"And a great audacity," drawled Ber, negligently stretched on the bed.
"Until now I have not had the audacity, but--but if I knew what to do, I would have it."
There was a silence for a few moments which was finally broken by Meir.
"Eliezer, you are happier!"
"Why?"
"You have been out into the broad world--you have seen its wisdom--you have listened to clever people. Ah! if I could but go out into the world!"
"Eliezer, tell us something of the great world," said one of the young men.
And in the eyes watching the cantor there was curiosity and a strange longing.
Of the youth of Szybow, Eliezer alone had been out into the world.
This was because of his marvellous voice, to cultivate which he had been sent to a large city. Everything he had to say had been told to his friends long ago. It was not much, but such as it was they were willing to listen to it every day. How does a large city appear? How high are the houses there? What kind of people live in those houses, and how many among them are Israelites? Who are rich, and wear beautiful dresses, and are greatly respected among the people? And why are they respected? Is it because they are rich? No--in Szybow there are also rich merchants, and the Purices (nobles) care for them only when they need their money, and when they do not need money they despise them. The Israelites in the great city are respected because they have a great deal of knowledge, and they have studied not only Mishma and Gemara, but other different, beautiful, and necessary things. And why in Szybow is there not such a school where these things could be studied, and why do Rabbi Isaak and Reb Moshe say that these sciences are the wine-garden of Sodom and infidel flames, and that every true Israelite should avoid them?
"Eliezer, how do those big carriages run without horses, and who invented them so cleverly?"
"Eliezer, do all Israelites there live kosher?"
"Eliezer, what is said there of the Rabbis Todros?"
"They speak ill of them."
A great surprise! The Israelites in the broad world speak ill of the Todros; and they believe neither in En-Sof nor in the Sefirots and the whole Kabalistic science!
"And what do they say of the Talmud?"
"They say that this beautiful book, full of wisdom, was written by clever and saintly people, but it should be shortened and many things left out because these are quite different times, and that which was formerly necessary is now harmful."
Again great surprise! The Talmud should be shortened, because it is difficult to study Gemara, and it dulls the minds and memories of the children!
True! They remember how difficult it was for them to study Gemara, and how the melamed had cruelly beaten them because they could not remember it, and how on that account they grew weak physically and mentally, and the little Lejbele, the son of a poor tailor, remained forever stupid and sick for the same reason!
"And who shortened the Talmud, and made it easier to study?"
"It was done by the great and saintly Moses Majmonides, whom the Rabbis excommunicated."
The Rabbis excommunicated the great and saintly savant! Therefore the Rabbis could be unjust and bad. One must not always believe what they teach!
"What more has Moses Majmonides written?"
"He has written More Nebuchim a guide for lost ones--a wise and beautiful book, which, when one reads one is inclined to weep with tenderness and laugh with joy!"
"Eliezer, have you read that book?"
"Yes. I have it."
"Where did you get it?"
"A wise Israelite gave it to me. He is a lawyer in the large city."
"Eliezer, read us something from that book."
In that way was revealed to those naive minds, involuntarily longing for the sun and broad bosom of humanity,--even though the revelation was partial and chaotic--the phenomena and thoughts circulating in the waste spaces. The result of this was not the production of firm convictions, nor the spinning out of a guiding thread to another better life; but doubt entered their consciences and desire filled their breasts--the young eyes veiled with the sadness of the thought which began to feel its fetters.
It was quite late when, after a long conversation, the young men rose and stood opposite each other with pale faces and burning looks.
After a time of silence, Meir said:
"Eliezer, when shall we stand up and cry with a powerful voice to the people, that they may open their eyes? Shall we always crawl in darkness, like the worms, covered with earth, and look on while the whole nation rots and chokes?"
Eliezer dropped his eyes, which were full of tears, and raising his white hands, he said in his harmonious voice:
"Every day before God I sing and cry for my people!"
Meir made a movement of impatience, and at that moment Ber, rising heavily from the bed, laughed in a gloomy manner.
"Sing and cry!" said he to Eliezer, "your dreadful father fills you with such fear that you will never be able to do anything else!"
Then he put his hand on Meir's shoulder and said:
"Only he is daring and will swim against the stream. But the water is stronger than a man. Where will it carry him?"
Leaving Jankiel's house, Meir perceived again in one of the rooms, the same as before, a woman sitting at the cradle of a sleeping baby.
Now she was bent over, and with both elbows resting on the edges of the cradle, was slumbering. The light of the small lamp, burning in the stove, fell upon her and threw a purple glimmer on the old caftan which covered her bosom and shoulders. On her head she still wore the holiday cap with crumpled flowers, its red colour contrasting strangely with the yellow, wrinkled face with its low forehead and withered cheeks. She was not yet old but worn out, over worked, spent with fatigue. One glance at her was sufficient to tell that her life lay in the midst of work and humiliation, and that she was not refreshed by even one drop of happiness. Looking at her, it was not difficult to guess that she would not live--like Freida, wife of the heretic Hersh--until her hundredth birthday, and that she would not fall into the eternal sleep little by little, amidst those dear to her heart--the noise made by numerous children and grandchildren.
Jenta, the wife of the greedy Reb Jankiel, was slain in spirit and worn out in body.
When the steps of the departing guests, which had for some time mingled with the snoring of several people fast asleep, became silent, Eliezer stood in the low door of his room and looked for a few seconds at his sleeping mother.
"Mother!" he called softly, "why don't you go to bed? Little Hajka is sleeping for a long time, and she will not cry any more. Mother, go to bed and rest."
The whisper of her son reached the slumbering Jenta. She raised her eyelids, turned her sad glance toward the tall youth whose white face shone in the darkness like alabastar, and--what a wonder--her small, half-closed eyes opened, and from the colourless eyeballs shone a light of joy.
"Eliezer, come here!" she whispered. The young man approached and sat on the edge of the bed.
"How can I sleep?" the faded woman whispered to him, "when I feel so miserable! Hajka is sick and at any moment she may cry, and if she would cry Jankiel would waken and be very angry!"
"Sleep mother," whispered back the young man. "I will sit here and rock Hajka."
The yellow, wrinkled face, with the big red rose over the forehead, bent and rested--not on the high dirty pillows--but on the lap of the sitting youth.
Eliezer put his elbow on the edge of the cradle, leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand and sat in thought. From time to time he moved the cradle with his foot, and hummed.
"Oj! My head, my poor head!" whispered in her sleep the yellow-faced woman, slumbering with her head in her son's lap.
"Oh, Israel! how poor thou art!" thoughtfully whispered the red lips of the young man watching by the cradle.