When Rochalle felt a little eased, and had nothing more to say, Moshe-Mendel too was at a loss. He was still sitting with his arms about her, and he began to hum softly from the “Elijah” they had all been singing earlier in the evening. “Elijah the Prophet, Elijah the Tishbite … of Gilead.”
And, Rochalle said to him, “I have something to ask of you, Moshe-Mendel. Tell me. Will you grant it me or not?”
“For instance? What is it you wish me to grant you? Speak Rochalle, and you will get it of me. Even if you ask me the fabulous golden plate of heaven, I will get it for you.”
“It is enough! Moshe-Mendel, you have lived in your parents’ house on their bounty quite long enough. You are not a school-boy now. We have a few roubles, thank God! Let us leave this, and go live in my village, in Yehupetz, amongst my people, my family and friends. When I am with you I will be as happy as the day is long. We will be by ourselves. We have had enough of being waited on hand and foot. I am dead sick of it. I hate it. I can’t stand it any longer… We are here with your parents, and we are like strangers to one another, black strangers!”
Moshe-Mendel sat quite still. He said nothing, but tried to think. He looked at Rochalle with some wonderment. He shook himself and began to sing the “Elijah” all over again.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said after a few minutes. “Why not? Let it be even next week, if you like.”
“I get you to do everything I want, Moshe-Mendel — everything!” said Rochalle, regarding him with a newly born feeling of admiration. “Oh, yes, we will live by ourselves henceforth. I will look after the household; and, I will tend to the very least of your wants as if you were the apple of my eye. Oh, Moshe-Mendel, you were always so distracted, so excited by outside matters, that I never heard a kind word from you. But, tonight you are so changed towards me — so changed…”
“Elijah the Prophet,” sang Moshe-Mendel softly, as if to himself—“Elijah the Tishbite … of Gilead!”
And, there in the parlour, amongst the men, a different argument was being carried on. They had told each other all the jokes they knew; and, in due course, they came to the question of why Isaac-Naphtali’s daughter-in-law had fainted away so suddenly. One said that she had had an Evil Eye cast upon her. A second contradicted that statement and put forward the contention that she had caught a chill through standing in a draughty passage. Whilst a third, a grizzled Jew, who had long ago married off the youngest of all his children, gave his opinion at length:
“Listen to me. I have three daughters-in-law, and I know what I am talking about. I tell you that it is nothing at all. Believe me, it will pass off. Young women often take like that for no reason, and there is nothing in the least to be alarmed at.”
Dvossa-Malka beamed at him with satisfaction. “Well, well,” she said, pretending to be anxious about Rochalle. “Go away with your talk. It is better to go and have a look at supper on the oven than to stand and listen to you. You must all be very hungry. The supper is later than usual tonight.”
XXV A YEAR LATER
“A tame story!” the reader may possibly exclaim, feeling highly dissatisfied with the fare I have set before him, because of the fact that he has been brought up on the “highly interesting romances” in which there is hanging, and drowning, and poisoning, and shooting on every page. Or, in which perhaps a poor teacher becomes a duke, and a servant-girl a princess, and an under-gardener a troubadour. But, what can I do? Am I to blame if amongst our people there are neither dukes nor princesses? If amongst us there are only ordinary women and musicians, plain young women with no dreams of marvelous transformations, and working men who live from hand to mouth?
But, of what avail are my explanations? At this stage the reader may think what he likes. Once I have succeeded in bringing him so far as this he will not refuse to come a little further with me. He will surely have some curiosity to know what became of Rochalle, and what became of Stempenyu.
A whole year has passed! (What is a single year in a man’s life?) And, once again we find ourselves in the house of Isaac-Naphtali, at the close of the Sabbath day; and, the very same persons are gathered together again that we found there on that memorable night, a twelvemonth back, when Moshe-Mendel promised Rochalle that he would take her back to her own village, in Yehupetz. Nobody has changed by so much as a hair. As usual, they are talking of the fair, of the difficulties of making a living, of the doings of their children, and of the things which took place in the village recently. And, by and by they come to Moshe-Mendel and Rochalle, who are now living in Yehupetz.
“Show it here, Dvossa-Malka — the letter that the children sent us from Yehupetz,” said Isaac-Naphtali to his wife. And, on getting it, he added, “Here, read it for yourself, Reb Youdel.”
“Let him read it,” said Reb Youdel, turning to the young man with the squint.
The young man with the squint took the letter, and read it with great ease and rapidity. It ran as follows —
“Peace and all good to my father — the famous man of piety, the wonderful teacher and rabbi, Isaac-Naphtali, son of Reb Moshe-Joseph, of blessed memory! And, also to my beloved mother, whose piety and fame and virtue are like unto the piety and fame and virtue of Esther and Abigail of old — to my mother, whose name is beautiful — Dvossa, Malka, the daughter of Reb Moshe-Mendel, of blessed memory! And to this whole household I send greetings and peace.
“As the sun shines out through the dark clouds of the blue heavens there on high, in the highest heavens, from out of the blue windows …”
“No, no!” shouted a chorus of voices; not that. “It is only — only — poetry, boyish things, childish nonsense. Read further what is on the other side.”
The young man with the squint turned over the page, and read:
“And as regards your question concerning my livelihood, and business that is carried on here in Yehupetz — I must tell you first of all …”
“Ah, that’s what we want to hear!” said the people, satisfied at last. “Read, young man, read further!”
“I must tell you, first of all, that drapery is sold here in smallwares; but smallwares not so much as drapery. Embroideries are not bad either — not worse than with you. Woolens are dear here, like gold itself. Sugar and flour and bran are also good to trade in. They are sent across the frontier, and Jews earn a fine lot of money through them. Yehupetz is a blessed land! The town itself is terrible. It is worth a man’s while to look at it. In short, it is a different world here in Yehupetz. You may come upon such Jews whom you would never dream of calling Jews. And there is a good trade done in paper here, too. There is trading in everything. And Jews turn around on the Exchange, and buy and sell all sorts of bonds. Brokers make lots of money.
“My wife sends you her friendliest greetings. She is also writing to you herself. May God preserve you all. And I hope we will hear from you the best of news. Amen!
“P.S. — Then I must tell you that a shop like mine is in the very front of the Alexandrevitz Street. And the income is not all bad. Blessed be He!”
“My wife Rochalle — may she live long! — has learned the business already and can talk to a customer. But as to buying at the fairs — I do that myself. I have credit amongst merchants in Moscow and Lodz. With Moscow it is not bad to deal. Moscow sells honestly and likes a Jewish customer. If a man is doing badly, Moscow comes to his aid and does not let him go down altogether.