Читать книгу An Obscure Apostle - Eliza Orzeszkowa - Страница 9

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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!"