By Night Under the Stone Bridge Page 4

  He waited until the moon vanished behind the clouds again. Then he called by name on the ten angels, God’s servants, who come between God and the world. These names are: the Crown, the Essence, the Mercy, the Form, the High Court, the Strict Persistence, the Glory, the Majesty, the Primal Cause and the Kingdom. In a whisper he invoked the Three Heavenly Primary Powers. And finally he called aloud on the angelic hosts of the lower realms: the Lights, the Wheels and the Animals of Holiness.

  At that moment the poodle said to the peasant’s dog: “I don’t know why he’s shouting like that. One can’t always understand them. Perhaps he’s hungry.”

  Berl Landfahrer never found out what the error was that had crept into his magic formula. Under the first of the seven names of God he had written the letter theth, but in this his memory had deceived him. For the letter theth stands for discovery and knowledge, not strength and power, and the consequence of this change in the invocation formula was that, instead of attaining power over the two animals, he merely acquired knowledge of their language.

  He didn’t trouble his head about this, and he wasn’t surprised at being able to understand what the poodle said to the peasant’s dog. It was so easy and natural that it seemed a matter of course, and what he couldn’t understand was why he hadn’t been able to understand before.

  He leaned back in his corner and listened to the dogs’ conversation.

  “I’m hungry too,” the peasant’s dog snarled.

  “In the morning I’ll take you to the meat stalls,” the poodle promised him. “You country dogs don’t know your way about. All you need do is walk upright on two legs with a stick in your mouth, and for that they’ll give you a splendid bone with meat and fat on it.”

  “On the farm at home I was given bones without having to walk on my hind legs,” said the peasant’s dog. “And I was given groats too. All I had to do for it was to guard the farm and take care that foxes didn’t get at our geese.”

  “What are foxes?” the poodle wanted to know.

  “Foxes?” the country dog replied. “How can I explain to you what foxes are? They have no masters, and they live in the woods. They come at night and steal geese. That’s what foxes are.”

  “And what are woods?” the poodle inquired.

  “Really, you don’t know a thing,” said the country dog. “Woods are, not just three or four trees, but -I don’t know how to explain it to you - wherever you look you can see nothing but trees. And behind those trees there are more trees. That’s where the foxes come from. When one of them made off with a goose, I got a thrashing.”

  “I never had a thrashing,” the poodle boasted. “Even when my master taught me to walk on my hind legs and dance. He was always friendly to me. We had geese too, but they were never worried by foxes, because there are no woods here from which foxes could come. If there were woods and foxes here, my master would have told me about them. He told me everything, he kept nothing from me. I even know where he hid the money that no-one was ever to find in his house and whom it belongs to.”

  “Yes, they bury money,” the country dog agreed. “What for? You can’t eat it.”

  “That’s something you don’t understand,” the poodle pointed out. “It’s clever to bury money. Everything he did was clever. I was with him on the night when they wrapped him in a linen sheet and took him away. But before that someone came with money in a bag, he said it was eighty gulden and it settled his debt. My master went with him to the door, he walked very slowly, because he was ill, and when he came back he said to me: ‘What am I to do with this money? I’ve got rid of my money, but it runs after me. When they come here tomorrow, they mustn’t find it, they mustn’t find a single groschen, it must be out of here tonight. But where, tell me, where?’ He coughed, complained about the pain, and held a handkerchief to his mouth. Then he said: ‘I know someone who never had any luck, he could do with this money. I can’t leave him luck, but this eighty gulden he shall have.’ Just after that he struck his head with his hand, and coughed, and burst out laughing. ‘Isn’t that just like Berl Landfahrer?’ he exclaimed. ‘When it rains ducats here, he’s somewhere else, travelling round the countryside with his handcart.’ He thought for a while, then took his stick and his hat and coat and the bag as well, and we went out and down the street to the river bank, where he told me to dig up the earth, and buried the bag. Then he said: ‘When Berl Landfahrer comes back, take him by the edge of his coat and bring him here, the money’s his, but it’s too late for me to give it to him, for today I shall be going the way of all mankind. You know Berl Landfahrer - he limps slightly and three of his front teeth are missing.’

  “That’s bad,” said the country dog. “Tell him to give up gnawing bones and eat groats.”

  “But I didn’t know him, and I still don’t know him,” the poodle explained. “I can’t remember him at all, and the money’s still buried. People don’t go about the streets with their mouth open, so how can I see whose teeth are missing? How am I to tell which of them is Berl Landfahrer?”

  Berl Landfahrer was taken aback when they started talking about him, and he began listening with tense interest. When he heard that Meisl’s poodle had been looking for him for years, he came out of his corner and said, sadly and reproachfully:

  “I’m Berl Landfahrer.”

  “What? Are you Berl Landfahrer?” the poodle exclaimed, wagging his tail excitedly and sitting up to beg. “Open your mouth and let me see. Yes, the teeth are missing, so you are Berl Landfahrer. That’s fine, tomorrow I’ll show you where your money’s hidden.” And he dropped back on to his front paws again.

  “Tomorrow?” Berl Landfahrer exclaimed with a shrill laugh. “Tomorrow? Yes, I really am Berl Landfahrer. But tomorrow all three of us are going to be hanged.”

  “Who’s going to be hanged?” the poodle asked.

  “You, me, and him over there,” said Berl Landfahrer, pointing to the country dog, who had dropped off to sleep.

  “Why should I be hanged?” the poodle asked in surprise.

  “It’s orders,” replied Berl Landfahrer.

  “They may perhaps hang you,” said the poodle, “but they won’t hang me. Not me. As soon as they open the door I’ll be out and away.”

  He started turning in circles, and then he lay down on the floor.

  “Now I’m going to sleep,” he said. “You put your head between your legs too. So you’re Berl Landfahrer. No, they won’t hang me.”

  And with that he fell asleep.

  At first light the door was opened, but it wasn’t the hangman come to take Berl Landfahrer to the gallows. Instead Rebb Amschel and Rebb Simcha, both members of the Jews’ Council, walked in. Colonel Strassoldo had relented. He had yielded to the appeals and pressure put upon him, and had agreed to quash the death sentence provided the Jewish elders paid a fine of 150 gulden immediately.

  “We bring release to the prisoner and freedom to the fettered,” said Rebb Amschel.

  Rebb Simcha said the same thing in less exalted language.

  “You’re free, Rebb Berl,” he said. “The fine has been paid, and you can go home.”

  But Berl Landfahrer seemed not to have understood.

  “The dog! The dog!” he yelled. “It was here a moment ago! Meisl’s dog! It knows where my money’s buried! Eighty gulden!”

  “Rebb Berl, you’re free,” the Jewish councillors repeated. “Don’t you understand? With God’s help your sentence has been quashed. You can go home.”

  “The dog! The dog!” Berl Landfahrer wailed. “Didn’t you see it? It went out through the door. Meisl’s poodle. I’ve got to find it! Eighty gulden! Oh, wretched, unlucky me! Where’s the dog?”

  For many years after that he was to be seen in the ghetto and Old Town of Prague running after dogs, attracting and holding them and asking them whether they had seen a white poodle with black spots under one eye and over one ear, and telling them that if they met it they must tell it that he, Berl Landfahrer, had not been hange
d, and that the poodle must take him to the Ufergasse, nothing would happen to it, it wouldn’t be hanged, the fine had been paid for it too. The dogs would snap at him and struggle free, and Berl Landfahrer would run after them, and children would run after him, and grownups would shake their heads and say: “Poor Berl Landfahrer, that night in the prison cell he lost his human soul out of fright.”

  THE SARABAND

  At a party in the city hall of Prague given by Herr Zdenko von Lobkowitz, the Privy Councillor and Chancellor of Bohemia, on the occasion of the christening of his first grandchild, one of the guests was Baron Juranic, a captain in the imperial army, who had arrived in the Bohemian capital from Croatia or Slovenia a day or two before. And while the other gentlemen were dressed in the manner that the occasion and fashion prescribed, that is, in a gold-embroidered silk coat trimmed with gold brocade, narrow breeches, silk stockings and satin shoes with silk rosettes, Baron Juranic appeared in travelling clothes, in leather breeches and high boots, which he excused on the ground that his baggage had been left behind at the last staging post and had not yet been sent on. Also, in accordance with the custom of officers serving on the frontier, he had rubbed lard into his hair and beard, but this peculiarity was not held against a man who, because of the continuing struggle against the Turks, the arch enemy of Christianity, had not had time to inform himself about what was permitted to a gentleman and what was banned and beyond the pale.

  So Baronjuranic behaved with great aplomb at this party and enjoyed himself hugely. He drank and danced with inexhaustible energy and high good humour, though it must be admitted that the standard of his dancing was not very high. It made no difference to him whether the musicians played a jig, a courante or a saraband, he performed the same hops and skips at all three of these dances, demonstrating far more enthusiasm than skill. This brave officer’s dancing, in short, was as graceful as a tame bear’s. When the music stopped for a while, he drank to the newly christened child’s health with everyone who crossed his path, he paid compliments to the ladies, assuring each one of them that he had heard her beauty praised by persons who were excellent judges in the matter. But his special attention was devoted to the youngest of Herr von Berka’s three daughters; this very attractive but rather shy young lady was making her first appearance at such a big occasion, and he regaled her with stories of his deeds of arms, the successful raids, surprise attacks and other blows he had struck at the Turks, never failing to point out that, though they had made a great deal of noise in the world, in fact they were of no great significance. He also informed the young lady that in his homeland, where a bushel of corn was worth seven farthings and a barrel of beer cost half a gulden, he could be described as a rich man, and a woman sufficiently understanding to be ready to share life with him on his estate would live in abundance, for there were feathers, wool, honey, butter, corn, cattle and beer, in short, everything needed for an enjoyable existence. The only requirement was that heaven must have blessed her with a good figure, he added, glarfcing down at the young lady, for this last meant much more to him than noble birth and good breeding.

  Now, one of the other guests was Count Collalto, of Venetian descent, a very fashionable young man, who thought he had certain claims on the youngest of the three Berka daughters, and he disliked the Croatian nobleman’s manners as much as his appearance. And after the latter had danced yet another saraband with her, practising those odd little hops and skips of his, he went up to him with a bow and politely asked if he would favour him with some information: which celebrated dancing master had enabled him to reach such a high degree of perfection in the art of the dance?

  Baron Juranic was able to take a joke with good humour even if it was at his expense. He laughed, and said he was well aware that he had little experience in the art of the dance and must therefore sincerely apologise. Nevertheless dancing gave him great pleasure, and he hoped the young lady and the other guests would not have found him too tiresome.

  “Sir, you do yourself an injustice and you are too modest,” said Collalto. “You manage the most difficult steps the way others sip hot soup. In the great pastoral ballet of the fountains that is shortly to be performed at the Castle for His Majesty, you could well play the part of one of the fawns, or perhaps even of Silenus himself.”

  “I am a soldier,” the baron replied with complete composure, “and I am therefore more accustomed to the dance of battle than to any other kind, and in the course of my life I have listened more often to the roar of cannon than to the music of flutes and viols. As for Silenus, with his horns and his goat’s feet, you, sir, must seek out someone else to play the part. And as for the hot soup, sir, you had better take care lest you be obliged to swallow what you have cooked yourself.”

  And with that he bowed, offered the young lady his arm, and they rejoined the dancers.

  The young Collalto watched them go, and as this loutish baron refused to be parted from the charming young lady, and as he had found that taunts failed to disturb his composure, he decided to try something else. He approached the dancing couple and tripped the baron so neatly with his foot that he fell full length to the floor, bringing down as he did so, not the young lady, but a gentleman dancing next to him.

  Confusion arose among the dancers, the music stopped, there was laughter, and questions and exclamations of indignation and dismay, but the bewilderment came quickly to an end when the baron stood up and went to the aid of the gentleman whom he had brought down. The latter at first looked very upset, but he recovered his composure when he realised that his finery had not suffered, and he turned to the baron and said, with perfect politeness in which only the slightest trace of irony was discernible: “I see, sir, that you manage to introduce a little variety into the dance.”

  Baron Juranic raised his hat and expressed his profound apologies. Then he looked for the young lady with whom he had been dancing, but she was nowhere to be seen; for, dismayed by the awkward mishap that had befallen her partner, she had left the hall in the general confusion. Meanwhile the music had struck up again, couples had rejoined each other, and Baron Juranic strode through the throng and went up to Collalto.

  “You will please inform me, sir, whether you did that to me on purpose and with deliberate malice.”

  Young Collalto looked haughtily into space over Juranic’s head.

  “I demand to know,” the baron repeated, “whether you did that deliberately to make me a laughing-stock in the eyes of the young lady.”

  “I am under no obligation to reply to a question put to me in such an insolent tone,” Count Collalto replied.

  “After such an insult you are under an obligation to give me the satisfaction due to me as a man of honour,” the baron said.

  “There are some here who call themselves men of honour, but at home follow oxen behind the plough in clogs,” said Collalto, shrugging his shoulders.

  Not a muscle moved in the baron’s face, but the previously almost imperceptible scar of a sabre wound on his forehead reddened like a port wine stain.

  “As you refuse me satisfaction, sir,” he said without raising his voice, “and as you continue to insult me, I can no longer treat you as a man of honour. Instead I shall make you see sense by thrashing you like a common farm labourer.”

  Count Collalto raised his hand to slap the baron’s face, but the baron caught and held it in an iron grip.

  For the first time Collalto condescended to change his tone.

  “This is not the right place or the right time to settle the matter,” he said, “but you will find me in Kinsky’s garden in front of the big circular lawn in an hour’s time. The main gate is shut, but the side gate is open, and I shall be at your service there.”

  “That’s as warming to hear as Spanish wine,” the baron said with satisfaction, releasing Collalto’s hand.

  After agreeing that the duel should be with swords and without seconds they parted, and soon afterwards the baron left the party and the building without saying
goodbye to the Berka young lady.

  Meanwhile young Collalto went to one of the side rooms, where he found his host, Herr Zdenko von Lobkowitz, at a card table. He sat beside him and watched the play for some time. Then he said:

  “Do you know a person here who calls himself Baron Juranic?”

  “Watch this, it’s a game in which the seven of spades rules everything. I’m playing it for the first time in my life today. Juranic? Yes, I know him.”

  “Is he one of us? Is he of noble blood?” Collalto asked. “His manners are very crude.”

  “Juranic? He may have crude manners, but he’s of good, genuine, noble stock,” said Zdenko Lobkowitz, who knew everyone’s genealogical tree by heart and was therefore an authority on such matters.

  Collalto watched the game for a little while longer.

  “It’s absurd,” said Zdenko Lobkowitz. “If someone has the seven of spades and the knave of diamonds at this game, he can’t help winning, never mind how he plays. But, apart from that, even the Jew Meisl couldn’t raise enough money to cover what you can lose if you’re not very careful. What’s this about Lorenz Juranic? Has he had too much to drink?”

  “No, but I’ve had trouble with him,” Collalto said. “I have an appointment with him tonight.”

  Zdenko Lobkowitz laid down his cards.

  “What? Withjuranic?” he said in hushed tones. “Then go and pray for divine protection. Juranic is a deadly fencer.”

  “I can use my sword with good effect too,” said Collalto. “What? Your sword? Juranic will cut your ears off,” the elderly nobleman said. “Believe me, he’s not a good man to quarrel with, I know him. Fence with the devil, but not with Lorenz Juranic. Go and settle the matter, there’ll be no stain on your honour if you extricate yourself, or shall I do it for you?