The Maccabaean

Terrible is the man who thus knows himself with superhuman perspicuity! He who stands for this living, throbbing spirit of the New Life; he who with creative master- fulness has molded the Genius of the Jew into visible form; he could not fail to recognize that spirit when depicted for him by one who, like myself, stood then under its spell for the first time. He did not suggest the least doubt; his rock-like assurance bespoke the clear consciousness of this thing so strange to me but so familiar to him. I was reminded of the Biblical story how Joseph's coat was brought to Jacob: "Hakker-na hakethoneth bincha hi im lo? Vayakirah!" "Know now whether this be thy son's coat or no? And he recognized it."

fait £10 + 1110 ale “Vayakirah!” Ben Yehudah’s clear vision, his unwavering devotion to the ideal when once recognized, is the keynote of his character. This incident had for me a kind of allegoric meaning: for did not Ben Yehudah recognize that Hebrew is the true garb of Israel’s renascent spirit? Did he not early recognize the true being and destiny of the modern Joseph? “Vayakirah!” Who saw more clearly than he that the spirit of Israel could not be properly clothed in a foreign linguistic garment? And was it not his firm faith and adamantine will that restored the beauty of the ancient carb?

In those few minutes, in that first conversation with Ben Yehudah, I learned more of the true spirit of the Jewish renascence than from all the articles I had read—or written, than from all the speeches I had heard—or made!

The living spirit of it. There is no word at my command to express it. There is but one Hebrew word that does it justice—Ra'anannuth. But how shall I English such a word? Take a morning walk in the redolent spring air, revel in the sight of the fresh dew glistening on the green—very tender green—leaves, feel the wine of resurgent life sparkling in your veins: that is Ra'anannuth!

Our wondrous new Jewish Life moves, skips and dances to the rhythm and melody of this ringing, singing word, Ra'anannuth.

And this one word sums up my indebtedness to Ben Ya- hudah and his family. They have taught its magic and mystery. I know now what the New Palestine can produce. A new Jewish individuality, fine, erect, upstanding, and above all—articulate. Vayakirah! I, too, recognize it: a life, a spirit, a fragrant and vagrant breath, creative, zestful, and full of the song of freedom. And if I have caught the least whiff of this—this Ra’anannuth—I owe it to him and his. Pygmalion, thou hast shaped my soul, too.

All my life, from childhood on, I was steeped in Hebrew. But it was book Hebrew. I made my acquaintance with Hebrew letters very early. I spoke it in the Hungarian way, whenever possible, which was when some Chalukkah Jew came to our little town to schnorr. When at the age of twenty-five I came to America, I heard it spoken in the Russo-Jewish way with those queer gurglings and upward- quirking inflections that are peculiar to the Yiddish dialect. Then, lastly, I heard it spoken in Ben Yehudah’s family in New York. What a revelation! I never knew that Hebrew was so mellifluous—why, this is no mere speech; why, this is but liquid music! I never knew that Hebrew could sing! Since then, I have been addicted—addicted is the word—to Palestinian Hebrew. It amuses me to recall that it took me three months to learn how to pronounce a Palestinian Hheth, that soft floating breath so different from the grating guttural of Synogogue Hebrew. ’Ayin took longer: then came Kkoff, finally I mastered even Tteth. But what is so

musical about Palestinian Hebrew is not so much the Oriental modification of familiar Hebrew sounds as the inflection, that rippling, tripping melody of the New Hebrew speech, which makes of it one of the most melodious tongues, one of the most gracious forms of human utterance, I know of. And as an old-time linguist, I feel I have a right to make this statement. We ought to learn this Palestinian pronunciation in its utmost purity and genuineness. I heard many of our public men attempt it, but they only get the modified vowel sounds, never the consonental sounds; what they chiefly fall short of is that they do not achieve music. But why kill the music of our language?

Recently I had an experience that gave me great satisfaction. I addressed a Boston Menorah society. The audience consisted of students of elocution, both Jews and Gentiles. Among other things I spoke, as I always do, whenever the least occasion offers itself, on the beauty of the new Hebrew language. After the lecture was over, this mixed audience asked me to recite something in Hebrew. On the spur of the moment, and remembering that poetry written by the Russo-Jewish literary school does not lend itself to recitation in Sepharadi pronunciation, I chose Jehuda Halevi’s “Yephe nof, mesos tevel”*—an ode to Jerusalem—which I happen to know by heart. When I got through, the exclamation came from all over: “Why, this is not Hebrew, this sounds more like Italian!”

Remember, pray, that my hearers were students of the art of expression, sensitive to melody of speech. I was overjoyed. Something sang in me that sounded like Ra'anannuth, ra'anannuth, ra'anannuth!

Neither the limits nor the nature of this article permit of an extended essay in philological and literary criticism. I should have liked to write something of the neologisms which we owe to Ben Yehudah, and which make it possible for us to speak Hebrew at all in these modern days. Some there are who condemn these new coinages, but while doing so, use them. I should have liked to have forecast the trend of the innovations which Hebrew must yet undergo if it is really to become a living speech for living man. I should like to set forth particularly what I consider the shortcomings of modern Hebrew literary style. But I must restrict myself to a bare hint, based on what I have already said. It is a delicate subject, and I know that my poor rabbinic head stands in great danger of unmedical trepan- ning for daring to say what I am going to say right here.

It has to do, this hint of mine, with this matter of sound. We dare not belittle its importance, for it is fundamental. Style depends absolutely upon sound. Not only the style of poetry, where it is indispensable, but even prose style. We write not with our pens alone but chiefly with our ears. Rhythm is a most reliable test of good writing. Now, the trouble with most of our neo-Hebraic literature—both periodical and permanent—is that it is written with the pen alone and not with the ear. How can this be otherwise, since we do not know the real ring of Hebrew? Since we are so careless about it? neo-Hebraic style in most cases is stilted, artificial, bookish, just because it is not the echo of the living speech, bubbling on living lips. But the writer must be first a speaker, if he is to write well. Fortunately, we have some who write Hebrew with remarkable fluency, freedom and freshness, just because they speak well.

To explain how far much of what passes as Hebrew poetry is vitiated by this lack of genuine Hebrew rhythm, would take me too far afield. As, for instance, when the artistically atrocious job is perpetrated of translating