The year 1888 is momentous in the history of Judeo-German literature: it gave birth to two annuals, Die jüdische Volksbibliothēk and Der Hausfreund, around which were gathered all the best forces that could be found among the Jewish writers. The first, under the leadership of S. Rabinowitsch, started out with the purpose of clearing away all rubbish from the field of Jewish letters and to prepare it for a new, a better harvest; the second set out to serve the people with the best existing literary productions. The latter was doomed to a certain mediocrity on account of the bounds which it had placed around itself; the first, in exercising a severe criticism on the productions presented for publication, and in purifying the public taste, attracted from the start the best talent obtainable and encouraged young promising men to try themselves in Jargon letters. In the Volksbibliothēk appeared the firstling from the pen of Leon Perez, the poet and novelist, who must be counted among the greatest writers not only of Judeo-German literature, but of literature in general at the end of the nineteenth century. If he had written nothing else but 'The Sewing of the Wedding Gown,' his name would live as long as there could be found people to interpret the language in which he sings. But he has produced several large volumes of admirable works in prose and in verse.
Leon Perez, or Izchok Leibusch Perez, as he proudly prefers to be called, was born in 1855 in Zamoszcz, the city which has been the birthplace of so many famous men in Hebrew and Judeo-German letters, the home of Zederbaum and Ettinger. He obtained his education in a curious way. In his town there had lived a surgeon's assistant who, on becoming rich, had collected a library on all kinds of subjects, numbering nearly three thousand volumes. There came reverses to him, and his books were stored away pell mell in the loft. Perez somehow got hold of the key to that room, and without choice took to reading, until the whole library was swallowed up by his omnivorous appetite. He read everything he could get hold of, and he learned German through a work on physics which he had discovered in the loft. Then he passed on from science to science, all by himself. Then he studied Heine by heart, then Shelley, and then he became a mystic. This history of his education is also the history of his genius. There is reflected in it the subtleness of the Talmud, the wisdom of the ancients, the sparkle of Heine, the transcendency of Shelley, the mysticism of Hauptmann. He has treated masterfully the Talmudical legend, has composed in the style of the Romancero, and has carried allegory to the highest degree of perfection.
Perez is even less of a popular poet than Frug. He has entirely parted company with the people. Although he started with the avowed purpose of aiding his race to a better recognition of itself, yet his talents are of too high an order, where language, feelings, and thoughts soar far above the understanding of the masses. He can hardly be properly appreciated even by those who enjoy the advantages of a fair school education, not to speak of those who are merely lettered. It is only an unfortunate accident, the persecutions of the Jews, that has thrown him into so unpromising a field as that of Judeo-German letters, where to be great is to be unknown to the world at large and to be subjected to the jealous attacks of less gifted writers. He could easily gain a reputation in any other language, should he choose to try for it, but, like many of his predecessors, he is pursued by the merciless allurements of the Jewish Muse. Her enchantment is the more powerful on her devotees since she appears to them only in the garb of their own weaving. They spend so much work in creating the outer form and fashioning a poetic diction that they get fascinated by their creative labor, and stick to their undertaking, even though they have but few hearers for their utterances.
'Monisch' is the name of the ballad with which Perez made his debut ten years ago.[66] It is the old story of Satan's recovery of power over the saint by tempting him with an earthly love. But the setting of the story is all new and original. The fourth chapter, beginning with
Andersch wollt' mein Lied geklungen
'ch soll far Goim goisch singen,
Nischt far Jüden, nischt Žargon
(My song would sound quite differently, were I to sing to Gentiles in their language, not to Jews in Jargon)
is the best of all. He describes there the difficulty of singing of love in a dialect that has no words for 'love' and 'sweetheart'; nevertheless he acquits himself well of his task to tell of Monisch's infatuation, for which, of course, a saint and a Jew can only become Satan's prey. Perez has written a number of stories in verse. Some of them are mosaics of gems, in which the unity of the whole is frequently marred by a mystic cloud which it is hard to penetrate. Such, for example, is his 'He and She,'[67] a story of the Spanish inquisition, and 'Reb Jossel,'[68] the temptation of a teacher of children by his hostess, the wife of a shoemaker. The latter poem is very hard to grasp at one reading, but the details, such as the description of the teacher, his pale and ailing pupil with his endless school superstitions, the jolly shoemaker, are drawn very well. Much more comprehensible are his 'The Driver'[69] and 'Jossel Bers and Jossel Schmaies.'[70] The first is a sad picture of a Jewish town in Poland, in which the inhabitants have lost, one after the other, their means of subsistence after the railroad had connected them with Warsaw. The drivers, the merchants, the artisans who throve at their honest professions before, have become impoverished and are driven to despised occupations, only to keep body and soul together. It is a very sad picture indeed. In the other, the author tells of two boys who had been fellow-students out of the same prayer-book, but who soon separated at the parting of the roads. The one, a faithful believer in all the teacher told him, becomes a Rabbi; the other asks for facts and reasons to fortify the statements of his mentor, and subjects himself to many privations in order to acquire worldly wisdom in the gymnasium and the university. The final picture is placed in Roumania (or Russia, had the censor permitted it), where the student is driven through the streets by a mob, while the Rabbi, unconscious of the outer world, is somewhere thinking hard over the solution of a question of ritual.
The shorter poems are either translations from the Russian poet Nadson, or imitations of Heine. They are well done, though some suffer somewhat by their veiled allegory, at least at a superficial reading. The best of these are those that deal with social questions, or describe the laborer's sufferings. Preëminent among them is 'The Sewing of the Wedding Gown.'[71] If Thomas Hood's 'Song of the Shirt' is to be compared to a fine instrument, then this poem is a whole orchestra, from the sounds of which the walls of Jericho would fall. Instead of a criticism, a short review of the story will be given here. The scene is at a dressmaker's; the cast: the modiste, two dressmakers, and sewing-girls. The modiste tells of the care with which the wedding gown has to be sewed. The choir of sewing-girls sing the song of the prison. The first dressmaker speaks of the beauty of the gown, and compares the bride to an angel from heaven, whereupon the choir sings of the misery at home, of asking the 'angel' to advance a rouble on the work, of the 'angel's' cruel refusal, of the pawning of her silks for a loaf of bread, and of the girl's arrest by the 'angel.' "And the angel has taken care of me during the great frosts, and for three months has provided me with board and lodging." The second dressmaker compares the rustle of the silk to the noise made by her tired bones, speaks of the diamond buttons that will be sewed on the gown "as large as tears of the poor," and bids the wheel of the machine to drown the noise of her breaking bones. The choir sings the song of the grave, where no sewing is done, where all go down in a shroud forever. The second dressmaker continues the song, whereupon a girl, named 'Fond-of-Life,' protests, telling of her good health, of her desire to pass her youth in pleasure. The choir chides her with the Ragpicker's song, in which 'Fond-of-Life's' future is portrayed, and the conclusion to the song is given by the first dressmaker. The first dressmaker contrasts the luxury of the bride's bed with her straw bed on the floor, the bride's splendor of light in her parlor with the two candles at her head when she is dead. The modiste, oppressed by the sad songs that portray their own unhappiness, bids them sing of other people's happiness. To this the choir responds by singing the happiness of the bride, but the modiste sees in this only the girls' jealousy, whereupon the choir tells of the obedient daughter who is advised by her mother to scorn sweetness, getting the promise of a gilded nut if she behaves properly. When the nut is brought and cracked it is found to be wormy and bitter. Of course, that is a picture of a match made by the parents for their daughter. The modiste answers that happiness does not always dwell in high places; and the first dressmaker tells the story of labor, which is quite unique: There lived two brothers happily together. A stranger, who is no other than the Biblical serpent, visits them; he is clad in diamonds and costly stones, and dazzles the older brother with his splendor. He, too, would like to be rich. He follows the stranger out into the woods, and seats himself at his side to inquire of the manner of acquiring such wealth. "What a fool you are to allow your opportunities to slip by," says the serpent. "You do not know that the sweat of your brother is nothing but diamonds, the tears are brilliants, his blood pearls." The elder brother returns home, beats his younger brother to elicit blood and sweat and tears. His wealth grows, but not his happiness, for he suffers as much from fear of his hoarded riches as his brother sighs under tears. They finally fall to blows,—but here the poet purposely breaks his story, for he will not undertake to tell the end of their hostility. The choir sings the ten o'clock song, when all must go to rest: "You are rested, and at times you dream of—a loaf of bread! The clock strikes ten, the work is done,—good night, madame!" The modiste answers: "Be back early in the morning!"
This is the bare skeleton of the poem, of whose painful beauties nothing but a perusal in the original can give an adequate idea. There is the making of a great poet in one who can sing like that; but Perez has chosen, like Rabinowitsch, to devote his best energies to prose, and to this part of his activity we shall return later. Of the minor poems of this period there might be mentioned those by David Frischmann, Rosa Goldstein, M. W. Satulowski, M. M. Penkowski, W. Kaiser, Paltiel Samostschin. Frischmann has produced but a few poems, but they are all of excellent quality. His best is a ballad, 'Ophir,'[72] but he has also written some clever satires in verse. Samostschin,[73] who had begun composing in the sixties, has translated several poems, especially from the Hebrew of J. L. Gordon, and has written some clever feuilletons in rhymes. Minchas Perel has published a small collection of poems on the Fall of Jerusalem, of which the first, 'The Night of the Destruction of Jerusalem,' is a very spirited and dramatic story of the event. Another good book of poems is 'The Harp,' by G. O. Hornstein. Although some of them are in the style of the coupletists, others betray original talent that might be well developed. The best of these is the ballad, 'The Cat and the Mouse,' an allegory of Jewish persecutions, in which the Jew is represented as a mouse living on the fat of the oil candelabrum in the Temple at Jerusalem, and the Romans and other nations are represented as cats who drive the mouse out of her abiding place.
The riots of the early part of the eighties affected the whole mental attitude of the Jews of Russia by rousing them to a greater consciousness of themselves and by rallying them around distinctly Jewish standards. For hundreds of thousands life had become impossible at home, and they emigrated to various countries, but mostly to America, where, under the influence of entirely new conditions, Judeo-German literature, and with it poetry, developed in new channels.