Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (7 page)

Rochalle would have liked to ask her what she had
heard last from Benjamin, or if she had heard anything at all. She drew closer to the bride in order to ask the question; but, when she saw how pale she was, and heard her sighing to herself, Rochalle could not find it in her heart to gratify her curiosity—to ask her anything about Benjamin.

Hitherto, Rochalle felt and understood and knew very little about life itself. She had never come into contact with anything which might have struck a deep chord in her heart. But, she was stirred to the depths now by the very same facts of life which had hitherto left her unstirred. Though she was only an ordinary, commonplace girl, without education, she was not a fool. She understood what was going on around her. It was true also that she knew nothing of the heroes and romances. But, she had a clear conscience, and a pure heart; and therefore, she could sympathize readily with another’s grief and pain. She felt that she herself was filled with the sorrow which vexed the heart of her friend.

On the moment when she caught the first glimpse into the workings of Chaya-Ettel’s heart, Rochalle seemed to have added many years to her age—ten years at the very least. Thanks to the knowledge she had of Chaya-Ettel’s unhappy attachment, Rochalle was an old woman, thought she had been a fresh young creature only a little while before.

At that time, at the time when she was attended Chaya-Ettel’s wedding, Rochalle was herself already betrothed to Moshe-Mendel, of whom she had heard so much, whose praises were sung so frequently and by so many mouths that she began to look upon herself as the luckiest girl in the whole world.

“What luck!” they cried. “May no Evil Eye interfere to upset her happiness. She has come upon a valley of fatness! How on earth did she manage to lay hold of him? His father, Isaac-Naphtali, is the foremost Jew of all the Jews of Tasapevka. And, Moshe-Mendel himself is an only child. And, what a son he is, what a son! There’s luck for you!”

And, in truth, Moshe-Mendel was a nice young man whom anyone could like. He was pleasant, and clever, and smart. He knew a good deal of the Talmud, and his witty sayings were taken up and repeated and handed round, so to speak, from one end of the village to the other. He wrote so well, such a beautiful hand, that even Mottel Sprais himself, the girls’ teacher, who was certainly the best writer in the district—even he was compelled to take note of Moshe-Mendel’s calligraphy. One day the old man saddled his nose with his silver-rimmed spectacles, and examined closely and carefully the specimen of Moshe-Mendel’s handwriting which had been submitted to him for approval. He did his best to find fault with it; but, in the end, he had to admit that Moshe-Mendel could lay some claim to the possession of the great ideal—“a golden hand,” as the old phrase had it. But, Mottel-Sprais took good care to qualify his praise. He expressed the opinion that Moshe-Mendel was certainly clever; and that, in the course of time, with much practice, if God willed, he would be able to write fairly well. He was promising in that direction.

Rochalle had not much chance of finding out for herself the good qualities of Moshe-Mendel. But, then, how could she when she had so little opportunity of coming face to face with him? He remained in his village, in
Tasapevka, and she in hers, Yehupetz, which was several miles off. And they had seen each other only once, and then in the presence of a whole houseful of people, for a couple hours. She was in one part of the room, and he in the other, so that they could hardly say with truth they knew what they each looked like—she in his eyes, and he in hers. But, for that again, they wrote to each other regularly once a week for a whole year, until they were married. What is the use in denying the truth? Mottel Sprais took a large part in Rochalle’s letter-writing; for, Moshe-Mendel’s letters were written so well, and in three languages—Hebrew, Russian, and German—that Rochalle was compelled to ask the help of Mottel Sprais in answering. She had no wish to show her ignorance. Mottel was more than willing to help her. He wished to let the whole world know that from his school the girls did not come out ignorant dunces, as happened in the case of other schools. In fact, he was so eager to advance the merits of his school that he did not scruple to add to the letter he wrote at Rochalle’s dictation many French words, to show that he knew the French language as well as the German.

In short, one might say that for a whole year Moshe-Mendel and Rochalle did nothing else but write letters to one another. They only left off when they were about to go under the wedding canopy.

The wedding came off in the usual fashion, which means that the relatives on both sides grumbled a good deal about the way this and that was managed. Each one said that there was too much selfishness shown. And the bridegroom’s people went so far as to call the bride’s father the name of an unclean animal that is forbidden by
Jewish law. But, when the wedding was completely at an end, they forgave one another freely, and parted the best of friends, each set of families going its way in peace.

A few days afterwards, Rochalle drove off from her father’s house to the village of Tasapevka to take up her residence with her husband and his parents.

There in her new home, Rochalle began an entirely new life. Rochalle, the wife of their only child, and the beautiful Rochalle that she was besides, at once won the hearts of every person with whom she came into contact. But, she was the particular favourite of Moshe-Mendel’s parents. They took care of her, and kept guard over her every hour of the day, lest so much as a speck of dust fall on her.

Dvossa-Malka, who had counted the days until her son should bring home a wife, was ready and willing to lay down her life for Rochalle, if she thought that it would contribute to her welfare. It was always, Rochalle this, and Rochalle that! Whenever she came upon anything in the shape of a dainty—something which was not to be had every day of the week—she was sure to bring it home for Rochalle. And, she went out of her way to
procure these dainties as frequently as possible; for, she looked upon Rochalle as one looks upon a child that is delicate and full of strange caprices. The moment Rochalle opened her eyes in the mornings, she found that her mother-in-law had already placed something for her to eat by her bedside, so that she might see it the very moment she opened her eyes. It did not seem to matter to Dvossa-Malka that she had such a great lot of work to do besides all these labours of love which she was always ready to undertake for Rochalle’s comfort. Nothing seemed to matter to her but the one thing—that Rochalle should have the very best that money could buy or labour create. Though she had to attend to her business of selling her wares at the market, she felt that the only thing which really concerned her was the care of Rochalle.

“Why should you trouble yourself about me?” asked Rochalle, a hundred times a week.

“What harm is it? You eat this, Rochalle; it is good. And, drink this, Rochalle, it is refreshing.” And, Dvossa-Malka kept on fussing around Rochalle day and night. Many times she set the whole house into a commotion by rushing in from the market, breathless, with haste and excitement, to see if Rochalle had got this or that. It was a usual thing for her to pour out a volume of abuse on the unoffending heard of her serving-maid because of her neglect of Rochalle—neglect which was often as imaginary as real. One would think that Dvossa-Malka was trying to run away from a highwayman, from the manner in which she flew into the house sometimes.

“What is it, mother?” Rochalle would ask, fearing that some disaster had befallen her.

“What else should it be but the fool of a girl forgot to take the milk that I left to boil for you off the fire. Oh, may her breath boil within her. I thought she would forget, and so leave you without your hot milk, through letting it burn or boil over. The moment I remembered the milk, I ran off from my stall towards home, as if a mad animal were chasing me. That is how it is. I pay her to do the work, and I a worried to death because she is sure to forget every single thing, unless I am here to keep watch over her. God help me, I don’t know where in the world I am at all. I left the shop by itself. And, there stands that ne’er-do-well with his hands folded behind his back, as if there was nothing at all for him to do—as if he were the principal guest at a wedding-feast, and had only to wait for people to attend on him. I asked him to run over with these little cakes for you; but, he would not stir. Here, eat them, Rochalle; they are very good. I got them for you from Leah-Bass, the baker woman. I never buy them from anyone else—not even if I were to be given their weight in gold for nothing. God help Leah-Bass for all that she differs through her drunkard of a husband! How the earth holds such a creature I do not understand. He is a disgrace to every-body, and his poor father must be put to shame in the other world through him. Yes, what was I going to say? My head is confused! Ha, there she goes, the lazy, good-for-nothing girl! Where were you, devil?”

At sight of her, Dvossa-Malka let out a long series of abuses and curses and loud, ear-splitting yells. She cries that Rochalle’s breakfast was delayed, the coffee spoiled, and a dozen other misdeeds performed by the girl, all of them bearing more or less on the subject or Rochalle’s
comfort. In short, the whole house is in a state of irruption through Rochalle. Even Isaac-Naphtali himself, who was always deeply engrossed in his own affairs, often paused to look at Rochalle, and to ask whether she had this or that.

All this anxiety about her, and the constant attendance on the very least of her wants, was highly distasteful to Rochalle. She felt that they only bothered her, and deprived her of her personal freedom to do what she liked, and when she liked, and how. And, over all lay the great truth—that she was not at all as deeply attached to her parents-in-law-as they were to her. She left Moshe-Mendel out of her reckoning, though he was the principal person to her. He was hardly more to her than a mere figure—a name. Between her and him the relations were such that they could be called neither bad nor good. They said little or nothing to one another. A young man of Moshe-Mendel’s caliber could not be expected to sit down and talk with his wife in the middle of the say, as if there was nothing more important, or more interesting, for him to occupy himself with. He went here and there, telling stories, watching the business that went on in the market, or else listening to a discourse at the House of Leaning. And, when he came home at night, he could never get a single moment in which to talk to Rochalle without being interrupted. Isaac-Naphtali was sure to pop his head inside of the door to see what “the children” were doing, or else Dvossa-Malka came into the room, bringing something with her for Rochalle. She was sure to have in her hand a plate, or a jug, or a bowl, or a glass. Or, if she had nothing in the way of a dainty to offer Rochalle, she would bring her in a shawl to protect her
shoulders from the cold air. And, she was always enthusiastic, always at fever point, for fear that Rochalle should fail to get the very best of everything.

“Here, Rochalle, taste this new kind of preserve that I have invented. I am sure you will like it,” was a favourite remark of hers.

“But, I tell you I tasted it a hundred times already.”

“Go away, child! You never tasted it before. You never set eyes on the likes of it in your life.”

And, Rochalle was compelled to take another spoonful of the preserve that was already grown as distasteful to her as poison.

“Rochalle, my love, you will be famished. Did you ever see anyone eating as you are eating? One would imagine that you were afraid of the spoon. I don’t know how you manage to exist at all. If anyone sees you, they will tear the eyes out of my head for starving you to death. They will curse me into the grave for starving my daughter-in-law. You must eat something, even if it is only to satisfy me that you are not starving. Woe is me!”

“Please let me be. I am not hungry. I cannot eat a mouthful. May I never be more hungry in all my life than I am now.”

“Well, do me a favour then. Sometimes a daughter-in-law does a favour to a mother-in-law. And, you must remember that I have a mother’s heart. Do not pain me by refusing to eat what I have brought you, even if it is only a mouthful.”

Rochalle could never manage to get out of eating what Dvossa-Malka insisted she should eat. And, as she took bite after bite, under the watchful eyes of her mother-in-law, she felt that she must choke sooner or later.

This mode of life, that was in itself a kind of bondage, grew intensely wearisome to Rochalle, despite the fact that she knew very well they were her true and faithful friends, and despite, too, the knowledge she had that they were quite ready to carry out the least of her wishes without an instant’s hesitation. She felt that if she asked for something which was as far out of their reach as were the stars in the sky they would make every effort, and strain every nerve to get it for her. There was no excuse; and when Rochalle asked for a thing she must have it at once.

But, a human being is not a bull nor a goose that he or she should be satisfied to do nothing but eat. Nobody could possibly enjoy such a life. No one could feel comfortable in the least to have their footsteps dogged to every hour of the day—to have the road dusted for his feet to tread on, so to say—to feel that his footfalls were being counted, and his bites watched. And, Rochalle was heartily sick of having Dvossa-Malka hanging over her when she sat down, and sitting beside her even when she slept. She hated to feel that her whole life was entirely in the hands of others. She saw now that she had completely lost her independence.

She was feeling bitterly the sad position in which she now found herself at the time when the reader made her acquaintance. She was lonely as well as tied down. She had not a single friend to whom she might unburden herself; and, her own parents were far off. Nor could she explain her position to them. They were full sure that she was happy as the day was long. Their letters to her contained nothing but rejoicings at her good fortune. They expressed their heartiest congratulations in detail
to her, and sang loud hymns of thanksgiving for the good fortune that the Lord had sent her; and, expressed the deepest feelings of their hearts, which were that she might continue to enjoy her fortune for ever and ever. They often finished up their letters with the words: