Judah the Pious

by Francine Prose

  “The plant is nearly dead,” pronounced Judah confidently. “It will surely begin to decompose within a few hours.”

  “Wrong!” cried the mountebank. “Watch and see.” The old man passed his palm over the flower, carefully tracing its outline from the base of its stem to the tips of its petals. Then, suddenly, the rose burst into full bloom, assuming the bright, healthy color, round shape, and sweet fragrance of a blossom newly opened on the bush.

  “But that is impossible,” Judah ben Simon stammered in amazement. “Only a moment ago, that flower was withered and shrunken.”

  “Do not be upset,” murmured the herbalist, with a whimsical smile, “just because your empirical knowledge has failed you. Any man of good judgment would have reached the same conclusions as you did.

  “And there we have it!” Jeremiah Vinograd concluded triumphantly. “If an intelligent, experienced naturalist cannot even determine the prognosis of an ailing rose, who among us has the authority or the perception to define the limits of sanity? Perhaps I am the crazy one, perhaps you are; perhaps your most respected neighbors should really be chained to the asylum wall and allowed to satisfy their frustrated desires to scream out loud and howl at the moon.”

  “In other words,” suggested the young man, more confused than ever, “you are telling me that you doubt your own sanity?”

  “Maybe,” snapped the mountebank, offended once again by his listener’s bluntness. “But, crazy or not, I am still sufficiently in touch with reality to be able to discern that you have just had another disagreement with your wife.”

  Words of angry denial sprang to Judah’s lips, but, when he looked into the charlatan’s face, he knew that there was nothing he could say. “It is true,” he admitted, as tears of misery welled up at the corners of his eyes, “I can no longer continue living with her. Now, I must leave this town, but there is nowhere for me to go, and nothing for me to do. How will I support myself?” he asked desperately. “How can I keep myself from starvation?”

  Jeremiah Vinograd rested his chin in one hand, and, shutting his eyes, thought for a long time. At last, he spoke. “Despite your boorishness,” he said, “you are obviously a goodhearted boy, and so I will give you some sound advice. Why not take up my trade? Become a mountebank, and travel the country dispensing remedies and cures. A life fit for a king, I assure you. How many other men can still say that after fifty-five years at the same job?”

  “Thank you for your opinion,” shrugged the young man disconsolately. “But, after all that has happened, I somehow cannot see myself becoming an itinerant magician and a quack.”

  “Who is a magician?” demanded the mountebank, his entire body twitching with indignation. “Who is a quack? Not I, certainly. I am a scientist, a student of nature, an experimenter and scholar, just like yourself. Of course, the necessities of my occupation have dictated that I also become something of a performer—and an excellent one, at that. But, if you can only master that part of the business, the work is absolutely perfect for you. You can see the world, and, at the same time, continue with your research by merely shifting your attention from botany and zoology to the equally important science of medicine.”

  “But I have no head for finance,” argued Judah ben Simon.

  “If you become rich enough,” argued the herbalist, “you will not need a head for finance.”

  “No,” murmured Judah, “the whole thing is not so simple.”

  “It is as simple as this,” declared Jeremiah Vinograd. “Your heart’s noblest ideal put to its most practical use. Pure science employed to cure the sick and entertain the healthy. Fame, glory, and economic remuneration.

  “You must realize,” continued the old man, “that I would never be urging you this way if I did not so adore my job—a fact which, in itself, should be sufficient recommendation. But, more than that, the thought of your ideal suitability for this work pleases me as a well-matched couple warms the heart of a matchmaker. Indeed, I am so taken with the idea that I will make you an unprecedented offer:

  “The morning has hardly begun. Stay here in this field with me for the rest of the day. I will teach you all the necessary rudiments of the art of bench-mounting, performing and debating, or vending herbs and dispensing ancient remedies. And I will even reveal my time-tested method of reviving a wilted rose.”

  “You do make the work seem attractive,” admitted Judah ben Simon, whose curiosity was sorely tempted by the prospect of seeing Jeremiah Vinograd explain his trick. “And, if you taught me the trade, I would lose nothing by giving it a try, and discovering its virtues and drawbacks for myself. But,” he went on, his eyes narrowing suddenly in suspicion, “what do you charge for all this knowledge?”

  “My price is a reasonable one,” the mountebank answered coolly. “A simple tuition fee, which need not be paid unless you decide to take the work: for one year, and one year only, set aside one-eleventh of your earnings. Deliver it to me, on this very spot, in exactly twelve months’ time.”

  “That is hardly too much to pay for a lifetime’s livelihood,” said the young man.

  “Of course!” boomed Jeremiah Vinograd, laughing jovially. “So, now, are we agreed?”

  “Yes,” replied Judah, after a brief moment of doubt, during which he felt as if all the dreams of his boyhood were slipping away. “However,” he added, as he gradually began to identify the pain gnawing at his heart, “there are personal reasons why I cannot return so near this village next year.”

  “That is merely a technicality,” smiled the herbalist. “We will meet along this same highway, precisely one hundred miles to the south.”

  “And so it happened,” continued the Rabbi Eliezer, “that Jeremiah Vinograd came to teach Judah ben Simon the mountebank’s trade. The lesson began at six in the morning, with three hours of instruction in the general theory of healing and herbal medicine.

  Speaking so rapidly that Judah could not allow his attention to lapse for an instant, the old man explained the principles of the Mysterium Magnum, the Protoplastus, the Iliaster, and the Arcanum. He discussed the issue of Affinities, debunking the modern idea that “like may be treated with like,” and upholding the old notion that “contrary cures contrary.” “There is no weapon against a moist disease,” he swore passionately, “like a dry medicine.” He went on to contrast the relative virtues of Galenical and Paracelsian cures, to enumerate the laws of diagnosis, and to outline the broad categories of cases which invariably call for stimulants, purgatives, emetics, diuretics, and aphrodisiacs.

  Jeremiah Vinograd did not stop talking until the village church, tolling matins, drowned out the sound of his voice. Then, he opened his sack, extracted two worm-eaten apples, and offered Judah ben Simon breakfast. But, when the young man allowed the brownish parings to fall into the mud, his instructor flew into a rage, screaming that fruit peels should always be saved, dried, powdered, and used as a cure for fever blisters. “Yet how could I have expected you to know,” he sighed at last, “when I have not yet spoken on the subject of prescription.” And, with these words, the mountebank resumed his lesson.

  “I will run through this quickly,” he said, “and you must listen well. For, in this short time, I can only list the most important and basic remedies; as for the fine points of medicine, you must discover them on your own. With these few, simple cures, you will certainly be able to handle the majority of cases which come your way. Should you encounter an entirely unfamiliar ailment, you will still know enough potions to try out, and will have a sufficiently impressive pharmaceutical vocabulary to keep yourself from appearing the fool. And, I can assure you, the ability to avoid seeming ridiculous is the true mark of the successful mountebank.

  “But,” Jeremiah Vinograd reminded himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge some impediment, “I am dealing in generalities again, when I have promised you specifics. And now, if you will accept my apology, I will do my humble best to compensate for the time I have spent chatting.

  “I
n case of ulceration,” he began, jumbling the words in his great haste to get them out, “dose the patient with moss grown on top of a skull. For hemorrhage, nothing works like children’s fingernails boiled in a kettle by a blue-eyed man. Frogs’ eggs will prevent a wound from festering; a spider hung round the neck will keep away the ague. Vitriol works wonders against epileptic seizures, arsenic against the French pox. Human blood draws lost sheep and cattle like a magnet; viper fat and feathers will make a lover more attentive. Azoth of the Red Lion is remarkably effective against convulsions. Mummy powder, as you probably already know, cures absolutely everything, but, in these advanced days, has become somewhat hard to come by. Still, a passable substitute can be obtained from pigeons stuffed with spices and pulverized to a fine paste.”

  Late that afternoon, Jeremiah Vinograd concluded his lecture on prescription. “And now,” he proclaimed, “I will reveal my own personal secret of secrets, a trick which I would never disclose if not for my unselfish love for medical science: black hellebore, the only plant which flowers in the midst of the deepest winter snows, has, according to its nature, miraculous powers of rejuvenation, of restoring the bloom to the white cheek of age.”

  “Is that right?” murmured Judah ben Simon dubiously, wondering how many of the old man’s remedies were the result of cautious experimental investigation, and how many were merely the product of some haphazard folk chemistry.

  “Yes, that is right,” replied Jeremiah Vinograd, slower to anger now that he had filled ten hours with the music of his own knowledgeable voice. “But I am fully aware that your know-it-all skepticism, your stupid insistence on proving everything for yourself is, at this very moment, preventing you from accepting the wisdom I have offered here today. ‘Why should I believe in this old fool’s home remedies,’ you are asking yourself, ‘when I have never seen them in action.’ Well, Judah ben Simon, what can I say? You will simply have to trust the experience of my years until you have the opportunity to test my theories in practice. And for a start,” said the mountebank, his wild eyes gleaming with significance, “let me suggest that you investigate the effect of a few drops of hellebore’s essence on the petals of a wilted rose.”

  Judah ben Simon lowered his eyes, and made no further comment.

  “Very good!” cried Jeremiah Vinograd, smacking his lips in evident satisfaction. “Now, since we are on the subject of tricks and secrets, perhaps I should at least present you with a short dissertation on the Arcane Mysteries of Mountebankery, the Three Principles of Performance, Self-Promotion, and Publicity—which, if the truth be known, can make or break the most highly skilled pharmacist and diagnostician.

  “I am afraid that these may well be the most difficult skills for a serious and studious young man like yourself to master. Perhaps I should assure you that I, too, had no easy time learning the fine art of vending my wares.

  “But now, in my old age, it is truly the one aspect of the work which pleases me most, which alone offers constant promise and surprise. Let me explain it this way: not once in my entire career has tincture of laudanum ever failed to put a patient to rest; by now, I know that, after administering the proper dosage, there is precisely enough time for me to drink one cup of tea before I must go back and check on the sleeper’s tranquil pulse. Yet fifty-five years of experience have not enabled me to predict whether the members of my audience will greet me with cheers and acclamation, or whether they will pull me down from my platform and drag me through the outer gates of their town.

  “This uncertainty is what amuses me, Judah ben Simon. But it is absolutely certain that a novice like yourself will earn only tar and feathers for your efforts, unless I teach you those few flourishes of style which I myself learned from Father Time—and which, after all these years, allow me the occasional luxury of a warm reception.

  “Of first importance,” said Jeremiah Vinograd, grinning with pride at having accumulated such priceless information, “is the matter of names. Invent yourself a professional title under which you can travel with due pomp, elegance, comfort, and speed. I myself have ten or twelve appellations, all with a certain exotic flavor, from which I pick and choose, depending on my mood. I am the Sowdain of Babiloun, Count Fibanaccio, the Knight of the Gilded Scalpels, Absalom the Jew. And, when I am in a comical frame of mind,” he giggled, “I blacken my face with pitch and bill myself as the Moor of Tours. At any rate,” he continued, growing suddenly serious, “I would advise you to find a suitable name as quickly as possible, and learn to turn around when someone uses it to call you.

  “But names are only an opening,” sighed the herbalist, “a foot in the door. Once you have introduced yourself, then the real work begins. If only I had not left my equipment with a friend in Warsaw, I could show you how to twirl the bench three times around your head before stepping up on it; as it is, you will simply have to practice on your own.

  “But listen: as soon as you have mounted the platform, spread your arms out wide and start talking. Use only the most dramatic gestures, the longest words, the most obscure pharmaceutical terminology. Speak as loud and as fast as you can; make your listeners think they are observing a scientific genius, and a master of elocution. Spend your first wages on a figured cloak, some bells, a fur hat, perhaps even a trained monkey; that way, those who do not like your face will at least have something to look at. Memorize a few jokes, some ribald stories for the evening crowd; simple feats of prestidigitation are always useful in convincing an unsympathetic audience. And, while we are at it, let me give you a short list of handy expressions and turns of speech which may add some spice and color to your presentations.”

  Just as the autumn sun began to set, Jeremiah Vinograd finished dictating these catch phrases, and commenced a lesson on what he termed “spiritual medicine”—the petty lies and falsehoods which, he swore, were regrettably but absolutely necessary for the recovery of one’s patients and the furthering of one’s business. “Always prescribe lots of medicine,” he was saying. “Nothing strengthens a sick man like an armload of glass bottles. Always tell your customers that the gingerroot you stole from their neighbors’ gardens has been specially imported from the far reaches of Cathay. And, when a character of great social importance fails to recover after two weeks under your care, leave town by the fastest possible route. Do you understand what I mean?”

  But, if Judah ben Simon understood, he gave no sign, for he was already standing up and rubbing his stiff, cramped limbs. “Thank you for the instruction,” he said, interrupting the herbalist in mid-sentence. “I assure you that I will put your knowledge to good use.”

  “I knew that this last part would not please you,” laughed Jeremiah Vinograd. “That is why I saved it for the end. Nevertheless, if you manage to remember half of what I told you today, your business will be a profitable one. And I sincerely hope that our bargain will be among the things you remember. I am sure that you are an honorable man, Judah ben Simon, and that you will keep it in mind: one-eleventh of your earnings, a year from today, one hundred miles to the south.”

  “I will keep it in mind,” said the young man, and walked slowly back towards the north-south road.

  XII

  “ON A CHILL, SEPTEMBER morning,” continued Eliezer of Rimanov, “precisely one year and seven days after his meeting with the mountebank, Judah ben Simon arrived to find that the hundredth milestone south of his village was lodged between the elegantly-worked railings of a tall iron fence.

  Beyond the bars was a forest of dark pines; across the highway, wheatfields stretched towards the horizon. Nowhere in the wet, gray fog was there any sign of Jeremiah Vinograd. Judah paced the mile-long fence until he spotted a scrap of paper impaled on a spiked ornament; but the crude, hand-lettered public notice only identified the enclosed property as the estate of the exalted Prince Zarembka, and went on to list the unwary trespassers, each of whom had forfeited six fingers in payment for his crime.

  “No wonder Jeremiah Vinograd decided not to spend a wee
k awaiting me in this inhospitable place,” thought the latecomer uneasily. “Perhaps I should reexamine the milestone once more for good measure, then continue on my way.”

  But, as Judah ben Simon neared the smooth granite tablet, he was startled by the loud notes of a tune which he immediately recognized as “The Dove”—a sentimental folksong which the girls of his village used to sing until they collapsed from weeping.

  “The poor white pigeon,” a man’s voice was bellowing, “Shot down by the hunter/ Is in no more pain/ Than a lady abandoned by her lover.”

  “That vile croak could only belong to one man,” laughed Judah happily, and, summoning all his courage, squeezed through the space between two railings. Emerging from a dense curtain of tall firs, he reached a circular clearing where, as the fog alternately thinned and thickened, he began to perceive the elements of a strange spectacle.

  The vale had been landscaped according to the tastes of the Old Nobility; the artificial pond, grassy banks, and lacy, white-pillared pavilion all seemed incredibly small, delicate, and perfectly proportioned in contrast to the massive, sinister pines which surrounded them. At one time, the dell might well have been a favorite trysting place for aristocratic lovers; but it had clearly fallen into disuse, so that a thick scum of green algae floated on the surface of the pond, blending fuzzily with the lower borders of the mist.

  On the steps of the gazebo, a beefy soldier—whose unkempt uniform identified him as a member of the royal guard—was placidly coughing up phlegm and spitting into the lake. “So this is the fellow who sings like Jeremiah Vinograd,” thought the disappointed young man. “He is not what I would call a ferocious type, but, nevertheless, that notice on the fence suggests that there may be some sharp teeth behind that dumb grin.” With this in mind, Judah ben Simon was just about to slip back into the woods, when a momentary break in the fog permitted him to catch sight of the pond’s far shore—and of Jeremiah Vinograd, who was sitting quietly near the water’s edge.