Esterka Regina!...
It was a summer day—a bright, beautiful afternoon in July. The sun was shining on the heath, which was sweet with flowers and musical with the hum of insects. Although a dull solitary place during the greater part of the year, it was full of color, perfume, and life in summer. All was quiet and still in the Ghetto; no one was moving about in the street; the bustle of trade was hushed.
The young people were walking by the river-side, dressed in their best clothes. The young men looked pale and old of their age, and their conversation was no more suited to their years than their appearance. They discussed their Talmudic studies and their business; it seldom happened that one of them whispered to his friend that he thought the girl who had just passed was very pretty, and that he should esteem himself lucky if his father were to fix upon her for his bride. It would be hard to say what the girls talked about. Who can tell what thoughts fill the head of a Jewish maiden, or why she titters as she passes down the walk in her best gown on a fine Sabbath afternoon.
Why? Well, perhaps at the sight of the young gentlemen who, in spite of their wearing neither caftan nor curls, came to walk on the "Jewish promenade" by the river, as if it were a matter of course for them to be there. And yet it was an unusual sight to see them there, for they were Christians, and grand people; and such do not generally haunt Jewish resorts. But it was worth while to make a sacrifice for the chance of seeing Esterka Regina—even a greater sacrifice than that of spending an hour or two on the Jewish promenade. The three groups of élégants waited patiently, watching the stars of the society—the Rebeccas, Miriams, and Doras—until at length the sun appeared—the butcher's beautiful daughter. There were three groups, I said. There were the military cadets and lieutenants of the Lichtenstein Hussars, in their light blue uniforms, led by fair, talkative, little Szilagy; there were young Polish nobles and literati, with the long-haired poet, Herr Thaddäus Wiliszewski, at their head; and lastly, there were a number of boys at home for the holidays, among whom was a youth, who is no longer a youth now, and who feels sad at heart whenever he thinks of that glorious summer afternoon. For its glory has long since departed, and that lovely girl sank into her early grave years ago, a broken-hearted woman.
But I can see her now as distinctly as I did on that day when she came slowly down the lime-tree walk leaning on the arm of a girl-friend. There was a stir among all at her approach: even the Jewish youths felt the influence of her beauty, and many of them involuntarily straightened their caftans and the long curl at either side of their faces. The three groups that I mentioned before prepared for the encounter. The blue-coated hussars took up the first line as beseemed brave warriors, and fore-most among them was little Szilagy, for he was the most audacious. She walked on slowly, and at last came close to him, he having placed himself directly in her way. She did not cast down her eyes like the other girls on passing these would-be lady-killers, but, on the contrary, held up her head and looked about her as calmly and indifferently as if the blue-coated hussars had been nothing but blue mist. When, however, she was forced to stand still, because the impudent little man had placed himself so that she could not pass him, her expression changed. This was clearly shown by Szilagy's conduct: he flushed as red as a peony, stepped back, and—incredible as it may sound—saluted her awkwardly. When Herr von Szervay laughed at him afterward for having been routed with such disorder, he said, "I have plenty of courage, and have often proved it, but I couldn't stand the way that she looked at me...."
The second group, who had witnessed the defeat of the hussars, thought discretion the better part of valor, and drew back betimes, the long-haired poet gazing with great eyes of astonishment and delight at the beautiful girl who was passing him. It was at that moment that Herr Thaddäus's poor little brain, which hitherto had only been capable of making verses for home use or for the Krakau "Ladies' Journal," was suddenly inspired to invent the name that I have put at the head of this story....
And the third group! The school-boys were neither irresistible nor had they any ambition to appear so; they had hardly courage to look at the sparkling black eyes of the lesser lights, and when they saw the loveliest of all the Jewish maidens approaching them, they huddled together like a flock of frightened sheep. But one of their number—I can not tell to this day how I found courage to do it—stepped forward boldly and spoke to the girl—a good deal less boldly....
"Pardon me, Fräulein," I stammered, touching my hat, "perhaps you don't remember me—little Aaron...."
"Yes, I remember you," she answered kindly; "you were always a good friend to him. Have you heard of him lately?"