The Jews of Barnow: Stories

by Karl Emil Franzos

Once more she lived through that time of misery. She thought of the day when they had dragged her to church, an unwilling victim, and had forced her to perjure her soul in the sight of her God; her God, who had hitherto been the only light and comfort in her dark life, and whom they had thus, as it were, made a lie to her. She thought of the marriage-feast, during which she had first made up her mind that either she or her husband should die before morning.

She remembered how slowly the minutes had passed, till she could at length get up and leave the table. She had gone at once to her room, and finding her maid waiting for her, had sent her to bed. She had then turned with loathing from the sight of the luxury surrounding her, and had busied herself with thoughts of vengeance on the man who had forced her to marry him, knowing all the time how she hated him.

Even now, so many years afterward, she could not help shuddering, when she remembered that she had suddenly gained sufficient calmness to carry out the diabolical plan she had thought of. She recollected how she had taken one of the heavy silver candlesticks on her table, and had gone through all the echoing passages and rooms in the wing in which her rooms were situated. She had avoided looking in any of the mirrors that she passed, fearing to see her own face, for she had a horror of herself.

She had at last come to the large folding-doors opening into the picture-gallery. She had gone in. At the end of the long row of portraits, she had seen two leaning against the wall, and on examining them had seen that they were those of the late Graf Arthur and of her husband. They had come from Paris on the previous day, but had not been hung up, because they had been forgotten in the hurry and confusion caused by the preparations for the marriage.

She had then lifted the portrait of Graf Arthur in her arms. It was very heavy, but she had not felt it. She had carried it to her room, and laid it on a table in the middle of the room, and had arranged the wax-candles round it in such a way as thoroughly to illuminate it.

Then with difficulty controlling her nervous horror, she had sat down in the window and waited. The thoughts that had assailed her during those hours of passive endurance were maddening. It was not until the gray of the early morning that she had heard Graf Adam's step....

She had risen to meet him, pale and determined, and as he entered she had seen from his face that he had been drinking deeply.

His eyes had at once fallen on the portrait of his victim.

In the pale gray of the morning, and with the flickering light of the candles falling upon it, the pictured face had seemed alive and about to start out of its frame.

She remembered how Graf Adam had started back on seeing it, and how his drunken senses had reeled with ghostly terror.... That was what she had counted upon.... She had then said in a clear hard voice: "Begone!... You are a murderer!... Your victim stands between you and me...."