Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance (14 page)

The whole scene was so despicable to Rochalle that she snatched off the corals the very instant she found herself alone in her own room. And, she made up her mind that she would never wear them again as long as she lived. More than all, she was annoyed with Moshe-Mendel because he had been so much taken up with the value of the corals that he had never even looked at her or taken notice of her, thought he looked at the corals that were around her neck with great care. He never even said to her, after the usual custom, “Rochalle, I wish you well to wear them!” The three of them had dragged her backwards and forwards all day long, looking at the corals, just as if they could not have examined them if she had taken them off. They seemed to regard her as of no more value than a cow that one takes to the market. Each of them in turn went over to her and raised her head, and felt the corals, and scrutinized them with narrow eyes. But, they all forgot about Rochalle herself. Though she was not by nature either hot tempered or ill-natured, she stormed inwardly at everybody, especially at Moshe-Mendel who afterwards took his supper with the utmost unconcern. Then he went off to the House of Learning, where there
was a meeting, from which he did not return till the small hours of the morning, as had happened with him many times before.

Rochalle was very excited. Her face was aflame, her head was dizzy, and in her ears was a hissing and a singing. She did not know what had come over her. And, to crown her suffering, Dvossa-Malka was standing over her, and driving her mad with questions. She was pressing her to eat and drink, and was not satisfied with Rochalle’s refusals, but demanded to know the why and the wherefore. But, Rochalle refused to eat or drink, and also refused to open her lips. When she found herself alone, at last, she had a good cry. Later on, when she got into bed, it was only to weep afresh. The tears gushed from her eyes in a torrent—warm, hot tears that seemed as if they would never cease to fall.

What was Rochalle weeping for? She did not know why she was weeping. She hardly knew that she wept. Her heart had been heavy for some time past—very heavy; and now, at the first opportunity, it seemed to overflow, and to send forth a stream of tears. She felt so lonely, and sad, and forsaken. She wanted something, but she did not know what, nor could she know. In reflecting on everything connecting with her past life, she had to admit that her parents had married her off in order to get rid of her. And, the word “rid” was in itself sufficient to bring the tears to her eyes all over again.

It is a word which is used very often amongst us Jews, and in nearly every family. It is a shameful word, and carries in itself the essence of all that is most strongly opposed to the spirit of our glorious faith which is founded on compassion and kindness.

But, more than all, Rochalle was heartily sick of Moshe-Mendel, and his ways, and his attitude towards her. She realized to the full what part she was playing in his life, despite of her beauty and her goodness, and her honesty. She saw now clearly, and for the first time, what she was to him.

Then, too, she herself had been confused and harassed and excited of late. It was of no trifling matter what she had had to endure through the importunities of Stempenyu. The pious, God-fearing Rochalle, who had never wished and never dared to ignore the most insignificant Jewish law or custom relating to the conduct of women—the same Rochalle who had most positively based her life on the books of Faith which were especially written for Jewish women—she now carried about in her heart the image of a strange man, received letters and met with him, without a single pang of conscience. On the contrary she felt herself being drawn towards Stempenyu, more and more. She wished to see him, to talk with him, and to listen to him as he played his fiddle. Oh, how he played! She felt that she would be quite satisfied not to eat and not to sleep anymore, if she could only go on listening to him, and if she were sure of seeing him always. His eyes, when they fell on her, seemed to warm her, and at the same time to soothe and to fascinate her! Ah, those burning eyes of his!

Rochalle caught hold of her head in both hands, and gave herself up to listening to the throbbing of her temples and to the beating of her heart.

And, her soul was being drawn from her—and drawn. She did not know what had come over her. She covered her head with the bedclothes, and the next instant she
was filled with a strange feeling that her old friend of long ago was standing over her—her old companion, Chaya-Ettel—peace be unto her!

And, as she ran mentally over the whole sad story of Chaya-Ettel’s brief life-her bitter disappointments, and the treachery of Benjamin—a cold shudder past over Rochalle’s frame.

When she lifted the covers off her head, at last, her ears were assailed by a familiar melody, played in a similar fashion on a well-known fiddle. She thought at first that she only imagined she heard the sounds, as she had imagined she saw Chaya-Ettel; but, the longer she listened, the more she became convinced that the sounds were real. And, what was more, they were closer to her each moment. A popular air was being played, such as the musicians were in the habit of playing to accompany to their homes the wedding guests after the supper—those who were so closely related to the bridegroom that they were privileged to remain behind after the other guests, in the house of the bride, carrying on the rejoicings for some time afterwards, perhaps for two or three days on end.

Rochalle, on recognizing the melody, had no difficulty ion deciding why it was being played, and by whom. She knew that it was Stempenyu and his orchestra escorting the bridegroom’s relatives back to their homes, at the other end of the village, and playing for them as they marched along.

But, she could not think for whom they were playing. The wedding of Chayam-Benzion’s daughter was almost forgotten. Whom, then, were the musicians leading back to their homes? There was no one else getting married.
Rochalle was sure of that. But, what did it mean that Stempenyu was out with his orchestra at such an hour of the night? There was no doubt that he had his full orchestra with him; for, she heard distinct sounds of the drum and the cymbals. And, they were drawing nearer and nearer to her. They were playing very nicely. But, out above all the other instruments, she could hear the sounds of Stempenyu’s fiddle. Though its tones were sweet and soft and sentimental, Rochalle could hear it as clearly as if all the other instruments were hushed and muffled. She could not lie still. She jumped up and rushed over to the window, and leant out, nearly halfway through.

It was a long time since Rochalle had seen such a beautiful night. The moon was riding high in the heavens, and around her were scattered a myriad of stars in clusters—diamonds which sparkled and shimmered before her eyes in ten thousand colours. The air was fresh and balmy. Not a breeze stirred, so that the huge beech trees of the monastery garden were like so many sentinels keeping guard. Not a leaf nor a twig moved. Only at odd intervals the pungent odour of the beeches were wafted from the garden to Rochalle’s nostrils as she stood at the lattice. It was as if a great bunch of sweet-smelling herbs had been placed beside her.

And, the sweet odour was all the more welcome to her because, in the daytime, quite a different odour filled the atmosphere.

Rochalle was almost equal in beauty with the wondrous beauty of the night—the snow-white, pure-hearted Rochalle, with her blue eyes like stars, and her long golden hair falling about her shoulders like a mantle.

(Did Rochalle remember, or did it strike her at all, that the author of this book, as well as the moon and the stars, was looking at the beautiful locks of golden hair, which to all the world were kept hidden completely out of sight under a silk cap?)

Her eyes were no less blue than the morning sky at its clearest. And, her shining face was not less radiant than the star-lit night. But, Rochalle hardly thought of anything like that—anything like the comparison of her own beauty of what lay around her. Her thoughts were not with herself at al. They were far off, following the direction whence came the sweet sounds. And, her heart went out to Stempenyu, and his fiddle.

The orchestra was playing a very sad air. It was as if someone had just been laid to rest under the sod, in a lonely grave.

It has been so with us always. Our feastings, our rejoicings, have always found their most adequate expression in tears and weeping. Through an excess of joy, our hearts are melted, as with sorrow.

But, the melody sounded lonelier and more melancholy now as it came out over the still night air, when the whole village was sunken in sleep. Only a small number of persons heard the weeping music—the persons who were returning from the wedding with drooping heads. Why were they so silent? You see, they had got rid of a child—that is, provided for its future. Thanks be to the Holy Name! And, in the stillness of the summer night Stempenyu’s fiddle was heard far better than at any other time. One’s heart sank within one, and the soul was drawn out of one’s body. The very roots of one’s life seemed as if they were about to be torn out by the sweetness
of the melody.

And, Rochalle stood in the window, half naked, listening and listening. She thought that she ought to run away, and close the window tight so that she should not hear any more; but, she could not move from the spot. She was like one petrified—like a steel that cannot withstand the power of the magnet. She continued to look about her, and to bend her ear to listen. She felt that she was not listening to his fiddle, but to himself. And, he was begging her, pleading with her, weeping before her.

Rochalle was not the only being who was listening to Stempenyu in surprise, on this warm, soft night. The moon and the stars and the air itself—all nature seemed to have relapsed into a dead silence in order to listen the more attentively to Stempenyu. And, there were others who, on the contrary, woke up to listen to him, who stood up to hear what sort of peculiar unknown sounds were disturbing the night. What did it mean that the quiet night was interrupted in this fashion? The cock that woke the whole village with his crowing at the dawn of day was led into imagining that he had overslept himself, and that the night had passed already. He got down from his perch, flapped his wings, crowed aloud and went back to his nest again. Seeing that it was not daylight at all yet, he felt aggrieved that he had been disturbed for nothing.

Even the dogs—the watch-dogs of the monastery—on hearing the Jewish orchestra in the middle of the night, began to bark, as they were in the habit of doing. But they, too, grew silent when they found that nothing further happened. They sought out their kennels, and fell asleep. And, the cow—Dvossa-Malka’s treasure—set
its ears and listened to the unwonted sounds. It let out a deep bellow that was like a groan. And, its neighbors, two goats, jumped up from the straw they were lying on, and ran into one another to show off their horns.

In short, everything grew lively at the sound of the fiddle on this calm and beautiful night—on this warm summer’s night that was full of charm and mystery.

Rochalle did not move all the time that the fiddle was still to be heard. She felt that she was bound to the spot with iron clamps. And she was lost in wonder and amazement. She forgot completely where she was. She only felt that she was surrounded by the beauties of the night. And, what a night it was, heavenly Father! As she stood there all her senses were on the alert to drink in every note and every breeze of the mild air hat was wafted to her. She was like one in a dream, enchanted. She looked up at the blue of the sky, and she was reminded of the summer nights of long ago when she was a little child and sat on the door-step, and counted the stars, and followed the moonbeams as they spread here and there. And, she used to sing to herself the little song which was so popular at that time:

At that time Rochalle did not understand the real meaning of the song, though she sand it over and over
again, times without number. But, she understood it now. She felt the full force of its message and its pathos. And she felt also, now that her emotions were stirred out of their slumber, that there was something which was drawing her hence—out into the night, into the free air and under the vast blue sky over her head. She felt that it was too hot for her in the house, and too narrow and too uncomfortable. And, then there came into her mind another song from her old repertory, which she thought she had long forgotten—another of those that she used to connect with the silver moonlight, and which she always sang at night on the door-step, when she was a little child:

Stempenyu had now come quite close to her. There he was with his fiddle and his long hair and his blazing, burning eyes that seemed to be looking at her always—warming her with their piercing glances and with the fire that was always burning in them. She felt that it would have been the greatest satisfaction of her life to be near him always, and to listen to him for ever and ever, as she was listening now. Then, too, she would have liked to keep looking back into his burning black eyes, into them always and for ever.…

But there was one thing which Rochalle could not
understand. How did Stempenyu come here? What did he want here, at dead of night, with his fiddle? Was he not taking the wedding guests a long way around? That was what she could not make out, no matter how much she puzzled her brain with the problem. It occurred to her at last that a wedding had taken place at a synagogue that day. But, how came the guests to be in the far-off corner of the village in which she lived?