Rochalle was very excited. Her face was aflame, her head was dizzy, and in her ears was a hissing and a singing. She did not know what had come over her. And, to crown her suffering, Dvossa-Malka was standing over her, and driving her mad with questions. She was pressing her to eat and drink, and was not satisfied with Rochalle’s refusals, but demanded to know the why and the wherefore. But, Rochalle refused to eat or drink, and also refused to open her lips. When she found herself alone, at last, she had a good cry. Later on, when she got into bed, it was only to weep afresh. The tears gushed from her eyes in a torrent — warm, hot tears that seemed as if they would never cease to fall.
XXI A HEAVY NIGHT
What was Rochalle weeping for? She did not know why she was weeping. She hardly knew that she wept. Her heart had been heavy for some time past — very heavy; and now, at the first opportunity, it seemed to overflow, and to send forth a stream of tears. She felt so lonely, and sad, and forsaken. She wanted something, but she did not know what, nor could she know. In reflecting on everything connecting with her past life, she had to admit that her parents had married her off in order to get rid of her. And, the word “rid” was in itself sufficient to bring the tears to her eyes all over again.
It is a word which is used very often amongst us Jews, and in nearly every family. It is a shameful word, and carries in itself the essence of all that is most strongly opposed to the spirit of our glorious faith which is founded on compassion and kindness.
But, more than all, Rochalle was heartily sick of Moshe-Mendel, and his ways, and his attitude towards her. She realized to the full what part she was playing in his life, despite of her beauty and her goodness, and her honesty. She saw now clearly, and for the first time, what she was to him.
Then, too, she herself had been confused and harassed and excited of late. It was of no trifling matter what she had had to endure through the importunities of Stempenyu. The pious, God-fearing Rochalle, who had never wished and never dared to ignore the most insignificant Jewish law or custom relating to the conduct of women — the same Rochalle who had most positively based her life on the books of Faith which were especially written for Jewish women — she now carried about in her heart the image of a strange man, received letters and met with him, without a single pang of conscience. On the contrary she felt herself being drawn towards Stempenyu, more and more. She wished to see him, to talk with him, and to listen to him as he played his fiddle. Oh, how he played! She felt that she would be quite satisfied not to eat and not to sleep anymore, if she could only go on listening to him, and if she were sure of seeing him always. His eyes, when they fell on her, seemed to warm her, and at the same time to soothe and to fascinate her! Ah, those burning eyes of his!
Rochalle caught hold of her head in both hands, and gave herself up to listening to the throbbing of her temples and to the beating of her heart.
And, her soul was being drawn from her — and drawn. She did not know what had come over her. She covered her head with the bedclothes, and the next instant she was filled with a strange feeling that her old friend of long ago was standing over her — her old companion, Chaya-Ettel — peace be unto her!
And, as she ran mentally over the whole sad story of Chaya-Ettel’s brief life-her bitter disappointments, and the treachery of Benjamin — a cold shudder past over Rochalle’s frame.
When she lifted the covers off her head, at last, her ears were assailed by a familiar melody, played in a similar fashion on a well-known fiddle. She thought at first that she only imagined she heard the sounds, as she had imagined she saw Chaya-Ettel; but, the longer she listened, the more she became convinced that the sounds were real. And, what was more, they were closer to her each moment. A popular air was being played, such as the musicians were in the habit of playing to accompany to their homes the wedding guests after the supper — those who were so closely related to the bridegroom that they were privileged to remain behind after the other guests, in the house of the bride, carrying on the rejoicings for some time afterwards, perhaps for two or three days on end.
Rochalle, on recognizing the melody, had no difficulty ion deciding why it was being played, and by whom. She knew that it was Stempenyu and his orchestra escorting the bridegroom’s relatives back to their homes, at the other end of the village, and playing for them as they marched along.
But, she could not think for whom they were playing. The wedding of Chayam-Benzion’s daughter was almost forgotten. Whom, then, were the musicians leading back to their homes? There was no one else getting married. Rochalle was sure of that. But, what did it mean that Stempenyu was out with his orchestra at such an hour of the night? There was no doubt that he had his full orchestra with him; for, she heard distinct sounds of the drum and the cymbals. And, they were drawing nearer and nearer to her. They were playing very nicely. But, out above all the other instruments, she could hear the sounds of Stempenyu’s fiddle. Though its tones were sweet and soft and sentimental, Rochalle could hear it as clearly as if all the other instruments were hushed and muffled. She could not lie still. She jumped up and rushed over to the window, and leant out, nearly halfway through.
It was a long time since Rochalle had seen such a beautiful night. The moon was riding high in the heavens, and around her were scattered a myriad of stars in clusters — diamonds which sparkled and shimmered before her eyes in ten thousand colours. The air was fresh and balmy. Not a breeze stirred, so that the huge beech trees of the monastery garden were like so many sentinels keeping guard. Not a leaf nor a twig moved. Only at odd intervals the pungent odour of the beeches were wafted from the garden to Rochalle’s nostrils as she stood at the lattice. It was as if a great bunch of sweet-smelling herbs had been placed beside her.
And, the sweet odour was all the more welcome to her because, in the daytime, quite a different odour filled the atmosphere.
Rochalle was almost equal in beauty with the wondrous beauty of the night — the snow-white, pure-hearted Rochalle, with her blue eyes like stars, and her long golden hair falling about her shoulders like a mantle.
(Did Rochalle remember, or did it strike her at all, that the author of this book, as well as the moon and the stars, was looking at the beautiful locks of golden hair, which to all the world were kept hidden completely out of sight under a silk cap?)
Her eyes were no less blue than the morning sky at its clearest. And, her shining face was not less radiant than the star-lit night. But, Rochalle hardly thought of anything like that — anything like the comparison of her own beauty of what lay around her. Her thoughts were not with herself at al. They were far off, following the direction whence came the sweet sounds. And, her heart went out to Stempenyu, and his fiddle.
The orchestra was playing a very sad air. It was as if someone had just been laid to rest under the sod, in a lonely grave.