Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance

by Sholem Aleichem

  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:

  “The moon is shining on the night,

  And Perralle sits at her door.

  She sighs, and moans, and pines away,

  Her heart is filled with grief.

  She sighs, and moans, and pines away,

  Her heart is filled with grief!”

  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:

  “I stand on the brink of the river;

  But cannot get over to thee.

  Oh, I long to go, but I cannot—

  I cannot get over to thee.

  Oh, I long to go, but I cannot—

  I cannot get over to thee!”

  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?

  It was only at that instant that she began to see the light—to understand the secret—on the moment when Stempenyu and his orchestra were close beside her window, almost at the door of her house. Stempenyu came forward, and began to play a solo with much vivacity and spirit. Then it was that Rochalle understood everything—why he had dragged all the wedding guests, as well as the orchestra around the village, a dozen streets away from their destination. And, for whom had he done this bold thing? She felt that he was paying her a high compliment, and her heart was filled with pleasurable sensations. It leaped up within her so that she thought it would fly out of her bosom altogether. She never thought for a moment that he was compromising her. She was only glad of that compliment that he was paying her. Unconsciously, unwittingly, she began to laugh softly within herself—a joyous, mirthful laugh that betokened her deep sense of pleasure and satisfaction. But, she was startled at the sound of her own voice. She was wide awake now, and saw herself as she was, standing in the window, in the scantest attire, her head thrust forward and her hair flying loose about her shoulders. She darted from the window, and jumped back into bed. “Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me!” she murmured. “See to what a pass one can come if one does not consider beforehand what one is about, and where one is in the world. There was I, in the window, at dead of night, only half-dressed, a crowd of men around me, and my mind completely filled with foolish, empty nonsense. More than that! I carry about in my heart the most sinful thoughts, and am filled with pictures, not of my husband, but of Stempenyu. And Stempenyu? He has a cheek to drag a crowd of Jews over the half the village for nothing. One must have a fine set of nerves that permit one to do such a thing. Where did he get the idea? I must ask him. And, I must make an end to this sort of thing, once and for always. He wants to bring about my ruin. I will talk the whole business over with him, and tell him exactly what I think of him. What is it that they say about the first quarrel being better than—something or another—I forget what. He tells me a whole yarn about love. Rubbish! It’s a good joke, as I live! ‘Next Saturday evening,’ he says, ‘on the Monastery Road, there he will explain everything to me.’ I wish the Sabbath would come quicker, so that I might not be kept long waiting to tell him what I think of him. And, at the same time, to hear what he has to say. I will surely go. What have I to be afraid of? Whom do I care about? One has no right to be afraid of any person—of anyone but the Lord himself.

  “Stempenyu is a nuisance; but, I will make an end of everything. It’s not for nothing that there are so many stories told about him. But, what has it to do with me? Why should I waste my young years bothering about him? And, who is to blame for everything if not I myself? One must never permit the least liberty. If Moshe-Mendel were here, he would have told Stempenyu a thing or two. But, where is he? A lot he cares what happens to me! What is it to him that I am annoyed, in pain almost? Ah, but what good is all this? I had better say my night’s prayer. It is wrong to fall asleep without saying it:

  “ ‘For Thy Salvation have I hoped, O Lord! I have hoped, O Lord, for Thy Salvation! O Lord, for Thy Salvation have I hoped!’ ”

  Rochalle buried her head in the pillows, and drew up the cover as high as possible, so that she might not hear the playing of the orchestra. And, she repeated aloud: “For Thy Salvation have I hoped, O Lord!”

  But, through the open window stole the sweet strains of Stempeyu’s fiddle—the strains that were growing softer and fainter and more remote. And, again Rochalle repeated the lines from the night prayer:

  “For Thy Salvation have I hoped, O Lord! I have hoped, O Lord, for Thy Salvation! O Lord, for Thy Salvation have I hoped!”

  And, Stempenyu’s fiddle sounded still further off, until its tones were barely audible. At last they died away altogether.… Gradually Rochalle’s eyes were closing in sleep. Her lips hardly moved. The whispered lines were dying into a faint blue murmur: “For Thy Salvation.… For Thy Salvation.…”

  And, Rochalle was fast asleep.

  Rochalle fell asleep, and dreamt that Stempenyu was fastening a row of corals around her neck. On one side of her stood her father-in-law, wearing his phylacteries and praying shawl; and, Freidel was beating him, was smacking his face for him, as furiously as she could. Moshe-Mendel was dead drunk, and was riding on a pony, and making it perform all sorts of tricks, while Stempenyu was still hanging the corals around her neck. On the other side of her stood Chaya-Ettel, dressed in her Sabbath clothes. She was covered with the most beautiful jewels, like a “Queen’s Daughter,” and she was smiling pleasantly and kindly, as she went on lighting a number of candles one after the other.

  “What are you doing, Chaya-Ettel?” asked Rochalle. ‘Why are you lighting so many candles?”

  “What a question!” answered Chaya-Ettel, with a little laugh. “Isn’t it the Sabbath eve, and quite time to light the Sabbath candles?”

  Rochalle looked at the candles. How brightly and clearly they were burning. And all the time Stempenyu was still hanging the corals around her neck. He was standing so close to her that she could hear his breath coming and going. He was staring straight into her eyes. And, again his glances seemed to warm her through and through. She was delighted with herself. She laughed joyously and sang. And Stempenyu was still hanging the corals about her neck.

  Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and all those who had stood around her had disappeared. It grew pitch dark and very cold, as in a cellar or in a grave. The wind blew and whistled, and there arose a sad and mournful sound—a wailing chant. The sound of a fiddle was also to be heard—the familiar sounds played on Stempenyu’s fiddle. Stempenyu himself was gone, but his fiddle was still to be heard. And, it was terribly sad and lonely. It was like the sound of someone weeping.… It was Chaya Ettel weeping for her lost youth, for the days which had fled from her as if they were no more than a dream. She was weeping, too, after her lover, Benjamin, who had given her up for another woman—who had forgotten all the vows he had made to love her forever. He had forgotten her completely.

  “Oh, mother!” cried Rochalle, wakening up with a start. But, in the next moment she had turned over on her side and was fast asleep again, only to continue the dream which had visited her before. The whole night she was completely entangled in her
dreams, in which Stempenyu was always standing near her and trying to hang around her neck the inevitable row of corals. And, yet again Chaya-Ettel came forward, carrying the black candles and weeping and moaning, and sobbing and repeating from the prayer-book the words: “Almighty Father in Heaven! All-Powerful Creator! Lord of all Flesh! King of all kings, who from everlasting until everlasting art the One God! Let my prayers be acceptable unto Thee! Let the petition of my heart find favour in Thy eyes. Let the prayers of the upright be heard, and their petitions fulfilled! Behold! They prostrate themselves before Thy footstool! They beseech of Thee Thy mercy for all created beings as well as for themselves. They seek of Thee forgiveness; for, everything that is upon the earth is full of sin!”

  Chaya-Ettel was repeating the words aloud, and weeping and moaning in the most pitiful accents, between each word.…

  A little later, and she was gone.

  XXII A FIRE IS ENKINDLED

  In the village of Tasapevka there was a monastery. It had been built, according to legend, by the national here, Mazeppa. A high, white stone wall encircled the monastery on all sides. And, the ground that the monastery and its garden covered was equal in size to about three-fourths of the area of the village itself. Facing one wall were the shops and the warehouses of the village. At another wall were built a number of underground passages and cellars in which had hidden long ago a whole army of Haidemaks; but, now they were used for storing away apples and other thing which need to be kept in a cold place. The third wall was covered with thorns and briars, and was overhung with poplars and other trees which grew in the monastery garden, on the other side of the wall. The fourth wall was bare and smooth. In several places there were holes, where the mortar had fallen out from between the bricks, loosening them. The wall had cried out for repairs years ago, but had been neglected. And, opposite this wall, with only the roadway intervening, there stood a group of houses and wooden isbas, farmsteads and villas, occupied by Jews as well as Christians, in about equal proportions. The little road upon which the houses stood, and which was bounded by the dead wall of the monastery, was called the Monastery Road. And, there at the corner of the road, where the first clump of trees overhung the wall, there took place the first meeting between Rochalle and Stempenyu.