Chapter 13

SLOWLY recovering his senses, the first thing that Elias became conscious of, was a racking headache. By and by he opened his eyes, and glanced around. Vaguely, as if half waking, half dreaming, he saw that he was lying fully dressed upon his own bed in his own bed-chamber. The gas was turned down low. By fits and starts a puff of fresh, cool air blew through the open window, making the curtain flap noisily, and the gas-flame flicker. Nobody else was in the room. Pretty soon he closed his eyes again, and again for a while was aware only of that desperate pain in the head.

But by degrees a certain sluggish perplexity began to assert itself, a certain dull surprise and curiosity.

“There is something strange—something I don’t understand. How do I come to be here? Have I been asleep and dreaming? Or is it true that a little while ago I was somewhere else? Where? I was doing something—something important—something that somebody else was doing with me. What? And then something happened. And—and now, here I am, lying here as though I had just waked out of a sleep, but all dressed, and with such, with such a headache—— Let me think.”

He tried hard to think; but in his mind all was impenetrable darkness, through which his thought groped at random, catching no gleam to follow; until of a sudden, a swift, intense lightning-flash of memory; and in an instant of supreme horror—with a mental recoil that communicated itself to his body, and made it start convulsively—he beheld what he supposed to be the appalling truth. Upon that lightning-flash, succeeded a very thunderstorm confusion in his brain.

“Oh, God!” he cried; and again and again, “Oh, God!”

Just what was it that he remembered?

“I remembered,” says he, in another part of that letter from which an excerpt was printed in Chapter X., “I remembered every thing down to the moment of my falling, with unaccustomed vividness and detail. I remembered our entering the parlor—you trembling upon my arm!—and running the gauntlet of the guests, and coming to a stand-still before the clergyman. I remembered the address that he had made; and how you had listened, with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks; and how I had—well, scarcely listened—but waited till he should finish, with eyes fastened upon your face, and heart beating hard for happiness.

“I remembered his asking, ‘Wilt thou take this woman, Christine, to thy wedded wife?’ and the glow of joy and pride and triumph, with which I prepared to answer. I remembered that then, just as I was opening my lips to speak, it seemed as though suddenly a dazzling disk of light rose before my eyes, changing color in rapid pulsations from white through yellow to scarlet; a sudden, tingling pain, like a powerful electric current, starting in the back of my head, shot through my body; a hard, sharp lump stuck in my throat; I felt that I was losing my ability to stand upright. I tried with might and main to keep my feet, and to speak the two necessary words. But I could not. My limbs contracted spasmodically. I heard a sharp explosion, like the report of a pistol, which sounded and felt as though somehow it came from within my own head. I cried out. I believed that I was surely dying. There was a second of immense agony—fear of death. I fell. Up to that point, I remembered every thing perfectly. But at that point, my memory broke short off.”

And remembering these things in this way, what did he conclude? He jumped to a conclusion which was most unwarrantable and most deplora-able, but which, considering all the circumstances, considering the fact that he was a Jew, born a Jew, bred a Jew, and the fact that for countless generations his ancestors upon every side had been Jews of the Jews, can scarcely be regarded as unnatural. He concluded that what the rabbi had prophesied had come to pass. He concluded that the God of Israel had indeed interfered.

The wild, black chaos, into which this conclusion hurled all his faculties, all his ideas, all his emotions, who shall describe? Was it not unspeakable even to himself? With horror-struck soul, the horror quivering through every atom and fiber of his being, he could only lie there upon his bed, shuddering, and moaning out, “Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God!”

In wonder-tales and mystical romances, we are accustomed to see the supernatural dealt with composedly enough. Surprise, amazement even, it may inspire in the fictitious personages confronted by it. But when, outside of literature, in what we call real life, a man of ordinary sensitiveness persuades himself that he has felt the contact of that awful, questionable Something which lies beyond the limits of common experience, his revulsion of feeling does not stop at amazement or surprise. All his theories and principles of life, tacit, unconscious perhaps, though many of them may be, are shaken from their foundations, disorganized, thrown into confusion; and his predominant sensation, we may be sure, is one of blood-curdling, panic horror. Such, at least, was the truth with Elias. His heart seemed to have frozen in his bosom; and he was sick with fear from head to foot.

Presently—how long after his recovery, he could not have told—he felt the touch of a cool hand upon his forehead, and heard the voice of his uncle low and gentle, say, “Elias, my poor boy, are you suffering? Are you in pain?”

He looked up into his uncle’s face.

“Oh, thank God!” he cried. “Thank God, that you have come! Stay with me. Turn up the gas. I want light—plenty of light. Turn it up full head. There—that’s right. Now, sit down—here—near me. Don’t leave me alone. For God’s sake, don’t leave me alone. Oh, it is good, so good, to have somebody with me. It was horrible to be all alone.”

The rabbi drew a chair up to Elias’s bedside, and seated himself there.

“If you could go to sleep, Elias,” he said, “it would be the best thing for you.”

“If I could go to sleep!” Elias laughed a harsh, unmirthful laugh. “If I could go to sleep! That’s good!” Then, loudly, passionately: “How shall I ever go to sleep again? Are you crazy, to talk to me of sleep! Don’t you know what has happened? Oh, my God, my God! And he talks to me of sleep! Sleep! Man alive, how—how shall I ever do any thing in all my life again, but—but—Oh!” His voice broke into an inarticulate groan. He had started up, leaning on his elbow. Now he fell back flat.

“You are very much excited,” said the rabbi. “You must try to calm yourself. Is the pain very great?”

“Oh, the pain—the pain is nothing. I have a headache, yes. But that is nothing. I wish it was ten times worse. I like the pain. If it were worse, then I might—I might forget the fearful, awful—oh, I can’t express it. Put yourself in my place. If it had happened to you, how do you think you would feel? Oh, it’s very easy for you to sit there comfortably, and talk to me about going to sleep.”

“If it had happened to me, Elias, I should rejoice in it,” the rabbi answered; and then, as Elias made no retort, went quietly, gravely, on: “Instead of agitating and terrifying you, Elias, the knowledge that you have gained of how close the relations are between the Lord our God and His chosen people, ought to inspire you with a deep, serene joy, with a feeling of infinite gratitude, and of perfect confidence. It should rejoice you, to know that the Lord is your constant, steadfast companion, that He follows your every footstep with the personal solicitude of a father. Awful, yes; but grand, beautiful, inspiring, and of unspeakable comfort amid the trials and perils of the world. Think, Elias, and try to appreciate, how great the Lord’s love for you has been shown to be—His love and His mercy. You—were you not purposing the commission of the most deadly of sins? A sin which would have pursued you with unceasing penalties to your grave, and for which not you alone, but your children, and your children’s children, would have had to suffer? And in His abundant love, what did the Lord do? He suffered you to persist up to the very brink of the precipice, and to gaze down into the abyss of iniquity; but before you had taken the final, fatal step, and fallen, he! He stretched out His arm; He saved you from destruction; and, like a forgiving parent, He brought you back to His bosom. Isn’t what I say true, Elias?”

The rabbi paused; but Elias remained silent.

“Answer me, Elias. Isn’t it true?”

“Oh, I suppose it’s true. Yes, yes, I suppose it’s true. But what difference does that make? You—you may analyze it as much as you choose. I don’t deny what you say. I don’t care about that. But if you had been through it—if you had been through it—— Good God! You make me mad, sitting there, and talking philosophy to me.”

“Not philosophy—don’t say philosophy—say religion. It has upset you, because, in spite of my warning, you did not expect it, and because you haven’t thought about it sufficiently. You haven’t pierced to the innermost substance of it, and thoroughly understood it. Reflect upon it, in the light of what I have said. Reflect that it has simply exemplified to you the closeness, the carefulness, with which the Lord our God looks to your welfare. As you walk among the pitfalls of life, He holds your hand, and sustains you. He will allow no evil to beset you. How safe you ought to feel! What courage you ought to take!”

Elias pondered the rabbi’s speech in silence. To the best of his comprehension, deranged as it was by his terror, debauched by his superstition, its truth seemed indisputable.

“And now,” the rabbi continued, after a brief pause, “it is apparent that the Lord has been your guide from the beginning. You were becoming indifferent—without knowing it, perhaps—indifferent to your religion. You had not zeal enough. You dwelt in a Christian community; and the Christian atmosphere was infecting you, was corrupting you. You were, so to speak, drifting away. The Lord saw it. He wished to call you back. He wished to awaken your slumbering soul, to revive your flagging Judaism, to rekindle your ardor, which had burned down to a tiny spark. Well, in His wisdom, this was the means that He devised. He caused you to fancy yourself attached to a Christian woman. He allowed you to harden yourself to the thought of committing the extreme sin—to the thought of marrying her. Then, at the last moment, He manifested Himself. He rescued you from your danger. And thus He gave such new vitality to your faith, that there is now no possibility of its ever becoming faint again. Oh, have you not reason in this to praise the Lord, and to thank Him, from the depths of your spirit? Oh, my son, son of my sister, how signally He has blessed you!”

“It is true,” Elias answered, “the Lord has shown me great mercy—greater than I deserved. I shall never doubt again. I shall always be a good Jew after this.”

“And as for the—the love you talked about—”

“Oh, don’t speak of it. It is dead, quite dead. The Lord has struck it dead in my heart. It is as though it had never been—as though I had never seen her, or known her.”

“I was sure it would be.”

“The Lord has burned it out of my heart.”

“He has breathed upon your heart and purified it. I am glad you recognize it. I am glad, too, that you seem calmer now, and more like yourself again.”

“Yes, I am more like myself. I see that I had no reason for getting so wrought up. But—oh, it was frightful.” Elias shuddered. In a minute he asked, “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you? For what?”

“You know—the way I acted.”

“It isn’t a question of forgiveness. You didn’t understand. I could not have expected you to act otherwise.”

“You are very generous. I was, as you say, ignorant. I acted like a brute.”

“You acted according to your light—which was dim. I understood. The Lord gave me to understand. When you first came into my study last night, and told me what you meant to do, the Lord gave me to understand. He assured me that it would all come out well in the end—that the marriage would never take place. That is why I spoke as I did. I felt perfectly sure. I did not fear for an instant. But now, Elias, we must stop talking. You must go to bed, and sleep.”

“I don’t believe I shall be able to sleep tonight.”

“Yes, you will; for I am going to give you a sleeping potion.”

The potion had a speedy effect. Elias buried his face in the pillow, and was soon sound asleep.





“That obstreperous old man who was to have been your father-in-law, has called twice,” said the rabbi; “and he is coming again at five o’clock.”

It was in the afternoon of the following day. Elias had just waked up. The rabbi was seated upon the foot of Elias’s bed.

“What did he want?” Elias asked.

“Oh, he called to inquire about you—about how you were feeling.”

“And you told him?”

“That you were asleep.”

“Is that all?”

“What else?”

“I didn’t know but you might have told him of my—my change of heart.”

“No. I thought it better that he should hear of that from your own lips.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons. Chiefly, because then he can have no doubt about it. You can make him understand that it is assured and irrevocable. If I were to speak with him he might doubt my word, or suspect that I had been influencing you. He seems to be something of a fire-eater.”

“Well, I dare say you are right. But it will be very hard.”

“It will, undoubtedly. But there’s no help for it. It’s an unavoidable nuisance. Once over and done with it, you’ll feel immensely relieved.”

“It is strange,” said Elias, “how completely my affection for her seems to have been destroyed. Here, a little while ago, it was, and for many months had been, the ruling passion, the single aim and purpose of my life. I thought of nothing else, felt nothing else, cared for nothing else, all day long, every day. And now, it seems to have been utterly wiped out and obliterated, without even leaving a trace behind it—just as you blow out a candle, and the flame vanishes. I can think of her without any emotion of any kind. If I had never known her, if she had never been more than a passing acquaintance, my indifference could not be greater. This is very strange, isn’t it?”

“No, Elias, not strange at all. You must remember that it is the act of the Lord. As you said this morning, the Lord has struck your passion dead in your heart. He has purified your heart with fire, and restored to it the cleanliness it had before this woman crossed your path, and tempted you. The truth is, you never really loved her at all. She exerted a certain baleful fascination over you—a fascination which the breath of the Lord has dissipated, just as the breath of the morning dissipates the miasms that have gathered over night.”

“I suppose—I suppose it will be a heavy blow for her. She loves me. She will suffer terribly.”

“Oh, you mustn’t think of that. That isn’t your affair. The Lord has used her as His instrument. Now that her usefulness has ceased, the Lord will dispose of her as He deems wisest.”

“But she will suffer, all the same. And here is what is strangest. It stands to reason—it is obvious—and I know perfectly well—that she will suffer. And yet, I seem to feel no pity, no sorrow, no sympathy, for her—not any more than as though my heart were a stone. My whole capacity for feeling seems to have been destroyed. Perhaps it is so. Perhaps it has been. Perhaps the Lord—I don’t know how to say just what I mean; but it seems as though I had grown indifferent to every thing.”

“In the main, that is the result of the shock you have sustained. It will pass. But as for her, the Lord will not allow you to feel for her. You have suffered enough. Her turn has come. If you have no sympathy for her, it is because she is entitled to none. The Lord desires that she shall receive none. She is a Christian, a Goy, despised and abominated of the Lord. She has served her purpose. Now she must bear her punishment.”

“And yet—”

“No, no, boy. Don’t think about it. Don’t let your mind dwell upon it. You must not think of any thing but of how grateful you ought to be for your own escape. Put all your mind and heart into thanksgiving. Praise the Lord! It is irreverent for you to question, to lament, the consequences which the Most High, in His wisdom, has ordained.”

After an interim of silence, Elias said, “There is something in this connection which, I think, I ought to tell you. Night before last, up in my studio—” And he went on to give the rabbi an account of the curious experience he had had with his mother’s portrait. “I thought at the time,” he concluded, “that it was simply a morbid illusion of my senses. But now I am not so sure. What do you say? What is your explanation?”

“I do not believe that the souls or spirits of the dead are ever permitted to manifest themselves to the living,” replied the rabbi; “and therefore I do not for an instant entertain the theory that it could have been a genuine apparition of your mother. But neither do I believe that it was a mere trick of your senses. I believe that the Lord, as a warning to you, caused you to see what you saw—caused an image of your mother’s face to rise before you. I am not surprised. I have known of His causing similar things to happen before.”

“It is wonderful, it is incomprehensible,” said Elias, “why the Lord should take such an intimate interest in the welfare of a mere individual, like me.”

“You are a Jew. There is not a faithful Jew living, but is kept constantly in the Lord’s eye, in the Lord’s mind. The longer you live, the more perfectly will you realize the ineffable privilege you have enjoyed in being born a Jew.”

At about five o’clock, surely enough, old Redwood called. The maid ushered him into the rabbi’s study, where Elias and his uncle awaited him. He halted just within the threshold, and made a stiff bow to the rabbi. Then he advanced upon Elias, with extended hand, exclaiming, “Well, Elias, I’m glad to see you. How are you? How do you do?”

Elias took his hand, held it for an instant, dropped it, and responded, “How do you do?”

“That ain’t answering my question,” said Redwood. “I want to know, how do ye do?”

“Oh, I feel quite well, quite as usual, thank you,” replied Elias. “Won’t—won’t you sit down?”

“Well, I guess I will—yes,” the old man assented, and did so. “Well,” he continued, “this has been the devil’s own business all around, hasn’t it? Poor Chris, poor little Chris—she’s pretty near out of her head. She’s all broke up. She is, for a fact. She wanted to come down here with me—begged and implored me to let her. But I wouldn’t. I didn’t know how you might be; and, think s’s I, it might just fret her worse than ever. She’s been scared about to death. Poor little thing! I tried to comfort her, and cheer her up; but it wa’n’t much use. A father don’t count for much, now-a-days, when a young man is concerned. I suppose,” he wound up abruptly, “seeing you feel all right again, you’ll be up to the house to-night, hey? Then we can settle on a new day for the wedding.”

Elias summoned his utmost courage. “N-no; I think not,” he said. His voice was husky and unsteady.

Redwood did not understand. “Hey—what?” he queried.

“I say, no; I think I shall not call this evening.”

“No? Why, why not? Don’t you—ain’t you well enough? Chris is just—I may say, she’s just pining for a sight of ye. I really think she’ll get sick, if this thing keeps on. If you’re able to leave the house, I really think you’d better come up. She—she’s nearly cried her eyes out. I told her—just before I left—I told her: ‘Now, look here, Chris, you want to stop that crying. You want to dry your eyes, and bleach ‘em, against Elias’s coming,’ says I, ‘for he won’t admire them, red like that.’ I said this, you know, to sort of make her laugh. But seriously, I’m scared about her. I am, actually. She hasn’t tasted a mouthful of food all day. I guess I’ll have to call in the doctor if she ain’t better to-morrow. But unless you’re considerably worse off than you look, I guess you’d better come up. I’ll tell you what you do—you come up with me now, and take dinner.”

Elias felt that the old man was making it more and more difficult for him to say what would have to be said. He clenched his fists, and gritted his teeth, and began by a great effort to force out the words.

“Mr. Redwood—there is a—a misunderstanding. I must set it right. I—I am exceedingly sorry—to—to be compelled to tell you—to tell you that—” Here his voice sank to a whisper. He paused for a moment, drew a long breath, resumed aloud, “—that, owing to circumstances which I can not perfectly explain—because, in fact, of our difference of religion—she being a Christian, and I a Jew—the—the engagement—between Miss Redwood and myself—will have to be—broken off. This is quite positive. There is no help for it. Please—please believe it, without my saying more. I am very sorry. Our engagement will have to be broken off.”

He did not dare to look at the man to whom he had spoken. He looked at his uncle. But the latter was watching old Redwood.

Old Redwood’s face was eloquent. When Elias had begun to speak, the old man had been smiling good-naturedly. Gradually his smile had faded to an expression of blank incomprehension; which, in its turn, had gradually changed to one of uttermost, indignant astonishment. But now, this too had departed, and his features had become set in a new smile—a smile which revealed the abyssmal contempt, the passionate, malignant scorn, at the bottom of his soul, far more clearly than the strongest words could have done. A grayish pallor had overspread his brow. His eyes blazed upon Elias. Between his drawn lips, his teeth gleamed savagely. He sat still, nodding his head, and smiling that unpropitious smile.

For a long while, painfully long, no one spoke.

Elias, though he dared not look, knew how fiercely old Redwood was eying him—felt the heat of old Redwood’s gaze. His cheeks flaming, his body in a tremor, he sat still, afraid to stir. He could hear old Redwood breathe. He could hear the boisterous beating of his own heart, in dread apprehension of the brewing storm. He could hear the regular, metallic tick-tack of the rabbi’s clock, which increased the stress, as it measured the duration, of his suspense. The rabbi, also, was smiling now—a smile of genial satisfaction.

At last old Redwood moved. He shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat. With a single jerk of his tall frame, he got upon his feet. He stood for a few seconds, silent. Presently, “Well, Elias Bacharach,” he said, in low, dry tones, vibrant with suppressed fury, “I understand that I am to inform my daughter from you, that, as you have said, on account of your difference of religion, she is to consider herself jilted and thrown over. I think that is the upshot of what you have said.”

“Say, rather, released from her engagement,” put in the rabbi, blandly. “And if you will permit me, I shall be happy to explain to you the circumstances which render this step unavoidable.”

“Pardon me,” returned old Redwood, with a grand bow and flourish. “I was not aware, sir, of having addressed you. I’m talking to Mr. Elias Bacharach. And now, Elias Bacharach, this is what I’ve got to say. I suppose you know what you air. I suppose you know the names I could call ye, if I had a mind to demean myself to calling names. You look in the dictionary, and you’ll find them printed in black and white. But I guess you won’t need to look so far. I guess it will do just as well if you look in your own conscience. You know what you’ve done. You know how you’ve taken a young, innocent girl, and won her heart, and got it set on you, so that she don’t think of any thing or any body else; and then flung her overboard, and spoiled her life, and darkened her whole youth. And you know what honest people think of a man who’s done that. That’s all. You needn’t be afraid. You needn’t sit there, shaking. I ain’t going to hurt you. I ain’t going to touch you, even. I’ll go home now. I’ll go home, and tell the news to Christine. If it kills her, you know who’ll have to answer for her death.” Thus far, the old man had spoken with great self-control; but here, suddenly, he forgot himself.—“But, by God,” he thundered out, “if it does kill her, I—I’d rather have it, by God! than have her married to you, now that I know what you are, you damn, miserable, white-livered Jew!”

With which, he stalked from the room; and next moment the street-door slammed behind him.

“Well, now, Elias,” said the rabbi, “now it’s all over for good and all.”

“Yes, I dare say,” replied Elias; “but I feel somehow as though it had just begun—as though the worst of it were still to come.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried the rabbi. “You’re morbid. Cheer up. Let’s celebrate your deliverance with a bottle of wine.”