Rabbi Isaak Todros' appearance, and also his spiritual development,
perhaps, were expressive characteristics of several centuries of long
sojourn of his ancestors in Spain.
Wandering people, although astonishingly perseverant and conservative
of marks distinguishing them from other nations, still by the
inevitable influence of nature, draw here and there something from
the different skies under which the lot of the exile scattered them.
Among the common characteristics of Israelites, however, there can be
seen great differences. There are among them people but recently
arrived from the South and West, and again there are others over
whose head a pale sky has stretched and a cold wind has blown for
centuries. There are among them phlegmatic natures, and also ardent
mystical ones, and others redolent of reality. Some of them have hair
black as the darkest raven wing--others have eyes the colour of the
sky. There are among them white and also swarthy foreheads; strong,
hardy natures, and others nervous, quivering with passion, imbued
with dreaming, and consumed with fanciful ideals.
The swarthiest among the swarthy faces, the darkest of dark hair, the
most passionate among the fiery spirits belonged to Isaak Todros.
What precise position did he occupy in the community, and on what was
it based? He was not a priest; rabbis are not priests, and perhaps
there is no other nation, as distant by its nature from theocratic
government as are the Israelites. Neither was he the administrator of
the community, because the members of the kahal took charge of its
civil affairs; rabbis, while being members of the kahal, possessed
only the role of warden of religion in respect to its rules and
rites. He possessed a dignity higher than that, however. He was the
descendant of an old princely house and among his ancestors he
counted many scholars, pious and revered rabbis, and he was perfectly
pious himself--consequently cadek and hahamen, ascetic, almost a
miracle-worker, and a deeply, supernaturally learned man. Of course,
saying that he was a learned man refers only to religious erudition,
but in the eyes of the community of Szybow this was the only
learning.
This scholarship embraced the incomparable knowledge of sacred books;
Torah or the Bible, as little as possible--more of the Talmud, and
most of Kabala.
Isaak Todros was the most able Kabalist of modern times, and it
constituted the corner-stone upon which was built his greatness.
Someone not familiar with the faith of the plebeian Israelites would
suppose that the population of Szybow was a branch of a numerous
gloomy sect of Hassid, which puts at the head of all religious and
secular learning, the Kabala. No; the inhabitants of Szybow did not
consider themselves heretics. On the contrary, they were proud of
being orthodox Talmudists and Rabbinists. But they belonged to those,
numerous in the lowest stratum of Talmudists, who joined Kabala to
the Torah and Talmud, recognised it as a holy book, and became
passionately fond of it, setting it in the shadow of the two first
books.
And then Hassidism touched the Hebrew population of Szybow and left
deep traces. In fact the greater part of the population was Hassidish
without knowing it. Tradition said that Isaak Todros' ancestor, that
Reb Nohim who had waged a battle of ideas with Hersh Ezofowich, was
for some time a pupil of Besht, the founder of that curious sect. He
saw him often, and although he did not join the sect entirely, he
grafted some of its ideas into the community of which he was the
spiritual leader.
The principal characteristics of the sect were: a boundless respect
for Kabala, an almost idolatrous worship of Cadeks and a deep, pious
and unshakeable aversion toward Edomites (foreign nations) and their
lores.
These principles multiplied and branched out under the teaching of
Nohim's son, Baruch, and his grandson Isaak seized the dignity held
by his ancestors during the period of their rule. Therefore the
religion of the inhabitants was neither Mosaism, nor Talmudism, nor
Hassidism, but it was a chaotic mixture of all three which prevailed
for the space of a number of miles around Szybow, and the highest
expression of which was found in the person of the Rabbi of Szybow.
Rabbi Isaak had a swarthy forehead, furrowed deeply by lines of
strained thought in trying to penetrate the mystery of Heaven and
earth by a combination of letters, composed of the name of God and
the Angels. Therefore in his coal-black eyes were gloomy lights which
sometimes became ecstatic when they contemplated the incomparable
delights of the supernatural world. His back was bent from the
continual reading of books, arid his hand shook with excitement
caused by the perpetual state of emotion in which his mind was kept;
his body was thin from spiritual torments and physical mortifications.
Celibacy, fasting and sleepless nights were written in the dark face
of the man, as well as his mystical ecstasies, secret dread and
merciless hatred of everyone who lived, believed and desired
differently from himself.
When he was young he had married--or rather they had married
him--before the slightest sign of a beard had appeared on his cheeks,
but he soon divorced his wife, because, by her continual bustling
activity she troubled his pious thought and spiritual raptures. His
three children were brought up in his brother's house, and he himself
lived the life of an anchorite in the little cabin--a life of fancy
strained to the utmost, of passionate prayers and unfathomable mystic
contemplations. Such was his spiritual life.
His physical life was sustained by gifts sent him by his zealous
admirers. But those gifts were small and common. Rabbi Isaak did not
accept great and costly presents--he even refused to accept
remuneration for the advice, medicines and prophecies which he gave
to the faithful who came to him.
But every day before sunrise some bashful figures glided through the
school-yard, and placed on the wooden bench standing near the window
of the house some earthen dishes with food--slices of bread or
holiday cake.
At that time the Rabbi usually recited his morning prayers, for it
was that moment at which white could be distinguished from blue,
which is the time that every faithful Israelite should recite the
morning Tefils and Shems.
Then he opened his window and contemplated the pink glow of the dawn.
In one direction was the far Orient, Jerusalem, the invisible ruins
of Solomon's Temple, Palestine weeping for her sons and the withering
palms of Zion.
Sometimes the fire shining in the Rabbi's eyes was quenched by a
tear, cooling his cheeks which burned with the heat of interior
fires. Sometimes they were cooled also by the cold winds and misty
fogs, but Isaak Todros looked every morning through the mists and
fogs, toward the Orient. Then he bent and took from the bench the
food prepared for him by pious hands. He did not eat it alone. He
broke the bread and cake into crumbs and threw it in handfuls to the
birds which came to his window in great flocks. Some of them seized
the food and carried it to their nests, chirping joyfully. Others
after having eaten enough flew in through the window and perched on
the bent shoulders of their friend. Then the Rabbi's dark face grew a
little less dark, and sometimes--though very seldom--a smile played
about his close shut lips. He was very well known, not only to the
birds living in the town, but also to those who filled the birch
grove.
Isaak Todros often went to the grove, and sometimes penetrated the
neighbouring pine forest. What did he do there? He fed the birds,
who, on seeing him, immediately flew to him, and accompanied him in
his walk. Sometimes he prayed in a loud voice, raising his trembling
hands, and awakening by the sounds of his passionate cries the choir
of wood echoes. He also gathered different herbs and plants, which he
brought in great bunches to his hut. These plants possessed curative
properties, whose knowledge was a heritage in the Todros family. All
the members of this family belonged to that class of primitive
physicians with which the Middle Ages was filled, and who learned
their art of healing not from academies, but from wild nature,
studied more with fantastical inquiring, than with learned thought.
One of Isaak Todros' ancestors was, however, a very learned physician
in Spain at the time when there was a short interval in prosperity in
the bad fortunes of the Hebrew nation, and they were permitted to
draw with the other nations all possible good from every source.
However, the interval was but a short one, and after it the
world-famous and really scholarly Hebrew physicians disappeared from
the world; but one, by the name of Todros Halevi, transmitted his
knowledge to his sons, and so it passed from generation to
generation.
Isaak Todros searched for diligently, and gathered carefully, these
precious plants of the ancient knowledge and traditions of his
family. He carried them with him, and laid them on the dirty floor of
his cabin in order to dry them.
On this account the air of his cabin was saturated during the summer
and fall with the pungent, choking scent of drying herbs and wild
flowers.
His cell was a vivid reminder of the bare cells of anchorites and
hermits. Its only furniture consisted of a hard bed, a white table,
standing near one of the windows, a couple of chairs, and a few
planks fastened to the wall piled up with books. Among these books
were twelve enormous volumes bound in parchment. They constituted the
Talmud. There were also the "Ozarha-Kabod," a work written by one of
Isaak's ancestors--that Todros Halevi who was the first Talmudist to
believe in the Kabala; "Toldot-Adam," an epic poem, telling the
history of the first man and his exile; "Sefer-Jezira," (Book of
Creation), telling by pictures of the origin of the world; "Ka-arat
Kezef," in which Ezobi warns the Israelites against the pernicious
influence of secular science; "Schiur-Koma," a plastic description of
God, instructing the reader regarding his physical appearance--the
gigantic size of the head, feet, hands, and especially God's beard,
which, according to the book, is ten thousand five hundred parasangs
long. But the place of honour was occupied by a book showing much
thumbing. It was the Book of Light--Zohar--the greatest, and, at the
same time, the deepest dissertation on Hohma-Nistar (Kabala), which
was published in the thirteenth century by Moses Leon, in the name of
Symeon-ben-Jochai, who lived several centuries before.
Such was the library of Isaak Todros, in the reading of which he
spent his nights, drawing from it all his learning and wisdom,
consuming in its perusal all the forces of his body. From that
library emanated an odour which intoxicated his mind with mystical
emotions and the bitter, sharp venom of aversion to everything which
was a stranger to, or bore ill-will to the world, shut up in those
books, filled with supernatural lights and shadows. In reading them,
he exhausted many hours a week--even holy days and nights. But
through the holy nights there sat at his feet his pupil and
favourite, Reb Moshe, the melamed, who snuffed the yellow candle, for
a pious man reading Holy Books during holy nights was not permitted
to snuff the candle, and he must have beside him some attentive
person to perform this office.
During the holy nights the Rabbi read Schiur-Koma and Zohar, and the
little man, sitting beside him, raised himself from time to time in
his low chair, reviving the flame of the dying candle, and with his
round eyes looking into the face of his master, waiting for the
moment when his hand would arrange a word from the names of God,
Notarikon and Gomatria, which would perform great miracles, and
disclose to the people all the secrets of the heavens and of the
earth.
Returning home after sunset one day with a big bunch of herbs, Isaak
Todros found his faithful worshipper seated in a corner of the dark
hall, plunged in deep thought.
"Moshe," said the Rabbi, passing swiftly and quietly through the
hall.
"What is your order, Nassi?" humbly asked Moshe.
"Go at once to old Saul, and tell him that Rabbi Isaak Todros will
visit his house to-morrow."
The cramped, gray figure in the dark corner jumped as though moved by
a spring, and rushed across the square to the house of Saul. Passing
quickly the piazza and long hall, the melamed opened the door, and,
thrusting his head into the room, he exclaimed triumphantly:
"Reb Saul, a great honour and happiness is coming to you! Rabbi Isaak
Todros, the perfect pious, and the first scholar in the world, will
visit your house to-morrow!"
From the depths of the large parlour the voice of the old merchant,
dried by age, but still strong, answered:
"I, Saul Ezofowich, my children, grandchildren and
great-grandchildren will await Rabbi Isaak's visit with great joy and
great desire in our hearts. May he live a hundred years!"
"May he live a hundred years!" repeated the dark figure, and
disappeared.
The door was closed. Old Saul was sitting on the sofa, reading from
Zohar, but he could not understand its deep explanations in spite of
the utmost mental strain, for his mind was accustomed to secular
business affairs. Suddenly his wrinkled forehead became gloomy and
uneasiness shone in his eyes. He turned to his elder son, Raphael,
who sat at a table near by, balancing his books, and asked:
"Why is he coming here?"
Raphael shrugged his shoulders, as a sign that he did not know.
"Has he any reason for picking a quarrel?" asked the old man again.
Raphael, raising his face from his books, said:
"He has."
Saul shivered.
"Nu!" he exclaimed, "And what reason can he have? Has someone of the
family sinned?"
Raphael answered shortly:
"Meir."
The faces of both father and son grew sad and disquieted. Isaak
Todros visited the members of the sect very seldom--only when there
was a question of some important religious matter or transgression of
rules. And even such rare calls were only paid to the most prominent
and influential members of the community. Poor people surrounded the
Rabbi's cabin, ready to rush in at a sign from him in inexpressible
joy or fear.
Rabbi Isaak Todros was an ascetic and he despised mammon, but he did
not reject all possible signs of respect the people desired to show
him, and they who were familiar with his thoughts and sentiments knew
that he was very fond of these signs, and would even demand them
imperiously in case anyone thought to dispense with or diminish them.
For that reason all the poor population, and everyone who wished to
win his special favour, called him "Prince," addressing him as
"Nassi." Therefore his passage through the town on all occasions was
an important and curious event for the population, and was performed
with quiet, dignified ceremony. A couple of hours before noon Saul
Ezofowich, standing before the window of his parlour, looked with a
certain amount of trouble at the retinue passing slowly across the
square. All the members of his family, robed in holiday dresses, with
a solemn expression on their faces, looked also, holding themselves
in readiness to welcome this high dignitary of the community at the
threshold of their residence. Through the square, from the school, a
throng of people dressed in black advanced toward the house of the
Ezofowich. In the middle, bent as always, in shabby clothes, with his
rough shirt unbuttoned showing the yellow neck, marched Isaak Todros,
with his usual swift, noiseless quiet pace.
On either side was an official of the Kahal--the small, lithe Reb
Jankiel, with his white, freckled face and fiery red beard, and David
Calman, one of the dignitaries of the town. Morejne, a rich cattle
merchant, tall, stiff, and dignified, with hands in the pockets of
his satin halat and a sweet smile of satisfaction on his fat lips,
walked near. Behind these three people, and on both sides, were
several others more or less humble and smiling. The whole crowd was
preceded by Reb Moshe, in such a way that he faced the Rabbi and had
his back in the direction in which they walked. Consequently he could
not be said to walk, but draw back, in the meantime jumping and
clapping his hands, bending low to the ground, stumbling, and jumping
again, raising his face to the sky and shouting for joy. Finally, a
certain distance behind, a throng of children followed them and
looked with great curiosity at the retinue, and on seeing the
melamed's jumping and dancing, they began to imitate him, jumping and
gesticulating also and filling the air with wild noise.
After a while the door of the Ezofowich house was violently opened
and through it rushed the melamed--he was red, out of breath, bathed
in perspiration and beaming with great joy. He rejoiced heartily,
loudly, passionately. What for? Poor melamed!
"Reb Saul!" he said with a hoarse voice, "meet the great happiness
the great honour coming to you."
From Saul's face it would be seen that a secret fear was fighting
with the great joy within him. But his family evidently rejoiced
exceedingly, for their faces beamed with pride and satisfaction
except Ber, who was always silent and apathetic if the question was
not one of business and money. Old Saul stood near the threshold of
the parlour. On the piazza Rob Jankiel and Morejne Calman seized the
Rabbi under either arm, lifted his thin body above the ground, and
having carried him through the hall and over the threshold they
placed him opposite Saul. Then they bowed profoundly, left the house,
sat on the piazza waiting for the moment to reconduct the Rabbi.
In the meanwhile Saul bent before the guest his grave and reverent
head. Everyone present followed his example.
"He who greets a sage greets the Eternal," said he.
"He who greets a sage . . ." the choir of male and female voices
began to repeat after Saul, but at that moment Isaak Todros raised
his index finger, looked around with his fiery eyes, and said:
"Sh-a-a-a!"
In the room there was the silence of the tomb.
The finger of the guest made a large circle, taking in the row of
people standing near the wall.
"Weg!" (get out) shouted he.
Within the room the rustling of dresses and the sound of swift steps
were heard; faces grew frightened and sorrowful, and crowding
together the inmates squeezed through the door leading to the
interior of the house, and disappeared.
In the larger room only two men remained--the silver-haired,
broad-shouldered patriarch, and the thin, fiery-looking sage.
When the Rabbi imperatively drove out his host's family--the
gray-headed sons, dignified matrons, and beautiful girls, Saul's gray
eyebrows quivered and bristled for a moment. Evidently his pride rose
within him.
"Rabbi," said he, in a muffled voice, and with a bow that was not as
low as the first one, "deign to take under my roof the place you
think the most comfortable."
He did not call his guest "prince"; he did not give him the name of
Nassi.
Rabbi Isaak looked t him gloomily, crossed the room, and sat on the
sofa. At that moment he was not bent; on the contrary, he sat bolt
upright, looking sharply into the face of the old man who sat
opposite to him.
"I have driven them out," said he, pointing to the door through which
the patriarch's family had made their exit. "Why did you gather them?
I wished to talk with you alone."
Saul was silent.
"I bring you news," again said the Rabbi quickly and gloomily. "Your
grandson Meir has not a clean soul. He is a kofrim (infidel)."
Saul still sat silent, only his frowning brows quivered nervously
above his faded eyes.
"He is a kofrim!" the Rabbi repeated loudly. "He speaks ugly words of
our religion, and he does not respect the sages. He violates the
Sabbath, and is friendly with the heretics."
"Rabbi!" began Saul.
"You must listen when I speak," interrupted the Rabbi.
The old man tightened his lips so that they disappeared under his
gray moustache.
"I came to tell you," continued Todros, "that it's your fault that
your grandson is bad. Why did you not permit the melamed to whip him
when he was in the heder, and did not want to study German, and
laughed at the melamed, and instigated the others to laugh at him?
Why did you send him to Edomita, living there among the gardens to
make him study the reading of the Gojs and also their writing and the
other abominations of the Edomites? Why did you not punish him when
he violated the Sabbath, and contradicted the melamed at your table?
Why did you spoil his soul with your sinful love? Why don't you force
him to study holy science? And why do you look on all his
abominations as though you were a blind man?"
This vehement speech tired the Rabbi, and panting, he rested.
Then old Saul began to talk:
"Rabbi, your soul must not be angry with me. I could not act
otherwise. This child is the son of my son--the youngest among my
children, and who disappeared very quickly from my eyes. When his
parents died I took this child to my home, and I wished that he might
never remember that he was an orphan. I was then already a widower,
and I carried him in my own arms. His old great-grandmother took care
of him also, and she would give her soul for the happiness of his
soul. In her crown he is the first jewel, and now her old mouth opens
only for him. These are, Rabbi, the reasons why I have been more
indulgent with him than with my other children; these are the reasons
why my soul was ill when the melamed scolded and whipped him in the
heder, as the other children. I sinned then. I rushed into the heder
like a madman, spoke ugly words to the melamed, and took the boy away
with me. Rabbi, I sinned, because the melamed is a wise and saintly
man; but this sin will disappear from your mind, Rabbi, if you will
but think that I could not bear to look at the bruises on the body of
the son of my son. When such bruises appeared on the bodies of the
children of my son Raphael, and my son Abraham, and my son Ephraim, I
was silent, for their fathers were living--thanks be to God!--and
could look after their children. But when I saw the black-and-blue
marks on the back and shoulders of the orphan, Rabbi, then I
cried--then I shouted, and I sinned."
"That is not your only sin," said the Rabbi, who listened to Saul's
speech with the motionless severity of a judge, "and why did you send
him to Edomit?"
"Rabbi," answered Saul, "and how could he go through the world if he
did not understand the tongue of the people of this country, and
could not write his name to a contract or a note? Rabbi, my sons and
grandsons conduct large business transactions, and he will do the
same when he is married. His father's wealth belongs to him. He will
be rich and will have to talk with great lords, and how could he so
talk if I had not sent him to study with an Edomit?"
"May Edom perish with his abominable learning, and may the Lord not
forgive him!" grumbled the Rabbi, and after a while he added: "and
why did you not make of him a scholar instead of a merchant?"
"Rabbi," answered Saul, "the Ezofowich family is a family of
merchants. We are merchants from father to son--that is our custom."
Saying this, he raised his bent head. The mention of his family
caused him to grow proud and bold. But nothing could be compared with
the disdain with which, repeating after Saul, the Rabbi hissed:
"The Ezofowich family! It was always a grain of pepper in Israel's
palate!"
Saul raised his head higher.
"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "in that family there were diamonds which
caused the Edomites themselves, in looking on them, to respect the
whole of Israel."
The ancient hatred between the Ezofowichs and Todros began to bubble
up.
"In your family," spoke the Rabbi, "there is one ugly soul which
passes from one Ezofowich to another, and cannot be cleansed. For it
is written that all souls which flow from the Seraphim flow like
drops of water from an inclined bottle, carrying Ibur-Gilgul--travel
through bodies, from one to another, until they are cleansed from all
sin, when they return to the Seraphim. If a man is pious and saintly
his soul returns to the Seraphim, and when the soul returns there
another soul goes into the world and enters a body. Misery and
sadness, sorrow and sin will dwell upon the earth as long as all
souls taken from the Seraphim have not fulfilled the Ibur-Gilgul and
pass through the bodies. And how will they be able to pass all the
bodies if on the earth there are many which are abominable, unclean,
and do not respect the holy teachings? These unwholesome ones keep
the souls in their bodies, and there above the other souls are
waiting. And they must wait, because there are not as many bodies in
the world as there are souls among the Seraphim. And the Messiah
himself is waiting, because he will not come until the last soul
enters the body and Ibur-Gilgul begins. These abominable ones,
occupying one body after another, do not permit the waiting souls to
enter in, and postponing to a remote period the Jobelha-Gabel, the
day of the Messiah,--the great festival of joy! In your family there
is such an abominable soul. It entered first into the body of Michael
the Senior, then it entered Hersh's body, and now it sits in the body
of your grandson Meir! I recognised the proud and rebellious soul in
his eyes and face, therefore my heart turned from him!"
While Todros explained to the old man sitting opposite him this
doctrine of the migration of souls, and its consequences, in the old
man a striking change took placer Before he had grown bolder, and
even raised his head with a certain pride and dignity. Now he bent it
low, and sorrow and fear appeared among the wrinkles of his face.
"Rabbi!" said he humbly, "be blessed for having disclosed to my eyes
your holy learning. Your words are true and your eyes can recognise
the souls which dwell in bodies. Rabbi, I will tell you something.
When my son Raphael brought little Meir, I took the child and began
to kiss him, for it seemed to me that he looked like my son Benjamin,
his father; but the old great-grandmother took him from me, put him
opposite her on the floor and began to look at him very attentively,
and then she exclaimed: 'He does not look like Benjamin, but like my
Hersh!' The tears flowed from her old eyes and her lips repeated:
'Hersh, Hersh! my Hersh!' and she pressed the child to her boom and
said: 'He is my dearest Kleineskind! He is the eyes of my head and
the diamond in my crown, made for me by my grandsons and
great-grandson, for he looks like my Hersh.' And she is fond of him.
Now she knows only him and calls him to her because he looks like her
husband, Hersh."
"Michael's soul entered Hersh's body, and from his body it passed
into your grandsons Meir's," repeated the Rabbi, and added: "It's a
proud rebellious soul! There is no peace and humility in it."
It seemed that Todros was softened by Saul's submissiveness, and the
respect shown in his words.
"Why don't you marry him? He has already long hair on his face," said
the Rabbi.
"Rabbi, I wished to marry him to the daughter of the pious Jankiel,
but the child lay at my feet and begged me not to force him."
"Why then did you not put your feet on his back, and make him obey
you?"
Saul dropped his eyes and was silent. He felt that he was guilty.
Love for the orphan made him sin always.
Todros spoke further:
"Marry him as soon as you can, because it is written that when on a
young man's face the hair is growing, and he has not a wife, then he
will fall into uncleanliness. Your grandson's soul has already fallen
into uncleanliness. Yesterday I saw him with a girl--"
Saul raised his eyes.
"I saw him," continued the Rabbi, "talking with Karaim's girl."
"Karaim's girl?" repeated Saul, in a voice full of surprise and
fright.
"He was standing on the edge of the pond and took from her hand some
flowers, and I read in their faces that the unclean fire was
embracing them."
"With Karaim's girl," repeated Saul once more.
"With a heretic!" said the Rabbi.
"With a beggar!" said Saul energetically, raising his head.
"Rabbi," continued he, "now I will act differently with him! I don't
wish to have shame eat up my eyes in my old age, because my grandson
has an unclean friendship with a beggar. I shall marry him!"
"You must punish him," said the Rabbi, "I came here to tell you to
put your foot on his neck and bend his pride. Don't spare him, for
your indulgence will be a sin which the Lord will not forgive you.
And if you will not punish him, I will lay my hand on his head and
there will be great shame for you, and for him such misfortune that
he will grovel in the dirt, like a miserable worm!"
Under the influence of these words, pronounced in a threatening
voice, Saul trembled. Different emotions fought continually within
the old man; a secret hatred for Todros and a great respect for his
learning, pride and fear, fierce anger toward his grandson and tender
love for him. The Rabbi's threat touched that last chord.
"Rabbi," he said, "forgive him. He is still a mere child. When he is
married and starts in business he will be different. When he was born
his father wrote to me: 'Father, what name do you wish your grandson
to be given?' and I answered, 'Give him the name of Meir, which means
light, that it may be a light before me and all Israel!'"
Here emotion choked his voice and he was silent. Two tears rolled
slowly down his cheeks.
The Rabbi rose from the sofa, lifted his index finger and said:
"You must remember my commands. I order you to set your foot on his
neck, and you must listen to my orders, because it is written that
'the sages are the world's foundation.'"
Having said this, he advanced toward the door, at which Reb Jankiel
and Morejne Calman seized him again, and carried him through the hall
and across the threshold and set him on the ground.
And again the black throng of people advanced through the square
toward the school-yard; again the melamed, retreating before the
Rabbi, jumped, clapped his hands, danced and shouted; and again the
crowd of children, following the retinue at a distance, imitated
their teacher, jumping, howling, Clapping their hands. And in
Ezofowich's parlour old Saul sat with his face covered with his
hands, while at the opposite door Freida appeared. The sun rays,
falling through the window, kindled into rainbow colours the diamonds
with which she was covered. She looked around the room with her
half-closed eyes, and pronounced, in her customary soundless whisper:
"Wo ist Meir?"