Judah the Pious

by Francine Prose

  But it was not until Judah ben Simon finally entered the court itself that he began to understand why the religious assembly occupied such a favored place in the citizens’ hearts.

  Although the interior of the crowded canvas tent wore not the slightest frill of man-made luxury, it still appeared clothed with all the trappings of paradise. Sweet music and flowery incense filled the air; mountains of oranges, dates, and pomegranates were heaped on the long tables which lined both sides of the enormous enclosure; above them, ropes of gardenias and chrysanthemums hung from placards engraved with the most beautiful verses of the Torah and the Song of Songs.

  Seated on hard wooden benches in the center section of the tent were the same shabby students and exotically-dressed foreign scholars whose presence had so thrilled Hannah Polikov and her neighbors. But it is doubtful whether the spectators at Rachel Anna’s trial would have recognized their argumentative visitors—whose faces now seemed perfectly tranquil, like those of men presented with a vision of eternal bliss.

  All their attention was riveted on a single point at the front of the assembly; and, as Judah followed their gazes, he began to blink his eyes in amazement: on the small, raised dais was a man bathed in splendor, surrounded by a brilliant, many-colored radiance, not unlike the northern lights which the mountebank had seen in Danzig.

  “So that is Judah the Pious,” thought the young man, as all his confusion of the last months was peculiarly intensified by the expectant hush of religious awe within the tent. “I will stand quietly for a few minutes and hear what this fellow has to say for himself.”

  As it happened, Judah the Pious was telling his congregation about the meaning and power of miracles.

  “There are thousands of miracles in the air above my head,” said the holy man, “but I have no desire to reach up and grasp them.

  “So I said to that unfortunate unbeliever who came to me many years ago, offering to embrace our faith if I would only show him one of the marvels for which I was then so famous.

  “‘Go look at those violets on my table,’ I told him. ‘Notice the deep purple color of the petals, their velvety softness and sweet fragrance. Then, if you still have no understanding of miracles, I will know that no wonder in the world can make you a religious man.’

  “And that very day,” concluded the saint, “I decided that my own miracle-working career was over.”

  During this speech, Judah ben Simon edged slowly through the large crowd at the back of the tent. Despite the mass of spectators blocking his view, he was able to catch several brief glimpses of the sage. Little by little, the mountebank began to perceive that the head of the Cracower court was a thin man of gigantic stature, with strong shoulders and a massive chest; his huge hands were dusted with liver spots and curling reddish hairs. Beneath a broad-brimmed black felt hat, his yellow-white hair flowed in a thick mane down his back; together with a pale, waist-length beard of extraordinary wildness, it seemed to form a cape which cloaked the upper half of his body. His face was bony, broad, and swarthy, dominated by a huge beaked nose. Yet the saint’s most impressive features were indisputably his great blue eyes, which seemed to glow and crackle with the energy of thunderbolts, and which were apparently responsible for the weird, luminous aura which encircled their owner.

  The mountebank was unable to obtain a complete, uninterrupted view of the holy man until he had pushed his way through the mob to the back of the scholars’ benches. Standing at the edge of the crowd, he endeavored to make a detached, careful study of the sage’s unique and striking presence. Yet this attempt was soon disrupted; for, at that instant, the Cracower rabbi fell silent, and startled his audience with a deep, booming command.

  “Judah ben Simon!” he called out, staring directly at the newcomer. “I have been awaiting your arrival all day; I had even chosen a topic for today’s discussion which I hoped might interest you. Move closer. Come here and tell us what your scientific research has taught you!”

  “I-I am not yet certain,” stuttered the astonished young man, feeling himself being drawn down the center aisle as helplessly as if he were possessed of a dybbuk. With each step, he saw the sage’s features from a new perspective, a different angle; and slowly, very gradually, he began to apprehend a most astounding fact.

  Included in the rabbi’s rich, complicated physiognomy were the unmistakable, unforgettable faces of Jeremiah Vinograd and Dr. Boris Silentius.

  This discovery so stunned the mountebank that his head began to swim with a nauseating dizziness; his knees almost buckled beneath him. Propelled steadily forward, he did not stop walking until he stood within inches of the wise man, where he saw that his impression had been correct.

  “So,” he whispered, in a voice which quavered with anxiety, “you are also a master of disguises.”

  “Or a great miracle worker,” replied Judah the Pious softly, deliberately imitating the thin, reedy giggle of the Danzig doctor. Then, his voice resumed its naturally deep and mellow tones.

  “We have here a shy and retiring young naturalist,” he began, addressing his congregation. “Accustomed to the privacy of the deep woods, he is understandably hesitant to reveal his most cherished theories before a crowd of strangers. Therefore, if you will excuse us, we will retire to my private chambers.”

  As the audience buzzed with wonder and excitement, Judah the Pious ushered his guest through a tattered black curtain beside the stage, into a bare room containing two hard wooden chairs.

  “Why did you do it?” demanded the agitated visitor, barely giving the rabbi a chance to sit down. “Why did you put on all those disguises just to ruin my life?”

  “I am sorry if that is how you interpret it,” replied the saint, smiling tranquilly. “All I can say in my own defense is that it is not such a terrible thing for a father to try and teach his son a worthy lesson.”

  Judah ben Simon collapsed into the other chair, and began to breathe deeply. Overcome by panic and confusion, he felt as if he were suddenly discovering his whole life to have been a deceptive and senseless story, invented just to indulge the whims of one man. “So you are my father,” he murmured in a low, tired voice. Then, he sighed. “With all due respect for my mother,” he continued, after a while, “I must admit that I suspected something like that all along.”

  “My son,” replied the holy man earnestly, “if only you had been open-minded and patient enough to perceive the logical implications of your suspicion, you could surely have spared yourself a lifetime of misery and error.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the mountebank uneasily.

  “Let me tell you a story,” said Judah the Pious, “a tale which I heard from a Hindu brother on one of my first pilgrimages to the East. According to that worthy sage, his countrymen firmly believe that unfailing devotion to God insures one’s entry into heaven. In order to illustrate the meaning of such devotion, their wise men love to quote the fable of King Sisupala.

  “This powerful sovereign, it is said, was born with a fierce and implacable hatred for all religion, a passion which caused him to spend every moment of his life cursing God. He scorned and abused the Lord from his cradle, his marriage bed, and even his funeral pyre. He chastised the heavens for each drop of rain which fell, each thunderbolt which disturbed his sleep; he shrieked at the deities whenever one of his subjects sickened and died.

  “Naturally, all those who loved the king also dreaded the hour of his death, for they were certain that his soul would be condemned to roast in the hottest ovens of hell. But, as it happened, Sisupala’s soul was admitted to heaven the very instant it departed from his body.

  “For all the celestial judges swore that they had never seen a man who kept the name of God so constantly in mind.

  “So it was with the miracle of your conception, Judah ben Simon. Clearly, your mother never believed in it; neither did I. And, from everything I have heard about Simon Polikov, I would imagine that he was clever enough to have soon guessed the truth.

&nb
sp; “Indeed, you were the only one among us who was devoted to the memory of that long-forgotten miracle. You alone gave it credence by hating it so bitterly, and by molding your entire life to contradict the principles on which you believed it to be based.”

  “Then I am the most religious man of all,” laughed the young man bitterly.

  “Exactly,” replied Judah the Pious.

  Judah ben Simon lowered his head and said nothing for several minutes. “But why did you make my parents humiliate themselves that way?” he whispered at last. “How could a great saint stoop to such a petty sin, and devise such petty deceptions in order to conceal it?”

  “I am not a great saint,” answered the Cracower rabbi, gently shaking his head. “I am merely a charlatan like yourself, a charlatan who has been lucky enough to perceive the miraculous warmth of God’s love.” The sage smiled genially, and reached out to pinch his son’s flushed cheek.

  “I am still completely human, I assure you,” he went on. “Do not condemn me too harshly. Try to imagine, Judah ben Simon: suppose, in your declining years, you were suddenly tormented by a last temptation of the flesh, an unexpected, irresistible attraction to a lovely middle-aged matron. You fight it for a while, then give in: who can say how these things happen? But tell me this: could you possibly think of a better way to enable the woman, her husband, and her neighbors to continue their lives in untroubled contentment?”

  “No, I could not,” agreed the mountebank, amazed to feel the tears well up behind his eyes. Despite himself, he was beginning to believe his mother’s tales of the sage’s boundless wisdom, and to experience a strong affection for this calm and powerful man.

  When Judah ben Simon spoke again, all the arrogance and obstinacy had vanished from his voice and given way to a new tone of meekness and humility.

  “I have come to ask you a question,” he said, then stopped. “No,” he corrected himself, “I have come to ask you to explain the meaning of my life, to reveal the significance of my experience among those three strange women, to interpret those weird coincidences, to describe the origin of that monstrous cat. And, most important of all, I am asking you to tell me whether these things might not be considered stranger than a child conceived in a dream.”

  Judah the Pious laughed out loud, as if his son had told him a hilarious joke; but, when he realized that the young man was serious, a spark of irritation became visible in his burning eyes. “Clearly,” he muttered, “you mistake me for a boy with scientific notions, like yourself. Otherwise, you would never expect me to label and explain each event in your life as if it were some cog or wheel in a mechanical clock.

  “I am neither a clockmaker nor a scientist, Judah ben Simon; I am a man of God. And frankly, considering all you have experienced, it disappoints and astounds me that you can still request a precise, orderly, and final explanation of His marvelous and mysterious plan.”

  “No,” interrupted the mountebank hastily, “you misunderstand me. I am no longer searching for conclusive proof of anything. But I would be inexpressibly grateful if you would consent to shed just one ray of light on this dark mystery, if you would offer one possible—one remotely probable—method of solving this baffling puzzle.”

  “That is something I can certainly agree to do,” smiled the sage. Grown cheerful once again, he paused for a moment’s reflection.

  “I suppose,” he began, “that one might attribute the last ten years of your life to a careful plan of mine, a lesson aimed to disabuse my son of some overly scientific notions. With this end in mind, I entered the body of Dr. Boris Silentius—”

  “Or disguised yourself as the ailing scientist,” Judah could not help interrupting.

  “Whichever way you choose to see it,” sighed the old man patiently, “I attempted to teach you the truth with the aid of a few strange stories and moldy bones. Then, when this failed, I resumed my role as Jeremiah Vinograd, and sent you out on that greatest of all follies, the mountebank’s quest for success.”

  “But really,” the young man broke in again, “all this must have been a great deal of trouble for you to undertake, even for the sake of a son.”

  “Not at all,” replied the saint, smiling slyly and gesturing with his head towards the main tent outside his room. “I would have done the same for any of them out there.

  “Indeed, to tell the truth,” he continued, “the worst bother was yet to come: let me assure you, it was no easy task to locate a woman who resembled your unique and extraordinary wife. And it took every bit of my political influence to have her installed in the hunting lodge of two dotty noblewomen, and to persuade them to let me refurbish one room with some evocative murals.”

  “All this makes perfect sense,” pronounced Judah ben Simon slowly, “yet there are still too many things which cannot be explained in this manner. I refuse to believe that you would have slept with your own daughter-in-law, and fathered her dream child. I am unable to imagine how you could have created that enormous wildcat, nor do I understand the nature of its relation to the Baroness Sophia, and the creature which used to howl in my native woods. Finally,” he concluded, watching the old man carefully, “not even the most wicked villain would murder three young women just to prove an abstract philosophical point.”

  “And so we have come to the very heart of the matter,” said the head of the Cracower court, smiling radiantly. “I am absolutely delighted to see that my only son is at last becoming the wise and perceptive young man I had always prayed he would be. For I will tell you, Judah ben Simon, you could not be more correct.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, my miracle-working ability never progressed to a level which would permit me to fashion a child from the airy vapor of dreams, or a gigantic cat from the fears of a dark night. No, the plain truth is that these things happened, and I had nothing to do with them. What else can I say?

  “All I can do,” he went on, after a while, “is offer you another possibility, an alternate explanation which completes and surpasses the one I proposed a few minutes ago. By now, Judah, you yourself must realize that these odd chances which have befallen you can only be interpreted as separate scenes in the strange and miraculous play of God.

  “Despite my flawed understanding of His ways, I will still venture to guess that He was acting out of motives much like mine—shaping and molding your destiny in an effort to make one of His children see the truth. Right from the beginning, in fact, I knew that he was moving me to take the form of Jeremiah Vinograd—for I do possess the essentially simple power of being in two places at once—and to steer you to Danzig.”

  The holy man fell silent for a long time, then shook his head in wonder. “When I heard about the dream-child,” he continued, “I realized that He had grown impatient with my feeble efforts, and had resolved to step in Himself. From then on, things were no longer in my control. I did my best to help out, with that business of the mountebankery, and the three women.

  “But, in the end, he outdid me again: the black cat proved beyond a doubt that none of us mortal miracle-workers have achieved one-millionth of His divine skill and accomplishment.”

  “So this God of yours would cheerfully wreck a man’s life just to teach him a lesson?” demanded Judah ben Simon, in a voice which quaked with fury.

  Judah the Pious looked sharply at his son. “To tell the truth,” he said quickly, “I would never have thought so; but that is the way it appears to be. Indeed, I will have to give some consideration to this problem of God’s unpredictable nature. Yet, be that as it may, I must still maintain that the hand of God is the only force which could have directed your fate in this way. What other explanation can you give?”

  Once again, the young man bowed his head. He suspected that his father’s words were true, but could not yet bring himself to accept them. “I can blame it on the laws of coincidence,” he answered weakly, unable to abandon all his convictions without some time to reconsider.

  “Blame it on anything you want,” replied t
he saint placidly, aware that his son’s dilemma would not be instantly resolved. “As for your second question,” he continued, “I cannot possibly presume to tell you whether these phenomena are stranger than a child conceived in a dream; I do not often worry about one thing being stranger than another. Such fruitless and time-consuming questions of comparison can only be subjectively resolved. It does seem obvious, however, that there is sufficient doubt in your mind to merit a return journey home, and a few years of reflection.”

  Conscious that the sage’s wisdom could not be faulted, Judah ben Simon felt so much excitement that he could no longer sit still. “You are right,” he said, beginning to pace the confines of the tiny room. “I am grateful for your advice. And now, if you will permit me, I will be on my way.”

  Then, in an instinctive, almost involuntary gesture, Judah ben Simon fell to his knees and kissed the wrinkled palms which lay upturned in the old man’s lap.

  “Farewell,” said the saint, grasping his son’s shoulders and staring deep into his eyes. “My heart is calmer now, for I feel quite confident that your troubles have come to an end. One thing is certain,” he went on, smiling wryly, “and that is the fact that I will no longer be tampering with your life. I am more than ninety years old; my time is almost over. But, if you should ever be in need,” he concluded, running his fingers affectionately through the young man’s long blond hair, “do not hesitate to call on me.”

  “Thank you,” replied Judah ben Simon tearfully, and hastily preceded the rabbi through the entrance to the main tent. As the mountebank rushed breathlessly up the center aisle, and into the crowd of onlookers at the back of the assembly, he realized that the great wise man of Cracow had already begun to address his congregation.