Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance

by Sholem Aleichem

  “It makes my heart ache to think of her,” Stempenyu confessed to his company of musicians. “That young woman makes my heart ache every time I think of her. And, I should like to go after her to Yehupetz, if it were not for—if it were not that—” Stempenyu was confused. He looked around him at each of the men in turn. And, they knew well whom it was that he was searching for with his eyes. They were all very fond of Stempenyu, and passionately devoted to him. They were ready to go through fire and water for him. And, as much as they loved Stempenyu, they hated Freidel. They could not bear to look at her because of her miserliness, and her love of money, and all her mean, despicable ways.

  “Oh, yes; when he was a bachelor,” the musicians would say—“when he was a young man, a rouble was nothing at all to him; and, one could get round him easily. One could get a loan of a three-rouble note from him never to be repaid. And, even a five-rouble note. Sometimes one got a present from him in the ordinary way. But, now, since that wicked woman has him in her talons, he himself might die for a kopek-piece. He might be hung for a groschen. The old times are gone for ever, and the glorious suppers Stempenyu used to make for us and the jolly knocking about from place to place. Nowadays, one might as well lie down in a ditch and die, because one gets withered and swollen up with hunger. The whole year one has to go without bread; and, when the season for weddings comes round at last, she never even offers a man, out of mere decency itself, so much as a bite of bread or a glass of tea. She never has the good manners to offer a man a meal—may the worms devour her from head to toe!”

  “Believe me, there are times nowadays when a man is actually hungry. And, it is terrible to suffer for want of food. But, if she were to place a heap of gold before me, I would not demean myself by tasting so much as a single crumb of hers—the vixen!”

  “How does he manage to live with her—with such a female Turk—with such a hag—a she-devil? I would have poisoned her, or hung her up long ago, as sure as you see me alive!”

  “Oh, Stempenyu! You have been buried alive! You are lying in the earth and baling cakes, as the saying has it!”

  That was how the musicians spoke of Stempenyu. They saw how he suffered, and they felt keenly what he was feeling, out of sympathy, though he had not said more than a word or two of what was really taking place within him to anybody. When he suffered most he was dumb, not knowing what to say.

  Whenever Freidel when to market, or when she was occupied in taking pledges, or in attending to her customers, it was not so bad. Stempenyu could treat the musicians to cigarettes. They would sit and chat, and tell one another stories of bygone times. They smoked and talked as if the whole world was theirs. But, the very moment Freidel crossed the threshold their hearts were chilled and they crept from the room one by one.

  “Just see how they have filled the room with smoke, as if this were a public house,” she said, sniffling here and there, and looking daggers at the remains of the cigarettes in the packet, “They only want to smoke—to puff, and nothing else. My head aches from your cigarettes. You will make me ill. You imagine, Stempenyu, that it is good to smoke? Be advised by me, Stempenyu. Give up smoking. My soul, believe me, it is injurious to your health.”

  “What do you care, Freidel, about my health! Sat that you begrudge me the money I spend on tobacco, and have done with it. What is the use of pretending?”

  “What do you say to him? He talks of pretenses! I mean only his good, and he talks only of pretenses. There’s for you! I suppose I do begrudge you everything because of the beautiful day I have had, fighting, and sweating, and eating out my heart with aggravation, and without taking in a kopek. And, along with this I was abused as if I were a servant girl—worse than any servant girl. They called me names, and blackened my character, until it was as mud that lies in the middle of the road … And, the goods are not sold. They are lying there and rotting.”

  “I should like to know, Freidel, devil, why you protest so much. Why do you stint and scrape? Have your children fallen upon you, demanding from you the Lord knows what?”

  “Just look at him, I beg of you, the innocent! He knows nothing. One has to put everything on the tip of his tongue. I suppose I carry everything off to my mother—eh, Stempenyu? Or perhaps I eat everything up myself? A glutton and a drunkard like your wife is a terrible person to come upon without warning, eh, Stempenyu? Look into my eyes, Stempenyu. Can you do that?”

  “Did I say you eat up everything? On the contrary …”

  “You say—you say—I know what you say. Perhaps you ought to male complaints, Stempenyu? You ought to rebel against the Lord because He sent you such a thriftless wife—such a wife as I am, who can make two groschens out of one at any time, and who keeps your interest in mind day and night. Yes, tell me what you are short of, and how much you are losing. You are silent. I should only like to know this much. What would you have had to lean on with your fiddle this day if you had not had me for your wife?”

  “Oh! Ha!”

  “You would surely have been in ‘Oh! Ha!’ It seems that you have forgotten what condition you were in when you married me. You hadn’t a shirt on your back. You hadn’t a pair of socks that were not full of holes. You had not a pillow to rest your head on, nor a pillow-case either. And, you were earning lots of money. Where did it all go to?”

  “I’m running to give you an account of my earnings before I married you!”

  “Ah, that’s what’s the matter with you, Stempenyu. You cannot bear to be told the exact truth. And, you have grievances against those who beat their heads against the wall for you—who toil, and sweat, and crawl on all fours, so to speak, and who deny themselves a crust of bread, and lead a life of continuous hardship for your sake. For him? Perhaps you can tell me what good deeds he has done to deserve all this? He will probably but a golden tombstone over my head.… Woe is me!”

  “What have I done to you? Who is touching you?”

  “What more can you do to me? You have done enough. You have darkened my life for me. You came upon a young girl, a child, and with a false look of your eyes you betrayed her. You promised me everything—golden mountains. You made yourself out a liar from head to foot. How well off I should have been if I had never known you. I should have sought out someone who would have understood me, and cared for me. But, I would not have been Stempenyu’s wife! What a piece of good fortune I have come upon!”

  “Well, perhaps you are sorry that you married me? Well, there is a rabbi in Tasapevka, and a river. And, one can write out a divorce.”

  “Ah, ah, ah! So that is what you are driving at! You squeezed it out at last. You think that I do not know you were looking in that direction? You want to rid yourself of me? I know Stempenyu, I know. You cannot fool me. Am I standing in your light, Stempenyu? But, have I deserved this of you? I ask you to tell me, as a favour, how I have deserved this from you. Let me also know my offence.”

  “This!” replied Stempenyu, waving his hand mystically. He went into his room, locked the door, and took down his fiddle from the wall. The fiddle was now his only consolation, his only friend in the wide world. The fiddle was the only medium through which he could attain to forgetfulness of his bitter disappointment. It brought back to his mind the days of his childhood, and youth, and early manhood. It reminded him, too, of the liberty he had lost for ever and ever. Many different persons came up before him, like ghosts, as he played. With the music that he drew from his fiddle he was charmed into vain imaginings. Many pictures of the might-have-been stood before him as he played, and dozens of pictures of the days that were gone past recalling. He was like a man standing before an enormous panorama. Each picture came up in its turn, stayed a moment—and was gone, to give place to another picture equally pleasurable, and equally painful.

  But, there was one picture which invariably stood out more strongly than any of the others—one which he could never hope to forget, much as he might have wished it. That one picture was of Rochalle, with her shining face and blue eyes
and long lashes and snow-white neck, and the sweet, gentle smile for which he was ready to lay down everything—everything.

  Stempenyu went on playing and playing. He played for a long, long time, so that Rochalle’s image might remain beside him, conjured up by the music. He wished that it would stay with him and not vanish, as all the other pictures vanished in their turn. He was so full of yearning towards her that it was some comfort to him if she was with him even in imagination. The very memory of her was dear to him—very dear.

  At that period, Stempenyu played as he never played before, and as he never played again. He reached the zenith of his power in those unhappy weeks and months immediately following the departure of Rochalle from the village, and the consequent shattering of all his bright hopes. For, he had been more deeply touched by Rochalle than by anyone he had ever come across in all his life. And, therefore, it would be safe to say that whoever did no hear him at this period can have no real idea of what his playing was like.

  And, that’s how it is always. We are filled with delight at the wondrous sweetness of the song which the little bird sings from its cage. The little bird is dreaming of green leaves, fresh flowers soaked with dew, balmy air, a burning sun, and a free world—a world without bars—a broad expanse of blue about which it may fly as it wishes. And, as it dreams, the little bird is overcome with the desire to sing—to pour out all the bitterness that is in its heart. And, so its singing is only another name for weeping, for expressing all the melting sorrows of its heart. And, we who listen to it are filled with delight because of the sweetness of the melody. We are filled with sheer joy at the passionate tenderness of the little bird’s notes. And, we imagine that they have come forth through feelings of pleasure in the bird’s heart such as are in our hearts. But, it is not so.

  “She makes my heart ache with longing,” said Stempenyu to his musicians for the hundredth time. “I long for her with my whole heart as if she were my own. I would go after her to Yehupetz, but for—”

  And, Stempenyu looked about him on all sides. His eyes alighted on Freidel. She was muttering to herself as she bent over a box or corals, and silk scarves and a variety of embroideries.

  Freidel had brought together a whole store of goods in her own house, and regarded herself as a merchant, after the fashion of the other merchants of the village.

  Her mother, Ziporah the Fat One, often came to visit her. She was always telling Freidel that her father, Isaiah, longs for his daughter; and, that he sent her, Ziporah, to find out how she is. But, Freidel knows that this is a lie. She knows perfectly well that at home her mother is often short of bread to eat, and that she comes to her to break her fast, in spite of her pretenses to the contrary.

  “Do you know what, my daughter?” she says. “You ought to make the butter cakes that I used to make long ago. They are delicious with chicory, and very nourishing. And, if one can digest them when made with a lot of butter, they are altogether delicious. And, for breakfast, there is nothing like hot goose-fat, just melted, with onions. Your father, if you remember, was always fond of that. It is very nourishing. Shall I go and get the fat out of the dish?”

  And, by degrees, Ziporah gave herself up altogether to the task of inventing new dishes for every meal of the day—for breakfast, dinner, tea and supper. But, it cannot be said that Freidel was overpleased with this. The first few times, she made no comment, and seemed to be taking no notice. But, after about a week or so, she began to give hints to her mother. And, her mother paid her back in the same coin, until they came to quarreling openly, letting out on each other all their anger. Nor did they spare Stempenyu when he tried to make peace between them.

  “It is not your business at all!” said Freidel to him. “Have no fear. I will not give my mother your property—the family heirlooms. Be quiet, Stempenyu.”

  “It’s a lovely paradise!” cried the mother from her side of the room, with pronounced sarcasm. “An ox has a long tongue; but, it can’t blow a horn. Amongst respectable folks a mother-in-law is treated with as much respect as a mother. I imagine I hear him reply: ‘But, what respect do you get from your daughter?’ What do they say? Cut of your notes to spite your face. And, he never even wags his tongue to reprove her. Do you call that a man? It is exactly as some people say, ‘So long as one dances on the green, all is well.’ I don’t understand it at all. How is it he does not grow weary of all this? What my daughter is so proud of is more than I can tell. If one is lucky, even one’s ox goes to calf. We have already seen such heroes as you are. Your father-in-law, Isaiah, was just as good a fiddler as you are. But—nothing! How do they say, ‘A new broom sweeps clean.’ In everything one must have good luck; and, if God will it, even a broom can shoot. But, Stempenyu, you ought to be offended with me because I am telling you the exact truth. And, though every dog is a master on his own doorstep, you must remember that I am no stranger to you. After all, I am your mother-in-law; and, when one plays with the cat, one must take her scratches for love-tokens.”

  Ziporah went on pouring out the words as from a full sack, as was usual with her when she was once started talking. But, Stempenyu would not hear her out. He left the room, and betook himself to his fiddle, as was his habit when his heart was heavy, and when his soul was full to overflowing with anger and resentment and regrets. He forgot, soon after he had started playing, all about his wife, and his mother-in-law, and his load of miseries.

  And, once again there stood before him the image of Rochalle.…

  “She fills my heart’s heart with aching,” he murmured, while his mind was busy trying to devise some means of seeing her in the flesh once more. “How and where is it possible to see her, even if only for a single instant?”

  But, these are all empty dreams—vanity, and weariness of the flesh.

  Stempenyu does not know that his little song is nearly sung, and that his little world has almost come to an end. He does not know that his black locks are getting thinner day by day, and that his burning eyes are slowly but surely losing their fiery glances, and that his white brow is falling into wrinkles. He has ceased to take the least interest in what befalls him. He is so deeply absorbed in his visions that he has neither eyes nor ears nor senses. He is stupid, and blind, and deaf before his time.

  Foolish giant! Do not forget yourself. At your side stands your Delilah—the Delilah that lured you into her arms, and took you on her knee, and rocked you to sleep. And, while you slept, she cut off your locks of hair in which lay the source and origin of your great strength—all your abilities that lifted you up above other men. Your Delilah did unto you just as the Delilah of old did unto her husband, Samson the Strong, after which he was lost and ruined, and fell into the hands of the Philistines.…

  You have only one consolation left you in the world—only one—your little fiddle. Then play, Stempenyu—play on your fiddle, and we will listen.…

  OTHER TITLES IN THE ART OF THE NOVELLA SERIES

  BARTLEBY THE SCRIVENER

  HERMAN MELVILLE

  THE LESSON OF THE MASTER

  HENRY JAMES

  MY LIFE

  ANTON CHEKHOV

  THE DEVIL

  LEO TOLSTOY

  THE TOUCHSTONE

  EDITH WHARTON

  THE HOUND OF THEBASKERVILLES

  ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  THE DEAD

  JAMES JOYCE

  FIRST LOVE

  IVAN TURGENEV

  A SIMPLE HEART

  GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

  THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

  RUDYARD KIPLING

  MICHAEL KOHLHAAS

  HEINRICH VON KLEIST

  THE BEACH OF FALESÁ

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  THE HORLA

  GUY DE MAUPASSANT

  THE ETERNAL HUSBAND

  FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

  THE MAN THAT CORRUPTEDHADLEYBURG

  MARK TWAIN

  THE LIFTED VEIL

  GEORGE ELIOT

  THE GIRL WITH THEGOLDEN
EYES

  HONORÉ DE BALZAC

  A SLEEP AND A FORGETTING

  WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

  BENITO CERENO

  HERMAN MELVILLE

  MATHILDA

  MARY SHELLEY

  STEMPENYU: A JEWISH ROMANCE

  SHOLEM ALEICHEM

  FREYA OF THE SEVEN ISLES

  JOSEPH CONRAD

  HOW THE TWO IVANSQUARRELLED

  NIKOLAI GOGOL

  MAY DAY

  F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

  RASSELAS, PRINCE ABYSSINIA

  SAMUEL JOHNSON

  THE DIALOGUE OF THE DOGS

  MIGUEL DE CERVANTES

  THE LEMOINE AFFAIR

  MARCEL PROUST

  THE COXON FUND

  HENRY JAMES

  THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYICH

  LEO TOLSTOY

  TALES OF BELKIN

  ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

  THE AWAKENING

  KATE CHOPIN

  ADOLPHE

  BENJAMIN CONSTANT

  THE COUNTRY OFTHE POINTED FIRS

  SARAH ORNE JEWETT

  PARNASSUS ON WHEELS

  CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

  THE NICE OLD MANAND THE PRETTY GIRL

  ITALO SVEVO

  LADY SUSAN

  JANE AUSTEN

  JACOB’S ROOM

  VIRGINIA WOOLF

  THE DUEL

  GIACOMO CASANOVA

  THE DUEL

  ANTON CHEKHOV

  THE DUEL

  JOSEPH CONRAD

  THE DUEL

  HEINRICH VON KLEIST

  THE DUEL

  ALEXANDER KUPRIN

  THE ALIENIST