Rabbi and Priest

M >> Milton Goldsmith >> Rabbi and Priest

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"It would make us undistinguishable from the _goyim_," answered Bensef.

"The sooner such a distinction falls the better," said Philip. "You may
recollect reading in history that in the time of Peter the Great the
Russian nobility wore beards and the Czar's efforts to make them shave
their faces provoked more animosity than did all the massacres of Ivan
the Terrible. Now a nobleman would sooner go to prison than wear a
beard."

"We never read history," interposed the childish treble of Mendel. "If
we did we should know more about the great world."

"That is indeed a misfortune," said Philip, sadly. "Every effort to
develop the Jewish mind is checked, not by the gentiles, but by the Jews
themselves. Had I been allowed full liberty to study what and how I
pleased, I should never have been guilty of the excesses which drove me
from home. A knowledge of the history of the world, an insight into
modern science, will teach us why and wherefore all our laws were given
and how we can best obey, not the letter but the spirit of God's
commands."

The faces of the little group fell visibly. This was rank heresy. God
forbid that it should ever take root in Israel. Mendel alone appeared
satisfied. He was absorbed in all the stranger had to say. This new
doctrine was a revelation to him. But Philip did not observe the
impression he had created. He had warmed up to his subject and pursued
it mercilessly.

"The Israelites in America," he continued, "are free and respected. They
enjoy equal rights with the citizens of other religious beliefs. They
are at liberty to go wherever they please and to live as they desire,
and are often chosen to positions of honor and responsibility. Such
distinctions are only obtained, however, after one has become a citizen,
and citizenship means adherence to the laws of the land and assimilation
with its inhabitants. It was not long before I discovered, through
constant friction with intelligent people about me, the absurdity of
many of my ideas and prejudices. The more I associated with my
fellow-men the more difficult I found it to retain the superstitions of
by-gone days."

"But in giving up what you call superstition," said the Rabbi, "are you
not giving up a portion of your religion as well?"

"By no means," said Philip, eagerly. "If Rabbi Jeiteles will pardon my
speaking upon a subject concerning which he is better instructed and
which he is better qualified to expound than myself, I will endeavor to
tell why. You well know that until after the destruction of the second
Temple the Jews had no Talmud. They then obeyed the laws of God in all
their simplicity and as they understood them, and not one of you will
assert that they were not good and pious Jews. Then came the writers of
the Talmud with their explanations and commentaries, and the laws of
Moses acquired a new meaning. Stress was laid upon words instead of upon
ideas, upon conventionalities instead of upon the true spirit of God's
word. After five centuries of Talmudists had exhausted all possible
explanations of the Scriptures, the study of the Law eventually paved
the way for the invention of the _Cabala_. A new bible was constructed.
The pious were no longer content with a rational observance of the
Mosaic command, but a hidden meaning must be found for every word and in
many cases for the individual letters of the Pentateuch. The six hundred
and thirteen precepts of Moses were so altered, so tortured to fit new
constructions, that the great prophet would experience difficulty in
recognizing any one of his beautiful laws from the rubbish under which
it now lies buried. New laws and ceremonies, new beliefs and, worse than
all, new superstitions were thrust upon the people already weakened by
mental fatigue caused by their incessant delving into the mysteries of
the Talmud. The free will of the people was suppressed. Instead of
giving the healthy imagination and pure reason full power to act, the
teachers of the _Cabala_ arrogated to themselves the power to decide
what to do and how to do it, and as a result the Jewish observances, as
they exist to-day in pious communities, are bound up in arbitrary rules
and superstitious absurdities which are as unlike the primitive and
rational religion of Israel as night is to day."

This bold utterance produced a profound sensation in Bensef's little
dining-room. Murmurs of disapproval and of indignation frequently
interrupted the speaker, and long before he had finished, several of his
listeners had sprung up and were pacing the room in great excitement.
Never before had any one dared so to trample upon the time-honored
beliefs of Israel. For infinitely less had the ban been hurled against
hundreds of offenders and the renegades placed beyond the pale of
Judaism.

The Rabbi alone preserved his composure. Mendel lost not a word of the
discussion. He sat motionless, with staring eyes and wide open mouth, as
though the stranger's eloquence had changed him into stone.

"No, this is too much!" at length stammered Hirsch Bensef. "Such a
condemnation of our holy religion is blasphemy. Rabbi, can you sit by
and remain silent?"

The Rabbi moved uneasily upon his chair, but said nothing.

Philip continued:

"That your Rabbi should be of one mind with you is natural, but that
does not in any way impair the force of what I have said. You will all
admit that you place more weight upon your ceremonials than upon your
faith. You deem it more important to preserve a certain position of the
feet, a proper intonation of the voice during prayers than to fully
understand the prayer itself, and in spite of your pretended belief in
the greatness and goodness of God, you belittle Him by the thought that
an omission of a single ceremony, the eating of meat and milk together,
the tearing of a _tzitzith_ (fringe) will offend Him, or that a certain
number of _mitzvoth_ (good acts) will propitiate Him. Do you understand
now what I mean when I say that superstition is not religion?"

"But," returned Goldheim, "the _Shulkan-aruch_ commands us to do certain
things in certain ways. Is it not our duty as God-fearing Jews to obey
the laws that have His sanction?"

"Undoubtedly! If you were certain that this book contained His express
commands it would be incumbent upon you to observe them, only, however,
after having sought to understand their meaning. But you know, or ought
to know, that the book was written by a man like yourselves, who was as
liable to err as you are. Many of these commands were excellent at the
time in which they were given, but change of circumstances has made them
absurd."

"What is godly at one time cannot become ungodly at another," said
Bensef, with determined obstinacy.

"No; but what is beautiful and appropriate in one land may become the
reverse in a different country, or at another period. Let us take an
example: It is an oriental custom to wear one's hat or turban as a mark
of respect. In Palestine such a usage is proper and the man who keeps
his head covered before his fellow-men certainly should keep it covered
before God. In America, however, I am considered ill-bred if I keep my
hat on when I am conversing with the humblest of my associates; should I
therefore keep it on when I am addressing my God? Thus, many of your
religious observances take their origin outside of religion and are
appropriate only to the country in which they were conceived."

"But to appear before God bareheaded is surely a sin!" stammered Hirsch
Bensef, who would gladly have ended the conversation then and there.

"Not a sin, simply a novelty," answered Philip.

"But our proverb says: 'Novelty brings calamity.'"

"Proverbs do not always speak the truth," replied the American. Then
after a pause he continued, reflectively: "There is another class of
ceremonials which find their origin in one or the other of the commands
of Moses, and which through the eagerness of the people to observe them
for fear of Divine wrath, have been given an importance out of all
proportion to their original significance. For instance, Moses, for
reasons purely humane, prohibited the cooking of a kid in its mother's
milk, wisely teaching that what nature intended for the preservation of
the animal should not be employed for its destruction. This law has been
so distorted that the eating of meat and milk together was prohibited,
and the severity of the resulting dietary laws makes it necessary to
have two sets of dishes--one for meat, the other for all food prepared
with milk. And so in a thousand cases the original intention of the
command is lost in the mass of foreign matter that has been added to
it."

Philip paused and, toying with his massive watch-chain, tried hard not
to see the indignant glances that threatened to consume him. Bensef
arose from his chair in sheer desperation.

"What would you have us do?" he asked, angrily. "Desert the ceremonies
of our forefathers and surrender to the ungodly?"

"Not by any means," was the quiet rejoinder. "Worship God as your
conscience dictates, continue in your ancient fashion if it makes you
happy, but be tolerant towards him who, feeling himself mentally and
spiritually above superstition, seeks to emancipate himself from its
bonds and to follow the dictates of his own good common-sense."

With these concluding words, Philip arose and prepared to leave. The
remaining guests also arose from their chairs and looked at each other
in blank dismay. Rabbi Jeiteles stepped to the American and placed his
hand upon his shoulder.

"My dear Pesach," he began, "what you have just said sounds strange and
very dangerous to these good people. To me it was nothing new, for
during my early travels I heard such discussions again and again. Your
arguments may or may not be correct. We will not discuss the matter. One
thing you must not forget, however: the Jews in Russia and elsewhere are
despised and rejected; they are degraded to the very scum of the earth.
Social standing, pursuit of knowledge, means of amusement, everything is
taken from them. What is left? Only the consolation which their sacred
religion brings. The observance of the thousand ceremonials which you
decry, is to them not only a religious necessity, a God-pleasing work;
it is more, it is a source of domestic happiness, a means of genuine
enjoyment, a comfort and a solace. Whether these observances are needed
or are superfluous in a free country like America I shall not presume
to say, but in Russia they are a moral and a physical necessity. You
have spoken to-night as no man has ever spoken before in Kief. Were the
congregation to hear of it, you would again find yourself an outcast
from your native town, shunned and despised by all that now look upon
you as a model of benevolence and piety. For your own sake, therefore,
as well as for the peace of mind of those among whom your words might
act as a firebrand, we hope that you will speak no more upon this
subject and we on our part promise to keep our own counsel."

Philip readily consented and with his aged parents he left for his home,
at the other end of the quarter.

The friends bade each other a hasty good-night, and not another word was
spoken concerning the discussion.

"Uncle," said Mendel, as he was about to retire, "is not Harretzki a
very wise man?"

"My boy," replied his uncle; "our rabbis say, 'Much speech--much
folly.'"

CHAPTER XII.

FORBIDDEN BOOKS.

Philip remained in Kief about two weeks, during which time he was
hospitably entertained by the leaders of the Jewish community. There was
some difficulty in obtaining a passport for his parents, for, anxious as
the Russians are to expel the Jews, by a remarkable contrariety of human
nature they throw every obstacle in the way of a Jew who endeavors to
emigrate.

Mendel never missed an opportunity of passing Harretzki's house. It had
a strange fascination for him, and if he but saw the American at the
window and exchanged greetings with him, the boy returned home with a
happy heart.

Once--it was the day before Philip's departure--Mendel again passed the
wretched abode in which the stranger dwelt. The door was open and Philip
was busied with preparations for his coming voyage. Mendel gazed
wistfully for some minutes and finally mustered up courage to enter and
ask:

"Can I be of any service to you, sir?"

Philip, who had taken a decided fancy to the boy, said, kindly:

"Yes; you may assist me. Here are my books. Pack them into this chest."

With a reverence amounting almost to awe, Mendel took up the books one
by one and arranged them as Philip directed. Now and then he opened a
volume and endeavored to peer into the wondrous mysteries it contained,
but the characters were new to him; they were neither Hebrew nor
Russian, and the boy sighed as he piled the books upon each other.
Philip observed him with growing interest.

"Are you fond of books?" he asked, at length.

"Oh, yes. If I could but study," answered the boy, eagerly, and big
tears welled up into his eyes.

"And why can't you?"

"Because I have no books but our old Hebrew folios, and if I had they
would be taken from me."

"Continue to study the books you have," said Philip, "you will find much
to learn from them."

"But there are so many things to know that are not in our books. How I
should like to be as wise as you are."

Philip smiled, sorrowfully.

"I know very little," he answered. "I am not regarded as a particularly
well-educated person in my country. What good would learning do you in
Kief?"

"It would make me happy," answered the boy.

"No, child; it would make you miserable by filling your little head with
ideas which would bring down upon you the anathemas of your dearest
friends."

There was a pause, during which Mendel worked industriously. Suddenly he
said:

"Might I ask a favor, sir?"

"Certainly, my boy; I shall be happy if I can grant it."

"Let me take one of your books to keep in remembrance of you?"

"You cannot read them; they are written in German and English."

"That does not matter. Their presence would remind me of you. Besides I
might learn to read them."

"But if a strange book is found in your possession it will be taken from
you."

"I will conceal it."

Philip reflected a moment; then carefully selecting two books, he
presented them to the overjoyed boy.

"Remember," he said, "that ignorance is frequently bliss. A Rabbi once
said: 'Beware of the conceit of learning.' It is often well to say, 'I
don't know.'"

Then the American spoke of the difficulties he had experienced in
acquiring an education, how he had worked at a trade by day and gone to
school during the evening. Mendel had a thousand questions to ask, which
Philip answered graciously; but the packing having come to an end, and
Mendel having exhausted his inquiries and finding no further excuse to
remain, the two bade each other an affectionate farewell. Mendel ran
home with his sacred treasures carefully concealed under his blouse, and
with great solicitude he locked them up in an old closet which served as
his wardrobe. The following morning Philip and his parents were escorted
to the limits of the city by the influential Jews of Kief, and the
travellers started upon their long voyage to America.

During the next few weeks Mendel was at his Talmudic studies in the
_jeschiva_ as usual, but there was a decided change in his manner--a
certain listlessness, a lack of interest, which were so apparent that
Rabbi Jeiteles could not but observe them.

"I fear that the boy has been studying too hard," he said to his wife
one day. "We must induce him to take more exercise."

After the close of the lesson, the teacher said:

"Come, Mendel; it is quite a while since we have walked together. Let us
go into the fields."

Mendel, who adored his preceptor, was well pleased to have an
opportunity of relieving his heart of its burden, and gladly accepted
the invitation. For a while the two strolled in silence. The air was
balmy and nature was in her most radiant dress.

"Tell me," at length began the Rabbi; "tell me why you appear so
dejected?"

"You will reproach me if I confess the cause," answered the boy,
tearfully.

"You should know me better," answered the Rabbi. "You ought to be aware
that I am interested in your welfare."

"Well, then," sobbed Mendel, no longer able to repress his feelings, "I
am unhappy because of my ignorance. I wish to become wise."

"And then?" asked the Rabbi.

The boy opened his eyes to their full extent. He did not comprehend the
question.

"After you have acquired great wisdom, what then?" repeated the Rabbi.

"Then I shall be happy and content."

The Rabbi stopped and pointed to a dilapidated bridge which crossed the
Dnieper at a place to which their walk had led them. Sadly he called his
pupil's attention to a sign which hung at the entrance of the structure
and which bore the following legend: "Toll--For a horse, 15 kopecks; for
a hog, 3 kopecks; for a Jew, 10 kopecks."

"Read that," he said; "and see how futile must be the efforts of wisdom
in a country whose rulers issue such decrees."

"Perhaps you are right," said the boy, sorrowfully; "and yet I feel that
God has not given me my intellect to keep it in ignorance and
superstition. It must expand. Look, Rabbi, at this river. They have
dammed it to keep its waters back; but further down, the stream leaps
over the obstruction and forces its way onward. Its confinement makes it
but sparkle the more after it has once acquired its freedom. Is not the
mind of man like this river? Can you confine it and prevent its onward
course?"

The Rabbi gazed with looks of mingled astonishment and admiration upon
the boy at his side.

The boy continued:

"I would become wise like you and Pesach Harretzki. I would acquire the
art of reading other works besides our ancient folios. Rabbi, will you
teach me?"

"Has Harretzki been putting these new ideas into your head?" asked the
old man.

"No; they were there before he came. You yourself have often told me:
'Study rather to fill your mind than your coffers.' I have some of
Harretzki's books, however, and at night when I cannot sleep I take them
out of my closet and look at them. But they are not in Hebrew and I
cannot read them. Rabbi, I beg of you to teach me."

Rabbi Jeiteles was in a quandary. He hated the bigotry and
narrow-mindedness which forbade the study of any subject but the
time-honored Talmud. He himself had been as anxious as was Mendel to
strive after other knowledge. On the other hand, he bore in mind the
prejudice which the Jews entertained against foreign learning, and he
clearly foresaw the many difficulties which Mendel must encounter if his
desire became known.

"Well, Rabbi, you do not answer," said the boy, inquiringly.

"Bring me your books to-morrow and I will decide."

Mendel seized the preceptor's hand and kissed it rapturously.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Teacher and pupil turned their steps homeward, the one perplexed, the
other overjoyed.

The sun had not fully risen on the morrow, when Mendel, with his
precious books carefully concealed, sought the Rabbi's presence, and the
two withdrew into an inner room, beyond the reach of prying intruders.
The teacher glanced at the titles. They were Mendelssohn's "Phaedon," and
Ludwig Philippson's "The Development of the Religious Idea," both
written in German. Mendel did not take his eyes from his teacher; he
could scarcely master his impatience.

"Well, Rabbi," he asked, "of what do they speak?"

"Of things beyond your comprehension," replied the teacher. "The writers
of both these books were good and pious Jews, who, because of their
learning, were branded and ostracized by many of their co-religionists.
Their only sin lay in the use of classical German. You must know that
many hundreds of years ago, our ancestors lived in Germany, and,
mingling with men of other creeds, learned the language of their time.
By and by, persecutions arose and gradually the Jews were driven into
closer quarters and narrower communities. Many emigrated to Poland and
Russia, carrying with them their foreign language, which was little
changed except by the addition of Hebrew--and, in this country, of a few
Russian words--so that what was once a language became a semi-sacred
jargon in which the translations of our holy books were read. When
Mendelssohn began to write in the ordinary German, he was thought to be
ashamed of his fathers' speech and to have abandoned it for that of
their oppressors. Pause before you choose a path which may estrange you
from all you love best."

"Did these men accomplish no good by their writings?"

"Much good, my son; but through much travail."

The more the teacher talked, the more gloomy the picture he drew, the
greater became the enthusiasm of the pupil, the firmer his determination
to emulate the example of the men of whom he now heard for the first
time. The Rabbi at last consented to instruct the boy in the elements of
the Russian and German languages.

While the old man did not for a moment close his eyes to the perils
which his pupil invited by his pursuit of knowledge; while he did not
conceal from himself the fact that his own position would be endangered
if the nature of his teachings was suspected, he was happy in the
thought of having before him a youthful mind, brave to seek truth. Rabbi
Jeiteles was a learned man; his youth had been spent in travel. He had
seen much and read more, and even in the bigoted community in which he
lived he kept abreast of the knowledge of the times.

The first lesson was mastered then and there. It was a hard and tedious
task and progress was necessarily slow, but Mendel possessed two great
essentials to progress, indomitable perseverance and an active
intellect, and his teacher displayed the painstaking care and patience
with which love for his pupil inspired him.

Day by day, Mendel added to his store of knowledge. He was still the
most industrious Talmud scholar of the college; his remarkable aptitude
and zeal for the studies of his fathers was in nowise diminished; but
when the hours at the _jeschiva_ were at an end, instead of returning to
his uncle's home, or of spending his time upon the streets with his
boisterous playmates, he would walk with Rabbi Jeiteles in the fields,
or remain closeted with him, pursuing his investigations in new fields
of knowledge. Nor were his labors at an end when he had retired to his
bed-room. In the still hours of the night, when every noise was hushed
and he deemed himself safe from intrusion, he would rise, silently open
his closet for his carefully concealed volume and creep back to bed.
Then, by the aid of secretly purloined candle ends, he would read hour
after hour, and often the dawn found him still at his books.

CHAPTER XIII.

PERSECUTIONS IN TOGAROG.

The flight of time brings us to the year 1855--the epoch of the Crimean
War.

Ever since the days when Bonaparte was driven from burning Moscow, there
was a popular belief that the Russian soldiery was superior to that of
the western nations. The Emperor Nicholas was a thorough soldier as well
as a tyrant, possessing an enormous and well-equipped army, which he
deemed invincible. This boasted superiority was now to be tested. For
years the Russians had been groaning under heavy taxes. During this
period they had been finding fault with their central government in a
mild, Siberia-fearing manner. To keep them from brooding on their
oppressed condition, visions of glory and conquest were to be opened to
them by a foreign war. As the patriotic enthusiasm and military fervor
increased, the praises of Nicholas were sounded throughout the vast
dominion. "The coming war was regarded by many as a kind of crusade, and
the most exaggerated expectations were entertained of its results. The
old Eastern question was at last to be solved in accordance with Russian
ideals, and Nicholas was about to realize Catherine's grand scheme of
driving the Turks out of Europe. That the enemy could prevent the
accomplishment of these schemes was regarded as impossible. 'We have
only to throw our hats at them,' became a favorite expression."[10]

The greater portion of the army was concentrated at the Southern
extremity of Russia, for it was here that the fleets of the allied
powers would be encountered. Like devastating swarms of locusts the
semi-barbarous warriors descended upon the fertile fields, destroying
all that lay in their path. Great was the misery of the peasantry in
that section of the Empire; greater still the hardships endured by the
Jews, who were despoiled of their possessions and driven from their
homes.

In the village of Togarog the Jewish quarter was exactly as we last saw
it--poverty-stricken and dilapidated. Nothing appeared to be changed in
it except the miserable inhabitants. The Governor of Alexandrovsk
continued to persecute the Jews with relentless ferocity, and the
kidnapping of their children was followed by other acts almost as cruel.
If a Jew was suspected of possessing money, he was forced by the gentle
persuasion of the Governor's men to disgorge. Broken in fortune and in
spirits, the Israelites were indeed in a pitiable plight.

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