Martha Wolfenstein, “A Judgment of Solomon”
I know nothing about Martha Wolfenstein. I gather, from the name and from the character of the story that follows, that she was Jewish and probably of German or Polish extraction, but I don’t remember whether I found her in the American or British sections of the library. I do know that the book this brief story— anecdote, really — was found in is called A Renegade and Other Tales, and it was published in 1905.
One fine day in spring, young Stephan came tearing from town on horseback, burst into the farmhouse kitchen, crying desperately:
“Uncle Pawel, Uncle Pawel, I’m undone! I must have a hundred Gulden at once, or be thrown into prison, and left there to rot.”
“One hundred Gulden! Whui!” cried Pawel Bauer. “It is all I have in the world, and Anushka’s dowry at that. What mischief hast got into again?”
“So thou refusest?” cried Stephan.
“I need only twenty-five more, for Christoph says the day I lay him down one hundred and twenty-five, he marries my Anushka.”
“Well, then, good-bye, and say a mass for my soul,” cried Stephan, hotly, and made for the door.
“Wait, wait, — where goest thou in such a hurry?”
“To the devil! To throw myself into the well!”
“Wait, Stephanko, my boy,” pleaded Pawel, clutching his nephew’s coat-tails frantically. “How can I know thou’lt pay me back?”
“Nothing easier,” said Stephan, instantly calm. “I simply write thee a note, promising to pay on such and such a day. ’Tis as good as gold.”
In half an hour, young Stephan, chirping like a bird, was tearing townward, and Pawel stood spelling over a large scrawl, which read:
Pawel put this note into the stocking, empty of the best part of Anna’s dowry, and each Sunday took down his calendar to see whenther Pagnoocius were not due that week; but spring waxed into summer, and summer waned into autumn, the harvest was in, and the twenty-five Gulden necessary to the consummation of Anna’s matrimonial hopes lay beside the note, but Pagnoocius had not arrived.
“Anushka is not so young that she can wait!” scolded Buzhinka, her mother.
“Perhaps I’ve skipped him,” mused Pawel, scratching under his cap. “I’m not so strong on print as I used to be.”
“I’ll go ask the priest,” he decided.
The priest did not take down his calendar as Pawel expected, but, after a single glance at the note, threw himself into a chair, laughing uproariously.
“Pag-noo-oo-cius,” he roared. “Ho, — ho — a comical rogue! I don’t wonder thou foundest him not in the calendar; truly ’tis the first time I ever heard of the gentleman. By all the saints, he has done thee, Pawel!”
Pawel looked blank.
“Thou hadst best consult a lawyer,” advised the priest.
Advocat Hummel, grown old and wise in village practice, took the matter more gravely.
“Hm, — the note is good, but you cannot collect it,” he said with fine logic. “He promises to pay, but there is no Pagnoocius.”
“What’s to be done? My Anushka’s dowry!” lamented Pawel.
“My advice to you is to wait,” said the lawyer, pocketing his fee. “Wait! Who knows, perhaps there may some day be such a saint.”
Pawel went home in despair. Buzhinka swore mighty oaths, and Anna wept loudly into her apron.
It chanced that Anshel, the Jewish peddler, dropped in on his weekly rounds that day, and heard the story sympathetically.
“I know someone can help thee, Pawel,” he said. “Solomon Edelstein is his name, and he keeps a little wine-shop in our village, but he is a finished lawyer. A head on him — of iron, I tell thee, — he has helped more than one ouf of a pickle.”
Next day Pawel appeared with his friend Anshel before Solomon Edelstein, who, much to Bauer’s astonishment, neither laughed at the note nor looked grave; but after a careless glance into it, he laid it indifferently aside, and continued his reading in a large, yellow-leafed book.
Pawel’s hope sank like lead, but presently old Solomon raised his eye-brows wearily, dropped his head meekly to one side, and said in a small, sad voice:
“On the second of November you’ll get your money.”
“How so on the second?” questioned Pawel, dubiously.
Solomon did not reply. He was bending over his book again, intently reading.
“If the egg was laid on a Sabbath — ” he murmured musically, his thumb wagging an active accompaniment, and Anshel with a knowing shrug took Pawel away.
The following week Pawel and old Solomon appeared at court, where young Stephan had been summoned for non-payment of his note.
“I do not refuse to pay,” cried Stephan, smiling confidently. “As you see in the note, I promise.”
“Fool,” growled the judge. “Pagnoocius! You can’t collect on that. The note is no good. The case is dismissed.”
“Pardon me,” piped a small, sad voice, and all eyes turned to where little Solomon stood with his head drooping meekly to one side.
“Pardon me, Herr Richter. He must pay. The note is good. The note is very good.”
“So! Do you perhaps know when is St. Pagnoocius?” barked the judge.
“Why should I not know?” answered Solomon. “It is the day after to-morrow.”
“What? How? What do you mean?”
“Is not the day after to-morrow All Saints’ Day? Nu, if it is all saints’ day, Pagnoocius must be among them.”
And they bought the raisins for Anushka’s wedding-cake that very day.
“Uncle Pawel, Uncle Pawel, I’m undone! I must have a hundred Gulden at once, or be thrown into prison, and left there to rot.”
“One hundred Gulden! Whui!” cried Pawel Bauer. “It is all I have in the world, and Anushka’s dowry at that. What mischief hast got into again?”
“So thou refusest?” cried Stephan.
“I need only twenty-five more, for Christoph says the day I lay him down one hundred and twenty-five, he marries my Anushka.”
“Well, then, good-bye, and say a mass for my soul,” cried Stephan, hotly, and made for the door.
“Wait, wait, — where goest thou in such a hurry?”
“To the devil! To throw myself into the well!”
“Wait, Stephanko, my boy,” pleaded Pawel, clutching his nephew’s coat-tails frantically. “How can I know thou’lt pay me back?”
“Nothing easier,” said Stephan, instantly calm. “I simply write thee a note, promising to pay on such and such a day. ’Tis as good as gold.”
In half an hour, young Stephan, chirping like a bird, was tearing townward, and Pawel stood spelling over a large scrawl, which read:
I promise to pay one hundred Gulden to Pawel Bauer on St. Pagnoocius Day.
Signed, Stephan Stadter, the Younger.
“Anushka is not so young that she can wait!” scolded Buzhinka, her mother.
“Perhaps I’ve skipped him,” mused Pawel, scratching under his cap. “I’m not so strong on print as I used to be.”
“I’ll go ask the priest,” he decided.
The priest did not take down his calendar as Pawel expected, but, after a single glance at the note, threw himself into a chair, laughing uproariously.
“Pag-noo-oo-cius,” he roared. “Ho, — ho — a comical rogue! I don’t wonder thou foundest him not in the calendar; truly ’tis the first time I ever heard of the gentleman. By all the saints, he has done thee, Pawel!”
Pawel looked blank.
“Thou hadst best consult a lawyer,” advised the priest.
Advocat Hummel, grown old and wise in village practice, took the matter more gravely.
“Hm, — the note is good, but you cannot collect it,” he said with fine logic. “He promises to pay, but there is no Pagnoocius.”
“What’s to be done? My Anushka’s dowry!” lamented Pawel.
“My advice to you is to wait,” said the lawyer, pocketing his fee. “Wait! Who knows, perhaps there may some day be such a saint.”
Pawel went home in despair. Buzhinka swore mighty oaths, and Anna wept loudly into her apron.
It chanced that Anshel, the Jewish peddler, dropped in on his weekly rounds that day, and heard the story sympathetically.
“I know someone can help thee, Pawel,” he said. “Solomon Edelstein is his name, and he keeps a little wine-shop in our village, but he is a finished lawyer. A head on him — of iron, I tell thee, — he has helped more than one ouf of a pickle.”
Next day Pawel appeared with his friend Anshel before Solomon Edelstein, who, much to Bauer’s astonishment, neither laughed at the note nor looked grave; but after a careless glance into it, he laid it indifferently aside, and continued his reading in a large, yellow-leafed book.
Pawel’s hope sank like lead, but presently old Solomon raised his eye-brows wearily, dropped his head meekly to one side, and said in a small, sad voice:
“On the second of November you’ll get your money.”
“How so on the second?” questioned Pawel, dubiously.
Solomon did not reply. He was bending over his book again, intently reading.
“If the egg was laid on a Sabbath — ” he murmured musically, his thumb wagging an active accompaniment, and Anshel with a knowing shrug took Pawel away.
The following week Pawel and old Solomon appeared at court, where young Stephan had been summoned for non-payment of his note.
“I do not refuse to pay,” cried Stephan, smiling confidently. “As you see in the note, I promise.”
“Fool,” growled the judge. “Pagnoocius! You can’t collect on that. The note is no good. The case is dismissed.”
“Pardon me,” piped a small, sad voice, and all eyes turned to where little Solomon stood with his head drooping meekly to one side.
“Pardon me, Herr Richter. He must pay. The note is good. The note is very good.”
“So! Do you perhaps know when is St. Pagnoocius?” barked the judge.
“Why should I not know?” answered Solomon. “It is the day after to-morrow.”
“What? How? What do you mean?”
“Is not the day after to-morrow All Saints’ Day? Nu, if it is all saints’ day, Pagnoocius must be among them.”
And they bought the raisins for Anushka’s wedding-cake that very day.
No comments:
Post a Comment