Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance

XI ROCHALLE YET AGAIN

There in her new home, Rochalle began an entirely new life. Rochalle, the wife of their only child, and the beautiful Rochalle that she was besides, at once won the hearts of every person with whom she came into contact. But, she was the particular favourite of Moshe-Mendel’s parents. They took care of her, and kept guard over her every hour of the day, lest so much as a speck of dust fall on her.

Dvossa-Malka, who had counted the days until her son should bring home a wife, was ready and willing to lay down her life for Rochalle, if she thought that it would contribute to her welfare. It was always, Rochalle this, and Rochalle that! Whenever she came upon anything in the shape of a dainty — something which was not to be had every day of the week — she was sure to bring it home for Rochalle. And, she went out of her way to procure these dainties as frequently as possible; for, she looked upon Rochalle as one looks upon a child that is delicate and full of strange caprices. The moment Rochalle opened her eyes in the mornings, she found that her mother-in-law had already placed something for her to eat by her bedside, so that she might see it the very moment she opened her eyes. It did not seem to matter to Dvossa-Malka that she had such a great lot of work to do besides all these labours of love which she was always ready to undertake for Rochalle’s comfort. Nothing seemed to matter to her but the one thing — that Rochalle should have the very best that money could buy or labour create. Though she had to attend to her business of selling her wares at the market, she felt that the only thing which really concerned her was the care of Rochalle.

“Why should you trouble yourself about me?” asked Rochalle, a hundred times a week.

“What harm is it? You eat this, Rochalle; it is good. And, drink this, Rochalle, it is refreshing.” And, Dvossa-Malka kept on fussing around Rochalle day and night. Many times she set the whole house into a commotion by rushing in from the market, breathless, with haste and excitement, to see if Rochalle had got this or that. It was a usual thing for her to pour out a volume of abuse on the unoffending heard of her serving-maid because of her neglect of Rochalle — neglect which was often as imaginary as real. One would think that Dvossa-Malka was trying to run away from a highwayman, from the manner in which she flew into the house sometimes.

“What is it, mother?” Rochalle would ask, fearing that some disaster had befallen her.

“What else should it be but the fool of a girl forgot to take the milk that I left to boil for you off the fire. Oh, may her breath boil within her. I thought she would forget, and so leave you without your hot milk, through letting it burn or boil over. The moment I remembered the milk, I ran off from my stall towards home, as if a mad animal were chasing me. That is how it is. I pay her to do the work, and I a worried to death because she is sure to forget every single thing, unless I am here to keep watch over her. God help me, I don’t know where in the world I am at all. I left the shop by itself. And, there stands that ne’er-do-well with his hands folded behind his back, as if there was nothing at all for him to do — as if he were the principal guest at a wedding-feast, and had only to wait for people to attend on him. I asked him to run over with these little cakes for you; but, he would not stir. Here, eat them, Rochalle; they are very good. I got them for you from Leah-Bass, the baker woman. I never buy them from anyone else — not even if I were to be given their weight in gold for nothing. God help Leah-Bass for all that she differs through her drunkard of a husband! How the earth holds such a creature I do not understand. He is a disgrace to every-body, and his poor father must be put to shame in the other world through him. Yes, what was I going to say? My head is confused! Ha, there she goes, the lazy, good-for-nothing girl! Where were you, devil?”

At sight of her, Dvossa-Malka let out a long series of abuses and curses and loud, ear-splitting yells. She cries that Rochalle’s breakfast was delayed, the coffee spoiled, and a dozen other misdeeds performed by the girl, all of them bearing more or less on the subject or Rochalle’s comfort. In short, the whole house is in a state of irruption through Rochalle. Even Isaac-Naphtali himself, who was always deeply engrossed in his own affairs, often paused to look at Rochalle, and to ask whether she had this or that.

All this anxiety about her, and the constant attendance on the very least of her wants, was highly distasteful to Rochalle. She felt that they only bothered her, and deprived her of her personal freedom to do what she liked, and when she liked, and how. And, over all lay the great truth — that she was not at all as deeply attached to her parents-in-law-as they were to her. She left Moshe-Mendel out of her reckoning, though he was the principal person to her. He was hardly more to her than a mere figure — a name. Between her and him the relations were such that they could be called neither bad nor good. They said little or nothing to one another. A young man of Moshe-Mendel’s caliber could not be expected to sit down and talk with his wife in the middle of the say, as if there was nothing more important, or more interesting, for him to occupy himself with. He went here and there, telling stories, watching the business that went on in the market, or else listening to a discourse at the House of Leaning. And, when he came home at night, he could never get a single moment in which to talk to Rochalle without being interrupted. Isaac-Naphtali was sure to pop his head inside of the door to see what “the children” were doing, or else Dvossa-Malka came into the room, bringing something with her for Rochalle. She was sure to have in her hand a plate, or a jug, or a bowl, or a glass. Or, if she had nothing in the way of a dainty to offer Rochalle, she would bring her in a shawl to protect her shoulders from the cold air. And, she was always enthusiastic, always at fever point, for fear that Rochalle should fail to get the very best of everything.

“Here, Rochalle, taste this new kind of preserve that I have invented. I am sure you will like it,” was a favourite remark of hers.

“But, I tell you I tasted it a hundred times already.”

“Go away, child! You never tasted it before. You never set eyes on the likes of it in your life.”

And, Rochalle was compelled to take another spoonful of the preserve that was already grown as distasteful to her as poison.

“Rochalle, my love, you will be famished. Did you ever see anyone eating as you are eating? One would imagine that you were afraid of the spoon. I don’t know how you manage to exist at all. If anyone sees you, they will tear the eyes out of my head for starving you to death. They will curse me into the grave for starving my daughter-in-law. You must eat something, even if it is only to satisfy me that you are not starving. Woe is me!”

“Please let me be. I am not hungry. I cannot eat a mouthful. May I never be more hungry in all my life than I am now.”

“Well, do me a favour then. Sometimes a daughter-in-law does a favour to a mother-in-law. And, you must remember that I have a mother’s heart. Do not pain me by refusing to eat what I have brought you, even if it is only a mouthful.”

Rochalle could never manage to get out of eating what Dvossa-Malka insisted she should eat. And, as she took bite after bite, under the watchful eyes of her mother-in-law, she felt that she must choke sooner or later.

This mode of life, that was in itself a kind of bondage, grew intensely wearisome to Rochalle, despite the fact that she knew very well they were her true and faithful friends, and despite, too, the knowledge she had that they were quite ready to carry out the least of her wishes without an instant’s hesitation. She felt that if she asked for something which was as far out of their reach as were the stars in the sky they would make every effort, and strain every nerve to get it for her. There was no excuse; and when Rochalle asked for a thing she must have it at once.

But, a human being is not a bull nor a goose that he or she should be satisfied to do nothing but eat. Nobody could possibly enjoy such a life. No one could feel comfortable in the least to have their footsteps dogged to every hour of the day — to have the road dusted for his feet to tread on, so to say — to feel that his footfalls were being counted, and his bites watched. And, Rochalle was heartily sick of having Dvossa-Malka hanging over her when she sat down, and sitting beside her even when she slept. She hated to feel that her whole life was entirely in the hands of others. She saw now that she had completely lost her independence.

She was feeling bitterly the sad position in which she now found herself at the time when the reader made her acquaintance. She was lonely as well as tied down. She had not a single friend to whom she might unburden herself; and, her own parents were far off. Nor could she explain her position to them. They were full sure that she was happy as the day was long. Their letters to her contained nothing but rejoicings at her good fortune. They expressed their heartiest congratulations in detail to her, and sang loud hymns of thanksgiving for the good fortune that the Lord had sent her; and, expressed the deepest feelings of their hearts, which were that she might continue to enjoy her fortune for ever and ever. They often finished up their letters with the words:

“In joy, and with much gratitude on your account, and with happy hearts. Amen! Selah!”

Deep down in her heart, Rochalle carried a grudge against Moshe-Mendel because he kept her at a distance from him. It was as if he wished to show her that he was infinitely superior to her, and, that she was not on any account to imagine herself as his equal. It was not an unusual thing for a young man of his type to hold himself superior to his wife. In fact, all who were like him considered it beneath their dignity to depend on their wives for anything, and certainly never dreamt of consulting them at any time.

But, in his secret heart, and after his own peculiar fashion, Moshe-Mendel was very fond of Rochalle. He was very faithful to her even in thought, and never entertained the least feeling towards her that was not kind as well as honest in every sense of the word.

One day, not long after they were married, Rochalle was unwell and stayed in bed. And, Moshe-Mendel was filled with concern for her. He never left her side of a second. His heart ached to see how pale and ill she looked. Her sighed and thought to himself that he would gladly give up his last drop of blood if by doing so he could save her a single pang of pain.

“It is heartrending,” he said to his mother, the tears glittering in his eyes. “We ought to call n the apothecary, or the Feldsher! I cannot bear to see her lying there and burning. It is heartrending!”

She was much better the next morning, but, she did not lave her bed. And, Moshe-Mendel refused to leave her for a moment. He felt that he had now a good opportunity to have a long and pleasant chat with his beautiful wide. He had wished for such an opportunity. But, he had always been disturbed by either his father or mother. He felt that Rochalle, too, wished to talk to him quite as much as he wished to talk with her. He drew his chair closer to the bed, so close that her beautiful head was almost in his arms. She turned her blue eyes on him, and waited for him to speak. But, he did not know what to say, and his eyes sought the floor. It was only when she made a movement, as if she wished to turn towards the window, that he looked up. At that moment she looked up at him, and his eyes sought the window. In this way, fencing with glances, so to speak, some little time passed by.

During the whole of the time they had been married, they had no opportunity of talking together by themselves. And, now that the opportunity had arisen, they felt constrained and ill at ease. They did not know what to say to one another, nor how to say it, supposing that they did know.

Rochalle, being a woman, had to leave the initiative in the hands of Moshe-Mendel; whilst he, as a refined and well-bred young man, waited to hear what she might wish to say to him. Meanwhile they were both silent, and only exchanged glances.

“What is it, Moshe-Mendel?”

“What is what?”

“Why do you look at me so?”

“Who looked at you?”

“You looked at me.”

“I looked?”

“Who else looked?”

Rochalle turned away from him; and he, taking the ends of his little beard in his hand, and biting them between his teeth for want of some other way of showing his agitation, sat quite still and looked at her for a long, long time. And, as he looked, he sighed, until, attracted by his sighs, Rochalle turned round suddenly, and caught his eyes fixed on her face.

“What is it, Moshe-Mendel?”

“What is what?”

“Why are you sighing?”

“Who is sighing?”

“I am sighing?”

“Who else is sighing?”

And, they both lapsed into silence, once again. Moshe-Mendel drew still closer to Rochalle. He coughed, and was about to say something.

“Listen, Rochalle… I mean in connection with what you said…”

The door opened suddenly and Dvossa-Malka rushed in, her eyes gleaming with excitement, and her speech rapid and almost incoherent.

“What do you think? I never knew that the turkeys would go to pieces in the dish. But, I want a plate. In the middle of everything I must go and get him some turkey. And, how do you feel now, Rochalle? I am afraid you caught a heavy cold already. I told you not to stay out in the air without a shawl. I sent again to the apothecary. Isaac-Naphtali has gone himself.”

“Let me be, mother. It will pass away. I have never been like this before. And, besides, everybody has a cold now. It is going.”

“Everything is always all right with you. Go, child, you are talking nonsense. Colds are not going now. Nobody else is laid up. But, I had better sit down a little while.” So saying, Dvossa-Malka drew a stool over to the bed and sat down.

“Do you know what, mother?” Moshe-Mendel ventured to remark. “Do you know what? You go to the shop, and I will stay here with Rochalle.”

His eyes met Rochalle’s eyes, and he was glad. They seemed to say to him:

“You are perfectly right, Moshe-Mendel.”

“I don’t know what you are saying. What is there for you to do in the shop? There is nothing in it to look after. I wish my enemies to have no more than there is in the shop this day. But, Moshe-Mendel, you must go to your room, and lie down for a while on your father’s bed. You have not slept the whole night.”

And, in this way did the happy but fettered Rochalle and Moshe-Mendel spend their lives. They wanted for nothing but the moment’s liberty that they never could manage to get for themselves. They never got an opportunity to understand one another because of the constant care and kindness of the two old people. But, neither of them ever said a word about it. Neither did they explain their feelings in the matter to one another. Moshe-Mendel did not feel the situation so keenly. He spent his time in reading now and again, and in going to and from his father’s shop. He had frequent intercourse with his comrades, and spent many an amusing hour with them. In a word, he managed to keep himself alive somehow.

But, Rochalle did not live at all. She ate, and drank, and tasted her mother-in-law’s preserves a dozen times a day. She never dipped her finger in cold water, and never came in contact with a single soul. It was not seemly that the daughter-in-law of Isaac-Naphtali should hobnob with everybody and anybody. Whilst, on the other hand, anybody who was a somebody would have nothing at all to do with Isaac-Naphtali’s daughter-in-law, because the “somebody” would be sure to hold him, or her, self far above Isaac-Naphtali, both in station as in wealth, just as Isaac-Naphtali himself considered himself far above the other householders of Tasapevka.

And, so it came about that Rochalle’s days and months dragged on, as if she were a prisoner. It was again eat, and again sleep, again the cup of coffee, and again Dvoska-Malka with her preserves, from week end to weekend.