The Unusual Word Tzafufim in Pirkei Avos|
עומדים צפופים ומשתחווים רווחים

David S. Farkas*

On a recent Shabbos afternoon I was learning the Yerushalmi to Peah when my thoughts turned – for reasons described below – to the famous passage in Pirkei Avos (5:5) עומדים צפופים ומשתחווים רווחים.

Every schoolboy is familiar with the phrase. The Mishna sets forth ten miracles regularly experienced in the times of the Temple. The eighth of these, as set forth above, is that though the people stood crowded in the Temple courtyard, they were nevertheless able to bow with sufficient space around them. The word צפופים, accordingly, means crowded.

This much is evident from the Mishna itself. But where does this word צפוף come from? Thinking about it further, I could recall no similar examples of the word elsewhere. Indeed, a check of the Concordance (Even-Shoshan) confirmed that no such word exists in all of Tanach.

No matter. There are many words in the Mishna that do not exist in Tanach. Perhaps the word is Mishnaic Hebrew, rather than Biblical. Yet here too, investigation showed no other examples of the word צפוף appearing in the Mishna. At this point we had the makings of a problem. It seems strange for such a familiar word to appear neither in Tanach, nor anywhere else in the Mishna. And yet it does not appear to be a foreign loan word either, with none of the hallmarks of Greek or Roman influence, or that of any other language. Where did it come from?

This is why I mentioned what I had been learning when my thoughts were turned in this direction. For in Peah (3:1, 26a in the excellent Oz Vi-Hadar edition) we find a debate among the two schools of Shammai and Hillel, in a case where numerous small patches of grain were planted between the trees of an orchard. The question is whether, for purposes of leaving Peah, they are to be treated as a single field or as many. The Gemara narrows the inquiry: אם במורווחין אף ב“ש מודים שהוא נותן פיאה אחת על הכל. אם ברצופין אף ב“ה מודים שהוא נותן פיאה מכל אחד ואחד.. If the trees are spread out, even B. Shammai would agree that the patches are treated as single field (i.e., the trees are not seen as intervening) and a single Peah should suffice. If the trees are close together, they are treated as an intervening separation, and even B. Hillel would agree that Peah should be taken from every patch. The Gemara concludes, אלא כי אנן קיימין בנטועין מטע עשר לבית סאה ב“ש עובדי להון כרצופין וב“ה עובדי להון כמורווחין.. The case must be of trees planted in a certain density (ten per beis se’ah), and the point at issue is whether or not this density is enough to cause the fields to be considered spread out.

Of course, what jumps out to the reader, just as did to me that Shabbos afternoon, is the contrast between רווחין and רצופין. This is the exact same contrast employed in the Mishna in Avos, yet here the word used is רצופין, not צפופים.

Nor is this the only case where such a contrast is used with this exact same pair of words. In Yerushalmi Moed Kattan 1:3 4a (also found in Sheviis 2:7 18a) R. Eliezer ben Yaakov permits diverting pooled water via a channel from tree to tree on Yom Tov, but does not allow an entire field to be irrigated. The Rabbis disagree, and the Gemara again narrows the field of inquiry, observing that if the trees were “spread apart”, all would agree irrigation is prohibited because one is watering more than he needs. If the trees were packed close together, on the other hand, all would agree watering is necessary to keep them from drying out. Thus, the Gemara concludes that the field in question was planted with the standard density mentioned above, ten trees per beis se’ah, and the point at issue between R. Eliezer ben Yaakov and the Rabbis is only whether this density is considered “spaced” or “packed”. מה אנן קיימין? אם במרווחין, דברי הכל אסור. אם ברצופין, דברי הכל מותר. אלא כי נן קיימין בנטועין מטע עשר לבית סאה: רבי ליעזר בן יעקב עבד לון כמרווחין, ורבנן עבדין לון כרצופין. Once again, we see the word רווחין contrasted with רצופין.

Finally, for a third example, see Yerushalmi Nazir 9:3 51b (also found in Kilayim 5:2 48a) We find there a debate as to whether vines planted at 4-cubit intervals are considered a vineyard, or merely a group of individual vines. R. Shimon bar Ba posits that the same question applies to a group of corpses found closely together, and whether or not they constitute a שכונת קברים, a burial ground. (Both questions have halachic import not relevant here.) R. Yose, however, says the two are not comparable: אמר רבי יוסי ולא דמייא. תמן מרווחין ורצפן במחלוקת, רצופין וריווחן דברי הכל. ברם הכא מהו פליגין בשבא ומצאן רצופין. In the case of the vines, even if they were properly spaced when planted and later crowded by adding vines, it would still be a matter of debate. And if they were initially crowded but later spaced by uprooting vines, all would agree it is a vineyard. But with respect to a burial ground, the whole question is when they were found close together, and one does not know how they were originally buried. (See Artscroll translation.) Again, for our purposes, the key point is only the wording. Here again, we see the word רווחין contrasted with רצופין.

All these three examples are from the Yerushalmi – that is to say, from Eretz Yisrael, where the Mishna was written. I have cited them because they show a clear contrast between רצופים and רווחים. These are clearly two parallel technical terms, one the opposite of the other. Thus, while we have not yet formally laid out a case, the reader can already anticipate the closing arguments: Can the real reading of the celebrated Mishna in Avos actually be רצופים, rather than צפופים?

Before pronouncing judgment, let us return to צפופים. We have already stated that no such word appears either in Tanach or anywhere else in the Mishna. If so, where does it come from?

Rashi, in Yoma 21a, where the Mishna in Avos is quoted, says it comes from the word צף, floating. As he explains, it was so tightly packed that people’s feet would actually come off the ground. Bartenura adds, in following Rashi, that their feet remained suspended in mid-air. However, we might wish to interpret Rashi to mean that their feet would rest on their neighbors’ feet packed in next to them. צף in the sense of both floating or being elevated upon something does appear in rabbinic literature, see Sotah 45a (and arguably in Tanach as well, see Eicha 3:54). However understood though, one gets the sense that Rashi was forced to devise this picturesque understanding of צפופים only because of the absence of any comparable words elsewhere. In Zevachim 15b, for example, the Mishna discusses the law of one Kohen standing on the foot of another (and whether it constitutes an interposition) and neither there nor in the ensuing Gemara is there any reference to צף. Further, if this was the true source of the word, shouldn’t the phrase, in fact, simply be צף, as in Sotah 44b צף על פני מים (cited by Bartenura) or צפים, as used in Mikvaos 2:8 אם היו המים צפים על גביו כל שהוא ישבר? This does not explain how we get the unusual word צפופים.

Aruch says it simply means “crowded” (דחוקים) as we translated it above. He brings two other examples in Rabbinic literature of the word צפוף in this sense, which, if not exactly a verse or a Mishna, would still be supportive. Yet neither of these examples are actually extant. The first is from Menachos 85b פעם אחת נצטפצפו אנשי לדקיא לשמן which we are apparently to read as, “it once happened that the people of Laodicea were hard-pressed for oil.” But this would only be a borrowed sense of the term, using “hard-pressed” for “pressed”, and from thence to “crowded”. Further, this too, is not the word צפוף for which we are looking, but only a variation thereof. And more fundamentally, none of our editions today even have such a word, instead reading פעם אחת נצרכו להן אנשי לודקיא לשמן

The Aruch’s other example is from Midrash Yelamdenu, which he quotes in connection with the second set of tablets, ראו האיך עומדין המלאכים צפופין ומרתתין לפני See how the angels are crowded and tremble before me. Yet we do not have the Midrash Yelamdenu, and Midrash Tanchuma – which is sometimes said to be identical with Yelamdenu – also does not have any such phrase.¹ We therefore cannot examine this Midrash closely, because it has been lost to us. Indeed, the use of the word “crowded” in the context of this snippet seems strange and out of place. In fact, simply by reading this solitary citation, one wonders if the word really should be כפופין (“bent in submission”) rather than צפופין. We cannot tell.²

A. Kohut, in Aruch Ha-Shalem, fares no better, simply citing other cases where theעומדים צפופים phrase is cited. He also cites possibilities where words similar to צפוף might theoretically be interpreted to mean דחוקים. However, all these examples are rather דוחק. For example, he cites Rosh Hashana 16b, where Jews in the middle category of merits and demerits are described descending to hell. Afterwards, they are מצפצפין ועולין. Rashi explains “they cry out”, and the Aruch says it means “they float out”, but Kohut conjectures it to mean “they are pushed out”, thus a kind of doubtful proof to the usage of צפוף in the sense of “crowded”. A few other similarly doubtful possibilities are put forward, none of which actually use the word צפוף in this form. (Interestingly, Kohut precedes these examples with the curious word אתפלפל – by which, I interpret it to mean, he intended to engage in pilpul for etymologists.)

The case is far different when we come to רצופין. The meaning of the word is “connected” or “contiguous”, and appears in the Bible on multiple occasions in the context of the flooring in the Temple (or in Esther 1:6, the King’s court). These floors – the source of the common word רצפה – were made out of hundreds of connected stones or tiles, from whence the word is easily applied to a large grouping of anything close together, be it people, graves, trees, or anything else.

Three different examples of the word רצופים used specifically in contrast with the word רווחים were cited above from the Yerushalmi. However, when used by itself a crowded field of examples can be shown in the Bavli as well. See Moed Kattan 9a מה יום כולו רצוף אף עשתי עשר כולן רצופין (Rashi – מה יום רצוף שאין בו הפסק אף כולהו י“א יום רצוף דליכא הפסק בינתיים); Bava Basra 37b אכלן רצופין אין לו חזקה (Rashi – כגון שנטועין יותר מי‘ בבית סאה); Negaim 11:9 רבי שמעון אומר, השתי אם היה רצוף, מיטמא. (Rash – שהחוטים רצופים זה אצל זה כעין רצפה שסמוכים זה אצל זה) The word is also found in the closely related meaning of “consecutive”, as in the requirement for adverse possession of land to be שלוש שנים רצופות three consecutive years, see Bava Basra 29b and Gittin 82a. Many more examples are cited both in the Aruch itself and by Kohut.

Thus, we arrive at the conclusion. In answer to the question posed above, there is good reason to suspect the original phrase was actually עומדים רצופים ומשתחווים רווחים. These two technical terms were often used in parallel contrast with each other in Eretz Yisrael. (That the two words together appear only in the relatively little-known Yerushalmi may, in part, be a reason why this point appears to have escaped notice thus far.) The word רצוף in the sense of crowded or contiguous is well documented throughout chazal, in both the Mishna and the Gemara, and even has a Biblical pedigree. The word צפוף, on the other hand, does not appear anywhere else that we can verify, is not found in Tanach or the Mishna, and can only be explained via questionable or creative etymology. The two words sound very similar and use essentially the same letters, and by a simple metathesis צפוף could easily and early on have arisen from רצוף.

Whether the jury is convinced or not, I am very far from “campaigning” to change a well-known word that Rashi and the Aruch were comfortable using. There is certainly no absolute proof that the reading I suggest is correct, and no manuscript evidence I am aware of to suggest there ever was a different reading. As I have had occasion to write in this space before, there is a perennial balancing act between the freedom of inquiry afforded by the principle of מקום הניחו לנו להתגדר, and actually suggesting change to established rule and precedent. Our thoughts must thus remain within the realm of conjecture. Only this, and nothing more.

* Mr. Farkas is a practicing labor attorney in Cleveland, Ohio, and received his rabbinic ordination from Ner Israel Rabbinical College in 1999. He can be reached at davidsfarkas at gmail.com

The Meaning of the Word Eduyos in מסכת עדיות

David S Farkas

Mr. Farkas received his rabbinic ordination from Ner Israel Rabbinical College in 1999. He lives with his family in Cleveland, Ohio, where he serves as Senior Corporate Counsel for one of the largest energy distribution companies in the United States.

Masechet Eduyos is a unique volume of the Talmud. It is the only halachic tractate not confined to a single defined area of law. It is, rather, a collection of Mishnayos on diverse topics, some of which appear elsewhere throughout the six orders of the Mishna and the Gemara. It is also, along with Avos, the only volume in Seder Nezikin with no Gemara, neither Bavli nor Yerushalmi.[1]

What exactly does the word Eduyos mean? Two traditional explanations have been offered, one significantly older than the other. Both explanations are not without difficulties. In this brief note I propose, with all appropriate caution and respect, a new explanation – a חדוש that, to my knowledge, has never before been suggested.

The classical explanation is stated by the Rambam in his Introduction to the Mishna, as follows:[2]

ורוב עניין זאת המסכתא הוא לזכור בה כל ההלכות שהעידו עליהם אנשים ברורים נאמנים, ושעדותם ראוי לסמוך עליה… ועדויות הם הודעת הדברים שהעידו בם לפני השופטים בעיתים ידועים וקבלו אותם מהם

Thus, Eduyos means “testimonies”. The volume is a record of various halachic statements made by reliable men in front of judges, assembled into a single volume. To be more precise, as the Rambam also writes at the end of the second chapter of his commentary, based on Berachos 27b, these testimonials took place when R. Gamliel was deposed from his position of Nasi, and replaced by R. Elazar ben Azaryah. This would indeed appear to be the simplest explanation, as the phrase העיד – a Tanna “testified” – appears numerous times in Eduyos. And the plural of the word is, in fact, עדיות, as it appears in Makos 6b הרי אלו שתי עדיות.

And yet the matter is not quite that simple. For these numerous examples all appear only in the last three chapters of the 8-chapter volume. (The word is also used, in a passing and different context, in the third Mishna of the first chapter.) In fact, the majority of the rulings found in the volume were not decided on the basis of any testimony at all. Shouldn’t the name of the masechta reflect the character of the entire masechta?

There is a second interpretation of the word, based on an alternate name for Eduyos found several times in the Gemara: בחירתא. The meaning of this word is “the chosen”, or “the best”. The sense of the word is that these Mishnayos are “the best”, because the halacha follows them, since their content comes from great authorities. See, e.g., Rashi to Brachos 27a and Kiddushin 54b. Noting this, the Tiferes Yisrael commentary of R. Yisrael Lifschitz (1782-1860) writes in the name of his father that the name of the volume should really be pronounced עִדיות (Idiyos) with a chirik under the ayin. The word would thus parallel the term בחירתא, and would also be understood as “the choice ones”, in the same way that word is sometimes used in the Talmud, as in לא בא הכתוב אלא לִגְבּוֹת לנזקין מן העדית (Bava Kama 6b). The scholar Y. N. Epstein, in his מבוא לנוסח המשנה, also prefers this alternative “choice” explanation, citing Geonic spellings of the volume as עידיות which, in concert with the alternative name בחירתא, supports this understanding. (Interestingly, while Epstein cites this explanation in the name of the early Reform leader Abraham Geiger, a contemporary of R. Lifschitz, this view is already found in the Maarich of R. Menachem di Lonzano (1550-1626) under the entry for בחר.)[3]

Nevertheless, after R. Lipschitz records this suggestion he discredits it, based on Rashi in Kiddushin 54b. Rashi thereto, in explaining the word בחירתא, writes: מסכת עדיות קרי בחירתא שכל דבריהם העידו מפי הגדולים והלכה כמותן. Since Rashi deliberately employs the word העידו (rather than אמרו), he feels that Rashi did not agree with his father’s proposal, and instead accepted the traditional explanation that it means “testimony.” Yet this too, is not quite clear. While Rashi does clearly make a point of emphasizing the word העידו, he also uses the words מפי הגדולים, which speaks to “the best”. (And in his commentary to Brachos he does not use the word העידו at all.) The following must be noted as well: In the Rambam cited above, en route to explaining the word to mean “testimony”, Rambam writes that the volume contains “testimony from choice and trustworthy men.” (אנשים ברורים נאמנים). This too, speaks to the alternative “choice” explanation. Thus, both Rambam and Rashi appear to deliberately conflate both meanings – “testimony” and “choice” – in explaining the meanings of עדיות and בחירתא.

The ambiguity in Rashi and Rambam seem to suggest they saw merit in both explanations – which is another way of saying, perhaps, that they also sensed the difficulties in both. The most glaring difficulty, it seems to me, is that neither of the two explanations get to the heart of what Eduyos really is: a miscellany of disconnected and unrelated teachings. If the name of the volume is supposed to characterize the content it contains, surely a more apt appellation could have been chosen.

It is precisely because of this question that R. Yitzchak Rabinowitz, in Doros HaRishonim, posits that strictly speaking, only the last three chapters are called עדיות; these three chapters were added to a pre-existing work written in the early days of Yavneh (as the Tosefta to Eduyos indicates) that contained the first five chapters.[4] Together, the entire work is called בחירתא. R. Rabinowitz proceeds at length, with close analysis, to describe how the work ultimately came together, but of interest here, in doing so notes the following:

המס‘ הזאות היוצאת לגמרי מכל כלל מסכתות כולו, אשר הם ידברו מפרט אחד של שבת או יבמות וכו‘ והיא אין לא פרט כלל מסויים. ולא יכול להיות כזה, לפי שכל ענינה היפך מזה, כי מתחילה נבראה בימי הבירורים להביא שם העוללות מענינים השונים אשר עדיין לא נסדרו אצל יסוד המשנה ובמקומם, העוללות השייכים לדברי ב“ש וב“ה, והעוללות של סוף ימי הבית אשר עדיין לא נסדרו במקומם….יש בהם אשר נשארו כן גם לפנינו רק במס‘ עדיות לפי שהינם [כצ“ל] עומדים לעצמם, ואין להם התלת גמורה אצל יסוד המשנה…והדבר מובן מעצמו כי בעסקם בימי הבירורים כל דברי ב“ש וב“ה היה עליהם להביא את הדברים האלו אשר עדיין לא קנו מקומם ואשר אך במקום הזה הוא גם עיקר מקומם בהמס‘ הזאת, אשר נוסדה לכל העוללות האלה

R. Rabinowitz’s point is that Eduyos was intended as a sort of clearing house to record all sorts of information that did not have a natural home elsewhere in the Mishna.

With this in mind, I draw the reader’s attention to the following verse, Isaiah 64:5:

וַנְּהִי כַטָּמֵא כֻּלָּנוּ וּכְבֶגֶד עִדִּים כָּל צִדְקֹתֵינוּ וַנָּבֶל כֶּעָלֶה כֻּלָּנוּ וַעֲו‍ֹנֵנוּ כָּרוּחַ יִשָּׂאֻנוּ

We have all become defiled, and all our righteousness is like a worn-out garment; we all wither like a leaf, and like a wind, our sins carry us off. (Artscroll translation)

Note the phrase כבגד עדים. Rashi explains: וכבגד עדים – וכלבוש מרחק (ת“י) כבגד מאוס שהכל אומרים הסר. עדים תרגום של הסרה. The phrase means a piece of clothing to be cast out, something repulsive that everyone removes. Idim is the Targum of the word “removal”.

Rashi writes similarly in Genesis 4:19, in explanation of Lemech’s two wives, one of whom was named עדה. After explaining that the custom then was for men to take two wives, one for propagation and one for carnal pleasure, Rashi writes: עדה – היא של פריה ורביה, ועל שם שמגונה עליו ומוסרת מאצלו. עדה תרגום של סורה. Adah was called by this name because she was repulsive to and cast out from her husband. It is the Targum on the word “remove”. Indeed, in Genesis 49:10 the words לא יסור are translated by Targum as לא יעדי.

R. Isaiah D’Trani (רי“ד c. 1165-1240) relates the phrase to Proverbs (25:50) מעדה בגד ביום קרה, and says it means בגד ישן הרבה והוסר כל צמרו a very old cloth from which all the wool has been removed. The JPS translation (1999) renders it “Disrobing on a chilly day”, which retains the sense of discarding or removing.[5]

Radak, in his commentary to Isaiah, explains similarly: תרגום ספחת עדיא, ויש מפרשים מתרגום הרה מעדיא, כלומר כשתלד בגדיה מלוכלכים בדם, ויש לפרש בגד סמרטוט ובלוי, וכן בדברי רבותינו ז“ל המשמשת בעדים עד שהוא נתון תחת הכר, והענין אחד כי בגד מלוכלך הוא מוסר מהבריות.. The Targum of “discoloration” (Leviticus 13:2) is Adia. Some explain it based on the Targum of “pregnant” (Genesis 16:11) which is Mi-Adya, that is, when one gives birth, her clothes are soiled with blood. It should thus be understood here as a used rag. The sages employed a similar usage concerning a woman who cohabits with the use of cloths, i.e, the sheet under the pillow [to determine her halachic status as a menstruant.] The sense of the phrase is thus a dirty rag removed from people.

The concept of הסרה removed is thus common to all these explanations. Stated otherwise, the word עד or perhaps עדי means something cast aside. As noted by Radak (as well as the Aruch; see also R. Hai Gaon to Nidah 1:1, cited in Kohut’s Aruch Ha-Shalem) the word עד used in the laws of Nidah, commonly thought to mean that the use of a cloth bears “witness” to one’s halachic status as a menstruant, actually refers to the cloth itself. In the context of Isaiah, the phrase takes on a connotation of “filth”. However, as both Rashi and the Rid explain, and in view of the examples they cite, it appears that the word itself has no inherent connotation of uncleanliness. (To the contrary, if the rag were already soiled it would be of no use for determining one’s halachic status for purposes of Nidah.) The key point is that it refers to something cast off or discarded – a negligible item of no value by itself.

If so, we may have here the true meaning of the name of this most unusual Masechta. For, as noted by the Doros HaRishonim, what is the volume of Eduyos, if not an eclectic collection of random Mishnayos without any unifying theme in which they could otherwise find a home?

In Bava Basra 14b, after proposing that the prophet Hosea, of the 12 minor prophets, should be written separately, the Gemara rejects the proposal, commenting איידי דזוטר מירכס. Since it is small, if it would be written separately it would be lost.

Just so. The Mishnayos of Eduyos are teachings without a בית אב. They are small, individual items, with no common theme. If they were not assembled together in a single volume, they would have been lost. They would have been discarded and forever removed from the Talmudic cannon, except insofar as some of them found their way into the Gemara in the same way as other Beraisos did. These Mishnayos are all בגדי עידם – outcasts, left outside the other tractates because of their individualized nature. They are, then, to use the word we would use today: Miscellaneous.

It remains to be asked, if the name of the Masechta is based on the meaning of עד or עדי in the sense of “Outcasts”, (or as I prefer, “Miscellaneous”), rather than “Testimonies”, why then is it called עדיות rather than עדים? For this it is sufficient to note that there are many places in which the Sages employed words in grammatical formats different from the way they are found in Tanach. See Chulin 137b. כי סליק איסי בר היני אשכחיה לר‘ יוחנן דקא מתני ליה לבריה רחלים אמר ליה אתנייה רחלות א“ל כדכתיב רחלים מאתים אמר ליה לשון תורה לעצמה לשון חכמים לעצמן. In this example, R. Yochanan directed Issi to use the term רחלות with a feminine suffix, even though the Torah itself uses the masculine, because rabbinic terminology has its own pattern. As noted in the Soncino commentary, “In the speech of the rabbis there is a marked tendency to adopt the plural ending ‘oth’ in place of the ending ‘im’ with which the same words are found in the Bible. Compare the plural of המון, קרבן, עולם etc.” The word עדיות would thus fit neatly within this pattern.[6]

Alternatively, perhaps the sages thought the word עדים might be confused with the word for “witnesses”, and thus chose to use the word עדיות instead. There is precedent for such a suggestion – מסכת ביצה, it has been suggested, is pronounced differently from how the ordinary word ביצה is pronounced, for fear of confusion with a similar-looking word.[7]

Finally, it is entirely possible that the sages deliberately used the word עדיות to give it a broad meaning, so as to encompass all three meanings of the word עד: testimonies, choice, and miscellaneous. To call it עדים would only have given this third, new meaning suggested here. We have already noted above that both Rashi and the Rambam appear to recognize both of the first two meanings within their commentary. If so, and if I am correct in this suggestion that the word carries the connotation of “miscellaneous”, the sages may still have called the volume עדיות to preserve the other two meanings as well.

I acknowledge the inherent risk one undertakes in proposing a new reading in so basic and fundamental a point. Nevertheless, מקום הניחו לנו להתגדר. I believe this rare but well-established meaning of the word עד is, in whole or in part, the source of the name of Masechet עדיות.

In Praise of the Soncino Talmud
By David S Farkas*

Not long ago one of our local schools hosted a Giveaway day in its library, making many of the older seforim in its considerable collection free to a good home. As expected, the local citizenry plundered and pillaged, carrying off large numbers of books, many still in quite good condition. I was only able to attend towards the end, “after the last of the gleaners had gone.”[1] Only a few scattered Siddurim and Chumashim were left, when I spotted a box in a corner of the room, filled with small red volumes. Close inspection revealed that the books were none other than the Soncino Talmud, a complete set. My heart sank a little to see this classic work, neglected and abandoned. I felt, in a small way, as though I had seen the tongue of Chutzpith the Translator lying in the dust.[2]

The Soncino Press sees no press at all these days, it seems. Its groundbreaking complete English translation of the Talmud has almost entirely been supplanted by Artscroll’s Schottenstein edition. Indeed, studying with the latter presents a very much different type of engagement with the Gemara, and Artscroll has undoubtedly done a master job of it. Yet for all of its depth and analysis, Soncino to this day brings to the table things that Artscroll does not. What follows, then, is not an attempt to sing the praises of one at the expense of the other, but only to point out some of the unique features of the now-neglected Soncino, and to suggest some of its alleged flaws may have been greatly exaggerated.[3]

To begin with, the canard so many of us heard in our yeshiva days – that Soncino was edited by less than fully-religious Jews – is a terrible misimpression that, to the best of my knowledge, seems to be based purely on the evidence that it was edited by a man named Isidore. Yet Rabbi Yechezkel Epstein (as he is in fact identified, in Hebrew, on the opposite front-page of most volumes) was very much an observant Jew, who attended the Pressburg Yeshivah founded by the Chasam Sofer, and was said to know Shas by heart. The project began with Seder Nezikin in 1935 with a heartfelt prayer to Almighty God, capped with the traditional phrase יה”ר מלפני ה’ כשם שעזרתני לסיים סדר נזיקין, כן תעזרני להתחיל סדרים אחרים ולסיימם.  It concluded in 1948, as printed in Seder Kodshim, with a heartfelt תם ונשלם שבח לבורא עולם, and the traditional Hadran written out nearly in full. We can certainly say of Soncino, if we may modify R. Yosi’s summation of Kelim, “Happy art thou, Soncino – thou began in purity, and finished in purity.”[4]

Moreover, a review of the individual contributors to each volume – a list that, to my knowledge, has never before been assembled – reveals that each and every one of them were strictly orthodox, and not identified with any other stream of Judaism.[5]

The entire series is written in the best of the King’s English. Somewhat amusingly, this itself has sometimes been offered as a reason not to use the Soncino, as though students today are incapable of understanding proper English. It is true that the series occasionally uses words no longer current (such as “dam” for a mother bird or animal, or “usufruct”.) It also actually translates Biblical or Talmudic concepts, rather than simply transliterating them, a device that has become popular today. Still, the language is eminently readable to anyone devoting to it the proper attention, and it is precisely the insistence upon proper translations that sometimes leads to a better grasp of the text.[6]

Turning to more substantive matters, one key item that jumps out is the brevity of the work. In its most compact English-only edition, the entire set – and that includes all sixty tractates, plus a full-length Index volume – comes in at a trim eighteen volumes. Even with the facing Hebrew page, the set numbers no more than 30 or 35 volumes, depending on the edition.[7] Artscroll, by contrast, which incudes only those tractates with Bavli (plus Shekalim, Eduyos, and Midos) comes in at a jaw-dropping, new-bookshelves-requiring, 73 volumes.[8]

And there is something to be said for concision. At times, when I have encountered a difficulty in the (original) text, checking with Artscroll has only made things more difficult. The Artscroll method is generally to translate or paraphrase the entirety of Rashi, and doing so in English sometimes leaves the reader confused. By contrast, Soncino tends to collapse the entirety of every question and answer into one or two lines. Keeping things short and to the point, I have found, often leads to better understanding of the basic give and take of the Gemara.

This brevity is especially important – and here is a key distinction between the two translations – for those who can learn the Gemara in the original, but either lack the time or the patience to do so. Artscroll effectively prevents the user from doing anything on his own. The text is spoon-fed to the user, and because of the interlinear format, the reader never gets entirely away from the English. Though one can go to the full Hebrew text, the Hebrew woven into the English also means users can – and do – simply use the translation.  It is quite often tedious and time consuming to read, in part because the sentences are broken up every few words, and in part because of the copious long and involved footnotes. Soncino, on the other hand, rather than leading the reader by the hand, simply gives him a head start. Quickly perusing a few English-only paragraphs provides the reader with an overview of the upcoming sugya, and allows him to go back into the regular text and then read everything on his own. In essence, it requires the reader to still go back to the traditional Hebrew text, especially if he wants to fully understand the discussion.

That, of course, might well be considered a flaw, rather than a feature. As noted by R. Gil Student, the Soncino does have “limited value in helping one understand the “sugya” (progression of ideas at large).”[9] Artscroll does an excellent job of laying out for the reader where the passage is heading, and identifying what the Gemara intends to accomplish with each step of the discussion. Soncino does none of this, expecting the student to do this on his own. In some volumes, however, the text is broken up into shorter paragraphs, which on their own help the astute reader realize the Gemara’s direction.

Footnotes help, too.  Soncino very often paraphrases Rashi, only without calling attention to the fact. Moreover, it also regularly cites traditional commentators. As noted in the Introduction, these include, in addition to Rashi, “the Tosafists, Asheri, Alfasi, Maimonides, Maharsha, the glosses of BaH, Rashal, Strashun, the Wilna Gaon, etc.” I have also seen cited Rishonim like Rabbeinu Chananel or Ritva, and Achronim like R. Yaakov Emden and R. Tzvi Hirsch Chajes. Of course, and again, in no way does it approach the information provided by Artscroll. Readers with questions will often find them addressed in the lengthy notes of Artscroll, and will even more frequently encounter issues they had never considered. For sheer depth of analysis, Artscroll stands alone. Still, it is a mistake to think that Soncino gives the reader only the bare Gemara by itself.

Yet Soncino also provides information often absent from Artscroll. As the Chief Editor wrote, while he did not attempt to secure uniformity among the several authors – more on that in a moment – he himself added footnotes in brackets containing matters of historical and geographical interest. (To be sure, R. Epstein also added in many pshat based comments, though both functions noticeably decline in frequency as the series progresses into Kodshim.)

Citations to journals like the Jewish Quarterly Review or other German-language periodicals abound. Where parallels to the Gemara exist in Josephus or Apocrypha like Ben Sira, we are informed.  Likewise, parallels in Greek and Roman sources are also frequently noted.[10] Most place names are identified via Obermeyer’s 1929 geographical guide to Talmudic Babylon. Textural variants from the Septuagint are sometimes noted. Herford is also cited on anything that relates to Christianity, though, it may be said, Soncino displays somewhat of an obsession on this topic, and often perceives statements of the sages to be a disguised polemic, with very little justification.[11]

Each of the six Sedarim has its own introduction. The introductions to each of the individual volumes contain very useful summaries of the topic of each chapter, an important feature for learning the Talmud (and quite helpful for review), where the forest can easily be lost sight of. An appendix to Gittin gives what I believe to still be the best short summation of the Talmudic-era medicine described in the 7^th chapter of that Masechta, as well as a similar lengthy passage in Avoda Zara. In one of the volumes (Eruvin) diagrams are gamely used, though the technology of the time did not permit anything much more than rudimentary line drawing and shading. Similarly, the anatomical skeleton of an ox is presented in Chulin.

I noted above that the editor did not seek to achieve uniformity of style, and the uneven quality shows. Some volumes are simply better than others. In one or two cases the translation can only be called wooden, and the notes do little more than add an emphatic “Surely not!” after obviously rhetorical questions. Happily, though, in most cases the individuality of the authors accrues to the benefit of the overall translation, providing different perspectives and viewpoints. Thus, for example, the translations of Chulin and Menachos done by Eli Cashdan, a European-born Talmid Chacham of note, are particularly lucid and clear. The translation to Moed Kattan by Dayan Lazarus preserves the poetry of the original in the elegies of the third chapter by translating them into English poetry, in the classic British style of Israel Zangwill and Nina Salaman,[12] The work to the first half of Kesubos by Samuel Daiches, the only barrister at law to participate in the series (though also an ordained rabbi), is particularly rich with citations to both Roman Cannon law and English jurisprudence.[13] And a number of these highly-educated authors find parallels in Talmudic sayings to classics of literature. [14]

In short, there is much to say in favor of the Soncino Talmud. It contains many gems of scholarship and interpretation, some of them not found, to my knowledge, in any other sources. If it is not perfect – no translation ever is – it is far better than it is often given credit for. The Soncino Talmud was, and fill forever remain, a landmark of Torah literature. To echo (via paraphrase) the words of Dr. Shnayer Leiman in these pages a number of years ago, said in connection with a different classic series thought to be out of date: “Hold on to your Soncino Talmuds! Public libraries and private collectors will do well to retain them and keep them precisely on the same shelves they have now occupied these many years.”[15]

Note from the Seforim Blog editors: Prof. Saul Lieberman refers to “responsible English translations of rabbinic texts (like those of Soncino Press)” at the end of his classic poison-pen review of Jacob Neusner’s acumen as a talmudic translator. See Lieberman, Saul. “A Tragedy or a Comedy?” Journal of the American Oriental Society, vol. 104, no. 2, 1984, pp. 315–319.

* Mr. Farkas received his rabbinic ordination from Ner Israel Rabbinical College in 1999. He lives with his family in Cleveland, Ohio, where he serves as Senior Corporate Counsel for a large energy company.   

[1] See Peah 8:1, Bava Metzia 21b

[2] See Chulin 142b.

[3] I have used the device of contrasting with Artscroll to highlight certain aspects of the Soncino. It should be self-understood that these points of preference are in no way intended to derogate that outstanding work, which enjoys deserved worldwide popularity. In the same vein, I use Artscroll as a contrast simply because of its wide-spread use, and not from any intent to disregard the also excellent Koren and Steinsaltz editions.

[4] The foreword and epilogue to the set – what we might today call הסכמות – contain similar sentiment. They are cited, along with brief comments on the Soncino series, in Words, Meaning, and Spirit: The Talmud in Translation (A. Mintz, Torah U’Maddah Journal 1995).

[5] The Complete list of Contributors to the Gemara include the following Rabbis, Doctors, and Misters, in alphabetical order: I. Abraham (Chagigah); Eli Cashdan (Menachos, Chulin); Abraham Cohen (Sotah, Avoda Zara); Samuel Daiches (Kesubos); H. Freedman (Sabbath, Pesachim, Nedarim, Kiddushin, Bava Metzia, Sanhedrin, Zevachim); M. Ginsberg (Betzah); L. Jung (Yoma, Arachin); E. W. Kirzner (Bava Kama); B. D. Klein (Nazir); L. Miller (Bechoros, Temurah); I. Porusch (Kerisos, Meilah); J. Rabinowitz (Taanis)  Jacob Shachter (Sanhedrin) H. M. Lazarus (Moed Kattan, Makkos); A. E. Silverstone (Shevuous);  Maurice Simon (Brachos, Eruvin, Rosh Hashana, Megilah, Gittin, Bava Basra, Bechoros, Tamid); and Israel Slotki (Sukah, Yevamos, Horayos, Bava Basra, Nidah).

The additional Mishnayos were translated by the aforementioned Israel Slotki, and Rabbis/Dcotors H. Bornstein, Phillip Cohen, Isidore Fishman, J. Israelstam, S. M. Lerhrman, and M. H. Segal.

Biographical data is available for many of these figures in Encyclopedia Judaica or Wikipedia. Information can also be found in the Jewish Communities and Records of the United Kingdom database, by clicking on the “rabbinic profiles” tab. (Available here: https://www.jewishgen.org/jcr-uk/Profiles) Note that all the figures listed here are found in the section designated for Orthodox Ministers & Cantors.

I am grateful to Dr. Marc Shapiro, who provided me with very interesting information on some of these men, and who also referred me to Rabbi Benjamin Elton, of the Great Synagogue in Australia, who likewise did the same. R. Elton, in turn, referred me to Professor David Newman, who sent me some photographs of some of the contributors – looking very rabbinic indeed.

[6] This is particularly true for the realia of the Gemara. See for example Pesachim 37a, סריקין מצויירין  which Soncino translates as “Syrian cakes”, but Artscroll transliterates as “decorated Sirikin”; Yoma 38a נחושת קלוניתא which to Soncino is Corinthian Bronze, but to Artscroll, “refined copper.”; In Moed Kattan 27a, in the context of items a mourner may sit upon, such as the chair or ground, אודייני גדולה is listed and translated by Artscroll simply as a “large mortar”, with no additional comment. Soncino translates it as “a large bench for water jugs”, footnoting to the Roman Uranariun and showing the term in parallel passages as אורנריי. Many such examples can be cited.

[7] For more on these different editions see Words, A. Mintz, Id., at fn. 49.

[8] Though this set too, now looks small, compared to the complete Hebrew-language Mesivta edition – a stupendous 136 volumes.

[9] “Tackling the Talmud: One Daf at a Time” (Jewish Action, Fall 2012)

[10] See for example Nazir 4b, showing parallels to the story described therein to the tale of Narcissus found in Ovid.

[11] See, for example, the Commentary to Sukkah 5a, Nedarim 38a and 64b. (I hasten to add, as someone once observed, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.” I myself recently wrote, of a Mishna in Beitzah, that it too, contained a hitherto unnoticed reference to Christianity. See my article Of Fish and Fishermen: An Unknown Christian Passage in the Talmud (Tradition 52:3 2020).)

[12] See also his nifty rendering of the phrase found there on 9b בת שיתין כבת שית לקל טבלא רהטא : “As sixty as six: the sound of a timbrel makes her nimble.”

[13] See there, for example, 17b and 20a.

[14] See Chagigah 13b, in connection with Sandalphon, referencing Longfellow’s similarly named poem; Avoda Zara 4a, comparing R. Chanina’s advice to pray for the government for without it men would swallow each other alive to a phrase in Shakespeare’s Coriolanus.

[15] The New Encyclopedia Judaica: Some Preliminary Observations. (Shnayer Leiman, Seforim Blog, June 5, 2007)