Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance Page 2

  By the time the covered wagon arrived at the door of the inn, the street which constituted the village proper was thronged with people, all of them burning with curiosity to catch sight of the famous Stempenyu and his famous orchestra, as they descended from the wagon to enter the inn. The people were so close to the wagon that there was hardly room for its occupants to alight.

  “See here how they are pushing!” they cried one to the other. At the same time they increased their efforts to push still closer to the wagon. As is the habit of Jews, each one wanted to be in the very front of the crowd.

  “See here how they are driving their elbows to get before everyone. What is there to see—I should like to know? They are only musicians, the same as other musicians!”

  Complaints filled the air, but no one showed the least slackness of effort. The whole villageful of people wanted to stand beside the wagon.

  Presently the musicians began to descend, one by one.

  First of all came Yekel Double-bass, who was called after the instrument he played. He was a cross-looking Jew with a flat nose, and cotton-wool in his ears. After him came Reb Leibess with his clarionett—a sleepy-looking Jew with thick lips. Next came Chaikel the flute-player—the well-known Chaikel, carrying his flute. Later there descended from the wagon a black, burly Jew whose whiskers grew almost into his eyes, so that he looked like a wild man from the desert. He had such thick eyebrows that it filled one with fear to look at him. That was Reb-Shnayer-Mayer, the accompanist, the second fiddle, that is. Then there jumped out from the wagon several young men, ugly and wild-looking, with downcast eyes, swollen cheeks, and large protruding teeth which resembled small flat shovels. They were only apprentices, who were at present working for Stempenyu for nothing, but who were hopeful that in the course of time they would become famous musicians. And, at the very last, there crept out of the wagon, on little crooked legs, the yellow Michsa the drummer, pulling after him a drum that was much bigger than he was himself. Mischa was just beginning to grow a beard—a little yellow beard that covered only one side of his face, the right side, leaving the left side as smooth as was his forehead. You must know that this same Michsa was married when he was already thirty years old. He took to wife a woman who never left off plaguing him from the very day of the wedding.

  The young folks of the village were not satisfied to stay still, and wait for the day when Stempenyu would go and play at the wedding. The moment that he and his orchestra were well within the village, they boys began to play their pranks. They hid themselves in the corner of the room where all the instruments were piled up, one on top of the other; and, when no one was looking, they came out from their hiding-place, and banged the drum, or pulled the strings of the double-bass. One of the culprits was caught in the act. Yekel Double-bass came on top of him, and gave him a switch with his hand across the neck and shoulders, just as he was bending forward to pull the violin string. Yekel was always cross, and now he was in a perfect fury. He fell upon the boy as if he would tear him to pieces.

  While Yekel was dealing with the boy, the village was boiling with excitement. The bridegroom had arrived from his own village, not far away; and, he was accompanied by a number of his relatives and friends. Some dozen or so young men had gone to meet him at the side of the mill, near the spot where the river Yompalle first touches the skirts of the village of Yompalle.

  No sooner did the villagers catch sight of the newcomers than they sent up a great shout of welcome, as if the bridegroom had come to rescue them from the hands of a besieging army.

  That’s how things were in Yompalle; that’s how they were in Streista; and that’s how they were in all the villages which were so fortunate as to have Stempenyu come into them on great occasions. And, that’s how the people showed their joy and enthusiasm in the village of Tasapevka. The people were not so light hearted about the coming of the bridegroom as they made out. The truth was that they did not know what to do with the excitement of having Stempenyu in their midst. They cheered because they had no other way of showing what was going on in their hearts.

  III STEMPENYU’S AWAKENING

  But, the villagers had an additional reason beside the coming of Stempenyu to fill them with rejoicing. Red Chayam-Benzion Glock was marrying off his youngest daughter, his baby, Rivkalle. And, the villagers knew that he would make a wedding that would be worth going to; for, he was the wealthiest man in the whole village. He would be sure to give his youngest daughter suc h a send-off as had never been seen in the village before. And, every single individual was prepared to be present. Some were going out of friendship, some out of jealousy, and some because it was their duty. Nor were there a few among the villagers who were anxious to get the opportunity to show off the jewelry they had bought for their wives at the fair, especially for the occasion. But, they all had in their minds the fact that Stempenyu was going to play at the wedding. The result was that everybody came, filling the house to overflowing.

  Isaac-Naphtali and his wife, and son, and daughter-in-law were amongst the first arrivals. For, he was the business partner of Chayam-Benzion, along with being his blood-relation. That is to say, Isaac-Naphtali’s wife, Dvossa-Malka, was remotely connected with the wife of Chayam-Benzion, which was the reason why Dvossa-Malka felt so much at home at the wedding. She wore a long veil coming from the front of her head and falling down over her broad shoulders, as if she were the bride’s mother; and, she kept wheeling around and about the room, doing nothing at all but gesticulating and making such noises as if everything depended entirely on her. Her daughter-in-law, Rochalle the beautiful, was standing beside the bride, dressed as carefully as if she were a royal princess. Her great blue eyes were shining like lanterns, and her cheeks were like two full blown roses. She was holding the bride’s tresses, which the women were braiding together for the last time. Rochalle did not know that a pair of burning black eyes were fixed on her face, never lifting off it for one moment.

  The waiters and waitresses were running up and down like frightened hares. The relatives of both parties were so excited that they did nothing but shout aloud at the top of their voices. How long more were they going to carry on the preparations? Surely, it was already time to finish the bride’s toilette? Why should she and the bridegroom be kept fasting the whole day? The cry, “It is time! It is time!” became more general, but no one even attempted to do anything whatever. Isaac-Naphtali ran here and there, in a velveteen jacket, under the tails of which he kept his hands locked within each other, as if he were a preacher. And, his wife, Dvossa-Malka, also made a terrible noise, an uproar. Everybody who could ran backwards and forwards, stumbling over one another in their haste, and holding their hands out in front of them, as if they were ready to set to work at anything, but were not given the work to do.

  Between the two sets of relations a great rivalry had sprung up; and, two distinct parties were formed, opposing each other at every turn.

  “Nu! why is there nothing done yet?” someone belonging to the bridegroom asked, only to be answered by someone from the bride’s family with the sneer:

  “Why are you not doing something yourself?” And, to this the first speaker made haste to reply: “Did you ever hear the likes? To keep the children fasting for hours and hours on end!”

  “Did you ever hear the like—keeping the children fasting for hours and hours on end?” was the opponent’s echoing remark.

  “Why are they running up and down, here and there?”

  “What sort of running about is it?”

  “Everybody is running, and everybody is making a noise, and still they are not advancing one step further. Beautiful management!”

  “Though they run about and make a noise, they are not doing a single thing.”

  “Perhaps there is enough talking going on? There must be an end to everything. Let there be a start to get the work done!”

  “Well, let there be an end of talking. Let there be a start made to get the work done. There must be an end to
this talking.”

  “Where are the musicians?” asked one of the bridegroom’s relatives.

  “Yes, the musicians—where are they?” replied the bride’s relatives.

  The musicians were at this moment occupied in getting themselves ready for the night’s work. They were tuning their instruments, and waxing their bows. But, as usual, Yekel Bass was otherwise occupied. He was dragging out of his corner, by the ear, a second delinquent, and dealing him out a goodly share of blows. When he had the boy already outside the door, he whispered, nay, rather hissed into the ear he was pinching with all his might: “I will show you, devil, how to strum the string of my ‘bass!’ ”

  Michsa the drummer, not having anything else to do, was scratching the side of his face that had whiskers. He was not looking at anybody. Reb Chaikel Flute was chatting to a teacher of his acquaintance. He took a pinch of snuff from the preacher’s box with his forefinger and thumb; and, holding it in mid-air, he proceeded to scatter his words on to the teacher as though he were dropping them from the mouth of a sack.

  And, the rest of the musicians—the swollen-faced young man with the long teeth—were standing around Stempenyu, who was talking to them in the jargon that all musicians used, so that no one would understand what they were saying. They seemed to be engrossed in a highly interesting subject.

  “Who is the maiden who is standing near the bride?” asked Stempenyu, turning his glances in the direction of Rochalle the beautiful. “You go, Jeremiah,” he added, to one of the apprentices, “and find out for me who she is. Be quick about it!”

  Jeremiah was not away many minutes. He returned with definite information.

  “She is not a maiden. She is a married woman. She is Isaac-Naphtali’s daughter-in-law, and comes from Yehupetz. That is her husband in the velvet skull-cap. Do you see him? He is just turning towards us.”

  “To the devil with you!” cried Stempenyu excitedly. “You were not long finding all this out! Oh, she is very beautiful. Quick! Look at the expression in her wonderful blue eyes!”

  “If you wish me to,” began the swollen-faced Jeremiah, “if you wish me to, I will start a conversation with her and find out more for you.”

  “To the devil with you, you hideous monster! Nobody wants you to open your hideous mouth. I can talk to her myself if I want to!”

  “Nu!” said someone to Stempenyu, seeing that there was likelihood of a quarrel. “Nu! Stempenyu, make a start. Let them see how you can pierce their hearts with your fiddle; and, how you can tear out their bowels.”

  Stempenyu needed no further reminder. He took up his fiddle, winked at the men, who at once put themselves in readiness for the signal, and he began to play the opening overture.

  IV STEMPENYU’S FIDDLE

  No pen can describe how beautifully Stempenyu played the accompaniment to the bride’s enthronement. It was not an ordinary wedding march that he played, not by any means an ordinary melody, such as one might have heard anywhere. It was a god-like melody, pervaded with a certain spiritual meaning that was reminiscent of nothing anyone had ever listened to before. It was as if Stempenyu, having taken his stand in front of the bride, was desirous of playing on his fiddle a special sermon for her edification—a long, beautiful sermon touching on the life she had led hitherto, and the different life to which she was going, on the threshold of which she now found herself. Somehow, it seemed that he was particularly anxious to emphasize the contrast between the easy, careless days of maidenhood, and the deep responsibilities which the future held for her. Gone was her childhood, and in its place she would find a serious woman with covered locks, her beauty and her youth hidden under the cap which orthodoxy demanded she should wear. No more joyousness! No more play! No more ease! Farewell youth, farewell! Hail! all hail to the woman that has come forth to the light of day!

  Despite the beauty of his playing, the solemnity of it all made it inexpressibly sad. The fiddle seemed to weep and wail after its own fashion, so much so that the women were moved to tears. They could not keep themselves from weeping out loud.

  “How short a time it seems since I was a bride myself, sitting on a little throne,” murmured an old woman. “It seems but yesterday that I was waiting for the women to tie up my hair. And, I imagined that the angels that are in heaven had intervened in my life; for, it seemed to me that I was the most fortunate creature in the whole wide world. And, how is it in reality? What has it turned out to be?”

  “Oh, God,” prayed another woman, half aloud. “Oh, God, let it be the fate of my eldest daughter to be married soon. Only let her have better luck than I had. God forgive me for my sinful words!”

  While the women were musing thus, Stempenyu was playing. His orchestra now accompanied him at intervals. His fiddle did not play. It talked, saying a multitude of things which were sad, and melancholy to the verge of tears, almost a series of long drawn-out sobs. Not a murmur was to be heard, not a movement. Nothing but the low, thin, plaintive notes of the violin seemed to be in existence. Everybody held his or her breath, for fear of missing a single note. The people felt that it would be better to lose a fortune than a single note from Stempenyu’s fiddle. The old men fell into reveries; the women were stricken with dumbness; and the boys and girls clambered on to chairs and tables so as to see the musicians as well as hear them.

  And, Stempenyu poured out his soul through the fiddle. He seemed to be melting away out of existence, as if he were wax before a fire. And, now and again, he seemed to come back to earth again, from his soarings in the blue vault of heaven. His thin, fine notes changed to deep, solemn tones that echoed and re-echoed through and through the hearts of his listeners.

  A hand flying swiftly up and down—no more than this was to be seen; and yet, one heard all sorts of sweet sounds. A thousand delicious melodies and arias filled the air. And, all of them were so sad that they caught hold of one’s heart, and gripped it as with pincers. The people felt that their souls were leaving their bodies. They were dying slowly, inch by inch, their strength drawn out of them by the magic of Stempenyu’s playing.

  And, who was Stempenyu? What was Stempenyu? No one saw him. No one remembered that he was an individual to himself. And, no one saw the fiddle. One only heard the sweet sounds that came from it—divine voices seemed to be flooding the room with song.

  And, Rochalle the beautiful, who had never before heard Stempenyu playing, who had only heard his name, and only knew that such a person as he existed—but who had never heard such music in her life as that which now fell on her ears—Rochalle was standing and listening to the magical tones, the golden harmonies. Did she understand what they conveyed? She did not know what was going on at all. Her heart was filled with something which she had never felt in all her life. She lifted her eyes to the source from which the sweet sounds came, and they encountered a pair of wonderfully beautiful black eyes that burned like living coals. They penetrated her through and through, like sharp daggers. More, they seemed to her eloquent, as if they were filled with the desire to convey to her a special message. She tried to withdraw her eyes from the eyes that were piercing her to her core; but she could not. She was like hypnotized.

  “And, so this is Stempenyu!” she thought within herself. But, she got no further than this. There was a sudden movement. The bride was about to be brought under the wedding canopy.

  “Where are the candles?” asked one of the bridegroom’s relatives.

  “The candles—where are they?” was the reply that one of the bride’s relatives had to the challenge that had been thrown out.

  And, once again there arose the same noise and hubbub which had characterized the beginning of the wedding-day. Everyone took to running here and there, without having the least idea as to why and wherefore of their flight. Everybody was pushing and crushing, and treading on his neighbors’ toes. Dresses were torn. And, the people were sweating and abusing the waters and the waitresses, as well as the superintendents, the latter of whom, in turn, abused the guests b
ack again. And, from one end of the room to the other, there passed from lip to lip the sarcastic remark—“Thank goodness, it is a bit lively here!”

  In the disorder which prevailed at the time when the bride was being led back from the canopy to her daïs, Stempenyu managed to escape from the orchestra. In a moment, he had reached the spot to which his eyes had wandered a hundred times during the last half-hour, beside the beautiful Rochalle, Isaac-Naphtali’s daughter-in-law. He managed to exchange a few words with her, smiling into her blue eyes and showing the agitation which had come upon him by the way in which he kept twirling the stray lock of hair he kept at the side of his forehead. Rochalle blushed scarlet. She feared to look into Stempenyu’s eyes, and kept her face averted from him. She hardly knew what he was saying, and only with difficulty managed to say on word to his ten. She felt that it was not all right for a modest young woman to sand talking with a musician before a whole room fell asleep.