Front matter (continued 9)

Of course, his words made no impression, except that they brought more petitions than ever, upon which he said:

"You insist on a man of flesh and blood such as I being your advocate with God, blessed is He. Hear a parable: To what shall we liken the thing? To the light of the sun and the light of a small lamp. You can rejoice in the sunlight as much as you please, and no one can take your joy from you; the poorest and most humble may revive himself with it, so long as his eyes can behold it, and even though a man should sit, which God forbid, in a dungeon with closed windows, a reflection will make its way in through the chinks, and he shall rejoice in the brightness. But with the poor light of a lamp it is otherwise. A rich man buys a quantity of lamps and illumines his house, while a poor man sits in darkness. God, blessed be He, is the great light that shines for the whole world, reviving and refreshing all His works. The whole world is full of His mercy, and His compassion is over all His creatures. Believe me, you have no need of an advocate with Him; God is your Father, and you are His dear children. How should a child need an advocate with his father?"

The ordinary folk heard and were silent, but our people, the Chassidim, were displeased. And I'll tell you another thing, I was the first to mention it to the Rebbe, long life to him, and he, as is well known, commanded Reb Avròhom to his presence.

So we set to work to persuade Reb Avròhom and talked to him till he had to go with us.

The journey lasted four days.

I remember one night, the moon was wandering in a blue ocean of sky that spread ever so far, till it mingled with a cloud, and she looked at us, pitifully and appealingly, as though to ask us if we knew which way she ought to go, to the right or to the left, and presently the cloud came upon her, and she began struggling to get out of it, and a minute or two later she was free again and smiling at us.

Then a little breeze came, and stroked our faces, and we looked round to the four sides of the world, and it seemed as if the whole world were wrapped in a prayer-scarf woven of mercy, and we fell into a slight melancholy, a quiet sadness, but so sweet and pleasant, it felt like on Sabbath at twilight at the Third Meal.

Suddenly Reb Avròhom exclaimed: "Jews, have you said the blessings on the appearance of the new moon?" We turned towards the moon, laid down our bundles, washed our hands in a little stream that ran by the roadside, and repeated the blessings for the new moon.

He stood looking into the sky, his lips scarcely moving, as was his wont. "Sholom Alechem!" he said, turning to me, and his voice quivered like a violin, and his eyes called to peace and unity. Then an awe of Reb Avròhom came over me for the first time, and when we had finished sanctifying the moon our melancholy left us, and we prepared to continue our way.

But still he stood and gazed heavenward, sighing: "Lord of the Universe! How beautiful is the world which Thou hast made by Thy goodness and great mercy, and these are over all Thy creatures. They all love Thee, and are glad in Thee, and Thou art glad in them, and the whole world is full of Thy glory."

I glanced up at the moon, and it seemed that she was still looking at me, and saying, "I'm lost; which way am I to go?"

We arrived Friday afternoon, and had time enough to go to the bath and to greet the Rebbe.

He, long life to him, was seated in the reception-room beside a table, his long lashes low over his eyes, leaning on his left hand, while he greeted incomers with his right. We went up to him, one at a time, shook hands, and said "Sholom Alechem," and he, long life to him, said nothing to us. Reb Avròhom also went up to him, and held out his hand.

A change came over the Rebbe, he raised his eyelids with his fingers, and looked at Reb Avròhom for some time in silence.

And Reb Avròhom looked at the Rebbe, and was silent too.

The Chassidim were offended by such impertinence.

That evening we assembled in the Rebbe's house-of-study, to usher in the Sabbath. It was tightly packed with Jews, one pushing the other, or seizing hold of his girdle, only beside the ark was there a free space left, a semicircle, in the middle of which stood the Rebbe and prayed.

But Reb Avròhom stood by the door among the poor guests, and prayed after his fashion.

"To Kiddush!" called the beadle.

The Rebbe's wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law now appeared, and their jewelry, their precious stones, and their pearls, sparkled and shone.

The Rebbe stood and repeated the prayer of Sanctification.

He was slightly bent, and his grey beard swept his breast. His eyes were screened by his lashes, and he recited the Sanctification in a loud voice, giving to every word a peculiar inflection, to every sign an expression of its own.

"To table!" was called out next.

At the head of the table sat the Rebbe, sons and sons-in-law to the left, relations to the right of him, then the principal aged Jews, then the rich.

The people stood round about.

The Rebbe ate, and began to serve out the leavings, to his sons and sons-in-law first, and to the rest of those sitting at the table after.

Then there was silence, the Rebbe began to expound the Torah. The portion of the week was Numbers, chapter eight, and the Rebbe began:

"When a man's soul is on a low level, enveloped, Heaven defend us, in uncleanness, and the Divine spark within the soul wishes to rise to a higher level, and cannot do so alone, but must needs be helped, it is a Mitzveh to help her, to raise her, and this Mitzveh is specially incumbent on the priest. This is the meaning of 'the seven lamps shall give light over against the candlestick,' by which is meant the holy Torah. The priest must bring the Jew's heart near to the Torah; in this way he is able to raise it. And who is the priest? The righteous in his generation, because since the Temple was destroyed, the saint must be a priest, for thus is the command from above, that he shall be the priest...."

"Avròhom!" the Rebbe called suddenly, "Avròhom! Come here, I am calling you."

The other went up to him.

"Avròhom, did you understand? Did you make out the meaning of what I said?

"Your silence," the Rebbe went on, "is an acknowledgment. I must raise you, even though it be against my will and against your will."

There was dead stillness in the room, people waiting to hear what would come next.

"You are silent?" asked the Rebbe, now a little sternly.

"You want to be a raiser of souls? Have you, bless and preserve us, bought the Almighty for yourself? Do you think that a Jew can approach nearer to God, blessed is He, through you? That you are the 'handle of the pestle' and the rest of the Jews nowhere? God's grace is everywhere, whichever way we turn, every time we move a limb we feel God! Everyone must seek Him in his own heart, because there it is that He has caused the Divine Presence to rest. Everywhere and always can the Jew draw near to God...."

Thus answered Reb Avròhom, but our people, the Rebbe's followers, shut his mouth before he had made an end, and had the Rebbe not held them back, they would have torn him in pieces on the spot.

"Leave him alone!" he commanded the Chassidim.

And to Reb Avròhom he said:

"Avròhom, you have sinned!"

And from that day forward he was called the Sinner, and was shut out from everywhere. The Chassidim kept their eye on him, and persecuted him, and he was not even allowed to pray in the house-of-study.

And I'll tell you what I think: A wicked man, even when he acts according to his wickedness, fulfils God's command. And who knows? Perhaps they were both right!

ISAAC DOB BERKOWITZ

Born, 1885, in Slutzk, Government of Minsk (Lithuania), White Russia; was in America for a short time in 1908; contributor to Die Zukunft; co-editor of Ha-Olam, Wilna; Hebrew and Yiddish writer; collected works: Yiddish, Gesammelte Schriften, Warsaw, 1910; Hebrew, Sippurim, Cracow, 1910.

COUNTRY FOLK

Feivke was a wild little villager, about seven years old, who had tumbled up from babyhood among Gentile urchins, the only Jewish boy in the place, just as his father Mattes, the Kozlov smith, was the only Jewish householder there. Feivke had hardly ever met, or even seen, anyone but the people of Kozlov and their children. Had it not been for his black eyes, with their moody, persistent gaze from beneath the shade of a deep, worn-out leather cap, it would have puzzled anyone to make out his parentage, to know whence that torn and battered face, that red scar across the top lip, those large, black, flat, unchild-like feet. But the eyes explained everything—his mother's eyes.

Feivke spent the whole summer with the village urchins in the neighboring wood, picking mushrooms, climbing the trees, driving wood-pigeons off their high nests, or wading knee-deep in the shallow bog outside to seek the black, slippery bog-worms; or else he found himself out in the fields, jumping about on the top of a load of hay under a hot sky, and shouting to his companions, till he was bathed in perspiration. At other times, he gathered himself away into a dark, cool barn, scrambled at the peril of his life along a round beam under the roof, crunched dried pears, saw how the sun sprinkled the darkness with a thousand sparks, and—thought. He could always think about Mikita, the son of the village elder, who had almost risen to be conductor on a railway train, and who came from a long way off to visit his father, brass buttons to his coat and a purse full of silver rubles, and piped to the village girls of an evening on the most cunning kind of whistle.

How often it had happened that Feivke could not be found, and did not even come home to bed! But his parents troubled precious little about him, seeing that he was growing up a wild, dissolute boy, and the displeasure of Heaven rested on his head.

Feivke was not a timid child, but there were two things he was afraid of: God and davvening. Feivke had never, to the best of his recollection, seen God, but he often heard His name, they threatened him with It, glanced at the ceiling, and sighed. And this embittered somewhat his sweet, free days. He felt that the older he grew, the sooner he would have to present himself before this terrifying, stern, and unfamiliar God, who was hidden somewhere, whether near or far he could not tell. One day Feivke all but ran a danger. It was early on a winter morning; there was a cold, wild wind blowing outside, and indoors there was a black stranger Jew, in a thick sheepskin, breaking open the tin charity boxes. The smith's wife served the stranger with hot potatoes and sour milk, whereupon the stranger piously closed his eyes, and, having reopened them, caught sight of Feivke through the white steam rising from the dish of potatoes—Feivke, huddled up in a corner—and beckoned him nearer.

"Have you begun to learn, little boy?" he questioned, and took his cheek between two pale, cold fingers, which sent a whiff of snuff up Feivke's nose. His mother, standing by the stove, reddened, and made some inaudible answer. The black stranger threw up his eyes, and slowly shook his head inside the wide sheepskin collar. This shaking to and fro of his head boded no good, and Feivke grew strangely cold inside. Then he grew hot all over, and, for several nights after, thousands of long, cold, pale fingers pursued and pinched him in his dreams.

They had never yet taught him to recite his prayers. Kozlov was a lonely village, far from any Jewish settlement. Every Sabbath morning Feivke, snug in bed, watched his father put on a mended black cloak, wrap himself in the Tallis, shut his eyes, take on a bleating voice, and, turning to the wall, commence a series of bows. Feivke felt that his father was bowing before God, and this frightened him. He thought it a very rash proceeding. Feivke, in his father's place, would sooner have had nothing to do with God. He spent most of the time while his father was at his prayers cowering under the coverlet, and only crept out when he heard his mother busy with plates and spoons, and the pungent smell of chopped radishes and onions penetrated to the bedroom.

Winters and summers passed, and Feivke grew to be seven years old, just such a Feivke as we have described. And the last summer passed, and gave way to autumn.

That autumn the smith's wife was brought to bed of a seventh child, and before she was about again, the cold, damp days were upon them, with the misty mornings, when a fish shivers in the water. And the days of her confinement were mingled for the lonely village Jewess with the Solemn Days of that year into a hard and dreary time. She went slowly about the house, as in a fog, without help or hope, and silent as a shadow. That year they all led a dismal life. The elder children, girls, went out to service in the neighboring towns, to make their own way among strangers. The peasants had become sharper and worse than formerly, and the smith's strength was not what it had been. So his wife resolved to send the two men of the family, Mattes and Feivke, to a Minyan this Yom Kippur. Maybe, if two went, God would not be able to resist them, and would soften His heart.

One morning, therefore, Mattes the smith washed, donned his mended Sabbath cloak, went to the window, and blinked through it with his red and swollen eyes. It was the Eve of the Day of Atonement. The room was well-warmed, and there was a smell of freshly-stewed carrots. The smith's wife went out to seek Feivke through the village, and brought him home dishevelled and distracted, and all of a glow. She had torn him away from an early morning of excitement and delight such as could never, never be again. Mikita, the son of the village elder, had put his father's brown colt into harness for the first time. The whole contingent of village boys had been present to watch the fiery young animal twisting between the shafts, drawing loud breaths into its dilated and quivering nostrils, looking wildly at the surrounding boys, and stamping impatiently, as though it would have liked to plow away the earth from under its feet. And suddenly it had given a bound and started careering through the village with the cart behind it. There was a glorious noise and commotion! Feivke was foremost among those who, in a cloud of dust and at the peril of their life, had dashed to seize the colt by the reins.

His mother washed him, looked him over from the low-set leather hat down to his great, black feet, stuffed a packet of food into his hands, and said:

"Go and be a good and devout boy, and God will forgive you."

She stood on the threshold of the house, and looked after her two men starting for a distant Minyan. The bearing of seven children had aged and weakened the once hard, obstinate woman, and, left standing alone in the doorway, watching her poor, barefoot, perverse-natured boy on his way to present himself for the first time before God, she broke down by the Mezuzeh and wept.

Silently, step by step, Feivke followed his father between the desolate stubble fields. It was a good ten miles' walk to the large village where the Minyan assembled, and the fear and the wonder in Feivke's heart increased all the way. He did not yet quite understand whither he was being taken, and what was to be done with him there, and the impetus of the brown colt's career through the village had not as yet subsided in his head. Why had Father put on his black mended cloak? Why had he brought a Tallis with him, and a white shirt-like garment? There was certainly some hour of calamity and terror ahead, something was preparing which had never happened before.

They went by the great Kozlov wood, wherein every tree stood silent and sad for its faded and fallen leaves. Feivke dropped behind his father, and stepped aside into the wood. He wondered: Should he run away and hide in the wood? He would willingly stay there for the rest of his life. He would foregather with Nasta, the barrel-maker's son, he of the knocked-out eye; they would roast potatoes out in the wood, and now and again, stolen-wise, milk the village cows for their repast. Let them beat him as much as they pleased, let them kill him on the spot, nothing should induce him to leave the wood again!

But no! As Feivke walked along under the silent trees and through the fallen leaves, and perceived that the whole wood was filled through and through with a soft, clear light, and heard the rustle of the leaves beneath his step, a strange terror took hold of him. The wood had grown so sparse, the trees so discolored, and he should have to remain in the stillness alone, and roam about in the winter wind!

Mattes the smith had stopped, wondering, and was blinking around with his sick eyes.

"Feivke, where are you?"

Feivke appeared out of the wood.

"Feivke, to-day you mustn't go into the wood. To-day God may yet—to-day you must be a good boy," said the smith, repeating his wife's words as they came to his mind, "and you must say Amen."

Feivke hung his head and looked at his great, bare, black feet. "But if I don't know how," he said sullenly.

"It's no great thing to say Amen!" his father replied encouragingly. "When you hear the other people say it, you can say it, too! Everyone must say Amen, then God will forgive them," he added, recalling again his wife and her admonitions.

Feivke was silent, and once more followed his father step by step. What will they ask him, and what is he to answer? It seemed to him now that they were going right over away yonder where the pale, scarcely-tinted sky touched the earth. There, on a hill, sits a great, old God in a large sheepskin cloak. Everyone goes up to him, and He asks them questions, which they have to answer, and He shakes His head to and fro inside the sheepskin collar. And what is he, a wild, ignorant little boy, to answer this great, old God?

Feivke had committed a great many transgressions concerning which his mother was constantly admonishing him, but now he was thinking only of two great transgressions committed recently, of which his mother knew nothing. One with regard to Anishka the beggar. Anishka was known to the village, as far back as it could remember, as an old, blind beggar, who went the round of the villages, feeling his way with a long stick. And one day Feivke and another boy played him a trick: they placed a ladder in his way, and Anishka stumbled and fell, hurting his nose. Some peasants had come up and caught Feivke. Anishka sat in the middle of the road with blood on his face, wept bitterly, and declared that God would not forget his blood that had been spilt. The peasants had given the little Zhydek a sound thrashing, but Feivke felt now as if that would not count: God would certainly remember the spilling of Anishka's blood.

Feivke's second hidden transgression had been committed outside the village, among the graves of the peasants. A whole troop of boys, Feivke in their midst, had gone pigeon hunting, aiming at the pigeons with stones, and a stone of Feivke's had hit the naked figure on the cross that stood among the graves. The Gentile boys had started and taken fright, and those among them who were Feivke's good friends told him he had actually hit the son of God, and that the thing would have consequences; it was one for which people had their heads cut off.

These two great transgressions now stood before him, and his heart warned him that the hour had come when he would be called to account for what he had done to Anishka and to God's son. Only he did not know what answer he could make.

By the time they came near the windmill belonging to the large strange village, the sun had begun to set. The village river with the trees beside it were visible a long way off, and, crossing the river, a long high bridge.

"The Minyan is there," and Mattes pointed his finger at the thatched roofs shining in the sunset.

Feivke looked down from the bridge into the deep, black water that lay smooth and still in the shadow of the trees. The bridge was high and the water deep! Feivke felt sick at heart, and his mouth was dry.

"But, Tate, I won't be able to answer," he let out in despair.

"What, not Amen? Eh, eh, you little silly, that is no great matter. Where is the difficulty? One just ups and answers!" said his father, gently, but Feivke heard that the while his father was trying to quiet him, his own voice trembled.

At the other end of the bridge there appeared the great inn with the covered terrace, and in front of the building were moving groups of Jews in holiday garb, with red handkerchiefs in their hands, women in yellow silk head-kerchiefs, and boys in new clothes holding small prayer-books. Feivke remained obstinately outside the crowd, and hung about the stable, his black eyes staring defiantly from beneath the worn-out leather cap. But he was not left alone long, for soon there came to him a smart, yellow-haired boy, with restless little light-colored eyes, and a face like a chicken's, covered with freckles. This little boy took a little bottle with some essence in it out of his pocket, gave it a twist and a flourish in the air, and suddenly applied it to Feivke's nose, so that the strong waters spurted into his nostril. Then he asked:

"To whom do you belong?"

Feivke blew the water out of his nose, and turned his head away in silence.

"Listen, turkey, lazy dog! What are you doing there? Have you said Minchah?"

"N-no...."

"Is the Jew in a torn cloak there your father?"

"Y-yes ... T-tate...."

The yellow-haired boy took Feivke by the sleeve.

"Come along, and you'll see what they'll do to your father."

Inside the room into which Feivke was dragged by his new friend, it was hot, and there was a curious, unfamiliar sound. Feivke grew dizzy. He saw Jews bowing and bending along the wall and beating their breasts—now they said something, and now they wept in an odd way. People coughed and spat sobbingly, and blew their noses with their red handkerchiefs. Chairs and stiff benches creaked, while a continual clatter of plates and spoons came through the wall.

In a corner, beside a heap of hay, Feivke saw his father where he stood, looking all round him, blinking shamefacedly and innocently with his weak, red eyes. Round him was a lively circle of little boys whispering with one another in evident expectation.

"That is his boy, with the lip," said the chicken-face, presenting Feivke.

At the same moment a young man came up to Mattes. He wore a white collar without a tie and with a pointed brass stud. This young man held a whip, which he brandished in the air like a rider about to mount his horse.

"Well, Reb Smith."

"Am I ... I suppose I am to lie down?" asked Mattes, subserviently, still smiling round in the same shy and yet confiding manner.

"Be so good as to lie down."

The young man gave a mischievous look at the boys, and made a gesture in the air with the whip.

Mattes began to unbutton his cloak, and slowly and cautiously let himself down onto the hay, whereupon the young man applied the whip with might and main, and his whole face shone.

"One, two, three! Go on, Rebbe, go on!" urged the boys, and there were shouts of laughter.

Feivke looked on in amaze. He wanted to go and take his father by the sleeve, make him get up and escape, but just then Mattes raised himself to a sitting posture, and began to rub his eyes with the same shy smile.

"Now, Rebbe, this one!" and the yellow-haired boy began to drag Feivke towards the hay. The others assisted. Feivke got very red, and silently tried to tear himself out of the boy's hands, making for the door, but the other kept his hold. In the doorway Feivke glared at him with his obstinate black eyes, and said:

"I'll knock your teeth out!"

"Mine? You? You booby, you lazy thing! This is our house! Do you know, on New Year's Eve I went with my grandfather to the town! I shall call Leibrutz. He'll give you something to remember him by!"

And Leibrutz was not long in joining them. He was the inn driver, a stout youth of fifteen, in a peasant smock with a collar stitched in red, otherwise in full array, with linen socks and a handsome bottle of strong waters against faintness in his hands. To judge by the size of the bottle, his sturdy looks belied a peculiarly delicate constitution. He pushed towards Feivke with one shoulder, in no friendly fashion, and looked at him with one eye, while he winked with the other at the freckled grandson of the host.

"Who is the beauty?"

"How should I know? A thief most likely. The Kozlov smith's boy. He threatened to knock out my teeth."

"So, so, dear brother mine!" sang out Leibrutz, with a cold sneer, and passed his five fingers across Feivke's nose. "We must rub a little horseradish under his eyes, and he'll weep like a beaver. Listen, you Kozlov urchin, you just keep your hands in your pockets, because Leibrutz is here! Do you know Leibrutz? Lucky for you that I have a Jewish heart: to-day is Yom Kippur."

But the chicken-faced boy was not pacified.

"Did you ever see such a lip? And then he comes to our house and wants to fight us!"

The whole lot of boys now encircled Feivke with teasing and laughter, and he stood barefooted in their midst, looking at none of them, and reminding one of a little wild animal caught and tormented.

It grew dark, and quantities of soul-lights were set burning down the long tables of the inn. The large building was packed with red-faced, perspiring Jews, in flowing white robes and Tallesim. The Confession was already in course of fervent recital, there was a great rocking and swaying over the prayer-books and a loud noise in the ears, everyone present trying to make himself heard above the rest. Village Jews are simple and ignorant, they know nothing of "silent prayer" and whispering with the lips. They are deprived of prayer in common a year at a time, and are distant from the Lord of All, and when the Awful Day comes, they want to take Him by storm, by violence. The noisiest of all was the prayer-leader himself, the young man with the white collar and no tie. He was from town, and wished to convince the country folk that he was an adept at his profession and to be relied on. Feivke stood in the stifling room utterly confounded. The prayers and the wailful chanting passed over his head like waves, his heart was straitened, red sparks whirled before his eyes. He was in a state of continual apprehension. He saw a snow-white old Jew come out of a corner with a scroll of the Torah wrapped in a white velvet, gold-embroidered cover. How the gold sparkled and twinkled and reflected itself in the illuminated beard of the old man! Feivke thought the moment had come, but he saw it all as through a mist, a long way off, to the sound of the wailful chanting, and as in a mist the scroll and the old man vanished together. Feivke's face and body were flushed with heat, his knees shook, and at the same time his hands and feet were cold as ice.

Once, while Feivke was standing by the table facing the bright flames of the soul-lights, a dizziness came over him, and he closed his eyes. Thousands of little bells seemed to ring in his ears. Then some one gave a loud thump on the table, and there was silence all around. Feivke started and opened his eyes. The sudden stillness frightened him, and he wanted to move away from the table, but he was walled in by men in white robes, who had begun rocking and swaying anew. One of them pushed a prayer-book towards him, with great black letters, which hopped and fluttered to Feivke's eyes like so many little black birds.

He shook visibly, and the men looked at him in silence: "Nu-nu, nu-nu!" He remained for some time squeezed against the prayer-book, hemmed in by the tall, strange men in robes swaying and praying over his head. A cold perspiration broke out over him, and when at last he freed himself, he felt very tired and weak. Having found his way to a corner close to his father, he fell asleep on the floor.

There he had a strange dream. He dreamt that he was a tree, growing like any other tree in a wood, and that he saw Anishka coming along with blood on his face, in one hand his long stick, and in the other a stone—and Feivke recognized the stone with which he had hit the crucifix. And Anishka kept turning his head and making signs to some one with his long stick, calling out to him that here was Feivke. Feivke looked hard, and there in the depths of the wood was God Himself, white all over, like freshly-fallen snow. And God suddenly grew ever so tall, and looked down at Feivke. Feivke felt God looking at him, but he could not see God, because there was a mist before his eyes. And Anishka came nearer and nearer with the stone in his hand. Feivke shook, and cold perspiration oozed out all over him. He wanted to run away, but he seemed to be growing there like a tree, like all the other trees of the wood.

Feivke awoke on the floor, amid sleeping men, and the first thing he saw was a tall, barefoot person all in white, standing over the sleepers with something in his hand. This tall, white figure sank slowly onto its knees, and, bending silently over Mattes the smith, who lay snoring with the rest, it deliberately put a bottle to his nose. Mattes gave a squeal, and sat up hastily.

"Ha, who is it?" he asked in alarm.

It was the young man from town, the prayer-leader, with a bottle of strong smelling-salts.

"It is I," he said with a dégagé air, and smiled. "Never mind, it will do you good! You are fasting, and there is an express law in the Chayyé Odom on the subject."

"But why me?" complained Mattes, blinking at him reproachfully. "What have I done to you?"

Day was about to dawn. The air in the room had cooled down; the soul-lights were still playing in the dark, dewy window-panes. A few of the men bedded in the hay on the floor were waking up. Feivke stood in the middle of the room with staring eyes. The young man with the smelling-bottle came up to him with a lively air.

"O you little object! What are you staring at me for? Do you want a sniff? There, then, sniff!"

Feivke retreated into a corner, and continued to stare at him in bewilderment.

No sooner was it day, than the davvening recommenced with all the fervor of the night before, the room was as noisy, and very soon nearly as hot. But it had not the same effect on Feivke as yesterday, and he was no longer frightened of Anishka and the stone—the whole dream had dissolved into thin air. When they once more brought out the scroll of the Law in its white mantle, Feivke was standing by the table, and looked on indifferently while they uncovered the black, shining, crowded letters. He looked indifferently at the young man from town swaying over the Torah, out of which he read fluently, intoning with a strangely free and easy manner, like an adept to whom all this was nothing new. Whenever he stopped reading, he threw back his head, and looked down at the people with a bright, satisfied smile.

The little boys roamed up and down the room in socks, with smelling-salts in their hands, or yawned into their little prayer-books. The air was filled with the dust of the trampled hay. The sun looked in at a window, and the soul-lights grew dim as in a mist. It seemed to Feivke he had been at the Minyan a long, long time, and he felt as though some great misfortune had befallen him. Fear and wonder continued to oppress him, but not the fear and wonder of yesterday. He was tired, his body burning, while his feet were contracted with cold. He got away outside, stretched himself out on the grass behind the inn and dozed, facing the sun. He dozed there through a good part of the day. Bright red rivers flowed before his eyes, and they made his brains ache. Some one, he did not know who, stood over him, and never stopped rocking to and fro and reciting prayers. Then—it was his father bending over him with a rather troubled look, and waking him in a strangely gentle voice:

"Well, Feivke, are you asleep? You've had nothing to eat to-day yet?"

"No...."

Feivke followed his father back into the house on his unsteady feet. Weary Jews with pale and lengthened noses were resting on the terrace and the benches. The sun was already low down over the village and shining full into the inn windows. Feivke stood by one of the windows with his father, and his head swam from the bright light. Mattes stroked his chin-beard continually, then there was more davvening and more rocking while they recited the Eighteen Benedictions. The Benedictions ended, the young man began to trill, but in a weaker voice and without charm. He was sick of the whole thing, and kept on in the half-hearted way with which one does a favor. Mattes forgot to look at his prayer-book, and, standing in the window, gazed at the tree-tops, which had caught fire in the rays of the setting sun. Nobody was expecting anything of him, when he suddenly gave a sob, so loud and so piteous that all turned and looked at him in astonishment. Some of the people laughed. The prayer-leader had just intoned "Michael on the right hand uttereth praise," out of the Afternoon Service. What was there to cry about in that? All the little boys had assembled round Mattes the smith, and were choking with laughter, and a certain youth, the host's new son-in-law, gave a twitch to Mattes' Tallis:

"Reb Kozlover, you've made a mistake!"

Mattes answered not a word. The little fellow with the freckles pushed his way up to him, and imitating the young man's intonation, repeated, "Reb Kozlover, you've made a mistake!"

Feivke looked wildly round at the bystanders, at his father. Then he suddenly advanced to the freckled boy, and glared at him with his black eyes.

"You, you—kob tebi biessi!" he hissed in Little-Russian.

The laughter and commotion increased; there was an exclamation: "Rascal, in a holy place!" and another: "Aha! the Kozlover smith's boy must be a first-class scamp!" The prayer-leader thumped angrily on his prayer-book, because no one was listening to him.

Feivke escaped once more behind the inn, but the whole company of boys followed him, headed by Leibrutz the driver.

"There he is, the Kozlov lazy booby!" screamed the freckled boy. "Have you ever heard the like? He actually wanted to fight again, and in our house! What do you think of that?"

Leibrutz went up to Feivke at a steady trot and with the gesture of one who likes to do what has to be done calmly and coolly.

"Wait, boys! Hands off! We've got a remedy for him here, for which I hope he will be thankful."

So saying, he deliberately took hold of Feivke from behind, by his two arms, and made a sign to the boy with yellow hair.

"Now for it, Aarontche, give it to the youngster!"

The little boy immediately whipped the smelling-bottle out of his pocket, took out the stopper with a flourish, and held it to Feivke's nose. The next moment Feivke had wrenched himself free, and was making for the chicken-face with nails spread, when he received two smart, sounding boxes on the ears, from two great, heavy, horny hands, which so clouded his brain that for a minute he stood dazed and dumb. Suddenly he made a spring at Leibrutz, fell upon his hand, and fastened his sharp teeth in the flesh. Leibrutz gave a loud yell.

There was a great to-do. People came running out in their robes, women with pale, startled faces called to their children. A few of them reproved Mattes for his son's behavior. Then they dispersed, till there remained behind the inn only Mattes and Feivke. Mattes looked at his boy in silence. He was not a talkative man, and he found only two or three words to say:

"Feivke, Mother there at home—and you—here?"

Again Feivke found himself alone on the field, and again he stretched himself out and dozed. Again, too, the red streams flowed before his eyes, and someone unknown to him stood at his head and recited prayers. Only the streams were thicker and darker, and the davvening over his head was louder, sadder, more penetrating.

It was quite dark when Mattes came out again, took Feivke by the hand, set him on his feet, and said, "Now we are going home."

Indoors everything had come to an end, and the room had taken on a week-day look. The candles were gone, and a lamp was burning above the table, round which sat men in their hats and usual cloaks, no robes to be seen, and partook of some refreshment. There was no more davvening, but in Feivke's ears was the same ringing of bells. It now seemed to him that he saw the room and the men for the first time, and the old Jew sitting at the head of the table, presiding over bottles and wine-glasses, and clicking with his tongue, could not possibly be the old man with the silver-white beard who had held the scroll of the Law to his breast.

Mattes went up to the table, gave a cough, bowed to the company, and said, "A good year!"

The old man raised his head, and thundered so loudly that Feivke's face twitched as with pain:

"Ha?"

"I said—I am just going—going home—home again—so I wish—wish you—a good year!"

"Ha, a good year? A good year to you also! Wait, have a little brandy, ha?"

Feivke shut his eyes. It made him feel bad to have the lamp burning so brightly and the old man talking so loud. Why need he speak in such a high, rasping voice that it went through one's head like a saw?

"Ha? Is it your little boy who scratched my Aarontche's face? Ha? A rascal is he? Beat him well! There, give him a little brandy, too—and a bit of cake! He fasted too, ha? But he can't recite the prayers? Fie! You ought to be beaten! Ha? Are you going home? Go in health! Ha? Your wife has just been confined?—Perhaps you need some money for the holidays? Ha? What do you say?"

Mattes and Feivke started to walk home. Mattes gave a look at the clear sky, where the young half-moon had floated into view. "Mother will be expecting us," he said, and began to walk quickly. Feivke could hardly drag his feet.

On the tall bridge they were met by a cool breeze blowing from the water. Once across the bridge, Mattes again quickened his pace. Presently he stopped to look around—no Feivke! He turned back and saw Feivke sitting in the middle of the road. The child was huddled up in a silent, shivering heap. His teeth chattered with cold.

"Feivke, what is the matter? Why are you sitting down? Come along home!"

"I won't"—Feivke clattered out with his teeth—"I c-a-n-'t—"

"Did they hit you so hard, Feivke?"

Feivke was silent. Then he stretched himself out on the ground, his hands and feet quivering.

"Cold—."

"Aren't you well, Feivke?"

The child made an effort, sat up, and looked fixedly at his father, with his black, feverish eyes, and suddenly he asked:

"Why did you cry there? Tate, why? Tell me, why?!"

"Where did I cry, you little silly? Why, I just cried—it's Yom Kippur. Mother is fasting, too—get up, Feivke, and come home. Mother will make you a poultice," occurred to him as a happy thought.

"No! Why did you cry, while they were laughing?" Feivke insisted, still sitting in the road and shaking like a leaf. "One mustn't cry when they laugh, one mustn't!"

And he lay down again on the damp ground.

"Feivele, come home, my son!"

Mattes stood over the boy in despair, and looked around for help. From some way off, from the tall bridge, came a sound of heavy footsteps growing louder and louder, and presently the moonlight showed the figure of a peasant.

"Ai, who is that? Matke the smith? What are you doing there? Are you casting spells? Who is that lying on the ground?"

"I don't know myself what I'm doing, kind soul. That is my boy, and he won't come home, or he can't. What am I to do with him?" complained Mattes to the peasant, whom he knew.

"Has he gone crazy? Give him a kick! Ai, you little lazy devil, get up!" Feivke did not move from the spot, he only shivered silently, and his teeth chattered.

"Ach, you devil! What sort of a boy have you there, Matke? A visitation of Heaven! Why don't you beat him more? The other day they came and told tales of him—Agapa said that—"

"I don't know, either, kind soul, what sort of a boy he is," answered Mattes, and wrung his bands in desperation.

Early next morning Mattes hired a conveyance, and drove Feivke to the town, to the asylum for the sick poor. The smith's wife came out and saw them start, and she stood a long while in the doorway by the Mezuzeh.

And on another fine autumn morning, just when the villagers were beginning to cart loads of fresh earth to secure the village against overflowing streams, the village boys told one another the news of Feivke's death.

THE LAST OF THEM

They had been Rabbonim for generations in the Misnagdic community of Mouravanke, old, poverty-stricken Mouravanke, crowned with hoary honor, hidden away in the thick woods. Generation on generation of them had been renowned far and near, wherever a Jewish word was spoken, wherever the voice of the Torah rang out in the warm old houses-of-study.

People talked of them everywhere, as they talk of miracles when miracles are no more, and of consolation when all hope is long since dead—talked of them as great-grandchildren talk of the riches of their great-grandfather, the like of which are now unknown, and of the great seven-branched, old-fashioned lamp, which he left them as an inheritance of times gone by.

For as the lustre of an old, seven-branched lamp shining in the darkness, such was the lustre of the family of the Rabbonim of Mouravanke.

That was long ago, ever so long ago, when Mouravanke lay buried in the dark Lithuanian forests. The old, low, moss-grown houses were still set in wide, green gardens, wherein grew beet-root and onions, while the hop twined itself and clustered thickly along the wooden fencing. Well-to-do Jews still went about in linen pelisses, and smoked pipes filled with dry herbs. People got a living out of the woods, where they burnt pitch the whole week through, and Jewish families ate rye-bread and groats-pottage.

A new baby brought no anxiety along with it. People praised God, carried the pitcher to the well, filled it, and poured a quart of water into the pottage. The newcomer was one of God's creatures, and was assured of his portion along with the others.

And if a Jew had a marriageable daughter, and could not afford a dowry, he took a stick in his hand, donned a white shirt with a broad mangled collar, repeated the "Prayer of the Highway," and set off on foot to Volhynia, that thrice-blessed wonderland, where people talk with a "Chirik," and eat Challeh with saffron even in the middle of the week—with saffron, if not with honey.

There, in Volhynia, on Friday evenings, the rich Jewish householder of the district walks to and fro leisurely in his brightly lit room. In all likelihood, he is a short, plump, hairy man, with a broad, fair beard, a gathered silk sash round his substantial figure, a cheery singsong "Sholom-Alechem" on his mincing, "chiriky" tongue, and a merry crack of the thumb. The Lithuanian guest, teacher or preacher, the shrunk and shrivelled stranger with the piercing black eyes, sits in a corner, merely moving his lips and gazing at the floor—perhaps because he feels ill at ease in the bright, nicely-furnished room; perhaps because he is thinking of his distant home, of his wife and children and his marriageable daughter; and perhaps because it has suddenly all become oddly dear to him, his poor, forsaken native place, with its moiling, poverty-struck Jews, whose week is spent pitch-burning in the forest; with its old, warm houses-of-study; with its celebrated giants of the Torah, bending with a candle in their hand over the great hoary Gemorehs.

And here, at table, between the tasty stuffed fish and the soup, with the rich Volhynian "stuffed monkeys," the brusque, tongue-tied guest is suddenly unable to contain himself, and overflows with talk about his corner in Lithuania.

"Whether we have our Rabbis at home?! N-nu!!"

And thereupon he holds forth grandiloquently, with an ardor and incisiveness born of the love and the longing at his heart. The piercing black eyes shoot sparks, as the guest tells of the great men of Mouravanke, with their fiery intellects, their iron perseverance, who sit over their books by day and by night. From time to time they take an hour and a half's doze, falling with their head onto their fists, their beards sweeping the Gemoreh, the big candle keeping watch overhead and waking them once more to the study of the Torah.

At dawn, when the people begin to come in for the Morning Prayer, they walk round them on tiptoe, giving them their four-ells' distance, and avoid meeting their look, which is apt to be sharp and burning.

"That is the way we study in Lithuania!"

The stout, hairy householder, good-natured and credulous, listens attentively to the wonderful tales, loosens the sash over his pelisse in leisurely fashion, unbuttons his waistcoat across his generous waist, blows out his cheeks, and sways his head from side to side, because—one may believe anything of the Lithuanians!

Then, if once in a long, long while the rich Volhynian householder stumbled, by some miracle or other, into Lithuania, sheer curiosity would drive him to take a look at the Lithuanian celebrity. But he would stand before him in trembling and astonishment, as one stands before a high granite rock, the summit of which can barely be discerned. Is he terrified by the dark and bushy brows, the keen, penetrating looks, the deep, stern wrinkles in the forehead that might have been carved in stone, they are so stiffly fixed? Who can say? Or is he put out of countenance by the cold, hard assertiveness of their speech, which bores into the conscience like a gimlet, and knows of no mercy?—for from between those wrinkles, from beneath those dark brows, shines out the everlasting glory of the Shechinah.

Such were the celebrated Rabbonim of Mouravanke.

They were an old family, a long chain of great men, generation on generation of tall, well-built, large-boned Jews, all far on in years, with thick, curly beards. It was very seldom one of these beards showed a silver hair. They were stern, silent men, who heard and saw everything, but who expressed themselves mostly by means of their wrinkles and their eyebrows rather than in words, so that when a Mouravanke Rav went so far as to say "N-nu," that was enough.

The dignity of Rav was hereditary among them, descending from father to son, and, together with the Rabbinical position and the eighteen gulden a week salary, the son inherited from his father a tall, old reading-desk, smoked and scorched by the candles, in the old house-of-study in the corner by the ark, and a thick, heavy-knotted stick, and an old holiday pelisse of lustrine, the which, if worn on a bright Sabbath-day in summer-time, shines in the sun, and fairly shouts to be looked at.

They arrived in Mouravanke generations ago, when the town was still in the power of wild highwaymen, called there "Hydemakyes," with huge, terrifying whiskers and large, savage dogs. One day, on Hoshanah Rabbah, early in the morning, there entered the house-of-study a tall youth, evidently village-born and from a long way off, barefoot, with turned-up trousers, his boots slung on a big, knotted stick across his shoulders, and a great bundle of big Hoshanos. The youth stood in the centre of the house-of-study with his mouth open, bewildered, and the boys quickly snatched his willow branches from him. He was surrounded, stared at, questioned as to who he was, whence he came, what he wanted. Had he parents? Was he married? For some time the youth stood silent, with downcast eyes, then he bethought himself, and answered in three words: "I want to study!"

And from that moment he remained in the old building, and people began to tell wonderful tales of his power of perseverance—of how a tall, barefoot youth, who came walking from a far distance, had by dint of determination come to be reckoned among the great men in Israel; of how, on a winter midnight, he would open the stove doors, and study by the light of the glowing coals; of how he once forgot food and drink for three days and three nights running, while he stood over a difficult legal problem with wrinkled brows, his eyes piercing the page, his fingers stiffening round the handle of his stick, and he motionless; and when suddenly he found the solution, he gave a shout "Nu!" and came down so hard on the desk with his stick that the whole house-of-study shook. It happened just when the people were standing quite quiet, repeating the Eighteen Benedictions.

Then it was told how this same lad became Rav in Mouravanke, how his genius descended to his children and children's children, till late in the generations, gathering in might with each generation in turn. They rose, these giants, one after the other, persistent investigators of the Law, with high, wrinkled foreheads, dark, bushy brows, a hard, cutting glance, sharp as steel.

In those days Mouravanke was illuminated as with seven suns. The houses-of-study were filled with students; voices, young and old, rang out over the Gemorehs, sang, wept, and implored. Worried and tired-looking fathers and uncles would come into the Shools with blackened faces after the day's pitch-burning, between Afternoon and Evening Prayer, range themselves in leisurely mood by the doors and the stove, cock their ears, and listen, Jewish drivers, who convey people from one town to another, snatched a minute the first thing in the morning, and dropped in with their whips under their arms, to hear a passage in the Gemoreh expounded. And the women, who washed the linen at the pump in summer-time, beat the wet clothes to the melody of the Torah that came floating into the street through the open windows, sweet as a long-expected piece of good news.

Thus Mouravanke came to be of great renown, because the wondrous power of the Mouravanke Rabbonim, the power of concentration of thought, grew from generation to generation. And in those days the old people went about with a secret whispering, that if there should arise a tenth generation of the mighty ones, a new thing, please God, would come to pass among Jews.

But there was no tenth generation; the ninth of the Mouravanke Rabbonim was the last of them.

He had two sons, but there was no luck in the house in his day: the sons philosophized too much, asked too many questions, took strange paths that led them far away.

Once a rumor spread in Mouravanke that the Rav's eldest son had become celebrated in the great world because of a book he had written, and had acquired the title of "professor." When the old Rav was told of it, he at first remained silent, with downcast eyes. Then he lifted them and ejaculated:

"Nu!"

And not a word more. It was only remarked that he grew paler, that his look was even more piercing, more searching than before. This is all that was ever said in the town about the Rav's children, for no one cared to discuss a thing on which the old Rav himself was silent.

Once, however, on the Great Sabbath, something happened in the spacious old house-of-study. The Rav was standing by the ark, wrapped in his Tallis, and expounding to a crowded congregation. He had a clear, resonant, deep voice, and when he sent it thundering over the heads of his people, the air seemed to catch fire, and they listened dumbfounded and spellbound.

Suddenly the old man stopped in the midst of his exposition, and was silent. The congregation thrilled with speechless expectation. For a minute or two the Rav stood with his piercing gaze fixed on the people, then he deliberately pulled aside the curtain before the ark, opened the ark doors, and turned to the congregation:

"Listen, Jews! I know that many of you are thinking of something that has just occurred to me, too. You wonder how it is that I should set myself up to expound the Torah to a townful of Jews, when my own children have cast the Torah behind them. Therefore I now open the ark and declare to you, Jews, before the holy scrolls of the Law, I have no children any more. I am the last Rav of our family!"

Hereupon a piteous wail came from out of the women's Shool, but the Rav's sonorous voice soon reduced them to silence, and once more the Torah was being expounded in thunder over the heads of the open-mouthed assembly.

Years, a whole decade of them, passed, and still the old Rav walked erect, and not one silver hair showed in his curly beard, and the town was still used to see him before daylight, a tall, solitary figure carrying a stick and a lantern, on his way to the large old Bes ha-Midrash, to study there in solitude—until Mouravanke began to ring with the fame of her Charif, her great new scholar.

He was the son of a poor tailor, a pale, thin youth, with a pointed nose and two sharp, black eyes, who had gone away at thirteen or so to study in celebrated, distant academies, whence his name had spread round and about. People said of him, that he was growing up to be a Light of the Exile, that with his scholastic achievements he would outwit the acutest intellects of all past ages; they said that he possessed a brain power that ground "mountains" of Talmud to powder. News came that a quantity of prominent Jewish communities had sent messengers, to ask him to come and be their Rav.

Mouravanke was stirred to its depths. The householders went about greatly perturbed, because their Rav was an old man, his days were numbered, and he had no children to take his place.

So they came to the old Rav in his house, to ask his advice, whether it was possible to invite the Mouravanke Charif, the tailor's son, to come to them, so that he might take the place of the Rav on his death, in a hundred and twenty years—seeing that the said young Charif was a scholar distinguished by the acuteness of his intellect the only man worthy of sitting in the seat of the Mouravanke Rabbonim.

The old Rav listened to the householders with lowering brows, and never raised his eyes, and he answered them one word:

"Nu!"

So Mouravanke sent a messenger to the young Charif, offering him the Rabbinate. The messenger was swift, and soon the news spread through the town that the Charif was approaching.

When it was time for the householders to go forth out of the town, to meet the young Charif, the old Rav offered to go with them, and they took a chair for him to sit in while he waited at the meeting-place. This was by the wood outside the town, where all through the week the Jewish townsfolk earned their bread by burning pitch. Begrimed and toil-worn Jews were continually dropping their work and peeping out shamefacedly between the tree-stems.

It was Friday, a clear day in the autumn. She appeared out of a great cloud of dust—she, the travelling-wagon in which sat the celebrated young Charif. Sholom-Alechems flew to meet him from every side, and his old father, the tailor, leant back against a tree, and wept aloud for joy.

Now the old Rav declared that he would not allow the Charif to enter the town till he had heard him, the Charif, expound a portion of the Torah.

The young man accepted the condition. Men, women, and little children stood expectant, all eyes were fastened on the tailor's son, all hearts beat rapidly.

The Charif expounded the Torah standing in the wagon. At first he looked fairly scared, and his sharp black eyes darted fearfully hither and thither over the heads of the silent crowd. Then came a bright idea, and lit up his face. He began to speak, but his was not the familiar teaching, such as everyone learns and understands. His words were like fiery flashes appearing and disappearing one after the other, lightnings that traverse and illumine half the sky in one second of time, a play of swords in which there are no words, only the clink and ring of finely-tempered steel.

The old Rav sat in his chair leaning on his old, knobbly, knotted stick, and listened. He heard, but evil thoughts beset him, and deep, hard wrinkles cut themselves into his forehead. He saw before him the Charif, the dried-up youth with the sharp eyes and the sharp, pointed nose, and the evil thought came to him, "Those are needles, a tailor's needles," while the long, thin forefinger with which the Charif pointed rapidly in the air seemed a third needle wielded by a tailor in a hurry.

"You prick more sharply even than your father," is what the old Rav wanted to say when the Charif ended his sermon, but he did not say it. The whole assembly was gazing with caught breath at his half-closed eyelids. The lids never moved, and some thought wonderingly that he had fallen into a doze from sheer old age.

Suddenly a strange, dry snap broke the stillness, the old Rav started in his chair, and when they rushed forward to assist him, they found that his knotted, knobbly stick had broken in two.

Pale and bent for the first time, but a tall figure still, the old Rav stood up among his startled flock. He made a leisurely motion with his hand in the direction of the town, and remarked quietly to the young Charif:

"Nu, now you can go into the town!"

That Friday night the old Rav came into the house-of-study without his satin cloak, like a mourner. The congregation saw him lead the young Rav into the corner near the ark, where he sat him down by the high old desk, saying:

"You will sit here."

He himself went and sat down behind the pulpit among the strangers, the Sabbath guests.

For the first minute people were lost in astonishment; the next minute the house-of-study was filled with wailing. Old and young lifted their voices in lamentation. The young Rav looked like a child sitting behind the tall desk, and he shivered and shook as though with fever.

Then the old Rav stood up to his full height and commanded:

"People are not to weep!"

All this happened about the Solemn Days. Mouravanke remembers that time now, and speaks of it at dusk, when the sky is red as though streaming with fire, and the men stand about pensive and forlorn, and the women fold their babies closer in their aprons.

At the close of the Day of Atonement there was a report that the old Rav had breathed his last in robe and prayer-scarf.

The young Charif did not survive him long. He died at his father's the tailor, and his funeral was on a wet Great Hosannah day. Aged folk said he had been summoned to face the old Rav in a lawsuit in the Heavenly Court.

A FOLK TALE

THE CLEVER RABBI

The power of man's imagination, said my Grandmother, is very great. Hereby hangs a tale, which, to our sorrow, is a true one, and as clear as daylight.

Listen attentively, my dear child, it will interest you very much.

Not far from this town of ours lived an old Count, who believed that Jews require blood at Passover, Christian blood, too, for their Passover cakes.

The Count, in his brandy distillery, had a Jewish overseer, a very honest, respectable fellow.

The Count loved him for his honesty, and was very kind to him, and the Jew, although he was a simple man and no scholar, was well-disposed, and served the Count with heart and soul. He would have gone through fire and water at the Count's bidding, for it is in the nature of a Jew to be faithful and to love good men.

The Count often discussed business matters with him, and took pleasure in hearing about the customs and observances of the Jews.

One day the Count said to him, "Tell me the truth, do you love me with your whole heart?"

"Yes," replied the Jew, "I love you as myself."

"Not true!" said the Count. "I shall prove to you that you hate me even unto death."

"Hold!" cried the Jew. "Why does my lord say such terrible things?"

The Count smiled and answered: "Let me tell you! I know quite well that Jews must have Christian blood for their Passover feast. Now, what would you do if I were the only Christian you could find? You would have to kill me, because the Rabbis have said so. Indeed, I can scarcely hold you to blame, since, according to your false notions, the Divine command is precious, even when it tells us to commit murder. I should be no more to you than was Isaac to Abraham, when, at God's command, Abraham was about to slay his only son. Know, however, that the God of Abraham is a God of mercy and lovingkindness, while the God the Rabbis have created is full of hatred towards Christians. How, then, can you say that you love me?"

The Jew clapped his hands to his head, he tore his hair in his distress and felt no pain, and with a broken heart he answered the Count, and said: "How long will you Christians suffer this stain on your pure hearts? How long will you disgrace yourselves? Does not my lord know that this is a great lie? I, as a believing Jew, and many besides me, as believing Jews—we ourselves, I say, with our own hands, grind the corn, we keep the flour from getting damp or wet with anything, for if only a little dew drop onto it, it is prohibited for us as though it had yeast.

"Till the day on which the cakes are baked, we keep the flour as the apple of our eye. And when the flour is baked, and we are eating the cakes, even then we are not sure of swallowing it, because if our gums should begin to bleed, we have to spit the piece out. And in face of all these stringent regulations against eating the blood of even beasts and birds, some people say that Jews require human blood for their Passover cakes, and swear to it as a fact! What does my lord suppose we are likely to think of such people? We know that they swear falsely—and a false oath is of all things the worst."

The Count was touched to the heart by these words, and these two men, being both upright and without guile, believed one the other.

The Count believed the Jew, that is, he believed that the Jew did not know the truth of the matter, because he was poor and untaught, while the Rabbis all the time most certainly used blood at Passover, only they kept it a secret from the people. And he said as much to the Jew, who, in his turn, believed the Count, because he knew him to be an honorable man. And so it was that he began to have his doubts, and when the Count, on different occasions, repeated the same words, the Jew said to himself, that perhaps after all it was partly true, that there must be something in it—the Count would never tell him a lie!

And he carried the thought about with him for some time.

The Jew found increasing favor in his master's eyes. The Count lent him money to trade with, and God prospered the Jew in everything he undertook. Thanks to the Count, he grew rich.

The Jew had a kind heart, and was much given to good works, as is the way with Jews.

He was very charitable, and succored all the poor in the neighboring town. And he assisted the Rabbis and the pious in all the places round about, and earned for himself a great and beautiful name, for he was known to all as "the benefactor."

The Rabbis gave him the honor due to a pious and influential Jew, who is a wealthy man and charitable into the bargain.

But the Jew was thinking:

"Now the Rabbis will let me into the secret which is theirs, and which they share with those only who are at once pious and rich, that great and pious Jews must have blood for Passover."

For a long time he lived in hope, but the Rabbis told him nothing, the subject was not once mentioned. But the Jew felt sure that the Count would never have lied to him, and he gave more liberally than before, thinking, "Perhaps after all it was too little."

He assisted the Rabbi of the nearest town for a whole year, so that the Rabbi opened his eyes in astonishment. He gave him more than half of what is sufficient for a livelihood.

When it was near Passover, the Jew drove into the little town to visit the Rabbi, who received him with open arms, and gave him honor as unto the most powerful and wealthy benefactor. And all the representative men of the community paid him their respects.

Thought the Jew, "Now they will tell me of the commandment which it is not given to every Jew to observe."

As the Rabbi, however, told him nothing, the Jew remained, to remind the Rabbi, as it were, of his duty.

"Rabbi," said the Jew, "I have something very particular to say to you! Let us go into a room where we two shall be alone."

So the Rabbi went with him into an empty room, shut the door, and said:

"Dear friend, what is your wish? Do not be abashed, but speak freely, and tell me what I can do for you."

"Dear Rabbi, I am, you must know, already acquainted with the fact that Jews require blood at Passover. I know also that it is a secret belonging only to the Rabbis, to very pious Jews, and to the wealthy who give much alms. And I, who am, as you know, a very charitable and good Jew, wish also to comply, if only once in my life, with this great observance.

"You need not be alarmed, dear Rabbi! I will never betray the secret, but will make you happy forever, if you will enable me to fulfil so great a command.

"If, however, you deny its existence, and declare that Jews do not require blood, from that moment I become your bitter enemy.

"And why should I be treated worse than any other pious Jew? I, too, want to try to perform the great commandment which God gave in secret. I am not learned in the Law, but a great and wealthy Jew, and one given to good works, that am I in very truth!"

You can fancy—said my Grandmother—the Rabbi's horror on hearing such words from a Jew, a simple countryman. They pierced him to the quick, like sharp arrows.

He saw that the Jew believed in all sincerity that his coreligionists used blood at Passover.

How was he to uproot out of such a simple heart the weeds sown there by evil men?

The Rabbi saw that words would just then be useless.

A beautiful thought came to him, and he said: "So be it, dear friend! Come into the synagogue to-morrow at this time, and I will grant your request. But till then you must fast, and you must not sleep all night, but watch in prayer, for this is a very grave and dreadful thing."

The Jew went away full of gladness, and did as the Rabbi had told him. Next day, at the appointed time, he came again, wan with hunger and lack of sleep.

The Rabbi took the key of the synagogue, and they went in there together. In the synagogue all was quiet.

The Rabbi put on a prayer-scarf and a robe, lighted some black candles, threw off his shoes, took the Jew by the hand, and led him up to the ark.

The Rabbi opened the ark, took out a scroll of the Law, and said:

"You know that for us Jews the scroll of the Law is the most sacred of all things, and that the list of denunciations occurs in it twice.

"I swear to you by the scroll of the Law: If any Jew, whosoever he be, requires blood at Passover, may all the curses contained in the two lists of denunciations be on my head, and on the head of my whole family!"

The Jew was greatly startled.

He knew that the Rabbi had never before sworn an oath, and now, for his sake, he had sworn an oath so dreadful!

The Jew wept much, and said:

"Dear Rabbi, I have sinned before God and before you. I pray you, pardon me and give me a hard penance, as hard as you please. I will perform it willingly, and may God forgive me likewise!"

The Rabbi comforted him, and told no one what had happened, he only told a few very near relations, just to show them how people can be talked into believing the greatest foolishness and the most wicked lies.

May God—said my Grandmother—open the eyes of all who accuse us falsely, that they may see how useless it is to trump up against us things that never were seen or heard.

Jews will be Jews while the world lasts, and they will become, through suffering, better Jews with more Jewish hearts.

GLOSSARY AND NOTES

[Abbreviations: Dimin. = diminutive; Ger. = German, corrupt German, and Yiddish; Heb. = Hebrew, and Aramaic; pl. = plural; Russ. = Russian; Slav. = Slavic; trl. = translation.

Pronunciation: The transliteration of the Hebrew words attempts to reproduce the colloquial "German" (Ashkenazic) pronunciation. Ch is pronounced as in the German Dach.]

Additional Service. See Eighteen Benedictions.

Al-Chet (Heb.). "For the sin"; the first two words of each line of an Atonement Day prayer, at every mention of which the worshipper beats the left side of his breast with his right fist.

Alef-Bes (Heb.). The Hebrew alphabet.

Ashré (Heb.). The first word of a Psalm verse used repeatedly in the liturgy.

Äus Klemenke! (Ger.). Klemenke is done for!

Azoi (= Ger. also). That's the way it is!

Badchen (Heb.). A wedding minstrel, whose quips often convey a moral lesson to the bridal couple, each of whom he addresses separately.

Bar-Mitzveh (Heb.). A boy of thirteen, the age of religious majority.

Bas-Kol (Heb.). "The Daughter of the Voice"; an echo; a voice from Heaven.

Beigel (Ger.). Ring-shaped roll.

Bes ha-Midrash (Heb.). House-of-study, used for prayers, too.

Bittul-Torah (Heb.). Interference with religious study.

Bobbe (Slav.). Grandmother; midwife.

Borshtsh (Russ.). Sour soup made of beet-root.

Cantonist (Ger.). Jewish soldier under Czar Nicholas I, torn from his parents as a child, and forcibly estranged from Judaism.

Challeh (Heb.). Loaves of bread prepared for the Sabbath, over which the blessing is said; always made of wheat flour, and sometimes yellowed with saffron.

Charif (Heb.). A Talmudic scholar and dialectician.

Chassidim (sing. Chossid) (Heb.). "Pious ones"; followers of Israel Baal Shem, who opposed the sophisticated intellectualism of the Talmudists, and laid stress on emotionalism in prayer and in the performance of other religious ceremonies. The Chassidic leader is called Tzaddik ("righteous one"), or Rebbe. See art. "Hasidim," in the Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. vi.

Chayyé Odom. A manual of religious practice used extensively by the common people.

Cheder (pl. Chedorim) (Heb.). Jewish primary school.

Chillul ha-Shem (Heb.). "Desecration of the Holy Name"; hence, scandal.

Chirik (Heb.). Name of the vowel "i"; in Volhynia "u" is pronounced like "i."

Davvening. Saying prayers.

Dayan (pl. Dayonim) (Heb.). Authority on Jewish religious law, usually assistant to the Rabbi of a town.

Din Torah (Heb.). Lawsuit.

Dreier, Dreierlech (Ger.). A small coin.

Eighteen Benedictions. The nucleus of each of the three daily services, morning, afternoon, evening, and of the "Additional Service" inserted on Sabbaths, festivals, and the Holy Days, between the morning and afternoon services. Though the number of benedictions is actually nineteen, and at some of the services is reduced to seven, the technical designation remains "Eighteen Benedictions." They are usually said as a "silent prayer" by the congregation, and then recited aloud by the cantor, or precentor.

Eretz Yisroel (Heb.). Palestine.

Erev (Heb.). Eve.

Eruv (Heb.). A cord, etc., stretched round a town, to mark the limit beyond which no "burden" may be carried on the Sabbath.

Fast of Esther. A fast day preceding Purim, the Feast of Esther.

"Fountain of Jacob." A collection of all the legends, tales, apologues, parables, etc., in the Babylonian Talmud.

Four-Corners (trl. of Arba Kanfos). A fringed garment worn under the ordinary clothes; called also Tallis-koton. See Deut. xxii. 12.

Four Ells. Minimum space required by a human being.

Four Questions. Put by the youngest child to his father at the Seder.

Ganze Goyim (Ger. and Heb.). Wholly estranged from Jewish life and customs. See Goi.

Gass (Ger.). The Jews' street.

Gehenna (Heb.). The nether world; hell.

Gemoreh (Heb.). The Talmud, the Rabbinical discussion and elaboration of the Mishnah; a Talmud folio. It is usually read with a peculiar singsong chant, and the reading of argumentative passages is accompanied by a gesture with the thumb. See, for instance, pp. 17 and 338.

Gemoreh-Köplech (Heb. and Ger.). A subtle, keen mind; precocious.

Gevir (Heb.). An influential, rich man.—Gevirish, appertaining to a Gevir.

Goi (pl. Goyim) (Heb.). A Gentile; a Jew estranged from Jewish life and customs.

Gottinyu (Ger. with Slav. ending). Dear God.

Great Sabbath, The. The Sabbath preceding Passover.

Haggadah (Heb.). The story of the Exodus recited at the home service on the first two evenings of Passover.

Hoshanah (pl. Hoshanos) (Heb.). Osier withe for the Great Hosannah.

Hoshanah-Rabbah (Heb.). The seventh day of the Feast of Tabernacles; the Great Hosannah.

Hostre Chassidim. Followers of the Rebbe or Tzaddik who lived at Hostre.

Kaddish (Heb.). Sanctification, or doxology, recited by mourners, specifically by children in memory of parents during the first eleven months after their death, and thereafter on every anniversary of the day of their death; applied to an only son, on whom will devolve the duty of reciting the prayer on the death of his parents; sometimes applied to the oldest son, and to sons in general.

Kalleh (Heb.) Bride.

Kalleh-leben (Heb. and Ger.). Dear bride.

Kallehshi (Heb. and Russ. dimin.). Dear bride.

Kasha (Slav.). Pap.

Kedushah (Heb.). Sanctification; the central part of the public service, of which the "Holy, holy, holy," forms a sentence.

Kerbel, Kerblech (Ger.). A ruble.

Kiddush (Heb.). Sanctification; blessing recited over wine in ushering in Sabbaths and holidays.

Klaus (Ger.). "Hermitage"; a conventicle; a house-of-study.

Kob tebi biessi (Little Russ.) "Demons take you!"

Kol Nidré (Heb.). The first prayer recited at the synagogue on the Eve of the Day of Atonement.

Kosher (Heb.). Ritually clean or permitted.

Kosher-Tanz (Heb. and Ger.). Bride's dance.

Köst (Ger.). Board.—Auf Köst. Free board and lodging given to a man and his wife by the latter's parents during the early years of his married life.

"Learn." Studying the Talmud, the codes, and the commentaries.

Le-Chayyim (Heb.). Here's to long life!

Lehavdil (Heb.). "To distinguish." Elliptical for "to distinguish between the holy and the secular"; equivalent to "excuse the comparison"; "pardon me for mentioning the two things in the same breath," etc.

Likkute Zevi (Heb.). A collection of prayers.

Lokshen. Macaroni.—Toras-Lokshen, macaroni made in approved style.

Maariv (Heb.). The Evening Prayer, or service.

Maggid (Heb.). Preacher.

Maharsho (MaHaRSHO). Hebrew initial letters of Morenu ha-Rab Shemuel Edels, a great commentator.

Malkes (Heb.). Stripes inflicted on the Eve of the Day of Atonement, in expiation of sins. See Deut. xxv. 2, 3.

Maskil (pl. Maskilim) (Heb.). An "intellectual." The aim of the "intellectuals" was the spread of modern general education among the Jews, especially in Eastern Europe. They were reproached with secularizing Hebrew and disregarding the ceremonial law.

Matzes (Heb.). The unleavened bread used during Passover.

Mechuteneste (Heb.). Mother-in-law; prospective mother-in-law; expresses chiefly the reciprocal relation between the parents of a couple about to be married.

Mechutton (Heb.). Father-in-law; prospective father-in-law; expresses chiefly the reciprocal relation between the parents of a couple about to be married.

Mehereh (Heb.). The "quick" dough for the Matzes.

Melammed (Heb.). Teacher.

Mezuzeh (Heb.). "Door-post;" Scripture verses attached to the door-posts of Jewish houses. See Deut. vi. 9.

Midrash (Heb.). Homiletic exposition of the Scriptures.

Minchah (Heb.). The Afternoon Prayer, or service.

Min ha-Mezar (Heb.). "Out of the depth," Ps. 118. 5.

Minyan (Heb.). A company of ten men, the minimum for a public service; specifically, a temporary congregation, gathered together, usually in a village, from several neighboring Jewish settlements, for services on New Year and the Day of Atonement.

Mishnah (Heb.). The earliest code (ab. 200 C. E.) after the Pentateuch, portions of which are studied, during the early days of mourning, in honor of the dead.

Misnaggid (pl. Misnagdim) (Heb.). "Opponents" of the Chassidim. The Misnagdic communities are led by a Rabbi (pl. Rabbonim), sometimes called Rav.

Mitzveh (Heb.). A commandment, a duty, the doing of which is meritorious.

Nashers (Ger.). Gourmets.

Nishkoshe (Ger. and Heb.). Never mind!

Nissan (Heb.). Spring month (March-April), in which Passover is celebrated.

Olenu (Heb.). The concluding prayer in the synagogue service.

Olom ha-Sheker (Heb.). "The world of falsehood," this world.

Olom ha-Tohu (Heb.). World of chaos.

Olom ho-Emess (Heb.). "The world of truth," the world-to-come.

Parnosseh (Heb.). Means of livelihood; business; sustenance.

Piyyutim (Heb.). Liturgical poems for festivals and Holy Days recited in the synagogue.

Porush (Heb.). Recluse.

Prayer of the Highway. Prayer on setting out on a journey.

Prayer-scarf. See Tallis.

Pud (Russ.). Forty pounds.

Purim (Heb.). The Feast of Esther.

Rashi (RaSHI). Hebrew initial letters of Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, a great commentator; applied to a certain form of script and type.

Rav (Heb.). Rabbi.

Rebbe. Sometimes used for Rabbi; sometimes equivalent to Mr.; sometimes applied to the Tzaddik of the Chassidim; and sometimes used as the title of a teacher of young children.

Rebbetzin. Wife of a Rabbi.

Rosh-Yeshiveh (Rosh ha-Yeshiveh) (Heb.). Headmaster of a Talmudic Academy.

Scape-fowls (trl. of Kapporos). Roosters or hens used in a ceremony on the Eve of the Day of Atonement.

Seder (Heb.). Home service on the first two Passover evenings.

Seliches (Heb.). Penitential prayers.

Seventeenth of Tammuz. Fast in commemoration of the first breach made in the walls of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar.

Shalom (Heb. in Sefardic pronunciation). Peace. See Sholom Alechem.

Shamash (Heb.). Beadle.

Shechinah (Heb.). The Divine Presence.

Shegetz (Heb.). "Abomination;" a sinner; a rascal.

Shlimm-Mazel (Ger. and Heb.). Bad luck; luckless fellow.

Shmooreh-Matzes (Heb.). Unleavened bread specially guarded and watched from the harvesting of the wheat to the baking and storing.

Shochet (Heb.). Ritual slaughterer.

Shofar (Heb.). Ram's horn, sounded on New Year's Day and the Day of Atonement. See Lev. xxiii. 24.

Sholom (Shalom) Alechem (Heb.). "Peace unto you"; greeting, salutation, especially to one newly arrived after a journey.

Shomer. Pseudonym of a Yiddish author, Nahum M. Schaikewitz.

Shool (Ger., Schul'). Synagogue.

Shulchan Aruch (Heb.). The Jewish code.

Silent Prayer. See Eighteen Benedictions.

Solemn Days. The ten days from New Year to the Day of Atonement inclusive.

Soul-lights. Candles lighted in memory of the dead.

Stuffed monkeys. Pastry filled with chopped fruit and spices.

Tallis (popular plural formation, Tallesim) (Heb.). The prayer-scarf.

Tallis-koton (Heb.). See Four-Corners.

Talmid-Chochem (Heb.). Sage; scholar.

Talmud Torah (Heb.). Free communal school.

Tano (Heb.). A Rabbi cited in the Mishnah as an authority.

Tararam. Noise; tumult; ado.

Tate, Tatishe (Ger. and Russ. dimin.). Father.

Tefillin-Säcklech (Heb. and Ger.). Phylacteries bag.

Tisho-b'ov (Heb.). Ninth of Ab, day of mourning and fasting to commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem; hence, colloquially, a sad day.

Torah (Heb.). The Jewish Law in general, and the Pentateuch in particular.

Tsisin. Season.

Tzaddik (pl. Tzaddikim) (Heb.). "Righteous"; title of the Chassidic leader.

U-mipné Chatoénu (Heb.). "And on account of our sins," the first two words of a prayer for the restoration of the sacrificial service, recited in the Additional Service of the Holy Days and the festivals.

U-Nesanneh-Toikef (Heb.). "And we ascribe majesty," the first two words of a Piyyut recited on New Year and on the Day of Atonement.

Verfallen! (Ger.). Lost; done for.

Vershok (Russ.). Two inches and a quarter.

Vierer (Ger.). Four kopeks.

Vivat. Toast.

Yeshiveh (Heb.). Talmud Academy.

Yohrzeit (Ger.). Anniversary of a death.

Yom Kippur (Heb.). Day of Atonement.

Yom-tov (Heb.). Festival.

Zhydek (Little Russ.). Jew.

P. 15. "It was seldom that parties went 'to law' ... before the Rav."—The Rabbi with his Dayonim gave civil as well as religious decisions.

P. 15. "Milky Sabbath."—All meals without meat. In connection with fowl, ritual questions frequently arise.

P. 16. "Reuben's ox gores Simeon's cow."—Reuben and Simeon are fictitious plaintiff and defendant in the Talmud; similar to John Doe and Richard Roe.

P. 17. "He described a half-circle," etc.—See under Gemoreh.

P. 57. "Not every one is worthy of both tables!"—Worthy of Torah and riches.

P. 117. "They salted the meat."—The ritual ordinance requires that meat should be salted down for an hour after it has soaked in water for half an hour.

P. 150. "Puts off his shoes!"—To pray in stocking-feet is a sign of mourning and a penance.

P. 190. "We have trespassed," etc.—The Confession of Sins.

P. 190. "The beadle deals them out thirty-nine blows," etc.—see Malkes.

P. 197. "With the consent of the All-Present," etc.—The Introduction to the solemn Kol Nidré prayer.

P. 220. "He began to wear the phylacteries and the prayer-scarf," etc.—They are worn first when a boy is Bar-Mitzveh (which see); Ezrielk was married at the age of thirteen.

P. 220. "He could not even break the wine-glass," etc.—A marriage custom.

P. 220. "Waving of the sacrificial fowls."—See Scape-fowls.

P. 220. "The whole company of Chassidim broke some plates."—A betrothal custom.

P. 227. "Had a double right to board with their parents 'forever.'"—See Köst.

P. 271. "With the consent of the All-Present," etc.—See note under p. 197.

P. 273. "Nothing was lacking for their journey from the living to the dead."—See note under p. 547.

P. 319. "Give me a teacher who can tell," etc.—Reference to the story of the heathen who asked, first of Shammai, and then of Hillel, to be taught the whole of the Jewish Law while standing on one leg.

P. 326. "And those who do not smoke on Sabbath, raised their eyes to the sky."—To look for the appearance of three stars, which indicate nightfall, and the end of the Sabbath.

P. 336. "Jeroboam the son of Nebat."—The Rabbinical type for one who not only sins himself, but induces others to sin, too.

P. 401. "Thursday."—See note under p. 516.

P. 403. "Monday," "Wednesday," "Tuesday."—See note under p. 516.

P. 427. "Six months' 'board.'"—See Köst.

P. 443. "I knew Hebrew grammar, and could write Hebrew, too."—See Maskil.

P. 445. "A Jeroboam son of Nebat."—See note under p. 336.

P. 489. "In a snow-white robe."—The head of the house is clad in his shroud at the Seder on the Passover.

P. 516. "She knew that on Wednesdays Yitzchokel ate his 'day'," etc.—At the houses of well-to-do families meals were furnished to poor students, each student having a specific day of the week with a given family throughout the year.

P. 547. "Why had he brought ... a white shirt-like garment?"—The worshippers in the synagogue on the Day of Atonement wear shrouds.

P. 552. "Am I ... I suppose I am to lie down?"—See Malkes.

P. 574. "In a hundred and twenty years."—The age attained by Moses and Aaron; a good old age. The expression is used when planning for a future to come after the death of the person spoken to, to imply that there is no desire to see his days curtailed for the sake of the plan.