worship? It brought swift punishment. The acolytes beat me unmercifully
and the Jewish lads who saw me going into the church, beside calling me
"_Goy_" Christian, told on me, and the consequences may be imagined. Yet
I remember the punishment less than the fact that it was my first
conscious worship; a real attempt to commune with the Unseen. The
mysterious in my own nature had touched the eternal mystery, and the
cross had lost much of its aloofness; I had entered its domain.
I do not know what I felt when I saw the golden cross that day from the
omnibus; but I was conscious of a reconciliation and perhaps something
more. "We are not such strangers after all," I suppose I said to myself.
"I don't hate you although I don't quite understand you--but some day I
shall."
Perhaps it was merely a youth's resolve to taste the forbidden thing as
soon as he escaped his environment--perhaps I have magnified my
feeling, recalling it now in the light of my later experiences. I am
fairly positive, however, that I felt a premonition that some day I
should enter into whatever experiences the cross held for a human soul.
The life which awaited me was favourable to this, and in looking back I
can plainly see the guidance of a good Providence.
Far beyond our cross-crowned hill and many another, my new life began.
My teachers were Jesuit fathers, the schoolroom was an anteroom to the
church and the crucifix was everywhere. The fathers looked very much
like the Christ I remembered, painted upon the crosses that dotted our
highways; austere and forbidding. They were skilled teachers and
splendid disciplinarians. Even my untrained mind was forced into a
groove.
There were pages and pages of Latin, curious problems in mathematics and
such history as they deigned to give us; but the curriculum consisted
largely of Latin, and there are not many questions which the soul can
ask when the mind is being drilled in Latin grammar. Living itself began
to be a task in which the higher and lower curiously blended; although
the unrestrained lower nature threatened ascendency.
Being a Jew, I had to live among my own people, and of course chose so
to live. I have slept on harder beds and have eaten coarser fare since
then; but I have never felt contrasts more keenly than when I exchanged
home for that boarding-place. It was kept by people who had "seen better
days"--a fate they shared with boarding-house keepers the world over.
I had little or no time for social life. The town was totally Slavic and
the Jews who lived there were strangers; so I was left much to myself.
Most of the students were living with the Fathers, wore clerical attire
and were destined for the priesthood. Their pleasures were few. For
exercise they walked by classes or in pairs; what they thought or how
they lived, I never knew, although I went into the same class-room with
many of them. The larger world into which I had entered had even more
compartments and smaller ones than the world I had left, and for a good
many years I was in a compartment by myself, with no one to share my
confidences or to exchange thoughts with me.
My social nature was almost starved, and because those who lived on my
level did not take me in, I sought the companionship of those morally
and intellectually beneath me and found them ready enough to receive me.
What they offered and what I shared I never fully enjoyed. I know that
it lowered me and while I never reached the nethermost depths, I went
low enough to know something of the humiliation of meeting one's higher
nature when one emerges from the abyss.
In such a mood I strolled into a church during my last year in the
gymnasium. I had long outgrown my boyhood and was a man in my thoughts,
feelings and desires; although less than the man I wished to be. The
preacher spoke about sin. I do not remember either the text or the
sermon, but I know it was the first time that I felt myself reproved, as
if by God. I seemed to see my own soul--a puny, struggling, mean thing
and not what I desired it to be. I began to loathe it and myself, and
when the preacher offered peace, renewal and pardon to all who would
confess and repent, I was sure that my soul's hour had come, that I must
set it free and let it grow Godward no matter what the cost to me.
When the congregation knelt, I knelt too and prayed--my own
prayer--which had no words, which was just an aspiration Christward. My
eyes sought the crucifix in faith, and I was ready to claim its power
whatever it was, if it could cleanse me and renew me. I looked at the
priest who held it up before the kneeling congregation and saw something
strangely familiar in that homely face lighted by the fervour of his
faith. It led me back to the village of Deephole. It was Sabbath
afternoon; an old man lay voiceless and motionless upon his hard bed
because his son was an apostate. Then I could feel the hand of my mother
leading me out of that stricken home, along the fields where poppies
and bachelor's buttons grew. How she restrained me from plucking them
because it was the Sabbath! I felt as if she were touching my hand as I
knelt. She led me past the lighted altar, out of the throng of kneeling
worshippers and she seemed to say: "No, not while I am living, my son."
XXV
THE CHURCH WITH THE WEATHER-VANE
The synagogue and the church with the cross seemed quite unconscious of
any change in wind or weather; although our world moved with those trade
winds on the sea of time, which the Germans call the _Zeitgeist_.
Not so the church with the gray tower, on whose pinnacle its symbol from
the barnyard turned and twisted, but always bravely faced the fiercest
winds. To judge from its early history, this lean, long-legged bird was
a _fighting_ cock. From the time that it was lifted to its exalted
position till now, the men above whose temple it "watched for the
morning," were fighting men who worshipped in a fighting mood.
On Sunday morning I watched from our doorway the churchgoers who came
from many a surrounding mile; Catholics and Protestants, Magyars and
Slavs, filling the gray, monotonous street with a riot of colour.
The Magyar peasants wore broad, white linen trousers, shaggy, sheepskin
coats and small, rakish hats, always decorated by a sprig of rosemary,
placed there by wife and sweetheart, who, heavy-booted, walked beside
them, their full, starched skirts claiming a large part of the sidewalk.
The Slavs were by far more picturesque in their attire. The men wore
tight-fitting, blue trousers, braided and embroidered from the knee up
to the abbreviated, gorgeous waistcoat, which was always unbuttoned, to
allow the still more splendid shirt--the show garment of the Slav--room
to display itself. Whether the hat was broad or narrow, chenille braid
richly ornamented it to the top, from which hung defiantly, graceful,
varicoloured feathers.
The women's clothing outshone the men's, and to even catalogue their
elaborately trimmed garments would require a sartorial vocabulary which,
unfortunately, I do not possess.
On the whole it was a pageant worth seeing, and I watch it with the same
interest from the same doorway whenever I have the good fortune to be at
home again.
Besides the riot of colour which attracted me, I very early began my
ethnographic studies; for there were variations in dress, which denoted
the mountaineer, the man from the valley, the peasant and the mechanic.
Each locality had some style of its own, each race, occupation and faith
was marked.
Those who went to the church of the weather-vane were the most soberly
attired. Theological divisions were accentuated by the presence or
absence of colour, braid and buttons; for there were Puritans among
those worshippers. Their forefathers swore fealty to the faith of Calvin
rather than that of Luther, and while all of them worshipped in the same
church, the historic division was manifested in clothes, if often in
nothing else.
Had not clothes marked the churchgoers, I could easily have detected the
difference between faiths by facial expression, posture and gait.
The Catholics walked to church rather more reverently than the others.
Rosaries hung from the folded hands of the women, who looked neither to
the right nor the left, reserving all abandonment to the passions of
youth and life until after the services were over.
The Protestants marched like soldiers, their heavy psalm-books clasped
to their breasts. Thus fortified, as if by gun or bayonet, they went to
the house of God, erect and defiant. Although the generation that I knew
never fought for its right to worship according to the dictates of its
conscience, its forefathers fought, killed and were killed; while the
weather-vane turned on its rusty hinges to face the storms that raged.
The Reformation came with its good and ill to the Carpathians as it came
to the Alps, and it seems strange that the Teutonic Tyrolese submitted
to being forcibly rebaptized into the Mother Church, while the more
sluggish Slavs fought and retained their faith.
Church historians have taken scant if any notice of these Slavic
Protestants, who were as brave as the Huguenots and suffered as much.
There were bishops who forsook mitre and crozier, becoming one with the
peasants in suffering imprisonment and martyrdom.
There were priests who followed their example, and, for preaching the
new faith, were chained to the block. A group of twenty was sentenced to
the galleys and perished miserably at the cruel task.
There were nobles, both men and women, who jeopardized their titles and
their lands.
There were peasants innumerable who were wakened out of an age-long
slumber and refused to relinquish their freedom in the faith.
The old chronicles of this parish, which but recently fell into my
hands, justify my early proclivities for these Protestants. The
Chronicle narrates: "The Roman Catholic Bishop, George Barsony, bringing
with him a company of Croatians, began forcibly to baptize our members.
At the communion, when he placed the wafer on the tongue of the peasant,
Stefan Pilarek, the same bit the finger of the Bishop to the bone, and
not until the Croatians hit him over the head did he relinquish his
hold. The other members who were about to receive the communion refused
to take it; they began to fight; the Croatians opened fire at them, and
two were killed. Protestants came from the neighbouring villages and
surrounded the house of the priest, where the Bishop lodged. They got
hold of him and gave him such a beating that he died from its effects."
The Chronicle does not say that they murdered him.
Two regiments of Croatians appeared the next week; the preacher, teacher
and sexton were hanged in proper order, while the peasants were broken
over the wheel, impaled or quartered. The Chronicle concludes this part
of the narrative: "From that time the free exercise of religion ceased
in this parish."
Besides their fighting mood and the struggle for liberty which drew me
to the Protestants, their sober house of prayer as well as the
simplicity and order of their worship, appealed to the Puritan within
me, and did not offend my aesthetic feelings.
From the bell-tower I could look down upon the congregation (having
bought this privilege from the _mendic_). On the straight-backed benches
sat these stiff Puritans, praying with heads erect, singing hymns which
had in them the ring of battle. There were no images to offend a mind
trained to see in them an insult to Jehovah; no dark corners or dimly
lighted altars to suggest mystery; no incense to artificially arouse the
desire for worship. Green fields and acres of swaying poppies and
bearded barley were visible from the windows, and when the people sang
it seemed to me as if all nature were in tune with their psalmody.
That of which I am now most conscious as having appealed to me was, that
I understood every word of the service which floated up to me; and even
those broken and stolen snatches were to me the first bits of religion
rationally interpreted.
There were certain texts which remained in my memory, and when later in
life great social questions pressed for solution, the words that had
been so eagerly listened to by the little Jewish boy, hidden in the
belfry, came back to the struggling man with promises of hope.
When, finally, on this side the Atlantic, I united with the Protestant
Church, no struggle preceded it, no reaction was necessary; mind and
soul were merely coming home.
In reality, I have found in the church of the Puritans the best that my
race has bequeathed to the world. The prophets and seers are more at
home, I think, in the meeting-house than in the synagogue or the
cathedral. To me at least, the really great, vital notes of religion
which they have struck were not revealed by the rabbi or the priest;
but by the great Puritans, who spoke to me out of English literature and
here and there from pulpit and platform.
I cared but little, if at all, for the salvation which Christianity
promised or the theology over which it quarrelled.
When Protestantism becomes rabbinical, and when it holds or withholds
the keys of Heaven, I shall feel myself as much a stranger to it as I
felt to the synagogue or the cathedral. In its cry for righteousness and
personal purity, in its emphasis upon a Christian democracy, in its
demand for rational self-sacrifice to achieve great, social ends, it
appeals to me and claims my allegiance.
Its creeds, even the most historic, leave me untouched; its sectarian
quarrels I cannot comprehend and its dogmatism repels me. When it
proclaims the supreme value of the human soul, and demands for it a
right to seek its God, unhindered; when it pleads for protection of the
child and the woman, and labours for the day when they shall not need
protection from a rapacious society; when it struggles to bring to earth
the Kingdom of Heaven, I am one with it and am among mine own. Then I
hear the voices of my Fathers speaking as they were moved to speak by
the Holy Spirit.
I do not wish to imply that I hold lightly the salvation which
Christianity offers to the individual. It is a goal and a prize worth
striving for; but for some reason I have lost the sense of self, at
least in these higher reaches of the soul.
When I "got religion," to use a well-worn phrase, I did not want the
isolation of a "chosen people," even if, to be a Jew, had meant the
plaudits of the world instead of its derision. I did not consider the
security of my soul from the pains of Purgatory or the torments of Hell,
promised by an infallible church. What I wanted and am fairly confident
that I have obtained, was: a fellowship with a God whose chief
attributes are social; who, when He revealed Himself to man, made the
revelation through His Son, who came to save a world.
Out of all the many confusing interpretations of Christ's teachings,
this is clear to me: That He meant to bring together the alienated, to
harmonize the discordant, to heal the ancient wounds caused by the mere
struggle for self, and that into the world's disorder He intended to
bring a new order, which He called: The Kingdom of Heaven.
The most valuable possession which Christianity holds for me is this
conviction: That the task is unfinished, that the conflict is still on
and that it is my business to invest my life in such a way as to make
true the dream of the Son of Man.
XXVI
TOLSTOY THE MAN
After many painful years I discovered that neither religion nor culture
has very materially modified racial antagonisms. The years I spent in
the gymnasium, sheltered by the arms of the church with the cross, were
bearable, only because neither my face nor speech betrayed my racial
origin. They were painful years and as they pass through the channels of
my mind I realize that it would add little or nothing to the purpose I
have in view, should I give a detailed account of them.
I learned my Latin astonishingly well, excelled in history, and lagged
frightfully in mathematics. Science there was none, at least none worth
mentioning. There were logic and rhetoric in which I did good work. In
religion, which dominated the curriculum, I was a sceptic, demoralizing
the classes. On the whole, I fear I was a disturbing element; for when I
passed my finals and said good-bye to the rector, he muttered: "Praised
be the Lord Jesus Christ!"
At the university, where nationalistic lines were closely drawn, I
drifted towards the Slavic groups, forming close and lasting
friendships with a number of Russians whose idealism was contagious.
They regarded man entirely from the standpoint of humanity, were
delightfully impractical, always in debt, smoked cigarettes incessantly,
slept until noon, and stayed awake into the morning hours, vehemently
discussing everything under the heavens. I owe much to them; above all,
my acquaintance with Russian literature and the personal friendship of
Tolstoy, who has been the most vital factor in shaping my
"_Weltanschauung_."
When I started for Russia on my first pilgrimage, I had not much in my
pocket besides the letter of introduction they gave me. I went to see
the man who taught religion in terms I understood and which I thought I
could accept and practice.
Of my journey there is little to say, except that I travelled a great
distance on foot, that I was the recipient of much kindness everywhere
and that the peasants shared with me their scant crust and cabbage. I
have since tried to find the old woman who gave me some cold potatoes,
and who in giving them bestowed more than those who now entertain me at
their banqueting tables.
As for the many who offered me hot tea and a bed in the true spirit of
charity--ah! if I were rich and could find them all! The only time I
wish for money is when I try to repay kindness; but as our Slavic poor
used to say: "_Pan Bogh Zaplatz_"--"God repay you."
So let it be then--God repay you--you Russian sisters who have washed my
weary feet and soothed them with mutton tallow; you brother who gave me
your place on the cart while you trudged along beside your poor, shaggy
horse, as thin and wretched and as kindly looking as yourself.
God repay you, you Jewish innkeeper with whom I pawned my silver watch,
who kept it safe for a year or more and would take no usurer's interest.
God repay you, too, you black-eyed, Jewish maidens who smiled at me. God
repay you the smile, which was good stimulus for a lonely lad, to whom a
kindly look was more even than bread.
God repay you, you Russian matron who took me into your beautiful home
and tried to wean me from my "Tolstoy madness" by offering to keep me as
tutor for your half savage children.
God bless them all, even the homely kitchen maid who refused to admit me
when I knocked at the Count's door, and after giving me a huge piece of
black bread told me to "go in peace." I ate the bread but knocked again,
and when my letter reached the Countess she came to shield her husband
from the intruder.
Yes, God repay you too, you guardian of this genius, standing between
him and the world, which, acting upon his word, would have taken all he
was willing to give away. I shall never forget your motherly kindness
after I kissed your hand in greeting and you discovered my plight, nor
the glorious days I spent under your hospitable roof.
Sometimes I thought you sheltered him too much, that wonderful man--your
husband; that you slipped silken underwear beneath the hair shirt he
wore, and made soft the hard bed on which he wished to sleep. He would
have perished long ago had you not loved him so--and yet, what a death
it would have been!
It is easy to glorify those who already wear a halo, and I felt all the
emotions which one is likely to experience in the presence of one's
ideal; but the final, distinct impression which remained, strengthened
rather than weakened by renewed acquaintanceship, was that I had met a
man--not a Russian Count or the peasant he tried to be; not a
cosmopolitan who has a touch of culture borrowed from the capitals of
the world--but a _man_ who had thrown off all antagonisms and
prejudices, and was able to meet all human beings upon a high and common
level.
It was this rare quality in him which enabled me to tell him frankly and
honestly all that brought me to him. I do not remember the words I used,
I fear they were not simple enough; but I know that all I told him was
absolutely true. That is no credit to me though; for like all truly
great personalities he is truth compelling. His remedy for my ills was
disappointingly simple; the remedy for the greatest of the world's ills
was "in myself."
"Do not repay evil for evil." "Do not hate anybody." "Maintain the
dignity of your own personality." "Love everybody, even your enemies."
"Give everything and ask nothing in return."
"Am I to set the world right?" I asked him.
"No, not the world, but yourself."
"How shall I know that I am right?" I queried again.
"By living in obedience to the law of God," he answered emphatically.
He read to me the words of Jesus, and for the first time I heard them
without theological arrogance or ecclesiastical intonation. He read
them, not with the tenderness one associates with the speech of Jesus,
but as Moses might have read them from the tablets of stone, or John the
Baptist might have preached them before he met Jesus by the Jordan. As a
dictator might read the law, so he read the Beatitudes and he laid the
same stress upon "Sell all thou hast and give to the poor," as filled
his commanding voice when he read those words of Jesus: "But I say unto
you love your enemies."
Very decidedly he pressed upon me the necessity of changing my whole
attitude towards life, and it was not difficult in that atmosphere to
persuade myself that I had changed it. I soon discovered, however, that
for me, at least, this was no "once for all" task, but a continual
struggle. I found the world always with me, my temper strong, and my
passions stronger still; yet I am sure that my view-point had been
modified at least, if not changed. I certainly felt my transgressions
keenly, my repentance sincere and my conscience more sensitive.
I have tried since under different conditions to work for a permanent
change, to reach some high level in which obedience might come without
struggle; but that exalted plane I have never reached. The best I can
say for myself is, that I left Tolstoy with less faith in the
materialistic philosophy with which I had become inoculated, that I
trusted less the things which can be demonstrated by touch or sight and
that I felt a faint touch of the power of the spiritual.
This early acquaintance with Tolstoy helped me to understand rationally
the doctrine of the New Birth which I have so often heard expounded
since.
While Tolstoy's rationalism forbade him to speak of his experience in
terms of mysticism, the change which had taken place in him was
fundamental, and Lyoff Tolstoy, the follower of the Man of Nazareth,
was a totally different man from Count Tolstoy; nobleman, soldier,
courtier and author.
I coveted the experience which brings about such results and I believe
that it is not only rational but essential to an entrance into true
discipleship with the Master. I know something of the pangs and pains of
this new birth, this attempt to like the unlike, to love the unlovely,
to regard wealth, place, honour, of no import, and to believe that the
purpose of life is to do God's will.
This conscious substitution of the "_Alter_" for the "_Ego_" is no light
achievement, and but few men win victory in the struggle as calmly and
serenely as did my host and teacher. Yet I am sure that the most
valuable lesson I learned then and have since relearned from the same
teacher is, that national and racial divisions are much more superficial
than my professors in the university led me to believe.
"Alles ist Rasse" was the note which dominated the teaching of History
in all its multitudinous divisions. I sometimes think that the opposite
is true and that there is nothing in race; for I have experienced
oneness with all sorts of people, both in the lower and the higher
spheres of our nature.
This latter theory Tolstoy dogmatically affirmed. "You are a Jew, you
say," and he would grasp my arm so tightly that I could feel the
pulsing blood in his sensitive hands. "I am a Russian; yet I feel no
difference in the touch of your hands, in the look of your eyes, and
hear none as you speak to me. There are differences in the colour of the
skin, the shape of the nose and eyes, but beneath the surface we are all
alike."
So far as I know, Tolstoy has not changed these views, but I doubt that
even the man who alters his view-point often has changed in that one
fundamental belief.