“Oh, I wish I could stop thinking of him! Oh, if only Moshe-Mendel were here!” she moaned piteously. And, when she opened her eyes again, it was only to imagine they rested on the full length figure of Stempenyu, who was standing before her with his fiddle in his hand. And, once again, she found herself listening to his wondrous playing! And, oh, what sweet music it was! Surely, it was not altogether without reason that such awe-inspiring tales were told of him?
As she lay there in the darkness and the silence, all the stories she had heard about him long ago, when she was a child, now came back to her with full force. She remembered distinctly the time she was learning to write at the school kept by my Mottel Sprais, the girls’ teacher. She first heard the name of Stempenyu, sitting in a desk, surrounded by a number of other girls of her own age. They were talking between themselves of how Stempenyu had enticed a young woman away from her betrothed; and, how, for grief and shame, the young woman had died of a broken heart, and had had a black wedding ceremony made after her, instead of the usual joyful ceremony. The girls went on telling how Stempenyu had taken his revenge against a girl who called him a charlatan; and, how he had refused the hand of a noblewoman’s daughter — a woman of remarkable beauty. The moment this beautiful woman had laid eyes on Stempenyu, she had fallen madly in love with him. She declared that she must get him, even if she were to die in the attempt. When the nobleman had heard that his daughter was madly in love with Stempenyu, and that she would die if she did not get him, he went at once to Stempenyu, and threatened him with all sorts of terrible things if he did not marry his daughter at once. But, Stempenyu was not at all frightened. He refused to listen to any such proposal. So, the nobleman tried to win him for his daughter by another method. He began to persuade him in the kindest of terms, and even promised him for dowry three villages, if he would only consent to marry his daughter, who was dying of love for him. But, Stempenyu replied to him in French (he knew both French and German thoroughly), that even if he filled his house with gold pieces, he would not change his religion, nor marry the beautiful noblewoman. And, ever since that day Stempenyu has been the greatest favourite with all the Jews he ever came across, including even the Rabbis themselves. They feel that he has a true Jewish heart, whatever his faults.
And, as for the beautiful noblewoman — when she heard what Stempenyu had said, she jumped into the river, and was drowned.
Such were the stories which had been told of Stempenyu in all the little villages. They believed him to be at once the greatest genius, and the most heartless wretch that had ever existed, in spite of the good he sometimes brought about by his sharpness and his wit. And, when the girls told each other about Stempenyu, a shiver ran through them. How well Rochalle could recall her feelings! And alas! how the stories had haunted her for days afterwards.
But, above everything else, Rochalle had been impressed with the stories that were told of Stempenyu and his love-philtre. As she went over everything, she was struck by the worthlessness of love and love philters. No love-philtre was worth a single farthing! “In our own way, my Moshe-Mendel and I love one another, and neither of us ever saw a philter of any sort in our lives.”
Rochalle turned over on her side with her face to the wall, and went on thinking of everything just as before. “Surely,” she thought, “I love Moshe-Mendel! At any rate, I do not dislike him!”
But, after all, why should she dislike him? He was not an ugly young man. And, he was inclined to be modern. He wore his earlocks under his hat, and read the newspaper, and recited his prayers beautifully, and was always ready to exchange witticisms with the old people, and to play practical jokes with the young men. Altogether, he was a fine and worthy specimen of a man, and any woman might be proud of him. On the other hand, it was equally true that he often behaved toward Rochalle as if he were a savage. And, he hardly ever spoke two whole thoughts to her unless he must. One word was enough. She had to be satisfied with the shortest explanation of anything. He gave her an order to do this or that, and the next minute he was off out of the house, either to the House of Learning, or else to the market-place. He never dreamt of sitting down to talk to her in a friendly way. Nor did he ever ask her opinion or her feeling about anything. And, certainly he never would listen to any argument that his wife might bring forward on any subject under the sun. He was as a wild goat.
This was not at all the treatment that Rochalle had looked forward to on her betrothal to him. Indeed, so happy had she felt in being his bride that she believed in her heart that every girl envied her for her good fortune in getting him for a husband. She felt quite sure that there was not anyone to equal Moshe-Mendel in the whole wide world. He was so handsome, in her eyes, so good, so clever, so cultured. It was impossible to find another Moshe-Mendel amongst the ordinary folks of the earth. Perhaps his likes might be found amongst those good old folks who live in the Heavenly Paradise. And, oh, how happy all this made her!
And, what was the end of everything? How had her hopes been justified? She saw now that the very girls whose envy she thought she had excited because of her betrothal to Moshe-Mendel — they were all happy, whilst she was altogether different from what she had expected. One girl had gone with her husband to live in a large city, from which she was writing home the best of news in letters that gave one pleasure to read, even. Another was very happy in her modest home in a village. And, even Chana-Mirrel, who had married a widower with five children, and had by this put her whole future into one venture — she, too, was as happy as she desired to be. And, what could she say when it came to her turn to be criticized? She had nothing to say for herself. Her whole life was empty. The whole week round, she ate, drank, and slept, and felt every hour of the day how like she was to the little birds that are kept in cages, and are given everything their hearts could desire, but can never go free, can never break the bars of their cages. She was nothing at all to Moshe-Mendel. His walks, and his smart sayings, and his companions were much more to him than was Rochalle.
A loud knocking at the door broke up the chain of her musings. It was Moshe-Mendel coming home from the wedding. His mother got up, and opened the door for him.
“Moshe-Mendel!”
“Well, What?”
“Is that you, Moshe-Mendel?” asked his mother from the other side of the door.
But, Moshe-Mendel was too confused to answer her question. His reply was: “Nu, another dance — this one. B-r-r-r!”
“What are you jabbering about? Take off your clothes, and get into bed.”
“We had a good drink his time — hadn’t we, Berel-Menaseeh — eh? A good sup?”
“God be with you, Moshe-Mendel, whatever are you talking about?” cried Dvossa-Malka to him, as she struck a match.
“Aunt, can’t you see that he is dead drunk?” put in Rochalle. “Please light a candle for him, or he will break his neck in the dark.”
“No such thing! Another little glass!” With these words, Moshe-Mendel flung himself across the bed, and was fast asleep, snoring loudly before the two women had time to realize anything. Dvossa-Malka went back to bed too, and the house was wrapped in silence once more, except for Moshe-Mendel’s snoring.
The wind was whistling, and blowing down the chimney, and sighing softly as it tore around the wooden walls, the breeze sounded and resounded until it was as loud as a storm. Everyone else in the house was fast asleep — only Rochalle lay awake listening to the wind moaning and sobbing. She could not fall asleep, and was glad to have the pencil like rays of the moon to distract her from Stempenyu. The light falling through the window gave her something to look at — showed up to her the form of her husband lying on the bed, his face upwards, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed in a glassy stare, and his bare, knotty throat showing ugly in the brilliant moonlight.