STUDIES IN HEBREW LITERATURE AND JEWISH CULTURE

äãåà ä " ãåàì STUDIES IN HEBREW LITERATURE AND JEWISH CULTURE

Amsterdam Studies in Jewish Thought

Editor: Reinier Munk, Leiden University and Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlands Editorial Board: Resianne Fontaine, University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands Robert Gibbs, University of Toronto, Canada Warren Zev Harvey, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel Albert van der Heide, Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlands Arthur Hyman, Yeshiva University, New York, U.S.A. Howard Kreisel, Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Beer Sheva, Israel David Novak, University of Toronto, Canada Kenneth Seeskin, North Western University, Illinois, U.S.A. Colette Sirat, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS), France

VOLUME 12 The titles published in this series are listed at the end of this volume.

äãåà ä "ãåàì


STUDIES IN HEBREW LITERATURE AND JEWISH CULTURE Presented to Albert van der Heide on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday


   .. 

&

 

A C.I.P. Catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

ISBN 978-1-4020-6201-8 (HB) ISBN 978-1-4020-6202-5 (e-book)

Published by Springer, P.O. Box 17, 3300 AA Dordrecht, The Netherlands. www.springer.com

Printed on acid-free paper

All Rights Reserved © 2007 Springer No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the Publisher, with the exception of any material supplied specifically for the purpose of being entered and executed on a computer system, for exclusive use by the purchaser of the work.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Preface  -  Abraham ibn Ezra and the Twelfth-Century European Renaissance

vii

1

   New Catalogues for Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts?

21

    An Early Hebrew-Greek Bible Glossary from the Cairo Genizah and its Significance for the Study of Jewish Bible Translations into Greek

31

   A Jewish Childbirth Amulet for a Girl

41

 .   The Riddle of the Baskets of 1726: A Glimpse of Jewish Book Production at Amsterdam in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century

57

   Laments at the Departure of a Sage: Funeral Songs for Great Scholars as Recorded in Rabbinic Literature

81

   The Treatise on the Patriarch Henoch by Johannes Drusius (1550–1616)

103

   Unusual Verbal Forms in the Book of Proverbs and Semantic Disambiguation

151

 . .   First Things First: The Syntax of Gen 1:1–3 Revisited

169

   The Targumic Versions of the Martyrdom of Isaiah

189

 .    ‘The Emperor of Poets’: Immanuel of Rome (1261–1332)

203

   Philosophy and Kabbalah in the Eighteenth Century: Moses Hayyim Luzzatto, Commentator of Maimonides

213

   Buildings in the Love Poems by Yehuda Amichai

229

   A Note about Two Newly-Discovered Hebrew Quotations of Averroes’ Works Lost in their Original Arabic Texts

241

 .     The Site of Adam’s Tomb

251

 .   From Perush to Be’ ur: Authenticity and Authority in Eighteenth-Century Jewish Interpretation

257

   Love of One’s Neighbour in Pinh . as Hurwitz’s Sefer ha-Berit

271

   The Value of Julius Guttmann’s Die Philosophie des Judentums for Understanding Medieval Jewish Philosophy Today

297

   Moses Mendelssohn’s Conception of Judaism

309

 Preface

A

      , reaching sixty-five is not much of an issue; at that stage in life one hasn’t even attained the age of ‫שיבה‬, ‘grey hair’.1 In present-day academic life, however, sixty-five seems to be a turning point in one’s scholarly career. More often than not the scholar in question is asked to retreat from his position at the university and is relieved from the burden of academic administration and teaching. The fact that Albert van der Heide will reach the age of sixty-five in July 2007 and, as a consequence, will leave Leiden University and the Vrije Universiteit, provides his colleagues from various academic institutions with an excellent opportunity to honour him with a Liber Amicorum in the true sense of the word. And for someone who signs himself in Hebrew as ‫( אוד"ה‬AvdH), what other title could such a volume carry than ‫אודה לאוד"ה‬, ‘Ode to Albert’? As those who know him will readily acknowledge, Albert takes an unusually broad interest in numerous aspects of Hebrew, Aramaic and Jewish studies, as well as other sides of human culture; his own scholarly development clearly attests to this fact. Whereas Albert’s  thesis was concerned with the use of lamed with infinitive construct in Biblical Hebrew, his dissertation explored quite another field: the textual transmission of the Yemenite Targum of Lamentations. But long before, Albert had kept his end up in codicology by publishing a thoroughly revised and updated catalogued description of Hebrew manuscripts from the Leiden University Library. The nature of Rabbinic midrash as well as medieval exegesis, in all its ramifications, including lexicography, would take pride of place during much of Albert’s career, while figures such as Rashi, Maimonides and Moses Hayyim Luzzatto enjoyed his special interest and still continue to do so. The history of Hebrew scholarship in the Netherlands, including Hebrew printing, did not pass unnoticed to Albert, while he also feels at home in Modern Hebrew literature, the novels 1. m. Abot 5:21.

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

and stories of Samuel Yosef Agnon possibly being his all-time favourite. In addition to all this, Albert cherishes an active passion for music (his collection of flutes is impressive), typography and the classic and old-fashioned printing press.  The editors hope that the present volume offered to Albert van der Heide will contain much to his liking. Indeed, most of his fields of interest—what book could actually encompass all of them?—are represented in this volume. To begin with, several contributions deal with various aspects of rabbinic studies. Harry Sysling (Amersfoort) opted for a comprehensive study of rabbinic ‘Laments at the departure of a sage’, a fitting title for a contribution to a volume such as this, even though, fortunately, Albert’s departure is of a rather different kind. Pieter W. van der Horst (Utrecht University) traces the vicissitudes of early rabbinic traditions concerning ‘The site of Adam’s tomb’ in Jerome. Alberdina Houtman (Protestant Theological University, Kampen) explores ‘The Targumic versions of the martyrdom of Isaiah’, a story inserted in the Tosefta Targum on Isaiah 66. Studies in medieval Judaism are conspicuously present in this volume, for obvious reasons. Angel Sáenz-Badillos (Real Colegio Complutense, Madrid and Harvard University) places the exegetical concerns of the well-known polymath Abraham ibn Ezra firmly within a broader cultural context in his ‘Abraham ibn Ezra and the twelfthcentury European renaissance’. Wout van Bekkum (State University of Groningen) presents us with ‘“The Emperor of Poets”: Immanuel of Rome (1261–1332)’, an introduction to this Hebrew poet from the time of Dante. Colette Sirat (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, Paris) emphasises the need for making new catalogues of medieval Hebrew manuscripts: ‘New catalogues for medieval Hebrew manuscripts?’. Nicholas de Lange (University of Cambridge) discusses in detail ‘An early Hebrew-Greek Bible glossary from the Cairo Genizah and its significance for the study of Jewish Bible translations into Greek’. Mauro Zonta (University of Rome, La Sapienza) presents his remarkable discovery of some Hebrew passages of Ibn Rushd not preserved in Arabic: ‘A note about two newly-discovered Hebrew quotations of Averroes’ works lost in their original Arabic texts’. Steven Harvey (Bar-Ilan University) re-examines our view of medie-



ix

val Jewish philosophy by discussing ‘The value of Julius Guttmann’s Die Philosophie des Judentums for understanding medieval Jewish philosophy today’. A specimen of early modern Hebrew studies is presented in the contribution of Johannes Tromp (Leiden University), who offers us a translation, annotation and introduction to ‘The treatise on the Patriarch Henoch by Johannes Drusius (1550–1616)’. Quite a few articles in this volume are concerned with Judaism in the eighteenth century. Adri Offenberg (Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana, Amsterdam) sets out on an enigmatic journey in order to solve ‘The riddle of the baskets of 1726: a glimpse of Jewish book production at Amsterdam in the first half of the eighteenth century’. Joëlle Hansel (The Hebrew University of Jerusalem) explores the twilight zone between philosophy and mysticism in ‘Philosophy and Kabbalah in the eighteenth century: Moses Hayyim Luzzatto, commentator of Maimonides’. Margaretha Folmer (Leiden University and Vrije Universiteit) studies in detail the structure and phraseology of ‘A Jewish childbirth amulet for a girl’ from the collection of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana. Irene Zwiep (University of Amsterdam) discusses some major concepts of Jewish exegesis in ‘From perush to be’ ur: authenticity and authority in eighteenth-century Jewish interpretation’. Resianne Fontaine (University of Amsterdam) presents a comprehensive Jewish treatise on the concept of neighbourly love: ‘Love of one’s neighbour in Pinh.as Hurwitz’s Sefer ha-Berit’. Reinier Munk (Leiden University and Vrije Universiteit) offers a discussion of ‘Moses Mendelssohn’s conception of Judaism’. Two articles are concerned with Hebrew linguistics: Martin Baasten (Leiden University) discusses the grammatical structure of the first three biblical verses in ‘First things first: the syntax of Gen 1:1–3 revisited’, whereas Holger Gzella (Leiden University) examines some ‘Unusual verbal forms in the Book of Proverbs and semantic disambiguation’. Finally, Modern Hebrew literature receives attention in Hannah Neudecker’s (Leiden University) essay on the motif of ‘Buildings in the Love Poems by Yehuda Amichai’.  As much as the contributors to the present volume have jointly endeavoured to do justice to Albert van der Heide’s many fields of interest and to further scholarly research in every respect, they have no

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intention to deny that an additional reason to bring these studies together was the wish to praise and celebrate Albert’s human kindness and his inspiring congeniality as a colleague and a friend. Mindful of the Sayings of the Wise, we, as his friends and colleagues, hereby urge Albert not to consider the age of sixty-five as a turning point of any kind. Instead, dear Albert, simply keep going and, of course, ‫!עד מאה ועשרים‬

 . .  &  

 Abraham ibn Ezra and the Twelfth-Century

European Renaissance  - A   to some of the works of Abraham ibn Ezra and new light on concrete aspects of his extensive literary and scientific production have attracted the attention of scholars in past years.1 Most of them have focused on Ibn Ezra’s life, and especially on his relation with the Jewish communities that he visited in his travels through Europe,2 his significance in the history of Jewish scientific thought,3 in Hebrew poetry,4 grammar5 and exegesis,6 or on his con1. As an example of this interest, see the collections of articles in F. D E, Abraham Ibn Ezra y su tiempo / Abraham ibn Ezra and His Age (Madrid 1990); see also I. T & J.M. H (eds.), Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra: Studies in the Writings of a Twelfth-Century Jewish Polymath (Cambridge, /London 1993) and P.J. T (ed.), Abraham ibn Ezra savant universel (Bruxelles 2000). Volume 6 of Aleph (2006), edited by G. F, is also almost exclusively devoted to Abraham ibn Ezra. 2. See J. G, ‘La estancia decisiva de Abraham ibn Ezra en Roma y la constitución de un público hebreófono profano y cultivado’, in D E (ed.), Abraham Ibn Ezra y su tiempo, 109–120. The studies of N. G (The Jews in Medieval Normandy. A Social and Intellectual History [Cambridge 1998] etc.) are doubtless illuminating, but at the same time they contain highly personal interpretations. I do not discuss any of his conclusions here, since they are not relevant to my topic. 3. See, for instance, the excellent article of Y.Tz. L, ‘Some Astrological Themes in the Thought of Abraham ibn Ezra’, in T & H (eds.), Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra, 28–50; G. F, ‘Les sciences dans les communautés juives médiévales de Provence: leur appropriation, leur role’, RÉJ 152/1–2 (1993) 29– 136; Id., Science in the Medieval Hebrew and Arabic Traditions (Aldershot 2005); Sh. S, Abraham ibn Ezra and the Rise of Medieval Hebrew Science (Leiden 2003). 4. See I. L, ‫ חייו ושירתו‬,‫( אברהם אבן עזרא‬Abraham Ibn Ezra: His Life and Poetry) (Tel Aviv 1969); L.J. W, Twilight of a Golden Age: Selected Poems of Abraham Ibn Ezra (Tuscalossa 1997). 5. L. C (‫ מסורת וחידוש( )לובה חרל"פ‬:‫תורת הלשון של רבי אברהם אבן עזרא‬ [Rabbi Abraham ibn-Ezra’s Linguistic System. Tradition and Innovation] [Beer Sheva 1999]) has offered a general perspective on Ibn Ezra’s linguistic system; I studied some more detailed aspects of this system in ‘Aportaciones literarias, filosóficas y científicas de los judíos a la renovación intelectual del Occidente europeo en el siglo

2

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

nection with Arabic writings.7 Thanks to a recently published, excellent chronological list of all his scholarly works written in Italy, France and England between 1140 and 1160,8 we are now able to follow his intellectual evolution with precision. All of these approaches have helped to see the profile of this Jewish author in a fully new light. But it could also be interesting for European scholars to contemplate Ibn Ezra not as a merely Jewish character, whose work was intended for Italian, French or English Jews, but as an intellectual who lived among other (non-Jewish) intellectuals in twelfth-century Europe. For that reason, I will try to focus on some aspects of his work from the more general perspective of his epoch, presenting him as one of the first Jews that became a European scholar.9 I would like to under’, in Renovación intelectual del Occidente europeo (siglo ).  Semana de Estudios Medievales, Estella: 14–18 julio 1997 (Pamplona 1998) 315–348 and ‘‫על כמה‬ ‫‘( ’עמדות דקדוקיות של אברהם אבן עזרא‬On some grammatical views of Abraham ibn Ezra’), Meh.qerei Lashon 8 (2001) 229–251. Besides the already known editions of three linguistic works of Abraham ibn Ezra, Sefer S.ah.ot (ed. C.  V; Salamanca 1977), Yesod Diqduq (ed. N. A; Jerusalem 1984) and Sefer Haganah ‘al R. Sa‘adyah Gaon (ed. I. O; Ramat Gan 1988), two of his grammatical works have appeared recently in critical editions: Moznayim (ed. L. J P & A. SB; Córdoba 2002) and Safah Berurah (ed. E. R & A. S-B; Córdoba 2004). 6. See, for example, I. L, Deconstructing the Bible. Abraham ibn Ezra’s Introduction to the Torah (London 2003). D. R has also published some biblical commentaries with German translation: Abraham Ibn Esras Kommentar zu den Büchern Kohelet, Ester und Rut (Berlin/New York 1999); Abraham Ibn Esras langer Kommentar zum Buch Exodus (Berlin/New York 2000). 7. See B.R. G, ‘Astronomy and Astrology in the Works of Abraham ibn Ezra’, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 6 (1996) 9–21. 8. Sh. S & G. F, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Scholarly Writings: A Chronological Listing’, Aleph 6 (2006) 13–55. 9. The present article, being unconventional from many points of view, could be misunderstood by some traditional readers. Without forgetting the recent studies on Abraham ibn Ezra, on his biography, his stay in the Jewish communities of Italy, France or England, the article does not discuss any of these typical topics or wellknown ideas. It tries simply to consider the person and the work of Abraham ibn Ezra from the perspective of the European background, not just from a Jewish point of view. Since it does not try to show real historical connections, it will not offer undisputable proofs or exact parallels. After having dedicated years to the study of the primary sources, the works of Abraham ibn Ezra, I now ask myself if it is possible to understand his work better by considering him as an European intellectual who lived in the middle of the cultural atmosphere of his epoch, which in my opinion has not been duly emphasised in most Ibn Ezra studies. I am aware that some of my ideas are

 -

3

score that Ibn Ezra not only made important contributions to medieval Europe thanks to his own Arabic and Jewish legacy, but that at the same time he was living in Europe, completely immersed in its cultural trends. He experienced the same problems as other intellectuals of his time and faced the same challenges, since all of them shared a common cultural atmosphere. In my opinion, this is an aspect of Ibn Ezra’s personality and work that deserves more attention. Living during the two last thirds of twelfth-century Europe was a fascinating experience. A radical change had taken place in the educational institutions, with the creation of cathedral schools and the birth of the oldest medieval universities.10 Even if the development of these institutions was not directly significant for the Jews, the level of education and knowledge of their neighbors increased in a way that could not but affect the Jewish communities themselves. The old Latin tradition had been deeply enriched due to the recovery of many classical and oriental texts on science and philosophy. Many scholars were traveling to other countries searching for new sources of knowledge. Experimental science and technology were also increasing in their importance. No wonder that C.H. Haskins and his followers described this climate as a true renaissance,11 as a complete renewal of both knowledge and sensibilities.12 As is well known, Ibn Ezra lived his first fifty years in the Iberian Peninsula. In 1140, he left Sefarad and spent the rest of his life in Italy, just a beginning and will need further development by specialists in the different areas. 10. See V.L. B, Universities, Medicine and Science in the Medieval West (Aldershot 2004); A. G, ‘Écoles et structures sociales des communautées juives dans l’Occident aux - siècles’, in Gli Ebrei nell’alto medioevo: 30 marzo–5 aprile 1978 (Spoleto 1980) II, 937–962. 11. C.H. H, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge,  1927; repr. 1979). The European renaissance of the twelfth century has not been ignored by Jewish scholars since S. B, A Social and Religious History of the Jews (New York 1937) (see I. M, ‘The Dynamics of Jewish Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century’, in M.A. S & J. V E [eds.] Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe [Notre Dame,  2001] 27–46), but has often been obscured by a particular interest in the tensions and polemics of the time. 12. J.A. G  C, ‘El Renacimiento del siglo  en Europa: Los comienzos de una renovación de saberes y sensibilidades’, in Renovación intelectual del Occidente europeo.  Semana de Estudios Medievales. Estella, 24–28 julio 1997 (Pamplona 1998) 29–62. Cf. S-B , ‘Aportaciones literarias, filosóficas y científicas’. See also A. S A, Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance (London/New York 1995).

4

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Provence, North Western France and England. Were they two completely separate worlds: the Jewish-Muslim world on the one hand and the Christian European countries on the other? It is true that the Peninsula, with its Islamic South and Christian North was a phenomenon peculiar to this time, but in spite of all its peculiarities it was not completely estranged from other European countries. It was more a place of encounter. Distinguished European intellectuals came to Spain in search of manuscripts and translations, and much of the impulse for the European renaissance of the twelfth century was due to this fruitful encounter of East and West, of antiquity and modernity that took place—in a very particular way—in the Iberian Peninsula.13 Many pages have been written about the personal reasons that Ibn Ezra had for leaving Sefarad14 in search of a new life in different European countries. As some scholars maintain, it may have been a consequence of his personal problems, or of his vision of the development of the historical events in his native land, or both. The fact is that in doing so he embedded himself into the cultural life of some European countries that were deeply involved in the new trends of the twelfth century. Although the Jewish communities of Sefarad were living in their own world and could seem, in some ways, isolated from the general European tendencies of the time, their most brilliant members, and among them Abraham ibn Ezra, felt the influence of the cultural movements of their epoch, became part of these movements, and contributed, in a positive way, to their success. Ibn Ezra adapted his knowledge in scientific, linguistic and exegetical fields to the Western European Jewish communities and to these new cultural circumstances. The Jewish communities of Italy, Southern France, and the Angevin territories, including England, had of course deep social and cul-

13. See J. S, ‘The Exact Sciences in al-Andalus’, in S.K. J (ed.) The Legacy of Muslim Spain (Leiden/Boston/Köln 1993) II, 952-973; J. V, ‘Natural and Technical Sciences in al-Andalus’, Ibid., II, 937–951; Ch. B, ‘The Translating Activity in Medieval Spain’, Ibid., II, 1036–1058. 14. Many scholars have debated about the meaning of Abraham ibn Ezra’s words: ‘with pains like a woman that brings forth her first child’, Sefer Moznayim (ed. J P & S-B) 1*. He describes himself a few years later as ‘a wandering bird that has abandoned its nest’, Sefer S.ah.ot (ed. C.  V) 1.

 -

5

tural differences.15 It is possible that Ibn Ezra’s expectations when going to Rome were not fully satisfied, since the culture and the linguistic knowledge of the Jewish community were not at the desired level.16 But unless we search for psychological motives, it is not easy to explain the reasons that he had for going from one Jewish community to the other. If his Andalusian knowledge could be well received in Italy, he could not expect a similar positive attitude in the communities from Northern France or England, which had very different sociological backgrounds and intellectual issues.17 However, our purpose in this paper is not to re-examine the relation of Ibn Ezra with these Jewish communities, but to focus on some possible points of contact with the European culture of the time. The situation in Christian Europe was far from being uniform. It would be meaningless to try to harmonise two completely different entities or to deny the tensions that existed between two very dissimilar attitudes: the old Latin tradition that had existed alone for centuries, and the new knowledge coming from the Greeks and the Orient through the Arabic-Jewish streams. Both cultural traditions, very different in their nature, were present in twelfth-century Europe, and Ibn Ezra was a genuine representative of the second. I would like now to focus on a few aspects of the cultural atmosphere and activity of the time that can help us understand the work of Ibn Ezra: the interest in translating the great works of the past, the diffusion of scientific knowledge, literal exegesis and knowledge of one’s own language and culture. The comparison of Ibn Ezra with other intellectuals from the same century that shared significant attitudes with him, in spite of deep differences due to their dissimilar

15. See, for instance, the description of the community of Rome by G, ‘Estancia decisiva’, 109–120. On the atmosphere in Southern France, see G. F, ‘Science in the Medieval Jewish Culture of Southern France’, History of Science 33 (1995) 23–58. About Ibn Ezra’s stay in Normandy, see G, Jews in Medieval Normandy, 253–263. On the Jewish communities in England, see R.C. S, ‘Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century England: Some Dynamics of a Changing Relationship’, in S & V E (eds.), Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe, 340– 354. 16. See G, ‘Estancia decisiva’, 112–115. She underlines at the same time the profound effect that Ibn Ezra’s visit to this community had in the following years. 17. S (Abraham ibn Ezra, 331–333) explains these differences with two good exegetical examples from the commentaries written by Ibn Ezra in Italy and France that reflect the different familiarity with the Greek-Arabic sciences in both places.

6

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

origin, can improve our understanding of the meaning of Abraham’s work. Undoubtedly, the twelfth century in Europe was the century of translations, as Haskins underlined in his studies, observing that Greek and Arabic translations were one of the most significant manifestations of this renaissance.18 Many other scholars have studied the curiosity and admiration of Christian Europe towards a culture that had also been ‘European’ in its origin, but was preserved only in ‘Oriental’ manuscripts, and was translated into Latin, a language accessible to Western European intellectuals.19 Places like Magna Graecia and Sicily, and even Antioch, were particularly appropriate for translation from Greek into Latin.20 Translations from Arabic into Latin were made in Toledo by Spanish and European scholars, such as Gerard of Cremona. In Catalonia, Aragon and other places in Northern Spain, Plato of Tivoli, Robert of Ketton, Hugh of Santalla, Hermann of Carinthia, and the converted Peter Alfonsi, also translated philosophical and scientific works from Arabic into Latin at the middle of the century. Hermann and Robert of Ketton were working in the region of the Ebro, probably not far away from the home of Abraham ibn Ezra, in the second third of the twelfth century.21 All these translators were active participants, if not driving forces, of the cultural revival. Other types of translations were also common in Europe during this century. As G. Duby observed, there were many noblemen and knights who wished to be regarded as litterati, and spent money on education, creating a new type of culture accessible to all members of the aristocracy and to the newly rich. It was not strange that these

18. See C.H. H, Studies in the History of Medieval Science (Cambridge,  1924; 21927, repr. 1960) passim and Id., Renaissance of the Twelfth Century, 278–280. 19. See, for instance, J.M.a M V, Las traducciones orientales en los manuscritos de la Biblioteca Catedral de Toledo (Madrid 1942); Id., Nuevas aportaciones para el estudio de la transmisión de la ciencia a Europa a través de España (Barcelona 1943); Id., Estudios sobre historia de la ciencia española (Madrid 1949; 21987); M.-T. ’A, ‘Translations and Translators’, in R.L. B & G. C (eds.), Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge,  1982) 421– 462; B, ‘Translating Activity’, 1036–1058. 20. ’A, ‘Translations and Translators’, 427; Ch. B (ed.), Adelard of Bath: An English Scientist and Arabist of the Early Twelfth Century (London 1987) xii. 21. B, ‘Translating Activity’, 1044.

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7

aristocrats paid money for translations of important works for their personal use.22 A parallel phenomenon took place inside Jewish communities; this was one of the methods Ibn Ezra used in different cities of Europe for generating income and sponsorship. Frequently at the beginning of his works there are allusions to the request made by some patron who was interested in a translation or in an overview of scientific or linguistic questions. We should not forget that Rome as well as Narbonne, one of the Provençal cities where he resided, were considered to be centers of the twelfth century renaissance.23 In any case, translations were not an isolated internal phenomenon within the Jewish communities; translating was a frequent practice at the time. It is in this context of the numerous translations of the century that we have to place Ibn Ezra’s linguistic and scientific translations, as well as his works in Latin.24 His best-known translations in the field of Hebrew grammar, from Arabic into Hebrew, are the works of H.ayyūj, one of his first activities at the beginning of his stay in Rome ca. 1140. Aware of the fact that Moshe ibn Chiquitilla’s translation, done in the previous century, included many glosses,25 Ibn Ezra wrote a new literal translation for his Italian readers.26 He continued to translate until the end of his life. For example, in England, around 1160, he made another scientific translation from Arabic into Hebrew: the Commentary of Ibn al-Muthannā on the astronomical tables of 22. G. D, ‘The Culture of the Knightly Class: Audience and Patronage’, in B & C (eds.), Renaissance and Renewal, 248–262, esp. 255–257. 23. Ibid., 261. 24. See on this topic M V (ed.), El Libro de los Fundamentos de las Tablas Astronómicas de R. Abraham Ibn Ezra (Madrid/Barcelona 1947) and the recent articles by R. S, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Astrological Works in Hebrew and Latin: New Discoveries and Exhaustive Listing’, Aleph 6 (2006) 239–338 and ‘Science in Normandy and England under the Angevins: The Creation of Avraham Ibn Ezra’s Latin Works on Astronomy and Astrology’, in G. B (ed.), Hebrew to Latin, Latin to Hebrew. The Mirroring of Two Cultures in the Age of Humanism (Berlin Studies in Judaism 1; Berlin/Torino 2006) 23–59, based on her PhD thesis Abraham ibn Ezra the Astrologer and the Transmission of Science to the Christian West (University of Manchester 2004). 25. See Sefer Moznayim, 5*. See also J. M D, ‘Mošeh ben Šemuel ha-Kohen Ibn Chiquitilla, el traductor’, Miscelánea de Estudios Árabes y Hebraicos, 51/2, sección de hebreo, (2002) 119–157. 26. On the translation of H . ayyūj and Ibn Ezra’s attitude to him, see S-B, ‘‫’על כמה עמדות דקדוקיות‬, 233–234. See also S & F, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Scholarly Writings’, 24.

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Al-Khwārizmī. It was his personal contribution to the scientific development of his co-religionists who could not read the original works in Arabic.27 Two more translations of Arabic works attributed to him are not certain.28 During this century many Christian scholars felt particularly attracted to the study of sciences. By this time it began to appear that the whole universe was intelligible and accessible to human reason. Nature was perceived as an orderly system, not as a mysterious, obscure phenomenon.29 It was seen from a more positive and friendly angle.30 The knowledge of nature stimulated the recovery of the scientific works by classical authors, such as Aristotle, Ptolemy and Galen (directly or through translations). In particular, the impulse produced Arabic versions, commentaries and enlargements. These were two different sources of a very dissimilar nature, and their integration was not always an easy task.31 The most important works of the classical and medieval scientists were translated into Latin from Greek and Arabic. The spectacular progress in this field was connected with the introduction in Europe of Arabic learning—coming from the East and the West—throughout the century. Although the golden age of Arabic scientific knowledge in al-Andalus had been the eleventh century, during the party kingdoms,32 Europe received this 27. According to the well-known words of Judah ibn Tibbon, ‘the exiles of France and throughout Christian lands do not know Arabic so that these works were sealed to them, inaccessible, unless translated into the sacred tongue … until the sage Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra arrived in their lands and aided them with short compositions.’ Sefer ha-Riqmah (ed. M. W; Jerusalem 21964) 4; cf. N.M. S, ‘Abraham ibn Ezra as an Exegete’, in T & H (eds.), Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra, 1–27, 6. 28. See S, Abraham ibn Ezra, 75; S, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Astrological Works’, 241. 29. See T. S, The Intellectual Revolution in Twelfth-Century Europe (New York 1985) 35. 30. Men of the twelfth century distinguished clearly the sacred and the profane, and adopted a new attitude to nature. See G  C, ‘Renacimiento del siglo ’, 61. Ibn Ezra’s scientific contribution could be also seen from this perspective. 31. The statement of G. B (‘The Transformation of the Quadrivium’, in B & C [eds.], Renaissance and Renewal, 463–487 esp. 484) is probably correct: ‘in the twelfth century, the relationship between the scholastic heritage of the early Middle Ages and the new Arabic science was like the confluence of two water currents of different salinity which do not mix well.’ 32. V, ‘Natural and Technical Sciences’, 940.

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9

influence during the twelfth century. A great part of the progress in mathematics, astronomy, pharmacology and medicine in this epoch is to be attributed to the efforts of translators, although medieval scientists added their own contributions, in the form of experiments, to all fields of science. The adaptation of old techniques and new inventions also produced a strong development in medieval technology.33 Technological advances of many kinds seem almost to have become fashionable in the twelfth century.34 The desire and the urge to observe and experiment were present in all fields. It is true that there was a certain tension between both scientific traditions: Adelard of Bath, who rediscovered geometry, translating into Latin an Arabic version of Euclid and other Arabic scientific works in the first half of the twelfth century, stated that he almost could not speak about sciences with his European contemporaries because he had learned about nature and mathematics from Arabs, guided by reason. However, most of his colleagues simply followed arguments of authority.35 Adelard preceded Ibn Ezra and brought the results of Arabic scientific treatises to England.36 It is very unlikely that these two ‘wandering scholars’ knew each other, but their personal interests and their contributions to the history of science in the twelfth century show many common elements. Again, Ibn Ezra’s concern about the sciences can only be understood in the context of the general atmosphere of European intellectuals at the time who were deeply interested in mathematics and astronomy.37 He was far from being alone in the battlefield. More than 33. See E. W, Medieval Science and Technology (Westport,  2004) 19. 34. S.R. P, Twelfth-Century Europe. An Interpretative Essay (Amherst,  1973) 80. 35. Ibid., 214. In his Questiones naturales (ed. B 1998: 83) he says: ‘For the present generation suffers from this ingrained fault, that it thinks that nothing should be accepted which is discovered by the “moderns”. Hence it happens that, whenever I wish to publish my own discovery, I attribute it to another person saying: “Someone else said it, not I!” Thus, lest I have no audience at all, some teacher came up with all my opinions, not I.’ Quoted in W, Medieval Science and Technology, 186. 36. As Ch. B states (Introduction of Arabic Learning, 38), ‘certain Arabic doctrines had arrived in England, perhaps already before 1066, via the monastic and cathedral schools of France and Lotharingia’, and thanks also to scholars like Petrus Alfonsi and Adelard of Bath. 37. This interest, of course, was not always shared by everybody. William of Conches, a contemporary of Abraham ibn Ezra, said: ‘Ignorant themselves of the forces of nature and wanting to have company in their ignorance, they don’t want people to

10

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

twenty scientific works that he wrote after his exit from Sefarad were a notable contribution to the science of his time, a mixture of Arabic knowledge and his own reflections and observations on mathematical and astronomical topics. Because he wrote most of these treatises in Hebrew, the size of his audience was limited. However, it is remarkable that most studies on Ibn Ezra’s scientific contribution38 underline the meaning of his work within Jewish history, or inside the Muslim culture: his primary intention was to make accessible the best fruits of Sephardic culture to other European Jews,39 rather than make Greek or Arabic culture accessible to European citizens in general. This may be true in general, but we should not forget Ibn Ezra’s relationship with other scientific writers from Christian Europe. In his scientific treatises, Ibn Ezra was thinking not only about the Jewish reader. One of the main reasons that he had for writing his scientific books was the great curiosity about these disciplines among the men of his time. The fact that he decided to write some scientific works in Latin, a language that was not very common among Jewish intellectuals, but that could be understood by his Christian contemporanies, is a proof of his deep involvement in the culture of his epoch. When he dictated a scientific work and one of his pupils wrote it in Latin, he necessarily had in mind a different, more general audience, and not only members of the Jewish communities. The two astronomical books entitled Liber de rationibus tabularum (one written in Pisa ca. 1142/114540 and the second in Angers in 1154), like the Liber de nativitatibus41 (written in Rouen in the same years), were

look into anything; they want us to believe like peasants and not to ask the reason behind things …’ See W, Medieval Science and Technology, 21. 38. Including S, Abraham ibn Ezra, which has no more than a short allusion to this context on p. 17. 39. See the interesting observations of G. F (Science in the Medieval Hebrew and Arabic Traditions [Aldershot/Burlington,  2005] 30–31) on the limitations of the appropriation of science within the Jewish communities of Provence during the Middle Ages, underlining that the study of sciences by medieval Jews was very widespread, but not too many of them made investigations of their own, and their creative scientific activity was less than expected. 40. Libro de los Fundamentos (ed. M V) 87. According to M the book was not a translation from Hebrew, see Ibid., 19. 41. Venezia 1484. In this book the author states: ‘ut ait … Abraham magister noster egregius quo dictante et hanc dispositionem astrolabii conscripsimus.’

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11

dictated in Latin.42 The fact that some of his scientific and astrological treatises were immediately or soon translated into Latin,43 sometimes by different translators,44 shows the degree to which his scientific work was appreciated and coincided with the interest of his contemporaries in Christian countries. All of this can only be understood within the atmosphere of the scientific renaissance of twelfth-century Europe. The intellectual elite of the epoch was integrated to a high degree, sharing many common interests, methods and principles, and the religious origin of the authors was only a secondary issue. Ibn Ezra was one of the first Jewish thinkers who insisted on the importance of the study of sciences. In the first chapter of one of his last books, the Yesod Mora’, he describes his own ideal of a Jewish sage.45 For Abraham it is not enough to concentrate on one of the traditional disciplines like the masorah, with the detailed study of the biblical text (‘the specialist in masorah who did not learn any other science is like a camel loaded with silk, who is not giving anything to the silk nor having any profit from it’), or the grammar (‘the sage may learn it, but he should not spend all of his life reading the grammarians’). Even to focus only on exegesis, in studying the Bible that is ‘the source of life’, is not enough. The same is true in respect to the study of the Talmud: it is insufficient. The sage should know all this. But in order to master all these subjects and be able to fulfill the divine precepts, he has to study the different sciences: astronomy, mathematics, psychology, cosmogony and logic, which is ‘the balance of

42. It is very unlikely that Ibn Ezra mastered Latin to write a scientific treatise in this language; and his usual Jewish audience was probably not familiar with this language in the required measure. This means that when Ibn Ezra dictated these books in Latin he had in mind Christian readers. 43. The Latin version of the mathematical treatise Sefer ha-Middot (published by T. L & Ch. B, ‘Sefer ha-Middot: A Mid-Twelfth-Century Text on Arithmetic and Geometry Attributed to Abraham ibn Ezra’, Aleph 6 [2006] 57–238) can be dated to the mid-twelfth century. Henry Bate and Meter d’Abano translated the astrological treatises of Ibn Ezra in the thirteenth century. See S, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Astrological Works’, 246. 44. G. D, Les intellectuels chrétiens et les juifs au Moyen Âge (Paris 1990) 324–325; see S, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Astrological Works’, 256–268. 45. In a way that has many similarities to the Maimonidean parable of the palace at the end of the Guide, III, 51. The book was probably written during Ibn Ezra’s stay in London, in 1158 or 1159. See S & F, ‘Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Scholarly Writings’, 46.

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

every science’.46 Even if Jews were not attending the monastic or the cathedral schools of the time, nor the nascent universities, the main topics of the trivium and quadrivium were present in these words of Ibn Ezra.47 According to Adelard of Bath, while the three first disciplines of the trivium deal with voces, ‘words’, the other four of the quadrivium study reality itself. The first of these, and ‘superior by a certain excellency to the other three, who depend on her’ is Arithmetic.48 Adelard translated Euclid’s geometry from Arabic into Latin, and focused his scientific interest primarily on mathematics.49 For him, all visible aspects of the universe are subject to number. Arithmetic is known to be one of the foci of interest of Abraham ibn Ezra, and he was one of the first scholars to introduce the system of al-Khwārizmī in Europe.50 He says about the importance of number: As Holy Scripture says: ‘God has arranged all things by measurement, number and weight.’ Since, then, there are three things—measurement, number, and weight—two of them seem to need the third; i.e., measurement and weight seem to need number, because there can be no certainty about them without number. But they do not seem to be necessary for number, because we do not need weight or measurement to be certain about number.51

It is interesting to compare Ibn Ezra’s ideas with those of the Didascalicon of Hugh of Saint Victor, who died in 1141, at the beginning of

46. Yesod Mora’, in I. L (ed.), ‫( ילקוט אברהם אבן עזרא‬Abraham ibn Ezra. Reader. Annotated Texts with Introductions and Commentaries) (New York/Tel Aviv 1985) ch. 1, 315–320. 47. But see also the Ih.s. ā’ al-‘ Ulūm (Catalogue of the Sciences) by Alfarabi (cf. M. M, Science, Philosophy and Religion in Alfarabi’s Enumeration of the Sciences [Dordrecht 1975] 113–115). 48. De eodem et diverso, in Adelard of Bath, Conversations with his Nephew: On the Same and the Different, Questions on Natural Science, and On Birds (ed. & trans. Ch. B, with collab. of I. R, P. M E & B.   A; Cambridge/New York 1998) 47. 49. See L. C, Adelard of Bath, the First English Scientist (London 1994) 62–65. 50. See T. L, ‘Abraham ibn Ezra et les mathématiques; remarques bibliographiques et historiques’, in P.J. T (ed.), Abraham ibn Ezra, savant universel. Conférences données au colloque de l’Institutum Iudaicum Namur, 25 novembre 1999 (Brussel 2000) 60–75 ; S, Abraham ibn Ezra,17–30. 51. Sefer ha-Middot, 1,1; ed. T. L & Ch. B: Aleph 6 (2006) 80.

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13

Ibn Ezra’s stay in Italy.52 Twenty years earlier Hugh had offered a synthesis of different classifications of knowledge (inspired by Boethius and the Stoics), mentioning seven mechanical arts in balance with the seven liberal arts.53 He tried to demonstrate that the different areas of knowledge were integrated among themselves and that they were necessary for man to attain perfection.54 In spite of the different backgrounds, there are some basic similarities to Ibn Ezra in the intellectual attitude. As is well known, Abraham ibn Ezra is considered one of the greatest Jewish exegetes. In commenting on the biblical books he shared many attitudes with the intellectuals of his time. One of the best-known principles of medieval exegesis is the plurality of meanings of the biblical text.55 Christian and Jewish exegetes56 maintain this principle in one of the many possible variants. Hugh of St. Victor says at the beginning of the fifth book of his Didascalicon: First of all, it ought to be known that Sacred Scripture has three ways of conveying meaning—namely, history, allegory, and tropology.

Abraham has his own version of the plurality of meanings, speaking of the ‘five paths taken by the Torah commentators.’57 Ibn Ezra’s exegesis has been labeled as literal, grammatical and rationalist.58 When he tries to define his own method he states: ‘I shall thoroughly and, to the best of my ability, seek the grammatical [form] of every word. Then I shall do my utmost to explain it.’59 Both in his exegetical and in his grammatical works Ibn Ezra distinguishes two 52. See Hugonis de Sancto Victore Didascalicon de studio legendi (a critical text by B.Ch.H. B; Washington,  1939); Didascalicon; A Medieval Guide to the Arts (trans. J. T; New York 1961). 53. See P, Twelfth-Century Europe, 214. 54. Hugonis de Sancto Victore Didascalicon, 3. 55. See on this question A.   H, ‘P. Methodological Reflections on the Theory of the Four Senses’, Journal of Jewish Studies 34 (1983) 147–159; A. S-B & J. T, Los judíos de Sefarad ante la Biblia. La interpretación de la Biblia en el Medievo (Córdoba 1996) 17–27. 56. As shown by J. T in his edition of the Didascalicon (p. 219), Philo Judaeus and Origen are among the earliest interpreters who spoke of a threefold understanding of Scripture. The tradition of a fourfold interpretation is also very old, at least from the time of Augustine. 57. See L, Deconstructing the Bible, 143. 58. See S-B & T, Los judíos de Sefarad, 138–159. 59. In his Introduction to the Commentary on the Torah. See I. L (ed.), Abraham ibn Ezra. Reader, 143; L, Deconstructing the Bible, 171.

14

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

possible types of knowledge: tradition and rational deduction, and when there are differences between both, he prefers the rational explanation.60 This approach to texts was common among European scholars of the twelfth century. In some of the old schools where the seven liberal arts were taught there were masters such as Bernard of Chartres, William of Conches, and Peter Helie who expanded the grammatical studies. There are clear parallels between the path that these masters and Ibn Ezra followed in the explanation of the biblical text.61 William of Conches, in his Philosophia mundi and in his Dragmaticon presents a rational explanation for biblical passages, such as the formation of the body of Adam and Eve, seeing nature and natural phenomena as linked to a rational process of causes rather than to mere traditional interpretations.62 It is illuminating to compare Ibn Ezra’s exegesis with that of the main representatives of the Abbey of Saint-Victor in Paris, which had become a focus of renovation of religious life since the beginning of the twelfth century. One of the main points of interest of the most distinguished members of this school was a kind of literal, rationalist exegesis of the biblical text. Hugh of St. Victor taught that the explanation of Scripture had to start with the historia, directly based on the littera63 and very likely in consonance with Jewish sources.64 Like Ibn Ezra in the Introduction to his Commentary to the Torah,65 Hugh clearly rejects allegorical interpretation that ignores the literal one: 60. See, for instance, in his commentary ad Gen 22:4. For his grammatical conceptions, see A. S-B, ‘Some Basic Concepts in the Linguistic System of Abraham Ibn ‘ Ezra’, in M. B-A (ed.), ‫מחקרים בלשון העברית ובלשונות היהודים‬ ‫( מוגשים לשלמה מורג‬Studies in Hebrew and Jewish Languages Presented to Shelomo Morag) (Jerusalem 1996) *125–*149. 61. See P, Twelfth-Century Europe, 158–163. 62. See T. G, ‘La nouvelle idée de nature et de savoir scientifique au e siècle’, in J.E. M & E.D. S (eds.), The Cultural Context of Medieval Learning (Dordrecht/Boston 1975) 193–218, esp. 195–201. 63. See P. S, Hugues de Saint-Victor et son école (Turnhout 1991) 23–29. Dealing with the manner of reading the Scripture, Hugh of Saint-Victor says after describing the three ways of conveying meaning: ‘First you learn history’. Cf. Didascalicon (ed. T) 120. 64. N. H, ‘Commentary and Hermeneutics’, in B & C (eds.), Renaissance and Renewal, 173-200, esp. 197. 65. See S-B & T, Los judíos de Sefarad, 22–24; L, Deconstructing the Bible, 145-156.

 -

15

Since the mystical meaning of Scripture can doubtless be grasped only if first the literal sense has been well established, I cannot but wonder at the impudence of those who pretend to teach allegorical meanings when they are ignorant of the literal sense.66

Andrew of St. Victor, his pupil, Herbert of Bosham (probably a pupil of Peter Lombardus and Andrew, the first to expound Jerome’s Hebraica),67 and the Cistercian Nicholas Manjacoria commented on the Bible, noting the Hebrew tradition.68 In the words of Andrew, solam litterae expositionem exequi temptabimus, ‘We will try to apply only the literal explanation’.69 And again, hanc litteram, sic exponimus, ‘We explain the text as it literally is’.70 At the same time, his explanation respected the value of rational arguments.71 He was aware that he had learned from the Jews to search for the literal meaning of the text.72 He was even accused of ‘Judaising’.73 Andrew of St. Victor74 and Ibn Ezra were contemporaries, but it is not very likely that they ever met. Did Andrew know some of the works of Ibn Ezra? In his In Ezechiel, there is a reference to Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on Psalms that scholars consider authentic.75 They shared some interesting tendencies and methods in their exegetical work. A clear preference for literal exegesis,76 the rational character of their interpretation,77 the search for historical truth, and the constant reference to grammatical questions78 were characteristic of both exegetes. However, most of the Christian biblical commentarists of the

66. Didascalicon (ed. T), 148–149 (.10). 67. See B. S, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Oxford 1941) 186–191. 68. ’A, ‘Translations and Translators’, 428. 69. In Gen. 1:6; R. B, André de Saint-Victor ([d.] 1175): exégète et théologien (Paris 1991) 164. 70. In Gen. 7:2; Ibid., 165. 71. Ibid., 174–175. 72. Ibid., 166. 73. H, ‘Commentary and Hermeneutics’, 194. 74. Very well studied by B, André de Saint-Victor and id., ‘Les interprétations juives dans le “Commentaire de l’Heptateuque” d’André de Saint-Victor’, Recherches Augustiniennes 24 (1989) 199–240. 75. See In Ez. 37:25, commented on by B, André de Saint-Victor, 87, 223. 76. Ibid., 164, like Joseph Kara or Rashbam. 77. Ibid., 174. 78. Ibid., 190, even comparing the Latin and the Hebrew.

16

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Middle Ages were more familiar with Rashi and his pupils in Northern France79 than with Ibn Ezra. Literal exegesis was not limited to the school of St. Victor. Other Christian exegetes, such as Thierry of Chartres, also sought the literal meaning of the text renouncing the use of allegorical or moral methods.80 His way of thinking coincided with the development of speculative grammar that was applied not only to the Bible, but also to philosophical language in general and to all kinds of texts. Abraham ibn Ezra’s interest in the widespread knowledge of Hebrew was also in consonance with some trends of the epoch. As is well known, following the best Sephardic traditions of the preceding centuries, Ibn Ezra wrote five grammatical works on Hebrew language between 1140 and 1148,81 when some of his co-religionists in several Italian cities asked him to do so. He was not simply repeating the linguistic theories of the eleventh century, but was also able to develop his own synthesis, taking into account different elements and elaborating on them on the basis of a continuous meditation on the topics. He did this in spite of the scant means at his disposal when he was writing his philological works. His contribution to the history of Hebrew philology deserves a highly positive evaluation. Interest in grammar was also shared by many Christian intellectuals of the twelfth century.82 For instance, Adelard of Bath compared the seven liberal arts with seven maidens in his De eodem et diverso, and explained the nature and character of each one. The first of the arts is grammar, which ‘nourishes in their cradles those entering the liberal arts, and instils the first milk into their mouths’. 83 Many commentaries on classical grammars and new manuals for teaching Latin

79. And these Jewish interpreters were not very well considered by Ibn Ezra himself. See S, ‘Abraham ibn Ezra as an Exegete’, 16. 80. H, ‘Commentary and Hermeneutics’, 195. 81. See above, note 5. Cf. A. S-B, ‘Ibn Ezra et la grammaire hébraïque au Moyen Âge’, in T (ed.), Abraham ibn Ezra, savant universel, 35–51. 82. It would be possible, too, to compare the grammatical books of Abraham ibn Ezra and the linguistic work of one of the best-known intellectuals of the following century, Roger Bacon (ca. 1214–1292). See The Greek Grammar of Roger Bacon and a Fragment of his Hebrew Grammar (ed. E. N & S.A. H; Cambridge [Cambridgeshire] 1902); B. C, The First Scientist: A Life of Roger Bacon (New York 2003). 83. De eodem et diverso (ed. B) 35.

 -

17

were produced in Europe during the twelfth century.84 Here again we can establish clear parallels. It is possible to detect a trend to search for the original language of the texts and to try to master it. Christian intellectuals, such as Hugh of St. Victor, became interested in Hebrew as one of the sacred languages.85 For some Christian authors, this was justified since it was the ‘first language’ and the ‘natural language’.86 Although knowledge of the language was rather limited, many Christians sought help from a Jew to understand the Bible in its original language.87 Distinguished intellectuals of the time, such as Abelard, included in their Commentaries on the Bible allusions to the Hebrew original.88 It is difficult to know if many of the Christian intellectuals at this time were able to read Hebrew, or if they were just using Hebrew references from previous Latin writers.89 Andrew of St. Victor’s commentaries include many references to Hebrew, but he does not seem to have been too familiar with the language.90 Another aspect of the cultural renewal of the twelfth century in Europe is the individualisation in the field of linguistics, the process of transition from Latin to the Romance languages, which depended on specific instruments for adapting themselves to the new social and scientific circumstances.91 In a sense, Ibn Ezra was contributing to a use of the Hebrew language which could respond to the new needs of scientific language.92 He was not the only one to do so, but his contribution in making the ‘holy tongue’ a ‘scientific tongue’ was notable. Specifically noteworthy are his efforts to define, with precision, linguistic terminology in his Moznayim and his search for a technical vocabulary to express the scientific phenomena in his works.93 84. B, André de Saint-Victor, 190, 194–195. 85. D, Intellectuels chrétiens, 239. 86. Ibid., 240–241. 87. Ibid., 249. 88. Ibid., 266. 89. B, André de Saint-Victor, 203–207. 90. Ibid., 212. 91. G  C, ‘Renacimiento del siglo ’, 39. 92. As I. L says (Deconstructing the Bible, 177), ‘The key to ibn Ezra’s approach is his unusual insistence on the exclusive use of Hebrew in his oeuvre’. 93. On the linguistic terms discussed in the Moznayim, see the annotated edition of the book by J P & S-B (2002). On Ibn Ezra’s creation of a new scientific vocabulary, see my A History of the Hebrew Language (Cambridge 1993) 253–254 and S, Abraham ibn Ezra, 93–104. Ibn Ezra restored into use many

18

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

In addition, there could be some similarity to the Metalogicon by John of Salisbury.94 John was a few years younger than Abraham ibn Ezra. Yet, Ibn Ezra wrote the Yesod Mora’ in London at the same time that John of Salisbury completed his Metalogicon in Canterbury, before he became secretary to Thomas Becket. Although John’s book was a defense of the trivium (while study of the sciences was confined to the quadrivium), there is a clear parallel attitude in respect to knowledge in these two writings, in spite of their completely different backgrounds. John defended logic and philosophy in general, including grammar, ‘the starting point of all liberal studies’.95 His argument was aimed against people who despised both the trivium and the quadrivium.96 In actual fact, John of Salisbury was worried about the decline of literary Latin and the danger of the loss of Latin culture no less than Ibn Ezra was concerned about the inappropriate use of Hebrew by the authors of the piyyutim.97 Even the definition of grammar by both scholars was similar: John subscribes to the traditional definition of grammar as ‘the science of speaking and writing correctly’.98 It is not difficult to find a similar idea behind the Sefer S.ah.ot of Ibn Ezra, or in his defense of grammatical correctness as an exegetical norm in Safah Berurah.99 Grammar, John says in the vein of Ibn Ezra, ‘is the basis and root of scientific knowledge’ (including philosophy) and it is the foundation of virtue too.100 It is possible also to find parallels in other aspects of basic linguistic conceptions: reading Ibn Ezra’s comparison of the Hebrew vowels

forgotten biblical words. See S, Abraham ibn Ezra, 142. When Roger Bacon reminds us of ‘the fact that translators did not have the words in Latin for translating scientific works’ (Opus Majus 76) he is witnessing a difficulty deeply felt, in his own way, by Ibn Ezra. 94. See C.C.J. W, John of Salisbury (New York 1932). We quote following the text of The Metalogicon of John of Salisbury. A Twelfth-Century Defense of the Verbal and Logic Arts of the Trivium (trans. D.D. MG; Berkeley/Los Angeles 1955). See also C.J. N, John of Salisbury (Tempe,  2005). 95. Metalogicon I, 13. 96. Ibid., I, 4. 97. See M.B. R, John of Salisbury on the Arts of Language in the Trivium. (Washington,  1958) 3. 98. Metalogicon I, 13; I, 18. This definition comes from Isidore (Etymol. I, 5, 1). 99. (Ed. R & S-B) 10–11. 100. Metalogicon I, 23.

 -

19

with the main movements in the cosmos at the beginning of Sefer S.ah.ot,101 we may recall John of Salisbury’s statement: While grammar has developed to some extent, and indeed mainly as an invention of man, still it imitates nature, from which it partly derives its origin.102

Both authors interpret in a similar way the ‘applications of names’ of Gen 2:19. According to John of Salisbury, ‘although such depends on the will of man, it is in a way subject to nature, which it probably imitates [at least] to some modest extent.’103 In his short commentary on the passage, Abraham ibn Ezra says: ‘hu’ šĕmo, conforming to its nature.’104 A major medieval application of rhetoric was in the field of verse writing. In the last part of the twelfth and during the thirteenth century many European teachers of grammar wrote Latin treatises with precepts for the composition of verse.105 John of Salisbury quotes in his Metalogicon (I, 24) the following passage by Quintilian: In lecturing on the poets, the grammarian must attend also to minor points. Thus, after analising a verse, he may require the parts of speech to be specified, and the peculiarities of the feet, which need to be known, not merely for writing poetry, but even for prose composition. He may also distinguish what words are barbarous, or misapplied, or used contrary to the rules of language …106

If we remember the interest of Abraham ibn Ezra in teaching the Hebrew metres in Sefer S.ah.ot,107 or his condemnation of the barbarisms

101. (Ed.  V) 100. 102. Metalogicon I, 14. 103. Ibid. 104. See A. S-B, ‘The Origin of the Language and Linguistic Pluralism According to Medieval Jewish Exegetes’, in H. J, J. L & H. P (eds.), Verbum et Calamus. Semitic and Related Studies in Honour of the Sixtieth Birthday of Professor Tapani Harviainen (Studia Orientalia 99; Helsinki 2004) 293–303. 105. J.J. M, Latin Rhetoric and Education in the Middle Ages and Renaissance (Padstow, Cornwall 2005) 16–17. 106. Institutio oratoria I, 8,13, according to M, Latin Rhetoric and Education III, 169. 107. (Ed.  V) 146–147.

20

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

of the paytanim in Safah Berurah,108 we are witnessing completely parallel approaches. Without doing violence to reality, without identifying dissimilar situations, I think that we can detect a high level of agreement or harmony109 between many of the ideas and attitudes behind the grammatical, exegetical and scientific works of Abraham ibn Ezra and those of other Christian intellectuals of his time in twelfth-century Europe.

108. (Ed. R & S-B) 10–11. 109. I have spoken only of agreement or harmony, not of real, demonstrable, historical connections among the intellectuals of the epoch. I am not sure if this kind of relation will ever be proved, but in any case, this has not been the intention of my study.

 New Catalogues for Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts?   T H P C has launched a new project: cataloguing the medieval Hebrew-alphabet manuscript holdings of the Bibliothèque nationale de France (and, initially, the Séminaire israélite de France).1 It is obvious that the old and extremely incomeplete catalogues need to be replaced. It is perfectly understandable that the  wants a new catalogue, given that H. Zotenberg’s was published in 1866;2 the  catalogue is similarly out of date and incomplete.3 Other libraries whose catalogues are of roughly the same vintage as the ’s have published excellent supplements written by leading scholars, such as Albert van der Heide, whom we are honoring today.4 Here, though, I would like to show that the new - catalogue will be different from its predecessors, not only in its presentation but also because in its inspiration and goals—a result of the fact that, over the last fifty years, there have been six major changes in how we use medieval Hebrew manuscripts and their texts and in how we think about them. 1. Much greater use is made of manuscripts today; frequently, though, they are consulted through machine-based reproductions, even if we work with a paper printout.

1. The project received generous support from the Fondation pour la Mémoire de la Shoah, but for one year only! Thus, although the catalogue of the  will be continued, despite the financial difficulties, the catalogue of the  has been interrupted. 2. Catalogues des manuscrits hébreux et samaritains de la Bibliothèque impériale (Paris 1866). 3. See A. M, ‘Manuscrits et incunables de l’Ecole rabbinique de France’, Revue des Études Juives 79 (1924) 1–27; 80 (1925) 81–87. 4. Consider the Leiden catalogue, for example. M. S’s Catalogus Codicum Hebraeorum Bibliothecae Academiae Lugduno-Batavae (Leiden 1858) is incomplete but remains indispensable. It has been supplemented by several articles, and especially Albert   H’s excellent Hebrew Manuscripts of the Leiden University Library (Leiden 1977).

22

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 2. The establishment of a formal discipline of medieval Hebrew palaeography allows us to provide good physical descriptions of manuscripts and to propose probable dates and origins for them. 3. The study of Hebrew-letter texts and their publication in the Middle Ages has shown that most texts derive from multiple originals rather than a single exemplar. 4. The study of dated manuscripts has revealed that Hebrew manuscripts are strongly marked by the specific circumstances in which they were copied, often for the scribe’s personal use. 5. Consequently, much greater importance is attributed to medieval Hebrew manuscripts as historical objects, which are unique from every perspective, with their own individual physical and textual characteristics: codicology, palaeography, binding, notes by their owners (in Hebrew or other characters), censors’ markings, and book plates and stamps are recognised as witnesses of this specific history. Today we must explicitly inform readers of their existence and details. 6. We no longer believe that historical science is totally neutral. Of course all of the details must be described with the utmost precision; nevertheless, the bond of understanding and intimacy that the cataloguer, a human being reaching out to other human beings (those who left a trace of their hands and ideas in the manuscripts), has with the original material is a personal encounter, of the sort from which readers of a catalogue can derive maximum profit.

1. Medieval manuscripts in Hebrew characters, like other manuscripts, are increasingly studied on microfilm or as digitised images. These techniques have made manuscript texts available to the many students who now want to drink from the sources of history. At the same time, the manuscripts themselves, in their concrete reality, can no longer be communicated to the masses of amateurs: these historical witnesses are too fragile and precious for that. Wear, of course, has always been the chief reason for the disappearance of manuscripts, far more than natural catastrophes and willful destruction.5 The preservation of manuscripts for future generations is the main objective 5. It is estimated that about five percent of all medieval manuscripts, in every language and alphabet, have survived. See my recent Writing as Handwork: A History of Handwriting in Mediterranean and Western Culture (Turnhout 2006) 50–53. Approximately 70,000 medieval volumes in Hebrew characters are thought to be extant; the Geniza fragments represent approximately 40,000 volumes.

 

23

of libraries, and rightly so. Hence catalogues must provide readers with information to which they no longer have direct access. There is no doubt that one, generally, can read a text on a microfilmed manuscript; the image, however, is stripped of most of its concrete characteristics and takes on a merely virtual reality, accessible only to the eyes and highly misleading: the dimensions of the pages and size of the letters, the color, stains, and so on. Moreover, blank pages, cover pages, and the binding are not usually microfilmed.6 Frequently it is impossible to read the folio numbers on the microfilm; this trivial fact causes untold problems for researchers. Cataloguers, who are able to hold the manuscript in their hands, must provide readers with all of these concrete and precise details that cannot be discerned by those who must rely on microfilm. 2. Fortunately, we have learned to describe the external characteristics—codicological and paleographical—of Hebrew manuscripts. ‘Codicological’ means the substrate material, the quires, the signatures, the dimensions of the page and of the writing area, holes, rules, and page format, the ink, and the ornamentation, when there is one. ‘Palaeography’ is the study of the writing itself. Unlike codicology, which is currently ruled by methodology, the study of handwriting is still in its infancy and relies much more on experience than on science.7 Information drawn from dated manuscripts has made it possible to catalogue the codicological features of Hebrew-letter manuscripts by time and place.8 Consequently, it is now possible to assign 6. All reproductions are misleading. Even the highest-quality reproductions, which are supposed to be ‘like the original’, never really are. See my introduction to vol. 1 of M. B-A, C. S & M. G, with the assistance of T. L, S. I, M. D, E. E, M. Z (eds.), Codices hebraicis litteris exarati quo tempore scripti fuerint exhibentes (up to 1020) (Monumenta Palaeographica Medii Aevi, Series hebraica; Turnhout 1997) 11. 7. None of the disciplines dealing with writing (Latin or other) has a method to distinguish with certainty between different hands. The problem stems from the difficult link between visual images and language, both natural and mathematical, and between biological forms and geometry. Visual images and biological forms change constantly, like clouds. It is possible to reproduce these visual forms, just as one can reproduce the written shapes produced by the motion of the hand. But it is practically impossible to compare them and to convey to others the result of this comparison, whether orally or in writing. You must inspire your interlocutors with your own perceptions and judgments, educate their eye and help them construct an individual experience. You have to ‘show’ them the shapes of handwriting. 8. A project conducted jointly by a French team working under the aegis of the Hebrew Palaeography Committee at the Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes

24

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

undated manuscripts, too, to historical periods and large but relatively precise cultural zones.9 Hence the cataloguer’s first task is to provide a close description of the manuscript’s physical characteristics. There are also more general reasons why we need to be able to assign a manuscript to its historical context: dated manuscripts account for only about three percent of all extant manuscripts and constitute a random rather than a statistically representative sample, especially for the early Middle Ages in the West. Physical descriptions of manuscripts that do not bear an explicit date but can nevertheless be assigned to a specific time and place will thus augment our codicological and paleographical knowledge and make it possible to refine the conjectured dates and places. 3. When it comes to the production of catalogues, neither codicology nor palaeography can be independent disciplines; both remain auxiliaries of history—especially the history of texts, because a book is essentially the carrier of a text. The main goal of the pioneering cataloguers was to identify the text transcribed; they were scarcely interested in the object itself—the book.10 In their day and age, when the entire task still lay before them, this was certainly the right place to begin. For us as well, identification of the text remains of primary importance. The online catalogue of the Institute of Microfilmed Man-

of the  (Paris) and by an Israeli team affiliated with the Israel Academy of the Sciences and Humanities (Jerusalem, Israel). Begun in 1966, this project has produced many joint publications and others by the members of the two teams. I believe that the most complete list of these publications is to be found in the bibliography of my Hebrew Manuscripts of the Middle Ages (Cambridge 2002). 9. Only the watermarks of Western paper (which are artefacts of the manufacturing process) can provide more precise indications of the date: between five years (the life span of a paper form) and twenty-five years (if one takes into account shipping, sale, and the interval that passes before the paper is used). One must also identify these watermarks precisely. Dictionaries of watermarks provide only one of the two or three watermark patterns that were used at the same time in a particular paper mill; in addition, the watermark tends to be deformed as the paper moulds are used, producing different patterns. It is very rare for the pattern of the watermark we examine to be identical to that in the dictionary consulted. Usually we must be content with noting when and where the serial production of paper with this type of watermark began and ended. Nonetheless, all existing watermarks are to be studied: the more we have catalogued, the more certain our dating can be. 10. In the nineteenth century, the physical book was deemed to be of such minor importance that Z, in his catalogue, does not even bother to give the number of folios.

 

25

uscripts is a great help in this respect and is used with its authors’ consent and generous assistance. Nevertheless, the notion of ‘text’ has changed considerably. We have come to realise that most of the texts copied by Jews were not as fixed and unchanging as was once thought. Even though the text of the Bible was canonised by the Masoretes in the eighth century, medieval Bibles display minor but indisputable variations from one to another. Yet the biblical text, the Written Law, is the most stable in the Jewish tradition. Texts of the Oral Law frequently display quite divergent readings; scribal errors, which clearly exist, cannot explain all these variant readings. In practice, these traditional texts (the Talmud, midrashim, liturgy, and customs) remained in oral form until the end of the Middle Ages. Indeed, manuscripts preserved most of the variants (although the scribes added quite a few mistakes); it was only printing that fixed the canonical readings for all time. Cataloguing a prayer book means describing the text of the prayers that were recited by a particular community at a particular moment in time; this liturgical text is different, to a greater or lesser extent, from those found in other manuscripts as well as those available in printed prayer books.11 Starting in the tenth century, the traditional texts were supplemented with texts of specific authors (Bible commentaries, halakhic, theological, and ethical tracts, medical treatises, and, somewhat later, translations into Hebrew of Arabic or Latin philosophy and science). The mode in which their authors or translators published these works was profoundly different from what is often considered ‘the norm’ in the Latin world.12 Among the Jews, publication was not subject to institutional authorities and was overseen by the author himself, who maintained possession of a reference text or ‘clean copy’. Scribes came to him to copy this personal exemplar,13 in which he made correc11. See N. W, ‫ קובץ מאמרים‬.‫( התגבשות נוסח התפילה במזרח ובמערב‬The Formation of Jewish Liturgy in the East and in the West) (Jerusalem 1998). 12. See P. B, L’édition des manuscrits. Histoire de l’édition française I, Le livre conquérant (ed. H.J. M & R. C, with J.-P. V; Paris 1982), 49– 75. 13. I am aware of only one exception. In his introduction to the Semak (Small book of precepts), Isaac b. Joseph of Corbeil wrote as follows: ‘We have instructed the wardens of each and every city to have these precepts copied and to pay the [copyists’] fee from the common fund. After that they will keep it in reserve, lending it to every person who wishes to copy it or study it, to be returned to them on the same day. This will be a mark of righteousness for them, because they will be secure.

26

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

tions over the years, producing a book that evolved, sometimes more and sometimes less, until the author’s death. Sometimes there were two editions.14 For example, it was long thought that the biblical commentary by Rashi (Solomon b. Isaac of Troyes, 1040?–1105) went through two editions; today it seems much more likely that what we have reflect additions and corrections made over time.15 This was, in fact, the usual situation, typical, among the philosophers, of Maimonides and Gersonides; there are many examples of this procedure.16 Thus the cataloguer must note down every detail that can help an editor or reader locate the text of a particular manuscript in the chain of transmission: for example, the first and last sentences of the author’s or translator’s introduction, the first and last sentences of the text, the benedictions that precede or follow the text, the structure (division into books or pericopes), the number of chapters, etc. 4. A very large number of Hebrew manuscripts were produced by the copyist for his own personal use. He was frequently assisted by members of his family, or, if he was a teacher, by one or several of his students; the studia of late fifteenth-century Spain probably resembled a Latin scriptorium, but without the organisation.17 What we learn from manuscripts with indications of the copyist’s name or the date or place he worked can be applied to other manuscripts: we may know a scribe, with his habits and personality, even without knowing his name, just as you may know people by their faces, gestures, and expressions. Usually one can tell whether a second hand continued the copy. Should the emissary need to stay over in the city so that the Precepts can be copied, let them pay his wage from the common fund, six pence a day, as well as room and board with the householders, as is the custom for other travellers’: ‫ספר הסמ"ק מצוריך‬ (The Semak [Small book of precepts] from Zurich) (ed. I.J. H-S– R; Jerusalem 1973) 14. 14. Early in my career I came across a rare case of this (see C. S, ‘Les différentes versions du Liwyat H . en de Levi b. Abraham’, Revue des Études Juives 122 [1963] 163–177). But I have never found another one in all the decades since then. 15. See A. G, ‫ רבי שלמה יצחקי‬:‫( רש"י‬Rashi) (Jerusalem 2006) 142–146. 16. See my Hebrew Manuscripts, 269–287. Many other examples for the Jewish, Muslim, and Latin worlds can be found in J. H & O. W, Ecriture et réécriture des textes philosophiques médiévaux. Volume d’hommage offert à Colette Sirat (Textes et Etudes du Moyen Âge 34; Turnhout 2006). 17. See M. R, ‫‘ הקולופון בכתביֿיד עבריים מימי הביניים כמקור היסטורי‬Colophons of Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts as Historical Sources’ (PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem 1995) and the long series of articles published since then by the same author.

 

27

The scribe or scribes, the manner in which they constructed their books, the accidents or incidents that took place while they were working—these are only the starting point for the history of the manuscript.18 During the five to ten centuries that they have existed, the manuscripts have been read and studied. We can learn something about these readers if they read with pen in hand, annotating or correcting the text, or adding manicules (that is, the attention-getting symbol of a pointing hand, also called ‘index’, ‘fist’, ‘hand’ or ‘digit’). 5. In recent years, investigators have attached increasing historical importance to the ‘physical bodies’ of Hebrew manuscripts. The fact is that although there are few concrete monuments from the Jewish Middle Ages, the manuscripts are the living and perceptible trace of the hands and minds of the men and women who wrote them and constitute almost our only opportunity to encounter them ‘as they were’. Because each of them is an individual, different from all others, every manuscript adds to our knowledge of the medieval world. We cannot but feel strong emotion when we touch and describe a Bible that was plundered by the Crusaders when they captured Jerusalem in 1099, purchased from them, along with human 18. The reconstruction of the quires is the only physical point about which the cataloguer must be just as precise as for a paleographical catalogue. It is required for understanding the scribe’s plan, the problems he encountered, incidents that took place while he was copying the manuscript, intervention by others, later lacunae, replacements and additions. As long as the original structure of the quires and their possible vicissitudes are not evident to the cataloguer’s eyes and hands, he cannot penetrate to the manuscript’s ‘personality’. Such a reconstruction is based on an exact count of the bifolia, of the folios and stubs and on the examination of all the numbering sequences: of the signatures and catchwords of the quires, the catchwords of the folios or pages, and other methods of keeping the sheets in order. This first examination, sheet by sheet, is the occasion for discovering whether the volume consists of one or several codicological units and for distinguishing between different hands. One starts from the principle that the entire manuscript is the work of a single copyist who worked in the normal fashion. Any irregularities must draw attention: a change of parchment or paper, of the color or quality of the ink, of the numbering and catchwords, the dimensions, page layout, handwriting. … Whatever deviates from an ‘ordinary’ manuscript must be the starting point for an inquiry in which every possibility is considered: Are we dealing with a second scribe? A change in the quality of the paper or parchment? The resumption of work after a long interruption? A different copy text? Perhaps the scribe who produced this manuscript was a novice or just sloppy by nature? An inquiry into these questions will often provide the answer, which the cataloguer must provide to readers along with the raw evidence. If no judgment can be made, the cataloguer must explain the problem and list the possible explanations.

28

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

captives, by the Jewish community of Ascalon, and ultimately taken to Egypt.19 Manuscripts have also gone through periods of calm and tranquillity: the Hebrew manuscripts purchased by Colbert, which ended up in the Royal Library, like those donated to the Bodleian or which found their way to the British Library, have enjoyed a happy and sheltered life since the seventeenth century and been able to recover from their past vicissitudes. Before it was acquired by a public library, each of these manuscripts had its own specific history. We learn about it through the bills of sale or purchase, signatures, words crossed out by the censor, shelf marks, stamps, and the binding or what remains of it. The manuscripts also preserve a record of events that people wanted to remember: births, deaths, persecutions, testimony about extraordinary events. Consider, for example, a recently discovered notation, inscribed on February 6, 1478, by the observer of an event so rare that he wanted his testimony to be preserved: an Ashkenazi Jew lost the (enormous) sum of 3000 ducats playing dice with Marchese Ercole of Ferrara and went away totally destitute.20 Nothing I have said here is new. Many erudite articles, published in journals of Jewish studies, have dealt with such notations; unfortunately it is not easy to locate these articles.21 What is more, the task has never been attempted in any systematic fashion. We believe that everything is relevant: the making of the book, the act of copying it, the text, its readers, the libraries that collected it—all these give the manuscripts a personality, an individuality, a uniqueness that is revealed when one takes into account all these indices, both physical and textual. You have to interrogate the manuscript, tame it, come back to it again and again. This is the work of the cataloguer. 6. Neutral and objective scholarship is a myth, even in the socalled hard sciences.22 It is even more of a chimera in history, where 19. Two Bibles met precisely this fate:  1 and 7 in Codices, vol. 1 (see n. 6 above). 20. This note, discovered by Silvia  D while cataloguing manuscript  Heb. 219, will be discussed in a brief article. 21. R, which has provided an index of articles in Jewish Studies since 1966, created a ‘Manuscripts’ category about a dozen years ago; but most of the articles in this field are earlier than that. 22. M. P, Personal Knowledge: Towards a Post-Critical Philosophy (London/Henley 1962), remains, I believe, the most persuasive argument in this direction. 23. It cannot be exhaustive. One must vigorously reject the temptation of trying to be exhaustive. Numerical precision is reassuring and gives the impression that our

 

29

historians inevitably bring their character and education to their research. Cataloguers must engage their entire being in their dialogue with the manuscript. It is not like making up a story or writing a novel: even though the description cannot be exhaustive, it must be rigorous and systematic.23 What is more, the cataloguer works as part of a team: experienced palaeographers verify the details in each entry, colleagues offer their assistance in fields where their expertise surpasses the cataloguer’s, library conservators clarify historical points about fonts and bindings, the older catalogues and that of the Institute of Microfilmed Manuscripts can be consulted. Ultimately, however, the cataloguer is alone in conducting a dialogue with the manuscript and must come to ‘understand’ it. Not all manuscripts are full of information; fragmentary manuscripts frequently have very little to work is ‘scientific’, to the point that one is seduced by the idea that all codicological and paleographical parameters must be catalogued and that full details of everything must be provided. In fact, selecting the items that must be noted and discarding those that are superfluous is the first decision that has to be made—a decision that is just as difficult as it is indispensable if the catalogue is to appear within a reasonable time frame. The second decision involves determining the threshold of detail beyond which information adds no historical meaning but in fact delays cataloguer’s work and, ultimately, weighs down the text of the entry. For the rest of the physical description one must resign oneself to making a compromise with precision and completeness; the entries will not be perfect and definitive. Two reasons come together here: first, the current state of research does not allow us to go any further; second, a more complete description would not provide any additional historical meaning. Take, for example, the physical medium: parchment and/or paper and ink. These writing materials are studied by well-defined scientific disciplines, relevant to codicology in any alphabet and the source of many outstanding publications. Frequently, however, these studies do not provide pat answers, even to specialists who devote themselves exclusively to them. In practice, as with the application of other laboratory sciences to historical objects older than the Industrial Revolution (archaeology, art history), chemical and biological analyses provide results with nanometric precision, even though the historical scale to be correlated with them is imprecise as to both time and space. Consequently, none of this research has yielded a technology that can be applied to historical objects in a simple and systematic fashion. Such research can be conducted when we are dealing with an exceptional historical object which is worth extensive and expansive studies; for a catalogue, which must deal with a large number of manuscripts, we must resign ourselves to offering only the macroscopic features we can see with the naked eye, those whose interpretation is simple, and provide only a sample rather than an exhaustive list thereof.

30

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

tell us. Some entries cannot spark passionate exchanges. It is the cataloguer who must ‘present’ the manuscript to us, and he or she must sign the entry and breathe new life into it.

 An Early Hebrew-Greek Bible Glossary from the

Cairo Genizah and its Significance for the Study of Jewish Bible Translations into Greek    T C G  Cambridge UL  TS F 17. 4 is a palimpsest: the top writing is from an early manuscript of the Palestinian Talmud, datable approximately to the early tenth century, while the bottom writing, which must of course be even earlier, is from a glossary giving Hebrew words with their Greek equivalents, arranged in parallel columns. The legible extant portions relate to Exodus 5–28, Isaiah 66 and Jeremiah 2–38.1 Because of the way the top text is written, very little of the bottom writing can be read; technical means of reading more of the glossary are being investigated. That the Greek glosses in this glossary are not extempore translations but derive from actual translations of the Biblical books is clear from a comparison between the glosses and the translation of the Hebrew Bible used in the Christian Church (the so-called Septuagint2) on the one hand and the sparse remains of later Jewish translations on the other. This comparison will be explored in what follows. The glosses thus offer us a rare insight into the use of Greek Bible translations for the purposes of Bible study by Jews in the early Middle Ages, during the period of activity of the Masoretes and at the dawn of serious scholarship on the Hebrew Bible by Jews.

1. Full publication forthcoming in Revue des Études Juives. Some overlap with that publication has proved unavoidable—I have endeavoured to keep it to a minimum. 2. Strictly speaking the term should only be applied to the first five books of the Bible, the Pentateuch. However, from the time of the third-century Church father Origen, the founder of Christian biblical scholarship, it has been used to refer to the entire Old Testament in the traditional Greek version of the Church, as opposed to later revisions or translations such as the Three (see below). In this wider sense it also embraces some books that were written in Greek, and not translated from Hebrew.

32

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

The translation known as the Septuagint (henceforth ) was made by Jews at various times between the early third century  and the early second century . The widespread assumption that soon after it was adopted by the Church its use was abandoned by the Jews is only true up to a point. Greek-speaking Jews continued for many centuries (until modern times in the case of some parts of the scriptures) to use Greek translations. At first they used them for the public reading and study in the synagogue, as well as for other purposes; later, when the Hebrew text ousted them as far as public readings were concerned, they were relegated to secondary uses, as aids to the understanding of the Hebrew. Our glossary well illustrates one type of use to which they were put. Even before the latest translations incorporated in the Septuagint were made (in Palestine in the early second century) Jews were using a variety of different versions of the Greek, some very close to the Septuagint in wording and some strikingly different. Origen, troubled and fascinated by the multiplicity of versions, selected a few of them and arranged them in parallel columns, together with the Hebrew, in a work that could be considered one of the remote ancestors of our glossary, the Hexapla. In particular, he integrated in this work, side by side with the Septuagint, three versions which, while they often shared readings with it, also differed considerably both from it and from one another. One, ascribed to Akylas,3 makes a supreme effort to reproduce certain outward characteristics of the Hebrew, at the cost of using what seems like barbarous Greek; a second, ascribed to Symmachos, is couched in more elegant Greek; the third bears the name of Theodotion. These are known collectively as ‘the Three’. For some books Origen included other translations as well. He also edited the Septuagint, comparing different manuscripts with each other and comparing the Greek with the Hebrew text current in his day. Words and phrases in the Hebrew that were lacking in the Greek he added from Theodotion; those that were in the Greek but not in the Hebrew he marked as spurious.4 Origen’s Hexapla represents a vast labour and a pioneering effort at harmonising the Greek biblical texts current in the Church and bringing them into line with the Hebrew. Sadly his work is lost, al3. The name is also written in a Latin form, Aquila. However, as both Greek and Hebrew sources prefer the form Akylas we shall use it here. 4. See N. F M, Introducción a las versiones griegas de la Biblia (Madrid 21998) 209–226.

  

33

though extensive fragments remain, in citations by Church fathers, in marginal annotations in biblical manuscripts, in a few manuscript fragments of the works itself, and in fragmentary translations into other languages.5 So far as we know, no comparable effort at harmonisation was made among the Jews, and the translations were transmitted both orally and in writing in a rather haphazard way; in fact while sometimes the wording of the ancient versions was preserved very faithfully (even the highly artificial and idiosyncratic renderings of Akylas), at other times great freedom was exercised, the language being modified and modernised. We have very few Jewish copies of entire biblical books in Greek, but from fragments (notably those recovered, like our glossary, from the Cairo Genizah) and citations in Hebrew commentaries we can see that there was both consistency and inconsistency.6 Most of these fragmentary citations, although their language is Greek, are written down in Hebrew characters.7 A special word must be said about the readings referred to here under the siglum Fb. These are found in marginal annotations in Greek characters in an early Greek manuscript now in Milan. Although copied by a Christian, they derive in part from a Jewish source very close to the tradition represented by the medieval Jewish materials copied in Hebrew characters.8 The number of glosses in our fragment where we can read the Greek or reconstruct it with certainty is unfortunately small. In all, 23 glosses are sufficiently legible to allow of comparison with other Jewish versions. We shall now list them, standardising the orthography and indicating the relevant parallels. The Hebrew lemmata from the Masoretic text are given for reference only; they do not necessarily represent the orthography of the manuscript, which quite often 5. The most recent comprehensive edition of the fragments of the Hexapla is F. F, Origenis Hexaplorum quae supersunt (Oxford 1867). Citations from the fragments in what follows rely on Field. A new edition is in preparation under the auspices of the Hexapla Institute. 6. For some examples from the Genizah see N.  L, ‘La tradition des «révisions juives» au moyen âge: les fragments hébraïques de la Geniza du Caire’, in G. D & O. M, ‘Selon les Septante’. Hommage à Marguerite Harl (Paris 1995) 133–143. 7. For this phenomenon see N.  L, ‘Hebrew/Greek Manuscripts: Some Notes’, Journal of Jewish Studies 46 (1995) 262–270. 8. F M, Introducción, 182–83. The readings of Fb can be found in the apparatus to J.W. W’ edition of the Greek Exodus (Göttingen 1991).

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

34

departs from that of . Indications such as ‘I.1’ identify the column (there are two double columns per page, and four pages in all); the other Arabic numerals refer to the line in the column.  I.1 25 Ex 7:28 ‫צפרדעים‬. Greek βατράκας. The gloss, entirely legible, is the accusative plural of βατράκα, a dialect word for ‘frog’. It is unclear why this Hebrew word, which does not seem to present particular difficulties of understanding or translation, is glossed. Possibly the point is to clarify the grammatical construction, and to make it clear that the noun ‘frogs’ is the object of the verb, usually understood as ‘it (the river) will swarm’. L βατράχους has the same grammatical form and is essentially the same word; the verb used in , ἐξερεύξεται, means ‘it (the river) will spew up’, making the accusative case more natural. We do not have the renderings of the Three. 28 Ex 8:25 (29 ) ‫התל‬. Greek παραλογηζεται or -εσθαι (sc. παραλογίζεται). The verb means to cheat or defraud. Παραλογίσασθαι (the aorist infinitive) is attested as the common rendering of Akylas and Symmachos, pointing to a more extensive presence in the ancient Jewish versions. A similar rendering is attested for Akylas and Symmachos at Gen 31:7 παρελογίσατό με for ‫התל בי‬. L has a different verb in each case: ἐξαπατῆσαι or ἀπατῆσαι in Exodus, and παρεκρούσατό με in Genesis. 33 Ex 9:9 ‫לאבק‬. The Greek should be read as εἰς κονηορτούς, or possibly εἰς κονηορτόν. The word κονιορτός, meaning ‘dust’ or ‘a dust cloud’, is not particularly rare in medieval Greek; nevertheless it is significant that  has κονιορτός here, although without a preposition. MT has ‘to (or for) dust’, so that our gloss may well represent a revision towards the grammar of the Hebrew. In fact  commonly uses εἰς in such constructions (e.g. Gen 1:14, 15; 2:24, 17:11; 28:21). 39 Ex 9:31 ‫אביב‬. The reading of the Greek is uncertain; it should probably be read as νεαρός, ‘new’ or ‘fresh’. L has παρεστηκυῖα, ‘ripe’. We do not know how the Three rendered ‫אביב‬, but at Ex 13:4 the same word is rendered by Akylas τῶν νεαρῶν ( τῶν νέων), so he is likely to have used the same word here. Our gloss probably, then, reflects a rendering that was present in Akylas.

  

35

40 Ex 9:31 ‫גבעל‬. Greek θηλακι.. . L σπερματίζον, ‘being in seed’. A hexaplaric note in a tenth-century Christian manuscript, Parisinus gr. 2, has ]λακίζον. We could combine the incomplete readings of our gloss and that of Par. gr. to give θηλακίζον, sc. θυλακίζον. Θυλάκιον means a seed-capsule, which is considered (e.g. by Ben-Yehuda) to be the meaning of the Hebrew word. The Greek verb (only attested otherwise with the meaning ‘to collect scraps in a wallet’) would here be an alternative way of saying ‘in seed’. I.2 9 Ex 12:22 ‫אגודת‬. Greek δ..μιν, very likely the same rendering (with orthographic variants) as  δεσμήν. 22 A couple of letters are illegible in the Greek, but there is not much doubt that it should be restored as ἀνέβα[ιν]ε. The verb ἀναβαίνω, ‘rise’, is found in glosses of Fb (at Ex 12:34 and 39) for the Hebrew verb ‫‘( חמץ‬rise’, used of dough). This verb, which occurs several times in chapters 12 and 13, does not occur, however, in chapters 14–16, which is where this gloss ought to be located. 24 Ex 16:13 ‫השלו‬. The Greek word can confidently be restored as ὀρ]τυγομήτρα, which is also the rendering of . It is defined in Liddell & Scott’s Lexicon as ‘a bird which migrates with quails, perhaps corncrake, landrail, Rallus crex’. It does not occur in the fragments of the Three. 25 Ex 16:14 ‫מחספס‬. The Greek can be restored as ἀν]εσυρμένον. The verb ἀνασύρω basically means to pull up, but can mean ‘expose to view’; ‘stripped’ is a plausible rendering of the obscure and unique Hebrew word ‫מחספס‬. L has an entirely different interpretation (‘like coriander’). The rendering of Akylas and Theodotion was ‘pared’ (preserved in Syriac; the original Greek is lost); elsewhere Akylas uses ἀνασύρω for the Hebrew root ‫חשף‬, ‘to strip’. Fb has ἀνασυρόμενον here. Ἀνασυρόμενον has also been restored as the rendering of Symmachos.9 The Byzantine commentator Meyuh.as ben Elijah relates ‫ מחספס‬grammatically to ‫חשף‬: it means ‘peeled’, like the sticks stripped bare by Jacob in Genesis 30:37. 35 Ex 18:8 ‫התלאה‬. The Greek gloss reads τὸν μόχθον, which is the rendering of . We do not have the renderings of the Three. 9. A. S, Symmachus in the Pentateuch (Manchester 1991) 96.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

36 II.1

4 Ex 18:20 ‫והזהרתה‬. All but the end of the Greek is clearly legible: και δηαστελ… The ending looks like ης. It seems that we should reconstruct the gloss as καὶ διαστελεῖς or καὶ διαστελῇς. The same verb is used here by Akylas, whereas  has καὶ διαμαρτυρῇ. Akylas also uses it in Ezekiel 3:17, 18, 21, for the same Hebrew verb as here. (L also uses this Greek verb in two of these three cases.) The basic meaning of διαστέλλω is ‘separate’, ‘divide’, but it can mean ‘command’. 5 Ex 19:12 ‫והגבלת‬. The Greek is hard to read, but is compatible with the reading of the Three, (καὶ) ὁριοθετήσεις, ‘and you shall set a boundary’. II.2 1 Ex 25:32 ‫קנים‬. All but one letter of the Greek is legible, and there is little doubt that the gloss should be restored as κάλαμοι, ‘reeds’ or ‘tubes’. The  has a diminutive form of the same word, καλαμίσκοι. 5 Ex 25:33 ‫כפתר‬. The gloss could well agree with  σφαιρωτήρ, although spelt σφερ-. (There is no difference in pronunciation.) The word was inserted in the  by Origen, from Theodotion; it may have been found in Akylas and/or Symmachos as well. 6 Ex 25:38 ‫ומלקחיה‬. Of the three Greek words, only the first and last can be read: καὶ… αὐτῆς. There is room in the middle for λαβίδας, ‘handles’ or ‘holders’, which is the reading of the Three. 19 Ex 26:19 ‫אדנים‬. The Greek gloss should probably be read as βάσεις, which agrees with the rendering of . 28 Ex 27:20 ‫זך‬. The first part of the Greek gloss is barely legible. The last part, κομενο, is close to  κεκομμένον. 31 Ex 28:14 ‫שרשרת‬. Greek αλυσης, which agrees with the rendering of Akylas, Symmachos, and also Fb, ἀλύσεις, ‘chains’. L and Theodotion have totally different words. 32 Ex 28:14 ‫)?( העבתת‬. The Greek seems to read συνγλυμένας, which could be understood as συγκλιμένας, ‘laid together’, ‘converging’, or συγκλει(σ)μένας, ‘closed’ (cf.  3 Reigns 6:20). 38 Ex 28:17 ‫וברקת‬. Greek σμάραγδος, which agrees with . Various lists of these precious stones with their Greek equivalents cir-

  

37

culated.10 According to a list preserved in the Midrash on Exodus, this third stone was rendered ὑάκινθος, while the sixth stone, ‫יהלם‬, was rendered σμάραγδος ( ἴασπις). III.2 11 Jer 5:6 ‫נמר‬. The Greek could be read as (πα)ρδαλην (sc. πάρδαλιν). L πάρδαλις. 12 Jer 5:8 ‫מיזנים‬. The Greek gloss must be the same as  θηλυμανεῖς, ‘female-mad’ (of horses). 13 Jer 5:10 ‫בשרותיה‬. Greek ενπροτιχισμα (sc. ἐν προτειχίσμα[τι ), ‘in the forward defence, outwork’. L has ἐπὶ τοὺς προμαχῶνας αὐτῆς, ‘on her battlements’, while Akylas has ἐπὶ τὰ τείχη (αὐτῆς), ‘on her walls’. IV.2 25 Jer 36 ( 43):22 ‫האח‬. The Greek gloss ἐσχάρα is identical to . The rendering of the Three is unknown.  We may now attempt to summarise the relationship between the glosses and the ancient versions. A comparison with  yields a substantial number of instances of agreement. At I.1 25 the gloss is basically the same as , even though the form is a medieval dialectal one. At I.2 24, 35, II.2 38 and III.2 12 the glosses are identical to . In a couple of cases (II.2 19 and IV.2 25) the Hebrew lemma cannot be read, but there is a reasonable certainty that the gloss agrees with . These agreements with  are a strong reminder of the enduring influence of  on the Jewish versions current in the Middle Ages, but should not necessarily be interpreted as a sign that Jews at this time were familiar with the forms of the Greek text that were used in the Christian Church. The key point to note is that in every one of the 10. See W. B, ‘Une ancienne liste des noms grecs des pierres précieuses relatées dans Exode, xxviii, 17–20, fragment du midrasch de l’école d’Ismaël sur le Lévitique’, Revue des Études Juives 29 (1894) 79–90, and S. L, Greek in Jewish Palestine (New York 1942) 56–59.

38

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

cases we have considered we are ignorant of the version of the Three. In no instance where we do have the version(s) of the Three does the gloss agree with  against it. On the contrary, in such cases the gloss normally agrees with one or more of the Three against . Here are some examples: At I.1 28 the gloss uses the same Greek verb as Akylas and Symmachos, while  uses a different one. At II.1 4 we do not have the rendering of Symmachos, but the gloss agrees with Akylas against . At II.2 31 the gloss agrees with Akylas and Symmachos, while  and, on this occasion, Theodotion, have different translations. It will be noticed that where the versions of the Three differ among themselves, the gloss agrees with Akylas; in no case does it unambiguously agree with another of the Three against Akylas. Only in one instance where we have the readings of  and Akylas (III.2 13) is the gloss clearly different. The possibility should not be ruled out that it is our knowledge of Akylas that is at fault here: there are various ways in which we can be mistaken about the reading of Akylas, most obviously because of an error of identification in our sources. In the present instance the word used in the gloss, προτείχισμα, is used by Akylas, albeit for a different Hebrew word (‫)חיל‬, at Ps 122 ( 121):7; it is not impossible that he used the same word here. In a couple of cases we do not have a direct testimony to the reading of Akylas, but his use of the same Greek word for the same Hebrew one elsewhere makes it highly likely that the gloss represents his version. As we can see from the parallels adduced at I.1 28 and II.1 4, the Three do aim at a certain consistency in the rendering of Hebrew words, and this consistency is particularly striking in the case of Akylas. At I.1 39 a parallel from Exodus 13:4 is cited that suggests that the gloss on Exodus 9:31 may well reproduce the rendering of Aquila. The materials adduced at I.2 25 also suggest that the gloss on Exodus 16:14 may well agree with Aquila and/or Symmachos. We do not have directly comparable material from other medieval Jewish fragments, but we do have some parallels in the annotations of Fb mentioned earlier. At I.2 25 the evidence of Fb is particularly telling, as we do not have the renderings of Akylas and Symmachos preserved in the original Greek. At II.2 31 the reading of Fb serves to confirm (as our gloss does) that the renderings of Akylas and Symmachos, as recorded by Origen, were still current in the medieval Jewish tradition.

  

39

To conclude, the glosses give valuable evidence about the Greek translations from which they are taken. These translations are not identical to those current in the medieval Church; they stand in a tradition going back to the ancient versions represented by Akylas and Symmachos, and may potentially witness to other ancient translations, now lost.

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 A Jewish Childbirth Amulet for a Girl   I T Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana in Amsterdam houses a collection of childbirth amulets.1 Fifteen of these are printed on paper,2 and some twelve are hand-written. So far these amulets have not been published. Only one was previously known from reproductions.3 Most of the amulets from this collection date from the eighteenth century and probably were produced in Germany. In this contribution I should like to present one of the printed amulets from this collection.4 The amulet is a representative of a type that is known from several private and institutional collections.5 It contains a number of names, fixed phrases and biblical quotations, but the most remarkable element in it is the story which narrates an encounter between the prophet Elijah and the female demon Lilith.

 T article is dedicated to my dear colleague Albert   H, who introduced me to Lilith and the fascinating legends linked to her, while I still was a student in Leiden. 1. Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana, Library Special Collections, Universiteit van Amsterdam. 2. D 2; D 3; D 4; D 20; D 23; D 24; D 25; D 27; E 63; E 64 and B 14–1; C 11; D 28; E 61; E 62. 3. The amulet was made by Abram bar Yaakov around the year 1700. Prints of it are known from several collections. The amulet has been reproduced in M.H. G, Memorboek: Platenatlas van het leven der joden in Nederland van de middeleeuwen tot 1940 (Baarn 1971) 139 and H. B & A. F, Geschiedenis der Joden in Nederland (Amsterdam 1940) 476, 481. See also Y. S, ‫( אסף פויכטונגר‬Collection Feuchtwanger) (Masoret we-Omanut Yehudit 3; Jerusalem 1971) no. 1; S. S, ‘Childbirth and Magic: Jewish Folklore and Material Culture’, in D. B (ed.), Mediterranean Origins (vol. 1 of Cultures of the Jews: A New History; New York 2002) 5. 4. I intend to publish all the printed and handwritten amulets from the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana in one volume. 5. For references, see note 22 below.

42

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 1. C 

Childbirth amulets are protective amulets to be placed in the room where the woman had to give birth. An early magical handbook from the Talmudic period, Sefer ha-Razim (‘The Book of Mysteries’),6 prescribes that for this purpose four silver lamellae should be hung on the four walls of the room during childbirth. These amulets contain incantations against the female demon Lilith, who is believed to have the power to cause the death of the mother or her new-born baby, and they are thought to ward her off. Childbirth amulets are known from all over the Jewish world. The earliest attestations come from late antiquity and the early Middle Ages. We can only briefly refer here to Jewish Palestinian amulets from the fifth to the seventh centuries, the Jewish Babylonian magical bowls from the sixth to the eighth centuries and the mediaeval Jewish Palestinian amulets from the Cairo Geniza written on paper.7 In Venice in the early sixteenth century the first printed amulets appeared. In the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the Jewish printing presses of Holland and Germany produced a large amount of amuletic literature, according to Schrire ‘often of a grossly ignorant type’.8 Frequently these amulets were no more than a piece of paper with the printed text of Pss 121 and 91 on it and the words ‫ שדי‬or ‫בשם שדי‬. These amulets are known by the name shir hamloos tsetl, shimir tsetl, kimpet briv, kimpet tsetl, ‫ שמירה ליולדת‬and ‫שמירה‬. They had to stay in place for eight days in the case of boys, until their circumcision, or twenty days in the case 6. Datable to the end of the fourth century  or later. See P.S. A, ‘Incantations and Books of Magic’, in E. S (ed.), The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, 175 .. – .. 135 III/1 (rev. & ed. by G. V, F. M & M. G; Edinburgh 1986) 342–379, esp. 349. 7. These magical texts are ready available in the following editions: J.A. M, Aramaic Incantation Texts from Nippur (Publications of the Babylonian Section 3; Philadelphia 1913); C.D. I, Corpus of Aramaic Incantation Bowls (Missoula 1975); J. N & Sh. S, Amulets and Magic Bowls: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem 1985); J. N & Sh. S, Magic Spells and Formulae: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem 1993); D. L, A Corpus of Magic Bowls: Incantation Texts in Jewish Aramaic from Later Antiquity (London 2003). The amulets from the Cairo Geniza were published by L.H. S & M.D. S, Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts from the Cairo Geniza: Selected Texts from Taylor–Schechter Box K1 (Semitic Texts and Studies 1; Sheffield 1992). 8. Cf. T. S, Hebrew Amulets: Their Decipherment and Interpretation (London 1966) 78.

 

43

of girls.9 Today childbirth amulets are still in use in certain Jewish communities, especially in North Africa, Syria, Ethiopia, Yemen and among Hasidic communities in Israel.10 The Jewish myth of the sanguinary demon Lilith hunting at night for newborn babies has its roots in the ancient Mesopotamian cultures of the Sumerians, Babylonians and Assyrians.11 Lilith can be associated with lilû, lilītu and ardat lilî, originally storm-demons, which occur in Akkadian texts. The demon lamashtu, who is known from Assyrian amulets and who was assimilated to Lilith, is a female demon who endangers women who have just given birth and their babies. The character of this demon has much in common with the Jewish demon Lilith. The only reference to Lilith in the Bible is found in Isa 34:14. In the so-called Alphabet of Ben Sira (Alphabetum Siracidis), a Hebrew work from the Geonic period,12 the myth of Lilith was elaborated into a midrash, apparently to explain the fact that before the creation of Eve, a woman was created simultaneously with the creation of Adam and therefore Eve could not have been Adam’s first wife.13 In this midrash, we find the identification of Lilith with the first Eve. The text relates that Lilith was created from the dust of the earth and was given to Adam as his wife. She claimed complete sexual equality with Adam, since just like Adam she was created from the dust. Upon his refusal, she left him and by means of the pronunciation of the Ineffable Name she was able to fly away from him. When Adam complained about this to God, three angels (snwy, snsnwy and smnglp) were sent out by God to capture her. She was found in the Red Sea. The angels tried to bring her back, threatening her that daily a hundred of her demon children would die. But Lilith preferred the death of her children to returning to Adam and declared that she was created to cause sickness to newborn babies: boys during the first 9. The rationale for twenty days so far remains unclear. 10. Cf. also M. K, A Time to be Born: Customs and Folklore of Jewish Birth (Philadelphia 1998), 155. 11. R. P, The Hebrew Goddess (New York 1967) 207–209; K.   T, B. B & P.W.   H (eds.), Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (2nd rev. ed.; Leiden 1999) s.v. Lilith. 12. For a translation of this midrash, see D. S and M.J. M (eds.), Rabbinic Fantasies: Imaginative Narratives from Classical Hebrew Literature (Yale Judaica Series 29; New Haven 1998) 183–184. 13. See K, A Time to be Born, 143.

44

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

eight days and girls during the first twenty days of their life. The only way to ward off this threat was to write the names of the three protecting angels or to depict their forms on an amulet (‘Whenever I see you or your names or your forms in an amulet, I will have no power over that infant’14). Elements of this story are already found in an early amulet in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of unknown provenance.15 In this amulet appear swnh, swswny, snygly (in a form slightly different from what appears in the Alphabet of Ben Sira), helpers of a mother smmyt who is bereaved of her children by a certain Sideros (Greek for ‘iron’).16 The same story is found in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic bowls from the same period, but the names of the three helpers are slightly different in these texts.17 The names snwy, snsnwy and smnglp surface in Sefer Raziel, a mediaeval German magical handbook printed in Amsterdam in 1701, which is a primary source for European Jewish magic. In this work the angels are depicted as birdlike creatures. Under the influence of the Kabbalah (Zohar) Lilith gained much popularity and new stories about Lilith developed.18 It is in this light that one must consider the story of the meeting between Lilith and the prophet Elijah. 2. C    B R:       Ten of the fifteen printed childbirth amulets within the collection of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana closely resemble each other in their 14. S & M, Rabbinic Fantasies, 184. 15. N & S, Amulets and Magic Bowls, amulet no. 15. These Palestinian amulets are datable to the fifth to seventh centuries. They were found in Syria, Palestine, Turkey and Egypt. There are many parallels between these Palestinian amulets and the later amulets from the Cairo Geniza. 16. The word is related to the Biblical Hebrew word ‫‘ שׂממית‬lizard’ or ‘spider’ (Prov 30: 28). See ibid., 107. 17. Ibid., bowls nos. 12a and 12b. The Babylonian Aramaic bowls (some 40) were written in the sixth to eighth centuries and were found in places in Mesopotamia. In addition to the bowls in Babylonian Aramaic, there are bowls in Mandaic and Syriac. ‘Some of these were specifically used for protecting women during childbirth and lying-in’ (K, A Time to be Born, 145). In one bowl there is a physical description of Lilith (I, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls, no. 14). The bowls mention male lilis, female lilits, and the female demon Lilith (a night demon). 18. See P, The Hebrew Goddess, ch. 7, 207–245.

 

45

content and wording (see below), with some differences in spelling and differences caused by printing errors, especially so in the Yiddish section and in the narrative in Hebrew. These ten amulets differ, however, in their format and in their ornamentation. There is a vertical and a horizontal format. The amulet published here, D 23, belongs to the former. Amulets with a vertical format can be characterised by their simple ornamentation. Sometimes they only have a simply decorated border. Others in addition have a simple woodcut, representing a man, a woman or a couple, the woman often with children, the man with a book in his hands.19 These amulets measure ca. 17 × 21 cm and are datable to the eighteenth century.20 The amulets of the horizontal format have the same measurements (ca. 21 × 17 cm). Their ornamentation, however, is more intricate. The amulets of the horizontal format are also datable to the eighteenth century.21 Also from other collections printed copies of this type of amulet are known, both representatives of the vertical and of the horizontal format.22 The amulets were probably printed in Germany23 on paper, sometimes glued on cardboard. Many of the amulets have a hole at the top (others are damaged at this point), a sign that they were attached to some kind of background (such as a wall or a window). The 19. These woodcuts are believed to demonstrate what is expected of the child when it grows up. See S, ‘Childbirth and Magic’, 681. 20. Most scholars date them to the eighteenth century (Ibid., 707; K, A Time to be Born, 148; S, ‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, 19). According to the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana they are datable to the nineteenth century. 21. According to the information of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana. See also S, ‘Childbirth and Magic’, 682. 22. For references see K, A Time to be Born, 254 n. 27. K refers to the F collection in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem (reproduced in S, ‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, nos. 2 and 3; cf. also no. 4), the Scholem collection in the Jewish National University Library in Jerusalem, the collections of the Jewish Theological Seminary Library, and some private collections. The story of the meeting (see below, point 6) sometimes was handcopied. Recently, my attention was drawn to two amulets of the standing type in the collection of the J.R. Ritman Library in Amsterdam. The two amulets were found in a translation of the Zohar by J.  P (Sepher HaZohar [Le livre de la splendeur]: doctrine ésotérique des Israélites [rev. and augmented edition; Paris 1906–1911]). According to Esther L (Jewish National University Library) they are datable to the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century. 23. Two of the amulets reproduced in the F collection possibly are from Sulzbach, Germany (S, ‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, nos. 2 and 3). S refers to the dresses of men and women typical of eighteenth-century Germany (S, ‘Childbirth and Magic’, 681–682).

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

46

amulets all have the same structure and contain the following fixed elements: 1. ‫ לזכר‬or ‫;לנקבה‬ 2. ‫;אדם וחוה‬ 3. ‫;חוץ לילית חוה ראשונה‬ 4. ‫;סנוי וסנסנוי וסמנגלוף שמריאל וחסדיאל‬ 5. a text in Yiddish; 6. the story of the meeting between Elijah and Lilith (in Hebrew); 7. ‫‘ אלו הן שמותי‬these are my names’ (followed by a list of fourteen names); 8. ‫‘ קרע שטן‬rend Satan’ or ‘destroy Satan’; 9. six variations on ‫( מכשפה לא תחיה‬Ex 22:18); 10. six instances of the abbreviation ‫;א״ס‬ 11. ‫אדם וחוה חוץ לילית חוה ראשונה סינוי וסנסנוי וסמנגלוף שמדיאל‬ ‫;וחסריאל‬ 12. the Hebrew text of Ps 121. In § 4 below these elements will be discussed with relation to amulet D 23. 3. A D 23 ( ) D 23 is an amulet for a girl. Amulet D 3 from the same collection is an amulet for a boy. This latter amulet has the same border and the same text (with the exception of gender-related changes). The same mistakes appear in the narrative part of the amulet (of particular significance is the mispositioned ‫ ; ן‬see note dd in the commentary to the text). The woodcut, however, is different. The woodcut of D 23 depicts a woman with two children, the one of D 3 a couple. The two amulets were probably used within the same family, as may have been the case with other amulets from the collection (for instance the look-alikes D 27 for a boy and D 25 for a girl). Amulet D 23 still has its cord in place (see photo), indicating that it was attached to a wall or the like.

 

47

24

At the top of amulet D 23 the phrase ‫‘ לנקבה‬for a girl’ appears. Just below it the words ‫‘ נדה‬menstruation’, ‫‘ חלה‬sabbath loaf ’ and ‫הדלקה‬ ‘lighting’ are found (‫ הלה‬is a printing error).24 These three words refer to the three duties of Jewish women, namely the observance of the laws concerning menstruation, the preparation of the Sabbath loaf and the lighting of the Sabbath candles.25 The three words are often found in childbirth prayers.26 According to the Mishnah the death of the mother in childbirth is caused by the fact that the mother did not observe the laws: ‘On account of three transgressions do women die in childbirth: because they are not meticulous in the laws of (1) menstrual separation, (2) in [those covering] the dough offering, and (3) in [those covering] the kindling of a lamp [for the Sabbath]’.27 Amulets for a boy, on the other hand, sometimes have the phrase ‫ברית‬ ‫‘ קדש‬holy covenant’, which is a reference to Abraham’s circumcision in Gen 17.28 4. T    D 23 4.1 ‫ לזכר‬or ‫לנקבה‬ These childbirth amulets always indicate whether the amulet is meant for a male (‫ )לזכר‬or for a female (‫ )לנקבה‬infant. D 23 is an amulet for a girl. 4.2 ‫אדם וחוה‬ The names of the first human couple in the Hebrew Bible. 4.3 ‫ חוץ לילית‬and ‫חוה ראשונה‬ ‘Lilith outside’, followed by ‘first Eve’, an appellative of Lilith (without the Hebrew article). The phrase ‫ חוה ראשונה‬is also found in Sefer Raziel.

24. The three words are also known from another amulet of this type in the F collection (published as no. 3 in S, ‫)אסף פויכטונגר‬. 25. Cf. m. Shab. 2:6 and b. Shab. 32b. See also K, A Time to be Born, 117. 26. See on this ibid. 27. The translation is of J. N, The Mishna: A New Translation (New Haven 1988) 128. 28. See D 2, D 3 and D 4 in the Rosenthaliana collection.

48

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 4.4 ‫סינוי וסנסנוי וסנטנגלוף שמריאל וחסדיאל‬

The names ‫ סינוי וסנסנוי וסמנגלוף‬are those of the three helpers who were sent by God to get back Lilith. In this form the names occur already in the Alphabet of Ben Sira and in Sefer Raziel and in a slightly different form they are found in early amulets and bowls in Jewish Aramaic (see above). In all of the amulets of this type the name ‫ סמנגלוף‬is (mis?)spelled with an additional ‫ נ‬following the ‫ס‬, giving ‫סנמנגלוף‬. In this amulet, however, the name ‫ סמנגלוף‬contains an additional printing error (‫ ט‬instead of ‫)מ‬.29 The names ‫ שמריאל‬Shamriel and ‫ חסריאל‬H . asdiel, respectively the guardian angel and the angel of benevolence,30 are only found in childbirth amulets of the type discussed here. 4.5 The text in Yiddish The Yiddish text of D 23 runs as follows:

Ç Ç Ç AJD PGSFFC SJBZO IAE YS AJFF (M"G AJBQE FEJMA) PFU ESB™E AJD †‰A ‫דאש‬ ÇÇ POSQ JYJA PJJG YJLGO IYSFF PO PAFF PJCAG FW PGFOÇ NJA PBAE AJG GJB Ç(šFUZ LO) .PUJFM XSFF GJFE ZD PFU AJG PMSFF

This is the conjuration of the prophet Elijah of blessed memory. How he conjured up the witches until they had to promise him to go away from the house when one mentions their names.

The typeface used is vaybertaytsh. A larger Hebrew square font is used for the first word ‫דאש‬. Some of the Hebrew words and phrases appear bracketed.31 Among the amulets many variants in spelling are found, as can be expected within this period. Sometimes ‫‘ שבֿועה‬oath’ is found instead of ‫השבֿעה‬. 4.6 The story of the meeting between Elijah and Lilith Origins of the story. The origins of the story of the meeting between Elijah and Lilith go back to a story in mediaeval Christian literature, in which the demon Gyllo is expelled by three saints. The story has parallels in earlier amuletic literature in Aramaic and is

29. The same error is also found in D 3. On this amulet, see below. 30. See J. T, Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion (New York 1939; repr. Philadelphia 2004) 91. 31. In some of the amulets the words ‫ משביע‬and ‫ מזכיר‬are bracketed as well.

 

49

transmitted in many languages.32 A Greek version of the story was used in a Hebrew incantation from Crete from the fifteenth century. In this Hebrew version it is the Archangel Michael who meets Lilith. This story was further elaborated by Kabbalists in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and Michael was replaced by Elijah, who in his capacity as an angel is able to ward off the demon Lilith.33 The story was retold by David Lida (Amsterdam, ca. 1700) and H.ida (Hebron, 1724–1806) in instructions for writing childbirth amulets. The Hebrew text. The Hebrew text of D 23 runs as follows:

‫ בשם יהוה אלהי ישראל יושב הכרובים ששמו גדול ונורא אליהו הנביא‬1 ‫ היה הולך בדרך ופגע בלילית ובכל בת דילה ואמר לה ללילית‬2 ‫זכור לטוב‬ ‫ אתה טמאה ורוח טומאה וכל כת דילך כולם טמאים אן אתם‬3 ‫הרשעה‬ ‫ אדוני אליהו אנכי הולכת לבית היולדות פב״פ‬4 ‫הולכים ותען ותאמר לו‬ ‫ הנולדת לה לשתו׳ את דמה ולמצו׳ את‬5 ‫לתת לה שינתחמו ולקחת את כת‬ ‫ הנביא זכור לטוב ואמר‬6 ‫מוח עצמותי ולאכ׳ את בשרו והשיב לה אליהו‬ ‫ וענתה ואמרה‬7 ‫לה בחר עצורה תהיה מאת השם יתברך ובאכן דומם תהיה‬ ‫לו למען השם התירנו ואנכי אברח ואשבע לך בשם יהוה אלהי מערכות‬ ‫ ישראל לעזוב דרכים הללו מהיולדות הזאת ומבתה הנולד לה וכל זמן‬8 ‫ שמותי אני אברח ועתה אודיע לך שמותי וכל זמ‬9 ‫שאני שומע את‬ ‫ דילי כח להרע ליכנס לבית היולדת‬10 ‫ןשמזכירין אותם לא יהיה לי וכל כת‬ .‫ומכל שכן להזיק‬ 1

In the namea of the Lord, God of Israel, who is enthroned upon the Cherubim, whose name is great and awesome; the prophet Elijah of blessed memory 2 was on his way when he met Lilith and all her companions.b And he said to Lilith the wicked:c 3 ‘Youd are uncleane and (you are) an unclean spiritf and all your companions are unclean.g Where are you going?’h And she replied to him:i 4 ‘My Lord, Elijah, I am going to the house of the woman X the daughter of Y,j who has 32. For the development and complexity of this story, especially see N & S, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 111–122. See also K, A Time to be Born, 147– 148. 33. In Jewish literature, the ‫‘ מלאך הברית‬the angel of the covenant’ in Mal 3:1 is identified with the prophet Elijah. Elijah’s presence at the circumcision ceremony derives from the interpretation of ‫ ברית‬as ‘circumcision’. According to the biblical stories, Elijah was a performer of miracles and capable of warding off death. Especially the story of the reviving of the son of the widow of Tsarfath in 1 Kgs 17:17–24 has contributed to his status of a protector of children. For a more detailed discussion of the figure of Elijah in relation to childbirth, see S, ‘Childbirth and Magic’, 704–712.

50

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ just given birth,k to give her the sleep of deathl and to takem the daughter 5 born to her,n to drinko her blood and to squeezep the marrow of her bonesq and to eatr her flesh.s Elijah, 6 the prophet of blessed memory, repliedt to her: ‘You will be restrained by the banu from the blessed Namev and you will be like a silent stone.’w 7 And she repliedx to him: ‘For the sake of the Name, let us goy so that I may flee. And I swear to you in the Name of the Lord, the God of the armies of 8 Israel, to abandon these ways,z away from this womanaa who has just given birth and her daughter born to her.bb And whenever I will hearcc 9 my names, I will flee. And now then, I will make known to you my names and wheneverdd they will mention them (or: they will be mentioned) neither I nor my companionsee will have 10 the power to do evil and to enterff the house of the woman who has just given birth, let alone to cause harm.gg

Commentary. Even though the outline of the story is the same in all the amulets, there is a considerable variety in its spelling and wording, especially where confusion of consonants (especially of ‫ה‬ and ‫ ח‬and of ‫ ב‬and ‫ ;כ‬see for instance note b and note n) and grammatical agreement are concerned. The former shows that the typesetting was often done by persons who had little knowledge of Hebrew. This is evident from the adaptations which had to be made when the amulet to be produced was for a child of the other sex (see below notes n and bb, and also s). Errors were copied and gave rise to new errors. At some points the Hebrew was sometimes misunderstood (see for instance note l). Variety is also found in the literary sequences in amulets from the Cairo Geniza and this can be attributed to the redactional process of these sequences. Magical names and formulae, on the other hand, had to be copied with care, lest they lose their magical power. At this point few variants are found in amulets from the Cairo Geniza.34 a ‫‘ – בשם‬In the name of ’ followed by the divine name marks the beginning of Jewish incantations. It is also found in the amulets from the Cairo Geniza materials dating from the Middle Ages. Most of the incantations from the Cairo Geniza begin with ‫ בשם‬followed by the divine name and an appellative or phrase describing God.35 The phrase ‫ יושב הכרובים‬is also found in this collection. See for instance TS K1, no. 127. The text of this format only differs from the text of the 34. S & S, Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts, 52. 35. See ibid., 53–54.

 

51

horizontal format in that in the latter ‫ יהוה אלהי ישראל‬is not followed by ‫יושב הכרובים‬. b ‫ בת – ובכל בת דילה‬is a printing error for ‫( כת‬see also note n below). The pronominal suffix is 3 f.sg. instead of the expected 2 f.sg. c ‫‘ – ללילית הרשעה‬To Lilith the wicked’; or: ‘to Lilith: “oh, wicked one”.’ d ‫ – אתה‬The pronoun is 2 m.sg., even though Lilith is addressed. e ‫ – טמאה‬In some of the texts, a pf. 2 f.sg. form ‫ טמאת‬is found.36 f ‫ – ורוח טומאה‬Literally ‘a spirit of uncleanness’. In some of the texts, ‫‘ ברוח טומאה‬with an unclean spirit’, is found (e.g. D 4). g ‫‘ – וכל כת דילך כולם טמאים‬And all your companions are unclean’; the noun ‫ כת‬is singular feminine. h ‫ אתם הולכים‬- Both the pronoun and the participle are masculine, although Lilith and her companions are addressed. i ‫ – ותען ותאמר‬Biblical Hebrew construction. In the following, however, pf. forms instead of impf. cons. forms are used (see notes t and x below). j ‫ – פב״פ‬This abbreviation (in full ‫ )פלונית בת פלונית‬was copied from magical handbooks. Handwritten amulets, such as the Cairo Geniza amulets, sometimes have the client’s name mentioned.37 Often the abbreviation is bracketed, so for instance in D 4. k ‫ – לבית היולדות‬The plural form of the second term of the construct noun phrase is remarkable. See also note aa below. l ‫ – לתת לה שינתחמו‬The phrase is a corruption of ‫לתת לה שינת המות‬ ‘to give her the sleep of death’. The correct form is found for instance in D 20 and D 4. At this point, many errors are found in the different texts. m ‫ – לקחת‬The form of the infinitive is the Biblical Hebrew form; the same is true for ‫ לתת‬in l. 4 and ‫ לאכול‬in l. 5. See however the Rabbinic Hebrew form of the infinitive ‫ ליכנס‬in line 10. n ‫ כת – כת הנולדת לה‬is a printing error for ‫( בת‬see also above, note b). The form of the participle is the expected one here. Disagreement in gender at this point is found in D 3 (‫)בן הנולדת לה‬. Disagreement in gender with relation to the newborn is also found within D 23. See below, note s on ‫ בשרו‬and note bb on ‫ומבתה הנולד לה‬. o ‫ – לשתו׳‬An abbreviation of ‫לשתות‬. p ‫ למצו׳‬- An abbreviation of ‫למצות‬. 36. For instance in S, ‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, nos. 2 and 3. 37. See S & S, Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts, 57.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

52 q

‫ – עצמותי‬An abbreviation (without the abbreviation sign) of ‫‘ עצמותיה‬her bones’ or ‫‘ עצמותיו‬his bones’. Since this amulet concerns a girl, one might argue that ‫ עצמותיה‬was intended. But there are also instances of disagreement in this text (see note s and note bb). In D 20 the abbreviation sign follows the ‫י‬.38 r ‫ – לאכ׳‬An abbreviation of ‫לאכול‬. s ‫ – בשרו‬One would expect a form with a pronominal suffix 3 f.sg. (‫)–ה‬. t ‫ – השיב‬Note the pf. form. See, however, note i above. u ‫ – בחר‬Abbreviation of ‫בחרם‬. It lacks the abbreviation sign. Sometimes this is written in full (for instance in D 2 and D 4). v ‫ – מאת השם יתברך‬Literally ‘by the Name, may it be blessed’. w ‫ ובאכן – ובאכן דומם תהיה‬is an error for ‫כאבן‬. It is a reference to Hab 2:19 ‫‘ הוי אמר לעץ הקיצה עורי לאבן דומם הוא יורה‬Woe unto him that saith to the wood, Awake; to the dumb stone, Arise, it shall teach!’ (). x ‫ – ענתה ואמרה‬Perfect forms are used here. See notes i and t above. y ‫‘ – התירנו‬Set us free’. There are many variants, such as for example ‫ תירני‬in D 20 ‘set me free’. z ‫‘ לעזוב דרכים הללו‬To abandon these ways’. Sometimes ‫את הדרכים‬ instead of ‫ דרכים הללו‬is found (for example D 4). aa ‫ – מהיולדות הזאת‬There is disagreement in number between the governing noun (pl.) and the modifying demonstrative pronoun (sg.). This is also found in other texts.39 The expected singular form, however, is found in D 4 (‫)יולדת‬. bb ‫ – ומבתה הנולד לה‬There is disagreement in gender. See, however, the correct form ‫( בת הנולדת לה‬see note n). cc ‫ – אני שומע‬Disagreement in gender between the feminine subject (Lilith) and the masculine predicative participle. Cf., however, ‫אנכי הולכת‬, in Lilith’s first speech in l. 4. dd ‫ – וכל זמ ן‬The final nun of ‫ זמן‬is wrongly positioned. The same feature is found in D 3 (an amulet for a boy), probably from the same household. It is an indication that both amulets were produced by the same press. ee ‫ – לי וכל כת דילי‬One would expect ‫( לי ולכל כת דילי‬so for instance in D 4).

38. Cf. also ‫ עצמותיו‬in D 2, D 4 and S, ‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, no. 3. 39. E.g. S,‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, no. 3.

 

53

ff

‫ – ליכנס לבית היולדת‬Instead of ‫לבית‬, a corrupt form is sometimes found. For instance ‫ לבנה‬in D 4. gg ‫ – ומכל שכן להזיק‬Sometimes abbreviated as ‫ומכ״ש‬. Instead of ‫ להזיק‬a corrupt form is sometimes found, for instance ‫ להיזק‬in D 4. 4.7 ‘The following are my names’ (‫)אלו הן שמותי‬ These words are followed by a list of Lilith’s fourteen names. In most of the amulets of this type Lilith’s names are vocalised, which probably is an indication that the names were recited.40 In a few instances, however, the names are not vocalised. D 23 is an example of an amulet in which Lilith’s names are not vocalised (the same in D 3). The recitation of these names obviously provided protection (cf. also ‘Whenever I hear my names, I will flee’ and ‘Whenever they mention them neither I nor my companions will have the power to enter the house of the woman who has just given birth’ in the story of the meeting). The following are the names. The vocalisation as given here is based on the vocalisation of these names in D 4.41

‫ לילית‬Lilith; ‫ אביטו‬Abbit.u; ‫ אביזו‬Abbizu; ‫ אמזרפו‬Amzarfo; ‫ הקש‬Haqash; ‫ אודם‬Odem; ‫ איקפורו‬Iqforu;42 ‫ איילו‬Ilu; ‫ טטרוטה‬T.at.rot.a; ‫ אבנוקטה‬Avanuqt.a; ‫ שטרונה‬Shat.runa; ‫ קלי כטזה‬Qalikkat.izza (sometimes written as one word); 40. S & Swartz, Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts, 33: ‘In some cases, even magical names are vocalised, indicating that the proper pronunciation of those names is essential to the praxis.’ 41. In cases where the vocalisation is absent in this amulet, it is based on S, ‫אסף פויכטונגר‬, no. 3. 42. Probably an error for Iqfodu; see, for instance, D 4.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

54

‫ תילתוי‬Tilatuj; ‫ פירטשה‬Pirt.asha. The origin of many of these names remains unclear. Naveh and Shaked have identified ‫ אמזרפו‬as Morphous (also ‫)אמורפו‬.43 Some of these names occur in the list of the names of the demon Gyllo in the older Greek versions of the story.44 There are also some parallels in the literature of practical Kabbalah. Thus Abbizu beyond a doubt has to be connected with Obizot, the female demon and strangler of babies who appears before King Solomon in the Testament of Solomon.45 She presents herself as ‘… a fierce spirit of a myriad of names and many shapes’.46 Rabbi H.ida, the famous kabbalist and producer of amulets in the eighteenth century, was familiar with ten of such names, as appears from his instructions.47 4.8 ‫‘ קרע שטן‬rend (or: destroy) Satan’ The two words are part of the 42-letter name of God, known since the first century .48 4.9 The Hebrew text of Ex 22:18 in six different word orders Two of the instances begin with the noun, two begin with the negation and two with a form of the verb ‫חיה‬: ‫‘ מכשפה לא תחיה‬thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ (). 4.10 Six instances of ‫ א״ס‬, an abbreviation of ‫אמן סלה‬ Three different abbreviation signs are used. The same abbreviation is also found in amulets in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic and in amulets from the Cairo Geniza. It normally occurs at the end of the amulet.49

43 N & S, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 119 n. 19. 44 Ibid., 114. 45 See F.C. C, ‘The Testament of Solomon’, Jewish Quarterly Review 11 (1899) 1–45 esp. 30. 46 Ibid. 47 S, Hebrew Amulets, 116. 48. See ibid., 97–98; T, Jewish Magic and Superstition, 94–95. 49. S & S, Hebrew and Aramaic Incantation Texts, 58: ‘often in sets of three or multiples of three’.

 

Childbirth amulet D 23 Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana, Library Special Collections, Universiteit van Amsterdam.

55

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

56

4.11 Repetition of the words ‫אדם וחוה חוץ לילית חוה ראשונה סינוי‬ 50

‫וסנסינוי וסנמנגלוף שמריאל וחסריאל‬

4.12 The Hebrew text of Ps 121 This psalm is always found in Jewish childbirth amulets. It was very popular in Yiddish-speaking communities and childbirth amulets were named after the first two words of this psalm (‫‘ שיר המעלות‬a song of ascents’).51

50. ‫ חסריאל‬is a printing error for ‫חסדיאל‬. 51. See for instance K, A Time to be Born, 152.

 The Riddle of the Baskets of 1726 A Glimpse of Jewish Book Production at Amsterdam in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century  .  For Albert Hebrew scholar, Hebrew printer, good friend

A 5486 (= 1726) a very nice edition appeared in Amsterdam, which is known in bibliographical literature under various titles: according to the first, engraved title page, which in some copies was repeated five times for the five books of the Pentateuch as ‫חמישה חומשי‬ ‫( תורה‬Five books of the Torah), and ‫( תקון סופרים‬Emendations of the scribes) and, according to the next, typographic title page as ‫סדר‬ ‫( פרשיות והפטרות‬Order of the readings of the Torah and the Prophets) and Quinque libri Mosis. After the five books of the Pentateuch there follow a second engraved title page for the Haftarot, ‫הפטרות כל השנה‬ ‫( כמנהג קהלות הספרדים והאשכנזים‬Haftarot for the whole year according to the rites of the Sephardic and Ashkenazic communities), and finally a Hebrew-Spanish title page for a calendar: ‫אלה מועדי יהוד מקראי‬ ‫( קודש‬These are the feasts of the Lord, holy convocations) Calendario facil y curiozo de las tablas lunares calculadas con las tablas solares. Industria nueva de Selomoh de Olivera.1 For convenience’s sake, the book will referred to here as Tiqqun Sofrim. The two engraved title pages are signed by the famous French Huguenot artist Bernard Picart (who settled in Amsterdam in 1710), and dated 1725. They are the only title pages that Picart (1673–1733) designed for a Hebrew book. He was, however, intimately familiar with the Sephardic community in Amsterdam due to his monumen-

1. M. S, Catalogus librorum hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (2 vols.; Berlin 1852–1860; repr. Berlin 1931, Hildesheim 1964, New York 1999) nr 865; Y. V, ‫( אוצר הספר העברי‬Thesaurus of the Hebrew Book) (2 vols.; Jerusalem 1995) sub Amsterdam nr 1292.

58

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

1. Engraved title page of the Tiqqun Sofrim by B. Picart.

 . 

2. Engraved title page of the Haftarot by B. Picart.

59

60

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

tal illustrations in the Cérémonies, et Coutumes Réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde (1723). On both title pages, the names of the editors are mentioned: the h.azzan Samuel Rodriguez Mendes, Moses Sarphati de Gerona and David Gomez da Silva. Their first names, Samuel, Moses and David have been illustrated on the first title page by Picart with three scenes from the stories of their biblical namesakes: the birth of Samuel with a Hebrew caption from 1 Sam 1:20; the story of Abigail and David with a caption from 1 Sam 25:29; and the naming of Moses with a caption from Ex 2:10. Above the scenes, the three crowns ‫כתר תורה‬, ‫ כתר מלכות‬and ‫( כתר כהונה‬the crowns of Torah, Kingship and Priesterhood) have been depicted, with putti supporting an open scroll. About these three gentlemen little is known. David Franco Mendes informs us in his well known chronicle of the Sephardic community of Amsterdam that Samuel Rodriguez Mendes was appointed h.azzan in the year 1709 and that he played an important role, together with his colleague the h.azzan Aaron Cohen de Lara, as a singer at the performance of a composition by Abraham de Casseres on the poem ‫( לאל אלים‬To the highest God) by Moses Hayyim Luzzatto of Padua in 1739.2 This fine music is still included in the (Jewish) concert repertoire. 3 The year of publication is hidden in a text from 1 Sam 2:26 ‫‘ שמואל הלך וגדל וטוב‬Samuel grew on, and was in favour’. (Apparently Samuel Rodriguez Mendes was the most important person involved.) Very exceptionally, the copper plates of the two engraved title pages by Picart still exist; they are in the possession of the Jewish Historical Museum at Amsterdam.4 At the beginning of the book, a number of preliminary texts occur, among which laudatory Hebrew poems by Solomon ben Isaac de Meza, who probably also wrote a poem on Abraham Hezekiah Aben Yakar Brandon, who died during the correction of this Tiqqun Sofrim 2. Memorias do estabelecimento e progresso dos judeos Portuguezes e Espanhoes nesta famosa citade de Amsterdam. A Portuguese chronicle of the history of the Sephardim in Amsterdam up to 1772 by David Franco Mendes (ed. with introd. and annotations by L. F & R.G. F-M and a philological commentary, analysis and glossaries by B.N. T, in Studia Rosenthaliana 9 (1975) 103, 117. (Repr. in the series Publications of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana 5; Assen 1975). 3. Cf. the Dutch article by H. K, ‘Le’Eel Eeliem. Een vocale compositie van Abraham de Casseres, op woorden van Luzzatto – Amsterdam 1739’ (‘Le-’el elim. A vocal composition by Abraham de Casseres on the words of Luzzatto – Amsterdam 1739’), Maandblad voor de Geschiedenis der Joden in Nederland 1 (5708 [1947/48]) 67–70. 4. Inventory nr. 00763b-c.

 . 

61

on 6 December 1725, and who can probably be regarded as the financer of the book. Solomon de Meza (alias Salomon Mendes Floris, died 1742) was a rabbi and a physician. He obtained his doctorate in 1690 in Utrecht. In 1725 he published at the press of Solomon Proops a (according to Kayserling unimportant) Hebrew responsum about the Eruv at Maarssen. After his death two of his Portuguese sermons have been published. In 1743 an auction catalogue of his library appeared.5 Furthermore there are poems in the Tiqqun Sofrim by Moses ben Joseph Belmonte, Aaron ben Samuel Da Costa Abendana and Moses de Chaves. There is also an introduction by Eliahu ben Michael Jehudah Leon, which was reprinted from a much earlier edition of a Tiqqun Sofrim, printed in 1659 by Joseph Athias at Amsterdam. (The Calendario was also reprinted from an earlier edition, printed at Amsterdam by David de Castro Tartas in 1666).6 After the Haftarot, the date of completion of the work is given: 11 Menah.em [5]486 (8 August 1726). But notwithstanding the abundance of information the book provides, nowhere the printer has been mentioned. Neither have the names of the composers and pressmen been included at the end of the book, as was not uncommon in Hebrew books of this period. In his introductory poem Aaron ben Samuel Da Costa Abendana calls himself a ‫מחוקק‬, but he is not known as a printer—possibly he was involved in the printing process in some capacity. About the Jewish printers of the seventeenth century at Amsterdam (like Manasseh ben Israel, Immanuel Benveniste, David de Castro Tartas, Joseph and Immanuel Athias) a lot of research has been done, but about the Jewish printers of the eighteenth century hardly anything is known today. The Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana keeps in its rich collections a variety of copies of this Tiqqun Sofrim in large duodecimo, showing how different the appearances of an eighteenth-century book can be. There is a copy printed on paper, and bound in a nice red morocco binding, tooled in gold, a second copy on paper, also in a gold-tooled red morocco binding with silver clasps, and with hand-coloured vel5. J.H. C, Neveh Shalom. A Esnoga de Marça. Bibliographical list on the history of the Portuguese Community at Maarssen, Maarsseveen and the Countryseats along the river Vecht 1652–1839 (Amsterdam 1983) nrs. 44–50. 6. L. F & R.G. F-M, Hebrew typography in the Northern Netherlands 1585–1815. Historical evaluation and descriptive bibliography II (Leiden 1987) nrs. 377 and 443.

62

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

3. Basket  (typographic title page).

 . 

4. Basket  (end Exodus).

63

64

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

lum title pages, and a third paper copy, bound in five gold-tooled red morocco bindings, combined with a Hebrew prayerbook in-octavo of the same year 1726; there is a splendid copy, bound in six even more beautiful gold-tooled red morocco bindings, completely printed on fine vellum, and a copy bound in gold-tooled green morocco, printed on blue paper, and finally there is a copy in unbound and uncut folded sheets.7 In order to solve the bibliographical question about the identity of the actual printer of the Tiqqun Sofrim an investigation was started. All the books, printed by Jewish printers in Amsterdam in the years 1725–1727 and available in the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana of the Amsterdam University Library and in the Library Ets Haim/Livraria Montezinos of the Amsterdam Portuguese-Jewish Community8 (and one book in the Royal Library at The Hague9) have been inspected.10 A considerable number—about 50—of Amsterdam Jewish editions before and after these years have been consulted as well. But there are not many clues: the typefaces used were common in almost every Hebrew printer’s office in Amsterdam in this period, since they probably came from the same typefounder. The paper used does not tell us very much either. For the Tiqqun Sofrim rather large (super median size) French paper of Jean Villedary was used (c. 52 × 42 cm.), as can be studied easily in the copy on unbound and uncut sheets. The countermark in Villedary’s paper shows the initials I.M., probably those of a paper merchant. But even the splendid survey by I.H. van Eeghen on Amsterdam paper merchants does not help us much fur7. R A-658 (on paper);  A-5278 (hand-coloured vellum title pages);  A-991–995 (paper copy in five volumes);  A-996–1000 (completely on vellum); Ros. 19 J 14 (on blue paper);  A-921 (unbound and uncut folded sheets). 8. My special thanks are due to A.W. R .. of the library Ets Haim/ Livraria Montezinos at Amsterdam. 9. J.J.M. B .. of the Royal Library at The Hague was kind enough to inspect a copy of Jona G’s Sendero de vidas. 10. V, Thesaurus mentions 68 Hebrew (and Yiddish) editions: V Amsterdam 1248–1316. From these, 34 (and 4, not in V) have been inspected. Furthermore, 11 Spanish and Portuguese books have been seen. The titles were selected from M. K, Biblioteca Española-Portugueza-Judaica and other studies in Ibero-Jewish bibliography by the author, and by J.S. da Silva Rosa (with a bibliography of K’s publications by M. W; selected with a prolegomenon by Y.H. Y; New York 1971; expanded ed. of the publication Strasbourg 1890) and from H.  B, La literatura hispano-portuguesa de los sefardíes de Amsterdam en su contexto histórico-social (siglos  y ) (Thesis; Amsterdam 1992).

 . 

65

ther.11 And most Jewish publications of 1725–1727 were on small size, in which paper research is difficult. The only starting point can probably be the decorative material used in the Tiqqun Sofrim, in this case three ornamental baskets in woodcut, and a fourth in a decorative head piece, returning at the top of each section; the possibility that the same baskets can be found in one or more Jewish publications of those years, in which the name of a printer has been mentioned, had to be investigated. However, as flower baskets were in vogue in this period, the search had to concentrate on identical baskets. In addition to the Calendario by Selomoh de Olivera, which was combined with the Tiqqun Sofrim, there also exist a Kalendario Hebrayco que contiene los Novilunos, fiestas y ayunos, los parasihot que se juntan, las sazones de Rab Ada, y Semuel … des de el año 5485 hasta el de 5700 que conresponde con el computo vulgar des del año 1724 hasta el de 1940 [sic] que son 216 años. Compuesto por Mosseh de Joseph Belmonte. Amsterdam 5485 [= 1724/1725], in-octavo.12 On the title page another, fifth flower basket occurs. Since this Kalendario belongs to the vellum copy in six volumes of the Tiqqun Sofrim of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana, mentioned above, the Kalendario must have been printed by the same printer who printed the Tiqqun Sofrim. It also occurs in the five-volume paper copy, in which it has been combined with a prayerbook. Belmonte is the same person who wrote one of the laudatory poems at the beginning of the Tiqqun Sofrim.13 Because the Kalendario is dated 5485 (which year ended on 7 September 1725), and the Tiqqun Sofrim was concluded on 8 August 1726, the printing of the complete work must have taken up almost a whole year. But who was the ‘Printer of the Baskets’? During those years at least thirteen Jewish printers were active at Amsterdam. Close examination of these thirteen printers makes it obvious, however, that some of them were actually publishers and book dealers, and did not run a printing shop of their own, even if they informed the public on the

11. I.H.  E, De Amsterdamse boekhandel 1680-1725 (The Amsterdam Book Trade) IV (Amsterdam 1967) 195–272. 12. K, Biblioteca, 27. 13. A collection of Hebrew poetry by Moses ben Joseph Belmonte in his own handwriting and dated 1715 is kept in the library Ets Haim/Livraria Montezinos (Hs. EH 47 E 16); in a manuscript of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana a Hebrew poem, dedicated to Belmonte, dated 1718, occurs (Hs. Ros. 566).

66

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

5. Basket  (end Parashiyot).

 . 

6. Decorative head piece with basket  (at the top of Genesis through Deuteronomy).

67

68

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

title pages that a certain book was printed by them. The printers and publishers certainly were often in competition with each other, but there are signs of cooperation too: Proops worked together with Immanuel Athias, Rofé with De Cordova, Frankfurt with Dayyan, Texeira Tartas with Frankfurt, Querido with Rofé and Fernandes with Abraham Athias and Rofé. During the years 1725–1727 they were: •

Aaron de Solomon Antunes. From his press only one book might have appeared in 1725, but it is more probable that the year of publication has to be read as 1720 (should one read 5480 or [5]485?). Still, a number of his earlier books have been inspected and they show decorative flower baskets, but not the ones looked for.

•

Isaac ben Jacob H.ayim de Cordova. Four books printed by him in 1725 and 1726 and one in 1724 have been consulted. He was active from 1706-1726.

•

Joseph ben Simon Dayyan. Two books of his press of 1725 and 1726 and three earlier books have been seen. He was active from 1717 until 1742.

•

Moses Dias. At the beginning of the Jewish year 5485 he published a Portuguese sermon, possibly the last product of his press, which started in the year 1690.

•

H.ayim Drukker. Only one (Yiddish) book appeared in this period from his press, and this is not available in a library in Amsterdam.

•

David Fernandes. A few books bear his name on the title page, but it seems very unlikely that he was a printer. Probably he was the publisher, who had these books printed at a regular printing shop. The most important of his publications is a Spanish Jewish Bible of 1726 with the information that the book was ‘imprimida por’ (printed by) David Fernandes. And this is the only book from the about one hundred books investigated here in which one of the baskets of the Tiqqun Sofrim has been used several times as an ornament. Another interesting element in this Bible is the decorative wood-

 . 

69

cut title border, and an ornamental headpiece at the beginning of each section. The same headpiece was used in the second half of the seventeenth century by the printer Joseph Athias, and the decorative title border occurs in 1732 in a Hebrew Bible, printed by Abraham Athias, who inherited the typographical material of Joseph and Immanuel Athias.14 The first known publications of Abraham Athias are dating from 1728; there was no evidence found in twelve available titles of his press (in over twenty volumes) that he might have been involved in the printing of the Tiqqun Sofrim. But it seems probable that Fernandes—or his printer—could use decorative material in loan from Abraham Athias. And it appears that Solomon Proops could also use a decorative title border in his Hebrew Bible of 1722–1725, which had been used much earlier by Joseph Athias. It seems that Abraham Athias has played a role behind the scenes in the world of Amsterdam Jewish printers during the years he had not started to print himself. However, the baskets do not occur in the books printed by Joseph and his son Immanuel Athias and consequently were not in the possession of Abraham Athias. •

Moses Frankfurt. Ten books from the years 1725–1727 have been seen, and one earlier edition. His press was active 1721–1746.

•

Isaac ben Solomon Raphael Jehudah Leon Templo. Six books from 1726 and 1727 have been consulted. He printed from 1726 until 1734.

•

Solomon ben Joseph Proops. One of the most active printers in these years. Ten editions 1725– 1727 and three earlier have been seen. He printed during the years 1704–1734. He was the founder of the Proops dynasty, which became famous in the world of the Jewish book, being active until far into the nineteenth century.

14 . Cf. A.K. O, ‘A Hidden Treasure in the Athias Cabinet, or Quid Novum in Armariolo Athii’, Zutot: Perspectives on Jewish Culture 2 (2002) 164–169 (= Festschr. Albert   H; ed. S. B, M. B, I. Z, R. F & R. M; Dordrecht etc. 2003); Id., ‘The Hidden Treasure of Athias’, Quarendo (2007) (forthcoming).

70

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

7. Basket  (title page Kalendario).

 . 

71

•

Naftali Hirz ben Alexander Züskind Levi Rofé me-Emden. Also known as Dr Hartog Alexander van Em(b)den. He obtained his doctorate in medical science at Harderwijk.15 Seven books from 1726 and 1727 and twenty-five until 1740 have been inspected, since he is a serious candidate for being the printer of the Tiqqun Sofrim (see below). However, no vignettes of flower baskets could be found in his books. In 1725 he financed an edition of ‫( מסכת שבועות‬Treatise Oaths) printed by Isaac de Cordova, in which he informs the public that in his house in Rapenburgerstaat he has a bookshop where he sells antiquarian and new books. His press was active until 1766 and was continued by his successors until the middle of the nineteenth century (under the name Van Embden & Co.).

•

Aaron Hezekiah Querido. Five Spanish books bearing his name on the title page have been seen. Like David Fernandes he was a publisher and book dealer who sold his books in his shop, but had them printed elsewhere. In some of the Spanish books, mainly prayerbooks, ornamental baskets appear, which are very similar, but not identical, to the baskets in the Tiqqun Sofrim. Steinschneider mentions a Hebrew booklet of 1726 in-16°, ‫( אור טוב‬Good Light), by Jehudah Arieh de Modena, ‘jussu Ahron Chiskijja Credo (‫ )קרידו‬et David Fernandes’. This is one of the very rare cases of an error by Steinschneider—apparently Credo has to be read as Querido. But the interesting thing is that the book was printed by Naftali Hirz Levi Rofé.16 Regretfully, no copy of this booklet could be traced. More over, Kayserling informs us that one of his books, the Orden de los cinco ayunos of 1727 was also printed by Rofé.17 A number of copies of this book has been inspected, but the name of Rofé was not found in them. Did Kayserling see a variant issue?

15. Cf. the Dutch contributions by L. H, ‘Cultuur en volksleven’ (‘Culture and folklore’), in H. B & A. F (eds.), Geschiedenis der Joden in Nederland (Amsterdam 1940) 454–497, esp. 473–474 and I. V E B, ‘Het aandeel der Joden in de natuurwetenschappen in de Nederlanden’ (‘The Contribution of the Jews to Science in the Netherlands’), ibid., 643–679, esp. 661. 16. S, Catalogus, nr. 7573. 17. K, Biblioteca, 64.

72 •

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ Samuel ben Isaac Texeira Tartas.18 He published, together with Isaac Lopez, Beh.ay ben Asher’s commentary on the Pentateuch, printed in 1726 by Moses Frankfurt.

The solution of the riddle can probably be found, as is so often the case, in Moritz Steinschneider’s monumental catalogue of the Hebraica in the Bodleian Library at Oxford of 1852–1860.19 But one has to consult this work very thoroughly. At the end of his catalogue he gives a list of ‘Libri omissi’, mainly new acquisitions, and under nr. 7492, which is an addition to nr. 2363, with a reference to his list of ‘Addenda et Corrigenda’ at the front of his catalogue, he describes a prayerbook in four volumes, according to the Sephardic rite, printed by Naftali Hirz Levi Rofé and acquired by the Bodleian Library in 1854. It appears that in the same year 1726 two rivalling sets of four almost identical Sephardic prayerbooks appeared at Amsterdam. The first set was printed by Isaac Jehudah Leon Templo, and the second by Naftali Hirz Levi Rofé. It is remarkable that the prayerbooks by Rofé were financed by Abraham Hezekiah Aben Yakar Brandon, with a reference on the title page to his premature death on 6 December 1725, and that the prayers were edited by the h.azzan Samuel Rodriguez Mendes. They appear to be exactly the same people, who were involved in the publication of the Tiqqun Sofrim of that year. And the chronogram to indicate that year 1726 is also identical with the one in the Tiqqun Sofrim: ‘Samuel grew on, and was in favour’, apparently referring to the editor of the prayerbook. From this information it seems almost certain that not only the set of Sephardic prayerbooks but also the Tiqqun Sofrim have been printed at the press of Naftali Hirz ben Alexander Züskind Levi Rofé me-Emden. But the riddle of the baskets has not been solved completely. It seems very likely that Rofé also printed the books published by David Fernandes (in whose Spanish Bible one of the baskets of the Tiqqun Sofrim was used several times), and by Aaron Querido (in whose books very similar baskets can be found). He actually printed for them 18. Cf. R.G. F-M, ‘Samuel b. Isaac Texeira Tartas. Un éditeur séfarade à Amsterdam et à Livourne’, in H. M & G. N (eds.), Mémorial I.-S. Révah. Études sur le marranisme, l'héterodoxie juive et Spinoza (Paris/Louvain 2001) 219–225. 19. See note 1 above.

 . 

73

Jehudah de Modena’s ‫ אור טוב‬of 1726 according to its imprint. In addition Rofé appears to possess himself in 1729 in an edition bearing his name an ornamental wood-cut title border, which was used in 1725 in the Biblia Española of Fernandes en in 1732 in the Hebrew Bible of Abraham Athias.20 Still it remains strange that no more baskets, searched for so thoroughly in every available Jewish book at Amsterdam from the period 1725–1727, have been found so far. For the press of Rofé the examination has been extended to all his available books up to 1740—without any result. An explanation might be that Rofé started ‘in the new printing house’ (‫ )בדפוס החדש‬as he calls it proudly on his first title pages, with financial support of Amsterdam Sephardim (particularly Abraham Aben Yakar Brandon, who died halfway through the production of both books, in December 1725, as is stated both in the Tiqqun Sofrim and in the set of Sephardic prayerbooks). Perhaps his death was the end of the support, because in the next years Rofé mainly printed for the Ashkenazic market, including many Yiddish texts. Apparently, Rofé’s printing shop was a relatively large enterprise, since in the colophon of one of his publications the names of three compositors (‫ )זעציר‬and three pressmen (‫ )דרוקר‬are mentioned. The baskets possibly remained (unused?) in the hands of a Sephardic owner. Alternatively, they might have been borrowed from a Christian colleague at Amsterdam, as happened more often in the history of Hebrew printing. To ascertain that possibility much more research is needed, however. And perhaps the examination of the Jewish books has to be extended yet for a much longer period (e.g. 1720–1750), and in libraries abroad as well. The search for the baskets of 1726 has not been finished.

20. Abraham b. Sabbatai Hurwitz Levi & Isaiah Hurwitz, (Amsterdam: Rofé 1729), 8°. StCB 4233, 11; Vinograd Amsterdam 1355. B.R.  A-4267.

74

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ APPENDIX

L of Jewish editions published at Amsterdam in the years 1725– 1727, and kept in the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana and in Ets Haim/ Livraria Montezinos at Amsterdam, and in the Royal Library at the Hague. •

Aaron de Solomon Antunes. 1) ‫[ מדרש רבות‬5]485 (1725). 2° [The year can also be read as 5480 (1720)] (Financed by Naftali Hirz Levi Rofé) StCB 1866; V Amsterdam 1252

•

Isaac ben Jacob H.ayim de Cordova. 2) ‫[ מסכת שבועות‬5]485 (1725). 8° (Financed by Naftali Hirz Levi Rofé) StCB 376b; V Amsterdam 1250 UBA 421 A 15 B.R.  A-1654 (olim 1874 H 2) 3) Samuel Mendes de Solla. Sermam … prégado em este K.K. de T.T. em Sabath Balak a 17 de Tamus 5484 (1725). 4° D S R 114 B.R.  A-1281(8) (olim 1870 F 35(8)) 4) ‫[ מסכת ראש השנה‬5]486 (1726). 8° StCB 1836; V Amsterdam 1280 E.H. 12 C 19 5) Antonio Enriquez Gomez. La torre de Babilonia. 1726. 2° K p. 50; D B 320 E.H. 16 A 29

•

Joseph ben Simon Dayyan. 6) Elija ben Moses de Vidas & Joseph Poeto (recte Poggetto). ‫[ ספר ראשית החכמה הקצר‬5]485 (1725). 8° V Amsterdam 1261 B.R.  A-2778 (olim 1879 E 50) 7) Abraham ben Hezekiah H.azkuni. ‫[ ספר שתי ידות‬5]486 (1726). 2°

 . 

75

StCB 4208, 2; V Amsterdam 1291 B.R. 1868 A 6 •

Moses Dias. 8) Semuel Mendes de Solla. Sermam prégado em este K.K. de T.T. em Sabath Nisabim. 15 de Hesvan 5485 (1 November, 1724). 4° D S R 115 E.H. 15 H 24(5)

•

David Fernandes. 9) Biblia en lengua Española … Corr. por Dr. R. Yshac de Ab. Diaz. Imprimida por David Fernandes. 5486 [1726]. 8° K p. 29 B.R.  A-710 (olim 3803 D 4) 10) Orden de las oraciones cotidianas … con las de Hanucah, y Purim, y Ayuno del Solo … los tres Pascuas … y con las Parasioth, y Aftaroth. Nuovamente corregido, y à su costa Impresso …, por David Fernandes & David de Elisa Pereyra. 5488 (1728). (With Calendario). 8° D S R 53 E.H. 11 D 26

•

Moses Frankfurt. 11) ‫[ ספר מגישי מנחה‬5]485–[5]489 (1725–1729). 2° (Vol. 1-3), and Naphtali Hirz Levi Rofé (vol. 4) StCB 1181; V Amsterdam 1266 B.R. 1879 A 8–11 12) David ben Joseph Abudraham. ‫[ ספר אבודרהם‬5]486 (1726). 4° StCB 5784, 5; V Amsterdam 1270 B.R.  825 13) Beh.ay ben Asher. ‫[ ביאור על התורה‬Ed. by Samuel ben Isaac Texeira Tartas and Isaac Lopez]. [5]486 (1726). 2° StCB 4525, 12; V Amsterdam 1273 B.R. 1868 A 4 14) Moses ben H . ayim Alsheikh. ‫[ ספר חבצלת השרון‬5]486 (1726). 2° [Commentary on Daniel]

76

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ StCB 871; V Amsterdam 1274 B.R.  A-198 (olim 1865 C 7) 15) ‫[ משניות‬5]486 (1726). 4° [Vol. 3–6 only] StCB 2021; V Amsterdam 1282 B.R.  A-548–549 (olim 1876 B 19–20) 16) Joseph ben Lev. ‫[ ספר שאלות ותשובות‬5]486 (1726). 2° (Together with Joseph Dayyan) StCB 4958, 6; V Amsterdam 1289 B.R.  A-441 (olim 1886 B 20) 17) ‫[ ספר תיקון סופרים‬5]487 (1727). 8° StCB [873]; V Amsterdam 1315 B.R.  A-649 (olim 1863 H 1) 18) ‫[ הפטרות כל השנה‬5]487 (1727). 8° [Sephardic and Ashkenazic rite] StCB [873]; V Amsterdam 1298 B.R.  A-1138 (olim 1892 G 33) 19) ‫[ מסכת הוריות‬5]487 (1727). 8° StCB 1673A; V Amsterdam 1306 B.R.  A-25 (olim 1854 C 22) 20) ‫[ מסכת שקלים‬5]487 (1727). 8° StCB 2043; V Amsterdam 1307 B.R.  A-27 (olim 1854 C 24)

•

Isaac ben Solomon Raphael Jehudah Leon Templo. 21) ‫( סדר תפלות‬Sephardic rite). 5486 (1726). 8° [last leaf in Spanish] StCB 2363]; V Amsterdam 1284 B.R.  A-1134 (olim 1868 D 10) 22) ‫( סדר תפלות המועדים‬Sephardic rite). [5]486 (1726). 8° StCB Add. col. 78; not in V Amsterdam E.H. 20 D 24 23) ‫( סדר לימים נוראים‬Sephardic rite). 5486 (1726). 8° StCB Add. col. 78; V Amsterdam 1283 B.R.  A-1135 (olim 1868 D 12)

 . 

77

24) ‫( סדר חמישה תעניות‬Sephardic rite). [5]486 (1726). 8° StCB Add. col. 78; V Amsterdam 1276 B.R.  A-1136 (olim 1868 D 13) 25) ‫( סליחות לאשמורת הבוקר‬Sephardic rite). [5]487 (1727). 16° StCB 7515; V Amsterdam 1311 B.R.  A-1316 (olim 3807 H 38) 26) ‫ לליל הושענו רבה‬... ‫( סדר התיקון‬Sephardic rite). [5]487 (1727). 8° StCB 3072; V Amsterdam 1314 B.R.  A-110 (olim 1859 F 20) •

Solomon ben Joseph Proops. 27) ‫ארבעה ועשרים הם תורה נביאים וכתובים בנקודות וטעמים על פי‬ ‫( המסורות‬Some copies with Latin title and approbations: Biblia Hebraea cum vetustissimis … tam manuscriptis, quam typis excusis codicibus, … collata …, dated 1725) [5]482– [5]484] (1722–1724/1725). 8° StCB 856; V Amsterdam 1241 B.R.  A-654 (olim Ros. 1863 H 8) 28) Samuel ben Moses de Avilah. ‫[ ספר כתר תורה‬5]485 (1725). 4° StCB 7011, 3; V Amsterdam 1249 B.R.  A-1524 (olim 1873 G 8) 29) ‫[ עולת שבת‬5]485 (1725). 12° [With ‫פרקי אבות‬p] StCB 3141; V Amsterdam 1255 B.R.  A-1023 (olim 1882 H 39) 30) Jacob ben Solomon Ibn H.abib. ‫כתנות אור אור כולל ומוסיף על‬ ‫[ ספר עין יעקב‬5]485 (1725). 8° StCB 5518, 26; V Amsterdam 1256 B.R.  A-5188–5190 (olim Ros. 15 H 16–18) 31) Solomon ben Isaac de Mezah. ‫[ ספר שלחן שלמה‬5]485 (1725). 4° StCB 6958, 1;V Amsterdam 1263 B.R. Br. Ros. H-e-21 32) ‫[ תיקון יום כפור בערב ראש חדש‬5]485 (1725). 12° Not in StCB; not in V Amsterdam B.R.  A-1152 (olim 1892 H 30)

78

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 33) ‫[ סדר תיקון ליל שביעי של פסח‬5]485 (1725). 8° (The first copy with Hebrew preface; the second copy with Spanish preface) StCB 3068; V Amsterdam 1268 B.R.  A-297 (olim 1857 H 34);  A-4916 (olim  27) 34) ‫[ תפלות קרבן מנחה‬5]485 (1725). 8° StCB 2359; V Amsterdam 1260 E.H. 29 E 33 35) Benjamin ben Eliezer ha-Kohen. ‫[ ספר גבול בנימין‬5]487 (1727). 2° StCB 4558, 3; V Amsterdam 1297 B.R.  A-73 (olim 1860 B 18) 36) Immanuel H . ay ben Abraham Riqi. ‫[ ספר משנת חסידים‬5]487 (1727). 8° StCB 5267, 5; V Amsterdam 1309 B.R.  A-1172 (olim 1868 F 51)

•

Naftali Hirz ben Alexander Züskind Levi Rofé me-Emden. 37) ‫( סדר התפילות‬Sephardic rite). [5]486 (1726). 8° StCB 7492; V Amsterdam 1294 B.R.  A-991–995 (olim Ros. 19 J 13–17) 38) ‫( סדר תפלות המועדים‬Sephardic rite). [5]486 (1726). 8° StCB 7492; not in V Amsterdam B.R.  A-5290 (olim Ros. 20 G 2) 39) ‫( סדר לימים נוראים‬Sephardic rite). 5486 (1726). 8° StCB 7492; not in V Amsterdam B.R.  A-1865 (olim 1877 H 23) 40) ‫( סדר תפילות לתענית‬Sephardic rite). [5]486 (1726). 8° StCB 7492; V Amsterdam 1293 B.R.  A-5291 (olim Ros 20 G 3) 41) Samuel ben Isaac Yafeh Ashkenazi. ‫[ ספר יפה מוראה‬5]487 (1727). 2° StCb 7036, 4; V Amsterdam 1304 B.R. 1875 A 14 42) Menah.em Azaryah ben Aryeh Jehudah Leib ha-Kohen. ‫ספר‬ ‫[ מציאת עזרי‬5]487 (1727). 8°

 . 

79

StCB 6352, 2;V Amsterdam 1308 B.R.  A-10771(3) (olim 1884 H 2(3)) 43) Solomon Sasportas. Memoria de los 613 preceptos de la S. Ley, y siete de sabios. 5487 (1727). 8° (16 leaves Hebrew, and 30 leaves Spanish) StCB 6976, 2; V Amsterdam 1313 B.R.  A-1451 (olim 1872 F 8); UBA  63-5534 (olim 2452 C 24) •

Aaron Hezekiah Querido. 44) Orden de Ros Asanah y Kipur, por estillo corriente y seguido sin bolver de una a otra parte, como se uza en este Kahal Kados de Amsterdam. 5486 (1726). 8° K, p. 62 B.R.  A-365 (olim 1858 G 11) 45) Orden de los cinco ayunos por estilo seguido, y corriente, conforme se uza en esto Kahal Kados. 5487 (1727). 8° K, p. 64 B.R.  A-421 (olim 1859 E 6) 46) Orden de las oraciones cotidianas con las de Hanuca y Purim ... con sus Parasiot en sus lugares y orden del Ayuno del Solo. 5487 (1727). 8° D S R 52 E.H. 31 D 42 47) Orden de las tres Pascuas. Pesah, Sebuoth y Sucoth. 5487 (1727). 8° K, p. 61 E.H. 31 D 44 48) Jona ben Abraham Gerondi. Sendero de vidas que contiene quatro tratados de los cossas que el hombre deve hazer para servir al Dio Benditto por via de la contricion y de los ayunos. 5487 (1727). 12° D B 323 K.B. 486 L 4:2

•

Samuel ben Isaac Texeira Tartas. See no. 13 above.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

80 •

[No printer] 49) Imanuel Aboab. Nomologia o discursos legales … . Segunda ed. corregida y emendata por Isaac Lopes. 5487 (1727). 4° K p. 2 B.R.  A-185 (olim 1856 D 36)

A: B.R. – Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana, Amsterdam University Library, Amsterdam D S R – see K. D B – H.  B, La literatura hispano-portuguesa de los sefardíes de Amsterdam en su contexto histórico-social (siglos  y ) (Thesis; Amsterdam 1992). E.H. – Ets Haim/Livraria Montezinos. Library of the Sephardic Community of Amsterdam K – M. K, Biblioteca Española-PortuguezaJudaica and other studies in Ibero-Jewish bibliography by the author, and by J. S.  S R (with a bibliography of K’s publications by M. W; selected with a prolegomenon by Y. H. Y; New York 1971; expanded ed. of the publication Strasbourg 1890). K.B. – Royal Library, The Hague StCB – M. S, Catalogus librorum hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (2 vols.; Berlin 1852–1860; repr. Berlin 1931; Hildesheim 1964; New York 1999). UBA – University Library Amsterdam V – Y. V, ‫( אוצר הספר העברי‬Thesaurus of the Hebrew Book) (2 vols.; Jerusalem 1995).

 Laments at the Departure of a Sage Funeral Songs for Great Scholars as Recorded in Rabbinic Literature   I L for beloved people who have died are part of the rites of mourning in both ancient and modern cultures. In Jewish religious practice, eulogies are essential to the funeral ceremonies, which further encompass the rending of clothes, the escorting of the deceased, the comforting of the mourners, and the delivering of orations to praise the dead.1 In a poetic and often concise form, they express the grief one feels at the loss of friends or close relatives. The eulogies written at the death of the scholars and spiritual leaders of a community are a special element of these funeral songs. A famous and wellknown example from the period of the finest flowering of Jewish poetry in Spain is the eulogy Ibn Gabirol delivered at the death of Rab Hai (Gaon). This song was written in memory of one of the last Babylonian geonim, who died as head of the academy of Pumbeditha in the year 1039 and whose death marked the end of the Babylonian schools: Weep, my people, put on cord and sackcloth, Break all the instruments of music and song,  I am indebted to drs. P.J. B, who read a draft of this article and offered many important and useful comments. 1. A short and fine survey of Jewish mourning rites is given by D. Z in his introduction to The Tractate ‘Mourning’ (Semah.ot) (Regulations Relating to Death, Burial, and Mourning) (New Haven/London 1966) 1–30. See also J.P. B, ‘Beliefs, Rites and Customs of the Jews, Connected with Death, Burial, and Mourning’, Jewish Quarterly Review 6 (1894) 317–347, 664–671; 7 (1895) 701–718, 259–267; S. K, Talmudische Archäologie (3 vols.; Leipzig 1910–1912; repr. Hildesheim 1966) II, 62– 71; R. H, Jewish Funerary Customs, Practices and Rites in the Second Temple Period (Leiden 2005). For modern practice, see M. L, The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning (New York 1990).

82

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ For Rab Hai, our master, the last remnant Left to us in the world, has gone ... 2

In this article, I shall investigate the form and function of the funeral songs written in the Talmudic period at the death of various rabbinic leaders of the Jewish Palestinian and Babylonian communities and academies. They have been handed down to us in Talmudic and Midrashic writings, some of them in thematic and coherent passages dealing with mourning rites,3 others scattered throughout the sources. These laments are all written in Hebrew, although dirges, and especially the more popular ones, were often composed in Aramaic, the language that is described as best suited to dirges and lamentations.4 Often they are part of the prose eulogy or funeral oration (hesped) in which the peculiar values of the deceased are praised and the community is comforted for the loss of a leader who had great wisdom and knowledge or special humility and piety. As we shall see, the elementary form of some of these rabbinic laments goes back to the qinah form of biblical times. I shall start, therefore, with a few remarks on lamentations found in the Hebrew Bible. 1. B  In the Hebrew Bible, eulogies are to be found for heroes, leaders and kings who have fallen in battle. Well-known are the examples of David’s lament at the death of Saul’s army commander Abner (2 Sam 3:33–34), the long dirge he sang for Saul and his son Jonathan (2 Sam 1:17–27), and the laments that Jeremiah wrote for king Josiah 2. See H. S, ‫( השירה העברית בספרד ובפרובאנס‬Hebrew Poetry in Spain and Provence) (4 vols.; Jerusalem/Tel-Aviv 1954–1956) I, 203. The translation is by D. G, The Jewish Poets of Spain 900–1250 (Harmondsworth 1971) 80. The song reminds one of a few lines, often quoted after funerals, in W.H. A’s poem Two Songs for Hedli Anderson: ‘Silence the pianos and with muffled drum / Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come’. 3. See especially b. Moed Q. 25a–28b, which expounds the Mishnaic rule over the rending of clothes at a funeral during a festival (m. Moed Q. 3:7). See also Semah.ot, chapters 8, 9. 4. Cf. y. Meg. 1:11 (71b) ‘Syriac (Aramaic) is for dirges’; see J. Y, ‘“Syriac for Dirges, Hebrew for Speech”. Ancient Jewish Poetry in Aramaic and Hebrew’, in S. S et al. (eds.), The Literature of the Sages. Second Part (CRINT II/3b; Assen 2006) 375–391, esp. 376. For a collection of Aramaic laments, see the funeral songs of professional female singers in b. Moed Q. 28b; see also b. Yeb. 121b. For Aramaic eulogy poems found in the Cairo Genizah, see Y, ‘Syriac for Dirges’, 376–380.

 

83

(2 Chr 35:25).5 Dirges were not only sung by personal friends and close relatives, but also composed by professional dirge singers (‫)מקוננות‬6 and sung by those skilled in wailing (‫)ידעיֿנהי‬.7 The same differentiation between personal lamentations and dirges sung by professionals is found in Greek epic poems, as for example in the extensive lament for Hector in book 24 of the Iliad (‘And when they had brought him inside the renowned house, they laid him / on a carved bed, and seated beside him the singers / who were to lead the melody in the dirge, and the singers / chanted the song of sorrow, and the women were mourning beside him’).8 One of the basic forms of these biblical laments seems to be the ‘woe-call’, which consists of a repetition of the interjection ‫( הוי‬also ‫ )הו‬or ‫אוי‬.9 In Am 5:16, the woe-saying is paralleled with lamenting: In every square there shall be lamenting (‫)מספד‬, In every street cries of ‘Ah, woe (‫’!)הוֿהו‬

A fine example of such a woe-call, in a slightly extended form, is given in the book of Jeremiah, in the ‘oracle of non-lament’10 for the Judaean king Jehoiakim (Jer 22:18–19): They shall not mourn for him, ‘Ah, brother! Ah, sister!’11 5. See the classic study by H. J, Das hebräische Leichenlied im Rahmen der Völkerdichtung (Giessen 1923) 129–131, 135–136. 6. Cf. Jer 9:16, where the dirge singers are paralleled to ‘skilled women’ (‫)חכמות‬. The term ‫ מקוננות‬also occurs in Talmudic sources (cf. b. Ket. 46b); see J. P, ‘Die Leichenfeierlichkeiten im nachbibl. Judenthume’, Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 10 (1861) 345–355, 376–394, esp. 382. In Tg. Ps.-J. Gen 4:22, Naamah is called ‘a composer [literally: mistress] of dirges and songs’. 7. Cf. Am 5:16. For the expression ‫קול נהי‬, ‘the sound of wailing’, see Jer 9:18; in Jer 9:19 parallelism is found between ‫נהי‬, ‘wailing’ and ‫קינה‬, ‘lamentation’; cf. the expression ‫קנים ונהי‬, ‘laments and wailing’, in y. Moed Q. 1:3 [5] (80d), y. Sanh. 6:12 [6] (23d). 8. Iliad 24.719–722. See Ch. C. T, Epic Grief. Personal Laments in Homer’s Iliad (Berlin/New York 2004) 2–3. T (pp. 5, 21–22) describes the two forms of lament that appear in the Iliad, the γόοι (‘personal lamentations uttered by the next of kin’) and the θρῆνοι (‘set-dirges sung by non-kin professionals’). 9. On the use and function of these interjections (mourning formula, prophetic indictment), see E. G, ‘The Woe-Oracles of the Prophets’, Journal of Biblical Literature 81 (1962) 250–251, esp. 250 nn. 7, 8. 10. As it is named by J.R. L, Jeremiah 21–36 (Anchor Bible 21B; New York 2004) 142–146. 11. Hebrew: ‫הוי אחי והוי אחות‬.

84

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ They shall not mourn for him, ‘Ah, Lord! Ah, his majesty!’12 He shall have the burial of an ass, Dragged out and left lying Outside the gates of Jerusalem.

In this oracle, it is predicted of Jehoiakim that he will die an unnatural death and will remain unburied.13 He will neither receive the laments sung at the loss of relatives nor those for a ruler. This view on Jehoiakim’s death is problematic and at odds with other traditions,14 but here we are mainly interested in the form of the lament, ‘Ah, X, ah, Y’, or ‘woe (to) X, woe (to) Y’; the pattern ‘Ah, X’, without repetition, is also attested elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible.15 The manner in which this woe-form is quoted in the oracle suggests that it was based on conventional usage. It is possible that, as some scholars have argued, the repetition of ‘ah’ or ‘woe’ reflects the custom that the lament was sung as an antiphon by several voices.16 2. L         Rabbinic writings show that the sages and their families were given a special status with regard to mourning and burial. When a sage dies, the halakhic rule demands that ‘all tear their garments, all bare (their 12. Hebrew: ‫הוי אדון והוי הדה‬. On the reading ‫הדה‬, with irregular use of the 3 m. sg. suffix ending, and suggestions to correct it, see L, Jeremiah 21–36, 143; cf. G. F, Jeremia 1–25 (HTKAT; Freiburg/Basel/Wien 2005) 648, 664. 13. See also Jer 36:30 (‘… and his own corpse shall be left exposed to the heat by day and the cold by night’). Jehoiakim’s disgraceful death is mentioned by Josephus (Ant. 10:97, ‘However, the Babylonian king … killed … the inhabitants of Jerusalem together with King Jōakeimos, whom he ordered to be cast out unburied before the walls’). 14. In 2 Kgs 24:6 it is said that Jehoiakim ‘slept with his fathers’, which points to a peaceful death; the Chronicler seems to suggest that he was deported by Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon (2 Chr 36:6 ‘he [Nebuchadnezzar] bound him in fetters to convey him to Babylon’). 15. See ‫ הוי אדון‬in Jer 34:5 (‘… and they will lament for you “Ah, Lord!”’); ‫הוי אחי‬ in 1 Kgs 13:30 (‘He laid the corpse in his own burial place, and they lamented over it, “Alas, my brother!”’). 16. See U. C, ‘Klagelied’, Encyclopaedia Judaica (Berlin 1934) 10:33–34. The Mishnah (m. Moed Q. 3:9) differentiates between lamentations that all sing together (‫ )עינוי‬and the lament that someone starts and that gets a response from other singers (‫)קינה‬.

 

85

shoulders) in honour of him, all lament, and all receive a mourners’ meal on his account, even in the streets of the town’.17 Lamentations for a sage usually took place in the synagogue, and his funeral was attended by many. As archaeological evidence shows, there may have been burial places that were restricted to the rabbinic class.18 For others as well as for themselves the sages allowed funeral orations, but they warn against excessive praise for the deceased, emphasising that a eulogy ‘may not be woven out of nothing, but a core of truth may be embellished’.19 In Talmudic times, the elementary form of the funeral lament described above was still in use. Several examples of this basic pattern can be found in the tractate Semah.ot.20 It contains a story, for example, about a man who lost two sons and a daughter when his house fell in. Against the normal rule, they were all carried out on one bier, and were acclaimed by the people with the words: ‫הוי הוי חתנים וכלה‬, ‘Woe, woe, bridegrooms and bride’.21 For someone who has committed suicide, it is ruled that no burial rites should be observed for him, but Rabbi Ishmael states that such a person may be lamented with the words: ‫הוי נשלה‬, ‫הוי נשלה‬, ‘Alas, misguided fool! Alas, misguided fool!’22 Likewise, there are no funeral rites for pagans and slaves, but they may be lamented with the words: ‫ הוי גבור‬,‫הוי ארי‬, ‘Alas, o, lion! Alas, o mighty one’.23

17. t. Moed Q. 2:17 (ed. Z, 231); Sem. 9:1–2. 18. See Z. W, ‘Social Aspects of Burial in Beth She‘arim: Archeological Finds and Talmudic Sources’, in L.I. L (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity (New York/ Jerusalem 1992) 357–371, esp. 369–370. 19. Sem. 3:6; cf. b. Ber. 62a, where a funeral orator (‫ )ההוא ספדנא‬is blamed by Rabbi Nah.man for eulogising a deceased person with the words ‘this man was modest in all his ways.’ 20. According to M.B. L, ‘The External Tractates’, in S. S (ed.). The Literature of the Sages (CRINT III/1; Assen/Maastricht/Philadelphia 1987) 90–91, Semah.ot might consist of a collection of baraitot from Tannaitic times. 21. Sem. 11:4; the words ‘bridegroom’ and ‘bride’ here refer to unmarried children and are not to be taken literally, see Z, The Tractate ‘Mourning’, 14. 22. Sem. 2:1. 23. Sem. 1:9; according to Rabbi Judah one should say in this case: ‫הוי עד נאמן‬ ‫אוכל במעלו‬, ‘Alas, faithful witness, who ate the fruit of his own labour.’

86

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 2.1 Hillel, Samuel the Little and Yehuda ben Baba

When we look at the recorded deaths of the sages,24 we will find this basic form in the expression ‫ תלמידו של עזרא‬,‫ הא חסיד‬,‫הא עניו‬,25 ‘Alas, the humble man, alas, the pious man, the disciple of Ezra’, a lament which is applied to several sages, first of all to Hillel the Elder, but then also in a modified form to Samuel the Little and Yehuda ben Baba. The threefold lament is part of a story, told in several sources, about a gathering of the sages in the house of one Gurya in Jericho. The oldest form of the story seems to be a baraita in the Tosefta tractate Sota (t. Sota 13:3–4):26 When the latter prophets, Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi, died, the Holy Spirit departed from Israel. But nevertheless, they made them [prophetic messages] hear27 through a heavenly voice. It happened that the Sages gathered together in the upper room of the house of Gurya28 in Jericho, and a heavenly voice came forth and said to them: ‘There is here a man among you who is worthy to (receive) the Holy Spirit,29 but his generation is unworthy of such (honour)’. They set 24. A survey of passages on the subject is given in E. F, ‘The Rabbinic Lament’, Jewish Quarterly Review 63 (1972–1973) 51–57. See also I. D, ‫אוצר‬ ‫( השירה והפיוט מזמן חתימת כתבי הקדש עד ראשית תקופת ההשכלה‬Thesaurus of Mediaeval Hebrew Poetry) (4 vols.; 1924–1938; repr. New York 1970) IV, 494–496 (‫קינים על אנשים‬ ‫ ;)מפורסים‬P, ‘Leichenfeierlichkeiten’, 384–387; A. M, ‫ התפתחותו בארץ‬.‫הפיוט‬ ‫( ישראל ובגולה‬The Piyyut. Development of Post-Biblical Poetry in Eretz Israel and the Diaspora) (Jerusalem 1991/5751) 57–76. 25. Such is the reading of  Vienna. M. Erfurt reads: ‫ תלמידו של‬,‫ הי חסיד‬,‫הי עניו‬ ‫עזרא‬. See below. 26. The translation follows  Vienna, see S. L, .‫תוספתא ע"פ כתב יד ווינה‬ ‫( סדר נשים‬The Tosefta according to Codex Vienna. The Order of Nashim) (New York 5733/1973) 230–231. L here presents synoptically both  Erfurt and  Vienna. 27. Hebrew: ‫משמיעין‬, but in b. Sanh. 11a and b. Sot. 48b (‫משתמשין )בבת קול‬, cf. S. L, ‫ סדר נשים‬,‫ חלק ח‬.‫ באור ארוך לתוספתא‬:‫( תוספתא כפשוטה‬Tosefta Ki-fshutah: A Comprehensive Commentary on the Tosefta. Part VIII, Order Nashim) (New York 1973) 736. On the meaning of this expression, see S. L, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine: Studies in the Literary Transmission, Beliefs and Manners of Palestine in the  Century ... –  Century .. (New York 1962/5722) 194–199, esp. 195: ‘The Hebrew phrase should accordingly be rendered: to consult a Bath Kol, to consult the Holy Spirit.’ Examples of its use are given in P. S, Die Vorstellung vom Heiligen Geist in der rabbinischen Literatur (München 1972) 157–158. 28. ‫בית גוריה‬, in  Erfurt: ‫ ;בית גוריא‬in y. Sot. 9:13 (24b) the reading is ‫בית גדיא‬. This is also the reading of Cant. Rabba 8,9.3. 29. In b. Sot. 48b and b. Sanh. 11a this is replaced here and in the case of Samuel the Little (below) by ‘that the Shekhinah rests on him’; for the tendency in bavli to re-

 

87

their eyes upon Hillel the Elder. And when he died, they said about him: ‘Alas, the humble man, alas, the pious man, the disciple of Ezra’. Then another time they were in session in Yabneh and heard a heavenly voice saying: ‘There is here a man who is worthy to (receive) the Holy Spirit, but the generation is unworthy (of such honour)’. They set their eyes upon Samuel the Little.30 At the time of his death, what did they say?: ‘Alas, the humble man, alas, the pious man, the disciple of Hillel the Elder’. Also (this) he [Samuel the Little] said at the time of his death: ‘Simeon and Ishmael (are destined to be put) to death, and the rest of the associates (will die) by the sword, and the remainder of the people (will be up) for spoils. After this great disasters will happen’. These things he said in Aramaic.31 Also concerning Rabbi Yehudah ben Baba they ordained that they should say about him: ‘Alas, the humble man, alas, the pious man,32 the disciple of Samuel the Little’, but the times were too turbulent.33

To this is added in other sources: ‘(the times were too turbulent), since no funeral orations were delivered over those slain by the government’, connecting the story more explicitly with the Hadrianic persecutions.34 Here we cannot discuss whether this story is historically reliable or not. Suffice it to say that elsewhere a similar story is found which, next to Hillel and Samuel the Little, mentions Eliezer place Holy Spirit by Shekhinah, see S, Vorstellung, 59, 80–81, 84, 93, 97, 142– 43. 30. In y. Sot. 9:13 (24b) explanations are inserted here for his nickname ‘the Little’. 31. On these last words of Samuel the Little, see A.J. S, ‘Last Words and Deathbed Scenes in Rabbinic Literature’, Jewish Quarterly Review 68 (1977) 28–45, esp. 30–31. Cf. b. Sot. 9:13 (24b), Sem. 8:7. It predicts the martyrdom of Ishmael and Simeon, who died in the period of the Hadrianic persecution after the Bar Kokhba War (see below). The form is that of a maxim, like those of m. Abot. See for another maxim of Samuel the Small, m. Abot 4:19. 32. This is lacking in  Erfurt. 33. Or: ‘too troubled’; see M. J, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (New York 1971) 556: ‘the political condition was too much troubled (persecutions prevailing)’. Of Yehuda ben Baba it is said that he died as a martyr during the Hadrianic persecutions (cf. b. Sanh. 13b, 14a). Whether this really happened, is discussed by several scholars; see W. B, Die Agada der Tannaiten (2 vols.; Strassburg 1890, 1903; repr. Berlin 1965) I, 83–84, n. 4; G. A, Jews, Judaism and the Classical World (Jerusalem 1977) 403 n. 83: ‘All the evidence concerning the death of R. Judah b. Bava at the hands of Roman legions … is doubtful.’ For a balanced view on the traditions connected with Yehuda ben Baba, see G.A. W, ‘Rabbi Jehuda ben Baba’, Kairos 19 (1977) 81–115, esp. 98. 34. The addition is found in b. Sanh. 11a and b. Sot. 48b.

88

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

ben Hyrcanus, one of the pupils of Yoh.anan ben Zakkai, rather than Yehuda ben Baba.35 When we look at the form of the story and its contents, it seems justified to conclude that it attempts to create a chain of tradition, linking up sages who were especially known for their humility and piety and may have belonged to the group of the so-called early h.asidim.36 All three of the teachers referred to, Hillel, Samuel the Little and Yehuda ben Baba, were known for their great humility,37 and being men of piety they are declared worthy to receive the Holy Spirit. When we look at the laments themselves and their wording, it seems evident that the sages did not invent them on the spot, but borrowed them from traditional sources. As said above, the story as told in the Tosefta is also found in other sources. When one looks at the wording of the laments in the different sources, one notes that the basic form in all these sources is the same, apart from Yerushalmi, where the interjection is not repeated. One may also observe that there are quite a lot of spelling variations: t. Sota 13:3–4,  Vienna ‫ תלמידו של עזרא\הלל\שמואל הקטן‬,‫ הא חסיד‬,‫הא עניו‬ t. Sota 13:3–4,  Erfurt y. Sota 9:13 (24b)38 b. Sanhedrin 11a / b. Sota 48b

... ‫ תלמידו של עזרא‬,‫ הי חסיד‬,‫הי עניו‬ ... ‫ תלמידו של עזרא‬,‫הוי עניו חסיד‬ ... ‫ תלמידו של עזרא‬,‫ הי עניו‬,‫הי חסיד‬

35. See y. Sot. 9:17 (24c); y. Avod. Zar. 3:1 (42c); y. Hor. 3:9 (48c). For a comparison of both stories, see J. N, The Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees before 70 (Leiden 1971) 292-93. 36. See A. B, Types of Jewish-Palestinian Piety from 70 ... to 70 .. The Ancient Pious Men (New York 1968 [1922]) 8–9, 55–57; Sh. S, ‘Teaching of Pietists in Mishnaic Literature’, Journal of Jewish Studies 16 (1965) 15–33, esp. 18. 37. See B, Types, 7–15 (Hillel), 17–18 (Yehuda ben Baba), 56–57 (Samuel the Little). On the story of the goat tied to the leg of Yehuda ben Baba’s bed, see t. B. Qam. 8:13; in b. B. Qam. 80a the same story is ascribed to ‘a certain h.asid’. In b. Tem. 15b it is said that ‘wherever it (the Talmud) refers to a certain h.asid, it refers to either Rabbi Yehuda ben Baba or to Rabbi Yehuda ben Ilai.’ All the evidence for Yehuda ben Baba’s piety is brought together by W, ‘Jehuda ben Baba’, 98–103. On Hillel, see especially b. Shab. 30b, 31a and b. Suk. 53a. 38. This is the reading of  Leiden and of the ed. princeps (Vienna). The reading of  Vatican is corrupt. See P. S & H.J. B, Synopse zum Talmud Yerushalmi III (Tübingen 1998) 142.

  Cant. Rabba 8,9.3

89

... ‫ תלמידו של עזרא‬,‫ הא חסיד‬,‫הא ענו‬

That it was a common form of woe-calling is also visible in a variant found in b. Berakhot 6b. There, a person who has found a fixed place for his daily prayers is praised, ‘for his prayer has the God of Abraham as his helper. And when he dies, people will say of him: “Where is the humble man? Where is the pious man (‫ מתלמידיו של‬,‫ אי חסיד‬,‫אי עניו‬ ‫ ?)אברהם אבינו‬One of the disciples of Abraham, our father”.’ 2.2 Rabbi Ishmael’s eulogy on the death of Rabbi Simeon The martyrdom of Rabbi Simeon and Rabbi Ishmael which, as we saw in the foregoing, was predicted by Samuel the Little, is described in several sources. Before being executed in a period of religious persecution under Hadrian, they both discuss whether or not their death is a punishment for certain (minor) transgressions.39 The story, as written down in the Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael,40 is retold and greatly expanded in Abot de Rabbi Nathan.41 It is not so easy to decide exactly which scholars are meant in the Mekhilta report.42 In the expanded story in Abot de Rabbi Nathan, Rabbi Simeon is identified with Simeon ben Gamaliel II, which, however, is unlikely from a historical point of view.43 Only in the expanded tradition does one find a lament which is spoken by Rabbi Ishmael (ben Elisha). After the executioner has taken his sword and has cut off his colleague’s head, Rabbi Ishmael takes it, and, holding it to his bosom, exclaims: ‫פה קדוש פה נאמן‬ ‫פה קדוש פה נאמן‬ ‫פה שמוציא סנדלפונין טובות‬ ‫ואבנים טובות ומרגליות‬ ‫מי הטמינך בעפר ומי מילא‬ ‫לשונך עפר ואפר‬

Holy mouth, faithful mouth! Holy mouth, faithful mouth, mouth that gave forth beautiful gems, precious stones and pearls! Who has buried you in the dust and who has filled your tongue with dust and ashes?44

39. See A. B, Studies in Sin and Atonement in the Rabbinic Literature of the First Century (New York 1967) 189–203; E.E. U, The Sages: their Concepts and Beliefs (Jerusalem 1975) 442–444, 881–882. 40. Mek., Mishpatim, 18 (ed. H-R, 313). See also Sem. 8:8. 41. Abot R. Nat. A 38 (ed. S, 114–115); cf. Abot R. Nat. B 41 (114–115). 42. See B, Studies, 189–191. 43. See Ibid.,190; B, Agada der Tannaiten I, 234; U, Sages, 881–882, n. 74; G. A, The Jews in their Land in the Talmudic Age (Jerusalem 1980) 105. 44. To which a proof text is added: ‘Concerning you it is stated, Awake, o sword, against my shepherd, and against the man that is near unto me (Zech 13:7)’.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

90

Here, the poem is built on the repetition of the first exclamation and the threefold anaphoric repetition of the word peh, ‘mouth’.45 In the poem examples of rhyme and assonance can be found. The deceased is praised for his virtues, for the words of wisdom (‘the precious stones’) that came out of his mouth. Then a sharp contrast is made between his former glorious life and his depressing fate. Such opposites are a typical feature of martyr stories, as we can learn from a passage in b. Qiddushin 39b: ‘He [Elisha ben Abuya] saw the tongue of Huzpith, the interpreter, dragged along by a swine. “The mouth that uttered pearls licks the dust!”, he exclaimed’. 2.3 Another lament on Samuel the Little Of Samuel the Little it is also told that at his death ‘the key and ledger were suspended from his coffin’, because he died childless (Semah.ot 8:7). The meaning of this gesture has remained largely unexplained, but some suggestions have been made to solve the riddle. The key might symbolise ‘access to the “gates of heaven,” when the deceased left no sons “to insure his admission to eternal life by other means”.’46 It might also symbolise, as G. Alon has proposed, that Samuel was taking all his property (‘key and ledger’) with him, because of the fact that he had no children who could be his heirs.47 It is told in addition that Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Elazar said a lament at his death: When Samuel the Little died, his key and ledger were suspended from his coffin because he had no son. Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Elazar eulogised him, saying:

‫על זה נאה לבכות‬ ‫על זה נאה להתאבל‬ ‫כשמלכים מתים מניחים‬ ‫כתריהם לבניהם‬ ‫עשירים מתים מניחים‬ ‫עושרם לבניהם‬

Over him it is well to weep, over him it is well to mourn. When kings die, they leave their crowns to their children, (when) rich die, they leave their wealth to their children.

45. For examples of this pattern in Biblical Hebrew, see W.G.E. W, Classical Hebrew Poetry. A Guide to its Techniques (Sheffield 1984) 152–153. 46. See Z, Tractate ‘Mourning’, 15–16, quoting from an article by S. Y (‘‫‘[ ’מקורו של מנהג קבורו קדום בישראל‬The Origin of an Ancient Jewish Burial Custom’], Bulletin of the Jewish Palestinian Exploration Society 8 [1940] 22–27). 47. G. A, ‫( מחקרים בתולדות ישראל בימי בית שני ובתקופת המשנה והתלמוד‬Studies in Jewish History in the times of the Second Temple, the Mishnah and the Talmud) (2 vols.; Tel-Aviv 1957–1958) II, 99–105.

  ‫שמואל הקטן נטל חמודות‬ ‫של עולם והלך לו‬

91

Samuel the Little took the world’s treasures and went his way.

The poem starts with the repetition of the first phrase, slightly differentiating it by the use of a synonym for ‘to weep’. Then there are two parallel lines, which express the situation of those who are blessed with children.48 These sentences, in which the words have identical endings, express the fact that people who have children can leave their possessions to them.49 The last sentence, in contrast, emphasises that Samuel the Little, who apparently remained childless, took with him the precious things of the world. Zlotnick rightly argues that here the world’s treasures must mean a spiritual possession, such as the study of the Torah or performance of the mitswot.50 We may compare our poem with a eulogy for Rab Hai Gaon, written by Samuel HaNagid, who likewise remained childless: ‘and though he left no child, he has, in every land, both east and west, children whom he reared in the Torah’.51 2.4 The death of Rabbi Eliezer The Mishnaic rule on the rending of clothes and the baring of one’s shoulders when someone dies during a feast (m. Moed Qatan 3:7), restricts this to those who are next of kin. In the gemara (b. Moed Qatan 26a) it is ruled that rent clothes must not be reunited, except when a person has lost his father and mother, or a master who taught him wisdom. To illustrate this, 2 Kgs 2:12 is cited, with Elisha’s exclamation, ‘My father, my father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!’, uttered at Elijah’s ascent to heaven in a whirlwind. The continuation of the quoted passage, ‘When he could no longer see him, he grasped his garments and rent them in two (pieces)’ makes clear why this verse is quoted in the gemara. The relation of Elisha and Elijah is seen here as that of a teacher and his pupil. That ’avi means rabbi, ‘my master’, is demonstrated by the quotation of the Aramaic translation 48. Cf. Sem. 3:4 ‘Children of the rich are like children of Sages; children of Sages are like children of royalty’. 49. On the symbolism of the crown, see t. Sot. 15:3 (ed. Z, 321): ‘When Elazar ben Azariah died the crown of the sages was abolished, for the crown of the sages is their wealth’. Cf. Prov 14:24. The same tradition is found in b. Suk. 9 (49b), but for ‘crown of the sages’ it reads ‘crowns of wisdom’. 50. Z, Tractate ‘Mourning’, 16–17. 51. Cf. D. Y (ed.), ‫ בן תהלים‬.‫( דיואן שמואל הנגיד‬Divan Shmuel Hanagid. Ben Tehillim) (Jerusalem 1966/5726) 234 (poem no. 85, 53–57).

92

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

of 2 Kgs 2:12, ‘My master, my master, who was (a) better (protection) for her [Israel] by his prayer than chariots and horsemen’.52 The verse is also cited in b. Sanhedrin 68a, but there the quotation of 2 Kgs 2:12 is followed by the sentence, ‘I have many coins, but no money changer to sort them’. This addition is also found in Semah.ot 9:2, which connects the traditions of b. Moed Qatan 26a and of b. Sanhedrin 68a: Now it happened that when Rabbi Eliezer died, Rabbi Akiba bared both arms and beat his breast, drawing blood. And thus he spoke: ‫ רבי רבי‬My master, my master, ‫ רכב ישראל ופרשיו‬the chariot of Israel and its horsemen. ‫ הרבה מעות יש לי‬I have many coins ‫ ואין )לי( שולחני להרצותן‬but no money changer to sort53 them.

In this lament, Akiba pays tribute to Rabbi Eliezer, recognising him as the teacher and master he has now lost. The somewhat enigmatic saying, which has a chiastic and rhythmic form, underlines that he has acquired much knowledge of the Torah (‘many coins’), but has now lost a master who would have been able to teach him to understand this knowledge better (‘a money changer to sort them’).54 2.5 Eulogy on Rabbi Yehuda the Patriarch Of Bar Kappara, a member of Rabbi Yehuda’s academy in Sepphoris, and author of several poems,55 it is told that he conveyed to the citisens of Sepphoris that Rabbi had died, although they had strictly forbidden anyone to do so and had warned: ‘Whoever tells us that

52. This quotation is in line with Targum Jonathan on 2 Kgs 2:12, although there are a few variations. In Sifre Deut. 305, p. 327, it is told that Joshua lamented the death of Moses with the words ‘My father, my father, my master, my master. My father who brought me up, my master who taught me Torah’. For similar expressions, see H. S, Teh.iyyat Ha-Metim: The Resurrection of the Dead in the Palestinian Targums of the Pentateuch and Parallel Traditions in Classical Rabbinic Literature (TSAJ 57; Tübingen 1996) 188–189. 53. Or: ‘cast (them) up’. See J, Dictionary, 1493, s.v. ‫רצה‬, who quotes our passage and explains this as follows: ‘many questions to ask but none to solve them’. The translation offered by F (‘Rabbinic Lament’, 53) ‘to accept’, seems less probable. See P. K, Gottes Trauer und Klage in der rabbinischen Überlieferung (Talmud und Midrasch) (AGJU 13; Leiden 1978) 109 n. 5. 54. Cf. Z, Tractate ‘Mourning’, 145. 55. On the enigmatic poem in y. Moed Q. 6:1 (81c), see B, Agada der Tannaiten II, 504–505, n. 3.

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Rabbi has died—we will kill him’ (y. Kilayim 9:4, 32b).56 He did so by showing them signs of mourning, wrapping up his head and rending his clothes, and composing a funeral lament which in cryptic words but unmistakably revealed that Rabbi had indeed died: The people of Sepphoris57 said, ‘Whoever tells us that Rabbi has died —we will kill him’. Bar Qappara looked at them attentively,58 with his head covered and his garments rent. He said to them: ‫ יצוקים ואראלים תפוסין‬Mortals59 and angels have laid hold of the ‫ בלוחות הברית‬Tablets of the Covenant, ‫ וגברה ידן של אראלים וחטפו‬and the angels got the upper hand, and ‫ את הלוחות‬have snatched the Tablets.

The poem describes a struggle between heavenly beings, here called ’ar’elim,60 and the just or ‘mortal men’.61 Both of them try to keep hold of the Tablets of the Covenant, which means that they are wrestling for the soul of Rabbi Yehuda the Patriarch. In this combat the heavenly creatures win and they take hold of the Tablets. In a more extended form, this story is told in Qoh. Rabba 7:12 and 9:10. Although the story here seems to be dependent on the Yerushalmi, the order of ‘mortals’ and ‘angels’ has been changed and an exclamation of Bar Qappara is added to the lament:

56. The same tradition is found in y. Ket. 12:3 (35a); there are minor differences between the two versions. 57. On their problematic relationship with Rabbi Yehuda, see y. Taan. 4:2 (68a), Qoh. Rab. 7:7. The Sepphorites had opposed Yehuda’s appointment of Rabbi Hanina as head of the academy. 58. Which probably means that he was waiting to see whether they would ask him to inform them on Rabbi Yehuda’s situation. 59. See on the meaning of ‫יצוקים‬, J, Dictionary, 590, s.v. ‫יצק‬. The reading of  Paris and London is ‫ ;מצוקים‬see S & B, Synopse zum Talmud Yerushalmi (Band I,3–5), 190–191; this is also the reading of b. Ket. 104a. 60. The word ’ar’el first of all has the profane meaning, ‘hero’ (cf. 2 Sam 23:20, 1 Chr 11:22, ‘they struck the two heroes of Moab’), but in Isa 33:7 (‘Hark! The Arielites cry aloud; / Shalom’s messengers weep bitterly’.) apparently the ’ar’elim are heavenly beings. See S. M, ‘Ariel’, in K.   T et al. (eds.), Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (Leiden 1995) 88–89. Cf. the use of Isa 33:7 in Killir’s poem ‫( אז במלאת ספק‬cf. H. B & M. W, ‫( מבחר השירה העברית‬Anthologia Hebraica) (Leipzig 1923) 45–46: ‘Then, when she had had her full measure (of grief) /… / the ’arelim cried aloud.’ 61. On aggadic traditions of rivalry between angels and just, see P. S, Rivalität zwischen Engeln und Menschen: Untersuchungen zur rabbinischen Engelvorstellung (Berlin/New York 1975) 192–200.

94

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ My brethren, sons of Yedayah,62 hear me, hear me! Angels and mortals have taken hold63 of the tablets of the covenant. The angels got the upper hand and have snatched the Tablets.

A third version is told in b. Ketubbot 104a. Instead of the Tablets of the Covenant the expression Holy Ark is found here, which connects the lament with the story of the capture of the Ark, as told in 1 Sam 4: He opened [his funeral song] and said: Angels and mortals have taken hold of the Holy Ark, the angels overpowered the mortals and the Holy Ark has been captured.64

In this last version of the lament of Bar Qappara, the poetical form shows, more strongly than in the other versions, assonance (’ar’elim – ’ah.ezu – (be)’aron), parallelism, repetition of words and expressions. All the versions use the kinnuy, the emblematic sign symbolising Yehuda the Patriarch (Tablets of the Covenant or Holy Ark). 2.6 Rabbi Zera (Zeira) A more developed form of lament is to be found in b. Megillah 6a in a discussion on the question whether Rakath refers to Sepphoris, as Rabbi Yoh.anan proposed, or to Tiberias, as maintained by Raba. In the discussion first several laments, presumably conventional ones, are quoted in which the name of Rakath appears. One of these dirges is said to have been brought forward by a professional mourner at the funeral of Rabbi Zera (Zeira):65 Raba said: Is there anyone who can maintain that Rakath is not Tiberias, seeing that when a man dies here [in Babylon] they mourn for him there [in Tiberias]: Great was he in Sheshakh,66 and he has a name in Rakath, and when the coffin is taken there they mourn for him thus:

62. Here used to indicate the Sepphorites, see J. L, Wörterbuch über die Talmudim und Midraschim (4 vols.; Berlin/Wien 1924) II, 222. 63. Reading: ‫אחזו ידן‬, which gives a better opposition to ‫ גברה ידן‬in the third line. 64. Reading: ‫ונשבה ארון הקדש‬. Cf. 1 Sam 4:11, 17, 22. 65. See on this Palestinian Amora who was a Babylonian by birth, W. B, Die Agada der palästinensischen Amoräer (3 vols.; Strassburg 1892-99; repr. Hildesheim 1965) III, 1 (1–34). 66. See Jer 25:26, 51:14; in both passages Sheshakh refers to Babel.

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Ye lovers of the remnants,67 dwellers in Rakath, go forth and receive those who are killed in the valley.68 When the soul of Rabbi Zera went into repose, a certain mourner69 opened his dirge thus: ‫ ארץ שנער הרה וילדה‬The land of Sinear70 conceived and bore him, the land of beauty71 raised its precious one.72 ‫ארץ צבי גידלה שעשועיה‬ ‫ אוי נא לה אמרה רקת כי אבדה‬Woe to her, says Rakath, for she has lost ‫ כלי חמדתה‬the instrument of her desire.73

The lament on the death of Rabbi Zera74 has a classic form, that of the triple metre. There are three rhyming stichoi, the first and second one with parallelism, comparing the land of Zera’s birth, Babylonia (‘The land of Sinear’), with the land where he lived as a teacher, Israel (‘the land of beauty’). After this praise for the deceased rabbi, the third line emphasises that the country has now lost someone it once desired.75 The theme of the distress of countries or of the world for the loss of a great person is also expressed elsewhere, as for example in a lament transmitted by Rabbi H.anan bar Raba (b. Bava Batra 91a/b): Rabbi H.anan bar Raba further said in the name of Rab: On the day when Abraham our father passed away from the world, all the great nations of the world stood in a [mourners’] line and said: ‘Woe to the world that has lost its leader, and woe to the ship that has lost its pilot.’76

67. Cf. Jer 31:2 ‘The people escaped from [litt.: remants of] the sword.’ 68. That is, in Babylon; see J, Dictionary,1053. 69. ‫ההוא ספדנא‬, referring to a professional mourner, see b. Moed Q. 25b (passim); b. Ber. 62a; b. Hag. 15b. 70. A common designation of Mesopotamia or Babylonia in the Hebrew Bible, see Gen 10:10, 11:2, 14:1, 9, Josh 7:21, Isa 11:1, Zech 5:11, Dan 1:2. 71. See Dan 11:16, 41. 72. Cf. Jer 31:20, Prov 8:30. 73. Cf. Jer 25:34; Hos 13:15, Nah 2:10, Zech 7:14, Ps 106:24, 2 Chr 33:27. 74. See also b. Moed Q. 25b. 75. According to Y (‘Syriac for Dirges’, 381) there is in this poem a pun on the meaning of ‫ צבי‬in Aramaic (‘desire’), so that the ‘land of beauty’ is also the ‘land of desire’. The author may, however, have been influenced by the equation of ‘desirable land’ and ‘precious heritage’ in Jer 3:19 (‫ואתן לך ארץ חמדה נחלת צבי צבאות‬ ‫)גוים‬. 76. Hebrew: ‫ ;אוי לו לעולם שאבד מנהיגו \ ואוי לה לספינה שאבד קברניטא‬for ‫קברניטא‬, see S. K, Griechische und lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch und Targum (2 vols.; Berlin 1898–1899; repr. Zürich/New York 1987) II, 500 (κυβερνήτης).

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

96 2.7 Rabbi H . onin

A special case is the lament composed at Rabbi H.onin’s death. For a long time he had remained childless, and when finally a child was given to him, he died on the very day the child was born (b. Moed Qatan 25b): R. H . onin was a son-in-law in the family of the Patriarch. He had no children but he prayed for mercy and they were given to him. On the day when the child was born to him, he himself went to his repose, and the funeral orator (‫ )ההוא ספדנא‬opened [his lament, saying]: ‫ שמחה לתוגה נהפכה‬Joy is turned to sorrow, ‫ ששון ויגין נדבקו‬Gladness linked with sadness.77 ‫ בעת שמחתו נאנח‬At the time of his joy he sighed, ‫ בעת חנינתו אבד חנינו‬At the time of his gracious (child) the gracious (father) lost (his life). They gave the child the name of H . anan, after his father.

Here there is an elegant and inventive wordplay on the name of Rabbi H.onin, or H.anin, which could be interpreted as ‘the gracious one’ or ‘the affectionate one’. The first two lines are parallel sentences that oppose in abstract words the father’s gladness at the birth of his child with the sadness that this happens at the moment when he is going to die. The last two lines more realistically draw a sharp contrast between the father’s joy over the birth of his first child and the moment of his last breath. This poem shows the use of paronomasia, of assonance and alliteration.78 2.8 Rabba bar Nah.mani Certain characteristic features of the sages are sometimes used to praise them when they have died. Rabba bar Nah.mani, who was known for his dialectic and nicknamed ‘uprooter of mountains’, was an authority on the halakhic rules of purity and impurity.79 When he died, a heavenly voice came forth (b. Baba Metsia 86a):

77. Cf. Lam 5:15 ‘Gone is the joy of our hearts; / Our dancing is turned into mourning’. 78. See F, ‘Rabbinic Lament’, 69–70. 79. Cf. b. Baba Metsia 86a. For aggadic traditions on Rabbah bar Nah.mani, see W. B, Die Agada der babylonischen Amoräer (Frankfurt a.M. 1913; repr. Hildesheim 1967) 97–101.

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As he [Rabba bar Nah.mani] was dying, he exclaimed: ‘Pure, pure!’ Then a heavenly voice cried out: ‫ אשריך רבה בר נחמני‬Happy art thou, Rabba bar Nah.mani, ‫ שגופך טהור‬for your body is pure, ‫ ויצאתה נשמתך בטהור‬and your soul has departed in purity.80

The twofold ‘pure’ in Rabba’s exclamation is explained here as a reference to the purity of the body and to the departure of his soul in purity. It is remarkable that the name of the deceased is mentioned explicitly, for this is not very common in rabbinic laments.81 A Palestinian equivalent of our story records of Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus that when he became severely ill, he kept asking questions on the laws of purity until he died. Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah then said to his colleagues: ‘My masters, come, and see Rabbi Eliezer, who is pure for the world to come, for his soul has departed in purity’.82 2.9 Rabina One of the motifs and themes of the rabbinic lament is the participation of nature in the prevailing grief.83 A fine example is the description of Rabina’s death in b. Moed Qatan 25b: When the soul of Rabina went into repose, a certain orator (‫ההוא‬ ‫ )ספדנא‬opened (his funeral oration, saying:) ‫ תמרים הניעו ראש‬Ye palms, sway your heads, ‫ על צדיק כתמר‬for him who was righteous as a palm. ‫ נשים לילות כימים‬Let us lament by night and by day ‫ על משים לילות כימים‬for him who studied by night and by day.

The palms, ancient symbols for the righteous,84 are here invited to participate in the grief over the death of a sage, who studied Torah by day and by night. In the poem we find rhyme and assonance, repetition of words, and a subtle change in the meaning of the verb in the last two lines. 80. In contrast, see the lines from a poem recited on Yom Kippur, quoted by Y, ‘Syriac for Dirges’, 382: ‘Impure is his leavening / and made impure in his life / and making impure in his death’. 81. See F, ‘Rabbinic Lament’, 65–67. 82. See Abot R. Nat. A 24 (41a); cf. y. Shab. 2:6 (5b). 83. See also the list of (super)natural events at the death of famous sages in b. Moed Q. 25b: stars that were visible in daytime, cedars that were uprooted, fiery stones that came down from the sky, etc. 84. Cf. Ps 92:13, ‘The righteous bloom like a date-palm’.

98

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 2.10 The laments that did not please Rabbi Ashi

Comparison with natural phenomena is also a theme in the lament that a man called Bar Kipok composed, having been invited by Rabbi Ashi to invent a lament for his own funeral (b. Moed Katan 25b).85 In the poem a general idea is expressed: when death has power over great and righteous men, how much more so over ordinary people:86 Said Rab Ashi to Bar Kipok, What would you say on such a day [about me]? He responded thus: ‫ אם בארזים נפלה שלהבת‬If lightning has struck the cedars, ‫ מה יעשו איזובי קיר‬what shall hyssops of the wall do? 87 ‫( לויתן בחכה הועלה‬If) Leviathan is hauled up by a hook, ‫ מה יעשו דגי רקק‬what will the fishes of the shallow (river) do?88 ‫( בנחל שוטף נפלה חכה‬If) a hook falls in a rushing stream, ‫ מה יעשו מי גבים‬what shall marshy ponds do?89

The poem is built up by frequent allusions to scriptural verses. The basic form of the first bicolon (‫ מה יעשו‬... ‫) ]אם[ ב‬90 is repeated in the following lines. There is a strong rhythm in the lines91 and there are a few signs of internal rhyme (see the endings on -e(y) in ‘ezuvē, degē, mē). Bar Kipok’s way of eulogising is contested by another funeral orator, named Bar Abin,92 who disapproves of the metaphors of ‘hook’ or ‘lightning’: 85. On Rabbi Ashi, see B, Agada der bab. Amoräer, 144–147. 86. See Y, ‘Syriac for Dirges’, 378. 87. See 1 Kgs 5:13 ‘from the cedar in Lebanon to the hyssop that grows out of the wall’. 88. See Hab 1:15, ‘He has fished them all up with a hook’; Job 40:25 ‘Can you draw out Leviathan by a fishhook?’ See the use of this last verse in b. B. Bat. 74b–75a, describing that in the future the angel Gabriel will chase Leviathan. Cf. S, Teh.iyyat Ha-Metim, 62. 89. Other  read: ... ‫‘ בנחל שוטף נפלה חרבה‬If a running stream has been struck by drought, …’ See R. R, ‫( ספר דקדוקי סופרים‬Variae Lectiones in Mischnam et in Talmud Babylonicum) (2 vols.; New York 1976) Moed Qatan, 18a; On the ‘marshy ponds’, see Jer 14:3. For a similar comparison, see S. Eli. Rab. 14 (edition F, 65). 90. The interrogative that introduces the comparison is not repeated in the following lines, but seems to be presupposed. 91. See the remarks on the 4-stress pattern of this poem in B. H, ‘Note on the Systems of Hebrew Versification’, in T. C (ed.), The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse (Harmondsworth 1981) 57–72, esp. 61. 92. Or: Bar Abyu, see J, Dictionary, 5.

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Said Bar Abin to him: [Heaven] forfend that I should talk of ‘hook’ or ‘flame’ in connection with the righteous. Then what would you say? – I should say: ‫ בכו לאבלים‬Weep for the mourners ‫ ולא לאבידה‬and not for what is lost; ‫ שהיא למנוחה‬for she has gone to rest, ‫ ואנו לאנחה‬and we are gone to grief.

This last poem is based on a conventional form of lament, also found in the Hebrew Bible.93 Here, we find rhyme (’avedah / menuh.ah / ’anah.ah) and assonance (’anu / ’anah.ah). Rabbi Ashi was not very pleased with the laments of both these professional orators,94 and he did not allow them to say lamentations at his burial. The reason may have been that he was offended by their ill-chosen metaphors or by their self-sufficiency (‘weep for the mourners’). Or he was annoyed by the rhetoric of their improvisation. Whether it has something to do, as it has recently been argued, with the fact that the similes from the realm of fishing belong to the Galilean landscape and were not understood in the Babylonian surroundings, is doubtful.95 There is no evidence that the orators referred to were from Palestine, and similes of water and fishing are equally known from Palestinian and Babylonian sources.96 It is also possible that Rabbi Ashi wanted to hear some more personal words about the deceased (himself, in this case) or did not appreciate their theological defeatism.97 2.11 Rabba bar Rab Huna One of the themes of elegies is the praise of the deceased for his origin and lineage. As in the case of Rabbi Zera, such praise is given to Rabba bar Rab Huna by ‘a certain child’ (‫ )ההוא ינוקא‬who took the role of funeral orator. Rabba bar Rab Huna died in Babylonia and was

93. See Jer 22:10 (‘Do not weep for the dead / And do not lament for him; / Weep rather for him who is leaving, / For he shall never come back / to see the land of his birth’). 94. In b. Yeb. 103a they are named ‫ בר אובא‬and ‫בר קיפוף‬. On the meaning of these names, see P, ‘Leichenfeierlichkeiten’, 385 n. 53; J. G, ‘Klagelied. II In der nachbiblischen Zeit’, Enc. Judaica (Berlin 1934) 10:36. 95. Y, ‘Syriac for Dirges’, 378. 96. Cf. K, Talmudische Archäologie I, 110–112. 97. Y, ‘Syriac for Dirges’, 380.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

100

brought to Palestine to be buried there. The eulogy is part of the series of laments for great sages recorded in b. Moed Qatan (25b): Then a certain child opened (his funeral oration) thus: ‫ גזע ישישים עלה מבבל‬A scion of ancient stock came up from Babylon, ‫ ועמו ספר מלחמות‬and with him the Book of the Wars of the Lord,98 ‫ קאת וקפוד הוכפלו לראות‬both jackdaw and owl99 rush to see this ‫ בשוד ושבר הבא משנער‬ravage and ruin,100 which has come from Sinear.

‫קצף על עולמו‬ ‫וחמס ממנו נפשות‬ ‫ושמח בהם בכלה חדשה‬ ‫רוכב ערבות שש ושמח‬ ‫בבא אליו נפש נקי וצדיק‬

When he [God] was angry at his world,101 he seized souls from it, then delighted in them as in a new bride.102 He who rides the clouds,103 rejoices and exults, when the souls of the pure and the righteous come to him.

It seems to me that with this poem we are getting close to the area of paytanic poetry, for here the poet adopts stylistic means known from the early paytanim. The poem is written in pure Mishnaic Hebrew, in the form of the meruba, the fourfold line, in which each line has four units of two stressed words. It shows some irregularities, especially in the second stanza. It uses rhyme (endings with -ot), assonance and alliteration. To the paytanic style belong the use of kinnuyim, emblematic signs (‘scion’, ‘Book of the Wars of the Lord’), and the use of biblical phrases and expressions. It also offers an example of newly invented expressions borrowed from biblical Hebrew (geza yeshishim, ‘a scion of ancient stock’). There are two themes, that of the praise for the sage and his lineage, and that of God’s seizing the souls of the righteous. 3. S   a) In the foregoing I have investigated laments written for the death of a number of sages in the Talmudic period. They occur in a broad range of documents, in the Tosefta, in the Palestinian and 98. Here, probably, used as a symbol for his great ability and bravery in the halakhic discussions with his collegues. 99. See Sef 2:14 (). In older translations also ‘pelican and bittern’, or ‘vulture and raven’. The animals are symbolic of ruin and destruction, cf. Isa 43:11. 100. See Isa 51:19, 60:18, Jer 48:3. 101. Cf. Isa 47:6. 102. Cf. Isa 62:5 ‘And as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, / So will your God rejoice over you.’ 103. Cf. Ps 68:5.

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Babylonian Talmud, in the midrashim and in tractate Semah.ot, which as a whole is devoted to mourning customs. The period in which they were written down presumably ranges from the aftermath of the BarKokhba war and the Hadrianic persecutions in the second century  (to which the Hillel–Samuel the Little–Yehuda ben Bava traditions belong as well as the martyr stories of Ishmael and Simeon) until the last generations of Babylonian Amoraim in the fifth century (after the death of Rav Ashi and Rabina). b) All of these laments are written in pure Mishnaic Hebrew, even when they are part of an Aramaic context. It seems that laments for other social classes were normally written in Aramaic. Examples of such popular Aramaic laments, uttered by professional female mourners (‘the women of Shoken-Zeb’; see b. Moed Qatan 28b) show that they are often of an enigmatic character, being based on traditional proverbs, riddles or sayings. Some explanations have been brought forward to explain why the laments for the sages are written in Hebrew,104 but as a whole this requires further study. It may have to do with their being seen as part of a literary language evolving in the first and second centuries, which was used by the sages to transmit their teachings and for public prayer and liturgical compositions. The conscious use in these laments of biblical Hebrew vocabulary and phrases precedes the ingenious use of biblical forms in the literature of the early paytanim. c) There is no specific form into which the laments are moulded. As we have seen, the more elementary form goes back to the ‘woecall’ of biblical times. There is a slow development from these elementary forms to the use of stylistic means that come close to or are equal to that of the early piyyutim. One of the basic stylistic features is the repetition of elements, sometimes in the form of initial syntactic repetition, when a phrase at the beginning of a line is repeated or slightly modified. Examples have been given of the use of assonance, rhyme, parallelism, wordplay, alliteration and paronomasia; in a few cases a metric pattern is found. Sometimes, the names of the characters or places are replaced by kinnuyim, allegorical expressions, a technique which is developed to a high degree in the piyyut literature. 104. Y, ‘Syriac for Dirges’, 378–379, differentiates between personal laments in Hebrew that were written ‘in the context of intensification of sorrow and grief ’ and the Aramaic ‘formulaic eulogy poems that contain acknowledgment of divine justice.’

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d) In the laments several themes are highlighted. One of them is the praise for the deceased and for his lineage; he is praised for his humility, for his words of wisdom or for his excellence in a certain discipline. A second important theme is that of the loss of a master or of a good friend; with a scholar’s death, his wisdom and knowledge disappear. To this may be added the motif that nature participates in the grief over the loss of the deceased. In a few cases, especially in the laments that are part of the martyr stories, a contrast is made between the sage’s former glorious life and his depressing fate. A more personal element is the contrast between death and birth, or between joy and sorrow, as in the lament written for Rabbi Honin, who died when his first child was born. Defeatist tones are heard in the eulogies of Bar Kipok and Bar Abin written at Rabbi Ashi’s request.105 e) I am not sure whether, as it has often been argued, these laments have a profane or secular character.106 It is true that there is no direct invocation of God as in prayer. It is also true that there are no specific eschatological ideas in them (the last poem quoted is exceptional in this respect). But at times there is a reference to God (see the lament for Rabba bar Rav Huna) or to heavenly creatures (the ’ar’elim). Furthermore the laments are replete with biblical phrases and proverbial sayings. We even find quotations from scriptural verses, and there are many references to biblical symbols (Tablets of the Covenant, Ark, Leviathan, jackdaw and owl). We cannot say, therefore, that these laments for the departure of a sage are, generally speaking, profane songs. On the contrary, most of them are strongly embedded in a religious tradition.

105. Some of these themes and motifs (participation of nature in the grief; praise of the deceased and his lineage) are also found in the time of the flowering of Jewish poetry in Spain. See the fine study of A. S, ‘Hebrew Andalusian Elegies and the Arabic Literary Tradition’, in J.M. B, Th.P.J.   H & R. P (eds.), Hidden Futures: Death and Immortality in Ancient Egypte, Anatolia, the Classical, Biblical and Arabic-Islamic World (Amsterdam 1994) 177–194. 106. See F, ‘Rabbinic Lament’, 64; E. F, ‘Piyyut’, in S (ed.), Literature of the Sages. Second Part, 363–374, esp. 364.

 The Treatise on the Patriarch Henoch by

Johannes Drusius (1550–1616)   J D (1550–1616) was born Jan van den Driessche in Oudenaarde, Flanders. He studied and taught Hebrew at Oxford, and at the newly founded universities of Leiden and Franeker.1 In all his work, his overriding interest was to make the study of Hebrew fruitful to the interpretation of the Old and New Testaments. To this end, he made a profound study of the medieval Jewish exegetes, such as Rashi, Qimh.i and Levita. He was not the first to do so: Johannes Reuchlin (1455–1522) and Sebastian Münster (1488–1552) paved the way for the Christian study of Hebrew. However, he was regarded as one of the greatest Hebraists of his own time by his contemporaries, and probably rightly so. While in Franeker, in 1600, he was commissioned by the federal government of the Netherlands, the States General, to produce a commentary on the entire Bible, as a preparation for an improved translation into Dutch. He did not live to see the completion of his commentary, but left behind a huge body of work. Part of it was published during his lifetime, and a further part, also prepared by Drusius himself,2 a year after his death. But an enormous collection of annotations on the Pentateuch (completed for Genesis-Numbers 18) was only printed as late as 1698, when it was incorporated into the third edition of the Critici sacri.3 The incorporation of these Notae majores alone compelled the editors to split the original first

1. P. K, De nieuwtestamentische commentaren van Johannes Drusius (1550-1616) (diss. Leiden 2006). 2. Drusius sent his Commentarius ad loca difficiliora Pentateuchi in manuscript to the States General in 1607. 3. J. P et al., Letter to the Reader, the preface to the Critici sacri of 1698. As reasons why these Notae majores could not have been published earlier, the editors adduce legibility problems with Drusius’ handwriting, and above all, the printers’ reluctance to take on the commercial risk of bringing them to the press.

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volume of this invaluable thesaurus of philological commentaries on the Bible into two bulky folios.4 The age in which Drusius lived and worked was one of great turmoil.5 His biographer6 notes that he was born a few weeks after the first wave of iconoclasm in Flanders. Having embraced the cause of the Reformation, Drusius followed his father into exile in England. Later, as a professor in Leiden and Franeker, he witnessed the Netherlands’ rebellion against its overlord, the king of Spain, and while in Franeker, there were two attempts at damaging his orthodox reputation and religious sincerity. In the first of these, Drusius was accused of heresy by the Jesuit Nicolaus Serarius (1555–1609); the nature of the ensuing controversy was fierce and at times unsavoury, but remained within the limits of academic polemical discussions. It ended in complete victory (at least in the eyes of posterity) for Drusius, who enjoyed support from Josephus Justus Scaliger (1540–1609).7 The indignation Drusius had felt at Serarius’ unfounded accusation that he was a heretic and, moreover, not even a theologian but a mere grammarian, resounds in all of his subsequent works. The second attempt was more vicious, a campaign started by a close associate in Franeker, Sibrandus Lubbertus (ca. 1556–1625).8

4. Letter to the Reader. In what follows, all references to Drusius’ works are to this edition of the Critici sacri, unless stated otherwise. Of these, Henoch is found in the fascicle following the annotations to Deuteronomy; De Hasidaeis after 3 Maccabees; all other treatises cited in the final fascicles, following the annotations to Revelation. 5. H.J.  J, ‘The Study of the New Testament in the Dutch Universities’, in C. S (ed.), History of Universities I, Continuity and Change in Early Modern Universities (Avebury 1981) 113–129, esp. 113. 6. Allegedly his son-in-law Abel Curiander, but actually his pupil and successor Sixtinus Amama; see K, De nieuwtestamentische commentaren, 32. 7. See J.C.H. L, ‘De Hasidaeis. Over Joodse studiën in het oude Leiden’, in Voordrachten Faculteitendag 1980 (Leiden 1981) 21–31. The entire polemic is conveniently brought together in one volume by J. T, Trium scriptorum illustrium de tribus Judaeorum sectis syntagma (Delft 1703). 8. Lubbertus was a fanatical Calvinist, who was unable to keep the peace with many of his immediate colleagues; Drusius’ character was probably no less inflammable than Lubbertus’s; see C.   W, Sibrandus Lubbertus. Leven en werken, in het bijzonder naar zijn correspondentie (Kampen 1963) 309–337; also G.J. H, ‘The Debate about Arminius outside the Netherlands’, in: Th.H. L S & G.H.M. P M (eds.), Leiden University in

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Again Drusius’ orthodox beliefs were in doubt. In the years 1602– 1619 the Netherlands was torn by a fierce religious and political conflict, sparked by a theological debate between two Leiden professors, Jacobus Arminius (1560–1609) and Franciscus Gomarus (1563–1641), about the eternal predestination of man’s fate by God. Lubbertus suspected that Drusius was on the unorthodox side with Arminius. In 1615, the defence of a thesis about Proverbs 8:22, presided by Drusius, prompted Lubbertus to accuse him of Arianism. Drusius’ response was ferocious. His reputation saved him from the attempted defamation, but the States of Friesland forbade him further use of immoderate language against Lubbertus. Four days after this decree, Drusius died.9 In the meantime, Drusius maintained that he would gladly subject all of his findings and conclusions to the judgment of the ‘orthodox, catholic Church’.10 However, his modesty as to being merely a ‘grammarian’ (he adopted Serarius’ taunt as a title) cannot hide his unbroken self-esteem. While continually referring the judgment on theologically sensitive matters to the theological doctors, he openly derided and condemned the petty doctors who did not know the Bible and its languages, but only their catechism. Drusius, then, claimed precedence of philology over theology, in the sense that theological demands or desires must not determine the meaning of a biblical passage if this contradicts its grammatical meaning. His declaration in his polemics with Serarius is monumental: ‘If it is heretical to love the truth, than I shall gladly call myself a heretic.’11 For Drusius, the unshakeable criterion of truth was the Bible, which he regarded as inspired by the Holy Spirit and, as such, God’s own word. This did not prevent him from acknowledging the human elements which had been effective in its transmission and even its origin. For instance, in the ‘Preface to the reader’ of his Parallela sacra the Seventeenth Century. An Exchange of Learning (Leiden 1975) 137–159, esp. 144b– 147b. 9. V  W, Sibrandus Lubbertus, 329–330. 10. With this expression, often recurring in his work as a heritage from the unsavoury polemics with Serarius, Drusius boldly designated any church that rejected heresy—he could do that, because in grammar, there is no heresy by definition; see below. 11. De Hasidaeis, final sentence. Compare, in the same pamphlet: ‘There is no heresy in the study of history, and much less so in the study of grammar’. A more elaborate discussion of these maxims in De tribus sectis IV 23 (ed. T).

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(1588), he drew up a list of possible explanations for the fact that New Testament authors occasionally refer to the text of the Old Testament in a less than perfectly accurate way. Nonetheless, the Bible was to him, as stated for instance in the treatise translated below, ‘the perfectly doubt-free testimony of truth’ (Henoch 6). However, although for Drusius the Bible represented the absolute criterion of truth, it was not the sole source of truth. There is truth to be found everywhere, among pagans and even among the Jews (the Mohammedans do not seem to have come within Drusius’ horizon), and we should search eagerly for it, especially if this helps us better to determine the meaning of the Holy Scripture. For the Bible is not as clear as the protestant principle of the perspicuitas of God’s word would have it. There are many points in Drusius’ exegetical work where he confesses that the interpretation of a certain verse or expression is very difficult, or even that its meaning escapes him.12 Hence the importance he attached to the ancient translations and commentaries, but also to the great Hebrew grammarians and exegetes of the Middle Ages, who proved to be of great assistance, in his view, in improving our knowledge of Hebrew. Any help in uncovering the true meaning of the true word of God was welcomed by Drusius. There was another reason for Drusius to recognize the possibility of truth outside the Bible, and it is one of the two main subjects of the treatise Henoch. In the Epistle of Jude, the author quotes a prophecy of the patriarch Henoch that is not in the Bible. From early Christian and medieval Jewish sources, Drusius deduced that in the time of Jude, there existed an apocryphal Book of Henoch, and that the apostle took his quotation from that book. Since the quotation appears in the Bible, its contents must be true. It follows that there is truth in the apocryphal Book of Henoch. Extrapolating, the conclusion must be that non-canonical apocrypha, and even apocrypha that were never accepted by the Christian church, may still contain elements of truth.13 12. For example his annotation at Nah 2:2: ‘I have translated this verse, although, to be quite honest, I do not understand it. I am not ashamed to confess this; it is better to say as it is, than to deceive the reader and force uncertainty into certainty. This is what those people do, who unhesitatingly translate both easy and difficult passages, without the least differentiation. To be sure, the eyes of the blind see as much in the dead of night as at noon’. 13. Compare the Glossa ordinaria on Jude, quoted by Drusius in De quaesitis per epistolam 101: the Epistle of Jude has to be accepted as Holy Writ, because of its

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The treatise Henoch, especially from chapter 18 onwards, testifies that this was no self-evident conviction at the time when Drusius was writing. His argument in this part of the treatise is as follows. First, he shows that Jude quoted from an apocryphal book written by the patriarch Henoch, and that it was considered a sacred book by the early Church (chap. 18). Next, he shows that other New Testament authors, including the Apostle Paul and Matthew, also quoted from literature other than the canonical Old Testament. Therefore, Jude’s quotation from the Book of Henoch is no reason to reject his epistle as non-canonical (chap. 19). Drusius then proceeds to state that this Book of Henoch never formed part of the Old Testament canon. That canon was established by the men of the Great Synagogue (in the time of Ezra), who were advised by God; moreover, the many falsehoods contained in the Book of Henoch also precluded it from ever being part of it (chap. 20). This part of Drusius’ argument concludes with a quotation from Augustine’s City of God XV 23, from which he highlights the father’s remark that there are many falsehoods in the apocrypha, but that there may also be some truth in it (chap. 21). To prove that the Book of Henoch still exists among Jews, Drusius refers to the work of Menahem Recanati (chap. 22).14 Next, as an introduction to his notes on Jude 14, he explains how Henoch can be regarded as a prophet, even if his book is not among the prophetic books of the canon (chap. 23). Then follows the quotation in Jude 14 and Drusius’ annotations on it (chap. 24). After that, Drusius resumes the question addressed in chapter 18 (there is actually considerable overlap in argumentation with that earlier chapter), and affirms the certainty that good, useful books once existed (‘by Hebrew prophets and sages’) that are now lost (chap. 25). As indisputable proof, he refers to those instances in which the Old Testament itself refers to writings that are no longer extant (chap. 26). This is followed by a brief series in which these testimonies are discussed one by one (chaps 27-30). Finally, Drusius reiterates that none of these writings were ever in the Old Testament canon (chap. 31). authority, its age, and the fact that it has always been used, but also because its quotation from the Book of Henoch is not apocryphal or doubtful, but clear: ‘It is permissible to take a testimony of truth from an apocryphal source’. 14. Interestingly, he does not mention the rumour that the Book of Henoch was still extant in Ethiopia, nor the references to it in the work of Origen; he did do so in his annotation on Luke 3:37: ‘It is said that this book still exists today among the Ethiopians in the kingdom of the Queen of Sheba, in the Abyssinian language’.

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There are parallels elsewhere in Drusius’ œuvre for almost all of the separate statements and argument in this final part of the treatise. Together these show that the Book of Henoch was very important to him. Sometimes his views are expressed with passion, even vehemence. This is all the more curious, if one compares them with Drusius’ annotations on other references to apocryphal sources in the Bible. There, Drusius’ tone is much less engaged. For instance, regarding 2 Timothy 3:8, he appears to be elated at having found the story of Jannes and Jambres in some rabbinical source, but enters into no polemic whatsoever.15 Furthermore, there is no sign of excitement when he remarks that 1 Corinthians 2:9 may have been taken from the Secrets of Elijah. He hardly pauses at the famous references to pagan poets in Acts. Even at Jude 9, with its reference to the Assumption of Moses, separated by five verses from the quotation from Henoch in verse 14, Drusius merely lists drily what he knows about the apocryphon involved.16 Only when the Book of Henoch is involved is his ire kindled. My suspicion is that the key to Drusius’ special interest in Henoch can be found in his annotation to Jude 14. The complete scholion reads as follows: ‘Henoch, the seventh since Adam’] If he was a prophet, as he certainly was, then it follows, since the book from which this testimony is taken no longer exists, that a number of prophetic books are lost. For Solomon too was a prophet, but many of his books are missing today. ‘So Scripture is not complete?’ you ask. Who says that? Since no canonical books have perished, no prophetic books are lost, either? But if I were to say, with that highly learned man to whom we all owe much, ‘that a number of sacred books are lost’,17 I would certainly be telling the truth if the sacred books include more than the canonical books. Prove that it is otherwise, or admit that a number of sacred books are lost. Certainly, Theodorus Beza, who wrote this, has never understood ‘sacred’ to mean ‘canonical’. So why have you publicly 15. On the early modern discussions of this apocryphon, see J. T, ‘Jannes and Jambres (2 Timothy 3:8)’, in M. W (ed.), Moses in Biblical and Extrabiblical Traditions (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft; forthcoming). 16. Scaliger was the first to identify Jude 6 as a quotation from Henoch 10:11 ( J, ‘The Study of the New Testament’, 85b). It is intriguing that Drusius is unaware of this; at least, he ignores it in his annotations. 17. The quotation is from Th. Beza, Testamentum Novum (Geneva 1588) 477, annotation on Jude 14.

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chastised him? Why have you called this opinion of his ‘erroneous’ and ‘scandalous’? It is not just his opinion, but that of all Catholics, except for the one or two recent examples who err as certainly as two times three equals six.18 Please, let those dilettantes finally desist, who have for too many years taught hardly anything else than that no sacred, that is, canonical, books were ever lost. Since that is not true, what is the use of your continued dispute with a shadow? For the rest on the Book of Henoch, see Scaliger’s Notes to the Greek of the Eusebius Codex, 244 and 245, where he proves on the basis of George Syncellus that the Apostles have quoted from apocryphal books.19

I do not know the identity of the individual against whom this invective was directed, but it was quite probably a Roman-Catholic. His argument agrees with that of the counter-reformer Robertus Bellarminus. This Jesuit argued in De verbo Dei IV 4 (1586) that ‘sacred and canonical books are lost’.20 For Bellarminus, this proves that the protestant claim that the Bible is the only criterion for orthodoxy, holds no water, since Scripture is not complete. This explains why it is important for Drusius to emphasize the two matters in equal measure: (1) apocrypha may contain elements of truth and can be called sacred books;21 he needs to make this point in order to explain why there are quotations from apocrypha in the New Testament; (2) they are not canonical, nor have they ever been; this point must be made to argue that the Old Testament has been complete ever since its canon was established by Ezra and the men of the Great Synagogue. Before turning to the second main subject discussed in Henoch, attention should be drawn to the fact that Drusius was not interested in apocrypha per se, but only in the truths which they might contain. In Drusius’ scholion to Jude 14, quoted above, Drusius refers to Scaliger’s notes on Eusebius. The reference is to Scaliger’s Thesaurus tem-

18. Cf. Drusius’ note on Jude 14 in Parallela sacra (1588) and De quaesitis per epistolam 101 (1595), where he comments on a few recent theologians who deny that sacred books were ever lost: ‘They are as certainly in error as two times two equals four’. 19. Drusius, Annotationes in totum Jesu Christi Testamentum sive Praeterita (Franeker 1612) 400–401. 20. Here quoted from Disputationes Roberti Bellarmini Politiani de controversiis christianae fidei, adversus huius temporis haereticos (Paris 1608) col. 169. 21. This is also Bellarminus’ view, who also quotes De civitate Dei XV 23 to support it; Disputationes Roberti Bellarmini, col. 56.

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porum of 1606.22 On pp. 244–245 Scaliger published Greek fragments from the Book of Henoch for the first time, as quoted in the Chronicles of George Syncellus († 810). Today these fragments are known as 1 Enoch 6:1–10:14 and 15:8–16. Drusius refers to these fragments, both in his annotations on Jude, and in chapter 25 of the treatise Henoch. In chapter 18 of the same treatise, he concisely summarizes these fragments, saying that they contain ‘many fables, especially about the angels who had intercourse with the daughters of men, and about the giants’. This is all that Drusius does with the lengthy fragments, and this is all the more amazing when one realises that he was almost entirely convinced that they were actually written by the patriarch himself. In his dismissal of the fragments as fables,23 Drusius agreed with the verdict pronounced on them by Scaliger and paid them no further attention.24 The rest of Henoch 18 is devoted to the question of how it is possible that a book written by a righteous man could contain such nonsense.25 According to Drusius, this must simply be accepted in light of the apocryphal nature of the book. Alternatively, he suggests that the book was interpolated and falsified by worthless individuals.

22. J.J. Scaliger, Thesaurus temporum. Eusebii Pamphili, Caesaraeae Palaestinae episcopi Chronicorum canonum omnimodae historiae libri duo (Leiden 1606). See  J, ‘The Study of the New Testament’, 85b, with notes. 23. Drusius had already repudiated the interpretation of the ‘sons of God’ in Gen 6:1 as angels in Miscelleanorum liber I, cap. 25 (1586), one of his reasons being that angels have no genitals, and therefore cannot have sex; see also De quaesitis per epistolam 102 and 111. 24. For Scaliger’s low opinion on the value of these fragments, see H.J.  J, ‘Die Patriarchentestamente von Roger Bacon bis Richard Simon’, in M.  J (ed.), Studies on the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs. Text and Interpretation (Studia in Veteris Testamenti Pseudepigrapha 3; Leiden 1975) 3–42, esp. 19, where  J gives a German translation of Scaliger’s judgment. The Latin text is quoted in  J, ‘The Study of the New Testament’, 85b. In his words of appreciation for Scaliger, ibid.,  J also notes that ‘it is to be regretted that unlike Drusius, once he had decided a document was not authentic, he had no more literary or historical comments to make on it’. It now appears, however, that Drusius did not even deign to comment upon them despite considering them authentic, but also fabulae. 25. That Drusius regarded the possibility that a book, written by Henoch himself, could still exist in his own day, as realistic, is illustrated by his extensive quotation of De cultu feminarum I 3:1–3 in De quaesitis per epistolam 102, where it is argued that such a book may well have survived the Flood. Naturally, Drusius could not accept that Jude would have quoted from a forgery.

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From this, it follows that Drusius was not interested in apocryphal literature as such. He believed, to his lasting credit, that apocrypha could be worthwhile, insofar as they contained elements of truth. However, the apocrypha also contain many falsehoods, and Drusius was not in the least interested in those, even if they had been written by Henoch himself. The second main subject of Henoch is the question of how it can be said that Henoch is dead without having died, or even whether he is still alive. This issue also preoccupied Drusius to a great extent, and he addressed it on many occasions.26 It must be said that Drusius’ discussion of this issue in Henoch is extremely heavy going. This can partially be explained by the way the treatise originated (see below). Even so, Drusius’ treatments of the question, wherever they occur, are a bit vague, or, when he does reach a clear conclusion, he immediately qualifies it with reservations.27 Drusius’ conviction was that Henoch was transformed, in the same sense as the living will be transformed at the Lord’s second coming, to be united with him.28 This solution to Drusius’ problem was presented to him by Jerome:29 Henoch, like Elijah, was transformed— he did not die, and he never will, in the sense that his corruptible nature was taken from him. He is dead, in the sense that he is no longer among the living, however, the transformation of the living is a 26. Apart from the treatise Henoch at least in De quaesitis per epistolam 115 and 116; Commentarius to Gen 5:24; Notae majores to Gen 5:24; annotations to Luke 3:37 and to Heb 11:5. 27. Henoch 13: ‘if he is transformed, he has taken on a different nature and an incorruptible body. But this is known to him who knows everything’; 16: ‘let us leave these matters to be discussed by the theologians’; Commentarius to Gen 5:24: ‘This is but a suggestion, not a fact. I am rather inclined to believe that he was transformed. People like him die, but not in the ordinary human way, and therefore they are said “not to die”. But whether Henoch died in a different way and if he still is alive, God only knows. As for me, I suspend my judgment and think that I should not make rash statements. I only say what I think is plausible, but because there is much difference of opinion in this case, let everybody judge for himself. I myself gladly subject my opinion to the judgment of the orthodox, catholic Church’; annotations to Luke 3:37 (having quoted Heb 11:5): ‘how this is to be understood should be decided by learned people’; annotations to Heb 11:5: ‘let this be judged by the judicious’. 28. Cf. Drusius’ annotations to 1 Cor. 15:52: ‘We shall be transformed: we shall not die, neither shall we be resurrected…. The living are not resurrected, but transformed’. 29. Drusius regularly refers to Jerome’s Epistle 148, addressed to Marcella. The number of this Epistle in modern editions is 59.

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process that is to take place on the Last Day, and until then the universal truth remains that everybody must die—how then, can Henoch have been an exception? The question of why all this posed such great problems to Drusius is answered in De quaesitis per epistolam 115. A propos Psalm 49:10 he discusses what is meant by the phrase: ‘Everybody will see his grave.’ If ‘to see one’s grave’ means that everybody will be buried, this is obviously wrong, because there are many dead people who have never been buried. Drusius therefore suggests that ‘grave’ here stands for ‘corruption’ or ‘decay’. Quoting Hebrews 11:5, he then comments: ‘That Henoch did not see death, is against nature, but it happened because God willed it, and he is the creator of nature. Elsewhere, we also read that “he set a boundary for the waters, which they will not transgress” (Psalm 104:9), and yet this is what happened at the time of the Flood’. This was a bold statement. The question of whether God could by-pass the rules he himself had set has vexed theology from its very inception, and in Drusius’ own time, the answer tended to be ‘No’. Drusius, however, found an affirmative answer in his Bible, but may also have come to realize that theology was not eager for his contribution on this subject. Drusius’ reservations and caution in this respect may have contributed to the lack of clarity in Henoch 7–13. However, as mentioned above, his discussion of the matter in these chapters is extraordinarily impenetrable. I shall now suggest that this is mainly due to the fact that the treatise is unfinished, having been sent to the printer’s prematurely. Therefore, the impression of chaos that these chapters make at first sight is correct. This can be demonstrated by a comparison of Henoch 7–13 with Drusius’ Commentarius ad loca difficiliora Pentateuchi (prepared by Drusius himself, but published posthumously, in 1617) on the one hand, and his Notae majores, first published in the Critici sacri in 1698, on the other. The Commentarius is an abridged form of his annotations, produced when Drusius felt old age nearing, and realized that he could not complete his commentary on the Pentateuch on the scale on which he had been working.30 After having completed the Commentarius, Drusius proceeded to make his Notae majores, which contain the annotations left out of the Commentarius. Between Henoch and 30. Cf. the preface of the editor, S. A, to Drusius, Commentarius ad loca difficiliora Pentateuchi.

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these two commentaries on Genesis 5:22–24, there are large areas of overlap. Henoch 7–13 is probably a compilation of both commentaries, further supplemented with additional notes. The compilation was made, however, in a most untidy manner. For instance in chapter 12 of Henoch, Drusius quotes the targums that render ‘and he was not’ with ‘behold, he was not’. In the Notae majores this is immediately followed by a comment on this ‘behold’. The same comment is made in Henoch, but only after a discussion of completely unrelated matter, which is puzzling to readers if they do not realize that the flow of thought is interrupted by an additional note. In the same chapter, a remark of similarly unrelated content interrupts a comparison of Wisdom 4:11 and Hebrews 11:5. As a result, the logic of the argument in Henoch is completely lost, although it was perfectly clear in the Notae majores. The relationship between Henoch and the other works can be sketched as follows. Henoch 7 starts, after a summarizing introduction, with a quotation from Persius. The Commentarius on Genesis 5:24, also begins with this very quotation. The rest of Henoch 7 is almost entirely made up of material not found in the other works. Chapter 8, except for the final paragraph,31 runs closely parallel to the first section of the Notae majores.32 In the Commentarius, allusion is made to the contents discussed in Henoch 9, but without the exact reference or quotation found in the latter. The rest of Henoch 9, from the reference to Josephus onwards, is an addition as compared to the Commentarius and the Notae majores. Chapter 10 runs largely parallel to the Notae majores on et non fuit, except for those notes already adopted into the Commentarius and not present in the Notae majores. Moreover, there are some differences in the order of discussing various blocks of material. On several occasions, Henoch contains more material than both the other works. A couple of times, Drusius elaborates on his discussions of quotations already present in his annotations, sometimes with catastrophic result; for example, his discussion of Demosthenes, On the Crown 72, and what follows immediately. 31. The paragraphs in the translation below were made by the translator. The Latin text is continuous. 32. The Notae majores are also set as continuous text, but their subsections are separated by the ¶ sign.

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All the material present in chapter 11 is also found in either the Commentarius or the Notae majores. Chapter 12 has already been discussed above. Chapter 13 is mostly parallel to the Notae majores, with some new material added. From chapter 14 onward, Drusius no longer uses his annotations on Genesis 5:21–24. Chapter 15 is a most welcome summary. Compared to the relative clarity and good structure of both the Commentarius and the Notae majores, the treatise Henoch must be regarded as having been insufficiently edited. Chapters 7–13, in their present state, are particularly chaotic, almost incomprehensible, and have clearly been sent to the printer’s prematurely. Finally, something must be said about the possible reasons why Drusius sent Henoch to the printer’s although it was in an unfinished state. As noted above, Drusius tells William Langton, to whom the treatise is dedicated, that it has lurked in the dark for some time, but that Langton’s kindness to Drusius’ family and friends, as well as to himself, has meant that it ‘now finally wished to see the light’. The declaration that Henoch was written long before its publication in 1615 may well be true. The year 1606 is in any event the date post quem. It is the year in which Scaliger’s Thesaurus had appeared, in which the lengthy fragments from the Book of Henoch were published. It is reasonable to suppose that the appearance of these fragments occasioned Drusius to begin the project of this treatise. Another possible date post quem is the death of a person with whom there had been a controversy on the question of whether Jewish prophetical books may have been lost (chapter 25). Perhaps he refers here to Nicolaus Serarius, who died in 1609; but to the best of my knowledge, their quarrel was not over this specific question. It is more likely that Drusius’ polemical remarks on the loss of prophetical works are levelled at some other follower of Bellarminus (see above); but further investigations might be expected to uncover their referent fairly easily. A possible scenario explaining the state in which the treatise Henoch was sent to the press, then, is the following. At some point after the appearance of Scaliger’s Thesaurus, Drusius conceived the idea of a treatise, in which all his knowledge about Henoch would be gathered. Its main structure would be this. First, some preliminary details had to be set out: how the name should be spelled; that Genesis recognises two different people called Henoch; how many brothers and

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children he may have had (chapters 1–6). Then he would use his annotations on Genesis 5:21–24 to fully explain this passage, including the questions of whether Henoch did or did not die, and if not, whether he was still alive, etcetera (chapters 7–13, expanded with chapters 14–17). The final main part would then be about the Book of Henoch, the possibility that apocryphal books contain truth, and some other related material (chapters 18–31).33 Along these lines, Drusius drew up a draft of the treatise, which for some reason or another he then laid aside. After several years, he may have dug the manuscript up, thumbed through it, decided that it was good enough, and given it to Heyns, his Franeker printer, without editing chapters 7–13 properly. Since the editing of books was then often still done after they were printed, it is also possible that the row with Lubbertus which had broken out in the meantime, consumed all his energy, and that he was simply too fatigued to do the further work on the treatise necessary to finish it properly. Of course, this reconstruction is entirely speculative.34 

33. Since there is again some overlap between chapters 7–17 and 18–31, it is likely that the final part of the treatise is based on a separate set of annotations, collected for this specific goal. 34. I am much indeted to Prof. Dr. Henk Jan  J, without whose expertise, which he liberally put at my disposal, this article, including the translation that follows here, could not have been made.

HENOCH, or, On the Patriarch Henoch, his assumption, and his book, from which the Apostle Jude quotes a passage; also about those books, mentioned in Scripture, which are now lost To that generous, highly learned, and most kind man, MR. WILLIAM LANGTON Theological Doctor and President of Magdalen College. My Henoch, generous Sir, after having lurked in the dark for a long time, has finally wished to see the light under your patronage. Many things have driven him to this. In the first place, the kindness that you have shown to my son Johannes, when he travelled together with you to England; he used to talk nineteen to the dozen about that when he was still alive. Next, the goodness you have exercised towards Sixtinus Amama from Frisia, my former assistant, who on this count is much indebted to you. I myself, too, am much obliged to you, whose recommendation has had such felicitous consequences. To this belongs your inclination towards this kind of scholarship and my writings. In letters addressed to me you have made it clear that my works please you extraordinarily. This you have in common with others, especially the very reverend, highly learned and wise Doctor Lake; my urgent request is, please, give him my cordial regards. In the meantime, please accept this Henoch of mine, which I gladly offer to you herewith. In the matter of Henoch, there exist three opinions among scholars concerning his assumption. In the first place, some think that he was taken away by death. In the second place, some think that he was taken away with both body and soul entire, so that they believe that he is still alive and will come again, either in the time of redemption, or at least in that of the Antichrist. In the third place, a number of scholars think that he was changed, so that his mortal and corruptible nature was turned into an immortal and incorruptible one, in the same manner as will happen to those who will be alive on the Day of Judgment, when they will be taken up into the air to meet Christ. This change, or transformation, as Jerome calls it, rules out death, if you

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take the word ‘death’ strictly, because the soul has not been separated or taken away from the body, as is the case when someone dies a natural death. But less strictly speaking, someone who is changed also dies; hence the verse: ‘We shall all sleep, but we shall not all be changed’. The first opinion mentioned conflicts with a passage by the Apostle in Hebrews 11: ‘And he was transferred, lest he see death’. Now, ‘to see death’ means ‘to die’; another expression for this is ‘to taste death’. If he has not seen death, then he is still alive. Although I do not doubt that this notion of transportation was what the Apostle had in mind, nothing forbids us to adduce other explanations. Those who are of another opinion may react to my view in three different ways. First, it can be argued that the Apostle here speaks of the death of sinners, so that it would be the same as what is said in Wisdom: ‘lest evil would alter his mind’. For sinners are called dead; hence the saying: ‘Wicked people are dead while they live’. In the second place it can be said that the Apostle speaks of a death of disaster and illness, so that the sense of ‘lest he see death’ would be a reference to the discomfort that usually attends the process of dying. For people who are constantly battling with diseases are nothing short of dead. In the third place, Henoch can be said not to have seen death, that is, not to have died, because the Holy Book, where it speaks of his assumption, does not mention his death, that is, it does not use the verb ‘to die’. With regard to the other Patriarchs, we read ‘And he died’, but in the case of this one, ‘And he was no more, for the L took him away’. Here, then, a different expression is used because he moved from this life prematurely, that is, before his time, or because he passed away through a sudden type of death. Such people are said ‘to be not’, as is clearly proved in this booklet. The main ground for my assertion is the Hebrew saying: ‘Jacob did not die.’ Why did he not die? Because Scripture in the case of his death uses the word ‘to expire’, not ‘to die’. Similarly, the Apostle, too, says concerning Melchizedek: ‘without father, mother or ancestry, without beginning or end’. Why? No doubt because his parents and family are not mentioned in the Holy Book, and because it is also silent about his beginning and end. Furthermore: what the Hebrews express with ‫לקח‬, is with Latin authors ‘to take away’ and ‘to take up’. Take Virgil in his Epigrams:

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‘What God, Octavius, has taken you away from us?’, and a little further: ‘We shall highly admire your writings, and weep both for you, who has been, and for Roman history’. ‘To take up’ is properly speaking ‫טרף‬, which can also be used to mean death. The Jew from Salamanca, in his book Johasin 98:2: ‘R. Emmi died in his life, because death took him up’. These and other things are contained in this book, which, as in the case of every other writing published or still to be published by me, I gladly submit to the judgment of the Catholic Church. If I would appear to be dissenting from its orthodoxy, I shall not be stubborn. Let only a small measure of freedom be conceded to me in explaining the text, especially where there is such an amount of variety among the interpreters, that one would hardly know whom to follow. He would take the sun from the world, who takes this liberty away from men of learning. In former days the scholastic theologians used it with the greatest freedom, when their theology flourished. Today, I hear, it still exists in your England, where the knowledge of languages enjoys great esteem and deep respect, and where there are even very learned theologians—and probably more learned than elsewhere. Because, very erudite Langton, you are one of them, I hope that this tiny work of mine will not displease you. In this hope I conclude and wish you well. Franeker, in Frisia, 20th of August, 1615, respectfully yours, Joh. Drusius 

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 1.       .      .         . I shall presently be speaking of the patriarch Henoch, about whom quite a lot of things can be investigated—for there is also a book bearing his name, from which the Apostle Jude quoted a passage. First, however, the proper spelling of his name must be established. It can be deduced from the Hebrew scriptures, where it is written ‫חנוך‬, with double aspiration, called Heth. Because Latin and Greek lack this sound, we use the simple aspiration. It follows that, in Hebrew words, there are two kinds of aspiration, one which is simply called He, and another called Heth, sometimes rendered by the Greek Χ. This I have shown elsewhere.1 For now, I observe that the Hebrew scriptures have Hanoch, the first syllable being shortened with the furtive a that they call Hateph patach. However, the ancient translators appear instead to have read Hateph segol, that is, a very short e, shorter than short. For they did not have Hanoch in their copies, but Henoch, so they must have read the vowel sign I mentioned. They also read Hemor instead of Hamor, and there are six hundred more examples.2 When I say the ancient translators, I mean the Septuagint, Aquila, Symmachus, Theodotion and Jerome,3 and others who lived before the age of the Masoretes, to whom we owe, as is generally acknowledged, the vowel signs used today.4 Either way, the matter is not of the slightest interest, and I would not have mentioned it, were it not for those who think these names are corrupt in the Hebrew sources. To be sure, such people are no less deluded than those who reject the Greek and Latin readings in

1. See Drusius, Alphabetum ebraicum vetus. Interpretationes connexionesque nominum alphabetum (1587), here quoted from the second edition in Drusius, Opuscula quae ad grammaticam spectant (Franeker 1609) 12–14; also Ebraicae quaestiones III 83, and annotations on Luke 3:37, originally in Ad voces ebraicas Novi Testamenti, Commentarius prior (Franeker 1616) 79. 2. See also Drusius, Animadversionum liber II, cap. 31, ‘De affinitate vocalium ( ֶ ) Segol & ( ַ ) Phathe’. 3. For a survey of these translators, see Drusius, De quaesitis per epistolam 41. 4. See L. F, ‘Hebreeuwse studiën aan de Franeker universiteit’, in G.T. J, F.R.H. S & F. W (eds.), Universiteit te Franeker 1575–1811 (Leeuwarden 1985) 409–423, esp. 416–417.

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general and wish to remove them from the Bible completely as corrupt and degenerate.5  2.                  . In both Greek and Latin manuscripts the name is written Enoch, without aspiration. In my opinion, this should not be blamed on the translators, but on the copyists, who used to treat this sign rather carelessly. For instance, they wrote umerus instead of humerus, and Abel instead of Habel, and a thousand examples more, as can be observed everywhere in the text of the Septuagint and in the manuscripts of other versions. Conversely, they added this sign at places where it should not be. Even today, the people of Italy suffer from this error, not to speak of my own countrymen,6 who aspirate where they should not, and omit it when they should aspirate.  3.    .    ,  .  .      . ’ . There were two Henochs, the elder and the younger. The elder was a son of Cain, the younger a son of Jared, Seth’s offspring. After the elder a city was named: Cain founded it and named it after his son Henoch.7 Rufinus, the ancient translator of Josephus, calls it Henochia. A Greek copy of Josephus wrongly has Enosa; this copy also reads Enosus instead of Henoch or Henochus.8 You may often find one name confused with the other. For Enosh was someone else. His father was Seth, so that Enosh and the elder Henoch were cousins.9 This Henoch, however, was a son of Cain. The latter is called Καΐς by Josephus, with the final letter of the exotic word as usual turned 5. The seventeenth century was witness to a lively debate on the value of the texts represented by the Masoretic Bible and the Septuagint, respectively. See J.C.H. L, ‘Ein Streit um die hebräische Bibel und die Septuaginta’, in L S & P M (eds.), Leiden University, 21–63. 6. Drusius means the Flemings, many of whom even today are uncertain with regard to the aspiration of initial vowels when speaking standard Dutch. 7. Gen 4:17. 8. These are the readings of ms. Laurentianus, Bib. Med. 69/20, in Flavius Josephus, Antiquitates judaicae I 62, adopted in the Basle edition of 1544. 9. Gen 4:26.

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into ς. This is nothing new. In a similar vein, Josephus turned Ναΐδ into Ναΐς; and in Greek, ‫קרן‬, ‘horn’, becomes κέρας.10 But to come to the point. The city of Henoch was founded by the father, not by the son. This is a fact, not a conjecture. Therefore, Severus is in error when he writes, in the first book of his Sacred History: ‘He had a son, Henoch, who for the first time founded a city, called after its maker.’11 On the contrary, the name was that of the son, not that of the maker, that is, the founder. This Henochia is regarded as the world’s first and oldest city. Johannes Nauclerus mentions this in the following passage: ‘The enormous and massive foundations of this city can be visited today near the mountains of Lebanon, and the place is called the city of Cain by the indigenous people, as is reported by our merchants and pilgrims, who are familiar with the areas around Damascus and Lebanon, according to Johannes of Viterbo.’ Thus Nauclerus, who is trustworthy; but in my opinion Viterbo, whom he cites, deserves no trust. I said that a Greek text of Josephus wrongly speaks of Enosus, that is Ἔνωσος, and of Enosa, that is Ἔνωσα. However, Ἐνώς could also be explained from the habit just mentioned, and that, as I noted in my Observations IX 9: Enoch becomes Ἐνώς just as Annibal becomes Ἀννίβας. Look it up, if you have the time and inclination.  4.            .         . Some, including St. Augustine, City of God XV 8, have doubted that Henoch was the firstborn of Cain, and rightly so, for this appears nowhere in the Holy Writ. I know that it is stated thus in Josephus: καὶ τὴν πόλιν ταύτην ἀπὸ Ἐνώσου τοῦ πρεσβυτάτου παιδὸς Ἐνώσαν ἐκάλεσεν.12 That might be correct, but it should not too quickly be regarded as certain. For it cannot be concluded that he never got more children from the fact that only one is mentioned. Supposing that he did, who can prove that this was the oldest one, and that no others were born before him? That he had more children would seem plau10. Cf. Drusius, Observationes IX 9, and see below, towards the end of this section. 11. Sulpicius Severus, Chronica I 1:1. In 1607, Drusius published his own edition of Severus’ Historia sacra. 12. Antiquitates judaicae I 62.

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sible on the grounds that he is said to have founded a city: for who would found a city for no more than two or three people? Josephus has followed what may at first sight be read in the Holy Writ. But we shall rather follow now what is certain and beyond doubt. See Augustine as cited. This Henoch had a son Irad, who in the Greek Bible is mistakenly named Γαιδάδ. This can be emended into the original reading Gairad or Airad. However, Jerome and Sulpicius13 have Irad. Josephus confuses him with Jared,14 the father of the second or younger Henoch, evidently an error. The confusion of both names, especially the use of the better known for the lesser known, occurs so frequently in antiquity, that it also seems to have affected the ancient versions. Lest anyone henceforward blame the copyists, it may be observed that Josephus’ ancient translator Rufinus also had Jared. So much for the older Henoch; we now turn to the younger, about whom this discussion was begun in the first place.  5.   ,  , ,     . So the younger Henoch had Jared as his father, who died in the year 1422 since the creation of the world. Henoch was born in the seventh century, in the year 622 since the creation of the world. At the age of 65 he begat Mathusalam, whom others call Mathusalem, who is said to have lived longer than anyone else. Three hundred years later he was transferred, at the age of 365.15 He lived honourably all his life. I would sooner believe this than that he would have lived improperly in his youth. There are some who accuse him of fickleness and inconstancy, saying that he was alternately righteous and wicked. This is claimed in the Large Genesis (called in Hebrew Bereshit Rabba), by a certain Ibbo.16 He was transferred in the year 987 since the creation of the world, having lived simultaneously with Adam for 308 years, and for 57 years after he attended the latter’s burial. It is stated this way in the book Johasin,17 from which I also quote the following: ‘When Henoch 13. Chronica I 1:1. 14. Antiquitates judaicae I 63. 15. The edition in the Critici sacri reads 335, which cannot be correct. 16. ‫ איבו‬or ‫אייבו‬, depending on one’s edition; today, his name is usually vocalized as Aibu or Aibo. The reference is to Bereshit Rabba 25:1; see below, chapter 9. 17. Abraham ben Samuel Zacuto, ‫( ספר יוחסין‬Constantinople 1566).

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was born, Seth was 492 years of age, and when he was transferred, 752. So he lived in the same age as him for 365 years. Cainan or Cenan was 297 years of age, and when he was transferred, 662. So he lived in the same age as him for 365 years. Mahaleel was 227 years of age, and when he was transferred 592. So he lived in the same age as him for 365 years. His father Jared was 162 years of age when he was born, and 527 when he was transferred. So he knew him for 365 years. When Mathusala was born, his father Henoch was 65. His grandson Lamech was 48 when his grandfather Henoch was transferred. When Noah was born, Mathusala was 369 years of age, and he lived simultaneously with Noah for 600 years.’ And then: ‘Henoch served under Adam for 308 years’.  6.     . Scripture certainly mentions only one son of Henoch, namely Mathusalam, the grandfather of Noah. It may be asked if he had more sons. It should be noted, that the author of the sacred history does not mention everybody in the world at that time, but only those who were needed for the plan of his work. ‘It was the intention of this author’,—I quote Augustine—‘through whom the Holy Spirit worked, to describe a chain of generations reaching through to Abraham, and from his offspring to the people of God, &c’.18 Therefore, if only one is mentioned, that does not mean that he was alone or the only one. On the contrary, on the basis of the Holy Book, that is, the perfectly doubt-free testimony of truth, it is an established fact that he had several children. This is at least what we read in Genesis 5:22: ‘After he had begotten Mathusalem, Henoch walked with God, for three hundred years, and he got sons and daughters’. From this we conclude as well that Henoch lived a pious and holy life during all that time, for that is what these words mean: ‘he walked with God’. To these words I shall now turn.  7.    .        .        ’ .        .    . The phrase ‘to walk with God’ is explained in various ways by the translators, but all their explanations boil down to the same thing. 18. This quotation resumes the argument of Augustine in De civitate Dei XV 8 (see chapter 4).

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Some explain: to live so as to be pleasing to God. So the Greek Septuagint: εὐηρέστησε δὲ Ἑνὼχ τῷ Θεῷ, ‘Henoch was pleasing to God’. Others: to live a life according to God’s will. Again others: to live a holy and religious life, or, to organize one’s life piously and holily. Persius has the expression: ‘to live with God’.19 Augustine has: ‘to live according to God’, as opposed to: ‘to live according to the flesh’. You may find the former phrase in City of God XVI 4. Onkelos has here: ‘he walked in the fear of God’—he does not say ‘in righteousness’, but ‘in the fear of God’. The fear of God is exactly the same as piety. Jonathan and the author of the Jerusalem targum have: ‘Henoch served the Lord in truth, or rather: served before God.’ But in Genesis 6:9, where the same expression is used in Hebrew, Jonathan has: ‘Noah walked in the fear of God’. Some prefer: ‘to live under God’s care’; others understand ‘to live with God’, or ‘to pass one’s life in piety and faith’. So the Comedian: ‘You who pass your lives in piety and faith’.20 Related is the phrase ‘to walk before the L’, which is explained as living according to God’s will, by obeying him as if we were constantly being observed by him. Also similar is ‘to walk in the ways of the Lord’ (1 Kings 3:14), which is equivalent to living according to the Lord’s commandments. For according to the Hebrew idiom, ‘to walk’ means ‘to live’, and ‘the way’ designates the kind of living someone establishes for himself, or believes that he has to follow. Then, ‘the way of the Lord’ is the way that leads towards the Lord; it consists in doing the divine commandments. Sometimes ‘the ways of the Lord’ is a designation of his judgments, or also of his properties, often called ‫מדות‬. R. Salomo21 made a distinction between walking ‘before’ and ‘with’ the Lord. For he says that Abraham walked before, not with the Lord. See, if you wish, his commentary on Genesis 6:9. Leviticus 26:27 reads: ‘If you walk with me by chance’, or ‘by accident’;22 its meaning is this has nothing to do with what we discuss

19. Persius, Satura 5:139, where it actually reads: ‘with Jupiter’ (cum Ioue); the expression is quoted accurately in Commentarius on Gen 5:24. 20. Plautus, Rudens 28. 21. Solomon ben Isaac, or Rashi (1040?–1105).

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here. : if you live in the opinion that everything befalls you by accident or coincidence. But Many interpreters take ‘to walk with God’ to mean to act righteously. I would prefer: to live a life of virtue, including piety. Of course, righteousness and virtue are sometimes synonymous, but righteousness and piety are different things. The latter regards God in particular, the former one’s neighbour. Those who confuse these things are apparently unaware of Micah 6:8, where they are placed side by side: ‘Act righteously, love kindness, and walk meekly with God’. R. Salomo says:23 ‘Noah walked with God, but Abraham says: “the one before whom (or: before whose countenance) I have walked”. Noah needed God’s help to remain righteous, but Abraham was able to uphold righteousness by himself ’. I shall leave this matter to others to discuss. The statements of the Rabbis should be measured by the norm of truth, and not be accepted thoughtlessly.  8.      5:24. Genesis 5:24 ‘And Henoch walked with God’; the sense is: ‘he walked, I say, with God’, to make a repetition;24 or: ‘as he walked’; or: ‘had walked with God, he was no more’, that is, he no longer existed. Mercerus prefers:25 ‘when he had prepared himself to walk with God’, obviously in the other life. Now ‫ הלך‬means ‘he took out for a walk’, ‘he caused to walk’, hence ‫ התהלך‬means ‘he caused himself to walk’. This seems indeed to be the meaning of this conjugation, but I, for one, take into account how it is used elsewhere. Elsewhere ‫ התהלך‬certainly means ‘he walked’, not ‘he caused himself to walk’; perhaps it is even better to render ‘he was walking continuously, he went often’; grammarians call such verbs frequentatives. Jonathan reads in this instance: ‘he truly served before the Lord’; so also the targum bearing the City’s name. 22. ‘By chance’ is a Rabbinic Hebrew meaning of the Biblical ‫ ;בקרי‬Drusius argued for this meaning in his Notae majores at Lev 26:22, following Rashi on Lev 26:21, and especially Sefer ha-Shorashim by David Qimh.i (1160–1235). 23. Drusius here returns to Rashi’s commentary on Gen 6:9, even though he has already advised his readers to look it up for themselves. 24. Namely, a repetition of the expression in Gen 5:22. 25. Jean Mercier (or: le Mercier), Commentarius in Genesim, ex editione et cum praefatione Th. Bezae (Geneva 1598).

126

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Above I noticed that the Septuagint has: ‘and he was pleasing to God’. Sirach also uses this verb in 44:18: Ἐνὼχ εὐηρέστησε Κυρίῳ; the author of Wisdom 4:11: εὐάρεστος τῷ Θεῷ γενόμενος ἠγαπήθη; and the Apostle in Hebrews 11:5: Πρὸ γὰρ τῆς μεταθέσεως αὐτοῦ μεμαρτύρηται εὐηρεστηκέναι τῷ Θεῷ, ‘before he was transferred, it was testified with regard to him that he was pleasing to God’. I should not fail to mention that some interpret: ‘because he had been pleasing to God’, or: ‘as he was walking with God, he was no more’. Compare ‘In the beginning God created heaven and earth, and the earth was void’,26 which is analogously explained as: ‘when God was creating heaven and earth, the earth was void &c’.27  9.     . A certain Rabbi Ibbo seems to have followed the last explanation. He is mentioned in Bereshit Rabba with the following words: ‘R. Ibbo says that Henoch was a hypocrite: sometimes he was righteous, sometimes he was wicked. The blessed God said: now that he is righteous, I shall elevate him’. The Hebrew word for hypocrite is ‫חנף‬, somebody who feigns to be different from his true nature. But here it seems to be taken to mean someone who leads a fickle life. This opinion can be refuted on the basis of vs. 22 of the same chapter: ‘And Henoch walked with God, after he had begotten Mathusalem, for three hundred years’. So he lived with God during all that time, and one reads nowhere else that he sometimes lived differently or was wicked. That is the first point. Next, Josephus states that Seth cultivated virtue and that he, who himself attained perfection, also left behind descendants who were like him, and who, as he writes, were all good men. This he wrote in Jewish Antiquities I, chapter 5 towards the end.28 If Henoch was a good man, he was neither hypocrite nor wicked. It seems to me that he was religious, more than anyone else, for it is written of him in particular that he ‘walked with God’. The same is said about Noah, of whom Severus wrote that he was dear and pleasing to God, more

26. Gen 1:1. 27. The point Drusius seems to be making here, is that parataxis in Hebrew is sometimes correctly translated as a hypotactical construction in other languages. 28. Antiquitates judaicae I 68–69; with ‘chapter 5’, Drusius means Josephus’ rendering of Genesis 5.

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than any other mortal.29 Obviously, he is referring to the Greek translation, εὐηρέστησε τῷ Θεῷ, already discussed.30 To this one may add, if one pleases, that the children of Seth are called ‘sons of God’ according to the more expert interpreters. ‘The sons of God’, in Augustine’s opinion, ‘are those who live according to God’. Someone who lives according to God, is neither wicked nor a hypocrite. See for yourself, please, this father’s City of God XV 8. Finally, what is being said on this topic without the authority of the divine testimony, can be refuted just as easily.  10.     ‘    ’. In Genesis 5:24, after the words ‘Henoch walked, I say, with God’, the holy source continues with ‘and no more of him’.31 Jerome interprets this phrase as ‘and he disappeared’ and the Septuagint with καὶ οὐχ εὑρίσκετο, ‘and he was not found’. In Hebrew it reads ‫ואיננו‬, ‘and no more of him’. In this case, the declined pronoun adopts the function of the nominative case, for one should understand it as if it said ‫ואין הוא‬, ‘and he was not’. Analogously, ‫אותו‬, ‘him’, is sometimes equivalent to ‫הוא‬, ‘he’. Similarly, ‫ליתוהי‬, which one finds in Onkelos, and ‫ליתיהי‬, which one finds in Jonathan, are to be explained as ‫ לית הוא‬as found in the Jerusalem targum. ‘And no more of him’, supply: ‘there was’. It means: ‘he existed no more in this life’, or ‘among men’, or, which is the same, ‘among the living’. For ‘the living’ occasionally means ‘humans’. In this sense Eve is called ‘the mother of the living’,32 that is, ‘of humankind’. For she was certainly not the mother of animals, but of humans only. ‘Among the living’ therefore means ‘among those who live this present life’. Nicolaus33 explains the ‘he disappeared’ of the ancient version as: ‘he disappeared from the present life, or from among sinners’. The former explanation is correct, the latter too restricted, because someone can live without living among sinners. However that may be, ‘to be’ is said of someone who lives, whereas ‘to be not’ is said of someone who has left the living, as in Genesis 29. Chronica I 1:2. 30. Chapter 7. 31. This awkward rendering of the Hebrew ‫ ואיננו‬and Drusius’ et non ipse is an effort to reflect approximately the problems that Drusius had with this expression. 32. Gen 3:20. 33. Nicholas of Lyre, in the Glossa ordinaria.

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42:13, ‘and he is not alive’, that is, he is dead, as it is explicitly said in Genesis 44:20.34 So also elswhere: ‘Rachel, while mourning her children, refused to be consoled because they are not’.35 On Psalm 106:13, ‘the wind passed over him and he was not’, R. David notes: ‘and he was no more among the living’. Next, the dead can be said to ‘have been’, and ‘he was’ is the same as ‘he is dead’. Plautus: ‘I would rather that I had been than that I am’,36 that is ‘to be dead’ instead of ‘still exist’. For ‘he has lived’, too, is said of a dead person, just as ‘he has gone’. Compare to this: ‘As long as we are, death is not; when we are not, death is there’, quoted from Lactantius III 17.37 Also relevant to this is Demosthenes, On the Crown: Ζώντων Ἀθηναίων καὶ ὄντων, that is, ‘as long as Athenians were surviving’.38 Of such people we normally say that ‘they are alive’. In nature, the dead ‘are’, too; and because there are more of them than there are of the living, the Greeks call them πλείονες, although that well-known sage39 said that those alive are in the majority, for the dead do not exist. They are not in this life, but they exist in nature; for if death ‘is’, the dead, too, ‘are’. But to return to the matter in question. If ‘to be not’ can also be said of the dead, how can it be supposed that Henoch is still alive? He is believed to be still alive, because he did not die. ‘He was taken away’, says the Apostle, ‘lest he saw death’.40 Someone who lives does not see death, but he who dies, sees it. It is noteworthy that the author varies his idiom not randomly, for whereas Scripture says of all other Patriarchs ‘he died’, here the variant expression is used: ‘and he was no more’. Did he not die, then, since Scripture does not use the verb ‘to die’ when speaking of his departure? In this vein, some say that the patriarch Jacob did not die, because it is said that he ‘expired’, and not 34. Cf. Drusius, Quaestiones ebraicae II 15. 35. Jer 31:15. 36. Plautus, Captivi 516. 37. Lactantius, Divinarum institutionum liber III 17:30. 38. De Corona 72. 39. The first of ten Indian gymnosophists to whom Alexander the Great submitted a series of riddles; Plutarchus, Vita Alexandri 64; Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis VI, iv, 38:2; for a variant of the story, with a slightly different answer of the first gymnosophist, see Ps.-Callisthenes, Historia Alexandri Magni III 6. I owe this piece of information to H.J.  J. 40. Heb 11:5.

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that he died.41 Similarly, Melchizedek was, according to the Apostle, ‘without father, mother or ancestry’,42 because his parents and ancestry are not mentioned in Scripture.43 So, you ask, did Henoch die? This is not my claim. Death is the separation of the soul from the body. I think it is improbable that his body was separated from his soul, especially because the Apostle says: ‘He was taken away lest he saw death’. Therefore, he did not die a normal death, but he may have died another kind of death. For that they die is also said of whoever changes for the worse, or whoever lays off his corruptible nature, or whoever dies in sinfulness. Such people are also said ‘to be not’, as in Esther 14:11, ‘do not hand over your sceptre to those who are not’, that is, to wicked people. For wicked people are considered dead, and so called. It is a poignant saying: ‘The wicked are dead while they live, and the righteous are alive when they are dead’—a Jewish proverb.44 On the change of Henoch and Elijah, which he designates as a transformation, see Jerome, Epistles 152 and 148, the one to Marcella.45 Someone also dies when he passes peacefully from this life. This is called εὐθανασία. Such a person dies, but may also be said not to die: he does not die insofar as he does not experience the pains of death. In this sense we read ‘Our father Jacob did not die,’ for he expired peacefully, ending his life without disease or pain.

41. Gen 49:33. 42. Heb 7:3. 43. Drusius resists the opinion that the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews would have thought that Melchizedek had no parents (cf. Commentarius to Gen 5:24: ‘That he was an angel fallen from heaven, as Origen used to believe, is as far from the truth as possible’). Of course he did; all that is said in Hebrews 7:3 is that Melchizedek’s parents are not mentioned in the Bible. Drusius contradicts, then, the argument that Jacob did not die because it is said in the Bible that he expired: cf. Commentarius to Gen. 5:24: ‘Who expires, dies; but not everybody who dies, expires. To expire is said of him who passes on in a peaceful and light manner, but who is nonetheless very dead. Who has ever averred that Jacob is still alive?’ 44. Cf. Drusius, Adagiorum ebraicorum decuriae aliquot, Decuria decima tertia, adagium 3 (ed. CS VIII); the twelfth and thirteenth decade of proverbs were provided to Drusius by Scaliger, who collected them from Maimonides’ Moreh Nebukim (‘collecta è libro Mosis Aegyptii, qui Moreh Nebuchim inscribitur’). 45. In modern editions: Epistula 59:3 ad Marcellam; cf. 119:3 ad Minervium.

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 11.    ‫ לקח‬      . Genesis 5:24 ‘for God took him’—so the Vulgate, and also Santes46 and others. However, I prefer with good reason ‘he took him away’, or ‘he snatched him off’, even if ‘to snatch off’ is more properly expressed by ‫טרף‬. In Latin, ‘to take’ [capio] and ‘to snatch off’ [rapio] differ in only one letter, so that they are often confused. Sometimes capio is used instead of rapio, as in Genesis 20:2; 12:2; 34:2, about the rape of women. In contrast, ‫ טרף‬is sometimes rendered by the verb ‘to take’ [capio], as we have proved at the relevant place. Virgil uses the word ‘to take away’ [abstulit] in the context of God removing a person from our company: ‘What God, Octavius, has taken you away from us?’47 In the same sense the verb ‘to snatch off’ is used for those who are extinguished by a sudden kind of death: ‘We shall weep both for you, who has been snatched off, and for Roman history’.48 ‘He transposed him’, that is, μετέθηκεν, whence μετετέθη, on which see below. Also found is ἀνελήφθη, ‘he was taken up’. The Holy Spirit used the verb ‫ לקח‬for the assumption of Elijah, 2 Kings 2:9; and for the death of the wife of Ezekiel, 24:16. The translation by Onkelos, ‘because the L caused him not to die’, is ambiguous: either it means that his soul was not separated from his body, which is properly speaking the definition of death; or it signifies that he peacefully left this life, and passed away without the discomfort that usually attends the process of dying—for such people, too, are said not to die. It is furthermore certain that it can be used of natural death, of the death in which sinners are, and certainly also of the death of pain

46. Santes (or: Xantes) Pagninus (1470–1541), maker of a bible translation in Latin that was adopted in many polyglots. 47. Virgil, Catalepton 11:1. 48. Virgil, Catalepton 11:5–6. The point Drusius wishes to make here, is more concisely and clearly made in Commentarius to Gen 5:24: ‘Tulit, that is, abstulit, snatched off before the just and mature age. I have often wondered what has moved the Jews (I shall not speak about the Christians now) to deduce from this verse that Henoch is still alive. Even if we concede that this is true, one cannot conclude it from these words, as they do. If “to be not” is said of someone who is dead, then “to snatch off ” or “to take away” is said of someone who has been seized by an untimely death. Whoever denies this, shows himself to be a novice in this literature’.

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and calamity, as in: ‘justice liberates from death’, that is, in Sirach’s interpretation, ἐκ πάσης κακώσεως.49 What I said about the death in which sinners are, is confirmed by the book of Wisdom, which I am inclined to believe to have been authored by Philo—not the Philo who lived under Gaius,50 but the older one, who lived in the second temple period and who wrote a book About the Soul, mentioned in the book Johasin. I hardly doubt that this Philo has interpreted the Apostle’s words, ‘lest he saw death’, as referring to the death of the sinners. For he says that Henoch was taken away, ‘lest evil altered his mind’, that is, lest he should by corrupted by the errors of his time. See what follows.  12.      ,    . The translation, or rather: paraphrase, by Onkelos is: ‘And he was not, because the L did not inflict death upon him’. Some quote this verse in such a way, that they seem to me to have read ‫איתוהי‬, ‘he was’, instead of ‫ליתוהי‬, ‘he was not’. The cause of this verse’s corruption must have been what follows: ‘the L did not inflict death upon him’.51 For if he did not pass away, then he still was. ‘To be’ is said of those who are among the living; conversely, ‘not to be’ is said of someone who has died. The more correct interpretation of ‘he was not’, is: he no longer existed in the company of people. As Jonathan interprets: ‘And behold, he was no longer with the inhabitants of the earth, because he had been carried off, and had ascended into heaven by force of the word that is before the L’; and the author of the Jerusalem Targum: ‘Behold, he was no more, because he had ascended into heaven by force of the word that went out from the L, and his name was Mettatron, the great scribe’. See Manahemus 35:2.52

49. Sir 29:12. 50. Philo of Alexandria. 51. S’s edition reads: ‘because God inflicted death on him’, that is, ‫ אמית‬instead of Drusius’ ‫ ;לאמית‬A. S, The Bible in Aramaic I, The Pentateuch according to Targum Onkelos (Leiden 1959); cf. M. A & B. G, Targum Onkelos to Genesis. A Critical Analysis with an English Translation of the Text (New York 1982) 49. 52. Menah.em Recanati, ‫( ביאור על התורה‬Venice 1523, 21545). Drusius’ page- and column-numbers agree with the 1545 edition. Menah.em explicitly quotes from ‫ספר‬ ‫ היכלות‬a passage now commonly known as 3 (Hebrew Apocalypse of) Henoch 4:1–3.

132

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What is this ‘word’? Might it be the ‘word’ to which the evangelist John refers in 1:1: ‘The word was with God and God was the word’? Not very likely. It is not for nothing that these two interpreters, on their own initiative, add ‫הא‬, ‘behold’. This adverb usually introduces something new and unexpected, which happens suddenly. The Septuagint: Καὶ οὐχ εὑρίσκετο, ὅτι μετέθηκεν αὐτὸν ὁ Θεός, ‘and he was not found, because God had transferred him’. Hence the Apostle in Heb 11:5: Πίστει Ἐνὼχ μετετέθη, τοῦ μὴ ἰδεῖν θάνατον· καὶ οὐχ εὑρίσκετο, διότι μετέθηκεν αὐτὸν ὁ Θεός, ‘Enoch was transferred for his faith, lest he saw death; and he was not found, because God had transferred him’. ‘Transferred’, that is, from this life into another; moreover, he had transferred him with both body and soul. Salomo Solem, in his additions to the book Johasin, fol. 134, p. 2, says: ‘God took him away with body and soul, according to the opinion of some.’53 The author of Wisdom about the same: Ζῶν μεταξὺ ἁμαρτωλῶν μετετέθη· ἡρπάγη, μὴ κακία ἀλλάξῃ σύνεσιν αὐτοῦ, ἢ δόλος ἀπατήσῃ ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ,54 ‘he was transferred while living among the sinners; he was taken away lest evil altered his mind, or cunning deceived his soul’. Let us compare these two testimonies with each other, for they seem to offer different views on the issue of being transferred or taken away. The Apostle says: ‘He was transferred, lest he saw death’; and the author of Wisdom says: ‘he was transferred lest evil altered his mind’. It is easy to reconcile them. For the Apostle’s verse is ambiguous. ‘To see death’ is a Hebrew expression for someone who dies. Someone dies, when he exchanges life for death, or when he is afflicted by calamity, or when he commits a fatal sin. Sinners are quite rightly called dead; in this sense we read ‘Let the dead bury their dead’.55 Therefore, ‘lest he saw death’ can be explained as equivalent to ‘lest evil altered his mind’, or, as the Vulgate has it: ‘his intellect’.56 If the Apostle has understood it in this way, I do not know. I am rather inclined to believe that he understood it differently, especially because there are some Jews who hold that he died an uncommon 53. Samuel Shullam was the sixteenth-century editor of Zacuto’s Sefer Yuh.asin (see above, ch. 5). 54. Wisd 4:11. 55. Luke 9:60 (cf. Matt 8:22). 56. Wisd 4:11.

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and extraordinary death, in the manner of other Patriarchs both before and after him. To confirm this, they refer to the unusual expression ‘and he was not’, whereas the common expression is ‘and he died’. It is implausible that Moses in this instance would use a random expression.  13.        :    . Many opine that Henoch is still alive in the body. He does not live, if he has died. We readily grant that he is not dead (in whatever way that is understood), on our Apostle’s authority, which we rate highly, just as we should. It seems that he has learned this fact either from tradition, or from the Spirit of God, by which he was guided. For the Spirit reveals its mysteries to whosoever it wills, as for instance this one about Henoch. Of those who believe him to be alive, some assert that he will at some moment die, others deny that. For if he has been transformed, he has taken on a different nature and an incorruptible body. But this is known to him who knows everything. Let us now turn to the views of the Jews. Rabbi Salomo on this verse:57 ‘Henoch was righteous, but also inconstant, so that he might easily fall back into an immoral life. Therefore God made haste to take him, and surrender him to death. It is for this reason that Scripture changes its idiom in speaking about his death: “and he was not”, namely, on this earth or in this world to fulfil his years. For God took him away before his time, as in “Behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes”.’58 The note in which Hiscuni59 comments upon this verse contains two opinions: one asserts that he is dead, the other that he is living, together with Elijah, and that the two of them will come to this earth in the time of salvation. Let the Jew Apella believe this.60 We Christians believe that Elijah has already come, having been taught by our 57. Rashi on Genesis 5:24. 58. Ezek 24:16, already quoted in Bereshit Rabbah 25:2. 59. Hizkuni is the usual designation of the commentary by Hezekiah ben Manoah, Hazzekuni. Hezekiah ben Manoah lived ca. 1240; he is often designated by the name of his commentary, which is incorporated in many rabbinic bibles. 60. A reference to Apella in Horace, Saturae I 5:100, whose name became synonymous with credulousness.

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teacher, who can neither deceive nor be mistaken.61 But it is worthwhile to listen to Hiscuni: ‘Because his life was short in comparison to others, it seemed afterwards that he had not existed at all. Therefore it says: “and he was not”, because God had taken him away. Onkelos translates “and he was”, because God did not let him die. Ὁ νοῦς,62 see, he still survives and is preserved, because God, praise be to him, did not inflict death upon him. But he will come, together with Elijah, in the time of redemption. For the rest, it should be noted that everywhere in the Talmud, ‫ אין‬and ‫ איני‬have a different meaning to ‫ איננו‬here. The Jerusalem targum has: “And behold, he was not, because he was carried off by the word that went out from the L”. According to this targum, then, ‫ לקח‬must be taken in the sense of death, as in the phrase “now take my soul”;63 and elsewhere: “God will deliver my soul from the hand of Saul, for he will take me”.’64 So far Hiscuni,65 who also states that Scripture uses this new kind of expression to honour Henoch, because he was just. This is further confirmed by Abenezra,66 when he writes: ‘“God took him away by death.” For this is certainly what the verb ‫לקח‬ means in the phrase: “now take my soul”;67 and in Ezek 24:16, “Behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes”. For after that he explains himself: “and his wife died”.68 In the case of Henoch being

61. See also Commentarius to Gen 5:24, with the following remarkable statement: ‘Certainly, John came in the spirit of Elijah, for which reason the prophet calls him Elijah. He was a kind of “other Elijah” [alter Elias]. Compare “And again another Achilles will be sent to Troy” [Atque iterum ad Trojam alter mittetur Achilles]’; the quotation is from Virgil, Eclogae 4:36. Modern editions all read magnus mittetur Achilles. 62. The Hebrew text of Hizkuni has '‫פי‬, which is an abbreviation for ‫פירוש‬, ‘explanation’; Drusius rendered this with the Greek word ὁ νοῦς, ‘the meaning is:…’, ‘the intention is…’, ‘the sense is…’. Drusius’ rendering ‘ecce ipse’ agrees with ‫והנה הוא‬, the reading in Hizkuni, ‫ פירוש על חמשה חומשי תורה‬in the edition of Cremona 1559, p. 10v. 63. E.g. 1 Kgs 19:4; Jon 4:3. 64. Ps 49:16; ‫ שאול‬is vocalized ‫ ְשׁאוֹל‬in the Masoretic text, but Hiscuni (and Ibn Ezra; see below) read ‘Saul’. 65. At this point, the Notae majores add: ‘The States General of the Netherlands have donated a copy of this work to me. May God repay them—as for me, what can I do? My goodness, to speak with David, cannot attain them’ (cf. Ps 16:2 in Hebrew). 66. Abraham ibn Ezra (ca. 1089–ca. 1164), present in all rabbinic Bibles. 67. Jon 4:3. 68. Ezek 24:18.

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taken away, no mention is made of death.69 The reason for this is given in the words of Asaph: “After the glory he has taken me”, or “taken me away”.70 And so in the Psalm of the sons of Korah: “God will deliver my soul from the hand of Saul, for he will take me, Sela”. An intelligent man will understand what I mean.’ R. David in his commentary on 2 Kings 2:1: ‘Our ordinary people, even our wise men, believe that Elijah has entered into paradise with his body, where he lives in ׁthe state that our first ancestors enjoyed before the fall. Likewise Henoch has entered into paradise. Therefore, the midrash says: “Four have entered into paradise, Adam, Eve, Henoch and Elijah”.’ This view has also been embraced by almost all Christians, which I regret. For where is that earthly paradise at present?71 If it is nowhere to be found, then Henoch and Elijah are not in it. But if you were to say that they are in heavenly paradise, which they call the paradise on high, I deny that our earliest ancestors were ever in it. R. Levi, the son of Gershom, seems to be of the same opinion, for he says: ‘After he had engendered Mathusalam Henoch walked in the ways of the L for three hundred years.’ That implies that at first he did not walk in the ways of the Lord, but in the ways of his time. Next, the phrase ‘God took him away’ means: he set his soul in the same garden, in agreement with the verse ‘after the glory you will take me’. It is for this reason that Moses does not mention Henoch’s death in his history, whereas he does mention the death of others who are mentioned alongside with him’.72 Let me conclude with a preposterous quotation from Akiba’s alphabet:73 ‘He took him up’, he says speaking about Henoch, ‘in a whirlwind, just like Elijah of blessed memory’. At least, if one applies gematria, the value of ‫ לקח אותו אלהים‬equals that of ‫ברוח סערה העלהו‬, ‘he made him ascend with a stormwind’.74

69. Notae majores, more accurately: ‘sickness or death’. 70. Ps 73:24. 71. In the time of Drusius, paradise was commonly assumed to have been destroyed by the Flood. 72. Levi ben Gershom (1288–1344), Commentarius in Pentateuchum (Venice 1547). 73. ‫( אתייות של רבי עקיבה‬Venice 1546), (Cracow 1579). 74. 2 Kgs 2:11.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

136  .

14.

   ‘ ’    -

Jerome in his Commentary on Galatians 1:6: ‘The word “to transfer” we read for the first time in Genesis, where “God transferred Henoch”.’ Indeed, in the Greek text it says μετέθηκεν. The Apostle and others use the same word. For instance Galatians 1: ‘to be transferred to another Gospel’, and 3 Kingdoms 21, where we read that Jezebel led her husband Ahab from the true cult of God to the veneration of idols.75 ‘The wise people of this world’, says Jerome, ‘also call those who switch from one opinion to another “people who had been transferred”. Among them was that well-known Dionysius, who at first was of the opinion that pain is no evil, but later on, when he was plagued by disaster and excruciating pain, affirmed that pain is the worst of all evils. As a result, he was called “the transferred one” by the philosophers, because he fell off from his former view, into its opposite’. So far Jerome, who also comments: ‘Who is transferred by God, cannot be found by his enemies, and whoever wishes to attack him by surprise, will not succeed. In my opinion this is the meaning of the phrase “and he was not found”’. The author of the epistle on virginity to Demetrias: ‘We read that the holy Henoch pleased God in such a degree, that he took him from among mortals; he took the one who was perfect in this world away from his habitation there’.76 The same elsewhere: ‘Henoch was taken up to heaven with his body’. How could he be taken up into heaven if it was closed? Or was it perhaps closed to others, but not to Henoch and Elijah? Some people make the distinction between heaven and paradise in this way that paradise would be the place for souls after this life, but heaven for the entire man after the resurrection. This is my opinion: heaven receives the entire man, with body and soul, but paradise only the soul. But be assured that the two notions are often confused. Jerome again, Epistle 61: ‘Henoch was transferred in the flesh; Elijah was carnally taken up into heaven. They are not yet dead, but already inhabitants of paradise; they also have limbs with which they have been taken up and transferred’.77 75. 1 Kgs 21:25 ( 20:25): ὡς μετέθηκεν αὐτὸν Ιεζαβελ ἡ γυνὴ αὐτοῦ. 76. Ps.-Jerome, Pelagii ad Demetriadem 5. 77. Jerome, Contra Ioannem Hierosolymitanum episcopum ad Pammachium 29.

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137

 15.            , ,     . Henoch can be said not to have died, in the first place, because he was transferred together with his body, and his soul was not separated from it, which is the definition of death: the separation of the soul from the body. In this sense the Apostle says: ‘He was transferred lest he saw death’. Next, he can be said not to have died because he was righteous. The righteous ones do not die, hence the Jewish proverb: ‘Even in death, the righteous ones are alive’. For they pass from this temporary life into another one that is eternal; on this, see our Saviour in John 11: ‘He who believes in me will never die’.78 In the third place, he can be said not to have died, or to have been taken up without dying, since Scripture does not use the word death in connection with his assumption. Thus people often say about the Patriarch Jacob: ‘Jacob has not died’. For there is not a single mention of his death wherever his passing away is mentioned. In the fourth place, those who are transformed do not, properly speaking, die. For in such a transformation, the soul is not separated from the body, but its mortal and corruptible nature is only transformed into an immortal and incorruptible one. Conversely, someone who has been transformed can be said to have died, in the first place because the transformation takes the place of death; hence that passage in 1 Corinthians 15: ‘We shall all sleep’— that is, die—‘but we shall not all be transformed’.79 Next, because the words of Moses are such that they can easily be understood as referring to death. For ‘to not be’ is said of someone who is not among the living; and someone who dies before his time, or is extinguished by a sudden death, is ‘snatched away’. Finally, there are some, such as most recent Jewish authors: Rabbi Solomon, Abenezra, and others, who believe that he was taken away by means of death. But as to the fact that the Apostle says, ‘lest he saw death’, this can be explained by the words found in the Wisdom of Solomon: ‘lest evil altered his mind’. God feared that he would be corrupted by the vices of this time; therefore he took him up from among them before his time. 78. John 11:26. 79. 1 Cor. 15:51. Modern critical editions reads: ‘We shall not all die, but we shall all be changed’.

138

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 16.     . Many people believe that, because everybody has to die once, Elijah and Henoch also will die at some time in the future. There are even those who think that it is Henoch and Elijah who are intended by the two witnesses mentioned in Revelation 11:3. Jerome, Epistle 148,80 to Marcella: ‘People say that according to the Revelation of John, Henoch and Elijah will die, to exclude that there be anybody who will not taste death’; and soon afterwards: ‘This is not the moment to discuss Henoch and Elijah, about whom the Apocalypse says that they are to come back and die in the future; either that entire writing should be understood in a spiritual sense, or if we follow the carnal sense, we have to acquisce in the fact that these are Jewish fables’. Above all one should know that Henoch and Elijah are not explicitly mentioned there; furthermore, that the verse is explained differently by others. For there are people who think that by those ‘witnesses’ both Testaments are indicated. So it is not certain what Jerome is asserting there. From a dubious and ambiguous verse, no conclusions may be drawn. Relevant to this is the opinion of great and famous men who maintain that Henoch and Elijah were transformed. If this is true, they have assumed an immortal and incorruptible nature. Therefore, they will never die. But let us leave these matters to be discussed by theologians. As to me: let the cobbler stick to his last. When I say theologians, I intend those who are theologians in the real sense, not just catechizers, who really know next to nothing about these matters. Yet they hold anything that is not in their catechism to be under suspicion of heresy.81  17.      .  ,     ,    . Solomon Solem in his additions to the book of Johasin, fol. 134, p. 2, has left the following in writing: ‘afterwards Henoch, who is called Adris’. In my opinion, this is nonsense. Should one perhaps read ‘Adlis’ or ‘Atlis’, that is ‘Atlas’? For some believe that that was Henoch. Euse80. Today Epistle 59. 81. No doubt a gibe at Lubbertus; cf. Drusius’ Letter to his Dutch Brethren, quoted by   W, Sibrandus Lubbertus, 322: ‘theologians [like Lubbertus] know hardly anything more than their catechism, they are strangers to the text itself and incompetent in languages’.

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139

bius, quoting the very ancient author Eupolemus: ‘The Greeks say that Atlas invented astrology, and that Atlas is the same as Henoch; and that Enoch’s son was Mathusalan, who learned everything through the angels, so that we, too, came to know it’.82 What is said briefly afterwards by the same author, confirms my conjecture: ‘Henoch began to compose books on astrology, and fought wars against the evil sons of Cain’. Here is Eusebius again, from the same Eupolemus: ‘When Abraham lived in Heliopolis with the Egyptian priests, he taught them many things. He introduced them to astrology and other sciences, saying that the Babylonians and he himself had discovered them. But he traced the invention of these matters back to Enoch, for it was he, not the Egyptians who had discovered astrology for the first time’.83  18.          . Here I should be saying something about the book of Henoch; called ‘the Book’ by some, that is, the Book of Henoch, and ‘the Law of Henoch’ by others.84 The book received its title from its author, about whom there exist two opinions. One is that held by the people who think that it was written by Henoch, the son of Jared; the other holds that the author was someone else, who had the same name as Jared’s son. There are also those who believe it is likely that this is oral, that is, unwritten tradition going back to Henoch, or transmitted in some book about Henoch. Be that as it may, the book is apocryphal, and it contains many fables, especially about the angels who had intercourse with the daughters of men, and about the giants. Therefore, one does not dare to attribute it to a righteous man. However, the Apostle Jude admits no doubt in this matter, because in quoting from it, he explicitly states that the author was the seventh since Adam. Therefore, he was none other than the son of Jared, the seventh since Adam. It is possible that the same fate befell this book as many other respectable authors: their works were interpolated, yea, falsified by worthless men. This happened, to mention just one example, four hundred years ago or more with regard to Joseph Gorionides, also called 82. Eusebius, Praeparatio evangelica IX 17:9. 83. Ibid., 17:8 84. The reference is to the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: T. Sim. 5:4; T. Levi 14:1; T. Napht. 4:1 (‘Scripture’); T. Zab. 3:4 (‘Law’). Drusius listed the Testaments’ references to Henoch in De quaesitis per epistolam 102; see  J, ‘Patriarchentestamente’, 15.

140

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

ben Abbengorion, whom the Jews identify with Flavius Josephus. Some ignorant vagabond has expanded his history considerably, if not corrupted.85 It is certain that the epistle of Jude was once rejected by some because of its reference to Henoch. Jerome attests to this in his catalogue of ecclesiastical writings with the following words: ‘Jude, the brother of James, has left a short epistle, one of the seven catholic epistles. And because it contains a testimony of the book of Henoch, which is apocryphal, it is rejected by many; nevertheless it deserves authority on account of its antiquity and its being used, and it is counted among the holy Scriptures’.86  19.                   . Those who reject the epistle of Jude87 because of its quotation of Henoch truly seem to ignore the fact that the apostle Paul quotes from the gentile poet Aratus, as well as from Simonides of Crete88 and Menander. Of Aratus is the verse ‘of whose kind we also are’;89 of Epimenides ‘Cretans always lie’90 and so on; and of Menander: ‘They corrupt the good manners’ &c., an iambic verse found in 1 Corinthians 15:33. If one may quote from profane authors, then why not also from the apocrypha, that are called sacred by a number of people, 85. The reference is to Joseph ben Gorion, or Ps.-Josephus Flavius, whose (medieval) work was published by Sebastian Münster, Iosephus Hebraicus diu desideratus, et nunc ex Constantinopolitano exemplari iuxta Hebraismum opera Sebastiani Munsteri uersus & annotationibus atque collationibus illustratus, Basel 1541; its authenticity was rejected by Scaliger, Elenchus Trihaeresii Nicolai Serarii, ejus in ipsum Scaligerum animadversiones confutatae; ejusdem dilirium, fanaticum & impudentissimum mendacium, quo Essenos monachos Christianos fuisse contendit, validissimis argumentis elusum, chapter 4 (ed. T); and doubted by Drusius, De tribus sectis Judaeorum libri quatuor I 8 (ed. T, p. 228): ‘He is not Josephus, but a more recent author. I do not think he is trustworthy at all, except where he speaks the truth, and then he is to be preferred to the Greek Josephus’. 86. Jerome, De viris illustribus 4. 87. From the title of this chapter it appears that Drusius has people from the ancient Church in mind. See De quaesitis per epistolam 101. 88. ‘Simonides of Crete’ is no doubt an error for Epimenides of Crete; see next phrase. Simonides was a lyric poet of Cos, and cannot be meant in this context. 89. Acts 17:28; cf. Drusius, Observationum liber V, cap. 1. 90. Titus 1:12.

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141

because they deal with sacred and divine matters, as they indeed do? For whereas there are some false things in them (for which reason the early church rejected them from the canon and did not admit them into the collection of divine books), yet there are also many true things, which may be fruitfully quoted by pious men, not so much in confirmation of the dogmas, but to serve as a moral lesson or as confirmation of history. Surely, Chrysostom taught in former days that the quotation ‘for he will be called a Nazarene’91 was taken from an apocryphal book, and yet Matthew was not therefore excluded from the canon, or repudiated by the church.92 Similarly, the Apostle knew the names of Pharaoh’s chief magi from the Talmud, as is commonly believed (it is more likely that he borrowed his knowledge from an apocryphal book called Jannes and Jambres, for the Talmud took it from there); yet he is not repudiated for that reason. They are Jannes and Mamres, which is spelled ‘Mambres’ by others, with an inserted letter, as in ‘Nembrod’ and similar cases.  .

20.

        

I said that Henoch was an apocryphal book. Tertullian and the Venerable Bede disagree. Tertullian’s judgment on this book is adopted in my Questions posed and answered in letters.93 Look it up, if you wish. Bede’s words are found in his writing on the epistle of Jude, where he asserts that, in the time of Judas, the book of Henoch was held by the people to be a true and canonical work.94 If that is true, then a number of canonical books have perished. Perhaps Bede can convince others of this, but certainly not me, since I know that the canon was established by Ezra and his companions, that is, by the men of the Great Synagogue. Three prophets, Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi were among them, and they consulted God in such matters.95 It follows that the canon was established by God, not by man. 91. Matt 2:23. 92. John Chrysostom, Commentarius in Sanctum Matthaeum evangelistam, Homilia IX. 93. De quaesitis per epistolam 102. 94. This is certainly not Bede’s view; see Beda Venerabilis, In epistolas septem catholicas, on Jude 14–15. Drusius confuses Bede’s opinion with that of Tertullian, De cultu feminarum I, 3:1–3. 95. Cf. Drusius, Observationum liber XVI, cap. 23.

142

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

This canon consists of 22, or if you prefer, of 24 books, and Henoch was never in it, nor could it have been in it, because there is much misinformation in it. Thus, there has long been discussion about Qohelet or Ecclesiastes; those who contended that it should be rejected, argued that there were blatant inconsistencies in it. But eventually the contrary view won, because the book begins and ends with words of the Law,96 as the advocates of its canonicity declare.97  21. ’    . The sound and correct opinion concerning this book of Augustine you will find in City of God XV 23 and XVIII 38, where one reads, among other things, the following: ‘Let us therefore leave aside the fables of those scriptures that are called apocryphal, because their obscure origin was not even clear to the fathers, whereas the authority of the truthful scriptures has been transmitted from the fathers until ourselves via the safest and best traceable tradition. In these apocrypha some truth can be found, but because they contain numerous forged elements, they have no canonical authority whatsoever’.98 He is speaking here of Henoch and similar books, which the Church has never accepted. In my opinion, it is wrong, therefore, to use this testimony against the accepted books—this is what the translators from the Palatinate have done.99 96 See Qoh 1:3 (cf. Gen 3:17–19), and 12:13. This theory in support of Qohelet’s canonicity is also mentioned as one of Drusius’ favourites by S. Amama in his preface to his Lectiones on Ecclesiastes. 97. According to Amama (see previous note), the source of this theory is Jerome, Commentarius in Ecclesiasten 12:12. 98. De civitate Dei XV 23; De civitate Dei XVIII 38, as quoted in De quaesitis per epistolam 102, reads: ‘What about Enoch, the seventh since Adam? Is it not said in the canonicle epistle of Jude that has prophesied? Their writings have no canonical authority, neither among the Jews nor among us, because of their very high age that caused them to be held under suspicion, for fear that forgeries would be passed off as authentic books’. 99. As H.J.  J informs me, Drusius’ criticism is levelled against Immanuel Tremellius and Franciscus Junius, who published a new Latin translation of the Old Testament in five volumes from 1575 to 1579, under the auspices of the Elector Palatine Frederic III (Frankfurt: Wechel, 1575–1579; 21579). The fifth volume contains Junius’ translation of the so-called deuterocanonical books, i.e, the books which Drusius designates as apocrypha accepted by the Church. Junius discusses these books very disparagingly, stressing inter alia their untrustworthiness. In this context Junius uses Augustine’s testimony from De civitate Dei XV 23, but wrongly so, as Drusius contends in the present. The Old Testament of Tremellius and Junius gained great

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143

‘Accepted’ I call those books that are now printed together with the canonical books. Augustine valued these so highly that he almost considered them canonical. They are not canonical, but still there is a great difference between them and the books referred to by Augustine: these latter the Church accepted, those former she rejected. Even so, not everything in them that is commonly regarded as falsehood, is really false. This we will show at the proper time and place, if God grants us life and good health.  22.         . Manahemus Ricinensis100 does not allow me to doubt that this book is in existence among the Jews still today. He quotes it several times, e.g. on fol. 30, cols 1 and 2: ‘Some of the later wise men of the Cabbala’, that is, of the Cabbalists, ‘have written that they have found this mystery, together with several other wonderful mysteries, in the book of Henoch the son of Jared, whom God has taken up. Furthermore, mention of this book is made by our teachers in the Zohar, and according to the words of this book one should know that the lower paradise was prepared on the day when the spirits of the righteous ones were made, so that they would have a place to stay and live in their own form.’101 See also fol. 133, col. 1. In the passage quoted, the ‘spirits of the righteous ones’ are the souls of those people, concerning whom the same Manahemus says, fol. 144, col. 2: ‘After his death, the righteous one enters the kingdom that is called the garden of Eden, or, paradise, where he delights in contemplating the face of the Godhead; and there are all souls, insofar as their deeds justify that, until the day of resurrection of the dead, and the day of judgment. Afterwards they will acquire life in the coming age, which is the final reward’.

fame among Protestants, particularly those of the Reformed Church. Consequently, Drusius had every reason to contest Junius’ views on the deuterocanonical writings. Junius had become professor of theology at Leiden in 1592. From 1597 he also taught Hebrew here, on the chair previously held by Drusius. Junius died in 1602. B. H, ‘Biblical Scholarship: Editions and Commentaries’, in S.L. G (ed.), The Cambridge History of the Bible. The West from the Reformation to the Present Day (Cambridge 1963) 38–93, esp. 72; C.C.  B & F.G.M. B, De Statenbijbel en zijn voorgangers (Haarlem/Brussel 1993) 205. 100. Menah.em Recanati. 101. A slightly different translation of this passage is given in Drusius, De quaesitis per epistolam 102.

144

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

As far as Tertullian is concerned, he refers to this book of Henoch in The Dress of Women, p. 516,102 and Women’s Attire, p. 506.103 He also offers a testimony of this book towards the end of Idolatry.104  23.    ;     . The apostle Jude writes that Henoch, the seventh after Adam, has prophesied some matters. We should not doubt Jude’s trustworthiness, especially since we regard his letter as canonical, following in this the Church’s judgment, from which one should not deviate lightly. But to get to my point, if he has prophesied, then he was a prophet, for a prophet is someone who predicts future things. This is the other meaning of the word. In this sense Daniel, David and others, too, were prophets, although they are not counted in the rank of the prophets. The reason is that they were prophets, not of the first degree, but of a second,105 or that they did not receive the prophetic office, like Isaiah, Ezekiel, and the others who are called prophets in the proper sense, according to which we divide the Old Testament into Law, Prophets and Holy Writings. If someone were to deny that Henoch was a prophet in this sense, he would, in my opinion, be right. He was nevertheless certainly a prophet, whose prediction on the future judgment is extant in that letter, as follows.  24.       . Ἰδοὺ ἦλθε Κύριος ἐν μυριάσιν ἁγίαις αὐτοῦ ποιῆσαι κρίσιν κατὰ πάντων, καὶ ἐξελέγξαι πάντας τοὺς ἀσεβεῖς αὐτῶν περὶ πάντων τῶν ἔργων τῆς ἀσεβείας αὐτῶν ὧν ἠσέβησαν, καὶ περὶ πάντων τῶν σκληρῶν ὧν ἐλάλησαν κατ’ αὐτοῦ ἁμαρτωλοὶ ἀσεβεῖς. ‘Behold, the L is coming with his ten thousand saints, to administer judgment on all, and to convict all the impious because of the impious deeds they have done, and because of all harsh words the impious sinners have spoken against him.’106 102. De cultu feminarum II 10:3. 103. De habitu muliebri = De cultu feminarum I 3:1–3. 104. De idololatria 15:6; further testimonies from Tertullian: De anima 50:5; De idololatria 4:2–3; De resurrectione mortuorum 53:9; Adversus Iudaeos 2:13; 4:6. 105. See for this distinction Drusius’ Preface to his Commentarius; and annotations to Judges 2:19; K, De nieuwtestamentische commentaren, 71 nn. 64 and 65. 106. Jude 14.

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145

 With his ten thousand saints] Formerly, the reading was: with his thousand saints.107 It is strange that this escaped Beza.108 One could also translate: with his holy myriads. Μυριὰς ἁγία, holy myriad is the same as ten thousand saints. For μυριάς means ten thousand, or ten times thousand, or a number of ten thousand. Literally translated, ἐν μυριάσιν is ‘in myriads’. This ἐν is equivalent to σύν, as in Henoch was taken away in body and soul, which means with body and soul. ¶ the L is coming] In Aramaic, this sounds like maranatha, the highest form of excommunication among the Jews, also called samatha, like ‫שמא אתא‬.109 ¶ against all] κατὰ πάντων is translated by ‘against all.’ One can also translate over all, as if κατά would here be the same as ‫ל‬ in the sacred language. For sometimes the translators use κατά to render that letter, as in Gen. 1 ‫למינהו‬, ‘according to its species,’ κατὰ γένος αὐτῶν.110 This is confirmed by what follows, τοὺς ἀσεβεῖς αὐτῶν, for this is to be taken together with πάντων. So he will administer judgment on all, and of these all, he will convict the impious. But it is not correct to say, in my opinion, that he will administer judgment on the pious. For these he will acquit, the others he will condemn. ¶ impious sinners] Rightly said, ἁμαρτωλοὶ ἀσεβεῖς, for there are also righteous sinners. This appears from the saying ‘A righteous one sins seven times a day, but stands up.’111 Both righteous and evil men sin. The righteous ones sin, but stand up, that is, return to the right road. The impious ones sin, but to death, that is, they will not recover. They are called ‘sinners’ in an absolute sense in Psalm 1:1 and everywhere else. Then the phrase ‘impious sinners’ is something of a pleonasm, for sinners are also impious. Both words explain each other.

107. This is Beza’s reading of Jude 14 (cum sanctis millibus suis); the Vulgate has in sanctis millibus suis. 108. Namely, that ‘thousand’ is not a correct reading of μυριάδες, ‘tens of thousands’. 109. This traditional misunderstanding of maranatha (‘Lord, come!’) is based on 1 Cor 16:22, where maranatha can be read as an equivalent of anathema which immediately precedes it. See Drusius’ more elaborate discussion in Ebraicae quaestiones I 9. 110. Gen 1:21. 111. Prov 24:16.

146

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 

ἐν μυριάσιν &c.] It is translated with his thousand saints.112 This should be corrected into: with his ten thousand saints, for μυριάς means ten thousand, and μυριὰς ἁγία ten thousand saints. This is a certain number used for an uncertain number. Also ἐν is equivalent to σύν, as in and he took him with body and soul, about Henoch. Furthermore, this book seems to have consisted of several parts. From the first the great Joseph Scaliger quotes a fragment, in his notes on the Greek text of the Eusebian codex, pp. 244 and 245,113 where he also proves on the basis of George Syncellus that the Apostles have quoted from apocryphal books. I shall not copy this passage, on the one hand because it is rather long, and on the other because I do not wish to plunder another man’s collections of materials.114  25.          . Some hesitation exists among scholars about this prophecy of Henoch, for not everybody agrees that it comes from a book. Some believe that it was a widely known saying, passed down by word of mouth. Others are of the opinion that it was mentioned in some book about Henoch, whence Jude took it. I agree with the former, although I do not dismiss the opinion of those who maintain that it was taken from a written book that is now lost, whether it was an apocryphal book, or another produced under Henoch’s name. That a number of books by Jewish prophets and wise men are lost—I used to have a controversy on this topic with someone whom I do not want to mention by name, because he is dead115—is evident in part from the names of books that are mentioned in Scripture, and which are today no longer extant, and in part from the authority of the ancient theologians, who affirm this unanimously, so that it is curious to see that there are men of such shamelessness that they dare deny this. They even threaten to write about these matters, but they had better renounce, if they have a mind and listen to me, unless they insist on becoming the world’s laughing stock. 112. 113. 114. 115.

This is Beza’s version. Thesaurus temporum (1606); see the introduction. Allusion to Horace, Saturae I 120. I have not been able to identify the opponent.

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147

 26.   ? There are quite a lot of books which perished and were lost, and I do not plan to review them all here. I shall only call to mind those that are cited in the Holy Writ. These are the following: The Book of the Wars of the L, which Moses cites in Num 21:14; The Book of the Right or Right Ones, that is, of the righteous ones, quoted in Joshua 10:13 and 2 Samuel 1:18.116 The book of the prophets Nathan, Gad, Semeia, Haddo, Ahia, Jehu the son of Ananus, etcetera. To these may be added books of Solomon besides those that are still extant. These are a history of herbs and trees, furthermore songs and parables. More than five thousand songs and three thousand parables are mentioned. See Origen, in his prologue to the Song of Songs, fol. 73, col. 1, where he also informs us that there are many quotations in the New Covenant or Testament from the apocryphal books. One should take note of this, if only with a view to those who used to repudiate the epistle of Jude because of its quotation from the book of Henoch. This is wrong, in my opinion. For it is possible that there are true things in the apocrypha. But something is true, no matter by whom it is said, and not to be rejected, especially by those who do not merely want to have a reputation for loving the truth, but really want to be lovers of the truth.  27.        . The Book of the Wars of the L was not a catalogue or a narrative, but a book from which Moses adduced testimony to prove that the Arnon was the border of Moab: Num 21:14.117 Abenezra comments: ‘It was a separate book, in which the wars of the L were described, and we are right in saying that it dated back to the days of Abraham. For many books are lost and can no longer be found among us, like the Words of Nathan and Iddo (or Addo) and the Chronicles of the kings of Israel, and the songs of Solomon and his proverbs’. Moses Gerundensis118 says: ‘on The Book of the Wars of the L: There were in those times many wise and intelligent men, who wrote books about great wars, and the authors of those books were called ‫מושלים‬, παροιμιάζοντες, because they brought forward in them proverbs, elo116. For Joshua (Jos) the Critici sacri edition reads Isaiah (Jes). 117. See Drusius’ annotations to Num 21:14. 118. Moshe ben Nah.man Gerondi, or Nah.manides, or Ramban (1194–ca. 1270)

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quent speeches and victories they greatly admired, and they attributed these wars to the L. For they truly are his’.  28.      .

‫ספר הישר‬, The Book of the Right One, that is the Right Ones. ‘The right ones’ means the righteous ones. Therefore it says in our Vulgate Book of the Righteous Ones. For ‘right’ is a metaphor for righteous; and εὐθύτης is ‘equity’, ‘justice’. Conversely, a wicked man is called crooked. Mention of it is made in Joshua 10:13 and 2 Samuel 1:18, where the Septuagint has βιβλίον εὐθοῦς, nominative case εὐθύς, that is, ‘right’. Nicolaus: ‘We do not have the Book of the Righteous Ones’.119 R. Levi: ‘I believe that it is a book of this name, which was lost at the deportation’. He means the deportation to Babylonia, during which many books were lost. R. David on 1 Kings 5:12: ‘Many books of the Israelites were lost during their exile’. Again R. Levi: ‘According to my opinion the book was known among them’. Other Jewish teachers, whom they call ‫רבותינו‬, ‘our masters’, differ on this. For they say it concerns the book of Genesis, which is the book of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, who are called ‫ישרים‬, that is, ‘right’ or ‘righteous ones’. See my Observations, please.120  29.      , ,   , . Nathan and Gad composed books about the history of David, mentioned in 1 Chronicles 29:29: ‘The words (or: acts) of David the king, both the earlier and the later ones, behold, they have been written in the words of Samuel the seer, and in the words of Nathan the prophet, and in the words of Gad the seer.’ Of these, only the book of Samuel still exists. He is called a seer because he was a prophet of the first degree.121 The other two have perished. Nicolaus: ‘We do not have these two books, nor the Jews, because they were not restored by Ezra’.122 119. Nicholas of Lyre in the Glossa ordinaria. 120. Observationum liber XIV, cap. 1, ‘Quot modis aliquis Justus dicatur’; see also annotations to Num 23:10. 121. On Drusius’ distinction between several degrees of prophets, see chap. 23 above. 122. Nicholas of Lyre in the Glossa ordinaria.

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149

The seer Gad and the prophet Nathan are also mentioned in 2 Chronicles 29:25. Achia or Ahia the Silonite wrote about the history of Solomon, as did also the prophet Nathan and Iddo, called ‫ יעדו‬in the Hebrew text, 2 Chronicles 9:29. On this verse Nicolaus: ‘The Jews do not have these books’. The prophet Semaias and the seer Addo described the history of Rehoboam according to 2 Chronicles 12:15. Addo (in Hebrew ‫ )עדו‬also wrote about the history of Abias, 2 Chronicles 13:22. A book by Jehu, the son of Hananus, is mentioned in 2 Chronicles 20:34.  30.    .  . 1 Kings 4:32 ‘He spoke three thousand proverbs, and five thousand songs’. 33 ‘And he spoke about trees, from the cedar tree in Lebanon unto the hyssop that springs out of the wall: he spoke also about the animals, birds, reptiles and fishes’. Why does he use the verb ‫דבר‬, ‘he spoke’, and not ‫כתב‬, ‘he wrote’? Is it perhaps because he spoke what others noted down and wrote in shorthand? The word is used in this way in Psalm 18:1 ‘when he spoke the words of this song to the L’, which in my opinion means ‘when he wrote’ or ‘sang’. The author of the Glossa ordinaria: ‘It is certain that today there are no more songs or disputations of Solomon’. See Lyra,123 but also David, nicknamed Camius.124 A book with words by Solomon is mentioned in 1 Kings 11:41. See Eucherius on this verse, please. 1 Kings 14:19 and 15:31 ‘in the Chronicles of the kings of Israel’; and 15:23 ‘of the kings of Judah’. The prophet Addo is mentioned in 2 Chronicles 12:15 and 13:22. And Books of Chronicles, that is Chronicles of Media and Persia in the history of Esther. If Gerundensis is to be believed, Solomon also wrote a medical book, which he calls ‫ספר רפואות‬, and another entitled T G W  S, which he claims to have seen translated into Aramaic. Its title was ‫חכמתא רבתא דשלמה‬.  31.        . Some are of the opinion that these books used to be in the Jewish canon. Therefore, it is said in the margin of the Glossa ordinaria at 2 Kings 1:28 ‘The disappearance of Old Testament books’; and Athanasius: ‘Lost books of the Holy Scripture’.125 He is talking about these 123. Nicholas of Lyre. 124. Qimh.i. 125. I have not been able to locate this phrase in the works of (Ps.-)Athanasius.

150

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

books. This may be true, if you take ‘books of Scripture’ or ‘of the Old Testament’ to mean those books that are quoted in Scripture or the Old Testament. If it is taken in another sense, I do not think it to be true. For never has a book fallen from the Jewish canon. This is suggested by the division of the canon into Law, Prophets and Holy Writings. The Law is called Homes, after the number of five books. For there are five books of the Law. Only these books were publicly read, until the time of Ezra the scribe. Then the canon was established by the men of the Great Synagogue. To the Law, they added the Prophets, which they called in particular micra,126 and the Holy Writings, to which they gave this name because they were written under divine inspiration. Before that time only the Law was read in public. The reading of the Prophets was instituted after the formation of the canon, when Antiochus Epiphanes, or rather Epimanes,127 forbade the use of the Law. 

126. Cf. Drusius, Ebraicae quaestiones I 44. 127. Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae II 23 and elsewhere, attributes this joke to Polybius; it is therefore at least as hoary as my dear colleague Albert   H, to whom I gladly present this contribution as a token of appreciation and friendship.

 Unusual Verbal Forms in the Book of Proverbs and

Semantic Disambiguation   I     for me to contribute something to a celebratory volume in honour of Albert van der Heide. We first met when I came to Leiden in May 2004 in order to give a trial lecture after having applied for the Chair of Hebrew and Aramaic. The Jubilar acted as a member of the selection committee at that time; in this function, he briefly introduced me to the audience, chaired the session and, during the subsequent interview, asked a number of very pertinent questions about my ideas for the future, provided I were appointed. Der Mai war mir gewogen, and Albert thus established right at the beginning a personal contact with our Department, which soon afterwards turned out to be a most stimulating environment. Fortunately, it still profits a great deal from his kind manners no less than from his learning. Perhaps the following observations will remind him of our initial chat about the spelling of his surname; this chat, to be sure, broke the ice before my talk and immediately made me feel comfortable. Later on, I discovered that there was more to the issue in question, since a certain interest also in peculiar cases of Tiberian Hebrew orthography, together with a sympathetic understanding of their reasons, at times emerges from his publications.1 The present rara Hebraica take a similar course by discussing some philological details in the Book of Proverbs, whose richness in linguistic subtlety might actually fall under the ‘enigmata’ announced in the prologue itself (Prov 1:6). 1. ‘I’     // (P 2:11  5:2) Contrary to morphological expectations, the /n/ in a few ‘imperfect’ forms of verbs Iae n (or ‫פ"ן‬, according to the traditional terminology) 1. So, for example, in his article ‘Rara Hebraica V: Een pluizig systeem met gemengde vormen’, Alef Beet 15/1 (2005) 50–54 (on Ps 7:6).

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

in Biblical Hebrew does not assimilate to the immediately following consonant.2 The Book of Proverbs provides two such variant forms of the verb ‫‘ נצר‬to protect’:

‫נְצֶר ָכּה‬ ְ ‫ ְתּבוּנָה ִת‬‫זִמּה ִתּ ְשׁמֹר ָע ֶלי‬ ָ ‫ְמ‬

Circumspection will watch over you,3 good sense will protect you. (Prov 2:11)

‫ יִנְ צֹרוּ‬‫ִל ְשׁמֹר ְמזִמּוֹת ְוַד ַעת ְשׂ ָפ ֶתי‬ to keep circumspection, and your lips shall protect knowledge. (Prov 5:2) In total, the Masoretic Text contains 13 Qal ‘imperfect’ forms from verbs Iae n where the etymological /n/ does not disappear in writing. They all occur in poetry and all have a thematic ‘imperfect’ vowel /o/ < */u/. Among these, the verb ‫‘ נצר‬to protect’ with eight instances4 is the most common one, while the other five roots only exhibit one attestation each.5 Such a distribution on its own does not allow farreaching conclusions, as it only reflects the general frequency of these verbs. This phenomenon has hitherto resisted genuine explanation. Traditional grammar usually describes it as an analogy with the regular verb conditioned by a particular intonation pattern, since most, though not all, of the examples occur in pause.6 Such a connection seems all the more likely, because a pausal environment tends to pre2. The assimilation of /n/ in such an environment is not restricted to Hebrew, but also occurs in many other Semitic languages: E. L, Semitic Languages. Outline of a Comparative Grammar (Leuven 22001) § 27.3a. Its preservation therefore strikes the reader with a background in Comparative Semitics even more. 3. With the preposition ‫ על‬instead of the usual direct object, the Aktionsart of the verb ‫ שׁמר‬seems to be explicitly durative and its transitivity lower (‘to watch over’ instead of ‘to protect’), cf. Prov 6:22 and 1 Sam 26:16 (plural subject) as opposed to ‫ אל‬in 26:15 (singular subject; cf. 2 Sam 11:16). See in general M. M, Untersuchungen zur verbalen Valenz im biblischen Hebräisch (Assen 2006) 99–100 on the variation between a direct object and a prepositional phrase with ‫ב‬. 4. Deut 33:9; Ps 61:8; 78:7; 105:45; 140:2.5; Prov 2:11; 5:2. 5. ‫נגשׂ‬: Isa 58:3; ‫נטר‬: Jer 3:5; ‫נקב‬: Job 40:24; ‫‘ נקף‬to revolve’: Isa 29:1, all occurring in rhetorically pointed expressions. Another example is ‫ נדף‬in Ps 68:3, but here scholars like M. L, Traité de grammaire hébraïque (Hildesheim 21972) § 973 with n. 1, and M. D, Psalms II (New York 1968) 135, prefer a different vocalisation leading to a Nif ‘al form. 6. See H. B and P. L, Historische Grammatik der hebräischen Sprache des Alten Testamentes (Halle/Saale 1922) §§ 15l and 52c.

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serve longer forms in other cases as well; one might refer, for instance, to the older ‘imperfect’ afformative /-ūn/ (< */-ūna/) instead of the usual /-ū/ (see below for further remarks on the so-called nun paragogicum). These forms could subsequently have been extended to context articulation, a fairly regular development in the history of Hebrew;7 it may result from imperfect learning of Hebrew due to increasing contact with Aramaic, as the latter language does not dispose of pausal forms. Hence, non-pausal attestations (which are few in number anyway) do not necessarily constitute a counter-argument to the idea that the difference between the usual and the unusual ‘imperfects’ of verbs Iae n, too, has something to do with prosodic reasons. Some decades ago, however, Otto Rössler referred to Prov 2:11 and 5:2 as well as to other passages in order to prove that Hebrew still displayed remainders of an Akkadian- or Ge ‘ez-like iparras/yaqattal conjugation, where an original vowel between the first and the second radical would have prevented the assimilation of a root-initial /n/.8 Rössler endeavoured to provide an elucidation on functional grounds within the framework of his own understanding of the Hebrew verbal system. Innovative though it was, this path turned out to be a dead end: since the resulting conclusion militates against everything which can now be considered an established fact given the historical background against which the Hebrew verbal system evolved, it would require much more unambiguous arguments in favour of it.9 Consequently, this interpretation has rightly been rejected by most scholars (excluding perhaps a few particularly faithful pupils of Rössler) and does not feature anymore in the ongoing discussion. The problem thus calls for another, less revisionist approach. In the light of preceding research, one can safely agree now that the ‘imperfect’ forms still containing an unassimilated /n/ constitute mere biforms to those lacking the etymological /n/ due to assimila7. Ibid., § 26m. 8. O. R, ‘Die Präfixkonjugation Qal der Verba Iae Nûn im Althebräischen und das Problem der sogenannten Tempora’, Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 74 (1962) 125–141, reprinted in: id., Gesammelte Schriften zur Semitohamitistik (Münster 2001) 453–469. 9. See H. G, Tempus, Aspekt und Modalität im Reichsaramäischen (Wiesbaden 2004) 310–326 on the Hebrew verbal system in its Semitic context; on Rössler in particular, cf. ibid., p. 29 with n. 109. R.M. K, ‘Wie lange dauert die Gegenwart? or The Future Revisited. The Verbal Formation yVqattVl in North-West Semitic’, Dutch Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Literatures 4/2 (2001) 129–174, especially 145–147, addresses the question within a broader Afroasiatic framework.

154

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

tion. There appears to be no functional difference on syntactic grounds. After Rössler’s unsuccessful attempt, subsequent efforts to uncover the principles which govern the use of either the one or the other usually proceed from this premise, and quite sensibly so. Ariel Bloch thus thought of dialectal variants and referred to allegedly similar phenomena in Arabic,10 whereas Aloysius Fitzgerald in his follow-up to Bloch’s article rather focused on style by suggesting that the /n/forms were used in poetic diction to achieve a ‘sound balance’ between /m/ and /n/.11 Both theories have certain drawbacks, though, since Bloch does not situate the individual attestations and their linguistic background within a broader dialect landscape of Hebrew, and Fitzgerald operates with a merely hypothetical stylistic principle that is otherwise difficult, if not impossible, to pinpoint. Further, the two scholars mentioned above also suppose, following Rössler but without any further argumentation, that the difference between forms with and without assimilation of /n/ in writing is morphological rather than purely orthographical. Such an assumption, however, ignores the important gap between spelling convention and actual pronunciation, a gap which must be taken seriously above all when dealing with learned scribal traditions like the ones leading to the Masoretic Text. If preserving the /n/ does not result from an imaginary dialectal biform, but from a well-attested Imperial Aramaic spelling practice (see below), this feature would seem to be merely orthographical, and solutions based on dialect diversity or poetic technique miss the mark. For these reasons, there appears to be sufficient room for yet another strategy, preferably concentrating at first on semantics and the literary context. A closer look at the meaning of the passages in question reveals in any case that the biforms of ‫ נצר‬with /n/ only appear when the verb implies either keeping God’s law (Deut 33:9; Ps 78:7; 105:45), a phraseology which has strongly influenced Prov 2:11 and 5:2, or indeed God’s protection of the pious one (Ps 61:8; 140:2.5). It never occurs when God is not directly involved, not even in passages like Isa 26:3 which are written in a comparable poetic style. Even though forms with and without /n/ turn up in very similar contexts (see Ps 10. A. B, ‘Zur Nachweisbarkeit einer hebräischen Entsprechung der akkadischen Verbform iparras’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 113 (1963) 41–50. 11. A. F, ‘A Note on G-stem ‫ ינצר‬Forms in the Old Testament’, Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 84 (1972) 90–92.

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24:21 as opposed to Ps 61:8), there might still be an underlying reason why this particular usage is sometimes marked, regardless of whether the same reason comes down to a question of spelling or of morphology: of the six verbal roots Iae n which have forms with unassimilated /n/, only ‫ נצר‬attests an ‘imperfect’ which in the consonantal text, when regularly spelled, could be confused with ‘imperfect’ of another root, in this case ‫‘ יצר‬to form’.12 Therefore the less usual biform might have been employed specifically for disambiguating purposes within a traditional theological context, that is, for making it clear beyond any possible doubt that the verbal root ‫ נצר‬is meant and not ‫יצר‬.13 Since the latter verb frequently refers to God as creator in theological discourse and is thus similarly ‘laden’,14 such a disambiguation would prove quite sensible. Cases like ‫ ואצרך‬in Isa 42:6 or 49:8, where something can be said in favour of either derivation, certainly indicate that the correct choice is not always evident on the basis of the context or the reader’s general knowledge, the two normal disambiguation strategies in semantics. It seems that Bloch was the first to mention en passant disambiguation as a possible motive for using the biform with /n/, and his 12. The ‘imperfect’ of ‫‘ קבב‬to curse’ is sufficiently distinct in meaning to avoid confusion with the one of ‫‘ נקב‬to pierce’ (Job 40:24). Furthermore, a root ‫ יקב‬Pi. ‘to hollow out’, which would cause a similar ambiguity, is attested only in post-Biblical Hebrew and may be a denominal derivation from ‫‘ ֶי ֶקב‬pit’ or ‘press’; note that, like many denominal verbs, it lacks a Qal, cf. E. J, Das hebräische Pi‘el. Syntaktischsemasiologische Untersuchungen einer Verbalform im Alten Testament (Zürich 1968) 264–274. ‫‘ גשׁשׁ‬to grope’, finally, is only attested in the D-stem (Isa 59:10, hapax), but the D-‘imperfect’ inflects like the one of a regular verb and thus differs from ‫‘ נגשׂ‬to exact, drive, press’ even in a purely consonantal text without any diacritical marks. 13. On ambiguity in language see J. L, Semantics (Cambridge 1977) 396– 409. A few cases of lexical disambiguation by means of morphological change in Semitic languages have been pointed out by H. B, ‘Einige Fälle absichtlicher Umgestaltung von Wörtern im Semitischen’, Islamica 2 (1926) 5–10 with additions on p. 323. Another example which is often considered an instance of disambiguation is the use of /l-/ instead of /y-/ as ‘imperfect’ preformative for ‫ היה‬in Biblical Aramaic (‫להוה‬, see F. R, A Grammar of Biblical Aramaic [Wiesbaden 72006] § 168) in order to avoid confusion with the Tetragram. For a similar reason, certain other forms supposedly do not exist at all (cf. S.E. F, ‘‫מדוע אין מוצאים מלך בהפסק‬ ?‫‘[ ’במסורת טבריה למקרא‬Why doesn’t melex appear as ma:lex in pause in Tiberian Hebrew’], Lešonenu 64 [2002] 207–219). 14. B. O, ‫יצר‬, in G.J. B and H. R (eds.), Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament III (Stuttgart 1982) 830–839, gives an overview and further bibliographical references.

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idea certainly merits further investigation. Here a study of the rhetorical function underlying Prov 2:11 becomes especially revealing, because in particular the surrounding verses suggest that the choice for the unusual variant ‫נְצֶר ָכּה‬ ְ ‫ ִת‬might be more than merely a coincidence. There can be no doubt that the theme of ‘protection’ features very prominently in the immediate vicinity of Prov 2:11, as words like ‫ ָמגֵן‬in 2:7, ‫ ִלנְ צֹר‬and ‫ י ְִשׁמֹר‬in 2:8 or ‫ ְל ַה ִצּ ְיל‬in 2:12 as well as in 2:16 clearly demonstrate. Against such a background, the disambiguating ְ ‫ ִת‬would then highlight the central key-word, just like form ‫נְצֶר ָכּה‬ typesetting something in italics in a modern printed edition. Moreover, precisely the variant with unassimilated /n/ recalls other verses of Scripture strongly concerned with the protecting force of Torahworship like Deut 33:9, Ps 78:7 or 105:45, thereby elucidating what kind of wisdom the author of Proverbs actually means. Lastly, the entire idea that wisdom protects the one who adheres to it serves as an embellishment of the fundamental statement made in 2:6 that it is only God who grants wisdom and insight.15 Those passages in the Book of Proverbs where the ‘imperfect’ of ‫ נצר‬occurs in its normal shape, by contrast (e.g., 3:1;16 4:6; 13:6),17 generally do not elaborate on the same theme to a comparable extent as in 2:11, so that the idea of protection becomes much less of a Leitmotiv there. Neither does this idea strike the reader as particularly prominent in Prov 5:2, where a form with /n/ does occur. The reason could be that Prov 5:2 was so closely modelled on 2:11 as to echo even its most striking linguistic peculiarity. Such a contextual explanation of the coexisting forms, whatever their origin in the end may be, receives further support from another possible instance of disam-

15. Cf. O. P, Sprüche Salomos (Neukirchen-Vluyn 1984) 25–26, A. M, Die Sprüche I (Zürich 1991) 38–39, and M.V. F, Proverbs 1–9 (New York 2000) 104–116, 131–134 on the intimate relationship between piety and wisdom instruction. C.H. T, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Proverbs (Edinburgh 1899) 34 and others thought that Prov 2:5–8 was an editorial insertion, but the perceptive remarks by F, Proverbs, 127–128, render the idea of a later religious expansion within this chapter rather improbable. 16. This verse is part of an exhortation and undoubtedly introduces a new thematic section, so it must not be brought too closely into contact with 2:11. For further remarks on the structure see P, Sprüche Salomos, 30–35, and F, Proverbs, 322–330. 17. Prov 20:28 seems to allude to Ps 61:8, even though the spelling of the respective verbal form differs.

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157

biguation by means of a non-assimilated biform in the same book; it will be treated in the following section. 2. ‘P’    (P 31:12) Prov 31:12, describing the behaviour of the ‘capable wife’ towards her husband, features another case where a rare unassimilated form turns up instead of the usual one with assimilation. Although different at face value, it may further illustrate the principle of disambiguation outlined in the preceding section and thus reinforce the explanation given there. Once more it cannot be determined precisely whether the underlying variation is a problem of spelling or of morphology, but again this does not affect the overall interpretation. Here the deviation from the standard concerns the third person feminine singular ‘perfect’ bearing a third person masculine singular suffix: 18

‫ְמי ַחיֶּיה‬ ֵ ‫ְגּ ָמ ַל ְתהוּ טוֹב ְולֹא ָרע כֹּל י‬

She does him good and not evil all the days of her life. This usage of the ‘perfect’ is often called ‘gnomic’; more precisely, the verb seems to express declarative modality by making a statement of fact.19 For the time being, however, the following remarks shall focus on its noticeable morphological shape rather than on its function: strangely enough, the /t/ of the old feminine ‘perfect’ ending, preserved in the bound form, does not assimilate the /h/ of the suffix,20 at least not in writing. In the only other occurrence of a third person feminine singular ‘perfect’ derived from the same verb, by contrast, the etymological /h/ has indeed undergone assimilation (if this is the correct explanation) in accordance with the normal albeit peculiar sound change */th/ > /tt/ in Hebrew:21 ‫ֲשׁר ְגּ ָמ ַלתּוּ‬ ֶ ‫‘ ַכּא‬when she had 18. This is the reading of the Codex Leningradensis, whereas the expected form would be ‫ֶיה‬ ָ ‫ ַחיּ‬. 19. G, Tempus, 275-276. 20. B and L, Historische Grammatik, §§ 15b, 48oʹ. 21. The object marker t- in the Hebrew Bar Kosiba letters presumably exhibits the same behaviour, since it derives in all likelihood from */’at-ha-/ (> */’atta-/ > */(t)ta-/ > /ta-/). Yet this kind of assimilation appears to be a characteristic feature of Hebrew and occurs at best very rarely in other Semitic languages: C. B, Grundriß der vergleichenden Grammatik der semitischen Sprachen I (Berlin 1908) § 56f, referring to S, only mentions a seemingly parallel case in Tunisian Arabic. However, H.-R. S, Grammatik der arabischen Mundart der Medina von Tunis (Berlin 1984) § 85, does not relate the gemination of the /t/ in the third person feminine singular ‘perfect’ ending in Maghreb Arabic to an alleged assimilation of a suffix

158

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

weaned him’ (1 Sam 1:24). Judging from the remaining attestations of third feminine singular ‘perfects’ with a third masculine or feminine singular suffix, it is fairly safe to classify the assimilated variant as normal at least for the consonantal text represented by the Masoretic tradition.22 Unfortunately, there is no epigraphic evidence for a suffixed third person feminine singular ‘perfect’ which would allow to trace back this change to pre-exilic Hebrew.23 Due to a supposedly similar case in 1 Sam 18:28 (‫יכל ַבּתֿ ָשׁאוּל‬ ַ ‫וּמ‬ ִ ‫ֲה ַב ְתהוּ‬ ֵ ‫‘ א‬and Michal, Saul’s daughter, loved him’), the absence of assimilation with the masculine suffix24 has been explained as an analogous biform based on the unsuffixed third feminine singular ‘perfect’.25 In addition, another non-assimilated form occurs in Isa 59:16 (‫‘ ְו ִצ ְד ָקתוֹ ִהיא ְס ָמ ָכ ְתהוּ‬and his justice supports him’). Upon further reflection, however, these two latter examples are not strictly comparable to Prov 31:12: the Septuagint translation to 1 Sam 18:28 (καὶ πᾶς Ισραηλ ἠγάπα αὐτόν) presumably reflects a different Vorlage, so that in /h-/, but rather thinks the /h/ dropped out because of weak pronunciation (as it did elsewhere) and thus caused the gemination of the preceding consonant in order to close the syllable, thereby protecting its vowel; cf. also his less detailed account in: W. F and O. J (eds.), Handbuch der arabischen Dialekte (Wiesbaden 1980) 261. If S’s theory proves true, one might of course ask whether ‘assimilation’ is indeed the right word to describe the development which took place in Hebrew. Nonetheless, it has to be borne in mind that geminating the /t/, indicated by the dageš in the Tiberian tradition, would not have been necessary in Hebrew before ca. 250 , because short unstressed vowels in open syllables were then still possible (K. B, Die aramäischen Texte vom Toten Meer I [Göttingen 1984] 128–136). 22. For other verbs, see Ru 3:6: ‫‘ ִצַוּ ָתּה‬she had commanded her’; 1 Sam 1:6: ‫ְו ִכ ֲע ַס ָתּה‬ ‘and she grieved her’; Isa 34:17: ‫‘ ִח ְלַּק ָתּה‬has attributed it’; Job 21:18: ‫ָבתּוּ‬ ַ ‫‘ ְגּנ‬has carried it away’; Jer 49:24: ‫ַתּה‬ ָ ‫ֲחז‬ ָ ‫‘ א‬has seized her’; Ez 14:15: ‫‘ ְו ִשׁ ְכּ ַל ָתּה‬and will spoil it’. 23. If such a spelling without the letter {h} were attested in epigraphic material predating the aspiration of /t/ ([t] > [th]) which took place ca. 250  in various Semitic languages (B, Aramäische Texte I, 125–126), it would point to full assimilation in the pronunciation; after /k/, /p/ and /t/ had become aspirated, {h} in writing could in theory be a mere reflex of the expiration of air which goes together with pronouncing the sound [th] and would thus be inconclusive as to whether the /h/ of the suffix was assimilated or not. K. B, Althebräische Grammatik (Göttingen 1969) 59, assumes that the suffixed form underwent assimilation already in pre-exilic times. 24. The feminine suffix always assimilates, as was already correctly noted by J. O, Lehrbuch der hebräischen Sprache (Braunschweig 1861) § 231b. 25. B and L, Historische Grammatik, § 15d. R. M, Hebräische Grammatik I (Berlin 31966) § 24.2b, refers to the same examples, yet without an explanation. The other verse mentioned, Deut 32:10, concerns an entirely different form and might thus not be strictly relevant to the phenomenon in question.

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the textual integrity of the Masoretic reading can be questioned with good reasons.26 Moreover, the verb ‫ ְס ָמ ָכ ְתהוּ‬in Isa 59:16 is in pause with the typical lengthening of the original /a/ to /ā/ in the feminine ending, while Prov 31:12 has the context form ‫ ; ְגּ ָמ ַל ְתהוּ‬longer forms, however, tend to be preserved in pause anyway (see the preceding section). If the Masoretic text of 1 Sam 18:28 is thus corrupt and the lack of assimilation in Isa 59:16 might at least theoretically be related to prosody, the unassimilated suffix in a non-pausal environment in Prov 31:12 lacks a clear parallel and calls for a more comprehensive explanation than positing just an unproblematic, albeit rare, biform. From a different point of view, the choice for ‫ ְגּ ָמ ַל ְתהוּ‬could indeed be related to semantic factors along similar lines as the ‘imperfect’ forms with /n/ in Prov 2:11 and 5:2. For if the verb ‫ גמל‬generally means either ‘to wean’ or ‘to deal out to, to do to’, the first meaning would be the most natural one with a woman as the grammatical or logical subject, following the general principle that the nature of an agent often determines the exact semantic value of a verb. This observation is in fact fully confirmed by all the other reliable attestations, that is, the infinitive ‫ אֹתוֹ‬‫ָמ ֵל‬ ְ ‫‘ ַעדֿגּ‬until you have weaned him’ in 1 Sam 1:23 and the consecutive ‘imperfect’ ‫‘ ַו ִתּ ְגמֹל‬and she weaned’ in Hos 1:8.27 Apart from Prov 31:12, ‫ גמל‬with a feminine subject is thus always used in the sense ‘to wean’, while with a masculine subject the same verb means ‘to do’, for example in Prov 3:30 ‫ ָר ָעה‬‫‘ ִאםֿלֹא ְג ָמ ְל‬if he has not done you any harm’. Therefore the non-standard spelling in Prov 31:12 could have been applied in order to highlight the unexpected meaning ‘to do’ with a feminine subject. Semantic disambiguation, then, provided the interpretation given here is correct, triggered the divergence from the usual grammatical or orthographical principle. In case the form with unassimilated /h/ proves to be an already existing variant originally confined to pause, 26. See the perspicuous remarks by S.R. D, Notes on the Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel (Oxford 21913) 155. 27. In 1 Kgs 11:20 (‫‘ ַו ִתּ ְג ְמ ֵלהוּ‬and she weaned him’), the text might be corrupt and has been corrected to ‫‘ ַו ְתּ ַג ְדּ ֵלהוּ‬and she raised him’ by various commentators according to the Septuagint’s καὶ ἐξέθρεψεν αὐτόν and the general context, cf., e.g., J.A. M and H.S. G, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings (Edinburgh 1951) 240. Nonetheless, A.B. E, Randglossen zur Hebräischen Bibel 7 (Leipzig 1914) 241, ad loc., thinks that the Greek verb could well be an adequate rendering of ‫גמל‬.

160

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

as Isa 59:16 might suggest, disambiguation would at least explain why it has been tranferred to a non-pausal environment. The fact that the very same principle of using a non-standard form in order to capture the reader’s attention, though realised differently, recurs in Prov 2:11, further supports this idea. So the generic assertion that non-assimilated forms of that kind are likely to occur in higher registers28 can yield a more precise analysis on the basis of individual cases; accordingly, they would rather appear as Aufmerksamkeitserreger. Conceivably, an analogous example illustrating a similar process can be found among those definite nouns prefixed by a preposition where the article, contrary to the grammatical rules, does not assimilate; again this affects the consonant /h/. Such spellings tend to occur mostly in later books29 and become reasonably frequent in Mishnaic Hebrew, without there being any observable semantic difference. The two attestations of ‫( ְכּ ַהיּוֹם‬1 Sam 9:13 and Neh 5:11), however, rather seem to mean ‘now, immediately’,30 as opposed to the somewhat more widespread ‫‘ ַכּיּוֹם‬in the first place’ (Gen 25:31,33; 1 Sam 2:16; 1 Kgs 22:5).31 Interestingly, no such differentiation can be posited for the formulaic expression ‫‘ ְכּ ַהיּוֹם ַהזֶּה‬on this very day’ (Gen 39:11; Deut 28. So P. J and T. M, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (Rome 1993) § 61h; likewise, with respect to /n/, B and L, Historische Grammatik, § 48s. 29. Cf. 2 Chr 10:7: ‫ ; ְל ָה ָעם ַהזֶּה‬25:10: ‫ ; ְל ַה ְגּדוּד‬Qoh 8:1: ‫( ְכּ ֶה ָח ָכם‬many scholars have suspected a textual corruption, but this does not seem necessary); Qoh 6:10 (Ketib): ‫ ; ֶשׁ ַה ְת ִקיף‬Qoh 10:3 (Ketib): ‫ ; ְכּ ֶשׁ ַה ָסּ ָכל‬Ps 36:6: ‫ ; ְבּ ַה ָשּׁ ַמיִם‬Ez 40:25: ‫ ; ְכּ ַה ֲחלֹּנוֹת‬47:22: ‫וּל ַה ֵגּ ִרים‬ ְ ; Neh 9:19: ‫ ; ְבּ ַה ֶדֶּר‬12:38: ‫חוֹמה‬ ָ ‫ ְל ַה‬. B and L, Historische Grammatik, §25x, consider these to be younger ‘Neubildungen’. Earlier examples are rare: 1 Sam 9:13: ‫ ; ְכּ ַהיּוֹם‬13:21: ‫וּל ַה ַקְּרֻדּ ִמּים‬ ְ . Especially on Qohelet see A. S, The Preacher Sought to Find Pleasing Words. A Study of the Language of Qohelet (Leuven, 1992) 35–36, 37, 43–44. Since some Punic inscriptions from North Africa exhibit a similar phenomenon (cf. J. F and W. R, Phönizisch-punische Grammatik [Rome 31999] § 119), non-assimilation of the article after prepositions has been described as a Northern Canaanite peculiarity. However, no direct evidence supports the idea of a common spelling tradition along these lines. 30. In 1 Sam 9:13, this is evident, while for the same word in Neh 5:11 many translators use ‘today’, although the notion of urgency underlying the latter passage makes such a rendering seem less apt. The German Einheitsübersetzung, by contrast, has ‘unverzüglich’, and the French Jerusalem Bible ‘sans délai’, both of which are much closer to the mark. 31. See J and M, Grammar, § 35e. The idea of a difference in meaning between ‫‘ ַכּיּוֹם‬d’abord’ and ‫‘ ְכּ ַהיּוֹם‬à l’instant’ seems to go back to Paul J himself, as it already features in the original edition of his Grammaire de l’hébreu biblique (Rome 1923) § 35e.

 

161

6:24; Ezr 9:7,15; Neh 9:10; Jer 44:22), which appears to carry the same meaning as the more common ‫ ַכּיּוֹם ַהזֶּה‬.32 One might thus posit another case where a variant spelling or even a true biform has been exploited for disambiguation purposes. 3. N    (P 1:28)    Amongst its orthographical and morphological treasures, the Book of Proverbs also contains several of the fairly rare forms with nun paragogicum and suffixes. Three striking examples occur in the same verse (Prov 1:28):33

‫ְשׁחֲֻרנְ נִ י ְולֹא י ְִמ ָצ ֻאנְ נִ י‬ ַ ‫אָז ִי ְקָר ֻאנְ נִ י ְולֹא ֶא ֱענֶה י‬ Then they will call me, but I will not answer; they will seek me, but they will not find me. Few grammarians would nowadays contest the assumption that the so-called nun paragogicum goes back to the original ending */-ūna/ of the ‘long imperfect’ in the 3rd and 2nd person masculine plural. The Classical Arabic ‘imperfect’ still features this old ending; thanks to evidence from cognate forms in Ugaritic and Amarna Canaanite, it can also be reconstructed with great confidence for the West Semitic predecessors of Hebrew in the second millennium .34 After the disappearance of the short, unstressed vowels at the end of a word around 1000 BC, the resulting /-ūn/ (< */-ūna/), preserved in Ara32. It is still wholly unclear why the ‫ ה‬of the article has been preserved rather often in ‫ ; ְכּ ַהיּוֹם ַהזֶּה‬possibly one might think of graphic symmetry or even suppose that ‫ ַהיּוֹם‬was felt as a lexical unity? 33. The analysis of these forms as ‘paragogic imperfects’ is uncontroversial, with some exceptions in older literature: H. E, Ausführliches Lehrbuch der Hebräischen Sprache des Alten Bundes (Göttingen 81870) § 250b, considers the /n/ as a kind of poetic epenthesis, which has been accepted by F. D, Salomonisches Spruchbuch (Leipzig 1873) 59; A.B. E, Randglossen zur Hebräischen Bibel 6 (Leipzig 1913) 15–16, has a rather cryptic note on this verse; he seems to relate the /n/ (which he, too, interprets as ‘eingeschaltet’) to an energic form with allegedly modal function. Lastly, J. H, The Function and Use of the Imperfect Forms with Nun Paragogicum in Classical Hebrew (Assen 1985) 124 with n. 391, omits Prov 1:28 in his analysis, since it could in theory be an ‘energic’ form instead of a ‘paragogic’ one; this is true with respect to the consonantal text, but in that case the Masoretic vocalisation would be hard to explain. 34. G, Tempus, 313.

162

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

maic and peripheral Canaanite dialects such as Amorite,35 developed further to /-ū/ in Hebrew, just as the 2nd person feminine singular /-īn/ (< */-īna/) became /-ī/. The ending /-ūn/, however, has been kept in a number of places in Biblical Hebrew. Originally, the /n/ might have been protected due to prosodic reasons,36 while the possible use of this longer variant in subordinate clauses or propositions which are somehow dependent on the discourse-level, as it has recently been suggested by W. Randall Garr,37 could have arisen from later reanalysis. Whereas the morphology of plain ‘paragogic’ forms, also used in Proverbs (for example ‫‘ לֹא יְשׁוּבוּן‬they will not return’ in 2:19), poses no major problems, their behaviour when taking suffixes in Tiberian Hebrew seems counter-intuitive: the few instances attested, all of them in poetry,38 for the most part lack a connecting vowel. ‘Nonparagogic’ verbal forms ending in a consonant, by contrast, normally do insert a short or long /a/ in the ‘perfect’ (‫ ַלנִ י‬ñ‫ ְק ָט‬, ‫נִ י‬‫ ) ְק ָט ָל‬and an /ę/ (‫ט ֶל ָה‬ ñ ְ ‫ ) ִי ְק‬or /e./ (‫ט ֵלהוּ‬ñ ְ ‫ ) ִי ְק‬in the ‘imperfect’ before the suffix, unless that suffix is ‫ ֶכם‬- or -.39 The expected connecting vowel for the ‘paragogic’ forms would naturally be /a/, resulting from the original ending */-ūna/. At least this is the usual case for suffixed ‘imperfects’ in Classical Arabic40 and might point to a common Central Semitic custom; unfortunately, evidence with overt vocalisation from Ugaritic, which could confirm or refute the historical reliability of Arabic in this re35. W.R. G, Dialect Geography of Syria-Palestine 1000–586 ... (Philadelphia 1985) 126–127. 36. See the remarks by S.A. K, ‘Paragogic nun in Biblical Hebrew: Hypercorrection as a Clue to Lost Scribal Practice’, in Z. Z, M. S and S. G (eds.), Solving Riddles and Untying Knots: Biblical, Epigraphic, and Semitic Studies in Honor of Jonas C. Greenfield (Winona Lake,  1995) 95–99. 37. Cf. W.R. G, ‘The Paragogic nun in Rhetorical Perspective’, in S.E. F and A. H (eds.), Biblical Hebrew in Its Northwest Semitic Setting: Typological and Historical Perspectives (Winona Lake,  2006) 65–74; nonetheless, this would appear to be a secondary usage, since it presupposes that /-ūn/ had changed from a normal plural ending into a variant form, a process which can still be explained the easiest way on phonetic grounds (cf. my review in Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 102 [2007]). 38. Apart from Prov 1:28 ter, one may refer to Ps 63:4; 91:12; Isa 60:7,10; Jer 5:22; 2:24; Hos 5:15; Job 19:2; only the latter two passages also have a first person singular suffix. Prov 5:22 is perhaps corrupt and therefore has to be left out. 39. J and M, Grammar, § 61d. 40. See C. B, Arabische Grammatik (Leipzig 141960) 59. Haplology has subsequently led to biforms.

 

163

spect, is lacking. The same /a/ would then have been protected by the suffix when the short, unstressed word-final vowels were dropped, and eventually carried the stress, just as in the suffixed ‘perfect’. Pre< sumably, in ‫וּתַד ְכּאוּ ַננִי‬ ְ ‘and you crush me’ (Job 19:2) the /a/ has been 41 preserved by stress. Of course such an original connecting vowel /a/ could later have been replaced by /e/, especially since a similar development took place with the ‘imperfect’ of regular verbs which, at least in Tiberian Hebrew, have mostly taken over the connecting vowel from the ‘imperfect’ of the verbs IIIae ī. At a first glance, a comparable replacement < seems to be attested by ‫ְשׁ ְרתוּ ֶנ‬ ָ ‫‘ י‬they will serve you’ (Isa 60:7,10); on a closer look, however, it is not entirely clear whether the /ę/ in this form has to be understood as a genuine connecting vowel linking the ‘paragogic’ ending with a suffix or merely as a kind of anaptyxis which, similar to the ‘segholate nouns’ (whose stress pattern is identical), breaks up a word-final consonant cluster. This is why Isa 60:7,10 can only be used with due caution for comparative purposes. For whatever reason, the stress moved to the /ū/ in all the remaining examples mentioned above, so that the vowel following the /n/ ended up in an open syllable. Subsequently, the respective vowel disappeared according to a sound-law which became operative in He /+suffix > brew after the middle of the third century ,42 i.e., */-ūnV /-ū n/+suffix.43 The Tiberian spelling ‫ –ֻנְ נִ י‬for /- ū nnī/, whose natural representation in writing would rather be *‫ –ֻנִּ י‬or *‫( – וּנִּי‬with dageš forte necessarium, as in ‫ָתנּוּ‬ ַ ‫‘ נ‬we gave’),44 in all likelihood results from the Masoretes’ decision not to alter the consonantal text once it has been fixed; consequently, the spelling with two nuns comes down to merely a graphic archaism and cannot serve as proof that schwa was a phonetic reality already at this stage of the language. Interestingly, the only remaining case of an ‘imperfect’ with a ‘paragogic nun’ and a first person singular suffix which also lacks a connecting vowel is ‫ְשׁחֲֻרנְנִי‬ ַ ‫‘ י‬they will see me’ (Hos 5:15), here refer41. Strangely enough, G. B, Hebräische Grammatik II (Leipzig 1929) § 5g.c, objects to the Masoretic vocalisation of Job 19:2, but does not give reasons. L, Traité, § 873, by contrast, views the /a/ in Job 19:2 as original (‘trace de l’a primitif ’). 42. B, Aramäische Texte I, 128-136. 43. So, too, the transcription by B and L, Historische Grammatik, § 48p. 44. M, Hebräische Grammatik I, § 14.2a.

164

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

ring to God. It seems to derive directly from Prov 1:28 or its source, where it refers to Wisdom. No doubt it would be a peculiar coincidence if such a rare form of the same, rather uncommon, verbal root occurred independently with identical marking for person, number, gender, stem, and suffix. The idea of a conscious borrowing, by contrast, ties in nicely with the fact that Hosea frequently uses the language and imagery of wisdom literature.45 Reading tradition would then have treated them alike, eventually leading to an identical vocalisation in the Tiberian text per analogiam. If this is true, then, contrary to the impression given by the grammars, the genuine use of ‘paragogic’ forms with first person singular suffix and reduction of the expected connecting vowel seems to be < restricted to the three examples in Prov 1:28. Only ‫וּת ַד ְכּאוּ ַננִ י‬ ְ (Job 19:2) would in that case meet the grammatical expectations. Note that one cannot postulate Aramaic influence here, since suffixed third masculine plural ‘imperfects’ in Aramaic consistently take connecting vowels (e.g., Imperial Aramaic ‫ ישאלונני‬/yeš ’alūnnanī/ ‘they ask me’).46 The underlying and, supposedly, internal reason which in the end led to the Hebrew forms under discussion, that is, the move of the stress on the preceding syllable, may in fact fulfil a literary or stylistic purpose, especially since it is Wisdom who acts as the speaker. Nonetheless, it should be borne in mind that this purpose does not seem to be related to disambiguation. Maybe forms like the ones treated in the present section ultimately also influenced the unique spelling ‫ְכ ְבּ ָדנְ נִ י‬ ַ ‫‘ י‬he honours me’ in Ps 50:23, which has up to now resisted explanation.47 Since this verb clearly must be analysed as a third masculine singular ‘imperfect’, the /n/ preceding the first person singular suffix cannot result from an older plural ending */-ūna/; hence, it has to be a nun energicum instead of a nun paragogicum. Like the Proto-Central Semitic plural in */-ūna/, the ‘energic’ form */yaqtul-an(na)/ of the ‘imperfect’ is amply attested in Classical Arabic as well as in second-millennium West Semitic.48 It has been preserved before suffixes in Hebrew no less than 45. C.L. S, ‘Hosea’, in ABD III, 291–297, here 293, lists numerous parallels between Hosea and Proverbs. 46. Cf. B, Aramäische Texte I, 478. 47. See the laconic remark in J and M, Grammar, § 61h. 48. Ugaritic also has some suffixed ‘energic’ forms written with a double grapheme {n}, but these may result from a reanalysis of the long ‘energicus’ plus a suffix (*/-an/ + /hV/ > /-annu/, then attached again to a verbal form ending in /-anna/), cf.

 

165

in Aramaic.49 However, comparative data from the other Semitic languages which possess this category furnishes no indication for a connecting vowel between the short ‘energic’ ending */-an/ and the suffix. So the etymological Tiefenform would be */yaqtulan-nī/, with its expected reflex in the Masoretic vocalisation being something like **‫ְכ ְבּ ֶדנִּי‬ ַ ‫( י‬with /ę/ < */a/),50 just as in a regular third person masculine singular D-stem ‘imperfect’ with a third person feminine singular suffix like ‫ְשׁ ְלּ ֶמנָּה‬ ַ ‫‘ י‬he shall make restitution for it’ in Lev 24:18. Thus it seems unclear why the form in Ps 50:23 spells /-nn-/ with two nuns. Within the Tiberian text, to be sure, this cannot be anything other than a purely orthographical device;51 it might result from analogy with the examples in Prov 1:28 after the difference between ‘paragogic’ and ‘energic’ /n/ was not correctly understood anymore. 4. L      P Even though the language of the Book of Proverbs has not yet been studied from a historical-comparative perspective, the orthographical peculiarities outlined above can contribute to determining the still obscure date of this composition. Scholars tend to agree that Proverbs 1–9, serving as an introduction to the following chapters, belongs to the last stratum of the transmitted text. On contextual grounds, this part is now generally assigned to the later Achaemenid period, i.e., to a date some time after the middle of the fifth century . Such conclusions up to now rest entirely on the attempt to identify reflections of very specific socio-historical conditions in the text. The underlying reasoning, however, is flawed for chiefly three reasons: first, nothing in Proverbs 1–9 seems peculiar to the Persian period;52 second, the alleged social situation is not necessarily true, given the fundamental disagreement even on core issues of life in Achaemenid Judaea; third, the literary setting of a text and its historical background are by no means identical. Any attempt to date the Book of Proverbs on the D. P, ‘Three Ugaritic Tablet Joins’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 43 (1984) 239–245, here 244–245 with n. 14. Consequently, they are irrelevant for comparative purposes. 49. G, Tempus, 313-315. 50. B and L, Historische Grammatik, § 48r. 51. As already B and L, Ibid., § 48s, rightly point out. O, Lehrbuch, § 97a, suspects a textual corruption. 52. Correctly pointed out by F, Proverbs, 48–49.

166

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

basis of its contents or literary form thus turns out to be totally unfounded.53 A linguistic analysis, by contrast, leads to somewhat more objective criteria for dating. It has been suggested above that Proverbs exhibits some variant forms which preserve an etymological /n/, even though it would normally assimilate, without any apparent difference in meaning. These forms are reminiscent of a characteristic feature of Imperial (i.e., Achaemenid) Aramaic scribal practice (achämenidisches Reichsaramäisch),54 where the consistent and regular preservation of /n/ in spelling, despite expected assimilation, must be considered a purely graphic device with no phonetic value.55 Interestingly, the same device also affects ‘imperfect’ forms of verbs Iae n, such as ‫ נצל‬or ‫נתן‬, which are attested in Achaemenid documentary texts no less than in Biblical Aramaic.56 Nothing comparable exists in Canaanite orthography as it is known today.57

53. R.N. W, The Book of Proverbs. A Survey of Modern Study (Leiden, 1995) 150–157 basically arrives at the same negative conclusion. 54. Also called ‘Official Aramaic’ by many scholars; the grossly misleading term ‘Egyptian Aramaic’, however, should be avoided. 55. A. S, ‘Zur Frage der Geminatendissimilation im Semitischen. Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis der Orthographie des Reichsaramäischen’, Indogermanische Forschungen 61 (1952–1954) 257–266, reprinted in: id., Philologica. Beiträge zur Arabistik und Semitistik (Wiesbaden 1998) 3–13. In a predecessor of Imperial Aramaic, however, the /n/ presumably was a phonetic reality which has then turned into a graphic convention: cf. B, Aramäische Texte, 89–95; see also A.H. M, ‘Die sogenannte Geminatendissimilation im Semitischen’, Hallesche Beiträge zur Orientwissenschaft 19 (1982) 13–39, who regards the /n/ as a compensation for the shortening of an originally long consonant (likewise B, Ibid., 91), and M.L. F, The Aramaic Language in the Achaemenid Period. A Study in Linguistic Variation (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 68; Leuven 1995) 74–94. None of the aforementioned scholars, however, refers to the Hebrew examples discussed in the present paper. 56. See the examples in B, Aramäische Texte, 640f, 642 (s.vv.). Biblical Aramaic also has similar forms of ‫נזק‬, cf. ibid., 635. 57. For the same reason, the spelling of /n/ bears much greater weight for situating a text in place and time than the monophthongisation of diphthongs and the full or defective spelling of the resulting long vowels /ō/ and /ē/ (see the critical remarks by J. B, ‘Hebrew Orthography and the Book of Job’, Journal of Semitic Studies 30 [1985] 1–33, on D.N. F’s attempt to assign a Northern origin to the Book of Job along these lines), which is in any case hard to locate within the history of Hebrew outside Samaria: the evidence does not yet allow to say with certainty when exactly the ‘Northern’ (i.e., Israelite) spelling with consistent monophthongisation became normal in the South (that is, Judaea).

 

167

It can be easily explained why Hebrew scribes in Palestine adopted this spelling convention: the linguistic prestige of the Persian chancery standard still had a forceful impact several centuries later in the Hellenistic and Roman Near East, when, even after Alexander’s conquest, local dialects of Aramaic turned into written languages whose orthography was heavily modelled on Imperial Aramaic conventions.58 Likewise, Aramaic in the Western part of the Empire was under the same influence, as the language of the theological texts from Qumran shows. For the same reason, the explanation of the unassimilated /n/ in the Hebrew Bible proposed in the present paper rests on actual comparative evidence and a well-known linguistic situation, whereas the hypothesis of dialectal biforms otherwise unknown would need considerable special pleading. It is thus orthography which most convincingly points to an Achaemenid or post-Achaemenid date of at least Proverbs 1–9, regardless of whether the spelling conventions under discussion were already part of the original written composition or not: the rise of Achaemenid Imperial Aramaic poses a clear terminus post quem for these forms as they occur in the Masoretic Text.59 5. C In the preceding remarks, it was suggested that the written rendering of an etymological and otherwise assimilating /n/ as a feature of Imperial Aramaic spelling practice influenced Prov 2:11. This practice has not been taken over at random, but creatively utilised for disambiguating and highlighting a central key-word from the root ‫ נצר‬in Prov 2:11. The same verse subsequently influenced Prov 5:2, where another instance recurs. By way of analogy, the use of a variant orthography with unassimilated /n/ could in theory have been extended to the unassimilated third person masculine singular suffix with a third person feminine singular ‘perfect’ in Prov 31:12. There it might serve again a disambiguating purpose through making clear that the verb ‫גמל‬, despite its feminine subject, does not mean ‘to weane’, but ‘to 58. See the survey in H. G, ‘Das Aramäische in den römischen Ostprovinzen: Sprachsituationen in Arabien, Syrien und Mesopotamien zur Kaiserzeit’, Bibliotheca Orientalis 63 (2006) 15–39. 59. Presumably no direct connection can be established between the examples mentioned above and the supposed Aramaism ‫( תֹּ ֵבא‬Prov 1:10), on which cf. B and L, Historische Grammatik, § 59g.

168

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

do’. The preservation of a nun paragogicum before a first person singular suffix in Prov 1:28 (ter), by contrast, appears to be purely historical: it has been left unchanged in the consonantal text after a connecting vowel between the two /n/-sounds, eventually merging into one long consonant, dropped out due to stress shift. If the conclusions reached so far are correct, the Book of Proverbs in its received form exhibits several cases where non-standard spelling appears to be subordinate to specific semantic and literary purposes. The unassimilated variants, once Aramaic spelling practice had made them available, could have been conceived as hypercorrect archaisms, which in turn would correspond to the exotic colour attained throughout by other linguistic means, such as the Phoenicianlike feminine singular ‫‘ ָח ְכמוֹת‬Wisdom’ (1:20; 9:1; 14:1)60 or codeswitching to Aramaic (31:2). Alternatively, these features could be classified as mere typographical devices, an idea which Albert van der Heide perhaps finds somewhat more attractive. Of course there is much more to be said about all this, but a comprehensive account would require preparatory work on a considerably larger scale. The question whether the growing tendency to use various non-assimilated forms in post-Biblical Hebrew (or indeed the creation of regular forms for previously irregular ones in general) can be in any way related to these individual cases, for example, presupposes a significantly clearer picture of linguistic diversity and dialectal variation in the earlier periods as well as of the individual traditions underlying the Tiberian system. Since a good deal of possible dialectal traits seems to have been exploited for certain literary effects, the gap between the actual linguistic map and its reflections in the Masoretic Text turns out to be quite huge.

60. Construed as feminine plural in 24:7, where it also could mean ‘wise words’ rather than ‘Wisdom’; Ps 49:4 is ambiguous, but there the parallel stichos has a feminine plural, and the meaning is in any case ‘wise things’. Cf. R. M, Hebräische Grammatik II (Berlin 31969) § 41.5c, for the interpretation as a Phoenicianism (an idea that ultimately seems to go back to W.F. A, ‘Some Canaanite-Phoenician Sources of Hebrew Wisdom’, in M. N [ed.], Wisdom in Israel and in the Ancient Near East. Presented to Professor Harold Henry Rowley [VTSup 3; Leiden 1955] 1–15, here 8). Other scholars have explained this form as a plural of majesty; see the references in F, Proverbs, 97.

 First Things First The Syntax of Gen 1:1–3 Revisited  . . 

T   the story of the creation of heaven and earth as described in the first chapter of Genesis has held a special fascination within the Jewish tradition. This is not surprising, since the theological views derived from the description of the cosmos provide a framework within which the faithful can determine their own place. As the history of Jewish exegesis has shown, however, theological ideas do not always originate in a specific understanding of the biblical text; it is often the other way around.1 Nevertheless, on the basis of the principle ‫אין מקרא יוצא מידי פשוטו‬ (b. Shabb. 63a), or at least on the basis of one of its interpretations,2 it seems wise to do first things first: before drawing all kinds of exegetical conclusions, we should closely examine the literal text, its precise wording and syntax. In what follows, therefore, I shall discuss various interpretations of the first verses of the creational account, Gen 1:1–3, paying special attention to the syntactical structures underlying them.  O the many qualities that Albert   H possesses, I particularly admire his feeling for small and seemingly insignificant details, as well as his schoolmasterly insistence on explaining them in such a way that his audience actually understands. The present study should be considered as an exercise in those qualities; it consists of a reworked version of two earlier Dutch essays of mine, which appeared previously as ‘Beginnen bij het begin. Over Genesis 1:1’, Alef Beet. Tijdschrift van de Vereniging tot bevordering van kennis van Hebreeuws 12/1 (2002) 13–26 and ‘Nogmaals over Genesis 1:1–3’, Alef Beet 13/2 (2003) 39–59. 1. See, for instance, A.   H, ‘Midrash and Exegesis: Distant Neighbours?’, Nordisk Judaistik 20 (1999) 7–18. 2. Cf. A.   H’s excellent study ‘P. Over de theorie van de viervoudige Schriftzin in de middeleeuwse joodse exegese’, Amsterdamse Cahiers voor Exegese en Bijbelse Theologie 3 (1982) 118–165, 170–171, esp. 121.

170

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

The hope is that this grammatical investigation will shed some light on the possibilities and impossibilities of the various interpretations and translations of the beginning of the Bible. 1. ‫ בראשית‬  ? A much-debated issue is the question whether the expression ‫בראשית‬ brēšī-t is in absolute state or in construct state. In the former case, the phrase could be rendered as the classical ‘In the beginning’, i.e. in the absolute beginning of time, before anything else happened. In the latter case the phrase in question should be translated as ‘in the beginning of …’. In his Commentary on the Torah Rashi (1040–1105) explains that in order to read ‘in the beginning’ the text should have had ‫ ָבּ ִראשׁוֹנָה‬bārīšōnā and that the word ‫ ראשית‬rēšī-t in the entire Hebrew Bible is exclusively attested in construct state.3 Thus we read, for example, in Prov 8:22 ‫‘ ראשית ַדּ ְרכּוֹ‬the beginning of his way’, in Jer 2:3 ‫‘ ראשית ְתּבוּאָתֹה‬the firstfruits of his harvest’ and in Jer 49:34 ‫בראשית‬ ‫‘ ַמ ְלכוּת צדקיה‬at the beginning of the reign of king Zedekiah’, where the word ‫ ראשית‬is always in construct state and, according to the rules of Biblical Hebrew syntax, is followed by a noun. The problem in Gen 1:1 is that the word ‫ ראשית‬seems to be in construct state with a verbal form and not, as in normal cases, with a noun. Is that possible in Biblical Hebrew? It certainly is. The word ‫ ראשית‬proves to be in construct state with an asyndetic nominalised clause. At first sight that may seem a rather daunting concept, but we shall soon see that the idea behind it is in fact quite simple. 2. N  In many languages nominalised clauses are an altogether common phenomenon.4 English has plenty of them, as may become clear from the following basic examples: 3. Torat H . ayyim. H . amishah H . umshei Torah (Jerusalem 1986) ad loc. For a modification of Rashi’s statement, see below, p. 187. 4. In the present study, a ‘clause’ is defined as a grammatical unit which contains a subject and a predicate and hence predication. Cf. R.L. T, Key Concepts in Language and Linguistics (London/New York 1999) s.v. ‘clause’, pp. 35–36; R.E. L, ‘Grammatical Units’ in: R.E. A (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics III (Oxford 1994) 1476–1481, esp. 1476–1479. A ‘sentence’ is defined as the largest purely grammatical unit in a language, cf. T, Key Concepts, s.v. ‘sentence’, pp. 273–274; L, ‘Grammatical Units’, 1479–1480. A ‘phrase’ is a grammatical unit smaller than a clause which does not contain predication, cf. T, Key Con-

 . .  (1a) (1b) (1c)

 I I I

 see see see

171

  {a book} {he is ill } {that he is ill}

Clause (1a) is a simple English sentence containing a subject (I), a verbal predicate (see) and a direct object, which consists of a simple noun phrase (a book). Now suppose that the object of the verb ‘to see’ is not a simple noun, but a clause as a whole; when I want to express that what I see is not something like a book, but for instance the fact that someone is ill, I may put the clause he is ill as a whole into the place—linguists speak of the ‘slot’—of the direct object (1b). Another, way of doing this is by explicitly marking the object clause as playing the role of a substantive noun by adding the conjunction that: that he is ill (1c). In linguistics this common process is called nominalisation or substantivation: making elements that are not a noun into a substantive noun. Sentence (1c) shows that in English such a nominalised clause as a whole may occupy the slot of the direct object. In such a case we speak of an object clause. It will not come as a surprise that a nominalised clause may also occupy the slot of the grammatical subject, in which case we speak of a subject clause. This is wat happens in the next example: (2a) (2b) (2c) (2d) (2e)

 {the book} *{he is on time} {that he is on time} *… it

 is good is good is good is good {that he is on time} is good {that he is on time}

In sentence (2a) the subject slot is filled by the noun phrase the book. Now we may place the clause he is on time as a whole in the same slot. This, however, turns out to be impossible in English (2b)— a fact that is indicated by the asterisk preceding the sentence—unless the clause is formally marked as being nominalised by means of the conjunction that (2c). cepts, s.v. ‘phrase’, pp. 237–238; P.H. M, Syntax (Cambridge 1981) 146–167. For a more elaborate explanation of the use of these terms, see M.F.J. B, The Non-Verbal Clause in Qumran Hebrew (diss. Leiden 2006) § 1.3.1, pp. 12–13.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

172

Because languages have a general tendency to keep their sentence structure as transparent as possible and because clauses like that he is on time in practice often contain the most ‘pivotal’ information—they contain what we really want to say—they are often well-placed at the end. This yields a sentence like (2d), which is not grammatical because the subject slot remains empty. Since that is impossible in English, we place a so-called dummy pronoun in the subject slot, which does not really carry any meaning at all; it just serves to make sure that the subject slot is filled (2e). 3. N   B H After having established what nominalised clauses are, we may now ask the question whether Biblical Hebrew, too, has such clauses. Any standard grammar of Biblical Hebrew will answer this question in the affirmative.5 Whereas clauses in English may be nominalised by means of the conjunction that, Hebrew usually achieves the same with ‫ ִכּי‬kī or ‫ֲשׁר‬ ֶ ‫’ א‬ăšεr. A clear example is found in Qoh 5:4 ‫אֿ ִתדֹּר‬ ‫ֲשׁר‬ ֶ ‫‘ טוֹב א‬It is better that you should not vow’, in which we discern a subject clause. Let us look at the structure of the English translation and that of the Hebrew original:   (3a) it is better {that you should not vow} (cf. 2e) (3b) {that you should not vow} is better (cf. 2c)

In sentence (3a) we see that the Hebrew utterance is rendered in English by using a dummy subject pronoun it. The ‘underlying’ structure of (3a) is obviously that of (3b). In Biblical Hebrew such dummy pronouns are not required; the utterance in the Hebrew original is identical to (3b), be it that in this type of non-verbal clauses the preferred word order is not –, as in English, but the other way around: (3c)

  t.ō-b {’ ăšεr lō t-iddōr} better is

that

(cf. 3b)

you should not vow

Just like English, Biblical Hebrew also has the phenomenon of object clauses with the feature that a nominalised clause as a whole 5. P. J & T. M, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (Subsidia Biblica 27; Roma 2006) § 157.

 . . 

173

stands in the position of the direct object. This is what we see, for instance, in 1 Sam 18:15 ‫ֲשׁרֿהוּא ַמ ְשׂ ִכּיל ְמאֹד‬ ֶ ‫‘ ַוַיּ ְרא ָשׁאוּל א‬and Saul saw that he had great success’. The structure of the sentence becomes clear in (4). The direct object consists of an entire clause, ‫‘ הוּא ַמ ְשׂ ִכּיל ְמאֹד‬he had great success’, which is nominalised by means of the conjunction ‫ֲשׁר‬ ֶ ‫א‬: (4)

  wayyar’ šā’ ūl and saw

Saul

  {’ ăšεr hū’ maśkīl m’ ōd- } that

(cf. 1c)

he had great success

We may now conclude that in Biblical Hebrew, too, the feature of nominalised clauses is common; such clauses are quite frequent in the Hebrew Bible. The next issue we shall have to address is that of the term asyndetic. 4. S   The grammatical term syndesis means nothing more than ‘connection’. It has to do with the question whether a specific sentence is connected to another one by means of a connecting word. When this is the case, we speak of syndesis or a syndetic clause. If such a connecting word is lacking, we speak of asyndeton or an asyndetic clause. A wonderful example of multiple asyndeton is Julius Caesar’s famous utterance veni, vidi, vici ‘I came, I saw, I conquered’; the syndetic variant would be veni et vidi et vici ‘I came and I saw and I conquered’. On the basis of the awkwardness of sentence (2b) *{he is on time} is good we may infer that English does not always tolerate asyndetic clauses; it is not possible to combine the subject clause he is on time with the main clause (it) is good without a conjunction.6 In other cases, however, English has no difficulty with asyndeton. An object clause, for instance, is quite often asyndetically connected to the main clause; alongside I know that he is ill (5a) we may also say I know he is ill (5b), which latter sentence is a case of asyndeton. (5a) (5b)

 I I

   know {that he is ill} know {∅ he is ill }

(cf. 1c) (cf. 1b)

6. Or one could say {his being on time} is good, which is another way of nominalising the clause he is on time.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

174

Note, however, that other languages are less tolerant than English. In Dutch, for instance, object clauses are ungrammatical if they are not connected by means of a conjunction. Instead of *ik weet {∅ hij ziek is} ‘I know he is ill’, one should say ik weet {dat hij ziek is}. Biblical Hebrew has no objections to asyndetic object clauses.7 An ִ ‫דּוּע ָר ִא‬ ַ ‫‘ ַמ‬why do I see example may be seen in Jer 46:5 ‫יתי ֵה ָמּה ַח ִתּים‬ that they are terrified?’ Its grammatical structure is as follows: (6)

 maddūa‘

   hēmmā h.attīm} rā’ īt-i {∅

why

I see

(cf. 5b)

(that) they are terrified

We see that in (5) the clause ‘they are terrified’ is connected with the main clause ‘why do I see’ without an explicit conjunction; therefore it is a case of asyndeton. The clause as a whole fills the slot of the direct object and hence should be considered nominalised; it ‘plays the role’ of a noun. In other words, Jer 46:5 is an example of an asyndetic nominalised clause: a clause that has been substantivised, i.e. ‘made into a noun’ without any overt marking by means of a conjunction. Since this particular point is crucial to our argument, we shall look at another example for clarity’s sake: Ps 49:11 ‫ֲכ ִמים יָמוּתוּ‬ ָ ‫ִכּי ִי ְר ֶאה ח‬ ‘For he sees that wise men die’. The syntactic structure of this verse is as follows: (7)

. kī

   h.ăk-āmīm yāmūt-ū} yir’ε {∅

for

he sees

(cf. 5b, 6)

(that) wise men die

Here, too, the direct object of the clause ‘for he sees’ consists of an entire clause, ‘wise men die’, which plays the role of a noun without being marked as nominalised by means of a conjunction: an asyndetic nominalised clause with the syntactical function of a direct object. 5. C       It is common knowledge that nouns in Biblical Hebrew may stand in construct state with another noun; in the expression ‫ ֵבּית ַה ֶמּ ֶל‬bē-t hammεlεk- ‘the house of the king’, the word ‘house’ is in construct state with ‘the king’.8 7. J & M, Grammar, § 157b. 8. Ibid., § 129a.

 . . 

175

Now we have seen that entire sentences, too, when nominalised, may play the grammatical role of nouns, we must ask ourselves whether nouns may also stand in construct state not with another noun, but with a nominalised clause. Such patterns are indeed attested in the Hebrew Bible. Let us closely compare the following phrases: Lev 4:29 ‫‘ ִבּ ְמקוֹם ָהעֹ ָלה‬in the place of the burnt offering’ and Lev 4:33 ‫ֲשׁר‬ ֶ ‫ִבּ ְמקוֹם א‬ ‫‘ י ְִשׁ ַחט ֶאתֿ ָהעֹ ָלה‬in the place where they kill the burnt offering’: (8a) (8b)

.  (..)  bimqōm {hā-‘ ōlā} in

the place of

bi-

mqōm

in

the place of

(Lev 4:29)

the burnt offering

{’ ăšεr yišh.at. ’ εt--hā-‘ ōlā} that

(Lev 4:33)

they kill the burnt offering

Example (8a) shows a completely normal use of this construction; the word ‘place’ is without doubt in construct state—the absolute state of the word has the form ‫ ָמקוֹם‬māqōm—with another noun, ‘the burnt offering’. In (8b), however, we see that the very same word, also in construct state, is construed not with another noun, but with an entire clause, which in turn is nominalised by means of the relative marker ‫ֲשׁר‬ ֶ ‫א‬. Thus we have in (8b) a case of a noun in construct state with a syndetic nominalised clause. The fact that this is rendered rather smoothly in English by ‘the place where they kill the burnt offering’ does not change the fact that the grammatical structure of the Hebrew phrase is actually that of (8b): ‘in the place of {that they kill the burnt offering}’. Now that we have encountered nouns in construct state with a syndetic nominalised clause, the next logical step is to check whether nouns may also stand in construct state with an asyndetic nominalised clause. The answer to that question emerges from a comparison of phrases such as Isa 33:20 ‫‘ ִק ְריַת מוֹ ֲעֵדנוּ‬the city of our festivals’ (9a) or Gen 3:14 ‫ְמי ַחיֶּי‬ ֵ ‫‘ ָכּלֿי‬all the days of your life’ (10a) with constructions such as Isa 29:1 ‫‘ ִק ְריַת ָחנָה ָד ִוד‬the city where David encamped’ (9b), Lev 13:46 ‫ֲשׁר ַה ֶנּגַע בּוֹ‬ ֶ ‫ְמי א‬ ֵ ‫‘ ָכּלֿי‬as long as the sore persists’ (10b) and 1 Sam 25:15 ‫ְמי ִה ְת ַה ַלּ ְכנוּ ִא ָתּם‬ ֵ ‫‘ ָכּלֿי‬all the time we went about with them’ (10c): (9a)

 (..)  qirya-t {mō‘ ăd-ēnū} the city of

our festivals

(Isa 33:20, cf. 8a)

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

176 (9b)

qirya-t

the city of

(10a) kol ymē all the days of

(10b) kol ymē all the days of

(10c) kol ymē all the days of

{∅ (that)

h.ānā d-āwīd-}

(Isa 29:1)

David encamped

{h.ayyεˉ k-ā}

(Gen 3:14, cf. 8a)

your life

{’ ăšεr

hannεga‘ bō}

that

the sore is in it

{∅ (that)

hit-hallak-nū ’ ittām}

(Lev 13:46, cf. 8b) (1 Sam 25:15)

we went about with them

The two expressions qirya-t ‘the city of …’ (9a,b) and ‫ְמי‬ ֵ ‫ י‬ymē ‘the days of …’ (10a,b,c) are unmistakably in construct state. In (9a) and (10a) the forms are regularly followed by a noun, whereas in (9b) and (10b,c) they are in construct state with an entire clause, which fills the same slot as the nouns in (9a) and (10a). The difference between (10b) and (10c) is that in (10b) the nominalised clause is syndetic since it is introduced by ‫’ אשר‬ăšεr. The clauses in (9b) and (10c) are also nominalised, and since this has been done without a conjunction, we are dealing with asyndetic nominalised clauses. Literally (9b) and (10c) should be rendered as ‘the city of {(that) David encamped’ and ‘all the days of {(that) we moved about with them}’ respectively. However, since that does not yield idiomatic English, the phrases are rendered more smoothly, even though the translation does not faithfully reflect the Hebrew construction. Although such cases of words in construct state with asyndetic nominalised clauses are not exceedingly frequent in Biblical Hebrew, they occur too often to be dismissed as ungrammatical or even exceptional.9 Only insufficient knowledge of Biblical Hebrew syntax might tempt us to discard such constructions as ‘erroneous’.10 Moreover, it should be borne in mind that the very same construction is attested in other Semitic languages, such as Akkadian, Neo-Aramaic, Ethiopic and Epigraphic South Arabian. Scholars have even devoted separate studies to such constructions in Semitic.11 9. Ibid, § 129p. 10. See also the end of § 6 below. 11. G. G, ‘Attribution in Semitic Languages’ (1995), in Id., Studies in Semitic Linguistics. Selected Writings (Jerusalem 1998) 46–65, esp. 56–57. The Hebrew syntax of E. K (Historisch-kritisches Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache III, Historisch-comparative Syntax der hebräischen Sprache [Leipzig 1897; repr. 1979] §§ 337 x-y) also mentions Epigraphic South Arabian. See also the useful remarks by F.W.M.

 . . 

177

6. B  G 1:1 The same construction as the one we encountered in (9b) and (10c) can be said to appear in Gen 1:1. It is interesting that our exegete Rashi understood this perfectly. We already saw12 that Rashi suggests construing ‫ ראשית‬in this verse as being in construct state, like everywhere else in the Bible.13 He argues that we should read the verse as if ‫ ראשית‬were followed by a noun. In doing so, he renders the meaning of the texts by two circumlocutions: . . . ‫‘ בראשית ְבּ ִריאַת‬in the beginning of the creation of …’ and .. . ‫‘ בראשית ְבּרוֹא‬in the beginning of creating …’ (a so-called infinitive construct). Contrary to what many modern interpreters claim, Rashi does not want to change the Tiberian vocalisation of the verb ‫ ָבָּרא‬into ‫ ְבּרֹא‬, just as he would not dare to change the consonantal text into ‫ ; ְבּ ִריאַת‬the medieval exegete simply explains that the verbal clause following ‫ ראשית‬should be construed as if it were a noun. In other words, Rashi is trying to say that ‫ ראשית‬is in construct state with an asyndetic nominalised verbal clause, but unfortunately he did not have the precise grammatical term for expressing that idea. Nevertheless, Rashi does show that he understands exactly what he is talking about, when he quotes another biblical verse to make his point; in Hos 1:2 we read ‫הוֹשׁ ַע‬ ֵ ‫‘ ְתּ ִח ַלּת ִדּ ֶבּרֿה׳ ְבּ‬when the L began to speak with Hosea’, which displays the same construction as we find in Gen 1:1, since here, too, a word seems to be in construct state with a verbal form (cf. 9b, 10c).14 ִ ‫ְבֵּר‬ In other words, the syntactic structure of Gen 1:1 ‫אשׁית ָבּ ָרא‬ ‫ ִהים ֵאת ַה ָשּׁ ַמיִם ְו ֵאת ָהאָ ֶרץ‬‫ ֱא‬can be explained as follows: .  (..)  (11a) brēšīt{malk-ūt- s.id-qiyyā } in

the beginning of

(Jer 49:34)

the reign of Zedekiah

P, Wesen und Ursprung des Status constructus im Hebräischen. Ein Beitrag zur Nominalflexion im Semitischen überhaupt (Weimar 1871) 71–83. 12. See § 1, above. 13. See above, n. 3. 14. E. J (‘Erwägungen zu Gen. 1,1 “Am Anfang”’, Zeitschrift für Althebraistik 2 [1989] 121–127, esp. 122 and Id., Die hebräischen Präpositionen I, Die Präposition Beth [Stuttgart 1992] 310–314) attaches much importance to the problem that the preposition b-, which we do find in Gen 1:1, is lacking in Hos 1:2. But this may be due to the fact that in his publications J is specifically focused on the use of the preposition b-.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

178 (11b) bin

rēšīt-

the beginning of

{∅ that

bārā ’ ε˘lōhīm …}

(Gen 1:1)

God created …

Just as Jer 49:34 can be translated as ‘in the beginning of {the reign of Zedekiah}’, we must initially render Gen. 1:1 as ‘In the beginning of {(that) God created the heavens and the earth}’. Since this clearly does not yield a correct English sentence, we cannot but paraphrase the meaning: ‘When God began to create the heavens and the earth …’. It is striking, to put it mildly, that many theologians or Biblical scholars even today do not seem to realise that the feature of a noun in construct state with a perfect verbal form is an entirely correct Biblical Hebrew syntactic construction.15 7. T G 1:1–3 In the light of the foregoing interpretation of the first verse in Genesis we must ask ourselves how the entire passage Gen 1:1–3 is to be construed. The rendering that in my opinion agrees best with our knowledge of Biblical Hebrew grammar is the following: 1

When God began to create the heavens and the earth—2the earth was (still) chaos, darkness was over the face of the abyss and a mighty wind 16 swept over the face of the waters—3God said: ‘Let there be light’; and there was light.17

If we translate verse 1 as ‘When God began to create …’ and hence take it as a temporal subordinate clause, the question is where the main clause begins. The rules of Biblical Hebrew syntax are such that if a clause begins with a temporal phrase or a temporal subordinate clause, the main clause often starts with a wayyiqtol form (a so-called

15. See, for instance, D.U. R, ‘Die Vorbedingungen für Gottes große “Auseinander-Schöpfung”. Eine vornehmlich syntaktische Untersuchung zum Prolog des priesterschriftlichen Schöpfungsberichts (Gen 1,1f)’, Biblische Zeitschrift 35 (1991) 247–256, esp. 248: ‘Ist b ere’šīt aber ein status constructus, so hat dies zur Folge, daß das nachfolgende Verbum br’, das im masoretischen Text als eine Verbalfom der 3. sg. masc.  [i.e. perfect, ] vorliegt (bārā’), zwangsläufig in einen Infinitiv constructus (b erō’) umpunktiert werden muß, …’. 16. Or: ‘the spirit of God’. For a recent summary of this question, see R. O, ‘The Earth of Genesis 1: Abiotic or Chaotic?’, Andrews University Seminary Studies 36 (1998) 259–276; 37 (1999) 39–53; 38 (2000) 59–67, esp. the third part. 17. See also E.A. S, Genesis. Translated with an Introduction and Notes (The Anchor Bible; Garden City,  1964) 3.

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179

narrative).18 Numerous examples may be adduced, e.g. Gen 22:4 ‫ַבּיּוֹם‬ ‫אַבָר ָהם ֶאתֿ ֵעינָיו‬ ְ ‫ִשּׂא‬ ָ ‫ישׁי ַויּ‬ ִ ‫‘ ַה ְשּׁ ִל‬On the third day Abraham looked up’; Jdg ְ ‫ י‬‫ֵל‬ ֶ ‫ֲלוֹתם ִמ ִמּ ְצ ָריִם ַויּ‬ ָ ‫‘ ִכּי ַבּע‬When they came up from 11:16 ‫ִשׂ ָר ֵאל ַבּ ִמּ ְד ָבּר‬ Egypt, the Israelites passed through the wilderness’. The most obvious answer, therefore, is that the main clause in Gen 1:1–3 starts with the wayyiqtol form in verse 3: ‘When God began to create …, God said: …’. This would imply that the first creative action described in Genesis 1 is the creation of light. The next question is what one must do with verse 2 that stands in between. In this case, too, there is a satisfactory answer; we have to do with a so-called ‘circumstantial clause’.19 Such clauses, which typically have the structure w- +  + , provide background information or indicate a concomitant (i.e. simultaneous) action. An example may be Esth 2:21 ‫ ָק ַצף ִבּ ְג ָתן‬‫ישׁב ְבּ ַשׁ ַער ַה ֶמּ ֶל‬ ֵ ‫וּמ ְרֳדּ ַכי‬ ָ ‫ָמים ָה ֵהם‬ ִ ‫ַבּיּ‬ . .. ‫‘ ָו ֶתרֶשׁ‬In those days, when Mordecai was in attendance at court, …, Bigthan and Teresh …’. Here we see that the sentence begins with a temporal phrase, followed by a circumstantial clause providing background information, after which the main clause begins. In order to emphasize the background character of the circumstantial clause, one may also put it between dashes: ‘In those days—Mordecai was in attendance at court—Bightan and Teresh …’. Circumstantial clauses may generally be of three types. If they contain (a) a non-verbal predicate or (b) a predicative participle, they denote concomitance or simultaneity. If they contain a perfect verbal form, they denote an action that was going on previously.20 In the latter case they describe a situation that existed before the moment of the main clause.21 An example of (a) is Gen 24:45 ‫ְו ִהנֵּה ִר ְב ָקה יֹ ֵצאת ְו ַכ ָדּהּ‬ ‫‘ ַעלֿ ִשׁ ְכ ָמהּ‬there was Rebecca coming out while her water jar was on her shoulder’. An example of (b) is Esth 2:21 quoted above. Examples of (c), a perfect verbal form as a description of what preceded, are 18. As explained in detail by J. B, An Adverbial Construction in Hebrew and Arabic. Sentence Adverbials in Frontal Position Separated from the Rest of the Sentence (Jerusalem 1977) 22–24. The same occurs often when the temporal phrase or clause is preceded by ‫ ַוי ְִהי‬. For an analysis of such constructions, see K. J, ‘“And it came to pass” again’, in L. K et al. (eds.), Memoriae Igor M. Diakonoff (Winona Lake,  2005) 291–329. 19. J & M, Grammar, § 159. 20. Z. Z, The Anterior Construction in Classical Hebrew (Atlanta,  1998) 15. 21. Such a clause may be called a ‘pre-perfect’. The term was coined by Z, Anterior Construction, 15–32, where this type of clauses is elaborately analysed.

180

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Gen 24:1 and Gen 2:25–3:1. In English such forms are best rendered by a pluperfect: Gen 24:1 ‫אַב ָר ָהם ַבּכֹּל‬ ְ ֿ‫ ֶאת‬‫ָמים ַוה׳ ֵבּ ַר‬ ִ ‫אַב ָר ָהם ָז ֵקן ָבּא ַבּיּ‬ ְ ‫ְו‬ ‘Now Abraham was old, well advanced in years; and the L had blessed Abraham in all things’; Gen 2:25–3:1 ‘Now they were both naked, the man and his wife, but they had no feeling of shame towards one another. Now the snake was (i.e. had always been) more cunning (‫ ְו ַה ָנּ ָחשׁ ָהיָה ָערוּם‬, pf.) than any wild creature’. The use of the perfect form makes clear that the snake had been the most cunning animal even before Adam and Eve existed (and that it remained so22). The circumstantial clause type (c) is exactly what we have in the intervening clause in Gen 1:2 ‫ְתה תהו ובהו‬ ָ ‫והארץ ָהי‬. The word order is typical of the circumstantial clause, w- +  + , while the verbal form is perfect. This indicates, according to the rules, that before the moment the main clause begins (‘God said: “Let there be light”’) the earth was still (or: had been) chaos.23 It may be noted that if we read the beginning of Genesis in this way, we see that the situation described is strikingly parallel to ancient Near Eastern conceptions of primeval times. Before the gods actually start creating the world, the earth is a sort of primeval chaos, consisting of unformed matter. Interpreted in this way, the passage in Gen 1:1–3 is structurally identical to the beginning of the old Mesopotamian creational account, Enūma Elish: ‘When on high no name was given to heaven, … (then) were the gods formed within them.’24 22. I shall not discuss the distinction that Z makes between ‘pluperfect’ and ‘pre-perfect’. In any case, this refutes the objections against a parenthetical interpretation of verse 2 as presented by W. G, ‘Syntaktische Erscheinungen am Anfang Althebräischer Erzählungen: Hintergrund und Vordergrund’, in J.A. E (ed.), Congress Volume Vienna 1980 (Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 32; Leiden 1981) 131–145, esp. 143. See also N. W-N, ‘“In the Beginning” of Biblical Hebrew Discourse. Genesis 1:1 and the Fronted Time Expression’ in: S.J.J. H & W.R. M (red.), Language in Context. Essays for Robert A. Longacre (s.l. [Dallas, ] 1992) 67–80, esp. 71–73. 23. Z points out that Gen 1:1–2a cannot be an anterior construction if one reads ‫ ְבּרֹא‬instead of ‫( ָבּ ָרא‬and hence takes ‫ בראשית‬as construct state; Anterior Construction, 27), since one of the prerequisites for the anterior construction is precisely the occurrence of a perfect verbal form. Unfortunately, Z does not seem to realise that taking ‫ בראשית‬as a construct does not require changing the perfect verbal form (see above, end of § 6). Had he taken that into account, he would certainly not have raised any objection to taking Gen 1:1 as an anterior construction. 24. Cf. B.R. F, ‘Epic of Creation (1.111) (Enūma Elish)’, in W.W. H & K. L Y (eds.), The Context of Scripture I, Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World (Leiden/Boston 2003) 390–402, esp. 391.

 . . 

181

Apart from the fact that the text in Genesis, unlike its Mesopotamian counterpart, is clearly monotheistic, there are obvious parallels both as to content and style. The story begins with a temporal subordinate clause, followed by a description of several circumstances depicting the situation, after which the main clause begins. In both creational accounts there seems to be some sort of primeval ocean, Ti’amat or Tehom,25 and there is clearly a lot of water.26 It stands to reason to assume that in Gen 1:1–3 we are dealing with exactly the kind of creational story that we find elsewhere in the ancient Near East.27 8. C  ? Armed with grammatical knowledge we might now be in a position to say that God’s ‘creating the heavens and the earth’ consists of bringing order into an unformed chaos, which was there already, and that the first creational act consists of creating light. That is what is actually described in Gen 1:1–3. But what about this unformed lump of earth, which apparently was there already when God ‘began to create the heavens and the earth’? Was it created by God? The answer to that question is surprisingly simple: we do not know, since nothing is said about that in the first chapter of the Book Genesis. That may come as a true surprise: Genesis 1 does not explain who created the earth28 that was still chaos. While it may be true that this view of creation never became problematic in many Near Eastern myths, the idea that there was an unformed chaos before God began creating does not sit well within a 25. L. K & W. B, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (5 vols.; rev. ed. by M.E.J. R; Leiden 1994–2000) IV, s.v. ‫ ְתּהוֹם‬, pp. 1690a–1691b. 26. See also S, Genesis, 8–13. 27. In this context it is interesting to note what conceptual difficulties the translator of the Septuagint had with Gen 1:2, see J. D, ‘Imaging Creation: The Septuagint Translation of Genesis 1:2’, Heythrop Journal 36 (1995) 439–450. M.G. B (‘Motives and Intentions in Genesis 1’, Journal of Theological Studies 42 [1992] 1–16, esp. 3) ascribes these difficulties even to the biblical authors, who ‘were often handling material which was an opaque residue of previous ages’. 28. N. W, ‘The Darkness of Genesis i 2’, Vetus Testamentum 43 (1993) 543– 554 argues that ‘earth’ in Gen 1:2 has the connotation of being the place where there is no distinction yet between the habitable world and the netherworld. For an Egyptian context of verse 2 see M. G, ‘Zur Struktur von Gen 1,2’, Biblische Notizen 62 (1992) 11–15.

182

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

(mono)theist world view where God is the source of all being. In Hellenistic times the idea arose that such an uncreated chaos cannot have existed and that the unique Godhead must have created the universe out of nothing (creatio ex nihilo). The first time this idea is attested is in 2 Maccabees.29 This may be the reason that many preferred reading ‫בראשית ברא‬ . . . ‫ אלהים‬absolutely, as is done in the Septuagint, Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὸς τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γῆν ‘In the beginning God created …’, even though there are no grammatical objections to the alternative. These objections are of a theological nature; apparently the idea that the Almighty God did not create the earth from nothing was simply inconceivable and had to be avoided at all costs.30 An instructive example of philological efforts to arrive at a reading of Gen 1:1 that agrees with a particular theological idea of creation is offered by Rabbi Saadya Gaon.31 Strangely enough, many interpreters seem to have overlooked that taking ‫ בראשית‬as a construct phrase and Gen 1:1 as a subordinate temporal clause does not necessarily preclude the idea of creatio ex nihilo. Rashi, for instance, who clearly advocates the interpretation of Gen 1:1 as a subordinate clause, simply assumes that Scripture does not tell the story of creation in chronological order. Although he did not pronounce explicitly on the question of who must have created the unformed earth, it is probable that he would have pointed at God himself. Even though this is not told in the creational account, the traditional view, as found in Genesis Rabba 1:9 for instance, is that it was God who created the chaos, the abyss, the waters and the darkness which appear in verse 2.

29. Cf. 2 Macc 7:28 ὅτι οὐκ ἐξ ὄντων ἐποίησεν αὐτὰ ὁ θεός, καὶ τὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων γένος οὕτω γίνεται. Note also, for instance, that in the creational account in the Book of Jubilees the primordial chaos is conspicously absent, see J.C. VK, ‘Genesis 1 in Jubilees 2’, Dead Sea Discoveries 1 (1994) 300–321, esp. 306. 30 G. A (‘The Interpretation of Genesis 1:1 in the Targums’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 52 [1990] 21–29, esp. 22 and n. 4) dismisses the connection with the idea of creatio ex nihilo and suggests ‘a more banal grammatical explanation’, viz. that the asyndetic nominalised clause was not used in postbiblical Hebrew and hence was no longer understood as such. 31. See R.C. S, ‘Philology as the Handmaiden of Philosophy in R. Saadia Gaon’s Interpretation of Gen. 1:1’, Israel Oriental Studies 19 (1999) 379–384.

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183

9. A   G 1:1–3 It is obvious that the interpretation of Gen 1:1–3 defended in the foregoing is not the only view. Other possible explanations are all concerned with two basic questions that need to be answered with regard to the first biblical verse. First, is the word ‫ ראשית‬in absolute state and should one translate In the beginning … (option A) or is it in construct state and should one read the verse as In the beginning of … (option B)? Secondly, should Gen 1:1 be construed as an independent clause, God created the heavens and the earth (option 1) or as a subordinate clause, When God created the heavens and the earth, … (option 2)? The combination of these two factors yields four theoretical possibilities, which can be represented as follows: 1. Gen 1:1 as main clause 2. Gen 1:1 as subordinate clause A. ‫ ראשית‬as abs. In the beginning God state: ‘in the created the heavens and beginning’ the earth.

When in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, … or: In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, …

B. ‫ ראשית‬as cstr. state: ‘in the beginning of …’

In the beginning of {(that) God created the heavens and the earth}, … > When God began to create the heavens and the earth, …

In the beginning of … God created the heavens and the earth.

The view I advocated in the foregoing is B2. Option A1 is the ‘traditional’ one known from the Septuagint and the King James Version (In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth). I shall come back to this traditional view in § 9.3 below. First we shall discuss options B1 and A2 respectively. 9.1 A refutation of option B1 According to this view, the phrase ‫ בראשית‬is in construct state (in the beginning of ), but at the same time verse 1 is an independent clause. This necessarily implies that Gen. 1:1 contains a ‘gap’, an empty space after ‫ראשית‬: ‘In the beginning of … God created the heavens and the earth’. In grammatical terms this comes down to a case of ellipsis of

184

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

the second term of a genitive construction, the so-called nomen rectum: instead of ‫ ֵבּית ַה ֶמּ ֶל‬bē-t hammεlεk- ‘the house of the king’ the text only has .. . ‫ ֵבּית‬bē-t … ‘the house of … [gap]’, in which case the phrase ‫ ַה ֶמּ ֶל‬hammεlεk- would be elliptic. Even though I have never encountered such cases in the Bible or in linguistic studies on Biblical Hebrew,32 precisely this option B1 occurs covertly in Rashi’s commentary on Gen 1:1. In deriding those who claim that the Bible starts with ‘In the beginning …’ and tells the creational story in a chronological order, he provides his adversaries with a seemingly logical argument: the text of the Hebrew Bible has many cases of ellipsis, things that are left unsaid, and thus one might claim that Gen 1:1 should be read as .. . ‫‘ בראשית ]הכל[ ברא אלהים‬in the beginning of [everything] God created …’ It is interesting that for this purpose Rashi refers to a comparable case in Jer 46:10 ‫אשׁית‬ ִ ‫ַמ ִגּיד ֵמ ֵר‬ ‫‘ אַ ֲח ִרית‬Who declares the end from the beginning’, where we must assume that he himself saw a case of ellipsis, i.e. [‫מגיד מראשית ]הכל‬ [‫אחרית ]הכל‬. Otherwise his claim that the word ‫ ראשית‬occurs only in construct state becomes untenable.33 But in both verses, the possibility of ellipsis of the nomen rectum must be rejected. 9.2 A refutation of option A2 Option A2 assumes that Gen 1:1 is indeed a subordinate temporal clause, but the phrase ‫ בראשית‬is not construed as being in construct state. There is no denying that in English a translation according to option A2 runs smoothly; several published Bible translations have opted for this way of rendering the first verse: ‘In the beginning of creation, when God made heaven and earth, the earth was …’;34 ‘In

32. There have been discussions on the question whether ellipsis of the nomen regens, the first term of a genitive construction, is possible. M. R claimed to have recognised ‘more than two-hundred cases’: ‘‫ ריבויו וכינויו‬,‫’הסומך הבודד במקרא‬ (‘The Implicit Construct State in the Bible’), Leshonenu 32 (1967–1968) 347–358. M. A, however, found this a strong exaggeration: ‘‫‘( ’על 'הסומך הבודד' במקרא‬On the so-called “Implicit Construct State” in the Bible’), Leshonenu 41 (1976–1977) 180–190. See also R’s defence in ‘‫ ריבויו וכינויו‬,‫‘( ’עוד על הסומך הבודד במקרא‬Again on the Implicit Construct State in the Bible’), Leshonenu 41 (1976–1977) 305–308. 33. The only other possible case of ‫ ראשית‬in absolute state, Deut 33:21 ‫וירא ראשית‬ ‫‘ לו‬He chose the best for himself ’ could be interpreted as a construct state (J & M, Grammar, § 129n). 34. The New English Bible with the Apocrypha (Oxford/Cambridge 1970).

 . . 

185

the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was …’.35 However pleasant such translations may sound, they do reflect a grammatical interpretation that is incorrect. Once the phrase ‫בראשית‬ is taken to be in absolute state, there is no way one can interpret the rest of the sentence, i.e. a verbal clause beginning with a perfect form, . .. ‫ברא אלהים‬, as a temporal subordinate clause meaning ‘when God created …’. 9.3 The ‘classical’ rendering of Gen 1:1 This brings us to the so-called ‘classical’ interpretation, which reads Gen 1:1 as an independent clause and the phrase ‫ בראשית‬as an absolute state. This is the opinion defended by, for instance, Umberto Cassuto, as becomes clear from his rendering of the verse: ‘in the beginning, that is, at the remotest past that the human mind can conceive, God created the heavens and the earth’.36 Cassuto’s view, however, is based on an alleged refutation of the alternative possibility. He refers to the views of Rashi and Abraham ibn Ezra, according to whom ‫ ראשית‬is in construct state and hence introduces a temporal clause.37 Cassuto claims to have a compelling argument which refutes this view. If Gen 1:1 is a subordinate clause, Cassuto argues, there are two possibilities: either the main clause begins in verse 2, or it begins in verse 3. If the main clause starts in verse 2, the Hebrew text of this verse would have to be worded either as ‫ְתה הארץ תהו ובהו‬ ָ ‫ ָהי‬or as ‫ַו ְתּ ִהי הארץ‬ ‫תהו ובהו‬, and not ‫והארץ היתה תהו ובהו‬, which is what we find in the Masoretic text. Therefore, says Cassuto, the possibility that the main clause begins in verse 2 should be rejected. I think Cassuto’s argu35. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments, New Revised Standard Version (Oxford 1995). See also the new Danish Bible edition: ‘I begyndelsen, da Gud skabte himmel og jord …’, cf. W-N, ‘“In the Beginning” of Biblical Hebrew Discourse’, 69. An even more peculiar rendering of this verse is found in M. B & G. B, ‘Im Anfang war …? Gen 1,1ff und Prov 8, 22–31 im Vergleich’, Biblische Notizen 71 (1994) 24–52, esp. 26: ‘Im Anfang (war es), als Gott die Welt (= Himmel und Erde) schuf ’. 36 . U. C, A Commentary on the Book of Genesis I, From Adam to Noah: Genesis –/8 (Jerusalem 1961) 19–20, esp. 20. 37. C erroneously assumes that Rashi reads the form ‫ ָבּ ָרא‬as an infinitive ‫ ְבּרֹא‬. Above (§ 6) I have explained that this is a very common misunderstanding of what Rashi is trying to say.

186

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

ment is valid.38 In its actual form, following a subordinate temporal clause as in verse 1, the Masoretic wording of verse 2, ‫והארץ היתה תהו‬ ‫ובהו‬, cannot in fact constitute a main clause.39 If the main clause starts in verse 3, according to Cassuto, the verbal form ‫ היתה‬is impossible; the text should have read ‫והארץ תהו‬ ‫ובהו‬, which is not the case. Therefore, the possibility that the main clause starts in verse 3 should also be rejected. As a consequence, Cassuto argues, Gen 1:1 must be a main clause: In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. The verse functions as a sort of title; it summarises the main idea of the passage that follows. In other words, Cassuto defends the ‘traditional’ interpretation of the first verse of the Bible. However, whereas I agree with Cassuto’s refutation of the possibility that the main clause starts in verse 2, his objection to verse 3 constituting the beginning of the main clause does not hold true. Cassuto claims that if the main clause starts in verse 3 and hence we interpret verse 2 as a circumstantial clause,40 the verbal form in verse 2 would have to be absent. In the foregoing (§ 6) I have explained why this is not true. Completely in accordance with the rules of Hebrew syntax, the perfect form ‫ היתה‬denotes a previous situation.41 It must be said, however, that Cassuto’s invalid refutation of another view does not necessarily disqualify his own interpretation. In 38. Against the interpretation of Abraham ibn Ezra (Commentary on Genesis, ad loc.), who thought that the main clause does begin in Gen 1:2. Cf. R, ‘Vorbedingungen, 8 and nn. 8–9. 39. Accordingly, B, Adverbial Construction, 22–24 does not mention such sentence patterns. 40 . Although C does not use the term circumstantial clause, judging by his rendering of verse 2 this is certainly what he has in mind. Circumstantial clauses are typically translated as while the earth was …, when the earth was …, or between dashes: —the earth was …—. 41. This also invalidates R’s defence of the traditional view and attempted refutation of option B2 (‘Vorbedingungen’, 248–256). Another attempt at refuting ‫ בראשית‬being in construct state is to point out that the phrase ‫ בראשית‬is separated from the following word ‫ ברא‬by the distinctive accent tifh.ā, so that it is impossible to assume a connection between the two words. This argument, however, is refuted by Isa 29:1 ‫‘ קרית חנה דוד‬the city where David encamped’, quoted above (§ 5) as an unmistakable example of construct state with a perfect verbal form. Here, too, the noun ‫ קרית‬is marked with a tifh.ā, while the verb itself has a mūnāh. and the next word an ’atnāh - . , just as in Gen 1:1. In 1 Sam 25:15 ‫‘ כלֿימי התהלכנו אתם‬all days that we went about with them’ the form ‫—ימי‬also unmistakably a construct state—has the distinctive accent pašt.ā, again followed by mūnāh. with the verbal form.

 . . 

187

principle there is nothing against a sentence pattern expressing Cassuto’s view; there are plenty of clauses that begin with a prepositional phrase and introduce the main clause with a perfect verbal form, e.g. Gen 15:18 ‫‘ ביום ההוא ָכּ ַרת ה' אתֿאברם ברית‬On that day the L made a covenant with Abram’. With his traditional view, Cassuto finds himself in good company. As the well-known medieval exegete and grammarian David Qimh.i (‫ ;רד"ק‬ca. 1160–1235) explains in his Commentary on Genesis: ‫ מלת בראשית איננה סמוכה‬. ‫בראשית ברא אלהים את השמים ואת הארץ‬ ‫כמו 'בראשית ממלכות יהויקים' אבל היא בלתי סמוכה כמו 'מגיד מראשית‬ ‫ בראשונה ברא‬,‫ רוצה לומר כשברא אלהים את העולם‬,'‫ 'וירא ראשית לו‬,'‫אחרית‬ .‫שמים וארץ‬ I   G      . The word ‫ בראשית‬is not in construct state, as in In the beginning of the reign of Jehoiakim (Jer 26:1), but in absolute state, as in Who declares the end from the beginning (Isa 46:10) and He chose the best for himself (Deut 33:21). Scripture intends to say, that when God created the universe, at first he created the heavens and the earth.42

In this passage Qimh.i intends to refute the view he had certainly read in Rashi’s commentary. In doing so he quotes two passages where the word ‫ ראשית‬is used in absolute state, against Rashi’s claim to the contrary.43 In his commentary Rashi explains that the view defended by Qimh.i is impossible; if you assume that the first verse should read ‘In the beginning …’ (meaning that the first thing that happened was that God created the heavens and the earth and that Scripture tells the story in chronological order), you run into trouble at verse 2, where there is suddenly talk of ‘water’, even though the creation of water was never mentioned. In other words, the water must have been there already, which is not possible if one sticks to the chronological order of the story. Another problem that Rashi presents us with is that the first phrase ‫ בראשית‬does not actually mean ‘in the beginning’. In order to express that idea, the Holy Tongue uses the phrase ‫ ָבּ ִראשׁוֹנָה‬. It is interesting to see that even Qimh.i in the passage quoted above resorts 42. Torat H . ayyim. H . amishah H . umshei Torah (Jerusalem 1986) ad loc. 43. Cf. above, p. 184 and n. 33. It remains true that the phrase ‫בראשית‬, i.e. including the preposition b-, is attested exclusively in construct state—obviously with the possible exception of our verse Gen 1:1.

188

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

to this phrase in order to convey the idea of ‘in the absolute beginning of time’. The question remains whether ‫ בראשית‬could mean ‘in the beginning’. A possible objection is that in that case the text should have said ‫ ָבּראשׁית‬bārēšī-t, with the definite article.44 However, Biblical Hebrew, like other languages, has the possibility of using words ‘absolutely’ or ‘neutrally’, i.e. without the article, just as we do in English in expressions such as from beginning to end or heaven and earth.45 Moreover, in poetry or archaic phraseology the article may be omitted for various reasons.46 That is what happens with the word ‫ ראשית‬in Jer 46:10 and Deut 33:21 quoted by Qimh.i. This is indeed a possibility that is applied to Gen 1:1 by, for instance, Eduard König.47

44. The suggestion that ‫ ראשית‬in Biblical Hebrew never has the definite article is possibly refuted by Neh 12:44, which has the form ‫אשׁית‬ ִ ‫ ָלֵר‬. Note however, that the article is only present in the vocalisation (cf. J. B, ‘“Determination” and the Definite Article in Hebrew’, Journal of Semitic Studies 34 [1989] 307–335, esp. 325–333; J & M, Grammar, § 137f ). 45. In M. M, Die Determinationsverhältnisse im Hebräischen (München 1913) §§ 1, 14–16 this is called the ‘indifferent use of substantive nouns’. According to J (‘Erwägungen zu Gen 1,1’) the problem of the absence of the definite article is solved when one reads ‫ ראשית‬as an elative form, ‘im Anfang, in uranfänglicher Zeit’. 46. M (Determinationsverhältnisse, § 6) explains in detail the various reasons for omitting the definite article in Biblical Hebrew. 47. E. K, Historisch-kritisches Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache III, Historisch-comparative Syntax der hebräischen Sprache (Leipzig 1897) § 294g: ‘Theils durch die Eigenart des betreffenden Begriffs und theils durch die Gebräuchlichkeit ist die Artikellosigkeit auch z.B. bei folgenden adverbiellen Ausdrücken veranlasst worden: ‫ ֵמרֹאשׁ‬heisst “vom (absoluten) Anfang an” Jes 40 21 41 4 26 […] und ‫אשׁית‬ ִ ‫ֵמֵר‬ bedeutet “von Ur an” Jes 46 10. Also konnte auch die Aussprache b erēšît Gn 1 1 beabsichtigt und konnte diese im Sinne von “im Uranfang” gemeint sein, …’.

 The Targumic Versions of the Martyrdom of Isaiah   T   to want to know everything about famous people lines the pockets of tabloids stakeholders. And the audience being especially interested in juicy details about the life and death of their heroes, reporters do their best to unearth as many details as possible. More often than not, they present their information as deriving from ‘a reliable source’ without naming it. People do not change much. Just as we want to know everything about our contemporary celebrities, so did our ancestors about theirs. For the Jews in Antiquity the biblical protagonists were their heroes and role models. Yet, given that the Bible is sparing in its details, other sources had to be found to supply the desired information. In this article, we will investigate the texts that reveal the details of the death of the prophet Isaiah. Various works relate how Isaiah was sawn in two on the orders of the wicked king Manasseh, even though the Bible does not even mention Isaiah’s death. We have several versions of this story, one of which occurs as a Tosefta Targum to Isa 66:1.1 Since Albert van der Heide started his career as a Targum scholar,2 it is appropriate to take this version as the starting-point of departure of the present investigation. After analysing this version, the other extant traditions will be examined in an attempt to discover the mutual relationships and the development of the tradition.

 I dedicate this modest study to my dear and learned colleague Albert   H, who started his career as a Targum scholar. This paper was originally written as a lecture for the Fourteenth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem 2005. I am grateful to Ms Johanna T, who assisted me in preparing it for publication. 1. The Tosefta occurs in 4 Ashkenazi , namely Urbinas 1, Reuchlin 3 (marginal reading), Parma 555, and B.H. 5. 2 . A.   H, The Yemenite Tradition of the Targum of Lamentations. A Critical Text and Analyses of the Variant Readings (Leiden 1981).

190

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 1. T T T  I 66:1

Let us start by giving the text of the Tosefta Targum in translation:3 The prophecy of Isaiah that he prophesied at the end of his prophecy, in the days of Manasseh, son of Hezekiah, king of the tribe of the House of Judah at the seventeenth of Tammuz, at the time that Manasseh erected an image in the temple.4 He prophesied to the people of the House of Israel, ‘thus said the L: The heaven is the throne of My glory’.5 So, why do you behave proudly before Me in this temple that was built by king Solomon for My name? Even the highest and the nethermost cannot encompass the Shekhinah of My glory. As it was said by king Solomon ‘For the heavens and the heavens of heavens cannot encompass Your glory, how much less this temple which you6 have built.’7 Now indeed, there is no pleasure before Me in it because you anger Me. Therefore, a decree went out from before Me to bring Nebuchadnezzar8 and he will destroy it and exile you from the town of Jerusalem. When Manasseh heard the words of Isaiah’s reproof, his anger was filled on him. He said to his servants: run after him, catch him, run after him to catch him! He (Isaiah) fled from before them and the carob tree opened its mouth and swallowed him. Carpenters brought an iron tool and they sawed the tree until the blood of Isaiah the prophet flowed like water, as is written ‘Moreover, Manasseh spilled so much innocent blood that he filled Jerusalem from end to end, besides the sin he committed in causing Israel and [those] of the House of Judah to do what was evil before the L.’9 3. According to Codex Reuchlin. The text of this Tosefta, according to one or more of its textual witnesses, can be found in P.A. D L, Prophetae Chaldaice (Leipzig 1872; repr. Osnabrück 1967) xxxiii; W. B, ‘Kritische Untersuchungen zum Prophetentargum’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 28 (1874) 1–72, esp. 16; J.F. S, The Targum of Isaiah (Oxford 1949; repr. 1953) 226–227; A. S, The Bible in Aramaic (5 vols.; Leiden 1959–1973; repr. Leiden 1992) III.129–130; P. G, ‘Deux Tosephtas targoumiques inédites sur Isaïe ’, Revue Biblique 79 (1972) 511–543, esp. 515–518; R. K, ‫תוספתות תרגום לנביאים‬ (Targumic Toseftot to the Prophets) (Jerusalem 1996) 169–170. 4. In accordance with the tradition in m. Taan. 4:6, which mentions five important occurrences all happening on the seventeenth of Tammuz. 5. Citation from Tg. Jon. Isa 66:1aα. 6. Codex Reuchlin reads here ‫‘ דבניתון‬which you (pl.) have built’, while the other versions read ‫‘ דבניתי‬which I have built’ in accordance with the text of Targum Jonathan. 7. Citation from Tg. Jon. 1 Kgs 8:27 (≈ Tg 2 Chron 6:18). 8. Codex Reuchlin actually reads ‫נבוכד רצר‬. 9. Citation from Tg. Jon. 2 Kgs 21:16. See also 2 Kgs 24:4.

 

191

[This is] about that he killed Isaiah, who admonished them and said: do not think that because of your merits this Temple was built. It was rather because of the merit of your righteous fathers that the Holy One—blessed be He—let his Shekhinah dwell in it. But now, ‘said the L: The heaven is the throne of My glory and the earth is a stepping stool before Me. What then is that temple that you would build for My name, and what the place, the abode for the dwelling of My Shekhinah?’10

The story is added to the text at a logical place. It is inserted near the end of the book of Isaiah, serving as an introduction to Isaiah’s last prophecy and at the same time explaining why this would be the last prophecy. At several places it quotes Targum Jonathan, which means that it must have been written after the final redaction of that work. Let us summarise the contents. In the first paragraph, the time of the prophecy is specified as the reign of Manasseh. This is somewhat surprising, since according to Isa 1:1 Isaiah was active as a prophet only in the reigns of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, who was the father of Manasseh. There are no indications in the Bible that he was still active later.11 After this introduction, there is a transition to the first words of the prophecy of Isa 66. This is followed by a kind of sermon on the unfittingly proud behaviour, culminating in a decree for the destruction of the temple by Nebuchadnezzar and the exile of the people. This prophecy enraged Manasseh and incited him to persecute Isaiah. In a miraculous way a carob tree swallowed Isaiah. That, however, did not put Manasseh’s servants off. They sawed down the tree, which made Isaiah bleed to death. The proof text for this cruelty is taken from 2 Kgs 21:16, where it says ‘Moreover Manasseh shed so much innocent blood that he filled Jerusalem from end to end’.12 After the excursus on the martyrdom a neat transition is made back to Isa 66:1. Unfortunately, the fact that the language of the Tosefta Targum is very close to the Aramaic of Targum Jonathan is of no help in dating the tradition or placing it geographically.

10. Citation from Tg. Jon. Isa 66:1. 11. The description of Manasseh’s reign in 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles makes no mention of Isaiah. 12. Translation of the author. This text is used in all the rabbinic versions except b.Yeb. 49b. This may be relevant because, as we shall see, this text is apologetic towards Manasseh.

192

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 2. T T T  2 K 24:4

Another Tosefta Targum, on 2 Kgs 24:4,13 casually mentions the event in an explicative gloss on the construct ‫דם הנקי‬, ‘the blood of the innocent’, that occurs in that verse.14 No details about the manner of execution are given. And also because of the guilt of the blood of the prophet Isaiah, who was upright and innocent, that he shed and that filled Jerusalem, because it was innocent blood; and because he burned innocent youths by fire, it was decreed to kill innocents in Jerusalem and the Memra of the L would not forgive.

The context here is the disasters that befell Judah because of the sins of Manasseh. Two different sins are specified, namely the killing of Isaiah and the burning of innocent youths, the last probably referring to 2 Chr 33:6, where it says that Manasseh consigned his sons to the fire.15 According to the principle of ‫מדה כנגד מדה‬, ‘measure for measure’,16 God would not let innocents be spared, just as Manasseh did not spare them. As in the previous Tosefta Targum, the dialect is very close to that of Targum Jonathan, leaving us in the dark as to its origin. 3. O    Within rabbinic literature, we find a very close parallel to our Tosefta Targum to Isa 66:1 in Pesiqta Rabbati 4. The story is used there, however, for quite a different purpose. Within a sermon on Elijah and the Baal prophets (1 Kgs 18:31), the story is used as proof of the merit of the tribes. This is remarkable, since only at the end of the Tosefta Targum is reference made to the question of merit, and specifically to the merit of the fathers rather than the merit of the tribes. The solution seems to lie in the sequel to the Tosefta Targum to Isa 66:1. As it happens, this Tosefta Targum always occurs in conjunction with a Tosefta Targum on Isa 66:2, the two being so close that one could actually 13. This Tosefta occurs only in Codex Reuchlin. The text can be found in D L, Prophetae Chaldaice, xxvi; S, The Bible in Aramaic, II.327; K, Targumic Toseftot, 149. 14. This fits within the targumic tendency to identify anonymous personages with known biblical characters. See e.g. Y. K, ‫( המקרא באור התרגום‬The Bible in the Light of the Aramaic Translations) (Tel Aviv 1973) 318–319, 322–323. 15. See also 1 Kgs 21:6, where it says ‘son’ in the singular. 16. I.e. ‘the punishment fits the crime’.

 

193

speak of one Tosefta Targum to the two verses. We should therefore take this second part into consideration when trying to look for a connection between the different corpora. It goes beyond the scope of the present article to work this out in detail,17 but a synopsis of the two texts may well illustrate the relation. TT Isa 66:1

The prophecy of Isaiah that he prophesied at the end of his prophecy, in the days of Manasseh, son of Hezekiah, king of the tribe of the House of Judah at the seventeenth of Tammuz, at the time that Manasseh erected an image in the Temple. He prophesied to the people of Israel, ‘thus [said] the L: The heaven is the throne of My glory’. So why do you behave proudly before Me in this temple that was built by king Solomon for My name? Even the highest and the nethermost cannot encompass the Shekhinah of My glory. As it was said by king Solomon ‘For the heavens and the heavens of heavens cannot encompass Your glory, how much less this temple which you have built.’ Now indeed, there is no pleasure before Me in it because you anger Me. Therefore, a decree went out from before Me to bring Nebu-

PesR 4.318 ‘And Elijah took twelve stones’ etc. These words are to be considered in the light of the verse ‘The heaven is My throne, and the earth is My footstool’ (Isa 66:1), this particular verse having been uttered at the end of Isaiah’s life as a prophet. When did he utter it in prophecy? In the days of Manasseh. As soon as Manasseh brought the idol into the Temple, Isaiah began prophesying to Israel, saying to them:

So why do you behave proudly before Me in this House that you built for My name? The highest and the nethermost cannot carry My glory, and this House that you built for Me, would I need it? ‘Where could you build a house for Me?’ (there, Isa 66).

17. For a critical treatment of the text, see P. G, ‘Deux Tosephtas’, 528–535. 18. M. F, Pesikta Rabbati: Midrasch für den Fest-Cyclus und die ausgezeichneten Sabbathe (Vienna 1880; repr. Tel Aviv 1963).

194

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

chadnezzar and he will destroy it and exile you from the town of Jerusalem. When Manasseh heard the words of Isaiah’s reproof, his anger was filled on him. He said to his servants: run after him, catch him, run after him to catch him. He (Isaiah) fled from before them and the carob tree opened its mouth and swallowed him. Carpenters brought an iron tool and they sawed the tree until the blood of Isaiah the prophet flowed like water, as is written ‘Moreover, Mannaseh spilled so much innocent blood that he filled Jerusalem from end to end besides the sin he committed in causing the Israel and [those] of the House of Judah to do what was evil before the L.’

Until Isaiah was killed, he was admonishing them and said: do not think that because of your merits this Temple was built. It was rather because of the merit of the righteous that the Holy One blessed be He let his Shekhinah dwell in it. But now ‘said the Lord: The heaven is the throne of My glory and the earth is a stepping stool before Me. Where could you build a house before Me, what place could serve as the abode of My Shekhinah?’ 66:2 Also all the miracles and mighty deeds that were performed for My people Israel and that will come in the future are performed for them because of the merit of the tribes. And also the Temple will be rebuild because of the merit of the tribes. As was said through the

Behold, Nebuchadnezzar will come and destroy it and exile you. Immediately Manasseh got angry at him and said to them: catch him, run after him to catch him. As he (Isaiah) fled from before them, the carob tree opened up and swallowed him. Said R. Isaac, in the name of rabbi H.anina bar Papa in the name of R. Isaac, that he brought carpenters and had the carob tree sawn, and the blood flowed forth. Of this it is said ‘Moreover, Manasseh spilled so much innocent blood that he filled Jerusalem from end to end (‫( ’)פה לפה‬2 Kgs 21:16). Is such a thing possible? What is meant, however, is that he slew Isaiah with whom God had spoken mouth to mouth (‫)פה אל פה‬, as He did to Moses, of whom it is written ‘With him do I speak mouth to mouth (‫פה‬ ‫( ’)אל פה‬Num 12:8). Isaiah proceeded to admonish the children of Israel: ‘The heaven is My throne and the earth is My footstool’. As for this House which will be rebuilt, do not think that was built for your sake, but for the sake of others. For what others? R. Yehudah the Levite, son of R. Shalom said: For the sake of the Torah. It is of Torah God speaks in asking, ‘Where could you build a house for Me?’—that is, for whose sake, after all, was it built? For the sake of ‘All this was made by My hand (Isa 66:2)—for the sake of Torah—‘these are the laws, rules, and instructions’ (Lev 26:46). But R. Yehoshua the Priest, son of R. Neh.emyah said: For the sake of the tribes: ‘All these were the tribes of Israel’ (Gen 49:28). Since Elijah saw the power of

  Holy Spirit by the Psalm of David (Ps 122:4–5): ‘There will the tribes and the kings make pilgrimage and the kings of the House of David will receive the kingship and they will judge Israel true justice.’ But the world and all that is in it is not created but for their merit. Twelve months of the year and twelve planets that are in the sky, twelve hours in the day and twelve hours in the night. But the hosts of heaven were not created but for the twelve tribes that I have created.

195

the tribes’ merit—if it were not for the tribes’ merit, Israel would not have deserved that the Temple be built for them at all—upon coming to Mount Carmel to bring Israel under the wings of the Presence, he took twelve stones according to the number of the tribes, and built an altar with them, as is said ‘And Elijah took twelve stones’ etc.

The synopsis shows that the factual reason to include this traditional material here lies in the sequel. It seems therefore that the editor of the Pesiqta Rabbati knew the Tosefta Targums, or at least the specific combination of traditional material that they contained, and regarded them as a unity.19 This led him to include the story of the martyrdom together with the material about the merit of the tribes that was his main point of interest. In the Babylonian Talmud the story is recorded twice within different contexts. In b. Yeb. 49b it occurs within the gemara on the mishnah ‘Who is deemed to be a bastard?’ Although the modern usage of the word ‘bastard’ would justify placing the scandalous behaviour of Manasseh under this heading, this is not at issue here. The main reason for the inclusion of the story at this unexpected place seems to be the reference to a scroll that Ben Azzai found in Jerusalem and which was said to mention Isaiah’s death by the hands of Manasseh. In this Talmudic account, Rabba says that Isaiah was brought to trial and killed because of his teachings, which were not in keeping with the Torah of Moses. In b. Sanh. 103b the fact that Isaiah was killed by Manasseh is mentioned without further details in the context of the gemara on m. Sanh. 10:2 that says ‘Three kings and four commoners have no share in the world to come’, where one of the kings thus condemned is Manasseh. An interesting detail is that the introduction ‫הכא תרגימו‬ ‘here they translated/interpreted’ explicitly situates in Babylon the tra19. See ibid., 533–535.

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dition that Manasseh slew Isaiah.20 This Babylonian tradition is further contrasted with the Palestinian tradition that connects the spilling of innocent blood to a legend that Manasseh made an idol that was so huge that its weight killed the thousand men that were required to carry it.21 However, no trace of this tradition can be found anymore in the extant Palestinian sources. Moreover, the Palestinian Talmud to this mishnah22 also connects the verse to the killing of Isaiah. Its distinctly folkloristic character enriches the story of the magical sanctuary with details about the fringes of Isaiah’s cloak that betrayed his hideaway. Nevertheless, although the so-called Palestinian tradition mentioned in the Babylonian Talmud is not retraceable, there is a Palestinian tradition that attributes the placing of an idol in the Temple on the disastrous seventeenth of Tammuz to Manasseh. This tradition is referred to in a passing remark in y. Taan. 68d where the statement of m. Taanit 4:6 that on the seventeenth of Tammuz an idol was set up in the Sanctuary is connected with Manasseh.23 This tradition was obviously also known to the meturgeman of Isa 66:1, since we saw at the start of this paper that he also places the events of his account at the seventeenth of Tammuz, at the time that Manasseh erected an image in the Temple. In the midrashic anthology Yalqut. Shim‘oni there are two accounts of the story, namely in Parashah Mishpat.im § 360 and in 2 Kgs § 247. These readings contain almost literal citations of b. Yeb. 49b, including the sentence about the lost scroll.24 Since the Yalqut. is a late midrashic thesaurus, we can safely state that the editor borrowed this material from the Babylonian Talmud, so that we need not further include it in our comparison. We have no date for the Tosefta Targums, but all the non-targumic rabbinic sources—although of uncertain date—are certainly no 20. Is it possible that this introduction formula refers to the Tosefta Targum to 2 Kgs 24:4, which is a parallel verse to 2 Kgs 21:16? 21. This is the interpretation of Rashi ad loc. It is also possible to read that Manasseh had each set of porters killed at the end of the day’s work. 22. y. Sanh. 10:2, 28c. 23. Obviously based on the remark in 2 Kgs 21:7 and 2 Chron 33:7, where it says that Manasseh made a sculptured image and put it in the Temple of the L. See also the Tosafist to this Mishnah in b. Taan. 26b, who refers explicitly to the ‘Targum Jerushalmi’ on Isa 66:1 for this tradition. 24. Although in b. Yeb. the scroll is called ‫ מגלת יוחסין‬and in the Yalqut. ‫מגלת‬ ‫סתרים‬, both are said to be found by R. Simeon ben Azzai.

 

197

older than the fourth century.25 The story occurs in Palestinian as well as in Babylonian sources, but the specifics of the account in the Tosefta Targum are closer to the Palestinian versions than to the Babylonian ones. 4. O J  An early tradition of the murder of Isaiah can be found in a source that probably dates from the first century , namely the Martyrdom of Isaiah. The Martyrdom of Isaiah is the initial section of a Christian work known by the name Ascension of Isaiah.26 The nucleus of this first part is almost certainly of Jewish origin. The legend is told here in an elaborate manner, including many details that suggest an Essene background.27 The story is for instance highly dualistic, with Beliar as one of the main protagonists. The false prophet Belchira28 accused Isaiah of three religious and political offences. This incited Manasseh’s anger and he ordered Isaiah to be sawn in two. While he was being tortured in this way, Isaiah was put to the test. If he recanted his words, he could still be saved from the ultimate punishment of death, but Isaiah bravely refused, saying, ‘May you be accursed and damned, you and all your powers and all your house. For you can take nothing from me but only the skin off my body.’29 This account has all the characteristics of a traditional martyr story, where the hero even under torture does refuses to renounce his faith. The fanciful element of the tree that hid Isaiah has no place in this version. Another Christian work that probably contains Jewish traditional material is the Lives of the Prophets. This work has long been considered a Jewish Palestinian work from the Second Temple Period 25. For an overview of the opinions concerning the dating of the rabbinic works in question, see e.g. G. S, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (2nd ed.; Edinburgh 1996). 26. See G.W.E. N, ‘Stories of Biblical and Early Post-Biblical Times’, in M.E. S (ed.), Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period (Assen [etc.] 1984), 33–87, esp. 52–56. 27. D. F, ‘The Apocryphal Book of Ascensio Isaiae and the Dead Sea Sect’, Israel Exploration Journal 3 (1953) 30–47; M. P, ‘Le Martyre d’Essaïe et l’histoire de la secte de Qoumran’, Cahiers de la Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie Religieuses 41 (1967) 1–10; N, ‘Stories’, 55. 28. The name is probably a corruption of ‫בחיר רע‬, ‘the elect one of evil’. See F, ‘Apocryphal Book’, 35. 29. According to the Ethiopian version as translated by H.F.D. S (ed.), The Apocryphal Old Testament (Oxford 1984) 794.

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that was later adopted and reworked by Christian authors. Lately, David Satran has seriously questioned this assumption and argued that the Lives in their present form must primarily be appreciated as a Christian document from the Byzantine Period, which may, however, contain older Jewish traditions.30 This new assessment makes it difficult to use the individual traditions as proof of the early origin of the tradition. Moreover, since the Lives only mentions the violent death of Isaiah by being sawn in two at Manasseh’s command as a matter of fact without further details, it is of little use for comparative purposes. 5. P         The legend may have been known to New Testament writers. Acts 6 and 7 tell the story of the charge against Stephen and his subsequent defence. In Acts 6, Stephen is accused of speaking blasphemous words against Moses and God, like the charge against Isaiah in b. Yeb. 49b and in the Martyrdom of Isaiah. In his defence, Stephen recalls the main events of sacred history, ending with a reference to Isa 66:1 to prove that God does not need a Temple, a line of reasoning we also encountered in the Tosefta Targum to Isa 66:1.31 His discourse ends with the words:32 7:51 How stubborn you are, heathen still at heart and deaf

to the truth! You always resist the Holy Spirit. You are just like your fathers! 52 Was there ever a prophet your fathers did not persecute? They killed those who foretold the coming of the Righteous One, and now you have betrayed him and murdered him.

In the view of the author of Acts one of the main prophets who foretold the coming of the Righteous One was of course Isaiah.33 Combined with the reference to Isaiah 66:1 and the statement that those prophets were not killed by outsiders, but by members of the people 30. D. S, Biblical Prophets in Byzantine Palestine, Reassessing the Lives of the Prophets (Leiden [etc.] 1995) 118. 31. See also T.C.G. T, ‘Stephen’s Use of Isaiah 66:1’, Journal of Theological Studies 25 (1974) 432–434. 32. Translation according to The Revised English Bible with the Apocrypha (Oxford/Cambridge 1989). 33. Compare this to the Martyrdom of Isaiah 5:15, where it says that Isaiah was killed because ‘Sammael was very angry with Isaiah from the days of Hezekiah, king of Judah, because of the things which he saw concerning the Beloved’.

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199

of Israel,34 these words might certainly refer to the story of Isaiah’s martyrdom. Estimates of the date of writing of Acts range from the late 50s to 100 .35 In the Epistle to the Hebrews chapter 11 is entirely devoted to the witnesses of faith. Verses 32–40 relate in general terms the trials and tribulations of the prophets, while verse 37 says specifically ‘They were stoned, they were sawn in two (ἐπρίσθησαν), they were killed by the sword.’ The second remark might refer to the legend under discussion since no other stories are known of prophets who were sawn in two. The date of the Epistle to the Hebrews ranges between 60–95 . Josephus may also have known the story. In 10.38 of his Judean Antiquities, Josephus wrote about Manasseh that ‘he hastened to kill all those who were just among the Hebrews; he did not even have mercy on the prophets, but butchered some of them every day, so that Hierosolyma ran with blood.’36 The Antiquities can be dated to the end of the first century .37 6. S   How can we now categorise and explain the different versions? And is it possible to see if and how they are interrelated? Let us start with the oldest versions. It seems that the earliest dateable references to the story are from the second half of the first century . It is not certain whether the references quoted from the New Testament and Josephus refer to our story, but if they do it is in very general terms. The main message of these early accounts is that prophets, among whom possibly Isaiah, were killed. One of the methods of execution men34. References to the killing of the prophets by the people of Israel are also found in the gospels, i.e. Matt. 23:30–31, 37; Luke 11:47–51. 35. It may be that the reference in Stephen’s speech is derived from an early Jewish source in accordance with the general view that the author of Acts also drew on a set of sources associated with Peter and originating in Jerusalem. It is tempting to connect the story to our Tosefta Targum, as support for C.C. T’s thesis that an Aramaic source underliess the text of Acts 1–15 (The Composition and the Dates of Acts [Cambridge,  1916]). This thesis, however, has been severely weakened by the recovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. 36. C.T. B & P. S, Judean Antiquities Books 8-10. Translation and Commentary (Leiden 2005) 217–218. 37. According to Josephus’ own reference: in the conclusion to the thirteenth year of Domitian and the fifty-sixth year of his own life, which would be around 93– 94 .

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

tioned in the account of the Epistle to the Hebrews is the sawing in two of the victim. This method is also mentioned in the short reference in the Lives of the Prophets, where the name of Manasseh also occurs in relation to the killing, as in Josephus’ Judean Antiquities. In the more elaborate versions, two distinct groups can be discerned. Firstly there is the version of the Martyrdom of Isaiah. This version is by far the most extensive and relates the story in dualistic terms as a struggle between God and his prophet Isaiah on the one hand, and Beliar and his false prophet Belchira on the other hand. Isaiah is tried and dies as a martyr. Secondly, there are the rabbinic versions that tell the event as a miracle story, using well-known folk motifs. Let us try and see whether this last group can be further specified. There is a strong resemblance between the version in the Tosefta to Isa 66:1 and its parallel in Pesiqta Rabbati. Both connect the tradition to Isaiah’s teaching on the function and the abuse of the Temple.38 If there is dependence between the two versions, the targumic version is probably the more original, since it is perfectly in place within its context. Within the framework of Pesiqta Rabbati the story of Isaiah’s death comes, as it were, in a package deal with the tradition about the merit of the tribes. The story itself has no function at that place. In the Talmudic versions we see two different lines. In the Babylonian Talmud tractate Yebamot, Isaiah is tried in a lawsuit because his teachings seem to contradict accepted doctrine.39 This version of the events shows Manasseh in a milder light by explaining Isaiah’s death as the outcome of a religious lawsuit instead of a case of pointless violence.40 The death of an innocent man did not apparently fit the ideas of divine justice of the expounders. The version in the Palestinian Talmud has many characteristics of a pure folktale. The emphasis is on the development of the plot, leaving almost no room for other literary devices such as characterisation and justification, which is one of the basic rules of folk literature. An38. The strong connection between the Tosefta Targum on Isa 66:1 and Pesiq. R. 4 is still strengthened by the fact that in those two versions the tree is a carob tree, while in all other versions it is a cedar. 39. This is in line with the version in the Martyrdom of Isaiah. 40. In m. Sanh. 10:2 R. Judah denies that Manasseh does not have a part in the world to come, but he is corrected by the majority who say that although he repented and got back his kingdom, he did not earn his share in the world to come. The Tosefta and both Talmudim agree on this.

 

201

other rule is the incorporation of familiar folk motifs. As well as the cedar that swallowed the protagonist, this version features another folk element, the fringes that betrayed Isaiah’s hiding-place. In the process of transmission from one cultural setting to another, traditions underwent alterations in form, theme and function. Only the nucleus remained the same, which in this set of stories is the violent death of Isaiah by the hand of Manasseh. This tradition is demonstrably old and of Palestinian provenance. Although the Babylonian Talmud and some later accounts refer to a written source for this piece of information, it is not inconceivable that this concerns a literary device comparable to the ‘reliable source’ of present-day journalists. The element of the saw seems also to be ancient and proves quite persistent, though the specific elaboration of this element differs. The combination of the saw with the miracle story about a tree that hid the fugitive has obviously a background in folk literature. The Tosefta Targum that was our point of departure uses the apparently well-known folk tradition in a perfectly organic way at a suitable place in the interpretive translation of the biblical book of Isaiah. Little can be said about the time and place of origin on the basis of its language. Nevertheless some things can be said about its provenance. Since it quotes Targum Jonathan it must have been composed after the redaction of that work, which was probably in the third century . As regards the narrative thread, there is a close connection to the accounts in the Palestinian Targum and in Pesiqta Rabbati. It would therefore seem to me that this Tosefta Targum was composed in Palestine after the authoritative Babylonian recension of Targum Jonathan reached the West. Being part of the liturgical reading for Sabbath Rosh H . odesh, it was probably intended to supplement and embellish the more concise version of Targum Jonathan. For that reason the language may have been adapted to the dialect of Targum Jonathan instead of using a Palestinian dialect.41 Whatever the case, it is most likely that this little story, gruesome as it may be in its contents, succeeded in captivating the audience, just as it captivated me.

41. P.S. A, ‘Jewish Aramaic Translations of Hebrew Scriptures’, in M.J. M & H. S (eds.), Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (Assen [etc.] 1988) 217– 253, esp. 224.

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 ‘The Emperor of Poets’ Immanuel of Rome (1261–1332)  .   D   of the thirteenth century, Italian Jewish poets and writers no longer exclusively followed the example of their great Andalusian predecessors, but turned towards contemporary Italian literature and poetry for inspiration and as a source of texts to imitate. Immanuel of Rome, an almost exact contemporary of Dante’s, was a key representative of this trend. In earlier research it was generally believed that Immanuel knew Dante. However, there is no immediate proof that Immanuel personally met him.1 He certainly was well acquainted with Dante’s patron, Can Grande della Scala, lord of Verona, and with several poets in Dante’s circle, such as Cino da Pistoia and Bosone da Gubbio. In the Hebrew writings of Immanuel, the influence of Dante and his contemporaries is obvious. Dante’s immensely popular poetry had attracted the attention of many Jews who increasingly aspired to more participation in general life. Traditional aspects of Jewish life were not neglected, but prosperous communities would engage in both Jewish and secular culture, expanding their own horizons in the desire for a broader knowledge, that would not only encompass the Hebrew Bible and Rabbinic literature, but also embrace the whole scope of secular learning of the time.2 1. U. C, Dante e Manoello (Firenze 1921); S.H. L, ‘Immanuel of Rome’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 6 (1935) 277–308; U. F, ‘Per una storia della cultura ebraica in Italia nel Novecento: il “Dante e Manoello” di Umberto Cassuto’, in S.J. S & E.L. A (eds.), Scritti sull’ebraismo in memoria di Emanuele Menachem Artom (Jerusalem/Tel-Aviv 1990) 188–206; E.   P, ‘Manuel, el hermano judío de Dante’, in Humanismo y cultura judía (México 1999) 53–55; G. A, ‘Dante and Modern Hebrew Literature’, in G. K (ed.), Semitic Studies in Honour of Edward Ullendorf (Leiden/Boston 2005) 323–337. 2. C. R, The Jews in the Renaissance (New York 1965) 86–110; R. B, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy (Berkeley,  1994); B.D. C & B. G (eds.), The Jews of Italy. Memory and Identity (Bethesda,  2000).

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Immanuel, known to his Christian friends and colleagues as Manuello Romano or Manuello Giudeo, was born in Rome in 1261 and probably came from the Zifroni family. This period in Rome saw a great flowering of Jewish culture: numerous Hebrew manuscripts were written and copied, many of which were translations of important Italian, Latin and Arabic literary, scholarly and philosophical works.3 Among these manuscripts there were many Hebrew transcriptions of Italian works, including Hebrew versions of Dante’s Commedia. Immanuel apparently received a traditional Jewish education in his youth, including Hebrew grammar, biblical exegesis, mystical Jewish literature and Hebrew poetry, but he also seems to have studied mathematics, astronomy and philosophy. As secretary and teacher, especially of poetry, for the Hebrew congregation in Rome, and possibly also as its physician, Immanuel was familiar with distinguished scholars and rabbis until, at age thirty-five, for financial reasons, he lost his position. He left Rome and began his wanderings through many Italian cities, presumably as a house-tutor for the children of wealthy Jewish families, visiting among others Ancona, Perugia, Orvieto, Fabriano, Fermo, Camerino, Gubbio and Verona.4 In this period he finished several Bible commentaries, among them works on Genesis, the Psalms, Proverbs, the Song of Solomon, Ruth, Esther, Job and the prophecy of Micah. In these commentaries Immanuel attempted to integrate Biblical exegesis into the development of a personal, philosophical understanding of the sacred texts.5 In 1321, by papal decree, all Jews in Rome were expelled from the city. In the same year Immanuel’s father-in-law was murdered under unknown circumstances and his parents, his wife and his son died. Nonetheless, soon after, he seemed to have returned to Rome to take up his earlier occupation as a secretary. A few years later, in 1328, he left Rome again and went to Fermo, where he stayed in the home of a local patron and wrote his most important work, the Mah.berot Immanuel (‘The Writings of Immanuel’), twenty-eight books of florid Hebrew, mixing rhymed prose with metrical poetry.6 The latter con3. J. A, ‘Immanuel of Rome’, Midstream 48 (2002) 16–19. 4. G. B, Dante, Verona e la cultura ebraica (Firenze 2004). 5. M. R, ‘The Haqdamah of Immanuel of Rome to the Book of Ruth’, in D.R. B (ed.), Approaches to Judaism in Medieval Times II (Chico,  1985) 169–184. 6. A.M. H (ed.), ‫( מחברות עמנואל‬The Writings of Immanuel) (Tel-Aviv 1947); D. Y (ed.), ‫( מחברות עמנואל הרומי‬The Writings of Immanuel of Rome)

 .  

205

sists of thirty-eight sonnets, which may constitute the first instances of the form written in a language other than Italian. Within the Jewish literary tradition, Immanuel was certainly the first to have written sonnets in Hebrew, and these constitute, as well, a high point in the genre.7 The sonnets follow and are divided into two main traditions. On the one hand, the dolce stil nuovo, with its emphasis on the abstract, spiritual aspects of love and on the beloved lady as a heavenly being, as exemplified in Dante’s Vita nova; and, on the other, the earthier, vulgar and cynical descriptions of love, religion and society found in the ‘comic-realist’ sonnets of the same period. It is above all as a result of the poems he wrote in this ‘style’ that Immanuel’s poetry has been looked at with suspicion by later generations.8 Just as interesting as his Hebrew sonnets are the sonnets Immanuel wrote in Italian. Typical of much vernacular poetry is that religious elements have been removed and that the power of love is cast in general terms. Immanuel shows this tendency in the following first quatrain of one of his only five surviving Italian sonnets: Amor non lesse mai l’avemaria; Amor non tenne mai legge nè fede; Amor è un cor, che non ode nè vede e non sa mai che misura si sia. Love never read the Ave Maria; Love never held law or faith; Love is a heart which does not see or hear and never knows what measure it is.

(Jerusalem 1957); D. Y, ‘‫‘( ’עיוני לשון ומליצה במחברות עמנואל‬Language and Eloquence in the Mah.berot ‘Immanuel’), Lešonenu 17 (1950–1951) 12–28, 145–172. 7. J. G-B, ‘La révolution prosodique d’Immanuel de Rome: signification de l’ introduction du sonnet’, Israel Oriental Studies 11 (1991) 161–186; D. B, ‘The Emergence of the Hebrew Sonnet’, Prooftexts 11 (1991) 231–239; D. B, ‫ הסונט העברי בתקופת הרינסאנס והבארוק‬.‫( שביל הזהב‬The Golden Way. The Hebrew Sonnet during the Renaissance and the Baroque) (Jerusalem 1995); D. B, ‫ סונטים עבריים מתקופת הרינסאנס והבארוק‬.‫( צרור הזיהובים‬A Bundle of Gold, Hebrew Sonnets from the Renaissance and Baroque (Jerusalem 1997); W.J.  B, ‘What is Hebrew in the Hebrew Sonnet? Hebrew Sonnets in Renaissance and Baroque Italy’, Frankfurter Judaistische Beiträge 27 (2000) 95–107. 8. M. V, ‘Immanuele Romano’, in Id. (ed.), Rimatori comico-realistici del Due e Trecento II (Torino 1956) 91–112.

206

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

In both his Hebrew and Italian sonnets Immanuel also develops the role for himself of the mal giudeo, the ‘bad Jew’, placing upon the narrator all the stereotypes attached to Jews and rejecting every form of religious and political authority, and in doing so also delivering a critique of Christian attitudes toward Jews. Here Immanuel is exploring his own ambivalent, complex, position: on the one hand, he is a Jew, and therefore a foreigner in Christian-Italian society, but on the other, he is one who has made the dominant Italian culture his own.9 This probably explains why he can take on different literary personæ and give them a voice, now serious, now scornful, in his poetry. In his Hebrew poetry, Immanuel of Rome tried to be both ‘ancient’ and ‘modern’. His familiarity with Ibero-Hebrew lexicographical and grammatical studies is obvious, and the vocabulary of the sonnets in the Mah.barot is largely taken from the Bible and Andalusian poetry. Biblical influence is prominent in the entire book. In the rhyming prose, Immanuel strove for a distinct literary category involving a collection of stories, called the maqāma (literally, ‘assembly’, ‘gathering’; the Hebrew term used as a translation or as an appellation is mah.beret, plural mah.barot), almost certainly elaborating upon the model of the Sefer Tah.kemoni (‘The Book of Tah. kemoni’, based on II Samuel 23:8), the masterpiece of the great Spanish-Jewish poet Yehudah al-H.arizi (1165–1225).10 For his part, al-H.arizi had borrowed the Hebrew maqāma from the Arabic example of Abū Muh.ammad al-Qāsim al-H . arīrī (1054–1122). Just as, in al-H . arizi, Arabic and Hebrew poetry had come together, so, thanks to Immanuel, the Hebrew tradition intermingled with Italian poetry in the Mah.barot. In Immanuel’s eyes, Spain was the country where the best Hebrew poetry was written. However, he renewed the tradition thanks to his alternation of rhyming prose with Hebraised Italian verse, as one may conclude from his adaption of the serventese, the canzone, the madri9. F. A, ‘Immanuel of Rome, alias Manoello Giudeo: The Poetics of Jewish Identity in Fourteenth-Century Italy’, Italica 75 (1998) 307–329. 10. S.D. G, ‘The Maqāma and the Mah.beret: A Chapter in the History of Literature and Society in the East’, Machbarot le-Sifrut 5/1 (1951) 26–40; The Tahkemoni of Judah al-Harizi (trans. V.E. R; Jerusalem 1973); M. H, ‘?‫ המשך או תמורה‬-- ‫ יהודה אלחריזי ועמנואל הרומי‬:‫‘( ’הבדיון ומעמדו במקאמה העברית‬The Status of Fiction in the Hebrew Maqama: Judah Alh.arizi and Immanuel of Rome’), Tarbiz. 67 (1998) 351–378; J -H . , ‫ חמשה פרקי מחורזים לאלחריזי‬:‫מסעי יהודה‬ (The Wanderings of Judah Alh.arizi: Five Accounts of his Travels,) (ed. J. Y & J. B; Jerusalem 2002).

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207

gal and, above all, the sonnet. He himself attached the greatest importance to the poetic parts of the Mah.barot, which were to him a kind of lyrical interludes, embedded in the larger narrative context. Immanuel’s greatest achievement is that he successfully adapted the Hebrew language to the expression of the controlled, secular, passion of the Italian sonnet in accordance with all its devices and conventions. The fusion of Hebrew and Italian poetic tradition is clearly observed in his application of two metrical forms, the quantitative meter of the Ibero-Hebraic shallem and the syllabic meter of the Italian endecasillabo.11 Most motifs are directly borrowed from contemporary Italian poetry: the elegy of the unhappily married woman shows signs of influence by Italian poets like Compagnetto da Prato or the poetess Compiuta Donzella; hymns about the calendar and the festivals of the year show clear similarity to the poetry of Folgore da San Gimignano. The Third Book of the Mah.barot is the best illustration of what has just been argued. This Megillat ha- H . esheq (‘The Scroll of Love’) appears to intersect with Dante’s Vita Nova in a number of ways, despite crucial differences and deliberate transformations. The Book starts with a conversation between Immanuel (as a fictitious hero) and his companion (who is defined as ‘the Prince’ and acts as a patron, admirer and occasional rival) about the poet’s latest failure in love. The patron proposes that Immanuel will seduce a very beautiful lady, wise, knowledgeable in the composition of poetry, and, above all, chaste. Therefore he does not believe that Immanuel will succeed. The poet accepts the bet and assures him that the power of his rhymes will win the day. He sends this lady (rather a girl who lives in a convent, parallel to the typical Italian motif of the lover and the nun!) ardent love letters and love poems, which she rejects, countering his verses with poems of her own and reaffirming her commitment to a life of chastity. With each letter Immanuel becomes more and more determined to win her over, addressing her with the title ‫‘( צביה‬gazelle’), the conventional code word for the beloved girl in Arabic and Hebrew love poetry, also to be associated with the lady or ‘Donna’ of the Italian sonneteers:

‫ְצ ִביָּה ְתַד ֶמּה ְב ִל ָבּהּ ְכּ ִאלּוּ‬ ‫ ְמעָֹנה ְמעָֹנהּ‬-‫ֲלי כֹל ְשׁ ֵמי ֵאל‬ ֵ‫ע‬ 11. A. B, ‘Sulla formazione dell’endecasillabo ebraico in Italia: Immanuel Romano’, La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 36 (1970) 51–58.

208

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ ‫ ֵחן‬-‫ְו ָלהּ ֵלב נְ בֹנִ ים וּבֹ ֵחן וּבוֹ‬ ‫ְו ֵלב ח ְשׁ ִקים ָט ֲחנָה ַב ַטּ ֲחנָה‬ ‫ְו ַת ְמ ִריא ְב ַשׁ ַחק ְו ִת ְשׂ ַחק ְל ִב ְכיִי‬ .‫וּבינִי ְל ֵבינָהּ ְל ֵבנָה‬ ֵ – ‫ְו ִת ְר ַחק‬ The gazelle imagines that her abode is beyond the abode of God. She has the heart of the intelligent, probing, with grace, but the heart of lovers she has crushed totally. She flies in heaven and laughs at my weeping, so distant—between me and her (a fence of) brick.

Finally, the lady ceases to resist the allure of his persuasive verse. When the patron is informed, he reveals in an angry voice that the lady is none other than his own stepsister, and he had faith in her vow of chastity. He compels the poet to compose a letter of admonition and renunciation, which makes the lady so ashamed and inconsolable that she ceases to eat and to drink, and then dies. In a concluding sonnet he bewails the exalted lady who is now his heavenly love; and he leaves his patron, renouncing his position as court poet.12 Equally striking is the Twenty-Eighth Book, the last Book of the Mah.barot, called Mah.beret ha-Tofet we-ha-‘Eden (‘The Book of Hell and Paradise’, Immanuel’s Hebrew Inferno e Paradiso), in which infernal scenes are imaginatively depicted and conversations are held between the poet and major figures from the Hebrew Bible.13 Among them is the prophet Daniel, in the biblical setting a Jew in the Babylonian exile and the recipient of apocalyptic visions, in post-biblical traditions also appearing as a heavenly figure. Daniel is at this time 12. D. P, ‫ ספרד ואיטליה‬:‫( חידוש ומסורת בשירתֿהחול העברית‬Change and Tradition in the [sic] Secular Poetry: Spain and Italy) (Jerusalem 1976); D. P, ‘Variety in Medieval Rhymed Narratives’, in J. H (ed.), Studies in Hebrew Narrative Art throughout the Ages (Scripta Hierosolymitana 27; Jerusalem 1978) 79–98; D. P, ‘Convention and Experience: Hebrew Love Poetry in Spain and Italy’, in Id., Hebrew Poetry of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Berkeley,  1991) 45–71. 13. Tophet and Eden (trans. with intr. and notes H. G; London 1921); D. F, ‘‫ לבחינת מעמדו של מעשה‬:‫מ"התופת" של דאנטה אל "התופת" של עמנואל‬ "‫‘( ’היצירה הלשונית ב"מחברות‬From the Inferno of Dante to the Inferno of Immanuel: A Study of Linguistic Creation in the Machberoth’), Bikkoret u-Parshanut 27 (1991) 19– 42; L’Inferno e il Paradiso, (ed. G. B; Florence 2000); E. K, ‘‫"התופת‬ ‫ידי "הקומדיה האלוהית" לדאנטי‬-‫ כפי שהיא מתפרשת על‬,‫‘( ’והעדן" לעמנואל הרומי‬HaTopheth we-ha-‘Eden of Immanuel of Rome, Explained by the Divina Commedia of Dante’), Ma‘of u-Ma‘aseh 6 (2000) 31–43.

 .  

209

also the name of Immanuel’s own protector Daniel da Gubbio, who apparently had just died at the time that Dante passed away. This Daniel guides the poet on his journey, showing him the punishments of Hell and introducing him to the illustrious inhabitants of Paradise. There is no evidence that Daniel is to be equated with Dante as well, but the composition of Mah.beret ha-Tofet we-ha-‘Eden is a clear indication of Immanuel’s deep admiration for Dante and one of the earliest testimonies to the rapid diffusion of Dante’s Commedia. In addition, a delightful illustration of how Immanuel appreciated the cosmopolitan taste of Dante’s protector is reflected in an Italian hymn of praise, a frottola ritmata of fifty-three strophes entitled Bisbidis or Bisbio (bisbiglio) di Manoello Giudeo a magnificentia di messer Cane de la Scala, written in celebration of the liberal, cultural and international atmosphere of the court of the Can Grande in Verona: Ch’Amor è ’n la sala – del Sir de la Scala: quivi senza ala – mi parea volare. Ch’io non mi credea – di quel ch’ i’ vedea, ma pur mi parea – in un gran mare stare. Baroni e marchesi – de tutti i paesi, gentili e cortesi – qui vedi arrivare. Quivi Astrologia – con Filosofia e di Teologia – udrai disputare. E quivi Tedeschi, – Latini e Franceschi, Fiammenghi e Ingheleschi – insieme parlare. E fanno un trombombe, – che par che rimbombe a guisa di trombe, – chi ’n pian vòl sonare. Chitarre e lïute – vïole e flaùti, voci alt’ ed agute – qui s’ odon cantare. Stututù ifiù ifiù ifiù – stututù ifiù ifiù ifiù stututù ifiù ifiù ifiù – tamburar, zuffolare. Love has found itself the home of the Lord della Scala: here you can fly without wings to the sky. Can I believe it? Do I see it? I become pure in a great sea. Barons and marquises from all over the country, folk and courtiers you will see arriving. Here you have astrology and philosophy, also theology, to be discussed.

210

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ Here you have Germans, Latins and French, Flemish and English, talking together. This causes a noisiness and an increasing tumult, like blowing a trumpet, reverberating. Guitar and lute, violin and flute, high and low sound of those who are singing. Stututu fiu fiu fiu, stututu fiu fiu fiu, stututu fiu fiu fiu, beating tambour and drum!

On the occasion of the death of both Daniel and Dante, Bosone da Gubbio addressed to Immanuel a consolatory sonnet, in which he linked together the two losses: E pianga dunque Manoel Giudeo: e prima pianga il suo proprïo danno, poi pianga ’l mal di questo mondo reo. Weep, then, weep, Jew Immanuel, weep first for your own sore loss, then weep for the grief that all of us have got!

Immanuel replied to Bosone in the same spirit in his sonnet: Io, che trassi le lagrime del fondo E ben può pianger cristiano e giudeo, e ciaschedun sedere ’n tristo scanno: pianto perpetüal m’ è fatto reo. I, who drew the tears from the depth: Well may Christian and Jew weep together, each sitting on the bench of mourning, continuous weeping has increased my distress.

Immanuel was an outstanding Jewish poet whose Italian creations circulated among Christian readers and whose Mah.barot were among the first Hebrew books printed in Italy, in 1491 in Brescia.14 However, by the middle of the sixteenth century, Italian Jewry considered the Mah.berot Immanuel too scabrous and they reckoned them among the forbidden literature. Moses da Rieti (1398 – post 1460), a 14. D. L, ‘Vi è un’ influenza della poesia ebraica sulla poesia italiana?’, in J. H, J. M-M & S. D S (eds.), Appartenenza e differenza: ebrei d’Italia e letteratura (Firenze 1998) 11–21.

 .  

211

rabbi and judge of the Jewish communities of Rieti, Rome, Perugia and Fabriano, and a well-known physician, wrote a long epic poem with the title Miqdash Me‘at. (‘The Lesser Sanctuary’), fashioned after Dante’s Commedia. In a special note, he denies Immanuel a place in heaven because of his daring love lyrics.15 Rabbi Joseph Karo (1488– 1575), the author of a famous and highly influential code of Jewish law, forbade people to read Immanuel’s book on the Sabbath. This meant that further printing of the book was delayed by two hundred years. Immanuel was to remain predominantly a celebrated, albeit episodic figure in the history of medieval Hebrew poetry.16 The illustrious example of his Hebrew poetry continued to thrive only incidentally, ultimately fusing with newer literary trends in Italy. Joseph Tzarfati (post 1470–1527), physician to Pope Pius II, was an admirer of Immanuel who wrote short lyrical love poems in the form of Italian octaves (ottava rima) in combination with the use of biblical Hebrew after the models of the Andalusian-Jewish poets.17 The Mantuan poet Jacob Frances (1615–1667) acknowledges the direct influence of Immanuel on his own extensive oeuvre of more than two hundred poems in various Italian forms (sonnet, terzina, ottava rima), most of them love poems of a highly satirical nature.18 It is entirely proper that in one of Jacob Frances’ poems Immanuel of Rome is honoured as ‫‘( קיסר החרזנים‬The emperor of poets’)!

15. A. G, ‘Mosheh de Rieti (e-e siècle), philosophe, scientifique et poète’, Revue des Études Juives 158 (1999) 577–586. 16. A. S, ‘Les troubadours et la tradition poétique hébraïque en Italie et en Provence. Les cas de Abraham ha-Bedarshi & Immanuel ha-Romi’, in A. T (ed.), Le rayonnement des troubadours (Amsterdam/Atlanta,  1998) 133–142. 17. D. A, ‘‫‘( ’י"ד שירי אהבים ליוסף צרפתי‬Fourteen Love Poems by Joseph Zarfati’), in T. R & A. H (eds.), ‫מחקרים בספרות העברית בימי הביניים‬ ‫ מוגשים לפרופ' יונה דוד‬,‫( ובתקופת הרנסנס‬Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Hebrew Literature, Presented to Prof. Yonah David) (Te‘udah 19; Tel-Aviv 2002) 329–339. 18. J F, ‫( כל שירי יעקב פראנסיש‬The Poems of Jacob Frances [1615– 1667]) (ed. P. N; Jerusalem 1969).

212

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ APPENDIX

MAJOR WORK: Mah.berot ‘Immanuel (circa 1330) Manuscripts:  Paris, Bibliothèque de Sorbonne 1286 (14th century);  Cambridge University Library Add 402 (14th century);  London, British Museum 1002 (14th–15th centuries);  Parma 2306–1 =  De Rossi 1050–1 (14th–15th centuries);  Parma 2445 (1445);  Parma 3526 (=  Zalman Stern, 1476),  Parma 647 (late 15th century?);  Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale hébr. 1287 (16th century?). Editions: Brescia 1491, edited by Gershom S; Constantinople 1535, edited by Eliezer S; Berlin 1796, edited by Isaac S; Lemberg 1870, edited by Michel W & Jona W; Tel-Aviv 1950, edited by Abraham Meir H. Editions of Mah.beret ha-Tofet we-ha-‘Eden: Prague 1613; Frankfurt am Main 1713; Berlin 1769; Berlin 1778; Berlin 1922, edited by Eliezer G; Berlin 1926, edited by Chaim (Heinrich) B. Italian Sonnets – Manuscripts: Vaticano Latino Barberiniano 3953: 128, 181; Casanatense 433, fol. 89–90, 123–124; Giuntina-Galvani, Bologna Universitaria 1289; Trivulziano 1050; Napoli  C 9. Editions of Italian Sonnets: Mario M, Poeti giocosi del tempo di Dante (Milano 1956) 315–327; Santorre D, ‘I sonetti volgari di Immanuele Romano’, in Id., Studi Filologici (con una nota di Cesare S; Milano 1986) 9–18. Standard edition: Mah.beroth ‘Immanuel ha-Romi / The Cantos of Immanuel of Rome, edited by Dov Y (Jerusalem 1957). Editions in translation: ‘Six Poems from the “Mahberoth” – Immanuel of Rome’, translated into English by Allen M, Commentary 11 (1951) 82–84; L’Inferno e il Paradiso di Immanuello Romano, translated into Italian by Giorgio B (Firenze 2000).

 Philosophy and Kabbalah in the Eighteenth Century Moses Hayyim Luzzatto, Commentator of Maimonides   I I the first half of the eighteenth century, a brilliant school of Kabbalah blossomed in Italy. 1,2 Its representatives devoted themselves to the interpretation and dissemination of the teachings of Isaac Luria, the Master of Safed, often by comparing and contrasting them with those of Moses Cordovero. Some went beyond exegesis and developed original doctrines. This was the case for Moses Hayyim Luzzatto (‫רמח"ל‬, 1707–1746). In the ‘Adolescent of Padua’ Hayyim Nahman Bialik describes Luzzatto as ‘the man of opposites’.3 He highlights the plethora of domains in which Luzzatto excelled: a playwright and poet, Luzzatto was also ‘a logician, a mystic and a visionary’ endowed with a ‘clear mind’. He was capable of ‘swimming valiantly in the sea of the Talmud’ and ‘plunging into the depths of Kabbalah’. In Bialik’s opinion, the association of such a wide range of talents in one single individual was far from contradictory: ‘all these opposites became united in Luzzatto’s heart, the Adolescent of Padua’. 1. See also the chapter on ‘Luzzatto and Maimonides’ in my book, Moise Hayyim Luzzatto (1707–1746). Kabbale et philosophie (Paris 2004) 205–210. This chapter also examines other facets of the relationship between the two thinkers, in particular the question of divine attributes. In other parts of the books, I deal with Maimonides’ theory of prophecy and compare it to Luzzatto’s. The first monography on Luzzatto was published by S. G: The Life and Works of Moses Hayyim Luzzatto, Founder of Modern Hebrew Literature (Philadelphia,  1931). 2. This position aims at qualifying Moshe I’s assessment. He considers this period of transition between the flowering of Sabbateanism and the rise of Hasidism to be less creative than other times in the history of Kabbalah. See his preface to H, Moise Hayyim Luzzatto. 3. Ch.N. Bialik, ‫ ביאליק‬.‫נ‬.‫( כל כתבי ח‬Opera Omnia) (Tel Aviv 1936) 135–136. In his portrait of Luzzatto, Bialik does not mention his role as an ethical writer, the author of the famous Mesillat Yesharim (translated alternatively as The Path of the Upright or The Way of the Righteous).

214

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

The originality of Luzzatto and his works lies in the alliance he forged between disciplines that are typically considered to be competing, or even incompatible: logic, the instrument of rational thought, the royal road of philosophy, and Kabbalah, considered to be ‘prophetic wisdom’ by its proponents, ‘irrational’ by its detractors, and a ‘mystical experience’ by modern scholarship.4 Luzzatto also stands out for the stances he took in the controversies which marked this period in modern Jewish history. One of the best known of these involved the repercussions of the messianic doctrine of Sabbatai Zevi in Jewish intellectual circles in Italy. Luzzatto’s special connection to the Sabbatean movement has attracted the attention of specialists, who have debated to what extent he adhered to this movement, rekindling the debate which led to his persecution during his lifetime.5 By contrast, the controversy in Italy over the works of Maimonides in the first decades of the eighteenth century has often been neglected. An exploration of this debate, however, can shed light on a key page in the history of the strained relationships between Kabbalah, and philosophy or ‘rational inquiry’ (‫)חקירה‬. 1. T M   I As far back as the nineteenth century, these relationships were seen as a conflict where Maimonides played a major role.6 Such eminent historians and philosophers as Heinrich Graetz, David Neumark and Franz Rosenzweig saw the rise of Kabbalah as a direct reaction to the tenets set out by the author of the Guide of the Perplexed.7 Despite criticism of this stance by Scholem and his followers, this view is 4. J. H, ‘La cabale ou la pensée du judaisme’, Cahiers du judaïsme 6 (Winter 1999–2000) 44–60, in the special report on ‘Philosophy and Mysticism’ co-authored with J. B. 5. Luzzatto’s alleged Sabbateanism has been discussed at length. See I. T, ‘‫‘( ’יחסו של ר' משה חיים לוצאטו אל השבתאות‬M.H. Luzzatto’s Relationship to Sabbateanism’), in id., ‫ מסות ומחקרים בספרות הקבלה והשבתאות‬:‫( נתיבי אמונה ומינות‬The Ways of Faith and Heresy) (Ramat Gan 1964) 169–185; M. B, ‫כתבי הקבלה של רמח"ל‬ (M.H. Luzzatto’s Kabbalistic Writings) (Jerusalem 1979) 142–143; E. C, ‘Redemption and Persecution in the Eyes of Moses Hayyim Luzzatto and his circle’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research LIV (Jerusalem 1987) 1–29 and id., R. Moshe Hagiz: The Rabbinate and the Pursuit of Heresy in the late 17th– early 18th centuries (New York 1990). 6. See M. I, Maimonide et la mystique juive (trans. C. M; Paris 1991). 7. All references to the Guide of the Perplexed are taken from S. P’ English translation (Chicago 1963).

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backed by a number of sources. As of the twelfth century, Kabbalists took part in the anti-Maimonidean debate, alongside decisionmakers such as Nissim of Gerona and philosophers such as Isaac Albalag and H.asdai Crescas. In addition, the dominant trend in Kabbalah, the so-called ‘theosophical’ school, was vigorously opposed to Maimonides. One of the main criticisms put forward by his adversaries was his Aristotelian interpretation of the ‘Account of the Beginning’8 (‫ )מעשה בראשית‬and the ‘Account of the Chariot’ (‫)מעשה מרכבה‬. The claim that Jewish esotericism had been lost was also high on the anti-Maimonidean charge sheet. Nevertheless, in contrast to their hostility to his philosophical works, prominent Kabbalists acknowledged Maimonides’ greatness as the author of the Mishneh Torah and as a master in halakhic issues. Some invented the legend that he became a Kabbalist at the end of his life, even claiming that he recanted his philosophical beliefs.9 The Maimonidean controversy that flared up in medieval times experienced a revival in the first half of the eighteenth century. Joseph Ergas, a major representative of Italian Kabbalah and an interpreter of Lurianic Kabbalah, was one of the main proponents in this debate. In his Shomer Emunim10 he reproduces the claims made by his predecessors:11 •

Maimonides was wrong to identify the ‘mysteries of the Torah’ (‫ )סתרי תורה‬with the philosophy of Aristotle; namely, the ‘Account of the Beginning’ (‫ )מעשה בראשית‬with his physics, and the ‘Account of the Chariot’ (‫ )מעשה מרכבה‬with his metaphysics.

•

He was also wrong to have explained these ‘accounts’ on the sole basis of his intellect—on a ‘conjecture and supposition’— and not on ‘tradition’ (‫—)קבלה‬on a divine revelation or the teachings of a master.12

•

One cannot accept his statement that the meaning of the ‘Account of the Beginning’ and the ‘Account of the Chariot’ was

8. According to P’ translation. Alternatively, ‘Account of Creation’. 9. I, Maimonide, 31–32, n. 6, which refers to the classic works by Scholem on this topic. 10. Joseph b. Immanuel Ergas, ‫( שומר אמונים‬Jerusalem 1965). 11. Ibid., 8–12. 12. Ergas refers to Maimonides’ statements in the introduction to Part III of the Guide, 415–416.

216

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ lost in the second century , shortly after the time of the Tannaim.

In addition, Ergas fully endorsed the legend of Maimonides’ conversion to Kabbalah, relating, amongst other things, the version provided by Don Isaac Abrabanel:13 ‘At the end of my life, a man came to tell me words full of meaning. I had come to the end of my life and my works were already known throughout the world, or else I would have corrected many things which are written in them.’ For Abrabanel, as quoted by Ergas, there was no doubt that these late teachings were Kabbalistic. As a prime link in the ‘chain’ of Kabbalah and a contemporary of Ergas, Luzzatto was highly familiar with the thrust of the arguments his peers were leveling against Maimonides. The tenet of the superiority of a prophetic source over the purely natural resources of human reasoning—the ‘conjecture and supposition’ mentioned by the author of the Guide—was an accepted fact. Any identification of the foundational accounts with Aristotelian physics and metaphysics was entirely foreign to him. As a heartfelt Kabbalist he could not believe in the loss of the ‘mysteries of the Torah’. In general, Luzzatto devoted himself in his writings to a ‘defense and illustration’ of Kabbalah, using logic to clarify its apparent contradictions as found in the Zohar and above all in the Lurianic writings. All this should have made Luzzatto a fierce adversary of Maimonides. However, in his writings he does not take up any of the weapons the Kabbalistic tradition used against the author of the Guide. Instead of placing himself on the level of polemics, Luzzatto engaged in a fruitful dialogue with Maimonides’ works. The quotations and references to Maimonides’ texts which are found in his writings testify to this. By situating them within Luzzatto’s works and by analyzing both their style and their content, we can evaluate the way in which Maimonidean thought contributed to the elaboration of his Kabbalistic doctrine as regards two key complementary points: the definition of the divine (‫ )אלוהות‬which is the focus of Kabbalah; and the prophetic nature of knowledge which makes it possible to grasp some features of the divine.

13. Isaac Abrabanel, ‫נחלת אבות‬, end of chapter 3.

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217

2. K,      The fact that Luzzatto based himself openly on the writings of Maimonides is, in itself, extremely unusual. Unlike his contemporaries Ergas and Aviad Sar Shalom, whose writings are replete with Kabbalistic and even philosophical references,14 Luzzatto rarely gives quotations. The type of references he makes to Maimonides in his books is also striking. Whereas both writers produced works on logic, there is no reference to Maimonides’ Millot ha-Higgayon (‘The Treatise on Logic’) in the Sefer ha-Higgayon (‘The Book of Logic’15) that Luzzatto wrote in Amsterdam around 1740. By contrast, there are extremely significant references to Maimonides in his doctrinal works, in particular those where circumstances forced him to present his Kabbalistic thought in an implicit fashion. This is the case for Da‘at Tevunot, a dialogue between the ‘intellect’ (‫ )שכל‬and the ‘soul’ (‫)נשמה‬.16 This book was written after 1730, the year that was a turning point in Luzzatto’s life and works. In an attempt to put an end to accusations of Sabbateanism that weighed heavily on his work, he made a solemn commitment that drastically restricted his Kabbalistic activity. Starting in 1727, Luzzatto claimed to have been the recipient of the revelations of a celestial envoy (‫)מגיד‬ who dictated ‘new commentaries’ to him on the Zohar, enabling him to fulfill the messianic mission assigned to him by finishing the work that Rabbi Simeon bar Yoh.ai had begun. In his vow before the rabbinic authorities of Venice in July 1730, he promised he would no longer write works using the structure and language of the Zohar.17 From then on, his writings fall into two categories: the ‘new writings’ (‫ )חיבורים חדשים‬written before 1730, and the commentaries (‫)פירושים‬ which he would now write exclusively using Hebrew and limiting 14. Aviad Sar Shalom quotes Descartes in his Emunat H . akhamim (Mantua 1730), which shows that the writings of the philosopher circulated in Jewish intellectual circles in Italy, including Kabbalists. 15. An English translation by D. S and C. T was published as The Book of Logic (Jerusalem 1995). 16. Da‘at Tevunot (Bnei Brak 1983). Cf. also The Knowing Heart (trans. S. S; Jerusalem 1982). The translation of certain key terms has been modified here for purposes of overall clarity. 17. See C. M, ‘Le judéo-araméen tardif, langue de la Cabale théosophique’ Cahiers du judaïsme 6 (Winter 1999–2000) 4–14, esp. 13, where he presents a passage from the Zohar Tinyana (Second Zohar), one of the rare fragments of Luzzatto’s Zoharic writings that has come down to us.

218

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himself to interpreting the teachings of others.18 In fact, the borderline between these two types of writings remains blurred. Luzzatto never stopped innovating, and suffered the consequences of exile and exclusion until the end of his life. Da‘at Tevunot belongs to this second period, where Luzzatto continued to elaborate his Kabbalistic doctrine while being careful not to use the terminology characteristic of the ‘science of truth’. It can be classified among the Kabbalistic writings of Luzzatto which are considered ‘doctrinal’ or ‘theoretical’ (‫)עיוניים‬, as opposed to the ‘Zoharic’ 19 writings. Like other books, in particular H . oqer u-Mequbbal, Da‘at Tevunot belongs to a genre known as ‘debates’ (‫)ויכוחים‬. Nevertheless, the polemical tone of the exchange between the intellect and the soul remains secondary. In Da‘at Tevunot, the presentation of the principles of Kabbalah is not meant to defend it from the criticism of its detractors. Rather, the debate between the protagonists takes it starting point in general issues concerning the meaning of the foundations of Judaism as well as the existence of evil and its manifestations in the history of the world. Although few in number, Luzzatto’s references to Maimonides have a strategic place in the economy of Da‘at Tevunot. Far from being marginal, they often appear in the preliminary stages of the debate, in passages that serve as premises to the exchanges between the intellect and the soul. When grappling with problems raised by the soul, the intellect reformulates them to better highlight the stakes they involve. It then suggests to its debating partner a statement or a definition which acts as a ‘premise’ (‫ )הקדמה‬which they use as a basis of minimal agreement enabling them to pursue the debate. The style Luzzatto uses to talk about Maimonides also places their relationship in a realm beyond polemics. Luzzatto confers upon him the titles of ‘great Sage’ or ‘great master’ (‫)הרב הגדול‬, and ‘the greatest of writers’ (‫)המיוחד שבמחברים‬. In contrast to R. Moses Cordovero, who termed Maimonides a ‘divine philosopher’ (‫)חוקר אלוהי‬, Luzzatto neither uses the term ‫ חוקר‬nor ‫פילוסוף‬. One might presume that he rejects the philosophical facets of the works of Maimonides, by limiting himself to acknowledging his greatness as a halakhic decision-maker. 18. The distinction between ‫ חיבורים חדשים‬and ‫ פירושים‬appears in ‫רבי משה חיים‬ ‫ אסף אגרות ותעודות‬.‫( לוצטו ובני דורו‬Moses Hayyim Luzzatto and his Contemporaries. Collection of Letters and Documents ) (ed. S. G; Tel Aviv 1937) letter 81. 19. Published as ‫( מאמר הויכוח‬Bne Brak 1986). Cf. Le Philosophe et le cabaliste (trans. with introd. and notes by J. H; Lagrasse 1991).

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219

However, this is not the case: the references he makes to Maimonides’ writings are primarily taken from the Guide of the Perplexed, as well as philosophical passages from the Mishneh Torah. The first quotation that appears in Da‘at Tevunot deals with the notion of ‘overflow’ (‫)שפע‬, which the intellect presents to the soul as a ‘completely general and fundamental premise’: You must know that all that possesses being or existence does so only by virtue of the Blessed One’s overflow […] the former being in direct correlation with the latter […]. The concept was well explained by the great sage, Maimonides, of blessed memory, in his Guide of the Perplexed, in many chapters of the second section, including the tenth. This concept is illustrated by the overflow of the stars […] These, however, act only according to the powers invested in them by the Creator, and exert overflow only within the bounds of what they received from Him, for He is the source of all overflow. It is in this respect that he interprets: They have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, the Lord20[…] The overall idea according to Maimonides is that when it is clear that He is incorporeal and it has been established that all works are His, we may speak of the world as originating in His overflow, and of His overflow as giving rise to all that occurs in it. Similarly we speak of God as overflowing of His wisdom.21

In the passages of the Guide which Luzzatto refers to, Maimonides deals with divine overflow which descends from above, connecting all the degrees of reality to each other, the separate intellects to the body of the spheres, and from there to the bodies of the sublunary world subjected to the rule of ‘generation and corruption’. In response to this neo-platonic cosmological representation, Luzzatto gives it a clearly Kabbalistic twist by retaining two features: God is the sole source from which overflow descends and which gives life; it is necessary to establish a balance between the source of divine overflow and its recipient. As regards the question of divine unity, the unique source of divine overflow, Luzzatto agrees fully with Maimonides. Like him, he states that ‘God, the holy one blessed be He, is the source of all emanation’. Nevertheless, to grasp the implications of this formulation for 20. Jer 17:13. See Guide II, 12. 21. The Knowing Heart, 143–145; Da‘at Tevunot, 86, § 100. In the quotation above, the translation has been modified by systematically replacing the word ‘providence’ with the word ‘overflow’, which is used by S. P in his translation of the Guide of the Perplexed and which better reflects the terms ‫( שפע‬in the quotations from the Guide) or ‫( השפעה‬in the quotations from the works by Luzzatto).

220

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Luzzatto, we need to examine Qela˝h. Pith.ei Hokhmah (The 138 Gates of Science).22 This key work starts with the principle of unity (‫)יחוד‬, the cornerstone of his Kabbalistic doctrine. True to his logical method that consists of making ‘distinctions’ (‫)הבחנות‬, Luzzatto differentiates two features: ‘unity of existence’ (‫ )יחוד המציאות‬and ‘unity of the will’ (‫)יחוד הרצון‬. Unity of existence derives from the fact that ‘the supreme will, whose existence is necessary, is the sole source of everything that exists and has been made in the world, of all the creatures and all the works’.23 Luzzatto then adds a second feature that he believes to be even more decisive: unity of the will, the fact that the ‘supreme will’ alone governs the world and history. For Luzzatto, the ‘direction’ (‫ )הנהגה‬exercised by the ‘supreme will’ shapes the course of history in its entirety, including all the events and turns that have marked it, towards a single end which consists of the reparation (‫ )תיקון‬of Evil and its ‘return toward the Good’. This is what prompts him to define Kabbalah as the ‘science of direction’ (‫)חכמת ההנהגה‬: ‘in its specifics, this science makes direction known, with all its laws and conditions’.24 Thus, unity, as Luzzatto defines it, is not only an ontological tenet— the source of all existence or a theological notion—it does not only mean that the existence of God is necessary. It is also endowed with an ethical and historiosophical meaning.25 In accordance with his definition of Kabbalah, Luzzatto concentrates on the prerequisites for the exercise of the divine direction of the world. This leads him to emphasise, in his commentary on Maimonides’ writings, the interdependence of divine emanation and the creature receiving this emanation. If creatures only exist by virtue of 22. (Jerusalem 1992). 23. Ibid., first petah. or gate. 24. Ibid. 25. The term ‘historiosophy’ was formulated by Józef H-W, a Polish mathematician who was a refugee in France. He published a book entitled Philosophie absolue de l’histoire ou genèse de l’humanité. Historiosophie ou science de l’histoire (Paris 1852). The term is often used to designate the philosophy of history—the overall vision of universal history—present, in particular, in the works of Hegel and Schelling. Jacob G (1896-1947), a philosopher, scholar, and initiator of the revival of Jewish thought in France after the Holocaust, completely redefined the term ‘historiosophie’ by using it to examine the history of Israel on the basis of Jewish sources (Bible, Talmud, Midrash, Kabbalah). See J. G, ‘Simon Doubnov et la philosophie de l’histoire’ (1934), in Écrits. Le renouveau de la pensée juive en France (Paris 1995) 273–287. This is how the term is used here.

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221

this influx, this influx cannot surpass the necessarily limited capacities of the recipient. This is one of the key principles in Luzzatto’s Kabbalah: ‘gradation’ (‫)הדרגה‬. Luzzatto, in his explanation of the causes of the tzimtzum, attributes it to the finite nature of creatures that require a gradual divine action, carried out ‘little by little’, in stages modeled after human action. He associates the sefirot with different degrees and modalities of divine action that play a role in the creation of the world as well as in its direction. Luzzatto’s commentary on Maimonides’ thought may suggest that he intended to emphasise both its scope and its limitations. Although the philosopher was aware of the principle of divine emanation, the source of all beings, he made no reference to the law of ‘gradation’, which governs both the creation and the divine direction of the world. Maimonides thus only had general knowledge of divine action, and was unaware of its ‘details’—its ‘degrees’ and ‘modalities’. One might presume that Luzzatto would merely adopt Cordovero’s opinion of philosophers; namely, that they were unable to go beyond simple Unity. However, the relationship between Luzzatto and Maimonides is more complex. This emerges from two texts, one from Da‘at Tevunot and the other from Kelalim Rishonim, a work in which Luzzatto translates the tenets he presents in his dialogue between the soul and the intellect into the language of Kabbalah: a) The Intellect: The great master, Maimonides, of blessed memory, dealt with the term yalad (to bear) applied in Scripture to situations related to the bearing of children:26 ‘the word “to bear” was used figuratively to designate the bringing to existence of natural things. Thus: Before the mountains were brought forth27… It was likewise used figuratively with reference to happenings within thoughts and the opinion and doctrines that they entail. Thus it says And bore falsehood28 and And they please themselves in the children of strangers, that is, they are content with their opinions.29 This term and all terms similar to it can be used figuratively in respect to thought. That is, just as something which has been originated can be referred to as having been born, in the same way, something in a state of potentiality awaiting fruition can be referred to by the term “conception” as illustrated by Scripture itself He conceived deceit and bore falsehood.30 For whatever can have 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

Guide I, 7, p. 32. Ps 90:2. Ps 7:15. Isa 2:6. Ps 7:15.

222

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ the one term attributed to it can likewise have attributed to it all of its aspects’.31

b) [The] terms copulation (‫)זיווג‬, gestation (‫ )עיבור‬and birth (‫ )לידה‬apply to all things to the extent that they proceed one from the other like effect from cause.32

In the first text, taken from Da‘at Tevunot, the Intellect, drawing on Maimonides, puts forward a postulate that it judges ‘very evident … for all those who are versed in the demonstrative sciences’ (‫חכמות‬ ‫)מופתיות‬. The Intellect refers to the Guide, once again quoting Maimonides’ explanation of the term ‫ילד‬. Sticking to the method used in the first part of his work, the latter starts from the literal meaning, where the term applies to procreation, to rise to the figurative level, where it applies first to ‘natural things’, then to spiritual things—‘to happenings within thoughts and the opinion and doctrines that they entail’. Thus ‫ ילד‬becomes a metaphor used to designate ‘the birth of thoughts’ or their transition from potentials to actions. In Kelalim Rishonim, Luzzatto uses Maimonides’ commentary by reformulating it in Kabbalistic categories. The ‘spiritual things’ are no longer associated with ‘thoughts’ engendered by the mind, but rather with ‘lights’ (‫ )אורות‬and ‘measures’ (‫)מידות‬, in other words, with the sefirot. Once again, Luzzatto feels it is crucial to further clarify the modalities and details of the divine direction. This is why he concentrates on the nature of the links between the sefirot. By employing the term ‫ילד‬, he attempts to show that these relationships are neither accidental nor arbitrary. For instance he describes the lineage that connects the sefirot: they are linked to each other, and ‘proceed from one another like cause and effect, from the general principle (‫ )כלל‬to the detail (‫’)פרט‬. This order, which governs the sequence of the sefirot, is the direct expression of ‘gradation’. Luzzatto’s agreement with Maimonides on the subject of the divine is thus apparently not restricted to principles; it also extends to detailed knowledge of ‘direction’. One could, nevertheless, justify an alternative argument: while accepting the fact that the relationship of the Kabbalist to the philosopher is not situated on the level of polemics, it could be defined as purely instrumental. Luzzatto could be suspected of only attributing value to those components of Maimo31. Da‘at Tevunot, 133, § 140; The Knowing Heart, 221. 32. Kelalim Rishonim, published in the same volume as Da‘at Tevunot (see n. 16 above) § 22.

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223

nides’ doctrine which are useful to his objective of clarification and explanation of Kabbalah. Certainly Luzzatto used all the means at his disposal to prove the superiority of Kabbalah, by showing that it was ‘the highest of the sciences’.33 Nevertheless, this explanation, which minimises the positive side of his relationship to Maimonides, is insufficient. Proof of the depth of this relationship can clearly be seen in another excerpt from Da‘at Tevunot:34 … The Blessed one willed and made the generality of qualities interrelated with each other, so that the completion of one factor would require the assistance of the other, to the degree and extent necessary….There is a profound wisdom in this subject of interrelationships, the knowledge of the conjunction of all the aspects of His ordinance, as links on a chain, one inserted in the other. And Maimonides, of blessed memory, says in his Guide of the Perplexed35 ‘all my goodness36 alludes to the display to him of all existing things […]. By their display, I mean that he will apprehend their nature and the way they are mutually connected so that he will know how He governs them in general and in detail’.

The parallel between Luzzatto’s arguments and those of Maimonides is striking. They also are related to the type of connection which links the degrees and characteristics of divine direction, and to the fact that they are intertwined. 4. K    The similarity in the stances of Luzzatto and Maimonides concerning the divine also extends to their definition of the type of knowledge that enables the individual to grasp it. Like Maimonides, Luzzatto affirms the superiority of prophecy. It is, in his view, the source of the ‘science of the divine’, which he designates as Kabbalah. His theory of prophecy is comparable on many points with the model found in the Guide of the Perplexed. For Maimonides, divine emanation, which produced the world, also engendered prophecy: Inasmuch as it had been demonstrated that He is not a body and had been established that the universe is an act of His and that He is its efficient cause […], it has been said that the world derives from the 33. 34. 35. 36.

See his statements in Ma’amar ha-Wiqquah., 38, 40, 55, 62. Da‘at Tevunot, 160, § 56; The Knowing Heart, 267. Guide I, 54, p. 124. Ex 33:19.

224

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ overflow of God and that He has caused to overflow of it everything in it that is produced in time. In the same way, it is said that He caused His knowledge to overflow to the prophets.37

Luzzatto also defines prophecy as ‘a kind of influx, an engraved cognition, which is not subject to doubt and which does not demand reflection or empirical reinforcement’.38 This prophetic ‘path’ differs clearly from ‘what human knowledge perceives in a natural fashion’. The manner of their perception, however, does not correspond to the natural, intellectual perception of man, but their perception is a kind of influx, an engraved cognition, which is not subject to doubt and which does not demand reflection or empirical reinforcement. And there is etched in their hearts, likewise, the knowledge whereby they will unravel the vision and the riddle, and whereby they will perceive what the Creator reveals to them.39

Luzzatto takes up this line of reasoning in Derekh ha-Shem,40 a work that dates, like his manuals on logic, to the Amsterdam period —around 1740—when Kabbalah, although present in his books, became implicit. He assigns identical attributes to the degree of ‘divine inspiration’ (‫ )רוח הקודש‬which precedes prophecy, and is now inaccessible. Once again, he proclaims the superiority of ‘emanated knowledge’ (‫ )השכלה נשפעת‬over ‘natural knowledge’ (‫)השכלה טבעית‬: Emanated knowledge consists of an overflow granted by God through various particular means especially prepared for this purpose. When this overflow reaches an individual mind, certain information becomes fixed in it. He perceives this knowledge clearly, without any doubt or error, and knows it completely, with all its propositions and corollaries, as well as its place in the general scheme. This is called Divine inspiration (Ruach Ha Kodesh). In this manner, one can gain knowledge of things otherwise accessible to human reason, but in a much clearer way … On the other hand, one can also gain information that could not be otherwise gained through logic alone. This includes such things as information concerning future events and hidden mysteries.41

37. Guide II, 12, p. 279. 38. Da‘at Tevunot, 90; The Knowing Heart, 331. 39. Ibid. 40. Part 3, ch. 4, §§ 1 and 2. Cf. The Way of God (trans. & annot. A. K; Jerusalem/New York 1988). The issues of ‘divine inspiration’ (‫ )רוח הקודש‬and ‘prophecy’ (‫ )נבואה‬are discussed in Part III, chapters 3, 4 and 5. 41. The Way of God, 205.

 

225

The divine overflow which infuses in the prophet’s soul makes him capable, in particular, of grasping the crucial distinction between divine essence and actions with a degree of clarity that cannot be achieved naturally. Like Maimonides, Luzzatto claims that prophetic revelation cannot be transmitted directly, and that it is perceived in a vision, through allegories (‫ )משלים‬and images (‫)דמיונות‬. As the Kabbalist states in the debate opposing him to the philosopher: ‘It is a rule of prophecy not to show the divine glory directly, but rather through images and visions’.42 These images and visions are the ‘garments’ (‫ )לבושים‬and the ‘enigmas’ (‫ )חידות‬that simultaneously reveal and conceal. Thus, it is through ‘prophetic allegories’ that the divine makes itself known to the prophets, while at the same time concealing His innermost thoughts. The superiority of prophecy, its certitude and its clarity, are all due to the simultaneity with which the prophet grasps the allegory and its meaning. On this subject, Luzzatto refers explicitly to Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah in Qela˝h. Pith.ei H . okhmah, his Kabbalistic masterpiece, as well as in Da‘at Tevunot: This was stated by Maimonides, 43 of blessed memory: ‘prophecy comes to the prophet by way of allegory, the meaning of the allegory being immediately etched into the heart along with the prophetic vision, so that he knows what it purports’.44

For Luzzatto, prophetic images and allegories are the products of the divine emanation which spreads throughout the soul of the prophet, and more particularly, in his imagination (‫)הדמיון המתדמה‬. On this point he agrees with Maimonides, who includes perfection of the imaginative faculty as one of the conditions for prophecy: ‘If […] the overflow reaches both faculties—I mean both the rational and the imaginative—[…] and if the imaginative faculty is in a state of ultimate perfection owing to its natural disposition, this is the class of prophets.’45 The association of imagination and intellect is what differentiates the prophet from the philosopher and makes him superior. However, the two thinkers differ considerably in their assessment of the status and value of imagination. While acknowledging its function in mediating transmission between the divine and the prophet, 42. 43. 44. 45.

Ma’amar ha-Wiqquah., 60. Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, h. Yesodei ha-Torah 7:3. Da‘at Tevunot, 90; The Knowing Heart, 331. Guide II, 37, p. 374.

226

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Maimonides gives imagination a secondary role. For him, the divine overflow spreads ‘through the intermediation of the Active intellect, toward the rational faculty in the first place and thereafter, toward the imaginative faculty’.46 By contrast, Luzzatto gives imagination the prime role. It is the medium by which the divine, purely spiritual overflow comes into a representational mode, becoming accessible to the human spirit. The divine revelation must be perceived by the imagination and represented in the form of images and allegories for the intellect to accomplish its task of interpretation. This divergence between Luzzatto and Maimonides on the issue of imagination is manifest in the way they see the prophecy of Moses. For Maimonides, this exceptional case incarnates the ideal of a purely intellectual communication with the divine. In the case of Moses, the Active intellect emanates solely to Moses’ mind, without putting his imagination into play. The descriptions in the Mishneh Torah testify to the purely intellectual nature of the Mosaic prophecy. In the introduction to Pereq H . eleq, Maimonides states that there was no ‘veil’ between God and Moses that was not ‘torn’. In this way, the ‘forces of the imagination and the senses were absent from his perceptions, his force of desire was silenced and what remained was pure intelligence’. While also acknowledging the uniqueness of Moses and his prophecy, Luzzatto takes a less radical position than Maimonides. Even in the case of Moses, the imagination still retains a role. Given the absolute impossibility of apprehending the divine in His essence, one can only have indirect knowledge through the intermediary of images. Moses’ superiority does not lie, as Maimonides argues, in the purely intellectual nature of his prophecy. Rather it consists of a privilege described in ancient Jewish sources: the prophetic image he saw was reflected by a ‘polished mirror’ (‫ )אספקלריה מצוחצחת‬and not a ‘besmirched mirror’ as for the other prophets, thus giving him a clear perception of the full extent of what the human mind can grasp of the divine. This difference reveals much about the entirely positive role the Kabbalists assigned to the imagination. Far from being the capricious faculty of error and illusion, or the servant of reason, imagination is the indispensable mediator without which knowledge of the divine cannot reach the prophet or the Kabbalist desirous to be its heir. The simultaneity with which the prophet grasps the image or

46. Ibid., II, 36 and p. 369; II, 38.

 

227

the allegory and its meaning shows that imaginative perception is in fact a mode of knowledge in its own right. 5. C Luzzatto’s relationship to Maimonides testifies to a real proximity, but an uncompromising one. Luzzatto could not adhere to the cosmological aspects of the Maimonidean doctrine. He also recognised the difference in background between a philosophy inspired by Aristotelian or neo-aristotelian thought and his doctrine derived from the tradition of Kabbalah. However, he refused to be drawn into ongoing polemics or controversy. He was able to recognise the greatness of Maimonides by integrating him into the chain of Sages who grasped the meaning of the ‘divine direction’ and the significance of Unity (‫ )יחוד‬as a principle of a history oriented towards the Good.47 Bialik’s description in the ‘Adolescent of Padua’ is a perfect illustration of the relationship between these two grand masters of Judaism: Luzzatto, the ‘man of opposites’, also knew how to unite them, by showing the close bonds between Kabbalah and philosophy derived from Jewish sources.

47. I again adopt the position taken by G, for whom Maimonides—and along with him, medieval Jewish philosophy as a whole—criticised the cosmological and naturalist orientation that defines Aristotelianism and replaced it with the historical and anthropocentric orientation characteristic of Jewish sources. See J. G, ‘Actualité de Maimonide’ (1934), in Écrits, 123–144.

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 Buildings in the Love Poems by Yehuda Amichai   1. I I this contribution I will discuss a number of poems from the ‫שירי‬ ‫ אהבה‬collection by Yehuda Amichai.1 In this book, which was published in 1986, poems from different periods and publications are brought together, in the original Hebrew, as well as in English translations by several different persons, including the poet himself and Ted Hughes. While studying this book I was struck by Amichai’s use of the house or, more generally speaking, the building of some sort or other as an image of love. This usage, however, is by no means obvious or straightforward at first glance. In order to provide you with some idea of how it works I will take a close look at five of these poems. 2. T  . 2

‫טּוֹבה‬ ָ ‫ֲבה ַה‬ ָ ‫עֲצוֹת ָהאַה‬

‫ אַל תֹּא ַהב‬:‫טּוֹבה‬ ָ ‫ֲבה ַה‬ ָ ‫עֲצוֹת ָהאַה‬ ,‫ ִמן ַה ְקּרוֹבוֹת‬‫ ַקח ְל‬.‫ָה ְרחוֹקוֹת‬ ‫אַבנֵי ַה ָמּקוֹם‬ ְ ‫ְכּמוֹ ֶשׁ ַבּיִת נָכוֹן לוֹ ֵק ַח לוֹ ֵמ‬ .‫נִצ ְרבוּ‬ ְ ‫ֶשׁ ָסּ ְבלוּ ַבּקֹּר ְו ָלהֲטוּ ַבּ ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ ְו‬ ‫ָהב‬ ָ ‫ַקח ֶאת זוֹ ִעם זֵר ַהזּ‬ ‫ ֶשׁיֵּשׁ ָלהּ‬,‫אָפל‬ ֵ ‫ְס ִביב ָה ִאישׁוֹן ָה‬ ‫ֱהב גַּם‬ ַ ‫ א‬.‫מוֹת‬ ְ ‫ֶמת ַעל‬ ֶ ‫יעה ְמ ֻסיּ‬ ָ ‫ְי ִד‬  T contribution will concern Modern Hebrew literature, a field not only dear to the jubilarian, Albert   H, to whom it is dedicated, but also to myself, his former pupil and present colleague. I am grateful to Karel J for reading an earlier draft and to Johanna J for correcting my English. 1. Y. A, ‫ מהדורה דו ֿלשונית‬.‫( שירי אהבה‬Love Poems. A Bilingual Edition) (Jerusalem/Tel-Aviv 1986). 2. Ibid., 48.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

230

‫ ְכּמוֹ ַה ְדּ ַבשׁ‬,‫ ֶה ָהרוּס‬‫ְבּתוֹ‬ .‫ְבּ ַמפֹּ ֶלת ָהאַ ְריֵה ֶשׁל ִשׁ ְמשׁוֹן‬ ‫ ְבּעֶֹדף‬:‫ֲבה ָהָר ָעה‬ ָ ‫עֲצוֹת ָהאַה‬ ,‫ ִמן ַהקּוֶֹד ֶמת‬‫נִּשׁאַר ְל‬ ְ ‫ ֶשׁ‬,‫ֲבה‬ ָ ‫ָהאַה‬ ‫וְעם‬ ִ ,‫ ִא ָשּׁה חֲָד ָשׁה‬‫ֲשה ְל‬ ֵ‫ע‬ ‫ֲשׂה ְל‬ ֵ ‫נִּשׁאַר ִמ ֶמּנָּה ע‬ ְ ‫ַמה ֶשּׁ‬ ,‫ֲבה חֲָד ָשׁה‬ ָ ‫אַה‬ .‫ ְכּלוּם‬‫ִשּׁ ֵאר ְל‬ ָ ‫ַעד ֶשׁלֹּא י‬ . Advice for Good Love3 Advice for good love: Don’t love those from far away. Take yourself one from nearby. The way a sensible house will take local stones for its building, stones which have suffered in the same cold and were scorched by the same sun. Take the one with the golden wreath around her dark eye’s pupil, she who has certain knowledge about your death. Love also inside a ruin, like taking honey out of the lion’s carcass that Samson killed. and advice for bad love: with the love left over from the previous one make a new woman for yourself, then with what is left of that woman make again a new love, and go on like that until nothing remains.

In this poem the house is being put forward as an acting person, one who selects his own stones for his building activities. If the house were sensible, these stones would be local (‫אַבנֵי ַה ָמּקוֹם‬ ְ ‫ ַבּיִת נָכוֹן לוֹ ֵק ַח לוֹ ֵמ‬, a sensible house will take local stones for its building, ll. 3/4–5).4 This 3. Ibid., 49. Translation by Yehuda A and Ted H. 4. Reference is made to the Hebrew text and the English translation respectively.

 

231

would assure that they are used to the circumstances that will apply to the new house and that they do not need to adjust themselves ְ ‫ ֶשׁ ָסּ ְבלוּ ַבּקֹּר ְו ָלהֲטוּ ַבּ ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ ְו‬, which have suffered in the same cold (‫נִצ ְרבוּ‬ and were scorched by the same sun, ll. 4/6–7). The lover should act in the same manner when he is about to construct his building, love. In some way, the comparison is not completely balanced, as the house takes stones to build itself, whereas the lover takes a woman to build something new. There is mention of another type of building in this same poem, albeit the opposite of a house under construction: the ruin (‫ֱהב גַּם‬ ַ‫א‬ ‫ ֶה ָהרוּס‬‫ ְבּתוֹ‬, love also inside a ruin, ll. 8/11–12). The ruin represents something inhospitable, the negation of the house of refuge. What does this mean? It is advised here that love should be put to the test in difficult conditions as well as in easy ones. You do not need strong love in beautiful surroundings, but you do need that in a ruin. The Biblical association (‫ ְכּמוֹ ַה ְדּ ַבשׁ ְבּ ַמפֹּ ֶלת ָהאַ ְריֵה ֶשׁל ִשׁ ְמשׁוֹן‬, litt. like the honey in the lion’s carcass of Samson, Jdg 14:8–9) is skillfully done. It is to be assumed that the passage she who has certain knowledge about your death (‫מוֹת‬ ְ ‫ֶמת ַעל‬ ֶ ‫יעה ְמ ֻסיּ‬ ָ ‫ ֶשׁיֵּשׁ ָלהּ ְי ִד‬, ll. 6–7/9–11) should also be interpreted along similar lines: it is advisable to choose someone who knows your less attractive or less healthy side, someone who realises that life is not endless, but who is willing to share whatever remains of it with you, nevertheless. . 5

‫ָשׁן ֶשׁל ֵכּ ִלים‬ ָ ‫ַמ ְח ָסן י‬

.‫ָשׁן ֶשׁל ֵכּ ִלים‬ ָ ‫ַמה זֶּה? זֶה ַמ ְח ָסן י‬ .‫דוֹלה ֶשׁ ָהי ְָתה‬ ָ ‫ֲבה ְג‬ ָ ‫ זוֹ אַה‬,‫לֹא‬ ‫ ַהזֶּה‬‫חשׁ‬ ֶ ‫אשׁר ָהיוּ ַבּ‬ ֶ ‫חֲָר ָדה ָו‬ ,‫ִיתי פֹּה‬ ִ ‫אוּלי ַפּ ַעם ָהי‬ ַ .‫ְו ִת ְקָוה‬ .‫לֹא ִה ְת ָק ַר ְב ִתּי ִל ְראוֹת‬ .‫ חֲלוֹם‬‫ֵא ֶלּה ְק ִריאוֹת ִמתּוֹ‬ ‫דוֹלה‬ ָ ‫ֲבה ְג‬ ָ ‫ זוֹ אַה‬,‫לֹא‬ .‫ָשׁן ֶשׁל ֵכּ ִלים‬ ָ ‫ זֶה ַמ ְח ָסן י‬,‫לֹא‬

5. Ibid., 46.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

232 . An Old Toolshed 6

What’s this? This is an old toolshed. No, this is a great past love. Anxiety and Joy were here together in this darkness and Hope. Perhaps I’ve been here once before. I didn’t go near to find out. These are voices calling out of a dream. No, this is a great love. No, this is an old toolshed.

In this particular poem, an old toolshed (‫ֵלים‬ ִ ‫ָשׁן ֶשׁל כּ‬ ָ ‫ ַמ ְח ָסן י‬, ll. 1,8/1,10) ָ ‫דוֹלה ֶשׁ ָהי‬ ָ ‫ֲבה ְג‬ ָ ‫אַה‬, ll. 2,7/2,9). The brings to mind a great past love (‫ְתה‬ two elements are being mixed up; to the person who passes by the shed it is not quite clear which one of the two it is he sees. Of course we could try and make a logical comparison between the two objects. We could say, for instance, that in a toolshed things are being kept and used for the construction of something else, something worthwhile. In the same way, in a love things are being created which are worthwhile. But this comparison seems to be somewhat far-fetched. Probably it is not the actual shed that does the trick; any object could have served the same purpose. The shed, therefore, is not an image of love, but rather the random location for a dream, an association. This interpretation is all the more probable in view of the passage at the beginning of the second stanza, these are voices calling out of a dream (‫ חֲלוֹם‬‫ ֵא ֶלּה ְק ִריאוֹת ִמתּוֹ‬, ll. 6/8). The passer-by suddenly realises that he has been talking or thinking as if he were having a dream. The dream-passage is given all the more importance by the formal structure of the elements figuring in this poem. The first object which is being introduced is the shed (a), then the passed love (b), followed by the voices calling out of a dream (c), and then back again, passed love (b) and shed (a). The dream is located nicely in the centre of it all. 6. Ibid., 47. Translation by Yehuda A and Ted H.

 

233 . 7

‫ֲח ָז ָרה ֵמ ֵעיןֿ ֶגּ ִדי‬

‫שּׂבע ַהָיּרֹק ְו ַה ֻמּ ְס ָתּר ֶשׁל ֵעיןֿ ֶגּ ִדי‬ ַ ‫ִמן ַה‬ ,‫ ֶר ָג'ה‬‫אתי ָל‬ ִ ‫ ָקָר‬.‫ָח ַז ְרנוּ ָל ִעיר ַה ָקּ ָשׁה‬ .‫ַחל ָהעֲרוּגוֹת ְו ַעל ֵשׁם ָה ֶע ְרגָּה‬ ַ ‫ַעל ֵשׁם נ‬ ‫ֲח ִרים‬ ֵ ‫ָח ַז ְרנוּ ֶאל ֶח ְדֵרנוּ ָהֵריק ֶשׁ ְכּ ָבר ֻה ְשׂ ַכּר ַלא‬ ‫וּק ִליפּוֹת ַתּפּוּז‬ ְ ‫רוּע‬ ַ ‫ַעל ָה ִר ְצ ָפּה ִמזְָרן ָק‬ .‫וּשׁאָר ַס ִכּינֵי ֵלב‬ ְ ‫ְוגֶֶרב ְו ִעתּוֹן‬ .‫ַמה ָלּ ַמ ְדנוּ ְבּ ֵעיןֿ ֶגּ ִדי? ֶל ֱאהֹב ַבּ ַמּ ִים‬ .‫יוֹתר ְבּ ִה ְתפּוֹ ְרָרם‬ ֵ ‫ָמה עוֹד? ֶשׁ ֶה ָה ִרים י ִָפים‬ ‫ִה ַבּ ְטנוּ עוֹד ַפּ ַעם ִמן ַה ַחלּוֹן ַה ְמֻק ָמּר‬ ‫ ָכּל ֶא ָחד‬‫ אַ‬,‫ַחָדּו‬ ְ ‫ָר ִאינוּ ֶאת אוֹתוֹ ָה ֵע ֶמק י‬ ‫ֲתידוֹת‬ ִ ‫ ִכּ ְשׁנֵי ַמ ִגּיֵדי ע‬,‫ָראָה ָע ִתיד שׁוֹנֶה‬ .‫דוֹמם‬ ֵ ‫ֲמד ְר ִצינִ י ְו‬ ָ ‫חוֹלקוֹת זֶה ַעל זֶה ְבּ ַמע‬ ְ ‫ַה‬ ‫אַל ֵפי ָשׁנִ ים‬ ְ ‫אַחר ֶשׁ ָעז ְַבנוּ ְכּ ָבר ָע ְברוּ‬ ַ ‫יוֹם‬ ‫ֶפּ ֶתק ַהנְּ יָר ֶשׁ ָכּתוּב ָע ָליו " ָמ ָחר ְבּ ֶשׁ ַבע‬ ‫ְבּאוֹתוֹ ַה ָמּקוֹם" ִה ְצ ִהיב ִמיָּד ְו ִה ְת ַק ֵמּט‬ .‫נּוֹלד ָז ֵקן‬ ַ ‫ֶלד ֶשׁ‬ ֶ ‫ִכּ ְפנֵי י‬ . Returning from Ein Gedi 8 From the green and hidden lushness of Ein Gedi, we returned to the hard city. I called you Rejah after the Arab name of the wadi and after the Hebrew word for yearning. We came back to our empty room already let to others. On the floor a torn mattress and orange peels and a sock, a newspaper and other knives for the heart. What did we learn at Ein Gedi? To make love in the water. What else? That mountains are more beautiful when they’re crumbling. Once more we looked out of the arched window. 7. Ibid., 20. 8. Ibid., 21. Translation by Tudor P and Glenda A.

234

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ Together we saw the same valley, but each of us saw a different future, like two fortunetellers who disagree with each other in a serious and silent encounter. A day after we left thousands of years had already passed. The piece of paper on which was written ‘Same place tomorrow at seven’ had yellowed and crumpled straight away like the face of a child born old.

In this poem the buildings are put together to form a city, and in this city, an empty room, the former abode of the lovers. In the first stanza, the green and hidden lushness of Ein Gedi (‫שּׂבע ַהָיּרֹק ְו ַה ֻמּ ְס ָתּר‬ ַ ‫ַה‬ ‫ ֶשׁל ֵעיןֿ ֶגּ ִדי‬, ll. 1/1) and the hard city (‫ ָה ִעיר ַה ָקּ ָשׁה‬, ll. 2/2) are being used as contrasts. They are contrasts in the obvious way that cities are being built from (hard) stones, as opposed to the greenery of nature reserves. But possibly the word hard is also used in the sense of ‘straightforward, not leaving anything to the imagination’. Of course there is an additional meaning to the Hebrew word ‫ ָק ָשׁה‬, ‘difficult’, which is obvious to the Israeli reader, but which is lost in translation. The protagonists travel from one extreme to the other, from the green and hidden lushness of Ein Gedi, to the hard city, to our empty room already let to others (‫ ֶאל ֶח ְדֵרנוּ ָהֵריק ֶשׁ ְכּ ָבר ֻה ְשׂ ַכּר ַל ֲא ֵח ִרים‬, ll. 4/5). Apparently, they had known beforehand that their love would come to an end. Why else should they already have let their room? But it seems contrary to what we read in the second, rather romantic, stanza: What did we learn at Ein Gedi? To make love in the water. / What else? That mountains are more beautiful when they're crumbling, ‫יוֹתר‬ ֵ ‫ ָמה עוֹד? ֶשׁ ֶה ָה ִרים י ִָפים‬/ .‫ַמה ָלּ ַמ ְדנוּ ְבּ ֵעיןֿ ֶגּ ִדי? ֶל ֱאהֹב ַבּ ַמּיִם‬ ‫ ְבּ ִה ְתפּוֹ ְרָרם‬, ll. 7–8/8–9). These are descriptions of experiences, rather than of objects, like in the first stanza. These lines are the Ein Gedi experience in a nutshell: being together and enjoying each other's company. Moreover, these are experiences that are directly connected with the characteristic elements of Ein Gedi: the water and the shaggy mountains. So, what went wrong? Is it merely the place, the location? Does the hard city cause things to break down? This seems to be the case; the empty room is an image of the lost love, an image with all kinds of attributes, vividly described. In the first place, the room is empty and already let, because there is no hope for the future. The rented out room has more or less the same connotation as the ruin in the first poem; it is inhospitable. Of

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the furniture and other signs of (joint) habitation, nothing is left, except for some odds and ends. But those are rendered useless: the mattress, being the image, as well as the tangible place of love, is torn (‫רוּע‬ ַ ‫ ִמזְָרן ָק‬, ll. 5/6). The orange peels (‫ ְק ִליפּוֹת ַתּפּוּז‬, ll. 5/6) are just useless remains; the sock (‫ גֶֶּרב‬ll. 6/7) in itself useful, is rendered useless by its being single. Possibly, there is an erotic dimension as well. The newspaper (‫ ִעתּוֹן‬, ll. 6/7) by being left there, is old and useless by definition; it is a silent witness like the other objects, and a dated one at that. All the remains have one thing in common, that they hurt to look at (knives for the heart, ‫ ַס ִכּינֵי ֵלב‬, ll. 6/7). From the house in the hard city, the former lovers take one last look at the valley where they have been together (‫ִה ַבּ ְטנוּ עוֹד ַפּ ַעם ִמן‬ ‫ַחָדּו‬ ְ ‫ ָר ִאינוּ ֶאת אוֹתוֹ ָה ֵע ֶמק י‬/ ‫ ַה ַחלּוֹן ַה ְמֻק ָמּר‬, ll. 9–10/10–11). But since their return, the togetherness has gone: although they see the same valley, what they each see is a different future ‫( ָע ִתיד שׁוֹנֶה‬ll. 11/12). Their views are different from what they had expected, and this fact is underlined by the description of the window from which the viewing takes place. The window is said to be arched (‫) ְמֻק ָמּר‬, not straight as we would expect in a town house. An arched window rather belongs to a castle or other romantic building, commanding a view of a lovely garden, indeed of ‘green lushness’. The transition from idyl to misery, from past to future, is very sudden. It seems to be caused by the city itself. It is as if the present, which normally would render a transition a bit more gradual and bearable, is absent. This is described in the last stanza: time suddenly seems to have passed as quick as lightning (‫ַבנוּ ְכּ ָבר ָע ְברוּ‬ ְ ‫אַחר ֶשׁ ָעז‬ ַ ‫יוֹם‬ ‫אַל ֵפי ָשׁנִ ים‬ ְ , a day after we left thousands of years had already passed, ll. 13/14). A process which normally takes ages is completed in the course of a day: the piece of paper (…) had yellowed and crumpled straight away (‫וְה ְת ַק ֵמּט‬ ִ ‫ ִה ְצ ִהיב ִמיָּד‬... ‫ ֶפּ ֶתק ַהנְּ יָר‬, ll. 14–15/15–16). . 9

‫ֲב ֵתנוּ ֻה ְשׁ ְלמוּ ָבּ ִתּים‬ ָ ‫ אַה‬‫ְבּ ֶמ ֶשׁ‬

‫ֲב ֵתנוּ ֻה ְשׁ ְלמוּ ָבּ ִתּים‬ ָ ‫ אַה‬‫ְבּ ֶמ ֶשׁ‬ ,‫ ֶשׁלֹּא ָי ַדע‬,‫ישׁהוּ‬ ֶ ‫וּמ‬ ִ ‫ ַתּ ְר ִגּי ָליו‬.‫ָל ַמד ְל ַנגֵּן ֶבּ ָח ִליל‬ ‫ ֶא ְפ ָשׁר ִל ְשׁמ ַֹע‬.‫עוֹלים ְויוֹ ְר ִדים‬ ִ 9. Ibid., 100.

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236

‫נְמ ֵלּא זֶה ֶאת זֶה‬ ַ ‫ ְכּ ֶשׁלֹּא עוֹד‬,‫אוֹתם ַע ְכ ָשׁו‬ ָ ,‫ֲמיר ָה ֵעץ‬ ִ ‫ַכּ ִצּ ֳפּ ִרים ֶאת א‬ ,‫ ְבּ ִלי ֶהֶרף‬,‫יפה ַמ ְט ֵבּעוֹת‬ ָ ‫ֲל‬ ִ ‫אַתּ ְכּ ָבר ַמח‬ ְ ‫ְו‬ .‫וּמָרצוֹן ְלָרצוֹן‬ ֵ ‫ֵמ ֶאֶרץ ְל ֶאֶרץ‬ ,‫ָה ְגנוּ ְבּ ִשׁגָּעוֹן‬ ַ ‫ְואַף ַעל ִפּי ֶשׁנּ‬ ‫נִ ְר ֶאה ַע ְכ ָשׁו ִכּי לֹא ָס ִטינוּ ַה ְר ֵבּה‬ ,‫עוֹלם‬ ָ ‫ִמן ַה ְמֻק ָבּל ְולֹא ִה ְפַר ְענוּ ָל‬ .‫נוּמ ָתם‬ ָ ‫ָשׁיו ְו ִל ְת‬ ָ ‫ַל ֲאנ‬ .‫ סוֹף‬,‫ֲבל ַע ְכ ָשׁו‬ ָ‫א‬ ‫ִשּׁ ֵאר ִמ ְשּׁנֵינוּ ֶא ָחד‬ ָ ‫ְועוֹד ְמ ַעט לֹא י‬ .‫ִל ְשׁכֹּ ַח ֶאת ַה ֵשּׁנִ י‬ . During Our Love Houses Were Completed 10 During our love houses were completed and someone, beginning then, learned to play the flute. His études rise and fall. You can hear them now when we no longer fill each other as birds fill a tree, and you change coins, compulsively, from country to country, from urge to urge. And even though we acted madly, now it seems we didn’t swerve much from the norm, didn’t disturb the world, its people and their sleep. But now it’s over. Soon, of the two of us, neither will be left to forget the other.

In this poem, the reference to the house is very minimal, the house is presented as something that is under construction during the period of love (‫ֲב ֵתנוּ ֻה ְשׁ ְלמוּ ָבּ ִתּים‬ ָ ‫ אַה‬‫ ְבּ ֶמ ֶשׁ‬, during our love houses were completed, ll. 1/1), exactly in the same way as someone's study of 10. Ibid., 101. Translation by Harold S.

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the flute (‫ ָל ַמד ְל ַנגֵּן ֶבּ ָח ִליל‬,‫ ֶשׁלֹּא ָי ַדע‬,‫ישׁהוּ‬ ֶ ‫ ִמ‬, someone, beginning then, learned to play the flute, ll. 2–3/2–3). These processes add a sense of building, of constructing, to this love. Is it suggested that the love lasted as long as it takes to build a house? Or that the love was under construction itself? In any case, this love, as nearly all loves in these poems, is passed now. The lovers no longer fill each other as birds fill a tree (‫ְמלֵּא‬ ַ ‫לֹא עוֹד נ‬ ‫ֲמיר ָה ֵעץ‬ ִ ‫זֶה ֶאת זֶה ַכּ ִצּ ֳפּ ִרים ֶאת א‬, ll. 5–6/5–6) and the female half has left ָ ‫ֲל‬ ִ ‫אַתּ ְכּ ָבר ַמח‬ ְ ‫ְו‬ the male for endless travelling (‫ ֵמ ֶאֶרץ‬,‫ ְבּ ִלי ֶהֶרף‬,‫יפה ַמ ְט ֵבּעוֹת‬ ‫וּמָרצוֹן ְלָרצוֹן‬ ֵ ‫ ְל ֶאֶרץ‬, ll. 7–8/7–9). Everything is passed, even the memories will soon be gone, because no one will be left to forget the other (‫ִשּׁ ֵאר ִמ ְשּׁנֵינוּ ֶא ָחד ִל ְשׁכֹּ ַח ֶאת ַה ֵשּׁנִ י‬ ָ ‫לֹא י‬, ll. 14–15/16–17), let alone to remember. The contrast is heavy indeed: whereas houses have been completed, the love has completely disappeared, and soon so will the lovers themselves. What we have here is the reverse of the popular wisdom, that love, as opposed to more material things, will never end. . 11

‫ָע ַב ְר ִתּי ְליַד ַבּיִת‬

:‫ָע ַב ְר ִתּי ְליַד ַבּיִת ֶשׁבּוֹ ַג ְר ִתּי ְל ָפנִים‬ ,‫ַח ָדּו‬ ְ ‫חוּשׁים בּוֹ ֲע ַדיִן י‬ ִ ‫ִאישׁ ְו ִא ָשּׁה ְל‬ ‫זִמזוּם ָשׁ ֵקט‬ ְ ‫ָשׁנִ ים ַרבּוֹת ָע ְברוּ ְבּ‬ ‫ֶשׁל אוֹר ַה ַח ְשׁ ַמל ַהנִּ ְד ָלק ְו ָכ ֶבה ְונִ ְד ָלק‬ .‫ְבּ ֵבית ַה ַמּ ְדֵרגוֹת‬ ,‫נְעוּלים ִכּ ְפ ָצ ִעים ְק ַטנִּים‬ ִ ‫חוֵֹרי ַה ַמּ‬ ‫וּב ְפנִ ים‬ ִ .‫ֶשׁ ַבּ ֲע ָדם ָשׁ ַתת ָכּל ַהָדּם‬ .‫ָשׁים ִח ְו ִרים ַכּ ָמֶּות‬ ִ ‫ֲאנ‬ ‫ֲבה‬ ָ ‫רוֹצה ַל ֲעמֹד שׁוּב ְכּמוֹ ָבּאַה‬ ֶ ‫אֲנִ י‬ ‫ָה ִראשׁוֹ ָנה ְליַד ְמזוּזַת ַה ַשּׁ ַער‬ .‫ ַבּ ֲע ִמי ָדה‬,‫ֲבוּקים ָכּל ַה ַלּי ְָלה‬ ִ ‫ח‬ ‫וּכ ֶשׁ ָעז ְַבנוּ ַבּ ַשּׁ ַחר ִה ְת ִחיל ַה ַבּיִת‬ ְ .‫עוֹלם‬ ָ ‫וּמאָז ָכּל ָה‬ ֵ ‫וּמאָז ָה ִעיר‬ ֵ ‫מוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ְל ִה ְת‬ ‫ֵע שׁוּב ַעד‬ ַ ‫ַעגּ‬ ְ ‫רוֹצה ְל ִה ְתגּ‬ ֶ ‫אֲנִ י‬ .‫ִכּ ְת ֵמי ְכּ ִויָּה ֵכּ ִהים ָבּעוֹר‬ 11. Ibid., 50.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

238

‫רוֹצה ִל ְהיוֹת שׁוּב ָכּתוּב‬ ֶ ‫אֲנִ י‬ ,‫ ָכּל יוֹם ִל ְהיוֹת ָכּתוּב‬,‫ְבּ ֵס ֶפר ַה ַחיּים‬ .‫כּוֹת ֶבת ִתּ ְכאַב‬ ֶ ‫ַעד ֶשׁ ַהיָּד ַה‬ . I Passed a House 12 I passed a house where I once lived: A man and a woman are still together in the whispers. Many years have passed with the silent buzz of staircase bulbs - on, off, on. The keyholes are like small delicate wounds through which all the blood has oozed out and inside people are pale as death. I want to stand once more as in my first love, leaning on the doorpost embracing you all night long, standing. When we left at early dusk the house started to crumble and collapse and since then the town and since then the whole world. I want once more to have this longing until dark-red burn marks show on the skin. I want once more to be written in the book of life, to be written anew every day until the writing hand hurts.

In this poem the I-figure passes by his former house, in which the names of a man and a woman are still being whispered together (‫ִאישׁ‬ ‫ַחָדּו‬ ְ ‫חוּשׁים בּוֹ ֲע ַדיִן י‬ ִ ‫ ְו ִא ָשּׁה ְל‬, a man and a woman are still together in the whispers, ll. 2/2). Their being together is still being felt, although they themselves have long disappeared. During all those years the house has continued to function: the lights have been turned on by visitors (‫אוֹר ַה ַח ְשׁ ַמל ַהנִּ ְד ָלק ְו ָכ ֶבה ְונִ ְד ָלק‬, ll. 4/4), but life itself has oozed out (‫ ָשׁ ַתת‬, ll. 7/6). In this image the house has become a living being, with wounds and all. 12. Ibid., 51. Translation by Yehuda A and Ted H.

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239

In the third stanza it becomes clear who this man and woman are, the ‘we’ who are embracing each other at the gate. In the Hebrew text no second person is mentioned, but in the English translation, which is by the poet himself together with Ted Hughes, there is (embracing you, ll. 10/10). The Hebrew text merely has: ‫ֲבה ָה ִראשׁוֹנָה‬ ָ ‫( ָבּאַה‬in the ִ ‫( ח‬embracing, ll. 11/10), ‫וּכ ֶשׁ ָעז ְַבנוּ‬ ְ (and when first love, ll. 9–10/9), ‫ֲבוּקים‬ we left, ll. 12/11). Early in the morning the fairy-tale is over, as we read in the third stanza. The lovers let go of each other and leave the place. The house started to crumble and collapse and since then the town and since then the whole world (‫עוֹלם‬ ָ ‫וּמאָז ָכּל ָה‬ ֵ ‫וּמאָז ָה ִעיר‬ ֵ ‫מוֹטט‬ ֵ ‫ ִה ְת ִחיל ַה ַבּיִת ְל ִה ְת‬, ll. 12– 13/11–14). Of course we must not take this too literally—the house is still there, as is the whole world—, but merely as an image of something gone forever, viz. the moment in which the promise of something new was felt. That starting point can only be used once. Leaving that house means the end of the beginning. In this poem, therefore, the house is an image of the promise, and connected with it is all the burning longing (‫ֵע‬ ַ ‫ַעגּ‬ ְ ‫ ְל ִה ְתגּ‬, ll. 14/15) that goes with it, until dark-red burn marks show on the skin (‫ַעד ִכּ ְת ֵמי ְכּ ִויָּה‬ ‫ ֵכּ ִהים ָבּעוֹר‬, ll. 15/16). To the idea of promise is added a religious dimension, when it is described in the wording of the blessing for the Jewish New Year, to be written in the book of life (‫ִל ְהיוֹת שׁוּב ָכּתוּב‬ ‫ ְבּ ֵס ֶפר ַה ַחיּים‬, ll. 16–17/17–18). Beginning love has become a religious experience, to which Amichai even adds more than the usual: to be written once is not sufficient, it should be done every day anew, until the Writer’s hand hurts (‫כּוֹת ֶבת ִתּ ְכאַב‬ ֶ ‫ ַעד ֶשׁ ַהיָּד ַה‬, until the writing hand hurts, ll. 18/20). The I-figure obviously needs the constant confirmation. This love is said to have been a first love, so it is suggested that the protagonists were still young at the time, rather than the man and the woman they had become in the first stanza. Apparently they too had grown old with the time, living on and at the same time not living on, exactly like the house. 3. C To sum up, we have seen that in these poems buildings are being used in several different ways, and as images of various things. In poem number  the house is an acting agent, who chooses his own stones for its building, and who is being compared to the lover building his love.

240

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

In poem number , in a kind of dream, a toolshed calls to mind a great passed love, but this shed does not play a role as an actual image of love. Any object could have served the same purpose. In poem number  the building is an entire city, with in it as the centre piece, the lovers’ former room. The empty room is used as an image for the rupture, a silent witness of the passed love. In poem number  houses are being completed during the time when love prospered. They are, therefore, used as images of construction, or alternatively, merely to indicate the period of time the love lasted. But, contrary to the houses that remain, no trace is left of the love. In poem number  the house embodies promise: the promise of first love, of new life. In this poem love has collapsed, and with it the house. After that, this intense feeling of hope has never returned. In some of the poems ( and ) the houses are living beings like the persons figuring in them. In other words, buildings play different roles in different circumstances. The type of building as such seems to be of little importance, because the building’s character is being rendered subordinate to the mood of the protagonists: the buildings merely reflect the moods of the protagonists.

 A Note about Two Newly-Discovered Hebrew

Quotations of Averroes’ Works Lost in their Original Arabic Texts   A   not only to scholars of Arabo-Islamic philosophy, but also to many scholars of medieval philosophy, there are a number of Averroes’ works which are not extant in their original Arabic texts and are witnessed mainly or only through the late medieval Hebrew tradition. Among them is De substantia orbis (On the Substance of the Celestial Sphere), whose Arabic text has been lost, but has been directly transmitted to us through a medieval Latin translation usually ascribed to Michael Scot, and some medieval Hebrew translations, the most complete of which is anonymous and was written around 1300.1 This anonymous Hebrew version, which was based upon a lost Arabic original text, has been published in a critical edition, accompanied by an English translation, by Arthur Hyman in his book Averroes’ De substantia orbis.2 Another of these works is Averroes’ Epitome of Ptolemy’s Almagest, an astronomical work known only through one direct Hebrew translation made in 1235, possibly in Naples, by the well-known thirteenth-century Jewish translator and commentator Jacob Anatoli. This translation is still unpublished, although a provisional edition of its first part and an accurate study of its contents have been recently made by Julianne Lay in her doctoral thesis de A preliminary version of this short note, dedicated to professor Albert   H, was read by me at the Fourteenth Annual Symposium of the ‘Société Internationale pour l’Etude de la Philosophie Médiévale’ (S.I.E.P.M.), held at the University of Geneva on October 4–6, 2006. This version, bearing the title ‘About Three Averroes’ Works According to Newly-Discovered Hebrew Quotations’, included a third quotation very probably taken from an almost totally lost work by Averroes, the Treatise On the First Mover, which will be the object of a specific essay. 1. On these translations, see M. S, Die hebräischen Übersetzungen des Mittelalters und die Juden als Dolmetscher (Berlin 1893) 182–188. 2. A. H (ed.), Averroes’ De substantia orbis. Critical Edition of the Hebrew Text with English Translation and Glossary (Cambridge, /Jerusalem 1986).

242

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

fended in Paris in 1991; the main conclusions of this thesis have appeared in a recent article.3 I have recently identified two Hebrew quotations of the works by Averroes’ mentioned above, found in Shem Tov Ibn Falaquera’s Guide to the Guide, which appear to have been based upon the reading of their lost original Arabic texts.4 At least one of them might be useful for a future critical edition of Averroes. In this note, I will partially or totally edit and discuss these quotations, trying to show their interest for the textual history of Averroes’ works. Falaquera’s Guide to the Guide (in Hebrew, ‫)מורה המורה‬, a commentary on Moses Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, was written in 1280, probably in Northern Spain; it was first published in a noncritical edition in 1837,5 and has been recently re-published in a critical edition by the Israeli scholar Yair Shiffman.6 Notwithstanding the great utility of this edition for a correct and complete reconstruction of the original text of Falaquera’s work and for an identification of its many Greek and Arabic sources, Shiffman’s work is not accompanied by a translation into a modern language—which might make Falaquera’s very interesting text readable for most modern scholars— and is unfortunately marred by some errors. For example, as I have shown in a paper presented in 2003,7 the Guide to the Guide includes a great number of quotations of Averroes, who is called by Falaquera ‘the aforementioned scholar’ (in Hebrew, ‫ ;)החכם הנזכר‬but a number of these quotations have been incorrectly identified by the editor as taken from Averroes’ Epitome of the Metaphysics. In reality, these quotations are taken from another of Averroes’ commentaries on Ar3. J. L, ‘L’Abrégé de l’Almageste: un inédit d’Averroès en version hébraïque’, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 6 (1996) 23–61. 4. On this, see M. Z, ‘Hebrew Transmission of Arabic Philosophy and Science: A Reconstruction of Shem Tov Ibn Falaquera’s “Arabic Library”’, in M. P (ed.), L’interculturalità dell’Ebraismo (Ravenna 2004) 121-137, esp. 132. 5. ‫הכינו וגם חקרו הרב החכם המפואר הפילוסוף האלוהי מורנו ורבנו שם( ספר מורה המורה‬ ... ‫ ;טוב פאלאקירה ז"ל‬ed. M. L; Pressburg 1837). 6. Shem T.ov ben Yosef ibn Falaquera, ‫( מורה המורה‬Moreh ha-Moreh) (ed. Y. S; Meqorot le-H . eqer Tarbut Israel 7; Jerusalem 2001). 7. This paper, entitled ‘The Importance of Falaquera’s Guide to the Guide for the Transmission of Arabic Philosophy and Science’ and so far unpublished, was presented at the international colloquium ‘Identité culturelle des sciences et des philosophies arabes: auteurs, oeuvres et transmissions’ organised by the Société Internationale pour l’histoire des sciences et de la philosophie arabe et islamique (S.I.H.S. P.A.I.) in Namur, on January 15-17, 2003, and in Brussels, on January 18, 2003.

 

243

istotle, his Middle Commentary on the Metaphysics,8 whose text, lost in its Arabic original, is preserved in two complete medieval Hebrew translations. It should also be noticed that a number of the explicit quotations of Averroes found in Falaquera’s work, which have not been found in any other of the known works ascribed to him, have not been identified by the editor of the Guide to the Guide.9 As a matter of fact, a detailed analysis of some of them shows that either they are not exact quotations from a single passage by Averroes, but rather re-elaborations and ‘mosaics of passages’ taken from various pages of the same work or even from different works of the philosopher, or they were taken from one of Averroes’ works which are now completely lost in their original Arabic texts. The latter explanation appears to be substantially true in the case of two quotations at least, which I mentioned briefly in my paper. Here I will examine them in more detail, in order to show how these quotations of Averroes by Falaquera can be useful for the textual history or even for the reconstruction of the former’s works. The two case studies, which I give in their Hebrew texts and in English translations here below, are passages of Falaquera’s Guide to the Guide (here published according to Shiffman’s edition), where Averroes is explicitly quoted. These quotations more or less literally correspond to passages of the above-mentioned works by Averroes, whose texts are compared according to their medieval Arabic-intoHebrew translations. In particular, in case study 1 I reproduce the first half of a passage where Falaquera gives a literal Hebrew translation of a long passage of Averroes’ Epitome of Ptolemy’s Almagest; in case study 2 I reproduce the complete text of a passage where Falaquera seems to give a free re-elaboration of some passages of Averroes’ De substantia orbis in Hebrew.

8. See M. Z, ‘A Case of “Author’s Variant Readings” and the Textual History of Averroes’ Middle Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics’, in J. H & O. W (eds.), Ecriture et réécriture des textes philosophiques médiévaux. Volume d’hommage offert à Colette Sirat (Textes et Études du Moyen Age 34; Turnhout 2006) 465–483. 9. See e.g. the case of Falaquera’s quotations of the Summa Alexandrinorum, a well-known ‘summary’ of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, found in the Guide to the Guide and studied in S. H, ‘‫מקורן של המובאות מן ה״אתיקה״ לאריסטו ב״מורה״‬ ‫‘( וב״מורה המורה״‬The Sources of the Quotations from Aristotle’s Ethics in the Guide and in the Guide to the Guide’), Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 9 (1998) 87–102.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

‫‪244‬‬ ‫‪C  1‬‬ ‫‪Hebrew texts‬‬

‫‪Shem T.ov Ibn Falaquera, Guide‬‬ ‫‪to the Guide, ed. Shiffman, pp.‬‬ ‫‪248, l. 16 – 249, l. 26‬‬

‫‪Averroes, Epitome of Ptolemy’s Almagest,‬‬ ‫‪Jacob Anatoli’s Hebrew translation, ‬‬ ‫‪Mantua, Biblioteca Comunale, ebraico‬‬ ‫)‪4b, folios 32r (l.19)–32v (l. 4‬‬

‫וכתב החכם נזכר‪:‬‬ ‫והקדמונים הסכימו כי גלגל הכוכבים‬ ‫הקבועים למעלה מכל גלגלי הכוכבים‬ ‫ההולכים‪.‬‬ ‫והסמוך לו הוא גלגל שבתאי ואחר כן‬ ‫צדק ואחר כן מאדים‪.‬‬ ‫וזה כלו מפני שמקצתם מקדירים‬ ‫למקצתם‪ ,‬כלומר שהתחתון יקדיר‬ ‫העליון‪.‬‬ ‫וכמו כן הסכימו כי גלגל נוגה למעלה‬ ‫מגלגל כוכב‪ ,‬מפני שכוכב מקדיר‬ ‫לנוגה‬ ‫ושהם תחת השלושה הכוכבים‬ ‫העליונים‪ ,‬כלומר שבתאי צדק‬ ‫ומאדים‪ ,‬וזה מפני שהם מקדירים‬ ‫אותם‪.‬‬ ‫והסכימו עוד כי גלגל הלבנה למטה‬ ‫מאלה הגלגלים‬ ‫וזה מפני גודל חילוף המראה שיקרה‬ ‫לו‪.‬‬ ‫וכמו כן הסכימו עוד כי השמש למטה‬ ‫מהשלושה כוכבים העליונים‪.‬‬ ‫ויש מחלוקת ביניהם אם היא למעלה‬ ‫מנוגה וכוכב או למטה מהם‪.‬‬ ‫ובטאלמיוס חושב כי אין‪ 10‬אצלו בזה‬ ‫דרך אמתי‪.‬‬ ‫והאיש שהיה בדורנו‬

‫‪1.‬‬ ‫‪2.‬‬

‫והוא אבן אפלח אלאשבילי‬ ‫כתב כי בטאלמיוס השיב על מי‬ ‫שחשב שהם תחת השמש ‪...‬‬

‫הראשונים כבר הסכימו על שגלגל‬ ‫הכוכבים הקיימים ממעל לכל גלגלי‬ ‫הכוכבים הרצים‬ ‫ושאשר ימשך אליו הוא גלגל שבתאי עוד‬ ‫צדק עוד מאדים‬ ‫וזה כלו להקדירו קצתם קצת רצוני לומר‬ ‫שהשפל מקדיר לעולם העליון‬ ‫וכמו כן הסכימו שגלגל נוגה ממעל‬ ‫לגלגל כוכב ממה שהקדיר כוכב חמה את‬ ‫נוגה‬ ‫ושהם למטה משלושה כוכבים העליונים‪,‬‬ ‫רצוני לומר שבתאי צדק מאדים‪ ,‬וזה גם‬ ‫כן להקדרתם‬ ‫והסכימו גם כן שגלגל הירח מתחת אלו‬ ‫הגלגלים‬ ‫וזה לגודל חילוף המבט אשר יקרהו‬ ‫וכמו כן הסכימו שהשמש מתחת לכוכבים‬ ‫השלושה העליונים‬ ‫ונחלקו אם הוא ממעל לנוגה וכוכב חמה‬ ‫או לתחת‬ ‫ובטלמיוס חשב שאין אצלו בזה הדרך‬ ‫שיודיע זה‬ ‫ואמנם האיש האחרון מאנשי זמננו אשר‬ ‫השתדל בקיצור ספרו‬ ‫הנודע גאביר בן אפלח ) ‪(. ..‬‬ ‫כתב כי בטלמיוס השיב ‪...‬‬

‫‪3.‬‬ ‫‪4.‬‬

‫‪5.‬‬

‫‪6.‬‬

‫‪7.‬‬ ‫‪8.‬‬ ‫‪9.‬‬ ‫‪10.‬‬ ‫‪11.‬‬ ‫‪12.‬‬ ‫‪13.‬‬ ‫‪14.‬‬

 

245

English translations10 1. 2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8. 9. 10.

11.

The ancients have already agreed that the sphere of the fixed stars is above all the spheres of the running stars, and what follows this is the sphere of Saturn, then Jupiter, and then Mars— all this is for obscuring each other, i.e. what is lower always obscures what is higher. They likewise agreed that the sphere of Venus is above the sphere of Mercury, since Mercury obscures Venus, and they are below the three higher stars, i.e. Saturn, Jupiter and Mars, for obscuring them too. They also agree that the sphere of the moon is below those spheres, and this is for the size of the different aspect that affects it. They likewise agree that the sun is below the three higher stars, and differ if it is above Venus and Mercury, or below. And Ptolemy thought that he had not in his possession, about this, a way which makes this known.

And the aforementioned scholar wrote: ‘And the ancients agreed that the sphere of the fixed stars is above all the spheres of the walking stars, and what is near this is the sphere of Saturn; after it there is Jupiter, and after this Mars— all this happens because they obscure each other, i.e. what is lower obscures what is higher. They likewise agreed that the sphere of Venus is above the sphere of Mercury, since Mercury obscures Venus, and they are below the three higher stars, i.e. Saturn, Jupiter and Mars, because they obscure them. Then they agree that the sphere of the moon is below those spheres, and this is because of the size of the different aspect that affects it. Then, they likewise agree that the sun is below the three higher stars, and there is a difference between them: if it is above Venus and Mercury, or below them. And Ptolemy thought that he had not in his possession, about this, a true way.

10. ‫ אין‬is the correct variant reading found in  Leghorn, Talmud Torah 40 (microfilm of the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts in the Jewish National and University Library no. 12488); it is found also in Jacob Anatoli’s Hebrew version of Averroes’ work. In S’s edition, this variant reading is rejected and replaced by the incorrect variant reading ‫—יש‬probably the result of a polar error.

246 12.

13. 14.

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ As for the last man among the men of our time, who made the effort to abridge his book, the well-known scholar Gˇābir Ibn Aflah., (…) he thought that Ptolemy refuted (this) …

The man of our generation,

who is Ibn Aflah. al-Iśbīlī, wrote that Ptolemy refuted those who thought that they were below the Sun….’

Until now, no trace of Falaquera’s use of Averroes’ philosophicalscientific works other than his commentaries on Aristotle—e.g. the Questions on Physics, the De substantia orbis, etc.—has been found. Now, an analysis of the above case study shows that Falaquera knew at least some of them. First of all, in a long quotation of Averroes, not identified by Shiffman and found in his edition of the Guide to the Guide (from p. 248, l. 16 to p. 249, l. 35), Falaquera literally reproduces a passage of the Epitome of Ptolemy’s Almagest. This is evident from a comparison of this quotation to a passage found in one of the copies of Averroes’ work, the manuscript of Mantua, Biblioteca Comunale, ebraico 4b (from fol. 32r, l. 19, to fol. 32v, l. 15); here above I have reproduced only the first half of the quotation. The differences between the two texts are small, although not totally negligible (I have marked them in italic). For example, in l. 2 the two Hebrew variant readings, ‘running’ in Anatoli and ‘walking’ in Falaquera, probably result either from two different Arabic terms (and in this case one of the variant readings at least might be traced back to a copyist), or from two different readings of the same Arabic word. In line 11, the word ‘not’, omitted by Shiffman in his edition of Falaquera’s work and found in only one of the manuscripts of the Guide to the Guide, should be restored, as is shown by a comparison of the corresponding variant reading in Anatoli’s version. In any case, Falaquera’s witness appears to be useful for the reconstruction of this passage in Averroes’ work: it dates back to only fifty years after Anatoli’s translation, and approximately forty-fifty years before the two most important series of Hebrew quotations of the Epitome of Ptolemy’s Almagest: those by Samuel of Marseilles, and those by Gersonides, going back to ca. 1320–1330.11

11. On these quotations, see L, ‘L’Abrégé de l’Almageste’, 31–32.

‫‪247‬‬

‫‪ ‬‬ ‫‪C  2‬‬ ‫‪Hebrew texts‬‬

‫‪Shem T.ov Ibn Falaquera, Guide‬‬ ‫‪to the Guide, ed. Shiffman, p.‬‬ ‫‪251, ll. 41–53‬‬

‫וכתב החכם הנזכר‪:‬‬ ‫וצריך להאמין‬ ‫כי הגופים הגלגליים אף על פי שאינם‬ ‫קלים ולא כבדים מצד שהם גופים‪,‬‬ ‫הם משתתפים בצד מה עם היסודות‬ ‫בזכות‬ ‫ושהם מאירים ובאופל‪.‬‬ ‫ועל כן אמר אריסטו בספר בעלי חיים‬ ‫כי טבע הלבנה דומה לטבע הארץ‬ ‫מפני האופל שבה בטבע‪.‬‬ ‫ואם כן יהיה החלק המאיר מן‬ ‫הגלגלים דומה לטבע האש‪.‬‬ ‫ועל כן ייחסו המעיינים בפעולות‬ ‫הכוכבים בזמן הקדמון בנמצאים‬ ‫מקצתם אל החמימות והיובש‪ ,‬כמו‬ ‫שאמרו בשמש‪,‬‬ ‫ומקצתם אל הקרירות והיובש‪ ,‬כמו‬ ‫שאמרו בשבתאי‪,‬‬ ‫ומקצתם אל החמימות והרטיבות‪,‬‬ ‫כמו שאמרו בצדק‪.‬‬ ‫ומקצתם ייחסו אותם לטבע הזכר‪,‬‬ ‫ומקצתם לטבע הנקבה‪.‬‬ ‫והם על האמיתה לא יפעלו קרירות‬ ‫ויובש ואמנם יפעלו החמימות מתיחס‬ ‫ודומה לאחד ואחד מן היסודות‪.‬‬ ‫וזה מבואר בלבנה‪ .‬כי רישומה במים‬ ‫נראה וממשלתה על היסוד המימי‬ ‫נגלה‪.‬‬

‫‪Averroes, De substantia orbis, ch. 2,‬‬ ‫‪anonymous Hebrew translation, ed.‬‬ ‫–‪Hyman, pp. 25, ll. 1–2; 32, ll. 131‬‬ ‫‪132, 134; 33, ll. 145–146, 148; 33, l.‬‬ ‫–‪157; 34, l. 158; 34, ll. 166–167, 170‬‬ ‫‪171, 168–169 of the Hebrew text‬‬ ‫‪1.‬‬ ‫‪2.‬‬

‫הכוונה ) ‪ (...‬שנחקר בטבע הגרם השמימי‬ ‫ומה ענין מאמרם בו ) ‪(...‬‬ ‫שהוא גרם לא כבד ולא קל‪(... ) .‬‬

‫‪3.‬‬

‫שניהם הספיגות והספירות ) ‪.(...‬‬

‫‪4.‬‬

‫וכן ישתתפו בענין ההארה והחשכה‪(...) .‬‬ ‫אמר בו אריסטו בספר הבעלי חיים‬ ‫שטבעו דומה בסוג לטבע הארץ יותר‬ ‫משאר הכוכבים ) ‪ (...‬ואם היה לו ימצא‬ ‫זה אלו בירח בלבד‪.‬‬ ‫חמום הפוך אורו ) ‪ (. ..‬הוא מן המקרים‬ ‫המשותפים לגרמים השמימיים ולאש‪.‬‬ ‫) ‪ (...‬מה שיאמרו המביטים פעולות‬ ‫הכוכבים בזמן הקדום‬ ‫משקצתם יקנה החום והיבש‪,‬‬

‫‪5.‬‬ ‫‪6.‬‬

‫‪7.‬‬ ‫‪8.‬‬ ‫‪9.‬‬

‫וקצתם החום והלחות‪,‬‬ ‫וקצתם הקור והלחות‪,‬‬

‫‪10.‬‬ ‫‪11.‬‬

‫וקצתם הקור והיובש‪.(...) ,‬‬

‫‪12.‬‬ ‫‪13.‬‬

‫ויידמה שיהיו הגרמים השמימיים מקנים‬ ‫לנו בכאן החמימות‪ ,‬ואינם בנפשותם‬ ‫חמים‪.‬‬

‫‪14.‬‬

‫‪15.‬‬

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

248 16. 17.

‫הנה יהיו האיכיות הארבע המשותפים‬ ‫לגשמים השמימיים והיסודות הארבע‬ .(... ) ‫נאמרים בשיתוף השם‬

‫ואחשוב כי בן סינא יאמר שהם‬ ,‫פועלים קירור וחימום‬ ‫וזה רחוק מהשורשים אילו אם היה‬ .‫בצירוף‬

English translations Averroes, De substantia orbis, Hyman’s translation, passages from pages 74, 92–95 of his edition 1. 2. 3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

It is our intention (…) to discover (…) what those mean, that (the celestial body) (…) is neither heavy nor light (…). The celestial and terrestrial bodies have the attributes of rarity and transparency in common (…). In an analogous manner the celestial and terrestrial bodies have luminosity and opacity in common. (…) Aristotle asserts concerning it (i.e. the moon) in the book De animalibus that its nature is generally more like the nature of earth (…) even though opacity exists only in the moon. (…) The ability to produce heat through reflection of its light (…) is an accident common to the celestial bodies and to fire. (…) The statements of those who in former times investigated the activities of the stars have been verified, namely, that some stars impart heat and dryness,

Shem T.ov Ibn Falaquera, Guide to the Guide, my translation And the aforementioned scholar wrote: ‘One should believe that the celestial bodies, although they are neither light nor heavy insofar they are bodies, share something with the elements (i.e. the terrestrial bodies) in transparency, because they are luminous, and in opacity.

Therefore, Aristotle said in the book De animalibus that the nature of the moon is like the nature of earth, because of the opacity which is in it by nature. If so, the luminous part of the celestial spheres is similar to the nature of fire. Therefore, those who studied the activities of the stars in the beings, in ancient times, ascribed to some stars heat and dryness, as in the case of the sun,

  10. 11.

some heat and moisture, some cold and moisture, and some cold and dryness (…).

12. 13.

14.

And it seems that the celestial bodies impart to us here below heat, while they themselves are not hot (…).

15.

16. 17.

These four qualities that the celestial bodies and the four elements have in common are predicated equivocally (…).

249

to others cold and dryness, as in the case of Saturn, to others heat and moisture, as in the case of Jupiter. Some ascribe these characters to a masculine nature, some others to a feminine nature. In reality, the stars do not cause cold and dryness and (do not) cause the heat ascribed to them, and the same happens to each one of the elements. This is clear in the moon, since its trace appears in water and its dominion over the watery element is evident. I think that Avicenna says that they cause cooling and heating, but this is remote from their roots except as in combination with them.’

According to Falaquera, this quotation is explicitly taken from Averroes; but it has no apparent literal correspondence in any of the known works by this author. However, this quotation has some impressive similarities to some key-passages in one of Averroes’ wellknown works: the De substantia orbis. As a matter of fact, it substantially reproduces (although in a partially different form) the doctrines and even some of the statements found in some passages in chapter two of the De substantia orbis.12 For example, in line 6 there is one of the most striking similarities between the two passages: a reference to Aristotle (perhaps it concerns De generatione animalium 761b21– 23),13 which is found in both texts; according to this reference, the 12. See in particular pp. 33–34 of H’s English translation, mostly based upon the medieval Latin and the anonymous Hebrew translations of this work. 13. See Aristotle, Generation of Animals (trans. A.L. P; Cambridge, / London 1942) 353: ‘This fourth tribe (of animals, i.e. “fire-animals”) must be looked for

250

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

philosopher affirms in the De animalibus that the nature of the moon is similar to the nature of earth, either because of (according to Falaquera’s translation of Averroes’ passage) or through (according to the anonymous translation) its opacity. In l. 17, a possible mistake in the handwritten tradition of Falaquera’s work might have been reproduced in the text of Shiffman’s edition: the word ‫צירוף‬, ‘comparison’, might result from an erroneous reading of the correct word ‫שיתוף‬, ‘analogy’ (this word is found in the expression ‫בשיתוף השם‬, ‘due to an analogy of name, equivocally’, which can be read in the anonymous Hebrew translation of Averroes’ work). Until now, no trace of the knowledge and use of the De substantia orbis as a source has been found in any of Falaquera’s works; here above, there is some evidence of the fact that Falaquera probably knew this work. Apparently, he did not literally reproduce his source: one can infer this from the differences (which I have marked in italics) between Falaquera’s passage and Averroes’ corresponding passage as it appears in Hyman’s translation, which is based upon the medieval Latin and Hebrew traditions of the work. Rather, he seems to have reworded some passages of it by adapting them to the contents and goals of his book. Of course, a second hypothesis can be advanced. One might even suppose that Falaquera here used another, different version of the original Arabic text of the De substantia orbis. Such a version, if it really existed, might have been written by Averroes himself after having composed the first one in 1178–1179, was apparently lost in Arabic and was never translated into Hebrew or Latin.14 Something similar seems to have happened, for example, in the handwritten tradition of Averroes’ Long Commentary on Aristotle’s De anima, where Falaquera transmits to us a passage of an original version of the work different from that transmitted by the Latin tradition, as recently shown by Marc Geoffroy and Colette Sirat.15 This latter hypothesis appears to be more difficult than the former (it seems that in some cases Falaquera altered the text of his sources), but it cannot be rejected out of hand. on the moon, since the moon, as it appears, has a share in the fourth degree of remove’; see also p. 352 note a. 14. The possible existence of ‘an Arabic original different from that on which the anonymous Hebrew translation was based’ has been supposed by Arthur H too: see H, Averroes’ De substantia orbis, 21. 15. See C. S & M. G, L’original arabe du Grand Commentaire d’Averroès au De anima d’Aristote. Prémices de l’édition (Paris 2005).

 The Site of Adam’s Tomb  .    A    Jewish Bible translations, the Septuagint and the Targumim, render Joshua 14:15 relatively literally, at least without major deviations from the Hebrew text, the Christian translation made by Jerome around 400 , the Vulgate, does deviate from the biblical text at a major point. In this modest contribution written in honour of my esteemed colleague Albert van der Heide, I will argue that it is precisely this Christian translation that incorporated Jewish exegetical traditions. In the Masoretic text of Josh 14:14–15 we read that Hebron became the portion of Caleb because he was loyal to the Lord. ‘The name of Hebron was formerly Kiriath-Arba; he [Arba] was the great man among the Anakites’ (v. 15, ). Targum Jonathan has: ‘The name of Hebron formerly was “the city of Arba”; he was a great man among the giants’.1 We see in this translation that Kiriath-Arba, originally ‘town/city of the four (clans)’, was taken to mean ‘city of (a man called) Arba’, because the immediately following phrase ‫האדם הגדול‬ ‫ בענקים הוא‬seemed to require that ‘the great man’ refers back to an immediately afore-mentioned person, who must be Arba. This interpretation of the Hebrew original seems to make sense, but the  translator has a different view. His rendering is: ‘The name of Hebron was formerly “city of Arbok”;2 it was the metropolis of the Enakim.’3 So he changed ‘the great man’ into ‘the metropolis’ because, taking Kiriath-Arba to be a toponym, he had to do away with the great man—a great city fitted the context much better. So far so good.

1. Text in A. S, The Bible in Aramaic II, The Former Prophets (Leiden 1992) 26. Translation: D.J. H & A.J. S, Targum Jonathan of the Former Prophets (The Aramaic Bible 10; Edinburgh 1987) 40. 2 . Varia lectio: Arbo. The letter k in Arbok renders the Hebrew ‘ayin. 3. On this translation see J. M-F, La Bible d’Alexandrie VI, Jésus (Josué) (Paris 1996) 176.

252

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

But now Jerome’s Vulgate: nomen Hebron antea vocabatur Cariatarbe; Adam maximus ibi inter Enacim situs est4 (‘Hebron was formerly called Kiriath-Arba; Adam, the very big one, lies buried here among the Enakim’). That Jerome took the Hebrew ‫ אדם‬to mean not ‘man’ but Adam here is evident also from some passages in his other works: In his Quaestiones Hebraicae in Genesim, he remarks on Gen 22:3 (‘Sarah died in Kiriath-Arba’) that the  with its ‘city of Arbog’ makes nonsense of the text (Arboc enim nihil omnino significant, ‘Arboc actually signifies nothing at all’). It is called Arba, Jerome says, because four great figures from the past lie buried there, namely, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob ‘and the head of the human race itself, Adam’ (et ipse princeps humani generis, Adam).5 He adds that ‘this will be shown more clearly in the book of Joshua’ (14:15, of course). The other passage is in his famous Epistula 108, where in 11:3 he tells how his rich Roman lady friend, Paula, in the course of her long pilgrimage through Palestine, also visited Hebron, haec est Cariatharbe, id est ‘oppidum virorum quattuor’, Abraham et Isaac et Jacob et Adam magni quem ibi conditum iuxta librum Hiesu Hebraei autumant, licet plerique Chaleb quartum putent, cuius ex latere memoria demonstratur (‘This is Kiriath-Arba, “the city of the four men”, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Adam the Great, who was buried there according to the book of Joshua, as the Hebrews say, although there are many who think that the fourth man is Caleb, whose tomb is to be seen nearby’).6 And there it is: Hebraei autumant, ‘the Jews assert so.’ Here Jerome makes clear what is behind his translation and interpretation of this biblical text—it is Jewish exegesis.7 4. Text in R. W, Biblia sacra iuxta Vulgatam versionem (Stuttgart 1969) I, 306. Several manuscripts have instead of inter Enacim the reading in terra Enacim (he lies buried in the land of the Enakim). 5. Text in P. A, S. Hieronymi presbyteri opera I/1 (CCSL 72; Turnhout: 1959) 28. Translation by C.T.R. H, Saint Jerome’s Hebrew Questions on Genesis (Oxford 1995) 56–57. 6. Latin text (with Dutch translation) in P.W.   H, Paula in Palestina. Hieronymus’ biografie van een rijke Romeinse christin (Zoetermeer 2006) 60–61. Translation (slightly corrected) by J. W, Jerusalem Pilgrims Before the Crusades (Warminster 2002) 85. See also H. D, Pilgerfahrt ins Heilige Land. Die ältesten Berichte christlicher Palästinapilger (4.–7. Jahrhundert) (Stuttgart 1980) 159– 160. 7. In his translation of Eusebius’ Onomastikon, Jerome gives similar information (which is not in Eusebius’ text): ‘Arboc: In our codices it is written corruptly Arboc, but in the Hebrew codices it is Arbe, that is, four, because there the three Patriarchs,

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253

Naturally, the question that arises is: Can we confirm this claim from Jewish sources? Yes, we can indeed. In the late (8th–9th century) rabbinic midrash Pirqei de-Rabbi Eliezer (PRE) we read that Adam says he wants to be buried in the double Cave of Machpelah. The text then goes on to inform us that Adam and Eve, Abraham and Sara, Isaac and Rebecca, and Jacob and Leah were all buried in that cave. ‘Therefore it is called Kiriath-Arba (city of four) since four couples were buried there’.8 This text postdates Jerome by some four centuries, but we get very close in time to this Christian scholar when we see that the source upon which the compiler of PRE drew most probably was the much earlier midrash Bereshit Rabba, which dates from the early fifth century (and Jerome died in 419 ). There we read in the Rabbis’ comments on Gen 23:2 (the verse about Sarah’s death in Kiriath Arba): ‘It [the city of four] had four names: Eshkol, Mamre, Kiriath-Arba and Hebron. Why was it called Kiriath-Arba? Because four righteous men dwelt in it: Aner, Eshcol, Mamre, and Abraham; and four righteous men were circumcised in it: Abraham, Aner, Eshcol and Mamre. According to another interpretation, four righteous men were buried in it: Adam, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Four matriarchs were buried in it: Eve, Sarah, Rebecca and Leah’ (58:4).9 This passage teaches us, among other things, that the element ‘four’ in the biblical text was variously explained of different persons and events.10 From a perhaps even earlier period we also have a testimony in the Talmud, b. Eruv. 53a, where the name Kiriath-Arba in Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are buried, and Adam the Great, as it is written in the book of Joshua’. For text and translation see R.S. N & Z. S, Eusebius, Onomasticon: The Place Names of Divine Scripture (Leiden 2005) 7 and G.S.P. FG, R.L. C , J.E. T, Palestine in the Fourth Century .. The Onomasticon by Eusebius of Caesarea (Jerusalem 2003) 13. For other passages in Jerome about Adam’s tomb see J. D, Die Apokalypse des Mose. Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar (TSAJ 106; Tübingen 2005) 171 n. 36 and R. G, ‘Die Haggada bei den Kirchenvätern und in der apokryphischen Literatur’, Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums .. 7 (1899) 69-72. It would seem that in this respect Jerome had altered his earlier belief that Adam’s tomb was at Golgotha; see his Epistula 46:3 and the comments in H, Saint Jerome’s Hebrew Questions on Genesis, 183. 8. G. F, Pirke de-Rabbi Eliezer (New York 1981; repr. of the 1916 edition) chapter 20, pp. 148–149; also M.-A. O & E. S, Pirqé de Rabbi Eliézer (Lagrasse 1983) 120–121. 9. Translation (slightly changed) by H. F, Midrash Rabba: Genesis (London 1939) II, 510–511. 10. See H, Saint Jerome’s Hebrew Questions on Genesis, 182.

254

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Gen 23:2 is explained by R. Isaac (ca. 300 ) as ‘the city of the four couples’, namely Adam and Eve, Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebeccah, Jacob and Leah. Exactly the same tradition, again attributed to R. Isaac, is reported also in b. Sotah 13a.11 We may also reach back to the time before Jerome with Targum Neofiti, where Gen 23:2 is translated as follows: ‘Sarah died in the city of the four Patriarchs.’12 It is clear that by the time of Jerome the Jewish tradition about Adam’s burial in Kiriath-Arba was already in existence and it is more than probable that this Christian scholar had indeed learned about it from his Jewish compatriots—Jerome lived in Palestine uninterruptedly for some 35 years, from 385 till 419 .13 How did this tradition about Adam’s burial in Hebron come into being? The origin of this exegetical tradition is to be sought in the fact that the Bible does mention the burial of the three Patriarchs and their wives in Hebron/Kiriath-Arba (Gen 23:19; 25:9; 35:27–9; 49:29– 31), but that the explanation of this toponym as ‘city of four (persons)’ required one more great name (of a man or a couple). We learned already from Jerome that according to some this fourth person was Caleb, understandably enough since he was mentioned with honour in Joshua 14:14, the passage immediately preceding the verse about the former name of Hebron, Kiriath-Arba. And in the Talmud we read that according to others Esau had laid claim to the fourth burial spot, but to no avail (b. Sotah 13a).14 It was the text in Josh 14:15 (iuxta librum Hiesu) that spoke of ‫האדם הגדול‬, ‘the great Adam’, in connection with Kiriath-Arba, which dispelled the doubts among Jewish exegetes (Hebraei autumant): it was Adam who, together with the three great Patriarchs, could make up the four needed to explain the name of the city. And this influenced the way in which Jerome translated the biblical text in his Vulgate. We do not find this tradition in pre-rabbinic sources (Josephus, for instance, does not refer to it), neither does it occur in the earliest 11. Cf. also the story about R. Bana’ah in b. BB 58a, where it is told that he went into the Cave of Machpelah and saw the bodies of Adam and Eve. A similar story is told about Abraham finding the bodies of Adam and Eve lying on their beds in the Cave of Machpelah in PRE 36. 12. M. MN, Targum Neofiti I, Genesis (The Aramaic Bible 1A; Edinburgh 1992) 120. Targum Neofiti may date from the second or third century . 13. See on Jerome’s long stay in Palestine J.N.D. K, Jerome: His Life, Writings, and Controversies (London 1975) 116–332. 14. See J. J, Heiligengräber in Jesu Umwelt (Göttingen 1953) 96–97.

 .   

255

reports of Christian pilgrims to the Holy Land in the fourth century. The earliest pilgrim to tell us about a visit to Adam’s grave in Hebron is Bishop Arculf who mentions his trip to the tomb of the Patriarchs and Adam (primi parentis sepulcrum, as he calls it) in his De locis sanctis, written around 675 .15 The fact that the tradition about Adam’s tomb in Kiriath-Arba never became the dominant one in either Judaism or Christianity has to do with the fact that it faced strong competition. There were also other Jewish traditions about the burial of Adam and Eve: e.g. in the Greek Life of Adam and Eve (also known as the Apocalypse of Moses) we read in 40:6–7 and 43:1–2 that Adam and Eve were interred on that spot in the earthly paradise from where God had taken dust in order to form Adam, a tradition already found in the second century  in Jubilees 4:29.16 In Judaism the tradition that finally became dominant was that the place where Adam was buried was the Temple Mount; in Christianity, however, that place was identified as Golgotha.17 But that is another story.18

15. De locis sanctis, 2.10.6. Cf. P. G (ed.), Itineraria et alia geographica I (Corpus Cristianorum Series Latina 175; Turnhout 1965) 210. 16. See D, Die Apokalypse des Mose, 538–542. 17. Both traditions are discussed at length in J. J, Golgotha (Leipzig 1926) 34–39; see also his Heiligengräber, 98. 18. I owe thanks to Dr. J.N. P (Münster) for the correction of my English text.

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 From Perush to Be’ ur Authenticity and Authority in Eighteenth-Century Jewish Interpretation  .  I    on the concept of ‘authority’ in Jewish interpretation, our point of departure shall be the ‘turn towards the authentic’, i.e., the emphasis on historical authenticity that we encounter among Ashkenazi scholars during the final decades of the eighteenth century. This discovery of the authentic (indeed one of the acknowledged markers of modernity) was an important internally Jewish antecedent for the intense fact-finding objectivity of the nineteenth-century Wissenschaft des Judentums. Needless to say, when compared to the Wissenschaft’s scholarly ethos, the new late eighteenth-century ‘knowledge awareness’ and its methodological implications were still quite rudimentary. In this contribution, I shall limit myself to one of its most concrete and tangible aspects and offer a few observations on how in that earliest stage it affected, in the broadest sense, the scholars’ understanding of ‘text’ and, accordingly, their handling of previous sources.1 To this effect, we must briefly— and, inevitably, somewhat impressionistically—consider the following two, related, features. First of all, we must explore how in textual interpretation a different concept of ‘author’ was introduced, now strongly connected with ‘author’s intention’, how authority and veracity now came to depend  T I have always admired Albert   H for his omnivorous interest in all aspects of Hebrew and Jewish studies, in this article (on the transition from perush to be’ ur) I wish to pay tribute to his thoughtful contributions to the study of the Jewish commentary tradition. 1. The following survey can thus be read as a supplement to the first chapter of S. F (‫)שמואל פינר‬, ‫ תולדותיה של הכרת עבר יהודית מודרנית‬:‫( השכלה והיסטוריה‬Haskalah and History. The Emergence of a Modern Jewish Awareness of the Past) (Jerusalem 1995) 21–101, which deals with the German maskilim’s budding interest in the realistic and rationalistic dimensions of historical scholarship and its moralistic potential.

258

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

upon identifiable authorship, and how commentators and translators henceforth formulated their responsibilities towards the historical author and his original message. Secondly, and more or less simultaneously, I shall try and outline how in the presentation of Hebrew texts a rudimentary documentary approach arose, which allowed scholars to offer their audiences the best possible text, which ideally equaled the original author’s words, a pristine document uncorrupted by centuries of copying and printing. For this new attitude, we can rely on a series of paratextual remarks by a number of maskilic editors, each echoing with new topoi that were coined to express this new editorial responsibility. 1. T     J   In order to fully appreciate what is new about the late eighteenthcentury alliance between authenticity and authority, we should first compare it with indigenously Jewish textual and interpretive strategies. An early, most illuminating, summary of the highly functional relation between interpretation and authority in Jewish religious thinking was offered by Gershom Scholem in his ‘Revelation and tradition as religious categories in Judaism’.2 From this article ‘tradition’ rises as a creative (rather than conservative) category of Jewish thought, an ever-dynamic continuum clad in religious authority. Within this dynamic conception of tradition, a crucial role was reserved for what Scholem called ‘a new type of religious person: the biblical scholar’.3 For this biblical scholar, divine revelation had not been a unique and isolated event; rather, it constituted an eternal treasure-trove for mankind, one that could not exist by itself but in fact needed constant commentary in order to remain alive and properly understood. One is indeed reminded here of Paul Ricœur’s axiom (formulated around the time Scholem wrote his article) that, once written down, every text is released from its original referent,

2. Originally published in German as ‘Tradition und Kommentar als religiöse Kategorien im Judentum’, Eranos Jahrbuch 31 (1962) 19–48; Eng. transl. H. S, Judaism 15/1 (1966) 23–39; the revised and expanded edition referred to here is from the collection The Messianic Idea in Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (New York 1971) 282–303. 3. Ibid., 287.

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259

and that each new generation faces the challenge of attributing a new set of meanings to it.4 In Ricœur’s theory, the fact that texts were written according to the clearly defined laws of a particular genre guaranteed that readers and interpreters would never stray too far from the proper meaning. In Scholem’s analysis, it was the commentary genre that was claimed to represent the dominant Jewish medium for writing (and reading, and acquiring knowledge) about ‘truth’.5 So much so indeed, Scholem acknowledged, that one could safely speak of the supremacy of the commentary over the source text or, as he put it, of ‘the authority of the commentary over the author’.6 This latter formulation is of course a bit misleading, in that it reveals Scholem’s modern preoccupation with author as much as with text. Essentially, in the creative traditional commentary which he postulated, the very notion of ‘author’ was conspicuously absent. And it is easy to see that this was no coincidence, but a fundamental prerequisite for tradition to do its creative, at times even destructive, work. Compare, for example, the terminology through which ‫מדרש‬, the authentic Jewish answer to Greek ἱστορία (both meaning ‘to search’), describes the interplay of text and commentary. In the midrashic vocabulary, the priority lay with the text that had been written down (‫ככתוב‬, ‫)דכתיב‬, or, a natural consequence of mankind’s inveterate ‘logocentrism’, with the text that could be heard to speak, as we learn from expressions such as ‫ כמשמעו‬and ‫שנאמר‬. On other occasions the text is represented as speaking itself, as in ‫מגיד הכתוב‬, or in the famous halakhic principle ‫דברה תורה כלשון בני אדם‬, to which I will briefly return later. Alternatively, the midrashic interpreter could refer to the act of—either collectively or individually—interpreting the text, witness such expressions as ‫מיכן אמרו‬, ‫הרני דן‬, or ‫אמרת קל וחומר‬. In both variants, the discourse of interpretation suggests two participants only: text and reader. The legitimacy of the intimate exchange between these two sets of actors, as Scholem already pointed out in his article, lay in the fact that both the timeless, revealed text and the time-bound, historical interpretation were claimed to go back to Sinai. Interpretation was thus both sanctioned by and encapsulated in ‘ac4. Comp. esp. R’s series Essais d’herméneutique (Paris 1969 and later). 5. Cf. his contention that in Judaism ‘[n]ot system but commentary is the legitimate form through which truth is approached’ (‘Revelation and Tradition’, 289). 6. Ibid., 291.

260

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torless’ revelation, and it was this fact that guaranteed its authority, not any form of authorship, be it divine or human. In the ensuing biblical commentary tradition, this conception of the autonomous dialogue between text and reader, to the exclusion of a—divine or human—author, did not fundamentally change, despite the introduction of exegetical categories which, in the eyes of the modern student at least, may seem to point to the contrary. The Ashkenazi ‫ פשט‬peshat., for example, may refer to the literal meaning of a verse, yet its interpretations never presuppose an author and accordingly do not reconstruct the plain meaning of a text in terms of its author’s intention.7 Likewise we should not be confused by the appearance of the Arabic term ‫ ﻗﺼﺪ‬qas.d (‘intention’) in medieval Andalusian linguistic and philosophical exegesis. When referring to the meaning of a biblical text, Rambam, e.g., tends to speak of its qas.d, consistently translated by Samuel ibn Tibbon as Hebrew ‫כוונה‬. Without exception, however, it is the ‫כוונת תורת האלוה‬, or the ‫כוונת ספר איוב‬, for example, that Rambam refers to. In other words, he is concerned with the true ‫ כוונה‬of the biblical text, not the intention of its supposed author.8 A striking exception to this traditional ‘authorless’ norm was Abraham ibn Ezra, as emerges from a reading of his Commentary on Genesis.9 In this commentary, Ibn Ezra’s exegetical point of departure had been the ancient rabbinic adage that ‫דברה תורה כלשון בני אדם‬ (Scriptura humane loquitur), i.e. that Torah’s use of language followed the same rhetoric that governed the usage of men. Medieval exegetes often resorted to this phrase when defending the principle of accommodation, i.e. when exploiting the idea that the Bible uses simple expressions in order to convey a simple message to the masses, while 7. Instead, peshat. either interprets an utterance in terms of its referent, by identifying the object, fact or process in the world outside the text to which the utterance refers, or it interprets an utterance in terms of its sense, i.e., of that which is being said about the referent. 8. I would argue that these and other formulations do not warrant M.Z. C’s conclusion that the Andalusian peshat. equates the meaning of a text with its author’s intent; cf. his Three Approaches to Biblical Metaphor: From Abraham ibn Ezra and Maimonides to David Kimhi (Leiden 2003) 324–326 and id., ‘Maimonides’ Disagreement with “The Torah” in His Interpretation of Job’, Zutot 2004 (2006) 66–78, esp. 73 n. 24. 9. Cf. the chapter on ‘Divine Providence and the Course of History’ in A. F, Theology and the Scientific Imagination from the Middle Ages to the Seventeenth Century (Princeton 1986) 213–219.

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261

simultaneously harbouring a deeper, philosophical meaning that may be reconstructed only by the learned scholar. Ibn Ezra, too, adduced the rabbinic dictum to justify his own, esoteric, Neoplatonic reading of the account of creation in Genesis chapter one. However, from the way he rephrased it we learn that, as far as he was concerned, the biblical author (and indeed I’m not using this word randomly here) had not so much resorted to accommodation in order to cater for the ignorant masses, as because of his own, inevitable, human shortcomings. In his comment on the theologically problematic plural in Gen 1:26 (‘Let us make man’) Ibn Ezra almost off-handedly ventilated this conviction when stating that ‘since we know that the Torah speaks the language of men, for the speaker is a man (‫)כי המדבר אדם‬, just like him who hears [the message] (‫)גם כן השומע‬, and man cannot speak of things that are beyond him other than in human proportions (‫רק על‬ ‫’)דמות האדם‬. According to Ibn Ezra, the author of Torah (Moses?), being only human, could not help but present the account of creation ‫כלשון בני אדם‬, i.e. from a human perspective. By consequence, he concluded, the account of creation as laid down in the first chapter of Genesis concerned the sublunary world, the only part of the cosmos that was accessible from that human perspective. It is easy to see how Ibn Ezra’s belief in the human authorship of Torah served his Neoplatonic reading of the Book of Genesis; it did not, however, lead him to explicitly question the revealed origin of Scripture. When contemplating this bold recapitulation of the human, historical, and thus fallible, dimension of revelation, it is not hard to imagine why Ibn Ezra had little impact on contemporary exegesis. According to Funkenstein, the first to pick up his lead was Spinoza. In the Tractatus, Spinoza was the first Jewish scholar to explicitly suggest that the Bible was, more than anything, a historical document, formulated in the historical language of its human author, and expressing that human author’s historical (we can almost hear the verdict ‘primitive’) worldview.10

10. Ibid., 219–221. Cf. also R.H. P, ‘Spinoza and Bible Scholarship’, in J.E. F & R.H. P (eds.), The Books of Nature and Scripture: Recent Essays on Natural Philosophy, Theology and Biblical Criticism in the Netherlands of Spinoza’s Time and the British Isles of Newton’s Time (Dordrecht etc. 1994) 1–20. P shows that Spinoza shared this rejection of divine and Mosaic authorship with such diverse thinkers Thomas Hobbs, Isaac La Peyrère and Samuel Fisher, but fails to substantiate

262

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

Compared to Spinoza, Moses Mendelssohn, that other epitome of Jewish enlightened thinking, seems to have cherished rather more conservative views regarding the alleged historicity of the revealed Torah. Simultaneously, however, he was under a lot more pressure than Spinoza to overtly address the issue. Contemporary Christian scholars, for example, had begun to unravel the history of their two essential founding texts. In Germany, Johann Albrecht Bengel had established (in 1753) a detailed genealogy of New Testament textual witnesses, applying, for the first time, a hierarchy of variant readings (indeed it was Bengel who fathered the stemma as well as the term ‘critical apparatus’). That same year in England, Benjamin Kennicot had published his State of the Hebrew Text of the Old Testament, the upbeat to a decade long scrutiny of some six hundred Old Testament manuscripts, which aimed to ‘free the Bible from its Jewish trappings’11 and to restore it to its pristine, Hebrew, state. Facing such challenges, Mendelssohn had little choice but to add an unequivocal Jewish voice to the debate about the authenticity (or lack of authenticity) of the current biblical text, all the more so since he was about to publish his own translation of the Pentateuch into German, based entirely on the traditional masoretic version. Mendelssohn expressed that voice in the opening section of Or li-Netivah, the pamphlet that heralded the ambitious Berlin Bi’ ur project. Covering no less than seventeen densely printed pages in the modern Gesamtausgabe,12 Mendelssohn demonstrated, with the help of rabbinic aggadah and logical reasoning, that the masoretic text could safely be believed to represent the authentic report of the divine revelation at Sinai. Relying on Jewish authorities from Bereshit Rabba to Azariah de’ Rossi, he succeeded in proving that God had carefully dictated His message to Moses, making every effort to articulate and arrange His phrases properly, and that Moses had copied every word, maintaining God’s perfect ‫‘( תקון מבטא‬thorough pronunciation’) by faithfully heeding the ‫‘( תקון מכתב‬thorough notation’), including the t.e‘amim. While describing this procedure in painstaking detail, Mendelssohn in passing vindicated the Jewish scribal tradition and dismissed the his claim (p. 5) that the latter three, too, derived their argumentation from Ibn Ezra’s commentaries. 11. J. S, The Enlightenment Bible: Translation, Scholarship, Culture (Princeton 2005) 183 (emphasis mine). 12. Hebräische Schriften I (ed. H. B), Gesammelte Schriften. Jubiläumsausgabe XIV (Stuttgart/Bad Cannstatt 1972) 211–228.

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263

Samaritan textual witnesses that had featured in the publications of Christian scholars. The result was a sound demonstration of the fact that the masoretic Torah was fully identical with the Law that had once been revealed by God to Moses. Thus we find that Mendelssohn was aware of contemporary critical stirrings, which put great stress on textual authenticity as the guarantee for a proper understanding of what a historical author might have meant. However, when those stirrings touched upon the Holy Scriptures, Mendelssohn’s apparent rationalism was soon curbed by his concern for the original Jewish two-some: revelation and tradition. Significantly enough, his (Hebrew) defense of the integrity of the masoretic text remains very introverted and reveals no ambition whatsoever to engage in a serious debate with contemporary Christian scholarship. As Edward Breuer has pointed out, its traditional phraseology and argumentation appear ‘far more attuned to [Jewish] popular need than to [Christian] scholarly discourse’.13 2. F    ’ :  -’  I should now like to illustrate the impact of the two (related) tendencies mentioned at the beginning of this article, i.e., the quest for textual authenticity and the original author’s intention, with the help of the editor’s introductions to a few maskilic re-editions of medieval Hebrew classics, issued in the final decades of the eighteenth century. As we shall see, the emphasis on editorial accuracy and a different, more ‘serviceable’, form of interpretation entailed a new, mildly historicising, approach of the early sources. Texts of evident antiquity, like Maimonides’ Moreh or Judah Halevi’s Kuzari, suddenly became fixed in ‘a time past’, at the cost of their continuous, timeless, authority. As a consequence, the commentator could no longer use their words as a starting point for ventilating his own thoughts on contemporary issues. Before we turn to the texts themselves, a brief glance at the techniques and strategies that governed previous Ashkenazi editions 13. E. B, The Limits of Enlightenment: Jews, Germans, and the EighteenthCentury Study of Scripture (Cambridge, /London 1996) 175. This would certainly explain M’s exclusive reliance on Jewish sources and rabbinic argumentation, and the amount of attention he paid to matters that were quite peripheral to state-of-the-art biblical criticism, such as the possible precedence of the Samaritan Pentateuch, the antiquity of the Hebrew language and, especially, the shift from ‫כתב‬ ‫ עברי‬to ‫ כתב אשורי‬and its textual consequences; comp. ibid., 163–173.

264

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

(in which, needless to say, ‘commentary’ often also played a role) may be helpful. The medieval Ashkenazi understanding of text, especially of the halakhic text that was central to the Ashkenazi canon, has been reconstructed by Elchanan Reiner, who has shown that in pre-modern Ashkenaz ‘there [was] no such thing as an authoritative text. Authority is personal, it depends absolutely on the halakhic scholar, the ‫פוסק‬, who cannot—and may not—rely on precedents. Moreover, authority is a unique, one-off affair’.14 From the twelfth-century Tosafists down to Hayyim ben Betsalel, the brother of the renowned Maharal of Prague, priority had thus been given to live communication, the oral text being ‘the authoritative one, its source of authority being the fact that it is transmitted from teacher to pupil’.15 By contrast, the written text was of secondary importance to the Ashkenazi scholars, serving, at best, as a personal mnemonic. It was only with the arrival, from the late fifteenth century onwards, of printed books from Italy, that the Ashkenazi conception of creation, transmission and, in its wake, canon, began to change. A landmark in this shift from orality to print was Moses Isserles’ Torat H . at.at (printed Cracow 1559), which Isserles had written as a new handbook for the Ashkenazi yeshivot—indeed an unprecedented initiative. The previous halakhic tradition, Isserles argued, had become so obscure and unwieldy, piling commentary upon commentary, that it was now time for a new, systematic exposition of the law, one that was written ‘in a manner easily comprehensible to every man, be he small or great’.16 As we shall see shortly, Isserles’ insistence on the inaccessibility of traditional literature to the masses, voiced around the middle of the sixteenth century, anticipates the views expressed by the late eighteenth-century maskilim in their editions of the medieval classics, who likewise condemned the ancients for their lack of accommodation. Given the long-standing emphasis on (oral) ‫פלפול‬, the apparent neglect of other, notably philosophical and scientific, writings should not surprise us. Witness, for example, the lack of response in premodern Ashkenaz to Maimonides’ Moreh Nevukhim. Until well into 14. E. R, ‘The Ashkenazi Élite at the Beginning of the Modern Era: Manuscript versus Printed Book’, in G.D. H (ed.), Jews in Early Modern Poland (Polin: Studies in Polish Jewry 10; London/Portland,  1997) 85–98, esp. 87–88. 15. Ibid., 88. 16. Ibid., 93–94, quoting Torat H . at.at fol. 2a–2b.

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265

the sixteenth century, Jewish commentators outside the (CentralEuropean) Ashkenazi cultural sphere had not so much expounded as expanded, often also refuted, the teachings contained in the Guide; by contrast, Ashkenazi scholars began to show a—modest and disputed—interest only from the mid sixteenth century onwards.17 The editions that were studied, also by Moses Mendelssohn in his youth, had been printed in sixteenth-century Italy. When in 1742 the rabbis of Anhalt (Germany) decided to reissue the work themselves, the structure and contents of their edition were once again ‘Italian’. The Hebrew text of the Moreh was borrowed from the Sabbioneta 1553 edition, as were the texts of its three fifteenth-century commentaries (by Ibn Shem T.ov, Profiat Duran, and Asher Crescas). The table of contents, which had been compiled in the early thirteenth century, went back to the 1551 Venice edition, as did the text of Shmuel ibn Tibbon’s glossary Perush millot ha-zarot. Thus we find that the 1742 Jessnitz edition, though a relative Ashkenazi novelty, was too dependent on former models to be truly innovative. By contrast, the edition of the first book of the Moreh published by the Berlin maskil Isaac Euchel half a century later (Berlin 1791), was all the more innovative when it came to editorial choices. In his Davar ’el ha-qore’ (‘Wort zum Leser’) Euchel offered a series of observations that betray a fundamentally new attitude towards the editingcum-interpretation of traditional texts. The average reader, he had noticed, generally considered Samuel ibn Tibbon’s medieval translation of the Guide much too difficult. This was partly due to the fact that, no doubt because of its complexity, the text had been transmitted in an extremely corrupt form. Unfortunately, Euchel added, the traditional commentaries that were usually included did little to enhance the reader’s understanding of that corrupt text, since they lacked didactic finesse. Glossing over all philological difficulties, they offered little besides irrelevant, anachronistic, information, which may have been of some relevance to the commentator’s contemporary audience, but was of little use to the ‘modern’ reader. It was the editor’s task, Euchel stressed, to guide that modern reader through Maimonides’ original text, with the help of reliable textual witnesses and a commentary that did justice to the philosopher’s original 17. Cf. the controversies (1559) in the Prague and Poznań yeshivot on the acceptability of studying the Guide, discussed in E. R, ‘The Attitude of Ashkenazi Society to the New Science in the Sixteenth Century’, Science in Context 10 (1997) 589–603.

266

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

thoughts. The Latin title page of the book (which significantly enough preceded the one in Hebrew) neatly illustrates this new editorial ethos by referring to the various layers which together made up the edition and, no less important, by explicitly featuring Isaac Euchel as the editor of this complex piece of scholarship.18 When taken together, the paratextual material in Euchel’s Morehedition clearly shows that its maskilic editor was well aware of the documentary approach of texts that had been developed in eighteenth-century Christian scholarship, according to which books and manuscripts should be seen as textual witnesses rather than as authoritative statements. Naturally Euchel would not go as far as the above-mentioned Johann Albrecht Bengel and his German colleagues. Yet even without establishing manuscript families and variant readings, he did try to convey to his audience that true access to an author’s original thoughts could only be achieved via the original, uncorrupted text.19 In his 1795 edition of the second and third books of the Moreh, Isaac Satanow, who at that time was in charge of the printing press of the Jüdische Freyschule in Berlin, offered an even more systematic recapitulation of this maskilic editorial programme. On the title page, Satanow first of all adjured his readers that the present edition had been executed with great care (‫)בשקידה רבה‬, and included corrections of mistakes that had befallen the earlier editions as well as variant

18. While the Hebrew title page merely mentions, besides the book’s Hebrew title and its author, the perush by Moses of Narbonne and (anonymously) Solomon Maimon’s Giv‘at ha-Moreh, its Latin counterpart lists all the relevant historical and technical details: More Nebuchim sive Liber Doctor Perplexorum auctore R. Mose Majemonide arabico idiomate conscriptus, R. Samuele Abben Thibbone in linguam hebraeam translatus, novis commentaris uno R. Mosis Narbonnensis, ex antiquissimis manuscriptis depromto; altero anonymi cujusdam, sub nomine Gibeath Hamore adauctus, nunc in lucem editus cura et impensis Isaaci Eucheli. Berolini, Officina Scholae Liberae Judaicae . 19. If this stress on historical authenticity was a novelty in the Ashkenazi conception of text and author, it was not entirely without precedent in Jewish scholarship. Witness e.g. Samuel ibn Tibbon’s efforts to reconstruct, with the help of commentaries as textual witnesses, the original Aristotelian wording of the Arabic Meteorology that served as his Vorlage. Ibn Tibbon’s concern for authenticity, however, was limited to the validity of his own Hebrew translation only. Cf. R. F’s ‘Introduction’ to her edition of Otot ha-Shamayim: Samuel ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew Version of Aristotle’s Meteorology (Leiden 1995), ix-xi.

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readings that had been omitted there.20 In his haqdamah he then dismissed, like Euchel had done, the explanations offered by previous commentators as useless to the contemporary readership. All too often, he contended, these early authorities had obscured rather than elucidated the text, especially by adding knowledge that had not yet been available in the days of Rambam himself. Satanow preferred a less anachronistic, more didactic approach to the medieval text, based upon seven principles that were clearly spelled out at the end of his introduction: 1. A commentator should never rely too much upon his own knowledge; 2. He should not indulge in non-rationalist philosophy; 3. He should not deviate (at least, not without a clear motivation) from previous commentators; 4. He should take together chapters and indicate their overall theme, just as Maimonides had suggested; 5. He should keep his own explanations simple, in tune with the reader’s capacities; 6. He should be neither terse nor long-winded; 7. He should only add observations from literature that bore relevance to the subject. From this set of guidelines it is evident that Satanow, too, no longer saw the commentary as a vehicle for promoting contemporary concerns under the guise of a canonical text’s authority—a role the Jewish commentary had fulfilled since time immemorial, and had still fulfilled in mid eighteenth-century commentaries on medieval works.21 Instead, the new commentator should help the medieval, often rationalist, message, which he still considered relevant for enlightened discourse, to speak for itself.22 In the editions of Satanow 20. N.B. Judging by his paratexts, ‘the frivolous Satanow’, who is often said to have printed ‘negligently (…) erroneously and with omissions’ (thus I. Z, A History of Jewish Literature VIII, The Berlin Haskalah [trans. B. M; Cincinnati 1976] 191), nevertheless seems to have taken his job as an editor of authentic texts quite seriously, if only in theory. 21. Witness e.g. Israel ben Moses Halevi of Zamość’s re-edition of Ruah. H . en (Jessnitz 1744). When naming the reason for enriching this thirteenth-century scientific introduction (Zamość wrongly identified Judah ibn Tibbon as its author) with explanations of his own, Zamość had still relied on medieval topoi like ‘‫’דל שפתנו‬, i.e. the belief that Hebrew in the Diaspora had become impoverished beyond repair. In his perush, however, he not so much explained as subverted the medieval material, using the commentary genre to express, on the one hand, his affinity with traditional Jewish knowledge, while simultaneously introducing recent scientific theories and discoveries that refuted that knowledge; cf. D. R, Jewish Thought and Scientific Discovery in Early Modern Europe (New Haven/London 1995) 332–342. 22. This is of course the great difference between the maskilic commentary and the Wissenschaft’s historical analysis: while the latter relegated medieval texts to the

268

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

and his contemporaries, this change in conception is marked by the predilection for the term be’ur (‘elucidation’) over perush, the word traditionally used to denote commentary. By virtue of his position in the printing house of the Jüdische Freyschule, Satanow inevitably figures prominently in the above analysis. There were, however, various—more or less contemporary— parallels, of which I shall name two. The first takes us to Amsterdam, where in 1769 a young ‘early maskil’ by the name of David Wagenaar had started to write a Hebrew translation of Mendelssohn’s Phädon, which had been published in German in 1767.23 Upon finishing the project (ca. 1775) he wrote a letter to Mendelssohn in Berlin, asking him to check part of the proposed Hebrew translation and to authorise its publication.24 The letter gives us an interesting insight into Wagenaar’s thoughts on the possibilities and impossibilities of providing a German philosophical work with an adequate Hebrew translation. In his experience, he wrote to Mendelssohn, the translator’s task was a tricky one. Not only did he fear that his lack of German knowledge might prove an obstacle,25 he was also aware of the danger of distorting the ‫כוונת המחבר‬, the actual author’s intention. He considered himself very fortunate to be able to consult that author himself, he continued, who might not so much furnish him with learned details (as Maimonides had given to Ibn Tibbon, just as the medieval translation technique demanded), but who might reassure him in that he had guessed his innermost, authentic, thoughts correctly. A second parallel can be found in the vindication of the new commentary genre in the introduction to the re-edition of Saadia’s Emunot ve-De‘ot by the Krakauer maskil Judah Loeb ben Ze’ev, published 1789. According to ben Ze’ev, not just Saadia’s treatise, but all realm of the pre-enlightened past, the maskilim still adduced them as a creative voice in contemporary debates. 23. Brief references to W’s project are found in A. A, Moses Mendelssohn. A Biographical Study (University of Alabama 1973) 192–193, 790 and S. F, The Jewish Enlightenment (Philadelphia 2004) 26. N.B. W’s translation was never published; today, his autograph can be consulted in the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana,  Ros. 263. 24. The letter was published in M’s Hebräische Schriften III (ed. H. B), Gesammelte Schriften. Jubiläumsausgabe XIX (Stuttgart/Bad Cannstatt 1974) 206–207. NB: the year 1775 is uncertain, and Mendelssohn’s answer, if there ever was one, has not been preserved. 25. It seems W circumvented this problem by (partly) basing his translation on the Dutch Phädon-translation, which had appeared in The Hague in 1769.

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ancients texts (‫ )ספרים ראשונים‬were in need of a be’ur, since their authors had either refused to tune down their argumentation to the minds of the ignorant masses (‫)המון כסילים‬, or at best had forgotten to adapt their style to the limited capacities of the average readership. In his be’ ur of Saadia’s work, ben Ze ’ev promised, he would make every possible effort ‘to bring from potentiality to actuality the understanding of the author’s thought, according to its fullest intention’. To my knowledge, Ben Ze ’ev’s characterisation of the literature of earlier times is one of the most eloquent Jewish articulations of the gap that divided the ‘elitist’ Middle Ages from the supposedly ‘egalitarian’ Age of Enlightenment. 3. E By way of an afterthought, I should like to draw attention to the fact that the new emphasis on authenticity in late eighteenth-century Ashkenaz also led to a re-evaluation of language, and may well have nourished the decision, first by the Berlin maskilim, then by their followers in centres such as Prague and Amsterdam, to write ‘classical Hebrew’. That is, to imitate the literary language of the ancient biblical auctores rather than, as previous generations had done, elaborate upon its systematisation by the medieval grammarians. According to the maskilic norm, Jewish authors should no longer write Hebrew according to the abstract matrix that had been created by Saadia Gaon and his Andalusian colleagues, but should imitate the language as it had revealed itself in the historical Hebrew scriptures. With the help of a new set of maskilic grammars, the ‫( בעל לשון עברי‬rather than the ‫ )בעל לשון הקודש‬could finally endeavour to write authentic Hebrew. As I have tried to substantiate elsewhere, this new ambition meant a clear departure from previous Jewish conceptions of Hebrew.26 As may be learned from the present paper, it was entirely in tune with the ‘discovery of the authentic’ that had entered Jewish enlightened discourse in the second half of the eighteenth century.

26. I.E. Z, ‘Hebrew or the Holy Tongue? Imitation and Authenticity in Medieval Hebrew Writing’, in L. N (ed.), Language and Cultural Change: Aspects of the Study and Use of Language in the Later Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Louvain 2006) 77–90; Ead., ‘What’s in a Name? Conceptions of Hebrew as Reflected by the Titles of Hebrew Grammars’, Zutot 2004 (2006) 117–124.

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 Love of One’s Neighbour in Pinh.as Hurwitz’s Sefer

ha-Berit   T   of his Sefer ha-Berit, which was first published in Brünn (Brno) in 1797, the Galician Jewish author Pinh.as Elias Hurwitz extensively discusses the subject of ‫ ;אהבת רעים‬an expression that is commonly translated as ‘neighbourly love’, or ‘love of one’s fellow man’. Sefer ha-Berit (The Book of the Covenant) is an encyclopaedic work that deals with a great variety of subjects, both scientific (in part I) and religious-traditional (in part II).1 The penultimate treatise (‫ )מאמר‬in the book is about ‫( אהבת רעים‬II.13) and it displays the same systematic approach that characterises Sefer ha-Berit as a whole. The treatise stands out, however, by its length, at least in the second, extended edition of the work, which appeared in 1807. In the most recent edition of this extended version, the treatise fills almost 50 1. For some general information on the book and its author, see: I. Z, A History of Jewish Literature (12 vols.; New York 1975) VI, 260–270; R. M, A History of Modern Jewry 1780–1815 (London 1971) 559–569. The following studies deal with various aspects of the work: I. R, ‘Kabbalah and Science in Sefer ha-Berit: A Modernization Strategy for Orthodox Jews’, Modern Judaism 9 (1989) 275–288; N. R, ‘‫ מחברה והשתלשלותה‬,‫’האנציקלופדיה העברית הראשונה‬, (The First Hebrew Encyclopedia: its Author and Development), Proceedings of the American Academy of Jewish Research 55 (1988) 15–65; S. H, ‘'‫ר' פנחס אליהו בר‬ ‫‘( ’מאיר‬R. Pinh. as Eliyahu ben Meir’), in ‫( יהדות השכל ויהדות הרגש‬Rational and Emotional Judaism) (Tel Aviv 1947) II, 387–404; M. H, ‘The Book of the Covenant: An Eighteenth Century Quest for the Holy Spirit’, in N. S (ed.), The Solomon Goldman Lectures. Perspectives in Jewish Learning 3 (1982) 39–53; D. R, ‘Some Jewish Responses to Smallpox Prevention in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries: A New Perspective on the Modernization of European Jewry’, Aleph 2 (2002) 111–144, esp. pp. 126–131; R. F, ‘The Immortality of the Soul in Pinchas Hurwitz’s Sefer ha-Berit’, Jewish Studies Quarterly 13 (2006) 223–233, R. F, ‘Natural Science in Sefer ha-Berit: Pinchas Hurwitz on Animals and Meteorological Phenomena’, in R. F, A. S & I.E. Z (eds.), Sepharad in Ashkenaz. Medieval Knowledge and Eighteenth-Century Enlightened Jewish Discourse (Amsterdam 2007) 157–181.

272

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pages.2 Divided into 31 chapters (‫ )פרקים‬of unequal length, it offers a sustained exposition on various aspects of neighbourly love.3 Its general structure is as follows: chapter 1 serves as an introduction and deals with the definition of ‫אהבת רעים‬.4 The next ten chapters discuss the obligatory character and importance of neighbourly love.5 After this theoretical consideration, Hurwitz goes on to examine how this love should be put into practice.6 This inquiry continues in the following chapters, which deal with questions about restrictions and priorities in helping one’s neighbour.7 Finally, the last chapters explore the reasons that may prevent the practice of neighbourly love.8 Hurwitz then concludes his treatise with an ardent call to follow his instructions.9 In the following pages, I shall describe Hurwitz’s little known ideas about ‫ אהבת רעים‬while drawing attention to the manner in which the author supplemented his views on the subject in the second edition of Sefer ha-Berit. 1. W   ? Hurwitz begins his exposition on the love of one’s fellow man by defining it as the love by which man loves the entire human species irrespective of from which nation or tongue a man may be, since all men are created in God’s image and likeness as he himself is.10 From the continuation of this passage it appears that love of one’s neighbour should include everybody who in one way or another, by exercising his particular profession or craft, seeks to preserve human society. Working from the basic assumption that nobody is created for his own sake alone, Hurwitz concludes that all men should try to do good

2. Sefer ha-Berit (Jerusalem 1990) II.13, pp. 526–575. This edition contains 610 pages. All page references are to this edition. The only treatise that is longer is found in the first part (I.17) and deals with the human soul, discussing anatomy, embryology and the faculties of the human soul (pp. 237–299). 3. In what follows SB1 refers to ed. Brünn 1797, whereas SB2 refers to the second enlarged edition of 1807, as reprinted in ed. Jerusalem 1990. 4. SB2, 526–527. 5. Ibid., chs. 2–11, pp. 527–537. 6. Ibid., chs. 12–19, pp. 537–545. 7. Ibid., chs. 20–25, pp. 545–565. 8. Ibid., chs. 26–30, pp. 565–575. 9. Ibid., ch. 31, p. 575. 10. Ibid., 527.

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for others and to help each other in the interest of human society as a whole. However, there are two exceptions to this general rule. The first are the people whom Hurwitz calls, using a German expression, ‘Wilderman’ (savages), that is, people whose habitat is situated outside the civilised world, who go about naked and in general live like animals that do not have ‘neighbours’ (‫)רעה‬. The second category consists of those who live within society but engage in the destruction of the world (‫)השחתת העולם‬, for example, murderers, thieves and the like. Whereas we should not do any harm to the first category—for this would be regarded as unnecessary cruelty to animals—it is a good thing to do bad to people who fall under the second category; that is those who seek to destroy and corrupt society. As we shall see, Hurwitz’s exclusion of this category from those we should love has farreaching implications for his views on the love of one’s neighbour. 2. L  ’    After his explanation of the essence of ‫אהבת רעים‬, Hurwitz goes on to investigate whether love of one’s neighbour and the love of the community of mankind is obligatory according to reason or whether it is only permissible. His conclusion that it is obligatory is based on the observation that man needs his fellow men. From his very birth man is dependent on others who feed and nurse him and even when he is grown up he also needs the help and efforts of farmers, bakers, tailors, builders and many others for his sustenance. In sum, ‘it is not good for man to be alone’ (Gen 2:18). Given that man is by nature a sociable (‫ )מדיני‬being, all men should cooperate and help each other. God has endowed the human species with speech and intelligence so as to promote the gathering together of man, communication and mutual understanding. Reason thus urges us to practice love of one’s neighbour and to do justice for the sake of preserving society. Moreover, this love will diminish evil deeds such as slander, murder, theft from the community of men.11 Hurwitz then goes on to explore whether love of one’s neighbour is also dictated by nature, by the Torah, and by tradition respectively.12 As might be expected, the answer to the question is unequivocally yes in each case. As for nature, Hurwitz invokes man’s inborn 11. Ibid., chs. 2–3, pp. 527–529. 12. Ibid., chs. 4–6, pp. 529–534.

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inclination to do what is right and to help his fellow man in various ways. To corroborate his point, he relates how during a flood of the Oder in Frankfurt in 1785 Prince Leopold [von Braunschweig und Lüneburg] lost his life while attempting to rescue someone who cried for help from the middle of the river. As for Scripture, the obligation to love one’s neighbour is explicitly stated in Lev 19:18 ‘you shall love your neighbour (‫ )רעך‬as yourself ’. For Hurwitz there can be no doubt that the term ‫ רעך‬refers to any man, and not to Israelites alone, for otherwise Scripture would have said ‘your brother’ or ‘the children of your people’. He emphasises that both the Sages and H . ayyim Vital also interpreted the Biblical commandment in this sense.13 At this point, however, Hurwitz, following Rashi, makes an exception: the seven Canaanite nations of whom the Torah commanded that they be extinguished were not included in the commandment to love one’s neighbour, as they were engaged in the destruction of the world through their vile deeds and idolatry. They had to be exterminated, just like a physician sometimes is obliged to amputate a sick part of the body in order to preserve the other limbs, lest Israel would mingle with them. He nonetheless hastens to emphasise that this applied only to those seven nations that inhabited the land of Israel at the time, and not to other nations in biblical times, for we find, for example, that King Solomon concluded a pact with King H.iram of Tyre.14 Here Hurwitz supplements his original discussion in SB1. As if to avoid any misunderstanding, he adds in SB2 that the commandment to kill these nations does certainly not apply to the non-Jews of later generations who believe in ‘the God of Heaven’ and do not worship the stars. In this regard, he bases himself on Yoreh De‘ah and on Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (hMelakhim). In the same vein, he adds that Jeremiah’s words ‘Put out Your wrath on the nations who have not heeded You’ (Jer 10:25) were directed only against the heathens (Heiden) who worship fire and water, such as the people of India and Japan. The issue of the Canaanites appears to have caused Hurwitz some uneasiness when composing the supplemented version of his book, for in SB2 he also addresses an argument raised by an ‘Epicurean’ on this issue. According to this spokesman, a good God cannot 13. The mention of H.ayyim V is relevant in view of H’s claim that his book is intended as an introduction to V’s Sha‘arei Qedushah. 14. SB2, 530–531.

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have issued the cruel commandment not to keep alive any man from these nations. Therefore, it apparently was Moses’ idea. Hurwitz refutes this suggestion, contending that also in the destruction of the generation of the flood or that of Sodom and Gomorra all people were exterminated because God’s goodness does not extend to those who ‘corrupt human society’ through their evil deeds. Tradition, Hurwitz continues his exposition, also teaches that love of one’s neighbour is incumbent on man. In support of this position he quotes two passages from Abot: ‘Rabbi said: Which is the straight way that a man should choose? That which is an honour to him and gets him honour from men’ (m. Abot 2:1) and ‘He in whom the spirit of mankind finds pleasure, in him the spirit of God finds pleasure: but in he whom the spirit of mankind finds no pleasure, in him the spirit of God finds no pleasure’ (m. Abot 3:11).15 Just as in the foregoing chapter, Hurwitz underlines that in the Rabbis’ understanding this love is not limited to the Jewish people: ‘man’ includes Jews and nonJews alike. However, a Jew who is meticulous in doing good by his fellow men, but does not observe the sabbath, eats forbidden food and follows his passions, cannot be considered a practitioner of neighbourly love, for he destroys himself. Consequently, his fellow Jews do not find pleasure in him. To round off his inquiry into the obligatory character of neighbourly love Hurwitz raises the question of whether the obligation to love mankind is prior to the obligation to love wisdom and truth.16 It will come as no surprise that the answer is in the affirmative. Hurwitz here quotes another saying from m. Abot 1:17 (‘not study is the main thing, but practice is’). The love of mankind is stronger than the love of truth or wisdom. Hurwitz also argues that people who devote themselves entirely to study and science nonetheless try to benefit mankind by teaching their fellow men wisdom and morality.17 Even those who seek solitude far away from society generally do so with a view to writing books on medicine, science or ‘ethics’ (musar), in other words, books that will be beneficial to mankind. Here SB2 has an addition on King Solomon’s request that God grant him wisdom: Solomon asked for wisdom in order to be able to promote neighbourly love. 15. The Mishnah (trans. H. D; Oxford 1972) 451. 16. SB2, chs. 7–10. 17. Ibid., 535.

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What is more: the obligation to love one’s neighbour takes precedence over the study of the Torah, since the Torah itself allows man to desecrate sabbath and to eat on Yom Kippur if this can save someone’s life. Likewise, on the basis of a statement in Yoreh De‘ah, Hurwitz adds in SB2 that if someone decides to patch up a quarrel against the wishes of his parents it is better to leave the parents and to make peace and thus to ignore the fourth commandment. In the same vein Hurwitz argues that the sages also contended that the commandments concerning the relation between man and his fellow men take precedence over those between man and God, for they teach that Yom Kippur does not atone for transgressions between men until one has made up with his neighbour. Also, one cannot fulfil the commandments concerning what is between man and God if the bond of humanity has been broken.18 In sum, Hurwitz’s systematic inquiry leads to the conclusion that reason, nature, Torah and tradition all require the love of one’s neighbour, and that the obligation to love one’s fellow man is prior to anything else, including the pursuit of truth and the observance of the Torah. Therefore man should strive to maintain the ‘community of mankind’ with the bonds of love. Hurwitz concludes this section by once again comparing mankind to the human body: much as the different parts need each other to keep the body healthy, every human being has its own usefulness with respect to the general welfare of humanity (ch. 12).19 3. N    Following his theoretical exposition Hurwitz sets out to describe in detail how this lofty ideal should be put into practice. His point of departure is that there are two ways in which man can fulfil this obligation in his dealings with his fellow men. The first consists of abstaining from doing evil to any man and from causing any damage that will sever the bond of society, and the second of striving to do well for every member of the human species to the extent that it is possible for man to do so. What then follows is a systematic inquiry into the first, what may be called ‘negative’ approach (to abstain from

18. Ibid., ch. 11. 19. Ibid., 537.

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evil), an inquiry that takes up chapters 13–17,20 after which the second, ‘positive’ manner is the subject of exploration in chapters 18–19. Bad deeds can be divided into two different kinds. The first kind are the well-known evils such as murder and theft. The second and less well-known category, however, comprises things like failing to greet someone in the marketplace out of arrogance or negligence, mocking people, or, more generally, showing a lack of compassion for other people. These bad deeds are multitudinous, but we are often not aware of them since we are so accustomed to them. However, Hillel’s rule to the effect that we should refrain from doing things to our neighbour that we would resent if others did them to ourselves can help us here. In a new passage in SB2, Hurwitz points out that apart from Hillel’s advice to the proselyte our own experience can also teach us how to abstain from such evils. The problem always is that it is much easier to see the bad things in other people than in ourselves. When we have committed a transgression such as mocking somebody only once or twice we still feel that it is bad. However, once this behaviour has become a habit, we do not notice anymore that it is bad, especially if we see other people doing the same thing. However, if we become the object of mockery ourselves, we immediately perceive the evil of it.21 Hurwitz continues his elaboration by again drawing an analogy with the human body, arguing that it is instructive to look at the way our bodily parts cooperate to keep the body healthy. For example, when the eyes see a stone on the ground that will make the foot stumble, the hand will remove it before the foot even touches the stone. In the same way, we should not only not cause our neighbour any harm, but should also try to prevent that any harm might befall him. We should warn him, for example, if we hear that people plan to rob him. Hurwitz’s manifold use of comparisons with the bodily parts is clearly related to his understanding of the words ‘as yourself ’ in Lev 19:18; words that he takes to mean ‘as your own bodily parts’. It is self-evident that we should refrain from doing evil to our neighbour, even if doing evil would bring us benefit. Somebody who acts in this manner—and, moreover, considers it right—falls under the category of ‘destroyers of the world’ and should, according to the rules laid down in chapter 1, be killed, much as the physician must 20. Ibid., 537–549. 21. Ibid., 538.

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amputate a limb that has been affected by gangrene. On the other hand, somebody who does evil to his neighbour while realising that he is wrong but takes comfort in the thought that his own misery and pain is greater than that of the other, completely overlooks the fact that the well-being of the human race depends on that of each and every individual, and that the preservation of righteousness and justice of the whole is also in his own benefit. Moreover, concern about the well-being of our neighbour implies that we should not treat him unfairly when engaged in procuring our livelihood. In practice, this means that we may get up early before our competitor wakes up so as to sell our merchandise in the marketplace before him, but it is impermissible to say bad things about him or his merchandise in front of customers. At this point, SB2 again expands upon SB1, this time by showing that a lesson can be learned from the animal kingdom: an ant will never carry away a straw or grain of which the smell indicates that it has already been touched by another ant. Instead it will search for an untouched one, and it does so not out of fear of punishment, but out of love of justice and for the preservation of its own kind.22 Abstinence from doing evil also includes not requiting evil with evil. If we suffer evil at the hands of our fellow man, we should nonetheless judge him in righteousness, as taught by Lev 19:15, by reasoning that perhaps he has unintentionally harmed us. This is extremely difficult since it goes against nature, but if we consider that it will give us great reward and forgiveness of sins it will be easier, in fact much easier than fasting. In this regard, a lesson can be learned from a story about Diogenes. This sage was reputed not to believe in the idols of his people because he knew that only God the creator of all can do good for man. Nonetheless, at some point to everyone’s amazement he publicly prayed before an idol. When asked for an explanation he replied: ‘I must beg for my maintenance and sometimes I become angry when people are not prepared to give me charity; to get rid of this evil trait I pray to an idol of wood or stone with whom I cannot possibly become angry’. Hurwitz duly spells out the moral of the story: if even a non-Jewish sage knows that it is evil to requite evil with evil, Jews must know this even more so.23

22. Ibid., 540. 23. Ibid., 541.

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The next three chapters in Hurwitz’s discussion of abstinence from evil behaviour illustrate how the love of one’s neighbour should come to fruition through one’s relationship with one’s own wife, children, parents, siblings, 24 servants and sovereigns. 25 Hurwitz notes with incredulity that often husbands are convinced that they are most meticulous in their dealings with their fellow men, but mistakenly believe that the obligation to love one’s neighbour does not extend to their own wives, children or parents. Instead they are convinced that they can deal with their families as they please on the grounds that they are their property. Hurwitz severely criticises this mentality, claiming that this is bad reasoning that results in sinful behaviour. Much of what the author has to say in these pages reads like a social critique. As for spouses, he warns husbands not to hit their wives, for as Isaac Luria has pointed out, someone who is worthy that the Holy Spirit rests on him but hits his wife, will not be able to converse with the Holy Spirit. Interestingly, in his preface Hurwitz writes that the purpose underlying his Sefer ha-Berit is to show how someone who lives outside the land of Israel can attain the Holy Spirit. Nor should a husband who travels abroad for a long time leave his wife alone without maintenance, so that other men might take her and she will give birth to bastards. Divorce is only permitted if the wife is guilty of a lack of chastity. A husband’s soul should be bound to his wife’s by love, friendship and peace and he should not do the smallest thing without her consent. Curiously, the wife’s behaviour towards her husband is not discussed in SB1. However, we learn about it in SB2, in a passage directed to fathers. Fathers are urgently advised to instruct their daughters from early childhood onwards to love, honour and obey their husbands, for if they do so, their husbands will love them with the result that the wife will rule over the husband. Love with respect to one’s children is a subject to which the author devotes a great deal of attention. Hurwitz calls for mildness, even tenderness in the education of one’s children. Drawing on quotations from Sefer H . asidim he warns parents against infuriating their children for this will make it impossible for them to love their parents. Similarly, parents should not impose tasks upon them that they cannot fulfil, since the Torah does not command things that are too heavy for man either. In a passage that is not found in SB1 he approv24. The passage on brothers and sisters does not appear in SB1. 25. SB2, chs. 15–17, pp. 542–547.

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ingly mentions ‘learned righteous men’ (‫ )משכילים צדיקים‬who never address their children using the imperative form, but instead instruct their children by using phrases like: ‘I think it is proper for you to do / or not to do so and so’. His general advice is to teach children morality with words and raise them in love, rather than in anger and contempt.26 At this point Hurwitz inserts an interesting excursus on the financial support of children and, more generally, on handling one’s finances, of which the greater part is absent in SB1. This is what he has to say on these subjects: if in spite of a father’s efforts his children still go astray, and he is in position to help them financially, he should beware of two extremes: providing them with a large sum of money and leaving them entirely to their own devices. Instead, he should give them a sum that will enable them to find a proper livelihood. Comparing the two extremes, Hurwitz concludes that riches and luxury are more dangerous than poverty. In his estimate, 99% of the rich cannot bear their wealth with the result that their ways become corrupted, whereas only one out of every hundred poor men is led to sin because of poverty. Moreover, their only sin consists of stealing whereas the wealthy are led to many other and graver sins including the denial of God’s existence. Hurwitz refers to cases where parents had given their children much money with devastating effects, for when their father died the children were too miserly even to procure him a black garment for a decent burial. Similarly, it is commendable not to let children inherit all one’s wealth so that they do not have to work anymore, for this easily leads to sin. Therefore it is better to have one’s inheritance spent on charity. Again, the animal kingdom teaches us a lesson in this regard. Hurwitz refers to an animal that lives in the desert and has a skin that is much sought after by man. When this animal feels that its hour of death is approaching it leaves its habitat and dies in a place where it is likely to be found by man, so that they can use its fur.27 In the same way, we should be concerned about our fellow man in our financial transactions. The best thing to do, even for a poor man, is to draw up a will and to revise it regularly in accordance with one’s general financial situation. The will should be deposited with some26. Ibid., 543–544. 27. Ibid., 546. The same example is found in the section on zoology (I.14), where it is said, however, that this otherwise unspecified animal lives in the woods (Ibid., 211).

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one who is trustworthy and relatives should be aware of its existence so that they know what to do when the time comes. Hurwitz also has advice for parents who lack the means to support their children financially: they should ensure that their children learn a profession when they are young. Here he refers to an earlier passage (II.10.12) where he criticised his fellow Jews for being engaged only in study and commerce and summoned them to turn to physical labour.28 When discussing how one should extend neighbourly love towards servants and the sovereign of one’s country of abode, Hurwitz underlines the reciprocal character of the obligation: servants and kings must also love their fellow man. The obligation to love the ruler of the country implies among other things that tax evasion is not permitted. Love of the king is an obligation since after all he is the ‘father of the state, and the lord of society who binds the bond of peace and neighbourly love between all the inhabitants of his country’.29 Here again we find an addition to SB1 in which Hurwitz explains that for this reason Israel always prays for the well-being of the country’s king in the synagogue. Drawing on passages from Ezra and the deuterocanonical Book of Baruch and Maccabees he relates how Israel used to pray even for rulers such as Nebuchadnezzar and Emperor Augustus, sovereigns who believed in idols. He concludes from this that all the more so in his own days, when Jews live amidst nations who believe in Scripture and are charitable and just, one should pray for their king.30 After having examined all the don’ts with respect to the practice of neighbourly love, Hurwitz now goes on to describe the do’s,31 for by merely abstaining from doing damage to others, we indeed avoid belonging to the category of those who ‘destroy the world’, but it is by no means sufficient. Quite the contrary. Reason and the Torah both demand a ‘generous spirit’ (‫)רוח נדיבה‬, which comes down to doing good for others.32 At this point, Hurwitz feels compelled to explain why Hillel nonetheless only chose to mention the ‘negative’ approach to the proselyte: this was because of lack of time, since his interlocutor had in fact asked Hillel to explain proper conduct in the time-span that he could remain standing on one leg, and Hillel trusted that in 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

Ibid., 422–425, cf. Z, History VI, 267–268. SB2, 548. Ibid., 549. Ibid., 18–19. Ibid., 550.

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the course of time he would learn all about the positive side. Moreover, there is a difference between the two approaches. With respect to the negative side, the general rule is, as we have seen, that we should refrain from doing things to others that we would not want others to do unto us. In other words, there is absolutely no difference between ‘yourself ’ and ‘the other’. With respect to the positive approach, however, things are slightly more complicated, as appears from Hurwitz’s interpretation of the word ‘yourself ’. According to this interpretation, the Torah does not command us to love the other exactly as we love ourselves, since this goes against nature. What the Torah imposes on us, Hurwitz continues, is that we should reward all the good that we receive from others. The general rule for our behaviour should be that we treat others in the manner we would expect others to treat us. This implies that we should help our neighbour, but not that we should give them all our money, as we would not expect our neighbour to do so either.33 In yet another passage that supplements SB1, Hurwitz elaborates on this issue by explaining that there are various gradations of love. Man does not expect the same degree of love from his servant as from his son, or from his own kinsmen as from people of other nations or races, as is testified by both reason and nature. Therefore, even though the Torah commands us to love every human being, we are required to do so only to the degree that we expect the other to love us in his observance of the commandment under consideration. Therefore, there is a difference between ‘yourself ’ and ‘the other’ with respect to the positive level. In addition, Hurwitz explains that the words ‘like yourself ’ convey a deeper and additional meaning, namely that we should love the other even though he may have bad properties, since we ourselves are not exempt from evil traits either. Hence we should not be too strict about the faults of others, but instead follow the ways of God, who is forgiving with respect to Israel’s sins.34 In SB2 the interpretation of ‘you shall love your neighbour like yourself ’ is concluded by a supplementary passage where Hurwitz emphasises that the commandment 33. In this regard he rejects other interpretations of the Biblical verse, such as that forwarded by Nah.manides, according to whom ‘like yourself ’ means doing the utmost for one’s fellow, and that of ‘the German interpreter’, by which he means Mendelssohn, p. 551. This critique is absent in SB1. 34. Ibid., 552. In support of his position, he refers to Rashi’s exegesis of Num 23:21.

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to love one’s neighbour should be observed not because it is a rational rule, but solely because it is a divine commandment. Hurwitz’s next step is to establish that there are three kinds of good and generosity (‫ )נדיבות‬that man is obliged to bestow on others, namely doing good with the faculties of one’s soul, with one’s body, and with property. Interestingly, in SB1 Hurwitz did not refer to the first kind, by which he means instruction in Torah or science or giving good advice with respect to the right way of life. In SB2 he holds it to be the most important kind of doing good, for in so doing man helps his fellow man perfect himself. Good deeds can, moreover, be divided into those that are beneficial to an individual, to a larger group or to mankind as a whole. This division, like Hurwitz’s subsequent exposition, again supplements his discussion in SB1, and here it is obvious that the addendum stems from his own experiences since the publication of the first edition of his book. His point of departure is that in doing good the highest goal should be to help as many people as possible as this promotes ‘putting the world aright’ (‫)תיקון עולם‬.35 Consequently, it is obligatory to support people who invent new instruments or write a book on the subject of neighbourly love by buying such instruments or books, since they are useful to mankind. If one fails to do so, claiming that there already too many instruments and that ‘there is no end to making books’, one deprives humanity of many good things. Such a person thus does great damage to his fellow man and indeed falls under the heading of those who ‘destroy the world’. At this point, Hurwitz invokes Socrates: although this ‘good man and true sage’ was offered the opportunity to escape his death sentence he refused to do so, for he believed that he would not serve the common good if he did not obey the laws of the state—he would be a ‘destroyer of the community’. Therefore, Hurwitz continues, one should purchase an instrument or book as outlined above, even if one does not need it for oneself, for in so doing one promotes the common good. Contrary to what people think, it is not at all difficult to perform charitable acts that will benefit mankind as a whole: all one has to do is to support people who have the skills or knowledge to device instruments or write useful books; even if only by a small gift. After this oratio pro domo Hurwitz inveighs against people who are ready to commit injustice for a crumb of bread or a few pennies, and even go so far as to 35. SB2, 554–555.

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imitate a newly invented instrument or to publish a book without the permission of the author who has invested much money in it. Hurwitz curses in the strongest of terms such people who cause evil to all mankind until the end of time. His vehemence no doubt reflects his own experience: the first edition of Sefer ha-Berit was a bestseller, which led the unscrupulous publisher to produce a pirate edition of it, taking advantage of the author’s absence. Indeed, it was this that prompted Hurwitz to publish the second extended version.36 4. R   Continuing his exposition on the practice of extending generosity to one’s neighbour, Hurwitz’s next concern is the question of whether certain conditions and restrictions apply in this practice. Hurwitz’s answer is that there are indeed five such restrictions. He devotes most attention to the first, which is that spending money on others should be done with prudence and moderation.37 Squandering money will lead to the cessation of charity when one’s supplies have been exhausted. In fact, it is advisable to be distrustful if all of a sudden someone offers you a lot of money and afterwards asks you for a small loan, for often this turns out to be swindling instead of generosity. Likewise, one should steer the middle course between two extremes when it comes to physically exerting oneself when helping one’s neighbour: both weakening one’s body and laziness must be avoided, and the same applies to one’s intellectual efforts. However, there is an exception to this general rule, and this concerns writing letters of recommendation. The duty of neighbourly love requires that we always and unconditionally write such letters for whomever asks for it. Hurwitz carries on in great detail about the attitude of his contemporaries who out of hatred or arrogance refuse to write such letters for the benefit of their needy fellow men. It will come as no surprise that he considers such a person to be a friend of ‘those who destroy society’.38 In his view, this was exactly the wickedness Eliphaz had in mind in his speech to Job (Job 22:5). It is true that Job did not strip the clothes from the naked or send widows away empty handed (Job 22:6–9) when they appealed to him for help. Quite the contrary, otherwise Scripture would not have said that Job 36. For a vivid description of this base deed, see SB2 second preface, pp. 18–19. 37. Ibid., ch. 21. 38. Ibid., 557.

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was perfect and upright and eschewed evil (Job 1:1). However, after having duly bestowed charity on the poor and needy, Hurwitz continues, out of arrogance Job refused to provide them with letters of recommendation with which they might apply elsewhere for help. As a result, other benefactors, doubting their sincerity, were not prepared to help them, so eventually the damage wrought by Job was greater than the good he did for them.39 The fervour and liveliness in Hurwitz’s critique suggests that perhaps here too the author speaks from personal experience. Hurwitz’s other conditions stipulate that acts of charity must in no way harm any of the parties involved, nor a third party, and also that they should be carried out ‘in the right proportion’, that is, in accordance with someone’s position and proximity to his benefactor. Moreover, they should not be directed at only one person to the exclusion of others. In a passage that supplements SB1 Hurwitz once more invokes the analogy with the human body, pointing out that each and every limb serves other parts.40 This last condition, however, raises another practical question: if a person is in a position to do good for only one person, by which selection criteria should he determine whom he should help? For example, the sages have decreed that charity (‫ )גמילות חסדים‬should be extended to both the poor and the rich. In a case where only one of the two can be helped, Hurwitz advises that the poor be helped, even though people tend by nature to help the rich, who are more likely to return the favour done for them. This question leads Hurwitz to draw up a list of six ‘priority rules’ that determine who needs to be helped in cases of danger or emergency with a detailed description of how to go about this in various circumstances. According to these rules, which are absent in SB1, one’s family comes before others, and among one’s family the spouse before small children, parents before older children, father before mother, etc. In healing the sick, adults have priority over small children who, if they survive their sickness, will nonetheless run the risk of succumbing to smallpox or measles. The weak have priority over the strong, which implies among other things that women come before men; the more miserable before the less miserable (e.g. orphan over non-orphan), the more afflicted before the less (blind over the lame), and finally, the more learned before the 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid., ch. 22.

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ignorant (‫)עם הארץ‬, even if the latter is handicapped. However, in cases of life and death, men have priority over women because they are fewer in number.41 The above rules apply in cases where people who are different in rank need to be saved from the same danger. For cases where people who are equal have to be helped in different situations Hurwitz postulates as criteria of priority: (i) urgency in terms of time (the drowning man before the sick); (ii) ransom of prisoners, and (iii) necessity in terms of sustenance (water before food, food before clothing etc.), an order that follows the process of a child’s growth and development. At the end of this discussion, the author expresses confidence that the reader will follow his example and derive ‘from Scripture and wisdom’ more detailed rules about how to proceed in practicing neighbourly love.42 The chapter that concludes Hurwitz’s description of the practice of neighbourly love offers some more advice.43 One is about caution against all too great a confidence in one’s fellow man and in one’s friend, for a friend can turn into an enemy. Human beings can be the cause of life and prosperity for others, but they can also cause great harm to their fellow man. Therefore, Hurwitz urges that if you have reached the highest degree in practicing neighbourly love, do not think that others will love their fellow man to the same degree. In your eyes all men should be like your father, brother etc., and yet it is better not entrust your property or your secrets to them. In SB2 Hurwitz expands on the risk of telling secrets to others including beloved ones, recalling Samson and Delilah. Furthermore, if someone has revealed your secret to others, he states, you are to blame for it yourself, for how can you expect others to keep secret what you could not keep secret yourself? In a longer supplement he analyzes the rabbinic story about R. H.anina, who offered hospitality to someone who subsequently tried to rob his host. Here Hurwitz warns against generalisation. If an inhabitant of a particular city treats you badly, you should not assume that all of his fellow townsmen are the same and therefore refuse them charity. There is no city on earth in which everybody is bad or good, just as there is no righteous person without a shortcoming. 41. Ibid., 559–560. 42. Ibid., 562. 43. Ibid., ch. 24, pp. 562–564.

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Moreover, it is wrong to complain that ‘in the old days everything was better’, for the world runs its course, and in every generation there are righteous, wicked and ‘ordinary’ people. Nor should we use the wellknown saying ‘the good have to suffer with the wicked’ as a pretext to stop doing good to the townsmen of the person who rewarded good with evil, for they may turn out to be decent people.44 5. S  The final chapters of the treatise contain a critical examination of causes and pretexts that may prevent people from carrying out their duty towards their fellow man.45 Again SB2 is much longer than SB1. Whereas SB1 records seven stumbling blocks, SB2 lists ten.46 Moreover, Hurwitz is considerably more elaborate in denouncing and refuting them in SB2. The reasons for the lack of neighbourly love are the following: 1. Ignorance: many people do not realise the importance of this obligation. They simply do not know that they are born for the sake of others, and when they are told so, they will ridicule it. At best, they interpret the biblical injunction in the way that Hillel did, but usually they believe that this interpretation applies only to ‫ חסידים‬or prophets, not to ordinary peoples like themselves. 2. Jealousy, as in the case of Cain. 3. A bad heart or a bad nature. To this Hurwitz replies that man has freedom of choice and can consequently train himself to change his initial bad nature into a ‘second’ good nature. 4. Man is too busy with the obligation to care for himself and keeps putting off caring for public welfare since there is no end to human desires. Hurwitz considers this to be the greatest stumbling block. The excuses for not putting neighbourly love into practice are the following: 5. ‘I cannot love person X because he has bad properties.’ Hurwitz rejects this excuse by repeating that we always see the bad things in others more easily than our own defects due to a trick of the evil inclination.

44. Ibid., 564. 45. Ibid., chs. 26–30, pp. 565–575. 46. The tenth is also found in SB1 where it is combined with no. 7.

288

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

6. ‘It is preferable not to meddle with someone else’s business, lest our intention be misunderstood.’ This argument cannot be correct, says Hurwitz, for if it were, the Torah would not have summoned us to love our neighbour, and the Rabbis, for example R. Pinh.as ben Yair, would not have engaged in doing good. 7. ‘It is better not to do charity to avoid problems, for people tend to reward good with evil.’ Hurwitz protests, claiming that it is unnatural for man to do so. For example, if you help a poor man who stands hungry and naked in the snow by welcoming him in your house, providing him with food and clothing, and then this man robs you, this does not imply that he has done so intentionally. Perhaps he steals because he hopes to gain profit from it, or perhaps you have also done something bad to him. This may in fact well be the case, for unfortunately people naturally tend to view bad and good in the wrong proportions. The benefactor will view a small deed of charity as something great, while minimising the bad that he did, whereas the opposite applies to the receiver of charity. Likewise, we do not properly appreciate all the good things that come from God and complain about the smallest of afflictions. Nos. 8 and 9 of Hurwitz’s list are not found in SB1. No. 8 criticises the mentality of both rich and poor. According to Hurwitz, rich people usually wish to possess the entire wealth of the city so as to be able to rule over the poor, whereas the poor usually wish that all their townsmen were poor so that they themselves do not feel inferior. Although not stated explicitly, the implication of this attitude seems to be that it prevents them from helping their neighbours. Hurwitz exposes their line of reasoning, arguing that a rich man will quickly lose his money if he is the only rich man among poor neighbours, whereas a poor man, too, is less well off in a community of only poor people. No. 9 concerns the evasion ‘I cannot help person X because he is from another city that is renowned for the wickedness of its inhabitants.’ Hurwitz displays great indignation about this attitude, which he qualifies as senseless hatred (‫)שנאת חנם‬. It is stupid and sinful to hate other people solely because they are from another country and wear different clothes or speak different languages. He laments that reciprocal hatred is widespread among the Jews of his generation, and also between Ashkenazim and Sephardim who live in one city, but do not want to have anything to do with one another. Senseless hatred of another group or culture is graver and more difficult to remedy than

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289

hatred of one individual or of a relative who lives nearby. Indeed, it was the cause of the destruction of the temple and it is also the cause of the continuation of exile. Hurwitz urgently calls for unity among Jews, supporting his call by a quite elaborate exegesis of the cherubim on the Ark of the Covenant (Ex 25:18–21) that is inspired by Rashi. Rashi explains that the two cherubim at the two ends of the cover of the Ark had the faces of infants. Hurwitz vividly pictures how small children enjoy playing with each other much more than playing with toys, and in the absence of another child they rejoice most in playing with a little figure that looks like a child. He takes this as a sure sign that love of one’s fellow man is an innate quality in mankind. In Hurwitz’s exegesis, the cover stands for the commandments that concern the relation between man and God, whereas the cherubim represent those dealing with the relation between man and his fellow men. There are two cherubim because ‘it is not good for man to be alone’ (Gen 2:18)— men need each other. The cherubim stand on opposing ends of the cover but look at each other. Likewise, Jews who live far apart should not hate each other, but instead look at each other and realise that they are all brothers. The length of his exposition reveals that the matter is of the utmost importance to Hurwitz. The last item on Hurwitz’s list of pretexts is one that is used by students of wisdom and Torah. They often think that they are exempted from the commandment to love their fellow man, because they are engaged in study and that they do not have to care for this world since they are concerned with the world to come. Such people will not even lift a finger when people are starving from hunger or are beaten up in the street in front of their homes. All they want is rest to pursue their studies. Hurwitz uncompromisingly condemns their attitude, and, as was to be expected, classifies them as ‘destroyers of the attachment between the hearts of men and of the community of the human species’47 in whose eyes man is worth nothing. Quoting a saying by Rav Huna, Hurwitz proclaims that someone who studies Torah without doing charity (‫ )גמילות חסדים‬is like someone who has no God. The treatise ends with a vigorous plea to abandon all hate in which Hurwitz once more stresses the overarching importance of neighbourly love.

47. SB2, 573.

290

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ 6. S  

Having surveyed Pinh.as Hurwitz’s views on love for one’s neighbour we need to address the question of the relation between SB1 and SB2. In his preface to the second edition Hurwitz states that he has inserted 350 ‘corrections and additions’ to the first edition of Sefer ha-Berit, with the result that the chapter on neighbourly love has become twice as long.48 Yet how important are these additions in terms of quality? A comparison between the two versions reveals that there are no significant differences with respect to the general structure, basic ideas and line of argumentation. The text of SB1 has been preserved in SB2 in its entirety, although there are some minor changes in order and phrasing. Nonetheless, the additions are not only extensive but also substantial. Most are found after chapter 12, that is, in Hurwitz’s treatment of the practical aspects of the subject under consideration. The longest supplements concern the education of children, including financial management (chs. 15–17); the ‘priority rules’ in practising charity (ch. 23), and the obstacles that lead people not to fulfil their obligation (chs. 26–28). As we have seen, these additions contain fierce social criticsm. Related to this is his warning against generalisation (ch. 24). Other insertions expand on stock themes such as the analogy with the human body (chs. 13, 22). Some clearly reflect Hurwitz’s own experiences (ch. 19, the pirate edition). Chapter 19 contains a substantial addition about the importance of doing acts of charity that serve all mankind, whereas chapter 18 deals more thoroughly with the interpretation of Lev 19:18 than SB1. An addition to chapter 5 emphasises Hurwitz’s view that the term ‫ רעה‬includes nonJews, while another one is inserted to make clear that the commandment concerning the eradication of the seven Canaanite nations does not apply to later non-Jewish nations. The question of the relation between Jews and non-Jews thus seems to me slightly more urgent for Hurwitz than in SB1.The last addition, in chapter 30, explains that the obligation to love one’s neighbour is a corollary of the position of man vis-à-vis animals: in contradistinction to animals, man needs a ‘helpmate’ (‫ )עזר כנגדו‬and is thus dependent on mutual help. All in all, it can be said that thanks to Hurwitz’s extended account of neigh48. SB, second preface, p. 18. The treatise takes up 9 fols. out of 182 fols. in SB1; in SB2 it comprises 49 pages out of 578 pages. These figures do not include the prefaces to the editions.

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bourly love, the treatise has become more powerful and pertinent. The new material clearly enhances the urgency of Hurwitz’s plea. This leads us to the place of the treatise under consideration and Hurwitz’s motivation. As has been said, one of the objectives of Sefer ha-Berit is to show its contemporaries how the Holy Spirit can be attained outside the land of Israel. Hurwitz repeats this aim in the last chapter of the treatise, pointing out that the observance of love of one’s fellow man, that is, of the commandments concerning the relation between man and his neighbour, leads to the achievement of this goal. He explains that this is why the treatise in question is attached to the preceding one (II.12), which deals with the precepts concerning the relation between man and God, the observance of which is equally essential for the attainment of the Holy Spirit. The next and concluding treatise of the book (II.14) discusses the love of God and the joy that goes with it. In other words, the treatise on neighbourly love forms an indispensable part of Sefer ha-Berit since it is related to the aim of the book. In combination with this motivation, Hurwitz’s indignation about the lack of love for one’s fellow in his own generation seems to have prompted his musings on the subject. In chapter 25 he states that in his generation men duly fulfil their obligations toward God and toward themselves, but that his contemporaries display an appalling lack of concern regarding the third kind of obligation that is incumbent on man, that of neighbourly love. In view of the priority of this obligation as demanded by reason, nature, Torah and tradition, Hurwitz continues to relate that he has searched Jewish books for expositions on the subject. However, his search has yielded no more than ‘two or three words’. Nor has he found much in non-Jewish books, with the exception of Cicero, who has some ‘correct opinions’ (‫סברים‬ ‫ )נכונות‬on the subject. These have inspired him to elaborate on the subject, so as ‘to stir the hearts of my people to cultivate the bond of community and the association of mankind and to induce them to fulfil this obligation’.49 A first comparison of Hurwitz’ treatise with Cicero’s De Officiis suggests that his debt to the Roman thinker may be more substantial than simply the borrowing of what he calls ‘some correct opinions’.50 49. Ibid., 565. 50. I would like to thank Prof. Ineke S (Leiden University) for drawing my attention to this tract by Cicero.

292

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

In De Officiis Cicero is concerned with duties and responsibilities and with concomitant aspects, such as generosity, liberality and kindliness. This is exactly the context in which Hurwitz treats ‘love of one’s neighbour’, referring to it constantly as an obligation (‫חוב‬, ‫)חובה‬. Naturally, Hurwitz’s perception of neighbourly love as a duty is based on its status as a biblical commandment. Nonetheless, it might well be the case that his systematic exposition of it in terms of duty has been coloured by Cicero’s approach. His emphasis on the requirements of reason and nature points in the same Stoic direction. Moreover, several of Hurwitz’s views appear to have a parallel in De Officiis. To mention a few: man is not born for himself alone—a basic assumption for Hurwitz—, in De Officiis quoted from Plato (I.23); generosity should not exceed the sources of the benefactor and should not cause him harm (I.42); it must be bestowed with judgement and deliberation (I.49); one must give priority to the person who needs most help (I.49); generosity must be extended in proportion to the closeness of the relationship (I.42, I.50); people often abandon their duty because they study too much or are far too occupied with themselves (I.28–29). Like Cicero, Hurwitz constantly urges the reader to contribute to the common good. Moreover, Cicero also points to the distinction between man and animal, and Hurwitz’s image of the members of society as the parts of the human body is also found in Cicero’s treatise. The same goes for his conviction that ‫ משחיתים‬should be wiped out from human society just as doctors are forced to amputate certain limbs when they harm the body.51 Furthermore, the two texts reveal a literal parallel: after having stipulated that love of one’s neighbour should not be at the expense of one’s own forces, Hurwitz writes that in matters where the benefactor can do good without suffering himself, such as giving water from a flowing source or giving someone light from his own candle, or giving good advice, all men are equal, so that everybody can be helped.52 In De Officiis I.51–52 Cicero writes: … one should share even with a stranger whatever can be shared without loss. [52] Such is the common theme of some precepts of ordinary morality: ‘Do not keep anyone away from flowing water’; ‘Permit a man to light his fire from yours’; ‘Give honest advice to any51. ‫משחיתים‬. In De Officiis (III.32) Cicero refers to tyrants. 52. SB2 558: ‘‫ אולם‬.[‫]וכל זה בדבר שנחסר בו המטיב או יש לו טרחה או בטול זמן וכדומה‬

‫במה שזה נהנה וזה לא חסר כלל כגון לחשוף מים ממעין הנובע שלו או להדליק נר מן נרו או לתת‬ ‫ בזה כל אפין שווין וכל אדם שווה‬,‫’עצה לפי שכלו‬.

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293

one who is perplexed, if he wants it.’ These actions are helpful to the recipient and cause no trouble to the donor.53

Closer examination is likely to reveal more parallels. Given its popularity in the eighteenth century, the question of the channels through which Hurwitz became familiar with De Officiis deserves to be explored more fully. The same applies to the question of whether the book was known to other, contemporary Jewish authors as well. In any event, it can be said that Hurwitz’s treatise on neighbourly love is pervaded by Stoic ideas such as the brotherhood of man, which greatly appealed to Enlightenment philosophers. Throughout the treatise we find a plethora of terms that express notions like the bond of humanity, the community of mankind, the family of man, the cultivation of society, the common welfare, solidarity, oneness of mind among human beings, natural sociability, reciprocity, partnership, universality, brotherhood and the like.54 These terms reflect the key-concepts of his day and the ideals of the French revolution. At the same time, it should not be overlooked that Hurwitz draws continuously on the Bible and a large number of other traditional Jewish sources. His treatment of the subject is therefore as firmly entrenched in Jewish tradition as it is pervaded by contemporary ideas and ideals. One striking characteristic of Hurwitz’s exposition is his liberal attitude towards his non-Jewish environment as expressed, for example, in his emphatic defence of the notion that the term ‫ רעה‬includes all men. Given the way he evaluates the qualities of contemporary rulers and their relations to Jews (ch. 17) this attitude can be deemed optimistic, indeed idealistic. The reader is led to believe that the times of universal peace and brotherhood are near. It may well be that Hurwitz’s optimism was linked to certain expectations that he seems to have entertained in the wake of the French Revolution.

53. M. Tullius C, De Officiis/On Duties (trans. H.G. E; Loeb Classical Library, Cicero ; Indianapolis/New York 1974) 54–56: ‘Una ex re satis praecipit, ut, quicquid sine detrimento commodari possit, id tribuatur vel ignoto; ex quo sunt illa communia: non prohibere aqua profluente, pati ab igne ignem capere, si qui velit, consilium fidele deliberanti dare, quae sunt iis utilia, qui accipiunt, danti non molesta’. 54. For example: ‫אהבת קבוץ ;אהבת קהל מין האנושי ;אהבת חברת המון המין האנושי‬ ‫ברית ;תועלת הקיבוץ ותיקון הנהגת התקשרות מין האנושי ;חובת ידידות מין האנושי ;מין האדם‬ ‫אהבה ;תועלת כלל ושמירת קייום ההתחברות ;התקרבות לבות בני אדם יושבי תבל ;חברת האדם‬ ‫כי כל בני אדם צריכים זה לזה ותלויים זה בזה וקשורים זה בזה כמו שליבות ;שלום ורעות‬ ‫השלשלת המשולבות אחת אל אחת‬.

294

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

His appreciation of his fellow Jews, on the other hand, stands in stark contrast to his perception of the non-Jewish world. As we have seen, he regularly decries the mentalities and behaviour that in his view account for the decline of morality in contemporary Jewish society. If we are to believe the author, no one seems to take the obligation to love one’s neighbour seriously (ch. 25). In this regard, Hurwitz’s use of the term ‫ משחיתים‬and ‫ מפסידים‬is noteworthy. The term occurs right at the outset of the treatise, in chapter 1, where it refers to the second group of people who are not worthy to be loved by their fellow men since they destroy society through their deeds. Initially, the term seems to apply to clear-cut categories such as murderers and thieves. However, in the course of Hurwitz’s account it comes to include such diverse groups as the seven Canaanite nations, worshippers of water and fire, anyone who does harm to others, Jews who practice charity but do not observe the commandments, people who do not buy useful instruments or books on neighbourly love or refuse to write letters of recommendation, those who do not obey the laws of the state, and finally all those who evade their duty to love their neighbour properly by false pretexts. In other words, eventually Hurwitz’s universalism is considerably narrowed down by his crucial distinction between those who cultivate society and those who destroy it. The concept of ‫ משחיתים‬appears to be nothing less than a time bomb under his theory of neighbourly love, for when all is said and done, virtually everybody meets the criteria of being a destroyer. Indeed, Hurwitz can rightfully complain that no one carries out the obligation to love one’s neighbour as required. Luckily, however, there is an exception. Towards the end of the treatise, after quoting Rav Huna’s saying,55 the author invokes R. Pinh.as ben Yair’s good deeds to mankind, claiming that no one measures up to him with respect to practicing charity. It may be recalled that this Tannaitic sage was already introduced a little earlier as one of the Rabbis who were always engaged in doing good deeds for others.56 At first sight, it is not surprising that R. Pinh.as ben Yair, generally acknowledged as a paragon of piety, should be singled out as the champion of neighbourly love. However, the fact that his name bears great similarity to that of the author, Pinh.as (Elias) ben Meir, arouses some suspicion. In this regard it is noteworthy that Hurwitz, who produced 55. SB2, ch. 30, cf. above. 56. Ibid., 567, cf. above.

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295

the first version of the book anonymously, begins his book (after the preface and the introduction) by quoting a saying of the same Pinh.as ben Yair.57 Could it be that Hurwitz in fact refers to himself, presenting the Tannaitic sage as his alter ego? This suspicion is corroborated by the following. A little after his praise of the Tanna in chapter 30 he writes: ‘Like Elijah, Pinh.as comes solely to establish peace in the world, as has been said: He shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers (Mal 3:24)’. Naturally, every reader was aware that the preceding verse says: ‘Lo I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord’. Hurwitz thus seems to identify not only with Pinh.as ben Yair, but also with the prophet Elijah. By using the last verse of the last of the prophets Hurwitz does much more than just display self-awareness as an author. One cannot help forming the impression that he presents himself as the saviour of mankind. Be this as it may, Pinh.as Elias ben Meir Hurwitz certainly deserves credit for having produced a comprehensive, coherent and vivid Hebrew account on the subject of ‫אהבת רעים‬.

57. Ibid., 33.

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 The Value of Julius Guttmann’s Die Philosophie des

Judentums for Understanding Medieval Jewish Philosophy Today   T   has seen the appearance of several histories of medieval Jewish philosophy and more are on the way.1 For students and teachers in the field, the appearance of these new works raises the question whether they complement or supplant the well-known histories of Jewish philosophy of the previous century. Are the older works still of value or are they now outdated? By a series of coincidences I have had the opportunity to consider this question several times in past years, most recently with regard to Renan’s account of Jewish Averroism and with regard to Husik’s History of Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy. I will mention very briefly my conclusions concerning these two works as background and as points of comparison for the present inquiry. In Ernest Renan’s classic work, Averroès et l’averroïsme, published in 1852 and in a revised expanded version in 1861, the author briefly described the life, teachings, and works of Averroes, and then discussed his impact on later Islamic, Jewish, and Christian philosophers. In a study written for an issue of the Jewish Studies Quarterly, whose theme was the reevaluation of the great scholarly works of previous generations in the area of medieval Jewish thought, I reconsidered the accuracy of Renan’s account of the impact of Averroes on medieval Jewish thought, and suggested how it

1. For example, D.H. F & O. L (eds.), History of Jewish Philosophy (London 1997) II, Medieval Jewish philosophy, 83–573; D.H. F & O. L (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Medieval Jewish Philosophy (Cambridge 2003); R. J (‫)רפאל ישפה‬, ‫ מרב סעדיה גאון עד הרמב"ם‬:‫( פילוסופיה יהודית בימי הביניים‬Jewish Philosophy in the Middle Ages: From Sa‘adiah Ga’on to Maimonides) (3 vols.; Raanana 2005–2007); M.-R. H, Geschichte der jüdischen Philosophie (Darmstadt 2004); and Id., La philosophie juive (Paris 2004).

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might be modified and updated in light of recent research.2 Although Renan’s account was based primarily on bibliographical notices and manuscript catalogues, rather than on a careful reading of the texts themselves, he was able to give his reader what we now know to be a fairly accurate account of this impact. In considering the extent to which Renan’s account needs to be updated, I took the example of Gersonides. The burgeoning research into his thought illustrates how far we have progressed, not only in the past century and one-half since Averroès et l’averroïsme, but even in the past decade or so, in understanding the influence of Averroes on the philosophy and science of major post-Maimonidean Jewish philosophers. The same can be said with regard to the recent research, impressive in scope and depth, on the impact of Averroes upon many less original and less known Jewish thinkers. I concluded that Renan’s pioneering account of Jewish Averroism needed to be updated and greatly expanded on the basis of a century and one-half of research, but it did not need to be totally overhauled.3 Indeed Renan grasped the impact of Averroes on post-Maimonidean thought even better than some contemporary scholars. Husik’s A History of Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy, published in 1916, was intended to be the first one-volume history of medieval Jewish philosophy. His method was to give a ‘detailed exposition of the individual philosophers’, arranged in chronological order.4 He explicitly did not seek originality in his History or to impose his own or any other modern ideas on those of the medievals. Rather, he ‘endeavored to interpret their ideas from their own point of view’ in light of the religious and philosophical texts that could have influenced them.5 I had the opportunity a few years ago to consider the value today of Husik’s History for a preface to a new printing of the work.6 When Husik’s book first appeared, it was at once praised as a ‘very valuable summary of mediaeval Jewish philosophy’,7 and recog2. S. H, ‘On the Nature and Extent of Jewish Averroism: Renan’s Averroès et l’averroïsme Revisited’, Jewish Studies Quarterly 7 (2000) 100–119. 3. Ibid., 119. 4. I. H, A History of Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy (repr. Mineola,  2002) xl. 5. Ibid., ix. 6. S. H, preface to H, History, i-vi. 7. H. M, ‘Husik’s “History of Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy”’, Jewish Quarterly Review  9 (1918–1919) 233–244, esp. 233. For M’s objections and corrections, see ibid., 238–244.

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nised as a classic.8 It consists of an introduction, eighteen chapters, and a brief conclusion. Each chapter is dedicated to one—or in two instances, two—thinkers, and with one exception is based primarily on a careful reading of the source text under discussion. Husik’s invariably clear presentation of the main arguments and teachings of the work under consideration serves to introduce the reader to the main personalities and topics of medieval Jewish philosophy. He is not content with summary alone. Rather, he punctuates his summaries with analyses, which at times comment on the strength or weakness of a given argument or explanation, and on the author’s sources and use of his sources. Because Husik’s accounts are based on the texts themselves and primarily intended simply to elucidate them, they remain of value today. I concluded that despite all the advances and publications in the field, his learned History of Mediaeval Jewish Philosophy remains today a valuable guide to the subject and one of its best introductions.9 The goal of the present paper is to assess the importance today of another one of those grand histories of Jewish philosophy, Julius Guttmann’s Die Philosophie des Judentums.10 One might reason that in light of my view of Husik’s old history, I would have similar and even better things to say about Guttmann’s book. After all Guttmann wrote his book in 1933 and revised and enlarged it for the Hebrew edition in 1951.11 Indeed this argument could be further strength8. See e.g. Revue de metaphysique et de morale 29 (April–June 1922): supplément, p. 12, and G. V’s comments in his review of Philosophical Essays, Ancient, Medieval & Modern by Isaak Husik (ed. M.C. N & L. S): Revue des Études Juives 112 (1953) 87. 9. H, preface to H, History, vi. 10. An earlier draft of this paper was prepared at the request of Professor Reinier M for a session he organised on Julius Guttmann at the 14th World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem 2005. 11. G’s Die Philosophie des Judentums was first published by Ernst Reinhardt in Munich in 1933 (repr. Wiesbaden 1985). A new edition recently appeared, updated to the present by E. S, with a biographical introduction by F. B (Berlin 2000). The Hebrew translation of Guttmann’s revised text was made by Y.L. B, ‫( הפילוסופיה של היהדות‬Jerusalem 1951), and has been reprinted by Mosad Bialik several times. An English translation was prepared by D.W. S, Philosophies of Judaism, with an introduction by R.J. Z W (New York 1964) and has been reprinted by different publishers. Other translations have been made into French, Portuguese, and Japanese. See Histoire des philosophies juives (trans. from the English by S. C-D; Paris 1994), and A Filosofia do Judaísmo (trans. J. G; São Paulo 2003). Page references are to the 1933

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ened by recalling Lawrence Berman’s assessment of the two books in 1976. Berman, an astute historian of medieval Jewish and Islamic thought, considered Guttmann’s Philosophy of Judaism ‘the best and most comprehensive work dealing with medieval Jewish religious philosophy.’ The section of the book on medieval thought in his opinion was simply ‘excellent’. In sharp contrast, he dismissed Husik’s history as ‘dated and inadequate’.12 It is now thirty years since Berman’s comments. Is Guttmann’s Philosophy of Judaism still of value? The truth is that as I began this inquiry—and even after my conclusions concerning Husik’s History—I was not sure. Now I am. Yitzh.aq Julius Guttmann was born in Hildesheim in Northern Germany in 1880 and died seventy years later in Jerusalem in 1950. He spent his teen years in Breslau, a renowned center for Jewish studies, and later studied and lectured in philosophy at the university there. In 1919 his father Jacob Guttmann died. As is well known, his father was also a distinguished scholar of medieval Jewish philosophy, who wrote pioneering studies—cited frequently with approval by the son—on thinkers such as Saadia Gaon, Ibn Gabirol, Ibn Da’ud, Maimonides, and Abravanel, and on the influence of medieval Jewish philosophers on the Christian Scholastics. That father and son or, for that matter, any two members of an immediate family, would both be interested in medieval Jewish philosophy was not uncommon in medieval times, yet in modern days it is quite rare, and I can hardly think of another example. The very year Jacob died Julius was appointed chair of the history of Jewish philosophy at the Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin. Four years later he was made director of studies at the Research Institute of the Akademie für die Wissenschaft des Judentums, also in Berlin. In 1934 he was invited to fill the first chair in Jewish Philosophy at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where he taught until his death. His colleague Shmuel Hugo Bergman called him the ‘last representative of the Wissenschaft des Judentums’, and considered The Philosophy of Judaism undoubtedly his chief work.13

German edition, with the page numbers to the English translation provided in parentheses. 12. L.V. B, ‘Medieval Religious Philosophy’, in Bibliographical Essays in Medieval Jewish Studies (New York 1976) 235. 13. H. B, introduction to Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed: an Abridged Edition (trans. C. R; New York 1952 ) viii.

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We return to our question: Is this work still of value today? When the editors of the 1997 Routledge History of Jewish Philosophy sought to justify their book, they could point to the ‘advances in historical scholarship’ since Guttmann’s study.14 But if all that is needed is to update Guttmann in light of ‘advances in historical scholarship’, then perhaps this should be done, rather than continually writing new histories. In a sense, this was done by Georges Vajda—who himself wrote a fine introduction to medieval Jewish thought. In his Introduction à la pensée juive du Moyen Age, published in Paris in 1947, three years before Guttmann’s death and the completion of the revised Hebrew version of Die Philosophie des Judentums, Vajda called Guttmann’s German work ‘a magisterial synthesis and work tool of the first order’—this, by the way, in comparison with Husik’s History that he described as a ‘good manual, [but one] that does not go much in depth’.15 In the years 1972–1974, Vajda published the desired update in two bibliographical essays in the Hebrew Union College Annual under the title ‘Les études de philosophie juive du Moyen Age depuis la synthèse de Julius Guttmann’.16 The editors of the Routledge History chose to ignore this update or at least do not mention it. In any case, their justification for a new history was based also on their belief that the ‘essentialist foundations’ upon which Guttmann’s book was written are no longer relevant or generally accepted. Indeed, as they see it, the very introduction by Zwi Werblowsky to the 1964 English translation of the book contains an ‘obituary to the kind of historical scholarship, which Guttmann represents, as well as the presuppositions upon which it is based’.17 In my evaluation of Guttmann’s book, I will not be concerned with such lofty considerations. Nor will I concern myself with Guttmann’s views on religion, science and philosophy (and his position vis-à-vis Kant, Schleiermacher, Cohen, Rosenzweig and Heidegger), as much as these might be useful 14. D.H. F, ‘What Is Jewish Philosophy?’, in History of Jewish Philosophy, 1. 15. G. V, Introduction à la pensée juive du Moyen Age (Paris 1947) 212: ‘Synthèse magistrale et instrument de travail de premier ordre’; ‘Bon manuel; ne pénètre guère en profondeur’. 16. G. V, ‘Les études de philosophie juive du Moyen Age depuis la synthèse de Julius Guttmann’, Hebrew Union College Annual 43 (1972) 125–147; 45 (1974) 205–242. V wrote at the beginning of this article that ‘on doit à la vérité d’affirmer sans ambages que l’ouvrage de Julius Guttmann n’a été, depuis, remplacé et encore moins dépassé par aucun autre’ (125). 17. F, ‘What Is Jewish Philosophy?’, 2.

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for understanding his own approach to medieval Jewish philosophy. My concern will not be so much with what brought him to medieval Jewish philosophy, nor with what interested him in the philosophers, but how he interpreted and explicated them. I will just try to suggest to what extent Guttmann’s book is of use to the student today in his or her quest to understand the medieval Jewish philosophers. Guttmann’s book is well known to virtually every student and scholar of medieval Jewish philosophy. It is divided into three parts: (1) the religious development of Judaism in antiquity; (2) Jewish religious philosophy in the Middle Ages; and (3) Jewish religious philosophy in the modern period. In the original German edition, part 1 is 43 pages long; part 2, 246 pages; and part 3, 62 pages. The middle part, that on medieval Jewish philosophy—my concern here— is by far the longest, and this is true even in the expanded Hebrew version with its additions on Krochmal and Rosenzweig, where it is still twice as long as the modern part. This part on medieval Jewish philosophy is in turn divided into 5 sections: (1) an introduction; (2) Kalām; (3) Neoplatonism; (4) Aristotelianism and its opponents; and (5) the end and aftereffects of medieval religious philosophy. This division of medieval philosophy parted from that of Husik’s, which simply dedicated a chapter to each major figure in chronological order. It was more or less followed by Georges Vajda in his Introduction and to some extent also by Colette Sirat in her history of medieval Jewish philosophy and by Maurice-Ruben Hayoun in his histories, yet it is not until Sirat’s History that proper attention is paid to the history of Jewish philosophy in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.18 Unlike Husik, who, as I have mentioned, is quite specific about his goals and intentions in his History, as well as his method—to give a ‘detailed exposition of the individual philosophers’, Guttmann does not specify what he is trying to do in his book, nor why there is a need to summarise the teachings of these philosophers after Husik’s book. Does he agree or disagree with Husik’s accounts of the philosophers? In truth, apart from a reference to a minor point in a note or two, he has nothing to say about Husik in his book. This may be 18. See C. S, La philosophie juive au Moyen Âge selon les textes manuscrits et imprimés (Paris 1983). S’s book has been published in versions in English (1985), Italian (1990) and Russian (2002); an earlier Hebrew version appeared in 1975. On the importance of S’s book, see S. H, review of A History of Jewish Philosophy in the Middle Ages, by C. S, MESA Bulletin 22 (1988) 119–120.

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because he did not consult Husik’s book until shortly before his own was published—he used the 1930 printing of the book, but this seems quite unlikely, particularly because as Daniel Lasker has recently observed, Guttmann ‘with few exceptions’ seems to have adopted the canon of medieval Jewish philosophers used by Husik.19 Perhaps he simply did not want to draw attention to a work so similar to his own in content; or perhaps he saw no need to study too seriously such a general history which explicitly claimed little originality and could therefore not be expected to shed new light on the thinkers under discussion. I suspect the true reason is somewhat different. In Guttmann’s eyes, the two books were probably quite different—not as we tend to see them today as the two classic histories of medieval Jewish philosophy. Husik emphasised his belief in the need to write such histories objectively, that is, not to read modern ideas into the medieval thinkers. His main goal was to make known the thought of these thinkers through a careful reading of their works. In contrast, Guttmann’s main concern—as Zwi Werblowsky has pointed out, both as a systematic thinker and as a historian—was with the philosophy of Judaism. Werblowsky writes: ‘He [was] not so much concerned with Jewish philosophy or Jewish philosophers, as with the philosophy of Judaism.’20 In other words, Husik’s primary goal was not his. He firmly believed in an unchanging essence of Judaism, an essence that does not consist of a series of individual tenets, but of a unified fundamental religious conviction that is the basis of these tenets and gives them religious meaning. His book was intended to show the history of reflection on Judaism and its essence. Thus while Husik sought to summarise entire books as their authors wrote them, Guttmann could be far more selective. Guttmann also needed to focus on the author’s originality. Thus: Isaac Israeli, ‘despite his lack of originality [Unselbständigkeit]’, was the first attempt to transplant Neoplatonism to Jewish soil (p. 98 [96]). Ibn Gabirol’s ‘originality [Originalität] does not lie in isolated details of his philosophy, but in the systematic energy with which he constructs and derives his Neoplatonic world view from its ultimate presuppositions’ (p. 104 [102]).

19. D.J. L, ‘The Canon of Medieval Jewish Philosophy: A Response to Dov Schwartz’, Review of Rabbinic Judaism 6 (2003) 320. 20. Z W, introduction to G, Philosophies of Judaism, ix.

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ All later Jewish Neoplatonists accepted Neoplatonism as a fixed and inherited system, and thus none of them compare to Ibn Gabirol in the ‘originality [Ursprünglichkeit] of his theoretical interests’ (p. 119 [117]). Ibn S.addiq’s Microcosm is ‘a basically Neoplatonic system, interspersed with Aristotelian and Mu‘tazilite elements, and without claims to originality [Originalität]’ (p. 131 [130]). Maimonides too was not original, his strength was the synthesis of traditional ideas, and thus he had ‘originality [Originalität] of creative synthesis’ (p. 173 [175]). Falaquera’s ‘originality [Selbständigkeit] did not measure up to his learning’ (p. 212 [222]). Hillel of Verona, like his other contemporaries, lacked ‘philosophic originality [Originalität]’ (p. 213 [223]). And even Crescas’s ‘originality’ could be doubted (not in the 1933 German ed. [p. 257]).21

If originality could not be found, Guttmann sought to find and understand the special contributions of the philosophers. Not surprisingly, he concludes the section on Aristotelianism and its opponents pondering whether Maimonides’ theistic Aristotelianism or Crescas’s critique of it was closer to the ‘essence of historical Judaism [dem geschichtlichen Wesen des Judentums]’.22 While Guttmann’s particular concerns in writing his book may have contributed to its devaluation as a history of Jewish philosophy, recent research has indeed antiquated the picture of medieval philosophy that he sketched therein. Consider, for example, our presentday knowledge of Islamic philosophy. The abundance of texts by the Islamic philosophers that have been edited and studied since Guttmann has helped articulate a much clearer view of their teachings and their influence on Jewish thinkers. One can no longer assume, for example, that Alfarabi’s statements in his most popular—that is, least philosophic—work, The Harmonisation of the Two Opinions of the

21. See further, G, Philosophies of Judaism, 289 (not in the 1933 German ed.): ‘In contrast to [Isaac Abravanel’s] lack of originality in metaphysics’, is his philosophy of history and culture. Cf. G, Die Philosophie des Judentums, 206 (208). 22. Ibid., 256 (274).

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Two Sages: Plato the Divine and Aristotle,23 represent his true opinions, but this is precisely what Guttmann did when he argued on the basis of this work that Alfarabi defended Aristotle at great length against the charge of having taught the eternity of the world. As a result, Guttmann found it ‘hard to understand’ how Alghazali and Halevi could accuse the Aristotelians of denying the fundamental doctrines of religion.24 In a similar vein, while Guttmann sensed the importance of Averroes and refers to him throughout his chapter on Aristotelianism, he relies almost exclusively on his dialectical treatise, Fas.l al-maqāl, for presenting his views. Thus, for example, he can write: ‘Even Averroes had concluded that since prophetic revelation occurs in connection with specific events, divine knowledge must extend to particulars.’25 Yet, to his credit, he suspected that ‘it is not certain that this represents his final view of the matter’. His doubt was aroused by Gersonides’ citation from Averroes’ Epitome of the Parva naturalia.26 What seems quite revealing to me about Guttmann’s whole approach to the history of religious philosophy is that he exhibits virtually no interest in Averroes’ commentaries on Aristotle, other than noting their importance.27 This presumably is because he thought they were not relevant to questions of religious philosophy as the Fas.l al-maqāl was. Works that emphasise the study of Averroes’ commentaries for understanding Jewish philosophy such as Renan’s Averroès et l’aver-

23. Abū Nas.r -F, L’harmonie entre les opinions de Platon et d’Aristote (ed. & trans. F.M. N & D. M; Damascus 1999). 24. G, Die Philosophie des Judentums, 162 (161). Interestingly, G was aware of and even refers here to Maimonides’ statement in the Guide of the Perplexed (trans. S. P; Chicago 1963) II, 15, p. 292, that Alfarabi held that Aristotle clearly maintained the eternity of the world. On Alfarabi’s statements in the Harmonization to the contrary, see, e.g., M. G, ‘A Re-examination of al-Fârâbî’s Neoplatonism’, Journal of the History of Philosophy 15 (1977) 13–32; Th.-A. D, ‘Alfarabi and Emanationism’, in J.F. W (ed.), Studies in Medieval Philosophy (Washington 1987) 23–43; and C.E. B, Alfarabi, The Political Writings: ‘Selected Aphorisms’ and Other Texts (Ithaca 2001) esp. 119–124. 25. G, Die Philosophie des Judentums, 228 (245). 26. See ibid., 394 n. 537 (507 n. 228). 27. See ibid., 56 (54): ‘Aristotle, upon whom all later Jewish philosophy was based, was known mainly from the translations of the commentaries of Averroes, which, of course, incorporated large sections of the original text’. Even this statement is not quite accurate.

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roïsme28 and Wolfson’s ‘Plan for the Publication of a Corpus commentariorum Averrois in Aristotelem’29 are not even mentioned in the bibliography. And it almost goes without saying that the supercommentaries, especially those by Gersonides, so emphasised and used by Wolfson, were not consulted. Indeed Guttmann mentions Gersonides’ commentaries simply to point out that he too did not limit himself to religious philosophy.30 I might add that other key Islamic philosophers such as Ibn Bājjah, whom Maimonides valued so highly and whose importance for Jewish philosophy is well known today, are not even mentioned. As I have suggested, the reason for these omissions has to do with Guttmann’s agenda, and in particular his dividing of philosophy into general philosophy and religious philosophy. Medieval Jewish thinkers who engaged in general philosophy did not, in his view, have much original to say in this area, and certainly these works do not point to their understanding of Judaism. Guttmann writes: ‘Whereas the Islamic Neoplatonists and Aristotelians dealt with the full range of philosophy, Jewish thinkers relied for the most part on the work of their Islamic predecessors in regard to general philosophic questions, and concentrated on more specifically religio-philosophic problems.’31 Later he explained that the ‘primary goal of Jewish philosophy [until Spinoza]’ was ‘to interpret and vindicate [zu deuten und zu rechtfertigen; ‫ ]לפרש ולאמת‬the religion of Judaism in philosophic terms.’32 This for him was clearly not done in the works of general philosophy. The problem is that his account of the primary goal of Jewish philosophy, while possibly true for kalām, is not true for the philosophers. But this point aside, the distinction between general philosophic and Jewish philosophic works does not exist as Guttmann believed. If it were not already clear in the great works of Steinschneider, Renan-Neubauer and Munk—cited only sporadically by Guttmann—recent research into the supercommentaries and the en28. G knew R’s Averroès et l’averroïsme, and has a passing note to it as a source for his understanding of Averroes’ position on free will (see ibid., 396, n. 600 [510, n. 291]). 29. H.A. W’s original ‘Plan for the Publication of a Corpus commentariorum Averrois in Aristotelem’ was published in Speculum 6 (1931); a revised version appeared in Speculum 36 (1961). 30. G, Die Philosophie des Judentums, 221 (237). 31. Ibid., 63 (62–63). 32. Ibid., 278 (301).

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cyclopedias of science and philosophy has shown the importance of these works not only for understanding Aristotle, but also for helping us to understand the religious beliefs of the medieval Jewish authors. Another area of research since Guttmann is into the dozens of lesser known and unsung thinkers, in particular in the post-Maimonidean period that have helped complete the portrait of medieval Jewish philosophy. These thinkers would not have interested Guttmann very much as they can too easily be dismissed as unoriginal, but they have helped us understand the concerns of medieval philosophy and the teachings of Maimonides and other more original thinkers. They play an integral part in the development of Jewish thought, and since Sirat’s History, they have rightly become part and parcel of most accounts of Jewish philosophy. Virtually everyone seems to have appreciated Guttmann’s scholarship in his Philosophy of Judaism, including those who attacked it most vehemently—like Leo Strauss, who praised it as a Handbuch, based throughout on a thorough knowledge of the sources and scholarly literature by an outstanding expert in the field (von diesem hervorragenden Sachkenner 33)—and those who sought to replace it, such as the editors of the Routledge History, who described it simply as ‘monumental’. In short, there is no question that the book was written by a consummate scholar, deeply learned in the field, who used the finest tools of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. There is no doubt that Guttmann’s Philosophy of Judaism is of great importance today for understanding the religious thought of Israel’s first chair of Jewish philosophy, and how the last generation of the Wissenschaft des Judentums approached the study of Jewish philosophy. But this illustrious book is no longer of great value for those interested in understanding the medieval Jewish philosophers. It has indeed been outdated by the great advances in the field; and because it is so imbued with the author’s own goals, it cannot be updated.34 In contrast, Husik’s older work, with its more modest goal of summing up and interpreting the books of the philosophers, remains of use today in 33. L. S, Philosophie und Gesetz (Berlin 1935) 30. 34. I have referred above to V’s ‘update’ of Die Philosophie des Judentums, ‘Les études de philosophie juive’ (see n. 16 above). In truth, V’s work, published some twenty years after the Hebrew version (see n. 16 above), was not so much an update as a bibliographical essay of works that had been published since G’s book. After the first few pages of his study, V hardly refers to G, and no attempt is made to correct or revise his book.

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the efforts of students to understand these texts. Nonetheless, to the extent that Guttmann’s book has influenced the histories of Jewish philosophy that have followed it, it may still be considered one of the seminal works in the field of medieval Jewish philosophy.

 Moses Mendelssohn’s Conception of Judaism   To Albert, dear colleague and friend

M M characterized Judaism as the combination of religion of reason and revealed law.1 How to understand this characterization? A common interpretation of this famous one-liner is that the religion of reason is natural religion, that is to say the religion of man in general (die allgemeine Menschenreligion), and that the revealed law is the distinctive characteristic of Judaism as a historical religion. This interpretation can be found, among others, in Kant.2 The problem with it, however, is that in the sentence ‘x is the combination of a and b’, it is the combination of the two components a and b that characterizes x, and not just one of a and b. This is to say that the revealed law is just one of the distinctive characteristics of Judaism, whereas Judaism is defined by the combination of a and b. How are we to understand this combination? Julius Guttmann argues that the religion of reason (a) and the revealed law (b) stand next to each other, but not over against one another, in Mendelssohn.3 In his analysis, the verb ‘to stand next to’ has the meaning of a dichotomy. Mendelssohn created a dichotomy between the religion of reason and the revealed law, the realm of reason and that of ‘Jewish sentiments’, in which the latter is characteristic of Judaism as a historical religion.4 1. The works of Mendelssohn are quoted from Moses Mendelssohn Gesammelte Schriften. Jubiläumsausgabe (ed. F. B et al.; Berlin 1929–1938 & A. A et al.; Stuttgart 1971–), henceforth referred to as JubA, followed by volume number (Roman) and page number (Arabic). 2. Cf. the present author’s ‘Mendelssohn and Kant on Judaism’, Jewish Studies Quarterly 13 (2006) 215–222. 3. Die Philosophie des Judentums (München 1933) 313. English translation: Philosophies of Judaism (New York 1964) 300; references to both editions will include the page number of the German edition, followed by the page number of the English translation, e.g. 313/300. 4. Die Philosophie des Judentums, 313/300. Philosophies of Judaism here reads ‘the dichotomy’ as the translation of ‘die Trennung’ in Die Philosophie des Judentums.

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So for Guttmann it is possible to define Judaism as revealed law (x is b) without including the religion of reason (x is a), which is, again, the position of Kant referred to above.5 And to mention just one other example, Alexander Altmann states, in line with Guttmann, that there is a ‘divorce’ between rational religious truth and revealed law in Mendelssohn, a divorce that according to Altmann even ‘proved fatal’ for Mendelssohn’s conception of Judaism.6 Common as these interpretations are, I find them problematic. First of all, in Mendelssohn, as in other philosophers of the Aufklärung, the opposite terms in the conception of religion are not, or not primarily, religion of reason or natural religion versus historical religion, but religion of reason versus irrationality and superstition, Aberglaube, and Schwärmerei, instead. And historical religion can and actually does include parts of both natural religion and irrational views of religion. Moreover, Mendelssohn’s conception of knowledge, religion, revelation, and reason, bear evidence against the divorce and dichotomy of religion of reason and revealed law. And thirdly and finally, the combination of natural religion and irrationality in a historical religion is substituted in these interpretations, or so it seems, by the combination of religion of reason and revealed law in Judaism, so that revealed law and irrationality are put on a par. Mendelssohn’s definition of Judaism may easily give rise to this interpretation, but nevertheless it is not Mendelssohn’s, I will argue here. My alternative interpretation starts from the premise that in the sentence ‘x is the combination of a and b’, a is a precondition for b. This is to say that Mendelssohn’s discussion of revealed law presupposes his exposition of the religion of reason. Mendelssohn’s exposition of the religion of reason actually includes, indeed, the discussion of the dual nature of revelation; the religious nature of his conception of philosophy as Weltweisheit; the divine origin of reason; and the 5. G furthermore argues that the separation between the two suffers from an inner tension, which makes the separation untenable in the end. The tension is said to be due to ‘ein[en] tiefe[n] Zug des menschlichen Geistes zur Mißdeutung der reinen Vernunftwahrheit’ (314/301). ‘Die der Idee nach proklamierte Evidenz der religiösen Wahrheit ist ihr in der Geschichte bei dem überwiegenden Teile der Menschen geraubt worden’ (315/301). And it is with respect to this ‘Mißdeutung’ that Mendelssohn, in Guttmann’s analysis, presents Judaism as ‘die Gemeinschaft der Theisten’ that has to oppose ‘the tormentors of reason’ (see section iv, below). 6. A. A, ‘Moses Mendelssohn’s Concept of Judaism Reëxamined’, in Id., Von der mittellalterlichen zur modernen Aufklärung (Tübingen 1987) 234–248, esp. 246.

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claim that the ceremonial laws direct the theist to the correct understanding and use of reason. The present essay is a first and preliminary attempt of mine to articulate Mendelssohn’s conception of Judaism from the perspective as stated here. The essay addresses the questions ‘what is the religion of reason’, ‘what is revelation’, and ‘what is revealed law in Mendelssohn’. The discussion of these questions has the form of an analysis of five texts of Mendelssohn that bear relevance to the topic under discussion. They include the Gegenbetrachtungen zu Bonnet’s Palingenesis (1769); the letter to Elkan Herz of July 22, 1771; the book Jerusalem (1783); the letter to Herz Homberg of September 22, 1783; and Mendelssohn’s last publication, An die Freunde Lessings (1786). I will present the texts in chronological order.  The Gegenbetrachtungen offer a pointed discussion of the notion of revelation, and the related topic of the principles of ‘the religion of our Fathers’. Revelation is defined in the Gegenbetrachtungen as an occurrence in history that is relevant for those who received it, in this case the Jewish people, whereas it is superfluous for those who did not.7 This is to say, superfluous for achieving the aims of life. These aims are defined in a classic Enlightenment-style as Selbstvervollkommnung, self-improvement, or Vollkommenheit, perfection, and Glückseligkeit, happiness.8 In the process of striving for self-improvement and happiness, man does not need revelation, according to Mendelssohn. The virtues and truths that are known through reason—and that are articulated by reason—are sufficient for teaching these aims. Mendelssohn’s argument for this claim is, first of all, the general validity of claims of reason, and, secondly, the assumption of divine fairness to all. The latter is taken to mean that, if revelation would be a prerequisite for self-improvement, perfection, and happiness, all mankind would, no doubt, have received it. However, not all men but Israel alone received laws by revelation, for no other reason than that God in his wise knowledge decided to reveal these laws to Israel. And 7. ‘Gegenbetrachtungen über Bonnets Palingenesie’ (1769), JubA VII, 67–121, esp. 75. 8. Cf. G. H, ‘Perfektibilität. Eine Untersuchung zur Geschichte und Bedeutung dieses Begriffs in der deutschsprachigen Literatur’, Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 24 (1980) 221–257, esp. 223–227. The aims of self-improvement and self-perfection serve Mendelssohn rather well, indeed, as an example for his claim of the correspondence of (mediaeval) Jewish and Enlightenment thought.

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Israel for its part accepted Torah, and is henceforth bound by it in its quest for self-perfection and happiness. At this point, Mendelssohn continues by saying that another way to these aims is not open to Israel anymore. The revelation to Israel has done the nations no harm, for the revealed law is no prerequisite for their attainment of selfperfection and happiness. The nations are bound by the rules of nature, since they did not receive the yoke of these ‘arduous obligations’ (beschwerliche Pflichten). 9 The rules of nature are defined as the obligations and laws which are inherent in the nature of man, and are articulated and refined by reason. In the margins of this discussion in the Gegenbetrachtungen, I would like to point to a characteristic feature of Mendelssohn’s thought, viz., the social and religious differentiation between men, as we find here in the distinction between Israel and the nations. Mendelssohn’s plea for enlightenment, social and religious emancipation, and equal civil rights for all (men) does not take the form of a plea for social and religious egalitarianism, at the cost of the differentiation of social classes and religious traditions. The contrast between classes, for instance, is exemplified in the essay ‘Was heißt aufklären?’, by the distinction between the enlightenment of man as a human being and the related equal standing of all, devoid of any class distinction; and the enlightenment of man as a citizen, which applies to the role of citizens within their social classes and professions, and the related rights, privileges, and duties only, without altering the stratification of society.10 Next, we already find Mendelssohn saying in the Gegenbetrachtungen that the distinction between natural and revealed law is not to be understood as an opposition between the two. The content of that which is revealed is not by definition irrational, and in conflict with reason. On the contrary, there is no conflict between revelation and reason as far as the principles of Judaism are concerned. And these principles are specified as: God, providence, and the law of Israel.11 Mendelssohn can thus be quoted as saying: ‘The religion of my Fathers does not know—as far as their principles are concerned—of such secrets that we would have to believe even if we do not understand them. Our reason can rather easily start from 9. JubA VII, 75. 10. ‘Über die Frage: was heißt aufklären?’ (1784), JubA VI.1, 115–119, esp. 117. 11. The rationale for this claim is presented in Jerusalem (see below, section ).

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the first sound principles of man’s knowledge, and be assured that he will finally find religion on his way. There is no conflict between religion and reason here, nor turmoil of our natural knowledge against the suppressing violence of faith. Her ways are lovely and all her paths are peace—Properly speaking the religion of the Israelites consists of three principles only: 1. God; 2. providence; 3. laws. And these three are articulated by our teachers of religion more or less as follows: 1. God, the originator/founder and unconditional ruler/master of everything is the one and only God (both in person and essence); 2. This God notices all that happens in creation, repays what is good and punishes evil, and he does this by way of natural means, and sometimes by supernatural means as well; 3. This God has made known his laws to the children of Israel, by Amram, the son of Moses. We have these laws in written form in our hands.’12

Hence, first of all, there is neither a conflict nor a dichotomy or divorce between religion and reason with respect to the three principles of Judaism, as these are principles of reason. And, secondly, if reason starts from ‘the first sound principles of knowledge’, it will finally find religion on its way. This is to say that the discussion of the form and principles of Weltweisheit includes the discussion of the principles of religion, since these principles (including the principle of law) are principles of theoretical reason.  This statement of Mendelssohn as articulated in the Gegenbetrachtungen is confirmed in his letter to Elkan Herz of July 22, 1771, where we read: ‫ מיר טוהן‬.‫ מיר האבן קייני עקרים דיא נגד השכל או למעלה מן השכל זיין‬.. . ‫נישט מעהר הינצו צו דר נאטירליכן רעליגיאהן אלש מצות וחקי' ומשפטים ישרים‬ ‫ אבל עקרי ויסודי דתנו מיוסדי' על אדני השכל ומסכימי' עם החקירה והעיון‬.‫ת"ל‬ ‫ וזהו מעלת דתנו האמתי והאלהי‬.‫ בלי סתירה ומחלוקת כלל וכלל‬,‫האמתי מכל צד‬ 13 .. . .‫מעל כל שאר דתות הכוזבות‬ … We have no principles that are contrary to, or above, reason. Thank God, we add to natural religion nothing except commandments, statutes, and righteous ordinances. As for the principles and fundamental tenets of our religion, they are based on reason and agree in every respect and without any contradiction or conflict whatever with the

12. JubA VII, 95. 13. JubA XIX, 150–151, letter no. 127.

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ results of inquiry and true speculation. Herein lies the superiority of our true, divine religion over all other false religions. ….14

To Mendelssohn, therefore, Judaism is defined as religion of reason combined with commandments, statutes, and righteous ordinances (‫)מצות וחקים ומשפטים ישרים‬. The principles and fundamental tenets of Judaism are based on reason and are consistent with the results of inquiry and true speculation. And on account of the previous section, the principles and fundamental tenets can be specified as God and providence, i.e., two principles of natural religion. Hence, again, there is neither a conflict nor a divorce between revealed religion and reason with respect to the principles of Judaism, according to this letter.  Jerusalem. Oder über religiöse Macht und Judentum offers a rather comprehensive debate on the questions under discussion, if compared with the previous two. The first part of Jerusalem includes a substantial discussion of the claim that the objective of state and religion, or church for that matter (the terms religion and church are used indiscriminately by Mendelssohn), is the physical, moral, religious, and cultural education of man, ‘die Bildung des Menschen’.15 And the aim of man’s education is characterized, again, as man’s perfection, ‘Vollkommenheit’, and happiness, ‘Glückseeligkeit’. True happiness is to Mendelssohn honesty and integrity in one’s general behaviour, ‘Redlichkeit in Handel und Wandel’.16 Religion and state strive after these two, perfection and happiness, through governance and education. In the context of this discussion of the role of state and church, we find the statement that religion is a pillar of civil happiness, ‘eine Stütze der bürgerlichen Glückseligkeit’. Mendelssohn continues: Ihr [sc. der Kirche, ] kömmt es zu, das Volk auf die nachdrücklichste Weise von der Wahrheit edler Grundsätze und Gesinnungen zu überführen; ihnen zu zeigen, daß die Pflichten gegen Menschen auch Pflichten gegen Gott seyen, die zu übertreten, schon an und für sich höchstes Elend sey; daß dem Staate dienen ein wahrer Gottesdienst, Recht und Gerechtigkeit der Befehl Gottes, und Wohltun sein aller14. A. A, Moses Mendelssohn. A Biographical Study (London 1973) 249. 15. JubA VIII, 110–112. 16. Ibid., 113.

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heiligster Wille sey, und daß wahre Erkenntnis des Schöpfers keinen Menschenhass in der Seele zurücklassen könne.17

The tasks of religion therefore include: to confirm the truth of principles and intentions of reason; to show people that obligations towards man are obligations towards God; that to serve the state is to serve God; that it is a divine command to uphold natural law and justice; that it is the will of God to do well; and that knowing God is incompatible with hating men. In brief, religion serves as an instrument for confirming the insights of reason. And all relations in reality are conceived as the expressions of the divine will, ‘die Naturverhältnisse sind nichts anders, als Äusserungen des göttlichen Willens’.18 Next, the main principles ‘in which all religions concur’ are specified.19 They include the existence of God as the necessary and most perfect being; providence; and the future life, or immortality of the soul. The principles mentioned here are those specified elsewhere as the principles of the religion of reason, even though the principles in which all religions concur (a posteriori) are not necessary the principles (a priori) of the religion of reason. Be this as it may, if it wasn’t for these three principles, happiness would be a mere dream, according to our author; the love for men would be an innate weakness; benevolence and kindness would be foppish, ‘eine Geckerey’, and virtue would not be virtue anymore. Thus ethics and morality are based on the principles of the religion of reason. The second part of Jerusalem includes a discussion of the various means to achieve truth; a discussion of the characteristics of the religion of reason, of Judaism, and the interrelatedness of these two; as well as a discussion of revelation and ‘the constitution of Moses’, ‘die mosaische Verfassung’. Regarding the first, the means to achieve truths, Mendelssohn can be quoted as saying that God in his wisdom has provided man with the instruments to achieve these: ‘So oft es nun den Absichten Gottes gemäss ist, dass die Menschen von irgend einer Wahrheit überführt sein sollen; so verleihet ihnen seine Weisheit auch die schicklichsten Mittel, zu derselben zu gelangen.’20 Thus the knowledge which philosophy strives for—or science for that matter, in line with the definition of philosophy as Weltweisheit—is con17. Ibid., 112. 18. Ibid., 127. 19. Ibid., 131. 20. Ibid., 160.

316

‫אודה לאוד״ה‬

ceived as part of a divine plan. It is in accordance with the plan of God that man strives for truth. And divine wisdom offers man the appropriate means to attain these truths. The means are specified as reason, observation (or observation and analysis), and historical certainty. First of all, reason teaches us that which is necessarily true, that is, the unchangeable relation and essential connection between concepts. Secondly, natural laws are prescribed to creation by the Creator, and they are known to man through observation and analysis of individual cases. And thirdly, divine wisdom confirms historical certainty and affirms the reliability of the narrator as beyond any reasonable doubt in order to preserve historical truths. The highest Wisdom teaches man the historical truths ‘according to the ways of man’, that is, through words and in writing, and if necessary through extraordinary things and miracles in nature. The eternal truths, on the other hand, are taught by God—in so far as these truths are of use, ‘nützlich’, for man’s well-being and happiness—in a way more appropriate to the divine. This is to say, not by sounds and signs, which can be understood here and there, and by some people only, but through nature, which can be read and understood by all. Eternal truths are not confirmed through miracles; miracles bring about historical convictions only. Instead, God awakens reason in order to confirm eternal truths. He offers reason the opportunity to observe the relations between things, to observe itself, and to confirm to itself those truths which the spirit is induced to know here below. Eternal truth cannot be taught to others by recommending one’s faith or authority, but, instead, by offering assistance, as a kind of midwifery, to the attempts to clarify and bring to light what is hidden and concealed.21 In this context, Mendelssohn states again that it is not necessary to make eternal truths known through revelation, as they can be known by better means, that is, by reason. Having arrived at this juncture, I would like to point again to a characteristic feature of Mendelssohn’s theism, viz., the claim that reason is of divine origin, and that knowledge (both theoretical and practical) is the uncovering, or revelation for that matter, of the divine thought and will. In his discussion of the eternal truths Mendelssohn can thus be quoted as saying that the necessary eternal truth and the contingent eternal truths have a common source, which is divine reason. The necessary eternal truths are constructed by man’s reason 21. Ibid., 158–159.

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and have their source in the divine intellect. And the contingent eternal truths similarly have their source in the divine will. Necessary eternal truths are true because God conceives them this way, whereas accidental eternal truths are true because God has willed and confirmed them so. Furthermore, with respect to revelation we have to bear in mind that revelation is of a dual nature in Jerusalem, including revelation in a general sense, or revelatio generalis, and revelation in a strict sense, or revelatio specialis. The first refers to reason’s disclosure of eternal truths, as discussed above. These truths are made known through nature’s divine design and outward objects, irrespective of time, place, and language. ‘The Most High Being has revealed the eternal truths to all rational creatures through fact and mental conception, and written them in the soul with such characters as are legible and intelligible irrespective of time and place.’22 Another way of phrasing the revelation through nature and outward objects is that what is known by reason in its construction of knowledge is conceived in lumine dei, stemming as it does from divine origin. The second, revelatio specialis, refers to the disclosure of the laws of Moses to the people of Israel. This disclosure has the form of words in writing, in combination with their unwritten and orally delivered elucidations, limitations, and definitions—as words and written characters do not retain their signification unchanged, and would turn unintelligible without their unwritten oral elucidations. These words and writings are disclosed to Israel for its temporal and eternal happiness. And in line with the double meaning of revelation Mendelssohn refers to two attributions of the divine. The one who disclosed the law to Moses is the Divine in the role of Schutzherr, patron and protector, of Israel; whereas the revelation ‘der Natur und Sache nach’ stems from God as creator and maintainer of the world. In sum, eternal truths are revealed through nature and outward objects, i.e. through facts and conceptions. They are revealed in that they are written in the soul of all creatures, with characters that are legible and intelligible irrespective of time, place, and language. The law of Moses, on the other hand, is revealed to the Jewish people, and has the form of a revelation in words, i.e. in written characters which are legible and intelligible respective of time, place, and language. These

22. Ibid., 191.

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written characters are in need of a tradition of interpretations as they do not retain their signification unchanged. There are two other claims of Mendelssohn’s in his discussion of revealed law that bear relevance to the topic under discussion. They include, first of all, the claim that the laws of Moses lead the inquiring mind towards divine, that is to say eternal, truths which are articulated by reason. Mendelssohn says: ‘All laws refer to, or are based upon eternal truths, or remind us of and awaken reflections concerning the same; so that our Rabbis say, justly: laws and doctrines are related to each other, as body and soul’.23 I take this phrasing to mean that knowledge of eternal truths is a prerequisite for understanding the laws of Moses, that ‘reason will find religion on its way’, and, consequently, that there is no divorce between reason and revelation. In addition, the laws of Moses are intended to promote social connections between scholars and teachers, and to encourage emulation and imitation. Here the metaphor of the scholar as a midwife comes to the fore again. Secondly, there is Mendelssohn’s statement on the function of ceremonial laws. The revealed law includes prescriptions of actions and rules of life, and ceremonial laws. And with respect to the latter, Mendelssohn claims that they are meant primarily as a barrier against excessive speculation on written texts. Ceremonial laws serve the purpose of relating theory to praxis, of binding instructions to life. Here the criterion of being conducive, ‘nützlich’, serves, again, to safeguard reason from unbridled speculation.  The discussion of the role of ceremonial laws is taken up in Mendelssohn’s letter to Herz Homberg of September 22, 1783.24 The letter was written shortly after the publication of Jerusalem and includes a defence of the ceremonial laws. Mendelssohn agrees (with Homberg?) that these laws no longer serve the purpose of conveying religious truths in symbolic fashion. Religious truths, i.e. the principles of Judaism which are specified above as principles of reason, do not need a symbolic expression anymore now that reason has found religion on its way. Nevertheless they serve as a ‘bond of union’ of the Jewish people. There still is a need for this union, since the Jewish people, as ‘true theists’, have to oppose ‘the tormentors of reason’, ‘die Plagegeister der 23. Ibid., 166. 24. JubA XIII, 132–134.

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Vernunft’. These tormentors are specified as those who support polytheism, anthropomorphism, and the usurpation of (political) power by religion. As opposed to these, the true theists are the defenders of reason. And their opposition against reason’s tormentors takes the form of ceremonies, that is to say, religious acts. These acts serve the purpose of relating theory to praxis, of binding instructions to life, thus offering a barrier against excessive speculation. The ceremonial laws—in which theory and praxis are bound together—direct to the correct operation of reason for achieving knowledge by relating theory to practice. What is revealed in the commandments from a systematic point of view is the insight that theory has to be related to practice. Speculation has to be conducive to the aims of man in his striving for Weltweisheit. This plea for the conducive nature of theoretical knowledge leads us back to the passage of the Gegenbetrachtungen, quoted above, on the nature and function of rational truths. These truths are taught by God in so far as they are conducive, ‘nützlich’, to man’s well-being and happiness. And this criterion holds good for the religion of reason, too. The commandments of Judaism point to the need for practice, including ceremonies, in the religion of reason. This can be taken as a critique of the lack of ceremonies in the religion of reason, and a plea for upholding the ceremonies of historical religions in combination with the religion of reason.  In his last publication, An die Freunde Lessings (1786),25 which came out a few months after his death, Mendelssohn articulated his position once more, loudly and clearly, by saying that the authority of positive ritual law in Judaism is based on faith in historical truths, in facts, whereas the existence and the authority of the Highest Legislator are recognized by reason as necessary eternal truths. The demonstration of the latter is part of the religion of reason, which for its part serves as a precondition of the first, the certainty and perspicuity of historical truth. Hence Mendelssohn’s statement: ‘[a]s a Jew I therefore had, I said, an additional reason to seek conviction on rational grounds’.26 And with respect to the combination of religion of reason and revealed law, Mendelssohn can be quoted as saying:

25. ‘An die Freunde Lessings’ (1786), JubA III.2, 177–218, esp. 196–199. 26. Ibid., 196.

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‫אודה לאוד״ה‬ The revealed laws of Judaism presuppose a natural and rational conviction of religious truths, without which no divine legislation can take place. But when I talk about rational conviction, and wish to presuppose this as indubitable in Judaism, the question is not of metaphysical argumentation, as we are accustomed to conduct in books; nor of school-like demonstrations, which are proof against all tests of the most subtle hesitancy; but of the claims and judgements of simple common sense, which contemplates things steadily and deliberates them calmly. I am a great admirer of demonstrations in metaphysics, and I am firmly convinced that the principal truths of natural religion are as apodictically provable as any proposition in the theory of quantities. Nevertheless, even my conviction of religious truths does not depend so absolutely on metaphysical arguments that they must stand or fall with them. Doubts about my arguments may be raised, erroneous conclusions in them may be shown to me, and yet my conviction remains unshakeable. Petrus Ramus, who was able to raise many doubts about the first principles and postulates of Euclid, nevertheless remained fully convinced of the truth and incontrovertibility of the Euclidic elements. Many a mathematician may cast doubt on the evidence of the Euclidic principle of parallels, and yet stake his happiness and life on the truth and incontrovertibility of the principles founded on it. Now, it seems to me that, to the uncorrupted, undeluded human mind, the evidence of natural religion is as radiantly clear, as incontrovertibly certain as any proposition in geometry. In every situation in life in which man finds himself, at every level of enlightenment on which he stands, he has data and capacities, opportunity and powers enough to persuade himself of the truths of rational religion.27

Divine legislation presupposes a natural and rational conception of religion and religious truths. These, and the more fundamental conceptions of reason, knowledge, and philosophy, are all framed in a theistic setting, which determines our understanding of the combination of terms in Mendelssohn’s one-liner. The setting is not at random but is a historical truth in Mendelssohn’s conception of Judaism.

27. Ibid., 197–198. The need of a defence of reason against its tormentors makes G conclude that this defence is detrimental to the evidence of theoretical truth. See his Philosophie des Judentums, 316/302. A discussion of G’s conclusion is included in the present author’s forthcoming paper on evidence and common sense in Mendelssohn.

Amsterdam Studies in Jewish Thought PUBLISHED VOLUMES [Vols. 1–6 published by J.C. Gieben, Amsterdam] 1. Rotenstreich, Nathan: Essays in Jewish Philosophy in the Modern Era. With an introduction by Paul Mendes-Flohr: Edited by Reinier Munk. 1996. ISBN 90-5063-587-3 2. Ravitzky, Aviezer: History and Faith. Studies in Jewish Philosophy. 1996. ISBN 90-5063-597-0 3. Munk, Reinier: The Rationale of Halakhic Man. Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s Conception of Jewish Thought. 1996. ISBN 90-5063-607-1 4. Boer, Theodore de: The Rationality of Transcendence. Studies in the Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas. 1997. ISBN 90-5063-217-3 5. Zwiep, Irene E.: Mother of Reason and Revelation. A Short History of Medieval Jewish Linguistic Thought. 1997. ISBN 90-5063-207-6 6. Harvey, Warren Zev: Physics and Metaphysics in Hasdai Crescas. 1998. ISBN 90-5063-347-1 [from Volume 7 published by Springer] 7. Harvey, Steven (ed.): The Medieval Hebrew Encyclopedias of Science and Philosophy. 2000 ISBN 0-7923-6242-X 8. Kreisel, Howard: Prophecy. The History of an Idea in Medieval Jewish Philosophy. 2001 ISBN 0-7923-7124-0 9. Zonta, Mauro: Hebrew Scholasticism in the Fifteenth Century. A History and Source Book. 2006 ISBN 1-4020-3715-5 10. Munk, Reinier (ed.): Hermann Cohen’s Critical Idealism. 2005 ISBN 1-4020-4046-6 11. Rubio, Mercedes: Aquinas and Maimonides on the Possibility of the Knowledge of God. An Examination of the Quaestio de Attributis. 2006 ISBN 1-4020-4720-7 12. Baasten, Martin F.J. and Munk, Reinier (eds.): Studies in Hebrew Literature and Jewish Culture. 2007 ISBN 978-1-4020-6201-8

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