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!"