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.
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!
XVII STEMPENYU MOVES ONE LIMB
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.
XVIII STEMPENYU FALLS IN LOVE
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.
Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance Page 9