Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (6 page)

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:

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.

When she was still a child, and went to the school of Mottel Sprais to learn to write, she grew very much attached to Rochalle. They were never apart, and their love never waned.

One Sabbath morning, when the two little girls were sitting in the window-seat, both of them dressed in their best clothes, Rochalle began to sing, while Chaya-Ettel listened:

“Rochalle, my darling, my love, sing that again,” Chaya-Ettel begged of her.

“Very well, I will begin it again if you wish.

Chaya-Ettel was completely overcome. She fell forward, buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly, her whole body heaving with agitation.

“God help you, Chaya-Ettel, are you weeping? Why are you weeping? Tell me what was come over you that you bust out weeping all at once?”

“Oh, Rochalle,” she managed to say at last, “it is your song—your little song.”

“My little song? What is there in it to make you weep?”

“Oh, Rochalle, do not ask me. Do not ask to me to tell you all that is in my embittered heart. A fire is burning within me—a terrible fire. Just here I feel it—just here, near my heart?”

Chaya-Ettel put her hand to her heart, and Rochalle looked at her in bewilderment, and amazement.

“Why do you look at me so, Rochalle? You do not understand what I am suffering. You can never understand what goes on within me. My heart feels as heavy as lead; and, I am so lonely, and so miserable. I carry about with me a load of sorrow. But, I will tell you everything—everything.

Chaya-Ettel proceeded to tell Rochalle a whole story which one may hear from any Jewish man or woman
almost any day of the week; but, a sad story for all that. She told Rochalle of the death of her two parents within a short time of one another; and how, since the day on which her uncle had taken her into his own house, she had suffered all sorts of ill-treatment. Her uncle was unkind to her, it was true; but her aunt was worse by far. And, had it not been for her uncle’s younger son, Benjamin, she would have run away long ago. More than this, she might have drowned herself in the river. Benjamin was so good to her that he consoled her almost entirely for what she had to suffer every day of the week. They had grown up together, and were more like sister and brother than cousins. But, at the end of some time, he went away, and left her all alone amongst total strangers; that is to say, not real strangers, but relatives who were worse to her than if they had been the blackest of black strangers.

“I don’t see why one should weep when a friend goes away,” remarked Rochalle. “Even if he was to you a real broker, and he was not, you need not break your heart after him, nor cry your eyes out!”

“Oh, Rochalle, you do not know how kind he was to me. And, his image is as deeply rooted in my heart as if he had really been my brother. Nay, even more than if he had been of my own flesh and blood. I tell you, Rochalle, when I saw Benjamin it was as if a candle had been lit in the darkness. Everything was bright. And when he went away—”

“Benjamin had to go away, had he not? Didn’t he get married?”

“Oh, Rochalle, do not mention it. I hate the word, ‘married.’ It seems to take the very life from me. When
they tell me that Benjamin is married, it seems to me that the end of my days has come. You know nothing of such things, Rochalle, and I hope you never will. But, why do you look at me in such a curious way? Benjamin promised that he would marry me. He swore it!”

Nu! And what if he did not marry you, Chaya-Ettel?”

“You talk like a child, Rochalle. It was not my fate. It was another girl’s destiny to be so lucky as to marry him!”

“But, had he not sworn to marry you?”

“Well, and if he did swear it? He was always promising to ask his father’s permission; but, he kept putting it off from day to day. You know what sort of a man my uncle is? Benjamin was afraid to approach him. And, one day, he found himself betrothed to her. I talked to him about it; and, he made answer, hat as the day of the wedding is still far off, there was yet time for him to talk to his father. And, in this way, the weeks and the months flew by. And, the wedding day came round. I myself stood beside the canopy when they were married. With my own eyes I saw how they put the ring on her finger; and, with my own ears, I heard them pronounce the blessing. The Cantor and his choir sang a loud, joyful hymn. Benjamin drooped his eyes on to the floor, so that he might avoid meeting my eyes. But, I know that he saw me all the same. Oh, Rochalle, how can I live over all these miseries? How can I stand them all?”

“In that case, Chaya-Ettel, Benjamin is a great liar, and is not worth the ground he stands on.”

“No, Rochalle, I tell you he is no liar. You do not know him. You have no idea what a diamond he is. He has a most loving heart. No one but my uncle is to blame
for it all—he alone—the tyrant! May my dead father rise up and take revenge of him. Oh, lord, may the wrath of heaven come upon him!”

“I can see, Chaya-Ettel, that your pain is great!”

“Pain? I am dying. My strength is going from me! And, she calls it pain!”

“And she, Chaya-Ettel, is she a beautiful woman?”

“Is who a beautiful woman?”

“She—Benjamin’s wife, I mean.”

At these words Chaya-Ettel turned red as fire, and then became pale as death. She was all colours, as the phrase has it. Rochalle could not understand why she remained silent, refusing to answer the question. But, she felt instinctively that she ought to let it pass without repeating it. She thought that Chaya-Ettel did not wish to make any remarks about the woman who had ousted her. She had no doubt that it would pain her to speak of the affair any more.

Long afterwards, Rochalle came upon Chaya-Ettel at a wedding—her own wedding, in fact. And, to Rochalle she was a bride just like any other bride—very still, and silent, and agitated.

Next day, after having sat amongst the guests who had been feasting in her honour all the night, Chaya-Ettel took off all her finery, her wedding-dress, and her veil, and everything else which she had to wear as a bride, and gave herself up to resignation. She was pale as death, and a good deal abstracted; but, that did not matter. Nor did it seem to matter that she was not at all joyful,
as she ought to have been. She thought bitterly that everything was as it should be. Surely, no one could expect her to dance, and sing, and hop about like a bird on her wedding?

But it was evident that her heart was full of emotion. Who can tell what her real feelings were? The heart of a Jewish woman is a secret. It is as a box to which no one has a key. No one may see into it. And, according to the traditions which are so strongly adhered to in the villages and towns of the Russian Pale, it is neither seemly nor desirable that any man should concern himself with the heart of a woman. It is as if she had no heart, and no secrets buried in it.

Rochalle mused long on the question of what Chaya-Ettel must be thinking of on the day of her wedding. Rochalle made no remark to anybody, nor did she ask a single question. But, her own sense told her that there must be something very unusual taking place in Chaya-Ettel’s heart. She was certainly not in the best form, as she sat beside the man whom her uncle had destined for her mate, but who was a complete stranger to her. All the more must she have been filled with emotions of a conflicting nature because of the fact that Benjamin and his wife seemed to have gone out of her life altogether. But, Rochalle believed that Chaya-Ettel was in reality thinking of Benjamin now, at the very moment when she ought to have been thinking of no one else but the man who was now her husband.