Sholem Aleichem - Stempenyu - A Jewish Romance

Stempenyu took his fiddle in his hand, and once more the roomful of people were spell-bound by his music. He replayed all the melodies he had played last night, but, with many additions and variations. He also played several new pieces, to which everybody listened with bated breath. Every eye was fixed on Stempenyu’s face; and, every face was drawn and pale from excitement. Only Rochalle kept her head averted so as not to meet the burning eyes of Stempenyu. At the same time, she managed to catch a glimpse of him, now and again. It was not until he had finished, and had laid aside his fiddle, and gone amongst the guests, that she ventured to lift up her blue eyes towards his face.

“What do you think of him?” asked the bride, who had up till that moment kept silent.

“What do I think of whom?” asked Rochalle, feigning ignorance.

“Of Stempenyu, of course. They say he is a fine scamp!”

Rochalle did not answer her. But, that did not prevent her from blushing scarlet. The bride noticed her change of color, and asked if she felt hot.

“Oh, yes, it is very hot in this room. I will go out into the air to cool myself.” And, Rochalle left the room. At every step, she stumbled up against a man or woman carrying this or that. And, each person bowed low before Rochalle; but, not so much for her own sake as because of her beautiful silk mantle.

She did not reach the door at once; for, first of all, she had to pass the musicians who eyed her sharply, and made remarks about her in their own jargon which she somehow understood without explanation. “What a lovely woman!” they said. “I should like to have a chat with her. She’s perfection itself.”

When her eyes met those of Stempenyu, she experienced a peculiar contraction of the heart. And, her pulse beat more quickly that it had beaten in all her life. The colour again mounted to her cheeks; and, she felt as hot as if she had just managed to escape from a burning house.

In the effort she made to escape from Stempenyu, she almost ran into Chayam-Benzion, who was flustered and excited by the little encounter. He was a Jew of almost unbending piety, and never wished to come face to face with any woman whatever whom he could possibly avoid. It seemed to him that all sinful thoughts and temptations were connected only with the female sex. When he came upon Rochalle, he felt that he ought to turn his back on her immediately, without any regard for the fact that she might think him rude; but, he did not turn from her at all. He walked in her direction for a few steps; then, thinking better of it, he turned away from her, and took the opposite direction from that she was going. Seeing he was going to the left, Rochalle, wishing to avoid him, too the right-hand side of the way. And, he, seeing that she was taking the right, grew confused and went on a little with her. She, seeing he was going to the right, wheeled round to the left.

And, they might have gone dodging each other for goodness knows how long, without getting out of the tangle in the least, if his wife had not called out to him in her croaking, hoarse voice to say that she was waiting for him to come and dance with her.

And, at last, Rochalle managed to get into the open air.

But, Rochalle found that the open air was hardly any cooler out of doors than indoors. It was a hot July day. The sun was high in the heavens. Its rays were scorching and burning everything up without mercy. The straw roofs of the tiny cottages reflected the rays in a thousand brilliant sparks of light of all possible shades and colour. The sunbeams sparkled and rippled on the surface of the river, and they were beautiful to look upon. The boys of the village called this dancing sunbeam by the name of the “Divine Presence,” meaning thereby that it was an almost unearthly thing, and had in it something holy, and pure, and exceptional.

Over against where Rochalle was standing was the market square of Tasapevka, now silent and deserted. At the furthest side of the square a long row of booths and little shops spread out their red awnings to the morning sun. At the doors of the tiny edifices, on low, four legged stools, sat the market women, knitting socks with great rapidity, the steel needles flashing in the sun like little daggers. Some of the women had their wares set out on little tables beside them — set forth as temptingly as possible, so that any passerby might be drawn to purchase some of the little tarts, or the shiny berries, or the little buns that were filled with currants.

A goat was wandering in and out of the booths and the little shops, bent on doing as much mischief as she could. But her career was cut short. She was driven off by the women with shouting and the shaking of large aprons at her.

In the distance, there might have been seen coming towards the village a huge cart drawn by two oxen fresh from the plough. The cart was laden with corn-stalks, and it rumbled, and rattled, and shook, as it lumbered slowly over the uneven road, the wheels falling into ruts over and over again. Underneath the cart ran a little peasant boy in a big hat, carrying a bag in his hand. He was barefooted, and as he ran, he cracked a whip at the dog that was running around him with his tongue lolling out, and breathing heavily.

Rochalle stood for a while contemplating the scene that was before her. The commonplace rusticity of it all was not to her liking. She turned her thoughts to her own superiority — her fine clothes and her jewels. And, she felt that she was, in reality, far removed from everybody and everything around her. And, at the same time she realized that she was not definitely better than anyone else. She was neither one thing nor another — neither a market woman nor a great lady. She was, after all, an ordinary middle-class woman who neither feared to become a market woman, nor had the least hopes of ever becoming a great lady. She could never be a real peasant woman, any more than she could be a princess. She was married to a man whose father had provided them both with everything, so that there was not the least need for her to put her fingers into cold water. And, her husband spent his days between the House of Learning and the market square. He did nothing but go about, stick in hand, telling stories and cracking jokes.

Now, as she found herself face to face with the primitive life about her, she began to realize who and what she was. It came strikingly before her, for the first time in her life, that she wanted something. She could not even guess of what nature that something was. She only knew that there was a want within her. She did not question herself. She knew that she had hit upon a profound truth. And, she looked back on herself and her whole life, and found that she was only an ordinary girl — a daughter of the Jewish people. She was neither sharp, nor clever, nor well-educated. She had grown up amongst a lot of other children, and her parents had never petted her nor made much of her.

“She is only a girl,” they said. “Let her grow up strong. That’s all we ask of her, or expect.”

And, in order that they might have one burden the less on their shoulders, one child less playing about the house, Rochalle had been sent to school with the boys. When she grew a little older, they sent her to learn to write from old Mottel Sprais, who kept a school for girls. She made many friends amongst the girls she found at the school. She liked best to sit with the older girls, and to listen to the stories they used to tell one another. She always thought their stories were beyond compare for wonder, and excitement. And, the girls in turn loved the little Rochalle for her gentle ways; but, more especially for her clear, melodious voice. A dozen times a day someone said to her: