."

"I knew it. That's why I came to you. Good night, Hugo, with God's help all will come out right."

"Let us hope so."

When the door had closed upon the old man, Hugo fetched a deep sigh. It occurred to him how suddenly and apparently for no reason Rosenfeld had left, when the conversation had turned upon Dr. Weilen's intercourse with his family.

"Is it possible that he, too…" He stared fixedly into the burning embers for some time before he put out his lamp, and went to sleep.

* * *

It was the first of January. Rita sat reading in the small, cozy drawing-room. A bright wood fire crackled upon the hearth, lit for cheer only; for the house was well heated otherwise. Rita could not bear a cold and desolate fire-place, especially on a day like this, when the cold out of doors was severe. On such days only a flood of light and warmth could bring comfort indoors. It was hardly four o'clock, but the lamps were lit, and the electric light, shaded by bright bell-shaped glass globes, produced a pleasant effect.

Through the windows draped with costly lace curtains the waning daylight peeped and the flurries of large snow-flakes. Rita put her book aside, and gazed thoughtfully at the falling snow. How beautiful the flakes were! – the white floating crystals, that played at tag, and chased each other, and then fell so silently and so calmly. The snug comfort of a warm room was peculiarly attractive in contrast to the scene outside. Suddenly she thought of those who might be out in the cold. She glanced at the clock; it was almost four o'clock. "Mother must be just arriving now," she said to herself.

"I hope the snowdrifts will not cause delays." She looked worried and arose to go to the window.

At this moment a rap came at the door, and the servant handed her a card, and announced Dr. Weilen.

"Ask him in."

And then he stood before her, and grasped her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

"May I personally repeat the good wishes I sent in writing this morning?"

Early in the day he had sent beautiful flowers with the compliments of the season.

"That is very kind of you," she answered, trying to overcome a slight embarrassment. "I am glad to have the opportunity to return your kind wishes and to thank you. But you must be satisfied with my company to-day. Yesterday my mother decided to take a short journey on which she started this morning, and my father and my brother are not likely to return until dinner time, at six o'clock."

He gazed at her without speaking, and the delicate blush that suffused her face assured him that his unspoken answer was understood.

She knew that he longed to be alone with her, and she also knew that it was for her sake that he came as often as the conventions of polite society allowed. Since he had first appeared among them, several weeks ago, he had called repeatedly, and it was obvious that he felt at home with them. Mr. and Mrs. Benas enjoyed his company. With the ease of the man of the world, and with his confiding manner he had readily made a place for himself. Without overstepping the barriers that his long estrangement from his family had unconsciously raised, he was able to assume a happy mean between the position of a guest and that of a relative. Rita, too, he had been able to win over to his side. She liked to see him, such as he was, partly as one of them, and partly as the formal guest. He had overcome her shyness to such an extent that she accepted him, now as a cousin and again as a visitor. It lent an especial charm to their intercourse, this mingling of intimacy and formality. It attracted him, and even more captivated her. On his arrival it was always the Government official whom she greeted; but when she became interested in the conversation, following his lead, she called him cousin. It was a source of unending delight to him, when, carried away by the excitement of the conversation, she, of her own accord, called him cousin.

"To what happy circumstances do I owe the pleasure of finding you alone on this New Year's Day, so that I may express to you my sincere, heartfelt wishes for your happiness, my dear, dear Rita?"

She sat down at the hearth again, and he placed himself opposite. He looked at her face which, brightened by the reflections from the hearth-fire, and illuminated by her inner excitement, seemed particularly charming.

"Mamma left this morning for Rawitsch, to visit Uncle Leopold; and papa and Hugo are visiting Uncle Friedheim who has been unwell for several days."

He looked at her in astonishment, then he smiled knowingly. "Your mother has gone to Rawitsch, to Uncle Leopold? So unexpectedly? She mentioned nothing of her intention on the day before Christmas, when I was here, although we spoke even more than usual about Uncle Leopold and his birthday."

"Mother decided only yesterday, – there were several things she wished to… She believed…" She tried in vain to conceal her hesitation.

"In this cold and stormy weather? It must have been quite an important matter."

"O, not at all, Dr. Weilen." Her embarrassment grew. "Mamma has had the intention of going for some time, and the snow came only after her departure. Papa and myself accompanied her to the station, and I am sure that nowadays one travels comfortably and agreeably. The coupé was well-heated, and mamma and her maid had it all to themselves. So few people travel on the holidays. I should have loved to go with her, and by this time she is already at her destination. The train arrives there at 3.28."

At first she spoke with uncertainty, as if searching for an unequivocal purpose for this trip; then her utterance became faster and faster; at the last words she looked at the clock on the mantel. A shepherd and shepherdess of old Dresden china, looking at each other tenderly, held the dial between them.

"Yes, at 3.28," she repeated.

"Rita!" he caught her hand and held it firmly. "Your mother has taken this trip in order to plead for me. She has granted my wish! Quite as a diplomatic ambassador! She wished to intercede for me personally, to be my spokesman, to brush aside scruples and prejudices; to place the strange and unexpected in a proper light; to express her conviction that this desire of mine is not a whim, but a pious longing that has lain dormant in a secret corner of my heart. All this she is going to put forward in my behalf. The confidence that all have in her she will use in my favor. She is going to say to them: 'From frequent intercourse with Victor Weilen, the son of our aunt Goldine, who died at an early age, your youngest sister, Uncle Leopold, the sister of my mother, – from frequent intercourse with him we have the impression that honest feeling leads him to us; that the secret voice of blood-relationship called him, when he discovered that one of the family, the one whose quiet piety, whose honest belief make him appear doubly worthy of honor to those whom life has driven away from their native soil, had attained his ninetieth birthday, and like a patriarch was going to gather his own about him. And on this occasion Victor Weilen, too, wishes to be present.'"

She looked at him in timid bewilderment. She had slowly disengaged her hand from his.

"O yes! But mamma also found it necessary to supervise the arrangements for the celebration personally. There will be so many people to come to the small town. Our relatives there are, of course, helpless; they are not used to such matters. Arrangements will have to be made in advance for the housing and entertainment of the guests… You see, it is a special festival that is to be celebrated."

"Do you wish to rob me of the delight of my interpretation, Miss Rita?" There was a pained expression in his voice. "All that might have been done by correspondence, but your kind mother in person had to justify and advocate the wish of a stranger to be one of the guests, a stranger, yet one of their own blood. For this the winter's journey, to-day, on New Year's Day, which people like to celebrate together at home. Am I right, Rita?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

It seemed impossible to her to plead further excuses after he had discovered the honest truth.

Neither spoke for some time. He gazed at her bowed head. The silence was eloquent of inner sympathy between them. The intense quiet of the room was disturbed only by the crackling of the wood fire. It cast red, quivering reflections across the light carpet covering the floor, and glanced brightly adown the girl's dress.

After a few moments during which they were sunk in thought, he said: "I know your mother will succeed in realizing my wish. She is a good spokesman. And I will be near you on that day, Rita – near you!"

And as though unable any longer to control his tumultuous feelings he jumped up, took her in his arms, and whispered softly in her ears, "My Rita!"

She rested upon his bosom, as if stunned, quivering with blissful joy. The uncertainty and misgiving that had troubled her heart throughout these many weeks was now converted into a happy reality. He loved her! He! He raised her bowed head and read the confession of her love in the eyes that looked at him in pure radiance. Deep emotion took possession of him. She loved him with the love that springs up in the sweet, secret longings, in the pure maidenly fervor, in the rare, modest timidity of the daughters of that people from which he had at one time turned away.

As if his thoughts had been transferred to her, she slowly disengaged herself from his arms, hid her face in her hands, and relieved the oppression of her soul in tears. He led her back to the place from which he had so impetuously drawn her, seated her, then kneeled before her, and embraced her softly, tenderly. "Rita, dear sweet Rita, my precious child. Why do you cry? What makes you sad? What frightens you?"

"Happiness."

He drew her to him again passionately, and said: "You shall learn to know this happiness in all its joy. It will exalt you, not sadden you."

"You forget what separates us," she stammered, suddenly alarmed, and tried to free herself from his arms.

He started violently. Then he threw his head back with a proud, victorious gesture, and, caressing her, he said in a firm voice: "That which separated us, draws us together, my love, my sweet love!" She clung to his neck, and without resistance she gave herself up to his kisses.

* * *

At dinner, Rita, to conceal from her father and Hugo the cause of her quiet and reserve, pleaded a headache. She merely mentioned the visit of Dr. Weilen; he had come to pay his New Year's call. Hugo looked at her so searchingly that she blushed, and turned away from his gaze.

"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 impassable 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 participant, 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 class 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 passed 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.

"Ceça!" 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 irréparable."