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Philip remained in Kief about two weeks, during which time he was hospitably entertained by the leaders of the Jewish community. There was some difficulty in obtaining a passport for his parents, for, anxious as the Russians are to expel the Jews, by a remarkable contrariety of human nature they throw every obstacle in the way of a Jew who endeavors to emigrate.
Mendel never missed an opportunity of passing Harretzki's house. It had a strange fascination for him, and if he but saw the American at the window and exchanged greetings with him, the boy returned home with a happy heart.
Once—it was the day before Philip's departure—Mendel again passed the wretched abode in which the stranger dwelt. The door was open and Philip was busied with preparations for his coming voyage. Mendel gazed wistfully for some minutes and finally mustered up courage to enter and ask:
"Can I be of any service to you, sir?"
Philip, who had taken a decided fancy to the boy, said, kindly:
"Yes; you may assist me. Here are my books. Pack them into this chest."
With a reverence amounting almost to awe, Mendel took up the books one by one and arranged them as Philip directed. Now and then he opened a volume and endeavored to peer into the wondrous mysteries it contained, but the characters were new to him; they were neither Hebrew nor Russian, and the boy sighed as he piled the books upon each other. Philip observed him with growing interest.
"Are you fond of books?" he asked, at length.
"Oh, yes. If I could but study," answered the boy, eagerly, and big tears welled up into his eyes.
"And why can't you?"
"Because I have no books but our old Hebrew folios, and if I had they would be taken from me."
"Continue to study the books you have," said Philip, "you will find much to learn from them."
"But there are so many things to know that are not in our books. How I should like to be as wise as you are."
Philip smiled, sorrowfully.
"I know very little," he answered. "I am not regarded as a particularly well-educated person in my country. What good would learning do you in Kief?"
"It would make me happy," answered the boy.
"No, child; it would make you miserable by filling your little head with ideas which would bring down upon you the anathemas of your dearest friends."
There was a pause, during which Mendel worked industriously. Suddenly he said:
"Might I ask a favor, sir?"
"Certainly, my boy; I shall be happy if I can grant it."
"Let me take one of your books to keep in remembrance of you?"
"You cannot read them; they are written in German and English."
"That does not matter. Their presence would remind me of you. Besides I might learn to read them."
"But if a strange book is found in your possession it will be taken from you."
"I will conceal it."
Philip reflected a moment; then carefully selecting two books, he presented them to the overjoyed boy.
"Remember," he said, "that ignorance is frequently bliss. A Rabbi once said: 'Beware of the conceit of learning.' It is often well to say, 'I don't know.'"
Then the American spoke of the difficulties he had experienced in acquiring an education, how he had worked at a trade by day and gone to school during the evening. Mendel had a thousand questions to ask, which Philip answered graciously; but the packing having come to an end, and Mendel having exhausted his inquiries and finding no further excuse to remain, the two bade each other an affectionate farewell. Mendel ran home with his sacred treasures carefully concealed under his blouse, and with great solicitude he locked them up in an old closet which served as his wardrobe. The following morning Philip and his parents were escorted to the limits of the city by the influential Jews of Kief, and the travellers started upon their long voyage to America.
During the next few weeks Mendel was at his Talmudic studies in the jeschiva as usual, but there was a decided change in his manner—a certain listlessness, a lack of interest, which were so apparent that Rabbi Jeiteles could not but observe them.
"I fear that the boy has been studying too hard," he said to his wife one day. "We must induce him to take more exercise."
After the close of the lesson, the teacher said:
"Come, Mendel; it is quite a while since we have walked together. Let us go into the fields."
Mendel, who adored his preceptor, was well pleased to have an opportunity of relieving his heart of its burden, and gladly accepted the invitation. For a while the two strolled in silence. The air was balmy and nature was in her most radiant dress.
"Tell me," at length began the Rabbi; "tell me why you appear so dejected?"
"You will reproach me if I confess the cause," answered the boy, tearfully.
"You should know me better," answered the Rabbi. "You ought to be aware that I am interested in your welfare."
"Well, then," sobbed Mendel, no longer able to repress his feelings, "I am unhappy because of my ignorance. I wish to become wise."
"And then?" asked the Rabbi.
The boy opened his eyes to their full extent. He did not comprehend the question.
"After you have acquired great wisdom, what then?" repeated the Rabbi.
"Then I shall be happy and content."
The Rabbi stopped and pointed to a dilapidated bridge which crossed the Dnieper at a place to which their walk had led them. Sadly he called his pupil's attention to a sign which hung at the entrance of the structure and which bore the following legend: "Toll—For a horse, 15 kopecks; for a hog, 3 kopecks; for a Jew, 10 kopecks."
"Read that," he said; "and see how futile must be the efforts of wisdom in a country whose rulers issue such decrees."
"Perhaps you are right," said the boy, sorrowfully; "and yet I feel that God has not given me my intellect to keep it in ignorance and superstition. It must expand. Look, Rabbi, at this river. They have dammed it to keep its waters back; but further down, the stream leaps over the obstruction and forces its way onward. Its confinement makes it but sparkle the more after it has once acquired its freedom. Is not the mind of man like this river? Can you confine it and prevent its onward course?"
The Rabbi gazed with looks of mingled astonishment and admiration upon the boy at his side.
The boy continued:
"I would become wise like you and Pesach Harretzki. I would acquire the art of reading other works besides our ancient folios. Rabbi, will you teach me?"
"Has Harretzki been putting these new ideas into your head?" asked the old man.
"No; they were there before he came. You yourself have often told me: 'Study rather to fill your mind than your coffers.' I have some of Harretzki's books, however, and at night when I cannot sleep I take them out of my closet and look at them. But they are not in Hebrew and I cannot read them. Rabbi, I beg of you to teach me."
Rabbi Jeiteles was in a quandary. He hated the bigotry and narrow-mindedness which forbade the study of any subject but the time-honored Talmud. He himself had been as anxious as was Mendel to strive after other knowledge. On the other hand, he bore in mind the prejudice which the Jews entertained against foreign learning, and he clearly foresaw the many difficulties which Mendel must encounter if his desire became known.
"Well, Rabbi, you do not answer," said the boy, inquiringly.
"Bring me your books to-morrow and I will decide."
Mendel seized the preceptor's hand and kissed it rapturously.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Teacher and pupil turned their steps homeward, the one perplexed, the other overjoyed.
The sun had not fully risen on the morrow, when Mendel, with his precious books carefully concealed, sought the Rabbi's presence, and the two withdrew into an inner room, beyond the reach of prying intruders. The teacher glanced at the titles. They were Mendelssohn's "Phædon," and Ludwig Philippson's "The Development of the Religious Idea," both written in German. Mendel did not take his eyes from his teacher; he could scarcely master his impatience.
"Well, Rabbi," he asked, "of what do they speak?"
"Of things beyond your comprehension," replied the teacher. "The writers of both these books were good and pious Jews, who, because of their learning, were branded and ostracized by many of their co-religionists. Their only sin lay in the use of classical German. You must know that many hundreds of years ago, our ancestors lived in Germany, and, mingling with men of other creeds, learned the language of their time. By and by, persecutions arose and gradually the Jews were driven into closer quarters and narrower communities. Many emigrated to Poland and Russia, carrying with them their foreign language, which was little changed except by the addition of Hebrew—and, in this country, of a few Russian words—so that what was once a language became a semi-sacred jargon in which the translations of our holy books were read. When Mendelssohn began to write in the ordinary German, he was thought to be ashamed of his fathers' speech and to have abandoned it for that of their oppressors. Pause before you choose a path which may estrange you from all you love best."
"Did these men accomplish no good by their writings?"
"Much good, my son; but through much travail."
The more the teacher talked, the more gloomy the picture he drew, the greater became the enthusiasm of the pupil, the firmer his determination to emulate the example of the men of whom he now heard for the first time. The Rabbi at last consented to instruct the boy in the elements of the Russian and German languages.
While the old man did not for a moment close his eyes to the perils which his pupil invited by his pursuit of knowledge; while he did not conceal from himself the fact that his own position would be endangered if the nature of his teachings was suspected, he was happy in the thought of having before him a youthful mind, brave to seek truth. Rabbi Jeiteles was a learned man; his youth had been spent in travel. He had seen much and read more, and even in the bigoted community in which he lived he kept abreast of the knowledge of the times.
The first lesson was mastered then and there. It was a hard and tedious task and progress was necessarily slow, but Mendel possessed two great essentials to progress, indomitable perseverance and an active intellect, and his teacher displayed the painstaking care and patience with which love for his pupil inspired him.
Day by day, Mendel added to his store of knowledge. He was still the most industrious Talmud scholar of the college; his remarkable aptitude and zeal for the studies of his fathers was in nowise diminished; but when the hours at the jeschiva were at an end, instead of returning to his uncle's home, or of spending his time upon the streets with his boisterous playmates, he would walk with Rabbi Jeiteles in the fields, or remain closeted with him, pursuing his investigations in new fields of knowledge. Nor were his labors at an end when he had retired to his bed-room. In the still hours of the night, when every noise was hushed and he deemed himself safe from intrusion, he would rise, silently open his closet for his carefully concealed volume and creep back to bed. Then, by the aid of secretly purloined candle ends, he would read hour after hour, and often the dawn found him still at his books.