From the Heart of Israel: Jewish Tales and Types

by Bernard Drachman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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