The Rav And The Rav's Son

: MEYER BLINKIN

The Sabbath midday meal is over, and the Saken Rav passes his hands

across his serene and pious countenance, pulls out both earlocks,

straightens his skull-cap, and prepares to expound a passage of the

Torah as God shall enlighten him. There sit with him at table, to one

side of him, a passing guest, a Libavitch Chossid, like the Rav himself,

a man with yellow beard and earlocks, and a grubby shirt collar

appearing abo
e the grubby yellow kerchief that envelopes his throat; to

the other side of him, his son Sholem, an eighteen-year-old youth, with

a long pale face, deep, rather dreamy eyes, a velvet hat, but no

earlocks, a secret Maskil, who writes Hebrew verses, and contemplates

growing into a great Jewish author. The Rebbetzin has been suffering two

or three months with rheumatism, and lies in another room.



The Rav is naturally humble-minded, and it is no trifle to him to

expound the Torah. To take a passage of the Bible and say, The meaning

is this and that, is a thing he hasn't the cheek to do. It makes him

feel as uncomfortable as if he were telling lies. Up to twenty-five

years of age he was a Misnaggid, but under the influence of the Saken

Rebbetzin, he became a Chossid, bit by bit. Now he is over fifty, he

drives to the Rebbe, and comes home every time with increased faith in

the latter's supernatural powers, and, moreover, with a strong desire to

expound a little of the Torah himself; only, whenever a good idea comes

into his head, it oppresses him, because he has not sufficient

self-confidence to express it.



The difficulty for him lies in making a start. He would like to do as

the Rebbe does (long life to him!)--give a push to his chair, a look,

stern and somewhat angry, at those sitting at table, then a groaning

sigh. But the Rav is ashamed to imitate him, or is partly afraid, lest

people should catch him doing it. He drops his eyes, holds one hand to

his forehead, while the other plays with the knife on the table, and one

hardly hears:



"When thou goest forth to war with thine enemy--thine enemy--that is,

the inclination to evil, oi, oi,--a--" he nods his head, gathers a

little confidence, continues his explanation of the passage, and

gradually warms to the part. He already looks the stranger boldly in the

face. The stranger twists himself into a correct attitude, nods assent,

but cannot for the life of him tear his gaze from the brandy-bottle on

the table, and cannot wonder sufficiently at so much being allowed to

remain in it at the end of a meal. And when the Rav comes to the fact

that to be in "prison" means to have bad habits, and "well-favored

woman" means that every bad habit has its good side, the guest can no

longer restrain himself, seizes the bottle rather awkwardly, as though

in haste, fills up his glass, spills a little onto the cloth, and drinks

with his head thrown back, gulping it like a regular tippler, after a

hoarse and sleepy "to your health." This has a bad effect on the Rav's

enthusiasm, it "mixes his brains," and he turns to his son for help. To

tell the truth, he has not much confidence in his son where the Law is

concerned, although he loves him dearly, the boy being the only one of

his children in whom he may hope, with God's help, to have comfort, and

who, a hundred years hence, shall take over from him the office of Rav

in Saken. The elder son is rich, but he is a usurer, and his riches give

the Rav no satisfaction whatever. He had had one daughter, but she died,

leaving some little orphans. Sholem is, therefore, the only one left

him. He has a good head, and is quick at his studies, a quiet,

well-behaved boy, a little obstinate, a bit opinionated, but that is no

harm in a boy, thinks the old man. True, too, that last week people told

him tales. Sholem, they said, read heretical books, and had been seen

carrying "burdens" on Sabbath. But this the father does not believe, he

will not and cannot believe it. Besides, Sholem is certain to have made

amends. If a Talmid-Chochem commit a sin by day, it should be forgotten

by nightfall, because a Talmid-Chochem makes amends, it says so in the

Gemoreh.



However, the Rav is ashamed to give his own exegesis of the Law before

his son, and he knows perfectly well that nothing will induce Sholem to

drive with him to the Rebbe.



But the stranger and his brandy-drinking have so upset him that he now

looks at his son in a piteous sort of way. "Hear me out, Sholem, what

harm can it do you?" says his look.



Sholem draws himself up, and pulls in his chair, supports his head with

both his hands, and gazes into his father's eyes out of filial duty. He

loves his father, but in his heart he wonders at him; it seems to him

his father ought to learn more about his heretical leanings--it is quite

time he should--and he continues to gaze in silence and in wonder, not

unmixed with compassion, and never ceases thinking, "Upon my word, Tate,

what a simpleton you are!"



But when the Rav came in the course of his exposition to speak of "death

by kissing" (by the Lord), and told how the righteous, the holy

Tzaddikim, die from the very sweetness of the Blessed One's kiss, a

spark kindled in Sholem's eyes, and he moved in his chair. One of those

wonders had taken place which do frequently occur, only they are seldom

remarked: the Chassidic exposition of the Torah had suggested to Sholem

a splendid idea for a romantic poem!



It is an old commonplace that men take in, of what they hear and see,

that which pleases them. Sholem is fascinated. He wishes to die anyhow,

so what could be more appropriate and to the purpose than that his love

should kiss him on his death-bed, while, in that very instant, his soul

departs?



The idea pleased him so immensely that immediately after grace, the

stranger having gone on his way, and the Rav laid himself down to sleep

in the other room, Sholem began to write. His heart beat violently while

he made ready, but the very act of writing out a poem after dinner on

Sabbath, in the room where his father settled the cases laid before him

by the townsfolk, was a bit of heroism well worth the risk. He took the

writing-materials out of his locked box, and, the pen and ink-pot in one

hand and a collection of manuscript verse in the other, he went on

tiptoe to the table.



He folded back the table-cover, laid down his writing apparatus, and

took another look around to make sure no one was in the room. He counted

on the fact that when the Rav awoke from his nap, he always coughed, and

that when he walked he shuffled so with his feet, and made so much noise

with his long slippers, that one could hear him two rooms off. In short,

there was no need to be anxious.



He grows calmer, reads the manuscript poems, and his face tells that he

is pleased. Now he wants to collect his thoughts for the new one, but

something or other hinders him. He unfastens the girdle, round his

waist, rolls it up, and throws it into the Rav's soft stuffed chair.



And now that there is nothing to disturb from without, a second and

third wonder must take place within: the Rav's Torah, which was

transformed by Sholem's brain into a theme for romance, must now descend

into his heart, thence to pour itself onto the paper, and pass, by this

means, into the heads of Sholem's friends, who read his poems with

enthusiasm, and have sinful dreams afterwards at night.



And he begins to imagine himself on his death-bed, sick and weak, unable

to speak, and with staring eyes. He sees nothing more, but he feels a

light, ethereal kiss on his cheek, and his soul is aware of a sweet

voice speaking. He tries to take out his hands from under the coverlet,

but he cannot--he is dying--it grows dark.



A still brighter and more unusual gleam comes into Sholem's eyes, his

heart swells with emotion seeking an outlet, his brain works like

running machinery, a whole dictionary of words, his whole treasure of

conceptions and ideas, is turned over and over so rapidly that the mind

is unconscious of its own efforts. His poetic instinct is searching for

what it needs. His hand works quietly, forming letter on letter, word on

word. Now and again Sholem lifts his eyes from the paper and looks

round, he has a feeling as though the four walls and the silence were

thinking to themselves: "Hush, hush! Disturb not the poet at his work of

creation! Disturb not the priest about to offer sacrifice to God."



* * * * *



To the Rav, meanwhile, lying in the other room, there had come a fresh

idea for the exposition of the Torah, and he required to look up

something in a book. The door of the reception-room opened, the Rav

entered, and Sholem had not heard him.



It was a pity to see the Rav's face, it was so contracted with dismay,

and a pity to see Sholem's when he caught sight of his father, who,

utterly taken aback, dropt into a seat exactly opposite Sholem, and gave

a groan--was it? or a cry?



But he did not sit long, he did not know what one should do or say to

one's son on such an occasion; his heart and his eyes inclined to

weeping, and he retired into his own room. Sholem remained alone with a

very sore heart and a soul opprest. He put the writing-materials back

into their box, and went out with the manuscript verses tucked away

under his Tallis-koton.



He went into the house-of-study, but it looked dreadfully dismal; the

benches were pushed about anyhow, a sign that the last worshippers had

been in a great hurry to go home to dinner. The beadle was snoring on a

seat somewhere in a corner, as loud and as fast as if he were trying to

inhale all the air in the building, so that the next congregation might

be suffocated. The cloth on the platform reading-desk was crooked and

tumbled, the floor was dirty, and the whole place looked as dead as

though its Sabbath sleep were to last till the resurrection.



He left the house-of-study, walked home and back again; up and down,

there and back, many times over. The situation became steadily clearer

to him; he wanted to justify himself, if only with a word, in his

father's eyes; then, again, he felt he must make an end, free himself

once and for all from the paternal restraint, and become a Jewish

author. Only he felt sorry for his father; he would have liked to do

something to comfort him. Only what? Kiss him? Put his arms round his

neck? Have his cry out before him and say, "Tatishe, you and I, we are

neither of us to blame!" Only how to say it so that the old man shall

understand? That is the question.



And the Rav sat in his room, bent over a book in which he would fain

have lost himself. He rubbed his brow with both hands, but a stone lay

on his heart, a heavy stone; there were tears in his eyes, and he was

all but crying. He needed some living soul before whom he could pour out

the bitterness of his heart, and he had already turned to the Rebbetzin:



"Zelde!" he called quietly.



"A-h," sighed the Rebbetzin from her bed. "I feel bad; my foot aches,

Lord of the World! What is it?"



"Nothing, Zelde. How are you getting on, eh?" He got no further with

her; he even mentally repented having so nearly added to her burden of

life.



It was an hour or two before the Rav collected himself, and was able to

think over what had happened. And still he could not, would not, believe



that his son, Sholem, had broken the Sabbath, that he was worthy of

being stoned to death. He sought for some excuse for him, and found

none, and came at last to the conclusion that it was a work of Satan, a

special onset of the Tempter. And he kept on thinking of the Chassidic

legend of a Rabbi who was seen by a Chossid to smoke a pipe on Sabbath.

Only it was an illusion, a deception of the Evil One. But when, after he

had waited some time, no Sholem appeared, his heart began to beat more

steadily, the reality of the situation made itself felt, he got angry,

and hastily left the house in search of the Sabbath-breaker, intending

to make an example of him.



Hardly, however, had he perceived his son walking to and fro in front of

the house-of-study, with a look of absorption and worry, than he stopped

short. He was afraid to go up to his son. Just then Sholem turned, they

saw each other, and the Rav had willy-nilly to approach him.



"Will you come for a little walk?" asked the Rav gently, with downcast

eyes. Sholem made no reply, and followed him.



They came to the Eruv, the Rav looked in all his pockets, found his

handkerchief, tied it round his neck, and glanced at his son with a kind

of prayer in his eye. Sholem tied his handkerchief round his neck.



When they were outside the town, the old man coughed once and again and

said:



"What is all this?"



But Sholem was determined not to answer a word, and his father had to

summon all his courage to continue:



"What is all this? Eh? Sabbath-breaking! It is--"



He coughed and was silent.



They were walking over a great, broad meadow, and Sholem had his gaze

fixed on a horse that was moving about with hobbled legs, while the Rav

shaded his eyes with one hand from the beams of the setting sun.



"How can anyone break the Sabbath? Come now, is it right? Is it a thing

to do? Just to go and break the Sabbath! I knew Hebrew grammar, and

could write Hebrew, too, once upon a time, but break the Sabbath! Tell

me yourself, Sholem, what you think! When you have bad thoughts, how is

it you don't come to your father? I suppose I am your father, ha?" the

old man suddenly fired up. "Am I your father? Tell me--no? Am I perhaps

not your father?"



"For I am his father," he reflected proudly. "That I certainly am,

there isn't the smallest doubt about it! The greatest heretic could not

deny it!"



"You come to your father," he went on with more decision, and falling

into a Gemoreh chant, "and you tell him all about it. What harm can it

do to tell him? No harm whatever. I also used to be tempted by bad

thoughts. Therefore I began driving to the Rebbe of Libavitch. One

mustn't let oneself go! Do you hear me, Sholem? One mustn't let oneself

go!"



The last words were long drawn out, the Rav emphasizing them with his

hands and wrinkling his forehead. Carried away by what he was saying, he

now felt all but sure that Sholem had not begun to be a heretic.



"You see," he continued very gently, "every now and then we come to a

stumbling-block, but all the same, we should not--"



Meantime, however, the manuscript folio of verses had been slipping out

from under Sholem's Four-Corners, and here it fell to the ground. The

Rav stood staring, as though startled out of a sweet dream by the cry of

"fire." He quivered from top to toe, and seized his earlocks with both

hands. For there could be no doubt of the fact that Sholem had now

broken the Sabbath a second time--by carrying the folio outside the town

limit. And worse still, he had practiced deception, by searching his

pockets when they had come to the Eruv, as though to make sure not to

transgress by having anything inside them.



Sholem, too, was taken by surprise. He hung his head, and his eyes

filled with tears. The old man was about to say something, probably to

begin again with "What is all this?" Then he hastily stopt and snatched

up the folio, as though he were afraid Sholem might get hold of it

first.



"Ha--ha--azoi!" he began panting. "Azoi! A heretic! A Goi."



But it was hard for him to speak. He might not move from where he stood,

so long as he held the papers, it being outside the Eruv. His ankles

were giving way, and he sat down to have a look at the manuscript.



"Aha! Writing!" he exclaimed as he turned the leaves. "Come here to me,"

he called to Sholem, who had moved a few steps aside. Sholem came and

stood obediently before him. "What is this?" asked the Rav, sternly.



"Poems!"



"What do you mean by poems? What is the good of them?" He felt that he

was growing weak again, and tried to stiffen himself morally. "What is

the good of them, heretic, tell me!"



"They're just meant to read, Tatishe!"



"What do you mean by 'read'? A Jeroboam son of Nebat, that's what you

want to be, is it? A Jeroboam son of Nebat, to lead others into heresy!

No! I won't have it! On no account will I have it!"



The sun had begun to disappear; it was full time to go home; but the Rav

did not know what to do with the folio. He was afraid to leave it in the

field, lest Sholem or another should pick it up later, so he got up and

began to recite the Afternoon Prayer. Sholem remained standing in his

place, and tried to think of nothing and to do nothing.



The old man finished "Sacrifices," tucked the folio into his girdle,

and, without moving a step, looked at Sholem, who did not move either.



"Say the Afternoon Prayer, Shegetz!" commanded the old man.



Sholem began to move his lips. And the Rav felt, as he went on with the

prayer, that this anger was cooling down. Before he came to the

Eighteen Benedictions, he gave another look at his son, and it seemed

madness to think of him as a heretic, to think that Sholem ought by

rights to be thrown into a ditch and stoned to death.



Sholem, for his part, was conscious for the first time of his father's

will: for the first time in his life, he not only loved his father, but

was in very truth subject to him.



The flaming red sun dropt quietly down behind the horizon just before

the old man broke down with emotion over "Thou art One," and took the

sky and the earth to witness that God is One and His Name is One, and

His people Israel one nation on the earth, to whom He gave the Sabbath

for a rest and an inheritance. The Rav wept and swallowed his tears, and

his eyes were closed. Sholem, on the other hand, could not take his eye

off the manuscript that stuck out of his father's girdle, and it was all

he could do not to snatch it and run away.



They said nothing on the way home in the dark, they might have been

coming from a funeral. But Sholem's heart beat fast, for he knew his

father would throw the manuscript into the fire, where it would be

burnt, and when they came to the door of their house, he stopped his

father, and said in a voice eloquent of tears:



"Give it me back, Tatishe, please give it me back!"



And the Rav gave it him back without looking him in the face, and said:



"Look here, only don't tell Mother! She is ill, she mustn't be upset.

She is ill, not of you be it spoken!"



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