place it is pictured to be, the admission is perhaps the strongest
argument against it and for running away from it; for, in that case, the
home is almost too good a place to stay in, too tame and agreeable, a
nest of the neutral, a triumph of the negative, maybe, and hardly a
place where you can grow, learn, enlarge and expand distinctly and in
your own way. I fear me that in any case home is about the last resort
where one can express his individuality and become fully equipped to
grapple with the world and those who own it. Do not misunderstand me. No
one intends to wage wanton war against that which is held in reverence.
"The radical is only ahead of time because all the others are behind it.
No one wishes to abolish merely for the sake of abolition. There is no
satisfaction in mere annihilation. No one wishes it. Wisdom and folly
have the same intention. To say that the most destructive radical and
the most orthodox conservative are in perfect agreement as far as their
aim is concerned will be dangerously near uttering a commonplace. Both
seek well-being and happiness. There was a time when there was a little
difference between the two; when one of the two parties wanted to
postpone that welfare unto another life; but now, in this hasty age,
both demand all that it is possible to procure here and now. There may
be difference of opinion, but there is no difference of intention. The
object of all is to preserve the virility of our being, the veracity of
soul, the strength to do and to be. There may be a question as to my
being a conservative, but there is no doubt that I am a conservator. I
would conserve everything that is conducive to growth and happiness.
What I believe, what I say, has this object in view. And having this in
view, I realize that in the course of human events it ever and anon
becomes necessary to demolish the divinities that be.
"If I seem to attack this sacred institution it is because it has a very
seamy, sore and searing side to it. In the first place there are usually
parents at home. What a pity that parents and children cannot be of the
same age; that there cannot be some understanding between them. What a
sorrow that those who brought us into the world should have no sympathy
with us--that those whom we love most should understand us least; that
there should be such conflicting contrasts in feeling, in thought, in
temperaments and tendencies. But regrets do not alter circumstances.
They exist and they are obdurate. The old look backward: the young look
forward. The old have become hardened, inured to things and indifferent:
to the young this is the greatest danger. The old are relics of the
past; the young are the hopeful heirs of the future. To the former life
is a lost game, to the latter it is a beautiful dream. The old stand
with their backs to the rising sun, with their faces towards their
graves; they belong to a dying world and--the pity of it!--they would
shape the destinies of those who belong to the glorious future; they
would make the children prematurely wise and deprive them of most of the
fun in life and all the benefits that come from folly, error and
indiscretion. Age would convince youth that life is real and earnest and
a practical business--which is not true in the case of youth--and should
not be. There is constant disagreement, or agreement--which is often
worse, for it implies submission of the weaker party. The freedom of the
young is ever curtailed. The home is often their prison. Youth and age
is a bad match, and that's the disadvantage of home. See this moonlight:
it is beautiful, is it not? But a flower must have sunshine in which to
bloom. All respect for age: but youth must have freedom.
"I hope this is not true of many phases of life; but I am thinking now
of a condition in the Ghetto that creates appalling misery, a condition
that makes the home a most desirable place--to run away from. Between
the Jewish children, who have acquired their uplifting education here in
American schools and their parents, who have brought their ignorance and
fanaticism over from Russia--where the despotism of the throne and the
tyranny of the Torah have united in making the densest, darkest
Ghettos--between these children and parents there is a difference in
time and progress of several hundred years. I would like to pause here
and tell you about the Jewish religion--how it has enlightened the world
and darkened the life of the Jews, victims of fatal fanaticism; how the
world has accepted the spirit of Judaism in various forms and to its
benefit, and the Jews have remained bound by a thousand rigid rituals,
iron precepts, meaningless stuff about 'pots and pans,' to their awful
detriment--how they persecuted themselves when they could get no
Christian nation to do it for them--but there's no time to talk about
these things now; besides, I want to get back to the home. So many
things occur to me and I do not know what to say first. Write about it?
Perhaps, some day. It may be that I, too, have been cursed to live by
the sweat of my pen, but oh--I hate to write. Besides, what's the use?
It is too late to convert my people to Judaism, now.
"But what I mentioned before shows a pronounced phase of
misunderstanding, estrangement and division between children and
parents, also a good illustration of the bad, narrow, uncongenial home.
"Under any circumstances the old and the young are out of joint; but
here the clashing of interests is so accentuated that the condition is
heart-tearing. There are parents, crude, careless, callous, often
essentially material, mercenary, miserly, whose only mental occupation
is their blind, outlived fatalistic faith; they are Russian products,
and they cannot follow, cannot comprehend their Americanized,
intelligent, idealistic and aspiring boys and girls; they follow them,
but blindly, praise or blame indiscriminately; they cannot appreciate
the many and noble longings of these youths. No sympathy and the home
stiflingly small. Yes, they love each other, if there can be any love
without respect and understanding. These bright boys and girls that you
meet in the Ghetto, and who do so much towards the education of slum
students and settlement workers--they are what they are, not because,
but rather in spite of, their parents. They struggle and strive upward
alone and unaided, and also act as missionaries of civilization in their
homes. They beautify their little rooms with pictures and books and
trifles of art, and they play sweet music--but what is the use, I ask
you, of a thought, a work of art, a poem, a piece of music, if you
cannot share it with those who are near and, somehow, are dear to you.
What is the use of these things if you cannot share them with some one?
And what is to be done when there is no response at home? These children
are so lonely in their sorrows and in their joys, and the home is so
compressed, so 'kleinlich,' so 'eng' (only these German words can give
my meaning). How terrible to see the grandeur of the universe and have
no one to tell it to! How awful this yawning gulf in the Ghetto! If I
say harsh and bitter things it is because I have looked into it and seen
an appalling spectacle of crushed hearts, broken spirits, blighted
hopes, ruined lives, thwarted beings and stifled souls. I have looked
into the gulf, and this is why I want to jest about the holiest things
in the world.
"But speaking generally, home is a dangerous place, and he was a wise
sea captain who bribed his son--clandestinely gave him $50--to run away
from home. While away the youth will come in contact with realities,
learn what the world is, what it demands, and finally become big enough
to build his own home. Or, he will come back to be, at last, understood
and respected. But let him go forth. He will find everywhere pie that
will give him dyspepsia as badly as that which mother used to make.
"As it is, the home covers a multitude of sins. It is very faulty, and,
above all, it lacks perspective. The persons within it are not seen in
the proper light. They are either underestimated or overjudged. Home is
either a mutual admiration, or a mutual mutilation, society. Close as
the home is there is ever plenty of room for prejudice and illusion. The
lights in which things are seen are artificial--and so are the subjects.
If the child is a mediocrity, has graduated at the head of his class and
is a veritable phonograph for remembering facts, he is at once regarded
as a genius and not a little time and effort is wasted on him, and he is
sent forth to bore and prey upon an innocent world; but if he have real
talent and show it before any one has had time to decide that he has it,
his wings are clipped immediately and he is forthwith cast down and
discouraged. But there is always enough appreciation of talent to
discover a mediocrity. Home is the nest of nefarious nepotism, and
between that and disparaging prejudice, countless youths go to the
devil. The home judgments as to capacities, aptitudes and abilities are
tremendous. If a boy is color-blind, he is born to be a painter; if he
has no sense of proportion, why architecture is his sphere; if he
stammers, he is placed upon a chair, made to recite pieces, and hailed
as the coming orator; if he is a little bit hard of hearing, they
dedicate his life to music; if he has absolutely no imagination, they
say history is his field; they try to make a lawyer of him when he has a
wonderful proclivity for telling the truth, a merchant when he has a
fine sense of honesty--and, by heaven, they want to make a minister of a
fellow who has a sense of humor! One must leave home to find what he can
do; and then do it; and then come back and do what one can for the
education and welfare of his parents. Leave your home that you may
suffer hardships and learn, and then come back to cheer the old folks
up. Forgive them for what they have done to you with their sincerity and
devotion--and build your own home. But run away for awhile if you would
grow. It is too narrow and the atmosphere is not healthy. There is ever
disparagement, disagreement and fatal favoritism. No son ever walked in
the ways of his father; no father ever wanted him to do otherwise. There
is always someone at home who knows what is best for you, only you don't
want to mind. But, oh, the tyranny of tears, the despotism of tender
words, and the fearful sincerity of the intentions to do you good! All
inquisitors have been sincere. There is no need of arguing that there is
something radically wrong with the average home. Conditions prove it.
We are, most of us, running away from home to get acquainted with things
as they are--running away to the tune of 'Home, Sweet Home.' Even as we
hum the sweet melody, we go forth into life to get some education, make
our fortunes, and build our own homes. Do you remember 'Die Heimath,'
and how Magda is tortured by home and loving parents? It's the same
argument that Sudermann presented in this play, and again, in 'Die
Ehre,' he showed us phases of the home."
There was silence for a space, and then Keidansky continued: "Homes of a
thousand tender memories clustering from the cradle up through all the
paths of life; homes of kind deeds and unforgotten words; homes wherein
love and freedom are wedded, wherein the most beautiful dreams are born;
homes wherein folks look into each other's eyes and understand, wherein
there are no clouds of suspicion and misunderstanding, and each one is
taken at his worth; homes unblighted by cold wisdom, wherein the old are
young and the young are old--I have heard--I have read--of such homes."
The pale moonlight streamed into the open window of the attic. The
disorderly piles of books, heaps of old papers and magazines, the queer
little pictures about the walls, the small table with a confusion of all
things mentionable upon it--all these presented a strange picture in
this dimness. Keidansky sat on his bed, his head leaning against the
inclined ceiling.
It was this sense of home and comfort that prompted his remarks on the
subject. In the dusk the faces in the little pictures seemed to listen
attentively and change expression as he talked so fervidly. I sat in the
only chair in the room--thinking, wondering. I felt pensive.
"An extreme view, eh?" my friend asked after awhile, and he answered:
"Perhaps it is.
"And that reminds me," he added, "that you once said that my apparent
mission in life is to throw stones. Well, granting that it is, who shall
say that my task is not as important as any?"
And I, drowsily, absently, also asked, "Who shall say?"
XIII
A Jewish Jester
They were telling stories of Motke Chabad, the jester, who many years
ago lived, moved and had his joke on everybody in the city of Wilna,
where he was well known (but not so well liked) as the troublesome town
clown. After nearly everybody in one group at Zarling's had contributed
a Chabad yarn to the general entertainment, the question arose as to
whether there ever really existed such a personage as the redoubtable
Motke. He had said and done so many impossible things that it became a
matter of wonder whether he had said and done them at all. So daring
were his utterances, so strange his adventures, his queer pranks so
preposterous, that he was considered by some to be an imaginary
character. He possessed those vices of individuality which art raises to
the dignity of virtues. He had become a tradition, and so a matter of
doubt and speculation. This last was clear at our discussion. The poet
suggested that, whether Motke ever existed or not, he was certainly a
great humorist. But even this did not satisfy us. We were bent upon
investigation. The medical student made a motion that we ask Zarling,
who is a native of Wilna and at least has known some one who knew
Chabad; but here Keidansky protested. "Do not ask any one," he said,
"who has known, or known of, him closely; his description would be too
familiar, intimate, personal, and it would mar and discolor the halo
that tradition had cast about him. No, do not ask the Czar, for he knows
too much about him and those who were near our hero never understood his
significance. You must have perspective to see the picturesque, even as
you must be a poet to see that which does not exist. It is only for the
blind that an eye-witness can write history. Artistically speaking, the
closer you get to life the less you know about it. Realism fails because
it takes the existence of reality for granted. Because it becomes
systematic and too sure of its subject. Those who have known, those who
have touched elbows with Chabad or his brother's grandchildren, will be
accurate, but not truthful. To describe a person truly, one must include
all its infinite possibilities of failure or success--what he might have
been, what he longed to be, what he could not be with his given
conditions, what he was not, what he was believed to be, etc., and he
who has decided all about the exact measure of a person cannot fathom
his possibilities. We are all so sure of the conditions of contemporary
life that it will take a succeeding generation to know all about it.
"And I am not trying to hinder the work of this investigation, because
it may prove the non-existence of Chabad. That would not matter in the
least, for the anecdotes and tales that are being circulated in his
name, and his storied misadventures and gloried misdeeds create him in
fancy and he exists in imagination--which is all that is necessary for
one desiring to point out the benign and malignant work of the scoffer.
But he did exist, so we are told by those who have known some one who
knew him intimately. He did exist, because, while we have superfluous
virtues to attribute to all sorts of saints who did live, we have not a
superfluity of humor to ascribe to one who has never been. Some one must
have given birth to these things which we can all admire but could not
create. Some one must have been witty enough to think these things, and
reckless enough to say them. We all have the convictions, but he had the
courage, and that was long ago.
"He did exist, this beggar, braggart, buffoon, town-gossip, dealer in
wind and old clothes, match-maker, man of all occupations and no means
of existence, practical joker and general jester of the Ghetto of Wilna;
for such he was and as such he did his good work. He was an outcast, and
as such he ministered to the sanity of society that hath cast him out,
and kept it from going to the extremes of stupidity. For so it is; the
outcast reduces respectability to the ridiculous; the criminal points to
the futility of the law; the rascal shows the relativity of right; the
infidel reforms and enlarges our religion; the enemy of order advances
our progress; the earthly materialist proves the baselessness of all our
idealisms; the ascetic demonstrates the stupidity of excess; the
prohibitionist drives us to drink; the strongest accusation convicts the
accuser; the plaint of the pessimist makes life interesting; the tyrant
gives the greatest lesson in freedom; men write books to prove what
fools they are, and the jester suggests what a tragic farce it all is.
So many efforts in life, life itself defeats its own purpose. It is the
undesired that happens. Help comes not from heaven because we expect it
from that source. They who break laws to suit their own convenience make
larger laws for the welfare of society. I told you before that the
outcasts of society are often its saviors.
"Now be in order, gentlemen. I have the floor this time. This is my
chance to get killed. Not to the point? But there are many points to
this, and if I have deviated from one I was only getting so much nearer
the other. I was trying to show what good this scoffer and sycophant has
done, and to point out the value of the jest. God created the world and
he saw what he was 'up against,' so he smiled, and thus humor was born.
After awhile the divine flashlights from on high began to play
hide-and-seek in the unlit chambers of the human brain; men became
possessed of the sense of humor, and this was the awakening and dawn of
civilization. The lightnings of the mind which suddenly reveal the
multitudinous contradictions of life, the mental illuminations which
cause the immediate recognition of the incongruous, the flash which
makes you see all in a moment, the wide view which makes the universe as
small as the lantern in your hand, the whimsicality of thought forever
creating unsuspected analogies and unexpected comparisons, the sense of
proportion which reduces all things to what they are, or should be,
truth seen through the falsehoods, the sureties discovered through the
absurdities, the exactness of things measured through their
exaggerations, miracles of instantaneous reasoning and feats of
ingenious deductions, the intellectual rapid transit between the sublime
and the ridiculous, which keeps you from going to either extreme, the
magic charm which keeps you above the abysses of the stupid, small and
great, the bright footlights to the tragedy of life--such, in brief, is
humor. And what else is there that is so powerful to prevent
extravagances, to check excesses, to arrest all sorts of frenzies, to
curtail abnormal credulity, to sober all kinds of intoxications? In the
Ghetto, as everywhere else, humor is the saving presence; it makes
existence tolerable, and preserves the sanity of the little journey to
the grave. It was dark and dismal and dreary and dingy in the Russian
Ghettos, and life had the color of last year's snow, and it all seemed
like a funeral procession in a sultry, rainy weather; from without we
were harassed by our enemies; from within we were harried by our
friends, our guardians of sacred law and traditional superstition; it
was sad and sorrowful, and so we jested. God sent us some sunshine in
the form of such scoffers and outcasts as Motke Chabad, and we laughed.
We laughed and forgot to weep. Humor is essentially pathetic, but the
absence of it is tragic. Did we not laugh a little we could not have
lived. Humor, my friends, is the redeeming grace. If you have ever been
very serious in life, why, you can laugh it down. What shall we do to be
saved? Cultivate a sense of humor.
"How could we have lived it through without a Chabad? With a smug,
smooth, sullen, soulless respectability that moves along the lines of
least daring and most obedience, that cannot do any good because it must
fulfil the _Taryag Mitzves_--the 313 precepts--that commit all sorts of
prescribed follies on earth to be admitted into heaven, that divides its
time between praying in the synagogue three times a day and preying upon
its less fortunate neighbors the rest of the time, with a mob of
skull-capped numskulls that did not think because its mind was made
up--has been made up for it centuries ago--a crowd that would not move
an inch because, as is insisted, 'the hell that was good enough for our
fathers, is good enough for us'--with a class of good people like that,
how should we have fared if we had not had a Motke to chastise it with
his jests and jeers and sneers and arrows of scorn? He laughed with the
lowly and for them; he was on the side of reason as against precept; he
stood for natural needs as against supernatural suppositions; he was one
of the under-dogs, but he barked loudly for their cause, and his service
shall not be forgotten as long as we have a sense of humour left--as
long as we are human! Crude were his jests, and clownish most of his
jokes; did he have the talent of a Heine or Bürne, he could not be what
they were without their possibilities; he was a rough-hewn,
Ghetto-enclosed child of darkness, but he did his work in his own way,
and the work told the story.
"God has spoiled his chosen people by choosing them. Many of them are
stiff-necked, stubborn, reactionary; and they do countless things in the
name that would not countenance it. As often as not the powers that be
in Jewish communities are haughty, proud, unjustly aggressive, and they
prey upon and oppress the humbler children of Israel. It is well that
there should ever be some one constantly to criticise, castigate, scold,
and Carlyle these powers that be and guard and interpret the law. So, in
a sense, every good Jew should be an anti-Semite. He should beware of
the abuses of organized bureaucracy by leaders of the community. He
should be opposed to the inimical doings of the united many. United
action is seldom good action. The individual should look out for the
crowd. In organization, every one gives up part of his soul, and so even
organized religions are soulless. So let the good Jew keep an eye on
what the leaders in Judaism are doing, and to make sure that he is
right, let him put his ear to the ground and listen to the voice of the
rejected prophet and blasphemous jester.