From the Heart of Israel - Jewish Tales and Types

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Title: From the Heart of Israel - Jewish Tales and Types
Author: Drachman, Bernard
Language: English
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Transcriber’s note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

[Illustration:

THE VILLAGE

_Frontispiece_]

FROM THE HEART OF ISRAEL

Jewish Tales and Types

[Illustration]

BERNARD DRACHMAN

Illustrated by A. Warshawsky

New York
James Pott & Company
1905

CONTENTS.

PAGE

APOLOGIA PRO LIBRO SUO, v

THE VILLAGE KEHILLAH, 1

Nordheim, 1

Schnorrers, 28

Gendarmes, 37

Reb Shemayah and other Nordheim Worthies, 49

THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN, 84

THE GENERAL, 95

TOO LATE, BUT ON TIME, 128

THE PROSELYTE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS, 142

ISAAC AND ALICE, 168

THE SCISSORS-GRINDER, 186

THE SHLEMIHL, 211

A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE, 244

THE RABBI’S GAME OF CARDS, 268

GLOSSARY OF HEBREW AND OTHER NON-ENGLISH TERMS 291

APOLOGIA PRO LIBRO SUO

“Is Saul also among the prophets?” With my mental ear I hear thus
exclaim those in whose view the teller of tales stands immeasurably
higher than the rabbi, minister, preacher, scholar, or whatever else may
be called he whose vocation it is to disseminate Hebrew religion and
wisdom, when they see that one of the latter class has dared to intrude
among those who take fiction as their exclusive and legitimate field,
and has also ventured before the public with a book of tales. “What
would the priest in the house of graves (cemetery)?” I hear, on the
other hand, indignantly ask those who deem the wisdom of the Torah alone
worthy of attention, and who think it degradation and sin to turn away
even for a moment from the study and the teaching of Holy Writ and the
words of the sages to waste time with the telling of empty tales. Both
agree in their application to the present case of the Latin and English
proverb “_Ne sutor ultra crepidam_” (“Let the shoemaker stick to his
last”); and that they are not right is not for the one who is
responsible for the present effort to say, but must be left to the
decision of an impartial public, which will not fail to tell truthfully
whether it has found aught of pleasure or profit in the stories of
Jewish life hereinafter contained. But it may be permitted to the writer
to say that, in his humble opinion, both of the criticisms quoted above
are based on erroneous conceptions. The telling of tales is neither
independent of nor contradictory to the Torah; that is to say, it may be
a most excellent method of inculcating pure and noble lessons, and has
always been used for such purpose by the great teachers in Israel.

Indeed, the putting before the world of truthful pictures of Jewish life
is in itself a good and useful work. It is extraordinary, considering
that the Jews have lived in the midst of all civilized peoples for
almost twenty centuries, what ignorance concerning the teachings of
their religion and their characteristics as a people still prevails.
They have sojourned in the midst of mankind and have wandered from land
to land, stamped everywhere with the seal of mystery, looked upon by all
not of their creed and kin as a “peculiar,” enigmatical,
incomprehensible people. The fact that their Book, which most thoroughly
reveals their innermost spirit, has become the cherished property of the
world, should have made such misconception impossible; but it has not
done so. Whatever, therefore, helps to show Jewish life in its true
aspect, to reveal the poetry and the romance, the sorrow and the
wretchedness, but also the joy and the beauty, the glory and the heroism
of Jewish existence even in the unheroic present, performs a most
useful, truly religious work. Nothing can do this more effectively than
fiction, which appeals to multitudes to whom works of formal learning,
of profound and scholarly research, could never find access. This is the
excuse of the writer for departing for a time from those domains of
Jewish learning which should, perhaps, more properly employ his
energies, and becoming, in a measure, a rival of those who have in
recent years tilled the field of Jewish fiction. In a ministry now of
many years’ duration he has naturally had the opportunity of becoming
acquainted with many interesting types of Jewish character, and with
many incidents which speak eloquently of the trials and tribulations
which still form a part of Jewish experience, of the evils and good
which result therefrom, and of the influence of Jewish teachings working
under such conditions. It has seemed to him desirable to present some of
these to the world in this easily grasped and popular form in order to
assist in the attainment of that comprehension of the Jews and their
life which is so necessary, if they are ever to cease from their present
abnormal state of mystery and be recognized in their natural relation to
the general life and religion of mankind. Whether he has performed his
task properly his readers shall judge.

THE AUTHOR.

NEW YORK, Ellul, 5665—September, 1905.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

THE VILLAGE, _Frontispiece_

THE VERY SPIRIT OF SABBATH PERVADED THE NOISELESS AIR, 20

THERE THEY SAT AND STOOD, IN VARIOUS ATTITUDES, WHILE
THE DEEPENING SHADOWS MADE THEIR FIGURES EVER VAGUER
AND MORE INDISTINCT, 21

THEY HONORED THE COMMUNITY FREQUENTLY WITH THEIR VISITS, 28

REB. SHEMAYAH AND PERLA, 49

THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN, 84

THERE IS SOMETHING COMMANDING, SOMETHING INDEFINITELY
MILITARY AND AUTHORITATIVE ABOUT HIM, 96

AS THE CAVALCADE PASSED A CORNER THE GENERAL HEARD A
CRY, 111

HE WAS NOTHING BUT A COMMONPLACE, EVERY-DAY PEDDLER, 131

A GROUP OF STREET-IDLERS WERE AMUSING THEMSELVES AT THE
PLIGHT OF A SHORT, DARK-COMPLEXIONED MAN WHO STOOD IN
THEIR MIDST, 142

NOTHING PLEASED THEM BETTER THAN A “HORSEY-BACK” RIDE, 172

THE SCISSORS-GRINDER, 186

I WAS LEFT BEHIND, GAZING OUT OF THE WINDOW AT THE
FUNERAL PROCESSION, 196

THE MAN WAS A WOE-BEGONE SPECIMEN OF HUMANITY, WITH
HUNGRY EYES GAZING AT YOU OUT OF A CARE-WORN, FURROWED
COUNTENANCE, 212

IT’S ONLY BECAUSE YOU’RE A JEW THAT YOU HAVE ANY
TROUBLE, 252

THE GAME WHICH ENSUED WAS HIGHLY INTERESTING, 287

FROM THE HEART OF ISRAEL.

THE VILLAGE KEHILLAH.

NORDHEIM.

Many persons, perhaps the majority of the readers of a certain kind of
Jewish literature at present in vogue, led astray by the revival and
improper application of the term Ghetto, have an idea that the great
mass of the Jewish people on the continent of Europe have their
habitations in filthy, noisome slums of the great cities, and that it is
only in such secluded reservations, away from the contact or observation
of the Gentile, that Judaism in its ancient, traditional form and
pristine vigor, is or can be, maintained. In the imagination of such
persons, deceived by prejudiced or sensation-seeking writers, Judaism is
a feeble, pale, cellar plant which leads its anæmic existence in
darkness and slime, but which withers and fades when exposed to the
fresh, strong breeze and the bright, warm sun of heaven. These notions,
however well they may suit the requirements of ambitious story-tellers,
are incorrect both as regards the alleged facts and the inferences drawn
therefrom. In the greatest part of the civilized world the Jews are not
confined, whether by compulsion or choice, to particular sections of the
cities, but dwell freely among their Gentile fellow-citizens everywhere;
nor is the law of Moses forced to flee for refuge to darksome purlieus,
where the humblest and lowliest of Judah’s strain drag out a wretched
existence as unwilling neighbors of the vicious and the criminal, but
finds multitudes of sincere upholders and adherents in the high places
of the lands among the happy possessors of what mankind esteems highest,
culture and wealth. In fact, it is not to the great cities at all that
we should look for the best examples of a living, earnest Judaism.
Scattered broadcast through the Old World, particularly through the
lands of central and southeastern Europe, may be found to this day
thousands of Jewish communities in villages and rural towns which are in
very truth “wells of purest Judaism undefiled,” and living refutations
of all the pet theories of the modern Jewish (?) novelist. Our brethren
in those little rural communities breathe the purest, health-giving air
that nature gives forth over mountain, field, and forest, and have never
found in the keen ozone any faith-destroying, heretical qualities. They
dwell side by side with the Gentile and meet him continually in all the
commercial and social relations of life, but they have never found in
the free intercourse any dread influence subversive of Judaic beliefs
and practices. Indeed, few of them are aware, except in a hazy and
indirect manner, that Judaism is in danger in this modern age of ours.
They live as their ancestors did before them, honest, simple, earnest,
sincere Jewish lives; happy in their state of moderate wealth or
endurable, light-pressing poverty; keeping their Sabbaths and their
holidays, fasting and feasting in the prescribed seasons, laying
Tephillin on week-days and eating only permitted food at all times,
giving freely of their means to assist the poor and afflicted, and
accepting misfortune with resignation as the will of God, and not
doubting but that this Judaism will continue to exist for all time to
come.

Of such a little _Kehillah_ in a German village, Nordheim, in the Rhön
Mountains of Bavaria, and of some of the quaint and interesting persons
that composed it, my tale shall be.

When, as a child, I made my first studies of the world around me, one of
the objects which chiefly attracted my childish gaze was a picture which
hung on the wall of the parlor of my home. It was a crude and inartistic
picture, awkward in delineation and barbarous in color; but it was full
of interest to me, for it spoke to me of a place far across the sea, a
place which oft-told but never wearisome tales had surrounded with a
bright halo of romance, and which my eager imagination had glorified
into a veritable fairyland; it was a picture of a village in that
Germany which seemed so far away and so unreal, my mother’s native
place, Nordheim _vor der_ Rhön. These sentiments were not entirely, nor
even mainly, due to the picture itself, but to the descriptions with
which mother ע״ה used to accompany it; for mother dear, God rest her
soul, among her other good qualities, had a most vivid and emphatic way
of impressing her ideas upon her auditors. She was not only in loving
tenderness and devotion the ideal of a Jewish parent, but a most
charming and entertaining _raconteuse_, full to the brim of
reminiscences of her youth, an animated chronicle of persons and events,
and capable of describing both the humorous and the pathetic in an
inimitably touching and taking manner. In addition to all this she was a
living refutation of the favorite anti-Semitic calumny, that Jews have
no sentiment of patriotism. She cherished in her heart the warmest and
most unquenchable love for her native land, while her attachment to the
memory of her birthplace, its ties and its traditions, approached the
dignity and sincerity of a religion. No wonder that from such a stirring
and enthusiastic source I imbibed the liveliest interest in all that
concerned Nordheim before the Rhön, its inhabitants and its welfare. I
would stand for hours at a time before that crude little picture on our
parlor wall, gazing at the array of houses with startlingly red roofs
and dazzlingly white walls, at the fields of brilliant green and the
trees with trunks as straight as ramrods and mathematically elliptical
foliage, and at the tin-soldier-like _gendarme_ whom the rustic artist,
who must have inclined either to realism or militarism (I could never
determine which) had depicted marching, with martial air and projecting
bayonet, along the country highway.

But I saw none of these things. My imagination gazed beyond these
externals and saw the quaint and touching figures of those who had their
abode in this secluded retreat, and I found myself wondering whether it
would ever be my privilege to see the spot where mother’s cradle had
stood, and to sojourn there where life flowed on in such pure and
peaceful and virtuous channels, far away from the crush and the turmoil,
the evil and the anguish of the great world, where the peasants were
simple, honest folk and the Jews all faithful to their ancestral
religion, where old age was venerated and childhood obedient and
respectful, where such things as violating the Sabbath and eating
_Trefoth_ were unknown.

My opportunity came in my twenty-first year. Circumstances, the nature
of which need not be dilated upon here, made it my privilege to spend
several years in Europe in study. But while I awaited, in joyous
anticipation, the day when I should enter upon my course at the North
German University and Seminary, at which I was to prepare for my life’s
vocation, it was with an absorbing interest, I might almost say with a
passionate longing, that I looked forward to actually seeing Nordheim,
and actually knowing the persons and conditions of which I had heard and
dreamt so much. Never shall I forget the day when, having crossed the
stormy Atlantic and travelled by train a day and a night southward from
Hamburg, I alighted at Mellrichstadt, the railroad station nearest to
Nordheim—four English miles—and saw upon the platform, waiting for me, a
pleasant-faced, dark-complexioned youth, whom I had never seen before,
and yet whom I at once recognized, for his features appeared in more
than one counterfeit presentment in a well-worn family album, over which
I had often pored more than three thousand miles away. It was Cousin
Solomon, and he had come to the station, having been notified by letter
of my prospective arrival, to meet his American relative, and to conduct
him to Nordheim and the bosom of his family. Then and there I recognized
the reality and the value of sentiment. Here were two persons, born in
different and widely separated lands, speaking different mother tongues
and citizens of different nations, who had never seen each other before;
and yet so powerful were the ties of kinship and the remembrance of
common blood and a common origin, that they sufficed to bridge over all
that yawning gap of separation and to bring heart to heart and lip to
lip in a union of truest love and affection. Our recognition was mutual
and instantaneous. We pronounced each other’s names, fell upon each
other’s necks, and a moment later were chatting as intimately as though
we had met daily during all our previous lives. Three years long I spent
my summer vacations at Nordheim, and I came to know and to love it and
the surrounding region so well that when the hour of final parting came,
it cost my heart more than one pang and drew more tears from my eyes
than I should like to confess. What a charming ideal life of sentiment
and pleasure we led there, Cousin Solomon and I. We seemed to be
hovering in a dream world, far too sweet and beautiful to be real. We
were at once students on a holiday, friends of nature, children without
a shade of care or anxiety, and sincere, devout worshippers at the
shrine of Israel’s God. We climbed together the steep and lofty
mountains which abound in that region, and when we had reached the
summit we gazed with delight at the dazzling panorama spread out before
us and inhaled deep draughts of the pure, cool, health-giving air. We
wandered for hours through the dense pine forests or undertook long
trips on foot to distant villages or spots that were interesting for
some historical or other reason. Once we made a long trip, in company
with Aunt Caroline, to the village of Burghauen, on the other side of
the Rhön Mountains, to visit some relatives there. We travelled in a
carriage belonging to the Duke of Weimar. We had hired it from the
duke’s manager, who was not above turning an honest penny with his
master’s property when occasion offered. The carriage bore the ducal
escutcheon, and our coachman and footman wore the duke’s livery; and as
we rolled through the various villages in grand style, the peasants and
their wives and children all came out and made deep and reverent
obeisance. I was quite astounded, but Aunt Caroline and Cousin Solomon
were so amused that they could hardly keep straight faces. Both they and
I bowed to the right and to the left and answered the salutations right
royally, at which the people seemed highly gratified.

“What is the reason of all this,” said I (to whom this unexpected
enthusiasm was extremely puzzling) to Solomon. “Do they make so much
fuss about everybody?” “Why, no!” said Solomon, laughing heartily. “They
recognize the carriage and the lackeys, and they take us for members of
the ducal family. They think mamma is the duchess, and you and me they
take for the young dukes.”

But, altogether, everybody was extremely friendly in Nordheim and
vicinity, Jew or Gentile, peasant, merchant or teacher, acquaintance or
stranger, without exception. It was “_gruesse Gott_,” and “_guten
Morgen_,” and “_guten Tag_,” and “_lebe wohl_,” and “_auf Wiedersehen_,”
and “_schlafe wohl_,” and “_angenehme Ruhe_,” and any number of other
kindly and sympathetic phrases, and all said with such evident sincerity
and good intentions as went quite through one and left one feeling warm
and charitable and kindly disposed toward humanity in general. And then
the eating, so abundant in quantity, so excellent, and more than
satisfying in quality. At first Aunt Caroline wanted to feed me all the
time. Six or seven times a day she would spread the table and invite me
to partake until I protested, and by dint of hard pleading induced her
to reduce the number of meals to four, with an occasional extra bite in
between. It makes my mouth water yet to think of the “_gefüllte
Flanken_,” and the “_gruenkern Suppe_,” and the “_eingelegte
Gänsebrüst_,” and the “_Zwiebeltätcher_,” and the “_gesetzte Bohnen_,”
and the “_Shabboskugel_,” and the thousand and one other delicacies with
which dear Aunt Caroline used to regale us, and to which healthy
appetites and youth gave a zest compared with which ambrosia must have
been poor. And, oh, the beer! Such magnificent stuff! So different from
the wretched pretence which we call by that name in America. I quite
lost all my temperance principles in Nordheim and have never recovered
them since.

But along with this joyous physical life there went a spiritual life no
less joyous and satisfying. We were Jews there in Nordheim. The Sabbath
was a guest whose arrival was looked forward to with the most eager
anticipation, and which seemed to cast a magic, sacred glamour over all
the Jewish houses in the village, transforming the prosaic, work-a-day
appearance of persons and things into an aspect of dignity and holiness.
All day long on Fridays until about an hour before nightfall, a
tremendous bustle of preparation was going on. Such cleaning and
scrubbing and polishing, such baking and boiling and brewing! It seemed
as though every house was being turned topsy-turvy. On that day, too,
the men folks came home several hours sooner than usual, and then there
was added the turmoil of the taking of baths and the polishing of shoes,
and the taking out of clean shirts and Sabbath suits, and dressing and
getting ready. But about an hour before nightfall all the noise and
clamor and turmoil ceased and Sabbath stillness began to settle over the
village. The quaint old seven-cornered Sabbath lamps were taken out and
the Jewish housewives lit them, pronouncing at the same time the
prescribed benediction. How charming and yet impressive Aunt Caroline
looked as she stood with uplifted hands and reverential mien before the
sacred lamp, the Sabbath cap of dainty lace and ribbons surmounting her
refined and regular features of purest Hebrew type, while from her lips
issued in the holy tongue the words of the benediction, “Blessed art
Thou, O Lord, our God, King of the universe, who hast sanctified us with
Thy commandments and bidden us light the Sabbath lamp.”

A half-hour later all were assembled in the little synagogue, which was
filled to the very last seat, for the Nordheim synagogue was not built
on the American plan. In our progressive country we build great and
imposing synagogues and temples for the benefit, not of the people who
regularly attend—for them a very small edifice would suffice—but of
those who pay the Almighty the honor of a visit only once or twice a
year. But the Nordheim synagogue had accommodations only for its regular
members and attendants, and these were expected to be in their places on
every occasion of public services. Sometimes somebody would be missing
at service, and then it used to amuse me to notice with what anxious
solicitude inquiry would be made of his family as to the cause of his
absence. It appeared to be taken for granted that only illness or some
other equally grave reason could induce any one to be absent from
synagogue at time of worship. I could not refrain from smiling when I
thought how pointless such solicitude would be in America, where, on the
contrary, the question addressed to any average Jew, should he present
himself in the synagogue on any but two or three days of the year, would
be, “What brings _you_ to _Shool_ to-day?”

The services in the synagogue at Nordheim were intensely interesting to
me, not, indeed, because of the artistic rendition of the ritual or the
technical excellence of the singing, but because of the spirit of
devotion and earnestness by which they were pervaded. I have listened to
numbers of cantors who certainly rank higher in their profession than
the humble individual who acted in the capacity of village teacher,
_Chazan_, and _Shochet_ in Nordheim, and the musical performances of
trained and paid choirs are undeniably superior to the untutored though
vociferous efforts of a rustic congregation. But all these have
something perfunctory and mechanical about their efforts which deprive
them of real charm and of power to touch and move the spirit. One
remains coldly critical in listening to them, and judges them solely
from the standpoint of professional ability and artistic merit. Not so
in Nordheim. There was an all-pervading sense of earnestness and reality
in the worship which made one forget the _how_ of the prayers and hymns
and think only of the _what_. Faith, deep and firm as the rocks,
ingrained into the very tissue and life of the spirit, looked forth from
those simple, earnest faces, shone forth from those sincere and
expressive eyes. This spirit gave the familiar ritual an entirely new
vividness and impressiveness. The worshippers seemed to be speaking
directly to their heavenly Father, and when, at the close of the _Lecho
Dodi_, the hymn of welcome to the Sabbath, all rose and faced the
entrance, I half expected to see Queen Sabbath herself, clad in bridal
robes of celestial purity, enter through the portals of that humble
house of God.

The prayers concluded, the worshippers greeted each other with hearty
“Good Shabbos” salutation and wended their homeward way. The scenes in
the homes were in some respects even more impressive than in the
synagogue. Uncle Koppel’s house particularly was resplendent with a
blaze of glory. The dining-room, which also served as parlor and best
room, was brilliantly lighted, and in the midst of the effulgence shone,
with especial radiance, the Sabbath lamp. The table was covered with a
linen cloth of snowy whiteness and laden with the finest porcelain,
glass, and silver that the household could boast, while at the head of
the table, opposite the seat sacred to the master of the house, stood
the two Sabbath loaves covered with a beautifully embroidered satin
cover; and at their side the silver _Kiddush_-beaker and the decanter,
from which the wine of blessing was to be drawn. Before _Kiddush_ Uncle
Koppel “marched” with the youngest of the children, and presented a
picturesque sight indeed as he paraded up and down the room, carrying
the infant of the family upon his right arm and leading the next
youngest by his left hand, chanting meanwhile the hymn of welcome to the
Sabbath angels. Then came the solemn benediction when the children all
presented themselves with bowed heads before their parents, and were
blessed by them in the words pronounced by Aaron of old over the tribes
of Israel, with an added invocation in the case of sons that the Lord
might make them like Ephraim and Manasseh, and of daughters that they
might become like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. Then came Kiddush,
and the formal washing of hands and breaking of bread, and then the
Sabbath meal.

Oh, the pleasure of that Sabbath meal! Everybody had a magnificent
appetite on Friday evening; which was really no wonder, seeing that
every one had worked and hurried all day in preparation for the holy
evening; and that, in accordance with the religious precept, no one had
eaten any substantial meal all day in order that he should be able to do
justice to the first meal of the Sabbath. The dishes were various and
all excellent, for they were seasoned with that finest of spices—the
Sabbath—which gave them a flavor all their own, and which the most
famous _chefs_ of European or American hotels would strive in vain to
rival; but the _pièce de resistance_ was undoubtedly the fish. Trout of
the finest quality, speckled beauties, which had only been drawn a few
hours before from the icy waters of some one of the mountain streams of
the Rhön _gebirge_, they made their appearance at the table cold, from a
sojourn of several hours in the rock-hewn cellar, which served the
purpose of our modern refrigerators, and with a sweet-and-sour sauce of
the consistency of jelly. They were consumed with an avidity which boded
ill for their speckled _confrères_ of the mountain streams and shady
pools. After the meal and the formal pronouncing of grace, in which all
joined with a volume of sound which attracted the attention of the
village boys in the street outside, each one followed his or her own
sweet will. Some conversed, some read devotional books, some dozed until
the flickering of the lights betokened their approaching extinction and
warned all that the hour of retiring had arrived. Then with pleasant
“good-night” wishes, each sought the shelter of his or her couch.

On the morrow the observance of the Sabbath was continued in a manner
worthy of its inauguration. The morning service, which began at eight
and was over at half-past ten, was followed by _Kiddush_ and the second
of the three prescribed Sabbath meals. Here the chief feature was the
“_gesetztes Essen_,” or dishes which had been cooked on Friday and kept
warm in a special kind of oven known as “_Setzöfen_,” in which they were
surrounded by a gentle heat which neither burned nor dried them, until
they were served at the Sabbath meal. Some persons assert that food
cooked a day previous to being consumed is injurious to the health, but
to judge by the favor in which it was held in Nordheim, such can hardly
be the case. Of course not all food is capable of being treated in this
manner; but that which is, acquires a special taste and a mellowness
which makes it peculiarly palatable.

On our Sabbath menu we had “_gesetze Bohnen_,” the dish of whose glories
Heine has sung, and “_Shabbos-Kugel_,” to whose merits even a poet could
hardly do justice. After dinner visits were in order. The younger
members of the _Mishpochoh_ went to pay their respects to their seniors,
and the children of the community called at the various houses without
distinction of relationship and were treated to fruits and sweetmeats.
What impressed me on the part of the children was their extremely
respectful and bashful behavior, amounting almost to timidity. They
would knock timidly at the outside door; and on being bidden to enter
would step in on their tip-toes, timidly utter the Sabbath greeting, and
then stand in a row without opening their mouths until they were told to
be seated. They would not touch anything or do anything without
permission, and when given fruit or sweetmeats would modestly utter
words of thanks and eat them in silence. Their actions were typical of
the German-Jewish standard of child behavior. The children who were old
enough to receive tuition were also examined on the Sabbath in the
subjects in which they had been instructed during the week. Great was
the joy of parents whose son translated with fluency the _Sedrah_ of the
week, and the capable lad always received his reward in the shape of an
extra portion of fruit or sweetmeats.

After the visits and the examinations came the Sabbath nap. The Sabbath
nap! Let no one speak of it in tones of levity or disrespect, for it
stood in high esteem indeed in Nordheim and other communities of the
same type. Every one deemed it an absolutely indispensable feature of
correct Sabbath observance; and though few of the people were learned in
Hebrew lore, yet nearly all were able to quote in defence of their
practice the cabalistic interpretation that the letters of the word שבת
(Sabbath) are equivalent in meaning to the sentence שנה בשבת ת, which
may be parodied as “Sleep on _SaBBath_, the heart delighte_TH_.”

Between the hours of 1 and 4 P.M., the Nordheim _Kehillah_, to use a
heathenish illustration, lay locked in the arms of Morpheus. On sofas
and beds or in arm-chairs, within the house or before the doors, the
worthy _Baale Batim_, their spouses and children slumbered, dozed, and
reposed. The cat slept under the stove, the dog dozed peacefully before
the door, the very horses and cattle stood motionless as statues within
their stalls and seemed to slumber. It was a most peaceful, somnolent,
soporific scene. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of the village streets,
for the Gentile peasants were all abroad in the fields. The very spirit
of Sabbath pervaded the noiseless air, and everywhere were rest, repose,
and tranquillity universal. I, too, who had never been accustomed to
sleep by day, could not resist the drowsy influence of the general
example, and after the first week or two took my Sabbath nap as
regularly as any, and found it most agreeable. At four all were awake
again and then the third Sabbath meal, which was usually light, and
consisted only of coffee, cake, and fruit, was partaken of. The
congregation then gathered in the synagogue for afternoon service, at
the conclusion of which the Chazan “learned _Shiur_”—that is to say,
read to the assembled auditors extracts from a Hebrew devotional work,
in German translation, accompanying them with a running commentary of
his own. His diction was poor, his expressions the reverse of elegant,
and his train of thought in absolute disagreement with most of the pet
theories of the age; but I doubt whether the most eloquent and
scientifically trained of modern preachers ever had as attentive and
sympathetic a congregation as he. Now came the charmed time known as
“between _Minchah_ and _Maariv_,” the period most attractive and
pleasing to the Jewish heart of all the Sabbath day. As the light of the
sun is most beautiful and glorious just before it sets, so the Sabbath
seems sweetest and most delightful when it is about to depart. The
afternoon prayers and the _Shiur_ were both concluded; the day was
beginning to grow dark, but almost an hour must still elapse before the
Sabbath would be over and the evening prayer of the first day might be
recited. Some of the people went for a brief stroll in the fields;
others went into the inn where they were furnished with beer and other
light refreshments without payment; for the Gentile innkeeper knew well
that the observant Jew bore no money on his person on the Sabbath day,
but most remained in the synagogue or gathered in the court-yard before
the sacred edifice and passed the time in pleasant conversation or the
relation of anecdotes. There they sat and stood, in various attitudes,
while the deepening shadows made their figures ever vaguer and more
indistinct, and enjoyed the freest opportunity for unrestricted
conversation and interchange of thoughts that all the week afforded.

[Illustration:

THE VERY SPIRIT OF SABBATH PERVADED THE NOISELESS AIR

_Page 20_]

[Illustration:

THERE THEY SAT AND STOOD, IN VARIOUS ATTITUDES, WHILE THE DEEPENING
SHADOWS MADE THEIR FIGURES EVER VAGUER AND MORE INDISTINCT

_Page 21_]

All possible subjects came up for discussion “between _Minchah_ and
_Maariv_.” The politician of the Kehillah discoursed learnedly on the
European situation and the various problems of statecraft involved in
the relations of the great Powers to each other, the philosopher shed
the light of his wisdom on the great scientific movements of the day and
the wondrous inventions which are revolutionizing civilization, while
the Talmudist elucidated knotty and interesting questions of rabbinical
law or lamented the downfall of religious sentiment in these evil days
and contrasted these with the unyielding fidelity and loyalty of yore.
They all found attentive and eager listeners, to whom their words were
as the very revelation of the Urim and Tummim; but they did not arouse
the same degree of enthusiasm as the story-teller. This accomplished
narrator of witty tales and humorous anecdotes held the hearts of his
auditors in his hands; and when his turn came and he began to draw upon
his apparently inexhaustible stock of _Mesholim_, an immense enthusiasm
took possession of the entire audience, and there was no limit to their
enjoyment of the numberless good points he made. They were indeed
amusing, those tales of impecunious rabbis, and still more impecunious
_Bachurim_, of awkward bridegrooms and homely brides, of witty Poles and
scheming _Schnorrers_. But they were more. They were instructive, for
they reflected the inner life of the Jewish people, and showed, even if
from a humorous point of view, the many trials and difficulties by which
they were encompassed.

But now the shadows had deepened into night, and the _Shammas_, who had
the privilege of reading the service before the rest of the congregation
in order that he might be permitted to perform the work-a-day task of
lighting the lights, interrupted the pleasant tales of the story-teller
by a brief notification that the time for prayer had arrived. The
evening service was brief, lasting in all hardly more than a quarter of
an hour. Its chief feature was the _Havdoloh_, in which the Chazan
pronounced a number of benedictions over wine, spices, and a peculiar
braided wax candle, and thanked the Lord that He makes a distinction
between light and darkness, between Sabbath and week-day, and between
Israel and the nations. The service concluded, the worshippers greeted
each other with hearty “_Gut Woch_” and repaired to their homes, but not
yet to resume work-a-day tasks.

It was an unwritten law in Nordheim that the Saturday night was not to
be given over to labor or business, except in cases of emergency. The
women were particularly zealous in following this rule. Instead
sociability reigned supreme. The men indulged in friendly card-play, the
married women sat together in groups and gossiped, the youths and
maidens played musical instruments, sang, and danced. These pleasant
occupations were continued several hours, so that on Saturday nights the
worthy Jewish burghers retired much later than usual.

The sincerity and thoroughgoing consistency which marked the observance
of the Sabbath were characteristic of the religious life of the Nordheim
community throughout the year. It would be inconsistent with the scope
of this sketch to go into all the details of religious life and
practice; but suffice it to say that Jewish piety, as illustrated in
Nordheim, was eminently earnest, emphatic, and genuine. The very
children possessed the spirit of martyrs. They would have endured
tortures rather than eat forbidden food or violate the Sabbath or any
other of the holy days. Some of the manifestations of this piety were
quaintly humorous or pathetic, according to the viewpoint from which
they are regarded. The children of Nordheim, like children the world
over, were very fond of fruit and berries. Had they been permitted to go
into the orchards and gardens and gather their sweet products
unrestrained, there can be no doubt that as much would have disappeared
down their throats as they brought home. But the Nordheim mothers struck
upon a shrewd scheme for circumventing the appetites of their
sweet-toothed offspring, which did equal credit to their ingenuity and
their psychological knowledge. They would send the children to gather
fruits or pick berries upon a fast day. The plan was as effective as it
was beautifully simple. The children brought home all that they
gathered, for no Jewish child in Nordheim would have even thought of
committing such a heinous sin as tasting food on a _Taanis_. Think of
applying such a rule to American children! It would be about as
effective as trying to restrain a bull with a piece of cotton thread.

It is recorded of a worthy Nordheim _Baal Habbayis_ that he once saw
some flies rise from his boots and settle upon some hay, which was later
on eaten by his cows. Now that in itself is a trifling and insignificant
incident; but it so happened that the boots, in accordance with German
village custom, had been smeared with tallow, which, from the viewpoint
of the Jewish religious law is _Trefah_—that is, ritually unclean, and
forbidden to be eaten. Our worthy Nordheimer at once felt himself
burdened in his conscience and despatched a special messenger post-haste
to the rabbi at Gersfeld with an inquiry as to whether the milk of those
cows might lawfully be drunk. This pious scrupulosity did not, however,
as might be thought, involve any gloomy or dreary harshness of
sentiment. What we are accustomed to call the Puritanical frame of mind
was utterly unknown in Nordheim. On the contrary, a cheerful and
pleasant disposition, which made the tone of social intercourse
extremely agreeable, was the all prevalent mood. In individual instances
this mental tendency was emphasized into pronounced joviality, and the
happy possessors thereof became the “_Spass macher_,” the jesters and
fun-makers of the community. Woe betide the unfortunate individual who
acquired a reputation for sourness and unsociability. He was considered
a legitimate victim for the gibes and jests of the official jokers, and
small indeed was the meed of sympathy which he received.

Another instance of the prevailing jocoseness was the custom of
attaching nicknames to persons, which were then used instead of their
proper appellations. It was rarely that any one was referred to in
Nordheim by his given name, the nickname being so universally used as
almost to displace the real and legal cognomen. These nicknames were
derived from some personal characteristic or some peculiarity arising
from vocation or experience in life, which had struck the village wags
as humorous. It was “the black Elias,” or “the long Moses,” or “the bold
Isaac,” or “the gentle Sarah,” the last two appellations being, of
course, mildly ironical. One individual, who had an undue amount of
audacity in his psychological make-up, was known as “der _Baishan_,”
that is, “the bashful or timid one,” while another who had failed in
nearly everything he had undertaken was universally dubbed “der
_Mazzeldige Shmuel_,” that is, “lucky Sam.” A family, some remote
ancestor of which had once been imprisoned in a tower and escaped
therefrom by leaping from the window of his cell, was generally known as
“_die Thurm hüpfer_,” “the tower-hoppers,” while six brothers, all of
whom were over six feet tall and stout in proportion, bore the
strikingly apposite designation of “_die Kinderlich_,” that is, “the
babies.” The swineherd, who called his charges together by means of a
long tin trumpet, from which he emitted shrill and piercing, though
hardly melodious notes, was styled by the Jews “_der Baal Tokea_,” that
is, the blower of the Shofar or ram’s horn trumpet used in the services
of the New Year; while the village constable, who was an extremely pious
Catholic and always walked around through the village streets on Sundays
with a prayer book in his hand, from which he read with strait-laced
mien and ostentatious devotion, was dubbed “_der Baal Tephillah_,” that
is, the cantor or reader of the synagogue services.

SCHNORRERS.

The two banes of village life and at the same time the most diverting
figures therein were the _Schnorrers_ and the gendarmes or rural
policemen. The first-named gentry, wandering Jewish mendicants, who
believed in the socialistic doctrine that the world, or at least that
part of it which professed Judaism, owed them a living, were a most
interesting set and worthy of a special study in themselves. They
honored the community frequently with their visits. Some were usually
visible in the streets at all seasons of the year, and the services in
the synagogue were generally graced by the presence of two or three. In
most instances they professed intense piety and then their _Tephillin_
were larger, their _Talethim_ longer, and their prayers louder and more
ecstatic than those of the rest of the congregation. They came from
anywhere and everywhere. Most of them were of Russian or Polish origin,
but there was a goodly sprinkling of individuals of German birth and
occasionally a Sephardi from Jerusalem or some other Eastern region,
clad in Oriental robes and with a majestic turban upon his head,
relieved the monotony of Schnorrerdom and added interest and diversity
thereto by his strikingly alien and picturesque appearance. They came in
the most diverse guises. Some appeared in the rôle of venerable rabbis
with flowing beards, and anxious to display their learning in the law to
whomsoever they could induce to listen; others professed to be merchants
who had lost their all in ill-starred commercial ventures; while others
were wandering apprentices—_Handwerksburschen_—temporarily out of work.
Sometimes they were accompanied by their wives, who were always more
voluble and eloquent than their husbands. Sometimes an entire family,
grandparents, married sons and daughters and children of all ages,
including infants in arms, made their appearance and then the resources
of Nordheim charity were severely strained adequately to provide for
them.

[Illustration:

THEY HONORED THE COMMUNITY FREQUENTLY WITH THEIR VISITS

_Page 28_]

These Schnorrers were not beggars in the ordinary sense. They certainly
had no humble or suppliant air. They came into the house with the air of
calling upon old personal friends, and seemed to think it an entirely
self-understood and axiomatic matter that their co-religionists should
take upon themselves the duty of caring for their needs. Among them
many, no doubt, were genuinely unfortunate and deserving individuals,
but there was more than a suspicion that a large proportion had taken up
the pursuit of Schnorring as a peculiarly pleasant and profitable
vocation. Their reliance upon the charitable disposition of their
brethren in faith was well grounded. The Nordheim Jews were guided by
the eminently humane and noble principle that it is better that
ninety-nine undeserving persons should be aided than that one deserving
person should be refused the assistance he required; and, consequently,
every applicant for charity, unless it was positively known that he was
unworthy, received the help he craved. This help usually took the form
of food, lodging, and some money or clothing. A sort of system
prevailed. The Schnorrer would first call upon the _Parnass_, or
president of the congregation, who would then give him a ticket, called
_Plett_, a corruption of _Billet_, upon some member of the congregation,
entitling the stranger to food and lodging. These tickets were issued in
rotation, and were usually cheerfully honored. Some of the members even
had a predilection for entertaining these destitute brethren, and would
rival each other in the numbers they accommodate. It was amusing to hear
one boast that he had harbored, let us say twenty-seven, Schnorrers
during the year, only to be told by another, with triumphant mien, that
the number of his non-paying guests had been thirty-five. The most
celebrated hostess of this kind was a widow named Hannah. This
warm-hearted daughter of Israel strove to fulfil literally the precept
of the sages, “Let the poor be the children of thy house.” The days were
few when her house did not contain some “_guest_”; and she would give
him of her best, and wait upon him as though his presence was the most
distinguished honor. When asked once how it was that she, although not a
woman of means, was always ready to receive needy strangers, far more
so, indeed, than persons of far greater wealth, Hannah answered: “Why,
that is a very simple matter. All that one needs is a _Lef_ and a
_Loeffel_.”

Altogether, the mental attitude of the Nordheim Jews toward their needy
and mendicant co-religionists was very different from that which
prevails to-day; at any rate, in America. At present the unfortunates
who depend upon the aid of their supposedly sympathetic brethren are
considered a nuisance; an unsightly excrescence upon the body social to
be abolished by all means, if possible. The wretched applicant for
relief is rigidly scrutinized and interrogated by lynx-eyed committees
until he is made to feel as though he were a criminal on trial for his
life. A domiciliary visit is paid to his home by some surly
“investigator,” whose efficiency is measured by the number of
unfavorable reports he makes. And woe betide the miserable one whose
habitation shows some traces of neatness and gentility, and where some
humble ornaments, relics, perhaps, of happier days, have been suffered
to remain, and have not found their way into the pawnshop. Such a one is
at once declared an “undeserving case”; for does not his dwelling show
that he is still possessed of means, and his application is at once
summarily and without mercy rejected. But Nordheim knew nothing of such
uncharitable charity, such inhuman humanity. The disposition there was
truly charitable in the kindlier, and hence nobler, sense of the word.
Poverty was looked upon as a necessary and inevitable feature of human
existence, as, indeed, a part of the Divine order of the world; for had
not He said in His law, “The poor shall not cease from the midst of the
land”?

The unfortunates who had been selected by some mysterious dispensation
of Providence to bear the hard burden of poverty were the objects of
real and genuine commiseration, and every effort was made to alleviate
their sad condition. And if some of them did occasionally resort to
deception or petty misrepresentation in order to secure a larger
benefaction than would otherwise have fallen to his share, there was no
horror-stricken outcry, no show of virtuous indignation, such as our
high-salaried or amateur charity experts would indulge in; but people
merely shook their heads, rather pityingly than otherwise, and would
say: “Poor fellow! he has little enough in this world, God knows. No
wonder that he tried to get a little more.” Indeed, if the Schnorrer was
really a shrewd fellow and his trick a well-devised one, he was far more
apt to arouse amusement than resentment, and would actually profit by
his nimble wit. This I saw well illustrated shortly after my arrival in
Nordheim. One day a Schnorrer presented himself with an expression of
utter woe upon his countenance before Uncle Koppel, and in
heart-breaking accents informed him that he had just received news that
he had become an _Ovel_. “Alas, woe is me,” he wailed. “My poor, dear
wife in Poland is dead! What shall I do without her? Who will care for
my poor, unfortunate orphans? How shall I keep the _Shivah_ for her, as
is due to her memory, I who have no home and no means?” It need hardly
be stated that the sad case of the stricken widower aroused the most
profound sympathy among the Jews of Nordheim. Uncle Koppel at once
placed his house at the disposal of the unfortunate man in order that he
might properly observe the seven days of mourning, and most of the
members of the congregation offered to attend the mourning services
morning and evening. Aunt Caroline looked well after his comfort,
provided him with four or five square meals daily and a good bed at
night. At the conclusion of the seven days a substantial purse was made
up for his benefit and he departed, showering blessings upon the heads
of all the Nordheim _Kehillah_, and vowing that he would never forget
their kindness and their true spirit of brotherliness.

A few weeks later Uncle Koppel had occasion to make a trip on business
to Römhild, a somewhat distant town in the grand duchy of Meiningen. As
he never ate dinner when away on these trips, it was customary to keep
his dinner for him, and all the household would remain up until his
return. It was rather late before he returned, after nine in the
evening. As soon as he had strode through the door we all noticed that
something unusual had befallen him during the day, and that that
something had been of an amusing nature. His face was wreathed in smiles
and he was silently chuckling to himself. We all became, of course,
curious to know the cause of his amusement, but none, except Aunt
Caroline, ventured to ask. “For goodness’ sake, husband,” said she,
“what is the matter? Let us know.” “Give me my meal first, wife,” said
Uncle Koppel. “I need strength before I can tell you.” All during the
meal Uncle Koppel sat with sides shaking with ill-suppressed laughter,
while curiosity and impatience consumed us all. At last, his meal
concluded and grace recited, Uncle Koppel began his story. “I heard
something in Römhild to-day of our Schnorrer,” said he; “the one who
kept Shivah in our house.” “Indeed,” we all vociferated, “what was it?”
“I called first on Moses Rosenbaum,” he resumed, “in reference to some
cattle that I wished to buy of him; and after we had finished our
business, he said to me: ‘By the way, Koppel, there is a very sad case
in town at present, and it would be a real _Mitzvah_ for you to help us
a little in relieving it.’ ‘What is it,’ said I. ‘A poor man,’ said he,
‘has suddenly received news that his wife died, and he is so destitute
that he cannot support his orphans without help, or even keep Shivah. We
have helped him some and he has been keeping Shivah in my house during
the week.’ ‘Aha,’ said I, beginning to smell a rat, ‘this is strange. We
had just such a case in Nordheim a few weeks ago. I think I shall go
over and see your man.’ We went over to Rosenbaum’s house, and, sure
enough, it was the same fellow. The Shivah-keeping business in Nordheim
had suited him so well that he was trying it again in another place.
When I saw him I said: ‘My friend, I believe I have met you before.’ He
looked at me, not in the least abashed, and said: ‘Oh, yes, in Nordheim,
a few weeks ago.’ ‘What do you mean by this brazen-faced fraud,’ I
asked, ‘pretending to have lost your wife and swindling people into
charitable gifts by pretending to keep Shivah?’ ‘Oh, my good sir,’ said
he, with great pretence of earnestness, ‘it is no deceit at all. The
first time it was a false report. My wife had not died. But this time
she is really dead, really indeed; and if you don’t believe me you can
go yourself to Pitchichow in Poland, my native town, and convince
yourself. You can, indeed.’ We all laughed heartily at the fellow’s
impudence, and warning him to be sure that his wife was dead before he
sat Shivah for her next time, we bade him begone. He went off with great
alacrity, evidently glad that he had fared no worse.”

GENDARMES.

The gendarmes or rural policemen were the second bane of village life;
but while the Schnorrer was looked on with charitable eye, for these
latter gentry no one had a good word. They were detested, thoroughly and
intensely. As a rule they well deserved the detestation in which they
were held, for they were pompous, insufferable individuals, egregiously
proud and conceited because of the little authority they possessed, and
over-eager to display their power; in a word, petty tyrants of the worst
kind. They were equally hated by Jew and Gentile, and were not popular
even with the judges and magistrates, who were often liberal-minded
gentlemen, and who knew well the tyrannical disposition of their rustic
retainers. The multiplicity of laws and regulations in the German
statute book, particularly those referring to trade and commerce, gave
the gendarmes the much-desired opportunity for the display of their
power; and as the Jews were the chief element engaged in commercial
pursuits, they were also the chief victims of these rustic arbiters of
weal and woe. To defeat or discomfit a gendarme was a highly meritorious
deed, and all the community rejoiced in concert when one of these
potentates had been made the victim of some particularly ingenious
trick.

An incident which had happened some time previous to my arrival in
Nordheim, and which all the community were highly enjoying at the time
of my arrival, will illustrate this disposition. There lived in Nordheim
a poor, half-witted Jew named Meyer, an unfortunate fellow without
relatives or home or means of subsistence, who depended for his support
on the charitable gifts of the kind-hearted villagers. Despite his
mental infirmity, Meyer possessed, as is not seldom the case with the
weak-minded, quite a stock of humor; and as he was always cheerful and
pleasant, and was continually doing odd and amusing things, “Shoteh
Meyerle,” or “Little Meyer the fool,” as he was called, enjoyed
considerable popularity. Everybody, rich and poor, high and low, Jew and
Gentile, knew him well. Everybody had a friendly greeting for him when
met on the road; nobody, not even the most unruly boys, would harm him
in any way or permit him to be harmed by others. He had free access to
every house, and enjoyed altogether liberties and privileges not
possessed by any other member of the community. One day it chanced that
Shoteh Meyerle determined, in accordance with his wont, to visit the
adjoining village of Willmars to obtain some gifts. The day was hot, the
road was long and dusty, and Meyer soon felt that rest and recuperation
would be agreeable. These could not be had on the dusty road, and he,
therefore, stepped aside into a field where there was a fine tree, in
whose cool shade he sat him down and reposed. This act, it is true, was
illegal, for the agrarian regulations of the Bavarian state strictly
prohibit the stepping upon cultivated fields on the part of others than
the proprietors, or those to whom they give permission. But what recked
Meyer for that; he was, in a measure, above the law. He could violate
the solemn enactments of the code with impunity, for the light in which
he was viewed by the community enabled him to say, like a celebrated
American politician of later date, “What’s the Constitution between
friends?” Meyer, therefore, sat him down on the cultivated field of
Farmer Dietrich without having obtained his formal permission, but
without the least fear of consequences. This time, however, he was in
error. A new gendarme had recently come to Nordheim, a stranger from a
different region, unacquainted with the people and their ways, but with
a soul longing to acquire distinction by making some brilliant arrests.
His reputation as a surly and churlish fellow had preceded him, and
every one had scrupulously avoided him and taken particular care not to
come into conflict with any of the numerous statutes and police
regulations; so that hitherto no one had fallen into his clutches, and
his ambition for distinction had as yet had no opportunity to be
gratified. This particular morning he was walking along the road,
meditating upon his ill luck (as he considered it), and cursing the
people of Nordheim and vicinity for an absurdly law-abiding crowd. What
especially grieved him was that no Jew had yet fallen into his hands,
for he was a true anti-Semite; and to haul up one of the accursed
Semites on some good and heavy charge was incense to his soul. While
thus marching along the highway and meditating, he beheld a man sitting
upon a stone in a field, whose appearance clearly indicated that he was
not a peasant nor a field laborer, and who, therefore, had probably no
right to be there. It was, of course, our friend Meyer; but our doughty
gendarme knew him not, and was not aware of the peculiar status of
immunity which he possessed. “Aha!” thought the gendarme, his soul
filled with joy at the idea of at last making an arrest. “A law-breaker!
Probably a wandering apprentice (_Wandersbursch_) or itinerant merchant
(_Handelsman_) who does not know that I, the zealous and faithful
watchman of the law, am in the neighborhood, and who has therefore dared
to invade the sacred precincts of the fields! I must approach cautiously
lest he see me while still afar, and escape.” Thus thinking, he began
cautiously to draw near to the neighborhood of the suspected violator of
the law, slinking behind bushes and walls so as not to reveal his
presence until he should be in the immediate vicinity of his intended
victim, when he would pounce upon him as the tiger springs upon his
prey.

But, cunning as the gendarme was, Shoteh Meyerle was still more cunning.
He had seen the bright uniform and shining musket of the pompous
champion of the law when they first appeared at the distant turning of
the Ostheim _chaussée_. He at once understood his intention when he saw
him first pause and afterward slowly advance, seeking cover behind
bushes and walls and, with the instinctive cunning of the half-witted,
he at once resolved to baffle his elaborate plan and to have some sport
with his would-be captor. He remained quietly sitting upon his stone,
apparently in entire ignorance of the gendarme’s approach until just
before the latter came into too uncomfortable proximity, when he arose
and began to move leisurely across the fields in the direction of the
Sommerberg, a forest-crowned hill situated somewhat to the northeast of
the village. At this the gendarme was compelled to show himself. He
burst forth from his covering of bushes, leaped upon the field and
called upon the intruder, as he considered him to be, to stand and
submit to arrest. Instead of doing so, Meyer continued to move on at a
somewhat more rapid pace. To realize the meaning of this action, one
must remember that in Germany a person when called upon by the police is
expected at once to stand and give an account of himself, and invariably
does so. Only one who has the gravest of reasons for not desiring police
attention would dare to attempt to evade them when their attention had
once been called to him.

Our worthy gendarme was now convinced that he had a dangerous criminal
to deal with, and his soul thrilled with the hope of making a brilliant
arrest; one that would secure him favorable notice from above, rapid
promotion, and perhaps immortality in the annals of criminalistic
achievement. He shouted to Meyer at the top of his voice to halt,
breaking at the same time into a run and dashing toward him. But Meyer
did not halt. On the contrary, he too began to run, and was soon
speeding over hill and dale, hotly pursued by the now thoroughly enraged
officer.

Who can fitly describe the terrors and the glories of that extraordinary
race? Meyer was thin and light and active, possessed of splendid wind
and as fleet as a deer. He led the gendarme a merry chase, indeed, over
hills and down into valleys, through forests and over brooks, through
corn-fields, meadows, and gardens. But the gendarme was a strong man and
game, though rather heavy from overmuch eating and beer-drinking;
weighed down with his heavy musket, and sadly out of condition through
lack of exercise. Filled with rage and determined to make a prisoner of
this extraordinary criminal, he panted and toiled on in pursuit, despite
weariness and perspiration. Meyer could easily have distanced him, but
had no intention of doing so; and therefore so controlled his pace as to
remain always in sight of his pursuer, and not permit the latter to lose
hope and give up.

Thus the chase continued until hunter and hunted, having covered more
than four miles of country, found themselves at the gates of
Mellrichstadt, the chief town of the district and the seat of the
district court, which at that time, as Meyer well knew, was in
session. Here, Meyer pretending to have grown weary, gradually
slackened his pace and permitted himself to be seized by his panting
and perspiration-bathed pursuer. “Aha, accursed Jew! Aha, thou
rascal!” hoarsely exclaimed the latter, as he seized Meyer roughly by
the collar, “at last I have thee! Now thou shalt pay bitterly for thy
villainy and thy audacity. I shall drag thee straight to court, and
the honorable judges will know well how to deal with an audacious
wretch, such as thou art, and who undoubtedly must have committed some
great crime or else he would not have thus fled from me.” Meyer
vouchsafed no answer and offered no resistance, but meekly followed
the gendarme to the courthouse, which was but a short distance away;
although the triumphant officer in his wrath at the unprecedented
chase he had been forced to make, literally dragged him thither in
most ungentle manner.

The district judge, clad in his silken robes of office, and with his
velvet cap upon his head, was seated at his elevated desk at the upper
end of the court-room, at either side an assessor, when this remarkable
pair, the stout, hot, perspiring gendarme, with face red as fire, and
the comical, well-known figure of the half-witted Jewish beggar entered
the room, the former holding the latter with an iron grasp and with an
expression of intense excitement upon his countenance; while the latter
was perfectly cool and self-possessed, and was smiling all over with an
expression of perfect content, as though a run of four miles and
apprehension by the constabulary were every-day and quite pleasant
experiences in his life. An interesting case was going on at the time,
and the court-room was crowded with a mixed multitude of peasants,
working-men, Jewish merchants, and landed proprietors, among whom the
arrival of this singular pair created a lively sensation, especially as
the mischievous propensities of Shoteh Meyerle were well known and
curiosity was rife as to what he was up to now.

When the gendarme entered the court-room, he at first hesitated for a
moment, being undecided as to whether he had the right to appear at once
before the judges or not; but the supreme judge, who knew Shoteh Meyer
perfectly well (as did also the assessors), and was himself consumed by
curiosity concerning the meaning of this extraordinary arrest, at once
signalled him to advance, which he immediately did. No sooner had the
gendarme brought his prisoner before the bar than the latter made a deep
bow to the court; and, smiling affably at the judges, said in a voice
audible all over the room: “Good morning, _Herr Gerichtshof_! Good
morning, my _Herren Assessoren_! How are you all feeling to-day? I trust
you all slept well last night!” This, in a court-room, extremely unusual
salutation was accompanied by an extraordinary smirk and a comical
flourish of the arms, and was greeted by an outburst of hearty laughter
on the part of the audience; in which the judges joined, a proceeding
extremely disconcerting to the gendarme, who detected in it a note of
friendliness to the prisoner, which he could not understand, but which
boded ill for the success of his charge.

The gendarme was then ordered to tell his story, and gave the facts with
which we are already familiar, laying particular stress on his suspicion
that the prisoner was guilty of other grave crimes, based on the
desperate manner in which he had endeavored to avoid arrest. This story
was listened to with evident amusement, which added greatly to the
embarrassment of the valiant captor, who began to feel very cheap,
though he knew not why.

Meyer was then called upon for his side of the case. “Why, most honored
judge and assessors,” said Meyer, with a most engaging smile and
ingenuous air, “I do not know why I have been arrested, or why the Herr
Gendarme is so angry with me. I am only a poor, humble man, and I have
never done any one any harm in all my life. I was resting a little in
Farmer Dietrich’s field this morning, and afterward I took a little
lively run to Mellrichstadt and I saw the Herr Gendarme a few times on
the way. Hardly had I reached Mellrichstadt when he fell roughly upon me
and dragged me here, and that is all I know.”

“But why were you in Farmer Dietrich’s field?” asked the supreme judge,
trying to assume a severe air. “Do you not know that is against the law,
and that you make yourself thereby liable to severe punishment?” “That
may be, your honor,” answered Meyer; “but I did not think I was doing
any wrong. All the people hereabouts are very kind to me, and willingly
permit me in their fields; and I thought it would be the same this time
as always.”

“But why did you run all the long way from Nordheim to Mellrichstadt,
and in this hot weather, too?” asked the judge, suppressing by a great
effort his amusement.

“The reason I did that,” said Meyer, with a most innocent expression of
face, “was for the benefit of my health. I have been suffering a great
deal lately from constipation, and the doctor recommended me exercise in
the open air.” This answer was greeted with a shout of laughter from all
sides.

“But,” continued the judge, still endeavoring to conduct the inquiry in
a judicial manner, “when you saw the gendarme running after you, you
should not have kept on without noticing him. You should have stopped to
see what he wanted of you. Why did you not do so?” “I should gladly have
done so, your honor,” said Meyer in a tone of perfect frankness, “but I
did not have the least idea that he wanted anything of me. I thought
that he, too, was probably suffering from constipation, and that the
doctor had also recommended him exercise for his health.” This answer
literally “brought down the house.” Amidst a storm of merriment, which
utterly defied the usual restraints of court discipline, the case was
dismissed and the crestfallen gendarme was overwhelmed with a flood of
ironical compliments on his zeal as an official and his ability as a
runner. Shoteh Meyerle was more popular than ever after this incident,
but it was many a day before the gendarme could muster up courage to
look any one in the face.

[Illustration: Reb. Shemayah]

[Illustration: _Page 49_]

REB SHEMAYAH AND OTHER NORDHEIM WORTHIES.

O sweet Nordheim! Though thy inhabitants, particularly those who
professed the ancient faith of Israel, were but few, how numerous,
comparatively, were those whose characters for one reason or other were
interesting and noteworthy. Let me pass a few of these in review before
the eye of the reader before I close this insufficient though veracious
chronicle. Without a doubt the most important and significant of these
persons was Reb Shemayah. He was my grandfather, although it was not my
privilege to behold him in the flesh, for he had passed to the better
world some years before my visit to the village. He was a perfect type
of the old-time, sincere, loyal, and devout German Jew. He was the son
of an old family of high repute and standing, which had been settled in
Nordheim for several centuries; and one of his ancestors, whose picture
appears in an old village chronicle, had enjoyed the unique distinction
of being the only inhabitant who owned a saddle horse. Like all the sons
of the better class of Jewish families in former generations he received
a thorough training in Hebrew and Talmudic studies. At the _Yeshibah_ in
Fulda, to which he had been sent to study rabbinic lore, he attained
such distinction by the keenness of his intellect and the rapidity of
his progress that the venerable rabbi became warmly attached to him, and
declared that he alone should be his successor and his son-in-law, the
husband of his youngest daughter.

Just as Reb Shemayah was about to attain the loftiest pinnacle of Jewish
ambition in those days, to become a rabbi and to take as his wife the
beautiful, dark-eyed daughter of the Fulda Rav, an event occurred which
destroyed his hopes in both these regards, but gave occasion for the
display of his noble idealism. The Bavarian Government issued a rescript
to the effect that in order to wean Jews from the petty forms of trading
to which they had hitherto been addicted, and to induce them to take up
agriculture, the law prohibiting Jews from owning land, which had been
in force for centuries, was repealed, and it would henceforth be
permitted them to own and cultivate land, the same as all other
citizens.

The beneficent intentions of the new law were evident, but the Jews
hesitated to take advantage of it; indeed, they were loath to do so. The
centuries of unfamiliarity with agriculture were partly to blame for
this reluctance; but then, again, there was also a strong prejudice
against the farmer’s vocation, which was considered low and rude and far
inferior in social value to that of the merchant or scholar. Reb
Shemayah did not share these views. His soul was all aflame with
enthusiasm when he heard of the new law which, in his opinion, first put
the stamp of real citizenship upon the Jew. Not only did he consider
agriculture intrinsically ennobling and the only vocation in consonance
with true Jewish, Biblical precepts, but he also held that the landed
class are the real foundation of the state, while all others are but
floating parasites. When he saw that his brethren were hesitating, and
that none appeared willing to purchase land, he determined to give them
a good example and himself became a tiller of the soil. He invested his
whole fortune in the purchase of a farm near Nordheim, which he himself
began actively to cultivate. Thus did Reb Shemayah renounce the
rabbinical vocation and become a peasant. It was a tremendous sacrifice
to make; but what was worse was that he had to renounce his sweet bride
too, for the old Fulda rabbi was obstinate and had no liking for these
new things. “A peasant shall not have my daughter,” he said; and though
Reb Shemayah loved sweet Miriam well, he loved Israel better, and for
the sake of his ideal he sacrificed a piece of his own heart. Encouraged
by Reb Shemayah’s example, many other Jews invested in land and
endeavored to learn the art of agriculture; and at present Jewish
tillers of the soil are no longer rarities.

In the Nordheim community and the entire surrounding country Reb
Shemayah enjoyed the highest possible reputation. He was universally
loved, respected, revered. And right well did he deserve his high
repute, for a character of such singular purity, sweetness, and nobility
belongs to the rare things of earth. He was profoundly and exceptionally
devout, even for those days when piety and religious strictness were
usual and ordinary in Israel. The Torah, the divine law, he considered
God’s most precious gift to mankind, and Israel’s mission he held to be
to practice this law and to show its excellence to the world; and by
lives of utmost virtue and beneficence to be _mekaddesh Ha-Shem_,
_i.e._, to sanctify the name, and to bring honor and glory to Him whose
servants were thus righteous and good. He lived up to his ideal, and his
life thus became one long record of kindly words and noble deeds. Jews
and Gentiles alike had in him a sincere friend and a trustworthy
counsellor, and were equally glad to seek his wise counsel and ready
assistance in their hour of need or distress. The Schnorrers had in him
a particularly warm sympathizer, so that, after his death, they lamented
that Nordheim, although charitable beyond the average, had lost its halo
of glory in their eyes. He always believed any tale of woe told him by a
suppliant stranger and never wearied of assisting, for the thought of
deceit or fraud never entered his guileless mind. The learned wanderer
had his especial sympathy, and he would always welcome such a one right
royally to his home and listen with kindliest interest to his erudite
comments on Biblical or Talmudic passages or new solutions of old
difficulties; and after entertaining him with unstinted generosity,
would dismiss him laden with blessings in substantial form.

It was not because Reb Shemayah was wealthy that he was able to do all
these things, by merely sparing a little from his abundance. On the
contrary, he gave thus liberally as a matter of principle, of religious
duty, and his charitable gifts often involved great sacrifices on his
part. During the greater part of his life he lived in rather straitened
circumstances, and rigid economy was necessarily the strict rule of his
household. His entire fortune had gone to the purchase of his
_Bauerngut_; and as he was neither a trained agriculturist nor a keen
business man, his finances might have fallen into great disorder but for
the iron rule he had set up for himself, and from which he never
deviated, never to contract debts which he could not see his way clear
to pay. In addition to his ordinary difficulties he met with several
misfortunes, which would have sufficed to break down the courage of an
ordinary man; but his sublime faith enabled him to bear all these trials
cheerfully and resignedly, and, like Rabbi Nahum of old, he would repeat
whenever any tribulation came upon him: “This also is for good.”

A striking illustration of this trait was given after he had been for
quite some years actively engaged in his chosen vocation, had found his
chosen life partner, and had already a family of several daughters. In
the middle of a bitter winter night a fire suddenly broke out in Reb
Shemayah’s dwelling; and, quickly assuming dimensions which rendered it
impossible to check it, the family were driven forth half-clad into the
icy night. The house was burned to the ground and hardly anything of its
contents was saved, but the barn had escaped, and there Reb Shemayah and
his nearly frozen wife and family found refuge. There, too, his wife,
Perla by name, who had for some time been expecting the advent of a
little stranger, gave birth to a beautiful black-eyed boy, the first
male child. It was a heartrending conjuncture. His home a mass of
smoking ruins in the intense cold of a Bavarian mountain winter, nothing
saved but a few quilts and articles of clothing, his family huddled
together for refuge in a barn, through the chinks of whose wooden walls
the chill blasts blew keenly; and most heartrending of all—to see his
dear wife forced to undergo, under such circumstances, the pains and
dangers of childbirth. It was a situation which would have broken the
courage or destroyed the faith of another man. But Reb Shemayah lifted
his eyes to heaven, and in all sincerity and truth uttered the words: “I
thank Thee, O Master of the universe, for Thou art good. With one hand
Thou smitest, but with the other Thou healest. Thou hast destroyed my
habitation, but Thou hast also fulfilled the prayer of my heart and
given me a son.” And, indeed, the terror and the suffering were soon
over. Kind Jewish neighbors hastened to open their homes to the
afflicted family. Neither mother nor child was any the worse for the
harsh exposure, and the black-eyed boy became subsequently the Uncle
Koppel, whose hospitality I enjoyed. If anything in the whole incident
distressed Reb Shemayah keenly, it was the necessity of accepting, if
even temporarily, the assistance of others. Himself ever ready to assist
the needy, he entertained an intense aversion to receiving himself such
assistance.

Though Reb Shemayah was, as we have seen, an ethically noble and exalted
character, he was by no means gloomy or austere. On the contrary, he was
natural and unaffected in his ways, accessible to every one, dearly fond
of a joke, and a capital story-teller. Despite his readiness to accept
as true tales of distress, he was, nevertheless, an excellent
psychologist, and had no difficulty in thoroughly reading the characters
and motives of those with whom he was thrown into contact. This ability
once enabled him to baffle an attempt which was made to victimize and
blackmail him, and to turn it into a humorous triumph for him.

Nordheim, as regards the majority of its inhabitants, was an intensely
Catholic village. The feasts and fasts of the church were celebrated
there with great pomp and unction, and the numerous religious
processions were particularly solemn and, according to rural standards,
magnificent. In these the Jewish inhabitants, of course, took no part,
and, indeed, usually remained secluded in their houses during their
continuance. For this there were several reasons. The Jews being, from
the Catholic standpoint, heretics and unbelievers, were _eo ipso_
excluded from participation in these Christian solemnities; and their
presence in the streets on such occasions was apt, even in these more
tolerant times, to rouse the slumbering embers of religious animosity
and bigotry. Besides, the Jews themselves, warm adherents of their own
monotheistic creed, would rather have suffered martyrdom than to have
participated in practices which they looked upon as closely akin to
idolatrous.

Shortly after Reb Shemayah had become a Nordheim peasant and citizen,
the village priest who happened at the time to be presiding over the
spiritual affairs of the community conceived what appeared to him a most
brilliant idea, by means of which he believed he could press a
substantial contribution out of the learned and pious new Jewish
householder. A great holiday of the church was approaching—the indulgent
reader will kindly excuse the author for his ignorance of Catholic
theology, which prevents him from specifically stating which one it
was—of the celebration of which a particularly great and splendid
procession was the leading feature. In this procession substantially all
the Gentile villagers took part, and at its head a splendid effigy of
the crucified one was borne. The office of carrying the image was
performed by a citizen especially selected by the priest and burgomaster
conjointly with the council; and to be chosen for this duty was deemed a
high honor, and was eagerly coveted by the good Christian burghers of
Nordheim. Our priest’s idea was as follows: The honor of carrying the
image should be bestowed, with flattering words and honeyed compliments,
upon Reb Shemayah as a prominent and universally respected citizen of
the village. Of course the cunning ecclesiastic did not seriously mean
that Reb Shemayah should actually perform the office, for it was
entirely out of the question that any Jew, however worthy, should
actually take a leading part in the solemn ceremonies of the church; but
our worthy theologian knew well that the aversion of the Jews to
participating in such observances was even greater than the
disinclination of the Christians to permit them so to do, and he had no
fear that Reb Shemayah would, under any circumstances, consent. What he
imagined would happen was that Reb Shemayah, on being informed of his
selection for the honorable task of image-bearer, would decline the
honor on the ground that his religion did not permit him to participate
in such functions; and when he would be further informed that it was not
possible for a citizen to refuse an honor to which he had been duly
appointed by the constituted authorities, would beg and implore to be
let off, and would finally offer a good round sum to be released. This
sum, after various difficulties and objections, would be graciously
accepted as a mark of special favor, and thus the little comedy would
find a pleasant and profitable end. Filled with this splendid idea for
“spoiling the Egyptians” this time in the form of a Hebrew, the priest
hastened to the burgomaster and confided his plan to him. That worthy,
also, not at all averse to having a little innocent sport and gaining
some filthy lucre from the unbelieving Jew, at once gave the plan his
most hearty approval, and it was resolved to put it forthwith into
execution. Accordingly Reb Shemayah was astounded that evening, when
sitting in his room resting after the labors of the day, to hear first a
resounding knock with the old-fashioned knocker on his front door and
afterward from the lips of his Perla, who had gone to answer the
summons, and who returned with an expression of amazement not unmingled
with anxiety upon her face, the words, “The priest and the burgomaster
are here and desire to see you.”

Reb Shemayah at once felt that this visit betokened something unusual.
He had often met and conversed with the priest and the burgomaster,
singly and together; the one and the other had also been casually within
his four walls, but neither had ever visited him formally, and this
special visit by the two leading men of the village together he knew
must have some particular and unusual reason. He at once determined to
reflect ripely on whatever proposition they should make him, and to act
upon it in accordance with his best judgment and wisdom. He rose and
received them with great politeness; and after they had seated
themselves, in accordance with his request, he inquired to what he owed
the distinguished honor of their visit. The priest, in view of the
deference due to his holy calling, acted as spokesman and explained the
mission which had brought them thither.

“We have come, dear Reb Shemayah,” he said, “as a deputation from the
church and secular community of Nordheim, to show you how free from
prejudice or bigotry our village is, and in particular how greatly we
love and honor you. You know, of course, that it is a fixed rule with us
never to confer any of the honors connected with the rites and
ceremonies of our holy church upon any one but a true believer, in full
communion with and good standing in the church; but so greatly do we
love and esteem you that we have resolved for your sake to depart from
this time-honored and otherwise invariable rule, and to honor you as
greatly as we would the best of our true Christian burghers. We have
therefore come as a delegation to inform you that you have been selected
for the high and solemn office of bearing the Holy Image at the great
procession of ——mas next, and at the same time to congratulate you upon
this rare honor, which has never yet been attained by any Jew.” Reb
Shemayah listened to this smooth speech with external calmness, but with
the most violent internal agitation. The priest had understood well his
true feelings. His very blood ran cold at the thought of the proffered
_honor_(?). What! he, the scion of a long line of martyrs who had died
at the stake rather than prove recreant to the command thundered forth
amid Sinai’s flames, “Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image,
or any likeness of anything which is in the heaven above, or in the
earth beneath, or in the waters beneath the earth; thou shalt not bow
down to them nor worship them”; from whose dying lips had issued the
cry, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One”—he should march
in the procession of an alien cult and himself bear an image for the
idolatrous adoration of the multitude! He felt his very soul sicken at
the thought. But his keen mind and his shrewd, intuitive perception of
the fitness of things helped him out of his difficulty. He missed the
note of sincerity in the priest’s smooth words; he noticed that neither
his demeanor nor that of his companion, the burgomaster, was exactly
such as is characteristic of persons desiring to confer honor upon
another; besides, he knew full well how utterly contrary to all Catholic
rule and precedent it was to permit heretics to participate in church
ceremonials, and he could not conceive that an exception should be made
for him, and in a flash the whole devious machinations were revealed to
him, and he realized that it was only a cunningly thought-out plot to
extort money from him as the price of exemption. He resolved to baffle
the ingenious scheme with equal ingenuity, and to give the plotters no
opportunity to narrate later on, with vociferous hilarity, how shrewdly
they had victimized and blackmailed the Jew. His first step was to
express his sense of unworthiness of the proffered honor. “I feel
greatly honored, indeed,” he said, “by this proof of the esteem in which
my fellow-burghers hold me; but how can I accept such a distinction? I
am only a young citizen. There are others, older and better known than
I; besides I am not even of your faith. I am a Jew whom you deem an
unbeliever; and how, then, can I aspire to an honor which should be
conferred only upon a true and undoubted co-religionist of your own?”

“We have considered these things well, Reb Shemayah,” said the priest;
“and you need not hesitate to accept the honor on account of them. If we
esteem you so much that we are willing to overlook them, surely you need
not be troubled on that score at all.”

“But surely you know,” said Reb Shemayah, “that my religion also forbids
me to take part in such ceremonies. Judaism teaches me that the
fundamental ideas which you solemnly proclaim by your processions and
other such observances are not true; and I may not lend my countenance
to them by participating personally in services held in recognition and
affirmation of them. It is not lawful for me, as a Jew, to adore an
image, or to assist in its adoration by others. I am sorry; but, while
appreciating, indeed, the high honor you would bestow upon me, I feel
that I must decline it as not suitable to one of my faith.”

“My dear Reb Shemayah,” said the priest in a somewhat harsher manner,
while the burgomaster sustained him with a threatening shake of the
head, “I am sorry to hear you speak thus. Permit me to say that your
words are displeasing, not to say offensive. To decline on such grounds
the distinguished honor offered you is to scoff at our holy faith; is,
indeed, to insult our entire Christian community here in Nordheim.
Furthermore, let me remind you that it is a matter of civic obligation,
and that it is not feasible for a citizen to decline the honors or
refuse the functions which the community may see fit to confer upon him.
If such were permitted, our civic honors might go begging and all
authority would fall into contempt. You have been selected, as an
honored citizen, to take a leading part in a great public ceremony, and
it is expected that as a loyal burgher you will overlook your religious
scruples and perform your public duty. Both as a Jew, who needs to live
in peace with the inhabitants of other faiths, and as a true citizen of
this community, we expect, nay we insist, that you will at once declare
your willingness to perform the duty assigned to you by the constituted
authorities of the community.”

These words made a deep and evident impression upon Reb Shemayah. He was
visibly agitated. The choice the priest had given him was a hard one.
Either recreancy to his so ardently loved faith, or the disfavor of his
fellow-townsmen, and perhaps punishment as a scoffer at the established
religion, or a contumacious rejector of civic honors.

The priest and burgomaster gazed at him with triumphant eyes, thinking
in their hearts that now they had the Jew on his knees, and that
presently he would be begging and pleading for mercy, and offering to do
anything or give any amount if only they would release him from the
dreaded and abhorred “honor.” The priest was already considering the
amount he should ask as the condition of release; and the burgomaster,
foreseeing that the unselfish (?) disciple of other-worldliness would
want the lion’s share, was resolving in his mind that he would insist on
a fair and equitable division of the spoils, share and share alike. But
Reb Shemayah had prepared a little surprise for them.

“Your reverence,” he said when the priest had concluded his remarks, “I
beg your pardon for my hasty words, uttered without a true comprehension
of the importance of the privilege bestowed upon me. Your lucid
explanation has fully convinced me that I was in the wrong. I see now
that it is my duty as a good citizen to accept with gratitude any duty
which the community may assign to me, even if it does not agree with my
religion. I accept, therefore, the honor you have conferred upon me, and
I desire you to express my thanks to the worthy councilmen for the high
privilege which I have received at their hands.”

It was the turn now of the priest and the burgomaster to be agitated.
They could hardly believe their ears. Reb Shemayah, the Jew, the
heretic, to be the leading figure in the great——mas procession! The
thought was horrifying. They realized that their brilliant plan had
failed, that the Jew had triumphed, that they had gotten themselves into
a pretty pickle out of which they would have vast trouble to extricate
themselves; for, of course, Reb Shemayah had not been really invited by
the councilmen, and the matter had never been even broached to them by
the cunning schemers. They were beaten, disconcerted, crushed. Worst of
all, they had to dissemble, to pretend that they were delighted.

“Do I understand you, then, Reb Shemayah,” said the priest, suppressing
by a great effort his discomfiture, and forcing his countenance to
assume a pleased expression, “you are willing to accept the honor and
will bear the image at the procession?” “Yes, your reverence,” answered
Reb Shemayah. “Your eloquence has convinced me and induced me to do so.”

“Such being the case,” answered the priest, “we may consider the matter
settled and will now bid you good-by.” The priest and burgomaster
thereupon took their departure. When they were gone, the members of Reb
Shemayah’s household, who had heard with amazement, not unmixed with
horror, his declaration of willingness to bear the image, besieged him
with questions as to how it was possible for him to think of such a
thing. But Reb Shemayah only smiled and answered not a word. In the
meanwhile the priest and the burgomaster had a heated and angry
discussion. Each blamed the other for the extremely embarrassing
position in which they were placed; but the priest smarted most under
the reproaches of his colleague in iniquity, for the fact was
indisputable that the plot had originated with him, and it was
particularly mortifying to him, as a man of presumably superior wisdom,
to have committed such an egregious blunder, and to be in danger of
ignominious exposure. The upshot of their debate was that Reb Shemayah
must be induced to change his mind and withdraw his acceptance of the
impossible honor which they had tendered him, and that knowledge of
their scheme, and the manner in which it had been frustrated, must be
kept from the councilmen and the people in general.

But who should undertake the difficult and unpleasant task of
undeceiving Reb Shemayah, a task which, they clearly foresaw, would
involve confession of their guilty purpose and practically throwing
themselves on the mercy of the Jew, whom they had deliberately plotted
to torture and plunder, and who had so cleverly turned the tables upon
them? Each desired the other to undertake the disagreeable mission; but
finally the burgomaster yielded to the urgent pleadings of the
humiliated cleric and consented to visit Reb Shemayah and endeavor to
alter his unexpected resolution. Accordingly at a very early hour the
following morning—the burgomaster called intentionally so early in order
to forestall any attempt of Reb Shemayah to disseminate the news of the
distinction he had received—the burgomaster appeared again in Reb
Shemayah’s dwelling. Our friend was not in the least surprised to see
the burgomaster; in fact, he had expected that either he or the priest
would appear, but expressed, as in duty bound, great astonishment at his
early visit.

“To what do I owe the honor of this very early call, good friend
burgomaster?” he said, with voice and countenance expressive of
surprise. “Is there any other service, perhaps, which the community
requires of me?”

“No, good friend Shemayah,” said the burgomaster, with halting voice and
embarrassed manner; for, in good truth, he felt very cheap indeed. “In
fact, I have come to tell you that his reverence, the priest, and I
discussed the matter of your acting as image-bearer on our way back from
your house last evening, and we came to the conclusion that we had not
given enough consideration to your Jewish prejudices; and that we really
ought not to insist on your performing an act which is against your
conscience. I have, therefore, come to tell you that you are released
from the function for which we had selected you, and that you need not
act as image-bearer.”

“Aha,” thought Reb Shemayah, “so this is the direction from which the
wind blows! Well, you shall not get off so easy. You and your reverend
companion must first be taught a little lesson of consideration for the
feelings of others, and be discouraged from similar financial ventures
in the future.” Then he spoke aloud and in a tone of the utmost courtesy
and deference to the burgomaster. “I thank you, most worthy burgomaster,
for the delicacy and consideration for my conscientious scruples which
your words display, and which are no doubt felt also by his reverence,
the priest. But I have also reflected well on the matter, and I shall
ask no special privilege as a Jew. As his reverence so well explained
last night, it is a matter of civic obligation; and I do not wish, as a
Jew, to shirk any civic duty, or to have it said that my co-religionists
are unwilling to perform any task which the state imposes upon them. I
do not ask, therefore, for any exemption, but shall cheerfully perform
the task assigned me, and appreciate greatly the honor which I have
received in being selected for such a function.”

The face of our worthy burgomaster was a sight to behold during the
delivery of these words, and his feelings would beggar description. He
was a picture of limp despair, of utter dismay and dejection. He saw
clearly that there was no other escape from the predicament than to make
a clean breast of it, which he accordingly resolved to do. It is
unnecessary to enter here into all the details of conversation, to
repeat the faltering words of the confused and embarrassed burgomaster,
and the indignant outbursts of virtuous wrath on the part of Reb
Shemayah. Suffice it to say, that the burgomaster made an abject
confession of the whole despicable plot, and begged Reb Shemayah to have
consideration with him and his companion in guilt and not bring disgrace
on them both; which Reb Shemayah, after his first outburst of wrath had
subsided, consented to do, but only on condition that the priest, as the
instigator of the plot, should visit him and personally ask his pardon.

Both conspirators were glad enough to settle the affair in this way. The
priest appeared before Reb Shemayah the following evening with an humble
apology, which the latter accepted, but not until he had read the
abashed cleric a good lesson on the moral aspects of the priestly
vocation, and on the duty of respecting the feelings and scruples of
those who do not think as we do. Nothing ever became officially known of
the episode, but the facts leaked out somehow, as facts of this kind
have a way of doing, and became the common talk of the village for a
considerable time. The incident caused Reb Shemayah to be looked upon in
a somewhat different light than hitherto. He had previously enjoyed the
reputation of rectitude and piety; after this he acquired a name for
shrewdness and wit, so that the phrases, “shrewd as Reb Shemayah,”
“sharp as Reb Shemayah” vied in popularity in Nordheimer speech with the
other phrases, “good as Reb Shemayah” and “pious as Reb Shemayah.”

And thus this good and noble man lived his allotted tale of years in his
rustic home, respected and loved; yes, revered by all. As the French
king said, “_L’Etat, c’est moi_,” so Reb Shemayah could have said had he
been egotistical enough to have thought of such a thing, “The Nordheim
_Kehillah_; I am it.” He was the one dominant, overshadowing figure in
the whole Nordheim community; so that Nordheim became known as the place
where Reb Shemayah lived. And Nordheim people, when away from home and
stating whence they came, would often hear in comment the words, “Oh,
that is where Reb Shemayah lives.” Some of the less appreciative members
of the congregation resented slightly this preëminence, which was shared
by no one except Reb Shemayah’s excellent wife, Perla. Indeed, the
story-teller of the congregation, who was also the communal wag and
humorist, suggested that as Reb Shemayah was equivalent to the whole
_Kehillah_, the text of the _Yekum Purkan_ prayer, in which the
blessings of heaven are implored on Sabbath mornings for the
congregation, should be altered so as to restrict the benediction to Reb
Shemayah and his worthy spouse. He actually proposed a new wording with
that purpose in view, which, as it is not devoid of a certain wit and
may be interesting to those acquainted with the synagogue ritual, I
shall not refrain from giving in this place.

_Yekum purkan min Shemaya
Für die Perla und Reb Shemayah
In Nordheim vor der Rhön,
Ve-Nomar Omain._

Translated, this composition, a _mixtum compositum_ of Chaldaic and
Jewish-German, runs thus:

My salvation arise from heaven,
For Perla and Reb Shemayah,
In Nordheim before the Rhön,
And let us say, Amen.

But these rebellious murmurings did not dim even in the slightest degree
the brilliant radiance of Reb Shemayah’s reputation for learning, piety,
and benevolence. Ably seconded by his beloved Perla, who was on her part
also a model of olden Jewish wifely virtues, God-fearing, modest, hard
working, and tenderhearted, and who suffered from lack of recognition
solely through being eclipsed by the incomparable and exceptional merit
of her husband, he maintained an ideal home in which the traditional
principles of patriarchal authority and filial devotion, of strictness
tempered by gentleness and love, and of constant inculcation of lofty
ethical precepts were undeviatingly maintained. And when this gentle and
truly pious pair were laid away to rest—as they were within a few brief
days of each other—in the little Eternal House in Willmars on the other
side of the hill, tears flowed from the eyes of the many hundreds who
had followed them to their last resting-place; and all felt that the
words of the rabbis in the Talmud were but too true: “When the truly
righteous are departed from a place, gone is its glory, gone its
radiance, gone its splendor.”

Yes, Reb Shemayah was the crowning glory of Nordheim’s history, his
life-time the golden age in the pages of its annals. And therefore we
shall glance but briefly at some of the other whimsical or touching
figures that lived and moved and had their being within its ancient
walls. There was old Eliezer, who was always praying, because he thought
it a sinful misuse of human speech to apply it to any other use than to
the worship of the Maker. He always restricted his worldly remarks to
the briefest possible compass, and was never known to grow angry at any
one except on one occasion. Then it was the writer’s sainted mother, at
the time a little girl of a lively and humorous disposition, who had the
misfortune to arouse his ire, and even to receive a slap from his holy
hand. That happened in this wise. Eliezer had no sons, but two daughters
who bore the appellations respectively of Simchah and Glueck, the
signification whereof in the English idiom is “joy” and “good fortune.”
These two daughters, contrary to the usual lot of the Jewish maidens of
Nordheim, remained unmarried for a long time, so that at last they
entered into that state most hateful even to-day in our age of “bachelor
girls,” but doubly hateful then, old maidenhood. Finally Simchah
succeeded in becoming betrothed to a very worthy man. Eliezer was
overjoyed; but Glueck, although outwardly joyous, was, naturally enough,
more than a little jealous and displeased. At this juncture mother,
peace to her soul, chanced to meet old Eliezer when returning from the
synagogue, where the happy event had been announced and the young couple
duly blessed and, yielding to a momentary mischievous impulse, accosted
him thus: “_Mazzol tov_, Eliezer! I suppose your Glueck must have a
great _Simchah_ that your Simchah has such a _Glueck_.” The joke was
good; but Eliezer did not appreciate humor, and a slap was the reward of
this humorous effort. Eliezer not only spoke little at any time, but on
Sabbath he eschewed the vulgar vernacular altogether and would only
speak Hebrew, which language he alone considered suitable, as the holy
tongue for the holy day. But as he was anything but a Hebrew scholar,
the results of his efforts at restoring to colloquial use the idiom of
ancient Canaan I will leave to the imagination of the reader.

Then there was Asher, the _Chazan_, who was not really the Chazan or
official precentor of the synagogue, but a hard-working merchant in a
small way, who supported himself and his family by untiring and
unceasing labor and industry, but who was called Chazan because of his
remarkable knowledge of the traditional melodies of the German-Jewish
ritual. These melodies he could chant with much skill and a pleasant
voice; and his rendition of the services was so well liked by the
members of the congregation that they did not hesitate to say that Asher
“was a better Chazan than the Chazan.” Asher was a pleasant and friendly
individual altogether; but if one wished to gain his particular and
undying gratitude, there was no better way of doing so than by
communicating to him some new _niggun_ or Hebrew melody. It was my good
fortune to communicate to him some of the more modern synagogue chants
which I had heard in America, and which he, in his isolated village
life, had never had occasion to hear; and I do not doubt but he
remembers me gratefully to this day. Asher and his two brothers were
_Cohanim_—that is to say, of Aaronitic or priestly descent. As such it
was their prerogative, and that of their sons, to pronounce the
threefold benediction over the congregation on holidays; and it was
touching, indeed, to listen to their solemn and melodious rendition of
the ancient chant, and to notice the dignity and earnestness with which
they prepared to perform their traditional function. To gaze at them
while chanting the benediction was not permitted.

Then there was Isaac, the _Schlemihl_, a well-meaning, earnest
struggler, but a perfect type of the _Schlemihl_ or Jewish
ne’er-do-well, upon whose undertakings no blessing ever seemed to
descend. He worked harder, probably, than any three other members of the
Kehillah; but in his hands the fairest projects seemed to receive a
blight, and the most promising business ventures turned to wormwood and
ashes, to apples of Sodom and grapes of bitterness. But the Schlemihl,
perfectly useless though he was to himself and his family, had one very
evident purpose in the scheme of life, namely, to open the hearts of his
brethren to impulses of kindness and benevolence. They certainly acted
toward him in the most sympathetic and brotherly manner, and permitted
neither him nor his family to suffer. At the time of my arrival in
Nordheim, Isaac had just managed, through one of his usual transactions,
to lose all he had, and to have his house, which he had received as part
of the dowry of his wife, seized in satisfaction of his debts. But the
Nordheim Kehillah, assisted by some benevolent friends from other
places, paid off his debts, redeemed the house, and furnished him with a
certain amount of capital with which to begin life anew. For safety’s
sake the Kehillah retained the title in the house; for, as Uncle Koppel
said to me in confidence, “We might otherwise have to buy the house
every year.”

A peculiarly interesting character was David the horse-dealer, a jovial,
hale fellow, handsome too, and tall and strong as a lion, a very “mighty
man in Israel.” He was a stanch friend and reliable, and could be
depended upon to go through thick and thin for one who had once gained
his friendship. But David had one weakness, not unnatural, perhaps, in
those of his vocation. He knew no scruples of conscience in regard to
transactions in horseflesh; and some of his achievements in that line
had been, if report spoke truly, to say the least, extremely
venturesome. Thus he was credited with having once sold a Prussian major
who prided himself on his expert knowledge of the equine species, a
horse with only three hoofs. The manner in which David was said to have
done the trick was as follows: The deal took place in midwinter, when
the ground was covered with snow to the depth of a foot or more. The
horse was a fine animal, coal black and of handsome form, except that
the left front hoof was lacking. David led the horse out of the stable;
and as it stood in the deep snow before the Prussian major, who was
critically examining it through his eyeglasses, the absence of the hoof
was not noticeable. He then put it through its paces, cracking his whip
furiously, so that the horse leaped and dashed in a most fiery manner,
and the absence of the hoof was again not noticeable. The major was
charmed with the fire and grace of the animal, bought and paid for it at
once, and ordered it to be sent to his quarters. It is said that the
major was furious later, not so much on account of the money loss, but
because he, the expert, had been so neatly duped, and because he had no
legal remedy against David. Had David put a false hoof in place of the
lacking member, he would have been liable to a heavy penalty for fraud;
but he had not done so, and had made no false representation. And
therefore the major not only had no case against him, but could not even
demand the cancellation of the sale. Thus the story for whose veracity I
will not guarantee. But, however weak David’s conscience may have been
in matters of horsetrading, his conduct otherwise merited no reproach
and he was well liked.

Many were the estimable and lovable characters in Nordheim’s Kehillah,
and I cannot attempt to describe or even mention them all. Of Uncle
Koppel and Aunt Caroline I have already spoken. Uncle Koppel was a
typical Jewish _Baal-Ha-Bayith_, or householder, a business man of
probity, whose word was as good as his bond, a faithful worshipper at
the altar of Israel’s God, and a worthy upholder, by character, if not
by learning, of the reputation of Reb Shemayah, his father. Aunt
Caroline was a true mother in Israel, loyal, conscientious, and devout.
Their able sons and charming dark-eyed daughters were imbued with their
spirit, and together they formed an ideal household. Nor must I forget
Aunt Gella, the only other child of Reb Shemayah who had remained in the
native village, a woman of noble parts, who, had her lot been cast
somewhere else in the great world, might have played an important part
in history. Her noble brow, which emerged so modestly from the recesses
of her _Scheitel_ and her mild and clear blue eyes, showed her the
possessor of a strong and well-developed intellect; and her wise and
well-considered conversation showed that the reality corresponded to the
indications. Her heart was as warm and good and her spirit as firm and
courageous as her mind was keen and clear; and she was, so to speak, the
combined oracle and Lady Bountiful of the village. Was any female or,
for that matter, any male villager in trouble, in want of counsel or
help, she or he would direct her or his steps to the neat cottage in the
Long Street where dwelt Aunt Gella, and there would find counsel or
comfort, or whatever help was required. A plague of dysentery came once
upon the village, and then it was that Aunt Gella showed herself the
veritable angel of help. While it continued she hardly ate or drank or
slept or changed her clothes. She worked with tireless energy at her
mission of mercy, going from house to house among the afflicted ones,
bringing the right medicine to one, the right food to the other, and
money to the third. Dear Aunt Gella: methinks I see her sweet, mild face
now, and hear the words of blessing with which peasant and Jew mentioned
her name. And besides those whom I have mentioned, there were dozens of
householders in which piety, probity, and loving kindness were the
constantly practised rule of life.

Yes, Nordheim, I loved thee well, and I love thy memory. I loved thee
for thy simplicity, for thy natural goodness, for the true and
unpretentious way in which thou didst lay stress upon that which is pure
and noble, and didst reject that which is base and vile in human life;
for the picture which thou didst show me of the beautifying and
sanctifying effect of a simple, sincere, and honest Judaism, simply and
sincerely lived. Thou wast one of the forces which did lead me to love
and uphold the Torah, and to cleave to the faith which my and thy
ancestors received at Sinai from Sinai’s God.

Oh, that this tale of thee might work likewise upon the hearts of others
like me, children of an unbelieving and irreverent age, and stir them to
love for Israel’s God and devotion to Israel’s sacred heritage!

THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN.

How many of my readers know the little horseradish woman? Many, I have
no doubt, are more or less acquainted with her; and those who are not
can make her acquaintance without any difficulty. Almost any afternoon
and late into the evening, except on Sabbaths or Jewish holidays, she
may be found at her post in one of the blocks of upper Third Avenue, New
York, standing behind her improvised little table, industriously rubbing
away at her acrid merchandise, with only occasional pauses to wipe away
with the corner of her snow-white apron the tears which her lachrymose
occupation forces from her eyes, or to give customers extraordinarily
liberal portions of her finished product. The size of the portions she
sells is quite astonishing to the customer; but the little horseradish
woman is scrupulously honest in matters of weight and measure, of mine
and thine, and would not think of giving less.

[Illustration:

THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN

_Page 84_]

Her tears, too, are quite remarkable. Indeed, I believe that horseradish
tears have not been appreciated as they should be, for they are a
species entirely _sui generis_, and not to be confused with any other
tears that are shed on earth. Ordinary, every-day tears indicate sorrow
and produce weakness; crocodile tears indicate hypocrisy and produce
disgust; but horseradish tears are born of industry, and their offspring
are energy and good-humor. Such, at least, is the case with our little
horseradish woman; for, no sooner has she wiped away one of her
periodical outbursts of tears, than she begins to rub away again with
the utmost energy and the best humor in the world. My observation of the
tears the horseradish woman sheds has made me their confirmed admirer. I
have no liking for the lachrymose ebullitions of love-lorn maidens, of
snivelling swains, or of wheezing or wheedling Pecksniffs. Give me
horseradish tears; they are the honestest, cheerfullest—I had almost
said—manliest tears in the world.

Our horseradish woman is known by various names. Some call her “the old
Rebecca”; others, desiring to speak more formally or respectfully, refer
to her as “old Mrs. Levy”; but the appellation by which she is most
widely and popularly known is _das Meerrettich Weible_—the little
horseradish woman. It makes no difference, however, by what designation
she is known, she is popular under them all; for the little horseradish
woman is liked. Some like her for her courage in toiling so constantly
and industriously, and supporting herself at her advanced age; others
like her because of her unfailing cheeriness and good-humor; others,
again, because of her simple, trustful faith and earnest piety, for the
little horseradish woman is more than usually religious, and is to be
found in the synagogue, not only on Sabbaths and holidays, but also at
the early morning and evening services on week-days, and is one of the
most attentive listeners to the rabbi when he expounds the Sedrah on
Sabbath mornings, or “learns Shiur” on Sabbath afternoons or week-day
evenings.

It is a truly pleasing picture which the little horseradish woman
presents when she stands at her post ready for business. Her regular and
refined features, of the familiar Jewish type, are, it is true, worn and
wrinkled, and the hair which peeps out from under the cloth band and the
old-fashioned bonnet which surmount her head is whitened by the seventy
or more winters which have passed over her; but the light of
intelligence, of benevolence, and of pure and refined sentiments shines
in her countenance and makes it singularly attractive. Her clothing is
of the plainest. She wears a dress of some simple, dark material and
over it a long, white apron; but no patch, tear, nor stain is visible
anywhere, and we feel instinctively that we have before us a person who,
though in humble, even lowly circumstances, is naturally and
intrinsically refined.

But as yet we do not know the little horseradish woman. It is only upon
entering into conversation with her that we really find out what she is,
and a great surprise awaits us then. For this poor, little, old woman
who stands upon the street in all weather and seasons, and toils so hard
to earn a few cents by the sale of her commodity, comes of excellent
family, has had, for her time, an exceptionally good training, and is,
in some respects, a remarkably well-educated woman.

She was born as the daughter of a rabbi in a small provincial city of
Germany, and her father, besides instilling into her soul the seeds of
fervent Hebraic piety, saw to it that she received a thorough secular
and religious training. As a consequence her manners are those of polite
and well-bred circles, her German is pure and correct in grammar and
pronunciation, and what is most surprising and pleasing to the Jewish
scholar, she is acquainted with the entire Bible in the original Hebrew.
The Book of Psalms she knows by heart and quotes with amazing fluency;
and from her experience in her father’s house she has derived a large
number of technical Talmudic phrases, which she uses in her conversation
with entire correctness of expression and application.

And the most remarkable thing of all is the entire lack of
self-consciousness on the part of the little horseradish woman. She is
entirely unaware that there is anything out of the ordinary in her life,
her characteristics, or her circumstances. She never comments upon the
different conditions that prevail to-day, never boasts nor condemns, is
simple, natural, and unaffected; a typical, humble, pious Jewish woman.
Oh, that you might come, you artificial, affected daughters of an
artificial, affected age, and learn simple refinement and natural
dignity from this lowly sister of yours! The lesson is needed and would
prove effective.

Last Saturday night, after the “going out” of the Sabbath, my wife and I
also determined to go out for a stroll on Third Avenue. We often take
these strolls, and enjoy them. My wife loves the excitement of the
lights and the crowds, which make it doubly pleasant to meet an
acquaintance or make an occasional purchase; and I am equally fond of
studying human nature where it makes its most characteristic appearance,
in the busy throngs of men. We had not seen the little horseradish woman
for some time, for she had given up of late her habit of coming to our
house with her wares, and her stand was not on any of the blocks we
usually traversed.

That evening we extended our walk a little further than usual. As we
neared —th Street, suddenly Mrs. —— exclaimed: “Look, there is the
little horseradish woman!” Sure enough it was she, and we immediately
went up to her.

While she was returning our greeting with great cordiality and
friendliness, I noticed that she did not appear to be as well as usual.
Her movements were lacking in their customary vivacity, and her face
seemed thinner and paler than its wont.

“How are you getting on, Mrs. Levy?” I said, while she was filling a bag
with our ordered portion of horseradish.

“_Boruch Hashem_, quite well,” she responded with a smile. “My friends
are good and patronize me steadily, but I feel that I am growing older.
I was quite ill the other day. I nearly fainted here on the street; but
the people in the delicatessen store were very kind. They took me in and
gave me cold water, and kept me there until I recovered; and I am
feeling quite well now.”

While listening to her words, I thought to myself how hard her lot was;
and I asked myself whether it really was necessary for her to stand on
the street and earn her living in such a trying manner.

“My good Mrs. Levy,” I said, “don’t you think your life is too hard for
you? Would you not rather go to some institution where you would be
cared for?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she responded. “I don’t wish to go to a home. I
have a husband, although he is old and feeble, and good children who do
what they can for me; and I am glad that I still can earn something
myself. You know what King David says in the Psalms,” and she quoted
glibly, “_Yegia keppecho ki sochel, ashrecho ve-tov-loch_” (“If thou
eatest what thy hands earn, thou art happy, and it is well with thee”).
“I eat what my hands earn, so I am happy.”

“Why don’t you come to our house any more?” broke in my wife.

“Oh,” answered the little horseradish woman, “I heard that another woman
brings you your horseradish, and I did not wish to be _massig gevool_.”

Our package was now ready and we departed. But my thoughts gave me no
rest. I was thinking continually of the little horseradish woman, and
whether it was not possible to devise some means of improving her lot.

A few blocks down the avenue we met Mr. and Mrs. Bergheim. They are
friends and neighbors of ours, and our greetings were cordial. I soon
turned the conversation to that which was uppermost in my thoughts.

“You know the little horseradish woman, do you not?” I asked.

The Bergheims nodded assent.

“Don’t you think something could be done for her?” I continued. “It does
seem wrong that such a worthy old person should be forced to stand on
the street and toil so hard for a livelihood.”

The Bergheims smiled at each other peculiarly.

“What would you do for her?” asked Mr. Bergheim. “She is much too proud
to accept charity; besides, she really does not need to work, as her
children supply her with all she requires for herself and husband. Her
horseradish receipts are so much extra income that she earns.”

I must confess that this reply rather staggered me. There appeared to be
a mystery about the horseradish woman which was puzzling, to say the
least.

“But why, in the name of common sense,” I demanded, “does such an old
and not overstrong woman toil on the streets, in rain and shine, by day
and by night, if she has all she requires and does not need to work? It
doesn’t seem reasonable. She isn’t touched in her upper story, I hope?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Bergheim; “but you see, she has rather
unusual and exalted notions about duty. Since the requirements of
herself and husband are satisfied and she has some strength, she thinks
it her duty to labor for the poor. Every cent she earns by selling
horseradish she gives to the poor. It is quite an amount, for she has
many customers; and quite a long list of widows and orphans and feeble
old men who are regular pensioners on her charity.

“Every _Rosh Chodesh_ there is quite a gathering in her humble flat. All
sorts of needy and afflicted persons, men, women, and children, crowd
her rooms, and she divides among them, with the most kindly sympathy but
with excellent judgment, all the money she has earned during the month.
The blessings she gets are innumerable, and she considers herself well
rewarded thereby for all her trouble.

“I found this out by accident, as she never says a word about it to any
one. When I asked her why she went to all this trouble, she quoted a
passage from the Pentateuch: ‘Verily, thou shalt not harden thy heart
nor close thy hand against thy poor brother’; and in another from the
Ethics of the Fathers, ‘The poor shall be the children of thy house,’
and said those were her reasons.

“That, my dear ——, is why you cannot do anything for the little
horseradish woman, except to be her customer and patronize her
liberally. She wants no charity, and will take no gifts for ‘her poor,’
whom she wishes to assist with her own earnings.”

So that was the explanation of the riddle. The little horseradish woman
was emulating the work of the Master of the universe, was toiling early
and late to feed His hungry ones, to dry the tears of His afflicted, to
care for His poor. I was lost in admiration, both of the noble soul of
this humble daughter of Israel and the sublime glory of Israel’s law,
which put such thoughts into her soul.

I have made up my mind that the next time I see the little horseradish
woman I shall pronounce over her the benediction which the rabbis ordain
to be spoken at the sight of kings and queens, for she is a real queen,
an uncrowned queen of mercy and love. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who
hast given of Thy glory to flesh and blood.”

THE GENERAL.

I have distinguished company in my study this morning. No less a
personage than Gen. Sergei Pavlowitz, late commander of the —th division
of the regular Russian army, has paid your humble servant the honor of a
visit, and is now seated in the rocking-chair opposite my desk. I must,
however, ask my readers not to strain their imaginations unduly in
summoning up before their mental vision a suitable picture of military
pomp and splendor. The general is not in full uniform heavily braided
and trimmed with gold lace, nor radiant with glittering epaulets and
buttons. No plumed helmet surmounts his head; no clanking sabre swings
at his side; he is neither gloved, booted, nor spurred. His appearance
would not dazzle the onlooker, nor overawe the most timid; in fact, no
one would, at first sight, think of connecting him in any way with
marching hosts or warlike scenes. As he sits there in my rocking-chair,
gazing at me with his mild blue eyes, upon his head a little black
skull-cap, his long, snow-white beard flowing down upon the front of his
shirt and his black broadcloth coat; in his hand a stout cane to assist
the steps which age has made somewhat uncertain, while he descants upon
a matter of purely synagogical interest, there is no suggestion about
him of martial glory, no hint of the groan and agony and heroism of
battle. He seems just a plain, every-day, elderly Russian Jew, diffident
and retiring in worldly affairs, but bright enough in matters of Jewish
concern, of Hebrew learning, and religious practice, such a man, in a
word, as may be found in any of the orthodox synagogues throughout New
York but particularly on the lower East Side, where the places of
worship and solemn assembly of his brethren and countrymen most abound.

[Illustration:

THERE IS SOMETHING COMMANDING, SOMETHING INDEFINITELY MILITARY AND
AUTHORITATIVE ABOUT HIM

_Page 96_]

But now my visitor has concluded the business which brought him hither
and rises to depart. Immediately one can notice a vast change in the
impression he makes. He does seem different now from the ordinary
so-called Ghetto type he appeared identical with a moment ago. There is
something commanding, something indefinitely military and authoritative
about him. Though feeble, he stands perfectly erect, and his figure and
bearing are thoroughly military. Military, too, is the almost painful
neatness which characterizes his attire, from his well-brushed hat and
coat down to his brightly polished shoes, a far-off reminder, as it
were, of the days when a dull button or a frayed coat sleeve meant
disgrace and the guard-house; but most military of all is his right
sleeve, for it hangs empty, with only a short stump filling the upper
part near the shoulder, a mute reminder of bloody Sebastopol, where a
British sabre cleft the arm to which it belonged in twain, and its owner
hovered for many a day ’twixt life and death.

This is the General. Perhaps, strictly speaking, he does not deserve the
title, for he long since was stricken from the Russian army list, and
might even meet with condign punishment were he to return to his native
land; but once he bore it with full right and authority, and no military
shortcoming, no lack of loyalty or courage upon the battlefield was
responsible for its forfeiture. It is, therefore, only natural that his
friends and neighbors who know his history give him the title. So “the
General” he is, and “the General” he will remain, until death calls him
to his last long bivouac. What a tremendous change in state and fortune!
Once a distinguished military commander, whose slightest behest
thousands hastened to obey because of his heroism; beloved by his
countrymen and honored by his emperor; the husband of a renowned
general’s daughter, and with every prospect promising rapid advancement
and eventually loftiest rank; now the humble denizen of an obscure
street in the Jewish quarter of New York, his life in nowise different
from that of the other long-bearded habitués of the synagogue and the
Beth Hammidrash.

How came this Jew, son of a proscribed and pariah race, to attain to
such distinguished rank in the service of the persecutors of his people?
How came he to lose it, and to sink back again into the lowliness from
which he sprang? It is a strange tale, showing what sombre romances,
what heartrending tragedies Jewish life is still capable of producing in
the empire of the Czars. I shall tell it you.

Some seventy years ago there lived in one of the western provinces of
Russia a young couple. Israel Rabbinowitz was the husband’s name, and
Malka Feige that of the spouse. They were a pious and worthy pair. The
husband was a respected merchant, whose scrupulous honesty and
commercial rectitude were no less esteemed than his unswerving religious
fidelity, and the accuracy and extent of the Hebrew scholarship which he
displayed in the Talmudic debates of the circle of “learners” in the
Beth Hammidrash. Malka Feige was a worthy mate of such a husband.
Kindhearted, unwearyingly industrious, and devout, she was a typical
Jewish housewife.

They had but one child, a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy of eight, whom they
loved with the passionate devotion of which parental hearts are capable
when they have but one object upon which to concentrate their affection.
He was literally the apple of their eyes. His father cared for his
intellectual welfare, and provided the best and most highly esteemed
_Melammedim_ to introduce him into the intricacies of the Jewish
education of that time; and the lad, who had a bright and acute
intellect, responded well to these efforts, and at eight was quite a
little prodigy of Biblical and Talmudical learning. His mother, on the
other hand, looked after his physical well-being, fed him on delicate
food, clothed him in a _jubitza_ of extra fine material, brushed and
combed his little _peoth_ until they shone, and set her pride upon
making him finer and brighter in appearance than his comrades. Like
Hannah of old, she had determined to dedicate her offspring to the Lord.
Already in imagination she saw him seated upon the rabbi’s seat, greeted
by the plaudits of admiring thousands; and so strong was her faith in
that future for her son that she rarely called him by his given name,
which was Saul Isaac, but always referred to him as “my little rabbi.”
Thus the love, the hopes, the ambition of these parents were all wrapped
up in this, their only son.

Troublous times were just beginning then for the descendants of Jacob
living on Muscovite soil. Nicholas the First sat on the throne of the
Czars; and, like so many of the Russian potentates before and after him,
could find no more pressing task to perform than to convert his Hebrew
subjects to Christianity. He had no respect for the conscientious
scruples which kept the Jews faithful to their ancestral religion; he
could not appreciate the heroism with which they endured every
conceivable suffering and martyrdom rather than grow recreant to the
allegiance plighted to their God. In his eyes they were only a mass of
obdurate, stubborn, and pestiferous heretics, who refused to see the
beauties and accept the salvation of Christianity. He thought and
thought and cudgelled his brains to devise some scheme by which to
overcome the endless resistance of Judaism to its own dissolution, and
finally evolved a plan which for sheer deviltry and refinement of
heartless brutality would have done credit to the blackest fiend in the
legions of Satan; and this, too, in the name of the religion which
claims love and tenderness as its own special prerogative, and calmly
assumes all the progress of humanity and civilization as its doing.

His plan, in brief, was to separate the parents and the children. With
the old Jews, he knew nothing could be done. They would go to the stake
or the dungeon, and would not recant; but if, he reasoned, the young
Jews could be removed from parental influence, could be caught, so to
speak, before their characters were formed, and be placed in charge of
priests or other Christian officials, they would be unable to resist,
but would succumb to the powerful pressure brought to bear upon them and
would become genuine Christians.

This fiendish plan he proceeded, with icy deliberation, to put into
execution. What cared he for the cruelty or violent dissolution of
natural relations, for the tears of terrified children, for the
immeasurable woes and heart-breakings of bereaved parents. His tyrant’s
view of statecraft approved the plan and other considerations had no
weight. Then were legions of brutal emissaries sent into the provinces
reserved for the habitation of the children of Jacob. Their conduct
resembled that of brigands rather than of officers of the law. In
numbers so great as to defy resistance, they would fall upon some
unsuspecting Hebrew settlement, generally at dead of night; would burst
into the houses, and with utter disregard of all considerations of
justice or frenzied appeals for mercy, would tear the weeping and
terror-stricken children from the arms of their screaming and
frantically resisting parents, would throw them into the ready standing
wagons and would carry them off, never more to return.

It would take the pen of a Dante and the brush of their own Verestchagin
fitly to depict the awful scenes which occurred on the occasions of
these visitations, the demoniacal brutality of the despot’s henchmen,
the helpless terror of the childish victims, and the unutterable,
paralyzed agony of the wretched fathers and mothers who saw their
beloved ones dragged away to that which for them was worse than death,
and could do nothing to save them from their fate.

The same fate befell our Saul Isaac. It was a cold midwinter night. The
Rabbinowitz family were sleeping peacefully, all unsuspecting of evil.
Suddenly the sound of powerful blows upon the door caused them to awake
in terror. Too well they knew what those sounds meant, although there
had been no report that the “_chappers_,” as they were called, were
coming to their province. Hastily the agonized parents sought to find
some place of concealment for their son. A second later the door fell
beneath the shower of blows rained upon it, and several ruffianly
looking men, dressed in uniform, burst into the room. Without showing
any warrant or offering a word of explanation, they seized the shrinking
lad. Roughly they thrust aside Israel, who would have protested, and
flung off Malka Feige, who clung to them in a half-insane effort to
rescue her boy. The lad himself they tossed into the wagon, into the
midst of twenty or more other lads, who already cowered there, and drove
off.

Let us draw a veil over the unutterable sorrows of that parent pair,
thus foully deprived of the beloved of their souls. Heaven alone has
power to right wrongs such as these, and to the mercy and justice of
heaven we must commend them.

Let us follow Saul Isaac on the course which he was obliged to pursue.
His experience was not at first different from that of thousands of
others. He was taken to the convent of St. Sophia in the neighborhood of
Moscow. There a thorough Russian and Christian education was given him,
and every effort was made, by means of mingled kindness and severity, to
induce him voluntarily to accept baptism, for even the perverted and
tyrannical minds of his captors perceived that a compulsory
administration of the rite could have no binding obligation upon the
conscience. To be sure, their notions of voluntary action were rather
remarkably casuistical. Severe beatings, periodical starvation, and
longer or shorter terms of imprisonment were all considered legitimate
forms of missionary effort with which to persuade the cantonists, as the
abducted Hebrew children were called, of the superiority of Christianity
to Judaism, and to induce them _voluntarily_ to accept it.

It is a glorious tribute to the power of Jewish teachings that most of
these helpless victims, despite their tender years and pitiful
condition, were by no means quick to yield to the maltreatment or
blandishments of their masters. Most of them resisted for years; some
never yielded.

Four years were required to bring our Saul Isaac into the frame of mind
requisite for the acceptance of Christianity. At first he wept and
wailed constantly and would touch no food except dry bread and water;
and, young as he was, he refused to listen to the instruction of the
Russian monks. But as the weeks rolled into months and the months into
years, without seeing other than Gentile faces and without any word from
his parents or any other Jews, gradually his recollections grew dimmer
and his resolution weaker. Finally he no longer objected to the
Christian instructions, and in his twelfth year he was baptized with
great pomp and parade in the chapel of the monastery, receiving the name
of Sergei Pavlowitz. From this time on his advancement was rapid. After
three years of general education he decided to enter upon the military
career, and in his fifteenth year he entered the Imperial Cadet School
at St. Petersburg.

The memory of his parents had quite faded from his mind; or if the
thought of them ever came to him, they seemed like ghostly figures of an
unreal world, entirely devoid of actuality or connection with his
present existence.

Sergei Pavlowitz was one of the most popular students at the Cadet
School. His quick intellect, which had enabled him to comprehend the
abstruse debates of the Talmud, stood him in good stead in mastering the
details of military science, while his handsome figure in the neat
Russian uniform and his polite and obliging ways were universally
pleasing. In due course of time he graduated as a lieutenant of
artillery.

His career in the army justified the expectations of his student years.
He combined the two most requisite military qualities, high capacity and
rigid fidelity to duty. He became in rapid succession a captain and then
a colonel of artillery.

While holding the latter office he attracted the attention and then
aroused the love of Olga, the beautiful daughter of General Wladimir de
Mitkiewicz. Shortly afterward the General sent for him, and in due form
and in the most flattering terms offered to make him his son-in-law.
Such a distinguished honor could not be refused. To be sure, a momentary
pang went through the heart of the young colonel; and the shadowy faces
of his father and mother seemed to rise from the gloomy recesses of the
past and gaze at him reproachfully, but these sensations were too dim
and faint to have any effect. He accepted the offer of the venerable
General, which was, indeed, a most complimentary one, and because of
which he became the object of many congratulations and no little envy.

In the magnificent cathedral of Kurski-Kazan the nuptials of the dashing
Colonel Pavlowitz and the beautiful and accomplished Olga de Mitkiewicz
were consummated with all the gorgeous ceremonial of the Greek Church,
and amidst an unprecedented display of wealth and luxury. The vast
edifice was crowded with representatives of the noblest and finest
families of the province, while the streets surrounding the cathedral
were thronged with a vast multitude of the baser sort; and the personal
interest and gratification which all displayed were quite extraordinary.

It cannot be denied that the striking attentions and adulations of which
Colonel Pavlowitz became the recipient did almost turn his head. In no
other country are honors so much appreciated as in Russia; and those he
had received were quite exceptional, both in extent and in cordiality.

He was happy, very happy; happy in the possession of the radiant,
beauteous creature he could now call his own, and from whose sparkling
eyes love and devotion, ardent and sincere, shone forth; he was happy in
the evident sympathy and admiration of all his associates, and he was
happy in the consciousness that his future was secure and that he was
destined to a brilliant and distinguished career. Very faint and dim,
indeed, were now the images of the ghostly past, and they did not affect
his actions in the slightest; but somehow or other they would not
forsake him, and he often found himself wondering with a peevish sort of
dissatisfaction and impatience, why they did not leave him to enjoy
undisturbed the pleasures and honors of his present station.

Shortly after his marriage the Crimean war broke out. Russia was engaged
in a titanic struggle with the Western Powers, and Colonel Pavlowitz was
among those summoned to defend the fatherland. The parting from his
young wife was marked by tears and sobs; but still he heard the summons
to war with stern joy, for, like a true soldier, he longed to display in
actual combat the qualities he had gained in theoretic instruction; and
then he longed for action—intense, stirring action—to drive away the
shadowy, reproachful faces which tortured him by their constant
recurrence.

He was one of the commanders in charge of the defence of Sebastopol. He
was personally engaged, and displayed the greatest gallantry in many of
the desperate conflicts of that bloody campaign. At Balaklava he was in
command of a part of the artillery, which received the world-renowned
charge of the Light Brigade; and it was while fiercely beating off that
attack that an unexpected blow of a British sabre took off his right arm
near the shoulder.

For three months our hero lay in the hospital, the object of universal
sympathy and interest, for the good-will which had been previously
entertained toward him had been greatly heightened by the splendid
bravery and skill he had displayed in the war and the cruel wound he had
received.

The Emperor himself had sent several times to inquire concerning his
condition, and the visits and inquiries of lesser personages were
innumerable.

As soon as he was able to resume his active duties, the Emperor ordered
a review of the entire army. It was a glittering spectacle, a sea of
brilliant uniforms, shining bayonets, swords and cannons, interspersed
with magnificent bands of music, an ocean of deeply interested
onlookers. Our hero rode at the head of his regiment on a splendid black
charger, his empty sleeve hanging useless at his right side. As he
passed the grand stand where stood the Emperor and his brilliant retinue
of officers and aides, His Majesty ordered the parade to halt. Then in
the presence of the army and the serried throngs of spectators, the
Emperor addressed him as follows:

“Gen. Sergei Pavlowitz, my good and faithful servitor. I have noticed
the courage and devotion with which you have served in my army. It is
always my wish fitly to reward virtue and fidelity, and I therefore
appoint you to the command of the —th division of my regular army.”

Hardly had these words, which His Majesty pronounced in a loud and clear
voice, been spoken, than the entire army, breaking for a moment through
the restraints of discipline, and the vast throng of spectators, burst
into enthusiastic hurrahs and cheered again and again the name of Sergei
Pavlowitz. It was a glorious and inspiring moment.

Our hero flushed with pride and gratification; but, obedient to the
rules of military etiquette, said no word, but merely saluted with
profound reverence, and a second later the stern command rang forth and
the host marched on.

Words cannot describe the exultation which now filled the soul of
General Pavlowitz. He was fairly intoxicated with joy. Every ambition of
his life seemed gratified, and with rapture he thought of the delight
with which the news of his great advancement would fill the heart of his
beloved Olga, who had visited him during his stay in the hospital, and
had now returned to their home in Kursky Kazan.

[Illustration:

AS THE CAVALCADE PASSED A CORNER THE GENERAL HEARD A CRY

_Page 111_]

Little did he reck that a tremendous change was impending, that an event
was about to occur which would recall with irresistible force the events
of his early life and change the entire current of his military career.
But so it was, and the climax of his military ambition was also destined
to mark its sudden and complete end.

The parade had been dismissed. The spectators had dispersed, and the
various regiments were marching back to their several barracks.

Accompanied only by his staff and a small escort of cavalry, General
Pavlowitz was returning to his headquarters. Their road led through some
of the old streets of the town. As the cavalcade passed a corner the
General heard a cry. He alone of all the company noticed it, but there
was something in it that thrilled and chilled him and filled his frame
with violent agitation. It was a wailing, sobbing cry in a woman’s
voice, and its burden was made up of a few words, oft-repeated, in the
Russo-Jewish dialect: “Oh, woe is me, my little rabbi, my Saul Isaac!
oh, woe is me, my little rabbi, my little rabbi!” General Pavlowitz
heard the cry and understood the words. Though for more than twenty
years he had heard and spoken only Russian, yet those words came to him
as the far-off echoes of his own past, intelligible, familiar, sweet,
and unutterably sad. Like a flash there rolled away the many years of
Russian, Christian, and military training, and he saw himself again in
the happy days of his childhood, a little innocent Jewish boy, proudly
reciting his week’s lesson before a circle of admiring neighbors, while
father and mother beamed with satisfaction. Then, again, the memory of
the awful night when he was snatched from them, and he quivered again
with fresh horror and indignation. Turning his head as his horse trotted
on, he saw, standing at the corner an elderly Jewish couple, gazing
after him, with tears streaming from their eyes and an expression of
intensest anguish upon their faces, the woman wailing and sobbing as in
frenzy. He knew them at once. They were his father and mother. His
resolution was instantly formed. His parents and he should meet. Hastily
summoning a subaltern, who like himself was a baptized Jew, he bade him
leave the ranks unobserved, go back to the old couple and inform them
that the General would see them that evening at a certain quiet hotel of
the town.

Faithfully the subaltern fulfilled his chief’s commission, ignorant, of
course, of the reasons thereof, but with his soul filled with an
indefinable sympathy with its object, which instinctively he felt was
noble. Quietly he dropped behind the troop, and in a few hastily spoken
words communicated to the aged couple the wish of the General, whereupon
he put spurs to his horse and speedily rejoined his companions, none of
whom had observed his action.

That evening a young man in civilian attire inquired at the office of
the Narodski Hotel whether a certain Jewish couple were not at the
hotel, and was shown to the room where his parents (it was the General)
were awaiting him. The meeting was pathetic, almost tragic, in the
intensity of the emotions it aroused. The first sentiment was that of
great, overwhelming joy. The reunited parents and child wept and smiled
alternately, and embraced each other with a fervor only possible to
those whose hunger for love had remained so long unsatisfied. Especially
did Malka Feige clasp her long-lost son to her breast in a paroxysm of
maternal affection, and very, very reluctantly did she release him from
her embrace. But finally the first mighty ebullitions of emotion had
subsided somewhat and they began to discuss their eventful career and
the difficulties of their present position.

The parents’ story was soon told. Their presence in Sebastopol was quite
accidental, or rather, as they devoutly believed, providential. During
all these years they had been unable to learn anything of the fate of
their boy. They knew neither the place where he had been kept during the
first few years after his abduction, nor anything of his subsequent
experiences; and all of their efforts to obtain some information had
remained entirely fruitless, so that finally they had despaired of
learning anything of him any more. A few days previous to the memorable
occasion of their reunion, Israel had received a favorable business
proposition which required his presence at Sebastopol; and as Malka
Feige did not care to remain at home in utter solitude, she had
determined to accompany him. They had not gone to the review, for they
had no heart for pageantry or splendor, and it was quite by chance that
they happened to be standing at the corner of the street when the little
company of cavalrymen with the general rode by. Gazing at the company in
a casual and apathetic way, Malka Feige’s sharp eyes had at once
noticed, despite the disparity of age and brilliant uniform, the
resemblance in the features of the leader to those of her own Saul
Isaac, and her mother’s heart told her that this was her stolen boy.
Then had she, in a sudden and irrepressible outburst of feeling, uttered
the cry which attracted the attention of the General and brought about
the meeting.

Saul Isaac then told his parents the story of his experience, which, as
it is well known to my readers, need not be repeated. After he had
concluded, the conversation turned upon their future relations, and they
all recognized that it was a most difficult and dangerous one.

“Ah, dear son,” said Malka Feige, “what shall our future be? I cannot
live without you, now that my eyes have seen you alive; but how can we
come together, since we are but a humble Jewish couple and you a great
general, and especially since you have become, alas for my sins! a
Christian? It is indeed impossible for us to live together. The Czar
would never allow it.”

“Yes,” chimed in Israel, “and think what a disgrace it would be for us
to have it known in the _Kehillah_ that my son, the _Illuy_ and
_Charif_, was a _Meshummed_! I could never endure the shame of it. All
your glory would be no compensation.”

It was indeed a knotty and thorny problem. But Saul Isaac had already
reflected upon the matter in all its aspects, and with customary
promptness of resolution had determined what he would do.

“Dear parents,” said he, “be at rest. Never shall I forsake you more.
Now that God, the God of my fathers, has brought us together thus
wonderfully, we shall never be separated again. I shall stay with you
and be a Jew, a sincere, loyal Jew. I know that I must renounce my high
rank, to which the Emperor has just appointed me, and all my hopes for
the future, and leave this country; for, as a Jew, not only would every
avenue be closed to me, but as an apostate I would be sure of severe
punishment, and, perhaps, even of death. But what care I for that! I
have never been sincerely a Christian. I only became such because my
power of resistance was gone and there seemed no other prospect in life.
But now that I see you again, my resolution is formed, and is
unalterable. I love you; I love my poor, persecuted people; I love my
God. I shall return to you and to Him with all my heart and soul.”

The parents shed tears of joy, not unmingled with grief and
apprehension, at this heroic announcement.

“But how about your wife?” asked Malka Feige. “You are married to one
who is not of our religion, but who accepted you in good faith and
intention. Lawfully you may not abide with her, but honor forbids you to
leave her. What shall you do?”

“Of that, too, I have thought,” answered Saul Isaac. “I love my Olga
dearly, but my faith and my God are more precious to me than the love of
woman. I shall go to Olga, tell her frankly of all the circumstances
which surround me and ask her to accept our faith and become a Jewess.
If she consents, we shall leave the country together and all will be
well. If she refuses, I shall tell her that it were better that we
parted, for true, God-pleasing marriage cannot exist between persons of
different faiths. But, under all circumstances, I am determined
henceforth to be a true Jew, to live and die as such.”

The parents declared themselves satisfied with this solution of the
problem, and they separated with the understanding that Israel and Malka
Feige were to go home and Saul Isaac was to keep them informed of all
his movements.

The first step of General Pavlowitz after the reunion with his parents
was to seek leave of absence from the army to visit his wife in
Kursky-Kazan. This was granted him without difficulty, in consideration
of his meritorious services and his natural desire to share the joy of
his advancement with his wife. With every external manifestation of joy,
but with a heart filled with secret misgivings, he set out on his
journey. He feared much for the result upon his wife of the revelation
that he had reverted to Judaism, and hardly dared to hope that she would
look with favor upon his proposition that she should accept the faith of
her husband.

Knowing only too well the intense aversion with which his brethren were
regarded by the Russians belonging to the official Greek Church, and
having often had occasion to notice with what scorn and contempt the
name “Zid” was uttered by the haughty representatives of Muscovite
self-conceit, he realized keenly that no greater shock could possibly be
inflicted upon his Olga than the announcement that her husband was one
of the despised and hated Jews. But it appeared to him that no other
course was consistent with honor and rectitude, and he determined not to
deviate from the straight path of duty.

Often during the long and tedious journey he tried to imagine the answer
which Olga would give. Sometimes he thought of her as declaring that her
husband’s faith and people should be hers, and that with him she would
go to the uttermost ends of the earth; at other times he imagined her
saying that the faith of her fathers stood higher to her than aught
else, and that she would never forsake it. But in his wildest imaginings
he did not form any notion of what the actual reception of his words
would be.

He had determined to make his announcement immediately after his arrival
at home; but when he saw the radiant face of his wife and felt her warm
kiss upon his lips, his heart failed him. How could he speak words which
might bring sorrow to such a beautiful and affectionate creature. He
suffered himself to be carried to his splendid residence, and partook of
the luxurious repast which Olga had prepared for him. He simulated
gayety, and spoke with affected animation of the war and his part in it
and his advancement and brilliant future prospects. He determined to
make his announcement on the morrow. But on the morrow his courage had
not returned, and he could not speak. He who had faced charging armies
undaunted and looked death in the eye without flinching could not make a
statement which might grieve the woman to whom he had given his name and
who loved him so ardently. But on this day he was abstracted and
dejected, and could not suppress the sighs which from time to time
forced themselves from his breast.

Olga could not help noticing his melancholy. That evening she determined
to speak to him concerning its cause.

“Sergei, my love,” said she, when the evening repast had been served and
the servants had withdrawn, and they were nestling side by side upon the
luxurious divan, “Sergei, my love, something is troubling you. My
woman’s heart tells me that some secret grief is eating out your soul.
Will you not tell your Olga what it is? Will you not let me share your
grief?”

“Olga, dearest,” said Sergei, gazing at her with troubled eyes, while
sudden pains shot through his heart, “Olga, dearest, how can I tell you
what I know will grieve you and bring great sorrow upon her whom I love
and cherish more than myself?”

“Tell me,” she pleaded; “am I not your wife? Did I not swear to be the
partner of your joys and sorrows? Tell me your burden; and no matter
what it is, I shall help you bear it.”

“Well, then,” answered he, “since you urge me, I shall tell you. Know,
then, I am a Jew. Your husband, the great General Pavlowitz, is but one
of that abhorred race, one of those wretched pariahs whom the Emperor
and the people alike despise—a ‘Zid.’ Is it not sufficient cause for
grief that the high-born Olga de Mitkiewicz should be tied to such a
one, that he should be able to call her wife?”

Olga looked at him with eyes in which a curious light shone.

“What folly you speak, Sergei,” she said. “How can you call yourself a
Jew? To be sure, I know, and when I gave you my hand I knew, that Hebrew
blood flows in your veins; but it is now many years since you renounced
the sinful heresy of Judaism and were baptized into our holy Greek
Church in the chapel of the monastery of St. Sophia. How, then, can you
call yourself a Jew, since the church and our gracious Emperor recognize
you as good a Christian as any of us? Put away these foolish thoughts,
dear Sergei, and let not the fact of your Hebrew descent trouble you in
the least; and be assured that it does not diminish my love for you in
the slightest degree.”

Sergei gazed with tear-stained eyes for a moment at his wife, and then
spoke in a voice choking with emotion:

“Dearest Olga, what you say is well put, but I cannot recognize it as
correct. I was baptized against my will; my consent was insincere and
superficial. For a time I could disguise my real sentiments; to-day I
can do so no more. I am a Jew, in faith as well as in blood. I have seen
again my parents, and the sight of them has revived all my olden
feelings, all the childish love for my faith. No longer will I wear the
mask, will I play the part of being Christian. I am determined to be a
Jew. I intend to renounce all my offices and dignities and flee to a
land where I may be at liberty to live according to the dictates of my
conscience as such. My wife, too, should be a Jewess, should share my
beliefs and hopes. Olga, can you go with me; can you accept our Jewish
faith in one God and His holy law; can you resolve to share my lot in my
unknown future home and be a true partner to me for life and for
eternity? If you can, you will fill my heart with joy; but I do not urge
you to make the sacrifice. If you choose to remain in your faith and
your native land, you will be entitled to a legal divorce. I would leave
you all my property and possessions and will never trouble you again.
Speak, Olga, and tell me your decision?”

When Sergei had concluded he gazed again into his wife’s face, anxious
to know by its expression the manner in which she had received his
words. What he saw surprised him. He had expected to see there the
expression of anger or displeasure or, at best, surprise, uncertainty,
and hesitation.

Instead, he beheld the beautiful countenance of Olga, all radiant with a
strange and inexplicable joy. She was smiling a smile of triumph, almost
of exultation; but there was withal a solemnity in her eyes which showed
that there was no levity in her joy, but that it was based upon some
profoundly earnest sentiment. While he was gazing at her, almost
stupefied at her unexpected look, Olga began to speak.

“Sergei,” said she, “you have told me your secret. I shall tell you
mine. You belong to a proscribed race; so do I, and am now really your
sister in faith. You are a Hebrew. I descend from the Subotnikis, those
sincere seekers after God whom the renowned Zacharia of Tambow converted
to Judaism some centuries ago. As a student of Russian history, you know
that the emperors persecuted the “Judaizing heretics,” as my people were
called, with even greater cruelty and persistency than they did yours.
Imprisonment, deprivation of civil rights, and banishment to remote
sections of the empire, and even harsher punishments were inflicted upon
them.

“Under these circumstances thousands of our brethren fell away
completely; others fled to foreign countries where they openly professed
Judaism; and others nominally adhered to the Greek Church, but in their
hearts secretly cherished their faith in the one God of Israel and
endeavored to fulfil His holy law as far as in their ignorance and their
difficult circumstances they could.

“My family belonged to the last-mentioned class; but through the high
connections it has formed, it had grown quite lax and out of touch with
the brethren. But we have, nevertheless, never forgotten our origin;
and, though I feared to tell it to you, thinking you had become a
thorough Christian and would not like to be reminded of your former
state, your Hebrew descent was really one of the causes which gained for
you my affections, for we Subotnikis honor and revere those native born
in the household of Israel very much, and esteem a marriage alliance
with them a high privilege.

“Your announcement, therefore, of your intention to be a Jew, instead of
displeasing me, has afforded me the keenest joy, a joy I never expected
to feel. I shall accept your faith, dear Sergei, not merely because I
desire to please you, as my husband, but because my heart already
inclines toward it with sincere devotion. I shall share your lot and
your future, whatever they may bring of joy or sorrow. And like Ruth of
old I shall say: ‘Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God.
Whither thou goest I shall go; and where thou diest I shall die, and
there shall I be buried.’”

Words cannot describe the tremendous revulsion of feeling which the
words of Olga, so unexpected, produced in the breast of our hero, whom
we shall henceforth call only by his Hebrew cognomen of Saul Isaac. He
was transported from the depth of misery and apprehension to the seventh
heaven of joy by this so pleasing solution of a difficulty which he had
looked upon as almost insoluble. But Olga was also filled with joy, and
the radiant gladness which shone from her beautiful eyes showed that she
considered that hour, which meant for her the beginning of exile and,
perhaps, of poverty, as the happiest of her life.

The husband and wife, now joined by a new and profound sympathy,
embraced each other with a fervor of love they had not known before,
after which they sat down to write a letter to the parents of Saul
Isaac. In this letter Saul Isaac gave expression to the happiness which
filled his heart, and Olga wrote a few kindly lines, closing with the
words, “Your loving daughter and faithful handmaid of Abraham.”

The happy couple now made quiet preparations to leave the land.
Gradually the general disposed of his property and turned it into cash.
When this had been accomplished, after several months, the General and
his wife left the town of their residence quite openly, under the
plausible pretext of making a short foreign tour. Their first
destination was a frontier town of Roumania, whither Israel and Malka
Feige had preceded them. From this place Saul Isaac wrote to the
Minister of War, resigning his commission in the Russian army and
frankly stating his reasons for his action. Then they proceeded to
Jerusalem, where the parents of Saul Isaac had resolved to pass their
declining years in pious seclusion and the service of God. In the holy
city Olga was formally received into the community of Israel, the name
of Sarah being conferred upon her.

Here they lived for twenty years. Six children were born unto them, all
of whom received an excellent Hebrew and secular training, and were
reared to industry, virtue, and the fear of God. After the death of the
parents, which occurred in the twentieth year of their sojourn in the
holy city, Saul Isaac and Sarah thought it desirable, in the interest of
their children, to emigrate to America. Accordingly they settled in New
York some years ago. Saul Isaac and his wife selected for their
residence a portion of the city mainly inhabited by Russian
co-religionists, for in their midst they felt themselves most at home.

Saul Isaac finds his chief pleasure in attendance at synagogue, and it
is a question open to debate which affords him the most pleasure, the
sermons of the _Maggid_ or the gossip and anecdotes in which the
congregation indulges in the intervals of services.

As for Sarah, she is so thoroughly Judaized, so punctual and exact in
the fulfilment of her religious duties, so particular in maintaining the
_Kosher_ character of her household and such a fluent speaker of the
Russo-Jewish jargon, that one would never suspect in her anything but a
genuine Russian Jewess, native and to the manner born. Their children
have grown up to be handsome and talented young men and women, good Jews
and good Americans.

Saul Isaac and Sarah are happy and contented. No tinge of regret for
their former state ever enters their hearts. But often as they worship
in the synagogue there comes spontaneously to their lips the words of
Solomon: “Blessed be the Lord God, who hath given rest to His people
Israel.”

TOO LATE, BUT ON TIME

Moses Levinsky awoke with a start upon his humble couch in the little
hall bedroom in the sixth story of the immense and crowded
tenement-house in Eldridge Street, New York City, in which he dwelt. He
very much feared that he had overslept himself and would be late at the
early morning service of the Congregation Sons of Peace. The light which
shown through the narrow window of his room was much brighter than the
pale illumination which usually greeted his early waking eyes and seemed
to show that the day was further advanced. A glance at the cheap silver
watch which lay upon his trousers on the chair next to his bed showed
him that his apprehensions were only too well founded.

The Congregation Sons of Peace invariably began its devotions at 6 A.M.
Moses Levinsky was in the habit of rising at half-past five; his toilet
and the walk to the little meeting-room in the next block required
twenty-five minutes, and he was regularly in his place five minutes
before the voice of the _Chazan_ or precentor, chanting in classic
Hebrew, “Exalted be the living God and praised,” betokened that the
service of adoration and supplication, with which modern Israel supplies
the place of the ancient sacrificial worship, had begun. But to-day the
watch which usually indicated about a quarter past five when he first
glanced at it in the early mornings, stood at half-past six. The
congregation had already been engaged in prayer for a full half-hour,
and he could hardly hope to be with them before the services, which
usually lasted somewhat less than an hour, were concluded. Watches and
clocks are obstinate creatures. They persist in their opinions, which
can be plainly read in their faces. They care not at all how
disagreeable or unpleasant their statements may be to those who consult
them, and they can neither be reasoned with nor stared out of
countenance. And so Moses Levinsky’s watch did not recede at all for all
the hard stares which that rather confused individual directed at it;
but, on the contrary, advanced a minute or so, while he, who had now
risen upon his side and rested upon his left arm, gazed at it with
puzzled and rueful countenance.

The truth was that Moses was in doubt as to the right course to pursue.
His watch told him that he might as well make an exception to-day from
his regular practice and stay at home, for he could never hope to be on
time at the services, or even present during any considerable portion of
them. On the other hand, his conscience smote him greatly at having
overslept himself; and thus incurred the danger of breaking his life
rule, of always beginning the day in the house of God, and in the words
which the ship captain once addressed to the prophet Jonah when he had
gone to sleep in the midst of all the turmoil of the storm, it called to
him, “What aileth thee, O sleeper? Arise, cry out unto thy God.” After a
minute’s hesitation conscience won the battle over comfort. Moses
hastily sprang from his couch, made his simple toilet as speedily as
possible, and in something less than twenty minutes was on his way to
the little synagogue (“place of prayer” was the unassuming name which
the worshippers themselves gave it) of the Congregation of the Sons of
Peace. While he is on his way thither, we will take occasion to describe
him to our readers; for many of them, no doubt, are at a loss to
understand what kind of a person he is, and particularly fail to
comprehend why he should be so dreadfully put out at the mere
possibility of being absent from prayers one morning, a thing which, I
am sure, would never disturb the majority of my worthy readers in their
mental tranquillity.

[Illustration:

HE WAS NOTHING BUT A COMMONPLACE, EVERY-DAY PEDDLER

_Page 131_]

Moses Levinsky was a very ordinary and insignificant individual, such as
you might pass a thousand times in the street and never pay any
attention to. He was nothing but a commonplace, every-day peddler who
wandered from morning to evening through the streets of the great
metropolis, with a huge basket suspended in front of him, filled to
overflowing with a miscellaneous assortment of goods—suspenders, shoe
laces, pins, needles, tape, handkerchiefs, stockings, and what not—and
endeavored to induce his fellow-beings to purchase sufficient of his
store to provide him with a meagre livelihood. He had straight and
regular features, of a rather handsome Semitic type, though worn and
furrowed, not so much by years—he was only forty-three—as by care and
anxiety; his hair and large irregular beard were black, heavily streaked
with gray, and his clothes and close-fitting derby hat were decidedly
shabby. All in all, he was not an imposing figure; and when we add to
the unimpressiveness of his exterior the fact that he had a nervous,
deprecatory manner, and looked around him with timid, apprehensive eyes,
and also that he was a very indifferent master of the vernacular, which
he spoke hesitatingly and with a pronounced Slavonic-Jewish accent, the
reader will at once realize that he was of the type which low comedians
love to caricature and street urchins to mock at, if not to treat worse.

But his external appearance was no indicator, except for those who are
accustomed to read and understand such exteriors, of his internal
characteristics. Beneath the unprepossessing outward semblance there
dwelt a keen intellect and a noble soul which might well deserve the
admiration of the discerning. He had received a good education of its
kind in his youth in his Russian home. He had been thoroughly trained in
Hebrew, had read the entire Bible in the original, and was well
acquainted with the Talmud and the modern Hebrew literature from which
he had derived correct ideas of the world and the development of modern
science. But he had not been able to utilize his training either in his
native land or America. In Russia he had desired to become a rabbi, for
which his learning and his sincere religious bent amply fitted him; but
all the positions he knew of were filled, and so after a few years’ vain
waiting he kissed his wife and his two little ones good-by (he had
married early while still a student at the _Yeshibah_) and set sail for
America, where, he thought, congregations without number were ready to
greet him as their spiritual chief. But a brief glance at the conditions
surrounding the rabbinate among his immigrant brethren under the Western
skies had cured him of his desire to make it his vocation. As he had
neither capital nor sufficient secular training to enable him to become
a merchant, or secure a remunerative commercial position, he had only
the choice between two ways of gaining a livelihood. He could become a
workman in a sweat-shop or a peddler. He chose the latter and, at the
time this story begins, had pursued the occupation of itinerant
merchant, an occupation in which there is little gain and less glory,
for some ten years. During all these years he had permitted himself only
one form of pleasure, attendance at the House of God. The theatre knew
him not, the interior of saloons saw him only when on business bent; but
at the synagogue he was a regular attendant, never missing the early
morning services or the evening gatherings, in which the rabbi expounded
the Talmud and its commentaries to a group of attentive “learners.”

Apart from his natural piety it had gradually become a matter of pride
with him to be regular and punctual in his attendance at the synagogue,
and consequently he felt considerably mortified when on the morning of
our tale he found that he must either be absent or late at service. On
his way to the house of worship he tried to console himself with the
sneaking hope that perhaps his watch was fast and that the hour was not
really as late as it indicated. But his hopes were doomed to
disappointment. As he entered the little synagogue the mourners were
just repeating the last _Kaddish_, and most of the other worshippers
were folding and putting away their _Tallithoth_ and _Tephillin_,
preparatory to leaving for the work of the day.

Poor Moses! A pang went through his heart at the thought that he, whose
punctuality and zeal had become proverbial, should be so culpably remiss
as to appear in _Shool_ when services were practically over, and a
keener pang yet pervaded him when he noticed the expression of
wonderment with which his companions and fellow-members gazed at him.
Nor did they confine themselves to looks of amazement; but, being
finished with their devotions, they gave free expression to their
astonishment in questions. “What’s the matter, Levinsky?” he was asked
from all sides. “Aren’t you well, or are you getting lazy, or are you
turning _link_?” To all these interrogations Moses returned no answer;
indeed, he felt morally too much crushed to defend or even to palliate
his shortcoming. Gloomily he proceeded to put on his prayer-shawl and
phylacteries and with much less fervor than usual he recited the morning
prayer. By the time he had concluded his devotions every one else had
left except the _Shammas_, who, obliged by his office to remain, had
waited impatiently to lock the synagogue, and who felt considerably
aggrieved at Moses for having caused him to lose so much of his valuable
time, which might have been utilized for collecting a bill or arranging
a _Shidduch_. Listlessly Moses left the room and directed his feet
street-ward, but not too listlessly to feel the withering glance of
reproach which the _Shammas_ shot after him as he departed.

The street was thronged and bustling with the full tide of activity
which had now begun, but Moses paid no attention to its appearance. He
did not even notice the friendly greetings of several acquaintances whom
he passed on his homeward way. His mind had only room just then for one
thought, that of mortification at his inexplicable tardiness and the
humiliation which that morning had brought him in the opinion of his
fellow-congregants. He reached the huge tenement he called his home and
began mechanically to climb the narrow and interminable staircases that
led up to his room. The building was comparatively quiet. Most of the
male inmates and of the children of school age had already departed, the
former to take up their daily tasks, the latter for the immense public
school a few blocks away. No one met him on the stairs to draw his mind
from its gloomy abstraction. But as he reached the fifth floor he
perceived something which at once, arrested his attention and turned his
thoughts to matters outside of himself. It was a strong and pungent
smell, the smell of smoke. He stopped, all his senses at once keenly
alert. Like all tenement-dwellers he realized well the meaning of smoke.
It meant fire, and fire all too often meant death in those lofty and
crowded edifices, from whose upper portions escape was always difficult
and sometimes impossible. Even as he stood, the noise of uneasy motion
in the apartments at the side of the hall where he was and a sudden
clamor of voices within betokened that their occupants too had smelt the
smoke and were seized with sudden dread. Doors were flung open; the
white, anxious faces of frightened women, followed by wondering little
children, peered out. There was a rush of feet in the hall below and
quavering voices screamed “fire! fire!” By this time (a very brief
interval only had passed) Moses Levinsky had located the direction
whence the smoke proceeded. It came from the sixth story, and was
already quite dense at the head of the stairs. As he gazed, Levinsky
thought he could hear children’s voices, faintly crying, as if half
stifled.

What should he do? For a moment he thought he would rush downstairs to
the street and start the fire-alarm at the next corner. But he realized
instantly that quicker action was necessary in this case, that human
lives, children’s lives probably, were in imminent danger, and that he
must do something himself to rescue them, leaving to others the task of
notifying the fire department. With a few swift bounds he was at the
next landing, clearing three steps at every leap. The fire was evidently
in the apartments on the left side of the hall, where lived the Shapiros
with their three children, for dense smoke was pouring from their rear
door and children’s voices were heard from within, feebly wailing. The
rooms on the other side of the hall, occupied by the Arnowitzs, a young
married couple, were still and evidently empty. With one rush Levinsky
was at the door through whose interstices the smoke proceeded and
endeavored to open it. It was closed and resisted his efforts. He kicked
at it frantically. It did not yield. In the meanwhile the smoke was
pouring forth in denser clouds, paining his eyes and his lungs, and the
children’s voices were growing fainter and feebler. With mad frenzy
Moses Levinsky threw his body against the door; it shook and quivered
but did not yield. Again he tried to kick it in, striking his right foot
in his thin boot against the door with all his strength, and with utter
disregard for the pain and possible injury to himself. In vain. The door
was strong and firmly locked, while Levinsky was but an indifferent
specimen of muscular development (his athletics had all been of the
intellectual variety), and all his efforts to break it down were of no
avail. Several precious minutes had now passed and Levinsky was almost
in despair. He was hesitating what to do, and half inclined to rush
downstairs in quest of additional help when his eyes, aimlessly
wandering about the hall, chanced to light in the opposite corner, and
lo and behold! there stood an axe. It was the axe with which Shapiro was
accustomed to chop wood in the yard. Usually he kept it in his rooms,
but that morning had left it, by a providential chance, in the hall.
Instantly Moses Levinsky seized it. A few vigorous blows, launched with
all his strength against the door, brought it down and he rushed into
the smoke-filled room. In the corner he saw dimly three little figures.
Two were clinging to each other and one was lying prostrate on the
floor. They were Sarah and Ikey, the five-year and three-year-old
daughter and son, and little Josey, the eighteen-months-old baby of the
Shapiros. The older ones were still conscious, but wee little Josey had
been overcome by the smoke and had fallen to the floor. In the middle of
the room stood the large family bed, the bed-clothing fiercely burning
and emitting dense volumes of black smoke. Levinsky’s first thought was
of the children. Lifting up and holding the unconscious child with his
right hand and taking a hand of each of the other children in his left,
he rushed from the room.

By this time the whole house and all the neighborhood had taken alarm.
As he hastened down the stairs, in an effort to find a place where the
unconscious child might have fresh air, there came rushing toward him a
throng of neighbors; among them several firemen, with a portable
extinguisher, and a physician. Moses Levinsky’s task had been
accomplished. The firemen proceeded to deal in systematic manner with
the fire, which had now grown large enough to threaten the whole house.
The physician took charge of the unconscious infant and in a few minutes
had brought him to. But who is this whose agonized screams are now
heard, and who comes rushing through the dense crowd, frantically
crying, “My children! O my children!” It is the mother, Mrs. Shapiro,
who had gone out to do her marketing, together with her neighbor, Mrs.
Arnowitz, and, in the manner customary in that vicinity, had locked her
children in the room until her return. When she saw that her children
were alive and well, she kissed and hugged them frantically, and drew
them to her breast as if she half doubted the evidence of her senses.
Then she asked who was their brave rescuer; and when all pointed to
Moses Levinsky, she fell on her knees before him and kissed his hands
and called him a _Malach_ of God, sent directly from heaven to rescue
her dear ones. But Moses Levinsky did not grow at all conceited nor take
the praise to himself. His face was lighted up with the gleam of
intelligence, with the satisfaction of a problem solved. All he said
was: “Now I see that God is good and His plans are wise. He made me late
at _Shool_ so that I should be on time to save these poor _Nefoshos_. I
was too late for one _Mitzvah_, but just in time for another, and that
is quite in accordance with the _Halachah_; for does not the Talmud tell
us, ‘He that has to perform one _Mitzvah_ is exempt from another’?”

THE PROSELYTE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS.

About fifty years ago a group of street-idlers and passers-by were
standing at the corner of one of the narrow and old-fashioned streets
near the old harbor of Marseilles, amusing themselves at the plight of a
short, dark-complexioned man who stood in their midst, and who was
evidently a foreigner and a stranger in the town. It was a typical early
summer day in one of the busiest spots of the metropolis of southern
France. The sun shone with a brilliance and a radiance characteristic of
the region and the season, and was just a little too warm for comfort;
and the streets were crowded with a motley throng partly composed of
Frenchmen, among whom the natives of northern France and the provençals
or inhabitants of the south could be easily distinguished from each
other by their diversity of type, and partly by representatives of
various races and nationalities varying in shade from the olive-skinned
Spaniards, Italians, and Greeks to the coffee-brown Arabs and Moors from
northern Africa, with here and there among the throng a negro of ebony
blackness.

[Illustration:

A GROUP OF STREET-IDLERS WERE AMUSING THEMSELVES AT THE PLIGHT OF A
SHORT, DARK-COMPLEXIONED MAN WHO STOOD IN THEIR MIDST

_Page 142_]

The great press upon the streets was due in part to the normal activity
of the town; but more to the fact that three of the great sailing
vessels which, in those ante-steam-navigation days managed the freight
and passenger traffic between the Levantine ports, had that morning
discharged their human cargoes at three of the principal wharves in the
neighborhood, and the stream of released passengers was flowing through
the adjacent streets before becoming commingled with the general human
flood of the city. There were many strange figures among the new
arrivals, but they all appeared fairly at home in their new
surroundings. Some may have been in Marseilles on previous occasions,
and others were met by relatives or friends who guided them to their
respective destinations. Thus all were cared for in the strange city
except one, and he the woe-begone individual whom we have seen standing
at the street corner amidst the knot of street _gamins_ and loiterers.
They had fine sport with him, commenting on his outlandish appearance,
and asking him all sorts of facetious questions in the vulgar _argot_
they spoke; but he understood nothing, and only looked helplessly from
one unsympathetic face to the other, saying only occasionally in a dazed
sort of way, to the one or the other, in what seemed to them an
unintelligible gibberish, the mystic words, “_Yehudi Attah? Yehudi
Attah?_” Every such utterance would be greeted with a shout of laughter;
that is to say, by all except one.

Benjamin Dalinsky, a Jewish peddler, whose cradle had stood on the banks
of the Dnieper, but whom fate had carried to the land of the Gauls, and
who found his subsistence as an itinerant merchant in the southern
French metropolis, chanced to pass the spot where these scenes were
being enacted, and paused a moment to ascertain the cause of the
excitement. The stranger noticed the newcomer, and addressed to him the
query he had so often fruitlessly repeated: “_Yehudi Attah? Yehudi
Attah?_”

A thrill went through the whole body of Benjamin Dalinsky. He understood
the mystic words. He heard in them an echo of the voices of his
childhood, and of the spirit of his home, which he missed so sadly in
this strange, un-Jewish France. He felt in them the yearning of a Jewish
soul for the companionship of a brother in faith, in sympathy, and in
affection. His soul went out in sudden attraction to this dark-hued
stranger, whom he had never seen before; and in the same ancient tongue,
the Hebrew, in which the stranger had made his inquiry, he answered:
“_Ani Yehudi bo immi achi._”

Great, overwhelming joy lit up the dark face of the stranger. With
mingled love and deference he bowed low and kissed the hem of the coat
of Dalinsky, who quickly drew him from the midst of the throng; and the
wondering French idlers stepped aside as this strangely assorted pair,
the fair-haired son of the North and the swarthy Oriental walked away
together. Dalinsky’s lodgings were but a short distance away—he had a
room with a Jewish couple who eked out their scanty earnings with the
small amount he paid them and thither he quickly led the stranger. After
he had given the latter an opportunity to wash himself and eat
something, which he did ravenously after he had satisfied himself of its
ritual purity, for on the ship he had tasted hardly anything of the food
of the Gentiles, he asked the stranger what had brought him to this
unknown country, whose language and manners were alike unfamiliar to
him. In classic Hebrew, which he spoke with perfect fluency and with
great animation and vivacity, the stranger told the following tale:

“I am a Jew; and it is the pride and glory of my life that I belong to
the faith first proclaimed by Abraham, and whose sacred laws and
ordinances I endeavor faithfully to fulfil; but I am not native-born in
the household of Israel. I am only an adopted child therein, although, I
trust, my love for the people which is now mine is none the less warm
and true on that account. By origin I am a Greek. I was born on the
beautiful island of Corfu, the pearl of the archipelago, where grow the
finest and choicest _Ethrogim_, most suitable of all species for the
solemn ceremonies of the Feast of Tabernacles; and the name upon which I
was baptized was Dimitri Aristarchi. To-day I am known in Israel as
Abraham Ger-Tsedek. The manner in which I came to seek entrance into the
congregation of the Lord was most extraordinary; and my statement may
seem to you but little worthy of credence, but I solemnly assure you it
is true. It happened in this wise. My family was an old and
distinguished one in the island; but my father, in consequence of ill
success in various business ventures and a series of other misfortunes,
lost all his wealth when I was a lad of about fifteen, and shortly
afterward died. My poor mother, overwhelmed by the double loss of her
dearly beloved husband and all her earthly possessions, did not survive
her life partner long, but within a few short weeks followed him into
the grave. I was thus thrown entirely upon my own resources; and as I
was an only child, without either brother or sister, and had learnt no
trade or profession, having been reared in the luxurious and careless
fashion usual in my country in well-to-do families, my condition was
indeed desperate. There was nothing left for me to do except to seek a
position as a domestic servant, in which no special skill is required
and in which industry and good-will may supply the place of training. It
was a most humiliating necessity, which drew many tears from my eyes. I,
the pampered child of wealth, must seek my daily bread as a menial! But
there was no alternative; and as the saying is, ‘Necessity can neither
be praised nor blamed.’

“It so happened that I found employment in the house of a Jewish
physician, Moses Allatini by name. He was a man of considerable
prominence, handsome and distinguished in appearance, extremely skilful
in his profession, but learned as well in Hebraic lore. His wife,
Esperanza by name, was radiantly beautiful, with the pensive, thoughtful
beauty that marks so many of the daughters of Israel, and as
kind-hearted and pious as she was beautiful. Their family consisted of
seven children, all well-bred, polite, and lovable. At the time of my
entrance into the household there was a baby, a sweet boy of two years,
with curly black locks clustering around a face of alabaster whiteness,
and eyes in whose liquid black depths an infinity of sentiment was
revealed. As I was not good for much else, Raphael, for so the youngest
was called, was assigned to my care, at which I greatly rejoiced, for I
had fallen in love with the sweet child when first these eyes lighted
upon his angelic countenance. I devoted myself to his care with the
utmost zeal. I washed, bathed, and clothed him, took him out daily in
the fresh air, gave him his meals, and tucked him in his little bed
nightly when he closed his beautiful eyes in sleep. I learnt the little
Hebrew prayers which Jewish children recite when they lie down to rest
at night, or when they rise in the morning, and the benedictions which
they pronounce on various occasions in order that I might dictate them
to him, and that no one should come between me and my dearly beloved
charge. Raphael reciprocated my attachment; no doubt because he
perceived its sincerity and we grew inseparable. As he grew older our
love for each other did not diminish; on the contrary, it increased and
grew deeper and more intense. Next to his parents Raphael loved best his
Dimitri; and as for me, I had no one else in the wide world for whom I
need care, and I concentrated upon him all the intensity of love of a
naturally warm and affectionate heart. I continued to have the exclusive
charge of Raphael, participated in all his sports and games, and
accompanied him whenever he went out. Indeed, he always insisted that I
must be his companion, and refused to go anywhere unless I was with him.
Our great love for each other became generally known and excited great
interest, especially among the Hebrew inhabitants—the Greeks were not so
well pleased—and the Allatini family were universally congratulated upon
the possession of such a faithful and devoted servitor. When Raphael was
four years old his parents began to take him to the synagogue on
holidays and Sabbaths of special importance; and as he insisted upon my
accompanying him, a request which excited great amusement among the
family and the others who learned of it, I was one of the party on these
occasions. Thus was I first introduced to the ancient Hebrew worship as
it is conducted in the Jewish House of God. I was deeply impressed by
the melodious chanting of the _Hazan_, in which the congregation joined
harmoniously from time to time, and I listened with great interest to
the learned and pious discourses of the venerable rabbi. But there was
no thought in my mind at this time of allying myself to Israel; and as
for the Allatinis and the other Hebrews, they never even dreamed of such
a thing.

“When Raphael had attained to the age of five, Dr. Allatini declared
that it was now time to teach him the Hebrew language, and to begin to
initiate him into the knowledge of the Bible and the rabbinical
writings. But now a new and unexpected difficulty arose. Raphael
insisted stoutly that I must take the lessons, too, and declared that he
would learn nothing unless I was his fellow-scholar. This was a little
too much for his good parents. They tried to make him comprehend that it
was absurd to make a Gentile study the Hebrew language and religious
literature; and to me, too, the thing appeared exceedingly dubious; but
he would have nothing of their arguments and, with the unreasoning
obstinacy of childhood, insisted that I must participate in the
instruction. ‘Dimitri does everything with me,’ he said, ‘and he must
learn with me, too. If Dimitri will not learn, Raphael will not learn
either.’ There was no help for it. His youthful mind was fixed in the
idea that I must be his companion in study as in all other things; and
his parents, seeing that it was impossible to change his view, yielded,
half in amusement and half in vexation, to his wish. Thus I became a
student of the Holy Law; and I bless God for the hour when He separated
me from those that are in error and brought me near to Him, by enabling
me to become acquainted with His Torah and to recognize the wisdom and
holiness of His teachings. A teacher was engaged, the ablest Hebrew
scholar of the town, and he began to instruct what he declared was the
strangest pair of pupils he had ever had, the Greek Gentile youth of
eighteen and the Hebrew lad of five. Both of us learned zealously.

“Now that I had begun I was eager to learn all that I could of Hebrew
lore; and Raphael, pleased that his wish had been gratified, and
possessing a bright and acute intellect, learned rapidly and well. We
began with the Hebrew alphabet and the rudiments of the sacred tongue;
but soon we had mastered these elementary portions and took up the
reading of the Scriptures, at first in the simple text and afterward
with the commentaries of various learned rabbis. I cannot find words
with which to describe the profound impression which this course of
study made upon me. What had at first been a mere good-natured
compliance with the whim of a child became afterward a most fascinating
and absorbing pursuit, the most important part of my intellectual and
spiritual life. At first I was charmed with the Hebrew tongue as a
vehicle of thought and expression, with its pronunciation, at once
sonorous and melodious, with its symmetrical and harmonious grammatical
construction, with its brief and yet richly expressive phrases and
sentences; then the sublimity and grandeur of the Biblical teachings
stirred and moved me. I wondered at the divine wisdom of the creation; I
admired the grand and heroic leaders, God-inspired prophets and teachers
who spread the knowledge of the universal Master among men; I began to
understand why Israel existed on earth; I followed with deepest interest
the checkered history of the chosen people; I triumphed with Solomon
when the holy house was dedicated on Zion’s height, and I wept and
sorrowed with Jeremiah when it sank in ruin. The wisdom of the Torah
impressed me deeply, its numerous statutes and ordinances, all designed
to bring about the one end, the happiness and well-being of mankind
revealed clearly to my mind the ineffable goodness of the Author of all,
and with David I exclaimed, ‘The law of the Lord is perfect restoring
the soul.’ In a word the spirit of the All-holy entered into me, and I
understood, as I never understood before, and as millions do not
understand to-day, that He desires the happiness of mankind; and in
order to promote that happiness and to diffuse universal blessing, He
hath chosen the Torah and Moses His servant and Israel His people.

“Thus the years flowed away, bringing ever-increasing knowledge and
happiness to us both, for Raphael and I were like two brothers united by
love such as brothers seldom know. When we had finished the reading of
the Bible, which took us about five years, we began to study the
_Mishnah_. Here I found new subjects for admiration; the acuteness and
profound scholarship of the _Hakamim_, their methodical order and
system, and also their stern piety and unyielding devotion to principle.
In two years we had concluded the _Mishnah_ and took up the intricate
discussions of the _Gemara_. But now Raphael had entered upon his
thirteenth year, at the conclusion of which, as you well know, every
Jewish boy becomes _Bar-Mitzvah_; that is to say, attains his religious
majority, and is accounted fully responsible for all his acts in the
sight of God and man. The _Bar-Mitzvah_ day is considered everywhere in
Israel a most auspicious and happy occasion. The youthful celebrant is
treated with distinguished honor, is permitted to read the _Sedrah_ and
the _Haftarah_, and even to deliver an address in the synagogue, and is
made the recipient of rich gifts and marked attentions. As these
ceremonies require special study and preparation, it is necessary to
train a youth some time in advance of the happy day. Such was the
proceeding followed also in the case of Raphael. The teacher who had
instructed us both suspended temporarily the regular course of
instruction in which I had taken part, and concentrated his efforts upon
teaching Raphael the proper method of chanting the portions of the law
and the prophets which were to be read on the great Sabbath of the
_Bar-Mitzvah_, and also aided him in the preparation of a learned and
profound discourse which he, though a mere youth, was to deliver on that
auspicious occasion.

“As these matters did not concern me, I was necessarily left out of
consideration and had now no part in the studies of Raphael, except that
of a mere occasional listener and looker-on. For the first time in over
seven years Raphael and I were separated, no longer joined in study nor
much together otherwise, for the preparations for the _Bar-Mitzvah_
absorbed most of his time, and he did not find leisure for our
accustomed walks and pleasures. The change grieved me deeply. I realized
now as I had not realized before the distinction between us; that he was
one of the chosen people whose history and religion we had been
studying, while I was an outsider, a stranger, not privileged to enter
into close connection with the covenant brethren, nor to share in their
most intimate concerns, their truest joys, and deepest sorrows. I cannot
describe to you the melancholy which filled my soul at this thought; but
it must have showed itself in my countenance or demeanor, for Raphael
noticed it, and with true fraternal sympathy tried to soothe and console
me. But his well-meant efforts were in vain. Nothing could assuage the
keen pain which rose in my soul whenever I reflected that there existed
an invisible but nevertheless real and undeniable dividing wall between
me and the human being I loved best, a wall that would probably grow
thicker and stronger as the years rolled on, until it would at last keep
us utterly asunder, except, perhaps, as regards the superficial
relations of mere formal friendship.

“For months this dull pain gnawed at my heart until one day, when the
_Bar-Mitzvah_ day was no longer far distant, there came to me, all
unexpectedly and sudden as a lightning flash, a thought that promised
redemption. ‘Why need I permit this wall to grow up between me and my
beloved?’ I asked myself. ‘Why can I not become Raphael’s brother in the
covenant of Israel? Israel is God’s holy nation, but it does not
jealously restrict its membership to those born in the fold. Its gates
open gladly to welcome those who seek entrance because of true union of
sentiment with the hereditary guardians of the covenant. As Isaiah says:
“Let not the stranger that joineth himself unto the Lord say, verily the
Lord will separate me from His people.” I, too, may join myself to
Israel, may share the burdens and the privileges of the Holy people, and
take upon myself their name.’

“Thus did my love for a dear Jewish lad suggest to me to enter into
Israel; but nevertheless I did not determine upon the step until I had
examined my mind and my soul to ascertain whether I was fit for this
great change. I knew that to become a proselyte for any personal motive
alone, no matter how high or ideal it might be, were sin. But my
self-examination taught me my real beliefs, showed me that, spiritually
if not formally, I already belonged to Israel. I recognized that the
theological dogmas I had been taught in my boyhood no longer possessed
any charm or validity for my soul, which for seven years had drunk deep
draughts of life-giving water from the fountains of Israel’s law and
tradition. I saw that in Israel was the spiritual home where my soul
desired to dwell. Encouraged and inspired by this recognition, I went to
the rabbi and communicated to him my desire to enter the fold of Israel.
He was surprised at first and rather displeased; but when I told him my
story, and informed him that I was well instructed in Hebrew lore and
familiar with the ordinances of Judaism, he declared that he could not
refuse to accept me as a proselyte.

“I now unfolded to him an idea which I had conceived in relation to my
reception into Judaism, which pleased him well, and to which he at once
gave his approval. Under the plea of desiring a vacation, which was
readily granted, for Raphael was busy with his preparations and my
services were not really required, I secured a leave of absence for
several weeks from the Allatini household. I went to a little town some
few miles distant, and there in the presence of the rabbi and ten Hebrew
brethren I was circumcised and the name I now bear in Israel conferred
upon me. I remained there until I had thoroughly recovered when I
returned to the Allatini home. No one knew of the change which had taken
place, for I had requested, for reasons of my own, those present at the
ceremony to divulge nothing for the time being; and my wishes had been
respected. All noticed that I had lost the melancholy air which I had
borne for several months, and was looking contented and happy; but none
knew the reason for the improvement in my appearance.

“At last the great day, the Bar-Mitzvah Sabbath, arrived. The synagogue
was densely packed, for the interest in the event which concerned so
closely the most prominent family in the congregation and its
well-beloved son was universal. On the main floor the noblest and best
men of the community were assembled, and from the galleries the matrons
and maidens of Israel, arrayed in splendid robes, beamed radiantly down.
When the time for the reading of the Torah arrived Raphael ascended the
_Tebah_, or altar, and at once began to chant from the sacred scroll. He
was a picture of youthful beauty as he stood there; and his voice, pure
and clear as the sweetest of song-birds, filled the synagogue with
melodious resonance as he chanted the solemn sentences of Holy Writ. A
hum of admiration ran around the synagogue; and all eyes, after feasting
with pleasure on the beauteous form of the youthful celebrant, turned
with silent congratulation to the happy father and the joyous mother,
who showed in their beaming countenances what joy dwelt within their
hearts. Raphael was summoned as the third person to pronounce the
benediction over the law, which he did with great dignity and
devoutness. His father then ascended the altar and made generous
offerings for the benefit of the congregation; and the rabbi, leaving
his seat and ascending the altar, placed his hands upon Raphael’s bowed
head and pronounced over him the threefold priestly blessing. Thus far
everything had been conducted in the manner usual on such occasions, but
now a deviation took place. Instead of summoning the next person to the
Torah, which would have been the usual proceeding, the rabbi turned to
the people and addressed them thus:

“‘Brethren of Israel! It has been now our privilege to witness the
acceptance into full membership in the covenant of our beloved young
friend, Raphael Allatini, to whom and to whose respected parents we
offer our sincere well-wishes. It will now be our pleasure to behold
another Bar-Mitzvah, one who is a true believer in our holy faith, and
who has been for many years a friend and comrade of our young celebrant,
and desires not to separate from him on this happy day.’

“All were amazed at the enigmatical words of the rabbi; for no one had
heard of another Bar-Mitzvah, and the fact of my conversion had been
kept a profound secret. The _Chazan_, however, had been let into the
secret, and in a loud voice he proclaimed: ‘Let there arise Abraham, son
of Abraham, the proselyte of righteousness, to read the Torah. May his
rock protect him.’

“Profound astonishment reigned in the synagogue as I, the full-grown man
of twenty-five, whom all had known as Dimitri the Greek servant, arose
in my place and ascended the Tebah in a character belonging usually only
to Hebrew youths of thirteen; and in breathless silence they listened
while I pronounced the benediction over the Torah and read my portion
with correct accent and melody. When I had finished I blessed the Lord
with a loud voice; and according to the words of the benediction,
‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord, our God, King of the universe, who hast
permitted me to live and attain to this day,’ and all the congregation
shouted ‘Amen!’ The rabbi then blessed me with tears in his eyes; and
Raphael fell about my neck and embraced me, with radiant smiles, for to
him my act meant most of all. The rest of the service was conducted in
the usual quiet and solemn manner; but when the last chant had been
concluded, the excitement broke forth. The vast congregation crowded
around the Allatini family, Raphael and me, congratulating us most
warmly on the remarkable and auspicious event which had just taken
place. I had almost as great a share of popular approval as Raphael, and
my fidelity and loyalty both to the family I served and the religion I
had embraced, my devotion to my young master, and my attainments in
Hebrew lore were greatly admired and commended. Oh, that was a glorious
day in my life; and, however long the Most High may permit me to remain
on earth, I shall never forget it. The Allatinis, too, when the first
shock of surprise was over, acted toward me with the utmost love and
kindness. I was treated in all respects as the equal and comrade of
Raphael. I sat next to him at the festive board during the splendid
banquet given the same afternoon in celebration of the event. After he
had delivered his address, I, too, was asked to speak to the guests, who
included the most respected people in the community; and the rabbi, in
his remarks, referred to me in the kindest terms, praising greatly my
fidelity and piety and the learning I had acquired, and comparing me
with Shemayah and Abtalion, the distinguished proselytes who became
heads of the Sanhedrin during the period of the second Temple.

“After the Bar-Mitzvah festivities were over, Raphael took up again the
interrupted course of studies and I was again his companion. I was very,
very happy. I felt that I had entered into the haven of peace and joy in
the blessed study of God’s holy law and the willing fulfilment of its
precepts, while enjoying also the love of my young master, the kindness
of his family, and the respect of all my newly gained Jewish brethren. I
asked for nothing better on earth, though I did hope that in course of
time I might be able to ask some well-born maiden of Israel to be my
life partner and settle down as a worthy _Baal Ha-baith_. But, alas!
while I was basking in the bright sun of happiness, the black clouds
were gathering which were destined to cover with inky pall the fair sky
of my well-being.

“The romantic incidents of my conversion and my public reception as a
Bar-Mitzvah had excited great public interest among the Jewish
inhabitants of the island generally and were spoken of everywhere. In
this way the facts came also to the knowledge of the Greek Gentiles and
aroused their deep anger and resentment. Great as was the enmity which
they bore the children of Jacob, they hated with a still intenser hatred
the one from their own midst who had cast in his lot with the ancient
people. I soon noticed that I was regarded with great ill favor. When I
went abroad through the streets of the town on my accustomed walks with
Raphael, I noticed that the men and women gazed at me with black,
scowling looks, while the children put no restraint on their tongues,
but yelled after me, ‘Apostate, renegade, traitor!’ This discovery,
while it was certainly not pleasing, did not disconcert either me or my
friends. There had not been any uprising against the Jews in many years,
and none of us thought that I was of sufficient importance to be honored
with a special uprising, exclusively on my account. Soon, however,
rumors began to be heard that the lower orders of people, incited by
virulent agitators, in particular by a fanatical priest of the
neighborhood, were planning an attack on the Allatini house for the
purpose of seizing me and visiting upon me condign punishment—that is to
say, death—for what they were pleased to call my apostasy. This report
did cause us some anxiety; but we all, in particular Dr. Allatini,
looked upon it as an idle tale and took no precaution to ward off any
possible calamity.

“A few nights later the blow fell. Our house was in silence and
darkness, all having retired to rest, when some time after midnight a
violent knocking and beating at the massive gates of the high stone
wall, which surrounded the garden in which stood the Allatini residence,
was heard. We were all aroused by the clamor and hastening to the
windows beheld in the road outside the gates a great, raging multitude
with hate-filled countenances, and bearing in their hands, besides
weapons, flaming torches which cast a lurid light over all the scene. No
sooner did they behold the frightened faces at the windows (I was not
among them, for, realizing at once that the clamor had reference to me,
I kept in the background) than with terrible cries and yells they
demanded that I be delivered to them. ‘Give us the apostate, the
renegade,’ they yelled. ‘We mean no harm to you that are born Jews, but
we want the blood of the traitor; and unless you surrender him to us, we
will destroy the house and slay you all.’

“Our people held a hasty consultation. I will not detain you with all
the particulars of our debate, but the result reached was that it was
possible for me to be saved. Dr. Allatini took a hasty leave of me and
then went forth to parley with the mob. I hastily dressed myself and
packed together a few necessary articles. A purse of money was pressed
into my hands. I embraced and kissed my beloved Raphael and bade all
good-by, then entered a subterranean passage-way which led to an
adjacent street. When I emerged in the next street, the shouts and noise
of the mob had died down and I realized that Dr. Allatini had succeeded
in quieting them. I subsequently learned that he had assured them that I
was not in the house, and had given them permission to enter it and
search for me. I reached the harbor early the next morning in safety and
took passage in the first ship leaving which chanced to be bound for
Marseilles.

“With a soul filled with mingled feelings of sorrow and gratitude I left
my native land, sorry that I must leave my dearly beloved one, the
companion of my youth and early manhood, and gratitude to the God of
Israel, who had saved me from the hands of my enemies and from the
perils of the sea, and brought me in safety to a new home. And I thank
Him also that in this strange land He has led me to a brother who has
shown himself possessed of true fraternal, Jewish love and kindness. And
I doubt not that He who maketh a path in the fierce waters and who
protected His servant David from the hostile sword, will care for me,
His humble worshipper, in this strange land and grant me His peace and
blessing. The words of Abraham are finished.”

When the stranger had finished his tale, Benjamin Dalinski, who had
listened in wonderment to the singular narrative, said to him: “Truly,
thy tale is strange and interesting; but dost thou not think that thou
didst act foolishly? Hadst thou remained in the faith of thy forefathers
thou wouldst not have lost the friendship of thy Jewish benefactors, nor
have aroused the hatred of thy Gentile neighbors. Thou couldst have
remained in peace in thy native land and perhaps have become in later
years a great man among thy people; whereas now thou art an exile and a
fugitive, and who knows what will be thy lot here in this land?”

Abraham gazed at him a moment as though he did not understand his words
and then answered with indignation as one who repudiates a sinful and
unworthy suggestion. “I would rather eat bread with salt and drink blank
water as a _Yehudi_ than be a prince and a great man among the
Gentiles.”

“Ah,” said Dalinski, “thou art indeed a proselyte of righteousness.”

ISAAC AND ALICE

They were good friends and true, were Isaac and Alice. To be sure, they
were not exactly what most people would consider a well-assorted or
naturally allied pair; for Isaac was a great strapping fellow of about
thirty, who could speak Yiddish much better than English, while Alice
was a sweet little girl of not quite five, whose childish prattle had a
decidedly Yankee twang, and whose cradle had stood many thousands of
miles from the spot where Isaac’s infantile eyes had first opened upon a
strange and troublesome world. Yet that they were close friends was an
undeniable, if somewhat unaccountable, fact. People who saw the stalwart
young Lithuanian Hebrew carpenter, with the dark ringlets and raven
beard and the golden-haired and blue-eyed little Down East maiden as
they sat together and conversed during the midday hour when Isaac was
eating his frugal lunch, or as they sauntered hand in hand through the
streets of the little Massachusetts town, would often smile and wonder
and make comments, sometimes jocular and sometimes sarcastic to each
other; but neither Isaac nor Alice cared what anybody said. They were
not afraid of scandal and were sublimely indifferent to public opinion.
They were just good friends and that was all about it. They had been
good friends from the first moment they met, several weeks after Isaac
had set foot upon the hospitable shore of America, and had exhausted the
greater part of his physical energy and about all of his financial
resources and of his store of courage and hope in the effort to persuade
the land of the free and the home of the brave to provide him with a
livelihood. He had entered at the port of New York and tried for a week
or so to find employment at his trade in the metropolis. But there must
have been a plethora of carpenters in the great city at that time; for
wherever he applied, the answer was the same, “No one wanted.” He had
then determined to try the smaller towns and cities, and had wandered on
foot through Connecticut, and had applied at hundreds of shops in the
many industrial communities of that State, all the time growing fainter
and weaker and more discouraged; and had never heard any other response
to his request for work than the same monotonous refrain, which had now
grown terrible in its suggestion of despair, “No one wanted.”

At last he had drifted, he hardly knew how, into Massachusetts and had
entered the little town of Atbury. Hope had almost left him, and grim
thoughts of suicide filled his mind while he wandered aimlessly through
the neat and well-kept streets of the town. In the course of his
wanderings he saw a wooden building, upon the front of which a large
sign proclaimed that within was a carpenter shop, and that the owner’s
name was Thomas Jones. Mechanically Isaac entered the large open doorway
on his usual quest. He had no anticipation of success; and when Mr.
Jones, who was a handsome middle-aged man of typical Yankee appearance
and very brusque and short-spoken, returned the usual answer to his
timid query, he turned to go away with a sinking heart, in which the
dull pain was not perceptibly keener than it had previously been.

But this time an unprecedented incident occurred. A pretty little
blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, a mere tot, was standing next to the
proprietor when the stranger entered the shop, and she gazed at his
handsome though careworn features while he made his pitiable appeal for
work, with an expression of evident liking, mingled with sympathy and
pity. When he turned to depart, surprise and sorrow showed themselves
plainly in the face of the child; and turning to her father—as you have,
no doubt, already guessed, sweet reader, it was Alice, Thomas Jones’s
only and dearly beloved child—she said: “Why, aren’t you going to give
the poor man work, papa? Just see how sad he looks. Don’t let him go.”

“Do you want me to keep him, little one?” asked the father, gazing at
the pleading face of his little daughter with amused parental fondness.

“Yes I do, papa,” said Alice. “I think he is a very good man and I want
you to keep him.”

“Well,” said Thomas Jones, “for your sake I’ll give him a chance.”

[Illustration:

NOTHING PLEASED THEM BETTER THAN A “HORSEY-BACK” RIDE

_Page 172_]

Isaac was not yet out of the shop and the loud voice of the master
carpenter at once brought him back. He speedily demonstrated his ability
in his trade and was retained, his employer impressing upon him that it
was the intercession of the little girl which had given him his
opportunity. Isaac bowed low before the child with reverential gratitude
and imprinted upon her tiny hand a grateful kiss. Thus began their
friendship, and it became very warm and sincere indeed. Alice took
naturally to the broadshouldered, pleasant-faced young foreigner; and
Isaac, who was not only deeply grateful to the child for having steered
the almost shipwrecked vessel of his life into the safe harbor of
employment and bread, but was also thoroughly social and companionable
by disposition, did all in his power to amuse and entertain his young
benefactor. They were not allowed to meet during work hours, for Father
Jones, though a loving and indulgent parent, was a strict and
uncompromising task-master, and would tolerate no unbusiness-like
interruptions during the time allotted to work; but during the noonday
intermission for meals, when Alice would seek Isaac in whatever part of
the town he happened to be employed after the close of work in the late
afternoon, when Isaac returned to his master’s house where was his home,
they were sure to be together, and would romp and “carry on” to their
heart’s content. Nothing pleased them better than a “horsey-back” ride,
when Isaac would act as the fiery though remarkably docile steed, and
Alice rode her mount in greater security than the most practised
equestrienne. Isaac would trot and gallop, and pace and paw, and prance
and snort, and whinny and neigh, like the very war-horse of Job, all the
time holding his little rider in a firm and loving grasp; while Alice,
with streaming locks and flashing eyes, would cry “Gee-up!” and “Whoa!”
and pull his hair for reins and belabor his shoulders with her tiny
fists, according to the most approved rules of the equestrian art. There
were plenty of other forms of amusement as well. Sometimes they would
play “blind-man’s buff,” when Isaac would begin the game by permitting
himself to be tightly bandaged across the eyes, and would then grope
around the room in an endeavor to catch Alice. But somehow or other he
was always very clumsy in this game; and Alice never had the least
trouble to avoid his aimless reachings out, and would enjoy herself
highly, slipping in and out right in front of his very face and touching
him on all sides. And when finally his hand would land on Alice,
apparently by accident, and capture her, and it would be her turn to
submit to be bandaged and to try to capture him, he seemed even clumsier
in his movements. He never seemed to know how to evade the “blind man,”
but was continually getting in the way; and in two or three minutes at
the utmost, Alice’s tiny hands would seize him in their firm grasp, and
her shrill cry of triumph would proclaim that he was a prisoner. He also
taught Alice some queer Russian games, which were a source of
never-failing amazement and amusement (about equally divided) to all the
boys and girls in the neighborhood. Then sometimes on a holiday, or when
work happened to be slack, they would go out together berrying, and
would come home with big canfuls of blackberries, or blueberries, or
huckleberries, or raspberries, or some of the other sorts of berries
which grew at the roadsides or in the fields, Alice looking very happy,
and Isaac rather tired and scratched about the hands; for it was an open
secret that while Alice had most of the fun, Isaac had most of the
trouble, and worked his very hardest to fill the can with the ripest and
finest berries that could be found, so that the expedition should be
properly fruitful of results. In these and a hundred other ways Isaac
endeavored to please his employer’s little daughter, and his efforts
were highly successful, so successful, indeed, that the child grew to
look upon him with warm affection, and was never so happy as when in his
company.

Nor was Alice the only one who regarded Isaac with affection. Her
parents were almost equally warm in their sentiments. Thomas Jones
thought much of him because he was a thorough master of his trade,
tremendously strong, and absolutely faithful and reliable. Any task
assigned to him, however arduous, was always performed with scrupulous
exactness and conscientiousness, and no complaint or objection ever
escaped his lips. Mrs. Jones liked him because he was sober, polite, and
cleanly in his habits, and because he took such pains to please and
amuse her little daughter. To be sure, there were some points about him
which they did not exactly like, but his many good qualities
counterbalanced these defects. One of these points was that he would not
labor on the Sabbath or Jewish holidays. This difficulty had arisen the
very first week of his employment, but the superior character of his
work had induced Mr. Jones then to retain him, and afterward he had
grown accustomed to dispensing with the services of Isaac on Saturdays
or on any other day when he declared the rules of his religion required
abstention from labor. Another matter which seemed very peculiar to both
Mr. and Mrs. Jones was that, although Isaac boarded with them, he never
ate flesh in any form and refused to partake of many other dishes which
appeared on their table. But, as the Joneses were kind-hearted and
tolerant people, and had besides a genuine liking for Isaac, they
overlooked these matters, and, if they reflected on them at all, merely
thought them the natural result of his religious views.

Many were the arguments which the Joneses had with some of their
neighbors on account of Isaac and the peculiar position which he
occupied in their household. Bigotry and narrow-mindedness are not
unknown even in free America, where, theoretically, a man’s race and
religion should have no influence, favorable or unfavorable, upon the
opinion which is held concerning him, and where, if anywhere, the
principle enunciated by the rabbis in the Talmud should prevail—“Thy
deeds shall recommend thee, thy deeds shall condemn thee.” Some of the
good Christian people of Atbury, who thought, like Sancho Panza, that
the most essential characteristic of a Christian was a sound hatred of
the Jews, could not conceal their amazement, nay, their righteous
indignation, that a Jew should be a favored member of a Christian
household, and, worse yet, the trusted friend and companion of a little
Christian maiden.

“How can you permit an unbeliever to dwell in your home?” they would
say, with much show of holy horror. “Aren’t you afraid that in course of
time he may seduce you or your little daughter, with specious reasoning,
away from the true faith, and lead you into the error of Judaism?” But
the Joneses would only laugh at these pious apprehensions and answer
that Isaac never spoke to them on religious subjects; that, while he was
undoubtedly sincerely religious in his own way, he never obtruded his
views on others; and that, in fact, it would not have been a bad thing
if some people whom they knew would have imitated him in this
particular.

The neighbors would then try another tack, in which they hoped to be
more successful. “How can you trust Alice to such a person?” they would
ask, with the solemn air of those who warn friends against impending
dangers which they are rashly incurring. “Aren’t you afraid that he may
do her some harm? You never can tell what such a Jew might do. Why, in
some parts of Europe they even accuse them of slaying Christian children
in order to use their blood for the Passover. It isn’t safe to leave
Alice in his charge.”

But when they came with this argument they received a fitting response,
which was not lacking either in clearness or emphasis. The Joneses,
particularly Mrs. Jones, told them that they might be at better business
than calumniating one of whom they knew no evil; that Isaac was the
kindest, best-hearted, most devoted fellow in the world; that he was
deeply grateful to Alice because she had been the means of saving him
from starvation, and, as for her being in any danger at his hands, why
they, the Joneses, were convinced that he would at any time be ready to
give his life rather than see a hair of her head harmed.

Sooner than any one anticipated the opportunity came which demonstrated
that Isaac was indeed ready to lay down his life to save his little
friend from harm. A few days after an unusually warm debate of the kind
outlined above between Thomas Jones and an especially zealous neighbor,
who had warned Isaac’s employer that all kinds of dreadful things would
certainly happen if this unholy friendship were permitted to continue,
Jones summoned Isaac to him. “Come here, you Jew!” he said half
jocularly, half angrily, for the remembrance of the uncharitable words
of his officious neighbor was still strong in him. “I want to show you
what I think of you.” Isaac at once advanced and waited with deferential
air for the further words of his employer. “I’ve got a job in the
outskirts of the town,” continued Jones, gazing with satisfaction at the
brawny figure and submissive attitude of his most reliable workman,
“and, as I can’t spare any men from the other work, I’m going to put the
whole thing in your hands. There’s a little cottage on the Prentice
place that’s got to be jacked up to make room for the masons to build a
new foundation, and then all the board work and carpentering generally
must be renovated and fixed up. I’ve sent up all the necessary wood
already, so you can go right up and attend to the whole job alone. When
you get there you can see for yourself what is to be done, and if you
don’t understand anything, why, just ask old man Prentice, and he’ll
tell you what to do.”

Isaac picked up his box of tools and was about to depart when little
Alice, who had been listening to the words of her father, skipped up
and, laying her hand on Isaac’s arm, asked eagerly: “Won’t you take me
along, Isaac? I want to be with you when you’re doing the work.”

“Ask your papa, Alice,” said Isaac, smiling pleasantly at his little
friend. “If he will let you go, then I’ll be glad to take you.”

Alice did not need to ask her father, for the latter, without giving her
the opportunity to speak, at once gave her the desired permission. “Yes,
indeed, you can go with Isaac,” he said, with rather more emphasis than
was apparently necessary. “I’ll just show those numbskull bigot
neighbors of mine what I think of their fanatical suspicions and
insinuations. Just trot along, little one, and I wish you lots of
pleasure seeing Isaac at work.”

Thus duly authorized and permitted, Isaac and Alice went off together to
the scene of his solitary task, which they reached in about half an
hour. The Prentice place was a little farm of two or three acres, in the
centre of which stood the cottage. It was not a very large structure,
but Isaac’s practised eye at once perceived that his employer had set
him a task sufficient to try the strength of three men. Old man Prentice
was of the same opinion, and very emphatically expressed his
dissatisfaction that Jones had sent only one man to do the work of
three. Nothing daunted, however, Isaac at once set about the performance
of his task. The first thing to do was to lift the structure, which was
done by means of appliances called jacks. Isaac inserted one of the
jacks under each of the four corners of the house and screwed it up
until that part of the building was elevated to the desired height. In
the mean while Alice stood near her favorite and watched him at his
arduous task, chatting and prattling all the while with the careless
innocence of childhood; and Isaac, though engrossed in his labor, did
not fail to answer her childish queries, and kept his little friend
interested and amused. All went well until Isaac came to the fourth and
last corner and proceeded to jack it up as he had done the others. Here,
by some miscalculation, he raised the corner a foot or so more than was
necessary. At once the frame structure began to careen. Isaac instantly
perceived that the building would certainly topple to the ground, and a
pang of agony shot through his heart as he thought of the loss which his
mistake, unaccountable even to himself, would cause. His next thought
was to save himself from harm; but, as he turned to flee from under the
falling structure, what horrible sight met his eyes! Little Alice,
petrified apparently by fright, was standing motionless under the
tottering building. A sickening picture flashed up instantly before his
mental retina of her little body lying crushed and bleeding under the
ruins of the building, its life crushed out by the overwhelming weight.
How could he save her? She was too far away for him to seize her and
flee with her to safety, neither would it avail aught to shout to her to
flee. Before she could have recovered control of her faculties and
impelled her limbs to motion, the blow would have fallen and all would
be over. There was but one way to save Alice, and, though Isaac knew it
meant almost certain death for himself, he instantly determined to do
it. Placing his powerful shoulders under the tilting woodwork, he
shouted in a great and terrible voice to Alice to run—run for her life.
For a minute or so he stood, like fabled Atlas upholding the world,
supporting with his tremendous strength the falling structure, while his
muscles stood out like whipcords and the sweat of agony poured all over
his body. In that minute Alice recovered herself and toddled out of
harm’s way. A second later the heavy framework crushed out the man’s
strength and bore him to the ground with a sickening thud, while the
harsh crackling of the beams and boards as they were torn from their
fastenings mingled with his awful shriek. He did not need to lie there
long. Poor little Alice, with an intelligence beyond her years, ran to
seek help from the neighbors; but her frenzied efforts were not
necessary. The frightful crash of the falling building and the fierce,
agonized shriek of the stricken victim had aroused all the neighborhood,
and from all sides assistance speedily came. The united efforts of old
man Prentice and a number of laborers who hastened from a neighboring
field speedily succeeded in removing the mass of beams and boards and
odds and ends of woodwork from the body of Isaac, and tenderly they laid
him upon a temporary couch formed of their coats. He was crushed and
maimed and bloody, every limb broken, and his features disfigured almost
beyond recognition, but he was conscious and a happy smile played upon
his face when he saw that Alice had escaped all injury and was safe and
sound.

“Come to me, little darling,” he said, in barely audible tones, gazing
wistfully at the child-friend for whom he had given his life; “come and
bid me good-bye, for I feel that I must go. I do not complain because
God is calling me away, but I am glad your young life is spared to be a
joy to yourself and your dear parents for many years to come.” And his
young friend, with strangely grave and solemn face, went to her dying
protector and clasped his hand and kissed his blood-stained and
distorted features, and called him her own dear Isaac, and begged him
not to die, while the strong men who stood around bowed their heads in
reverent sorrow and silently wept. Then they bore him home, and Alice’s
parents, when they heard the story of what he had done, knew not of
which feeling their hearts were fuller—of gratitude that their darling
daughter was safe or of admiration for the pure and self-sacrificing
friendship which Isaac had so heroically displayed and sorrow for his
untimely end. He had relapsed into semi-consciousness and lay for
several hours without speaking on his couch. Then he stirred uneasily
and feebly beckoned to his employer, indicating that he desired to
communicate something to him. Thomas Jones, who had not left the room
since first Isaac had been brought home, at once went to the bedside,
and putting his ear to the mouth of the dying man, heard him say in a
feeble voice: “Dear master, promise me one favor. I die a Jew. Have me
laid away among my people.”

And Thomas Jones answered: “Isaac, I promise.”

A look of infinite content and gratitude lit up Isaac’s face. Then,
rising slightly on his side, he recited in Hebrew, in a clear though
feeble voice, the words of the Jewish ritual for the dying: “Hear, O
Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Blessed be the glorious name
of Thy kingdom for ever and ever. Into Thy hands I deliver my spirit.
Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.” And so he passed away.

Every year, on the anniversary of Isaac’s death, Alice, now a maiden
ripening into womanhood, visits Isaac’s grave in the Jewish cemetery in
Boston in which he rests; and if sincere tears and true sorrow are
acceptable in the sight of God, then is her offering indeed acceptable
and holy.

THE SCISSORS-GRINDER

“Scissors to grind! Knives, axes, or saws to sharpen! Everything made as
sharp as new!” This is the cry, uttered in a clear and cheerful voice,
which is frequently heard in the alleys and back yards as well as the
streets and avenues of that vast and densely populated section of the
American metropolis known as the great East Side. The man who utters it
is an unusually agreeable, as well as active and energetic,
representative of the classic trade of scissors-grinding. He is a
pleasant-faced, good-humored young fellow, with light-brown hair and
rounded, open countenance, from which a pair of bright blue eyes gaze at
you with a frank and sympathetic expression. His shabby clothes hang
most gracefully on his lithe and erect, not over tall figure; his
motions have a sort of trained elegance about them, and when he stands
before you with his grinding machine on his back, he seems not so much
an humble sharpener of domestic utensils, but rather some strange sort
of soldier, and the machine upon his back some peculiar and unusual
engine of warfare. He is very well liked in the entire district, and his
popularity brings in sufficient trade to insure him a very fair living.
When his clear and musical cry is heard anywhere in the neighborhood,
the customers pour forth from the many-storied tenements, the cellar
dwellings (I had almost written cave dwellings, which term would hardly
have rendered me liable to a suit for libel if I had used it), and the
little shops and stalls which abound everywhere in the vicinity. Soon he
is surrounded by a motley throng—Jews, Italians, Poles, Bohemians, men,
women, and children, all sorts and conditions of mankind—who bring him a
miscellaneous collection of invalid table knives, dilapidated carving
knives, superannuated scissors, and antediluvian saws, all of which he
is expected to heal and to restore to their pristine brightness and
sharpness.

[Illustration:

THE SCISSORS GRINDER

_Page 186_]

But, though our friend is well known and popular in the district, he is
nevertheless unknown. By this paradoxical statement is meant that,
although the scissors-grinder is personally a familiar and well-esteemed
figure, nothing is known by the vast bulk of his constituents and
customers of his connections, his history, or his antecedents. This is
nothing strange or unusual in that section. People are not, as a rule,
curious concerning each other on the East Side. The inhabitants are
mostly not native to the soil, but are a chance aggregation from all the
countries of the civilized world, driven from their native habitats by
the storm and stress of harsh experiences and brought together in the
New World by the glittering attractions of the Golden Land. It is not
always advisable under such circumstances to be over-inquisitive
concerning the past history of one’s neighbors and friends, and
therefore the dwellers on the East Side are discreetly devoid of
curiosity, and are quite content if the people with whom they associate
are, in their present stage of life, decent and well behaved. That is
why no one knows (or knew until recently) anything about the
scissors-grinder—his history, his family, or even his name. Nevertheless
his story came out some time ago, and it proved to be, what no one would
have anticipated from the scissors-grinder’s blithe and pleasant
appearance, a real moral tragedy, a tale of blind, mediæval oppression,
of high ambition suddenly blasted, of strange and sublime heroism. It
came out through Mendel Greenberger.

Mendel, who keeps a little optician shop in Orchard Street near Grand,
is considerable of a character himself, and, unlike the majority of the
denizens of the region, is gifted with a lively curiosity concerning the
persons with whom he comes in contact. Mendel has travelled pretty much
all over the world, and has acquired in the course of his wanderings the
knowledge of a dozen or more languages and of at least three trades. But
what he most prides himself on is his _menschenkenntniss_, that is, his
ability to recognize at a glance the origin of strangers whom he sees
for the first time, and to classify them according to the racial,
religious, and social elements or subdivisions thereof to which they
belong. This he infers from the appearance, conduct, and speech of the
individuals concerned, and, in particularly interesting cases, he
manages to have them reveal their names and other personal details of
interest, but without asking direct questions, which he thinks
impertinent.

When the scissors-grinder began to come into the neighborhood and Mendel
began to give him employment in his vocation, he at once recognized that
here was an interesting and extremely puzzling personality. It was a
real problem of the kind Mendel Greenberger loved to solve, but it
defied his powers of analysis and classification. For the life of him he
could not make out who or what the handsome, pleasant-spoken young man,
with the lowly trade apparently so unsuited for him, was. His type was
absolutely non-distinctive. As far as appearance went there was no
telling whether he was Jew or Gentile, and no reason to assign him to
any one European nation rather than another. His conduct and manner were
just as little guide, for, though polite and manifestly well-bred, he
had no mannerisms of any kind. Baffled by his inability to “locate” his
new acquaintance by these usually infallible indications, Mendel
resorted to the expedient of addressing him in various languages. But
here Mendel “tripped up,” so to speak, even more emphatically than
before. The scissors-grinder spoke, with one exception, every European
language which Mendel did, but with superior accent and correcter
grammar. His English was that of one to the manner born, though devoid
of either Cockney accent or Yankee twang; his French would have done
credit to any _boulevardier_; his German was as faultlessly exact in
construction and pronunciation as that of any compatriot of Goethe or
Schiller; and as for Italian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, and Hungarian,
to say nothing of the minor tongues, Bohemian, Roumanian, Servian,
Greek, Turkish, he spoke them all with perfect ease and fluency. It
mattered not in what tongue the puzzled Mendel addressed him, the
scissors-grinder always answered in the same, but without betraying any
surprise and as though it were the natural and to-be-expected thing to
speak any and every idiom in existence. But, as already stated, there
was one exception to the polyglot ability of the scissors-grinder. He
did not know Yiddish, for when Mendel addressed him in that tongue, he
did not understand him well and answered in German, the tongue most
nearly related to the dialect of the Jews of the Slavonic lands, and
without using any Hebrew words or phrases with which even the German
Jews habitually interlard their speech. Mendel had to confess to himself
that the scissors-grinder was an enigma, which even he, with his great
knowledge of human beings, could not solve. Of two things, however, he
felt certain: first, that the scissors-grinder was originally of far
higher social station than his humble vocation would suggest, for his
manners and bearing, and, above all, his extraordinary linguistic
attainments, were only explainable on the ground of refined surroundings
and the best of education; secondly, that he was no Jew, for his
ignorance of Yiddish and Hebrew and his manifest unfamiliarity with
Jewish ideas and usages showed conclusively that he had had no Jewish
bringing up nor had ever associated intimately with Jewish circles.

Mendel at first conjectured that the scissors-grinder was a nobleman of
some European nation, who had been compelled to leave his native land
for a political or other reason, and was obliged to support himself by
his own labor in exile. Noblemen in exile do not, however, usually
select a vocation requiring as much skill and industry and withal so low
in the social scale as scissors-grinding, so on second thought Mendel
abandoned this conjecture as untenable, and, not being able to set up
any more satisfactory one, found himself, as far as this question was
concerned, _vis à vis de rien_. Not feeling able to remain in this
condition, he cast about for other means of solving the problem and
gratifying his curiosity. He determined to ask the scissors-grinder’s
name. Names, it is true, may be assumed, but Mendel thought that even an
assumed name would be some sort of clew to its bearer’s identity, for it
would, at least, indicate to what nation or class the bearer considered
himself and desired to have others consider him as belonging.
Accordingly when next the scissors-grinder appeared in the neighborhood
of Mendel’s shop and was bringing back finely renovated the penknife
which Mendel had given him to sharpen, the latter remarked: “Fine
weather we are having to-day, Mr. ——!” and paused with expectant air.

“My name,” said the scissors-grinder quietly, “is Eliezer Schwartzfeld.”

Mendel gazed at him in undisguised astonishment. “That sounds extremely
Jewish,” he said. “You are not one of the chosen people, are you?”

“Yes, I am a Jew,” answered the scissors-grinder, with just a suggestion
of a smile at Mendel’s evident surprise; “a Russian Jew at that, too.”

Mendel’s astonishment increased to a degree that was absolutely comical.
Here was an utterly inexplicable case. It was not that the
scissors-grinder’s physiognomy did not contain a feature that suggested
the Semite—that was common enough, especially among Russian Jews; but
what might be called the psychology of the case was utterly baffling to
Mendel. He had often met Jews that were well educated and spoke a number
of languages with fluency, but in all his experience he had never come
across one who had not at least some, however slight, acquaintance with
the Jewish mother tongues, Yiddish or Hebrew. He had frequently come in
contact with Jews, well and gently reared in their native lands, who had
been forced by adverse circumstances to earn their bread by humble labor
in America; but they had invariably found employment in some one of the
so-called “Jewish” branches of industry, tailoring, cloak-making,
cigar-packing, or the like, which open at least the door to a future as
an independent manufacturer or merchant. But something so plebeian and
hopeless as scissors-grinding, and embraced, too, by a man of evident
refinement—why, that was utterly anomalous, unheard of! He gazed at the
scissors-grinder without uttering a word, but with eyes which told
unmistakably their tale of amazement.

“You are surprised,” said the latter, “I suppose, because I, though a
Jew, do not speak Yiddish, and because I found nothing better to do than
to sharpen scissors and knives. Let me tell you my story and you will
wonder no longer. I can recollect very little of my earliest childhood.
My mother must have died, I think, when I was hardly more than an
infant, for all I can recollect of her is a picture, very dim and faint,
of a sweet, motherly face bending over me and of a tender, loving voice
calling me darling and dove. My father, too, must have left this earth
when I was only about four or five years of age. My memories of him,
too, are few and indistinct. I can recall that I was a very small child
in charge of an old, cross-tempered woman, a Jewess, I think, who
treated me with a strange alternation of cruelty and kindness. My father
used to visit me at rare intervals in this place, and bring me
sweetmeats and little presents, and I can remember that on these
occasions he was always dressed in a brilliant uniform, which filled my
childish heart with admiration and awe. My most distinct recollection
concerning my father is of the circumstances attending his death. He was
brought to the house one day with blood-stained bandages around his head
and breast and with face ghastly pale. They laid him upon a couch, and
for several days physicians came to treat him, and men dressed in even
brighter and finer uniforms than his came to visit him, and some of them
chucked me under the chin and called me a fine little fellow. Then one
day he called me to his bedside and said to me, in such a faint voice
that I had to put my ear to his mouth in order to catch his words:
‘Eliezer, my darling boy, I am going to die and must leave you alone in
the world. But I have spoken to good people, and they have promised me
to care for you and to see that you are educated to become what your
father was—a soldier—but a higher and nobler one than he could be.
Always be good and honorable in all your doings, and above all, my son,
never forget, wherever you may be or whatever you may become, that you
are a Jew, as your father was, and never permit anything to swerve you
from your faithfulness to the holy traditions of our religion and
people.’ Then he kissed me on my brow, and, child though I was, I knew
that something dreadful was going to happen, and burst forth into an
agony of bitter weeping that shook my little frame convulsively. That
same night he died, and the day after the next he was taken away in the
midst of a great concourse of people, among whom were many Jewish men
and women whom I knew not, and who wept and cried aloud as they
accompanied the funeral procession. There was also a long line of
soldiers, who marched with flags draped and guns reversed, and in front
of whom went musicians and drummers with crape-covered drums, who played
together a sad, funereal strain as they marched. I was left behind,
gazing out of the window at the funeral procession as long as it was in
sight, weeping as though my very heart would break and feeling that I
was left all alone now in the world, without friend, protector, or
well-wisher. But the same afternoon a kindly spoken, friendly looking
officer, attired in a brilliant uniform, came to my lodgings, told the
old woman who had charge of me that he was Col. Ivan Mentchikoff, and
that he had been appointed legal guardian of Corporal Schwartzfeld’s son
and had come to take me away. I noticed that the old woman did not seem
satisfied, and grumbled something to herself with a discontented air,
but she did not audibly object, but took the money which the colonel
offered her. She then packed together my little belongings, carried them
down to the carriage which was waiting at the door, and the colonel and
I entered and drove off to the railroad station, whence we left for the
colonel’s home, which was in the town of Yellisavetgrad, many miles
away. I remained with the family of the colonel for eight or nine years.
I was treated with the utmost kindness—in fact, in all regards, except
one, exactly like the children of the family. Colonel Mentchikoff was
very particular in regard to the education of his children. He kept the
best of private tutors for all subjects, and was especially insistent
that they should learn all the chief European languages, a knowledge of
which, he declared, was essential to a Russian gentleman. I had, of
course, the advantage of all this, the same as all the others, and I
quickly discovered that I had a special linguistic talent, and, while I
easily kept pace with the Mentchikoff boys and girls in all the subjects
of instruction generally, as regards the acquisition of languages I was
so superior that I could not be compared with them at all. It was no
trouble at all to me to acquire a new language; the forms seemed to
impress themselves naturally on my mind, and my memory retained with the
greatest ease the multitudes of new terms and expressions which each
tongue presented.

[Illustration:

I WAS LEFT BEHIND, GAZING OUT OF THE WINDOW AT THE FUNERAL PROCESSION.

_Page 196_]

“The point in which my education differed from that of my companions was
that of religion. Colonel Mentchikoff was a zealous adherent of the
Greek Church, and insisted that his children should be instructed in its
doctrine, and also that they should attend worship regularly in the
beautiful church of the town. I was exempted from both these
requirements, but, as he did not forbid my attendance at them, I formed
the habit of being of my own accord present at the lessons in religion
which a certain pope gave them twice weekly, and I was frequently
present at service in the church on Sundays and feast days. Hebrew
instruction I did not receive, and was, to my shame I must confess,
utterly ignorant of the teachings of the religion in which I was born
and to which my father, on his dying bed, had adjured me to be faithful.
I did not, however, feel at all attracted to the teachings of Greek
Christianity. My attendance at church and lessons was induced solely by
curiosity, and I often found myself smiling contemptuously at the things
my companions were obliged to learn and believe. As I knew and kept
nothing of Judaism either, I suppose I must have been classed at that
time as a youthful heathen.

“After I had been about two years in Colonel Mentchikoff’s house he told
me my father’s story and the reason why he, the colonel, was so friendly
to me. My father, it seems, had been a soldier in the Russian army most
of his life, and had attracted attention because of his gallantry and
fidelity. He had taken part in many battles in the Caucasus and had
risen to the rank of corporal, which was as high as an uneducated man
and a Jew could aspire. In a fierce hand-to-hand struggle in one of
those battles he had saved the life of Colonel Mentchikoff, who had
then, impelled by gratitude, asked him in what way he could recompense
him for the great service he had rendered him. My father, blessed be his
memory, who was as unassuming and modest as he was brave, answered that
he desired no recompense for himself, as he had only done his duty in
defending his commander, but that he had an only child, a son, whose
mother had died while he was yet an infant, and that he, my father,
desired, in case he met his death in the war, that the colonel should
see that the boy was cared for and properly educated, and if in future
years the intolerant laws should be changed and it would be permitted to
Jews to become military officers, that he should endeavor to have him
admitted to the military academy and prepared for the martial career.
All this the colonel had willingly promised, and thought it but a slight
reward for the saver of his life.

“Shortly after my father received his death wound at the hand of one of
the savage warriors of the Caucasus. He was brought, at his own urgent
request, to the house where his little son was living in charge of an
old nurse, to pass the few remaining days of his existence; and when he
had died he received, in consideration of his exceptional merit, the
distinguished honor of a great military funeral. The colonel, had then
taken formal charge of me, and ever since I had resided in his home. The
colonel assured me that he loved me dearly, for the sake of my father,
whose memory he held sacred, and that he would do all in his power to
promote my welfare and to assist me to embrace the military career as my
father had desired. He was as good as his word. Until my fourteenth year
he cared for me in the most liberal and kind-hearted manner, providing
equally well for my physical and intellectual needs, and then, since I
had reached the age when youths, intending to take up the military
career must begin their studies, he procured my admission into the
Imperial Military Academy at St. Petersburg. The illiberal laws
prohibiting the conferring of commissions on Hebrews had not, it is
true, been formally abrogated, but the spirit of tolerance was abroad in
the land; it was in the days of the good Czar Alexander II., who had in
so many ways alleviated the lot of all the oppressed peoples of his
realm, and so my kind protector and guardian met with no difficulties or
discouragements in seeking my admission into the academy. On the
contrary, the officials of the institution were exceedingly kind and
sympathetic. They received me with open arms as the orphan son of the
gallant Corporal Schwartzfeld, of whose heroic record they were well
aware, and as the ward of the well-connected and influential Colonel
Mentchikoff. The fact of my being a Hebrew was hardly referred to, or,
if any casual mention thereof was made, it was accompanied with the
statement that that would undoubtedly make no difference in my case, and
that, in view of my exceptional recommendations, I need anticipate no
difficulty in obtaining a satisfactory appointment when once I had
completed my course.

“I took leave of my benefactors with tears and embraces—and to this day
I cannot think of Colonel Mentchikoff and his good, kind family without
being deeply moved, for they were noble, true-hearted people, and very
good to me—and took up my studies at the military academy. I will not
refer at length to my career at the military academy, for now it makes
no difference whether I did well or poorly, and, besides, it were
foolish for the poor scissors-grinder to boast of the past glories of
his life. Suffice it to say that I more than held my own in every branch
of instruction, and made, besides, a specialty of three subjects. I
devoted myself with great zeal to the pursuit of military engineering
and languages, and also sought to acquire an expert knowledge of the
manufacture and preparation of weapons, both of those which cut and
those which discharge projectiles. The latter two branches of knowledge
I pursued with the idea that they would be particularly useful if ever I
became a member of the general staff or obtained some high military
political post, when a knowledge of languages, particularly of the
Slavonic tongues, and ability to criticise the quality of weapons
furnished to the army would be invaluable. I thought of myself as a
soldier, and a soldier only. To other matters I hardly devoted a
thought, so absorbed was I in my preparations for my prospective
vocation—least of all to religious loyalty or Hebraic traditions. During
all the seven years of my attendance at the military academy I never
entered a synagogue—in fact, I would not have known what to do had I
gone there, for I was utterly ignorant of Hebrew and knew nothing of the
mode or manner of worship among the Jews; I never kept a Jewish holiday,
never was present at a religious gathering of any kind, for I had given
up also my former curiosity concerning Christianity; I did not associate
with or even know any Hebrew; in short, to all intents and purposes, I
forgot that I was a Jew or had any need to consider the question of my
relation to my ancestral faith, and my friends and colleagues at the
academy, who were all very liberal-minded and tolerant, did not remind
me of it in any way. Personally I was popular with both teachers and
students, and, when the last year of the course began, I received an
unofficial intimation from the faculty that, on account of my
exceptional proficiency in technical matters, I would be recommended for
appointment after graduation as a captain of engineers.

“At last the day of days, long looked for—commencement—arrived. I had
passed a splendid examination and was designated valedictorian of the
class. The great _aula_ or hall of the academy was filled to overflowing
with a brilliant and distinguished assemblage, among them brave men and
fair women, bearers of the proudest and most ancient names in Russia. At
the front of the hall facing the stage sat, in two long rows, the
graduates, in their natty uniforms, among them myself. At the front of
the stage, at a table on which were flowers, the graduates’ diplomas,
and other papers, sat the venerable General Popoff, president of the
academy, and behind him the faculty and a large number of honored
visitors. Just before the hour appointed for the beginning of the
ceremonies, an orderly entered the hall, strode up to General Popoff,
saluted in regulation military fashion, handed him a note, saluted
again, and retired. I do not know why it was, but a shiver of
apprehension went through me as I saw this action. I felt instinctively
that it concerned me and boded me no good. The General opened the
letter, my eyes mustering him painfully the while, and I could see him
start as he read its contents. For a moment he sat with his head resting
on his hands, evidently plunged in deep thought. Then he summoned an
attendant and spoke a few words to him. A moment later the attendant
stood at my side.

“‘The General desires to speak to you in the room at the side of the
stage,’ he said.

“The hot blood surged impetuously to my head and my heart beat violently
as I entered the room whither I had been summoned. General Popoff was
already in and looked at me pityingly as I entered. ‘At your command,
General,’ I said, concealing my agitation with a mighty effort and
saluting stiffly. The General did not answer, but handed me a paper,
evidently the letter which he had just received. It was an official
communication, bore the governmental seal, and read as follows:

“‘MINISTRY OF WAR.

“‘_To General Alexei Popoff, President of the Imperial Military
Academy._

“‘SIR: The receipt of your report certifying to the cadets entitled
to graduation and recommending the same to various appointments in
the army is hereby acknowledged. The same is approved, and you are
authorized to issue certificates of graduation to all the cadets
therein named, with the exception of Cadet Schwartzfeld. In his case
there appears to be some doubt whether he has been properly baptized
in the Orthodox Church, and you are hereby ordered to withhold his
certificate until you have convinced yourself that such is the case.

“‘In the name of the Minister,

“‘KRASNEWITZ, _Secretary_.’

“I read the note through two or three times. Its contents seemed to burn
themselves with letters of fire into my brain. I looked at the General.
He did not say anything and appeared deeply agitated. At last I forced
myself to address him, and my voice sounded strangely harsh and metallic
as I spoke:

“‘What is to be done in this matter, your Excellency?’ I said.

“‘My dear boy,’ said the General, and the true note of sympathy rang in
his voice, ‘I sent in my report over a month ago, and, not receiving any
answer, I thought everything was well and that I could go ahead. I did
not think this would happen. There is only one thing that you can do.
You must go and have yourself baptized in the orthodox faith, or else
you can receive neither your certificate nor your appointment, and your
career is at an end.’

“‘But how about this evening’s affair?’ I said, and the whole world
seemed reeling about me. ‘Am I not to receive my certificate? Am I not
to deliver my valedictory?’

“‘Strictly speaking, you should not be permitted to do either,’ said the
General, and his voice sounded even more sympathetic than before; ‘but I
should be sorry to see you suffer public humiliation. I will tell you
what I can do. If you will promise me that to-morrow you will go and be
baptized, I will accept your word of honor and you shall receive your
certificate and deliver your address. But you must answer me at once,’
and he glanced at his watch, ‘for the hour is growing late and the
proceedings must soon begin.’

“My brain seemed to become paralyzed and to lose all power of thought as
I listened to the General’s words, kindly spoken, but, oh, so bitter to
me. My heart struck at my breast as though it would burst its confines.
I longed to give the answer the General desired, but the figure of my
dying father, lying outstretched upon his couch of suffering, rose
suddenly before me; again I saw his pale face and blood-stained
bandages, and again I heard his faint voice saying, ‘Above all, my son,
never forget that you are a Jew, and never permit anything to swerve you
from your faithfulness to the holy traditions of our religion and
people’—and I could not.

“‘I cannot give you that promise now, your Excellency,’ I said, in a
broken voice, whose agonized groaning was perceptible even to me. ‘I
must have time to think over the matter.’

“‘In that case,’ said the General, and his voice sounded distinctly
harder, ‘I must ask you to leave the hall, where your presence has
become improper; and any time you are ready to take the necessary steps
you can notify me, and I will see to it that you receive your
certificate and appointment.’

“I saluted and retired. I went to my seat, took my military cap, and,
without saying a word to my fellow-students, at once left the hall,
though I could not fail to notice the buzz of astonishment from both
cadets and audience as I strode through the aisle toward the door. That
night on my couch I fought a fiercer battle than any in which I could
ever have taken part had I been privileged to enter upon my projected
career. Two opposing forces were arrayed against each other and
contended fiercely—on the one side self-interest and the disappointment,
naturally intense, at seeing an ardently desired career thus cruelly cut
off, nipped not even in the bud; on the other side filial devotion and a
newly awakened sense of racial and religious loyalty. The one said: ‘Why
ruin yourself? What does Judaism concern you? You have never observed
its precepts. Let them sprinkle the three drops over you. It is only the
ticket of admission to your future. Inwardly you can remain as you are.’
The other said little. It was only the pale face of my dying father and
his faint voice speaking: ‘Above all, my son, never forget that you are
a Jew, and never permit anything to swerve you from your faithfulness to
the holy traditions of our religion and people.’

“All night long the battle raged, while I tossed on my weary couch and
never closed an eye; but when the early morning light stole through my
lattice, my father had won the victory. I rose, hastily made my toilet,
and wrote a letter to the General, informing him that my decision had
been made to remain loyal to my faith, even at the cost of my career. On
the same day I packed together my belongings and left forever that
Russia that had grown hateful to me. I sailed at once for America, the
land where men are free and where the State does not ask what is a man’s
descent or religion before permitting him to consecrate his services to
it. In New York I found that my talents and knowledge did not avail in
securing a position. Every place seemed filled and there was no lack of
people of education looking unsuccessfully for work. But, fortunately, I
understood the art of sharpening and tempering steel blades, and thus I
became a knife-sharpener and scissors-grinder, and manage to support
myself. Now you know why I am in New York, a scissors-grinder and a Jew,
instead of being in Russia, a captain of engineers and a Christian. Can
I sharpen anything else for you to-day? No, next time; all right,
good-bye.”

And the scissors-grinder went forth in search of other customers,
merrily whistling the while and leaving Mendel Greenberger behind,
plunged in deep reflection.

THE SHLEMIHL.

Novo-Kaidansk was a most _shlemihlig_ sort of place, and Yerachmiel
Sendorowitz was the most _shlemihlig_ of all its inhabitants. Indeed,
his character as such was so pronounced and universally known that he
was seldom referred to by his proper cognomen, but usually spoken of as
“Yerachmiel Shlemihl,” or, in shorter form, “the _Shlemihl_.” For the
benefit of those of my readers who are not familiar with the
Judæo-German idiom, I will explain that the noun “_Shlemihl_” is
generally supposed to be a corruption of the first name of Shelumiel ben
Zuri-shaddai, one of the princes of Israel in the wilderness, of whom
Heine has sung, and who, according to Jewish tradition, was a most
awkward sort of fellow, who was continually getting into all sorts of
scrapes. The noun “_Schlemihl_,” accordingly, signifies an aggravated
sort of ne’er-do-well, a hopeless incapable; and the adjective derived
therefrom is synonymous with all that is utterly unprogressive and
wretched.

[Illustration:

THE MAN WAS A WOE-BEGONE SPECIMEN OF HUMANITY, WITH HUNGRY EYES GAZING
AT YOU OUT OF A CARE-WORN, FURROWED COUNTENANCE

_Page 212_]

Both Novo-Kaidansk and Yerachmiel Sendorowitz were deserving of these
appellations in fullest measure. The town was a collection of miserable
huts and shanties, irregularly scattered over the dull expanse of a
Lithuanian plain, with unpaved streets that were ankle-deep in dust most
of the summer, and knee-deep in mud and slush and snow most of the
winter. The man was a woe-begone specimen of humanity, with hungry eyes
gazing at you out of a careworn, furrowed countenance, the lower part of
which was surrounded by a neglected-looking, reddish beard; clad in an
aged suit of many colors—a man who was ready to do any and every work
for a few kopecks, and who was rarely so fortunate as to see a whole
rouble. He was not a bad sort of fellow at all, nor stupid. On the
contrary, he had somewhat of a smattering of Hebrew education, and he
endured with patience the unceasing chidings and naggings of his wife
Shprinze, who, despite the auspicious significance of her name—a Yiddish
corruption of the melodious Spanish appellation Esperanza—Hope—and thus
also a far-off reminder of the sojourn of the children of Israel in the
beautiful Iberian peninsula—did nothing to inspire the spouse of her
bosom with courage or confidence, but was enough to break down the
resolution of any man. He was never known to answer her revilings with a
single harsh word. No doubt much of his patience was due to his
knowledge of the fact that Shprinze had ample provocation, for, whatever
might have been the reason, Yerachmiel simply could not earn a living.
But, though Shprinze had provocation for her ill-temper, justification
she had none. Yerachmiel did the very best he could, and it was not his
fault but only the cruelty of unfeeling fate which prevented him from
extracting even “bread of adversity and water of affliction” from the
world. He tried to earn a little by being a porter or burden-bearer for
one of the merchants of the town at very scanty wages, but just as he
was about to get the place, along came a younger and stronger man and
offered to do the work for even less. Needless to say, the latter was
selected. He thought he could earn his livelihood by being a
_Mithassek_, that is to say, one who watches at the bed of the dead and
performs the funeral ablutions and rites; but it was provokingly healthy
that season. No one died for a long time; and when at last the angel of
death did claim one of the Hebrew residents of Novo-Kaidansk—a wealthy
_Baal Ha-Bayith_ he was, too, whose family always paid liberally for all
services rendered to any of its members—it just happened that they had a
poor relative, an aged man of greater learning and stricter piety than
Yerachmiel; and so, of course, he was preferred, and Yerachmiel was not
considered at all. At one time he dealt in fruit, purchasing a small
stock with a sum of money which a pitying philanthropist had given him
in order to set him up in business; but the demand for fruit was very
slack just then, and in a short time Yerachmiel decided to retire from
that line of commerce with the capital which he had originally
possessed, that is to say, nothing. He made a dozen other attempts to
coax the unwilling world into providing him with sustenance, but each
attempt ended with the same result—failure, and caused him to sink
appreciably lower in the estimation of Shprinze, whose temper grew
bitterer and whose tongue sharper with every new proof of her husband’s
_Shlemihligkeit_. In fact, the term _Shlemihl_ no longer harmonized with
her conception of her husband’s worthlessness; it was too mild, too
utterly inadequate. She began to address him by no other term than
_Shlamazzalnik_, that is, one doomed and predestined to perpetual
misfortune; and soon the neighbors and the other townspeople, and even
the children on the streets, took up the cry, and “Yerachmiel
Shlamazzalnik” resounded from one end to the other of the dusty highways
of Novo-Kaidansk whenever the poor fellow made his appearance. Poor
Yerachmiel! He used to console himself by saying that he was the equal
in some respects of the great Ibn Ezra, the renowned Hebrew exegete and
poet of the Middle Ages, for the latter was also an incurable _Shlemihl_
and _Shlamazzalnik_. Yerachmiel used to think he was reading of his own
experiences when he read the complaint of Ibn Ezra:

“Were I to deal in candles,
The sun would shine alway;
And if ’twere shrouds I’d handle,
Then death would pass away.”

But poetry, though it may be a good consoler, is a poor substitute for
substantial food and the other requisites of a comfortable life; and so
Yerachmiel was not entirely satisfied with his lot, even though the
great Ibn Ezra was a companion in misfortune. Finding that his attempts
to earn a living by work were not crowned with success, Yerachmiel did
what other unsuccessful persons have done under similar circumstances—he
took to religion. He became an assiduous attendant at the local Beth
Hammidrash, was present at all services, morning, afternoon, and
evening, and remained in the sacred edifice during the greater part of
the day and night. He would pray with great fervor, particularly the
“prayer for sustenance” at the end of the morning service, would listen
attentively to the rabbi or the other learned Talmudists expounding the
Holy Law, and would sometimes try to learn a little himself from some of
the bulky tomes. He was, no doubt, sincere in his new-found fervor, but
candor impels the statement that one of the motives of his fondness for
the sacred place was a desire to have a refuge in which the sharp tongue
of Shprinze could not reach him; and another was a desire to participate
in the doles which were distributed on certain occasions, such as the
beginnings of months or the memorial days of the death of the parents of
well-to-do members to the poor persons who regularly attended. In this
way he managed to exist in a precarious fashion, at least without being
a burden to his wife; for whenever he had a little money he gave it to
her, and when he had none he simply did not eat. It is true, he was
sometimes obliged to go without food or with next to none for several
days at a time; but, like all other things, semi-starvation becomes a
habit, and Yerachmiel was so used to it he did not even complain.

One afternoon he was poring over one of the volumes of the Talmud,
trying to interest himself in a particularly intricate disputation
between Abaye and Raba, and thus forget the unidealistic fact that he
had not eaten a substantial meal in three days, and that there were no
visible prospects of obtaining any in the near future. He had fallen
into a light doze, and was just dreaming that he had been invited by the
_Parnass_ to take dinner with him on the Sabbath, and that the Sabbath
goose, juicy and savory and appetizing, had just been carried to the
table, when he was aroused by a hearty whack on his shoulders and a loud
voice exclaiming, in boisterous though friendly tones, “Wake up, old
_Chaver_! What are you doing here?” Yerachmiel awoke with a start. The
vision of savory goose disappeared into thin air, and he was about to
protest angrily against the rude disturbance of his entrancing dream
when he recognized that the man who stood before him with a broad smile
upon his countenance was none other than Shmulke Aronowitz, his old-time
friend and boyhood comrade. It was Shmulke, sure enough, but strangely
altered. He was dressed in an elegant suit of foreign make; his hair and
beard were closely trimmed, and his whole appearance, including his
ruddy countenance and his cheerful smile, indicated prosperity. All of
these characteristics were strange enough in Novo-Kaidansk, heaven
knows, but they were hardly to be wondered at in Shmulke, who had
emigrated to America some twenty years previously and had amassed wealth
in the liquor business in the classic vicinity of Baxter Street, New
York. He had Americanized his cognomen into Samuel Aarons, and had
incidentally acquired local fame by pugilistic ability so that he was
sometimes referred to as “Sam, the Hebrew slugger.” He was now on a
visit to his native town, where his parents still resided, and was
unfeignedly glad to see Yerachmiel, who had been a real chum to him in
boyhood days. The latter sat gazing dazedly at his old friend for a few
moments, utterly unable to speak, so overwhelmed was he by the
unexpected sight and also by the manifest contrast between his own
condition and that of his friend.

Shmulke recalled him to himself. “Come, come, old comrade,” he said with
good-humored impatience. “Don’t sit staring at me as though I were a
curiosity in a circus. Speak out and tell me how you are getting on.”
Thus encouraged, Yerachmiel lost no time in pouring his sad story into
the ears of his friend. Shmulke listened attentively until the tale was
all told, including the present hunger and the dream goose, and then
said: “That is too bad, Yerachmiel. I am really sorry that you are so
unfortunate. Come with me now to the inn of Reb Yankele, where, if you
can’t get the roast goose of which I deprived you, at least you can get
_something_ to eat, and there we can consult as to what can be done for
you.” Yerachmiel complied with alacrity.

Reb Yankele was more than surprised at the unexpected apparition of
Yerachmiel the _Shlemihl_, who had never in all his life been rich
enough to be a guest at the _Kretchm_, although he had been glad to get
an occasional meal or drink there in return for odd jobs, boldly
entering his establishment as the companion of a manifestly prosperous
_Deitch_. He stepped forward with an obsequious bow and a deferential
“What do the gentlemen wish?”

“The best your house has of food and drink,” answered Shmulke, “and be
quick about it. A rouble or two more or less makes no difference.”

Thus encouraged the innkeeper performed his task with alacrity; and in a
few minutes Shmulke and Yerachmiel were sitting down before a very fair
meal, consisting of beet soup, roast chicken, boiled potatoes, black
bread, onions sliced in vinegar, and a large bottle of _vodka_.
Yerachmiel almost imagined himself in _Gan Eden_, and was convinced that
if dreams were not prophetic, they were certainly closely akin to
prophecy. The roast chicken, if not equal in quality to the dream goose,
was not much inferior; and the _vodka_, while undoubtedly not as good as
the wine which is stored up for the righteous since creation’s dawn, was
yet abundantly satisfying to a poor sinner in the cheerless present.

Shmulke watched Yerachmiel’s enjoyment of the meal with a quiet smile of
satisfaction, and said to him: “What is the best way to provide you with
a permanent _parnoso_?” Yerachmiel did not exactly know. He suggested
half a dozen different sorts of business, from banker to butcher, but
was most inclined to favor the occupation of innkeeper, of whose
delights he had just had emphatic demonstration.

Shmulke rejected all these propositions with scorn. “To tell you the
truth,” he said, “I don’t believe you could succeed at anything in
Russia. You are too much of a _Shlemihl_, and you could never get along
without some one to look after you. What do you say to going with me to
America? I would set you up in business and help you along with my
advice.”

The magnificence, as well as the unexpectedness, of this proposal fairly
took Yerachmiel’s breath away. Indeed, it made him feel a little faint.
He did not really want to go to America. He admired America as a land of
extraordinary and incomprehensible prosperity; but he also feared it as
a land which corrupted Jewish piety, and made the holy people faithless
to their ancient heritage. He would rather have remained in his native
place and continued to live in his accustomed manner could he have been
assured of even the most modest sustenance. But in his heart he knew
that Shmulke had spoken the truth; that he was too much of a _Shlemihl_
to succeed without friendly aid and sympathetic guidance, and that he
could not expect to receive those from any one except the old friend of
his youth. He therefore murmured a confused assent, adding, however,
faintly that he was afraid Shprinze might not be willing to have her
husband leave her and go to so distant a land.

“Don’t worry about that, old friend,” said Shmulke, with a broad smile.
“I’ll guarantee that she will not put any obstacles in the way of her
own prosperity. And now that you have agreed, we will go and see her at
once.”

Shmulke was right. Shprinze assented at once to Shmulke’s proposition,
which was that he would take Yerachmiel to America and assist him to
become self-supporting, that he would provide her with sufficient money
to maintain her for several months until Yerachmiel would probably be
able to send her of his own earnings; and that if Yerachmiel proved
unable to adapt himself to the conditions of America and find his way in
his new home, at the end of three years he, Shmulke, would send him back
to his native place with a substantial gift. Indeed, her assent was so
willing, and given with such manifest pleasure, that it jarred
disagreeably upon Yerachmiel, and was not altogether pleasing even to
Shmulke.

Thus did Yerachmiel Sendorowitz become a resident and a respected
citizen of the metropolis of America. It is not necessary to enter into
the details of his career in the New World, which did not differ
essentially from that of many of his Russian Jewish compatriots. At
first he was a peddler, Shmulke providing him with suitable goods and
initiating him into the mysteries of the profession. He did not fail.
The mysterious something in the American atmosphere which confers energy
and shrewdness and practical sense seemed to be even more potent than
usual in his case. This may have been due to the fact that the
_Shlemihligkeit_, which had hitherto been his distinguishing
characteristic, had been more apparent than real, and that he had really
possessed innate qualities of courage and astuteness which only had
lacked the opportunity of manifesting themselves. However that may have
been, he certainly became a different man under the invigorating
influence of America. He toiled early and late with untiring assiduity
and industry; he purchased his little articles of merchandise wisely and
sold prudently. In six months he had developed into a customer peddler,
and no longer wandered through the streets with a pack upon his back,
but went with samples only to the numerous customers whose friendship
and trade he had gained, and received their orders. A year later he had
given this up also, and was the proud and happy possessor of a peddler’s
supply store in one of the little streets which abut on the main
thoroughfare of the Jewish East Side, Canal Street, and had purchased a
tenement house. Success even affected his personal appearance favorably.
The old slouchy, unkempt, ne’er-do-well, with the hungry eyes and
hopeless air, had disappeared forever, and in his stead had come a
bright, alert, neat, active man. Yerachmiel the _Shlemihl_ had given way
to Mr. Sendorowitz, the prosperous wholesale merchant and real-estate
owner. Nor had he failed to keep his promises to Shprinze. He wrote to
her regularly, every week, telling her in detail and with great pride
about his doings and his successes, not failing either to give due
credit to Shmulke for the large share which the latter had had in
bringing about these gratifying results, and always inquiring
solicitously about her health and welfare. Once a month he sent her
money, at first only a few roubles, afterward larger sums, but always
sufficient to enable her to live in proper comfort in the little Russian
town of her residence. He often wrote her, too, of his intention to go
out and take her to his new home as soon as business would permit, she
having expressed a strong aversion to crossing “the great sea” alone. In
all this he was thoroughly sincere, for he was naturally the soul of
honor, and really loved his wife in a simple, unreflecting way, despite
the slight cause she had ever given him for affection. Besides, his
Talmudic studies had given him a clear conviction that a Jewish husband
was under many obligations to his wife; but his ideas of the counter
duties of wife to husband were much less distinct. Despite the slight
demands which he made upon the conjugal sentiment of his life partner,
he had, however, to confess to himself that the letters of Shprinze were
not satisfactory. They were excessively brief, not very frequent,
expressed very little interest in his personal welfare or his doings,
and invariably contained a demand for a larger amount of money.
Yerachmiel tried to obey the rabbinical precept, “Judge every one
leniently,” and to find excuses for Shprinze’s unsympathetic demeanor.
He told himself that women are naturally inclined to scold, and that
Shprinze was merely following the rule of her sex; that she did not put
full faith in his tales of prosperity, and was demanding money as a test
of their truth; that women are naturally less expressive of the
affection they feel than are men, and a half-dozen other excuses for her
apparent coldness and mercenariness. But none of these excuses seemed
really adequate, and gradually Yerachmiel found a great dissatisfaction
with the conduct of his wife toward him rising in his breast. Finally, a
most painful question began to torture him. “Did Shprinze love him at
all, or was her interest in him purely mercenary, and limited to the
material benefits which she could derive from him?”

Simple-minded as Yerachmiel was in worldly things, untutored in romantic
concepts and affairs of the heart, his whole nature revolted against the
idea of marital relations with a woman in whose soul burned no flame of
love for him as her husband. But how could he ascertain the truth; how
find out whether his wife really loved him or not? Gradually a plan
matured in his mind. He did not permit Shprinze to have any inkling of
the doubts and the conflicting emotions by which he was agitated. He
wrote her as frequently and regularly as hitherto, and sent her monthly
remittances of money with unfailing punctuality. After some five years
of absence he wrote her that he had found it at last possible to
withdraw his constant personal attention from business for a few months,
and that he would come out and take her with him to his new home in
America. When Shprinze received this letter it did not fill her with the
joy which the prospect of reunion with a beloved and long-absent husband
might be expected to inspire in the heart of an affectionate and devoted
wife. She would have preferred the indefinite continuance of the
condition which had now lasted upward of five years, and which she had
found very agreeable. It had been very pleasant to receive constant
remittances of money, to live in comfort and ease, and to be looked up
to on all sides as the fortunate and happy one. When she had entered the
women’s gallery in the synagogue all the women had hastened to make way
for her with the utmost deference; and many a highly esteemed _Baal
Ha-bayis_ had looked upon her with favor, and would not have spurned to
ask her hand in marriage if her incumbrance on the other side of the
Atlantic would only have been good enough to make a polite exit for a
better world, leaving her a substantial fortune in American dollars. And
now all this was to cease; and she must leave her native place for a
strange land, and live again with one whom in her heart she still
despised as a _Shlemihl_, despite his unexpected good fortune in the New
World. Besides, she had a dim presentiment of evil, a feeling that the
advent of Yerachmiel meant some undesirable change in her tide of
fortune, why or what she could not think. At last a despatch came from
Yerachmiel, informing her that he was in Hamburg, and would reach
Novo-Kaidansk with the train due at such and such an hour. At the
appointed hour she was at the station, accompanied by quite a throng of
Jewish townsfolk bent on giving their long-absent townsman a hearty
welcome. Speculation was rife as to his appearance. Some thought that
his long absence in a foreign land would have removed his Jewish looks;
that he would have shaved off his beard and assumed in every way the
appearance of the Gentile. Others thought such a thing impossible of
Yerachmiel Sendorowitz; that he was far too pious and God-fearing to
fall away so utterly from Jewish ways, and that the only change probable
was that he would be elegantly attired in fine clothing, and would show
in his prosperous and beaming aspect the possession of much
America-gained wealth. The grimy train, drawn by the ugly, soot-covered
locomotive, swept into the low-roofed Russian station. The swarm of
passengers, of all kinds and degrees, flowed from the narrow openings of
the cars; and then a shock came over the waiting throng. From amidst the
crowd of passengers emerged one who was unmistakably Yerachmiel; and,
horrible to relate, the Yerachmiel of old, Yerachmiel the _Schlemihl_.
To be sure, he was not exactly the same in appearance as of old, for the
hat and suit that he wore were of American make; but they were shabby
and dusty, and ill suited to a prosperous man. His hair and beard were
unkempt and neglected, and his face bore an expression of anxiety and
care. All were surprised and shocked; but the most pitiably shocked of
all was Shprinze. Yerachmiel at once recognized his townsmen and his
wife, and advanced with a sort of wan smile to greet them. The former,
of course, returned his greetings, and inquired how he had fared in
America; but their embarrassment was only too manifest, and cutting
short his answers to them, Yerachmiel turned to his wife, who had been
standing all the while as if petrified, and said: “Come, Shprinze, let
us go home.” Mechanically she led him to her home. Hardly had the door
of the little dwelling closed behind them when all the animation and
energy which had left Shprinze when she beheld her spouse in such
unexpected and unwelcome guise suddenly returned.

“What is the meaning of all this?” she demanded fiercely, while flames
of wrath blazed from her piercing eyes. “Why do you come to me from
America looking like a beggar and a ragged saint fresh from the benches
of the Beth-Hammidrash instead of a prosperous New York merchant, as you
had made us all believe you had become? Was it all a lie, your
oft-repeated tale of your success in business and your progress? Did you
steal the money you sent me, and have you fled from the officers of the
law, who, perhaps, are after you now? Oh, you are still the same old
_Shlemihl_, the same old goodfor-nothing! Why did the Most High curse me
by making me your wife?”

“My dear Shprinze, do not rave so!” expostulated Yerachmiel. “How can
you say such things before you have heard any explanation from me? I am
not a liar nor a _Shlemihl_. Whatever I wrote you about my business
success in America was strictly true; and the money I sent you was my
own, and all honestly earned. I have come to take you with me to
America; and I already have the steamship tickets for us both, and
plenty of money for railroad fare and necessary expenses.”

“Then why are you dressed so shabbily?” continued Shprinze, with
undiminished fierceness; “and why do you look so down-hearted? Is that
the appearance and the bearing suitable to a wealthy merchant, such as
you have claimed to be?”

“I suppose I am not very particular about my appearance,” answered
Yerachmiel; “and then, I admit, I have had considerable trouble and
losses in business lately, and that may have given me a worried look.
But what need that concern you? I have learned the art of getting on in
America, and I do not fear but that I shall soon be able to recover
whatever I have lost. In the mean while I am here. I am your husband,
and I ask you to come and make your home with me.”

“You are _mechulleh_,” said Shprinze, suspicion gazing out of every line
of her excited countenance. “I can understand from what you admit that
you have lost all you had, and you want me to share your poverty, or
perhaps to give you the money that I have saved from what you sent me! I
shall not do it! I do not want to go with you! Give me a _Get_. I do not
want to be the wife of such a _Shlemihl_.”

Yerachmiel’s pale face became fiery red when he heard these harsh and
heartless words; but again he endeavored to bring his wife to a better
frame of mind. “Shprinze,” he said in appealing tones that might have
melted a heart of stone, “is this my welcome home? Have I deserved this
of you? Have I not always been faithful to you, even when I was a poor
_Shlemihl_ in this town, and did I not give you every kopeck I earned?
Did I not send you money abundantly from America? You may trust me. I
still have the means to support my wife, and therefore I again ask you
to come with me to my home, as beseems a good and true wife in Israel.”

“I will believe you are not _mechulleh_,” said Shprinze, in a tone of
calculating shrewdness, “if you will give me a thousand roubles now. If
you do that I will go with you.”

“That I shall not do,” said Yerachmiel, a manly anger getting the better
of his usual extreme mildness. “I do not need to buy my wife. Have you
no love for me at all? I ask you to go with me because I can support
you; and as a wife you can ask no more.”

“Then I see you are _mechulleh_,” answered Shprinze, “and I will not go.
Divorce me, I say; give me a _Get_. I want none of you or your money.
All I want is a _Get_.”

Again and again did Yerachmiel appeal to Shprinze’s better nature. It
was of no avail. She persisted in her demand and could not be induced to
alter it. Seeing that her determination was unalterable and that her one
wish was to be separated from him, Yerachmiel, although according to the
Jewish religious law he could have refused to consent to the desired
divorce and thus have effectually baffled any other matrimonial plans
that Shprinze might have entertained, decided to accede to her wishes.
“I shall do as you ask, hard-hearted and ungrateful woman,” he said;
“for even now that you treat me thus cruelly I wish you no evil. But one
thing I must tell you. In order to show that this divorce is not in
accordance with my wish, I shall pay neither the rabbi, nor the scribe,
nor any of the other expenses. Whatever outlay there is you must defray.
Thus shall all know that you are the one who seeks to undo the bond that
has bound us together these many years, but that I am satisfied to keep
you as my lawful, wedded wife.”

Shprinze eagerly agreed to this; and having further agreed that they
should meet on the morrow in the house of Rabbi Israel, the spiritual
guide of the Jewish community of the town, they separated, Yerachmiel
leaving the house without word of farewell.

Great was the surprise of Reb Yankele, the innkeeper, when Yerachmiel,
whom he had assisted in welcoming at the railroad station a few hours
previously, entered the inn and gloomily inquired whether he could be
accommodated with food and lodging for the night. He wondered greatly
why Yerachmiel was not staying in his own home on the first night after
his arrival from a distant land; but the latter volunteered no
explanation, and Reb Yankele did not venture to ask for any. However, he
did not need to remain long in ignorance. No sooner had Yerachmiel left
his wife’s house than Shprinze rushed to the nearest female neighbor and
told her the news, adding many dreadful details about the repulsiveness
of Yerachmiel’s appearance, his poverty, and his hopeless
_Shlemihligkeit_; adding, however, that in spite of all she must be
grateful to him for his willingness to grant her the divorce she craved,
and assuring her (the neighbor) of her unutterable joy at the prospect
of being at last free from an incurable _Shlemihl_ and _Shlamazzalnik_.
The neighbor, of course, had no more imperative duty to perform than to
put her shawl over her head and rush to communicate to her nearest
neighbor the news, still fresh and hot, of the impending divorce of
Yerachmiel and Shprinze Sendorowitz. In this way not two hours had
passed before the whole _Kehillah_ of Novo-Kaidansk had learned the
news. Reb Yankele had learned why Yerachmiel was his guest; and even
Rabbi Israel had been informed, at evening service in the synagogue, of
the function which he was to be asked to perform on the morrow.

At nine the next morning Yerachmiel and Shprinze were in the large front
room in the rabbi’s dwelling, which served as his office, and whither
repaired whosoever in Novo-Kaidansk had a religious question to ask or a
ceremony to be performed, or that was in need of spiritual counsel or
guidance of any kind. Shprinze was gayly attired, and chattered
constantly with a group of female acquaintances by whom she was
surrounded. She was in high spirits, and cast occasional contemptuous
glances at Yerachmiel, who sat, moody and abstracted, in a corner and
spoke to no one. Besides these the room was crowded with the most
notable members of the congregation, drawn hither by the exceptional
interest which this extraordinary case had aroused. The side door
opened, and a hush fell upon the assembly as the venerable Rabbi Israel,
accompanied by two coadjutor rabbis and several other persons who were
to take part in the solemn function of pronouncing the divorce, entered
and took their places in seats which had been reserved for their
occupancy, behind long tables at the head of the room. The _Shammas_
then asked in a loud voice whether there was any one present who desired
to consult the Beth Din on any matter. At this Yerachmiel arose, and,
addressing Rabbi Israel, said: “Venerable rabbi, I desire to divorce my
wife, Shprinze, daughter of Moses; and I request of you to ordain the
issuing of such a divorce, according to the law of Moses and Israel.”

“I hear your request with sorrow,” said the rabbi, while an expression
of pain passed over his venerable features. “Is it the desire of your
wife also that your marriage be dissolved?”

Yerachmiel bent his head in assent; and the _Shammas_, in response to a
motion of the rabbi’s hand, called in a loud voice: “Shprinze, daughter
of Moses, step forward.” Shprinze did so, and the rabbi put to her the
question whether she consented to the dissolution of her marriage to
Yerachmiel, son of Isaac, to which she responded with a loud and
distinct “Yes.” Summoning them both before him, the rabbi now addressed
to them a long and earnest plea to give up their intention of divorce.
He pointed out to them that, although the holy Torah permitted the
dissolution of a marriage which had been polluted and desecrated by
gross and abominable sin, or which had grown utterly intolerable to
either or both parties, and left it to their decision whether it should
be dissolved; yet it did not approve, but, on the contrary, severely
condemned, the tearing asunder of the holy bonds of wedlock, and that in
the words of the sages the altar shed tears over husband and wife who
became recreant to the covenant of their youth. He therefore entreated
them most earnestly to become reconciled to each other, and to remain
faithful to the pledges which they had once taken upon each other. To
this touching plea they returned no answer. Yerachmiel gazed at the
floor, his face alternately flushed and ashy pale. Shprinze gazed at the
rabbi with firm eyes and shook her head in the negative. Seeing that his
efforts at reconciliation were useless, the rabbi then announced “the
giving of the _Get_ must, therefore, take place.”

These words were the signal for the commencement of the divorce
ceremonial, which was now performed with all the solemn and impressive
formalities with which it has been carried out since time immemorial in
Israel. The rabbi appointed an expert and skilful scribe to write the
bill of divorce, which must be written in strict accordance with many
minute and detailed rules, the neglect or violation of any of which
would render it invalid. He also designated two pious and trustworthy
men, both proficient in the art of writing the square Hebrew script, to
act as the official witnesses to the document. The scribe seated himself
at his desk and produced his paper, quill pen, and ink, all of them
specially prepared, in accordance with fixed rules, for this purpose. To
him Yerachmiel, acting under the instruction of the rabbi, now spoke and
directed him to write a bill of divorce for his wife, Shprinze, daughter
of Moses. Amidst breathless silence the scribe now began to write the
document which was to sunder two lives hitherto joined. The writing
lasted a considerable time; and during all its continuance not a sound,
save the steady scratching of the scribe’s pen, was heard, for it is
strictly forbidden to make a noise of any kind while a _Get_ is being
written, lest the sound disturb the _Sopher_ and cause him to err in
some particular, thus necessitating the rewriting of the document. At
last the bill of divorce was finished and the two witnesses appended
their signatures, written in the square Hebrew script, and without title
of any kind. The rabbi then designated two other men of religious
standing and good repute to be the official witnesses of the delivery of
the _Get_. Summoning Shprinze, the rabbi bade her uncover her face,
which hitherto during the proceedings had been covered with a heavy
veil, and said to her in solemn tones: “Shprinze, daughter of Moses, art
thou willing to accept a bill of divorce from thy husband, Yerachmiel,
son of Isaac?” Shprinze responded with a firm “Yes.” Turning to
Yerachmiel, the rabbi asked him whether he still desired to divorce his
wife, to which Yerachmiel answered in the affirmative. Turning again to
the woman, the rabbi said in a stern voice: “Give me thy _Ketubah_. Thou
no longer hast any use for it.” At this, the most feared part in the
divorce ceremony, Shprinze’s face grew slightly pale; but she drew forth
her marriage certificate, which she had brought along for this purpose,
and gave it to the rabbi, who laid it aside, to be destroyed immediately
after the completion of the divorce proceedings. The rabbi then bade her
remove her marriage ring and extend her hands to receive her bill of
divorce. Yerachmiel then took the bill of divorce, placed it in the
outstretched hands of Shprinze, and said: “Behold, this is thy bill of
divorce. Accept thy bill of divorce, and by it thou art released and
divorced from me, and free to contract lawful marriage with any other
man.” With a few earnest words from the rabbi pointing out the duty of
living their separate lives in peace and righteousness, and of avoiding
in the future the sins which had led to this sorrow, the ceremony was
concluded.

Yerachmiel and Shprinze were no longer man and wife. At once a clamorous
buzz of conversation arose all over the room. The excitement which had
been suppressed so long now burst the bonds of enforced silence and
found relief in vociferous exclamations of wonderment and emphatic
expressions of approval and disapproval. Some of the women congratulated
Shprinze; others held aloof. The men were unanimous in their
condemnation of the hard-hearted woman who had taken her husband’s money
for years and then induced him, when grown poor, to give her a divorce.

The excitement was at its height, when suddenly a tremendous rap on the
table drew the startled gaze of all toward the spot whence the sound had
proceeded. What they saw caused a hush to fall over the assemblage.
Yerachmiel stood at the side of one of the tables, his cheeks ashy pale,
his eyes blazing with a furious light that no one had ever seen in them
before, fiercely rapping with his cane in an effort to procure silence.
As soon as his voice could be heard he began to speak.

“Jewish brethren and sisters of Novo-Kaidansk,” he said, with painfully
labored yet distinct utterance. “You have come here to see Yerachmiel
the _Shlemihl_ give divorce to his wife, Shprinze. I know most of you
are good people and have pitied me for being such a _Shlemihl_ that I
could not keep either my money or my wife. But, perhaps, I am not such a
_Shlemihl_ after all. I have not desired nor sought this divorce, but I
have tried to find out the truth about an old wrong and to right it; and
I believe I have succeeded as well as some who are considered wiser and
cleverer than I. _Shlemihl_ though I may be, I have always tried to do
my duty toward my wife. Even before I went to America, when poverty and
wretchedness were my lot in this town, I gave Shprinze every kopeck that
I earned. From America, where God blessed me and made me prosperous, I
sent her regularly all that she could properly require. But in return
for this I asked wifely love. I knew that a husband must honor, cherish,
and maintain his wife; and that a wife must, in true marriage, return
love for love, affection for affection. Shprinze never showed the least
trace of love for me. My soul hungered and thirsted for love. Shprinze
gave me, at worst, bitter revilings and beratings, tongue-stabbings that
pierced my soul like the thrusts of a sword; at best, cold indifference.
In the beginning, when I could not, because of poverty, properly support
her, I excused her. I said to myself that I deserved nothing better. But
when from America I sent abundance of gold and loving words, and showed
in every way I could that I was a true and loving husband, and when, in
return for all this, I could not get an affectionate word, a loving
sentence, I resolved that I would find out whether in Shprinze’s heart
dwelt a spark of love for me, or whether it was only my gold she loved.
The rest you know. I came here, dressed in shabby clothing, looking the
olden _Shlemihl_. Her evil heart made her quickly conclude that I had
lost my all, and without questioning me or offering, like a true wife,
to share my lot, she demanded a divorce. I saw that she loved me not,
that she had never been to me more than a wife in name, and to-day I
have granted her wish. But let me assure her and you, friends, that she
is mistaken in thinking that she has now got rid of a _Shlemihl_, of a
poor, never succeeding unfortunate. She has freed herself of a
successful, of a wealthy man; she has deprived herself of a splendid
home in the greatest city of free America; she has deprived herself of
luxury and riches, and, what is more, of the love of a man who was
deeply attached to her, and who would have given his all for a kind word
or a loving kiss from her lips. See, here are the presents I had brought
here for her, and would have given her had she treated me rightly.” So
speaking, he drew forth a magnificent diamond necklace and a beautiful,
richly ornamented gold watch and chain. “And here is the proof that I am
a man of means and no deceiver—a letter of credit on a Berlin
banking-house for ten thousand marks”—and here he drew from his wallet
the precious document and flourished it triumphantly yet sorrowfully
before the eyes of his hearers. “As for me,” he continued, “I thank the
All-Merciful that He has opened my eyes to the truth, and that He has
freed me from a serpent that would only have devoured my substance, and
with its icy touch have frozen my heart. Now farewell, friends, and
farewell, false and heartless woman. I go to my home beyond the sea,
where I shall try to forget this long, sad dream of misplaced love and
cruel ingratitude and heartlessness.”

Having thus spoken, he turned and left the room. None ventured to detain
him or to restrain his departure. As he went out of the door, Shprinze,
who had been listening with strained attention to his words, and whose
countenance had alternately flushed and paled as he spoke, rushed
forward as if she would have held him back, then paused, uttered a
piercing, heartrending shriek, and fell in a deathly swoon to the floor.
The cry reached the ears of Yerachmiel as he strode down the dusty
street. An expression of pain crossed his features as he heard it, but
he did not turn and he came not back.

A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE.

Franz Friedrich Levy sat on his high stool before his desk in the office
of the Second Secretariat of the Anhalt-Diesterburg-Rickershofen State
Railroad and reflected discontentedly on his lot. He had rather an
important position, it is true, that of chief bookkeeper of the Second
Secretariat, an important subdivision in the management of the railway,
which was a prosperous governmental institution, binding together a rich
and beautiful stretch of country in middle Germany. He was in receipt of
a very fair salary, occupied a comfortable house in the suburbs of the
town, and was wedded to a rather good-looking wife, with quite a store
of fashionable though useless accomplishments, but still he was not
happy. The cause of his unhappiness was a grievance which he had against
the Ober-Direction or supreme management of the railway, a grievance for
which he thought—and his wife agreed with him in this opinion—there
could be only one explanation. He believed that his promotion was unduly
slow. He had entered the service of the railroad in his twentieth year
as clerk, and now in his forty-fifth, when his once raven black locks
were already heavily streaked with gray and more than a suspicion of
baldness was showing itself on the top of his poll, he was only chief
bookkeeper of one of the numerous subdivisions of the great concern. He
thought that by length of service and capacity he was fitted to be
general manager of the road; but while admitting that he had no right to
aspire to that exalted position, he considered that by this time he
should have attained at the very least to the post of division chief or
superintendent.

“Why is it that I do not advance?” he asked himself as he sat gloomily
revolving on the high stool. “Am I incapable? Have I been idle,
negligent, or inattentive to my duties? Do I not know all the details of
the business from beginning to end? Do I not know by heart all the
statistics of the road, the number of passengers and the weight of
freight carried, the condition of every station, the receipts and the
expenditures to a pfennig? No, the fault is not mine. It is owing to
_rishus_, to anti-Semitic prejudice. My only fault, as far as I can
discover, is that I am a Jew. To that I owe all my misfortune. This
accursed accident of my birth prevents my talents being appreciated,
prevents my attaining the success which I should naturally reach; and, I
suppose, as long as I am marked with this badge of disgrace and social
inferiority I shall always remain an unimportant, insignificant
individual. That Ober-Director von Meinken, he is, I am sure, the chief
cause of keeping me down. He always looks at me with such a dark,
unfriendly glance whenever I have to enter his office. He is the very
picture of a _Rosho_, although he talks smoothly enough. I don’t doubt
but he would be glad enough to get rid of me altogether if he only knew
how to bring it about.”

“Aha, friend Levy, why are you plunged in such deep thought?” suddenly
said a deep, hearty voice at his side. “I have been standing here a
whole minute and you have never even noticed my presence, so absorbed
were you in your reflections. Did I not know that you were a married man
of virtuous principles I would say that you were in love. But then the
expression of your face shows that you have not been dreaming sweet
dreams of love delights. If I am any judge of physiognomy at all, your
thoughts have been disagreeable ones. May I ask what they were?”

Levy turned around with a startled jerk of the high stool. It was the
Herr Ober-Director, Baron Adalbert von Meinken himself with a
good-humored smile on his broad, handsome, Teutonic face, the lower part
of which was covered with a neatly trimmed brown full beard. Levy
blushed guiltily. He felt as though the keen blue eyes of his superior
were gazing into his very soul and reading the thoughts that had just
occupied him. He stammered forth a half apology.

“The Herr Ober-Director will pardon my preoccupation,” he said, “but I
can assure you that I was not thinking of any outside matter. I never
permit myself to think of outside matters in business hours. I was
thinking of a method of reducing the expenses of the station Weizenhofen
on the Blauberg-Schoenthal branch. That place costs a great deal more
than it ought to, considering the small amount of business done at that
point, and I hope soon to be able to lay a project before your
Excellency which will materially reduce the cost of maintenance of the
station.”

“Ah,” said the Ober-Director, with a pleased expression, “I might have
known that you, Levy, were not wasting your employer’s time in idle
ruminations. You have always been a faithful, industrious worker,
devoted heart and soul to the interests of the road. I shall be glad to
receive your proposal in the Weizenhofen matter and I shall give it full
consideration.”

And the Ober-Director passed on and entered his private office. Levy
bent over his books as soon as his chief had passed, and was careful not
to fall into another fit of reflection that afternoon. The words of the
Ober-Director had pleased him but he did not altogether trust them. He
feared that he was under close surveillance, and that all his actions
were being rigidly scrutinized, with a view to finding some flaw in his
conduct. He devoted himself, therefore, with redoubled assiduity to his
routine work until the welcome sound of the bell, announcing the closing
hour, relieved him from further labor for the day. He put on his hat,
exchanged his light office jacket for his street coat, and with a
pleasant word of farewell to his fellow-clerks sallied forth into the
street. As he sauntered down the beautiful Kaiser Strasse, the finest
thoroughfare of the town, through which he always walked both in his
daily journeyings to and from the office and on his Sunday and holiday
promenades, he was greeted by so many friends and acquaintances that his
hand was continually busy raising his hat in response to their
salutations. His social equals, both Christian and Jewish, saluted him
with easy and unaffected cordiality, his humbler acquaintances with
great deference. These manifestations of friendship and respect, instead
of pleasing him, added to his discontent and his resentment against the
authorities of the railroad. He said to himself that it was a crying
shame, indeed an outrage, that a man so generally esteemed and honored
by his fellow-townsmen should be kept in a subordinate position because
of the religious prejudices of his superiors; and should be prevented by
such a reason, so repugnant to the culture and civilization of the
century, from attaining to the rank and emoluments to which he was
clearly entitled. In this frame of mind he reached his handsome
dwelling, which was charmingly situated in the Schoenberger Allee, a new
and fashionable street in the suburbs of the town. To the effusive
greetings of the spouse of his bosom, Frau Ottilie, _née_ Kahn, he
returned a curt answer and threw himself, in an attitude of utter
disgust and weariness, upon the sofa.

Frau Ottilie Levy was a worthy counterpart of her partner in life. If
harmony in marriage is secured by similarity in tastes and disposition,
theirs should have been an ideal union, for their characters and views
were almost exactly alike. Like her husband, Frau Levy was intensely
ambitious. Her sole aim in life was to secure the greatest possible
measure of wealth and social prestige. She shared her husband’s
grievance to the fullest extent; but, womanlike, she was inclined to put
the blame on him for his failure to advance, and continually nagged and
pestered him with her complaints, and the expression of her discontent
at not being able to shine as much as Frau Geheimräthin So-and-So or
Frau Commerzienräthin Somebody Else. Seeing the discomposure under which
her husband was evidently laboring, her woman’s instinct told her that
now was not the time to nag and scold, but to sympathize and console.
She therefore relinquished, or rather postponed to a more favorable
opportunity, the caustic lecture combined with a demand for a larger
allowance which she had been preparing all day for the special benefit
of her life partner, and began inquiring, with great solicitude,
concerning the cause of his disturbed condition.

“What is the matter, Franz dear?” she asked, in the same tone of winning
gentleness which she had lately so greatly admired in the celebrated
stage heroine, Adele de Pompadour, as played by Madame Graetzinger, the
renowned _Erste Dame_ of the Stadt Theater. “Why are you so upset? I
trust that nothing serious has happened.”

“Yes and no,” answered Franz dejectedly; “that old Von Meinken caught me
to-day, when I was thinking about the shameful slowness of my promotion,
or rather my lack of any promotion, and was neglecting my work. I was so
absorbed in thought that I never noticed him, although, as he told me,
he stood by my desk over a minute. Of course I gave him as good an
excuse as I could get up in a hurry to account for my absent-mindedness;
but how can I tell whether the old fox believed what I said or not?
Confound him, he’s always sure to be around when he isn’t wanted. You
can rely on it that I worked extra hard all the rest of the afternoon.”

“You don’t think that can hurt you any, do you?” asked Otillie, dropping
her theatrical manner, and with just a shade of anxiety in her voice.
“What harm is it if an old, trustworthy employee like you is idle for a
minute or two in the day?”

“It oughtn’t to be any harm,” answered Franz. “But then you know how
stiff and exacting these Prussian officials are. They think men are
nothing but machines, and they make no allowances for anything. A number
of men have been discharged of late, and then, you know, there is so
much anti-Semitism nowadays. I, as a Jew, have to be particularly
careful.”

“There’s the root of the whole matter,” said Frau Ottilie, pouncing with
avidity upon her favorite argument. “It’s only because you’re a Jew that
you have any trouble. Don’t tell me that an experienced, faithful
official like you, if he were a Christian, would be trembling with fear
of losing his place because he had been thinking of something for a
moment or two. No such trivial thing would have been of any consequence
in his case. It is only we Jews who must be continually alarmed,
continually alert lest we commit the slightest error; because, in our
case, any fault, sometimes even only imaginary, means ruin. Yes, Heine
was right when he said: ‘Judaism is not a religion; it is a misfortune.’
It certainly is your misfortune, and therefore mine. As long as you are
a Jew you will never advance. You might as well try to jump over the
moon as to overcome the deep-seated prejudices of Christians against
Jews. You simply cannot do it.”

[Illustration:

IT’S ONLY BECAUSE YOU’RE A JEW THAT YOU HAVE ANY TROUBLE

_Page 252_]

“But, my dear,” said Levy, who had heard this sort of talk very
frequently, and was rather weary of it, “what is the use of telling me
all that again and again. I know as well as you that being a Jew is the
chief hindrance to my progress. But what is the use of continually
harping on it. I cannot change what I am; so why kick in vain against
the unalterable?”

“But it is not unalterable,” said Frau Ottilie, with even more acerbity
than the sense of her old and keenly felt grievance usually aroused.
“You talk as though to be a Jew was the same as being a negro, or a
Chinaman, or blind, or lame. The negro cannot make his black skin white,
nor the Chinaman his complexion or his features resemble those of the
Caucasian; neither can the blind nor the lame alter their physical
deformities. But the Jew needs only to speak a meaningless formula and
permit three drops of water to be sprinkled upon him and presto, change,
he has ceased to be a Jew and become a Christian. All his former
blemishes and shortcomings are forgotten, and he is received with open
arms into Christian society. Instead of being an outcast and a pariah,
an individual barely and unwillingly tolerated, he becomes a beloved
brother. Then, why stupidly submit to a load of inherited, unnecessary
trouble? Why not rather take the one bold step which will make an end of
them all at once and forever?”

“But, my dear Ottilie,” said Franz, who, though used to this line of
argument, was surprised by his wife’s unusual bitterness. “What is the
purpose of all this? You don’t want me to be baptized, to be a
_meshummad_, do you?”

“That is just what I do want,” answered Ottilie, vehemently. “I want you
to cease being a stupid martyr and begin to be sensible, and I want to
be sensible with you, too. I am not afraid of the word _meshummad_. That
is only a harmless term which stupid and fanatical Jews use to condemn
people who are more sensible than they. Baptism will not hurt you. It is
only the key which will unlock before you the gates of prosperity and
happiness in life. Besides, if you look honestly into your heart you are
no Jew. A Jew must have a faith, must believe in Judaism, and practise a
lot of senseless ceremonies. You do not care a straw for the whole
Jewish religion, nor bother your head about the Sabbath or the dietary
laws, or any of the other absurdities which they call religious
practices in Judaism. I don’t believe you have been inside of a
synagogue in ten years. I am just as little of a Jewess as you are of a
Jew. Yet, by keeping up the name of Jew, without any real reason except
a blind clinging to you know not what, you expose yourself and me and
our only son to all the trouble and disadvantages which result from
connection with a despised and hated people. Again, I say, be sensible.
Pay the price of admission to civilized society, that is, accept baptism
and be done with it.”

Thus did Ottilie reason and plead with her husband to renounce his
ancestral faith. The argument, thus seriously begun, lasted long, and
was carried on with intense earnestness on both sides. The thought of
accepting Christianity was no new one to Franz. His wife’s constant
perusal of that theme had made it familiar to him, but he had never yet
seriously contemplated the step. The memory of pious parents and of the
religious zeal and piety of youthful days, though long since discarded,
had had force enough to render the thought of apostasy utterly repugnant
and prevent its serious consideration. But Ottilie’s nature was stronger
than his; her’s was the masterful character, his the subordinate. Before
the evening was over, her persistence and adroit reasoning had
overpowered his feeble and illogical resistance. They retired for the
night with the understanding that on the morrow Franz was to inform Herr
Ober-Director von Meinken of his determination to seek salvation in the
arms of the church, and to request the Herr Ober-Director to act as his
godfather at the solemn rite of baptism.

The following morning Franz awoke in a state of high exhilaration. Now
that he had made up his mind he was thoroughly content, and wondered a
little how he had ever been able to pass so many years with the awful
burden of Judaism resting upon him, hindering and impeding his progress,
which he now pictured to himself as rapid and uninterrupted, bringing
him from step to step to the highest rank in his vocation. Ottilie was
even more jubilant than her husband. She rejoiced that her influence
over her husband was so great as to induce him to take so important and
decisive a step, and she rejoiced particularly when she thought how
grandly she would enter the _salons_ of her distinguished acquaintances,
no longer the merely tolerated Jewess, but the equal and co-religionist
of them all. She pictured to herself with especial delight how solemnly
she would enter the beautiful church, only two squares from their home,
which was so holy and so fashionable; and what a sensation she would
create with her reverent demeanor and her Paris gowns!

As soon as Franz reached the office he inquired whether the Herr
Director had arrived. As he had anticipated, the Herr Director had not
yet arrived. He did not usually come until about eleven o’clock, and
this morning was no exception. Franz waited with great impatience the
arrival of the great man. He thought it rather inconsiderate of him to
stay away so long when he, Franz Friedrich Levy, desired to make him so
important an announcement. At last, about a quarter of an hour later
than usual, the Herr Ober-Director put in his appearance and went at
once to his private office. He had not been in his sanctum five minutes
when a somewhat diffident knock at the door was heard, and upon his
deep-voiced “Herein!” Franz entered. “Ah, is it you, Levy?” said Herr
von Meinken, with a pleasant smile. “I think I can imagine the reason of
your call this morning. It is, I presume, in reference to that Station
Weizenhofen matter you spoke of the other day.” Franz hesitated. Now
that the decisive moment had come, he grew a little uncertain in his
conviction of the spiritual beauties and material advantages of
Christianity, and would have more than half liked another chance to
think over the matter. But only for a moment.

“No, your Excellency,” he answered. “It is not in reference to the
Weizenhofen matter that I have taken the liberty to request a brief
interview with you this morning. I am still engaged in working out that
matter, but I am not as yet prepared to make any definite proposition on
the subject. The cause that has brought me before your Excellency this
morning is of an entirely personal nature, but of the highest importance
to me, and I trust that I shall have the benefit of your Excellency’s
kindness and courteous sympathy in connection therewith.”

Herr von Meinken’s eyebrows rose slightly and his lips tightened just a
little when he heard these words. He did not answer, but continued to
eye Franz with the somewhat cold and dubious gaze of one who expects to
be importuned for a favor and does not feel inclined to grant it. “What
I desire and would respectfully request,” continued Franz, “is that your
Excellency might kindly consent to act as godfather at my baptism, and
that the highly honored baroness might graciously deign to act in the
same capacity for my wife. I do not doubt that you are somewhat
surprised,” he added, noticing the expression of genuine astonishment
upon the Herr Ober-Director’s face, “at this request but the fact is, my
wife and I have contemplated this step for some time. We are no longer
in sympathy with the faith in which we were born. We have come to
recognize that it is a presumption for an insignificant, retrograde
minority to cling to a religion different from that of the great,
cultured majority. Our tastes and views are all in close accord with
those of the Christian people of the land. In a word, we feel that our
place is in the church rather than in the synagogue, and, therefore, we
have finally determined to seek our true spiritual home, the church, and
to request most respectfully your Excellency and your Excellency’s
worthy lady kindly to assist at the solemn rite which joins us with our
fellow-citizens in the close brotherhood of religion, as we have always
been joined to them in the brotherhood of patriotism and love of the
fatherland.”

The Herr Ober-Director was surprised. There could be no doubt of that.
The expression of his countenance showed it plainly. But another emotion
of a less definite nature was also suggested on his features. It seemed
something like amusement; but one could not be sure, for he did not
explain it. He answered Franz very graciously, congratulated him on his
resolution, which did equal credit to his head and heart, assured him
that the true unity of citizens could only be found in their adherence
to a common faith, and wound up by accepting, in the kindliest and most
condescending manner possible, for himself and the Frau Baronin the
honorable functions of godfather and godmother to Franz and Ottilie.

Flustered and confused by the extraordinary courtesy of the Herr
Ober-Director and overwhelmed with happiness, Franz retired from the
august presence. The baptism took place, with all due formality, about a
week later. The minister of the fashionable Erlöser Kirche, which
Ottilie so greatly admired, Pastor Boecker, had been more than satisfied
with the intelligent and modest manner in which Franz and Ottilie had
applied for baptism, and had seen no reason to refuse their request for
a speedy performance of the ceremony. At the rite itself, which took
place in the presence of a small but select group of Christian
acquaintances, Franz and Ottilie conducted themselves with due humility
and reverence; and the Herr Ober-Director and spouse performed their
parts with perfect dignity and solemnity, while the Herr Pastor showed,
by the unusual impressiveness of his address, that he considered the act
one of exceptional importance. After the ceremony there was a charming
little supper in a private room of the Hotel zum Blauen Adler. Never
before had the Herr Ober-Director shown himself so affable. He proposed
the health of their newly-made Christian brother and sister in the
warmest and most eloquent terms, alluded in words of sincere
appreciation to Franz’s many years of useful service to the Anhalt
Diesterburg-Rickershofen State Railroad, presaged for him a still more
distinguished career in the future, and wound up by extending to him,
metaphorically, of course, the hand of friendship and brotherhood. As
for the Frau Baronin, she was as charming as she could be to Ottilie,
whose right-hand neighbor at table she was. Our newly-made Christians
were touched to the heart by all the kindness and sympathy that were
shown them, and could hardly refrain from open manifestation of their
joy. When the delightful feast was over and Franz and Ottilie had
reached their home, they gave full vent to their exultation.

“Now, Franz,” said Ottilie, “you see what it means to be numbered among
the Christians. What cordiality, what sincere friendship they all showed
us! Did you notice how extremely courteous the Frau Baronin was to me?
She never used to do more than barely notice me, with a merely formal
bow. But then I was only a Jewess, while now I am one of her own faith;
that is the difference. I hope now, Franz, you understand how much you
are obliged to me for having urged and finally brought you to consent to
this step, which means so much to both of us. Ah, I shudder when I think
of the time when I was numbered among the despised, wretched Jews. The
church in which we were baptized is rightly called Erlöser Kirche, for
it has redeemed us both from the bondage of Judaism.”

“You are right, Ottilie,” answered Franz, his face beaming with delight.
“This has been a great day for us. I have no doubt now but I shall
rapidly advance. Did you notice how the Herr Director praised my
services to the railroad and predicted for me a brilliant future? That
is what they call a hint with a fence rail; that from now on I am to
advance. The only obstacle to my progress was my Judaism; and that
hateful stumbling-block being now removed, there is no reason why I
should not rapidly forge ahead in my career.”

In this edifying and truly spiritual manner did our worthy couple
discuss the advantages of Christianity until a late hour, when they
retired to dream sweet dreams of financial blessings and social joys to
come. The next morning, bright and early, Franz was at his post in the
office of the railroad. He felt it incumbent upon him, so to speak, to
show that he did not presume to take any liberties because of his new
religious status, but that he still intended to merit promotion through
faithful performance of duty. About the usual time the Herr
Ober-Director appeared and, with a friendly nod to Franz, went into his
private office. As his tall form passed through the door, Franz
speculated as to how soon there would come through that door the welcome
message announcing his elevation to the next higher post. He did not
anticipate that it could come very soon; and when a half-hour later the
Herr Ober-Director’s special messenger approached his desk and deposited
upon it a huge envelope addressed to him and bearing the official seal
of the railroad, he was greatly surprised. “So soon,” he said to
himself, as with trembling hands and palpitating heart he tore open the
portentous missive. “This is far speedier than I could have expected.
How overjoyed Ottilie will be when I bring to her already to-day the
welcome news of my preferment. I wonder what the post is for which I am
selected.” Hastily he read; and as he grasped the contents of the
missive, his gaze hardened into a stare, his breath came in short, quick
gasps, all the color fled from his cheeks and left them ashy pale. This
is what he read:

“ANHALT-DIESTERBURG-RICKERSHOFEN STATE RAILROAD,

“BUREAU OF THE ADMINISTRATION.

“_To Herr Franz Friedrich, Chief Bookkeeper
of the Second Secretariat._

“DEAR SIR: We regret to inform you that after the end of the present
week your services will no longer be required. Thanking you for your
faithful efforts in the past, and sincerely regretting the necessity
of dispensing with your services in the future, we remain,

“Yours very truly,
“THE OBER-DIRECTION,
“SCHMIDT, _Sec’y._”

Franz sat for a full minute as one petrified, glaring at the curt
official note which announced the end of all his hopes and ambitions,
hardly able to realize its significance. Then a sudden resolution came
into his mind. He would face the Herr Ober-Director; he would demand the
meaning of this utterly inexplicable and outrageous action; he would
reproach him with his hypocritical professions of friendship at last
night’s celebration; he would shame him into continuing his services. He
rose from his seat, went to the door of the Ober-Director’s private
office and knocked. His chief’s deep-voiced “Herein!” was heard and he
entered. The Herr Ober-Director was seated at his desk, and gazed at
Franz with a grave countenance as he entered.

“Your Excellency,” said Franz, in a voice almost choked with emotion,
showing the fatal letter as he spoke, “I have just received this
communication, which informs me of my discharge. Is it correct? Am I
really dismissed from the road after a service of over twenty-five
years?” The Herr Ober-Director bowed in corroboration. “Your Excellency
will pardon me,” continued Franz, “if I ask you, is this just? Have I
not always done my duty faithfully? Am I not fully conversant with all
the requirements of my position? I believe these reasons would have
justified you in retaining me.”

“What you say is true, Herr Levy,” answered the Ober-Director, “and I
regret extremely to have to dispense with your services; but the fact
is, the business of the road has declined, and does not warrant us in
retaining so many officials. The Government is urgent that I must reduce
expenses. I am, therefore, obliged to abolish the second secretariat
altogether; and since your post thus ceases to exist, there is no choice
but for you to go.”

“Your Excellency will further pardon me,” said Franz, with increasing
agitation, “if I say that this action comes with especial harshness just
at this time when I have joined your faith, and been initiated into the
church under your kind patronage. It does seem strange, to say the
least, that during all these years, when I was a Jew, I was retained,
and no complaint or hint of prospective discharge ever reached my ears;
and now that I have become a Christian, you immediately discover that
there is no need for my services and I am summarily dismissed.”

“That is the very reason, strange as it may seem,” said the Herr
Ober-Director. “You see, we had already contemplated dismissing you some
time ago, as the need for your services had really ceased. But there is
so much talk nowadays of official anti-Semitism, of anti-Jewish
prejudice on the part of the Government, that we hesitated to discharge
you, since you were a Jew and an employee of many years’ standing. We
knew that if you were discharged, it would immediately be made the basis
of accusations of anti-Semitic tendencies on the part of the Government;
and since the Government has no such tendencies, and does not wish to be
considered as having them, we felt ourselves obliged to retain you. But
now that you are a Christian, and a member of the State church, no such
accusation of anti-Semitism can be made, and we therefore have felt at
liberty to dispense with your services, which, as I have said, have
really become superfluous. And, now, permit me to conclude this
interview, which is time-robbing and unprofitable, and to wish you a
very good day.”

As Franz went out through the Ober-Director’s door he said to himself,
with grim emphasis: “I think Ottilie will have to revise her favorite
quotation from Heine. As far as we are concerned, not Judaism but
Christianity has been the misfortune.”

THE RABBI’S GAME OF CARDS.

“Rabbi, why do you not come to supper? Everything is getting spoiled;
and if you do not come soon, your meal will not be fit to eat.”

It was the voice of Rebecca the rebbetzin, or wife of the rabbi of
Galoschin, in the province of Posen; and she was endeavoring to induce
her lord and master, Rabbi Akiba Erter, to leave his sanctum, where he
had been busy all afternoon solving profound intellectual problems, and
to turn his attention to the less ideal but equally necessary task of
eating his evening meal. It was nothing unusual for the good rabbi to be
so absorbed in his studies as to be utterly oblivious to all other
matters, and to disregard utterly such insignificant trifles as a call
to a meal. Rabbi Akiba was a noble specimen of the old-time rabbi. He
was a Talmudic scholar of extraordinary erudition and dialectic
keenness, a pietist of rigidly scrupulous observance, and charitable in
the extreme. Of the three elements which go to make up the ideal man,
the head, the heart, and the soul, it was hard to say with which he was
more liberally endowed. Whatever he did, he did with all his power. When
engaged in study, his absorption was absolute and his concentration
complete; when worshipping, his whole being poured itself out before his
Maker; and, when engaged in performing an act of benevolence, he had no
other thought in his mind until it was accomplished.

The problem which had engaged his attention on this particular occasion
belonged to the last-mentioned category, and was knottier far than the
most abstruse ceremonial, legal, or theological riddle he had ever been
called upon to solve. So troublesome was it, and so greatly did it worry
the good rabbi, that he presented quite a picture of despair as he sat
before his study-table, upon which were heaped in picturesque confusion
huge rabbinical tomes, some open and some closed, his black skull cup
pushed far back upon his head, and his hair and long venerable beard
sadly tousled and frowsed from the constant pulling he had given it
during the past three hours, while his long _peoth_ were from the same
cause all limp and out of curl. Supper-time had come, but the problem
was apparently as far from solution as ever, for the servant maid of the
household had summoned him four and five times to the evening meal and
he had not answered or even seemed aware of the summons; and it was only
when the rebbetzin herself appeared that he seemed conscious that he had
been called, and answered abstractedly, “Yes, wife, I am coming at once,
at once.” Impatiently muttering and grumbling to herself, the rebbetzin
returned to the dining-room; and the rabbi, rising from his seat,
directed his steps to the same place, his face clearly showing by its
abstracted and absorbed expression that the same problem which had
worried him all afternoon still engaged his thoughts.

Rabbi Akiba was usually a very pleasant companion at table. He was in
the habit of telling amusing anecdotes and making witty remarks in the
course of the meal, and it was his invariable custom to discourse
learnedly on some theme of the law before the blessing of the food was
pronounced, in order to fulfil the rabbinical precept, “a man shall
always speak words of the law over his table”; but to-night he was very
poor company indeed. He ate his food mechanically, taking everything
that came along without examination, although his usual practice was to
eat quite sparingly, and only such dishes as were favorites of his. He
put snuff into his milk-soup and salt to his nose, and would have eaten
the soup with its snuffy admixture had not Rebecca pointed out the
error.

To the remarks addressed to him by his better half he returned only
incoherent answers. In a word, he was in a state of abstraction and
perplexity which was plainly visible to all, so that not only his spouse
and his three pretty black-eyed daughters, Leah, Miriam, and Taube,
noticed it, but even the Russian _Bochur_ Hayim, whom the rabbi kept in
his house out of admiration for the latter’s profound erudition and who
was three-fourths blind, and as a rule totally oblivious to everything
that went on in the world outside of the _Beth Hammidrash_, dimly
perceived that his master was not the same as at other times. Suddenly
the rabbi paused while drinking a cup of tea, with such a suddenness,
indeed, as to make half of the hot fluid go down “the wrong throat”; and
though sputtering and coughing, and with face fiery red from the
resulting tracheal disturbance, managed to exclaim in triumphant gasps:
“I have it, I have it.”

“What have you?” inquired Rebecca with some acerbity. “As far as any one
can notice, all you have is a fit of coughing which cannot do you any
good. I hope what you have is worth having.”

“Never mind, wife,” said the rabbi with a pleasant smile. “What I have
is indeed worth the while. When all is accomplished you shall know what
it is. And now let us finish our meal, for I am in haste.”

The rabbi then briefly discoursed on a religious theme in order not to
deviate from his custom, and pronounced the blessing of the food, in
which all joined. “Now, my good Rebecca,” said the rabbi, when these
ceremonies were concluded, “bring me my great coat, my Sabbath hat, and
my cane, for I have a certain visit to make.”

“Why, what possesses you?” said Rebecca in wonderment. “Why do you want
to go out at night, although you have often told me that the disciples
of the learned should not go out alone at night, and why do you wish to
dress in your Sabbath state? Are you making a visit at court or the
palace of a noble? I am afraid all is not right with you.”

“Do not be afraid, wife,” said the rabbi, who was now in excellent
spirits. “Everything is all right. Now, quickly get me my things, for,
as I said, I am in haste.”

The rebbetzin was fain to be content with this not very satisfactory
answer, and brought her husband his finest official robes, the great,
heavy satin _jubitza_ and his broad velvet _streimel_ or Sabbath hat.
Having arrayed himself in these, and taken in addition a stout stick,
the rabbi ventured forth into the night, which, although the hour was
not late, was already, as usual in those northern regions, intensely
dark and quite cold.

While he is on his way to his destination, whatever that may be, let us
see what was the matter which had so greatly troubled the holy man all
day, and which had driven him forth into the darkness and rigor of a
northern winter night. That morning there had come to him Mosheh
Labishiner, one of the constant worshippers in the synagogue and an
unfailing attendant at the rabbi’s Talmudic lectures in the house of
learning, and had poured into his ears a pitiful tale of woe. It was not
exactly a story of destitution, but it was one which touched the rabbi’s
naturally soft heart, always open to every plea of distress and ever
ready to sympathize with all that suffered and sorrowed, in a
particularly tender and sensitive spot. Mosheh told Rabbi Akiba that his
daughter Deborah (whom Rabbi Akiba knew as a dutiful and God-fearing
maiden and pretty withal) had been betrothed to a poor but very worthy
youth, Samuel of Kempen, for more than two years; that the two young
people were ardently devoted to each other, and desirous, as were also
the parents on both sides, of sealing their love by the sacred bond of
wedlock, but that prudence forbade the union until the youth would be
the possessor of a business of his own, and able properly to maintain a
wife and family. He, Mosheh, in accordance with the invariable custom in
all good Jewish families, had promised his prospective son-in-law a
dowry of a thousand gulden, which would be amply sufficient to establish
a modest business; but that owing to various misfortunes and losses he
had been unable to accumulate more than two hundred gulden, which would
barely suffice for the expenses of the wedding, but would leave nothing
for the dowry. The young people were to have been married a year
previously; but as Mosheh did not possess the requisite amount of the
dowry, he had continually deferred the marriage, on various pretexts,
until now it was impossible to defer it any more. His poor wife and his
daughter, the _Kallah_, were in the utmost distress and wept
unceasingly, while his intended son-in-law and _Mehuttanim_, who knew
nothing of his financial embarrassments, were beginning to grow
suspicious and to think that he was opposed to the marriage, and did not
really intend to permit it to be consummated.

“And now, dear rabbi,” Mosheh had said, “help me, I implore thee. Unless
I can procure a thousand gulden within a day or two I do not know what
misfortune will happen. My poor wife and daughter will surely die of
broken hearts and my name will be blackened forever.”

Rabbi Akiba was not intimately acquainted with Mosheh. All he knew of
him was that he was an “honest Jew,” a good, straightforward, religious
man; but that was sufficient to gain his sympathy, and especially the
sorrows of his wife and daughter touched him to the quick. He at once
offered to go and collect the money for the dowry among the wealthy
members of his flock; and he added that he was sure there would be no
difficulty in obtaining the required amount for a young woman of such
excellent repute, who was a daughter of such eminently respectable and
pious parents. But here he struck an unexpected difficulty. Mosheh
objected strenuously to any public collection in his behalf.

“You must not breathe a syllable of all this to any living creature,
dear rabbi,” he begged. “I could never endure the thought that all the
Kehillah should know that I had been obliged to depend upon the
charitable gifts of kind-hearted people in order to obtain a dowry for
my daughter. I have always been an independent, self-respecting
merchant, and have myself provided for all the needs of my family. I
could not endure the thought of appearing as a _Schnorrer_ for any
reason. And then my wife and daughter, do you think that they would ever
accept a dowry which had been thus gathered together from the offerings
of pity? They would sooner die. They do not even know that my
circumstances are so straitened. The mere report that contributions were
being solicited in our behalf would destroy whatever happiness they
have. No, rabbi, you must get the amount needed in some other way, in
some way which will not even raise a suspicion that we are being helped,
or else I shall have to ask you rather to do nothing and to leave it to
the All-Merciful One to deal with us as He sees fit.”

These words, while they greatly increased the respect which the rabbi
felt for Mosheh, also added immensely to his perplexity. They seemed
utterly to shut the door in the face of any attempt to obtain the
required sum. Rabbi Akiba himself was not the possessor of any
considerable amount of money. His income was not large and he never had
any difficulty in disposing of it, there being plenty of claimants on
his bounty outside of his own family. If, therefore, he could not go to
the wealthy householders in the Kehillah and openly ask them for
donations, he knew of no source whence he could derive the assistance
needed. It would not do to request of them the gift of such a large
amount without stating the purpose for which it was to be used. They
might give it to him, such was their respect for his character and their
trust in the purity of his motives, but they would be apt to speculate
on the use to which he intended to devote it, and very likely they would
find it out, too, and that would be directly contrary to the explicit
desire and request of Mosheh, Hence the perplexity and the mental
struggles by which the poor rabbi had been tortured all day until at
supper he had found, as he thought, the solution of the vexatious
problem. The simpler solution which would have suggested itself to many
a modern cleric, to shrug the shoulders deprecatingly and politely to
inform the suppliant that he regretted extremely that under the
circumstances it was impossible to do anything for him, did not occur to
Rabbi Akiba. He was narrow in many ways, limited both in views and
experience to that which could be acquired in the secluded recesses of
the Beth Hammidrash, simpler, indeed, than many a modern child in
worldly ways; but on that very account his moral fibre possessed the
old, unspoiled Jewish sturdiness. He knew that Mosheh was deserving of
sympathy and help, and he determined to help him if there were any
possibility of doing so; and believed he had now found a way to attain
that wished-for end.

Rabbi Akiba hurried through the streets of Galoschin, brilliantly
lighted with the bright illumination of early evening, presenting a
singular enough figure, as he hastened along, to be the object of the
wondering stares of many a passer-by. Galoschin was a city originally
Polish, but which under the influence of Prussian culture and discipline
had become thoroughly Germanized, and which strove to reproduce the
manners and the external characteristics of the German metropolis. The
Jewish inhabitants in particular had, as a rule, dropped all the
old-time Polish characteristics. _Jubitzas_ and _peoth_ in particular
were utterly banned, and were conceded only to the rabbi to whom, as an
example of rigid conservatism and unswerving piety, they were deemed
appropriate. As Rabbi Akiba hastened through the streets he presented,
therefore, a most extraordinary contrast in his long, girdled robe, his
strange broad-brimmed hat, with long, dangling ear-curls and the stout
cane in his hands, to the ladies and gentlemen, attired in the height of
modern fashion, who sauntered along the elegant thoroughfare, stopping
before the brilliantly lighted windows of the shops or entering the
theatres, concert halls, cafés, and other places of amusement which
abounded in this vicinity. In front of a large and splendid edifice,
through whose windows and great portal floods of light poured and loud
strains of gay dance music were heard, the rabbi paused. Over the
gateway was a huge sign, which bore, in letters composed of shining gas
flames, the legend, “Galoschiner Casino und Vereinshaus.” Rabbi Akiba
glanced at this sign a moment and then boldly entered. His entrance was
the signal for great excitement among the persons standing in the hall
and among the visitors who were entering at the same time, and who had
come to attend the annual ball and reunion of the Galoschiner Gesellige
Verein, the fashionable club _par excellence_ of the town, to which
belonged all those who could lay claim to wealth and social station. It
was an unheard-of thing that an old-fashioned, conservative Jew, who
clung to Polish costume, beard and ear-locks, should set his foot within
a place dedicated to the dance and the new social practices which had
come from the West. To such a one they were all un-Jewish abominations;
and the sight of swallow-tailed, bareheaded men and half-clothed women,
shamelessly exposing their naked bosoms and arms to the gaze of strange
men, was hateful and loathsome. That Rabbi Akiba, the holy man, whose
name was a synonym for all that was pious and austere, who stood for
rigid and unswerving adherence to the olden Jewish life and stern
religious discipline, and for uncompromising opposition to all
new-fashioned vanities and worldliness, that he should actually in
_propria persona_ enter into precincts given over to empty gayety and
folly, “the abode of scoffers,” was more than surprising; it was
bewildering, stupefying, paralyzing.

Rabbi Akiba did not seem to notice the excitement created by his
entrance, but walked ahead to the door of the main _salon_. Here stood
several gentlemen in evening dress. They were the reception committee,
appointed to welcome the arriving guests. They gazed with amazement at
the venerable figure approaching, and bade him good-evening in subdued
voices. He answered their greeting and strode into the _salon_. The
dance had just begun, and the floor was crowded with gentlemen in
evening dress and ladies in handsome _décolleté_ gowns and elegant
coiffures. The appearance of the rabbi gave rise to a scene of
extraordinary excitement and confusion. Both men and women had no other
thought but that their venerable spiritual chief had come there to
rebuke them for their pursuit of unseemly and impious fashions; that he
would denounce them in fiery words as recreants to the faith, as sinners
in Israel. In those days men and women still trembled when the rabbi
uttered bitter words of reproof; and it was, therefore, only natural
that a sort of panic seized those who knew that they had transgressed
against the strict rules of propriety of their faith, and saw before
them one who could call them to account. Some of the women fled to the
other end of the room, followed by their escorts; others endeavored
hastily to cover up their bare breasts and arms; others again stood as
if rooted to the spot and unable to move. But Rabbi Akiba uttered no
word of rebuke. He stood still, gazing with a benevolent smile at the
scene of confusion which his advent had caused. Several moments of
embarrassment and constraint passed before a few of the gentlemen
present plucked up courage to approach the rabbi, bid him welcome, and
inquire the reason of his visit to the ball. At their head was Herr
Pringsheim, the banker and president of the community, who, by reason of
his prominent station, acted as spokesman.

“Peace be unto thee, honored rabbi,” he said, with a low and reverential
bow. “We welcome thee to our festivity. But may I inquire what has
brought us the honor of thy presence this evening? We had hardly thought
that festivities such as this met with thy approval.”

“Curiosity, merely curiosity, friend Pringsheim,” answered the rabbi,
with a reassuring smile. “I wanted to know what our Jews are doing in
these new-fashioned days. One must know everything. Our sages, of
blessed memory, tell us: ‘Know what thou shouldst answer to the
Epicurean.’ But how can one know what to say to the Epicureans unless
one knows what they do? Just think: I have grown so old and have never
seen a ball and know nothing, except by hearsay, of what is done in a
casino or clubhouse. Now, let the dance go on. Do not interrupt your
proceedings on my account. I shall not scold you to-night, although what
I may do some other time I shall not say.”

A gasp, indicating wonderment and only partial reassurance, escaped from
the breasts of the rabbi’s hearers at these words. There was nothing to
do, however, except to follow his suggestion. Herr Pringsheim signalled
to the musicians, who had ceased playing, to resume, and most of the
dancers also resumed their places, showing, however, by their
embarrassed air that they were ill at ease and not at all comfortable
under the rabbi’s gaze. It was a singular sight, the venerable rabbi
whose whole appearance bespoke the house of worship and the study
chamber, and recalled memories of centuries long past, standing in a
modern ball-room, critically inspecting the motions of the gayly clad
crowd, who bowed and _chasséed_ and changed partners and swung around in
the most approved style, but who could not help showing by their
sheepish looks how keenly they felt the absurdity of their position.

The dance over, Herr Pringsheim asked the rabbi if he had now satisfied
his curiosity. “Oh, no,” answered Rabbi Akiba, “unless this is all that
takes place here. But there must surely be more going on in a casino
than merely dancing, or you could not use so many rooms.”

“But there is really nothing else,” answered Pringsheim, “except the
card-playing. Those gentlemen who do not dance play various games of
cards until supper-time, which comes at midnight. But I hardly suppose,
worthy rabbi, that you take any interest in games of chance?”

“Ah, but I do,” answered the rabbi, with sudden animation. “That is just
what I want to see. I want to know what there is about games of chance
which so fascinates men that they will stake their money, their health,
the happiness of their families, even their lives, upon the issue of a
game of cards. By all means bring me where they play cards.”

With a gesture of despair and an illy suppressed groan, Herr Pringsheim
led the way to the card-room. The entrance of the rabbi into the
elegantly furnished card-room produced a sensation similar to that which
had been caused by his appearance in the ball-room. A number of
gentlemen were sitting around the green-covered tables, deeply engrossed
in their hazardous and exciting pastime; but no sooner did the tall,
venerable figure of the aged ecclesiastic appear amid the thick clouds
of tobacco smoke which filled the atmosphere of the room than all paused
in astonishment and rose to their feet in varying attitudes and aspects
of amazement and consternation. Like their companions of the ball-room
they were apprehensive of a fierce denunciation of their ungodly doings,
and half expected to be peremptorily ordered home. Herr Pringsheim
hastened to relieve their apprehensions.

“Retain your seats, gentlemen,” he said, “and do not interrupt your
game. Our honored rabbi has come here this evening impelled by a desire
to see for himself how modern society amuses itself. He does not wish to
disturb or interfere with you in any way. Resume your playing,
therefore, and we shall remain here as mere spectators.”

The effect of these words was that the players resumed their seats and
began again their interrupted games. The ban of the rabbi’s presence
rested, however, heavily on all, and the playing, like the dancing in
the ball-room under the same influence, became spiritless and
perfunctory in the extreme. The players removed their cigars from their
mouths, the erstwhile boisterous voices became subdued, and all
animation departed from the scene. After silently watching the
proceedings for a few moments the rabbi said to Herr Pringsheim: “Do you
know, friend Pringsheim, I do not seem to gain any insight into a
gambler’s feelings from merely looking on. To me the whole thing seems a
merely mechanical proceeding. One makes one move and the other another
move. I cannot make out what it is all about, and I believe that I shall
never have any conception of what card-playing is, or wherein the
fascination lies unless I play a game or two myself. Would you mind
playing with me?”

“Not at all, rabbi,” said Pringsheim, highly amused at the request.
“What game shall it be?”

“That is all the same to me,” answered the rabbi. “I do not know one
from the other. You choose any one you please and you will be kind
enough to teach it me. I think I shall be able to learn it.”

“Very well,” said Pringsheim, laughing heartily. “I don’t doubt but you
will make a famous card-player. Where there is _Torah_ there is
_Chochmah_.”

“But one thing I must tell you,” said the rabbi. “We must play for
money. I could never get the real feeling of the gambler, the thrill and
the tension which he feels, unless there was the hope of gain and the
risk of loss. So we must not play a mere formal game, but there must be
a real stake involved.”

“Very well, rabbi,” said Pringsheim, still smiling. “How large shall the
stake be, a gulden or five gulden?”

“Oh, that would never do,” said the rabbi. “I could not get the right
idea with such a trifling sum, which is of no consequence whether won or
lost. Let us play for a thousand gulden. I shall put my five hundred
gulden on the game and you put in five hundred gulden also.”

[Illustration:

THE GAME WHICH ENSUED WAS HIGHLY INTERESTING

_Page 287_]

The effect of this proposition was naturally startling. Pringsheim
stared at the rabbi for a moment as though he could not trust his ears.
But he was, to put it in modern parlance, game. “As you wish, rabbi,” he
said, quietly. “We shall play for a stake of a thousand gulden.”

The game which ensued was highly interesting. Writer deponeth not, nor
is it essential to the purposes of this veracious history to state
whether the game was klabberyas, pinocle, skat, euchre, or poker.
Pringsheim taught Rabbi Akiba its rules and the game began. With one
accord all the other players suspended their games to contemplate the
spectacle of a rabbi in _jubitza_, _streimel_, and _peoth_ engaged in a
game of cards with a society gentleman in swallow-tail and bare head. Of
the result there could be no doubt. Pringsheim, of course, had no
intention of either defeating the rabbi or taking his money. After
various more or less intricate manœuverings Rabbi Akiba won.

“Well, rabbi, you have won. Here are your winnings,” said Pringsheim;
and he took out his wallet, and extracting therefrom five hundred gulden
notes, handed them to the rabbi, who took them with great complacency
and stowed them carefully away in his purse. “I think you must
understand now a gambler’s feelings, at all events when he wins.”

“So far, so good, friend Pringsheim,” answered the rabbi; “but this is
not quite experience enough for me. I want to know how a gambler feels
when he risks the possessions he has gained so easily. If you do not
mind, therefore, I should like to play one more game, staking the amount
I have just won.”

“I shall have to beg to be excused this time, worthy rabbi,” said Herr
Pringsheim, with an amused chuckle. “You are too good a player for me.
Let some one else take my place. Herr Commerzienrath Hamburger, perhaps
you will oblige our honored _Rav_ and play a game with him on the same
terms as the first one.”

Herr Commerzienrath Hamburger, a stout man with a bald head and a smooth
face, who, like Pringsheim, was one of the _Vorstand_ or trustees of the
community, came forward, somewhat reluctantly, at these words and
signified his willingness to do as requested. The issue of the second
game was the same as that of the first. The rabbi’s good luck did not
desert him, and a few moments later he rose from the table with the
handsome sum of a thousand gulden in his purse. He thanked Messrs.
Pringsheim and Hamburger for the instructive experience which they had
been the means of affording him, bade the other gentlemen good-night,
and turned to depart. He was escorted to a private exit by Herr
Pringsheim, who had him placed in a carriage, and the rabbi was whirled
to his home, leaving behind him a much puzzled and mystified company of
his congregants.

On the following day Mosheh Labishiner called on Rabbi Akiba. He was in
a state of wretchedness bordering on utter despair. He had been forced
to yield to the repeated entreaties of his wife and daughter, and had
permitted the date of the wedding to be set, and had assured his
intended son-in-law that the dowry would be ready a few days before the
marriage. But he had not the faintest idea whence he could derive the
needed funds; and he did not believe that Rabbi Akiba, in view of the
restriction he had placed upon him, would be able to assist him. His
visit to the rabbi was more with a vague idea of obtaining some comfort
from the rabbi’s friendly words than of anything more material. As soon
as the rabbi caught sight of Mosheh’s distressed countenance he cried
out: “Mosheh, don’t look so black. A man who is going to marry his
daughter to a fine young _bochur_ must look happy. Have you set the date
of the wedding yet?”

“Yes, rabbi, but the _Neduniah_?”

“Oh, don’t let that worry you. Here it is.” And the rabbi drew forth his
purse, and taking therefrom ten hundred gulden notes, placed them in the
hands of the bewildered Mosheh.

“O rabbi, a thousand thanks! But how in the world did you get it, since
you had not the money and I had insisted that you must not collect for
us?”

“Oh, that was easy. I won it at cards.”

“At cards!” and Mosheh stared at the rabbi with a look of blank
amazement and non-comprehension.

“Yes, at cards,” said the rabbi. “I am a famous card-player. Whenever
any of my good friends cannot find the dowry of his daughter, I go and
win it at cards. Why not? Do I not cause the card-players to do a
_Mitzvah_? And is that not in itself a _Mitzvah_?” And the rabbi laughed
long and heartily.

“Rabbi, I do not understand thy words,” said Mosheh; “but I know thou
hast been my saviour, and the saviour of my family. I would fain show my
gratitude. How can I thank thee?”

“I want no thanks,” said the rabbi. “All I want is that thou shouldst
respect my ability as card-player and give me the privilege of a
_Mitzvah_ dance at the wedding.” And the rabbi laughed again.

GLOSSARY OF HEBREW AND OTHER NON-ENGLISH TERMS.

ABAYE AND RABA, Two distinguished rabbis of the
Talmud.

ANGENEHME RUHE, Pleasant rest.

ANI YEHUDI, BO IMMI ACHI, I am a Jew. Come with me, O my
brother.

APOLOGIA PRO LIBRO SUO, Apology or defence of his book.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN, Good-by; au revoir.

BACHURIM, Talmud students.

BOCHUR, Talmud students.

BORUCH HASHEM, Praised be the Lord.

BAAL HAB-BAYIS OR BAAL HA-BAYITH, Householder, burgher.

BAALE BATIM, Members of the congregation.

BAUERNGUT, Peasant estate, farm.

BETH HA-MIDRASH, House of study, where the study of
the law and worship are
conducted.

CHAUSSÉE, Highway.

CHARIF, Sharp, keen-witted.

CHAVER, Friend, companion.

CHAZAN, See Hazan.

CHOCHMAH, Wisdom.

DEITCH, German: Polish-Jewish term for a
Jew who has adopted Gentile dress
and ways.

ETHROGIM, Fruit of the citra species, used on
the Feast of Tabernacles, Lev.
xxiii. 40.

EINGELEGTE GÄNSEBRUST, Goose breast preserved in fat.

ERSTE DAME, First Lady; Prima Donna.

ETERNAL HOUSE, English rendition of Beth Olam, one
of the many touching Hebrew names
for the Jewish Cemetery.

FULDA RAV, Officiating rabbi of Fulda.

GALOSCHINER CASINO UND VEREINSHAUS, Galoschin Casino and Club House.

GAN EDEN, Paradise.

GEBIRGE, Mountain range.

GEFÜLLTE FLANKEN, Stuffed flanks or navel pieces.

GEMARA, Main portion of the Talmud.

GESETZTE BOHNEN, Beans placed in the oven on Friday
and left there till the next day.

GESETZTES ESSEN, Food treated as preceding.

GET, Divorce.

GRUESSE GOTT, Be greeted in the name of God.

GRUENKERN SUPPE, Soup made from a peculiar kind of
green kernels.

GUTEN MORGEN, Good morning.

GUTEN TAG, Good day.

GUT WOCH, Good week.

HAFTARAH, Prophetic portion.

HAKAMIM, The sages, the rabbins.

HALACHAH, Religious rule or decision.

HAZAN, Reader or Precentor.

HEREIN, Come in.

ILLUY, Bright scholar.

JUBITZA, Long robe worn by the Polish and
Russian Jews.

KADDISH, A prayer recited by sons during the
eleven months after the death of
a parent.

KALLAH, Bride.

KEHILLAH, Congregation.

KIDDUSH, Benediction by which the Sabbath or
festivals are introduced.

KIDDUSH-BEAKER, Cup containing the wine of the
blessing.

KETUBAH, Marriage certificate.

KOSHER, Ritually clean.

KRETCHM, Tavern, inn.

“L’ETAT, C’EST MOI,” The State, I am it.

LEBE WOHL, Farewell.

LEF, A heart.

LINK, Irreligious.

LOEFFEL, A spoon.

MAARIV, Evening service.

MAGGID, Preacher.

MALACH, Angel.

MASSIG GEVOOL, Interference with the business of
another.

MAZZOL TOV, Good luck, a form of
congratulation.

MECHULLEH, A bankrupt.

MEHUTTANIM, Relatives by marriage.

MELAMMEDIM, Hebrew teachers.

MESHOLIM, Stories or parables.

MESHUMMAD OR MESHUMMED, A renegade, a pervert from Judaism.

MINCHAH, Afternoon service.

MISHNAH, Portion of the Talmud.

MISHPOCHOH, Family connections, relationship.

MITZVAH, Meritorious action, good deed.

NEDUNIAH, Dowry.

NEFOSHOS, Souls.

NIGGUN, Melody.

OVEL, A mourner.

PARNASS, President of the congregation.

PARNOSO, Livelihood, sustenance.

PEOTH, Ear curls.

PLETT, A ticket.

RACONTEUR, FEM.—_euse_, Teller of tales and anecdotes.

RAV, Official or communal rabbi.

RISHUS, Wickedness, enmity; Hebrew term for
anti-Jewish prejudice.

ROSH CHODESH, First of the Jewish month.

ROSHO, Wicked man, Jew-hater.

SCHEITEL, A cloth or wig with which religious
Jewesses cover their heads.

SCHLAFE WOHL, Sleep well.

SCHNORRERS, Beggars.

SEDRAH, The part of the Pentateuch read in
the synagogue.

SHABBOS KUGEL, Sabbath pudding.

SHAMMAS, Synagogue attendant; sexton.

SHIDDUCH, Marriage.

SHIUR, A selection from the Talmud or
devotional books.

SHIVAH, The prescribed mourning period of
seven days during which the
mourner sits on the earth and
does not leave the house.

SHOOL, Synagogue.

SOPHER, Scribe.

TAANIS, A fast day.

TALLETHIM OR TALLITHOTH, Robes or shawls worn during
services.

TEPHILLIN, Phylacteries.

PROSELYTE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS, English rendition of Ger Tsedek, a
Gentile who enters into the
covenant of Judaism in all
sincerity and lives a
consistently pious and religious
life.

TORAH, The Law.

TREFAH OR TREFOTH, Forbidden food.

VIS Á VIS DE RIEN, Over against nothing—_i. e._, at a
loss, unable to do anything.

VODKA, Russian whiskey.

YEHUDI, A Jew.

YEHUDI ATTAH? Art thou a Jew?

YESHIBAH, Talmudic Academy.

ZWIEBEL TÄTCHER, Onion cake.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s note:

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.

2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "From the Heart of Israel - Jewish Tales and Types" ***

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