CHAPTER II
Nina, as she returned home from the Jews' quarter to her father'shouse in the Kleinseite, paused for a while on the bridge to make someresolution--some resolution that should be fixed--as to her immediateconduct. Should she first tell her story to her father, or first to heraunt Sophie? There were reasons for and against either plan. And if toher father first, then should she tell it to-night? She was nervouslyanxious to rush at once at her difficulties, and to be known to allwho belonged to her as the girl who had given herself to the Jew. Itwas now late in the evening, and the moon was shining brightly on thepalace over against her. The colonnades seemed to be so close to herthat there could hardly be room for any portion of the city to clusteritself between them and the river. She stood looking up at the greatbuilding, and fell again into her trick of counting the windows,thereby saving herself a while from the difficult task of following outthe train of her thoughts. But what were the windows of the palace toher? So she walked on again till she reached a spot on the bridge atwhich she almost always paused a moment to perform a little act ofdevotion. There, having a place in the long row of huge statues whichadorn the bridge, is the figure of the martyr St John Nepomucene, whoat this spot was thrown into the river because he would not betray thesecrets of a queen's confession, and was drowned, and who has everbeen, from that period downwards, the favourite saint of Prague--andof bridges. On the balustrade, near the figure, there is a small plateinserted in the stone-work and good Catholics, as they pass over theriver, put their hands upon the plate, and then kiss their fingers. Soshall they be saved from drowning and from all perils of the water--asfar, at least, as that special transit of the river may be perilous.Nina, as a child, had always touched the stone, and then touched herlips, and did the act without much thought as to the saving power of StJohn Nepomucene. But now, as she carried her hand up to her face, shedid think of the deed. Had she, who was about to marry a Jew, any rightto ask for the assistance of a Christian saint? And would such a deedthat she now proposed to herself put her beyond the pale of Christianaid? Would the Madonna herself desert her should she marry a Jew? Ifshe were to become truer than ever to her faith--more diligent, morethoughtful, more constant in all acts of devotion--would the blessedMary help to save her, even though she should commit this great sin?Would the mild-eyed, sweet Saviour, who had forgiven so many women, whohad saved from a cruel death the woman taken in adultery, who had beenso gracious to the Samaritan woman at the well--would He turn from herthe graciousness of His dear eyes, and bid her go out for ever fromamong the faithful? Madame Zamenoy would tell her so, and so wouldSister Teresa, an old nun, who was on most friendly terms with MadameZamenoy, and whom Nina altogether hated; and so would the priest, towhom, alas! she would be bound to give faith. And if this were so,whither should she turn for comfort? She could not become a Jewess! Shemight call herself one; but how could she be a Jewess with her strongfaith in St Nicholas, who was the saint of her own Church, and in StJohn of the River, and in the Madonna? No; she must be an outcast fromall religions, a Pariah, one devoted absolutely to the everlastingtorments which lie beyond Purgatory--unless, indeed, unless thatmild-eyed Saviour would be content to take her faith and her acts ofhidden worship, despite her aunt, despite that odious nun, and despitethe very priest himself! She did not know how this might be with her,but she did know that all the teaching of her life was against any suchhope.
But what was--what could be the good of such thoughts to her? Had notthings gone too far with her for such thoughts to be useful? She lovedthe Jew, and had told him so; and not all the penalties with which thepriests might threaten her could lessen her love, or make her think ofher safety here or hereafter, as a thing to be compared with her love.Religion was much to her; the fear of the everlasting wrath of Heavenwas much to her; but love was paramount! What if it were her soul?Would she not give even her soul for her love, if, for her love's sake,her soul should be required from her? When she reached the archway, shehad made up her mind that she would tell her aunt first, and that shewould do so early on the following day. Were she to tell her fatherfirst, her father might probably forbid her to speak on the subject toMadame Zamenoy, thinking that his own eloquence and that of the priestmight prevail to put an end to so terrible an iniquity, and that soMadame Zamenoy might never learn the tidings. Nina, thinking of allthis, and being quite determined that the Zamenoys should know whatshe intended to tell them, resolved that she would say nothing on thatnight at home.
"You are very late, Nina," said her father to her, crossly, as soonas she entered the room in which they lived. It was a wide apartment,having in it now but little furniture--two rickety tables, a fewchairs, an old bureau in which Balatka kept, under lock and key, allthat still belonged to him personally, and a little desk, which wasNina's own repository.
"Yes, father, I am late; but not very late. I have been with AntonTrendellsohn."
"And what have you been there for now?"
"Anton Trendellsohn has been talking to me about the papers which uncleKaril has. He wants to have them himself. He says they are his."
"I suppose he means that we are to be turned out of the old house."
"No, father; he does not mean that. He is not a cruel man. But he saysthat--that he cannot settle anything about the property without havingthe papers. I suppose that is true."
"He has the rent of the other houses," said Balatka.
"Yes; but if the papers are his, he ought to have them."
"Did he send for them?"
"No, father; he did not send."
"And what made you go?"
"I am so of often going there. He had spoken to me before about this.He thinks you do not like him to come here, and you never go thereyourself."
After this there was a pause for a few minutes, and Nina was settlingherself to her work. Then the old man spoke again.
"Nina, I fear you see too much of Anton Trendellsohn." The words werethe very words of Souchey; and Nina was sure that her father and theservant had been discussing her conduct. It was no more than she hadexpected, but her father's words had come very quickly upon Souchey'sspeech to herself. What did it signify? Everybody would know it allbefore twenty-four hours had passed by. Nina, however, was determinedto defend herself at the present moment, thinking that there wassomething of injustice in her father's remarks. "As for seeing himoften, father, I have done it because your business has required it.When you were ill in April I had to be there almost daily."
"But you need not have gone to-night. He did not send for you."
"But it is needful that something should be done to get for him thatwhich is his own." As she said this there came to her a sting ofconscience, a thought that reminded her that, though she was not lyingto her father in words, she was in fact deceiving him; and rememberingher assertion to her lover that she had never spoken falsely to herfather, she blushed with shame as she sat in the darkness of her seat.
"To-morrow father," she said, "I will talk to you more about this, andyou shall not at any rate say that I keep anything from you."
"I have never said so, Nina."
"It is late now, father. Will you not go to bed?"
Old Balatka yielded to this suggestion, and went to his bed; and Nina,after some hour or two, went to hers. But before doing so she openedthe little desk that stood in the corner of their sitting-room, ofwhich the key was always in her pocket, and took out everything that itcontained. There were many letters there, of which most were on mattersof business--letters which in few houses would come into the hands ofsuch a one as Nina Balatka, but which, through the weakness of herfather's health, had come into hers. Many of these she now read; somefew she tore and burned in the stove, and others she tied in bundlesand put back carefully into their place. There was not a paper in thedesk which did not pass under her eye, and as to which she did not cometo some conclusion, either to keep it or to burn it. There were nolove-letters there. Nina Balatka had never yet received such a letteras that. She saw her lo
ver too frequently to feel much the need ofwritten expressions of love; and such scraps of his writing as therewere in the bundles, referred altogether to small matters of business.When she had thus arranged her papers, she too went to bed. On the nextmorning, when she gave her father his breakfast, she was very silent.She made for him a little chocolate, and cut for him a few slips ofwhite bread to dip into it. For herself, she cut a slice from a blackloaf made of rye flour, and mixed with water a small quantity of thethin sour wine of the country. Her meal may have been worth perhaps acouple of kreutzers, or something less than a penny, whereas that ofher father may have cost twice as much. Nina was a close and sparinghousekeeper, but with all her economy she could not feed three peopleupon nothing. Latterly, from month to month, she had sold one thing outof the house after another, knowing as each article went that provisionfrom such store as that must soon fail her. But anything was betterthan taking money from her aunt whom she hated--except taking moneyfrom the Jew whom she loved. From him she had taken none, though it hadbeen often offered. "You have lost more than enough by father," she hadsaid to him when the offer had been made. "What I give to the wife ofmy bosom shall never be reckoned as lost," he had answered. She hadloved him for the words, and had pressed his hand in hers--but she hadnot taken his money. From her aunt some small meagre supply had beenaccepted from time to time--a florin or two now, and a florin or twoagain--given with repeated intimations on aunt Sophie's part, thather husband Karil could not be expected to maintain the house in theKleinseite. Nina had not felt herself justified in refusing such giftsfrom her aunt to her father, but as each occasion came she told herselfthat some speedy end must be put to this state of things. Her aunt'sgenerosity would not sustain her father, and her aunt's generositynearly killed herself. On this very morning she would do that whichshould certainly put an end to a state of things so disagreeable.After breakfast, therefore, she started at once for the house in theWindberg-gasse, leaving her father still in his bed. She walked veryquick, looking neither to the right nor the left, across the bridge,along the river-side, and then up into the straight ugly streets of theNew Town. The distance from her father's house was nearly two miles,and yet the journey was made in half an hour. She had never walked soquickly through the streets of Prague before; and when she reached theend of the Windberg-gasse, she had to pause a moment to collect herthoughts and her breath. But it was only for a moment, and then thebell was rung.
Yes; her aunt was at home. At ten in the morning that was a matter ofcourse. She was shown, not into the grand drawing-room, which was onlyused on grand occasions, but into a little back parlour which, in spiteof the wealth and magnificence of the Zamenoys, was not so clean as theroom in the Kleinseite, and certainly not so comfortable as the Jew'sapartment. There was no carpet; but that was not much, as carpets inPrague were not in common use. There were two tables crowded withthings needed for household purposes, half-a-dozen chairs of differentpatterns, a box of sawdust close under the wall, placed there thatpapa Zamenoy might spit into it when it pleased him. There was a crowdof clothes and linen hanging round the stove, which projected far intothe room; and spread upon the table, close to which was placed mammaZamenoy's chair, was an article of papa Zamenoy's dress, on which mammaZamenoy was about to employ her talents in the art of tailoring. Allthis, however, was nothing to Nina, nor was the dirt on the floor muchto her, though she had often thought that if she were to go and livewith aunt Sophie, she would contrive to make some improvement as to thecleanliness of the house.
"Your aunt will be down soon," said Lotta Luxa as they passed throughthe passage. "She is very angry, Nina, at not seeing you all the lastweek."
"I don't know why she should be angry, Lotta. I did not say I wouldcome."
Lotta Luxa was a sharp little woman, over forty years of age, withquick green eyes and thin red-tipped nose, looking as though Parismight have been the town of her birth rather than Prague. She woreshort petticoats, clean stockings, an old pair of slippers; and in theback of her hair she still carried that Diana's dart which maidens wearin those parts when they are not only maidens unmarried, but maidensalso disengaged. No one had yet succeeded in drawing Lotta Luxa's arrowfrom her head, though Souchey, from the other side of the river, hadmade repeated attempts to do so. For Lotta Luxa had a little money ofher own, and poor Souchey had none. Lotta muttered something about thethoughtless thanklessness of young people, and then took herselfdown-stairs. Nina opened the door of the back parlour, and found hercousin Ziska sitting alone with his feet propped upon the stove.
"What, Ziska," she said, "you not at work by ten o'clock!"
"I was not well last night, and took physic this morning," said Ziska."Something had disagreed with me."
"I'm sorry for that, Ziska. You eat too much fruit, I suppose."
"Lotta says it was the sausage, but I don't think it was. I'm very fondof sausage, and everybody must be ill sometimes. She'll be down hereagain directly;" and Ziska with his head nodded at the chair in whichhis mother was wont to sit.
Nina, whose mind was quite full of her business, was determined to goto work at once. "I'm glad to have you alone for a moment, Ziska," shesaid.
"And so am I very glad; only I wish I had not taken physic, it makesone so uncomfortable."
At this moment Nina had in her heart no charity towards her cousin, anddid not care for his discomfort. "Ziska," she said, "Anton Trendellsohnwants to have the papers about the houses in the Kleinseite. He saysthat they are his, and you have them."
Ziska hated Anton Trendellsohn, hardly knowing why he hated him. "IfTrendellsohn wants anything of us," said he, "why does he not come tothe office? He knows where to find us."
"Yes, Ziska, he knows where to find you; but, as he says, he has nobusiness with you--no business as to which he can make a demand. Hethinks, therefore, you would merely bid him begone."
"Very likely. One doesn't want to see more of a Jew than one can help."
"That Jew, Ziska, owns the house in which father lives. That Jew,Ziska, is the best friend that--that--that father has."
"I'm sorry you think so, Nina."
"How can I help thinking it? You can't deny, nor can uncle, that thehouses belong to him. The papers got into uncle's hands when he andfather were together, and I think they ought to be given up now. Fatherthinks that the Trendellsohns should have them. Even though they areJews, they have a right to their own."
"You know nothing about it, Nina. How should you know about such thingsas that?"
"I am driven to know. Father is ill, and cannot come himself."
"Oh, laws! I am so uncomfortable. I never will take stuff from LottaLuxa again. She thinks a man is the same as a horse."
This little episode put a stop to the conversation about thetitle-deeds, and then Madame Zamenoy entered the room. Madame Zamenoywas a woman of a portly demeanour, well fitted to do honour by herpersonal presence to that carriage and horses with which Providence andan indulgent husband had blessed her. And when she was dressed in herfull panoply of French millinery--the materials of which had come fromEngland, and the manufacture of which had taken place in Prague--shelooked the carriage and horses well enough. But of a morning she wasaccustomed to go about the house in a pale-tinted wrapper, which,pale-tinted as it was, should have been in the washing-tub much oftenerthan was the case with it--if not for cleanliness, then for mere decencyof appearance.
And the mode in which she carried her matutinal curls, done up withblack pins, very visible to the eye, was not in itself becoming. Thehandkerchief which she wore in lieu of cap, might have been excused onthe score of its ugliness, as Madame Zamenoy was no longer young, hadit not been open to such manifest condemnation for other sins. And inthis guise she would go about the house from morning to night on daysnot made sacred by the use of the carriage. Now Lotta Luxa was clean inthe midst of her work; and one would have thought that the cleanlinessof the maid would have shamed the slatternly ways of the mistress. ButMadame Zamenoy and Lotta Luxa had lived toget
her long, and probablyknew each other well.
"Well, Nina," she said, "so you've come at last?"
"Yes; I've come, aunt. And as I want to say something very particularto you yourself, perhaps Ziska won't mind going out of the room for aminute." Nina had not sat down since she had been in the room, and wasnow standing before her aunt with almost militant firmness. She wasresolved to rush at once at the terrible subject which she had in hand,but she could not do so in the presence of her cousin Ziska.
Ziska groaned audibly. "Ziska isn't well this morning," said MadameZamenoy, "and I do not wish to have him disturbed."
"Then perhaps you'll come into the front parlour, aunt."
"What can there be that you cannot say before Ziska?"
"There is something, aunt," said Nina.
If there were a secret, Madame Zamenoy decidedly wished to hear it, andtherefore, after pausing to consider the matter for a moment or two,she led the way into the front parlour.
"And now, Nina, what is it? I hope you have not disturbed me in thisway for anything that is a trifle."
"It is no trifle to me, aunt. I am going to be married to--AntonTrendellsohn." She said the words slowly, standing bolt-upright, at hergreatest height, as she spoke them, and looking her aunt full in theface with something of defiance both in her eyes and in the tone ofher voice. She had almost said, "Anton Trendellsohn, the Jew;" and whenher speech was finished, and admitted of no addition, she reproachedherself with pusillanimity in that she had omitted the word which hadalways been so odious, and would now be doubly odious--odious to heraunt in a tenfold degree.
Madame Zamenoy stood for a while speechless--struck with horror.The tidings which she heard were so unexpected, so strange, and soabominable, that they seemed at first to crush her. Nina was herniece--her sister's child; and though she might be repudiated,reviled, persecuted, and perhaps punished, still she must retain herrelationship to her injured relatives. And it seemed to Madame Zamenoyas though the marriage of which Nina spoke was a thing to be done atonce, out of hand--as though the disgusting nuptials were to take placeon that day or on the next, and could not now be avoided. It occurredto her that old Balatka himself was a consenting party, and that utterdegradation was to fall upon the family instantly. There was that inNina's air and manner, as she spoke of her own iniquity, which made theelder woman feel for the moment that she was helpless to prevent theevil with which she was threatened.
"Anton Trendellsohn--a Jew," she said, at last.
"Yes, aunt; Anton Trendellsohn, the Jew. I am engaged to him as hiswife."
There was a something of doubtful futurity in the word engaged, whichgave a slight feeling of relief to Madame Zamenoy, and taught her toentertain a hope that there might be yet room for escape. "Marry a Jew,Nina," she said; "it cannot be possible!"
"It is possible, aunt. Other Jews in Prague have married Christians."
"Yes, I know it. There have been outcasts among us low enough so todegrade themselves--low women who were called Christians. There hasbeen no girl connected with decent people who has ever so degradedherself. Does your father know of this?"
"Not yet."
"Your father knows nothing of it, and you come and tell me that you areengaged--to a Jew!" Madame Zamenoy had so far recovered herself thatshe was now able to let her anger mount above her misery. "You wickedgirl! Why have you come to me with such a story as this?"
"Because it is well that you should know it. I did not like to deceiveyou, even by secrecy. You will not be hurt. You need not notice me anylonger. I shall be lost to you, and that will be all."
"If you were to do such a thing you would disgrace us. But you will notbe allowed to do it."
"But I shall do it."
"Nina!"
"Yes, aunt. I shall do it. Do you think I will be false to my troth?"
"Your troth to a Jew is nothing. Father Jerome will tell you so."
"I shall not ask Father Jerome. Father Jerome, of course, will condemnme; but I shall not ask him whether or not I am to keep my promise--mysolemn promise."
"And why not?"
Then Nina paused a moment before she answered. But she did answer, andanswered with that bold defiant air which at first had disconcerted heraunt.
"I will ask no one, aunt Sophie, because I love Anton Trendellsohn, andhave told him that I love him."
"Pshaw!"
"I have nothing more to say, aunt. I thought it right to tell you, andnow I will go."
She had turned to the door, and had her hand upon the lock when heraunt stopped her. "Wait a moment, Nina. You have had your say; now youmust hear me."
"I will hear you if you say nothing against him."
"I shall say what I please."
"Then I will not hear you." Nina again made for the door, but her auntintercepted her retreat. "Of course you can stop me, aunt, in that wayif you choose."
"You bold, bad girl!"
"You may say what you please about myself."
"You are a bold, bad girl!"
"Perhaps I am. Father Jerome says we are all bad. And as for boldness,I have to be bold."
"You are bold and brazen. Marry a Jew! It is the worst thing aChristian girl could do."
"No, it is not. There are things ten times worse than that."
"How you could dare to come and tell me!"
"I did dare, you see. If I had not told you, you would have called mesly."
"You are sly."
"I am not sly. You tell me I am bad and bold and brazen."
"So you are."
"Very likely. I do not say I am not. But I am not sly. Now, will youlet me go, aunt Sophie?"
"Yes, you may go--you may go; but you may not come here again till thisthing has been put an end to. Of course I shall see your father andFather Jerome, and your uncle will see the police. You will be lockedup, and Anton Trendellsohn will be sent out of Bohemia. That is how itwill end. Now you may go." And Nina went her way.
Her aunt's threat of seeing her father and the priest was nothing toNina. It was the natural course for her aunt to take, and a course inopposition to which Nina was prepared to stand her ground firmly. Butthe allusion to the police did frighten her. She had thought of thepower which the law might have over her very often, and had spoken ofit in awe to her lover. He had reassured her, explaining to her that,as the law now stood in Austria, no one but her father could preventher marriage with a Jew, and that he could only do so till she was ofage. Now Nina would be twenty-one on the first of the coming month, andtherefore would be free, as Anton told her, to do with herself as shepleased. But still there came over her a cold feeling of fear when heraunt spoke to her of the police. The law might give the police no powerover her; but was there not a power in the hands of those armed menwhom she saw around her on every side, and who were seldom countrymenof her own, over and above the law? Were there not still dark dungeonsand steel locks and hard hearts? Though the law might justify her, howwould that serve her, if men--if men and women, were determined topersecute her? As she walked home, however, she resolved that darkdungeons and steel locks and hard hearts might do their worst againsther. She had set her will upon one thing in this world, and fromthat one thing no persecution should drive her. They might kill her,perhaps. Yes, they might kill her; and then there would be an end ofit. But to that end she would force them to come before she wouldyield. So much she swore to herself as she walked home on that morningto the Kleinseite.
Madame Zamenoy, when Nina left her, sat in solitary consideration forsome twenty minutes, and then called for her chief confidant, LottaLuxa. With many expressions of awe, and with much denunciation of herniece's iniquity, she told to Lotta what she had heard, speaking ofNina as one who was utterly lost and abandoned. Lotta, however, did notexpress so much indignant surprise as her mistress expected, though shewas willing enough to join in abuse against Nina Balatka.
"That comes of letting girls go about just as they please among themen," said Lotta.
"But a Jew!" said M
adame Zamenoy. "If it had been any kind of aChristian, I could understand it."
"Trendellsohn has such a hold upon her, and upon her father," saidLotta.
"But a Jew! She has been to confession, has she not?"
"Regularly," said Lotta Luxa.
"Dear, dear! what a false hypocrite! And at mass?"
"Four mornings a-week always."
"And to tell me, after it all, that she means to marry a Jew. Ofcourse, Lotta, we must prevent it."
"But how? Her father will do whatever she bids him."
"Father Jerome would do anything for me."
"Father Jerome can do little or nothing if she has the bit between herteeth," said Lotta. "She is as obstinate as a mule when she pleases. Sheis not like other girls. You cannot frighten her out of anything."
"I'll try, at least," said Madame Zamenoy.
"Yes, we can try," said Lotta.
"Would not the mayor help us--that is, if we were driven to go tothat?"
"I doubt if he could do anything. He would be afraid to use a highhand. He is Bohemian. The head of the police might do something, ifwe could get at him."
"She might be taken away."
"Where could they take her?" asked Lotta. "No; they could not take heranywhere."
"Not into a convent--out of the way somewhere in Italy?"
"Oh, heaven, no! They are afraid of that sort of thing now. All Praguewould know of it, and would talk; and the Jews would be stronger thanthe priests; and the English people would hear of it, and there wouldbe the very mischief."
"The times have come to be very bad, Lotta."
"That's as may be," said Lotta as though she had her doubts upon thesubject. "That's as may be. But it isn't easy to put a young womanaway now without her will. Things have changed--partly for the worse,perhaps, and partly for the better. Things are changing every day. Mywonder is that he should wish to many her."
"The men think her very pretty. Ziska is mad about her," said MadameZamenoy.
"But Ziska is a calf to Anton Trendellsohn. Anton Trendellsohn has cuthis wise teeth. Like them all, he loves his money; and she has not gota kreutzer."
"But he has promised to marry her. You may be sure of that."
"Very likely. A man always promises that when he wants a girl to bekind to him. But why should he stick to it? What can he get by marryingNina--a penniless girl, with a pauper for a father? The Trendellsohnshave squeezed that sponge dry already."
This was a new light to Madame Zamenoy, and one that was not altogetherunpleasant to her eyes. That her niece should have promised herself toa Jew was dreadful, and that her niece should be afterwards jilted bythe Jew was a poor remedy. But still it was a remedy, and therefore shelistened.
"If nothing else can be done, we could perhaps put him against it,"said Lotta Luxa.
Madame Zamenoy on that occasion said but little more, but she agreedwith her servant that it would be better to resort to any means thanto submit to the degradation of an alliance with the Jew.
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