Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (11 page)

Freidel had held out stubbornly, and in the end succeeded in getting what she wanted. She married Stempenyu according to all the laws and customs which were the most binding—that might serve to tighten the grip she had on him already. And, very soon after the wedding-day, she took him in hand, and began to tyrannize over him to her heart’s content, aided considerably by her mother, who could hardly contain herself in patience till the great day came round at last when she was the mother of a married daughter.

And, Stempenyu tasted the bitterness of hell, and got to know the taste of it thoroughly. He was now wide awake to the minutest thing that concerned him, and soon got to know every separate shade of difference which existed between his old free life and his new life, that was one long bondage.

After they were married, the young couple went and settled in the village of Tasapevka, to which she belonged. He and his company made the village their permanent headquarters.

There was no more going about for Stempenyu, no more wandering joyously and carelessly over the face of the earth. Freidel took care to impress upon him the fact that she was altogether opposed to his wandering life. He was her slave now, and he had to obey her slightest wish, though it was true that she managed him only through kindness, and by means of gentle persuasion.

And, there began for Stemepenyu a new life—a brand new life, as one might say. Before his marriage, he had been a mad of great pride and independence of spirit; but, no sooner had he become Freidel’s husband than he lost both his pride and his independence. All his strength was gone from him as well as his good-humour, and his sparkle of wit. In his own house, Stempenyu had no authority whatever.

“Keep in mind only what concerns you,” was Freidel’s argument. “Your business is with the orchestra and with the music, and with weddings and other parties where you are asked to play. What do you want money for, you little fool?”

After this fashion did Freidel succeed in extracting from him every single
kopek
he ever earned anywhere.

She was very fond of money. She had been brought up in extreme poverty, and had had very few opportunities of handling even the smallest sum of money. As a girl she had found it extremely difficult to procure of a piece of ribbon for her hair, or a comb, such as all the other girls wore. She never got anything she wanted before she had
shed a little flood of tears of the bitterest and most despairing kind. Until she was fifteen years old, she went about barefooted and almost in rags. Her mother had gone out as a nurse to other families, talking care of tiny children. And, Freidel got many beatings from her mother and father, Isaiah the Fiddler, who had a decided weakness for strong drink. Though she had never enough to eat, Freidel was early filled with a passion for money. Her greed knew no bounds, and was only aggravated because of her wretched poverty. It was only at the Feast of the
Purim
, when she earned a few coppers on her own account, that she had an opportunity of holding some coins in her hand for a length of time. These coppers were given to her by the people for whom she carried out the customary
Purim
gifts to friends, from one end of the village to another. She used to hide her coppers in the bosom of her bodice so that her mother might have no chance of dragging them out of her on any pretense whatever. At night, she slept with the coins under her pillow, and in the day, she clutched them to her greedily. And, when the Festival of
Pesach
came round at last, Freidel rushed off to the fair to buy with her money the ribbons and other ornaments of personal adornment that she had long wished for and dreamt of in her wildest dreams.

No one took the least notice of Freidel until she was about eighteen years old, when she suddenly sprang up, as a gourd in the night, from a little girl to a tall, dark, heavily-built young woman of mature physique.

When she became engaged to Stempenyu, she herself did not realize the good fortune which had befallen her. But, her mother saw everything with her lynx eyes.
A hundred times a day, she explained to Freidel that Stempenyu was a treasure—a little gold-mine in himself, even thought he was a charlatan and a good-for-nothing as well, into the bargain, so to speak. He was a man to whom the
roubles
were of no value; and, hence, she must make it her business to manage him in all things as she herself had always managed her husband, Freidel’s father, Isaiah the Fiddler.

After Freidel had married Stempenyu, she remembered and applied every word of advice which her mother had given her—had drilled into her, rather. Gradually and completely, she took all the authority out of Stempenyu’s hands. She proved to him times out of number that a woman must know everything connected with her husband, that a man’s wife was not a stranger to him, and that a daughter of the Jewish people was not the kind of woman who created for herself different interests from those which concerned her husband. No, she was at one with him in everything. He must know that. He must realize clearly, once and for all, that he was she, and she was he. In short, he must not fail to see that he had a wife who was only his second self.

When Freidel became the mistress of the house, she saw that Stempenyu was always making more and more money. He often brought home a handful of silver
roubles
. She threw herself upon them with the greed of a hungry person before whom has been set a tasty dish, and an appetizing one. But, the money itself brought her neither pleasure nor satisfaction. She was continually harassed by the fear that there might be no more on the morrow. Perhaps her husband might one day be incapacitated from ever earning another
kopek
again! So she tied
up the money in many knots and not only that, but she began to scrape together one
kopek
on top of the other with a sort of feverish anxiety.

“Why are you always complaining and protesting that we can’t afford this and that?” asked Stempenyu, whenever he heard her talk of the terrible possibilities which stood before her eyes like ghosts, haunting her by day as well as by night. And, she answered him evasively:

“If you knew everything you would grow old before your time. Never mind, Stempenyu,” she added, with a smile. But, she went on doing as she thought it was her duty to do—saving, and stinting, and economizing in a thousand different ways. On all sides she kept reducing her household expenses. She bought in as little as possible, kept a badly filled larder, and cut down the number and variety of the day’s meals to a minimum. She herself often refrained from eating and drinking, so that she might add another few coins to her hoard at the end of a few days. Presently, she began to do business with the money she had saved. She lent it out on securities of different kinds, and so succeeded in earning a percentage on the money which, otherwise, might have brought her no profit. She began the business by lending a few
roubles
to a neighbor in a friendly way. Why not? she asked herself. And, as time went on, she saw that capital was not touched; but that, on the contrary, one
rouble
soon grew into two, almost without the least bother. It was not long before she had entered heart and soul into the business of lending money as a regular means of making money. And, as her business grew, her rapacity, her usury grew also. She developed all the cunning and all the meanness which have from time immemorial been connected
with money-lending. She was like so many of our wealthy folks who follow the same calling, and are not ashamed of it.

It was remarkable that Freidel should have within her such a terrible love of money. She could not have inherited the passion from her father, Isaiah the Fiddler. Neither could she have acquired this feeling by imitating her father’s friends, the other musicians, for amongst them there was not one who cared very much about the
roubles
, or who kept a tight hold on the
kopeks
. A Jewish musician, at that period, was something like a nigger, a wandering gipsy rather. He belonged to a distinct and separate species of mankind. He had even a jargon of his own which no one else understood; and, he had his own peculiar manners, and customs, and traditions.

He was always jolly and in the height of good humor. He danced and sang and played all sorts of games to amuse himself. Her always talked of lively things, and seemed to care nothing if he turned the whole world upside down. When he came home to his wife and children he made merry, and lived on cakes and sweets if he had the money. Or if he hadn’t, he starved with the same cheerfulness. But, he never cared about the morrow. Neither did he seem to care whether he had the money he needed or not. Life itself was enough for him, and he wanted but little to induce him to dance and sing and make merry, even if had to go without meals for days. After a supperless night, he went a-borrowing without a moment’s thought; or else he pawned the very pillows he had to sleep on. And, when he did get them back, he knew that it would not be long before he would pawn them all over again as before. And, the children of the
musicians were also jolly. They were easy-going, devil-may-care the sort of creatures, the daughters as well as the sons. Their lives, no more than their faces, were not covered over in with veils of worry or anxiety. In a word, the life of a musician had all the qualities as well as all the drawbacks of those who dwell in earthly paradise. And, living in this way, how could he ever occupy himself with fretting about the future? How could he possibly leave off his play to fret himself about the morrow?

Freidel’s father, Isaiah, was not a weeping soul. He was, in nature, utterly unlike other poor men. He did not interest himself in his poverty. On the contrary, he was always lively and gay. No sooner did he earn a
rouble
did he spend it in the same breath, as one might say. And, Freidel’s mother was also found of good things. That is to say, of good living—good eating and drinking. She would have dainties, even if she had to pawn her pillows to procure them. And, in order to prove that her love of dainties was only right and normal, she was ready to quote a number of proverbs all of them bearing on the same thing, that it was apparent to the wisest as well as the most foolish of mankind that all a man’s work was only for his stomach, and that it was better to spend one’s money on the baker than on the doctor. And, after all, what was a man’s life that he should deny himself what his heart desired?

Even amongst the extravagant musicians and their extravagant wives, Friedel’s mother was considered the most extravagant.

And, how did Freidel manage to have such a stingy soul? Where did she get her miserliness? Perhaps the quality came to her through having spent her life in such
abject poverty that she never had a
groschen
of her own, and through having suffered so keenly and so frequently the pangs of hunger, in the days of her childhood, when she was most open to receive strong and permanent impressions.

Or, it may have been that the soul of a mises who had died long ago, happened to lose its way, and to wander into the body of the young girl, where it found a resting place for itself. However that may have been, the fact remained that Freidel moaned and wailed at the very mention of the word money. And, the time soon came when her wealth was the envy of all the musicians of the village. They could not help remarking on her exceedingly good fortune, every time they thought of her.

Only in one thing was Freidel unlucky—she had no children. And, who can tell if that was not the very reason why she gave herself up, heart and soul, to the business of making money? The keenest enjoyment that one gets out of life—the enjoyment that one gets out of watching and tending one’s own children—was denied to her. And, hence, it is likely that she turned her feelings in an altogether different direction. As a rule we find that the women who have no children are crankiest of all. They seem to be lacking in the goodness and gentleness of other women. They can have no love left in them for anyone but themselves.

Freidel was just such a woman. Only, it could not be said of her that she disliked Stempenyu. Why should she not love him after all? Was he not the handsomest man in the village—a perfect picture? And, was he not the best player of a thousand players? And—this was the main thing—could he not earn plenty of money? Was he not a
gold-spinner, as her mother had said? “My Stempenyu,” Freidel would say, in a boasting tone of voice, to her women friends, “my Stempenyu has only to draw the bow across his fiddle once and he has made a
rouble
—two draws means two
roubles
—three draws means three
roubles
. Do you follow me?”

But, to Stempenyu himself, the
rouble
had no value. He played at a wedding, and got his pockets filled with money, and cared not a rap about it. When he had it, he gave it away liberally, or pretended to lend it to a comrade forever. In the same way, if he was short, he went borrowing from other folks. He was a real artist, full of the temper and tone of the man who cares nothing about the whole world—whose life begins and ends with art. He cared only about his music—about keeping up his orchestra. His mind was centred on new overtures and new operatic pieces. He arranged a wedding, and played for it to the very best of his ability, not pell-mell—any-how. He listened attentively to the promptings of his artistic conscience.

There were two things which Stempenyu loved best in the world. First himself, and next his fiddle. He had a lot to do to take care of himself as he wished to. He dressed well and in the latest fashion, waxed his moustache and kept his hair in curl. In short, he was a good deal of a dandy in his own way. And, when he was thinking of himself, he invariably forgot his fiddle. But, contrawise, when he had his fiddle in his hand, he forgot not only himself but the whole world. When he was filled with sad thoughts, or overcome with melancholy, he took up his fiddle, licked the door of his room, and played and played for hours on end. He composed the most fantastic
pieces, and improvised all sorts of curious combinations. He played whatever came first into his head, regardless of everything. And, he poured out his soul in the most mournful cadences that grew sadder and softer each minute.