Gabriel Part 1

Gabriel.

by Salomon Kohn.

I.

It was the morning of a wintry autumnal day in the year 1620, when a young man stepped slowly and thoughtfully through the so-called Pinchas-Synagogue Gate into the Jews' quarter in the city of Prague. A strange scene presented itself. The morning service was just over in the synagogues, and whilst numerous crowds were still streaming out of the houses of prayer, others, mostly women with heavy bunches of keys in their hands, were already hurrying to the rag-market situated outside of the Ghetto. The shops too and stalls within the Ghetto were now opened, and even in the open street an activity never seen in the other quarters of the city displayed itself. Here, for instance, dealers--in truth of the lowest cla.s.s--were offering their wares consisting of pastry, wheat-bread, fruits, cheese, cabbage, boiled peas and more of such kind of stuff to the pa.s.sers-by. Here and there too in spite of the early hour emerged some peripatetic cooks, in peaceful compet.i.tion extolling loudly the products of their kitchen, bits of liver, eggs, meat and puddings, and whilst in one hand they held a tin plate, in the other a two-p.r.o.nged fork,--a very unnecessary article for most of their guests,--devoted their attention chiefly to the foreign students of the Talmud. To them also the greatest attention was paid by those cobblers who less wealthy than their colleagues in the so-called Golden St. offered their services to the students in open street, and most a.s.siduously, while the owners were obliged to wait in the street or a neighbouring house, mended their shoes at a very moderate price, but, it must also be allowed, in a very inefficient manner.

The young man who had just stepped into the Jew's quarter, gazed earnestly and observantly at this busy stir, and did not seem to notice, that he himself had become an object of common attention. His appearance was however fully calculated to excite observation. His form was powerful and commanding; his dress that of a Talmud-student, cloak and cap. Out of his pale face shadowed by a dark beard, under heavy arching eyebrows there shone two black eyes of uncommon brilliance; raven locks fell in waves from his head; the fingers of a white sinewy hand, that held close the silken cloak, were covered with golden rings; his thick ruff was of spotless purity and smoothness. Had not the stranger by the elegance of his appearance, perhaps also by his gigantic make, struck a little awe into the curious dealers in the street, of a surety at his first appearance, a whole heap of questions would have been addressed to him. "Who or what he wanted? What could they do for him?" and such like.... Under the circ.u.mstances, however, it was Abraham, a cobbler, who sat on a bench by the Pinchas-Synagogue that after some consideration mustered up courage and as he laid down a shoe that had been committed to his artistic skill, began to ask: "dear student! whom are you seeking? Certainly not me, that I can see from your beautifully made shoes with their glittering silver buckles; _they_ were not made at Prague."--This was put in more for the benefit of those about him and himself than the stranger.--"You are surely a stranger here? pardon me, you are perhaps a German, a Moravian or a Viennese? do you wish to go to a lecture upon the Talmud, or perchance to the Rabbi, or to Reb Lippman h.e.l.ler? Who do you want to go to? I will gladly shew you the way to the Talmud-lecturers--or, perhaps, you are looking out for a lodging? I can very likely procure you a convenient one." "I _am_ a stranger here," replied the student, "and must, indeed, first of all look about me for a lodging. If you happen to know of an apartment where I could pursue my studies undisturbed I shall thankfully avail myself of your offer: but the apartment must be large, light and cheerful."

"Then I only know of one in the whole town, at my superior attendant Reb Schlome's, I mean the superior attendant of my synagogue, the Old-Synagogue, he lives close to the synagogue; there is a beautiful room there--and besides, Reb Schlome is very learned in the Talmud, and has got a beautiful library,--in a word that or none is the lodging for you."

While this short conversation was going on, the cobbler's neighbours had as it were accidentally got nearer, so as to overhear a few words; and the group that for some minutes had been hazarding the most ingenious opinions and conjectures about the stranger, formed, perhaps without noticing it, a complete circle round the two talkers. This was now suddenly broken through, and a shabbily dressed old man thrust himself up impetuously against the stranger.

"Peace be with you," he cried, "you are then just arrived, be so good as to come with me, I have a question to put to you, it will do you no harm, and me good, come with me."

The stranger gazed in astonishment at the singular figure. "What do you want of me? How can I, a stranger, whom you have surely never seen, give you any tidings? perhaps, however, you do know me?"

"Sir," whispered Cobbler Abraham, standing on tiptoe so as to reach up to the stranger's ear, "Jacob is out of his mind; ten years ago, when he came to live at Prague, he used to put the strangest questions to everybody that came in his way; when the small boys came out of the school, he used to examine them in the Bible, and however correctly they answered, would ever become furious and cry: False!

False!--grown-up people too he used to catechise, fathers, students, in short every one; but as he has now put his questions to almost everybody in the whole community, he has kept quite quiet for a long while. He is only unsociable, refuses to give any information about himself, and never answers a question; but he is a good harmless fellow, and as the students say, must be a very great Talmudist--I wonder that he begins again."--

"Don't be led astray by what that man there is whispering to you,"

cried the old man in anguish; "only come with me, I pray you most instantly to do so--you, only you can give me peace; I will believe your answers, all the rest lie to me, a poor old man! Come home with me, believe me, you will do a real good deed."

The stranger cast a penetrating searching glance at the old man, as though he would sound the whole depths of this troubled human soul.

Contrary to all expectation he replied after short reflection: "only unloose my cloak; hold me not so nervously, I will verily go with you.

But to you," he turned to the cobbler, "I will soon come back, and will then beg you to conduct me to the man who has the room to let. Accept this in the meanwhile for your friendly sympathy"--as he spoke he drew out of his doublet an embroidered purse full of gold and silver pieces, and laid a large silver coin on the cobbler's bench. "That is too much," said Abraham highly surprised and pleased, "G.o.d strengthen you, your Honour, Reb--I don't know what's your name!"--

Without answering these further questions, the stranger stepped by the side of the old man out of the circle, which now once more began loudly and without circ.u.mlocution to utter its conjectures.

"I know what he is:--he is a fool," suggested a dealer in liver as she arranged her stores on a board--"and what's more a big fool! gives Abraham a piece of silver, what for? goes home with the madman, why?"

"My dear Mindel," urged another huckster, "it seems to me you are very envious of Abraham; that's why the handsome stranger student is a fool.

If you'd got the money, he would have been wise!"--

Most of the hucksters, and hucksteresses, seemed fully to concur in the opinion of the fish-monger--such was the speaker--for Mother Mindel was in truth what one would in these days in popular parlance call a dog in the manger. But Mother Mindel was not the sort of person in a war of words to leave the lists in a hurry, and own herself vanquished. She answered therefore sharply: "Say you so, Hirsch, what did you get from him. Come now, tell the truth." These last words spoken in a somewhat high key, can only be understood when it is explained, that Hirsch, the fish-monger, was too often addicted to the bad habit, when he told a story, of pa.s.sing off in fullest measure the exaggerations and embellishments of his copious imagination; of treating, on the other hand, an actual fact in a very step-motherish fas.h.i.+on, a circ.u.mstance that compelled even his best friends to admit that he was a little given to exaggeration; while impartial persons were fond of applying to him the well-deserved predicate of 'liar.'

"If I'm to tell the truth," continued Hirsch, apparently not observing that which was injurious in his neighbour's manner of expressing herself, "If I'm to tell the truth I'm not so envious as some people, who seem to have been created so by the dear G.o.d, probably as a punishment; I should, however, have been more pleased if Pradel, the pastry-cook, had got the money, she has five children, her husband, the ba.s.s-singer in the Old-Synagogue, is away, lying ill at home for the last four months--_she_ would have made a better use of the money--but if it had rained gold the good woman would not have been at the place, and if she had, what would have been the use? would _she_ have had the impudence at once coolly to accost a stranger with gold rings on his fingers like a prince as if he was a n.o.body? Why did we all hold our tongues? I was only curious to see how far Cobbler Abrabam would go. A very little more and he'd have asked him the name of his great-grandfathers, how long it was since his thirteenth birthday, and what chapter out of the prophets had at that time been read on the Sabbath."--

These words seemed to show that the brave Hirsch in addition to his unpleasant habit of exaggeration could not be altogether absolved from the failing of his neighbour Mindel.--In the bosom of Cobbler Abraham who had listened to all these gibes in silence some significant idea seemed striving for utterance. He moved uneasily on his stool and rubbed his hands with a singular smile.

"Good people!" he cried at length, "I'll show you that none of you yet know Cobbler Abraham, although for now more than twenty years he has enjoyed the great honour in your society of mending shoes for the scholars at the high school of Prague, and for more than twenty years has had the privilege of listening to your lies, Hirsch, and to your tattle, Mindel. None of you yet know Cobbler Abraham. The money I shall consider as if it was not mine. It belongs to Pradel the pastry-cook, or rather to her sick husband Simche, he's my ba.s.s, that is, ba.s.s of my synagogue, has never in his life got a new year's or other present from me. I'm a bachelor, he's a married man with five children: I'm, thank G.o.d, in good health, he's ill. I for once will be a prince, he shall have the money from me, at once, to-day, as a dedicatory gift, and as to your insinuation Hirsch, that none of you had the impudence to accost the stranger, perhaps, you would be more justified in saying that none of you had had the sense to do it; and now, seeing that I'll have none of the money, leave me alone, let me get on with my work, and sell your sweet fish and roast liver." So saying he caught briskly up the shoes that were before him, and began industriously to cobble.

"Ah, there's some sense in that, I knew you had a good heart;" even Mother Mindel was obliged to join in the loud applause of the neighbours, whereupon she tried to secure an honourable retreat out of the wordy skirmish by kindling with the whole strength of her lungs into a bright glow the fading flame of her charcoal pan; whilst, Hirsch, after he too had in an embarra.s.sed way recognised Abraham's n.o.ble feeling, availed himself of that very moment as the most favourable to recommend his fish to the pa.s.sers-by, as especially excellent.--But the three neighbours were of a very placable disposition, and in spite of the fact that they had for the last ten years followed the laudable custom, of jeering as opportunity offered, yet in time of need and wretchedness they had mutually stood by one another, and so it came to pa.s.s, that half an hour after, they had forgotten the little dispute, but not its cause; and the three neighbours were laying their heads together to ventilate anew their, doubtless very interesting surmises about the stranger.

He meanwhile was walking in silence by the side of his strange companion, and though he looked about inquisitively, still found time to observe Jacob more closely. It was difficult to fix the old man's age. His pale countenance was sorrow-stricken, and furrowed by care. It might once have been beautiful but was transformed into something different, strange, scarce akin to a human face by a grizzly white untended beard, that entangled with the disordered hair, which fell in waves from his head, formed with it a shapeless ma.s.s; but especially by the weird glittering of his eyes that protruded far out of their sockets. His thin form crushed by the weight of misery, seemed once to have been gigantic, and the scantiness of his clothing completed the singular impression caused by his appearance. At the Hahn-alley the old man stopped before a small house, and begged the stranger to follow him across the court to his little room. It was poorly furnished, and situated on the ground floor, ab.u.t.ting the burial-ground, so that one could without difficulty pa.s.s through the low window into the burial-ground. Besides an arm-chair there was only one stool in the room. The old man pushed both up silently to the table, and signed to the stranger to take a seat.

"What do you wish?" the stranger now asked. The old man looked cautiously about to see if anyone was listening, closed the door, then the window-shutters and lit a lamp. "See," he now began, "see, as I looked at you, it affected me so differently, impressed me so far otherwise than when I look at any other strange student. I know you are not so wicked as the others are, all, all of them, that despise, ill use, unsparingly laugh to scorn a poor old man; they know no pity, have no mercy, are not aware what it is to suffer as I suffer. They bring me to naught, they have all sworn together against me, and whom ever I question, he answers falsely, falsely, falsely!"--

The old man spoke with frightful excitement, all the blood that flowed through his withered body seemed to have gathered itself into his cheeks flushed with a hectic red, the veins of his forehead swelled to an unnatural size. "Tell me, tell me, tell me truly," he whispered, suddenly becoming again quite humble. "Do you know the ten commandments? but I conjure you by the G.o.d of Israel, that made heaven and earth, by the head of your father, by your mother's salvation, by your portion in the world to come, answer truly, without deceit."

"My good old man," said the stranger quietly, "I will do all that you desire, I will repeat to you the ten commandments, all the six hundred and thirteen laws, provided always, I can still recollect them, I will be entirely at your service, for I see, that you are a poor worn-out man--you live pretty well alone here in this narrow room, you receive no visits?" asked the student after a short pause.

"Since I have found out that no one will come home with me, to read me the ten commandments out of my small Bible, I let no one in. Many too are afraid--no one comes to me, no one, you are the first that for many years has set foot in my hovel.--But now be so good, let me hear the ten commandments, quickly, I implore you!"

The young man pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead, as though he would call back to memory something long forgotten, and then began in a loud powerful voice to utter by heart those ten sayings of the Lord, that were revealed on Sinai. The old man sat resting his head which he bent forward upon both hands--as though greedily to suck up every word that fell from his lips--and gazed into the face of the stranger. All the blood seemed to flow back slowly to his heart, his face became deadly pale, his eyes seemed bursting from their wide opened lids, and the longer the stranger spoke, the deeper blue became his thin spasmodically quivering lips. Had not the beating of the tortured old man's heart been audible, one must have believed that life was extinct in that frail body. The stranger went quietly on, but as he uttered the seventh commandment '_Thou shalt not commit adultery_' a fearfully horrible cry, a cry that made the very bones creep, escaped from the breast of the poor tormented creature, a cry shrill as that which, a bird of prey sore wounded by an arrow, launches through the air in its death struggles, a cry, such as naught but the deepest most unspeakable grief of the soul can tear from a man's breast. The stranger stopped, the old man sank in a heap, covering his face with both hands. There was a moment of deepest silence, at length the old man broke forth into loud sobbing.--

"You too! I had hope of you. Oh, how I would have loved you, how I would have honoured you, how I would have wors.h.i.+pped you, if you had read differently to the others, but no, no, no! _he_ read. Thou shalt not commit adultery. "_Thou shalt not commit adultery_.' Lord of the World, have I suffered too little, repented too little, done insufficient penitence? And yet Thou still lettest it stand in Thy holy scripture? Must I for ever be tormented in this world and the next? But Thou art righteous, and I a sinner--I have sinned, I have gone astray, I have"--then beating his breast he muttered the whole confession of sins.

"I grieve to have been the cause of pain to you, but see"--the student at these words opened a Bible that was lying on the table at the pa.s.sage in point--"see, it is as I have read it." The characters were quite effaced by the marks of tears, and it was clear that this especial page had been read and reread countless times.

"Yes, yes, so is it written," cried the old man in a tone of the profoundest dejection and despair. "You were right, _my brother_ was right, all were right, the students, the little boys from school, all, all read it so--all are right, except me, except me,--I am guilty!"--and again he began, striking both his clenched hands upon his breast, to utter the confession.

The student had risen from his seat, and paced the chamber up and down.

The old man's illimitable grief seemed to awaken a slight feeling of sympathy in him. "Every one is not like thee, a giant in spirit and thought," said he softly to himself, "every one cannot like thee strip off his faith like a raiment that has become useless, and rouse a new life from the inner fire of the soul." The man was not always mad, a milder light must once have shone out of those weird dark eyes--_but he sank through his own guilt!_ One bold flight of his free spirit had saved him from everlasting night, but he would not! Was he constrained to give credence to a dead word out of the Bible? Did he stand upon flaming Sinai, when the words were thundered down upon humanity? Could not he free himself from the blind faith of his fathers? Must that appear to him true and holy, that appeared true and holy to his father and forefathers? His fathers ecstatically smiling could mount the smoking pyres, and while flames consumed their body, sing psalms and hymns of praise, _they_ could do all this for they looked for the bliss of Paradise in a world they hoped to come: and what is the bitterest, saddest moment of torment compared with an eternity that never ends!

His fathers could breath out their lives with a smile under the axe of the persecutor; with faith they had life's highest gift, Hope. But this fool? He has sinned, good!--tear then from thy lacerated and bleeding heart the foolish faith, that torments thee, what good does it do thee, thou poor lost one, in this world or the next?--Yet there is a mighty too constraining power in Faith!----"How if _I_ tried yet to believe?--the sweet fable can heal wounds too!--but I, I cannot, I cannot--they have cast me forth, they have compelled me to it, the Bible, men--all, all--I, indeed, _I_ could not otherwise."

Then he stopped again suddenly before the old man, who without paying further attention to his guest, had lapsed into a gloomy brooding.

"Of course, you are a Talmudist?" asked the student aloud, "you are!

Now then, know you not the sentence of the pious king Chiskia? Though a sharp sword lyeth at the neck of man, yet may he not despair of G.o.d's infinite mercy! Do not forget: in the same chapter in which it is written 'Thou shalt not commit adultery' it is also written: 'The Lord, the Lord G.o.d, merciful and gracious, long suffering and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin!'"--

"But he visits the iniquity of the fathers upon the children and upon the children's children unto the third and to the fourth generation!"

said Jacob in continuation. "Do not despair! If the gates of prayer have been closed since the destruction of the sanctuary in Jerusalem, the gates of repentance have not been closed. Do not despair, poor Jacob, consider what the Bible says: 'For man's heart is wicked even from his youth up.' Consider the saying: 'As I live, saith the Lord G.o.d, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way and live'; consider that well and do not despair!"--

The student broke off suddenly, as if astonished at the compa.s.sion that had been stirred up in him, it seemed to have surprised himself. But Jacob in the excess of his emotion clapsed the strangers' hand convulsively and pressed it to his lips.

"Ah, what good you do me," he cried; "how you drop balm into my irremediable wounds! For years no one has spoken to me thus; G.o.d bless you for it!" "You see, Jacob," said the student preparing to depart, "I have obeyed your request and have done you such service as I could.--It is now my turn to ask a favour of you.--No one comes to see you, you are often alone, suffer me occasionally to visit you and study the Talmud here. Perhaps I may be able to banish the evil spirit that at times seizes you."

"Oh, a wicked, wicked spirit, you are right.--Yes, you with your beautiful eyes you do me good.--Ah, once I too was as you are, tall, handsome, strong. When I gaze on you, I call to remembrance my own happy youth, my brother's! Yes, come to me often, often."

"That I will, and now farewell."

"G.o.d bless you."

The student stepped out of the house; then stood lost in thought. "I shall consider the chance a fortunate one," he softly said, "that led to my encounter with this madman; he may be useful to me, may put me upon the right track in my sublime chace. But it is inexplicable to me!

I thought that I had quenched all compa.s.sion, all pity in my soul, and lo! this old man wakens feelings in me, that I would have banished for ever from my soul. Every one rejects him, and I, I who bear so bitter, so deadly a hatred against all those that hang on Bible texts, I let him immediately, before I saw my advantage therefrom, gain his end and placed myself at his disposal. Alas, in spite of the maddest hatred, the most raging fury, there is still too much of the good old Jew left in me. I must become very different."

II.

Reb Schlome Sachs, superior attendant in the old synagogue, had on Friday evening just returned home from this synagogue. In his house and in his heart there ruled a Sabbath-peace. There is something very pleasurable in a small room on such a winter Friday evening! A large black stove radiated a pleasant warmth, whilst in the middle of the room a pendant lamp of eight branches, spread abroad a subdued, ruddy, but yet friendly light. On the oblong table lay a clean white cloth, under it again might be seen yet another particoloured covering, from the corners of which ta.s.sels were hanging and served as a cheerful pastime for a lively cat. But the loveliest ornament of the room was without a doubt the housewife Schondel, a blooming graceful woman of about thirty. As she, in her elegant Sabbath-attire, the rich cl.u.s.ters of her dark hair becomingly covered by a richly worked cap, in her pretty, close fitting neatly made gown, fastened high up on the neck, stepped to meet her husband, and took off his cloak and cap, as they both of them joyously wished one another a happy Sabbath, as in their features a pure and childlike joyfulness of soul, a deep and blessed peace of mind mirrored itself--then surely would neither of them have exchanged their lot for that of kings or princes.

The master sang the Psalm of the day, and as he ended, enquired, "was Reb Gabriel not yet come home."