The Yoke of the Thorah. Harland Henry
devotion. Though a Gentile—because the Lord pays no heed to him—may commit certain sinful acts with impunity, for you—upon whom the eye of the Lord rests perpetually—for you to commit them, would entail immediate and awful punishment. Though a Christian, for example—because he is of infinite smallness in the sight of the Lord—may transact business on the Sabbath, if you—a Jew—were to do so, the Lord would surely visit you with some frightful calamity. You might be struck by lightning; you might be afflicted with an incurable disease.” This was the sort of doctrine that had been dinned into Elias Bacharach's ears from the time when he had first begun the studies preparatory to becoming Bar-Mitzvah, and to assuming, as the saying is, the Yoke of the Thorah. Heredity predisposed him to accept it. The occasion had never arisen for him to doubt it, or even to consider it in the light of his own intelligence. He had taken it for granted, just as he had taken his geography and history for granted, just as many wiser people than he, the world over, take their theology for granted every day.
To a Jew such as this, nothing can be more intrinsically repugnant than the idea of marriage with a Christian—or, more accurately, with a Goy, which term is applied equally to all human beings who are not of Jewish faith and lineage. The average Caucasian would pretty certainly hesitate at the idea of marriage with a Mongolian. How much more positive would his hesitation be, if race antipathy were, as it is in the case of the Jews, reenforced by the terrors of a supernatural religion. It is no figure of speech, but a literal statement of the fact, to say that an orthodox Jewish father would rather have his son die than marry outside of Israel. He would prefer a funeral to such a wedding. Indeed, such a wedding would be regarded as equivalent to a funeral. The name of the bridegroom would be published among the names of the dead in the Jewish newspapers. His parents, his brothers and sisters, his nearest relatives, would put on mourning for him; and henceforward, if they should pass him in the street, they would refuse to recognize him. In the synagogue he would be excommunicated and cursed. All pious Jews would be enjoined from holding any intercourse whatever with him; from speaking with him; from buying of him, or selling to him; from giving him food, drink, clothing or shelter; from succoring him in danger or in sickness; even from pronouncing his name. “Be he accursed, and be his name forever accursed among men.” Furthermore, all pious Jews would cherish the conviction that sooner or later the vengeance of the Lord would overtake and overwhelm him. They would predict the direst calamities, the most fearful retribution. Superstition never pays attention to statistics, and is never shaken by them. No conceivable misfortune that can fasten upon a human being in this world, but they would promise it to him. Poverty, disease, disgrace; an adulterous wife; deformed children, unsound of mind and evil of heart; whatever the imagination can depict of horrible and disastrous would inevitably fall to his lot.
In this faith, among these traditions, Elias Bacharach had grown up. For hundreds, for thousands, of years, his ancestors on every side had nourished these superstitions. *
* It would seem hardly necessary, yet it is no more than
fair to say that among the better-educated and more
intelligent Jews in America, orthodoxy of this stripe is not
common. Even among them, notwithstanding, it prevails to a
sufficient extent; and among the ignorant classes it is the
rule. It is a curious circumstance, however, that, in the
majority of cases, those very Jews who have cast quite loose
from their Judaism, and proclaim themselves “free-thinkers,”
“agnostics,” or what not, retain their prejudice against
intermarriage, and even their superstitions anent its
consequences.
And yet, an hour ago, when Elias had taken leave of Christine Redwood, his heart was palpitating with a myriad new and sweet emotions, for which, suddenly, at last, he realized that the right name was love—realized it, as has been said, with surprise and with consternation, for he had been unaccountably blind to his own condition until to-night. And during his walk home he had pictured to himself the exceeding joy that would be his if she should ever come to love him in return. And even now, the light of her eyes still shone in his memory, the scent of her garments still clung in his nostrils, the sound of her voice still vibrated in his ears, the touch of her hand was still warm upon his arm. Even now, as he looked out into the vast moonlit sky, and spoke her name softly to himself, a thrill swept electrically through his body. He loved her, he told himself; and if he could not win her love, if he could not have her for his wife, the world would become a desert to him, his life would be wasted, he would rather die, here, now, at once. Perhaps Christine, too, was at this hour looking out of her window. Perhaps her eyes, as well as his, were filling themselves with the glory of the night. In this fancy, highly improbable as it was, he found much comfort. It was good to think that he and she were enjoying something in common. The moonlight was like a palpable link connecting them, like a gossamer cord stretching between them and binding them together. Would that it might bear a message from him to her, and let her know of the love that was yearning in his bosom. Again he spoke aloud her name, caressing it as it passed his lips. And again his heart thrilled, intoxicated with love and hope.
But all at once his superstition sprang upon him. All at once, like a flash of lightning in the darkness, the fear of the Divine wrath lit up his imagination. Every drop of blood in his body came to a standstill and grew cold. He could feel his flesh creep, his hair rise on end. For a third time he pronounced her name; but this time it escaped like a gasp of pain from between clenched teeth. Why had he ever seen her? Why had he not understood the peril that he was running, and avoided it? Henceforth, at any rate, he would never see her again. He would do as his uncle had said, give her up, tear her from his heart. No matter how hard it might be, he would do it, and so save her and himself from perdition. But the resolution had not taken shape in his mind before Christine's face, pale and pleading, with pathetic, passionate eyes, came up visibly before him; and then he was conscious of nothing but of a great tenderness for her, an infinite need of her, a sharp pang of remorse that he should have been disloyal to her for an instant, a strong throbbing in his temples, a wondrous tremor through all his senses. Yet, even while this vision was still haunting his sight, the voice of the rabbi began to ring hideously in his ears, repeating the anathema that his own ancestor had written; and all the Jew in him shuddered at the sound.
He covered his head and prayed.
He remained in prayer until the dawn had begun to whiten the walls of his room.
Then he sat down at his window, and watched the red and gold burn in the eastern sky, and wondered at the strange calm that had come to him. His prayer had been answered, he believed. He had prayed that his heart might be purged of the unholy love that had stolen into it. Now he could think of Christine with complete indifference. Not a trace was left of the agitation which that thought had aroused in him a little while ago.
“The Lord has heard my prayer. I am not in love with her any more,” he said.
He went through the rest of that week in the same indifferent condition—ate, drank, slept, painted, chatted with his uncle, kept the Sabbath, precisely as though Christine Redwood had never crossed the horizon of his world.
“I am not in love with her,” he assured himself. “She is a pretty and pleasant girl; but I am not in love with her, and never shall be.”
The Jew had got the better of the man.
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