because as often as I want to speak the remembrance of my younger
years seems to rise before me and smother my voice; therefore it is
the voice least heard of all the voices in the family. I left off
speaking or advising, and looked only after my business and my
family. But I must speak now. Why trouble so much about Meir? Give
him his liberty; let him go into the world, and do not punish him
either by your anger or by dooming him to poverty. What wrong has he
done? He keeps all the commandments faithfully; has studied the holy
books; all the members of our family, and even the poor, ignorant
people love him like their own soul. What do you want from him? What
has he done? Why should you punish him?"
Ber's speech, delivered in a lazy, half-timid voice, made a deep
impression on all those present. His wife Sarah, evidently
frightened, pulled him by the sleeve and whispered:
"Hush, Ber! hush! they will be angry with you for your rash words."
Saul raised his head several times arid bent it down again. One might
have said that gratitude for Ber's defence of his grandson struggled
with his rising anger.
"Ber, your own sins have spoken through your mouth. You stand up for
Meir because you were once what he is now," said the passionate
Abraham.
Raphael, with his usual gravity, said:
"You say, Ber, that he has not sinned against the ten commandments.
That is true; but you forget that the covenant does not stand alone
upon the ten commandments which Moses brought from Sinai, but also
upon the six hundred and thirteen which the great Tanaites, Amoraits
and Gaons, with other Wise Men, have put down in the Talmud. We not
only owe obedience to them, but also to the six hundred and thirteen
of the Talmud; and Meir has transgressed many of them."
"He has sinned greatly," called out Abraham, "but the greatest and
blackest sin be committed to-day, when he denounced a brother
Israelite before the stranger, and thus broke the solidarity and
faith of his people. What will become of us if we accuse each other
before the stranger? Whom shall we love and shield if not our
brethren, who are bones of our bones and our blood. He felt more
sorry for a stranger than for a brother Israelite, and for that he
ought to--"
The violent and impulsive man broke off his sentence in the middle
and remained open-mouthed, like one turned to stone.
He sat opposite the window, at which he stared fixedly with stupefied
eyes.
"What is that?" he called out in a trembling voice:
"What is that?" said everybody; and all except Saul rose from their
seats.
The room, which had been quite dark, became suddenly lighted up, as
if by the reflection of thousands of torches from without; not only
the house of Ezofowich, but the whole sky above was illuminated by a
red glare.
The men and women stood spell-bound in the middle of the room, and
looked silently at the fiery volumes, which rose higher and higher
into the heavens above.
"How quickly he has done the deed!" said Abraham.
Nobody answered.
The little town, so quiet a moment before, became suddenly very noisy
and tumultuous. No nation in the world is so easily carried away by
sensations of any kind. This time the sensation was a powerful one.
It was aroused by the mighty element which carries destruction upon
earth and lifts its blood-red banner up to the skies, The noise of
thousands of running feet re-echoed in the streets like the rushing
of many waters. The square was black with a dense crowd, which
swiftly and noisily moved in one direction. Above the din of all the
voices single words were heard now and then more distinctly.
"Kamionka! It is the Kamionka estate!" exclaimed those that knew the
country.
"Hear! hear! it is Kamionka!" took up a chorus of voices.
"Ai! Ai! such a fine place! such a magnificent place!"
Those were the last words that reached the inmates of Ezofowich's
house. The crowd streamed on, and the voices sounded faint and far
off.
Then Saul rose from the sofa, and, his face turned towards the
window, he stood silent and motionless.
Then he raised his trembling hands and said, in a faltering voice:
"In my father Hersh's time and in my own, such things did not happen,
and sins like this were not in Israel. Our hands used to spread gold
and silver over the land, but not fire and tears."
He paused a few moments, gazing thoughtfully at the window.
"My father Hersh and his grandfather lived in friendship; they often
conversed together about important affairs, and the lord of
Kamionka--he wore then a gold brocaded sash and a sword at his
side--said to my father Hersh: 'Ezofowich, you are a large-hearted
and a far-seeing man; if our side win we will make a nobleman of you
at the Diet.' His son was not quite like his father, but he always
spoke courteously to me, and I bought his corn for thirty years.
Whenever he wanted money I was always ready, because his estate
brought much gain to me. The lady of Kamionka--she is still
living--liked my mother Frieda very much; she used to say: 'Mistress
Frieda has a great many diamonds and I have only one.' She called her
son, who was as the apple of her eye, her diamond--the same son whose
house is now in flames," and he pointed at the fiery columns with a
silent gesture of grief and horror.
Then Raphael spoke.
"When I was last time at Kamionka, the old lady was sitting with her
son upon the balcony, and when I began to speak about business, she
said to him: 'Remember, Sigismond, never sell your corn to anybody
but to an Ezofowich; they are amongst the Jews the most honest and
friendly towards us.' And after that she began to ask whether old
Frieda was still alive, and her son Saul, and if he had many
grandchildren. Then she looked at her son and said to me: 'Raphael, I
have no grandson!' And I bowed politely and said: 'May the gracious
lady live a hundred years and see a great many grandsons of her own!'
I did not put a lie into her ear; I sincerely wished her well. Why
should I not wish her well?"
Raphael left off speaking, and Saul, turning towards him, asked:
"Raphael, has he ever wronged you?"
Raphael thought a little and then replied:
"No. He has never done me the slightest wrong. He is a little proud,
it is true, and does not look sharp after his business; he is fond of
amusements, and when an Israelite bows to him he gives a careless nod
and does not try to make a friend of him . . . but his heart is good,
and his word is his bond, and in business he is more likely to wrong
himself than anybody else."
Sarah, who stood near her husband, wrung her hands, and rocking her
body gently, sighed mournfully:
"Ai! all such a handsome gentleman to have such a misfortune happen
to him."
"Such a fine young man, and he was going to marry such a beautiful
young lady," said the wife of Raphael.
"And how will he be able to marry now, when he is ruined?" said Saul,
and he added in a lower voice:
"A great sin has been committed in Israel!"
"A great shame has fallen to-day on Israel's head," said Raphael.
From a corner of the room where the glare penetrated least, came or
rather crept forth Abraham. Bent almost in two, and trembling in
every limb, he kissed his father's hand.
"Father," he said, "I thank you that you saved me from it."
Saul raised his head. The colour came back to his face, and energy
gleamed in his eyes.
"Abraham," he said, in a commanding tone, "have your horses ready at
once, and drive as quickly as you can to the estate where the young
lord is staying. He cannot see the conflagration from there; drive
quickly and tell him to come and save his property and his mother."
"You, Raphael, go at once to the Jankiel's and Leisor's inns where
the peasants are drinking. Tell them to drive home quickly to save
their lord's property."
Obedient as two children, Saul's two sons left the room at once and
the women went into the porch. Then Ber came close to Saul.
"Father! what do you think now of Meir? Was he not right to warn the
lord of Kamionka?"
Saul bent his head, but did not answer.
"Father," said her, "save Meir! Go to the Rabbi, and to the judges,
and elders; ask them not to bring him before their tribunal."
For a long while Saul did not answer.
"It is very difficult for me to go," he said at last. "The hardest
task to humble my gray head before Todros," but he added after a
pause, "I will go tomorrow--we must stand up for the child--though he
be rash and does not pay due reverence to the faith and customs of
his father."
While the foregoing took place in the house of Ezofowich, the little
meadow close to the town was covered with a waving, murmuring and
compact mass of people. From this spot, the terrible conflagration
could be seen most distinctly; therefore the whole population, eager
and greedy for sensation, congregated there.
The reflected light of the fire rose above the pine forest, which was
enveloped in a ray light and so transparent that every branch and
stem could be seen distinctly. The wide half-circle of the glare,
dark red below, grew paler and paler above, till the golden yellow
light lost itself in the pale blue sky. The stars twinkled with a
feeble, uncertain light, and on the opposite side, beyond the birch
wood, rose the red ball of the moon.
Among the population, sentences and words, quick and sharp, whizzed
about like pistol shots. Somebody was telling that when Jankiel
Kamionker heard about the fire, he had gone off to the estate tearing
his hair like a madman, wailing and lamenting over the loss of the
spirits which he had there in such quantities. Hearing this, many
people smiled knowingly; others shook their heads compassionately at
the supposed heavy losses of Jankiel; but the greater part of the
people remained silent. They guessed the truth; here and there
somebody knew about it; but nobody dared to meddle in a business so
full of danger, even with an unwary word.
A full hour after the first gleam of the fire had been noticed a
light carriage and four gray horses were seen in full gallop across
the streets in the direction of the meadow.
It was not the regular road to Kamionka, in fact, there was no road
at all; but by driving across the meadow, the young owner shortened
his way considerably. He did not sit in the carriage, but stood
straight up, holding on by the box, seat, and kept his eyes fixed
upon the red glare of the flames, where his mother was, which was
consuming the house of his fathers.
When the horses came to the meadow and he saw the crowd, he shouted
to the coachman:
"Be careful; do not hurt the people."
"A good man," said one in the crowd; "at such a moment he still
thinks of other people."
Some groaned aloud.
A few heads clustered together, whispering. The name of Jankiel was
whispered low--very low.
But there was a spot, not on the meadow, but in the little street
close by, where people talked aloud. Near Shmul's hut, upon the bench
before the window, stood Meir. Thence he looked at the meadow, black
with people, and at the red glare of the fire; around him in the
street stood a dozen or more young men, his friends. Their faces
looked excited and indignant.
Haim, the son of Abraham, who an hour before had been an unseen
witness to Saul's conversation with his sons, told his friends about
it. Carried away by his indignation, he repeated in a loud voice
every word that had passed and his friends re-echoed them. The young
and usually timid spirits grew bolder under the pressure of shame and
exasperation. Only one voice was missing among the chorus of
voices--the most prominent of all, because he was the leading spirit
of the young people. Eliezer was not among those who crowded round
Meir; he sat apart, leaning against the black wall of the hut, His
elbows rested on his knees and his face was buried in his hands. He
looked like one petrified in this position; full of grief and shame.
From time to time he rocked his body slightly. The dreamy, timid man
was overwhelmed with bitter arid desperate thoughts.
Presently, from beyond the corner of the street, a black thin shadow
glided swiftly along the walls; and close by the group of young men,
the heavy panting, almost moaning, of an exhausted human being became
audible.
"Shmul!" said the young men.
"Hush!" said Meir, in a low voice, jumping down from the bench. "Let
nobody utter the name of the miserable man, so as not to bring him
into danger. I have been standing here to watch for his return. Go
away from here, and remember that your eyes have not seen Shmul
coming from that direction, not seen--"
"You are right," whispered Aryel; "he is our poor brother,"
"Poor brother, poor, poor!" they repeated all round.
They dispersed at once. Near the hut remained only Meir and Eliezer,
whom nothing could rouse from his stupor.
Shmul ran into the hut, now deserted by every one except the blind
mother and the smallest children.
There he threw himself at full length upon the floor and beat his
forehead in the dust; sobbing and moaning, he uttered in broken
sentences:
"I am not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. I did not fire it. I did
not hold the vessel full of oil. He, Johel, did it all; I stood on
watch in the fields--when I saw the fire--Ai! ai! I understood what I
had been doing--"
"Hush!" said a low, sorrowful voice close to the despairing, almost
senseless, man. "Hold your tongue, Shmul, till I shut the door and
window."
Shmul raised his face, but again dropped it on the dusty floor.
"Morejne," he moaned, "morejne, my daughters were growing up; it was
necessary to marry them; I had no money to pay the taxes with for the
whole year!"
"Get up and calm yourself," said Meir.
Shmul did not listen. With his lips sweeping the dusty boards, he
kept on moaning.
"Morejne! save me. I am lost, body and soul."
"You have not lost your soul, Shmul. The Eternal will weigh your
poverty against your sin; that is if you do not take the money with
which bad people tempted you."
This time Shmul lifted his face from the floor. The lean and
ashy-pale face, covered with dust and twitching with nervous terror,
presented a picture of the deepest human misery.
He looked at Meir with despairing eyes, and pointing at the miserable
room, he groaned:
"Morejne! how shall we be able to live without that money?"
Fully half-an-hour passed before Meir left the cottage, where the
outcast Shmul accused himself, wailed and moaned in a voice that
gradually became lower till it almost sank to a whisper. The ruddy
glow from the street fell upon one corner of the dark entrance.
There, coiled up between the goats, his head resting upon a
projecting board, with the red light of the fire upon his face, slept
Lejbele. Neither noise nor the glare of the fire, not even the
lamentations of his unhappy father, had disturbed his innocent sleep
among his friends, the goats.
Next morning an unusual stir prevailed amongst the inhabitants of the
town. The common topic of all their conversation was the
conflagration at the Kamionka estate. The whole house was reduced to
ashes; nearly all the outbuildings had been burned down; the barns
and ricks with all the year's harvest had been devoured by the
flames.
The old lady, the mother of the lord of Kamionka, was very ill, and
had been carried into a neighbour's house.
To discuss these and other items of news, people stood in groups
about the streets or before their houses; all the ordinary business
of their every-day life seemed suspended for the time being.
Now and then among the groups a single question was heard repeatedly:
"What will become of him?"
The question had nothing whatever to do with the ruined young
nobleman, but referred to Jankiel.
Some pitied the former sincerely, as also some blamed the latter; but
the landowner was to them a perfect stranger, known to most of them
only by sight. Jankiel Kamionker was connected with them by a
thousand threads of common interest and friendship; besides that, he
was surrounded by the halo of wealth and the reputation of ardent
piety. No wonder that even those who blamed him trembled for his
safety.
"Will they suspect him?" asked somebody here and there.
"Nobody would dream of suspecting him, but for Meir Ezofowich putting
bad thoughts into their heads," was said here and there.
"He has broken the solidarity and the covenant of Israel."
"What else could you expect? He is a kofrim, a heretic!"
"He dared to raise his hand against Reb Moshe!"
"He lives in friendship with the Karaite's girl!"
Those who spoke cast ominous, threatening glances in the direction of
Ezofowich's dwelling.
The house was unusually quiet and lifeless. The windows looked upon
the square, which, as a rule, were open in summer-time so that
anybody could see the daily life of people who had nothing to
conceal, were shut to-day. No one had remembered to open them, or to
straighten the sitting-room--as a rule kept in such perfect order.
The women wandered aimlessly from one place to another; their caps
were crushed and in disorder from their frequently putting their
hands upon their heads; they stood before the kitchen fire and sighed
distractedly. Sarah's eyes were red; her husband, Ber, had two deep
wrinkles on his forehead, a sure sign to her that he suffered
grievously. He did not open his lips to her, but sat with his head
resting upon his hand, looking vacantly at his brothers-in-law.
Raphael had his account books before him, but his thoughts were
elsewhere as he raised his head frequently and looked at his
brothers. Old Saul sat on the sofa reading the sacred books; but,
judging by his countenance, derived but little comfort from them.
Near the window in her deep easy-chair sat the great-grandmother,
dozing. Hers was the only face that did not show any change, or lose
any of its usual serenity. She opened her eyes now and then, then
dozed off again. Soon after twelve o'clock the women busied
themselves with arranging the table for dinner.
The door opened softly. Meir entered the room, and standing close to
the wall, his eyes looked around at all faces. It was a troubled
look, almost timid and very sorrowful. Those present raised their
eyes at him for a second only; but in that short instant a heavy load
of mute reproaches fell upon the young man. It was the reproach of
people used to a quiet, peaceful life, for past troubles and troubles
still to come; there was some pity in it for the offender, and also a
threat of casting him off.
Only the great-grandmother opened her eyes when she saw him, and with
a smile, murmured:
"Kleineskind!"
Meir's eyes rested tenderly and thoughtfully upon her face. At this
moment there came a sudden dash and a heavy thump. From among the
groups that looked angrily at Ezofowich's house, somebody had thrown
a heavy stone, which, breaking the window, flew close over Freida's
head and fell into the middle of the room.
Saul's face became of a dull red; the women arranging the table
screamed in terror; Raphael, Abraham, and Ber jumped up suddenly. All
stared at the broken window, but presently their attention became
concentrated upon their great-grandmother Freida, who stood straight
up and looked attentively at the stone in the middle of the room, and
then called out in her loud, tuneless whisper:
"It is the same stone! They threw it through the window the same when
Reb Nohim quarrelled with Hersh because he wanted to live in
friendship with the strangers. It is the same stone--at whom did they
throw it now?" All the wrinkles in her face quivered, and her eyes
for the first time wide open, travelled about the room.
"At whom did they throw it?" she repeated.
"At me, dear bobe," replied, from the opposite wall, a voice full of
unspoken grief.
"Meir!" exclaimed the great-grandmother--not in her usual whisper,
but in a loud, almost piercing voice.
Meir crossed the room, stood before her and took the little wrinkled
hand caressingly in his own. He looked at her eyes full of
tenderness, and as if in mute entreaty. She seemed to feel his look,
for her eyelids flickered tremulously and restlessly. Saul rose from
the sofa.
"Raphael," he said. "Give me my cloak and hat."
"Where are you going, father?" asked both sons simultaneously.
"I am going to humble my head before the Rabbi; to ask him to delay
his judgment on my headstrong child until the anger in the hearts of
the people has subsided."
Presently the gray-headed patriarch of the greatest family in the
town, dressed in his long cloak and tall shiny hat, was seen slowly
and gravely crossing the market-place. The groups standing about made
way for him, bowing respectfully.
Somebody said loudly
"Poor Reb Saul, to have such a grandson!" The old man did not reply,
but pressed his lips closer together.
More than an hour had elapsed ere Saul returned from his errand. He
found all the elder members of the family in the same position as he
had left them. Meir sat close to the easy-chair of the great-grandmother,
who tightly clutched him by the coat sleeve.
Sarah met her father and relieved him of his hat and cloak.
"What news do you bring, father?" asked Raphael.
Saul breathed heavily, and looked gloomily on the floor.
"What could I bring from there," he said after a momentary silence,
"but shame and humiliation? The hearts of Todros rejoices over the
misfortune of the house of Ezofowich. Smiles, like reptiles, are
writhing and crawling over his yellow face."
"And what did he say?" asked several voices. "He said he had been far
too forbearing towards my godless, insolent grandson--that Reb Moshe,
Kamionker, and all the people were urging him to sit in judgment upon
Meir; at my intercession he would put off the trial until to-morrow
after sunset, and said if Meir humbled himself and asked his and his
people's pardon, the sentence would be less severe."
All eyes turned towards Meir.
"What do you say to it?" asked a chorus of voices.
Meir looked thoughtfully down.
"Give me time--till to-morrow," he pleaded. "I may perhaps find a way
out of it."
"How can you find a way?" they exclaimed. "Allow me not to answer you
till to-morrow," repeated Meir.
They nodded and became silent. It was mute consent.
In all their hearts fear and anger were struggling with family pride.
They felt angry with Meir, yet trembled for his fate, and the very
thought that a member of their family should humble himself publicly
before the Rabbi and the people seemed unbearable.
"Who knows," whispered Raphael, "he may find a way to avoid it?"
"Perhaps his mother will appear to him in his sleep and tell him what
to do," sighed Sarah.
The belated dinner, passed off in gloomy silence, interrupted only by
the sighs of women and a smothered sob from the children, who had
been forbidden to laugh and chatter.
The grieved and mournful faces looked now and then at Freida, who
showed an unusual restlessness. She did not speak, neither did she
doze during the meal; but moved uneasily in her chair, looked at
Meir, then at the shattered window, and in the middle of the room on
the spot where the stone had fallen.
"What ails her?" asked the members of the family of each other, in a
perturbed voice.
"She is recalling something to her mind," others replied. "She is
afraid of something. She wants to speak, but cannot find words."
When the dinner was over, two great-granddaughters wanted to help
Freida into the next room and lay her down to rest as usual, but she
planted her feet firmly on the floor and pointed to the easy-chair by
the window. Presently the inmates of the room began gradually to
disperse.
Raphael and Ber went driving away to a neighbouring estate, where
they had some important business to transact. Abraham shut himself up
in his room to look after his accounts, or perhaps to read. Saul gave
orders to his daughter to keep the house quiet, and sighing wearily,
lay down upon his bed. The women, after raking out the fire in the
kitchen, shut the door of the sitting-room and betook themselves with
their needlework to the courtyard, where they watched the children at
play, and conversed together in a low voice. The great-grandmother
remained alone in the sitting-room.
Strange to say, though perfect silence reigned in the house, she did
not fall asleep or even doze for a moment.
She sat in the easy-chair with her eyes wide open, and looking at the
broken window, her lips kept moving continually as if she were
speaking to herself. Sometimes she rocked her head, heavy, with the
voluminous turban, and the diamonds flashed out and glittered in the
sudden motion, and the pendants jingled against the links of the
golden chain. Her lips moved incessantly. Presently her hands also
moved quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with somebody; with the
spirits of the Past, who came forth from her clouded memory. Suddenly
she rocked her head, and said aloud:
"It was the same way when my Hersh found the writing of the
Senior--bad people threw stones at him."
She stopped; great tears gathered in her eyes and ran down her
withered cheeks.
Meir rose from the bench where he had been sitting, crossed the room
quickly, sat down on the low stool where the old woman rested her
foot, and putting his folded hands upon her knee asked:
"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"
At the sound of the voice which, as well as the face, reminded her of
the man she had loved so well, and the days of her youth and
happiness, she smiled. Her eyes full of tears did not look at her
great-grandson, but somewhere far beyond, and she began to whisper:
"The day he quarrelled with Reb Nohim and angered the people, he came
home and sat down sorrowful upon the bench and called his wife,
Freida. Freida was then young and beautiful; she wore a white turban
and stood before the kitchen fire, looking after the servants; but
when she heard her husband's voice, she went at once and stood before
him, waiting for his words. 'Freida!' he said, 'where the writing of
the Senior?'"
Then suddenly the whisper ceased. The young man sitting at her feet
pressed his hands convulsively together and asked again:
"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"
The old woman gently swayed her head, and her lips moved.
"He asked: 'Where is the writing of the Senior? Did the Senior bury
it in the ground? No! he could not have buried it, as dampness and
worms would have destroyed it. Did he hide it in the walls? No! he
knew that fire might destroy the walls. Where did he hide it?' Thus
asked Hersh, and his wife Freida pondered over his words and then
pointed at the bookcase where the Senior's old books were preserved,
and said: 'Hersh my Hersh! the writing is there.' When Freida said
that, Hersh rejoiced and said: 'You, Freida, have a wise head, and
your soul is as beautiful as your eyes.'"
And smiling at the dim pictures of her youthful days, she whispered:
"Then he said: 'A virtuous woman is far above rubies and her husband
doth trust her!'"
The young man looked at her with entreating eyes, and again asked:
"Bobe! what did Hersh do with the writing?"
The old woman did not answer at once, but her lips moved silently as
if she spoke with an invisible being, and then took up the thread of
her tale again:
"Hersh came back from a long journey, deeply grieved, and said to
Freida: 'Everything is lost. We must bide the Senior's writing again;
it is no use now.' Freida asked: 'Hersh! where will you hide the
writing?' Hersh replied: 'I will hide it where it was before, and you
alone, Freida, will know the secret.'"
Meir's eyes sparkled with sudden joy.
"Bobe! is the writing there?" And he pointed at the old bookcase.
Freida gave no answer, but continued in a whisper:
"He said: 'You alone will know the secret. And when the time is
drawing near and your soul is about to leave your body, tell it to
the son or grandson who resembles most your husband'--'and which of
my sons or grandsons is most like my husband Hersh?' 'It is Meir, the
son of Benjamin, who is like him as two grains of sand are like each
other. He is my child, the dearest of all. Freida will tell him the
secret.'"
Meir took both the hands of his great-grandmother in his own, and
covered them with kisses.
"Bobe," he whispered, "Is the writing there?" pointing at the
bookcase. But the old woman still followed the thread of her musings.
"Hersh said to Freida: 'If the elders of the family raise their hands
against him and the people throw stones at him, you, Freida, tell him
the secret. Let him take the writing of the Senior to his heart, and
leave everything, his house and wealth and family, and go forth into
the world; for that writing is more precious than gold and pearls. It
is the covenant of Israel with the Present, which flows like a great
river over their heads and with the nations which tower around him
like great mountains.'"
"Bobe! the elders of the family have risen up against me; the people
have thrown stones at me--I am that dearest grandson of whom your
husband Hersh spoke--tell me, is the writing among those old
volumes?"
A broad, almost triumphant, smile lit up the wrinkled face. She shook
her head with a feeling of secret joy, and whispered:
"Freida has watched over her husband's treasure and guarded it like
her own soul. When she became a widow, Reb Nohim Todros came to her
house and wanted to have the bookcase and the volumes put into the
fire; then Reb Baruch Todros came and wanted to burn the books; but
whenever they came, Freida screened the bookcase with her own body,
and said: 'This is my house, and everything in it is my own.' And
when Freida stood before the bookcase, Freida's sons and grandsons
stood before her and said: 'It is our mother; we will not let her be
harmed.'"
"Reb Nohim was very angry and went away--Reb Isaak did not come,
because he knew from his fathers that as long as Freida lives nobody
touched the old bookcase--Freida has watched over her husband's
treasure; it remains there and sleeps in peace."
With these last words the old woman pointed her thin hand at the
bookcase, which stood not far from her, and a quiet laugh, a laugh of
joy and almost childish triumph, shook her aged breast.
With one bound Meir reached the bookcase, and with a powerful hand
shook the old, rusty lock. The door flew open and a cloud of dust
burst forth which covered Meir's head as it had once--long
ago--covered Hersh's golden hair and Freida's white turban. He did
not heed it, but plunged his hand amongst the books from which his
ancestors, had drawn their wisdom and where that lay hidden which was
to direct him on his way.
At the sight of the open bookcase and the clouds of dust Freida
stretched forth both arms and called out:
"Hersh! Hersh! my own Hersh!"
It was not the usual tuneless whisper, but a loud cry wrung from the
heart, full of the joys and griefs of the past. She had forgotten the
great-grandson, and thought the tall, golden-haired youth, covered
with dust, was her husband come back to her from unknown worlds.
Meir turned his excited face and burning eyes to her.
"Bobe!" he said breathlessly, "where is it? On the top? Below? In
this book--that--or that?"
"In that," said the woman, pointing at the book upon which Meir's
hand rested.
Presently a roll of yellow papers rustled under the parchment cover
of the volume. Holding them in both hands, Meir fell down before his
great-grandmother and kissed her hands and feet.
Freida smiled, and touched his head gently; but by and by her eyelids
drooped, and her whole face took the expression of sweet dreaminess
again. Tired with the strain upon her clouded memory, looking still
into the bright dreamland of the past, the centenarian had fallen
asleep--touched, as it were, by a gentle wave of the eternal sleep.
The passionate outpouring of thanks did not rouse her again. Meir hid
the precious papers in his breast and went swiftly upstairs towards
the top of the house, where his young cousins dwelt.
During the whole of the evening, and the greater part of the night,
the large window near the pointed roof flickered with an uncertain
light, and people were seen moving about constantly. At early dawn,
some people came out of the house by a side door and went in
different directions.
Soon afterwards strange news began to circulate about the town. The
news was undefined, vague, told and explained in different ways; but,
such as it was, it excited the greatest curiosity among the people.
The everyday work seemed to go on as usual, but in the midst of the
dashing and rattling of implements of handiwork a continual hum of
conversation was going on. Nobody could point out the source from
which sprung all the rumours which filled the public mind; they
seemed to be floating in the air, and pervading all the streets and
alleys.
"To-day, after sunset the elders of the Kahol and the judges, with
Rabbi Isaak at their head, will sit in judgment upon Meir Ezofowich."
"How will they judge him? What will they do to him?"
"No; there will be no judgment. The bold grandson of Reb Saul will
come to the Bet-ha-Midrash and confess his sins before the Rabbi and
the people, and ask forgiveness!"
"No, he will not humble himself or ask forgiveness."
"Why should he not?"
"Ah, ah, it is a great secret, but everybody knows about it, and
everybody's eyes burn with curiosity. Young Meir has found a
treasure!"
"What treasure?"
"A treasure that has been buried for five hundred years--a thousand
years--ever since the Jews came into this country, in the house of
Ezofowich. The treasure is the writing of one of their ancestors,
left as a legacy to his descendants."
"What does the writing say?"
"No one knows for certain."
All the inhabitants of the poorer streets had heard something about
it from their fathers and grandfathers; but everybody bad heard it
different. Some said it was the writing of a wise and saintly
Israelite, who lived long ago, and who wanted to make his nation
powerful and wise. Others maintained that this same ancestor of
Ezofowich was an unbeliever, bribed by the stranger to destroy the
name of Israel and the holy covenant from the face of the earth.
"The writing was to teach people how to make gold out of sand, and it
tells poor people how to get rich."
"No! it teaches how to drive away the evil spirits, so that they
cannot touch you, and how to transpose the letters of God's names
into a word with which you can work miracles."
"The writing teaches how to make friends out of your enemies, and to
enter into a covenant of peace with all nations. Somebody heard that
it showed the way how to bring Moses back to life again, and call on
him to bring his people out of bondage into the land that flows with
gold and wisdom."
"Why did they not search for the treasure sooner?"
"They were afraid. It is said that whoever touches that writing will
be scorched with fire and burned into powder. Serpents will twist
themselves around his heart! His forehead will become as black as
soot! Happiness and peace will go from him for ever! Stones will fall
upon him like hail! His forehead will be branded with a red mark!
Long, long ago, there still lived people who remembered it, the great
merchant, Hersh Ezofowich, Saul's father, had touched that writing."
"And what became of him?"
"The old people said that when he touched the papers serpents coiled
round his heart and bit him, so that he died young."
"And now young Meir has found that writing?"
"Yes, he has found it, and is going to read it before the people in
Bet-ha-Midrash after sunset."
Going to and fro amongst the people who exchanged the above opinions,
was Reb Moshe, the melamed. He appeared first in one street, then in
another; was seen in one court, and near another's window; always
listening intently; he smiled now and then and his eyes gleamed, but
he said nothing. When directly appealed to by people, and urged to
give an opinion, he shook his head gloomily and muttered
unintelligible sentences. He could not say anything, as he had not
spoken to the master yet, to whom, out of fanatical faith and mystic
personal attachment he had given himself up body and soul. Without
definite orders from the revered sage he dared not give an opinion or
settle things even in his own mind. He might unwittingly act against
his master's wish, or transgress any of the thousands of precepts;
though he knew them all by heart, yet he might fail to catch their
deeper meaning without the guiding spirit. The melamed was fully
conscious of his own wisdom, yet what did it mean in comparison with
the Rabbi's, whose mind pierced the very heavens? Jehovah looked upon
him with pleased eyes, and wondered how he could have created such a
perfect being as Rabbi Isaak Todros.
About noon, when his mind and ears were full of what he had heard, he
glided silently into the Rabbi's hut. He could not get the Rabbi's
ear at once, because he was conversing with an old man, whose dusty,
travel-stained garments showed that he had come a great distance; he
now stood leaning on his stick before the Rabbi, looking at him with
humble, and at the same time radiant, eyes.
"I dearly wished," he said, in a voice trembling with age and
emotion, "to go to Jerusalem to die in the land of our fathers; but I
am poor and have no money for the journey. Give me, O Rabbi, a
handful of the sand which they bring to you every year from there, so
that my grandchildren may scatter it upon my breast when the soul is
about to leave my body. With that handful of soil, I shall lie easier
in my grave."
The Rabbi took some white sand out of a carefully, wrapped-up bag and
gave it to the old man.
The man's whole face lighted up with joy; he carefully secured the
precious relic under his ragged garments, and then kissed the Rabbi's
hand with fervent gratitude.
"Rabbi," he said, "I have nothing to pay you with."
Todros craned his yellow neck towards him:
"You have come from a far country, indeed, if you do not know that
Isaak Todros does not take payment. If I do good to my brethren, I
ask only for one reward: that the Almighty may increase by one drop
the wisdom I possess already, but of which I can never have enough."
The old man looked with admiring eyes at the sage, who, so full of
wisdom, yet wished for more.
"Rabbi," he sighed, "allow me to kiss your benevolent hand."
"Kiss it," said the master gently, and when the old man bent his head
covered with white hair, the Rabbi put his arm round him and kissed
him on the forehead.
"Rabbi!" exclaimed the old man, with a burst of happiness in his
voice, "you are good--you are our father--our master and brother."
"Blessing upon you," replied Todros, "for having preserved your faith
until your old age, and the love for our fatherland which makes you
prize a handful of its soil more than gold and silver."
Both their eyes were full of tears. It was the first time they had
ever met, and yet their hearts were full of brotherly love and mutual
sympathy.
Reb Moshe, who sat in his usual corner waiting for the end of the
interview, also had tears in his eyes. When Isaak Todros was alone be
still waited a little, and then said in a low voice:
"Nassi!"
"Hah?" asked the sage, who was already buried in mystic speculation.
"There is great news about the town."
"What news?"
"Meir Ezofowich has found the writing of his ancestor, the Senior,
and is going to read it to-day before the assembled people."
The Rabbi was now fully awake, and craning his neck towards the
melamed, exclaimed:
"How did you come to hear of it?"
"Ah! the whole town is full of it. Meir's friends since early morning
have been among the people spreading the news."
Todros did not say a word; but his eyes had a keen, almost savage
expression.
"Nassi! will you allow him to do this?"
Todros was silent. At last he said in a determined voice:
"I will."
Reb Moshe gave a convulsive start.
"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "you are the wisest man that ever was, or will
be on this earth; but has your wisdom considered all the
consequences, and that this writing may detach the people from you
and the covenant?"
Todros looked at him sternly:
"You do not know the spirit of the people if you can speak and think
like that. Have not I and my fathers before me tried to mould and
educate the people and make them faithful to their religion? Let him
read the papers--let the abomination come forth from its
hiding-place, where it has lain till now; it will be easier to fight
against it and crush it down, once and for ever. Let him read it:
the measure of his transgressions will then be full, and my
avenging hand will come down upon him!"
A long silence followed upon these words. The master was absorbed in
thought, and the humble follower looked at him in silent adoration.
"Moshe!"
"What is your will, Nassi?"
"That writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands."
"Nassi! how is it to be taken from him?"
"That writing must be taken and delivered into my hands!" repeated
the Rabbi decisively.
"Nassi! who is to take it from him?" Todros fixed his glaring eyes
upon his follower. "That writing must be taken from him and delivered
into my hands," he repeated for the third time.
Moshe bent his head.
"Rabbi!" he whispered, "I understand. Rest in peace. When he reads
the abomination before the people such a storm will break over his
head that it will lay him in the dust."
Again there was silence. The Rabbi interrupted it:
"Moshe!"
"Yes, Nassi!"
"When is he going to read that blasphemous writing?"
"He is going to read it in the Bet-ha-Midrash after sunset."
"Moshe! go at once to the shamos (messenger) and tell him to convoke
the elders and the judges in the Bet-ha-Kahol for a solemn judgment."
Moshe rose obediently, and went towards the door. The Rabbi, raising
both arms, exclaimed "Woe to the headstrong and disobedient! Woe to
him who touches the leper and spreads contagion!"
Saying this, his whole face became suffused with a wave of dark,
relentless hatred. And yet, a quarter of an hour ago the same face
was full of brotherly love; the same mouth spoke gentle and
comforting words, and the eyes were full of tears.
Thus gentleness and wrath, love and relentless hatred dwelt side by
side in the same heart; virtues and dark crimes flow from the same
source. Charity goes hand in hand with persecution and neighbour
often stands for enemy. Man, who tended to human suffering and healed
the sick, with the same hand lit the stakes and prepared the
instruments of torture.
What mysterious influences rule such dual lives?--asks the perplexed
student of human nature.
But for these mysterious undercurrents which lead human brains and
hearts into awful error, Rabbi Isaak might have been a great man.
Let us be just. He would have been a great man but for those that
raised the weapons of fire and sword, and the still more deadly
weapons of scorn and contempt, against his brethren, and thus
confined them in the narrow, dark,--a spiritual and moral Ghetto!
The sun had set, and the earth was wrapped in the dim light of a
summer evening. The large court of the synagogue swarmed with a
crowd. The interior of Bet-ha-Midrash was already full of people.
There could be seen heads of old men and fair locks of children, long
beards, black like crow's wings and blonde like hemp. They all moved
and swayed, necks were craned, beards raised, and eyes glowed in
anticipation of some new sensation. Everything appeared in shadow.
The large room was lighted by a small lamp, suspended at the entrance
door, and a single tallow candle in a brass candlestick, which stood
on a white table; this, with a solitary chair close to the high and bare
wall, constituted the platform from which the speaker was wont to
address the people. In Israel, everybody, young or old, and of whatever
social position, had the right to speak in public, according to the
democratic principles prevailing in the ancient law. Every Israelite had
the right to enter this building, whether for the purposes of praying,
reading, or teaching.
The people who crowded outside the building looked often in at the
windows of the room where the elders and judges held their
conferences. In the entrance hall the lamp was being lit, and burning
candles were placed upon the long table. Presently people well-known
to the inhabitants ascended, the steps of the portico. Singly or in
twos arrived the judges of the community--all of them men well on in
years, fathers of large families, wealthy merchants, or house owners.
There ought to have been twelve in number, but the bystanders counted
only up to eleven. The twelfth judge was Raphael Ezofowich. People
whispered to each other that the uncle of the accused could not sit
in judgment against him; others said that he would not. After the
judges arrived, the elders, amongst whom was Morejne Calman, with his
hands in his pockets and the stereotyped, honeyed smile on his lips,
and Jankiel Kamionker, whose face looked very yellow, and whose eyes
had the hunted look of a criminal. The last, but not least of them,
was Isaak Todros, who glided in so swiftly and silently that scarcely
anybody in the crowd noticed him.
At the same time, from the depth of Bet-ha-Midrash, a clear, resonant
voice reached the ears of the surging crowd without:
"In the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, hear, O
Israel!"
The murmur of the crowd within and without increased, and almost rose
to a tumult. For a few moments the voice of the speaker was drowned
in the general hubbub, and his few sentences sounded indistinct and
broken.
Suddenly somebody from the crowd shouted:
"Silence and listen, for it is said: 'You shall listen to whosoever
speaketh in the name of Jehovah!'"
"That is true," murmured voices. "He began in the name of the God of
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob."
Then everything became quiet, except for the rustle of those near the
door, who tried to get a better view of the speaker. They did not see
anything unusual. Behind the white table, pale and grave, stood Meir
Ezofowich. He was much paler than usual, and his eyes burned
feverishly. His emotion was not the outcome of fear or doubt, but of
a powerful conviction and radiant hope. In his hands he held a few
sheets of old yellow paper, which he raised now and then, to show
whence he took his words.
"O Israel!" he read out, in a clear and thrilling voice, "you are a
great people! You were the first among nations who recognised one God
in heaven, and heard on earth, amid the roar of thunder and flashes
of lightning, those ten great commandments, which, like ten rocks,
helped you and other nations to climb towards the sun of perfection.
Israel! blind from his birth, or blinded by malice, must be the man
who fails to recognise the greatness of your mission. Dry from its
birth, or dried by the searching breath that comes from the nether
world, must be the eye that does not shed a tear at the sight of your
sufferings. Ill-fated he who, looking at you, calls you contemptible.
May the Lord pity him and forgive him, as he possesses not the
balance in which are weighed a nation's virtues and crimes, possesses
not the wisdom which shows how pain and degradation produce sin.
Israel! of you were born Moses, whose love was like the flaming bush,
David with the golden harp, the beautiful Esther, weeping over the
misery of her people. The Maccabees with their mighty swords came
from among you, and the prophets who died for their faith. Whilst
living happily in the land of your fathers, you loathed to bind a
brother into slavery; upon your fields you left the tenth sheaf to
the poor and needy, and gave a hearing to anybody who spoke to the
people. Humbling yourself only before Jehovah, you said: 'We are all
alike in the eyes of our Father.' And when, in after years,
ill-fated, vanquished, covered with the blood of your sons who
defended the land of their fathers, you stood an outcast amongst
nations, and suffered from contempt and persecution, you yet remained
faithful unto your God and the memory of your fathers, and taught
other nations who suffered like you how to defend themselves without
weapons. The Lord hath made you intelligent, pure, and charitable, O
my people; but it is nigh two thousand years since you possessed the
one necessary thing on earth--a fatherland."
Here the voice of the speaker gave way, and he paused for a minute.
The crowd had caught his emotion, and a low tremor seemed to pass
through the people. A few subdued voices murmured:
"Let us listen! Let us listen! It is the writing of a true Israelite
who tells of the glory of his people."
They listened in silence, and Meir went on:
"Woe to the people who have no fatherland! The soul of the people
clings to the soil as a child clings to its mother's breast which
gives it nourishment, health, and relief from sickness. The Lord
ordained it thus; but the people acted against His will and tore your
soul, O Israel, from the soil to which it was attached. As an outcast
you went and knocked for charity at the very doors of those that had
despoiled you; your head bent down under laws from which your mind
recoiled; your tongue tried to imitate their speech, and the roof of
your mouth dried up in exceeding bitterness; your face darkened from
wrath and humiliation, and you lived in fear lest your faith and the
name of Israel should be obliterated from the face of the earth. Then
under torments and awful sorrows your greatness fell from you; your
sins and transgressions began to grow and multiply, and Jehovah your
Lord, looking down upon you said: 'Is this my chosen people with whom
I made the covenant of Truth and Grace? Can he not keep it except
with the words of his mouth, which do not agree with the deeds of his
hands? Does he see the covenant only in his offerings; songs,
prayers, and incense, and forget the high ladder I showed my servant
Jacob in his dream to teach the people in all times how to reach me,
who is Perfection and Understanding.'"
Here the voice of the reader became drowned again in a low,
ever-increasing murmur.
"What is it he is reading?" they asked each other. "It is the writing
of a bad Israelite who throws ugly words at his people."
"Which are those sins that have been multiplying amongst us? And how
are we to praise the Lord if our songs and, prayers have no value in
His eyes?"
Meir grew pale when he found his voice powerless against the
increasing tumult. But he would not stop now, and went on reading. By
and by curiosity prevailed over discontent and they became silent
once more.
They listened to the tale of Michael Senior's life; how, by order of
the king, and out of love for his people, he had stood at the head of
their affairs, and wanted to lead them into new ways, at the end of
which he saw the dawning of a happy future; how he had been thwarted
in all his undertakings, and the heart of the people turned away from
him.
"Great thoughts crowded into my brain which I could not utter,
because my old friends and my pupils abandoned me! In my breast there
was fire, at which they would not warm themselves, but said it had
been kindled by evil spirits. Then my body wasted away, the light of
my eyes became dim, and the sleep of death drew near. I cried out in
anguish: 'Lord of the world! do not forsake thy messenger! Give him a
voice powerful enough to reach the ears of those that are not born,
since those that live will listen no longer.' And I opened the Holy
Book and read:"
"'Though he be dead, he yet speaketh.' Son of my sons, you who have
found this writing, read it to the people to let them know what I
desired from them. The first thing I asked from them was;
Forgetfulness. Did I want them to forget their Lord Jehovah, or the
name of Israel which produced the greatest men of the past? No, I
could not ask them to forget it because the remembrance is dear to me
and rejoices my heart."
"I asked my people to forget the wrongs and sorrows of the past. Do
not remember injuries! Do not say an eye for an eye! Mar Zutra every
day, before he lay down to rest, said, 'I forgive all those that have
saddened me.' Mar Zutra was a great man."
"When you begin to forget Israel, you will approach the flame which
you speak of as alien, and which belongs to all nations. The alien
flame, from which you fly in your blind hatred, has been kindled by
Sar-ha-Olam, the angel of knowledge, who is the Angel of Angels and
the prince of the world. The knowledge of religion is sacred, but
other knowledge has equally been created by him who dwells in perfect
wisdom. Good is the apple of paradise, but are we therefore to refuse
other products of the earth? A time will come when the world will be
full of knowledge, as the sea is full of water."
"Thus spoke and wrote the sage whom your teachers hold accursed. His
name was Moses Majmonides, a true prophet, who did not look into the
past but into the future, for he knew that a time would come when all
those who did not gather around the flame of wisdom would fall into
the dust, and their name become a by-word of contempt and derision.
He was the second Moses; he was my teacher from whom came all my joy
and all my sorrow."
Here the reader dropped the hands that held the papers, and an
expression of rapture shone in his face.
"He was my teacher from whom came all my joy and all my sorrow."
Strange coincidence! Both he and his ancestor who had died three
hundred years ago had listened to the same teacher. In the hearts of
both he had kindled the heroic, self-sacrificing love, the greatest
upon earth--the love of the ideal. But the descendant who read these
words which one by one dispersed all his doubts, felt no sorrow;
nothing but a great joy and hope.
A hoarse and thick voice shouted from the crowd:
"Hear! hear! he praises alien flames! He calls the accursed heretic a
second Moses!"
All heads turned towards the door to see who had spoken. It was Reb
Moshe, who had climbed upon the bench near the door and was thus
raised above the crowd; he shook his head, laughed derisively, and
fixed his malignant eyes upon Meir. But the people's curiosity was
not yet satisfied; under their ragged garments many hearts were
beating with a new, and by themselves undefined sensation.
"He speaks to us through the mouth of his descendant. Listen to him
whose soul dwells already amongst the Sefirots."
An old man with stooping back, who leaned upon his stick, raised his
white head and said to Meir, plaintively:
"How could Israel warm himself at the sun of knowledge when he was
driven away from it by his enemies? And we once had, Reb, famous
physicians and wise men who were ministers at the courts of kings;
but when they thrust us from the portals of knowledge we went forth
and said: Henceforth Israel will hold aloof from the stranger, like
an elder brother whom the younger brethren have offended."
Meir looked at the old man with a gentle, half-triumphant smile.
"Reb!" he replied, "the voice of my ancestor will give an answer to
your question:"
"A time will come when wrong and injustice will disappear from the
earth. The gates of knowledge will be thrown open wide before you.
Enter quickly with a joyful heart, because understanding is the
greatest weapon given by the Lord who rules the world by the eternal
laws of wisdom."
"They do not wish to behold the works of the Creator; of such it is
said: 'A fool hath no delight in understanding.'"
"The second thing I asked from my people is: Remembrance. Rava asked
Raba, the son of Moro, the origin of the proverb! 'Do not throw mud
into the fountain from which thou drinkest.' Raba answered with the
words of the Scriptures: 'Thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because
thou wast a stranger in his land.' Eliezer the son of Azalrya, said:
'The Egyptians did not invite the Israelites into their country from
self-interest, therefore the Lord rewarded them.' Since the country
whose bread you eat did not treat you as cattle to plough his field,
but as a tired brother to rest on his bosom, how have you rewarded
it, O Israel?"
"It is not said, Thou shalt despoil the stranger, but 'One Law shall
be for him that is home-born and unto the stranger that sojourneth
among you.'"
"When I was holding the office bestowed upon me by the king, two base
Israelites were found who had gone to the enemy's camp and betrayed
the king's secrets and brought calamity and trouble upon the kings
troops. What did I do with these base subjects? I ordered it to be
published by the sound of trumpets, all over the country, that these
two, traitors to their God and their country, were for ever expelled
from the bosom of Israel. I did this because when contemplating their
deed my heart boiled over with wrath. I saw, as if in a dream, the
second Moses, who said: 'Thrust them out of Israel, for they have
betrayed those that received them as guests into their land.'"
"Not only for the good of your souls did I ask you for remembrance
and gratitude, but also for your earthly welfare. When I sat in the
great Synod assembled at the wish of the king and nobles, in the rich
town of Lublin, I advised and urged the wise and honest men to send
out a proclamation that would shake the hearts and brains of the
people, even as the gardener shakes the trees to make the ripe fruit
fall."
"In this proclamation we said: 'Be useful to the country wherein you
live and the inhabitants will respect you. This is the first step
towards happiness, because contempt is bitter and respect sweet to
the human heart.'"
"But there are still other things which I have in my mind: He who is
the servant of the soil, hath bread in abundance. How is the soil to
nourish you if you treat it, not as a faithful servant, but as a
stranger who only cares for the present day?"
"Rabbi Papa said: 'Do not engage in trade, but cultivate the soil,
though both are good things; but the first is blessed by men.' If you
come into the land, plant all kinds of trees that produce fruit."
"There will come a time when wrong-doing will disappear from the
earth, and the nations will call out to the sons of Israel: 'Take the
plough into your hands and cultivate the land, that you and your sons
may eat your bread in peace.' But false prophets will raise their
voice and tell you not to till the soil in the land of bondage."
"Oh, my descendant who reads this, tell the people to beware of false
prophets! Call out to them in a loud voice: The false prophets have
brought you low, O Israel!"
It was evident that the descendant fulfilled the command of his
ancestor with conviction and unspeakable joy. Had he not himself felt
the deep hatred towards the false sages? Why he considered them as
such, he could not have told. His tongue was tied by want of
knowledge, and his spirit, longing for light, had beaten against the
walls of darkness in the midst of which he was imprisoned. Now he
knew and understood; therefore from the depth of his heart he called
out:
"Do not believe, O Israel, in your false sages."
The crowd grew noisy.
"Of whom does he speak?"
"Who are the false sages and prophets in Israel?"
"He speaks of our rabbis and learned men; abominable blasphemy comes
out of his mouth."
"He throws only blame upon the children of Israel!"
"He bids us plough the soil in the land of bondage."
"Rabbi Nohim, the grandfather of Rabbi Isaak, said to our fathers:
'You shall not till the soil with your own hands in the land of
bondage.'"
"Rabbi Nohim was the wisest of wise men; his wisdom lighted up the
whole earth."
"Hersh Ezofowich quarrelled fiercely with Reb Nohim."
"Hersh Ezofowich was a great sinner!"
"Why, does he not tell us how to make poor people rich?"
"He said we ought to become servants of the soil on which we live.
When the Messiah comes and takes us to the promised land, we shall
leave this one. Why should we become its servants?"
"It was said the writing would teach us how to change sand into
gold!"
"And how to drive out evil spirits."
"How to bring Moses to life again."
"They have told us lies; there is nothing wise or pleasing to the
Lord in the writing."
Questions and mutterings followed rapidly one upon the other,
accompanied by the scornful laughter of those that had been balked in
their hopes and expectations. The melamed, towering above the crowd,
threw out insulting remarks, or burst into harsh laughter full of
venomous malice. Under the second wall opposite the melamed stood Ber
on a bench. These two men, standing opposite each other, presented a
striking contrast. The melamed shook his head and waved his arms,
wildly shouting and laughing; Ber stood silent and motionless, his
head thrown back, resting against the wall, and from his blue eyes
that looked into the far, far distance, tears fell in thick drops.
Close to Meir in a compact body stood a dozen or more of young men,
who looked with rapt attention at the reader. They breathed quickly,
smiled now and then, and raised their arms and sighed. They seemed
not to see or hear the crowd; their spirits, longing for truth and blindly
searching for it, had fastened upon the new thoughts. A thin, quavering
voice was heard from the crowd: "They talked much about that, long,
long ago; when I was young." A deep sigh accompanied the young man's
words. Perhaps he was one of Hersh's friends. Young boys who pushed
their heads between the people laughed and shouted, then disappeared
again.
The old yellow papers began to tremble in Meir's hands; upon his pale
face appeared two red burning spots. He looked half angrily, half
entreatingly at the public.
"Be quiet!" he called out. "Let me read the words of the great man to
you to the end. He has chosen me as his messenger, and I must obey his
commands."
His voice was loud and authoritative; his whole frame seemed to
expand under the influence of a new power.
"Be quiet," shouted the melamed. "Let him read the abomination which
hitherto has lain in hiding. Let it come forth that we may stamp it
out all the easier."
"O Israel!" began the youthful voice once more. "O Israel, the third
thing I ask from you is Discernment."
"In ages past, the learned men among us were called Baale Tressim or
armour-bearers. What was their armour? Their armour was the
understanding of the covenant. Why were they armed? To protect Israel
from annihilation. They said: Israel shall not disappear from the
surface of the earth, for we will give him a strong hold from the
covenant of 'Moses. Thus said the Tanaim. And the Sanhedrin where
they sat, and the schools in which they taught became as the arsenal
where they ground and prepared their weapons. Gamaliel, Eliezer,
Joshua, Akiba, and Jehuda were amongst them like suns among the
stars. Others followed in their footsteps, and through five hundred
years they compiled, explained and wrote the great book which they'
named the Talmud, and which through centuries was a bulwark to the
Israelites, shielding them from the devouring elements From its pages
the sons of Israel drew wisdom and comfort, and during the great
dispersion they were never divided, because their thoughts and sighs
went towards it and gathered round it, like children round their
mother."
"But is everything which is good in itself equally perfect?"
"This book, which during five hundred years was written and composed
by wise and loving men, cannot be a foolish or a bad book. He who
speaks thus of it, tell him to clean his heart from evil, and then
open it and read."
"There are clouds in the sky, and in the purest heart the Lord
discerns a flaw. Did Jehovah himself write the books of Our Law? Did
the angels write them? No; people wrote them. Has there ever been a
man during all the ages who did not know what it meant to go astray?
Is there any human work which is adequate or all times and all ages?"
"The throne of the Pharaohs has been shattered; Nineveh fell into
ruins; Rome which ruled over half the world broke asunder; and
Greek wisdom has made way for other wisdom. The desert spreads now
where once were rich and powerful cities; and cities are rising where
formerly was desert. Thus human works, the greatest of them, pass
away and others take their place."
"Israel! the nourishment which sustained your soul through many
generations contains grain, but also chaff. In your treasure hoards
there are diamonds and worthless sand."
"The books of your Law are as the pomegranate which the foolish man
ate with the rind, which left a bitter taste in his mouth. When Rabbi
Meir saw him doing this, he plucked fruit from the tree, threw away
the bitter rind and ate the luscious fruit. I wished to teach you as
Rabbi Meir taught the man who ate the pomegranate. I wished for you
the gift of discernment, for the books of your faith. Wished that you
might use your intelligence as a sieve in order to separate the grain
from the chaff, the diamonds from the sand; so that you may keep the
pure grain and the diamonds."
"You have thrust me off for this my request; your hearts became
hardened against me because of the fear and hatred towards things
new. And yet it is written: 'Do not look at the vessel, but look at
its contents.' There are new pitchers full of old wine, and old ones
that are empty."
"Meir," whispered Ber, "look at the people!" and then he added in a
still lower voice: "Depart from this place as quickly as you can."
Meir looked around at the seething, muttering crowd; a smile
half-angry, half-sad came on his lips.
"I did not expect this; I expected something quite different," he
said in a low voice, and he bent his head; but he raised it again
almost instantly and called out:
"I am the messenger of my ancestor. He has chosen me to read his
thoughts to you. I must obey him."
He drew a deep breath, then added in a still louder voice:
"He penetrated the doubts which were to arise in those who were not
born, and gave an answer to them. He penetrated into the inner life
of the human soul, which thirsts after truth and knowledge, and
offers you freedom and happiness through my mouth. I love him as if
he had given me life. I bow down before the greatness of the man who
has worked out his own immortality and dwells now in Jehovah's glory.
I think as he thought; I wish for you as he wished. I am like him; I
am the child of his spirit." His clear voice shook with emotion, and
smiles and unshed tears were together on his mobile features.
"My ancestor says to you that all nations are moving on towards
knowledge and happiness; but our heads are so full of little things
that there is not room for great thoughts; that the study they call
Kabala, and which you consider, is a cursed science, for it kills the
Israelite's intellect and leads him away from true science."
His voice became drowned in the general uproar, laughter and
groaning, so that only broken sentences reached the small,
inattentive audience. Yet he did not cease speaking, but went on
quicker and quicker, with heaving breast. It almost seemed as if
recognising the futility of his efforts, he tried to stand at his
post as messenger of the dead as long as he could. Perhaps he had not
lost hope altogether.
"Woe I woe!" called out voices in the crowd. "Heresy and sin have
entered the house of Israel! Out of the mouths of children comes
blasphemy against holy things."
"Listen, listen!" cried Meir. "It is still far to the end of my
ancestor's writing."
"Let us stop his mouth and drive him from the spot where only true
Israelites should speak."
"Listen, it is written here that Israel should leave off expecting a
Messiah in the flesh."
"Woe! woe! he will take from the heart of this only hope and
comfort."
"Because he will not come upon earth in the shape of man, but in the
shape of Time, bringing to all people knowledge, happiness and
peace."
"Meir, Meir, what are you doing? You will be lost! Look at the
people! Go away while there is time," whispered those around him.
Ber stood at his side. Eliezer, Aryel, Haim, and a few others
surrounded him; but he neither saw nor heeded anything. Large beads
of perspiration stood on the proudly-raised brow, and his eyes looked
despairingly and angrily at the tumultuous crowd.
Suddenly a dull thump was heard near the entrance door. The melamed
had jumped down from the bench, and, with his naked feet, stamped
several times upon the floor. Then, in a few bounds, he cleared the
crowd, which made way for him, and with a violent jerk of his arm
threw down the brass candlestick with the yellow candle. At the same
time someone climbed on the bench and blew out the lamp near the
door. Except for the pale streaks of moonlight, which came through
the windows, the whole room was plunged into darkness, and amidst
that darkness seethed and boiled the raging element--an exasperated
populace.
Nobody could have singled out any individual expression. Words,
curses, groans, came down like hailstones, and mixed together in a
chaos indescribable. At last, from the wide open door of the
Bet-ha-Midrash poured the dark stream of people which, outside in the
court, was met by another of those who had not found room within, and
were less noisy, though equally excited. A large wave of moonlight
lit up the open space and the Bet-ha-Kahol with its closed door and
shuttered windows. On the portico steps, motionless and silent, his
elbows resting on his knees, sat the shamos (messenger) awaiting
orders from the interior of the building which, in the midst of the
uproarious mob stood dark and mute like the grave.
The crowd broke up into many groups. One of these, the largest,
crossed the gates of the precincts; shouting and struggling, it
poured into the moonlit square, where it looked like a monster bird
flapping its huge wings It was mostly composed of poorly-dressed men
with long beards and maliciously gleaming eyes. Children of different
ages flittered to and fro among them, picking up stones and mud. They
all thronged towards one point; a single man surrounded by a
bodyguard of friends. Pushed and knocked about, they resisted with
their arms and shoulders until, yielding to the pressures they
finally gave way, and were swallowed up by the crowd. Then a shower
of stones fell upon the back of the man whom, until now, they had
screened; dozens of hands grasped his garments and tore them into
strips; upon his bare head fell mud and handfuls of gravel picked out
of the gutter. In his ears thundered the yells and groans of the
infuriated mob; before his face flashed the clenched fists and
inflamed faces of his assailants, and beyond, as if veiled in a
blood-red mist, silent and closely shuttered, appeared the house of
his fathers.
Towards that house, as if to a haven of salvation, he directed his
steps as quick as the grasping hands and the children crowding round
his feet would let him. From his compressed lips came no sound either
of complaint or entreaty; he did not seem to feel the hands that
smote him or the stones, which pelted his body, and which might maim
or kill him at any moment. With breast and shoulders he tried
desperately to push aside the mob. It was not himself he defended,
but the treasure he carried; now and then he touched his breast to
make sure it was still there. Suddenly a burly figure, dressed in a
coarse shirt, and with a thick stick in his bands, barred his way,
and shouted:
"Fools, what are you doing? Why do you not take the loathsome writing
from him? The Rabbi Isaak has ordered it to be torn from him; he has
bidden it in his breast!"
In an instant the young man, who had been assailed from the back and
sides only, found himself attacked in front also. Rough and dark
bands reached at his breast; his convulsively clenched arms were
wrenched asunder, and they began to tear his garments. Then he raised
his pale face towards the moonlit sky with a despairing cry:
"Jehovah!"
He felt a lithe and supple body creep up from under his feet, and a
pair of hot lips were pressed to the hand which hung down powerless.
A wonderful contrast this single kiss of love in the midst of all
that hatred and fury. With a last, almost superhuman effort, he
pushed off his assailants, stooped down, and, before anybody had time
to rush at him again, lifted a child up in his arms. It threw its
arms around his neck, and looked with streaming eyes dilated with
terror at the people.
"It is my child! it is my Lejbele! do not hurt him!" called the
frightened voice of the tailor Shmul from the crowd.
"Reb!" called out several voices to the melamed, "he is shielding
himself behind the child--the child loves him!"
"Take away the child and tear from him the writing!" yelled the
melamed.
But nobody obeyed him. They still pulled at his clothes at his sides
and behind, a few stones whizzed over his head; but he saw a clear
space in front of him, and, with a few bounds, he reached the porch,
which an invisible hand opened quickly, and as quickly bolted after
he had entered.
Meir put the child down in the dark passage, and he himself entered
the sitting-room, where, by the light of the lamp, he saw the whole
family assembled. Panting and breathless, he leaned against the wall,
and his dull eyes looked slowly round the room. All were silent.
Never since the house of Ezofowich had existed in the world had a
member of that family looked like the pale, panting youth whose head
was covered with dust and mud, and whose garments hung in tatters
around him. The forehead, moist with the dew of mortal anguish, was
marked across with a red scar, caused by a rough stone, or perhaps
some blunt instrument in the darkness of the Bet-ha-Midrash.
But for the expression of pride and undaunted courage in his face, he
might have been taken for a begging outcast or a hunted criminal.
Saul covered his face with both hands. Some of the women sobbed
aloud. Raphael, Abraham, and other grave members of the family rose
from their seats, stern and angry, and called out in one voice:
"Ill-fated lad!" They were about to surround him, and to speak to
him, when suddenly the shutters flew open with a crash, the windows
shattered into bits, and heavy stones thundered against the furniture
from beyond the broken windows, yells and shouts arose, over which
dominated the hoarse voice of the melamed. They called for Meir to
give up the writing, heaped abuse and insults on the family, and
threatened them with heaven's and the people's wrath.
The members of the family stood motionless, as if turned to stone
with terror and shame.
Saul took his hands from his face, drew himself up proudly, and went
quickly towards the door.
"Father, where are you going?" cried the men and women in terror.
He pointed his shaking hand at the window, and said:
"I will stand in the porch of my house, and tell the foolish rabble
to be quiet, and take itself off."
They barred his way. The women clung around his shoulders and knees.
"They will kill you, father!" they moaned.
Suddenly the raging tumult ceased. Instead yells, a low murmur passed
from mouth to mouth.
"The shamos! the shamos! the shamos!" It was indeed the same man who,
silent and motionless, had sat on the steps of the Be-ha-Kahol
waiting for orders, and who now approached the house of Ezofowich to
proclaim the sentence of the tribunal before the family of the
accused. The crowd, stirred by ardent curiosity to hear the sentence,
pressed close to the windows, in which not a single pane of glass
remained. Others, scattered over the square and in the neighbouring
streets, drew nearer, and surrounded the house like a dark, living wall.
The door of the house was opened and shut again, and the shamos
entered the sitting-room.
He looked anxiously, almost suspiciously around, and bowed very low
before Saul.
"Peace be with you," he said in a low voice, as if he himself felt
the bitter irony of the greeting.
"Reb Saul," he began, in a somewhat more assured voice, "do not be
angry with your servant if he brings shame and misfortune into your
house. I obey the commands of the Rabbi, the elders, and the judges
who sat in judgment upon your grandson Meir, and whose sentence I am
ordered to read out to him and you all."
A deep silence followed upon his words. At last Saul, who stood
leaning upon the shoulder of his son Raphael said in a low voice:
"Read."
The messenger unrolled the paper he was holding in his hand, and
read:
"Isaak Todros, the son of Baruch, Rabbi of Szybow, together with the
judges and elders of the Kahal, who constitute the tribunal of the
community of Szybow, heard the following accusations, confirmed by
many witnesses, against Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin:"
"Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin, is accused, and found guilty,
of the crime of breaking the Sabbath. Instead of giving himself up to
the study of holy books, he watched and defended the dwelling of the
heretic Abel Karaim, and raised his hand in anger against Israelitish
children."
(2.) "That Meir Ezofowich was seen reading the accursed book, 'More
Nebuchim,' by Moses Majmonides, the false sage, excommunicated by
many saintly rabbis and learned men; read this same book aloud to his
companions, thus teaching them heresy and other abominations."
(3.) "That Meir Ezofowich held rebellious speeches against the
covenant and the wise men of Israel, perverting thus their youthful
minds."
(4.) "That under pretext of charity and pity for the poor of the
town, he gave them criminal and foolish advice, saying, they ought to
see what the elders did with the money they received from them; and
further, they should distinguish in the covenant between God's work
and people's invention; finally, told them to work in the fields like
peasants."
(5.) "That having hair growing on his face, he refused to get
married, and broke his engagement with the Israelitish girl Mera,
daughter of Eli, and showed thereby his resolution to avoid the
married state."
(6.) "That he lived in impure friendship with Golda, the
granddaughter of a heretic, who, not belonging to the faithful, had
been allowed to live in his place through the great charity of the
Rabbi and the elders. Meir, the son of Benjamin, has been seen in
their dwelling, and meeting the girl Golda in lonely places, taking
flowers from her, and joining his voice with hers in worldly songs on
a Sabbath."
(7.) "That he has not paid due respect to the learned men, and has
raised a sacrilegious hand against the melamed Moshe, whom he knocked
down, throwing the table upon him, causing, thereby, bodily harm to
the melamed and great scandal to the community."
(8.) "That in his great, unheard-of malice, he denounced a brother
Israelite, Reb Jankiel Kamionker, before an alien, thereby breaking
the solidarity of his people, and bringing Reb Jankiel into trouble
and perhaps danger."
(9.) "That in his boundless audacity he extracted the writing of his
ancestor, Michael Senior, from its hiding-place, where it should have
rotted away, and with criminal insolence read it to a large crowd of
people, thereby endangering the old law and customs of the
Israelites; and as the writing, we have been told, contains
blasphemous and pernicious doctrines we consider the reading of the
said document as the greatest of his crimes. Therefore, according to
the power given us by our law over the sons of Israel, we decree:"
"That to-morrow after sunset, a great and terrible curse will be
pronounced against the audacious and disobedient Meir Ezofowich, son
of Benjamin, through the mouth of Rabbi Isaak, son of Baruch, for the
hearing of which all the Israelites of Szybow and the environs will
be summoned by the messenger; and Meir Ezofowich will be thrust out
and ignominiously expelled from the bosom of Israel. All of you who
remain faithful unto the Lord and the covenant live in peace and
happiness with all your brethren in Israel."
The shamos had finished; and putting the paper under his coat, bowed
low, and swiftly left the room.
For several minutes a deadly silence prevailed within and without.
Suddenly Meir, who had stood like one entranced, threw his arms
wildly above his head and uttered a heart-broken cry:
"Expelled from Israel! cursed and expelled by my own people!" His
voice died away in a loud sob. With his head pressed against the wall
he sobbed in great anguish. It was enough to hear one of these sobs,
which shook his whole frame, to guess that he had been wounded in the
most vital part of his soul.
Then approached his uncles, their wives and daughters, with voices of
entreaty, anger, threats, and prayers, beseeching him to give up the
writing of the Senior, to let it be burned publicly, and perhaps the
decree of the elders would be mitigated. The men crowded round him;
the women kissed him.
Still shaken by sobs, and his face closely pressed to the wall, deaf
to all the voices of entreaty and anger, his only answer was a motion
with his head and the short monosyllable:
"No! No! No!"
This single word, thrown out amidst his sobs, was more eloquent than
the longest speech: it expressed such deep suffering, love, and
undaunted courage.
"Father," exclaimed Raphael, turning towards Saul, who sat alone and
motionless, "Father! why do you not command him to humble himself?
Bring him to reason; tell him to give up the writing to us, and we
will carry it to the Rabbi and ask him to relent!"
When Raphael said this, Meir uncovered his face and turned it towards
his grandfather.
Saul raised his head, stretched out his hands as if blindly groping
for support, and then rose. The previously dull eyes became all at
once singularly restless, till they met with the fixed look of his
grandson. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
"Speak, father! command him!" urged several voices.
The old man seemed to totter on his feet. A cruel struggle was taking
place within him. Several times he tried to speak, but could not. At
last in a heavy whisper, he said:
"He is not cursed yet--I am still allowed:"
"In the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob I bless you, son
of my son!"
And trembling in every limb, his eyes full of tears, he sank back in
his chair.
Those present exchanged glances of amazement and reverence. Meir
bounded forward and threw himself at the feet of the old man. In a
low, feverish voice he spoke of the love he bore him--about the
Senior's legacy to his descendants, and that he would go into the
world and come back sometime. Then he rose from his knees and quickly
left the room.
At this moment there was nobody near the windows of the house. The
great crowd of people had retreated towards the middle of the square,
and there they stood almost motionless, quietly whispering with each
other. A singular thing happened. Scarcely had the messenger finished
reading the sentence when the storm of wrath and anger suddenly
subsided. What had happened to them? Their emotional nature which,
like a stringed instrument, answered to the slightest touch, quivered
under a new feeling. It was respect and sympathy for the misfortune
of an ancient and charitable family. The crowd, which such a short
time before had yelled and cursed and was ready to tear everything to
pieces, became suddenly quiet and subdued, and began to disperse
peacefully. Here and there still sounded malicious laughter or
insulting epithets, but more voices were heard in gentle pity.
"Yet he was good and charitable!"
"He never was proud!"
"He fed my foolish child and kissed it!"
"He saved my old father when the cart had fallen upon him!"
"He worked with us like a common man, and sawed wood!"
"His face shone with beauty and intelligence!"
"All eyes rejoiced looking at his young age!"
"Herem!! Herem! Herem!" (Excommunicated) repeated many.
Then they shook their heads in wonder, faces paled with horror, and
breasts heaved with sighs.
***
Three shadows glided swiftly over the moonlit deserted fields which
separated the town from the Karaite's Hill. The first belonged to a
tall, slender man; the second to a child who clung to the sleeve of
his garment; these two shadows were so close together that often they
formed but one; the third shadow showed the outline of a burly
figure, which kept carefully in the distance, now and then stood
still or doubled up, at times disappearing altogether behind palings,
shrubs, or trees. It was evident the shadow wanted to hide itself,
and was looking for something, listening and watching for something
or somebody.
At the open window of Abel's cottage a low voice called out:
"Golda! Golda!"
From the window bent a face, whitened in the moonlight, and
surrounded by waves of black hair. A low passionate whisper sounded
in the still evening air:
"Meir! Meir! I heard a terrible noise and awful voices! My heart
trembled in fear; but it is nothing now you are here."
Two arms were stretched forth towards the approaching young man. The
corals on her neck quivered under the throbbing emotion where sobs
mingled with laughter.
Suddenly she uttered a piercing cry.
Meir stood before her, and she saw his torn garments and the red scar
on his forehead.
She moaned, and put her hand gently on his brow, and caressingly
touched the dusty hair and ragged clothes with the almost motherly
feeling that longs to comfort and soothe. Meir sat on the bench in
the posture of a man deadly tired. He leaned his head against the
window-frame, and seemed to draw in the mild evening breeze. The moon
reflected herself in the mournful eyes that were raised in question
towards the silvery clouds. After a while he straightened himself and
said quickly, in a low voice:
"Golda, people may search for me; if they find me they will take my
treasure. I will give it to you to hide it, and then I will go into
the fields and woods to cry out unto Jehovah for mercy."
The girl, too, stood straight and grave. "Give it to me," she said
quietly. The leaves of the paper rustled in Meir's hands, and, giving
them to the girl, he said:
"Hide it in your breast, and guard my treasure as the apple of your
eye. It contains the precious words of my ancestor, which have
removed all blindness from my eyes. They will be my passport which
will open to me the doors and hearts of wise men. It is quiet here,
and safe--nobody sees or suspects. When I am ready I shall come and
ask you for it."
Golda took the paper.
"Rest tranquil about your treasure," she said. "I would rather lay
down my life than give it up to anyone but you. It is safe here, it
is quiet, nobody will suspect."
Meir rose from the bench.
"Sleep in peace," he said. "I must go; my soul is full of cries; I
must walk, walk. I shall go and throw myself down among the trees,
and send my prayers up to Jehovah with the evening breeze. I must
unburden my mind of the heavy load."
He was going away, but Golda held him by the sleeve.
"Meir," she whispered, "tell me what has happened. Why did the people
beat and hurt you? Why must you go out into the world?"
"People have beaten and stoned me," replied Meir gloomily, "because I
would not go against the truth, and would not agree to what the
people agree. I must go, because to-morrow a terrible curse will be
pronounced against me, and I shall be excommunicated and expelled
from Israel."
"Herem!" (the curse) shrieked the girl, and she threw her folded
hands in horror above her head. She stood thus for a moment; then a
gentle, thoughtful smile came on her face.
"Meir!" she whispered, "zeide is cursed and I am cursed; but the
mercy of the Lord is greater than the greatest terror and His justice
vaster than the vastest sea. When zeide reads this, he leaves off
grieving and says: 'The cursed ones are happier than those that
curse . . . because a time will come when the justice of the Lord will
enter into the human heart, and then they will bless the names of
those that have been cursed.'"
Meir looked at the girl, whose deep-set eyes glowed with inspiration.
"Golda!" he said softly, "you are the second half of my soul. Come
with me into the world as my wife; holding each other's hands, we
will bear the curse together and live so that people shall bless our
names."
A great wave of fire passed over Golda's face and left it radiant
with ineffable joy.
"Oh, Meir!" she exclaimed. She wanted to say something more, but
could not. She bent her lithe figure very low and hung upon his arm.
He put his arm around her neck and pressed his lips to the wavy black
hair. It was only for a moment. The girl straightened herself, and
with the hot blush still dying her face, she said softly:
"And zeide?"
Meir looked at her like a man suddenly aroused from sleep. She went
on in the same low voice:
"His feet are so weak that he could not go with us, and besides he
would never leave the graves of his fathers. How can I leave him? How
could he live without me, whom he brought up with his hands, taught
to spin, to read the Bible, and told all his beautiful stories? Who
would feed him if I went away? Who during the cold winter nights
would lie at his feet and warm his cold limbs? And when the soul is
about to part from his body, who will rock the old head to its
eternal sleep? Meir! Meir! you have a grandfather whose hair is white
as snow, and who will rend his garments when you are gone. But your
zeide has many sons, daughters, and grandchildren; he is rich and
respected by everybody. My zeide has only this poor hut, his old
Bible and granddaughter Golda."
Meir sighed.
"You are right, Golda; but what will become of you when your
grandfather dies, and you remain alone in the world, exposed to
poverty and human scorn?"
Golda sat down because her limbs trembled. She passed both her hands
over her hot face, and with upraised eyes replied:
"I shall sit before the door of this hut, spin my wool and tend my
goats, looking along the road whence you will come back!"
It was an adaptation from the story of Akiba.
Meir asked dreamily:
"And what will you do if people come and laugh at you and say: 'Akiba
is drinking at the spring of wisdom whilst your body is consumed with
misery and your eyes are dull from weeping?'"
A voice stifled with emotion replied to him:
"I shall answer this: 'Let misery consume my body, and my eyes run
over with tears; yet truly will I guard my husband's faith.' And if
he stood before me and said: 'I have come back because I did not wish
you to weep any longer,' I should say to him: 'Go and drink more.'"
Meir rose. There was no despair on his face now, but hope and courage
depicted in his whole bearing.
"I will come back, Rachel," he exclaimed. "Jehovah will give me
strength, and good people will help me if I show them my hard
yearning after knowledge and the writing of the Senior, which is the
covenant of peace between Israel and the nations. I shall drink long
and eagerly at the spring of wisdom; then come back and teach my
people, and for all the misery and contempt which you suffer, I shall
put a golden crown upon your head."
Golda shook her head. The expression in her face showed she had been
carried away by a wonderful dream. She dreamt she was Rachel,
greeting her husband Akiba. With passionate eyes and a far-away
smile, she whispered:
"And I shall embrace your knees, and with eyes that have regained
their former beauty I shall look at all your glory and say: 'Lord and
Master! your glory be my crown.'"
They looked long at each other, and through their tearful eyes there
shone a love as deep and earnest as their hearts were pure and
heroic.
A low, childish laughter reached their ears. They looked astonished
in the direction whence it came. Upon the threshold of the hut sat
Lejbele, holding in his arms a snow-white kid. The kid had been
purchased at the fair with the money Golda had taken for the baskets.
The child had seen it in the entrance, brought it out on the
threshold, and nestled his face to the soft white hair and laughed
aloud.
"The child always follows you," said Golda. "He kissed me to-day,
when everybody beat and stoned me; with him I shielded my treasure
against their strong hands," replied Meir. Golda disappeared from the
window and stood upon the threshold. She bent over the child, her
flowing hair covered his head and shoulders, and she kissed him on
the forehead. Lejbele was not frightened; he seemed to feel safe
here. He had seen the girl before, whose luminous eyes looked at him
with an expression of great sweetness. He raised his grateful, now almost
intelligent, eyes to her, and whispered:
"Let me play with this little goat?"
"Will you have some milk?" said Golda.
"Yes," he said; "please give me some."
She brought a bowl full of milk and fed the child; then asked:
"Why do you leave your father and mother, and follow Meir?"
The child rocked his head and replied:
"He is better than daddy, and better than mammy. He fed me and patted
my head, and saved me from Reb Moshe."
"Whose little boy are you?" asked Golda. Lejbele remained silent and
kept on rocking his head. He evidently tried to collect his confused
thoughts. Suddenly he raised his finger and pointed after the
retreating figure of Meir, and said aloud:
"I am his."
And he laughed: but it was no longer the laugh of an idiot, only the
expression of joy that he had found the way to clothe in words the
thoughts of his loving little heart.
Golda looked in the direction where Meir had disappeared, and sighed
heavily. Presently she rose, wrapped herself in a gray shawl, went
half-way up the hill, and sat down under a dwarfed pine-tree. Perhaps
she wanted to look down and watch his return from the woods. Her
elbows resting on her knees--her face buried in her hands, she sat
motionless, like a statue of sorrow; the black hair which covered her
like a mantle, glittered and shone in the bright moonlight.
At the same time the low door of the Rabbi's hut was softly opened
and Reb Moshe crept in, looking worn, ashamed and troubled. He
squatted down near the fireplace and looked anxiously at Isaak Todros
who sat in the open window, his eyes fixed on the sky.
"Rabbi!" he whispered timidly.
"Rabbi!" he said a little louder, "your servant will look guilty in
your eyes--he has not brought the abominable writing. The storm was
fearful, but his friends defended him; he resisted himself, and then
a little child shielded him. The foolish people tore his clothes,
beat, abused and stoned him; but did not take the writing from him."
"Nassi! your servant is ashamed and troubled; have mercy upon him,
and do not punish him with the lightning of your eyes."
Todros, without taking his eyes from off the sky, said:
"The writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands."
"Nassi! the writing is no longer in his hands."
"And where is it?" said the Rabbi, in a louder voice, without turning
round.
"Rabbi! I should not have dared to appear before you, had I not known
what became of it. I followed him--my whole soul entered into my eyes
and ears. I saw how he gave the writing to the Karaitish girl to hide
it; I heard how he called it his treasure, and his passport to go
into the world with, and which would open for him the hearts of the
people."
Todros shuddered convulsively.
"It is true," he whispered angrily. "That writing will be to him a
shield and weapon, on which our sharpest arrows will have no effect.
Moshe!" he said, in a more determined voice, "the writing must be
taken from the Karaitish girl."
The melamed crawled to his master's knees, and raising his face to
him said, in a low voice:
"Rabbi! the girl said she would sooner lay down her life than part
with the writing."
Todros was silent for a moment, and then repeated:
"The writing must be taken from her."
The melamed remained, silent and thoughtful for a long time.
"Rabbi!" he said in a very low whisper, "and if anything happens to
the girl?"
Todros did, not answer at once. At last he said:
"Blessed is the hand that removes garbage from the house of Israel!"
The melamed seemed to drink in the words eagerly and ponder over
their meaning. Then he smiled.
"Rabbi!" he said, "I have understood your wish--depend upon your
servant; he will find men whose hands are strong and whose hearts are
steel. Rabbi!" he added, entreatingly, "let a gentle ray from your
eyes fall upon your servant; let him see your wrath is softened
towards him. My soul without your love and favour is like a well
without water or a dark prison where no love enters."
Todros replied:
"No gentle ray will come from my eye, nor will my wrath be softened
till the writing has been torn out of the accursed hands."
Moshe groaned:
"Rabbi, the writing shall be in your hands tomorrow."
The moon fell bright upon the faces of both men, of whom one looked
at the heavens, the other into his master's face. The master searched
the heavens for the silvery streaks which are the ways the angels
travel from star to star through eternity; the pupil looked into the
master's eyes for the reflection of the supernatural light.
In both their minds the name of the angel of death whom they had
called up was present--yet both their hearts were full of love and
boundless admiration.