Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance

XIII ROCHALLE GETS A LETTER

We left Rochalle, on the morning after the wedding, standing at the door, and looking out upon the market-square of the village. She was absorbed in reverie, and forgot her surroundings. But, she was soon brought back to reality by our hero — Stempenyu.

This same Stempenyu, who never lifted his eyes off Rochalle’s face, had been quick to see her leaving the table and the room. After waiting a little while, he too, left the room. He came out to the door, and, finding Rochalle in the threshold, he took up his place beside her. He started a conversation with her about the village of Tasapevka, and about her own village, Yehupetz, of which he happened to know every nook and corner — all its beauty spots, and all its highways, and byways. He also spoke at length of the village called Skvirro, having heard that she had spent a short time there, on a visit to a friend. Rochalle listened very attentively to him, but she scarcely said one word to his ten.

“Why is it,” asked Stempenyu, “that one never sees you going for a walk, neither on Sabbaths, nor on Holy Days? You are in Tasapevka nearly a whole year — more than a year, and you have never yet taken a walk along the Berdettsever Road. You live so far out of the village itself that I never knew you were here at all. It was only yesterday that I got to know it. When I saw you … I wished to talk with you yesterday; but, I could not. Do you not know what our little Jewish villages are like? The moment two persons are seen talking together, the villagers begin to talk about them.

“But, I beg of you to take a walk next Sabbath afternoon along the Berdettsever Road. You will find the whole town there. You will be sure to go there, won’t you? You will surely walk on the Berdettserver Road — eh?”

Rochalle had no time to answer him. For, at this very moment, her mother-in-law, Dvossa-Malka, having missed her from the room, had rushed off in search of her. When she found her standing in the doorway, with Stempenyu beside her, she was filled with surprise. “What does this mean?” she asked herself. And, as if he had divined her question, Stempenyu, who had never been known to lose his presence of mind in a critical moment, and who had never been at a loss for a way out of an embarrassing situation — Stempenyu turned to Dvossa-Malka, and said:

“We were talking about the wedding of the Rebbe’s daughter in Skvirro. Your daughter-in-law was a child at the time that I was playing at the Rebbe’s wedding. She does not remember a single thing about it.”

“Certainly not! How could she remember it!” replied Dvossa-Malka. “But, I remember it quite clearly. I was there with my husband; and, we had to sleep in a field overnight, so crowded was the village with strangers.”

“But, you can know nothing of the overcrowding,” said Stempenyu. “I will tell you something more than you know.” And, he proceeded to tell her a number of stories of all kinds of descriptions. And, while they were thus occupied, Rochalle slipped away from them and went back to her place at the table, at the right-hand side of the bride.

As we have said already, Stemepenyu could talk. But he had yet another quality. He could talk with old women — gossip with them for hours on end. He could talk the teeth out of their heads, as the saying goes, when necessary. Nor did he need any instructions in the art of keeping them completely under the sway of his eloquence. The world repeats a proverb to the effect that a witch trained into witchcraft is worse than one born with the gift. And, Stempenyu had gone through an excellent school, where he acquired the art of fascination until he was a perfect master in it, as we shall see presently.

“What a cheek he has!” cried Rochalle within herself. “The impudence of him to tell me to be sure to walk next Sabbath afternoon along the Berdettsever Road! What next? The idea of it! Only a musician who plays before the public could have such a cheek.” Her heart was hot with anger, as she walked home from the wedding-feast.

The Sabbath came round in due course, and Rochalle’s husband, as well as her father-in-law and her mother-in-law, betook himself to his bedroom to sleep for the rest of the afternoon. It had been their habit to do so, for years. And, not only their habit, but the habit of everyone around them — the habit which the Jews of Russian villages had inherited from many lines of ancestors.

Rochalle took her place in the open window. She sat quite still, and hummed to herself one of her little songs, under her breath, as she gazed out dreamily at the street in front of her. She saw, as on all other Sabbath afternoons, the girls of the village promenading up and down. They had gay ribbons in their hair, and wore dresses of all colours — red and blue, yellow and green. They had on shiny boots and tiny gloves. They were all either going to or coming from the Berdettsever Road, where they had an opportunity to show off their pretty dresses, and where they walked up and down in rows, stealing glances at the young men, who were also dressed in bright-coloured, tight fitting clothes, and wore the shiniest of shiny boots. There, along the well-known promenade, the girls would drop their eyes and blush scarlet at the least thing. Their hearts fluttered, as they made love after the fashion peculiar to the village from time immemorial.

Rochalle knew what went on there very well. Why should she not know it? It was not so long since she herself had gone abroad with a group of girls, wearing a bunch of bright-coloured ribbons in her hair. But, now everything was different with her.

Rochalle looked about her. Everyone in the house was fast asleep and snoring loudly. Only she herself seemed to be alive. The other three were to her like dead persons. She felt as if she were in a house alone with real corpses. She leant her head on her hands, and there came back to her memory with a rush, a song she used to sing when she was a little girl:

“Alone — alone!

Lonely as a stone!

I have no one to talk to;

But to myself, alone!

Lonely as a stone!

I have no one to talk to!”

“Good Sabbath!” cried a voice at her elbow. Rochalle was startled out of her reverie. She lifted her head, and saw standing in front of her, on the other side of the open window, the figure of Stempenyu.

“A good Sabbath to you, I say!” he repeated.

“What is this? How did you come here?” Rochalle wished to ask him, and leave the window without waiting for an answer. But she said instead:

“A good Sabbath to you, and a good year!”

“You did not take my advice and go for a walk on Berdettsever Road. I looked for you there, but in vain. I have … I am … here, read this!”

Stempenyu handed Rochalle a folded sheet of paper, and vanished.

For a long, long time Rochalle held the paper in her hand, not knowing what to do with it, and failed to understand what it was all about. But when the first flush of excitement was over, she opened the letter and found that it was written on a large sheet of paper, in plain Yiddish, and with many errors both of spelling and construction.

“MY DARLING ANGEL FROM HEAVEN,” it ran, — “When I saw your heavenly form for the first time my eyes were dazzled, and in my heart a fierce flame of love sprang up. You are my soul — the light of my life. My heart was drawn towards you from the very first. And your beautiful face and you heavenly eyes enraptured me. My soul, my heart and my life are yours. I dream of you, and without you the sun itself is turned to darkness. And I tremble in every limb lest I know not what. I will love you for ever and ever and ever, until my light goes out. I follow your footsteps from afar and kiss the ground you have trodden on, and a thousand times I kiss your beautiful eyes.

STEMPENYU”