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An Obscure Apostle: A Dramatic Story

by Eliza Orzeszkowa · English · Gutenberg #28400 · 559,402 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: An Obscure Apostle: A Dramatic Story

Author: Eliza Orzeszkowa

Translator: Count de Soissons


        
Release date: March 24, 2009 [eBook #28400]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28400

Credits: Produced by Andrew Leader of www.polishwriting.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OBSCURE APOSTLE: A DRAMATIC STORY ***




Produced by Andrew Leader of www.polishwriting.net




An Obscure Apostle

A Dramatic Story

TRANSLATED BY C.S. DE SOISSONS FROM THE ORIGINAL POLISH OF

MME. ORZESZKO

LONDON

GREENING & CO., LTD.

20 CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD

1899

Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited Perth.




PREFACE

ELIZA ORZESZKO

In Lord Palmerston's days, the English public naturally heard a great
deal about Poland, for there were a goodly number of Poles, noblemen
and others, residing in London, exiles after the unsuccessful
revolution, who, believing that England would help them to recover
their lost liberty, made every possible effort to that end through
Count Vladislas Zamoyski, the prime minister's personal friend. But
even in those times, when the English press was writing much about the
political situation in Poland, little was said about that which
constitutes the greatest glory of a nation, namely, its literature and
art, which alone can be secure of immortality. Only lately, in fact,
has any public attention been paid by English people to Polish
literature. However, among the authors who have attracted considerable
attention of late, is the writer of "By Fire and Sword," whose "Quo
Vadis," has met with a phenomenal reception. Henryk Sienkiewicz has by
his popularity proved that in unfortunate, almost forgotten, Poland,
there is an abundance of literary talent and an important output of
works of which few English readers have any conception. For instance,
who has ever heard, in Great Britain, of Adam Michiewicz the great
Polish poet, who, critics declare, can be placed in the same category
with Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tasso, Klopstock, Camoens, and Milton?
Joseph Kraszewski as a novel writer occupies in Poland as high a
position as Maurice Jokai does in Hungarian literature, while Mme.
Eliza Orzeszko is considered to be the Polish Georges Sand, even by the
Germans, who are in many respects the rivals of Slavs in politics and
literature.

Henryk Sienkiewicz, asked by an interviewer what he thought about the
contemporary Polish literary talents, replied: "At the head of all
stand Waclaw Sieroszewski and Stefan Zeromski; they are young, and very
promising writers. But Eliza Orzeszko still holds the sceptre as a
novelist."

When the "Revue des Deux Mondes" asked the authors of different
nationalities to furnish an essay on women of their respective
countries, Mme. Orzeszko was chosen among the Polish writers to write
about the Polish women. It may be stated that translations of her
novels appeared in the same magazine more than twenty years ago. She is
not only a talented but also a prolific writer. She has suffered much
in her life, and her sufferings have brought out those sterling
qualities of soul and heart, which make her books so intensely human,
and characterise all her works, and place her high above contemporary
Polish writers. The present volume may stand as a proof of her
all-embracing talent.

C.S. DE SOISSONS.




AN OBSCURE APOSTLE

INTRODUCTION

On the summits of civilisation the various branches of the great tree
of humanity are united and harmonised. Education is the best apostle
of universal brotherhood. It polishes the roughness without and cuts
the overgrowth within; it permits of the development, side by side
and with mutual respect, of the natural characteristics of different
individuals; it prunes even religious beliefs produced by the needs
of the time, and reduces them to their simplest expression, the
result being that people can live without antipathies.

Quite a different state of affairs exists in the social valley
unlighted by the sun of knowledge. There people are the same to-day
as they were in the remote centuries. Time, while making tombs for
the dead people, has not buried with them the forms which, being
continually regenerated, create among amazed societies unintelligible
anachronisms. Here exist distinctions which, with sharp edges, push
back everything which belongs not to them; here are crawling moral
and physical miseries which are unknown, even by name, to those who
have reached the summits; here is a gathering of dark figures,
standing out against the background of the world, resembling vague
outlines of sphinxes keeping guard over the graveyards; here are
widely-spread petrifications of faiths, sentiment and customs,
testifying by their presence that geniuses of many centuries can
simultaneously rule the world. Patricians and plebeians changed their
formal parts. The first became defenders and propagators of equality;
the second stubbornly hold to distinctions. And if in times of yore
oppression was directed by those who stood high against those who, in
dust and humility, swarmed in the depths, in our times, from the
depths arise unhealthy exhalations, which poison life and make the
roads of civilisation difficult to the chosen ones.

Such unfortunate valleys, rendering many people unhappy, separating
the rest of the world by a chain of high mountains, exist in
Israelitic society, as well as in the society of other nations, and
there they are even more numerous than elsewhere. Their too long
existence is the result of many historical causes and characteristics
of the race. To-day they constitute a phenomenon; attracting the
thinker and the artist by their great influence and the originality
of their colouring, composed of mysterious shadows and bright lights.
But who is familiar with them and who studies them? Even those who,
on account of the same blood and traditions, should be attracted
toward these localities, plunged in darkness, send there neither
painters nor apostles--sometimes they do not even believe in their
existence. For instance, what a surprise it would be to Israelitic
society, gathered in the largest city in the country, composed of
cultivated men and of women, who by their beauty, refinement and wit
are in no way inferior to the women of other nations: what a surprise
it would be to this society, gowned in purple and fine linen, if
somebody would all at once describe Szybow and what is transpiring
there!

Szybow? On what planet is it, and if on ours, what population has it?
The people there, are they white, black or brown?

Well then, readers, I am going to make you acquainted with that
deep--very deep--social valley. Not long ago there was enacted there
an interesting drama worthy of your kind glance--of your heart's
strong throb and a moment of long, sad thought. But in order to bring
out facts and figures they must be thrown against the background on
which they have risen and developed, and in the deep perspectives of
which there are elements which are the causes of their existence.
Therefore you must permit me, before raising the curtain which hides
the first scenes of the drama, to tell you in brief the history of
the small town.



CHAPTER I

Far, far from the line of the railroads which run through the
Bialorus (a part of Poland around the city of Mohileff which now
belongs to Russia), far from even the navigable River Dzwina, in one
of the most remote corners of the country, amidst quiet, large, level
fields--still existing in some parts of Europe--between two sandy
roads which disappear into the depths of a great forest, there is a
group of gray houses of different sizes standing so closely together
that anyone looking at them would say that they had been seized by
some great fright and had crowded together in order to be able to
exchange whispers and tears.

This is Szybow, a town inhabited by Israelites, almost exclusively,
with the exception of a small street at the end of the place in
which, in a few houses, live a few very poor burghers and very quiet
old retired officials.

It is the only street that is quiet, and the only street in which
flowers bloom in summer. In the other streets no flowers bloom, and
they are dreadfully noisy. There the people talk and move about
continually, industriously, passionately, within the houses and in
the narrow dark alleys called streets, and in the round,
comparatively large market-place in the centre of the town, around
which there are numerous doors of stinking small shops. In this
market-place after a week of transactions by the people of the
vicinity, there remains an inconceivable quantity of dirt and
sweepings, and here is also the high, dusky, strangely-shaped meeting
house.

This building is one of the specimens, rare to-day, of Hebrew
architecture. A painter and an archeologist would look upon it with
an equal amount of interest. At first glance it can be easily seen
that it is a synagogue, although it does not look like other
churches. Its four thick walls form a monotonous quadrangle, and its
brown colour gives it a touch of dignity, sadness, and antiquity.
These walls must be very old indeed, for they are covered with green
strips of moss. The higher parts of the walls are cut with a row of
long, narrow, deeply-set windows, recalling, by their shape, the
loop-holes of a fortress. The whole building is covered by a roof
whose three large heavy turrets, built one upon the other, look like
three moss-covered gigantic mushrooms.

Every gathering, whether of greater importance or of common
occurrence, was held here, sheltered beneath the brown walls and
mushroom-like roof of the temple. Here in the large round courtyard
are the heders (Hebrew schools), where the kahals (church committees)
gather. Here stands a low black house with two windows, a real mud
hovel, inhabited for several centuries and for many generations by
Rabbis of the family of Todros, famous in the community and even far
beyond it. Here at least everything is clean, and while in other
parts of the place, in the spring especially, the people nearly sink
into the mud, the school courtyard is always clean. It would be
difficult to find on it even a wisp of straw, for as soon as anything
is noticed, it is at once picked up by a passer-by, anxious to keep
clean the place around the temple.

How important Szybow is to the Israelites living in Bialorus, and
even in Lithuania, can be judged by an embarrassing incident which
occurred to a merry but unwise nobleman while in conversation with a
certain Jewish agent, more spiritual than humble.

The agent was standing at the door of the office of the noble, bent a
little forward, smiling, always ready to please and serve the noble,
and say a witty word to put him in good humour. The noble was feeling
pretty good, and joked with the Jew.

"Chaimek," spoke he, "wert thou in Cracow?"

"I was not, serene lord."

"Then thou art stupid."

Chaimek bowed.

"Chaimek, wert thou in Rome?"

"I was not, serene lord."

"Then thou art very stupid."

Chaimek bowed again, but in the meanwhile he had made two steps
forward. On his lips wandered one of those smiles common to the
people of his race--clever, cunning, in which it is impossible to say
whether there is humility or triumph, flattery or irony.

"Excuse me, your lordship," he said softly, "has your lordship been
in Szybow?"

Szybow was situated about twenty miles from the place at which this
conversation was held.

The nobleman answered, "I was not."

"And what now?" answered Chaimek still more softly.

The answer of the jolly nobleman to that embarrassing question is not
recorded, but the use of Szybow as an argument against the insult
shows that to the Jew Szybow was of the same relative importance as
were Rome and Cracow to the nobleman, i.e., as the place which was
the concentration of civil and religious authorities.

If someone were to have asked the Jew why he attributed such
importance to a small, poor town, he would probably mention two
families who had lived in Szybow for centuries--Ezofowichs and
Todros. Between these two families there existed the difference that
the Ezofowichs represented the concentration in the highest degree of
the element of secular importance, i.e., large family, numerous
relatives, riches, and keenness in the transaction of large business
interests, and in increasing their wealth. On the other hand, the
Todros family represented the spiritual element--piety, religious
culture, and severe, almost ascetic, purity of life.

It is probable that if Chaimek were asked the reason for the
importance given to the little town, he would forget to name the
Ezofowichs because, although the Israelites were proud of the riches
and influence of that family as one of their national glories, this
lustre, purely worldly, paled in comparison with the rays of holiness
which surrounded the name of Todros.

The Todros were for generations considered by the whole Hebrew
population of Bialorus and Lithuania as the most accomplished example
and enduring pillar of orthodoxy. Was it really so? Here and there
could be found scholarly Talmudists, who smiled when a question arose
in regard to the Talmudistic orthodoxy of the Todros, and when they
gathered together the name of Todros was sadly whispered about. But
although the celebrated orthodoxy of the Todros was much discussed by
these scholars, they were greatly in the minority--only a score among
the masses of believers. The crowd believed, worshipped, and went to
Szybow as to a holy place, to make obeisance and ask for advice,
consolation, and medicines.

Szybow had not always possessed such an attractive power of
orthodoxy; on the contrary, its founders were schismatics,
representing in Israel the spirit of opposition and division,
Karaites. In the times of yore they had converted to their belief the
powerful inhabitants of the rich land on the shores of Chersoneses,
and they became their kings. Afterwards, in accordance with the
traditions of that reign, they wandered into the world with their
legislative book, the Bible, double exiles, from Palestine and
Crimea, and a small part of them, brought to Lithuania by the Grand
Duke Witold, went as far as Bialorus and settled there in a group of
houses and mud-hovels called Szybow.

In those times, on Friday and Saturday evenings, great tranquillity
and darkness was spread through the town, because Karaites, contrary
to the Talmudists, did not celebrate the holy day of Sabbath with an
abundance of light and noisy joy and copious feasts, but they greeted
it with darkness, silence, sadness, and meditation upon the downfall
of the national temple, and the glory and might of the people of
Israel. Then, from the blackest houses, from behind the small dark
windows, there flowed into the quiet without the sound of singing;
the parents were sadly telling their children of the prophets who, on
the shores of the rivers in Babylon, broke their harps and cut their
fingers so that none could force them to sing in captivity, of the
blessed country of Havili, situated somewhere in the south of Arabia,
where the ten tribes of Israel lived in liberty, happiness, and
peace, not knowing quarrels or the use of the sword. They talked of
the holy river, Sabbation, hiding the Israelitic wanderers from the
eyes of their toes. In time, however, lights began to shine in the
windows on Fridays, and then, little by little, they began to talk
and pray aloud. Rabbinits arrived. The worshippers of Talmudistic
authorities, representative of blind faith in oral traditions
gathered and transmitted by Kohens, Tanaits, and Gaons, came and
pushed aside the handful of heretics and wrecks. Under the influence
of the newcomers the community of Karaites began to melt away. The
last blow was struck at it by a man well-known in the history of
Polish Hebrews--Michael Ezofowich, Senior.

He was the first of his name to emerge from obscurity. His family,
settled in Poland for a long time, was one of these which, during the
reign of Jagiellons, under the influence of privileges and laws in
Poland promulgated by a (for that time) high civilisation, was united
by sympathetic ties to the aboriginal population, and Ezofowich was
appointed Senior over all the Hebrew population of Lithuania and
Bialorus, by King Zygmunt the First, by a document which read thus:

"We, Zygmunt, by God's grace, etc., make known to all Jews living on
the estate, our Fatherland, having taken into consideration the
faithful services of the Jew, Michael Ezofowich, and wishing you in
your affairs not to meet with any obstacles and delays, according to
the laws of justice, we constitute, that Michael Ezofowich shall
settle all your affairs for US, and be your superior, and you must
come to US through him, and be obedient to him in everything. He will
judge you and rule over you according to the custom of our law, and
punish the guilty ones by OUR permission, everyone according to his
merit."

From the few historical notes about him, it can be seen that the
Senior was a man of strong and energetic will. With a firm hand he
seized the authority given him over his co-religionists, and he threw
an anathema over those who would not obey him, especially on the
Karaites, excluding them from the Hebrew community, and refusing them
the friendship and help of their tribe. Under such a blow the
existence of the inhabitants of Szybow, already poor, sad, and
inactive, was made altogether unbearable. The descendants of Hazairan
rulers, heretics, constituting, as always, a great minority of the
population, exposed to aversion and hatred, oppressed and poor, left
the place which had given them shelter for a certain time, carrying
with them in their hearts their stubborn attachment to the Bible, and
on their lips their poetical legends. They scattered in the broad and
hostile world, leaving behind them in that little town where they had
lived two hundred years only a few families, cherishing still more
passionately their old graveyards, the hill now covered with the
ruins of their temple, which the conquering Rabbinits had destroyed.
The Rabbinits took possession of Szybow, and, if the truth be told,
they changed, by their energy, industry, perfect harmony of action,
the result of unusual mutual help, the quiet, gray, poor, sad little
village into a town full of activity, noise, care, and riches.

In those times, under the Senior's rule, the Jews in general were
prosperous. Besides material prosperity, there began to live in them
the hope of a possibility of rising from their mental ignorance and
social humiliation. The Senior must surely have had a superior and
keen mind, for he was able to thoroughly understand the spirit of the
time and the needs of his people, notwithstanding the ancient
barriers and prejudices. He rejected the Karaites from the bosom of
Israel, not because of religious fanaticism but for broader social
reasons. Although he was a Rabbinit, and obliged to give to the
religious authorities absolute faith and worship, his mind was
sometimes visited by fits of scepticism--perhaps the best road to
wisdom. In one of his reports to the King, refuting some objections
which had been made to his sentences, he wrote, sadly and ironically:

"Our different books give us different laws. Very often we know not
what to do when Gamaliel differs from Eliezer. In Babylon is one
truth--in Jerusalem another (two editions of the Talmud). We obey the
second Moses (Majmonides) and the new ones call him heretic. I
encourage the savants to write such wise books that the clever and
stupid can understand them." It was at the time when the Occidental
Israelites, settled in France and Spain, raised the question as to
whether the professors of the Talmud and Bible should be permitted to
acquire a knowledge of the lay sciences. Many opinions were
considered, but none was strong enough to prevail, because the
partisans of absolute separation from mental work and human
tendencies constituted a great majority among the Israelites. Every
society has such moments of darkness. It happens especially when a
nation is exhausted by a series of successful efforts, after having
undergone tortures, and enfeebled by the streams of blood poured out.
The Occidental Jews, after centuries of existence in abject fear,
wandering through fire and blood, passed such a moment in the
sixteenth century. The time was still far distant which gave birth to
famous doctors of secular sciences beloved of the people, esteemed by
Kings. The high ideas of Majmonides who, giving deserved credit to
the legislation of Israel, admired also the Greek scholars, were also
far from the--they were even forgotten. Majmonides, who wished to
base the knowledge of the Bible and Talmud on a foundation of
mathematical and astronomical truths, and make it durable; who openly
expressed the desire to shorten the twenty-five hundred sheets of the
Talmud into one chapter, clear as the day; who did not justify
religious beliefs which were contrary to commonsense, and claimed
that "the eyes are placed in the front, and not in the rear of man's
head, in order that he may look before him," and prophesied that the
whole world would one day be filled with knowledge, as the sea is
filled with water--such a man was despised. Four centuries had passed
since the dignified, sweet, highly sympathetic figure of the
Israelitic thinker had disappeared from the face of the earth. He was
one of the greatest thinkers of the middle ages. The giant with the
eagle eye and fiery heart had been succeeded by dwarfs, whose weak
breasts were saturated with bitterness, and whose eyes looked on the
world sadly, suspiciously, narrow-mindedly. "Keep away from Greek
knowledge," Joseph Ezobi cried to his son, "because it is like the
wine-garden of Sodom, pouring into man's head drunkenness and sin."

"The strangers are pushing into the Gates of Zion!" lamented
Abba-Mari, when he learned that the Hebrew youths had begun to study
with masters of other religions. And all the Rabbis and the
Presidents of the Jewish communities in the West, ordered that no man
under thirty years of age should study the lay sciences. "Because,"
said they, "he who has filled his mind with the Bible, and Talmud has
the right to warm himself at the stranger's flame."

The bolder ones, while submitting to the decision of their superiors,
cried, "Rabbi, how can we study lay sciences after our thirtieth
year, when our minds will have become dulled and our memory tired,
and we shall possess enthusiasm no longer and strength of youth."

The orders were obeyed. Their minds grew dull, tired memory fainted,
and the strength and enthusiasm of youth left them. Majmonides,
grave, silent, motionless, stood in the midst of the sea of darkness
which covered the people who had been conducted by him toward the
light. They cursed his memory, and a devastating hand rubbed off his
tomb its grateful and glorious inscription, replacing it with stiff
and cruel words, as fanatical as ignorant:

"Here lies Moses Majmonides, excommunicated heretic."

At the same time the same quarrels raged among the Hebrews settled in
Poland, but being less tired by persecution, and because they were
less tormented than their brothers in the West, and were freer and
more sure of their privileges than their brothers in the West, their
aversion to the 'stranger's flames' was less passionate. Nay, there
was among them quite a numerous party which cried for secular
sciences--for brotherhood with the rest of humanity in intellectual
efforts and tendencies. One of these men who stood at the head of
this party was the Lithuanian Senior, Ezofowich. Under his influence
the Jewish Synod convocated in those times, issued a proclamation to
all the Polish Jews. The principal paragraph of this was:

"Jehovah has numerous Sefirots, Adam has had numerous emanations of
perfection. Therefore an Israelite must not be satisfied with one
religious science only. Although it is a holy science the others must
not on this account be neglected. The best fruit is a paradise apple,
but shall we not eat less good apples? There were Jews in the courts
of kings; Mordoheus was a savant, Esther was clever, Nehemias was a
Persian counsellor, and they liberated the people from captivity.
Study; be useful to the King and the nobles will respect you. The
Jews are as numerous as the sands of the sea and the stars in the
sky; they do not shine like the stars, but everyone tramples on them
as on the sand. The wind scatters the seeds of different trees, and
none asks from where the most beautiful tree has its origin. Why,
then, should there not rise among us a Cedar of Lebanon, instead of
thorn-bushes?"

The man under whose inspiration the proclamation was written, calling
the Polish Jews to turn their faces to where the light of the future
was dawning, met, eye to eye, the man with his face set toward the
past and darkness.

This man was a newcomer from Spain, and settled in Szybow. His name
was Nehemias Todros, the descendant of the famous Todros Abulaffi
Halevi who, famous for his Talmudistic learning and orthodoxy and
knowledge, was afterwards carried away by the gloomy secrets of
Kabalists, and helping it with his authority, was the cause of the
most dreadful error among the Jews from which any nation can suffer.
The tradition says that the same Nehemias Todros who had a princely
title, Nassi, was the first to bring to Poland the book, Zohar, in
which was explained the quintessence of the perilous doctrine, and
from that day there comes from Poland the mixture of the Talmud with
Kabalistic ideas which has influenced very badly the minds and the
lives of the Polish Jews. History is silent regarding the quarrels
and fights aroused by this innovation among the people who were in a
fair way of emerging from the darkness which surrounded them, but the
traditions, piously preserved in the families, tell, that in the
fight, which lasted a long time and was very obstinate, between
Michael Ezofowich, for a considerable period a Polish Jew, and
Nehemias Todros, a Spanish newcomer, the first was vanquished.
Consumed with grief caused by the sight of his people returning to
the old false roads, crushed by intrigues set afoot against him by
the gloomy adversary, he died in his prime. His name descended from
generation to generation of Ezofowichs. They were all proud of his
memory, although in time they understood less of its importance. From
that time dated the great authority of the Todros and the gradual
diminution of moral influence exerted by the Ezofowichs. The last
ones being driven out by those fresh from the field of waste, social
activity, they turned all their abilities in the direction of
business, with the aim of increasing their material welfare. The
navigable rivers were every year covered with vessels owned by them,
and carrying to remote parts enormous quantities of merchandise.
Their house, standing in the midst of the poor town, became more and
more the centre of national riches and industry. To them, as to the
modern Rothschilds, everyone went in need of gold to carry out their
enterprises. The Ezofowichs were proud of their material might, and
gave up entirely caring about the other--the might of spiritual
influence and the fate of the people possessed by their grandfather,
and of which they were robbed by Todros--by those Todros who, poor,
almost beggars, living in the wretched little house which stood near
the temple, disparaging everything which had the appearance of
comfort and beauty, but who were, nevertheless, famous all over the
country, and were enveloped in the pious dreams and hopes of their
people. And only once during two centuries did one of the Ezofowichs
attempt to lay hold of not only material--but also moral dignity. It
happened toward the end of the last century. The great Four-Year
Parliament was in session at Warsaw. The reports of its discussions
reached even the small town in Bialorus. The people living there
listened and waited. From lips to lips rushed the news of hope and
fear--the Jews were under discussion at this Parliament!

What do they say about us? What do they write about us? the
long--bearded passers-by asked each other, as they walked through the
narrow streets of Szybow, dressed in long halats and big fur caps
This curiosity increased each day to such an extent that it
finally-extraordinary event--stopped  the business transactions
and money circulation. Some of them even undertook the long,
difficult journey to Warsaw, in order to be near the source
of news, and from there they sent their brethren who remained
in the little town of Bialorus, long letters, rumpled and spotted
newspapers, and leaves torn from different pamphlets, and books.

Of those who remained in the town, two men were most attentive and
most impatient--Nohim Todros, Rabbi, and Hersh Ezofowich, rich
merchant. There was a muffled, secret antipathy between them.
Apparently they were on good terms, but at every opportunity there
burst forth the antagonism which existed between the great-grandson
of Michael the Senior, the disciple of Majmonides, and the descendant
of Nehemias Todros, Kabalistic fanatic.

Finally there came from Warsaw to Szybow a crumpled sheet of paper,
which had turned yellow during the journey, and on it were the
following words:

"All differences in dress, language, and customs existing between the
Jews and early inhabitants must be abolished. Leave alone everything
concerning religion. Tolerate even the sects if they work no moral
injury. Do not baptise a Jew before he is twenty years old. Give to
the Jews the right to acquire land, and do not collect any taxes from
those who will take agriculture for five years. Supply them with farm
stock. Forbid marriages before the age of twenty for men and eighteen
for women."

This sheet was carried about and read hundreds of times in the
houses, streets and squares. It was waved as a flag of triumph or
mourning, until it went to pieces in those thousands of unhappy,
trembling hands. But the population of Szybow did not express its
opinion of that news. A smaller part of it turned their questioning
eyes toward Hersh; others, more numerous, looked inquiringly into the
face of Reb Nohim.

Reb Nohim appeared on the threshold of his hut, and raising his thin
hands above his gray head, as a sign of indignation and despair, he
cried several times:

"Assybe! assybe! dajde!"

"Misfortune! misfortune! woe!" repeated after him, the crowd gathered
in the courtyard of the temple.

But, in the same moment, Hersh Ezofowich standing at the door of the
meeting house, put his white hand into the pocket of his satin halat,
raised his head, covered with a costly beaver cap, and not less
loudly than the Rabbi, but in a different voice, he called:

"Hoffnung! Hoffnung! Frieden!"

"Hope! Hope! Happiness!" repeated after him, timidly, his not very
numerous followers, with a sidelong glance at the Rabbi. But the old
Rabbi's hearing was good, and he heard the cry. His white beard
shook, and his dark eyes flashed lightning in Hersh's direction.

"They will order us to shave our beards and wear short dresses!" he
exclaimed, painfully and angrily.

"They will make our minds longer and broaden our hearts!" answered
Hersh's sonorous voice.

"They will put us to the plough and order us to cultivate the country
of exile!" shouted Rabbi Nohim.

"They will open for us the treasures of the earth, and they will
order her to be our fatherland!" screamed Hersh.

"They will forbid us kosher," cried Rabbi.

"They will make of Israel a cedar tree instead of a hawthorn!"
answered Hersh.

"Our son's faces will be covered with beards before they may marry!"

"When they take their wives, their minds and strength will be already
developed."

"They will order us to warm ourselves at strange fireplaces, and
drink from the wine-garden of Sodom."

"They will bring near to us the Jobel-ha-Gabel--the festival of joy,
during which the lamb may eat beside the tiger."

"Hersh Ezofowich! Hersh Ezofowich! Through your mouth speaks the soul
of your great-grandfather, who wished to lead all Jews to foreign
fireplaces."

"Reb Nohim! Reb Nohim! Through your eyes looks the soul of your
great-grandfather, who plunged all Jews into great darkness."

Deep silence reigned in the crowd as the two men, standing far from
each other, spoke thus. Nohim's voice grew thinner and sharper;
Hersh's resounded with stronger and deeper tones. The Rabbi's yellow
cheeks became covered with brick-red spots--Ezofowich's face grew
pale. The Rabbi shook his thin hands, rocking his figure backward and
forward, scattering his silvery beard over both shoulders. The
merchant stood erect and motionless, and in his green eyes shone an
angry sneer.

A couple of thousand eyes gazed in turn on the two
adversaries--leaders of the people--and a couple of thousand mouths
quivered, but were silent.

Finally, the long, sharp piercing cry of Reb Nohim resounded in the
courtyard of the temple.

"Assybe! assybe! dajde!" moaned the old man, sobbing and crushing his
hands.

"Hoffnung! Hoffnung! Frieden!" joyfully exclaimed Hersh, raising his
white hand.

The crowd was still silent and motionless for a while. Then the heads
began to move like waves and lips to murmur like waters, and at once
a couple of thousands of hands were lifted with a gesture of pain and
distress, and from a couple of thousand throats came the powerful
shout.

"Assybe! assybe! dajde!"

Reb Nohim was victorious!

Hersh looked around. His friends surrounded him closely. They were
silent. They dropped their heads and cast timid looks on the ground.

Hersh smiled disdainfully, and when the crowd rushed to the temple,
led by Reb Nohim continually shaking his yellow hands above his gray
head, and while still before the threshold of the temple began the
prayer habitually recited when some peril was imminent--when finally
the brown walls of the temple resounded with the powerful sobbing
cry, "Lord help thy people! Save from annihilation the sons of
Israel!" The young merchant stood motionless, plunged in deep
thought. Then he passed slowly down the square, and finally
disappeared into a large house of fine outward appearance. It was the
biggest and showiest house in the town, almost new, for it was built
by Hersh himself, and shone with yellow walls and brilliant windows.

Hersh sat for a long time in a large, simply-furnished room. His look
was gloomy. Then he raised his head and called:

"Freida! Freida!"

In answer to this call the door of the adjoining room opened, and in
the golden light of the fireplace appeared a slender young woman. On
her head was a large white turban, and a white kerchief fell from her
neck, ornamented with several strings of pearls. Her big, dark eyes
shone brightly and like flame from her gentle, oval face. She paused
opposite her husband, and questioned him with her eyes only.

Hersh motioned her to a chair, in which she sat immediately.

"Freida," he began, "have you heard of what happened in the town
to-day?"

"Yes, I have heard," she answered softly. "My brother Joseph came to
see me, and told me that you had quarrelled with Reb Nohim."

"He wishes to eat me up as his great-grandfather ate up my
great-grand father."

Freida's dark eyes became filled with fear.

"Hersh!" she exclaimed, "you must not quarrel with him. He is a great
and saintly man. All will be with him!"

"No," answered the husband, with a smile, "don't be afraid. Now other
times are corning--he can't harm me. And as for me, I can't shut my
mouth when my heart shouts within me that I must speak. I can no
longer stand by to hear that man teaching that what is good is bad,
and see the stupid people look into his eyes and shout, although they
do not understand anything. No! And how can they understand? Has
Todros ever taught them to distinguish good from evil, and separate
that which was from that winch shall be?"

After a few moments of silence, Hersh continued:

"Freida."

"What, Hersh?"

"Have you forgotten what I told you about Michael the Senior?"

The woman folded her hands devoutly.

"Why should I forget it?" she asked. "You told me beautiful things of
him."

"He was a great--a very great man. Todros ate him up. If that family
had not eaten him up he would have accomplished great things for the
Jews. But no matter about that. I will ask him what he wished to do.
He will teach me, and I will do it!"

Freida grew pale.

"But how will you ask him?" she whispered in fear, "he is dead a long
time ago."

A mysterious smile played about the merchant's thin lips.

"I know how. Sometimes God permits those who have died to talk with
and teach their grandchildren, Freida," he continued, after another
pause, "do you know what the Senior did when he saw that Todros would
eat him up, and that he would die before the good times would come?"

"No, what did he do?"

"He shut himself up in a room, and he sat there without eating or
drinking or sleeping, and--he only wrote. And what did he write? That
nobody yet knows, because he hid what he had written, and when he
felt that his end was near, he said to his sons: 'I have written down
everything that I have known and felt, and what I intended to do; but
I have hidden my writings from you, because now such times are at
hand that all is useless for the present. The Todros rule, and they
will rule for a long time, and they will do this that neither you,
nor your sons, nor your grandsons will care to see my writing, and
even were they to see it, they would tear it into pieces, and scatter
it to the winds for annihilation, ant they would say that Michael the
Senior was kofrim (heretic), and they would excommunicate him as they
did the second Moses. But there will come a time when my
great-grandson will wish for what I had written--to ask for guidance
in his thoughts and actions in order to free the Jews from Todros'
captivity, and to lead them to that sun from which the other nations
receive the warmth. Thus, my great-grandson who desires to have my
writings, will find the writings, and you have only to tell the
eldest son of that family on your deathbed that it exists, and that
there are many wise things written down. It must be thus from
generation to generation. I command you thus. Remember to be obedient
to this one, whose soul deserved to be immortal! (It was the teaching
of Moses Majmonides, in regard to the immortality of the soul, that
every man, according to the culture of his mind and moral perfection,
could attain immortality, and that annihilation was the punishment
for misdeeds)."

Hersh stopped speaking. Freida sat motionless looking into her
husband's face with intense curiosity.

"Shall you search for that writing?" she asked softly.

"I shall search for it," said her husband, "and I shall find it,
because I am that great-grandson of whom Michael Senior spoke when
dying. I shall find that writing--you must help me to find it."

The woman stood erect, beaming with joy.

"Hersh, you are a good man!" she exclaimed. "You are kind to
associate me, a woman, with such an important affair and great
thoughts."

"Why should I not do it? Are you a bad housekeeper or a bad mother?
You do everything well, and your soul is as beautiful as your eyes."

The white face of the young Hebrew woman became scarlet. She dropped
her eyes, but her coral-like lips whispered some words of love and
gratitude.

Hersh rose.

"Where shall we search for the writing?" said he thoughtfully.

"Where?" repeated the woman.

"Freida," said the husband, "Michael the Senior could not have hidden
his writing in the earth, for he knew that there the worms would eat
it, or that it would turn to dust. Is this writing in the earth?"

"No," answered the woman, "it is not there."

"He could not have hidden it in the wails of the house, for he knew
that they would rot, and that they would be destroyed, and new ones
built. These walls I have built myself, and I carefully searched the
old ones, but there was no writing."

"There was not," repeated Freida sorrowfully.

"He could not have hidden it in the roof, because he knew it would
not be safe there. When I was born there was perhaps the tenth roof
built over our house, but it seems to me that the writing could not
have been there. Where is it?"

Both were thoughtful. All at once, after a while, the woman
exclaimed:

"Hersh, I know where the writing is!"

Her husband raised his head. His wife was pointing to the large
library filled with books, which stood in a corner of the room.

"There?" said Hersh, hesitatingly.

"There," repeated the woman, with conviction. "Have you not told me
that these are Michael Senior's books, and that all the Ezofowichs
have preserved them, but no one has read them because Todros would
not permit the reading of books."

Hersh passed his hand over his forehead, and the woman spoke further.

"Michael the Senior was a wise man, and he saw the future. He knew
that for a long time no one would read those books, and that only the
one who would read them would be that great-grandson who would find
his writings."

"Freida, Freida," exclaimed Hersh, "you are a wise woman!"

She modestly dropped her dark eyes.

"Hersh, I am going to see why the baby is crying. I will give the
servants their orders, and have them keep the fire, then I will come
here and aid you in your work."

"Come!" said her husband, and when she had gone to the room from
which came the sounds of children's voices, he said to himself:

"A wise woman is more precious than gold and pearls. Besides, her
husband's heart is quiet."

After a while she returned, locked the door, and asked softly:

"Where is the key?"

Hersh found the key of his great-grandfather's library, and they
began to take down the large books. They placed them on the floor,
and having seated themselves, they began to turn slowly one leaf
after the other. Clouds of dust rose from the piles of paper, which
had remained untouched for centuries. The dust settled on Freida's
snow-white turban in a gray layer, and covered also Hersh's golden
hair. But they worked on indefatigably and with such a solemn
expression on their faces that one would think that they were
uncovering the grave of their great-grandfather in order to take
therefrom his grand thoughts.

Evening was already approaching when Hersh exclaimed as people
exclaim when they meet with victory and bliss. Freida said nothing,
but she rose slowly and extended her hands above her head in a
movement of gratitude.

Then Hersh prayed fervently near the window, through which could be
seen the first stars appearing in the sky. During the whole night
there was a light in that window, and seated at the table, his head
resting on both hands, was Hersh, reading from large yellowish sheets
of paper. At the break of day, when the eastern part of the sky had hardly
begun to burn with pinkish light, he went out, dressed himself in a
travelling mantle and large beaver cap, got into a carriage, and drove
away. He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not even bid
good-bye to his children and servants, who crowded the hall of the house.
He only nodded to Freida, who stood on the piazza, with the white turban
on her head turning pink in the light of the dawn. Her eyes, which
followed her husband, were filled with sadness and pride.

Where had Hersh gone? Beyond mountains, forests, and rivers, to a
remote part of the country where, amidst swampy plains and black
forests of Pinseyzna lived an eloquent partisan of the rights to
civilisation of the Polish Jews, Butrymowicz. He was a karmaszym--(the
higher, or rather richer, class of nobility in Poland were called by that
name, which means a certain shade of red, because their national
costumes were of that colour)--and a thinker. He saw clearly and far.
He was familiar with the necessities of the century.

When Hersh was introduced into the mansion of the nobleman and
admitted to the presence of the great and wise member of parliament,
he bowed profoundly, and began to speak thus:

"I am Hersh Ezofowich, a merchant from Szybow, and the great-grandson
of Michael Ezofowich, who was superior over all the Jews, and was
called Senior by the command of the king himself. I come here from
afar. And why do I come? Because I wished to see the great member of
the Diet, and talk with the famous author. The light with which his
figure shines is so great that it made me blind. As a weak plant
twines around the branch of a great oak, so I desire to twine my
thoughts about yours, that they shall over-arch the people like the
rainbow, and there shall be no more quarrels and darkness in this
world."

When the great man answered encouragingly to this preface, Hersh
continued:

"Serene lord, you have said that there must be an agreement between
two nations, who, living on the same soil, are in continual
conflict."

"Yes. I said so," answered the deputy.

"Serene lord, you said that the Jew ought to be equal in everything
with the Christians, and in that way they would be no longer
noxious."

"I said it."

"Serene lord, yon have said that you consider the Jews as Polish
citizens, and that it is necessary that they should send their
children to the secular schools. They should have the right to
purchase the land, and that among them certain things, which are
neither good nor sensible, should be abolished."

"I said it," again affirmed the deputy.

Then the tall, stately figure of the Jew, with its proud head and
intelligent look, bent swiftly, and before the deputy could resist
Hersh had pressed his hand to his lips.

"I am a newcomer in this country," said he softly. "Younger
brother--"

Then he drew himself up and pulled from the pocket of his halat a
roll of yellowish papers.

"That which I have brought here," he said, "is more precious to me
than gold, pearls, and diamonds."

"What is it?" asked the deputy.

Hersh answered in a solemn voice:

"It is the will of my ancestor, Michael Ezofowich, the Senior."

They both sat reading through the whole night by the light of two
small wax candles. Then they began to talk. They spoke softly, with
heads bent together and burning faces. Then toward day-break they
rose, and simultaneously each stretched out and shook the hands of
the other cordially.

What did they read the whole night, and of what were they talking?
What sentiment of enthusiasm and hope united their hands as a sign of
a pact? Nobody ever learned. It is sunk in the dark night of
historical secrets, with many other desires and thoughts. Adversities
plunged it there. It was hidden, but not lost. Sometimes we ask
ourselves whence come the lightnings of those thoughts and desires
which nobody has known before? And we do not know that their sources
are the moments not written on the pages of the history by any
writer.

The next day a coach driven by six horses stopped before time house
of the nobleman. The noble, with his Jewish guest, got in, and
together they went to the capital of the country.

A couple of months afterwards Hersh returned from Warsaw to Szybow.
He was very active in the town and its environments, he spoke,
explained, persuaded, trying to gain partisans for the changes which
were in preparation for his people. Then he went away again, and
again he returned--and went away. This lasted a couple of years.

When Hersh returned from Ins last journey he was very much changed.
His looks were sad, and his forehead was lined with sorrow. He
entered the house, sat on the bench, and began to pant heavily.
Freida stood before him, sorrowful and uneasy, but quiet and patient.
She did not dare to ask. She waited for her husband's words and
look. Finally he looked at her sadly, and said:

"Everything is lost!"

"Why lost?" whispered Freida.

Hersh made a gesture, indicative of the downfall of something grand.

"When a building falls," he said, "the beams fall on the heads of
those who are within, and the dust fills their eyes."

"It is true," affirmed the woman.

"A great building is in the mire. The beams have fallen on all the
great problems and our great works, and the dust covers them--for a
long time."

Then he rose, looked at Freida with eyes full of big tears, and said:

"We must hide the Senior's testament, because it will be useless
again. Come, let us hide it carefully. If some great-grandson of ours
will wish to get it, he will find it the same as we did."

From that day Hersh grew perceptibly older. His eyes dulled, and his
hack grew bent. He sat for hours on the bench, sighing deeply, and
repeating:

"Assybe! assybe! assybe! dajde!" (Misfortune! Misfortune! Woe!)

Around this sad man moved softly and solicitously a slender woman
dressed in a flowing gown and white turban. Her dark eyes often
filled with tears, and her steps were so careful and quiet that even
the pearls which ornamented her neck never made the slightest noise,
and did not interrupt her husband's thoughtfulness.

Sometimes Freida looked sadly at her husband. His sadness made her
sad also, but she did not clearly understand it. Why was he
sorrowful? His riches did not diminish, the children grew healthy,
and everything was as before that quarrel with Reb Nohim and the
finding of those old papers. The loving and wise woman, whose whole
world was contained between the four walls of her home, could not
understand that her husband's spirit was carried into the sphere of
broad ideas--that it was fond of the fiery world, and being driven
out of it by the strength of events, could not be cured of its
longing. She did not know that in this world there were griefs and
longings which had no connection with either parents or with
children, or with wife or with wealth, or with one's house, and that
such griefs and longings of the human spirit are the most difficult
to cure.

Todros was rejoicing, and he called his flock to rejoice with him,
who believed in his wisdom and sanctity. He triumphed, but he desired
to triumph still further. To destroy the Ezofowichs would mean to
destroy the stream which flowed into the future, striving with that
other stream which strove to congeal into ice--into the petrification
of the past. Who knows what may happen in the future? Who knows but
that that cursed family may not give rise to a man strong enough to
destroy the centuries of work achieved by the Todros. If events had
taken another turn, Hersh, with the aid of his friend Edomits, would
already have accomplished this!

As in times of yore, his ancestor Michael was accused, so now Hersh
was assailed with reproaches of all kinds. In the synagogue they
shouted at him that he did not observe the Sabbath, that he was
friendly with gojs (any man who does not follow Judaism is a goj),
and that he sat at their tables and ate meat which is not kosher.
That in contentious affairs he avoided Jewish courts, and went to the
tribunals of the country; that he did not obey the superiors of
kahal, and he even dared to criticise them that he did not respect
Jewish authorities in general, and Reb Nohim in particular.

Hersh defended himself proudly, refuting some of the objections and
acknowledging some of the others, but justifying them by reasons,
which, however, were not recognised as being right, either by his people
or his superiors.

This lasted quite a long time, but finally it stopped. The
accusations were discontinued, and intrigues ceased, because the
object of these attacks became himself silent, and morally
disappeared. Grown prematurely old, and tired of lights, Hersh shut
himself up in the circle of private life, and occupied himself with
business transactions, These, however, did not go as smoothly as did
those of others, because he did not possess--as did others--the
sympathy of his brethren. What he felt, and about what he thought, in
those last years of his life, no one knew, for he told no one
anything. Only before his death he had a long conversation with his
wife.

The children were too small to be entrusted with the secret of his
disappointed desires, wasted efforts, and smothered griefs. He left
these as a legacy to his children through his wife. Did Freida
understand and remember the words of her dying husband? Was she
willing, and was she able, to remember them, and repeat them to his
descendants? It is not known. Only this is certain--that only she
knew the place where the Senior's will was hidden--the old writings
which were the heritage not only of the Ezofowich family but of the
whole Israelitic nation--a neglected and forgotten heritage, but in
which--who knows!--were treasures a hundredfold richer than those
which filled the chests of that wealthy family.

Therefore the Senior's last thoughts and wishes slept in some
hiding-place, waiting for a bold descendant who would be courageous
enough to bring them into life. But in the meantime there remained in
the town not one soul longing for the light--not one heart which
throbbed for something more than his own wife, his own children, and
before all, his own riches.

There was plenty of noise arising from the care and haste whose only
aim was to gain money; there was darkness because of mystic fears and
dreams there was narrowness and suffocating because of merciless,
grinding, dead orthodoxy.

The common people of the same faith throughout the whole country
considered the people of Szybow as powerful, both materially and
morally, wise, orthodox, almost holy.

Over the whole deep-sunk social valley hung a cloud. This cloud was
composed of the darkest elements which exist in human kind, which
are: respect for the letter from which the spirit has departed, dense
ignorance, suspicious and hateful defence of self against everything
which flows from broad, sunny, but 'foreign' worlds.





CHAPTER II

It happened three years ago.

Damp fog was rising from the muddy streets of the town and made dark
the transparency of a starry evening. A breath of March wind mingled
with the odour of freshly ploughed fields, flew over low roofs, but
could not drive out the suffocating exhalations coming in clouds from
the doors and windows of the houses.

Notwithstanding the mists and exhalations which filled it, the town
had a gay and festive appearance. From behind gray curtains thousands
of windows shone with bright illuminations, and from lighted houses
came the sounds of noisy conversation or collective prayers. Whoever
passed through the streets and looked into this or that window of
this or that house, would see all around bright family scenes. In the
centre of larger or smaller rooms were long tables, covered with
white cloths, and all prepared for a feast. Around them bustled women
in variegated dresses, carrying and leaving contributions with a
smile on their faces, and admiring their own work in the decoration
of the tables. Bearded husbands, holding their children in their
arms, pressed their lips to the pink cheeks, or kissed the on the
mouth with a loud smack. They tossed them up to the low ceilings, to
the great mirth of the older members of the family. Others sat in
groups on benches and talked of affairs of the past week. Others
still, covered with the folds of their white talliths, stood
motionless, facing the walls, rocking their figures back and forward.
These were preparing themselves by fervent prayer to meet the holy
Sabbath day.

For it was Friday evening.

In the whole town there was but one house in which reigned darkness,
emptiness, and sadness. It was a little gray hut which seemed to have
been clapped on to a small hill at the other end of the town--it was
the only elevation on the waste plain. And even this hill was not
natural. Tradition said that it was made by Karaites, who built it on
their temple. Today there remained no traces of that temple. The
bare, sandy hill, protected the little hut from the winds and snow
storms, and the hut humbly and gratefully nestled in its shelter.
Over its roof, on the side of the hill, grew a large pear tree.
Through its branches the wind rushed sweetly--over it shone a few
stars. A large, cultivated field separated this spot from the town. A
deep quiet reigned here, interrupted only by muffled echoes of the
remote noise of the town. Over the black beds thick clouds of steam
and mist, coming from the streets of the town, crept toward the hut.

The interior of the hut was dark as a precipice, and from behind its
small windows resounded the trembling but vigorous voice of a man:

"Beyond far seas, beyond high mountains,"--spoke this voice amidst
the darkness--"the river Sabbation flows. But it flows not with
water, nor with milk and honey, but with yellow gravel and big
stones."

The hoarse, trembling voice became silent, and in the dark room, seen
from behind two small windows, there was deep silence for a while.
This time it was interrupted by quite different sounds.

"Zeide! speak further."

These words were spoken in the voice of a girl--almost childish, but
languid and dreamy.

Zeide (grandfather) asked, "Are they not coming yet?"

"I don't hear them," answered the girl.

In the dark room the hoarse trembling narrative began again:

"Beyond the holy river of Sabbation there live four Israelitic
tribes; Gad, Assur, Dan and Naphtali. These tribes escaped there from
great fears and oppressions, and Jehovah--may His holy name be
blessed--has hidden them from their enemies, beyond the river of
gravel and stones. And this gravel rises high as the waves of the sea
and the stones are roaring and rushing like a big forest when it is
shaken by a storm. And when the day of Sabbath comes--"

Here the old voice stopped suddenly, and after a while he asked
softly:

"Are they not yet coming?"

There was no answer for a long time. It seemed as though the other
was listening before replying.

"They are coming," she said finally.

In the dark interior was heard a long, muffled moaning.

"Zeide! speak further," said the girl's voice, sonorous and pure as
before, only less childish--stronger this time.

Zeide did not speak any more.

From the direction of the town rushed, approaching the hut, a strange
noise. This was caused by numerous human feet, by piercing
exclamations and silvery laughter of the children. Soon in the
distance appeared a big moving spot rolling on the surface of the
fields. Soon the spot neared the hut, scattered into several groups
and with irresistible shouting, screaming, laughing, rushed toward
the bent walls and low windows of the hut.

They were children--boys of various ages. The oldest amongst them was
perhaps fourteen years and the youngest five. It was difficult to see
their dresses in the darkness, but from beneath their caps and long
curls of hair, their eyes shone with the passionate fire of mischief
and perhaps some other excited sentiment.

"Guten abend! karaime!" shouted at once the rabble, kicking at the
locked door with their feet, and shaking the frames of the windows.

"Why don't you show some light on the Sabbath? Why are you sitting in
a black hole like the devil? Kofrim, uberwerfer!" (You unbeliever!
heretic!) shouted the older ones.

"Aliejdyk giejer! oreman! mishugener!" (rascal, beggar, mad-man!)
howled the young ones at the top of their voices.

The insults, laughter, and shaking of the door and windows increased
every moment, when from within the hut resounded the girl's voice,
quiet and sonorous as before, but so strong that it pierced the
noise--"Zeide! speak further!"

"Aj! aj! aj!" answered the old voice, "how can I speak when they
shout so loudly."

"Zeide! speak further!"

This time the girl's voice sounded almost imperatively. It was no
longer childish. In it could be heard grief, contempt and struggle
for the preservation of peace.

As sad singing is blended with the noise of stormy elements, so with
the wild noise of the mob of children, insulting, mewing, howling,
and laughing, the sobbing words were mingled.

"And during the day of Sabbath, Jehovah--may His name be
blessed--gives rest to the holy river of Sabbation. The gravel ceases
to flow, the big waves of stones do not roar like the forest--only
from the river, which lies quiet and does not move, a thick mist
rises--so great that it reaches the high clouds, and hides again from
the enemies, the four tribes of Israel: Gad, Assur, Dan and
Naphtali."

Alas! around the hut with bent walls and dark interior, the holy
river of Sabbation did not flow; neither did high waves or gravel nor
thick mists hide its inhabitants from the enemies.

These foes were small, but they were numerous. By a last effort of
mischievous frolic several of them pulled at the frames of the
windows so strongly that several panes broke. A shout of joy sounded
far over the field. Through the openings the interior of the hut
became strewn with small clods of earth and stones. The old voice,
from the most remote part of the room, trembling, and still more
hoarse, cried:

"Aj! Aj! Aj! Jehovah! Jehovah!"

The girl's voice, always sonorous, repeated:

"Zeide, keep quiet! Zeide, don't shout! Zeide, don't be afraid!"

All at once, from behind the crowd of children, someone exclaimed
threateningly and imperatively:

"Shtyl Bube! What are you doing here, you rascals? Get out!"

The children at once became silent. The man who caused the
tranquillity by his loud voice was tall and well built. His long
dress was lined with fur. His face looked pale in the dusk, and his
eyes shone as only young eyes can shine.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated, in an angry and decided
voice. "Do you think that this house is inhabited by wolves, and that
you can howl at them and break the windows?"

The boys, gathered in one compact body, were silent. After a while,
however, one of them, the tallest, and evidently the boldest, said:

"Why do they not show some light on Sabbath?"

"That's none of your business," said the man.

"No! That's none of yours either," said the stubborn boy. "We come
here every week and do the same--what then?"

"I know that you do the same every week. Therefore I watched to catch
you here . . . now go home! quick!"

"And you, Meir, why don't you go yourself to your house? Your bobe
and your zeide are eating the fish without you. Why do you drive us
from here, and not observe the Sabbath yourself?"

The eyes of the young man became more fiery. He stamped the earth
with his foot and shouted so angrily that the younger children
dispersed immediately, and only the oldest boy, as though he would
have revenge for the scolding, seized a clod of earth and wished to
throw it into the little house.

But two strong hands seized him by the arms and the collar.

"Come," said the young man, "I will take you back home."

The boy shouted, and tried to escape. But the strong arm held him
fast, and a quiet voice ordered him to be silent. He obeyed, dropping
his head.

Around the hut it was now deep dusk. From the dark interior came the
sound of heavy, hoarse sighing as from some very old breast, and near
the broken window sounded the girl's voice:

"Thank you."

"Rest in peace," answered the young man, and went off, leading the
little prisoner.

They passed silently through a few streets, and went toward a house
situated at the square.

The house was low and long, with a piazza, and a long corridor ran
through the whole building. All this announced an inn. The windows in
the part of the house assigned to guests were dark. In the others,
situated opposite the piazza, and not higher than half-an-ell from
the ground, which was covered with straw and hay and all kinds of
rubbish, the lights of Sabbath shone forth from behind the dirty
panes.

The young man, still leading the boy--who, as it seems, was not only
not afflicted by his situation, but was jumping joyfully--passed the
rubbish-covered ground, entered the deep corridor, where in the
darkness some horse was stamping with his feet, and, groping, found
the door Having half-opened it, he pushed the youngster into the
room. Then he put his head in the door and said:

"Reb Jankiel, I have brought you Mendel. Scold him or punish him. He
roams in the darkness around the town, and attacks innocent people."

This speech, delivered in a loud voice, remained without an answer.
Only the continual and fervent murmuring of a prayer came from the
interior of the room. Through the door, which still remained half-opened,
could be seen the whole long room, with very dirty walls, and enormous
stove, which was black with the dust. In the centre of the room was a
table covered with a cloth of doubtful cleanliness, but lighted with a
copious blaze of light from seven candles burning in a great branched
candlestick hanging from the ceiling. The Sabbath feast had not yet
begun, and although from the remote part of the house could be heard the
voices of women and children, announcing that the family was numerous,
there was only one man, his face turned toward the wall, in the room where
stood the table ready for the Sabbath supper. This man was of medium size,
and very thin and supple. It is not exact to say that he was standing,
because that does not express the position of his figure, but, just
the same, it would be hard to find another expression. He was neither
walking nor jumping, but, nevertheless, he was in continual and
violent motion. He threw his head--which was covered with red
hair--backward and forward with great rapidity. With these swift
movements, the sounds which came from his mouth were in perfect
harmony; for he was murmuring, then shouting passionately, then
pouring forth long plaintive songs.

The young man standing on the threshold looked for a long time at
that figure, praying with all its soul, or, rather, with all its
body. Evidently he was waiting for an interruption in the prayer. But
it was known that the one who wished to see the end of Reb Jankiel's
prayers would have to wait for some time. Apparently the young man
was anxious to settle the mischief of the little Mendel quickly.

"Reb Jankiel," he said aloud, after quite a long time, "your son
wanders about during the night and assaults innocent people!"

There was no answer.

"Reb Jankiel, your son insults people with bad words!"

Reb Jankiel continued to pray with the same fervour.

"Reb Jankiel, your son breaks the windows of poor people!"

Reb Jankiel turned a few leaves of a large book which he held in both
hands, and sang triumphantly:

"Sing to the Lord a new song, because he has created all marvels!
Sing! Play, play with a loud singing! Sound the trumpets and horns
before the King, Lord!"

The last words were accompanied by the closing of the door. The young
man left the long dark corridor, wading once more through the
rubbish. When he passed the last lighted window he heard the sound of
soft singing. He stopped, and anyone would have done the same, for
the voice was pure, young and soft as a murmuring of a complaint,
full of prayer, sadness and longing. It was a man's voice.

"Eliezer!" whispered the passer-by, and stopped at the low window.

These windows had far cleaner panes than the others. Through them
could be seen a small room, in which was only a bed, a table, a few
chairs, and a library full of books. On the table burned a tallow
candle, and at the table sat a young man holding his head between the
palms of his hands. He was about twenty years old, and his face was
white, and of a delicate oval shape. From his fresh lips came the
beautiful singing which would have attracted the attention of a great
master of music.

And no wonder. Eliezer, Jankiel's son, was the cantor of the
community of Szybow--the singer of people and Jehovah.

"Eliezer!" was repeated from behind the window in a soft, friendly
whisper.

The singer must have heard the whisper, for he sat near the window.
He raised his eyes, and turned them toward the pane. They were blue,
meek, and sad. But he did not interrupt his singing. On the contrary,
he lifted his hands, white as alabastar, and in that ecstatic
position, with an enthusiastic expression on his face, he sang still
louder:

"My people, cast from thee the dust of heavy roads. Rise, and
take the robe of thy beauty. Hasten, ah hasten, with help to your
people, the Only, Incomprehensible! God of our fathers."

The young man at the window did not call any more to the singer
praying for his people. He went off, stepping softly in careful
respect, and walking through the dark, empty place toward the large
house ablaze with lights; he looked at the few stars shining with
their pale light through the fog, and he softly hummed, plunged in
deep thankfulness:

"Hasten! ah, hasten! with help to your people the Only,
Incomprehensible! God of our fathers!"



CHAPTER III

The large house, blazing with light, which stood opposite the temple,
separated from it by the whole width of the square, was the same
house built by Hersh Ezofowich, in which he lived with his beautiful
wife Freida. Its hundred year old walls had become black from the
rains and dust, but the house stood straight, and by its height
dominated all other dwelling-places in the town.

For the past hour the celebration of the Sabbath day had begun in the
large room filled with old furniture.

There were numerous people of both sexes present, and others were
coming. Saul Ezofowich, Hersh's son, the host of the house and chief
of the family, rose and approached the big table, above which hung
two heavy seven-branched candelabra of solid silver. The old
man--whose bent, but strong figure, wrinkled face, and snow-white
beard, proclaimed that he was over eighty--took from the hand of the
eldest son--himself a gray-headed man--a long candle, and, raising it
toward the other candles in the candelabra, exclaimed, in a voice
strong, but aged:

"Be blessed God, Lord of the world, Thou who hast lighted us with Thy
commandments, and ordered us to light the lights on the day of
Sabbath."

As soon as he said these words, the numerous candles were lighted in
the candelabra, and everyone present in the room exclaimed:

"Let us go! Let us meet the bride! Let us meet her with greeting on
the day of Sabbath! Burn! burn! light of the King! Capital, rise from
the mire! Thou hast lived long enough in the valley of tears!"

"My people, shake from thee the dust of heavy roads. Take on the robe
of thy beauty. Hasten! ah, hasten! with help to Thy people! God of
our fathers!"

"Let us go! Let us go to meet the bride! Let us greet her with the
greeting of the song of the Sabbath!"

Loud singing, and the sound of fervent prayers following each other,
filled the large room, and sounded far out on the large empty square.
The young man, passing the square thoughtfully, heard it, and
hastened his steps. When, after having passed the piazza and the long
narrow corridor dividing the house in two parts, opened the door to
the room filled with lights, the prayers had already changed to
conversation, and the gathered company, with traces of solemnity in
their faces, but yet mingled with joyful smiles, was standing around
the table spread with abundant viands.

The company was composed of different faces and figures. There were
two of Saul's sons living with the father; Raphael and Abraham,
already gray, dark-eyed, with severe and thoughtful faces. Then
Saul's son-in-law, light-haired, pale, with soft eyes--Ber. There
were also daughters, sons, and grandchildren of the host of the
house; matured women, with stately figures and high caps on
carefully-combed wigs; or young girls, with swarthy complexions and
thick tresses, their young eyes, brightened by the feast, shone like
live coals.

Several young men belonging to the family, and numerous children of
different ages, gathered at the other end of the table. Saul stood at
the head of it, looking at the door leading to the other rooms of the
house, as though he were waiting. After a while, two women appeared
in the doorway. One of them gleamed with rainbow-like, almost
dazzling light. She was very, very old, but still erect, and looked
strong. Her head was surmounted by a turban of bright colours,
fastened with an enormous buckle of diamonds. Around her neck she
wore a necklace composed of several strands of big pearls which fell
on her breast, also fastened with diamonds. She wore a silk dress of
bright colours. She also had diamond earrings, which were so long
that they reached her shoulders, and so heavy that it was necessary
to support them with threads attached to the turban; they gleamed
with the dazzling light of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, and at
every movement they rustled, striking the pearls and a heavy gold
chain beneath them.

This hundred-year-old woman, dressed in all the riches accumulated
for centuries, was, it seemed, a relic of the family, much respected
by all these people. When, led by her grand-daughter--a girl with a
swarthy face and dark hair--she stopped on the threshold of the room,
all eyes turned toward her, and all mouths smiled and whispered:

"Bobe! Elte Bobe!" (Grandmother! Great-grandmother!)

The majority of those present said the last words, because there were
present more great-grandchildren than grandchildren. Only the host of
the house, and the head of the whole family, said to the woman
softly:

"Mamma!"

This word, suitable for little children, sounded strangely, softly,
and solemnly from the withered, yellow lips of Saul, moving from the
midst of his milk-white beard. While pronouncing that word, his
wrinkled forehead, surmounted by equally white hair beneath a velvet
skull-cap, became smooth.

But where were Freida's beautiful face, dark, fiery eyes, and slender
figure? How changed was the quiet, industrious, intelligent wife and
confidant of Hersh Ezofowich! She had outlived all her charms, as she
had outlived her husband, lord and friend. With time, her delicate,
slender figure increased in size, and took on the shape of the trunk
of a tree, from which sprang many strong, fruit-bearing branches. Her
face was now covered with such a quantity of fine wrinkles that it
was impossible to find one smooth place. Her eyes were sunken, and
had grown small, looking from beneath the bar of eyelashes with a
pale, faded glow. But on her face, crumpled though it was by the hand
of time, there was a sweet and imperturbable peace. The small eyes
looked about with smiling tranquillity of the spirit, lulled to sleep
by agreeable whispering, and the sweet smile of slumber surrounded
her yellow, hardly perceptible lips, which for a long time had grown
silent, opening more and more seldom for the pronunciation of shorter
and shorter sentences. Now, having placed her arm about the neck of
the pretty, young and strong girl by whose side she stood at the
family table, and having looked on the faces of all present there,
she whispered:

"Wo ist Meir?"

It was the great-grandmother who spoke, and at her words the whole
assembly recoiled, as from the blow of a sudden gust of wind. Men,
women, and children looked at each other, and through the room
resounded the whisper:

"Wo ist Meir?"

Owing to the largeness of the family his absence had not been
noticed. Old Saul did not repeat his mother's question, but his
forehead frowned still more, and his eye was fixed on the door with a
severe, almost angry expression.

At that moment the door opened and a tall, well-proportioned young
man entered. His long dress was trimmed with costly fur. He closed
the door after him and stood near it, as though shy or ashamed. He
noticed that he was too late and that the common family prayers had
been recited without him, that the eyes of his grandfather Saul, of
two uncles and several women relatives were looking at him severely
and inquisitively. Only the grandmother's golden eyes did not look at
him angrily. On the contrary, they dilated and shone with joy. Her
wrinkled eyelids ceased to tremble, and the thin lips moved and
pronounced with the same soundless whisper as before:

"Ejnyklchen! Kleineskind!" (Grandson! Child!) When Saul heard that
voice, resounding with joy and tenderness, he shut his lips, already
opened to pronounce severe words of reproach and questioning. Both
his sons dropped their eyes angrily to the table. The newcomer was
greeted only by a general silence which, however, was interrupted by
the great-grandmother repeating once more:

"Kleineskind!"

Saul stretched his hands over the table, and in a half-voice
suggested the subject of a prayer to be recited before the Sabbath
feast.

"The Lord may be blessed," began he.

"Blessed be," resounded in the room in a muffled whisper.

For a time they all stood around the table, blessing by the prayer
the viands and drinks spread upon it.

The young man did not join the general choir, but, having retreated
to a remote corner of the room, he recited the Kiddish prayers
omitted by him. While praying he did not move his figure. He crossed
his hands on his chest, and fixed his eyes steadily on the window,
behind which was complete darkness.

His delicate oval face was pale--the sign of a nervous and passionate
disposition. His abundant dark, flowing hair, which had shades of
gold in it, was scattered on his white forehead. His deeply set,
large gray eyes gazed thoughtfully and a little sadly. In the whole
expression of the young man's face there were mingled characteristics
of deep sadness and childish bashfulness. His forehead and eyes
betrayed some painful thought, but the thin lips had lines of
tenderness, and they quivered from time to time as though under the
influence of some fear. His upper up and cheeks were covered with
golden down, indicating that the young man might be nineteen or
twenty years old. It was the age at which the Hebrew men ripened and
were not only allowed, but obliged to look after their family and
other affairs.

When the young man had finished the prayers and approached the table
to take his place, there was heard a voice from among those present,
enouncing the words in such a way that they seemed sung:

"Meir, where have you been for such a long time? What were you doing
in the town after the Sabbath had begun, and no one is allowed to
work any longer? Why did you not celebrate Kiddish with your family
to-day? Why is your forehead pale and your eyes sad, when to-day is
the joyful Sabbath? In heaven the whole celestial family rejoices,
and on earth all pious people should keep their souls mirthful."

All this was said by a strange-looking man. He was rather small and
thin; he had a large head covered with thick, coarse hair. His face
was swarthy and round, covered with abundant hair, which formed a
long, coarse beard. His round eyes cast sharp glances from beneath
their thick eyelids. The thinness of the man was increased by a
strange dress--more strange than the man himself. It was a very
simple costume, consisting of a bag made of rough gray linen, girded
around the neck and waist with a hemp rope, and falling to the ground
it covered his bare feet.

Who was the man in the dress of an ascetic, with fanatical eyes, with
lips full of mystic, deep, almost intoxicated joyfulness?

It was Reb Moshe, melamed or teacher of religion and the Hebrew
language. He was pious-perfect. No matter what the weather--wind,
rain, cold, and heat--he always went barefooted, dressed in a bag
made of rough linen. He lived as do the birds--nobody knew
how--probably on some grain scattered here and there. He was the
right hand and the right eye of the Rabbi of Szybow, Isaak Todros,
and after the Rabbi he was the next object of reverence and
admiration of the whole community.

Hearing those words pouring tumultuously from the melamed's mouth and
directed towards himself, Meir Ezofowich, great-grandson of Hersh and
the grandson of old Saul, did not sit at the table, but with eyes
cast on the ground, and a voice muffled by timidity, he answered:

"Reb! I was not there where they are joyful and do good business. I
was there where there is sorrow and where poor people sit in darkness
and weep."

"Nu!" exclaimed the melamed, "and where today could there be sadness.
To-day is Sabbath. Everywhere it is bright and joyful. . . . Where,
today, could it be dark?"

A few older members of the family raised their heads and repeated the
question:

"Where to-day could there be darkness?"

And then again they asked him:

"Meir, where have you been?"

Meir did not answer. His face expressed timidity and inward
hesitation. At that moment one of the girls--the same who had
introduced the old grand mother--the girl with the swarthy face and
dark, frolicsome eyes, exclaimed mirthfully, clapping her hands:

"I know where it is dark to-day!"

All looks were directed toward her, and all lips asked:

"Where?"

Under the influence of the attracted attention, Lija blushed, and
answered softly, with a certain amount of bashfulness:

"In the hut of Abel Karaim, standing on the hill of the Karaites."

"Meir, have you visited Karaites?"

The question was asked by several voices, dominated by the sharp,
whining voice of the melamed.

On the bashful young man's face there appeared an expression of angry
and sullen irritation.

"I did not visit them," he answered, more loudly than before, "but I
defended them from an attack."

"From an attack? What attack? Who attacked them?" asked the melamed
mockingly.

This time Meir raised his eyelids and his shining eyes looked sharply
into the eyes of his questioner.

"Reb Moshe," he exclaimed, "you know who attacked them. They were
your pupils--they do the same every Friday. And why should they not
do it, knowing--"

He stopped and again dropped his eyes. Fear and anger were fighting
within him.

"Nu, what do they know? Meir, why did you not finish? What do they
know?" laughed Reb Moshe.

"They know that you, Reb Moshe, will praise them for so doing."

The melamed rose from his chair, his shining eyes opened widely. He
stretched out his dark, thin hand, as though to-say something, but
the strong and already sonorous voice of the young man did not permit
to do it.

"Reb Moshe," said Meir, bending his head slightly before the
melamed--which he did, evidently not very willingly--"Reb Moshe, I
respect you--you taught me. I do not ask you why you do not forbid
your pupils to attack these poor people living in darkness--but I
cannot look at such injustice My heart aches when I see them, because
I believe that from such bad children will grow bad men, and if they
now shake the poor hut of an old man, and throw stones through the
windows, afterward they will set fire to the houses and kill the
people! To-day they would have destroyed that poor hut and killed the
people if I had not prevented them."

As he said the last words, he took his place at the table. On his
face there was no longer timidity and bashfulness. He was evidently
deeply convinced of the righteousness of his cause. He looked boldly
around, and only his lips quivered, as is always the case with young,
sensitive people. At that moment old Saul and his two sons raised
their arms and said:

"Sabbath."

Their voices were solemn, and the looks they turned on Meir were
severe and almost angry.

"Sabbath! Sabbath!" shouted the melamed, jumping in his chair and
gesticulating with his hands; "You, Meir, during the holy evening of
Sabbath, instead of reciting Kiddish and filling your spirit with
great joy and giving it into the hands of the angel Matatron, who
defends Jacob's tribes before God, that he may give them into the
hands of Sar-ha-Olama, who is the angel over angels and the prince of
the world, that Sar-ha-Olama may give them to the ten serafits who
are so strong in force that they crushed the whole world, in order
that through the ten serafits your spirit may reach the great throne,
on which is seated En-Sof himself, and join with him in a kiss of
love--you, Meir, instead of doing all that, went to defend people
from some attack--to watch their house and their life. Meir! Meir!
You have violated the Sabbath! You must go to the school and accuse
yourself before the people of having committed a great sin and
scandal."

This speech made an immense impression on the whole assembly. Saul
and his sons looked threatening. The women were surprised and
frightened. The dark eyes of Lija--she who had first betrayed her
cousin's secret--shone with tears. Only Saul's son-in-law, blue-eyed
Ber, looked at the accused boy with sad sympathy, and several young
men, Meir's playmates, gazed into his face with curiosity and
friendly uneasiness.

Meir answered in a trembling voice:

"In our holy books, Reb Moshe, neither in the Torah nor in the Mishma
is there any mention of Sefirots and En-Sof. But there it is stated
plainly that Jehovah, although he has commanded us to keep the
Sabbath, permitted twenty people to violate the Sabbath in order to
save one man."

Such a thing as any one daring to answer the melamed--the perfect
pious and Rabbi Todros's right hand--was unheard of and astonishing;
it was more, because in the answer there was a negation of his
judgment. Therefore the melamed's convex eyes nearly sprang from
their sockets. They opened widely and covered Meir's pale face with
deep hatred.

"Karaims!" he shouted, tossing himself in his chair, and tearing his
beard and his hair--"You went to rescue the Karaims, heretics,
infidels, accursed! Why should one rescue them? Why do they not light
candles on Sabbath--why do they sit in darkness? Why do they not kill
birds and animals as we do? Why do they not know Mishma, Gemara and
Zahor?"

He choked with excitement and became silent, and in that interruption
Meir's pure and sonorous voice resounded:

"Reb, they are very poor!"

"En-Sof is revengeful and merciless!"

"They are much persecuted!"

"The Incomprehensible persecutes them!" shouted Reb.

"The Eternal does not command us to persecute. Rabbi Huna said: 'Even
if the persecution is righteous, the Eternal will take the part of
the persecuted one!'"

Reb Moshe's cheeks were red as flame. His eyes seemed to devour the
face of the young man, whose looks had now grown bold, and his lips
quivered with the words that came rushing to them, but were not
pronounced.

The whole gathering was astonished--frightened--depressed. Such a
quarrel with the melamed seemed to some of them a sin, to others a
danger for the bold young man, and even for the whole family.
Therefore Saul looked up sharply from beneath his bushy gray
eye-brows into his grandson's face, and hissed:

"Sh-a-a-a!"

Meir bent his head before his grandfather, in token of humility and
obedience, and one of Saul's sons, in order to pacify Reb Moshe's
anger, asked him:

"What is the difference between the authority of the books of Talmud,
and Zahora, the Kabalistic book?"

Having heard this question, the melamed put his elbows on the table,
and fixed his eyes motionlessly and with an expression of deep
reflection on the opposite wall. Then he began to speak slowly, and
in a solemn voice:

"Simon ben Jochai, the great Rabbi who lived a very great while ago
and knew everything that happened in the heavens and on the earth,
said, 'The Talmud is a vile slave, and the Kabala is a great queen.'
With what is the Talmud filled? It is filled up with small, secondary
things. It teaches what is clean and what is not clean. What is
permitted and what is not permitted. What is decent and what is not
decent. And with what is filled Zohar--the book of light, the book of
Kabala? It is filled with great science; it tells what is God and his
Sefirots. The author of it knows all their names, and he teaches what
they do and how they built the world. There is said that God's name
is En-Sof and his second name is Notarikon and his third name is
Gomatria and fourth name Zirufh. The Sefirots are great heavenly
forces called: human source, fiancee, fair sex, great visage, small
face, mirror, celestial story, lily and apple orchard. And Israel is
call Matron, and Israel's. God is called Father, God, En-Sof. He did
not create the world; the Sefirots, celestial forces, did it. The
first Sefirot produced the strength of God; the second all angels and
the Torah (Bible); the third all prophets. The fourth Sefirot
produced God's love; the fifth God's justice, and the sixth, a power
which ruins everything. The seventh Sefirot produced beauty, the
eighth magnificence, the ninth, eternal cause, and the tenth, an eye
which watches Israel continually, and follows him on all his roads
and takes care of his feet--that they are not wounded--and his head,
that misfortune does not fall upon him. All this is taught by Zohar,
the book of Kabala, and it is the first book for every Israelite. I
know that many Israelites say that the Torah is the more important,
but they are stupid, and they do not know that the earth shall
tremble from great pains before God and Israel, Father and Matron,
shall be united in a kiss of love, until the slave will not retreat
before the queen--the Talmud before the Kabala. And when shall that
time come? It shall come when the Messiah shall appear. Then for all
pious and scholarly people will there be a great feast of joy. Then
God will order the boiling of the fish Leviathan which is so great
that the whole world rests on it. And everyone will sit down and eat
that fish--the scholarly and pious people from the head, and the
simple and ignorant from the tail!"

When the melamed finished his speech he breathed deeply, and having
dropped his eyes on the table he suddenly fell from mystical heights
to earthly realities. On the plate before him was an excellent
fish--not Leviathan, but excellent nevertheless. The melamed, living
ascetically was very fond of Sabbath feasts, because he believed that
it was necessary, to celebrate the Sabbath properly, to keep joyful
the body as well as the spirit. Therefore, with the remains of the
ecstasy in his eyes, he began to put the delicious dish into his
mouth. The whole assembly was silent for a while. His clever speech
made a deep impression on almost everyone. Old Saul listened to it
with great reverence. His sons cast their grateful eyes on the table
and thought over Reb Moshe's scholarly instruction. The women piously
placed their hands on their bosoms, inclined their heads in sign of
admiration and with smiling lips they repeated:

"Great student--perfect-pious. A true pupil of the great Rabbi
Isaak!"

The one looking attentively on the faces of those sitting around the
table would have seen two looks which, swift as lightning and
unperceived by all present, had been exchanged during the melamed's
speech. They were the looks of Ber and Meir. The former looked sadly
at the other, who answered him with a look full of restrained anger
and irony. When the melamed spoke of the fish Leviathan, so large
that the whole world stood on it, and which, in the day of the
Messiah, the scholars would eat from the head and the ignorant from
the tail, a smile appeared on Meir's thin lips. It was a smile
similar to the stiletto. It pierced the one on whose lips it
appeared, and it seemed as though it would like to pierce the one who
caused it. Ber answered this smile by a sigh. But the four young men
who sat opposite Meir noticed it, and on their faces Meir's smile was
reflected. After a period of silence, interrupted only by the clatter
of knives on the plates and the loud movements of the melamed's jaws,
old Saul said:

"Those are great things, scholarly and dreadful, and we thank Reb
Moshe for having told them to us. Listen to the learned men, who by
their great knowledge sustain Israel's strength and glory, because it
is written that the wise men are the world's foundation. 'Who
respects them, and questions them often about obscure things with
which they are familiar, to that one all sins shall be pardoned.'"

Reb Moshe raised his face from the plate, and stuttered with his
mouth full of food:

"Good deeds bring upon man an inexhaustible stream of blessing and
forgiveness. They open for him the secrets of the heavens and earth
and carry his soul among the Sefirots!"

A silence full of respect was the only answer. But after a few
seconds it was interrupted by the sonorous voice of the youth:

"Reb Moshe! what do you call a good deed? What must one do in order
to save one's life from sin and draw upon one's self a great stream
of grace?" asked Meir aloud.

The melamed raised his eyes at the question. Their looks met again.
The melamed's gray eyes shone angrily and threateningly. The gray,
transparent eyes of the youth contained silvery streams of hidden
smiles.

"You, Meir, you were my pupil, and you can ask me about such things.
Have I not told you a great many times that the best deed is
acquiring depth in the holy science? To whom does that everything
will be forgiven, and he who does not do that will be cursed and
thrust out from the bosom of Israel, although his hands and heart are
clean and white as the snow."

Having said this he turned to Saul and said, pointing at Meir with
his brown finger:

"He don't know anything. He has forgotten everything I have taught
him!"

The old man slightly bent his wrinkled forehead before the melamed
and said in a conciliatory voice:

"Reb, forgive him! When wisdom shall come to him, then he will
recognise that his mouth has been very daring, and I am sure he will
be pious and scholarly, as were all the members of our family."

He drew himself up, and pride sparkled in the eyes which age had long
dimmed.

"Listen to me, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Our
family--the family of Ezofowich--is not a common family. We--thanks
to God, whose holy name be blessed--have great riches in chests and
on vessels. But we have still greater riches in the records of our
family. Our ancestor was a Senior, a superior over all the Jews
living in this country, and very much beloved by the king himself.
And my father Hersh, the famous Hersh, had the friendship of the
greatest lords, and they drove him in their carriages, and for his
surprising wisdom they took him to the king to the diet which was
then held in Warsaw."

The old man became silent and looked around with eyes brightened with
pride and triumph. The whole gathering looked on him as on a rainbow.
The melamed became gloomy, and slowly sipped the wine from a big
glass. The old great-grandmother, who was already slumbering,
awakened at once, and peered with her golden eyes from behind
half-closed lids, exclaiming in her soundless voice:

"Hersh! Hersh! my Hersh!"

After a while. Saul began to talk again:

"We have in our family a great treasure--such a treasure as has no
equal in all Israel. This treasure is a long document, written by our
ancestor Michael the Senior, and left by him, and in which there are
written noble and wise things. If we could get that document of
wisdom we should be happy. The only trouble is that we don't know
where it is."

From the time Saul began to talk of the document left by his
ancestor, among the many eyes looking at him two pairs sparkled
passionately, with, however, quite contradictory sentiments. They
were the eyes of the melamed, who laughed softly and maliciously, and
the eyes of Meir who drew himself up in his chair and looked into his
grandfather's face with burning curiosity.

"This writing," Saul said further, "was hidden for two hundred years
and nobody has touched it. And when the two hundred years were ended,
my father, Hersh, found it. Where he found it no one but our old
great-grandmother knows."

Here he pointed to his mother, and then finished:

"And she alone knows where he hid that writing, but as yet she has
told no one."

"And why did she tell no one?" laughed maliciously and softly the
melamed.

Saul answered in a sad voice:

"Reb Nohim Todros--may his memory be blessed--has forbidden her to
speak of it."

"And you, Reb Saul, why have you not searched for that writing
yourself?"

Saul answered still more sadly:

"Reb Baruch Todros, the son of Reb Nohim and Reb Isaak--may he live a
hundred years--the son of Reb Baruch, have forbidden me to search for
it!"

"And no one dare search for it!" exclaimed the melamed with all his
might, raising his hand armed with a fork, "nobody dare search for
that writing, because it is full of blasphemy and filth. Reb Saul!
You must forbid your children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren
to search for that writing, and in case they find it they must give
it up to the fire to be destroyed! For the one who shall find that
writing, and shall read it aloud to the people--upon that one shall
the herem fall. He shall be cast out from the bosom of Israel. Thus
spake Reb Nohim and Reb Baruch--may their memory be blessed! Thus
spake Reb Isaak--may he live a hundred years. In that writing is
excommunication and great misfortune to the one who shall find it."

A deep silence followed those words, spoken with the greatest
enthusiasm by the melamed, and amidst this silence was heard a long,
trembling passionate sighing. All looked around, desiring to learn
from whose breast proceeded that noise as of the tearing out of
desire, but no one could discover whence it came. They only perceived
that Meir, with rigid figure, pale face and burning eyes was gazing
into the great-grandmother's face. She, feeling the piercing look of
her beloved child, raised her wrinkled eyelids and said:

"Meir?"

"Bobe?" answered the young man, in a voice filled with caressing
tenderness.

"Kleineskind!" whispered the great-grandmother and, smiling sweetly,
she began to slumber again.

The Sabbath feast was near its end when an incident occurred which
would have appeared very strange to any foreign eye, but was an
ordinary sight to those gathered there.

Reb Moshe, whose dark cheeks burned from the effects of several
glasses of wine hospitably poured out for him by the hosts, suddenly
jumped from his chair and rushed to the centre of the room.

"Sabbath! Sabbath! Sabbath!"--he shouted, shaking his head and arms
violently. "Fried! Fried! Fried!" he repeated--"the whole celestial
family rejoices and dances in the Heavens! David danced and jumped
before the Arch--why then should not the perfect pious gladden his
heart by dancing and jumping?"

Therefore he danced and jumped around the table.

It would have been interesting for an observer to watch the different
sentiments reflected in the faces of those present who looked at the
ecstatic dance. Old Saul and his sons looked at the dancing figure
with the greatest gravity and attention. Not the slightest quiver of
a smile appeared on their lips. It seemed as though they looked on
the melamed's crazy leaps as the believers look on the performance of
a mystic but holy ceremony. Tallow-haired Ber sat stiff and dignified
also, but he knit his brows almost painfully, and his eyes were cast
on the ground. Meir leaned his head in the palms of both hands, and
it seemed that he neither heard nor saw--or at least tried not to
notice anything. But the women wondered at Reb Moshe's dance; they
moved their bodies to the time beaten by the bare-footed man,
smacking their lips and making signs of admiration with their eyes.
At the lower end of the table, where the boys and girls sat, could be
heard a soft noise, as of gigglings suppressed with effort.

Finally Reb Moshe's strength was exhausted, his body shivering with
enthusiasm, fell to the floor near the big green brick stove. After a
while, however, he rose, laughed aloud, and wiped with the large
sleeve of his shirt, the perspiration bathing his forehead and
cheeks.

Sarah, Saul's daughter, left the table and carried around a large
silver basin filled with water, in which everyone washed his fingers.
Whispering prayers of thanksgiving, those present dipped their hands
in the water and wiped them on a towel suspended from Sarah's
shoulder. The Sabbath feast was ended.

A few moments afterward the table was cleared off. The whole company,
dividing itself into small groups, filled the room with the noise of
loud and animated conversation. Meir, who for a few moments had stood
alone by the window gazing thoughtfully into the darkness of the
evening, approached the group composed of the oldest people, gathered
in the most luxurious part of the room which was ornamented by an
antique sofa. Here Abraham and Raphael, Saul's sons, and Ber, his
son-in-law, reported to the father in reference to the business
transacted during the week, and asked his advice and help. Here old
Saul was in his proper field, for, although the high and wise studies
of mystic scholars aroused in him respect and fear, it seemed that
secular business affairs were more suited to his mind--he was more
familiar with them. In his eyes, which were now shining with keen and
animated thought, there were no more signs of old age, and only his
white hair and beard gave him the appearance of a patriarch and
dignitary, distributing among the members of his family advice,
praise and judgments.

Meir stood indifferent before that group of people talking of losses
and profits. It was clear that in such affairs he did not yet take a
part, and that his fresh nature was not yet touched by the biting
fever of profit. He looked with some surprise at the usually
phlegmatic Ber, who at that moment seemed to be changed into another
man. Relating to his father-in-law his business projects, and
explaining to him the necessity of contracting a considerable loan
with his wife's brother, he became animated, eloquent--almost
vehement. His eyes burned, his lips moved with great rapidity, and
his hands trembled.

Meir went away and joined another group where the melamed was a
central figure. As usual he was leaning his elbows on the table, and
spoke solemnly to the attentive listeners.

"Everything in the world--every man, every animal, every blade of
grass, and every stone--has its roots in the country where the
spirits live. Therefore the whole world is like a gigantic tree,
whose roots are among the spirits. And it is like a gigantic chain,
whose last links are suspended where live the spirits. And it is like
a gigantic sea, which never dries up, because an inexhaustible stream
of spirits is always pouring in and filling it up."

Meir left the group listening to the melamed and approached the
window. There two young men, leaning their foreheads in their hands
and in deep thought, were speaking of where it is written that a man
who walks during a clear night and does not see his shadow will die
the same year.

Meir looked around. In the next room the older women were speaking of
their households, and how clever their children were. The young girls
were seated in a corner, whispering, giggling, and humming.

From Meir's face it could be seen that he was not attracted by any of
these groups of people filling the house. He was among his own
people--among those who were nearest to him in blood and
affection--but it might be said that he was in the desert, so lonely did
he stand in the room, and so sorrowfully did he look around him.
He went out. Descending the stairs leading from the piazza he passed
the dark square, and entered the little house of Reb Jankiel.

After the large, clean, well-lighted, and comfortable rooms of his
grandfather's home, the dwelling of Reb Jankiel, the possessor of the
largest inn in Szybow, whisky merchant, and a member of kahal, seemed
to Meir narrow, dark, dirty, and mean. The Sabbath feast was over. It
never was long, for it was scanty and passed in gloomy silence,
interrupted only by quarrelling and the biting remarks of the father
of the family. It was known that Reb Jankiel was avaricious. He
gathered much money, but he did not care for the comfort of the
house, because he was seldom there, being busy with whisky
distilleries, with dram-shops in the neighbouring villages, returning
to the town only when religious affairs required his presence. His
wife, Jenta, and two grown-up daughters conducted the business of the
inn.

The appearance of riches in his house only occurred when Reb Jankiel
received eminent guests, as the saintly Rabbi, with whom he was a
great favourite, the colleagues of the kahal, or wealthy merchants.
Cleanliness and gaiety were well-known virtues.

In the first room, which Meir entered through a door opening into the
dark hall, only one little candle burned in a brass candlestick. The
smell of the food, which was just cleared off the table, was here
mingled with the mustiness of the dirty walls and the greasy
exhalations from the smoky chimney. It was dark and dull here. From
the other room, completely dark, sounded the loud snoring of the
master of the house, who was already fast asleep. In the third small
room, filled with beds and trunks, Meir perceived, by the light of a
small lamp burning in the stove around which was suspended a quantity
of cabbages, a woman who was rocking a cradle with her foot, and
trying to lull to sleep a crying child. Meir greeted her, and she
answered him in a friendly manner and continued to hum.

Behind the closed door could be heard the muffled sound of human
voices. Meir opened that door and entered the room of Eliezer.

Eliezer the cantor and the possessor of that marvellous voice, was
not alone. Around the table, lighted by a tallow candle, sat several
young men, members of the Ezofowich family--the same who had eaten
Supper with Meir. Meir breathed deeply, perhaps because the air was
purer there than in the other apartments, or perhaps because he was
among friendly figures, on which he liked to gaze, and which, seeing
him, smiled in a friendly manner.

Eliezer raised his turquoise-like eyes to the face of the newcomer as
he sat at the table.

"Meir!" he exclaimed in his musical voice. "Well?" answered his
guest.

"You were impatient to-day, and said to the melamed things of which
there was no necessity to speak. They told me of your dispute with
him."

Meir looked sharply and a little ironically into the cantor's face.

"Eliezer, are you in earnest when you tell me that?" he asked slowly.

The cantor dropped his head.

"It was honest on your part, but it may cause you much trouble."

The young man laughed, but his laugh Was empty and forced.

"Nu!" said he with determination, "Let it come. I can't stand it any
longer. I can't be silent and look and listen, while we are being
made fools of."

"Child! child what can you do?" sounded from behind them in a lazy,
drawling voice.

They all turned. It was the phlegmatic Ber who had entered during the
conversation. Having thus answered the angry exclamation of the young
man, he stretched himself on Eliezer's bed. It seemed that those
present were accustomed to see him among them, for they showed
neither the slightest impatience nor confusion. On the contrary, the
conversation was continued. One of the young men, a relative of
Meir's, half in doubt and in smiles, half in fear and seriously,
began to repeat to the cantor the melamed's speech about En-Sof and
the Sefirots, about the day of the Messiah, and the gigantic fish,
Leviathan. Another asked Eliezer what he thought of a moral which
taught that it was sufficient to study Mishma and Zohar in order to
obtain pardon for evil deeds.

Eliezer listened silently. He did not answer for a long time; then he
slowly raised his head and said:

"Read the Torah! There it is written: 'God is one, Jehovah! He is not
satisfied with your sacrifices, singing, and incense, but he requires
from you a love of the truth, to defend the oppressed, to teach the
ignorant, and heal the sick, because these are your first duties.'"

The two young men opened their eyes. "Well!" they exclaimed, "then
the melamed did not tell the truth!"

Eliezer was silent for a long time again. It was evident that he
preferred not to answer, but the young impatient hands pulled him by
the sleeve, asking for a reply.

"He did not tell the truth," he finally exclaimed timidly.

At that moment Meir put his hand on his shoulder. "Eliezer," said he,
"you gave me the same answer two years ago, when you came back from
the great city where you studied singing. Then you opened my eyes,
which alone began to search for the truth, and you taught me that we
are not true Israelites; that our faith was not the same that was
given to us on Mount Sinai; that Judaism has grown muddy like water
when a handful of earth is thrown into it--and that mud has blackened
our heads and our hearts. Eliezer, you have told me this, and I have
seen the light. Since that time I have loved you as a brother who
helped me out of obscurity, but Since that time, I feel in my heart a
great oppression and a great loneliness."

"Meir, Eliezer taught you, and Eliezer is silent--you, his pupil,
commence to talk," said her, whose lazy words were tinged with irony.

"I wish I knew how to talk," exclaimed the young man, with sparkling
eyes, "and what to do!"

And after a while he added, more softly:

"But I know neither how to speak nor how to act--only in my heart I
bear a great hatred toward those who deceive us, and a great love
toward those who are deceived."

"And a great audacity," drawled Ber, negligently stretched on the
bed.

"Until now I have not had the audacity, but--but if I knew what to
do, I would have it."

There was a silence for a few moments which was finally broken by
Meir.

"Eliezer, you are happier!"

"Why?"

"You have been out into the broad world--you have seen its
wisdom--you have listened to clever people. Ah! if I could but go out
into the world!"

"Eliezer, tell us something of the great world," said one of the
young men.

And in the eyes watching the cantor there was curiosity and a strange
longing.

Of the youth of Szybow, Eliezer alone had been out into the world.
This was because of his marvellous voice, to cultivate which he had
been sent to a large city. Everything he had to say had been told to
his friends long ago. It was not much, but such as it was they were
willing to listen to it every day. How does a large city appear? How
high are the houses there? What kind of people live in those houses,
and how many among them are Israelites? Who are rich, and wear
beautiful dresses, and are greatly respected among the people? And
why are they respected? Is it because they are rich? No--in Szybow
there are also rich merchants, and the Purices (nobles) care for them
only when they need their money, and when they do not need money they
despise them. The Israelites in the great city are respected because
they have a great deal of knowledge, and they have studied not only
Mishma and Gemara, but other different, beautiful, and necessary
things. And why in Szybow is there not such a school where these
things could be studied, and why do Rabbi Isaak and Reb Moshe say
that these sciences are the wine-garden of Sodom and infidel flames,
and that every true Israelite should avoid them?

"Eliezer, how do those big carriages run without horses, and who
invented them so cleverly?"

"Eliezer, do all Israelites there live kosher?"

"Eliezer, what is said there of the Rabbis Todros?"

"They speak ill of them."

A great surprise! The Israelites in the broad world speak ill of the
Todros; and they believe neither in En-Sof nor in the Sefirots and
the whole Kabalistic science!

"And what do they say of the Talmud?"

"They say that this beautiful book, full of wisdom, was written by
clever and saintly people, but it should be shortened and many things
left out because these are quite different times, and that which was
formerly necessary is now harmful."

Again great surprise! The Talmud should be shortened, because it is
difficult to study Gemara, and it dulls the minds and memories of the
children!

True! They remember how difficult it was for them to study Gemara,
and how the melamed had cruelly beaten them because they could not
remember it, and how on that account they grew weak physically and
mentally, and the little Lejbele, the son of a poor tailor, remained
forever stupid and sick for the same reason!

"And who shortened the Talmud, and made it easier to study?"

"It was done by the great and saintly Moses Majmonides, whom the
Rabbis excommunicated."

The Rabbis excommunicated the great and saintly savant! Therefore the
Rabbis could be unjust and bad. One must not always believe what they
teach!

"What more has Moses Majmonides written?"

"He has written More Nebuchim a guide for lost ones--a wise and
beautiful book, which, when one reads one is inclined to weep with
tenderness and laugh with joy!"

"Eliezer, have you read that book?"

"Yes. I have it."

"Where did you get it?"

"A wise Israelite gave it to me. He is a lawyer in the large city."

"Eliezer, read us something from that book."

In that way was revealed to those naive minds, involuntarily longing
for the sun and broad bosom of humanity,--even though the revelation
was partial and chaotic--the phenomena and thoughts circulating in
the waste spaces. The result of this was not the production of firm
convictions, nor the spinning out of a guiding thread to another
better life; but doubt entered their consciences and desire filled
their breasts--the young eyes veiled with the sadness of the thought
which began to feel its fetters.

It was quite late when, after a long conversation, the young men rose
and stood opposite each other with pale faces and burning looks.
After a time of silence, Meir said:

"Eliezer, when shall we stand up and cry with a powerful voice to the
people, that they may open their eyes? Shall we always crawl in
darkness, like the worms, covered with earth, and look on while the
whole nation rots and chokes?"

Eliezer dropped his eyes, which were full of tears, and raising his
white hands, he said in his harmonious voice:

"Every day before God I sing and cry for my people!"

Meir made a movement of impatience, and at that moment Ber, rising
heavily from the bed, laughed in a gloomy manner.

"Sing and cry!" said he to Eliezer, "your dreadful father fills you
with such fear that you will never be able to do anything else!"

Then he put his hand on Meir's shoulder and said:

"Only he is daring and will swim against the stream. But the water is
stronger than a man. Where will it carry him?"

Leaving Jankiel's house, Meir perceived again in one of the rooms,
the same as before, a woman sitting at the cradle of a sleeping baby.
Now she was bent over, and with both elbows resting on the edges of
the cradle, was slumbering. The light of the small lamp, burning in
the stove, fell upon her and threw a purple glimmer on the old caftan
which covered her bosom and shoulders. On her head she still wore the
holiday cap with crumpled flowers, its red colour contrasting
strangely with the yellow, wrinkled face with its low forehead and
withered cheeks. She was not yet old but worn out, over worked, spent
with fatigue. One glance at her was sufficient to tell that her life
lay in the midst of work and humiliation, and that she was not
refreshed by even one drop of happiness. Looking at her, it was not
difficult to guess that she would not live--like Freida, wife of the
heretic Hersh--until her hundredth birthday, and that she would not
fall into the eternal sleep little by little, amidst those dear to
her heart--the noise made by numerous children and grandchildren.
Jenta, the wife of the greedy Reb Jankiel, was slain in spirit and
worn out in body.

When the steps of the departing guests, which had for some time
mingled with the snoring of several people fast asleep, became
silent, Eliezer stood in the low door of his room and looked for a
few seconds at his sleeping mother.

"Mother!" he called softly, "why don't you go to bed? Little Hajka is
sleeping for a long time, and she will not cry any more. Mother, go
to bed and rest."

The whisper of her son reached the slumbering Jenta. She raised her
eyelids, turned her sad glance toward the tall youth whose white face
shone in the darkness like alabastar, and--what a wonder--her small,
half-closed eyes opened, and from the colourless eyeballs shone a
light of joy.

"Eliezer, come here!" she whispered. The young man approached and sat
on the edge of the bed.

"How can I sleep?" the faded woman whispered to him, "when I feel so
miserable! Hajka is sick and at any moment she may cry, and if she
would cry Jankiel would waken and be very angry!"

"Sleep mother," whispered back the young man. "I will sit here and
rock Hajka."

The yellow, wrinkled face, with the big red rose over the forehead,
bent and rested--not on the high dirty pillows--but on the lap of the
sitting youth.

Eliezer put his elbow on the edge of the cradle, leaned his forehead
on the palm of his hand and sat in thought. From time to time he
moved the cradle with his foot, and hummed.

"Oj! My head, my poor head!" whispered in her sleep the yellow-faced
woman, slumbering with her head in her son's lap.

"Oh, Israel! how poor thou art!" thoughtfully whispered the red lips
of the young man watching by the cradle.

While this was passing in Reb Jankiel's house, a small, lively human
figure rushed through the darkness, across the large school-yard
toward the small house of Rabbi Todros, where it disappeared behind a
small door.

The creaking of the door was answered from the interior of the house
by a low, but pure voice:

"Is that you, Moshe?"

"I, Nassi! your faithful servant! the miserable footstool of your
feet! May the angel of peace visit your sleep! May every breath of
your nostrils be agreeable to you, as the sweet oil mixed with myrrh!
And while you sleep, may your soul bathe with great delight in the
streams of the spirits!"

The deep voice coming from the interior of the room situated beyond
the small dark hall, asked:

"Where were you so long, Moshe?"

The man, who remained in the little hall, answered:

"I ate the Sabbath supper in the house of the Ezofowich. In that
house they celebrate the Sabbath with great magnificence, and I go
there often to keep my soul in great joy!"

"You act wisely, Moshe, in keeping your soul joyful during the
Sabbath. But what news have you?"

"Bad news, Nassi! Among the roses and lilies an ugly worm crawls!"

"What worm?"

"A worm which is eating into our holy faith, and which may make of
the Israelitish people a people of goims and hazarniks."

"And in whose heart crawls that worm?"

"It is crawling in the heart of Meir Ezofowich--grandson of the rich
Saul."

"Moshe, have you seen this worm with your own eyes, and have you
heard with your own ears? Speak, Moshe! On my head rests the burden
of all souls which are in this community, and I must know all."





There was silence for a moment in the little hall The man who was
humbly sitting there at the closed door of the saintly Rabbi was
evidently gathering his thoughts and reminiscences. After a while he
began to speak in his hoarse voice, in a sing-song manner.

"I have seen with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. Meir
Ezofowich has not celebrated to-day the Kiddish with the whole
family, and he came home after Sabbath had already been with us for
some time. And I asked him what he had been doing, and he told me
that he had been defending the cabin of Abel Karaim and his
grandchild, Golda, from assault."

He became silent, and the deep voice within the closed room said:

"He defended heretics, and violated the Sabbath!"

"He does not keep his soul joyful during the holy day of Sabbath."

"That teaching may be excommunicated! Israel must avoid it, and the
Lord may not forgive it!" said the deep voice behind the door.

"He said that in the holy books of Israel there is nothing said of
En-Sof and Sefirots, and that the Eternal does not command us to
persecute heretics."

"Abominations pour from the mouth of that young man! Hersh
Ezofowich's soul--his great-grandfather's soul--has passed into his
body!"

"Nassi!" exclaimed Moshe, in a louder voice. An indistinct murmur
from behind the door encouraged him to continue the conversation.

"He is going to search for the writing of Michael the Senior. I have
seen that in his eyes. And he will find that writing, and when he
finds it and reads it aloud to the people, the spirit of Israel will
rise against your teaching."

There was a deep silence after those words, and then the bass voice
resounded again:

"When he shall find that writing, then my heavy hand will rest on him
and crush him into dust. Moshe, what did he do after supper?"

"He went to the house of Reb Jankiel, and talked with the cantor,
Eliezer. I passed that way, and saw them through the window."

"Moshe, who else was there?"

"There were Haim, Mendel, Aryel, and Ber, Saul's son-in-law."

"About what were they talking?"

"Nassi, my soul entered into my ear as I stood by their window. They
complained much that they are kept in great darkness, and that the
true faith of Israel is troubled like water when a handful of mud is
thrown into it. And Eliezer said that he complains of it before the
Lord, singing and crying; and Meir said that it is not enough to sing
and cry, but that one must shout with a great voice to the people,
and do something so that they will become something quite different
from what they now are."

"A family of vipers!" hissed the voice from behind the door of the
cabin.

"Nassi, who are a family of vipers?" asked Moshe humbly

After a moment of silence, the answer came from the darkness:

"Ezofowich's family."



CHAPTER IV

A few months passed. A warm May day was ending in a bright,
sweet-scented evening.

Not long before sunset two beings were walking through the narrow
street surrounded by the poorest houses in town. One of these beings
was a slender girl, the other was a snow-white she-goat. The she-goat
went before, jumping at every moment in order to catch some herb
growing here and there. She appeared to be adroit, full of pranks,
and happy. The girl following was grave and thoughtful. It would be
difficult to tell how old she was. She may have been anywhere from
thirteen to seventeen. Although she was tall, she seemed childish, on
account of the extreme thinness of her body. But her mien and the
expression of her face denoted gravity and premature grief and
sadness. At first glance she appeared to be homely. What charms she
may have possessed were not enhanced by the poor dress made of faded
calico, from beneath which appeared her feet, only half protected by
heavy shoes. The flowing dress was buttoned at the neck, around which
she wore a few strings of broken corals. Her face was thin and pale,
contrasting sharply with the red colour of the beads. From beneath
the thick eyebrows looked velvet-like eyes, and over the narrow
forehead curled hair as black as ebony.

The whole person of this child, or woman, was a mixture of pride and
wildness. Her walk was stiff, grave, and thoughtful, and she looked
boldly into space. But at the more lively sound of human voices she
stopped and dropped her eyes--not because she was afraid, but because
it seemed that she much disliked meeting people. Only the presence of
the she-goat did not cause her disgust; on the contrary, she looked
after the animal attentively, and when the agile creature went too
far, she called her with sharp, muffled exclamations. Reciprocally,
it seemed that the goat understood her very well, and, obedient to
her call, she returned to the girl with a questioning baa! At the end
of the poor, narrow street, there appeared a small green meadow,
fresh, pearled with the dew of May, and gilded with the sun. This was
situated outside the town, surrounded on one side by a birch grove,
the other side opening on large fields, beyond which, in the far
distance, was seen a blue strip of the forest.

The girl slackened her steps, and having seized the animal by the
horns, she stopped, and looked on the lively scene displayed on the
meadow. At first the outlook appeared to be merely a tumultuous and
chaotic mass of movement, composed of snow-white animals and
variegated children on the green background. Only after a short while
one could distinguish numbers of little girls driving from pasture
several herds of goats.

The girls were full of play, and they hastened home. The goats were
stubborn, and wished to remain on the meadow, so there was some
fighting, in which the goats were victorious over the children. They
escaped from the hands of their leaders, and jumped nimbly and
quickly toward the hazel bushes.

The girls chased them, and, reaching them, they seized the animals by
their long, rough hair, and then they were at a loss what to do next.
Some of them called to their friends, busy and embarrassed also, for
help; others crossed the way of their disobedient charges, and, when
they were opposite them, they stretched out their arms; others
shouted, and, falling on the ground, they rolled in the soft grass,
bursting with laughter. These exclamations, calls, and laughter,
mingling with the m-a-a-ing of the goats, were seized by the warm
breeze blowing over the meadow, and carried through the gloomy
streets of the town, over the large field, and in the remote depths
of the grove. Through the golden air the small feet flitted and
crossed each other, trampling the grass, and above them nodded the
little heads covered with hair of all shades, from locks black as
ebony to the curls of copper-red and flaxen-yellow.

The tall, grave girl, who passed with her frolicsome but obedient
goat, looked indifferently at the noisy, animated scene. It was
evident that neither the gaiety nor curiosity attracted her. As she
had been walking, now she was standing grave and quiet. It seemed as
though she was waiting for something. Maybe the disappearance from
the meadow of these flitting heads and the exclamations of the
children.

After a while the exclamations were united in one choir. It announced
joy and universal triumph. At the end of long fights, chases, and
efforts, the goats were finally subdued by the girls, and were now
gathered in one group. Some of the children were holding the stubborn
and rebellious animals by their short horns, dragging them with all
their strength; while others, clasping their necks with both hands,
accompanied them in their jumps; others, more courageous and strong,
sat on the goats' backs, and, carried by their strange chargers,
holding fast by the longest hair, they went at full trot toward the
town. This cavalcade, tumultuous and noisy, squeezed into one of the
larger streets, and disappeared in clouds of dust.

Now the green meadow was silent and deserted. Only a light wind
rustled among the branches of birches and hazel trees, and the
setting sun veiled it in transparent pink clouds.

The girl set her goat at liberty, walked quicker than formerly, and
after a while reached the edge of the meadow. Then she stopped and
looked in one direction with a sudden amazement of joy. This point
was a thick birch trunk lying at the foot of the grove, and on this
trunk sat a young man with an open book in his lap. The girl's
amazement was short. With her eyes fastened on the young man's face,
which was bent over the book, she crossed the whole length of the
meadow, straight and light, and having stopped near the trunk on
which he was sitting, she bent, seized his hand in both her swarthy
hands, and raised it to her mouth.

Absorbed in his reading the man swiftly raised his head and looked in
astonishment at the girl, quickly withdrawing his hand from her
embrace and growing red with a warm blush.

"You don't know me," said the girl, in a voice which was muffled, but
which trembled not one whit.

"No," answered the young man.

"But I know you. You are Meir Ezofowich, rich Saul's grandson. I see
you often when you sit on the piazza of your beautiful house, or
when, with that book, you pass the hill of the Karaims."

All this she said in a grave, steady voice, her figure drawn erect.
In her face there was not the slightest sign of embarrassment or
timidity nor the slightest blush. Only her large eyes became darker
and shone with a warm light, and her pale lips assumed a soft and
gentle expression.

"And who are you?" asked Meir softly.

"I am Golda, the grand-daughter of Abel Karaim, despised and
persecuted by all your people."

And now her mouth trembled and her voice took on a gloomy tone.

"All your people persecute Abel Karaim and his grand-daughter Golda,
and you defend them. Long ago I wished to thank you."

Meir dropped his eyelids. His pale face flushed.

"Live in peace, you and your grandfather Abel," he said softly, "and
may the hand of the Eternal be stretched over your poor house--the
hand of Him who loves and defends those who suffer."

"I thank you for your good words," whispered the girl.

In the meanwhile she slipped down to the grass at the young man's
feet, and raising her clasped hands she whispered further:

"Meir, you are good, wise, and beautiful. Your name signifies
'light,' and I have light before my eyes every time I see you. Long
ago I wished to find you and talk with you, and tell you that
although you are a grandson of a rich merchant and I am a
grand-daughter of a poor Karaim, who makes baskets, yet we are equal
in the eyes of the Eternal, and it is permitted to me to raise my
eyes to you and looking on your light, to be happy."

And in fact she looked happy. Only now her thin, swarthy face burned
with a flame-like blush, her lips were purple, and in her eyes raised
to the young man's face and filled with passionate worship stood two
silvery tears.

Meir listened to her with downcast eyes, and when she was silent he
looked up and gazed at her for a while and whispered softly:

"Golda, how grateful and beautiful you are!"

For the first time during her conversation with Meir, Golda dropped
her eyes and mechanically began to pluck the high grass growing
around her. Meir looked at her silently. The innocence of her heart
was plainly manifested in her confusion, which caused him to blush,
and a timid joy shone with double light from his gray eyes, which
remained cast down.

"Sit beside me," said he finally, in a soft voice.

The girl rose from the ground and sat in the place indicated by him.
She had recovered all her boldness and gravity. She was silent and
looked at the youth who did not look at her. They were silent a long
time. Silence was around them; only above their heads the tall
birches rustled softly, and around the pond near by, which was grown
up with osier, the whistling and carolling of the marsh-dwelling
birds was heard.

Meir, who kept looking at the grass spread at his feet, was the first
to speak:

"Why do you bring your goat so late to the pasture?"

Golda answered:

"Because I don't wish to meet the other girls here."

"Do they also persecute you?"

"They laugh at me when they see me, and call me ugly names, and drive
me from them."

Meir raised his eyes to the girl, and in his glance there was deep
pity.

"Golda, are you afraid of those girls?"

Golda gravely shook her head in negation.

"I have grown up together with fear," she answered. "It's my brother,
and I am accustomed to it. But when I return home the old zeide asks:
'Have you met anybody? Have they annoyed you?' I can't lie, and if I
tell the truth the old zeide is very sad and he weeps."

"Did zeide alone bring you up?"

She nodded her head affirmatively.

"My parents died when I was as small as that bush. Zeide didn't have
any children, so he took me to his home and took care of me, and when
I was ill he carried me in his arms and kissed me. When I was older
he taught me to spin and read the Bible, and told me beautiful
stories which the Karaims brought from the far world. Zeide is good;
zeide is a dear old man--but so old--so old, and so poor. His hair is
snow-white from great age and his eyes are red as corals from
weeping. When he is making baskets I often lie at his feet and keep
my head in his lap, and he caresses my hair with his old, trembling
hand, and repeats: 'Josseyme! Josseyme!' (orphan)."

While thus speaking she sat a little bent over, with her elbow
resting on her knee. She balanced herself softly, looking into space.

Meir was now gazing in her face as on a rainbow, and when she
pronounced the last word, he repeated after her in a soft voice,
filled with pity:

"Josseyme!"

At that moment, quite a distance behind them in the grove, was heard
the bleating of the goat. Meir looked back.

"Your goat--will it not be lost in the forest?" he asked.

"No," answered the girl quietly. "She never goes too far, and when I
call her she returns to me. She is my sister."

"Fear is your brother, and a she-goat your sister!" said the young
man, smiling.

The girl turned her head toward the grove, and gave voice to a few
short exclamations. Immediately there came from the thicket the
sound of quick, racing steps, and among the green birch branches
appeared the snow-white hairy animal. It stood still and looked at
the two people sitting beside each other.

"Come here!" called Golda.

The goat approached and stood near her. Golda caressed the animal's
neck, and Meir did the same smiling. The goat gave a short bleat,
jumped aside, and in the twinkling of an eye was biting at one of the
birches.

"How obedient she is," said Meir.

"She is very fond of me," said Golda gravely. "I brought her up in
the same way that zeide did me. She was a little kid when zeide
brought her home and made me a present of her. I used to carry her in
my arms and feed her with my hands, and when she was sick I sang to
her, as zeide used to sing to me."

In speaking thus she smiled, and the smile gave her a childish
appearance. She looked not more than fourteen years old.

"Would you like to have another little kid?" asked Meir.

"Why not?" she answered. "I would like it very much. When zeide shall
sell a great many baskets, and I shall spin much wool we will buy
another little kid."

"For whom do you spin the wool?"

"There are some good women who help me in that way. Hannah,
Witebski's wife, your aunt Sarah, Ber's wife, give me wool to spin
and then they pay me with copper--sometimes with silver money."

"Then you sometimes come to our house to take the wool for spinning
from Sarah, Ber's wife?"

"Yes."

"And why have I never seen you?"

"Because they wish me to come secretly. Ber and his wife Sarah are
very good-hearted people, but they don't wish anyone to know that
they help us. I come to see them when there is nobody in the house
except Lijka, your cousin, and I try to slip in in such a way that
the black man could not see me."

"Whom do you mean by the 'black man'?" asked Meir in astonishment.

"Rabbi Isaak Todros!" answered Golda softly--almost in a whisper.

At the sound of that name pronounced by Golda, Meir's face, formerly
beaming, full of pity, blushing with emotion, quivered nervously. He
grew suddenly silent and looked into space with eyes filled with
gloomy lights. He became so thoughtful that a deep line appeared on
his white forehead. It seemed to him that he had forgotten that he
was not alone.

"Meir," sounded in a soft voice, close to his shoulder, "of what are
you thinking, and why have your eyes become so sad? Your name means
'light.' The sun of joy--does it not shine always for you?"

The young man, without changing the direction of his glance, shook
his head.

"No," he answered, "there is a deep sorrow in my heart."

The girl bent toward him.

"Meir," she exclaimed, "and from where does this sorrow come to your
heart?"

He was silent for a while, and then answered softly:

"From the fact that there are black people among us, and such
darkness--such darkness!"

The girl dropped her head, and repeated like a sad echo:

"Ah! Such darkness!"

Meir continued to look into space, toward where a long strip of the
forest separated the golden valley from the purple sky.

"Golda!" he said softly.

"What, Meir?"

"Did you never wish to see and know what there is beyond that thick,
high forest--what is going on in the broad world?"

The girl was silent. From her attitude--her body bent toward the
young man, her wide-open eyes full of fire--it could be seen that
when she could look at him she did not wish to see anything else in
the broad world.

But Meir spoke further:

"I would like to borrow wings from a bird, in order to go beyond that
forest--to fly far away!"

"Don't you like the beautiful house of the rich Saul? Don't you like
the faces of your brothers, relatives, and friends, that you wish for
the wings of a bird to fly away?" whispered the girl, with stifled
grief or fright.

"I like the home of Saul, my grandfather," whispered the thoughtful
youth, "and I love my brothers and all my relatives; but I would like
to fly beyond that forest in order to see everything and become very
wise, and then return here and tell to those who are walking in
darkness and wearing chains, what they should do in order to leave
the darkness and throw off the chains."

After a time of silence he spoke further.

"I should like to know how the stars are fixed and how the planets
grow, and how all the nations of the world live, and what kind of a
sacred book they have. I would like to read their books, and learn
from them God's thought and human lot, in order that my soul might
become filled with science as the sea is filled with water."

Suddenly he stopped, and his voice broke with a sigh of inexpressible
longing and insatiable desire. Again he was silent for a while, and
then added softly:

"I would like to be as happy as was Rabbi Akiba."

"And who was Rabbi Akiba?" asked Golda shyly.

Meir's thoughtful eyes lit up and shone.

"He was a great man, Golda. I read his story often, and I was reading
it again when you came."

"I know a great many beautiful stories," said Golda; "they grow in my
soul, like red, fragrant roses! Meir, give me one more such rose that
it may shine for me when I may not see you."

Their looks met and a soft smile played about Meir's mouth.

"Do you understand Hebrew?"

She hastily nodded in the affirmative.

"Yes, I understand. Zeide taught me." Meir turned a few pages of the
book which his lap and read aloud:

"Kolba Sabua was a rich man. His palaces were high as mountains and
his dresses shone with gold. In his gardens grew fragrant cedars,
palms with large leaves, and there bloomed sweet scented roses of
Sharon."

"But more beautiful than the high palaces, than the fragrant cedars
and crimson roses, more beautiful than all the maidens in Israel was
his daughter, young Rachel."

"Kolba Sabua had as many herds as there were stars in the heavens,
and these herds were watched by a poor youth who was tall, like a
young cedar, and his face was pale and sad, as it is with a man who
wishes to free his soul from the darkness, but cannot."

"The name of that youth was Joseph Akiba, and he lived on a high
mountain on which the herds of his master grazed."

"And it happened once upon a time, that the beautiful Rachel came to
her father, threw herself on the ground before him, kissed his feet,
and wept bitterly; then she spoke: 'I want to marry Akiba and live in
that little cabin which stands on the summit of the mountain, and in
which he lives.'"

"Kolba Sabua was a proud man, and his heart was hard. He became very
angry with his daughter, the beautiful Rachel, and forbade her to
think of that young man."

"But the beautiful Rachel left the high palace, and taking with her
only her dark eyes, which shone like big diamonds, and her dark
tresses, which were raised over her head like a crown. And she went
on the high mountain to the little cabin, and said, 'Akiba, behold
your wife, who enters into your house!'"

"Akiba was joyful, and he drank from Rachel's eyes her diamond-like
tears, and then began to tell her many beautiful things. Wise words
poured like honey from his lips, and she listened and was happy, and
said, 'Akiba, you shall be a great star, which shall shine over
Israel's roads.'"

"Kolba Sabua was a proud man, and his heart was hard. He sent to his
daughter on the high mountain neither food nor clothing, and said,
'Let her become acquainted with hunger, and let her see misery.'"

"And the beautiful Rachel saw misery, and became acquainted with
hunger. There were days when she had nothing to put into Akiba's
mouth, and thought that her husband must go hungry."

"Akiba spoke, 'No matter that I am hungry,' and then he told her wise
things, but she descended the high mountains, went to the town, and
cried, 'Who will give me a measure of millet-seed for the dark crown
which I wear on my head?' And they gave her a measure of millet-seed,
and took her dark crown from her forehead, which was more beautiful
than diamonds."

"She returned to the mountains, to the little cabin, and said, 'Akiba,
I have some food for your mouth, but your soul is hungry, and
for it I cannot get food! Go into the world and nourish your soul
with great wisdom which flows from the mouths of wise people. I will
remain here. I will sit at the threshold of the house; I will spin
wool, and take care of the herds, ad look on the road by which you
will return, like the sun which returns to the sky to chase away the
darkness of the night.'"

"And Akiba went."

Here the voice of the young man became silent, and he cast his eyes
on the leaves of the book, for near his shoulder was heard a voice
full of astonishment.

"Akiba went?" asked Golda, and her eyes were widely opened, and the
breath seemed to stop in her breast.

"Akiba went," repeated Meir, and began to read farther.

"The beautiful Rachel sat at the threshold of the house, span the
wool, took care of the herds, and looked at the road by which he must
return, shining with great wisdom."

"Seven years passed, and there came an evening when the moon at her
full pours on the earth a sea of silvery light, and the trees and
herbs stand still and do not move, as though the spirit of the
Eternal breathed on them, and brought to the world peace and
tranquillity."

"That evening, from behind the mountains, a tall pale man appeared.
His feet trembled like leaves when the wind shakes them, and his
hands from time to time were raised to the heavens. And when he saw
the small, poor cabin, a stream of tears flowed from his eyes--for it
was Akiba, the husband of the beautiful Rachel."

"Akiba stopped at the open window, and listened to the talk that was
going on within. His wife, Rachel, was talking with her brother, whom
her father sent to her. 'Return to Kolba Sabua's house,' spoke her
brother, and she answered, 'I am waiting for Akiba, and taking care
of his house.' The brother spoke, 'Akiba will never return--he has
left you, and he is a disgrace to you.' She answered, 'Akiba has not
left me. I, myself, sent him to the fountain of wisdom, that he might
drink from it.' 'He drinks from the fountain of wisdom, and you bathe
yourself in tears, and your flesh dries from misery!' 'Let my eyes
flow out with my tears, let my flesh be eaten with misery, I shall
watch the house of my husband. And if that man, for whom I fed love
in my heart, shall come back to me and say, 'Rachel, I come back to
you that you may not weep any more, but I have not drunk enough from
the fountain of wisdom,' I would say to him, 'Go and drink more.''"

"The pale traveller, who stood at the window, which was open, became
still paler, and trembled still more when he heard what Rachel said.
He left the small cabin, and returned whence he came."

"Again seven years passed by. And there came a day when the sun pours
streams of golden brightness, and the trees rustle, and the flowers
blossom, and the birds sing, and the people laugh, as though the
spirit of the Eternal breathed on them, and brought to them life and
joy."

"On the road which led up the mountain to the shepherd's little cabin
a great crowd of people was roaring. Amidst them a tall man was
walking. His face shone like the sun with great wisdom, and from his
mouth fell words sweet as honey and fragrant as myrrh. People bowed
low before him, seizing every word, and crying with great love to
him, 'Oh, Rabbi!'"

"But through the crowd of people a woman rushed, and falling on the
ground, she seized the master's knees. She still held a spindle in
her hand. She was covered with rags; her face was thin and her eyes
deeply sunken, for during fourteen years they had flowed with tears."

"'Go away, you beggar!' the people shouted to her, but the master
raised her from the ground and pressed her to his breast; for the man
was Joseph Akiba, and the woman was his wife Rachel."

"'Behold the fountain which supplied my sad heart with the drink of
hope, when my head was in the depths of great loneliness and work.'"

"Thus spake the master to the people, and wished to place on Rachel's
head a crown of gold and pearls."

"'Thou, Rachel,' said he, 'hast taken from thy head thy beautiful
hair, in order to nourish my hungry mouth. Now I will ornament thy
forehead with a rich garland.'"

"But she stopped his arm, and raising to him her eyes, which had
again become as beautiful as of yore, she said to him, 'Rabbi, your
glory is my crown.'"

The young man finished the story, and turned his eyes on the girl
sitting beside him.

Golda's face was all aflame, and her eyes were full of tears.

"Do you find my story beautiful?" asked Meir. "Yes; beautiful
indeed!" she answered, and with her head leaning on the palm of her
hand she balanced her slender figure to and fro for a while, as if
under the influence of ecstasy and drowsiness. Suddenly she grew
pale, and drew herself up.

"Meir," she exclaimed, "if you were Akiba, and I the daughter of the
rich Kolba Sabua, I would do for you the same as the beautiful Rachel
did for him!"

She seized her superb tresses, black as ebony, which hung carelessly
down her back, and twisting it around her head, she said:

"I have exactly the same black crown as Rachel!" Then she raised her
deep, fiery eyes to Meir, and said boldly, gravely, without a smile,
blush, or exaltation:

"Meir, for you I would take my eyes out of my head! I would not have
any use for them if I could not look at you."

A strong flush covered the young man's face, but it was not mere
bashfulness, but emotion. The girl was so naive--so wild, and at the
same time so beautiful, with her luxuriant, dishevelled tresses piled
above her forehead, and with passionate words on her grave and daring
lips.

"Golda," said Meir, "I will come to your house and pay a visit to
your old grandfather."

"Come," said she; "with you there will enter into our house a great
light."

The sun had almost set behind the high scarlet and purple clouds. A
little pond shone from beyond the high osiers. In that direction
Golda's looks went, and stopped at the water and surrounding bushes.

"Why are you looking at the pond?" asked Meir, who could no longer
keep his eyes from the girl's face.

"I would like to get as many as I could of those branches growing
over there," answered the girl.

"What for?"

"I would carry them home. Zeide makes baskets of them, then he sells
them in the market and buys bread, and sometimes fish. For a long
time zeide has had no willow to make baskets, and he grieves."

"Why don't you take them if you need them?"

I am not permitted.

"Why not? Everyone from the town may cut the branches. This meadow
and that grove belong to the whole community of Szybow."

"It doesn't matter; I am not permitted. We don't believe in the
Talmud; we don't light candles on the Sabbath--nothing is allowed
us."

Meir rose suddenly.

"Come," said he to Golda, "I will be with you, and you may cut as
many branches as you like. Don't be afraid of anything."

Golda's face shown with joy. She took from Meir's hand a jack-knife
and rushed toward the pond. Now, when she felt safe under the
protection of a strong arm, when there was hope of giving pleasure to
the old grandfathers she lost the gravity which gave her the
appearance of a matured woman. She ran along, looking from time to
time at Meir who followed her, calling her she-goat, who turned
toward her from the opposite side of the meadow. They stopped on the
shore. The most flexible willow grass grew in the water, a few steps
from the bank. In the twinkling of an eye Golda threw off her low
shoes, and rolling up her dress she entered the water. Meir remained
on the shore and watched the girl, as raising her arms, she began to
swiftly cut the pliable branches. In the mean time she laughed, and
her parted lips disclosed rows of teeth as white and beautiful as
pearls. The glare of the last dazzling rays bathed her swarthy face
with a pinkish light, and gilded the black crown of hair twined above
her brow.

Meir did not lose sight of her, and smiled also. Suddenly Golda set
up a cry.

"What is the matter?" asked Meir.

From the green thicket, in which the girl's figure was hidden, a
joyful voice resounded.

"Meir, what beautiful flowers are here!"

"What flowers?"

The tall figure thrust aside the green bushes, bent toward the shore,
and stretching out her arm handed the young man a broad-leaved yellow
pond lily. Meir bent over a little in order to reach the flower, but
all at once Golda's arm trembled, her pink, face grew pale, and her
eyes dilated with dread.

"The black man!" she whispered, dropping the flower, and with a soft
exclamation of fear she retreated and hid herself in the willow
copse.

Meir looked behind him. Some distance off he saw emerging from the
grove, and passing swiftly across the meadow, a strange figure walked
swiftly. It was a medium-sized man, very thin, with a dark face, gray
hair and a dark, dullish beard falling to his waist. He was robed in
a long dress made of rough woven cloth, and his yellow, bare neck was
thrust from an open shirt of rough material. He stooped in the
shoulders and his steps were noiseless, as he wore low, woven
slippers. In either hand he carried a big bunch of variegated herbs.
When that man, without looking at Meir, passed him at a distance, the
youth mechanically bent low his head in sign of humility and
reverence Soon, however, he raised it. His face was pale, and
expressed suppressed grief. He looked gloomily at the black figure
passing swiftly across the meadow, and through his teeth set in
either grief or anger, he said:

"Rabbi Isaak Todros!"



CHAPTER V

Rabbi Isaak Todros' appearance, and also his spiritual development,
perhaps, were expressive characteristics of several centuries of long
sojourn of his ancestors in Spain.

Wandering people, although astonishingly perseverant and conservative
of marks distinguishing them from other nations, still by the
inevitable influence of nature, draw here and there something from
the different skies under which the lot of the exile scattered them.

Among the common characteristics of Israelites, however, there can be
seen great differences. There are among them people but recently
arrived from the South and West, and again there are others over
whose head a pale sky has stretched and a cold wind has blown for
centuries. There are among them phlegmatic natures, and also ardent
mystical ones, and others redolent of reality. Some of them have hair
black as the darkest raven wing--others have eyes the colour of the
sky. There are among them white and also swarthy foreheads; strong,
hardy natures, and others nervous, quivering with passion, imbued
with dreaming, and consumed with fanciful ideals.

The swarthiest among the swarthy faces, the darkest of dark hair, the
most passionate among the fiery spirits belonged to Isaak Todros.

What precise position did he occupy in the community, and on what was
it based? He was not a priest; rabbis are not priests, and perhaps
there is no other nation, as distant by its nature from theocratic
government as are the Israelites. Neither was he the administrator of
the community, because the members of the kahal took charge of its
civil affairs; rabbis, while being members of the kahal, possessed
only the role of warden of religion in respect to its rules and
rites. He possessed a dignity higher than that, however. He was the
descendant of an old princely house and among his ancestors he
counted many scholars, pious and revered rabbis, and he was perfectly
pious himself--consequently cadek and hahamen, ascetic, almost a
miracle-worker, and a deeply, supernaturally learned man. Of course,
saying that he was a learned man refers only to religious erudition,
but in the eyes of the community of Szybow this was the only
learning.

This scholarship embraced the incomparable knowledge of sacred books;
Torah or the Bible, as little as possible--more of the Talmud, and
most of Kabala.

Isaak Todros was the most able Kabalist of modern times, and it
constituted the corner-stone upon which was built his greatness.
Someone not familiar with the faith of the plebeian Israelites would
suppose that the population of Szybow was a branch of a numerous
gloomy sect of Hassid, which puts at the head of all religious and
secular learning, the Kabala. No; the inhabitants of Szybow did not
consider themselves heretics. On the contrary, they were proud of
being orthodox Talmudists and Rabbinists. But they belonged to those,
numerous in the lowest stratum of Talmudists, who joined Kabala to
the Torah and Talmud, recognised it as a holy book, and became
passionately fond of it, setting it in the shadow of the two first
books.

And then Hassidism touched the Hebrew population of Szybow and left
deep traces. In fact the greater part of the population was Hassidish
without knowing it. Tradition said that Isaak Todros' ancestor, that
Reb Nohim who had waged a battle of ideas with Hersh Ezofowich, was
for some time a pupil of Besht, the founder of that curious sect. He
saw him often, and although he did not join the sect entirely, he
grafted some of its ideas into the community of which he was the
spiritual leader.

The principal characteristics of the sect were: a boundless respect
for Kabala, an almost idolatrous worship of Cadeks and a deep, pious
and unshakeable aversion toward Edomites (foreign nations) and their
lores.

These principles multiplied and branched out under the teaching of
Nohim's son, Baruch, and his grandson Isaak seized the dignity held
by his ancestors during the period of their rule. Therefore the
religion of the inhabitants was neither Mosaism, nor Talmudism, nor
Hassidism, but it was a chaotic mixture of all three which prevailed
for the space of a number of miles around Szybow, and the highest
expression of which was found in the person of the Rabbi of Szybow.

Rabbi Isaak had a swarthy forehead, furrowed deeply by lines of
strained thought in trying to penetrate the mystery of Heaven and
earth by a combination of letters, composed of the name of God and
the Angels. Therefore in his coal-black eyes were gloomy lights which
sometimes became ecstatic when they contemplated the incomparable
delights of the supernatural world. His back was bent from the
continual reading of books, arid his hand shook with excitement
caused by the perpetual state of emotion in which his mind was kept;
his body was thin from spiritual torments and physical mortifications.

Celibacy, fasting and sleepless nights were written in the dark face
of the man, as well as his mystical ecstasies, secret dread and
merciless hatred of everyone who lived, believed and desired
differently from himself.

When he was young he had married--or rather they had married
him--before the slightest sign of a beard had appeared on his cheeks,
but he soon divorced his wife, because, by her continual bustling
activity she troubled his pious thought and spiritual raptures. His
three children were brought up in his brother's house, and he himself
lived the life of an anchorite in the little cabin--a life of fancy
strained to the utmost, of passionate prayers and unfathomable mystic
contemplations. Such was his spiritual life.

His physical life was sustained by gifts sent him by his zealous
admirers. But those gifts were small and common. Rabbi Isaak did not
accept great and costly presents--he even refused to accept
remuneration for the advice, medicines and prophecies which he gave
to the faithful who came to him.

But every day before sunrise some bashful figures glided through the
school-yard, and placed on the wooden bench standing near the window
of the house some earthen dishes with food--slices of bread or
holiday cake.

At that time the Rabbi usually recited his morning prayers, for it
was that moment at which white could be distinguished from blue,
which is the time that every faithful Israelite should recite the
morning Tefils and Shems.

Then he opened his window and contemplated the pink glow of the dawn.
In one direction was the far Orient, Jerusalem, the invisible ruins
of Solomon's Temple, Palestine weeping for her sons and the withering
palms of Zion.

Sometimes the fire shining in the Rabbi's eyes was quenched by a
tear, cooling his cheeks which burned with the heat of interior
fires. Sometimes they were cooled also by the cold winds and misty
fogs, but Isaak Todros looked every morning through the mists and
fogs, toward the Orient. Then he bent and took from the bench the
food prepared for him by pious hands. He did not eat it alone. He
broke the bread and cake into crumbs and threw it in handfuls to the
birds which came to his window in great flocks. Some of them seized
the food and carried it to their nests, chirping joyfully. Others
after having eaten enough flew in through the window and perched on
the bent shoulders of their friend. Then the Rabbi's dark face grew a
little less dark, and sometimes--though very seldom--a smile played
about his close shut lips. He was very well known, not only to the
birds living in the town, but also to those who filled the birch
grove.

Isaak Todros often went to the grove, and sometimes penetrated the
neighbouring pine forest. What did he do there? He fed the birds,
who, on seeing him, immediately flew to him, and accompanied him in
his walk. Sometimes he prayed in a loud voice, raising his trembling
hands, and awakening by the sounds of his passionate cries the choir
of wood echoes. He also gathered different herbs and plants, which he
brought in great bunches to his hut. These plants possessed curative
properties, whose knowledge was a heritage in the Todros family. All
the members of this family belonged to that class of primitive
physicians with which the Middle Ages was filled, and who learned
their art of healing not from academies, but from wild nature,
studied more with fantastical inquiring, than with learned thought.
One of Isaak Todros' ancestors was, however, a very learned physician
in Spain at the time when there was a short interval in prosperity in
the bad fortunes of the Hebrew nation, and they were permitted to
draw with the other nations all possible good from every source.
However, the interval was but a short one, and after it the
world-famous and really scholarly Hebrew physicians disappeared from
the world; but one, by the name of Todros Halevi, transmitted his
knowledge to his sons, and so it passed from generation to
generation.

Isaak Todros searched for diligently, and gathered carefully, these
precious plants of the ancient knowledge and traditions of his
family. He carried them with him, and laid them on the dirty floor of
his cabin in order to dry them.

On this account the air of his cabin was saturated during the summer
and fall with the pungent, choking scent of drying herbs and wild
flowers.

His cell was a vivid reminder of the bare cells of anchorites and
hermits. Its only furniture consisted of a hard bed, a white table,
standing near one of the windows, a couple of chairs, and a few
planks fastened to the wall piled up with books. Among these books
were twelve enormous volumes bound in parchment. They constituted the
Talmud. There were also the "Ozarha-Kabod," a work written by one of
Isaak's ancestors--that Todros Halevi who was the first Talmudist to
believe in the Kabala; "Toldot-Adam," an epic poem, telling the
history of the first man and his exile; "Sefer-Jezira," (Book of
Creation), telling by pictures  of the origin of the world; "Ka-arat
Kezef," in which Ezobi warns the Israelites against the pernicious
influence of secular science; "Schiur-Koma," a plastic description of
God, instructing the reader regarding his physical appearance--the
gigantic size of the head, feet, hands, and especially God's beard,
which, according to the book, is ten thousand five hundred parasangs
long. But the place of honour was occupied by a book showing much
thumbing. It was the Book of Light--Zohar--the greatest, and, at the
same time, the deepest dissertation on Hohma-Nistar (Kabala), which
was published in the thirteenth century by Moses Leon, in the name of
Symeon-ben-Jochai, who lived several centuries before.

Such was the library of Isaak Todros, in the reading of which he
spent his nights, drawing from it all his learning and wisdom,
consuming in its perusal all the forces of his body. From that
library emanated an odour which intoxicated his mind with mystical
emotions and the bitter, sharp venom of aversion to everything which
was a stranger to, or bore ill-will to the world, shut up in those
books, filled with supernatural lights and shadows. In reading them,
he exhausted many hours a week--even holy days and nights. But
through the holy nights there sat at his feet his pupil and
favourite, Reb Moshe, the melamed, who snuffed the yellow candle, for
a pious man reading Holy Books during holy nights was not permitted
to snuff the candle, and he must have beside him some attentive
person to perform this office.

During the holy nights the Rabbi read Schiur-Koma and Zohar, and the
little man, sitting beside him, raised himself from time to time in
his low chair, reviving the flame of the dying candle, and with his
round eyes looking into the face of his master, waiting for the
moment when his hand would arrange a word from the names of God,
Notarikon and Gomatria, which would perform great miracles, and
disclose to the people all the secrets of the heavens and of the
earth.

Returning home after sunset one day with a big bunch of herbs, Isaak
Todros found his faithful worshipper seated in a corner of the dark
hall, plunged in deep thought.

"Moshe," said the Rabbi, passing swiftly and quietly through the
hall.

"What is your order, Nassi?" humbly asked Moshe.

"Go at once to old Saul, and tell him that Rabbi Isaak Todros will
visit his house to-morrow."

The cramped, gray figure in the dark corner jumped as though moved by
a spring, and rushed across the square to the house of Saul. Passing
quickly the piazza and long hall, the melamed opened the door, and,
thrusting his head into the room, he exclaimed triumphantly:

"Reb Saul, a great honour and happiness is coming to you! Rabbi Isaak
Todros, the perfect pious, and the first scholar in the world, will
visit your house to-morrow!"

From the depths of the large parlour the voice of the old merchant,
dried by age, but still strong, answered:

"I, Saul Ezofowich, my children, grandchildren and
great-grandchildren will await Rabbi Isaak's visit with great joy and
great desire in our hearts. May he live a hundred years!"

"May he live a hundred years!" repeated the dark figure, and
disappeared.

The door was closed. Old Saul was sitting on the sofa, reading from
Zohar, but he could not understand its deep explanations in spite of
the utmost mental strain, for his mind was accustomed to secular
business affairs. Suddenly his wrinkled forehead became gloomy and
uneasiness shone in his eyes. He turned to his elder son, Raphael,
who sat at a table near by, balancing his books, and asked:

"Why is he coming here?"

Raphael shrugged his shoulders, as a sign that he did not know.

"Has he any reason for picking a quarrel?" asked the old man again.

Raphael, raising his face from his books, said:

"He has."

Saul shivered.

"Nu!" he exclaimed, "And what reason can he have? Has someone of the
family sinned?"

Raphael answered shortly:

"Meir."

The faces of both father and son grew sad and disquieted. Isaak
Todros visited the members of the sect very seldom--only when there
was a question of some important religious matter or transgression of
rules. And even such rare calls were only paid to the most prominent
and influential members of the community. Poor people surrounded the
Rabbi's cabin, ready to rush in at a sign from him in inexpressible
joy or fear.

Rabbi Isaak Todros was an ascetic and he despised mammon, but he did
not reject all possible signs of respect the people desired to show
him, and they who were familiar with his thoughts and sentiments knew
that he was very fond of these signs, and would even demand them
imperiously in case anyone thought to dispense with or diminish them.
For that reason all the poor population, and everyone who wished to
win his special favour, called him "Prince," addressing him as
"Nassi." Therefore his passage through the town on all occasions was
an important and curious event for the population, and was performed
with quiet, dignified ceremony. A couple of hours before noon Saul
Ezofowich, standing before the window of his parlour, looked with a
certain amount of trouble at the retinue passing slowly across the
square. All the members of his family, robed in holiday dresses, with
a solemn expression on their faces, looked also, holding themselves
in readiness to welcome this high dignitary of the community at the
threshold of their residence. Through the square, from the school, a
throng of people dressed in black advanced toward the house of the
Ezofowich. In the middle, bent as always, in shabby clothes, with his
rough shirt unbuttoned showing the yellow neck, marched Isaak Todros,
with his usual swift, noiseless quiet pace.

On either side was an official of the Kahal--the small, lithe Reb
Jankiel, with his white, freckled face and fiery red beard, and David
Calman, one of the dignitaries of the town. Morejne, a rich cattle
merchant, tall, stiff, and dignified, with hands in the pockets of
his satin halat and a sweet smile of satisfaction on his fat lips,
walked near. Behind these three people, and on both sides, were
several others more or less humble and smiling. The whole crowd was
preceded by Reb Moshe, in such a way that he faced the Rabbi and had
his back in the direction in which they walked. Consequently he could
not be said to walk, but draw back, in the meantime jumping and
clapping his hands, bending low to the ground, stumbling, and jumping
again, raising his face to the sky and shouting for joy. Finally, a
certain distance behind, a throng of children followed them and
looked with great curiosity at the retinue, and on seeing the
melamed's jumping and dancing, they began to imitate him, jumping and
gesticulating also and filling the air with wild noise.

After a while the door of the Ezofowich house was violently opened
and through it rushed the melamed--he was red, out of breath, bathed
in perspiration and beaming with great joy. He rejoiced heartily,
loudly, passionately. What for? Poor melamed!

"Reb Saul!" he said with a hoarse voice, "meet the great happiness
the great honour coming to you."

From Saul's face it would be seen that a secret fear was fighting
with the great joy within him. But his family evidently rejoiced
exceedingly, for their faces beamed with pride and satisfaction
except Ber, who was always silent and apathetic if the question was
not one of business and money. Old Saul stood near the threshold of
the parlour. On the piazza Rob Jankiel and Morejne Calman seized the
Rabbi under either arm, lifted his thin body above the ground, and
having carried him through the hall and over the threshold they
placed him opposite Saul. Then they bowed profoundly, left the house,
sat on the piazza waiting for the moment to reconduct the Rabbi.

In the meanwhile Saul bent before the guest his grave and reverent
head. Everyone present followed his example.

"He who greets a sage greets the Eternal," said he.

"He who greets a sage . . ." the choir of male and female voices
began to repeat after Saul, but at that moment Isaak Todros raised
his index finger, looked around with his fiery eyes, and said:

"Sh-a-a-a!"

In the room there was the silence of the tomb.

The finger of the guest made a large circle, taking in the row of
people standing near the wall.

"Weg!" (get out) shouted he.

Within the room the rustling of dresses and the sound of swift steps
were heard; faces grew frightened and sorrowful, and crowding
together the inmates squeezed through the door leading to the
interior of the house, and disappeared.

In the larger room only two men remained--the silver-haired,
broad-shouldered patriarch, and the thin, fiery-looking sage.

When the Rabbi imperatively drove out his host's family--the
gray-headed sons, dignified matrons, and beautiful girls, Saul's gray
eyebrows quivered and bristled for a moment. Evidently his pride rose
within him.

"Rabbi," said he, in a muffled voice, and with a bow that was not as
low as the first one, "deign to take under my roof the place you
think the most comfortable."

He did not call his guest "prince"; he did not give him the name of
Nassi.

Rabbi Isaak looked t him gloomily, crossed the room, and sat on the
sofa. At that moment he was not bent; on the contrary, he sat bolt
upright, looking sharply into the face of the old man who sat
opposite to him.

"I have driven them out," said he, pointing to the door through which
the patriarch's family had made their exit. "Why did you gather them?
I wished to talk with you alone."

Saul was silent.

"I bring you news," again said the Rabbi quickly and gloomily. "Your
grandson Meir has not a clean soul. He is a kofrim (infidel)."

Saul still sat silent, only his frowning brows quivered nervously
above his faded eyes.

"He is a kofrim!" the Rabbi repeated loudly. "He speaks ugly words of
our religion, and he does not respect the sages. He violates the
Sabbath, and is friendly with the heretics."

"Rabbi!" began Saul.

"You must listen when I speak," interrupted the Rabbi.

The old man tightened his lips so that they disappeared under his
gray moustache.

"I came to tell you," continued Todros, "that it's your fault that
your grandson is bad. Why did you not permit the melamed to whip him
when he was in the heder, and did not want to study German, and
laughed at the melamed, and instigated the others to laugh at him?
Why did you send him to Edomita, living there among the gardens to
make him study the reading of the Gojs and also their writing and the
other abominations of the Edomites? Why did you not punish him when
he violated the Sabbath, and contradicted the melamed at your table?
Why did you spoil his soul with your sinful love? Why don't you force
him to study holy science? And why do you look on all his
abominations as though you were a blind man?"

This vehement speech tired the Rabbi, and panting, he rested.

Then old Saul began to talk:

"Rabbi, your soul must not be angry with me. I could not act
otherwise. This child is the son of my son--the youngest among my
children, and who disappeared very quickly from my eyes. When his
parents died I took this child to my home, and I wished that he might
never remember that he was an orphan. I was then already a widower,
and I carried him in my own arms. His old great-grandmother took care
of him also, and she would give her soul for the happiness of his
soul. In her crown he is the first jewel, and now her old mouth opens
only for him. These are, Rabbi, the reasons why I have been more
indulgent with him than with my other children; these are the reasons
why my soul was ill when the melamed scolded and whipped him in the
heder, as the other children. I sinned then. I rushed into the heder
like a madman, spoke ugly words to the melamed, and took the boy away
with me. Rabbi, I sinned, because the melamed is a wise and saintly
man; but this sin will disappear from your mind, Rabbi, if you will
but think that I could not bear to look at the bruises on the body of
the son of my son. When such bruises appeared on the bodies of the
children of my son Raphael, and my son Abraham, and my son Ephraim, I
was silent, for their fathers were living--thanks be to God!--and
could look after their children. But when I saw the black-and-blue
marks on the back and shoulders of the orphan, Rabbi, then I
cried--then I shouted, and I sinned."

"That is not your only sin," said the Rabbi, who listened to Saul's
speech with the motionless severity of a judge, "and why did you send
him to Edomit?"

"Rabbi," answered Saul, "and how could he go through the world if he
did not understand the tongue of the people of this country, and
could not write his name to a contract or a note? Rabbi, my sons and
grandsons conduct large business transactions, and he will do the
same when he is married. His father's wealth belongs to him. He will
be rich and will have to talk with great lords, and how could he so
talk if I had not sent him to study with an Edomit?"

"May Edom perish with his abominable learning, and may the Lord not
forgive him!" grumbled the Rabbi, and after a while he added: "and
why did you not make of him a scholar instead of a merchant?"

"Rabbi," answered Saul, "the Ezofowich family is a family of
merchants. We are merchants from father to son--that is our custom."

Saying this, he raised his bent head. The mention of his family
caused him to grow proud and bold. But nothing could be compared with
the disdain with which, repeating after Saul, the Rabbi hissed:

"The Ezofowich family! It was always a grain of pepper in Israel's
palate!"

Saul raised his head higher.

"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "in that family there were diamonds which
caused the Edomites themselves, in looking on them, to respect the
whole of Israel."

The ancient hatred between the Ezofowichs and Todros began to bubble
up.

"In your family," spoke the Rabbi, "there is one ugly soul which
passes from one Ezofowich to another, and cannot be cleansed. For it
is written that all souls which flow from the Seraphim flow like
drops of water from an inclined bottle, carrying Ibur-Gilgul--travel
through bodies, from one to another, until they are cleansed from all
sin, when they return to the Seraphim. If a man is pious and saintly
his soul returns to the Seraphim, and when the soul returns there
another soul goes into the world and enters a body. Misery and
sadness, sorrow and sin will dwell upon the earth as long as all
souls taken from the Seraphim have not fulfilled the Ibur-Gilgul and
pass through the bodies. And how will they be able to pass all the
bodies if on the earth there are many which are abominable, unclean,
and do not respect the holy teachings? These unwholesome ones keep
the souls in their bodies, and there above the other souls are
waiting. And they must wait, because there are not as many bodies in
the world as there are souls among the Seraphim. And the Messiah
himself is waiting, because he will not come until the last soul
enters the body and Ibur-Gilgul begins. These abominable ones,
occupying one body after another, do not permit the waiting souls to
enter in, and postponing to a remote period the Jobelha-Gabel, the
day of the Messiah,--the great festival of joy! In your family there
is such an abominable soul. It entered first into the body of Michael
the Senior, then it entered Hersh's body, and now it sits in the body
of your grandson Meir! I recognised the proud and rebellious soul in
his eyes and face, therefore my heart turned from him!"

While Todros explained to the old man sitting opposite him this
doctrine of the migration of souls, and its consequences, in the old
man a striking change took placer Before he had grown bolder, and
even raised his head with a certain pride and dignity. Now he bent it
low, and sorrow and fear appeared among the wrinkles of his face.

"Rabbi!" said he humbly, "be blessed for having disclosed to my eyes
your holy learning. Your words are true and your eyes can recognise
the souls which dwell in bodies. Rabbi, I will tell you something.
When my son Raphael brought little Meir, I took the child and began
to kiss him, for it seemed to me that he looked like my son Benjamin,
his father; but the old great-grandmother took him from me, put him
opposite her on the floor and began to look at him very attentively,
and then she exclaimed: 'He does not look like Benjamin, but like my
Hersh!' The tears flowed from her old eyes and her lips repeated:
'Hersh, Hersh! my Hersh!' and she pressed the child to her boom and
said: 'He is my dearest Kleineskind! He is the eyes of my head and
the diamond in my crown, made for me by my grandsons and
great-grandson, for he looks like my Hersh.' And she is fond of him.
Now she knows only him and calls him to her because he looks like her
husband, Hersh."

"Michael's soul entered Hersh's body, and from his body it passed
into your grandsons Meir's," repeated the Rabbi, and added: "It's a
proud rebellious soul! There is no peace and humility in it."

It seemed that Todros was softened by Saul's submissiveness, and the
respect shown in his words.

"Why don't you marry him? He has already long hair on his face," said
the Rabbi.

"Rabbi, I wished to marry him to the daughter of the pious Jankiel,
but the child lay at my feet and begged me not to force him."

"Why then did you not put your feet on his back, and make him obey
you?"

Saul dropped his eyes and was silent. He felt that he was guilty.
Love for the orphan made him sin always.

Todros spoke further:

"Marry him as soon as you can, because it is written that when on a
young man's face the hair is growing, and he has not a wife, then he
will fall into uncleanliness. Your grandson's soul has already fallen
into uncleanliness. Yesterday I saw him with a girl--"

Saul raised his eyes.

"I saw him," continued the Rabbi, "talking with Karaim's girl."

"Karaim's girl?" repeated Saul, in a voice full of surprise and
fright.

"He was standing on the edge of the pond and took from her hand some
flowers, and I read in their faces that the unclean fire was
embracing them."

"With Karaim's girl," repeated Saul once more.

"With a heretic!" said the Rabbi.

"With a beggar!" said Saul energetically, raising his head.

"Rabbi," continued he, "now I will act differently with him! I don't
wish to have shame eat up my eyes in my old age, because my grandson
has an unclean friendship with a beggar. I shall marry him!"

"You must punish him," said the Rabbi, "I came here to tell you to
put your foot on his neck and bend his pride. Don't spare him, for
your indulgence will be a sin which the Lord will not forgive you.
And if you will not punish him, I will lay my hand on his head and
there will be great shame for you, and for him such misfortune that
he will grovel in the dirt, like a miserable worm!"

Under the influence of these words, pronounced in a threatening
voice, Saul trembled. Different emotions fought continually within
the old man; a secret hatred for Todros and a great respect for his
learning, pride and fear, fierce anger toward his grandson and tender
love for him. The Rabbi's threat touched that last chord.

"Rabbi," he said, "forgive him. He is still a mere child. When he is
married and starts in business he will be different. When he was born
his father wrote to me: 'Father, what name do you wish your grandson
to be given?' and I answered, 'Give him the name of Meir, which means
light, that it may be a light before me and all Israel!'"

Here emotion choked his voice and he was silent. Two tears rolled
slowly down his cheeks.

The Rabbi rose from the sofa, lifted his index finger and said:

"You must remember my commands. I order you to set your foot on his
neck, and you must listen to my orders, because it is written that
'the sages are the world's foundation.'"

Having said this, he advanced toward the door, at which Reb Jankiel
and Morejne Calman seized him again, and carried him through the hall
and across the threshold and set him on the ground.

And again the black throng of people advanced through the square
toward the school-yard; again the melamed, retreating before the
Rabbi, jumped, clapped his hands, danced and shouted; and again the
crowd of children, following the retinue at a distance, imitated
their teacher, jumping, howling, Clapping their hands. And in
Ezofowich's parlour old Saul sat with his face covered with his
hands, while at the opposite door Freida appeared. The sun rays,
falling through the window, kindled into rainbow colours the diamonds
with which she was covered. She looked around the room with her
half-closed eyes, and pronounced, in her customary soundless whisper:

"Wo ist Meir?"



CHAPTER VI

Meir was absent during the Rabbi's visit. He left the house early in
the morning and went in the direction of the poorest quarter of the
town. The houses there were very small and very low and exceedingly
dismal, none of them having more than two windows. In front of the
houses were evil-smelling sloughs. From the black chimneys of the
tenements arose thin streaks of smoke, indicating by their thinness
the scarcity of fuel, and the food cooked by it. Fences, rotten and
tumble-down, surrounded the small courtyards, which were covered with
sweepings. Here and there could be seen in the rear of the houses,
tiny tracts of land with meagre vegetables growing in them. At the
low doors, miserable looking women with dark sickly faces, wearing
blue caftans and carroty wigs, washed their gray, coarse linen in
buckets. The old and bent women sat on the benches, knitting blue or
black wool stockings, while young sunburned girls, in dirty dresses
and dishevelled hair, milked the goats.

It was the quarter of the town inhabited by the poorest population of
Szybow, the nursery of poverty--even of misery, dirt, and disease.
The houses of the Ezofowichs, Calmans, Witebskis and Kamionkers,
standing at the square, were luxurious palaces when compared with
those human dwellings, the mere exterior aspect of which made one
think of earthly purgatory. And no wonder. There, on the square,
lived merchants and learned men, the aristocracy of every Jewish
community; here lived the population of working men and
tradesmen--the plebeians earning their daily bread with their hands
and not with brains.

In spite of the fact that it was yet early morning, the daily work
had generally begun. From behind the dirty windows could be seen the
rising and falling arms of the tailors and cobblers. Through the thin
walls resounded the tools of tinsmiths and the hammers of
blacksmiths, and from the houses of the manufacturers of tallow
candles rose unbearable, greasy exhalations. Some of the inhabitants,
taking advantage of the sunrise, looked into the street, opened their
windows and a passer-by could see the interior of, the small rooms
with black walls, crowded with occupants which swarmed like ants.
Through the windows came the mixed noise of singing and praying in
male voices, the quarrelling of women and the screaming of children.
All the smaller children rent the sultry air of the black, crowded
rooms with their cries, while the older ones trooped out into the
street in great crowds, chasing each other noisily or rolling on the
ground. Growing boys, dressed not in sleeveless jackets like the
children, but in long, grey halats, stood on the thresholds of the
huts leaning against the walls, pale, thin, drowsy, with widely
opened mouths, as though they wished to breathe into their sickly,
cold breasts the warm rays of the sun and the fresh breeze of the
morning.

Meir approached one of these youths.

"Nu, Lejbele," said he, "I have come to see you. Are you always sick
and looking like an owl?"

It was evident that Lejbele was ill and moping, for, with hands
folded in the sleeves of his miserable halat, and pressed to his
chest, he was shivering with cold, although the morning was warm; he
did not answer Meir, but opened his mouth and great, dull, dark eyes
more widely, and looked idiotically at the young man.

Meir laid his band on the boy's head.

"Were you in the heder yesterday?" he asked. The boy began to tremble
still more, and answered in a hoarse voice:

"Aha."

This meant an affirmative.

"Were you beaten again?"

Tears filled the boy's dark eyes, which remained raised to the face
of the tall young man.

"They beat me," he said.

His breast began to heave with sobs under the sleeves of the halat,
which were still pressed by the boy's folded bands.

"Have you breakfasted?"

The boy shook his head in the negative.

Meir took from the nearest huckster's stand a big hala (loaf of
bread), for which he threw a copper coin to the old woman. He then
gave the bread to the child. Lejbele seized it in both bands, and
began to devour it rapaciously. At that moment a tall, thin, lithe
man rushed out from the cabin. He wore a black beard, and bad an old,
sorrowful face. He threw himself toward Meir. First be seized his
band and raised it to his lips, and then began to reproach him.

"Morejne!" he exclaimed, "why did you give him that hala? He is a
stupid, nasty child. He don't want to study, and brings shame upon
me. The melamed--may he live a hundred years--takes a great deal of
trouble to teach him; but he has a head which does not understand
anything. The melamed beats him, and I beat him, too, in order that
the learning shall enter his head, but it does not help at all. He is
an alejdyc gejer (lazy)--a donkey!"

Meir looked at the boy, who was still devouring the bread.

"Schmul," said he, "he is neither lazy nor a donkey, but he is sick."

Schmul waved his hand contemptuously.

"He is sick," shouted he. "He began to be sick when he was told to
study. Before that he was healthy, gay, and intelligent. Ah, what an
intelligent and pretty child he was! Could I expect such a
misfortune? What is he now?"

Meir continued to smooth the dishevelled hair of the pale child with
his hand. The tall, thin Schmul bent again and kissed his hand.

"Morejne," said he, "you are very good if you pity such a stupid
child."

"Schmul, why do you call me Morejne?" asked Meir.

Schmul interrupted him hastily.

"The fathers of your father were Morejnes; your zeide and your uncles
are Morejnes, and you, Meir, you will soon be Morejne also."

Meir shook his head with a peculiar smile.

"I shall never be a Morejne!" said he. "They will not confer such an
honour upon me, and I--don't wish for it!"

Schmul thought for a while, and then said:

"I heard that you have quarrelled with the great Rabbi and the
members of the kahal."

Meir, without answering, looked at the horrible proofs of deep
destitution around him.

"How poor you are," said he, not answering Schmul directly.

These words touched the very sensitive string of Schmul's life. His
hands trembled, and his eyes glared.

"Aj, how poor we are," he moaned; "but the poorest of all living on
this street is the hajet (tailor) Schmul. He must support an old,
blind mother, and wife, and eight children. And how can I support
them? I have no means except these two hands, which sew day and night
if there is something to sew."

Speaking thus, he stretched toward Meir his two hands--true beggar's
hands, dark, dirty, pricked with the needle, covered with scars made
by scissors, and now trembling from grief.

"Morejne," he said more softly, bending toward the listener, "our
life is hard--very hard. Everything is very expensive for us, and we
have so much to pay. The Czar's officers take taxes, we must pay more
for our kosher meat, and for the candles for Sabbath, we must pay to
the funeral society, pay to the officers of the kahal, and for what
do we not pay? Aj, vaj! From these poor houses flow rivers of
money--and where does it come from? From the sweat of our brows, from
our blood and the entrails of our children who grow thin from hunger!
Not a long time ago you asked me, Morejne, why my room was dirty. And
how can we help it when eleven of us must live in one room, and in
the passages there are two goats, which nourish us with their milk.
Morejne, you asked me why my wife is so thin and old, although she
has not yet lived many years, and why my children are always sick!
Morejne, kosher meat costs us so much that we never eat it. We eat
bread with onion, and we drink goat's-milk. On Sabbath we have fish
only when you, Morejne, come to see us and leave us a silver coin.
All in this street are poor--very poor, but the poorest is hajet
Schmul, with his blind mother, thin wife and eight children."

He shook his head piteously and looked into Meir's face with his dark
eyes which expressed stupefied astonishment at his own misery. Meir,
with his hand still on the head of the sickly child, who was
finishing his bread, listened to the speech of the miserable fellow.
His mouth expressed pity, but the frowning brows and drooped eyelids
gave to his face the expression of angry reverie.

"Schmul," he said, "and why are you so often out of work?"

Schmul became plainly confused, and raised his hand to his head,
disarranging his skull cap which covered his long dishevelled hair.

"I will tell you," continued Meir; "they don't give you work because
from the stuff which they give you to make dresses you cut large
pieces and keep them."

Schmul seized his skull cap in both hands.

"My poor head," he groaned. "Morejne, what have you told me? Your
mouth said a very ugly thing against me."

He jumped, bent nearly to the ground, and then jumped again.

"Nu, it's true, Morejne, I will open my heart to you I used to cut
off and keep pieces of the stuff, and why did I do it? Because my
children were naked. I clothed them with it. And when my blind mother
was sick I sold it and bought a piece of meat for her. Morejne, your
eye must not look angrily on me! Were I as rich as Reb Jankiel and
Morejne Calman--had I as much money as they make from the work of our
hands and the sweat of our brows, I would not steal!"

"And for what are Reb Jankiel and Morejne Calman taking your money?"
began Meir thoughtfully, and he wished to continue, but Schmul
stretched himself and interrupted suddenly:

"Nu, they have a right to it. They are elders over us. What they do
is sacred. When one listens to them it is as if one listened to God
himself."

Meir smiled sadly and put his band into his pocket.

Schmul followed the movement with his eyes, which were animated with
cupidity.

Meir placed on the open window a few silver coins. Schmul seized his
hand and began to kiss it.

"Morejne, you are good. You always help poor people. You pity my
stupid child."

When the enthusiasm of his gratitude had cooled a little, he
stretched himself and began to whisper in Meir's ear.

"Morejne, you are good and generous and the grandson of a very rich
man, and I am a poor and stupid hajet, but you are as honey in my
mouth, and I must open my heart to you. You are wrong in quarrelling
with our great Rabbi and with the members of the kahal. Our Rabbi is
a great Rabbi and there is no other like him in the whole world. God
revealed to him great things. He alone understands the Kabala Mashjat
(the highest part of the Kabala, teaching how, by a combination of
letters and words, miracles are performed and the mysteries
penetrated). All the birds fly after him when he calls them. He knows
how to cure all human diseases and all human hearts open to him.
Every breath of his mouth is holy, and when he prays then his soul
kisses God himself. And you, Morejne, you have turned away your heart
from him."

Thus gravely spoke poor Schmul, raising in solemn gesture his black,
needle-pricked index finger.

"And the members of the kahal," continued he, "they are very pious
men and very rich. One should respect them and listen to them also,
and even close one's eyes if they do something wrong. They could
accuse one before God and the people. God will be angry if he hears
their complaint, and will punish you, and the people will say that
you are very bold, and will turn away their faces from you."

It would be difficult to guess the impression made on Meir by
Schmul's humble and at the same time grave, warning. He continually
kept his hand on little Lejbele's head, and looked into the beautiful
fine-featured face of the pale, sick, idiotic and trembling child,
where he saw the personification of that portion of Israel, which,
devoured by misery and disease, nevertheless believed blindly and
worshipped humbly, timidly, and everlastingly.

Then he gave Schmul a slow and friendly nod, and went away. Schmul
followed him several steps.

"Morejne," he moaned, "don't be angry with me for having opened my
heart to you. Be wise. May the learned and rich not complain of you
to God, for the man who is under the ground is better off than he on
whom they shall turn their angry hands."

Then he returned to his hut, and did not notice that Lejbele was not
standing at the wall of the house. When Meir departed, the pale child
followed him. With hands still muffled in the sleeves of his ragged
gown, and with wide opened mouth, the child of Schmul the tailor
followed the tall, beautiful man. At the end of the street only, as a
being afraid to go further, the poor boy said, in a hoarse, guttural
voice:

"Morejne!"

Meir looked back. A friendly smile brightened his face when he saw
the boy. The dark, dull eyes of the child were raised to his face,
and from the gray sleeve a small, thin hand was stretched toward him.

"Hala," said Lejbele.

Meir looked around for a huckster's stand. Along the street stood
several miserable barrows, by which the women, their thin bodies
scantily clad in rags, were selling loaves of bread, hard as stone,
and some heads of onion, as well as a black, unappetising preparation
made of honey and poppy-seed.

From Meir's white hand to the dark, thin hand of the child again
passed a big hala. Lejbele raised it to his mouth with both hands,
and, turning, he walked slowly and gravely down the middle of the
street toward his home.

After a while Meir reached the square of the town. It seemed to him
that he came back to the light of day from a dark cavern. The
sunlight flooded everything around, dried the mud, and kindled golden
sparks in the windows of the houses. In the yard of the pious. Reb
Jankiel, some large, new structure was being erected. The red-haired
owner inspected the workmen personally, evidently satisfied with the
increase of his wealth. The noise of axes and the gnashing of the
saws filled the air, and in front of the low inn stood a couple of
carriages belonging to passing guests. Further along the street stood
Morejne Calman in the piazza of his house, shining in his satin
halat. With one hand he held to his smiling mouth a cigar, and with
the other he caressed the golden hair of a two-year-old child, who
sat on a bench holding a loaf of bread abundantly spread with honey,
which he had smeared all over his plump face, casting the while
admiring glances at his magnificent father.

In the court-yard of the Ezofowich mansion there was plenty of noise,
sunlight, and gaiety. In the centre two broad-shouldered workmen were
sawing wood for the winter, and in the soft sawdust several
cleanly-dressed children were playing. At the well a buxom and merry
servant girl was drawing water, joking with the workmen, and through
the open windows of the house could be seen Raphael's and Abraham's
grave heads--they were talking over business affairs with great
animation--and Sarah, standing by the fireplace, and pretty Lija, who
stood before a mirror smoothing her luxuriant tresses.

When Meir entered the gate, the workmen stopped sawing, and smiled
and nodded to him. They came from the same poor, dirty street he had
just left, and evidently knew him very well.

"Scholem Alejhem!" (peace to you) they exclaimed.

"Alejhem & Scholem!" answered Meir, merrily.

"Will you not help us to-day?" asked one of the workmen jokingly.

"Why not?" answered Meir, approaching them.

Meir was fond of physical work. He practised it very often, and his
grandfather's workmen were accustomed to it. One of them was about to
give him his place at the log of wood, but at that moment. Lija
appeared in the open window. She was just finishing braiding her
hair, and said.

"Meir! Meir! where have you been so long? Zeide wishes to see you."

Hardly a quarter of an hour had passed since the Rabbi's visit. Saul
still sat with his head between his hands, lost in half angry and
half sad musing. A few steps from him sat Freida, bathed in golden
sunlight and sparkling with diamonds. A very complicated process was
going on in Saul's old breast. He disliked Isaak Todros. Without
having deeply understood the real meaning of the action and position
of either his ancestor Michael, or his father Hersh, he knew that
they had great influence among their "own people," and enjoyed the
general esteem of the mighty, although 'stranger' people. Therefore
he was proud of these reminiscences of his family, and the knowledge
of the wrong done to these two stars of his family by ancestors of
Isaak Todros excited toward the latter a mute and not very
well-defined dislike. Besides this, being rich, and proud of so
being, he resented the misery and--as he said at the bottom of his
soul--the sluttishness of the Todros. But all this was as nothing
compared with the respect felt for the holy, wise, and deeply-learned
man, who was the representative of all that was holiest, wisest, and
most learned. Saul himself read with great zeal the holy books, but
he could not become familiar with them, because for a long time his
brain had been occupied with quite different matters. He read them,
but understood very little of their obscure and secret sense, and the
less he understood the more he respected them, and the deeper was
his humility and dread. And now that dread and humility stood
opposed to the true, tender love for his grandson, and he struggled
between them.

"What profit can he draw from it?" thought Saul, and he met his
grandson with angry looks.

Meir entered the parlour timidly. He already knew of the Rabbi's
visit, and he guessed at the aim of it; he was afraid of his
grandfather's anger and grief.

"Nu," said the old man, "come nearer. I am going to tell you
beautiful things, at which you will rejoice greatly."

And when Meir had come to within a couple of steps from him, Saul
looked at him sharply from beneath his bushy eyebrows, and said:

"I am going to betroth you, and in two months you must be married."

Meir grew pale, but was silent.

"I am going to betroth you to Jankiel Kamionker's daughter."

After these words there was quite a long silence, which Meir at last
interrupted.

"Zeide," said he, in a low but determined voice, "I am not going to
marry Kamionker's daughter."

"Why?" asked Saul, smothering his anger.

"Because, zeide," growing bolder and bolder, "Kamionker is a bad and
unjust man, and I don't wish to have anything to do with him!"

Then Saul's anger burst out. He reproached his grandson for the
audacity of this judgment, and praised Rob Jankiel's piety.

"Zeide," interrupted Meir, "he wrongs the poor!"

"Is that any of your business?" exclaimed the grandfather.

This time the young man's eyes shone warmly. "Zeide," he said, "he
pockets a great deal of the money produced by the sweat
and work of these miserable people who live at the other end of the
town, and through him they are thieves. While th

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