Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance Read online

  “Well, What?”

  “Is that you, Moshe-Mendel?” asked his mother from the other side of the door.

  But, Moshe-Mendel was too confused to answer her question. His reply was: “Nu, another dance—this one. B-r-r-r!”

  “What are you jabbering about? Take off your clothes, and get into bed.”

  “We had a good drink his time—hadn’t we, Berel-Menaseeh—eh? A good sup?”

  “God be with you, Moshe-Mendel, whatever are you talking about?” cried Dvossa-Malka to him, as she struck a match.

  “Aunt, can’t you see that he is dead drunk?” put in Rochalle. “Please light a candle for him, or he will break his neck in the dark.”

  “No such thing! Another little glass!” With these words, Moshe-Mendel flung himself across the bed, and was fast asleep, snoring loudly before the two women had time to realize anything. Dvossa-Malka went back to bed too, and the house was wrapped in silence once more, except for Moshe-Mendel’s snoring.

  The wind was whistling, and blowing down the chimney, and sighing softly as it tore around the wooden walls, the breeze sounded and resounded until it was as loud as a storm. Everyone else in the house was fast asleep—only Rochalle lay awake listening to the wind moaning and sobbing. She could not fall asleep, and was glad to have the pencil like rays of the moon to distract her from Stempenyu. The light falling through the window gave her something to look at—showed up to her the form of her husband lying on the bed, his face upwards, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed in a glassy stare, and his bare, knotty throat showing ugly in the brilliant moonlight.

  Rochalle turned away from the sight of her husband. She did not wish to look at him, and yet she could do nothing else. Her eyes turned on him again and again, despite her wishes to the contrary. And, as she looked at him, she realized that he had never before seemed so hately to her as he was now.

  But, along with having a changed feeling for Moshe-Mendel, she was conscious of the fact that she kept comparing him, unwittingly, with someone by the side of whom he was less than a nobody. She was comparing him with the good-for-nothing Stempenyu, who seemed to tower over him by several heads and shoulders. And, each moment, she found new faults in her husband, and new virtues in Stempenyu; so that she could hardly believe she had really been led into imagining that Moshe-Mendel was even an ordinary man, much less the noble being she had taken him for.

  Where now were the charms, the pleasant manners, and the wit she had seen in him? Where was his beauty gone, and his youthful joyous bearing? What had become of the glowing words and the expressive gestures about which she had gone into raptures? Could this be really the same Moshe-Mendel of only a short little while back? No, no; he was not the same. He had changed beyond recognition. And, everything was changed along with him.

  And, in place of her husband, the vision of Stempenyu stood before her to harass her, and to bring down the ridicule upon Moshe-Mendel. She could not shake herself free from the vision, however much she tried—she could not. She was caught fast in the toils of her own imagination.

  Away, away, dark temptation, from the heart and mind of this pure soul—this Jewish woman whose innocent heart is far from guile!

  VIII THE NEXT MORNING

  Next morning, when Chana, the beadle’s wife, came to Dvossa-Malka’s house to tell her that the bride and bridegroom, and all the relatives and friends of both parties, wished her and her husband, and their son, and his wife to come to the wedding-breakfast, Rochalle was already dressed in her best gown, which was of pale blue silk and had been made by the famous tailor, David. It had large puffed out sleeves, and white silk bows. The fashion of it was just new to Tasapevka, though it had gone out of date elsewhere three years before. On her head, she wore a blue silk cap of Oriental design, through which might have been seen the neat plaits of her golden hair, her beautiful curls which she kept hidden away out of sight. She had several rows of pearls around her beautiful neck, and wore a long gold chain, a brooch, earrings and finger-rings. In short, the whole set of ornaments which were fashionable amongst the Jewish women of her day.

  Being fully dressed, she was sitting in the best room of the house. And, she was listening to the snores of Moshe-Mendel, who was still sleeping in exactly the same position. His head was thrown back, his eyes were glazed, and his mouth was wide open. His long bony neck showed still more hideously than even it had in the moonlight. Rochalle sighed as she listened to the regular rhythm of his loud snores. And, she went on with the thoughts which had vexed her the night before. She went over the same ground, in an undertone.

  “Oh, what a difference there is in you, Moshe-Mendel, to whom I betrothed myself not so long ago. That time you were so charming, and had such bright eyes. They seemed to dance themselves into my heart. Your glances were like flames to me. They enkindled all the passions that were within me. Everything about you was so charming, so fascinating, and so lovable! And what are you now, Moshe-Mendel? You are an altogether different man. You were slender and graceful then; now you are hideously long and skinny. Your little yellow whiskers are only fit to be cut off this minute. Wherever did you get such a beard?”

  And again, without wishing it, Rochalle held up the good-for-nothing Stempenyu for a model of perfection, by the side of whom her Moshe-Mendel was only a poor scarecrow. She forgot that Stempenyu had haunted her all the night, so tat she had not slept a wink.

  “It is a great misfortune. But, I alone am to blame for it,” she thought, “I alone am to blame. The moment the good-for-nothing Stempenyu sands up before me, I talk to him, as if it were quite an ordinary thing to talk to a musician. What will the villagers say about me? It was well there was such a noise and uproar at the wedding. What would Moshe-Mendel say if he knew?”

  She got up and went into the bedroom. She smiled grimly as she bent over her husband, and called him by his name. He opened his grey eyes, and stared blankly about him. It was some little time before he realized where he was, and who was bending over him.

  “Moshe-Mendel,” said Rochalle, bending still lower over him; “Moshe-Mendel, do you not know me? You look as if you were amazed to find me here. Tell me how you like my new bonnet and veil?”

  “Oh, leave me alone. I want to sleep.” With these words Moshe-Mendel turned over on his side, and was soon fast asleep, and snoring loudly once more.

  “The bride and bridegroom, and the parents and the friends of both parties, sent me to tell you that they are expecting you and your husband, and your father and mother-in-law, to come at once to the wedding breakfast.”

  Chana called out the message as she popped her head inside the bedroom door; for, she found that all the other rooms in the house were empty. But, catching sight of Rochalle as she was bending over her sleeping husband, Chana withdrew in the greatest confusion, and rushed off in hot haste.

  When Rochalle arrived, the bride was still wearing her wedding garments. The two young women kissed each other, and at once started to talk in rapid voices, after the fashion of all young women who have much to say to one another.

  The guests began to fill the house, and the waiters and waitresses loaded the tables with all manner of dainties. The superintendents, all the poor people who had been invited out of charity, were already in their places. The bride’s father, Chayam-Benzion, was running about here and there, in a velvet skull-cap, and a new coat; and the bride’s mother was already so hoarse that no one could make out a word of what she was saying. But, she persisted in trying to make order. She drove one person here and the other there; and, she shouted with all her might.

  “Do you want to ruin me?” she cried to the waiters. “You go and place a dish of tarts on the table when you should have whisky and sponge-cake there. Woe is me! Ah, woe is me! Can I tear myself to pieces? There’s a wedding gift for you! It cost us a pile of money, and what is there for it? Even the musicians take advantage of me! They are not here yet. The cheek of them! As if they had anything else to do but put on their clothes, and h
urry over here at once!”

  “Shah! Let there be piece!” put in Chayam-Benzion. “What are you raving about? What good are you doing by roaring? You are doing nothing but adding to the terrible noise. Is it anything new to you to marry off a daughter? One would imagine that the like had never happened to you before. The whole town has come to the wedding, and you stand there roaring with your mouth wide open. And why are you roaring—I should like to know?”

  “Who is roaring, mad animal, who is roaring?”

  “I know who is roaring. Say yourself, who is roaring?”

  “I am not roaring. You are roaring.”

  “I am roaring? No, it is just the opposite.”

  “Now you are roaring. Chayam-Benzion, what has come over you to make you so spiteful? Tell me that.”

  “A good morning to all—to bride and groom, and all the relatives, friends, and well-wishers! Vivat!”

  With these words, Chaikel the flute player led in the rest of the orchestra, all of whom took their places without any more ado. And, in a few moments, the rejoicings were again in full swing. The guests made a wild rush to secure the best places at the tables.

  Stempenyu took his fiddle in his hand, and once more the roomful of people were spell-bound by his music. He replayed all the melodies he had played last night, but, with many additions and variations. He also played several new pieces, to which everybody listened with bated breath. Every eye was fixed on Stempenyu’s face; and, every face was drawn and pale from excitement. Only Rochalle kept her head averted so as not to meet the burning eyes of Stempenyu. At the same time, she managed to catch a glimpse of him, now and again. It was not until he had finished, and had laid aside his fiddle, and gone amongst the guests, that she ventured to lift up her blue eyes towards his face.

  “What do you think of him?” asked the bride, who had up till that moment kept silent.

  “What do I think of whom?” asked Rochalle, feigning ignorance.

  “Of Stempenyu, of course. They say he is a fine scamp!”

  Rochalle did not answer her. But, that did not prevent her from blushing scarlet. The bride noticed her change of color, and asked if she felt hot.

  “Oh, yes, it is very hot in this room. I will go out into the air to cool myself.” And, Rochalle left the room. At every step, she stumbled up against a man or woman carrying this or that. And, each person bowed low before Rochalle; but, not so much for her own sake as because of her beautiful silk mantle.

  She did not reach the door at once; for, first of all, she had to pass the musicians who eyed her sharply, and made remarks about her in their own jargon which she somehow understood without explanation. “What a lovely woman!” they said. “I should like to have a chat with her. She’s perfection itself.”

  When her eyes met those of Stempenyu, she experienced a peculiar contraction of the heart. And, her pulse beat more quickly that it had beaten in all her life. The colour again mounted to her cheeks; and, she felt as hot as if she had just managed to escape from a burning house.

  In the effort she made to escape from Stempenyu, she almost ran into Chayam-Benzion, who was flustered and excited by the little encounter. He was a Jew of almost unbending piety, and never wished to come face to face with any woman whatever whom he could possibly avoid. It seemed to him that all sinful thoughts and temptations were connected only with the female sex. When he came upon Rochalle, he felt that he ought to turn his back on her immediately, without any regard for the fact that she might think him rude; but, he did not turn from her at all. He walked in her direction for a few steps; then, thinking better of it, he turned away from her, and took the opposite direction from that she was going. Seeing he was going to the left, Rochalle, wishing to avoid him, too the right-hand side of the way. And, he, seeing that she was taking the right, grew confused and went on a little with her. She, seeing he was going to the right, wheeled round to the left.

  And, they might have gone dodging each other for goodness knows how long, without getting out of the tangle in the least, if his wife had not called out to him in her croaking, hoarse voice to say that she was waiting for him to come and dance with her.

  And, at last, Rochalle managed to get into the open air.

  IX ROCHALLE’S BIOGRAPHY AND CHAYAETTLE’S ROMANCE

  But, Rochalle found that the open air was hardly any cooler out of doors than indoors. It was a hot July day. The sun was high in the heavens. Its rays were scorching and burning everything up without mercy. The straw roofs of the tiny cottages reflected the rays in a thousand brilliant sparks of light of all possible shades and colour. The sunbeams sparkled and rippled on the surface of the river, and they were beautiful to look upon. The boys of the village called this dancing sunbeam by the name of the “Divine Presence,” meaning thereby that it was an almost unearthly thing, and had in it something holy, and pure, and exceptional.

  Over against where Rochalle was standing was the market square of Tasapevka, now silent and deserted. At the furthest side of the square a long row of booths and little shops spread out their red awnings to the morning sun. At the doors of the tiny edifices, on low, four legged stools, sat the market women, knitting socks with great rapidity, the steel needles flashing in the sun like little daggers. Some of the women had their wares set out on little tables beside them—set forth as temptingly as possible, so that any passerby might be drawn to purchase some of the little tarts, or the shiny berries, or the little buns that were filled with currants.

  A goat was wandering in and out of the booths and the little shops, bent on doing as much mischief as she could. But her career was cut short. She was driven off by the women with shouting and the shaking of large aprons at her.

  In the distance, there might have been seen coming towards the village a huge cart drawn by two oxen fresh from the plough. The cart was laden with corn-stalks, and it rumbled, and rattled, and shook, as it lumbered slowly over the uneven road, the wheels falling into ruts over and over again. Underneath the cart ran a little peasant boy in a big hat, carrying a bag in his hand. He was barefooted, and as he ran, he cracked a whip at the dog that was running around him with his tongue lolling out, and breathing heavily.

  Rochalle stood for a while contemplating the scene that was before her. The commonplace rusticity of it all was not to her liking. She turned her thoughts to her own superiority—her fine clothes and her jewels. And, she felt that she was, in reality, far removed from everybody and everything around her. And, at the same time she realized that she was not definitely better than anyone else. She was neither one thing nor another—neither a market woman nor a great lady. She was, after all, an ordinary middle-class woman who neither feared to become a market woman, nor had the least hopes of ever becoming a great lady. She could never be a real peasant woman, any more than she could be a princess. She was married to a man whose father had provided them both with everything, so that there was not the least need for her to put her fingers into cold water. And, her husband spent his days between the House of Learning and the market square. He did nothing but go about, stick in hand, telling stories and cracking jokes.

  Now, as she found herself face to face with the primitive life about her, she began to realize who and what she was. It came strikingly before her, for the first time in her life, that she wanted something. She could not even guess of what nature that something was. She only knew that there was a want within her. She did not question herself. She knew that she had hit upon a profound truth. And, she looked back on herself and her whole life, and found that she was only an ordinary girl—a daughter of the Jewish people. She was neither sharp, nor clever, nor well-educated. She had grown up amongst a lot of other children, and her parents had never petted her nor made much of her.

  “She is only a girl,” they said. “Let her grow up strong. That’s all we ask of her, or expect.”

  And, in order that they might have one burden the less on their shoulders, one child less playing about the house, Rochalle had been sent to
school with the boys. When she grew a little older, they sent her to learn to write from old Mottel Sprais, who kept a school for girls. She made many friends amongst the girls she found at the school. She liked best to sit with the older girls, and to listen to the stories they used to tell one another. She always thought their stories were beyond compare for wonder, and excitement. And, the girls in turn loved the little Rochalle for her gentle ways; but, more especially for her clear, melodious voice. A dozen times a day someone said to her:

  “Sing us something, Rochalle. There is no one near us. The boys have gone away to play elsewhere.”

  Rochalle was ashamed to sing if there was anyone near her. She did not mind the girls; but, she was shy before the older people or the boys. The girls themselves told her it was not nice to sing when the big boys were within hearing distance. It was forbidden, besides.

  “Well, sing for us. How many times have we to ask you, Rochalle?”

  And, Rochalle obeyed the girls, and began to sing, in her thin, childish, but pleasant, voice, a little Yiddish song, a doggerel verse something like this:

  “On the hill stands a dove,

  Softly sighing and moaning—

  ‘Far-off is my love,

  Far off is he roaming!’ ”

  Rochalle sang the love-song with much feeling. It was as if she understood already, at her age, the meaning of the word “love.” But, the others, the girls who were listening to her, understood the meaning of the word much better than she did. They sighed as she sang, and often shed tears as well. One of the girls in particular loved to hear Rochalle sing. She was an orphan girl of great beauty, whose name was Chaya-Ettel. Her history was brief, nor was it in any respect singular. Indeed, so common are histories like hers, that one could tell them in a breath without the least fear of being misunderstood.

  Several years before Chaya-Ettel’s introduction into this history, there lived two brothers in the same village. One brother was called Aaron, and the other was Leib. Aaron was quite a young man when he died, and his wife did not long survive him. They left behind them a little child, Chaya-Ettel. Her uncle Leib was full of pity for the tiny orphan, and he took her, and adopted her—along with her inheritance. He did not treat her well. But, he kept a tight hold of her inheritance, which, according to the report that was current in the village, amounted to no less than three thousand roubles. The very moment he could, he married Chaya-Ettel to the first-comer, a man who was altogether wanting in character and principle. He treated her so harshly that Chaya-Ettel could not live over his treatment. She died at the early age of twenty-two, of a broken heart.