Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (4 page)

Stempenyu fluttered around her still; but she showed him that she had grown tired of him—the same Stempenyu whose glances were so magnetic, and whose personality was so irresistible. She thought that it was wrong for any young woman to so much as stay in the same room with him.

She went back to her place beside the bride, and was ready to forget hat there existed such a person as Stempenyu.

A moment later, a hush fell upon the guests. Stempenyu was again playing a pathetic melody accompanied by the orchestra. Every one was breathless. Every single individual was filled with anxiety lest he or she should lose a note of Stempenyu’s playing. Isaac-Naphtali’s head drooped to one side, as he listened with the rapt air of a connoisseur. Dvossa-Malka was like rooted to the spot on which she was standing, holding a plate in her hand. And, even the waiters and waitresses were compelled to stand stock-still, enraptured.

And, Stempenyu went on pouring out his soul in the saddest, gloomiest melodies, so that a profound melancholy fell upon everyone who listened to him. They were breathless with the pathos of it all. Their hearts were full, and their tears gushed to their eyes. They wept, and moaned, and sobbed quietly. And Stempenyu? Who was Stempenyu at that moment? What was he? There was no such person as he. There was only a little fiddle, and
sweet, yet sad sounds—divine singing that seemed to full the house from roof to cellar.

And, Rochalle the beautiful, who had never before heard Stempenyu playing—she stood now and listened to the enchanting strains—the golden notes the likes of which she had never imagined, much less heard, in all her life. She knew nothing, and understood nothing of what was going on around her. She only knew that her heart was melting within her. She lifted her eyes, and looked up to where the wonderful melody was coming from. And, her eyes encountered Stempenyu’s black eyes fixed on her face, piercing her to the core, like dagger thrusts. At the same time, the piercing eyes were pleading with her, beckoning to her, speaking to her in seductive terms.

Rochalle dropped her eyes; but, she knew that the burning eyes were still fixed on her. She felt uncomfortable and hot, and tried to turn out of the way of the burning eyes; but, they were still following her with their haunting expression, their supplications, their pleadings.

The wedding supper was long over. The people were making merry, dancing and laughing, and eating and drinking. Each of the guests took it in turn to pay for a dance; but, it was always the liveliest dance. Yontel the Butcher called for a
Cossak’s
dance, and the brides’ mother stepped out in front of him, quickly and bravely. A loud applause went up. And, Yontel was so hot and excited that he did not see he was really dancing opposite to a woman, and not a man as he imagined; for, he never suspected that any woman would be so immodest as to step out, and dance in front of him.

The bride’s mother was smiling at him—a broad, good-natured smile that covered the whole of her broad face, so that she looked like the full moon.

The dancing soon became general. Isaac-Naphtali had taken off his long coat, and was in his shirt-sleeves.
He had been laughed at the whole evening because of the way he kept his coat tucked up, until he felt compelled to take it off. Someone pushed a big hat over his nose, and the whole roomful of people roared at him, boisterously and carelessly, having tasted freely of the strong liquor which had been provided. Even his own son, Moshe-Mendel, Roshalle’s husband, was pulling his father by the sleeve into the corner, as he cried: “Jump to the ceiling, jump to the ceiling, everybody!”

The musicians were now playing by themselves. Stempenyu had left them to go and mingle with the crowd. He was as gay and as noisy as any of them.

The leadership of the orchestra was in the hands of one of the young men with the long teeth. Shneyer-Meyer, the second fiddle, had dozed off, and Yekel Double-bass was fast asleep. But, the younger men were playing for all they were worth, Michsa Drummer working like a galley-slave to make up the deficiency of the instruments. He felt like a murderer, vicious towards his drum as if it were the most hateful thing in the whole world. He hid his yellow head behind the drum. He seemed to have vanished out of sight, excepting for his shoulders, which showed out above the drum, and his feet, which beat time on the floor.

Meanwhile, Stempenyu was fluttering around the young women, keeping near to Rochalle most of the time.

“Let us go home,” said Rochalle to her mother-in-law, who was staring at her husband with the big hat on his nose, and his arms in his shirt-sleeves.

“Come, my daughter, come,” she replied. “You are right. It is time to go home. To-morrow is market-day,
and we must rise early. See how they are enjoying themselves!”

Dvossa-Malka went home with Rochalle.

The dark blue sky had a patch of lighter shade on one side. It was the dawn breaking through the clouds of night. A cock crowed somewhere, and a dozen others took up the cry. Far away in the distance, a dog was barking. But, not a soul was yet astir. Even the field laborers were still fast asleep in their tiny huts. The only house that showed signs of life was the one which was inhabited by an old Jew who was in the habit of reading for an hour before he set out on his daily tasks.

“What do you say to Nathan’s daughter, Rochalle? Has she not grown in the width? Do you like her?” But, Rochalle was silent. She had not heard what was said. She was deeply engrossed in her own reflections. Who can say what or about whom she was thinking?

“Aunt,” she said, addressing her mother-in-law, to whom she sometimes gave that name, “I heard Stempenyu playing for the first time in my life to-night!”

“Go away, child! For the first time in your life?” was the answer. “Didn’t he play at Reb Leib-Abram’s? And what about the wedding of Sarah Benzion’s daughter? And what about the wedding of Reb himself?”

“I do not remember,” said Rochalle. “I only remember hearing people repeat the name of Stempenyu again and again; but, I do not think I ever saw him before.”

“Nu, that’s to be understood. At the time I speak of you were no more than—let me see—how old could you have been then? You were only a tiny child when Stempenyu played at the Rebbe’s wedding in the village of Skvirro. Oh, what a wedding that was! May all my best
friends get married after the same grand fashion, with the help of the Almighty! That was before my poor twins were born. But where are you going to, Rochalle? Here is our house, and you passed it by, in the moment when I did not notice where you were taking me.”

“Did you ever see the like?” cried Rochalle, looking about her in some confusion. “Did you ever hear the like?” she repeated, and burst out laughing.

And, she was still laughing when they entered the house.

They both went to bed without the least delay, anxious to get a few hours sleep before having to get up to go to the market on the morrow. This market was one of the few big ones which took place ion Tasapevka during the year. It was almost a fair.

Did you ever hear the likes? Without having the least cause to account for it, Rochalle cannot fall asleep. She keeps twisting, and turning, and covering herself, and uncovering herself; but, no sleep comes to her. She tries her best to drive him out of her mind—Stempenyu, I mean, of course. But, he still stood before her eyes, goodness alone knew why. She closed her eyes tightly, but, she saw him just as clearly. She found herself compelled to haze back into the burning eyes that were staring at her out of the darkness, beckoning to her, and pleading with her.

“Oh, I wish I could stop thinking of him! Oh, if only Moshe-Mendel were here!” she moaned piteously. And, when she opened her eyes again, it was only to imagine they rested on the full length figure of Stempenyu, who was standing before her with his fiddle in his hand. And,
once again, she found herself listening to his wondrous playing! And, oh, what sweet music it was! Surely, it was not altogether without reason that such awe-inspiring tales were told of him?

As she lay there in the darkness and the silence, all the stories she had heard about him long ago, when she was a child, now came back to her with full force. She remembered distinctly the time she was learning to write at the school kept by my Mottel Sprais, the girls’ teacher. She first heard the name of Stempenyu, sitting in a desk, surrounded by a number of other girls of her own age. They were talking between themselves of how Stempenyu had enticed a young woman away from her betrothed; and, how, for grief and shame, the young woman had died of a broken heart, and had had a black wedding ceremony made after her, instead of the usual joyful ceremony. The girls went on telling how Stempenyu had taken his revenge against a girl who called him a charlatan; and, how he had refused the hand of a noblewoman’s daughter—a woman of remarkable beauty. The moment this beautiful woman had laid eyes on Stempenyu, she had fallen madly in love with him. She declared that she must get him, even if she were to die in the attempt. When the nobleman had heard that his daughter was madly in love with Stempenyu, and that she would die if she did not get him, he went at once to Stempenyu, and threatened him with all sorts of terrible things if he did not marry his daughter at once. But, Stempenyu was not at all frightened. He refused to listen to any such proposal. So, the nobleman tried to win him for his daughter by another method. He began to persuade him in the kindest of terms, and even promised
him for dowry three villages, if he would only consent to marry his daughter, who was dying of love for him. But, Stempenyu replied to him in French (he knew both French and German thoroughly), that even if he filled his house with gold pieces, he would not change his religion, nor marry the beautiful noblewoman. And, ever since that day Stempenyu has been the greatest favourite with all the Jews he ever came across, including even the Rabbis themselves. They feel that he has a true Jewish heart, whatever his faults.

And, as for the beautiful noblewoman—when she heard what Stempenyu had said, she jumped into the river, and was drowned.

Such were the stories which had been told of Stempenyu in all the little villages. They believed him to be at once the greatest genius, and the most heartless wretch that had ever existed, in spite of the good he sometimes brought about by his sharpness and his wit. And, when the girls told each other about Stempenyu, a shiver ran through them. How well Rochalle could recall her feelings! And alas! how the stories had haunted her for days afterwards.

But, above everything else, Rochalle had been impressed with the stories that were told of Stempenyu and his love-philtre. As she went over everything, she was struck by the worthlessness of love and love philters. No love-philtre was worth a single farthing! “In our own way, my Moshe-Mendel and I love one another, and neither of us ever saw a philter of any sort in our lives.”

Rochalle turned over on her side with her face to the wall, and went on thinking of everything just as before. “Surely,” she thought, “I love Moshe-Mendel! At any
rate, I do not dislike him!”

But, after all, why should she dislike him? He was not an ugly young man. And, he was inclined to be modern. He wore his earlocks under his hat, and read the newspaper, and recited his prayers beautifully, and was always ready to exchange witticisms with the old people, and to play practical jokes with the young men. Altogether, he was a fine and worthy specimen of a man, and any woman might be proud of him. On the other hand, it was equally true that he often behaved toward Rochalle as if he were a savage. And, he hardly ever spoke two whole thoughts to her unless he must. One word was enough. She had to be satisfied with the shortest explanation of anything. He gave her an order to do this or that, and the next minute he was off out of the house, either to the House of Learning, or else to the market-place. He never dreamt of sitting down to talk to her in a friendly way. Nor did he ever ask her opinion or her feeling about anything. And, certainly he never would listen to any argument that his wife might bring forward on any subject under the sun. He was as a wild goat.

This was not at all the treatment that Rochalle had looked forward to on her betrothal to him. Indeed, so happy had she felt in being his bride that she believed in her heart that every girl envied her for her good fortune in getting him for a husband. She felt quite sure that there was not anyone to equal Moshe-Mendel in the whole wide world. He was so handsome, in her eyes, so good, so clever, so cultured. It was impossible to find another Moshe-Mendel amongst the ordinary folks of the earth. Perhaps his likes might be found amongst those good old folks who live in the Heavenly Paradise. And,
oh, how happy all this made her!

And, what was the end of everything? How had her hopes been justified? She saw now that the very girls whose envy she thought she had excited because of her betrothal to Moshe-Mendel—they were all happy, whilst she was altogether different from what she had expected. One girl had gone with her husband to live in a large city, from which she was writing home the best of news in letters that gave one pleasure to read, even. Another was very happy in her modest home in a village. And, even Chana-Mirrel, who had married a widower with five children, and had by this put her whole future into one venture—she, too, was as happy as she desired to be. And, what could she say when it came to her turn to be criticized? She had nothing to say for herself. Her whole life was empty. The whole week round, she ate, drank, and slept, and felt every hour of the day how like she was to the little birds that are kept in cages,, and are given everything their hearts could desire, but can never go free, can never break the bars of their cages. She was nothing at all to Moshe-Mendel. His walks, and his smart sayings, and his companions were much more to him than was Rochalle.

A loud knocking at the door broke up the chain of her musings. It was Moshe-Mendel coming home from the wedding. His mother got up, and opened the door for him.