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RABBI AND PRIEST.
A Story
by
MILTON GOLDSMITH.
Philadelphia:
Jewish Publication Society of America.
1891.
Copyright, 1891,
by the Jewish Publication Society of America.
Press of
Edward Stern & Co.
Philadelphia.
PREFACE.
Towards the end of 1882, there arrived at the old Pennsylvania Railroad
Depot in Philadelphia, several hundred Russian refugees, driven from
their native land by the inhuman treatment of the Muscovite Government.
Among them were many intelligent people, who had been prosperous in
their native land, but who were now reduced to dire want. One couple, in
particular, attracted the attention of the visitors, by their
intellectual appearance and air of gentility, in marked contrast to the
abject condition of many of their associates. Joseph Kierson was the
name of the man, and the story of his sufferings aroused the sympathy of
his hearers. The man and his wife were assisted by the Relief Committee,
and in a short time were in a condition to provide for themselves.
The writer had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Kierson a few years later,
and elicited from him a complete recital of his trials and an account of
the causes of the terrible persecution which compelled such large
numbers of his countrymen to flee from their once happy homes.
His story forms the nucleus of the novel I now present to my readers.
While adhering as closely as possible to actual names, dates and events,
it does not pretend to be historically accurate. In following the
fortunes of Mendel Winenki, from boyhood to old age, it endeavors to
present a series of pictures portraying the character, life, and
sufferings of the misunderstood and much-maligned Russian Jew.
In the description of Russia's customs and characteristics, the
barbarous cruelty of her criminal code and the nihilistic tendency of
the times, the author has followed such eminent writers as Wallace,
Foulke, Stepniak, Tolstoi and Herzberg-Fraenkel. The accounts of the
riots of 1882 will be found to agree in historic details with the
reports which were published at the time.
With this introduction, I respectfully submit the work to the
consideration of an indulgent public.
MILTON GOLDSMITH.
PHILADELPHIA, April, 1891.
CHAPTER I.
RECRUITS FOR SIBERIA.
We are in Russia.
On the high road from Tscherkask to Togarog, and not far from the latter
village, there stood, in the year 1850, a large and inhospitable-looking
inn. Its shingled walls, whose rough surface no paint-brush had touched
for long generations, seemed decaying from sheer old age. Its tiled roof
was in a most dilapidated state, displaying large gaps imperfectly
stuffed with straw, and serving rather to collect the rain and snow for
the more thorough inundation of the rooms below than to protect them
from the elements. The grounds about the house were in keeping with it
in point of picturesque neglect, and were as innocent of cultivation as
the building was of paint. A roughly paved path led from the highway to
the tavern door. Two old and sickly poplar trees cast a poor and
half-hearted shade upon the parched ground, and mournfully shook their
leaves over the scene of desolation. The herbage grew in isolated
patches on a black and uncultivated soil. Nature might have originally
been friendly to the place, but generations of poverty and neglect had
reduced it to a condition of wretched misery.
As was this particular spot, so was the entire village. Slavery had
wound its chains about the inhabitants, stifling whatever energy they
possessed, entailing upon them constant toil to satisfy the exorbitant
demands of their task-masters. Hence, even with a genial sun and a
southern climate, the fields were barren, the crops poor and the people
sunk in abject poverty.
The dilapidated inn, or _kretschma_, was known in the vicinity by the
ideal and appropriate name of "Paradise"--appropriate, because in it
many a sinner had been tempted and had fallen from grace. It was the
popular rendezvous of the village peasants. Thither the serfs living in
the village of Togarog and for miles around, would repair after their
labors in the fields, and forget their fatigue in a dram of rank Russian
_vodka_. Upon the barren plot of ground before the tavern, the _mir_, or
communal assembly, was wont to meet, and in open session elect its
Elder, decide its quarrels, allot its ground to the heads of families,
and frame its rude and primitive laws.
In its bare and smoke-begrimed public room, the people of Togarog
assembled night after night, and discussed, as far as the autocratic
government of the Czar Nicholas would allow, the political news of the
day. Poor souls! They enjoyed little latitude in this direction. Items
of information concerning the acts of the central government in St.
Petersburg were few and vague. The newspapers, owing to an extremely
severe censorship, gave but meagre accounts of the political situation
in the capital, and these were of necessity favorable to the government.
Now and then, however, came rambling accounts of insurrections, of acts
of cruelty, of large bodies of political offenders banished to a
life-long slavery in Siberia. At times came the news that the Czar had
been inspired by Providence to inaugurate some new and important reform,
only to be followed by the announcement that Satan had held a conference
with his Imperial Majesty, and that the reform had fallen through. All
such information was carried into Togarog by word of mouth, for few of
the good _moujiks_ could read the papers. Woe to anyone, however, who
allowed his tongue too great a license! Woe to him who dared utter a
suggestion that the existing laws bore heavily upon him. It was a
dangerous experiment to criticise in a hostile spirit any of the abuses
heaped upon the degraded people. The condition of Russia was
deplorable.[1] Insurrection and rebellion nourished in all parts of the
Empire. Degraded to the lowest depths, the crushed worm turned
occasionally, but free itself it could not. Brave spirits arose for whom
exile had no terrors. With their rude eloquence they incited their
fellow-sufferers to throw off the yoke of tyranny and assert their
freedom; and the morrow found them wandering toward the snow-bound
confines of Siberia. Patriotism was not very much encouraged in Russia.
The proprietor of the tavern, a burly, red-faced Cossack, Peter
Basilivitch by name, was in the employ and under the protection of the
Governor of Alexandrovsk, in which department the village of Togarog
lay. The rent paid by Basilivitch was nominal, it is true, but he sold
enormous quantities of liquor, all of which he was obliged to buy from
the Governor's stills; furthermore, he furnished his master with such
information concerning the actions, words, and even thoughts of his
patrons, as came under his observation; and as the serfs that frequented
"Paradise" had no suspicion of the true relation betwixt master and
man, the Governor was enabled to keep himself accurately informed as to
the sayings and doings of his subjects.
Let us enter the public room, this bright Sunday afternoon in the month
of April, in the year 1850. A dense crowd has assembled to-day to do
honor to Basilivitch's wretched liquor. The face of the host fairly
gloats in anticipation of the lucrative harvest that he will glean. He
rubs his hands gleefully, as he orders his servants about.
"Here, Ivan, a pint of _vodka_, and be quick about it! Alexander, you
lazy dog, here comes the village elder, Selaski Starosta--see that he is
served!"
And the crowd continues to grow, until his room will scarcely seat all
the guests.
There are sturdy farmers, wearing their heavy coats and fur caps, in
spite of the sultry weather and still warmer alcoholic beverages, and
swearing and vociferating in sonorous Russian. There are gossiping
women, decked in their caps and many-colored finery. There are
smartly-arrayed young girls, chatting merrily with the swains at their
side. Unruly children scamper, barefooted and bareheaded, around and
under the tables. Puling infants and barking dogs add their discord to
the din and confusion. It is a scene one is not apt to forget.
We repeat it, this is Sunday; the one day when the arm of the laborer
obtains a respite from the tasks imposed upon it during the week; and
the serf of Russia knows no diversion, can find no relaxation, but in
the genial climate of a tavern. But this is no ordinary occasion. Not
every Sunday ushers in so bountiful a supply of customers to Peter
Basilivitch's inn as this. There must be something of unusual
importance, perhaps some interesting bit of rumor from the capital, that
unites the inhabitants of Togarog. After the alcoholic beverages that
are so freely imbibed fulfil their mission and loosen the wits and the
tongues of these good _moujiks_, we may arrive at the cause. Nor have we
long to wait. Already in the far corner of the dingy and smoke-obscured
room, we hear voices in altercation; a hot, angry dispute forces itself
upon our ears, and the people cease their revels to listen.
"Say what you will," shouted one fur-bedecked individual; "it is an
outrage! We are already burdened with enough taxes. Three days of the
week we must work for the master of our lands, and but three days are
left us for our own support; and now they want to tax us again for a war
in which we have no interest."
"But the Czar must have the money," retorted another. "The people of
Poland are in a state of rebellion, and the army has already been
ordered out to subdue that province."
"Let them tax the nobles, then," angrily cried a third. "Why do they
constantly bleed the poor peasant? Do they want to suck the last drop of
our life's blood? I tell you, we ought not submit."
"How will you help yourselves?" sneeringly asked the host, who, with
napkin tucked under his chin, stood near the speakers, and lost not a
word of the conversation.
How, indeed? Silence fell over the disputants. The question had been
asked, alas! how often, but the answer had not yet been forthcoming.
"Let us arise and organize," at length cried the first speaker, one
Podoloff by name, who was known as a man of great daring and more than
average intelligence, and who had upon more than one occasion been
unconsciously very near having himself transported to Siberia. "Let us
organize!" he repeated. "Think ye we alone are tired of this wretched
existence? Think ye that the peasants of Radtsk and Mohilev and Kief are
less human than ourselves, and that they are less weary of the slavery
under which they drag out a miserable existence? Let us assert our
rights! With the proper organization, and a few good leaders, we could
humble this proud nobility and bring it to our feet. There was a time
when the Russian peasant was a free man, with the privilege to go
whither he pleased, but a word from an arrogant ruler changed it all,
and we are now bound and fettered like veritable slaves."
A murmur of surprise swept through the room. Such an incendiary harangue
was new to the serfs of that region. Never before had such revolutionary
doctrines been openly advanced. Subdued complaints, undefined
expressions of discontent, were frequent, and were as frequently
repressed, but such an outspoken insult to the reigning nobility, such a
fearless invitation to rebellion against the authorities, were unheard
of.
The village elder, a venerable and worthy man, arose and sought to check
the fiery eloquence of the orator.
"Be silent, Podoloff," he commanded. "It is not for you to speak against
the existing order of things. Your father and your father's father were
content to live as you do, and were none the worse for it. By what right
do you complain?"
"By the right that every human being ought to enjoy!" retorted Podoloff.
"Our condition is growing worse every year. Last year the Czar imposed
a tax on account of the disturbances in Poland. Three months later, the
Governor created another tax to pay for his new palace. Now there is to
be still another tax, bigger than the last. No; we ought not to stand
it. It has reached the limit of endurance."
Murmurs of approval arose from various quarters, only to be quickly
suppressed by the cooler heads in the assembly.
"Still we have much to be thankful for," said an old cobbler, Sobelefsky
by name. "The nobles are very kind to us. They supply us with implements
and find a market for our grain."
"And for that they rob us of our money and our liberty," retorted
Podoloff, hotly. "Ask Simon Schefsky there, how much he owes to our
gracious Governor, who last year took from him his pretty daughter, that
her charms might while away his weary hours in Alexandrovsk."
"He is a tyrant!" shouted several women, their rough cheeks tingling at
the recollection of recent indignities. The cry was taken up by many of
the poor wretches present.
What material there was in "Paradise" for the infernal regions of
Siberia!
In vain did Selaski Starosta endeavor to make himself heard. In vain did
the older and more conservative among the company advise caution. The
passion of an angry and enslaved people had for the moment broken its
bonds, and the tumult could not be quelled by mere words.
"See!" cried Podoloff, emboldened by his success. He sprang upon a table
and tore a paper from his pocket. "Yesterday I went to Kharkov to sell
some cattle. I found that the people there had already organized. They
have sent a petition to the Czar, asking for greater liberties. Here is
a copy. Let me read it to you," and, amid a silence as profound as the
occasional bark of a dog or the wail of a child would permit, Podoloff
read the following:
"Russia, O Czar, confided to thee supreme power, and thou wert to her as
a God upon earth. What hast thou done? Blinded by passion and ignorance,
thou hast sought nothing but power! Thou hast forgotten Russia! Thou
hast consumed thy time in reviewing troops, in altering uniforms, in
signing the legislative papers of ignorant charlatans. Thou hast created
a despicable race of censors of the press, that thou mightst sleep in
peace, and never know the wants, never hear the murmurs of thy people,
never listen to the voice of truth. Truth! Thou hast buried her. For her
there is no resurrection. Thou hast refused liberty. At the same time
thou wast enslaved by thy passions. By thy pride and thy obstinacy thou
hast exhausted Russia. Thou hast armed the world against her. Humiliate
thyself before thy brothers! Bow thy haughty forehead in the dust!
Implore pardon! Ask counsel! Throw thyself in the arms of thy people.
There is no other way of salvation for thee!"[2]
Podoloff replaced the paper in his pocket, and looked triumphantly about
him. A twofold sentiment greeted the reading of this wonderful
manifesto. The younger generation were disposed to applaud it, but the
older men, those who preferred to bear the evils they had rather than
fly to those they knew not of, shook their fur-capped heads in doubt.
"Did the writers sign their names to that article?" asked the
circumspect old cobbler.
"Not they," answered Podoloff. "They valued their lives too highly. But
nearly every village in the north has sent the Czar a similar petition.
Nicholas must in the end perceive our misery, and lighten our burdens."
"Or make our existence doubly bitter," answered old Schefsky. "It is a
dangerous experiment."
"The Government will take no notice of it, unless it be to double your
taxes," said the Elder.
At the word "taxes," a new storm of wailing and imprecations broke out.
"I could not pay another kopeck," cried one cadaverous looking wretch.
"I work myself to death, and as it is can hardly keep starvation from
the door."
"Why don't they tax the nobles?" asked another. "They can stand it."
"Or the Jews," cried a third, whose liberal potations of alcohol had
brought him to the verge of intoxication. "Let them take all they
possess. A Jew don't work in the fields. He has no right to wealth!"
Here was a topic upon which all these people were cordially agreed.
"Oppress the Jews."
There was not a dissenting voice in the room.
"The Czar has need of soldiers. Why don't he take the sons of Jews for
his wars?"
"We must sit and toil till our nails fall off, while the Jews do nothing
but grow rich."
"We'll have no more of it! Let the Jews pay the taxes."
And so the cry went on. Glass after glass of _vodka_ moistened the
capacious throats that had shrieked themselves hoarse, and in the cry of
"Down with the Jews!" the other more dangerous cry of "Down with the
Nobles!" was for the moment forgotten.
It was with difficulty that the Elder of the commune could make himself
heard above the din.
"My friends," he finally said, "I am afraid we have made bad work of it
to-day. Should this get to the Governor's ears, I fear some of us will
suffer. I hope, however, that what we have to-day heard and discussed
will remain our secret. I trust all of you. I am sure there is no
traitor among us who would betray our deliberations to the Governor. As
regards our condition, let us be patient. We have nothing serious to
complain of. If the Czar needs money, ours should be at his disposal. If
he needs men for the army, we are his subjects and his property.
Whatever he does, is for the best. Let us submit. As to the manifesto we
have just heard, we will have none of it. Other _mirs_ may do as they
please, but we will remain loyal to our Czar and our Governor, and live
our quiet, uneventful lives."
These words, delivered in a simple but forcible manner by the
acknowledged head of the village, did not fail of their desired effect.
The rabble, realizing the danger into which its enthusiasm had hurried
it, became but too anxious to appear on the side of the Government.
Those who had been loudest in their outcry, now meekly protested against
disloyalty, and Podoloff suddenly found himself bereft of all friends,
with the exception of three or four fearless supporters, as stanch as
their leader. In vain he sought by his eloquence to regain his lost
ground, but he was in a hopeless minority, and, gulping down the
remaining spirits which stood before him, he prepared to leave the
tavern.
"Continue to suffer," were his parting words. "No people is worse off
than it deserves to be. But the day is not far distant when the serf
shall be able to hold up his head, a free man, and that will be
accomplished as soon as you all feel the humiliation of being slaves!"
The meeting broke up in great disorder. Sentiment appeared to be
divided, but the radicals were very circumspect in their remarks, for
earlier experience had taught them that, under an autocratic government
like that of Czar Nicholas, silence was golden. The blandly smiling
host, Basilivitch, went from group to group, threw in a word here and a
suggestion there, smiled at this man's eloquence and ridiculed that
man's caution, all the while making a mental inventory of the facts he
would lay before the Governor on the next morning.
The peasants, when they retired for the night, felt none of that
pleasurable exaltation which should accompany a step towards liberty,
but were oppressed by the weight of an undefined terror, as though they
were on the verge of some catastrophe.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: "Looking about, one saw venality in full feather, serfdom
crushing people like a rock, informers lurking everywhere. No one could
safely express himself in the presence of his dearest friend. There was
no common bond, no general interest. Fear and flattery were
universal."--_Tourgenieff._]
[Footnote 2: Leroy-Boileau.]