A. The Beginning of His Path
We know very little about the dawn of Rabbi Yisrael of Salant’s life. He himself refrained from recounting his life story and wished no monument or memorial whatsoever to be erected in honor of his personality. Even his greatest disciples—in whose presence I was privileged to stand and upon whose hands I poured water—refused to divulge their views on their master’s life, conveying about him only matters that possessed educational or moral value.
However, while we, the students of Slobodka, sat gladdening our hearts in the presence of Reb Yitzchak Blazer and Reb Naftali Amsterdam on the days of Purim and Simchat Torah—days on which sacred joy is a positive commandment and mundane rejoicing is permitted—we succeeded in eliciting from their mouths a few details concerning the life of their holy master, the mere mention of whose name was enough to fill them with awe and trembling. And this is all that we heard:
While still a young child in the house of his father—the renowned rabbi, Reb Ze’ev Lipkin of blessed and righteous memory, who served in the rabbinate of Telz and authored the notes on the Talmud titled Hagahot Ben Aryeh (printed in the Vilna Shas)—he became known as an extraordinary prodigy (illui). At the age of fourteen, he married and resided in the home of his father-in-law in the small town of Salant, after which he was named. Here he studied under the local rabbi, Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Broide, world-renowned as a great luminary under the name "Reb Hirsch Salanter." It appears, however, that Reb Yisrael did not study under him at length; Reb Yisrael never referred to him as his master and never cited him in his discourses.
Yet Reb Yisrael had another master, toward whom he conducted himself even in his old age as a disciple mentioning his revered teacher, saying of him that he had still not attained his level (see the introduction to the weekly periodical Ha-Tevunah in Memel, 1861). This was Reb Yosef Zundel. He was half shopkeeper and half melamed (children’s teacher), who was never numbered among the community wardens and never held any public office. Rather, he would sit alone for a few hours in his shop, and during all the remaining hours of the day and night he sat in a corner of the study hall (Beit Midrash), learning without pause. This man—who was in himself an extraordinary moral phenomenon (see S. Rosenfeld's book R' Yisrael Salanter, p. 103) and whose outward appearance resembled that of a simple wagon-driver—so captured the heart of the young prodigy that he sought him out and followed in his footsteps at every turn.
This wise youth intuitively recognized that before him stood one of those enigmatic figures who are like "a ladder set upon the earth, whose top reaches the heavens" (as Reb Yisrael remarked of him), and he felt his heart bound in fetters. Every light word uttered by this perfected man during a walk in the fields outside the town ignited a flaming fire in the pure soul of the youth—who already surpassed all his contemporaries in intellectual sharpness—a fire that was never extinguished as long as he lived upon the earth. And this is how it came to pass:
Reb Zundel was accustomed, after the manner of the pious (Chassidim) of his generation, to dedicate one hour a day to solitude (hitbodedut—a concept defined in Musar literature as secluding oneself from the sight of men and dedicating oneself to spiritual matters, to building the life of the soul, and to communion within one’s inner world). For this purpose, he would distance himself from his home and walk in the fields outside his small town. As he walked, he would recite by heart various ethical teachings from Talmudic and Musar literature to fill his heart with the fear of Heaven. No one was aware of this practice of Reb Zundel; the youth alone discovered the secret. He would slip out quietly, follow behind him, and observe Reb Zundel’s actions from his hiding place. Once, Reb Zundel sensed the youth's presence. He turned to him and saw him standing and trembling with his whole body. He then motioned to him with his hand and said in a gentle voice: "Yisrael, study Musar, and you will become a truly wholehearted and upright man." This short sentence, uttered by the master to the youth, gave birth to the Musar Movement in Lithuania.
Reb Yitzchak Blazer and Reb Naftali Amsterdam both relate that these words penetrated Reb Yisrael’s heart like an arrow from a bow (as Reb Yitzchak Blazer put it) and became a blazing flame (Reb Naftali Amsterdam). From that moment on, he was transformed into a different person spiritually.
Until then, he had dedicated all his spiritual energy to the study of the Talmud and the Halachic Decisors (Poskim), distinguishing himself in them with extraordinary sharpness. He mastered the Talmud and Tosafot with astonishing dialectical brilliance (pilpul), such that all the luminaries of his day marveled at him. It was said of him that he cast a new light upon Talmudic methodologies and halachic inquiry. Yet, once he received these words from his humble master, he resolved in his heart to tread a different path and to dedicate all his toil to another field of study, which is the beginning and the ultimate purpose of all wisdom: the study of Musar. Here it became known to Reb Yisrael that the fear of Heaven is a wisdom requiring deliberate study through unceasing exertion—unlike the prevailing view among the rabbis of Lithuania then (and to a great extent still held today) that the fear of God falls to a person's lot naturally as an automatic consequence of Torah study and the observance of practical commandments. For Reb Yisrael and the scholars of his generation, Reb Zundel’s demand was a radical innovation.
In the yeshivot and other academies of that era, they did not engage in the study of Musar works; they were accustomed to viewing pilpul as the sole hallmark of talent. Only the unlearned and common folk would frequently look into such books, because a page of Gemara and Tosafot was beyond their comprehension. This is not the place to analyze the causes of this reality or to uncover how matters came to the point where an essential branch of Torah study, both in value and scope, was banished from the walls of the study hall. It is a fact that this branch of Jewish thought—the study of Musar, to which the Sages dedicated entire tractates, and into which the greatest of the Rishonim (Early Authorities) and Acharonim (Later Authorities) invested their efforts—became the domain of the simple folk and anathema to the scholarly elite.
Reb Yisrael was the first to open the doors of the yeshivah to the study of Musar, thus returning the "banished" Torah to the walls of the Beit Midrash. It was not easy to breach that fence. Below we shall see how much labor he expended and how much this great and wholehearted man was forced to struggle—he, his disciples, and their disciples after them—until their doctrine, whose esteem had fallen, was accepted. Yet it was clear to him that just as a person cannot see without eyes or hear without ears, so a Jew cannot attain the fear of Heaven without the study of Musar (the words of Reb Yisrael as attested by Reb Yitzchak Blazer in his aforementioned book). This recognition came to him from his master, Reb Zundel, who "set him upon his feet" (his own words), trained him in the service of God, and opened his eyes to see what was overt and self-evident.
At first, Reb Yisrael understood his master’s words literally: namely, that every man is obligated to dedicate a short period each day to studying Musar works that inspire the heart toward the love and fear of the Creator. Likewise, he viewed it as every person's duty to refine his character and labor not only to increase Torah knowledge, but also to achieve the perfection of the soul and spirituality. To achieve this moral aim, he considered following the path chosen by many of the great figures of previous generations: to undertake voluntary exile (galut), live as a recluse, conceal his wisdom and noble deeds from human eyes, and weave his inner life without any external influence, untainted by the shadow of impure motives or compromise. He had already made all the necessary preparations, mastering all the tractates of the Talmud, Tosafot, and the other commentaries so that he could engage in Torah study even when in the company of strangers.
He had already mastered half of the Talmud and Tosafot word for word when he suddenly changed his mind and his original plan. No, said Reb Yisrael, a person is not permitted to remain isolated and seek only his own good. One who lives in seclusion can certainly achieve personal spiritual perfection more easily, but he cannot do anything for the benefit of others—at least not to any significant degree. Thus, he decided to emerge from his seclusion and appear in public in the full splendor of his Talmudic genius.
He set a grand goal for himself, one that appeared to him as his life's mission, for which he was created and brought into the world: to disseminate his Torah in Israel—the Torah of Musar. He viewed his talents and his razor-sharpness in Talmud as a divine gift granted to him from Heaven in order to win the hearts of the scholars and blaze a trail to the hearts of the masses.
He knew that Lithuanian Jewry would follow only someone preceded by the reputation of a gaon. Therefore, after an inner struggle, he resolved to use his transcendent Talmudic knowledge as an instrument to win hearts, turning pilpul into a vehicle of advocacy for the Torah of Musar. In those days, he traveled through the Jewish communities, delivering fiery halachic discourses. Wherever he arrived, he would announce publicly in advance the source in the Talmud and Decisors upon which his sermon would be based. In every town, the keen Talmudic scholars prepared for the intellectual duel arranged for them by the young gaon; they immersed themselves in rare treatises to unearth difficult objections and acute questions to pin him against the wall and entangle him in contradictions. When Reb Yisrael began his lecture, he was surrounded by an encampment of scholars who challenged him with difficulties, and the battle commenced. Yet each time, Reb Yisrael emerged victorious. His honor grew and his renown spread far and wide; he conquered the scholars through his sharpness, while winning over the common folk through his humility and generosity of heart. His wanderings across Lithuania were, in his eyes, a campaign of conquest for the Musar Movement, whose dissemination had become his life's purpose.
During these journeys, an event occurred that aroused great attention throughout the scholarly world. On the gates of the largest Beit Midrash in a certain city, Reb Yisrael posted a prominent notice listing over one hundred citations and dicta from all parts of the Talmud and rabbinic literature, asking the learned to examine the referenced sources and prepare for the discourse he was to deliver the following Sabbath afternoon. Whenever he ascended the podium, Reb Yisrael was accustomed to asking for the list of citations he had posted at the gate, in order to reference them during his sermon and discipline his thoughts to the topic announced. That Sabbath, when Reb Yisrael ascended the podium and the beadle (shamash) handed him the list, Reb Yisrael glanced at it, shuddered, and turned white as snow.
For about ten minutes, Reb Yisrael stood motionless; only from his pale face and trembling body could one perceive the storm raging within his heart. Gradually, his inner composure returned, and he began his discourse with his customary sharpness, to the astonishment of all the scholars present. At the conclusion of his sermon, two young men approached him and begged his forgiveness, confessing that in their mischievousness they had laid a trap, replacing his list with another containing completely different references they had fabricated themselves.
I heard this incident from Reb Naftali Amsterdam during one of the Purim gatherings among the Slobodka yeshivah students (see above, p. 18). And our teacher added: Do not imagine that Reb Yisrael needed even slight preparation for his vast and intricate dialectical discourses. He was capable of formulating profound and complex original insights in the blink of an eye. (Reb Naftali Amsterdam attested that Reb Yisrael once disclosed in an intimate circle that in intellectual sharpness he did not fall behind the noble spirits of old, and that whenever he wished, he could author an entire library of works like the Noda BiYehudah or Urim Ve-Tumim, yet he chose to write only a few lines). Nevertheless, those ten minutes upon the podium were an hour of the most agonizing inner struggle. At first, it crossed his mind to announce that he had forgotten the discourse he prepared and step down in complete humiliation. But ultimately, he reasoned: Did he not ascend the podium solely to win the hearts of his listeners and teach them the Torah of truth? If he were to step down humiliated to the mockery of the crowd, all his toil would come to naught. This victory of the inner moral voice, overriding his profound modesty for the sake of his ultimate goal, was regarded by him as one of the great trials he was summoned to endure.
His disciples likewise testified that, in truth, he never abandoned his original intention to conceal his greatness and radiance from the world. Even when he revealed himself, it was merely another form of concealment. In his public appearances, he was in the category of "revealing a handbreadth while concealing two." He did not lift the veil from his face except where necessary, and only according to the demands of the moment. Whenever he appeared at gatherings, he engaged in deep internal calculations, surveying the audience with a penetrating eye; he could discern their nature with psychological intuition, knowing precisely the measure of "unveiling" required.
The hours of "revelation" were the most difficult of his life. He was deeply distressed lest he fail to exercise restraint and expose his soul where he was obligated to conceal it, or conversely, lest he neglect his duty and fail to use his influence sufficiently—wondering if he had hid his light and prevented his beneficial power from taking effect.
His disciples recount that the leaders of the Mishnah society in the Kovno Beit Midrash once honored him with delivering the customary Hadran (concluding Talmudic discourse), and he consented. He astonished everyone with his marvelous spiritual repository. After the discourse, his disciples found him agitated and dejected. When they asked why his countenance had fallen, he replied: "I seem to myself like a clown on the stage, flaunting my knowledge without purpose."
Through all his severe internal struggles, he never lost his train of thought or strayed from the path he had charted: to win souls, conquer hearts, and gain adherents for his teaching. Meanwhile, he was beset by financial worries; his family had grown, and their sustenance fell upon him. Under no circumstances would he agree to assume a rabbinic post. (To be sure, he permitted his disciples to serve in the rabbinate, and even placed an obligation upon several of them to accept positions in major cities to influence their communities in the spirit of his Musar teachings; but he strictly forbade this for himself). Nor could he turn his hand to commerce or manual craft—which he valued even more—because he did not wish to be bound to a single place, as he needed to remain free to disseminate his teachings.
The position best suited to him, aligning with his temperament and grand design, was that of a communal preacher (Maggid). Such a post brought its holder neither honor nor wealth, but it could serve as a platform for significant external influence. He immediately directed his efforts toward this. I seem to recall hearing from his disciples that he had prospects of being accepted as a Maggid in a major city; however, he realized that if he were a salaried preacher, his influence might diminish once his listeners perceived that ethical rebuke was a spade for him to dig with. He then resolved to become a supervisor (Mashgiach) in one of the yeshivot, where he would oversee the studies of the students and influence their character. He searched, but found no yeshivah willing to accept him; no Rosh Yeshivah was prepared to place such a modest post upon the shoulders of a man crowned with the title of Gaon. (I heard from one of his disciples' students that even in his old age, he turned to the head of the world-famous Volozhin Yeshivah asking to be accepted as a Mashgiach, but was turned away on the grounds that neither the Rosh Yeshivah nor the yeshivah itself were worthy of this).
Then the Vilna community approached him, demanding that he assume leadership of the Reb Maila Yeshivah, offering him a salary of four rubles a week and free lodging. This offer brought joy to his heart, for here he was granted the opportunity to translate his ideas into reality. Serving alongside him as co-head of this yeshivah was the Gaon Reb Mordechai Meltzer (later the Rabbi of Lida), renowned as one of the extraordinary minds of his generation. When Reb Yisrael saw that this colleague was being eclipsed from his exalted station, and that the special affection the students showed for Reb Yisrael's lectures caused his colleague heartache, he hastily departed from this yeshivah and established a new one in the Vilna suburb of Zarzecze (Uzupis). Immediately, students from the city and the surrounding areas gathered around him, among them the most distinguished and sharp minds. Many of the great figures of the subsequent generation were alumni of this yeshivah (I believe I heard that the Gaon Reb Yerucham Yehuda Leib Perlman, known as "the Gadol of Minsk," studied there as well). Elderly rabbis and leaders of the generation also came to witness this extraordinary Beit Midrash and hear Reb Yisrael’s marvelous pilpul.
Reb Yitzchak Blazer relates in his aforementioned book (p. 110) that Reb David of Bykhov, author of the Hagahot Ha-Radal on the Shas, hastened to hear novel Torah insights from Reb Yisrael. He praised Reb Yisrael and his wisdom to such an extent that Reb Yitzchak Blazer refrained from committing those words of praise to writing.
Before long, Reb Yisrael became the foremost spiritual leader of the city. The rabbis and scholars recognized his greatness, and the people looked up to him in reverence and awe.
Then Reb Yisrael saw that the hour he had longed for had arrived—the hour of labor that was his soul's desire. In Vilna, the place and the people were ripe; here he wished to emerge for the first time with his Musar philosophy. Vilna was the birthplace and incubator of the Musar Movement. In Salant the idea sprouted within Reb Yisrael's soul, and in Vilna he began its dissemination. Yet this emergence was not a revelation of himself (for he regarded the public sphere as the ultimate hiding place), but rather the revelation of his teaching: the Torah of Musar.
B. Vilna
Reb Yisrael spent nine years in Vilna (the years 1840–1849 / 5600–5609). During this period, he convened large public assemblies in the Great Synagogue and the other synagogues and study halls throughout the city, delivering Musar discourses with impassioned fervor. His immense rhetorical power, combined with his pleasant and resonant voice, endeared him to the community. (I heard from one of his disciples' students that upon entering the Beit Midrash, Reb Yisrael could not make his way to the podium because of the dense crowd; consequently, they would carry him upon their hands above the heads of the multitude, passing him from one person to the next).
The masses of the people—craftsmen, wagon drivers, and peddlers—felt deeply grateful to him for deigning to descend from his exalted seat of genius to the simple folk, speaking to them not in intricate dialectics or philosophical fragments like other luminaries, but addressing the matters of their simple souls in plain language. They were devoted to him with heart and soul, following him everywhere, exerting themselves to find out which synagogue he would speak in next, gathering in throngs and packing the study hall to capacity. The distinguished householders of the scholarly class (lomdim) were forced, for lack of space, to stand squeezed and pressed among the masses of simple folk—something that did not sit well with them.
In those days, the scholars of the city formed a secluded aristocratic faction; they were distinct in their dress and conduct, never mingling with the masses. Consequently, the preachers and itinerant speakers (maggidim and matifim), who served primarily as guides for the common folk, found little favor in the eyes of the scholars. The latter considered it beneath their dignity to sit among their listeners and distanced themselves entirely from the preachers and their sermons. Great was their astonishment, then, that this gaon, who was worthy of being the teacher of the sharpest minds, turned his attention to popular preaching—the typical preserve of the untalented and spiritually impoverished. Gradually, however, they were compelled to adjust to this strange democratic habit of their master. Because they were unwilling to forgo his discourses, they had no choice but to mingle with the masses. Reb Yisrael was thus virtually the first who succeeded in gathering scholars and ordinary folk around him, molding them into a single audience. In doing so, he greatly fostered a rapprochement between the elite and the lower social strata.
This rapprochement benefited not only the masses, but the scholars as well. They saw one another in moments of spiritual elevation. The scholars came to realize that the multitude—that "many-headed, humble organism"—was not a formless mass that merely "does and performs," but was capable of rising to the rank of "listening and understanding," reciprocating this elevation with genuine love.
Another truth was revealed to them: the pulpit was not leased merely to the pity of the Jewish people, to become a reservoir of tears for hearing private and communal woes, or a platform for collecting alms. Rather, it could become a dynamic center overflowing with life and spirit when sermons rich in wisdom were delivered from it in a consummate form. They realized that the prestige of the derashah (public discourse) had declined only because the elite had neglected it, abandoning the art of rhetoric to inferior minds, and that it could once again become a subject of intellectual depth and artistry if revitalized by thinkers and creators. It was then revealed that the sermon was fundamentally intended to serve as a trumpet for the nation's sages, an instrument for direct personal influence upon the human heart. For the scholars of that generation, this revelation was momentous and pregnant with consequences. They ceased mocking popular preaching; those aspiring to the rabbinate now trained themselves in public address and immersed themselves in homiletic literature.
Reb Yisrael’s public lectures became a veritable school of homiletics; they set the standard. Nearly all the rabbis who subsequently became famous as preachers emerged from this vibrant בית מדרש. Foremost among them was the Gaon Reb Yaakov Yosef, halachic judge and preacher in Vilna (who was appointed Chief Rabbi of New York toward the end of his life and passed away there), who was titled "Chief of the Preachers" in Russia. Almost all of Reb Yisrael’s disciples were outstanding orators, and many took it upon themselves to spread their master's teachings and spirit.
Thus, Reb Yisrael’s spiritual work was directed toward two fronts: toward the people, and toward their future teachers. He was himself the most prominent propagandist of his doctrine, while simultaneously raising an entire legion of men who would carry on his enterprise. Yet, even though his leadership was acknowledged by all, Reb Yisrael refused to accept any post of honor in the community. Nor did he intervene in communal affairs—neither in economic matters nor in standard halachic rulings (aside from matters of charity and loving-kindness). The city's scholars and rabbis consulted him on questions of ritual law (Issur ve-Heter) and the like, and he would deliberate with them, helping clarify the halachic principles; yet he never issued an authoritative ruling (pesak din), refraining from deciding alone even in minor cases. Even regarding questions that arose in his own household, he would insist they be brought before the appointed communal rabbi. In his interactions with rabbis, he conducted himself as a simple layman, visiting them on holidays and submitting to all accepted rules of deference and honor due to the local rabbinic authority (Mara de-Atra).
Only once did Reb Yisrael depart from this practice, performing an act that caused a great stir at the time.
It occurred in the year 1848–1849 (5609). A cholera epidemic broke out in Vilna. Reb Yisrael endangered his own life, throwing himself wholeheartedly into rescuing the sick. In his sermons, he pleaded with the townspeople not to give in to panic, but to dedicate themselves to caring for the afflicted. He would say: A person must not stand by idly, frightened and faint-hearted, for in the final analysis, "of what account is man?" At the same time, one is obligated by the Torah to adhere strictly to hygiene laws and follow the physician’s advice. One should not wail and lament over the death of a loved one, for they have been delivered from their earthly suffering; but under no circumstances may one neglect the duty of saving lives so long as a person is alive.
On the eve of Yom Kippur that year, he had notices posted in all the study halls of the city demanding that the public not fast, abbreviate the liturgical poems (piyyutim), and spend more time outdoors. After the morning prayers on Yom Kippur, he ascended the podium holding wine and nourishing food, recited Kiddush, and ate and drank before the eyes of all. Great terror seized the congregation, who could not believe their eyes. Reb Yisrael then forcefully demanded that the public follow his example. After the fast, the entire city was in an uproar, and several of the elder rabbis were incensed that he had publicly violated a severe biblical prohibition. When this reached Reb Yisrael’s ears, he announced that he would deliver a halachic discourse in the Great Synagogue. All the scholars assembled to see how Reb Yisrael would justify his ruling. Yet he did not mention the event with even a single word; instead, he delivered a profound Talmudic analysis that surpassed all predecessors in its brilliance and exhaustive treatment, completely silencing all his detractors. (I heard in the name of his disciples: this wondrous discourse was an extraordinary revelation of his essence; the need of the hour demanded that he display his genius).
Whenever this incident was mentioned in later years, he rejoiced without end that he had been privileged to act on behalf of the great mitzvah of preserving many lives. It was an act demanded by the hour. Reb Yisrael knew full well that there was no other man in that place who would undertake the responsibility of such a weighty deed; and he further knew that in such a grave matter, the public would heed no voice other than his own.
As a rule, he was accustomed to being stringent with himself while being lenient with others in religious law. Once, he noticed one of his disciples pouring an entire pitcher of water over his hands during the ritual washing before a meal, in the manner of those meticulous in commandments. Reb Yisrael took a small cup and moistened only the tips of his fingers. When his student asked why he was being so sparing with water, he replied: "The water is carried on the shoulders of a poor servant girl, and one must not be pious at the expense of others." Another incident occurred in Vilna: once, walking in the street on a festival, Reb Yisrael saw a woman hurrying with a live fowl in her hand. Reb Yisrael approached her and asked about the fowl. She replied that her young child was ill, that she needed to prepare chicken soup for him per the doctor's orders, and that the ritual slaughterers (shochetim) were not at home. Reb Yisrael realized that the pious slaughterers were avoiding slaughtering on a festival. Thereupon, he permitted her to slaughter it herself... (I heard this from the Gaon Reb Meir Feimer of Slutsk, in the home of my teacher, the Gaon Reb Eliyahu Baruch Kamai of Mir).
There is no end to the stories circulating among the people regarding the Gaon’s way of life. Yet to complete the portrait, I will relate a most characteristic tale: In Reb Yisrael’s house in Vilna lived a poor woman with a young infant. On the night of Kol Nidrei, she rushed to the synagogue. After the mother left, the child woke in his cradle and began to cry. Reb Yisrael, who was already on the verge of leaving for the synagogue, went to the cradle, calmed the infant, and sang him a sweet lullaby. When the mother returned, she found the Gaon standing beside the cradle wearing his tallit and kittel. In the entire city, not a single person dared question his actions. Everyone, including the rabbis, recognized his contrite spirit, how cautious he was never to issue arbitrary rulings where unnecessary, doing everything with a pure heart for the sake of Heaven, in an aura of sanctity and purity.
Although the Maskilim (proponents of the Enlightenment) also treated him with affection and respect—a circumstance that would have been enough to cast suspicion upon other rabbis in the eyes of the Orthodox—in Reb Yisrael’s case, it only heightened their admiration for his greatness, which elevated him above partisan strife.
Nevertheless, the sympathy of the Maskilim placed him in a difficult position and ultimately led him to leave Vilna, a city that had become dear to him. The Haskalah struggle was then at its height, and its center was in Vilna. There resided Avraham Dov-Ber Lebensohn (known as Adam Ha-Kohen) and his son Micah Yosef, Kalman Schulman, Sh. Y. Fuenn, and many other Maskilim. The city's Maskilim, who harbored utter hostility toward the traditional rabbinate, favored Reb Yisrael, considering him kindred in spirit. In their fight for the Enlightenment, they would cite him, saying: "Reb Yisrael agrees with us" (Reb Yisrael’s true attitude toward the Haskalah will be discussed below).
When the rabbinical seminary was established in Vilna in 1847–1848 (5608) by the Czarist government at the initiative of the Maskilim, and figures like Adam Ha-Kohen were appointed as teachers, Reb Yisrael was proposed as rector of the seminary. The Maskilim knew that the existing spiritual structure of contemporary Judaism was not to Reb Yisrael’s liking either; they knew of his sermons regarding the necessity of clarity of thought in Torah study, the deep penetration into the moral content concealed within practical commandments, the ethical core within the Aggadah, and spiritual development and inner perfection as the ultimate purpose of the laws and mitzvot. Therefore, they believed he was the ideal man: one sympathetic to the causes for which they fought, who would collaborate with them toward the synthesis of "Torah and Enlightenment." They labored to convince him that through partnership with them, he would realize his vision, which they claimed was also their own aspiration.
Naturally, Reb Yisrael rejected this ill-matched union. When asked by one of the seminary’s founders why he refused to participate in its work, he replied: "A rabbi is not a physician. Physicians in our day toil for the wealthy, whereas a rabbi must act on behalf of the poor. For these poor souls, a minor question of religious law is often a matter of life and death. For a rabbi to fulfill his duty toward the poor, erudition in the Talmud and Decisors is not enough; he also needs fear of Heaven, faith, and a refined, sensitive soul. It is highly unlikely that the students trained in your seminary will excel in this direction." But since the Maskilim knew that their seminary must be headed by a Talmudic gaon recognized for piety in order to confer valid rabbinic authority upon its graduates, they pressured him relentlessly. At their urging, the Russian government offered him the post as well. Ultimately, Reb Yisrael shook their dust from his garments and fled to Kovno. With this, the Vilna period of the Musar Movement came to an end, and the Kovno period began.
The Vilna period was the era of the movement's fresh growth and initial flowering. Already in Vilna it had become almost a mass movement; there Reb Yisrael gathered all the scholars around him and conquered hearts. No opponent arose against him there; no one saw him as a religious reformer or found in his ideas any novel theology foreign to Judaism. Neither his conduct nor his sermons left room for objection. He did not deviate by a hair's breadth from the Shulchan Aruch, gladly submitting to all stringencies of the Decisors and the Later Authorities. And if words occasionally slipped from his mouth that did not entirely align with a prevailing view or conventional religious conception, they were interpreted as the novel insights of a God-fearing man who was also an acute genius.
His Musar work in Vilna was open to the entire public, expressed in public sermons and in publishing ethical treatises by authors of earlier generations. Even the "Musar house" (Beit Ha-Musar) he founded in Vilna in the courtyard of Reb Zalman ben Uriah could not arouse suspicion, as entry was open to all, and anyone could see what was happening inside: men gathered to study Mesillat Yesharim or Chovot Ha-Levavot.
Reb Yisrael was beloved by all social strata and factions, and alongside his popularity, his Musar ideas spread without opposition or protest. Naturally, only in the rarest instances did people fathom the full depth of his intentions, and even among the scholars, few perceived the revolutionary nature of his ideas. Yet they were unconsciously influenced by his train of thought; the realization of the necessity of studying and practicing Musar gained ground, accepted in theory and practice. In this respect, Reb Yisrael essentially achieved his aim. The ambition that commonly fills the hearts of innovators—to found a new sect in Israel—was far from him. He saw himself as a reprover at the gate whose duty was to remind the people of the duties of the heart, taking great care to avoid anything smacking of sectarianism or innovation.
In Kovno, however, the Musar Movement assumed the form of a new doctrine in Israel. The Musar adherents banded together into an exclusive circle and appeared separate from the general community; they lost the sympathy of the public and were viewed as sectarians. Their numbers dwindled. In return, however, they grew stronger and more organized, transforming into resolute, influential individuals who turned to the vital tasks of life, assuming leadership roles in society and the community. But the moment they stepped out from the narrow circle of individual self-perfection onto the threshold of broader social action, they met with fierce opposition: on the one hand from the defenders of the traditional foundations of old Jewish society, and on the other from modernizing elements among the youth who yearned for renewal. Opposition grew in tandem with their public influence. Every step forward demanded sacrifices, and the path was strewn with obstacles; yet none of this weakened their power. On the contrary, their spiritual vigor increased, and their educational method was enriched with a new principle: willpower and psychological fortitude.
Vilna was the period of Musar’s spiritual yearning and flowering, reaching its zenith as a mass movement. Kovno, by contrast, was the cradle in which it was forged socially. Here arose the stable, solid center. From here was woven the network that stretched in all directions, dividing the movement into distinct currents, branching out into new cells, and becoming embroiled in struggle on the right and on the left—with both traditional rabbis and the Maskilim.
C. Kovno
What transpired between Reb Yisrael, the Vilna Maskilim, and the Czarist government was no mere trivial incident, but a momentous event that agitated his spirit and brought about a turning point in his thinking. The ruse by which the Vilna Maskilim sought to co-opt him into collaboration, and the pressure the Russian government attempted to exert upon him to turn him into an instrument for its designs, took on symbolic significance in his eyes. It was not merely him they intended to conquer, but Judaism itself—the Judaism of Torah and loyalty to tradition, a vulnerable and innocent Judaism that they sought to subjugate through force, guile, and bribery. Its grand and powerful culture was dismissed with flippancy and mockery, yet they keenly appraised the influence of its teachers, students, and supporters. They plotted in their hearts to breach the ancient walls of Judaism, seeking to seduce the guardians who had stood watch for millennia into joining in the work of destruction.
In the Maskilim's insistence that Reb Yisrael assume directorship of the government rabbinical seminary, he could see only coarse mockery of ancient Judaism and veiled contempt for the helplessness and faintheartedness of its official representatives. Reb Yisrael’s eyes were now opened to perceive the full danger inherent in the Haskalah with complete clarity. It now assumed a new form, impacting life through entirely novel forces.
To be sure, the question of the Enlightenment in its purest sense was not an absolute novelty within Judaism. Already in the generation preceding Reb Yisrael, the Haskalah movement had caused ferment, leading here and there to clashes between the traditionalists and the pioneers of Enlightenment. But not only was this not a mass movement—remaining the aspiration of isolated individuals scattered across Jewish towns and settlements, each fighting for "light" and "liberty" according to his own understanding—the impulse was primarily idealistic: a struggle for knowledge and secular literacy (which the traditional study hall of those days could not provide, nor did it wish to provide), an aspiration to purify accepted notions, and a yearning for spiritual renewal, or, as stylists of that era phrased it, an aspiration toward "Heaven-born Enlightenment" (Ha-Haskalah bat ha-shamayim). This Enlightenment, which took an immediate rationalist direction in Western countries (under the influence of the French Encyclopedists) and manifested hostility toward tradition and traditional lifeways from the outset, bore a romantic character in Lithuania, finding expression in the romantic Hebrew literature of the period (Avraham Mapu in his early period, Mordechai Aharon Günzburg, Kalman Schulman, Adam Ha-Kohen, and his son Micah Yosef Lebensohn). The minds and hearts of its leaders were filled with love for the Torah, its sanctity, and its beauty, an unbound devotion to the language of the Prophets, and a deep nostalgia for the nation’s past (as in Avraham Mapu's Ahavat Tziyon).
The Haskalah then was Hebrew both in form and in orientation. Though it was not Hebrew in its original inception, and though the roots of its formation drew from foreign influences rather than the nation's soil, its proponents nevertheless drew deeply from the wellsprings of Jewish spiritual nobility. Their gaze was directed inward, toward the totality of Israel (Klal Yisrael), and they did not subserviently surrender themselves to the surrounding Gentile world. Therefore, one does not find fierce opposition to the movement in Lithuania—or at least not the bitter resentment seen in Germany and Galicia. Although the traditionalists and scholars harbored resentment toward the Maskilim in Lithuania as well, especially in the small towns, the persecutions never took on the definitive character seen in other lands. And in Vilna, the "Jerusalem of Lithuania," the Haskalah spread without opposition from the householders, or even from the young scholars. It did not pave its path by force; there was hardly any "war of Enlightenment" in Vilna at all. There, scholars and Maskilim, Talmudists and grammarians, liturgical poets and secular writers lived side by side in peace. And the people divided honor among rabbis and geonim, as well as scholars and writers. Even these were considered in his eyes a new category of talmidei chachamim (Torah scholars).
However, in the year 1840—the era of reforms and emancipation in Russia—the situation was fundamentally transformed. The current of the Haskalah flooded Lithuanian Jewry. The Haskalah became a popular movement, and the movement itself took on a completely new character. While it did not alter its external form, it set for itself entirely new objectives: it was no longer a "heaven-born Enlightenment," but rather an "official, state-sponsored Enlightenment," accompanied by legal rights, liberation, material prosperity, and government posts. From that point forward, it was no longer Hebrew, but Russian, and its orientation was unmistakably assimilationist. The emissaries of the movement were no longer Hebrew writers and liturgical poets who had themselves been raised on the Torah, emerged from the walls of the Beit Midrash, and remained rooted in the life of the common people. Rather, they were the "enlightened ones," the "certified academics," the doctors and lawyers, the engineers and pharmacists, the dentists and veterinarians, the Russian-Jewish teachers in the state schools, and even young youths fresh out of Russian schools whose eyes had allegedly been "opened" by the Russian chinovniks (government bureaucrats).
This legion of emissaries, great and small, was backed by the government in St. Petersburg through exemptions from military service for graduates of these institutions, internal residence permits, and numerous favors and privileges. The wealthy Jews of the major cities were almost entirely swept away in the current of this assimilatory Russian Haskalah. Swept along in the tide were also the adherents of the Hebrew Haskalah—that is, the Hebrew writers and poets who, at the outset of their work, sang hymns of praise to the Torah of Israel and its laws, and who would dismiss with utter disdain anyone daring to cast even the slightest suspicion upon the purity of their motives and innermost feelings. The very men who had intended to bring together Torah and science, faith and reason—and all who belonged to the circle of the Hebrew Maskilim—crossed over into the Russian camp. They succumbed to delusion and could no longer distinguish between the Hebrew Enlightenment that was their soul's yearning and the Enlightenment that a foreign regime, along with its lackeys, sought to impose upon their people.
This plague of blindness and psychological bewilderment among the Hebrew Maskilim became widespread; almost all of them abandoned the banner. Only the people of the Beit Midrash and the standard-bearers of the Torah remained faithful. Only the rabbis and householders who drank from the waters of the Talmud—those "benighted idlers" (batlanim)—maintained clarity of vision. Only within their circles was the magnitude of the disaster immediately recognized: the existential threat posed to Judaism by this arrogant careerism parading under the name of "Haskalah."
The common folk, guided by their healthy intuition as faithful custodians of the ancestral heritage, stood by the side of the rabbis and scholars, for they knew well their moral stature, their purity, and their devotion to national treasures. With great alacrity, the Maskilim whispered into the people’s ear regarding the magnificent gifts they were offering them, calling them by resounding names: Life, Liberty, and Light. But from the throats of the rabbis, only heavy, dread-filled sighs broke forth: Brethren, our Judaism is in peril! Thus flared the war against the Haskalah in both its forms: the Hebrew and the Russian. The Hebrew Maskilim fell from their pedestal; the bitterness directed against them was sevenfold greater, for by their actions they had alienated themselves from the consecrated spirit of the nation and taken the magic word "Haskalah" in vain with misleading intentions. The hostility that the Hebrew Maskilim encountered from the rabbis and the masses—having proven their shortsightedness in their ill-fated union with the Russian worldview—threw them into total disarray. Instead of recognizing this hostility as an expression of the "sacred trembling" of the nation's faithful, who were prepared to forfeit promised worldly bliss rather than compromise their national treasures (and indeed, historical developments fully vindicated the healthy intuition of those who trembled), they branded the community of Torah loyalists as "uncultured" and "rebels against the light," slandering them by declaring: They despise every ray of light and illumination. This polemic against traditional Judaism was initiated by the poet Avraham Mapu of Kovno (toward the end of his career, in his novel Ayit Tzavua / The Hypocrite), and in the following generation by Yehudah Leib Gordon, as well as Moshe Leib Lilienblum in his early period (in his autobiographical work Chatat Ne'urim / The Sins of Youth, prior to his repentance and embrace of Chovevei Zion).
The Maskilim were not content with a purely literary campaign. Sensing that the Russian authorities looked upon them favorably, they slandered the rabbis before the government as reactionary opponents of enlightenment. The rabbis, as the pillars of Jewish law, allegedly sought to keep the believing masses in ignorance and darkness; therefore, it was argued, it was imperative to cultivate a new generation of rabbis capable of guiding the populace along the path of Russian enlightenment. Such arguments found a receptive ear within the Czarist regime. Thereupon, state rabbinical seminaries were founded—first in Zhitomir and later in Vilna. Hebrew Maskilim were appointed as instructors in Judaic subjects (Zweifel and Ch. Z. Slonimsky, founder of Ha-Tzefirah, in Zhitomir; Adam Ha-Kohen and others in Vilna), while Russian teachers were appointed for secular disciplines. And to crown this scheme of treachery and breach of faith with prestige, they chose Rabbi Yisrael Salanter—the greatest standard-bearer of historical Judaism in that last generation—so that he might pave the way for the Haskalah among the traditional masses, conferring upon them the splendor of his authority and radiating upon them the luminance of his fiery piety and inner holiness.
Yet Reb Yisrael, endowed not only with lofty spiritual ideals in a soul yearning and soaring on high, but also with the clear vision of a seer of the future, rejected the cynical overtures of the Maskilim—with outward politeness, but with deep internal indignation. They were astonished to discover that their cunning had yielded nothing, having failed to ensnare this noble champion in their net. Feigning bewilderment, they asked: How can this be? Would you truly withhold your Torah from those who yearn for it? Immediately, a hint was dropped to the Russian authorities. Reb Yisrael saw no alternative but to flee Vilna and its Maskilim for Kovno. This, however, was no panicked retreat leaving the battlefield abandoned; rather, it was a regrouping for a spiritual war against the superficial enlightenment of frivolous falsifiers. In Kovno, his intention was to gather his faithful disciples and fortify their defenses for an obligatory war (milchemet mitzvah) on behalf of the one and only true, complete, and authentic Judaism: historical Judaism.
D. The Educational Work of Reb Yisrael
The clash with the Vilna Maskilim—who operated under the advice and instruction of the well-known Max Lilienthal—sufficed to open Reb Yisrael's eyes to the bleak reality of Jewish education in general, and to the utter neglect prevailing in the training of rabbis and teachers. Deep was his anguish over the helplessness and passivity of the elder rabbis, who neither knew how nor possessed the means to withstand the battle against the upheaval rocking the spiritual world of Lithuanian Jewry.
In Vilna, Reb Yisrael's activity had been confined to disseminating Musar through impassioned discourses in the city's synagogues and study halls, among the circles of traditional householders. In Kovno, a resolute determination arose within his heart to inaugurate an educational methodology of his own and to take the training of rabbis into his own hands.
In Kovno, Reb Yisrael founded the first yeshivah in the Zamut (Zhemaitija) region of Lithuania, housed within the Beit Midrash established by the pious philanthropist Reb Tzvi Naviazor of blessed memory, which bore his name (The Naviazor Kloiz). His initial course was to draw into his circle talented, exceptional young men—both unmarried youths and young married scholars (avreichim)—and instill within their souls an ardent devotion to Torah and faith, forging within them moral fortitude and an iron will to defend the tenets of the Torah and faith without compromise or concession toward alien, external influences.
Like a magnetic stone, this Beit Midrash attracted the finest minds, including several famous young prodigies (illuim), such as Reb Eliezer Gordon of Telz; Reb Yerucham Leib Perlman (later renowned as "the Gadol of Minsk"); Reb Yaakov Yosef Charif (communal preacher in Vilna and later Chief Rabbi of New York); Reb Yitzchak Blazer ("Reb Itzele Peterburger"); Reb Naftali Amsterdam; Reb Simcha Zissel Ziv of Kelm (his three preeminent disciples, see below); and many others who subsequently emerged as the luminaries of the generation.
After a few years, Reb Yisrael appointed Reb Eliezer Gordon in his stead. Initially, Reb Yisrael joined Reb Eliezer Gordon in delivering the lectures to lend them prestige and prominence; afterward, he withdrew completely from delivering halachic discourses. From this point began the chapter of "concealment" (hester panim) in Reb Yisrael’s life as a towering gaon who astonished scholars with his wondrous acuity, restricting himself entirely to educational guidance, mentorship, and preparing his numerous disciples for their future destinies.
The years in Kovno were the foundational period for the ideological formulation of the Musar approach. Here matured the realization that Musar must occupy the primary position in Jewish education.
In Kovno, a new driving imperative was added to the Musar Movement—whose roots were originally anchored in individual self-perfection and character refinement: namely, concern for the very survival of Judaism, which had been endangered by the Haskalah movement—that movement whose romantic charm had vanished, leaving behind the menacing countenance of a direct assault on traditional Judaism. The slogan was: Fight the Maskilim with their own weapons—create an enlightenment that is entirely Hebrew, and raise rabbis and teachers who will disseminate this pure Hebrew enlightenment among the nation.
This war was not directed primarily outward against the dangerous adversary threatening to wreak havoc among Jewish youth; rather, it was directed inward: to foster a spirit of pride and psychological strength among yeshivah youth, immunizing them against cultural elements alien to the spirit of the Torah. A frequent saying on his lips was: If we possess stout-hearted Torah scholars who bear the banner of Torah with an outstretched hand and an upright posture, we have nothing to fear from arrogant heresy. Against erect heresy, we must set an erect, upright Judaism.
Mere abstention from secular enlightenment, Reb Yisrael argued, is insufficient. By its very nature, a new spiritual current penetrates through every crack and crevice. Fighting it through bans (cherem) and prohibitions will not succeed in barring its entry, for the spirit cannot be imprisoned through coercive measures alone. Suppressing the spirit carries a cost far greater than any gain: it uproots spiritual vitality, leading to withering and degeneration. The only defense against the danger of an encroaching spiritual movement from the outside is to create a countervailing spiritual movement, opening the gates to a vibrant, living current of thought springing from the depths of the Jewish soul.
Thus, the struggle was not a war against foreign enlightenment, but a battle for authentic, original Hebrew enlightenment. Such enlightenment signifies: moral self-perfection, spiritual nobility, and a life of exalted character. This rooted and profound enlightenment has no reason to fear foreign culture, which amounts to little more than superficial polish and technical expertise, lacking roots in the Jewish soul and powerless to satisfy the deep yearnings of the Jewish heart.
Reb Yisrael further demanded: The most effective instrument for public and social influence is the moral conduct of the teacher or guide. The language most readily understood by the common people is the language of concrete deeds—the actions of the elevated individual. A great man exercises influence through the sheer power of his personality. Eloquent sermons and speeches may persuade, but they cannot conquer hearts; only robust, profound faith flows from heart to heart. When such faith is clothed in mighty deeds, it works wonders.
The Greek philosophers (Socrates and his like) believed it sufficient to disseminate knowledge of good and evil, the beautiful and the base, and to cultivate in man the intellectual recognition of what is good and right in order for it to be realized in life. Yet history teaches that the Greek philosophers exerted virtually no impact on the life of the common folk, who remained mired in superstitious vanities and moral depravity. Why? Because the philosophers were merely men of thought, not men of faith. They themselves failed to realize in their personal lives the teachings they imparted to others.
The lecturing scholar is capable of transmitting a certain quantity of knowledge to his listeners, but he does not succeed in educating them. This "knowledge" does not become an organic part of the disciples. The road from the brain to the heart is exceedingly long. Developing the intellect does not develop the heart, nor does it enrich the soul or cultivate character. Through the acquisition of knowledge, a student becomes clever and sophisticated, yet his moral constitution remains fixed in its natural state. The acquired knowledge sits folded in his brain, bearing no growth and prompting no active transformation. Only a refined, rectified personality possesses conquering power. It is the inspiration passing from soul to soul that truly educates.
Reb Yisrael was not opposed to acquiring scientific knowledge or learning foreign languages. During his extended stay in Germany, he associated with Rabbi Azriel Hildesheimer, praising him before his disciples as a paragon of perfection. He even dreamed of implementing the methodology of Torah im Derech Eretz according to the model of German Orthodoxy; he took active steps to promote the translation of the Talmud into German, and aspired to introduce Talmud study into universities as an academic discipline within the humanities faculty.
He encouraged one of his disciples to study medicine at the university, confident that he would succeed in sanctifying the Divine Name by demonstrating through his pious conduct that one could be both an expert physician and God-fearing Jew simultaneously. However, Reb Yisrael met with disappointment in this student: the man rose to the rank of general in the Russian medical corps, but later abandoned the religious fold (yatza le-tarbut ra'ah). Throughout his life, Reb Yisrael grieved over this incident, which prompted him to avoid any further experiments with the practical application of Torah im Derech Eretz. Nevertheless, he did not prevent his disciple Reb Simcha Zissel Ziv from establishing a Talmud Torah in the town of Grobin, Latvia, which combined Torah with worldly knowledge—uniting Torah and Musar study with a modest curriculum of foreign languages and general studies.
Despite his inner sympathy for this daring venture of Reb Simcha Zissel, he declined to yield to his beloved disciple's entreaties to visit and inspect the new institution in Grobin. Reb Yisrael was unwilling to place his imprimatur upon an experiment whose ultimate success remained uncertain.
Notwithstanding his openness to secular studies and general literacy, he fought with all his might against introducing these studies into the yeshivot. The yeshivah, he would say, is not merely a school for Torah studies; it must be a nursery and fertile ground for the spirit of Judaism, and the atmosphere of the yeshivah must remain pure of any dross or secular mixture. A person is qualified to be a rabbi and teacher not simply because he completed his studies in a yeshivah, but because his spirit has matured to the point where he is capable of carrying the yeshivah with him wherever he goes. For this very reason, he opposed the state-sponsored rabbinical seminaries established by the Russian government. Rabbis do not constitute a separate caste cultivated in specialized vocational schools; rabbis are the representatives of the Torah, and they must personify in their very essence the pure conscience of Jewish ethics.
Intellectual enlightenment, moral refinement, and spiritual depth are bestowed upon us by the Torah in rich abundance. Secular knowledge may serve as a "spade to dig with"—a livelihood, or a means of fulfilling practical utility in the service of society and the community. But Heaven forbid that secular enlightenment be turned into a crown of self-aggrandizement; it is a crown unfitting for those who bear upon their heads the crown of Torah. Yet the new rabbis, graduates of the government seminaries, crown themselves with a laurels not their own; and the crown of Torah—in whose name they preach and by whose virtue they have ascended the sacred podium—they reduce to a mere ceremonial miter, used only for religious rites.
It appears that this view of Reb Yisrael toward secular enlightenment—regarding it not as a "heaven-born daughter," but purely as a practical skill and technical competence—was the catalyst that turned the Maskilim, who had initially treated him with warmth and reverent admiration, into his bitter adversaries. Although during his lifetime the Maskilim dared not slight his honor or attack his educational philosophy, after his passing—when leadership of the Musar movement passed to his disciples—they waged war against this system.
There is strong reason to believe, as hinted in previous chapters, that many of the Maskilim had deluded themselves into believing Reb Yisrael was one of their own, or at least a kindred spirit. They saw him campaigning against the religious stagnation of the masses, who constricted themselves exclusively to the formal observance of outward mechanical precepts ("duties of the limbs"), while turning a blind eye or neglecting out of spiritual poverty the core foundation of Judaism: the wisdom of the Duties of the Heart (Chovot Ha-Levavot, as phrased by Rabbeinu Bachya in his introduction). They heard him calling aloud for spiritual revival, internal refinement, moral purification, and character improvement. They heard the novel ideas emanating from Reb Yisrael’s sermons and imagined that before them stood a religious revolutionary charting untrodden paths—a religious warrior seeking a revaluation of values and a reorganization of Jewish life. Such a man, they believed, would certainly not oppose the introduction of European culture into the tents of Shem.
However, the Maskilim were profoundly mistaken; they simply failed to grasp his core intention. Reb Yisrael was not distressed by meticulousness in practical mitzvot; rather, he lamented the spiritual impoverishment that caused the performance of mitzvot to devolve into routine habit and rote conformity to accepted social norms, rather than an inner impulse surging from the depths of the soul to become a dynamic force governing the Jew’s entire being, in all his limbs and sinews.
Reb Yisrael observed the ordinary Jew who was ostensibly attached to ancestral tradition and strictly observant in his daily life, yet recognized that this adherence was not drawn from the wellsprings of genuine Jewish consciousness—that his observance was merely an extension of habit and external life. Such piety was lifeless and devoid of vigor, thoroughly hollowed of moral content and spiritual majesty.
Reb Yisrael related to his disciples that once, upon entering the synagogue on Yom Kippur, he noticed a Jew standing behind the bimah, weeping and wailing into his prayer book during the recitation of the Al Chet (confession of sins). Greatly moved by the trembling prayer of this pious Jew, Reb Yisrael drew near to read alongside him from his tear-drenched machzor. But the worshiper shoved him aside, almost striking him in the process. Reb Yisrael added: We both wept during that prayer. He wept over sins he had never committed in his life, simply because he saw them enumerated in his prayer book; while I wept over a pious Jew who neglected a cardinal moral duty on the holiest of days—wept that a Jew's fear of Heaven had failed to refine his coarse nature or elevate his basic human sensitivity. It is true that the performance of mitzvot serves in itself as an educational vehicle for spiritual elevation, but only when born of devotion and love of God, not out of coerced obedience or sluggish habit.
The Maskilim, who sought to harness Reb Yisrael to their wagon, failed entirely to perceive the fundamental divide between the educational goals of Musar and their own. They mistakenly assumed that the self-perfection sought by Reb Yisrael as the objective of his moral education was identical to the perfection they envisioned. Musar teaches that self-perfection must be rooted in man's love for God, for bound up in that love is the love of humanity and of all that is good and noble. Man attains this achievement through an ardent yearning for transcendent spiritual delight, renouncing base material indulgence. The Haskalah, by contrast, seeks to create conditions facilitating a life of worldly luxury and material gratification. The perfection demanded by Musar is acquired through continuous struggle between the moral-religious conscience and blind, instinctual desire; whereas the Haskalah recognizes no such struggle and rejects it altogether. For the Haskalah, it suffices that a person abide by the laws and manners accepted in civil society, with perfection itself acquired through secular knowledge that unlocks entry into the earthly paradise of European bourgeois life.
Reb Yisrael demanded of every one of his disciples an unreserved acceptance of the yoke of Torah and mitzvot in all its rigor—complete and absolute obedience to the laws of the Shulchan Aruch without deviating a hair's breadth—while simultaneously seeking to transform those laws into a tremendous educational force shaping the inner character of the practitioner.
All these formed the bedrock principles of Rabbi Yisrael Salanter's Musar methodology—principles that the Haskalah sought to uproot entirely. Thus the mask fell, exposing the chasm dividing Reb Yisrael from the representatives of the Haskalah—a chasm that could no longer be bridged by hollow rhetoric and empty pathos about enlightenment.
E. Simchat Torah with Rabbi Yisrael Salanter
Simchat Torah is a festival dedicated to the Torah. At times, a nagging question surfaces: Does everyone truly possess the right to participate in the rejoicing of the Torah? Are we all devoted scholars of the Torah? Do we conduct ourselves in accordance with the spirit of the Torah throughout the year? After all is said and done, do we not appear like uninvited guests dancing at a celebration that is not ours? This is a question that frequently troubles the conscience of a reflective Jew.
In this connection, I am reminded of an incident related by the renowned Gaon, Reb Yitzchak Blazer of blessed memory ("Reb Itzele Peterburger"), disciple of the great Reb Yisrael Salanter, describing an event that happened to him personally.
It was Simchat Torah in the home of Reb Yisrael Salanter. His disciples had gathered in his residence to fulfill the mitzvah of rejoicing with the Torah. It is easy to imagine the fervor of joy among Jews as ardent and devout as Reb Yisrael Salanter and his disciples.
Whoever has not witnessed such fervor can scarcely comprehend it: holding the Torah scrolls in their arms, these venerable luminaries danced and rejoiced like little children, with our great master in their midst.
When the joy reached its supreme zenith, the elder Reb Yisrael Salanter stepped away from the circle and sat off to the side. When the disciples looked around, they saw their master sitting in a corner... weeping. Naturally, no one dared ask him the reason. After waiting a short while, Reb Eliyeh Kraetinger—a disciple-colleague (talmid-chaver) of Reb Yisrael, and himself a renowned gaon and saint—summoned the courage to ask Reb Yisrael the cause of his tears.
Reb Yisrael fixed his sorrowful eyes upon him and replied briefly:
"The root of my sorrow is planted in the joy itself. When I reflect upon how immense our joy in the Torah ought to be, a profound melancholy awakens within me over how poorly I have guarded the Torah as is fitting. And I grieve that my share among the primary celebrants (mechutanim) of this joy has been compromised..."
When Reb Eliyeh Kraetinger began to console him, reminding him of his boundless immersion in Torah and his great deeds of righteousness, Reb Yisrael countered with a penetrating question:
"Very well, all that is comfort for me. But as for you—over what are you rejoicing?"
The holy Reb Yisrael certainly had no intention of embarrassing his great disciple. His sole aim was to remind him of the fundamental Musar principle: one must always advocate for and console one's fellow, but toward oneself, one is obligated to be exacting. Thus: If you indeed find comfort on my behalf, what justification have you found for yourself? Over what do you rejoice?
At that moment, Reb Eliyeh Kraetinger also burst into tears. Instantly, all the disciples joined in, weeping together, and the rejoicing turned into bitter lamentation.
Then, suddenly, Reb Yisrael rose from his place, calmed his disciples, and addressed them with words of encouragement:
"My brothers!" he proclaimed aloud. "Precisely because of this, this joy is truly ours! From these very tears, I have recognized how deeply rooted is our right to rejoice today. Only one who truly desires the Torah and yearns for it from the depths of his heart is capable of grieving that he does not always fulfill his duty toward it, that he does not observe it in its entirety. These pangs of conscience, this grief, this remorse, and this self-reproach are unequivocal proof of how powerfully we are bound to the Torah! And who has not heard an ordinary Jew sigh because the hardships of life prevent him from conducting himself according to the spirit of the Torah? It is not that he suffers because of the Torah; rather, his worldly sufferings hinder him from fulfilling it!"
