Modern Jewish Scholarship in Hungary: The ‚Science of Judaism‘ between East and West 9783110330731, 9783110330212, 9783110493788, 9783110491487

Table of contents :
Contents
Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction
Testimonies
The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest and Oriental Studies in Hungary
The Rabbinical Seminary and the War Years. An Interview with Chief Rabbi József Schweitzer
Was R. Saadia Gaon’s Arabic Translation of the Pentateuch Meant for Muslims Too?
Elective Affinities
From Talmud Torah to Oriental Studies: Itineraries of Rabbinical Students in Hungary
Scholarship and Patriotism: Research on the History of Hungarian Jewry and the Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary—the First Decades
Suspension Bridge of Confidence: Folklore Studies in Jewish-Hungarian Scholarship
Transnational Connections
Beyond the Classroom: The Enduring Relationship between Heinrich L. Fleischer and Ignaz Goldziher
Connecting Centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums: David Kaufmann in Budapest, 1877–1899
The International Context of Samuel Krauss’s Scholarship: Network Connections between East and West
Figures
Re-Orientalism
From Geiger to Goldziher: Historical Method and its Impact on the Conception of Islam
Academic Religion: Goldziher as a Scholar and a Jew
From Bacher to Telegdi: The Lure of Iran in Jewish Studies
Untrodden Paths
Meir Friedmann—A Pioneering Scholar of Midrash
Adolf Büchler and the Historiography of Talmudic Judaism
Georges Vajda’s Contribution to the Study of the Kabbalah
Political Confrontations
Hungarian Expectations and Jewish Self-Definitions, 1840–1914
Defending the Dignity of Judaism: Hungarian Jewish Scholars on Christian Prejudice, Racial Antisemitism, and the Exclusion of Wissenschaft des Judentums, 1880–1914
The Decades of an Ending: The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary after the Shoah
Appendix
Bibliography
Index
The Authors

Citation preview

Modern Jewish Scholarship in Hungary

Europäisch-jüdische Studien Beiträge

Herausgegeben vom Moses Mendelssohn Zentrum für europäisch-jüdische Studien, Potsdam, in Kooperation mit dem Zentrum Jüdische Studien Berlin-Brandenburg Redaktion: Werner Treß

Band 14

Modern Jewish Scholarship in Hungary The ‘Science of Judaism’ between East and West

Edited by Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

ISBN 978-3-11-033021-2 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-049378-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-049148-7 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2016 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Dr. Rainer Ostermann, München Printing: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com www.magnespress.co.il

Contents

Contents

Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 1

Testimonies Géza Komoróczy The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest and Oriental Studies in Hungary  The Rabbinical Seminary and the War Years An Interview with Chief Rabbi József Schweitzer 

 37

 55

Joshua Blau Was R. Saadia Gaon’s Arabic Translation of the Pentateuch Meant for Muslims Too?   70

Elective Affinities Carsten Wilke From Talmud Torah to Oriental Studies: Itineraries of Rabbinical Students in Hungary   75 Gábor Schweitzer Scholarship and Patriotism: Research on the History of Hungarian Jewry and the Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary—the First Decades   99 Vilmos Voigt Suspension Bridge of Confidence: Folklore Studies in Jewish-Hungarian Scholarship   108

Transnational Connections Ismar Schorsch Beyond the Classroom: The Enduring Relationship between Heinrich L. Fleischer and Ignaz Goldziher   119

VI 

 Contents

Mirjam Thulin Connecting Centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums: David Kaufmann in Budapest, 1877–1899   157 Contents

Catherine Hézser The International Context of Samuel Krauss’s Scholarship: Network Connections between East and West   175 Figures 

 193

Re-Orientalism Ottfried Fraisse From Geiger to Goldziher: Historical Method and its Impact on the Conception of Islam   203 Tamás Turán Academic Religion: Goldziher as a Scholar and a Jew 

 223

Shaul Shaked From Bacher to Telegdi: The Lure of Iran in Jewish Studies 

 271

Untrodden Paths Günter Stemberger Meir Friedmann—A Pioneering Scholar of Midrash 

 283

Isaiah M. Gafni Adolf Büchler and the Historiography of Talmudic Judaism 

 295

Paul B. Fenton Georges Vajda’s Contribution to the Study of the Kabbalah 

 306

Political Confrontations Miklós Konrád Hungarian Expectations and Jewish Self-Definitions, 1840–1914 

 329



Contents 

Christian Wiese Defending the Dignity of Judaism: Hungarian Jewish Scholars on Christian Prejudice, Racial Antisemitism, and the Exclusion of Wissenschaft des Judentums, 1880–1914   349 András Kovács The Decades of an Ending: The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary after the Shoah   373

Appendix Bibliography  Index 

 385

 399

The Authors 

 415

 VII

Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 1 Hungary in the European Context of the “Wissenschaft des Judentums” The academic study of Judaism has long been viewed as a legacy of German Jewry within a characteristic constellation consisting of romantic nationalism, academic historicism, a lack of state sponsorship, and the pursuit of religious reform following Protestant models. Recent studies on Judaic scholarship in England, France, Italy, and Poland have questioned, more than ever before, historical analyses derived from an exclusive concentration on this dominant Prussian paradigm of Wissenschaft des Judentums—the “Science” of Judaism. Similar doubts can be raised with regard to the Eastern parts of the Habsburg Monarchy, which was the second region, following the German lands, where modern Jewish scholarship emerged and took shape in the nineteenth century. Historical forces, institutions, and scholars related to this region (with a few notable exceptions) are somewhat neglected in research on the origins and history of Wissenschaft des Judentums. Despite the lasting influence exerted by the work of Leopold Löw, David Kaufmann, Ignaz Goldziher, Wilhelm Bacher, Samuel Krauss, and many others, research on the Hungarian modes and patterns of Wissenschaft has traditionally been relegated to the internal historiography of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary.1 This collective volume, which reflects the outcomes of an international conference held in October 2012 at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and Central European University in Budapest, is the first, albeit limited, attempt to examine this neglected center of modern Jewish learning from a wider perspective. Situated between the German-speaking West and the Yiddish-speaking East, Hungarian Jewish scholarly activities were always part of a transnational Jewish and academic world, due to migrations, political and social conditions shared by the

1 Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, ed., The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume (New York: Sefer-Hermon Press, 1986); József Schweitzer, “Das Budapester Rabbinerseminar: der Platz des Rabbinerseminars in der jüdischen Wissenschaft,” in Wissenschaft des Judentums: Anfänge der Judaistik in Europa, ed. Julius Carlebach, 74–85 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1992), 74–85. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-001

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 Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

country with other regions or centers in the Habsburg Empire (such as Prague, Vienna, Trieste, and Cracow), its persistent trilingualism (German, Hebrew, and Hungarian), and its reliance on far-flung scholarly networks. Nevertheless, the Hungarian brand of the “Science of Judaism” derived its genuine character from a number of—no less powerful—regional circumstances, which our publication sets out to explore. Let us outline first these characteristics—we will return to them below in more detail. The Hungarian Jewish environment during the one hundred years between the beginning of the emancipation period (1840s) and the Holocaust is unique, firstly, in that the new world of academic Jewish scholarship developed here had strong links to yeshiva studies through the steady influx of students and laborers with a yeshiva background. Traditional and academic Jewish learning were never available at the same time in France, and only during a brief interval did they coexist in Germany and Moravia. In Hungary, however, the world of the yeshiva remained the common background of most rabbinical students, even at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary. Students with a more secular education had to compete with this traditional world of learning. A second peculiar feature was created by the reception of the Magyar language inside this culturally composite milieu. Though its earliest use in Jewish religious life only goes back to the 1840s, it eventually became a major vehicle of scholarly teaching and publishing. The conscious and laborious pursuit of a new regional version of acculturated Jewish literature is part of the contemporary aspiration towards a Magyar-language scholarly literature. As elsewhere, scholarly literature in the vernacular was considered to be one of the most prestigious signifiers of modern nationhood. Thirdly, the participation of Jews in Magyar nationalism resembled other emancipation-age patriotisms all over Europe, but possessed an emotional intensity of its own. After the loss of Hungarian medieval statehood in 1526, following the defeat by the Ottoman Turks at Mohács, Magyars perceived their position— an outpost abandoned by Christian Europe—as a form of exile, which within the influential Calvinist frame of reference was inevitably likened to the exiles of the Jews. Between the most traumatic events of Hungarian historical consciousness, from Mohács to the post-World War I treaties (when Hungary lost approximately seventy percent of its former territory), the repeated experience of being abandoned by the hoped-for Western allies fortified a feeling of isolation and a theology of suffering not unlike that of the people of Israel. The idea of a shared Magyar-Jewish destiny had ramifications for the academic sphere as well. Hungarian nationalistic historiography, which devised and nurtured its own academic and quasi-academic Orientalism, welcomed to some extent exchanges between Jewish and non-Jewish scholarly initiatives. Whereas



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 3

in the West, Oriental Studies developed either from the matrix of Protestant Biblical philology or against the backdrop of colonial expansion (or both), Hungarian Orientalism was driven mostly by a search for cultural kinships and historical origins in a diverse pool of non-Semitic Eurasian peoples. In the academic establishment, only a limited space was allotted to Semitic languages and cultures. A significant part of this space, however, was filled by students of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet], who were allowed and required to study at the state university (now Eötvös Loránd University). The more than 300 rabbinical diplomas granted by the Seminary during its history were accompanied by nearly as many philosophical doctorates granted by this university. The fifth feature that distinguishes Hungarian Jewish scholarship is its strong and centralized institutional and public standing. The Rabbinical Seminary (named for a while after Emperor Francis Joseph), the bastion of Jewish scholarship in Hungary and the flagship institution of the Neolog movement, was—and remains to this day—a state-sponsored institution. Its status and prestige turned Seminary scholarship into the official religious discourse of the mainstream, or “Neolog,” Jewish community in the denominational framework created in 1869. This politically recognized institution, salvaged from the Holocaust along with a part of Budapest Jewry, ultimately explains the unique continuity of Jewish learning in Hungary. Though easily recognizable due to these formative characteristics, the profile of Hungarian Jewish scholarship is blurred by its strong migratory, and to some extent, itinerant aspect, rooted in the relative demographic, political, and cultural instability of Hungarian Jewry in general. Most Hungarian Jews moved to Hungary from German, Bohemian-Moravian, and Polish lands from the second half of the eighteenth century onwards. Jewish history, rabbinic culture, and intellectual life—in other words, a substantial Jewish presence—in modern Hungary basically starts from that period with little organic continuity with a medieval or early modern local Jewish presence. Quite naturally, Wissenschaft des Judentums was also established in Hungary mostly by foreign-educated or immigrant scholars in the second half of the nineteenth century. At about the same time, Hungary became a major exporter of rabbis and scholars to Western countries, first and foremost to Germanic lands. As an editorial in the Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review] in 1886 (obviously by Wilhelm Bacher) remarks: “Whoever will discuss the participation of Hungarian Jews in modern Jewish scholarly literature would title his perhaps most interesting chapter ‘Hungarian Jews abroad.’”2 No account of Hungarian Jewish scholarship can ignore

2 Magyar Zsidó Szemle 3 (1886): 606.

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 Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

immigrant and émigré scholars, and one may even argue that the existence of this diaspora added to its specificity. In organizing the conference, as well as for the purposes of the present introduction, we considered an emigrant scholar “Hungarian” if he reached adulthood in Hungary, or if he received at least a significant part of his education here, and an immigrant if he spent a significant part of his active scholarly life in Hungary.

2 Historical Developments The history of the academic study of Jewish culture in Hungary may be traced back to its predecessors in the early modern and Enlightenment contexts. The study of Hebrew texts was cultivated since pre-modern times among local Jews and Christians in the framework of their respective religious traditions and institutions, with hardly any communication between them. Since the Reformation, the study of the Bible in its original languages in Hungary had become a part of the curriculum in the training of pastors in the Calvinist colleges clustered mostly in the eastern regions of the country (Debrecen, Sárospatak, Pápa, Kolozsvár/Cluj, and Gyulafehérvár/Alba Iulia).3 Among Hungarian Jewry, the first renowned centers of Talmudic learning arose in the first half of the eighteenth century, mostly in the northwestern areas of the kingdom (Eisenstadt, Mattersdorf, and Pressburg). The new cross-confessional contacts of the emancipation period reflect earlier attempts and experiences of Jews in the German and Czech lands. The Jewish Enlightenment spread eastward through the migration and re-migration of Jews into Hungary. Naftali Rosenthal (1727–1798), who had befriended the young Moses Mendelssohn as a Talmud student in Dessau, remained in correspondence with the Prussian Plato when he returned to Mór.4 David Friesenhausen (ca. 1750–1828) from Lower Franconia had passed through the same Berlin

3 Róbert Dán, Humanizmus, reformáció, antitrinitarizmus és a héber nyelv Magyarországon [Humanism, Reformation, Antitrinitarism, and the Hebrew Language in Hungary] (Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó, 1973), 29–33; Dénes Dienes, “A héber nyelv a Sárospataki Kollégiumban a 16–17. században” [The Hebrew Language in the Sárospatak College in the 16–17th Century] (2010, http://www.patakarchiv.hu/wa_files/aheber.pdf). 4 Sándor Büchler, “Mendelssohn Mózesnek egy ifjúkori magyar barátja” [Moses Mendelssohn and a Hungarian friend from his youth], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 9 (1892): 308–313; Yehudah Aryeh Blau, “‫”חליפת מכתבים בין ראזענטהאל ובין איצק אייכל‬, Ha-Tsofeh (1921): 48–52; Michael K. Silber, “Rosenthal Family,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe, ed. Gershon Hundert (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), II, 1593.



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 5

circle and became a spokesman of the scientific ideals of the Haskalah when he settled in Hungary in 1796. In 1806, he presented to Archduke Joseph the firstever proposal for a rabbinical seminary, inspired by the Freischule of the Berlin maskilim. Jewish traditionalists later prided themselves on having blocked this initiative.5 While Talmudic scholarship in Bohemia and Moravia inspired a number of modernizing and reform experiments during the first half of the nineteenth century, the very idea of accommodation was rejected by most Hungarian religious leaders. Modern Jewish scholars emerged in opposition to those rabbinic traditionalists who, due to their monopoly on Jewish learning, had also been their mentors, generally speaking. The particular Hungarian attitude of rabbinic anti-modernism was observed by many contemporaries, most notably by Isaac (Eisik) Hirsch Weiss.6 Such an impression, however, is modified by the spillover effect of the Bohemian-Moravian innovations. Two early representatives of Haskalah in Hungary had acquired their education at the yeshiva of Chief Rabbi Ezekiel Landau in Prague. In the “sturgeon controversy” of 1798–1799, Aaron Chorin (1766–1844), the rabbi of Arad, initiated a policy of halakhic reform based on the integration of the natural sciences into rabbinical studies.7 His friend Moses Kunitz (1774–1837), the rabbi of Pest,8 explored historical issues influenced by the Jewish Enlightenment. His philological commentary Ha-‘Oyen on the medieval ethical work Beḥinat ‘Olam, printed in 1796, is among the first maskilic works on post-biblical literature; his treatise Ben Yoḥai (1815) is a defense of the antiquity of the Zohar against Jacob Emden. These works, as well as his two published volumes of responsa, integrate many discussions on a wide variety of historical and philological topics reflecting the Enlightenment agenda.9 Kunitz’s publications, which can be said to inaugurate two centuries of a rich and multi-faceted history of modern Jewish learning in Hungary, belong to the

5 Meir Gilon, “‫ר’ דוד פריזנהויזן בין קוטבי ההשכלה והחסידות‬,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger, xix–liv; Michael K. Silber, “Friesenhausen, David,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, I, 550–551. 6 I. H. Weiss, ‫( זכרונותי מילדותי עד מלאת לי שמנים שנה‬Warsaw: Schuldberg, 1895); Carsten Wilke, “Den Talmud und den Kant:” Rabbinerausbildung an der Schwelle zur Moderne (Hildesheim: Olms, 2003), 533–542. 7 Sándor Büchler, “A zsidó reform úttörői Magyarországon” [The Pioneers of Jewish Reform in Hungary], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 17 (1900): 111–119; Moshe Pelli, “‫מלחמתו הרעיונית וההלכתית של‬ ‫ ”הרב אהרון חורין בעד רפורמה דתית‬Hebrew Union College Annual 39 (1968): 63–79; Michael K. Silber, “Chorin, Aharon,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, I, 328–329. 8 Pest, Buda, and Óbuda were unified in 1873 to form the city of Budapest. 9 Tamás Turán, “Kunitz, Mosheh,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, I, 957–958.

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 Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

Haskalah (particularly the Jewish Enlightenment) approach to Jewish learning: written in Hebrew, barely deviating from traditional genres and subjects (legal compendia, rabbinic bio-bibliography, exegesis) and as yet untouched by comparative methods and academic styles. Two major, later Hungarian representatives of this trend were the Moravian-born Bible commentator Josef Weisse (1812– 1904), rabbi in Vágújhely [Nové Mesto nad Váhom], and—to a lesser extent—Moses Bloch (1815–1909), the first rector of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary. Samuel Löw Brill (1814–1897), an influential rabbi, Talmudist, and teacher active in the Rabbinical Seminary and in the Pest Jewish community, acquired a wide secular education and was remembered for his familiarity with modern Jewish scholarship. A super-traditionalist in having left behind virtually no written works (let alone publications), he also belongs to this group.10 Besides these scholars, the Eastern tradition of Ḥokhmat Yisra ‘el—modernizers concerned with their place in Jewish tradition rather than with their position in the academic world—could hardly take root in Hungary. Leopold Dukes (1810–1891), who at an early age left his native Pressburg for Vienna, also belongs to the aforementioned generation, yet his scholarly interests and publications clearly reflect his Western environment and its Wissenschaft-agenda. When Central European yeshiva graduates or dropouts turned to academic studies in search of a future career as rabbis, the time was ripe for an exceedingly fruitful phase in the emergence of modern scholarly approaches to Jewish topics. The University of Pest, where Zacharias Frankel studied in 1827–1830 under Ludwig von Schedius,11 had during the following fifty years only a modest role in training future Jewish scholars. The intellectual profile offered to the Hungarian rabbinate was expanded by students from the philosophical faculties of Prague, Vienna, and Breslau. From 1835, Prague rabbinical students enjoyed, besides their faculty curriculum, the teaching and tutoring by Leopold Zunz, Michael Sachs, Salomon Leib Rapoport, and Moritz Steinschneider, who encouraged their disciples to embrace the philological study of Jewish literature, an integral part of their rabbinic qualification.12

10 Lajos Blau, “Aus den talmudischen Randnoten des Herrn Rabbinatspräses S. L. Brill in Budapest,” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 41, no. 2 (1896–1897): 16–25, 67–83; Id., Brill Samuel Löw, a pesti rabbiság elnöke, 1814–1897: Élet és jellemrajz [Samuel Löw Brill, President of the Pest Rabbinate, 1814–1897: Biography and Characterization] (Budapest: Athaeneum, 1902). 11 Andreas Brämer, Rabbiner Zacharias Frankel: Wissenschaft des Judentums und konservative Reform im 19. Jahrhundert (Hildesheim: Olms, 2000), 40, 359. 12 Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant, 580–583.



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 7

From 1840, when the Hungarian constitution lifted the prohibition against Jewish settlement in the royal cities, new communities open to moderate reforms and less controlled by traditional customs and elites emerged in many of these places, and a need arose for modern-style rabbis able to preach and write in German and Hungarian. The appointment of Löb Schwab in 1836 as a rabbi of Pest marks the beginning of the modern rabbinate in Hungary. A small but continuously growing group of academically trained rabbis henceforth formed a tightly-knit, countrywide network. And for many—like Schwab—Isaac Noah Mannheimer, with his success at the Vienna pulpit, was the role model. They aspired to be preachers possessing excellent German oratorical skills, a charismatic presence in public life, a reasonable command of Talmudic learning, and a broad general culture. During the same years, Prussia offered a rival model of rabbinical authority, underpinned with a new brand of philological-historical scholarship.13 First embodied by Abraham Geiger, this model was introduced into Hungary by the Moravian-born Leopold Löw (1811–1875), Löb Schwab’s son-in-law, who had held since 1840 positions as a rabbi in Nagykanizsa, Pápa, and Szeged, and who was both a fierce critic and a target of the traditional rabbinate still dominant in the country. Löw was a regular contributor of scholarly studies to the journal Der Orient in Leipzig, and between 1858 and 1867 he edited his own journal, Ben-Chananja, the first organ of the Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary, which created a forum for a group of Austro-Hungarian rabbis brought together by their similar academic background, their almost exclusive use of German, and their modernist credo.14 Most of Löw’s closest collaborators in this journal were, like him, urban rabbis with a Bohemian-Moravian education, especially Hirsch Fassel (1802–1883), his successor in Nagykanizsa, Mayer Zipser (1815–1869) in Székesfehérvár and Rechnitz, and Abraham Hochmuth (1816–1889) in Veszprém. Reform controversies of the time prompted research on the evolution of Jewish law, custom, and liturgy, while the struggle for emancipation, Magyar education,

13 Michael K. Silber, “The Historical Experience of German Jewry and Its Impact on Haskalah and Reform in Hungary,” in Toward Modernity: The European Jewish Model, ed. Jacob Katz (New Brunswick and Oxford: Transaction Books, 1987), 107–157. 14 Michael Jacoby, Ben-Chananja, eine deutschsprachige Zeitschrift von Leopold Löw: Inhalte, Autoren, Rezipienten, 1858–1867 (Uppsala: M. Jacoby, 1997); György Haraszti, “A Ben Chananja szerkesztője” [The Editor of Ben Chananja], in Haraszti, Két világ határán [At the Border of Two Worlds] (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő Kiadó, 1999), 220–238; Michael K. Silber, “Ben Chananja,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, I, 148.

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 Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

and social planning stimulated important work on Hungarian Jewish history and statistics.15 This scholarly production had not yet acquired a professional framework. A number of lay leaders, physicians, and schoolteachers contributed to it; on the other hand, very few rabbis had an academic training. Debates on the degree of philological and historical expertise that should be demanded from the rabbi of a major community became part of the religious and national polemics that upset Hungarian Jewry during the 1860s. For Löw, academization, reform, and Magyarization appeared as interrelated objectives, and his politically and religiously liberal party attacked such respectable opponents as Wolf Alois Meisel and Markus Hirsch, the chief rabbis of Pest and Óbuda, whose scholarly standards they deemed insufficient. The revolution of 1848–1849 and its aftermath indirectly catalyzed a change in scholarship, as legislative provisions led to an upsurge in Jewish high school attendance, in addition to German linguistic assimilation in the post-revolutionary decade (known as the neo-absolutist period or the Bach-era) of the Austrian Monarchy. As a result, young yeshiva graduates attended universities in Prague, Vienna, Leipzig, and Breslau in larger numbers. In the latter city’s Jewish Theological Seminary, students from Hungary were enrolled since its inception in 1854. Joseph Perles (1835–1894) from Baja, who belonged to the first cohort of Breslau Seminary graduates in 1862, was said to be one of Rector Zacharias Frankel’s favorite disciples. He rejected calls from his native country, preferring to fill important rabbinic positions in Germany. The resilience of Jewish traditional learning in Hungary, combined with the widespread German high school education of Jewish youth during the neo-absolutist period, gave Hungarian rabbinical candidates an advantage in the race for prestigious positions in Germany and Austria, especially if they held a diploma from a German rabbinical seminary.16 However, other Breslau graduates such as Sámuel Kohn (1841–1920), Alexander

15 See especially the pioneering study (1848) by Henrik Pollák, “Adatok a magyar izraeliták statisztikájához” [Data for the Statistics of the Hungarian Jews], in Zsidó reformkor [Jewish Reform Era], ed. János Kőbányai, 125–163 (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 2000), and Tamás Turán, “Dokumentumok a magyarországi zsidó statisztika és a makói zsidóság történetéhez” [Documents to Hungarian Jewish Statistics and to the History of the Jews of Makó] in Homályzónák; Felvilágosodás és liberalizmus. Tanulmányok Kecskeméti Károly 80. születésnapjára / Zones d’ombre; lumières et liberalisme. Mélanges offerts à Charles Kecskemeti pour son 80e anniversaire, ed. Béla BorsiKálmán, 116–130, http://www.bibomuhely.hu/articles/kiadvanyaink/homalyzonak.pdf (Buda­­­pest: n.p., 2013). 16 Gábor Lengyel, Moderne Rabbinerausbildung in Deutschland und Ungarn: Ungarische Hörer an Bildungsinstitutionen des deutschen Judentums (1854–1938) (Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2012), 175–177.



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 9

Kohut (1842–1894), and Wilhelm Bacher (1850–1913) returned to Hungary (Kohut later left the country), thereby raising the scholarly standards and historical consciousness of Neolog rabbis, which made an impact on their roles at the community level as well. Leopold Löw, followed by Zipser and Sámuel Kohn, commenced a long line of rabbis who considered it their duty and privilege to publish on the history of their communities.17 From the 1840s, progressive Jews and advocates of moderate Reform slowly coalesced into a movement, which in the Jewish press and in Jewish historiography was later called the Neolog movement. Accommodating the urbanizing middle class and promoting their integration into the non-Jewish socio-economic environment, the movement rested more on pragmatic needs than on ideological foundations. Its program was basically confined to fostering secular education and the use of the vernacular (Hungarian), and to proposing some changes pertaining to synagogal and liturgical practice and aesthetics. When the Neolog power center emerged from the Hungarian Jewish Congress in 1868–1869,18 the religious split reduced the pressure to accommodate traditionalist parts of the Jewish community, which had still been a major concern in the time of chief rabbis Schwab and Meisel of Pest. As for the planning of the Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, the Congress majority did not follow the more radically reformist position of Leopold Löw either. Rabbinical training and scientific activity in a moderate Neolog setting henceforth received a state-sponsored center that eventually earned international fame as one of the world’s leading institutions of its kind. The Seminary was not, like its sister institutions, founded by a private donation, but rather it was established, and later sustained to a significant extent, by the government with state funds. The inauguration ceremony on November 4, 1877 took place in the presence of the prime minister and the minister of education, and during the following month, the Seminary received a personal visit from Emperor and King Francis Joseph.19 As in Breslau, rabbinical students were

17 József Schweitzer, “Kohn Sámuel és a magyar zsidó történetírás két évszázada” [Sámuel Kohn and Two Centuries of Hungarian Jewish Historiography], in Id., “Uram nyisd meg ajkamat.” Válogatott tanulmányok és esszék [“Lord, Please Open my Mouth.” Selected Studies and Essays] (Budapest: Universitas Kiadó – Judaica Alapítvány, 2007), 209–221. 18 Thomas Domján, “Der Kongress der ungarischen Israeliten 1868–1869,” in Ungarn Jahrbuch: Zeitschrift für die Kunde Ungarns 1 (1969): 139–162; Jacob Katz, A House Divided: Orthodoxy and Schism in Nineteenth-Century Central European Jewry (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 2005). 19 The sum that served as funds for the establishment of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary had a convoluted history. It was originally imposed by the Austrian government in 1846 when the dis-

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 Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

required by the state to earn a doctorate in Humanities at the local university, in parallel to their rabbinic studies. Among the three professors, Moses Bloch, the first rector of the Seminary from 1877 to 1907, was an old guard Talmudist carefully selected by the board to fend off or minimize orthodox attacks against the institution. His collaborators, Wilhelm Bacher, who became his successor from 1907 to 1913, and David Kaufmann, had both acquired their training at the Breslau Rabbinical Seminary and imposed a similar, relatively modernist direction on its younger Budapest sister.20 A number of lecturers joined the faculty, among them the famous Arabist, Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921), who started teaching in 1899 (after Kaufmann’s death) as a lecturer in religious philosophy. Despite his manifold formal and informal ties to this institution, he remained an outsider due to his scholarly preferences and liberal religious convictions. However, he became the main intermediary for the seminarists at the Philosophical Faculty of the University of Pest, where he taught for decades as a lecturer and later as professor. These four teachers—founding fathers of Seminary-related scholarship—covered a significant part of the research agenda of their day in Judaica. Bloch was the Talmudist and halakhist, Bacher taught and studied the Bible and its ancient rabbinic and medieval Jewish exegesis, while Kaufmann was assigned everything else related to post-Talmudic Jewish culture: history, philosophy, poetry, art, and more. Goldziher introduced generations of students to medieval Judeo-Arabic texts and to interfaces of medieval Islamic and Jewish philosophy. Scholarly activity, which had in Leopold Löw’s times relied on a network of like-minded friends and colleagues, earned a solid institutional basis and a professionalized elite. Most of the modern Jewish research in Hungary in subsequent generations was the work of faculty and former students of the Seminary. Publications of the Seminary’s teachers, prize essays and doctoral theses of

criminative “toleration tax” for Jews was abolished, as a debt on Hungarian Jewish communities for their tax liabilities, which they did not fulfill in the previous decades. Subsequently, this sum was reduced and—after the revolution—redefined as a fine on Jewish communities for their support of the revolution. Finally, this fine was earmarked for a Jewish school fund. See Kinga Frojimovics, Géza Komoróczy, Viktória Pusztai and Andrea Strbik, “The Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary,” in Iidem, Jewish Budapest: Monuments, Rites, History, 201–212 (Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999), here 202–203. On the difference between the German and the Austro-Hungarian seminaries regarding state support, see Carsten Wilke, “Modern Rabbinical Training: Intercultural Invention and Political Reconfiguration,” in Rabbi—Pastor—Priest: Their Roles and Profiles through the Ages, ed. Walter Homolka and Heinz-Günther Schöttler, 83–110 (Berlin, De Gruyter, 2013), here 104–105. 20 Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, “The Similarities and Relationship between the Jüdisch-Theologisches Seminar (Breslau) and the Rabbinical Seminary (Budapest),” The Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 44, no. 1 (1999): 3–22.



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 11

their students, as well as publications of graduates of the Seminary serving in the rabbinate all over Hungary, contributed to the massive output of scholarly literature in Hungarian. The scholarly elite was linked to the transnational networks of Jewish Studies by extended correspondences, often with the mediation of Hungarian emigrant scholars. Inside Hungary, a cluster of related public institutions enhanced the social impact of the Seminary. The Neolog journal Egyenlőség [Equality], founded in 1881 and read by the assimilated elite, the Hungarian scholarly journal Magyar Zsidó Szemle founded in 188421, the learned society Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat (IMIT) [Hungarian Jewish Literary Society] established in 1894, the manuscript collection from David Kaufmann’s bequest donated after his death in 1899 to the Academy of Sciences,22 the Jewish Museum founded in 1909, and finally the Hebrew journal Ha-Tsofeh launched in 1911 all conveyed the same Neolog perspective. A slightly different, secular Zionist, tendency was represented only in 1911 with the journal Múlt és Jövő [Past and Future], which József Patai initiated as a cultural almanac.23 The founding of the Budapest Jewish high school in 1919 also diversified this intellectual elite.24 A generational change transformed the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary at the time of the First World War. The founding generation had disappeared, and Lajos Blau (1861–1936), a graduate of the Seminary, and, by then, the editor and most productive contributor of the Magyar Zsidó Szemle, became the next rector in 1914.25 He was followed by Mihály Guttmann (1872–1942) in 1933 and Sámuel Lőwinger (1904–1980) in 1943—both graduates of the Seminary. The first principal of the Jewish high school for boys, Bernát Heller (1871–1943), was hired in 1922 to become a professor. Widely regarded as an inspiring teacher, he taught the Bible until 1935 (with an interlude in 1932).26

21 Sándor Scheiber, Magyar zsidó hírlapok és folyóiratok bibliográfiája 1847–1992 [A Bibliography of Hungarian Jewish Journals and Periodicals], (Budapest: MTA Judaisztikai Kutatócsoport, 1993), no. 18, pp. 47–49; no. 23, pp. 52–54; Michael K. Silber, “Magyar Zsidó Szemle,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, I, 1115. 22 István Ormos, “David Kaufmann and his Collection,” in David Kaufmann Memorial Volume, ed. Apor, 125–196. 23 Scheiber, Magyar zsidó hírlapok és folyóiratok bibliográfiája, pp. 100–102, no. 87. János Kőbányai, Szétszálazás és újraszövés: A Mult és Jövő, a Nyugat és a modern zsidó kultúra megteremtése [Pulling Apart and Reweaving. The Past and Future, the Nyugat and the Creation of a Modern Jewish Culture] (Budapest: Osiris, 2014). 24 László Felkai, A budapesti zsidó fiú- és leánygimnázium története [The History of the Budapest Jewish Grammar School for Boys and Girls] (Budapest: Anna Frank Gimnázium, 1992). 25 Tamás Turán, “Blau, Lajos,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, I, 193–194. 26 Sándor Scheiber, “Heller Bernát élete és tudományos munkássága” [The Life and Scholarship of Bernát Heller], in Scheiber, Folklór és tárgytörténet, I, 331–396.

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At the university, the Jewish Egyptologist Ede Mahler (1857–1945) partly assumed the role Goldziher had played in prewar times as a link between academic and Jewish scholarship. After 1920, however, when antisemitic legislation limited Jewish access to universities and rabbinical students were only allowed to attend classes in Semitic Languages and a few cognate subjects, their ostracization from the wider academic community increased the insularity of the Rabbinical Seminary and its importance as an alternative to the university for Jewish students. Hostile polemics elicited alertness and response; a considerable part of scholarly efforts was devoted to apologetics, even more than had been the case after the trial of the blood libel at Tiszaeszlár in 1883 and the electoral success of the antisemitic party a decade later. According to a distinction already made by David Kaufmann, scholarly apologetics were not limited to “tendentious” studies that were explicitly written to defend Judaism against its detractors. They extended also to critical and strictly objective work on topics chosen out of apologetic considerations, such as the ethics of Judaism, Jewish contributions to science and social welfare, examples of mutually beneficial cultural exchanges between different communities, and so forth. Lajos Venetianer, besides extolling Jewish moral ideals,27 also wrote his History of Hungarian Jewry (1922) in a strongly apologetic vein.28 Martin Schreiner (a professor at the Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin since 1894) made similar efforts in the field of theology.29 Typical of his attitude is a letter to Goldziher: “Recently I study the ideas of ‫ יום הדין‬,‫ גן עדן‬,‫ גיהנום‬and the ‫[ מלכות שמים‬the Day of Judgment, Paradise, Hell, and the Divine Kingdom], because Wellhausen vindicates the first three to Christianity.”30 Some Hungarian Jewish scholars (like Schreiner) related to Judaism and Christianity by emphasizing the differences between them, whereas others (like Lajos Venetianer) highlighted the common tenets shared by both religions. The overarching apologetic agenda in Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums under the historical circumstances of the first half of the twentieth century is well illustrated by Mihály Guttmann’s work and career. Guttmann came from

27 Venetianer, A felebaráti szeretet a zsidó ethikában [Neighborly Love in Jewish Ethics] (Budapest: Singer és Wolfner, 1891). 28 Venetianer, A magyar zsidóság története. A honfoglalástól a világháború kitöréséig. Különös tekintettel gazdasági és művelődési fejlődésére [History of the Hungarian Jewry from the Conquest of Hungary until the Beginning of the World War, with Particular Attention to its Economic and Cultural Development] (Budapest: [Fővárosi Könyvkiadó], 1922; 2nd ed. Budapest: Könyvértékesítő Vállalat, 1986). 29 Schreiner, Die jüngsten Urteile über das Judentum kritisch untersucht (Berlin: Cronbach, 1902). 30 Oriental Collection of the Library and Information Centre of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, GIL/38/01/136, Apr. 14, 1890.



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 13

a yeshiva background, studied at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary and started teaching Talmud and Jewish law there in 1907 after briefly filling a rabbinic position. As a member of the “Committee of Religious Affairs” within the National Union of [Neolog] Rabbis, he published a pamphlet entitled The Shulḥan Arukh and Hungarian Jewry, in which he argues that not even orthodoxy followed this code in its entirety and that all of contemporary Jewish religious practice was based on “history” rather than on traditional textual sources.31 After Guttmann left for Breslau to lead the Rabbinical Seminary there in 1921, much of his historical writings were devoted to defending Judaism against theological or academic biases.32 One particularly rich and erudite work discusses the attitudes of Judaism and Christianity to each other, as well as Judaism’s attitude to non-Jews in general.33 The book not only offers much material concerning the history of Jewish-Christian polemics and apologetics, but it also belongs to this genre. In 1931, Guttmann published an article in Hungarian34 to defend the traditionalism of ordinary pious Jews,35 arguing for a strict separation of “religious-ethical life” from “cultural life.”36 The latter call, without fanfare, was a dagger in the heart of Neology, which was predicated on the convergence of the two spheres. When Guttmann returned to Budapest in 1933 to head the Seminary after the retirement of Lajos Blau, he brought a more conservative religious spirit to the institution, most likely influenced by his stay in Breslau and the increasingly antisemitic atmosphere. He also supported the use of modern Hebrew, spoken and written. The Seminary itself became increasingly involved in international organizations, publications, projects, and strongly supported the foundation of Hebrew University.37 The perceived need to appease or deflect a threat became even more acute after the Nazis’ rise to power in Germany. The central rhetorical figure of Jewish historiography during the 1930s38 was the contribution discourse; that is, the

31 Guttmann, A Sulchan Áruch és a magyar zsidóság [The Sulchan Arukh and Hungarian Jewry] (Budapest: n.p., 1913). 32 Guttmann, A zsidó vallás univerzalizmusa [The Universalism of the Jewish Religion] (Budapest: Neuwald Ny., 1928). 33 Guttmann, Das Judentum und seine Umwelt: Eine Darstellung der religiösen und rechtlichen Beziehungen zwischen Juden und Nichtjuden mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der talmudischrabbinischen Quellen, I: Allgemeiner Teil (Berlin: Philo Verlag, 1927). 34 Guttmann, “Hagyomány és élet” [Tradition and Life], Évkönyv (Budapest: IMIT, 1931), 9–21. 35 Ibid., 17, 19–20. 36 Ibid., 14. Cf. also his ‫( בחינת קיום המצוות‬Breslau, 1931), 387. 37 David Samuel Lőwinger, “‫”פרופ’ יחיאל מיכל הכהן גוטמן‬, in ‫ חכמת ישראל במערב אירופה‬, ed. S. Federbush (Jerusalem – Tel-Aviv: Ogen – M. Neumann, 1958), 135–136. 38 Ferenc Laczó, Between Assimilation and Catastrophe: Hungarian Jewish Intellectual Discourses in the Shadow of Nazism (PhD dissertation, Central European University Budapest, 2011), 138–

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effort to document the assets and benefits that Hungarian social and cultural life had derived from its Jewish minority. In the wake of the German invasion of Hungary and with the loyal and efficient administrative and logistical assistance of the Hungarian authorities, nearly half a million Jews (mostly from the countryside) were deported to concentration camps between May and July 1944. Many rabbis dedicated to scholarship shared the tragic fate of their communities, among them Béla Bernstein, rabbi of Nyíregyháza, Sándor Büchler of Keszthely, Dénes Friedmann of Újpest, Izidor Goldberger of Tata, Pál Hirschler of Székesfehérvár, Ármin Kecskeméti of Makó, and Miksa Pollák of Sopron. Immanuel Löw, the ninety-year-old rabbi of Szeged, was deported too, but he was removed from the train in Budapest because a place was secured for him on a train to freedom (organized by Rezső Kasztner)—he died shortly thereafter, before he could board that train.39 The young Sándor Scheiber, then a rabbi in a small community in the countryside (Dunaföldvár) and later the rector of the Seminary, had to travel to Budapest to serve at the dedication of the tombstone of his revered master, Bernát Heller, on the day the Germans occupied Hungary—he set out on this journey the day before the invasion and thus escaped the deportations. Like some others from the Seminary’s faculty, he survived the last months of the war in a building that stood under the protection of the Swiss Embassy. The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary resumed its activities under Sámuel Lőwinger’s leadership shortly after the liberation. It was mainly thanks to Scheiber that the Seminary survived the ensuing Communist dictatorship as the only institution for rabbinical training in Central and Eastern Europe. When Lőwinger left for Israel in 1950, Scheiber shared the rectorship by rotation with the halakhist Ernő Róth (1908–1991).40 It was a conflict-ridden cooperation, and after the latter emigrated to West Germany in 1956, Scheiber led the institution until his death in 1985. During these three decades, his impressive and variegated oeuvre in Jewish scholarship and his political integrity earned him international recognition, despite his relative isolation from academic life abroad. Similarly, in his home country, he enjoyed a high reputation among the intelligentsia (Jewish and

159; Id., “Negotiating Historicity: Hungarian Jewish Scholarly Perspectives on the Relevance, Content and Meaning of History in the Age of Catastrophe,” Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 56 (2011): 291–306. 39 Ernő Róth, “Mártírokká lettek a papok” [The Rabbis Became Martyrs], in Az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet 1943–1946: évi évkönyve [Yearbook of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary 1943– 46] (Budapest: Neuwald ny., 1946). 40 On Ernő (Ernst, Abraham Naftali Zwi) Róth, see his obituary by Hermann Imre Schmelzer, “Der Rabbiner der Rabbiner Jachid Wö-Talmid-Chacham,” Udim 16 (1992): 95–101.



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 15

non-Jewish, secular and religious) but was marginalized in Hungarian academic life, and harassed by many in the community leadership.41 Scheiber, who could have left Hungary at several junctures in his life to pursue a career in the “free world,” considered it his mission to maintain the tradition of Jewish scholarship in Hungary. When he was honored on his seventieth birthday, he famously said: “I am not a great scholar, just a lone survivor. Those who were better than me either did not return, or else left us.”42 Despite the obvious understatement of his quote, Scheiber was right to refer to the losses Hungarian Jewish scholarship had suffered through the deportations to the death camps, emigration, and by those who gave up much of their Jewish identity and cut their ties with the Jewish community via different forms of accommodation with the political and cultural agenda of the Communist regime. An outstanding figure among those who chose the latter path was István Hahn (1913–1984), a scholar of immense erudition who became a professor of classical antiquity at Eötvös Loránd University in Budapest. After 1956, Scheiber indeed maintained local Neolog traditions and ideals of scholarship almost single-handedly, and he helped to provide essential services to the community, while upholding his rabbinic duties. In the early 1950s, the American Joint Distribution Committee ran quite significant clandestine social service operations in Hungary, entrusting its administration to Scheiber and other individuals of moral integrity, rather than to the regime-controlled, representative bodies of the Hungarian Jewish community. After forty years of socialist rule and despite Scheiber’s heroic rearguard battles, the Seminary and other organized Jewish institutions were hardly able to profit from the more liberal climate and the new opportunities, which opened during the Gorbachev era in 1985, the year Scheiber died. Foundations that were increasingly allowed to operate in Hungary, as well as secular academic institutions, nonetheless seized the momentum and made some important moves to remedy the total neglect of Jewish Studies in Hungarian academia. In 1984, György Ránki, a leading modern economic historian (then Vice-Director, and two years later, the Director of the Historical Institute of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences), helped to form a non-affiliated, three-member research group on modern Hungarian Jewish history, the senior partner among them being an overt

41 György Haraszti, “Scheiber, Sándor,” in The YIVO Encyclopedia, ed. Hundert, vol. II, 1669– 1670; Máté Hidvégi, ed., Alexander Scheiber and the Bibliography of His Writings (Budapest: Országos Rabbiképző – Zsidó Egyetem, 2013). 42 Enikő Bollobás, “The Two Doors of Sándor Scheiber: The Scholar Rabbi Born a Hundred Years Ago,” Hungarian Review 4, no. 4 (2013): 87–102.

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dissident, the philosopher György Bence (1941–2006). The following year, the group won a three-year research grant from the recently established Soros Foundation in Hungary, but unfortunately, the project was dissolved after the death of Ránki in 1988. Géza Komoróczy, a (non-Jewish) Professor of Assyriology (and also a former student of István Hahn), dedicated to teaching Biblical Hebrew at Eötvös Loránd University, took the initiative to set up the first Jewish Studies program at a Hungarian university. His chair at Eötvös Loránd University was consolidated into a Department of Assyriology and Hebrew (Assziriológiai és Hebraisztikai Tanszék) in 1987. At the initiative of the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture, from the beginning of the following year, a small research group known as the “Center for Jewish Studies,” led by Komoroczy, was created under the auspices of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and with particular support from the Academy’s president, Iván T. Berend (a modern historian, a former classmate of Ránki at the Jewish gymnasium and his lifelong friend and scholarly collaborator). Since 1989, the mentioned department has offered an MA program, and since 2003, a PhD program in Jewish Studies. Its funding has been taken over entirely by the university and the Academy of Sciences since 2005. After this pioneering venture, three more academic programs emerged, all of them in Budapest. Pázmány Catholic University has offered an MA program in Hebrew Studies since 1996, and a PhD program since 1999. Central European University started a Jewish Studies Project in 1997 and since 2002 it has offered students a specialization track at the MA level with a focus on modern Jewish history in Central and Eastern Europe. The Rabbinical Seminary, where Scheiber was followed in 1985 by József Schweitzer (1922–2015) and in 1998 by Alfréd Schőner, gradually broadened the programs offered at the institution and became a state-recognized university, renamed “National Rabbinical Seminary – Jewish University” in 2000.

3 Patriotic, Trilingual, Neolog: Patterns of Self-Representation In the Carpathian Basin, with its mosaic of ethnically and culturally different peoples, Magyars considered themselves the only nation worthy of political sovereignty. It was natural for most Jews in Hungary to align with this dominant nation—their loyalty to their home country, and their enthusiastic embrace of the Hungarian language and culture (at least by the progressives) became well



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 17

known. A Hungarian Jew was someone who, among all the peoples of historical Hungary, felt closest to, or identified himself mostly with, Hungarians. Under the conditions of liberal nationalism prevalent since the mid-nineteenth century,43 most Jews of different social backgrounds and religious currents emphatically claimed a Hungarian identity, or “Hungarianness.” A shared sense of a community of fate between Jews and Hungarians and a certain parallelism between their national “destinies”—a recurring motif used by Jewish and non-Jewish authors for centuries44—partly accounts for Hungarian Jews’ astonishingly close identification with their country. Despite some pogroms that accompanied the Hungarian revolt of 1848, the wave of antisemitism in 1883, the “White Terror” of 1919, and the legislative discrimination of 1920, there was no easy way out of the illusions of Magyar-Jewish brotherhood, except perhaps for a part of Orthodox Jewry, which had been generally more reluctant to indulge in such romantic ideas. “Hungarian,” however, was an elusive historical-cultural concept, especially in a Jewish context. Hungarian Jewry, mainly composed of immigrant groups from the Bohemian-Moravian and the Polish lands of the Habsburg Empire, was culturally, religiously, and linguistically heterogeneous. Moreover, liberal political conditions from the second half of the nineteenth century onwards greatly fostered mobility, and most of the larger cities within the empire and beyond attracted Jewish immigrants from all over the monarchy. Hungarian Jewish scholarship was based primarily on political identification or on a set of perceived cultural affinities with the Hungarian nation for which the use of the Magyar language was of secondary importance. It thus developed in conditions somewhat similar to those prevalent in France,45 and it would be impossible to apply a linguistic criterion analogous to the one in Kurt Wilhelm’s classic two-volume work Science of Judaism in the German-Speaking Area.46 Jewish Magyarization was a slow process and never extended beyond the king-

43 János Veliky, “József Eötvös,” in Hungarian Liberals, ed. András Gerő, 78–94 (Budapest: Új Mandátum Könyvkiadó, 1999), here 85; László Kontler, A History of Hungary (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 241–242. 44 Tamás Turán, “Two Peoples, Seventy Nations: Parallels of National Destiny in Hungarian Intellectual History and Ancient Jewish Thought” in Between Minority and Majority: Hungarian and Jewish/Israeli Ethnical and Cultural Experiences in Recent Centuries, eds. Pál Hatos and Attila Novák (Budapest: Balassi Institute, 2013), 44–74. 45 Perrine Simon-Nahum, La Cité investie: la “science du judaïsme” français et la République (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1992). 46 Kurt Wilhelm, ed., Wissenschaft des Judentums in deutschen Sprachbereich: Ein Querschnitt, 2 vols. (Tübingen: Mohr, 1967).

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dom’s borders, while international languages, in particular German and Hebrew, continued to serve as a medium of Jewish scholarship in Hungary no less than Hungarian itself. Advocating the use of vernacular in education, liturgy, and preaching at the expense of Hebrew and Yiddish was one of the basic aims of all reform tendencies in Judaism,47 while the orthodox voiced halakhic misgivings on this issue.48 Across the Habsburg Empire, it was the German language that had profited most from modernizing efforts. The mother tongue of a good number of Hungarian Jews, especially those of Bohemian-Moravian, Austrian, and German origin, was German, and most founders of the local version of Wissenschaft actually had to learn Hungarian as a foreign language at an adult age. This was imposed as a contractual requirement on Leopold Löw, when he became rabbi in Nagykanizsa in 1841, and later on David Kaufmann, when he was appointed in 1877 as a professor at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary.49 Following Kaufmann’s suggestion, the Seminary published its annual reports and the accompanying scholarly monographs (by Bacher, Bloch, and later by other professors of the Seminary) simultaneously in Hungarian and German—a practice upheld until the 1916/17 academic year. Important monographs also continued to be published in German. This was especially true for books intended for international or non-Jewish audiences, not only in historiography and the history of Jewish literature, but also in studies on Talmudic Einleitungwissenschaft, Rabbinic law, and aggadah. German kept its unchallenged status and prestige as the single most important foreign language for publishing Jewish Studies in Hungary until the interwar period, when publishing in other languages, especially in Hebrew, became more frequent. But the

47 Alexander Guttmann, The Struggle over Reform in Rabbinic Literature during the Last Century and a Half (Jerusalem – New York: The World Union for Progressive Judaism, 1977), 5–13, 120–121, 125–126, 158–161, 189–193, 201–202, 210–211, 213–214, 222, 247, 249, 282, 291; Adam Mintz, “Words, Meaning and Spirit: The Talmud in Translation,” The Torah U-Madda Journal 5 (1994): 115–155; 7 (1996): 205–207. 48 Meir Hildesheimer, “The German Language and Secular Studies: Attitudes toward them in the Thought of Hatam Sofer and his Disciples,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 62 (1996): 129–163. 49 Fülöp Grünvald, “Löw Lipót százéves rabbilevele” [The Rabbinical Contract of L. Löw from a Hundred Years Ago], Libanon 6 (1941): 85–88; Samuel Krauss, David Kaufmann: Eine Biographie (Berlin: n.p., 1901), 54; Mirjam Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst: ein jüdisches Gelehrtennetzwerk im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 325–326. Goldziher’s mother tongue was probably also German, although he, like many other future rabbis and scholars in Hungary, learned Hungarian at an early age; see István Ormos, “Goldziher’s Mother Tongue,” Goldziher Memorial Conference, eds. Éva Apor and István Ormos (Budapest: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 2005), 203–243.



Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary: An Introduction 

 19

mastery of scholarly German was so important in the eyes of Seminary teachers that Lajos Blau, for didactic reasons, felt it appropriate (in the mid-1920s at least) to teach his Talmud classes in German.50 Hungarian nationalism had made the use of Hungarian within historical Hungary a matter of principle, at the expense of German and the other minority languages, which were spoken by more than a third of the kingdom’s population. As a demonstration of loyalty, linguistic acculturation was therefore high on the agenda of progressive Hungarian Jews. In the 1840s, Hungarian preaching started to gain ground slowly,51 and Jewish translations of parts of the Bible into Hungarian were published.52 Due to political circumstances in the age of neo-absolutism, Magyarization among the Jews went through two major waves, one in the 1840s and one in the 1860s. For example, the major patriotic society, the Izraelita Magyar Egylet [Magyar Israelite Association], was founded in Vormärz times and revived in 1860. Judaic scholarship in Hungarian had a more difficult start. In 1867, the year of the “Compromise” between Austria and Hungary and the legal declaration of Jewish emancipation in Hungary, Leopold Löw decided to discontinue publishing Ben Chananja, allegedly because in the new political setting “maintaining a German-language journal did not seem to be appropriate.”53 However, no national alternative could be offered. Scholarly work in Hungarian started only in 1878 with the bilingual monographs accompanying the annual reports of the Seminary. A major development was the printing of a long series of university doctoral dissertations (although with low circulation) by students of the Rabbinical Seminary since 1881, but the real breakthrough was the launching of the scholarly

50 Imre Benoschofsky, “The Second Era,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. CarmillyWeinberger, 76. 51 Leopold Löw may have been the first to deliver a sermon in Hungarian in the synagogue in 1844; see Immanuel Löw and Zsigmond Kulinyi, A szegedi zsidók 1785–től 1885-ig [The Jews of Szeged between 1785 and 1885] (Szeged: n.p. 1885), 178. Lipót Rokonstein’s sermon in 1846 in Kassa was another early example; AZJ 10 (1846), no. 52 (Dec. 21), 761. Twenty years later, the Pest Jewish community hired a regular Hungarian preacher for the Dohány Street Synagogue, the historian Sámuel Kohn, who officiated alongside the German-language preachers Wolf Alois Meisel and, after his death, Meyer Kayserling. 52 Moritz Bloch [Mór Ballagi] published a Hungarian translation of the five Mosaic books and Joshua in 1840–1842 (in 1843, he converted to Protestant Christianity). Unsuccessful efforts to produce a Jewish translation of the entire Bible into Hungarian were made in the early 1860s on Leopold Löw’s initiative; see AZJ 27 (1863), no. 38 (Sept. 15), 585; Zsigmond Groszmann, “Az izraelita Magyar Egylet törekvései” [The Goals of the Magyar Israelite Association], Libanon 3 (1938): 41–42. 53 Löw and Kulinyi, A szegedi zsidók, 227.

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 Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke

journal Magyar Zsidó Szemle in 1884 by Wilhelm Bacher and József Bánóczi, the head of the Jewish Teachers’ College. By the end of the century, most Jewish students were educated in Hungarian-language schools and used the national language as their primary tool of communication. Yet the multi-lingual situation endured. As Hungarian publications could only count on a domestic audience, the Budapest-trained scholar-rabbis needed to master, alongside their native language, at least bookish Hebrew and accented German. Incidentally, the linguistic predicament could favor unusual and often creative solutions of polyglot flexibility. David Kaufmann, who found publishing in Hungarian to be “only deterring,” sent articles to English, French, and Italian journals in their respective languages.54 Meyer Kayserling, who wrote most of his works in German, published his proverb collection in Spanish and his Sephardic bibliography in French, and had his book on Columbus and the Jews translated into English “from the author’s manuscript with his sanction and revision.”55 Unlike in the case of works intended for a wider international audience, Hebrew was used by Bloch, Bacher, and Guttmann for certain comprehensive works on Talmudic literature and Jewish law intended for scholars specializing in these fields. Their choice was practically motivated, as this language allowed for technical language and copious quotations. In the Breslau Seminary, a similar phenomenon is evident in a number of works, such as Zacharias Frankel’s Hebrew introduction to the Mishnah. An additional incentive for publishing in Hebrew was its capacity to reach Jewish audiences in Eastern Europe,56 and later in Eretz-Israel and in America as well. A redesign of the linguistic preferences of Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary (and elsewhere) was heralded by the publication of Ha-Tsofeh, a Hebrew-language scholarly journal that first appeared in 1911, the only such periodical at that time.57 After the war, more and more Jewish scholars espoused Hebrew as their lingua franca, a language that could reach out to “all Israel.”58 Reflecting in 1940 on the fateful historical devel-

54 Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 158, 326–327. 55 Mayer Kayserling, Christopher Columbus and the Participation of the Jews in the Spanish and Portuguese Discoveries, trans. Charles Gross (New York: Longmans, Green, 1894). 56 Concerning the Talmudic dictionary Arukh ha-shalem by A. Kohut, see Julius Fischer, “Dr. Alexander Kohut: Ein Lebensbild,” in Festschrift zur 50 jährigen Bestehen der Franz-Josef-Landesrabbinerschule in Budapest, ed. L. Blau (Budapest: Alexander Kohut Memorial Foundation, 1927), 189. 57 Ha-Tsofeh le-ḥokhmat Yisra’el (this was its complete title) was edited by Lajos Blau from 1911 until his retirement in 1932, except during the war years. From the fifth year onwards, Blau was joined by associate editors. The journal was continued in the publication Ha-Soker, a Hebrew supplement to the Magyar Zsidó Szemle. 58 Concerning M. Guttmann, see S. Lőwinger, ed., Jewish Studies in Memory of Michael Guttmann



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 21

opments of the time from a Zionist perspective, Samuel Klein even pointed to the pernicious effects linguistic acculturation had wrought upon modern Jewry ever since it was attracted by the example of Luther’s German Bible.59 The language question in scholarship was a touchstone of ideologies, but shifts in the use of languages also reflected pragmatic considerations regarding the choice of audiences. While the multilingual character of Hungarian Jewish scholarship gave it considerable complexity and connected it to the most variegated networks of European cultural exchange, one should also take note of the fact that a significant portion of this cumulative scholarly output remained available only in Hungarian and was rendered virtually inaccessible to an international audience. The relative isolation of Hungarian Jewish scholars was not only due to the language barrier. Inside Hungary, a certain incommunicado situation also resulted from the absence (or relative insignificance) of philological interest in Jewish sources among non-Jews. One should keep in mind in this respect a fundamental difference between Germany, the motherland of western Wissenschaft des Judentums, and Hungary. In Germany, Oriental Studies received a threefold motivation from the early modern tradition of Protestant biblical scholarship that culminated in the Semitist school of Wilhelm Gesenius, August Boeckh’s new study of Antiquity (Altertumswissenschaft), and the romantic interest in non-Western philosophies. This non-Jewish academic environment, especially scholarship with a Protestant background, had a significant impact on the development of Jewish Studies in general by encouraging or provoking research. Even incompetence or biased pronouncements of authors such as Renan, de Lagarde, Wellhausen, Schürer, or Kittel generated controversy among Jewish scholars and often stimulated serious research. In Hungary, however, few local biblical scholars, theologians, or historians could exert similar influence. The work of Hungarian Orientalism was mainly devoted to fields that were, or were thought to be, relevant for national prehistory60—with an emphasis on Turkic, Mongolian and

I (Budapest: n.p., 1946), xx, xxiii–xxiv, xxix; Carmilly-Weinberger, ed., The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 31, 33. 59 Múlt és Jövő 30 (1940): 334: “Had we time to reflect more deeply on the unfolding of events [since Luther], we may well arrive at conclusions similar to ancient sages who enacted the fast of 8 of Tevet,” that is, the mourning day for the completion of the Septuagint. Samuel Klein (1886–1940) was rabbi in Érsekújvár [Nové Zámky], and from 1926 until his death, a professor of the historical geography of the Holy Land at Hebrew University. 60 Géza Komoróczy, “Az ókori Elő-Ázsia a pesti egyetemen: nemzeti célok vagy tudományos kutatás” [Ancient Near East at the University of Budapest: National Goals or Scholarly Research?], in 100 év után: Emlékkonferencia a keleti Népek Ókori Történeti Tanszéke alapításának 100. évfordulóján [After 100 Years: Memorial Conference on the 100th Anniversary of the Establishment of

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other Altaic, as well as Finno-Ugric and other Uralic languages and cultures. This emphasis was adopted to some extent by Jewish scholars—Sámuel Kohn and his ideologically-driven work on the alleged early medieval contacts between Jewish Khazars and proto-Magyars being the classic example. Since the students of the Rabbinical Seminary found hardly any academic literature in Hungarian in their field, they had to discuss most matters on the basis of foreign literature and among themselves. They were entitled to earn degrees from the Faculty of Humanities, but the academic support they could rely on among its professors was very limited, with the notable exception of Goldziher’s short tenure as the Chair of Oriental Languages and Literatures between 1905 and 1921. In fact, the chair had been created for him more than thirty years earlier, but for ecclesiastical-political reasons a Catholic theologian, Péter Hatala (1832–1918), was appointed instead. Goldziher’s successor, Mihály Kmoskó (1876–1931), a Catholic priest, enjoyed a favorable reputation as an expert on Semitic languages (primarily Syriac and Arabic), Assyriology, and the prehistory of the Magyars, but he was a vocal and radical antisemite—at least for a period starting from the First World War.61 After his death the chair passed, again for political reasons, to the linguist Vilmos Pröhle (1871–1946), a German Lutheran, who was as famous for his linguistic talent as for his activism in various far-right movements and his fascination with Japan. He held his office hours under a huge portrait of Hitler.62 Prominent non-Jewish Hebraists who made significant contributions to some fields of Jewish Studies only appeared in later generations. They include József Aistleitner (1883–1960), a Catholic priest who held the Oriental Languages chair at the Faculty of Theology in Budapest from 1925 to 1950, and László Márton Pákozdy (1910–1993), a Calvinist pastor and professor in Debrecen. In the field of medieval and modern Hungarian history, Seminary scholars benefited from a fruitful cooperation with non-Jewish colleagues, especially the Sopron archivist Jenő Házi (1892–1986), an expert on medieval Jewry.63 The demographer

the Department of Ancient History of Oriental Peoples], eds. T. Bács, T. Dezső, and Z. Niederreiter (Budapest: Eötvös, 2011), 25–34. 61 István Zimonyi, “Kmoskó Mihály és a magyar őstörténet” [Mihály Kmoskó and the Hungarian Prehistory], in Őstörténet és nemzettudat 1919–1931 [Prehistory and National Identity 1911– 1931], ed. Éva Kincses Nagy (Szeged: József Attila Tudományegyetem, Magyar Őstörténeti Kutatócsoport, 1991), 89–93; István Ormos, “Adalékok Kmoskó Mihály alakjához, I–II” [Remarks on the Figure of Mihály Kmoskó] Keletkutatás (Fall 2009): 37–76; (Spring 2010): 27–62. 62 István Ormos, “Adalékok Pröhle Vilmos alakjához” [Remarks on the Figure of Vilmos Pröhle], Keletkutatás (Spring 2012): 33–65. 63 András Kövér, “Házi Jenő és a zsidóság kapcsolata” [The Connections of Jenő Házi with Jews and Judaism], Soproni Szemle 66 (2012): 330–336.



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and statistician Alajos Kovács (1877–1963) was among those few individuals who made contributions that are still valuable today, despite the blatantly antisemitic agenda and context of his work. Philological-historical research remained similarly marginal in Orthodox rabbinic circles. At a certain historical juncture during the neo-absolutist period, Azriel Hildesheimer and the yeshiva he founded in Eisenstadt in 1851 explicitly tried to implant a German-style “modern orthodoxy” in Hungary. Despite fierce criticism from the Neologs, his institution received state recognition in 1857, just as the grand Pressburg Yeshiva did two years later. The all-out Orthodox attack against the historical criticism of the Breslau Seminary was first launched in 1860 from these Hungarian circles.64 But Azriel Hildesheimer ultimately failed to win over the center of Hungarian Orthodoxy or even prevent its turn to anti-academic militancy, a stance connected in retrospect to the legacy of Moses Sofer, “the Hatam-Sofer,” whose dominant memory contributed to the attractiveness of the ultra-Orthodox position.65 In 1869, Hildesheimer had no choice but to return to Germany in order to build up his neo-Orthodox brand of academic scholarship.66 Similarly, traditionalist Hungarian scholars with affinities to the more conservative Ḥokhmat Yisra’el-type of research had to emigrate in order to realize their aspirations—as was the case with David Zvi Hoffmann,67 Meir Friedmann, and Hanoch Ehrentreu. Orthodox historical writing typically concentrated on rabbinical biographies,68 the only notable exception being Yekutiel Yehuda Greenwald (1889–1955), whose publications in Yiddish and Hebrew indeed created a specific Orthodox historiography of Hungarian Jewry.69 Greenwald also chose to immigrate to the United States in 1924.

64 Brämer, Frankel, 365–371. 65 Michael K. Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy: The Invention of a Tradition,” in The Uses of Tradition: Jewish Continuity in the Modern Era, ed. Jack Wertheimer (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1992), 23–84. 66 On Hildesheimer’s Seminary in Berlin, see Assaf Yedidya, “Orthodox Reactions to ‘Wissenschaft des Judentums,’” Modern Judaism 30, no. 1 (2010): 69–94; id., “Orthodox Strategies in the Research of the ‘Wissenschaft des Judentums,’” European Journal of Jewish Studies 5, no. 1 (2011): 67–79. 67 David H. Ellenson, “Scholarship and Faith: David Hoffmann and His Relationship to ‘Wissenschaft des Judentums,’” Modern Judaism 8, no. 1 (1988): 27–40; Marc B. Shapiro, “Rabbi David Zevi Hoffmann on Torah and ‘Wissenschaft,’” Torah u-Madda Journal 6 (1995–1996): 129–137; Matthias Morgenstern, “Jüdisch-orthodoxe Wege zur Bibelkritik,” Judaica 56, no. 3–4 (2000): 178–192, 234–250. 68 Mayer [Miksa] Stein, Magyar Rabbik (1905–1910) [Hungarian Rabbis (1905–1910)]; Sigmund [Pinhas Selig ha-Cohen] Schwartz, ‫( שם הגדולים מארץ הגר‬3 vols. Paks: Meir Rozenboym, 1913–1915). 69 Yekutiel Yehuda Greenwald, ‫( לפלגות ישראל באונגריה‬Déva: Markovits és Friedmann, 1929), and many other works.

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At the other end of the spectrum, “Reform” or “Liberal” Judaism was virtually ejected from Hungary after the suppression of the Pest Reform Association in 1852, which made it more difficult for the more radically liberal-minded scholars and rabbis to enjoy academic freedom while remaining in Hungary. While Ignaz Goldziher and Bertalan Kohlbach attempted to work under these difficult conditions, most of their liberal allies and disciples, such as Siegmund Maybaum, Ignaz Ziegler, or Martin Schreiner, left the country.70 For historical reasons, the Hungarian production in the Wissenschaft des Judentums came to be all but limited to the tightly-knit group of Neolog rabbis, while the contribution of unaffiliated Jewish authors, as well as that of non-Jewish academics, remained relatively small. The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary served as the central cultural institution of the Neolog movement or denomination, catering to hundreds of congregations, with—at its apex—three to four hundred thousand affiliated Jews,71 through the mediation of one or two hundred Seminary-ordained rabbis and a wide array of cultural, rabbinic, and social organizations, as well as various press organs and publishing initiatives.72 Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary was not only a scholarly phenomenon, but also a means of expression for a modern religious movement. This did by no means imply the formation of a coherent ideology by its elite. In Goldziher’s view, the rabbis who identified with “Congress Judaism,” this huge religious body with its solid institutional and financial framework, were not there to protect any fundamental religious conviction, but rather to replace it. Neolog Judaism was, he remarked, “a denomination without a religion.”73 Such critical opinions—similar

70 See the rich, nuanced, and firsthand comparative characterization of the two Berlin rabbinical seminaries, the Veitel-Heine-Ephraim Institution and the Budapest Seminary, by Ármin Kecskeméti, “Berlin zsidóságáról,” Magyar Zsidó Szemle 4 (1877): 518–525, 575–584; 5 (1888): 237–245, 370–376; here esp. 4 (1877): 520, 576; 5 (1888): 374. 71 By the end of the nineteenth century and until the First World War, about one third of the Jewish communities in Hungary and slightly over forty percent of its Jewish population was Neolog. Approximately more than half of the communities and of the Jewish population in Hungary was affiliated with Orthodoxy. For statistics, see Kinga Frojimovics, Szétszakadt történelem: Zsidó vallási irányzatok Magyarországon 1868–1950 [Fractured History: Jewish Denominations in Hungary 1868–1950] (Budapest: Balassi, 2008), 81–85. 72 Kinga Frojimovics, “Teachers and Students: The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest and the Neologic Jewish Legacy in Hungary,” in From Breslau to Jerusalem. Rabbinical Seminaries: Past, Present, and Future, ed. Guy Miron (Jerusalem: Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies, 2009), 149–164. 73 Goldziher, Tagebuch, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 84: “was das sogenannte Kongressjudenthum in Ungarn ist: eine ‘Konfession’ ohne Religion.”



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 25

to those found in modern historiography74—castigate Neolog Judaism for the lack of either true devotion or specific religious-theological principles. For Hungarian Orthodoxy, learning and practice were of critical importance, while such calls for theology, theological ethics, or devotion would probably be seen as a Christian agenda wrapped in Jewish garb—as demands of Christian theology internalized by Jewish Reform intellectuals. The mainstream Hungarian Neolog elite shared these traditionalist reflexes and avoided ideological-sectarian squabbles as much as possible. Although Neologs expressed strong reservations about the absolute and intact authority of the Shulḥan Arukh during the Congress, they never made any sustained effort to devise an alternative halakhic or theological platform. All that remains is a limited body of scattered statements and reflections by rabbis across a wide spectrum of positions.75 Only in the early twentieth century were some forums established for Neolog rabbis to discuss practical and theoretical issues of ideological import.76 The Neolog community’s indifference to (or conscious avoidance of) theology and ideology can be explained partly by the deep-seated Ashkenazi aversion to religious philosophy and dogmatism. However, sociological factors came into play as well. The Neolog escape from theology reflected the perplexities of those large segments of Jewish society that longed to have “the best of both worlds,” that is, to benefit from new opportunities offered by urban life without giving up their essential loyalty to tradition and losing their share in the “world to come.” Like middle-of-the-road movements in general, Neology tried to minimize ideological confrontations and had a natural tendency to define itself against what it perceived as “extremes.”77 Hungarian Neologs objected to the Orthodox lifestyle, which was “narrow-minded” and “medieval” in their eyes, as well as to Reform, which in their view had alienated Judaism from some of its basic religious institutions. Neolog rabbis pledged loyalty to the religious tradition (halakhah) in general terms, but

74 Hungarian Neolog Judaism “was simply characterized by the externals of the choir temple,” according to Michael A. Meyer, Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1995), 196. 75 See the brief treatment by József Schweitzer, “Az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet teológiai és halachikus irányáról” [On the Theological and Halakhic Orientation of the Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest], in Schweitzer, “Uram nyisd meg ajkamat,” 58–66. 76 In 1907, a National Union of Rabbis [Országos Rabbi Egyesület] was established, the members of which consisted mostly of Neolog rabbis. A “committee of religious affairs” [vallásügyi bizottság] was formed within this organization. The journal of the organization, Magyar Izrael [Hungarian Israel], was launched a year later. 77 For a typical statement, see Ödön Kálmán, A rabbi könyve [A Manual for Rabbis] (Budapest: n.p., 1940), 98 (par. 4.).

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lacked authority and a strong will to implement this tradition in their constituencies. Articulate theological statements were potentially disruptive to the truce with the Hungarian Orthodox (which today might be called “ultra-Orthodox,” or ḥaredi), as well as to the cohesion of the heterogeneous forces within Neology. This state of affairs was taken as hypocrisy and was bitterly criticized by Leopold Löw, Goldziher, and other progressives on the movement’s left wing. Most importantly, a deep-rooted sense of cultural superiority prevented Neologs from engaging in theological speculation and controversy. Progressive leaders in Hungary argued that changes and innovations in Jewish religious life were in fact not a matter of theology, but manifestations of cultural progress that spread slowly but safely. Orthodox rabbis’ opposition to Leopold Löw, stated one of his defenders in 1846, was due neither to his religious convictions, nor to his secular culture, but only to the fact that he had learned the latter through regular school attendance.78 Löw himself, in his sarcastic criticism of Azriel Hildesheimer’s rabbinical college in Eisenstadt (1858), claimed that the modernist-Orthodox conflict did not manifest a genuine theological split: in these “frictions one cannot see differences in religion (Kult), only differences in culture (Kultur).”79 He expressed his reservations about rabbinical synods involving any colleagues from the Orthodox camp because “the level of education and culture of our brethren are still very different.”80 According to Löw, only the slow cultural progress of the conservatives would bring about an easing of tensions between the two currents; thus, organizational or religious measures imposed on local communities by rabbis and synods could not offer real solutions to these problems.81 Lajos Blau gave a similar assessment some forty years later in relation to both aspects:82

78 AZJ 1846, S. 713: “Sie können dem Oberrabbiner Löw nicht verzeihen, daß er die philosophischen Studien schulenmäßig absolvirte!” 79 Leopold Löw, “Neuester Fortschritt der jüdisch-theologischen Studien in Ungarn,” Ben Chananja 1 (1858): 247. 80 Löw’s letter to Ignác Hirschler on Dec. 30, 1866, quoted by Ferenc Mezey, “Löw Lipót levelei dr. Hirschler Ignáchoz” [The Letters of Dr. Lipót Löw to Ignác Hirschler], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 8 (1891), 536: “[…] testvéreink műveltségi foka még igen különböző” (emphasis is Löw’s). 81 Löw basically had a bottom-to-top model of halakhic development, and a developed historical view about the limited, yet creative, role of rabbis in this process; see Sinai (Tamás) Turán, “Leopold Löw and the Study of Rabbinic Judaism – A Bicentennial Appraisal,” ‫ מדעי היהדות‬/ Jewish Studies 48 (2012): 41*–75*, here 68*–70*. Löw’s attitudes toward the Jewish Congress in Hungary and toward Neologs are complex issues that cannot be explored here. 82 Lajos Blau, “A régi és az új zsidóság” [The Old and the New Judaism], Évkönyv (Budapest: IMIT, 1897), 159.



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 27

The air of the Holy Land makes one religious, according to the Talmud;83 with equal right we can say that European air makes one cultured [művelt]. And all those changes and transformations in religion, which our denominations went through in this century that approaches its end, are results of this culture. Whoever thinks the other way around, that it was the changes of religious attitudes, which made Jews receptive to culture, reverses cause and effect. Community transforms the rabbi [pap] and not vice versa.

Rabbinic power and responsibility was rather limited in influencing this irresistible zeitgeist. Alongside the downgrading of the rabbis’s role, the general replacement of theology with a program of acculturation became a core element of Neolog religious thinking and its Weltanschauung. With the Neolog insistence on “cultural work” (Kulturarbeit/kultúrmunka), the nature and halakhic status of culture became one of the most divisive issues between the two camps. In the eyes of progressives such as Löw, culture (and “differences of culture”) lay outside the realm of “religion” proper. On the contrary, in Orthodox eyes, culture, at least certain aspects of it, was part of religion. As in former times, much of non-Jewish material culture, sciences, and technology was certainly innocuous from a religious-halakhic point of view; however, other segments of culture—such as philosophy, dress, or the use of foreign languages—were highly controversial. More and more ambiguous territory was carved out by “culture”: accommodating the zeitgeist became a sub-religious, axiomatic imperative for progressives and a supra-religious anathema for the Orthodox. While Neolog rabbis tended to acknowledge that the imperious progress of civilization did not leave much need for their own intervention, they complained about their inferior position within their communities and generally blamed this situation on the Jewish Congress of 1868–1869. But again, Neolog rabbis made no serious attempt to redefine their role under the changing circumstances in a way that would have suited their self-respect. To what sort of “zeitgeist” and what sort of “community” should normative Judaism and rabbinic authority defer? What should be the religious mechanism for this accommodation or deference? Hungarian Neologs, at least those who came after Leopold Löw, did not reflect on these questions as seriously and critically as Jewish movements in Germany and elsewhere did. Explicit and tacit elements of the Neolog outlook had ramifications for the agenda of Hungarian Jewish scholarship. Neolog scholars mostly avoided research subjects that would have involved theological considerations or implica-

83 Blau’s rendering is non-standard; the saying is usually understood as “the air/climate of the Holy Land makes one wise” (bBava batra 158b).

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tions—such as the critical study and exegesis of biblical and Talmudic-midrashic literature. While Seminary scholars under Bacher’s supervision produced the first complete Hungarian Jewish Bible translation (1898–1907), biblical scholarship in Hungary showed little interest in exegesis proper. It mostly turned to fields such as the history of exegesis and the history of medieval Hebrew linguistics, thereby contributing substantially to transforming these fields from branches of Einleitungswissenschaft into research fields of their own. The systematic history of Jewish biblical exegesis, planned already by Leopold Löw in 1855 as a sub-discipline of Wissenschaft, would become the paramount scientific project of Wilhelm Bacher.84 Also concerning Talmudic and midrashic literature, exegesis and textual philology as such were not in the focus of Jewish scholarship in Hungary for several reasons. Instead, Alexander Kohut’s Arukh Completum (1878–1892), Samuel Krauss’s Griechische und lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud (1898–1899), and other such works in rabbinic lexicography became standard works for generations. Reference works in law, history, philology, archaeology, cultural studies, and other fields were produced, such as Bloch’s Sha‘arei torat ha-takkanoth (1879–1906), M. Guttmann’s Mafteaḥ ha-Talmud (1906–1930), S. Krauss’s Talmudische Archäologie (1910–1912), Bacher’s Tradition und Tradenten in den Schulen Palästinas und Babyloniens (1914), or I. Löw’s Die Flora der Juden (1926–1934). An ethnographic-folkloristic approach became a hallmark of Hungarian Jewish Studies. This current was initiated by Leopold Löw and enjoyed an esteemed international reputation in the twentieth century, its chief representatives being Immánuel Löw, Adolf Lőwinger, Bernát Heller, Raphael Patai, and Sándor Scheiber.85 But Hungarian Jewish folklore research also bears the clear imprint of Neolog reflexes and ideological constraints. Apprehensions about Jewish “ethnicism” on the one hand, and Reformist relativism on the other, account for the fact that the above-mentioned school (except Patai, who made his career outside Hungary) had a distinct literary focus: it mostly dealt with histor-

84 Die Agada der babylonischen Amoräer (Amoräer (Strassburg: Karl. J. Truebner, 1878); Die Agada der Tannaiten (2 vols., ibid., 1884–1890); Die Agada der palästinensischen Amoräer (3 vols., ibid., 1892–1899); Die exegetische Terminologie der jüdischen Traditionsliteratur (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1899–1905), and a number of monographs. 85 Sándor Scheiber, Folklór és tárgytörténet [Folklore and Motif History], 2nd ed.; 3 vols. (Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviselete, 1977–1984); Céline Trautmann-Waller, “Immanuel Löw (1854–1944), un folklore savant,” and Jean Baumgarten, “Bernard Heller (1871–1943) et l’étude du folklore juif,” in Rabbins et savants au village: l’étude des traditions populaires juives, XIXe–XXe siècles, ed. J. Baumgarten and C. Trautmann-Waller (Paris: CNRS Éditions, 2014), 113– 138, 139–155.



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 29

ical and comparative research on tales, legends, or motifs from the Jewish past. Ethnographic research on Jewish folklore was marginal in Hungary.86 One of the main goals and social effects of German Wissenschaft des Judentums was the partial replacement of rabbinic authority with the academic scholar in the process of redefining Judaism in modernity. After Leopold Löw, all except a handful of Goldziher’s students and followers rejected this model in Hungary. Wissenschaft itself became a religious endeavor in its institutionalized form (rabbinical seminaries) and carried a religious significance for many of its representatives. From biographical materials (autobiographies, biographies, correspondences, obituaries, etc.) we learn about various attitudes of scholars of Wissenschaft towards their own religion, and the variety of ways in which their scholarly pursuits themselves assumed, in some cases, a quasi-religious character. There were left-wing Neologs and other scholars who strove for coherence between their declared scholarly convictions and their personal religious beliefs and practices. Others, in a way that was typical of Leopold Zunz and some Breslau scholars, allowed for a separation between scientific-historical knowledge and religious (and emotional) truth. It seems that the second pattern was more characteristic of Hungarian scholars, whose religious standpoint manifested itself to some extent in the thematic and methodological preferences of their scholarship, as noted above. The Hungarian scholarly climate rarely supported the classical Reform-minded research of Abraham Geiger’s school, with its vested interest in exploring the historical changes of classical Judaism, demonstrating that today’s tradition was yesterday’s innovation and finding precedents for modern reform. Such scholarship and theology, which was still considered highly relevant among liberals such as Leopold Löw and Goldziher, was deemed partisan scholarship (Tendenzwissenschaft) by Breslau-style historians and philologists such as Kaufmann and Bacher. Inversely, the historicist collection and analysis of philological data that was considered sound scholarship by the latter appeared as “micrology” and sterile fact mongering to the former. Outside mainstream Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary, which was mostly affiliated with the Neolog platform, two more elusive attitudes to Jewish scholarship must be mentioned briefly, which also made significant contributions to it. There were many scholars with a combination of traditional lamdanut and secular Bildung (such as Samuel Löw Brill, Ármin Perls, Simon Hevesi,

86 The only serious attempt to conduct Jewish ethnographic field work in Hungary at the turn of the twentieth century failed; see József Balassa, “A magyar zsidóság néprajzi felvétele” [An ethnographic survey of Hungarian Jewry], Évkönyv (Budapest: IMIT, 1899): 15–21; Magyar Zsidó Szemle 18 (1901): 146–148.

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and Mózes Richtmann) who more or less identified with progressive Judaism, but looked askance at most existing forms of Wissenschaft around them, and found spiritual satisfaction mostly in more traditional roles such as learning, teaching, and preaching. And there were orthodox scholars (such as Hayim Yehudah Ehrenreich, Yekutiel Yehuda Greenwald, or Abraham Singer) who, while firmly opposed to Neolog Judaism, showed a degree of openness towards some modern critical methodologies, scholarly objectives, and genres, and made meaningful contributions to scholarship. Finally, a word should be said about the polemical mode in Hungarian Jewish scholarship. Generally speaking, it is fair to say that liberal-minded scholars were generally more inclined than conservatives to enter into polemics, apologetics, or controversial theological questions. However, what made scholars participate in public battles was not so much their religious proclivities, but their individual temperaments, mentalities, and professional or institutional positions. Leopold Löw and the more religiously conservative David Kaufmann are both remembered as relatively emotional, impulsive, polemical, and deeply involved in contemporary Jewish affairs, as reflected in their oeuvre. In contrast, Moses Bloch, a religious conservative, was a lamdan and a Stubengelehrter; and Wilhelm Bacher was a politically reclusive, disengaged scholar. Immanuel Löw was essentially of the latter’s ilk, yet involved in Neolog “politics” in some ways. After 1926, he even represented the Neologs as a deputy in the Upper Chamber of the Hungarian Parliament. In the beginning of the twentieth century, once the Neologs and Orthodox had established their respective camps and constituencies, Jewish infighting gradually lost its momentum. At that moment, however, many Neolog rabbis and intellectuals realized that their own “educated public,” for whom they lectured and published, was more a fiction than a reality.87 Before the post-World War I treaties, when there were close to a million Jews in Hungary, the yearbook of the Hungarian Jewish literary society (IMIT) had a print run of 800 copies, half of which remained unsold.88 The outreach efforts that the intellectual elite undertook to spread Jewish knowledge and scholarship turned out to be an uphill battle.

87 Ármin Kecskeméti, “Berlin zsidóságáról” [On the Jewry of Berlin], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 5 (1888): 371–374. 88 Nathaniel Katzburg, Beszélgetések Scheiber Sándorral és Fejtő Ferenccel [Conversations with Sándor Scheiber and Ferenc Fejtő] (Budapest: Bábel Könyvkiadó, 2000), 18.



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4 The Present Volume Much scholarly literature is available on the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, its history, and prehistory. Generations upon generations have kept the memory of a respectable regional scholarly tradition alive through personal bibliographies, jubilee volumes, and commemorative articles. However, much of the bio-bibliographic, archival, and editorial groundwork that would develop a fuller picture and appreciation of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums remains unfinished, and only on such a basis could a critical synthesis one day be achieved. With the intention of reevaluating some achievements of a major school of the academic study of Judaism, and exploring new social-historical aspects of its development, an international conference titled Wissenschaft between East and West: The Hungarian Connection in Modern Jewish Scholarship was convened by the Center of Jewish Studies in the Institute of Minority Studies at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and Central European University on October 14–16, 2012. Twenty-one presenters from Hungary, Germany, Israel, Austria, France, the United Kingdom, and the United States participated in the conference. The idea for organizing this conference goes back to a conversation between Catherine Hézser and Tamás Turán about eight years ago. The initial plan was to concentrate on the study of rabbinic literature and related fields. However, the final format of the conference turned out to be far more variegated, for better or for worse, both from a thematic and a chronological point of view. An awareness of the cultural, social, political, and ideological conditions that framed scholarly practice at the intersection of yeshiva traditions and Hungarian nationalism can greatly contribute to understanding the unique profile of the academic study of Judaism in Hungary. In organizing the conference we did not, however, wish to limit ourselves to historicizing scholarship from perspectives extraneous to it. We invited major present-day experts in Jewish Studies to assess the significance of some scholarly achievements of the past in their respective fields. We made an effort to focus on important scholars whose contributions to Jewish scholarship are well known, but for which there exists scant literature on their personalities, their achievements, and the context of their work. The scholarly oeuvres addressed in the conference represent, of course, a rather random selection from a huge gallery of important Hungarian Judaica scholars. We hope that future scholarship will help by filling in the gaps, as well as in other respects mentioned above. The present volume includes seventeen of the twenty-one papers presented at the conference, plus an interview. As a gateway to the volume, we evoke the tradition of Hungarian Jewish scholarship with “Testimonies,” voices of three senior scholars who are part of the field in different ways. In a wide historical

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overview starting in medieval times and leading up to the most recent developments in Jewish Studies within Hungarian academia, Géza Komoróczy attests to the exchange between Jewish and Oriental Studies in Hungary, between the scholarly environments of the Rabbinical Seminary and Eötvös Loránd University. A former student and later the Rector of the Seminary, the late József Schweitzer ‫ז"ל‬, offers (in an interview conducted in 2013) his personal reminiscences about the Seminary during World War II. An accomplished representative of émigré scholars with complex itineraries, Joshua Blau has contributed a short study on Saadia Gaon, approaching from a philological perspective a foundational figure and a paradigmatic problem of Jewish scholarship. First in a group of studies entitled “Elective Affinities,” the complex cultural background of Hungarian Wissenschaft is elucidated in Carsten Wilke’s article on the students’ trajectories. If the Science of Judaism was largely a product of cultural intermingling, the presence of a vibrant yeshiva culture in Hungary furnished a competitor but also a source of inspiration. Gábor Schweitzer surveys the historical writings of scholars affiliated with the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary until the 1920s and its reception in general Hungarian historiography, tracing also the rise and fall of its patriotic spirit. Vilmos Voigt records how the complex ethnic and religious realities of the Habsburg Empire catalyzed folkloristic and ethnological research, which attracted Jewish scholars as well, without, however, giving rise to Jewish ethnology and folklore as a significant field of its own in Hungary. The section entitled “Transnational Connections” exemplifies networks created by Hungarian Jewish scholars. Ismar Schorsch explores the correspondence between Ignaz Goldziher and his former teacher at the University of Leipzig, Heinrich L. Fleischer. The letters (rich material for the biographies of both scholars) demonstrate the mutual affection that existed between the master and his disciple-colleague beyond their strong academic bonds. Mirjam Thulin then presents (on the basis of unpublished correspondence) the personality of David Kaufmann as an organizer inside a far-flung scholarly community that spanned Germany, France, and the United States, while being far less integrated into his immediate Hungarian surroundings. Catherine Hézser highlights the relations of Samuel Krauss, a Hungarian émigré in Austria and England, with colleagues, editors, readers, and critics in countries near and far as well as in his home country, and the role that scholarly exchanges, supportive as well as critical, played in his career. The section “Re-Orientalism” offers three case studies regarding Jewish Studies’ interaction with Oriental Studies and other academic disciplines. Two papers deal with Ignaz Goldziher and his little-known connections to Jewish scholarship. Ottfried Fraisse highlights the differences between Goldziher’s



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and Geiger’s methods in critical historiography, placing them in the tradition of post-Hegelian philosophy of history and ideology. Tamás Turán explores how Goldziher’s atypical religious development and commitments on the one hand, and scholarly ambitions and convictions on the other, shaped each other. Finally, Shaul Shaked surveys the contributions of Hungarian Judaica scholarship to research on Persian and Judeo-Persian languages and cultures. “Untrodden Paths” discusses some Hungarian émigré careers and pathbreaking contributions to Jewish scholarship. Günter Stemberger presents the broad editorial project of midrashic texts that Meir Friedmann carried out since the 1860s at the Bet-Midrash in Vienna, which provided a textual basis for research for a long time. Isaiah Gafni assesses the scholarly contributions of Adolf Büchler, a professor in Vienna and London, and his methodological approach to the use of rabbinic sources in research on ancient Jewish history. Paul Fenton presents Georges Vajda’s study of the Kabbalah, carried out in Paris, which created an academic approach different from Gershom Scholem’s in Jerusalem. The last part of our volume, “Political Confrontations,” focuses on various interactions between Hungarian Jewish scholarship and its social-political environment. Miklós Konrád characterizes the ethnic conceptions of Jewishness that surfaced toward the end of the nineteenth century in Hungarian Jewish scholarship and public discourse. Christian Wiese focuses on the discussion of Hungarian Jewish scholars with Christian theology and its biased treatment of Judaism before the First World War, in which David Kaufmann and Martin Schreiner raised widely heard voices of protest. András Kovács analyzes the tensions in the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary that were the result of pressure from the socialist state and its organs of control, thereby writing the discomforting, and for this reason rarely studied, chapter concerning the decline and extinction of a great scientific tradition. The bibliography that closes the present volume gives a tentative overview of the state of research in the field. (Hungarian and Hebrew titles are translated into English in square brackets.) Places and persons in historical Hungary were often known by two or more different names, which were employed according to the social and linguistic situation of communication. In addition, the creation of the Dual Monarchy provoked among Jews a major shift from a predominantly German or Yiddish linguistic register to a Hungarian one. The editors of the present volume have decided to standardize spellings without imposing an ahistorical, onomastic norm that would ignore standardized usages in secondary literature. Individuals born before 1860 will therefore be presented with the German names they most commonly used in their writings, while members of following generations will be named in their native Hungarian, and emigrants will bear the foreign names under which they are best known. We will therefore speak of Wilhelm (not Vilmos) Bacher, of Lajos

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(not Ludwig) Blau, and of Georges (not György) Vajda. Place names are given in Hungarian first, followed, if necessary, by their official present-day forms in brackets. Our thanks are due to everyone who helped to make the 2012 conference happen, and in the first place to Professor Michael L. Miller of Central European University (CEU), who combined forces with the editors in conceiving and organizing this event. The Hungarian Academy of Sciences and CEU offered hospitable venues for the lectures, while the Orthodox Jewish community of Budapest and the Israeli Cultural Institute kindly hosted us for conference-related events. The conference benefited from grants given by the Martin-Buber Chair in Jewish Thought and Philosophy at the Goethe University in Frankfurt, the Centre for German-Jewish Studies at the University of Sussex, and the Institute for the History of German Jews in Hamburg. We thank PD Dr. Andreas Brämer and Professor Christian Wiese, who supported and joined the conference on behalf of these institutions. The organizers were assisted by Dora Földes of CEU and Ligia Istrate of Babeş-Bolyai University in Cluj. We are especially thankful to Dr. Julia Brauch and Monika Pfleghar for their supervision of the publishing process. We also thank Andor Kelenhegyi of CEU for his skilled efforts and efficient help in the preparation of the manuscript, as well as Joseph Harrison King for his conscientious copy editing and stylistic revision of the texts. We are indebted to the Hungarian Jewish Museum and Archives, and particularly its director, Zsuzsanna Toronyi, for providing us the photos published in the volume. Budapest, December 2015 The Editors Tamás Turán Carsten Wilke

Testimonies

Géza Komoróczy

The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest and Oriental Studies in Hungary Oriental studies1 in Hungary has been from time immemorial identical with research on the prehistory of the Hungarians. In Hungarian scholarship there are excellent studies on Tibet and Mongolia, as well as in Turkology, but all these studies originally took root in the interest in the obscure history of the tribes that originated on the eastern side of the Urals and arrived in the Carpathian Basin about 1200–1100 years ago in the last wave of the Great Migration (Völkerwanderung), after which they became Hungarians. In the thirteenth century, Julianus, a Dominican friar, ventured to find Hungarians who remained somewhere in Asia. His search (1235–1236, 1237) was not successful, but incidentally, it was he who brought to Hungary early information about the impending offensive of the Tartars. In the nineteenth century, Alexander Kőrösi Csoma (1784–1842), after studying Oriental languages in Göttingen (1816–1818) with Johann Gottfried Eichhorn (1752–1827) and others, set out to discover the remnants of Hungarians in the East. He never encountered Hungarians during his travels, but he made his way eastward to Tibet, where he died after having succeeded in writing a Tibetan grammar and dictionary. The example of these heroes of discovery and the 160-year-long Ottoman rule (1526–1686) had a formative influence on the orientation of Oriental Studies in Hungary toward Central Asia and the Turkic peoples. The idea that Hungarians were descendants of the Huns—the people of Atilla the Conqueror—was imported by the chronicler Simon de Keza in the late thirteenth century from medieval Western European scholarship; that is, as a classical geographical topos. Jesuit scholars in the eighteenth century, naive and enthusiastic linguists and philologists driven by patriotism and nationalism, developed an interest—indeed, in some cases a serious scholarly interest—in the peoples with whom these Hungarian tribes had developed relations in the course of their wanderings. German romanticism gave a new impetus to historiography and to Oriental Studies in Hungary, accelerating their modernization and methodological improvement. The leading Oriental scholars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries dealt mainly with the languages and cultures of peoples connected to the remote Hungarian past. Some of them even became fascinated with the idea of a common Turanian origin for all these languages and peoples.

1 Keynote lecture delivered on October 14, 2012, in Budapest at the conference “Wissenschaft between East and West: The Hungarian Connection in Modern Jewish Scholarship.” DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-002

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The concept that Hungarians were an ethnic nation, namely an oriental one, has remained a dominant idea up to the present, with all its consequences, including the demand for the assimilation of minorities and for national unity, or deeply rooted anti-Semitism, and so forth. In the very early descent-tradition or myth of Hungarians there was a parallel lineage; namely, a relationship with the Jews. Harigerus abbas, a Benedictine monk in Hainaut, Wallonia, Belgium, wrote circa 980 that “it is known of the Hungarians that they eagerly agree with the rumor, and even boast with it, that they descend from the Jews” (Ungros dēnique notum est huic famae assentari velle, qui et iactant se a Iudeis originem ducere).2 In his Gesta Hungarorum (1282–1283), the learned Hungarian chronicler of the Middle Ages, Simon de Keza, traced the origins of the Hungarians to the biblical Nimrod, Menroth in the chronicler’s Latin, similarly to the alleged Trojan or biblical origins of other nations. In the sixteenth century, there were a number of narrative songs in circulation (clearly influenced by the Reformation) about the close parallel between the histories of the (biblical) Jewish people and the Hungarians, adapted to the well-known biblical narrative framework of the rebellion against God and the subsequent punishment. The great Protestant encyclopedist of the seventeenth century, János Apácai Csere (1625–1659), who returned to Hungary from Amsterdam to teach at the Academy of Kolozsvár, wrote a long Latin treatise on teaching in which there is a beautiful eulogy on Hebrew.3 Apácai here solicited his students (without much success, it seems) to study the Bible with the Targums and the “excellent commentaries of rabbis”; subsequently, he urged them to read the “letters” written by rabbis (that is, responsa literature), the piyyuṭim, Abraham Ibn Ezra and Maimonides, all in Hebrew, and only after that turn to Arabic. The peculiarities of Hungarian grammar were explained by the similarities and parallels in Hebrew, and Hebrew etymologies of Hungarian vocabulary were proposed. This tradition remained alive until the nineteenth century, supporting swelling Hungarian national pride and romantic nationalism. A historian, professor of diplomacy and sigillography, and the chief-librarian of the University of Pest, István Horvát (1784–1848), went as far as to assert that the Jews of the Bible were Hungarians. “The Bible is full of ancient Hungarian names,” he wrote in

2 Rudolf Köpke (ed.), “Herigeri […] gesta episcoporum […] Leodiensium,” in Scriptorum tomus VII (Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores, 7), edited by Georgius H. Pertz (Hannoverae: Impensis Bibliopolii Aulici Hahniani, MCCCXLVI [1846]), 171, 51–172, 50. 3 Johannis Apatzai [Johannes Apacius / Apácai Csere János]. Oratio de studio sapientiae… Habita cùm Recturam in Illustri Collegio Albensi susciperet A. C. M. DC. LIII. [1653] Mense Novembri. 33–35. – Facsimile edition: (Budapest: Országos Pedagógiai Könyvtár és Múzeum, 1975).



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1825.4 Even today, one occasionally encounters popular etymologies formed on the basis of Hebrew, mostly proposed by elderly Israelis who emigrated from Hungary, but these theories reflect merely grief and nostalgia for their former homeland. The word Wissenschaft, mentioned in the title of this conference, is of course a code name for Wissenschaft des Judentums, which emerged in the 1820s. Hebrew and “Chaldaean,” that is, the Aramaic of the Targums, were taught at Budapest University (now Eötvös Loránd University) since its foundation in 1635 at the (Roman Catholic) theological faculty, and a couple of good grammatical texts were written and published in Hungary, first in Latin, and later in Hungarian. Protestant theologians attended universities in Western Europe, and some of them returned to Hungary with handwritten Hebrew grammars copied from the widely used books of Alting, Schroeder, Schultens, or from notes taken during the classroom lectures of the great Gesenius. Biblical Hebrew had its proper place in the academic and spiritual life of Christian society. In the early nineteenth century, the local university press—in order to compete with the Hebrew editions of the famous book publisher Anton Schmid of Vienna and Pressburg, and along with books for religious life in Serbian, Romanian, Slovak (national minorities in the Hungarian Kingdom)—also started to print Jewish books in Hebrew and in Yiddish,5 the first one being a eulogy for Napoleon by Moshe Münz, rabbi of Óbuda (Alt-Ofen), in 1814. The Christian framework for the study of Hebrew and— with much less intensity—for the romantic interest in Jewish life and customs survived the following two centuries. The idea of founding a rabbinical seminary in Hungary was proposed for the first time in 1806 by Rabbi David Friesenhausen (1756–1828), a mathematician, then dayyan in Hunfalva (Unsdorf, northern Hungary, today Huncovce in Slovakia), and later a critic of the pious but peculiar mysticism of Moshe Teitelbaum (1759–1841), the rabbi of the nearby Sátoralja-Újhely (Uyhel). A national rabbinical assembly considered the idea again in the 1830s, and it went under review in both houses of the parliament in the 1840s. Finally, it was proposed yet again in all seriousness by Rabbi Leopold (Lipót) Löw (1811–1875) in a paper written for the Pesti Hírlap (June 2, 1844), the newspaper edited by the well-known Lajos Kossuth (before long, a popular leader of the country). The proponents strove to improve

4 István Horvát, Rajzolatok a magyar nemzet legrégibb történeteiből [Sketches on the Most Ancient History of the Magyar Nation] (Pest: Trattner, 1825): “Pözsög a Szent Írás mindenféle régi magyar nevektől és régi magyar írásmódtól.ˮ 5 Regarding books in Yiddish, see Szonja Ráhel Komoróczy, Yiddish Printing in Hungary: An Annotated Bibliography (Hungaria Judaica, 25.) (Budapest: Center for Jewish Studies at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 2011).

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the education of rabbis in keeping with the ongoing modernization of Jewish life and ritual in Western Europe. Löw himself, with his early articles on Hungarian Jewish history in the Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums starting in the 1830s, and on Talmudic and halakhic questions, could have fit into the Wissenschaft. In his journal Ben Chananja (1844, 1858–1867), he established an equivalent of its kind for the Monatsschrift für die Wissenschaft des Judentums, a rabbinical counterpart on a firm basis with the Wissenschaft, but neither he himself nor his journal could become the measure or norm in Hungary for Wissenschaftlichkeit or reformed Religiosität. Let me only mention his sharp criticism of the complete grammatical ignorance of the Pressburg yeshiva and of its head, Rabbi Abraham Sofer (“Ketav Sofer,” 1815–1871), in contrast to the enormous prestige and influence of the latter. When it was established in 1877, the Országos Rabbiképző Intézet or “National Rabbinical Seminary,” was intended to be a solution for the deficiencies of Jewish higher education in Hungary.6 The model was the Jüdisch-theologisches Seminar (Fraenckel’scher Stiftung), or the Breslauer Seminar (founded in 1854), where one of the first professors of the Rabbinical Seminary and later its rector, Wilhelm (Vilmos / Zeev) Bacher (1850–1913), had studied (1868–1876) and was ordained. David Kaufmann (1852–1899), another graduate of the Breslau Seminary who earned his doctorate in Leipzig, was also invited to be a professor. Over the next seventy-five years the Breslau Seminary was a quasi-mother institution for the Budapest Seminary, admitting students from Hungary until the Nazis closed it in 1939, after which some students from Breslau graduated from the Budapest Seminary.

6 The history of the Seminary and its changes of fortune are amply documented by the several accounts written on its jubilees in sequence. See Salamon Schill, Az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet története [History of the Jewish Theological Seminary of Hungary] (Budapest: n. p., 1896); Lajos Blau, ed. Adalékok a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet történetéhez [Contributions to the History of the Franz Joseph National Rabbinical School]. Budapest: n. p., 1917) (Published immediately after the Seminary was named for the late king and emperor.); Lajos Blau and Miksa Klein (eds.), Emlékkönyv a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet 50 éves jubileumára [Festschrift on the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Franz Joseph National Rabbinical School] (Budapest: n. p., 1927); Adolf Wertheimer, Mihály Guttmann, Sámuel Lőwinger, and Henrik Guttmann (eds.). A Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet hatvanéves jubileuma [The Sixtieth Anniversary of the Jewish Theological Seminary of Hungary] (Budapest: n. p., 1937); Samuel Lőwinger (ed.), Seventy Years: A Tribute to the Seventieth Anniversary of the Jewish Theological Seminary of Hungary (1877–1947) (Budapest: n. p., 1948). (In this booklet one finds a thorough overview in Hebrew by István Hahn on the last 30 years of the Seminary.); Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger (ed.), The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 1977–1977: A Centennial Volume (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986).



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Leaving aside the historical circumstances, as well as the confessional controversies and early attacks on the Seminary, I would like to highlight the institution’s strong commitment—in a changing world, a reform in itself—to the strict religious tradition. The inauguration of the Seminary took place on October 4, 1877, Tishri 27, 5638 according to the Jewish calendar, a day very close to the High Holidays, as is proper. By the way, it is a subtle allusion to that eminent day that the day before the opening of this conference on October 13, 2012, a Shabbat, was also Tishri 27. In the Seminary there were always, at least until World War II and the Holocaust, only three professors appointed. In my understanding, this was clearly done out of respect for the traditional rabbinical ordination (the semikhah) in which three rabbis must give their consent, or due to the desire to secure the approval of Orthodox Jews. In connection with the commitment of the Seminary to this centuries-old tradition, I would like to make a comment on the biting remarks Ignaz Goldziher recorded in his Tagebuch on the Seminary and the community leadership for not having been appointed as a professor at the new institution. Goldziher served in the Seminary as a member of the Board of Governors, and during the last two decades of his life (from 1900) he was a Reader in medieval Jewish philosophy and comparative history of religions there. His resentment is in part simply a misinterpretation of the situation, for he was not a rabbi, and thus, according to institutional standards, he was not eligible to become a professor. Having established the Rabbinical Seminary in 1877, the Jewish community obviously met the demands of the so-called Neolog confessional wing (historically similar to the Conservative or Masorti movement in contemporary international terminology). Neither from society at large, nor from Budapest University or the Academy of Sciences, of which Goldziher was himself a member from 1876 (as well as a Privatdozent [1872], an honorary [1894], and an ordentlicher university professor [from 1905]), was there ever any initiative to establish Jewish Studies beyond biblical Hebrew in any secular or state-sponsored institution. The foundation of the Seminary was supported by the Hungarian authorities without any reservations, from the König und Kaiser downwards, with the Hungarian premier at the time, Kálmán Tisza, attending the inauguration ceremony (can you imagine such a thing today?). In light of these facts, and considering that the Seminary took up the teaching and representation of traditional Jewish Studies in its entirety, I would suggest that the Hungarian scholarly community, the public, and society at large accepted the Seminary as filling the gap in Oriental Studies and Semitics for the whole nation. They also felt relieved from any responsibilities of further academic care of Jewish Studies. Yet, some Jewish scholars regarded the boundaries enclosing Jewish Studies in Hungary as impediments to their research. Moritz Steinschneider (1816–1907),

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one of the scholars par excellence of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, declined to accept a position at the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest, with the explanation that “the subjects which he could teach and his conception of Jewish scholarship would not fit an institution which held itself aloof from the university.”7 As a matter of fact, he did not join the Breslau Seminary for the exact same reason. Steinschneider’s objection was to a certain degree groundless because in 1891 the Ministry for Religion and Culture decreed (and the Seminary stipulated conditions in the curriculum) that students of the Seminary must study at Budapest University for two semesters and take twelve hours each semester. There were some restrictions on this regulation, and later there were unfavorable changes as well, but the system worked well and was maintained until after World War II, producing about 250 Doctor-Rabbis over three-quarters of a century. In the 1930s, students of the Seminary attended Professor Eduard (Ede) Mahler’s and Antal Dávid’s classes in Ancient Near Eastern History, Cuneiform, and Semitic linguistics, and the theses of post-World War II graduates, such as József Schweitzer, were supervised and approved by the renowned scholar of Ugarit, József Aistleitner (1883–1960), a devout Roman Catholic priest, professor of Oriental languages in the Theological Faculty, and former rector of the university. Regarding the origins of studies on the Ancient Near East, Western Asia, and Egypt in Hungary, a few interesting moments are notable. The history of the introduction of Assyriology in Germany repeated itself in Hungary, only in a slightly different form. In Germany, it was Eberhard Schrader (1836–1908) who established the regular study of Cuneiform in Jena (1873). Both he and his pupil, Friedrich Delitzsch (1850–1922), turned to Assyriology from their studies of the Hebrew Bible. Friedrich Delitzsch was the son of Franz Delitzsch, the prominent scholar of medieval Jewish manuscripts and himself a Christian and a missionary among the Jews. In this way Assyriology emerged, if not as a ramification of Jewish Studies, then as its close relative. Eduard Mahler (1857–1945), who introduced the field of Ancient Near Eastern Studies to the University of Pest, was an astronomer by training, and raised as the son of an Orthodox rabbi, who later joined the so-called “progressive” (close to, but not identical with, the Neolog) direction in Pressburg [Bratislava]. Later, Mahler received his scholarly training in Oriental Studies in Vienna from David Heinrich Müller (1846–1912), who grew up in a yeshiva and in the Breslau Seminary. In both cases, in that of Delitzsch in Germany and Mahler in Hungary, Jewish Studies was the soil from which Assyriology sprouted.

7 However, one-and-a-half decades earlier, in 1859, Steinschneider had taught for a while in the Veitel-Heine-Ephraim’sche Lehranstalt in Berlin, a sort of bet-midrash.



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After the Cuneiform languages were deciphered, a Turanian or Finno-Ugric affiliation was proposed for one of these languages that now we call Sumerian. This notion, not absolutely absurd at the time, arose in Hungary for a reason that was easy to understand: a vivid interest. People behind the language in question were immediately connected with Hungarian tribes of bygone days. Goldziher, who attended international Oriental congresses abroad and was informed about the so-called Sumerian question, hastily embraced the allography theory developed by the French Orientalist Joseph Halévy (1827–1917) circa 1875.8 Halévy explained the newly rediscovered language as an allography or mirror-translation from Semitic. This was among the apparently few substantial scholarly issues where Goldziher was proved wrong. If we enumerate the Hungarian scholars in Oriental Studies who achieved worldwide fame from the last third of the nineteenth century onward, Jewish scholars come to the fore. Let us just name Goldziher, Bacher, David Kaufmann (a “naturalized” Hungarian Jew), and Sir Aurel Stein (1862–1943), the British archaeologist of Middle Asia.9 One can add to this list the following individuals: Eduard Mahler; Ármin Vámbéry (1832–1913); Bernát Munkácsi (1860–1937), a Finno-Ugrian scholar and the chief inspector of Jewish schools; Immanuel Löw (1854–1944), the son of Leopold Löw, chief rabbi in Szeged, author of Die Flora der Juden; and from later generations, Zsigmond Telegdi (1909–1994); István Hahn (1913–1984), whose highly acknowledged papers, partly in Hebrew, range from Miggo and Minim and Mesiaḥ le-fi tumo10 to Qumran, Roman history, Sassanian taxation11 and the Syriac Schatzhöhle; Sándor (Alexander) Scheiber (1913–1985); and from the recent past, Pinhas Artzi (1923–2007), who—while still living in Hungary—was trained in Rabbinics (at the Seminary) as well as in Assyriology (with Antal Dávid), and after his aliyah (1950) he became a professor of Assyriology at Bar-Ilan University and an expert in the Tell Amarna tablets. Let me add to this list the names of some other scholars—even if they are connected to Jewish Hungary only through descent, native language, elementary school, or at most university studies—names dear to my heart: Erica Reiner (1924–2005), a decades-

8 Ignaz Goldziher, “Jelentés az orientalisták IX. nemzetközi kongresszusáról, 1892” [Report on the Ninth International Congress of Orientalists], Akadémia Értesítő 3, no. 35 (1892): 632–653. 9 A nephew of Ignác Hirschler (1823–1891), a famous ophtalmologist, member of the Upper House and of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, and once president of the Pest Jewish community. Aurel Stein was baptized at birth. 10 Hahn’s papers on these topics were published in A Blau Lajos Talmudtudományi Társulat évkönyve [Yearbook of the Lajos Blau Society of Talmudic Scholarship], 5694–5696 / 1934–1936. 11 István Hahn, “Sassanidische und spätrömische Besteuerung,” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 7 (1959): 149–160.

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long editor of the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary; Menahem Zevi Kaddari (1925– 2011), a former student of the Seminary, rector of Bar-Ilan University (1971–1974), and for a long period vice-president of the Academy of the Hebrew Language; Raphael (Rafi) Kutscher (1938–1989); Joshua Blau (born 1919), now an emeritus professor at Hebrew University, and who made a name for himself in Hebrew and Judeo-Arabic linguistics; and Jacob Klein (born 1934). Professors Kaddari, Joshua Blau, and Jacob Klein were members of the Israeli Academy of Sciences and Humanities, and Kaddari and Blau were awarded the Israel Prize. The Sumerologist Rafi Kutscher, born in Budapest, moved to Jerusalem as an infant with his parents, grew up there, became an eminent scholar of Cuneiform, learned Hungarian as a child, and maintained it at a level sufficient for editing Hungarian references in linguistic books on Hebrew and Aramaic by his father, the Israel Prize laureate Professor Edward Yehezkel Kutscher (1909–1971). Jacob Klein, who left Hungary during his school years along with his parents, speaks Hungarian well even today. This is a wide range of outstanding orientalist scholars in and from Hungary, all of whom are Jewish and the majority connected in one way or another to the Rabbinical Seminary. Furthermore, most have used, wherever possible, Hungarian material in their scholarship as well. Ignaz (Yitzhak Yehuda) Goldziher (1850–1921) stands alone. In his Tagebuch he complains about being ignored by his Jewish coreligionists, but that was nothing compared to the Hungarian scholarly community’s disregard for him. Despite having been elected as a member of the Academy of Sciences, and having the habilitation (venia legendi) at Pest University, during his best years the chair of Arab and Semitic philology was occupied by Péter Hatala (1832–1918) and György Kanyurszky (1853–1920)—both virtually unknown scholars today, even though the latter very often appears in the novels and short stories of Gyula Krúdy (1878– 1933), one of the best writers in Hungary in the first third of the twentieth century. For Krúdy, for example, in his novel Boldogult úrfikoromban [In my By-gone Days as a Young Lad], 1929), the Reverend Kanyurszky was a nice fellow, a ludicrous drunkard, and an avid chess player in coffee taverns. Goldziher directed his intellectual energies toward Islam after the harsh rejection of his Mythology (1876)12— in which he applied the astral mythology of Max Müller to the Bible without due caution, yet simultaneously opened the way for the analysis of biblical narrative towards the comparative history of religions. But if we recall his own description of his Jewish learning (in his Tagebuch), if we consider the depth and breadth of these studies, and if we recall how he—together with Wilhelm Bacher, also a

12 Ignaz Goldziher, Der Mythos bei den Hebräern und seine geschichtliche Entwickelung: Untersuchungen zur Mythologie und Religionswissenschaft (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1876).



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student of Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer—commemorated Tishʽah be-Av in Leipzig (1869–1870),13 we can see that his studies on the Arab Hadith were influenced by his early immersion in the Torah she-be-ʽal-peh. And we can also understand why in different periods of his life, after he had achieved all the recognition and scholarly positions he had sought, Goldziher demonstratively turned up again in Judaism and published some of his work in Jewish publication venues. During the decades after Goldziher’s death—that is, in the interwar years and even after World War II, though then for different reasons—the chances for a Jew to achieve an academic position in Jewish Studies were much lower than in Goldziher’s time. The politics of the Horthy regime (1919–1944) fostered only the so-called national branches of learning. At Budapest University, Goldziher’s Nachfolger, the professor of Semitic languages, was Mihály Kmoskó (1876–1931), a Roman Catholic priest and formerly a professor at the Theological Faculty. In 1919, Kmoskó became a blustering antisemitic propagandist, so much so that during the postwar consolidation he became a burden even on his own Church and was banished to a provincial parish where he dealt with Syriac authors on early Hungarian tribes. In reality, his work proved to be an important contribution since its recent, posthumous publication because it demonstrates that the notion of ethnically homogenous Hungarian tribes is merely a myth. In 1928, the Chair of History of the Ancient Near East established by Eduard Mahler was renamed as the Institute of Eastern Asia and was given to a militant antisemite and national-socialist, Vilmos Pröhle. After Kmoskó died, his (before, Goldziher’s) chair was integrated into that Institute. The teaching of Arabic and research on Arab literature were permanently on the agenda at the Rabbinical Seminary. In the early decades of the Seminary before World War I, the library collected grammars and some secondary literature on Egypt, Mesopotamia, Iran (with respect to Wilhelm Bacher’s Persian Studies), Arabia, and general Semitics, but later these branches were suspended, and interest in them faded. Oriental, or specifically Semitic Studies, actually meant Arabic, or rather Judeo-Arabic, in the Seminary.14 Bernát (Dov) Heller (1871–1943),

13 According to an anecdote recorded by Leopold Grünwald (Yekutiel Yehuda Greenwald, 1889–1955) in Appiryon 2 (1924–1925): 20–22. A Hungarian translation (by Ágnes Vázsonyi) of this recollection was published as “Tisa-beÁv a lipcsei egyetemen” [Tishah be-Av at the Leipzig University], Szombat 4, no. 6 (Sivan 5752 / Summer 1992): 21–22. 14 On this topic, see the passing remarks by Raphael Patai, a graduate of the Seminary and himself a student of Arab folklore: Patai, “The Seminary and Oriental Studies,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume, ed. Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986), 205–214.

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author of the Antarroman (Sīrat ‘Antar),15 a faithful disciple of Goldziher who occupied Bacher’s former chair in the Seminary, pursued Arabic Studies in the framework of his broad research on folklore, tracing Jewish elements in the Oriental, and first and foremost, Arabic, tradition.16 The manuscript of Yūsuf ibn Ibrahim (Joseph ben Abraham ha-Kohen) al-Basīr’s Kitāb al-Muhtavī [The Comprehensive Book]—in its Hebrew translation: Sefer ne‘imot [Book of Dispositions]—a Karaite theological treatise in Arabic written in Hebrew script from the early eleventh century in the Kaufmann Collection,17 was distributed by Goldziher and later by Heller, chapter by chapter, for theses in the Seminary from the 1910s onward. But a critical edition of the work in its entirety was published only much later (1985) by Georges Vajda (1908–1981). Vajda had attended the Seminary but left for Paris in 1928, and there he became “one of the towering figures of Jewish Studies in this [the 20th] century,” as an obituary wrote of him.18 It is no small thing that Vajda’s bibliography is even somewhat longer than Scheiber’s. At Budapest University, the doctoral theses of István Hahn19 and Alexander Scheiber,20 both students of Heller in the Seminary, demonstrated good, and in the case of Hahn even excellent, knowledge of Arabic. In the mid-1950s, once Hahn dared again to publish on Jewish topics after having left the Seminary in 1948, these second-degree brothers-in-law and first-degree Jewish scholars wrote a few papers together on texts from the Cairo Genizah and from the Kaufmann Collection. Scheiber was responsible for the manuscript, and Hahn for the Arabic.21 The tension caused by Hahn’s former withdrawal from the Seminary was followed by their full personal

15 Bernhard Heller, Die Bedeutung des arabischen ‘Antar-Romans für die vergleichende Litteraturkunde. (Form und Geist, 21) (Leipzig: H. Eichblatt Verlag, 1931). The preliminary version of the book, in Hungarian, was published by the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in 1918. 16 Regarding Heller’s research on folklore and Arabic popular literature, see Alexander Scheiber, “Bernhard Heller,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger, 194–204. 17 A testamentary donation (1905) by the mother-in-law of David Kaufmann (Róza Gomperz) to the library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, rich in Hebrew manuscripts and rare books. 18 Alexander Altmann, “Georges Vajda (1908–1981)”, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 50 (1983): XIX–XXIII, here XIX. 19 István Hahn, A világteremtés az iszlám legendáiban [The Creation of the World in Islamic Legends] (Budapest: n. p., 1935). 20 Sándor Scheiber, Keleti hagyományok a nyelvek keletkezéséről [Oriental Traditions on the Origin of the Languages] (Budapest: n. p., 1937). 21 Alexander Scheiber – István Hahn, “Two fragments from the Kitâb al-Sahadat wa-l-Wata’iq of Saadia,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 5 (1955): 231–247; “Leaves from Saadia’s Kitâb al-Sarâi,” Acta Orientalia 8 (1958): 99–109; “Further Chapters from Saadia’s Kitâb al-Sarâi,” Acta Orientalia 9 (1959): 97–107. Besides these, see their Hebrew papers in Tarbiz 25 (1955/1956); and 28 (1958/1959).



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reconciliation only in 1983, a year and a half before Scheiber’s death, when Hahn, then a member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, ministered and officiated at the granting of a degree of the Academy to Scheiber.22 It should be emphasized that many of the scholars at the Rabbinical Seminary in Hungary, including those connected to it or coming from its intellectual surroundings, were and are counted in the innermost circle of Wissenschaft des Judentums. Kaufmann, a professor and rabbi at the Budapest Seminary, achieved an indisputably high reputation by discovering and publishing manuscripts of great importance, among others the Megillat Ofen by Isaac Schulhof on the re-conquest of Buda in 168623 and Glückel von Hameln’s autobiography,24 even if he sometimes corrected the Yiddish or Hebrew wording of the manuscripts according to his own linguistic taste. Anyone who had the opportunity to hold in his or her own hands Bacher’s desk copies of his own writings, durchschossen, which are full of marginal and additional notes in his minute handwriting,25 would realize that he was both a medieval Talmudist with an incredible memory and a giant of nineteenth century philological meticulousness. As for the 1930s and 1940s, Bernhard Heller published seventeen papers, reviews, or short notices altogether in the last dozen or so volumes of the Monatsschrift, far more than anyone else. The collected volume, representing the Wissenschaft in German and edited by Kurt Wilhelm in 1967,26 republished papers by Wilhelm Bacher, Lajos Blau (1861–1936), Michael Guttmann (1872–1942), David Kaufmann, Samuel Krauss (1866–1948), and Immanuel Löw. Three of them—Bacher, Blau, and Guttmann—were directors of the Seminary, while Guttmann was also the director of the Breslau Seminary for some time. In the first half of the twentieth century, the Seminary edited a series of Festschriften and memorial volumes honoring or commemorating Hungarian

22 István Hahn, “Scheiber Sándor tudományos munkássága” [Scholarly Achievements of Alexander Scheiber], In Évkönyv, 1983–1984 (Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviselete, 1984), 3–12. 23 David Kaufmann, Die Erstürmung Ofens und ihre Vorgeschichte nach dem Berichte Isak Schulhofs (1650–1732) (Trier: Sigmund Mayer, 1895). 24 David Kaufmann, Die Memoiren der Glückel von Hameln, 1645–1719 / Zikhronot marat Glikl Hamil mi-shenat 407 ad 479 (Frankfurt am Main: Kaufmann, 1896). 25 These books are now in part filed in the Seminary’s library, and in part in the care of his grandson. 26 Kurt Wilhelm, Wissenschaft des Judentums im deutschen Sprachbereich: Ein Querschnitt (Tübingen: Mohr, 1967).

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Jewish scholars such as Lajos Blau,27 Goldziher,28 Michael Guttmann,29 Bernhard Heller,30 Immanuel Löw,31 and Eduard Mahler.32 Some of these volumes could be printed only after a significant delay (after the Holocaust), and some of them only abroad, most notably in Israel. The posthumous Scheiber Volume, published by the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, is an addition to this series.33 These Festschriften were virtual international encounters in Jewish and Oriental Studies, in part replacing the actual presence of extensive Oriental Studies at the Seminary. Most of these volumes include papers on the Ancient Near East as well. After Goldziher’s forgettable Sumerian mistake and Mahler’s semi-popular writings on Babylonia, the Ancient Near East reappeared on the horizon of the Seminary in the late 1930s. Sámuel Lőwinger (1904–1980) used firsthand Cuneiform material in his paper on Nebuchadnezzar.34 He was the last member of the Seminary’s faculty who maintained a scholarly interest in Cuneiform. Also worthy of mention is his fiery study on Paul de Lagarde’s antisemitism,35 heavy with the arguments of an Oriental scholar embedded in political polemics. After

27 Simon Hevesi, Mihály Guttmann, and Sámuel Lőwinger (eds.), Zikhron Jehuda. Tanulmányok Dr. Blau Lajos (1861–1936), a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet néhai igazgatójának emlékére [Studies in Memory of Lajos Blau (1861–1936), the Late Director of the Franz Joseph Landesrabbinerschule] (Budapest: Országos Rabbiképző Intézet, 1938). 28 Sámuel Lőwinger, Joseph Somogyi (eds.), Ignace Goldziher Memorial Volume, [vol. I] (Budapest: n. p., 1948); Samuel Lőwinger, Alexander Scheiber, and Joseph Somogyi (eds.), Ignace Goldziher Memorial Volume, vol. II. (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1958). Due to the political changes in Hungary after 1948, vol. II of the Ignace Goldziher Memorial Volume could not be published in Budapest, where it was collected and edited. Samuel Lőwinger, the former director of the Rabbinical Seminary and one of its editors, who was already living in Jerusalem, arranged its publication there. 29 S. Lőwinger (ed.), Jewish Studies in Memory of Michael Guttmann (Budapest, 1946). 30 A. Scheiber (ed.), Jubilee Volume in Honour of Prof. Bernhard Heller on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (Budapest: n. p., 1941). 31 Alexander Scheiber (ed.), Semitic Studies in Memory of Immanuel Löw (Budapest: n. p., 1947). 32 Adolf Wertheimer, József Somogyi, Sámuel Lőwinger (eds.), Emlékkönyv dr. Mahler Ede (…) nyolcvanadik születésnapjára. Dissertationes in honorem dr. Eduardi Mahler, professoris emeriti Universitatis regiae scientiarum Budapestinensis de Petro Pázmány nominatae natali die octogesimo ab amicis, collegis et discipulis eius conscriptae et editae. Budapestini: Mahler Ede Jubileumi Emlékbizottság, 1937. 33 Róbert Dán (ed.), Orient and Occident: A Tribute to the Memory of Alexander Scheiber (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó – Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1988). 34 Samuel Lőwinger, “Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream in the Book of Daniel,” in Ignace Goldziher Memorial Volume, [vol. I], eds. Sámuel Lőwinger and Joseph Somogyi, 336–352 (Budapest: n. p., 1948). 35 Sámuel Lőwinger, Germánia “prófétája”: A nácizmus száz esztendeje [The “Prophet” of Germany: One Hundred Years of Nazism] (Budapest: The author’s publication, 1947).



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Mahler’s retirement, rabbinical students attended Cuneiform classes offered by the Privatdozent Antal Dávid at the university. One of these students, László Némethy, who was engaged in the study of Urartu in the first millennium BCE, died during forced labor service in World War II. The popular book of Leonard Woolley (1880–1960), Ur of the Chaldees (1929), was translated into Hungarian by the director of the Jewish High School (Zsidó Gimnázium) in Budapest, Salamon Goldberger (1892–1945), under the pseudonym Gábor Salamon during the difficult days of war in 1943.36 Even today, Hungarian bibliographers have yet to decipher his pseudonym. These two items, certainly not as important as Goldziher’s, Bacher’s, or Telegdi’s many scholarly books and studies, still matter, for they demonstrate the widening of the strictly rabbinical horizon into history at large. During the time of persecution, even the imaginary or constructed history, like Woolley’s tale of Abraham’s life in Mesopotamia around 2000 BCE, can be interpreted as a spiritual escape. In 1944, Antal Dávid’s son and his other Cuneiform students (Erica Reiner, among others), some of them from the Seminary, participated in actions against the German occupation; Dávid’s son subsequently died in the Dachau concentration camp. Telegdi never wanted to become a rabbi, but for him the Seminary represented the only chance to pursue university studies.37 In praise of Telegdi, who was not a valiant person, I must mention his two large and excellent Oriental studies published in Hungarian in the Yearbook of the Hungarian Jewish Literary Society [Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat / IMIT]. These works, one on the spread of Semitic writing in the East and another on the Khazars, were both daring and brave scholarly accomplishments in the political atmosphere of the 1930s. In the first article,38 he demonstrated the contribution of the ancient Semites, including Jews, to the culture of humanity. In the second paper,39 he debunked a myth that had emerged in the enthusiastic patriotism of the Jews in the late nineteenth century (that is, the myth of Jews allegedly joining Hungarian tribes in the conquest of the country). Telegdi was thus engaged in a two-front fight for scholarly

36 Sir Leonard Woolley, Ur városa és a vízözön [The City Ur and the Deluge] (Budapest: Officina, 1943). 37 Both Telegdi and Hahn won the national high school competition in Latin in their last school year. Telegdi used the prize to make a study-trip to Paris (where he later received an opportunity to study as well), and Hahn bought the Hebrew dictionary by Gesenius. 38 Zsigmond Telegdi, “A sémi írás útja a Földközi-tengertől a Csendes Óceánig” [The Way of the Semitic Writing from the Mediterranean to the Pacific], in Évkönyv (Budapest: Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1937), 200–227. 39 Zsigmond Telegdi, “A kazárok és a zsidóság” [The Khazars and the Jews], in Évkönyv (Budapest: Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1940), 247–287.

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truth. But first and foremost, it is his earlier dissertation on the Iranian loanwords in Talmudic Aramaic that remains a classic.40 The deportation of Jews from the countryside killed, along with their communities, rabbi-scholars such as Béla Bernstein (1868–1944) and Sándor Büchler (1869–1944), both former students of Kaufmann at the Seminary and eminent historians in their own right; Pál Hirschler (1907–1944), a former student of Bernát Heller, a Semitic linguist; Ernő Winkler (1894–1944), a historian of medieval Jewish law; and most important of all, Immanuel Löw, the 91-year-old doyen of Semitic scholarship and previously a member of the Upper House of Parliament. Rabbi Löw was deported along with his community in Szeged, but on the way he was taken off the train and died in the Budapest Jewish hospital. These rabbis were genuine scholars, and partly Oriental scholars, according to any academic standard. The loss of these irreplaceable men was profound indeed. A few years later, emigration and aliyah decimated the ranks. Lőwinger, the historian, and Ernő (Abraham Naftali Zvi / Ernst) Róth (1908–1991), the best halakhist in Hungary for many decades, left Hungary. Lőwinger emigrated in 1950 to become the keeper of the microfilm collection at Hebrew University, while Róth fled abroad in 1956 to serve as a rabbi and to catalogue Hebrew manuscripts in European collections. Some left the Seminary for the university. After years of existential uncertainty, Telegdi emerged as the director of the newly established Institute of Linguistics of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (1950), and he became a professor of general linguistics and Iranian Studies at the Eötvös Loránd University (1959) dealing with Tajik linguistics which was a sort of Soviet-Persian. At the time, he used to visit the Oriental Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences on Saturday mornings. Later on, it was he who introduced general linguistics to Hungary, building an entire school and guiding the linguistic thinking of a whole generation. In his scarce free time during his forced labor service in the 1940s, he translated Plato’s Symposium into Hungarian,41 and in his later years he collaborated on a poetic translation of Firdausi’s Shahname.42

40 Sigmund Telegdi, “Essai sur la phonétique des emprunts iraniens en araméen talmudique,” Journal Asiatique 226 (1935): 177–256. All three of Telegdi’s studies quoted here are reprinted in his Opera omnia, ed. Éva M. Jeremiás (Acta et Studia, 4) (Piliscsaba – Budapest: The Avicenna Institute of Middle Eastern Studies – Akadémiai Kiadó, 2006). 41 Platon, A lakoma [Symposium], fordította és bevezetéssel ellátta [translated and introduced by] Telegdi Zsigmond (Budapest: Officina, 1941), second edition: 1942, further editions after World War II. 42 Firdauszí, Királyok könyve [Book of the Kings], fordította [translated by] Devecseri Gábor Európa, 1959). In his preface to the translation, Devecseri thanks Telegdi for his help in Persian matters.



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István Hahn, after having been a professor at the Seminary since 1941 lecturing on Jewish philosophy in fluent Hebrew and serving as the deputy director of the short-lived Tarbut Grammar School in Budapest, closed the doors of the Seminary behind him without saying good-bye. A symbolic milestone of his ideological conversion was his paper in the Yearbook of the former Israelite Hungarian Literary Society (IMIT) in 1948, the first and only volume after World War II. The two words in the title of his paper, “The revolution of the prophets”43 (literally, “the prophets’ revolution”), point to his previous and later commitments at the same time. The paper itself is a brilliant socio-historical analysis of social protests in ancient Israel, as reflected in the prophetic corpus of the Bible. After significant difficulties, in part because of his rabbinic background and because of his postwar membership in the Social Democratic Party, Hahn obtained an appointment at the Eötvös Loránd University in 1957 and finally became the Chair of Ancient History, a prominent and celebrated teacher and scholar, and a member of the Academy of Sciences (which Scheiber never was). His high school textbook on Jewish history,44 written during his Seminary years, and his other books on Jewish customs and holidays45 have been republished again and again.46 His history textbook ends with the establishment of the State of Israel, and it is still read today by college students. On a personal note, I was sitting at his feet in his one-student Hebrew class every Saturday morning for years (1957–1961); texts such as the Tanakh, Mishna, and the Isaiah scroll were in front of me, and he was looking at them upside down, or simply reciting them by heart—a truly unforgettable teacher. For Telegdi and Hahn, and for others of their generation, the Seminary was an intellectual refuge during periods of persecution, and in the 1950s the university was an escape from the intellectual ghetto the Communist regime created around institutions of all faiths. After a few years (1950–1956) in which the directorship of the Seminary alternated between Ernő Róth (professor from 1941 onward) and Alexander Scheiber

43 István Hahn, “A próféták forradalma,” in Évkönyv (Budapest: IMIT, 1948). 44 István Hahn, A zsidó nép története a babilóni fogságtól napjainkig [History of the Jewish People from the Babylonian Captivity to our Days] (A Pesti Izr. Hitközség vallásoktatási kiadványai [Publications of the Pest Isr. Community for Religious Education], vol. 1) (Budapest: Új Idők Irodalmi Intézet / n.d. [Singer és Wolfner], [1947]), 157–181. 45 István Hahn, Zsidó ünnepek és népszokások [Jewish Holidays and Customs], Új zsidó könyvtár [New Jewish Library], (Budapest: Viktória Nyomda, 1940); A fény ünnepe (Chanukka) (Javne Könyvek [Javne Library], vol. 3 (Budapest: Magyar Zsidók Pro Palesztina Szövetsége, n. d. [1941]). 46 Zsidó ünnepek és népszokások, reprinted (Budapest, 1995, 1997, 2004); A fény ünnepe, reprinted: (Tel Aviv: Sinai, n. d); A zsidó nép története, reprinted (Budapest, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2004).

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(professor from 1945 onward), Róth left and Scheiber remained alone, perhaps because of their ambitions that were mutually embarrassing for both men. I quote Scheiber’s own words, modest and proud at the same time, uttered on the occasion of his seventieth birthday: “I was not a great scholar, I just remained alone.” Neither one of these assertions is completely true. He was not alone in the Seminary, and he was a great scholar indeed. He pursued his research in aggadah, medieval manuscripts, and Genizah Studies in particular,47 the field in which he was among the best scholars worldwide. The Acta Orientalia of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences was eager to publish his text-editions from the Kaufmann Collection, but deliberately only once a year in order to maintain the extensive international inter-library book exchange. Besides, or rather through, his scholarly and teaching commitments, Scheiber was able to maintain the spirit of a Jewish community around the synagogue of the Seminary during a critical period. His kiddush in the ceremonial hall on the second floor of the Seminary, held after the Friday evening services, eventually became a semipublic forum of Jewish intellectual life, perhaps the only such forum at the time, in which—thanks to the erudition of Scheiber himself and the frank talks by his visiting guests from abroad—issues in, and the latest results of Jewish scholarship, including his own, were covered. In the early 1980s, the Oriental Studies Committee of the Academy of Sciences— presided over by the “great mogul” of the academy, the Mongolian and Tibetan scholar Lajos Ligeti—examined the situation of Judaic Studies in Hungary. The generous decision of the board was that it would be enough if Jewish Studies were continued in the Rabbinical Seminary, and Hebrew taught at Eötvös Loránd University in the fields of general Semitics and Ancient Near Eastern Studies. The latter “forum” was this writer, holding regularly a privatissimum for a slowly growing number of students from the academic year 1962/63 onwards. The institutionalization of Jewish Studies either at a university or the Academy was, in these decades, out of the question in Hungary. In 1987, the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture in New York proposed that the Hungarian Academy of Sciences establish, with the Foundation’s initial assistance, a research and teaching institution in Jewish Studies. Iván T. Berend, an economic historian and then president of the Academy, reacted positively, and the Center for Jewish Studies at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences was set up within a short period of time. For its teaching tasks, it was affiliated with the Chair of Assyriology at Eötvös Loránd University, which was, in turn, renamed the Department of Assyriology and Hebrew Studies. The following year, scholars such as Ephraim E. Urbach (former president of the Israeli Academy of Sciences

47 Alexander Scheiber, Geniza Studies (Collectanea, 17.) (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1981).



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and Humanities), Peter Schäfer (then professor at Free University in Berlin), Géza Vermes (professor at Oxford University), and Pinhas Artzi (professor at Bar-Ilan University) took part in the inauguration. Urbach gave the keynote lecture on “Academic Research and Religious Scholarship.” Over the course of the following twenty-odd years, this small institute, never larger than three or four researchers, produced, wrote, or edited over thirty-five large volumes of scholarship in the series Hungaria Judaica, and wrote or supervised over fifty BA, MA, or PhD theses in Jewish Studies, all based on Hebrew texts. Our former students and graduates can be found in virtually all important institutions of higher education in Hungary where Hebrew is taught or where Jewish Studies exists—as students, researchers, fellows, leaders at Central European University, the Rabbinical Seminary, the Jewish Museum, the Jewish Archive, and Jewish schools. Our students have been accepted to PhD programs at prestigious universities abroad, such as Harvard, Oxford, and the University of Pennsylvania, and have found scholarly appointments at renowned institutions; for example, at the British Library or Yad Vashem. There has been consistently good cooperation between our Center and the Rabbinical Seminary. Joseph Schweitzer, its director at the time, was a permanent source of help. He and other faculty members at the Seminary, including visiting instructors from Israel, have participated in our teaching program, and our students have participated in academic exchange programs. In 2012, after some twenty-five years of activity, this center became a shadow of its former self. With the approval of the General Assembly of the Academy, the current president (2008–2014: István Pálinkás) reorganized the entire research network of the academy and established an all-encompassing Center for Social Sciences, in which our center became a nameless fragment—a small section of its Institute for Minority Studies. The name Center for Jewish Studies, as featured in the program of this conference, has ceased to exist officially, and can be used only informally, depending on the leniency or favor of the authorities. There have been significant cuts in personnel as well. The research group consisting of 2.75 appointments all together (2012) has no appointed head, no independent budget, no right to employ anyone, no secretary or administrative assistance, and not even the right to order books or to apply for grants on its own. We have, so far, enjoyed the benevolence of our direct superiors and work continues, but we have been deprived of our integrity. The system is wrong: an effective academic institution of Jewish learning within the Academy of Sciences and the University is eventually going to disappear this way. Removing Jewish Studies means, at the very least, a return to the nationalistic notion of Oriental Studies. After the Holocaust, it was possible to establish an institute for Jewish Studies anywhere given certain preconditions; but to close such an institute is shocking. Even the name holds symbolic value.

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Nonetheless, there is good news as well. Central European University (CEU), our host tonight, offers a Jewish Studies specialization at the MA and PhD levels, which is integrated into the History, Medieval Studies, and Nationalism Studies departments. At the beginning, the teaching program at CEU was mainly oriented towards politics, but it has always had the opportunity to invite outstanding scholars from abroad and has always done so in various subfields within Jewish Studies. And now it has outstanding fellows in early modern and modern Jewish and rabbinic history. CEU and our Center have always had students in common, much to our mutual intellectual benefit. The Rabbinical Seminary was transformed in 2000 into a National Rabbinical School – Jewish University (Országos Rabbiképző – Zsidó Egyetem / ORZsE), adhering to the spirit of the Wissenschaft des Judentums tradition. In addition to rabbinical and cantorial subjects, it now teaches Jewish history and culture and offers various degrees at several levels. It has resumed the publication of journals from the earlier Seminary, initiated reprints of books by Bacher, Blau, Guttmann, and other luminaries of the Seminary, and has many talented students. In short, it has enormous academic potential that has not been fully exploited yet, as well as a unique perspective. One can only regret that in preparation for this conference no cooperation with ORZsE, which celebrates its 135th anniversary this year, was possible. To sum up this historical overview, Hungarian academia and the Academy of Sciences, involved in all national branches of Oriental Studies, were never engaged in Jewish Studies, except in the latter’s decision in 1987 as previously mentioned. As for the Rabbinical Seminary established 135 years ago, besides its main duty and mission of educating rabbis, it represented in its own way the Wissenschaft des Judentums. Despite its disregard in academic circles in Hungary, rabbi-professors at the Seminary did their best, and they established a glorious place in the history of academic scholarship and Oriental Studies. By now, at the end of my paper, I think that all of you have understood why I refrained this time from outlining a precise definition of Oriental Studies (Orientalistik), be it called Middle Eastern, Asian and African, or Ancient Near Eastern Studies. I am aware of the problems inherent in the title of my lecture; namely, whether Jewish Studies is to be included in any of these disciplines. It is my conviction that the field of Jewish Studies must stand independently and certainly must have a place in the academic world. Through scholarly and even secular research, and by adhering to academic standards of research as well as to freedom of opinion, Jewish Studies can and must help reconstruct Jewish intellectual life and increase awareness in society at large about the role Jews have played in history and continue to play in the present.

The Rabbinical Seminary and the War Years An Interview with Chief Rabbi József Schweitzer Interviewer:1 In this interview, we speak with Chief Rabbi Schweitzer about his studies at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary during the years 1941–1947, and more specifically about his life during World War II. Rabbi Schweitzer, how did you get to the Rabbinical Seminary? Rabbi Schweitzer: I will have to give a little personal history. My mother died when I was just one year old. My father and I lived together at my grandparents’ house in Veszprém, a rather small town near Lake Balaton, where my grandfather Armin Hoffer was rabbi. In 1928, my grandfather became rabbi of the Csáky Street Synagogue in Budapest.2 When my grandparents moved to Budapest, we moved together with them. In addition to his rabbinical duties, my grandfather was a professor at the Rabbinical Seminary, where he taught the Talmud and Shulḥan Arukh. So I grew up in a rabbinical family. I: In the upper grades of the Seminary, did you take classes from your grandfather, Professor Hoffer? R: Yes, indeed, in the first semester. He passed away that year [1941], around Hanukkah. I: Did your previous studies in the Jewish Secondary School help to prepare you for your education at the Seminary? R: The length of education at the Seminary was ten academic years: five lower grades and five upper grades. The lower grades, corresponding to the four upper grades of secondary education, consisted of five years due to the many classes in the Jewish section of the curriculum. For instance, Elek Klein was my age, but because I graduated from the Jewish Secondary School,3 I graduated a year earlier than him. I was a so-called benevolus auditor, an irregular student in the

1 This interview was conducted by Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke on October 22, 2013 and translated from Hungarian by Judit Vincze Schweitzer. We thank György Finta and Daniel Rapp for their technical assistance. Rabbi Schweitzer ‫ ז"ל‬passed away on February 5, 2015 (Shevat 16, 5775). 2 The synagogue is located in the thirteenth district of Budapest; the name of the street has been changed subsequently to Hegedűs Gyula. 3 Zsidó Gimnázium, in 1940. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-003

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fifth grade of the Seminary, and was required to take a final examination in the Bible, the Talmud, Jewish history, and Hebrew and Aramaic grammar together with them—that is, I was tested on the same subjects that they had studied for five years. I: In other words, the final examination also served as an entrance examination to the upper grades. R: Yes, precisely. I: What did the examination consist of? R: It consisted of those Hebrew subjects that students in the lower grades studied and for which they were required to take a final examination. From the Talmud, Bava Metzia and Berakhot were required; I do not remember the number of pages. From the Bible, I remember that Tehillim and Deutero-Isaiah were required. There was the Torah, Hebrew grammar—not a scientific approach like the grammar written by Aistleitner, but a more pragmatic biblical Hebrew grammar, and similarly, an Aramaic grammar—which were quite easy for me. I: Did Seminary students also acquire proficiency in modern Hebrew? R: Modern Hebrew was not taught in the Seminary, primarily to avoid the accusation of Zionism.4 When the situation seemed to be calming shortly before the German occupation of Hungary, Mózes Wachsberger, an excellent Hebraist and teacher of religion, took up the issue of teaching modern Hebrew, but due to the German occupation it never materialized. I: These Hebraization attempts go further back, at least to the time of director Mihály Guttmann, who was a strong supporter of the Hebrew language. He may have been instrumental in organizing a student group that would meet after the conclusion of Shabbat, and the participants, sometimes even Guttmann himself, gave talks in Hebrew. R: Guttmann was fluent in both German and Hebrew. He was a rabbi in Csongrád, then a lecturer for some time at the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest. He moved

4 The rabbinical establishment was by and large opposed to Zionism (officially, at least), but there were differences. For example, while Budapest Rabbi Simon Hevesi was anti-Zionist, Bernát Heller was a member of a Hungarian Jewish pro-Zionist (“pro-Palestine”) organization, and Mihály Guttmann apparently sympathized with the Zionist aim of building up a strong Jewish presence in Palestine. Armin Hoffer took a conciliatory stance; see Kinga Frojimovics, Géza Komoróczy, Viktória Pusztai, and Andrea Strbik, Jewish Budapest: Monuments, Rites, History (Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999), 205.



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on to the Theological Seminary of Breslau and from there to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Due to a tragedy in his family—his daughter fell seriously ill—he had to return to Breslau. From Breslau he came back to Budapest.5 German was his second language. Guttmann had two sons, Henrik and Alexander. Alexander stayed in Berlin and from there he immigrated to the United States; Henrik came back to Budapest with his father. I: When Guttmann died in 1942, was it evident that Samuel Lőwinger would succeed him? R: I believe it was. I: Was there no dispute over succession? R: No. Lőwinger was already the deputy director. He was de facto in charge of all essential issues at the Seminary. Guttmann lived in Hűvösvölgy,6 and he would go to the Seminary only to hold his classes. Vilmos Hausbrunner, who was a teacher of mathematics in the lower grades, handled administrative matters. I: When a faculty member died, how was another faculty member assigned to take over his classes? R: This was decided among the other faculty members, we were only informed about the facts. I: They were not always smooth affairs, for example Bernát Heller ran into trouble. R: This was a unique case that I happen to know quite well. Heller and my grandfather were close friends. When Heller7 reached the age of sixty, he decided to retire. Then, by the age of seventy, he realized that he missed teaching. I still remember the words he said: ha-poresh mimkha ke-foresh min ha-ḥayim.8 With great difficulty, he was allowed to teach a few classes in the lower grades and was appointed the superintendent of religious education in Buda. In other words, he was allowed to teach, but his classes in the upper division had been assigned already to Henrik Guttmann who replaced him after his resignation.

5 Mihály Guttmann (1872–1942) moved to Breslau to head the Rabbinical Seminary there in 1921; he taught at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem for a semester in the 1924/25 academic year, then returned to Breslau. In 1933, he left Nazi Germany and returned to Budapest to head the Rabbinical Seminary after the retirement of Lajos Blau. 6 A suburb northwest of Budapest. 7 Heller was born in 1871. 8 “Quitting you is like quitting life itself” (bQiddushin 66b and parallels).

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I: Were the Seminary students encouraged to take up research activities in Jewish Studies? R: I do not remember if we were actually encouraged to engage in research. We were encouraged rather to learn. I: The Annual Reports of the Rabbinical Seminary suggest that the announced prize essays were tools to steer students toward research, even during the war. After the war, there was a long pause. But even back in the 1930s, there were signs of strain. The Reports lamented the low number, and even the complete lack, of proposals. Do you think students in those days could not care less? R: Seminary students typically came from poor family backgrounds, and they struggled to make ends meet. A typical Seminary student would tutor private students in the afternoons, partly in order to be more financially independent from his family. They also had to prepare for their classes. I am sure that many of them would have preferred to deal with those prize essays, but they simply had no time for it. I was very busy with my own private students, preparing them for their bar mitzvahs, etc., which was very time-consuming. I: The Rabbinical Seminary had much to offer: it had a canteen, a boarding school, and also offered scholarships to needy students. R: It had a boarding school, but since the Jewish community was very stingy, it was very moderately heated. OMIKE9 operated a canteen for students who resided in the country. It was open for lunch only. Students had to take care of their dinners. Parents sent care packages to their sons studying in Budapest that they either shared with the others or retained for themselves. So it was. I: How would you characterize the students’ religious affiliations? Who was more orthodox and who was more liberal than the others? What was their ratio in relation to the entire student body? R: The morning services were mandatory for everyone. On holidays and on the eve and morning of Shabbat, everyone was required to attend the services at the Synagogue of the Seminary, except those who lived too far away. I believe there were no minḥah-maʽariv services because the students were not around—they were out pursuing their teaching assignments. Shaḥarit was taken very seriously by Lőwinger—everyone had to attend. But then there were some who, putting

9 That is, the Hungarian National Israelite Association for Public Culture (Országos Magyar Izraelita Közművelődési Egyesület).



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on a ṭallit and tefillin, nevertheless prepared their Latin homework under their desks. I: How did students relate to the Shabbat? Meaning those who lived in the boarding school. R: Well, officially they observed it, but when they left the premises nobody sent watchmen after them. To give you an example: Lajos Goldberg and his younger brother, Sanyi, whose father was a melamed10 in Nyíregyháza, came from a strictly orthodox home. In Budapest, they became strict followers of Freud. They made ʽaliyah, and both became professors of psychoanalysis devoted to Freud. These are two extreme examples. I: How did the anti-Jewish laws of 1938 and 1939 affect the climate of the Seminary? Rabbi Schweitzer, you know very well a volume entitled “The Spiritual World of Israel,” the foreword of which was written by Rabbi Simon Hevesi in April 1940.11 One section of this book bearing the title “Patriotic Holidays” carries the sermons of eight Hungarian Neolog rabbis. At least four of these sermons, delivered by rabbis such as Zsigmond Groszmann and Ármin Kecskeméti, among the most celebrated speakers of their time, used their entire homiletic arsenal to express their appreciation for Governor Horthy on Hungarian national holidays. Do you have any information about what happened behind the scenes, so to speak? R: Our official standpoint was that we were Hungarian Jews and that we were facing, temporarily, grave political and other difficulties that nonetheless did not challenge our patriotism. Nobody shared his inner thoughts on this matter. I: Those sermons conveyed a sharper message than just a general expression of patriotism. I believe you must have been aware of the line of thinking of your professors and other leading rabbis. How seriously did they mean what they said in those sermons? R: My grandfather would typically say “we must hold out,” ʽad yaʽavor zaʽam,12 in regards to patriotic festivities and ceremonies where rabbis were invited or delegated by the local Jewish congregations to attend, as they were expected to share their thoughts on these occasions. Raphael Patai and his father József attended services at the Csáky Street synagogue, where my grandfather recited the prayer

10 A teacher of little children. 11 Simon Hevesi et al., eds., Izrael eszmevilága: Magyar rabbik válogatott hitszónoklatai [The Spiritual World of Israel: Selected Sermons of Hungarian Rabbis] (Budapest: s.n., 1940). 12 “Until the wrath passes” (Is 26:10).

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for Miklós Horthy, uttering “may he be firmly seated on his throne,” which they found very amusing since they interpreted it in such a way as to mean that Horthy should be paralyzed. However, our professors did not discuss publicly the political situation. I knew my grandfather’s reflections, and he was outraged by the anti-Jewish laws and the fact that Jews became degraded citizens with limited livelihoods and little ability to act freely. He would muse that chosenness often goes hand in hand with suffering: ʽad yaʽavor zaʽam. I: Seminary students’ parallel enrollment at the university is quite an interesting phenomenon. Can we say that the rules concerning parallel university education did not change significantly after the 1920s? R: They did not change. Then, after the liberation of Hungary [1945] everything changed. I: Did you start studying at the Faculty of Arts in your first academic year? R: Yes. The government’s position was not to persecute religion, and it continued to allow Seminary students to enroll at the university. Our university transcript was different in form, though, and we were considered regular students with limited rights, meaning that we could only take courses in Semitic Philology, Ancient History, and Philosophy. We also had to pass a doctoral exam from any of these subjects. It may sound quite posh. We were, however, not allowed to earn a teacher’s degree, as we were barred from the teacher training courses. Despite the prohibition, Professor Scheiber still enrolled in courses taught by the literary historian János Horváth not because he wanted to earn a degree in Hungarian literature, but due to his passion for it. Later, he encountered difficulties because of his disobedience.13 I: What courses did you take during the war period? R: I took Arabic courses from Károly Czeglédy.14 Others attended the Philosophy classes of Professor Brandenstein.15

13 See Judit Horváth, “The Seminary and the Budapest University,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume, ed. Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger (New York: Sefer-Hermon Press, 1986), 106–112. 14 On Czeglédy (1914–1996), see the volume Studies in Honour of Károly Czeglédy on the Occasion of his Eightieth Birthday, ed. Alexander Fodor (Budapest: Eötvös Loránd University Chair for Arabic Studies – Csoma de Kőrös Society, Section of Islamic Studies, 1994). 15 Béla von Brandenstein (1901–1989) became a professor in Saarbrücken, Germany after the war and was best known for his work Der Aufbau des Seins: System der Philosophie (Saarbrücken: Minerva, 1950).



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I: How many students visited Czeglédy’s classes in those days? R: A few. Class attendance was not compulsory, and his classes often coincided with other classes at the Seminary. I do not remember the exact figure. Czeglédy was a very decent person. I: Wasn’t Vilmos Prőhle the Arabist in those days? R: Yes, indeed, originally we enrolled in his classes, but he was not too eager to hold his classes. It may well be that Professor Czeglédy took over only after the war. I do not remember clearly, as many classes with Prőhle were cancelled. Prőhle was a follower of the infamous Arrow Cross movement, but in his classes he behaved like a true gentleman. If I recall correctly, he did not come back to the university after the war. I: How hostile was the general climate at the university? R: I remember only a few instances of verbal abuse by fellow students. Most of the time we could avoid it thanks to the benevolence of the janitors at the university gates, who warned us about potential clashes when we attempted to enter the campus. On those occasions, we chose not to attend classes. I: They apparently had advance knowledge of the actions planned by the “awakening Hungarians” or Hungarists. R: The law students! Lipót Fejér, the world famous mathematician,16 reminisced that once such troublemakers went into his hallway on the ground floor. He told them the following: “Look, gentlemen, serious things are dealt with here, called mathematics, which require complete silence. Can you please go?” They left. I: Were the students of the Rabbinical Seminary exempted from labor service? R: Yes, generally speaking, university students were exempted, including, in principle, the students of the Rabbinical Seminary as well. I: Please correct me if I am wrong, but as far as I know there were students who applied to the Seminary partly in order to avoid labor service. R: Indeed, quite a number of students applied with this in mind. The Seminary was an ʽir miklaṭ.17

16 Lipót Fejér (1880–1959) was a renowned Hungarian Jewish mathematician. 17 “City of refuge” (Numbers 35 and Deuteronomy 19).

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I: In your estimation, what percentage of the students who applied to the Seminary did so for this reason? R: I do not have an answer for that. I suspect quite a lot. But nobody spoke about it openly. I: What might have responsible people thought when the noose was tightening after the German invasion of March 1944? R: I do not have the answer for that. Look, a Seminary student had no chance to interact with Samu Stern or Károly Wilhelm.18 And as I have said earlier, our professors did not discuss these issues with us. It was business as usual in the Seminary. We had to study and take exams as in normal times of peace. I: How did students inside and outside of the boarding school live through the period of persecution? What was their reaction? R: Well, I do not know... very negatively. Nobody dared to say it in public, but we still hoped that our enemies would be done away with. That it would be over, that the war would have a favorable ending. But the overall attitude could be characterized as “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Nobody assumed (I certainly did not) that these Jewish leaders spoke their minds. This was unthinkable in the face of ongoing persecution. I: Was there any interaction or debate between Orthodox and Neolog Judaism in the 1940s? R: I believe that in the 1940s a sense of interdependence suppressed debates between them. The anti-Jewish laws forged solidarity in their ranks. Needless to say, Orthodox Jews continued to live a separate religious life. Abraham Freudiger de Óbuda was the president of the Orthodox community. I: How did your life change after March 1944? R: Many of my family members who had lived in the countryside perished in the war. But some of my relatives who had lived in Budapest were also killed: my uncle and my cousin—others too. I would like to mention two specific stories among the many horrors. In the summer of 1944, posters appeared in Budapest calling on every Jewish person within a specified age group (and not performing forced labor) to report at the designated place and time on the poster. There was this man named

18 Jewish community leaders of the interwar period and leading members of the “Jewish Council” formed on the Germans’ orders.



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Lieutenant Mészáros who handled exemptions from forced labor. Medical doctors, rabbis, veterinarians, and pharmacists received such exemptions. He advised us in the summer of 1944 that although exemptions would be granted upon our request, he would persuade us to stay since we would enjoy greater protection within the army than as civilians at large. But no one chose to stay and everyone requested exemptions. Successively, even these exemptions were removed. On another similar occasion, I got stuck there. I think it was after the Arrow Cross takeover. I was transferred to a company whose commander was a very decent person. He was aware that the war was lost.19 He knew that military units would be detached to Germany. He had no inclination to go there; instead, we wandered around small villages in the Trans-Danubian region in Hungary to avoid having to go to Germany. I: In other words, your unit was seeking refuge together with the commander. R: Surprisingly so. But some of us found it advisable to flee using the pretext that we had no warm clothing with us. Our commander permitted us to go to Budapest to pick up warm clothing, and he even assigned a guard to accompany us. We agreed to meet the guard at the Albrecht barracks the next day. None of us showed up. Back then, everybody was trying to find a hiding place. The commander was a good man, but the overall conditions were very bad. There was a shortage of food, our lives hung on a thread. My physical condition deteriorated so rapidly that the janitor at 9 Hollán Street, the house where I had lived, denied access—he did not recognize me. I: Was this the Hoffer residence? R: Not anymore. It was the residence of Erzsébet Hoffer and her husband, Dr. Mandl, a dentist. Erzsébet was one of the four daughters of Rabbi Hoffer. It used to be a nice apartment in Lipótváros20 with a dental surgery room. But when I returned there in November 1944 it was a squalid warren. Once, when we were in the market trying to buy some food, someone threw bread stamps in front of me. I considered it a sign of compassion and humanity. I have another anecdote from August 1944. We had no way of knowing whether we were still university students or had been fired. My mates suggested that I go to the Dean’s Office and inquire whether we could come back to the university in September when the new academic year started. I had to accost the registrar who was an ardent antisemite. It was obvious from my index book that I was a Seminary student. He was

19 By the Germans and their Hungarian allies. 20 More precisely: Újlipótváros—a residential area in Pest with a significant Jewish middle-class population.

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extremely polite with me. Returning home, I met my two mates, László Ivanofszky and Egon Friedmann, who lived in my building. I told them that the war was lost, that it was only a matter of time. And so it happened, but many Jewish lives were lost before the war ended. The exemption from labor service was not always honored in practice, not even before the Arrow Cross takeover in October 1944. When the Arrow Cross rose to power, they totally annulled this waiver. Officers wore Arrow Cross armbands, and we had to wear yellow armbands. I: When did the Rabbinical Seminary suspend operation? R: Only during the reign of the Arrow Cross. The Rabbinical Seminary was the only state subsidized institution of its kind. I: Where were you in the last months of the war? R: I was at 29 Vadász Street in Budapest. The house was under the protection of the Embassy of Switzerland, and was in fact a safe haven for Jews.21 Everybody went there to secure a Schutzpass.22 Others, who knew somebody already living there, also tried to get in. I was lucky to have received word from an old friend from the lower grades, Oszi Biederman,23 to join him there once I got back to Budapest. I took off my labor service garb and changed into decent clothes. It was quite risky to walk from Hollán to Vadász Street, but I managed. There was a huge crowd waiting, but again I was lucky because an old schoolmate, Izsák Grósz, was standing guard at the entrance. He shouted at me, “come on in, we have been waiting for the document you are carrying,” grabbed me, and pulled me through the entrance. The building was safe but living conditions were very difficult. I had no soap or towel on me, I had no change of clothes, and there were no washing facilities for the accumulating crowd. We slept on narrow bunk beds; when somebody turned in his or her sleep, everybody had to turn. One day a woman showed up from our prewar circle of friends. She had some money with her as a gift for a certain person she was looking for. Since she could not find him, she gave the money to me – 300 pengős, a small fortune. I could buy extra food with it, which saved me from having to eat the meager food that the house provided. The janitor of the building was willing to bring in everything that money could buy. We spent most of our time waiting for the siege to commence. We spent a couple of days in the Dohány Street Synagogue because the Arrow Cross rounded up a few people

21 This was the famous “Glass House” (Üvegház), see Frojimovics et al., Jewish Budapest, 408– 411; and http://www.uveghaz.org. 22 German: a protective document issued by the diplomatic representation of a neutral power. 23 Father of Amos Biederman, later a caricaturist for the Israeli newspaper Haaretz.



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and drove us on trucks to the Synagogue, which was a relocation camp at that time. I: Where were Scheiber, Lőwinger, and Róth? R: On March 19, 1944—the day when German troops occupied Hungary—Scheiber left his home in Dunaföldvár for Budapest to attend the unveiling ceremony of Bernát Heller’s tombstone. He got stuck in Budapest. He stayed at his parents’ house and was immersed in work. He continued to work even in Vadász Street. We would gather around him and listen to his talks on the history of liturgy. Lőwinger was also in Vadász Street, and in a very bad mood. Róth was hiding with false papers. As a college professor, he received free railway tickets. He changed his name to Ernő Ráth on the cover, and used it as his official identification. He wore priestly garb with a tall vest. I saw him once. He was holding a Bible in his hands, pretending to be a priest. I: By the end of the war, a large part of the Seminary Library’s collection was transferred to the Rózsadomb neighborhood of Budapest, to the so-called Jewish Research Institute run by Zoltán Bosnyák, a notorious racist. What happened to these books? R: Rabbis were assigned to pre-select the books. István Hahn was among them. They were shrewd enough to retain the most valuable books in the library. Many of the books ended up in Frankfurt and Prague, whether directly from the Seminary or from Rózsadomb, I do not know. The books were returned to the library from Prague in the 1980s after lengthy negotiations. I: After the liberation, when and how did the Seminary resume its activities? R: We were liberated in January 1945. The next day, I rushed to the Seminary. Everybody who was in Pest came in. Ernő Róth came in from his refuge somewhere in Pest. There was one room on the ground floor with some fuel left. He could stay there under relatively normal circumstances. Due to the courtesy of Joint [American Joint Distribution Committee], the canteen soon reopened, and in March education also resumed. The windows were still broken when Professor Scheiber gave his first class wearing a threadbare black suit. It was an uplifting moment. I: What courses did he teach? R: I think Liturgy and History or Bible. Henrik Guttman and Lőwinger soon followed suit. I: Who assumed the leadership of the Seminary during the postwar period?

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R: There was dispute in 1950, when Lőwinger decided to stay in Israel, and Ernő Róth and Scheiber were the two contenders for the position. The solution they found was that the two of them alternated yearly as directors.24 I: How did the rabbinate of Budapest reorganize its ranks after the war? R: There was a system of district rabbis by the end of the 1930s. The institution of assistant district rabbi was also in place, and the older generation of rabbis passed away. József Farkas was killed, and Zsigmond Groszmann and Lajos Scheiber died. Benjamin Schwarz was alive, Hoffer died, and Arnold Kiss also died. They were replaced by a younger generation of rabbis. I was still a Seminary student back then and had no specific information about how this process was managed. I: In 1947, when you started your rabbinical career, who was the head of the rabbinate in Budapest? How were the positions decided? R: I do not remember clearly. Béni [Benjamin] Schwarz was the chairman of the rabbinate; I think he must have been the most senior rabbi. Essentially, László Salgó became increasingly more powerful. He had an office at the headquarters of the Jewish community in the rabbinical office. I: What was his official title? R: He was the Head of the Rabbinical Office. This office was handling all sorts of religious matters, such as divorces, etc. He called rabbis to meetings and consultations. There were more rabbis in Budapest than rabbinical positions, so we had to seek positions elsewhere. I: You were among fifteen students who enrolled in the first grade in the 1941–1942 academic year. Could we learn more about what happened to your schoolmates listed on the roster of the Seminary? R: Imre Blau did not become a rabbi. He was an excellent linguist who knew many languages, and I believe he became a university professor of Linguistics in Budapest. He died in Budapest. Ottó Brisz perished. He was born in Kolozsvár [Cluj/ Klausenburg]. Lajos Goldberg became a professor of psychoanalysis in Israel. László Gottlieb perished. Andor Gottesmann was captured by the Soviets after the war. He went out for a walk and a Soviet military unit took him into custody. Sándor Grünfeld perished. Mihály Hammer also perished. Elek Klein changed his name to Elek Karsai and became a noteworthy scholar of history and a Holocaust

24 Ernő Roth immigrated to Germany in 1956.



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researcher. He is the father of László Karsai, also an eminent Holocaust historian. János Komlós had a weird career. He studied in the lower grades of the Seminary but did not continue his studies in the upper grades. Instead, he chose to join the ranks of ÁVH, the State Protection Authority. When he left the service after 1956, he became a satirical writer, journalist, and stand-up comedian. József Schmideg was an ordained rabbi, but he did not function as a rabbi—he became a Russian language teacher. In the 1980s, he joined the faculty of the Seminary as a lecturer. István Stern immigrated first to Israel, and later to the United States, and worked in the library of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. But not in an executive position. Another alumnus of our Seminary, Menachem Schmelzer, headed the library of JTS. Ernő Steinberger perished. Miklós Szász did not become a rabbi, he made ‘aliyah [immigration to Israel], and I think he wrote a seminal work on the maritime history of Israel. I do not remember Jenő Treiszer at all; I think he must have been a non-regular student. I: Rabbi Schweitzer, you were ordained as a rabbi in 1947 after graduating from the university. What was the procedure for selecting the topic of the doctoral degree? R: We had to produce a certificate from the Seminary to the Dean’s Office of the university, which verified that we were students of the Seminary, and then we were admitted to the university like other students. The topic of the doctorate was to be agreed upon with the relevant university professor. I: Who was the relevant professor in your case? R: Professor József Aistleitner, since Prőhle was no longer there, if I remember correctly. Czeglédy prepared us for the exam in Arabic. He was not a full professor at the time. Aistleitner gave specific instructions as to which parts of which surahs [chapters of the Qur’an] he required for the examination, and we studied with Czeglédy. I must note something about István Hahn. We made a concerted effort to be well prepared in Semitic languages: Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, and Syriac. Hahn was very helpful. We would meet regularly every week on Tuesday in a wellheated room on the ground floor of the Seminary—other rooms were unheated and cold— and he tutored us, Schmideg and myself, by heart, without notes. He even had a reputation at the university that he knew everything by heart. Once, he left a slip of paper on the teacher’s desk and the students snatched it hoping to catch him finally… It was a shopping list, which said 200 grams cheese, etc. His first wife was Judit Kálmán (daughter of Ödön Kálmán, chief rabbi of Kőbánya), who tragically died of pneumonia when she was returning to Budapest from deportation.

68 

 An Interview with Chief Rabbi József Schweitzer

I: Did you need to consult with any of the professors at the Seminary regarding the topic of the university doctoral degree, or have it approved by the professors at the Seminary? R: Yes, in fact they recommended the topics that we conveyed to our university professors. I: Would you say that this was a solid tradition at the Seminary? R: That I do not know, but in my days it worked like that. I believe that it must have been like that before. The dissertations were printed, and, although it was no longer required of us, almost everyone wrote a preface acknowledging those who had been instrumental in the preparation of the thesis. Previously, I had had no idea whatsoever that there were so-called echo verses, or shirei hed, in Hebrew literature— but Scheiber persuaded me to choose this topic since I would have to collect many citations from the Bible, “and your professor [Aistleitner] would see how well-versed you are in the Bible—do it.” I heeded his advice and collected some thirty such verses… Thereafter, I did not pursue this subject. I: How did you become a rabbi in Pécs? R: I was ordained in 1947, but even as a Seminary student, I occasionally officiated in Pécs. Scheiber persuaded me to go there, and the leadership of the Jewish community was also very supportive of this idea. I was not so eager to go because my relatives and friends all lived in Budapest. “What am I going to do in a perfectly strange city?” I mused. I thought I would commute between Budapest and Pécs for a year, and at the end of the year the community and I would come to a resolution on how to proceed. They chose not to wait until the end of the year, and after the High Holidays, which I spent with them, they decided to invite applications for the position with a closing date set for March. I was the only applicant for the position, and they unanimously elected me. We did not have decent suits to wear on official occasions. I indicated our problem to the Joint, and they commissioned tailor-made suits for us. I got a nice white shirt from a lady friend. My cassock was a gift from the community in Pécs. It was made of a light fabric, so I used it mostly in the summer. My second cassock, made of heavier brocade, was also a gift. Dezső Ernster25 commissioned it for me, and another one for our hazan, Károly Tímár. I think I still have it. I: You then stayed in Pécs for thirty-four years, until 1981. Am I right to assume that you never regretted this decision?

25 Dezső Ernster (1898–1981) was a Hungarian opera singer of international renown.



The Rabbinical Seminary and the War Years 

 69

R: Correct. Essentially, it was very difficult to be a rabbi anywhere in Hungary during the years of dictatorship. Our life was pleasant in Pécs, we made many good friends there. My wife was born there, and so were my two children. My son, Gábor, is still very strongly attached to Pécs, but my daughter, Judit, has fewer ties. Three Jewish students studied at the secondary school: my two children and the son of the hazan. I: Next year is the seventieth anniversary of the mass deportation of Jews from Hungary. Do you participate and speak publicly in commemorative events? R: Not long ago, at a meeting of the Christian-Jewish Society, it was agreed that the society should publish a commemorative volume on the Shoah, and that we would hold a religious service dedicated to the Shoah in the Dohány Street Synagogue. I was asked to deliver a sermon on this occasion, which I turned down because I did not feel physically fit enough. I offered to give a few short introductory remarks instead. I also told them that the book has to be sincere in order to serve the right purpose. We have seen that the churches did not excel in loyalty to the spirit of the Bible in the time of the anti-Jewish laws. And I told them that even though I was aware that my colleagues who now sit here with us belong to a different generation that is not involved personally in this [negligence], it still remains a fact of history.

Joshua Blau

Was R. Saadia Gaon’s Arabic Translation of the Pentateuch Meant for Muslims Too? It is a great pleasure and a great honor for me to take part in this conference concerning the “Wissenschaft between East and West: Hungarian Connection in Modern Jewish Scholarship,” even if I cannot attend personally. I especially appreciate the opportunity to participate in a conference in which my dear friend, Professor Komoróczy, is delivering the keynote address. I myself want to speak about Rav Saadia Gaon and his translation of the Pentateuch. Rav Saadia Gaon is no doubt the man who built Judeo-Arabic culture. If one wants to single out two people who had a decisive impact on the shaping of medieval Jewish society, one will name Maimonides and Rav Saadia Gaon. Maimonides was the man with whom Judeo-Arabic culture reached its peak, but Rav Saadia Gaon was the first Jewish scholar who absorbed Arabic culture. Among his many works, his translation of the Pentateuch into Arabic is perhaps the most important one. This translation is mentioned by Abraham Ibn Ezra in his commentary on the second chapter of Genesis (2.11). In that commentary Ibn Ezra wonders why Rav Saadia Gaon also translates geographical and other names, and he arrives at the conclusion that Saadia Gaon did so perhaps because he wrote his translation “in the language and in the writing of the Ishmaelites” )‫(בלשון ישמעאל ובכתיבתם‬, and he wanted to show that there were no words unknown to us or to him. Ibn Ezra quite clearly implies that Saadia’s translation of the Pentateuch was written not only for Jews, but also for Ishmaelites, for Muslims. This is why Ibn Ezra specifically mentions that this translation was written in Arabic and not in Hebrew letters. Despite other opinions, it is quite clear that this is the meaning of Ibn Ezra’s words. His claim may be buttressed by the fact that in Saadia Gaon’s translation of the Pentateuch one can trace influences of Islam and the Quran. For instance, in the second sura the red heifer (parah adumah) is mentioned. Muhammad does not say that it is the baqara khamra, but instead he calls it baqara safra, meaning “the yellow heifer;” and Rav Saadia Gaon translates parah adumah as baqara safra, which corresponds to the Quranic term. There are other similar cases. For 1

Professor Blau could not participate in the conference. His lecture, published here, was videotaped in his home in Jerusalem and screened at the conference. The research on which it is based was published in a fuller form as Joshua Blau, “‫האם ייעד רב סעדיה גאון את תרגומו לתורה גם‬ ?‫ ”למוסלמים‬Masorah le-Yosef 7 (2012/13): 475–487. —Eds. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-004

 Was R. Saadia Gaon’s Arabic Translation of the Pentateuch Meant for Muslims Too? 

 71

instance, Rav Saadia Gaon refers to Joseph’s garment as qamis, which Muhammad also does in the twelfth Sura. Nevertheless, one cannot use these examples to prove that Rav Saadia Gaon also intended to write his work for Muslims because he is far from consistent in this matter. For instance, Muhammad not only refers to Joseph’s garment as qamis, but he also calls his shirt (kutonet) qamis, which the Gaon does not translate as qamis but as tunia, another term. So we must conclude that Saadia Gaon sometimes uses Quranic expressions because he was part of the Muslim cultural world, but he did not intend to follow closely or imitate the language of the Quran in order to cater his translation towards the needs of Muslim readers. The assumption that Rav Saadia Gaon’s translation was also intended for a Muslim audience is difficult to sustain for another reason. It seems that the language of this translation was the special language employed by Jewish translators, which was not fully intelligible to Muslims. For instance, in Arabic rat means “a boar,” but Rav Saadia Gaon uses this Arabic word to translate the Hebrew word par, “a bullock,” which no Muslim would have understood in this way. Another example: in Arabic there is quite a rare word khalla, meaning “matter.” The Gaon uses it to translate the Hebrew demonstrative pronoun zot not only by using the Arabic hadihi khalla, which can be understood as “this matter,” but also khalla, without adding the definite article, which no Muslim would understand. More importantly, Saadia, like his predecessors, often translates a polysemic Hebrew word with an Arabic word that has only one meaning. For instance, the Hebrew word tur means “to crave for something” as well as “to spy,” yet the Arabic word rāma, which has only the first meaning, is used by Rav Saadia Gaon for the biblical Hebrew phrase latur et ha-arets, “to spy out the land.” And one cannot argue that the Gaon thought this was a Muslim expression because rāma, “to spy,” is used only in his biblical translations and nowhere else. That means that he was well aware that these were special Arabic usages and expressions only found in Jewish biblical translations. If this is the case, and Rav Saadia Gaon did not intend his translation to be read by Muslims, how are we to understand Abraham Ibn Ezra’s claim that Rav Saadia Gaon translated the Bible in the language and writing of the Muslims? We must conclude that Abraham Ibn Ezra was mistaken. He probably saw transcriptions of the biblical translations of Rav Saadia Gaon in Arabic letters. Post-factum, these translations were used by Christians (for instance, by Copts), Samaritans, and others in Arabic transcription. Ibn Ezra mistakenly thought that by doing so, the Gaon expected his translation to be read by Muslims as well. Allow me to summarize. Abraham Ibn Ezra claims that Rav Saadia Gaon translated the Pentateuch in the language and writing of the Ishmaelites. Ibn Ezra was wrong. Saadia Gaon originally wrote his translation of the Bible in Hebrew

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 Joshua Blau

characters and addressed his translation to Jews only—this can be demonstrated by the fact that he used expressions that were intelligible only to Jews, but not to Muslims or Christians.  *** I would like to say a few words about my connections to Hungary and with Semitic Studies. I was born in Kolozsvár [Cluj-Napoca] in 1919, and when I was twelve years old we moved to Austria. I grew up in a home where my father spoke only Hungarian, both in Transylvania and Austria. When I was eighteen years old I finished high school, and my father was not sure in which direction I should continue my studies, so he asked several uncles of mine and arrived at the conclusion that (1) I should study Arabic, and (2) I should study in the Rabbinical Seminary of Vienna. In case I immigrated to Palestine, I would know Arabic (in Palestine knowledge of Arabic is important), and if I remained in Europe, I would become a rabbi. In fact, I started my studies at the Rabbinical Seminary of Vienna, but these studies lasted for only one semester. Then, following the Anschluss of Austria (1938), the Seminary was closed. I started studying Arabic in Vienna, and then I moved to Palestine-Israel where I finished my studies. My main field is Hebrew and Judeo-Arabic (especially medieval Judeo-Arabic), and I have researched the Aramaic language as well.

Elective Affinities

Carsten L. Wilke

From Talmud Torah to Oriental Studies: Itineraries of Rabbinical Students in Hungary The modern Jewish scholarship movement known as the Wissenschaft des Judentums functioned as a bridge between tradition and modernity insofar as it espoused European romantic notions of national culture while preserving the Jewish self-image of a community built around its sacred texts. In its text-centered approach, the “Science of Judaism” extended the earlier scholarly culture of rabbinic Judaism and emerged indeed with an ambition to inherit the latter’s centrality for Jewish education and self-consciousness. Though Leopold Zunz sharply condemned the legal and normative approach of traditional Talmudic learning and sought to replace it with objective philological and historical scholarship, his successors, especially in Abraham Geiger’s reform movement, valued legal history as an indirect source of halakhic decisions and cultural norms. This continuity between “Talmud Torah” and Wissenschaft des Judentums is most pronounced in the history of rabbinical training. In Western Europe, including Germany, the shift from traditional to modern religious scholarship was met with great success: a new institution, the rabbinical seminary, took over the training of Judaism’s religious elite.1 In the Russian Empire, however, this new historical-philological model never took root; seminaries set up under state pressure were ephemeral and outlived by the reinvigorated yeshivot.2 There was only one European country in which the two social worlds of learning coexisted in quantitative strength and qualitative diversification: that country was Hungary. In this respect, Hungarian Jewish history is indeed situated between East and West. Scholars have repeatedly emphasized the exceptional cultural diversity of Hungarian Jewry, studied its political and institutional background,3 and out-

1 Simon Schwarzfuchs, A Concise History of the Rabbinate (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1993), 86–109; Carsten Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant: Rabbinerausbildung an der Schwelle zur Moderne (Hildesheim: Olms, 2003). 2 Shaul Stampfer, Lithuanian Yeshivas of the Nineteenth Century: Creating a Tradition of Learning (Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2012). 3 Jacob Katz, A House Divided: Orthodoxy and Schism in Nineteenth Century Central European Jewry, translated by Zipora Brody (Hanover, NH: Brandeis University Press, 1998); György Haraszti, Két világ határán [At the Border of Two Worlds] (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő Kiadó, 1999); Walter Pietsch, Zwischen Reform und Orthodoxie: Der Eintritt des ungarischen Judentums in die moderne Welt (Berlin: Philo, 1999). DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-005

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 Carsten L. Wilke

lined its historical specificity in the European context.4 The religious schism that led to the formation of Neolog and Orthodox camps became official with the Hungarian Jewish Congress in 1868–69. In the field of rabbinical studies, the same division was reflected by the state recognition of two Landesrabbinerschulen, the Pressburg yeshiva in 18595 and the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] in 1877.6 For a time between 1857 and 1869, the neo-Orthodox yeshiva in Eisenstadt enjoyed official approval as well.7 We know much less about the impact this institutional divorce had on the social and cultural profile of modern Hungarian Jewish scholars at a time when Yeshiva, Seminary, and University appeared as three worlds that had vowed to ignore one another and spoke of each other in overt contempt. The yeshiva scholars, from their Orthodox side, considered the students both at the Rabbinical Seminary and the university as apostates and forbade all scholarly and trivial contact with them.8 The Rabbinical Seminary vowed not to interfere with the yeshivot,9 and indeed refrained from doing so either positively or negatively, thereby wid-

4 Victor Karady, “Juden in Ungarn: historische Identitätsmuster und Identitätsstrategien,” in Annäherungen: Beiträge zur jüdischen Geschichte und Kultur in Mittel- und Osteuropa, eds. Stefi Jersch-Wenzel and Günther Wartenberg (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2002), 151–188; Guy Miron, “Between ‘Center’ and ‘East’: The Special Way of Jewish Emancipation in Hungary,” Jewish Studies at the Central European University 4 (2004–2005): 111–138; Peter Kenez, “The Peculiarities of the Acculturation of the 19th Century Hungarian Jews,” Studia Judaica 18 (2010): 194–211. 5 S. B. Rosenhain, “Die Preßburger Talmudschule,” Jeschurun 16 (1883): 341–342, 356–357, 374– 375, 388–390, 404–405, 422–423; Bettelheim Samuel, “Geschichte der Pressburger Jeschiba,” in Die Juden und die Judengemeinde Bratislava in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, ed. Hugo Gold (Brno: Jüdischer Buchverlag, 1932), 61–70; Avraham Fuks, ‫ישיבות הונגריה בגדולתן ובחורבנן‬, 2 vols (Jerusalem: Fuks, 1978), 27–69. 6 Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, “One Hundred Years of the Seminary in Retrospect,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume, ed. Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger (New York: The Hermon Press, 1986), 3–47; József Schweitzer, “Das Budapester Rabbinerseminar: Der Platz des Rabbinerseminars in der jüdischen Wissenschaft,” in Wissenschaft des Judentums: Anfänge der Judaistik in Europa, ed. Julius Carlebach (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1992), 74–85. 7 Mordechai Eliav, “‫תורה עם דרך ארץ בהונגריה‬,” Sinai 51 (1961): 127–142. Four other Hungarian yeshivot were recognized by the state in some way, in particular by exemptions from military service that were given to students; Fuks, ‫ ישיבות הונגריה‬II, 236. 8 József Schweitzer, “The Seminary in the Responsa Literature,” in The Rabbinical Seminary, ed. Camilly-Weinberger, 95–105. 9 Aron Moskovits, Jewish Education in Hungary (1848–1918) (New York: Bloch, 1964), 53. The Seminary “should not deprive any rabbi of his prerogative of maintaining a Yeshiva of his own or issuing a Hattara, a rabbinic qualification certificate.”



From Talmud Torah to Oriental Studies:  

 77

ening the gulf between the two forms of rabbinical learning that were thriving in the country. Mirjam Thulin’s study on David Kaufmann’s far-flung scholarly network shows that his trans-European and even trans-Atlantic exchange with like-minded scholars was the counterweight to the almost total lack of communication with the Hungarian Jewish world outside the Rabbinical Seminary’s walls.10 From the perspective of academic scholarship, Ignaz Goldziher repeatedly voiced the utter disgust and dismay that he felt toward Kaufmann, the Rabbinical Seminary, and its students, whom he disparagingly calls “the seminary bokhers,” lumping together two hostile worlds, the seminary and the yeshivot, within the same execration.11 It was this contempt that Goldziher secretly held for Hungarian Jews in general, whose character he denounced in his letters as fanatic, schismatic, and intellectually shallow.12 The impossible triangle of an unabatedly traditionalist yeshiva system, a state-backed Rabbinical Seminary, and the haughty scientism—and pseudo-scientism—of Oriental Studies at universities created an unmistakably Hungarian predicament of Jewish scholarship. We thus have to ask: did three entirely separate intellectual spheres indeed develop, or could rabbinical students draw inspiration from all three in a way that was fruitful for scholarly interests? I will try to argue in this article that the typically Hungarian coexistence of these three institutions, or rather the icy truce between them, was beneficial in many respects, as it kept alive a diverse range of scholarly cultures that could in many cases generate common offspring, partly due to a mimesis between competitors, and partly due to the cross-institutional itineraries of their students and dropouts. Hungarian Jewish students, indeed, very often moved across the boundaries of these hostile spheres, as was the case in other parts of Central Europe as well.13 The clash between “Talmud Torah” and “Wissenschaft” has produced many descriptions of an autobiographical, polemical, and satirical nature, but before looking at some of them, let us try to develop a statistical overview of what the different options represented. As the index of collaborators to the journal Ben-Chananja shows, the mid-nineteenth-century scholarly community that promoted Wissenschaft in pre-Seminary times consisted of two roughly equal halves—Jewish school teach-

10 Mirjam Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst: Ein jüdisches Gelehrtennetzwerk im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 148, 172, 225–226. 11 Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 172, 210–211, 220– 222, 234, 240, 256, 264, 267, 291, 294, 296–297, 298, 311. 12 Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 178–190, 192. 13 Carsten L. Wilke, “Talmudschüler, Student, Seminarist: Breslauer rabbinische Studienlaufbahnen 1835–1870,” Aschkenas 15, no. 1 (2005): 111–125.

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 Carsten L. Wilke

ers and rabbis—along with a small number of doctors, jurists, and educated community leaders. Gradually, the social recruitment of Jewish scholars drew even more pronouncedly from rabbis and rabbinical candidates, so that we must place particular emphasis on the history of the Hungarian rabbinate and its exponential growth during the nineteenth century. While there remained a relatively stable number of fifty-two Moravian communities with their respective rabbinical positions, the number of rabbinates in the Kingdom of Hungary had grown from forty in 176814 to more than 350 by 1900, when fifty-two of the incumbents were graduates of the Rabbinical Seminary.15 In sheer quantitative terms, the old system of rabbinical education in Hungary thus heavily outnumbered the new one. While Neolog adherents accounted for sixty percent of Hungarian Jewry, they dominated only thirty percent of the organized Jewish communities and hardly more than twenty percent of all Jewish local settlements in the country.16 Less than fifteen percent of officiating rabbis and presumably much less than ten percent of all rabbinical students were trained at the Neolog Rabbinical Seminary. To date there is no comprehensive data collection on the Hungarian rabbinate, but various sub-groups were explored in the framework of prosopographical studies. The jubilee volumes on the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary reveal that 245 persons were ordained by this institution between 1883 and 1944, and Seminary students defended 283 doctoral dissertations at Budapest University [today Eötvös Loránd University] during the same time period.17 Inheriting a long tradi-

14 Yekutiel Yehuda Greenwald, ‫ או תולדות הרב אלעזר קליר וזמנו‬,‫( לפני שתי מאות שנה‬New York: Hadar Publ. Co. 1952), 15–16. 15 Based on a count of the names listed in Chaim David Lippe, “Adress-Anzeiger, enthaltend: Ein lexicalisch geordnetes Schema der Adressen von Rabbinen, Predigern [etc.] aus fast allen Welttheilen,” in Bibliographisches Lexicon der gesammten jüdischen und theologisch-rabbinischen Literatur der Gegenwart, ed. id., Neue Serie: erster Band (Vienna: C. D. Lippe, 1899). 16 The number of organized communities in the Kingdom of Hungary was 541 by the end of the nineteenth century, 315 of which were orthodox, 160 Neolog, and sixty-six unaffiliated (“status quo ante”); 1,665 smaller localities had community branches, with only 309 adhering to Neolog Judaism; Jacob Katz, “The Identity of Post-Emancipatory Hungarian Jewry,” in A Social and Economic History of Central European Jewry, eds. Yehuda Don and Victor Karady (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1990), 19–20. Of the 203 Jewish communities that obtained state recognition as hitközség according to the 1895 law, 105 (50.5%) defined themselves as Orthodox, seventy-seven (37.0%) as Neolog, and twenty-six (12.5%) as Status Quo; see the 1903 data in Kinga Frojimovics, Szétszakadt történelem: Zsidó vallási irányzatok Magyarországon 1868–1950 [Fractured History: Jewish Denominations in Hungary] (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2008), 149. 17 György G. Landeszmann, “Ordained Rabbis,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986), 303–320.



From Talmud Torah to Oriental Studies:  

 79

tion of collective commemorations of Orthodox Talmudists,18 Mosheh Aleksander Zusha Kinstlikher, rabbi of a ḥaredi congregation in Bne-Brak, published in 2005 a collection of biographies for no less than 1,411 rabbis and rabbinical scholars who had studied at the Pressburg yeshiva under the four chief rabbis of the Sofer dynasty between 1806 and 1939.19 The prosopographies of the Budapest and Pressburg rabbinical institutions construct intellectual biographies in an ideal and culturally homogenous setting. On the one hand, the commemorative volumes of the seminaries mention the university degree, but not previous yeshiva studies of their graduates, and they communicated this bias to the better compilation of Hungarian Jewish biographies, the Magyar zsidó lexikon [Hungarian Jewish Lexicon] of 1929.20 On the other hand, Rabbi Kinstlikher omitted in his prosopography those Pressburg alumni who became Neologs, and in the cases of Orthodox rabbis who pursued secular studies, he glossed over those parts of their biographies. For example, the data given on Rabbi Salomon Breuer, later the rabbi of the Frankfurt Orthodox community, does not include his university studies and the PhD he obtained in Heidelberg (1876).21 Individual biographies often reveal a surprisingly more complex image of how the spheres of yeshiva, seminary, and university intersected. The documentation of these variegated combinations was one of our aims when Katrin Jansen and I published in 2004–2009 the Biographisches Handbuch der Rabbiner, a prosopographical dictionary of the more than 2,700 rabbis in (or from) the Germanic lands, that is, the Holy Roman Empire, the German Federation, and the Reich, who were active between 1781 and 1945. This four-volume work also includes biographies of 146 immigrant rabbis from Hungary, fifty-six of whom attended German rabbinical seminaries,22 and it covers the less important migration of German rabbis

18 Schwartz Sigmund, ‫שם הגדולים מארץ הגר‬, 3 vols (Paks: Meir Rozenboym, 1913–1915); Salomo Schreiber, ‫אגרות סופרים‬, II. (Vienna: Schlesinger, 1932), 69–74, gives 129 names of rabbis trained at the Pressburg Yeshiva; Yitzchok Yosef Cohen, ‫( חכמי הונגריה והספרות התורנית בה‬Jerusalem: Makhon Yerushalayim, Mif’al Moreshet Yahadut Hungaryah, 1997) gives an overview by regions and communities, but is mainly interested in halakhic authors. 19 Mosheh A. Z. Kinstlikher, ‫( החת"ם סופר ותלמידיו‬Bne-Brak: Makhon “Zikaron,” 2005), 1–470 (Moses, 374 entries), 471–546 (Samuel Wolf, 411 entries), 547–622 (Simha Bunem, 419 entries), 627–661 (Akiba, 207 entries). 20 Péter Ujvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon [Hungarian Jewish Dictionary] (Budapest: Pallas, 1929). The new digitized Magyar életrajzi lexikon [Hungarian Biographical Dictionary], ed. Ágnes Kenyeres, follows a narrower choice of personalities and biographical information; http://www. mek.iif.hu/porta/szint/egyeb/lexikon/eletrajz/html/index.html [accessed June 26, 2016]. 21 Kinstlikher, ‫החת"ם סופר ותלמידיו‬, 540–541. 22 Michael Brocke and Julius Carlebach, eds, Biographisches Handbuch der Rabbiner, part I:

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to Hungary as well. In the framework of his doctoral dissertation published in 2012, Gábor Lengyel compiled a sample, partly overlapping with ours, of the 185 Hungarians who studied at German rabbinical seminaries, more or less equally divided between the Breslau Seminary and the orthodox Rabbinerseminar, with a negligible minority attending the liberal Hochschule in Berlin.23 Though the traditional and modern cohorts of scholars appear separately in historical research, both of them share a common cultural background in the evolution of traditional Jewish life and scholarship in historical Hungary. The latter’s geography was characterized by the coexistence of two centers: on the one hand, the northeastern Hungarian Unterland bordering on Galician Jewish population centers, with a Jewish culture shaped by recent immigration and Hasidic influence from there; and on the other hand, the Oberland corresponding to present-day western Slovakia, the Austrian Burgenland, and the Pápa region of Hungary, which followed Moravian and autochthonous traditions. The peculiar place of the latter region in Jewish intellectual history is due to its peripheral location in the western Ashkenazi sphere, the meaning of which would change in the course of modernization. In the eighteenth century, Hungary’s immigrant Jewish population controlled the quality of its rabbinate only incompletely. The Pressburg Chief Rabbi, Akiba Eger the Elder, wrote that Hungary “is so corrupt and perverted because of all those who strive for a rabbinical office without having the faintest idea of what this means. There is such a crowd of them that I would almost say that anyone who feels that his instinct overpowers him comes to this land, dresses in black and does whatever his heart desires.”24 In the nineteenth century, northwestern Hungary remained a refuge for Jewish scholars coming from Austria and Germany, but this time, it attracted the most traditional elements of Central European Jewry in a revival movement headed by an immigrant from Frankfurt, Rabbi Moses Sofer, the towering rabbinical authority of the time. Jewish migration across the Moravian-Hungarian border was frequent, and the two Hungarian yeshivot of the Vienna region, Pressburg and Eisenstadt, espe-

Die Rabbiner der Emanzipationszeit in den deutschen, polnischen und großpolnischen Ländern, 1781–1871, bearbeitet von Carsten Wilke, 2 vols. (Munich: Saur, 2004); part II: Die Rabbiner im Deutschen Reich 1871–1945, bearbeitet von Katrin Nele Jansen, 2 vols. (Munich: Saur, 2009). 23 Gábor Lengyel, Moderne Rabbinerausbildung in Deutschland und Ungarn: Ungarische Hörer an Bildungsinstitutionen des deutschen Judentums (1854–1938) (Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2012), especially 187–344 in the chapter “Biographien der ungarischen Hörer.” There were peaks around 1890 and around 1927. 24 Yekutiel Yehuda Greenwald, ‫( לפלגות ישראל באונגריה‬Déva: Markovits és Friedmann, 1929), 17, with a witty variation of a Talmudic source in bQiddushin 40a (and parallels).



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cially attracted Talmudic students from all over the empire. Autobiographies of former baḥurim of the pre-1848 period sharply juxtapose the cultural profiles of both Austro-Hungarian regions. Eisik Hirsch Weiss (1815–1905), Adolf Ehrentheil (1823– 1888), and Ignaz Briess (1833–1931) all reinforce the stereotype of the progressive Moravian and the reactionary Hungarian schools.25 Talmudic culture in Bohemia and Moravia indeed managed to integrate successfully elements from Haskalah, Enlightenment science, and German literary culture, while Hungarian rabbinic leaders were unanimous in rejecting any such accommodation, “German readings, Mendelssohn, and Hebrew grammar” being the most controversial topics.26 Moritz Fein, born in 1820 in Szentgyörgy [Svätý Jur] near Pressburg, who had known the tolerant Moravian and the repressive Hungarian yeshivot, elaborated in his doctoral curriculum vitae how he pursued classical studies secretly with two local Jewish physicians, as well as how he was discovered, rebuked, and finally expelled from his yeshiva. “Pressburg’s sky was at that time overcast with deep, mystical darkness ... the Enlightenment was seen as a rebel, as a mortal enemy of religion”.27 By the time Armin Schnitzer (1836–1919) started his studies, his father could tell him that Hungarian yeshivot are “hotbeds of obscure fanaticism, blocked from the faintest reflections of secular knowledge. You shall go to Moravia, where one can become a strong Talmudist and still a scientifically educated person.” Opting for one of these educational provinces meant following a geographical choice of deep cultural significance: “The choice was between Prague and Pressburg.”28 Löb Schwab, Hirsch Fassel, Leopold Löw, Joseph Weisse, and other Moravian Talmudists created the modern rabbinical office in Hungary, the Hungarian

25 Eisik Hirsch Weiss, ‫זכרונותי מילדותי עד מלאת לי שמנים שנה‬, ed. Y. Ginzburg (Warsaw: Bobroysk, 1895); German translation of the first chapters: Meine Lehrjahre: aus den hebräischen Erinnerungen des Verfassers, translated by Moritz Zobel (Berlin: Schocken, 1936); Adolf Ehrentheil, “Lose Blätter aus den Memoiren eines Bochurs,” Pascheles’ Illustrirter Volkskalender 5623 (Prague: Samuel W. Pascheles & Sohn, 1862), 37–46; 5624 (ibid., 1863), 25–62; 5625 (ibid., 1864), 27–48; Ignaz Briess, Schilderungen aus dem Prerauer Ghettoleben vom Jahre 1838 bis 1848, 2nd ed. (Brno: Hickl, 1912). 26 Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant, 533–542, especially 536–537; see also Michael L. Miller, Rabbis and Revolution: The Jews of Moravia in the Age of Emancipation (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011), 91–93. 27 Jena, Universitätsarchiv. M 379. 186. “Preßburgs Himmel umschattete damals eine tiefe, mystische Finsterniß ... Aufklärung wurde in Preßburg als eine Ruhestörerin, als eine Todfeindin der Religion betrachtet”; cf. Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant, 241. 28 Das Abendland 1 (1864): 20; Armin Schnitzer, Jüdische Kulturbilder (Aus meinem Leben) (Vienna: Beck, 1904), 38. There is a recent Hungarian translation, titled Zsidó kultúrképek (Az életemből), translated by Mihály Riszovannij, Komárno (Slovakia): Komáromi Zsidó Hitközség, 2015.

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sermon, the scholarly journal Ben-Chananja, and the early Neolog movement. 29 But they could neither establish a replica of Moravian cultural compromise nor influence the Orthodox majority, which henceforth defined itself in opposition to most of their cultural innovations.30 In 1858, Löw observed that the situation derived from the import of modern religious ideas brought Hungarian Orthodoxy to a far more irreconcilable stance, so that the rift between both currents was widening, and both sides were becoming eager to burn bridges.31 Moravian rabbinical students flocked to Hungary during the second quarter of the nineteenth century not only because it offered professional perspectives and intact, community-funded yeshivot in their traditional form. While in the Austrian lands a Hofdekret of 1820 asked for “philosophical studies” from rabbis, high school admission included an age limit of fifteen years. It seems that Zacharias Frankel was the first to find out that in Hungary, “school laws were not implemented so strictly.” He stayed in Pest for eight years between 1825 and 1832 and was probably the first modern rabbi to acquire some part of his academic training in Hungary.32 Other young Talmudists of the Czech lands in search of a Hungarian high school diploma normally did not choose Pest, but the Protestant gymnasiums of the western Slovak region, in the cities of Pressburg, Komárom, Modor [Modra], Trencsén [Trenčín], and Vágújhely [Nové Mesto nad Váhom]. Though the language of these schools was German, the intercultural character of the region was undeniable. For example, the Bohemian student Isak Schidloff came from the yeshiva in Pressburg to the gymnasium in Modor, where he received private lessons from the director Karol Štúr (1811–1851), an outstanding Slovak cultural activist. He then completed his studies at the gymnasium in Nikolsburg [Mikulov].33

29 They were followed by the Bohemians Moses Bloch and Wolf Alois Meisel; Ujvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon, 129–130, 262, 543–544, 585, 770–771, 959–960. 30 Pilpul and torah lishmah, the ideal of the learned private scholar, were reintroduced by Moses Sofer’s son, the Ktav Sofer. Structured secular studies remained anathema. Still, in 1884, a delegation of Orthodox rabbis stood up against a Hungarian law that asked every candidate for a rabbinical post to master the equivalent of four high school classes. It was accepted that baḥurim acquire their knowledge privately and pass an external exam; Fuks, ‫ישיבות הונגריה‬, 50–51, 55. 31 Leopold Löw, “Neuester Fortschritt der jüdisch-theologischen Studien in Ungarn: Die Lehranstalt für die Rabbinats-Kandidaten zu Eisenstadt,” Ben Chananja 1 (1858): 241–257, here 246. 32 Markus Brann, Wie Zacharias Frankel nach Teplitz kam (Berlin: Löwit, 1917), 4–5; Andreas Brämer, Rabbiner Zacharias Frankel: Wissenschaft des Judentums und konservative Reform im 19. Jahrhundert (Hildesheim: Olms, 2000), 40, 359; Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant, 555. 33 Vienna, Allgemeines Verwaltungsarchiv, Studien-Hofkommission 14 A, Rabbiner, May 5, 1846.



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In Hungary, the state hardly interfered in the qualification of rabbis, but in 1832, the statutes of the Pest community asked for academic studies from any future rabbi or preacher. A decade later, regional authorities sometimes improvised philosophical exams with newly-appointed rabbis.34 These new cultural demands, though rather unofficially stated, prompted a small minority of Hungarian-born rabbinical candidates to imitate the curriculum invented by the Bohemians and Moravians. Mayer Zipser from Balassagyarmat went to Moravia and returned to Hungary in 1838 equipped with a secular education. Salomon Schiller-Szinessy, later the rabbi of Manchester, was a visiting student in 1840– 1844 at what was then called Pest University.35 His choice remained exceptional, as most of the young modernists looked for universities abroad where a rabbinical framing of their studies could be guaranteed. Even for Hungarian Jewish theological candidates, Pest was less attractive than Prague or even such a faraway place as Padua, the seat of the monarchy’s only rabbinical seminary.36 After the 1849 repression of the Hungarian revolt, the Austrian policies of Germanization indirectly enhanced the impact of the German-Jewish model. This was manifested by the invitation and hiring of German rabbis from all religious currents, the rise of a German-language Jewish press and a modern-style school system, and finally in the appeal the Doktorrabbiner career model exerted on Hungarian Talmudic students, especially on those coming from the northwestern border region. At the time when Samson Raphael Hirsch was the Moravian chief rabbi, these students would often start at the Nikolsburg [Mikulov] gymnasium and subsequently move to the universities of Vienna or Prague, where support from local Jewish communities, preachers, and rabbis could be expected. Chief Rabbi Salomon Leib Rapoport of Prague and preacher Isaac Noah Mannheimer of Vienna organized tutoring and even regular classes for young theologians, and the Viennese preacher Adolf Jellinek opened an academy of modern rabbinical studies in 1857 called the “Bet Midrash” in a vain attempt to enlist the support of

34 An exam was held in 1843 with Moses Nascher, a Moravian who became a rabbi in Liptószentmiklós [Liptovský Mikuláš] and received certificates for his knowledge of philosophy from the Protestant district council in Eperjes [Prešov] and pedagogy from the teachers’ seminary in Szepes [Spiš]; Brocke and Carlebach, eds. Biographisches Handbuch der Rabbiner. I.2 678 (documents discovered in Brno by Michael L. Miller). 35 Ujvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon, 772, 974. 36 Leopold Lazar Horovitz, a disciple of the Sofer yeshiva born in 1799, took private lessons with teachers of the gymnasium and then attended the universities of Prague and Padua. He later became a teacher in Szeged. Wilhelm Joseffy (1825–1910), a graduate from an eastern Hungarian yeshivot, studied at the Protestant college of Sárospatak and the University of Halle before obtaining his doctorate in Padua. See Ujvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon, 380, 423.

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the Orthodox.37 In both cities, the universities had hired Jewish faculty members who officially (as in Prague) or unofficially (as in Vienna) took the young theologians under their protection.38 Jakob Heinrich Hirschfeld (1819–1902) of Sasvár [Šaštín], who had studied in Vienna, may have been the first Hungarian-born Doktorrabbiner when he assumed the rabbinical office in Szenice [Senica] in 1855 and in Pécs in 1858. After his transfer to Augsburg in 1863, he inaugurated the impressive line of academically trained Hungarian rabbis officiating in Germany.39 The generational change in the Hungarian rabbinate mainly profited from foreign centers of scholarship. Pest, as previously mentioned, lacked an appropriate rabbinic-academic infrastructure. In the early 1860s, modest circles of Talmudic study existed with a traditional focus at the Hevrat Shas, led by Simon Bacher, Wilhelm Bacher’s father, and with a modern orientation at the revived Talmud Torah school, where in 1863 Chief Rabbi Wolf Meisel tried to emulate Vienna with teaching activities oriented towards the Wissenschaft des Judentums.40 Wilhelm Bacher enrolled at Pest University in 1867, while joining with the young Ignaz Goldziher the small study circle in the house of the semi-modern community dayan Samuel Löw Brill.41 At that time, however, even modern Orthodox candidates such as the disciples of Azriel Hildesheimer’s yeshiva in Eisenstadt preferred to travel westward to obtain their academic qualification, if not for their professional careers as well. The examples of David Hoffmann (1843– 1916), Markus Horovitz (1844–1910), the later Orthodox rabbi of Frankfurt, and even more significantly, Salomon Breuer, show a common itinerary leading from the Pressburg yeshiva to Vienna or university cities in Germany, where orthodox rabbis had sanctioned and guided the academic studies of their modernist disciples since the early post-Napoleonic years.

37 Peter Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien: ihre Ausbildung, ihre religiösen und nationalen Konflikte (Wien: Böhlau, 1997). 38 Hungarian rabbinical students in Prague during the mid-nineteenth century include Meyer Austerlitz, Samuel Löw Brill, Moritz Friedländer, Adolf Hübsch, Markus Hirsch, Moritz Klein, Lazar Pollak, Samuel Spitzer, see Ujvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon, 70, 139, 294, 365, 382, 489, 715, 803. 39 Most Hungarian rabbinical students in Vienna did not return to Hungary, including Joachim Jakob Unger, Meir Friedmann, Adolf Singer, Markus Hirsch Friedländer, Leopold Donath, and Julius David; Ujvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon, 188, 206, 296, 925. 40 Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant, 607. 41 Raphael Patai, “Wilhelm Bacher,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger, 151; Kinga Frojimovics et al., Jewish Budapest: Monuments, Rites, History (Budapest: CEU Press, 1999), 113–114.



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The cross-cultural experience of the student population that moved from Hungarian yeshivot to Jellinek’s Vienna circle is well depicted in the memoirs of David Leimdörfer (1851–1922), who eventually became a Reform rabbi in one of the most liberal communities of Germany, the Hamburg Temple. In an ironic yet sympathetic way, Leimdörfer describes his early youth as a succession of formative experiences with Talmudic teachers, who presided over his personal development like monarchs. What he transmits are mainly anecdotes and witty puns, but he honored his education in the Vác yeshiva as the start of a “strenuously systematic and continuous work on my intellect.”42 He studied at the Franciscan gymnasium of Zsolna [Žilina] (in northwestern Slovakia) and, during the same years, with the local Rabbi Joseph Grunbaum, an arch-traditionalist who rebuked him when he prepared for his Latin lessons (while the hapless student risked his father’s beatings when he did not). His subsequent master, Moses Neubauer, in Kotteso [Kutas/Kotešová], expressed his uncertain self-awareness of being an old Orthodox mentor of modern students with the ironic phrase “I don’t like to see theologians in my home, that’s why I don’t have any mirrors here.”43 And his yeshiva director, Scholom Ullmann of Vác, who decided his further career, judged Hildesheimer’s neo-Orthodox yeshiva in Eisenstadt too progressive, and Leimdörfer was sent to Pressburg—a counterproductive decision because under the sway of this school’s polarizing traditionalism, the young man soon started to rebel. In hindsight, Leimdörfer has overstressed the logic that provoked his biographical rupture with Orthodoxy, but he remembers his search for a balance between the modern system of Jewish knowledge, still very much in flux, and the traditional parameters. While the students and their parents sought compromise, most yeshiva teachers strongly objected to this aspiration. Leimdörfer became known in biblical research, while many rabbis of his generation who shared his anti-traditionalist leanings hardly produced any scholarly works besides their dissertations. Even the most venerated Central European rabbis often generated merely homiletic and pedagogical output. One such example is Markus Hirsch (1833–1909) from Óbuda, who had studied in Prague in 1853–1856 and later became Rapoport’s successor at the Bohemian capital’s chief rabbinate. In a confidential recommendation, the German-born rabbi Meyer Kayserling of Budapest poignantly described him in these terms: “Hirsch is not a Rapoport as far as scholarship and criticism are concerned, but as a rabbi, he will

42 David Leimdörfer, Aus meinem Jugendleben: meine Lehrer Israel I., Josef II., Moses Ill., Friedrich IV (Frankfurt: Kaufmanns Buchhandlung, 1910), 20. 43 Leimdörfer, Aus meinem Jugendleben, 11.

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certainly do honor to the Prague Jewish community.”44 For Central Europeans, being a rabbi meant a professional profile in which Wissenschaft des Judentums belonged at most to a passing stage of university training. Austrian universities did not even demand a dissertation from their doctoral graduates until 1872.45 The initiation into scientific research as part of the rabbinical profession cannot be attributed to a cultural background, but required personal interest, a peculiar perception of professional duties, and appropriate mentors. Only the foundation of the German seminaries provided Hungarian students with guidance and role models in this direction. Joseph Perles (1835–1894), the earliest Hungarian student at the Breslau Seminary, joined this institution one year after its opening in 1854 and was strongly influenced by the examples of Zacharias Frankel and Heinrich Graetz. Hungarian students, who made up eleven percent of the Breslau seminarists, contributed to the international character of the German rabbinical seminaries: only about sixty percent of the Breslau students and some forty percent among those of the Berlin Orthodox Rabbinerseminar came from the German Empire. Most of the 185 Hungarian students of these three German institutions became rabbis with a German doctoral degree, and thirty-one even made some sort of a university career. While sixty-two among the 185 never went back to Hungary, eighteen had professional trajectories on both sides, and only a minority of forty-seven returned for good to their home country. Not included in Lengyel’s study are the Orthodox Hungarian students who bypassed the seminaries on their trips to Germany and imitated the direct encounter with the university that is characteristic of the early history of the modern rabbinate. A good example is Adolf Altmann, whose doctoral study in Bern was made possible by his German-language elementary and secondary schooling in his native Szepes (Spiš) County. He had studied the Talmud in Hunsdorf (Hunfalva) and then at the Pressburg Yeshiva, which due to its “slightly more Western orientation—induced by the proximity of Vienna—served many of its students as a gateway to a career in western European communities.46 While Altmann always felt more comfortable with German than Hungarian, other non-seminary candidates obtained their German doctoral titles despite their evident linguistic and academic shortcomings.47

44 Prague, Židovské Muzeum, no. 128.402, 629; cf. Brocke and Carlebach, eds., Biographisches Handbuch der Rabbiner, Vol. II,1, 280. 45 Ibid., vol. II.2. 571. 46 Alexander Altmann, “Adolf Altmann (1879–1944): A Filial Memoir,” Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 26 (1981): 145–167; see 145–147. 47 Carsten Wilke, “Rabbinerpromotionen an der Philosophischen Fakultat der Universität HalleWittenberg. 1845–1895,” in Jüdische Bildung und Kultur in Sachsen-Anhalt von der Aufklärung



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Though the impossibility of imposing scientific standards on all rabbinical graduates was particularly clear in Hungary, the curriculum and teaching level of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary was meant to be a faithful copy of the German seminaries’ emphasis on textual competence and scientific analysis. Hardly any Hungarian scholars took part in the international correspondence to decide the nature of the curriculum and the nominations. Two of the founding professors, Wilhelm Bacher and David Kaufmann, had acquired their qualifications at the Breslau Seminary and did their best to impose its spirit on the bokhers who flocked to their classes from the rural Hungarian yeshivot. In a commemorative biography (1936) of Lajos Blau, Rector of the Seminary, Sámuel Lőwinger examines the laureate’s youth and the complex world of traditional Hungarian Jewry from which he had emerged.48 He had been educated in a yeshiva milieu, and in 1878, he replicated Leimdörfer’s situation: his rabbi dissuaded him from going to the Hildesheimer Seminary in Berlin and instead sent him to Pressburg where the Talmudic exclusivity of yeshiva study left young Lajos dissatisfied. “Even in the particularly Jewish fields of learning, there cannot be any correct understanding if the history and culture of the neighboring non-Jewish nations are not taken into account.” Blau abandoned the yeshiva method and joined the student body of the recently-created Neolog Rabbinical Seminary, where under the guidance of Bloch, Bacher, and Kaufmann he became “a scholar in the true sense of the word.”49 Yeshiva learning, according to Lőwinger, proved to be useful though insufficient preparation for scientific research on rabbinical literature. But at the same time, the 1936 biography insists on the strong line of continuity in Blau’s itinerary. He brought with him from the yeshiva a beqi’ut, that is, a comprehensive material knowledge of the rabbinical corpus, which proved to be convertible into a perfect database for historical study. Moreover, having learned to study the Gemara in the traditional dialectic way, he “penetrated into the depths of the debates and problems, without which it is impossible to enter the true structure of the ancient Hebrew literature.” Lőwinger concludes that the yeshiva experience was indeed

bis zum Nationalsozialismus, ed. Giuseppe Veltri and Christian Wiese (Berlin: Metropol. 2009), 261–315, here 282, 288. 48 Sámuel Lőwinger, “Dr Blau Lajos élete és irodalmi munkássága, I: Blau Lajos élete” [Dr Lajos Blau’s Life and Literary Work, I: Lajos Blau’s Life], Évkönyv, kiadja az Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat (Budapest: IMIT, 1936), 11–19; Hebrew translation: “,‫ תולדות חייו ופעולתו המדעית‬,‫פרופ' יהודה אריה בלוי‬ ‫א) תולדות יהודה אריה בלוי‬,” in Zikhron Jehuda, Tanulmányok Dr. Blau Lajos (1861–1936) a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző lntézet néhai igazgatójanak emlékére (Budapest: Országos Rabbiképző lntézet, 1938), Hebrew part, 7–11. 49 Lőwinger, “Dr Blau Lajos élete,” 13–14.

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indispensable for Blau’s profound and appropriate understanding of the Talmud, which he approached not just as any object of scientific study, but as an intellectual technique and a culture of debate that involves the student personally. The potential synergies and pitfalls of the conversion experience from yeshiva to seminary are also a recurrent theme in the memoirs that another early student of the seminary, Bertalan Kohlbach (1866–1944), published in Hungarian in 1918.50 The Rabbinical Seminary itself still resembled a yeshiva in the 1880s when Kohlbach enrolled in its classes. “Many students had come from yeshivot,” and some had already acquired an outstanding Talmudic preparation, even a rabbinical ordination. “Soon the well-practiced minds transformed the first-rate Talmudists into brilliant seminarians.” But those Talmud students who transgressed the ban Orthodoxy had placed upon the seminary passed the point of no return, and their former co-disciples would not even greet them at the synagogue. At the Rabbinical Seminary, they mingled with Neolog students who came from gymnasiums without previous Talmudic study. In this respect, the situation in Budapest was similar to that of the rabbinical seminaries in Germany, where only the so-called “Ostjuden” attained the necessary level of proficiency in the Jewish texts, according to Willy Cohn, a teacher at the Breslau Seminary. “An Ostjude who arrived at the seminary had generally more Hebrew knowledge than the Westjude when he left it after six or seven years of study.”51 Counting with both cultural groups in one country, Hungary showed a much more intense mutual influence between the products of secular and of Jewish-Orthodox education. Baḥurim and high school students emulated each other in Talmudic knowledge, and both rivaled the Orthodox in terms of piety, as Kohlbach writes. “We, whom the Orthodox had damned, wanted to show that we were as pious as the most devout baḥur in Paks or Pressburg.”52 The interaction between both groups at the Rabbinical Seminary adhered to rather unexpected patterns. It was precisely the high school students who were filled with awe at their new religious environment and tried to live up to it, whereas the former baḥurim saw it as a secular world. “In the yeshivot the Seminary was regarded as the house of sin, the very antechamber of hell.” Some had internalized this disdain, and consequently, they behaved negligently in their religious attitudes

50 Kohlbach, “The First Decade,” translated by Andrew Handler, in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger, 54–67. See 55–56 (first published in Hungarian in Évkönyv [Budapest: Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1918], 66–88). 51 Willy Cohn, Verwehte Spuren: Erinnerungen an das Breslauer Judentum vor seinem Untergang (Köln: Böhlau, 1995), 469–470; Lengyel, Moderne Rabbinerausbildung, 142. 52 Kohlbach, “The First Decade,” 55.



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and practices. In other words, moving from the gymnasium to the seminary had connotations of religious revival, while moving from the yeshiva to the seminary was inversely seen as a secularization leap. The teachers’ strategy in this situation was to attract the attention of both groups by integrating their respective knowledge into a very wide panorama of human culture. Students had to accept and appreciate their own incongruous situation between yeshiva and gymnasium as a privileged blueprint of a synthetic European civilization. The Greek teacher added an ardent defense of cultural hybridity that, according to Kohlbach, made a deep impression on the students. Almost immediately we began to grasp the broad spectrum of universal culture, and perceived that Greek, Roman, and Jewish cultures were its components [...] We realized that the spirit of Europe was the result of the fusion of the Old Testament, Jewish religion, morality and sense of responsibility, on the one hand, and Greek kalokagathia [harmonious personality], Greek philosophy, and the Greek quest for justice, on the other. We observed that out of this Jewish-Greek soil grew, through the ages, the new trees, the most beautiful flowers and the most succulent fruits of the creative spirit. In our school the eyes of the baḥurim, inexperienced in worldly matters, opened to the unknown things of beauty.53

Historians of the Rabbinical Seminary were proud to announce that the institution had generated its own faculty. “All of the professors of that period had studied in foreign institutions, all of the teachers of the second generation were graduates of our seminary in Budapest,” writes Imre Benoschofsky.54 However, rabbinic education never actually became autonomous, as seminarists who arrived at the Rabbinical Seminary at the age of sixteen or seventeen often had completed a yeshiva curriculum already. Of the last two seminary directors before the Holocaust, Mihály Guttmann had studied at yeshivot in Bonyhád and Pressburg before enrolling at the Rabbinical Seminary at the age of twenty-three.55 Sámuel Lőwinger, who was born in Debrecen, also came to Budapest only after having received previous training at yeshivot. All but twenty-seven of the 3,189 pre-World War I students of the Rabbinical Seminary—that is, more than ninety-nine percent—were Hungarians. This was a sharp contrast with the German seminaries where almost every other student was a foreigner. The German-Hungarian student exchange that emerged in the field of the Science of Judaism was thus strictly unidirectional and rather limited. On the whole, thirty-nine students studied at Hungarian as well as German rab-

53 Imre Benoschofsky, “The Second Era,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. CarmillyWeinberger, 68–92; quote from 70. 54 Benoschofsky, “The Second Era,” 68. 55 Carmilly-Weinberger, “One Hundred Years,” 29.

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binical institutions. Twenty-four Budapest seminarists also attended the Breslau Seminary, fifteen studied in Berlin, three in Vienna, and one in Oxford. In short, the Rabbinical Seminary maintained a remarkable openness towards students of widely different social and cultural backgrounds, but it was almost hermetically sealed in a geopolitical sense. The obvious reason was its adoption of Hungarian as the major teaching language. Its Magyarizing policy, corresponding to its political status as a state institution, isolated it in the Jewish world. Was this disadvantage counterbalanced by an insertion in the local academic environment? One fundamental structural pattern that the Rabbinical Seminary inherited from Breslau was that it required all students to enroll in the parallel academic curriculum in the Humanities at the local university and to graduate with a Doctorate of Philosophy. These university studies became a duty as well as a right for the seminarists by virtue of the by-laws of the institution, which were passed with the approval of the Ministry of Religions and Education, as well as the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Budapest (renamed Pázmány Péter University in 1921 and Eötvös Loránd University in 1950). When the model became operative, it had already been practiced for decades in Germany and Austria. In Breslau and Berlin, the seminary faculty guided most of the rabbinical candidates in their choice of classes and the subjects for their theses and exams, though there was no institutional and hardly any unofficial coordination with the professors in Philosophy and Oriental Studies who were their main academic mentors. The scholarly development of most students was thus supervised, monitored, and accredited by two different institutions. The final exam was even outsourced to a third school in the frequent cases when the candidates obtained their doctoral degrees from another university where fees were lower. As in all seminary cities, the rabbinical candidates formed a majority among the doctoral students in Oriental Studies, the attitude of the faculty being polarized even before the rise of antisemitism.56 The situation was slightly different in Prague, Vienna, and Leipzig where the universities had hired Jewish scholars among their regular faculty in Oriental Studies. In Berlin, Jewish students often turned to the ethnopsychologists Heymann Steinthal and Moritz Lazarus. The cooperation between the Rabbinical Seminary and the Budapest Philosophical Faculty was formalized in appropriate terms, but were the expectations behind these arrangements fulfilled? The reconstruction of the seminarists’ studies at the Faculty is difficult due to the fact that the university’s archival collections from the Dualist period were all destroyed due to a fire that broke out in the Hungarian National Archives (Magyar Országos Levéltár) during the fights of

56 Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant, 426–430, 576–579.



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1956. Most of the files from World War II and the late 1930s are lost as well. The interwar archives, that were studied by Judit Horváth, reveal the professors’ consistently hostile, and often outright antisemitic, attitude towards Jewish students in general and rabbinical candidates in particular.57 That the Horthy period was not exceptional in this respect is suggested by one of the few remaining sources on the seminarists’ university studies, namely the doctoral dissertations they had to present in print. The chronology of the 283 theses that were defended by Rabbinical Seminary students at Budapest University shows from its inception in 1881 a continuous growth up to a peak in 1893 and then a slow but steady decline,58 a curve that translates the impact of secularization and can be observed in parallel to rabbinical studies in Germany.59 From 1920, however, the situation in Hungary is singularized by the sudden drop in student numbers due to the Numerus Clausus Law, which barred most Jewish youth from enrolling in academic institutions. In 1926, the Rabbinical Seminary regained a special permit for its students to enroll in narrowly circumscribed disciplines outside the quota. This in turn attracted an important number of candidates between 1930 and 1944 who found in rabbinical training the only academic career path open to them. The history of “doctor rabbi” graduation in Hungary is therefore split into two almost equal halves: 139 doctorates were earned before, eight during, and 135 after the Numerus Clausus period. The Department of Oriental Studies was the seminarists’ traditional (and, from 1926, exclusive) institutional and thematic anchorage at Budapest University. The incumbent of the professorship there, Ármin Vámbéry (1832–1913), was

57 Judit Horváth, “Az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet és Bölcsészettudományi Kar kapcsolata a két világháború között” [The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest and its Relation with the Philosophical Faculty between the Two World Wars], in Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviselete (MIOK) Évkönyv 1981–1982 (1982), 227–235; Ead., “The Seminary and the Budapest University,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger, 106–112. 58 See “Doctoral Theses,” in The Rabbinical Seminary, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger, 321–332. Twenty-two Rabbinical Seminary students obtained doctorates in Philosophy at Budapest University during the decade of 1880–1889, fifty-seven in 1890–1899, thirty-one in 1900–1909, twenty-nine in 1910–1919, eight in 1920–1929, eighty-five in 1930–1939, and fifty-one in 1940–1944. The following remarks are based on a sample of eighty of these doctoral theses kept at the Oriental Collection of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, partly bound in alphabetical order in the collection Hebraeica: Doctori értekezések. [Hebraica: Doctoral Theses] (702/952–957, last volume lost). I thank the curator of the Oriental Collection, Dr. Balázs Tamási, for his kind help. 59 I base this observation on a non-exhaustive perusal of the Jahresverzeichnis der an den deutschen Universitäten erschienenen Schriften, ed. Königliche Bibliothek zu Berlin, 1 (1885/86) to 51 (1935).

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an expert on Turkic languages. The chair of Semitic Studies, established in 1873,60 had initially been earmarked for Ignaz Goldziher, but Minister Ágoston Trefort eventually gave it to Péter Hatala (1832–1918), a Catholic theologian who had run into conflict with his colleagues because of his opposition to the Infallibility Dogma of the Vatican Council. Since the University wanted to avoid a dogmatic split inside the Faculty of Theology but still owed Hatala a position, it moved him to the Semitic chair at the Faculty of Humanities, which he kept for more than thirty years until his retirement in 1905.61 This political appointment of a man who had hardly any qualifications in the field he was supposed to teach was not only a professional catastrophe for Goldziher, it also had long-term repercussions for cooperation between Oriental and Rabbinical Studies in Hungary. To be sure, the Rabbinical Seminary students tried to copy the harmony achieved in Vienna, and the first theses that were defended at Budapest University bore joint dedications to their Jewish and Christian teachers. Ede Neumann, in 1883, dedicated his study on the Muslim Joseph legends to Vámbéry and to Goldziher “as a token of affection and gratitude,” and he had it published by the University Press with flowery thanks to Minister Trefort for the support received from public funds. Mór Rosenstein, in 1885, refers jointly to Hatala and Kaufmann as his mentors and dedicates his thesis to the former.62 Lajos Blau’s thesis was edited in the Hungarian jurists’ journal, others by the printing presses of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences or the Sárospataki Református Kollégium [Calvinist Theological College of Sárospatak].63

60 Gábor Terebess, “Hungarian Oriental Studies,” http://terebcss.hulenglishlorient.html. 61 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 75–76; Róbert Simon, Ignác Goldziher: His Life and Scholarship as Reflected in his Works and Correspondence (Budapest: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 1986), 49–51. 62 Ede Neumann, A Muhammedán József-monda eredete és fejlődése [The Origin and Development of the Muslim Joseph Legend] (Budapest: Kir. Egyetemi Könyvnyomda, 1883), fol. IIr; Mór Rosenstein, Maimuni és az Iszlám [Maimonides and Islam] (Budapest: Franklin-Társulat, 1885), 3. There is a handwritten dedication to Hatala in the MTA copy of Zsigmond Goldberger, A Targumokról általában különös tekintettel Echa Targumára: Adalék az exegesis történetéhez [On the Targums in General, with Special Reference to the Targum of Lamentations: Contributions to the History of Exegesis] (Budapest: K. Adler és T. Nal., 1893). 63 Gyula Fischer, Jehuda ben Saul Ibn Tibbon: adalék a középkori zsidó irodalom történetéhez [Judah ben Saul Ibn Tibbon: Contributions to the History of Medieval Jewish Literature] (Budapest: Magyar Tudómanyos Akadémia, 1885); József Bárány, Salamon ibn Gabirol (Avicebron) mint exegeta [Solomon Ibn Gabirol (Avicebron) as an Exegete] (Sárospatak: Steinfeld Béla a ref. főiskola betűivel, 1885); Lajos Blau, A bűnhalmazat elmélete a hébereknél szent-irásuk és hagyományuk szerint [The Commission of Several Crimes by the Same Act among the Hebrews According to their Holy Scriptures and their Traditions] (Budapest: Hungaria, 1887); cf. Lőwinger, 9.



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However, this cooperation with the Philosophical Faculty seems to have eroded in the wake of the strong showing of the National Antisemitic Party in the parliamentary elections of June 1884, which for Hungarian Jewry in general, as Jacob Katz has remarked aptly, “halted the process of integration that had followed emancipation.”64 While the students of the Rabbinical Seminary could not be deprived of legal permission to study and earn doctorates, they were apparently not entitled to earn further university honors, and they no longer posed publicly as Hatala’s or Vámbéry’s disciples. Henceforth, their dissertations, published in some printing-shop of the Jewish business district or by the big publishing-house “Athenaeum,” hardly ever mention their university teachers, while heaping lavish praise upon the Rabbinical Seminary faculty and upon David Kaufmann in particular, who readily exploited his international network of correspondents in order to obtain the literature and manuscript readings that his students needed.65 After Kaufmann’s demise, Wilhelm Bacher inherited the supervision of the Jewish doctoral students’ research. Bertalan Edelstein thanks Bacher “for giving me the idea of this study, for encouraging me to elaborate it, as well as for the countless pieces of advice with which he has generously supported my work during its composition.”66 Obviously, Hatala only had to sign the doctoral certificate. Manó Lenke marks in his thesis the memorable date of May 13, 1891 from which Goldziher, first as an outside lecturer and then as an associate professor, was allowed to teach Hebrew and Arabic philology alongside Hatala in the Hungarian language.67 Bacher and Goldziher, known as personal enemies, are now the couple of “beloved teachers” that rabbinical candidates most frequently extol in their dissertations.68 After 1905, when Goldziher finally succeeded Hatala,

64 Jacob Katz, From Prejudice to Destruction: Anti-Semitism, 1700–1933 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980), 278. 65 Fischer, Jehuda ben Saul Ibn Tibbon, 15; Bertalan Kohlbach, Jehuda Ibn Balam: XI. századbeli philologus élete és munkái [Judah Ibn Balam: Life and Works of an Eleventh-Century Philologist] (Budapest: Franklin-Társulat, 1888), 37. 66 Bertalan Edelstein, Az Eszter-midrások [The Midrashim on Esther] (Budapest: Neumayer, 1900), 6; Mór Niedermann, A Vulgata viszonya az agádához és Targumokhoz [The Relationship of the Vulgate to the Aggadah and the Targums] (Budapest: Neuwald Illés, 1915). Instead of a dedication to Bacher, there is an opening quote from his work in Bernát Heller, Az evangeliumi parabola viszonya az aggádához [The Relationship of the Gospel Parable to the Aggadah] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1894), 3. 67 Manó Lenke, A fenicziai nyelv és emlékei [The Phoenician Language and its Literary Monuments] (Budapest: Propper, 1892), 3. 68 Dezső Klein, Joel és Ámosz próféták könyveinek arab forditása névtelen szerzőtől a Codex Huntington 206. alapján, kiadta és jegyzetekkel ellátta [An Anonymous Arabic Translation of the Books of Joel and Amos from Codex Huntington 206, Edited and Annotated] (Budapest: Athe-

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rabbinical students could enjoy the support of a committed mentor at the university for fifteen years. How systematically Goldziher organized their studies is manifested in a series of at least ten dissertations all devoted to text editions from the Judeo-Arabic exegetical corpus of Yusuf al-Basir, a manuscript from the Kaufmann Collection, which students were asked to compare to a manuscript Hebrew translation that the Leiden University Library had lent to Budapest. All specimens of this industrial thesis writing were dedicated to Kaufmann’s memory and mention Goldziher’s guiding hand. The authors give further credit to Rabbinical Seminary teacher Lajos Blau, as well as to the Rabbinical Seminary librarian, Miksa Weisz.69 The only non-Jews credited are the University librarians who assisted by storing and distributing the borrowed manuscript from Leiden.70 In Goldziher’s later years, dissertations often bear dedications to him71 and display the prizes and awards of the Rabbinical Seminary on their cover.72 Surpris-

naeum, 1897), 8; Gyula Friedmann, Obadja, Jóna, Micha és Nachum próféták könyveinek arab forditása névtelen szerzőtől: a Codex Huntington 206 alapján [An Anonymous Arabic Translation of the Books of Obadia, Jonah, Michah, and Nachum from Codex Huntington 206] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1901), 5. 69 Bound together in one volume under the title as Júszuf al-Baszir vonatkozású disszertációk [Dissertations Relating to Yusuf al-Basir] at the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, sign. 702,959. See also Mózes Junger, József ibn Caddik Széfer Hamuszorja a Magyar Tudományos Akadémia birtokában levő Kaufmann Dávid féle könyvtár (292 sz.) kézirat gyűjteményéből, első izben kiadta, bevezetéssel és a források kimutatásával ellátta [Joseph Ibn Tsadik’s Sefer ha-Musar, First Edited from the Manuscript Kaufmannn 292 in the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, with an Introduction and Source References] (Vác: Kohn Mór, 1908); Chaim Henrik Kis, Gáoni responsumok a M. Tud. Akadémia könyvtárának arab és héber kéziratai (Kaufmann-Alapitvány 593/C 1. 2. sz.) alapján [Gaonic Responsa from the Arabic and Hebrew Manuscript Collection (Kaufmann 583/C 1–2) of the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1912), 4. 70 Andor Goldberger, Juszuf al-Baszir, ‘Al kitâb al-muhtavî’ című munkájának XXIII. fejezete és szemelvények a XIX., XXII., XXIV. fejezetekből, Tóbia Ben Mózes héber fordításával [Yusuf al-Basir’s al-Kitab al-Muhtavi, chapter 23 and specimens from chapters 19. 22, and 24] (Budapest: Kégl könyvtár, 1906). 71 Ignác Schreiber, Pseudo-Aristoteles Liber de causis: Zerachja b. Izsák által eszközölt héber fordításának kritikai összehasonlítása az arab eredetivel, a latin és a többi héber fordítások figyelembevételével, a M. Tud. Akad. Könyvtára Kaufmann-alapítványának 284 sz. kézirata alapján [A Critical Comparison of Zerachiah ben Isaac’s Hebrew Translation of Pseudo-Aristotle’s Liber de Causis with the Arabic Original with Reference to the Latin and Other Hebrew Translations, on the Basis of ms. 284 of the Kaufmann Collection in the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1916), 3, 6. 72 Niedermann, A Vulgata viszonya, adds in 1915 to his dissertation title: A Budapesti Országos Rabbiképző Intézetben pályadíjjal jutalmazott mű [A Study Distinguished with the Achievement Award of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary].



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ingly, the years that in hindsight may appear as the golden age of Seminary-University cooperation left nothing but bitterness on both sides. The great Arabist despised the seminarists, whose lackluster academic studies now stood under his protection, just as he despised the Rabbinical Seminary that had ostracized him for decades. On August 18, 1916, he noted in his diary that the seminarists planned a student strike against him in protest against the severity with which he enforced his exceedingly difficult, far-fetched, and utterly useless Arabist topics. He noted on June 18, 1917, the day of “a scandalous doctoral defense by a seminary bokher,” that these young men were all “impertinent ignoramuses” and that any antisemite could justly accuse him of felony and confessional partisanship, as he let even these hopeless cases pass with academic honors.73 Goldziher did not know that he shared the same indulgence with his non-Jewish colleagues in Halle and other German universities, who also graduated the baḥurim almost to a man. Considering the dilemma of the modern rabbi, who needed a scientific title for his public standing, but no scientific qualification for his daily practice, it was pardonable that not all students took their Semitic Studies seriously. For many of them, Orthodox as well as Neologs, scientific research was merely a strategy of legitimization that they discontinued once the university degree was earned. Occasionally the polyglot and eloquent orator-rabbi of the Austro-Hungarian tradition challenged outright the Prussian ideal of the scholar-rabbi. Much to Goldziher’s indignation, Simon Hevesi, a Rabbinical Seminary graduate and community rabbi of Pest, proclaimed that a rabbi did not need science, but only Hungarian preaching skills.74 After Goldziher’s death, the few doctoral students of the Numerus Clausus years renewed the tradition of crediting their Rabbinical Seminary teachers Lajos Blau, Bernát Heller, and Miksa Weisz for recommending research topics, as well as providing documentary assistance and academic supervision, while never acknowledging even the slightest support from faculty members at the University. In the 1930s, when the most enthusiastic acknowledgments are again devoted to the Rabbinical Seminary faculty, especially Samuel Lőwinger and Mihály Guttmann,75 at least a meager portion of the students’ thanks goes to the Jewish

73 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 299. 74 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 298. 75 Mór Schwarz, Az Énekek Énekének targuma [The Targum of the Song of Songs] (Budapest: Arany, 1928), 5, thanks Weisz and Heller; Péter Günczler, Megillath-Taanit (Budapest: n. p., 1929), 3, credits Blau, who had proposed the topic for him; Albert Grün, 1931, thanks Lőwinger; Andor Klein, Midráš Šné K’thubim: egymásnak ellentmondó bibliai helyek egyeztetése a Talmud hermeneutikája szerint [Midrash Shne Ketubim, the Talmudic Hermeneutics of Reconciling Conflicting Biblical Passages] (Kisvárda: Klein Gyula, 1930), 67, thanks Heller, who found the topic and

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Egyptologist Eduard Mahler. Only isolated seminarists express a debt of gratitude towards their university professors, József Aistleitner, a Catholic priest, and Vilmos Pröhle, a Lutheran of pro-Nazi convictions.76 Several Jewish students in the years 1942 and 1943 even succeeded in placing their dissertations in the faculty’s publication series.77 Mutual help among students is valued in the prefaces and dedicatory notes more frequently during these difficult last years.78

supervised it; Béla Reich, Sába királynője a keleti irodalomban [The Queen of Sheba in Oriental Literature] (Budapest: Gewürcz, 1932), 3, acknowledges Heller’s supervision; Náthán Nándor, Agrippa alakja a keresztény és zsidó történet tükrében különös tekintettel a talmudi irodalomra [The Figure of Agrippa I in Light of Christian and Jewish History, with a Particular Regard to Talmudic Literature] (Budapest: Mérnökök Ng., 1934), 5, to Heller and Lőwinger; Ervin György Patai, Héber költők [Hebrew Poets: The Poems of Israel Berekhya Fontanella and a Poem of Judah Fontanella] (Budapest: Franklin-Társulat, 1934), VI, to Lőwinger, Israel Rabin in Breslau, Umberto Cassuto in Rome, and Jacob Teicher in Florence; Béla Presser, A Liber Graduum: keletkezése, eszmevilága és zsidó vonatkozásai [The Liber Graduum, its Origin, Concepts, and Jewish Aspects] (Budapest: Gewürcz, 1934), 12, gives thanks to Guttmann; Ernő Szrulyovics, Nagy Sándor alakja a Talmudban és a Midrasban [The Figure of Alexander the Great in Talmud and Midrash] (Budapest: n. p., 1935), 6, to Heller and Lőwinger; Tibor Scher, Az ártó szellemek a Bibliában és a talmudi irodalomban [The Harmful Spirits in the Bible and in Talmudic Literature] (Budapest: Spitzer, 1936), 6, again to Guttmann; Miklós Schönfeld, A judaizmus és a hellén művelődés egymáshoz való viszonya a zsidó hagyományos irodalomban [The Relationship between Judaism and Hellenism in Jewish Traditional Literature] (Budapest: Neuwald Illés, 1938), 5, 15, to Samuel Krauss; László Stark, Tanchum Jerusalmi ‘Al-muršid al-Kâfi’ c. szótárának “cade” betüje [The Letter Tsade in the Dictionary Al-muršid al-Kâfi of Tanhum Yerushalmi] (Budapest: author, 1938), 11, to Lőwinger and the seminary librarian. Miklós Schvarczkopf, A Genesis személyneveinek értelmezése a hagyományos irodalomban [The Interpretation of Personal Names from the Book of Genesis in Traditional Literature] (Vác: Berger ny., 1943), 3, mentions Lőwinger’s help with the choice of the subject. 76 József Berkovits, Pirké de R. Eliezer (Budapest: Gewürcz, 1931), 10, gives thanks to Mahler; Miklós Eckstein, Byron Hebrew Melodies-e Mandelkern héber fordításában [Byron’s Hebrew Melodies in the Hebrew Translation by Mandelkern] (Budapest: A. Spitzer, 1936), to Pröhle; Béla Blum, Ó-sémi feliratok a Szináj-félszigeten [Palaeosemitic Inscriptions on the Sinai Peninsula] (Budapest: Arany, 1941), 5, to Aistleitner, Heller, and Lőwinger. 77 See for instance the dissertations of Béla Kohn, László Spitz, and György Neumann in the Dolgozatok a Kir. Magy. Pázmány Péter Tudományegyetem Philosophiai Semináriumából [Studies from the Philosophical Institute of the Royal Hungarian Péter Pázmány University], 52 (1942), 55, 56 (1943). 78 Jenő Jakab, Jezsajás könyvének anonymus perzsa fordítása, különös tekintettel a budapesti kéziratra és Tavusz Pentateuchus fordítására [An Anonymous Persian Translation of the Book of Isaiah, with a Special Regard to the Budapest Manuscript and the Pentateuch Translation by Tavus] (Budapest: Neuwald, 1932), 4, thanks Zsigmund Telegdi, his friend and colleague, who found the subject for him; Károly Jólesz, A habiri-kérdés [The Hapiru Question] (Budapest: n. p, 1937), 5, thanks Lőwinger and his fellow students Sándor Scheiber and Ottó Komlós.



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In sum, the Rabbinical Seminary milieu had to frame not only the religious, but also the academic training of seminarists. The bold attempt to develop a Magyar-speaking Jewish scholarship sacrificed the link with the international community of Wissenschaft des Judentums, but could not connect to a domestic academic public in its field, partly because this public was hostile, and partly because it was simply non-existent. This isolation becomes clear in the dissertation bibliographies. All rabbinical candidates had to write in Hungarian, but most of them tried to locate their specific research questions on the map of German-Jewish scholarship by opening their dissertation with an almost ritualistic reference to Zunz, Geiger, Graetz, or Steinschneider. More often than not, an opening quote from Luzzatto or Munk conjures up an alternative genealogy of Italian or French stock. A few doctoral students reserved their footnotes for the non-Jewish luminaries of biblical and Ancient Oriental Studies, but these scholars were generally German or French as well. The only relevant works the young scholars could quote in the Magyar language were, besides Gáspár Károlyi’s 1586 Bible translation, those of their own masters and colleagues at the Rabbinical Seminary.79 Jewish Studies in Hungarian thus stayed locked inside the closed circuit of the Rabbinical Seminary, constantly suffering from the narrow limits of its public support. The first scholarly journal, the review Ben Chananja, published in German between 1858 and 1867 by a circle of mainly Moravian scholars, was considered to be too demanding for the Hungarian public. One L. Horowitz (probably a teacher in Szeged) complained in a letter to the editor: “For sure, the scientific articles in the first four issues would have sufficed for ten. I would wish that you talk less to the chosen few and more to the chosen people.”80 A new scholarly periodical was founded only in 1884 under the name Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review], and a review capable of addressing an international public emerged in 1911 with the Ha-Tsofeh me-Erets Hagar [The Observer from Hungary]. One must draw conclusions based on two-pronged evidence regarding the embrace of Wissenschaft des Judentums by the minority of academically trained rabbis in Hungary. On the one hand, these doctor-rabbis not only shared a

79 The only Hungarian publications from outside the Seminary that are repeatedly quoted in the theses are Ede Mahler, Babylonia és Assyria [Babylonia and Assyria] (Budapest: MTA, 1906), and István II Székely, A bibliakritika főkérdései korunkban: beszéd [Main Questions of Biblical Criticism in Our Time, a Lecture] (Budapest: Egyet. ny. 1908). 80 Ben-Chananja 1 (1858): 239. He makes the cynical suggestion of leaving scholarly publications to the concern of their authors: “Linguistic and exegetic studies, Biblical interpretation, dogmatic speculations and the like are for the specialist so interesting that he will gladly scramble from his meager income the means to acquire the newest publications in these fields for his intellectual nourishment” (Ibid. 238).

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common scholarly interest, but may with some exaggeration be described as joint partisans of a Neolog ideology and members of a common generation.81 On the other hand, it is difficult to identify precisely the sociocultural factor that led to the emergence of this small but powerful intellectual movement. In the Danubian Monarchy, historical and philological scholarship was not a necessary part of rabbinical culture, not even in its modern variety, which could sufficiently express itself in homiletics, pedagogy, and theological essays. The professional reality of a modern Hungarian rabbi or teacher did not demand the turn to Wissenschaft, and the Hungarian tradition of talmudic learning certainly did not favor it to the same extent as had been the case in Moravia. And while the challenge of Christian Hebraism in Gesenius’s age had loomed large in the formation of Wissenschaft des Judentums, Péter Hatala’s philologic amateurism was not the threat that might explain why an autochthonous, Magyar-speaking model of Jewish scientific scholarship was invented on the banks of the Danube. Yet invented it was. Whereas in Germany, a scholarly community with its publication organs and multi-institutional traditions of learning emerged a generation before the seminaries took shape, the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary with its state-sponsored scientific vocation and its all-foreign faculty single-handedly created these frameworks and, one might say, the habitus of the Hungarian Jewish scholar. The implantation of modern Jewish scholarship in Hungary closely followed the German and Bohemian-Moravian examples, but it had a distinctive political framework, a different social basis, and a cultural stimulus of its own. Each one of the young men who converted from the yeshiva to an academic environment underwent an drastic rupture in his cognitive method, which nonetheless took place inside the four ells of a textual culture that was shared between the traditions of Pressburg and Breslau. It was the unavowed dialogue between both traditions, mediated by the paradigms of Semitic Studies imported from Leiden and Leipzig, which took place in Jewish Budapest during the heyday of the Rabbinical Seminary. This submerged intercultural experience accounts for the historical specificity of an intellectual environment where the teachings of three disunited institutions were collected and compiled by rabbinical apprentices disregarding the schismatic agendas that their many masters pursued.

81 Kinga Frojimovics, “A ‘doktor-rabbik’ nagy nemzedéke Magyarországon: a neológ identitás kialakítása a történetíráson keresztül” [The Great Generation of “Doctor Rabbis” in Hungary: The Development of Neolog Identity through Historiography], in Széfer Józséf: A tanítványok tanulmánykötete a tanítómester, (Rabbi), Prof. Dr. Schweitzer József tiszteletére, 80. születésnapja alkalmából [Sefer Yosef: Essays of Students in Honor of their Master, Rabbi Prof. Dr. József Schweitzer, for his Eightieth Birthday], ed. József Zsengellér (Budapest: Open Art, 2002), 221–239.

Gábor Schweitzer

Scholarship and Patriotism: Research on the History of Hungarian Jewry and the Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary—the First Decades Introduction I would first like to recall an anniversary held eighty-five years ago to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] in 1927. A special volume was published to mark the jubilee. Lajos Blau (1861–1936), rector of the Rabbinical Seminary, contributed a paper that reviewed the history of the Rabbinical Seminary. He made the following remark regarding its scholarly activities: It is to the merit of the Rabbinical Seminary that “Jewish learning received a Hungarian voice.” Among the various periodicals and serials published with the collaboration of other professors, he noted that Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review], first published in 1884, not only advanced universal Jewish learning, but also tackled Hungarian Jewish history, which was a unique approach at the time since “the rest of the world” did not study this subject. When the German, French, and American Jewish communities already maintained forums for Judaic Studies, the cultural strength and national identity of Hungarian Jews prompted the Rabbinical Seminary to establish a new scholarly publication. According to Professor Blau, the professors and graduates of the Seminary constituted the body of “Hungarian Jewish scholarship and literature,” bringing new color to Hungarian national and scientific life.1 The study of Hungarian Jewish history was closely connected to the Rabbinical Seminary in the five decades invoked by Lajos Blau. I would like to reflect on this period in the present paper.

1 Lajos Blau and Miksa Klein, Emlékkönyv a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet ötven éves jubileumára 1877–1927 [Jubilee Volume of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Francis Joseph Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary 1877–1927] (Budapest: n.p., 1927), 25–27. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-006

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The Pioneers Research on the history of Hungarian Jewry started in the mid-nineteenth century amidst the struggle for emancipation, thanks to the works of Leopold Löw (1811–1875) and Mayer Zipser (1815–1869).2 Both were rabbis and scholars. With reference to the connection between Jewish historiography and emancipation, Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi noted that modern Jewish historiography was conceived overnight through the struggle for equal rights. Modern Jewish historiography “originated, not as a scholarly curiosity, but as an ideology, one of the gamut of responses to the crisis of Jewish emancipation and the struggle to attain it.”3 In the Hungarian context, this connection is only partially valid. By the time Hungarian Jewish historiography developed within the walls of the Rabbinical Seminary, Hungarian Jews were emancipated unconditionally under Act XVII of 1867. Emancipation in Hungary was successful not so much because of historical arguments, but rather by the values and interests of liberal politics. Concerning the Hungarian conditions, Yerushalmi’s view is pertinent to the extent that Jewish historiography was instrumental in the struggle for social emancipation and later in the struggle against political antisemitism. In affirming the patriotism of Hungarian Jews, Hungarian Jewish historiography fulfilled both legitimizing and apologetic functions. It is interesting to note that in the second half of the nineteenth century there were a few Christian scholars who were engaged in medieval Hungarian Jewish history, such as Imre Hajnik (1840–1902), the outstanding legal-historian at the Legal Academy in Pressburg,4 and Ágost Helmár (1847–1912), a professor at the Roman Catholic high school in Pressburg.5

2 Nathaniel Katzburg, “Hungarian Jewish Historiography,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume, ed. Carmilly-Weinberger (New York: M. Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986), 215–216. 3 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 1996), 85. 4 Imre Hajnik, A zsidók Magyarországon a vegyesházbeli királyok alatt [The Jews in Hungary in the Age of Elected Kings], Magyar Akadémiai Értesítő. V. kötet, szerk.: Antal Csengery (Pest: n.p., 1865), 202–249. 5 Ágost Helmár, A magyar zsidótörvények az Árpádkorszakban [Jewish Laws in Hungary in the Árpádian Age] (Pozsony: n.p., 1879).



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The Rabbinical Seminary and the Concept of Jewish History The founders of the Rabbinical Seminary were aware of the importance of historiography as a national discourse. Under the guidance of Rabbi David Kaufmann (1852–1899) and later Lajos Blau, courses and exercises on Jewish history, which were primarily focused on universal Jewish history, became part of the curriculum.6 At the opening ceremony of the Rabbinical Seminary, Heinrich Graetz, the outstanding Jewish historian representing the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau, the parent institute, addressed the new Budapest Rabbinical Seminary.7 It must have been no coincidence that the first scholarly paper published in the Magyar Zsidó Szemle was written in 1884 by Chief Rabbi Sámuel Kohn (1841– 1920), a well-versed scholar of medieval Hungarian Jewish history, under the title A honfoglaló magyarok és a zsidók [Conquering Hungarians and the Jews].8 Sámuel Kohn, who delivered his sermons in Hungarian at the Dohány Synagogue, demonstrated the connection between history, emancipation, and patriotism. In a celebratory sermon delivered on January 12, 1868, hailing the passage of the Emancipation Act in 1867, he recalled that since the time when Jews had lost their ancient homeland, they did not set foot in a land “as sweet and welcoming” as Hungary during their long wandering. Just as it was in the past, Hungary continued to be sweet, patient, and truthful in the present.9 In this context, it is not surprising that erudite students and graduates of the Rabbinical Seminary at the turn of the twentieth century were very enthusiastic about research on Hungarian Jewish history. The main research orientation based on positivist methods—that is, primarily the careful examination and publication of sources—typically does not result in synthetic works spanning centuries, but rather in the examination of shorter periods or research into the local history of specific Jewish communities. One of the few exceptions is the work of Sámuel Kohn, a professor of homiletics at the Rabbinical Seminary, whose historiograph-

6 Katzburg, “Hungarian Jewish Historiography,” 218–219. 7 A budapesti Országos Rabbiképző-Intézet X. értesítője az 1886/87-i tanévről [Annual Report No. 10 of the Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary of the Academic Year 1886/87] (Budapest: Athenaeum Rt. Könyvnyomdája, 1888), 14–15. 8 Sámuel Kohn, “A honfoglaló magyarok és a zsidók” [Conquering Hungarians and the Jews], Magyar Zsidó Szemle (1884): 3–10. 9 Sámuel Kohn, “Hogyan fogadjuk és hogyan háláljuk meg az egyenjogúsítást?” [How Should We Receive and Repay for Emancipation?] in Zsinagógai szónoklatok [Preachings in the Synagogue.] (Budapest: Rosenberg Testvérek, 1875), 131.

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ical achievement was very inspiring to his younger colleagues.10 His monograph, entitled “The History of the Jews in Hungary: From the Ancient Times through the Battle of Mohács,” was published in 1884.11 In the preface of the book, he writes about his doubts as a historian whose thoughts stray into the past, but who nevertheless lives in the present. He wrote that in order to remain objective he had avoided any parallelism between the past and the present: “… I refrained from highlighting the new Jewish question with the old history of Hungarian Jews.”12 His dilemmas are understandable as the book was published in the “pre-blossoming” period of Hungarian political antisemitism, only a few years after the blood libel trial of Tiszaeszlár. In order to avoid the accusation of actualization, the author resorted to delivering moral justice for recent grievances through the uncovering of past events and historical sources. He did not idealize the past, but was more eager to prove continuity and organic development. As remarked above, Hungarian Jewish historiography focused on research on shorter periods, specific local history and the history of Jewish communities. The young rabbi of the Jewish congregation of Szombathely, Béla Bernstein, argued for the importance of research on local history in the 1894 volume of the Magyar Zsidó Szemle. He was convinced that the recent history of Hungarian Jews should be based on monographs exploring the history of individual Jewish communities.13 These works would serve as valuable points of reference in discussing general aspects in addition to local considerations. He was also convinced that rabbis should cultivate historical literature, insofar as they use available written and oral sources conscientiously. Decades later, Lajos Blau shared the same view: “Primarily it is the duty of the rabbis to write up the history of their communities, with the help of county, city and Jewish archives, epitaphs and other sources.”14

10 József Schweitzer, “Kohn Sámuel és a magyar zsidó történetírás két évszázada” [Sámuel Kohn and Two Centuries of Hungarian Jewish Historiography], in “Uram, nyisd meg ajkamat”: Válogatott tanulmányok és esszék [“Lord, Please Open my Mouth:” Selected Studies and Essays] (Budapest: Universitas Kiadó – Judaica Alapítvány, 2007), 209–221. 11 Battle of Mohács: in the battle of Mohács (1526), the army of the Kingdom of Hungary was defeated by the army of the Ottoman Empire. As a consequence of this battle, the medieval Hungarian state soon collapsed. 12 Sámuel Kohn, A zsidók története Magyarországon. I. kötet. A legrégibb időktől a mohácsi vészig [The History of the Jews in Hungary. Vol. 1. From Ancient Times through the Battle of Mohács] (Budapest: n.p., 1884). 13 Béla Bernstein, “A székesfehérvári zsidók története” [The History of Jews in Székesfehérvár], Magyar Zsidó Szemle (1894): 460. 14 Lajos Blau, “A magyar zsidók története” [The History of the Hungarian Jews], Zsidó Évkönyv az 5689. bibliai évre [Jewish Yearbook for Biblical Year 5689], ed. Vilmos Kecskeméti (Budapest: n.p., 1928), 162.



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The golden age of Hungarian Jewish historiography began with the graduation of the great generation of rabbi-historiographers from the Rabbinical Seminary in the last decade of the nineteenth century. Besides pursuing rabbinical studies, they also graduated from the Faculty of Humanities at Budapest University (today Eötvös Loránd University). That is the reason why these rabbis and scholars may be called “doctor-rabbis.” When reviewing personal achievements in Hungarian Jewish historiography, we must mention the name of Miksa Pollák (1868–1944), the rabbi of Sopron, who published a monograph in 1896 on the history of the Jewish congregation of Sopron from the Middle Ages through his present time.15 One must also mention Sándor Büchler (1870–1944), the rabbi of Keszthely, who wrote a thick monograph (1901) on the history of the Jews in Budapest from the beginnings through 1867.16 For decades, Rabbi Béla Bernstein (1868–1944) researched Jewish participation in the revolution and freedom fight of 1848/1849.17 He published two monographs on the subject: the first in 1898 and the second in 1939, the year when the Hungarian legislature adopted the so-called second anti-Jewish law, or Act IV.18 Rabbi Mózes Richtmann (1880–1972), a professor at the Jewish Teachers’ Seminary in Budapest, was preoccupied with the study of the eighteenth century. On the basis of his studies in responsa literature, he revealed the Hungarian connections of Ezekiel Landau of Prague, and his monograph on the history of Hungarian Jews in the eighteenth century was published in parts in Magyar Zsidó Szemle.19 Zsigmond Groszmann (1880–1945), chief rabbi in Budapest, meticulously studied the political and social history of Hungarian Jews in the mid-nineteenth century and published fundamentally important papers on the constitutional development of the Pest Jewish com-

15 Miksa Pollák, A zsidók története Sopronban a legrégibb időktől a mai napig [The History of the Jews in Sopron] (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, Budapest, 1896). 16 Sándor Büchler, “A zsidók története Budapesten a legrégibb időktől 1867-ig” [The History of the Jews in Budapest from the Oldest Times until 1867] (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1901). 17 It is important to mention that as a result of their participation in the freedom fight against the Habsburg Empire, Hungarian Jews were emancipated by the revolutionary legislation of Hungary in July 1849. 18 Béla Bernstein, Az 1848/49-iki magyar szabadságharcz és a zsidók [The Hungarian War of Independence of 1848/49 and the Jews] (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1898). Furthermore, Idem. A negyvennyolcas magyar szabadságharc és a zsidók [The Hungarian War of Independence of 1848 and the Jews] (Budapest: Tábor-kiadás, 1939). 19 Mózes Richtmann, Landau Ezekiel prágai rabbi (1713–1793) és a magyar zsidók: adalék a magyar zsidó községek és rabbijaik történetéhez a XVIII. században [Ezekiel Landau, Rabbi of Prague and the Jews of Hungary] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1905); and A régi Magyarorszag zsidósága (1711–1825) [The Jews of Ancient Hungary 1711–1825] (Vác: Kohn Mór Könyvnyomdája, 1913).

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munity in the nineteenth century.20 Izidor Goldberger (1876–1944), rabbi first in Sátoraljaújhely and later in Tata, was a diligent researcher of local archives and published many historical sources on the history of his congregations.21 There were countless monographs on the history of Jewish communities, local history papers, and primary sources published at the turn of the century mostly, but not exclusively, by graduates of the Rabbinical Seminary. Typically, works on the history of congregations explored processes of social integration at the local level. Studies generally reviewed the settlement history, occupational structure of the Jewish population, changes in the institutional order of the congregation, and local characteristics of the process of social emancipation and cultural assimilation. With this concept of Jewish history, according to Kinga Frojimovics, the great generation of “doctor-rabbis” played an important role in establishing Neolog-Jewish identity in Hungary.22 Ármin Kecskeméti (1874–1944), the rabbi of Makó, also belonged to this circle and was interested in literary history. Lajos Venetianer (1867–1922), the chief rabbi of Újpest, acclaimed for his works on religious philosophy, was the doyen of the interwar generation of historians and published his work on the “History of Hungarian Jewry” in 1922, at the dawn of a new era. Venetianer was an ardent Hungarian patriot who wanted to show to the educated public the extent to which Jews contributed to Hungary’s economy and culture “on the basis of historical continuity.”23 In the wake of rising antisemitism following the political shifts of 1919-1920, his work was admittedly apologetic and was not intended to be strictly scholarly-historiographical in nature. The book cannot be considered a general history of the Jews in Hungary, and this shortcoming was expressed also by a contemporary reviewer who called it a “one-sided,

20 Zsigmond Groszmann, A magyar zsidók V. Ferdinánd alatt 1835–1848 [The History of the Jews under Ferdinand V, 1835–1848.] (Budapest: Az Egyenlőség Könyvkiadóvállalata, 1916); and A magyar zsidók a XIX. század közepén (1849–1870) [The History of the Jews in the Mid-Nineteenth Century, 1849–1870.] (Budapest: Az Egyenlőség Könyvkiadóvállalata, 1917). 21 Izidor Goldberger, A tatatóvárosi zsidóság története [The History of Jews in Tatatóváros] (Budapest: Neuwald Nyomda, 1938). 22 Kinga Frojimovics, “A ‘doktor-rabbik’ nagy nemzedéke Magyarországon: a neológ identitás kialakítása a történetíráson keresztül” [The Great Generation of “Doctor Rabbis” in Hungary: The Development of Neolog Identity through Historiography], in Széfer Jószéf: A tanítványok tanulmánykötete a tanítómester, Rabbi, Prof. Dr. Schweitzer József tiszteletére, 80. születésnapja alkalmából [Sefer Yosef: Essays of Students in Honor of their Master, Rabbi Prof. Dr. József Schweitzer, for his Eightieth Birthday], ed. József Zsengellér (Budapest: Open Art, 2002), 237. 23 Lajos Venetianer, A magyar zsidóság története a honfoglalástól a világháború kitöréséig [The History of the Hungarian Jews from the Beginnings until the Outbreak of the World War] (Budapest: n.p., 1922), 5.



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tendentious propaganda work,”24 where the author was eager to justify that Jews were worthy of emancipation. Magyar-Zsidó Oklevéltár [Monumenta Hungariae Judaica], a series of collections of Hungarian Jewish medieval historical sources, was launched at the end of the nineteenth century. The initiators and first editors of Magyar-Zsidó Oklevéltár (Sámuel Kohn and Ármin Frisch/Friss [1866–1948]) were associated with the Rabbinical Seminary. The first volume was published in 1903 with a foreword by Ignác Acsády (1845–1906), a “lay” Jewish historian. Acsády wrote that MagyarZsidó Oklevéltár will prove convincingly that Jews have lived here since the foundation of Hungarian statehood and always remained loyal. He also added that “inhabitants of the Jewish faith” continued to perform their duties vis-à-vis their homeland even in the darkest periods of persecution. He finally concluded that Jews in Hungary had earned the right to be considered part of the Hungarian nation through their contributions and suffering.25

The Reception of Jewish Historiography in Hungary At the turn of the twentieth century a new feature appeared in Hungarian historiography: Jewish historiography. Reviews on Jewish historical monographs presented a fairly diverse picture: the new publications were often controversial and were either well received or heavily criticized. Sámuel Kohn’s 1884 monograph met with a cold reception in a review published in Századok [Centuries], a periodical of the Magyar Történelmi Társulat [Hungarian Historical Society]. According to the reviewer, the author set up hypotheses, misunderstood some of the sources, and wrote the book in a very boring style.26 Béla Bernstein’s book on the Jewish implications of the 1848/1849 revolution was received in a similarly critical vein by Századok. The reviewer reproached the author for his examination of matters of national importance from denominational aspects. According to the reviewer, this approach was biased and brought distorted results. “Strict

24 Pál Török, “A magyar zsidóság története a honfoglalástól a világháború kitöréséig” [The History of the Hungarian Jews from the Beginnings until the Outbreak of the World War], Századok 1–6 (1923): 179–182. 25 Magyar-Zsidó Oklevéltár I. (1092–1539) [Monumenta Hungariae Judaica I. 1092–1539.], ed. Ármin Friss. Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat (Budapest: Wodianer F. és fia, 1903), XXVI–XXVII. 26 Gyula Nagy, “A zsidók története Magyarországon” [The History of Jews in Hungary], Századok (1884): 884–894.

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objectivity,” as a major prerequisite of historiography, was missing: it would have required an evaluation of past events in their own context, and not in light of later developments.27 A review of a completely different tenor appeared in Budapesti Szemle [Budapest Review], a journal of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. The reviewer praised Bernstein’s work for providing many useful details on political, social, and cultural issues, in addition to denominational considerations of the period under discussion. “Only the subject is of a denominational character, the work itself has an importance in terms of public history.”28 The reviewer of Budapesti Szemle was very approving of Sándor Büchler’s monograph on the history of the Jews in Budapest: … the reader may think that he deals with a narrow monograph. This is not the case. Büchler is a scholar who researches every tiny detail of his subject, and he is not only very careful in studying those details, he pays equal attention to connecting those particles with the general development. In studying the history of the congregations in the capital city, he studied the history of the entire Hungarian Jewry from the beginnings through the outbreak of the freedom fight.29

Sándor Büchler was an acclaimed scholar of his time who became a Privatdozent in Hungarian Jewish history at Budapest University in 1914.30 One and a half decades later, Ármin Kecskeméti became a Privatdozent at the University of Szeged in universal Jewish history.31 These were not only individual recognitions of merit, but also recognition of an academic discipline becoming integrated into university education.

27 J. I. [János Illésy], “Az 1848/49-iki magyar szabadságharcz és a zsidók” [The 1848/9 Revolution and the Jews], Századok (1899): 455–460. 28 a-i [sic], “Az 1848/49-iki magyar szabadságharcz és a zsidók” [The 1848/9 Revolution and the Jews], Budapesti Szemle 98, no. 268 (1899): 471–474. 29 f. [sic], “A zsidók története Budapesten a legrégibb időktől 1867-ig” [The History of the Jews in Budapest until 1867], Budapesti Szemle 106, no. 292 (1901): 309–311. 30 Gábor Schweitzer, “Rabbi a katedrán: Büchler Sándor magántanári habilitációja 1914-ben” [Rabbi on the Cathedra. The Habilitation of Sándor Büchler in 1914], Történelmi Szemle 1–2 (2002): 135–143. 31 Péter Miklós, “Kecskeméti Ármin magántanári habilitációjáról” [On the Habilitation of Ármin Kecskeméti], in Szirbik Miklós léptein… Tanulmányok Halmágyi Pál 60. születésnapjára [In the Footsteps of Miklós Szirbik … Essays Presented to Pál Halmágyi on His Sixtieth Birthday] (Makó: Szeged Múzeumi Tudományért Alapítvány, 2008), 125–132.



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Conclusion World War I spelled the end of an era for research on Hungarian Jewish history. Researchers lost their momentum. The older generation of historians became weary, while the younger generation became interested in other problems. The concept of historiography called for reform. Fülöp Grünwald (1887–1964), an erudite teacher at the Jewish Secondary School in Budapest, published the following thoughts in 1934, urging for a new approach: “The idea of emancipation has lost its former luster. We are forced to seek new ideas, and set new objectives. We turn away from the path of our ancestors, and we will have a different view of our past and the journey covered thus far by Judaism.”32 The patriotic approach to historiography hailing emancipation, a practice ardently pursued by the professors and graduates of the Rabbinical Seminary, became obsolete. The incubation process of modern ideas and new objectives was set back by the increasingly unfavorable political climate. After the Shoah, a young professor and later the director of the Rabbinical Seminary, Sándor Scheiber (1913–1985), took stock of the scientific duties of the remaining Hungarian Jews in 1947. In connection with the history of Hungarian Jewry, he stressed the importance of synthesizing research on minute details, such as the history of congregations.33 The completion of this work is no longer the responsibility of the professors and graduates of the Rabbinical Seminary alone.

32 Fülöp Grünwald, “A magyar zsidó múlt histórikusai” [Historians of the Hungarian Jewish Past] (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat Évkönyv, 1935), 225. 33 Sándor Scheiber, “Zsidó tudományos tennivalók Magyarországon” [Jewish Scientific Agenda in Hungary], in Szolgaságból – szabadságba: Az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet Hallgatóinak Ünnepi Kiadványa [From Serfdom to Liberty: Celebratory Papers of the Students of the Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary] (Budapest: Országos Rabbiképző Intézet, 1947), 5–6.

Vilmos Voigt

Suspension Bridge of Confidence: Folklore Studies in Jewish-Hungarian Scholarship My paper is a cross-section of some of my previous attempts at exploring connections between Hungarian and Jewish folklore scholarship. As the metaphor in the title suggests, when dealing with the topic there is a need for confidence from both sides. Suspension bridges must have two fixed pillars and strong ropes. Jewish and non-Jewish participants should work together in order to discover the facts that attest to the ties between them. I am sure the various papers presented in this volume will prove the case. Folklore investigations, in the proper sense of the term, arose in Europe in the first half of the nineteenth century. Hungary followed the pattern quickly, and research concentrating on Hungarian folklore has continued since then.1 It is a well-known fact that Jewish scholars (first and foremost in Germany) suggested Volkskunde-type (and folklore-type) studies of Jews only later at the turn of the nineteenth-twentieth century. They wanted this research to be in line with the then-emerging international folklore research framework. However, other Jewish scholars protested, arguing that the Jewish way of life in general is “tradition,” and there is no place to investigate sacred Jewish traditions from a “secular” and non-Jewish scholarly point of view. At the same time, Jewish scholars (also from Hungary) already made numerous and important studies on Finno-Ugric, Turkic, and Balkan folklore, and Hungarian Orientalists became masters of comparative folklore as well – see for example the works of Ignaz Goldziher, Bernát Heller and others. Literature about the history of scholarship related to the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] founded in 1877, already illustrated this tendency. I finished one of my papers about this topic by asking how was it possible at all that some professors of the Rabbinical Seminary had time for something else other than folklore research?2

1 See Giuseppe Cocchiara, Storia del folklore in Europa (Torino: Einaudi, 1954), Hungarian translation Az európai folklór története [The History of European Folklore] (Budapest: Gondolat, 1962), with an appendix by Gyula Ortutay on the history of folklore research in Hungary, 521–548. 2 Vilmos Voigt, “A Rabbiképző és a mesekutatás” [The Rabbinical Seminary and Folktale Research], in “A tanítás az élet kapuja” Tanulmányok az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet fennállásának 120. évfordulója alkalmából, [‘Teaching is the Gate of Life’: Studies Commemorating the 120th Anniversary of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary] (Budapest, Universitas Kiadó – Országos Főrabbi Hivatal, 1999), 55–67. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-007



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Despite this striking fact, no concise summary of Jewish folklore research in Hungary has been available until now. Although the present volume contains important contributions to the topic, I am afraid they shall not fill the gap completely.3 That being said, Hungarian ethnography and folklore have produced in the last two centuries a number of handbooks, dictionaries, and research histories in which works of Jewish folklorists in Hungary are mentioned in the appropriate places. But the Jewishness or the Jewish background of these scholars is mentioned only occasionally. In some cases, there are explicit references (for example, concerning Géza Róheim or János Honti),4 while in other, similar cases (e.g., Károly Marót)5 it is ignored. In more complicated cases (e.g., Edit Fél, Linda Dégh, and Tekla Dömötör),6 the lack of balanced information about their Jewish background is even more troubling.7 No surveys are available on the “contributions of Jewish folklorists to Hungarian folklore.” Due to the limited space available in my paper, I shall not offer a detailed picture here either. I will try to provide a glimpse into only a few important topics. The first is the lack of complete biographical databases. For example, lists of the members of the Hungarian Ethnographic Society [Magyar Néprajzi Társaság] from 1889 onward do not indicate ethnic or religious background. The Hungarian Jewish Lexicon [Magyar Zsidó Lexikon] (1929) does not include all the important Hungarian Jewish scholars who converted to Christianity. Hungarian encyclopedias also often exclude persons whose activities took place outside Hungary. Jews from Hungary often do not have Hungarian family names, so without knowing their family history we would be unable to detect Hungarian ingredients in the lifework of, for example, John Barnard Bettelheim (1811–1869), the first Baptist missionary to Okinawa and Ryu-Kyu islands; Georges Devereux (1908–1985) father of ethnopsychiatry; Gershon Legman (1917–1999) the protagonist of sexual

3 I am grateful for the discussion of my paper after my lecture, which, though thought-provoking, did not refute my theses. 4 See their biographies: Kincső Verebélyi, Róheim Géza (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1990); Tekla Dömötör, János Honti – Leben und Werk (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1978). 5 Zsigmond Ritoók, Marót Károly (1885–1963): Emlékbeszédek az MTA elhunyt tagjai felett (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 2002). 6 It is typical that in her autobiographic book Tekla Dömötör only hints at her Jewish background: Tekla Dömötör, Táltosok Pest-Budán és környékén [The Shamanic Mediums of Pest-Buda and its Region] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi Könyvkiadó, 1987). 7 An exception is the autobiography of Ilona Dobos who speaks straightforwardly about her Jewish family: Ilona Dobos, Egy folklórgyűjtő feljegyzései [Notes of a Folklorist] (Budapest: Kozmosz Könyvek, 1984).

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folklore research; or the anthropologist Melford E. Spiro (1920–2014), author of the Children of the Kibbutz (1958). In the case of the last few individuals, their actual birthplace was the United States, but their “roots” can be traced back to Hungary. There is no special register of “folklore texts from Hungary” in Israeli folklore archives, or in the YIVO archives in New York. Only by chance do we know that Arthur Linksz (1900–1988), the famous ophthalmologist, was born in Hungary, and his memoirs contain vivid scenes from traditional life there.8 Without a worldwide data bank of “Jewish-Hungarian folklorists,” we cannot bring together that jigsaw puzzle. Another interesting topic is the so-called “ecclesiastic code” of early European folkloristics. To sum up data from one of my earlier papers9 devoted to that chapter of the history of research, it is a striking phenomenon that so many clergymen were involved in the early stages of folklore collection and publication in Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. A similar trend was visible across Europe: in England, there was Bishop Thomas Percy; in Germany, the Lutheran superintendent Herder; in Estonia, another Lutheran pastor, Jakob Hurt (1839–1907); and in Lithuania, the director of the Kaunas Roman Catholic Seminary, Maironis (1862–1932). Hungary, as usual, provides extraordinarily good examples as well. Two of the first great Hungarian scholars collecting folklore were the Unitarian bishop in Transylvania, János Kriza (1811–1875), and the author of Magyar mythologia [Hungarian Mythology] (1854), Arnold Ipolyi (1823–1886), who later assumed the seat of a Roman Catholic bishop. The second attempt to describe the pagan Hungarian mythology was made by another Catholic priest, Kabos Kandra (1843–1905). The great folklore collector in southern Hungary, Lajos Kálmány (1852–1919), served for a long time as a village chaplain, and he was disliked by the Roman Catholic Church’s hierarchy because of his interest in folklore, a subject “unworthy” for a priest. Where do the rabbis exist in this line? In a few cases, the same tendency is recognizable. Moses Gaster started the Romanian half of his career with folklore publications, and not only on Jewish topics. Later he was expelled from his native land and served as Chief Rabbi in London, supporting English folklore associations and publications. In the second part of his life, he did not lose interest in

8 Arthur Linksz, Visszanézek… Ifjúkorom Magyarországon [I Look Back... My Youth in Hungary] (New York: Twenty-first Century Hungarian Publishing Corp., 1977). The same book was published in Hungary too: Arthur Linksz, Harc a harmadik halállal: Ifjúkorom Magyarországon [Fighting with the Third Death: My Youth in Hungary] (Budapest: Magvető Kiadó, 1990). 9 Vilmos Voigt, “Is there an ‘Ecclesiastic Code’ of Early European Folk Ballad and Song Collecting?” in Ballads and Diversity: Perspectives on Gender, Ethos, Power and Play, edited by Isabelle Peere and Stefaan Top, 258–265 (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 2004).



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comparative folklore and Oriental Studies, but we cannot say that he was active in organizing or promoting Jewish folklore studies. My paper focusing on the “Jewish Oath” problem10 deals also with Leopold Löw (1811–1875) and his scholarly interest in Jewish life, which definitely differs from the attitudes of a folklore-oriented scholar, and shows a pre-folkloristic understanding of the problem. For a long time rabbis in Hungary did not consider folklore research as their task. If we want to pinpoint the “moment” when Jewish folklore research was born in the Hungarian Kingdom, we ought to look into the autobiographical notes of Friedrich Salomo Krauss (1859–1938).11 He was the son of a poor Jewish Kurzwarenhändler in Pozsega County, Slavonia, at that time under occupation by the Habsburg Monarchy (his father was born in Bonyhád, in central Hungary). The talented boy graduated in classical philology at Vienna University, collecting and publishing folklore from Bosnia, and for a while he worked as the editor and manager of his comparative folklore journal, Am Ur-Quell: Monatsschrift für Volkskunde (1888/9–1898). Living in Vienna in the summer of 1895, Krauss met a strange visitor who called himself Nagy and started to gossip about Hungarian folklorists: Antal Herrmann (1851–1926), a Transylvanian Saxon by origin; the Hungarian Lajos Katona (1863–1910), who for a while studied at the Roman Catholic Seminary and later became a rather liberal person; Henrik Wlislocki (1856–1907), a folklorist of distant Polish origin who collected folklore from all the nationalities in Transylvania; and Adolf Strausz (1853–1944), an expert on Balkan studies. Krauss refused Nagy’s allegations; and then the visitor turned to be Wlislocki himself.12

10 Vilmos Voigt, “A zsidóeskü körül” [On the Jewish Oath], Múlt és Jövő 22/2 (2011): 55–60. 11 See Raymond L Burt, Friedrich Salomo Krauss (1859–1938), Mitteilungen des Instituts für Gegenwartsvolkskunde – Sonderband 3 (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1990). 12 Krauss writes the following sentences in his charming German „Mir ist aber ein Folklorist Nagy ganz unbekannt und ich kenne doch alle [in Ungarn], die sich in der Folklore halbwegs bemerkbar gemacht. – Ja, weil Sie zu der Schwindlerbande Herrmann, Katona, Wlislocki etc. halten und sich um die anderen nicht kümmern. […] Namentlich der Obergauner Wlislocki, der Schwindler, der Lump, der … [here the editor probably omitted a strong derogatory term]. Ach was, der Kerl läßt sich von Strausz die Bücher schreiben und beschwindelt die Welt. – Erzürnt erhob ich [ = Krauss] mich und sagte: ’Wer und was Sie sind, weiss ich nicht, doch muss ich Ihnen erklären, dass Sie nicht berufen sind, über Wlislocki zu urteilen, aber Ihr Auftreten zwingt mich, für einen verläumdeten Menschen einzutreten. Ich bin nämlich in der glücklichen Lage, auf der Stell den vollen Beweis zu erbringen, dass Wlislocki der Verfasser der Bücher Adolf Strausz’ ist. Mich geht diese Schwindelei gar nichts an, aber ich weiss, das Wlislocki ein Schriftsteller von ungewöhlicher Begabung ist, die man bei Strausz vergeblich suchen würde.” See Raymond L.

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Krauss became personally acquainted with folklorists from Hungary who grouped themselves around the “Kronprinzenwerk” (Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild (1887–1901), initiated by the Habsburg heir, Prince Rudolf,13 and around the comparative journal of literature: Összehasonlító Irodalomtörténelmi Lapok – Acta Comparationis Litterarum Universarum (published from 1877–1888), edited by Sámuel Brassai (1797/1800–1897) and Hugó Meltzl (1846–1908) and later continued as Ethnologische Mitteilungen aus Ungarn (1887–1907), edited by Antal Herrmann and Lajos Katona. From his reply to “Mr. Nagy,” it is clear that Krauss knew some of the complicated connections among the folklorists in Hungary. Among the folklorists from Hungary only Adolf Strausz was Jewish—a scholar who worked on Bulgarian (and neither on Hungarian nor on Jewish) folklore. On the other hand, Krauss himself collected and later published not only Serbian folk tales and heroic songs, but also Gypsy lore, and he was one of the founders of the first publications on sexual lore, such as Kryptadia (12 volumes; 1883–1907) and later Anthropophyteia – Erhebungen und Forschungen zur Entwicklungsgeschichte der geschlechtlichen Moral (10 volumes; Leipzig, 1904–1913), in which Antal Herrmann was also among the contributors. Krauss also launched further publications in erotica. His interests extended also to homosexuality and venereal diseases in folklore, folk medicine, vampires in Serbian and Lithuanian lore, Yakut shamanism, and he sent around questionnaires concerning cannibalism, Spiritism, etc. His first paper that denounced antisemitism dates to 1896. His connection to Jewish Studies is not a simple issue. There are data about his father’s interest in the traditional Jewish way of life. In Am Ur-Quell papers were published on Jewish folklore. Krauss was in close contact with Benjamin Segel (1866–1931) from Poland, and with Ignaz Bernstein (1836–1909), the Polish paremiologist. Krauss was not a religious Jew; in fact, he married a Roman Catholic woman, and his son was baptized. On the other hand, he worked from 1891 until 1901 for the Viennese branch of the Paris-based Alliance Israélite Universelle. He was very critical of Zionism and was opposed to attempts to organize a Jewish folklore association. When Max Grunwald (1871–1953) started to establish a Gesellschaft für jüdische Volkskunde (1898), Krauss opposed the idea vehemently, saying that “Volkskunde” must not know the difference between nations

Burt, Friedrich Salomo Krauss (1859–1938) (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1990), 56–57. 13 See my paper Vilmos Voigt, “Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild,” in Kulturtransfer und kulturelle Identität: Budapest und Wien zwischen Historismus und Avantgarde, hrsg. von Károly Csúri, Zoltán Fónagy and Volker Munz (Wien: Praesens Verlag, 2008), 89–99.



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and religions. Later, Sigmund Freud became a member of the editorial board of Anthropophyteia, and he used the material published therein in his own work, but Krauss never became a Freudian. One of his long fieldwork trips to Bosnia was financed by a foundation of Crown-Prince Rudolf, but because of some intrigues Krauss did not find a job in connection with the massive multi-volume handbook, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild. The volumes in this series recorded the Jewish population in various provinces of the Habsburg Monarchy without devoting a chapter to their folklore. Krauss had many controversies with his Slavist colleagues who criticized his principles of collecting, editing, and translating folkloric texts. Furthermore, he was accused of selling pornography. During his lifetime he was always a private scholar and never held a university position. It is little wonder, then, that Krauss had so many enemies. It is interesting to note that Krauss dealt only indirectly with Jewish data. Among the numerous publications he initiated or edited, the presence of Jewish themes is minimal. Among the co-editors and writers in his journals we find a few persons of Jewish origin, including Franz Boas (1858–1942), the renowned American anthropologist. Krauss did not encourage Hungarian scholars he knew to work on Jewish folklore, and he did not initiate any particular project, forum, or institution devoted to this field. Thus, neither Krauss nor his Hungarian colleagues made any serious attempts to study Jewish folklore as an independent topic. It is typical for his time that Adolf Strausz graduated from the Hungarian military academy (Ludovika) in Budapest and then worked as an officer in the Headquarters of the Hungarian Royal Army. He traveled throughout the Balkans. At the time of the Russian-Japanese War (1905), he was the envoy of the Mikado to the Turkish sultan. He was also a close friend of the Tsar of Bulgaria, Ferdinand (a German by origin). At the same time, Strausz was one of the initiators of the Zionist movement in Hungary, being the honorary president of Magyar Cionista Szövetség (Hungarian Zionist Association). If we follow the organized stages of ethnography and folklore in Hungary, we must examine the famous “general exhibitions” next. After some preliminary works, the 1873 Vienna Weltausstellung also included, for the first time, a special “ethnographic village” in the Prater. It displayed, in the form of an openair museum, entire houses filled with objects related to peasant life.14 Among them there were four houses from the territory of Hungary (one from a Székely— Hungarian in Eastern Transylvania—village, two from German villages, and one

14 See Jutta Pemsel, Die Wiener Weltausstellung von 1873: Das gründerzeitliche Wien am Wendepunkt (Wien – Köln: Böhlau Verlag, 1989).

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from a Romanian village). Following this pattern, the 1885 Országos Kiállítás (Hungarian National Exhibition) in Budapest showed 15 peasant houses from Saxonian, Hungarian, Slovak, Bulgarian, Serbian, Csángó, Ruthenian, Székely, and Romanian villages.15 The Hungarian “Millennium” (1896)16 culminated in a separate “Ethnographic Village” exhibition with 26 houses, showing Slovenian, Hungarian, German, Shokatz, Serbian, Slovakian, Ruthenian, Bulgarian, Saxon, and Csángó houses. Fortunately, there is detailed documentation about how the exhibited houses were selected and arranged. The main idea was to show the great variety of folk culture in Hungary. Material was selected from “ethnically pure” villages, disregarding villages with “mixed populations.” That is the reason why there were no “Jewish items” because in Hungary there were no “purely Jewish” villages. This was not a biased conception (a slim majority of the exhibited houses represented non-Hungarian villages). For example, members of the Shokatz population (Croatians who fled from the Turks and migrated to central Hungary) had their own house, and their number was significantly less than that of the Jews in Hungary at that time. Religion was reflected in the exhibition only in a limited and indirect way. Catholic and Protestant German villages were on display, but the evenly divided (Catholic versus Lutheran) Slovaks were not represented by either of their main religious communities. Jewish folk life, then, was conceived both by Hungarians and the Jews themselves primarily not in terms of ethnicity, but in terms of religion, despite the existence of three different denominations (Orthodox, Neolog, and the so-called Status quo ante) after the 1868–69 Jewish Congress. On the other hand, at the Millennium Exhibition (1896) the major established, “historical” religious denominations in Hungary were represented by precious pieces from their respective collections of religious art. Among them there were about 90 Jewish items.17 A country-wide collection was organized, in which both religious communities and individuals participated. According to common opinion, however, the Jewish col-

15 On this and other similar exhibitions, see Mária Kresz (ed.), A népművészet felfedezése. Tanulmányok a népművészetről és iparművészetről [Discovering Folk Art: Studies on Folk Art and Applied Arts], (Budapest: MTA Művészettörténeti Kutatócsoport – MTA Néprajzi Kutató Csoport – Szolnok: Damjanich János Múzeum, 1973). 16 See the primary sources in János Jankó, Az ezredéves országos kiállítás néprajzi faluja [The Ethnographic Village of the Millennium Exhibition in Budapest], (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda Rt., 1897); Id., A milleneumi falu [The Village of the Millennium], Facsimile by Endre Szemkeő (Budapest: Néprajzi Múzeum, 1989). 17 Zsuzsanna Toronyi’s presentation at our conference, “Fixtures at an Exhibition: Making Judaica Visible at the Turn of the [19th–20th] Century,” has dealt with these items. [Her paper is not included in the present volume – Eds.]



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lection was of second-rate quality. Two reviews on the exhibition, by Bernát Alexander and Miksa Szabolcsi, raised the idea of the creation of a Jewish Museum in Budapest. After many years of meetings and discussions, preparations were accelerated from 1910, and in 1916 the museum officially opened.18 We know its history well, but a re-evaluation of the contemporary data would be useful. As far as we can see from later publications, the collecting activity was in the hands of the nationwide Jewish Neolog community, and among the members of the different organizing committees we find only Jewish intellectuals. Among them were the folklorists Bertalan Fabó (1868–1923), a noteworthy historian of music, and Bertalan Kohlbach (1866–1944). Both became curators of the established Jewish Museum. At the end of his life, Kohlbach wrote the first (and hitherto unique) Hungarian summary of Jewish ethnography, A zsidó néprajzról, published only recently in Budapest in 2007. To create associations or societies for cultural or scholarly purposes was a typical activity in the second half of the nineteenth century, and in Hungary as well. A Hungarian Jewish Literary Society (Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, IMIT) was founded in 1894 to foster not only Jewish literature, as the name would suggest, but Jewish cultural activities and publications of all sorts. For many generations it was the most important Jewish cultural association in Hungary supported by the most prominent Jewish circles. It was definitely a patriotic and pro-emancipation body, and one not particularly interested in preserving old Hungarian Jewish traditions, customs, and lore. The aforementioned common opinion may indicate why the Hungarian Jewish Literary Society never intended to set up an organization devoted to the folkloristic or ethnographic study of Jews. This pillar of the “suspension bridge” therefore was not established. After several earlier plans, the Hungarian Ethnographic Society was organized in 1889.19 The society had then more than 20 different “departments” for the different ethnic minorities in the country: Hungarian, székely, palóc, csángó (famous Hungarian ethnic groups), several groups of Germans, then Croatian, Serbian, Armenian, Gypsy, Greek, and so forth. There was no “Jewish” department there, despite the fact that famous rabbis and Jewish scholars worked within the framework of several departments and had important administrative

18 See the essay on the early history of the Budapest Jewish Museum by Ilona Benoschofsky, “A Múzeum története” [The History of the Museum], in A Budapesti Zsidó Múzeum [The Budapest Jewish Museum], ed. Ilona Benoschofsky and Sándor Scheiber (Budapest: Corvina, 1987), 7–12. 19 See László Kósa, A Magyar Néprajzi Társaság százéves története (1889–1989) [The Centennial History of the Hungarian Ethnographic Society (1889–1989)] (Budapest: Magyar Néprajzi Társaság, 1989).

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functions within the Society. Again, we find that the argument “Jews and Judaism is not an ethnic group but a religion” proved irresistible. Among the leaders of the departments we find Friedrich Solomon Krauss, whose membership had been supported, undoubtedly, by his Hungarian colleagues. From its very first issue in 1889, the Society’s journal, Ethnographia, published articles about Jewish history, Jewish sources, and so forth. At the same time, we often find Hungarian Jews among the contributors to the Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für jüdische Volkskunde, the famous pioneering journal of Max Grunwald, especially in the years when Grunwald lived in Vienna. The other pillar of the suspension bridge existed, but it was a weak construction. Subsequently, in 1896, the Hungarian Ethnographic Society modified its structure, and the “ethnic departments” disappeared.20 As a result, there was even less of a chance to build a bridge between Jewish and Hungarian folklore studies in Hungary. In some of my earlier papers I traced the history of the Hungarian Ethnographic Society and characterized the handbooks of Hungarian ethnography from the point of view of Jewish Studies. There is no need to repeat my observations here. Many years ago I also suggested to publish a collection of papers on Jewish folk traditions in Hungary.21 Despite the recent publication of important books on Jewish culture in Hungary, this is still a project for the future.

20 See Michael Sozan, The History of Hungarian Ethnography (Washington, D. C.: University Press of America, 1979), 135–150. An unclear picture was offered by László Kósa, A magyar néprajz tudománytörténete [The History of Hungarian Ethnography] (Budapest: Osiris Kiadó, 2001), 103–106, 111–113. The earlier version of the book (1989) offers similar conclusions. 21 Vilmos Voigt, “Monumenta Traditionum Judaica avagy magyarországi zsidó folklór” [Monumenta Traditionum Judaica, or Hungarian Jewish Folklore], in Hetven év.: Emlékkönyv dr. Schweitzer József születésnapjára [Seventy Years: Essays Presented to Dr. József Schweitzer on his Birthday], edited by György Landeszman and Róbert Deutsch (Budapest: Budapesti Zsidó Hitközség, 1992), 164–174.

Transnational Connections

Ismar Schorsch

Beyond the Classroom: The Enduring Relationship between Heinrich L. Fleischer and Ignaz Goldziher In his memoir, Ignaz Goldziher lamented the fact that the death of his beloved teacher Heinrich Fleischer on February 10, 1888 deprived the latter of the chance to witness the triumphant publication in November 1887 of the first volume of his student’s heralded Muhammedanische Studien. The unexpected convergence of the two events signaled to Goldziher the end of his student days and the onset of his mature years in which his scholarship would finally garner the admiration of his academic peers. Goldziher hinted that Fleischer had played a crucial role in bringing him to this threshold: The most precious memories connect my unforgettable teacher with the most precarious moments of my life, and his unbroken correspondence with me from 1870 to 1888 (from which I have mislaid but one letter) will show my children with what love and engagement he accompanied the fate of their father.1

To be sure, Goldziher did give ample public expression to his lifelong devotion to Fleischer’s memory. A year after his death, Goldziher obliged the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, of which he was only a corresponding member, with a memorial lecture that contextualized majestically Fleischer’s specific contributions within the long history of Europe’s interest in the study of Islam. Though Fleischer had swiftly and singlehandedly made Leipzig “the seat and center of Oriental Studies in all of Europe,” he never shortchanged his students, who benefited as much from his humanity as from his expertise. In 1904, Goldziher was

1 Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch (Leiden: Brill, 1978), ed. Alexander Scheiber, 116. – The present essay was published previously in Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer – Leben und Wirkung, edited by Hans-Georg Ebert and Thoralf Hanstein (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2013), 75–114. Words cannot express my indebtedness to Professor Raymond Scheindlin for his unstinting help with names, titles, and phrases in Arabic, as well as with transliteration. My thanks also go to Professor Menahem Schmelzer and Professor István Ormos for their invaluable corrections and suggestions. I am especially grateful to Dr. Ottfried Fraisse for allowing me to read his forthcoming German translation of Goldziher’s Emlékbeszéd (Ignaz, Goldziher, Emlékbeszéd Fleischer Leberecht Henrik a. M. Tud. Akad. kültagja felett [Memorial Speech on Henrik Leberecht Fleischer, external member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences] (Budapest: n. p., 1889). DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-008

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likewise to author—in a more measured tone and with greater focus—the details of his biography in the long entry on Fleischer in the prestigious Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie.2 Yet, the texture of this exceptional relationship that bound mentor and student, each embodying a distinct era in the emerging discipline of Islamic Studies, can only be appreciated by reading that extensive correspondence. The cache consists of some 210 letters, ninety by Fleischer and 120 by Goldziher, plus one of Fleischer’s postcards and a charming letter along with a photograph by Laura Mittler, Goldziher’s fiancée, introducing herself to Goldziher’s beloved mentor.3 From Fleischer’s note at the top of her letter, we know that he responded five days after it arrived, enclosing a picture of himself as well.4 A few days before their engagement, Goldziher had described Laura, who hailed from the village of Szentmárton [Sânmartin] in the district of Arad some seven hours southeast of Budapest, to Fleischer in the following words: My bride to be is a well bred, highly educated, modest, and gentle young woman who, I hope, will be able to handle my weaknesses and shortcomings with care, while appreciating the few virtues that I have. She received her education in Germany and has a good sense for the scholarly enterprise without herself being a bluestocking [Blaustrumpf].5

Immediately after the engagement, Goldziher reported to Fleischer with a mixture of pride and relief that Laura had stipulated only one condition prior to their betrothal: that Goldziher’s widowed mother should live with them, a request that he had intended to make of her only later.6 The wedding took place on May 21, 1878 in the synagogue in Arad, and that summer the newlyweds visited Fleischer in his summer pension in Tirol, where he was eager to interrogate Laura as to

2 Ignaz Goldziher, “Fleischer: Heinrich Leberecht,” Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie 48 (Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1904): 584–594. 3 The Fleischer letters to Goldziher are in the Magyar Tudományos Akadémia Könyvtár és Információs Központ (Budapest), Keleti Gyüjtemény, Goldziher levelezés, Tok 10 [Library and Information Centre of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (Budapest), Oriental Collection, Goldziher Letters, Box 10 – hereafter HASL, Oriental Collection, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File]; the Goldziher Letters are in the Royal Library Copenhagen, Ny kgl. Sam. 4₀ 2969 (hereafter RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File). 4 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Mittler to Fleischer, April 30, 1878. Fleischer always noted at the top of his incoming mail the dates received and answered, and occasionally whatever action was taken. Goldziher, however, did not record such information. 5 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, February 6, 1878; Peter Haber, Zwischen jüdischer Tradition und Wissenschaft (Köln–Weimar–Wien: Böhlau, 2006), 165–166. 6 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, February 18, 1878.



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whether Goldziher had remained a gentleman after the honeymoon as well as a scholar.7 In short, the correspondence bespeaks a relationship full of intimacy without ever switching into the familiar form of address. Written entirely in German (Fleischer always grieved when Goldziher sent him works he had written in Hungarian, which Fleischer could not access), the letters are long, substantive, and personal, and always promptly answered. When Fleischer fell ill after the festive celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of his doctorate from Leipzig, he instructed his son Georg, who had momentarily taken over his epistolary chores, to answer Goldziher’s letters before responding to other well wishers, as a token of what it meant to his father.8 On occasion, when Goldziher was especially hurting, Fleischer’s complimentary closing could be effusive, as in his six-page letter from August 12, 1872, which reads: “Your truly loving and cherishing Fleischer [Ihr Sie wahrhaft liebender und schätzender Fleischer].”9 In contrast to Fleischer’s polished prose, measured tone, and unerringly legible penmanship, Goldziher’s emotionally-charged letters often wreaked havoc on his handwriting. When he was agitated, it made little difference whether Goldziher wrote in Gothic or Latin characters, the script suffered equally. The two personalities, then, of mentor and disciple, are a study in polarities. When Goldziher inaugurated the correspondence with his “much beloved Herr Professor,” after a thirty-six-hour trip back to Budapest on August 15, 1870, he was barely twenty with a published doctoral dissertation, largely written in Berlin under the aegis of Moritz Steinschneider, though finished under Fleischer, on the Middle Eastern Jewish Bible commentator and grammarian known as Tanhum Yerushalmi. The work fully vindicated the funding of Goldziher’s studies abroad by Hungary’s enlightened minister of religion and education, Báró Eötvös József, to whom the tract was dedicated. It epitomized the use of philological and comparative tools to date the fragments of a little known author by analyzing his purpose, language, and sources and detecting the external influences embedded in them. The well-rounded final product also exhibited in spades the extent to which Goldziher was equally grounded in the cognate fields of Jewish and Islamic Studies.10

7 Ibid., copy of the wedding invitation sent by Goldziher to Fleischer; HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, July 28, 1878. 8 Ibid., Georg Fleischer to Goldziher, March 20, 1874. 9 Ibid. 10 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, August 15, 1870; Ignaz Goldziher, Studien über Tanchum Jeruschalmi (Leipzig, 1870).

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Fleischer responded to that first letter on August 17, the day it arrived, thanking Goldziher for enclosing a copy of his photograph. Fleischer was no less pleased with Goldziher’s next letter happily informing him that he would return to study with him for one more semester and asking him to consider giving a class on the text of One Thousand and One Nights, which Fleischer subsequently did. Since Goldziher’s parents did not want him to leave Budapest sooner than necessary, he needed to know exactly when classes would begin. Finally, Goldziher urged Fleischer to press Ludolf Krehl, his Leipzig colleague, former student, and then editor of the Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft (hereafter ZDMG), to expedite the publication of Goldziher’s recently submitted essay on the linguistic knowledge of medieval Arabic savants because Goldziher needed publications to retain the grant that enabled him to study abroad.11 At the time, Fleischer was sixty-nine and still at the height of his powers and the peak of his reputation. As the acknowledged master of Arabic, Persian, and Turkish, the three languages regarded then as indispensable for the study of Islam, he had trained a flock of important Orientalists who affectionately dubbed him “the great sheikh.”12 The Franco-Prussian War had reduced the number of students in his Arabic colloquium to three, though by March 1873 some eighteen students overran his home to attend the first session of his 7 a.m. Beidawi colloquium. As late as the winter semester of 1882, he was still attracting foreign students to Leipzig.13 In the mid-1840s, Fleischer had been the moving spirit behind the creation of the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft (hereafter DMG), and even without the benefit of holding elected office, he remained its driving force.14 In the apt words of the Dutch Orientalist and colonial administrator, Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, to Goldziher in 1915, “The ego [Ichheit] did not play the same

11 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, September 28, 1870. As for the course offering, see Jewish Theological Seminary, Library Archives, MS, NH 68. 12 On Fleischer, see Holger Preissler, “Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer. Ein Leipziger Orientalist, seine jüdischen Studenten, Promovenden und Kollegen,” in Bausteine einer jüdischen Geschichte der Universität Leipzig, ed. Stephan Wendehorst (Leipzig: Leipziger Univ-Verl., 2006), 245–268; Idem, “Ignaz Goldziher in Leipzig – Ein ungarischer Jude studiert Orientalistik,” in Leipziger Beiträge zur jüdischen Geschichte und Kultur 3, ed. Dan Diner (München: K. G. Saur Verl., 2005): 293–315; Ismar Schorsch, “Converging Cognates: the Intersection of Jewish and Islamic Studies in Nineteenth Century Germany,” in Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 55 (2010): 3–36. 13 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, August 17, 1870; April 25, 1873; November 30, 1882. 14 Holger Preissler, “Die Anfänge der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft (hereafter ZDMG) 145:2 (1995): 241–327; Schorsch, “Converging Cognates,” 22–36.



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important role for Fleischer as it did for his epigones.”15 An offer from Berlin in 1860, which Fleischer refused, attested to his national stature and independent mind.16 Fleischer employed his exceptional humanity and enlightenment to advance his single-minded devotion to the cause of Oriental Studies. To meet his scholarly expectations was to acquire a lifelong insurance policy. More noteworthy was his unadorned practice of value-free scholarship in an age saturated with religious prejudice. By infusing and defending that ethos in the DMG, he forged a rare venue that granted Jewish Orientalists and Jewish subjects ever more prominent billing in contrast to their continued exclusion from the lecture halls of German universities.17 Not only did Fleischer’s largess throw Goldziher a lifeline during his most vulnerable years, but it also kept his career from being derailed. Fleischer’s appreciation of what aspiring Jewish Orientalists could bring to the table, however, did not mute his voice when shortcomings called for reproof. In 1872 in Geiger’s Jüdische Zeitschrift für Wissenschaft und Leben, he gave vent to an uncharacteristic, exasperated outburst. What triggered his reaction was a fifty-eight-page tract that tried to revive the long discredited grammatical theory that the basic root of the Hebrew verb consisted of two radicals rather than three. Its author, Moses J. Cohn, who held a minor rabbinic post in Frankfurt am Main, had sent it to Fleischer for approval. Unexpectedly, Fleischer issued a public rebuke. Writing to Geiger, whom he knew personally from his many submissions to the ZDMG, Fleischer exclaimed: “Is it possible that in our day alongside you … [omission in the original] there are still among Jewish scholars in Germany, such muddled heads as Herr M. J. Cohn …? I am downright enraged over the abyss of wrongheadedness and nonsense which opened before my eyes with one glance at the work I received yesterday from the author.”18 Geiger acknowledged that he had not seen the tract yet, but surmised that Cohn must have come under the influence of the utterly speculative etymological system of Samson Raphael Hirsch in his biblical commentary.19

15 P. Sj. van Koningsveld (ed.), Scholarship and Friendship in Early Islamwissenschaft. The Letters of C. Snouck Hurgronje to I. Goldziher (Leiden: Rijksuniversiteit, 1985), 442–443. 16 Schorsch, “Converging Cognates,” 17. 17 Ibid., 22–28. 18 “Von Hrn. Prof. Fleischer, Leipzig d. 7. April 1872,” Jüdische Zeitschrift für Wissenschaft und Leben 10 (1872): 157–158; M. J. Cohn, ‫גלוי עין‬: Zur Analyse der hebräischen Wörter (Frankfurt a.M.: Selbstverlag, 1871). 19 “Aus der Antwort, Berlin 9. April.” Ibid., 158–160. Though referencing Hirsch (8), Cohn also cited the recently published dictionary by Julius Fürst (1, 8), which defended vigorously the

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In a postscript to Goldziher from October 4, 1872, Fleischer revealed some typical remorse over his harsh treatment of Cohn: That I totally betrayed my innate good-naturedness in regard to poor Stiftsrabbiner Cohn really pained me afterward, when Geiger sent me a printed copy of my fillip. All the more so, because the good man probably sent me his abortive piece fully relying on that good-naturedness. But how can one remain silent in the face of such nonsense? It was enough to make one’s blood boil.20

Strikingly, though, Fleischer kept his criticism in house. He did not publish it in the pages of the ZDMG. His intent was not to embarrass but to be constructive. However, Fleischer was not beyond admonishing Goldziher on occasion. For example, Goldziher’s second installment of his linguistic studies of Arab grammarians rattled Fleisher because it swarmed with misprints and errors in Arabic. Fleischer was ready to attribute its deplorable state to the fact that it had been printed in Vienna, for Fleischer was contemptuous of the careless manner in which Arabic texts had long been treated there. Did the printer not send Goldziher proofs to correct? The proofreaders in Vienna were unreliable. But then Fleischer moved on to what truly troubled him: Dear Doctor, I am still not finished with my grumbling, which you can’t begrudge your old school master. What you dispense from the treasure of your wide reading is once again invaluable, and the entire mode and method of your presentation shows a scholar who works with joy and love in this field and then offers his colleagues what has been recovered with fresh delight. Only one thing does not please me: in Arabic you tend to neglect the form in favor of the content and—to be perfectly candid with you—in the face of so many blunders in language, I am fearful regarding your edition of Fiqh al-lugha [The Science of Language—to which we will return]. To see this work come out in the same manner is certainly not my wish. Yet to harbor that worry would mean that I really don’t know you. May this admonition suffice to encourage you henceforth to pay greater attention to all technical matters to show that you are absolutely not inclined to revert back to procedures associated with Vienna.21

Goldziher did not need the three pages of Arabic corrections that Fleischer appended to grasp the point of this hurtful letter. Embarrassed beyond words, it took him more than three weeks to answer:

theory that the “organic” root of Hebrew verbs always consisted of two radicals; see Julius Fürst, A Hebrew & Chaldee Lexicon of the Old Testament, 4th ed., trans. Samuel Davidson (London: Williams & Norgate, 1871), viii, 6, 897. The first edition was published in 1857. 20 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, October 4, 1872. 21 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, May 3, 1873.



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I can’t find enough words to thank you for the proof of your fatherly disposition, which manifests itself in the manner of your censure. You assume that I do not bear the entire guilt for the mistakes. But I cannot avoid admitting on my side that many are my fault, or better the fault of the shayṭan [demon, in Arabic] of a bad temperament, which makes me stumble over the simplest things when I get agitated. I have often resolved to put something on paper only when I am completely settled. But my nervous temperament does not tolerate such self-restraint. I need not assure you that these kinds of mistakes do not lie in my fiṭra [natural disposition, in Arabic] (I mean in my command of Arabic grammar). And I detect in myself no desire to jump back from Leipzig to Hammeristan [i.e. Vienna where Hammer-Purgstall once reigned].22

The display of candor on both sides left the relationship intact. In fact, Fleischer saw fit to select some of the Arabic passages regarding Ibn al-Sikkīt (on whom more soon) that Goldziher had included for publication under Goldziher’s name in the ZDMG, an elegant gesture of undiminished esteem.23 Fleischer’s impressive command of Hebrew made him acutely aware of what knowledge that Semitic language could contribute to the understanding of Arabic. The interest inversed the relationship between the two languages, which had prevailed for centuries when the study of Arabic was incubated in university theological faculties merely to shed light on the language of Scripture. To his chagrin, Fleischer spent his first decade at Leipzig largely teaching a range of biblical books to uninspiring theology students. But once freed from that drudgery and firmly ensconced in the philosophy faculty, Fleischer could exercise his linguistic breadth to encourage Jewish students to explore the nexus between the cultural orbits of Arabic and Hebrew.24 Thus, in a letter dated May 10, 1871 from Leiden, where Goldziher had moved after Leipzig for research, he excitedly shared with Fleischer an Arabic passage from a polemical manuscript by Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya, entitled Guidance for Those in Doubt about Answering the Jews and Christians (in Arabic), in which the author recognized the cognate nature of Arabic and Hebrew. What is especially noteworthy is Fleischer’s response to that discovery: I also found extremely interesting what you reported to me from Ibn Jawzīya’s proofs regarding the kinship of Hebrew and Arabic. Finally, at least one Arab had eyes and ears for a fact that one should have believed to be known by the whole world. That no Semitic people could rise to a correct view and estimate of the relationship of its language to that

22 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, May 28, 1873. 23 Ibid., Ignaz Goldziher, Gesammelte Schriften (hereafter G.S.), ed. Joseph DeSomogyi, 6 vols. (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967–1973), I, 200. The three-day gap in dates is due to Fleischer’s practice of recording the incoming date at the top of each letter. 24 Schorsch, “Converging Cognates,” 20–21.

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of their tribal ancestors and vice versa is surely a direct consequence of Oriental national and religious prejudice. To be sure, there were a few initiatives and attempts by some exceptional individuals to disperse these clouds, but they led nowhere. This, like so much else, remained waiting for us northwestern barbarians.25

Fleischer’s appreciation of comparative philology later led to a unique collaboration with Jacob Levy of Breslau in the production of two substantial sets of dictionaries, first for the Aramaic of the Targumim (the ancient Aramaic translations of books from the Hebrew Bible) and then for the Hebrew and Aramaic of the Talmud and Midrash. For many years, Fleischer added pages of addenda to every letter of the Hebrew alphabet with alternate derivations for countless words, especially from Arabic cognates. As Fleischer wrote to Goldziher on March 14, 1877, he often lost patience with Levy’s far-fetched etymologies: I am hard at work now on my additions to the letters Ḥet and Ṭet of Levy’s Hebrew dictionary. Curiosities of a piquant sort jump out at me again. I would love to know how one can bring this good man to understand how not to mar his book time and again by burning his fingers on crazy etymologies from Greek and Arabic, which resemble the fantasies of [Julius] Fürst like one egg to the other. I often succumb in the galleys to express my additions coarsely and to call nonsense, nonsense. But then when I get the proofs back with samples of my inconsiderateness in black and white, my Saxon courtliness erupts again to kill the redneck [Grobian].26

25 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, May 10, 1871; HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, May 21, 1871. 26 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, March 14, 1877; Schorsch, “Converging Cognates,” 21. Fleischer’s mastery of Hebrew enabled him to work with texts written in Judeo-Arabic—that is, Arabic in Hebrew characters. For a splendid example of his expertise in action, see his devastating critic of Leon Schlossberg’s publication of a manuscript in Judeo-Arabic allegedly authored in the early sixth century by a bishop after his conversion to Judaism. The intent of the polemic against Christianity was to vindicate his conversion to his former clerical colleagues. Aside from condemning Schlossberg’s error-ridden transcription, Fleischer contended that the author’s pose was a mask adopted by a ninth- or tenth-century Jew who knew the Quran better than the New Testament and wrote in Arabic and not Greek or Syriac. Fleischer added that he was especially disturbed by Schlossberg’s design to have this triumphalist text translated into French, English, and German: “You know, dear friend, how ill-disposed I am toward all these religious clashes (misèren). But particularly now, at this time, for the lofty sake of humanity, I would not want to see these medieval crudities circulated in public in translation. They may be items of historical and scholarly curiosity for academic circles, but certainly not beyond.” (HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, December 29, 1881. For a thorough examination of this text by Fleischer, see Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer, Kleinere Schriften, 3 vols. (reprint Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag, 1968), III, 167–186. On Fürst, see note 20.



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Whether Fleischer always sent his additions on each letter of the alphabet to Goldziher is not clear from the correspondence, though in this instance he did, and Goldziher fully concurred with Fleischer’s opinion.27At an earlier age, scholarly questions had drawn Goldziher into correspondence with Levy while he was a gymnasium student in Budapest. On his way to Leipzig, he even visited him personally, securing a letter of recommendation from him to Fleischer that was sent apologetically months after Goldziher had arrived. Levy’s high regard for the young Hungarian later prompted him to send Goldziher some samples of entries for the letter aleph to his Talmudic dictionary. But Goldziher lacked the finesse of Fleischer. His impatient corrections may have been a tad too blunt and assertive to induce Levy to continue relying on him.28 The Fleischer-Goldziher correspondence narrates in exquisite detail the salient fact that Fleischer never abandoned Goldziher to his arduous fate. The death in February 1871 of Eötvös, “an oasis in the midst of a wasteland of medieval barbarism and garnished coarseness,” who desperately wanted to bring Oriental Studies to Budapest, put Goldziher’s career trajectory in jeopardy.29 He still managed to finish his funded research trips to Leiden and Vienna, secure a foothold in 1871 at Budapest University [today Eötvös Loránd University] as a paid docent, and travel to the Middle East from September 1873 to February 1874 on a government stipend to master spoken Arabic.30 While abroad, however, Ágoston Trefort, Eötvös’s brother-in-law and successor, conspired with the university faculty to fill the chair in Oriental Studies designated for Goldziher with a completely unqualified individual. Péter Hatala, an ordained priest and prominent member of the theology faculty, had infuriated the Catholic Church by rejecting its recent papal claim of infallibility. To mollify it, Hatala was reassigned to the philosophy faculty, where his presence would block Goldziher’s promotion until his retirement in 1905.31 Instead, from January 1876 to January 1905, Goldziher served as the secretary of the growing Neolog Jewish community of Budapest, a post that gave him financial security but unending emotional torment. In the bitter words inscribed in his memoir-diary, he writes: “The Jews took pity on me. That is the misfortune of my life.”32

27 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, August 28, 1877. 28 Schorsch, “Converging Cognates,” 22, n. 78; Ismar Elbogen, “Bemerkungen Ignaz Goldziher zu Levys Neuhebräischen Wörterbuch,” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums (hereafter MGWJ) 78 (1934): 34–41. 29 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 48, 46 (the quotation). 30 Ibid.; RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, October 25, 1871. 31 Haber, Zwischen jüdischen Tradition und Wissenschaft, 154–155; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 241. 32 Ibid., 81.

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What Fleischer’s steadfast support gave Goldziher during the first eighteen years of his ordeal was a crucial source of self-esteem and encouragement not to lose faith in himself. Goldziher poignantly expressed that intangible asset in a letter from October 7, 1876, in which he had to deflect another gentle scolding from Fleischer. Again he was too distraught to answer immediately: My only consolation in all my turmoil has been that those who stand by me in my scholarly endeavors like a godfather, if I maybe so bold, are satisfied with me. And now I am confronted with the wrath of that person to whom I owe the best that I have, not only the best of my knowledge but the best of my spirit, the stubborn adherence to the intentions of my youth, which I would long ago have slackened without his encouragement and stimulation.33

The identifiable instances of Fleischer’s assistance to Goldziher are legion and will constitute much of the storyline for the remainder of this essay. By way of example, when Goldziher left Leipzig for Leiden in April 1871 to pore over its treasure of Arabic manuscripts, Fleischer did not allow him to leave empty-handed. In addition to letters of introduction to Reinhart Dozy and Michael Jan de Goeje, Leiden’s reigning Orientalists, which would ensure him of the right reception, Fleischer armed him with a testimony designed to protect him back home after Eötvös’s death: On the basis of intimate knowledge and in good conscience, I can now attest generally at the end of his studies in Leipzig that not only is he the most talented, knowledgeable, and determined of the young Orientalists who studied with me at his time, but in fact among all the students that I have ever had, he is one of the hardest working and promising. The more I expect of him and the more I look forward to his edition of Thaʽālibī’s Arabic thesaurus of synonyms, which I have entrusted to him, the more I feel compelled to recommend urgently to all friends and benefactors of Oriental Studies, in particular the enlightened government of his homeland, which to date has already amply demonstrated its good will, to continue their strong support and promotion.34

Goldziher wasted no time in visiting both men. Two days after his arrival, he could already report to Fleischer in a letter dated April 17, 1871 that they had greeted him warmly. Shortly thereafter, De Goeje showed him the library’s collection of Oriental manuscripts of which he was in charge and permitted Goldziher to borrow freely. When Goldziher selected only a single codex with which to start, De Goeje urged him to take more. Since Goldziher regularly worked into the wee hours of the

33 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, October 7, 1876. 34 Preissler, “Goldziher in Leipzig,” 313.



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morning, the liberal borrowing privileges enabled him to lay the foundation for his unparalleled command of Islamic primary sources during his half-year in Leiden.35 By May, however, a scurrilous attack against Goldziher in a Budapest paper had driven him in consternation back to Fleischer for help. Goldziher had published a piece in Hungarian, still solicited by Eötvös, on canonical numbers among the Arabs. Since it consisted largely of excerpts from two or three literary sources, it was scorned by an anonymous critic who contended that the government was wasting its money. Clearly, Goldziher was no more than a collector of information with minimal knowledge of Arabic. Goldziher beseeched Fleischer to write to Ferenc Pulszky, Director of the Nemzeti Múzeum [Hungarian National Museum] and a former friend and colleague of Eötvös, to minimize the damage.36 Fleischer and his colleague Georg Moritz Ebers, with whom Goldziher had studied Egyptology, quickly came to the aid of their protégé. They began their brief wryly with the observation that “it is most likely the first time that two German professors seek your ear to defend rather than recommend a young Hungarian scholar.” After summarizing the critique, they closed by asking to have their public and private testimony placed on the scale: “So that such a proven and immensely promising stalwart [Kraft] not be forced at length off the path to completing his development and reaching a goal in the public realm worthy of him.”37 Their joint letter was not without effect. By June 10, 1871, Goldziher gratefully reported in the name of his father that his nemesis had been dismissed from the paper for which he wrote.38 The incident took its toll on Goldziher’s fragile health. In the same letter in which Fleischer had assured him of his immediate attention to the besmirching of his reputation, he tenderly cautioned Goldziher to take care of himself: My dear young friend, I implore you in the name of science for which you are summoned yet to do great things: Above all, take every precaution to hinder the progression of your nervous excitability, your sleeplessness, etc. Toward this end, you must work gradually to repair again what is lacking in order to avoid that one day it might be too late.39

35 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, April 17, 1871; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 50. 36 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, May 10, 1871. 37 Draft dated May 25, 1871 in HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File. In his memoirdiary, Goldziher recalled Ebers fondly. Fleischer was not at all pleased about the time Goldziher invested in mastering Hieroglyphics: “The old man (der Alte) had no stomach for trivialities. One had to give oneself over completely and totally to the key languages of Islam, as he called them” [Goldziher, Tagebuch,47–48]. 38 RLC, Fleischer Letters Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, June 10, 1871. 39 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, May 21, 1871.

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There is also no doubt that Fleischer assisted Goldziher in his research and publication efforts. Fleischer was always ready to unravel linguistic conundrums for Goldziher, to read and correct his essays prior to submission, and to serve as a friend in court of the editorial office of the ZDMG. Moreover, on at least six occasions during the span of their correspondence, Fleischer saw fit to select insights and findings from Goldziher’s letters for publication in the ZDMG as excursuses bearing Fleischer’s seal of approval.40 Yet the first fellowship bearing Fleischer’s name, awarded to Goldziher in the winter of 1875, did meet resistance from the intended recipient. Two years earlier at the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of Fleischer’s doctorate from Leipzig, the DMG announced the creation of an endowment fund of 3000 Taler, whose interest would annually generate a Fleischer stipend to an advanced student in Arabic, regardless of nationality or religion.41 When Fleischer informed Goldziher of his decision to inaugurate the fund with a fellowship to him, Goldziher urged him gratefully but unequivocally to give it to another student or scholar in greater financial need. Goldziher had just learned about the renewal of his docentship for one more year and was hopeful about its continued renewal.42 But Fleischer was not to be deterred. Opening with the laudatory salutation “Dear Herr Doctor and surely to be in due time Professor,” Fleischer’s next letter insisted on Goldziher’s acceptance: I can’t help you. You must, as far as I can remember, for the first time submit to my authority and take the first year’s interest of the Fleischer endowment. You are among my more recent students indisputably the most worthy, and I would do violence to my innermost conviction if I would heed your request in your letter of February 8 to direct the stipend to a more worthy student. You can’t be serious about expecting me to deny the dictates of my conscience. If you don’t need the 147 Reichstaler for yourself then donate them to the welfare of your mother in gratitude for the outstanding worker for science whom she has brought forth and raised. In sum, then, ready yourself for the inevitable. I have already informed the three other members of the [DMG’s] executive committee of my decision.43

Three days later on March 5, 1875, Goldziher announced his capitulation. Fleischer’s resolve and gracious letter, which he had shown to his mother, had

40 ZDMG 24 (1870): 710–711; 27 (1873): 155–156; 28 (1874): 161–168, 493; 31 (1877): 545–549; 36 (1882): 647–648. 41 Schorsch, “Converging Cognates,” 35. 42 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, February 8, 1875. 43 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, March 2, 1875.



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brought her to tears. Reconciled, Goldziher conveyed her deep appreciation for the solace.44 Neither the stipend nor Goldziher’s subsequent election to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences as a corresponding member in June 1876 could alleviate his grim joblessness. Two devastating blows struck him upon his return in April 1874—the death of his father on May 4 and the loss of a chair at the university. In retrospect, he came to believe that he had been sent abroad to facilitate Hatala’s transfer. While Trefort comforted him with illusions of a quick government appointment as an associate professor, Fleischer and Ebers joined forces once again to lobby on his behalf in Vienna.45 A post as a librarian in Cairo excited him, but he feared it had been filled already. As he confessed to Fleischer on January 7, 1875, he was torn by the prospect of leaving Budapest. He acknowledged the moral obligation he owed to the Hungarian government for its years of support: But how can I bear that a professorship, which was expressly designated for me, during my absence in the Orient was filled by a Catholic priest, who can show no other qualification than the fact that he made himself unacceptable to the theological faculty by virtue of being an Old Catholic … and who himself admitted that he understands nothing of the subject matter of which he is a full professor? If I were to leave here, I would leave in sadness. I love this country and would happily have worked and labored here. I am tied with devotion to the soil that protects the remains of my unforgettable father. But if something acceptable were to present itself, I would have to secure my future abroad and with my mother take our leave.46

What Goldziher was alluding to in his closing words was the prospect of a faculty position in Berlin at its recently founded Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums (informally referred to as die Hochschule). Abraham Geiger, its dominant figure, had died suddenly on October 23, 1874, and the chair of its board, Moritz Lazarus, perhaps as a consequence, was excited about Goldziher’s inter-

44 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, March 5, 1875; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 76. The official notification of the award was conveyed to Goldziher by Professor Konstantin Schlottmann of Halle and a member of the DMG’s executive committee in a letter dated March 24, 1875 (HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File). 45 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 73–79. To Ebers’ richly illustrated, two-volume extravaganza on the history and culture of Egypt through the ages, Goldziher contributed both substance and tone to the chapter dealing with Al-Azhar, where he had studied in January 1874. Though written by Ebers, the valorization of Islam’s attachment to science and the Sunni respect for legal diversity surely derived from Goldziher [Georg Ebers, Aegypten in Bild und Wort, 2nd ed. 2 vols. (Stuttgart und Leipzig: E. Hallberger, 1879), viii, 1, 2, 71–88; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 65–74]. 46 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, January 7, 1875.

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est.47 Far more substantive and promising, though, was an offer extended to Goldziher by the large, liberal Jewish community of Budapest with some 40,000 members through his friend and later chief rabbi, Sámuel Kohn. The offer entailed becoming bureau chief of its administrative office for a salary of 2,500 Gulden with the likelihood of an additional 1,000 Gulden on the side, a comfortable level of compensation, especially when combined with the 1,200 Gulden Goldziher received for teaching as a lecturer [Dozent] at the university.48 Moreover, neither his letters nor his diary gives any evidence of economic distress thereafter. In sum, the post had prestige, paid well, and required him to be in the office only four hours per day. Despite the offer’s appeal, Goldziher would not make a move without consulting Fleischer. He feared jeopardizing his academic prospects by being ensconced in a line of work to which his scholarship was entirely extraneous. Yet his present circumstances were insufferable: I fervently hope that the offer goes through. Any post that would free me from my current sorrowful condition, giving me the chance to devote myself to my dear mother and my scholarship, would be great regardless of the amount of work. It is not clear what will happen to me, if things don’t change. The longer I remain in my present contemptible state, into which I fell by pure “luck” [aus purer “Gnade”], the more my self-respect suffers […] I urgently seek your advice; I am no longer able to advise myself. Here I cannot think of a soul who has the capacity to weigh the pros and cons.49

Fleischer responded within a few days, despite being on vacation in Riga with his daughter and son-in-law. “With a full heart and without any mental reservation,” he urged Goldziher to take the job. Though it would formally demote his research to an avocation, Fleischer was convinced it provided ample time for him to pursue it as a vocation. The job was surely far better than squandering his energy in journalism as he had been doing.50 Reassured, Goldziher accepted the offer and kept Fleischer apprised of the labyrinthine approval process. At each stage, a determined minority objected, some with ad hominem aspersions, others on the more objective grounds that the position called for a lawyer with practical experience and not a scholar brimming with bookish knowledge. On November 5, 1875, with the outcome not in doubt,

47 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, August 29, 1875. 48 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, August 17, 1875; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 56. 49 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, August 29, 1875. 50 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, August 24, 1875.



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Fleischer sent a nervous Goldziher an official congratulation letter on DMG stationery: Why am I using official stationery for this letter? Because I have given myself the task to wish you good luck in the name of the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft at your redemption from worry and aggravation and for the just reward of your work for scholarship by securing worthy employment to meet your external needs. Now this may sound a bit arbitrary and that’s my fault. But I am morally convinced that every sincere, worthy member of our organization, were I to notify them of what I am doing at this moment, would shake my hand in gratitude. I reserve for myself in this collective act only one small prerogative; namely, that you regard me as the most enthusiastic leader at the head of this long line of well-wishers.51

Fleischer’s sensitive and astute gesture could not have been more timely. Goldziher was in desperate need of recognition from the international guild whose local franchise in Budapest continued to deny him admission. Goldziher appreciated beyond words this touch of compensatory justice: My mother and I cannot thank you enough for your heartfelt letter. My mother continues to read it time and again. It came for me at the right time. A throng of envious rabble had begun to work me over [an meiner Harfe gesetzt] in order to rouse public opinion against me in the strange way in which wickedness always manages to find expression. I am portrayed in the image of a fallen giant, who has plummeted from the lofty throne of scholarship into the mud hole of a communal office. These folks are so rough and uneducated that they don’t even realize that it brings honor to a scholarly person to involve himself in the welfare of a large community. Your letter of good wishes and the affectionate turn you gave it serve to assure me that it is entirely up to me to be of value or not to the future of scholarship.52

On November 21, 1875, a meeting of the community’s General Assembly gave its final, resounding approval to appoint Goldziher. He could not inform Fleischer until late that evening because he was visited by well-wishers for the rest of the day.53 He would take over the reins at the beginning of January, and a few days later Fleischer sent his customary New Year’s greetings with yet another word of encouragement: “In addition, an equally hearty good luck on the start of your communal secretariat. You will surely have a lot to do at the outset in order to get oriented in the job and to gain the necessary skills to supervise. But given your head, this should not cost you dearly; experience and habituation should do the rest.”54

51 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, November 5, 1875. 52 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, November 11, 1875. 53 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, November 21, 1875. 54 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, January 7, 1876.

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But Goldziher got off to a rocky start and his mood quickly soured. By February 20, 1876, he unburdened himself to Fleischer: “You surely are curious to know how my work is going. Well, my office devours humans. The amount of time and energy it demands of me was never spelled out beforehand, nor could I have foreseen it. The hours in the office never end.”55 Goldziher spelled out what he faced. The work was strenuous and not without friction, and the staff was mediocre at best, which meant that much of the workload fell on his shoulders. It had also taken him many long hours to clean up the mess left by the previous administration. Goldziher’s own tireless work ethic exacerbated the situation, for he was unable to leave the office with tasks half-finished. He also found absolutely no pleasure in completing paper work, in arranging religious activities, or in arguing over things that did not interest him. Above all, he loathed the people with whom he had to interact. The single oasis in this wilderness was his oversight of matters pertaining to education and welfare.56 As is well known from Goldziher’s memoir and diary, this level of discontent would only intensify. The eleven-year presidency from 1883–1894 of Mór Wahrmann, a prominent banker who became the first Jew to join the Hungarian parliament, made matters even worse. His autocratic conduct humiliated Goldziher, even as his wealth infuriated him.57 The letters offer no reprieve; on the contrary, they are repeatedly punctuated with outbursts of pitiful suffering. Aside from his unfailing empathy, Fleischer occasionally felt compelled to protest that Goldziher’s melancholy was unwarranted and his whining inappropriate: Your job, like all others, surely consists of an onus along with its honos. But dear Doctor, it is not so bad. The four or five hours that, according to Jahn’s report, you have to put in daily would seem preferable to many an overburdened and poorly paid official in some nuqta mawhūma [imaginary spot, in Arabic]. Thank God that for the time being, until you find a suitable position, you have at your disposal so much free time for your learned works. I can’t spare you this slight scolding, for in truth your moaning and groaning by this time is too much. You complain that in three years you will enter your thirties [das dritte Decennium Ihres Lebens] without having completed half of what you would have liked to do by then. Yes, that is truly awful! You poor old fellow! Already twenty-seven years old with only one famous book to your name, not to speak of a swarm of solid scholarly essays and journal articles! Forgive me this flight of sarcasm, but I can’t help myself, c’est plus fort que moi. I was twenty-seven years old, living in Paris from tutoring and going to Sacy’s seminar with

55 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, February 20, 1876. 56 Ibid. 57 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 96. For a profile without vitriol, see Károly Vörös, “Mór Wahrmann: A Jewish Banker in Hungarian Politics in the Era of the Dual Monarchy,” in Jews in the Hungarian Economy 1760–1945, ed. Michael K. Silber (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992), 187–195.



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books under my arm. I had no thought of writing a book because I regarded myself as too young. I was happy dividing my time equally between earning a living and pursuing my studies [Brot- und Geistesarbeit] and collecting materials for later works. Wouldn’t it be good for you sometimes, when you are overcome by the demon of impatience, to remember that twenty-seven-year-old Parisian student?58

Under the best of circumstances, the pace of Goldziher’s published work would be considered phenomenal. From 1870, when his doctoral dissertation appeared, until he died in 1921, not a year passed without the publication of a cluster of longer and shorter scholarly works. The quality of Goldziher’s scholarship never suffered in exchange for quantity.59 What is even more astonishing is that during the twenty-nine years that Goldziher served as secretary of the community, he maintained that he could write uninterruptedly only during his five-week summer vacations and Jewish holidays—a total of some forty to forty-two days per year.60 Goldziher often returned home from the office too exhausted or agitated to delve into his books.61 Each year, the preparation of the communal budget absorbed him fully from December through March with endless meetings and negotiations.62 Moreover, Goldziher held on to his tenuous lectureship at Budapest University, despite the grievous embarrassment it caused him to be on that low rung of the academic ladder far longer than any of his peers.63 Thus, during the winter semester of 1872–1873, Goldziher had some twenty-one students in his Hebrew

58 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, October 15, 1877. Professor Robert Morrison of Bowdoin College, a specialist in medieval Islamic science, was kind enough to inform my colleague, Professor Scheindlin, that the Arabic phrase nuqta mawhūma is a fixed expression that comes from debates beginning in the thirteenth century in which critics of geometric entities contended that they were merely imaginary constructs with no basis in reality and hence not really true. 59 See the invaluable bibliography compiled by Bernard Heller, Bibliographie des oeuvres de Ignace Goldziher (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1927), and the supplement by Alexander Scheiber, “A Supplementary Bibliography of the Literary Work of Ignaz Goldziher,” in Ignaz Goldziher Memorial Volume, part I, eds. Sámuel Lőwinger and Joseph de Somogyi (Budapest: Globus nyomdai műintézet, 1948), 419–429, along with additions and corrections to Heller by I. Kratschkovsky, 430–431. One final supplement to Goldziher’s oeuvre appeared subsequently in Ignace Goldziher Memorial Volume, part II, 209–214. 60 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 93. 61 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer October 23, 1878; December 23, 1878 (printed in Moritz Lazarus und Heymann Steinthal: Die Begründer der Völkerpsychologie in ihren Briefen, ed. Ingrid Belke, 3 vols. [Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1971–1986], II/2, 488–490.) 62 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, December 26, 1882. 63 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, October 6, 1879.

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class who came primarily from the local seminary of the Reformed Church, where he had been invited to teach its first courses in the Hebrew language and the Hebrew Bible. That unprecedented number prompted Goldziher to speculate that Oriental Studies in Hungary might one day emerge out of Hebrew Studies as it had elsewhere in Europe a century earlier.64 In the winter semester of 1875–1876, he attracted some twenty students to a lecture course on Arabic culture in Spain, which surely informed, if not inspired, his sweeping comparative treatment of the subject before the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.65 Two years later, Goldziher taught a total of five hours: the Quran for two (the Sura dealing with Maryam); Syriac for one; and his lectures on the institutions of Islam for two additional hours.66 To further complicate Goldziher’s life, death was not an infrequent visitor to his household. In the fall of 1879, Goldziher lost his father-in-law, a country doctor, whom he treasured as a surrogate father and wise counselor. Upon returning from the funeral in Arad, he found his twenty-seven-year-old sister, a mother of four children, ravaged by fever. Two years younger, she had long been his friend, confidant, and supporter. The double tragedy left Goldziher distraught and disabled. The length of his letter to Fleischer on October 6, 1879 bespoke the depth of his anguish: That I cannot exert myself or read a lot is understandable. Often I would like to bury the bitterness that overcomes me in the folios of the Muslim fiqh [law, in Arabic]—but in vain! Time and again forms hover before me that prevent me from concentrating on the letters of my book or manuscript. I needed to write this letter because the pain that pulverizes me cries out to be shared.67

Goldziher’s sister finally died in January 1884 after an excruciating illness, followed five months later by the death of his mother, who lived solely for her children. His brother-in-law did remarry, but his second wife and devoted mother to his children died from a kidney operation two years later. And when death took Goldziher’s brother-in-law in 1889, he became the guardian of his four children.

64 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, November 1, 1872; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 53. This was most likely a combined class of identical courses which Goldziher taught at both the seminary and university. 65 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, October 23, 1875; see also Ignaz Goldziher, “The Spanish Arabs and Islam,” G. S., I, 230–423. Given on November 13, 1876, this was Goldziher’s inaugural lecture as a corresponding member. The Academy published it a year later. At the university, his lectures on the culture of Islam in Spain attracted many students from history (RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, November 21, 1875). 66 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, January 23, 1878. 67 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, October, 6, 1879.



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In resignation, he confessed in his memoir “that the uplifting moments in my life are but the passing glance of grace from the One who guides my life, while everything distressing is destined to unfold in unmitigated horror.”68 That Goldziher was miscast and that family tragedies punctuated his first fifteen years on the job are beyond doubt. But ultimately, it was his own unmanageable frustration at being distanced from his scholarship and denied admission to the university that fueled his unending litany of laments. When Goldziher could write, the paucity of Oriental manuscripts and secondary literature in Budapest constantly bedeviled his work. Goldziher published in Hungarian as well as German to improve his chances of promotion in Budapest, though he always feared negative reviews capitalizing on inadvertent errors due to a lack of resources. To complete his research for his pioneering reconstruction of the legal theory and history of the Zāhirīs, the most inflexible school of Muslim jurisprudence, Goldziher had to travel to Vienna. Fleischer helped him secure a publisher in Leipzig, but when it appeared in early 1884 with a bumper crop of typos and errors, Goldziher asked him limply to remember the difficult circumstances under which he worked.69 Two years earlier, Goldziher reluctantly admitted to Fleischer that it was antisemitism in the upper echelons of the government bureaucracy that blocked his promotion to professor extraordinarius, and not the faculty, which in 1878 had endorsed him by a large majority, as did the university senate. Goldziher was no longer under any illusion that his just-published, 400-page Hungarian study of Islam qua religion could make a difference. Goldziher went on to vent his dismay in the following words: You can scarcely appreciate, my honored Professor, how disheartening it is for me to know that I am considered to be a Semite. I have indeed experienced that my blood has the same color as that of every good Aryan and Ugro-turanian. My mother tongue is Turanian, and my education rests on an Indo-Germanic foundation, and you know that Kant and Goethe are more influential therein than my otherwise revered Sām ibn Nūḥ [Shem, the son of Noah, in Arabic], peace be upon him. I share with all the Christians and Muslims of the Austro-Hungarian state the Semitic origins of my faith. And yet the foetor semiticus [the fetid smell of a Jew] should still cling to me, rendering me different from all other citizens of Hungary and Europe! The oppressive feeling that such a feeling brings with it can only be sensed by those who [suffer] the social consequences of this Renan classification (for he is the inventor of the “modern” concept of Semites), which draws a black mark across the path of one’s life. One cannot fight against this horror. To endure with no visible end in sight, that is martyr-

68 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 101–103. The quotation is on 101. 69 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, June 20, 1882; October 3, 1883; February 18, 1884.

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dom and one must bear it. Now you see why from this perspective my book on Islam can bring me no success.”70

There is no direct response from Fleischer to this cri de cœur. He happily received Goldziher’s Hungarian study of Islam in November 1881, though its treasures were sealed to him. He looked forward to a quick German edition and hoped that Goldziher would attain what he yearned for and deserved.71 When Goldziher disabused him of that prospect, he understood Fleischer’s sentiment well. A few years earlier, an English colonial official had approached Goldziher, inquiring whether he would come to Lahore, India to teach Arabic and Islam at its university. The official (a certain Dr. Leitner) wanted to know if Goldziher was fluent in English. Goldziher informed him that he had long been a student of English literature and assured him that within three months of his appointment he would be able to speak and write in English. The other impediment that Leitner raised was more sensitive. Goldziher’s religion caused discomfort both for the English and the natives in Lahore, which prompted Goldziher to end his account with a flurry of sarcasm: “I am thus a true martyr of Yahweh. At every stage my ethnicity [Abstammung] turns out [erweist sich] to be a drag on my advancement. First, for a Hungarian minister it is too plebeian, then for a Muslim on the Nile or a Brahman on the Ganges it is unworthy. And all do it in the name of God.”72 For Goldziher, conversion, of course, was an act of betrayal. The night before he died, Goldziher’s father had admonished him never to abandon the faith of his ancestors.73 Fleischer was as chagrined by the religious prerequisite as he was excited by the offer itself, and he urged Goldziher to take it, provided the English came to their senses:

70 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, January 25, 1882; Ignaz Goldziher, Az iszlám (Budapest: Akadémiai Könyvkiadó, 1881). Heller’s Bibliographie, 30–35, as well as Wilhelm Bacher, ZDMG 36 (1882): 720–724 provide a good overview of Goldziher’s revisionist work. The existential swipe at Renan comports with Goldziher’s disgusted rejection of philology’s turn to racism (See Ignaz Goldziher, Renan als Orientalist, trans. Peter Zalán (Zürich: Spur-Verl., 2000), 32–42 and Lawrence I. Conrad, “Ignaz Goldziher on Ernest Renan: From Orientalist Philology to the Study of Islam,” in The Discovery of Islam: Studies in Honor of Bernard Lewis, ed. Martin Kramer (Tel Aviv: Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, Tel Aviv University, 1999), 137–180. On the conundrum of Goldziher’s mother tongue, see István Ormos, “Goldziher’s Mother Tongue: A Contribution to the Study of the Language Situation in Hungary in the Nineteenth Century,” in Goldziher Memorial Conference, eds. Éva Apor and István Ormos (Budapest: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 2005), 203–243. 71 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, December 29, 1881. 72 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, June 1, 1876. 73 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 73.



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It would be truly deplorable that—or let me rather say—if Leitner with his concern about your ethnicity and religion were not wrong. [But] among educated individuals in the last quarter of the nineteenth century—in a purely scientific matter—can worries [misèren] of this sort still be taken seriously? Just send your book (Mythos) to India. It will be the best medicine to dispel the religious vagaries of the reverends, imams, … and other hierophants there. And do not forget to include your photographs; a forehead like yours that nature has so clearly stamped with a seal of power, that is, spirit, can belong only to a person [touched] by God’s grace, who has the right to be himself and nobody else.74

The internal antagonism toward Goldziher’s radical religious views by his coreligionists meant, in fact, that Goldziher was ostracized twice. His entrance into the Gemeinde post coincided with the publication of the German edition of his Der Mythos bei den Hebräern und seine geschichtliche Entwickelung, followed a year later by an English translation that included as a validating addendum two essays by Heymann Steinthal, the founder of the study of the mythology of early ethnic groups (Völkerpsychologie). Goldziher had written a good chunk of it on his fivemonth trip to the Middle East, and the comments recorded at the time in his Oriental Diary strongly suggest that the work precipitated a classic example of a crisis of faith brought about by critical scholarship.75 Tradition crumbled in the face of new tools and perspectives freely exercised, and the anger and disgust aroused in him by the expressions of Jewish ritual, piety, and history that he witnessed in Constantinople must be seen through the distorting lens of that unresolved conflict. Thus, at the end of a wrenching Yom Kippur in Constantinople, Goldziher confided in his diary: Ever since scholarship disenchanted me with the intoxicating ideals which I had attached to the synagogue; ever since it became impossible for me to think of rabbinism without adding an écrasez l’infâme [crush the vile system]; ever since the history of religion and exegesis brought me to cherish a religious ideal, which lacks the brute, crude stuff that one calls a synagogue or church serving in the background, though not identical with the indistinct “cult of genius;” ever since then, the Jewish house of prayer has increasingly disgusted rather than edified me because I abhor the refined power of idolatry therein.76

74 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, June 13, 1876. 75 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, February 8, 1875; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 74; Ignaz Goldziher, Der Mythos bei den Hebräern und seine geschichtliche Entwickelung (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1876); Idem, Mythology among the Hebrews and its Historical Development, trans. Russell Martineau (London: Longmans, 1877). On Völkerpsychologie, see Belke, ed., Lazarus und Steinthal, I, xlii–lx; also M. Lazarus and H. Steinthal, “Einleitende Gedanken über Völkerpsychologie,” Zeitschrift für Völkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft (hereafter, ZVS) 1 (1860): 1–73. 76 The translation of this passage, crucial to my argument, is my own. A comparison of the translation by Raphael Patai, Ignaz Goldziher and His Oriental Diary (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987), 99, with the German original in The Jewish Theological Seminary Library, Archives, ARC 105,

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Whereas Franz Rosenzweig’s Yom Kippur experience in Berlin in 1913 would bring him back into the fold of traditional Judaism, Ignaz Goldziher’s experience in Istanbul in 1873 exacerbated his estrangement. The irony of Goldziher’s turmoil lay in the fact that the book he bore in mind was intended to defend the faith against Ernst Renan’s characterization that it was bereft of all mythology. The barren desert in which Judaism originated, according to Renan, could give birth to no other worldview than an abstract and non-visual monotheism. On the other hand, the Aryans’ polytheism embedded in the multiple forces of nature led to a disposition that carefully observed those forces, eventually culminating in a scientific worldview.77 But in order to access that buried mythological stratum of Semitic thought, Goldziher had to deconstruct the narrative texts of the Hebrew Bible to accord with the rigid developmental grid of Friedrich Max Müller’s solar mythology. Rich in philological arguments, comparative evidence, and difficult speculation, the book was by far the most extreme deployment of biblical criticism authored by a Jew since Spinoza. Just a few years before, Leopold Zunz had endorsed the documentary composition of the Pentateuch with a panoply of different dates, but he did not transform the text into a palimpsest.78 At the beginning of 1875, as Goldziher neared the end of his manuscript on myth, he introduced his work to Fleischer in a state of satisfaction: It is my veritable child of sorrow. The opening chapters I wrote in Syria, the middle ones in Egypt, and the final ones in Pest, where I revised the whole thing, reworking from a rigorously philological perspective what I had hastily conceptualized and sketched in the Orient. I believe to be the first to have tried to demonstrate that the results obtained by Müller in regard to the stages of Indo-Germanic myths [apply as well] to one sector of the Semitic world. I flatter myself that I am not guilty of any etymological leaps or acts of violence.79

Goldziher had written his book in a somewhat popular vein, à la Müller, to reach a larger audience. Still, he anxiously awaited the approval of orientalists and

“Ignaz Goldziher Oriental Diary,” 20, showed it to be imprecise and more convoluted than necessary. On the reliability of Patai’s edition, see Lawrence I. Conrad, “The Near East Study Tour Diary of Ignaz Goldziher,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 1 (1990): 105–121. 77 On Rosenzweig, see Nahum Glatzer, Franz Rosenzweig: His Life and Thought (New York: Schocken Books, 1953), 23–31; Goldziher, Renan als Orientalist, 37–40. On Der Mythos as a direct response to Renan, see Sabine Mangold, “Ignác Goldziher et Ernest Renan – Vision du monde et innovation scientifique,” in Ignác Goldziher: Un autre orientalisme?, ed. Céline Trautmann-Waller (Paris: Geuthner, 2011), 73–88. 78 Ismar Schorsch, “Leopold Zunz on the Hebrew Bible,” The Jewish Quarterly Review 102 (Summer 2012): 431–454. 79 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, February 8, 1875.



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historians. But Goldziher’s satisfaction soon gave way to apprehension. With the imminent appearance of his book, it began to dawn on him that its radicalness could damage his prospects for employment in the Gemeinde in Budapest or the Hochschule in Berlin. If that were to happen, there were no other options available. Duplicity had barred him from obtaining a university professorship, and prejudices blocked him from even being considered for one of the numerous jobs available in the city’s libraries or high schools. The protracted approval process of Goldziher’s appointment only added to his disquiet.80 His angst abated momentarily with the final approval of his appointment and a contract for an English translation of his study of Israelite myth. In his aforementioned late-night letter from November 21, 1875 to Fleischer, Goldziher triumphantly reported both successes, adding that his English publisher was also the publisher of Müller’s works. Fleischer answered immediately and shrewdly. Goldziher still had reason to worry: So an English translation of your heretical views is also on the horizon? I confess to you, my dear friend, that I am pleased that you have found firm ground beneath your feet before your bilingual book will trigger a spectacle in both the synagogue and church. The intelligentsia who engineered your appointment has my respect. But all the same, there are conservatives among the Jewish and Christian intelligentsia who at the end of the day will rise to oppose you, and indeed already would have done so if your book had come out before your appointment. In any case, the way it happened is better.81

As the date of publication approached, Goldziher’s angst returned. He had sought only to serve the cause of truth and believed that God would protect him from a witch hunt. Yet, he began to fear the impact of negative reviews by skeptical scholars on his coreligionists and beseeched Fleischer to favor him with a quick, short, positive review to stem the expected tide.82 To buttress this rather blunt request, Goldziher added later that it was Müller himself who secured both the translator and publisher for Goldziher’s work, a fact which might persuade

80 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, August 29, 1875; October 23, 1875; November 1, 1875; November 11, 1875. 81 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, November 24, 1875. 82 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, December 28, 1875; February 20, 1876. In the latter letter, Goldziher stressed that Fleischer’s review should not appear in the section reserved for theology, where any review dealing with a Jewish book was always placed, but rather under the rubric mythology. The classification bespoke a still dominant Christian perception, which Goldziher struggled to avoid. See Ismar Schorsch, “Moritz Steinschneider: The Vision Beyond the Books,” in Studies on Steinschneider, eds. Reimund Leicht and Gad Freudenthal (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2012), 23–24.

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Fleischer to allow Goldziher to dedicate the volume to him.83 In the end, Fleischer shared the honor with Müller and Ármin Vámbéry, “the pioneers of Semitic, Aryan and Turco-Tataric philology.”84 There is no evidence that Fleischer ever complied with Goldziher’s wishes, though when he finally received a copy of the German edition of the book from the Leipzig publishing firm Brockhaus, which he had probably approached about publishing the work in the first place, Fleischer playfully compared Goldziher to Alexander the Great: That you command an army of wide reading and great learning I knew. But what I did not know and indeed had no inkling of is that this army makes frightful conquests in all directions, bringing home booty from all sides. Hence on your return from your worldwide conquests, Alexander of awesome knowledge, kindly accept this sincere expression of awe as a token of my homage.

Fleischer then asked Goldziher to bear with him as he broadened his own horizon to venture into this confusing terrain.85 Despite the morale boost that Fleischer’s compliment gave him, Goldziher was growing ever more insecure. Would the book compromise his ability to publicly represent a religious institution whose tenets he disdained? Even his beloved former teacher of Talmud, Moses Wolf Freudenberg, had already preached against it, though without repercussions.86 Above all, Goldziher continued to brood over the verdict of the scholarly world, which came in the form of critiques by Friedrich Delitzsch, Bernhard Stade, and Wolf Baudissin, all recent Leipzig doctorates who had been Goldziher’s fellow classmates.87 While Stade berated Goldziher for not being a biblical scholar, Baudissin completely rejected his misguided treatment of mythology.88 On occasion, Fleischer would alleviate the tension with good humor; for example, when he thanked Goldziher for his copy of the English translation with “its mythological heresies, for which some 200 years ago you would have been utterly banned, just like Spinoza. Thank God that he has spared you from this dangerous honor of being ejected from the synagogue, exactly like the greatest Jewish philosopher once was by his contemporaries.”89

83 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, May 12, 1876. 84 Goldziher, Mythology, dedication page. 85 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, May 18, 1876. 86 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, June 1, 1876; Goldziher, Tagebuch, 19. 87 Ibid., 44. 88 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, July 15, 1876; Baudissin’s dismissive review appeared in the Theologische Literaturzeitung 1, no. 18 (1876): 461–464. 89 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, March 14, 1877.



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To no avail. By the latter half of 1878, a disconsolate Goldziher, stonewalled again by the university, was ready to resign. He could no longer tolerate the derision with which members of the Gemeinde greeted his book nor the company he kept in the office. Their jargon, he told Fleischer, made him forget that he was a European, and their lack of respect pained him grievously. Only the common sense of his wife kept him from leaving his post without a viable alternative. Goldziher recalled an Arabic proverb he had learned in Cairo that “a donkey at hand is preferable to a horse that isn’t.”90 Fleischer intervened again to look for that horse. With a professorship thwarted in Budapest, Fleischer wrote to the Austrian Minister of Culture and Education in Vienna on December 22, 1878, kindly suggesting to invite Goldziher, who was about to be dismissed from his Gemeinde post in Budapest, for a meeting.91 Implicit in Fleischer’s explicit depiction of Goldziher’s impressive curriculum vitae was the hope that an academic position might be found for him elsewhere in the Dual Monarchy. That same month, Fleischer also resumed his efforts in the direction of Berlin. Several years before in a face-to-face conversation, he had piqued Lazarus’s interest in Goldziher. At the latter’s request, he followed up with a written recommendation.92 To help Goldziher make an informed decision should an invitation be forthcoming, Fleischer shared with him a letter from Steinschneider dated June 12, 1875, explaining why he himself would have nothing to do with the Hochschule. Regardless, given Goldziher’s state of mind, Fleischer sent an urgent appeal to Steinthal, Lazarus’s colleague at the Hochschule, on December 17, 1878: Please help if you can! I plead for our brilliant and profoundly learned, dither-headed [Wirbelkopf] Goldziher, who is about to become the martyr of his Mythos. That it would, one way or the other, come to this should he wish to remain an official of the Jewish community was self-evident from the outset and I told him so. But acting with savvy was never his thing. He now faces the dilemma of being dismissed this coming February, and even like Spinoza excommunicated, or resigning his post voluntarily and living with his family in extreme poverty. He, of course, has chosen to do the latter. But can we, his friends, who know of his despair allow such a move to run its course? […] I am ready to do everything in my power to sustain the most ingenious and knowledgeable of all my students to date in his natural calling and to protect him from outer and eventually inner atrophy.93

90 Belke, ed., Lazarus und Steinthal, II/2, 490 (Goldziher to Fleischer, January 5, 1879). 91 A copy in HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File. 92 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, July 20, 1875. 93 Heinrich Loewe, Ignaz Goldziher: Ein Wort des Gedenkens (Berlin: Soncino Gesellschaft, 1929), no page no.

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This disarmingly insightful letter was not only a sterling token of Fleischer’s devotion, but also a plausible initiative because the year before Steinthal had hailed Goldziher’s Mythos in a thirty-page review as a milestone in the recovery of the mythology of the ancient Israelites. The dire financial straits of the Hochschule, however, proved prohibitive.94 Moreover, Goldziher, as he informed Fleischer a few days later on December 23, 1878, had been cured (by then) of any desire to continue his scholarship in a Jewish setting: The Hochschule is not the object of my desires. I have had my fill of religious employment. My coreligionists are not advanced enough to digest me. Perhaps Steinthal and Lazarus, that I would like to believe. But not the people who give the money for a school to educate rabbis, who vacillate between the middle ages and modernity, lacking any firm ground in the realms of conviction and practical life. Furthermore, this institution is, as far as I know, a private school without any legal standing. And were it not for Geiger’s name in its first catalogue, it would not be worth much. Years ago, Steinschneider had refused categorically to accept a position there.95

Goldziher, though, was not in danger of losing his job. Fleischer had erred (or exaggerated) in his letter to Staatsminister Karl Streymayr.96 Goldziher emphasized to Fleischer that a binding protocol with the General Assembly of the Gemeinde protected him legally. What had been lost were the last three years, the best of his life, in which he had been prevented from doing any serious scholarship.97 Another long-term consequence was his twenty-two-year estrangement from the Breslau-type rabbinical school, which had opened in Budapest in 1877 and whose faculty suspected him of being an atheist and a heretic.98 Neither epithet does justice to Goldziher’s entangled attitude toward Judaism or religion. In his letter to Fleischer, Steinschneider recalled Goldziher as being quite Orthodox (streng orthodox) when he had studied with him during the winter semester of 1868–1869.99 And indeed he was Orthodox then. During his sojourn in Berlin, he continued to study Talmud daily, lived in the home of Adolf Berliner, and was close to Fürchtegott Lebrecht—both Orthodox practitioners of Wissenschaft.100

94 H. Steinthal, “Über Mythen-Schichtung,” ZVS 9 (1877): 272–303; Belke, ed., Lazarus und Steinthal, II/2, 486–488. 95 Ibid., 488–490. 96 Ibid., 490. 97 Ibid., 488–490. 98 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 87–88, 220–221, 267. 99 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Steinschneider File, Steinschneider to Fleischer, June 12, 1875. 100 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 38. In his Hebrew essay dealing with the Goldziher–Shmuel Avraham Poznanski correspondence, Shlomo Dov Goitein cited the testimony of both Poznanski and Aron Freimann that Goldziher studied a page of Talmud every day of his life (“‫גולדזיהר לפי מכתביו‬, I.



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In Leiden, he offended Dozy by declining his dinner invitation, though he could not reconcile doing biblical criticism while observing Judaism’s dietary laws.101 Steinschneider’s throwback to recollections of those callow days obliged Goldziher to explain his trajectory to Fleischer: It appears that what Steinschneider says about my previous Orthodoxy was not really thought through. In my youth, I had to observe many a medieval custom out of consideration for my blessed father. But when I mentioned to him that these customs were becoming untenable for me in social settings, he absolved me from their fervent observance [pietätvollen Rücksicht]. I have never made my biblical and critical scholarship contingent on human dogma, and in matters of free thought I have, like others, consistently advanced according to the standards of broader intellectual perspectives.102

But social discomfort was surely only one source of Goldziher’s emancipation. His memoir-diary abounds with evidence of intellectual ferment. As an adolescent in Budapest, he began to complement his intensive study of Talmud with forays into the literature of critical scholarship on Judaism authored by Jews and Christians during the last half-century. He never forgot the shock of the day when he learned that the Pentateuch might be a composite rather than a unitary text.103 In Wilhelm Bacher, who would also study with Fleischer, he found another intellectually voracious adolescent with whom he read the works of Saadia Gaon and to whom he taught Persian. What separated them, Goldziher later opined, was existential angst. For Bacher, “Judaism was a literary fact; for me already in 1867 it was the heartbeat of my life.”104 Without a doubt, though, the two most influential personalities for Goldziher’s intellectual maturation were his Hungarian mentor and friend, Móric Kármán, and the seminal Wissenschaft scholar and leader of the German Reform movement, Abraham Geiger. Kármán, who was a protégé of Leopold Löw, Hungary’s counterpart to Geiger, deepened Goldziher’s knowledge of biblical criticism, introduced him to the burgeoning field of mythology, and strengthened his conceptual thinking.105 From Geiger’s pathbreaking studies on the genesis of

Goldziher Memorial Volume, I, Hebrew part, 6–7, n. 9). I have found nothing in the Fleischer-Goldziher correspondence that confirms that claim. 101 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 48. 102 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, August 9, 1875. 103 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 27–29. 104 Ibid., 32–33. 105 Ibid., 42–44, 158–162; see also Céline Trautmann-Waller, “Histoire culturelle, religions et modernité, ou: y a-t-il une ‘méthode’ Goldziher?,” in Ignác Goldziher: Un autre orientalisme?, 120–121.

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rabbinic law, in conjunction with the New Testament criticism of the Tübingen School, Goldziher came to appreciate the developmental nature of religious phenomena and to master the application of tendency criticism.106 The paradoxical outcome of this journey is that while Goldziher lost all tolerance for the legal character of the Judaism of his day, he became the first great expositor of Islam’s legal character to Europe. In youthful ardour during his stay in Cairo, he concluded that normative Islam was the only religion amenable to philosophical minds, for it was orthodoxy and not a rational critique external to the system that expunged superstition and pagan vestiges from its midst. The insight inspired him to think of reforming the encrusted character of emancipated Judaism on a similar rational basis.107 To be sure, when he went public in the winter of 1887–1888 in a lecture series with his pervasively developmental construction of Judaism, his scheme did not resonate.108 Yet his home embodied a form of messianic Judaism saturated with the words of psalmists and prophets and cleansed of all irrational impurities, if not ritual observance.109 Similarly, his memoir-diary reverberates with a reverential, intimate relationship with God that often turns conversational. In short, for all his sophistication, erudition, and uncompromising scholarly ethos, Goldziher remained a homo religiosus. His desk was tellingly bedecked with a small plaque that bore the inscription of a verse from Psalms often inscribed on the eastern wall of a synagogue sanctuary: “I am ever mindful of the Lord’s presence (16:8).”110 And like no other scholar of his age, Goldziher was interested in Islam as a religious culture. As he wrote to Fleischer when his study of the Zahiris was coming off the press: My Zāhirīs is up to the tenth quire. I believe that there will be about six more. I truly regret that I read proofs while traveling, as a consequence of which, many misprints remain that

106 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 39, 42–44, 123. On the Tübingen School, see Horton Harris, The Tübingen School (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975). 107 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 59; on the nature and importance of Goldziher’s Oriental study tour, see Lawrence I. Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest: Goldziher’s Study Tour to the Near East (1873– 1874),” in Golden Roads: Migration, Pilgrimage and Travel in Medieval and Modern Islam, ed. Ian Richard Netton (Richmond, England: Curzon Press, 1993), 110–159. Conrad tends to overestimate the importance of Geiger’s influence on Goldziher’s approach to Islam. His description of Geiger’s Urschrift und Übersetzungen der Bibel (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Madda, 1928) as the work “in which he argued for the mythic character of Old Testament texts” is blatantly wrong (124, more generally 123–25, 139–459). 108 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 111; Heller, 41, no. 125. 109 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 111. 110 Ibid., 91.



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distress me. I fear more than anyone the judgment of discomfiting reviews, especially because the subject and spirit of my work are alien to that group which dominates the field of Oriental literature in our decade. I have noticed that many a pacesetter recoils with genuine horror at the sight of a work dealing with the Muslim religion or theology. I suspect that you will agree that this animus is unwarranted and derives from a one-sided view of the goal of our field.111

As an academic freelancer absorbed by the study of religion, Goldziher had to be doubly cautious. Goldziher continued to rely on Fleischer to help correct his proofs. The extreme legal conservatism of the Zāhirīs did not seem to faze him, as he implied in his letter to Goldziher from July 29, 1883: “I have just gotten pages 73 to 81 of your Zahiris. Once again you have produced a splendid work, whose printing I would gladly oversee to the last letter, if it were only possible (Fleischer was about to depart on vacation).”112 What did, however, incur Fleischer’s wrath were the irrational excesses of Islamic belief. In a letter dated October 15, 1877, Fleischer could not repress his displeasure at the appearance of a French edition of an edifying tract on the afterlife by the renowned eleventh-century thinker al-Ghazālī, which he denounced as: A hodge-podge of the most absurd offspring of Muslim fantasy on death, resurrection, etc. by the firm of Muhammed and Company, to be sure, understood, according to al-Ghazālī, only allegorically. I would have rather preferred for his honor’s sake if he had left the matter where it belongs … The good Lord comes across throughout as truly Oriental in the role of a despotic caricature [Schlafrocksdespoten], thoroughly taken by his power, yet from time to time seized by fits of kindliness that are completely arbitrary. In particular, he is not unamenable to a good or bad joke, with which a poor sinner, who already has his ticket to hell in hand, regales him. As narrated, the good Lord then lets mercy trump justice, laughs (truly laughs – in Arabic) and sends him off to paradise. One must indeed have a rock solid faith in the uniquely saving grace of allegory not to laugh at this stupid thing, all the more at the stupidity of people who are taken in by it.113

111 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, October, 3, 1883. 112 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, July 29, 1883. 113 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, October 15, 1877; L[ucien] Gautier, ad-dourra al-fâkhira, la perle précieuse de Ghazâlî (Genève-Bâle-Lyon: H. Georg, 1878). The author had been in contact with Fleischer during his research because in his introduction he thanked him for his steadfast interest and assistance [xvi].

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In his response, Goldziher did not contest Fleischer’s harsh judgment. He acknowledged and lamented the fine line between faith and superstition to be found in the works of many Muslim theologians. I avidly long to get to know al-Durra al-fākhira [in Arabic – The Precious Pearl]. It is noteworthy that the best of thinkers of Islam are full of superstition. One is not startled at Ibn Khaldun’s exposition of magic [in Arabic]. And he was an enlightened fellow! It is in fact [the result] of the fetters of the Hadīth, whose welts are visible on their spirit. Just now I read the trial that the poor Ibn Taymīya [in Arabic] was subjected to because he came into conflict with the Hadīth [in Arabic], and in the same book there is a description of the execution of a man about whom the Qādī of the Malikites in Damascus dreamed that he had blasphemed the prophet Luţ, which the poor devil denied strenuously … Moreover, a god who writes and reviews books may indeed have muscles for laughing. It is the concretizing (Vermaterialisirung) of lofty, monotheistic ideas which orthodox sages of monotheistic faiths (Formeln) then demand of the faithful, whether Muslim, Christian, or Jewish, that is for sure the source of all the brutality which they attribute to their Elohim and Allah and render into a system for which governments are glad to pay.114

To Goldziher’s credit, the excesses did not deter him from the study of Islam qua religion. He could not wait to lay his hand on a new work by al-Ghazālī, much of whose vast oeuvre still lay unredeemed in public archives and private libraries. Aside from his own abiding interest and manifold contributions, Goldziher encouraged others similarly inclined to ignore the disdain of a secular age. In his tribute to Goldziher after his death, Snouck Hurgronje, whom Goldziher befriended in 1883, affirmed that without Goldziher’s vigorous support he would never have mustered the courage to pursue his study of Islamic law, from which many had tried to dissuade him.115 Similarly, Goldziher played a vital role in the early career of Louis Massignon. As a recent scholar of their correspondence has shown, Goldziher was not only enthralled by the young Massignon’s massive project on al-Hallāj, the Sufi “master of mystical love,” which he often prodded him to finish, but also served as his adviser and proof reader, as Fleischer had once done for him.116

114 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, November 17, 1877. Notwithstanding, Goldziher identified with al-Ghazâlî’s assault on the intolerance of Islamic legalism toward doubt and inquiry and his embrace of Sufism to reassert the centrality of the divine-human relationship. See Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 142. 115 Koningsveld, Scholarship and Friendship, xiii–xiv. 116 Francois Angelier, “Louis Massignon-Ignác Goldziher: Influence intellectuelle et legs spirituel: Correspondance inédite (1909–1921),” in Ignác Goldziher: Un autre orientalisme?, 195–212. The sobriquet comes from The Encyclopedia of Religion, 16 vols. (New York – London: Macmillan, 1987), VI, 173.



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Likewise, it was due to Goldziher that Abraham Shalom Yahuda published for the first time in 1912 the Judeo-Arabic original of the eleventh-century pietistic classic (on the basis of two manuscripts and a few fragments) Ḥovot ha-levavot (Duties of the Heart) by Bahya Ibn Paquda, preserved until then only in the medieval Hebrew translation by Judah Ibn Tibbon. Tellingly, Yahuda dedicated the volume to his mentor. His accompanying tribute deftly linked Goldziher’s lifelong agenda to his youthful passion: He was indeed the one who first prompted me to do this edition of the book that he had loved in his youth. It was his fondest wish that he be able one day to read this beautiful text, which he had read so often in Hebrew translation, in its original language. He considered it a noble duty to support me in every way and advise me with his wise counsel till the end. [In short], he was ever ready to devote time to this project.117

From afar, Goldziher’s peers admired the audacity, perseverance, and empathy, not to mention the conclusions, which he consistently manifested in his religious studies. On September 2, 1889 in Stockholm, the International Congress of Orientalists had the King of Sweden bestow its coveted gold medal on Goldziher. His fellow recipient was none other than Theodor Nöldeke, the dean of German Arabists in the generation after Fleischer.118 In their precious personal correspondence, Nöldeke, who like Fleischer had an affinity for Jewish students, railed against the unforgivable exclusion of scholars like Goldziher and Immanuel Löw from institutions of higher education in Hungary.119 But Nöldeke, as he admitted to Goldziher, was a died-in-the-wool rationalist who had little stomach for ritual and believed that religion had done more harm to humanity than good.120 He never felt at ease studying the Quran, preferring instead the poetry of the Bedouins, and he readily admitted that his pioneering work on the Quran had little

117 A. S. Yahuda, Al-hidāja ‘ilā farā‘id al-qulūb des Bachja Ibn Josef Ibn Paqūda aus Andalusien (Leiden: Brill, 1912), xvii. See also Yahuda’s glowing tribute to Goldziher after his death: Yahuda, “Die Bedeutung der Goldziherschen Bibliothek für die zukünftige hebräische Universität,” Der Jude 8 (1924): 575–592. 118 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 117–120. 119 Róbert Simon, Ignác Goldziher: His Life and Scholarship as Reflected in His Works and Correspondence (Budapest: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 1986), 168–169. Löw had also studied with Fleischer and dedicated his Aramäische Pflanzennamen (Leipzig: Engelmann, 1881) to him. On Fleischer’s esteem for Löw’s dissertation, see Preissler, “Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer: Ein Leipziger Orientalist,” 260. 120 Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 253, 291–292.

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to do with religion.121 He marveled but did not envy Goldziher’s capacity to plow through the literature being published in the Orient: Indeed, you, like no one else, know how to extract from the boring theological and canonical arguments what is essential, important, and interesting and present it in an interesting fashion. But even for you the reading of this literature must be boring.122

At the age of seventy-eight, having returned to reading the Greek classics, Nöldeke confessed poignantly that he was unsuited to appreciate Islam as a religious phenomenon. What is more, he said:“I would have had much more inner satisfaction if I had become a classical philologist and occupied myself as a scholar solely with the Greeks. At least now for my edification I am again reading a lot of Greek.”123 When Goldziher departed from Leipzig for Leiden, he was still entranced by the philological agenda of his mentor. But as his interest in religion and culture ripened, their paths diverged, and in that divergence there is a saga that spans their correspondence. It is well known that Goldziher left with a manuscript of Tha’ālibī’s (d. 1038) Fiqh al-lugha (The Science of Language), a work of some thirty chapters on Arabic synonyms, which at Fleischer’s request he had committed himself to publishing. Years before, Fleischer had received a copy of this manuscript from Johann Gottfried Wetzstein, one of his early students and since 1848 the first Prussian consul in Damascus. In gratitude, Fleischer treasured the gift and assured Wetzstein of his intention to publish it. The Leipzig sheikh was wont to speak of the richness of the Old Arabic of the pre-Islamic Bedouins as a tropical forest in which nothing went unnamed. The language was marked by a robust concreteness and freedom of form that required a thesaurus to recover the specific meaning of the profusion of its terms. It is also well known that Goldziher failed to publish the Tha’ālibī manuscript and also Ibn al-Sikkīt’s (d. 858) Kitāb al-alfāz (Book of Words), which he had discovered was the older, more original work that Tha’ālibī had plundered and plagiarized. What remains unknown is why Goldziher, a prodigious scholar, abandoned the project. The correspondence reveals the answer and the psychological cost.124

121 Ibid., 368. 122 Ibid., 292. 123 Ibid., 368. 124 Fleischer, Kleinere Schriften, III, 161–166. On Goldziher’s command of and contribution to Arabic philology, see Ignaz Goldziher, On the History of Grammar among the Arabs, trans. Kinga Dévényi and Tamás Iványi (Amsterdam-Philadelphia: John Benjamins Pub. Co., 1994), and especially Simon Hopkins, “The Language Studies of Ignaz Goldziher” in Goldziher Memorial Conference, 81–157. On Wetzstein, see Ingeborg Huhn, Der Nachlass des Orientalisten Johann Gottfried



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In Leiden, Goldziher was absorbed with preparatory work, perusing and copying everything pertaining to the subject of Arabic synonyms including the entire book by Ibn al-Sikkīt.125 By August 15, 1871, Fleischer expressed his pleasure at the thoroughness of Goldziher’s work and informed him of the generous offer of Professor William Wright of Cambridge University to collate their underlying text (a Parisian printed edition of Fiqh al-lugha, which had not obviated the need to publish the Wetzstein manuscript) with a splendid, earlier Tha’ālibī manuscript in Cambridge.126 The following year, Goldziher secured the Leiden firm Brill as his publisher, integrated what was relevant from the selflessly exemplary collation provided by Wright, and convinced Fleischer to allow the edition to be dedicated to him. Goldziher had even persuaded his rector at the university to secure the Leiden manuscript of Ibn al-Sikkīt for him.127 But Goldziher’s conviction regarding the importance of the project was waning as he realized the extent to which Tha’ālibī had borrowed from lexicographers like Ibn al-Sikkīt and Ibn Fāris without acknowledgment.128 By the fall of 1876, there was still no evidence of any progress, except that Goldziher had decided to follow up his Tha’ālibī edition with an edition of Ibn al-Sikkīt, which Fleischer had convinced the DMG to publish.129 But Goldziher’s silent partners were growing restless. On the train from the International Congress of Orientalists in St. Petersburg to the conference of German Orientalists in Tübingen in September 1876, Wright conveyed to Fleischer De Goeje’s frustration with Goldziher for the endless delays in the appearance of the Tha’ālibī edition. Stung by the charge, Fleischer confronted Goldziher upon his return home in a letter dated October 1, 1876: This was for me entirely new and contradicted your earlier answers to me in response to my inquiries, as well as your commitment to me when you took over this project. Though it

Wetzstein in der Handschriftenabteilung der Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006), xi–xii. In an informative note, Dévényi and Iványi summarized what had been known to date about this failed project [63–64, n. 4]. 125 Goldziher, Tagebuch, 49. 126 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, August 15, 1871; January 9, 1872. 127 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, March 20, 1872; August 12, 1872; RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, May 26, 1872. 128 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, July 31, 1872; Ignaz Goldziher, “Beiträge zur Geschichte der Sprachgelehrsamkeit bei den Arabern: Abu l’Husein ibn Fâris,” in G.S. I, 186–228; Idem, “Aus einem Briefe Dr. Goldziher’s an Prof. Fleischer” ZDMG 28 (1874): 161–168. 129 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, October 24, 1875.

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pains me, I must give you the option either to honor your commitment or by the end of the year to return to me the material that I provided you with for the editing of the book. It is my intention to fulfill finally, perhaps belatedly, the promise I made to Consul Wetzstein, upon his request, when he gifted me that manuscript.130

The letter was doubly distressing for Goldziher because it also impugned his integrity. He had never lied to Fleischer: My manuscript for publication along with an introduction of several quires has been in Leiden since the fall of 1872. I am not guilty for the delay in printing, nor is it my fault that a few pages would come to me from Leiden to Budapest every three of four months, then ever more sparingly till they finally stopped. In this regard, I expressed my displeasure often to Mr. Rittershausen, who mediated between me and the publisher. A few months ago, in fact, I informed Mr. Rittershausen that the whole thing had become a burden to me because I am no friend of sea serpents (Seeschlangen). If you are prepared to buy this explanation, then you will see that it is not correct to blame me for not having delivered a print-ready manuscript for years. This is the objective side of the matter. But since the matter is getting a full airing, I wish to add a subjective consideration. I cannot deny that I have long lost any pleasure in working on the book. I have decided instead to put out soon the Kitāb al-alfāz of Ibn al-Sikkīt, the very book which Tha’ālibī plundered in such a crude manner. Once Ibn al-Sikkīt is in the hands of Arabists, Tha’ālibī will be of no value because I intend to give in the beginning of the relevant chapters [in Arabic] the synonyms which are in Fiqh al-lugha but not in Ibn al-Sikkīt. Since this will require but a very small space, it will be possible to bring in the materials Wright provided. Why publish an arid work of a plagiarist if the whole tasteful original is available? This is my scholarly opinion. To be considered, in addition, is the fact that Fiqh al-lugha along with The Mysteries of the Arabic Language [in Arabic, the second part of Tha’ālibī’s work, which Goldziher had uncovered only while in Leiden] have already appeared in Cairo in a good and correct edition (though without an index), and which is available for a song. I have lost all my respect for Tha’ālibī. Moreover, his character as a plagiarist I stressed and proved in my essay on Ibn Fāris [in Arabic], even that he took for his own title the title of Ibn Fāris’s Fiqh al-lugha [in Arabic]. Ibn al-Sikkīt is a primary source for Arabic synonyms, the only valuable one we have and you, honorable Professor, convinced yourself from a sample that I gave you just how valuable this work is and how superfluous it makes Tha’ālibī and how I have striven to be worthy of editing this edition. Since then I have again put in a great deal of work and can assure you that Kitāb al-alfāz [in Arabic] will offer Arabic lexicography in Europe a significant advantage. By making use of Wright’s material and of material from six other manuscripts brought to the fore by Wetzstein’s manuscript, whose results will be incorporated, your promise to Wetzstein will have been fulfilled […] If we lay this out clearly to Consul Wetzstein (and I would gladly take the trouble […] to write him a detailed letter), I have no doubt that he would regard it as fulfilling your promise […] Laziness, shirking my responsibility, and lame excuses have

130 Ibid., Fleischer to Goldziher, October 1, 1876.



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never been my style and I am deeply, very deeply hurt that I could be suspected of this, my cherished Professor.131

Moved by Goldziher’s anguish, Fleischer answered the day he received the letter to reassure him of his confidence. He deeply regretted having given too much credence to the criticism of Wright and De Goeje and asked Goldziher to write to Wetzstein, seeking his approval for the mid-course correction, which Goldziher promptly did.132 Goldziher had taken several courses with Wetzstein in the language, life, and customs of the Bedouins while studying in Berlin in 1868–1869. On the basis of that contact, Goldziher asked him in a letter dated August 15, 1873 for a recommendation for his forthcoming trip to Damascus and for help in gaining access to the private library of a certain Ibn Farchi, who “if I err not is a respected Jew.”133 On October 15, 1876, Goldziher approached Wetzstein again, this time regarding his Tha’ālibī manuscript. He indicated at the outset that prior to preparing it for publication, Fleischer had persuaded another one of his students, Dr. Steiner, who was now a professor of theology in Zurich, to undertake the task. His post, however, deprived him of time and Steiner returned the manuscript. Goldziher then proceeded to lay out for Wetzstein the mileposts of his saga. Years of delay caused by internal problems at Brill proved to be the major impediment. In the interim, Goldziher became utterly disillusioned with Tha’ālibī’s plagiarism and convinced of the greater value of Ibn al-Sikkīt’s work: Kitāb al-alfāz is a wide-ranging, complete Arabic synonymy in which nearly every word is illustrated by one or more—in part otherwise unknown—shawāhid [in Arabic – prooftexts], which in turn are interpreted either by the learned commentary of Tibrīzī [a famous medieval philologist and commentator on early Arabic poetry] or the published hamāsa [a collection of ancient Arabic poetry, mostly on themes of war]. All in all, the work is a treasure of learning in the field of lugha, and the DMG has shown its appreciation of my minor service to Arabic studies by agreeing to cover the cost of the edition.

Goldziher specifically asked Wetzstein whether he would accept his inclusion of Tha’ālibī entries not found in Ibn al-Sikkīt as fulfilling Fleischer’s pledge. At the

131 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, October 7, 1876. 132 HASL, Goldziher Letters, Box 10, Fleischer File, Fleischer to Goldziher, October 9, 1876. 133 Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Nachlass Johann Gottfried Wetzstein, I, Kasten 5, Mappe G. Upon his return, Goldziher wrote that he had found Ibn Farchi’s library less significant than Wetzstein had led him to believe (Goldziher, G.S. I, 347).

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end of this long epistle, Goldziher added a pitiful postscript apologizing for its messy state: After finishing this letter, I noticed its disorderliness and crude handwriting. Honored Consul, I beg of you a thousand times to forgive me. I wrote under the press of an overwhelming job-related workload, yet was in a great rush not to delay this letter any longer, in order to learn whether this matter that weighs so heavily on me was resolvable.134

Mercifully, Wetzstein’s approval came promptly, though the surfacing of a second manuscript of Ibn al-Sikkīt in Paris brought yet another three-year delay. Goldziher lacked the money to afford a visit to the Bibliothèque Nationale and did not acquire the manuscript on loan until September 1882. The wait had not been in vain, however, because the Paris manuscript represented a different line of transmission from that of the Leiden manuscript on which he had been working, thus giving him a final text more approximate to the original. Reenergized, Goldziher wrote three days after its arrival that he now hoped to publish by the beginning of 1884, if not sooner.135 But by early 1886, Goldziher was forced to admit to Fleischer that he could not complete the edition. He was absorbed with other projects, including: a critical review of Hartwig Derenbourg’s Judeo-Arabic edition of Judah Halevi’s famous Kuzari; a textually based essay on the Almohades in North Africa; and the first volume of his Muhammedanische Studien. Regarding Halevi’s Arabic style, Goldziher observed that “it was often downright horrible, a fact always to be borne in mind when correcting the original.” To prove his point, Goldziher asked Fleischer for help on a four-line passage that he found impenetrable in which Halevi averred the superiority of the biblical cantillation system over the system of Arabic metrics. And then to the crux: When will my circumstances allow me to go to press with my Kitāb al-alfāz? Whenever I put that question to myself, I am driven to the conclusion that the unsettled life I lead is unsuited for me to take on the correcting of [passages] from lexicographers, ancient poets— which abound in the text—and their likes. Since I had the honor of sharing this opinion with you in person in [Alt] Schönefeld [in August 1885], I have become more convinced of it than ever. Should the Kitāb al-alfāz be made available to Arabists in my name, then I want it to be an exemplary edition, which requires above all that a calm and composed individual do the corrections. I could have provided the publisher long ago with a print-ready manu-

134 I. Wetzstein, Kasten 5, Mappe G. Heinrich Steiner had joined the DMG in 1865. Die Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft 1845–1895: Ein Ueberblick (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1895), 71. 135 RLC, Fleischer Letters, Goldziher File, Goldziher to Fleischer, September 17, 1882.



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script. But a clean manuscript is not enough to produce a clean edition. At the moment, I am obliged to let corrections lie for weeks.136

Some sixteen months later, with no progress to report, Goldziher unburdened himself to Fleischer in a seven-page epistle filled with pathos. The problem was not providing the publisher with a collated and annotated text, but with faultless proofreading and the investigation of endless unforeseen questions that crop up in the process. Goldziher’s high standards, enervating job, fragile health, and other research interests kept him from producing a final, definitive edition. He pleaded with Fleischer to understand his precarious state: I am constantly warned by my doctor and closest friends to give up every intellectual and scholarly activity outside my job. They posit the impossibility of this going on much longer. My office responsibilities demand all of me and my time. Yet since 1876, I have been unable to bring myself to heed their ever more insistent warning to declare myself finished as a scholar. If God helps but a little longer, a volume of Islamic studies of some thirty quires, wrested from my nights and vacations, will go to press. Can I really undertake yet another task, whose execution would demand of me the utmost concentration on important and unavoidable details? I do not know where I should find the time, even if I could muster the intellectual energy[…] I have just finished my six-week vacation and will soon be attending meetings as secretary till late at night and recording everything confidential in the minutes, [all this] after having spent a full day in deadening interaction with many dozens of people, in checking marriage documents, in handling the declarations and requests directed my way in these and other matters, in guiding the complicated administration of our well-run religious school system, in conducting the manifold correspondence of our community and finally in [enduring] the flow of criticism and remarks of my superiors […] Despite all this, I cling tenaciously to my scholarship for which I feel a calling, and people close to me cannot figure out where I find the time to continue to pursue my academic, literary, and research work.137

Prior to receiving Goldziher’s letter on September 3, Fleischer had decided to append to his essay (1854) on Tha’ālibī, about to reappear in the third volume of his collected writings, a long note recounting the fate of Wetzstein’s Tha’ālibī manuscript and announcing that Goldziher’s forthcoming edition of Ibn al-Sikkīt, which was to be published by the DMG, would serve to redeem his pledge to Wetzstein. In a considerate gesture, Fleischer had sent a copy of that note in advance to Goldziher, which gave him the chance to soften the finality of his pre-

136 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, April 18, 1886. 137 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, August 30, 1887.

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vious negative stance to a simple “not yet.” At the same time, Goldziher returned to Fleischer his cherished Wetzstein manuscript of Tha’ālibī.138 There was only one other brief letter from Goldziher to Fleischer before the latter’s death. The correspondence thus drew to a close with a mutual feeling of disappointment at the failure of a resolution that would have relieved Fleischer of the burden of an unfulfilled promise, while sparing Goldziher the unease of having to edit the work of a plagiarist. Both men lived by a rigorous ethical code. Knowledge of what the project had meant to Fleischer must have compounded Goldziher’s lingering sense of remorse. But his scholarly agenda had moved well beyond the confined horizon of philology. In marveling at the frontiers Goldziher conquered while entrapped in adversity, we are usually unmindful of the projects never brought to fruition. Most importantly, Fleischer’s unwavering support during those first two decades of his torment, when Goldziher was most vulnerable, kept him from plunging into the abyss between his needs and his aspirations.

138 Ibid., Goldziher to Fleischer, September, 4, 1877; Fleischer, Kleinere Schriften, III, 162. In their aforementioned note [63–64], Dévényi and Iványi reported that in Goldziher’s papers they found “two large folders from the early 1870s containing indices and notes on poets occurring in the text [of Ibn al-Sikkīt],” as well as “a large file containing the whole work completely edited and ready to be published.”

Mirjam Thulin

Connecting Centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums: David Kaufmann in Budapest, 1877–1899 Introduction The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet], established in 1877, was one of the very few institutions of the Wissenschaft des Judentums accepted and endorsed by a state, and it became the center of activity for an outstanding Jewish scholar in this very same year: David Kaufmann (1852–1899).1 During his short lifetime, Kaufmann strongly shaped not only the curriculum of the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest and trained the first generations of rabbis, teachers, and cantors, but he also became one of the figureheads of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums, as well as one of the great leaders and communicators of modern Jewish scholarship in the nineteenth century.2 With regard to the founder of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, Leopold Zunz (1794–1886), David Kaufmann belonged to the third generation of Wissenschaft scholars. He himself being from Moravia and a native German speaker, Kaufmann was highly regarded among Eastern European Jewry, especially among Polish and Russian Jews. His contacts and relationships with Jewish researchers from both Eastern and Western Europe and his ability to deal with a wide range of scholars were exceptional and made him a bridge-builder between the dominant German-speaking Wissenschaft des Judentums and modern Jewish scholarship in Eastern European languages. The co-editorship of the Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums and his engagement with the local branch of the Alliance Israélite Universelle were not the only networks Kaufmann directed from Budapest. Together with Abraham Berliner (1833–1915), also a close friend and a lecturer at the Orthodox Rabbinical Seminary in Berlin, Kaufmann revitalized in the mid-1880s the

1 The German term as well as the meaning of Wissenschaft and the term Wissenschaft des Judentums refer to the specific German academic context of the nineteenth century and therefore cannot be properly translated into English. Hence the term Wissenschaft des Judentums remains in the essay in the original language. 2 For a deeper insight into Kaufmann’s outstanding personality and his correspondence network cf. Mirjam Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst: Ein jüdisches Gelehrtennetzwerk im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012). DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-009

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prestigious Hevrat Mekize Nirdamim (Society of the Awakening of the Slumbering) that reprinted medieval Hebrew manuscripts in academic formats. David Kaufmann was also a member of the advisory board of the Zunz-Stiftung in Berlin from 1888 and was in contact with numerous Jewish and non-Jewish scholars. Eastern European Jews mostly knew Kaufmann and his research through his articles and notes in Hebrew journals such as Nahum Sokolow’s He-Assif [The Collection], Achad Ha’am’s Ha-Shiloaḥ [The Messenger], the Me‘assef Niddaḥim [The Collector of the Dispersed], Ha-Kerem [The Vineyard], Ha-Karmel [The Carmel], as well as in the Sefer ha-Shanah [Yearbook]. More importantly, David Kaufmann made great efforts to support the printing of works of Polish and Russian Jewish scholars. His home became a “central office of the Jewish science.”3 Supplicants visited him either privately or in the library of the Rabbinical Seminary, and Kaufmann became an intercessor and patron for their needs at Jewish charitable and academic organizations. However, not only did he support the petitioners by raising money, but he also encouraged them to pursue their academic tasks and corrected numerous articles and books he received. Today, David Kaufmann’s letters to his family and Jewish scholars around the globe provide information about his network of widespread correspondence, exchange, and travel. Since Kaufmann’s written estate was burned in the Second World War in Budapest, his letters bequeathed in the personal collections and estates of his addressees, or in printed editions, are an essential source to approach his life and work. Among numerous small selections, two greater collections of Kaufmann’s letters are preserved in archives in Jerusalem today: his correspondence with the founder of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, Leopold Zunz, as well as a bundle of some one hundred letters to his family written between 1867 and 1898. Kaufmann’s letters to Zunz are kept in the archive of the National Library of Israel,4 while his letters to his parents are mainly preserved in the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People.5 In addition, the Schwadron Collection at the archive of the National Library of Israel holds a selection of Kaufmann‘s letters to his parents from 1881 and 1895.6 David Kaufmann’s letters to his friends and colleagues and especially his correspondence to his family and Leopold Zunz bear witness to his

3 Samuel Krauss, David Kaufmann: Eine Biographie (Berlin: S. Calvary, 1901), 19–20; Ferdinand Rosenthal, “David Kaufmann. Biographie,” in Gedenkbuch zur Erinnerung an David Kaufmann, ed. idem and Markus Brann, i-lvi (Breslau: Schles. Verlags-Anstalt, 1900), here xli– xlii. 4 Cf. Archive of the National Library of Israel Jerusalem, Arc. 4° 792/G 16a (hereafter NLI). 5 Cf. Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People Jerusalem, P 181 (hereafter CAHJP). 6 Cf. Archive of the National Library of Israel Jerusalem, Schwadron Autograph Collection, Kaufmann, David (hereafter NLI, Schwadron).

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academic and non-academic activities, the reception of his own or other scholars’ books, his travels, and his daily life. Kaufmann’s letters to Zunz from 1877, for example, contain passages about his first impressions of the city, the people, and the Rabbinical Seminary, and his letters to his parents from 1881 tell us about how he met and married his wife. By introducing his field of activity in Budapest, my essay aims to identify and measure David Kaufmann’s role in connecting the centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums. Therefore, I shall first provide a short biography of Kaufmann. Secondly, I will discuss David Kaufmann’s estimation of a Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungarian and his perception of Hungary respectively. Then, by outlining Kaufmann’s correspondence with Markus Brann (1849–1920) and Isidore Loeb (1839–1892), I argue in the last part of the essay that due to Kaufmann’s strong connections to the dominant German-speaking modern Jewish scholarship and his openness to scholars of an Orthodox and traditional background, he was able to connect different centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums.

Kaufmann in Budapest David Kaufmann was born on June 7, 1852 in Kojetein [Kojetín], Moravia, a small town sixty kilometers away from Brünn [Brno]. His father Leopold and his mother Rosa had a farm and a small bakery in the city’s Judengasse [Jews’ Alley]. Kaufmann was the eldest of five children: he had three sisters—Ernestine, Amalie and Rosalie—and a brother, Ignatz. Kaufmann received his first instruction in the school of his hometown, and later in nearby Kremsier [Kroměříž]. Additionally, he studied with the famous Talmudist rabbi Jakob Brüll (1812–1889) and his son Nehemia (1843–1891). In 1867, upon the recommendation of Jakob Brüll, David Kaufmann entered the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau [Wrocław]. He first completed the secondary school in the “Lower Department” (Untere Abteilung) and then was trained as a rabbi in the “Upper Department” (Obere Abteilung) of the same institution. By then Kaufmann also began to study history, philosophy, and Oriental Studies at the University of Breslau. In 1874, he earned his PhD in Oriental Studies at the University of Leipzig with a research paper on the medieval Jewish philosopher and head of the Talmudic academy of Sura, Saadia Gaon.7 Finally, in

7 David Kaufmann, Die Attributenlehre des Saadja Alfajjumi (Gotha: F. A. Perthes, 1875). Only two years later, Kaufmann published a reworked and extended version of the book that cov-

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1877, Kaufmann was ordained as a rabbi from the Breslau Seminary. Already in 1876 he had applied to join the rabbinate in Berlin. During the selection process, Kaufmann preached in different synagogues and his sermons were a great success.8 In the end, however, his application was refused because of his conservative attitude. After a short period of uncertainty, David Kaufmann accepted the call to join the newly founded Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest in the spring of 1877. He took over the chair in Jewish history, philosophy of religion, and homiletics. In the “Lower Department” of the Rabbinical Seminary he taught Greek and German, and he also served as the librarian of the same institution. In 1881, Kaufmann married Irma Gomperz (1854–1905) in Budapest. One month after his forty-seventh birthday, on July 6, 1899, Kaufmann died after an accident in the spa town of Carlsbad [Karlovy Vary]. When Kaufmann came to Budapest in 1877, the city, as it is known today, had just come into being. Four years earlier, the districts of Buda, Pest, and Óbuda had been unified under the name “Budapest.” By the time Kaufmann arrived in Budapest, the city’s Jewish population had also doubled—there had been an influx from the countryside, and a smaller part came from Galicia. The building of the Rabbinical Seminary deeply impressed the young professor. It was (and still is) in the Józsefváros [Josefstadt] neighborhood where numerous state buildings, schools, and the Hungarian National Museum were (and are) located. Thus, the Rabbinical Seminary aimed to be perceived within the context of a modern, liberal Hungarian establishment. Furthermore, the financial means of the Rabbinical Seminary were quite extensive. Since Kaufmann came from the privately funded Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau, he was not accustomed to government-supported Jewish institutions. The professors and teachers of the Rabbinical Seminary received a substantial salary paid by the state. Later, Kaufmann often praised the freedom and financial independence of the institution. For example, he once compared the funds of the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest to the Israelitisch-Theologische Lehranstalt [Israelite Theological Seminary] in Vienna: “Rothschild has sponsored [in Vienna] teachers for religion; [but] he doesn’t care for rabbis. God forbid to be dependent on such patrons. I praise our local conditions where I don’t know anybody and don’t have to, and

ered the philosophy of the divine attributes up to Maimonides, cf. David Kaufmann, Geschichte der Attributenlehre in der jüdischen Religionsphilosophie des Mittelalters von Saadja bis Maimuni (Gotha: F. A. Perthes, 1877). 8 The sermons are published as David Kaufmann, Sieben Festpredigten in den Berliner Gemeindesynagogen (Berlin: L. Gerschel, 1877).

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I must estimate this as a realization of free conditions’ ideal.” 9 As Kaufmann indicated, the most important donors to the rabbinical seminary in the Austrian capital, the Rothschild family, generously supported the education of Jewish religious teachers but not rabbinical training. Thus, Kaufmann was glad that he was not indebted to private donors and benefactors. Although he perceived people in Budapest as less educated, he thought they were friendlier and more open-minded than in northern Germany and praised the cordiality and the gratitude of the people for “honest efforts.”10 However, Kaufmann also complained several times about the “Hungarian unreliability” following him “even over the borders of the country.”11 As in his study years in Breslau, David Kaufmann initially lived in guest rooms and small flats that also provided the young, unmarried professor with meals. Until 1881, Kaufmann moved three times: first he lived at Ferenc József tér [Francis Josef Square]; from October 1877 he lived in the Országút [Landstrasse, the present Károly körút] where many Jews had settled; and from mid-1878 until his marriage, Kaufmann lived in Király utca [Königsgasse], not far from the Great Synagogue on Dohány Street. From August 1882, Kaufmann wrote his letters from his new address on Sugárút [Radialstrasse] 30—later Andrássy Avenue 20. On this newly constructed boulevard, Kaufmann’s father-in-law Sigmund Gomperz (1817–1893) owned a house that had been built recently. The flat of the young Kaufmanns in the bel étage offered the convenience of a shower bath, electric lighting, and a balcony. In his letters, Kaufmann reported about his social contacts. As a professor at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, Kaufmann was a public figure in the local Jewish society. He soon stated that his social life became more active than it had been in Breslau. He especially liked to talk with the former rabbi of Pest, Samuel Löw Brill (1814–1897), who owned a rich library Kaufmann used quite often. Brill and Kaufmann were also distantly related through Kaufmann’s brother-in-law and friend, Heinrich Oppenheim (1848–1918). Moreover, Kaufmann wrote about his meetings and walks with “the old Bloch”—namely, the rector of the Rabbini-

9 Cf. the original German passage in Kaufmann’s letter to his parents, Budapest, 12 May 1893: “Rothschild hat das Geld für Religionslehrer gegeben, Rabbiner sind ihm gleichgültig. Gott behüte einen davor, von solchen Patronen abzuhängen. Da lobe ich mir die hiesigen Verhältnisse, wo ich keinen kenne und keinen zu kennen brauche und eigentlich das Ideal freier Zustände verwirklicht sehen muß.” CAHJP P 181/ 6. 10 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, 14 April 1878, in Markus Brann, “Mitteilungen aus dem Briefwechsel zwischen Zunz und Kaufmann,” Jahrbuch für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur 5 (1902): 159–209, here 192. 11 Kaufmann to Zunz, Kojetein, 5 September 1880, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/G 16a–356.69.

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cal Seminary, Moses Bloch (1815–1909)—his colleagues such as Wilhelm Bacher (1850–1913), the rabbis Sámuel Kohn (1841–1920), Meyer Kayserling (1829–1905), and the internationally known Orientalist Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921). While Kaufmann had met Goldziher and Kayserling only in Budapest, he knew Bacher and Kohn from his studies at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau. His relationship with Goldziher and Kayserling was troubled for a long period. Only after some years did Kaufmann begin to enjoy the exchange with the former, whom Kaufmann’s brother-in-law Ferdinand Rosenthal (1838–1921) called his “most intimate friend in the late years.”12 At the beginning, Goldziher was hostile to Kaufmann and accused him of being hypocritical and fraudulent.13 From the 1890s onwards, however, Kaufmann and Goldziher began to share their enthusiasm for the Arabic language and medieval Jewish manuscripts, as indicated by the stationery Kaufmann used when he wrote to Goldziher.14 Besides meetings in the Jewish community, Kaufmann and Goldziher corresponded through short letters and business cards. They discussed the meaning of Arabic words and their Hebrew equivalents, issues in Jewish history and literature, and borrowed each other’s books. Whenever Kaufmann was traveling outside of Budapest, he wrote detailed letters to Goldziher. Similarly, the tensions between Kaufmann and Kayserling only eased in 1895, when the jubilee for Moses Bloch, rector of the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest, took place, and Kaufmann and Kayserling finally came together.15 On the whole, Kaufmann was well integrated into Jewish society in Budapest, and he even entered high Jewish society when he married Irma Gomperz. Already in July 1879, two years after his arrival, Kaufmann confessed to Leopold Zunz in a letter that the Budapest Jewish society was trying to match him with some girl. However, the summer holidays began and Kaufmann was able to “escape” from the marriage, as he put it.16 One and a half years later, however, there was no

12 Rosenthal, David Kaufmann, LV. 13 Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 221–222, 87–88. 14 Kaufmann’s letters to Goldziher that are preserved in the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest have calligraphic lettering in Arabic on the upper edge containing the words for “light,” “Allah,” “beautiful,” and “patience;” cf. Magyar Tudományos Akadémia (Hungarian Academy of Sciences), Budapest, Oriental Collection, Goldziher Collection, Letters to Goldziher, 20. tok: Kaufmann, Dávid. 15 Cf. Kaufmann to his parents, Budapest, 22 February 1895, NLI, Schwadron. On the jubilee, see David Kaufmann, “Rede bei der achtzigjährigen Geburtstagsfeier des Prof. Moses Bloch,” in Gesammelte Schriften von David Kaufmann, ed. Markus Brann (Frankfurt/ Main: J. Kaufmann, 1910), II, 427–429. 16 Kaufmann to Zunz, Kojetein, 16 July 1879, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.57.

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chance to escape anymore. At the beginning of 1881, Kaufmann wrote to Zunz that he was busy with teaching, and he was often bothered in his spare time with marriage offers, and he added: “I am closer to this fate than ever.”17 Kaufmann’s letters to his parents indicate that the marriage between him and Irma Gomperz was arranged. The secretary of the Jewish community (Israelitische Landeskanzlei), Josef Simon (1844–1915), initiated meetings between Irma’s parents Sigmund (1817–1893) and Rosa Gomperz (1830–1917), while Kaufmann was accompanied by Rabbi Sámuel Kohn.18 On April 10, 1881 David Kaufmann and Irma Gomperz married. The marriage remained childless. Irma Gomperz was the only child of Sigmund and Rosa Gomperz, a wealthy Budapest family distantly related to the Viennese court family Wertheimer. So Kaufmann was blessed with ample means after his marriage and often bought old Hebrew books and manuscripts. He purchased the rich collection of documents and incunabula belonging to the late chief rabbi of Mantua, Marco Mortara (1815– 1894), one of the finest private libraries in Europe. Since 1905, the collection has been preserved as the “Kaufmann Collection” in the Oriental Department of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest. As the letters to his parents illustrate, the young Kaufmanns received many visitors at their home, took carriage rides, strolled in the Városliget (municipal woods), and attended theatrical performances. The couple’s social life became even more vital when in 1885 Kaufmann’s youngest sister, Rosalie, married the director of the St. Elisabeth Mill in Budapest, Lajos König, and also moved to the Hungarian capital.19 The Kaufmanns spent many evenings in the mill or met the sister’s family for a walk in the Városliget. Thus, on the surface, it appears that Kaufmann had been stationed in one place since 1877. Looking from within, however, Kaufmann extended a long-distance network of correspondence and travel from Budapest. The focus of these activities was the establishment of scholarly exchange in all aspects of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, as well as for his very own research interests, which were mainly in the fields of medieval Jewish philosophy, family history, and Jewish art.

17 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, 9 January 1881, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.73. 18 Kaufmann to his parents, Budapest, January 2, 1881, NLI, Schwadron. See also the letters from January 11, January 13, and March 31, all written in Budapest in 1881. 19 The engagement took place in Kaufmann’s home, cf. Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, February 9, 1885, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.94.

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Wissenschaft des Judentums in the Hungarian Language? Personal connections between Jewish scholars and international networks were of utmost importance for Jewish scholarship in the nineteenth century, as a partial substitute for the lack of integration into non-Jewish academic circles. In fact, these connections and networks—either strong or weak—created and maintained the institutional life of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. Fortunately, the question of acceptance was slightly different in the Habsburg Empire, but in Europe and across the globe, the ties between Jewish scholars produced, or rather represented, the institution of the Wissenschaft des Judentums.20 Scholars in these networks debated the meaning of modern Jewish scholarship and how to transform traditional Jewish knowledge into new forms of science and scholarship. The scholars mostly wrote letters and traveled to stay in contact, and for obvious reasons, letters and parallel information from published works are today the main source from which one can reconstruct the networks of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. In such a broad academic movement, there were various interpretations, religious views, regional characteristics, and contending definitions of the ideal and practice of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. The Hungarian context of Wissenschaft des Judentums was shaped by the growth of Hungarian patriotism, Jewish nationalism, the specific imperial and royal setting in Budapest, and emerging Jewish ultra-Orthodoxy. The question also arose whether Hungarian could be an appropriate language for the Wissenschaft des Judentums. When the commission for the establishment of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary (Rabbiner-Commission) searched for professors and teachers in the 1870s, its members tried at first to recruit rabbis and scholars born in Hungary—such as Joseph Perles (1835–1894) from Baja and Adolph Schwarz (1846–1931) from AdászTevel—who were both knowledgeable about the special Hungarian context and the language.21 However, both rabbis turned down the call. Since the commission considered Ignaz Goldziher’s work Der Mythos bei den Hebräern und seine geschichtliche Entwicklung (1876) as blasphemous and overly critical of traditional views on Judaism, they also excluded Goldziher from the future teaching staff.22

20 Carsten Wilke, Den Talmud und den Kant: Rabbinerausbildung an der Schwelle zur Moderne (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 2003), 579–580. 21 See also Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 179–180. 22 Cf. Ignaz Goldziher, Der Mythos bei den Hebräern und seine geschichtliche Entwicklung: Untersuchungen zur Mythologie und Religionswissenschaft (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1876). On the exclusion of Goldziher cf. Goldziher, Tagebuch, 87; Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 182.

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Instead, the commission turned to graduates from the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau and hired Wilhelm Bacher and David Kaufmann, among others. Unlike Bacher, Kaufmann did not speak Hungarian when he came to Budapest. Due to growing Hungarian nationalism, however, Kaufmann’s certificate of employment issued by the education minister Ágoston Trefort (1817–1888) stated that he was supposed to learn Hungarian within four years: “It is my condition that he [i.e. David Kaufmann, M.T.] in at least four years be able to command Hungarian in such way that he can teach and also may deliver lectures.”23 In the beginning, Kaufmann doubted whether he could learn a new language so quickly. Moreover, he was concerned about forgetting German: “In four years I have to be ready to teach in Hungarian. This is time enough to forget my German but hardly time enough to learn a new language from the beginning.”24 A few months after he started in Budapest, Kaufmann stated that Hungarian was still “alien” to him.25 In the end, however, Kaufmann mastered Hungarian rapidly, even though he had little spare time because of his teaching duties. Two years after his arrival, he proudly wrote to Zunz that his Hungarian was good enough “to speak to ordinary people.”26 Later, the education minister publicly praised Kaufmann for his knowledge of Hungarian.27 In fact, the Hungarian language was an essential part of teaching at the Rabbinical Seminary. As most Austro-Hungarian educational institutions in Hungary, the Rabbinical Seminary taught its students in both German and Hungarian. Kaufmann observed that parallel proficiency in these two languages was a major challenge for the students.28 Moreover, the school system in the Habsburg Empire in general, and in Hungary in particular, was in poor condition, and there had been a critical response to the education system since the mid-nineteenth century. Since criticism was directed primarily at middle schools (Mittelschulen/

23 The certificate of employment is reprinted in Hungarian and German: Krauss, David Kaufmann, 54. On that matter, see also Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 185. 24 Kaufmann to Zunz, Kojetein, June 17, 1877, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.43. 25 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, January 13, 1878, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.52. 26 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, May 29, 1879, in Markus Brann, “Mitteilungen aus dem Briefwechsel zwischen Zunz und Kaufmann, II,” Jahrbuch für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur 6 (1903): 120–157, here 139. 27 Kaufmann to his parents, Budapest, December 27, 1889, CAHJP P 181/ 5. On the commendation, see also Adolf Frankl-Grün, “Professor Dr. David Kaufmann, eine biographische Skizze,” in idem, Geschichte der Juden in Kremsier mit Rücksicht auf die Nachbargemeinden: Nach Original-Urkunden (Breslau: S. Schottlaender, 1901), 148–165, here 158. 28 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, January 13, 1878, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.52.

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középiskolák) and secondary schools (Gymnasien/gimnáziumok), it became known as the “middle school reform movement.”29 The poor condition of Habsburg schools also concerned the Rabbinical Seminary because it was officially registered as a middle school. In order to counter the “unbelievable looseness of local schools,” as Kaufmann wrote to Zunz, the Rabbinical Seminary already employed in its second school year new teachers to enforce the school’s education.30 Over time the number of pupils increased, and in 1881 the Rabbinical Seminary had fifty students.31 For teachers like David Kaufmann, this increase meant greater teaching obligations. In November 1880, he complained that he had to teach twenty-one hours per week.32 Only in 1893, when Kaufmann refused to take over the directorate of the Israelite Theological Seminary in Vienna, was the burden of teaching reduced and Kaufmann received two days off per week for research. Over time Kaufmann began to write articles in Hungarian, but German drafts remained the basis of his writings. After he finished a manuscript, he translated it into Hungarian himself or hired a professional translator.33 As he made progress in learning Hungarian, Kaufmann commented on Hungarian as an academic language and as a language of the Wissenschaft des Judentums.34 He respected Hungarian national efforts and never questioned the use of Hungarian at the Rabbinical Seminary. However, during an early meeting of the professors and teachers of the Rabbinical Seminary in February 1878, Kaufmann suggested that all works and articles written by members of the Rabbinical Seminary had to be published in both Hungarian and German. In this sense, he referred not only to academic publications, but also to the Rabbinical Seminary’s general announcements and reports. In fact, Kaufmann characterized Hungarian as one of the

29 On the “middle school reform movement,” cf. Helmut Engelbrecht, Geschichte des österreichischen Bildungswesens: Erziehung und Unterricht auf dem Boden Österreichs, vol. 4. Von 1848 bis zum Ende der Monarchie (Wien: Bundesverlag, 1986), 172–177. See also the criticism of a contemporary “anonymous schoolman” published as “Jüdische Gymnasien in Ungarn,” in Österreichische Wochenschrift 15 (1898): 525–526. 30 The quote cf. Kaufmann to Zunz, [Budapest?], October 25, 1878, in: Brann, “Mitteilungen aus dem Briefwechsel II,” 126. 31 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, September 23, 1881, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.79.80. See also the list of students in the yearbook of the Seminary: Jahresbericht der Landes-Rabbinerschule in Budapest für das Schuljahr 1881–1882, Budapest 1882, 9–10. 32 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, November 8, 1880, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.72. 33 This is especially true for his biographies of Jewish scholars. These appeared mostly in shorter or preliminary forms in Hungarian, while the German biographies were more in depth, with commentaries attached to essays, cf. Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 92, 102–107. 34 Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 325–326.

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“exotic European languages” (Winkelsprache Europas).35 Kaufmann’s efforts thus reveal his underlying orientation towards German as the scholarly language of choice. In the end, the annual reports of the Rabbinical Seminary (Jahresberichte der Landes-Rabbinerschule) appeared in both Hungarian and German until the First World War. Kaufmann’s attitude towards Hungarian as an academic language is again reflected in his letters concerning the planning of a Hungarian Jewish academic journal. Even before the opening of the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest, the teaching staff argued in favor of such a journal.36 Without a doubt, the Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums, published as the “house journal” of the Breslau Jewish Theological Seminary, served as the role model. Unlike the Monatsschrift, however, the Hungarian journal would have to be geared primarily towards a domestic audience. Although funding was provided, Kaufmann doubted that a Hungarian journal would be successful.37 During preliminary meetings about the establishment of the journal, colleagues begged Kaufmann to take over its editorship. Kaufmann, who was unsure whether to accept such a position, turned to Leopold Zunz for advice. Zunz wrote to Kaufmann that he should try to publish the Hungarian journal because the readership had changed since he had first published his Zeitschrift für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in 1822.38 In October 1879, Kaufmann called the plans for the Hungarian Jewish journal an “imposition” (Zumutung). Although he admitted that the Jewish press in Hungary was in its present state a “real shame for all Jews of the country,” he doubted that the journal, even though it only had a small Hungarian section, would be a “newspaper that might survive” (lebensfähiges Blatt). He questioned whether the journal would ever be read in Hungary, not to mention outside the country. In fact, Kaufmann was convinced that the Hungarian language would rather “frighten” (abschrecken) the readership.39 Finally, in 1884, the Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review] was founded as the first Hungarian Jewish academic journal, edited by the secretary of the Jewish community, Josef Simon, Wilhelm Bacher, and the professor of Hungarian and history of the “Lower Department” at the Rabbinical Seminary, Josef Bánóczi (1849–1926).

35 Kaufmann to Zunz, Kojetein, August 16, 1878, in Brann, “Mitteilungen aus dem Briefwechsel I,” 207–208. 36 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, July 5, 1877, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.45. 37 Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, January 20, 1878, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.53. 38 Zunz to Kaufmann, Berlin, February 18, 1878. in Brann, “Mitteilungen aus dem Briefwechsel I,” 188–189. 39 All quotes cf. Kaufmann to Zunz, Budapest, October 15, 1879, NLI, Arc. 4° 792/ G 16a–356.63.

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Kaufmann Connecting Centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums Instead of running the Hungarian journal, Kaufmann decided to devote his efforts to another journal, the Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums. It is obvious that Kaufmann had a special relationship with the monthly journal since his studies in Breslau. Together with Markus Brann, he revitalized the journal in 1891/1892. Although Kaufmann did not believe that a Hungarian Jewish journal would be able to survive, he still believed that journals and publications were an essential part of modern Jewish scholarship and an important instrument for promoting and connecting Wissenschaft des Judentums. The Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums was the most influential journal of the Wissenschaft des Judentums until 1939.40 Jewish scholars from all over the world aimed to contribute to the monthly journal and sent their drafts to the editors. Soon after the first director of the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau, Zacharias Frankel (1801–1875), founded the Monatsschrift in 1851, it became the voice of the institution. As the founder, Frankel shaped the journal’s direction and especially promoted publications that were in line with his understanding of a moderate reform and a “positive historical” understanding of Judaism. The focus of the journal was rabbinic literature, the history and development of the halakhah, philological questions, and the history and philosophy of Judaism, whereas critical studies of the Bible were not included.41 Following in Frankel’s footsteps, the historian at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau, Heinrich Graetz (1817–1891), edited the journal between 1869 and 1887. However, since the monthly journal was established as a main journal in the Wissenschaft des Judentums, the editorship was a major task that entailed a wide correspondence with many authors, translators, publishers, and institutions. Left without a secretary, Graetz sought assistance from the Berlin rabbi Pinkus Frankl (1848–1887), who supported Graetz with the publication starting in 1882. When Frankl died in 1886, Graetz felt unable to continue the monthly journal by himself. He searched for co-editors and followers but without success. In 1890, Heinrich Graetz wrote to the scholar Salomon Halberstam (1832–1900)

40 On the founding and the program of the Monatsschrift, see Andreas Brämer, Rabbiner Zacharias Frankel: Wissenschaft des Judentums und konservative Reform im 19. Jahrhundert (Hildesheim: Olms, 2000), 275–296; Kerstin von der Krone, Wissenschaft in Öffentlichkeit: Die Wissenschaft des Judentums und ihre Zeitschriften (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), esp. 67–82; on the revitalization of the journal in the 1890s, cf. Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 132–138. 41 Krone, Wissenschaft in Öffentlichkeit, 67–82.

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from Bielitz that he wished David Kaufmann would take over the editorship of the journal. By contrast, Graetz thought Markus Brann would not be able to manage the Monatsschrift, mainly because Brann was not well respected in the scientific community. He concluded that influential scholars would not contribute to the monthly journal anymore. Graetz also conceded that Salomon Halberstam would not have enough time to continue the journal.42 Thus, Heinrich Graetz asked David Kaufmann to replace him as the editor, but Kaufmann never responded to Graetz’s request.43 From Kaufmann’s correspondence it is clear that he knew about the problems of the Monatsschrift, but it remains unclear why he did not answer Graetz. Kaufmann, however, had a considerable teaching load in Budapest and was eager to reserve any remaining time for his own research. As a result of Graetz’s futile attempts to continue the newspaper, the Monatsschrift was discontinued in 1887. The circumstances remain unclear from the preserved correspondence, but when Heinrich Graetz was still alive in 1890, David Kaufmann and Markus Brann exchanged letters regarding the revitalization of the Monatsschrift. Kaufmann most likely stipulated that he would take over the editorship only if Brann became the co-editor.44 Finally, Brann succeeded Graetz after his death in 1891, not only as lecturer (Dozent) at the rabbinical seminary in Breslau, but also as the co-editor of the Monatsschrift from 1891 along with Kaufmann. As Graetz had stated before, Brann also admitted later that the revitalization of the Monatsschrift was mainly due to Kaufmann’s reputation and only because of that were they able to secure well-known contributors that the journal desperately needed.45 David Kaufmann and Markus Brann knew each other from their years at the rabbinical seminary in Breslau. Their relationship was close, and they usually met during the summer in spas and sea resorts. Until 1890, private matters featured most prominently in their correspondence. It is remarkable that Kaufmann addressed Brann informally and usually began his letters and postcards with

42 Graetz to Halberstam, Breslau, February 12, 1890, in Heinrich Graetz, Tagebuch und Briefe, herausgegeben und mit Anmerkungen versehen von Reuven Michael (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr P. Siebeck, 1977), 450. 43 Graetz to Halberstam, Breslau, January 6, 1888, in: ibid., 435. 44 This becomes clear in a postcard from Kaufmann to Joseph Perles, Budapest, December 6, 1888, Archive of the Leo Baeck Institute, AR 1351, Reel 3, 25446, SERIES III, when Kaufmann writes: “Die M[ona]t[s]sch[rift] hätte mit Brann an der Spitze trefflich weiter bestehen können; er wollte nicht.” [Additions of the text by M.T.]. It remains unclear, however, if Kaufmann is speaking about Brann or Graetz. 45 F[erdinand] Rosenthal and M[arkus] Brann, Worte der Trauer gesprochen an der Bahre David Kaufmann’s in Budapest am 4. Ab 5659 (11. Juli 1899), Breslau [1899], 9.

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“Dearest Friend!” (Liebster Freund!). At that time, informal speech was unusual outside the family and also between friends. As soon as Brann took over Graetz’s chair in Breslau and began editing the Monatsschrift with Kaufmann, the tone of their correspondence changed because the friends now organized Wissenschaft des Judentums with greater commitment. Kaufmann and Brann corresponded almost every day on journal-related matters, and sometimes Kaufmann wrote to Brann twice a day. In their letters, they discussed not only possible contributors to the journal, the quality of the texts submitted, corrections, the order of the articles in the issues, but also the tight budget of the journal, issues with the publisher, and their own research. For the Monatsschrift, Kaufmann and Brann built an extensive network of authors, translators, institutions, publishers, and booksellers. As a result of Kaufmann’s active engagement, the bonds between the rabbinical seminaries in Breslau and Budapest grew, thereby connecting two main centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums. After Kaufmann’s death in 1899, Brann continued to publish the Monatsschrift alone. The journal appeared under Brann’s aegis until his death in 1920. Another example of how David Kaufmann connected centers of Wissenschaft des Judentums is demonstrated by his correspondence with the Alliance Israélite Universelle (AIU) and his engagement with this organization’s Budapest branch.46 Since the AIU was led by Kaufmann’s friend Isidore Loeb (1839–1892) and also strongly supported Jewish education by funding schools and printing the books of scholars affiliated with the Wissenschaft des Judentums, the AIU was in fact an essential advocate of modern Jewish scholarship.47 Without a doubt, Kaufmann knew about the organization from his student years and from his teacher Heinrich Graetz at the Jewish Theological Seminary, who himself was engaged in the AIU committee in Breslau. However, Kaufmann was not actively involved in the AIU before his trip to Paris in the summer of 1878. When he returned to his parent’s home in Kojetein [Kojetín], he immediately wrote to his

46 On this subject, see also Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 74–77. 47 On the AIU, cf. the latest publications: Eli Bar-Chen, Weder Asiaten noch Orientalen: Internationale jüdische Organisationen und die Europäisierung „rückständiger“ Juden (Würzburg: Ergon, 2005); Carsten Wilke, “Das deutsch-französische Netzwerk der Alliance Israélite Universelle, 1860–1914: Eine kosmopolitische Utopie im Zeitalter der Nationalismen,” Frankfurter Judaistische Beiträge 34 (2007–2008): 173–199; Björn Siegel, Österreichisches Judentum zwischen Ost und West: Die Israelitische Allianz zu Wien 1873–1938 (Frankfurt/Main: Campus, 2010), 43–52. On the educational activities of the AIU, cf. Aron Rodrigue, Images of Sephardi and Eastern Jewries in Transition: The Teachers of the Alliance Israélite Universelle, 1860–1939 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1993).

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friend Salomon Halberstam about the trip.48 According to the letters, Kaufmann had met some Jewish scholars in Paris, but he particularly emphasized the encounter with the secretary of the AIU, Isidore Loeb. Kaufmann enjoyed the talks with Loeb about recent publications in the field of the Wissenschaft des Judentums and topics in Jewish history. Moreover, he was deeply impressed by Loeb’s commitment to the AIU and how he controlled the organization from Paris. As a result of the meetings, Kaufmann planned to be actively involved in the Budapest branch.49 Back in Budapest, he put his good intentions into action and established a regular correspondence with Isidore Loeb and Loeb’s successor, Israël Lévi (1856–1939).50 In order to revitalize the Budapest branch that had lost almost all its members since its foundation, Kaufmann and Loeb agreed on how to convene the first meeting. Kaufmann gave Loeb detailed instructions about what Loeb had to do—he dictated the letters to old and potentially new members and was willing to address people directly.51 At the beginning of 1879, David Kaufmann reported to Isidore Loeb about the first gathering of the Budapest branch of the AIU.52 The letter shows not only Kaufmann’s role in the local committee but also the difficulties and tensions during the meeting. In addition to Kaufmann, the following individuals were present: Ignaz Goldziher, as a representative of the Jewish community; the rabbi of the Rumbach synagogue, Lajos (Eleazar) Pollak (1822–1905); the rabbis of the Great (Neolog) Synagogue, Sámuel Kohn and Meyer Kayserling; and the president of the “Lloyd Society” in Pest, Ármin Schoenberg. During the discussion, the group split into two camps: on the one hand, there were loyal Hungarian nationalists who suggested a national reorganization of the local AIU; on the other hand, there were advocates of a more supra-national orientation who sought to work under the auspices of the Parisian central office. Kayserling in particular advocated for the foundation of a Hungarian Alliance, as Kaufmann explained to Loeb. Kayserling most likely had the model of the “Israelite Alliance of Vienna” (Israelitische Allianz zu Wien) in mind, which was founded in 1872 by Joseph Ritter von Wertheimer (1800–1887) and enjoyed independence from the

48 Kaufmann to Halberstam, Kojetein, October 11, 1878, Archive of the Jewish Theological Seminary New York (hereafter JTS), Arc. 48, MS 3645 1544:5. On the trip, see also the letter from Kaufmann to Zunz, Paris, September 17, 1878, in: Brann, “Mitteilungen aus dem Briefwechsel II,” 120–123. 49 Kaufmann to Halberstam, Kojetein, October 11, 1878, JTS, Arc. 48. 50 Cf. Archives de l’Alliance Israélite Universelle Paris (hereafter AAIU), Archives historiques, Hongrie I B 2, Kaufmann. 51 Kaufmann to Loeb (AIU), Budapest, November 5, 1878, AAIU, Hongrie I B. 52 Kaufmann to Loeb (AIU), Budapest, March 10–12, 1879, AAIU, Hongrie I B.

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AIU.53 Kaufmann had a different view on the matter and argued for staying in dependence of the Parisian central committee of the AIU. Finally, in his letter, Kaufmann indicated the date of the inaugural meeting on February 19, 1879 in Budapest. On that day, the rector of the Rabbinical Seminary, Moses Bloch, chaired the gathering of about eighty guests. Shortly after several introductory speeches, as Kaufmann explained to Loeb in his letter, Ignaz Goldziher requested permission to associate with the “Israelite Alliance of Vienna.” Meyer Kayserling supported Goldziher’s request but Kaufmann objected immediately. Ultimately, Goldziher’s and Kayserling’s application failed, and the assembly declared that the Hungarian branch should remain part of the Parisian organization.54 With this decision the meeting ended, and, as Kaufmann indicated in his letter to Loeb, from then on his relationship with Goldziher and Kayserling was troubled. It took more than a decade for Kaufmann, Goldziher, and Kayserling to overcome the conflict. During the first few months, the Budapest branch of the AIU successfully recruited some one hundred new members. It was David Kaufmann’s responsibility—perhaps self-imposed—to report regularly to the Parisian AIU about the progress of the local committee. That was also the case when the number of members declined during the 1880s. As Kaufmann explained to Loeb, the recruitment of members was not the major task, but rather the willingness of the members to stay in the organization and to donate represented the central issue.55 Therefore, Kaufmann suggested establishing a lecture series in order to inform the Jewish public about the work of the AIU in Budapest and in the Kingdom of Hungary. Kaufmann was convinced that the rabbis of small communities would be the best spokesmen, and he named rabbis such as his former student, Mór Klein (1842– 1915), who held the rabbinate in Groß-Becskerek [Nagybecskerek], and Immanuel Löw (1854–1944) from Szeged.56 Besides organizational issues, the contents of the private letters demonstrate the amicable relationship between David Kaufmann and Isidore Loeb. The friendship was also important for the library of the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest. The Parisian AIU not only provided funding to help with book acquisitions, but

53 On the history of the Israelitischen Allianz zu Wien, cf. Siegel, Österreichisches Judentum zwischen Ost und West. 54 Kaufmann to Loeb (AIU), Budapest, March 10–12, 1879, AAIU, Hongrie I B. 55 Kaufmann to Central Committee of the AIU, Budapest, February 26, 1885, AAIU, Hongrie I B. 56 Vgl. Kaufmann to Central Committee of the AIU, Budapest, June 5, 1885, AAIU, Hongrie I B. For biographical details on Mór Klein, see Péter Ujvári (ed.). Magyar zsidó lexikon (Budapest: A Magyar Zsidó lexikon kiadása, 1929), 489.

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the libraries of the AIU also exchanged writings and books with the Rabbinical Seminary on behalf of Isidore Loeb and David Kaufmann.57

Conclusion In the last third of the nineteenth century, Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums and its protagonists such as David Kaufmann were bridge-builders between modern Jewish scholarship in Western and Eastern Europe. On the one hand, there was the Wissenschaft des Judentums inspired by the German understanding of Wissenschaft, on the other hand, there was the more maskilic, Eastern European notion of modern Jewish scholarship. Moreover, Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums was shaped in particular by the “two persistent tensions” Michael A. Meyer described:58 Firstly, regarding to the close connection between Wissenschaft des Judentums and the Jewish religion, the question arose if modern Jewish scholarship was a religious or a secular endeavor. Secondly, there was the issue of whether the outcome of the Wissenschaft des Judentums was meant to strengthen a modern Jewish consciousness and the Jewish community, or if it was intended rather to support the aims of the surrounding cultures; for example, by facilitating acculturation or inserting governmental requirements into rabbinical training. Due to their geographical position between East and West, scholars of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums were particularly exposed to the two tensions, and Hungarian Wissenschaft needed people who were able to cope with and occupy such a demanding position. Being familiar with high-level rabbinical training, David Kaufmann shaped the curriculum and trained the first generations of students at the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest. Moreover, the professors and teachers from the earliest period, such as Kaufmann, established the outstanding reputation that the Hungarian Rabbinical Seminary and Jewish research enjoyed within the Wissenschaft des Judentums until the Second World War.59 In fact, Kaufmann became one of

57 Almost every letter from Kaufmann to Isidore Loeb and Israel Lévi addresses issues regarding the AIU and the library of the Landes-Rabbinerschule in Budapest. 58 Cf. Michael A. Meyer, “Two Persistant Tensions within Wissenschaft des Judentums,” Modern Judaism 24 (2004): 105–119. 59 The Rabbinical Seminary was in fact the last institution of the Wissenschaft des Judentums to be closed by the Nazis in October 1944, and it was the first to open after liberation and the Shoah in March 1945. As the main locus of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums, it was the only Jewish institution to train rabbis in Eastern Bloc states during the Cold War.

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the figureheads of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums. Some of his major works first appeared in Hungarian publishing houses in the Hungarian language, or dealt with topics in Hungarian Jewish history, such as his passionate booklet “About a Jewish Catechism” (A zsidó káté), in which he responded to antisemitic sentiments in the Hungarian parliament in 1884,60 his sensitive study on the Viennese court Jew and Hungarian chief rabbi, Samson Wertheimer,61 and not least his posthumously published research on the medieval Jewish philosopher Solomon Ibn Gabirol.62 Furthermore, Kaufmann used his network of correspondence, exchange, and travel for the benefit of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums and its reputation. Kaufmann shared his unfamiliarity with the Hungarian language with most of his colleagues from the Wissenschaft des Judentums. At the same time, however, he acknowledged and encouraged this regional branch of modern Jewish scholarship. He constantly tried to raise awareness and understanding of the conditions of Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums, its achievements, and its specific epistemology among Western colleagues.

60 David Kaufmann, “A zsidó káté,” Magyar Zsidó Szemle 1 (1884): 119–127. The German translation was published as Idem, Vom jüdischen Katechismus (Budapest: S. Zilahy, 1884). 61 David Kaufmann, Samson Wertheimer, der Oberhoffactor und Landesrabbiner (1658–1724) und seine Kinder (Wien: F. Beck, 1888); Idem, Urkundliches aus dem Leben Samson Wertheimers (Wien: C. Konegen, 1892). 62 David Kaufmann, “Studien über Salomo Ibn Gabirol,” in Jahresbericht der Landes-Rabbinerschule in Budapest für das Schuljahr 1898–1899 (Budapest: n.p., 1899), 1–123.

Catherine Hézser

The International Context of Samuel Krauss’s Scholarship: Network Connections between East and West The scholarly life of Samuel Krauss (1866–1948), who was born in Hungary and lived in Budapest, Vienna, and Cambridge in his later life, illustrates the intellectual connections between scholars in Eastern and Western Europe and the United States at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. These connections resulted in both cooperation and criticism. They indicate that prominent Central European scholars of Jewish Studies were not isolated figures but international “players” who communicated with geographically distant colleagues and friends to receive feedback on their writings and support in practical matters. Wissenschaft des Judentums (Science of Judaism) comprised geographically dispersed centers of Jewish Studies, and Wissenschaft scholars such as Samuel Krauss maintained connections with its representatives in Europe and America. Krauss was also familiar with ancient and medieval Christian literature and engaged in critical dialogue with New Testament scholars and church historians.

1 From Budapest to Cambridge: Samuel Krauss’s Life and Intellectual Environment When Samuel Krauss arrived in Budapest at the age of sixteen to prepare for secular high school exams, he had already gained a thorough Jewish education at two different yeshivas, the traditional yeshiva of the Lo Alman Yisra’el society in Jánosháza (1877–1879) and the neo-Orthodox yeshiva of Dr. Salomon Breuer (1850–1926) in Pápa (1879–1882).1 Breuer’s influence may have been partly

1 No detailed biographical study of Krauss’s life based on the various archival resources exists to date. A biographical overview is provided by Josef Klausner, “,‫חייו‬-‫ ”פרופיסור שמואל קרויס ומפעל‬in ‫( ספר היובל לפרופסור שמואל קרויס למלאת לו שבעים שנה‬Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1936), ix–xxiii. Almost all later biographical references are based on this article, e.g., Peter Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien: ihre Ausbildung, ihre religiösen und nationalen Konflikte (Vienna: Böhlau, 1997), 256–259. The sources of information of this biography remain unclear and it gives misinformation on some issues. Biographical information in the present article is based on Ármin Frisch, “Krauss DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-010

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responsible for Krauss’s decision to obtain a secular education to supplement his traditional learning. A former disciple of R. Abraham Samuel Benjamin Sofer (Samuel Wolf Schreiber, 1815–1871, commonly known as the “Ketav Sofer,” one of the leading Hungarian rabbis and the head of the famous Pressburg yeshiva), Breuer was also open to scholarly approaches. He was married to Samson Raphael Hirsch’s daughter and eventually became his father-in-law’s successor at the Frankfurt Jewish community where he founded a yeshiva and propagated Hirsch’s modern-Orthodox approach.2 Among traditionally Orthodox Hungarian Jews, Breuer was seen as modern, even a “reformist.” In Germany, on the other hand, he was fiercely opposed to any association with Reform Jews and defended the separation and independence of Orthodox congregations. Matthias Morgenstern has argued that this position was sometimes misunderstood and seen as an “extremist” “Hungarian demand.”3 In fact, “the Hungarians understood secession as a defensive measure for the protection of a traditional Jewish milieu.”4 Krauss went on to study for five years (1884–1889) at a high school (gymnasium) that constituted the lower division of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet]. In addition to continuing his Jewish learning, he would have been introduced to secular studies, including instruction in the classical languages of Greek and Latin, which became so important for his later scholarly career.5 Theodor Herzl, who was born in Budapest in 1860, wrote that in the Hungarian gymnasium “the stress is laid on the old classical languages” and

Sámuel,” Magyar Zsidó Szemle 44 (1927): 324–328; Dénes Friedman, “A Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézeten felavatott rabbik életrajzi adatai és irodalmi működése,” ibid. 356; and Sándor Büchler, “Krausz Sámuel,” Magyar Zsidó Szemle 53 (1936): 12–15. Further archival research is necessary to ascertain some of the data, to fill in some gaps, and to explain some discrepancies between the sources given above. 2 See the introduction to Salomon Breuer, Chochmo u’Mussar: The Classic Commentary of Rav Dr. Salomon Breuer on the Weekly Torah Readings Based on Hirschian Teachings and Midrashic Analysis, 3 vols in 1 (Jerusalem and Nanuet, NY: Feldheim Publishers, 1996), 9. On Breuer, see also Gabriel A. Sivan’s short entry: Gabriel A. Sivan, “Breuer Family,” in The Oxford Dictionary of the Jewish Religion, eds. Adele Berlin and Maxine L. Grossman. 2nd ed. (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 151, where further bibliographical references are provided. 3 Matthias Morgenstern, From Frankfurt to Jerusalem: Isaac Breuer and the History of the Secession Dispute in Modern Jewish Orthodoxy (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 60. 4 Ibid., 62. 5 On the lower and upper divisions of the Rabbinical Seminary, see Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, “One Hundred Years of the Seminary in Retrospect,” in The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 1977–1977: A Centennial Volume, ed. Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986), 6, 9; Imre Benoschofsky, “The Second Era,” ibid., 68–71; and Kinga Frojimovics, Geza Komoróczy et al., Jewish Budapest: Monuments, Rites, History (Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999), 204.



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that “Jews were a majority in the ‘Lutheran Gymnasium’” he attended.6 The Hungarian gymnasium curriculum from the second half of the nineteenth century until World War II was modeled after the German gymnasium, “a studied effort on behalf of the new Hungarian government established after the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867.”7 After graduating from the gymnasium, Krauss studied at the upper division of the Rabbinical Seminary (its official rabbinical school) and Budapest University (today Eötvös Loránd University) for five years (1889–1894). The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary combined the study of traditional Jewish texts with openness toward secular knowledge and scholarly approaches. It was Neolog in orientation, meaning that it followed a specifically Hungarian form of Jewish religious innovation, which was significantly more moderate than the German Reform movement. Nevertheless, the influence of Wissenschaft des Judentums (Science of Judaism), a scientific approach to Jewish Studies that had emerged primarily in Germany and mainly in connection with religious reforms during the nineteenth century, was obvious. Following Breslau policies, students of the Rabbinical Seminary were required to obtain a doctorate at a university before their rabbinical ordination.8 As Esther Seidel has already argued in relation to the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau, the newly established Central European rabbinical seminaries catered to the post-emancipation desire for Bildung in addition to traditional Jewish heritage.9 University scholars enjoyed a high status within society: “If Jews could take part in university life and become part of the intellectual elite of the country, they would prove themselves worthy of recognition – as scholars and as Jews.”10 The Rabbinical Seminary was established in 1877 and had many prominent teachers in the first decades of its existence. Scholars such as Moses Bloch

6 Levi Shoshuk and Louis Azriel Eisenberg, “Theodor Herzl Writes a Short Sketch of His Life,” in Momentous Century: Personal and Eyewitness Accounts of the Rise of the Jewish Homeland and State, 1875–1978, eds. Levi Shoshuk and Azriel Louis Eisenberg (Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 1984), 57. 7 Tibor Frank, Double Exile: Migrations of Jewish-Hungarian Professionals through Germany to the United States, 1919–1945 (Bern: Peter Lang, 2009), 55. 8 On the similarities between the Budapest and Breslau rabbinical seminaries, see Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, “The Similarities and Relationship Between the Jüdisch-Theologisches Seminar (Breslau) and the Rabbinical Seminary (Budapest),” Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 44 (1999): 3–22. 9 Esther Seidel, “The Jewish Theological Seminary of Breslau (1854–1938),” European Judaism 38 (2005): 133. 10 Ibid.

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(1815–1907), David Kaufmann (1852–1899)—editor of Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums—and Wilhelm Bacher (1850–1913) were among Krauss’s teachers. The professors of the Rabbinical Seminary (like those of other rabbinical seminaries) formed a whole spectrum between the traditional yeshiva and the university in terms of their religiosity, attitude towards Wissenschaft, and secular knowledge.11 Their major goal was to explain traditional Jewish texts and Jewish law on the basis—and within the framework of—European university scholarship by using methodological approaches developed in the historical, philological, and philosophical disciplines. At least to some extent, then, the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary and Hungarian Jewish scholars’ contributions to Jewish Studies can be understood as the consequence and offshoot of German-Jewish Haskalah and Wissenschaft. At the same time, there was a quintessentially Hungarian dimension to this endeavor, which can be properly understood only within the context of Hungarian history. As McCagg has pointed out, the polarization between the Orthodox community and the reformers in Hungary led to an increase in the significance of the Neolog movement in Pest, which was the largest and wealthiest in Hungary.12 Urbanization and modernization at the end of the nineteenth century helped its expansion: “The more modern education spread among the nation’s Jews, the more the ‘little Jews’ flocked to dynamic, capitalist, metropolitan Budapest, the more the Neolog community’s enrolment grew.”13 Neolog rabbis and scholars had a firm basis in traditional Jewish learning and combined this knowledge with an interest in and application of the new approaches of the Science of Judaism, which spread from Germany and Vienna to Breslau and Budapest in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. As already mentioned above, one of the requirements for rabbinical ordination at the Rabbinical Seminary was the completion of a doctorate at a university.14 Krauss went to study, apparently in the 1891/92 academic year, at the Lehranstalt für

11 One of the finest memoirs about the professors of the Seminary (Bloch, Bacher, Kaufmann, and later generations) is by Krauss himself. See Samuel Krauss, “‫חכמי בודפשט‬,” Metsudah 5–6 (1948): 447–473. 12 William O. McCagg, A History of Habsburg Jews, 1670–1918, 2nd ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), 191. On the relationship between the various denominations, see also Jacob Katz, A House Divided: Orthodoxy and Schism in Nineteenth-Century Central European Jewry (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 2005). 13 Ibid. 14 See József Schweitzer, “Rabbinical Training in Hungary and the Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary,” in In the Land of Hagar, The Jews of Hungary: History, Society and Culture, ed. Anna Szalai (Tel Aviv: Beth Hatefutsoth and Ministry of Defense Publishing House, 2002), 83.



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die Wissenschaft des Judentums (in its original name, also used later for a certain period of time, the Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums); at the same time, he attended university classes in Berlin and afterwards studied in Giessen, where he received his doctorate in 1893. His studies in Germany would have augmented the skills in classical languages and expertise in philology, history, New Testament studies, and patristics he had already gained in Budapest. The Lehranstalt in Berlin was dedicated to the scientific study of Jewish tradition, including the Bible, rabbinic literature, and Jewish liturgy, and had attained high status due to the scholars who taught there. At the time of Krauss’s studies in Berlin, scholars such as Siegmund Maybaum, who taught Midrash and homiletics and famously declared that “Wissenschaft des Judentums is, above all, not a Jewish Wissenschaft,”15 would have been at the Lehranstalt, and select, non-Jewish guest lecturers were invited to give the so-called “Monday Lectures.”16 From at least 1890 onwards, students at the Lehranstalt “were required to pursue general studies in Biblical and religious science, history, and philosophy at Berlin University,” which explains why Krauss attended university lectures in Berlin.17 The Lehranstalt followed Abraham Geiger’s liberal stance with its “historicization of the normative legal tradition” and the integration of Jesus and the New Testament into the context of ancient Judaism.18 During his subsequent studies in Giessen, Krauss would have met some of the most prominent Protestant theologians and classical philologists of his time. His dissertation, “Zur griechischen und lateinischen Lexikographie aus jüdischen Quellen,”19 built upon the prior work of the Berlin Rabbi Michael J. Sachs (1808–1864), who had already stressed the significance of rabbinic literature for properly understanding classical literature.20 In his Beiträge zur Sprachund Altertumsforschung aus jüdischen Quellen, Sachs tried to show that Semitic languages, and rabbinic Hebrew and Aramaic in particular, impacted the development of Greek in early Byzantine times and that rabbinic Hebrew and Aramaic also adopted Greek and Latin terminology.21 He explained this mutual impact

15 See Siegmund Maybaum, “Die Wissenschaft des Judentums,” Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 51 (1907): 655. 16 See Christian Wiese, Challenging Colonial Discourse: Jewish Studies and Protestant Theology in Wilhelmine Germany (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 93. 17 Ibid., 92. 18 Ibid., 89. 19 Krauss, “Zur griechischen und lateinischen Lexikographie aus jüdischen Quellen,“ Byzantinische Zeitschrift 2, no. 3–4 (1893): 494–548 (also published separately). 20 Krauss mentions Sachs in the introduction to his study. 21 Michael J. Sachs, Beiträge zur Sprach- und Altertumsforschung aus jüdischen Quellen, 1. and 2. Heft, (Berlin: Verlag von Veit und Comp., 1852 (1. Heft), 1854 (2. Heft)).

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by reference to cultural contacts and migrations, especially Jewish intermingling and involvement in various world civilizations and cultures (die jüdischen Geschicke und deren Verflechtung mit allen entscheidenen Wendepunkten in dem Leben der Weltvölker und mit den wirkungsreichsten Culturformen).22 The literary remains are seen in the context of social interaction so that one can appreciate the mutual fertilization of the languages and cultural outputs. The study developed in a context in which Prussian Jews had been emancipated recently and yearned for fuller participation in society.23 It is not difficult to recognize certain analogies between the perceived ancient Jewish intermingling with Greeks, Romans, and Christians and modern Jewish assimilationist tendencies, between the ancient cultural impact and late nineteenth-century Jewish scholars’ attempts to make a mark on European scholarship. In his dissertation, Krauss replicates Sachs’s assumption of close cultural interaction: living in the middle of Greek and Roman civilizations (inmitten des griechischen und römischen Weltgetriebes lebend), Jews were prone to engage with their environment, to contribute to and gain from it; Jewish literature would show traces of this encounter.24 Similarly, Sachs, Krauss, and their Wissenschaft colleagues interacted with their fellow non-Jewish scholars and hoped that they would appreciate their contributions to a better understanding of ancient literature and history.25 After his doctoral studies in Germany, Krauss returned to Budapest to teach at the Jewish Teachers College for twelve years (1894–1906). A call to a professorial chair at the Israelitisch-Theologische Lehranstalt eventually brought him to Vienna where he taught for more than thirty years (1906–1938). During the Nazi period, life in Vienna became increasingly difficult, not least because the Lehranstalt could no longer pay its staff appropriate salaries, and republications of Krauss’s major works were stalled.26 In 1938, antisemitism in Vienna as well as financial and personal difficulties caused Krauss to immigrate to Britain and to

22 Ibid., Heft 1, IV. 23 On the emancipation of Jews in Prussia, see Herbert Strauss, “Pre-Emancipation Prussian Policies towards the Jews, 1815–1847,” Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 11, no. 1 (1966): 107–136. 24 Krauss, “Zur griechischen und lateinischen Lexikographie,“ 495. 25 On Krauss’s contributions to the study of Greek and Roman culture, ancient Christianity, and Talmudic archaeology within the context of his intellectual environment see my article, Catherine Hezser, “Samuel Krauss’ Contribution to the Study of Ancient Judaism, Christianity, and Graeco-Roman Culture Within the Context of Wissenschaft Scholarship,” Modern Judaism 33 (2013): 301–331. 26 See the discussion about the planned publication of a second edition of Krauss’s Talmudische Archäologie in section 2.2 below.



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settle in Cambridge together with his daughter. By that time, at the age of seventy-two, he considered himself “a silent old man, who does not have any more plans” (ein stiller alter Mann..., der keine Pläne mehr hat).27 Without his books and full of worries about Nazi rule in Central Europe, he found himself in a new environment in which he felt like a guest who was welcomed but not fully integrated. During the ten years until his death in 1948, he was able to remain in contact with old and new colleagues and friends such as Adolf Büchler and David Daube, who discussed their studies with him.28 Continued discussions about the Bible, rabbinic traditions, and the classical world provided an intellectual home that made his exile more bearable.

2 Samuel Krauss’s Correspondence As Michael Miller and Mirjam Thulin have already shown in connection with other Central and Western European Jewish scholars and rabbis at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century, extensive networks linking like-minded Wissenschaft scholars and rabbis developed that crossed national and geographical boundaries.29 Based on the letters of David Kaufmann (1852–1899), who was an older contemporary of Samuel Krauss and his teacher at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, Thulin investigates this scholar’s connections to other Wissenschaft scholars and to Protestant theologians and Orientalists. She argues that at the end of the nineteenth century not only knowledge about Judaism but also the ways of communicating this knowledge changed radically in comparison to earlier times.30 This development was not limited to Germany or Central Europe but was a much broader phenomenon that involved scholars

27 In a letter that Krauss sent to Solomon Ulmer in Cleveland, dated May 28, 1929, Central Archive for the History of the Jewish People (subsequently abbreviated as CAHJP) in Jerusalem, box P 154/1. 28 On Krauss’s years in England, see Csaba Tibor Tóth, “Scholarship Without Borders: Austro-Hungarian Jewish Intellectual Refugees and Their Impact on Anglo-Jewish Thinking – Three Case Studies (1904–1948),” unpublished M.Res. dissertation (University of Southampton, 2012), 42–49. I thank Csaba Tibor Tóth for letting me read an early version of his dissertation. 29 Mirjam Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst: Ein jüdisches Gelehrtennetzwerk im 19. Jahrhundert, Schriften des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts Bd. 16 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012); Michael L. Miller, Rabbis and Revolution: The Jews of Moravia in the Age of Emancipation (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011). 30 Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 9.

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in various locations who communicated with each other through letters and commented on each other’s work. A “transnational communication community of rabbis and non-rabbinic scholars” emerged.31 Michael Miller has shown how Central European rabbis could use their individual networks to strengthen their local position and to protect themselves from their enemies.32 The archival material pertaining to Samuel Krauss also needs to be studied within this context of connections and exchanges between Krauss and other scholars, publishers, and rabbis. The preserved letters indicate that throughout his life Krauss was involved in an intensive written exchange with friends and colleagues as well as with readers of his books and articles, some of whom he had never met. The dates indicate that on some days he wrote three or more long and detailed letters. Letter-writing and responding to the many letters, notes, and postcards he received from others must have taken up a considerable amount of his time. In terms of content, this exchange ranged from praise, support, and collaboration to criticism and correction. Interestingly, personal and emotional issues are mentioned alongside research-related issues in many of the letters. From a geographical point of view, this correspondence ranged from Europe to the United States to Israel. Krauss’s letter writing likely benefited his research as well as his personal situation, which, by the 1920s, was characterized by a lack of money and books. Within the framework of this article, only examples of the letter exchange can be provided. One may hope that other scholars will conduct a more thorough evaluation of Krauss’s correspondence in the near future. The Krauss material is scattered across two major archives, one in Southampton (United Kingdom) and one in Jerusalem (Israel). The Krauss papers in the archive of the Hartley Library at the University of Southampton comprise correspondence from 1897 to 1937 as well as from his time in Cambridge (1938–1945), typescripts of articles and book chapters, and manuscripts of unpublished and partly published works.33 The Krauss collection of the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (CAHJP) in Jerusalem contains letters from the years 1924–1933 and is complementary to the Southampton material.34 The material is written in Hungarian, German, Hebrew, and English. Only if one studies the

31 Ibid., 10 (my translation from the German). 32 Miller, Rabbis and Revolution, 115. 33 Papers of Samuel Krauss, University of Southampton, Hartley Library, Archival and manuscript collections [HLUS], MS 163 AJ 186: three boxes with individual (not systematically ordered) file folders. 34 Sammlung Samuel Krauss, P 154.



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correspondence as a whole and in connection with the extant archival material relating to Krauss’s colleagues and friends, can a proper picture of Krauss’s scholarly interaction emerge and the impact of this interaction on his writing be determined. What is immediately obvious is that Krauss corresponded with both Jewish and non-Jewish scholars over large geographical distances. The people he corresponded with shared his scholarly interests and/or were seen as connections that could improve his situation in Vienna. Some of them were friends, colleagues, or students from Budapest or Vienna whom he had taught or worked with in the past and who had moved elsewhere. There were others he had never met in person but whom he knew through their work or by recommendation. If one studies the correspondence intensively, one can discover developments over time, with regard to the correspondents, issues, and tone of the writing. What makes a systematic evaluation difficult, however, is the survival of only part of the material despite the fact that Krauss often kept parchment paper copies of the typed letters he sent. Since many letters most likely have been lost, many gaps remain in the correspondence. One must be aware of the fact that the archives mostly contain letters that colleagues wrote to Krauss. Sometimes a handwritten draft of Krauss’s reply can be found on the same letterhead, and occasionally one encounters typewritten copies of letters he wrote himself. For a more complete picture, however, one would have to also check the archives of his main correspondents to see whether any of his letters are preserved there. Since so much material was lost during the Nazi period, the reconstruction of Krauss’s network must necessarily remain incomplete.

3 Scholarly Exchange 3.1 C  orrespondence on Krauss’s Lehnwörter (1898–1899) Krauss was an avid correspondent who sometimes wrote several long letters a day and probably received as many himself. It is unlikely that he was exceptional in this regard, although his prominent scholarly and professional status by the mid-1920s may account for some of the letters. He received letters from people who had read his work but did not know him personally; he was asked by students to write letters of reference for them or to intervene on their behalf; and he was invited to give lectures elsewhere or to meet with colleagues while abroad. Especially interesting for a better understanding of Krauss’s scholarship on ancient Judaism are letters received by or sent to colleagues that address philo-

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logical, linguistic, or historical issues. Only a few examples can be provided here. In a letter dated September 9, 1893 and addressed to the twenty-seven-year-old Samuel Krauss,35 who had probably just finished his doctorate in Giessen, the German Orientalist Theodor Nöldeke (1836–1930), a professor of Oriental Languages in Strasbourg, advised him to improve his knowledge and understanding of the Syriac language and literature, which, according to Nöldeke, was not as strong as Krauss’s knowledge of Rabbinics. Syriac was among Nöldeke’s areas of linguistic expertise. In fact, he had published a grammar of the neo-Syrian language (Grammatik der neusyrischen Sprache) in 1868, a book with which Krauss was probably familiar. Since Krauss’s doctoral dissertation (Zur griechischen und lateinischen Lexikographie, 1893) was philological in its approach, Nöldeke’s advice—or rather, criticism—would have been pertinent. The doctoral dissertation formed the basis of Krauss’s subsequent work, Griechische und lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch, und Targum (2 vols, Berlin 1898–1899), which followed a similar philological approach. An earlier version of this work seems to have been completed by 1893, and it received a prize of 1,000 Lira, donated by Prof. Elia Lattes in Milan, that same year at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary.36 Nevertheless, some scholars seem to have pointed out certain errors and inaccuracies in the work, which Krauss allegedly corrected over the following three years.37 After the dictionary on the Lehnwörter was published, scholarly criticism continued. According to Brisman, the work “was received by his contemporaries either with lukewarm praise or with strong criticism.”38 Siegmund Fraenkel, another Semitic scholar, “questioned Krauss’ methodology, his philological acumen, and his etymological explanations.”39 In particular, he criticized Krauss’s practice of suggesting Greek derivations where a Syriac origin would

35 The date is difficult to decipher. The letter is preserved in the Hartley Library Archive MS 163, AJ 186, Box 1/1. 36 See Krauss’s letter to the Commission of the Zunz Foundation in Berlin on July 20, 1896, where he asks for financial support to publish his work on the Lehnwörter (Hartley Library Archive MS 163, AJ 186, Box 1/1). It is reasonable to assume that the work submitted for the prize and the doctoral dissertation were essentially the same. 37 See the mentioned letter to the Zunz Foundation in which Krauss writes: “Die in dem Berichte gerügten Mängel wurden nach ... dreijähriger rastloser Arbeit nach Thunlichkeit abgestellt, einige Partien hinzugefügt” (“The criticized faults, mentioned in the report, have been remedied as much as possible after ... three years of restless work, some portions added,” my translation from the German). 38 Shimeon Brisman, A History and Guide to Judaic Dictionaries and Concordances, vol. 3 (Hoboken, NJ: KTAV Publishing House, 2000), 111. 39 Ibid. The Krauss Archive of the Hartley Library also contains the copy of Krauss’s letter to Prof. Siegmund Fraenkel in Breslau, dated Budapest, Nov. 2, 1893.



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have been more likely. Nöldeke’s earlier argument that Krauss’s knowledge of Syriac was limited may have been one of the reasons for this phenomenon. The second volume of the Lehnwörter, which included Immanuel Löw’s corrections and indexes, received better reviews.40

3.2 O  n the First Edition of Talmudische Archäologie (1910) Nöldeke continued to read Krauss’s work, and his comments could also be appreciative. In a letter of response to Löw who had sent him the second volume of Krauss’s Talmudische Archäologie, Nöldeke writes that he has great respect for such encyclopedic research, which he claims to be unable to carry out himself (als ich solche eben nicht machen kann).41 Such comprehensive studies require enormous collections of source material to detect general patterns for the history of customary practice (Sittengeschichte). From a contemporary standpoint, this remark might be understood as an indirect criticism of Krauss’s methodology, the so-called “hunter-and-gatherer” or “sieve” method of traditional philological scholarship. In the context of scientific methods during Krauss’s own time, however, Nöldeke’s remark would have expressed his sincere appreciation of Krauss’s diligent and industrious work. That Krauss himself perceived the gathering and cataloguing of rabbinic source material as hard work is repeatedly indicated in his own letters.42 A scholar who commented less favorably on the publication of the second volume of Krauss’s Talmudische Archäologie was Adolf Büchler (1867–1939), who had studied with Krauss at the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest in the 1880s, taught at the Lehranstalt in Vienna, and moved to London to teach at Jews’ College in 1906. Büchler had published books and articles on both Second Temple and rabbinic Judaism. In contrast to Krauss, his work was historical rather than phil-

40 In the preface to his indexes, Löw mentions that he rejected more than half of Krauss’s etymological explanations. On Immanuel Löw and his father Leopold Löw, see Sinai (Tamas) Turan, “Leopold Löw and the Study of Rabbinic Judaism: A Bicentennial Appraisal,” Jewish Studies / Maddae ha-Yahadut 48 (2012): 41*–75* with bibliographical references. 41 The letter is part of the Krauss Archive of the Hartley Library, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 1/1, dated Strasbourg, March 2, 1911. Samuel Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie, 3 vols (Leipzig: Gustav Fock, 1910–1912). 42 For example, in the mentioned letter of July 20, 1896 to the Zunz Foundation Krauss refers to his “hard, even agonizing work of six years” (“die harte, ja qualvolle Arbeit von sechs Jahren,” my translation from the German). Note, though, that he may be exaggerating here in order to receive funding for the publication.

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ological in its approach (see I. Gafni’s paper in the current volume). His comments on Krauss’s study, sent to the latter on a postcard from London in 1911, are indicative of his different methodology.43 In particular, Büchler criticizes the way in which Krauss refers to the rabbinic sources in his Talmudische Archäologie. He stresses that the Talmud contains material that developed over the course of five centuries. Krauss therefore should have indicated the time period in which a certain tradition emerged by providing the name of the “author” to whom a statement is attributed. Friedländer’s Darstellungen aus der Sittengeschichte Roms (3 vols, 1862–1871) is mentioned as a model for the suggested approach.44 Büchler maintains that mentioning the “authors” in a footnote would have increased the scientific value of his study. He also asks whether the third volume will contain a chapter on the daily life of Jews outside of the Land of Israel. From the point of view of contemporary scholarship, both Krauss’s approach and Büchler’s remarks seem problematic. In his Talmudische Archäologie, Krauss uses sources from tannaitic and amoraic times and from both Palestinian and Babylonian rabbinic documents to elucidate daily life in Roman Palestine.45 Büchler is certainly right that distinctions should have been made between the earlier tannaitic and later amoraic traditions and that the geographical origin and/or redaction of a text should have been taken into account. Nowadays, however, tradents are not seen as the “authors” of a rabbinic tradition, and scholars are much more skeptical about the historical reliability of attributions for dating purposes.46 Even if Krauss had provided the names of the tradents, the reader could not have been certain that the tradition actually originated or was attested to in the time in which the authority is believed to have lived, as Büchler seems to assume. Rabbinic texts are unlikely to preserve the original voice of those rabbis to whom specific traditions are attributed. The texts underwent many stages of redaction from the time of the tradents until they became part of sugyot, tractates, and the larger documents. Nevertheless, Büchler’s comments provide an inter-

43 The postcard dated to May 7, 1911 is part of the Krauss Archive of the Hartley Library, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 1/1. 44 Ludwig Heinrich Friedländer, Darstellungen aus der Sittengeschichte Roms in der Zeit von August bis zum Ausgang der Antonine, 3 vols, 3rd ed. (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1862–1871). 45 On this approach and the necessity for a more historical-critical use of the sources, see Catherine Hezser, “Correlating Literary, Epigraphic, and Archaeological Sources,” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, ed. Catherine Hezser (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 9–27. 46 See William Scott Green, “What’s in a Name? The Problematic of Rabbinic Biography,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism: Theory and Practice, vol. 1, ed. William Scott Green (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1978), 77–96.



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esting insight into the various historical and philological approaches to ancient Judaism a century ago.

3.3 T  he Planned Second Edition of the Talmudische Archäologie (1927–1928) A significant part of the correspondence of the years 1927–1928 was carried out between Krauss, the publisher J. Kauffmann in Frankfurt, and the Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Wissenschaft des Judentums (Society for the Promotion of the Science of Judaism) in Berlin and concerned the planned second edition of Krauss’s monumental work, Talmudische Archäologie (1910–1912).47 By 1927, the previously published volumes of the work were both out of date and out of print. Krauss regrets the unavailability of his work in several of his letters. In a letter to the Gesellschaft in Berlin on August 20, 1928, Krauss writes: “For me as the author it is morally painful to be unable to further disseminate my work due to the lack of copies.”48 His plans to publish a corrected and amended second edition of the Talmudische Archäologie began to take shape in 1927. In a letter to Ismar Elbogen, the secretary of the Gesellschaft who was also a so-called Privatdozent (unpaid lecturer) at the Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin, he admits that the publication of a revised text, that is, a new version of the Talmudische Archäologie, would be too costly.49 Therefore, Elbogen suggests reproducing the existing work through manual printing (Manualdruck), “as was done with the second edition of my Gottesdienst.”50 Many books were republished this way in the first decades of the twentieth century. Krauss further suggests that “urgently necessary corrections and additions would have to be printed as a supplement.”51 With such a format it might be difficult to identify the text passage to which a correction or addition relates. Therefore, page numbers should be added to the references.

47 The correspondence is available in the archive of the Hartley Library in Southampton, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 2/1. 48 My translation from German. The letter is preserved in the Hartley Library archive in Southampton, MS 163, AJ186, Box 2/1. 49 The letter, dated to April 6, 1927, is preserved in the Hartley Library archive, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 2/1. 50 Ibid. My translation from German. 51 Ibid.

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In November 1927, M. Sobernheim, the chairman of the Gesellschaft, expressed his “sincere wish to produce the second edition of your Archäologie as soon as possible.”52 He tells Krauss to send his new manuscript with the supplementary corrections and additions to the publisher J. Kauffmann in Frankfurt and suggests combining the new supplement with the already existing eighteen pages of addenda to volume three. To reprint the two supplements together would seem more cost effective than printing two separate sets of supplements. The new supplement could also be sold separately to owners of the first edition. Ten days later Krauss sent the three volumes of the Talmudische Archäologie together with the new eighty-page manuscript of corrections and additions to the publisher, asking him to print the new manuscript as a supplement (Nachtrag).53 He had not adhered to the earlier suggestion to collate the old and new emendations because the new material was of a different nature, often consisting of additions to the text (textliche Zutaten). In any case, he suggests that supplements to the second edition should be acceptable to readers. He recommends adding three sheets (Bogen) of addenda to the existing text. It seems that these sheets were supposed to be loosely inserted into each of the three volumes and also sold separately as an update for those who already owned the work. Eight months later the situation had changed completely: the Gesellschaft, which owned the rights to the Talmudische Archäologie, refused to proceed with the publication of a second edition. In a letter dated August 26, 1928, Ismar Elbogen writes that Krauss underestimates the printing costs. Even if fifty copies of the second edition could be sold within in a year, “something that is unlikely”, the society would have to spend thousands of German marks for several years. At present (heutzutage), the society was unable to absorb these costs and would have to suffer the “moral consequences” Krauss had mentioned.54 There was nothing Krauss could do to change their opinion. His monumental work remained out of print until it was reprinted in its original form, without the mentioned supplements, in Hildesheim in 1966.55 Krauss’s comprehensive and detailed study examining ancient Jewish daily life as reflected in rabbinic sources remains an

52 My translation from German. The letter is dated to Nov. 27, 1927 and preserved in the Hartley Library in Southampton, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 2/1. 53 See his letter from Dec. 6, 1927, ibid. Unfortunately, I have been unable to locate this manuscript among the archival material in Southampton and Jerusalem. 54 Elbogen’s letter is part of the Krauss archive of the Hartley Library in Southampton, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 2/1. 55 Samuel Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie, 3 vols, reprinted (Reprographischer Nachdruck) (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1966).



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essential handbook for Talmudists and ancient historians, although it is now outdated on methodological and archaeological grounds.56

3.4 O  ther Subjects Another scholar Krauss corresponded with on matters of ancient Judaism was Isaac Heinemann (1876–1957), a Wissenschaft scholar who applied new scientific methodologies to traditional Jewish texts. A letter that Heinemann sent to Krauss in 1936, towards the end of his stay in Vienna and two years before he immigrated to Britain, concerns an article Krauss had written on law in the biblical book of Song of Songs.57 Heinemann’s comment refers to the issue of the mohar, or bride price. He notes that the Hebrew verb ‫מכר‬, “to sell”, is not used in connection with marriage in the Bible. Furthermore, the Bible does not state that the family’s right to marry off a daughter ends with puberty. He summarizes his criticism of Krauss’s treatment of the issue as follows: “In no way can the Mishnah’s view [on the matter] be considered valid for the Bible, apart from the fact that we do not know to what extent it [the Mishnah’s view] was merely theoretical.”58 Heinemann’s arguments have been confirmed recently by Michael Satlow in his study of the institution of marriage in ancient Judaism. Satlow writes that “the biblical mohar payment has been understood as the price for the ‘purchase’ of the bride from her father” and “the rabbinic qiddushin payment has been seen as a remnant of this practice, a token payment that symbolized the ‘sale’ of the bride”—in other words, there was an assumed continuation between biblical and rabbinic practices.59 Satlow points to significant differences between biblical and rabbinic forms of betrothal and marriage and rejects the view that rabbis understood marriage as a “sale.”60 Heinemann’s reference to the possibility that the Mishnah’s discussions are “merely theoretical” is equally interesting and suggests a more critical approach than some of his contemporaries who used rabbinic literature in a pos-

56 For a survey of contemporary approaches to ancient Jewish daily life, see Catherine Hezser, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 57 The letter is dated to June 17, 1936 and preserved in the Hartley Library Archive, MS 163, AJ 186, Box 1/1. 58 My translation from German. 59 Michael L. Satlow, Jewish Marriage in Antiquity (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), 77. 60 Ibid., 77–78.

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itivistic manner as a reliable source for ancient Jewish historiography. Heinemann seems to suggest that rabbinic norms may have been theoretical discussions rather than reflections of actual social practice. Especially in his later years, exchanges between Krauss and other scholars of ancient Judaism also went beyond Europe. After Louis Ginzberg’s publication of Ginze Schechter (1928–1929),61 which was a continuation of his work on the Cairo Genizah documents, Krauss wrote him a letter in which he congratulated him on the publication.62 He had noticed that Ginzberg had polemicized against him in connection with the Toledot Yeshu.63 Instead of sending him a detailed refutation and correction (Ich könnte Manches darauf erwidern), he responds to a few of Ginzberg’s readings only. In the Ginze Schechter as well as in his multi-volume aggadic collection, The Legends of the Jews (1901–1938), Ginzberg refers to Krauss’s study, Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen (1902), which still constitutes the basis for the study of the Toledot Yeshu today.64 The enduring significance of Krauss’s study and edition of the Toledot Yeshu has recently been stressed by Peter Schäfer and Michael Meerson.65 The Sefer Toledot Yeshu has traditionally been seen as a work of medieval Jewish polemics against Christianity, which gave rise to antisemitic reactions.66 Schäfer and Meerson point out: Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen, published by Samuel Krauss in 1902, still remains the standard reference for every researcher of the Toledot Yeshu manuscripts. Krauss’ book was the first to convincingly demonstrate that instead of lamenting the Toledot as a pitiful medieval fabrication it would be more fruitful for historians of religion to trace the book to its sources.67

61 Louis Ginzberg and Israel Davidson, ‫גנזי שעכטער‬, Genizah Studies in Memory of Dr. Solomon Schechter, 3 vols (New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary, 1928–1929). 62 The letter, written in German and dated to Febr. 24, 1929, is preserved in the Krauss archive at the CAHJP in Jerusalem, P 154/1. 63 Ginzberg and Davidson, ‫גנזי שעכטער‬, vol. 1, 325–326. 64 Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, 7 vols (reprinted in Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1946–1947); Samuel Krauss, Toldoth Jeschu: Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen (Berlin: S. Calvary, 1902). 65 See the website of this project: http://www.princeton.edu/~judaic/toledotyeshu.html. 66 For a short summary, see Joseph Dan, Encyclopaedia Judaica, 15. s.v. “Toledot Jeshu,” (1971) col. 1208f. Harnack assumed that such anti-Christian Jewish material originated in the first centuries and played a role in Trajan’s persecution of Christians, see Idem, The Mission and Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries, vol. 1, trans. James Moffatt (Gloucester, Mass: P. Smith, 1972) (originally published in 1908, based on the second German edition), 65, and the discussion in Steven T. Katz, “The rabbinic response to Christianity,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Late Roman-Rabbinic Period, eds. William D. Davies et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 270–272. 67 See http://www.princeton.edu/~judaic/toledotyeshu.html. Besides Krauss’s edition of 1902,



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Besides Louis Ginzberg, Cyrus Adler, the President of the Jewish Theological Seminary, and Louis M. Epstein were among Krauss’s American correspondents. At Epstein’s request, Adler sent Krauss a copy of the former’s work, The Jewish Marriage Contract: A Study in the Status of the Woman in Jewish Law (1927).68 He writes: “I wish to acknowledge on behalf of Rabbi Epstein the assistance which you gave him in the preparation of his work.”69 The specific form of Krauss’s assistance remains uncertain, but the letter acknowledges Krauss’s influence on Epstein’s scholarly work. Finally, one should mention the German-Jewish philosopher Martin Buber (1878–1965) who had begun translating the Hebrew Bible into German, together with Franz Rosenzweig, in 1925. In his short letter to Krauss, Buber asks for bibliographical information on a certain text that Krauss had mentioned in one of his books.70 He inquires whether Krauss could lend him the book for several weeks.

4 Conclusion The preserved correspondence—of which only a few examples could be presented here—indicates the wide-ranging cooperation and shared discourse between Jewish and Christian scholars of ancient Judaism at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century. What all of these scholars had in common was their openness towards new academic approaches to ancient Jewish and Christian religious texts and their commitment to Wissenschaft in its various forms. Krauss and other contemporary Jewish scholars benefited from a university education in addition to their traditional yeshiva scholarship. A major component of this education was their readiness to scrutinize their own and other scholars’ hypotheses, interpretations, and methodological approaches. In order to receive feedback from colleagues, one had to send copies of one’s publications to them across great distances. Comments would be sent and received in the form of letters, postcards, or notes written in the margins of texts. The network of Wissenschaft scholarship spanned from Europe to America and to

see also idem, “Neuere Ansichten über ‘Toldoth Jeschu’,” Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 77 (1933): 44–63. 68 Louis M. Epstein, The Jewish Marriage Contract: A Study in the Status of the Woman in Jewish Law (New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1927). 69 The letter, dated to Aug. 2, 1929, is preserved in the CAHJP in Jerusalem P 154/1. 70 The letter is written in German and dated to Aug. 28, 1929. It is preserved in the Krauss archive of the CAHJP in Jerusalem, P 154/1.

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 Catherine Hézser

Israel and can be considered international, especially as far as prominent figures such as Krauss are concerned. A study of Hungarian scholars’ participation in this undertaking must therefore consider the European and international context in which Krauss and his contemporaries interacted.

Figures

Figures

Fig. 1: Leopold Löw (1811–1875), rabbi in Nagykanizsa, Pápa, and Szeged

Fig. 2: Alexander Kohut (1842–1894), rabbi in Székesfehérvár, Pécs, Nagyvárad [Oradea], and New York

Fig. 3: Sámuel Kohn (1841–1920), rabbi in Budapest

Fig. 4: Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921), professor of Arabic Studies in Budapest

DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-011

194 

 Figures

Fig. 5: Ignaz Goldziher’s private working desk

Fig. 6: Moses Bloch (1815–1909), first rector of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary

Fig. 7: Wilhelm Bacher (1850–1913), second rector of the Seminary Figures



Figures 

Fig. 8: David Kaufmann (1852–1899), professor of the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest

Fig. 9: Students of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary in 1887–1888

 195

196 

 Figures

Fig. 10: Lajos Blau (1861–1936), third rector of the Seminary

Fig. 11: Samuel Krauss (1866–1948), professor in Jewish institutions in Budapest and Vienna

Fig. 12: Adolf Büchler (1867–1939), professor in Jewish institutions in Vienna and London

Fig. 13: Bernát Heller (1871–1943), professor of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary



Figures 

 197

Fig. 14: Immanuel Löw (1854–1944), rabbi in Szeged

Fig. 15: Lajos Venetianer (1867–1922), rabbi in Újpest

Fig. 16: Miksa Weisz (1872–1931), rabbi in Budapest

Fig. 17: Mihály Guttmann (1872–1942), fourth rector of the Seminary

198 

 Figures

Fig. 18: Seminary graduation ca. 1939–1941 with, sitting in the front row, the teachers Sámuel Lőwinger (first from left), Simon Hevesi, Mihály Guttmann, Ármin Hoffer, Dénes Friedmann (fourth to first from right).



Figures 

 199

Fig. 19: Celebration of the 75th anniversary of the Rabbinical Seminary in 1952. Front row: Ottó Komlós (first from left), Mózes Richtmann (second), Sándor Scheiber (fifth), Ernő Róth (seventh). Back row, fifth from left: József Schweitzer. The editors thank Rabbi Hermann I. Schmelzer (St. Gallen) for informations.

200 

 Figures

Fig. 20: Sándor Scheiber (1913–1985), seventh rector of the Seminary

Fig. 21: József Schweitzer (1921–2015), eighth rector of the Seminary

All images by courtesy of the Hungarian Jewish Museum and Archives, Budapest. Figures

Re-Orientalism

Ottfried Fraisse

From Geiger to Goldziher: Historical Method and its Impact on the Conception of Islam Ignaz Goldziher made no secret of his admiration for Abraham Geiger, one of the initiators of the Reform Judaism movement and an outstanding scholar of the Wissenschaft des Judentums movement. In his Hungarian lecture series “The Essence and Evolution of Judaism,” held in Budapest in 1887–1888, Goldziher uses expressions such as “the glorious Geiger,” “the greatest Jewish theologian” or “this immortal man.” In one of these lectures, Goldziher recites a couple of long quotations from Geiger’s writings with the following remarkable conclusion: “I believe, gentlemen, that I could not find a better way to make you acquainted with the latest period of our religion’s development, undertaken in the spirit of modern religious studies, than by translating some prominent statements out of the unfortunately quite unknown writings of the man who initiated and always most consciously represented this period.”1 Goldziher’s appreciation of the personality and work of Geiger could not be more noticeable than in this last quotation, in which he attributes to Geiger alone—not quite accurately—the profile of the Wissenschaft des Judentums in the mid-nineteenth century. However, I aim to show in what follows that Goldziher’s seemingly complete identification with Geiger could be misleading. It turns out that Goldziher both learned from Geiger’s concept of developmental history and also substantially improved it. Geiger’s historical method, with which he intended to adapt to the Jewish past a nineteenth-century concept of history heavily influenced by philosophy and theology, was redesigned by Goldziher as a universally applicable scientific method. It was no longer meant to be exclusively limited to Jewish history, but it was to become a method applicable to any religion, including Islam. Indeed, both the inspiration which Goldziher found in Geiger’s historical method, as well as the critical manner in which he further deveIoped it, can be observed most clearly in the different ways the two men historicized Islam.

1 Ignác Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, ed. János Kőbányai and József Zsengellér (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 2000), 29–128, here 123. All English translations from this text here and below are based on a German translation by Mihály Riszovannij and Angelika Balog. I am editing and publishing this lecture series in a forthcoming volume, together with other Hungarian publications by Goldziher on Oriental and religious studies. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-012

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 Ottfried Fraisse

The exclusive emphasis that Goldziher laid on his indebtedness to Geiger’s historical method, while at the same time choosing not to point out its scientific weakness, also demands an explanation. As I will argue here, the fact that most of the texts which contain such praise of Geiger were written in Hungarian possibly indicates that Goldziher harbored an agenda that was primarily inspired by local considerations. This suspicion is corroborated by another passage from his lecture series where Goldziher calls Geiger “the entelecheia of Zunz,” fusing together two quite different personalities and scientific approaches into a hybrid position, which, as will be shown, covers Goldziher’s own scientific approach quite well. It seems that by doing so Goldziher was trying to reinforce his scientific agenda with an authoritative scholarly tradition.

The Dangers of Equating Goldziher and Geiger In recommending that the significance of Goldziher’s enthusiastic identification with Geiger should not be overstated, I am not merely referring to a remote possibility. Lawrence I. Conrad has already elaborated on this alleged like-mindedness in his “The Pilgrim from Pest: Goldziher’s Study Tour to the Near East (1873– 1874).” Conrad regards Goldziher’s tour mainly “as a vehicle for confirming and broadening ideas he had taken up from Geiger.”2 An exclusively Western perspective colors Conrad’s evaluation of Goldziher’s study tour, though he only incidentally remarks that it was “a tremendous opportunity to travel, gain experience in the Arab East, refine language skills, collect books.” However, Conrad continues by laying his emphasis on an entirely different perspective: “[b]ut ultimately it was his interest in the universalist agenda of liberal religious reform that seems to have been the more important concern.”3 Geiger, as Conrad summarizes, “had argued that the future of the Jews lay in their pursuit of a pristine prophetic faith, universal in its message and in their assimilation to modern European culture within the framework of the existing European national states.” After having explained some implications of his general outline of Geiger’s work by saying that Geiger “opposed Jewish nationalism as a misguided yearning for the Holy Land that promised only to substitute a great national ghetto for those already exist-

2 Lawrence I. Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest: Goldziher’s Study Tour to the Near East (1873– 1874),” in Golden Roads: Migration, Pilgrimage and Travel in Medieval and Modern Islam, ed. Ian Richard Netton (Richmond: Curzon, 1993), 110–159, here 142. 3 Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 127.



From Geiger to Goldziher 

 205

ing in Europe,” Conrad states: “Goldziher held similar views.”4 Conrad’s following articulation even deepens the trenches between the “East” and the “West”: “The study tour first of all served to consecrate Goldziher’s intellectual and personal commitment to the Haskala, as well as his hostility to rabbinic Judaism and Jewish particularism.”5 The result of Conrad’s one-sided perspective is that Goldziher’s well-known dramatic encounter with Islam, which brought him close to conversion, is all but absent. Therefore, my comparison below between Geiger’s and Goldziher’s method of historicizing Islam will not only show significant methodological differences between Geiger and Goldziher as historians, but it will also demonstrate their different general orientations toward the Orient and the Occident respectively.6

Overlaps between Goldziher’s and Geiger’s Historical Methods To begin with, I will identify the aspects of Geiger’s historical method that became important for Goldziher by considering a passage in the latter’s diary. In the year 1890, when Goldziher started composing his comprehensive diary, he wrote about the positive reactions to the publication of his Muhammedanische Studien, part II. Goldziher stressed that despite the adverse circumstances of his daily work and the resulting shortcomings concerning the style of his new book, it was universally well received, especially with respect to the method of his Hadith studies: “Nevertheless the content and the results of my new volume were unanimously applauded, in particular the method of my Hadith studies was declared to be suitable for developing new approaches to this area of religious source material.”7 Then Goldziher continues to comment on this method as follows: If the truth be told, I have to make a confession about this method to everybody who is reading these lines, that my eager study of the writings of Abraham Geiger of blessed

4 Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 128. 5 Ibid. 6 Conrad’s tendency “to overestimate the importance of Geiger’s influence on Goldziher’s approach to Islam” was already pointed out by Ismar Schorsch in his article included in the present volume [p. 146 note 107.] I am indebted to Professor Schorsch for making this text available to me. 7 Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 123. All translations from German in this paper are mine, unless otherwise stated.

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 Ottfried Fraisse

memory, since my earliest youth, has inspired me for this method. I got used to considering the religious sources of Jewish lore under the guidance of Geiger, and the approach of this immortal man became a factor in my spiritual life.8

Goldziher explicitly states that his high esteem of Geiger’s method led him to approach Islam in the same way: “Since then I have not been able to approach the documents of Islam any differently either.”9 This might seem to imply that in spite of the obvious differences between Geiger’s and Goldziher’s views of Islam, both applied the same method. As I will argue, however, a key concept that Geiger made available to Goldziher was handled and developed in quite different ways by the two scholars. This key concept concerned the insight that historical knowledge needs to be demonstrably derived from the traces of cultural tensions. In other words, Goldziher is wary of historical knowledge gained from philosophical (speculative) reasoning. Continuing the entry in his diary quoted above, Goldziher gives some hints about his concept, which he originally attributes to Geiger: “Since then I have not been able to approach the documents of Islam in any way other than relating them to the spiritual currents, to forces struggling with each other, the result of which finally became the homogenous religious institution [Kirche].”10 More precisely, Goldziher examines the literary documents of Hadith as witnesses of the cultural tensions which caused their emergence: “The documents [of Hadith] themselves, however, were created out of and within the framework of these struggles, and it was the task of my Hadith-studies to eavesdrop on their emergence in accordance with this approach.”11 Goldziher construed the echoes of the cultural frictions within these documents as providing immediate access to the history that caused the documents’ formation. My working hypothesis hereafter will be that Goldziher regarded Geiger’s idea about the culturally triggered formation of literary documents not only as a descriptive notion, but also that he further developed it into a tool to reconstruct history. While for Geiger this idea was only an intuition, an insight, to Goldziher it became an analytical tool essential to his historical method. However, in order to understand how Goldziher developed his method from Geiger’s concept of cultural dynamics, it is necessary to derive the latter concept from its own formative context because, as Goldziher confessed, he

8  Ibid. 9  Ibid. 10  Ibid. 11  Ibid.



From Geiger to Goldziher 

 207

“just began to understand Geiger after he became acquainted with Strauss and Baur.”12

Influence of the Tübingen School on Abraham Geiger’s Historical Method The impact of Ferdinand Christian Baur (1792–1860) and even more so of David Friedrich Strauss (1808–1874), the two main representatives of the Tübingen School, on the crystallization of Geiger’s historical method, is well known. From 1836 onwards Geiger repeatedly expresses admiration for Strauss’s Das Leben Jesu (1835) in his letters, for example in 1837 he characterizes this book as “a piece of work that is scientifically of the highest importance but also of no less influence on Christian theology.”13 How did Strauss, as a theologian, arrive at his scientific notion of history? He opens his Die christliche Glaubenslehre in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung und im Kampfe mit der modernen Wissenschaft (1840) with the following polemical remark: The days which opened the fourth decade of our century were beautiful and hopeful days of peace for theology. [...] The wedding between the two houses seemed to put a happy ending to the long-lasting conflicts between philosophy and religion. There should come a new order in which the wolves stay with the lambs, the leopard lays with the goats.14

Although Strauss was a dedicated Hegelian until 1841, he opened his book with a penetrating criticism of Hegel’s notion of historical religion. Strauss proved that Hegel, in his philosophy of religion, is wrong in assuming that “between philosophy and positive religion the difference will be unessential when elevating the latter to the form of a concept.”15 This is precisely what Hegel did when—with a

12  Goldziher, Tagebuch 39. 13 Abraham Geiger, Letter to Jakob Auerbach, 5 January 1837, in Geiger, Nachgelassene Schriften, ed. Ludwig Geiger, 5 vols. (Berlin: Gerschel, 1878), V, 96. Geiger only stopped speaking favorably about Strauss when the latter republished his Das Leben Jesu in 1865 without mentioning Geiger’s Urschrift und Übersetzungen der Bibel in ihrer Abhängigkeit von der inneren Entwicklung des Judenthums, especially after what he had demonstrated therein regarding the relationship between the Sadducees and the Pharisees. 14  David Friedrich Strauss, Die christliche Glaubenslehre in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung und im Kampfe mit der modernen Wissenschaft, 2 vols. (Tübingen/Stuttgart: C. F. Osiander / F. H. Köhler, 1840–1841; reprint Frankfurt/Main: Minerva Verlag, 1984), I, 1. 15  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 17.

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 Ottfried Fraisse

philosophical twist on the Christian doctrine of incarnation—he claimed: “This incarnation of the Divine Being, its having essentially and directly the shape of self-consciousness, is the simple content of Absolute Religion.”16 Strauss applies the following two critical considerations to this position. He firstly argues that Hegel’s position is inconsistent in and of itself. On the one hand, Hegel defines philosophy as stripping off forms of thinking which belong to the category of imagination. On the other hand, Strauss exclaims: “Is it really true, even according to the principles of his own philosophy […] that content is so indifferent towards form?”17 Does Hegel himself not claim, as can be seen in his last quotation, that it is the form of Christianity which obviously transmits pure philosophy? Furthermore, on which basis, Strauss asks, did Hegel assume that the form of Christianity contains pure philosophy but the pagan religions none? Against this position Strauss sided with the Left Hegelians, especially Ludwig Feuerbach, which is evidenced by his saying that “the peace proclaimed by Hegel between philosophy and Christianity was wrong in principle; all religious speculations have been deceptive and insincere; a Christian, and consequently limited, philosophy must be a monstrous contradiction to a notion of philosophy defined as universal science.”18 Conversely, as Strauss stresses in accordance with Feuerbach, the content or essence of religions is even constituted by their form or fantastic outward appearance: “It is precisely fantasy and sentiment which constitute the essence of religion.”19 On this point Strauss also agrees with Schleiermacher’s position that “piety is neither knowledge nor acting but certainty of sentiment or an immediate self-awareness.”20 Therefore, according to Strauss, stripping religion from its form and changing it into philosophy necessarily means changing the content. Having said this, Strauss takes a second step which appears to be a step backwards in the direction of Hegel, but is, in fact, not. On the one hand, as we have heard, the subjective pious mind is the soil from which religion sprouts; but Strauss also asks: “Who can, on the other hand, without tearing human essence apart, deny that reason and the objective activity of the intellect also sow their seeds into the very same soil with the result that in it the growing religion participates in both sides?”21 Strauss is looking for a middle position between

16  Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phänomenologie des Geistes (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1970), 418 [First print 1807, 709]; the English translation is quoted from Hegel, Phenomenology, tr. by J. B. Baillie (New York: Harper & Row / Torchbooks, 1967), 758. 17  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 12. 18  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 4. 19  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 17. 20  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 8. 21  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 19.



From Geiger to Goldziher 

 209

Hegel’s logical monism and Feuerbach’s dualism between subjective religion and objective philosophy. According to Strauss, subjective piety and abstract philosophy both approach truth, but, in contrast to Hegel, this does not at all mean that the latter can be derived from the former.22 In this sense, while defending the convergence of religion and philosophy in historical development, Strauss opposes the idea that the bad should just be a “point of transition within the development of the good.”23 Thus, the accidental, subjective form of religion does approach freedom too, but there is no way to mediate this development with speculative philosophical concepts—it can only be observed in the direction chosen by history itself: “True criticism of dogma is its history.”24 This point will become especially important for Goldziher. Six years earlier, Strauss had interpreted early Christianity in his Das Leben Jesu according to these principles. Against rationalists and supra-naturalists, he defended the rights of history by demonstrating the largely fantastic character of Jesus’s life as reported in the Synoptic Gospels. By postulating the mythical nature of the story of Jesus, Strauss prevented the history of the first century from being spiritualized or taken as a blueprint for Hegel’s idea of history being the incarnation of divine self-consciousness. Nevertheless, Strauss did not define what he termed “myths” in the New Testament as being thoroughly irrational, but as the “history-like clothing of original Christian ideas, formed as unintentional legends in poetical form.”25 Strauss thus made it impossible to legitimize the original Christian ideas any longer by means of a historical reading of the Synoptics; instead, he had to derive these ideas from other sources. This is exactly what he confessed in the preface to his Das Leben Jesu: “The author is aware that the essence of the Christian faith is perfectly independent of his criticism. The supernatural birth of Christ, his miracles, his resurrection and ascension, remain eternal truths, whatever doubts may be cast on their reality as historical facts.”26 This confession did not save Strauss from losing all his academic positions. His readers were no longer able to recognize the convergence of his scientific project and Christian faith. Now it becomes clear why this train of thought was so welcomed by Geiger. Strauss deviated from Hegel’s conception of history with its exclusively Christian

22  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 23. 23  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 68. 24  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 71. 25  Strauss, Das Leben Jesu kritisch bearbeitet (Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft, 2012), 75. 26  Strauss, Das Leben Jesu, VII, cited according to David Friedrich Strauss, The Life of Jesus. Critically Examined, tr. from the Fourth German Edition by Marian Evans (New York: Calvin Blanchard, 1860), VII.

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principles of development. In this way he created room for non-Christian actors in history. Geiger eagerly made use of this space in his Urschrift and Uebersetzung der Bibel in ihrer Abhängigkeit von der inneren Entwicklung des Judenthums, published in 1857, in which he presented the life of Jesus as being dependent on the historical conflict between the Sadducees and the Pharisees. This Second Temple context offered an opportunity for drawing attention to the historical continuity of Judaism beyond Jesus, and toward rabbinic Judaism as the specific form of the ongoing historical existence of the Jewish people. In this line of argumentation, Geiger could effectively fight the Christian theological claim of substitution, which had served the Christian church well as an instrument of monopolizing history by expropriating the Jewish people’s status of election. Strauss was not consistent in purging history of elements of speculation. As already indicated, he retained a core of original Christian ideas which he could not resist trying to prove historically, even if not via the historicity of the Gospel. Strauss still adhered to Hegel’s philosophical conceptualization of Judaism, which the latter had designed in his history of thought. According to Hegel’s conviction, history is identical with the processes in which an absolute substance becomes conscious of itself in its subjective aspect. Judaism, according to Hegel, is located at the midway point of this process. Jewish religion added to the “substance metaphysics,” which characterizes the ontological status of all the Oriental religions, a subjective principle because of its personal notion of God in opposition to the world (see the Hegelian concept of “difference”). However, Judaism was not able to think the unity of substance and the subjective principle (see the Hegelian concept of “identity” as a mediated unity of thought and being), lacking the appropriate historical concept, which Hegel found in “Jesus Christ.”27 The Jewish notion of a personal God and its nature as an absolute substance, according to Hegel, lacked historical mediation. Strauss accordingly construes a harsh dualism between the “Palestinian-Jewish” and the “Alexandrian” elements in Jewish history: the Palestinian representing the purely human element (for example, ritual law), and the Alexandrian pointing to the divine element (for example, Philo’s philosophy of the logos). Judaism “did not have any power to

27  Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, “Einleitung in die Geschichte der Philosophie: Orientalische Philosophie,” in Hegel, Vorlesungen, Ausgewählte Nachschriften und Manuskripte (Hamburg: Meiner 1983), 396; the English translation is taken from Hegel, Lectures on the History of Philosophy: Greek Philosophy to Plato, tr. by E.S. Haldane (3 vols.; Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), I, 145–146.



From Geiger to Goldziher 

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dissolve it [this dualism] whereby giving a religious rebirth to the world.”28 This rebirth, of course, was, according to Strauss, brought about by Christianity. It should be pointed out that Ferdinand Baur’s historical approach is also distinguished by this contradiction between a concept of history based on objective data and the application of an ahistorical principle in need of an “objective” starting-point for Christianity in history. On the one hand, he exclaims: “It [Christianity] contains nothing that was not conditioned by a series of causes and effects going before; nothing that had not been long prepared [in history] in different ways, and carried forward towards that stage of development at which we find it in Christianity.”29 On the other hand, he opens his Das Christenthum und die christliche Kirche by saying: “In no field of historical study are the whole scope and character of the successive events of which the history is composed so largely determined by the starting-point from which the movement issues, as in the history of the Christian Church.”30 About this tension between a pure notion of developmental history and the need for a historical starting point of Christianity, Baur—in his written defense of the Tübingen School—says the following: “As soon as it is clear that in his person [Jesus Christ] […] those two sides have to be distinguished which interact like content and form, idea and reality, universal humanity and Jewish nationalism, divine sublime and human limitedness, there cannot be any doubt that this very contrast […] is also the moving principle of the subsequent historical development.”31 Similar to Strauss, Baur cannot avoid, even if only initially, falling back on a conceptual dualism between Judaism and Christianity in order to locate his research on Christianity within history by means of theology. Although Strauss and Baur were instrumental in leading Geiger to carve out a place for Judaism within a philosophically and theologically impregnated historical discourse in Germany, these two Christian theologians did not offer a religiously neutral model to conceive the assumed dichotomy between the universal

28  Strauss, Glaubenslehre, 30f. 29  Ferdinand Christian Baur, Das Christenthum und die christliche Kirche der ersten drei Jahrhunderte (Tübingen: Fues, 1860, reprint Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann, 1966), 22; the English translation is quoted from Baur, The Church History of the First Three Centuries, 3rd ed., tr. A. Menzies (Edinburgh: Williams and Norgate, 1878), 23. 30  Baur, Das Christenthum, 1; The Church History, 1. 31  Ferdinand Christian Baur, “Die Tübinger Schule und ihre Stellung zur Gegenwart,” in Baur, Ausgewählte Werke in Einzelausgaben. Für und wider die Tübinger Schule, ed. Klaus Scholder (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann, 1975), 295–465, here 326. More precisely, it is the form of Jewish messianism that is used by Baur both as a “historical starting point” of Christianity and as a point of rejection of Judaism at the same time (ibid., 325).

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idea and the particular practices of religions. Despite some interesting attempts to preserve history’s integrity—“true criticism of dogma is its history”— they retreated to the position of abusing history for dogmatic ends. Geiger endeavored to find a new solution for relating religious to material history without falling back himself on the position of historical speculation. His inquiry in this respect yielded the singular and highly significant notion of the Jewish spirit, a notion which strongly denies any speculative ideas regarding the essence of Judaism, but remains an essentially subjective force. Geiger insists on the inherent ability that this notion of Jewish spirit possesses to trigger scientific insight. It was his unique idea and conviction that manifestations of scientific thought emerged throughout history whenever Judaism had to assert itself within a framework of cultural struggle. Stimulated by (inter-)cultural dynamics, the Jewish spirit yielded Wissenschaft. Consequently, it is on this notion of Wissenschaft, which is not contingent upon philosophy but is dependent on the Jewish spirit manifesting itself in (inter-)cultural struggles, that Geiger based his concept of Jewish theology. In his lectures Einleitung in das Studium der jüdischen Theologie, delivered in Breslau in 1849, Geiger insists that Judaism, as a historical religion, “is not something accidentally given. A world view which dominated the spirits for thousands of years and gained great victories without any external power must carry within itself an inner truth which can not be reached by philosophy.”32 He observes a failure of all philosophical systems and claims historical criticism to be a demand of the time: “That which wanted to appear as a system disappeared completely. History and criticism […] are the most important scientific tasks of the present.”33 After placing the truth in Jewish historical continuity, Geiger continues by strongly criticizing as superficial those who are content with the status quo of Judaism, which he considered to be the under-theorized discipline of Jewish theology: “In the case of a comprehensive discipline of theology, practical effectiveness may appear to some to be enough; in the case of an incomplete [theological discipline], the latter is insufficient.”34 Geiger demands that both the (particular) outward appearance and the (universal) inner core of Judaism be perceived through theological research. This double perspective would reveal the incompleteness of the dominant notion of Jewish theology and would urgently engage every Jew to struggle for further adjustments of the outward appearance to Judaism’s inner core.

32  Geiger, “Einleitung in das Studium der jüdischen Theologie,” in Geiger, Nachgelassene Schriften, II, 5–6. 33  Geiger, “Einleitung in das Studium,” 27. 34  Ibid.



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According to Geiger, not everyone recognized the struggle for reform as a necessary condition of Jewish theology. “Jost, Zunz and Rappoport began nicely, Munk, Luzzatto, and Dukes felicitously cooperated, but unfortunately mostly by observing the outward appearance only. However, I took care to address the inner core too and strove to draw results for the reform.”35 Using an emphatic metaphor in his article “The Task of the Present,” Geiger stresses the idea that scientific knowledge can be acquired only if one is ready to fight for it. “He who wants to eat from the tree of knowledge without his sweet moisture will be forced out of the paradise today as always.”36 The reason Jewish science vitally depends on cultural struggle is that these cultural activities first revitalize the Jewish spirit, and then its invigorated condition in the present in turn guarantees true insights into the past. True understanding of the past and vital cultural struggle in the present are mutually corroborative: “Any understanding of the past must be vitalizing [lebensspendend] for the present, history must flow into a healthy present;”37 but it also holds true that “participation in the past grows only out of a fresh present. When Judaism proves itself to be a vital force within us, then we know that this force must also have been acting creatively at all times.”38 In this way, it can be stated that Geiger’s practice of religious reform, aiming at the (re)vitalization of the Jewish spirit both within himself and among his fellow Jews, was an essential part of his historical method and vice versa. Modifying the earlier formula, Geiger’s historical method can be summarized as follows: there is no true knowledge about Judaism’s past without being culturally triggered and mediated by the individual spirit.

Goldziher’s Improvement of Geiger’s Historical Method Ignaz Goldziher was impressed by the anti-idealistic and anti-speculative aspects of Abraham Geiger’s historical method. As quoted above and attested to by his diary, Goldziher adopted Geiger’s approach to literary sources as products of com-

35  Ibid. 36  Geiger, “Die Aufgabe der Gegenwart,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift für jüdische Theologie 5.1 (1844), 29. 37  Geiger, “Die Aufgabe der Gegenwart,” 25. 38  Abraham Geiger, “Recension ‘Zur Geschichte und Literatur. Von Zunz. Erster Band. Berlin, Veit & Comp. 1845; VIII u. 607 S.’,” Literatur-Blatt. Beilage zum Israeliten des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts 1 (1846), 2–4; 2 (1846), 5–8; here 7.

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peting cultural forces. However, Goldziher does not adopt entirely the solution that Geiger had invented in order to avoid the inconsistencies of Strauss’s and Baur’s historical methods. Rather, Goldziher modified Geiger’s historical approach on one crucial point. He accepted Geiger’s notion that cultural struggle, both then and now, yields the development of Jewish history, but he did not espouse the latter’s conviction that this process is mediated by the individual spirit. Instead of involving the highly subjective notion of an individual spirit, Goldziher succeeds in substantiating his norm of continuity in history, as we will see, as a more objective entity and avoids slipping into an abstract concept. Goldziher’s solution, which, as far as I can see, is unique in nineteenth-century European Wissenschaft des Judentums, seems to have anticipated Michael Meyer’s criticism of Geiger’s historical method. It will also be revealing for our context to quote Meyer’s criticism from his article “Abraham Geiger’s Historical Judaism,” originally published in the 1970s. Meyer observed that Geiger used the Jewish spirit as a norm in order to depict continuity between the past and present. Therefore, he could no longer differentiate between Jewish history and the history of Judaism; in other words, between his own personal view of Judaism and a scientific notion of Judaism. As Meyer said, “Geiger’s error, perhaps most apparent in his popular lectures entitled ‘Judaism and Its History,’ was his failure to distinguish adequately his own historically grounded Judaism from the Judaism of history. He seems to have believed himself […] that they were one and the same.”39 Geiger’s very research agenda testifies to his subjective approach to history. If the individual experience of the Jewish spirit is tantamount to scientifically approaching history, then subjects or periods which did not resonate with Geiger, such as medieval philosophy (except Maimonides), mysticism, the late Middle Ages, or the Haskalah, had to receive considerably less attention. An even more problematic consequence of his unique historical method was that research itself could become tendentious. The idiosyncratic nature of Geiger’s historical method, given its inextricable linkage with the Jewish spirit, becomes particularly obvious when applied to religions other than Judaism. However, before I prove this by comparing how Geiger and Goldziher respectively historicized Islam, I must first outline Goldziher’s own scientific concept of historical development. In accordance with Geiger, Goldziher firmly maintained the concept of cultural dynamics (particularistic in its nature) as the exclusive indicator for the activity of the (universal) Jewish spirit in history. However, in contrast to Geiger,

39  Michael A. Meyer, “Abraham Geiger’s Historical Judaism,” in New Perspectives on Abraham Geiger, ed. Jakob J. Petuchowski (New York: Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion, 1975), 13.



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he does not choose the individual, but rather the cultural activities of the Jewish community as its carrier. These activities exclusively guarantee the development and therefore the continuity of Jewish tradition. Goldziher indeed held the view that the religious life of the community is, by definition, sensitive to the phenomenon of development. Strikingly enough for the modern reader, he does not make this sensitivity dependent on the advent of historical consciousness in the nineteenth century: “For as long as religious life is observed, one witnesses religious development. As soon as the latter ends we are no longer facing a living organism but an embalmed mummy.”40 Furthermore, the fact that Goldziher does not limit the phenomenon of development to the Jewish community but attributes it to all religious communities lends a clear objectifying dimension to his scientific notion of historical development. Goldziher’s intention to detach Geiger’s notion of developmental history from the life of the individual can also be observed in the fact that Goldziher based his modified notion of developmental history on the largely unconscious, quasi-evolutionary processes of the development of a community’s language. Actually, Goldziher distinguishes between two notions of communal development, one unconscious and one conscious. As for the first, he writes: “There is one [type of development] which happens unconsciously, spontaneously, and aimlessly within the spirit of the community [...] as being manifested in the shaping and development of language.”41 However, Goldziher does not completely deny that conscious elements directed the development of Judaism over time. His second notion of development is motivated by the consciousness, not of individuals, but of subgroups within the Jewish community—most particularly the group of the prophets. For example, when the Hebrews, after their nomadic wandering, settled in Canaan, it was the prophets who intervened because the community now tended to favor a locally-bound deity. The result of this culturally-triggered reaction of the prophets, according to Goldziher, was the genuinely Jewish notion of God, which denies any relation to the soil. Going beyond any physically-bound relationship, prophetic Judaism established a moral relationship to God. Owing to the fact that the emergence of the Jewish notion of God was exclusively a product of cultural dynamics, the prophets’ moral relationship to God, according to Goldziher, was devoid of any speculative elements: “It was not the theoretical determination of the notion of God that was the spiritual interest of prophetism. Of theoretical interests they had none.”42 At the end of his lectures, Goldziher

40  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 38. 41  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 39. 42  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 51.

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feels compelled to stress again that both of his notions of development are based on the community: “If we look back on the periods of development [in Judaism], [...] it is nearly an intuitive trait of Jewish development [... that] the development and experience of ideas and elements of religious life in Judaism [takes place] through the community.”43 In his series of six lectures entitled “Essence and Evolution of Judaism,” Goldziher put his concept of historical development to the test. He attempts to prove the purely culturally-triggered development of the Jewish community for all four periods into which he had subdivided the history of Judaism up to that time; namely, the epochs of prophetism, rabbinism, medieval philosophy, and modern religious studies. In the period of rabbinism, Goldziher interprets the fact that after the destruction of the temple in 70 CE the halakhah and rabbinic creativity in studying the Torah had become an obligation for the whole community within the framework of his anti-speculative sociological concept of development: “The spirit which blows through the scriptural interpretation […] of rabbinism was the freedom towards the written letter […] which, however, was not directed in this epoch by deepening the speculation but [...] by the actual needs and requirements of the religious life of the denomination.”44 In contrast to Geiger, who did not hold the medieval period in high regard, Goldziher attaches great importance to it. He exclaims: “Behold, gentlemen, from a formal standpoint our medieval thinkers reached the highest aim of development.”45 He claimed to have derived a scientific legitimation of his unique notion of historical development from the way the group of the medieval philosophers established the concept of ṭaʽame / ha-mitsvot (“reasons for the commandments”). Especially in Maimonides’s and his school’s treatment of this topos, Goldziher found a pre-modern and reasoned justification of his notion of historical development. He found this justification in Maimonides’s argument for making sense of commandments whose purposes are no longer known, like the prohibition of mixing wool and linen, known as shaʽaṭnez. It was only the cultural friction between the communities of the Hebrews and the polytheistic Sabians in the time of Moses that allowed Maimonides to derive a reason for the law of shaʽaṭnez. Thus, Maimonides drew a historical argument from the contingent fact that the Jews were forbidden to wear garments made of linen and wool. He deduced from the presupposed anti-idolatrous intention of the law that in the time of Moses, when the law of shaʽaṭnez was given, the polytheistic Sabian priests must have been dressed in garments

43  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 124 (emphasis in the original). 44  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 82 (emphasis in the original). 45  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 107.



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made of wool and linen—to which Moses as well as the entire Hebrew community “reacted” by outlawing this behavior. Goldziher metaphorically alludes to this inherent historical potency of the law when he declares Maimonides to be the most reasonable representative of those who first opened the historical bird’seye perspective for Judaism: “Therefore, this man [...] is rightly called the ‘great eagle’ because we are able to climb up the celestial way until today by means of his courageous flapping of the wings which exalts us to the inaccessible supreme heights where the truths of each epoch gradually enrich our religious thinking.”46 Thus, by means of Maimonides’s thought, Goldziher was able to strengthen his notion of historical development as essentially related to daily life. He did this by proving, through the reasons for the commandments, that Jewish history develops as a result of the contingencies of cultural dynamics alone.47 However, in this way Goldziher not only gave the concept of cultural struggle a historically verifiable scientific basis, but he also gave it (based on existing Jewish law) a monotheistic and hence anti-speculative outlook—both of which Geiger could not necessarily produce by means of his concept of the individual spirit. It was also Geiger’s intention to exclude any speculative elements from his notion of history. However, Goldziher recognized that Geiger had overlooked how time-limited his concept of the Jewish spirit in fact was, as it was heavily laden with individual and also theoretical presuppositions. Ultimately, Geiger still stood in the shadow of Hegel’s philosophy of consciousness when approaching history through the individual spirit. By transferring the methodological function of the Jewish spirit from the individual to the community, Goldziher integrated this function much better into a historical method based on the concept of cultural dynamics. It might be said that Goldziher in some way arrived at a sociological concept of development, which even anticipated aspects of the much later methodology of the social and cultural sciences, such as the concept of cultural transfer.

46  Ibid. 47  Ibid. For a full discussion of this point in Maimonides’s and Goldziher’s argumentation, see Ottfried Fraisse, Ignác Goldzihers monotheistische Wissenschaft: Zur Historisierung des Islam, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), chapter 3.

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How Geiger’s Historical Method Conceived of Islam The shortcomings of Geiger’s historical method, especially when it comes to the historical analysis of a religion other than Judaism, are predictable. If the Jewish spirit becomes the norm for historicizing Islam, its history can only be perceived if and to the extent that it participates in this Jewish spirit. This is exactly how Geiger proceeds. On the one hand Geiger’s attitude towards Islam, contrary to the overall tendency of his time, and this cannot be stressed strongly enough, was significantly positive. Geiger did not depict Islam as a petrified and agonizing civilization; to the contrary in his lectures entitled Das Judentum und seine Geschichte, Geiger stresses that “[o]ne should not underestimate the considerable vital energies which are still fermenting in its innermost part.”48 On the other hand, Geiger left no doubt about the essential dependence of Islam on Judaism: “The unity of God and the impossibility of conceiving of him, which are the foundations of Islam, have been taken from Judaism.”49 In a sense Geiger had no choice but to evaluate Islam positively because of his position that Islam had taken its essence from Judaism. How closely Geiger’s historical method connected Islam with Jewish history can be observed in the following quotation: “The development of Islam unveils a piece of Jewish history which, without the development of Islam, would have remained concealed from us.”50 Geiger cannot discern any original contribution of Islam except its form. This form is responsible for its early success because the truths taken from Judaism “were expressed in a form in accordance with that time and the people among which they were spread.”51 In the end, Geiger even joins the Mohammed bashing, widely present in his days: “Mohammed was not a great man. He did not show ethical dignity [Erhabenheit] [...] Mohammed was rather unlearned, he followed his passions and sensual greed in every respect.”52 But what about Geiger’s dissertation Was hat Mohammed aus dem Judenthume aufgenommen? This early book, published in 1833, was very much welcomed in scientific circles for its original and unbiased approach to Islam. Indeed, Geiger made significant efforts here to approach Islam historically, without the common theological prejudices, and he treats the person of Mohammed with much more

48  Geiger, Das Judentum und seine Geschichte, 211. 49  Geiger, Das Judentum und seine Geschichte, 221. 50  Geiger, Das Judentum und seine Geschichte, 217 (emphasis mine). 51  Geiger, Das Judentum und seine Geschichte, 212. 52  Geiger, Das Judentum und seine Geschichte, 217.



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respect than in his later lectures. But, ironically, it is again precisely because Geiger stressed the historical contacts between Mohammed’s emerging Islam and local Jews that even in his early book Geiger’s historical method caused him to deny Islam any originality. One example will have to suffice here. In a review of Geiger’s book on Mohammed, H. L. Fleischer harshly berated Geiger for having translated kitaban mutashabihan mathani in Surah 39, verse 22 with the meaning of “repetition of the Bible” instead of “the Quran consistent within itself.” It should be noted that Fleischer criticized him for philological reasons and not for his historical judgments. Geiger’s convictions about the dependence of Islamic history on the Jewish spirit caused him to translate the passage in violation of the proper grammar, which he, of course, knew very well. As Fleischer pointed out, Geiger translated a fifth form as if it had been a third or fourth form.

Islam in Light of Goldziher’s New Method of Cultural Development It is striking to see what a different view of Islam emerged due to Goldziher’s modified historical method as compared to the one produced by Geiger’s notion of history. Goldziher closely followed the intentions of Geiger’s method with regard to avoiding philosophical constructions of history, but he conceived continuity within the course of history through a different, less subjective norm. Since Goldziher chose the cultural dynamics of religious communities in order to evaluate historical evolution, he created a norm which was equidistant from all religions. At the same time, he facilitated a congenial access to the singular traditions of Islam by putting the community into the focus of historical thinking. Indeed, in Muslim traditions the opinion of the community, called the umma, is highly esteemed and is one of the four generally recognized elements which constitute any tradition. Besides the Qur’an, Sunna, and the individual efforts to derive legal decisions, known as ra’y, there is the consent of the community of the religious scholars, called ijmā‛, as a fourth factor which establishes the confines of any tradition. One reason why ijmā‛ was so suitable for Goldziher’s approach to history was the fact that it institutionalized a procedure to adapt a tradition to changing cultural contexts—even in contrast to the written law because Goldziher defined ijmā‛ as “the general custom of the community which had established itself as a consensus of the majority of the legal scholars, independently of

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written, transmitted or deduced law.”53 For Goldziher ijmā‛ was “the key to understanding the development of Islam”54 because it connected the literary sources, such as the Quran, Fikh, Sunna, or Hadith, with the customs of a community, which depended on changing cultural circumstances. Thus, ijmā‛ could become a powerful tool for overriding the literary corpus if circumstances required it. It was this high degree of adaptability of the Muslim traditions to changing cultural circumstances which led to Goldziher’s high esteem of Islam. It was precisely the reconstruction of this constellation which fascinated Goldziher in his Hadith research: “It [Hadith] offers an invaluable material which bears witness to the development of Islam in becoming a systematic whole out of conflicting forces, out of mighty oppositions.”55

Conclusion We can summarize that Goldziher’s opposition to philosophical speculation in writing history connected him with Geiger’s historical method, which ascribed historical development solely to contingent cultural dynamics; but it was Goldziher’s less culturally biased norm of depicting historical development that made him receptive to the dynamics of the Muslim community, dynamics which Geiger had not appreciated because he evaluated the cultural life of different religious communities from the methodologically dominant position of his (Jewish) individuality.56 But there is one question left to answer: in which way can the preceding analysis of the methodological relationship between Geiger and Goldziher explain the latter’s persuasion that Geiger was “the entelecheia of Zunz?”57 This Aristotelian notion claims, in other words, that Geiger is the active principle (form) which realized the potentialities of Zunz (matter). Putting it more politely, Geiger’s work is purported to be the soul of the material provided in Zunz’s scholarship. Thus, Goldziher assumes that both positions, taken by themselves, are incomplete, but are at the same time in need of each other. He would not subscribe to the harmo-

53  Ignaz Goldziher, s. v. “Fikh,” in: Enzyklopädie des Islam (Leiden: Brill, 1927), II, 107. 54  Ignaz Goldziher, “Die Religion des Islam,” in: Die Kultur der Gegenwart, ed. Paul Hinneberg (Berlin: Teubner, 1906), Teil 1, Abteilung 3,1, 105–106. 55  Ignaz Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien (Halle: Niemeyer, 1890), II, 5. 56  For a more detailed analysis of Goldziher’s method of historicizing Islam, see Fraisse, Ignác Goldzihers monotheistische Wissenschaft, chapter 4. 57  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 118.



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nious diversity with which the relationship between the two men was sketched by Geiger’s son Ludwig: “The diversity of the religious point of view could not suppress the admiration for the master in the one, the heartfelt recognition for the many great talents of the younger in the other.”58 Rather, by quoting a passage from a letter written by Geiger to Zunz on March 19, 1845, Goldziher points to the heart of the conflict, although he does not discuss it openly in his lecture series. Torn from its context, Goldziher approvingly quotes only the following words of Geiger: “What is dead remains dead, the spirit which formerly was in it continues to only operate in a different way and other forms; but to wake it up again is in vain and would—if successful—have a deadening and amoral effect.”59 But by quoting exactly this letter of Geiger’s to Zunz, Goldziher definitely refers to the context of this passage too, which is highly critical of Zunz. Geiger, quite brutally, accuses Zunz of turning the dead past into the norm of his spiritual activity: “Can it be that you, with your spiritual vigor, have suddenly deadened yourself to the surging spiritual life, have acknowledged in the past not merely the history of the spirit, but also the norm for our own spiritual activity? This is a phenomenon that has hurt me deeply. […]”60 I contend that this is exactly the question to which Goldziher wanted to give a fresh answer by connecting Zunz and Geiger like matter and form: in which respect can the history of the spirit indeed be the norm for the present? For Geiger this question is absurd. Only the spirit of history can be the norm for the present, which he himself determined authoritatively out of his individual present. However, by pointing to this letter of Geiger’s and against the background of our analysis of Geiger’s historical method, Goldziher seems to say that soul without matter does not work either. On the one hand, Goldziher was also looking for the Jewish spirit in the present, keeping any philosophical idea for interpreting Jewish history at a safe distance. This is the reason why he welcomed Geiger’s concept of cultural dynamics so enthusiastically. On the other hand, Goldziher wanted to be sure that this spirit was to be found in literary matters taken from Jewish history and not in the soul of an individual. According to him, this was Zunz’s contribution through his method for presenting the literal testimonies of the Jewish spirit in history as comprehensively as possible. Zunz, who appreciated the dietary laws and the law of circumcision, was accused by Geiger in his letter of being guided only by the history of the spirit, not by the spirit of history in the present. Goldziher seems to say that this is a precipitated judgment, which is based only on Geiger’s individual spirit. Goldziher

58  Ludwig Geiger, Abraham Geiger: Leben und Lebenswerk (Berlin: Reimer, 1910), 67. 59  Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése, 122. 60  Translated by Meyer, “Abraham Geiger’s Historical Judaism,” 6.

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was confident that any cultural friction between the material testimonies of the history of the Jewish spirit and the modernizing Jewish communities would yield by itself the continuity of the Jewish spirit. Against this backdrop of Goldziher’s critical relationship to Geiger’s historical method, which I have analyzed above, it becomes clear that Goldziher, in his lecture series, precisely tried to promote his own scientific project when arguing before his Hungarian Jewish audience for a natural synthesis of the work of Zunz and Geiger like the fusion of matter and form.

Tamás Turán

Academic Religion: Goldziher as a Scholar and a Jew Introduction Ignaz Goldziher’s life, work, and personality have received considerable attention in recent decades, partly for reasons that relate only indirectly to the lasting merits of his scholarship. Two books, both published in 1978, contributed to this renewed interest more than anything else. One is Edward Said’s Orientalism, which was the first to put Orientalist careers like Goldziher’s into a broad historical-political context.1 The other is Goldziher’s diary published by Alexander Scheiber2—a uniquely informative source that must serve as the foundation for any future intellectual biography of Goldziher the scholar and the Jew. The idea of writing such a biography was raised by Goldziher himself, with an ambivalence characteristic of his attitude to his Jewish milieu. In a letter to Immanuel Löw, from 1917, he writes as follows: “a biography of my life from a merely Jewish point of view would be very interesting and maybe also instructive. But there is no need for it; and it also would not be an edifying one.”3 Nevertheless, he himself embarked on such a project when, in 1890, he started to write his

1 Edward William Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978). 2 Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978). 3 Sándor Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei Löw Immánuelhez” [I. Goldziher’s Letters to I. Löw], Új Élet December 12, 1946, 8. In this brief article, Scheiber published interesting excerpts from some of Goldziher’s forty-one letters to Immanuel Löw to which he had access at that time. The

I will use the following abbreviations for Goldziher’s works: T = Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978); OrD = Raphael Patai, Ignaz Goldziher and His Oriental Diary: A Translation and Psychological Portrait (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987); GS = Ignaz Goldziher, Gesammelte Schriften, hrsg. von Joseph DeSomogyi, 6 vols (Hildesheim: Olms, 1967–1973); Muh. St. = Ignaz Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien, 2 vols (Halle: Niemeyer, 1888–1890). I will refer to most of Goldziher’s Hungarian papers according to two collections of his republished studies: MésJ = Ignác Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése [The Essence and Evolution of Judaism], eds. János Kőbányai and József Zsengellér (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 2000); AésI = Ignác Goldziher, Az arabok és az iszlám / The Arabs and Islam, ed. István Ormos, 2 vols (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia Könyvtára – Kőrösi Csoma Társaság, 1995). I will use below simple forms in the transcription of some Arabic and Hebrew names and terms without diacritical signs, except bibliographic references; notably, Hadith stands for Ḥadīth/Ḥadīṯ. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-013

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diary, opening it with a detailed memoir, or autobiography, covering the first four decades of his life (T, 15–122). This composite document is “very interesting” and “instructive” indeed—yet, also “not an edifying” one in some respects. A full-fledged scholarly biography of Goldziher has yet to be written, and a difficult task awaits a future biographer.4 Although many important documents and studies related to several aspects of Goldziher’s life and works have been published in recent decades, much material related to his life and works—above all, his correspondences—has not been located and published to make such a biography possible. In his diary, he proudly records that he was the first Jewish lecturer (1872) and full (though unpaid) professor (1894) at Budapest University5 (today Eötvös Loránd University) and the first Jewish “ordinary member” of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (1892). He became a full (salaried) professor in 1905.6 Yet

current location of these letters is unknown, and to my knowledge, no further material from them has been published subsequently. 4 Such a task requires a good command of a number of languages, expertise in Goldziher’s research fields, and an intimate knowledge of his local (personal and historical) environment. Unfortunately, scholars such as Georges Vajda or István Hahn, Goldziher’s disciples’ disciples (probably the most promising position for a biographer) who were among the few equipped to carry out such a task successfully, have not been engaged in it. There is one book-length biography of Goldziher to date: Peter Haber, Zwischen jüdischer Tradition und Wissenschaft: Der ungarischer Orientalist Ignác Goldziher (1850–1921) (Köln: Böhlau Verlag, 2006). The book focuses on Goldziher’s career in the context of the process of Jewish assimilation in Hungary; see Lawrence I. Conrad’s review, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Third Series 17 (2007): 325–328. 5 Goldziher errs; at least three Jews were appointed as lecturers before him, including Goldziher’s older friend Móric Kármán. See Aladár Komlós, “Zsidók a magyar tudományban a kiegyezés után” [Jews in Hungarian Scholarship After the Austro-Hungarian Compromise], in Jubilee Volume in Honour of Prof. Bernhard Heller on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Alexander Scheiber (Budapest: n. p., 1941), 205. On the appointments of the first Jewish professors at Budapest University, see Egyenlőség, August 24, 1894, 4–5 (Goldziher); September 14, 1894, 4 (Gusztáv Schwartz, Roman Law); March 15, 1895, 6 (Henrik Marczali, History). In this context, “Jewish” meant those who were born as Jews and did not convert to another religion. Jewish converts to Christianity were eligible to become lecturers at the university and members of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences decades before; see also the next footnote. 6 T, 182 (August 21, 1894). Moritz Bloch (Mór Ballagi), one of Goldziher’s early mentors (himself mentored by József Eötvös in the 1840s, who later as Minister of Religion and Education [1867– 1871] was also Goldziher’s mentor) was elected as a corresponding member of the Academy in 1840. In 1843 he converted to Christianity, and in 1858 he became an ordinary member. The mathematician Gyula Kőnig was elected as an ordinary member in 1889 (cf. Goldziher’s malicious remark, T, 53), but shortly afterwards converted to Christianity. It was rumored at that time that this was an informal condition (a sort of gentlemen’s agreement) for his election; see Egyenlőség May 9, 1890, 6. Goldziher became a corresponding member of the Academy in 1876.



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his early expectations to obtain a professorship at the university, and later at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet], did not materialize. This was a major blow from which he never fully recovered.7 From 1874 onwards, Goldziher occupied the second-in-command position (“chief secretary”) of the Pest Neolog community. Besides many family tragedies, he also had many career-related frustrations, even after leaving this job (in 1905), which was a source of constant “sufferings” and “humiliations” for him. For some biographers, Goldziher’s troubled career was an illustration, or a paradigm, of certain socio-political phenomena in Hungary and abroad. Others focus on individual-personal aspects—some even going so far as to present him as a psychopath. Both perspectives offer important insights. Throughout his life, Goldziher the person and the scholar grappled with controversial developments of modernization in Islam and Judaism, including: western influences on the Middle East and Jewish emancipation in Central Europe.8 His responses to these problems and challenges were characteristic of his environment in some respects, and very atypical in others. Goldziher was a robust figure not only of Islamic scholarship, but also of Judaic scholarship, and this dual expertise and involvement makes his life story a uniquely interesting chapter in nineteenth-century European Jewish intellectual history. Goldziher’s writings (the “Jewish” ones in particular) published during his lifetime and his posthumously edited diaries illuminate each other. Between Goldziher the scholar and Goldziher the Jew there is a consonance, the dimen-

7 After David Kaufmann’s death, however, Goldziher became a lecturer at the Rabbinical Seminary on a permanent basis, while keeping his main position at Budapest University. See also footnote 62 below. 8 For Jewish emancipation, see T, 45, 239, 263. For Goldziher and reforms in Islam, see Lawrence I. Conrad, “The Dervish’s Disciple: On the Personality and Intellectual Milieu of the Young Ignaz Goldziher,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1990): 225–266, esp. 239–243; Idem, “The Pilgrim from Pest: Goldziher’s Study Tour to the Near East (1873–1874),” in Golden Roads: Migration, Pilgrimage, and Travel in Mediaeval and Modern Islam, ed. Ian Richard Netton (Richmond: Curzon Pr., 1993), 132–138; Josef van Ess, “Goldziher as a Contemporary of Islamic Reform,” in Goldziher Memorial Conference, June 21–22, 2000, Budapest, Oriental Collection, Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, eds. Éva Apor and István Ormos (Budapest: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 2005), 37–50. See also Róbert Simon, Ignác Goldziher: His Life and Scholarship as Reflected in His Works and Correspondence (Budapest and Leiden: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and Brill, 1986), esp. 11–76; Hamid Dabashi, Post-Orientalism: Knowledge and Power in Time of Terror (New Brunswick and London: Transaction Publishers, 2008). The latter hails Goldziher’s anti-colonialism (88–90, 100, 107–108), criticizes Said’s ill-informed references to Goldziher (81–90), and defends Said’s main theses (89–106). Conrad’s aforementioned articles (especially the second one), are excellent introductions to Goldziher’s biography and intellectual milieu.

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sions of which remained largely unexplored in Goldziherology. This is the main point I wish to make here. One may apply Hermann Cohen’s remark on Zacharias Frankel to Goldziher as well: “His scholarship was his piety”.9 In Goldziher’s case, however, a tactful matchmaker or mediator—Islam, as it turned out—was also needed between his scholarship and piety. The phrase “academic religion” is applicable to the intersection between Goldziher’s convictions, beliefs, and scholarly work in more than one sense. It is an ethical-religious voice, which sets the tone in Goldziher’s reflections on his “ambitions, struggles, […] joy and pain, inner and outer crises” (T, 218) even on the political and the personal registers. This largely neglected voice can be utilized to explain central features of Goldziher’s career. The present paper addresses three focal points of tension in Goldziher’s personal and professional life in order to bring us closer to the strained balance between his life and work, and his reluctance to become involved in Jewish scholarship—even to retreat and recoil from it. These three themes are: Goldziher as a scholar and an educator of Jewish Reform (chapter II); congruences and incongruences in his approach to Islamic and Jewish Law (III); and his oscillation between evolutionary historicism and ethnographic-folkloristic approaches (IV). These discussions are preceded by a survey of basic problems associated with Goldziher’s biography and self-perception (I). The two concluding parts of the paper (V–VI) attempt to sketch his theological positions and characterize him as a religious individual.

IProblems of Biography and Self-Perception The diaries reveal a difficult10 and oversensitive personality, and many learned admirers of Goldziher the scholar found these aspects of the portrait so disturbing, even appalling, that they wished the diaries had not been published.11

9 Hermann Cohens jüdische Schriften (Berlin: Schwetschke&Sohn, 1924), II, 419. 10 As Immanuel Löw remarked in his funeral oration for Goldziher: “A man of principles, there was indeed some obduracy [könyökösség] in his character.” – Száz beszéd, 1900–1922 [Hundred Sermons, 1900–1922] (Szeged: Schwarz Jenő, 1923), 306. 11 I refer only to the published opinion of Edward Ullendorff in his review of Goldziher’s Tagebuch: Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 42 (1979): 553, 555. For critical views on Goldziher’s character, see Sándor Scheiber’s “Foreword” in the abridged Hungarian translation of Goldziher’s Tagebuch: Napló (Budapest: Magvető, 1984), 5–15; see also Raphael Patai’s introduction, “‘The Great Goldziher’: A Psychological Portrait,” in OrD, 13–79, which basically amplifies Scheiber’s views (and takes some of them to extremes). For strong objections to Patai’s



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Goldziher’s reflections on his life are full of religious pathos; its keywords and dominant motifs are “martyrdom,” “self-sacrifice,”12 and in general: self-pity. He views his life as nothing less than a continuous, heroic struggle—mainly, but not exclusively—against the Neolog establishment. Scholarship is his main weapon and only bulwark in this battle other than his family. The main diary can be read as a single, extended personal “lament psalm.” There is a marked contrast between the overwhelmingly positive image of Goldziher emerging from colleagues’ and students’ recollections, and the image emerging before the reader of his diaries.13 According to some, Goldziher nearly qualifies as a “split personality.”14 For someone absorbed in lofty ideals and norms difficult to live by, religious idealism and spiritualism are in fact good neighbors with desperation and misanthropy.15 My purpose here is neither to explore this neighborliness, nor to map tensions between the “cerebral” and the “emotional” Goldziher.16 “A man is not held responsible for what he says when in distress” (bBava batra 16b), and a tormented soul such as Goldziher may be seen as not “accountable” for his venomous tone in his diaries. Writing diaries certainly helped Goldziher to control and mitigate his frustrations and served as an outlet for his innermost emotions and thoughts.17 Yet it is somewhat misleading to see only the “therapeutic” aspect of writing emotional outbursts18 and to take the diaries as confidential, private

views, see Conrad, “The Dervish’s Disciple,” 226–239; Dabashi, Post-Orientalism, 35–69. Due to lack of space, I cannot delve into these controversies here. 12 T, 17, 22, 33, 91, 104, 158, 202, 205, 206, 237, 310, 105, 109, 142, 204, 307. See also his will published by Scheiber, Folklór és tárgytörténet [Folklore and Motif History], III (Budapest, 1984), [557], [559]. 13 Cf. István Ormos, “The Correspondence of Ignaz Goldziher and Max Herz,” in Goldziher Memorial Conference, eds. Apor and Ormos, 159–201, here 166–170. The list of individuals with favorable personal recollections of Goldziher (and his human qualities) also includes Bernát Heller, Carl Heinrich Becker, Abraham Shalom Yahuda, etc. 14 Patai, OrD, 71. 15 T, 89: “Despise the world, despise yourself, despise the despisers” (Contemnere mundum, contemnere se ipsum, contemnere se contemni)—quoted e.g. by Heinrich Heine (see below, n. 37) as an old monkish maxim in his letter to J. H. Detmold on January 13, 1845; Heinrich Heine, Briefe, hrsg. Friedrich Hirth, III, no. 845 (Mainz: Florian Kupferberg, 1950), 6–7. Such a person is easily turned into someone “who curses himself but applies his curse to others” (bSanhedrin 106a, in relation to Bileam). 16 Patai’s terms, OrD, 71–73. 17 See Goldziher’s own words in T, 228 (his entry of May 31, 1900, the day of his son’s suicide; Goldziher gives the date as 1899, which needs clarification). Cf. also Conrad, “The Dervish’s Disciple,” 231. 18 Cf. Shlomo Dov Goitein’s review of Goldziher’s diary, Jewish Social Studies 41 (1979): 323; Ormos, “The Correspondence of Ignaz Goldziher and Max Herz,” 170–171.

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documents. There is a consistent and unapologetic policy, even a religious justification, behind his vilifications in the diaries, as I will show. Goldziher was ambiguous regarding the purpose of his main diary. It is abundantly clear that he wanted to keep it confidential during his lifetime, only considering a close circle of family members and friends as potential readers. Yet he did not rule out its eventual publication and left it to the discretion of his closest family members and friends to decide its fate.19 This is a fact20 that should be taken into consideration. It is his children whom Goldziher addresses as future readers most often in the diary, but he seems to be more inclusive as time passes.21 “Only oriental man is capable of carrying such antagonisms dwelling unmediated in his soul,” remarks Goldziher, regarding a nineteenth-century Egyptian intellectual, whose combination of thorough Islamic education and modern

19 “I begin today to outline my autobiography, based on my previous notes and my memory. It is meant for my wife, children and the closest members of my narrow circle of friends. These sketches should be inaccessible for everyone else, as long as I am alive” (T, 15; italics added). It is not entirely clear whether in starting the autobiography Goldziher planned to continue it as a diary. Therefore, one cannot dismiss the possibility that the opening note of the autobiography was meant originally only for that part—with its less abusive style—and not for the entire diary as we have it. Goldziher’s will, written in 1901—which is barely known and accessible even in the Hungarian original and escaped the attention of many (among them Patai, OrD, 73)—is more explicit in allowing for the eventual publication of the diary (see next note). As is known, it was Scheiber who decided to publish the diary, and not the family. (Prior to his decision he consulted “friends” abroad—see Goldziher, Napló, 6—who have yet to be identified.) In his article, “)‫ גולדציהר‬.‫ י‬.‫[ ”המדע והחיים (לזכרו של י‬The Science and the Life (To the Memory of J. J. Goldziher)], Haaretz, June 23, 1950, 5, Goitein recalls that when he visited Goldziher’s son (Károly) in Budapest, probably in 1948, he refused to give him the diary to read, saying that “it is such a painful reading that he cannot relinquish it.” In 1958, Samuel D. Lőwinger wrote that A. Scheiber and J. Somogyi planned to publish the diary: “‫( ”פרופ' יצחק יהודה (איגנץ) גולדציהר‬Prof. Yitzhaq Yehuda [Ignaz] Goldziher), in ‫חכמת ישראל במערב אירופה‬, ed. S. Federbush (Jerusalem – Tel-Aviv: n. p., 1958), 180, n. 17. In the end, Scheiber published the diary alone; I have reason to believe that it was not coincidental that this happened only after Somogyi’s death (April 8, 1976). 20 See Ormos, “Goldziher’s Mother Tongue: A Contribution to the Study of the Language Situation in Hungary in the Nineteenth Century,” Goldziher Memorial Conference, eds. Apor and Ormos, 203–243, esp. 236–238, who proves this on the basis of Goldziher’s will (cf. previous note). Conrad correctly observed that “the Tagebuch was written with considerable concern for a prospective audience beyond his (Goldziher’s) family circle” (“The Dervish’s Disciple,” 230), and Ullendorff (553) made a similar observation, but their evidence is partly flawed. 21 In T, 55, only his children are mentioned as potential readers; only his children are mentioned (or addressed) explicitly, without excluding others, in T, 91, 97, 111, 116, and 132; his children are mentioned as the “first and foremost” recipients in T, 79, 218; and unspecified readers are mentioned or addressed in T, 103, 148, 168, 214, and 250.



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culture he appreciated.22 One may take Goldziher as an “oriental man.”23 There may have been much tension between his “public” behavior on the one hand, and his inner conflicts and “antagonistic” feelings on the other. He may perfectly fit Heymann Steinthal’s stereotype of the “Semites,” and the “Israelites” in particular, on account of his blend of “excitability” and “earnestness.”24 But in scholarship25 and in his religiosity—and especially in the relationship between the two—he, at least his oeuvre, did not give any indication of bifurcation.26

Estrangement from Jewish Scholarship The earliest literature on Goldziher already made two simple yet important observations on the Jewish dimensions of his life and work. One is that Goldziher’s traditional Jewish upbringing made it easy for him to grasp the fundamental doctrines and institutions of Islam.27 The other is that Goldziher’s scholarly interest in Judaism waned as time passed.28 These two facts are closely related to each other, as well as to the local social conditions of Goldziher’s era. It was his Hungar-

22 “Muhammedán utazókról” [On Muhammadan Travelers] (1875), AésI, 131. See also T, 43. 23 Cf. also the last section of this chapter. As for his outward appearance, the diary records two instances when he was taken to be an Oriental man (an Arab or a Turk) by fellow travelers on the train: T, 143 (August 7, 1892), 185 (August 31, 1894). 24 Heymann Steinthal, “Die Stellung der Semiten in der Weltgeschichte,” Jahrbuch für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur 4 (1901): 46–69, here 56–59. Cf. similar characterizations by Adolf Jellinek, Der jüdische Stamm. Ethnographische Studien (Wien: Herzfeld & Bauer, 1869), 15–18, 221. 25 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Ignaz Goldziher,” Der Islam 12 (1922): 214–222, here 222. 26 Cf. A zsidóság lényege [The Essence and Evolution of Judaism], in MésJ, 100, 112. (This work is part of the volume MésJ which bears the same title.) 27 This view, first advanced by Immanuel Löw in his funeral oration for Goldziher (Száz beszéd, 302)—see also Snouck Hurgronje’s obituary for Goldziher (published originally in De Gids 4 (1921): 489–499 = Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, Verspreide Geschriften, ed. A. J. Wensinck, VI (Leiden: Brill, 1927), 453–464; translated into Hungarian: “Goldziher Ignác,” Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, Évkönyv (1941): 98–111, here 108)—was repeated later by B. Heller, C. H. Becker, and others. See below, n. 76. 28 On Goldziher’s turn away from Jewish studies, see Julius [Gyula] Németh, “Goldziher’s Jugend,” Acta Orientalia Hungarica 1 (1950–51): 7–24, esp. 11, 13; and esp. Goldziher’s letters to Poznanski from 1906 and 1909: Goitein, “‫ פוזננסקי בשנים‬.‫ א‬.‫גולדציהר לפי מכתביו (ממכתבי גולדציהר אל ש‬ )1921–1901” [Goldziher According to His Letters (From Goldziher’s Letters to S. A. Poznanski, 1901–1921)], Ignace Goldziher Memorial Volume, I, eds. Samuel Lőwinger and Joseph Somogyi (Budapest: n. p., 1948), Hebrew part, 3–23 (in what follows: Goitein, “Goldziher”), at 7–8. Goldziher mentions two main reasons: the negative reception of his studies in Judaism, as opposed to his Arabic-Islamic studies; and his insufficient competence in pursuing Jewish scholarship.

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ian environment (Jewish and non-Jewish) that prevented Goldziher from developing his vested interest in the “essence and evolution” of Judaism into Jewish scholarship. Moreover, since he, for reasons that elude common sense, was not ready to leave Hungary (see below, VI), his scholarly focus gravitated towards Arabic-Islamic culture and religion, fields in which he could pursue his research without restraints and earn international recognition. This is his capsule biography according to many of his friends and colleagues, especially in Hungary. The main published diary also revealed for posterity the tragic human dimensions of this career. Aborted or unpublished works are sometimes no less important in the history of scholarship than published ones. (This is the phenomenon of “black fire on white fire” in intellectual history, to use an old rabbinic motif.) An investigation into how and why Goldziher’s Islamic scholarship increasingly became a surrogate—a heaven and a haven—for his Jewish “involvement,” scholarship, and piety, reveals motifs of exile, mission, and self-emancipation in his career. The years 1888–1890 were crucial for Goldziher’s disengagement from Jewish affairs and Judaic scholarship. His turn to Arabic philology and Islam was a gradual process.29 The events of that period made this turn final and irreversible.30 After 1888, he essentially ceased to publish studies or essays on narrow Jewish subjects,31 although he continued his research on Arabic/Islamic–Jewish

29 Simon’s opinion that Goldziher “never seriously concerned himself with the Jewish studies” (Ignác Goldziher, 62) is a gross exaggeration, according to all reasonable definitions of “Jewish studies.” See previous note and cf., e.g., T, 110, his retrospective view from 1890 on the previous five to seven years. 30 On November 17, 1887—two days before his first lecture on “The Essence and Evolution of Judaism,” see below—he writes to Immanuel Löw: “The vain struggle in which I stand totally alone dashes the hopes which I nurtured in my youth about the efflorescence of our Hungarian Synagogue. Indeed, I had rather present my soul to my Muhammadans, from whom I have only ever received joy and satisfaction.” Máté Hidvégi, “Immánuel Löw’s Reflections on ‘The Essence and Evolution of Judaism’ in his Letters to Ignaz Goldziher in 1888,” in Goldziher Memorial Conference, eds. Apor and Ormos, 75–81, here 79 (see also n. 15). This passage of the letter (written in Hungarian) was published by Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei,” 8, and previously— with slight modifications—by Immánuel Löw in his funeral oration for Goldziher (Száz beszéd, 299–300). Cf. also Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 96, 98. 31 There were two exceptions: his lecture Tradition und Dogma (Berlin: Rudolf Mosse, 1914 [offprint from the Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums]) appeared also in other languages) read in a synagogue in Stockholm on the sidelines of his lecture tour on Islam in Sweden in 1913 (see T, 277, 280–281); and a brief article to be published in a jubilee volume for Immanuel Löw in 1914, which only appeared much later in such a volume (for his eightieth birthday): “Erklärung einer Stelle in der Tefillah,” MGWJ 78 (1934): 117–119. As for his university teaching, after 1890 Goldziher confined himself to Arabic-Islamic and Syriac studies. While in the 1870s Goldziher



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cross-cultural relations. In his diary Goldziher does not refer explicitly to this turn, but we find important moments: the “failure” of his popular lecture series for Jewish university students (A zsidóság lényege és fejlődése [The Essence and Evolution of Judaism]); the death of his revered master, Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer (T, 116); the prize (and related honors) he received at the Stockholm Congress of Orientalists (T, 117–120); and the publication of the two volumes of his Muhammedanische Studien (1888–1890) accompanied by their favorable reception. His fortieth birthday in 1890 was a critical junction—it was the right time to embark on a literary journey and to begin writing his memoirs. Apparently, it was also a veritable rite of passage for him. Goldziher’s decisive turn from Judaism to Arabic and Islamic Studies informs his expressions of indebtedness to some people in the autobiographical part of his diary from 1890. He writes about Gustav Jahn (a fellow student during his year in Berlin, 1868–1869) with understanding and empathy, stating that “because of his [Jahn’s] conflicts with church authorities he turned his back on his work in [Christian] theology and started to train himself to be an Orientalist.” Goldziher calls him a “victim and martyr” (words that he generally reserved for himself and seldom used for others32) of his interest in Hegel and the Tübingen School (T, 39). With Fleischer’s death, he feels that a period in his life has ended and another has begun because “one regards himself as a student as long as the master is alive” (T, 116). Furthermore, it is probably not incidental that Goldziher acknowledges Geiger’s profound influence on his method of studying Jewish and Islamic religious sources precisely at this stage, in reporting about the success of his Muhammedanische Studien (T, 123). Goldziher occasionally refers to Jewish scholarship in his diary, usually in passing and in an ad hominem way. What follows is his only extended statement on this subject: From time to time, it comes to my mind that my studies are built on Jewish starting points. Jewish literature would find in me one of its most diligent promoters, if its cultivation would be as pure and honest as its documents. Never has an idealistic literature had such filthy representatives and caretakers as the modern researchers of Jewish literature in our age. Urchins, billposters [Reklammacher], forgers [Geldgleissner], and liars are the representatives of the research into this literature, the documents of which are eternal, exemplary, and inspiring actual expressions of facts of martyrdom, love of God, otherworldliness [Weltver-

often offered courses in Hebrew studies and general Semitics, over the next decade he offered such courses only twice (in Semitic epigraphy and palaeography, in 1887 and 1889), and later only sporadically (in 1906, 1908, and 1920). 32 Goldziher refers only to his mother and Moritz Kármán as “martyrs” (T, 102, 286).

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achtung], and love of truth. What a fate! It is a veritable fortune that at least the Bible they hold in contempt and the Prophets they neglect! This sanctuary would be profaned by their breath and defiled if its truths would revolve in their impure minds. For me, that junk of notes [Notizenkram] from the Middle Ages, from an age in which the idealism of our noble forefathers was confined to narrow ghettos and was decked out in tasteless finery [is irrelevant]. They inherited the tastelessness, while the idealism is hateful to them; but even the fineries themselves are beyond the grasp of their flat minds. Our medieval literature is lucky that they are too ignorant and rotten, too egotistic and avaricious to deal with things for which they would never be trumpeted as great men. They are Jewish scholars who are wooing for favorable, boasting reviews of Lutheran missionaries. A good word from “Strack” is their goal, and therefore they spend a thousand good words for “Strack” or whoever belongs to that missionizing people. I loathed their company when I turned to the Muslims. It cost me a great sacrifice, but not everyone is capable of living and working with them. (T, 167–168; Dec. 31, 1893)

The reader should not take such Goldziherian invectives at face value. His divorce from Jewish scholarship and its institutions was not as dramatic and radical as this vituperation may suggest. In this passage, which is so typical of his vilifying rhetoric, one finds a number of elements which cannot be regarded as anything else but projections. All the core values of the author are projected onto Jewish literature. Similarly, all his denunciations against Kaufmann—who later became his friend and whose collection of manuscripts was donated to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, largely due to Goldziher’s intervention33—are projected on Jewish scholarship (or vice versa).34 Note also

33 A. Scheiber names Goldziher as the only “advisor” to the family in this matter, without further references, in The Kaufmann Haggadah (Budapest: Publishing House of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 1957), 4. Similarly, Samuel Krauss writes that Goldziher played a decisive role in arranging this donation (which raised the ire of many Hungarian Jews): “‫[ ”חכמי בודאפשט‬The Sages of Budapest], Metsudah 5–6 (1948): 465. There may have been others who tried to convince the donor (Kaufmann’s mother-in-law) to donate the precious collection to the Academy instead of a Jewish institution; see István Ormos, “David Kaufmann and His Collection,” David Kaufmann Memorial Volume: Papers Presented at the David Kaufmann Memorial Conference, November 29, 1999, Budapest, Oriental Collection, Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, ed. Éva Apor (Budapest: [Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences], 2002), 127–196, at 139. Goldziher was probably the first person who worked on these manuscripts (except their owner), had plans to pursue further research on them, and influenced negotiations over the terms of the donation. 34 Goldziher’s main accusations here also appear earlier in the diary in relation to Kaufmann: Reclammacher – cf. T, 87–88; Geldgleissnerei – cf. T, 88; Notizenkram – cf. T, 87; “Zeitungen […] ausposaunt würdet” – cf. T, 115. His remark on “those who are wooing for favorable, boasting reviews of Lutheran missionaries” is probably directed at Kaufmann as well (and specifically at his obituary for Delitzsch; see T, 45 and Haber, Goldziher, 120–121). Cf., however, n. 176 below. Readers of the diary can appreciate Goldziher’s appeal for forgiveness in his address at Kaufmann’s funeral: Egyenlőség 18 (1899), July 16, Melléklet: 1.



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the stark contrast between the part of medieval Jewish literature which is filled with lofty ideals, and everything else in that literature, the worthless “junk of notes”—with which Kaufmann and others of his ilk are preoccupied—reflecting a barren ghetto spirit.

Sense of Superiority In Goldziher’s grievous fulminations, prophetic idealism is mixed with personal remorse, and it is difficult to see which of the two dominates the other. “Moravian” and “Polak” (Polish) are his standard derogatory epithets for Jews of the Hungarian Jewish establishment. The overwhelming majority of Hungarian Jews originally came from these two regions: Moravia and Galicia (in Poland). Thus, Goldziher’s disparaging language (and its frequency) must be seen against the backdrop of his Sephardic and German-Jewish ancestry and identity.35 In a letter to Abraham Shalom Yahuda, who had just finished his series of lectures in Madrid (and who later moved there from Berlin to assume a professorship), he writes on March 31, 1914:36 I would not like to see you as an Ashkenazi (I do not see myself as one, despite the fact that I come from Hamburg), keep on being what you are: a Sephardi. Whatever Jews possess in terms of religious culture is of Sephardic origin. Everything is connected to Jeh. Halevi and Maimonides. Mendelssohn is unthinkable without this connection. Remain a Sephardi and a champion of a Sephardic Renaissance.

The expression of “Sephardic supremacy” is unmistakable here, beyond the relaxed, gratulatory tone of the letter. Goldziher is a relatively late representative

35 Goldziher’s ancestors on his father’s side immigrated to Hungary from Germany in the eighteenth century; on his maternal side (and possibly from his paternal side too), his ancestors were Spanish (Sephardic) Jews; cf. Ormos, “Goldziher’s Mother Tongue,” 240, n. 173. 36 The text of the postcard is as follows: “Lieber Freund! Mit freudiger Empfindung beglückwünsche ich Sie zu dem schönen Erfolg, den Sie mit Ihrer prächtigen Vorlesung erlangst haben. Wir haben sie mit grossem Genuss gelesen und sie wird Ihnen baldigst zurückgesandt werden. Richten Sie die Vorlesungen zu ein, daß Sie deutsch in Druck erscheinen können. Was werden nun Ihre Berliner Freunde zu alledem sagen? ‫אצבע אלדים הוא‬. Ich habe Sie immer ungern als ‫ אשכנזי‬gesehen (ich selbst halte mich auch für keinen, trotzdem ich aus Hamburg stamme), jetzt bewähren Sie sich als ‫ ספרדי‬der sie ja sind. Was die Juden an religiöser Kultur haben, ist sefaradischen Ursprungs. Alles knüpft an Jeh. Halevi und Maimuni an. Mendelssohn ist ohne diese Anknüpfung nicht denkbar. Bleiben Sie nun ‫ ספרדי‬und Vorkämpfer einer sefaradischen Renaissance.” (Arc Ms Var Yah 38, National Library of Israel; reproduced here with the permission of the Library.)

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of those nineteenth-century Jewish scholars and other intellectuals (primarily in Central Europe) who became enchanted with Sephardic culture for its rationalist spirit and openness to the surrounding, and largely Islamic, cultural environment. They saw in it a viable model for Jews in the matrix of emancipation—an alternative to Ashkenazic culture, which had grown increasingly insular in the generally more hostile medieval Christian context.37 Yahuda, probably the only Sephardic-Oriental Jew among Goldziher’s disciples and colleagues, was the person to whom such loyalties could be disclosed.38 This German-Sephardic-Enlightenment sense of superiority of Westjuden over East European Jews (Ostjuden) is what permeates the diary. Goldziher’s attraction to Islam may also be seen in light of the Orientalizing trends in German and Central European Jewish and non-Jewish culture.

II Between Education and Scholarship Goldziher was a “progressive” Jew. As a follower of earlier classical ideologies of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, modern historical-critical scholarship had tremendous religious significance for him. His lecture entitled “The Modern Study of Religion”—the last (sixth) one in his popular lecture series (in Hungarian) in 1887–1888 on “The Essence and Evolution of Judaism”—begins as follows, according to the printed version: “We arrived at the most recent [legújabb] stage of the evolution of our religion […] which is driven by modern scholarship.”39 The formulation of the original manuscript was somewhat different: “We arrived at the last stage, to the final destination of the evolution of our religion.”40 The reference to modern Jewish scholarship as the “final destination” of the evolution of Judaism, perhaps a Freudian slip, is crossed out by the author himself.

37 See Ismar Schorsch, “The Myth of Sephardic Supremacy,” Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 34 (1989): 47–66, who surveys Sephardic-Orientalizing trends in liturgy, architecture, literature, and scholarship; and esp. 57–58, 62 on Heinrich Heine (himself partly of Sephardic origin, it seems, and a distant relative of Goldziher). This “Sephardic Mystique” was closely related to Orientalizing trends in Western Europe in the second half of the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth century. See also Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 91. 38 See also Yahuda, “Goldziher,” 226. 39 MésJ, 106. Cf. Geiger’s “Zeitalter der Criticismus” – Sinai (Tamás) Turán, “Leopold Löw and the Study of Rabbinic Judaism – A Bicentennial Appraisal,” Jewish Studies / Maddae ha-Yahadut 48 (2012): 67*. 40 MésJ, 106. (Emphasis mine – T.T.). I will publish the manuscript elsewhere.



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The existence of “scholars” as an elite class is a permanent phenomenon in Judaism from the Second Temple era. At the age of eighteen, Goldziher devoted one of his first published papers to “Privileges of Religious Scholars in the Talmudic Age.”41 One of the main reasons for Goldziher’s attraction to Islam was his perception that Islam, like Judaism, is a religion of study42—an academic religion. In his early collection of essays on Islam (in Hungarian), he writes: “[…] occupation with scholarship is also valued more in the traditions of Islam than external ritual piety,”43 while he regards the Jewish tradition as “the excessive appreciation of scholarly values” (T, 237; June 14, 1904).44 One of the core values guiding this academic elite—in Judaism as well as in Islam—is that truths and norms must be put into practice (T, 20; OrD, 90, cf. 116, 150).

Critical Scholarship and the Responsibilities of Scholars Wisdom, wherever it comes from, commands itself to be “[…] learnt, taught, safeguarded and performed […]”—to use the formulation of an ancient Jewish prayer.45 These injunctions, Goldziher maintains, are directed particularly towards the “learned” ones within the Jewish community. To disregard and disobey these imperatives—in particular the first two, learning and teaching—was pure hypocrisy in Goldziher’s view. But in this context he gave “learning” a non-traditional meaning: digesting current academic scholarship. On this account, Neolog rabbis, as well as professors at the Rabbinical Seminary, were, with very few exceptions, hypocrites in Goldziher’s eyes.46 Neolog Judaism and its scholars were unwilling to face the challenges of the literary history of the Bible, theology, and the history of the Jewish religion.47

41 “A hittudósok kiváltságai a thalmud korában” [Privileges of Religious Scholars in the Talmudic Period], Izraelita Közlöny 5 (1868): 253–255. 42 OrD, 105 (October 6, 1873). 43 Az iszlám [Islam] (Budapest: Magvető, 1980) (originally published in 1881), 456; see also 366–367, 467–468; Muh. St. II, 32. 44 In his A zsidóság lényege, intended for a Jewish audience, he says: “Except Judaism, there is no religious community within which the scientific occupation with religion is obligatory for all believers” (MésJ, 85). 45 Ahava rabba. Cf. Dt. 5.1; mAvot 4.5. Cf. Goldziher, A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 119–120, 124–126. 46 T, 33 (Bacher); T, 79 (Kohn). 47 Goldziher was introduced to modern critical scholarship on these issues by Ballagi and Kármán: T, 27, 43; I. Goldziher, “Keleti séták” [Oriental Walks], Emlékkönyv Kármán Mór huszonötéves tanári munkásságának ünnepére, eds. György Volf and János Waldapfel (Budapest: Eggenberger, 1897), 30.

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Goldziher’s demand and criticism was a harsh and—for a long time—a lone voice within Neolog circles.48 He expressed enthusiastic support for these critical disciplines already in the 1870s,49 and he devoted a remarkable essay in 1884 to biblical criticism in the first volume of the Hungarian Jewish scholarly periodical Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review]. Without entering the intricacies of “higher” criticism, he summarizes, approvingly, its basic approach and general conclusions pertaining to the Pentateuch; namely, that these books are a product of a long literary-historical process in which various sources, representing different circles within the religious elite with different traditions and agendas, were merged into one canonical unit. It is not these theories, he maintains, which are destructive to faith and loyalty to Judaism, but rather the refusal (mostly on “dogmatic” grounds) to cope with them.50 Later on, Goldziher avoided dealing with this subject directly.51

Educational Ideas On the contemporary Jewish scene, Goldziher was in conflict with both the Orthodox and Neolog communities. He did not spill much ink on polemics with the former, for he did not regard them as intellectual equals. His criticism of Hungarian progressive, Neolog Judaism—his own natural environment—was more

48 See also Ungár Izsák (Goldziher’s pseudonym), “A haladásról” [On Progress], 1886–1887, MésJ, 617–622. 49 “A héber tanulmányok főiskoláinkban” [Hebrew Studies in Our Institutes of Higher Learning], Magyar Tanügy 2 (1873): 94–99; “A vallásos eszme fejlődése a régi hébereknél” [Evolution of the Religious Idea among Ancient Hebrews] (1875), MésJ, 345–366, here 364; “George Smith,” Egyetemes Philologiai Közlöny 1 (1877): 22–35, 102–110, 160–167, here 162. 50 “A bibliai tudomány és a modern vallásos élet” [Biblical Scholarship and Modern Religious Life] (1884), MésJ, esp. 156–157, 161–165; cf. T, 95. See also below. For more background, cf. Ran HaCohen, Reclaiming the Hebrew Bible: German-Jewish Reception of Biblical Criticism (Berlin/ New York: de Gruyter, 2010), esp. 78–85, 152–198. From a letter of Goldziher to I. Löw in 1881 (published by Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei”), in which he laments the fact that no “honest” history of biblical literature reflecting “modern scholarship” is available in Hungarian by “Jewish” hands and encourages Löw to produce one, we learn that two years earlier he made an attempt to do so, but ultimately he wrote only one essay. 51 Cf. “Renan mint orientalista,” (1894), MésJ, 515–517 (Renan als Orientalist: Gedenkrede am 27. November 1893, trans., ed. P. Zalán, Fr. Niewöhner [Zürich: Spur-Verlag, 2000]), 72–73). In his diary we read: “In the last month I dealt at length with biblical theology. Moses was not the father of the prophets, but their grandson, or the last link in the chain of prophetism. His Torah is the conclusion of prophetic power in Israel.” (T, 132; Nov. 1891) For an interpretation of this enigmatic passage, cf. Tamás Turán, “Martin Schreiner and Jewish Theology: An Introduction,” to appear in European Journal of Jewish Studies 11.1 (2017), at n. 60.



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articulate and sustained. The main thrust of his criticism was not against Neolog religious practice, but against Neolog indifference to “ideology,” to the modern study of religion and the Bible, and the reluctance to apply their implications on Jewish religious life. In short, he protested against the shallowness of Neolog “reforms” that were mostly confined to the aesthetics of ritual.52 As the chief administrative officer of the Pest Neolog community, Goldziher also oversaw the entire Jewish educational system of his community for decades. He recorded his accomplishments in this field in his diary.53 His strong skepticism toward reform “from above,” orchestrated by rabbis, and his educational anti-elitism in general, are quite noteworthy and distinguish him to some extent from many of his reformist counterparts in other countries. Summarizing his first-hand experiences and opinions on educational reforms in Egypt, he writes: “[…] education cannot be leased: in order to have a fertilizing impact on people’s minds, it needs to be developed from the people’s mind itself.”54 The same applies to Jews. Studying is neither a privilege nor an exclusive obligation of select individuals; the right and duty for all people to study is the essence of true rabbinism, and these are the driving forces behind its evolution.55 Goldziher thought about “reform” not in halakhic terms but in educational terms. He believed that only education—a wide, slow, and to some extent openended process—could enact genuine change. Anything less or anything more was doomed to fail and lead to religious corruption. His educational ideas did not differ much from mainstream Jewish Enlightenment ideas insofar as he put the Bible (with an emphasis on the non-Mosaic books) at the heart of Jewish elementary and general education,56 but his emphasis on Hebrew and its reinstatement

52 “A pesti talmud-tóra” [The Talmud Torah of Pest], MZsSz 2 (1885): 538–544, here 543; “A haladásról,” MésJ, 619–620. 53 T, 85–86, 156, 201, 229. His students—Ede Neumann, Martin Schreiner, and Bernát Munkácsi (the inspector of religious education of the Pest Neolog community between 1890–1930)—and others tried to put Goldziher’s educational ideas into practice in terms of curricula, textbooks, etc., but these ideas and efforts met serious opposition. There is much interesting, and partly polemical, literature on these issues (and also on Goldziher’s ideas specifically) in the Hungarian Jewish (primarily Neolog) press of the 1880s–1890s and in written correspondence, but this topic is beyond the scope of the present paper. 54 “Tanügyi reformok Egyiptomban” [Educational Reforms in Egypt], Magyar Tanügy 2 (1873): 128–137, 201–208, here 208. Against imitating foreign cultures in general: “On Muhammadan Travelers,” AésI, 129. 55 A zsidóság lényege, esp. MésJ, 85–88. Cf. also “A bibliai tudomány,” 164–165; “A pesti talmud-tóra,” 539. 56 “A pesti talmud-tóra,” 541. Cf. the last passage of the present paper on Goldziher’s own childhood education.

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in the elementary school curriculum deserves attention.57 Particularly significant is his idea that proper religious education is unthinkable without “honest theology and science of religion, which live up to the standards of the calling of our age and our denomination.”58 His popular lecture series (attended mostly by Jewish university students) on “The Essence and Evolution of Judaism” was conceived to promote the same ideal and demand. The audience had shrunk, and Goldziher terminated the series after six lectures, as he says, “in order to save my honor” (T, 111).59 Those who understood the difficulty of attracting an audience (the so-called “educated public”) for such lectures were not surprised by the dwindling turnout.60

57 Tradition und Dogma, 12; T, 86. 58 “Talmud-tóra, hittanítás, proszeminárium, szeminárium,” [Talmud Torah, Religious Education, Proseminary, Seminary], MZsSz 3 (1886): 214–219, here 216, cf. 218. 59 Beyond the five main topics covered by these six lectures, Goldziher also planned to cover the unity of God, holiness, the mission of Israel, and messianism; see Bernát Heller, “Goldziher Ignác emlékezete,” 24. Although Heller does not give his sources, there is no reason to question the authenticity of this information (mentioned also, without reference, by Hidvégi, “Immánuel Löw’s Reflections,” 75), which confirms, partly at least, Goldziher’s quoted explanation for terminating his lecture series contrary to his original plans. This piece of information apparently escaped the attention of the editor (see his note at the end of Hidvégi’s paper, 79–81), who effectively dismisses Goldziher’s account. That account, however, is also substantiated by the introductory lecture itself in which Goldziher listed only four topics that he planned to speak about subsequently (MésJ, 42) and made it clear that these topics on the “evolution” (one may call it the “historical theology”) of Judaism constituted only the first part of his lecture series, which he planned to continue with lectures on the “essence” (the “systematic theology”) of Judaism” (MésJ, 40; cf. Turán, “Schreiner,” n. 30). He decided to abandon this latter plan. Interestingly, the introductory lecture was first published under the title “A zsidó vallás fejlődéséről” [On the Evolution of the Jewish Religion] MZsSz 5 (1888): 1–14. Likewise, in Heller’s Bibliographie des oeuvres de Ignace Goldziher (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1927), 41, no. 125, this general title is given for the five lectures published in Goldziher’s lifetime (the same title is also used by Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei,” for the six lectures delivered), while “The Essence and Evolution of Judaism” appears as the title of the introductory lecture (Heller omits other data related to its publication, however). Although this more comprehensive title is referenced twice in Goldziher’s introductory lecture, the short general title (used by Heller) seems adequate in light of the aforementioned circumstances. 60 Lipót Kecskeméti even predicted it: “Berlin zsidóságáról” [On Berlin Jewry], MZsSz 5 (1888): 371–374.



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Goldziher and the “Platform” of the Rabbinical Seminary Under the same banner of “honest theology” and up-to-date “science of religion,” Goldziher called (in an 1880 memorandum) for the introduction of a number of disciplines into the curriculum of the Rabbinical Seminary, including: history of religion, Jewish systematic philosophy of religion, biblical theology, history of biblical literature, and the geography, archaeology, and ethnography of Palestine.61 His proposals encountered strong opposition, and consequently, his efforts to initiate the academic study of (Jewish) religion as he conceived it—and this is the second meaning of “academic religion” concerning Goldziher—had little chance to succeed in Hungary. Yet, from 1900, when he took over Kaufmann’s classes in medieval Jewish religious philosophy after the latter’s death, he was in a position to implement some of his ideas. Once every two to three years he taught a course on the general history of religions (cf. T, 311).62 Goldziher had a troubled relationship with the Rabbinical Seminary, which, aside from strong personal issues,63 was also a late manifestation of the old controversy about whether a rabbinical seminary or a general, non-Jewish academic institution (e.g., a university) would be the appropriate institutional framework for Judaic scholarship. Goldziher (like Zunz and Steinschneider) was in favor of virtually unrestricted academic freedom, and he mocked the pseudo-academic parochialism of every religious denomination, especially his own. The role of

61 Hermann Imre Schmelczer, “Goldziher Ignác beadványa az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet tantervének ügyében” [The Memorandum of I. Goldziher Concerning the Curriculum of the Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest], Hetven év: Emlékkönyv Schweitzer József hetvenedik születésnapja […], eds. György Landeszman and Róbert Deutsch (Budapest: n. p., 1992), 127–136, esp. 133–135. The essential points of this proposal are also presented in his “A bibliai tudomány.” Leopold Löw voiced similar concerns for the would-be curriculum of the Seminary: Die jüdischen Wirren in Ungarn. Beitrag zur Zeitgeschichte, I: Vor dem Kongresse (Leipzig – Pest: K.F. Köhler, Aigner & Rautmann, 1869), 87. 62 For a list of his courses at the Seminary, see Ludwig Blau and Miksa Klein, Festschrift zum 50 jährigen Bestehen der Franz-Josef-Landesrabbinerschule in Budapest I (Budapest: n. p., 1927), 54. At Budapest University, Goldziher taught courses on Semitic and comparative mythology five times between 1874–1881, but no such courses (or others in the history of religions) subsequently. 63 Goldziher was involved in the establishment of this institution (T, 87), taught there, and was a member of its Board (1880–1905) (T, 249), but he was never appointed as a full professor. This was one of the reasons for his resentment against the Rabbinical Seminary and its professors. The claim that Goldziher was a member of the Board until his death in 1921 (e.g., Festschrift zum 50 jährigen Bestehen, 32) seems erroneous; he rarely attended its meetings after the early 1880s (T, 210; February 9, 1897). Both facts seem to be confirmed by the surviving protocols of the board stored in the Hungarian Jewish Archives.

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scholarship—and especially biblical criticism—was problematic in most modern rabbinical seminaries, including the Rabbinical Seminary (T, 298; May 10, 1917). As a follower of Geiger (see below, V.), Goldziher’s views were too “liberal” to fit the (virtual) religious-theological platform of the Rabbinical Seminary and “mainstream” Neologs in general.64 This was the main reason for the opposition to his appointment at the Seminary, in addition to the fact that Goldziher had no rabbinic ordination. The most famous—and notorious—of his early writings on Judaism was his work on biblical myth, from which he apparently distanced himself later.65 He probably refers primarily to this work when—reflecting on the fortieth anniversary of his literary activities in 1902—he describes some of his early works as written with “honest fantasy and effervescent freedom” (T, 231). As further indication of the same thinly veiled self-criticism, “oral tradition” on Goldziher maintains that he felt it was inappropriate for a Jew to be engaged in sensitive questions about “canonical” works of classical Jewish heritage—similar

64 Goldziher records in his diary that some members of the Rabbinical Seminary’s Board condemned the Tendenz of his works as “nihilistic” and “atheistic” (T, 212; March 3, 1897). See also the next note. 65 Ignaz Goldziher, Der Mythos bei der Hebräern und seine geschichtliche Entwicklung: Untersuchungen zur Mythologie und Religionswissenschaft (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1876). According to an anonymous reviewer, Goldziher originally wrote his book in Hungarian, abandoning and rewriting it in German after “having realized that he cannot find for it a Hungarian publisher” (Egyetemes Philologiai Közlöny 1 [1877]: 223). According to A. Scheiber, Goldziher “renounced [visszavonta] his book as a consequence of attacks by conservative circles” (Magyar Könyvszemle 86 [1970]: 281). The diary attests to such attacks from within the Rabbinical Seminary and without (T, 22, 87–89, 272). Nothing is known about the memorandum, which Goldziher drafted and directed to the community leadership (T, 88), and to date there is no direct evidence whatsoever to support the theory that Goldziher renounced or disavowed the book. Earlier, Geo Widengren made a statement similar to Scheiber: “Goldziher himself later on in life disclaimed responsibility for this book!” see his “Early Hebrew Myths and Their Interpretation,” in Myth, Ritual, and Kingship: Essays on the Theory and Practice of Kingship in the Ancient Near East and in Israel, ed. S. H. Hooke (Oxford: Clarendon, 1958), 149, n. 3. A possible source of this claim is Krauss’s memoir (The Sages of Budapest, 455): “I have heard that later Goldziher regretted that he wrote the book, although did not explicitly renounce it.” The earliest reference to Goldziher’s “renouncing” of “the results of his first major Jewish work [Der Mythos bei der Hebräern]” is by Ludwig [Lajos] Szabolcsi, the well-connected and well-informed editor of the Hungarian Jewish [Neolog] bi-weekly Egyenlőség, in his article on the occasion of Goldziher’s sixtieth birthday (June 26, 1910, 4–5; the article is signed by “Secundus,” Szabolcsi’s pseudonym). See also L. Kecskeméti, “Berlin zsidóságáról,” 577–578; Adolf Rosenzweig, “Aus der Kinderjahren der ‘Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums,’” Ost und West 7 (1907): 723; and Martin (Meir) Plessner’s Afterword in the Hebrew translation of the Vorlesungen über den Islam (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1910): ‫( הרצאות על האיסלם‬Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1951), 293, 295.



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to a surgeon who is afraid of operating on his own mother who is in critical condition.66 If and when Goldziher indeed arrived at such an understanding, it undermined one of his main critiques of Neolog rabbis and professors of the Rabbinical Seminary. Disappointment over his educational efforts, as well as his rather radical views on education and the role that scholarship must play in it, alienated him from the Neolog establishment and many of his former friends. He gradually withdrew from Jewish scholarship not because of the unfavorable reception of his early Mythosbook, but upon realizing, over many years, the irrelevance of his scholarly work for shaping the future of local Jews, and for his loss of hope for meaningful dialogue between Jewish scholarship and Jewish education in Hungary.

III Between Islamic and Jewish Law Islamic law—especially jurisprudence, and the origins, development, and literary history of tradition (Sunna and Hadith)—are among those fields in which Goldziher’s work had the strongest impact on later scholarship. Among the issues addressed in his works time and again, we find the following: the origins, nature, and function of Sunna and Hadith; their relation to the Quran;67 dogmatism and uniformity versus pluralism and diversity, in theory and in practice;68 accommodating tendencies and methods;69 schools and local traditions;70 the distinction between legal and non-legal traditions;71 aspects of transmission (Traditionswesen);72 traditional historical, philological, and legal criticism of traditions (Tra-

66 See Lőwinger, “Goldziher,” 170–171. Certain critical approaches to studying one’s own religion may also be compared, homiletically, to an incestuous relationship; cf. Prov. 7:4. 67 Muh. St. II, 19–21. 68 “Beiträge zur Literaturgeschichte der Śî‛â und der sunnitischen Polemik“ (1874), GS I, 266– 268; Az iszlám, 191–192, 202–206, 419–427; Vorlesungen, 181–185, 201–202; “Katholische Tendenz und Partikularismus im Islam” (1914), GS V., 285–312. 69 “Muhammedanisches Recht in Theorie und Wirklichkeit” (1889), GS II, 359–361, 365–368. Traditions that regard leniency as a value in itself are mentioned in Ibid., 366, and Vorlesungen, 59–67; however, only the latter mentions the Talmudic parallel. 70 Az iszlám, 185–189, 202–206. 71 Muh. St. II, 153–170; s. v. “Hadith,” Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 6, 134 (see also below, n. 93, towards the end). Cf., however, Plessner’s Afterword, 298, n. 33. 72 On written and oral transmission, see Muh. St. II, 194–202, and below, n. 92; on literal versus non-literal transmission, see Az iszlám, 178–180; on the emergence of textual variants, see Muh. St. II, 236–245.

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ditionswissenschaft);73 and foreign (esp. Roman) influences on Islamic law and jurisprudence.74 It suffices to replace Sunna and Hadith with “Oral Law” (“Tradition”), and the Quran with “Written Law” (Hebrew Scriptures), in order to see to what degree this landscape resembles Jewish law and its study—landscapes which, taken as a whole, may be quite unique to Judaism and Islam by virtue of their complementary duality of Scripture and “Tradition,” which encompasses all aspects of life. This thematization is very similar to the program of previous Wissenschaft des Judentums scholarship on the history of Jewish Oral Law, and to problems that preoccupied Samuel David Luzzatto, Abraham Geiger, Zacharias Frankel, and Leopold Löw, just to mention a few outstanding names. A great deal of early Jewish scholarship on these themes explored Oral Law as a vehicle of adaptation and “progress” in Judaism.75 In the introduction, we mentioned the view shared by many of Goldziher’s colleagues and disciples that Goldziher’s traditional Jewish upbringing accounted for his unique grasp of Islam.76 Of course, Jewish education was not a prerequisite for being interested in problems of Islamic law or conducting

73 “Zur Charakteristik Ǵelal ud-dîn us-Sujûṭī’s und seiner literarischen Thätigkeit” (1871), GS I, 63–66 (“Ignaz Goldziher on al-Suyūṭī,” trans. J. O. Hunwick and M. Barry; Muslim World 68 [1978]: 91–94); Az iszlám, 147–192; Muh. St. II, 236–274. In turning his interest toward Hadith (and the fabrication of traditions in particular), Goldziher seems to have received many impulses from his readings of al-Suyūṭī’s and Ibn al-Gawzī’s works (most of them in manuscript form), especially during his stay in Leiden in 1871; Az iszlám, 148, 176–177; T, 48–49. Goldziher dates the origins of his interest in Hadith to this very period (T, 50). 74 See n. 93 below. 75 Geiger’s positive view of Pharisaism, quite innovative for his time and milieu (see also V. below), is only one voice (although a powerful one) in a symphony in the second third of the nineteenth century. See also Turan, “Leopold Löw,” 59*–61*. All of the aforementioned research questions remain important for Jewish scholarship today, and some still have religious-political significance. 76 See n. 27 above. Heller was the first to provide some examples: s. v. “Goldziher, Ignaz,” Encyclopedia Judaica, vol. 7 (Berlin, 1931), col. 500. In Simon’s opinion, the aforementioned view is “meaningless,” “sinister,” obscures the matter, and is also rejected by Goldziher himself apropos the alleged analogy between Islamic and Jewish “Written Law” and “Oral Law” (and between Talmudic and early Islamic prohibitions against writing down “oral” traditions: Muh. St. II, 194–196) (Ignác Goldziher, 19–20). The problems inherent in these claims are manifold. This paper presents, I hope, compelling cumulative evidence for the “old” view. See also the beginning of the long citation from T, in I; below, notes 92, 93, 112; and Martin Kramer, “Introduction,” The Jewish Discovery of Islam: Studies in Honor of Bernard Lewis, ed. Martin Kramer (Tel Aviv: The Moshe Dayyan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, 1999), 15.



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research on them.77 Yet there is little doubt that Goldziher’s understanding of Islamic law was enriched and sharpened by his knowledge of Rabbinics and nineteenth-century Jewish discourse on “Oral Law,” to which he was fully exposed in his childhood. His hometown, Székesfehérvár, was a battleground between progressives and conservatives (Orthodox) from the late 1840s to the early 1860s and beyond.78 The famous polemic about Zacharias Frankel’s views on the nature of Oral Law began with criticism of Frankel’s book initiated by Gottlieb Fischer, a lay—“Orthodox”—leader of the local Jewish community (and later rabbi of the local Orthodox community). As Goldziher himself records in his diary, he entered into extended polemical correspondence in 1861–1862 with his cousin about this issue. At that time, when Goldziher was eleven and twelve years old, he was a champion of Orthodoxy and Talmudism. In local, political disputes between the two camps, however, he was torn between his father’s position (who sided with the progressives) and his beloved teacher’s position (who aligned with the Orthodox).79 Caught between these two poles, he learned to loathe religious-political squabbles (T, 21–22). Furthermore, two of young Goldziher’s earliest articles in 1867 were published in Ben Chananja—a Jewish scholarly journal in Hungary and an important forum for similar ideological debates about the nature of Oral Law—as well as the editor Leopold Löw’s series of articles regarding the polemics surrounding Frankel’s book in 1861.80 It is largely due to Frankel and Löw that the historical-critical approach to law (which emerged in Germany in the early nineteenth century) made inroads into Jewish scholarship. Goldziher’s work built a unique bridge between these related fields of jurisprudence, problems of transmission and literary history of law, etc. in Judaism and Islam. Jewish scholarship also took inspiration from Goldziher’s Islamic research, with some delay.81

77 Alois Sprenger (to whom Goldziher gives much credit) already discussed problems of written versus oral and literal versus non-literal transmission of Hadith in his “Über das Traditionswesen bei den Arabern,” ZDMG 10 (1856): 1–17; on Snouck Hurgronje, see below. 78 Jakab Steinherz, “A székesfehérvári zsidók története” [History of the Jews of Székesfehérvár], MZsSz 11 (1894): 102–106, 180–190, 539–548, 623–637. 79 This is the general context of young Goldziher’s booklet on the history of liturgical poems – Sichat-Jiczchak )‫(שיחת יצחק‬, Abhandlung über Ursprung, Eintheilung und Zeit der Gebete (Pest: Johann Herz, 1862). 80 “Die Tradition,” republished in his Gesammelte Schriften (hrsg. Immanuel Löw; I, Szeged: Alexander Bába, 1889), 241–317. 81 I will discuss this topic on another occasion; see also below, after n. 122. Cf. Martin Schreiner’s letter (in Hungarian) to Goldziher, April 14, 1890: “If Jewish theologians would read [Muh. St. II] it would perhaps work its way back on the study of Jewish tradition, although there are huge differences between the [notions of] tradition in the two religions. Judaism was saved from

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Starting in the 1880s, Goldziher and his Dutch friend Snouck Hurgronje played a key role in introducing the historical study of Islamic law into scholarship.82 Goldziher’s interest in Sunna and Hadith can be attributed only partially to his Jewish background or his pioneering historical research on Jewish law. Most importantly, this interest was the natural outcome of his exposure to the whole spectrum of Islamic cultural history, especially during his student years in Berlin, Leipzig, and Leiden in 1868–1871. Snouck and Goldziher became interested in Hadith separately, it seems, but their mutual encouragement was critical for both of them in pursuing this field of study.83

The Politics of Comparativism One finds not only structural analogies between Jewish and Islamic law, but also a wealth of similarities in detail between them.84 A significant part of Goldziher’s oeuvre is devoted to Jewish and Islamic cultural contacts, and in his works devoted to Islam, and Islamic law in particular, one finds a great amount of comparative Jewish material scattered throughout the texts. Yet he was never attracted to comparative research.85 Highlighting Jewish influences on Islamic law was certainly not on Goldziher’s agenda, and he mentioned parallels and analogies between the two only sporadically and very briefly. Various factors may have accounted for this attitude.86 Comparisons in cultural studies (or avoiding

falsifications of tradition in Islam by Dt. 17.11, which provided authority for Oral Torah without isnad.” (Oriental Collection of the Library and Information Centre of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, GIL/38/01/136. I am grateful to the Library for permitting me to quote this letter.) 82 In his Az iszlám, a long chapter (123–206) is devoted to Hadith, which anticipated the fundamental ideas of the later, major chapter on the same topic (“Über die Entwickelung des Ḥadîth”) in the second volume of his Muh. St.—as observed by Németh, “Goldziher’s Jugend,” 22–24. Goldziher’s interest in Hadith-criticism is evident even in his earlier works such as the Beiträge zur Literaturgeschichte der Śî‛â, GS I, 269–274. 83 Cf. T, 110, 112–114. Snouck, “Goldziher Ignác,” 103. See also n. 101 below. On the impact of the historical school of law (associated often with Savigny) on Snouck, see J. Brugman, “Snouck Hurgronje’s Study of Islamic Law,” in Leiden Oriental Connections, 1850–1940, ed. Willem Otterspeer (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 87. 84 Cf., e.g., Gideon Libson, Jewish and Islamic Law: A Comparative Study of Custom during the Geonic Period (Cambridge, Mass.: Islamic Legal Studies Program, Harvard Law School, 2003). 85 Earlier scholarship on Goldziher noted this fact; see Becker (“I. Goldziher,” 217), and a number of reasons were cited for it by Goitein, “Goldziher,” 5–8, cf. also Michael Cook, “The Opponents of the Writing of Tradition in Early Islam,” Arabica 44 (1997): 437–523, here 509. 86 Goitein, for example, observes that Goldziher is inclined to recognize cultural or religious



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them) often become part of “identity politics.” It appears that one of the reasons for Goldziher’s relative yet remarkable neglect of comparisons was his fear of “Judaizing”—and thereby “ghettoizing”—Islamic Studies, which would bring more harm than good to him and to “progressive forces” in Judaism—particularly in Hungary, and maybe also in the Islamic world.87 Perhaps this is why he minimizes his comparative references, especially in his Hungarian publications on Islam and in his works on fundamental issues of legal thought.88 Somewhat exceptional is his remark in one of his longer studies to the effect that in Islam, only tradition, (religious) law, and jurisprudence are considered true sciences and their experts “scholars” in the true sense of the word, similar to the “Jewish way of thinking that developed from a similar basis.”89 Meanwhile, in his Hungarian papers on Judaism, intended primarily for a Jewish audience, he sometimes emphasizes the Islamic influences on Judaism.90 In his publications on Islam in western languages, he gives more consideration to possible Jewish connections and parallels concerning certain central questions about the development of Islamic law.91 One of them is the writing of “oral tradition,”92

“influences” only where there is no internal-organic explanation for the given phenomenon, motif, etc. See Goitein, “Goldziher,” 18–19. 87 Cf. also n. 93 below. 88 References are given more freely to parallels in religious issues; see, e.g., in Az iszlám, 175 (cf. 265, 267), 195, 386, 399, 553. For concrete legal parallels, see Ibid., 161, 431–432. In Islam as well as in Judaism—both “nomistic” religions (A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 75)—legal theory is inseparable from exegesis and from issues of authority and politics. Regarding creative legal exegesis, Goldziher briefly refers to a concrete parallel from the Jewish tradition in Az iszlám, 431–432; as for resistance to legal codification as a matter of principle (historically an important trend in Jewish legal thought as well, cf. n. 92 below), no Jewish analogy is given (Ibid., 420–421). 89 I. Goldziher, On the History of Grammar among the Arabs, trans., eds. Kinga Dévényi and Tamás Iványi (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 1994), 50. In this study, Goldziher makes a number of additional comparative references, mostly to medieval Jewish linguisticphilosophical ideas. 90 “Abulvalid” (1886) (MésJ, 276–283); A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 96–99. 91 For example, in the discussion of plurality and dissent in law in his Vorlesungen, 75, some Talmudic parallels are indicated (cf. his letter quoted by Goitein, “Goldziher,” 18), but in the earlier discussion of this topic in his Az iszlám (191–192, 202–206, 419–427) such references are missing. Alfred von Kremer (see below, notes 99, 101) already cited examples of the influence of Talmudic law on Islamic law: Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 6, 657. See also Muh. St. II, 194–196. 92 Michael Cook has argued for the existence of strong opposition to the written recording of “oral traditions” in early Islam, and for the Jewish origins of this opposition, in his “The Opponents of the Writing of Tradition.” He analyzes the twists and turns of Goldziher’s fluctuating position on this issue over time, and he also draws attention to the somewhat agitated tone of his argument in the Muh. St., hinting at possible ideological factors behind his approach: Ibid., 440,

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and another is the general question of foreign (Jewish or Roman) influences.93 Regarding these issues, he tends to stress the differences between Islam and Judaism, underlining the independence of Islamic law from Jewish law. (A third issue is discussed at the end of this paper). It is probably not a mere coincidence that his only full-fledged study of Islamic-Jewish connections in legal thought is devoted to an issue where Islamic sources engage in open polemics with Jewish sources.94 Goldziher’s complex policy of making or omitting comparative references is also reflected in his treatment of “tradition” as an agent of adaptation to changing historical circumstances and a driver of religious progress. This notion is of paramount importance for Goldziher (as a historian and a progressive) in Islam and Judaism, yet it is never discussed side by side in both contexts in his works.95 A related and no less politicized issue was how Islamic and Jewish law were viewed as a whole. In western scholarship (in its Christian setting), both were regarded as “dry casuistry” until Zacharias Frankel, Goldziher, and others initiated the histor-

492–493, 502–503, and esp. 509. Two things should be added to his survey as far as Goldziher is concerned. One is that initially Goldziher opined that the original, prevailing norm in Islam was to transmit traditions only orally: Jelentés a M. T. Akadémia könyvtára számára keletről hozott könyvekről, tekintettel a nyomdaviszonyokra keleten [Report on the Books Brought from the Orient for the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences] (1874), AésI 79; Az iszlám, 179. The other is that in the Jewish context he enthusiastically endorsed the rabbinic opposition to writing down Oral Law (“the decline of rabbinic freedom is proportional with the writing down [of rabbinic lore] due to external influences”) and S. D. Luzzatto’s opposition to the Maimonidean project of codifying Jewish law: A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 82–83. 93 Muh. St. II, 75–76; s. v. “Islam,” Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 6, 653, 657. Goldziher’s emphasis on Roman influences on Islamic law and his dismissal of even the possibility of Jewish influences is discussed in Patricia Crone, Roman, Provincial, and Islamic Law: The Origins of the Islamic Patronate (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 102–106, who observes that behind Goldziher’s stance “there must have been personal rather than scholarly factors, and one may speculate that they had to do with his standing in European society: whereas a preoccupation with Jewish influence on Islamic law simply confirmed him as a Jew, a preoccupation with Roman influence on this law made him an exponent of one of the most prestigious aspects of European civilisation” (Ibid., 106). One must note that Goldziher acknowledges the influence of Jewish aggadah on aggadic hadith: “Hadith,” Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 6, 134. He emphasizes Roman influences on Jewish law in his “Abulvalid,” MésJ, 277. In his Hungarian essay A muhammedán jogtudomány eredetéről [On the Origins of Muhammedan Jurisprudence] (Budapest, 1884), Jewish law is not mentioned at all. 94 “Kämpfe um die Stellung des Ḥadīṯ in Islam,“ GS V, 86–98. 95 “It was the tradents’ purpose to syncretize life with lore, and to produce documents to serve as a theoretical foundation for the existing practice,” in Az iszlám, 174. See Vorlesungen, 56, 282– 285; Tradition und Dogma.



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ical study of these fields.96 Goldziher praises rational and analogical methods in Islamic law and celebrates their impact as “the victory of spirit over the letter.”97 In Jewish law, by contrast, which always applied the same methods, he never saw anything but “dry casuistry,” except (parts of) Pharisaic Oral Law in the Talmudic period.98

Consensus (ijmā‛) We see more intimately the interaction between Goldziher’s take on Jewish and Islamic Studies and commitments in his recognition of the role of custom, common beliefs, and prevalent opinions in the evolution of Jewish and Islamic religion and law.99 The central notion of ijmā‛ in Islamic tradition (especially in jurisprudence)—meaning the general conformity of normative practice, or scholarly consensus100—received greater scholarly attention after the studies of Goldziher and Snouck Hurgronje in the first half of the 1880s.101

96 See Snouck Hurgronje’s obituary on Goldziher (in Hungarian, 103). 97 Az iszlám, 205. 98 A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 80–82. Cf. also below, end of V. 99 Mid-nineteenth-century historiography and political thought itself already demonstrated an interest in characterizing a given culture or period by its “ruling ideas”; cf. the title of Alfred von Kremer’s book: Geschichte der herrschenden Ideen des Islams: Gottesbegriff, Prophetie und Staatsidee (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1868); on Goldziher’s appreciation of Kremer, see Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 31–33, and cf. the book of József Eötvös: A XIX. sz. uralkodó eszméinek befolyása az álladalomra (Vienna – Pest, 1851–1854), translated as The Dominant Ideas of the Nineteenth Century and Their Impact on the State, trans., ed. D. Mervyn Jones, 2 vols (Boulder, Colorado: East European Monographs, 1996–1998). 100 On ijmā‛ in general, see Goldziher, Muh. St., passim; Vorlesungen, 55; “Die Religion des Islam,” 105–107. Ijmā‛ features in his other works as well, e.g., as a “symbol of Islamic catholicity”: “Katholische Tendenz und Partikularismus” (1914), GS V, 310–311. The notion, and its application, are somewhat elusive and far from consensual; see Vorlesungen, 181–182. In one of his first statements on ijmā‛, Goldziher paraphrases it both as “consensus ecclesiae” and as “consensus doctorum ecclesiae”: A muhammedán jogtudomány eredetéről (AésI, 400). In another statement from the same year, he emphasizes the latter: Die Zahiriten, 32–35. 101 Goldziher gives much credit to Snouck for his pioneering research on ijmā‛: “Die Religion des Islam,” 105. In his Die Zahiriten (34, n. 2), however, he emphasizes his independence: Snouck’s “excellent work had not yet appeared at the time of the writing of the present study.” In his Az iszlám, the term ijmā‛ is not used, but he underscores the role of related concepts in explaining phenomena such as the cult of saints in Islam. It is circumscribed or approximated by terms such as “vox populi” (Ibid., 224), “folk-spirit” (népszellem [Volksgeist]) (Ibid., 246, 263), “folk-religion” (as opposed to “theologians’ religion,” in Ibid., 287–288), “instinct of the masses” (Ibid., 310),

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Around the same time, Goldziher began to use similar notions and phraseology in his Jewish writings. Against those who maintained that there are explicit “dogmas” in Judaism, in 1884 (the year when he lectured and published for the first time on the origins of Muhammedan jurisprudence in Hungarian) he argued for the existence of fundamental religious truths accepted by a mostly silent “consensus” [közmegegyezés] in Judaism.102 A few years later in his proposal on Jewish education, he referred to the need for a “sincere Jewish theology that would complement and regulate the sense of the educated Jewish public [művelt zsidó közérzület].”103 In his lecture series, he spoke about the importance of the scholarly articulation of the “sense of the educated Jewish public,” the “sense of the community,” and the “communal sentiment” [közérzület] in Judaism. Such scholarly assessments and articulations alone could declare religious ideas or practices “alive” or “dead”—either religiously fit and timely, or obsolete.104 It is this elusive “communal sentiment” that changes and evolves, and thus for Goldziher, its articulation in historical theology replaces jurisprudence as the main instrument for regulating modern Jewish religious life and development. “Consensus,” in the Jewish context, comes close to Zeitgeist and scientific truth. In his later summary works on Islam targeting the “educated public,” Goldziher presents ijmā‛ in very similar terms. Unlike direct, top-to-bottom normative regulations by clerical authorities and “synods,” ijmā‛ is the “sense of the community”—he uses the term Gesamtgefühl,105 Gemeingefühl,106 or similar circumlocu-

“common spirit” [közszellem], and “the soul of the collectivity as it developed historically” (Ibid., 422–423). Cf. also his citation from A. Kremer (Ibid., 312). He refers to Kremer also in the political context of ijmā‛: Muh. St. II, 98. Goldziher’s interest in ijmā‛ as a “human” or semi-autonomous driving force in the development of Islamic tradition is recognizable already in his A spanyolországi arabok helye az iszlám fejlődése történetében összehasonlítva a keleti arabokéval (1877), AésI, 158–160 (“The Place of the Spanish Arabs in the Evolution of Islam as Compared with that of the Eastern Arabs,” trans. J. de Somogyi, Muslim World 53 [1963]: 91–93); and the “vox populi” features, in a particular context, already in his “Zur Charakteristik Ǵelal ud-dîn us-Sujûṭī’s,” 8–9. 102 “A bibliai tudomány,” 154. 103 “Talmud-tóra, hittanítás,” 217. 104 A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 35; the phrase “sense of the community” [közérzület] is used three times in Ibid., 126. Cf. “köztudat,” 121 (twice); also in his “Arabok” [Arabs], Egyetemes Irodalomtörténet [Universal History of Literature], ed. Heinrich Gusztáv (Budapest: Franklin társulat, 1903), 298; “common spirit” [közszellem], A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 126. See also his “A haladásról” (1887), MésJ, 621–622: [közérzület, közmeggyőződés]. 105 (Or Gesammtgefühl): Muh. St. II, 139; “Die Religion des Islam,” 106; Vorlesungen, 55 (three times). 106 Muh. St. II, 139, 153; Vorlesungen, 55.



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tions107—a “nearly unconscious vox populi” that enables Islam to develop freely, and which overrules normative traditions and tolerates pre-Islamic customs or innovations when needed. This notion of “communal sentiment” or “consensus” as the highest, silent instance of regulating the real practices of a legal-religious community is rooted not only in the so-called “historical school of law” (and in the seventeenth and eighteenth-century thought of Vico, Montesquieu, and others, as well as romanticism), but also has Talmudic and medieval rabbinic antecedents108 and was widespread in general historical discourse in previous decades. Within Jewish theological discourse, this notion recalls Zacharias Frankel’s emphasis on the role of the “popular will” or consent in legitimizing changes or “reforms” in Judaism,109 and Leopold Löw’s views (mostly from the 1860s) on the significance of “bottom-up” development in halakhah110—an idea also present, albeit in diluted form, in Geiger’s writings.111 The close connection between these ideas on the one hand, and Goldziher’s emphasis on the importance of Jewish education on the other, is easily recognizable. In ijmā‛, Goldziher found an Islamic concept more articulate and developed in its own tradition than parallel notions in the Jewish tradition, and which expressed and reinforced a lay, “democratic” feature and ideal central to him in Judaism, and central to his critique of modern Judaism.112

107 “Consensus der Gesammtgemeinde,” Muh. St. II, 85; “Gesammtansicht,” Ibid., 86; “Gesammtübung,” Ibid.; “instinktive Gefühl der Masse,” Vorlesungen, 55. 108 Gerald (Yakov) Blidstein, ‫ד‬-‫[ סמכות ומרי בהלכת הרמב"ם; פירוש נרחב להלכות ממרים א‬Authority and Dissent in Maimonidean Law: A Comprehensive Commentary to Hilkhot Mamrim, Chapters 1–4] (Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2002), 93–95, 145–149. For Talmudic sources, see below, n. 110. Goldziher himself refers to one early rabbinic source, albeit indirectly, in Vorlesungen, 75, n. 4. 109 Zacharias Frankel, “Über Reformen im Judenthume,” Zeitschrift für die religiösen Interessen des Judenthums 1 (1844): 3–27, here 22–27 (Volkswille, Gesammtwille, Volksgeist). 110 Turan, “Leopold Löw,” 64*; 68*–70*, esp. 69*–70*, n. 90. Talmudic sources relevant to our subject are cited by Löw in his referenced works on page 70*, n. 90. 111 “Popular sentiment” [Volksgefühl]; see the quotation in Goldziher’s A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 123 (Geiger, Nachgelassene Schriften, V [Berlin: Louis Gerschel, 1878], 349; cf. also 121. See also Geiger’s remark that “theology is nothing but the common sense [Gesammtbewusstsein] of the religious community, translated scientifically” (Nachgelassene Schriften, II (1875), 27). Cf. Ottfried Fraisse’s paper in the present volume. 112 What is most important here is this parallel development and mutual illumination of Goldziher’s perceptions of the role of the popular/communal sentiment in Judaism and Islam. There is probably no point in deriving his perception of this idea in Judaism from ijmā‛, or vice versa (cf. O. Fraisse, Ignác Goldzihers monotheistische Wissenschaft: Zur Historisierung des Islam (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 88–89, 137–138, 155). But as Simon cogently observes regarding Goldziher: “That he always gave priority to the principle of community over the institutions and the state derives from his Jewish ‘ethnic’ sentiments (“[…] zsidó ‘nemzetiségi’

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Hadith-Criticism as Talmud-Criticism? Once Goldziher posed a rhetorical question about Henri Lammens, a Jesuit scholar of Islam who developed a hypercritical approach to early Islam based on Goldziher’s Hadith-criticism: “What would remain from the Gospels if he were to apply his Quran-method to them?”113 One could ask in a similar vein: What would remain from the Talmud if Goldziher’s Hadith-method was applied to it? Goldziher presumably held “liberal” views on the origins, nature, development, and literary history of Jewish Oral Law—views similar to Geiger’s or Leopold Löw’s ideas—but he never elaborated on these issues.114 It was a sensitive topic in contemporary Judaism in Hungary, as it was for Zacharias Frankel in Germany. Did Goldziher have any hidden agenda behind his work on Hadith? Does it have any implications for research on the nature and history of Jewish Oral Law? I am not aware of any example of such a shift between the two fields in the biography of any scholar of stature before Goldziher, but Islamic Studies as a sort of substitute for ideologically sensitive research in Jewish Studies was not unprecedented in the Central European Jewish intellectual environment. In a letter to Leopold Löw in 1860, Adolf Jellinek (another long-time student of Fleischer) mentions several religious-legal issues, which, in his view, should be dealt with in Löw‘s periodical (Ben Chananja) due to their centrality for contemporary Jewish life. One of these issues was the status of Christianity in Jewish law. Jewish law, Jellinek contends, must distinguish between Catholicism and Protestantism. But since this issue cannot be addressed in “Austria,” he instead suggests discussing, “as a façade,” the status of Islam in Jewish law, distinguishing between Sunnis, Shiites, and other, “more anthropomorphist” sects.115

érzületéből fakadt, […]”), Ignác Goldziher, 96—translation is modified). How this statement fits the oft-repeated observation (shared also by Simon, Ibid., 55, 59–62) that the Jewish “identity” “ideal” of Goldziher was an exclusively or predominantly religious and non-ethnic one is another question; cf. below, n. 134. 113 Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 103–104. 114 Cf. Turan, “Leopold Löw,” 59*–61*. His statements cited in n. 92 above are among his few relatively explicit statements related to this issue. 115 Leopold Löw, Gesammelte Schriften, V, 168–169. Geiger’s work on Jewish influences on Islam (1833) was in fact a prelude to his later works on the Jewish background of Christianity; see Susannah Heschel, Abraham Geiger and the Jewish Jesus (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 5–6, 51–53, 62. I found no evidence, however, which shows that Geiger started to work on Islam as a substitute or as preparation for similar research on Christianity. Interestingly, Löw himself later used an Islamic analogy in the context of the conflicts between conservatives (Orthodox) and progressives (Neolog) in Hungary. He arguesd for a break with the conservatives (against the majority of progressives, his own camp, who opposed such a break),



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The hostile reception of his Mythos-book was the first major blow to Goldziher’s engagement with Jewish scholarship and religious reform. He thus gravitated toward Islamic Studies in which he could work without ideological and religious restraints. As for his work on the formation of Hadith, it may be tempting to see in Goldziher’s critical insights a sort of camouflage or diversion—a veiled criticism of Jewish Oral Law—and to understand his research on this issue ultimately as subterfuge, while maintaining his critical methodology in investigating Judaism’s foundational religious documents.116 All of this is hypothetical, however. The fact remains that we know very little about Goldziher’s views on the early history of Jewish Oral Law and nothing about his views on the applicability of his research methods regarding Hadith to Jewish Oral Law.

Mysticism as a Remedy for Legalism In modern Judaism, “ethics,” religious inwardness, and devotion were emphasized by Jewish reform (as well as by Hasidism, mutatis mutandis) against Talmudic “casuistry” and “legalism.” The eleventh-century ethical-philosophical work of Bahya ibn Paquda, written in Arabic and influenced by Islamic mysticism, was one of Goldziher’s favorite books from his early childhood (T, 18). Later, Goldziher made important contributions to research on medieval Jewish philosophy inspired by Neoplatonic and Islamic mysticism.117 His pronouncements about philosophical-ascetic mysticism in Islam—and in particular its outstanding representative, al-Ghazali, whom he calls a “reformer”—leave little doubt that he viewed it (and its Jewish counterpart) as an antidote to legalistic formalism.118

citing the Islamic tradition that the excellence of a religion can be measured by the number of its sects—see Die jüdischen Wirren in Ungarn, 34. Goldziher critically interpreted this tradition in his early works on Islam; see notes 68 and 91 above. 116 In support of such an interpretation, see also above at n. 66, and at notes 202–204 below. 117 The most important among them is his edition of, and commentary on, the Kitâb ma‛âni annafs, Buch vom Wesen der Seele: Von einem Ungenannten (Berlin: Weidmann, 1907). Goldziher inspired and encouraged his pupil A. S. Yahuda to edit the Arabic original of Bahya’s work: Kitâb al-hidâja ilâ farâ’id al-Qutûb (Leiden: Brill, 1912). See also Goldziher, “Materialen zur Entwickelungsgeschichte des Sûfismus,“ Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 13 (1899): 35–56; Vorlesungen, 139–200. 118 Jelentés, AésI, 83–84; A spanyolországi arabok, AésI, 195–196, 201–204; (The Place of the Spanish Arabs, Muslim World 54 [1964]: 31, 36–38); Vorlesungen, 176–181; etc. See also Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 141–142.

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IV Between Historicist Theology and Ethnography Goldziher was among the first to deploy ethnographic and folkloristic methods in the academic study of religion, and of Judaism119 and Islam in particular.120 His interest in ethnography was inspired by Heymann Steinthal and Johann Gottfried Wetzstein during his student years in Berlin in 1868–1869.121 It seems he was one of the first two scholars of stature in modern Jewish Studies to complete an extended study tour through the Middle East, visiting several countries—the other being Jacob Obermeyer, whose critique of contemporary Judaism, similar to Goldziher’s in many respects, was also deeply influenced by his oriental journeys (from 1868 onwards).122

Blessing and Curse Biblical scholarship started to use folkloristic methods at the turn of the century. Goldziher’s work on verbal (primarily oral) forms of religion such as magical formulas, prayer, oaths and vows, mocking and cursing, and his work on Hadith in particular, had an indirect yet profound impact on the study of orality in biblical and rabbinic literature, which became prominent fields only in the middle third of the twentieth century. Once again, one notices the confluence of Goldziher’s character, personal convictions, and academic pursuits. Beneath Goldziher’s thick vocabulary of insults in his diary, a rich Oriental and biblical legacy of blessing and cursing pulsates. Goldziher tells us explicitly that it is an imperative for him to hate God’s enemies, including his enemies—hypocrites and vicious,

119 Cf. Goitein, “Goldziher,” 19. 120 Cf. Goitein, “Goldziher,” 19. On his strong interest in ethnography and folklore, see OrD, 126; T, 92, 144. For more on his involvement in the Hungarian Ethnographic Society, see T, 134– 135 (March 5, 1892). For his contributions, see Bernát Heller, “Goldziher Ignácz és a néprajz” [I. Goldziher and Ethnography], in Jubilee Volume in Honour of Prof. Bernhard Heller […], ed. A. Scheiber (Budapest: s.l., 1941), 309–324. 121 T, 39 erroneously gives 1868 as the date of his departure for Leipzig, instead of (late) 1869 as also noted by Holger Preissler, “Ignaz Goldziher in Leipzig – Ein ungarischer Jude studiert Orientalistik,” in Leipziger Beiträge zur jüdischen Geschichte und Kultur 3 (2005): 293, n. 1. Since the original manuscript of the diary is unavailable, it is impossible to know whether Goldziher or the copyist/editor made the error. 122 Jacob Obermeyer, Modernes Judentum im Morgen- und Abendland (Wien: C. Fromme, 1907). The travels of Salomon Munk and Adolf Neubauer in the Middle East were more limited in terms of geographical scope; Gustav Weil’s, Jules Oppert’s, and Joseph Halévy’s contributions to Jewish scholarship (in the narrow sense of the term) were rather limited.



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greedy people—and this imperative is derived from the command of imitatio Dei and from Psalms (which is full of invectives against the psalmist’s enemies).123 According to a Talmudic adage, “any scholar who does not avenge himself and retain anger like a serpent is no [real] scholar.”124 Goldziher was a real scholar who put this imperative into practice, at least on the pages of his diaries. A more direct and dramatic expression of Goldziher’s personal relationship to Psalms was given at his funeral. In his will, Goldziher specifies that Psalm 23 should be recited over his coffin. (Cf. T, 73. His will has been respected.) Verse 5 reads: “You spread a table for me against my enemies.”125 Goldziher acted out part of the Oriental culture of inflammatory and “hate”speech in his diary. Another part became the subject of his major study on the nature and role of the pre-Islamic poet and the quasi-magical poetic genre (known as hiğā’) of mocking and cursing the enemy. He argues convincingly that Bileam’s role and utterances (commonly regarded as “prophecies”) in the fourth book of Moses serve as a good illustration of and a close parallel to these phenomena.126 This parallelism or analogy, which was the starting point for a series of articles on the topic—Goldziher published the first article in 1869 at the age of nineteen on the true nature of Bileam’s “profession” and “prophecies”127—occurred to him after hearing Wetzstein’s lectures in Berlin on the language and customs of Bedouins.128 The section of the Torah containing the Bileam narrative was the portion read aloud at his bar mitzvah ceremony, an event that carried enormous personal and religious significance for him (T, 22-23; 161, July 3, 1893).

123 T, 105, 137 (May 1, 1892); 152–153 (Oct. 16, 1892); 161 (July 3, 1893). See also T, 61, 91. 124 bYoma 22b–23a (R. Johanan in the name of Simeon b. Jehozadak). As expected, rabbinic literature provides different interpretations for this ‘difficult’ saying. 125 See the photograph of the giant writing desk in his study below, on p. 194. 126 Abhandlungen zur arabischen Philologie, I (Leiden: Brill, 1896), 1–121, here 42–44. 127 “Mit nyertünk a beduin élet ismerete által az Ótestamentum megértésére nézve?” [What Did We Gain through the Knowledge of Bedouin Life for Understanding the Old Testament?] (1869), MésJ, 243–248, esp. 244–247. The article itself was written in October 1869, when Goldziher was already in Leipzig. Goldziher’s article “A költő a régi arabok felfogásában” [The Ancient Arabic Concept of the Poet] (1891) was only the second in this series of articles; cf. Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 105. 128 MésJ, 244; T, 37.

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Religion or Culture? In assessing the historical development of Islam and Judaism, Goldziher applies essentially the same viewpoints and criteria, paying particular attention to developmental processes, “residual” phenomena in religion—a main component of his interest in ethnology and folklore—and the essential role of competing political forces. As an observer of the contemporary religious scene, Goldziher is particularly sensitive to what he regards as religious corruption and “swindle,” and spiritual stagnation and dead formalism, both in contemporary Islam as well as in Judaism.129 Yet, his criticism of the two “religions” is essentially different because his “familial” relationship to them is different. This emotional element should not be overlooked. He sometimes criticizes casuistry and dogmatic quibbling in Islam130 but defends Islam from the criticism of formalistic-ritualistic religious practice131— criticism that he himself levels against Judaism without offering any similar apologetics.132 He approaches Islam as a “cousin” or sympathetic relative. He engages with it respectfully, even enthusiastically, with the openness and curiosity of an ethnographer and folklorist. Nothing Islamic is alien to him.133 Islam is a civilization, a grand mosaic of religious cultures. By contrast, Judaism is a mere religion. It has either detached itself from tradition, or is discordant with scholarship and the Zeitgeist and has lost any meaningful, organic relationship with its own cultural environment—at least in its European or Western configuration. Like most progressive Jews of his time, Goldziher had little sympathy for Jewish ethnicism, except for his “tribal” solidarity in the context of antisemitism.134 “Jew-

129 Conrad, “The Dervish’s Disciple,” 239; “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 127, 129–131, 136. 130 Jelentés, AésI, 83, 85, 88; “Die Religion des Islam,” 111; Vorlesungen, 67–70, 178–179, 183–185. 131 Az iszlám, 448–458; “Die Religion des Islam,” 111–115. 132 See above, n. 98. 133 Cf. the similar phrase Goldziher uses in regards to H. Thorbecke (another student of Fleischer), T, 125–126. 134 Goldziher’s attitude toward ethnic components in Judaism and its “nationalist” aspirations is a complex issue on which I cannot elaborate here. Cf. above, n. 112. For early statements reflecting his generally “nationalist” and “anti-colonialist” attitudes, see “A vallásos eszme fejlődése,” MésJ, 359–360, 365–366. Abraham Shalom Yahuda’s Hebrew articles on Goldziher contain interesting material on the latter’s connections with Islamic scholars, as well as on his and their attitudes to the West and Zionism: “‫[ ”יצחק בן יהודה גולדציהר‬Yitzhaq ben Yehuda Goldziher] in his ‫( עבר וערב‬New York, 1946), 205–228, esp. 212–216, 227–228. (The latter passage is reproduced in his “‫[ ”גולדציהר המלומד והיהודי‬Goldziher the Scholar and the Jew], Ha-mizrah he-hadas 2 [1950/51]: 20–27, here 27, with some changes.) Unfortunately, this article, which was published originally in Ha-Olam (1924/25) (London), was not utilized by those scholars who touched upon these



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ishness is a religion and not an ethnographical term.”135 This declaration—an article of faith or a battle cry of nineteenth-century progressive Judaism more than a descriptive statement—captures a major asymmetry between Goldziher’s attitudes toward Islam and Judaism. To be sure, Goldziher is interested to some extent in Jewish ethnography and folklore, and he occasionally provides comparative references; however, his interest and knowledge serve (in his studies on Islamic law and tradition) as nothing more than faded grid lines for mapping Arabic-Islamic territory. If a quest for authenticity (an aesthetic category) drives his scholarly interest in ethnography and folklore (cf. OrD, 144), then he found at best only nostalgic traces of such authenticity in modern Judaism.136 Even simple Muslim folk impress him (as enlightened European minds were often inspired by uncorrupted “aliens” or “aboriginals”): “I value and love these noble ignorant people” (OrD, 104). He pays homage to their “simplicity” (OrD, 105). A man of plebeian inclinations, he appreciates the control that “Jewish and Muhammedan laymen are able to exercise over their clergy” (OrD, 105). Yet this communal cohesion, this structural similarity between Islam and Judaism (mentioned in order to highlight the differences between the two religions, as well as Christianity), does not prevent him from recognizing signs of disintegration in the two religious communities that manifest themselves in markedly different ways. He views Judaism as an insider, a close family member whom he evaluates with a ruthless, critical eye. His coreligionists, especially the urbanized, “decayed Jewish proletariat” (OrD, 96), whom he knows all too well, are mostly repulsive to him. In his Jewish writings, we hear a historicist theologian, a reformer speaking authoritatively and judgmentally in the name of progress and timeliness. As far as tensions between progress and tradition, and Zeitgeist and Volksgeist are concerned, Goldziher tends to defend the latter against the former when it comes to

subjects, except with passing reference in Alexander Scheiber, “Max Nordau’s Letters to Ignace Goldziher,” Jewish Social Studies 18 (1956): 199, and Heller, “Goldziher Ignác emlékezete,” 23. 135 Letter to Bánóczi from 1889; quoted by Bernát Heller, “Goldziher Ignác emlékezete” [The Memory of I. Goldziher], Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, Évkönyv, 1932: 25 (and Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 61). This rigidly pietist-purist attitude toward Judaism and its “religion” probably explains why Goldziher objected to the establishment of a department for Jewish ceremonial objects in the Hungarian Ethnographic Museum. It somewhat obfuscates the matter to say that he objected out of a pious concern about “profaning” Judaism or out of reverence for the tradition (Bertalan Kohlbach, “A bűnbocsánat napja [Jom hakippurim]” [The Day of Atonement], Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, Évkönyv, 1934: 272; A. Scheiber, “Kohlbach Bertalan és a zsidó néprajz” [B. Kohlbach and Jewish Ethnography], Folklór és tárgytörténet I [2nd ed., Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviseletének Kiadása, 1977], 442). 136 For his negative experiences, esp. in the ritual setting, see T, 163 (Aug. 3, 1893), 254 (Sept. 20, 1906).

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Islam. In the case of Judaism, on the contrary, he usually scorns the Volksgeist (the “communal sentiment” of the conservative masses) in the name of the Zeitgeist.

V Goldziher and the Quest for Modern Jewish Theology: In the Footsteps of Geiger, Leopold Löw, and Others Goldziher was Geiger’s closest follower and the most influential propagator of his ideas in Hungary. Their affinities are manifest not only in matters of ideology but also in temperament.137 The reader of Goldziher’s diary and Jewish writings will recognize a combativeness, sharpness, and zeal for what he considers “intellectual honesty,” similar to Geiger’s.138 After his early disappointments, Goldziher retired from public discussions on Judaism, but he continued to cultivate Geiger’s legacy—mostly indirectly. In one of his letters to A. S. Yahuda, Goldziher refers to Geiger in the following way:139 “Geiger did not want to reform Judaism, he never used that expression; his platform was that of historical development. You know that he was opposed to Holdheimian Reform. I myself, as I am sure many others, got an idea of the essence and task of Judaism first from his teachings.” Goldziher’s terminological observation is not well-founded,140 yet the distinction made in this passage between promoting “reform” and relying on “historical

137 There are also some biographical similarities between them; for example, their respective relationships to the Budapest and the Breslau rabbinical seminaries. 138 For a typical example of Geiger’s polemical style and stance toward contemporary Judaism, see his “Heuchelei, die erste Anforderung an den jungen Rabbiner unserer Zeit,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift für jüdische Theologie 1 (1835): 285–306; cf. T, 84, e.g., Samuel Poznanski recognized Goldziher’s affinity for Geiger, and so he dedicated his edited volume of Geiger’s Hebrew writings to Goldziher. 139 “Geiger wollte das Judentum nicht reformieren, den Ausdruck hat er nie gebraucht; er stand auf dem Standpunkte historischen Entwicklung. Sie wissen, daß er der Holdheim’schen Reform abgeneigt war. Ich selbst wie gewiß viele andere haben vom Wesen und der Aufgabe der Judentums erst aus seiner Lehre einen Begriff erhalten.” Postcard to Abraham Shalom Yahuda, Budapest, August 22, 1913. Arc Ms Var Yah 38, National Library of Israel. 140 In fact, Geiger uses the noun “Reform” (of Judaism or the Jewish religion, its practices, etc.), if not the verb, frequently; see, for example, the title of “Nothwendigkeit und Maass einer Reform des jüdischen Gottesdienstes,” Nachgelassene Schriften I (1875), 203–229; V, 346–353 (letter to Bischoffsheim, October 8, 1872). Reform-minded Jews were fond of discovering historical precedents for, and predecessors of, “Reform” in Jewish history and literature. This is how R. Tam



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development” is significant—it certainly sheds light on the author’s own position. Geiger was opposed to parts of the radical Reform approach and agenda. But he, like most Reform rabbis, saw himself as an active agent of “historical development” and more than a herald of Zeitgeist and “progress.” Goldziher rejected not only Holdheim’s reform ideas, which were more radical than Geiger’s, but also questioned reform platforms in general. He seems to have preferred (maybe more than Geiger himself) to let “historical development” run its course (mainly through education, as noted above) rather than allow convening synods to implement reforms by fiat. “Historical development” should decide through some unspecified, but ultimately bottom-up manner the fate of more substantial religious norms. From his teenage years, Goldziher consistently kept his distance from radical reform as it was introduced in Germany,141 partly because it was sectarian in his eyes. Similarly, he was also opposed (from his childhood) to the Orthodox-Neolog schism in Hungary,142 and he repeatedly called Neologs a “sect.”143 His anti-secessionist stance was most likely reinforced later by Geiger’s similar attitude. As for the role of theology and scholarship, Goldziher (like Leopold Löw) was at odds with mainstream Neologs. He was also unhappy with Neolog forms of worship. Yet socially and in terms of religious practice, he was closer to Neologs than to any other group on the Hungarian religious map. He became a leading source of inspiration for a number of his liberal-minded students from the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary.144

became the “father of Talmud-based Reform” for Leopold Löw, for example; see Turan, “Leopold Löw,” 64*. Goldziher himself calls al-Ghazali a “Reformer,” as mentioned above; see also Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 141–142. 141 “Külföldi levelek” [Letters from Abroad], Izraelita Közlöny 6 (1869): 67. In this letter from Berlin (dated February 1, 1869), Goldziher reports that the “ultraprogressive” party of Geiger’s followers has won the election, and that part of this party (including Steinthal, Steinschneider, and Lazarus) is characterized by “unbridled criticism.” 142 T, 22, and above, III; “Székesfehérvárott, 1869. szeptemberben,” Izraelita Közlöny 6 (1869): 353. “The schism is our end (Das Schisma ist unser Unntergang[!])” – “Herrn Rabbiner’s Löw neueste Leistung, III,” Ibid., 7 (1870): 349. I found no substantial external evidence for Goldziher’s authorship of the latter article, and I rely only on Heller’s Bibliographie (19, no. 14). The article is signed by “z-r”—a pen name he never used elsewhere—apparently standing for the last letters of his first and last name. The style is reminiscent of the precocious and irreverent tone of his early polemical articles, and its content generally corresponds to Goldziher’s ideas. 143 T, 222–223 (September 24 and November 3, 1899); 225 (February 4, 1900); 267 (July 2, 1910). 144 See also the text at notes 153–156 below. After Goldziher’s death, the students’ theological study circle of the Rabbinical Seminary was named after him; see A Ferencz-József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet Értesítője a 1923/24-es tanévről (Budapest: n. p. 1924), 6. The religious platforms

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Distinguishing between “living” and “dead” traditions and institutions (these organic metaphors were central to evolutionary historicism and to the “historical school of law”) in Judaism was the main task of modern Jewish theology, according to Goldziher.145 What runs counter to scholarship and science is “dead,” for faith cannot contradict reason. Truth is one—and in Goldziher’s eyes Geiger was its “prophet.”146 He recommended reading fragments from Geiger’s diary and his correspondence for “those who want to rise to the peaks of our religious thought.”147 Goldziher’s “The Essence and Evolution of Judaism” essentially follows Geiger’s scheme (if not entirely his interpretation) of Jewish history.148 In these lectures he refers to Geiger and quotes him several times,149 but in doing so he is careful enough not to outrage the more conservative members of his audience.

mentioned in the present paper—the Orthodox, the Reform, the Historical, and the Neolog—were recognized and characterized by Leopold Löw as early as 1837 by what he called the “rabbinic,” the “accommodationist,” and the “historical” approaches; see Turan, “Leopold Löw,” 44*–45*, notes 7–8. Hungarian Neologs constituted a whole spectrum, ranging from modernist Orthodoxy through conservative to more liberal Reform. The observation of Van Ess (“Goldziher as a Contemporary of Islamic Reform,” 42) that it was “status quo”-Judaism “with whom Goldziher seems to have felt most at ease” is appealing, but misleading. Goldziher could find common ground with so-called “status quo” Judaism in rejecting the Hungarian “schism,” but certainly not in their religious (mostly Orthodox) outlook and practice. 145 Letter to I. Löw; published by Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei.” Cf. also: A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 121–123, referring to Geiger; “Bibliai tudomány,” 150; Tradition und Dogma. 146 A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 33, 111–112, 119–122. Goldziher does not call Geiger a prophet, but he calls him “our church father”: Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei” (the letter is from 1887). 147 A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 128, n. 38. On Geiger’s influence on Goldziher in Jewish affairs, see Conrad, “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 123–129; on Geiger’s influence on Goldziher’s Islamic studies, see T, 123; cf. Fraisse’s paper in the present volume. Without mentioning Geiger, a methodological credo similar to the one presented in his diary (Ibid.) can be found in his Az iszlám, 203. Literature on Goldziher asserts that Goldziher studied with Geiger (in Berlin in 1868/69): Conrad, “The Dervish’s Disciple,” 237; Friedrich Niewöhner, “Der Gefangene von Budapest: Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921) zwischen Tora und Koran,” “Im vollen Licht der Geschichte,” Die Wissenschaft des Judentums und die Anfänge der kritischen Koranforschung, eds. Dirk Hartwig and Walter Homolka (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2008), 132; Van Ess, “Goldziher as a Contemporary of Islamic Reform,” 42, n. 32. (Conrad later revised his view: “The Pilgrim from Pest,” 125—a fact Van Ess fails to notice) This unsubstantiated statement may have been based on a misunderstanding of what A. S. Yahuda writes in “Die Bedeutung der Goldziherschen Bibliothek für die zukünftige Hebräische Universität,” Der Jude 8 (1924): 587. The most reliable source (as is often the case with biographical details) seems to be Heller, who mentions that Goldziher was “invited by Geiger” (apparently to his house): “Goldziher Ignác,” MésJ, 20. 148 Nachgelassene Schriften, II, 63–64. 149 Especially in the last lecture (MésJ, 120–123, 128, n. 38).



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Remarkably, on a flyleaf of his copy of the first volume of Geiger’s Nachgelassene Schriften,150 Goldziher selects (in handwriting) three passages from this book, which could not be quoted in his published writings. As Goldziher’s introductory words show (before two of the three excerpts), his purpose in extracting them was to record that Geiger had crystallized these ideas, so central to his thinking, already in the mid-1830s. In the first passage, Geiger calls for Judaism and Jewish theologians to embrace the rationalism and historicism of Schleiermacher and Hegel. In the second, he presents his positive view of Pharisaism, which strives “to let the letters of the Bible say what the times say.”151 Finally, in the third passage, he takes the gradual formation and development of the Pentateuch as a proven literary-historical fact.152 Whoever is familiar with Goldziher’s published writings (including his diaries) not only knows that he fully subscribed to these views, but also that they became cornerstones of his Jewish agenda. Unlike Geiger, Goldziher was not interested in publicly promoting Reform and purging Judaism of its “dead traditions.” A difficult and sensitive mission indeed,153 he expected others to assume this task, as his private correspondence with Immanuel Löw, Ede Neumann, and Martin Schreiner reveals.154 The last two individuals (who were Goldziher’s disciples) took this task upon themselves in various ways; for example, by writing about Geiger’s work and praising his contributions for an audience that generally rejected Geiger as a Reformer.155 Goldziher himself promoted Geiger’s legacy even within the Rabbinical Seminary in some limited ways, such as announcing the topic “Abraham Geiger’s religious-philosophical viewpoints” for a prize essay in the Rabbinical Seminary in 1906/7.156

150 National Library of Israel, R AUT, 506. 151 Goldziher adopted Geiger’s view; cf. his A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 80 (without referring to him) and 81 (where he quotes two milder statements to the same effect from Geiger and Zunz). Besides his historical-critical approach to the formation of “canonical” religious documents in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, Geiger had an indirect influence on Goldziher’s study of Islam through this view of Pharisaism; see above, III. 152 Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift für jüdische Theologie 3 (1837): 302; 1 (1835): 36, and 460–461, respectively. 153 Cf. above, n. 66. 154 For Löw: Scheiber, “Goldziher Ignác levelei”; I will publish Goldziher’s letters to Neumann elsewhere; for Schreiner, see his Hebrew letter to Goldziher on May 26, 1898 (GIL/38/01/041) and Turán, “Schreiner,” passim. 155 Ede Neumann, “A boroszlói rabbigyülekezet” [The Rabbinic Synod of Breslau], MZsSz 4 (1887): 507–511; “Geiger Ábrahám,” Magyar Zsidó Almanach, ed. József Patai, 1 (1911): 59–65. 156 See his evaluation of the winning essay: Jahresbericht der Landes-Rabbinerschule in Budapest… 1906/1907 (Budapest: n. p., 1907), 8–10.

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Goldziher’s first papers dealt with Jewish topics and were published in Leopold Löw’s Ben Chananja (as noted above)—a journal which also published papers on Oriental studies and Arab-Jewish literature from the early 1860s. Despite their disagreements,157 Goldziher’s later affinity for Löw’s views was evidenced by his interest in cultural history and folklore, his emphatic distinction between “living” and “dead” traditions (see below), and his understanding of bottom-up ways of halakhic change and “reform.”158 Above all, their plea for Jewish theology and—particularly—history of religion connects the two scholars.159 Their shared pathos and enthusiasm for “intellectual honesty” is also remarkable.160 All of these circumstances explain why Immanuel Löw dedicated the fourth volume of his father’s collected works (which he edited) to Goldziher.161 In Hungary, some referred to Orthodox Jews as “Catholic Jews” and assimilationists as “Protestant Jews.” Profound Protestant influences on nineteenth-century German-speaking and Hungarian “progressive” Jewries are indeed unmistakable.162 Encounters with Protestant theology certainly had an impact on

157 Goldziher and Löw viewed the issue of “dogma” (see below) and the Orthodox-Neolog schism differently: the former opposed it, while the latter did not. Löw’s Jüdische Dogmen (1871) (=GS I, 133–176) is actually a response to the aforementioned article attributed to Goldziher, see n. 142. 158 See also above, II, and the next section (Prophetism…). Characteristically, Löw (like Goldziher) also had an unfulfilled plan to write a biblical introduction. 159 Cf. Turan, “Leopold Löw,” 51*–53*. 160 See, for example, Löw’s sarcastic remark in one of his book reviews: “Die eigentlich theologischen Disziplinen werden am meisten gemieden, weil die wissenschaftlich gebildete, jüngere theologische Welt die Pastoralklugheit für die wichtigste Disziplin hält,” Ben Chananja 8 (1865): 679. Löw also uses the term “Pastoralklugheit” elsewhere (Ibid., 845), as does Geiger, “Heuchelei,” 288, 305. According to Löw, the avoidance of serious and honest theological thinking, “the coward juste milieu of the compromise [Transaktion]” is what characterizes “Congress-theology”; “Jüdische Dogmen,” GS I, 147–149. For Goldziher, see at n. 58 above. 161 “Ignaz Goldziher, dem treuen Förderer seiner [Löw’s – T.T.] Arbeit zugeeignet vom Herausgeber,” GS IV (Szegedin: Ludwig Engel, 1898). Goldziher seldom refers to Löw in his Jewish writings, and it is possible that the dedication served as a reminder of his indebtedness to Löw. 162 Cf. Franz Rosenzweig’s remark that “all modern, especially German, Jews are Protestants” in his introduction to Hermann Cohens jüdische Schriften, I, xxviii. Leopold Löw’s versatility in all branches of theology is attributed to his studies in Protestant theology: Immánuel Löw and Zsigmond Kulinyi, A szegedi zsidók 1785-től 1885-ig [The History of the Jews in Szeged from 1785 to 1885] (Szeged: Szegedi Zsidó Hitközség, 1885), 177. Goldziher’s Protestant connections (his relationship with his early mentor Mór Ballagi and his son; his teaching at the Reformed Theological Seminary (cf. the paper by I. Schorsch in the present volume, 135–136); his publications in the Protestáns Szemle, etc.) deserve a separate study. These connections were important for young Goldziher as his way “out of the ghetto.” On Ballagi see below and notes 6, 47 above.



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Goldziher’s spiritual development even before he went to Germany and in addition to his exposure to foreign (mostly Protestant) scholarly literature. He was introduced to Hungarian Protestant circles by Ármin Vámbéry and to Protestant scholarship by Kármán, and above all, by Mór Ballagi (T 27, 29, 34, 45, 50–51, 128), the most influential liberal Protestant theologian in Hungary at that time. Since the mid-1840s Ballagi was a vocal supporter of the view that religion is an immanent human spiritual phenomenon, and that religious ideas in a given age depend on contemporary general culture. Religious truth therefore cannot contradict scientific truth in modern times. Theology is in fact absorbed by the “science of religion”. In his writings in the 1860s Ballagi touched upon other issues in which Goldziher became interested later, such as Biblical mythology and its linguistic background, or oral traditions in the Bible and among Jews and Arabs.

Applied Theology Goldziher also left his mark on more specific issues and polemics in Hungarian Jewish public life. Two interrelated issues are worth mentioning here. The first is the widely debated question in modern Judaism of whether dogmas exist in Judaism. Goldziher expressed his opinion about this issue on three separate occasions, echoing Geiger’s positions once again. In the first and last instances, he argued vehemently against the existence of dogmas, while conceding their existence (in some form) during the second occasion. The apparent contradiction between these positions partly disappears when placed against their historical and polemical background.163 In defending the need for religious change, he argues against the existence of dogmas in Judaism (that is, doctrinal criteria for salvation through membership in, or adherence to, a given religious community).164 In accentuating his call for Jewish theology, however, he admits to the existence of fundamental doctrines and beliefs tacitly accepted by the Jewish community at large.165 It is the perpetual task of religious reflection and theology to revise and reinterpret these doctrines and ideas in order to accommodate pre-

163 I hope to discuss the background of the debates around the issue of dogma in Hungarian Judaism in another context. 164 “Herrn Rabbiner’s Löw neueste Leistung,” 339–340; Tradition und Dogma, 11–12. 165 “A bibliai tudomány,” 154–155; cf. n. 102 above. The reason for the lack of a strong dogmatic bent in Judaism, according to Goldziher, is its weak propensity for speculation and the lack of schismatic spirit.

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vailing scientific truths. While Judaism has no proper dogmas, it has a history of dogma—that is, a history of its theology.166 As we illustrated above, Goldziher uses the term dogma differently in the two contexts.167 When it comes to Jewish intellectual history, he generally attaches great importance to medieval Jewish “dogmatic” (i.e. philosophical) theology, and to Maimonides in particular, yet he dismisses medieval “dogmatic” efforts (in the more specific sense of the word) as “subjective” attempts—including that of Maimonides, despite the fact that his “thirteen principles” gained wide acceptance and liturgical sanctioning. In his earliest statement on this issue, Goldziher argues that Judaism is not built on belief, but on the practice of traditional, national (tribal/racial) virtues.168 However, in a later response to a similar view espoused by David Kaufmann, he (and Martin Schreiner) reproached Kaufmann.169 As Chief Secretary of the Jewish community of Pest, Goldziher became involved in a liturgical-educational issue. His role in the evolving affair is an interesting supplement to his views on dogma. On his initiative in 1882, the Jewish community commissioned József Kiss, a respected Jewish poet and editor, to compose religious poems for synagogue songs. When the poems were finally submitted to the community after significant delay, Goldziher and Sámuel Kohn wrote an expert opinion in early 1888 criticizing many of the poems on doctrinal-dogmatic grounds for their anthropomorphic expressions and imagery, which they deemed unacceptable to “our medieval dogmatics” and incompatible with the “purified ideas” of “our Judaism in modern times.”170

166 Goldziher’s three publications that tackle with the issue of dogma seem to have been largely ignored in the extensive, later literature on dogma. I did not find any acknowledgment of his assumed authorship of “Herrn Rabbiner’s Löw neueste Leistung” (see n. 142 above). Leo Baeck recognized Goldziher’s unique perspective on “dogma,” though, in his reference to Goldziher’s work on ijmā‛: “Hat das überlieferte Judentum Dogmen?” Aus drei Jahrtausenden: Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen und Abhandlungen zur Geschichte des jüdischen Glaubens (Tübingen: Mohr, 1958), 25, n. 1. 167 In the latter context, the term basically means “religious-philosophical” or “religious philosophy.” This is the meaning of “dogmatic” and “dogmatics” in A zsidóság lényege, V. (MésJ, esp. 97, 100–101) and elsewhere in contemporaneous religious literature. 168 “[…] nicht Glauben, sondern die Ausübung der herkömmlichen Stammestugenden und Gebräuche […]”; “Herrn Rabbiner’s Löw neueste Leistung,” 340. 169 David Kaufmann, “A zsidó káté” [The Jewish Catechism], MZsSz 1 (1884): 124; Goldziher, “A bibliai tudomány,” 157; Turán, “Schreiner,” at n. 38. 170 The offended poet withdrew all of his poems. On the affair and the ensuing theological polemics, see Jenő Zsoldos, “Kiss József és ‘Jehova ajtónállói’” [J. Kiss and the “Guardians of Yehovah”], Új élet Naptár (1959): 222–240 (the cited expressions appear on p. 232, where the ob-



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Prophetism versus the Dead Letter For Goldziher, the Bible was the real, living foundation of Judaism for all ages. The prophets in particular were the true shepherds of Israel and shapers of its legacy. Goldziher found powerful support for these views in biblical criticism. If legal and ritualistic portions of the Mosaic books (at least parts of them) were “controlled”’ by prophetic teachings and postdate them, then these portions are still secondary to the prophetic “spirit” or “values” that can (and even should) overrule them. If the Torah as a book evolved as a product of changing historical forces, and its narrative and legislation were subject to a grand scheme of historical evolution, then the norms emerging from it are also subordinate to the same historical forces and trends.171 On a personal level, Goldziher ceased to observe religious practices that he considered “dead.” In defining religious fossilization or death for his own purposes, he apparently used the universalism-test of Reform Judaism: religious norms that complicate everyday interaction between Jews and other “peoples of the Book” are dead. Goldziher frequently deploys the (Pauline) dichotomy of the “dead letter” and the “living spirit.”172 The contrast between “tradition” and “dogma,” to which Goldziher devotes a separate essay, is a variation of the same dichotomy (T, 33). For Goldziher (and Geiger), Pharisaic scriptural exegesis was the letter with the spirit and the key to Jewish survival in ancient times. In modernity, only the Bible and especially the Prophets were a living legacy, the letter with the spirit, for Goldziher. Although he respected Talmudic learning, “Talmudism”—the extension of Pharisaic scriptural exegesis—was “dead letter” and dry casuistry for his version of liberal, “Protestant” Judaism.

jections are again called “dogmatic” in nature), and the articles of Sándor Rosenberg and Márton Schreiner in MZsSz 6 (1889). The entire extant Goldziher-Kiss correspondence, including others involved in this affair, has been published by Sándor Scheiber and Jenő Zsoldos as Ó mért oly későn… – Levelek Kiss József életrajzához [“Oh why so late”: Letters to the Biography of József Kiss] (Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviselete, 1972). It is unlikely that Goldziher was enthusiastic about synagogue songs; however, he and Kiss had been friends since the 1870s and remained so after this affair, so it is possible that Goldziher wanted to help Kiss, who moved to Budapest in the same year (1882), with this contract. 171 Different conclusions could also be drawn from biblical criticism, as the example of Martin Schreiner, Goldziher’s disciple, illustrates; see Turán, “Schreiner,” at n. 60. 172 See, for example, A zsidóság lényege, MésJ, 81–83, 89.

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VI Goldziher as a Jew In the earlier stages of his career, Goldziher (like Geiger and other pioneers of Wissenschaft des Judentums) regarded scholarship and the study of religion in particular as a solution for problems of modern Judaism. Scholarship for him was also a sort of salvation from these problems, a “refuge” in his personal life,173 as his diary amply attests. Goldziher described scholarship as a “shield” (T, 188, 205), a “shelter” (T, 90, 94, 269), and a “temple” (T, 109). He found shelter from his local academic frustrations in religion, and in his scholarly work he found refuge from his local religious frustrations. Goldziher cites twice his father’s promise (or blessing, or consolation) from the time of their financial hardships in the mid-1860s, to the effect that scholarship will save his son from such humiliation and misery that were the father’s lot (T, 24). His father was both right and wrong. Sorrow and frustration remained with Goldziher, who could not avoid certain demanding norms, values, and emotional patterns that he developed in his early childhood (T, 17–23, 37, etc.). “With much wisdom is much grief” (Ecclesiastes 1.18). Goldziher’s strained relationship with his Jewish milieu had a distinct religious-ideological dimension vividly expressed in his diary. For instance, he describes a tense meeting of the Board of the Rabbinical Seminary (of which he was a member) where David Kaufmann made the following caustic remark to him: “Your Judaism is put in formaldehyde (Spiritus); I live in it.”174 On the same occasion, Goldziher’s attitude toward Judaism was compared to Heymann Steinthal’s, and was also likened to atheism and nihilism (T, 212; March 3, 1897).175 Goldziher, for his part, called Neolog Judaism “a religious denomination [Confession] without religion” (T, 84) and a “sect of atheists” (T, 222; Sept. 24, 1899). (These were among his relatively benign statements on Neolog Judaism; cf. his

173 Psalms 46:2, 119:92. 174 Cf. Goldziher’s characterization of Bacher, his friend during his student years: “From the very beginning, B. manifested himself to be a scholar. For him, Judaism was a literary fact; for me, already then in 1867, it was the heartbeat of my life” (T, 33). B. Heller published some interesting excerpts from Bacher’s letters to Goldziher, mentioned in Goldziher’s diary: “Emlékezés Bacher Vilmosról” [Reminiscences about V. Bacher], Évkönyv (Budapest: Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1934): 42–59, at 54–56. Goldziher’s son, Károly, who donated his father’s correspondence to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, notes on one of the envelopes: “25 letters from 1868–1871 [from Bacher to Goldziher; maybe some of them from Goldziher to Bacher? – T.T.] are in the possession of B. Heller.” The current location of this correspondence is unknown. 175 This telling incident gives us a rare glimpse into the religious differences and tensions within the Rabbinical Seminary—a little known and little researched subject.



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sarcastic tirade in T, 84–85.) When his religious integrity was insulted, Goldziher sometimes found relief in Christian approval. For example, he notes with satisfaction when a Lutheran pastor addresses him as a “loyal follower of the Jewish faith” (T, 250; March 4, 1906).176 Literature on Goldziher refers to his religious convictions only briefly and usually in the spirit of the latter, pious characterization. “Religious Jew” and “atheist,” however, are vague labels that may reflect different perspectives and do not necessarily contradict each other. “Goldziher remained a religious, (mildly) observant, and proud Jew to his very end”—for a capsule biography, no better formulation is needed than Shlomo Dov Goitein’s description here.177 But what made him proud of his Jewishness? What were his actual beliefs and practices? How did his studies on Judaism and Islam shape Goldziher’s religiosity, and how did his religiosity, in turn, impact his scholarship? His religion was an academic’s religion—the third aspect of the phrase “academic religion” used in the title of the present article. Goitein also did not fail to mention Goldziher’s obvious “Jewish problem” (or problems).178 In the following section, only some of these questions will be considered and only partial answers provided.

Religious Profile A few personal testimonies attest to Goldziher’s religious behavior. A. Sh. Yahuda, one of his close disciples, writes in his lively portrait of Goldziher: He was not meticulous in observing many of the commandments related to place, time, and bodily needs, but he was very rigorous about commandments related to the mind, “duties of the heart,” and about positive commandments enjoined on man by human ethics in general, and interpersonal relationships in particular. Also, in matters between God and man, his heart was devoted entirely to God.179

This characterization is supported by Samuel Krauss’s brief, general (and similarly reserved) remark: “[…] spiritually he was orthodox and despised the Neologs

176 For a similar entry in the diary, see T, 190. Cf. his sarcastic remark in the long quotation above, in I. 177 See Goitein’s review of Goldziher’s diary, 326. 178 Ibid. 179 Yahuda, “Goldziher,” 221.

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and their ignorance with the arrows of his tongue. But whoever thinks that Goldziher lived a fully religious lifestyle, errs.”180 Goldziher’s diaries not only provide ample evidence of his strong Jewish religious identity, but also shed light on his religious practices and attitudes. Prayer, especially solitary prayer, was a practice he held close to his heart throughout his life.181 In Budapest, he apparently avoided attending large Neolog synagogues, especially on the High Holidays. This is due most likely to his father’s emphasis on private religious practice, which he considered more “sincere” than “showing off” piety in public places of worship.182 Goldziher refers to a similar Islamic tradition with obvious approval.183 “Showcasing” one’s piety in front of coreligionists was repulsive in his eyes, but he felt that practicing religion in public (such as praying in open spaces), and before non-coreligionists in particular, was a respectable display of one’s identity.184 The diary also records instances when he ignored religious norms—mostly in situations related to his academic duties and honors.185 Sometimes he gives voice to his scruples, and tends to justify his behavior as a “sanctification of God’s name” (when it occurred abroad) or as support for Jewish emancipation (in his home country).186 His attitude towards Jewish dietary laws (which, no doubt, were serious impediments for him in his academic and social life) is an interesting case in point. In 1871, he declined a dinner invitation

180 Krauss, “The Sages of Budapest,” 453. 181 Yahuda, “Goldziher,” 221; Krauss, “The Sages of Budapest,” 454. 182 T, 18. There Goldziher also notes his father’s toleration of his son’s occasional absence from public services at the synagogue. 183 Az iszlám, 452. 184 Cf. OrD, 90, 123. He was also remembered for praying occasionally in public spaces in Budapest (Hermann Schmelczer, private communication). See also the anecdote told by Richard Gottheil, “Ignaz Goldziher,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 42 (1922): 189–193, at 190. For another anecdotal piece of evidence on the role that perceptions by non-Jews (the “eye of the Other”; and a related “sense of guilt”) played in his religiosity, see the story recorded by Leopold [Yekutiel Yehuda] Greenwald in Goldziher’s name (about Franz Delitzsch’s visit to Goldziher and Bacher on Tisha be-Av in Leipzig, 1869 or 1870): Appiryon 2 (1924–25): 20–22 (trans. [into English], Shnayer Z. Leiman, Tradition 25 [1991]: 103–106, and trans. [into Hungarian], Ágnes Vázsonyi, Szombat 4 [1992]: 20–21). 185 T, 238–239 (September 1, 1904); 244 (May 27, 1905); 246 (June 15, 1905; see also Scheiber’s introduction to the [abridged] Hungarian translation of the diary [Budapest: Magvető, 1984], 14); 303 (September 14, 1917) (cf., however, T, 307–310; May 28, August 17 and 31, 1918). These somewhat doubtful cases of religious laxity seem to have happened after it became clear to Goldziher that he would obtain a salaried professorship at the university and could retire from his position in the Neolog Jewish community. See also Goldziher’s letter to Fleischer, cited by Schorsch, above, p… 186 See T, 238–239 for the first type of situation, and T, 303 for the second.



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from Dozy in Leiden because of the dietary laws, while admitting his frustration about his inability to provide a “reasonable” answer for adhering to these laws given his critical attitude toward biblical studies (T, 48). Subsequently, he overcame this embarrassment and ceased observing many of these dietary laws, at least outside of his home.187 Despite his relative religious laxity, he had Orthodox “nostalgia” and leanings in his respect for traditional learning and its devotees,188 and in other elusive, emotional ways.189 After serving the Neolog community for thirty years, he was happy to sever all formal ties (except for teaching at the Rabbinical Seminary).190 Goldziher does not offer coherent statements on Jewish denominational issues in his major writings and diaries, but judging by the venomous arrows he shot in every direction, it is clear that he was homeless in the Hungarian Jewish milieu.191 For him, old (Orthodox) Judaism was passé, while modern (progressive) Judaism was superficial and inauthentic.

Una Veritas Goldziher’s very first publication at the age of twelve won him the title of “freethinker” and “Spinozist.” This label proved not to be an empty one.192 As a late maskil, an independent Jew, and a dissident who criticized both Orthodox and Neolog Judaism, he signed his pseudonym under an article published in 1886

187 T, 72, 95, 144, 150, 176–178, 179, 186, 200, etc. See also Yahuda, “Goldziher, the Scholar,” 25. 188 T, 38; 240 (January 27, 1905); see also his obituary for Samuel Löw Brill: A Jövő (April 16, 1897): 2–4 (under the pseudonym Keleti I.) and his panegyric on yeshiva-learning as learning for its own sake: “A jesibák” [The Yeshivot] (1886), MésJ, 615–617. According to a number of testimonies, he studied Talmud on a daily basis until the end of his life: Goitein, “Goldziher,” 6–7, n. 9; cf. also Krauss, “The Sages of Budapest,” 454. (No specific details are given, however, regarding the content and methods of his Talmud study.) 189 See, for example, T, 303; the quotation from Krauss, n. 180 above, and Miksa Weisz, Múlt és Jövő 11, no. 46 (November 18, 1921): 1–2. Heller observes: Goldziher “seeks the religiosity of his parental house always, everywhere,” in Heller, “Goldziher Ignác emlékezete,” 23. 190 Cf. the best-known story about him (which became a piece of Hungarian Jewish folklore), cited in Kinga Frojimovics and Géza Komoróczy et al., Jewish Budapest (Budapest: CEU Press, 1999), 172. 191 The similar non-denominational or supra-denominational posture of Samuel Löw Brill, one of his revered teachers, likely influenced Goldziher’s stance; see his obituary for the latter: A Jövő (April 16, 1897): 3–4. Many relevant passages in the diary are omitted or shortened in the Hungarian translation. 192 T, 254, 273.

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as follows: “Izsak Ungar, ordinary Jew, not yet a Neolog.”193 At times he strikes a radical pietistic note:194 If someone is compelled by his religious conscience to abandon a worn-out religion, he should not join another, but should return to God. From lies there is only one refuge: truth, which is with God. God has no temple in this world. Incense is brought to Satan, and the organ is played for the honor of Satan; his servants ascend to the pulpit to profane God’s name. A servant of God keeps himself away from them. (T, 170; February 4, 1894).

“Truth” was for him the tertium comparationis between religion and modern historical-critical scholarship. There is only one truth, and if a “truth” about a particular religion and a “truth” of that religion (its traditional beliefs) contradict one another, then one of the two must yield to the other. Goldziher was a man of una veritas, not of duplex veritas.195 He gave precedence to scientific truth about religion—at least this was his declared principle or “policy.” Yet he always criticized both Orthodoxy and Neologs from a scientific-rationalist as well as from a pietistic perspective.

Loyalty A counterbalance, or a corrective, to Goldziher’s quest for “truth” in scholarship was what was perceived and appreciated by many of his colleagues, friends, and students (Jewish and non-Jewish) as his “piety”: a loyalty to Judaism and solidarity with the Jewish people.196 As a “monotheistic purist/puritan” (T, 307, 309), his alienation from institutionalized religion and his emphasis on a prophetic, universalistic Judaism drove him to seek cross-confessional respect in the realm of religion.197 It is, of course, difficult to discern what Goldziher’s relation to the God of the “Patriarchs” was, but to remain loyal to the God of his fathers and teachers (T, 16, 36, 73, 91)— and, in some sense, to his “tribe” or people (Stamm)—was important to him (T, 18, 134–135, 180, 275).198 In his social circles, and especially in academia, this was no simple matter.

193 “A jesibák,” MésJ, 617. 194 Compare the following entry, however, with the interesting entry written half a year earlier: T, 163 (August 3, 1893). 195 Tradition und Dogma, 5. 196 See Snouck Hurgronje, “Goldziher,” 109; Becker, “Goldziher,” 217. 197 Cf. Yahuda, “Goldziher,” 226. 198 See notes 112 and 134 above. For assimilation and dissimulation, cf. OrD, 129, 136, etc.; for the torments related to them, cf. Goldziher, “Das Prinzip der taḳijja im Islam,” ZDMG 60 (1906): 213–226; Frojimovics and Komoróczy et al., Jewish Budapest, 170–171.



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He had other allegiances, too. According to reliable testimonies, Goldziher vowed not to abandon his name, religion, or country.199 Despite heavy pressure in academic life and his attraction to Islam, it seems that he never contemplated converting to another religion. To keep his name was the least of his problems. Emigration, on the other hand, was a perennial and tormenting question for him. He offers a variety of reasons and retrospective justifications—both moral (T, 135– 136) and patriotic—for not leaving his homeland.200 Above all, he refers to his strong (and opaque) sense of self-mortification and martyrdom.201 Still, he felt at home only among his Orientalist friends abroad. He did not spare the academic establishment in Hungary from criticism, but he reserved most of his venom for the local Jewish establishment. According to a famous Talmudic dictum, “[…] even that which an accomplished disciple will one day teach before his master was already revealed to Moses at Mt. Sinai.”202 Goldziher cites this saying in his Vorlesungen203 as a Jewish parallel to Islamic traditions on Muhammad, according to which Muhammad assures his followers that whatever saying is in accordance with the Quran is his, whether he said it or not; and whatever is rightly spoken, was spoken by him.204 There is no “innovation” in the ordinary sense of the word, therefore, in traditionalist scholarship. Moreover, the master’s “presence” keeps the seemingly “novel”

199 Ede Mahler, “Goldziher Ignácról” [On I. Goldziher], Múlt és Jövő 11, no. 46 (Nov. 18, 1921): 3; Aladár Ballagi, Élő tanítások [Living Teachings] (Cegléd: “Volt tanítványai,” 1934), 276. 200 A. Scheiber, “Nordau’s Letters,” 205, n. 20; J. de Somogyi, “My Reminiscence of I. Goldziher,” The Muslim World 51 (1961): 15–16. The saying “Scholarship has no country, but the scholar does have his country,” cited by Somogyi in Goldziher’s name, is also found in a letter from Ármin Vámbéry to Ede (Eduard) Mahler on September 16, 1896—see Nándor Rezsabek, Az utolsó magyar polihisztor: Mahler Ede kronológus emlékezete [The Last Hungarian Polymath: The Memory of the Chronologist Ede Mahler] (Budapest: Aura, 2010), 76. The origins of this aperçu are unclear. 201 T, 172, 206, 290, 311. For a different, positive “teleological” explanation, see T, 279 (August 10, 1913). 202 jHagigah 1.8 and parallels, attributed to R. Joshua b. Levi. 203 Vorlesungen, 47. 204 Goldziher seems to admit that his discussion does not analyze these traditions in depth and does not do full justice to them. This is certainly true for the Talmudic parallel. Moreover, differences between these parallels are not negligible, but they are glossed over by the casual reference. While in the cited Islamic traditions “traditional” statements are compared to, or measured by, what is said by the Prophet (Muhammad), in the Talmudic parallel they are compared to, or measured by, what is “said” to the Prophet (Moses). In any event, a vigorous spin is given to the discussion by Goldziher’s biting reference (T, 300–301; August 3, 1917) to one of the two Islamic traditions (it is unclear which of the two is meant) in the context of the question of whether he in fact said that Neolog Judaism is a “decomposing corpse.”

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insights of the disciple under check, whatever “teaching before one’s master” means. This is a discouraging idea for many modern scholars who strive to be independent and innovative, but for a “believing” scholar it may be an encouraging one. Goldziher cites the Talmudic dictum with the conspicuous omission of the words “before his master.” One may easily find various possible explanations for this omission.205 Perhaps it is not too far-fetched to consider once again the possibility of a sort of Freudian slip. As an “accomplished” and “believing” scholar who barely tolerated discrepancy between scientific and religious truth, and who buried his beloved masters (Freudenberg, Brill, Fleischer) by the time he wrote the book,206 Goldziher may have found solace in the thought that his scientific insights, even in the absence of his mentors—or just because of that—met their approval and did not (could not) contradict the truths of his religion. His diary gives a detailed, nuanced, and emotional account of his strong Jewish education, which partly explains his somewhat idiosyncratic Judaism.207 The first among his revered teachers (and the last among his private tutors), Moses Wolf Freudenberg, taught him Jewish subjects for five to six hours per day for four years (from age eleven to fifteen). Freudenberg was Orthodox, with some maskilic leanings as evidenced by his emphasis on the Bible and grammar. During these years they studied the Prophets, Psalms, and Job.208 It is astounding to see to what extent Goldziher became, and remained, a prophetic, Psalmic, and Jobian Jew.

205 I mention here just a few difficulties related to the saying itself, which may have played a role in this omission. Le-horot, “to instruct,” can be understood as “teaching” (in an academic sense) or “ruling” (in a legal sense). All the main textual witnesses of the cited source and its parallels in the Talmud Yerushalmi are essentially the same and read the mentioned words; but some midrashic parallels have a somewhat different wording; see Marc G. Hirshman, Midrash Qohelet Rabbah: Chapters 1–4, Commentary (Ch. 1) and Introduction (unpublished dissertation, the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1982), Pt. II, 73; Pt. III, 97–98. According to a widely accepted Talmudic law, a disciple is forbidden to “teach/rule before his master,” but there are numerous interpretations of this phrase. One of the more radical interpretations is that a disciple is forbidden to “set up a school” during his master’s lifetime. Cf. Goldziher’s comment on Fleischer’s death, cited above, after n. 32. 206 T, 214 (April 11, 1897). At the time of the writing of Muh. St. II, Brill was still alive; in any case, in the passage on Hadith (47–52 in particular, summarized in Vorlesungen, 47), no rabbinic parallel is cited. 207 See, for example, the custom he introduced in his family to bless the Swedish King Oscar II every year on Pesah (T, 151–152). 208 T, 111; Simon, Ignác Goldziher, 257.

Shaul Shaked

From Bacher to Telegdi: The Lure of Iran in Jewish Studies The development of Jewish Studies in Hungary in the nineteenth century is in several ways an offshoot of the movement for the scholarly and critical study of Judaism that was started by Jews in the German-speaking world. And yet, the Hungarian branch of this movement had a flavor of its own and focused on topics that were characteristic of its members’ fields of interest. Most of them worked under conditions that were not entirely favorable. Some of them functioned as rabbis or were engaged in business activities, and one of them, Ignaz Goldziher, served for a long time as secretary of the Jewish community of Budapest and gave vent to his displeasure and frustration in his personal diary.1 Most Jewish scholars who worked on Jewish Studies in Hungary in the nineteenth century had their formation in German universities, and, not unlike their opposite numbers among German-Jewish scholars, they often combined an interest in Islamic or Judeo-Arabic studies together with a preoccupation with Jewish Studies. This is certainly true of Ignaz Goldziher, Wilhelm Bacher, and David Kaufmann, to name just some of the most prominent figures. Other names will appear further down in this short survey. In a sense, this trend of meticulous scholarship continued well into the twentieth century, with a figure like Samuel Miklós Stern (1920–1969), who was born in Hungary and moved to Palestine (later Israel) in 1939. He acquired his PhD at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and since 1948, he lived in England for the rest of his life. He was both a Hebraist and an Arabist, and was at home in almost every branch of Islamic Studies as well as in the major languages of Islam, and made his first mark by publishing and discussing the Spanish verses embedded at the end of Hebrew poems of the medieval period composed in Spain, known as kharjas. He was also keenly interested in Iranian topics.2 Another prominent figure of Jewish-Hungarian scholarship was

1 Ignaz Goldziher, Tagebuch, hrsg. von A. Scheiber (Leiden: Brill, 1978). 2 His work in the field of Judeo-Persian and Islamic Persian history includes the following: Samuel Miklós Stern, “A propos de l’inscription juive d’Afghanistan,” Journal Asiatique 237 (1949): 47–49; Id., “Sheṭār abēzārīh,” Journal of Jewish Studies 15 (1964): 141–147; Id., “Arabico-Persica,” in W.B. Henning Memorial Volume (London: Lund Humphries, 1970), 409–416; Id., “Ya’qûb the Coppersmith and Persian national sentiment,” in Iran and Islam: In Memory of V. Minorsky, ed. C.E. Bosworth (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1971), 535–555; Id., History and Culture in the Medieval Muslim World (London: Variorum, 1984). See also S. M. Stern and Sofie Walzer, Three Unknown Buddhist Stories in an Arabic Version (Oxford: Cassirer, 1971), and the related DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-014

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Georges Vajda (1908–1981), an outstanding scholar of Hebrew and Arabic philosophy. Born in Budapest, he completed his studies in France and taught in Paris.3 The fact that the field of Jewish Studies came to be pursued only in the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] was not entirely a conscious choice of the Jews who studied there. This was imposed on them by successive governments and by society, which placed the study of Jewish subjects outside the university proper, in a ghetto-like enclave, although, paradoxically, the state was involved in maintaining the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary. It is impossible to discuss the contribution of Hungarian Jewish scholars to the study of Islam and Iran (and Judaism) without saying a few words about the towering figure of Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921).4 Goldziher discussed in a number of important works the influence of Iran on Islam, and was among the first modern scholars to identify and explore the Iranian element in early Islamic literature. One of his important contributions to this topic, entitled “Islamisme

article Shaul Shaked, “The Sayings of Wuzurgmihr the Sage – A Piece of Sasanian Wisdom Transmitted into Arabic,” in Exchange and Transmission across Cultural Boundaries: Philosophy, Mysticism and Science in the Mediterranean World, ed. H. Ben-Shammai, S. Shaked and S. Stroumsa (Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 2013), 216–275, which reflects a plan of cooperation which would have included, besides Stern and myself, also Jean de Menasce (1902–1973), but which was cut short by Stern’s premature death and by the ill-health of de Menasce and his subsequent death. Stern’s contributions to Islamic studies include his translation of Goldziher’s Muhammedanische Studien (1889–1890) into English, with updates and additional notes: Ignaz Goldziher, Muslim Studies, transl. by S. M. Stern, 2 vols (London: Allen and Unwin, 1967–1971). See on Stern the obituary by Richard Walzer, “In memoriam: Samuel Miklos Stern,” Journal of Jewish Studies 20 (1–4) (1969): 3–4; a list of his publications is in Latham, J. Derek and Helen W. Mitchell, “The bibliography of S. M. Stern,” Journal of Semitic Studies 15 (1970): 226–238. For further information on Jean de Menasce, who was born in Alexandria to a prominent Jewish family and converted to Catholicism as a young man, see Philippe Gignoux, “J.P. de Menasce (1902–1973): Biographie,” in Mémorial Jean de Menasce, ed. Ph. Gignoux and A. Tafazzoli (Louvain: Imprimerie orientaliste, [1974]), viii–xv. A bibliography of his writings is compiled by Ahmad Tafazzoli, “Bibliographie des travaux de Jean Pierre de Menasce, O.P,” ibid., [xvii]–xxiii. 3 An article dedicated to Vajda by Paul Fenton is included in the present volume. 4 On Goldziher, see Róbert Simon, Ignác Goldziher: His Life and Scholarship as Reflected in his Works and Correspondence (Budapest, Leiden: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 1986); and, in Hungarian, Róbert Simon, Goldziher Ignác: vázlatok az emberről és a tudósról [I. Goldziher: Sketches on the Man and the Scholar] (Budapest: Osiris, 2000); a biography in Hebrew is given by Meir (Martin) Plessner, “‫ חייו ופעלו‬,‫ ”גולדציהר‬in ‫ תירגם‬,‫ הרצאות על האיסלאם‬,‫יצחק יהודה גולדציהר‬ ‫ בעריכתו המדעית של מאיר פלסנר‬,‫ריבלין‬.‫י‬.‫י‬, (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1951), 289–309; a bibliography of his publications is published by Bernhard Heller, Bibliographie des œuvres de Ignace Goldziher ... Avec une introduction biographique de M. Louis Massignon (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1927); an edition of his writings in six volumes was published in Ignaz Goldziher, Gesammelte Schriften, hrsg. von Joseph DeSomogyi, 6 vols. (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967–1973).



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 273

et parsisme,”5 originally a paper delivered at the International Congress of Orientalists in Stockholm, is the first attempt to point out how certain Parsi, i.e. Zoroastrian, practices became part of the Muslim tradition, and (in many cases) were attributed to the Prophet himself. One such example is the insistence in the Hadith literature on the use of miswāk, or “tooth pick,” as a measure to drive away demons. This practice features quite prominently in Zoroastrian literature.6 Goldziher’s contemporary and relative, Wilhelm Bacher (1850–1913), was a scholar with an amazing range of interests. He dealt with the history of the Hebrew grammar, with piyyut and Jewish poetry, with Midrash, and with the Jewish Yemenite and the Jewish Persian literary productions of the Middle Ages, and with the emergence of Jewish Bukharan literary and publishing activity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. He also dealt with some of the Muslim Persian poetical productions, which he evidently studied under his main mentor in this field, Ármin Vámbéry, the well-known scholar, explorer, and adventurer of Central Asia who recorded his exploits in popular publications.7 Vámbéry had the gift of easily picking up languages and of dressing up and presenting himself as a dervish. He reputedly offered his services as a spy to the British and earned popular admiration for his exploits, but also the scorn of people like Ignaz Goldziher, who was one of his pupils in Budapest. Bacher’s scholarly output is incredibly large and varied. He produced scholarly studies of the early works in the field of Hebrew grammar; he explored the aggadah of the Tannaim and of the Palestinian and Babylonian Amoraim; he was keenly interested in the medieval exegesis of the Hebrew Bible; he wrote about Moses Maimonides and about the Kabbalah, and much more.8 As for the study of Judeo-Persian texts, Bacher was the most important scholar to have worked on these texts. He wrote extensively in this field and was one of very few scholars of his generation to pursue this line of study.9 It may be

5 Ignaz Goldziher, “Islamisme et parsisme,” in Actes du premier congrès international d’histoire des religions (Paris: n. p., 1900), 119–147. 6 See Shaul Shaked, s. v. “Hadith, V.: As influenced by Iranian ideas and practices,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. 11 (New York: Bibliotheca Persica Press, 2002), 453–457. 7 See Ármin Vámbéry, The Story of My Struggles: The Memoirs of Arminius Vambéry (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1904). 8 See Wilhelm Bacher, Die Anfänge der hebräischen Grammatik / Die hebräische Sprachwissenschaft vom 10. bis zum 16. Jahrhundert (reprints: Amsterdam: J. Benjamins, 1974), which contains also the reprints of Ludwig Blau’s Bibliographie der Schriften Wilhelm Bachers, and Dénes Friedman’s Nachtrag zu Ludwig Blau’s Bibliographie der Schriften Wilhelm Bachers. 9 See Wilhelm Bacher, Ein hebräisch-persisches Wörterbuch aus dem vierzehnten Jahrhundert, Sonderdruck aus dem Jahresberichte der Landes-Rabbinerschule zu Budapest, 1899–1900,

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 Shaul Shaked

noted that Bacher was active at the time when the first discoveries of texts that we now define as belonging to the Early Judeo-Persian layer were made. Two short articles announcing the existence of Judeo-Persian writings from the pre-Mongol period in two separate libraries, Cambridge and St. Petersburg, appeared around the same time. One is by D.S. Margoliouth,10 where a law-report from the Cairo Genizah was published, newly brought over to Cambridge by Solomon Schechter. That was a legal document that had been written in Khuzistan, in southwestern Iran. The other publication was by Carl Salemann, a noted Russian scholar of German origin.11 In this publication some passages were given from a manuscript in Judeo-Persian, which contains a translation and a long commentary on a large part of the book of Ezekiel. This is the longest Early Judeo-Persian text that has so far been recovered. Part of this text represents a dialect that may be situated in the northeastern areas of the Persian-speaking world, present-day Central Asia, and another part displays a dialect that is characteristic of the southwestern areas, in the western part of what is nowadays Iran. At approximately the same time, another document came to light through the sensational discovery of Sir Aurel Stein, another Hungarian scholar of Jewish origin, who was active as a British archaeologist in Central Asia. In the ruins of a Buddhist monastery at Dun Huang, he found a Judeo-Persian document dating back apparently to the eighth century CE—arguably the oldest original document extant not only in Judeo-Persian but also in New Persian altogether.12 This doc-

(Strassburg: K. J. Trübner, 1900); Wilhelm Bacher, Zwei jüdisch-persische Dichter: Schahin und Imrani. Sonderausgabe aus dem Jahresberichte der Landes-Rabbinerschule in Budapest für das Schuljahr 1906/7, 1908/9 (Strassburg: K. J. Trübner, 1907–1908). 10 D.S. Margoliouth, “A Jewish-Persian law-report,” Jewish Quarterly Review 11 (1899): 671–675. 11 Carl Salemann, “Zum mittelpersischen Passiv,” Izvestija Imperatorskoj Akademii Nauk série 5, 13 (1900): 269–276. This article contains an excerpt from the Early Judeo-Persian tafsir of Ezekiel, preserved in the Firkowicz Collection at the Russian National Library in St. Petersburg. The text was edited and translated by Thamar E. Gindin, The Early Judaeo-Persian Tafsīrs of Ezekiel: Text, Translation, Commentary, vol. 2 of Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse, Sitzungsberichte, 766. Band; Veröffentlichungen zur Iranistik, nr. 44 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2007), and an additional volume is forthcoming. 12 An account of this find by A. Stein is given in D. S. Margoliouth, “An early Judaeo-Persian document from Khotan in the Stein Collection, with other early Persian documents,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1903): 737–760, here 735–746. There are some early New Persian documents with unspecified dates among the Manichaean Turfan fragments, but there seems to be little doubt that they belong to a later period; see W. B. Henning, “Die älteste persische Gedichthandschrift: eine neue Version von Barlaam und Joasaph,” in Akten des vierundzwanzigsten intenationalen Orientalisten-Kongresses München 1959 (Wiesbaden: n. p., 1959), 305–307; W. B. Henning, “Persian Poetical Manuscripts from the Time of Rūdakī,” in A Locust’s Leg: Studies in



From Bacher to Telegdi: The Lure of Iran in Jewish Studies 

 275

ument created ripples of scholarly interest. It was discussed and interpreted by Margoliouth, Salemann, and other scholars.13 Bacher contributed to this activity by commenting on the Dandan Uiliq text for the article published by Margoliouth.14 Bacher showed particular interest in the movement of Judeo-Tajik publishing that went on during his lifetime in Jerusalem, much of it by the Bukharan scholar and maskil Shimon Ḥakham, who immigrated to Jerusalem in 1890. The aim of this movement was to print classical Judeo-Persian texts as well as Jewish religious texts newly translated from Hebrew into Judeo-Tajik. An interesting aspect of this activity was the effort, inspired by the emergence of modern Hebrew literature, to bring the new Hebrew novels on biblical themes to the attention of a young generation of Jews from Central Asia. Shimon Ḥakham translated the Hebrew novel by Abraham Mapu, Ahavat Tsiyon, one of the monuments of the Enlightenment movement in the nineteenth century, into the Judeo-Tajik vernacular,15 and another member of this literary circle, Raphael Galiboff, translated and adapted Abraham Shalom Friedberg’s Hebrew novel Zikhronot le-veit David (“Memories of the House of David”).16 One of the interesting texts in Judeo-Ta-

Honour of S.H. Taqizadeh, ed. W. B. Henning and E. Yarshater (London: Percy Lund, Humphries & Co, 1962), 89–104. A new document in Early Judeo-Persian, from the same area and of the same period as the one found by A. Stein, was discovered a few years ago by Chinese archaeologists and published by Zhang (2008). Short rock inscriptions in Early Judeo-Persian dated to the mideighth century CE were published by Henning (1957). A survey of Early New Persian documents is given by Minorsky (1942), updated to the year of the article. 13 D. S. Margoliouth, “An early Judaeo-Persian document”; Carl Salemann, “Po povodu jevrejsko-persidskago otryvka iz’ Xotana,” Zapiski vostočnago otdelenija imperatorskago Russkago Arxeologičeskago Obščestva 16 (1906): 46–57.; Further studies of this text are: Bo Utas, “The Jewish-Persian fragment from Dandān-Uiliq,” Orientalia Suecana 17 (1968): 123–136.; Shaul Shaked, “Judaeo-Persian notes,” Israel Oriental Studies 1 (1971): 178–182, esp. p. 182, n. 25; Gilbert Lazard, “Remarques sur le fragment judéo-persan de Dandān-Uiliq,” in A Green Leaf: Papers in Honour of J.P. Asmussen (Acta Iranica 28, Hommages et opera minora, XII) ed. J. Duchesne-Guillemin et al. (Leiden: Brill, 1988), 205–209. 14 D. S. Margoliouth, “An early Judaeo-Persian document,” 758–760. 15 Details of these translations: Abraham Yaari, ‫ ביבליוגרפיה של ספרי יהודי בוכארה‬:‫ספרי יהודי בוכארה‬ ‫( ורשימת הספרים והמאמרים על יהודי בוכארה‬offprint from Kiryat Sefer 18–19; Jerusalem: n. p., 1942); on Shimʿon Ḥakham cf. G. Puzailov, ed. ‫ מקורות ומחקרים‬,‫( הרב שמעון חכם איש ירושלים מאה שנים לפטירתו‬Jerusalem: ‫ בוכארה ואפגניסתאן‬,‫ המרכז לחקר ולימוד יהודי אירן‬,‫אב"א‬, 2010). 16 Abraham Shalom Friedberg and Raphael Galiboff, Zikhronot le-veit David [based on A.S. Friedberg’s book, a Judeo-Tajik version by R. Galiboff]: ‫ בו יבואו ספורים וקורות מזרע דוד‬,‫ספר זכרונות לבית דוד‬ ‫ פארסי המוני המדוברת בין קהל עדתי ערי בוכארא ואגפיה ע"י רפאל גאליבוף‬... ‫ בתרגום‬... ‫ יצא לאור‬,‫ודברי ימי ישראל‬ (Jerusalem: R. H. Hacohen, 1913–14).

276 

 Shaul Shaked

jik was the translation of a treatise called Liqquṭei dinim (“Selected precepts”), which Bacher studied for its language in great detail.17 Among Bacher’s most important publications in the field of Judeo-Persian literature is Sefer ha-melitsah by Shelomo ben Shemu’el of Gurganj (fourteenth century), a dictionary of difficult words in the Talmud explained in Judeo-Persian.18 This is an important text that has not yet been edited properly. Bacher published several extensive extracts from it and added a list of the Hebrew and Persian words discussed by the author, with their equivalents in a Latin translation. The text is particularly important for the many botanical and zoological terms that it contains. Bacher published a book on Shahin and Emrani, two outstanding Jewish poets writing in Judeo-Persian,19 and wrote a book about the life and works of Nizami, one of the great medieval Muslim poets (c. 1141 to 1209 CE).20 He also reported in detail about the versified chronicles of persecutions against the Jews by Babay ben Lutf and Babay ben Farhad.21 The years around the beginning of the twentieth century were thus a period of very significant development in the field of Jewish-Iranian Studies. They were also the time when the enormously important discoveries of the Iranian manuscripts from Turfan were made, manuscripts that included substantial portions of lost Manichaean scriptures and liturgical compositions which were brought to light for the first time in three Middle Iranian languages, Middle Persian, Parthian, and Sogdian, and reflected portions of Christian literature as well. All of these developments had a direct bearing on the study of early Jewish documents in Persian, as it became clear that the Jewish documents of the

17 Wilhelm Bacher, “Jüdisch-persisches aus Buchârâ,” Zeitschrift der deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 56 (1902): 729–759. See also Id., “Ein Ritualcompendium in persischer Sprache,” Zeitschrift für hebräische Bibliographie 5 (1901): 147–154. 18 Wilhelm Bacher, Ein hebräisch-persisches Wörterbuch. Related themes of Judeo-Persian texts were discussed in Id., “Ein hebräisch-persisches Wörterbuch aus dem 15. Jahrhundert,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 16 (1896): 201–247; 17 (1897): 199–200. 19 Wilhelm Bacher, Zwei jüdisch-persische Dichter. Schahin und Imrani, Sonderausgabe aus dem Jahresberichte der Landes-Rabbinerschule in Budapest für das Schuljahr 1906/7, 1908/9 (Strassburg: K. J. Trübner, 1907–1908); Id., “Le livre d’Ezra de Schahin Schirazi,” Revue des études juives 55 (1908): 249–280. 20 Wilhelm Bacher, Nizâmi’s Leben und Werke und der zweite Theil des Nizâmischen Alexanderbuches, mit persischen Texten als Anhang. Beiträge zur Geschichte der persischen Literatur und der Alexandersage, (Göttingen: n. p. 1871). 21 Wilhelm Bacher, “Les juifs de Perse au XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècles d’après les chroniques poétiques de Babaï b. Loutf et de Babaï b. Farhad,” Revue des études juives (Paris: A. Durlacher, 1906–1907).



From Bacher to Telegdi: The Lure of Iran in Jewish Studies 

 277

pre-Mongol period could elucidate open questions related to the development of Persian, and shed light on the relationship between Middle Persian and classical Persian. As our knowledge has expanded and deepened, it becomes evident that one cannot simply consider Early Judeo-Persian as occupying a central position between Middle and New Persian, and that the picture is somewhat more complex. The Persian language, which gained ground throughout Iranian domains since Sasanian times, caused most other Iranian languages to withdraw and lose their independent position, and eventually, to disappear. At the same time, however, Persian absorbed elements from other Iranian languages. Judeo-Persian displayed some characteristics of a language used by an ethnic and religious minority: it tended to preserve certain elements that the main language had discarded or changed, and it was open to another language tradition, in this case Hebrew and Aramaic. It developed a vocabulary that deviated from that of the standard language. By using a different vehicle for expressing the sounds of the language, the Hebrew alphabet, it can shed light on some phonetic features that are blurred in the written tradition of standard Persian.22 Another prominent feature of Early Judeo-Persian is the fact that it does not exhibit the characteristics of a unified language. Unlike classical Persian, which developed as a literary language of the whole Persian-speaking area, Early Judeo-Persian is divided into several regional linguistic forms, each no doubt related to the local dialect.23 Another field of Jewish-Iranian contacts was also hotly pursued in the early decades of the twentieth century. This was the field of the Iranian elements in Talmudic literature, mostly written in Aramaic. One of the best known exponents of this line of approach was the Jewish-Hungarian scholar Rabbi Alexander (in Hebrew: Ḥanokh Yehuda) Kohut (1842–1894), who wrote several works in which he sought to show the Iranian origins of different Jewish conceptions, among them a book entitled Über die jüdische Angelologie und Daemonologie in ihrer Abhängigkeit vom Parsismus.24 This was his doctoral thesis defended at the University of Leipzig in 1865.

22 Cf. Ludwig Paul, “Early Judeo-Persian between Middle and New Persian: Re-examining a well-known hypothesis,” in Irano-Judaica 5, ed. S. Shaked and A. Netzer (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 2003), 96–104; idem, A Grammar of Early Judeo-Persian (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013). 23 Cf. Shaul Shaked, “Classification of Linguistic Features in Early Judeo-Persian Texts,” in Exigisti Monumenta: Festschrift in Honour of Nicholas Sims-Williams, ed. A. Hintze, F. de Blois, and W. Sundermann (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009), 449–461. 24 Alexander Kohut, Über die jüdische Angelologie und Daemonologie in ihrer Abhängigkeit vom Parsismus. Abhandlungen der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, iv. Bd.; no. 3 (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1866). One should also mention his comparison of the Adam legends in Judaism with the traditions in Zoroastrianism, in Alexander Kohut, Die talmudisch-midraschische Adamssage in

278 

 Shaul Shaked

Kohut’s greatest achievement was the edition of the book Arukh, a dictionary of the Talmud written in Hebrew by Nathan ben Yeḥiel of Rome (1035–1110 CE). Kohut’s publication is called Aruch Completum or Arukh ha-Shalem, which took many years to complete. Kohut was engaged as a rabbi in Székesfehérvár and afterwards in Nagyvárad (Oradea) and struggled much of the time with the financial burden of covering the cost of this enormous book. The publication of the Arukh by Kohut spreads over eight volumes. It includes the original text, with numerous additions by Kohut, especially in the field of etymology. The Arukh is often described, without too much exaggeration, as an encyclopedia of Talmudic lore. Kohut was inclined to identify a Persian origin behind many words in the Talmud, but, lacking sufficient acquaintance with the principles of Iranian philology, he often suggested quite impossible etymological connections. Kohut became famous as an orator and sermonizer, but eventually he immigrated to the United States.25 The criticism against his method of work brought about the need to provide a volume of Addenda et Corrigenda to the voluminous work of Kohut.26 This volume, published by the son of the author, George Alexander Kohut, concludes the series of volumes, all written in Hebrew. Another volume of Additamenta was written by a group of Jewish scholars and edited by Samuel Krauss (1866–1948), a Hungarian scholar famous for a number of publications of lasting value, among them the important Talmudische Archäologie,27 a philological study of the classical vocabulary in rabbinical Hebrew and Aramaic,28 and a Hebrew-language book with the title: Persia and Rome in the Talmud and Midrashic Literature.29 The Additamenta to the Aruch includes, besides notes by Samuel Krauss, also comments on words of Iranian origin by Bernhard Geiger (1889–1964), a Jewish-Austrian specialist in Indian and Iranian languages. Geiger held a position at the University of Vienna, and immigrated to New York after the

ihrer Rückbeziehung auf die persische Yima- und Meshiasage, kritisch beleuchtet (Leipzig: 1871). One should however bear in mind that these studies have met with some criticism. 25 The first edition was published between the years 1878–1892. 26 Krauss, Samuel, ‫ בעזרת‬,‫תוספות הערוך השלם להרב חנוך יהודה קהוט חברן וערכן והביאן לדפוס שמואל קרויס‬ ‫ בנימין מורמלשטיין‬,‫ עמנואל לעף‬,‫ דוב גייגר לוי גינצבורג‬Additamenta ad librum Aruch Completum Alexandri Kohut, congessit, scripsit, edidit Samuel Krauss, adiuvantibus Bernhardo Geiger, Ludovico Ginzberg, Immanuel Löw, Benjamino Murmelstein (Vienna: Foundation in Memory of Alexander Kohut, 1937 / Reprint New York: Pardes, 1955). 27 Samuel Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie (3 vols.; Leipzig: G. Fock, 1910–1912). 28 Samuel Krauss, Griechische und lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch, und Targum. Mit Bemerkungen von I. Löw (2 vols.; Berlin: S. Calvary, 1898–1899). See C. Hézser’s study in the present volume. 29 Samuel Krauss, ‫( פרס ורומי בתלמוד ובמדרשים‬Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kook, 1947).



From Bacher to Telegdi: The Lure of Iran in Jewish Studies 

 279

Anschluss when he was dismissed from his university position. Geiger endeavored to comment on the Aramaic words of Persian origin, and he supplied numerous judicious corrections to the Iranian etymologies made by Kohut. Indeed, his very astute comments on the Iranian words in the Talmud have retained their value up to the present.30 Other scholars who contributed to the Additamenta were Louis Ginzberg, Immanuel Löw, and Benjamin Murmelstein. Zsigmond Telegdi (1909–1994) is the next person in this line of great Hungarian scholars who contributed to the field that we are now calling Irano-Judaica. His doctoral thesis submitted to Budapest University [today Eötvös Loránd University] in 1933 dealt with the phonetics of the Iranian loanwords in the Aramaic of the Talmud, a valuable study of the loanwords and their phonetic features. Telegdi was a student of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary. He studied there not necessarily with the purpose of becoming a rabbi, but as a result of the official policy of limiting the admittance of Jews into Hungarian universities­—the wellknown Numerus Clausus—and yet he used this restriction to his advantage in his first contribution to science. Both the Hungarian and the improved French versions of Telegdi’s dissertation have been reprinted recently in the two volumes of Zsigmond Telegdi’s Opera omnia,31 edited with love and deep commitment by Éva Jeremiás, who also provided an introduction that gives an excellent survey of the life and works of Telegdi.32 The contribution of Telegdi to the study of Iranian loanwords in the Aramaic language of the Babylonian Talmud is very important despite the fact that this is a youthful work of a scholar who would mature with time and make his mark in the field of Persian studies. His fields of interest included Tajik, where he contributed thoughtful reflections on linguistic questions. His Iranian studies tend to concentrate on syntactic questions; each one of them is characterized by profound insights and trenchant analysis. If we recall that Telegdi was deeply committed to Marxist theory and yet held independent ideas that deviated at times from the party line, his stature as a man and a scholar can be appreciated all the more. It has not been possible to discuss other aspects of Iranian Studies that were pursued in Hungary, because they do not fit into the framework of the present conference. János Harmatta, for example, accomplished much in the fields of

30 For an appreciation of B. Geiger’s work, see Rüdiger Schmitt, “Bernhard Geiger,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. 10, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, (New York: Bibliotheca Persica Press, 2000), 391– 393, where a list of his publications is given; Geiger’s important contribution to Krauss, ‫תוספות‬ ‫ הארוך השלם‬is not mentioned in this article. 31 Zsigmond Telegdi, Opera omnia, ed. Éva M. Jeremiás, vol. 2 (Piliscsaba and Budapest: The Avicenna Institute of Middle Eastern Studies and Akadémiai Kiadó, 2006). 32 In Telegdi, Opera omnia, vol. 1, IX–XXIV.

280 

 Shaul Shaked

Iranian paleography and history, but his work does not belong to the field of Jewish Studies. One of the latest in the succession of broad-minded Jewish scholars who researched and taught in the fields of Jewish Studies in combination with the study of Cairo Genizah documents and with a special interest in Jewish folklore, was Sándor Scheiber (1913–1985), but Iranian Studies were not part of his field of interests. This short survey of Hungarian contributions to the study of Judaism and its contacts with Iranian culture has not been able to do justice to the fact that Hungarian scholars’ work in the broad field of what may be called Wissenschaft des Judentums was not produced in a vacuum. There was a great deal of give-and-take between the Jewish-Hungarian scholars and their colleagues in other countries, and, of course also between Jewish-Hungarian scholars and their non-Jewish colleagues. The spirit of dedication to research prevailed in Hungary even in the most difficult times. It is never a good idea to study a segment of an intellectual movement in isolation from the larger environment in which it was active. In whatever way one approaches the subject, however, the remarkable achievements of a group of researchers in one of the peripheral countries of Europe are all the more impressive. It is striking to note how large and varied was the contribution of the rather small community of scholars in Hungary to the study of Judeo-Persian and Talmudo-Iranica. The fields of Jewish-Iranian studies owe their existence to a large extent to the pioneering effort of Jewish Hungarian scholars.

Untrodden Paths

Günter Stemberger

Meir Friedmann—A Pioneering Scholar of Midrash 1 Some Biographical Facts Meir Friedmann was born in 1831 in Haraszti/Abaújharaszti [Krasne/Hrastné] in present-day Slovakia.1 The exact day of his birth is unclear: Friedmann himself mentions Tammuz 4 (June 15) in the preface to his edition of the Seder Eliyahu, but in the preface to his edition of Sifre he indicates that on Av 9 (August 11) 1864 he just entered his thirty-third year.2 Elsewhere we also find the date July 10.3 In the yeshiva of his relative Meir Asch in Ungvár [Uzhhorod], he first cultivated a special interest in the Kabbalah, but after some time he turned to the study of the Bible and Hebrew poetry. He later lived in Miskolc, where he was torn between Hasidism, Haskalah, and Talmudic studies, and earned his livelihood as an itinerant preacher and as a private teacher of the Talmud, while trying to improve his secular education. In 1858, Friedmann moved to Vienna, perhaps attracted by Adolf Jellinek, who in 1856 had been invited to be the second preacher at the Stadttempel. Together with other candidates for the rabbinate, he attended the University of Vienna as

1 The following biographical facts are based on the necrology by Armand Kaminka, “Lektor M. Friedmann. Ein Nachruf,” Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums 72, no. 49 (4 December 1908): 583–584; the biographical sketch by Nathan Porges in Friedmann’s edition of the Sifra: Meir Friedmann, Sifra: Der älteste Midrasch zu Leviticus: Nach Handschriften neu herausgegeben und mit Anmerkungen versehen. Ein von dem mitten in seiner Arbeit abberufenen Verfasser hinterlassenes Fragment. Text und Anmerkungen bis 3, 9. Mit einem Vorwort von Rabbiner Professor Dr. Porges-Leipzig, Schriften der Gesellschaft zur Förderung des Judentums (Breslau: M. und H. Marcus, 1915), VII–IX; and the evaluation by Peter Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien: Ihre Ausbildung, ihre religiösen und nationalen Konflikte (Wien: Böhlau, 1997), 113–115. See also Isaac Broydé, “Meir Friedmann,” Jewish Encyclopedia, ed. Isidore Singer (New York: Funk and Wagnall, 1901–1906), V, 518–519; and Binyamin Zeev Benedikt, “Friedmann, Meir,” Encyclopaedia Judaica, 2d. ed., ed. Fred Skolnik and Michael Berenbaum (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2007), VII, 287. 2 Kaminka, “Lektor M. Friedmann,” 583, n. 1. 3 Broydé, “Meir Friedmann,” 518. Similar problems exist for many other Jews of the period; for example, for Friedmann’s younger contemporary, David Zvi Hoffmann, born in Verbó in the region of Nyitra, Hungary (now Vrbové, Slovakia). According to his own autobiography, his date of birth was February 15, 1844, but according to other documents it was November 24, 1843: Hans-Joachim Bechtoldt, Die jüdische Bibelkritik im 19. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1995), 363–365. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-015

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a non-matriculated student of history. He was also active in the Jewish community where in the early 1860s, along with Siegmund Groog, he founded an association of rabbinical candidates (Verein der Rabbinatskandidaten) and appealed for financial contributions to their formation. They met with little success until Jellinek took the initiative that finally led to the foundation of the Bet Hamidrasch, an institution designed to provide religious instruction for Jewish youth as well as adults; eventually, a rabbinical seminary would be attached to it as well. The Verein der Rabbinatskandidaten, and first and foremost Friedmann himself, appealed in 1863 to the leaders (probably of the Kultusgemeinde) to establish an institution for the education of Jewish theologians—a petition rejected by orthodox Jews. However, that same year on November 24, the Bet Hamidrasch opened thanks to Jellinek’s initiative and to the substantial financial support of several wealthy individuals. The name of the institution—not “Hochschule” or “Rabbinerseminar”—was chosen in order to appease the more traditional sectors of the community hostile to the project. Meir Friedmann, one of the speakers at the opening ceremony, was appointed as a full-time lecturer along with Eisik Hirsch Weiss (1815–1905), a former student of Azriel Hildesheimer in Eisenstadt. Friedmann was also the librarian of the new institution and responsible for interpreting the weekly Torah readings. The salary of the two lecturers was minimal, and thus they had to supplement their income with private lectures and public addresses at Jahrzeit services. From the very beginning the two lecturers were expected to contribute to the advancement of Jewish and Hebrew literature, as emphasized by Isaac Noah Mannheimer at the opening ceremony of the Bet Hamidrasch, and both worked at that time on editions of the Mekhilta and Sifre.4 Adolf Jellinek was the driving force behind this enterprise. He wanted to establish “critical editions of the sources of the history of religion” and to return to the “older sources of the religion” without aiming to utilize this work for religious practice and reform.5 The Bet Hamidrasch soon earned a high reputation worldwide, so much so that in 1878 Meir Friedmann was invited to become a professor of Talmud at the recently (1875) founded Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati. He did not accept this invitation.6 In 1882, he received a similar call from Berlin (probably from the Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums), which he also rejected for financial reasons.7

4 Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien, 45–52. 5 Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien, 54. 6 Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien, 61. 7 Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien, 65, based on the memories of Friedmann’s son, Joel.



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In 1893, the Israelitisch-Theologische Lehranstalt was opened and Friedmann was appointed as a lecturer for Midrash (four weekly hours) in this new institution. Since he held no academic degree, Friedmann’s appointment as Lektor (not professor) in May 1894 encountered some opposition and required special permission.8 Meanwhile, he continued his more popular courses and the regular instruction of high-school boys (eight hours per week) at the Bet Hamidrasch. Friedmann worked in both positions nearly to the end of his life. In light of the statements of contemporaries and necrologies about him, Friedmann must truly have been an Ish-Shalom, a “man of peace,” as he translates his name in his publications—a witty, helpful, and humble individual who lived a strictly orthodox life and considered the Babylonian Talmud as the basis of all Judaism. At the same time he welcomed the active participation of women in religious services. He was an excellent speaker who during the High Holidays delivered “religious discourses” (gottesdienstliche Vorträge) in the Musikvereinssaal, normally reserved for the most prestigious concerts, and was also a gifted teacher. He was the only teacher at the Bet Hamidrasch who advocated Zionism and defended Herzl’s Judenstaat. Friedmann died in Vienna on November 23, 1908. On this occasion, the association of the students of the Lehranstalt announced prizes for essays on two aspects of Friedmann’s work: his contributions to research on the Mishnah and his work in biblical exegesis. Astonishingly, his contributions to Midrash scholarship are not mentioned at all.9 His contributions to research on the Mishnah are relatively insignificant, whereas the exegesis of biblical books was always at the center of his interest and publications, second only to his work on Midrash. Some contemporaries criticized his opinion that the Midrash had exegetical value for the interpretation of the Bible and that the stories of the Torah and the prophetical books had no purely historical tendency, but a hortatory-homiletic or even symbolical tendency. He thus opened, according to his critics, the door for fantastic allegoresis and became, despite his sharp-witted mind, blinded by his love for Midrash and the aggadah, which earned him the title of mara de-aggadeta, “master of aggadah.”10

8 Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien, 170. 9 His tombstone calls him the author of Meʾir ʿAyin (“Illuminating the Eye”), as Friedmann, playing with his first name, called his commentaries on biblical books, Midrashim, and also on the Passover Haggadah. 10 Landesmann, Rabbiner aus Wien, 114; Benedikt, Encyclopaedia Judaica. See Friedmann’s long series of articles titled Netivot ha-aggada in the periodical Beth Talmud, edited by him together with Eisik H. Weiss (5 vols; Pressburg: Published by the editors, 1881–1886).

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2 Friedmann’s Work on Halakhic Midrashim In general, nineteenth-century scholars of Judaism who specialized in rabbinic literature chose not to publish studies on the Babylonian Talmud in order to avoid controversies with orthodox rabbis and the yeshiva world. They preferred to study midrashic texts that were less central to Jewish life. Leopold Zunz with his Gottesdienstliche Vorträge was an early example of this approach. Friedmann and Weiss also followed this policy. Although the co-editor of the periodical Beth Talmud, Friedmann wrote on the Talmud only on very rare occasions. For example, he wrote an article on the possibility of correctly translating the Talmud (1885)11 and also edited Tractate Makkot of the Bavli (1888),12 but he never addressed any Talmudic topic that might be controversial. Friedmann’s and Weiss’ focus on Midrash may be understood as an effort to maintain peaceful relations with the more orthodox segments of the Viennese Jewish community. The halakhic midrashim were thus the preferred field of research for both scholars for quite some time. Friedmann’s first work in the field was an edition of the Sifre on Numbers and Deuteronomy in which he reproduced the text of the 1803 edition published in Mińkowce, Podolia [today Mynkivtsi, Ukraine], while using other editions and medieval quotations.13 He added short annotations in order to shed light on the Talmud and to correct some readings of the midrashic text, thereby basing himself, among other sources, on Hillel ben Elyaqim’s commentary on the Sifre from the twelfth century, which Friedmann could consult in its oldest preserved manuscript at the National Library in Vienna. Only the first part was published (1864);14 the second part should have included a general introduction to halakhah and aggadah, as well as various indices. Despite recent reprints (Bne Brak, 1961;

11 Meir Friedmann, ‫ עם יכול הוא להתרגם כל צרכו‬:‫( דבר על אודות התלמוד‬Pressburg: David Löwy – Abraham Alkalai, 1885). 12 Meir Friedmann, Babylonischer Talmud: Tractat Makkoth. Kritische Edition (Wien: A. Holder, 1888). 13 Noteworthy is Friedmann’s recognition that divergent quotations of the same passage of the Sifre in the Yalqut may go back to different manuscripts to which the author of the Yalqut had access, and are not due to faulty or negligent citations. Manuscripts of the Sifre unknown to Friedmann confirm this assumption. But Friedmann also assumed that some quotations in the Yalqut had been abridged, supplemented, or reformulated by the redactor, a position that Menahem Kahana attributed to the fact that Friedmann knew only the first print of the Yalqut and not its Oxford manuscript. Menahem I. Kahana, Prolegomena to a New Edition of the Sifre on Numbers [in Hebrew] (Dissertation, Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1982; photo-reprint Jerusalem: Pirsume ha-midrashah le-limmudim mitqadmim, 1986), 45–46 n. 17, and 47 n. 28. 14 Meir Friedmann, ‫( ספרי דבי רב עם הוספות מאיר עין‬Wien: Holzwarth, 1864).



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Jerusalem 1978), the book has been replaced by modern editions based on manuscripts—for Sifre Bemidbar by the editions of Saul Horovitz (who frequently built on Friedmann’s work) (1917),15 and most recently, Menahem Kahana (2011– 2015);16 and for Sifre Devarim by Louis Finkelstein (1939).17 In 1870, Friedmann published an edition of the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishma’el,18 only five years after his Viennese colleague, Eisik Hirsch Weiss, published his version of the Mekhilta.19 Here again, Friedmann reproduced a traditional text of the Midrash but supplemented it with a long introduction and another commentary. What is noteworthy is the collection of all quotations of the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimʿon ben Yoḥai that were known to him; this second Midrash on Exodus was reconstructed only decades later on the basis of quotations and a few fragments from the Genizah. Louis Finkelstein highly praised Friedmann’s edition: “This edition marks a great step forward in the establishment of the text of the Mekhilta. It is plentifully supplied with cross-references to other parts of the Talmudic literature; the author made a number of excellent emendations and offered several fine readings on the basis of the Yalqut, the Pesiqta Zutreta, the citations in Nahmanides and other early writers.”20 But it is only natural that Friedmann’s edition has been replaced long since by two more recent critical editions—those of Saul Horovitz and Israel Rabin (1931)21 and Jacob Z. Lauterbach (1933–1935)22—based on the editio princeps and on Midrash manuscripts unavailable to Friedmann. Friedmann’s last, and most important, contribution to the field of halakhic midrashim came much later in 1915 when the first part of his edition of Sifra on

15 Haim Saul Horovitz, Siphre D’be Rab. Fasciculus primus: Siphre ad Numeros adjecto Siphre zutta (Leipzig: Gustav Fock, 1917); reprint (Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1966). 16 Menahem I. Kahana, Sifre on Numbers: An Annotated Edition, 3 parts in 4 vols. (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2011–2015). 17 Louis Finkelstein, Siphre ad Deuteronomium H. S. Horovitzii schedis usis cum variis lectionibus et adnotationibus (Berlin: Jüdischer Kulturbund in Deutschland, 1939); reprint (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1969). 18 Meir Friedmann, ‫( מכילתא דרבי ישמעאל על ספר שמות עם תוספות מאיר עין‬Wien, Holzwarth, 1870). 19 Eisik Hirsch Weiss, Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael (Wien: Jacob Schlossberg, 1865). 20 Louis Finkelstein, Sifra on Leviticus According to Vatican Manuscript Assemani 66 with Variants from the Other Manuscripts, Genizah Fragments, Early Editions and Quotations by Medieval Authorities and with References to Parallel Passages and Commentaries (5 vols; New York – Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1983–1991), V 2*, n. 3. 21 Haim Saul Horovitz and Israel A. Rabin, Mechilta d’Rabbi Ismael cum variis lectionibus et adnotationibus (Frankfurt: n.p., 1931); reprint (Jerusalem: Bamberger & Wahrman, 1960). 22 Jacob Z. Lauterbach, Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: A Critical Edition on the Basis of the MSS and Early Editions with an English Translation, Introduction and Notes (3 vols; Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1933–1935).

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Leviticus, covering about a quarter of the text, was published posthumously. Before his death, Friedmann himself corrected the proofs, nearly completed the critical apparatus for the entire Sifra, and wrote about half of his commentary on the Midrash. This partial edition shows the progress Friedmann—and the approach to textual criticism in general—had made since his first editions of halakhic midrashim nearly half a century earlier. He based his edition mainly on the Venice edition of Sifra (1545) but collated it with the most important manuscripts; namely, Vatican 66 (with supra-linear vocalization, probably tenth century) and Vatican 31 (dated 1073), as well as some fragments from the Genizah. He thus set new standards in the edition of halakhic midrashim. His main interest in his extensive commentary was in the field of textual criticism, but he also concentrated on the parallel traditions across the whole range of rabbinic literature and on the history of the interpretation of Sifra from the Middle Ages onward—especially the commentaries by Hillel ben Elyaqim and Abraham ben David (Rabad) of Posquières (1120–1198), the latter fully published for the first time by Eisik Hirsch Weiss in his edition of Sifra (1862)—all of which attests to his intimate familiarity with Jewish literature over the centuries. His edition concerning the first part of Sifra remains a model of the early critical approach to editions of the halakhic midrashim, though Louis Finkelstein’s edition (1983–1991), which is based on a far more thorough documentation of the manuscript tradition, has replaced it. However, since Finkelstein also could not finish his edition, which covers only Leviticus, chapters 1–5, Weiss’s Viennese edition still remains the standard edition and general reference for the Midrash as a whole. In the context of his work on the halakhic midrashim, Friedmann also studied the Baraita de-Melekhet ha-Mishkan, a commentary on the instructions for the construction of the tabernacle in Exodus 25 and generally considered to be a tannaitic work derived from the same schools as the halakhic midrashim. In 1908, the year of his death, Friedmann published a critical edition of this commentary,23 preceded by a brief introduction in which he argues for the early origin of the work since only tannaim and no amoraim are mentioned therein; furthermore, since Judah ha-Nasi also appears in it, he dates the text slightly later than the Mishnah. The most recent (1992) editor, Robert Kirschner, praises Friedmann’s work as a “pioneering edition” and more or less accepts his dating: “our conclusions in this study support the estimate of Friedmann that BMM is a tannaitic

23 Meir Friedmann, Baraitha di-Mlecheth ha-Mischkan: Tannaitischer Kommentar zu den Vorschriften über den Bau des Heiligtumes und das Lager Israels in der Wüste (15. Jahresbericht der Israelitisch-Theologischen Lehranstalt in Wien) (Wien: Verlag der Israelitisch-Theologischen Lehranstalt, 1908).



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work originating in the third or fourth century.”24 For his edition, Friedmann used a number of manuscripts, some of them copied for him by his students, above all Ms. Epstein, copied by Victor Aptowitzer. This manuscript, which later belonged to the library of the Jewish community of Vienna, was stolen during World War II and remains lost. Thus, Kirschner, for his edition, had to rely on the many quotations of the manuscript featured in Friedmann’s edition. It is always problematic when one has to rely on a secondary source, and sometimes it is not clear whether Friedman had abbreviated his quotations or whether the manuscript had omitted certain passages. Kirschner concludes: “However, few obvious scribal errors appear in the quotations; thus we are unable to determine whether the original scribe, Aptowitzer, or Friedmann deserves the credit for the superior quality of the text.”25 Other transcriptions of manuscripts that Friedmann used were not so reliable, especially the Munich manuscript of the Babylonian Talmud in which the relevant pages that Friedmann’s student, H. Flesch, copied are “riddled with errors.”26 Regarding the establishment of the critical text, Kirschner criticizes Friedmann’s eclecticism (a typical feature of editions in this period): [...] nowhere does he explain his criteria for preferring one witness to another or one reading to another […] Friedmann’s text is a mixture of readings available to him, chosen in each case according to his own editorial judgment. By fusing rather than filtering sources, he creates a new rendition of BMM. Whatever its other merits, it cannot contribute to our task of text criticism.

But he concludes on a positive note: “We should note, however, that Friedmann’s voluminous commentary, in which he interprets the text from a multitude of rabbinic sources, cites alternate readings, points out discrepancies, and compares opinions, is still invaluable.”27

24 Robert Kirschner, Baraita deMelekhet ha-Mishkan: A Critical Edition with Introduction and Translation (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1992), 67. 25 Kirschner, Baraita, 105. 26 Kirschner, Baraita, 112. 27 Kirschner, Baraita, 112–113. Menahem I. Kahana, “Initial Observations Regarding the Baraita deMelekhet haMishkan: Text, Redaction and Publication” [in Hebrew], in Melekhet Mahshevet: Studies in the Redaction and Development of Talmudic Literature, eds. Aaron Amit and Aharon Shemesh (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan, 2011), 55–67, here 55, also emphasizes the eclectic nature of Friedmann’s text, including his frequent use of later printed editions and his own emendations in the text. But he is not fully satisfied with Kirschner’s edition and pleads for a new critical edition based on the editio princeps and the Genizah fragments.

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 Günter Stemberger

3 The Edition of the Pesiqta Rabbati Apart from the halakhic midrashim, Friedmann also devoted considerable effort to some later midrashim. His edition of the Pesiqta Rabbati28 is still the most commonly cited text of this Midrash, although a synoptic edition presenting the full textual evidence has been published recently by Rivka Ulmer (1997–2002).29 Portions of Friedmann’s edition were translated into German by August Wünsche (1882),30 but the English translation by William G. Braude (1968)31 is the only full translation of this Midrash into a modern language. It may surprise one to know that Friedmann, after having edited halakhic midrashim, then turned to a much later homiletic Midrash. As he states in the introduction to his edition, it was Adolf Jellinek who encouraged him to undertake this work. At first, Friedmann hesitated, but David Ritter von Gutmann, whose sons studied Bible and Mishnah with Friedmann, insisted and financed the edition; therefore, Friedmann named his commentary not the usual Meʾir ʿAyin, but also Magen David. He was also convinced that this edition might be useful for his students at the Bet Hamidrasch in developing their homiletic skills. As for the date of the Pesiqta, Friedmann rejected the view of Zunz that it was composed in the ninth century and depended on the Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana (reconstructed by Leopold Zunz on the basis of medieval quotations and published on the basis of four manuscripts discovered later by Salomon Buber in 1868). Instead, he maintained that both Pesiqtot derived from a common source and that the Pesiqta Rabbati had been edited in the fourth century. The 777 years that, according to chapter 1 of Pesiqta Rabbati, had passed since the destruction of the Temple were not to be counted from the destruction under Titus in 70 CE, as assumed by Zunz, but from the destruction of the First Temple. Thus, he arrived at the year 355, following the chronology of the Seder ʿOlam in which the Persian

28 Meir Friedmann, Pesikta Rabbati, Midrasch für den Fest-Cyclus und die ausgezeichneten Sabbathe kritisch bearbeitet, commentirt, durch neue handschriftliche Haggadas vermehrt, mit Bibelund Personen-Indices versehen. Nebst einem Lexidion der vorkommenden griechischen und lateinischen Fremdwörter von Rab. Moritz Güdemann (Wien: Selbstverlag des Herausgebers, 1880). 29 Rivka Ulmer, Pesiqta Rabbati: A Synoptic Edition of Pesiqta Rabbati Based upon All Extant Manuscripts and the Editio Princeps (3 vols; Lanham, ML: University Press of America, 2002). 30 August Wünsche, Auszüge aus Pesikta Rabbati, nach der Ausgabe von M. Friedmann, Bibliotheca Rabbinica 17 (Leipzig: O. Schulze, 1882). Reprint Bibliotheca Rabbinica, III (Hildesheim: Olms, 1967). 31 William G. Braude, Pesikta Rabbati: Discourses for Feasts, Fasts, and Special Sabbaths, Yale Judaica Series, 18 (2 vols; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968).



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period lasts for only fifty-two years. Friedmann was well aware that this early date could not be true for the whole work—indeed, he was aware that some parts were undoubtedly from Geonic times—but he was convinced that the entire work emerged not much later than 355. Even today, Friedmann is not the only one who favors this early date, although mainstream scholarship adheres to the later date advocated by Zunz. As for the text of the Pesiqta, Friedmann based his edition on the Shklow edition (1806), compared it with the first edition of Prague (1653 or 1656), but frequently emended the text based on rabbinic parallels and his own conjectures.32 He recognized that several chapters in the earlier editions in reality consisted of two homilies. For practical reasons, he maintained the traditional numbering of the chapters, but subdivided some of them; for example, counting chapter 29 as 29, 29–30, and 29–30–30. He also added two additions: four chapters that he had received from Salomon Buber,33 and one small chapter of Bereshit Rabbati by Rabbi Moshe ha-Darshan, which Jellinek had given him.34 These additions, in his opinion, also belonged to the original Pesiqta Rabbati, although, as we know now, they do not appear in any of the manuscripts of the Pesiqta. Friedmann’s main emphasis was on the commentary, which was much more extensive than in his earlier editions. In his commentary, he wanted to show the history of the aggadot contained in the Pesiqta, their prehistory, and their later reception. One noteworthy innovation was also the list of Greek and Latin loanwords in the Pesiqta supplied by Moritz Güdemann (1835–1918), who in 1894 became the chief rabbi of Vienna. Initially, Friedmann had planned to include an extensive introduction to the Midrash, but he ultimately abandoned this plan because the volume was already rather large without it and would have been far too expensive. Only years after his publication of the Pesiqta, Friedmann obtained a manuscript of this work and described it in full detail (1886).35 It belonged to

32 Norman J. Cohen, “The London Manuscript of Midrash Pesiqta Rabbati: A Key Text-Witness Comes to Light,” Jewish Quarterly Review 73 (1983): 209–237, here 211, n. 5: “Though he did not use any manuscripts, Friedmann’s wide knowledge of Rabbinic literature and his instinct and feeling for the correct reading were so extraordinary, that he was often able to anticipate the better manuscript readings.” 33 These four chapters are drawn from a manuscript originally in the possession of Samuel David Luzzatto, Cohen, “The London Manuscript,” 211, n. 3. 34 Cohen, “The London Manuscript,” 226: “Pisqa 53, added by Friedmann to the Vienna edition (p. 203a) under the rubric ‘Hosafah II,’ was drawn from a manuscript of Midrash Bereshit Rabbati sent to him by Adolph Jellinek. It surely is not an authentic part of Pesiqta Rabbati and was appended by Friedmann simply because it paralleled earlier material in Pisqa 20.” 35 Meir Friedmann, “‫מאמר על העתקות וכתבי יד מהפסיקתות‬,” Beth Talmud 5 (1886): 1–6.

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Dr. Abraham Cohen of London who lent it to Friedmann through the intermediary of Solomon Schechter (1847–1915), Friedmann’s former student who had settled in London in 1882 on the invitation of Claude Montefiore. Later, this important Pesiqta manuscript came into the possession of Dropsie College (now renamed the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia), but was apparently lost. It turned up again only some thirty years ago. For decades, Friedmann’s description was the only information available to researchers.

4 The Seder Eliyahu Due to sheer luck, as Friedmann himself calls it,36 he had the opportunity to edit the Seder Eliyahu. Collecting materials for his edition of the Sifra, he had procured photocopies of the two manuscripts of this Midrash in the Vatican Library, Vatican 66 and 31. Vatican 31, copied in 1073, contains Sifra and the Seder Eliyahu, as stated on the title page.37 Friedmann ordered photographs only of Sifra, but the photographer accidentally sent him the first seven folios of the Seder Eliyahu as well. Having recognized the importance of this manuscript, Friedmann ordered photographs of the whole text and postponed his edition of the Sifra in favor of the Seder Eliyahu, which at that time was available only in very faulty and corrupt editions based on the first edition (Venice 1598) and its “corrected” version by Samuel Haida (Prague, 1676). Friedmann regarded the Seder Eliyahu as the most beautiful work of aggadic literature, incomparable in its ethical value.38 The Midrash, also known by the name Tanna de-ve Eliyahu, seems to be related to the passage of the Babylonian Talmud, Ketubbot 106a, narrating that the prophet Elijah taught Rav Anan, a student of Rav (third century), the Seder Eliyahu Rabba and the Seder Eliyahu Zuta. Many texts in the Bavli are introduced by the formula tanna de-ve Eliyahu, and several of these texts are contained in the

36 Meir Friedmann, Seder Eliahu rabba und Seder Eliahu zuta (Tanna d’be Eliahu): Nach einem vaticanischen Manuscripte aus dem Jahre ‫( תתל”ג‬1073) ediert, kritisch bearbeitet und commentiert (Wien: Verlag Achiasaf, 1902), German foreword, X: “Auch diese Ausgabe verdankt ihre Ent­ stehung einem glücklichen Zufalle.” 37 It seems that Friedmann did not know that Haim M. Horowitz had already used this manuscript for his edition of the Seder Eliyahu Zuta in his Bet ʿeqed ha-ʾaggadot, Part II (Frankfurt am Main: A. Slawatski, 1881). 38 Friedmann, Seder Eliahu, German foreword, V: “An stilistischer Schönheit, an ethischer Tiefe und Reichhaltigkeit, an Anregung zur Liebe der Thora wie des Volkes Israel kommt ihm kein Buch in der aggadischen Literatur gleich.”



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Midrash as well. Friedmann, like several other authors, connects the Talmudic narrative with the Midrash and dates its basic core to third-century Babylonia. A close analysis of all Talmudic passages attributed to the Tanna de-ve Eliyahu led Friedmann to the conclusion that they and the Seder Eliyahu are not dependent on each other, but derive from a common source. On the basis of several chronological indications within the Midrash, he posits several subsequent redactions, the last one in the year 968 or 984, but still insists that the Midrash is, in essence, a work of the early rabbinic period. However, most scholars today follow Leopold Zunz and date the redaction of the Seder Eliyahu to the ninth or even tenth century. Friedmann’s introduction to his edition is the fullest and most substantial of all the introductions in his editions. He discusses not only all aspects of the story of Elijah and Anan at the core of the Midrash, but also analyzes all the parallels with the Babylonian Talmud and thoroughly deals with the question of its date, responding in detail to the arguments of scholars in favor of a later date for the Midrash. He studies the structure of the Midrash and its chapter divisions, and even devotes considerable attention to the special language of the Seder Eliyahu. He also discusses the lacunae in the text, although he offers no full description of the manuscript on which his edition is based. Friedmann is also aware of the importance of the quotations of the Midrash in the Yalqut and includes as an addition to his introduction a full list provided by his friend Salomon Buber.39 As in his other editions of midrashim, he includes a rich commentary, noting all important textual variants in the Venice edition and in the Yalqut and all rabbinic parallels. The transcription of the Vatican manuscript is in general very reliable,40 and his corrections within the text are clearly marked as such. Along with the

39 M. Friedmann, Seder Eliahu, Mavo, 146–150. 40 This may easily be checked in the facsimile edition of the manuscript: Torath Cohanim (Sifra) Seder Eliyahu Rabba and Zutta, Codex Vatican 31 (Jerusalem: Makor Publishing, 1972), as well as in the transcription of the Academy of the Hebrew Language, Jerusalem: http://hebrew-treasures. huji.ac.il. William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein, in their translation Tanna Debe Eliyyahu: The Lore of the School of Elijah (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1981), 35, note “his [Friedmann’s] faulty transcription of at least three words and omission of a number of lines.” They also remark (35 n. 58) that “Friedmann frequently disregards the plene spelling of the original; he also disregards the joining of the particle šel with the noun that follows it […] But the mistakes in copying and the omission of lines may have been due to the fact that when Friedmann began his work on the Tanna he was already in his late sixties and presumably no longer superb master of the editorial precision which marked all his earlier works.” As a matter of fact, this was the first time that Friedmann could use a manuscript as the basis of an edition. The standardization of orthography was common in editions even much later than his. The very few real mistakes and the omission of only a few single lines are rather a testament to his thoroughness. His edition is certainly of much higher quality than other editions of his time.

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edition of several chapters which in some way or another have been associated with the Seder Eliyahu (1904),41 this edition is undoubtedly Friedmann’s most important scholarly achievement and has remained the standard edition ever since. The English translation of Friedmann’s edition by William Braude and Israel Kapstein (1981) has made this beautiful late Midrash accessible to a wider public. *** As is true of every person, an evaluation of the accomplishments of Meir Friedmann is possible only within the context of his own time. Considering his traditional Hungarian yeshiva background, and the fact that he never received a formal university education aside from attending several courses at the University of Vienna, it is very impressive that he learned the techniques of scholarly edition and was able to evaluate his sources in historical perspective. His tendency to opt, wherever feasible, for the earliest possible date of a rabbinic work may certainly be explained by his background and his adherence to tradition, but he knew how to argue for his positions using historical criteria. He started with re-editions of midrashim on the basis of earlier prints, correcting the text mainly on the basis of rabbinic parallels and his own conjectures. Only later in life did he have the chance to work with manuscripts, first on the basis of transcriptions prepared for him by others, and then with photographic reproductions that allowed him to make his own transcriptions. He made the most of these new possibilities, and according to the standards of his time, he was a model of precision. His capacity to evaluate the value of printed texts and manuscripts was based on his traditional education and his nearly encyclopedic knowledge of rabbinic and medieval Jewish literature, as evidenced by the detailed commentaries to his editions, which have retained their value for more than a century. Together with Eisik Hirsch Weiss, his colleague at the Bet Hamidrasch who came from a similar traditional background, Meir Friedmann helped transform Vienna into an important center of midrashic research. Several of his students, foremost among them Solomon Schechter, carried on this tradition. Indeed, every student of Midrash is indebted to Friedmann’s achievements even today.

41 Meir Friedmann, Pseudo-Seder Eliahu zuta: (Derech Ereç und Pirkê R. Eliezer): nach Editio princeps des Seder Eliahu und einem Manuskript, hierzu drei Abschnitte der Pirkê d’Rabbi Eliezer, Kap. 39–41 nach demselben Manuskripte (11. Jahresbericht der Israelitisch-Theologischen Lehranstalt in Wien) (Wien: Israelitisch-theologische Lehranstalt, 1904). Reprint together with Seder Eliahu in 1902 (Jerusalem: Bamberger & Wahrman, 1960).

Isaiah M. Gafni

Adolf Büchler and the Historiography of Talmudic Judaism In the summer of 1902, the noted author Asher Zvi Hirsch Ginzberg, better known as Ahad Ha’am, delivered an address before the general meeting of Russian Zionists in Minsk.1 Ginzberg used this platform to express his misgivings regarding the direction taken by proponents of political Zionism on the one hand, and those involved in Wissenschaft des Judentums on the other. Both, he claimed, had not given the entirety of Jewish culture its due. The Zionists overly stressed their attachment to the Bible at the expense of the vast post-biblical literary achievements of Jews throughout history. The latter field, he claims, “should have been an outlet for our intellectual energies, an opportunity for us to reveal our latent originality.” Alas, “the most eager and most original workers in this field are non-Jewish scholars; and these are slavishly followed and imitated by the Jewish scholars, who never turn a hair’s breadth from the general principles and lines of research laid down by their masters, even where they are by no means above criticism.” He then goes on to cite a major example, which will serve as the underpinning for a part of this paper: Until quite recently there was no sign of any attempt on the part of Jewish scholars to controvert the axiom of Christian investigators, that the historical evidence of Greek and Roman literature is always to be accepted as against that of the Talmud and midrashim, where the two are in conflict. It is only this year that a Jewish scholar has examined this general principle in connection with a particular question, and has found that it has no foundation, but that, on the contrary, the Talmudic references are more in accordance with historical truth.2

The Jewish scholar that Ahad Ha’am referred to was Adolf Büchler, then a thirtyfive-year-old teacher at the recently established Rabbinical Seminary of Vienna. The reference to a publication that appeared “only this year” leaves no doubt that he was referring to Büchler’s 250-page study on “The Sanhedrin in Jerusalem and

1 The talk was originally published in Hebrew in Haschiloah 10 (1902): 385ff, under the title “‫ ”תחית הרוח‬and was republished in various collections of Ahad Haʻam’s writings; cf. ‫כל כתבי אחד‬ ‫( העם‬Jerusalem – Tel Aviv: Ketavim, 1959), 173ff; an English translation entitled The Spiritual Revival (London: The Zionist, 1917) was published and then republished (with minor changes, including another title: Zionism and Jewish Culture) in Ahad Haʻam, Essays, Letters, Memoirs, trans. and ed. Leon Simon (Oxford: East and West Library 1946), 83ff. 2 The Spiritual Revival, 17. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-016

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the Great Bet-Din in the Chamber of Hewn Stones of the Jerusalem Temple.”3 As I will argue below, this work was not only unique in its day in terms of methodology, but it is indicative of the various stimuli—academic as well as theological— that motivated much of Büchler’s vast scholarly undertaking. Büchler was born in Priekopa, Slovakia, on October 18, 1867 (18 Tishri 5628)4 and followed a course of learning not unlike that of other scholars whose names have appeared at this conference. After studying at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] in Budapest, he continued to Breslau, where towering figures such as Graetz and Israel Levy were on the faculty, and among his fellow students were Lajos Blau, Samuel Krauss, Mihály Guttmann, and others. From Breslau, he moved to the University of Leipzig, where he received his doctorate in 1890 in Philosophy and Semitic Languages (his thesis was on the accents of the Hebrew language). He then returned to the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, where he was ordained in 1892. From Budapest he traveled to England, where he worked for some months with his uncle, Adolph Neubauer, at the Bodleian Library in Oxford. Here he was introduced to the world of Hebrew manuscripts, one of which served as the basis for his very first publication, in JQR 5–6 (1893– 1894), on the triennial cycle of the reading of the Law and Prophets. The following year he began teaching Jewish history at the Vienna Seminary where he remained until 1906, when he moved to Jews’ College in London, serving as its principal from 1907 until his death on February 20, 1939. During his life, Büchler published, according to my estimates, approximately 101 books or articles. I purposely linked these two categories because alongside full-fledged books such as the 461-page “Studies in Sin and Atonement in the Rabbinical Literature of the First Century” (London 1928), we encounter almost book-length monographs such as the ninety-two-page study on “The Political

3 Adolph Büchler, Das Synedrion in Jerusalem und das grosse Beth-Din in der Quaderkammer des jerusalemischen Tempels (Vienna: Alfred Hölder, 1902). A Hebrew translation of this work was published by Mossad Harav Kook in Jerusalem in 1974. 4 For a brief biography of Büchler, see I. Epstein, “Adolph Büchler (1867–1939): The Man and the Scholar,” in The Adolph Büchler Memorial Volume – Studies in Jewish History, eds. I. Brodie and J. Rabbinowitz, Jews College Publications, New Series, No. 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956), xiii–xxii; see also B. Marmorstein, “Adolph Büchler, Principal of Jews’ College, 1906–1939,” in Jewish Historical Studies – Transactions of the Jewish Historical Society of England, vol. 30. 1987–1988 (London: Jewish Historical Society of England, 1989), 219–226; a complete bibliography of Büchler’s works appears in the same publication at 227–234 (this list includes a number of Büchler’s works that were translated into Hebrew and published posthumously). For a brief appreciation of Büchler’s contribution to the history of the Land of Israel, see also S. Klein, “‫ כחוקר ארץ ישראל‬:‫פרופיסור ר' אברהם ביכלר‬,” The Bulletin of the Jewish Palestine Exploration Society 6, nos. 1–4 (1938–1939): 132–137.



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and Social Leaders of the Jewish Community of Sepphoris in the Second and Third Centuries” (London 1909). Büchler did not limit his attention to purely historical investigations, but I will focus on these endeavors because, in all modesty, I believe they had a direct impact on my own academic career. This will become apparent in the following pages. Allow me to return to that first major work on the Sanhedrin, which Ahad Ha’am considered a watershed because of its use of rabbinic sources for historical purposes. To be sure, Büchler was not the first historian to introduce these sources into a historical narrative. The very first author of a universal Jewish history in modern times, Isaak Marcus Jost, devoted an entire excursus in his fourth volume to the value of the Talmud for historical purposes5 (I stress historical purposes since Jost had no use for the Talmud as a practical guide for contemporary Jewish life, which he admits openly). Even with only a cursory glance at Graetz’s history, one finds the Talmudic period presented as a narrative based on the interweaving of rabbinic anecdotes, so much so that Graetz could entitle the various chapters of the period “first generation amoraim” and so forth. But that is precisely the problem— there was no real attempt at the time to integrate rabbinic sources into what was known from external material. In a similar fashion, Joseph Derenbourg’s “Essay on the History and Geography of Palestine based on the Talmud and other Rabbinic Sources,”6 published the year Büchler was born, never became the central work on the history of Eretz Israel in the late Second Temple and early rabbinic periods, but it often served as a source base for non-Jewish authors searching for rabbinic material they otherwise could not access in the original. Beginning in 1886, the definitive statement on the period of the Second Temple and the immediate post-Temple period was, for most scholars, Schürer’s Geschichte.7 If there was anything that would have caught the eye of someone like Büchler, it was the fact that Schürer simply discounted rabbinic sources as lacking historical value, thus rarely quoting them, and to the extent that Schürer did use them, it is evident that they were available to him only through various mediators and translations. Büchler’s study of the Sanhedrin was a prime case in point. For Christian scholars such as Schürer, the nature of that body was clearly outlined in the New Testament and Josephus: convened and run by the High Priest, it was a decidedly

5 I. M. Jost, Geschichte der Israeliten, I–IX (Berlin: Schlesingersche Buch- und Musikhandlung, 1820–1826); for the excursus, see V, 264–294. 6 Joseph Derenbourg, Essai sur l’histoire et la géographie de la Palestine d’après les Thalmuds et les autres sources rabbiniques (Paris: Imprimerie impériale, 1867). 7 Emil Schürer, Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes im Zeitalter Jesu Christi (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1901–1911).

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political body, at times taking its orders even from the Romans themselves, as in the case of the court’s trial of Herod’s sons. Non-Jews were of course familiar with this institution as the court that tried Jesus and Paul, and thus these events could be seen as reflecting the wishes of the representative body of the Jews in the first century. The problem, of course, was that the Mishnah and rabbinic literature in general projected a totally different Sanhedrin, one with a legislative as well as judicial function, composed of the great sages of the day and headed by a Nasi, or Patriarch. The existence of this body was by and large discounted by non-Jewish historians, whether because they generally denied the historicity of rabbinic sources, or because these sources were thought to have been redacted much later than the events themselves, and were therefore the rabbis’ imaginary projection back in time, quite possibly to create a sense of continuity between that Second Temple body and their own post-destruction institutions. Büchler’s approach was not to respond in kind by denying the value of Greek sources, but to claim that alongside the political Sanhedrin and the Temple there existed an adjacent Great Court, Beth Din ha-Gadol, that was the true reflection of Pharisaic Judaism (to these he also added a third boule, a local council). In doing this, Büchler strove to achieve two goals: to rehabilitate the historicity of Rabbinic material, and to paint, from a sociological point of view, a far kinder picture of Judaism and its true leaders in the final days of the Second Temple. This second goal, clearly aimed at responding to the harsh image of rabbinic Judaism projected in the works of those such as Schürer or Wilhelm Bousset,8 is more than evident in his later works, which assumed a noticeable theological character. Bousset’s book appeared the very same year as Büchler’s work on the Sanhedrin. Büchler’s ultimate response to this work appeared twenty years later in a study entitled “Types of Jewish-Palestinian Piety from 70 BCE to 780 CE: The Ancient Pious Men” (London 1922). Büchler left nothing to the imagination in striving to describe Jewish ḥasidim (Hillel, Honi, Hanina ben Dosa) as incorporating precisely those ethical and moral elements that were deemed so lacking among Jewish leaders by most historians of the first century. As for Bousset, he is singled out by Büchler as a failure “due not only to his insufficient knowledge of the rabbinic literature, the chief source of information on his subject, and even of its language,” but also because he failed to consult those “few but valuable essays published by Jewish scholars in various periodicals9…[that] would have supplied Professor Bousset with some

8 Wilhelm Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter (Berlin: Reuther und Reichard, 1903). 9 As an example of exceptional Jewish scholarship unknown to Bousset, Büchler cites the work of Abraham Geiger in particular.



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correctly translated early rabbinic accounts unknown to him as dealing with religious ideas and practices of the time.”10 Büchler would later repeat and even reinforce his attack on theologians such as Bousset. In the introduction to his “Studies in Sin and Atonement in the Rabbinic Literature of the First Century” (1928), Büchler declares that in a 600-page book on the Religion of the Jews, Bousset has managed to dispose of the Jewish concepts of sin and atonement in a few incidental remarks, based mainly on the Apocrypha and the Apocalypses; without considering the effects of sin and atonement upon the Jew and his life as reflected mainly and characteristically in Rabbinic statements of the first century. This fundamental mistake was due to the author’s ignorance of the undoubtedly peculiar and difficult Rabbinic literature.”11

But let us return from theology to history. To be sure, Büchler was aware of at least some of the pitfalls involved in the use of Talmudic sources for reconstructing history. In one of his very first articles on “The Conspiracy by Rabbis Meir and Nathan to Overthrow the Patriarch Rabban Simon ben Gamaliel,” published in French in 1894,12 he begins by admitting that in dealing with the dramatic story in Bavli Horayoth 13b “we are met with the same difficulty as always confronts scholars when they attempt to draw on the Talmudic sources for describing any event of greater or lesser importance in Jewish history.” I will pause here to warn you not to expect the next line to embrace the almost sweeping denial of any historical matter in aggadic material so common in contemporary studies, influenced as they are by the various stages and forms of literary criticism as applied to the literature of the Talmudic sages. Rather, Büchler goes on to state that the main difficulty in any rabbinic anecdote is that Nowhere is there to be found a complete account containing all the important details and special circumstances of this event, nor is it even possible to form a complete whole out of the various scattered data. This phenomenon has frequently been observed by scholars, and is due, as is well known, to the fact that the Talmud, in recording any event in the life of the Jewish people, rarely if ever sets out to relate this event simply, but desires to make use of it as an argument for some special purpose. Hence it only records the details which are useful for the purpose it has in view, or it treats the event altogether as merely incidental to the principal subject with which it is dealing (Eng. trans., 160).

10 Adolf Büchler, Types of Jewish-Palestinian Piety (London: Jews’ College, 1922), 5. 11 Adolf Büchler, Studies in Sin and Atonement (New York: Ktav, 1967), xiii. 12 Adolf Büchler, “La conspiration de R. Nathan et R. Meir contre le patriarche Simeon ben Gamaliel,” REJ 28 (1894): 60–74; this article was later translated into English and published in Adolf Büchler, Studies in Jewish History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956), 160–178.

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 Isaiah M. Gafni

In preparing this paper, I was struck by this sentence since it represents almost word for word the same claim that I put forward when trying to explain why there is no complete description in the Talmud of the learning environment in which the rabbinic discussions took place. “The Talmud only supplies those details necessary for the specific discussion at hand,” I wrote,13 not realizing at the time that I was repeating Büchler’s warning almost verbatim. What Büchler seems to be saying is that there is indeed historical testimony in rabbinic sources, but that true knowledge of each event or ongoing phenomenon must be collated from the vast sea of the Talmud: “The Talmud does not describe the event itself, and our whole knowledge of it has to be derived from the scanty references which in the Talmud are incidentally interwoven with the halakhot which were discussed on that day.”14 Nevertheless, Büchler felt he could overcome these problems and arrive at new and important insights regarding a broad range of historical events and social realities, ranging primarily from the Second Temple period to late Talmudic times. Some of these studies dealt with the nature of Jewish institutions, most notably the Temple, its physical environs such as the various azarot [courts] and gates, the service of the priests in the Temple, the influence of the Tobiad and Oniad families in Jerusalem in Hellenistic times, and, as noted before, the functions of the various courts that were situated in proximity to the Temple. As his work moves into the post-Temple period, we find Büchler taking an ever greater interest in the world of the sages and their interaction with other groups within Jewish or Judaean society, be they the ammei ha-arets, to which I will return momentarily, minim, local Roman governors, Samaritans, and others. Most of his work focuses on the first two centuries following the destruction, and he devoted particular attention to the social and economic conditions in Judaea immediately after the destruction,15 as well as to conditions in Galilee—especially Sepphoris (Tzippori)16—where the rabbinic movement established itself in the aftermath of the Bar-Kokhba War. The latter event, I should note, was also the subject of a major study by Büchler, who was one of the first in a long line of scholars, down to this very day, who have attempted to pinpoint where exactly the main thrust of the

13 See, for example, my summary of this issue in Isaiah Gafni, “:‫ישראל בתקופת המשנה והתלמוד‬-‫ארץ‬ ‫חקר שנות דור – הישגים ותהיות‬,” Cathedra 100 (2001): 216–217. 14 Büchler, “The Conspiracy of R. Nathan,” 160. 15 Adolf Büchler, “The Economic Conditions of Judaea after the Destruction of the Second Temple,” in Jews’ College Publications 4 (London: Jews’ College, 1912). 16 Adolf Büchler, “The Political and the Social Leaders of the Jewish Community of Sepphoris in the Second and Third Centuries,” in Jews’ College Publications 1 (London: Jews’ College, 1909).



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Bar-Kokhba uprising was located.17 But if some of these questions were already addressed—albeit in far less detail—by nineteenth-century scholars such as Emil Schürer, Büchler can be seen as a pioneer in attempting to uncover aspects of the daily social life of Jews in the late Temple and early post-Temple period. Aspects of family life were of particular interest to Büchler, and he devoted his time to detailed studies on Bride and Bridegroom under the ḥuppah (bridal canopy),18 laws of inheritance and the cutting off of children (a lecture given in Hebrew at the inauguration of the Hebrew University),19 the status of women (based on the Book of Judith),20 burial customs,21 and much more. Büchler was convinced that only a thorough knowledge of rabbinic sources made such studies possible, and he seems to suggest throughout his work—especially in those studies of a more theological nature—that it was precisely the lack of such knowledge that enabled non-Jewish scholars to paint such a one-dimensional, and decidedly tendentious, picture of Jewish society at the dawn of the Christian era. For Büchler, one of the major consequences of this ignorance was Christian historians’ use of the phenomenon of am ha-arets to contextualize the rise of Christianity, and this led to one of Büchler’s most famous studies: “Der Galiläische Am ha’ares des zweiten Jahrhunderts” (Vienna, 1906). The issue, in brief, is as follows: am ha-arets appears in rabbinic literature opposed to the figure of the ḥaver, who was particularly careful regarding laws of purity and tithing. The am ha-arets also appears in juxtaposition to the sage and is singled out for being ignorant of the Torah. The Talmud proceeds to describe an extremely acrimonious relationship between the two groups. Inasmuch as early Christian sources focused on many of the same issues and particularly what was projected as an overly-strict Pharisaic attitude toward laws of purity and tithing, it was but a short leap towards identifying the first Christians, Jesus and his disciples, as representatives of the am ha-arets element within Jewish

17 Adolf Büchler, “Die Schauplätze des Barkochbakrieges und die auf diesen bezogenen jüdischen Nachrichten,” JQR 16 (1904): 143–205. 18 Adolf Büchler, “The Induction of the Bride and Bridegroom into the ‫ חופה‬in the First and the Second Centuries in Palestine,” in Livre d’hommage à la mémoire du Dr. S. Poznański (Warsaw: Édité par le Comité de la Grande Synagogue à Varsovie, 1927), 82–132. 19 Büchler, “‫סקירה תלמודית היסטורית על העברת נחלה מן הבן על ידי האב‬,” in Proceedings at the Inauguration of the Hebrew University (Jerusalem: The Committee, 1925), 77–104. 20 “‫הערות והארות על מצב האשה בספר יהודית‬,” Blau-Festschrift (...‫ קבץ מאמרים בחכמת ישראל‬:‫(וזאת ליהודה‬ ‫ ביום מלאת לו ששים וחמש שנה‬... ‫)לכבוד החכם יהודה אריה בלוי‬, eds. S. Hevesi, B. Heller, and M. Klein (Budapest: n. p., 1926), 42–67. 21 “‫ ”פירוש המשנה שבת פרק כ"ג ה עושין כל צרכי המת סכין ומדיחין אותו‬in ‫ספר היובל לפרופסור שמואל קרויס למלאת‬ ‫( לו שבעים שנה‬Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1937), 36–54.

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society. Moreover, because the am ha-arets was frequently cited in connection with Galilee, the cradle of Christianity, Jesus and his disciples were seen as representing the masses of Galilean Jewish society, speaking up on their behalf against the Judaean Pharisaic establishment. Büchler considered this claim to be a classic example of contemporary non-Jewish am-aratsut (ignorance). In a detailed study, he tried to show that almost all the references to am ha-arets were issued by the Tannaim of the Usha (i.e. post-Bar Kokhba) generation, most notably R. Meir, R. Judah b. Ilai, R. Yossi ben Halafta, and their colleagues, all disciples of R. Akiva and all who were active in the second half of the second century. Büchler distinguished between two types of am ha-arets: in its earlier stage, the phrase was used as a designation for those who were simply ignorant of Torah, and this usage may indeed predate the late second century. But he claims that references to am ha-arets as those who are lax in certain areas of halakhah, such as purity and tithing—the supposed link to early Christianity—all post-date Jesus and his contemporaries by over one hundred years, and often much longer. This clash, according to Büchler, took place only when the sages moved to Galilee following the Bar-Kokhba debacle, and where they encountered elements within the Jewish population—especially Galilean priests—who tended to evince a certain laxness towards these laws. Thus, Büchler claims, the focus on am ha-arets was not only later than previously assumed, but it also did not stigmatize the masses of Galilean Jewry, but rather only limited groups in Galilee, most notably the priests. Büchler was clearly motivated by an apologetic incentive; namely, to disprove the popular depiction of Jesus as the defender of Galilean masses against the haughty and overly strict dictates of Judaean Pharisees. Büchler’s refusal to characterize most of Galilean Jewry as ammei ha-arets had a profound effect on subsequent scholars, and thus Gedaliah Alon would also claim that “it is impossible to apply this characterization to all Galileans, to most Galileans, or even to a significant minority among them.”22 Nevertheless, scholars such as Alon and Ephraim E. Urbach, no less versed in rabbinic literature than Büchler, found all sorts of holes in his argument. The most obvious one was his habit of dating everything to late-second-century Galilee based on the predominance of the Usha-generation rabbis as the source for anti-am ha-arets statements. The problem here is that the vast majority of all Mishnaic laws, redacted as they were by the renowned disciple of those Ushan rabbis, namely Judah the Patriarch, are quoted in the name of Usha-generation rabbis, even though we know that many of these halakhot go

22 Gedalia Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age (70–640 CE), tr. Gershon Levi (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1989), I, 150.



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back far earlier, in certain cases even into Second Temple times. Most of Büchler’s citations, on the other hand, “come from the post-Bar Kokhba generation, when the center of gravity of Jewish life in general had moved to the north, and everything had become predominantly Galilean!”23 Current scholarship, in fact, has led to a far more radical revision of the entire am ha-arets phenomenon, as it now appears that this was a Babylonian amoraic construct which manipulated—or possibly even created—Palestinian sources, rather than being a true reflection of Palestinian social tensions.24 These were not the only flaws in Büchler’s use of rabbinic material for the retrieval of social history. In one of his frequently quoted studies, “The Political and the Social Leaders of the Jewish Community of Sepphoris in the Second and Third Centuries,”25 Büchler painted an extremely harsh picture of the ruling classes of the great Galilean city, claiming that they served the Roman administration rather than their own community, adjudicated according to Roman law rather than rabbinic halakhah, were corrupt to the extent of brazenly accepting bribes, and at times even coaxed some rabbis into such behavior. But how can Büchler pinpoint all of this to Sepphoris if his predominantly rabbinic sources most likely were issued from across the Land of Israel? His response: This city was the greatest of Galilee and the centre of the Roman and of the autonomous administrations of the country, and therefore the seat of the representatives of the Jewish community. Consequently most of the incidental references of the rabbis in the Talmud and midrash to Galilean public life … concern in the first instance the community of Sep[p]horis, whether its name is expressly mentioned or not.26

Even more problematic is Büchler’s interpretation of rabbinic aggadah or biblical commentary, which he invariably cites as having a contemporary—albeit veiled— target. If the sages praise Moses for sitting on a rock during the battle against Amalek as an expression of his participation in the travails of the nation, this must mean that current leaders were doing just the opposite. If there is a preponderance of rabbinic homilies against the acceptance of bribes, this must mean

23 Alon, The Jews in Their Land, vol. 2, 508; see also: Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, tr. Israel Abrahams (Jerusalem: Harvard University Press, 1975), I, 587; II, 85; Ibid., I, 632–639. For a comprehensive analysis of Büchler’s work on the Galilean am ha-arets, see A. Oppenheimer, The Am Ha-Aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 4–10. 24 See Steven G. Wald, ‫( תלמוד בבלי מסכת פסחים פרק אלו עוברין‬New York – Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2000), 211–239. 25 Jews’ College Publications, no. 1 (London: Jews’ College, 1909). 26 Ibid., 4.

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that all Sepphoris officials were engaged in such illicit behavior. These leaders, of course, were aware of such rabbinic attacks on their behavior, and Büchler suggests that they—and not the community at large—were the source of anti-rabbinic attitudes in the second century. Here again, as in the Galilean am ha-arets, Büchler used his knowledge and interpretation of the sources to paint a far kinder picture of the community at large by claiming that the sages “living among the people … soon became acquainted with the ways in which the nobles and the wealthy dealt with them. The rabbis were themselves, as a rule, men of the people, and as such were received by the ruling and landowning class of the Galilean Jews with contempt.”27 Büchler’s depiction of the rabbis as a popular leadership was destined to influence a generation of scholars, most notably Gedaliah Alon. Only towards the end of the twentieth century do we begin to encounter alternative depictions of the sages as being close to wealthy members of society.28 Indeed, one senses that Büchler in his day, and Alon one generation later, while bringing an encyclopedic knowledge of rabbinic literature to their work, nevertheless were frequently motivated by their image of the path that a “proper” Jewish society, and its spiritual leaders, must have taken.29 For Büchler, the catalyst was frequently the need to respond to the Christian historiography of his day as it described first-century Judaism, whereas Alon was frequently motivated by the Zionist-socialist ethos with which he so fervently identified. But notwithstanding this difference in nuance, both were convinced that the halakhic component of rabbinic literature, no less than the aggadic one, provided major insights into the social history of the Talmudic period. Writing just after Alon’s death, the renowned historian Yitzhak Baer informs us that “among his predecessors it was Adolf Büchler whom Alon most admired.”30 The late Prof. Zalman Dimitrovsky, also writing about his teacher Alon,31 claims that in all of nineteenth-century and early-twentieth-century Wissenschaft, two scholars stand out as seeing history refracted through the prism of halakhah: Geiger and Büchler. But whereas Geiger became personally invested in his public attitude towards the

27 Ibid., 5–6. 28 See my article, “Will the ‘Real’ Rabbis Please Stand Up: On the Repackaging of the Rabbinic Model in Modern Times,” in Judaea-Palaestina, Babylon and Rome: Jews in Antiquity, eds. Benjamin Isaac and Yuval Shahar (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 295–307. 29 For the effect of this influence on Alon’s work, see my article: Isaiah Gafni, “On Gedaliahu Alon and His Role in the Study of Rabbinic Historiography,” Jewish Studies 41 (2002): 75–83. 30 Baer’s eulogy, published in Hebrew as a foreword to Alon’s posthumous The Jews in Their Land (in the original Hebrew) was translated in part by Gershon Levi and included in the foreword to Alon, The Jews in Their Land, ix. 31 Zalman Dimitrovsky, “G. Alon,” Kirjath Sepher 26 (1949–1950): 308–312.



Adolf Büchler and the Historiography of Talmudic Judaism 

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role of halakhah in contemporary times, Büchler not only continued to steer the course of the true historian, but recognized that halakhic sources inform us not only about the structure of Jewish leadership, but also about a broad spectrum of other classes as well. According to Dimitrovsky, “it was Büchler who opened the gates of halakhah for historical research, and was a model of diligence in collating material from the most obscure corners of Talmudic and midrashic literature, bringing together diverse sources whose historical nature had become blurred and dimmed.”32 How strange to find such praise for one scholar in a eulogy for another. But in this case it is not strange at all, for Dimitrovsky correctly identifies Büchler not only as a great scholar, but also as the founder of a school of rabbinic history. Although today this school would be labeled pejoratively as “positivistic,” the fact is that Büchler’s work represents a giant step forward in the field, and it was continued by Alon, his disciples, and then their students, among whom I proudly number myself as well.

32 Ibid., 308.

Paul B. Fenton

Georges Vajda’s Contribution to the Study of the Kabbalah Although not exclusively a student of Jewish mysticism, Georges Vajda (1908– 1981) was undisputedly the most significant scholar of Kabbalistic studies on the European continent in the second half of the twentieth century in view of his enormous contribution to this field. Indeed, of his considerable scientific output, which includes important studies in Islamic and Jewish philosophy, about twenty percent—that is, dozens of articles and some ten major books—is devoted to diverse aspects of Jewish mysticism. In this field, Vajda was second only to Gershom Scholem (1897–1982), and, like him, Vajda helped establish an entire school of research. Consequently, an overall appraisal of Vajda’s contribution would also have to take into account the works of the disciples he trained, some of whom, such as the author of these lines, furthered research in this discipline. It is impossible in the space available here to embrace, even obliquely, this colossal output, which dealt with multiple topics concerning Jewish mysticism, including the Spanish Kabbalah, Lurianic Kabbalah, Hasidism, as well as varieties of non-Kabbalistic mysticism.1 I thus propose to limit myself in the present study to an explanation of how Vajda, initially an Orientalist, moved into this discipline, after which I will provide an outline of the main orientations of his research.

The Hungarian Legacy Born in Budapest in 1908, Georges Vajda originally envisaged embarking upon a rabbinical career. He was educated first at the preparatory school attached to the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] and then at the Rabbinical Seminary itself. At the same time, he enrolled at Budapest University [today Eötvös Loránd University] between 1927/1928 and studied notably Arabic and Turkish with Gyula Németh (1876–1976), while pursuing his rabbinical studies under the guidance of Lajos Blau (1861–1936) and especially Bernát Heller

1 A full biographical account of Vajda and his work is given in Paul B. Fenton, Bibliographie de l’œuvre de Georges Vajda, précédée d’un essai biographique, Collection de la Revue des études juives (Louvain-Paris: Peeters, 1991). Henceforth Bibliographie. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-017



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(1871–1943). The latter, who had been a disciple of Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921), was primarily a scholar of aggadah and a folklorist. It is noteworthy that besides composing articles about biblical figures and Judaic themes, notably for the first Encyclopaedia of Islam, Heller also wrote on angelology and divine names.2 He left a lasting impression on Vajda, who precociously turned his attention toward the connection between Judaism and Islam. We shall see, too, that the figure of Goldziher, looming behind Heller, also served as a role model for Vajda’s scholarly career. Having been physically assaulted during antisemitic incidents at Budapest University, the twenty-year-old rabbinical student took the decision to leave Hungary and, with a recommendation from Heller in hand, made his way to Paris in 1928 in order to complete his Oriental and rabbinical studies at the Séminaire Israélite. It is doubtful whether the Seminary’s directors, Rabbi Jules Bauer and Maurice Liber, were initially aware of the young student’s exceptional talents; indeed, Vajda would become one of the foremost figures in Jewish Studies on the continent, focusing his attention on “the three K’s”: Kalâm, Karaism, and Kabbalah. Upon his arrival in Paris, Vajda’s intellectual horizon already owed much to the tools and training he had acquired at the Rabbinical Seminary. His lifelong interest in the Karaite Yusuf al-Basir had first been aroused by the Seminary’s tradition for rabbinical students to write their theses on this tenth-century Mu‘tazilite theologian. Can the same be said about his later passion for Kabbalah? At first glance, one might think there had been little in the rationalistic ethos of the Neolog Rabbinical Seminary that could have encouraged such a vocation. To be sure, many years ago his lifelong friend, rabbi and professor Sándor Scheiber (1913–1985), confided in me his utter incomprehension of how Vajda could have become interested in such unearthly a subject as the Kabbalah. His confession could be taken as symptomatic of the limited esteem the subject bred in Hungarian academic circles. In point of fact, the open spirit of investigation among Hungarian Jewish scholars made a substantial contribution to the field of Jewish mysticism. One only has to consider for proof the writings on Sabbateanism, Hasidism, and the history of Kabbalah of Leopold Löw (1811–1875), a pioneer of Reform Judaism in Hungary and the editor of the periodical Ben Chananja.3 Another historian of Hungarian Judaism, Lipót Grünwald, also devoted a long study to the local history of Sabbateanism.4 The area of Jewish magic had been explored by Lajos Blau (1861–

2 Gerschom Scholem, Bibliographia Kabbalistica (Leipzig: W. Druglin, 1927), 54. 3 Scholem, Bibliographia Kabbalistica, 98. 4 Ibid., 61.

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1936)—one-time director of the Rabbinical Seminary and editor of Ha-Tsofeh— who was considered one of the last founding fathers of the Wissenschaft des Judentums.5 Mention could also be made of the Hungarian expatriate Alexander Kohut (1842–1894), who contributed to the field of Jewish angelology, and Ignatz Stern (?–1865), who made valuable research on the Zohar.6 Neither was Kabbalah absent from the multifarious interests of David Kaufmann (1852–1899), who occupied the chair of history, philosophy of religion, and homiletics at the Rabbinical Seminary and seems to have been a major source of inspiration for Vajda. Besides Kaufmann’s bio-bibliographical sketches related to Jewish mystics, he composed, most notably, Die Theologie des Bachja ibn Pakuda (Vienna, 1874) and Studien über Salomon ibn Gabirol (Budapest, 1899), both of which addressed aspects of pre-Kabbalistic Jewish mysticism. While examining the connection between the latter and Neoplatonic thought, Kaufmann refers to Kabbalistic sources—all themes that Vajda later researched. Also noteworthy is Julius Samuel Spiegler (1838–?), an educator in Budapest. Though his main field of interest was the philosophy and history of Judaism, he also wrote on Kabbala. His work is dismissed by Scholem as a worthless spoliation of Adolphe Franck (1810–1893);7 and it seems that its author was accused of plagiarism in some quarters. However, what is most interesting is Spiegler’s adoption of Franck’s conception of Kabbalah as a philosophy. Furthermore, in his history of Jewish philosophy entitled Die Geschichte der Philosophie der Judenthums: Nach den neuesten Forschungen dargestellt, Spiegler devotes a one-hundred-page chapter to the Kabbalah,8 about which he has this to say: “We devoted the largest part of our work to Kabbalah, because only in it the true philosophy of the Hebrews finds its expression in its originality.”9 Spiegler, who in turn was

5 Ibid., 23. 6 On Kohut, see Ibid., 88. On the work of Ignatz Stern (an educator in Hódmezővásárhely), see Ibid., 151–152, and Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (3rd ed.; New York: Schocken Books, 1946), 388, n. 35. 7 “Die Philosophie der Kabbala,” Ungarische Revue 6 (1886): 68–86, 156–173; Scholem, Bibliographia Kabbalistica, 48, 146. 8 Julius Samuel Spiegler, Die Geschichte der Philosophie der Judenthums: Nach den neuesten Forschungen dargestellt (Leipzig: n. p., 1890), 88–184. A shorter Hungarian version of the book appeared in two editions: Héber bölcsészet [Hebrew Philosophy] (Budapest: Aigner Lajos, 1885); A héberek bölcsészetének története, különös tekintettel a keresztény és arab bölcsészetre [A History of the Philosophy of the Hebrews; with Special Regard to Christian and Arabic Philosophy] (Budapest: Aigner Lajos, 1893); cf. Scholem, Bibliographia Kabbalistica, 146–147. 9 Spiegler, Die Geschichte der Philosophie der Judenthums, ibid.: “Wir räumten der Kabbalah den größten Raum in unserm Werke ein, weil nur bei ihr die wahre Philosophie der Hebräer in ihrer Originalität zum Ausdruck gelangt.”



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later plagiarized by Illés Adler (1868–1924), a rabbi in Budapest,10 thus created a precedent for what Vajda would do fifty years later in his Introduction à la pensée juive (Paris, 1947), which began with a chapter on the Sefer Yetsirah and ended with a chapter on the Kabbalah. Lastly and most importantly, one might recall that the towering figure of European Orientalism, Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921), showed an interest not only in Muslim mysticism, but also published two Judeo-Arabic Jewish speculative texts, which although not strictly Kabbalistic, were of a mystical tendency. Firstly, Goldziher discovered in the Kaufmann collection in Budapest a fragment from the original Arabic Qayrawan commentary on the Sefer Yetsirah, which, as we shall see, became Vajda’s initial research topic.11 Secondly, Goldziher produced an annotated edition of the Judeo-Arabic mystical work Kitâb ma‘ânî al-nafs (Berlin, 1907).12 In his copious notes, the great Orientalist endeavors to contextualize the author’s doctrine in light of the history of Muslim and Jewish Kalâm and Neoplatonic philosophy. I can think of no other work that constitutes the very model for Vajda’s own methodology.13

The French scene Such was the situation of Kabbalistic studies in Hungary when Vajda left for France. In his newly adopted homeland the case was somewhat different insofar as the domain of esotericism was there not entirely a terra incognita. Had not the first translation into a modern language of the foremost Kabbalistic text— the Zohar—seen the light of day on French soil?14 Here too, in the wake of the nineteenth-century French occultists, there had been an enormous proliferation of “Kabbalistic” studies, few of which, however, had any scientific value aside from Paul Vulliaud’s La Kabbale, discussed below. Nonetheless, the pioneering

10 In Elias Adler, Die Kabbala (Budapest: n. p., 1906); Scholem, Bibliographia Kabbalistica, 3. 11 Vajda, “Fragment de l‘original arabe du commentaire sur le Sefer Yecirah par Isak Israeli,” REJ 53 (1906): 187–190. 12 Goldziher, Kitâb ma‘ânî al-nafs: Buch vom Wesen der Seele von einem Ungenannten. Abhandlungen der kön. Ges. der Wiss. zu Göttingen. Phil.-hist. Kl., Neue Folge, vol. 9 (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1907). 13 In addition, as a sort of continuation of Goldziher’s series of articles on Judeo-Arabica in the REJ, Vajda wrote a section on Judeo-Arabica in the REJ and Revue d’études islamiques. See Fenton, Bibliographie, nos. 19, 41, 84, 484, 620, 765, 817, 865, 900, 1024, and 1225. 14 Jean de Pauly, Sepher ha- Zohar: Le Livre de la splendeur (Paris: n. p., 1906–1911); reprinted: Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose, 1977.

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 Paul B. Fenton

research of Adolphe Franck and Salomon Munk (1803–1867) had given a strong impetus to the academic study of Kabbalah. Though not directly inspired by the Wissenschaft des Judenthums, Franck’s La Kabbale ou la philosophie religieuse des Hébreux (Paris, 1843), was nonetheless epistemologically similar to this trend insofar as it represented a first attempt at investigating the content and origins of the Kabbalah using historical, philological, and conceptual criteria.15 Its originality also resides in the author’s empathy for the intellectual value of Kabbalah, which Franck considers a “religious philosophy” at Judaism’s very heart, whereas the general tendency of contemporary Wissenschaft scholarship was to minimize its influence to the point where it was considered an accidental foreign body and a “hideous parasite” in the texture of Judaism. Noteworthy is Franck’s treatment of the Sefer Yetsirah, in which he perceives a Persian influence. Despite its obvious shortcomings and its critical reception, La Kabbale would come to exercise considerable influence on the academic study of Kabbalah since it was translated almost immediately into German and accompanied with critical notes by none other than Adolf Jellinek (1821–1893), one of the founding fathers of the scientific study of Jewish mysticism.16 It was a milestone in the annals of research on Jewish mysticism and is probably the one single book that contributed more to the modern study of Kabbalah than any other until the twentieth century. Though less prolific than Franck, Salomon Munk’s (1803–1867) contribution to Kabbalistic research was much more substantial by virtue of his sound Jewish scholarship. After studying Oriental languages in Berlin, he settled in Paris in 1828 where he studied with Silvestre de Sacy. A member of the small circle of French maskilim, Munk succeeded Renan in 1862 as the chair of Hebrew at the Collège de France. With his monumental French translation of Maimonides’s Guide for the Perplexed (Paris, 1856–1866) and masterful Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe (Paris, 1857), he is rightly hailed as the true founder of the study of Jewish philosophy in France. His first fruits concerning the Kabbalah began in 1832 when he was approached by M. Duckett, editor of the Dictionnaire de la conversation, to write an article on the “Cabale”.17 Many of the themes later taken up

15 On Franck, see Paul B. Fenton, “Qabbalah and Academia: The Critical Study of Jewish Mysticism in France,” Shofar 18 (2000): 45–69; and Id., “La contribution d’Adolphe Franck à l’étude historico-critique de la kabbale,” in Adolphe Franck, philosophe juif, spiritualiste et libéral dans la France du XIXe siècle, eds. J-P. Rothschild and J. Grondeux (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012). 16 Adolphe Franck, Die Kabbala, oder die Religions-Philosophie der Hebräer, aus dem Französischen übersetzt, verbessert und vermehrt von Ad. Gelinek [=Jelinek] (Leipzig: H. Hunger, 1844; 2nd ed. 1918). 17 W. Duckett, Dictionnaire de la conversation et de la lecture, vol. IX (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1834),



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by 19th century research on Jewish mysticism, such as its relationship to Oriental religions and its mythological and speculative components, are already present in this sketch. Its appearance gave rise to an amusing anecdote indicative of the period and of Munk’s earnest attitude to the subject. He had to write a reassuring letter to his mother who, having learned that her son was writing on such matters, was terribly alarmed and believed him to have become some Baal Shem! In a private letter to her, published by his biographer M. Schwab, he explains that he “voluntarily undertook this little essay, for had it been entrusted to a random writer, he would have just babbled out the same old nonsense on the subject and ridiculed it”.18 In the substantial chapter of his Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe devoted to the Kabbalah, it is clear that in the intervening years Munk had deepened his grasp of the subject. His examination of the possible influence of the Andalusian Ibn Gabirol on the formation of speculative Kabbalah and certain parts of the Zohar19 was to prefigure one of Scholem’s early studies dealing with this very theme.20 Munk also considered Kabbalah to be an integral part of Jewish thought, and in the fourth chapter of this same work, “Esquisse historique de la philosophie chez les Juifs,” he provided an extremely dense summary of the basic principles of Jewish mysticism. Despite the rather mediocre opinion Scholem held of Salomon Karppe’s Etude sur les origines et la nature du Zohar (Paris, 1901), the latter marked definite progress in comparison to Franck and also had the merit of including the Provençal and Castilian Kabbalists, as well as the Sefer ha-Bahir.21 Paul Vulliaud (1875–1950),22 author of one of the most substantial summaries of Judaism’s esoteric tradition, La Kabbale juive,23 also deserves mention, especially as its abiding impact was demonstrated by its republication some

318–325. This essay was reformulated in his article “la Kabbale,” which appeared in S. Munk, Palestine, Description géographique, historique et archéologique (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1881), 519– 524. 18 Moïse Schwab, Salomon Munk (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1900), 45–46. 19 Salomon Munk, Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe (Paris: J Vrin, 1859; 2e éd. Paris, 1955), 275–291. 20 Gershon Scholem, “‫עקבותיו של גבירול בקבלה‬,” in Me’asef Sofrei Erets Yisra’el (Tel-Aviv: ‫החברה‬ ‫למפעלי הספרות העברית בארץ־ישראל‬, 1946), 160–178. 21 A general evaluation of Karppe’s contribution to Kabbalistic studies is provided by A. Sennert in his introduction to the re-edition of Sylvain Karppe, Étude sur les origines et la nature du Zohar, précédée d’une étude sur l’histoire de la Kabbale (Geneva: Slatkine, 1982). 22 On Vulliaud, see Jean-Pierre Brach, “Paul Vulliaud (1875–1950) and Jewish Kabbalah,” in Kabbalah and Modernity, ed. B. Huss et al. (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2010), 129–149. 23 P. Vulliaud, La Kabbale juive: Histoire et doctrine, essai critique (Paris: É. Nourry, 1923).

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fifty years after its first appearance.24 The vast documentation and erudition displayed by the author in this work along with his French translation of the Sefer de-Tseni‘uta,25 though riddled with his occultist preconceptions, nonetheless command respect. In addition, they became a major source for numerous followers of the Traditionalist school of René Guénon.26

The Influence of Massignon The height of Vulliaud’s literary productivity coincided with Vajda’s first successful scientific endeavors.27 Coming to Kabbalah not from the ranks of the occultists and “mystagogues” but from the academic world, Vajda entirely renewed Kabbalistic studies in France. Guided by the history of ideas, his scientific approach ushered in a whole new era whose impetus still reverberates today in his disciples’ studies. Upon settling in the French capital, Vajda attended the lectures of the great Orientalist Louis Massignon (1883–1962) at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes from 1930–1935, sharing the school’s benches with three close friends—Henry Corbin (1903–1978), Paul Kraus (1904–1944), and Salomon Pines (1908–1990)— each of whom would later make his mark in Oriental Studies. It is highly probable that Vajda’s interest in Jewish mysticism was kindled by Massignon’s own exploration of Muslim mysticism. His conviction that a certain theme peculiar to the Sefer Yetsirah could be traced to ninth-century Shi’ite gnosticism was to have a decisive impact on the academic careers of Vajda and his three fellow disciples, and it represented the starting point of Vajda’s attraction to Kabbalah. According to Massignon, the semiotic triad consisting of the three mother consonants ’alef, mem, shîn, which play a major role in the cosmic phonetics of the “Book of Creation,” had been inspired by Shi‘ite speculations on the consonants ‘ayn, mîm, sîn, which correspond to the three spiritual prototypes embodied in ‘Ali (= ‘ayn), Muhammad (= mîm), and Salmân (= sîn). In a cryptic reference typical of his style,

24 Acknowledged, however, with justified reservation by the academic world. See Vajda’s review indicated in Fenton, Bibliographie, no. 1489. 25 Traduction intégrale du Siphra de-Tzenioutha (Paris: É. Nourry, 1930; 2nd ed. Paris: Éditions orientales, 1977). The translation was reviewed by G. Scholem, “Vulliauds Uebersetzung des Sifra di-Tseniutha aus dem Sohar,” MGWJ 75 (1931): 347–362. 26 On this current, see my article “Guénon et le judaïsme,” in René Guénon, l’appel de la sagesse primordial, ed. P. Faure (Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 2015), 249–297. 27 Interestingly, Vajda reviewed, rather critically, the second edition of Vulliaud’s Kabbale juive. Cf. G. Vajda, REJ 136 (1977): 243.



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Massignon intimated that the Kabbalistic science of letters had been inspired by heterodox Shi‘ite jafr, and therefore, he considered the Sefer Yetsirah a product of the post-Islamic era.28 The fact that the triad ’alîf, mim, shîn also played a role in Arabic alchemy, notably in the Book of the Glorious by Jâbir ibn Hayyân, possibly impinged on the scientific career of Paul Kraus (1904–1944), which was tragically cut short.29 Accepting Massignon’s hypothesis of Sefer Yetsirah’s post-Islamic composition,30 he later wrote in his masterful study on Jâbir ibn Hayyân and the history of scientific ideas in Islam: Concerning the date of Sefer Yetsirah, which is still much debated, I am inclined to believe that it was composed during the Muslim period and is connected— remotely, it is true—with early Islamic gnosis. The permutation of Hebrew roots plays therein a considerable role and is developed there in a way that is analogous to that of Jâbir.31

Salomon Pines (1908–1990), who later became a professor of philosophy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem,32 also showed close interest in the Sefer Yetsirah, most notably in his study on its relationship with the pseudo-Clementine homilies, with occasional references to Judeo-Arabic commentators.33 Finally, Henry

28 L. Massignon, Salmân Pâk et les prémices spirituelles de l’islam iranien (Tours: Arrault et Cie, 1934), 39, n. 4; reprinted in his Parole donnée (Paris: Union générale d’éditions, 1962), 124, n. 1. Massignon’s reference consists of three words: “cf. Sefer Yesira.” See also S. Wasserstrom, “Sefer Yesira and Early Islam: A Reappraisal,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 3 (1993): 1–30, and P. Fenton, Sefer Yesîrâh ou le Livre de la Création, exposé de cosmogonie hébraïque ancienne (Paris: Rivages, 2002), 16. 29 On Kraus’s work, see Joel L. Kraemer, “The Death of an Orientalist: Paul Kraus from Prague to Cairo,” in The Jewish Discovery of Islam: Studies in Honor of Bernard Lewis, ed. M. Kramer (TelAviv: Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, 1999), 181–223. 30 He had first expressed this conviction in 1934 in his review of M. Ventura, “La Philosophie de Saadia Gaon,” in Recherches philosophiques 4 (Paris: J. Vrin, 1934), 495–498. See also N. Allony, “'‫ קראוס ושלום שונים משנתם ב'ספר יצירה‬,‫”צונץ‬, Sinai 74 (1974): 42–66. 31 P. Kraus, Jâbir ibn Hayyân et l’histoire des idées scientifiques dans l’islam (Cairo: Impr. de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1942), II, 266–268: “Pour ce qui est de la date du Sefer Yesira, encore très discutée, je suis porté à croire qu’il a été composé à l’époque musulmane et qu’il est en rapport — lointain, il est vrai — avec la gnose primitive de l’Islam. La permutation des racines hébraïques y joue un rôle considérable et y est développée d’une manière analogue à celle de Jâbir”. 32 On S. Pines, see Sarah Stroumsa, “Shlomo Pines le savant, le sage,” Journal Asiatique 278 (1990): 205–211. 33 S. Pines, “Points of Similarity between the Exposition of the Doctrine of the Sefirot in the Sefer Yesirah and a Text of the Pseudo-Clementine Homilies,” in Proceedings of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities 7 (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1989), 63–142.

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Corbin examined diverse aspects of the intellectual history of Shi‘ism and their possible impact on Jewish thought.34 In his Avicenne et le récit visionnaire, he concurs with the opinions of Massignon and Kraus and reinforces the idea that the ancient Shi‘ite jafr had a direct influence on the author of the “Book of Creation.”35

The Study of Sefer Yetsirah As for Georges Vajda, he chose to devote the first fruits of his research to early Judeo-Arabic commentaries on the Sefer Yetsirah. Although the latter came to be considered as the epitome of Kabbalistic and metaphysical speculation, the first commentators of the Judeo-Arabic tradition perceived it as a summary of ancient Jewish science and wisdom.36 In addition to representing the beginnings of the long history of Jewish literature in Arabic, these commentaries were also the earliest expressions of philosophy in medieval Jewish writings. Moreover, they had been composed in a geographic and cultural area that was the cradle of the schismatic movements of ‘Irâq—the region where the Sefer Yetsirah supposedly had originated. Consequently, they could be expected to elucidate the question of the origins of this enigmatic book. Having been invited by Maurice Liber (1884–1956) in 1938 to give a temporary seminar on Judaism at the section of religious studies at the École Pratique, Vajda chose to present the results of his research on these commentaries.37 The summary of his seminar published in the school’s Annuaire opens with the following passage, which reads like a rejoinder to Massignon’s position: Neither should one claim for the Sefer Yetsirah a hoary antiquity, so as to attach it directly to some Chaldean cosmogony or even the earliest gnostic speculations; nor should one date

34 See my study: “Henry Corbin et la mystique juive,” in Henry Corbin: philosophies et sagesses des religions du Livre, eds. M. Amir-Moezzi, Ch. Jambet, and P. Lory (Tournhout: Brepols, Bibliothèque de l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, section des sciences religieuses, 126, 2005), 151–164. 35 Avicenne et le récit visionnaire, (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient Adrien-Maisonneuve, 1954), I, 321. See also Corbin’s extension of Kraus’s research on Jâbir ibn Hayyân’s Kitâb al-mâjid in which the triad ’MSh also plays a central role: H. Corbin, “Le Livre du Glorieux de Jâbir ibn Hayyân,” in Eranos-Jahrbuch 18 (1950): 47–114, esp. 61. 36 See Raphael Jospe, “Early Philosophical Commentaries on the Sefer Yezira: Some Comments,” REJ 149 (1990): 369–415. 37 Vajda, “Recherches sur les commentaires du Sefer Yesira,” in AEPHE Section des Sciences religieuses, 1939–1940 (1939), 95–98; cf. Fenton, Bibliographie, no. 162.



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it to an exaggeratedly late period by seeking to discover in it Arabisms or other indications that would suggest a date in the Muslim period.38

In order to shed light on Massignon’s premises, Vajda had chosen to explore one of the oldest expositions on the Sefer Yetsirah, the so-called Qayrawan commentary. Originally written in Judeo-Arabic during the Fatimid period in the spirit of contemporary Neoplatonic speculation, it was translated into Hebrew in the Middle Ages. Vajda continued working on this text throughout his life and from the 1930s onwards he published a series of studies on it, the last of which appeared shortly before his death.39 His later publications took into account the literary discoveries he gradually unearthed in the Cairo Genizah, making Vajda one of the first scholars to have worked on the Genizah’s philosophical and mystical texts since the days of Goldziher and Hartwig Hirschfeld. Convinced of the centrality of Sefer Yetsirah in Jewish thought, the young scholar sought to reinstate it in the annals of Jewish philosophy. In contrast to his model, Julius Guttmann’s Philosophie des Judentums (Munich, 1933), Vajda included in his Introduction à la pensée juive du Moyen Âge (Paris, 1947) an initial chapter on the “Book of Creation,” wherein he clearly voiced his disagreement with Massignon and Kraus’s views concerning its dating: No Arabisms, despite what might have been said […]. The absence of Arabisms and the fact that it is quoted by Kalir provide a terminus ad quem around the year 700 C.E. Thus, pending a more precise indication, one would minimize the risk of error by adopting a date between 450–700.40

Though philosophical in outlook and decidedly pre-Kabbalistic, it was the Qayrawan commentary that became the intellectual detonator that had brought

38 Ibid., 95: “Sans pouvoir prétendre à être placé dans un âge assez reculé pour rejoindre directement on ne sait quelles cosmogonies chaldéennes, ou même les spéculations de la gnose la plus ancienne, le Sefer Yesîra ne mérite pas non plus qu’on le rajeunisse à l’excès, en cherchant à y découvrir des arabismes ou d’autres indices qui permettraient de le dater de la période musulmane.” We published his lectures on the Sefer Yetsirah in “Recherches sur les commentaires du Livre de la Création,” in Ibn Malka: Consolation de l’expatrié spirituel (Paris: L’Eclat, 2008), 19–107. 39 Bibliographie, nos. 163, 185, 195, 271, 327, 372, 397, 569, 671, 1499, 1566. These studies were gathered together and republished in P. Fenton and G. Vajda, Le Commentaire de Dunash b. Tamim (Xe s.) de Kairouan sur le Livre de la Création (Leuven: Peeters, 2002). 40 Vajda, Introduction à la pensée juive du Moyen Age (Paris, J. Vrin, 1947), 17: “Point d’arabismes, quoi qu’on en ait dit […] L’absence d’arabismes et le fait qu’il est cité par Kalir posent le terminus ad quem aux environs de l’an 700. L’on risquera donc le moins de se tromper si l’on adopte, jusqu’à plus ample informe, les dates-limites 450–700.”

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him to Kabbalah.41 Since the French university system required him to present a second doctoral thesis, Vajda chose as his primary research subject the theological and philosophical doctrine of Judah Ibn Malka based on the latter’s commentaries on the Sefer Yetsirah and the Pirkei de-Rabbi Eli‘ezer. I am convinced that in addition to Massignon’s encouragement, this choice could well have been determined by the simple fact that a copy of this commentary was readily available in the Paris Bibliothèque Nationale where Vajda worked.42 Delayed by the gruesome years of the war, it was finally presented to the Faculty of Humanities at the University of Paris in January 1946.43

From Philosophy to Theosophy The thesis examines the work of a practically unknown Judeo-Arabic theosopher who was also a Kabbalist, perhaps the only one to have written in Arabic with the exception of another Iberian, Joseph Ibn Waqâr, who also attracted Vajda’s attention.44 In addition to the novel choice of subject, Vajda’s intellectual audacity at having broached a Kabbalistic text at a time when this discipline still raised eyebrows in academic circles, is also to be underscored. It was the first piece of scholarship in which Vajda shows his mastery of the intricacies of Jewish esotericism and his interest in the interaction between Kabbalah and philosophy—a domain later to be developed in his research on the Sefer Yetsirah commentaries by Saadia Gaon,45 Dunash ben Tamîm,46 Joseph Ibn Waqâr,47

41 Vajda, Le Commentaire kairouanais du Sefer Yeçîra; cf. Fenton, Bibliographie, no. 185. 42 Paris, BN Héb. 764. Not yet published. 43 Vajda, “Le Système théologique et philosophique de Judah ben Nissim Ibn Malka,” later published as Vajda, Juda b. Nissim Ibn Malka, philosophe juif marocain (Paris: Larose, 1954); cf. Fenton, Bibliographie, no. 184. The text had appeared previously as an article in the review Hesperis 39 (1952): 407–458, and 40 (1953): 119–183, 441–509; cf. Fenton, Bibliographie, nos. 305, 324, and 363. Vajda considered Ibn Malka to be of Moroccan origin and placed him in the fourteenth century. However, later research shows that he was active in thirteenth-century Spain. 44 In his Recherches sur la Philosophie et la Kabbale au Moyen Age. Fenton, Bibliographie, no. 613. 45 G. Vajda, “Sa’adya commentateur du Livre de la Création,” in AEPHE, Section des Sciences religieuses. 1959–1960, 1967 (1959), 4, no. 5. 46 See supra, n. 35. 47 Vajda, Recherches sur la philosophie et la Kabbale dans la pensée juive du Moyen Age (Paris: Mouton, 1962), 2e partie: “Joseph ben Abraham Ibn Waqâr et sa tentative de conciliation de la philosophie et de la religion,” 117–297, but also in Vajda, “‫ ”על פרוש ר' יוסף ן' וקאר לספר יצירה‬Otsar Yehudei Sefarad 5 (1962): 17–20.



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Samuel Ibn Motot,48 and Joseph ben Shalom Ashkenazi.49 Although one can detect the influence of Scholem’s research in Vajda’s earliest studies, the French scholar had independently acquired a wide knowledge of the Kabbalah through his own reading. One notes with interest that one of the first seminars Vajda taught after World War II in 1947 was devoted to Judeo-Arabic texts related to the history of Kabbalah.50 Writing in classical Arabic, the authors concerned necessarily belonged to the medieval philosophical tradition. The tension in Jewish writings between philosophy and mysticism, between reason and revelation, would henceforth become the focus of Vajda’s field of research. The following section will explain how this characterizes his particular contribution to the discipline.

Between Paris and Jerusalem—the Scholem connection It was in connection with his groundwork on the Sefer Yetsirah commentaries that Vajda was led to make his first contact with G. Scholem of Jerusalem, whose research he had been following very closely, as is apparent from his own publications.51 Writing in May 1939, Vajda requests that Scholem send him the fruits of his own research for review in the Revue des Etudes Juives. Contact with Scholem proved to be both enduring and inspiring, for their correspondence, preserved in the National Library in Jerusalem, reveals great mutual esteem and extends over several years.52 Vajda was indeed one of the rare scholars in Europe at that time to have taken a serious interest in Kabbalah, and like Scholem, he helped to rehabilitate it as a field worthy of scholarly investigation. Having constantly

48 “Recherches sur la synthèse philosophico-kabbalistique de Samuel Ibn Motot,” Archives d’Histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Age 27 (1960): 29–63; reprinted in Mélanges Georges Vajda, In Memoriam, ed. G. Weil (Hildesheim: Gerstenberg, 1982), 661–695. In addition to Judeo-Arabic commentaries, Vajda also studied that of ’Elhanan b. Yaqar of London. Cf. Bibliographie, nos. 568, 615, 763, and 764. It is noteworthy that Isaac Ibn Latîf is absent from this list. Most likely aware that Sarah Heller-Wilensky was working on this author, Vajda steered clear of Ibn Latîf who had also endeavored to harmonize philosophy and Kabbalah. However, he did study Ibn Latif’s commentary on Ecclesiastes. Cf. Bibliographie, nos. 1019, 1108. 49 Bibliographie, no. 425. 50 Bibliographie, no. 191. 51 His first letter is published in the Appendix to this article. 52 Jerusalem, NLI, Scholem archives 4, 1599, folder “Vajda.”

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deplored the fact that Kabbalistic studies had become the monopoly of amateurs and charlatans, he was enchanted to discover at last a kindred scholar applying the methods of philology and critical study to the history of Jewish mysticism. He worked in harmony with Jerusalem where Scholem had managed to establish Jewish mysticism as an academic discipline at the Hebrew University. Sometimes their fields of research dovetailed. Around 1939, Scholem located the Arabic original of Joseph Ibn Waqâr’s Reconciliation of Kabbalah and Philosophy in the Vatican Library.53 Scholem then confided the task of analyzing and editing this work to Vajda, who published the results of his research in his Recherches sur la Philosophie et la Kabbale au Moyen Age (Paris, 1964). From 1945 onwards, Vajda would regularly give periodical summaries and reviews of Scholem’s publications in the Revue des Etudes Juives54 and the Revue d’Histoire des Religions.55 Sometimes Vajda’s interest in Scholem’s discoveries was so intense that he himself translated or had translated certain studies written by his colleague. Foremost among the examples listed below is Scholem’s Ursprung und Anfänge der Kabbalah, a revised version of his Re’shit ha-qabbalah (1948), whose French translation Origines de la Kabbale appeared in 1966, more than twenty years ahead of its English version,56 in the collection Pardès edited by Vajda.57 The latter was especially fascinated by Scholem’s investigation of the Kabbalistic schools of Gerona and Provence, and it is certainly because of the connection with France that he felt it appropriate to prioritize this book’s translation.58 I know no other parallel in Jewish Studies of a professor who so closely followed and translated the research of his colleague. No doubt Scholem’s works on Castilian Kabbalah prompted Vajda to translate Ezra of Gerona’s Kabbalistic commentary on Canticles.59 In light of Vajda’s previous focus, this undertaking is quite surprising and marks a departure from his usual avenues. One would have expected him to prefer Isaac the Blind’s or

53 Scholem, “R. Joseph Ibn Waqâr’s Arabic Work on Kabbalah and Philosophy,” Kiryath Sefer 20 (1943): 155–162. I published the lexical part of this work in Fenton, “Ibn Waqâr,” in Principles of the Qabbalah (Los Angeles: Cherub Press, 2004). 54 Bibliographie, no. 171. 55 Bibliographie, nos. 197, 215, 403, 675, 720, and 1501. 56 Scholem, Origins of the Kabbalah (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1987). 57 Scholem, Les Origines de la Kabbale (Paris: Aubier-Montaigne, “Pardès,” 1966). 58 Scholem’s Major Trends was translated into French and published by Payot as early as 1950. 59 Bibliographie, no. 959: G. Vajda, Le Commentaire d’Ezra de Gérone sur le Cantiques des cantiques, traduction et notes annexes (Paris: A. Montaigne, 1969).



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Ezra of Gerona’s commentary on the Sefer Yetsirah, or the study of Neoplatonic elements in Spanish Kabbalah.

Kabbalistic Research Henceforth, Vajda’s scientific interest and his lectures encompassed all shades of Kabbalistic thought. It would be tedious to list the numerous subjects in these areas about which he wrote and lectured at length. Instead, I will summarize the main orientation of his research and teaching under six headings. I. Seminars: A large part of Vajda’s teaching at the École Pratique des Hautes Etudes was devoted to Kabbalistic themes, relating not only to the Spanish school and the Zohar and its commentaries, such as those of Shimon Ibn Labi and Abraham Azulay, but also to Lurianism, the philosophical sections in Moses Cordovero’s Pardes Rimmonim—of which he produced an unpublished French translation—and Hasidism. He also approached the exegetical writings of Kabbalistic authors, such as Nahmanides and Ibn Latif, commented on the Hayyim of Volozhin’s Nefesh ha-ḥayyim, and made a diachronic study of critiques of Kabbalah. II. Publications: Numerous are his articles and monographs on Kabbalah, such as Juda ben Nissim Ibn Malka, philosophe juif marocain (Paris, 1954) and Recherches sur la Philosophie et la Kabbale dans la pensée juive du Moyen Age (Paris, 1962). III. Editions: He produced critical editions and analytical translations of Kabbalistic texts, such as Jacob b. Sheshet’s Meshiv devarim nekhokhim (Jerusalem, 1968), The Hebrew Abridgement of R. Juda ben Nissim Ibn Malka’s Commentary on the Book of Creation (Ramat-Gan, 1974), and Le Commentaire d’Ezra de Gérone sur le Cantique des cantiques (Paris, 1969). IV. Series: He founded Pardès, a series devoted to Kabbalistic studies in which he published, inter alia, Scholem’s Origins of the Kabbalah (Paris, 1966). V. Translations: He translated into French Scholem’s articles on “The Sabbatian Movement in Poland,” and “The Meaning of the Law in Jewish Mysticism.”60

60 Bibliographie, nos. 330, 426.

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VI. Reviews: Vajda attached great importance to book reviews, which appeared abundantly in many periodicals, especially in the Revue des études juives. Spanning almost four decades, they form a running commentary on the development of Kabbalistic studies during their heyday in the twentieth century. His criticism of would-be initiates and naïve amateurs who abounded in this discipline was particularly incisive. The analytical rigor and scrupulous scholarship of his critiques often make them indispensable erudite complements to the works under review. Such is the case, for example, with his twenty-page review of Scholem’s Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism or his sixteen-page review of J. Dan’s Esoteric Theology of Ashkenazic Hasidism.61 VII. Summaries: At the same time, he also composed periodical summaries of the global development of Kabbalistic studies, especially of the Jerusalem school, which he followed very closely.62 These summaries were divided into various sections dealing, for example, with general questions, Hasidism, and Sabbatianism. Tellingly, there was always one section specifically devoted to Kabbalah and philosophy.

The Specificity of Vajda’s Contribution to Kabbalistic Studies In the concluding part of the present study, I would like to raise the question of the specificity of Vajda’s contribution to Kabbalistic studies in contrast to that of his colleague Scholem. In other words, did his academic training in Budapest and the intellectual climate in which he later evolved in Paris shape his conception of Kabbalah? Before discussing the differences in approach that characterize the works of these two scholars, a few words are in order regarding Vajda’s particular methodology, which may indeed reflect the education he received in his youth in Budapest. Before studying any particular author, Vajda would devote considerable energy to establishing a working-text by copying entire works or substantial quotations, mostly from manuscript sources, into his square Hebrew script. The margins of his many exercise books, which are now preserved in the library of the AIU in Paris, are filled with textual, philological, and conceptual observations, which constituted the groundwork for his subsequent studies.

61 Bibliographie, nos. 206, 974. 62 Bibliographie, nos. 215, 403, 675, 720, and 1501.



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Although, as we have seen, Vajda keenly followed the results of Scholem’s research and collaborated closely with him, their respective scientific approaches diverged quite widely. In my opinion, it is possible to speak of Vajda as the founder of a French school of the historical-critical study of Kabbalah, whose orientation betrays certain distinctive traits. In the statement of purpose (Avertissement) which prefaced the French translation of Scholem’s Origins of the Kabbalah, he argues for Kabbalah’s rightful place in the Humanities. He sums up his conception of the importance of Jewish mysticism both for the history of ideas and the psychology and phenomenology of religion, as well as for the factual and social development of Jewish spirituality. He expresses his intention to publish rigorously scientific studies free of sectarian prejudice, apologetics and charlatanism. Without a doubt, one can detect in this declaration a reaction to the school of French occultism that he mercilessly criticized. Given his reserved nature, he rarely expressed his personal convictions or ideological opinions in the classroom or in print. Unlike Scholem, he composed no essays or reflections on contemporary political or theological issues and left no memoirs containing his intellectual responses to the future challenges to Jewish survival. Although he accepted most of his Israeli counterpart’s literary premises, he did not believe that Kabbalah could elucidate the mystery of Jewish existence. His struggle as a scholar was for objective historical truth and intellectual probity in Judaic Studies, and his spokesman’s platform consisted of the numerous reviews he wrote covering half a century of Jewish research in all its aspects. As a pure product of the historical-critical school of European Orientalism, his approach, largely conditioned by his classical training in Budapest and the intellectual climate that sustained him in Paris, finds expression in the diachronic and clinical description of Kabbalah’s speculative components and their reaction to (or interaction with) philosophical issues. In Paris, Vajda became close to the circle of the French philosopher and historian of philosophy, Etienne Gilson (1884–1978), who founded in 1926 the Archives d’Histoire Doctrinale et Littéraire du Moyen Âge, to which Vajda was a regular contributor. This periodical published original research on medieval philosophy, often based on unpublished manuscripts. Vajda’s interest in the history of ideas was already present in his doctoral studies, where he shows how the first Jewish philosophers adapted Neoplatonic thought to Jewish mysticism. Indeed, within the wide spectrum of his interest in all aspects of Kabbalistic research, Vajda made his greatest contribution in one particular domain. He was attracted to the philosophical component in Kabbalah and concentrated on outlining the historical relationship between the rational and the mystical in Judaism. In 1956–1957, he devoted his seminar at the École des Hautes Etudes to the relationship between Kabbalah and phi-

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losophy in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.63 Subsequently, he became interested in the conflict between philosophy and Kabbalah, especially within the framework of the Maimonidean controversy. This is not to say that Scholem and his school ignored this dimension in Kabbalah. Indeed, Scholem had studied philosophy and had intended to take up the philosophy of language as the topic of his doctoral thesis. Conceiving of Jewish mysticism as a synthesis of gnosticism and philosophy, Scholem nonetheless underlined the fundamental dichotomy separating philosophy and Kabbalah. He saw Jewish mysticism as “a self-contained tradition that developed in close proximity to Jewish philosophy, but was never merely a branch of or aberration to philosophy.”64 Though he even authored a study on “Philosophy and Jewish Mysticism,”65 their relationship was not one of his central concerns, except when their confrontation helped to substantiate his conception of Kabbalah as a dynamic force revitalizing Jewish survival through its own symbolic interpretation of the tradition. This came to the fore when he dealt with issues such as the problem of creatio ex nihilo and deus absconditus in a Neoplatonic perspective.66 He recognized that Jewish mysticism’s exposure to Neoplatonism in the thirteenth century resulted in the most productive interaction between gnostic Kabbalah and medieval Jewish philosophy. Although Scholem had exhibited an early interest in these themes, he quickly refocused on the mythical and mystical element as a potent factor in Jewish history behind the antinomian and the redemptive dimensions of Sabbateanism as a prefiguration of Hasidism, secular Judaism, and Zionism. While the first generation of Scholem’s disciples, such as Sarah Heller-Wilensky (1921–1999) and, to a lesser extent, Isaiah Tishby (1908–1992), related to philosophical issues, the second generation of the Jerusalem school, including figures such as Yehudah Liebes and Moshe Idel, has concentrated rather on the Zohar, symbolism, and the magical and theurgic elements in Kabbalah. By contrast, detailed analysis of the dynamic relationship between Jewish mysticism and philosophy and the nature of their interplay was the central preoccupation of Vajda’s research on Kabbalah. He defined the various attitudes of

63 Bibliographie, nos. 423 and 458. 64 David Biale, Gershom Scholem: Kabbalah and Counter-History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979), 14; see also 134–137. 65 Review of Religion 2 (1937–1938): 385–402. One of his students, Sarah Heller-Wilensky, studied the relationship between Kabbalah and philosophy in the works of Isaac Ibn Latif. 66 Notably in the previously mentioned article on Ibn Gabirol’s influence on the early Kabbalah and his article “Reste neuplatonischer in der Mystik der deutsche Chassidim,” MGWJ 75 (1931): 172–191.



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Kabbalists towards philosophy in terms of their opposition, acceptance, or harmonization, the latter being characteristic of philosophical mystics. Within this framework, he introduced a category which, as far as I know, Scholem did not use—that of “mystical rationalism” or “philosophical mysticism.”67 Vajda called for the recognition of an intellectual-philosophical element in mysticism and a pietistic-mystical element in philosophy. According to this view, there is a point of intersection where philosophical and mystical traditions meet, insofar as the mystical experience can involve gnosis and intellectual illumination. Vajda applied this category not only to Kabbalists, such as Joseph Ibn Waqâr, but also to non-Kabbalistic Jewish mystics, such as Bahya Ibn Paquda, Dunash b. Tamim, and Obadyah Maimonides. The latter belonged to the JudeoSufi movement in Egypt, which combines rabbinic pietism with elements borrowed from Islamic philosophy and mysticism.68 Whereas Scholem’s exploration of Jewish mysticism extended from remote antiquity to contemporary mysticism, Vajda, in his study of the interaction between philosophy and mysticism, concentrated almost exclusively on the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and rarely ventured beyond the medieval period and those regions that had been the direct heirs to the Judeo-Arabic tradition, neglecting what had transpired in the East. Despite his interest in Sabbateanism, as evidenced by his own translation of one of Scholem’s studies on the subject,69 he made no notable contribution to this area despite his competence in its Islamic dimension which Scholem himself somewhat neglected. On another level, Vajda, like his counterpart in Jerusalem, gave priority to bibliographical research and engaged in the preparation of critical editions of Kabbalistic texts. He proceeded by writing partial analytical studies of doctrines, followed by synthetic monographs in which philological precision was his handmaid. Each of his studies, mainly based on unpublished manuscript sources, was regarded as another stone in the edifice of comprehensive knowledge of the field. He seldom dealt with ritual or emotional aspects of Kabbalah, the only exception being the pages he devoted to the love of God in Kabbalistic texts in his L’amour de Dieu dans la pensée juive du Moyen Âge (Paris, 1957). Perhaps here

67 On this notion, see David R. Blumenthal, Philosophic Mysticism: Studies in Rational Religion (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2006), especially 172–176. 68 These themes have been explored by some of his disciples, such as David Blumenthal, Micheline Chaze, Paul Fenton, Roland Goetschel, Nicholas Sed, Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, and François Secret. For further insight into the Judeo-Sufi movement, see my Deux traités de mystique juive (Lagrasse: Verdier, 1987). 69 Bibliographie, no. 330.

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one can perceive the influence of the psychological preoccupations of the Etudes Carmelitaines circle, to which Louis Massignon introduced Vajda. In short, Vajda’s studies did not embrace the irrational aspects and apocalyptic tendencies in Kabbalah, such as theurgy, messianism, and Sabbatean antinomianism, which had preoccupied Scholem, the master of the Jerusalem school. Vajda’s apparent rejection of Scholem’s ideological bias in this respect may have been conditioned by his European political outlook or his scholarly indifference to Zionism. Though he shared Scholem’s esteem for Kabbalah, his attachment to the valorization of the philosophical component may reflect a residual trace of the Wissenschaft’s search for rational respectability in Judaism. Indeed, in this respect, Vajda was closer to the European school and the early Hungarian scholars, such as Ignaz Goldziher, or the later Hungarian scholars, Vajda’s colleagues Alexander (Sándor) Altmann (1906–1987)70 and Samuel Miklós Stern (1920–1969), whose research on the Neoplatonic doctrine of Isaac Israeli (Oxford, 1958) had been prefigured by his own studies of the Qayrawan commentary. Thus, firmly entrenched in the philological and critical methodology of the Science of Judaism acquired in his youth, Vajda, profoundly influenced by Massignon’s affection for mysticism and Gilson’s propensity for the history of ideas, like Scholem, broke free from Wissenschaft’s denigration of Kabbalah to become one of its leading exponents on the European continent.

Appendix Letter from Georges Vajda to Gershom Scholem, May 1939: Je prends la liberté de vous écrire pour vous consulter sur quelques questions relevant de votre particulière compétence dans le domaine de la mystique juive et des problèmes connexes. 1° Je m’occupe depuis quelque temps du commentaire du Sefer Yesira, attribué à Dunash Ben Tâmîm. Outre les manuscrits groupés dejà par Steinschneider in H[ebräische] Üb[ersetzungen], p. 394 sqq. et dont j’ai étudié (outre le

70 Interest in the intellectual element in Kabbalah and its relation to Neoplatonic and Aristotelian philosophy is also perceptible to a certain degree in the studies of his disciples, including Lawrence Fine, Daniel Matt, Arthur Green, and Elliot Wolfson.



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texte imprimé par Grossberg) ceux qui se trouvent à Paris et Munich 92, je connais le manuscrit de la Casanatense que j’ai fait photographier. Avez-vous rencontré d’autres mss. de cet ouvrage au cours de vos recherches dans les différentes bibliothèques? 2° J’ai etudié d’assez près les ouvrages arabes de Juda ben Nissim ibn Malka, contenus dans le ms. Hébreu 764 de la Bibliothèque Nationale. Je sais qu’il existe un autre ms. à la Bodléienne que je n’ai pas encore pu me procurer, ainsi qu’une traduction hébraïque. Cette dernière ne peut guère, d’après le nombre of feuilles indiqué par le catalogue recouvrir la totalité des textes arabes du Uns al-Gharîb.71 M. D. Baneth m’a ecrit un jour que vous possédiez les photographies de cette version hébraïque. Pourriez-vous me renseigner sur son contenu exact ? Je serais également très heureux de connaître votre avis autorisé sur l’opportunité d’une étude critique, éventuellement d’une édition au moins partielle, de l’œuvre de Juda ben Nissim. Enfin, en ma qualité de secrétaire de la rédaction de la REJ, j’ajoute que je serais particulièrement reconnaissant de recevoir vos publications pour en faire état dans la Bibliographie de la Revue.72

71 The reference to the Uns al-Gharîb (Consolation to the Stranger) of Judah Ibn Malka is to the manuscript Opp. Add. 4 45 housed in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, which contains seventeen folios according to the description by A. Neubauer, Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1884). Col. 539, no. 1536. Apparently, Scholem had a Photostat of this manuscript. 72 Jerusalem, National Library, Scholem archives 4 1599, folder Vajda, 1. G. Vajda signed: Professeur à l’École Rabbinique. Similarly, in his letter dated June 31, 1945, Vajda announces to Scholem the completion of his research on Dunash ben Tamim and Juda Ibn Malka.

Political Confrontations

Miklós Konrád

Hungarian Expectations and Jewish Self-Definitions, 1840–1914 In the first half of the nineteenth century, adopting in large part the ideological rationale previously put forth by German Jewry,1 Jews in Hungary also engaged in the task of redefining Judaism and what it meant to be a Jew. In 1842, two years before his death, Aaron Chorin, the pioneer Reform rabbi, was probably the first Hungarian Jew to formulate in a concise, slogan-like form the dogma professed by Jews aspiring to integrate into the majority society while retaining their—reconceptualized—Jewish identity: “With the scattering of the Israelites, their nationality has perished. And so there is no Israelite nation, rather, Jews are merely a religious community, like all other denominations. Just like the Catholic or the Protestant, [...] the Jew too is a Hungarian in Hungary, a German in Germany, and a Frenchman in France.”2 This dogma, which constituted the fundamental principle presiding over the emancipation of the Jews, would be proclaimed by the Hungarian political and cultural elite until the introduction of the numerus clausus in 1920, and repeated again and again by integrationist Jews at least until the Holocaust. Yet, from the 1890s onwards, alongside the constant assertion that Jews were solely a religious body, Neolog intellectuals (rabbis, journalists and scholars writing in Neolog Jewish periodicals) spoke more and more frequently of the Jewish “people,” the Jewish népfaj [approximatively Volksstamm], and even the Jewish race, faj. The use of these terms remained often unconscious, casual, unsystematic. Frequently, however, they were used in a way clearly at odds with the definition of Jewishness reduced to a matter of faith. This flagrant contradiction leads to the question of the respective dynamics of external pressure and internal developments in the course of modern Jewish history. This is an old debate in Jewish historiography, and I would tend to be among those who insist on the importance of external pressure. After all, nothing indicates its weight more clearly than the fact that the core tenet of the liberal ideology of Jewish integration, the assertion that Jews were nothing else than a

1 Michael Silber, “The Historical Experience of German Jewry and its Impact on Haskalah and Reform in Hungary,” in Toward Modernity: The European Jewish Model, ed. Jacob Katz (New Brunswick and Oxford: Transaction Books, 1987), 127. 2 “Gutachten des Ober-Rabbiners Herrn Chorin,” in Rabbinische Gutachten über die Verträglichkeit der freien Forschung mit dem Rabbineramte (Breslau: Druck von Leopold Freund, 1842), 31. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-018

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community of faith, was a blatantly false description of the realities of Jewish life, a description in which it is hard to believe that those who professed it had ever regarded it as true without any reservations. I do not claim that the confessionalisation of Judaism, and more generally, the moderate version of Reform Judaism developed in Hungary, were only driven by the ambition to make Judaism acceptable to Gentile society, or the necessity to satisfy external expectations. They certainly stemmed in part from the desire to make Judaism compelling to modernized Jews, to offer a self-definition allowing them to harmonize their evolving Jewish and developing Hungarian identities. Nevertheless, one thing seems to me quite certain: there was little chance that Jews who considered legal emancipation and social acceptance as a priority would advance self-definitions incompatible with Hungarians’ own vision of the legitimate form of continued Jewish existence. How, then, to explain that by the end of the nineteenth century, Neolog intellectuals enlarged the definition of Jewishness by speaking of the Jewish “people,” of the Jewish népfaj, and even of the Jewish “race”? Was it then that Hungarian expectations were in fact less coercive than is usually thought? Or did that reflect a change in the priorities of Neolog Jewish intellectuals? If we assume that the pressure of external expectations inevitably influenced and partly determined modern Jewish self-definitions, the first question that should be answered is what exactly the Hungarian political and cultural elite was expecting from Jews. Which definitions of Judaism and Jewishness became inadmissible, and which ones remained more or less permissible? Only by answering these questions can we assess how much room for ideological maneuver Jews theoretically had. In the first part of my paper, I will try to show that because of the contradictions in the discourse of the Hungarian elite, their room for maneuver remained rather large, certainly larger than is usually thought. In the second part of my article, I examine how Neolog intellectuals used this opportunity, and for what purpose.

Gentile Expectations In Hungary, in contrast with the Austrian hereditary lands, but very much like in Germany or France, the denationalization of the Jews was their entry ticket to emancipation. It was all the more so in Hungary since at the time of the Hungarian Vormärz (1830–1848), when the emerging liberal camp elaborated its version of the modern nation-state, the Hungarian Kingdom was a country where non-Hungarian ethnic groups, some of which themselves had set out on the



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road to national awakening, comprised roughly sixty percent of the population.3 According to the concept of “political nation” that would prevail until the collapse of the Dual Monarchy, no other ethnic group besides Hungarians (and to a lesser degree Croatians) could legitimately pretend to constitute a nation. In 1839, in its Dietal instructions, that is the written orders to its elected representatives to the Diet, the county of Pest asked for the bestowal of civil rights to the Jews, “given that the Hungarian nation does not consider Jews as a separate nation of the country but only as different citizens.”4 Struggling to adapt the concept of the nation-state to the most ethnically diverse country in Europe, Hungarian liberal nationalism necessarily accepted that within the Hungarian nation there might exist a variety of ethnic groups.5 But could the Jews qualify as a “people” in the sense of an ethnic community? The answer is both yes and no. On the one hand, in the parliamentary debates and the press of the 1840s, Hungarians often called Jews a “people” or a népfaj. After all, it would have been difficult to deny their common origins, culture and traditions. On the other hand, they were not recognized as a real “people” since they did not have their own language. Or more precisely, since the first thing expected from Jews was to adopt the Hungarian language in order to increase the number of Hungarians, the recognition of Jewish ethnicity, unlike in the case of the Romanians, Slovaks, or Germans, did not imply recognition of the legitimate survival of the Yiddish language, all the less so since it was not considered to be a real language, but only a “jargon.” This explains why, in a book published in 1847, the famous statistician Elek Fényes defined the Jews as a népfaj, then declared a few pages later that they did not constitute a “people” since they did not possess a language of their own.6 Yet, for Lajos Kossuth, the leader of the liberal nationalists, in the current state of the Jewish religion, which he considered to be not merely a religion but rather a

3 Tamás Dobszay and Zoltán Fónagy, “A rendi társadalom utolsó évtizedei” [The Last Decades of Feudal Society], in Magyarország története a 19. században [The History of Hungary in the 19th Century], ed. András Gergely (Budapest: Osiris Kiadó, 2003), 81.; Endre Arató, A magyarországi nemzetiségek nemzeti ideológiája [The National Ideology of Hungarian Nationalities] (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1983). 4 Sándor Büchler, A zsidók története Budapesten a legrégibb időktől 1867-ig [The History of the Jews in Budapest from the Most Remote Times to 1867] (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1901), 429. The Jewish emancipation bill was passed by the Lower House but was defeated in the Upper House. 5 János Varga, A Hungarian Quo Vadis: Political Trends and Theories of the Early 1840s (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1993), 22–42. 6 Elek Fényes, Magyarország leírása [Description of Hungary], vol. I. (Pest: Beimel, 1847), 25, 32.

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“theocratic regime” prescribing a “caste-like isolation,” Jews could all the less be an ethnic group as in contrast to other “races,” such as the Slovaks, the Germans or the Romanians, their ethnicity was one whose separateness was elevated by their religion to a religious dogma. According to Kossuth, Jews had to convene a Sanhedrin in order to reform Judaism, so that “they become a separate religious denomination, but, nevertheless, cease to be a separate people.”7 The short article—in fact, a long footnote appended to someone else’s editorial—written by Kossuth in 1844 had a decisive influence on the Hungarian emancipation debate. It doubtlessly contributed to the growing hostility toward Jewish emancipation. After his remarks, an increasing majority of liberals made their support of emancipation contingent on the reform of Judaism. The bill presented by the national Diet to the king for his assent in 1844 provided only minor improvements in the conditions of the Jews since, as the introductory text explained, the Jews’ abrogation of the “obsolete customs” that hampered their social integration had to precede their complete emancipation.8 The Diet was finally dissolved without the bill being approved by the king.9 If for a different reason—the Hungarians’ defeat in the war of independence—the Emancipation Act passed on July 28, 1849 had not come into force either, it was more liberal in that it did grant emancipation to the Jews before a religious reform that the act nevertheless enjoined the Jews to deliberate.10 Eighteen years later, in September 1867, Leopold Löw, the leading Reform rabbi of nineteenth-century Hungary, could rightly point out that public opinion had evolved on the issue: “By now, everybody admits that all those who in the forties considered that civil emancipation should be conditioned upon religious reforms were in error. This is now an outdated standpoint.”11 Indeed, times were ripe for emancipation. Three months later, on December 20 and 23, 1867, the bill on Jewish emancipation passed in the Lower House of the Parliament without any debate,

7 Gábor Fábián, “Zsidó-emancipatió” [Jewish Emancipation], Pesti Hírlap, May 5, 1844, 300. 8 Ferencz Kovács, Az 1843/44-ik évi magyar országgyűlési alsó tábla kerületi üléseinek naplója [Records of the District Sessions of the Hungarian Parliament’s Lower House in 1843–1844], vol. VI. (Budapest: Franklin-Társulat, 1894), 121–126. 9 Zsigmond Groszmann, A magyar zsidók V. Ferdinánd alatt (1835–1848) [The Hungarian Jews under Ferdinand V. (1835–1848)] (Budapest: Az “Egyenlőség” Könyvkiadóhivatala, 1916), 25. 10 Jenő Zsoldos, ed., 1848–1849 a magyar zsidóság életében [1848–1849 in the Life of Hungarian Jewry], 2nd ed. (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő Kiadó, 1998), 262–264. 11 Lipót Löw, “A magyar zsidók története” [The History of Hungarian Jews], A Hon, September 3, 1867, n. pag.



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and in the Upper House after five short supportive speeches.12 The Emancipation Act, which came into effect on December 28, 1867, did not contain any conditions. Yet, by giving “the Israelite inhabitants of the country” equal civil and political rights with “Christian inhabitants,”13 the law implicitly reasserted the fundamental tenet of the ideology of Jewish emancipation. Jews could be only a religious community, their religious faith was the only thing that separated them from their non-Jewish fellow citizens. Since they supposedly did not have a living language of their own, they could not be a nationality. Of course, it would be once again more precise to say that since emancipation had been granted to Jews in exchange for their endorsement of the Hungarian cause, they could not be recognized as a separate nationality, and thus, could not be recognized as having their own language either. Since most Jews at the time spoke Yiddish, and since a substantial minority among them still did so during the final years of the Dual Monarchy, authorities were forced into adopting creative rhetoric. As the instructions for census-takers in 1910 stated, since “only living languages” could be registered, “the Jewish [i.e. Yiddish] or Hebrew language” could not be taken in account. Therefore, those “persons of Jewish religion” who spoke “German mixed or corrupted by Hebrew, the so-called Jargon,” were to be classified as German speakers. Following this tortuous logic, Yiddish speakers were speaking a dead language.14 The official definition of the Jews and Judaism remained unchanged until the end of the Dual Monarchy. Hungarians of the Mosaic faith differed from their compatriots only in their religious affiliation. The synagogues, the Jewish communities, and their institutions were the only legitimate spaces for public expressions of Jewishness. Concerning Jews’ desirable degree of Magyarization, the political and cultural elite did not really expound on the subject. In this era of homogenizing nationalism, there was no need to do so. Hungarian liberal nationalism certainly recognized Jews’ legitimate right to remain faithful to the religion of their fathers. In contrast to Germany, asking for their conversion was politically incorrect.15 But otherwise, the self-evident expectation was for the Jews to

12 Képviselőházi napló, 1865–1868, [Records of the Lower House of the Parliament, 1865–1868] vol. VI. (Budapest: Emich Gusztáv, 1868), 257; Főrendiházi napló, 1865–1868 [Records of the Upper House of the Parliament, 1865–1868] (Pest: Athenaeum, 1969), 308–311. 13 László Gonda, A zsidóság Magyarországon 1526–1945 [The Jews in Hungary 1526–1945] (Budapest: Századvég Kiadó, 1992), 270. 14 A m. kir. központi statisztikai hivatal munkássága (1871–1911) [Report on the Activities of the Hungarian Royal Office of Statistics, 1871–1911] (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda Részvény-Társaság, 1911), 497. 15 Miklós Konrád, Zsidóságon innen és túl. Zsidók vallásváltása Magyarországon a reformkortól az első világháborúig [Within and Beyond Jewishness: Jewish Conversion in Hungary from

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completely identify with Hungarians. To give some excerpts from a parliamentary debate on the Jewish school fund in 1880, they had to become Hungarians not only in “patriotic feelings,” “language,” “culture,” “customs,” and “morality,” but also in their “thoughts,” and “emotions.”16 In 1889, writing for Egyenlőség [Equality], the most widely read Neolog Jewish weekly, an anonymous author who signed a previous article “A true friend of the Jews” reminded the Jews of their duties in the following terms: Jews must do their best to become externally and internally similar to other Hungarians. They can be Jews by religion, but this must not lend them any specific character. [...] Once again, we draw the attention of the Jews to the fact that in their own interest, they should cautiously refrain from all kinds of distinctiveness and strive with all their energy not to differ in any way from the other habitants of the country, not even in the slightest externals.17

Needless to say, when speaking of “other habitants,” he meant Hungarians. As Béla Tóth, one of the most famous liberal publicists of his time, wrote in 1900: “Only Hungarianness has the strength to wipe out all alien features from the innermost being of our Jewish brothers. Because this is the ultimate goal.”18 Theoretically, Hungarian liberal nationalism did not tolerate any difference except religion. So much for the official slogans. Concurrently, however, the liberal political elite often voiced opinions that contradicted, in full or in part, the official dogma. These opinions are all the more remarkable since, with one exception, nobody seemed to notice the contradiction. In a speech to Parliament in 1874, Ferenc Pulszky, a leading Hungarian liberal, explained that unlike the language-based Hungarian nationality, the Jewish “nationality” was defined by “religion” and “blood.” Pulszky saw no problem here; on the contrary, he declared himself to be “a great admirer of the Jewish nationality,” indeed a “noble nationality which preserved its own character for millennia.” In a seemingly self-contradictory way, he then praised the Jews for assimilating perfectly into the German, English, French, and Hungarian nations.19 In this instance, one of the MPs who spoke after Pulszky reminded him that the Jews were not—and should not be—considered

the Age of Reform to World War I] (Budapest: MTA Bölcsészettudományi Kutatóközpont Történettudományi Intézet, 2014), 72–104. 16 Árpád Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika, 1847–1894 [Hungarian Ecclesiastical Politics, 1847– 1894], vol. II. (Budapest: Boruth. E. Könyvnyomdája, 1894), 1053, 1076, 1096. 17 “Újabb tanács” [Another advice], Egyenlőség, February 10, 1889, 8, 10. 18 Béla Tóth, “Elég-e?” [Is it Enough?], Pesti Hírlap, October 21, 1900, 2–3. 19 Képviselőházi napló, 1872–1875 [Records of the Lower House of the Parliament, 1872–1875], vol. XI. (Buda: Magyar Királyi Államnyomda, 1874), 239–240.



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a nationality.20 But no one said a word when Ágoston Trefort, Minister of Religious and Educational Affairs, remarked casually during the same session that “among the Israelite population, as in the case of every ancient people, the népfaj is identical to the religion.”21 Nor did anyone object, not even on the opposition benches, when in 1881 Prime Minister Kálmán Tisza, a convinced liberal, stated incidentally that “the Israelites [...] constitute a race just as much as they constitute a religious denomination.”22 And finally, no one contradicted the MP Géza Mocsáry, when two years later he set out to explain, without assigning any value judgment, that “among the Jews, racial, national, and religious characteristics have been fused into a common and particular type.”23 How is this dual discourse to be explained? Certainly, one should keep in mind that terms like “people,” “népfaj,” “nationality,” or “race” had a flexible meaning and were often used by contemporaries in an unconscious way. Even so, the discourse appears to be patently self-contradictory. As for possible explanations, the first is political. “Those who are with us— they are us,” declared the ex-Prime Minister Dezső Bánffy in a conversation with journalists on Jewish issues in 1903.24 Aside from strident appeals for complete assimilation, there were two things Jews were definitely expected to do: they had to adopt the Hungarian language as quickly as they could and vocally support the ideal of the Hungarian nation-state. The Jews largely met this expectation. While their linguistic acculturation began on a large scale only in the 1860s, by 1880, the percentage of Jews declaring themselves to be native Hungarian speakers reached 56%, then grew to 77% in 1910. In Budapest, it reached by then 90%. Orthodox Jews were less likely to adopt the Hungarian language, but their Hungarian-language press was just as vocal as the Neolog press in asserting Jews’ patriotism and insisting on their support for the Hungarian cause in regions populated mainly by Non-Hungarians.25 Everything else was secondary. In 1885, while speaking about Jewish immigrants, Kálmán Tisza was interrupted by an antisemitic MP

20 Ibid., 244. 21 Ibid., 231. 22 Képviselőházi napló, 1878–1881 [Records of the Lower House of the Parliament, 1878–1881], vol. XVII. (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda-Részvény-Társaság, 1881), 276. 23 Képviselőházi napló, 1881–1884 [Records of the Lower House of the Parliament, 1881–1884], vol. IX. (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda-Részvény-Társaság, 1883), 168. 24 “Beszélgetés Bánffy Báróval” [Conversation with Baron Bánffy], Jövendő, March 3, 1903, 5. 25 Viador [Dániel Weisz], “A zsidó iskolák” [The Jewish Schools], Zsidó Híradó, July 28, 1892, 1–2; Idem., “Kiközösítve” [Ostracized]. Zsidó Híradó, March 2, 1893, 1–2. Béla Tóth, “Elég-e?” [Is it Enough?], Pesti Hírlap, October 21, 1900, 2–3.

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who shouted “it’s not the religion!” The prime minister, who clearly considered this a minor quibble, placidly continued: “Well then, race, if you like.”26 A second explanation is related to the perception of the Jews. Regardless of the ideology of emancipation, Hungary’s liberal politicians—and Hungarian society as a whole—tended to consider Jews as more than a religious denomination. They certainly thought so at the beginning of the Dualist era, quite understandably, since at that time Hungarian Jewry still remained largely unacculturated. The perception of their otherness was inevitably expressed in terms theoretically inapplicable to Jews. In a book entitled The Nationalities of the Hungarian Empire (1867), Elek Fényes excluded the Jews from the nationalities on the official ground that “they do not have their own living language.” Yet, as he did twenty years earlier, he wrote in his book about the characteristics of the Jewish népfaj.27 Nine years later, in a book published by the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Pál Hunfalvy, a pioneer figure of Hungarian historical ethnology, also stressed that Jews were not a nationality, but then included a chapter on the Jewish people, presented alongside Hungarians, Germans, Slavs, Romanians, Armenians, and Gypsies.28 In May 1882, calling to order the antisemitic MP Győző Istóczy, the Speaker of Parliament, Tamás Péchy, asked him to watch his words when speaking of an “industrious and hard-working people so large in number.”29 Two months later, and once again in reaction to an antisemitic rant by Istóczy, the Vice Speaker Pál Szontagh enjoined him not to forget that “Hungary has 500,000 habitants belonging to this népfaj.”30 By the turn of the century, the acculturation of the majority of Hungarian Jews was an accomplished fact, with the notable exception, however, of the northeastern part of the country where ultra-Orthodox, and notably Hasidic Jews, “maintaned a position of total exclusiveness in regard to outer society, living in a world of their own.”31 While in 1910, as noted earlier, 77% of Jews declared Hun-

26 Képviselőházi Napló, 1884–1887 [Records of the Lower House of the Parliament, 1881–1884], vol. VI. (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda-Részvény-Társaság, 1885), 390. 27 Elek Fényes, A magyar birodalom nemzetiségei és ezek száma vármegyék és járások szerint [The Nationalities of the Hungarian Empire and their Number by Counties and Districts] (Pest: Eggenberger Ferdinánd M. Akad. Könyvárus, 1867), 17, 30. 28 Pál Hunfalvy, Magyarország ethnographiája [The Ethnography of Hungary] (Budapest: A M. Tud. Akadémia Könyvkiadó-Hivatala, 1876), 419, 518–527. 29 Képviselőházi Napló 1881–1884 [Records of the Lower House of the Parliament, 1881–1884], vol. V. (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda-Részvény-Társaság, 1882), 63. 30 Ibid., 260. 31 Nathaniel Katzburg, “Assimilation in Hungary during the Nineteenth Century: Orthodox Positions,” in Jewish Assimilation in Modern Times, ed. Bela Vago (Boulder: Westview Press, 1981), 51.



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garian as their mother tongue or their Umgangssprache, in the four northeastern counties of Bereg, Ung, Máramaros, and Ugocsa, only 35,2% of the Jews did so. In Máramaros county, the bastion of ultra-Orthodoxy, this proportion fell to seventeen percent.32 This probably explains why László Nyegre, an MP of the governing Liberal Party and author of a book (1900) on Máramaros county, classified the Jews without any explanation among the “nationalities” of the region.33 In striking contradiction with its official denial of Yiddish language’s mere existence, from 1910 to 1912, the Hungarian Office of Statistics included “Jargon” in its tables on the languages of sermons. As the tables show, the number of Jewish “mother communities” (communities authorized to keep birth, marriage, and death registries) where sermons were delivered in Yiddish rose between these two dates from eighty-three to ninety-nine. These communities, all of them Orthodox and most of them probably located in the northeastern part of the country, represented respectively 18 and 21% of the Hungarian Jewish “mother communities.”34 The perception of the Jews as being something more than a community of faith also explains why Hungarian liberal politicians and intellectuals spoke of the Jewish “race.” Although the use of racial terminology increasingly accorded with essentializing, pseudo-scientific theories, even at the end of the nineteenth century, the word “race” was still frequently used as a simple synonym for peoplehood. In liberal political discourse, “Hungarian race” would often refer to those citizens who declared Hungarian to be their mother tongue in national censuses regardless of their ethnic background.35 Most non-Jewish Hungarians spoke of the “Jewish race” without any connotation of immutable biological essence. This was certainly the case with Gábor Baross, Minister of Trade and MP of the town of Győr, who declared to the rabbi of the town in 1892: “I deeply respect your reli-

32 Miklós Konrád, “Az Államhatalom és a régió más népességeinek viszonya a zsidósághoz” [The Attitude Towards the Jews of the State Power and Other Populations of the Region], in Zsidók Kárpátalján: Történelem és örökség a dualizmus korától napjainkig [Jews in Carpathian Ruthenia: History and Heritage from the Mid-19th Century to the Present], eds. Viktória Bányai, Csilla Fedinec, and Szonja Ráhel Komoróczy (Budapest: Aposztróf Kiadó, 2013), 107–108. 33 László Nyegre, Máramaros megye [The County of Máramaros] (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda-Részvénytársaság, 1900), 8, 11–12. 34 “Statisztikai táblázatok” [Statistical tables], in Magyarország közoktatásügye az 1910. évben [Hungarian Public Education in the Year 1910] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1912), 112–113; “Statisztikai táblázatok” [Statistical Tables], in Magyarország közoktatásügye az 1912. évben [Hungarian Public Education in the Year 1912] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1913), 116–117. 35 See for instance (G), “A magyar állam ereje” [The Strength of the Hungarian State], Pesti Hírlap, April 30, 1882, 1–2; Kornél Ábrányi ifj., Nemzeti ideál [National Ideal], XXIV. (Budapest: Légrády, 1898); Gusztáv Beksics, A magyar politika új alapjai [The New Foundations of Hungarian Politics] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1899), 57.

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gion, I admire and love your race.”36 When the most famous Hungarian writer of the 19th century, Mór Jókai glorified in 1898 the participation of the “Hebrew race” in the War of Independence of 1848–1849, he certainly not meant to describe Jews as a biologically fixed group unable to change and become truly Hungarian. He meant exactly the contrary.37 Naturally, there is no doubt that the racial perception of Jews was also a result of the Zeitgeist: as elsewhere in Europe in the second half of the nineteenth century, racial theories pervaded scientific and public debates. In a book called Our Homeland and Its People (1889), the statistician and academic Károly Keleti reasserted the principle according to which the Jews were not a nationality because they did not have a living language of their own—the Yiddish, he declared, could not be “seriously” considered a language. But he firmly rejected the view that they were only a religious community, since, as he wrote, “besides their denomination, or rather, under its influence and as a consequence of it, Israelites constitute a separate race and, indeed, one of the purest surviving races.” For Keleti, the term had no negative connotations whatsoever, on the contrary, he had only praise for Jewish “racial” qualities.38 Because of the contradictions between political principles and socio-cultural perceptions, the discourse of the Hungarian political and cultural elite remained polyphonic at the time of the Dual Monarchy. It considered at least one potential component of Jewish identity, the idea of a Jewish nation, to be fully illegitimate, but otherwise it left much room for Jewish self-definition.

Jewish self-definitions Similar to the Hungarian liberal discourse, the Jewish discourse also proved to be self-contradictory, divided as it was between the need to comply with external expectations and the desire to foster Jewish identity.

36 József Kemény, Vázlatok a győri zsidóság történetéből [Sketches from the History of the Jews of Győr] (Győr: n. p., 1930), 91. 37 Mór Jókai: “Előszó” [Foreword], in Béla Bernstein, Az 1848/49-iki magyar szabadságharcz és a zsidók [The Hungarian War of Liberation of 1848–49 and the Jews] (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1898), VII–VIII. 38 Károly Keleti, Hazánk és népe: A közgazdaság és társadalmi statistika szempontjából [Our Homeland and its People: From an Economic and Social Statistical Viewpoint] (Budapest: Ráth Mór, 1889), 400–402.



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In 1841, the Jewish communities of Pest and Óbuda complained to Pest county that some newspapers were seeking to “discredit the Jewish nation in the eyes of public opinion.” The county began its response by stating that “it does not wish to regard Jews as a separate nation, but rather as a separate, until now only tolerated religious denomination.”39 Clearly, “does not wish” was a euphemism, and there is no doubt that the self-definitions put forward publicly in the 1840s by rabbis and Jewish intellectuals fighting for emancipation were primarily dictated by political considerations. They were reactions to expectations and accusations coming from without, political responses intended to counter arguments advanced against the emancipation of the Jews. Under the circumstances, this meant on the one hand denying the existence of the Jewish nation, Jewish nationality, and Yiddish as an authentic, or even simply a living language, and, on the other hand, emphasizing universalized messianism, the exclusively religious nature of Judaism, and the ability of Jews to assimilate into Hungarian society.40 In 1844, reacting to a pamphleteer opposed to the emancipation of the Jews on the grounds that they still conceived of themselves as a separate nation waiting for the Messiah to lead them back to Zion, Leopold Löw emphasized: “Through their spokesmen, Jews have declared and repeated a hundred times that they do not form a nation, but rather a community of faith, and that they are absorbed into the nationality of the nations among which they live.”41 In his response to Kossuth’s article, Löw argued that Jews could only be called a people “in terms of their common origins,” to which there could be no objection. However, in a

39 “Vidéki levéltárcza” [Letter from the Countryside] Pesti Hírlap, May 1, 1841, 288. 40 Leopold Löv [sic], “Még néhány szó ‘a ‘’zsidók’’ erkölcstelensége’ s a ‘zsidók’ polgárosítása fölött” [A Few More Words on “the Immorality of the Jews” and on Jewish Civil Rights], Pesti Hírlap, July 25, 1844, 505–506; Jogfi, “Mozaiták ügyében” [Concerning Mosaites], Pesti Hírlap, May 2, 1845, 289–290; Márton Diósy, “A honi izraeliták között magyar nyelvet terjesztő pesti egylet” [The Pest Association for the Diffusion of the Hungarian Language among the Jews of the Country], in Első magyar zsidó naptár és évkönyv 1848-ik szökőévre [First Hungarian-Jewish Calendar and Yearbook for the Leap Year 1848] (Pest: Landerer és Heckenast, 1848), 86–88; “A honi izraeliták belügyeit kezelő választmány körlevele” [Circular of the Committee Managing the Internal Affairs of the Country’s Jews], in 1848–1849 a magyar zsidóság életében [1848–1849 in the Life of Hungarian Jews], ed. Jenő Zsoldos, 2d ed. (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 1998), 62–64; Lipót Hartmán, Magyar zsidó, vagy: zsidó magyar? [Hungarian Jew or Jewish Hungarian?] (Pécs: Lyceumi nyomda, 1848). 41 Dr. J. G, Némelly Igénytelen Nézetek, vallásilag véve, A’ magyarhoni zsidók’ meghonosítása’ ’s a’ magyar nemzetteli egybeolvadása ügyében [A Few Modest Opinions, from a Religious Point of View, Concerning the Civil Rights of the Jews and their Amalgamation with the Hungarian Nation] (Kőszeg: Reichard Károly, 1843); Leopold Löw, “Zur Emancipationsfrage” (1844), in Gesammelte Schriften, ed. Immanuel Löw (Szegedin: Verlag von Ludwig Engel, 1898), IV, 358.

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political sense, the Jews—who lacked a homeland, a language, and “civil laws”— did not constitute a nation, or a nationality. In fact, since they lacked the usual attributes of peoplehood, such as their own songs, dances and ways of dressing, they were not even really a “separate people.”42 At the time of neo-absolutism, the writings of the nascent Neolog intelligentsia continued to serve primarily political ends—that is, the emancipation of the Jews. When, in 1861, a Jewish primary school teacher in Sátoraljaújhely spoke carelessly in the weekly Magyar Izraelita [Hungarian Israelite] about the Jews’ duty to maintain their “national selves,” the editor did not fail to correct him, reminding his readers in a footnote of the official position: “That’s wrong! Jews are not a nation, but only a denomination!”43 By this time, though, the main message was not so much the negation of Jewish nationhood, but rather the assertion that Jews were not a nationality and did not have any ambition to be considered as one.44 Unlike other groups, stressed Magyar Izraelita in 1861, Jews had never “bothered” Hungarians with any “nationality claim.” The message was all the more clear when the author concluded by remarking that Jews could thus rightly expect the Hungarian nation of which they wished to become members “to fold [them] in his arms.”45 Concerning Jewish ethnicity, there seems to have been some difference of opinion. While Ignác Hirschler, the president of the Jewish community of Pest, repeated that “regarding their nationality and language,” Jews living in Hungary could be no one else than Hungarians, he also stated that they were indeed a népfaj and had to cherish the “memories of [their] racial origins.”46 Others categorically denied that Jews formed an ethnic group,47 or admitted its existence, but emphasized that their ethnic distinctiveness would soon vanish, all the more

42 Leopold Löv [sic], “Nyílt levél a’ zsidó-emancipatio ügyében” [Open Letter Concerning Jewish Emancipation], Pesti Hírlap, June 2, 1844, 375. 43 “Iskola-ügy” [Educational affair], Magyar Izraelita, February 14, 1861, 53. 44 Lipót Rokonstein, A magyar izraelita 1860-ik évben [The Hungarian Israelite in the Year 1860] (Pest: Wodianer F., 1860), 10–11; Lipót Löw, “A magyar nemzetiség és a zsidók” [Hungarian Nationality and the Jews], in Történelmi és vallástudományi értekezések [Historical and Theological Studies], 4 (Szeged: Burger Zsigmond, 1861); Rokonyi, “Összeolvadásunk kellékei” [The Materials of Our Amalgamation], Magyar Izraelita, January 17, 1861, 17–20; Egy hitrokon (anonymous), A zsidók reformátiója [The Reform of the Jews] (Pest: Heckenast Gusztáv, 1867), 8. 45 (Fmt.), “Hazafiasságunk tűzpróbája” [The Final Test of Our Patriotism], Magyar Izraelita, July 26, 1861, 247. 46 Ignác Hirschler, Emlékbeszéd néhai Kern Jakab felett [Speech in Memory of the Late Jakab Kern] (Pest: Izraelita-Magyar-Egylet, 1866), 26. 47 Mór Mezei, “A határozati javaslat és a zsidó kérdés” [The Resolution Proposal and the Jewish Question], Magyar Izraelita, July 19, 1861, supplement, n. pag.



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rapidly if Hungarians granted them equal rights. As Magyar Izraelita wrote in 1862: “Everywhere that a nation has accepted them as its equal members, the Jews have voluntarily renounced their so-called ethnic characteristics and have merged perfectly into the political nation!”48 The writings of Neolog intellectuals clearly indicate that in this period they were still more concerned with the political future of the Jews than with the future of their Jewish identity. Since the mass acculturation and secularization of Hungarian Jews was only just beginning, this is hardly surprising. In the Dualist era, the official Neolog self-definition did not change—it could not change. As Leopold Löw wrote in September 1867, four months before Jews were actually given equal civil rights, “With the Emancipation Act, a new era begins for Hungarian Jewry. Having politically and socially amalgamated with the nation, Hungarian Jewry’s history is to be reduced from now on to church history.”49 In the synagogue, the parliament, in books and articles in the Jewish and non-Jewish press, Neolog Jews repeated thousands of times that Judaism was a religion and that Jews were Hungarians of Jewish faith. They were neither a nation, nor a nationality, nothing other than a religious community. Neolog intellectuals emphasized the official dogma particularly during periods when this was perceived to be a political necessity: in the first half of the 1880s, at the time of the Tiszaeszlár blood libel affair, and then in the mid-1890s. In these closing years of the nineteenth century, the enthusiasm raised by the “reception law,” which granted the Jewish denomination equal status with Catholic and Protestant churches, and the simultaneous concern over the sudden rise of antisemitism and the emergence of political Zionism, generated a flurry of politically correct assertions of Jewish self-definition.50 By this time, the principles of the emancipation dogma had been supplemented by one final argument: Jews had become Hungarians, their Magyarization was a fait accompli. Since Jews did not exist as such outside the synagogue,

48 B. M, “Mi a zsidó az államban?” [What is Jewish in the State?], Magyar Izraelita, August 22, 1862, 279. 49 Lipót Löw, “A magyar zsidók története” [The History of Hungarian Jews], A Hon, September 3, 1867, n. pag. 50 See, for instance, Lajos Palágyi, “A zsidó nemzet” [The Jewish Nation], Egyenlőség, March 3, 1893, supplement, 1; Ignácz Weisz, A zsidók és a nemzetiségek [Jews and the Nationalities] (Brassó: “Brassó” könyvnyomdája, 1894), 10–11; Miksa Pollák, Izraelita ultramontanizmus [Israelite Ultramontanism], Pesti Hírlap, October 30, 1895, 3–4; “Zsidó nemzetiség” [Jewish Nationality], Egyenlőség, May 23, 1897, supplement, 2–3; László Seress, “Asszimiláczió” [Assimilation], Egyenlőség, July 4, 1897, 4–5; [Lajos Blau,] “A czionizmus” [Zionism], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 14 (1897): 289–292.

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they could not be subjected to any criticism either. Nor could they become Zionists, for their sense of belonging to the Hungarian nation was now an ineradicable, vital element of their identity. As Lajos Blau, a teacher (and later rector) at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet] and editor of the periodical Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review], stated in 1896: “Hungarian Israel has completely merged into the body of the Hungarian nation. It has become Hungarian, just like any other denomination, and does not wish to be anything else than a religious body. And it can not be anything else, for it is completely Hungarian in its language and thinking.”51 In their official pronouncements, so to speak, Neolog intellectuals could not say anything else. Nor could they teach anything else. In 1909, the Jewish community of Pest published a new religious textbook for first graders. In the book’s “Introductory Concepts,” one reads: “We are Hungarians. Hungary is our dear homeland and Hungarian is our mother tongue. [...] Not all people worship God in the same way. [...] Hungarians too are of various religions. Our religion is the Israelite, or, in other words, the Jewish religion. We are therefore Hungarians Israelites, that is, Hungarians of Jewish religion.”52 From the 1890s onwards, however, Neolog intellectuals, while constantly repeating the tenets of official dogma, increasingly addressed ideas and concepts that diverged from it. What was new was not so much the use of terms theoretically inapplicable to Jews, as rather its  deliberateness, the conscious agenda behind their use. These alternative self-definitions stemmed from the Neolog intellectuals’ desire to counter what they perceived to be a dramatic spread of indifference to all matters Jewish, a dramatic alienation of the acculturated middle class from its religion and community.53 Given their secularization, the concepts capable of sustaining and reinforcing their sense of Jewish belonging had to go beyond the religious sphere. This gave rise to a language incompatible with the official dogma, but which Neolog intellectuals could, in fact, use without great political risk. The reconceptualization had its limits. Concerning their own time, Neolog intellectuals kept on denying Jewish national aspirations, and the national component of Jewish identity. They could not go that far—and they certainly did not

51 [Lajos Blau,] “Ezer év” [A Thousand Years], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 13 (1896): 194. 52 Ignácz Kondor, Képes héber olvasókönyv: Az elemi iskolák I. osztálya számára [Illustrated Hebrew Primer for the First Grade of Elementary Schools] (Budapest: Lampel R. Könyvkereskedése, 1909), 7–8. 53 Miklós Konrád, “A neológ zsidóság útkeresése a századfordulón” [Neolog Jewry’s Search for New Paths at the Turn of the Century], Századok 139 (2005): 1335–1369.



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want to either. Neolog intellectuals spoke of a Jewish nation only to deny its existence, particularly after the appearance of Zionism. As Miksa Szabolcsi, the editor-in-chief of Egyenlőség wrote in 1898: “We simply do not know of any Jewish national feeling among Hungarian Jews. There can be only one national feeling in someone’s heart. The one felt by Jews in this country is Hungarian. The Jew can have a racial feeling, a religious feeling, but never a national one.”54 There was however a spectacular change in the interpretation of the past. In 1898, A Jövő [The Future], a weekly that expressed the views of a younger generation of Neolog intellectuals, mostly rabbis, sharply criticized the idea of the mission of the Jews. The weekly denounced those “modern theologians” who sought to interpret the past “according to the tastes of today’s world,” then bluntly declared: “The idea that ancient Israel followed religious aspirations in everything is a mistake. In fact, almost the reverse is true. I could quote hundreds of passages of the Holy Scriptures which demonstrate that religion itself served national objectives.”55 Neolog Jews had greater political latitude in using ethnic self-definitions. This is not to say that this was not a sensitive issue. The clearest sign that ethnic self-definition was not really compatible with the dogma of emancipation, is the fact that some Neolog Jews spared no effort in trying to prove that there was nothing such as a Jewish people. As Lajos Blau argued in 1890: “Even before the end of its national existence, Israel did not constitute a people in the common sense of the word, but rather an ethical community—a denomination.”56 Yet, there was also a clear departure from the politically less controversial definition of Jewish ethnicity; that is, the recognition of Jews’ common origins. What we observe, instead, is a conscious effort to re-ethnicize Jewish self-conception. Alongside Jewish intellectual history, Neolog rabbis increasingly emphasized the glorious—and thus hopefully inspiring—history of the Jewish people. As the Óbuda rabbi Illés Adler declared to Sándor Goldberger von Buda at his bar mitzvah in 1898: You’ve doubtless studied our people’s glorious history, and you shall learn more about it. [...] If you want your faith to get stronger and deeper, if you want some shining role models, look back to the past. Look at the forefathers, look to Moses, to King David, see Solomon, the wise king whose name you bear, or think about the loyal Mordechai and Esther, who saved her people. [...] Your young heart will whisper to you: they were all Jews, and I too am a Jew, and I am proud to be a Jew. Oh my child, you might well do it! Confess proudly that you are

54 Miksa Szabolcsi, “Igazolásul” [As a Matter of Justification], Egyenlőség, January 16, 1898, 12. 55 – s – r., “Mit tanítsunk?” [What Should We Teach?], A Jövő, April 22, 1898, 8. 56 Lajos Blau, Izraél kiválasztása [The Election of Israel] (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1890), 17.

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a Jew! Learn from your gold-hearted father how to be a good and worthy man, a good and worthy Jew, to feel and act as a Jew.57

Besides the re-ethnicization of the Jewish past, Neolog intellectuals began to write about Jewish néplélek [folk-soul], they praised the virtues of the Jewish “people”, its outstanding inclination for charity, learning, and—above all—its unique contribution to human culture. Naturally, this notion also served apologetic purposes, but one should not neglect its role in efforts to strengthen the identity of secularized and acculturated Jews.58 As the poet Lajos Palágyi declared in 1889, “the Jewish people is the most prominent kulturnép [Kulturvolk] in the world; therefore, to be ashamed of belonging to it is not only dishonorable, but also stupid. There is no doubt that Jews can offer themselves as a model to other people.”59 In a seemingly paradoxical way, the emphasis on Jewish ethnicity also served the purpose of bringing middle-class Jews back to their religion—a religion now presented as symbiotically combined with peoplehood. “What is it that makes a Jew a Jew?,” asked in 1912 the Pécs rabbi Ármin Perls in his Shavuot Sermon. “It’s not just blood, origin, historical consciousness, but nor is it only the idea of God, the community of faith. Rather, what makes Judaism, is an intimate, warm, lively and harmonious fusion of the two into a complete whole.”60 There’s no need to say how unimaginable it would have been for Leopold Löw to write such lines in his response to Lajos Kossuth. Alongside efforts to strengthen Jewish identity by enlarging its base within the limits of a religious self-definition, some intellectuals also began to write about Jewish ethnicity in a secular sense. In the introduction to a volume of poems by the Yiddish poet Morris Rosenfeld published in 1908, the translator and Buda rabbi Arnold Kiss wrote that Rosenfeld, who owed his popularity to his ability to express the suffering of thousands and thousands of Jews, was to be considered “a poet of the people,” of all those Yiddish speakers around the world whose language was the expression of Jewish népgéniusz [ethnic

57 Illés Adler, Bármicvó beszéd [Bar Mitzvah Sermon] (Budapest: Bichler I. Könyvnyomdája, n. d. [1898]), 4–6. 58 On the notion of “Jewish contribution” in modern Jewish thinking, see The Jewish Contribution to Civilization: Reassessing an Idea, eds. Jeremy Cohen and Richard I. Cohen (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2008). 59 Lajos Palágyi, “Zsidók a társaságban” [Jews in Society], Egyenlőség, November 17, 1889, 8. 60 Ármin Perls, “Nemzet és felekezet: Sabuóti beszéd” [Nation and Denomination: Sermon for Shavuot], in Szónoklatok [Speeches] (Pécs: Pécsi Irodalmi és Könyvnyomdai R.-T., n. d. [1912]), IV, 21, 23.



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genius].61 In two complementary articles published in 1902 and 1911, Bernát Alexander, the most famous Hungarian philosopher of his time, turned the integrationist theory of the Jewish contribution to European civilization into an argument for dissimilation. Although he praised the Jews’ wholehearted acculturation, he also made a claim for the survival of the “Jewish spirit,” and the Jewish néplélek. “Ethnic amalgamation” was “not desirable.” The best way for Jews to contribute to Hungarian culture was to remain as they were—a separate ethnic group with its intrinsic qualities.62 This idea of intrinsic qualities brings us to the appearance of racial language in Jewish writings, of a racial essentialist self-perception of Jewishness that went far beyond the notion of ethnicity. As we have seen, liberal politicians themselves spoke of the Jewish race, and they did so in a harmless, innocent manner. Racial science was the fashion of the day, but it was not necessarily tantamount to racism. As recent historiography, following George Mosse,63 had pointed out: “There were many non-Jewish social scientists and thinkers who saw in the Jews a healthy, even superior, people—a racial or eugenic model for contemporary Christians.”64 Nevertheless, and quite understandably, racial determinism seemed dangerous to Neolog Jewish intellectuals who asserted the ability of their coreligionists to change and become Hungarians. Moreover, since the idea that men were created unequal was encoded in racial thinking, the threat of Jews being proclaimed racially inferior and harmful was always lurking. And certainly that was what modern pseudo-scientific antisemitism did. Consequently, some Neolog intellectuals denied the existence of the Jewish race, of the existence or pure races, or the existence of racially pure nations,65

61 Arnold Kiss, “Előszó” [Foreword], in Morris Rosenfeld Költeményei (Gettódalok) [The Poems of Morris Rosenfeld (Ghetto Songs)] (Budapest: Deutsch Zsigmond és társa, 1908), 6, 15. 62 Bernát Alexander, “Zsidóság és magyarság” [Jewishness and Hungarianness], in Almanach: Izraelita Családi Naptár 5663 [Yearbook: Israelite Family Calendar 5663], eds. Károly Ötvös and Zsigmond Dőri (Budapest: Márkus Samu Könyvnyomdája, 1902), 57–58.; Idem., “Zsidó problémák” [Jewish Problems], in Magyar zsidó almanach [Hungarian Jewish Yearbook], ed. Patai József (Budapest: A Magyar Zsidó Almanach Szerkesztősége és Kiadóvállalata, 1911), 188–189. 63 George L. Mosse, Toward the Final Solution: A History of European Racism (New York: Howard Fertig, 1978), 77–93. 64 Mitchell B. Hart, “Jews and Race: An Introductory Essay,” in Jews & Race: Writings on Identity & Difference, 1880–1940, ed. Idem. (Waltham, Mass.: Brandeis University Press, 2011), XXIII. 65 M. S., “Zsidó magyarok” [Jewish Hungarians], Egyenlőség, December 16, 1883, 2–4; Ernő Salgó, “A faj kérdése” [The Question of Race], Egyenlőség, March 27, 1896, second supplement, 7–8; Béla Lázár, “Faj és Vallás” [Race and Religion], Egyenlőség, January 17, 1897, 4–5; Ignác Peisner, “A zsidó nép faji jellege” [The Racial Character of the Jewish People], in Évkönyv 1907 [Yearbook, 1907], ed. József Bánóczi (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat 1907), 273–278;

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while others pointed out the potentially fatal implications of racial theories and warned their coreligionists that racial labeling was the most dangerous weapon in the hands of their enemies.66 Even so, from the 1890s onwards, Neolog intellectuals increasingly praised Jewish racial qualities.67 The most dangerous component of racial theories, that is the essentialist view of human races, was also the one that proved to be irresistibly seducing. Since Jewish identity seemed battered by modernity, what mattered most was to instill in the secularized Jewish bourgeoisie a feeling of pride in being Jewish. The most effective way to achieve this was to proclaim the essential—eternal and unquestionable—excellence of the Jews. Given the cultural vocabulary at their disposal, this was expressed in racial terms.68 Since the target audience was the educated middle class, the central idea revolved around culture. As Menyhért Palágyi, a noted philosopher and literary historian, wrote in 1891: No race more than the Jews has a stronger inclination towards culture. I do not know how it happened, let it be enough to say that this cultural thirst has run in the Jew’s blood and

Ernő Mezei, “Faj, nemzet vagy vallás” [Race, Nation, or Religion], Egyenlőség, February 21, 1909, supplement, 1–3. 66 Menyhért Palágyi, “A ‘race’” [The “Race”], Egyenlőség, March 20, 1891, supplement, 3; Tamás Kóbor, “Czigányok és zsidók” [Gypsies and Jews], Egyenlőség, October 28, 1900, 1–2; [Lajos Blau], “Faj és nemzet a történelem világításában” [Race and Nation in Light of History], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 20 (1903): 1–5; Lajos Stein, “A fajprobléma és a zsidóság” [The Race Problem and the Jews], in Évkönyv [Yearbook, 1911], ed. József Bánóczi (Budapest: Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, 1911), 276–307; “Fajkongresszus” [Race Congress], Magyar-Zsidó Szemle 28 (1911): 241–242. 67 Samu Haber, “Tanév elején” [At the Beginning of the School Year], Egyenlőség, September 6, 1895, 6.; “Az Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat közgyűlése” [The General Assembly of the Hungarian Israelite Literary Association], Magyar Zsidó Szemle 20 (1903): 119; Armand Kőszegi, “A XX-ik évszázad humanizmusa“ [The Humanism of the Twentieth Century], Szombati Újság, December 29, 1905, 2–3; Béla Bernstein, “Az egyetemes vallásoktatási tanterv” [The Universal Curriculum of Religious Instruction], Magyar-Zsidó Szemle, 23 (1906): 83; Sándor Fleischmann, “Fiaim, csak énekeljetek!” [My Sons, Just Sing!], Egyenlőség, January 11, 1914, 1–2. 68 On the Jewish appropriation of racial language, see See John M Efron, Defenders of the Race: Jewish Doctors and Race Science in Fin-de-Siècle Europe (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1994); Mitchell B Hart, Social Science and the Politics of Modern Jewish Identity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000); Todd M Endelman, “Anglo-Jewish Scientists and the Science of Race,” Jewish Social Studies 11 (2004): 52–92; Lisa Leff, “Self-Definition and Self-Defense: Jewish Racial Identity in Nineteenth-Century France,” Jewish History 19 (2005): 7–28; Yfaat Weiss, “Identity and Essentialism: Race, Racism, and the Jews at the Fin de Siècle,” in German History from the Margins, eds. Neil Gregor, Nils Roemer, and Mark Roseman (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2006), 49–68.



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developed into an overpowering racial passion. [...] Among other races, the inclination towards culture seems to be only some kind of inoculated desire, but in the Jew, it is an elementary passion that springs forth from the roots of his being.69

This inclination naturally led to outstanding cultural achievements. As Gyula Weiszburg, one of the rabbis of the Pest Jewish community and its general secretary explained in a lecture delivered in 1911 at the National Hungarian Israelite Cultural Association [Országos Magyar Izraelita Közművelődési Egyesület] founded two years earlier, the antisemites were angered by the fact that “in the vast field of intellectual life, they constantly encounter the works of Jewish genius.” And indeed: With maybe the exception of its most recent development, that is science, the whole culture is so full of Jewish elements that if we were to remove them from its organism, then only a wreck would be left. [...] Ladies and gentlemen! Racial superciliousness is despicable, racial pride is only inspiring. We believe that our race had a great, a giant impact on culture in past times, and we are full of expectations as to its achievements in the future.70

Such glorification led sometimes to unambiguous, and generalising pronouncements of Jewish racial superiority. As Egyenlőség noted in 1902: “With a culture going back more than three thousand years and with the inheritance of this culture, the Jew clearly stands above all other races.”71

Conclusion The self-contradictory discourse of Hungarian liberal nationalism allowed Neolog Jewish intellectuals to offer definitions of Jewishness that were theoretically contradicting their official ones. Neolog Jewish intellectuals made use of this opportunity. Throughout the dualist period, their self-definitions partly served political aims. They were reactions to external expectations and demands. However, from the 1890s onwards, they stemmed more and more from an inner search, from the Neolog intellectuals’ efforts to preserve or strengthen the attachments of

69 Menyhért Palágyi, “A zsidó nő a közművelődésben” [The Jewish Woman in Public Culture], Egyenlőség, October 2, 1891, supplement, 4. 70 Gyula Weiszburg, “A zsidó faj kulturértéke” [The Cultural Value of the Jewish Race], in Cultur-Almanach 1911–12 [Cultural Yearbook 1911–12], ed. Simon Hevesi (Budapest: Országos Magy. Izraelita Közművelődési Egyesület, 1912), 10, 15. 71 Br. J, “A zsidóság és a társadalom” [Jews and Society], Egyenlőség, August 3, 1902, 3.

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the acculturated and secularized middle class to anything that was Jewish. If we take into account that these efforts were developed at a time when increasingly intolerant Hungarian nationalism considered the (previously accepted) cultural autonomy of the nationalities unacceptable, it appears that by the end of the nineteenth century, and in contrast with earlier decades, Neolog intellectuals were more concerned with consolidating the sense of belonging of the acculturated Jewish middle class than with offering to their hypothetical non-Jewish audience a politically correct definition of Jewishness. They were more concerned with the identity of modern Hungarian Jewry than with their integration into Hungarian society, an integration which they thought was about to be accomplished in the first half of the 1890s, and in which they believed less and less from the beginning of the 1900s. Whether their efforts were ultimately successful is another story.

Christian Wiese

Defending the Dignity of Judaism: Hungarian Jewish Scholars on Christian Prejudice, Racial Antisemitism, and the Exclusion of Wissenschaft des Judentums, 1880–1914 I Wissenschaft des Judentums is the historical knowledge of Judaism, the science of its religious ideas, their revelation in the great individuals of the Jewish people, its literature, and its religious and moral life. It is also the science of religious ideas and institutions as they appear to fit into our worldview, proving their worth in us and to us as living moral forces. It is the great evidence of Judaism’s achievements in the past, of its right in the present and future, and it is our protection against prejudices disseminated over millennia, against all intellectual weapons concocted against us and our teachings. It protects the great facts of the past, and it collects the rays emanating from the documents of Judaism that light the present and the future. Without it, we would be a body without a soul, a ship without a captain. […] It has become part of the legacy of the wonderful past of the Jewish people, and thus the difficult task still lies ahead, to awaken all good minds of our race with strong words against the destruction that has been caused by short-sightedness, ignorance, and indifference, to put an end to the listlessness, with which the teaching of Judaism has been passed down to youth. Its task is to raise everyone’s awareness of what mission Judaism has fulfilled by preserving the religion of the Prophets and the Torah from all sorts of obscurings by the unprecedented struggles and suffering of those who profess it, and it will also have the duty to take a stand against the attempt to transform our religion into a syncretistic construction by accepting foreign institutions.1

This definition of the tradition of Wissenschaft des Judentums in terms of both a scholarly and an apologetic discipline is taken from an 1898 essay entitled “Was ist uns die Wissenschaft des Judentums?” (What is the Meaning of Wissenschaft des Judentums for us?), published by the Hungarian Jewish scholar Martin Schreiner (1863–1926) in the Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums. Schreiner was a historian and scholar of Oriental Studies who had been educated in Budapest, both at the University and the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary (Országos Rabbiképző Intézet), receiving his rabbinical diploma in 1887. In 1893, he had

1 Martin Schreiner, “Was ist uns die Wissenschaft des Judentums?,” Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums 62 (1898): 150–152, 164–166, and 175–177, here 177. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-019

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accepted the post as a lecturer in Biblical Studies, Jewish History, and Religious Philosophy at the Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin, which he held until 1902 before apparently falling mentally ill. With the definition quoted above, Schreiner emphasized what can be described as the threefold aim Wissenschaft des Judentums had embraced since the early nineteenth century, and which had not lost any of its relevance during his own time: inspiring a critical historical dialogue with Jewish tradition; defending the Jewish minority against anti-Jewish prejudice and discrimination; and fostering Jewish identity by countering religious indifference or the internalization of negative stereotypes. Engaging in a critical debate with Christianity was an integral part of this endeavor, and many of the Jewish scholars associated with the Hungarian branch of Wissenschaft des Judentums were prominently involved in almost all contemporary controversies on Jewish-Christian relations, Christian scholarly constructions of Jewish history and culture, and the status of Jewish scholarship in European academia. A comprehensive analysis of the multi-faceted contribution of those scholars of Hungarian provenance or affiliated with the Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest has not yet been written.2 The narrative to be explored would have to include a variety of scholars and themes, of which only a few can be mentioned here: the historian and Talmudic scholar Samuel Krauss (1866–1948), who graduated from the Rabbinical Seminary in 1894 and occupied academic positions in Budapest and Vienna, and, after 1938, lived as private scholar in Cambridge devoted much of his scholarship to the interpretation of Jewish polemics against Christianity from antiquity to the early modern period;3 Wilhelm Bacher (1850–1913), a professor of Bible and Aggadah at the Rabbinical Seminary and its rector from 1907 to 1913, prominently intervened in the debates on German Protestant scholarship’s dilettantish interpretation of the Mishnah;4 Mihály Guttmann (1872–1927), a professor at the Rabbinical Seminary from 1907 to 1921, who later taught at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau and then returned to the Rabbinical Seminary to serve as its rector between 1933 and 1942, put much energy into refuting the Christian denigration of rabbinical

2 For the history of this institution, see Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986). 3 See Samuel Krauss, Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen (Berlin: Calvary, 1902). 4 For Bacher’s critique of the project of a critical edition of the Mishnah (the “Gießener Mischna”), initiated by the Protestant scholars Oscar Holtzmann (1859–1932) and Georg Beer (1865–1946), see Wilhelm Bacher, “Eine neue Mischnaausgabe,” Deutsche Literaturzeitung 33 (1912): 3205–3213; for an interpretation of the controversy, see Christian Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums und protestantische Theologie im wilhelminischen Deutschland (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1999), 317–327.



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sources;5 and finally Ignác Ziegler (1861–1948), who graduated from the Rabbinical Seminary in 1888, served as rabbi in Karlsbad [Karlovy Vary] and published a book on the relationship between Judaism and early Christianity.6 Furthermore, a systematic evaluation of Hungarian Jewish journals would be necessary in order to find out which role the perception of Hungarian Christianity played for these scholars and to compare publications devoted to the debates in Germany with those addressing the situation in Hungary. Rather than exploring all of these aspects, however, this essay will focus on three scholars who published their work in German, referring mainly to the situation of Wissenschaft des Judentums in Germany: David Kaufmann (1852–1899), Martin Schreiner, and Lajos Venetianer (1867–1922). All three were involved, albeit in different ways, in a comprehensive intellectual project in which the interpretation of Christianity and Christian scholarship was necessarily linked to the defense of Judaism, the fight against antisemitism, and the quest for the emancipation of Wissenschaft des Judentums as a scholarly discipline. In this way, they all contributed to a scholarly and political endeavor that was strongly shaped by contemporary debates in Germany, and represented Hungarian Jewish scholarship in a discourse that profoundly affected them as members of an academic discipline in search of its place in the European universitas litterarum.

II One of the most prominent early Hungarian representatives of the Wissenschaft des Judentums before the turn of the nineteenth century was the Budapest historian David Kaufmann, whose biographical and intellectual path made him a distinctive voice both in German Jewish and Hungarian Jewish scholarship as well as during the contemporary debates on the threat posed by anti-Jewish tendencies and non-Jewish academic discourse, particularly in Germany.7 Born in Moravia, Kaufmann received his education in Breslau where he studied with luminaries of the Wissenschaft des Judentums such as Zacharias Frankel (1801–1875) and Heinrich Graetz (1817–1891) at the Jewish Theological Seminary before delving into Ori-

5 See Michael Guttmann, Das Judentum und seine Umwelt: Eine Darstellung der religiösen und rechtlichen Beziehungen zwischen Juden und Nichtjuden mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der talmudisch-rabbinischen Quellen (Berlin: Philo, 1927). 6 See Ignaz Ziegler, Der Kampf zwischen Judentum und Christentum in den ersten drei christlichen Jahrhunderten (Berlin: Poppelauer, 1907). 7 For Kaufmann’s biography, see Mirjam Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst: Ein jüdisches Gelehrtennetzwerk im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012).

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ental Studies in Leipzig in 1874 and obtaining his doctoral degree that same year. After being ordained in Breslau in 1877, he was offered the chair of Jewish History, Religious Philosophy, and Homiletics at the newly founded Rabbinical Seminary in Budapest, where he taught until his premature death in 1899. Apart from his rich scholarship in various fields of Jewish Studies, which made him one of the towering figures of the Hungarian Jewish scholarly tradition, Kaufmann was also at the center of a widespread scholarly network of Jewish scholars in Europe.8 As the co-editor of the Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums during the 1890s, he was very familiar with current developments within German Jewish scholarship and intimately involved in contemporary debates with non-Jewish scholars in the fields of Protestant theology and Oriental Studies. The social and political challenges of his time, however, made it impossible for Kaufmann to remain in the ivory tower of pure Wissenschaft, especially since he felt profoundly challenged by the disturbing rise of modern political and racial antisemitism both in Germany and in Hungary. An abundance of documents reveal his active participation in contemporary controversies, most prominently during the so-called Berliner Antisemitismusstreit in 1880/81, triggered by Heinrich Treitschke’s (1834–1896) attacks against the Jewish minority as well as the antisemitic agitation of the infamous conservative Berlin preacher Adolf Stoecker (1835–1909).9 In an open letter, first published anonymously in 1880, Kaufmann challenged the latter’s defamation of Judaism as a foreign, destructive tradition that both dominated and undermined Christian society, and accused him of betraying his responsibility as a theologian by stirring up hatred against a religious minority and attempting to reverse its constitutionally agreed legal equality. In view of the widespread hostility against religious faith in modern society, he emphasized, nothing was more damaging for religion in general than the fact “that a clergyman occupying a responsible position would expose himself to ridicule.”10 The Budapest scholar criticized the disturbing presence of Christian antisemitism

8 See Ibid., 127–159. 9 For more on the Antisemitismusstreit, see Walter Boehlich, Der Berliner Antisemitismusstreit (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1988); Michael A. Meyer, “Great Debate on Antisemitism: Jewish Reaction to New Hostility in Germany 1879–1881,” in Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 11 (1966): 137–170; for more on Stoecker, see Martin Greschat, “Protestantischer Antisemitismus in Wilhelminischer Zeit: Das Beispiel des Hofpredigers Adolf Stoecker,” in Antisemitismus: Von religiöser Judenfeindschaft zur Rassenideologie, eds. Günter Brakelmann and Martin Rosowski (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 27–51. 10 David Kaufmann, Ein Wort im Vertrauen an Herrn Hofprediger Stöcker (Berlin: Gerschel, 1880); quoted after the reprint in Gesammelte Schriften, ed. Markus Brann (Frankfurt am Main: J. Kauffmann, 1915), III, 521–536, here 522.



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in modern society and passionately rejected Stoecker’s claim that “modern Jewry,” instead of gratefully and modestly enjoying the rights offered to them in Christian society, was striving to dominate the universities and the press, using its privileged position in order to slander Christianity and destroy religion. The fact that a few Jewish authors dared to refute anti-Jewish stereotypes and were convinced of a continuing religious and ethical mission of Judaism in modern culture, Kaufmann pointed out, should not be interpreted as presumptuous behavior or an attempt to denigrate Christianity. On the contrary, despite the long history of persecution and the continuing discrimination the Jewish minority had to endure, Jewish thinkers, while affirming their belief in Judaism’s relevance as a modern religion, had exercised an admirable degree of restraint when it came to polemics against Christianity. It was a strange contradiction, he suggested, that Stoecker declared the death of Judaism while, at the same time, “complaining about the ardent and confident language” of those proclaiming its truth.11 Since Maimonides and Judah Halevi, Jews had always acknowledged Christianity’s role in the process of humankind’s messianic redemption, whereas Christianity had never ceased to sin against Jews and Judaism, causing horrific suffering.12 Stoecker’s accusation of the “satanic hatred of the Jewish press” was an antisemitic myth that overlooked the fact that non-Jewish scholars, including Voltaire (1694–1778), Samuel Reimarus (1694–1768), Ferdinand Christian Baur (1792–1860), and David Friedrich Strauss (1808–1874), had launched the most vicious attacks against Christianity.13 Kaufmann also reminded Stoecker of the asymmetrical power-relations at work: a Jewish critique of Christianity would do no harm whatsoever to any Christian, nor would it undermine the position of the Church within the state, whereas a Christian judgment against Judaism had immediate political and social consequences for a minority that was still lacking full civic equality.14 Kaufmann’s letter culminated in a passage in which he invoked the Jewish origins of the Christian religion, suggesting that what really violated and damaged Christianity was not Judaism, but its own history of anti-Jewish hatred that threatened to undermine its own foundation: During the Middle Ages Jews have been confronted with the foolish accusation that they used to stab the consecrated hosts until blood, red blood was seeping out of them. It is not the Jews who have perpetrated this; rather, the Christians are responsible, even teachers of the Gospel, since they stab the body of their Lord, the Jews being His own flesh and blood.15

11 Ibid., 525. 12 Ibid., 525–527. 13 Ibid., 527–528. 14 Ibid., 534–535. 15 Ibid., 535.

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Between 1885 and 1887, Kaufmann became involved in an even fiercer public controversy with the influential Göttingen Orientalist, cultural critic, and advocate of a de-judaized “German religion,” Paul de Lagarde (1827–1891).16 The relationship between the two scholars had been cordial before this conflict, even though Kaufmann had responded with unease when Lagarde sent him his Deutsche Schriften in 1885, since he immediately perceived the dangerous potential of the peculiar ideological mixture of critique of modernity, nationalism, and antisemitism expressed in those writings. The actual controversy erupted, however, when several Jewish scholars, including Kaufmann, published critical reviews of the edition of two manuscripts of the Maḥzor by one of Lagarde’s students in 1885. In 1886, Lagarde responded with a most perfidious pamphlet, in which he attacked the Jewish tradition in general, particularly the medieval piyyuṭim, denigrating the Wissenschaft des Judentums as an utterly irrelevant discipline, and denouncing Leopold Zunz (1794–1886), the author of the famous Geschichte der synagogalen Poesie des Mittelalters (1855), as a “moron of the first rank.”17 Kaufmann, who was himself ridiculed as an “alien, whiny Asian” because of his love for the liturgical tradition of the seliḥot (penitential prayers),18 was furious about Lagarde’s denigration of the Wissenschaft des Judentums in general and the derisory judgment regarding Zunz’s scholarship in particular. In a brilliant polemical essay entitled Paul de Lagarde’s jüdische Gelehrsamkeit (Paul de Lagarde’s Jewish Learning, 1887), Kaufmann protested against the way Lagarde’s ideologically inspired polemics violated the principles of objective scholarship, and interpreted the controversy as a symbolic expression of the link between the discrimination against Jewish scholarship and the Jewish minority in German society. “It should not be as easy to mock and denigrate Jewish writings as it is to pull a Jew’s beard and to call Hep Hep after him,”19 he argued, and countered Lagarde’s personal attack by sarcastically retorting that one could certainly be “a

16 For more on Paul de Lagarde, see Fritz Stern, The Politics of Cultural Despair: A Study in the Rise of the Germanic Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961); Ulrich Sieg, Deutschlands Prophet: Paul de Lagarde und die Ursprünge des modernen Antisemitismus (Munich: Hanser, 2007). For a detailed analysis of the controversy, see Thulin, Kaufmanns Nachrichtendienst, 240–282. 17 Paul de Lagarde, “Lipman Zunz und seine Verehrer,” in Id., Mittheilungen (Göttingen: Die­te­ rich, 1886), II, 108–162. 18 Ibid., 144. 19 David Kaufmann, Paul de Lagarde’s jüdische Gelehrsamkeit (Leipzig: Schulze, 1887); quoted after the reprint in David Kaufmann, Gesammelte Schriften, ed. Markus Brann (Frankfurt am Main: J. Kauffmann, 1908), I, 207–257, here 216.



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tremendous Semitist and a gargantuan Aryan”20 without being capable of understanding the poetic expressions of the synagogue service. He went on defending Jewish poetry by characterizing it as a treasure of European literature, very much compatible with the spirit of Herder, Goethe, and Rückert. Being mocked as an “Asian” because of a profound insight into the link between the history of Jewish suffering and the tradition of seliḥot was actually an honor: “I would rather be called an Asian and a savage, should it be European to mock the pain affecting the soul of a people over centuries,” and to humiliate “the man whom scholarship owes deep respect in view of his historical interpretation of those sufferings and poetic expressions.”21 Most of Kaufmann’s vigorous response consisted in exposing the flaws of Lagarde’s scholarship, culminating in the ironic remark that is was only “with a sense of compassion that one could picture the image of Prometheus forging Lagarde to the rock of Jewish literature while the vulture of Jew-hatred was hashing his liver.”22 In the wake of this bitter controversy, Kaufmann focused on fighting blatant discrimination against Jewish Studies and became one of the most passionate advocates of public acknowledgment and emancipation of Wissenschaft des Judentums within the European university system. The fact that Jewish scholarship had been deliberately excluded from academia was, in his eyes, the main reason for the widespread anti-Jewish sentiments among non-Jewish intellectuals as well as the broader public. German universities treated Jewish scholarship as “a proletarian invader,” he complained, and the state was only drawing a political conclusion from this disregard if it denied Jews equal social rights and cultural acknowledgment.23 Given the relevance of Jewish history and culture particularly for understanding the New Testament as well as for the foundations of Western culture in general, Kaufmann claimed in an article (1891) in the Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums that universities should have a genuine interest in overcoming the appalling ignorance of most non-Jewish scholars of theology, history, and Oriental Studies and in changing an intellectual climate in which “accomplished luminaries of scholarship, even the most distinguished academic dignitaries,” were allowed to “produce the most comical blunders” when writing about Judaism.24 For the sake of social and cultural reconciliation, he

20 Ibid., 248. 21 Ibid., 224. 22 Ibid., 249. 23 David Kaufmann, “Die Wissenschaft des Judentums,” Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums 55 (1891): 161–163 and 173–174; quoted after the reprint in Gesammelte Schriften, I, 1–13, here 4; the article had already been composed in 1878 but was only published thirteen years later. 24 Ibid., 5

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argued, “ignorance in Jewish matters should finally become as contemptible as any crudeness,” and it was only with the tools of serious Wissenschaft that a new tradition of tolerance and respect towards all religious and cultural phenomena could be created.25 In 1895, in a programmatic essay in the Monatsschrift, entitled “Die Vertretung der jüdischen Wissenschaft an den Universitäten” (The Representation of Wissenschaft des Judentums at the Universities), Kaufmann suggested that the many prejudices of non-Jewish scholars were signs of “an increasingly harmful arrogance emerging against the work of Jewish science.”26 He shared the frustration of his Jewish colleagues in Germany about the fact that the devoted scholarship of the adherents of the Wissenschaft des Judentums was entirely disregarded and that the universitas litterarum, instead of providing shelter to them, had nothing to offer but “oppressive and deadly shadow.”27 He pointed to the model of British universities such as Oxford and Cambridge, which had recently created chairs in Jewish Studies, whereas in Germany non-Jewish scholars kept constructing negative images of Judaism instead of acknowledging the expertise of those who were profoundly familiar with rabbinical literature and other aspects of Jewish history and culture. Christian theologians in particular would expose themselves to ridicule should they continue to ignore the obvious insight that the New Testament was completely incomprehensible without the Jewish soil from which it had emerged: “Judaism could serve as a leader and torch not only for the understanding of these writings, but also for exploring the further history of the development of this world historical phenomenon, the Church, the Christian Fathers and Teachers.”28 The establishment of chairs for Jewish Studies at German universities was, therefore, more than a mere question of political justice, it was also of vital interest for the universities themselves to make sure that “a literature such as the Jewish one, which is so deeply fused with the history and knowledge of humanity, does not remain unrepresented in them.” The principles of modern scholarship, according to Kaufmann, required that research devoted to a distinctive religious or cultural tradition include the voices of members of that tradition who could offer their views from within:

25 Ibid., 12–13. 26 David Kaufmann, “Die Vertretung der jüdischen Wissenschaft an den Universitäten,” Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 39 (1895): 145–167; quoted after the reprint in Gesammelte Schriften, I, 14–38, here 17. 27 Ibid., 16. 28 Ibid., 36.



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And just the writings and the history of a religion that has given birth to all monotheistic religions on Earth, in whose soil the holiest ideas of humankind are rooted […], are supposed to stay outside the realm of scholarship, while even the latest and most recent offshoot of the humanities as well as the sciences requests and finds access to the palace of knowledge!29

Kaufmann was, however, not only a great polemicist and a defensor fidei,30 who anticipated the debates on the emancipation of Jewish Studies that unfolded in the German context in the early twentieth century,31 but also a scholar who expressed profound respect for Christian scholarship, provided it demonstrated a just and knowledgeable approach to the Jewish tradition. Thus, he treated non-Jewish scholars such as the Leipzig Protestant theologian, Hebraist, and missionary Franz Delitzsch (1813–1890), whose work in the field of biblical exegesis and the history of Jewish literature bears witness to his scholarly objectivity and his respectful attitude towards Jewish scholarship, with great esteem.32 When Delitzsch died in 1890, Kaufmann published an exuberant obituary, in which he praised the deceased scholar as a “witness and champion in Israel” and as a “symbol of reconciliation” between Jews and Christians beyond his death.33 All religious differences notwithstanding, Delitzsch’s profound knowledge of biblical and rabbinical literature, as well as his friendship with scholars such as Julius Fürst (1805–1873) and Moritz Steinschneider (1816–1907), made

29 Ibid., 35. 30 Markus Brann and Ferdinand Rosenthal, eds., Gedenkbuch zur Erinnerung an David Kaufmann (Breslau: Schottländer, 1900), LI. 31 For earlier debates on the integration of Jewish Studies into German universities, see Carsten Wilke, “Abraham Geigers Bildungsutopie einer jüdisch-theologischen Fakultät,” in Jüdische Existenz in der Moderne: Abraham Geiger und die Wissenschaft des Judentums, eds. Christian Wiese, Walter Homolka, and Thomas Brechenmacher (Berlin, New York: de Gruyter, 2013), 359–390; for the debate at the beginning of the twentieth century, see Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums, 294–360; for other Jewish voices during the debate, see Hermann Cohen, “Die Errichtung von Lehrstühlen für Ethik und Religionsphilosophie an den jüdisch-theologischen Lehranstalten,” Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 48 (1904): 2–21; Ignaz Ziegler, “Universitätsprofessuren für jüdische Theologie,” Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums 71 (1907): 102–105, 114–116; Benno Jacob, Die Wissenschaft des Judentums, ihr Einfluß auf die Emanzipation der Juden: Vortrag gehalten auf der Generalversammlung des Rabbiner-Verbandes in Deutschland, Berlin am 2. Januar 1907 (Berlin: Poppelauer, 1907). 32 For more on Delitzsch, see Siegfried Wagner, Franz Delitzsch, Leben und Werk (Gießen: Brunnen-Verlag, 1991). 33 David Kaufmann, “Franz Delitzsch: Ein Palmblatt aus Juda auf sein frisches Grab,” Jüdische Presse 31 (1890): 327–329, 341–342, and 349–351; quoted from the reprint in Gesammelte Schriften, I, 290–306, here 305–306.

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him part of the Wissenschaft des Judentums.34 Kaufmann particularly appreciated Delitzsch’s solidarity with Jewish scholarship when it came to refuting antisemitic denigrations of Jewish ethics and the blood libels in Eastern and Central Europe; for instance, in Tiszaeszlár (in northeastern Hungary) in 1882.35 However, he had also criticized Delitzsch’s missionary ambitions a few years before the latter’s death. Delitzsch had published a book in 1888 entitled Ernste Fragen an die Gebildeten jüdischer Religion (Serious Questions to the Educated among the Jews), in which he tried to demonstrate that it was only the Jews’ obstinate pride of being the chosen people that prevented them from realizing that all biblical messianic hopes had already been fulfilled by Jesus Christ.36 Since Delitzsch strongly emphasized the affinity between Judaism and Christianity to convince his Jewish audience and omitted any reference to theological differences, Kaufmann publicly protested against what seemed to him a dishonest strategy of trying to convert Jews by obscuring what separated Jews and Christians.37 He also did not conceal his disillusionment that Delitzsch’s missionary ambitions were not free of anti-Jewish sentiments and threatening overtones when Jewish scholars expressed their determination to foster Jewish identity.38 However, what seems to dominate in Kaufmann’s relationship with his Christian colleague is his admiration for his scholarly achievement and the generosity with which he expressed his understanding for the latter’s strong religious convictions, as well as a fundamental respect for Christianity as a religious and cultural tradition.39 Perhaps the most obvious expression of the apologetic dimension inherent in Kaufmann’s work can be found in his eloquent sermons of the 1890s, which are characterized by sadness about the threat to which Judaism was exposed in Europe towards the end of the nineteenth century, as well as by trust in the strength of the Jewish tradition and its ability to survive this affliction. In an essay published in 1891 under the title Wächter, wie steht’s um die Nacht? Eine Neujahrs-

34 For more on Delitzsch’s support of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, see Heinz Hermann Völker, “Franz Delitzsch als Förderer der Wissenschaft vom Judentum: Zur Vorgeschichte des Institutum Judaicum zu Leipzig und zur Debatte um die Errichtung eines Lehrstuhls für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur an einer deutschen Universität,” Judaica 49 (1993): 90–100. 35 Kaufmann, Franz Delitzsch, 303. 36 Franz Delitzsch, Ernste Fragen an die Gebildeten jüdischer Religion (Leipzig: Faber, 1888). 37 David Kaufmann, “Prof. Franz Delitzsch’s neueste Bekehrungsschrift,” Jüdische Presse 19 (1888): 442–443, 449–450, 461–462, 477–478, and 494–496. 38 Ibid., 302; see Franz Delitzsch, Christentum und jüdische Presse (Selbsterlebtes) (Erlangen: Deichert, 1882). 39 For an interpretation of the ambivalent attitude of Jewish scholars towards Delitzsch, see Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums, 88–130, esp. 99–112.



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betrachtung (Watchman, what of the Night? [Isaiah 21:11]: A Reflection for Rosh Hashanah), he focused on the threat of racial antisemitism, encouraging his listeners not to despair but instead to reflect on their Jewish self-understanding with even more determination: “We do not need to constantly repeat the never-ending song of the hostility against us, while awake or in our dreams, nor to keep saying that our Judaism is being yapped at and threatened.”40 Instead, he emphasized, it was vital to affirm, praise, and bless one’s own attachment to Judaism, and not to abandon the prophetic vision of the people’s noble mission to spread the universal truth of the God of Israel amongst the nations of the Earth.41 With thoughts like these, Kaufmann became an important voice among his generation of adherents of a self-confident Wissenschaft des Judentums, which, if necessary, felt perfectly comfortable in challenging Christian scholarship.

III When David Kaufmann died in 1899, shortly before the fierce polemical controversies in Germany between Wissenschaft des Judentums and liberal Protestant theology about the “essence” of Judaism and Christianity, the most prominent voice of Hungarian Jewish scholarship during those debates was that of Martin Schreiner, who was then teaching at the Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin. In 1899/1900, the Berlin Church historian Adolf von Harnack (1851–1930) had delivered his now famous lectures on Das Wesen des Christentums [The Essence of Christianity] in which he adopted Julius Wellhausen’s (1844–1918) construction of post-biblical Judaism, basically dissociating Christianity from Pharisaic Judaism and using the latter as a negative foil in order to establish the uniqueness of Jesus’s message and personality as well as early Christianity’s alleged spiritual and moral superiority over its Jewish antecedent. The Jewish scholars who responded to him, were, of course, very much aware that they were not simply engaging in a theological discourse regarding the “essence” of Judaism and Christianity, the interpretation of Israel’s religious history, an appropriate interpretation of Jesus, the history of the New Testament era, or the emergence of rabbinical Judaism, but in a political debate in which no less than

40 David Kaufmann, “Wächter, wie steht’s um die Nacht?,” Österreichische Wochenschrift 7 (1891): 712–715; quoted after the reprint in David Kaufmann, Gesammelte Schriften, ed. Markus Brann (Frankfurt am Main: J. Kauffmann, 1910), II, 377–379, here 383. 41 Ibid., 377.

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the problem of the Jewish minority’s integration and the challenge of modern antisemitism were at stake.42 While it would be impossible here to present Schreiner’s rich and interesting book, Die jüngsten Urteile über das Judentum (Recent Judgments on Judaism, 1902), in more detail, what should be emphasized in this essay are the features distinguishing it from the majority of the contemporary German Jewish polemical writings, such as those by Leo Baeck (1873–1956), Joseph Eschelbacher (1848–1916), Ismar Elbogen (1874–1943), Felix Perles (1874–1933), and others.43 Schreiner was, of course, fully acquainted with their writings, and it would be difficult to prove that the distinctiveness of his voice was mainly a result of his Hungarian origins. However, what can be said is that his own expertise, acquired during his studies at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary in the 1880s, namely regarding medieval Jewish philosophy and the relationship between Judaism and Islam, prompted him to accentuate different aspects than his colleagues in Germany. He shared their disillusionment about German academia’s disregard for Jewish scholarship, and he too attempted to disprove contemporary Protestant scholarship’s negative image of Judaism, arguing that Christian theologians would only be capable of understanding Jesus’s religious and ethical message if they immersed themselves in the study of post-biblical Jewish literature, including the rabbinical tradition.44 The main cause of contemporary Protestant scholarship’s failure to do justice to Judaism was, according to his analysis, the “Christological interpretation of history” that tended to reduce Judaism to a mere precursor of Christianity, the “Paulinic religious psychology” with its negative attitude towards “religions of the Law” (Gesetzesreligionen) and the “conscious or unwitting striving for the glorification of the Indo-Germanic race.” Given the impact of these motivations on Christian scholarship, Schreiner pointed out, the Wissenschaft des Judentums

42 For an interpretation of the debate, see Uriel Tal, “Theologische Debatte um das ‘Wesen’ des Judentums,” in Juden im Wilhelminischen Deutschland 1890–1914, eds. Werner E. Mosse and Arnold Paucker (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1976), 599–632; Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums, 131–178. 43 See Leo Baeck, “Harnack’s Vorlesungen über das Wesen des Christentums,” Monatschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 45 (1901): 97–120; Ismar Elbogen, “Die Religionsanschauungen der Pharisäer mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Begriffe Gott und Mensch,” Bericht für die Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums 22 (1904): 1–88; Joseph Eschelbacher, Das Judentum und das Wesen des Christentums. Vergleichende Studien (Berlin: Poppelauer, 1908); Idem, Das Judentum im Urteile der modernen protestantischen Theologie (Leipzig: Fock, 1907); Felix Perles, Was lehrt uns Harnack? (Frankfurt am Main: J. Kauffmann, 1902). 44 Martin Schreiner, Die jüngsten Urteile über das Judentum (Berlin: Siegfried Cronbach, 1902), 14–34.



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necessarily had the practical purpose of countering prejudice and of asserting the right to demand that in any civilized state “our religion should be given the same rights as the Christian denominations,” that it should “be conceded space within the spiritual life of the civilized peoples,” and that its rich contribution to the “national spirit” should be acknowledged. This, however, would not occur as long as serious scholars allowed their judgments to be influenced by antisemitic sentiments and as long as “the annihilation of Judaism was presented as a desirable goal.”45 The truly original elements of Schreiner’s apologetic strategy, however, are threefold and consist, firstly, in the extent to which his argument is informed by his expertise on medieval Jewish thought; secondly, in a broader perspective, strongly influenced by Hungarian scholar Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921), that included a consistent comparative perspective involving Islam;46 and, thirdly, in a particularly strong awareness of the dangerous link between Christian prejudice and racial antisemitism. The first aspect can be seen in those chapters where Schreiner highlights Judaism’s profound influence on Christianity on the one hand and the crucial differences between both traditions on the other. Christian scholars, Schreiner insisted, had no justification to simply ignore the entire post-biblical Jewish tradition, and he particularly emphasized medieval Jewish philosophy since it had been instrumental in transmitting Greek philosophy to Christian Europe, influencing the further development of both scholasticism and Christian mysticism. In a telling passage, he compares the development of Christian dogma, which he characterizes as an oppressive, irrational belief system undermining the freedom of reason, to Jewish thought.47 The latter was also systematized when confronted with Greek and Arabic philosophy, but was never imposed on the Jewish community. Rather, he claims, the philosophers fundamentally trusted in critical reason and respected Judaism’s diverse and pluralistic religious outlook. It was medieval Jewish thought in particular that, in contrast to Christianity’s dogmatism, embodied Judaism’s “firm trust in the right of reason to examine the content of religious documents and to remove by means of interpretation everything in Scripture that contradicted its insights.”48

45 Ibid., V–VII. 46 For further information about Goldziher, see Peter Haber, Zwischen jüdischer Tradition und Wissenschaft: Der ungarische Orientalist Ignác Goldziher (1851–1921) (Cologne: Böhlau, 2006); Ottfried Fraisse, Ignác Goldzihers monotheistische Wissenschaft. Zur Historisierung des Islam (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014) 47 Schreiner, Die jüngsten Urteile, 34–48, esp. 34–36. 48 Ibid., 36.

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More importantly, Schreiner did not limit himself to a comparative interpretation of Judaism and Christianity but constantly referred to Islam as an important reference point for any judgment on the value of Jewish tradition. Christian scholars, therefore, had to become familiar with both Wissenschaft des Judentums and Islamic Studies instead of stubbornly ignoring these disciplines if they wanted to produce serious scholarship and to do justice to religious history.49 He claimed, for instance, that, very much in contrast to the prejudice of Christian-inspired scholarship, both Judaism and Islam provided historical proof against the widespread assumption that “religions of the Law” (Gesetzesreligionen) were incapable of true religiosity. In his chapter on the antisemitic theories of philosopher Eduard von Hartmann (1842–1906)—whose justification of political and cultural discrimination against Jews relied on the claim that traditions shaped by religious law had necessarily undergone a process of “ossification,” making them incapable of progress, reform, and modernization50—Schreiner demonstrated that neither in Judaism nor in Islam had the “Law” ever been an immutable factor preventing religious progress. Rather, in the case of Islam, despite its legal dimension, the Quran and later tradition were open for the further development of religious, philosophical, and mystical reflection.51 Against Lagarde’s verdict on the alleged ethical irrelevance of monotheism in his Deutsche Schriften, Schreiner cited Goldziher’s findings, according to which Muhammad’s monotheistic teaching had engendered important social consequences in that it unified the Arabic tribes, enabled the emergence of the caliphate, democratized Islamic society, and generally improved the lives of women and slaves. Particularly because of the ethical nature of monotheism, both Judaism and Islam were religions of justice, compassion, and holiness.52 Likewise, in regards to Judaism, the rabbinical tradition had proven its inner strength after the destruction of the Second Temple, and medieval Jewish philosophy’s creative encounter with Islam, Neoplatonism, and Aristotelian thought was indicative of the fact that “the letter of the religious documents could not hamper the continuing development of religion.”53 The very historical process of Judaism’s religious and cultural impact on Islam as well as

49 Ibid., 154. 50 See Eduard von Hartmann, Das Judentum in Gegenwart und Zukunft (Leipzig: Friedrich, 1885); for Hartmann’s philosophy, see Jean-Claude Wolf, Eduard von Hartmann: Ein Philosoph der Gründerzeit (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006); for Hartmann’s attitude towards Judaism, see Hugo Bergman, “Eduard von Hartmann und die Judenfrage in Deutschland,” Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 5 (1960): 177–198. 51 Schreiner, Die jüngsten Urteile, 49–52. 52 Ibid., 13–14. 53 Ibid., 52.



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the profound influence Jewish religious philosophy and mysticism exerted on medieval Christian culture, or the way the Hebrew Bible and Jewish exegesis became an essential factor in the development of Protestantism, was obvious proof of Judaism’s profound relevance for religious history until the present.54 While Schreiner’s strategy of emphasizing the affinity between Judaism and Islam, as well as the important ethical implications of elements both religions shared in contrast to the Christian faith, was meant to strengthen the historical evidence against Christian constructions of Judaism, he also uses a different strategy. He rejects Eduard von Hartmann’s claim that Muslim monotheism was superior to Jewish monotheism,55 and in a series of passages he places strong emphasis on Judaism’s cultural superiority as the original religion versus the unoriginal, imitative character of both Christianity and Islam. The Torah, he claims, was the cornerstone of humankind’s religious development, and neither Christianity nor Islam had proclaimed any thought that was not already present in the Torah or in the literature emerging under its influence. Israel’s chosenness, he concludes, is therefore “a historical fact,” since it has “nourished the religious and ethical self-understanding of 700 million Christians and Muslims”56 and preserved the purity of “ethical monotheism,” while the two other monotheistic religions paid the price for their historical success and developed into syncretistic traditions. More so than other Jewish scholars, Schreiner seems to have been aware of what appeared to him as a most dangerous coalition between traditional anti-Jewish theology with its depreciation of religious legalism and the glorification of race that had come to shape antisemitic attitudes among conservative and völkisch thinkers in the second half of the nineteenth century. In his chapter on Paul de Lagarde, in which he protests against the latter’s accusation that Jews tried to impose their “alien spirit” on the Germans, he pointed out that those Protestant theologians who felt attracted to the concept of a “German religion” and shared Lagarde’s aversion against the Hebrew Bible should realize that they were destroying the foundations of Christianity and mixing their “exuberant veneration of Jesus with pagan notions.”57 In his thorough critique of Houston Stewart Chamberlain’s (1855–1927) popular and influential book, Die Grundlagen des 19. Jahrhunderts (1899), Schreiner described modern racial antisemitism as the curse of contemporary culture and rejected the notion of an alleged cultural clash between the “Semitic” and the “Aryan” spirit, including the völkisch theory of

54 Ibid., 52–64. 55 Ibid., 87–88. 56 Ibid., 84. 57 Ibid., 70.

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the “Aryan Jesus,” as an artificial, chimerical concept.58 In contrast to Chamberlain’s emphasis on the racial antagonism between Jesus and Judaism, he insisted that the message of Jesus was entirely Jewish.59 According to Schreiner, Judaism and those religions that had emerged from Jewish tradition were fundamentally based on the idea of the unity of humankind and incompatible with any kind of racism, and the significance racial concepts had recently attained proved “how many shreds of paganism were still attached to the body of European culture” and to what extent modern culture needed the “Jewish spirit” of reason and pluralism.60 Judaism, therefore, had every reason to face the challenge of antisemitism by “retaining our teachings and institutions without hesitation and by responding with all the pride of the chosen people of religion.”61 Schreiner’s refutation of racial antisemitism culminates in an appeal to the responsibility of academic scholarship in view of the threat inherent in the anti-Jewish pseudo-scholarship of many contemporary theologians, historians, and philosophers: You cannot preach over years and years that a minority represents a dangerous race, that its religion is morally inferior, and that it presents a threat to culture in general. Whoever spreads such views is also morally responsible should the vulgar mob both in the realm of literature and on the streets turn such doctrine, the result of his predilections and his ignorance, into vulgar action. Such men of letters will be to blame for all injustices committed against Jews. It is the European men of letters with their anthropological superstition who are responsible for the many thousands of broken lives and the slavery of millions of Jews in East Europe.62

IV A final, distinctive, and much less polemical voice within Hungarian Jewish Wissenschaft des Judentums is that of the rabbi and scholar Lajos Venetianer, a

58 Ibid., 121–153. For contemporary theories of the “Aryan” character of Christianity, see Susannah Heschel, The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); for Chamberlain, see Anja Lobenstein-Reichmann, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, Zur textlichen Konstruktion einer Weltanschauung: Eine sprach-, diskurs- und ideologiegeschichtliche Studie (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008). 59 Schreiner, Die jüngsten Urteile, 130. 60 Ibid., 155. 61 Ibid., 165. 62 Ibid., 140.



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student of David Kaufmann.63 Born in 1867 as the son of a rabbi in Kecskemét, who later moved to Szeged, he chose a different path than his brother, Sándor, who converted to Christianity and became a Calvinist minister. The young Lajos attended the gymnasium at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary and studied at Péter Pázmány University (today: Eötvös Loránd University) where he received his doctorate in 1891. After being ordained as a rabbi in 1892, he briefly assisted Immanuel Löw (1844–1954) in Szeged and then served as a rabbi in the western Hungarian city of Csurgó and later in Lugos [Lugoj] before accepting a post as the rabbi of the newly built synagogue of Újpest in 1896. From 1912 until his sudden death in 1922, he also lectured at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary. His broad scholarly expertise extended from Assyriology and religious history to philosophy, with a particular focus on the history of Jewish-Christian relations and on the links between Christian liturgy and Jewish tradition. He also maintained a very cordial relationship and scholarly dialogue with Christian clergy of all colors in Újpest, and, not surprisingly, his writings clearly reveal that he was the least polemical among Hungarian Jewish scholars involved in the study of Christianity and Christian scholarship during contemporary Jewish-Christian debates. Venetianer presented the most detailed account of his views on Christianity and Jewish-Christian relations in a book he published in 1913, more than ten years after the debates on the “essence” of Judaism and Christianity erupted in Germany, under the title Jüdisches im Christentum (Jewish Elements in Christianity). It was included in the popular German book series, Volksschriften über die jüdische Religionsgeschichte (Popular Publications on Jewish Religious History), edited by Ignác Ziegler, which endeavored to disseminate knowledge about Judaism to a wide Jewish and Christian audience. In contrast to Martin Schreiner’s approach, this book is clearly less original, since it relies heavily on and popularizes the arguments proposed by German Jewish scholars such as Baeck, Elbogen, and Eschelbacher a decade earlier. At first glance, it may seem like an astonishingly conciliatory, irenic, and apologetic approach, aiming at convincing Christians that Judaism and Christianity were closely related, both in their teachings as well as in their liturgical practices. The latter aspect—namely, the proof that Christianity’s religious practice, including its rituals, prayers, festivals, and even the inner meaning of some of its sacraments, had been inherited from the ancient synagogue—occupies half of the book.64 The Christian cult, Venetianer argued, was unmistakable proof of Christianity’s inner dependence on Judaism:

63 For a biography of Venetianer, see Marianna Varga, “Erinnerung an Ludwig Venetianer,” in Ludwig Venetianer, Jüdisches im Christentum (Duisburg: Peter W. Metzler Verlag, 2003), 7–20. 64 See Venetianer, Jüdisches im Christentum, 43–82.

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“The alikeness of the forms refutes all theories according to which Christianity can only be derived from the biblical Prophets or explained as independent phenomenon. If the forms, which represent the outer expressions of the ideas, undoubtedly belong to Judaism, the original background can no longer be doubted.”65 He contradicted the claims made by contemporary Christian theologians and scholars of religious studies who asserted that this background was the Bible and the ancient temple cult, emphasizing instead the roots of the Christian cult in that of the later synagogue cult. The latter, he claimed, did not merely influence early Christianity but continued to be a formative element of Christian liturgy, particularly in the history of the Catholic Church.66 What follows is a detailed description of the affinity between the Jewish and the Christian festive calendar, and Venetianer comes to the conclusion that it was only Yom Kippur that had no close parallel in the Christian calendar since this festival was shaped by the idea of reconciliation with God by means of personal repentance and individual justification, whereas the Christian faith was based on the concept of redemption and liberation from sin by means of the blood of Christ.67 Other parts of his reflections are devoted to the origins of Christian prayer and the Christian service in Jewish liturgy,68 as well as to other elements of the cult, including the Christian sacraments, which he interprets as an adjustment of Jewish religious practice to the specifically Christian idea of salvation by means of material elements.69 Venetianer’s detailed analysis of the Jewish origins of Christian liturgy, festive calendar, and sacramental practice is meant to corroborate his main argument regarding the relationship between Judaism and its daughter religion: that Christianity is, in fact, thoroughly permeated by Jewish ideas and teachings and would cease to exist should one attempt to sever it from its origins.70 St. Paul, he argues, was right in using the image of the olive tree whose roots were carrying and grafting the branches: “At the tree of Christianity the root—Judaism—carries the branch of paganism. Almost everything that is good, beautiful, valuable, and ideal at the tree of Christianity is Jewish.”71 What is implied in this judgment is that everything that contemporary Christian theologians claimed to be their religion’s distinctive possession, marking Christianity as the absolute religion and Judaism as a dead, obsolete remnant of antiquity, was entirely taken from

65 Ibid., 43. 66 Ibid., 44. 67 Ibid., 44–61; for Yom Kippur, see 50–51. 68 Ibid., 61–74. 69 Ibid., 75–81. 70 Ibid., 82. 71 Ibid., 6.



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Judaism—namely, the idea of humankind’s ethical relationship to God as well as the idea of moral perfection and of loving human coexistence. Venetianer’s views on the historical and theological relationship between Judaism and Christianity can be understood as adopting the trend of liberal Jewish scholarship that had developed in Germany since the pioneering work of Abraham Geiger (1810–1874), who had shaped the discourse since the 1860s.72 By analyzing the New Testament from a Jewish perspective and consistently interpreting Jesus as part of Pharisaic Judaism, as he did in his lectures on Das Judentum und seine Geschichte (Judaism and its History, 1863/64 and 1871), Geiger had depicted Judaism as the original and true religion, whereas Christianity appeared as a mere offspring of the Jewish mother-religion that eventually became alienated from biblical monotheism under the influence of Greek philosophy and developed into a syncretistic tradition. This challenging interpretation of the relationship between both religions, which was designed to counter the religious-cultural rejection of the emancipation of Judaism in Europe and to foster a self-confident Jewish identity, had become the foundation of the liberal current within the Wissenschaft des Judentums during the controversies with Protestant theology at the turn of the nineteenth century, and it enabled the scholars involved to reject powerfully Christian stereotypes and their cultural and political implications for the Jewish minority. Venetianer joined this discourse in emphasizing that “Jesus was born as a Jew, […] lived as a Jew and died as a Jew, and [that] what he preached was pure Judaism” and in claiming that it was only St. Paul’s polemics against Jewish law that turned early Christianity away from Judaism, even though St. Paul “often and proudly declared his Jewish origins” and “remained a Jew even as a Christian.”73 His further interpretation consistently emphasizes the continuing Jewish character of Christianity, despite the latter’s attempt to sever ties with its origins. A look at the Church Fathers, he argues, demonstrates that the Christian mission during the first centuries of early Christianity was strongly influenced by Jewish ideas and forms and that, indeed, it owed the ability to overcome the threat of paganism only to its Jewish core.74 The self-defense of Christianity against the attack of pagan Greek philosophy was utterly dependent on the biblical tradition. In fact, paganism could not be overcome by means of Christological ideas but merely

72 See Susannah Heschel, Abraham Geiger and the Jewish Jesus (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 73 Venetianer, Jüdisches im Christentum, 7–8. For the contemporary Jewish discourse on St. Paul, see Stefan Meissner, Die Heimholung des Ketzers: Studien zur jüdischen Auseinandersetzung mit Paulus (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1996). 74 Venetianer, Jüdisches im Christentum, 9–11.

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by teachings based on the Jewish concepts of God and morality, which means that, ultimately, Christianity’s victory over the pagan world had been a victory for Jewish ideas inherent in its religious and ethical tradition.75 Venetianer was determined to reject the views of contemporary Protestant theologians, particularly adherents of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule such as Hermann Gunkel (1862–1914) and Wilhelm Bousset (1865–1920), who maintained that the New Testament was not only shaped by the Hebrew Bible but mainly by Oriental Hellenistic religions, and who undertook major efforts to demonstrate that the Jewish tradition, let alone rabbinical Judaism, had not exerted any formative influence on early Christianity.76 In contrast to this view, Venetianer insisted that both the tradition of biblical and rabbinical Judaism in particular had permeated Christianity to the extent that the latter, Apart from violent persecutions of Jews and Judaism, had only one weapon in order to maintain its identity, namely to forbid clerics and lay people to visit synagogues, attend Jewish festivals or engage in debates with Jews, and to threaten them with excommunication should they do so. Christians were not supposed to know how many Jewish elements they possessed as part of the Christianity that was preached to them and that they were living.77

In his interpretation of Christianity’s essential ideas and teachings, Venetianer followed the strategy of strongly emphasizing its obvious affinity to biblical and rabbinical Judaism, conceding only a few substantial differences resulting from the development of Christian dogma that betrayed the message of Jesus and Christianity’s Jewish heritage. Christianity, he pointed out, had no other choice than to give the Hebrew Bible first priority, with the result that, up to the present, the “Old Testament” was the source for humankind’s ennoblement and moral enhancement. Quoting a passage from Old Testament scholar Carl Heinrich Cornill’s (1844–1910) book, Der Israelitische Prophetismus (The Israelite Prophetism, 1894), he protested against contemporary Protestant theology’s inclination to diminish the relevance of the Hebrew Bible for Christianity and modern culture: “The entire history of humankind has not produced anything that can be even

75 Ibid., 14–16. 76 Ibid., 11–13. See Herman Gunkel, Zum religionsgeschichtlichen Verständnis des Neuen Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910); Wilhelm Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter (Berlin: Reuther und Reichard, 1906); see the critique by Felix Perles, Boussets Religion des Judentums im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter kritisch untersucht (Berlin: Peiser, 1903); for an interpretation of the debate, see Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums, 140–171. 77 Venetianer, Jüdisches im Christentum, 13.



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remotely compared to Israelite prophecy: by means of its prophecy, Israel became the prophet of humankind. May that never be ignored or forgotten: humankind owes the most precious and noble thing it possesses to Israel and Israelite prophecy.”78 Nothing the New Testament preaches can be imagined without the Hebrew Bible, and its goal, according to Venetianer, was by no means to dissolve the law but to fulfill it in a way that corresponded to post-biblical Judaism. It was the latter that inspired “those ideal teachings regarding God and humankind, faith and morality, which were revealed to the world via the New Testament.”79 Contrary to the claims of Christian theology, all religious ideas Christianity considers its own achievements have been adopted from the rich “treasure chamber of the Jewish belief system,” particularly the teachings of rabbinical Judaism.80 Venetianer criticizes that even though Christianity could not possibly deny its dependence on the Jewish tradition, Christian theologians kept insisting “that the idea of universalism had only been incorporated into the ideal of God by Christianity, whereas Judaism was a national religion,” and claiming that it had only been Christianity that had liberated religion from the chains of nationality and interpreted “God, the national God of the Jews, as the God of humankind.”81 With this supersessionist depiction of Jewish tradition, he argued, they overlooked the fact that long before Christianity came into being, Jewish tradition had already overcome old particularistic notions of God and had developed into a universalistic religion that never pretended to be the only true religion. Contrary to Christian prejudice, therefore, religious universalism was not Christianity’s prerogative but had been inscribed into the Christian tradition by its inherent Jewish legacy, starting from the idea of creation in the image of God, through the universal prophetic hopes for a messianic future, to the rabbinical emphasis on the universal character of human redemption.82 The Hungarian scholar then proceeded to criticize anti-Jewish interpretations of Jewish ritual law, claiming that religious critique of legalism and the emphasis on the spiritual character of the ritual had been a vital part of Judaism since the prophetic tradition. In passages strongly resembling

78 Ibid., 19; see Carl Heinrich Cornill, Der israelitische Prophetismus: In fünf Vorträgen für gebildete Laien geschildert (Strasbourg: Trübner, 1894; 2. Aufl. 1909), 177; for the contemporary Jewish debate on the Hebrew Bible, see Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums, 179–237; Idem, “‘The Best Antidote against Anti-Semitism?’ Judaism, Biblical Criticism, and Anti-Semitism prior to the Holocaust,” in Modern Judaism and Historical Consciousness: Identities – Encounters – Perspectives, eds. Andreas Gotzmann and Christian Wiese (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 145–193. 79 Venetianer, Jüdisches im Christentum, 19. 80 Ibid., 20. 81 Ibid., 23–24. 82 Ibid., 27–28.

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Leo Baeck’s Das Wesen des Judentums (The Essence of Judaism, 1905) and Joseph Eschelbacher’s Das Judentum und das Wesen des Christentum (Judaism and the Essence of Christianity, 1908), the focus is on the refutation of the anti-Jewish implications of liberal Protestantism’s claim that Christianity’s superiority over Judaism was visible mainly in the realm of ethics. Like his German Jewish colleagues, Venetianer counters Christian judgments regarding the moral inferiority of Judaism by pointing to the central representatives of rabbinical Judaism, such as Hillel, Rabbi Akiva, and Yohanan ben Zakkai, as the embodiments of the distinctive tradition of ethical purity and inwardness constituting “Judaism’s soul.” It was this “Jewish religious genius” with its focus on fostering spirituality and fighting “the threat of the ossification of the system of rituals” that inspired Christian ethics in the first place.83 The only significant difference between Judaism and Christianity, according to Venetianer, was the latter’s dogma regarding original sin, its idea of the redemptive quality of Jesus’s vicarious death, as well as the Christian concept of the messianic redeemer—which were all inspired by pagan influences. While Christianity’s belief in a personal messianic redeemer had indeed been inspired by Jewish messianism, Judaism’s messianic ideal was of a completely different nature and characterized by the ideal of the prophets: the hope for a messianic future brought about by a unified, morally purified humankind.84 With this interpretation, he fully embraced the strategy Reform Judaism—from Samuel Hirsch (1815–1889) and Abraham Geiger through Hermann Cohen (1842–1918) to Leo Baeck—had developed since the nineteenth century, legitimizing Judaism’s continued existence with the concept of “ethical monotheism” and claiming its potential as the rational and moral “religion of the future,” while conceding that Christianity, too, contained elements of truth as long as it returned to the original Jewish message of Jesus.85 Venetianer, probably due to his good relationship with representatives of the Hungarian churches, belonged to those who refrained from engaging in outright polemics against Christianity and from explicitly emphasizing Judaism’s superiority. Instead, he limited himself to demonstrating the essential affinity between the two religions, playing down the differences and emphasizing the commonalities more than any other contemporary Jewish scholar. This

83 Ibid., 30. 84 Ibid., 42. For his interpretation of Jewish messianism, see Venetianer, Die Messiashoffnung des Judentums (Duisburg: Peter W. Metzler Verlag, 2010). This small book is a reprint of an unpublished manuscript (1915) from the private archive of Venetianer’s granddaughter, Marianna Varga. 85 See Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums, 240–293.



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lends his book its characteristic apologetic and irenic tone,86 though by demonstrating the essentially Jewish nature of Christianity, it implicitly depicts Judaism as the mother-religion and points to Christianity’s dependence on the Jewish tradition and its lack of religious originality. While Venetianer’s arguments are by no means original, they were still challenging from a Christian point of view. They were based on ideas the liberal Wissenschaft des Judentums had developed since Abraham Geiger’s interpretation of Jewish history. Jewish scholars had claimed Jesus for Judaism, insisting that Christian theologians finally take note of Jewish scholarship both on the Bible and the rabbinical sources in order to overcome their distorted images of Jewish religion and ethics. They depicted Judaism as the original and true religion, while Christianity appeared as an offspring of the Jewish mother-religion that, having deviated from its Jewish origins, needed to return to its roots lest it fail to fulfill its historical mission. Even Venetianer’s rather irenic version of what sounds much more polemical in Leo Baeck’s essays87 contains an element of the challenging historical and theological narrative that Susannah Heschel has interpreted as a “counterhistory” against the hegemonic claims of contemporary Protestant constructions of Judaism.88

86 The difference between his conciliatory approach and other contemporary Jewish writings on Christianity can be seen by comparing it to another book that appeared in Ignác Ziegler’s Volkschriften über die jüdische Religion, a book entitled Judentum und Christentum and published in 1914 by German rabbi Max Dienemann (1875–1939), one of the leading voices of the younger generation of Liberal Judaism. In contrast to Venetianer’s book, it trenchantly emphasizes the “distinction between Judaism and Christianity” and attempts to demonstrate the intrinsic value of Judaism and its distance from all varieties of Christian theology; see Max Dienemann, Judentum und Christentum (Frankfurt am Main: Kauffmann, 1914, 2nd ed. 1919), 5; for Dienemann, see Mally Diene­mann, Max Dienemann (1875–1939), ein Lebensbild (Offenbach: Offenbacher Geschichts­ verein, 1964); for an even more polemical account of the difference between Judaism and Christianity, see Leo Baeck, “Romantische Religion,” in Werke, IV, Aus drei Jahrtausenden: Das Evangelium als Urkunde der jüdischen Glaubensgeschichte (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2000), 59–129. 87 See Christian Wiese, “Ein unerhörtes Gesprächsangebot: Leo Baeck, die Wissenschaft des Judentums und das Judentumsbild des liberalen Protestantismus,” in Leo Baeck 1873–1956. “Mi gesa rabbanim” – Aus dem Stamme von Rabbinern, eds. Georg Heuberger and Fritz Backhaus (Frankfurt am Main: Jüdischer Verlag, 2001), 147–171. 88 Susannah Heschel, “Jewish Studies as Counterhistory,” in Insider/Outsider: American Jews and Multiculturalism, eds. David Biale, Michael Galchinsky, and Susannah Heschel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 101–115; and see Christian Wiese, “Struggling for Normality: The Apologetics of Wissenschaft des Judentums in Wilhelmine Germany as an Anti-Colonial Intellectual Revolt against the Protestant Construction of Judaism,” in Towards Normality: Patterns of Assimilation and Acculturation in German Speaking Jewry, eds. Rainer Liedke and David Rechter (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2003), 77–101.

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 Christian Wiese

Despite their different approaches and rhetorical styles, Kaufmann, Schreiner, Venetianer, and other Hungarian Jewish scholars all took part in the same intellectual and political project that, at least for the liberal and conservative adherents of Wissenschaft des Judentums in Germany and parts of Central Europe, was a crucial part of their self-understanding and their fight for academic recognition of their scholarship. Very much in contrast to Gershom Scholem’s (1897–1982) later verdict,89 they defined their task not so much as defensive apologetics but as a self-confident response to an academic environment that denied Jewish scholarship and the Jewish minority in general an equal place in German and European society. Instead of apologetic subordination, the contemporary discourse of Wissenschaft des Judentums, of which Hungarian Jewish scholars were an integral part, challenged the anti-Jewish images of Protestant historiography. By contesting the deeply rooted concepts of Christian religious supremacy—which metaphorically describe Judaism as a “dead,” obsolete, and even dangerous tradition—and “reversing the gaze”90 by exploring Christianity from a Jewish perspective, the scholars involved in these contemporary controversies nurtured Jewish self-empowerment. Their research was instrumental in laying the foundation for a different, subversive version of Jewish and European history, one that was disturbing from a Christian, and hostile (even demonic) from an antisemitic perspective, but crucial for retaining a sense of Jewish identity and dignity in a period in which the Jewish minority in Central Europe felt increasingly threatened.

89 See Gershom Scholem, “Überlegungen zur Wissenschaft vom Judentum,” in Judaica 6: Die Wissenschaft vom Judentum, ed. Peter Schäfer (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997), 7–52; see Christoph Schulte, “Scholems Kritik der Wissenschaft des Judentums und Abraham Geiger,” in Wiese et al., eds., Jüdische Existenz in der Moderne, 407–424. 90 Heschel, Abraham Geiger, 1–22.

András Kovács

The Decades of an Ending: The Budapest Rabbinical Seminary after the Shoah It is not accidental that writings on the institutional history of Hungarian Jewish scholarship hardly deal with the postwar decades. Despite a few honorable personal achievements, this period witnessed the near complete annihilation of the institutional tradition of Jewish knowledge production in Hungary.

1 The postwar period from 1945 to 1990 can be divided into two parts. The record of the period between 1945 and 1956, though it reflects the losses suffered in the years of persecution, is relatively positive. The few remaining individuals of a generation of Jewish scholars such as Ernst Róth, Sámuel Lőwinger, Samu Szemere, and Mózes Richtmann, who had trained before the war, were still active and made some important contributions to the field of traditional Jewish Studies. However, some of these scholars—Lőwinger and Róth—left the country, while others passed away or left the field (József Turóczy-Trostler, István Hahn, and Bence Szabolcsi). Only one scholar, Sándor Scheiber, provided continuity with the glorious decades. The decline of the former Jewish educational system, which had represented the institutional background for Jewish scholarship, was the result of a combination of structural and political factors. The structural factor was the multiple effects of the Shoah, while the political one was the policy of subsequent Communist rule. Their devastating effects can be illustrated best by examining the history of the most important institution of Jewish knowledge, the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary [Országos Rabbiképző Intézet]. The Shoah destroyed the social environment that had given rise to Jewish religious educational institutions. Though a relatively high proportion of Hungarian Jews had survived the persecutions, those layers of Jewish society representing the most important source of potential students for religious educational institutions had almost completely disappeared. A social-historical analysis of the student body of the Rabbinical Seminary in the first sixty years of its history indicates that the rabbis ordained in this period came mainly from two charac-

DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-020

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teristic groups of Hungarian Jews.1 The first group consisted of (so-called) traditional Jews. Children who had grown up in this milieu and had attended the yeshivot usually arrived at the Rabbinical Seminary with a relatively high level of religious-textual knowledge and less secular knowledge. It was exactly the opposite in the case of those who came from more reform-oriented groups. Even so, students in the latter group were usually deeply involved in religious life, highly affiliated with Neolog communities, and often resolute militants of religious modernization. Traditional Jews overwhelmingly belonged to the lower social strata of Hungarian Jewry. Interestingly, however, the Neolog recruitment basis of the Rabbinical Seminary was quite similar in sociological status: the Rabbinical Seminary’s students did not belong to those Jewish strata that had experienced rapid upward mobility in the decades following emancipation. As prosopographic research data concerning the first sixty years years of the Rabbinical Seminary indicate,2 the majority of students came from the provincial Jewish lower-middle class. Only six percent of the identifiable students of the Rabbinical Seminary (N = 185) came from Budapest, and the number of those from the eastern and northeastern counties of the country was disproportionately high. Thirty percent of the students’ fathers were rabbis or religious teachers, twenty-five percent were cantors or mohels, and a high proportion of the remaining men, who were mostly active in trade and commerce, had some kind of title or office in the kehilla. This social niche representing the social background of the Rabbinical Seminary practically ceased to exist after the Shoah since most survivors of the persecutions in Hungary were from Budapest, in particular the more secular and upper-class Jews. Before 1944, tradition and traditional learning had played an important role in many families in Budapest, but such families later became quite rare, especially after 1956 when nearly all traditional Jews left the country. After the war years, even the Jewish High School was unable to provide a reserve of students from which the Jewish institution of higher learning could draw. The seventeen Jewish elementary schools, three Bürgerschulen, four of the five grammar schools, as well as a Teachers’ Training College that had survived

1 Regarding the social status of students at the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, I referred primarily to the following works: Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger, ed., The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 1877–1977: A Centennial Volume (New York: Sepher Hermon Press, 1986). Particularly helpful were the chapters in that volume by Imre Benoschofsky, “The Second Era,” 68–94, and “The Faculty,” 301–303, and by György G. Landeszman, “Ordained Rabbis,” 303–320. See also Gábor Lengyel, Moderne Rabbinerausbildung in Deutschland und Ungarn: Ungarische Hörer in den deutschen Rabbinerseminaren (1854–1938), PhD Dissertation, National Rabbinical Seminary – Jewish University (Hannover-Budapest, 2011), http://www.or-zse.hu/phd/Lengyel_dissz.pdf. 2 See Lengyel, op. cit.



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the war, were nationalized in 1948. The community was allowed to retain just one grammar school, later renamed the Anne Frank High School [Anna Frank Gimnázium]. The school’s gradual decline is evidenced by the dramatic decrease in the number of pupils in the post-1956 period: in 1959–1960, seventy-five pupils graduated from the grammar school, but this number rose in the following years to over one hundred. Then, from 1967 onwards, it declined steadily to the point where only seven pupils were studying at the school in 1977. Only in 1986 did the number of pupils reach thirty. Qualitative research data indicate that the social composition of students at the school was very similar to that of the Rabbinical Seminary: the majority of them came from the lower class of Budapest Jewry.3 Finally, among the structural reasons for this gradual decline, two more factors should be mentioned. The first is emigration: not only did the aforementioned prestigious representatives of Jewish scholarship leave the country by 1956, but so also did fifty percent of the rabbis ordained between 1945 and 1985 at the Rabbinical Seminary (approximately fifteen to twenty). Many of them most likely managed to integrate into Jewish life due to their command of ancient and contemporary languages and their membership in religious and scholarly networks. Additionally, the disappearance of the traditional partner institutions—Breslau and Berlin (Jüdisch-theologisches Seminar in Breslau, Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin, Rabbinerseminar für das orthodoxe Judentum in Berlin)—contributed to the emerging void: in the first fifty years of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, seventy-five percent of its students attended at least one of the seminaries in Breslau and Berlin, and a quarter of the students attended two institutions. This productive synergy obviously disappeared. Thus, the structural consequences of the Shoah would have made the revival of prewar Jewish scholarship extremely difficult even if the political conditions had been more favorable. However, the total Communist takeover at the end of the 1940s pushed Jewish institutions further down the path to annihilation.

2 The Communist parties that seized power in East-Central Europe after World War II eliminated the political, religious, social and cultural institutions of surviv-

3 See László Felkai, A budapesti zsidó fiú- és leánygimnázium története [The History of the Budapest Jewish High School for Boys and for Girls] (Budapest: Anna Frank Gimnázium, 1992).

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ing Jewry or made them dependent on the state.4 In Hungary, the policies of the Communist party-state towards Jews were basically no different from the policies directed towards other religious denominations, and the leaders of the Jewish community behaved like Christian leaders. An agreement between Jewish representatives and the Hungarian state concerning educational institutions was signed on December 7, 1948. The Jewish negotiators (Lajos Stöckler and Samu Kahán-Frankl, the leaders of the Neolog and Orthodox communities) gave their consent for the nationalization of Jewish schools and—a year later—the abolition of compulsory religious education. The main body of state control over denominational issues became the State Office for Church Affairs, which regulated church life primarily by monopolizing decision-making authority in areas such as finance and appointments.5 Thus, the entire leadership of the Jewish congregation became a part of the party-state’s nomenclature system. However, while the repressive policies employed by the party-state against the Jewish denomination were no different from policies pursued against other religious denominations, Jews were affected by forms of repression that in the case of other communities were clearly absent. Such repression was inflicted on real or perceived manifestations of secular, non-religious Jewish identities and activities. According to official documents, Jewish education and scholarship were considered to lie in between the two spheres. If they occurred strictly as part of religious activities and within the walls of tightly controlled religious institutions, they were tolerated. However, if they seemed to transgress the borders of these institutions or seemed to fight against institutional control, they faced the repressive mechanisms of the system. The recurring question of the time was where these borders actually were. On the basis of documents found in the

4 For an overview of this process, see András Kovács, “Hungarian Jewish Politics from the End of the Second World War until the Collapse of Communism,” in Jews and the State: Dangerous Alliances and the Perils of Privilege (Studies in Contemporary Jewry, XIX), ed. Ezra Mendelsohn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 124–156. A short Hungarian version of the present chapter, with source extracts in the original language, appeared in András Kovács, “Körbekerítve: Scheiber Sándor utóvédharcai” [Fenced in: Sándor Scheiber’s Rearguard Battles], in Papírhíd az egyetemes kultúra szolgálatában: Tanulmánykötet Scheiber Sándor születése századik évfordulójára, ed. Antal Babits (Budapest 2014), 349–357; also in Szombat 25, 7 (2013): 11–16. 5 Under Law-decree no. 22 of 1957, the prior approval of the Presidential Council of the People’s Republic of Hungary was necessary for the following appointments (and dismissals): National Representation of the Hungarian Israelites—chairman, deputy chairmen, and general secretary; the Budapest Israelite Community—chairman and deputy chairmen; the Neolog Rabbinical Council—chairman; and the Orthodox Rabbinical Council—chairman. The appointment of directors to the Jewish High School and the Rabbinical Seminary required the approval of the State Office for Church Affairs.



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archives of the ruling Communist Party, the government, and the political police, it is possible to reconstruct how these mechanisms functioned, for example, in the case of the Rabbinical Seminary. In examining the regular reports of the state security organs, one finds that they did not deal systematically with Jewish issues between the 1956 Revolution and 1961.6 The need to reorganize the apparatus tasked with fighting “Zionism” and hostile elements in the Jewish community while also reorganizing the network of secret informers within Jewish institutions, appeared for the first time in a report filed in September 1961.7 The strategy of the authorities aimed to achieve two objectives. The first objective was to assume control of those Jewish institutions that had preserved at least some of their autonomy. The second objective was to control the foreign resources, donations, and networks that had helped maintain the autonomy and independence of some Jewish institutions and had kept them separate from the collaborating community leadership. In the strategy paper of a department of state security tasked with fighting internal enemies of the state from September 1961, the author, a high-ranking intelligence officer, defined three targets for organized actions: the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary and its head, Sándor Scheiber; the Central Social Committee (the Hungarian arm of the American Joint Distribution Committee); and the Israeli Embassy’s Hungarian network.8 Thus, the Rabbinical Seminary was targeted

6 According to the report, surveillance of “Zionism” was suspended after 1956 but was reintroduced in December 1961 on the basis of a working plan drafted by the II/2 and II/3 departments. In fact, the work had to be started anew, as much of the prior operative material had been destroyed in 1956. With the reintroduction of regular surveillance, 127 former Zionists were found in the operative records. “Jelentés illegális cionista mozgalom ügyében. 1962. április 12.” [Report on the Matter of the Illegal Zionist Movement, April 12, 1962], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták, 1. köt. [Zionists Undertaking Hostile Activities, vol. 1]; Állambiztonsági Szolgálatok Történeti Levéltára [Historical Archives of the State Security Services, Budapest, henceforth ÁBTL], O-17169. 7 “Jelentés az izraelita egyház operatív helyzetéről, 1961. szeptember 4,” [Report on the Operative Situation of the Israelite Denomination, September 4, 1961], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták, 1. köt.; ÁBTL, O-17169. 8 See “Jelentés az izraelita egyház operatív helyzetéről, 1961. szeptember 4.” [Report on the Operative Situation of the Israelite Denomination, September 4, 1961]. A subsequent report summarized the targets of surveillance from the 1960s onwards as follows: 1. The role and activities of the Israeli Embassy until 1967; 2. After 1967, the National Rabbinical Institution [i. e. the Seminary], private apartments and public places; 3. From 1972–73, the influence of Western Jewish organizations and the involvement of Hungarian Jewry in international work. See “Feljegyzés az izraelita egyházi reakció elmúlt 3 évi tevékenységéről, 1977. október 31.” [Memorandum on the Past Three Years of Activities of the Reactionary Forces in the Israelite Denomination, October 31, 1977], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták; ÁBTL, O-17169/5.

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by the authorities from the outset, mainly because of the strenuous battle—a constant uphill battle—that Scheiber fought to save Hungary’s last remaining Jewish spiritual center. In order to illustrate the difficult circumstances and atmosphere facing Scheiber, it is worth examining two documents. The first is a publication in the 1985–1991 Yearbook of the Rabbinical Seminary, a posthumous eulogy for the seventy-fifth birthday of the late director. The author, the director of the Jewish Museum, pays tribute to the extraordinary personality of Scheiber, “a genius,” as she calls him, and to the uncompromising fighter who always succeeded in circumventing bureaucratic rules in order to finance academic activities and to support those who were in need in his institution during difficult times. She praises the extraordinary scholar and rabbi, who, alas, never received well-deserved recognition in his home country. When he became the head of the Rabbinical Seminary, she wrote, [...] he was already world-famous. He became an honorary doctor in many rabbinical seminaries abroad. But recognition at home did not come. The University and the Academy remained silent, and although he did become a member of a scholarly society here and there, the membership [...] remained honorary.”9

The other document is a report by the secret agent Xavér, dating from 1965: Resistance is the main characteristic of S. Sch. For him everything we have is […] bad, and everything we do not have is good. Thus, living here is bad, but living in the West is good. What is happening in the Jewish community is bad, but things would be fine if he could dictate them. He worships the West […] praising science there and all the opportunities; even clothing is only really good if it is from the West. Clearly, this eternal opposition motivates him to send his own institute’s valuable property [to the West], doing so at the expense of the institute. Actually, he is a talented person, with a great talent for remembering facts. If he put all his efforts into his academic work, he would have fine results. However, he spends most of his time plotting against the people he hates, which means that he is constantly seeking to bring down the leaders of the Jewish community […] At the same time, he is an extremely poor manager of his institute and of the library; he never does the things he should be doing. Instead, he teaches his students to hate [others], and since he never requires them to do any work, he is training rabbis who will be unreliable and immoral as well as dishonest in their behavior. […] He does not take part in any positive rallies; he does not attend Jewish community events of this type, or the so-called peace meetings for

9 Ilona Benoschofsky, “Scheiber Sándor,” Évkönyv, 1985–1991 [Yearbook, 1985–1991], ed. József Schweitzer (Budapest: Országos Rabbiképző Intézet, 1991), 10–14, here 14.



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pastors. He did go once, but has never been since, and yet the Protestants even take their trainee pastors and actively participate in the meetings.10

I presume the author of the first text must have had some idea about the reasons for Scheiber’s lack of recognition and other difficulties “in his own country.” Indeed this must be so, since the author of the two texts is the same. The reports written by Agent Xavér (she was one of the most prolific agents working for Hungarian state security)—among many others—were instrumental in assisting the state security organs in their efforts to design strategies against the Rabbinical Seminary under Scheiber’s leadership. The aims of the state and state security organs were manifold. First of all, they strived to subordinate the Rabbinical Seminary to the community leadership, which was always ready to collaborate unconditionally. A step in this direction took place in August 1960 when the State Office for Religious Affairs arranged new elections for the Board of the Rabbinical Seminary. Scheiber protested in vain against the list of candidates, which had been assembled by the head of the community (a secret informer himself). The new board was elected, two of its members functioned as secret informers, and the third one was known as the most reliable supporter of the Communist Party in the rabbinate.11 The following year the secret service put Scheiber and the students of the Rabbinical Seminary under systematic surveillance. They bugged his office and his apartment and they controlled his mail—and these measures were repeated regularly in subsequent years. The surveillance results and other related material were filed in a folder under the name “Direktor,” which is not available at this time.12

10 “Jelentés Scheiber Sándor személyéről, 1965. február 9” [Report on the Person of Sándor Scheiber, February 9, 1965] in “Xavér” munkadosszié [“Xavér” report folder], ÁBTL, M-37478/2; IV. köt.; „B” [beszervezési] dosszié [recruition folder]: 10–68.988. 11 “Jelentés a Rabbiképző Intézőbizottságának újraválasztásáról, 1960. augusztus 12” [Report on the Re-election of the Board of the Rabbinical Seminary, August 12, 1960], in “Xavér” munkadosszié; ÁBTL, M-37478; II. köt. 12 The surveillance of Scheiber and the Rabbinical Seminary is mentioned in reports drafted in the immediate aftermath of the elaboration of a regular surveillance plan (1961). See, for instance, “Munkaterv a cionista illegáció feltárására. 1962. március 14.” [Workplan for Revealing Illegal Zionist Activities]; ÁBTL, O-171690, March 14, 1962. Many subsequent reports also contain notes on the continuous surveillance and bugging, as well as on the folder with the codename “Direktor.” See, for instance, Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták; ÁBTL, O-17169/4, October 20, 1976; “Az izraelita egyházi reakció elhárítási vonalának 1975. évi munkaterve, 1974. november 23.” [The 1975 Working Plan for Intelligence Work against Reactionary Groups in the Israelite Denomination, November 23, 1974], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták; ÁBTL, O-17169/5, November 23, 1974; November 26, 1976.

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The authorities noted with regret that Scheiber had been elected to the Board of the World Jewish Congress, whereby he received the authority to distribute funds from the Claims Conference in Hungary.13 Indeed, he neglected the bureaucratic rules for spending these funds, using them instead for both academic and social purposes, which was a recurrent subject of Xavér’s reports. This small degree of freedom was exactly what the authorities wished to limit, for such unmonitored research activities and publications under the aegis of the Rabbinical Seminary were interpreted as a cover for a “Zionist conspiracy.” After realizing that Scheiber was not seeking to leave the country (he refused to accept a leading academic position in Great Britain), they tried to cut him off from the broader Jewish community.14 In February, a rabbi mentioned above as a representative of the party line in the rabbinate submitted a resolution to the rabbinate, which prohibited those who were not members of the Neolog “Rabbinical Council,” like Scheiber, from engaging in rabbinical practice. The resolution passed, but later this body was unable to enforce it.15 In 1968, after organizing a trial against some students of the Rabbinical Seminary accused of “Zionist activities” and incitement against the state, the rabbinate decided to introduce a rotational system for the position of director of the Rabbinical Seminary. It also prescribed additional mandatory classes on Marxist philosophy and social science.16 However, these efforts also proved to be unsuccessful. Scheiber’s popularity grew, and in the 1970s many young people regularly attended his Friday evening kiddush and then continued their debates

13 “Jelentés a cionista mozgalom ellen folytatott operatív munka eredményeiről. 1962. április 3.” [Report on the Results of Operative Work Undertaken against the Zionist Movement, April 3, 1962], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták; ÁBTL, O-171690. 14 “Jelentés Scheiber amerikai útjáról. 1964. január 17.” [Report on Scheiber’s Visit to America, January 17, 1964], in Sárvári Györgyi, munkadosszié; ÁBTL, M-37809, 1. köt.; B-dosszié: H-40.122. According to the report, Scheiber was offered a leading position in London (probably at the Leo Baeck College), an offer he declined. The evaluating officer expressed surprise at Scheiber’s decision. 15 While the vote was taken in secret, the agent reporting on the decision knew who had voted and how they had voted. Those voting against the decision were Mór Schwartz, László Salgó, Ernő Domán, and László Hochberger. Those voting in favor were Henrik Fisch, Imre Benoschofsky, István Dér, Miklós Máté, Artur Geyer, and Nándor Kollmann. The report evaluated the vote as “a victory for the loyal group that we also support.” See “’Sárosi’ tmb. jelentése, 1964. február 18” [Report Submitted by Agent “Sárosi,” February 18, 1964], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták, 2. köt.; ÁBTL, O-17169/1. 16 “Feljegyzés az izraelita egyházzal szemben tett egyházpolitikai intézkedésekről, 1968. május 18” [Memorandum on the Church Policy Measures Taken against the Israelite Denomination, May 18, 1968], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták; ÁBTL, O-17169/2.



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and conversations in coffee houses and in apartments. Although the Friday evening lectures adhered strictly to religious and cultural themes, hundreds of pages were filled with agents’ reports about the “Zionist-suspect” activities that were taking place in and around the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary. In 1977, a summary report mentioned with boastful pride how the state authorities had successfully prevented the public circulation of Scheiber’s monumental work Folklór és tárgytörténet (Folklore and Motif History), leading him to attempt to circulate it through private channels.17 Yet, in the late 1970s, the reports became more resigned in tone: they recorded how the “hostile activities” of the professor were continuing, his “Zionist-nationalist views” had received strong support from foreign Jewish organizations, his scholarly achievements in the field of Hungarian Jewish literature were widely acknowledged, and, consequently, his international reputation was on the rise. The cited report concludes, however, that while it might be possible to put Scheiber on trial for non-political crimes, the presentation of the facts serving as proof might expose the informants in his circle. Moreover, due to Scheiber’s reputation abroad and status in domestic Jewish life, a legal procedure might result in a serious backlash. The final decision was to continue the surveillance while recruiting more informers from Scheiber’s circle and trying to sharpen conflicts between the director and the community leadership.18 And, indeed, in a document entitled “Proposal for operational measures related to the centenary of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary,” and in another one in which the officer responsible for the operation evaluates the work of the agent network, eleven secret informers are mentioned, among them the head and financial director of the community, the chief rabbi of the Dohány Street Synagogue, and students of the Rabbinical Seminary (some code names are not identifiable). 19

17 “Feljegyzés Scheiber Folklór és tárgytörténet c. könyvének terjesztésével kapcsolatban” [Memorandum on the Dissemination of Scheiber’s Book Entitled Folklore and Motif History], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták 6. kötet; ÁBTL, O-17169/5, April 25, 1975; September 1975. The memoranda reveal how the sale of the book by way of state-owned book distributors was prevented, as it might “incite Zionist sentiments.” 18 Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták, ÁBTL, O-17169/4, October 20, 1976. 19 “Javaslat a Rabbiképző 100. évfordulójának rendezvényeivel kapcsolatos operatív intézkedésekről, 1977. november 14” [Proposal for Operative Measures Linked with Events Marking the Centenary of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, November 14, 1977]; Az izraelita egyházi reakció elhárítási vonalának 1977 évi fő feladatai, 1976. december 7 [The Main Tasks in 1977 to Be Accomplished in the Field of Intelligence Work against Reactionary Groups in the Israelite Denomination, December 7, 1976], in Ellenséges tevékenységet kifejtő cionisták; ÁBTL, O-17169/5.

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Obviously, the state organs were not concerned at all about the state of the Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary. The paralyzation and annihilation of its institutional background was seen as a form of collateral damage—what they eagerly desired was total control over the institutions of the community regardless of the consequences. But the measures they introduced in order to achieve this objective destroyed even the most basic conditions necessary for scholarly work. Scheiber’s heroic struggle could not counterbalance the effects of the nomenclature system and the flight of promising talents and autonomous personalities, the effects of full financial dependence on the state, and the total isolation from international academic life. Furthermore, the consequences of continuous surveillance destroyed the normal web of everyday social relations by planting and disseminating permanent mistrust. Thus, the four decades of Communist Party rule had irreparable consequences for Jewish scholarship in Hungary. This largely explains why, despite the “Jewish renaissance” of the early 1990s and the growing interest in Jewish subjects in non-Jewish milieus, the Rabbinical Seminary could not function as a source for the post-transitional rebirth of Jewish scholarship. Consequently, the stimuli for establishing new institutions of Jewish scholarship came from outside the Jewish institutional system.

Appendix

Bibliography

Bibliography

The following bibliography offers a selection of secondary literature on Hungarian Wissenschaft des Judentums and its international contexts. Emphasis is placed on themes and scholars discussed in the present volume, as well as on studies published since the centennial of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary in 1977. Apor, Éva, ed. David Kaufmann Memorial Volume: Papers Presented at the David Kaufmann Memorial Conference, Nov. 29, 1999, Budapest, Oriental Collection, Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. Budapest: MTA Könyvtára, 2002. Apor, Éva, and István Ormos, eds. Goldziher Memorial Conference, June 21–22, 2000, Budapest, Oriental Collection, Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. Budapest: MTA Könyvtára, 2005. Babits, Antal, ed. Papírhíd az egyetemes kultúra szolgálatában: Tanulmányok Scheiber Sándor születése századik évfordulójára [A Paper Bridge in the Service of Universal Culture: Studies on the Occasion of the Centenary of Sándor Scheiber’s Birth]. Budapest: Logos, 2013. Balogh, Katalin. “A Rabbiképző Intézet szerepe a zsidó Biblia-fordítás létrejöttében” [The Role of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary in the Emergence of a Hungarian Jewish Translation of the Bible]. In Koltai (ed.), “A szívnek van két rekesze,” 363–375. Bánóczi, József. “Az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet első évtizedének története” [The History of the First Decade of the National Rabbinical Seminary]. In A Budapesti Országos Rabbiképző Intézet X. értesitője az 1886/87-iki tanévről [10th Report of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, on the 1886/87 Academic Year]. Budapest, 1888. Baumgarten, Jean, and Céline Trautmann-Waller, eds. Rabbins et savants au village: L’étude des traditions populaires juives, XIXe–XXe siècles. Paris: CNRS Editions, 2014. Benoschofsky, Imre. “Emlékek a Szemináriumból” [Memories from the Seminary]. In Évkönyv 1970 [Yearbook 1970], edited by Sándor Scheiber, 74–105. Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviselete, 1970; English translation: “The Second Era.” In Carmilly-Weinberger (ed.), The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 68–92. Biró, Tamás. “Két nyelv, két világ határán: A szombati kakaós kalácsról, Pollák Kaim héber szótára kapcsán” [At the Border between Two Languages and Two Worlds: On the Sabbath Chocolate Yeast Cake, apropos Kaim Pollák’s Hebrew Dictionary]. In Koltai (ed.), “A szívnek van két rekesze,” 377–391. Biró, Tamás. “Szeminárium és bibliakritika: Elzász Bernát és a Rabbiképző Teológiai Egylete az Egyenlőség hasábjain” [Seminary and Biblical Criticism: Bernát Elzász and the Theological Association of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary in Egyenlőség]. In Babits (ed.), Papírhíd, 211–258. Blau, Lajos. Adalékok a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet történetéhez [Contributions to the History of the Franz Joseph National Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary]. Budapest: n. p., 1917. Blau, Lajos, and Miksa Klein. Emlékkönyv a Ferenc József Országos Rabbiképző Intézet ötven éves jubileumára 1877–1927. I. kötet: A Rabbiképző első 50 éve [Jubilee Volume of the 50th Anniversary of the Franz Joseph National Rabbinical Seminary of Hungary 1877–1927, vol. I: The Seminary’s First Fifty Years]. Budapest: [Alexander Kohut Memorial Foundation], 1927. DOI 10.1515/9783110493788-021

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Brämer, Andreas. Rabbiner Zacharias Frankel: Wissenschaft des Judentums und konservative Reform im 19. Jahrhundert. Hildesheim: Olms, 2000. Brocke, Michael, and Julius Carlebach, eds. Biographisches Handbuch der Rabbiner. Part I: Die Rabbiner der Emanzipationszeit in den deutschen, polnischen und großpolnischen Ländern, 1781–1871, by Carsten Wilke. Munich: Saur, 2004, 2 vols.; Part II: Die Rabbiner im Deutschen Reich 1871–1945, by Katrin Nele Jansen. Munich: Saur, 2009, 2 vols. Büchler, Sándor. “A zsidó reform úttörői Magyarországon” [The Pioneers of Jewish Reform in Hungary]. Magyar Zsidó Szemle 17 (1900): 111–119. Burt, Raymond L. Friedrich Salomo Krauss (1859–1938). Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1990. Carmilly-Weinberger, Moshe, ed. The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 1877–1977. A Centennial Volume. New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1986. Carmilly-Weinberger, Moshe. “One Hundred Years of the Seminary in Retrospect.” In CarmillyWeinberger (ed.), The Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest, 3–47. Carmilly-Weinberger, Moshe. “Eliezer ben Yehuda’s Modern Hebrew Dictionary and Jewish Scholarship.” Studia Judaica 8 (1999): 60–73. Carmilly-Weinberger, Moshe. “The Similarities and Relationship between the JüdischTheologisches Seminar (Breslau) and the Rabbinical Seminary (Budapest).” The Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 44.1 (1999): 3–22. Carmilly-Weinberger, Moshe. “Two Biblical Scholars in Transylvania-Banat. Prof. Leopold Fleischer and Dr. Lipót Kecskeméti.” Studia Judaica 11–12 (2004): 13–33. Cohen, Yitzchok Yosef. )‫[ חכמי טראנסילוואניה (ת"צ – תש"ד‬Sages of Transylvania, 1730–1944]. Jerusalem: Machon Yerushalayim, Mifʿal Moreshet Yahadut Hungaryah, 1989. Cohen, Yitzchok Yosef. ‫[ חכמי הונגריה והספרות התורנית בה‬Sages of Hungary and their Torah Literature]. Jerusalem: Machon Yerushalayim, Mif’al Moreshet Yahadut Hungaryah, 1997. Conrad, Lawrence I. “The Near East Study Tour Diary of Ignaz Goldziher.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 1 (1990): 105–121. Conrad, Lawrence I. “The Pilgrim from Pest: Goldziher’s Study Tour to the Near East (1873– 1874).” In Golden Roads: Migration, Pilgrimage and Travel in Medieval and Modern Islam, edited by Ian Richard Netton, 110–159. Richmond: Curzon, 1993. Csorba, László. “Izraelita felekezeti élet Magyarországon a vészkorszaktól a nyolcvanas évekig (1945–1983)” [Jewish Religious Life in Hungary from the Holocaust to the Eighties (1945– 1983)]. In Horváth, P., et al. (eds.), Hét évtized, II, 61–190. Dán, Róbert, ed. Orient and Occident: A Tribute to the Memory of Alexander Scheiber. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó – Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1988. Domján, Thomas. “Der Kongress der ungarischen Israeliten 1868–1869.” Ungarn Jahrbuch: Zeitschrift für die Kunde Ungarns 1 (1969): 139–162. Domokos, Tamás, ed. Scheiber Sándor emlékezete [The Memory of Sándor Scheiber]. Budapest: Scheiber Sándor Gimnázium és Általános Iskola, 2013. Eliav, Mordechai. “‫“[ ”תורה עם דרך ארץ בהונגריה‬Torah with the Way of the World” in Hungary]. Sinai 51 (1961): 127–142. Eliav, Mordechai. “Das öffentliche und erzieherische Wirken Rabbi Esriel Hildesheimers in Eisenstadt.” In Beiträge zur Geschichte der Juden im Burgenland, edited by Schlomo Spitzer, 65–80. Jerusalem: Massorah Verlag, 1994. Epstein, Isidore. “Adolph Büchler (1867–1939): The Man and the Scholar.” In The Adolph Büchler Memorial Volume – Studies in Jewish History, edited by I. Brodie and J. Rabbinowitz, xiii– xxii. Oxford: Oxford University Press, Jews College Publications, New Series, No. 1, 1956.



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Bibliography

Index Persons Abraham ben David (Rabad) of Posquières 288 Acsády, Ignác 105 Adler, Cyrus 191 Adler, Illés 309, 343–344 Ahad Ha’am 295, 297 Aistleitner, József 22, 42, 56, 67, 68, 96 Akiva (Rabbi) 302, 370 al-Basir, Yūsuf ibn Ibrahim 46, 94, 307 Alexander the Great 96, 142 Alexander, Bernát 115, 345 Alon, Gedaliah 302–305 Alting, Johann Heinrich 39 Altmann, Adolf 86 Altmann, Alexander 46, 324 Anan (Rav) 292–293 Apácai Csere, János 38 Aptowitzer, Victor 289 Attila the Hun 37 Austerlitz, Meyer 84 Azulay, Abraham 319 Babay ben Farhad 276 Babay ben Lutf 276 Bacher, Simon 84 Bacher, Wilhelm 1, 3, 9, 10, 18, 20, 28–30, 33, 40, 43, 44, 47, 54, 84, 87, 93, 138, 145, 162, 165, 167, 178, 194, 264, 266, 271, 273–276, 350 Baeck, Leo 262, 360, 365, 370–371 Ballagi, Mór 19, 224, 235, 260, 261 Bánffy, Dezső 335 Bánóczi, József 20, 167, 255 Bar-Kokhba 300–303 Baross, Gábor 337 Baudissin, Wolf 142 Bauer, Jules 307 Baur, Ferdinand Christian 207, 211, 353 Becker, Heinrich Carl 227 Beer, Georg 350 Benoschofsky, Ilona 115, 378–379 Benoschofsky, Imre 89, 380 Berend, Iván T. 16, 52

Berliner, Abraham 157 Berliner, Adolf 144 Bernstein, Béla 14, 50, 102, 103, 105, 106 Bernstein, Ignaz 113 Bettelheim, John Barnard 109 Biederman, Amos 64 Biederman, Oszi 64 Blau, Imre 66 Blau, Joshua 44, 70, 72 Blau, Lajos 11, 13, 19, 20, 26, 26, 33–34, 43, 47, 48, 54, 57, 87–88, 92, 94, 95, 99, 101, 102, 196, 296, 306, 307, 342, 343 Bloch, Moritz, see Ballagi, Mór Bloch, Moses 6, 10, 18, 20, 28, 30, 82, 87, 161–162, 172, 177–178, 194 Boas, Franz 113 Bonaparte, Napoleon 39, 84 Bosnyák, Zoltán 65 Bousset, Wilhelm 298–299, 368 Brann, Markus 159, 168–170 Brassai, Sámuel 112 Braude, William G. 290, 294 Breuer, Salomon 79, 84, 175–176 Briess, Ignaz 81 Brill, Samuel Löw 6, 29, 84, 161, 267, 270 Brisman, Shimeon 184 Brisz, Ottó 66 Brüll, Jakob 159 Buber, Martin 191 Buber, Salomon 290, 291, 293 Büchler, Adolf 33, 181, 185, Büchler, Sándor 14, 50, 103, 106, 176, 186, 196, 295–305 Buday-Goldberger, Sándor 343 Chamberlain, Houston Stewart 363–364 Chaze, Micheline 323 Chorin, Aaron 5, 329 Cohen, Abraham 292 Cohen, Hermann 226, 357, 370 Cohn, Moses J. 123–124 Cohn, Willy 88

400 

 Index

Conrad, Lawrence I. 146, 204–205, 225, 228, 258 Corbin, Henry 312–314 Cordovero, Moses 319 Cornill, Carl Heinrich 368–369 Czeglédy, Károly 60–61, 67 Daube, David 181 Dávid, Antal 42, 43, 49 David, Julius 84 Dégh, Linda 109 Delitzsch, Franz 42, 232, 266, 357, 358 Delitzsch, Friedrich 42, 142 Dér, István 380 Derenbourg, Hartwig 154 Derenbourg, Joseph 297 Devecseri, Gábor 50 Dévényi, Kinga 150, 151, 156 Devereux, Georges 109 Dienemann, Max 371 Dimitrovsky, Zalman 304–305 Domán, Ernő 380 Donath, Leopold 84 Dozy, Reinhart 128, 145, 267 Dömötör, Tekla 109 Dukes, Leopold 6, 213 Dunash ben Tamîm 316, 323–325 Ebers, Georg Moritz 129, 131 Edelstein, Bertalan 93, Eger, Akiba, the Elder 80 Ehrentheil, Adolf 81 Eichhorn, Johann Gottfried 37 Elbogen, Ismar 187, 188, 360, 365 Elhanan ben Yaqar of London 317 Eötvös, József 121, 127–129, 224, 247 Epstein, Abraham 289 Epstein, Louis M. 191 Ernster, Dezső 68 Eschelbacher, Joseph 360, 365, 370 Ezekiel 274 Ezra of Gerona 318–319 Fabó, Bertalan 115 Farkas, József 66 Fassel, Hirsch 7, 81 Fein, Moritz 81

Fejér, Lipót 61 Fél, Edit 109 Fényes, Elek 331, 336 Ferdinand, Tsar of Bulgaria 113 Feuerbach, Ludwig 208–209 Fine, Lawrence 324 Finkelstein, Louis 287–288 Fisch, Henrik 380 Fischer, Gottlieb 243 Fleischer, Heinrich Leberecht 32, 45, 119–156, 219, 231, 250, 254, 266, 270 Flesch, Heinrich 289 Fraenkel, Siegmund 184 Fraisse, Ottfried 119, 249, 258 Franck, Adolphe 308, 310, 311 Frankel, Zacharias 6, 8, 20, 82, 86, 168, 226, 242, 243, 246, 249, 250, 351 Frankl, Pinkus 168 Freud, Sigmund 59, 113 Freudenberg, Moses Wolf 142, 270 Freudiger de Óbuda, Abraham 62 Friedberg, Abraham Shalom 275 Friedländer, Ludwig Heinrich 186 Friedländer, Markus Hirsch 84 Friedländer, Moritz 84 Friedmann, Dénes 14 Friedmann, Egon 64 Friedmann, Meir 23, 33, 84, 283–294 Friesenhausen, David 4–5, 39 Friss, Ármin 105 Frojimovics, Kinga 104 Fürst, Julius 126, 357 Gafni, Isaiah 186 Galiboff, Raphael 275 Gaster, Moses 110 Geiger, Abraham 7, 29, 33, 75, 97, 123, 124, 131, 144–146, 179, 203–207, 209–222, 231, 240, 242, 249, 250, 256, 257–259, 261, 263, 264, 298, 304, 367, 370, 371 Geiger, Bernhard 278–279 Gesenius, Wilhelm 21, 39, 49, 98 Geyer, Artur 380 Gilson, Etienne 321, 324 Ginzberg, Asher Zvi Hirsch, see Ahad Ha’am Ginzberg, Louis 190–191, 279 Glückel of Hameln 47



Goeje, Michel Jan de 128, 151, 153 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang 137, 355 Goetschel, Roland 323 Goitein, Shlomo Dov 144, 227, 228, 244–245, 265 Goldberg, Lajos, 59, 66 Goldberg, Sándor 59 Goldberger von Buda, Sándor 343 Goldberger, Izidor 14, 59, 104 Goldberger, Salamon 49 Goldberger, Sándor 343 Goldberger, Zsigmond 92 Goldziher, Ignaz 1, 10, 12, 18, 22, 24, 26, 29, 32– 33, 41, 43, 44–46, 48, 49, 77, 84, 92–95, 108, 119–156, 162, 164, 171–172, 193–194, 203–273, 307, 309, 315, 324, 361–362 Goldziher, Károly 228, 264 Gomperz, Irma 160–163 Gomperz, Rosa 46, 163 Gomperz, Sigmund 161, 163 Gottesmann, Andor 66 Gottlieb, László 66 Graetz, Heinrich 86, 97, 101, 168–170, 296–297, 351 Green, Arthur 324 Greenwald, Yekutiel Yehuda 23, 30, 45, 266, 307 Groog, Siegmund 284 Grósz, Izsák 64 Groszmann, Zsigmond 59, 66, 103 Grunbaum, Joseph 85 Grunwald, Max 112, 116 Grünfeld, Sándor 66 Grünwald, Fülöp 107 Grünwald, Lipót see Greenwald, Yekutiel Yehuda Guénon, René 312 Gunkel, Hermann 368 Gutmann, David Ritter von 290 Guttmann, Mihály 11–13, 20, 28, 47–48, 54, 56–57, 89, 95–96, 197–198, 296, 350 Guttmann, Alexander 57 Guttmann, Julius 315 Güdemann, Moritz 291 Hahn, István 15–16, 40, 43, 46–47, 49, 51, 65, 67, 224, 373

Persons 

 401

Haida, Samuel 292 Hajnik, Imre 100 Hakham, Shimon 275 Halberstam, Salomon 168, 171 Halévy, Joseph 43, 252 Hammer, Mihály 66 Harmatta, János 279 Harnack, Adolf von 190, 359 Hartmann, Eduard von 362–363 Hatala, Péter 22, 44, 92–93, 98, 127 Hausbrunner, Vilmos 57 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 33, 207–210, 217, 231, 259 Heine, Heinrich 227, 234 Heinemann, Isaac 189–190 Heller, Bernát 14, 28, 45–48, 50, 56–57, 65, 95–96, 108, 135, 138, 196, 227, 229, 238, 242, 257–258, 264, 267, 306–307 Heller-Wilensky, Sarah 317, 322 Herder, Johann Gottfried 110, 355 Herod 298 Herrmann, Antal 111–112 Herzl, Theodor 176, 285 Heschel, Susannah 371 Hevesi, Simon 29, 56, 59, 95, 198 Hildesheimer, Azriel 23, 26, 84–85, 87, 284 Hillel 298, 370 Hillel ben Elyaqim 286, 288 Hirsch, Markus 8, 84–85 Hirsch, Samson Raphael 83, 123, 176 Hirsch, Samuel 370 Hirschfeld, Hartwig 315 Hirschfeld, Jakob Heinrich 84 Hirschler, Ignaz 26, 43, 340 Hirschler, Pál 14, 50, Hochberger, László 380 Hoffer, Armin 55–56, 63, 66 Hoffer, Erzsébet 63 Hoffmann, David 23, 84, 283 Holdheim, Samuel 256–257 Holtzmann, Oscar 350 Honti, János 109 Horovitz, Leopold Lazar 83 Horovitz, Markus 84 Horovitz, Saul 287 Horowitz, L. 97 Horthy, Miklós 45, 59–60, 91

402 

 Index

Horvát, István 38 Horváth, János 60 Horváth, Judit 91 Hunfalvy, Pál 336 Hurgronje, Christiaan Snouck 122, 148, 229, 244, 247 Hurt, Jakob 110 Hübsch, Adolf 38 Ibn Ezra, Abraham 38, 70–71 Ibn Gabirol, Solomon 174, 311, 322 Ibn Hayyân, Jâbir 313–314 Ibn Labi, Shimon 319 Ibn Latif, Isaac 317, 319, 322 Ibn Malka, Judah ben Nissim 316, 319, 325 Ibn Motot, Samuel 317 Ibn Tibbon, Judah 149 Ibn Waqâr, Joseph 316, 318, 323 Idel, Moshe 322 Ipolyi, Arnold 110 Istóczy, Győző 336 Ivanofszky, László 64 Iványi, Tamás 151, 156 Jacob b. Sheshet 319 Jansen, Katrin 79 Jellinek, Adolf 83, 85, 229, 250, 283–284, 290–291, 310 Jeremiás, Éva 279 Jesus 179, 209–211, 298, 301–302, 358–360, 363–364, 367–368, 370–371 Jókai, Mór 338 Joseffy, Wilhelm 83 Joseph ben Shalom Ashkenazi 317 Jost, Isaak M(arcus) 213, 297 Judah ben Ilai (Rabbi) 302 Judah Halevi 154, 353 Judah ha-Nasi (Rabbi) 288 Julianus (brother) 37 Kaddari, Menahem Zevi 44 Kahana, Menahem 286–287 Kahán-Frankl, Samu 376 Kálmán, Judit 67 Kálmán, Ödön 67 Kálmány, Lajos 110 Kaminka, Armand 283

Kandra, Kabos 110 Kanyurszky, György 44 Kapstein, Israel 293–294 Kármán, Mór 145, 224, 231, 235, 261 Károlyi, Gáspár 97 Karppe, Salomon 311 Karsai, Elek 55, 66 Karsai, László 67 Katona, Lajos 111–112 Katz, Jacob 78, 93 Kaufmann, David 1, 10–12, 18, 20, 29–30, 32–33, 40, 43, 46–47, 50, 52, 77, 87, 92–94, 101, 157–163, 165–174, 178, 181, 195, 225, 232–233, 239, 262, 264, 271, 308–309, 351–359, 365, 372 Kayserling, Moritz Meyer 19–20, 85, 162, 171–172 Kecskeméti, Ármin 14, 59, 104, 106 Keleti, Károly 338 Kinstlikher, Mosheh Aleksander Zusha 79 Kirschner, Robert 288, 289 Kiss, Arnold 66, 344 Kiss, József 262–263 Klein, Elek, see Karsai, Elek Klein, Jacob 44 Klein, Moritz 84 Kmoskó, Miklós 22, 45 Kohlbach, Bertalan 24, 88–89, 115 Kohn, Sámuel 8–9, 19, 22, 101, 105, 132, 162–163, 171, 193, 262 Kohut, Alexander 8–9, 28, 193, 277–278, 279, 308 Kohut, George Alexander 278 Kollmann, Nándor 380 Komlós, János 67 Komoróczy, Géza 16, 52–53, 70 Kossuth, Lajos 39, 331–332, 339, 344 Kőnig, Gyula 224 König, Lajos 163 Kőrösi Csoma, Sándor 37 Kraus, Paul 312–315 Krauss, Friedrich Salomo 111–113 Krauss, Samuel 1, 28, 32, 47, 175–192, 196, 232, 240, 265, 278–279, 296, 350 Krehl, Ludolf 122 Kriza, János 110 Krúdy, Gyula 44



Kutscher, Edward Yehezkel 44 Kutscher, Raphael 44 Lagarde, Paul de 21, 48, 354–355, 362–363 Lammens, Henri 250 Landau, Ezekiel 5, 103 Lattes, Elia 184 Lauterbach, Jacob Z. 287 Lazarus, Moritz 90, 131, 143–144, 257 Lebrecht, Fürchtegott 144 Legman, Gershon 109 Leimdörfer, David 85, 87 Lengyel, Gábor 80, 86 Lenke, Manó 93 Lévi, Israel 171, 173 Liber, Maurice 307, 314 Liebes, Yehudah 322 Ligeti, Lajos 52 Linksz, Arthur 110 Loeb, Isidore 159, 170–173 Löw, Immanuel 14, 28, 43, 47–48, 50, 149, 172, 185, 197, 223, 226, 229–230, 236, 259–260, 279, 365 Löw, Leopold 1, 7–10, 18–19, 26–30, 39–40, 81–82, 100, 111, 145, 193, 239, 242–243, 249–250, 256–258, 260, 307, 332, 339, 341, 344 Lőwinger, Sámuel 11, 14, 48, 50, 57, 59, 65–66, 87, 89, 95–96, 198, 228, 373 Luria, Isaac 306, 319 Luther, Martin 21 Luzzatto, Samuel David 97, 213, 242, 246, 291 Maimonides 70, 160, 214, 216–217, 233, 262, 273, 310, 323, 353 Mandl (dentist) 63 Mannheimer, Isaak Noah 7, 83, 284 Mapu, Abraham 275 Margoliouth, D. S. 274–275 Marót, Károly 109 Massignon, Louis 148, 312–316, 324 Máté, Miklós 380 Matt, Daniel 324 Maybaum, Siegmund 24, 179 McCagg, William 178 Meerson, Michael 190 Meir (Rabbi) 299, 302

Persons 

 403

Meisel, Wolf 8–9, 19, 82, 84 Meltzl, Hugó 122 Menasce, Jean de 272 Mendelssohn, Moses 4, 81, 233 Mészáros (lieutenant) 63 Meyer, Michael A. 173, 214 Miller, Michael L. 34, 83, 181–182 Mittler, Laura 120 Mocsáry, Géza 335 Mohammed 218–219 Montefiore, Claude 292 Montesquieu, Charles Louis de Secondat 249 Morgenstern, Matthias 176 Mortara, Marco 163 Moses 216–217, 236, 253, 269, 303, 343 Moses ben Maimon, see Maimonides Moshe ha-Darshan 291 Munk, Salomon 97, 213, 252, 310–311 Munkácsi, Bernát 43, 237 Murmelstein, Benjamin 279 Müller, David Heinrich 42 Müller, Max 44 Müller, Max Friedrich 140–142 Münz, Moshe 39 Nahmanides, Moses 319 Napoleon I 39, 84 Nathan ben Yeḥiel 278 Nebuchadnezzar 48 Németh, Gyula 306 Némethy, László 49 Neubauer, Adolph 252, 296, 325 Neubauer, Moses 85 Neumann, Ede 92, 237, 259 Nimrod 38 Nizami 276 Nöldeke, Theodor 149–150, 184–185 Nyegre, László 337 Oppenheim, Heinrich 161 Ormos, István 119 Oscar II (King of Sweden) 270 Palágyi, Lajos 344 Palágyi, Menyhért 346 Patai, Raphael 28, 59, 139, 228 Paul 263, 298, 360, 366–367

404 

 Index

Péchy, Tamás 336 Percy, Thomas 110 Perles, Felix 360 Perles, Joseph 8, 86, 164, 169 Perls, Ármin 29, 344 Philo of Alexandria 210 Pines, Shlomo 312, 313 Pollak, Lajos Eleazar 171 Pollak, Lazar 84 Pollák, Miksa 14, 103 Poznanski, Samuel 144, 229, 256 Prőhle, Vilmos 61, 67 Pulszky, Ferenc 129, 334 Rabin, Israel 287 Rapoport, Salomon Leib 6, 83, 85 Reimarus, Samuel 353 Reiner, Erica 43, 49 Renan, Ernest 21, 137–138, 140, 310 Richtmann, Mózes 30, 103, 373 Róheim, Géza 109 Rosenfeld, Morris 344 Rosenstein, Mór 92 Rosenthal, Ferdinand 162 Rosenzweig, Franz 140, 191 Róth, Ernő 14, 50–52, 65–66, 373 Rudolf (crown prince) 112–113 Saadia Gaon 32, 70–71, 145, 159, 316 Sachs, Michael 6, 179–180 Said, Edward 223, 225 Salamon, Gábor 49 Salemann, Carl 274–275 Salgó, László 66, 380 Satlow, Michael 189 Schäfer, Peter 53, 190 Schechter, Solomon 274, 292, 294 Scheiber, Sándor 14–15, 28, 43, 46–47, 51–52, 60, 65–66, 68, 96, 107, 199, 223, 228, 230, 232, 238, 240, 255, 263, 280, 373, 377–382 Scheindlin, Raymond 119, 135 Schiller-Szinessy, Salomon 83 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 208, 259 Schmelzer, Menachem 67, 119 Schmid, Anton 39 Schmideg, József 67

Schnitzer, Armin 81 Schoenberg, Ármin 171 Schőner, Alfréd 16 Scholem, Gershom 33, 306, 308, 311–312, 317–325, 372 Schrader, Eberhard 42 Schreiber, Wolf Samuel 176 Schreiner, Márton 12, 24, 33, 237, 259, 262–263, 349–351, 359–365, 372 Schroeder, Wilhelm Nicholaus 39 Schultens, Jan Jacob 39 Schürer, Emil 21, 297–298, 301 Schwab, Löb 7, 9, 81 Schwartz, Mór 95, 380 Schwarz, Adolph 164 Schwarz, Benjámin 66 Schweitzer, József 16, 32, 42, 53, 55, 59, 67, 199 Secret, François 323 Sed, Nicholas 323 Sed-Rajna, Gabrielle 323 Segel, Benjamin 112 Seidel, Esther 177 Shelomo ben Shemu’el 276 Silvestre de Sacy, Antoine-Isaac 310 Simon, Josef (József) 163, 167 Simon de Keza 37–38 Singer, Abraham 30 Singer, Adolf 84 Sobernheim, Moritz 188 Sofer, Abraham Wolf 40, 82, 176 Sofer, Moses 23, 80, 82 Sokolow, Nahum 158 Soros, George 16 Spiegler, Julius Samuel 308 Spiro, Melford E. 110 Spitzer, Samuel 84 Stade, Bernhard 142 Stein, Aurél 43, 274–275 Steinberger, Ernő 67 Steinschneider, Moritz 6, 41–42, 97, 121, 143–145, 239, 257, 357 Steinthal, Heymann 90, 139, 143–144, 229, 252, 257 Stern, István 67 Stern, Samu 62 Stern, Samuel Miklós 271–272, 324 Stoecker, Adolf 352–353



Stöckler, Lajos 376 Strack, Hermann L. 232 Strauss, David Friedrich 207–211, 214, 353 Strausz, Adolf 111–113 Streymayr, Karl 144 Štúr, Karol 82 Szabolcsi, Bence 373 Szabolcsi, Miksa 115, 343 Szász, Miklós 67 Szemere, Sámuel 373 Szontagh, Pál 336 Teitelbaum, Moshe 39 Telegdi, Zsigmond 43, 49–51, 96, 271, 279 Thulin, Mirjam 77, 157, 181 Tisza, Kálmán 41, 335 Titus 290 Tóth, Béla 334 Trefort, Ágoston 92, 127, 131, 165, 335 Treiszer, Jenő 67 Treitschke, Heinrich 352 Turóczy-Trostler, József 373 Ullendorff, Edward 226, 228 Ullmann, Scholom 85 Ulmer, Rivka 290 Ungar, Izsak 268 Unger, Joachim Jakob 84 Urbach, Ephraim E. 52–53, 302 Vajda, Georges 33–34, 46, 224, 272, 306–309, 312, 314–325 Vámbéry, Ármin 43, 91–93, 142, 261, 269, 273

Places 

Venetianer, Lajos 12, 104, 197, 351, 364–372 Vermes, Géza 53 Vico, Giambattista 249 Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet 353 Vulliaud, Paul 309, 311–312 Wachsberger, Mózes 56 Wahrmann, Mór 134 Weiss, Eisik Hirsch 5, 81, 284, 286–288, 294 Weisse, Joseph 6, 81 Weisz, Miksa 94–95, 197 Weiszburg, Gyula 347 Wellhausen, Julius 12, 21 Wertheimer, Joseph Ritter von 171 Wetzstein, Johann Gottfried 150–156, 252–253 Widengren, Geo 240 Wilhelm, Károly 62 Winkler, Ernő 50 Wlislocki, Henrik 111 Wolfson, Elliot 324 Wünsche, August 290 Yahuda, Shalom Abraham 149, 227, 233–234, 251, 254, 256, 258, 265 Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim 100 Yohanan ben Zakkai 370 Yossi ben Halafta 302 Ziegler, Ignác 24, 351, 365, 371 Zipser, Mayer 7, 9, 83, 100 Zunz, Leopold 6, 29, 75, 97, 140, 157–159, 162–163, 165–167, 184–185, 204, 213, 220–222, 239, 259, 286, 290–291, 293, 354

Places Adásztevel 164 Africa 54, 154 Alexandria 272 Alt-Schönefeld 154 Amsterdam 38 Arad 5, 120, 136 Asia 37, 42, 43, 45, 273, 274, 275

 405

Austria 8, 19, 31, 32, 72, 80, 90, 250 Austria-Hungary, see Habsburg Empire Babylonia 48, 293 Balassagyarmat 83 Bereg (county) 337

406 

 Index

Berlin 4–5, 53, 57, 90, 121, 123, 140, 144, 153, 160, 167–168, 179, 184, 187, 231, 233, 244, 252, 253, 257, 258, 310, 352, 359 – Free University 53 – Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Wissenschaft des Judentums 187 – Hochschule/Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums 12, 24, 80, 131, 141, 143, 179, 187, 284, 350, 359, 375 – Humboldt University 53, 179, 310 – Rabbinerseminar für das orthodoxe Judenthum 23, 24, 86, 87, 157, 375 – Veitel-Heine Ephraim’sche Lehranstalt 24, 42 Bielitz 169 Bne-Brak 79, 286 Bohemia 5, 81 Bonyhád 89, 111 Bratislava, see Pressburg Breslau 6, 57, 96, 98, 126, 169, 171, 178, 184, 212 – Rabbinical Seminary 8, 9, 10, 13, 20, 23, 29, 40, 42, 47, 57, 80, 86, 87, 88, 90, 101, 144, 159–160, 161–162, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 177, 178, 256, 296, 350–352, 375 – University 10, 90, 159, 177 Brno, see Brünn Brünn 83, 159 Buda 5, 47, 57, 160, 344 Budapest 6, 11, 14–16, 20, 22, 31, 34, 37, 39, 41, 42, 44–46, 49, 50, 51, 57–59, 62–68, 85, 89, 90–92, 94, 103, 106, 107, 113–115, 120–122, 127, 129, 131–133, 135, 137, 141, 143, 145, 152, 158–166, 169, 171–172, 175, 177, 179, 180, 183, 193, 197, 203, 224, 228, 263, 266, 271, 273, 279, 296, 306–309, 320, 321, 335, 350–352, 365, 374–375, 377, see also Buda, Pest, Óbuda, Újpest – Andrássy Avenue 161 – Anne Frank High School 11, 374–375 – Csáky Street Synagogue 55, 59 – Central European University 1, 16, 31, 34, 53–54 – Dohány Street Synagogue 19, 64–65, 69, 101, 161, 381

– Eötvös Loránd University 6, 10, 12, 15, 16, 19, 32, 38, 39, 41, 42, 44–46, 49–53, 60–61, 63, 66, 67–68, 78, 83–84, 90–96, 103, 106, 127, 131–132, 135–137, 141, 143, 177, 124, 224–225, 230–231, 238–239, 266, 272, 279, 306–307, 349, 378, 365 – Evangelical Gymnasium 177 – Ferenc József Square 161 – Glass House 64 – Hegedűs Gyula Street 55 – Hollán Street 63–64 – Hungarian Academy of Sciences 1, 11, 15–16, 31, 34, 41, 43, 44, 46–48, 50–54, 91, 92, 94, 106, 119, 120, 131, 136, 162, 163, 224, 232, 264, 336, 378 – Hungarian Jewish Museum 11, 53, 115, 378 – Hungarian Military Academy 113 – Hungarian National Archives 90 – Hungarian National Museum 129 – Hűvösvölgy 57 – Israeli Cultural Institute 34 – Jewish Community of Pest 262, 340, 342 – Jewish University 16, 54 – Józsefváros 160 – Károly körút 161 – Kaufmann Collection 11, 46, 52, 94, 163, 232, 309 – Király Street 161 – Landstrasse 161 – Lipótváros 63 – Ludovika 113 – Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum 129 – Oriental Collection at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences 91, 120 – Országút 161 – Orthodox Jewish Community 34, 243, 376 – Pázmány Catholic University 16 – Rabbinical Council 66, 376, 380 – Rabbinical Seminary 1, 2, 3, 5, 9, 10, 12, 13, 18, 24, 31, 32, 33, 40, 42, 47, 52, 55, 56, 58, 65, 76, 78, 79, 87, 88, 98, 99, 101, 108, 144, 157, 160, 161, 162, 164, 167, 170, 172–173, 176, 177, 178, 181, 184, 185, 194, 195, 196, 225, 256, 257, 272, 279, 296, 306, 342, 349, 350, 352, 360, 365, 373, 375, 377, 381 – Radialstrasse 161



– Rózsadomb 65 – Rumbach Synagogue 171 – St. Elizabeth Mill 163 – Sugárút 161 – Tarbut High School 51 – Újlipótváros 63 – University of Pest, see Eötvös Loránd University – Üvegház 64 – Vadász Street 64, 65 Bukhara 273, 275–276 Bulgaria 112, 113, 114 Burgenland 80 Cairo 131, 143, 146, 152 – Cairo Genizah 46, 190, 274, 280, 315 Cambridge [UK] 151, 175, 181, 182, 356 – University 151, 181–182 – University Library 151, 274 Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University 53 Canaan 215 Carlsbad, see Karlsbad Carpathian Basin 16, 37 Central Asia 37, 273, 274, 275 Central Europe, see Europe China 275 Cincinnati, Hebrew Union College 284 Cluj-Napoca, see Kolozsvár Copenhagen 120 Croatia 114, 115, 331 Csongrád 56 Csurgó 365 Damascus 148, 150, 153 Debrecen 4, 22, 89 Dual Monarchy, see Habsburg Empire Dun Huang 274 Egypt 42, 45, 131, 140, 237, 323 Eisenstadt (yeshiva) 4, 23, 26, 76, 80, 84–85, 284 England 1, 32, 110, 181, 271, 296 Eperjes 83 Eretz Israel 20, 297 Europe 2, 27, 72, 89, 108, 110, 119, 136–137, 146, 152, 163–164, 175, 182, 190–191, 205, 280, 317, 331, 338, 352, 358, 367

Places 

 407

– Central Europe 6, 14, 16, 77, 80, 85, 86, 176, 177, 181–182, 225, 234, 250, 358, 372, 375 – Eastern Europe 14, 16, 157–158, 173, 175, 234, 264, 358, 375 – Western Europe 75, 86, 157, 173, 175, 181 France 1–2, 17, 31–32, 272, 309, 310, 312, 318, 329–330 Frankfurt 34, 65, 79–80, 84, 123, 176, 187–188 Galicia 80, 160, 233 Galilee 300, 302–303 Germany 2, 8, 13–14, 21, 23, 27, 31–32, 42, 57, 60, 63, 66, 75, 80, 84–86, 88, 90–91, 98, 109–110, 120, 123, 161, 176–181, 211, 233, 243, 250, 257, 261, 329–330, 333, 351–352, 356, 359–360, 365, 372 Gießen 179, 184, 350 Göttingen 37, 354 Groß-Becskerek 172 Győr 337 Hainaut 38 Halle (university) 83, 95, 131 Habsburg Empire 1–2, 17–18, 32, 33, 103, 111, 113, 143, 164–165, 331, 333, 338 Hamburg 34, 85, 233 Heidelberg (university) 79 Hildesheim 188 Huncovce 39 Hunfalva 39 Hungary 1–11, 14–21, 23–24, 26, 28–33, 37–44, 47–48, 50, 52–54, 56, 60, 63, 65, 69, 72, 75, 78–84, 86–88, 91–92, 97–105, 107–116, 121, 136–137, 149, 159, 164–165, 167, 172, 175, 178, 224–225, 230, 233, 239, 241, 243, 245, 250, 256–257, 260–261, 269, 271, 279–280, 283, 307, 309, 329–330, 332, 336, 340, 342, 351–352, 358, 373, 374, 376, 378, 380, 382 – North Eastern Hungary (Unterland) 80, 358 – North Western Hungary (Oberland) 4, 80, 83 Hűvösvölgy 57 India 138, 139, 278 Iran 45, 271–272, 274, 277

408 

 Index

‘Irâq 314 Israel 2, 14, 20, 31, 48, 51, 53, 66–67, 72, 182, 186, 192, 238, 263, 271, 303, 342, 343, 357, 363, 369 Istanbul 140 Italy 97 Jánosháza 175 Japan 22, 113 Jerusalem 33, 44, 48, 57, 70, 158, 182, 188, 271, 275, 296, 300, 313, 317–318, 320, 322– 324 – Academy of the Hebrew Language 44, 293 – Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People 158, 182 – Hebrew University 13, 21, 44, 50, 57, 271, 301, 313, 318 – Israeli Academy of Sciences 44 – National Library of Israel 158, 317 – Schwadron Collection 158 – Yad Vashem 53 Karlovy Vary, see Karlsbad Karlsbad 160, 351 Kassa 19 Kaunas 110 Kecskemét 365 Keszthely 14, 103 Khotan 274 Khuzistan 274 Kojetein 159, 170 Kojetín, see Kojetein Kolozsvár 4, 66, 72 – Academy 38 – Babeş-Bolyai University 34 Komárom 82 Košice 19 Kremsier 159 Kroměříž 159 Kotešová 85 Kotteso 85 Kutas 85 Lahore (university) 138 Leiden 125, 127–129, 145, 150–152, 242, 244, 267

– University 98 – University Library 94, 154 Leipzig 7–8, 40, 45, 90, 98, 119, 121–122, 125, 127–128, 130, 137, 142, 150, 244, 252–253, 266, 296, 352, 357 – University 32, 159, 277, 296 Liptószentmiklós 83 Liptovský Mikuláš 83 Lithuania 110 London 33, 110, 186, 196, 292, 317, 380 – British Library 53 – Jews’ College 185, 292 – Leo Baeck College 380 Lugoj 365 Lugos 365 Madrid 233 Manchester 83 Máramaros (county) 337 Mesopotamia 45, 49 Mikulov, see Nikolsburg Milan 184 Mińkowce 286 Minsk 295 Miskolc 283 Modor 82 Modra 82 Mohács (battle) 2, 102 Mongolia 21, 37 Moravia 2, 3, 5–7, 17–18, 78, 83, 98, 157, 159, 233, 351 Mynkivtsi 286 Munich 289 Nagybecskerek 172 Nagyvárad 193, 278 Netherlands 122, 244 New York 193, 278 – Jewish Theological Seminary 67, 171, 191 – Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture 52 – YIVO 110 Nikolsburg 82–83 Nové Mesto nad Váhom, see Vágújhely Nyíregyháza 14, 59 Óbuda 5, 8, 39, 85, 160, 339, 343 Okinawa 109



Oradea, see Nagyvárad Ottoman Empire 2, 37, 102 Oxford (university) 53, 90, 356 – Bodleian Library 286, 296, 325 Padua (university) 83 Paks 88 Palestine 56, 72, 186, 271, 297 Pápa 4, 7, 8, 175 Paris 33, 46, 49, 112, 134, 154, 171, 272, 307, 310, 316–317, 320–321, 325 – Bibliothèque de l’Alliance Israélite Universelle 320 – Bibliothèque Nationale 154, 316 – École Pratique des Hautes Études 312, 314, 319 – Séminaire israélite 272 Pécs 68–69, 84, 193, 344 Pest 5–10, 19, 24, 38, 42–44, 63, 65, 82–84, 95, 103, 140, 160–161, 171, 178, 225, 237, 262, 339–340, 342, 347 Pest (county) 331, 339 Philadelphia 292 – Dropsie College 292 – Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies 292 – University of Pennsylvania 53, 292 Poland 1, 112, 233 Pozsega 111 Prague 2, 5–6, 8, 65, 81, 83–86, 90, 103, 291 – Jewish community 86 – University 83, 90 Prešov, see Eperjes 83 Pressburg 6, 39, 42, 79– 82, 84–88 – Catholic High School 100 – Legal Academy 100 – Protestant High School 82 – Yeshiva 4, 23, 40, 76, 79–82, 84–89, 98, 176 Priekopa 296 Prussia 7, 150 Qayrawan 309, 315, 324 Qumran 43 Ramat-Gan, Bar Ilan University 43–44, 53 Romania 110 Rome 96, 278

Places 

 409

Russian Empire 75 Ryu-Kyu Islands 109 Sânmartin 120 Sárospatak (academy) 4, 83, 92 Šaštín 84 Sasvár 84 Sátoraljaújhely 104, 340 Senica 84 Sepphoris 297, 300, 303–304 Serbia 39, 112, 114, 115 Slovakia 80, 82, 85, 283, 296 Sopron 14, 22, 103 Southampton (university) 182 Spiš, see Szepes St. Petersburg 151 – Firkowicz Collection at the Russian National Library 274 Stockholm 149, 230–231, 273 Sura 159 Sussex (university) 34 Svätý Jur 81 Switzerland 14, 64 Szeged 7, 14, 43, 50, 83, 97, 106, 172, 193, 197, 365 Székesfehérvár 7, 14, 193, 243, 278 Szenice 84 Szentgyörgy 81 Szentmárton 120 Szepes (county) 83, 86 Szombathely 102 Tata 14, 104 Tibet 37 Tirol 120 Tiszaeszlár 12, 102, 341, 358 Transylvania 72, 110–111, 113 Trencsén 82 Trenčín 82 Tzippori, see Sepphoris Tübingen 146, 151, 207, 211, 231 Ugarit 42 Újpest 14, 104, 197, 365 Ung (county) 337 Ungvár 283 United Kingdom 31, 182

410 

 Index

Urartu 49 Usha 302 USA 23, 31–32, 57, 67, 110, 175, 182, 278 Uzhhorod 283 Vác 85 Vágújhely 6, 26, 82 Vatican 92, 288, 292–293, 318 Venice 288, 293 Verbó 283 Veszprém 7, 55 Vienna 2, 6, 7–8, 33, 39, 42, 72, 80, 83–86, 90, 92, 111, 113, 116, 124–125, 127, 131, 137, 143, 160, 166, 172, 175, 178, 180, 183, 185, 189, 196, 278, 283, 285–286, 289, 291, 294–295, 350 – Bet Hamidrasch 33, 284–285, 290, 294 – Israelitisch-Theologische Lehranstalt 72, 90, 160, 166, 180, 185, 285–286, 295–296

– Israelitische Allianz zu Wien 171–172 – Kultusgemeinde 284, 289 – Ministry of Culture and Education 143 – Musikvereinssaal 285 – National Library 286 – Stadttempel 7, 283 – University 6, 8, 33, 42, 83, 84, 90, 111, 278–279, 283, 294, 350 – Verein der Rabbinatskandidaten 284 – Weltausstellung 113 Volozhin 319 Vrbové 283 Wallonia 38 Wrocław, see Breslau Žilina 85 Zips 83, 86 Zsolna 85 Zurich 153

Historical, religious, literary and linguistic terms 1848 Hungarian Revolution 8, 17, 81, 103, 105, 338 1956 Hungarian Uprising 14–15, 50, 91, 374–375, 377 A Jövő, journal 343 Aggadah 18, 52, 246, 273, 285–286, 303, 307, 350 Aliyah 43, 50, 59, 67 Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie 120 Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums, journal 40, 349, 355 Alliance Israélite Universelle 112, 157, 171–173, 320 Almohads 154 Altaic languages 21 Am Ur-Quell: Monatsschrift für Volkskunde, journal 111–112 Amalek 303 Amoraim 273, 288, 297 Anschluss 72, 279 Anti-Jewish laws (Hungary) 59–60, 62, 69, 103

Antisemitic Party (Hungary) 12, 93 Antisemitism 17, 48, 90, 100, 102, 104, 112, 137, 180, 254, 341, 345, 349, 351–352, 359–361, 363–364 Apocrypha 299 Arabic language 22, 38, 45–46, 60, 67, 70–72, 93, 119, 122, 124–130, 134–138, 143, 147–148, 150–154, 251, 306, 314, 316–318 Aramaic language 39, 44, 50, 56, 67, 72, 126, 179, 277–279 Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge, journal 321 Aryans 140 Ashkenazi Jewry 25, 80, 233–234 Assyriology 16, 22, 42–43, 52, 365 Babylonian Talmud 279, 285–286, 289, 292–293 Baptist Church 109 Bar-Kokhba War 300 Bedouins 150, 153



Historical, religious, literary and linguistic terms 

Ben Chananja, journal 7, 19, 40, 77, 82, 97, 243, 250, 260, 307 Bereshit Rabbati 291 Berliner Antisemitismusstreit 352 Bible 4, 6, 10–11, 19–21, 28, 38, 42, 44, 51, 56, 65, 68–69, 71, 97, 121, 126, 136, 140, 168, 179, 181, 189, 191, 219, 232, 235, 237, 259, 261, 263, 270, 273, 283, 285, 290, 295, 350, 363, 366, 368–369, 371 Biblical criticism 140, 145, 236, 240, 263 Biblical literature 5, 236, 239 Brill (publishing firm) 151, 153 Brockhaus (publishing firm) 142 Budapesti Szemle, journal 106 Caliphate 362 Calvinism 2, 4, 22, 92, 135, 260, 365 Catholicism 16, 22, 39, 42, 45, 92, 96, 100, 110–112, 114, 127, 131, 247, 250, 260, 272, 329, 341, 366 Chaldaean language 39 Chaldeans 314–315 Christian Hebraism 98 Christian literature 175, 276 Christianity 12–13, 19, 109, 126, 180, 190, 208–209, 211, 224, 250, 255, 259, 301–302, 350–351, 353, 358–372 Cold War 174 Communism 14–15, 51, 373–376 Communist Party (Hungary) 279, 376–377, 379–380, 382 Conservative Judaism 41, 243, 250 Copts 71 Cuneiform linguistics 42–44, 48–49 Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft (DMG) 122–123, 130, 131, 133, 151, 153–155 Egyenlőség, journal 11, 240, 334, 343, 347 Encyclopaedia of Islam 307 English language 33, 110, 126, 138–139, 141–142, 157, 182, 203, 208, 272, 290, 294–295, 318 Fatimids 315 Fikh 220

 411

Finno-Ugric languages 22, 43, 108 First Temple 290 Forced labor (Hungary) 49–50, 61–64 Franco-Prussian War 122 French language 20, 126, 147, 279, 299, 310, 312, 318–319, 321 Gemara 87 Genizah 46, 52, 190, 274, 280, 287–289, 315 German language 1, 2, 7–8, 18, 19–20, 33, 47, 56–57, 82–83, 86, 97, 121, 137–139, 142, 157, 159–160, 165–167, 182, 191, 240, 260, 271, 290, 310, 333, 351 Germanization 83 Gießener Mischna 350 Gospels 209–210, 250, 353 Greek language 126, 150, 160, 176, 179, 184, 291 Gypsies, see Roma Hadith 45, 205–206, 220, 223, 241–244, 246, 250–252, 270, 273 Halakhah 25, 168, 216, 249, 286, 302–305 Haredim 26, 79 Hasidism 80, 173, 251, 283, 298, 306–307, 319–320, 322, 336, 388 Haskalah 5, 6, 81, 178, 214, 267, 270, 275, 283, 310 Ha-Tsofeh, journal 11, 20, 97, 308 Hebrew language 2, 4, 6, 13, 16, 18, 20, 23, 28, 33, 38–39, 41, 43, 46–47, 51– 53, 56, 67, 70–72, 81, 88, 93–94, 123–126, 135–136, 149, 158, 162, 179, 182, 189, 237, 273, 275–278, 295–296, 301, 304, 310, 313, 315, 320, 333 Hellenism 300, 368 Hevrat Mekize Nirdamim 158 High Priest 297 Historical Judaism 214, 258 Holocaust 2, 3, 41, 48, 53, 66–67, 69, 89, 107, 174, 329, 373–375 Hungarian Ethnographic Society 109, 252 Hungarian Jewish Congress 9, 24–27, 76, 114, 260

412 

 Index

Indian languages 278 International Congress of Orientalists 43, 149, 151, 231, 273 Iranian languages 278 Ishmaelites 70, 71 Islam 44, 70, 119, 122, 131, 136–138, 146, 148, 150, 203, 205, 206, 214, 218–220, 225, 226, 229, 230, 234, 235, 242–246, 248–252, 254–256, 259, 265, 269, 271–272, 307, 313, 360–363 Italian language 20 Izraelita Magyar Irodalmi Társulat (IMIT) 11, 49, 115 Jewish Emancipation Act, July 28, 1849 (Hungary) 332 Jewish Emancipation Bill, December 20, 1867 (Hungary) 101, 331, 333, 341 Jewish Council (in WWII Budapest) 62 Jewish World Congress 380 Joint Distribution Committee 15, 65, 377 Judengasse 159 Judeo-Arabic language 10, 44–45, 70, 72, 94, 126, 149, 154, 271, 309, 313–317, 323 Judeo-Persian language 33, 271, 273–277, 280 Judeo-Sufism 323 Judeo-Tajik language 275–276 Jüdische Zeitschrift für Wissenschaft und Leben, journal 123 Karaism 46, 307 Kharjas 271 Khazars 22, 49 Latin language 38–39, 49, 59, 85, 121, 176, 179, 276, 291 Liberal Judaism 8, 10, 24, 80, 85, 132, 179, 204, 240, 250, 257, 258, 263, 367, 371, 372 Liberal Party (Hungary) 8, 17, 100, 160, 329, 330, 331–338, 345, 347 Liberal Protestantism 261, 359, 370 Lloyd Society 171 Lo Alman Yisra’el society 175 Lutheranism 22, 96, 110, 114, 177, 232, 265

Magyar Cionista Szövetség 113 Magyar Izraelita, journal 340–341 Magyar Néprajzi Társaság 109 Magyar Történelmi Társulat 105 Magyar Zsidó Lexikon 79, 109 Magyar Zsidó Szemle, journal 3, 11, 20, 97, 99, 101–103, 167, 236, 342 Magyarization 8, 17, 19, 333 Maḥzor 354 Manichaeism 276 Masorti movement 41 Mekhilta 284, 287 Messianism 211, 238, 324, 339, 370 Midrash 28, 33, 42, 83, 126, 179, 270, 273, 278, 283, 285–288, 290–295, 303, 305 Mishnah 20, 189, 285, 288, 290, 298, 350 Millennium Exhibition, 1896 114 Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums, journal 157, 168, 178 Mongolian languages 21 Mongols 274, 277, 52, Nasi, see Patriarch National Antisemitic Party, Hungary 93 National Socialism 57, 96, 174, 180–181, 183 National Union of Rabbis 13 Nazis, see National Socialism Neolog Judaism 3, 9, 11, 13, 15–16, 23–30, 41–42, 59, 62, 76, 78–79, 82, 87–88, 95, 98, 104, 114, 115, 127, 171, 177–178, 225, 227, 235–237, 240–241, 250, 257–258, 260, 264–269, 307, 329–330, 334–335, 340–348, 374, 376, 380 Neo-orthodox Judaism 23, 76, 84–85, 175–176, 258 Neoplatonism 309, 322, 362 New Testament 126, 146, 175, 179, 209, 297, 355–356, 359, 367–369 Numerus Clausus Law 1920 (Hungary) 91, 95, 279, 329 OMIKE 58 Oriental Studies 3, 21, 32, 37, 42–43, 48–49, 52–54, 75, 77, 90–91, 97, 111, 119, 123, 127–128, 136, 159, 260, 312, 349, 352 Orientalism 2, 21, 309, 321



Historical, religious, literary and linguistic terms 

Orientalists (congress), see International Congress of Orientalists Országos Kiállítás (Hungarian National Exhibition, 1885) 114 Országos Magyar Izraelita Közművelődési Egylet (OMIKE) 58 Orthodox Judaism 10, 13, 17, 18, 23, 25–27, 30, 34, 41, 42, 58, 59, 62, 76, 78–80, 82, 84–86, 88, 95, 114, 144, 145, 146, 158, 159, 178, 236, 243, 250, 257, 258, 260, 265, 267, 268, 270, 284–286, 335, 337, 376 Paganism 110, 146, 208, 363–368, 370 Passover Haggadah 285 Patriarch 268, 298–299, 302 Persian language 33, 122, 145, 273–280 Pesiqtot 287, 290–291 Pest Reform Association 24 Pesti Hírlap, journal 39 Pharisaic Judaism 207, 210, 242, 247, 259, 263, 298, 301, 302, 359, 367 Pirkei de-Rabbi Eli‘ezer 316 Piyyuṭim 38, 273, 354 Prophets 146, 215, 232, 236, 263, 270, 296, 349, 366, 370 Quran 67, 70–71, 126, 136, 149, 219, 220, 241–242, 250, 269, 362 Protestantism 1, 3, 19, 21, 38, 39, 82, 83, 114, 179, 181, 250, 260, 261, 263, 329, 341, 350, 352, 357, 359, 360, 363, 367–368, 370–372, 379, see also Calvinism, Lutheranism Rabbinic literature 31, 168, 179, 189, 252–253, 286, 288, 298–299, 301–302, 304 Rabbinic studies 10 Reformation 4, 38 Reform Islam 225, 237, 258 Reform Judaism 1, 5, 7–9, 18, 24–25, 28, 29, 40, 75, 85, 145, 168, 176, 177, 178, 203, 204, 213, 226, 237, 249, 251, 255–260, 263, 284, 307, 329–330, 332, 340, 362, 370, 374

 413

Reformed Church, see Calvinism Religionsgeschichtliche Schule 368 Religious Studies 149, 203, 216, 314, 366 Revue d’histoire des religions, journal 318 Revue des études juives, journal 317–318, 320 Roma (ethnicity) 112, 115, 336 Roman Catholic Church, see Catholicism Romanian language 39, 114, 331, 332, 336 Romans 180, 298 Russian-Japanese War 113 Sabbateanism 307, 320, 322–323 Samaritans 71, 300 Sanhedrin 297–298, 332 Sasanians 277 Schism, Jewish, in Hungary 76, 257–258, 260 Second Temple 185, 210, 235, 297–298, 303, 362 Seder Eliyahu Rabba 283, 292–294 Seder ʿOlam 290 Sefer Yetsirah 309–310, 312–317, 319 Seliḥot 354–355 Semitic languages 3, 12, 22, 45, 67, 179, 296 Sephardi Jewry 20, 233–234 Serbian language 39, 112, 114 Shabbat 41, 56, 58, 59 Shiites 250 Shoah, see Holocaust Shokatz (ethnicity) 114 Sifra 287, 288, 292 Sifre 283–284, 286–287 Slovak language 39, 82, 114, 331, 332 Social Democratic Party (Hungary) 51 Sofer dynasty 79 Sogdian language 276 Soros Foundation 16 Spanish language 20, 271 Status quo ante (denomination) 78, 114 Stein Collection 274 Sumerian language 43–44, 48 Sunna 219–220, 241–242, 244 Syriac language 22, 45, 67, 126, 136, 184–185 Századok, journal 105 Tajik language 50, 275, 279 Talmud 4, 13, 19, 20, 27–28, 55–56, 75, 77, 84, 86, 88, 126, 142, 144–145, 186, 250,

414 

 Index

267, 276–279, 283–287, 289, 292–293, 295, 297, 299–301, 303 Talmud Torah 75, 77, 84 Talmudo-Iranica 280 Turanian languages 37, 43, 137 Turco-Tataric languages 142 Turkic languages 21, 37, 92, 108 Turkish language 122, 306 Turkology 37 Turks 2, 37, 113, 114, 229 Ultra-orthodox Judaism 23, 26, 164, 336– 337 Vatican Council, First 92 Volksschriften über die jüdische Religionsgeschichte, series 365 Vormärz 19, 330 Wissenschaft des Judentums 1, 3, 7, 12, 20–21, 24, 29, 31, 39, 40, 42, 47, 54, 75, 86, 97–98, 131, 157–159, 163–164, 166–168, 170–171, 173–175, 177, 203, 214, 234, 242, 264, 280, 295, 308, 349



350–351, 354–360, 362, 364, 367, 371–372, 382 World War I 2, 11, 22, 24, 30, 33, 45, 89, 107, 167 World War II 32, 41–42, 45, 49–51, 55, 91, 158, 174, 177, 289, 317, 375 Yalqut 286–287, 293 Yeshiva 2, 5–6, 8, 12, 23, 31–32, 40, 42, 75–77, 79, 81–89, 98, 175–176, 178, 191, 267, 283, 286, 294 Yiddish language 1, 18, 23, 33, 39, 47, 331, 333, 337–339, 344 Yom Kippur 139, 140, 366 Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, journal 122, 124, 125, 130 Zeitschrift für die Wissenschaft des Judentums, journal 167 Zoroastrianism 277 Zionism 11, 21, 56, 112, 113, 254, 285, 295, 304, 322, 324, 341–343, 377, 380–381 Zohar 5, 308–309, 311, 319, 322 Zunz-Stiftung 158

The Authors Joshua Blau: Professor Emeritus, Department of Arabic Language and Literature at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem Paul B. Fenton: Professor, Department of Arabic and Hebrew Studies at the University of Paris IV-Sorbonne Ottfried Fraisse: Lecturer, Martin Buber Chair of Jewish Religious Philosophy at Goethe University in Frankfurt/Main Isaiah M. Gafni: Sol Rosenbloom Professor Emeritus of Jewish History at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem Catherine Hézser: Professor of Jewish Studies, Department of Religions & Philosophies, SOAS, University of London Géza Komoróczy: Professor Emeritus, Department of Assyriology and Hebrew at Eötvös Loránd University Budapest / former Director of the Center for Jewish Studies at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest Miklós Konrád: Research Fellow, Institute of History of the Research Centre for the Humanities at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest András Kovács: Professor, head of the Jewish Studies Program at Central European University in Budapest Ismar Schorsch: Rabbi Herman Abramovitz Professor Emeritus of Jewish History and former Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York Gábor Schweitzer: Senior Research Fellow, Institute for Legal Studies of the Centre for Social Sciences at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest / Associate Professor, Institute of Constitutional Law at the National University of Public Service József Schweitzer ‫ז"ל‬: Rector Emeritus of the Rabbinical Seminary of Budapest and Neolog Chief Rabbi of Hungary Shaul Shaked: Schwarzmann Professor Emeritus of Iranian Studies at the Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies Department of The Hebrew University of Jerusalem Günter Stemberger: Professor Emeritus, Institute of Judaic Studies at the University of Vienna Mirjam Thulin: Research Fellow, Department of Occidental Religious History at the Leibniz Institute of European History in Mainz Tamás Turán: Senior Research Fellow, Center for Jewish Studies of the Institute for Minority Studies, Centre for Social Sciences at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest Vilmos Voigt: Professor Emeritus, Department of Folklore at Eötvös Loránd University in Budapest Christian Wiese: Martin Buber Professor of Jewish Religious Philosophy at Goethe University in Frankfurt/Main Carsten Wilke: Associate Professor, Departments of History and Medieval Studies at Central European University in Budapest