The Spinoza of Market Street - Isaac Bashevis Singer [56]
Nowadays snow is a trifle: it falls for a day or two at most. But in those days! Often it snowed for a month without stopping! Huge snowdrifts piled up; houses were buried; and everyone had to dig their way out. Heaven and earth merged and became one. Why does the beard of an old man turn white? Such things are all related.--At night, we heard the howling of beasts ... or perhaps it was only the sound of the wind.
We arrived in Kuzmir on a Friday afternoon. My father-in-law went to the rabbi's study to greet him. He was permitted to go in immediately. Since it was the middle of winter, few of the rabbi's disciples had come. I waited in the study house, my skin tingling. My father-in-law was by nature such a bullheaded man. He might very well talk back to Rabbi Chazkele. It was three-quarters of an hour before he came out, his face white as chalk above his long beard, his eyes burning like coals beneath his bushy eyebrows.
"If it wasn't the eve of the Sabbath, I would go home immediately," he said.
"What happened, father-in-law?" I asked.
"Your wonder-rabbi is a fool! An ignoramus! If he weren't an old man, I would tear off his sidelocks."
The taste of gall was strong in my mouth; and I regretted the whole affair. To talk this way about Rabbi Chazkele of Kuzmir!
"Father-in-law," I asked, "what did the rabbi say to you?"
"He told me to become a flatterer," my father-in-law answered. "For eight days I must flatter everyone I meet, even the worst scoundrel. If your rabbi had an ounce of sense he would know that I hate flattery like the plague. It makes me sick even to come in contact with it. For me, a flatterer is worse than a murderer."
"Well, father-in-law," said I, "do you think the rabbi doesn't know that flattery is bad? Believe me, he knows what he's doing."
"What does he know? One sin cannot wipe out another. He knows nothing about the law."
I went away completely crushed. I had not yet been to the ritual bath, so I went there. I have forgotten to mention that my father-in-law never went to the ritual bath. I don't know why. I guess it's the way of the Misnagids. He was haughty perhaps. It was beneath his dignity to undress among other men. When I came out of the ritual bath, the Sabbath candles were already lit. Rabbi Chazkele used to bless the Sabbath candles long before dark--he himself, not his wife. His wife lit her own candles. But that's another matter. . . .
I entered the study house. The rabbi was standing in his white gabardine and his white hat. His face shone like the sun. One could see clearly he was in a higher world. When he sang out, "Give thanks unto the Lord for He is good for His mercy endureth forever," the walls shook. While praying the rabbi clapped his hands and stamped his feet.
Only a few disciples were present. But they were the elite, men of holy deeds, every one of them a personal friend of the rabbi. As they chanted, I felt their prayers reaching the heavens. Never, not even at Kuzmir, had I experienced such a beginning of the holy Sabbath. The rejoicing was so real that you could touch it. All their eyes were shining. My mind became so light that I could barely keep my feet on the ground. I happened to be praying near a window. Snow had covered everything--no road, no path, no cottages. Candles seemed to burn in the snow. Heaven and earth were one. The moon and the stars touched the roofs. Those who were not in Kuzmir that Friday evening will never know what this world can be. . . . I'm not speaking now of the world to come. . . .
I glanced at my father-in-law. He stood in a corner, his head bent. As a rule, his sternness was visible in his face, but now he looked humble, quite a different person. After the prayers we went to eat at the rabbi's table.
The rabbi had put on a white robe of silk, with silver fasteners, and embroidered with flowers. As his custom was before the Sabbath meal, he now sat alone in his library, reciting chapters of the Mishnah and of the Zohar. The older disciples sat down