Even amongst the extravagant musicians and their extravagant wives, Friedel’s mother was considered the most extravagant.
And, how did Freidel manage to have such a stingy soul? Where did she get her miserliness? Perhaps the quality came to her through having spent her life in such abject poverty that she never had a groschen of her own, and through having suffered so keenly and so frequently the pangs of hunger, in the days of her childhood, when she was most open to receive strong and permanent impressions.
Or, it may have been that the soul of a mises who had died long ago, happened to lose its way, and to wander into the body of the young girl, where it found a resting place for itself. However that may have been, the fact remained that Freidel moaned and wailed at the very mention of the word money. And, the time soon came when her wealth was the envy of all the musicians of the village. They could not help remarking on her exceedingly good fortune, every time they thought of her.
Only in one thing was Freidel unlucky — she had no children. And, who can tell if that was not the very reason why she gave herself up, heart and soul, to the business of making money? The keenest enjoyment that one gets out of life — the enjoyment that one gets out of watching and tending one’s own children — was denied to her. And, hence, it is likely that she turned her feelings in an altogether different direction. As a rule we find that the women who have no children are crankiest of all. They seem to be lacking in the goodness and gentleness of other women. They can have no love left in them for anyone but themselves.
Freidel was just such a woman. Only, it could not be said of her that she disliked Stempenyu. Why should she not love him after all? Was he not the handsomest man in the village — a perfect picture? And, was he not the best player of a thousand players? And — this was the main thing — could he not earn plenty of money? Was he not a gold-spinner, as her mother had said? “My Stempenyu,” Freidel would say, in a boasting tone of voice, to her women friends, “my Stempenyu has only to draw the bow across his fiddle once and he has made a rouble—two draws means two roubles—three draws means three roubles. Do you follow me?”
But, to Stempenyu himself, the rouble had no value. He played at a wedding, and got his pockets filled with money, and cared not a rap about it. When he had it, he gave it away liberally, or pretended to lend it to a comrade forever. In the same way, if he was short, he went borrowing from other folks. He was a real artist, full of the temper and tone of the man who cares nothing about the whole world — whose life begins and ends with art. He cared only about his music — about keeping up his orchestra. His mind was centred on new overtures and new operatic pieces. He arranged a wedding, and played for it to the very best of his ability, not pell-mell — any-how. He listened attentively to the promptings of his artistic conscience.
There were two things which Stempenyu loved best in the world. First himself, and next his fiddle. He had a lot to do to take care of himself as he wished to. He dressed well and in the latest fashion, waxed his moustache and kept his hair in curl. In short, he was a good deal of a dandy in his own way. And, when he was thinking of himself, he invariably forgot his fiddle. But, contrawise, when he had his fiddle in his hand, he forgot not only himself but the whole world. When he was filled with sad thoughts, or overcome with melancholy, he took up his fiddle, licked the door of his room, and played and played for hours on end. He composed the most fantastic pieces, and improvised all sorts of curious combinations. He played whatever came first into his head, regardless of everything. And, he poured out his soul in the most mournful cadences that grew sadder and softer each minute.
Suddenly, he would be seized with a wild fit of temper, and he would play the most bizarre things, his tones growing louder and more stormy each moment, just as they had grown softer only a little while before. So extreme was his violence that it was not long before he was exhausted. He sighed several times in succession, and the self pity welled up in his heart in great gushes.
By and by, his anger died away. His wrath was stilled, and, once again, he poured out his heart in a series of low, solemn, yet sentimental sounds. And it was not long before his good humor was restored, and, he was as lively and as merry as he had been before — as was habitual with him.
It did not happen often that he betook himself to his room in order to play off his melancholy mood. As a rule, he was not easily put out; but, when it did happen that he had been angered or saddened, it took him quite a long while before he was restored to his normal mood. He found it impossible to tear himself away from his fiddle once he had taken it in hand, and he played until he was quite tired out, and could play no more. His imagination once enkindled, he was like a mighty torrent of the wilderness. He only grew in strength as the minutes flew by. He cared nothing at all for impediments. His soul melted within him. His feelings ran riot. His talents were at their highest when the flood gates were lifted, and he felt neither compunction nor constraint. His playing was beyond compare when he was in this riotous mood to which one can give no name. And, it seemed to him that he himself was sending up to the throne of the almighty a devoutly-breathed prayer for mercy, from the very bottom of his heart — a prayer which must find its way and gain for him that which he asked for out of his bitterness of soul — mercy.
It is said that the Psalmist had a special orchestra which he set playing while he was composing the psalms in praise of the Lord! Probably this is only a legend; but, it is, nevertheless, a pious imagination of a pious heart.
“Keila the Fat One — may she suffer all my woes — as brought me only one week’s interest on the money I lent her. She says she will pay be this week’s in a few days.”
With a speech of this nature was Freidel wont to greet Stempenyu, as he came forth from his room, after having had his fill of music, his black eyes flaming like two living coals, and his nerves strung to their highest pitch.
His fine blazing eyes had in them a great power of attracting to him every individual on whom he happened to flash them; but no sooner did he catch sight of Freidel than their power went out like candles in the wind. It was as if her presence jarred on him.
The moment Stempenyu came home from a wedding at which he had been playing, Freidel was sure to come forward and meet him with a cunning little smile and with all the playfulness of a kitten — the playfulness that is so beguiling and so disarming. But, she soon explained the reason of her cunning. She wanted to get from him the money he had earned.
“What do you want money for, Stempenyu?” she would ask, as she emptied his pockets. “What do you want money for? What do you stand in need of? Have you not everything? You are not hungry — far be it from such a thing! And, you are well and fashionably clad. And, when you want a little money sometimes do I not give it to you? Then, let me hold your money for you. I will not spend a single kopek on you. Well, give it to me — give it to me!”
Stempenyu stood before her like a child that had just been punished, and Freidel did as she liked with him. He was altogether in the power of Black Freidel.
Ah, what happened to you, Stempenyu, to let yourself fall into the clutches of a mere nobody like Freidel? She dances on your head. And, you are compelled to submit when she leads you by the nose, exactly as Samson the Strong of long ago had to allow himself to be led by his Delilah after she had shorn his locks — after she had beguiled him into laying his head in her lap, thus falling into her power through his momentary weakness.