Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance Read online

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1888 IN FOLKSBIBLIOTEK; FIRST

  PUBLICATION IN ENGLISH WAS BY METHUEN & CO. (LONDON, 1913).

  SERIES DESIGN: DAVID KONOPKA

  MELVILLE HOUSE PUBLISHING

  145 PLYMOUTH STREET

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  WWW.MHPBOOKS.COM

  A CATALOG RECORD FOR THIS BOOK IS

  AVAILABLE FROM THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

  eISBN: 978-1-61219-244-4

  v3.1

  DEDICATION

  TO MY DEARLY BELOVED GRANDFATHER REB MENDALLE MOCHER SEPHORIM

  To my dear grandfather, greetings!

  Stempenyu, my first long novel, which I inscribe to you, is yours; not only because I have the honour to inscribe it to you, but also because it was you who instilled into me the desire to write such a novel. In one of your letters you said to me:

  “I should have advised you not to write a novel. Your tastes, and your genre, lie elsewhere. And I doubt if there is anything as romantic in the lives of our people. They are so different from the rest of the world that one must understand them perfectly, before attempting to write about them!”

  Your words sank deep into my heart; and I began to realize how much, and in what way, a Jewish novel must differ from all the other novels. The truth is that the circumstances under which the Jew falls in love, and declares his passion, are altogether different from the circumstances which control the lives of other men. Besides, the Jewish nation has its own peculiarities—its own habits, and manners, and customs. And, our national symbols have remained unchanged in spite of everything. And, these too, must have their place in the Jewish novel if it is to bear a true resemblance to Jewish life.

  All this came home to me very forcibly after hearing you talk. And, the desire sprang up within me to incarnate what I learnt from you in the persons of the novel—Rochalle the Beautiful, who plays the leading role, and all the others who take their several places in the novel, revolving around the life of Rochalle as the moths fly around a candle.

  How much stress I have attained is a different question. My aim was to write a novel in strict accordance with your wishes; that is, according to the views you have expressed regarding the requirements, and the equipment of every Jewish novelist.

  And, in this also is Stempenyu yours, dear grandfather—the name is yours, and the ideas in it are yours. I found amongst your later works a reference to the connection between Stempenyu and a love-philtre. That was enough to recall to my mind all the wonderful stories I had heard at school about Stempenyu. My imagination was fired. Memory aided me, and the story of the following pages came into being.

  It may be that in my district, in Lithuania, the Jews have never heard anything of Stempenyu. And, for that reason, the name may sound rather strange to them—perhaps a little wild. But, for that again, the name is well known in every town and village lying between Tasapevka and Yehupetz, to say nothing of the towns and villages of your neighborhood—Gennillophatzka, Tsviattsetss, and Tunneyadevka. The youngest child in any of these places knows who Stempenyu was, whom he sprang from, and after what fashion his proud life was spent.

  But, I did not intend to centre all the interest exclusively in Stempenyu. I meant to distribute it among three persons, or as they might be called, three characters: the Jewish artiste, Stempenyu, and his fiddle; the Jewish girl, Rochalle, in all her Jewish purity, nobility of thought and action; and, the Jewish woman, Freidel, whose talent for business led her into an exaggerated anxiety about money. These were figures which stood up before me, each in a world of his or her own. And, these three, Stempenyu, Rochalle, and Freidel, are seated on a daïs at the top of the tent, so to speak, while all the rest of the figures in the novel sit over against them, or move here and there, backwards and forwards, in full view of the three principal characters, and flit in and out under their eyes. It was for this reason—because they only pass up and down before the three, and do not take any perceptible part in the story—that I have sketched their characters and doings in the fewest words possible.

  I imagine that our Jewish musicians, our composers and our players, live in a manner peculiar to themselves alone. And, it is worth while investigating their mode of living with far more care and insight than I can lay claim to having brought to bear on the musicians portrayed in this novel. To do justice to the task, one must possess, dear grandfather, your penetration, your powers of description, and your experience. Where is one to get these qualifications? How can one hope to gain your courage and your patience?

  “Over any work,” you wrote me in another letter, “over any piece of work, dear grand-child, one must sweat and toil. One must work, and work at chiseling every separate word to perfection. Remember what I say to you—one must keep on chiselling, and chiselling.”

  Chiselling! In this lies the whole secret of the woes of all us who are still young. We have never the time to chisel. We rush off to get the whole of our plans completed while standing on one foot, as the saying goes. We wish to finish as well as to begin everything in the one breath. We cannot stop to think out each argument we employ; and, certainly, not to chisel each and every separate word. We have not the patience for these slow growths.

  I know, dear grandfather—I feel how necessary it would be to purify Stempenyu through many waters. In your hands, the book would have taken on an altogether different appearance. It would have been a different book from what it is. You would have made of it a story about a story, a story within a story, and a story in itself as well.

  “I should like,” you wrote in another letter, “I should like that in a book there should be not only beauty of form, but also truth, and depth, and sympathy, as we find in life itself. There should be something to think about as well as to amuse!”

  But, the secret of how to bring in these qualities remains with you. No one else has been able to discover it. Only you can create pictures that have many sides to them—a right side and a left, an outer covering and a lining, so to say. Only you can make the Yiddish novel something which is at once clear and mystical. Therefore, it comes about that you are the only true artist in our literature. So that we young folks dare not liken ourselves to you. We are profoundly thankful if we manage to write a plain story without deformities, having all its limbs and members, according to the simplest laws and canons of literature.

  Beloved grandfather, will you accept this little offering from me—my first Yiddish novel? I can only accept the hope that it will give you some measure of happiness to know that you inspired it. Perhaps it will appeal to you because I took its name from one of your works. I dare scarcely hope that you will find in its pages something which will meet with your approbation. That I may provide you with a few hours’ amusement is the most that I can hope for.

  Wishing you all the good in life hat you can possibly wish for yourself, I remain, your devoted grandchild,

  THE AUTHOR

  KIEFF, 1886

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  I: Stempenyu’s Pedigree

  II: Stempenyu and his Orchestra

  III: Stempenyu’s Awakening

  IV: Stempenyu’s Fiddle

  V: The First Meeting Between Rochalle and Stempenyu

  VI: After the Supper

  VII: Rochalle Cannot Fall Asleep

  VIII: The Next Morning

  IX: Rochalle’s Biography and Chayaettle’s Romance

  X: Rochalle Again

  XI: Rochalle Yet Again

  XII: Rochalle Sings her Little Songs

  XIII: Rochalle Gets a Letter

  XIV: From the “Queen’s D
aughter” to the “King’s Son”

  XV: Stempenyu is Married Against his Wish

  XVI: Samson in the Lap of Delilah

  XVII: Stempenyu Moves One Limb

  XVIII: Stempenyu Falls in Love

  XIX: A String of Corals

  XX: The Corals Again

  XXI: A Heavy Night

  XXII: A Fire is Enkindled

  XXIII: The Fire Burns But is Soon Extinguished

  XIV: Rochalle Goes Back to the Right Path

  XXV: A Year Later

  XXVI: Stempenyu Tastes of the Bitterness of Hell

  Other Books by This Author

  I STEMPENYU’S PEDIGREE

  STEMPENYU was the nickname he inherited from his father. His father—peace be unto him—was called Berrel Bass, or Berrel Stempenyu, after the village of Stempenyu in the district of Tasapevka. Berrel played the double-bass, was a good story-teller, and a wit, and could invent pretty rhymes. He suffered from an incurable disease, and played at weddings in the disguise of a beggar. He could also amuse the company by turning up his eyes, making grimaces, dancing like a bear, and imitating all sorts of sounds. He had a weakness for playing practical jokes, such as throwing water on the floor in the middle of the dancing, and pinning to the backs of the wedding guests anything he could lay his hands on.

  The talent for music was inherited in their family for many generations. Stempenyu’s father, Berrel Bass, played the double-bass, as his nickname indicated. Berrel’s father, Shmulik, played the trumpet; and his father, Phillip, played on the harpsichord; and Phillip’s father was Ephraim Fiddler, because of his talent for playing the fiddle. In short, Stempenyu was descended from innumerable generations of musicians. Nor was he ashamed of the fact that they all had lived by their playing. He was not at all like the average Jewish workman who thinks it is fashionable to be ashamed of the work in his hands. And, it was true also that Stempenyu had nothing to be ashamed of. It was no trifling matter to make the name he had made for himself in the district of Tasapevka—in the whole world, almost. It was no laughing matter for a man to bear the name of Stempenyu.

  Amongst the things which people of the district found to make a boast of was that they had heard Belser the Chasan sing, Gadig the jester preach or lecture, and Stempenyu play. From that you can gather that Stempenyu was not an ordinary, everyday musician—a mere nobody. He was the musician of his day. And, it stands to reason that he could not have become so famous amongst the great ones of the district unless he had in him something exceptional—something which lifted him high above the other players. From time immemorial, we Jews have loved music, and have understood what it really is. Even our worst enemies could not deny this. But, on the other hand, few of us have had an opportunity to hear good music. What are we, that we should seek to amuse ourselves, and to pass the time pleasantly in singing and dancing? Surely our lives are not empty or free from care? We have enough anxieties to keep us from thinking of what is pleasant or enjoyable. But, say what you will, we are excellent judges of good music—of singing as well as playing. Whenever a Cantor makes his appearance in our midst, we rush off to buy to tickets to hear him, let them cost us a meal, even. And, when a good musician plays at a wedding-feast, we are delighted. Whilst, to hear an orchestra playing any piece, by preference a sad one, we feel that it would be well worth walking all day and all night to reach the village to hear it. There is nothing in the world to compare with such a pleasure. And, when it does come to us once in a while, we do not fail to appreciate it. No sooner has the orchestra struck the first note than a profound silence falls upon us all. We sit still and listen; and, the music is always sad, pathetic, melancholy, or at least, in a minor key. The fiddle starts weeping, and loses itself in mournful cadences. And, the other instruments join in, sighing, weeping, sobbing aloud, as one might say. A feeling as of depression comes over us all. It is very nice, the music; but, it makes a man feel depressed. Somehow, every single one of us is plunged into the profoundest melancholy. We cast down our heads, and, our fingers occupy themselves with the table-cloth, or we busy ourselves in making little pyramids from the crumbs of bread which are on the table before us. Our thoughts are deep, and our reflections are bitter; for, each one of us is reminded of his or her personal troubles. Who does not know that no individual in our nation need go about laughing for want of something to feel sad about?

  And, it always comes about that we combine the pathos of the music with the pathetic notes that come into our lives every hour of the day. Every separate tone is echoed and re-echoed in our souls. The fiddle especially seems to resound within us again, and yet again. The heart itself is like a fiddle; the Jewish heart, I mean, of course. The tightly drawn strings want but the lightest touch, and they send forth a variety of sounds—deeply pathetic, wailing, weeping sounds.

  A man of talent—a Stempenyu—wrings the very souls out of the Jews.

  Oh, what a man Stempenyu was! His talent was without beginning and without end. He would snatch up the fiddle, and drawing the bow across it in the most careless fashion, he would succeed in making it speak at once. It needed but a single movement of his elbow, and the little fiddle was speaking to us all. And, how it spoke! In the most unmistakable accents! Really, with words that we all understood, in the plainest fashion, as if it had a tongue, and as if it were a real living, human being! It would moan, and wail, and weep over its sad fortune, as if it were a Jew. And, its cry was shrill and heartrending. It was as if every note found its way upwards from out the deepest depths of the soul.

  Stempenyu would throw his head to one side, whilst his long sweeping locks fell wildly about his shoulders and the nape of this neck. And, his black eyes were wide open, staring vacantly out in front of him, seeing nothing for all the fire that burned in them. His face became deathly pale. It took but a few seconds for Stempenyu to become a different man. He was not the same Stempenyu. He was the incarnation of music itself. One could only see in him a hand that flew up and down, up and down. One heard all sorts of sounds; and, every melody in existence was poured forth from the fiddle like a living stream—a fountain. And, always, everything was lonely and sad—so sad that one’s heart was sure to contract within one’s body with inexpressible emotion. One’s very soul was drawn out of one’s body, and, weakness, faintness, almost overcame one—exhaustion.

  The people began to feel as if they were dying, dying, going out with a flicker—and, no more.

  That is how the Jews felt when Stempenyu was playing his little fiddle for them. They were rendered powerless to do anything but sigh, and weep, and moan.

  And, Stempenyu—what of him? He did not seem to be in the least conscious of where he was, and what he was doing. He did not seem to have the faintest notion of the tortures which his playing brought upon the highly wrought nerves of his audience. He simply went on playing and playing, drawing out the deep, deep notes that are at once so beautiful and so terrible to listen to. That is all.

  Invariably, it was his habit to finish up his playing by drawing the bow across the strings, from beginning to end, as if he would bind into one note, one last effort, the whole of what he had already played. This done, he folded his little fiddle into his heart, and sat down. His eyes were burning like the starts on a frosty night; and, his countenance shone as with a heavenly light.

  The people awoke out of their reveries with a sigh—out of their sad but sweet reveries. And, all at once, the room was filled with noise and hubbub. The tension was broken; and, in half a hundred different voices, there arose a chorus of praise and wonderment. Nobody could find the words enough to express his keen delight and his enthusiasm. And, out of the din, one heard the name of Stempenyu repeated again, and yet again.

  And the women? Of them there is nothing at all to say, except that it is doubtful if they ever shed so many tears in their lives. It may be that they wept as freely over a personal bereavement, on the Day of Atonement, as they did on hearing Stempenyu play his mournful songs. Even the most pious Jew n
eed not shed so many tears over the destruction of Jerusalem as the women were in the habit of shedding when Stempenyu was playing.

  The women generally expressed their praises of the music after a different fashion from that employed by the men. They always found some personal wish through which to express their emotions—some wish which showed that their desires were awakened, their inner feelings brought into play.

  “I hope that God will help me to able to engage Stempenyu to play at the wedding-feast of my youngest daughter. That is all I wish for now!”

  And, as for the young girls—the mademoiselles! They stood stock still, as if they were rooted to the spot. They could do nothing else but stare with wide-open eyes and mouth at the wonderful Stempenyu and his fiddle. They felt that they must not on any account attempt to move a limb, or even blind an eyelid. There was a dead silence amongst them. Only here and there a little heart beat wildly, romantically—tick, tick, and tick! And, here and there a little sigh, so soft and low as scarcely to be heard, managed to make its escape from a little heaving breast.

  II STEMPENYU AND HIS ORCHESTRA

  The tumult and the excitement that arose when Stempenyu and his orchestra made their appearance in a village, and the enthusiasm which prevailed the whole time that he stayed there, are quite beyond description.

  “Look! I can see a huge covered wagon drawn by several horses making its way towards us. Can that be the wedding guests—the bridegroom and his people?”

  “Not at all. That must be the musicians—Stempenyu and his orchestra.”

  “Oh, Stempenyu! Do you think that Stempenyu has come already? And, won’t it be a fine, jolly wedding, that of Chayam-Benzion Glock’s daughter—won’t it?”

  The news of Stempenyu’s arrival coming spread like wildfire. Every single inhabitant of the village felt as if Stempenyu was going to pay him or her a special visit. The women blushed scarlet, and the young girls rushed off to braid and plait their long hair; while the little boys tucked up the legs of their trousers, to avoid the mud splashing on them, and rushed forward with leaps and bounds to meet Stempenyu’s wagon as it slowly came into the village. And, even the old men with the long beards and the big families, did not stop to hide their joy at the news that Stempenyu was coming to play at the wedding that was about to take place in their midst. They forgot their dignity; they even forgot their duty and responsibility towards the younger generation. Their dignity and decorum they cast into winds. They were too overjoyed to consider these matters of which they seldom lost sight on any occasion. But, after all, this was something altogether exceptional. Why should they not rejoice? Why should they remember anything when they were not going to pay the costs of bringing over Stempenyu and his orchestra to play at the wedding?