|
Time and space are entirely annihilated in the folklore of the
Russian
Jews. Here one finds side by side the quaint stories of the Talmud
of
Babylonian, Persian, Egyptian origin, with the Polyphemus myth of
the
Greeks, the English 'Bevys of Hamptoun,' the Arabic 'Thousand and
One
Nights.' Stories in which half a dozen motives from various
separate
tales have been moulded into one harmonious whole jostle with those
that
show unmistakable signs of venerable antiquity. Nowhere else can such
a
variety of tales be found as in Judeo-German; nor is there any need,
as
in other literatures, to have recourse to collections of the
diligent
searcher; one will find hundreds of them, nay thousands, told
without
any conscious purpose in the chapbooks that are annually issued
at
Wilna, Lemberg, Lublin, and other places. Add to these the
many
unwritten tales that involve the superstitions and beliefs of a
more
local character, in which the Slavic element has been superadded to
the
Germanic base, and the wealth of this long-neglected literature will
at
once become apparent to the most superficial observer.[24]
These
stories have dominated and still dominate the minds of the women
and children
among the Russian, Roumanian, and Galician Jews. For them
there exists a
whole fantastic world, with its objects of fear and
admiration. There is not
an act they perform that is not followed by
endless superstitious rites, in
which the beliefs of Chaldea are
inextricably mixed with French, Germanic, or
Slavic ceremonies. To
pierce the dense cloud of superstition that has
involved the Mosaic Law,
to disentangle the ancient religion from the rank
growth of the ages, to
open the eyes of the Jews to the realities of this
world, and to break
down the timeless and spaceless sphere of their
imaginings--that has
been the task of the followers of the Mendelssohnian
Reform for the last
one hundred years. In the pages of the Judeo-German works
that they have
produced to take the place of the story books of long ago, one
meets
continually with lists of superstitions that they are laboring
to
combat, with the names of books that they would fain put in an
index
expurgatorius.
It is not difficult to discern a number of
distinct strata in the many
folk-tales that are current now, even though the
motives from various
periods may be found hopelessly intertwined in one and
the same story.
The oldest of these may be conveniently called the
Talmudical
substratum, as in those older writings the prototypes of them can
be
found. Of course, these in their turn are of a composite
nature
themselves, but that need not disconcert us in our present
investigation
as long as the resemblance is greater to the stories in the
Talmud than
to the originals from which that collection has itself drawn
its
information. There is a large variety of subjects that must
be
classified in that category. Here belong a number of animal fables,
of
stories of strange beasts, much imaginary geography, but especially
a
vast number of apocryphal Bible stories.[25] One of the most
interesting
series of that class is the one that comprises tales of the
river
Sambation.[26] This river has rarely been discovered by poor
mortals,
although it has been the object of their lifelong quest. During
the week it
throws large rocks heavenwards, and the noise of the roaring
waters is
deafening. On the Sabbath the river rests from its turmoil, to
resume again
its activity at its expiration. Behind the Sambation lives
the tribe of the
Red Jews.
The best story of that cycle is told by Meisach. An inquisitive
tailor
sets out in search of the Sambation River. Of all the Jews that he
meets
he inquires the direction that he is to take thitherward; and he
makes
public announcements of his urgent business at all the synagogues
that
he visits. But all in vain. Three times he has already traversed
the
length and the breadth of this earth, but never did he get nearer
his
destination. Undaunted, he starts out once more to reach the tribe
of
the Red Jews. Suddenly he arrives near that awful river. Overwhelmed
by
its din, terrified at its eruptions, he falls down on the ground
and
prays to the all-merciful God. It happened to be a few minutes
before
the time that the river was to go to rest. The clock strikes, and, as
if
by magic, the scene is changed. The tailor finds a ford, passes on
the
other side, and, exhausted from his wandering, he lies down to sleep
in
the grass. The tribe of men that live there are a race of giants. One
of
them, noticing the intruder, takes him to be a new species of
a
grasshopper, picks him up, and slips him in his spacious coat pocket.
He
proceeds to the bathhouse to take his ablution, and thence to
the
synagogue, leaving the tailor all the while in his pocket. The
giants
begin to pray. At the end, while a pause ensues, the pious
tailor
unconsciously exclaims 'Amen!' Astonished to hear that mysterious
voice,
the giant brings the tailor to light and showers many signs of
respect
upon him, for even the giants know how to honor a pious man. The
tailor
liked it there so much that he never returned to his native
home.
Abramowitsch has made a fine use of this story in his Jewish
'Don
Quixote.' The hero of that novel has so long pondered about
the
Sambation River and the mysterious race of men that live beyond it,
that
he loses his reason, and starts out to find them. But he does not
get
beyond Berdichev. Another very fruitful class of stories belonging
to
that category is the one in which the prophet Elijah plays an
important
part.[27] According to the popular belief, Elijah did not die; he
even
now frequently comes to visit men, to help them in some dire
necessity.
His presence is surmised only when he has disappeared, generally
leaving
behind him a vapory cloud. So rooted is this belief in the visitation
of
Elijah, that during the ceremony of the circumcision a chair is
left
unoccupied for the good prophet. Elijah is not the only one that may
be
seen nowadays. Moses and David occasionally leave their heavenly
abodes
to aid their devotees or to exhort those that are about to depart
from
the road of righteousness. King David presides over the repast at
the
conclusion of the Sabbath, for it is then that a song in which his
name
is mentioned is recited. There are some who regard it as a devout act
to
celebrate that occasion with unswerving accuracy. To those who have
made
the vow of 'Mlawe-Malke,' as the repast is called, King David is wont
to
appear when they are particularly unfortunate. Unlike Elijah, he
makes
his presence known by his company of courtiers and musicians, and
he
himself holds a harp in his hands; and unlike him, he resorts
to
supernatural means to aid his _proteges_.
Most of the medieval
legends cluster around the Rabbis of Central
Europe, who have in one way or
another become famous. The cities of
Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Worms, Prague,
Cracow, have all their special
circle of wonderful tales about the
supernatural powers of the worthies
of long ago. But the king of that cycle
of miracle workers is Rambam, as
Maimonides is called.[28] His profound
learning and great piety, his
renowned art of medicine, his extensive
travels, have naturally lent
themselves to imaginative transformations. He
has undergone the same
transmogrification that befell Vergil. Like the
latter, he is no longer
the great scholar and physician, but a wizard who
knows the hidden
properties of plants and stones, who by will power can
transfer himself
in space, and who can read dreams and reveal their future
significance.
His whole life was semi-miraculous. When he had arrived at the
proper
age to enter an academy of medicine, he applied to a school where
only
deaf-mutes were accepted as disciples of Æsculapius. This precaution
was
necessary, lest the secrets of the art be disseminated, to
the
disadvantage of the craft. Rambam pretended to have neither hearing
nor
speech. His progress was remarkable, and in a short time he
surpassed
his teachers in the delicate art of surgery. Once there came to
the
school a man who asked to be cured of a worm that was gnawing at
his
brain. The learned doctors held a consultation, and resolved to
trepan
the skull and extract the worm. This was at once executed, and
Rambam
was given permission to be present at the operation. With trembling
and
fear he perceived the mistake of his teachers and colleagues, for
he
knew full well that the man would have to die as soon as the
seventh
membrane under the _dura mater_ was cut away. With bated breath,
he
stood the pang of anxiety until the sixth covering had been
removed.
Already the doctors were applying the lancet to the seventh, when
his
patience and caution gave way, and he exclaimed, 'Stop; you are
killing
him!' His surprised colleagues promised to forgive his deceit if
he
would extract the worm without injury to the membrane. This
Rambam
carried out in a very simple manner. He placed a cabbage leaf on
the
small opening in the seventh covering, and the worm, attracted by
the
odor of the leaf, came out to taste of the fresh food, whereupon it
was
ousted.[29]
Of such a character are nearly all of his cures. The
supernatural
element of the later period, where everything is fantastic, is
still
absent from the Rabbi legends. There is always an attempt made
to
combine the wonderful with the real, or rather to transfer the real
into
the realm of the miraculous. The later stories of miracle-working
pursue
the opposite course: they engraft the most extraordinary
impossibilities
on the experiences of everyday life. Rambam's travels have
also given
rise to a large number of semi-mythical journeys. One of the
legends
tells of his sojourn in Algiers, where he incurred the hatred of
the
Mussulmans for having decided that an oil-vat had become impure
because
a Mohammedan had touched it, whereas another vat into which a weed
had
fallen was pronounced by him to be ritually pure. Knowing that his
life
was in danger, he escaped to Egypt, making the voyage in less than
half
an hour by means of a miraculous document that he took with him and
that
had the power of destroying space. In Cairo he became the chief
adviser
of the king, and he later managed to save the country from
the
visitation of the Algerian minister, who had come there ostensibly
to
pursue the fugitive Rambam, but in reality to lay Egypt waste by
his
magical arts.
The most interesting stories that still belong to
that cycle are those
that have developed in Slavic countries. Out of the
large material that
was furnished them by the German cities, in conjunction
with the new
matter with which they became familiar in their new homes, they
have
moulded many new stories in endless variety. The number of local
legends
is unlimited. There is hardly an inn on the highways and byways
of
Western Russia and Galicia that has not its own circle of
wonderful
tales. Every town possesses its remarkable Rabbi whose memory lives
in
the deeds that he is supposed to have performed. But none, except
the
town of Mesiboz, the birthplace of Bal-schem-tow, the founder of
the
sect of the Khassidim, can boast of such a complete set of
legendary
tales as the cities of Wilna and Cracow. In Wilna they will still
tell
the curious stranger many reminiscences of those glorious days
when
their Rabbis could arrest the workings of natural laws, and when
their
sentence was binding on ghosts as well as men. They will take him to
the
synagogue and show him a large dark spot in the cupola, and they
will
tell him that during an insurrection a cannon-ball struck the
building,
and that it would have proceeded on its murderous journey but for
the
command of the Rabbi to be lodged in the wall. They will take him to
a
street where the spooks used to contend with humankind for
the
possession of the houses in which they lived:--the contention
was
finally referred to the Gaon of Wilna. After careful inquiry into
the
justice of the contending parties he gave his decision, which is
worthy
of the wisdom of Solomon: he adjudicated the upper parts of the
houses,
as much of them as there was above ground, to the mortals, while
the
cellars and other underground structures were left in perpetuity to
the
shadowy inhabitants of the lower regions.[30] One of the Gaons at
Wilna
was possessed of the miraculous power to create a Golem, a
homunculus.
It was a vivified clay man who had to do the bidding of him who
had
given him temporary life. Whenever his mission was fulfilled he
was
turned back into an unrecognizable mass of clay.[31]
A special
class of legends that have been evolved in Slavic countries
are those that
tell of the Lamed-wow-niks. According to an old belief
the world is supported
by the piety of thirty-six saints (Lamed-wow is
the numerical representation
of that number). If it were not for them,
the sins of men would have long ago
worked the destruction of the
universe. Out of this basal belief have sprung
up the stories that
relate the deeds of the 'hidden' saints. They are called
'hidden'
because it is the very essence of those worthies not to carry
their
sanctity for show: they are humble artisans, generally tailors
or
shoemakers, who ply their humble vocations unostentatiously, and to
all
intents and purposes are common people, poor and rather
mentally
undeveloped. No one even dreams of their hidden powers, and no one
ever
sees them studying the Law. When by some accident their identity is
made
apparent, they vigorously deny that they belong to the
chosen
Thirty-six, and only admit the fact when the evidence is
overwhelmingly
against them. Then they are ready to perform some act by which
a
calamity can be averted from the Jews collectively, and after
their
successful undertaking they return to their humble work in some
other
town where there is no chance of their being recognized and
importuned.
One of the most perfect stories of that kind is told of a
hidden saint
who lived in Cracow in the days of Rabbenu Moses Isserls. The
Polish
king had listened to the representations of his minister that
as
descendant of the Persian king he was entitled to the sum of money
which
Haman had promised to him but which he evidently had not paid,
having
been robbed of it by the Jews. He ordered the Jews of Cracow to
pay
forthwith the enormous sum upon pain of being subjected to a
cruel
persecution. After long fasting Rabbenu Isserls told his congregation
to
go to Chaim the tailor who was living in the outskirts of the town
and
to ask him to use his supernatural powers in averting the
impending
calamity. After the customary denials, Chaim promised to be
the
spokesman of the Jews before the king. On the next morning he went
to
the palace. He passed unnoticed by the guards into the cabinet of
his
majesty and asked him to sign a document revoking his order. In
anger,
the king went to the door to chide the guards for having admitted
a
ragged Jew to his presence. As he opened it, he stepped into space,
and
found himself in a desert. He wandered about for a whole day and only
in
the evening he met a poor man who offered him a piece of dry bread
and
showed him a place of shelter in a cave. The poor man advised him not
to
tell of his being a king to any one that he might meet, lest he
be
robbed or killed. He gave him a beggar's garments, and supplied him
with
a meal of dry bread every day. At the expiration of a year, the poor
man
offered him work as a woodcutter with an improvement in his fare if
he
would first sign a document. The king was only too happy to change
his
monotonous condition, and without looking at it signed the
paper
presented to him. His trials lasted two years more, after which
he
became a sailor, was shipwrecked and carried back to Cracow. Just
then
he awoke to discover that his three years' experience had only
lasted
fifteen minutes by the clock. He abided by his agreement in the
document
which he had signed in his dream, and thus the great misfortune was
once
more warded off by the piety of a Lamed-wow-nik. The minister, the
story
continues, escaped to Italy and hence to Amsterdam, where he became
a
convert to Judaism. In his old age he returned to Cracow to
make
pilgrimages to the graves of Rabbenu Isserls and Chaim, the
saint.
All the previous stories and legends pale into insignificance by
the
side of the endless miracles spun out by the Khassidim and ascribed
to
the founder of the sect and his disciples.[32] Nothing is too absurd
for
them. There seems to be a conscious desire in these stories to outdo
all
previous records, in order to throw the largest halo on
their
Bal-schem-tow, or Bescht, as he is called by his
initials.
Bal-schem-tow was neither the miracle-worker that his adherents
would
have him, nor the impostor that his opponents imagine him to have
been.
He was a truly pious man who sought a refuge in mysticism against
the
verbalism of the Jews of his days, in the middle of the
eighteenth
century. His followers, unfortunately mistaking the accidental in
his
teachings for the essentials of the new doctrine, have raised
the
Cabbalistic lucubrations of his disciples to the dignity of
religious
books, and have opened wide the doors for superstitions of all
kinds.
The realities of this world hardly exist for them, or are at best
the
temporal reflexes of that mystic sphere in which all their
thoughts
soar. Their rabbis are all workers of miracles, and Bescht is adored
by
them more than Moses and the Biblical saints. His life and acts
have
been so surrounded by a legendary atmosphere that it is now, only
one
hundred and fifty years after his life, not possible to
disentangle
truth from fiction and to reconstruct the real man. A large
number of
books relate the various miraculous incidents in his life, but the
one
entitled 'Khal Chsidim' surpasses them all in variety, and attempts
to
give as it were a chronological sequence of his acts.
In that book
his grandfather and father are represented as foreshadowing
the greatness of
their descendant. His grandfather is a minister to a
king, and Elijah
announces to him that at the age of one hundred years
his wife will bear him
a son who will be a shining light. His father is
a wizard and a scholar, and
enjoins his son before his death to study
with a hidden saint in the town of
Ukop. After his studies were
completed he became a teacher in Brody, and a
judge. He marries the
sister of Rabbi Gerschon, who takes him for a
simpleton, and in vain
tries to instruct him. No one knows of the sanctity of
Bescht. He goes
into the mountains accompanied by his wife, and there
meditates a long
while. At one time he was about to step from a mountain into
empty
space, when the neighboring mountain inclined its summit and
received
the erring foot of Bescht. After seven years of solitary life he
returns
to Brody to become a servant in Gerschon's household. Later his
career
of miracle-working begins: he heals the sick, exorcises evil
spirits,
brings down rain by prayers, breaks spells, conquers wizards,
predicts
the future, punishes the unbelievers, rewards the faithful by
endowing
them with various powers, and does sundry other not less
wonderful
things. When he prays, the earth trembles, and no one can hear his
voice
for loudness. He sleeps but two hours at night and prays the rest of
the
time, while a nimbus of fire surrounds him.
Not less marvellous
are the deeds of his disciples as related in the
'Sseefer Maisse Zadikim' and
other similar productions that are issued
in penny sheets in Lemberg to
impress the believers with the greatness
of their faith. Many of these have
sprung up from the desire to instill
the necessity of observing certain
religious rites, and this the authors
think they can accomplish best by
connecting a moral with some
miraculous tale. For every imaginable vow there
is a special story
telling of the blissfulness that the devotee has reached
or the misery
that the lax follower of Khassidism has had occasion to rue.
Every good
deed according to them creates its own protecting spirits, while
every
crime produces a corresponding monstrous beast that pursues the
sinner
and leads him to destruction. Interesting also are those cases when
a
man has been as prone to sin as he has been to perform virtuous
acts,
for then the struggle between the beings of his creation leads
to
amusing results in which all depends on the preponderance of one kind
of
deeds over the other. The worst of men is not excluded from the
benefits
of mercy if he makes amends for his crimes by an earnest
repentance
which is followed by a long penance.
Of the latter class,
the following is a typical story. Chaim has brought
many misfortunes to
Jewish families by denouncing and blackmailing them
to the Polish magnate,
the chief authority of the district. Once while
on his way to the magnate he
sees a half-starved beggar in the road, and
he divides with him his bread and
carries him to his house and takes
care of him until he is well enough to
proceed on his journey. Chaim has
occasion after several years to denounce
some one to the magnate. He
goes to the cupboard to fill his wallet for the
journey, when he sees a
dead person in it. After he has collected himself
from his fright, he
steps up once more to the cupboard. The dead person tells
him that he is
the beggar that he saved from starvation some time ago, that
he had
heard in heaven that Chaim was to be given his last chance in life,
and
that he had come to warn him to repent his misdeeds. Chaim takes
his
advice to heart, and for seven years stays uninterruptedly in
the
synagogue, perfecting himself in his knowledge of the religious lore.
On
the eve of the Passover he allows himself to be tempted by Satan in
the
shape of a scholar, to eat leavened bread at a time when the
Law
prohibits it. As he steps out to the brook to wash his hands
before
tasting of the bread, the dead person once more appears to him and
tells
him that Satan has been sent to him to tempt him, because it
was
thought that his seven years' penance alone was not sufficient to
atone
for his many evil deeds; that all his labors have been in vain, and
that
he will have to do penance another seven years. This Chaim is only
too
ready to undergo, and he applies himself with even more ardor
than
before to get a remission of his sins. At the expiration of the
allotted
time Chaim dies and is at once taken to heaven.
The legends
and folk-tales so far considered are of a strictly Jewish
character, whatever
their origin. They are in one way or another
connected with the inner life of
the Jewish community. They deal with
the acts of their worthies and inculcate
religious truths. But these are
far from forming the bulk of all the stories
that are current to-day
among the German Jews in Slavic countries. Among the
printed books of a
popular character there are many that not only are of
Gentile origin,
but that have not been transformed in the light of the Mosaic
faith;
they have been reprinted without change of contents for the last
four
centuries, furnishing an example of long survival unequalled probably
in
any other literature.[33] Many of the stories that had been current
in
Germany long before the time of printing were among the first to
be
issued from Jewish printing presses. Stories of the court of King
Arthur
in verse, of Dietrich of Bern, of the 'Constant Love of Floris
and
Blanchefleur,' of 'Thousand and One Nights,' had been common in
the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and many of them may be found
in
editions of this century; but none of them has been so popular as
the
'Bovo-maisse,' the latest edition of which is known to me from the
year
1895. It is identical with the English 'Bevys of Hamptoun' and was
done
into Judeo-German by Elia Levita in Venice in the year 1501. It is,
no
doubt, related to some one of the many Italian versions in which
Bevys
is turned into Bovo. The popularity of this book has been second only
to
the 'Zeena-Ureena' which contains a very large number of
folk-tales
interwoven in a popular exposition of the Bible. There are also
books
that contain stories of 'Sinbad the Sailor,' or what seem to be
versions
of Sir John Maundeville's 'Travels,' and other similar fantastic
tales.
These stories, having once been committed to writing and printing,
have
remained intact up to our times, except that they have
undergone
linguistic modernizations. But there is also an unlimited number
of
fairy tales and fables in circulation which have never been
written
down, which have therefore been more or less subjected to
local
influences; in these Hebrew, German, and Slavic elements meet
most
freely, causing the stories to be moulded in new forms.[34] It may
be
asserted without fear of contradiction that among the Russian Jews
the
investigator will find the best, most complete versions of most, if
not
all, the stories contained in Grimm's or Andersen's collections.
The
reason for it is to be sought in the inordinate love of
story-telling
that the Jews possess. They are fond of staying up late in the
night,
particularly in the winter, and whiling away the time with an
endless
series of stories. The stranger who is a good raconteur is sure of
a
kind reception wherever he may chance to stay; but his nights will
be
curtailed by the extent of his fund of stories, for his audience
will
not budge as long as they suspect that the stranger has not spent
all
the arrows from his quiver. The wandering beggar-students and
tailors
have the reputation for story-telling; it was by one of the latter
that
a large number of fairy tales were related to me. I choose
for
illustration one that is known in a great variety of
versions.
THE FOOL IS WISER THAN THE WISE
"Once upon a time
there lived a rich man who had three sons: two of them
were wise, while one
was a fool. After his death the brothers proceeded
to divide the property,
which consisted mainly of cattle. The two wise
brothers suggested that the
herd be divided into three equal parts, and
that lots be cast for each; but
the fool insisted that corrals be built
near the house of each and that each
be allowed to keep the cattle that
would stray into his corral. The wise
brothers agreed to this, and to
entice the oxen and cows they placed fresh
hay in their enclosures; but
the fool did not take measures to gain
possession of cattle by unfair
means. The animals were attracted by the odor
of the new-mown hay, and
only one calf strolled into the fool's enclosure.
The fool kept his calf
for eight days, and forgot to give it fodder during
that time; so it
died. He took off its hide, and placed it in the sun to get
dry. There
it lay until it shrivelled up. Then he took the hide to Warsaw to
sell
it, but no one wanted to buy it, for it was all dried up.
"He
started for home and came to an inn where he wanted to stay over
night. He
found there twelve men eating, and drinking good wine. He
asked the landlady
whether he could stay there over night. She told him
she would not keep him
in the house for all the money in the world, and
she asked him to leave the
house at once. He did not like her hasty
manner, and he hid himself behind
the door where no one could see him.
There he overheard the landlady saying
to the men: 'Before my husband
gets home you must go down in the cellar and
hide behind the wine-casks.
In the night, when he will be asleep, you must
come up and kill him.
Then I shall be satisfied with you!' After a short
while her husband
returned from the distillery with some brandy, and the men
hurried down
into the cellar. He unloaded the brandy-casks, and went into the
house.
He asked his wife for something to eat; but she said there was
nothing
in the house. Just then the fool stepped in and asked the
innkeeper
whether he could not stay there over night. The landlady got angry
at
him and said: 'I told you before that there was no bed here for
you!'
But the innkeeper said: 'He will stay here over night!' and
the
innkeeper's word was law. He told the fool to sit down at the table
with
him, and they started a conversation. The fool accidentally placed
his
hand on the hide, which being dry began to crackle. The innkeeper
asked
him: 'What makes the hide crackle that way?' and the fool answered:
'It
is talking to me!' 'What does it say?' 'It says that you are hungry,
and
that your wife says that there is nothing in the house, but that if
you
will look into the oven you will find some dishes.' He went up to
the
oven and found there enough for himself and the fool to eat. Then
the
hide crackled again, and the innkeeper asked again: 'What does it
say?'
'It says that you should start a big fire in the oven!' 'What is
the
fire for?' 'I do not know, but you must obey the hide.' So he went
and
made a big fire in the oven. Then the hide crackled again. Says
he:
'What does the hide say now?' 'It tells to heat kettles of water.'
When
the water got hot, the hide crackled again. Then he asked: 'What
does
the hide say now?' 'It says that you should take some strong men
with
you to the cellar and pour the water behind the wine-casks.' And so
he
did. The robbers were all scalded, and they ran away. Then he
came
upstairs, and the hide crackled again. Said he: 'Why does it
crackle
now?' 'The twelve robbers wanted to kill you at night, because your
wife
ordered them to do so.' When the wife heard that, she also ran
away.
Then the innkeeper said: 'Sell me your hide!' The fool answered:
'It
costs much money.' 'No matter how much it costs, I shall pay for it,
for
it has saved my life.' 'It costs one thousand roubles.' So he gave
him
one thousand roubles. The fool went home, and when the brothers
heard
that he had sold his hide for one thousand roubles, they killed
all
their cattle, and took their hides to Warsaw to sell. They figured
that
if their brother's calf brought one thousand roubles, the hides of
their
oxen ought to fetch them at least two thousand roubles apiece. When
they
asked two thousand roubles apiece, people laughed and offered them
a
rouble for each. When they heard that, they went home and
upbraided
their brother for having cheated them. But he insisted that he
had
received one thousand roubles for his hide, and the brothers left
him
alone.
"After a while the fool's wife died. The undertakers wanted
one thousand
roubles for her interment. But the fool would not pay that sum.
He
placed his wife in a wagon and took her to Warsaw. There he filled
the
wagon with fine apples and put the dead body at the head of the
wagon
all dressed up. He himself stood at some distance and watched what
would
happen. There rode by a Polish count, and as he noticed the fine
apples,
he sent his servant to buy some. The servant asked the woman
several
times at what price she sold the apples; but as she did not answer
him,
he hit her in the face. Then the fool ran up and cried, saying that
they
had killed his wife. The count descended from his carriage, and when
he
had convinced himself that the woman was really dead, he asked the
fool
what he could do to satisfy him. The fool asked five thousand
roubles,
and the count paid him. The fool paid the undertaker in Warsaw a
few
roubles, and he buried his wife. He returned home and told his
brothers
of his having received five thousand roubles for his dead wife.
Upon
hearing that, they killed their wives and children and took the
dead
bodies to Warsaw to sell. When they arrived in Warsaw, they were
asked
what they had in their wagons. They said: 'Dead bodies for sale.'
The
people began to laugh, and said that dead bodies had to be taken to
the
cemetery. There was nothing left for the brothers to do but to take
them
to the cemetery and have them buried.
"They wept bitterly, and
swore that they would take revenge on their
brother. And so they did. When
they arrived home, they told him that
they wished to make him a prince. They
enticed him for that purpose into
a bag, and wanted to throw him into the
water. They went away to find a
place where they could throw him in without
being noticed. In the
meanwhile the fool kept on crying in the bag that he
did not care to be
a prince, that he wished to get out of the bag. Just then
a rich Polish
merchant drove by. When he heard the cries in the bag, he
stepped down
from his carriage and asked the fool why he was crying so. He
said: 'I
do not want to be a prince!' So he untied him and said: 'Let me get
into
the bag and be made a prince! I shall make you a present of my
horses
and my carriage, if you will let me be a prince.' The rich man
crept
into the bag, and the fool tied it fast. He went into the carriage
and
drove away. The brothers came, picked up the bag, and threw it into
the
water. The fool watched their doings from a distance. The brothers
were
sure they had drowned the fool and returned home. The next morning
they
were astonished to see their brother driving around town in a
fine
carriage. They asked him: 'Where did you get that?' He answered: 'In
the
water.' 'Are there more of them left?' 'There are finer ones
down
there.' So they went down to the water's edge, and they agreed that
one
of them should leap in and see if there were any carriages left
there,
and if he should find any, he was to make a noise in the water, when
the
other one would follow him. One of them leaped in, and beginning
to
drown, began to splash the water. The other, thinking his brother
was
calling him, also jumped in, and they were both drowned. The fool
became
the sole heir of all their property; he married again, and is now
living
quite happily."
* * * *
*
Corresponding to the diffusion of folklore among the Jews, their
store
of popular beliefs, superstitions, and medicine is unlimited.
Their
mysterious world is peopled with the imaginary beings of the Talmud,
the
creatures of German mythology, and the creations of the Slavic
popular
mind. These exist for them, however, not as separate entities, but
as
transfused into an organic whole in which the belief of Babylonia
and
Assyria has much of the outward form of the superstition of Russia,
just
as the spirits of Poland and Germany are made to be brothers to those
of
Chaldea and Egypt. To their minds the transmigrated souls of
the
_Gilgulim_, the scoffing _Leezim_, the living dead bodies of
the
_Meessim_, the possessing _Dibukim_, the grewsome _Scheedim_, are
as
real as the _Riesen_ and _Schraetele_ of Germany and the
_Nischtgute_
(niedobry), _Wukodlaki_ (werewolf), _Zlidne_, _Upior_ (vampyre),
and
_Domowoj_ of Russia. The beast _Reem_ of the Talmud, the
_Pipernātter_
(Lindwurm) of Germany are not less known to them than the
fabled animals
of Russian fairy tales. In case of sickness they consult with
equal
success the miracle-working Rabbi with his lore derived from Talmud
and
Cabbala, as the Tartar medicine man (znachar), or get some old woman
to
recite the ancient German formula for warding off the evil eye. There
is
not an incident in their lives, from their births unto their
deaths,
that is not accompanied by its own circle of superstitious rites
and
practices.[35]
Their literature, both oral and printed, is also
full of evidences of
that popular creative spirit which finds its expression
in the form of
maxims and proverbs. One can hardly turn the pages of a novel
or comedy
without finding some interesting specimens of this class. But
little has
been done to classify them, or even to collect them. The
printed
collections of Tendlau and Bernstein contain less than three
thousand
proverbs, while the seven thousand saws on which Schwarzfeld bases
his
generalizations in a Roumanian periodical (_Anuarul pentru
Israeliţi_)
have not yet been published by him.[36]
Equally rich would
prove the harvest of popular anecdotes, either as
told of separate
individuals, as Herschele Ostropoler, Motke Chabad,
Jōssef Loksch, the wise
man of Chelm, and the like, or as applied to the
inhabitants of certain
Abderitic towns.[37] Many such collections are
mentioned in the appendix, but
they do not by any means exhaust the
stories that are current among the
people. Though they generally are of
the same character as those told of
Schildburg and Till Eulenspiegel,
and are even borrowings from those German
stories, yet they contain so
much original matter, and have been welded into
such new forms, that
they deserve the attention of the student of folklore.
They also bear
excellent witness to that pungent wit for which the Jews are
so justly
famous.
IV. THE FOLKSONG
The Jews
have been preeminently inhabitants of towns; their very
admission into Poland
was based on the supposition that they would be
instrumental in creating
towns and cities, from which the agricultural
Slavs kept aloof. Centuries of
city life have incapacitated them for any
other occupation than commerce and
artisanship, and have entirely
estranged them from nature. On the other hand,
their civil disabilities
and oppression have led them to cling more closely
to the Bible and
their religious lore than was customary among their
coreligionists in
other lands. It was in these Slavic countries that the
Talmud was
rediscovered and that it was introduced to the rest of Judaism.
All
these circumstances developed in them a strong retrospective spirit,
so
that in the centre of their intellectual horizon stands man in all
his
varying moods and vicissitudes of fortune. Consequently all
their
folksongs[38] have more or less of a lyrical tinge, and
the
consideration of nature is almost entirely absent from
them;
occasionally a flower, a natural phenomenon, finds a passing mention
in
them, but these are never used for their own intrinsic interest.
Outside
of himself, the Jew knows only his duties to God and his duties to
man,
as flowing from his duties to God. Not feeling himself as a
constituent
part of a nation, having no other union with his fellow-men
except that
of religion, he could never rise to the appreciation and
formation of an
epic poem, although the material for such a one was present
in the very
popular legend of the one-day king, Saul Wahl.[39]
The
cradle songs reflect this spirit.[40] While babies of Gentiles
hear
meaningless nursery rhymes or comical ditties, Jewish infants are
early
made acquainted with the serious aspects of life. They are told of
the
ideal of their future occupation, which is commerce, they are spurred
on
to 'Tōre,' which is learning, mainly religious, and they are
reminded
that they must remain an 'ehrlicher,' _i.e._ an orthodox, Jew.
The
following poem is, probably, the most popular song in Judeo-German,
as
it is sung from Galicia to Siberia, and from the Baltic provinces
to
Roumania:
Hinter Jankeles Wiegele
Stēht a klār-weiss
Ziegele:
Ziegele is' gefāhren handlen
Rožinkelach mit
Mandlen.
Rožinkelach mit Mandlen
Sanen die beste
S-chōre,--
Jankele wet lernen Tōre,
Tōre wet er
lernen,
Briewelach wet er schreiben,
Un' an ehrlicher
Jud'
Wet er af tomid verbleiben.
Behind Jacob's cradle there
stands a clear white goat: the goat has
gone a-bartering raisins and
almonds. Raisins and almonds are the
best wares,--Jacob will study the
Law, the Law he will study,
letters he will write, and an honest Jew he
will forever remain.
But commerce and learning are not for girls. They
are generally
incapacitated for the first by their onerous duties of home;
and
learning, at least a knowledge of the Sacred language and its lore,
has
never been regarded as a requisite of woman. She received her
religious
instruction and ethical training by means of Judeo-German books
which
owe their very origin to the necessity of educating her. The name of
the
script in which all these books of the past three centuries are
printed
is _Weiberdeutsch_, indicating at once the use to which it was put.
The
title-pages of the works generally tell that they are 'gar
hubsch
bescheidlich far frumme Weiber un' Maidlich,' or that 'die Weiber
un'
Meidlich di Weil damit vertreiben die heiligen Tag.' The
Biblical
injunction 'fructify and multiply yourself' invests family life with
a
special sacredness, throws a gloom over the childless home, and
leads
this people to regard motherhood as the ideal state of the Jewish
woman.
All these sentiments find frequent expressions in their songs, and
while
the infant boy is lulled to sleep with a recitation of his future
manly
virtues, the baby girl hears in her cradle, 'In the month of Tamuz,
my
little lady, you will become a mother!'
Childhood alone claims
exemption from oppressing thoughts and gloom:
childhood must have its
merriments, its pranks, its wantonness, no
matter how serious life is to
become later, or how soon it is to be
ended. With the Jew youth, indeed,
lasts but 'an hour,' and in
after-life he has many an occasion to regret its
short duration:
Jāhren klēine, Jāhren schoene,
Wās sent ihr
asō wēnig dā?
Ihr sent nor gekummen,
Me hāt euch schoen
aufgenummen,
Un' sent nor gewe'n bei uns ēin Scho?
Jāhren
junge, Jāhren g'ringe,
Wās sent ihr asō gich aweg?
Es seht euch
nit kēin Augel,
Es derjāgen euch nit die Voegel,
Ihr sent aweg gār
ohn' ein Eck'!
Little years, beautiful years, why are there so few
of you? You had
scarcely come, you were well received, and you stayed
but an hour
with us!--Young years, light years, why have you passed so
quickly?
Not an eye can see you, not a bird can fly as swiftly, you
have
passed without return!
The number of ditties sung by
children is very great. They do not in
general differ from similar popular
productions of other nations, either
in form or content; some are evidently
identical with German songs,
while a few are Slavic borrowings.
But
there are two classes of songs peculiarly Jewish: the mnemonic lines
for the
study of Hebrew words, and those that depict the ideal course of
a boy's
life. To the second belongs:
A klēine Weile wollen mir
spielen,
Dem Kind in Cheeder wollen mir fuhren,
Wet er lernen a
Pāar Schures,
Wollen mir horen gute Pschures,
Gute Pschures mit
viel Mailes,
Zu der Chupe paskenen Schailes,
's 'et sein gefallen
der ganzer Welt,
Chossen-kale--a vulle Geld,
A vulle Geld mit
Masel-broche,
Chossen-kale--a schoene Mischpoche,
Schoene
Mischpoche mit schoenem Trest,
Ābgestellt auf drei Jahr Kost.
A little while we shall play, we shall lead the child to school;
there
he will learn a few lines, and we shall get good reports,
good reports
with many good things, and he will settle religious
disputes upon his
wedding day. The whole world will be
satisfied,--bridegroom and bride--a
purse full of money; full of
money, may it bring blessings; bridegroom
and bride--a fine family;
a fine family with fine apparel, and at their
house you'll stay
three years.
The man's career used to run in
just such a stereotyped manner: at a
tender age, when children have not yet
learned to properly articulate
their speech, he was sent to the Cheeder, the
elementary Jewish school;
long before the romantic feeling has its rise in
youth, he was betrothed
and married; but unable to earn a livelihood for the
family with which
he prayed to be blessed, he had to stay for a number of
years with his
parents or parents-in-law, eating 'Kost,' or board; this time
he
generally passed in the Talmud school, perfecting himself in
the
casuistry of religious discussion, while the woman at once began to
care
for her ever-increasing family. Under such conditions love could
not
flourish, at least not that romantic love of which the young
Gentiles
dream and which finds its utterance in their popular poetry. The
word
'love' does not exist in the Judeo-German dictionary, and wherever
that
feeling, with which they have become acquainted only since the
middle
of this century, is to be named, the Jews have to use the German
word
'Liebe.' The man's hope was to marry into some 'schoene Mischpoche,'
a
good and respected family, while the girl's dream was to get a
husband
who was well versed in 'rabonische Tōre,' _i.e._ Jewish lore. While
the
boy, by his occupation with the Bible and the Talmud, was taught to
look
on marriage as on an act pleasing to God, the girl was freer to
allow
her fancy to roam in the realms bordering on the sensations of
love:
Schoen bin ich, schoen, un' schoen is' mein Nāmen:
Redt
man mir Schiduchim vun grōsse Rabonim.
Rabonische Tōre is' sēhr
grōss,
Un' ich bei mein Mamen a zuchtige Rōs'.
A Rōs' is' auf'n
Dach,
A lichtige Nacht,
Wasser is' in Stub, Holz is' in
Haus,
Welchen Bocher hāb' ich feind, treib' ich ihm
araus!
Fischelach in Wasser, Krappelach in Puter,
Welchen Bocher
hāt mich feind, a Ruch in sein Mutter!
Pretty I am, pretty, and
pretty is my name; they talk of great
rabbis as matches for me. Rabbi's
learning is very great, but I am
a treasured rose of my mother's. A rose
upon the roof, a clear
night; water is in the room, wood is in the
house,--If I love not a
boy, I drive him away! Fish in the water,
fritters in butter,--If a
boy love me not, cursed be his
mother!
But such an exultation of free choice could be only passing, as
the
match was made without consulting her feelings in the matter;
her
greatest concern was that she might be left an old maid, while
her
companions passed into the ordained state of matrimony. Songs
embodying
this fear are quite common; the following is one of
them:
Sitz' ich mir auf'n Stēin,
Nemmt mir ān a grōss
Gewēin:
Alle Maedlach hāben Chassene,
Nor ich bleib'
allēin.
Oi wēh, Morgenstern!
Wenn well ich a Kale wer'n,
Zi
heunt, zi morgen?
A schoene Maedel bin ich doch
Un' a reichen
Taten hāb' ich doch!
I sit upon a stone, and am seized by great
weeping: all girls get
married, but I remain single. Woe to me, morning
star! When shall I
become a bride, to-day or to-morrow? I surely am a
pretty girl, and
I have a rich father!
In the more modern songs
in which the word 'love' is used, that word
represents the legitimate
inclination for the opposite sex which
culminates in marriage.
Now
that love and love matches are not uncommon, it is again woman who
is the
strongest advocate of them; love songs addressed by men to women
are rare,
and they may be recited with equal propriety by the latter.
The chief
characteristic of woman's love, as expressed in them, is
constancy and depth
of feeling.
Schwarz bist du, schwarz, asō wie a Zigeuner,
Ich
hāb' gemēint, as du we'st sein meiner;
Schwarz bist du, āber mit
Cheen,
Fur wemen du bist mies, fur mir bist du schoen;
Schoen bist
du wie Silber, wie Gold,--
Wer's hāt dich feind un' ich hāb' dich
hold.
Vun alle Fehlern kann a Doktor ābhēilen,
Die Liebe vun mein
Herzen kann ich var Kēinem nit derzaehlen.
Black you are, black as a
Gypsy, I thought you would always be
mine; black you are, but with
grace,--for others you may be homely,
but for me you are handsome;
handsome you are, like silver, like
gold,--let others dislike you, but I
love you. Of all troubles a
doctor can cure, the love in my heart I can
tell to no one.
Many are the songs of pining for the distant lover; they
show all the
melancholy touches of similar Slavic love ditties, and are the
most
poetical of all the Jewish songs. They range from the soft regrets
of
the lover's temporary absence to the deep and gloomy despair of
the
betrothed one's death, though the latter is always tempered by
a
resignation which comes from implicit faith in the ways of Heaven.
Here
are a few of them in illustration of the various forms which this
pining
assumes:
Bei 'm Breg Wasser thu' ich stēhn
Un' kann
zu dir nit kummen,
Oi, vun weiten rufst du mich,
Ich kann āber nit
schwimmen!
At the water's edge I do stand, and I cannot get to you.
Oh, you
call me from afar, but I cannot swim!
Finster is'
mein' Welt,
Mein' Jugend is' schwarz,
Mein Gluck is'
verstellt,
Es fault mir mein Harz.
Es zittert mir jetwider
Eewer,
Es kuhlt mir dās Blut,
Mit dir in ēin Keewer
Wet mir
sein gut.
Ach, wās willst du, Mutter, hāben,
Wās mutschest da
dein Kind?
Wās willst du mir begrāben?
Fur wāssere
Sund'?
Ich hāb' kēin Nachas geha't,
Nor Leiden un'
Kummer,
Ich welk' wie ein Blatt,
Wie ein Blum' Ssof
Summer.
Wu nemm' ich mein' Freund
Chotsch auf ēin
Scho?
Alle hāben mir feind
Un' du bist nit dā!
Dark is
my world; my youth is black, my fortune is veiled, my heart
is
decaying.--Every limb of mine is trembling; my blood grows
cold; I
should feel well with you in one grave.--Oh, what do you
want of me,
mother? Why do you vex your child? Why do you wish to
bury me? For what
sins of mine?--I have had no joy, only suffering
and sorrow. I am fading
like a leaf, like a flower at the end of summer.--Where shall I find my friend
but for one hour? No one loves me, and you are not
here. |
|
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