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Rabbi Mendel Winenki sat in his study, reading. Before him and within easy reach stood a massive table covered with books and papers. There were strewn upon it in motley confusion ancient folios and modern volumes. It was a comprehensive library which the Rabbi had col lected. There were works on comparative theology, on medicine, on jurisprudence and philosophy. The Shulkan-aruch and a treatise on Buddhistic Occultism stood side by side. The Talmud and Kant's "Kritik der reinen Vernunft" were placed upon the same shelf, and Josephus and Renan's "Life of Jesus" were near neighbors.
Time was when the Jew who would have exposed a single work printed in any characters but the ancient Hebrew letters would have been ostracized by his co-religionists. The Rabbi remembered with a smile how carefully he had concealed the precious volumes which Pesach Harretzki had given him, how furtively he had carried them into his bed that he might read them undetected.
How different now was the condition of things! True, the greater portion of the Jews of Kief still held tenaciously to their prejudices, absolutely refusing to learn anything not taught at the cheder . In the eyes of these people Mendel was a renegade and a heretic. The only thing which prevented them from hurling the ban of excommunication against him was their recollection of the good he had accomplished.
Mendel's greatest achievement was the introduction of secular education. Many years elapsed before his ideas took root, but with the spread of better instruction in the public schools, which were now open to Jewish youth, there came a desire for greater knowledge and the difficult problem worked out its own solution. At the time of which we speak many Jewish lads were pupils of the gymnasium and quite a number of them students at the University of Kief.
Seated by the side of the Rabbi, and sewing, sat his wife and his daughter, Kathinka, now a girl of eighteen. Many changes had occurred in the interval since we last saw our friends. Mendel was now a man of about forty-five and in the full vigor of contented manhood. A wealth of coal-black hair shaded his massive forehead and a long but neatly trimmed beard set off his handsome face. Recha had become stouter and more matronly, but one would scarcely take her for the mother of the blooming girl by her side.
Kathinka was a perfect specimen of Hebrew beauty. She had inherited the commanding form of her father and the regular features of her mother. To this perfection of body she united a sweetness of disposition which made her beloved by all who knew her.
Women among the Eastern Jews, as indeed among all oriental nations, being considered intellectually inferior to their lords and masters, rarely aspire to learning. Occasionally one might find an example of a well-directed and thoroughly developed mind among the daughters of Israel, even though surrounded by the retarding influences of the ghetto . We have seen how well Recha had been educated and her daughter Kathinka was being brought up in the same way. She was independent in thought as well as in action, but never at the cost of maidenly sentiment. Piety and purity shone in her lustrous eyes. Superior to her position, she possessed the faculty of adapting herself to her surroundings. There was no pride in her breast save that which might arise from the consciousness of doing right. The poor had a commiserating friend in her and the sick a tender nurse. The children that played in the squalid lanes of the old quarter ceased their romping when she passed and lovingly kissed her hand. She desired no better lot than to do good in her own sphere, and to deserve the appro bation of her own conscience. Such was Kathinka, a girl of many graces and sterling worth—in heart and soul a Jewess.
Rabbi Mendel looked up from his books and gazed fondly at his daughter, who, seated with the full light of the window falling upon her face, appeared the embodiment of loveliness. Then turning to his wife, he asked:
"Recha, have you spoken to Kathinka about young Goldheim?"
"No," replied Recha; "I left it for you to tell."
"Briefly then, my dear," said the Rabbi, addressing his daughter, who looked up from her work in surprise; "Reb Wolf, the schadchen , has been here for the third time, to induce us to give him a favorable reply for Samuel Goldheim. I told him that I feared my intervention would be useless."
Kathinka blushed deeply.
"You did right, father," she answered.
"But, my dear child," said the Rabbi, thoughtfully; "tell me why you refuse Goldheim? He is a fine-looking young man, of a rich and respected family, and will make you a good husband."
Kathinka arose and, crossing to her father, put her arms lovingly about his neck.
"Dear papa," she said, softly and caressingly, "I know you love me too well to insist upon my doing a thing which will make me unhappy for life. You have often told me how you and mamma first found one another, how heart went out to heart, so that there was scarcely any need to tell each other that you loved. That is an ideal affection, and the only one that my heart could recognize. I abhor the notion of a marriage brought about by the efforts of a third party, who has no other interest in the matter than the fee he receives for his labors. There is to me something repugnant in the idea of uniting two beings to each other for life, without consulting their inclinations or their tastes."
"I agree with you, Kathinka," answered the Rabbi, stroking his daughter's long curls, "and it is far from my thoughts to see you united to any man you do not truly love. In former days the system of marrying through the agency of a match-maker undoubtedly possessed great advantages. It is incumbent upon every good Israelite to marry, but originally the villages were sparsely settled, in many places there was a lack of marriageable men, in others the maidens were in the minority, and as facilities for travelling were limited, and often entirely absent, a schadchen , who made it a business to bring eligible couples together, was a great convenience. The necessity for such a mediator is constantly growing less."
"But there can be no romance, no pleasant anticipation in such a union."
"My dear child, Israel has never had time for romance. Your youth has fortunately been spared the dreadful persecutions which have from time to time been visited upon our people; but, if you can picture the constant dread of outrage and the incessant fear of persecution, which have been our portion; if you can conceive the miserable existence in wretched hovels and the weary struggle for the barest necessities of life, you will understand why the Jews have had little of that spirit of chivalry and romance of which modern books give us so fascinating a picture. But tell me, Kathinka," continued the Rabbi, looking intently at his daughter, "is there not another reason for your refusal of Samuel's hand?"
Kathinka became very red, and looked pleadingly at her mother.
"My dear," said Recha, "you had better confess all to your father. He has a right to know."
Still the girl remained silent.
"Well, my child; who has stolen your heart?" asked the Rabbi, kindly.
"Father, I love Joseph Kierson," said Kathinka, faintly, hiding her blushing face upon the Rabbi's shoulder.
"What, my former pupil?" asked the Rabbi, astonished. "I must have been blind not to have observed it. And does he love you?"
"I think he does," she archly answered.
"But Joseph is poor," returned her father. "He has nothing and has as yet no profession. He is merely a student at the University."
"But he has a brilliant intellect," retorted Kathinka, proudly. "I have heard you say a dozen times that he will achieve renown. It is one of your favorite maxims that a man must rise by his own exertions. Joseph is destined to rise."
"How long has this understanding existed?" asked Mendel.
"We were fond of each other as children, when he first began his lessons at cheder ," replied the girl, earnestly; "but it was only recently that he declared his love."
"He found that you were surrounded by admiring youths and feared that you might be taken from him," added her mother.
"And did you promise to be his wife?" asked the Rabbi.
"Oh, no, father. I could not do that without your consent. He did not even ask me. He simply told me that he deplored his ignorance and poverty and that it was his intention to study medicine and become a learned doctor that he might be worthy of obtaining my hand. That was all."
"He could not have made it plainer. And what did you answer?"
"I encouraged him in his determination and told him I would wait."
"And that is why he requested me to speak to his parents and obtain their consent to his pursuing a course of study, and that is why you took such an interest in his welfare and were so pleased when I told you that he had been admitted to the University."
"Yes," answered Kathinka, with radiant face.
"Do you know how long it will take before he has finished his course? He cannot expect to obtain his diploma in less than six years."
"I know it," replied Kathinka.
"And then it will be some time before his profession will enable him to support a wife."
"I know it. I will wait."
"Brave girl," said Mendel, fondly. "You are doing right and may he prove worthy of you."
"Will it take so long?" asked the mother. "You will then be twenty-four years old, Kathinka, and will be obliged to marry a poor man. Had you not better consider before refusing Goldheim? He is wealthy and quite learned."
"I do not care for him," replied the girl, quietly but with decision. "You married father for love, did you not?"
"Yes," said Mendel, replying for his wife. "She took me although I was but a poor Talmud scholar without a kopeck that I could call my own. Joseph will succeed. He has ambition and talent."
Kathinka kissed her father, affectionately.
"Then you are satisfied with my choice?" she asked.
"Yes, my dear, I am content. When Reb Wolf, the schadchen , comes for his answer we will know just what to tell him."