Here the boy received his first impressions, and here he enjoyed his first instruction in a school distinguishable from a genuine Cheder only inasmuch as it began in a measure to accommodate itself to the modest demands made by the government upon a Jewish primary school. He was taught reading, writing, ciphering, and the translation of the Bible. Great love of study and marked talent became apparent in him; he was therefore introduced to a knowledge of Hebrew and the Talmud. When he was confirmed at thirteen, the age at which the boys of that period were in the habit of deciding definitely on their careers, his parents did not for a moment question the propriety of continuing their son’s intellectual training. It would have been most natural to send him to Posen, where a popular Talmud school was flourishing under the direction of the highly esteemed Chief Rabbi Akiba Eger. But his parents’ means were too slender to suffice for his maintenance, and shyness and pride prevented young Graetz from making his way after the fashion of beggar students. There was but one course, to send him to Wollstein, where his mother had sisters and other relatives. Though by no means possessed of great wealth, they were willing to give him assistance. The Wollstein sojourn proved eminently favorable to his development. The town, situated in the western part of the Province, was not destitute of natural charms, to which the boy’s impressionable mind eagerly responded. The population, chiefly German, numbered 2258 persons, among them 841 Jews,[3] by no means an inconsiderable congregation. Besides, it was in fairly comfortable circumstances. It had always taken pride in maintaining a Talmud school, which, at the time of Graetz’s advent, was distinguished for the liberal, enlightened spirit pervading it and the active encouragement accorded its students in their desire for culture. Rumor had it that the rabbi, Samuel Samwel Munk, who had been called from Bojanowo to Wollstein at the beginning of the century, knew how to read and write German, and was in the habit of reading German books and even journals in the hours that are “neither day nor night.” At all events, he did not put obstacles in their way, when his disciples, spurring each other on in the impetuous rivalry of youth for pre-eminence, sought to slake their thirst for secular knowledge.
Graetz arrived in Wollstein at the end of the summer of 1831, fourteen years old. At that youthful age, the Bachur had ventured to undertake, in a Hebrew far from perfect, it must be confessed, a work on the calendar entitled, “חשבון העתים {Hebrew: Cheshbon Ha’itim}, Jewish and German Chronology.”[4] He was a zealous attendant upon the rabbi’s Talmudic lectures, and derived great profit from them. His teacher conceived a lively and kind interest in him, as well as a high opinion of his ability, though he did not suspect his future eminence. Rabbinic studies did not occupy his mind to the exclusion of other pursuits. Inextinguishable thirst for knowledge had taken possession of him, and all books that fell in his way were read with avidity. Most of the available literature consisted of romances of chivalry, of the kind in vogue at that time. Among them “Raspo of Felseneck,” now completely forgotten, made a particularly deep impression upon him. Reproved by one of his patrons, and provided with more suitable books by him, he read with keen enjoyment Campe’s narrative and moral writings. At the same time historical books began to attract him strongly. Though he had to confess to himself, somewhat crestfallen, that he did not understand the greater part of what he read in them, he studied Bredow’s short compendium of universal history, Becker’s large work on the same subject, and a biography of Napoleon. He soon realized the necessity of acquiring Latin and French. Without teacher, without guidance, without counsel other than that afforded by like-minded companions, he devoted himself to Meidinger’s French grammar and later to Bröder’s Latin grammar, until he had gotten all between their covers by heart. He was overjoyed when he could begin to read the classic writers of foreign countries in their own languages. In his zeal, he permitted himself to be governed by chance. Whatever fortune played into his hands, he grasped at with instantaneous ardor, and pursued with sporadic industry. He picks up a translation of Euclid, for instance. At once he devotes himself to it heart and soul, difficult though he finds it to gain a clear notion of geometric concepts and methods. An itinerant rabbi from Poland, offering his own commentary upon the Book of Job for sale, comes to Wollstein, and meets with appreciation and respect. Reason enough for the enthusiastic and ambitious Talmud disciple to take interest in nothing but Bible exegesis and Hebrew grammar for months thereafter. Keen, discriminating love of nature, to whose attractions he remained susceptible until his last days, develops in him. He spares no effort to acquaint himself with the flora of his native province and with the mysteries of the starry heavens. Success was a foregone conclusion with one whose equipment consisted of miraculously quick comprehension, a retentive memory, and industry oblivious of all but its object; coupled with an iron constitution and indestructible working powers, not in the least impaired by lack of food and sleep.
Despite his modest demands, he constantly had to battle against want and distress. His nature was proud, self-reliant, and, it must be admitted, unpractical. An exaggerated sense of honor forbade his seeking help even when a petition would have been justified. He preferred to conceal his troubles. For example, he ate dry bread on many a Sabbath, a day on which it was considered a privilege to entertain Talmud disciples. Regardless of wind and weather, he would slip off into the country, a book in his pocket, in order not to reveal his helpless condition. Finally, in spite of his secretiveness, some friend or other discovered his plight, and found ways and means of relieving his distress. Of sanguine temperament, he sought and found consolation in books. Graetz managed to read and study an amazing quantity in the four years and a half of his Wollstein sojourn. His most determined efforts were applied to the acquisition of the French language and literature, his favorite studies, at that time ranking high in the scale of accomplishments. The more important works of Fénelon, Voltaire, Rousseau, and others, and the dramas of Racine and Victor Hugo he knew thoroughly. He had read Lessing, Mendelssohn, Schiller, and other classic writers of Germany, and was attracted particularly to Wieland, to whose works he devoted earnest attention. It is curious that the diary which he then kept does not contain a single reference to Goethe, as if by chance or for some reason he had remained in ignorance of the great poet’s works. On the other hand, he became acquainted towards the end of the Wollstein period with the writings of Börne, Heine, and Saphir, which vivified the proneness to irony and satire dormant in him. The Latin authors gave him most trouble. Yet he mastered Cornelius Nepos, Curtius, and several books of Ovid’s Metamorphoses and of Virgil’s Æneid. That he accomplished extensive reading of rabbinic literature at the same time, and did not neglect his Talmudic studies, is attested by the distinction with which Rabbi Munk honored Graetz, much to his surprise. At New Year 5595 (October, 1834), he was invested with the title Chaber, a degree conferred only upon most worthy and most rarely endowed Talmud disciples of his youthful age.
But now fermentation set in, and white flakes began to rise to the surface of the young wine. Wholly self-taught, he had devoted himself to reading without plan or method, following blind chance or humoring his whims. In this way he had laid up a store of knowledge, promiscuous as well as rich. A chaotic mixture of irreconcilable, disparate ideas and opinions surged through his head, and excited tumultuous commotion in his world of thought and feeling. In November, 1835, the following entry was written in his diary:
“By the various contradictory ideas that perplexed my brain--heathen, Jewish, and Christian, Epicurean, Kabbalistic, Maimonidian, and Platonic--my faith was made so insecure that, when a notion concerning God, eternity, time, or the like, assailed me, I wished myself into the abyss of the nether world.”
Although his humor and his opinions were somewhat unsettled, he by no means had drifted from his moorings. The existence of God and the immortality of the soul were the fixed poles of his emotional world to which he clung. Another entry a little further on in his diary says:
“Like furies such thoughts tugged at my heart-strings, when, as often happened, they arose, suggested by my poverty as well as by certain classes of books. Only the clear, star-studded sky, upon which my eyes were wont to rest with delight on Saturday evenings after sundown, renewed the blessed comforting consciousness in me: Yes, there is a God beyond the starry canopy!”
On the other hand, he began to chafe against the daily religious practices of Judaism, which he had always observed with scrupulous conscientiousness, as he had been taught to do. Even then he did not neglect them, but he was offended by the multiplicity of ceremonies and still more by the petty, poor-spirited, unæsthetic manner in which the people among whom he lived observed them. They no longer were religious observances; they were habits. Attributing the responsibility for these conditions to the Talmud, he bore it ill-will. His repugnance grew whenever he contrasted its style and method with those of the great works of literature with which he had recently become conversant. Comparisons of this kind did not serve to enhance the credit of the rabbinic collection with him. There was another cause for irritation. Up to that time he had lived, or rather studied, heedless of practical concerns. Now his parents and relatives were probably beginning to urge upon him the necessity of considering the choice of a vocation or of turning to professional studies. So just a demand he could not disregard, especially in the sensitive state of mind in which he then found himself. Often he brooded over the question, “What next?” and elaborated the most bizarre plans only to reject them. A seemingly slight incident occurred which quelled the commotion in his breast. His craft, helplessly driving among perilous crags, was guided into smooth waters by a little book appearing just then under the title, “אגרת צפון {Hebrew: Igeret Tzafon}, Nineteen Letters on Judaism, published by Ben Usiel.”[5]
The partisans of the reform movement, who proposed to remodel or set aside religious customs and traditional observances of historical Judaism as incompatible with modern life, had up to that time maintained the upper hand in the literary discussion of religious affairs. They were exerting constantly increasing attraction upon the younger generation, and were growing bolder and more impetuous in their propaganda for the obliteration, as far as possible, of religious peculiarities. Bent upon the preservation of old faith and custom unimpaired, their opponents had at first refused to make any concession whatsoever to the modern demands, and had even failed to provide themselves with new weapons of defense. When the movement assumed threatening dimensions, the conservatives faced it unprepared and impotent. Bewildered strangers in the great world, habituated to the social forms of the Ghetto, enmeshed in the web of Talmudic ideas, they were wholly unable to put up an efficient leader or regenerator. Suddenly that which had long been painfully lacking seemed to incorporate itself in a young theologian. In the above-mentioned anonymous work, “Nineteen Letters,” Samson Raphael Hirsch, rabbi at Oldenburg, championed the undiminished value of all religious usages with skill, eloquence, and intrepidity. His manner held out the hope that he would breathe a new spirit into the old forms. The boldness of the work in frankly presenting this point of view with all the consequences springing therefrom produced the effect of a sensational occurrence upon the Jewish public. Into the mind of Graetz, casting about for an anchor for his disturbed feelings, it fell like a flash of lightning, revealing the path to be followed in the search for his ideals. He reports:
“Often I spoke of it [religious doubt] to B. B., the only one to whom I could tell my thoughts on such subjects. Then he would allege the urgent necessity for reforms in view of the gradual decay of religion. But I realized, that reform, that is, the omission of a number of laws organically interwoven with the rest, would abrogate the whole Law. How delighted I therefore was with a new book, ‘אגרת צפון {Hebrew: Igeret Tzafon}, Nineteen Letters on Judaism, anonymous,’ in which a view of Judaism I had never before heard or suspected was defended with convincing arguments. Judaism was represented as the best religion and as indispensable to the salvation of mankind. With avidity I devoured every word. Disloyal though I had been to the Talmud, this book reconciled me with it. I returned to it as to a mistress deemed faithless and proved true, and determined to use my utmost effort to pierce to its depths, acquire a philosophical knowledge thereof, and, as many would have me believe that I might become a so-called ‘rabbi-doctor of theology’ (studirter Rabbiner), publicly demonstrate its truth and utility. I set about my task at once, beginning with the first folio ברכות {Hebrew: Berachot} and the first Book of Moses. I dwelt upon every point with pleasure, treating them not as remnants of antiquity, but as books containing divine help for mankind. My endeavor was materially advanced by the knowledge I had acquired here, among other things of theology, which only now I learned to esteem as a branch of science; of geometry--I had studied nearly the whole of the first three books of Euclid; and of history.”