Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (2 page)

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 need 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.

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?

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.

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!”