Judah the Pious

by Francine Prose

  Even from a distance, the herbalist’s face seemed heavier, firmer, alight with the complacent smile of a man used to feasting on wine and fine meats. He was dressed in a quilted cloak of rich maroon velvet, stitched with gold thread; his scarlet turban had been refurbished, bordered with a rope of bells and a band of black mink. On his feet were low-cut shoes of tooled leather, turned up at the toes. Surprised by the charlatan’s new splendor, Judah ben Simon grew even more amazed when he realized that Jeremiah Vinograd’s magnificent garments represented only a fraction of his recent acquisitions.

  Directly behind the old man, a white mule grazed peacefully beside a covered gypsy cart adorned with carved woodwork and painted all over with brightly colored symbols, hexes, birds, flowers, spells, and incantations. The wagon was balanced on high, light wheels with orange spokes; its front end, covered by a heavy black curtain, tilted down towards the ground.

  As soon as Jeremiah Vinograd noticed Judah ben Simon at the edge of the forest, he jumped up and began to wave both arms in the air. Casting sidelong glances at the white pavilion, the young man inched forward, until the mountebank laughed, motioned deprecatingly towards the guard, and came out to greet his visitor.

  “What took you so long?” boomed the herbalist, slapping his former student on the back.

  “An error in judgment,” murmured Judah evasively. “I am sorry for having made you wait.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said the mountebank graciously, ushering his guest around the lake until they stood within inches of the gypsy cart. “There is nothing I enjoy more than a leisurely week in my own sweet haven of refreshment and relaxation.”

  “Your haven!” cried the young man incredulously, wondering if he had perhaps underestimated the charlatan’s sensational good fortune. “Do you mean to tell me that this grand estate is yours?”

  “Be reasonable, my boy,” laughed Jeremiah Vinograd. “Would the owner of a paradise like this spend fifty-one weeks a year cramming leaves and roots down the throats of ignorant peasants? I should say not; indeed, I should say not. I meant only that I consider this setting uncommonly soothing and inspirational, and that I would sooner lay my head on this sweet bank than on the finest silk pillow in Poland.”

  “And have you no fear of the penalties for trespass?” inquired Judah, peering anxiously at the soldier, who seemed to be picking lice from his shaggy blond forelocks.

  “It is obvious that you have not been a mountebank for very long,” smiled the old man patronizingly. “Otherwise, you would realize that the prince’s men—who have guarded this estate for the fifteen years since his lordship’s death—are, like all members of their class, hopelessly superstitious fellows; they simply cannot tell the difference between a scientist and a warlock. More than a decade ago, when I first discovered this lovely glade, they were afraid to evict me, petrified lest I curse them with some sort of black magic enchantment; since then, we have become fast friends. Is that not right, Corporal Svoboda?” yelled Jeremiah Vinograd, directing a jaunty salute towards the man on the pavilion steps.

  Corporal Svoboda raised his head and grinned, revealing a set of wildly irregular, tobacco-stained teeth.

  “But surely,” continued the charlatan, “you must have encountered certain symptoms of this superstitious awe among your own patients?”

  “Whenever possible,” the young man replied coldly, “I try to discourage that sort of thing.”

  “So much the worse for you,” declared Jeremiah Vinograd. “But, while we are on the subject, let me ask you: how have you been faring in this business of mountebankery?”

  “I have no cause for complaint,” answered Judah ben Simon. “Indeed, you were quite right: my study of the healing art affords me even greater pleasure than all my observations of woodland plants and animals. For medicine is really three fields of knowledge in one—the purely physical sciences of physiology and pharmacology, and the more abstract science of human behavior. And the truth is that I most enjoy my research in this last area; just a year ago, I had not the dimmest notion that all the thoughts and actions of men derived from a fixed set of rules and regulations—a complex version of the systems which govern the habits of fish, birds, and beasts.”

  “And what are these immutable laws?” asked Jeremiah Vinograd.

  “I could list them for days on end,” replied the young man proudly. “But I will name only a few, to show you what I mean.

  “All matrons wish to eradicate the signs of age,” he began. “All grandmothers refuse to admit that they are ill. All unmarried boys are troubled by sleeplessness. Fathers of grown children suffer from stomach complaints; childless women are prone to headaches. Old men become either tightfisted or prodigal with their money. Every bride weeps uncontrollably at some time during the first year after her wedding; every young girl has fits of uncontrollable daydreaming—”

  “So that is human life,” interrupted the mountebank. “A closed system of actions and reactions, like the principles of prescription and recovery.”

  “With a few exceptions,” nodded his former pupil, “that is it.”

  “Then I must beg to differ with you,” smiled Jeremiah Vinograd knowingly, as if he were about to disabuse a child of some illogical and preposterous misconception. “The most wondrous thing about our fellow men is the fact that they are so unique, and unpredictable.”

  “Their unpredictability is only a façade,” frowned Judah, “masking the inescapable pattern which controls them. I assure you that a genuine and complete deviation from my system is rarer than a robin migrating north in winter.”

  “Yet certainly you must have had some odd and unusual experiences in a year of travel,” insisted the herbalist. “Surely you must have witnessed some interactions among men which you would never have expected to see.”

  “Of course,” replied Judah ben Simon. “I met an old peasant woman who, all her life, had shared her bed with a dappled gray drayhorse. I treated a fanatical nun who had blinded herself in order to rid her eyes of lust. I even watched a madman kill his brother, rape his sister, and begin to babble in tongues. But none of these events was so extraordinary that I would ever have termed it impossible.”

  “In other words,” sighed Jeremiah Vinograd, “you have still not encountered anything as remarkable as a child conceived in a dream.”

  Judah ben Simon looked at him sharply, then shut his eyes. “No,” he answered tensely, “I have not.”

  “At any rate,” said the mountebank hurriedly, trying to rekindle the warmth which had suddenly gone out of their conversation, “one thing is clear: a man must treat a great variety and number of patients in order to observe the entire range of human behavior. And therefore”—the old man’s eyes began to glow like those of a child anticipating some gift brought back from his father’s travels—“I assume that financial success has fallen into your lap like a lady of the evening.”

  “I am afraid not,” mumbled Judah uncomfortably, growing even more embarrassed when he saw the look of disappointment which crossed the herbalist’s face. Unable to meet his teacher’s searching look, he focused his attention on a tightly laced leather purse, from which he slowly extracted ten small silver coins.

  “Here is one-eleventh of my year’s wages,” he pronounced solemnly. “Three of these pennies were earned last week. For the truth about my tardiness is that I spent these past seven days in a frantic round of bench-mounting and oration, in a desperate effort to collect enough money to present you with an honorable fee.”

  “I appreciate your efforts,” nodded Jeremiah Vinograd, receiving the coins in his outstretched palm. “But I cannot understand why your pocket should have remained so empty. I certainly would never have taken you for a lazy type.”

  The young man blushed. “I will tell you a secret,” he whispered, staring miserably at the ground. “I work very hard, but the major part of my business is transacted with women. As soon as I ascend my platform, the ladies start edging towards the front rows so
that they might stand near me; they invent imaginary ills and ailments just to visit my lodgings. But they can only pay me out of their meager pocket funds and household allowances, for I have never met a man who was eager to place his wife or daughter in my care.”

  The mountebank glanced up and down his former student’s strong young body, noting how the blue physician’s caftan set off his blond hair and beard. All at once, he began to laugh uproariously. “I should have known,” he gasped, struggling to contain himself. “But tell me: just how near do these women come when they come near?”

  “What difference does that make?” cried Judah indignantly. Then, remembering how insufficient his tuition money had been, he felt himself grow calmer, humbler, more eager to please the leering old mountebank.

  “I have a story which may answer your question,” he said at last, his voice slow with reluctance. “When I was in the southeastern part of our land, I had occasion to treat a young foreigner, a Persian woman, who came to me complaining of violent pains behind her eyes. At first, I blamed her malady on the carpet-weaving with which she filled her leisure hours; but gradually, it became apparent that these seizures only came on after my patient had been scolded by her husband—a crass, impatient old man, who trafficked in imported spices, brass, and turquoise.

  “As it happened, the lady was disarmingly beautiful, with bright, almond-shaped eyes and olive skin. How could I have resisted her advances, the sincere and simple effusions of her gratitude? Nor was she a stupid wench, for she gave evidence of a sharp intelligence in the clever plan which she devised to keep our liaison from being discovered.

  “Whenever her husband was scheduled to spend the day in a neighboring village, my mistress would work late into the night, weaving the figure of a dove or a lily into her prize tapestry. In the mornings, when I saw her loom on the porch, I would know that it was safe to visit her.”

  “But such signals between lovers always miscarry,” interrupted Jeremiah Vinograd, smiling with pleasure at the classic story which the young man was telling as if it had never been told before. “Either the old cuckold changed his mind and decided to remain home after the weaving had already been displayed, or else he returned unexpectedly to find you locked in the embrace of Venus.”

  “No,” replied Judah, somewhat offended, “we were much too wise and cautious to make such crude errors. No, we were undone by something which we could never have taken into account.

  “For how could my lady have foreseen that love would transform her from a mere craftsman into a great artist? During the few short weeks of our relationship, her tapestry grew by several inches of unearthly beauty, unequaled in the finest carpets of the shahs. Her husband immediately suspected that something was amiss, and locked her in her bedroom until she agreed to explain her sudden attainment of genius. And so I was obliged to leave that place with nothing to console me but a new principle for my systematic scheme of human nature: true love can never be concealed.”

  “My God!” laughed the mountebank. “What a change in you! Just one year ago, you were telling me that you could not abide a woman who did not subscribe to your lofty ideas on miracles and religion. And now you are jumping between the sheets with every pagan rugmaker who comes your way.”

  “I was only sharing my bed, my body, and a bit of my heart,” protested the young man angrily, “not my entire life. A man need not spend every moment alone in order to retain his integrity.”

  “Of course not,” chortled Jeremiah Vinograd good-humoredly. “I was only joking, I swear. I hope you will not take offense, for I myself could not be in a more mellow frame of mind. In all honesty, your story has delighted me more than a hundred pieces of silver, so that I am not at all displeased with you for having failed to fill your wallet. Besides,” he continued, looking down at his heavy robe, “this has been an exceptionally good year for me, profitable beyond my wildest hopes.”

  “And how do you explain your success?” Judah asked eagerly, anxious for some useful advice.

  “Oh,” replied the old man, in an affectedly casual tone, “I have merely obtained some new equipment, and, in my old age, have learned a few new tricks. Why, in this little wagon,” he went on, affectionately stroking the side of his cart, “I now carry certain tools which have permitted me to amass a small fortune.”

  “May I see them?” inquired Judah ben Simon.

  Jeremiah Vinograd shook his head. “Twelve months ago,” he said, “when you were still my student and protégé, I was only too happy to teach you everything I knew. But now that you have officially enlisted in the army of my competitors, how could I disclose the secrets of my success without feeling a pang of anxiety and resentment? At any rate,” he added, looking across the pond towards the gazebo, “there are some strange and imposing objects among my new possessions, and I fear lest the mere sight of these marvelous articles might strain my warm friendship with Corporal Svoboda.”

  “I understand,” nodded Judah ben Simon, and forced himself to stop staring at the cart.

  “But wait,” said Jeremiah Vinograd. “Even though I myself have survived some hard years, and profited by the experience, I am still deeply troubled by this financial embarrassment of yours. I would hate to think that I bore any responsibility for the failure of a young man who had voluntarily placed himself under my tutelage. Therefore, I will extend a hand to assist you in climbing out of the grim pits of impecunity; I will give you a piece of advice which is even more finely tailored to your individual needs and talents than mountebankery itself.

  “Let me put it as diplomatically as possible: this year, your difficulties appear to have resulted from a surfeit of poor, powerless women. The solution to this problem could not be more obvious: next year, go out and find yourself some ladies of wealth and power.”

  “Obvious indeed,” smiled Judah ben Simon. “I have reached the same conclusion many times over.”

  “Perhaps,” nodded the old man. “But, without my aid, you would never have found the perfect means to implement this notion. You would have remained unaware of a fact which may well change your entire future, of a priceless bit of gossip which has long been a favorite topic for speculation among Corporal Svoboda and his colleagues. Listen well, Judah ben Simon:

  “Not far from the eastern border of our land is the town of Kuzman, the home of the late Prince Zarembka’s lovely daughter. Now Kuzman is an unusually lucky village which boasts not one, but three, unmarried ladies—beautiful, isolated, aristocratic women, who have absolutely nothing to do with their gold coins but melt them down into rings for handsome young mountebanks. Surely, Judah ben Simon, your eventual home in paradise might well be modeled on this place.”

  “Then I will have to wait until I see it in heaven,” replied the younger man. “I thank you for your generous advice; but I have no intention of roaming the swampy marshlands and rocky hills of the East just to bilk rich women of their patrimonies. No, my plans for the coming year are somewhat nobler, and more expansive: I will winter on the Bay of Tangiers, summer in the forests of Norway, spend spring on a sunny Aegean isle. I will observe distant lands, strange men, and foreign cultures; I will test my principles of behavior among the peoples of the world. And maybe my fortune will improve when I escape from the dull and stonyhearted citizens of my native land.”

  “Maybe it will,” agreed Jeremiah Vinograd cheerfully. “In any case, I admire your energy, your courage, and your ambition; I wish you the best of luck. And, when we meet again, it will be your turn to instruct me, to enlighten me concerning recent trends in international mountebankery. For I myself have not stepped beyond the borders since my unfortunate sojourn in Padua.”

  “I do hope we see each other,” said Judah, preparing to leave, “so that I can finally repay my debt by telling you all the latest news from abroad.”

  “Do not worry,” smiled the mountebank mysteriously, “our paths will cross at least once more.” Then, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he bid his former student a w
arm and heartfelt good-by.

  As soon as Judah ben Simon left the clearing, Jeremiah Vinograd strolled around the lake and exchanged a few words with the drowsy corporal. Circling back, the old man hitched up his mule, glanced once inside the curtain to make sure that all his treasures were still intact, and led his tiny caravan out towards the opposite edge of the estate.

  “And what was in the gypsy cart?” asked King Casimir of Poland, no longer able to restrain his simple curiosity.

  “I am very glad you asked that question,” chuckled the Rabbi Eliezer. “In Jeremiah Vinograd’s wagon, behind the thick black curtain, sat Rachel Anna and her infant son.”

  XIII

  THE KING OF POLAND did not stop gaping until he noticed his foolish, dumbstruck gaze reflected in a thousand mirrors. Then he clamped his lips shut, and adjusted the corners of his mouth into a sly, knowing grin. “You need hardly bother to explain,” he said, faking an elaborate yawn. “Even a child could see that Jeremiah Vinograd was actually a spy, hired by Rachel Anna’s family to retrieve their lost daughter. Why, as soon as the old man entered your story, I suspected that his so-called mountebankery was merely a ruse designed to trick Judah ben Simon into leaving his wife at the bounty hunter’s mercy.”

  “A noble effort to outwit me at my own game of turns and surprises!” cried the Rabbi Eliezer. “Unfortunately, you have overshot the mark. For, with all due respect, I must inform Your Majesty that the real reason for Rachel Anna’s presence in the gypsy cart was far less contrived than that which His Highness has suggested.”

  “And what might that reason be?” asked Casimir, as his bright, self-satisfied expression gradually collapsed into the sheepish smile of a chastised schoolboy.

  Eliezer of Rimanov reached out, grasped the king’s shoulder, and gave it an affectionate shake. “You need only be quiet and listen,” he said. “And I will tell you: