Eli Witebski possessed in his mind and character many
diplomatic qualities. He was neither born nor brought up in Szybow,
as were without exception all the inhabitants of the town; but three
years ago had settled there on account of business matters as well as
for various family reasons. Among the population who lived there for
generations he was therefore almost a stranger, and in addition to
that, having spent his whole life in a large city, he brought with
him many new customs which astonished and shocked the ultra-conservative
inhabitants of this lost corner of the world. Among these differences were
the different cut and material of his clothing, the wearing of the
diamond ring, the rejection of the skull cap on his head, the short
clipping of his beard, and the absolute lack in his house of Talmudistic
and Kabalistic books, and, principally, the possession of such a wife
as Pani Hannah, of a daughter who was studying somewhere in a
boarding school, and besides this daughter Mera, only two more
children. These innovations, never seen nor heard of before, should
have been the cause of drawing on the elegant merchant a general
dislike of the population of Szybow. But they did not. It is true that
at first so-and-so whispered to so-and-so that he was a misnagdim,
progressive and indifferent in matters of religion. But these suspicious
notions soon disappeared, stopped chiefly by Eli's extraordinary
affability, amiability, and the power of adapting himself to any
and all circumstances. Always good-natured smiling, and serene,
he never argued with anybody, stood out of the way for everybody,
affirmed nothing, avoided quarrels in order not to be obliged to
take sides with the participants and thus offend the other, and
when he could not avoid so doing, spoke so sweetly and convincingly
that the antagonists, enraptured with his eloquence, became
reconciled, bearing in their hearts gratitude and admiration for him,
and speaking of him with enthusiasm. Ein kluger Mensch! As to rites
and religious rules, Witebski proved to be perfectly orthodox. He
observed the Sabbath, and kept kosher house with the minutest
punctuality. Every time he met the great Rabbi he bowed very low,
and he as no other before could make bright the eyes of the learned
man, by telling him merry stories--taken no one knew whence, and
he always told them in such a way that they possessed something
of a mystic and patriotic character, and pleased even the most
severely religious listeners. He did not spend much time at home,
but continually travelled for business purposes, but every time
he was seen in Szybow he was seen in the Bet-ha-Midrash, listening
with due respect to the learned preaching of Rabbi Todros, or smiling
when numbers of old and young scholars of the community passionately
discussed Pilpul, or spoke of different commentaries, or commentaries
on commentaries, with which twenty-five hundred printed sheets of
Helaha, Hagada and Gemara were filled. He was also always to be seen
in the synagogue, whenever there was occasion for a general
attendance, and although he could not be counted among the most
zealously praying ones, nor the most vehemently swaying ones, his
attitude and the expression of his face were perfectly decent.
But it must not be thought that Witebski was a hypocrite; not at
all--he was sincerely fond of peace and good understanding, and did
not wish them disturbed for himself nor for others. He was successful
in life; he felt happy and satisfied, and consequently he loved
everybody, and it was a matter of absolute indifference to him
whether the man with whom he had to deal was a Talmudist, a Kabalist,
Hassyd, orthodox, heretic, or even Edomit, provided he was not
obnoxious to him. He learned of the Edomits for the first time in his
life when he came to Szybow, for in the circle in which he lived
Christians were called gojem and that only seldom, and under the
influence of exceptional sentiments of anger or offence. But when he
came to Szybow and learned of the Edomits, he thought, "Let them be
Edomits!" and from that time he spoke of Christians by that name when
in conversation with the inhabitants of Szybow. But in the use of
that name he felt not the slightest hatred nor even dislike. Until
now the Edomits had done him no wrong--then why should he dislike
them? Outside of Szybow he was friendly with them--he was even very
fond of them--but in Szybow he did as everyone else did. He had
received his religious education when he was young, but he afterward
forgot everything amidst entirely secular occupations and cares. He
believed in Jehovah and worshipped him profoundly; he knew the
history of Moses and also something about the Babylonian captivity
and the later history of the Jewish people, but he did not know much
of the deeper meaning of these things. In the main be did not care
what Tanait or some Rabbi said or commanded. But he did not
contradict anything either by word or deed--not even by thought. He
did everything that was commanded, thinking to himself: "There is no
harm in it. Maybe it's only a human invention, but again it may be
God's command--why should I anger Him against me." Thus, acting
diplomatically with the people and with God, he was not afraid of
anything, and he was happy. He would have been completely happy if he
had not brought with him to Szybow that greatest and, for the
inhabitants of Szybow, most astonishing novelty, his wife Hannah. In
the same degree that it was his object while living in the small town
to act as did everyone else there, it was the greatest desire of Pani
Hannah to act differently from everyone else. When they had lived in
a large city there was celestial harmony between them based on mutual
attachment and similarity of taste. Here, however, Pani Hannah became
to her husband the cause of perpetual embarrassment and occasional
fear.
Pani Hannah was in love with civilisation, which for her assumed the
form of beautiful dresses, her own hair on her head, elegantly
furnished rooms, polite relations with her fellow-men, the French
language and music. Music was her craze. When they dwelt in a large
city she went to the public gardens to listen to it, where, walking
with her friends, clad in a rustling silk gown and plumed bat, gazing
at handsome men and chatting with amiable women, she felt perfectly
happy, and still more proud of her social position. Certain products of
civilisation especially caused her rapture. Once, perceiving in a public
garden a fountain, she admired it for a couple of hours with inexpressible
delight, and on returning to her city, which did not possess a fountain,
she talked to her friends during the whole year of that beautiful
phenomenon. She was also very fond of mirrors, and when she found
herself opposite a large mirror she could not tear her eyes away from it,
and especially from the reflected image of herself, which she found
very handsome, with her big golden earrings, a hat with flowers on it,
and a charming gown. As for religion, she knew still less about it than
her husband. She believed in God, and at the bottom of her heart she
was even very much afraid of Him, and she believed also in the devil,
fearing him even more than God. She also believed that a person who
did not see his shadow on a holiday night would die within a year, and
even that a person who moved a candle on the Sabbath table would
meet with a great misfortune. On the other hand, however, she did not
believe many similar things--calling them superstitions. Being a good
housekeeper, she acknowledged in the depths of her soul that it would
be better if the Jews ate the same meat as the Christians, both because
it would be a great deal cheaper, and because there would not be the
need in the household of having so many kitchen dishes, which every
orthodox household must have in order to keep the food properly
kosher. As for the woven stuffs containing a mixture of wool and flax,
Pani Hannah closed her eyes and ears to all interdictions, and used
them without hesitation, because they were pretty and cheap. When
she came to Szybow she was perfectly horrified. There was not one
sign of civilisation--no public garden no music, no fountain, not even
the shadow of beautiful women and handsome men chatting amiably,
no echo of the French language. Good Heavens! Pani Hannah betook
herself to bed, and buried herself in feather bolsters for two whole
days and nights, lamenting and screaming that she could not stand it,
that she would die and make orphans of her children. She did not die,
however. She left the bed, because it was necessary to unpack things,
to look after the household and dress the children prettily so that when
they went into the streets they should astonish by their beauty and fine
clothes that--as Pani Hannah expressed it, with a gesture of
contempt--"rabble." The children were dressed, went out, and in truth
they did astonish everyone. It was the first consolation which the
unhappy exile from civilisation received in her place of banishment.
Then came other similar consolations. Pani Hannah tried to amaze in
everything she was able--dresses, furniture, manners, speech--and in
doing so, she felt extremely happy. In the main, perhaps she was
happier than in a large city. There she only looked on civilisation
and its products and was proud of being one particle of it. Here she
was civilisation itself--the whole sum of the civilisation existing
in Szybow.
This love for amazing the people which, after the care of the
children and the household, was the first occupation of Pani Hannah's
mind, and the source of her greatest happiness caused her husband
considerable uneasiness and fear. In the beginning he had heard some
murmurs that he was a misnagdim be learned that the popular
indignation had been aroused against his wife for wearing woven stuff
of mixed flax and wool, and for using a samovar on Sabbath, and for
saying that; "Szybow was not on the earth, but under it." When he
learned of all these things he quaked with fear, and began to war
with his better-half about the stuff of flax and wool, about the use
of the samovar on the Sabbath, and about the situation of Szybow. His
better-half fought for a long time, but the diplomatic husband was
finally victorious regarding the samovar and the stuff. But he could
do nothing regarding the situation of Szybow, because Pani Hannah
could not but respect the place where she herself lived, in spite of
all efforts of her will. Even if she was silent, her disdainfully
half-closed eyes, her proudly smiling mouth, always elaborate dress,
and her manners full of such exquisite courtesy, made it impossible
to find anyone in the whole world more civil than she was, all that
was protesting. In the main, Pani Hannah was perfectly happy with her
meek, though at times decided husband, with pretty, always
beautifully dressed children, and with the sentiment always in her
soul that she was superior to everything surrounding her. She had
only one great sorrow, and that; was the thought that she would never
be able to amaze the inhabitants of Szybow by wearing her own hair;
in the first place, because it was too late to make it grow now, and
then Eli would never permit such a public scandal. Therefore she was
obliged to wear a very pretty wig on her sorrowful head, and she
consoled herself with the thought that the occasion of her daughter
Mera's return from Wilno would be her greatest triumph. Eli was very
uneasy about this, for he feared that he would be accused of being
quite different from all the fathers in Szybow. As for Pani Hannah,
she was beside herself with joy at the thought that she would be
considered a quite different mother from all the other mothers in
Szybow.
Finally it was accomplished. In a month after Eli's conversation with
Saul there were assembled in Witebski's parlour five persons--two men
and three women. And it was not a common parlour! it was ornamented
with a sofa, having springs and upholstered in green rep--the only
sofa of its kind in Szybow--several armchairs to match it, and a
piano. It is true, it was not very new. In several places the varnish
had been rubbed off, and the narrowness of the keys and the
yellowness of the ivory betrayed its great antiquity. In fact, it was
the only piano in the whole of Szybow. When a year ago it had been
bought for the exclusive use of Mera, it caused a small revolution in
the town and Pani Hannah's heart filled with joy and great pride.
This parlour was also not lacking in lace curtains and several
jardinieres in which grew several--to tell the truth--very ugly and
badly kept cacti and geraniums. But it happened that a year ago one
of the cacti had by some accident bloomed. Pani Hannah immediately
placed it in the window looking on the street, and all the children
in town came to her house to look at the red flower.
So, then, on the green sofa with springs, sat Pani Hannah and her
sister, the wife of a merchant in Wilno, in whose house Mera had
boarded during her three years of study at the college. She escorted
her niece home personally, bringing with her, in the meanwhile, her
son Leopold. Her figure was imposingly like Pani Hannah's. She wore a
velvet mantilla, much gold jewellery and her own hair. On either side
of the table which stood opposite the sofa, sat the host and Pani
Hannah's young nephew Leopold. Mera, a pretty girl, with yellow hair
and pale complexion, was hovering about the piano, wishing to touch
the keys as soon as possible, and fill the whole house with merry
music, but not daring to because it was Sabbath.
Mera knew that it was forbidden to play any musical instrument on
Sabbath, but she would not have minded such prohibition had it not
been for the glance of her father which followed her and warned her
against committing a sin. Neither was it allowed to smoke on the
Sabbath, but Leopold, a good-looking, slender youth of about twenty
years, sat in the armchair in a very careless position smoking a
cigarette, from which thin threads of smoke arose and floated through
the open window; Eli rose and shut the window. On Leopold's lips a
disdainful smile appeared, Mera shrugged her shoulders, and Pani
Hannah blushed with shame.
On a table, on a silver tray, were different dainties prepared from
honey--gingerbread, made with honey and poppy-seeds, sweet wine, and
various other things. Pani Hannah served her guests with these
tit-bits, which completed the dinner, composed of fish cooked the day
before, and a cake also baked the day before. But her sister, the
wife of the merchant from Wilno, was busy with something quite
different from eating sweetmeats. With great admiration she was
looking at the beautiful and precious brooches, rings, bracelets, and
earrings, shining in their satin boxes. All these jewels were
presents of betrothal sent by Saul, in Meir's name, to Mera,
immediately following her home-coming. For two days the mother and
aunt of the betrothed girl had been looking at them, and they were
not yet satisfied. But Leopold's mother was sorry that her son had
brought to Lija, his promised wife, presents which were a great deal
more modest than those received by Mera from Meir.
"Nu! She is a lucky girl!" she said, tossing her head. "God-gives her
true happiness. Such presents! Such nice people. But why does he not
come here?" she asked her sister.
"Iii!" exclaimed Pani Hannah, with a disdainful smile, "they are
common people. It is not customary that the bridegroom should visit
his fiancee!"
"He is young," said Eli, "he is bashful." At that moment Mera sat
down by the table, and leaning her head on her hand became sadly
thoughtful. Leopold, on the contrary, laughed loudly.
"To be sure, I will not send my presents of betrothal before I have
seen the girl," he said.
"Nu, you shall see her," said his mother. "We are all going to pay
them a visit."
"What kind of a girl is she?" asked Pani Hannah's sister.
"Iii!" answered Pani Hannah, as before, "she is a common girl."
"Her father, Raphael, gives her fifteen thousand roubles as dowry,"
said Eli.
Leopold frowned.
"That's not much," he said. "I cannot live on fifteen thousand."
"You will start some business," remarked the merchant.
But the mother of the good looking boy turned angrily to her
brother-in-law.
"Business!" she exclaimed, "he is not brought up for business! Did we
give him a fine education for business? He was through five classes
in the gymnasium (college) and he is now an official. It is true that
he has as yet only a small salary, but who knows what may happen! He
may be appointed to a governorship! Who can tell?"
Leopold raised his eyebrows significantly, indicating that he was
satisfied at having been born for such honours and that he did not
object to the likelihood of receiving a governorship.
Eli nodded and said nothing. "It does not matter," he thought, "that
they talk nonsense. Let them talk!" At that moment pretty Mera raised
her head and said to her cousin.
"Cousin! comme c'est ennuyant ici!"
"Oui, cousine! cette vilaine petite ville est une place tres
ennuyante!" answered he, whistling.
The two mothers, seated on the sofa, did not understand a word, but
they looked at each other and blushed for joy, and Pani Hannah
stretched her plump hand across the table and caressed her daughter's
hair.
"Fischele!" (little fish) said she, with an indescribable smile of
beautitude and love on her lips.
Even on Eli the French language made some impression. His face, which
had been a little sorrowful, became serene again. He rose and said
cheerfully:
"Nu, let us be going. It's time."
In a few minutes they descended from the piazza into the street.
Eli's face had again become sorrowful. Nothing could be more
unorthodox than the dress of his relative. It consisted of a short,
fashionable coat, shining shoes and very widely-open waistcoat, which
showed the entire snowy shirtfront. On his head he wore a small cap,
with the official star, and before going out he had lighted a
cigarette.
It was a hard thing for Eli to contradict anyone--much more his guest
and the pet of the two women whom he at any rate respected. But when
he went out on the piazza and saw the crowds of people--whom the
Sabbath day brought out in swarms--he could not refrain from warning
the lad.
"Leopold, listen!" said he, quietly and gently, "you had better throw
that cigarette away. The people are stupid here, but you had better
not irritate them. And perhaps," he added immediately, "God himself
forbad smoking on the Sabbath. Who can tell?"
Leopold laughed aloud.
"I am not afraid of anything!" said he, and springing down the steps
of the piazza be offered Mera his arm.
Leopold and Mera then walked ahead arm in arm. They were followed by
the magnificent mothers in balloon-like dresses, velvet mantillas,
and enormous hats covered with flowers. Eli brought up the retinue,
walking slowly and with a conspicuously sorrowful face and hands
folded behind him.
If attracting the attention of the numerous crowd could be called a
triumph, the march of the Witebski family across the square of the
town was certainly a triumphal one. In the twinkling of an eye a
crowd of children of all ages and both sexes were following them,
and, in the beginning with muffled exclamation, but finally with loud
shouting, they began to run after them. Soon older people joined the
children, and even more prominent families appeared on the piazzas of
their houses surrounding the square. In the gate of the school-yard
stood the melamed, in his usual primitive dress and as though he
could not believe the evidence of his own widely-open eyes. He looked
at the astonishing show passing the square.
The greatest attention was drawn by the young couple walking ahead;
Leopold, clad in his elegant coat, and with a cigarette in his mouth,
and Mera, in her very balloon-like bright dress, leaning on her
cousin's arm and drawing herself up in order to show off to advantage
her society manners.
Eli walked as though on live coals, but Pani Hannah strode forward as
though crowned with laurels. Her sister looked around the dark crowd
with half-closed eyes and head carried high.
"Zi! Zi! a shejne puryc! a shejne panienkies!" shouted the children,
running, jumping, pointing with their fingers, and raising clouds of
dust with their feet.
"Who are they? Are they Jews?" asked the older people, pointing at
Leopold's short coat and Cigarette.
"Misnagdim!" suddenly shouted some voice in the crowd, and a small
stone, thrown by an unknown hand, passed close to Leopold's head. The
young man grew pale and threw away the cigarette--the cause of the
general scandal. Eli frowned. But Pani Hannah raised her head still
higher and said quite loudly to her sister:
"Nu, we must forgive them. They are so ignorant!"
Leopold, however, did not forgive the stone thrown at him. This could
be seen by his frightened eyes and tightened lips when he entered the
Ezofowichs' parlour.
There on the sofa--the place of honour--sat old Saul surrounded by
his sons, sons-in-law, and several older grandchildren. At one of the
windows, as usual, sat the always slumbering great-grandmother. At
the other window stood Meir.
When Witebski's family entered the parlour, Meir merely glanced at
Mera, as though she was perfectly indifferent to him, but he looked
sharply, inquisitively, at Leopold. He evidently desired to approach
as soon as possible the man who came from the broad world, and
penetrate him through and through.
For a while only preliminary conversation and loud greetings were
heard Saul did not leave his place on the sofa. His daughter Sarah,
Ber's wife, received the guests, serving them with dainties, loudly
admiring the beauty of the hats and dresses of the ladies.
Mera sat graciously on the edge of a chair, amused by the bashful,
embarrassed, and at the same time joyful Lija, and glancing askance
at the young man standing at the window, guessing that he must be her
intended husband. But she did not once meet his glance. Meir
seemingly ignored her existence. He looked constantly at Leopold.
Pani Hannah was telling with great animation, and still greater pride
to the women surrounding her, of the fountain which she had once seen
in a large city, and about the music which was played every Sunday in
the public garden in Wilno. In the meantime she was examining the
Ezofowichs' parlour. In fact, the large, clean room with its simple
furniture, possessed an air of thrift and riches, which was a great
deal more attractive than Pani Hannah's speckled salon. There was
also a library filled with large volumes, which, according to the
traditions of the Ezofowich family, were formerly the property of
Michael the Senior. There was a cupboard filled with silver and
china, and on the top of it stood a large samovar, shining like gold.
When Pani Hannah saw this a blush of shame appeared on her face. A
samovar in the parlour of the family of her future son-in-law! It was
contrary to all rules of civilisation of which she knew anything.
Soon, however, from this highly indecent object her glance passed on
to the great-grandmother slumbering in her arm-chair. At that moment
a ray of the setting sun fell on the motionless figure, lighting up
the jewels with which she was covered. Like fiery stars over her
forehead shone the rich gems ornamenting her turban, while her
earrings threw out thousands of sparks, and the pearls on her bosom
took on a faint pink glow.
Pani Hannah elbowed her sister slightly.
"Zi," whispered she, indicating the old women by a motion of her
head, "what splendid diamonds!"
The wife of the merchant of Wilno half closed her eyes in admiration.
"Aj! Aj!" exclaimed she, "a true treasure. But why does such an old
woman wear so many precious stones?"
Saul heard the exclamation, and with dignified civility he said,
bending toward his guests:
"She deserves our respect, and to be covered by us with all the
precious stones in the possession of our family. She was her
husband's crown, and all of us as branches from a tree, take our life
from her."
He closed his eyes a little and continued:
"Now she is very old, but she once was young and very beautiful, And
where has her beauty disappeared to? It was erased by the years--by
months and days passing over her like birds flying one after the
other, pick one berry after another, until they have picked them all.
It is true, she has now many wrinkles on her face. But whence come
these wrinkles? I know; for looking at her I see some picture in each
one. When I look at the wrinkles in her eyelids, and around her eyes,
I remember that when I was small, and was ill she sat by my cradle
and sang to lull me to sleep, and the tears poured from her eyes. And
when I look at the wrinkles so numerous on her cheeks, I remember all
the sorrows and griefs she has passed through, when she became a
widow, refused to marry again, conducting business affairs personally
and increasing the wealth of her children. And when I look at the
wrinkle which appears in the middle of her forehead, it seems that I
live again the moment that my father's soul left its body, and my
mother fell to the floor like one dead. She did not cry nor moan, but
only sobbed sweetly, 'Hersh! Hersh! My Hersh!' It was the greatest
sorrow of her life, and left on her forehead that deep line."
Thus spoke old Saul, with his index finger raised solemnly and a
thoughtful smile on his yellow lips. The women listening to him shook
their heads, half sadly, half affirmatively, and looking at each
other they repeated softly:
"Hohr! Hohr!" (Listen! Listen!)
Pani Hannah was moved to tears. She dried them with a lace
handkerchief which she held in her hand, and stretching this hand
toward Saul she said:
"Danke! Danke!" with a smile of gratitude on her lips.
"Danke!" (Thanks!) the majority of those present repeated after her.
Then Pani Hannah's sister, Witebski, and two or three other people
not belonging to the family, said in a hushed voice:
"Ein kluger mensch! Ein ehrlicher mensch!" (A clever man! An honest
man!)
The filial love and respect manifested by Saul, and his picturesque
narrative, made a pleasant impression on all hearts and minds.
Only young Leopold, who until now sat silent and gloomy, or spoke in
French with Mera, rose from his chair and went toward the window
where Meir stood. Around the sofa a lively conversation had been
recommenced by Pani Hannah, who expressed a regret that it was
Sabbath, and that there was no piano, for her daughter was thus
prevented from playing such music as melted all hearts, and brought
before the mind's eye the botanical garden of Wilno, where the band
of music played, and different other things which belonged to her
lost paradise of civilisation.
The two young men remained completely isolated. No one could hear
their conversation. It seemed that Leopold had no intention of
starting a conversation with Meir. He went toward the window with
quite a different motive, which was betrayed by his taking from his
pocket a silver cigarette case. But Meir, when he saw the young man
approach him, advanced a few steps. His face beamed with joy.
"I am Meir, Saul's grandson," said he, extending his hand to the
guest. "I wish very much to make your acquaintance, to tell you many
things, and ask you many things."
Leopold bowed to him elegantly but ceremoniously, and barely touched
Meir's warm hand. Meir's eyes, which had been bright with joy, now
saddened.
"You don't care to know me," said he, "and I don't wonder at it. You
are an educated man, and I--am a simple Jew, who knows the Bible and
Talmud well, but nothing more. But listen to me, at any rate! I have
thoughts of many things, but they are not yet in order. Perhaps you
can tell me how to become wise?"
Leopold listened to these words, vibrating first with youthful
enthusiasm, with anxiety in which there was a shade of irony.
"Willingly," said he, "if you wish to learn something from me I will
be glad to tell you. Why not? I can tell you many things, sir!"
"Leopold, don't call me 'sir.' It hurts me, for I love you very
much."
Leopold was surprised at this simplicity of sentiment.
"I am glad of it!" said he; "but it's the first time we have met."
"It doesn't matter!" exclaimed Meir; "for a long time I have wished
to meet such an Israelite as you are, and say to him, as Rabbi
Eliezer said to the sage in Jerusalem, 'Let me be your pupil, and be
you my teacher.'"
This time surprise was clearly expressed in the face of the young
fashionable, and his irony increased. It was evident that he did not
at all understand Meir's speech, and that he considered him as being
half a savage. Meir, absorbed in his enthusiasm, did not notice the
impression he had made.
"Leopold," he began, "how many years did you study in that foreign
school?"
"What foreign school?" asked Leopold.
"Nu, in that school where they do not teach Jewish studies."
Leopold understood now. He half closed his eyes, pursed his mouth,
and answered:
"Well, I went to the gymnasium for five years."
"Five years!" exclaimed Meir, "then you must be a very learned man,
if you have gone to school for such a long time."
"Well," answered the guest, with an indulgent smile, "there are
people in the world who are more learned than I."
Meir approached his companion still nearer, and his eyes shone more
brightly.
"What do they teach in the school?" he asked.
"Different things."
"What are those different things?"
Leopold, with an ironical smile, began to enumerate all the subjects
taught in public schools.
Meir interrupted him, saying with animation:
"And you know all these subjects?"
"Yes, I do," answered the guest.
"And what are you doing now?"
This question was asked with great anxiety, and astounded the
good-looking chap.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Nu, I wish to know, I wish to know the thoughts with which these
studies have filled your head, and what you are doing in the world."
"What I am doing? I am an official in the office of the governor
himself, and I copy important papers."
Meir thought for a while.
"That is not what I wished to know about. You copy those papers for
money. Every man must earn. But I wish to know what you think about
when you are sometimes alone, and what those thoughts impel you to
accomplish in the world."
Leopold opened widely his eyes.
"Well," he exclaimed impatiently, "what should I think about? When I
leave my office I return home, smoke a cigarette, and think of the
time when I shall marry and get a dowry, and my father will give me
my share, and I shall purchase a house. On the ground floor I shall
fix pretty stores, the second floor I shall let to some rich people,
and I shall live on the third floor."
This time it was Meir's turn to be amazed. "And you, Leopold, don't
you think of anything else?"
"Well, of what else should I think? Thank God I have no sorrows. I
live and board with my parents and my salary is sufficient to buy my
clothes."
Meir looked at the floor, and a deep wrinkle appeared on his
forehead, as was customary with him when he was hurt.
"Leopold, listen," he said, after a few moments of deep thought, "are
there not many poor and ignorant Jews in your great city?"
Leopold laughed.
"There are plenty of them everywhere."
"And what are your thoughts when you see them?" asked Meir violently.
"What should they be? I think they are very stupid and very dirty!"
"And looking at them, do you think of nothing else?" asked Meir,
almost in a whisper.
Leopold opened his cigarette case, and selected a cigarette. Meir,
plunged in thought, did not notice this.
"Leopold," he began again, with awakened energy, "you had better not
buy that house in the large city."
"Why should I not buy it?"
"I will tell you why. They have promised you, as wife, my first
cousin. She is a good and intelligent girl. She has no education
whatever, but she always wished to have it, and she was very glad
when she was told that she would have an educated husband. You are
going to marry her, and when you have married her, ask permission of
the high officials to open in Szybow a school for the Jews, in which
they will be made to study other things than the Bible and Talmud. I
will help you to conduct such a school."
Leopold laughed, but Meir, all aglow with the joy of his idea, did
not notice it. He leaned towards the young man and whispered:
"I will tell you, Leopold. There is great ignorance here in Szybow,
and there are many poor people living in misery. But there are some
people--all of them young--who regret that they do not know another
world, and that they have not other knowledge. They wish to become
familiar with it, but there is no one to help them out of the darkness.
And then the great Rabbi who lives here, Isaak Todros, is very severe,
and he is dreaded by everyone; and the members of the kahal also
oppress the poor people. You must come here and bring with you other
educated people, and help us out of our misery and our ignorance."
All this was spoken enthusiastically, his head triumphally raised and
his voice filled with warm prayer. But nothing could equal the
astonishment, and in the meantime the irony, with which Leopold
listened to him. As Meir finished he selected a match from a silver
box, bending his head in order to hide the fact that he was laughing.
"Nu," said Meir, "what do you think of what I have said? Is it a good
idea?"
Leopold lighted the match and answered:
"I am thinking that if I were to speak of your plans to my family or
my comrades they would be much amused."
The light which shone in Meir's eyes was quenched at once.
"Why would they laugh?" he whispered.
At that moment Leopold lighted his cigarette and the fragrant smoke
floated through the room to where the company were gathered around
the yellow sofa. Raphael raised his head in astonishment and looked
back at him. Saul also looked toward the window, and rising from
the sofa he said politely but with determination:
"I beg your pardon, but I cannot permit anything in my house which is
contrary to the holy law."
Having said this he sat down again looking at Leopold from beneath
his bushy eyebrows. Leopold grew very red, threw the cigarette on the
floor, and crushed it angrily with his foot.
"Such is your civility!" said he to Meir.
"And why do you smoke on the Sabbath?"
"Don't you smoke?" asked the guest satirically looking Meir in the
face.
"No," answered Meir
"And you wish to lead human souls out of darkness! And you believe
that it is a holy law not to smoke on the Sabbath!"
"No, I don't believe it," answered Meir, with as much determination
as before.
"You wish to cause the people to rebel against the great Rabbi and
the kahal, and you yourself give way before the enemy."
Meir's eyes shone again, but this time angrily.
"If it was a question of saving a human soul from obscurity, or a
human body from ignorance, I would not give way, because such things
are important; but when it is a question of denying myself a
pleasure, I give way because it is a trifle. And although I do not
believe that such a law is holy and comes from God, I know that the
old people believe in it, and I think that it would be rude to
contradict them in a trifle like this."
After this speech Leopold turned away from Meir and walked over to
where Mera sat. For a while Meir followed him with a glance in which
there was a mixture of disappointment and anger. Then he left the
window and went out.
This sudden disappearance of the young man made a great impression on
the women. The men hardly noticed it, for they thought it very
natural and praiseworthy that the bridegroom, through modesty,
avoided the fiancee chosen for him by the older people. But Pani
Hannah and her sister became gloomy, and Mera whispered to her
mother:
"Maman, let us go home!"
In the meantime Meir was on the way to the house of his friend
Eliezer, but he only looked in at the window, and went further, for
the cantor's room was empty; but he evidently knew where to find his
comrades, and he went directly toward the meadow situated beyond the
town. As a few weeks ago this meadow--a true oasis of quiet and
freshness--was all bathed in the pink light of the sunset. It is true
that the grass was no longer so green, for it was a little burned by
the beat of the summer sun, but the bushes were in full bloom, and
the scent of the wild flowers filled the air.
Near the grove, under the thickly growing birches, sat a group of
young people. Some of them spoke together in low tones, while others
mechanically plucked the wild plants growing around them, and others
still with their faces turned to the blue sky, in which floated
golden clouds, hummed softly.
The pond, a short way off, was now surrounded with thick bunches of
forget-me-nots and large flowers of the water-plants. On its bank was
seated the motionless figure of a tall slender girl, and beside her,
amid the bushes of sweet-briar, grazed the white goat, plucking the
herbs and leaves.
Meir approached the group of young people who were evidently awaiting
his arrival with some impatience for those who lay in the grass rose
at once on seeing him and sat looking intently into his face. He did
not greet his comrades and did not even look at them, but threw
himself down upon the trunk of a birch tree which had been overthrown
by a storm. He was sad, but perhaps even more angry. The young people
were silent, and looked at him in surprise. Eliezer, who lay in the
grass with his elbow resting against the trunk on which Meir sat, was
the first to speak.
"Well, have you seen him?"
"Have you seen him?" several voices chimed in, "and is he highly
educated and very wise?"
Meir raised his head and said emphatically:
"He is educated, but very stupid."
This exclamation caused great surprise among the young men. After
quite a long silence, Aryel, the son of the magnificent Morejne
Calman, said:
"How can it be that a man is educated, and at the same time stupid?"
"I don't know how it can be," answered Meir, his eyes dilating as
though he saw before him a bottomless precipice.
Then a conversation started, made up of quick questions and answers:
"What did he tell you?"
"What was very stupid?"
"Why did not you ask him about wise things?"
"I did ask him, but he didn't even know what I meant."
"Did he not tell you what he thought of?"
"He told me he thought of how he could best buy a beautiful house
which would bring him an income of two thousand roubles."
"He can think about the house, but about what else does he think?"
"He told me he did not think about anything else."
"And what is he accomplishing in the world?"
"He is in an office, where he copies some papers and when he returns
home he smokes a cigarette and thinks about the house."
"And what does he think about Jews who have no education and live in
misery?"
"He thinks they are stupid and dirty."
"And what did he say when you told him that we wished to free our
souls from darkness, but could not."
"He told me that if he were to tell his family and comrades of it,
they would laugh."
"Why should they laugh?"
Then there was a long silence, and finally someone said angrily:
"A bad man!"
After a while Meir's cousin, Haim--Abraham's son--said:
"Meir, that knowledge and education for which we wish so eagerly must
be evil, if it makes people stupid and bad."
Another young man said:
"Meir, will you explain it to us?"
Meir looked sadly at his comrades, and dropping his face in both
bands, he said:
"I don't know anything."
The answer came with stifled sobs. But at that moment the cantor
raised his white band and pulled from his friend's sorrowful face the
hands which covered it.
"Your hearts must not be sunk in sorrow," said Eliezer, "I will ask
our master to answer that question for us."
He took from the ground a large book and with a smile on his lips be
pointed out to his comrades the first leaf of it. On this leaf was
printed the name of Moses Majmonides.
The young people drew near to him, and their faces wore an expression
of solemn attention. The great Hebrew savant was about to speak to
them through the mouth of their beloved cantor. He was an old master,
forgotten by some, excommunicated by others, but dear and saintly to
them. Since the spirit of that master in the form of several big
volumes brought back by Eliezer on his return home from the outer
world, had breathed upon their minds, they experienced the force of
hitherto unknown streams of thought and rebellion--they were filled
with sorrowful longings and desires. But they were grateful to him
for this grief and longing, and rushed to him in all times of doubt.
But alas! they could not find answers for all their questions-consolations
for all their complaints! Centuries had vanished, the times had changed
and there had passed through the world a long chain of geniuses bringing
new truths. But of this they knew nothing, and when the large book was
opened they prepared themselves with joy and solemnity to receive the
breath of the old truths.
Eliezer did not begin at once to read. He turned the leaves, looking
for a paragraph appropriate to the circumstances. In the meanwhile,
the girl who had until now remained seated on the bank of the pond,
rose from among the forget-me-nots and white briar and advanced
slowly toward the group of young people. Even from afar her great
eyes could be seen looking into Meir's face. The white goat followed
her. Both disappeared in the grove and then Golda emerged and stood
behind Meir. She came so quietly that no one noticed her. She threw
her arms about the trunk of a birch tree and leaning her head against
the softly swaying branch, she caressed the bent head of Meir with
her looks. She seemed not to see the other people.
At that moment Eliezer exclaimed in his pure, crystalline voice:
"Israel, listen!"
With these words many psalms and sacred writings of the Hebrews
commence. For the young people surrounding Meir this reading of the
old master was a psalm of respect and deep spiritual prayer.
Eliezer began to read in a chanting voice:
"My disciples I You ask me what force attracts the celestial beings
of the Heavens, which we call stars, and why some of them rise so
high they are lost in mist, and others float more heavily toward the
sky, and remain far behind their sisters?"
"I will disclose to you the mystery which you seek to solve."
"The force attracting the celestial bodies is the Perfection dwelling
on the heights, and called God in the human tongue. The stars, seized
with love and longing for this Perfection, rise continually in order
to approach nearer and take something of wisdom and perfection from
the Wise and Perfect."
"My disciples, from those celestial beings, which long for the
Perfection, come all changes of the moon. They cause different forms
and images. . . ."
Eliezer stopped reading, and raised his turquoise-like eyes from the
book, and they shone with joy.
But the others thought a long while, trying to find an answer to
their doubts in that passage of the master.
Meir answered thoughtfully:
"There are men who, like the celestial beings of which the sage
talks, raise their souls toward the Perfection. They know that there
is perfection, and they try to take from it Wisdom and Goodness for
themselves. But there are also people who, like those stars which
float more heavily upward, do not long for the perfection, and do not
rise through such longing. Such people keep their souls very low. . . ."
Now they understood. Joy beamed from all faces. What a small crumb of
knowledge it took to make joyful these poor, and at the same time
rich, souls!
Meir seized the book from his friend's hands, and read from another
leaf:
"The angels themselves are not all equal. They are classed one above
the other, like the steps of a ladder, and the highest among them is
the Spirit producing thought and knowledge. This Spirit animates
Reason, and Hagada calls it Prince of the World--Sar-ha-Olam!"
"The highest angel is the Spirit producing thought and knowledge, and
Hagada calls it the Prince of the world," repeated the choir of young
voices.
Their doubts were scattered. Learning had reawakened respect in their
minds, and longing in their hearts, and passed before them in the
form of the Angel of Angels, flying over the world arrayed in
princely purple, with a shining veil wrought by his thought. Reverie
sat on their foreheads and in their eyes. The reverie of a quiet
evening covered the meadow blooming around them. Before them purple
clouds hung above the forest, hiding behind them the shield of the
sun. Behind them the green grove, sunk in dusky shadows, was
slumbering motionlessly.
Over the meadow and fields floated Eliezer's silvery voice:
"I saw the spirit of my people when I slumbered," Jehovah's pale
cantor began to sing.
And it was not known whence came that song. Who composed it? No one
could tell. One verse was given by Eliezer to his friend after a
state of ecstatic unconsciousness which visited him often; the second
was composed by Aryel, Calman's son, while playing on his violin in
the grove. Some of them had their birth in Meir's breast, and others
were whispered by the childish lips of Haim, Abraham's son. Thus are
composed all folk songs. Their origin is in longing hearts, oppressed
thoughts, and instinctive flights toward a better life. Thus was born
in Szybow the song which the cantor now began:
"Once, while I slumbered, I fancied I saw My people's spirit before
me; And I felt a strange spell stealing o'er me, As I gazed on the
world in awe."
Here the other voices joined that of the cantor, and a powerful
chorus resounded through the fields and meadow:
"Did he come toward me in royal array, In purple and gold like the
dawn of day. Ah, no I on his brow there was no golden crown; His
naked knees trembled, hi gray head bowed down."
Here the choir of singing voices was mingled with a whisper coming
from the birch grove:
"Hush! Some people are listening!"
In fact, on the road passing through the grove, several human figures
appeared in the distance. They were walking very slowly. But the
singer heard neither Golda's warning nor the sound of the approaching
steps. The second verse of the song resounded over the meadow:
"O, my people's spirit, say, where is thy throne? Are the roses of
Zion all faded and gone? Are the cedars of Lebanon all broken down?
O, my people's spirit, say, where is thy crown?"
The last line of the song was still vibrating when, from the road
passing through the grove, three men entered the meadow. They were
dressed in long, black holiday clothes, and were girded with red
handkerchiefs, because it was not permitted to carry them on Sabbath,
but being used to gird the clothes were considered as part of the
attire, and thus it was not a sin to wear them in that way.
In the centre was the cantor's father, Jankiel Kamionker, and on
either side were Abraham Ezofowich, Haim's father, and Morejne
Calman, the father of Aryel. Notwithstanding the darkness, the
fathers recognised their sons in the last rays of the daylight. The
voices of the young men trembled, became quiet, and then were
silent--only one voice sang further:
"Wilt thou never emerge from the darkness, despair? Will thy sweet
songs of thanks ne'er resound in the air?"
It was Meir's voice.
The dignified men, passing through the meadow, stopped and turned
toward the group of young men, and at that moment the manly voice was
joined by the pure, sonorous voice of Golda, who, seeing the angry
faces of the men, began to sing with Meir as though she wished to
join him in common courage, and perhaps in common peril.
And paying no attention to either his comrades' silence or the
threatening figures standing in the meadow the joined voices sang:
"Let the wisdom of Heaven knock at thy door, And quiet the grief that
has made thy heart sore; And bid the Angel of Knowledge come down,
Restoring to thee thy lost glorious crown. We beseech thee to chase
the dark shadows away, And the light of God's truth will turn night
into day."
The song had only three verses, so with the last verse the two voices
became silent. The dignitaries of the community turned toward the
town, and talking loudly and angrily they went in the direction of
the Ezofowich house.
Abraham, Saul's son, was quite different from his brother Raphael.
Tall, dark-haired, and good-looking still, notwithstanding his more
than fifty years, Raphael was dignified and careful, speaking very
little. Abraham was small and bent. He was gray-headed, and had a
passionate temper and sensitive disposition. He spoke very rapidly
and with violent gestures. His eyes were very bright and generally
looked gloomily on the ground.
Both brothers were learned, and for their learning the high title
of 'Morejne' had been bestowed upon them by the community. But
Raphael studied especially the Talmud, and was considered one of its
best scholars. Abraham, however, preferred the study of the
precipice-like mysteries of the Zohar. He was a close friend of the
two high dignitaries of the kahal, Morejne Calman and pious Jankiel
Kamionker. They transacted business together outside the town, and
while in town they read sacred books together, and together they
walked every Sabbath beyond the boundaries of the place, as far as an
Israelite is permitted to go from his house. Therefore no one saw
them go over two thousand steps, and only very seldom, when they were
attracted by the shadow of the grove, they bent, and on the spot
where their feet reached the two thousandth step they buried in the
ground a crumb of bread. That spot then represented their house, and
they were allowed to go two thousand steps further. Usually they were
silent while walking, for they counted their steps, but the simple
spiritually and bodily poor people, seeing them walking slowly and
with thoughtful faces, admired the wisdom and orthodoxy of these
scholarly and rich men. On seeing them they rose respectfully and
stood until they passed, for it is written: "When you see a sage pass
by, rise, and do not sit until he is out of your sight."
Moreover on their return they spoke, because it was not necessary to
count their steps.
But the poor people had never seen the three dignified men walk as
fast as that evening, when on the meadow they had heard the song of
the young men. Even the magnificent Calman himself had not smiled as
usual, and as for Jankiel Kamionker, his movements were so violent
that his long black dress floated behind him like two black wings.
Abraham Ezofowich had ungirded his handkerchief and carried it in his
hand. Calman noticed this sign of senseless excitement and warned his
friend that he was sinning. Abraham was dreadfully frightened, and in
great haste he again girded his loins. When this happened they were
already on the piazza of the Ezofowich house. Then the three men
entered the room in which old Saul was sitting on the yellow sofa,
reading in a large book by the light of two candles, which burned in
two antique silver candlesticks.
Saul, seeing the entering guests was a little astonished, because it
was already quite late and the time was not suitable for a visit. He
greeted them, however, with a friendly nod, and pointed to the chairs
standing near the sofa. The men did not sit in the places indicated
to them, but stood opposite Saul. Although their faces were animated
by anger, their mein was solemn. Evidently they had come to an
understanding as to how the conversation was to be commenced, for
Kamionker spoke first:
"Reb Saul," said he, "we come here to complain against your grandson
Meir."
A painful shiver passed over Saul's face.
"What has he done?" he asked in a low voice.
Kamionker began to speak, at first solemnly, and then very violently:
"Your grandson Meir spoils our sons! He causes their souls to rebel
against the Holy Law; he reads to them excommunicated books, and
sings worldly songs on the Sabbath! Besides this he is bound by an
impure friendship to the Karaimian girl, and we saw in the meadow our
sons lying at his feet as though at the feet of their master, and
over his head the Karaimian girl stood and sang abominable songs with
him."
He stopped, out of breath from the angry speech, and Morejne Calman,
looking at Saul with his honey like eyes, said slowly:
"My son Aryel was there, and I shall punish him for it."
Abraham, looking gloomily on the ground, then said:
"And my son, your grandson Haim, was also there, and I shall punish
him for it."
Then all said:
"You must punish Meir!"
Saul bent his sorrowful face.
"Lord of the world," he whispered with trembling lips, "have I
deserved that the light of my eyes should be changed into darkness?"
Then he raised his head and said with determination:
"I will punish him."
Abraham's eyes, fixed on his father's face, were shining.
"Father," said he, "you must think the most of that Karaimian girl.
That unclean friendship between them is a great shame to our whole
family. You know, father, our custom--no Israelite shall know another
woman save the one his parents have destined for his wife."
It seemed that Saul's wrinkled forehead was covered with a pinkish
flush.
"I will soon marry him," he answered.
Abraham continued:
"As long as he sees the Karaimian girl he will not care to marry."
"And what can I do to prevent him from seeing her?"
The three men looked at each other.
"Something must be done with her!" said one.
After a long while of deep thought, the two guests bowed to Saul and
left the house. Abraham remained in the room.
"Father," said he, "how do you propose to punish him?"
"I will command him to sit for a whole day in the Bet-ha-Midrash and
read the Talmud."
"It would not do any good," said Abraham, with an impatient gesture;
"you had better order him to be flogged."
Saul remained bent over.
"I shall not do it," he answered. Then he added softly: "Michael's
soul passed into the body of my father Hersh, and my father's soul is
now dwelling in Meir's body."
"And how can you know this?" asked Abraham, evidently shocked by his
father's words.
"Hersh's wife, the great-grandmother first recognised this soul, and
then Rabbi Isaak recognised it."
Saul sighed deeply, and repeated:
"I will command him to sit in the Bet-ha-Midrash and read the Talmud.
He shall neither eat nor sleep in my house for a whole week, and the
Shamos (care-taker and messenger of the synagogue) shall announce his
shame and punishment through the town!"