Everyone was talking and smoking. The samovar was hissing and bubbling, and the room was filled with smoke and steam. And, on the oven the supper was cooking—the usual Saturday-night Borst, and goodness only knows what else beside.
“Where were you?” asked Dvossa-Malka of her daughter-in-law.
“Only out on the Monastery Road.”
“How is it outside? I hope to God the weather will keep fine until the summer fairs are at an end. But, what is the matter with you, my daughter? Does your head ache that you are so pale? Rochalle, would you like to go and lie down on your bed?”
At these words the company turned round, and seeing Rochalle’s white face they all cried, as with one accord, that she had been made dizzy by the fumes that came from the charcoal of the samovar. She went to her won room to lie down, leaving the people deep in a discussion on the dangers of charcoal fumes—the fumes which were in themselves so trifling—a mere nothing, one might say—a little smoke, and which yet had the strange power of injuring a person that he died of the effects. Someone told a story which had happened at a house of a friend of his grandfather’s—peace be unto him! The whole family had almost been sent out of the world by the fumes of the charcoal.
Another told a more remarkable story—how the whole household belonging to an uncle of his had been very nearly poisoned through eating a certain fish, the name of which was “Marenka.” They were all so ill that the doctors could hardly manage to drag them back from the jaws of death.
They talked so long until they came at last to the old, inevitable subject of death.
“No matter what one starts talking about, one is sure to talk of death before long,” remarked someone.
“I must go and see what her ladyship is doing, said Moshe-Mendel, his voice breaking the silence which had suddenly fallen upon all present. He got up, and left the room.
XIV ROCHALLE GOES BACK TO THE RIGHT PATH
“Help! To the rescue, friends!” The words came from the room into which Moshe-Mendel had gone. The people rushed forward; and, when they were come into the room, they found that Rochalle was lying across her bed, her limbs stuff, her eyes staring and glazed, and beside her stood Moshe-Mendel, half dead with fear.
“What is it? Who has fainted? Water! Quick! Water, water!” everyone shouted together; but, no one stirred from his place.
“Oh, to the devil with you all!” cried Dvossa-Malka, bringing a pitcher of water from another room. She splashed the face of Rochalle, who was pale as death.
“Let us call in the doctor,” suggested Moshe-Mendel, in a voice that was quite unlike his own.
“The doctor, the doctor!” was repeated by each of the guests in turn, as they looked into each other’s eyes.
“You ought to tie her hands with a handkerchief, and pinch her nose!”
“Her nose—her nose!” they all cried; but, no one stirred a hand or foot.
“That’s right! Pinch it tighter, Dvossa-Malka, tighter!” The guests encouraged the mistress of the house in her work of rubbing Rochalle’s temples, pinching her nose, and sprinkling her with cold water. She persevered for so long until Rochalle was at last restored to consciousness.
“She looked around her in a dazed, stupefied way, as if she did not at all know where she was, and she asked: “Where am I? I am very hot—hot!”
“Go out of the way, everybody!” said Dvossa-Malka, driving them out of the room like sheep. And, she and Moshe-Mendel found themselves alone with Rochalle, who all this time had never taken her eyes from Moshe-Mendel’s face.
“What happened to you, daughter?” asked her mother-in-law.
“What ails you?” asked Moshe-Mendel, bending low over her, until his face was on a level with hers.
“Let your mother go out of the room,” was Rochalle’s whispered reply.
“Mother, excuse me, but would you be so kind as to leave us to ourselves?” said Moshe-Mendel. He went to the room door with his mother, and then returned to Rochalle’s beside.
“Tell me, what ails you, Rochalle?” asked he, in a voice that was full of real concern and tenderness, for the very first time.
“Oh, Moshe-Mendel, you must swear to me that you will tell no one, and that everything will remain a dead secret between us. Promise me you will forgive me for what I have done against you.… If it had not been for Chaya-Ettel—peace be unto her—if it had not been for her reminder.… Oh, if it had not been for Chaya-Ettel.… Oh, Moshe-Mendel, my dear one!”
“Bethink you, Rochalle, of what you are saying. You are overheated, and are talking at random. Who and what is Chaya-Ettel?”
“My school-friend, Chaya-Ettel, the orphan girl—peace be unto her!—she has gone, long ago, to the world of Eternal Truth. But, I have seen her in my dreams many times of late. But, now to-day.… Oh, Moshe-Mendel, bend down your head to me, lower and nearer. Ah, that’s right.… I am afraid.… I am filled with remorse.… Oh, I am filled with the bitterest remorse.”
And, Rochalle nestled closer and closer to Moshe-Mendel until she was in his arms. The room was dark, only a single ray of light came in to them from the next room, through the door. Rochalle and Moshe-Mendel could barely make out one another’s faces. But, their eyes were riveted on each other; and, gradually a fire was enkindled in the hearts of both—a fire such as exists on the heart of a man or woman once in a lifetime, when the heart speaks, and not the tongue, when the eyes are eloquent and not the mouth.
“Tell me, Moshe-Mendel, my true one, am I so very dear to you!”
“What a question!” answered Moshe-Mendel. “You are rooted deep in the very fibres of my being, like a—I can’t say myself like what.” And, he could find no words in which to express his love for Rochalle. But, his sincerity was evident to her. It was beyond a doubt. He was quite as sincere and perhaps more sincere than the fine fellow who had the gift of expressing himself with ease and eloquence on every occasion.
But, this much was certain, the husband and wife who had been married for more than a year already were only now discovering that they really loved one another to distraction. This was the first opportunity they had ever had of talking freely and openly with one another, and they had found out that they were the very complement of one another. They were cooing like two doves in the mating season.
When Rochalle felt a little eased, and had nothing more to say, Moshe-Mendel too was at a loss. He was still sitting with his arms about her, and he began to hum softly from the “Elijah” they had all been singing earlier in the evening. “Elijah the Prophet, Elijah the Tishbite … of Gilead.”
And, Rochalle said to him, “I have something to ask of you, Moshe-Mendel. Tell me. Will you grant it me or not?”
“For instance? What is it you wish me to grant you? Speak Rochalle, and you will get it of me. Even if you ask me the fabulous golden plate of heaven, I will get it for you.”
“It is enough! Moshe-Mendel, you have lived in your parents’ house on their bounty quite long enough. You are not a school-boy now. We have a few roubles, thank God! Let us leave this, and go live in my village, in Yehupetz, amongst my people, my family and friends. When I am with you I will be as happy as the day is long. We will be by ourselves. We have had enough of being waited on hand and foot. I am dead sick of it. I hate it. I can’t stand it any longer.… We are here with your parents, and we are like strangers to one another, black strangers!”
Moshe-Mendel sat quite still. He said nothing, but tried to think. He looked at Rochalle with some wonderment. He shook himself and began to sing the “Elijah” all over again.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said after a few minutes. “Why not? Let it be even next week, if you like.”
“I get you to do everything I want, Moshe-Mendel—everything!” said Rochalle, regarding him with a newly born feeling of admiration. “Oh, yes, we will live by ourselves henceforth. I will look after the household; and, I will tend to the very least of your wants as if you were the apple of my eye. Oh, Moshe-Mendel, you wer
e always so distracted, so excited by outside matters, that I never heard a kind word from you. But, tonight you are so changed towards me—so changed.…”
“Elijah the Prophet,” sang Moshe-Mendel softly, as if to himself—“Elijah the Tishbite … of Gilead!”
And, there in the parlour, amongst the men, a different argument was being carried on. They had told each other all the jokes they knew; and, in due course, they came to the question of why Isaac-Naphtali’s daughter-in-law had fainted away so suddenly. One said that she had had an Evil Eye cast upon her. A second contradicted that statement and put forward the contention that she had caught a chill through standing in a draughty passage. Whilst a third, a grizzled Jew, who had long ago married off the youngest of all his children, gave his opinion at length:
“Listen to me. I have three daughters-in-law, and I know what I am talking about. I tell you that it is nothing at all. Believe me, it will pass off. Young women often take like that for no reason, and there is nothing in the least to be alarmed at.”
Dvossa-Malka beamed at him with satisfaction. “Well, well,” she said, pretending to be anxious about Rochalle. “Go away with your talk. It is better to go and have a look at supper on the oven than to stand and listen to you. You must all be very hungry. The supper is later than usual tonight.”
XXV A YEAR LATER
“A tame story!” the reader may possibly exclaim, feeling highly dissatisfied with the fare I have set before him, because of the fact that he has been brought up on the “highly interesting romances” in which there is hanging, and drowning, and poisoning, and shooting on every page. Or, in which perhaps a poor teacher becomes a duke, and a servant-girl a princess, and an under-gardener a troubadour. But, what can I do? Am I to blame if amongst our people there are neither dukes nor princesses? If amongst us there are only ordinary women and musicians, plain young women with no dreams of marvelous transformations, and working men who live from hand to mouth?
But, of what avail are my explanations? At this stage the reader may think what he likes. Once I have succeeded in bringing him so far as this he will not refuse to come a little further with me. He will surely have some curiosity to know what became of Rochalle, and what became of Stempenyu.
A whole year has passed! (What is a single year in a man’s life?) And, once again we find ourselves in the house of Isaac-Naphtali, at the close of the Sabbath day; and, the very same persons are gathered together again that we found there on that memorable night, a twelvemonth back, when Moshe-Mendel promised Rochalle that he would take her back to her own village, in Yehupetz. Nobody has changed by so much as a hair. As usual, they are talking of the fair, of the difficulties of making a living, of the doings of their children, and of the things which took place in the village recently. And, by and by they come to Moshe-Mendel and Rochalle, who are now living in Yehupetz.
“Show it here, Dvossa-Malka—the letter that the children sent us from Yehupetz,” said Isaac-Naphtali to his wife. And, on getting it, he added, “Here, read it for yourself, Reb Youdel.”
“Let him read it,” said Reb Youdel, turning to the young man with the squint.
The young man with the squint took the letter, and read it with great ease and rapidity. It ran as follows:—
“Peace and all good to my father—the famous man of piety, the wonderful teacher and rabbi, Isaac-Naphtali, son of Reb Moshe-Joseph, of blessed memory! And, also to my beloved mother, whose piety and fame and virtue are like unto the piety and fame and virtue of Esther and Abigail of old—to my mother, whose name is beautiful—Dvossa, Malka, the daughter of Reb Moshe-Mendel, of blessed memory! And to this whole household I send greetings and peace.
“As the sun shines out through the dark clouds of the blue heavens there on high, in the highest heavens, from out of the blue windows …”
“No, no!” shouted a chorus of voices; not that. “It is only—only—poetry, boyish things, childish nonsense. Read further what is on the other side.”
The young man with the squint turned over the page, and read:
“And as regards your question concerning my livelihood, and business that is carried on here in Yehupetz—I must tell you first of all …”
“Ah, that’s what we want to hear!” said the people, satisfied at last. “Read, young man, read further!”
“I must tell you, first of all, that drapery is sold here in smallwares; but smallwares not so much as drapery. Embroideries are not bad either—not worse than with you. Woolens are dear here, like gold itself. Sugar and flour and bran are also good to trade in. They are sent across the frontier, and Jews earn a fine lot of money through them. Yehupetz is a blessed land! The town itself is terrible. It is worth a man’s while to look at it. In short, it is a different world here in Yehupetz. You may come upon such Jews whom you would never dream of calling Jews. And there is a good trade done in paper here, too. There is trading in everything. And Jews turn around on the Exchange, and buy and sell all sorts of bonds. Brokers make lots of money.
“My wife sends you her friendliest greetings. She is also writing to you herself. May God preserve you all. And I hope we will hear from you the best of news. Amen!
“P.S.—Then I must tell you that a shop like mine is in the very front of the Alexandrevitz Street. And the income is not all bad. Blessed be He!”
“My wife Rochalle—may she live long!—has learned the business already and can talk to a customer. But as to buying at the fairs—I do that myself. I have credit amongst merchants in Moscow and Lodz. With Moscow it is not bad to deal. Moscow sells honestly and likes a Jewish customer. If a man is doing badly, Moscow comes to his aid and does not let him go down altogether.
“Dwelling-houses are very dear here. For two rooms and a kitchen I pay 175 roubles a year, and have to get my own wood and water. Everything thing is dear here—like gold. Mostly the Jews are middlemen; and of Jewish middlemen there are many here. And Jews earn an honest rouble through it. In short, Yehupetz is a place of business. May God give us health and strength, and I hope to hear the same from you.
“From me, your son, who is anxious for your happiness every day—Moshe-Mendel—the son of my beloved father, Isaac-Naphtali of Tasapevka.
“Greetings to my dear uncle and dear aunt, and his whole family.
“Greetings to the wealthy one, Reb Youdel, and his whole family.
“Greetings to the wealthy one, Reb Dauber, and his whole family.
“Greetings to the wealthy one, Madame Stessa-Beila, and her whole family.
My son Joseph—may his light continue to shine!—sends you all his friendliest greetings.
THE ABOVE NAMED!”
“I greet my highly honoured and deeply-appreciated father-in-law—may you live long! I wish to let you know that I am in good health, thank God! May the Lord send me no worse. Also, my little Joseph sends you his greetings; and he thanks my mother-in-law for the little shirt, many times over. If God lets him live and is willing to have it so, Joseph will go to school in three or four years’ time. He will learn diligently, please God! And please God! he will grow up a pious Jew. May the Lord send him long years! Amen! Dear Mother-in-law, if you can make for my little Joseph a little cap and a pair of little shoes from embroidery I would thank you very much. I am so much occupied with business and I do not wish to take a nurse for little Joseph. It is not worth while. I hired a little girl and pay her four roubles a month. She rocks the cradle and drives the cow to the meadow. You ought to see what a cow I bought. She gives four quarts of milk a day—beautiful milk; and I have plenty of butter and cheese. But Moshe-Mendel has taken a sudden dislike towards all these things. Please give him a scolding, I beg of you. Joseph has just wakened up. He is hungry, poor dear child!
“I close my letter and send regards to all our relatives and friends. I beg of you to reply to me, and I remain your most affectionate and faithful daughter-in-law,
ROCHALLE”
“Nu!” cried Berrel the Fat One—I hope that my child
ren never be worse off than Moshe-Mendel and Rochalle.
“You are sinning, Dvossa-Malka; you are sinning,” said Youdel. “Yes, you are sinning.”
“You are right, Reb Youdel. Thanks be to the Blessed Name! They are indeed well off. May no Evil Eye fall upon them! But I am full of pain. I can never forget them.”
And, Dvossa-Malka set out to explain to Reb Youdel all the noble qualities of her daughter-in-law, down to the minutest detail. And, she wept copiously because she could never forget her. Around her in the room the people were talking about Yehupetz, and the merchants of Yehupetz. Afterwards they got out glasses, and drank a toast, holding the glasses in their hands for a long time. They wished each other everything that was good. Nor did they forget to add that they hoped fervently to see all the Children of Israel flourishing and joyous.
The supper was placed on table, the dishes sending out a fragrance through the whole room.
The company grew flushed, and talkative, and joyous. They talked, and they talked, and forgot all about Moshe-Mendel and Rochalle and the town of Yeheputz, and everything connected with it.
XXVI STEMPENYU TASTES OF THE BITTERNESS OF HELL
But there is one person who cannot forget Rochalle. Perhaps the reader has guessed that Stempenyu is here referred to. Yes, Stempenyu is the person referred to. But, who is there can describe the pain that was his? Who can read his heart and measure his agony?
“How I suffer! How my heart aches!” he says to himself again and again. “And, she never confessed anything. She never wrote down two broken words to tell me that she was going away. Phew! It was shameful!”
Nothing of the sort had ever happened to Stempenyu before, though there had happened to him all sorts of strange things. And, often nasty things, with bad endings. But, such an aggravating thing, such a downfall as that which was connected with the flight of Rochalle he never dreamt would happen to him. Stempenyu, who had been so intimately connected with all the nobility and gentry, whose daughters had shown him their open admiration—Stempenyu, about whom the beautiful noblewoman had gone mad, and for despair of winning him had committed suicide—Stempenyu, who had talked in French and German with the greatest ladies in the land—it was terrible that this same Stempenyu should have come to suffer so much and so keenly through an ordinary, commonplace young woman!
Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance Page 13