“Just see how they have filled the room with smoke, as if this were a public house,” she said, sniffling here and there, and looking daggers at the remains of the cigarettes in the packet, “They only want to smoke — to puff, and nothing else. My head aches from your cigarettes. You will make me ill. You imagine, Stempenyu, that it is good to smoke? Be advised by me, Stempenyu. Give up smoking. My soul, believe me, it is injurious to your health.”
“What do you care, Freidel, about my health! Sat that you begrudge me the money I spend on tobacco, and have done with it. What is the use of pretending?”
“What do you say to him? He talks of pretenses! I mean only his good, and he talks only of pretenses. There’s for you! I suppose I do begrudge you everything because of the beautiful day I have had, fighting, and sweating, and eating out my heart with aggravation, and without taking in a kopek. And, along with this I was abused as if I were a servant girl — worse than any servant girl. They called me names, and blackened my character, until it was as mud that lies in the middle of the road … And, the goods are not sold. They are lying there and rotting.”
“I should like to know, Freidel, devil, why you protest so much. Why do you stint and scrape? Have your children fallen upon you, demanding from you the Lord knows what?”
“Just look at him, I beg of you, the innocent! He knows nothing. One has to put everything on the tip of his tongue. I suppose I carry everything off to my mother — eh, Stempenyu? Or perhaps I eat everything up myself? A glutton and a drunkard like your wife is a terrible person to come upon without warning, eh, Stempenyu? Look into my eyes, Stempenyu. Can you do that?”
“Did I say you eat up everything? On the contrary …”
“You say — you say — I know what you say. Perhaps you ought to male complaints, Stempenyu? You ought to rebel against the Lord because He sent you such a thriftless wife — such a wife as I am, who can make two groschens out of one at any time, and who keeps your interest in mind day and night. Yes, tell me what you are short of, and how much you are losing. You are silent. I should only like to know this much. What would you have had to lean on with your fiddle this day if you had not had me for your wife?”
“Oh! Ha!”
“You would surely have been in ‘Oh! Ha!’ It seems that you have forgotten what condition you were in when you married me. You hadn’t a shirt on your back. You hadn’t a pair of socks that were not full of holes. You had not a pillow to rest your head on, nor a pillow-case either. And, you were earning lots of money. Where did it all go to?”
“I’m running to give you an account of my earnings before I married you!”
“Ah, that’s what’s the matter with you, Stempenyu. You cannot bear to be told the exact truth. And, you have grievances against those who beat their heads against the wall for you — who toil, and sweat, and crawl on all fours, so to speak, and who deny themselves a crust of bread, and lead a life of continuous hardship for your sake. For him? Perhaps you can tell me what good deeds he has done to deserve all this? He will probably but a golden tombstone over my head… Woe is me!”
“What have I done to you? Who is touching you?”
“What more can you do to me? You have done enough. You have darkened my life for me. You came upon a young girl, a child, and with a false look of your eyes you betrayed her. You promised me everything — golden mountains. You made yourself out a liar from head to foot. How well off I should have been if I had never known you. I should have sought out someone who would have understood me, and cared for me. But, I would not have been Stempenyu’s wife! What a piece of good fortune I have come upon!”
“Well, perhaps you are sorry that you married me? Well, there is a rabbi in Tasapevka, and a river. And, one can write out a divorce.”
“Ah, ah, ah! So that is what you are driving at! You squeezed it out at last. You think that I do not know you were looking in that direction? You want to rid yourself of me? I know Stempenyu, I know. You cannot fool me. Am I standing in your light, Stempenyu? But, have I deserved this of you? I ask you to tell me, as a favour, how I have deserved this from you. Let me also know my offence.”
“This!” replied Stempenyu, waving his hand mystically. He went into his room, locked the door, and took down his fiddle from the wall. The fiddle was now his only consolation, his only friend in the wide world. The fiddle was the only medium through which he could attain to forgetfulness of his bitter disappointment. It brought back to his mind the days of his childhood, and youth, and early manhood. It reminded him, too, of the liberty he had lost for ever and ever. Many different persons came up before him, like ghosts, as he played. With the music that he drew from his fiddle he was charmed into vain imaginings. Many pictures of the might-have-been stood before him as he played, and dozens of pictures of the days that were gone past recalling. He was like a man standing before an enormous panorama. Each picture came up in its turn, stayed a moment — and was gone, to give place to another picture equally pleasurable, and equally painful.
But, there was one picture which invariably stood out more strongly than any of the others — one which he could never hope to forget, much as he might have wished it. That one picture was of Rochalle, with her shining face and blue eyes and long lashes and snow-white neck, and the sweet, gentle smile for which he was ready to lay down everything — everything.
Stempenyu went on playing and playing. He played for a long, long time, so that Rochalle’s image might remain beside him, conjured up by the music. He wished that it would stay with him and not vanish, as all the other pictures vanished in their turn. He was so full of yearning towards her that it was some comfort to him if she was with him even in imagination. The very memory of her was dear to him — very dear.
At that period, Stempenyu played as he never played before, and as he never played again. He reached the zenith of his power in those unhappy weeks and months immediately following the departure of Rochalle from the village, and the consequent shattering of all his bright hopes. For, he had been more deeply touched by Rochalle than by anyone he had ever come across in all his life. And, therefore, it would be safe to say that whoever did no hear him at this period can have no real idea of what his playing was like.
And, that’s how it is always. We are filled with delight at the wondrous sweetness of the song which the little bird sings from its cage. The little bird is dreaming of green leaves, fresh flowers soaked with dew, balmy air, a burning sun, and a free world — a world without bars — a broad expanse of blue about which it may fly as it wishes. And, as it dreams, the little bird is overcome with the desire to sing — to pour out all the bitterness that is in its heart. And, so its singing is only another name for weeping, for expressing all the melting sorrows of its heart. And, we who listen to it are filled with delight because of the sweetness of the melody. We are filled with sheer joy at the passionate tenderness of the little bird’s notes. And, we imagine that they have come forth through feelings of pleasure in the bird’s heart such as are in our hearts. But, it is not so.
“She makes my heart ache with longing,” said Stempenyu to his musicians for the hundredth time. “I long for her with my whole heart as if she were my own. I would go after her to Yehupetz, but for—”
And, Stempenyu looked about him on all sides. His eyes alighted on Freidel. She was muttering to herself as she bent over a box or corals, and silk scarves and a variety of embroideries.
Freidel had brought together a whole store of goods in her own house, and regarded herself as a merchant, after the fashion of the other merchants of the village.