Episode 259 - The Rebbe Rashab's Visit to the Museum.

00:01 The Rebbe Rashab relates: “When I was traveling outside the country—that is, outside Russia—I saw a number of paintings by artists renowned for their skill, including three by the famous artist Raphael. The first painting I saw was spread across a large canvas and depicted a battle. On a broad field, regiments of soldiers fought one another, while high-ranking commanders stood on elevated ground, looking through magnifying glasses and watching how their troops fought the enemy. The painting truly inspired dread and fear. On one side were streams of blood and faces aflame with bloodlust, like savage beasts tearing at their prey. On the other lay wounded men, their legs severed and their arms broken. Here and there the wounded crawled along. Compassionate attendants carried three wounded men on a single stretcher, with a doctor walking beside them. Suddenly, a shell exploded, tearing one of the attendants and the doctor accompanying them to pieces. The stretcher fell, and the wounded men tumbled into a deep pit. At the same time, a horseman galloped past on a mighty horse. An artillery shell struck them, tearing them to pieces and hurling them far away, while the bodies of horse and rider still flew through the air. Then another rider came galloping on his horse, waving his sword in his right hand and holding the reins in his left. His mouth was open; he appeared to be shouting directions and issuing orders to the fighters. Several more riders raced behind him. In the distance, a troop of horsemen could be seen riding toward them. Before the two groups had even reached one another, smoke rose from the stretch of ground between them. Hundreds and thousands of remarkable artists and experts in the science of warfare examined this painting. All agreed that it was a true depiction of battle as it actually happens.” The Rebbe Rashab relates—as his son, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak, writes—that one of the well-known artists gazed at this painting in deep concentration for several hours straight and fainted. It was only with great difficulty that they revived him. The doctor said he had fainted because the painting was so

03:03 lifelike that, as the artist immersed himself in the scene, he felt as though he himself were in the midst of the battle, and he fainted from sheer fear. The second painting depicted a field planted with grain: one section with wheat and another with barley. The grain was already ripening. The sky was clear, and the sun shone in all its strength. A road ran alongside the field. A light breeze passed through the barley, sending a wave across the tops of the stalks. In the wheat field, no wind was visible at all, for all the grain stood upright. Only on the head of one stalk stood a small bird. At the edge of the field stood a tree with many branches, and a black crow sat on one of them. Beneath the tree was a mound of fallen leaves gathered by ants, and about three paces from the tree sat a skink, warming itself in the sun. Hundreds and thousands of artists versed in painting saw this picture. They were unanimous in their praise of it. And indeed, the scene made a very beautiful impression. Looking at the painting, you felt as though you were standing in one of the fields in Chervna[?], the village where they would harvest wheat for shmurah matzah. But one day, a farmer came to look at the painting. He studied it for a short while, scratched his bald head, and said, “Trochu ne pravda”—“Not quite true.” In other words, the farmer said, “The painting doesn’t match reality. Reality.” When the museum staff heard the farmer’s remarks about this magnificent painting by the celebrated artist Raphael, which had cost an enormous sum, they came over and said to him, “You’re a farmer, a country man. You have no understanding of the art of painting, and you’re commenting on a painting by Raphael, one of the famous artists?” The farmer answered, “Khokhol Raphael”—the simple farmers in that region could not pronounce the letters r and f—“tu khokhol nokho tokha potret ne pravda.” At that moment, there passed by

06:18 a senior official with a group of scholars who had come to see the paintings in the museum. When the official saw the staff standing around the farmer and laughing loudly, he became curious. He called them over and asked what had happened. One staff member told him that a farmer had come, examined painting number such-and-such—for every painting had its own number—a work by Raphael, and after looking at it for a short while, had scratched his bald head and delivered his verdict that it was no good. “That’s what we’re laughing at.” When the senior official heard the staff member’s account, he too laughed and told his companions, the renowned artists, what had happened. They all laughed heartily at the simple farmer’s innocence. While they were still laughing, they saw in the distance a group of visitors standing before that same painting of the field planted with wheat and barley. The farmer stood beside them, pointing with his right hand and holding his hat in his left. Every little while he crossed himself to affirm his words, and from the visitors’ gestures it appeared that they agreed with him. This greatly intrigued the official and the group of scholars with him. One of the scholars said, “In my opinion, when a painting depicts a scene like this, the assessment of a farmer, a country man, is more reliable than that of even the greatest scholar.” He approached the group and the farmer, followed by the other scholars and the senior official accompanying them. As they came closer, they heard the farmer explaining to those around him: the barley field, with a light breeze passing over the tops of the stalks like waves on the sea—that was just how it looked in real life. The tree and its branches, with the crow perched on one of them, and the skink warming itself in the sun—all of that was fine and beautiful. “But,” said the farmer, “the small bird standing on the head of the

08:51 wheat stalk cannot be true to life. When a bird stands on a stalk, even if the bird is small and light, its weight must bend the tip of the stalk a little. Yet in the painting, that stalk, with the bird standing on it, remains as upright as all the others.” When the staff and the renowned artists heard the farmer’s criticism of the magnificent painting by the master Raphael, they looked at one another in astonishment. For a long time they marveled at the extraordinary senses and natural talents found in people, even the simplest of them. The third painting depicted a courthouse in the city of Rome: the prisons and cells where the inmates were bound in iron chains; the judges’ bench; the place where the defendants stood; the witnesses, prosecutor, defense attorney, and people listening to the proceedings. Among them were relatives of the defendants, fainting as they heard the prosecutor’s speech and the sentence he demanded. In the midst of it all, a small child cried out, asking the chief judge for permission to say a few words in his father’s defense, as they wanted to sentence him to death. The child stood on a chair, his hands outstretched. With his right hand he gestured toward the assembled crowd, while his eyes were fixed on the judges, as though to say: “You judges must know that for every word that leaves your mouths, you will have to give an account in Heaven. You must also consider the anguish of everyone gathered in this courthouse, who thinks you have brought a false accusation against my innocent father.” The defendant sat with his head between his knees. The defense attorney stood with his mouth open, traces of joy across his face and tears streaming from his eyes. The prosecutor stood with a scowl, his eyes closed, listening intently. The judges sat with their mouths open and their eyes filled with tears. Despite the great crowd, a hush fell over the entire hall, so deep that even the buzzing of a mosquito could have been heard. The Rebbe Rashab relates: “As I stood before this painting, I could not move from my place.

11:51 “After a long while, I went and got a chair, and sat there until the museum closed. I went back three times to see this painting, which made a powerful impression on me. Seeing these paintings gave me a great deal in my service of Hashem, for I heard from my father, the Rebbe Maharash, in the name of our teacher the Baal Shem Tov, that everything a Jew sees or hears contains a lesson and a path in serving Hashem. From the first painting, the depiction of war, one can learn a lesson for divine service in the battle of the yetzer tov against the yetzer hara. From the second painting, the field, one can learn that everything may look good and lifelike, but if the slight bend is missing, none of it is true. And the lesson from the third painting, the courtroom, is that when a person is being judged, a kindness he has done for a fellow Jew becomes an advocate that saves him—and the delight in that is great.”