Rachel never complained of her lot by word or sigh. She went about the house as usual, and did her work as long as she could. When her strength failed her, and she knew that her end was at hand, she sat down tremblingly and wrote a long letter in the Hebrew character, sealed it, and then tottered out to the post-office with it. She asked the clerk to write the address for her in German: "An den wohlgeborenen Herrn Dr. Adolph Leiblinger, holländischen Stabsartz in Batavia." The young man smiled when she dictated this address to him, but on glancing at her face and seeing that the hand of death was upon her, his smile died away. She got a receipt for the letter which she registered, and then tottered home and died.
Hers was a very simple story—simple as all the stories one meets with in real life, which differ from those thought out in a poet's brain—inasmuch as life is the greatest and most unrelenting of poets. When I attempt to transcribe the events of this story, I can not remain calm and unmoved, for I knew beautiful, unhappy Esterka Regina!...
I knew her when she was a little girl of seven years old, and I was a mischievous boy, grumbling at the strict discipline of school. I used to see her every day at that time. When I ran down the gloomy little street on cold winter mornings with my satchel of books on my back, I was in the habit of stopping at the door of the house in which she lived, and calling out "Aaron! Aaron!" for one of my school-fellows—black Aaron—lived in a poor garret of the same house with his mother. Hirsch Welt had given the use of this room out of charity to Chane Leiblinger, who was the widow of a butcher's man; for she was very poor, and could scarcely keep herself and her boy from starving by the exercise of her trade of fruit-seller. The moment I had called Aaron, the door opened very softly, and little Rachel came out, her hands hidden under her pinafore. Then the poor boy came down the worm-eaten wooden stairs, dressed in threadbare clothing, and Rachel hastily thrust the food she had been hiding in her pinafore into his hand.
He took it, often with hesitation, and always without a word of thanks; but he would look at the child strangely and smile. No one who had not seen it could have believed that that grave, stern-looking boy could smile, and smile so kindly too!...
"Aaron, will you come with me to the ice? I am going to slide."
"No."
"Why not? You're always so quiet, and your eyes look so gloomy!"
"What reason have I to be happy? Is poverty such a cheering thing? Cold is very disagreeable, and so is hunger. Or is it the blows I have to endure that should make me happy? The schoolmaster beats me, and so do all the Christian boys; and why? Because we crucified Him? I didn't crucify Him. Why do they beat me?"
"Oh, it'll be all right when we're grown up and are barristers."
"I shall never be a barrister; I intend to be a very great and very rich doctor. Then I shall come back to Barnow and say to old Hirsch, 'Here are a hundred ducats, which will pay off all our arrears of rent.' After that, the Poles will come to me and entreat me to cure their diseases and to lend them money; but I shall turn upon them and say, 'Go away, you dogs!'"