The Rise of David Levinsky (9 page)

The word “girl” had acquired a novel sound for me, one full of disquieting charm. The same was true of such words as “sister,” “niece,” or “bride,” but not of “woman.” Somehow sisters and nieces were all young girls, whereas a woman belonged to the realm of middle-aged humanity, not to my world.

 

Naphtali went to the same seminary. He was two grades ahead of me. He “ate days,” for his father had died and his mother had married a man who refused to support him. He was my great chum at the seminary. The students called him Tidy Naphtali or simply the Tidy One. He was a slender, trim lad, his curly brown hair and his near-sighted eyes emphasizing his Talmudic appearance. He was the cleanliest and neatest boy at the
yeshivah.
This often aroused sardonic witticism from some of the other students. Scrupulous tidiness was so uncommon a virtue among the poorer classes of Antomir that the painstaking care he bestowed upon his person and everything with which he came in contact struck many of the boys as a manifestation of girl-like squeamishness. As for me, it only added to my admiration of him. His conscience seemed to be as clean as his finger-nails. He wrote a beautiful hand, he could draw and carve, and he was a good singer. His interpretations were as clear-cut as his handwriting. He seemed to be a Jack of all trades and master of all. I admired and envied him. His reticence piqued me and intensified his power over me. I strove to emulate his cleanliness, his graceful Talmud gestures, and his handwriting. At one period I spent many hours a day practising caligraphy with some of his lines for a model.

“Oh, I shall never be able to write like you,” I once said to him, in despair.

“Let us swap, then,” he replied, gaily. “Give me your mind for learning and I shall let you have my handwriting.”

“Pshaw! Yours is a better mind than mine, too.”

“No, it is not,” he returned, and resumed his reading.

“Besides, you are ahead of me in piety and conduct.”

He shook his head deprecatingly and went on reading.

He was one of the noted “men of diligence” at the seminary. With his near-sighted eyes close to the book he would read all day and far into the night in ringing, ardent singsongs that I thought fascinating. The other reticent Talmudists I knew usually read in an undertone, humming their recitatives quietly. He seldom did. Sparing as he was of his voice in conversation, he would use it extravagantly when intoning his Talmud.

It is with a peculiar sense of duality one reads this ancient work. While your mind is absorbed in the meaning of the words you utter, the melody in which you utter them tells your heart a tale of its own. You live in two distinct worlds at once. Naphtali had little to say to other people, but he seemed to have much to say to himself. His singsongs were full of meaning, of passion, of beauty. Quite often he would sing himself hoarse.

Regularly every Thursday night he and I had our vigil at the Preacher’s Synagogue, where many other young men would gather for the same purpose. We would sit up reading, side by side, until the worshipers came to morning service. To spend a whole night by his side was one of the joys of my existence in those days.

Reb Sender was somewhat jealous of him.

Soon after graduation Naphtali left Antomir for a town in which lived some of his relatives. I missed him as I would a sweetheart.

I
WAS nearly sixteen. I had graduated from the seminary and was pursuing my studies at the Preacher’s Synagogue exclusively, as an “independent scholar.” I was overborne with a sense of my dignity and freedom. I seemed to have suddenly grown much taller. If I caught myself walking fast or indulging in some boyish prank I would check myself, saying in my heart: “You must not forget that you are an independent scholar. You are a boy no longer.”

I was free to loaf, but I worked harder than ever. I was either in an exalted state of mind or pining away under a spell of yearning and melancholy—of causeless, meaningless melancholy.

My Talmudic singsong reflected my moods. Sometimes it was a spirited recitative, ringing with cheery self-consciousness and the joy of being a lad of sixteen; at other times it was a solemn song, aglow with devotional ecstasy. When I happened to be dejected in the commonplace sense of the word, it was a listless murmur, doleful or sullen. But then the very reading of the Talmud was apt to dispel my gloom. My voice would gradually rise and ring out, vibrating with intellectual passion.

The intonations of the other scholars, too, echoed the voices of their hearts, some of them sonorous with religious bliss, others sad, still others happy-go-lucky. Although absorbed in my book, I would have a vague consciousness of the connection between the various singsongs and their respective performers. I would be aware that the bass voice with the flourishes in front of me belonged to the stuttering widower from Vitebsk, that the squeaky, jerky intonation to the right came from the red-headed fellow whom I loathed for his thick lips, or that the sweet, un-assertive cadences that came floating from the east wall were being uttered by Reb Rachmiel, the “man of acumen” whose father-in-law had made a fortune as a war-contractor in the late conflict with Turkey. All these voices blended in a symphonic source of inspiration for me. It was divine music in more senses than one.

The ancient rabbis of the Talmud, the
Tanaim
of the earlier period and the
Amoraim
of later generations, were living men. I could almost see them, each of them individualized in my mind by some of his sayings, by his manner in debate, by some particular word he used, or by some particular incident in which he figured. I pictured their faces, their beards, their voices. Some of them had won a warmer comer in my heart than others, but they were all superior human beings, godly, unearthly, denizens of a world that had been ages ago and would come back in the remote future when Messiah should make his appearance.

Added to the mystery of that world was the mystery of my own singsong. Who is there?—I seemed to be wondering, my tune or recitative sounding like the voice of some other fellow. It was as if somebody were hidden within me. What did he look like?

If you study the Talmud you please God even more than you do by praying or fasting. As you sit reading the great folio He looks down from heaven upon you. Sometimes I seemed to feel His gaze shining down upon me, as though casting a halo over my head.

My relations with God were of a personal and of a rather familiar character. He was interested in everything I did or said; He watched my every move or thought; He was always in heaven, yet, somehow, he was always near me, and I often spoke to Him as I might to Reb Sender.

If I caught myself slurring over some of my prayers or speaking ill of another boy or telling a falsehood, I would say to Him, audibly:

“Oh, forgive me once more. You know that I want to be good. I will be good. I know I will.”

Sometimes I would continue to plead in this manner till I broke into sobs. At other times, as I read my Talmud, conscious of His approval of me, tears of bliss would come into my eyes.

I loved Him as one does a woman.

Often while saying my prayers I would fall into a veritable delirium of religious infatuation. Sometimes this fit of happiness and yearning would seize me as I walked in the street.

“O Master of the World! Master of the Universe! I love you so!” I would sigh. “Oh, how I love you!”

I also had talks with the Evil Spirit, or Satan. He, too, was always near me. But he was always trying to get me into trouble.

“You won’t catch me again, scoundrel you,” I would assure him with sneers and jeers. Or, “Get away from me, heartless mischief-maker you! You’re wasting your time, I can tell you that.”

My bursts of piety usually lasted a week or two. Then there was apt to set in a period of apathy, which was sure to be replaced by days of penance and a new access of spiritual fervor.

One day, as Reb Sender and I were reading a page together, a very pretty girl entered the synagogue. She came to have a letter written for her by one of the scholars. I continued to read aloud, but I did so absently now, trailing along after my companion. My mind was upon the girl, and I was casting furtive glances.

Reb Sender paused, with evident annoyance. “What are you looking at, David?” he said, with a tug at my arm. “Shame! You are yielding to Satan.”

I colored.

He was too deeply interested in the Talmudic argument under consideration to say more on the matter at this minute, but he returned to it as soon as we had reached the end of the section. He spoke earnestly, with fatherly concern:

“You are growing, David. You are a boy no longer. You are getting to be a man. This is just the time when one should be on his guard against Satan.”

I sat, looking down, my brain in a daze of embarrassment.

“Remember, David, ‘He who looks even at the little finger of a woman is as guilty as though he looked at a woman that is wholly naked.”’ He quoted the Talmudic maxim in a tone of passionate sternness, beating the desk with his snuff-box at each word.

As to his own conduct, he was one of three or four men at the synagogue of whom it was said that they never looked at women, and, to a very considerable extent, his reputation was not unjustified.

“You must never tire fighting Satan, David,” he proceeded. “Fight him with might and main.”

As I listened I was tingling with a mute vow to be good. Yet, at the same time, the vision of “a woman that is wholly naked” was vividly before me.

He caused me to bring a certain ancient work, one not included in the Talmud, in which he made me read the following:

“Rabbi Mathia, the son of Chovosh, had never set eyes on a woman. Therefore when he was at the synagogue studying the Law, his visage would shine as the sun and its features would be the features of an angel. One day, as he thus sat reading, Satan chanced to pass by, and in a fit of jealousy Satan said:

“‘Can it really be that this man has never sinned?’

“‘He is a man of spotless purity,’ answered God.

“‘Just grant me the liberty,’ Satan urged, ‘and I will lead him to sin.’

“‘You will never succeed.’

“‘Let me try.’

“‘Proceed.’

“ Satan then appeared in the guise of the most beautiful woman in the world, of one the like of whom had not been born since the days of Naomi, the sister of Tuval Cain. the woman who had led angels astray. When Rabbi Mathia espied her he faced about. So Satan, still in the disguise of a beautiful woman, took up a position on the left side of him; and when he turned away once more he walked over to the right side again. Finally Rabbi Mathia had nails and fire brought him and gouged out his own eyes.

“At this God called for Angel Raphael and bade him cure the righteous man. Presently Raphael came back with the report that Rabbi Mathia would not be cured lest he should again be tempted to look at pretty women.

“‘ Go tell him in My name that he shall never be tempted again,’ said God.

“And so the holy man regained his eyesight and was never molested by Satan again.”

The painful image of poor Rabbi Mathia gouging out his eyes supplanted the nude figure of the previous quotation in my mind.

Reb Sender pursued his “exhortative talk.” He dwelt on the duties of man to man.

“If a man is tongue-tied, don’t laugh at him, but, rather, feel pity for him, as you would for a man with broken legs. Nor should you hate a man who has a weakness for telling falsehoods. This, too, is an affliction, like stuttering or being lame. Say to yourself, ‘Poor fellow, he is given to lying.’ Above all, you must fight conceit, envy, and every kind of ill-feeling in your heart. Remember, the sum and substance of all learning lies in the words, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ Another thing, remember that it is not enough to abstain from lying by word of mouth; for the worst lies are often conveyed by a false look, smile, or act. Be genuinely truthful, then. And if you feel that you are good, don’t be too proud of it. Be modest, humble, simple. Control your anger.”

He worked me up to a veritable frenzy of penitence.

“I will, I will,” I said, tremulously. “And if I ever catch myself looking at a woman again I will gouge out my eyes like Rabbi Mathia.”

“‘S-sh! Don’t say that, my son.”

About a quarter of an hour later, as I sat reading by myself, I suddenly sprang to my feet and walked over to Reb Sender.

“You are so dear to me,” I gasped out. “You are a man of perfect righteousness. I love you so. I should jump into fire or into water for your sake.”

“‘S-sh!” he said, taking me gently by the hand and pressing me down into a seat by his side. “You are a good boy. As to my being a man of perfect righteousness, alas! I am far from being one. We are all sinful. Come, let us read another page together.”

 

Satan kept me rather busy these days. It was not an easy task to keep one’s eyes off the girls who came to the Preacher’s Synagogue, and when none was around I would be apt to think of one. I would even picture myself touching a feminine cheek with the tip of my finger. Then my heart would sink in despair and I would hurl curses at Satan.

“Eighty black years on you, vile wretch you!” I would whisper, gnashing my teeth, and fall to reading with ferocious zeal.

In the relations between men and women it is largely a case of forbidden fruit and the mystery of distance. The great barrier that religion, law, and convention have placed between the sexes adds to the joys and poetry of love, but it is responsible also for much of the suffering, degradation, and crime that spring from it. In my case this barrier was of special magnitude. Dancing with a girl, or even taking one out for a walk, was out of the question. Nor was the injunction confined to men who devoted themselves to the study of holy books. It was the rule of ordinary decency for any Jew except one who lived “like a Gentile,” that is, like a person of modern culture. Indeed, there were scores of towns in the vicinity of Antomir where one could not take a walk even with one’s own wife without incurring universal condemnation. There was a dancing-school or two in Antomir, but they were attended by young mechanics of the coarser type. To be sure, there were plenty of young Jews in our town who did live like Gentiles,” who called the girls of their acquaintance ”young ladies,” took off their hats to them, took them out for a walk in the public park, and danced with them, just like the nobles or the army officers of my birthplace. But then these fellows spoke Russian instead of Yiddish and altogether they belonged to a world far removed from mine. Many of these “modern” young Jews went to high school and wore pretty uniforms with silver-plated buttons and silver lace. To me they were apostates, sinners in Israel. And yet I could not think of them without a lurking feeling of envy. The Gentile books they studied and their social relations with girls who were dressed ”like young noble-women” piqued my keenest curiosity and made me feel small and wretched.