fostered by the cult of the Virgin. "Love," says a celebrated historian
of literature, "was glorified in all shapes and guises, and represented
as the highest aim of life. Woman's virtues, yea, even her vices, were
invested with exaggerated importance. Woman became accustomed to think
that she could be neither faithful nor faithless without turning the
world topsy-turvy. She shared the fate of all objects of excessive
adulation: flattery corrupted her. Thus it came about that love of woman
overshadowed every other social force and every form of family
affection, and so spent its power. The Jews were the only ones sane
enough to subordinate sexual love to reverence for motherhood. Alexander
Weill makes a Jewish mother say: 'Is it proper for a good Jewish mother
to concern herself about love? Love is revolting idolatry. A Jewess may
love only God, her husband, and her children.' Granny (_Alt-Babele_) in
one of Kompert's tales says: 'God could not be everywhere, so he created
mothers.' In Jewish novels, maternal love is made the basis of family
life, its passion and its mystery. A Jewish mother! What an image the
words conjure up! Her face is calm, though pale; a melancholy smile
rests upon her lips, and her soulful eyes seem to hide in their depths
the vision of a remote future."
This is a correct view. Jewish poetry is interpenetrated with the breath
of intellectual love, that is, love growing out of the recognition of
duty, no less ideal than sensual love. In the heart of the Jew love is
an infinite force. Too mighty to be confined to the narrow limits of
personal passion, it extends so as to include future generations.
Thus it happened that while in Christian poetry woman was the subject of
song and sonnet, in Jewish poetry she herself sang and composed, and her
productions are worthy of ranking beside the best poetic creations of
each generation.
The earliest blossoms of Jewish poetry by women unfolded in the
spring-like atmosphere of the Renaissance under the blue sky of Italy,
the home of the immortal trio, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. The
first Jewish women writers of Italian verse were Deborah Ascarelli and
Sara Copia Sullam, who, arrayed in the full panoply of the culture of
their day, and as thoroughly equipped with Jewish knowledge, devoted
their talents and their zeal to the service of their nation.
Deborah Ascarelli of Rome, the pride of her sex, was the wife of the
respected rabbi Giuseppe Ascarelli, and lived at Venice in the beginning
of the seventeenth century. She made a graceful Italian translation of
Moses Rieti's _Sefer ha-Hechal_, a Hebrew poem written in imitation of
the _Divina Commedia_, and enjoying much favor at Rome. As early as
1609, David della Rocca published a second edition of her translation,
dedicating it to the charming authoress. To put the highly wrought,
artificial poetry of the Hebrew Dante into mellifluous Italian verse was
by no means easy. While Rieti's poetry is not distinguished by the vigor
and fulness of the older classical productions of neo-Hebraic poetry,
his rhythm is smooth, pleasant, and polished. Yet her rendition is
admirable. Besides, she won fame as a writer of hymns in praise of the
God of her people, who so wondrously rescued it from all manner of
distress.
"Let other poets of victory's trophies tell,
Thy song will e'er thy people's praises swell,"
says a Jewish Italian poet enchanted by her talent.
A still more gifted poetess was Sara Copia Sullam, a particular star in
Judah's galaxy.[32] The only child of a wealthy Venetian at the end of
the sixteenth century, she was indulged in her love of study, and
afforded every opportunity to advance in the arts and sciences. "She
revelled in the realm of beauty, and crystallized her enthusiasm in
graceful, sweet, maidenly verses. Young, lovely, of generous impulses
and keen intellectual powers, her ambition set upon lofty attainments, a
favorite of the muses, Sara Copia charmed youth and age."
These graces of mind became her misfortune. An old Italian priest,
Ansaldo Ceba, in Genoa, published an Italian epic with the Esther of the
Bible as the heroine. Sara was delighted with the choice of the subject.
It was natural that a high-minded, sensitive girl with lofty ideals,
stung to the quick by the injustice and contumely suffered by her
people, should rejoice extravagantly in the praise lavished upon a
heroine of her nation. Carried away by enthusiasm she wrote the poet, a
stranger to her, a letter overflowing with gratitude for the pure
delight his poem had yielded her. Her passionate warmth, betraying at
once the accomplished poetess and the gifted thinker, did not fail to
fascinate the old priest, who immediately resolved to capture this
beautiful soul for the church. His desire brought about a lively
correspondence, our chief source of information about Sara Copia. Her
conversion became a passion with the highstrung priest, taking complete
possession of him during the last years of his life. He brought to bear
upon her case every trick of dialectics and flattery at his command. All
in vain. The greatest successes of which he could boast were her promise
to read the New Testament, and her consent to his praying for her
conversion. Sara's arguments in favor of Judaism arouse the reader's
admiration for the sharpness of intellect displayed, her poetic genius,
and her intimate acquaintance with Jewish sources as well as philosophic
systems.
Ansaldo never abandoned the hope of gaining her over to Christianity.
Unable to convince her reason, he attacked her heart. Though evincing
singular love and veneration for her old admirer, Sara could not be
moved from steadfast adherence to her faith. She sent him her picture
with the words: "This is the picture of one who carries yours deeply
graven on her heart, and, with finger pointing to her bosom, tells the
world: 'Here dwells my idol, bow before him.'"
With old age creeping upon him with its palsy touch, he continued to
think of nothing but Sara's conversion, and assailed her in prose and
verse. One of his imploring letters closes thus:
"Life's fair, bright morn bathes thee in light,
Thy cheeks are softly flushed with youthful zest.
For me the night sets in; my limbs
Are cold, but ardent love glows in my breast."
Sara having compared his poems with those of Amphion and Orpheus, he
answered her:
"To Amphion the stones lent ear
When soft he touched his lute;
And beasts came trooping nigh to hear
When Orpheus played his flute.
How long, O Sara, wilt thou liken me
To those great singers of the olden days?
My God and faith I sought to give to thee,
In vain I proved the error of thy ways.
Their song had charms more potent than my own,
Or art thou harder than a beast or stone?"
The query long remained unanswered, for just then the poetess was
harassed by many trials. Serious illness prostrated her, then her
beloved father died, and finally she was unjustly charged by the envious
among her co-religionists with neglect of Jewish observances, and denial
of the divine origin of the Law. She found no difficulty in refuting the
malicious accusation, but she was stung to the quick by the calumnious
attack, the pain it inflicted vanishing only in the presence of a grave
danger. Balthasar Bonifacio, an obscure author, in a brochure published
for that purpose, accused her of rejecting the doctrine of the
immortality of the soul, a most serious charge, which, if sustained,
would have thrown her into the clutches of the Inquisition. In two days
she wrote a brilliant defense completely exonerating herself and
exposing the spitefulness of the attack, a masterful production by
reason of its vigorous dialectics, incisive satire, and noble enthusiasm
for the cause of religion. Together with some few of her sonnets, this
is all that has come down to us of her writings. She opened her
vindication with the following sonnet:
"O Lord, Thou know'st my inmost hope and thought,
Thou know'st whene'er before Thy judgment throne
I shed salt tears, and uttered many a moan,
'Twas not for vanities that I besought.
O turn on me Thy look with mercy fraught,
And see how envious malice makes me groan!
The pall upon my heart by error thrown
Remove; illume me with Thy radiant thought.
At truth let not the wicked scorner mock,
O Thou, that breath'dst in me a spark divine.
The lying tongue's deceit with silence blight,
Protect me from its venom, Thou, my Rock,
And show the spiteful sland'rer by this sign
That Thou dost shield me with Thy endless might."
Sara's vindication was complete. Her friend Ceba was kept faithfully
informed of all that befell her, but he was absorbed in thoughts of her
conversion and his approaching end. He wrote to her that he did not care
to receive any more letters from her unless they announced her
acceptance of the true faith.
After Ansaldo's death, we hear nothing more about the poetess. She died
at the beginning of 1641, and the celebrated rabbi, Leon de Modena,
composed her epitaph, a poetic tribute to one whose life redounded to
the glory of Judaism.
Our subject now carries us from the luxuriant south to the dunes of the
North Sea. Holland was the first to open the doors of its cities
hospitably to the three hundred thousand Jews exiled from Spain, and its
busy capital Amsterdam became the centre whither tended the intelligent
of the Marranos, fleeing before the Holy Inquisition. Physicians,
mathematicians, philologists, military men, and diplomats, poets and
poetesses, took refuge there. Among the poetesses,[33] the most
prominent was Isabella Correa, distinguished for wit as well as poetic
endowment, the wife of the Jewish captain and author, Nicolas de Oliver
y Fullano, of Majorca. One of her contemporaries, Daniel de Barrios,
says that "she was an accomplished linguist, wrote delightful letters,
composed exquisite verses, played the lute like a _maestro_, and sang
like an angel. Her sparkling black eyes sent piercing darts into every
beholder's heart, and she was famed for beauty as well as intellect."
She made a noble Spanish translation of _Pastor Fido_, the most popular
Italian drama of the day, and published a volume of poems, also in
Spanish. Antonio dos Reys sings her praises:
"_Pastor Fido!_ no longer art thou read in thy own tongue, since Correa,
Faithfully rendering thy song, created thee anew in Spanish forms.
A laurel wreath surmounts her brow,
Because her right hand had cunning to strike tones from the tragic lyre.
On the mount of singers, a seat is reserved for her,
Albeit many a Batavian voice refused consent.
For, Correa's faith invited scorn from aliens,
And her own despised her cheerful serenity.
Now, with greater justice, all bend a reverent knee to Correa, the Jewess,
Correa, who, it seems, is wholly like Lysia."
Donna Isabella Enriquez, a Spanish poetess of great versatility, was her
contemporary. She lived first in Madrid, afterwards in Amsterdam, and
even in advanced age was surrounded by admirers. At the age of
sixty-two, she presented the men of her acquaintance with amulets
against love, notwithstanding that she had spoken and written against
the use of charms. For instance, when an egg with a crown on the end was
found in the house of Isaac Aboab, the celebrated rabbi at Amsterdam,
she wrote him the following:
"See, the terror! Lo! the wonder!
Basilisk, the fabled viper!
Superstition names it so.
Look at it, I pray, with calmness,
'Twas thy mind that was at fault.
God's great goodness is displayed here;
He, I trow, rewards thy eloquence
In the monster which thou seest:
All this rounded whole's thy virtue,
Wisdom's symbol is the crown!"
Besides Isabella Correa and Isabella Enriquez, we have the names, though
not the productions, of Sara de Fonseca Pina y Pimentel, Bienvenida
Cohen Belmonte, and Manuela Nunes de Almeida. They have left but faint
traces of their work, and fancy can fill in the sketch only with
conjectures.
After these Marrano poetesses, silence fell upon the women of Israel for
a whole century--a century of oppression and political slavery, of
isolation in noisome Ghettos, of Christian scorn and mockery. The Jews
of Germany and Poland, completely crushed beneath the load of sorrow,
hibernated until the gentle breath of a new time, levelling Ghetto walls
and heralding a dawn when human rights would be recognized, awoke them
to activity and achievement.
Mighty is the spirit of the times! It clears a way for itself, boldly
pushing aside every stumbling-block in the shape of outworn prejudices
and decaying customs. A century dawned, the promise of liberty and
tolerance flaming on its horizon, to none so sweet as to the Jew. Who
has the heart to cast the first stone upon a much-tried race, tortured
throughout the centuries, for surrendering itself to the unwonted joy of
living, for drinking deep, intoxicating draughts from the newly
discovered fount of liberty, and, alas! for throwing aside, under the
burning sun of the new era, the perennial protection of its religion?
And may we utterly condemn the daughters of Israel, the "roses of
Sharon," and "lilies of the valleys," "unkissed by the dew, lost
wanderers cheered by no greeting," who, now that all was sunshine,
forgot their people, and disregarded the sanctity of family bonds, their
shield and their refuge in the sorrow and peril of the dark ages?
With emotion, with pain, not with resentment, Jewish history tells of
those women, who spurned Judaism, knowing only its external appearance,
its husk, not its essence, high ethical principles and philosophical
truths--of Rahel Varnhagen, Henriette Herz, Regina Froehlich, Dorothea
Mendelssohn, Sarah and Marianne Meyer, Esther Gad, and many others,
first products of German culture in alliance with Jewish wit and
brilliancy.
Rahel Levin was the foster-mother of "Young Germany," and leader in the
woman's emancipation movement, so fruitful later on of deplorable
excesses. Rahel herself never overstepped the limits of "_das
Ewig-Weibliche_." No act of hers ran counter to the most exalted
requirements of morality. Her being was pervaded by high seriousness,
noble dignity, serene cheerfulness. "She dwelt always in the Holy of
holies of thought, and even her most daring wishes for herself and
mankind leapt shyly heavenwards like pure sacrificial flames." Nothing
more touching can be found in the history of the human heart than her
confession before death: "With sublime rapture I dwell upon my origin
and the marvellous web woven by fate, binding together the oldest
recollections of the human race and its most recent aspirations,
connecting scenes separated by the greatest possible intervals of time
and space. My Jewish birth which I long considered a stigma, a sore
disgrace, has now become a precious inheritance, of which nothing on
earth can deprive me."[34]
The fact is that Rahel Levin was a great woman, great even in her
aberrations, while her satellites, shining by reflected light, and
pretending to perpetuate her spirit, transgressed the bounds of
womanliness, and opened wide a door to riotous sensuality. Certain
opponents of the woman's emancipation movement take malicious
satisfaction in rehearsing that it was a Jewess who inaugurated it,
prudently neglecting to mention that in the list of Rahel's followers,
not one Jewish name appears.
The spirit of Judaism and with it the spirit of morality can never be
extinguished. They may flag, or vanish for a time, but their restoration
in increased vigor and radiance is certain; for, they bear within
themselves the guarantee of a future. Henriette Herz, the apostate
daughter of Judaism chewing the cud of Schleiermacher's sentimentality
and Schlegel's romanticism, had not yet passed away when England
produced Jewish women whose deeds were quickened by the spirit of olden
heroism, who walked in the paths of wisdom and faith, and, recoiling
from the cowardice that counsels apostasy, would have fought, if need
be, suffered, and bled, for their faith. What answer but the blush of
shame mantling her cheek could the proud beauty have found, had she been
asked by, let us say, Lady Judith Montefiore, to tell what it was that
chained her to the ruins of the Jewish race?
Lady Montefiore truly was a heroine, worthy to be named with those who
have made our past illustrious, and her peer in intellect and strength
of character was Charlotte Montefiore, whose early death was a serious
loss to Judaism as well as to her family. Her work, "A Few Words to the
Jews by one of themselves," containing that charming tale, "The Jewel
Island," displays intellectual and poetic gifts.
The most prominent of women writers in our era unquestionably is Grace
Aguilar, in whom we must admire the rare union of broad culture and
profound piety. She was born at Hackney in June of 1816, and early
showed extraordinary talent and insatiable thirst for knowledge. In her
twelfth year she wrote "Gustavus Vasa," an historical drama evincing
such unusual gifts that her parents were induced to devote themselves
exclusively to her education. It is a charming picture this, of a young,
gifted girl, under the loving care of cultured parents actuated by the
sole desire to imbue their daughter with their own taste for natural and
artistic beauty and their steadfast love for Judaism, and content to
lead a modest existence, away from the bustle and the opportunities of
the city, in order to be able to give themselves up wholly to the
education and companionship of their beloved, only daughter. Under the
influence of a wise friend, Grace Aguilar herself tells us, she
supplicated God to enable her to do something by which her people might
gain higher esteem with their Christian fellow-citizens.
God hearkened unto her prayer, for her efforts were crowned with
success. Her first work was the translation of a book from the Hebrew,
"Israel Defended." Next came "The Magic Wreath," a collection of poems,
and then her well-known works, "Home Influence," "The Spirit of
Judaism," her best production, "The Women of Israel," "The Jewish
Faith," and "History of the Jews in England"--a rich harvest for one
whose span of life was short. Her pen was dipped into the blood of her
veins and the sap of her nerves; the sacred fire of the prophets burnt
in her soul, and she was inspired by olden Jewish enthusiasm and
devotion to a trust.
So ardent a spirit could not long be imprisoned within so frail a body.
In the very prime of life, just thirty-one years old, Grace Aguilar
passed away, as though her beautiful soul were hastening to shake off
the mortal coil. She rests in German earth, in the Frankfort Jewish
cemetery. Her grave is marked with a simple stone, bearing an equally
simple epitaph:
"Give her of the fruit of her hands,
And let her own works praise her in the gates."
Her death was deeply lamented far and wide. She was a golden link in the
chain of humanity--a bold, courageous, withal thoroughly womanly woman,
a God-inspired daughter of her race and faith. "We are persuaded," says
a non-Jewish friend of hers, "that had this young woman lived in the
times of frightful persecution, she would willingly have mounted the
stake for her faith, praying for her murderers with her last breath."
That the nobility of a solitary woman, leaping like a flame from heart
to heart, may inspire high-minded thoughts, and that Grace Aguilar's
life became a blessing for her people and for humanity, is illustrated
by the following testimonial signed by several hundred Jewish women,
presented to her when she was about to leave England:
"Dearest Sister--Our admiration of your talents, our veneration for your
character, our gratitude for the eminent services your writings render
our sex, our people, our faith, in which the sacred cause of true
religion is embodied: all these motives combine to induce us to intrude
on your presence, in order to give utterance to sentiments which we are
happy to feel and delighted to express. Until you arose, it has, in
modern times, never been the case that a Woman in Israel should stand
forth the public advocate of the faith of Israel; that with the depth
and purity of feelings which is the treasure of woman, and with the
strength of mind and extensive knowledge that form the pride of man, she
should call on her own to cherish, on others to respect, the truth as it
is in Israel.
"You, dearest Sister, have done this, and more. You have taught us to
know and appreciate our dignity; to feel and to prove that no female
character can be ... more pure than that of the Jewish maiden, none more
pious than that of the woman in Israel. You have vindicated our social
and spiritual equality with our brethren in the faith: you have, by your
own excellent example, triumphantly refuted the aspersion, that the
Jewish religion leaves unmoved the heart of the Jewish woman. Your
writings place within our reach those higher motives, those holier
consolations, which flow from the spirituality of our religion, which
urge the soul to commune with its Maker and direct it to His grace and
His mercy as the best guide and protector here and hereafter...."
Her example fell like seed upon fertile soil, for Abigail Lindo, Marian
Hartog, Annette Salomon, and especially Anna Maria Goldsmid, a writer of
merit, daughter of the well-known Sir Isaac Lyon Goldsmid, may be
considered her disciples, the fruit of her sowing.
The Italian poetess, Rachel Morpurgo, a worthy successor of Deborah
Ascarelli and Sara Copia Sullam, was contemporaneous with Grace Aguilar,
though her senior by twenty-six years. Our interest in her is heightened
by her use of the Hebrew language, which she handled with such
consummate skill that her writings easily take rank with the best of
neo-Hebraic literature. A niece of the famous scholar S. D. Luzzatto,
she was born at Triest, April 8, 1790. Until the age of twelve she
studied the Bible, then she read Bechai's "Duties of the Heart" and
Rashi's commentary, and from her fourteenth to her sixteenth year she
devoted herself to the Talmud and the Zohar--a remarkable course of
study, pursued, too, in despite of adverse circumstances. At the same
time she was taught the turner's art by Luzzatto's father, and later she
learned tailoring. One of her poems having been published without her
knowledge, she gives vent to her regret in a sonnet:
"My soul surcharged with grief now loud complains,
And fears upon my spirit heavily weigh.
'Thy poem we have heard,' the people say,
'Who like to thee can sing melodious strains?'
'They're naught but sparks,' outspeaks my soul in chains,
'Struck from my life by torture every day.
But now all perfume's fled--no more my lay
Shall rise; for, fear of shame my song restrains.'
A woman's fancies lightly roam, and weave
Themselves into a fairy web. Should I
Refrain? Ah! soon enough this pleasure, too,
Will flee! Verily I cannot conceive
Why I'm extolled. For woman 'tis to ply
The spinning wheel--then to herself she's true."
This painful self-consciousness, coupled with the oppression of material
cares, forms the sad refrain of Rachel Morpurgo's writings. She is a
true poetess: the woes of humanity are reflected in her own sorrows, to
which she gave utterance in soulful tones. She, too, became an exemplar
for a number of young women. A Pole, Yenta Wohllerner, like Rachel
Morpurgo, had to propitiate churlish circumstances before she could
publish the gifts of her muse, and Miriam Mosessohn, Bertha Rabbinowicz,
and others, emulated her masterly handling of the Hebrew language.
The opening of the new era was marked by the appearance of a triad of
Jewesses--Grace Aguilar in England, Rachel Morpurgo in Italy, and
Henriette Ottenheimer in Germany. A native of the blessed land of
Suabia, Henriette Ottenheimer was consecrated to poetry by intercourse
with two masters of song--Uhland and Rueckert. Her poems, fragrant
blossoms plucked on Suabian fields, for the most part are no more than
sweet womanly lyrics, growing strong with the force of enthusiasm only
when she dwells upon her people's sacred mission and the heroes of Bible
days.