CHAPTER X
A great and unusual emotion prevailed among the population of the little town. From all parts they thronged towards the large brown house of prayer, where, under the three-storied roof covered with moss, the row of high and narrow windows blazed with light. The sky was covered with stars twinkling feebly and paling before the full moon.
The interior of the temple, large and roomy, would easily hold several thousand people. The high and smooth walls, forming a perfect square, were cut across by a long, heavy gallery, divided into niches, not unlike private boxes, and surrounded by a high, open-work grating. Wooden benches, standing closely together, filled the body of the synagogue from the entrance door up to the raised platform, which was surrounded by a highly ornamental grating. There was a table on the platform, used for unfolding the leaves of the Tora on days when extracts from it were read to the people. It served also as a pulpit when, on solemn days, speeches or religious discourses were delivered. Here also stood the choir of young men or grown-up children, who united their voices or answered to the intonating singer.
The platform was about a dozen feet from the principal part of the building, which looked very impressive in its dignity and blaze of colour. It was the altar, or the place where the holy of holies was preserved. The top of the altar reached to the ceiling, and consisted of two great tables incrusted with lapis-lazuli and covered with white letters, like strings of arabesques, in a rich and fantastic design, in which the initiated eye could read the Ten Commandments. The tables of lapis-lazuli were supported by two gilt-bronze lions of huge size, resting on two heavy columns of the intensest blue, surrounded with white garlands of vine-leaves and grapes. All this rose from a heavy stone foundation, the large surface of which, from top to bottom was covered with inscriptions from the Bible. The two columns stood like guards on either side of a deep recess, veiled entirely with a red silk curtain richly embroidered with gold. Behind this curtain, only raised at certain times, lay the holy of holies, the Tora, a great roll of parchment covered with costly silk and tied with ribbons embroidered in gold and silver.
Seven chandeliers of a hundred lights each, illuminated the gallery above, showing behind the transparent grating innumerable female figures in bright coloured dresses; below were the benches, where the men were sitting on their soft white talliths. Around the necks of the more prominent members gleamed large silver bands worked in delicate bas-relief. The costliest and largest of the seven chandeliers hung suspended by heavy silver cords before the red silk curtain and reflected in the heavy gold embroidery, and showed the delicate design of the vine leaves twining round the columns. Here stood Eliezer, the singer who intoned the old psalms, the limitless melodies of which resound with all the voices of human joy, suffering, and entreaty. Never had the beautiful voice produced richer or mellower tones; never had it vibrated with such deep emotion. It almost seemed as if that evening a superhuman power had taken possession of him. Now and then his voice died away in a low wail; then it rose again with such voluminous power of entreaty as if it carried him on its wings before the throne of Jehovah—to plead for something or somebody.
The whole building was filled with the sound, in which the choir of young voices joined from time to time. There was a deep silence among the congregation. Here and there some one whispered:
"It is like the angel Sandalphon, who offers to Jehovah the garlands made from human prayers."
Others shook their heads sadly. "He is pleading for his friend, who is to be excommunicated to-night."
Suddenly the singer's voice was interrupted by a heavy thump, repeated several times. It ceased, as if the golden string had been torn asunder by a brutal hand. The choir disappeared from the platform, and in their place stood one man, whose dark, piercing eyes looked more baneful than ever. In his hands he held a heavy book, with which he struck the table as a sign for silence. Throughout the building everything was quiet, except in the portico, where some twenty people surrounded a young man who, with a deathly pale face and compressed lips, stood leaning against the wall.
Whisperers crowded around him.
"It is still time. Have mercy upon yourself and your family! Run quick, quick, throw yourself at the feet of the Rabbi! Oh, Herem! Herem! Herem!"
He did not seem to listen. His arms were crossed over his breast. The contracted forehead, marked with the red scar, gave him the expression of inward pain, but also of inflexible courage.
"In the name of the God of our fathers," sounded the loud voice of
Isaak Todros.
A long sigh like a tremor seemed to shake the whole congregation, and then everything was silent.
Isaak Todros spoke slowly and impressively:
"By the force and power of the world, in the name of the holy covenant and the six hundred and thirteen commandments contained in the covenant; with the malediction of Joshua against the town of Jericho; with the malediction of Elisha against the children who mocked him; with the shamanta used by the great Sanhedrims and Synods; with all the herems and curses used from the time of Moses to this day; in the name of the God eternal; in the name of Matatron, the guardian of Israel; in the name of the angel Sandalphon, who from human prayers wreathes garlands for the throne of Jehovah; in the name of the archangel Michael, the powerful leader of the heavenly army; in the name of the angels of fire, wind, and lightning; in the name of all the angels conducting the stars on their courses, and all the archangels who are spreading their wings above the throne of the Eternal; in the name of Him who appeared in the burning bush, and by the power of which Moses divided the waters; in the name of the hand who wrote the tables of the holy law, we expel, disgrace, and curse the strong, disobedient, and blasphemous Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin."
He paused a little, then, with a vehement motion, raised both his arms above his head, and, amidst the deepest silence, he went on faster and louder:
"Be he accursed by heaven and earth; by the angels Matatron, Sandalphon, and Michael; by all the angels, archangels, and heavenly orbs. Be he accursed by all pure and holy spirits which serve the Lord; accursed by every power in heaven and upon earth. Let all creation become his enemy, that the whirlwind crush him and the sword smite him. Let his ways be dangerous and covered with darkness, and let the greatest despair be hi only companion thereon. Let sorrow and unhappiness waste his body; let his eyes look upon the heavy blows falling upon him. Let the Lord never forgive him; nay, let the wrath and vengeance of the Lord eat deep into his marrow. Let him be wrapped up in the curse as in a garment; let his death be sudden, and drive him into utter darkness."
Here Todros paused again to draw breath into his exhausted lungs. His voice had become every minute more laboured, and his sentences more broken. His face was burning, and his arms waved wildly over his head.
"From this moment," he shouted again, "from this moment the curse has fallen upon him; let him not dare to approach the house of prayer nearer than four yards. Under the threat of excommunication, let no Israelite approach nearer to him than four yards distance, nor open to him his house, nor give him bread, water, or fire, though he see him dying with thirst, hunger, and disease; nay, let everybody spit upon him, and throw stones under his feet, that he may stumble and fall. Let him not have any fortune, either what he has earned himself or what comes from his parents; let it be given up to the elders of the Kahal, to be used for the poor and needy."
"This curse which has fallen upon him, let it be made public all over Israel wherever you go, and we will send the tidings of it to all our brethren to the farthest confines of the world."
"This is our decree, and you all who remain faithful unto the Lord and his covenant, live in peace."
He had finished; and, at the same time, by some prearranged contrivance, all the lights in the seven chandeliers grew dim, and in the four corners of the edifice trumpets began to sound in a low, mournful wail, in which joined a chorus of sobs and loud moans. A heart-rending cry came from the portico, which was all the more terrible as, it came from the breast of a young and powerful man. There was the noise of many feet, and the sound of somebody driven out. Meir disappeared from the house of prayer. Among the benches near the altar came the sound of rent garments, and grave men fell on their faces.
"In the dust lies the mighty house of Ezofowich," said several voices, pointing at them.
From the gallery came the loud sobs and wailing, of women, and in the background of the edifice people without silver ribbons round their talliths wrung their hard, work-stained hands.
Todros wiped the perspiration from his brow with his ragged sleeve, and, leaning upon the balustrade with heaving breast and twitching lips, looked at the singer. He did not leave the platform, for, according to the prescribed rules, a blessing for all the people ought to follow the curse. It was the singer's duty to intonate it. Todros waited for it. Why did the singer delay so long? Why did he not take up his last words, "Live in peace," and intonate the blessing? Eliezer stood with his face turned to the altar. Whilst the Rabbi pronounced the curse his whole frame had shook under the folds of the tallith. By and by he grew quieter, stood motionless, and his eyes seemed to look far, far in the distance. At last he raised his arms. It was the sign for silence and prayer. The trumpets, which had kept on the low, mournful wailing, grew silent, the human sobs and cries ceased. The dim light blazed up again, and amidst the deepest silence, interrupted by some stifled sobs, rose the pure and silvery voice of Eliezer:
"O Lord, who blessed our fathers, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, David, the prophets of Israel, and all righteous people, pour down thy blessing upon the man who this day has been injured by an unjust curse."
"God in thy mercy shield and guard him from all unhappiness, prolong the years of his life, and bless all his undertakings. Release him from distress, and darkness, and fetters, together with all his brethren in Israel."
"Do this, O Lord. Say all unto me, Amen." He stopped, and there was a short silence of stupefaction, and then out of several hundred throats came the cry, "Amen!" "Amen!" called out the members of the Ezofowich family who rose from the floor, shaking the dust from their rent garments. "Amen!" called out the group of poor people who had wrung their black, work-stained hands.
"Amen!" came from the voices of the weeping women in the gallery.
"Amen!" repeated at last a chorus of young voices.
The Rabbi took his hands off the balustrade, and looked around the congregation with amazed eyes.
"What is that? What does this mean?"
Then Eliezer turned his face to him and the people. The hood of his tallith had slipped from his head on to his shoulders. His face, usually white, was flushed, and his blue eyes glowed with anger and courage. He raised his band, and said, in a loud voice:
"Rabbi, it means that our ears and our hearts will not listen to any such curses any more!"
These words were like the signal for battle. Scarcely had he finished speaking when some fifty young men ranged themselves on either side of him. Some were the excommunicated man's personal friends; others had only seen him from a distance; among them were even those who had blamed him and condemned his rashness.
"Rabbi!" they called out, "we will hear such curses no more!"
"Rabbi! your curse has made us love the accursed!"
"Rabbi! with that herem you have laid a burden upon a man who was pleasant in the sight of God and man!"
With a mighty effort Todros seemed to rouse himself from the numbness into which the unexpected rebellion had plunged him.
"What is it you want?" he shouted. "What are you speaking of? Has the evil spirit bewitched you? Do you not know that our Law commands us to curse those who rebel against the holy covenant?"
Not from among the young men, but from the benches where the elders were sitting, came a grave voice:
"Rabbi! do you not know that when the old Sanhedrim were in fierce debate whether to adhere to the teaching of Hillel or Shamai, a mysterious voice, 'Bat Kohl,' taken for the voice of God himself, was heard, 'Listen to the Law of Hillel, for it is full of charity and gentleness.'"
All heads were craned in the direction whence the speech had come. It was from Raphael, the uncle of the excommunicated.
At this moment Ber made his way through the crowd and stood at the side of the young men.
"Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "have you ever counted the intellects you and your forefathers crushed with your despotism; all the souls eager for knowledge that you thrust into darkness and suffering?"
"Rabbi!" said a youthful almost childish voice, "will you and those that stand by you always keep from us all knowledge after which our minds are yearning?"
"Why do you not, Rabbi, teach the people to use their intelligence as a sieve, to divide the grain from the chaff, and the pearls from the sand? Rabbi! you have made us to eat the pomegranate with the bitter rind; we begin to feel the acrid taste of it and it causes pain."
"Unhappy, misguided youths! Reprobates!" shouted Todros passionately. "Did you not see with your own eyes that the people hated him, stoned him, and marked his forehead with a red scar?"
Proud and scornful laughter answered his speech. "Do not agree with everything the people say," and one voice continued: "The curse you pronounced against him has softened many hearts and opened many eyes."
"Malicious promptings stirred up hatred against him; but to-day all hearts are full of compassion, because with your curse you have killed his youth."
"It is worse than death, Rabbi; for amongst the living he will be like one dead."
"And is it not written in the statutes of the great Sanhedrim: 'The tribunal which once in seventy years pronounces a sentence of death will be called the tribunal of murderers?'"
"In the Sanhedrim, did not childless and stony-hearted men sit?"
"Who soweth wrath, reapeth sorrow!"
Such and similar were the sentences which fell like hail around the
Rabbi, accompanied by threatening looks and indignant gestures.
Todros answered no more. He remained quite motionless and, with his mouth open and eyebrows raised, presented the picture of a man who does not understand what is going on around him. Suddenly, the melamed rushed from the crowd, jumped over the balustrade, and spreading out his arms as if to shield the beloved master, confronted the people and shouted in angry tones:
"Woe! woe! to the insolent who does not reverence those who serve them before the Lord!"
Eliezer replied:
"No wall is to be raised between the Lord and his people. We appointed men from amongst us to study the Law in order to teach it to the ignorant. But we did not, tell them: 'We deliver our souls unto you in bondage'; because every Israelite is free to search for the Lord in his own heart and to explain His words according to his intelligence."
Others exclaimed:
"In Israel there are no higher or lower grades. We are all brethren in the eyes of the Creator; no one has the right to fetter our will and intellect."
"The false prophets have lost us, because they separated us from other nations, that we are even as prisoners in the dark, left in loneliness."
"But a time will come when Israel will shake off his fetters, and the blind and proud spirits shall fall down from their heights and the imprisoned souls will regain their liberty."
Isaak Todros raised his hands slowly to his head, as a man who tries to rouse himself from sleep; then he leaned again on the balustrade, raised his eyes, and sighed deeply:
"En-Sof!" he said in a dreamy whisper.
It was the kabalistic name of God which whirled across his despairing mind. But as if in protest against the doctrines which had encumbered the pure Mosaic faith, a chorus of voices answered:
"Jehovah!"
The melamed's body shook as in a fit of ague. With violent speech and gesture he called upon the people to stand up for their beloved sage, and punish the audacious rebels. But the more he spoke, the more amazed he grew. Nobody moved. The rich and prominent of the community sat silent, their foreheads supported on their hands, their eyes riveted to the floor. They were in deep meditation. The bulk of the people remained motionless and mute.
The melamed understood at last that all efforts to rouse them were useless. He became silent, but his eyes opened wider in great wonder; he could not understand why they did not listen.
But through the misty brain of Isaak Todros passed a ray of light, and he got a glimpse of the terrible truth. Something whispered to him that in the young breasts all the dormant desires and aspirations of which the excommunicated man had been the interpreter, had stirred into life. The young man was, then, not the only one; but he was bolder, more enterprising and proud. He heard another whisper. The young heads whose fearless attitude bad made him powerless to-day, had been touched by the wings of the angel of Time, which, as he perceived in a dull, indistinct way, was full of rebellion and upheaving and would break down the barriers he had raised between them and the highest truth. And he heard again why the people had not stood up for him, because the angel of Time, who carries with him rebellion, and battle, also brings charity and forgiveness, and sweeps away curses and hatred with his powerful, yet soft, wings.
All this Todros heard in a dim and vague way; but it was enough, to benumb his heart, full of petrified faith and pride.
"Bat Kohl," he whispered.
The voice of his own conscience he took for the mysterious voice said to be heard in great crises by the lawgivers and priests of Israel.
"Bat Kohl," he repeated with trembling lips, and turned his gaze around the building.
The interior of the synagogue was half-empty. The people dispersed slowly and silently, as if they were seized by a great sorrow and doubt. The poor and rich, until now great admirers of the Rabbi. There was the rustle of the belated women in the gallery, and then everything was quiet and deserted.
As in times of yore, Joseph Akiba was coming back in the moonlit night, to his shepherd's hut, so Meir pale and trembling approached the house of his fathers.
He went there, but without the intention of entering it again. He knew that he would have to go away, to pursue in loneliness and misery the great aim he saw in the far, far distance, and which was so difficult to reach. He wanted to see the house once more, but did not intend to cross its threshold. Among the many darkened windows, he saw one where a light glimmered. He stood still and looked at it. Through the window he saw the motionless figure of his great-grandmother in her easy chair. A wave of moonlight made the diamonds sparkle.
Meir slowly ascended the steps of the porch and touched the door latch. It yielded to the pressure; contrary to the usual custom the door was unlocked. He entered the narrow passage and stood at the door of the sitting-room, which was wide open. The whole house was wrapped in darkness and silence.
Was everybody asleep? Not likely; but not the slightest noise was to disturb the last farewell between the great-grandmother and her great-grandson and drive him from her knees. It was the last time he rested under the roof of his fathers.
"Bobe," he said softly, "Elte Bobe!"
Freida slept peacefully as a child: the rays of the moonlight played on the wrinkled face like childish dreams.
"I shall never see you again, never any more."
He pressed his lips to the dear old hand that had given him the treasure which was his salvation and ruin, life and death.
Freida's head moved gently.
"Kleineskind!" she whispered, without opening her eyes.
Meir lost himself in thought. His forehead resting on his great-grandmother's knees, he said farewell to everything and everybody around.
At last he rose and slowly left the room.
In the dark passage he suddenly felt two strong arms closing around him, and a heavy object was put in his pocket.
"It is I, Ber. Your grandfather looked around the family for a courageous man who would give you a handful of money on the way; and found me. Everybody in the house mourns for you; the women have taken to their beds, crying; your uncles are angry with the Rabbi and the elders; the grandfather is almost beside himself with grief—but nobody will see you any more. It is thus with us; reason drags one way; the old faith the other. They are afraid. But Meir, do not grieve! You are happy. I envy you! You have not been afraid to do what I did not dare to do, and you will win. To-day your friends stood up for you, and the people were silent and did not defend the Rabbi. It is the beginning; but the end is still far off. If you showed yourself to-morrow before the people, their wrath would flare up again. Go! go into the world. You have youth on your side and courage; life is before you."
"Sometime you will come back and put an end to our sins and darkness. We have many diamonds, but they want sifting. Go forth now, to conquer. Be like Baale Tressim, armour-clad like our ancestors; and my blessing and the blessings of those who, like me, wished, but could not—longed, but did not obtain what they longed for—be with you."
They exchanged farewells, and Ber disappeared as silently as he had come. The deep silence of the whole house seemed to bid the excommunicated youth to go hence.
When he left the house it had begun to dawn. The market square and the adjacent streets were asleep. The whole town was wrapped in the gray mist of an almost autumnal morning.
He swiftly crossed the mist-covered fields to get away, and say farewell to her who had promised to be a faithful Rachel to him, and to claim from her his treasure.
The door and window of the little hut stood wide open.
"Golda!" he called softly, "Golda!"
There was no answer.
He repeated his call, but the silence remained unbroken. He drew nearer, and looked at the spot where old Abel was wont to sit. It was empty.
A strange, undefined dread took hold of him.
He looked around, up the hills and along the fields, and called in a loud voice:
"Golda!"
There was a slight rustle not far off. It came from a wild rosebush, from among the branches of which rose the sleepy figure of little Lejbele.
Meir went quickly up to him. The child disengaged himself from the branches, and put his hand under his coat.
"Where is Golda?" asked Meir.
Lejbele did not answer, but handed him the roll of papers.
Meir bent towards the child.
"Who gave you that?"
"She," answered Lejbele, pointing to the hut.
"When did she give it to you?"
The child answered:
"When the people were coming she rushed out of the hut, woke me, and put the roll under my coat, and said, 'Give it to Meir when he comes.'"
Meir began to tremble.
"And afterwards?" he asked, "afterwards?"
"Afterwards, Morejne, she hid me in the bush, and went back to the hut."
"How many people were there?"
"Two, Morejne, three—ten—I don't know."
"And what did they do? What did the people do?"
"The people came, Morejne, and shouted and screamed at her to give up the writing; and she screamed that she would not, and the goat in the entrance ran about and bleated."
Meir trembled in all his limbs.
"And then what happened?"
"Morejne, she took the spindle into her hands and stood before her zeide. I saw it from the bush. She was so white, and the spindle was white, and the people were black, and the goat kept on running amongst them and bleating."
"And then—and then?"
"Then, Morejne, I did not look any longer, but cowered down in fear, because there was such a noise in the hut—such moans. Then the people went away, and carried her, and carried her grandfather, and the goat ran up the hill bleating, and I do not know where it has gone."
Meir straightened himself, and looked up to the sky with stony eyes.
He knew everything now.
"Where did they carry them?" he asked in a dull whisper.
"There."
The outstretched arm of the child pointed in the direction where, in the gray mist, the meadow was dimly visible—and the pond. Beyond the pond were marshes and bogs, where two lifeless bodies would easily sink. There, beyond the meadows, where in spring she had gathered yellow lilies among the rushes, and unconsciously betrayed her fresh and innocent love—there, hidden from all human eyes, she was lying at the feet of her grandfather, wrapped in the wealth of her black hair.
A threefold cry of Jehovah rang out in the still morning air, and only Lejbele remained before the door, holding in his raised hand the scroll of paper.
Meir had gone into the hut.
What a terrible story was revealed to him! The straw lying about Abel's couch, and amongst it, like drops of blood, Golda's red corals. The broken spindle and the old Bible torn in shreds told their tale. It was a long and cruel tale to which the young man listened, his head pressed against the wall—a tale so long that hours passed over his head, and he still listened with beating heart and trembling limbs.
When he stood again on the threshold, the sun was shining brightly. How terribly changed he looked. The forehead, marked with a red scar, was seamed and corrugated as if long years of suffering bad ploughed the once smooth surface. The half-shut eyes had a dull despairing lustre, and his arms hung down limp and powerless. He stood thus a few minutes, as if listening intently for the sound of the voice he should never hear more, when a weak hand tugged at his clothes, and a small voice said:
"Morejne."
Lejbele stood before him, his mournful eyes raised to his, and stretched out a roll of paper. It seemed as if the sight of the papers reminded Meir of something, roused him from sleep, and told him to do something that was sacred and important. He passed both hands over his forehead, and then took the Senior's legacy from the child's hands, and at the touch of it he raised his head, and his eyes seemed to regain their old power and courage. He looked at the town waking up from sleep, and murmured something in a low voice—something about Israel, its greatness in the past, and its great sins, and that he would never desert it, and not give back curses for curses; that he would carry the covenant of peace to other nations, drink at the source of wisdom, and come back sometime-sometime, he repeated, thinking of the far future; and with a last look embracing the poor little hut, as if in farewell to his short and pure dream of love, he slowly ascended the hill.
The child, standing motionless near the door, looked after the retreating figure of the young man. His wide open eyes became suffused with tears. When Meir was about half-way up the hill, one convulsive sob burst from the child, and he began to run. At first he moved very fast, but finding they were about a dozen steps apart, he slackened his speed, and tucking his hands under his sleeves, walked slowly and gravely after him.
Thus walking, one after the other, the excommunicated youth and the child of the poor man, they disappeared beyond the hill, where they beheld a broad, sandy road leading into the wide, unknown world.
Has the humiliated, excommunicated, and despised youth reached the aim after which he strove so ardently? Has he found in the world people ready to open their hearts and doors, and help him on the road to learning?
Has he, or will he come back, and bring with him forgiveness, and that light, by the power of which the soil on which now grows nought but thorns—will it produce cedars of Lebanon? I do not know.
The story is too recent to have its end yet—for stories like this have no end. But as it is similar to many of the same kind of stories, reader! of whatever race, or country, or religion, if you meet this obscure apostle on your way, give him cordially and quickly your brotherly hand in friendship and help.