The uproarious merriment of a wedding-feast
burst forth into the night from a brilliantly lighted house in the "gasse" (narrow street). It was one of those nights touched with the
warmth of spring, but dark and full of soft mist. Most fitting it was for a celebration of the
union of two yearning hearts to share the same lot, a lot that may possibly dawn in
sunny brightness, but also become clouded and sullen—for a long, long time! But how merry and joyous they were over there,
those people of th
e happy olden times! They, like us, had their troubles and trials,
and when misfortune visited them it came not to them with soft cushions and tender pressures
of the hand. Rough and hard, with clinched fist, it laid
hold upon them. But when they gave vent to their happy feelings
and sought to enjoy themselves, they were like swimmers in cooling waters. They struck out into the stream with freshness
and courage, suffered themselves to be borne along by the current whithersoever it took
its cours
e. This was the cause of such a jubilee, such
a thoughtlessly noisy outburst of all kinds of soul-possessing gayety from this house
of nuptials. "And if I had known," the bride's father,
the rich Ruben Klattaner, had just said, "that it would take the last gulden in my pocket,
then out it would have come." In fact, it did appear as if the last groschen
had really taken flight, and was fluttering about in the form of platters heaped up with
geese and pastry-tarts. Since two o'clock—that is, since
the marriage
ceremony had been performed out in the open street—until nearly midnight, the wedding-feast
had been progressing, and even yet the sarvers, or waiters, were hurrying from room to room. It was as if a twofold blessing had descended
upon all this abundance of food and drink, for, in the first place, they did not seem
to diminish; secondly, they ever found a new place for disposal. To be sure, this appetite was sharpened by
the presence of a little dwarf-like, unimportant-looking man.
He was esteemed, however, none the less highly
by every one. They had specially written to engage the celebrated
"Leb Narr," of Prague. And when was ever a mood so out of sorts,
a heart so imbittered as not to thaw out and laugh if Leb Narr played one of his pranks. Ah, thou art now dead, good fool! Thy lips, once always ready with a witty reply,
are closed. Thy mouth, then never still, now speaks no
more! But when the hearty peals of laughter once
rang forth at thy command, intercessors, as it
were, in thy behalf before the very throne
of God, thou hadst nothing to fear. And the joy of that "other" world was thine,
that joy that has ever belonged to the most pious of country rabbis! In the mean time the young people had assembled
in one of the rooms to dance. It was strange how the sound of violins and
trumpets accorded with the drolleries of the wit from Prague. In one part the outbursts of merriment were
so boisterous that the very candles on the little table seemed to flicker with
terror;
in another an ordinary conversation was in progress, which now and then only ran over
into a loud tittering, when some old lady slipped into the circle and tried her skill
at a redowa, then altogether unknown to the young people. In the very midst of the tangle of dancers
was to be seen the bride in a heavy silk wedding-gown. The point of her golden hood hung far down
over her face. She danced continuously. She danced with every one that asked her. Had one, however, observed the actions
of
the young woman, they would certainly have seemed to him hurried, agitated, almost wild. She looked no one in the eye, not even her
own bridegroom. He stood for the most part in the door-way,
and evidently took more pleasure in the witticisms of the fool than in the dance or the lady
dancers. But who ever thought for a moment why the
young woman's hand burned, why her breath was so hot when one came near to her lips? Who should have noticed so strange a thing? A low whispering already passed
through the
company, a stealthy smile stole across many a lip. A bevy of ladies was seen to enter the room
suddenly. The music dashed off into one of its loudest
pieces, and, as if by enchantment, the newly made bride disappeared behind the ladies. The bridegroom, with his stupid, smiling mien,
was still left standing on the threshold. But it was not long before he too vanished. One could hardly say how it happened. But people understand such skillful movements
by experience, and will continue
to understand them as long as there are brides and grooms
in the world. This disappearance of the chief personages,
little as it seemed to be noticed, gave, however, the signal for general leave-taking. The dancing became drowsy; it stopped all
at once, as if by appointment. That noisy confusion now began which always
attends so merry a wedding-party. Half-drunken voices could be heard still intermingled
with a last, hearty laugh over a joke of the fool from Prague echoing across the table. Here
and there some one, not quite sure of
his balance, was fumbling for the arm of his chair or the edge of the table. This resulted in his overturning a dish that
had been forgotten, or in spilling a beer-glass. While this, in turn, set up a new hubbub,
some one else, in his eagerness to betake himself from the scene, fell flat into the
very débris. But all this tumult was really hushed the
moment they all pressed to the door, for at that very instant shrieks, cries of pain,
were heard issuing fro
m the entrance below. In an instant the entire outpouring crowd
with all possible force pushed back into the room, but it was a long time before the stream
was pressed back again. Meanwhile, painful cries were again heard
from below, so painful, indeed, that they restored even the most drunken to a state
of consciousness. "By the living God!" they cried to each other, "what is the matter
down there? Is the house on fire?" "She is gone! she is gone!" shrieked a woman's voice from the entry below.
"Who? who?" groaned the wedding-guests, seized, as it
were, with an icy horror. "Gone! gone!" cried the woman from the entry, and hurrying
up the stairs came Selde Klattaner, the mother of the bride, pale as death, her eyes dilated
with most awful fright, convulsively grasping a candle in her hand. "For God's sake, what has happened?" was heard on every side of her. The sight of so many people about her, and
the confusion of voices, seemed to release the poor woman from a kind of stupor. She gl
anced shyly about her then, as if overcome
with a sense of shame stronger than her terror, andsaid, in a suppressed tone: "Nothing, nothing, good people. In God's name, I ask, what was there to happen?" Dissimulation, however, was too evident to
suffice to deceive them. "Why, then, did you shriek so, Selde," called
out one of the guests to her, "if nothing happened?" "Yes, she has gone," Selde now moaned in heart-rending
tones, "and she has certainly done herself some harm!" The cause of this st
range scene was now first
discovered. The bride has disappeared from the wedding-feast. Soon after that she had vanished in such a
mysterious way, the bridegroom went below to the dimly-lighted room to find her, but
in vain. At first thought this seemed to him to be
a sort of bashful jest; but not finding her here, a mysterious foreboding seized him. He called to the mother of the bride: "Woe to me! This woman has gone!" Presently this party, that had so admirably
controlled itself, was again th
rown into commotion. "There was nothing to do," was said on all
sides, "but to ransack every nook and corner. Remarkable instances of such disappearances
of brides had been known. Evil spirits were wont to lurk about such
nights and to inflict mankind with all sorts of sorceries." Strange as this explanation may seem, there
were many who believed it at this very moment, and, most of all, Selde Klattaner herself. But it was only for a moment, for she at once
exclaimed: "No, no, my good people, sh
e is gone; I know
she is gone!" Now for the first time many of them, especially
the mothers, felt particularly uneasy, and anxiously called their daughters to them. Only a few showed courage, and urged that
they must search and search, even if they had to turn aside the river Iser a hundred
times. They urgently pressed on, called for torches
and lanterns, and started forth. The cowardly ran after them up and down the
stairs. Before any one perceived it the room was entirely
forsaken. Ruben Klatt
aner stood in the hall entry below,
and let the people hurry past him without exchanging a word with any. Bitter disappointment and fear had almost
crazed him. One of the last to stay in the room above
with Selde was, strange to say, Leb Narr, of Prague. After all had departed, he approached the
miserable mother, and, in a tone least becoming his general manner, inquired: "Tell me, now, Mrs. Selde, did she not wish
to have 'him'?" "Whom? whom?" cried Selde, with renewed alarm, when
she found her
self alone with the fool. "I mean," said Leb, in a most sympathetic
manner, approaching still nearer to Selde, "that maybe you had to make your daughter
marry him." "Make? And have we, then, made her?" moaned Selde, staring at the fool with a look
of uncertainty. "Then nobody needs to search for her," replied
the fool, with a sympathetic laugh, at the same time retreating. "It's better to leave her where she is." Without saying thanks or good-night, he was
gone. Meanwhile the cause of all this d
isturbance
had arrived at the end of her flight. Close by the synagogue was situated the house
of the rabbi. It was built in an angle of a very narrow
street, set in a framework of tall shade-trees. Even by daylight it was dismal enough. At night it was almost impossible for a timid
person to approach it, for people declared that the low supplications of the dead could
be heard in the dingy house of God when at night they took the rolls of the law from
the ark to summon their members by name. Th
rough this retired street passed, or rather
ran, at this hour a shy form. Arriving at the dwelling of the rabbi, she
glanced backward to see whether any one was following her. But all was silent and gloomy enough about
her. A pale light issued from one of the windows
of the synagogue; it came from the "eternal lamp" hanging in front of the ark of the covenant. But at this moment it seemed to her as if
a supernatural eye was gazing upon her. Thoroughly affrighted, she seized the little
iron knock
er of the door and struck it gently. But the throb of her beating heart was even
louder, more violent, than this blow. After a pause, footsteps were heard passing
slowly along the hallway. The rabbi had not occupied this lonely house
a long time. His predecessor, almost a centenarian in years,
had been laid to rest a few months before. The new rabbi had been called, from a distant
part of the country. He was unmarried, and in the prime of life. No one had known him before his coming. But his per
sonal nobility and the profundity
of his scholarship made up for his deficiency in years. An aged mother had accompanied him from their
distant home, and she took the place of wife and child. "Who is there?" asked the rabbi, who had been
busy at his desk even at this late hour and thus had not missed hearing the knocker. "It is I," the figure without responded, almost
inaudibly. "Speak louder, if you wish me to hear you,"
replied the rabbi. "It is I, Ruben Klattaner's daughter," she
repeated. Th
e name seemed to sound strange to the rabbi. He as yet knew too few of his congregation
to understand that this very day he performed the marriage ceremony of the person who had
just repeated her name. Therefore he called out, after a moment's
pause, "What do you wish so late at night?" "Open the door, rabbi," she answered, pleadingly,
"or I shall die at once!" The bolt was pushed back. Something gleaming, rustling, glided past
the rabbi into the dusky hall. The light of the candle in his hand w
as not
sufficient to allow him to descry it. Before he had time to address her, she had
vanished past him and had disappeared through the open door into the room. Shaking his head, the rabbi again bolted the
door. On re entering the room he saw a woman's form
sitting in the chair which he usually occupied. She had her back turned to him. Her head was bent low over her breast. Her golden wedding-hood, with its shading
lace, was pulled down over her forehead. Courageous and pious as the rabbi was,
he
could not rid himself of a feeling of terror.
Comments
I like this story
Good story ❤
Wow nice script
Nice one , waiting for next part ❤