Nina Balatka

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XII

  Again some days passed by without any meeting between Nina and herlover, and things were going very badly with the Balatkas in the oldhouse. The money that had come from the jeweller was not indeed allexpended, but Nina looked upon it as her last resource, till marriageshould come to relieve her; and the time of her marriage seemed to beas far from her as ever. So the kreutzers were husbanded as only awoman can husband them, and new attempts were made to reduce the littleexpenses of the little household.

  "Souchey, you had better go. You had indeed," said Nina. "We cannotfeed you." Now Souchey had himself spoken of leaving them some dayssince, urged to do so by his Christian indignation at the abominablebetrothal of his mistress. "You said the other day that you would doso, and it will be better."

  "But I shall not."

  "Then you will be starved."

  "I am starved already, and it cannot be worse. I dined yesterday onwhat they threw out to the dogs in the meat-market."

  "And where will you dine to-day?"

  "Ah, I shall dine better to-day. I shall get a meal in theWindberg-gasse."

  "What! at my aunt's house?"

  "Yes; at your aunt's house. They live well there, even in the kitchen.Lotta will have for me some hot soup, a mess of cabbage, and a sausage.I wish I could bring it away from your aunt's house to the old man andyourself."

  "I would sooner fall in the gutter than eat my aunt's meat."

  "That is all very fine for you, but I am not going to marry a Jewess.Why should I quarrel with your aunt, or with Lotta Luxa? If you wouldgive up the Jew, Nina, your aunt's house would be open to you; yes--andZiska's house."

  "I will not give up the Jew," said Nina, with flashing eyes.

  "I suppose not. But what will you do when he gives you up? What ifZiska then should not be so forward?"

  "Of all those who are my enemies, and whom I hate because they are socruel, I hate Ziska the worst. Go and tell him so, since you arebecoming one of them. In doing so much you cannot at any rate do meharm."

  Then she took herself off, forgetting in her angry spirit theprudential motives which had induced her to begin the conversation withSouchey. But Souchey, though he was going to Madame Zamenoy's house toget his dinner, and was looking forward with much eagerness to the messof hot cabbage and the cold sausage, had by no means become "one ofthem" in the Windberg-gasse. He had had more than one interview of latewith Lotta Luxa, and had perceived that something was going on, ofwhich he much desired to be at the bottom. Lotta had some scheme, whichshe was half willing and half unwilling to reveal to him, by which shehoped to prevent the threatened marriage between Nina and the Jew. NowSouchey was well enough inclined to take a part in such a scheme--provided it did not in any way make him a party with the Zamenoys inthings general against the Balatkas. It was his duty as a Christian--though he himself was rather slack in the performance of his ownreligious duties--to put a stop to this horrible marriage if he coulddo so; but it behoved him to be true to his master and mistress, andespecially true to them in opposition to the Zamenoys. He had in somesort been carrying on a losing battle against the Zamenoys all hislife, and had some of the feelings of a martyr, telling himself thathe had lost a rich wife by doing so. He would go on this occasion andeat his dinner and be very confidential with Lotta; but he would bevery discreet, would learn more than he told, and, above all, would notbetray his master or mistress.

  Soon after he was gone, Anton Trendellsohn came over to the Kleinseite,and, ringing at the bell of the house, received admission from Ninaherself. "What! you, Anton?" she said, almost jumping into his arms,and then restraining herself. "Will you come up? It is so long since Ihave seen you."

  "Yes--it is long. I hope the time is soon coming when there shall be nomore of such separation."

  "Is it? Is it indeed?"

  "I trust it is."

  "I suppose as a maiden I ought to be coy, and say that I would preferto wait; but, dearest love, sorrow and trouble have banished all that.You will not love me less because I tell you that I count the minutestill I may be your wife."

  "No; I do not love you less on that account. I would have you be trueand faithful in all things."

  Though the words themselves were assuring, there was something in thetone of his voice which repressed her. "To you I am true and faithfulin all things; as faithful as though you were already my husband. Whatwere you saying of a time that is soon coming?"

  He did not answer her question, but turned the subject away intoanother channel. "I have brought something for you," he said--"somethingwhich I hope you will be glad to have."

  "Is it a present? she asked. As yet he had never given her anythingthat she could call a gift, and it was to her almost a matter of pridethat she had taken nothing from her Jew lover, and that she would takenothing till it should be her right to take everything.

  "Hardly a present; but you shall look at it as you will. You rememberRapinsky, do you not?" Now Rapinsky was the jeweller in the GrosserRing, and Nina, though she well remembered the man and the shop, didnot at the moment remember the name. "You will not have forgotten thisat any rate," said Trendellsohn, bringing the necklace from out of hispocket.

  "How did you get it?" said Nina, not putting out her hand to take it,but looking at it as it lay upon the table.

  "I thought you would be glad to have it back again."

  "I should be glad if--"

  "If what? Will it be less welcome because it comes through my hands?"

  "The man lent me money upon it, and you must have paid the money."

  "What if I have? I like your pride, Nina; but be not too proud. Ofcourse I have paid the money. I know Rapinsky, who deals with us often.I went to him after you spoke to me, and got it back again. There isyour mother's necklace."

  "I am sorry for this, Anton."

  "Why sorry?"

  "We are so poor that I shall be driven to take it elsewhere again. Icannot keep such a thing in the house while father wants. But better heshould want than--"

  "Than what, Nina?"

  "There would be something like cheating in borrowing money on the samething twice."

  "Then put it by, and I will be your lender."

  "No; I will not borrow from you. You are the only one in the world thatI could never repay. I cannot borrow from you. Keep this thing, and ifI am ever your wife, then you shall give it me."

  "If you are ever my wife?"

  "Is there no room for such an if? I hope there is not, Anton. I wish itwere as certain as the sun's rising. But people around us are so cruel!It seems, sometimes, as though the world were against us. And then you,yourself--"

  "What of me myself, Nina?"

  "I do not think you trust me altogether; and unless you trust me, Iknow you will not make me your wife."

  "That is certain; and yet I do not doubt that you will be my wife."

  "But do you trust me? Do you believe in your heart of hearts that Iknow nothing of that paper for which you are searching?" She pausedfor a reply, but he did not at once make any. "Tell me," she wenton saying, with energy, "are you sure that I am true to you in thatmatter, as in all others? Though I were starving--and it is nearly sowith me already--and though I loved you beyond even all heaven, as Ido, I do--I would not become your wife if you doubted me in any tittle.Say that you doubt me, and then it shall be all over." Still he did notspeak. "Rebecca Loth will be a fitter wife for you than I can be," saidNina.

  "If you are not my wife, I shall never have a wife," said Trendellsohn.

  In her ecstasy of delight, as she heard these words, she took up hishand and kissed it; but she dropped it again, as she remembered thatshe had not yet received the assurance that she needed. "But you dobelieve me about this horrid paper?"

  It was necessary that she should be made to go again through the fire.In deliberate reflection he had made himself aware that such necessitystill existed. It might be that she had some inner reserve as to dutytowards her father. There was, possibly, some reas
on which he couldnot fathom why she should still keep something back from him in thismatter. He did not, in truth, think that it was so, but there was thechance. There was the chance, and he could not bear to be deceived. Hefelt assured that Ziska Zamenoy and Lotta Luxa believed that this deedwas in Nina's keeping. Indeed, he was assured that all the household ofthe Zamenoys so believed. "If there be a God above us, it is there,"Lotta had said, crossing herself. He did not think it was there; hethought that Lotta was wrong, and that all the Zamenoys were wrong, bysome mistake which he could not fathom; but still there was the chance,and Nina must be made to bear this additional calamity.

  "Do you think it impossible," said he, "that you should have it amongyour own things?"

  "What! without knowing that I have it?" she asked.

  "It may have come to you with other papers," he said, "and you may notquite have understood its nature."

  "There, in that desk, is every paper that I have in the world. Youcan look if you suspect me. But I shall not easily forgive you forlooking." Then she threw down the key of her desk upon the table. Hetook it up and fingered it, but did not move towards the desk. "Thegreatest treasure there," she said, "are scraps of your own, which Ihave been a fool to value, as they have come from a man who does nottrust me."

  He knew that it would be useless for him to open the desk. If she weresecreting anything from him, she was not hiding it there. "Might it notpossibly be among your clothes?" he asked.

  "I have no clothes," she answered, and then strode off across the wideroom towards the door of her father's apartment. But after she hadgrasped the handle of the door, she turned again upon her lover. "Itmay, however, be well that you should search my chamber and my bed. Ifyou will come with me, I will show you the door. You will find it to bea sorry place for one who was your affianced bride."

  "Who _is_ my affianced bride," said Trendellsohn.

  "No, sir!--who was, but is so no longer. You will have to ask mypardon, at my feet, before I will let you speak to me again as mylover. Go and search. Look for your deed--and then you shall see thatI will tear out my own heart rather than submit to the ill-usage ofdistrust from one who owes me so much faith as you do."

  "Nina," he said.

  "Well, sir."

  "I do trust you."

  "Yes--with a half trust--with one eye closed, while the other iswatching me. You think you have so conquered me that I will be good toyou, and yet cannot keep yourself from listening to those who whisperthat I am bad to you. Sir, I fear they have been right when they toldme that a Jew's nature would surely shock me at last."

  The dark frowning cloud, which she had so often observed with fear,came upon his brow; but she did not fear him now. "And do you too tauntme with my religion?" he said.

  "No, not so--not with your religion, Anton; but with your nature."

  "And how can I help my nature?"

  "I suppose you cannot help it, and I am wrong to taunt you. I shouldnot have taunted you. I should only have said that I will not endurethe suspicion either of a Christian or of a Jew."

  He came up to her now, and put out his arm as though he were about toembrace her. "No," she said; "not again, till you have asked my pardonfor distrusting me, and have given me your solemn word that youdistrust me no longer."

  He paused a moment in doubt, then put his hat on his head and preparedto leave her. She had behaved very well, but still he would not be weakenough to yield to her in everything at once. As to opening her desk,or going up-stairs into her room, that he felt to be quite impossible.Even his nature did not admit of that. But neither did his nature allowhim to ask her pardon and to own that he had been wrong. She had saidthat he must implore her forgiveness at her feet. One word, however,one look, would have sufficed. But that word and that look were, at thepresent moment, out of his power. "Good-bye, Nina," he said. "It isbest that I should leave you now."

  "By far the best; and you will take the necklace with you, if youplease."

  "No; I will leave that. I cannot keep a trinket that was yourmother's."

  "Take it, then, to the jeweller's, and get back your money. It shallnot be left here. I will have nothing from your hands." He was so farcowed by her manner that he took up the necklace and left the house,and Nina was once more alone.

  What they had told her of her lover was after all true. That was thefirst idea that occurred to her as she sat in her chair, stunned bythe sorrow that had come upon her. They had dinned into her ears theiraccusations, not against the man himself, but against the tribe towhich he belonged, telling her that a Jew was, of his very nature,suspicious, greedy, and false. She had perceived early in heracquaintance with Anton Trendellsohn that he was clever, ambitious,gifted with the power of thinking as none others whom she knew couldthink; and that he had words at his command, and was brave, and wasendowed with a certain nobility of disposition which prompted him towish for great results rather than for small advantages. All this hadconquered her, and had made her resolve to think that a Jew could be asgood as a Christian. But now, when the trial of the man had in truthcome, she found that those around her had been right in what they hadsaid. How base must be the nature which could prompt a man to suspecta girl who had been true to him as Nina had been true to her lover!

  She would never see him again--never! He had left the room without evenanswering the question which she had asked him. He would not even saythat he trusted her. It was manifest that he did not trust her, andthat he believed at this moment that she was endeavouring to rob him inthis matter of the deed. He had asked her if she had it in her desk oramong her clothes, and her very soul revolted from the suspicion soimplied. She would never speak to him again. It was all over. No; shewould never willingly speak to him again.

  But what would she do? For a few minutes she fell back, as is sonatural with mortals in trouble, upon that religion which she had beenso willing to outrage by marrying the Jew. She went to a little drawerand took out a string of beads which had lain there unused since shehad been made to believe that the Virgin and the saints would notpermit her marriage with Anton Trendellsohn. She took out the beads--but she did not use them. She passed no berries through her fingers tocheck the number of prayers said, for she found herself unable to sayany prayer at all. If he would come back to her, and ask her pardon--ask it in truth at her feet--she would still forgive him, regardlessof the Virgin and the saints. And if he did not come back, what wasthe fate that Lotta Luxa had predicted for her, and to which she hadacknowledged to herself that she would be driven to submit? In eithercase how could she again come to terms with St John and St Nicholas?And how was she to live? Should she lose her lover, as she now toldherself would certainly be her fate, what possibility of life was leftto her? From day to day and from week to week she had put off to afuture hour any definite consideration of what she and her fathershould do in their poverty, believing that it might be postponed tillher marriage would make all things easy. Her future mode of livinghad often been discussed between her and her lover, and she had beencandid enough in explaining to him that she could not leave her fatherdesolate. He had always replied that his wife's father should want fornothing, and she had been delighted to think that she could with joyaccept that from her husband which nothing would induce her to acceptfrom her lover. This thought had sufficed to comfort her, as the evilof absolute destitution was close upon her. Surely the day of hermarriage would come soon.

  But now it seemed to her to be certain that the day of her marriagewould never come. All those expectations must be banished, and she mustlook elsewhere--if elsewhere there might be any relief. She knew wellthat if she would separate herself from the Jew, the pocket of her auntwould be opened to relieve the distress of her father--would be openedso far as to save the old man from perishing of want. Aunt Sophie, ifduly invoked, would not see her sister's husband die of starvation.Nay, aunt Sophie would doubtless so far stretch her Christian charityas to see that her niece was in some way fed, if that niece would beduly obedient. Further still,
aunt Sophie would accept her niece asthe very daughter of her house, as the rising mistress of her ownestablishment, if that niece would only consent to love her son. Ziskawas there as a husband in Anton's place, if Ziska might only gainacceptance.

  But Nina, as she rose from her chair and walked backwards and forwardsthrough her chamber, telling herself all these things, clenched herfist, and stamped her foot, as she swore to herself that she woulddare all that the saints could do to her, that she would face all theterrors of the black dark river, before she would succumb to her cousinZiska. As she worked herself into wrath, thinking now of the man sheloved, and then of the man she did not love, she thought that she couldwillingly perish--if it were not that her father lay there so oldand so helpless. Gradually, as she magnified to herself the terribledistresses of her heart, the agony of her yearning love for a man who,though he loved her, was so unworthy of her perfect faith, she began tothink that it would be well to be carried down by the quick, eternal,almighty stream beyond the reach of the sorrow which encompassed her.When her father should leave her she would be all alone--alone in theworld, without a friend to regard her, or one living human being onwhom she, a girl, might rely for protection, shelter, or even for amorsel of bread. Would St Nicholas cover her from the contumely of theworld, or would St John of the Bridges feed her? Did she in her heartof hearts believe that even the Virgin would assist her in such astrait? No; she had no such belief. It might be that such real beliefhad never been hers. She hardly knew. But she did know that now, in thehour of her deep trouble, she could not say her prayers and tell herbeads, and trust valiantly that the goodness of heaven would suffice toher in her need.

  In the mean time Souchey had gone off to the Windberg-gasse, and hadgladdened himself with the soup, with the hot mess of cabbage and thesausage, supplied by Madame Zamenoy's hospitality. The joys of such amoment are unknown to any but those who, like Souchey, have been drivenby circumstances to sit at tables very ill supplied. On the previousday he had fed upon offal thrown away from a butcher's stall, and habithad made such feeding not unfamiliar to him. As he walked from theKleinseite through the Old Town to Madame Zamenoy's bright-lookinghouse in the New Town, he had comforted himself greatly with thoughtsof the coming feast. The representation which his imagination made tohim of the banquet sufficed to produce happiness, and he went alonghardly envying any man. His propensities at the moment were thepropensities of a beast. And yet he was submitting himself to theterrible poverty which made so small a matter now a matter of joy tohim, because there was a something of nobility within him which madehim true to the master who had been true to him, when they had bothbeen young together. Even now he resolved, as he sharpened his teeth,that through all the soup and all the sausage he would be true to theBalatkas. He would be true even to Nina Balatka--though he recognisedit as a paramount duty to do all in his power to save her from the Jew.

  He was seated at the table in the kitchen almost as soon as he hadentered the house in the Windberg-gasse, and found his plate fullbefore him. Lotta had felt that there was no need of the delicacy ofcompliment in feeding a man who was so undoubtedly hungry, and she hadtherefore bade him at once fall to. "A hearty meal is a thing you arenot used to," she had said, "and it will do your old bones a deal ofgood." The address was not complimentary, especially as coming from alady in regard to whom he entertained tender feelings; but Soucheyforgave the something of coarse familiarity which the words displayed,and, seating himself on the stool before the victuals, gave play to thefeelings of the moment. "There's no one to measure what's left of thesausage," said Lotta, instigating him to new feats.

  "Ain't there now?" said Souchey, responding to the sound of thetrumpet. "I always thought she had the devil's own eye in looking afterwhat was used in the kitchen."

  "The devil himself winks sometimes," said Lotta, cutting anotherhalf-inch off from the unconsumed fragment, and picking the skin fromthe meat with her own fair fingers. Hitherto Souchey had been regardlessof any such niceness in his eating, the skin having gone with the rest;but now he thought that the absence of the outside covering and thetouch of Lotta's fingers were grateful to his appetite.

  "Souchey," said Lotta, when he had altogether done, and had turned hisstool round to the kitchen fire, "where do you think Nina would go ifshe were to marry--a Jew?" There was an abrupt solemnity in the mannerof the question which at first baffled the man, whose breath was heavywith the comfortable repletion which had been bestowed upon him.

  "Where would she go to?" he said, repeating Lotta's words.

  "Yes, Souchey, where would she go to? Where would be her eternal home?What would become of her soul? Do you know that not a priest in Praguewould give her absolution though she were on her dying bed? Oh, holyMary, it's a terrible thing to think of! It's bad enough for the oldman and her to be there day after day without a morsel to eat; and Isuppose if it were not for Anton Trendellsohn it would be bad enoughwith them--"

  "Not a gulden, then, has Nina ever taken from the Jew--nor the value ofa gulden, as far as I can judge between them."

  "What matters that, Souchey? Is she not engaged to him as his wife? Cananything in the world be so dreadful? Don't you know she'll be--damnedfor ever and ever?" Lotta, as she uttered the terrible words, broughther face close to Souchey's, looking into his eyes with a fierce glare.Souchey shook his head sorrowfully, owning thereby that his knowledgein the matter of religion did not go to the point indicated by LottaLuxa. "And wouldn't anything, then, be a good deed that would preventthat?"

  "It's the priests that should do it among them."

  "But the priests are not the men they used to be, Souchey. And it isnot exactly their fault neither. There are so many folks about in thesedays who care nothing who goes to glory and who does not, and they aretoo many for the priests."

  "If the priests can't fight their own battle, I can't fight it forthem," said Souchey.

  "But for the old family, Souchey, that you have known so long! Lookhere; you and I between us can prevent it."

  "And how is it to be done?"

  "Ah! that's the question. If I felt that I was talking to a realChristian that had a care for the poor girl's soul, I would tell you ina moment."

  "So I am; only her soul isn't my business."

  "Then I cannot tell you this. I can't do it unless you acknowledge thather welfare as a Christian is the business of us all. Fancy, Souchey,your mistress married to a filthy Jew!"

  "For the matter of that, he isn't so filthy neither."

  "An abominable Jew! But, Souchey, she will never fall out with him. Wemust contrive that he shall quarrel with her. If she had a thing abouther that he did not want her to have, couldn't you contrive that heshould know it?"

  "What sort of thing? Do you mean another lover, like?"

  "No, you gander. If there was anything of that sort I could manage itmyself. But if she had a thing locked up--away from him, couldn't youmanage to show it to him? He's very generous in rewarding, you know."

  "I don't want to have anything to do with it," said Souchey, getting upfrom his stool and preparing to take his departure. Though he had beenso keen after the sausage, he was above taking a bribe in such a matteras this.

  "Stop, Souchey, stop. I didn't think that I should ever have to askanything of you in vain."

  Then she put her face very close to his, so that her lips touched hisear, and she laid her hand heavily upon his arm, and she was veryconfidential. Souchey listened to the whisper till his face grew longerand longer. "'Tis for her soul," said Lotta--"for her poor soul's sake.When you can save her by raising your hand, would you let her be damnedfor ever?"

  But she could exact no promise from Souchey except that he would keepfaith with her, and that he would consider deeply the proposal made tohim. Then there was a tender farewell between them, and Soucheyreturned to the Kleinseite.