Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/gabrielstoryofje00kohnuoft
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Author's full name is Salomon Kohn.
COLLECTION
OF
GERMAN AUTHORS.
VOL. 14.
* * * * *
GABRIEL,
A STORY OF THE JEWS IN PRAGUE
IN ONE VOLUME.
GABRIEL,
A STORY OF THE JEWS IN PRAGUE
BY
S. KOHN.
FROM THE GERMAN
BY
ARTHUR MILMAN, M.A.
LEIPZIG 1869
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & CIE, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.
GABRIEL.
I.
It was the morning of a wintry autumnal day in the year 1620, when a
young man stepped slowly and thoughtfully through the so-called
Pinchas-Synagogue Gate into the Jews' quarter in the city of Prague. A
strange scene presented itself. The morning service was just over in
the synagogues, and whilst numerous crowds were still streaming out of
the houses of prayer, others, mostly women with heavy bunches of keys
in their hands, were already hurrying to the rag-market situated
outside of the Ghetto. The shops too and stalls within the Ghetto were
now opened, and even in the open street an activity never seen in the
other quarters of the city displayed itself. Here, for instance,
dealers--in truth of the lowest class--were offering their wares
consisting of pastry, wheat-bread, fruits, cheese, cabbage, boiled peas
and more of such kind of stuff to the passers-by. Here and there too in
spite of the early hour emerged some peripatetic cooks, in peaceful
competition extolling loudly the products of their kitchen, bits of
liver, eggs, meat and puddings, and whilst in one hand they held a tin
plate, in the other a two-pronged fork,--a very unnecessary article for
most of their guests,--devoted their attention chiefly to the foreign
students of the Talmud. To them also the greatest attention was paid by
those cobblers who less wealthy than their colleagues in the so-called
Golden St. offered their services to the students in open street, and
most assiduously, while the owners were obliged to wait in the street
or a neighbouring house, mended their shoes at a very moderate price,
but, it must also be allowed, in a very inefficient manner.
The young man who had just stepped into the Jew's quarter, gazed
earnestly and observantly at this busy stir, and did not seem to
notice, that he himself had become an object of common attention. His
appearance was however fully calculated to excite observation. His form
was powerful and commanding; his dress that of a Talmud-student, cloak
and cap. Out of his pale face shadowed by a dark beard, under heavy
arching eyebrows there shone two black eyes of uncommon brilliance;
raven locks fell in waves from his head; the fingers of a white sinewy
hand, that held close the silken cloak, were covered with golden rings;
his thick ruff was of spotless purity and smoothness. Had not the
stranger by the elegance of his appearance, perhaps also by his
gigantic make, struck a little awe into the curious dealers in the
street, of a surety at his first appearance, a whole heap of questions
would have been addressed to him. "Who or what he wanted? What could
they do for him?" and such like.... Under the circumstances, however,
it was Abraham, a cobbler, who sat on a bench by the Pinchas-Synagogue
that after some consideration mustered up courage and as he laid down a
shoe that had been committed to his artistic skill, began to ask: "dear
student! whom are you seeking? Certainly not me, that I can see from
your beautifully made shoes with their glittering silver buckles;
_they_ were not made at Prague."--This was put in more for the benefit
of those about him and himself than the stranger.--"You are surely a
stranger here? pardon me, you are perhaps a German, a Moravian or a
Viennese? do you wish to go to a lecture upon the Talmud, or perchance
to the Rabbi, or to Reb Lippman Heller? Who do you want to go to? I
will gladly shew you the way to the Talmud-lecturers--or, perhaps, you
are looking out for a lodging? I can very likely procure you a
convenient one." "I _am_ a stranger here," replied the student, "and
must, indeed, first of all look about me for a lodging. If you happen
to know of an apartment where I could pursue my studies undisturbed I
shall thankfully avail myself of your offer: but the apartment must be
large, light and cheerful."
"Then I only know of one in the whole town, at my superior attendant
Reb Schlome's, I mean the superior attendant of my synagogue, the
Old-Synagogue, he lives close to the synagogue; there is a beautiful
room there--and besides, Reb Schlome is very learned in the Talmud, and
has got a beautiful library,--in a word that or none is the lodging for
you."
While this short conversation was going on, the cobbler's neighbours
had as it were accidentally got nearer, so as to overhear a few words;
and the group that for some minutes had been hazarding the most
ingenious opinions and conjectures about the stranger, formed, perhaps
without noticing it, a complete circle round the two talkers. This was
now suddenly broken through, and a shabbily dressed old man thrust
himself up impetuously against the stranger.
"Peace be with you," he cried, "you are then just arrived, be so good
as to come with me, I have a question to put to you, it will do you no
harm, and me good, come with me."
The stranger gazed in astonishment at the singular figure. "What do you
want of me? How can I, a stranger, whom you have surely never seen,
give you any tidings? perhaps, however, you do know me?"
"Sir," whispered Cobbler Abraham, standing on tiptoe so as to reach
up to the stranger's ear, "Jacob is out of his mind; ten years ago,
when he came to live at Prague, he used to put the strangest questions
to everybody that came in his way; when the small boys came out
of the school, he used to examine them in the Bible, and however
correctly they answered, would ever become furious and cry: False!
False!--grown-up people too he used to catechise, fathers, students, in
short every one; but as he has now put his questions to almost
everybody in the whole community, he has kept quite quiet for a long
while. He is only unsociable, refuses to give any information about
himself, and never answers a question; but he is a good harmless
fellow, and as the students say, must be a very great Talmudist--I
wonder that he begins again."--
"Don't be led astray by what that man there is whispering to you,"
cried the old man in anguish; "only come with me, I pray you most
instantly to do so--you, only you can give me peace; I will believe
your answers, all the rest lie to me, a poor old man! Come home with
me, believe me, you will do a real good deed."
The stranger cast a penetrating searching glance at the old man, as
though he would sound the whole depths of this troubled human soul.
Contrary to all expectation he replied after short reflection: "only
unloose my cloak; hold me not so nervously, I will verily go with you.
But to you," he turned to the cobbler, "I will soon come back, and will
then beg you to conduct me to the man who has the room to let. Accept
this in the meanwhile for your friendly sympathy"--as he spoke he drew
out of his doublet an embroidered purse full of gold and silver pieces,
and laid a large silver coin on the cobbler's bench. "That is too
much," said Abraham highly surprised and pleased, "God strengthen you,
your Honour, Reb--I don't know what's your name!"--
Without answering these further questions, the stranger stepped by the
side of the old man out of the circle, which now once more began loudly
and without circumlocution to utter its conjectures.
"I know what he is:--he is a fool," suggested a dealer in liver as she
arranged her stores on a board--"and what's more a big fool! gives
Abraham a piece of silver, what for? goes home with the madman, why?"
"My dear Mindel," urged another huckster, "it seems to me you are very
envious of Abraham; that's why the handsome stranger student is a fool.
If you'd got the money, he would have been wise!"--
Most of the hucksters, and hucksteresses, seemed fully to concur in the
opinion of the fish-monger--such was the speaker--for Mother Mindel was
in truth what one would in these days in popular parlance call a dog in
the manger. But Mother Mindel was not the sort of person in a war of
words to leave the lists in a hurry, and own herself vanquished. She
answered therefore sharply: "Say you so, Hirsch, what did you get from
him. Come now, tell the truth." These last words spoken in a somewhat
high key, can only be understood when it is explained, that Hirsch, the
fish-monger, was too often addicted to the bad habit, when he told a
story, of passing off in fullest measure the exaggerations and
embellishments of his copious imagination; of treating, on the other
hand, an actual fact in a very step-motherish fashion, a circumstance
that compelled even his best friends to admit that he was a little
given to exaggeration; while impartial persons were fond of applying to
him the well-deserved predicate of 'liar.'
"If I'm to tell the truth," continued Hirsch, apparently not observing
that which was injurious in his neighbour's manner of expressing
herself, "If I'm to tell the truth I'm not so envious as some people,
who seem to have been created so by the dear God, probably as a
punishment; I should, however, have been more pleased if Pradel, the
pastry-cook, had got the money, she has five children, her husband, the
bass-singer in the Old-Synagogue, is away, lying ill at home for the
last four months--_she_ would have made a better use of the money--but
if it had rained gold the good woman would not have been at the place,
and if she had, what would have been the use? would _she_ have had the
impudence at once coolly to accost a stranger with gold rings on his
fingers like a prince as if he was a nobody? Why did we all hold our
tongues? I was only curious to see how far Cobbler Abrabam would
go. A very little more and he'd have asked him the name of his
great-grandfathers, how long it was since his thirteenth birthday, and
what chapter out of the prophets had at that time been read on the
Sabbath."--
These words seemed to show that the brave Hirsch in addition to his
unpleasant habit of exaggeration could not be altogether absolved from
the failing of his neighbour Mindel.--In the bosom of Cobbler Abraham
who had listened to all these gibes in silence some significant idea
seemed striving for utterance. He moved uneasily on his stool and
rubbed his hands with a singular smile.
"Good people!" he cried at length, "I'll show you that none of you yet
know Cobbler Abraham, although for now more than twenty years he has
enjoyed the great honour in your society of mending shoes for the
scholars at the high school of Prague, and for more than twenty years
has had the privilege of listening to your lies, Hirsch, and to your
tattle, Mindel. None of you yet know Cobbler Abraham. The money I shall
consider as if it was not mine. It belongs to Pradel the pastry-cook,
or rather to her sick husband Simche, he's my bass, that is, bass of my
synagogue, has never in his life got a new year's or other present from
me. I'm a bachelor, he's a married man with five children: I'm, thank
God, in good health, he's ill. I for once will be a prince, he shall
have the money from me, at once, to-day, as a dedicatory gift, and as
to your insinuation Hirsch, that none of you had the impudence to
accost the stranger, perhaps, you would be more justified in saying
that none of you had had the sense to do it; and now, seeing that I'll
have none of the money, leave me alone, let me get on with my work, and
sell your sweet fish and roast liver." So saying he caught briskly up
the shoes that were before him, and began industriously to cobble.
"Ah, there's some sense in that, I knew you had a good heart;" even
Mother Mindel was obliged to join in the loud applause of the
neighbours, whereupon she tried to secure an honourable retreat out of
the wordy skirmish by kindling with the whole strength of her lungs
into a bright glow the fading flame of her charcoal pan; whilst,
Hirsch, after he too had in an embarrassed way recognised Abraham's
noble feeling, availed himself of that very moment as the most
favourable to recommend his fish to the passers-by, as especially
excellent.--But the three neighbours were of a very placable
disposition, and in spite of the fact that they had for the last ten
years followed the laudable custom, of jeering as opportunity offered,
yet in time of need and wretchedness they had mutually stood by one
another, and so it came to pass, that half an hour after, they had
forgotten the little dispute, but not its cause; and the three
neighbours were laying their heads together to ventilate anew their,
doubtless very interesting surmises about the stranger.
He meanwhile was walking in silence by the side of his strange
companion, and though he looked about inquisitively, still found time
to observe Jacob more closely. It was difficult to fix the old man's
age. His pale countenance was sorrow-stricken, and furrowed by care. It
might once have been beautiful but was transformed into something
different, strange, scarce akin to a human face by a grizzly white
untended beard, that entangled with the disordered hair, which fell in
waves from his head, formed with it a shapeless mass; but especially by
the weird glittering of his eyes that protruded far out of their
sockets. His thin form crushed by the weight of misery, seemed once to
have been gigantic, and the scantiness of his clothing completed the
singular impression caused by his appearance. At the Hahn-alley the old
man stopped before a small house, and begged the stranger to follow him
across the court to his little room. It was poorly furnished, and
situated on the ground floor, abutting the burial-ground, so that
one could without difficulty pass through the low window into the
burial-ground. Besides an arm-chair there was only one stool in the
room. The old man pushed both up silently to the table, and signed to
the stranger to take a seat.
"What do you wish?" the stranger now asked. The old man looked
cautiously about to see if anyone was listening, closed the door, then
the window-shutters and lit a lamp. "See," he now began, "see, as I
looked at you, it affected me so differently, impressed me so far
otherwise than when I look at any other strange student. I know you are
not so wicked as the others are, all, all of them, that despise, ill
use, unsparingly laugh to scorn a poor old man; they know no pity, have
no mercy, are not aware what it is to suffer as I suffer. They bring me
to naught, they have all sworn together against me, and whom ever I
question, he answers falsely, falsely, falsely!"--
The old man spoke with frightful excitement, all the blood that flowed
through his withered body seemed to have gathered itself into his
cheeks flushed with a hectic red, the veins of his forehead swelled to
an unnatural size. "Tell me, tell me, tell me truly," he whispered,
suddenly becoming again quite humble. "Do you know the ten
commandments? but I conjure you by the God of Israel, that made heaven
and earth, by the head of your father, by your mother's salvation, by
your portion in the world to come, answer truly, without deceit."
"My good old man," said the stranger quietly, "I will do all that you
desire, I will repeat to you the ten commandments, all the six hundred
and thirteen laws, provided always, I can still recollect them, I will
be entirely at your service, for I see, that you are a poor worn-out
man--you live pretty well alone here in this narrow room, you receive
no visits?" asked the student after a short pause.
"Since I have found out that no one will come home with me, to read me
the ten commandments out of my small Bible, I let no one in. Many too
are afraid--no one comes to me, no one, you are the first that for many
years has set foot in my hovel.--But now be so good, let me hear the
ten commandments, quickly, I implore you!"
The young man passed his hand over his forehead, as though he would
call back to memory something long forgotten, and then began in a loud
powerful voice to utter by heart those ten sayings of the Lord, that
were revealed on Sinai. The old man sat resting his head which he bent
forward upon both hands--as though greedily to suck up every word that
fell from his lips--and gazed into the face of the stranger. All the
blood seemed to flow back slowly to his heart, his face became deadly
pale, his eyes seemed bursting from their wide opened lids, and the
longer the stranger spoke, the deeper blue became his thin
spasmodically quivering lips. Had not the beating of the tortured old
man's heart been audible, one must have believed that life was extinct
in that frail body. The stranger went quietly on, but as he uttered the
seventh commandment '_Thou shalt not commit adultery_' a fearfully
horrible cry, a cry that made the very bones creep, escaped from the
breast of the poor tormented creature, a cry shrill as that which, a
bird of prey sore wounded by an arrow, launches through the air in its
death struggles, a cry, such as naught but the deepest most unspeakable
grief of the soul can tear from a man's breast. The stranger stopped,
the old man sank in a heap, covering his face with both hands. There
was a moment of deepest silence, at length the old man broke forth into
loud sobbing.--
"You too! I had hope of you. Oh, how I would have loved you, how I
would have honoured you, how I would have worshipped you, if you had
read differently to the others, but no, no, no! _he_ read. Thou shalt
not commit adultery. "_Thou shalt not commit adultery_.' Lord of the
World, have I suffered too little, repented too little, done
insufficient penitence? And yet Thou still lettest it stand in Thy holy
scripture? Must I for ever be tormented in this world and the next? But
Thou art righteous, and I a sinner--I have sinned, I have gone astray,
I have"--then beating his breast he muttered the whole confession of
sins.
"I grieve to have been the cause of pain to you, but see"--the student
at these words opened a Bible that was lying on the table at the
passage in point--"see, it is as I have read it." The characters were
quite effaced by the marks of tears, and it was clear that this
especial page had been read and reread countless times.
"Yes, yes, so is it written," cried the old man in a tone of the
profoundest dejection and despair. "You were right, _my brother_ was
right, all were right, the students, the little boys from school,
all, all read it so--all are right, except me, except me,--I am
guilty!"--and again he began, striking both his clenched hands upon his
breast, to utter the confession.
The student had risen from his seat, and paced the chamber up and down.
The old man's illimitable grief seemed to awaken a slight feeling of
sympathy in him. "Every one is not like thee, a giant in spirit and
thought," said he softly to himself, "every one cannot like thee strip
off his faith like a raiment that has become useless, and rouse a new
life from the inner fire of the soul." The man was not always mad, a
milder light must once have shone out of those weird dark eyes--_but he
sank through his own guilt!_ One bold flight of his free spirit had
saved him from everlasting night, but he would not! Was he constrained
to give credence to a dead word out of the Bible? Did he stand upon
flaming Sinai, when the words were thundered down upon humanity? Could
not he free himself from the blind faith of his fathers? Must that
appear to him true and holy, that appeared true and holy to his father
and forefathers? His fathers ecstatically smiling could mount the
smoking pyres, and while flames consumed their body, sing psalms and
hymns of praise, _they_ could do all this for they looked for the bliss
of Paradise in a world they hoped to come: and what is the bitterest,
saddest moment of torment compared with an eternity that never ends!
His fathers could breath out their lives with a smile under the axe of
the persecutor; with faith they had life's highest gift, Hope. But this
fool? He has sinned, good!--tear then from thy lacerated and bleeding
heart the foolish faith, that torments thee, what good does it do
thee, thou poor lost one, in this world or the next?--Yet there is a
mighty too constraining power in Faith!----"How if _I_ tried yet to
believe?--the sweet fable can heal wounds too!--but I, I cannot, I
cannot--they have cast me forth, they have compelled me to it, the
Bible, men--all, all--I, indeed, _I_ could not otherwise."
Then he stopped again suddenly before the old man, who without paying
further attention to his guest, had lapsed into a gloomy brooding.
"Of course, you are a Talmudist?" asked the student aloud, "you are!
Now then, know you not the sentence of the pious king Chiskia? Though a
sharp sword lyeth at the neck of man, yet may he not despair of God's
infinite mercy! Do not forget: in the same chapter in which it is
written 'Thou shalt not commit adultery' it is also written: 'The Lord,
the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suffering and abundant in
goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and
transgression and sin!'"--
"But he visits the iniquity of the fathers upon the children and upon
the children's children unto the third and to the fourth generation!"
said Jacob in continuation. "Do not despair! If the gates of prayer
have been closed since the destruction of the sanctuary in Jerusalem,
the gates of repentance have not been closed. Do not despair, poor
Jacob, consider what the Bible says: 'For man's heart is wicked even
from his youth up.' Consider the saying: 'As I live, saith the Lord
God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked
turn from his way and live'; consider that well and do not despair!"--
The student broke off suddenly, as if astonished at the compassion that
had been stirred up in him, it seemed to have surprised himself. But
Jacob in the excess of his emotion clapsed the strangers' hand
convulsively and pressed it to his lips.
"Ah, what good you do me," he cried; "how you drop balm into my
irremediable wounds! For years no one has spoken to me thus; God bless
you for it!" "You see, Jacob," said the student preparing to depart, "I
have obeyed your request and have done you such service as I could.--It
is now my turn to ask a favour of you.--No one comes to see you, you
are often alone, suffer me occasionally to visit you and study the
Talmud here. Perhaps I may be able to banish the evil spirit that at
times seizes you."
"Oh, a wicked, wicked spirit, you are right.--Yes, you with your
beautiful eyes you do me good.--Ah, once I too was as you are, tall,
handsome, strong. When I gaze on you, I call to remembrance my own
happy youth, my brother's! Yes, come to me often, often."
"That I will, and now farewell."
"God bless you."
The student stepped out of the house; then stood lost in thought. "I
shall consider the chance a fortunate one," he softly said, "that led
to my encounter with this madman; he may be useful to me, may put me
upon the right track in my sublime chace. But it is inexplicable to me!
I thought that I had quenched all compassion, all pity in my soul, and
lo! this old man wakens feelings in me, that I would have banished for
ever from my soul. Every one rejects him, and I, I who bear so bitter,
so deadly a hatred against all those that hang on Bible texts, I let
him immediately, before I saw my advantage therefrom, gain his end and
placed myself at his disposal. Alas, in spite of the maddest hatred,
the most raging fury, there is still too much of the good old Jew left
in me. I must become very different."
II.
Reb Schlome Sachs, superior attendant in the old synagogue, had on
Friday evening just returned home from this synagogue. In his house and
in his heart there ruled a Sabbath-peace. There is something very
pleasurable in a small room on such a winter Friday evening! A large
black stove radiated a pleasant warmth, whilst in the middle of the
room a pendant lamp of eight branches, spread abroad a subdued, ruddy,
but yet friendly light. On the oblong table lay a clean white cloth,
under it again might be seen yet another particoloured covering, from
the corners of which tassels were hanging and served as a cheerful
pastime for a lively cat. But the loveliest ornament of the room was
without a doubt the housewife Schoendel, a blooming graceful woman of
about thirty. As she, in her elegant Sabbath-attire, the rich clusters
of her dark hair becomingly covered by a richly worked cap, in her
pretty, close fitting neatly made gown, fastened high up on the neck,
stepped to meet her husband, and took off his cloak and cap, as they
both of them joyously wished one another a happy Sabbath, as in their
features a pure and childlike joyfulness of soul, a deep and blessed
peace of mind mirrored itself--then surely would neither of them have
exchanged their lot for that of kings or princes.
The master sang the Psalm of the day, and as he ended, enquired, "was
Reb Gabriel not yet come home."
"No, he wished to go to-day to the old New-synagogue which he has not
yet seen."
"Oh, then he will return later; we in the old synagogue only repeat the
Friday-Psalm once and have no 'benediction.'--How do you like our new
tenant that Cobbler Abraham brought us?"
"Oh, I like him very well, a handsome man of refined habits and
demeanour; not at all like a Talmud-student; they think of nothing but
their themes and disputations; but Reb Gabriel converses well and
gracefully. He must be of a good and wealthy family; his deportment too
is very different to that of the others, so bolt upright and so stiff,
you know, just as if he was a soldier; but he is not so devout as the
others."
"He has a profound knowledge of the Talmud, as in the course of this
very day I became aware, and I'm glad of that--you know I take no rent
from our lodger, only make a point of having a god-fearing sound
Talmudist in the house; but tell me, dear wife, what makes you think
that he holds himself like a soldier?"
"Nay, because they hold themselves straight and upright. What is there
remarkable in that."
"Nothing, nothing,--but I have not yet told you; yesterday evening,
when I came home from the midnight-prayer-meeting, just as I was going
to unlock the door of our cottage--I always take the key with me that I
may not be obliged to wake you--I heard a loud voice in our lodger's
room; I listened a moment.--It was not the way, in which one studies
the Talmud--he seemed to be addressing one or more persons, but what he
said had such a strange ring about it, I could not at first clearly
make it out, especially as according to the tenor of his words he at
one moment muttered softly, at another cried loud out--the wind
moreover whistled loud through the passage; but my ear soon grew
accustomed to the sound, and I heard him plainly say: 'Man, we are
both lost--both of us, you and I--they will betray us to the
Imperialists--they will deliver us to our deadliest enemy,' afterwards
he cried out again suddenly--'they shall not surprise us! we are armed,
march, halt! fire! storm! no quarter--they give none, level everything.
Ah, ah, blood, blood! that refreshes the soul. The victory is mine! mine
the blood stained laurel wreath, I am victor,--I victor. Ah me, it
avails nothing, I am still a ----' the last words died lightly away.
After some minutes all was again still in the room, and I heard the
measured breathing of his mighty breast. This is the first opportunity
that I have had of telling you about it, for Friday, as you know, I am
entirely occupied by my duty in the synagogue,--I might, perhaps, have
forgotten it, had not you remarked upon his military aspect."--
"I am not at all surprised that he has such dreams," replied Schoendel,
"his mind is always full of such wonderful things.--This morning, when
I wanted to fetch for you your Sabbath clothes out of the chest, that
he lets us leave in his room, getting no answer to my knock, I lifted
up the latch, to assure myself that he was out; but the door came open
and Gabriel, his head resting on both hands, was gazing with fixed
attention--not on a folio, but a roll of coloured paper on which he was
drawing different lines with a pen. When I got nearer, I made out that
it was a map. I asked him in astonishment what that meant, and he told
me that as he travelled from Germany to Prague, he had in the course of
his journey encountered the Bohemian and Imperial armies, and that to
amuse himself he was now looking where they were--then he pointed out
to me the exact spot, where the brave Field-Marshal Mannsfield was,
where the Elector Maximilian, and Generals Tilly and Boucquoi lay with
their troops, then he showed me how badly Christian of Anhalt,
Frederick's General-in-chief, was supporting the operations of the
brave Ernest of Mannsfield, and how that the troops of the union in
spite of their bravery and gallant leader must succumb, so long as
Anhalt, incapable, or as he expressed himself, perhaps won over by the
Imperialists remained at the head of the army: all this he explained to
me so clearly, and distinctly, that even I, a foolish woman, could
quite easily see the force of it.--'How do you come to have such a
clear perception of all that,' I enquired, 'of all the students of the
present School not one would understand so much about these things as
you--you'd make a good officer.' 'Nay, who knows,' he laughingly
answered, 'if some day I do not get a good Rabbinate, I may still
become a soldier.' The whole occurrence struck me as so strange, that
it haunted me the whole day; I cannot help smiling when I think of it.
In the middle of the day, about three hours afterwards, as I crossed
over to the 'Kleinseite' to buy some wax tapers, I saw two superior
officers riding over the bridge, one I happened to know, the young
Thurn--every child here knows him; but as to the other, a captain, who
rode a perfectly black horse, he seemed to me as like our lodger
Gabriel, as one twin-brother is to the other, and as they both turned
the corner into the 'Kleinseite,' this captain caught sight of me and
gave me such a friendly unconstrained look, as if he would greet me.
But all this was a pure deception, the whole resemblance may have been
a slight and casual one, and Gabriel's strange conversation of which my
thoughts were still full, may have probably been the cause of my
exaggerating the likeness--and that officers turn round to stare at
young women, is certainly no new occurrence."
"Trust me," answered Schlome, "Gabriel is no captain. The students of
the School at Prague are not the stuff out of which kings, or states
would fashion heroes. I do not say that they would not make as good as
others.--The Maccabees fought as bravely as a Thurn, a Boucquoi, a
Mannsfield, and even more bravely,--but so long as the Lord of Hosts in
his lofty wisdom does not entirely turn the hearts of the princes and
peoples among whom we live, we must accept oppression, contumely,
scorn, and all else that Providence has ordained for us. Do you not
know, that for some years the fencing-masters here in Prague have
been forbidden to teach the Jews the noble art of fencing? But, dear
wife, this is no pleasant subject of conversation for a joyful
Friday-evening."
"You are ungrateful! Do we not now live quietly under the protection of
the laws? Look back to the dark and horrible times of yore."--
"To-day let us conjure up no sad memories, let us not disturb a joyous
Sabbath peace," implored Schlome, "let us speak of something else, of
what you will. You say our lodger is not as devout as other students?"
"No, he is not so industrious, does not often attend a lecture on the
Talmud, even in the few days that he has been here has often neglected
to attend at synagogue; besides he never kisses the scroll on the door
as he goes in and out."
Schlome was about to answer, but was prevented by the hurried entrance
of Gabriel, who by an actual omission confirmed the assertion that had
just been made.
"A happy Sabbath to you; excuse my late return. I was in the old
New-synagogue, an awe striking synagogue! We hear much of this
synagogue in my country. It is certainly one of the most ancient Judaic
buildings in Europe, if we except the house of God at Worms, perhaps,
the most ancient;--but tell me, good man, are all the stories, that
they tell us in the schools of Germany, especially towards midnight,
about this edifice and which have often caused me a thrill of pleasant
ghostly horror, true?"
"The child-like temper of the people," replied the goodman, "delight in
the unwonted and strange, and then many stories are told, that in
reality may have happened very differently."
"Yes, but there is much truth in it," interposed the good wife; "ah,
this community of Prague has in the course of time met with so much
sorrow, has suffered such endless anguish, and yet God--blessed be his
name--has so wonderfully supported it, that even now it shines forth a
brilliant example to its sisters in Germany. Whenever I pass that
ancient and reverend house of God, pictures of the days that are gone
come back upon me. Do you know the history of how our brethren in the
faith were once ruthlessly slaughtered in the old New-synagogue?"
Schoendel was obliged to repeat this question; Gabriel seemed suddenly
lost in deep reflection. "No," said he, at length arousing himself from
his reveries, as though his spirit was for away;--"tell it, noble lady!
Everything sounds doubly beautiful from your rosy lips."--
Schlome shook his head in thoughtful astonishment over this manner of
speaking, so different from that usual with Talmud-students.
"Reb Gabriel! you talk like a knight to a lady of rank. Do not forget
that you are a student of the Talmud, and my wife the wife of a
servant."
"You must not talk as if you wished to mock us," said Schoendel, and a
deep flush suffused her face; "or I cannot"--
"Oh, the story, good wife! mind not my talk. I am at times absent, and
often far off in imagination."
"High on horseback in the battle, is it not so?" asked Schoendel slily.
The face of the student became a deep dark red. He required a moment to
recover command of himself. "What do you mean by that?" he impetuously
demanded.
"Women are gossiping, as you know from the Talmud and surely from your
own experience also," said Schlome. "I was just telling my wife, as we
waited for you, that yesterday when I returned from midnight prayer, as
I passed by the door of your room, I could hear you call out loud in
your sleep, and that you appeared to be dreaming of a battle or
something of that kind.--We thought the dream a strange one for a
student."
"Ah," said Gabriel, drawing a deep breath, and visibly relieved--"ah,
you thought so? Well, I do sometimes dream heavily of battles.--But do
you know, how that happens? I was too industrious as a student--studied
the Talmud day and night; but a man cannot endure too much work, and as
my ambition compelled me to unbroken exertion, it fell out, that my
mind became confused, I became subject to delusions and fancied myself,
a knight, a warrior--but I am now thanks to a clever physician and
rest of body and mind, perfectly well again, perfectly! Do not be
anxious!--But as on my journey here I encountered many troops of
soldiers, my mind may again in sleep have been terrified by gloomy
visions: for although I am now quite well, yet still, if I have shortly
before been excited about anything, unpleasant dreams are wont to pain
me; but they are only dreams; and it seldom happens, so I beg you to
pay no attention if I do again talk such strange stuff in my sleep."
It was an age, when the study of the Talmud afforded almost the only
outlet for spiritual activity. It was no uncommon event for a student,
especially if he combined an ascetic life with hard study, to unhinge
his mind by what is called over-study. It was known too, that mental
derangements which had been caused in that way, could be healed by
sensible treatment, rest of body and mind, just as Gabriel had stated,
and the husband and wife themselves knew more than one student, who had
been affected just in the same way as their lodger, and like him too
had recovered. They had no reason, therefore, for doubting Gabriel's
open confession, and even the obvious embarrassment, that he had
evinced at the quick retort of the good-wife seemed entirely justified
by the really unpleasant and affecting confession that had been wrung
from him.
"Poor young man," thus Schoendel broke the long pause that intervened
and began to be uncomfortable. "Thank God,--praised be he
therefore!--that he hath helped you, and be right glad. Now I too
understand, wherefore you took such warm sympathy in the old Jacob, and
immediately granted his request."
"No, that was not the reason," said Gabriel earnestly, and
reflectively, as if in fact he too participated in Schoendel's wonder,
and could find within himself no sufficient explanation of his
behaviour at that time--"but please, let us leave this subject, and
talk of something else.--You were going to tell me, how once on a
time."
"Yes, yes," cried Schoendel, glad to be able to give another direction
to the conversation; "listen: It must be now more than two hundred
years ago,--Wenceslaus the _Slothful_ was ruler of the country--when it
fell out that a knight was inflamed with a hot lust for a Jewish
maiden. She rejected his shameful proposals with virtuous indignation.
Cunning and seductive arts were shattered against the maiden's
steadfast determination. The knight, therefore, resolved to attain his
warmly coveted aim by violence. The day of the feast of the atonement
seemed to him the best suited for the accomplishment of his ruthless
plan. He knew, that Judith--so the maiden was named--would on that day
stay at home alone with her blind mother, while all the rest were
detained by prayer and devout exercises in the house of God. On the
evening of that day--Judith was softly praying by the bed-side of her
slumbering mother--the door of her chamber opened, and her detested
persecutor entered with sparkling eager look. Unmoved by the prayers,
the tears of Judith, he already held her fast embraced in his powerful
arms when a lucky chance brought home her brother to enquire after the
health of his mother and sister. The terrible unutterable wrath that
took possession of him, gave the man, naturally powerful, the strength
of a giant. He wrenched his arms from the villain, who had only the
women to thank, that he did not by the forfeit of his life pay for the
attempted infamy. With kicks and grim mockery the outraged brother
expelled the dissolute fellow from the house. The knight given over to
the scorn of the people who had assembled in considerable numbers,
swore a bloody deadly revenge against the Jews. He kept his word--Reb
Gabriel! for God's sake! what is the matter with you?" suddenly the
narrator interrupted herself; "are you unwell?"
Gabriel, who had listened to the housewife, with ever growing
attention, was in fact at this moment a sight to look upon, his
features had become as pale as ashes and twitched convulsively, his
large and glassy eyes were fixed immoveably on one spot, as though he
saw a ghost.
"What ails you?" cried Schlome, shaking his lodger with all his force,
"recover yourself."
Gabriel's lips closed more than once with a quiver, without being able
to give forth an intelligible sound; at length he passed his hand
across his forehead that was covered with a cold sweat, and said with a
powerful effort at self-command, and as if awaking from a dream: "That
was in the days of King Wenceslaus, was it not? two hundred years
ago,--a blind mother--a beautiful daughter--and the day of
reconciliation was it?"
"Thank God, that you are well again, you must have had a sudden
giddiness."
"Yes, yes," said Gabriel, faint and enfeebled, "I felt very unwell for a
moment, very unwell--but I am better again. Go on with your story, dear
lady, I pray you, go on with it."
Complying with his urgent request, Schoendel continued: "Long ago
expelled from the ranks of the nobility on account of his worthless
behaviour, the knight had cultivated a connection with some
discontented idle burghers of the city, and these he hoped to make the
ministers of his cruel vengeance. Some short time afterward he put
himself at the head of a mob rendered fanatical under frivolous
pretexts to murder and plunder in the Jews-town. The first, who,
frightened out of their peaceful dwellings, went to meet the robbers,
were cut down. Determined men endeavoured to oppose a monstrously
superior force. Vain effort. Without arms, they saw themselves after an
heroic opposition compelled to take refuge in the old New-synagogue
already filled with old men, women, and children. Mighty blows sounded
heavily on the closed doors of the synagogue. 'Open and give yourselves
up,' yelled the knight from outside. After a short pause of
consultation answer was made, that the Jews would deliver their
property over to the mutineers, would draw up a deed of gift of it, and
only keep back for themselves absolute necessaries; they also promised
to make no complaint to king or states, in exchange for which, the
honour of their wives and daughters was to be preserved, and no one
compelled to change his religion.
"'It is not your business,' a voice from outside again resounded, 'it
is ours to dictate conditions.--Do you desire life and not a wretched
death, then open and at once abjure your faith. I grant but short delay
for reflection; if that fruitlessly elapses, you are one and all given
over to death!'
"No answer followed. Farther resistance could not be thought of, and
hope that the king would at length put a stop to this unheard of,
unparalleled iniquity, grew every moment less. The battle in the
street--if the desperate resistance of a few unarmed men against an
armed superior force could be called by that name--had lasted so long;
that King Wenceslaus might have easily sent assistance; but none came.
They were at length constrained to admit, that he did not trouble
himself about the fate of the Jews. A silence as of death reigned in
the synagogue; only here and there a suppressed sobbing, only here and
there an infant at the breast, that reminded its mother of her sweetest
duty, was heard. Once more the voice of the knight thundered rough and
wild: 'I demand of you for the last time, whether do you choose: the
new faith or death?' There was a momentary silence, then broke a cry of
thousands 'Death' with a dull sound against the roof of the house that
was consecrated to God.--The insurgents now began to demolish the doors
with axes and hatchets. But the besieged in their deadly agony lifted
up their voice in wonderful accord, and sang in solemn chorus the
glorious verse of the Psalmist:
'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will not fear the crafty wiliness of the evil-doer
For thou art with me! Thou art in all my ways:
The firm staff of faith is my confidence!'
"The aged Rabbi had sunk upon his knees in prayer upon the steps that
led up to the tabernacle. 'Lord,' he implored, 'I suffer infinite
sorrow, yet, oh that we might fall into the hands of the Lord, for his
mercy is boundless.--Only not into the hand of man! Ah, we know not
what to do; to Thee alone we look for succour! Call to remembrance Thy
mercy and gracious favour, that has been ever of old. In anger be
mindful of compassion! Let Thy goodness be showed unto us, as we do put
our trust in Thee!'
"But God at this season did not succour his children, in his
unsearchable counsels it was otherwise ordered. The first door was
burst open, the mob pressed into the vestibule of God's house, a single
frail door separated oppressed and oppressors.
"'Lord,' cried the Rabbi in accents of deepest despair, 'Lord, grant
that the walls of this house in which we and our fathers with songs of
praise have glorified and blessed Thy name--that the walls of this
temple of God may fall together, and that we may find a grave under its
ruins! But let us not fall alive into the hands of the barbarians, let
not our wives and maidens become a living prey to the wicked.' 'No,'
now exclaimed a powerful voice, 'that shall they not, Rabbi!--Wives and
maidens; do you prefer death at the hand of your fathers, husbands,
brothers, death at your own hands to shame and dishonour? Would you
appear pure and innocent before the throne of the Almighty instead of
falling living victims into the hands of those blood-thirsty inhuman
men outside.--Would you? Speak, time presses,' and again resounded from
a hundred women's lips 'Rather death than dishonour!'--
"His lovely blooming wife pressed up close to the side of the man who
had thus spoken, her baby at her breast: 'Let me be the first, let me
receive my death from thy loved hands,' she murmured softly. With the
deepest emotion of which a human soul is capable he clapsed her to his
breast. 'It must be done quickly,' he said with hollow trembling voice.
'The separation must be speedy, I never thought to part from you thus!
Lord, Most Merciful, forgive us, we do it for Thy holy name's sake
alone! Art thou ready?'
"'I am,' she said, 'let me only once more, but once more, for the last
time kiss my sweet, my innocent child--God bless thee, poor orphan, God
suffer thee to find compassion in the eyes of our murderers.... God
help thee! We, dear friend, we part but for a short time, thou wilt
follow me soon, thou true-hearted!'--
"With the most infinite sorrow that can thrill a human breast, the
husband pressed a fervent parting kiss, and a last touch of the hand
upon the loved infant that absolutely refused to leave its mother, and
the bared and heaving breast.--One stroke of the knife, and a jet of
blood sprinkled the child's face and spouted up against the walls of
the house of God.--The woman sank, with a cry of 'Hear, o Israel, the
Everlasting our God is God alone' and fell lifeless on her knees.--
"All the other women, including Judith, followed the heroically
courageous example. Many died by their own hands, many received the
death-stroke from their husbands, fathers, brothers, but all of them
without a murmur, silent and resigned to God's will. They had to tear
away tender children, who weeping and wringing their hands climbed on
to their father's knees, and piteously implored them, not to hurt their
mother--it was a scene, horrible and heart-rending, a scene than which
the history of the Jews, the history of mankind knows none more
agonising. It was accomplished! No woman might fall alive into the
hands of the persecutors, the last death-sigh was breathed, and the few
stout men, who had desired only so long to defend the inner door,
stepped backward. A fearful blow, and the door, the last bulwark, fell
in, sending clouds of dust whirling over it. The knight, brandished
battle-axe in hand, stood on the steps that led up into the house of
prayer, his countenance disfigured by wrath, behind him crowded an
immeasurable mass of people armed with spits and clubs and iron flails.
'Yield your women and children,' he shouted in a voice of thunder, at
length betraying his real intention--'and abjure your faith!'