and the earth does not let go of her dwellers so easily. Then he raises
himself in anger up, up into the height, but the heavens are far, and
the stars look down with indifference--or amusement.
The passers in the street bend and bow themselves and huddle together to
take up as little room as possible, turn round to catch their breath,
and pursue their certain way.
But the poor, helpless little boy, I think of him with terror, what will
become of _him_?
All my philosophy has deserted me, and all my pity is awake.
If it were _my_ child? If I thought my own flesh and blood were in the
grip of this wind? If _my_ child were roaming the streets to-night? If,
even supposing that later on he had managed to beg a groschen, he were
going, in this hurricane, toward Praga[138]--over the Vistula, over the
bridge?
And just because he is _not_ mine, is he any the less deserving? Does he
feel the wind less, shiver the less with cold, because _his_ parents are
lying somewhere in a grave under a tombstone? I lose all inclination to
go home. I feel as if I had no right to a warm room, to the boiling
samovar, to the soft bed and, above all, to the smile of those who are
awaiting me.
It seems to me that "murderer" or some such word must be written on my
forehead, that I have no business to be seen by anyone.
And once more I begin to think about "piousness."
"Why the devil am not I 'pious'?" I mutter. "Why need I have been the
worse for believing that the One who dwells high above all the stars,
high above the heavens, never lets our world out of His sight for a
single instant? That not for a single instant will He forget the little
boy? Why need he lie so heavy on my heart? Why cannot I leave him
frankly and freely to the great heart of the universe? He would trouble
me no more, I should feel him safe under the great eye of the
cosmos--the eye, which, should it withdraw itself for an instant, leaves
whole worlds a prey to the devil; the eye which, so long as it is open,
assures to the least worm its maintenance and its right? As it is, I,
with my sick chest, and my wet feet, and in this weather, must go back
to the soup-kitchen and _look_ for that little boy. It is a disgrace and
a shame!"
Wherein the shame and the disgrace consisted, why and before whom I felt
ashamed, to this day I do not know. And yet, on account of the shame and
the disgrace, I did not take the shortest way back to the soup-kitchen,
but I went round by several streets.
At last I arrived.
The first room, the dining-room, was empty.
The Gehenna of day-time is cooling down, the steam rises higher and
higher from the damp floor, and creates a new "heaven" and a new
"firmament" between the waters below (from off the feet of the poor
people) and the waters above (the drops formed by the vapor). Here and
there the drops come raining through.
Thanks to a little window, I can see into the kitchen.
The drowsy cook with the untidy head leans with her left hand on the
great kettle and lifts the big soup-spoon lazily to her mouth.
The second, the kitchen-maid, is shredding macaroni for to-morrow noon.
She, too, looks sleepy. The superintendent is counting meal tickets
distributed by the committee.
There is no one else visible. I cast a look under the tables--no trace
of the little boy. I am too late!
"But at least," I think, as I leave the kitchen, "nobody saw me!"
Suddenly I remember that I have been walking the streets for several
hours.
Whatever is the matter with me? I mutter, and begin to pace homeward.
I am quite glad to find everyone asleep.
I throw off my goloshes in the entrance, steal up to my room and into
bed.
But I had a bad night. Tired out, chilled, and wet through, it was long
before I ceased coughing and got warm--a continual shiver ran through my
bones. I did not get really to sleep till late in the morning, and then
my dreams began to torment me in earnest.
I started out of sleep bathed in cold perspiration, sprang out of bed,
and went to the window. I look out; the sky is full of stars--the stars
look like diamonds set in iron--they roll on so proudly, so calmly, and
so high.
There is a tearing wind blowing at the back--the whole house shakes.
I went back to bed, but I slept no more, I only dozed. My dreams were
broken, but the little boy was the centre of them all.
Every time I saw him in a new place: there he lies asleep out in the
street--there he crouches on some steps in an archway--once, even,
devils are playing ball with him--he flies from hand to hand through
the air--later on I come across him lying frozen in a rubbish-box.
I held out till morning and then I flew to the soup-kitchen.
He is there!
Had I not been ashamed, I should have washed the grime off his face with
tears of thankfulness. Had I not been afraid of my wife, I should have
led him home as my own child. He is there--I am _not_ his murderer!
Well!
And I held out a ten kopek piece.
He takes it wondering; he does not know what a kindness he has done me.
Long life to him!
And next day, when he begged me for another groschen, I did _not_ give
it him, but this time I uttered no word of reproof--what is more, I went
away ashamed, not satisfied with myself.
I can really and truly not afford it, but my heart is sore: why can I
not afford it?
* * * * *
My grandfather, on whom be peace, was not so far wrong when he used to
say:
"Whoever is not pious, lives in sorrow of heart and dies without
consolation."
XXIV
UNDERGROUND
A big underground lodging room full of beds.
Freude, the tatterdemalion, has been asleep for some time on her chest,
in her corner between the stove and the wall.
To-day she went to bed early, because to-morrow is fair-day in a
neighboring town, and she will have to be astir betimes in order to
drive there with the grease. But she lies uneasy--there is trouble and
worry in store.
She had arranged with the driver to take her, Freude, and the _small_
barrel, and now, just as she was going to sleep, it occurred to her that
it would be better to take the big one.
She tosses from side to side on her couch.
"Plague take a woman's tongue!" she mutters then, exclaiming against
herself:
"The _small_ barrel! Whatever for? To please the driver? Driver be
blessed! Can't he give his horses a few more oats for once?"
Grumbling thus over the stupidity of a woman's tongue, she has just
managed to doze off. From beneath the counterpane appears a red kerchief
that falls dangling round about her face and her pointed red and blue
nose.
She breathes heavily, and presses one bony hand to her old heart. Who
knows what she is dreaming? Perhaps that the driver has broken his
word, and she is left for a whole year without Parnosseh.
The opposite corner belongs to Yoneh the water-carrier.
The wife and two children sleep in one bed, and Yoneh with the elder
Cheder boy in another.
Now and then a sigh issues from the beds. Here also people have lain
down in sorrow.
The little Cheder boy has been crying for money to pay the rabbi his
fee.
And the eldest daughter was left without a situation. She had been doing
well, as servant to a couple without children. Suddenly her mistress
died. So she came home--she could not stay on alone with the widower.
There were a few rubles owing to her in wages--they would have been just
enough to pay the rabbi--but the widower says it is no concern of his,
his wife never mentioned it, and he doesn't know--he never mixes himself
up with the affairs of women.
They quarrelled a little before going to sleep. The mother advised going
to the Jewish court, the daughter was in favor of writing a petition
either to the _natchàlnik_[1] or to the _mirovòi_.[139]
Yoneh will not hear of doing one or the other.
The widower will take his revenge, and get Yoneh a bad name among the
householders: "He has only to snap his fingers and there's an end of
me!" How many water-carriers are there already loafing about with
nothing to do since they started the new water-supply?
Beril, the porter, all by himself in an upper bed, is snoring away like
a broken-winded horse. The two children sleep together in another place.
His wife is a cook, and this evening she has a wedding supper on hand.
Here, too, rest is broken.
Beril has an ache going through his bones, one after the other, and the
eldest son sighs frequently in his sleep. He works in a lime-kiln and
has burnt his foot.
Further on lies another snorer alone in a bed: Tzirel, the
street-seller. In the second bed sleep all three children. Her husband
is a watchman. No sooner has _he_ come in than _she_ will go out, with
bread and fresh rolls.
We are already in the third corner, where stands another--this time an
iron bedstead.
A flushed, unhealthy-looking woman's head is set off by a bundle of rags
that serve as pillow.
Her prematurely parched lips open frequently, and a heavy sigh escapes
them. Her husband's profession is a hard one, and he has no luck. Last
week, at the risk of his life, he conveyed away a copper kettle and
buried it in the sand outside the town--and it was discovered. Who knows
what he will bring home to-night? Perhaps he is already in jail. It is
three weeks since she set on to boil so much as a kettleful of
water--and they are clamoring for the rent.
"A hard life and no luck!" sigh the parched lips. "And one has to be on
one's guard against neighbors. They are always asking: 'What is your
husband's trade? What keeps him out so late?'"
Over all the beds flickers a pale light from the centre of the room. It
rises from between four canvas walls that bound the kingdom of a young
married couple.
Treine, the young housewife, is still awake. She has only been married
two months, and she is waiting for her husband, who will presently
return from the house-of-study.
The oil lamp is burning and throws pale patches on to the blackened
ceiling. A few feeble rays come through the rents in the canvas walls
and dance upon the beds with the poor, worn-out faces.
In Treine's kingdom all is brighter and cleaner.
Between the two beds, on a little white table, lies a prayer-book
flanked by two little metal candle-sticks, her wedding gifts. Wedding
garments hang on the wall, also a Tallis bag with the Shield of David
embroidered on it.
But there are no chairs in the kingdom. Treine sits on one of the beds,
making a net to hold the onions which are lying beside her, scattered
over the sheet. The soup for supper is keeping hot under the
bed-clothes.
The door of the big room opens softly. Treine's cheeks flush, she lets
the net fall out of her hands, and springs off the bed. But then she
remains standing--it would never do before all the neighbors. One of
them might wake, and she would never hear the last of it. The neighbors
are bad enough as it is, especially Freude. Freude cannot understand a
wife not beginning to scold her husband the very next day after the
wedding. "Just you wait," she says, the old cat, "you'll see the life
he'll lead you--when it's too late." Freude leaves her no peace.
"A husband," she says, "who is not led by the nose is worse than a wolf.
He sucks the marrow out of your bones, the blood out of your veins!"
It is ten years now since Freude had a husband, and she has not got her
strength back yet. And Freude is a clever woman, she knows a lot.
"Anything that he has a right to," she says, "fling it out to him as you
would a bone to a dog, and--"
Treine has time to recollect all this, because it is some minutes before
Yössele manages to steal on tiptoe past all the beds. Every step he
takes echoes at her heart, but as to going out to meet him--not for any
money. There--he nearly fell! Now he is just outside the partition
walls. She breathes again.
"Good evening!" he says in a low voice, with downcast eyes.
"A good year to you!" she answers lower still. Then: "Are you hungry?"
she asks.
"Are _you_? Wait."
He slips out between the partitions and returns with washed and dripping
hands.
She gives him a towel.
On a corner of the table there is some bread and some salt and the now
uncovered soup.
He sits down on his bed, on the top of all the bed-clothes, she on hers,
with the onions.
They eat slowly, talking with their eyes--what about, do you think?--and
with their lips about the way to earn a living.
"Well, how are you getting on?"
"Oh," he sighs, "three pupils already!"
"And that is all we have to depend on?" she asks sadly.
"_Ma!_" he answers with gentle reproach.
"God be praised!" she is consoling herself and him together.
"God be praised; but that only makes one hundred and twenty rubles," he
sighs.
"Well, why do you sigh?"
"Add it up," he answers; "one ruble a week rent, that's twenty-six
rubles a season. And then I'm in debt--there were wedding expenses."
"What do you mean?" she asks astonished.
He smiles.
"Silly little thing! My father couldn't afford to give us anything more
than his consent."
"Well, what do they come to altogether?" she interrupts.
"Altogether," he goes on, "twelve rubles. That makes thirty-eight. What
remains over for food?"
She calculates:
"Eighty-two, I suppose."
"For twenty-six weeks."
"Well, after all," she says, "it's over three rubles a week."
"And what," he asks sadly, "what about wood--and candles--Sabbaths and
holidays?"
"_Ett_, God is faithful," she tries to cheer him, "and I can do
something, too. Look, I have bought some onions. Eggs are very cheap. I
will buy some eggs, too. In a week or so, perhaps, five dozen eggs will
yield a little profit."
"But just calculate," he persists, "what we must spend on firing and
lights."
"Why, next to nothing. Perhaps one ruble a week. That leaves us--"
"And Sabbaths and holidays! Child, what are you thinking of?" And the
word "child" falls so softly, so kindly, from his lips, that she must
needs smile.
"Come, say the Blessing, quick!" she says, "and let other things be till
to-morrow. It's time to go to sleep."
Then she feels ashamed, lowers her eyelids, and says as if she were
excusing herself:
"You come so late!" with a yawn that is half a sham.
He leans toward her across the little table.
"Silly child," he whispers, "I come in late on purpose, so that we may
eat together, do you see? For a teacher, you know, it's not the thing."
"Well, well, say the Blessing!" she repeats, shutting her eyes tighter.
He closes his, he _wants_ to say it seriously. But his eyes keep opening
of themselves. He presses down his eyelids, but there remains a chink
through which he sees her, in a strangely colored light, so that he
cannot do otherwise than look at her. She is tired--he feels sorry for
her. He sees her trying to sit further back on the bed and letting her
head rest against the wall. She will go to sleep like that, he thinks.
"Why not take a pillow?" he would like to say, almost crossly, but he
cannot--ahem, ahem--
But she doesn't hear. He hurries through the Blessing, finishes it,
stands up, and there remains, not knowing what to do next.
"Treine," he calls, but so low, it could not wake her. He goes up to her
bed and bends over her.
Her face smiles, it looks so sweet--she must be dreaming of something
pleasant--how beautifully she smiles--it would be a shame to wake her!
Only her little head will hurt--_öi_, what hair she must have had--he
has looked at her curls, long, black hair--all shorn now[140]--her cap
is a thin embroidered one, with holes--she _is_ a beauty! He smiles,
too.
But she must be woke. He bends lower and feels her breath--he draws it
in hastily--she attracts him like a magnet--half-unconsciously he
touches her lips with his own.
"I wasn't asleep at all!" she says suddenly, and opens a pair of
mischievous, laughing eyes. She throws her arms round his shoulders and
pulls him down to her. "Never mind," she whispers into his ear, and her
voice is very sweet, "never mind! God is good and will help us--was it
not He who brought us together? He will not forsake us. There will be
firing and lights--there will be enough to live on--it will be all
right--everything will be right--won't it, Yössele? Yes, it will!"
He makes no reply. He is trembling all over.
She pushes him a little further away.
"Look at me, Yössele!" it occurs to her to say.
Yössele wishes to obey, and cannot.
"Poor wretch," she says gently, "not accustomed to it yet--ha?"
He wants to hide his head in her breast, but she will not allow him to.
"Why are you ashamed, wretch? You can kiss, but you won't look!"
He would rather kiss her, but she will not allow him.
"_Please_, look at me!"
Yössele opens his eyes wide, but not for long.
"Oh, please!" she says, and her voice is softer, "silkier" than ever.
He looks. This time it is _her_ lids that fall.
"Just tell me," she says, "only please tell me the truth, am I a pretty
woman?"
"Yes!" he whispers, and she feels his breath hot on her cheek.
"Who told you?"
"Can't I see for myself? You are a queen--a queen!"
"And tell me, Yössele," she continues, "shall you be always just
as--just the same?"
"What do you mean by that, Treine?"
"I mean," her voice shakes, "just as fond of me?"
"What a question!"
"Just as dear?"
"What next?"
"Always?"
"Always!" he is confident.
"Shall you always eat with me?"
"Of course," he answers.
"And--and you will never scold me?"
"_Never._"
"Never make me unhappy?"
"Unhappy? I? You? What do you mean? Why?"
"_I_ don't know, Freude says...."
"_Wa_--the witch!"
He draws nearer to her. She pushes him back.
"Yössele?"
"What is it?"
"Tell me--what is my name?"
"Treine!"
"_Phê!_" the small mouth makes a motion of disgust.
"Treinishe," he corrects himself.
She is not pleased yet.
"Treininyu!"
"No!"
"Well then--Treine my life, Treine my crown, Treine my heart--will that
do?"
"Yes," she answers happily, "only--"
"What now, my life, my delight?"
"Only--listen, Yössele,--and--" she stammers.
"And what?"
"And when--if you should be out of work any time--and when I am not
earning much--then perhaps, perhaps--you will scold."
The tears come into her eyes.
"God forbid! God forbid!"
He forces his head out of her hands, and flings himself upon her parted
lips.
* * * * *
"Plague take you altogether, head and hands and feet!" a voice comes
from beneath the partition. "Honey-mooning, as I'm alive! There's no
closing an eye--"
It is the husky, acidly-spiteful voice of Freude, the tatterdemalion.
XXV
BETWEEN TWO MOUNTAINS
(Between the Rabbi of Brisk and the Rebbe of Byàle)
A Simchas Torah Tale
TOLD BY AN OLD TEACHER
I
Of course you have heard of the Brisk Rabbi and the Byàle Rebbe, but it
is not everyone who knows that the holy man of Byàle, Reb Nòach'ke, was
at one time the Brisk Rabbi's pupil, that he studied a good couple of
years with him, then disappeared for another two, and finally emerged
from his voluntary exile as a distinguished man in Byàle.
And he left for this reason:
They studied Torah, with the Brisk Rabbi, only the Rebbe felt that it
was _dry_ Torah. For instance, one learns about questions regarding
women, or about "meat in milk," or else about a money matter--very well.
Reuben and Simon come with a dispute, or there comes a maid-servant or a
woman with a question of ritual, and that very moment the study becomes
a delight, it is all alive and is there for a purpose.
But like this, without them, the Rebbe felt the Torah, that is, the body
of the Torah, the explanation, what lies on the surface, is dry. That,
he felt, is not the Law of life. Torah must live! The study of Kabbalah
books was not allowed in Brisk. The Brisk Rabbi was a Misnagid, and by
nature "revengeful and relentless as a serpent;" if anyone ventured to
open a Zohar, a Pardes, he would scold and put him under a ban. Somebody
was caught reading a Kabbalah-book, and the Rabbi had his beard shaven
by Gentiles! What do you think? The man became distraught, fell into a
melancholy, and, what is more wonderful, no "good Jew" was able to help
him. The Brisk Rabbi was no trifle, I can tell you! And how was anyone
just to get up and go away from his academy?
Reb Nòach'ke couldn't make up his mind what to do for a long time.
Then he was shown a dream. He dreamed that the Brisk Rabbi came in to
him and said: "Come, Nòach, I will take you into the terrestrial Garden
of Eden." And he took his hand and led him away thither. They came into
a great palace. There were no doors and no windows in this palace,
except for the door by which they came in. And yet it was light, for the
walls, as it seemed to the Rebbe, were of crystal and gave out a
glittering shine.
And so they went on, further and further, and one saw no end to it.
"Hold on to my skirt," said the Brisk Rabbi, "there are halls without
doors and without number, and if you let go of me, you will be lost
forever."
The Rebbe obeyed, and they went further and further, and the whole way
he saw no bench, no chair, no kind of furniture, nothing at all!
"There is no resting here," explained the Brisk Rabbi, "one goes on and
on!" And he followed, and every hall was longer and brighter than the
last, and the walls shone now with this color and now with that, here
with several, and there with all colors--but they did not meet with a
single human being on their way.
The Rebbe grew weary walking. He was covered with perspiration, a cold
perspiration. He grew cold in every limb, beside which his eyes began to
hurt him, from the continual brilliancy.
And there came over him a great longing, a longing after Jews, after
companions, after All-Israel. It was no trifle, not meeting a single
soul.
"Long after no one," said the Brisk Rabbi, "this is a palace for me and
for you--you will also, some day, be Rabbi of Brisk."
And the other was more terrified than ever, and laid his hand against
the wall to help himself from falling. And the wall burnt him. Only not
as fire burns, but as ice burns.
"Rabbi!" he gave a cry, "the walls are ice, simply ice!"
The Brisk Rabbi was silent. And the other cried again:
"Rabbi, take me away hence! I do not wish to stay alone with you! I wish
to be with All-Israel!"
And hardly had he said it when the Brisk Rabbi disappeared, and he was
left alone in the palace.
He knew of no way, no in and no out; a cold terror struck him from the
walls; and the longing for a Jew, to see a Jew, if only a cobbler or a
tailor, waxed stronger and stronger. He began to weep.
"Lord of the world," he begged, "take me away from here. Better in
Gehenna with All-Israel than here one by himself!"
And immediately there appeared before him a common Jew with the red sash
of a driver round him, and a long whip in his hand. The Jew took him
silently by the sleeve, led him out of the palace--and vanished. Such
was the dream that was sent him.
When he woke, before daylight, when it had scarcely begun to dawn, he
understood that this had been no ordinary dream. He dressed quickly, and
hastened toward the house-of-study to get his dream interpreted by the
learned ones who pass the night there. On his way through the market,
however, he saw a covered wagon standing, and beside it--the driver with
a red sash round the waist, a long whip in his hand, and altogether just
such a Jew as the one who had led him out of the palace in his dream.
Nòach (it struck him there was something behind the coincidence) went up
to him and asked:
"Whither drives a Jew?"
"Not _your_ way," answered the driver, very roughly.
"Well, tell me anyway," he continued. "Perhaps I will go with you!"
The driver considered a little, and then answered:
"And can't a young fellow like you go on foot?" he asked. "Go along with
you, _your_ way!"
"And whither shall I go?"
"Follow your nose!" answered the driver, "it's not my business."
The Rebbe understood, and now began his "exile."
A few years later, as before said, he emerged into publicity in Byàle.
How it all happened I won't tell you now, although it's enough to make
anyone open his mouth and ears. And about a year after this happened, a
Byàle householder, Reb Yechiel his name was, sent for me as a teacher.
At first I would not accept the post of teacher in his house.
You must know that Reb Yechiel was a rich man of the old-fashioned type,
he gave his daughters a thousand gold pieces dowry, and contracted
alliances with the greatest rabbis, and his latest daughter-in-law was a
daughter of the Rabbi of Brisk.
You can see for yourselves that if the Brisk Rabbi and the other
connections were Misnagdîm, Reb Yechiel had to be a Misnagid, too--and I
am a Byàle Chossid, well--how could I go into a house of that kind?
And yet I felt drawn to Byàle. You can fancy! The idea of living in the
same town as the Rebbe! After a good deal of see-sawing, I went.