Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (12 page)

Suddenly, he would be seized with a wild fit of temper, and he would play the most bizarre things, his tones growing louder and more stormy each moment, just as they had grown softer only a little while before. So extreme was his violence that it was not long before he was exhausted. He sighed several times in succession, and the self pity welled up in his heart in great gushes.

By and by, his anger died away. His wrath was stilled, and, once again, he poured out his heart in a series of low, solemn, yet sentimental sounds. And it was not long before his good humor was restored, and, he was as lively and as merry as he had been before—as was habitual with him.

It did not happen often that he betook himself to his room in order to play off his melancholy mood. As a rule, he was not easily put out; but, when it did happen that he had been angered or saddened, it took him quite a long while before he was restored to his normal mood. He found it impossible to tear himself away from his fiddle once he had taken it in hand, and he played until he was quite tired out, and could play no more. His imagination once enkindled, he was like a mighty torrent of the wilderness. He only grew in strength as the minutes flew by. He cared nothing at all for impediments. His soul melted within him. His feelings ran riot. His talents were at their highest when the flood gates were lifted, and he felt neither compunction nor constraint. His playing
was beyond compare when he was in this riotous mood to which one can give no name. And, it seemed to him that he himself was sending up to the throne of the almighty a devoutly-breathed prayer for mercy, from the very bottom of his heart—a prayer which must find its way and gain for him that which he asked for out of his bitterness of soul—mercy.

It is said that the Psalmist had a special orchestra which he set playing while he was composing the psalms in praise of the Lord! Probably this is only a legend; but, it is, nevertheless, a pious imagination of a pious heart.

“Keila the Fat One—may she suffer all my woes—as brought me only one week’s interest on the money I lent her. She says she will pay be this week’s in a few days.”

With a speech of this nature was Freidel wont to greet Stempenyu, as he came forth from his room, after having had his fill of music, his black eyes flaming like two living coals, and his nerves strung to their highest pitch.

His fine blazing eyes had in them a great power of attracting to him every individual on whom he happened to flash them; but no sooner did he catch sight of Freidel than their power went out like candles in the wind. It was as if her presence jarred on him.

The moment Stempenyu came home from a wedding at which he had been playing, Freidel was sure to come forward and meet him with a cunning little smile and with all the playfulness of a kitten—the playfulness that is so beguiling and so disarming. But, she soon explained the reason of her cunning. She wanted to get from him the money he had earned.

“What do you want money for, Stempenyu?” she
would ask, as she emptied his pockets. “What do you want money for? What do you stand in need of? Have you not everything? You are not hungry—far be it from such a thing! And, you are well and fashionably clad. And, when you want a little money sometimes do I not give it to you? Then, let me hold your money for you. I will not spend a single
kopek
on you. Well, give it to me—give it to me!”

Stempenyu stood before her like a child that had just been punished, and Freidel did as she liked with him. He was altogether in the power of Black Freidel.

Ah, what happened to you, Stempenyu, to let yourself fall into the clutches of a mere nobody like Freidel? She dances on your head. And, you are compelled to submit when she leads you by the nose, exactly as Samson the Strong of long ago had to allow himself to be led by his Delilah after she had shorn his locks—after she had beguiled him into laying his head in her lap, thus falling into her power through his momentary weakness.

Phew! it is a shameful thing that has befallen you, Stempenyu!

A pity of Stempenyu!

But, it was not altogether as one imagines. He hardly needed to be pitied. For, though he had no authority in his own home, and was entirely led by a mean woman, he still lived in a world of his own creating—altogether his own, in which Freidel never entered at all. In his own world he was as a prince; and, when he found himself safely within its imaginary walls, he was satisfied, as we shall see presently.

First of all, he spent half of the day practicing his new pieces with his orchestra, along with the members of whom he played an odd prank now and then. He listened gladly to the witty sayings of the jester in the group, and laughed heartily at Michsa Drummer, against whom the jester leveled the most of his shafts. And, often Stempenyu told stories himself, recounting the various
adventures he had at this wedding and that. He told how, on one occasion, the bridegroom had stubbornly refused to go under the canopy, would on no account consent to be married until he had got every
kopek
of the dowry that had been promised him counted out into his hand. At another wedding, the bride had fainted away stone dead without cause, and could not be revived for the ceremony to go on until long after the appointed time. Here the jester interrupted Stempenyu to put in a remark apropos of the story. At a third wedding something very funny happened. After supper, when the guests were about to begin dancing for the night, there was a sudden outburst of laughter. No sooner had Stempenyu touched on the incident than all the musicians burst out into a loud guffaw at the memory of what had taken place. It was as if a bomb of laughter had exploded in the middle of the room.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Freidel, from another room. “One would imagine that someone was tickling you.”

“Never you mind,” was Stempenyu’s prompt reply. “I told you hundreds of times not to interfere in our affairs.”

And, for one moment, Stempenyu appeared to be the real master of the house—a little Sultan, almost.

When Stempenyu was not practicing or playing by himself, he was occupied with his personal appearance, of which he was very proud. His coats were perfect in cut and colour, and his boots were of the finest leather, and were lacquered until they shone like mirrors. His hair was curled with the utmost precision, every lock separately and every curl in its appointed place. His shirt collars
were always white as snow, and he carried in his hand a stick with a carved ivory handle. And, on his head, he worse a broad black cloth cap with a shiny peak that came down almost to his eyes. His head thrown back proudly, and his body perfectly poised, Stempenyu walked through the streets with the dignified gait of a man of the utmost importance—a general, or a governor of a province. He had many acquaintances everywhere, all of whom he saluted gracefully and cordially as he came towards them. When he passed the shops he greeted the young women—the shopkeepers—with much warmth. The women grew red. They remembered how, when they were girls, they had known Stempenyu intimately. Those were good times. But now? Who cared what to-day was like when the memory of yesterday filled the mind?

There were several young women, and girls too, who came out to the doors of their shops to talk to Stempenyu. And, he was delighted to stand and chat with them about this person and that, and to laugh and make merry with them. But these chance encounters did not always pass off without comment. Sometime the neighbors talked about them, and carried the news of Stempenyu’s little escapades from one house to the other; and, as they went from house to house, the stories grew in dimensions, after the fashion that belongs to all villages where the people have nothing else to interest themselves with but the most trivial sayings and doings of their neighbors.

“What are the people talking about you again for? Is there another story, Stempenyu?”

“What sort of story, Freidel?

“The stories of your own making, I suppose. He asks me! Wherever two people meet you are sure to make a third in a few minutes. The whole village is talking about you again.”

“I don’t know what you want of me, Freidel?”

“What I want of you? I want you to have done with your old ways. It is time for you. Wherever there is a young woman or a girl to be found in the village, you are sure to know her, and to stand talking to her for three hours by the clock. You can’t possibly say enough to her!”

“Ah, I suppose you are referring to the chat I had with Esther, Abraham-Jacob’s daughter?”

“Well, if I am referring to Esther, what then? Is she a nun, or what?”

“I had a little business to talk about with her.”

“Your business! I know you, Stempenyu.”

“And, you may know me! Abraham-Jacob is thinking of making his daughter’s wedding in Yehupetz. He took the mad idea into his head. And, when I saw Esther, I talked to her about it. Perhaps I ought not to have talked to her about it? Perhaps I ought to let such a fine wedding go out of our village?”

“What made him think of Yehupetz—the madman?” asked Freidel. And, in her green eyes there was a peculiar glitter which always came into them at the very allusion to money, as well as at the mention of the word.

“There’s no use in asking questions about the actions of a lunatic,” replied Stempenyu, feeling that he had come out of this scrape without a scar.

He often managed to get out of scrapes. He was very alert, and knew exactly how to deal with Freidel.

Once he had crossed the boundary which separated his village from its neighbors, Stempenyu felt he was once again as free as the air. He could do whatever he wished, without having to give an account of himself. So that, once he found himself in a strange village, he was reluctant to leave it again. And, he had all sorts of adventures wherever he went, both comic and tragic. And, he felt that he was in an altogether different world into which Freidel could not enter. Though she frequently tried to bribe Michsa Drummer to tell her of Stempenyu’s doings, she had failed, for Michsa was loyal to his master, and moreover hated Freidel like poison.

And, no sooner did Stempenyu find himself in a new village, than he threw off all traces of his old self. He was an altogether freer and brighter Stempenyu than he had been in his own house—in Freidel’s presence.

In the secret world which Stempenyu spent such a large portion of his time, Rochalle began to play an important part—the greatest part that anyone had ever played in his life hitherto. The letter he wrote her, which we have already seen, was full of sincerity and truth. For, he had fallen madly in love with Rochalle the very moment he had set eyes on her at the wedding of Chayam-Benzion’s daughter. He did not write the letter at once. It took several days before the fire which Rochalle’s blue eyes had enkindled in his heart had burst into flame. And, when he could control his feelings no longer, he locked himself up in his little room, in which he played his fiddle when he was in the mood, and with the same pen, and on the same music-sheets that he used for his compositions, he wrote his letter to Rochalle.

To Stempenyu writing was by no means an easy matter.
On the contrary, he found it very difficult, and sweated and toiled before he succeeded in saying what he wished to say. He had never been taught to write, but had himself picked up the rudiments at random, and in a haphazard fashion. And, he felt quite tired and dull after writing only a few lines.

He carried the letter about with him for several days before he found a way of putting it into her hands. Michsa Drummer was a good messenger to send with such letters. But, that was only when they were in strange places. Here it was too risky to employ him; for, since Freidel’s eyes penetrated through everything, even Michsa was far from safe. He was decidedly dangerous in such a case. Stempenyu hardly managed to live over the hours until the Sabbath came around. And, the afternoon of that day found him dressing with more than usual care and exactitude. He wore a high hat, in accordance with the very latest fashion of the day. He went out and walked slowly along the Berdettsever Road, hoping that Rochalle would be walking there, too. But, he sought her in vain. All the women and girls of the village were there, promenading up and down, throwing shy glances at Stempenyu, and smiling at him—everybody was there except Rochalle. The letter that was in his pocket would not let him rest. It drew him to her, closer, and still closer every minute.

“Perhaps I ought to go down the street in which Isaac-Naphtali lives. I may see her there,” thought Stempenyu. And, he walked along slowly until he came to the open window, behind which Rochalle was sitting, absorbed in a brown study, and singing softly to herself the well-known little song which she used tossing long
ago, when she found joy in singing, and was not yet aware of the awfulness of doing what she liked in that matter.

When Rochalle heard Stempenyu’s “Good Sabbath!” and saw him standing before her, she thought that she was dreaming; for, she had already grown accustomed to seeing Stempenyu in her dreams. But, when she found the music-sheet in her hand, she saw that he had really been and gone again. She read the letter through, got up from her seat, glanced furtively through the window, and said to herself: “It’s well for him that he has run away. I would have told him what is what. There’s an idea for you! Stempenyu, all of a sudden!”

She caught up the letter, and was about to throw it out the window; but, she checked herself in the nick of time. She read it carefully a second time, folded it and put it in her pocket.

Her anger increased each moment. She would have liked to see Stempenyu, and to ask him face to face what he meant by such conduct, and what name one might give to it. It was the height of impudence to write such a letter. Who was she, and who was he, that he might treat her so shamelessly?