Stories From the Rabbis

THE rabbis, whose wit and wisdom are recorded in the Talmud and Midrash, — writings that stretch over a thousand years, — were admirable storytellers. They were fond of the parable, the anecdote, the apt illustration, and their legends that have been transmitted to us possess perennial charm. The common impression that they were rabbinical Dryasdusts, mere dreamers always buried in wearisome disputations, abstruse pedants dwelling in a world of their own, is wholly unjust. They were more than ecclesiastics, —they were men; and their cheerful humanity forms the secret to their character. Their background was rather sombre, — temple and nationality destroyed, a succession of foreign task-masters, a series of wars and persecutions that would have annihilated any other race; but they preserved, none the less, a certain buoyancy and even temper, which sprang from the fullness and sunniness of their faith. They thought, and studied, and debated ; they worked, and dreamt, and cherished hope, —

The rich harvest of rabbinical stories that survive can be traced to rabbinical buoyancy. It is a quality not peculiar to the rabbis; it is distinctly Oriental. Nor can absolute originality be claimed for rabbinical legends; they are children of various climes, these floating fairytales, and the history of their migration is as enchanting as the stories themselves. But in Palestine and Babylonia they received a coloring that was essentially rabbinical. The rabbis were preachers par excellence ; they lost no opportunity to point a moral. In their schools of instruction, to vary the monotony and fasten the attention of their younger disciples, they found the story the best and most convincing sermon.

Let us gather a few of these tales from their ancient storehouse, without further preface, and present them in simple narrative form.

In a year when prices were high, a pious man gave money to a wandering beggar. His wife, a veritable Xanthippe, so upbraided him for his act of kindness that he fled from home, and spent the night — it was New Year’s — in the graveyard. There, in the hush and stillness of the hour, he heard the departed souls of two maidens hold converse : —

“ Fly with me, dear sister,” said the one, “ through airy space to heaven, that we may learn the fate of the coming year.” “ How can I leave the grave? ” the other replied. “ I have not been buried in garments suited for so long a flight. Go thou alone, and let me know what thou hearest.”

Soon the maiden’s soul returned, with the information that in the coming year the early harvest would be destroyed by hail, but the late harvest would prosper. The pious man heard their talk, and as he was a farmer he acted accordingly. In the mean while he and his wife were on good terms again, but he could not resist the temptation to pass the next New Year’s night in the same graveyard. Again, in the silence of the place, he heard the souls of the maidens in mysterious converse, and now their story was reversed. During the coming year the early harvest was to flourish, but the late harvest would be destroyed by a scorching wind. Again the man knew how to profit by their colloquy; and while all his neighbors complained of their bad fortune, his crops were richly blessed.

Now the man’s wife possessed all the curiosity of Bluebeard’s spouse. She asked her husband the secret of his good luck, and he told her. Filled with the news, she hastened to the mother of the maiden buried in such unsightly fashion, and reviled her for her conduct. Once more the New Year arrived, and again the pious man spent the night in the graveyard. But when a tremulous maiden-soul asked its companion to accompany it through space, the poor child rejoined : “ Let me rest! The living have heard what we have here spoken in secret.”

Of all the characters in the Talmud, Rabba bar bar Chana is gifted with the liveliest imagination. He is a Munchausen, in his way, and the stories he tells of wonderful adventures on sea and land are of special interest. There have not been wanting commentators who recognize profound wisdom in this rabbi’s hyperbole ; and a good deal of ingenuity has been expended in unraveling his metaphors. In a sea-journey he saw a fish whose back was covered with sand, and grass grew thereon. In this respect the nineteenth-century sea-serpent was surpassed. He thought it was an island, and he and his friends landed upon it, lit a fire, and began to prepare a meal. But as soon as the fish felt the heat he turned over, and all the travelers would have been drowned if a passing ship had not rescued them. Another time he saw a frog equal to sixty houses in size. It was swallowed by a serpent, which, in its turn, was eaten by a fish that rested upon a tree. The same doughty rabbi sees a bird, whose head towers skywards while its legs rest in the water; and he tells unconcernedly about a huge fish, whose dead body, cast ashore by the waves, destroyed sixty cities. Sixty other cities were fed by its meat, and sixty more cities were supplied with the salted remainder.

More poetical is the rabbinical legend about David’s harp. The royal Psalmist slept but little; he gave precious hours to the study of God’s law. Over his bed he hung his harp, and at midnight, moved by the north wind, it poured forth of itself sweet melody. Aroused by the sound, David sprang from his couch, and spent the rest of the night in study and in song. Could the rabbis have told more impressively how the Psalms were the melody of David’s soul stirred by pious emotion ?

To illustrate benevolence as a typical virtue of womankind, the story is told of Rabbi Hillers wife that once a poor man came to her, and piteously begged for food. Seeing his famished state, she impulsively gave him all that she had on hand, and then quietly set to work to prepare a fresh meal. When dinner was ready, Hillel asked his wife the reason of the delay. She told him what she had done, and her husband blessed her for her piety and kindliness.

The rabbis were not only teachers, but traders as well, carrying on various kinds of business for their livelihood. That they were not so very close at a bargain, a suggestive story would prove. A rabbi, while engaged in prayer, was approached by a customer, who offered a certain price for some goods. He continued his devotions undisturbed. In his eagerness, the man doubled his offer, thinking that the rabbi’s silence was flue to his being dissatisfied with the first price. In the mean time, the prayer came to an end, and the rabbi sold the goods at the first price offered. He was satisfied with it, and only on account of his prayers could give no answer.

When Herodotus told about the ring of Polycrates, he hardly imagined that the Talmud would furnish a parallel. The story is a practical argument in favor of Sabbath observance. There lived once a righteous Israelite, who was known far and near for his scrupulous regard for the Sabbath; it was a day he held in such high honor that he spared no costs to give it a holiday aspect. The Sabbath among the Jews was never a day of gloomy asceticism. Manual labor was forbidden, but the atmosphere was a bright and joyous one. In the Israelite’s vicinity lived a heathen of great wealth. It was foretold to the latter that his property should fall into the Jew’s hands. Determined to thwart prophecy, he sold all his fortune for a precious gem, which he sewed in his turban, so that he might always have his property with him. Once, while crossing a bridge, the breeze blew his turban into the water, and with it he lost his dearly prized jewel. The next day a large fish was brought to market, and as the Israelite wished to have it for his Sabbath meal, he secured it at a high price. On opening it, the jewel was discovered, which made him wealthy for all time.

The special sanctity attached to the Sabbath is further illustrated in a story told of the Emperor Antoninus and Rabbi Judah the Holy. They were on friendly terms with each other, and one Sabbath the emperor dined with the rabbi, and found the cold food very appetizing. He chanced to eat another time at the rabbi’s house, — it was on a week day, — and though the hot repast was costly, this did not taste so well as the other. “Can you tell me, rabbi.” the emperor asked, “ what made the cold food so appetizing ? ” “ There was a certain spice used in its preparation,” the rabbi replied, “ which is called Sabbath, and gives every dish a pleasant flavor.” “ Let me see it,” said the emperor. “ I would very much like to have it used in my kitchen.” “ This spice,” the rabbi answered, “ is only to be used by those who keep the Sabbath day holy.”

A fair specimen of rabbinical fancy is the following : The world contains ten hard things. The mountain is hard; iron pierces it. Iron is hard ; fire melts it. Fire is hard ; water extinguishes it. Water is hard; the cloud carries it. The cloud is hard ; the air disperses it. The air is hard ; man endures it. Man is hard; care bends him. Care is hard ; wine banishes it. Wine is hard ; sleep conquers it. But death is harder than all things, and still King Solomon maintains, “ Benevolence rescues from death.”

The arrival of the king was anxiously awaited in a city. The streets were full of people, all eager to catch a glimpse of their ruler’s face. A blind rabbi, Sheshet by name, mingled in the crowd. Next to him stood a man who asserted scornfully, “ Whole pitchers may go to the well, — what do broken ones want ? " The rabbi observed that the words were applied to him on account of his blindness, and answered softly, “ Be calm, my friend ; you will soon be convinced that I see better than you.” Amid great noise a procession approached. “ The king comes ! ” the man exclaimed. “ No,” said the rabbi, “ that is not the king.” A second train of men drew near, amid the wildest uproar. “ Now it is the king,” said the man. “No,” replied the rabbi, “ again you are mistaken.” At last a third procession approached, and a solemn stillness prevailed. “Now the king has arrived,” said the rabbi, and it was truly so. “ How can you know this in your blindness ? ” asked the man, amazed. “ An earthly sovereign,” rejoined the rabbi, “ resembles the heavenly Monarch. When God appeared in the wilderness to the prophet Elijah, there was storm, fire, and earthquake. Yet in all these manifestations of nature the Deity approached not. It was only when a light breeze stirred that the prophet heard the voice of God.”

The fondness of the rabbis for allegory is illustrated in the following anecdote. Rabbi Gamaliel, head of the academy, celebrated his son’s wedding, and among his guests were three rabbis, Elieser, Joshua, and Sadok. Gamaliel handed a goblet of wine to Elieser, who did not accept it, being unwilling to be served by so eminent a man. It was next offered to Joshua, who quaffed it without any hesitation. “ Is it proper,” said Elieser to Joshua, “ that we are seated comfortably here, and allow ourselves to be waited on by our master ? ” “ I know a greater man,” Joshua rejoined, “ who waited on his guests. Did not the patriarch Abraham wait upon visitors whom he thought to be Arabian travelers, not angels?” “ How long,” Sadok observed, “ will you talk about the honor of mankind, and forget the glory of the Creator! Does not God wait upon humanity ? Does he not let the winds blow and the clouds descend ? Does he not send rain to fructify the soil, that plants may spring forth ? Does he not then set the table for every human being ? ”

For every human being! That was the gentle universalism of the rabbis; and while in times of sharp distress and bitter recrimination, their utterances were human in their passion and agony, that spirit of broad humanity was never wholly absent. A heathen, said Rabbi Meir, who occupies himself with the law of God stands in the same rank as the high-priest.

Abram S. Isaacs.