Pliny says that by eating the palpitating heart of a mole one acquires the
faculty of divining future events. In "Westward Ho!" the Spanish prisoners
beseech their English foe, Mr. Oxenham, not to leave them in the hands of
the Cimaroons, for the latter invariably ate the hearts of all that fell
into their hands, after roasting them alive. "Do you know," asks Mr. Alston
in the "Witch's Head," "what those Basutu devils would have done if they
had caught us? They would have skinned us, and made our hearts into _mouti_
[medicine] and eaten them, to give them the courage of the white man." Ibn
Verga, the author of a sixteenth century account of Jewish martyrs, records
the following strange story: "I have heard that some people in Spain once
brought the accusation that they had found, in the house of a Jew, a lad
slain, and his breast rent near the heart. They asserted that the Jews had
extracted his heart to employ it at their festival. Don Solomon, the
Levite, who was a learned man and a Cabbalist, placed the Holy Name under
the lad's tongue. The lad then awoke and told who had slain him, and who
had removed his heart, with the object of accusing the poor Jews. I have
not," adds the author of the _Shebet Jehudah_, "seen this story in writing,
but I have heard it related."
We have the authority of Dr. Ploss for the statement that among the Slavs
witches produce considerable disquiet in families, into which, folk say,
they penetrate in the disguise of hens or butterflies. They steal the
hearts of children in order to eat them. They strike the child on the left
side with a little rod; the breast opens, and the witches tear out the
heart, and devour every atom of it. Thereupon the wound closes up of
itself, without leaving a trace of what has been done. The child dies
either immediately or soon afterwards, as the witch chooses. Many
children's illnesses are attributed to this cause. If one of these witches
is caught asleep, the people seize her, and move her so as to place her
head where her feet were before. On awaking, she has lost all her power for
evil, and is transformed into a medicine-woman, who is acquainted with the
healing effects of every herb, and aids in curing children of their
diseases. In Heine's poem, "The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar," the love-lorn youth
seeks the cure of his heart's ill by placing a waxen heart on the shrine.
This is unquestionably the most exquisite use in literature of the heart as
a charm.
Two or three of the stories that I have noted down on the gruesome subject
of heart-eating have been given above. Such ideas were abhorrent to the
Jewish conscience, and the use of the heart torn from a living animal was
regarded as characteristic of idolatry (Jerusalem Talmud, _Aboda Zara_, ii,
41b). In the Book of Tobit a fish's heart plays a part, but it is detached
from the dead animal, and is not eaten. It forms an ingredient of the smoke
which exorcises the demon that is troubling the heroine Sarah.
I have not come across any passage in the Jewish Midrashim that ascribes to
"heart-eating," even in folk-lore, the virtue of bestowing wisdom.
Aristotle seems to lend his authority to some such notion as that I have
quoted from Pliny, when he says, "Man alone presents the phenomenon of
heart-beating, because he alone is moved by hope and by expectation of what
is coming." As George H. Lewes remarked, it is quite evident that Aristotle
could never have held a bird in his hand. The idea, however, that eating
the heart of an animal has wisdom-conferring virtue seems to underlie a
very interesting Hebrew fable published by Dr. Steinschneider, in his
_Alphabetum Siracidis_. The Angel of Death had demanded of God the power to
slay all living things.
"The Holy One replied, 'Cast a pair of each species into the sea, and
then thou shalt have dominion over all that remain of the species.' The
Angel did so forthwith, and he cast a pair of each kind into the sea.
When the fox saw what he was about, what did he do? At once he stood and
wept. Then said the Angel of Death unto him, 'Why weepest thou?' 'For my
companions, whom thou hast cast into the sea,' answered the fox. 'Where,
then, are thy companions?' said the Angel. The fox ran to the sea-shore
[with his wife], and the Angel of Death beheld the reflection of the fox
in the water, and he thought that he had already cast in a pair of foxes,
so, addressing the fox by his side, he cried, 'Be off with you!' The fox
at once fled and escaped. The weasel met him, and the fox related what
had happened, and what he had done; and so the weasel went and did
likewise.
"At the end of the year, the leviathan assembled all the creatures in the
sea, and lo! the fox and the weasel were missing, for they had not come
into the sea. He sent to ask, and he was told how the fox and the weasel
had escaped through their wisdom. They taunted the leviathan, saying,
'The fox is exceedingly cunning.' The leviathan felt uneasy and envious,
and he sent a deputation of great fishes, with the order that they were
to deceive the fox, and bring him before him. They went, and found him by
the sea-shore. When the fox saw the fishes disporting themselves near the
bank, he was surprised, and he went among them. They beheld him, and
asked, 'Who art thou?' 'I am the fox,' said he. 'Knowest thou not,'
continued the fishes, 'that a great honor is in store for thee, and that
we have come here on thy behalf?' 'What is it?' asked the fox. 'The
leviathan,' they said, 'is sick, and like to die. He has appointed thee
to reign in his stead, for he has heard that thou art wiser and more
prudent than all other animals. Come with us, for we are his messengers,
and are here to thy honor.' 'But,' objected the fox, 'how can I come into
the sea without being drowned?' 'Nay,' said the fishes; 'ride upon one of
us, and he will carry thee above the sea, so that not even a drop of
water shall touch so much as the soles of thy feet, until thou reachest
the kingdom. We will take thee down without thy knowing it. Come with us,
and reign over us, and be king, and be joyful all thy days. No more wilt
thou need to seek for food, nor will wild beasts, stronger than thou,
meet thee and devour thee.'
"The fox heard and believed their words. He rode upon one of them, and
they went with him into the sea. Soon, however, the waves dashed over
him, and he began to perceive that he had been tricked. 'Woe is me!'
wailed the fox, 'what have I done? I have played many a trick on others,
but these fishes have played one on me worth all mine put together. Now I
have fallen into their hands, how shall I free myself? Indeed,' he said,
turning to the fishes, 'now that I am fully in your power, I shall speak
the truth. What are you going to do with me?' 'To tell thee the truth,'
replied the fishes, 'the leviathan has heard thy fame, that thou art very
wise, and he said, I will rend the fox, and will eat his heart, and thus
I shall become wise.' 'Oh!' said the fox, 'why did you not tell me the
truth at first? I should then have brought my heart with me, and I should
have given it to King Leviathan, and he would have honored me; but now ye
are in an evil plight.' 'What! thou hast not thy heart with thee?'
'Certainly not. It is our custom to leave our heart at home while we go
about from place to place. When we need our heart, we take it; otherwise
it remains at home.' 'What must we do?' asked the bewildered fishes. 'My
house and dwelling-place,' replied the fox, 'are by the sea-shore. If you
like, carry me back to the place whence you brought me, I will fetch my
heart, and will come again with you. I will present my heart to
Leviathan, and he will reward me and you with honors. But if you take me
thus, without my heart, he will be wroth with you, and will devour you. I
have no fear for myself, for I shall say unto him: My lord, they did not
tell me at first, and when they did tell me, I begged them to return for
my heart, but they refused.' The fishes at once declared that he was
speaking well. They conveyed him back to the spot on the sea-shore whence
they had taken him. Off jumped the fox, and he danced with joy. He threw
himself on the sand, and laughed. 'Be quick,' cried the fishes, 'get thy
heart, and come.' But the fox answered, 'You fools! Begone! How could I
have come with you without my heart? Have you any animals that go about
without their hearts?' 'Thou hast tricked us,' they moaned. 'Fools! I
tricked the Angel of Death, how much more easily a parcel of silly
fishes.'
"They returned in shame, and related to their master what had happened.
'In truth,' he said, 'he is cunning, and ye are simple. Concerning you
was it said, The turning away of the simple shall slay them [Prov. i:32].
Then the leviathan ate the fishes."
Metaphorically, the Bible characterizes the fool as a man "without a
heart," and it is probably in the same sense that modern Arabs describe the
brute creation as devoid of hearts. The fox in the narrative just given
knew better. Not so, however, the lady who brought a curious question for
her Rabbi to solve. The case to which I refer may be found in the
_Responsa_ Zebi Hirsch. Hirsch's credulous questioner asserted that she had
purchased a live cock, but on killing and drawing it, she had found that it
possessed no heart. The Rabbi refused very properly to believe her. On
investigating the matter, he found that, while she was dressing the cock,
two cats had been standing near the table. The Rabbi assured his questioner
that there was no need to inquire further into the whereabouts of the
cock's heart.
Out of the crowd of parallels to the story of the fox's heart supplied by
the labors of Benfey, I select one given in the second volume of the
learned investigator's _Pantschatantra_. A crocodile had formed a close
friendship with a monkey, who inhabited a tree close to the water side. The
monkey gave the crocodile nuts, which the latter relished heartily. One day
the crocodile took some of the nuts home to his wife. She found them
excellent, and inquired who was the donor. "If," she said, when her husband
had told her, "he feeds on such ambrosial nuts, this monkey's heart must be
ambrosia itself. Bring me his heart, that I may eat it, and so be free from
age and death." Does not this version supply a more probable motive than
that attributed in the Hebrew story to the leviathan? I strongly suspect
that the Hebrew fable has been pieced together from various sources, and
that the account given by the fishes, viz. that the leviathan was ill, was
actually the truth in the original story. The leviathan would need the
fox's heart, not to become wise, but in order to save his life.
To return to the crocodile. He refuses to betray his friend, and his wife
accuses him of infidelity. His friend, she maintains, is not a monkey at
all, but a lady-love of her husband's. Else why should he hesitate to obey
her wishes? "If he is not your beloved, why will you not kill him? Unless
you bring me his heart, I will not taste food, but will die." Then the
crocodile gives in, and in the most friendly manner invites the monkey to
pay him and his wife a visit. The monkey consents unsuspectingly, but
discovers the truth, and escapes by adopting the same ruse as that employed
by the fox. He asserts that he has left his heart behind on his tree.
That eating the heart of animals was not thought a means of obtaining
wisdom among the Jews, may be directly inferred from a passage in the
Talmud (_Horayoth_, 13b). Among five things there enumerated as "causing a
man to forget what he has learned," the Talmud includes "eating the hearts
of animals." Besides, in certain well-known stories in the Midrash, where a
fox eats some other animal's heart, his object is merely to enjoy a titbit.
One such story in particular deserves attention. There are at least three
versions of it. The one is contained in the _Mishle Shualim_, or
"Fox-Stories," by Berechiah ha-Nakdan (no. 106), the second in the _Hadar
Zekenim_ (fol. 27b), and the third in the _Midrash Yalkut_, on Exodus (ed.
Venice, 56a). Let us take the three versions in the order named.
A wild boar roams in a lion's garden. The lion orders him to quit the place
and not defile his residence. The boar promises to obey, but next morning
he is found near the forbidden precincts. The lion orders one of his ears
to be cut off. He then summons the fox, and directs that if the boar still
persists in his obnoxious visits, no mercy shall be shown to him. The boar
remains obstinate, and loses his ears (one had already gone!) and eyes, and
finally he is killed. The lion bids the fox prepare the carcass for His
Majesty's repast, but the fox himself devours the boar's heart. When the
lion discovers the loss, the fox quiets his master by asking, "If the boar
had possessed a heart, would he have been so foolish as to disobey you so
persistently?"
The king of the beasts, runs the story in the second of the three versions,
appointed the ass as keeper of the tolls. One day King Lion, together with
the wolf and the fox, approached the city. The ass came and demanded the
toll of them. Said the fox, "You are the most audacious of animals. Don't
you see that the king is with us?" But the ass answered, "The king himself
shall pay," and he went and demanded the toll of the king. The lion rent
him to pieces, and the fox ate the heart, and excused himself as in the
former version.
The _Yalkut_, or third version, is clearly identical with the preceding,
for, like it, the story is quoted to illustrate the Scriptural text
referring to Pharaoh's heart becoming hard. In this version, however, other
animals accompany the lion and the fox, and the scene of the story is on
board ship. The ass demands the fare, with the same _dénouement_ as before.
What induced the fox to eat the victim's heart? The ass is not remarkable
for wisdom, nor is the boar. Hence the wily Reynard can scarcely have
thought to add to his store of cunning by his surreptitious meal.
Hearts, in folk-lore, have been eaten for revenge, as in the grim story of
the lover's heart told by Boccaccio. The jealous husband forces his wife,
whose fidelity he doubts, to make a meal of her supposed lover's heart. In
the story of the great bird's egg, again, the brother who eats the heart
becomes rich, but not wise. Various motives, no doubt, are assigned in
other _Märchen_ for choosing the heart; but in these particular Hebrew
fables, it is merely regarded as a _bonne bouche_. Possibly the Talmudic
caution, that eating the heart of a beast brings forgetfulness, may have a
moral significance; it may mean that one who admits bestial passions into
his soul will be destitute of a mind for nobler thoughts. This suggestion I
have heard, and I give it for what it may be worth. As a rule, there is no
morality in folk-lore; stories with morals belong to the later and more
artificial stage of poet-lore. Homiletical folk-lore, of course, stands on
a different basis.
Now, in the _Yalkut_ version of the fox and the lion fable, all that we are
told is, "The fox saw the ass's heart; he took it, and ate it." But
Berechiah leaves us in no doubt as to the fox's motive. "The fox saw that
his heart was fat, and so he took it." In the remaining version, "The fox
saw that the heart was good, so he ate it." This needs no further comment.
Of course, it has been far from my intention to dispute that the heart was
regarded by Jews as the seat both of the intellect and the feelings, of all
mental and spiritual functions, indeed. The heart was the best part of man,
the fount of life; hence Jehudah Halevi's well-known saying, "Israel is to
the world as the heart to the body." An intimate connection was also
established, by Jews and Greeks alike, between the physical condition of
the heart and man's moral character. It was a not unnatural thought that
former ages were more pious than later times. "The heart of Rabbi Akiba was
like the door of the porch [which was twenty cubits high], the heart of
Rabbi Eleazar ben Shammua was like the door of the Temple [this was only
ten cubits high], while our hearts are only as large as the eye of a
needle." But I am going beyond my subject. To collect all the things,
pretty and the reverse, that have been said in Jewish literature about the
heart, would need more leisure, and a great deal more learning, than I
possess. So I will conclude with a story, pathetic as well as poetical,
from a Jewish medieval chronicle.
A Mohammedan king once asked a learned Rabbi why the Jews, who had in times
long past been so renowned for their bravery, had in later generations
become subdued, and even timorous. The Rabbi, to prove that captivity and
persecution were the cause of the change, proposed an experiment. He bade
the king take two lion's whelps, equally strong and big. One was tied up,
the other was allowed to roam free in the palace grounds. They were fed
alike, and after an interval both were killed. The king's officers found
that the heart of the captive lion was but one-tenth as large as that of
his free companion, thus evidencing the degenerating influence of slavery.
This is meant, no doubt, as a fable, but, at least, it is not without a
moral. The days of captivity are gone, and it may be hoped that Jewish
large-heartedness has come back with the breath of freedom.
"MARRIAGES ARE MADE IN HEAVEN"
"The Omnipresent," said a Rabbi, "is occupied in making marriages." The
levity of the saying lies in the ear of him who hears it; for by
marriages the speaker meant all the wondrous combinations of the
universe, whose issue makes our good and evil.
_George Eliot_
The proverb that I have set at the head of these lines is popular in every
language of Europe. Need I add that a variant may be found in Chinese? The
Old Man of the Moon unites male and female with a silken, invisible thread,
and they cannot afterwards be separated, but are destined to become man and
wife. The remark of the Rabbi quoted in "Daniel Deronda" carries the
proverb back apparently to a Jewish origin; and it is, indeed, more than
probable that the Rabbinical literature is the earliest source to which
this piece of folk-philosophy can be traced.
George Eliot's Rabbi was Jose bar Chalafta, and his remark was made to a
lady, possibly a Roman matron of high quality, in Sepphoris. Rabbi Jose was
evidently an adept in meeting the puzzling questions of women, for as many
as sixteen interviews between him and "matrons" are recorded in Agadic
literature. Whether because prophetic of its subsequent popularity, or for
some other reason, this particular dialogue in which Rabbi Jose bore so
conspicuous a part is repeated in the _Midrash Rabba_ alone not less than
four times, besides appearing in other Midrashim. It will be as well, then,
to reproduce the passage in a summarized form, for it may be fairly
described as the _locus classicus_ on the subject.
"How long," she asked, "did it take God to create the world?" and Rabbi
Jose informed her that the time occupied was six days. "What has God been
doing since that time?" continued the matron. "The Holy One," answered
the Rabbi, "has been sitting in Heaven arranging marriages."--"Indeed!"
she replied, "I could do as much myself. I have thousands of slaves, and
could marry them off in couples in a single hour. It is easy enough."--"I
hope that you will find it so," said Rabbi Jose. "In Heaven it is thought
as difficult as the dividing of the Red Sea." He then took his departure,
while she assembled one thousand men-servants and as many maid-servants,
and, marking them off in pairs, ordered them all to marry. On the day
following this wholesale wedding, the poor victims came to their mistress
in a woeful plight. One had a broken leg, another a black eye, a third a
swollen nose; all were suffering from some ailment, but with one voice
they joined in the cry, "Lady, unmarry us again!" Then the matron sent
for Rabbi Jose, admitted that she had underrated the delicacy and
difficulty of match-making, and wisely resolved to leave Heaven for the
future to do its work in its own way.
The moral conveyed by this story may seem, however, to have been idealized
by George Eliot almost out of recognition. This is hardly the case. Genius
penetrates into the heart, even from a casual glance at the face of things.
Though it is unlikely that she had ever seen the full passages in the
Midrash to which she was alluding, yet her insight was not at fault. For
the saying that God is occupied in making marriages is, in fact, associated
in some passages of the Midrash with the far wider problems of man's
destiny, with the universal effort to explain the inequalities of fortune,
and the changes with which the future is heavy.
Rabbi Jose's proverbial explanation of connubial happiness was not merely a
_bon mot_ invented on the spur of the moment, to silence an awkward
questioner. It was a firm conviction, which finds expression in more than
one quaint utterance, but also in more than one matter-of-fact assertion.
To take the latter first:
"Rabbi Phineas in the name of Rabbi Abbahu said, We find in the Torah, in
the Prophets, and in the Holy Writings, evidence that a man's wife is
chosen for him by the Holy One, blessed be He. Whence do we deduce it in
the Torah? From Genesis xxiv. 50: _Then Laban and Bethuel answered and
said_ [in reference to Rebekah's betrothal to Isaac], _The thing
proceedeth from the Lord._ In the Prophets it is found in Judges xiv. 4
[where it is related how Samson wished to mate himself with a woman in
Timnath, of the daughters of the Philistines], _But his father and mother
knew not that it was of the Lord._ In the Holy Writings the same may be
seen, for it is written (Proverbs xix. 14), _House and riches are the
inheritance of fathers, but a prudent wife is from the Lord._"
Many years ago, a discussion was carried on in the columns of _Notes and
Queries_ concerning the origin of the saying round which my present
desultory jottings are centred. One correspondent, with unconscious
plagiarism, suggested that the maxim was derived from Proverbs xix. 14.
Another text that might be appealed to is Tobit vi. 18. The Angel
encourages Tobit to marry Sarah, though her seven husbands, one after the
other, had died on their wedding eves. "Fear not," said Raphael, "for _she
is appointed unto thee from the beginning_."
Here we may, for a moment, pause to consider whether any parallels to the
belief in Heaven-made marriages exist in other ancient literatures. It
appears in English as early as Shakespeare:
God, the best maker of all marriages,
Combine your hearts in one.
_Henry V., v. 2._
This, however, is too late to throw any light on its origin. With a little
ingenuity, one might, perhaps, torture some such notion out of certain
fantastic sentences of Plato. In the _Symposium_ (par. 192), however, God
is represented as putting obstacles in the way of the union of fitting
lovers, in consequence of the wickedness of mankind. When men become, by
their conduct, reconciled with God, they may find their true loves.
Astrological divinations on the subject are certainly common enough in
Eastern stories; a remarkable instance will be given later on. At the
present day, Lane tells us, the numerical value of the letters in the names
of the two parties to the contract are added for each name separately, and
one of the totals is subtracted from the other. If the remainder is uneven,
the inference drawn is favorable; but if even, the reverse. The pursuit of
Gematria is apparently not limited to Jews. Such methods, however, hardly
illustrate my present point, for the identity of the couple is not
discovered by the process. Whether the diviner's object is to make this
discovery, or the future lot of the married pair is all that he seeks to
reveal, in both cases, though he charm never so wisely, it does not fall
within the scope of this inquiry. Without stretching one's imagination too
much, some passages in the _Pantschatantra_ seem to imply a belief that
marriage-making is under the direct control of Providence. Take, for
instance, the story of the beautiful princess who was betrothed to a
serpent, Deva Serma's son. Despite the various attempts made to induce her
to break off so hideous a match, she declines steadfastly to go back from
her word, and bases her refusal on the ground that the marriage was
inevitable and destined by the gods.
As quaint illustrations may be instanced the following: "Raba heard a
certain man praying that he might marry a certain damsel; Raba rebuked him
with the words: 'If she be destined for thee, nothing will part thee from
her; if thou art not destined for her, thou art denying Providence in
praying for her.' Afterwards Raba heard him say, 'If I am not destined to
marry her, I hope that either I or she may die,'" meaning that he could not
bear to witness her union with another. Despite Raba's protest, other
instances are on record of prayers similar to the one of which he
disapproved. Or, again, the Midrash offers a curious illustration of Psalm
lxii. 10, "Surely men of low degree are a breath, and men of high degree a
lie." The first clause of the verse alludes to those who say in the usual
way of the world, that a certain man is about to wed a certain maiden, and
the second clause to those who say that a certain maiden is about to wed a
certain man. In both cases people are in error in thinking that the various
parties are acting entirely of their own free will; as a matter of fact,
the whole affair is predestined. I am not quite certain whether the same
idea is intended by the _Yalkut Reubeni_, in which the following occurs:
"Know that all religious and pious men in this our generation are henpecked
by their wives, the reason being connected with the mystery of the Golden
Calf. The men on that occasion did not protest against the action of the
mixed multitude [at whose door the charge of making the calf is laid],
while the women were unwilling to surrender their golden ornaments for
idolatrous purposes. Therefore they rule over their husbands." One might
also quote the bearing of the mystical theory of transmigration on the
predestination of bridal pairs. In the Talmud, on the other hand, the
virtues of a man's wife are sometimes said to be in proportion to the
husband's own; or in other words, his own righteousness is the cause of his
acquiring a good wife. The obvious objection, raised by the Talmud itself,
is that a man's merits can hardly be displayed before his birth--and yet
his bride is destined for him at that early period.
Yet more quaint (I should perhaps rather term it consistent, were not
consistency rare enough to be indistinguishable from quaintness) was the
confident belief of a maiden of whom mention is made in the _Sefer
ha-Chasidim_ (par. 384). She refused persistently to deck her person with
ornaments. People said to her, "If you go about thus unadorned, no one will
notice you nor court you." She replied with firm simplicity, "It is the
Holy One, blessed be He, that settles marriages; I need have no concern on
the point myself." Virtue was duly rewarded, for she married a learned and
pious husband. This passage in the "Book of the Pious" reminds me of the
circumstance under which the originator of the latter-day Chasidism, Israel
Baalshem, is said to have married. When he was offered the daughter of a
rich and learned man of Brody, named Abraham, he readily accepted the
alliance, because he knew that Abraham's daughter was his bride destined by
heaven. For, like Moses Mendelssohn, in some other respects the antagonist
of the Chasidim, Baalshem accepted the declaration of Rabbi Judah in the
name of Rab: "Forty days before the creation of a girl, a proclamation
[Bath-Kol] is made in Heaven, saying, 'The daughter of such a one shall
marry such and such a one.'"
The belief in the Divine ordaining of marriages affected the medieval
Synagogue liturgy. To repeat what I have written elsewhere: When the
bridegroom, with a joyous retinue, visited the synagogue on the Sabbath
following his marriage, the congregation chanted the chapter of Genesis
(xxiv) that narrates the story of Isaac's marriage, which, as Abraham's
servant claimed, was providentially arranged. This chapter was sung, not
only in Hebrew, but in Arabic, in countries where the latter language was
the vernacular. These special readings, which were additional to the
regular Scripture lesson, seem to have fallen out of use in Europe in the
seventeenth century, but they are still retained in the East. But all over
Jewry the beautiful old belief is contained in the wording of the fourth of
the "seven benedictions" sung at the celebration of a wedding, "Blessed art
thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who hast made man in thine
image, after thy likeness, and hast prepared unto him out of his very self
a perpetual fabric." Here is recalled the creation of Eve, of whom God
Himself said, "I will make for man a help meet unto him." Not only the
marriage, but also the bride was Heaven-made, and the wonderful wedding
benediction enshrines this idea.
In an Agadic story, the force of this predestination is shown to be too
strong even for royal opposition. It does not follow that the
pre-arrangement of marriages implies that the pair cannot fall in love of
their own accord. On the contrary, just the right two eventually come
together; for once freewill and destiny need present no incompatibility.
The combination, here shadowed, of a predestined and yet true-love
marriage, is effectively illustrated in what follows:
"Solomon the king was blessed with a very beautiful daughter; she was the
fairest maiden in the whole land of Israel. Her father observed the
stars, to discover by astrology who was destined to be her mate in life
and wed her, when lo! he saw that his future son-in-law would be the
poorest man in the nation. Now, what did Solomon do? He built a high
tower by the sea, and surrounded it on all sides with inaccessible walls;
he then took his daughter and placed her in the tower under the charge of
seventy aged guardians. He supplied the castle with provisions, but he
had no door made in it, so that none could enter the fortress without the
knowledge of the guard. Then the king said, 'I will watch in what way God
will work the matter.'
"In course of time, a poor and weary traveller was walking on his way by
night, his garments were ragged and torn, he was barefooted and ready to
faint with hunger, cold, and fatigue. He knew not where to sleep, but,
casting his eyes around him, he beheld the skeleton of an ox lying on a
field hard by. The youth crept inside the skeleton to shelter himself
from the wind, and, while he slept there, down swooped a great bird,
which lifted up the carcass and the unconscious youth in it. The bird
flew with its burden to the top of Solomon's tower, and set it down on
the roof before the very door of the imprisoned princess. She went forth
on the morrow to walk on the roof according to her daily wont, and she
descried the youth. She said to him, 'Who art thou? and who brought thee
hither?' He answered, 'I am a Jew of Acco, and a bird bore me to thee.'
The kind-hearted maiden clothed him in new garments; they bathed and
anointed him, and she saw that he was the handsomest youth in Israel.
They loved one another, and his soul was bound up in hers. One day she
said, 'Wilt thou marry me?' He replied, 'Would it might be so!' They
resolved to marry. But there was no ink with which to write the Kethubah,
or marriage certificate. Love laughs at obstacles. So, using some drops
of his own blood as ink, the marriage was secretly solemnized, and he
said, 'God is my witness to-day, and Michael and Gabriel likewise.' When
the matter leaked out, the dismayed custodians of the princess hastily
summoned Solomon. The king at once obeyed their call, and asked for the
presumptuous youth. He looked at his son-in-law, inquired of him as to
his father and mother, family and dwelling-place, and from his replies
the king recognized him for the selfsame man whom he had seen in the
stars as the destined husband of his daughter. Then Solomon rejoiced with
exceeding joy and exclaimed, Blessed is the Omnipresent who giveth a wife
to man and establisheth him in his house."
The moral of which seems to be that, though marriages are made in Heaven,
love must be made on earth.