year, just after the Day of Atonement,"[8] he murmured, with quivering
lips.
The child thinks he is saying the moon-prayer.
"Enough now, father," and he took hold of the man's coat. "Come home!"
His voice was full of tears.
"Silly child, why are you in such a hurry?"
"I want to eat; I'm hungry."
"I should think so! Of course, you are hungry, you rogue; you needn't
tell me that. Was I likely to think that you wouldn't be, after fasting
through a whole Day of Atonement?"
"Come home!" begs the child again.
"Look here, David'l, there's nothing to eat at home, either."
"Just a bit of bread!"
"There isn't a scrap!"
The child stands still in alarm.
"David'l," say the father, "you know what day this has been?"
The child only sobs quietly.
"To-day, David'l, was the Day of Atonement--a Yôm kodesh.[9] Do you know
what that means?"
Yes, the child just nodded.
"Well, tell me, David'l, what have we done all day?"
"Prayed," wept the child.
"Right! And He whose Name is blessed, what has _He_ done?"
"Forgiven us!" (sobbing).
"Well, do you know, David'l, if God, blessed be He, has forgiven us, I
think we ought to be cheerful, don't you?"
The child makes no reply.
"You remember, David'l, last year, when mother was alive, how we sang
after supper, to a new tune? Do you remember the tune?
"No."
"I will sing it to remind you, only you must join in."
And the young man began to sing in a weak, hoarse voice. It was not a
"Sinni" and not a "Wallach" tune, but it was a gruesome tune that went
to one's heart.
The child joined in and sang through his tears.
V
MARRIED
(Told by a Woman)
I remember myself at the time when I played marbles and made mud cakes
in the yard; in winter I sat all day indoors and rocked a little brother
who was born sickly, and who lingered on into his seventh year, when he
died of a decline.
In summer, whenever it was sunny, the poor little creature sat in the
yard, warmed itself in the sun, and watched me playing marbles.
In winter it never left its cradle, and I told it stories and sang to
it. The other boys all went to Cheder.
Mother was always busy, she had at least ten Parnossehs. Poor mother!
she peddled, she baked gingerbread, she helped at circumcisions and
weddings, she was a Tikerin, a grave-measurer,[10] recited prayers, and
bought in provisions for better-class households.
Father earned three rubles a week keeping accounts for Reb Zeinwill
Terkelbaum in the forest. And those were the good times; teachers were
paid, and the rent, too--almost on rent-day,--and we never had to eat
our bread dry.
Sometimes mother would bake a cake for supper; then there was quite a
feast. But that happened seldom.
Mother usually came home late and tired; often with red eyes and in a
bitter mood. She would complain that the well-to-do ladies owed her
money. They would get her to lay out her money for them, and then tell
her to come for the money to-morrow, the day after; meantime more
purchases were made, and when it came to a reckoning, the house-mistress
could not remember if she hadn't already paid for the day before
yesterday's quarter of a pound of butter--and she "put it aside" to ask
her husband about it, who was there at the time--he has a tenacious
memory, and will certainly remember how it was. Next morning it turns
out the husband came home too late from the house-of-study, and she
forgot to ask him. On the third day she says, with a pleased expression,
that she asked her husband about it, and he was angry with her for
bothering him, "as if he had nothing better to do than attend to the
affairs of a couple of women;" and it is settled that she, the madam,
shall try to remember herself.
Presently she begins to feel sure the butter was included in the account
after all; a little later, she is ready to build on it; and when poor
mother reminded her of the butter again, she was called a pert hussy,
who was trying to get an extra gulden by trickery--and she was assured
that if they heard any more about the butter, she need never show
herself there again.
Mother, who was herself the daughter of well-to-do parents, and would
have been a lady herself, were it not for the nobleman who took her
dowry, could not accept this meekly. She frequently came home with
swollen eyelids, threw herself on the bed with a burst of tears, and lay
there weeping bitterly till her heart was eased, when she stood up and
cooked us Kliskelech[11] with beans.
At other times she vented her anger on us; that is, on me; she never
scolded the sick Beril, and the other boys only very seldom--they, poor
things, used to come home from Cheder with their cheeks pinched brown
and blue and with swollen under-lids; I, on the other hand, came in for
many an undeserved tweak to my hair or else a slap.
"You were not so sick all this time, but you could have laid the fire,
put on a kettleful of water, were you?" And if I _had_ done it, I caught
it worse: "Look at my fine lady! Goes and makes a fire and lets the wood
burn away for nothing and nobody--never a thought of me toiling all day!
She'll be the ruin of us!"
Sometimes when father was at work in the woods, mother would sit down on
the bed with her face to the window and complain, as she stared before
her: "What does he care! There he sits out in the woods like a lord,
breathes fresh air, lies about on the grass, eats sour milk, perhaps
even cream, how do I know? and here am I, skin and bone!"
And with all that, those were good days. We never knew want, and after a
week of little worries came a cheerful, or at all events a peaceful,
Sabbath. Father often came home for it, and mother was busy all about
the house and smiled to herself in secret.
Friday evening, just before blessing the candles, she would often kiss
me on the head. I knew what that meant. Because if it so happened that
father did _not_ come home, then I was an idle hussy. Even when mother
pulled out half my hair while combing it, and gave me a few slaps on the
shoulders besides, I didn't cry. My childish heart felt that it was not
_me_ she meant, but her unhappy fate. When the wood was all cut down, my
father stayed at home, and then food began to grow scarce. It was my
father, my mother, and myself, really, who hadn't enough; the other
children knew very little about it. Beril wanted next to nothing--took a
cup of porridge when it was given him, and stared all the time at the
ceiling. The other poor children had to go to Cheder, "they _must_ have
something hot," but I often went hungry.
Father and mother were always recalling by-gone days with tears in their
eyes. I, on the contrary, was happier in the bad times than I had been
in the good. Now that bread was often lacking in the house, I received a
double portion of my mother's love; she never pulled a hair out of my
head when combing it, or hit my thin bones; my father would stroke my
head at supper and play with me, so that I should not observe the
smallness of my share of food; and I was quite proud whenever there came
a fast, because I fasted with my parents, like a grown-up girl.
It was about that time that Beril died. It happened this way: Mother
woke up one morning and said to father across the bed: "Do you know,
Beril must be better; he has slept the whole night through."
I heard it--I have always been a light sleeper--sprang joyfully from my
bed on the chest, and ran to look at my "pet of a brother" (that is how
I called him--I was so fond of him). I hoped to see a smile on the wan
little face, such as came over it once a year--but it was a dead face I
saw.
There was a week's mourning.
After that my father's health failed, and the Röfeh began to come to the
house.
So long as there was money to pay his fee, the old Röfeh came in person;
later on, when all the bed-clothes and the hanging-lamp, with father's
book-case, which for a while my mother wouldn't touch, had gone in
medicines, the Röfeh began to send his "boy," the assistant.
The "boy" displeased my mother dreadfully; he had merely a suspicion of
pointed whiskers, was dressed like a Gentile, and was continually
introducing Polish words into his speech.
_I_ was afraid of him, to this day I don't know why. But when I knew he
was to come, I ran and hid in the yard, and waited there till he had
gone.
One day a neighbor fell ill, also a poor man, and one whose furniture
had apparently gone, too, and the "boy" (to this day I don't know what
his name was) went to him straight from our house. Crossing the yard, he
found me sitting on a log.
I looked down. Aware of his approach, I felt a chill run through me, and
my heart began to beat faster.
He came up to me, took me by the chin, lifted my face and said:
"A pretty girl like you ought not to have untidy hair! And she ought not
to be ashamed before any lad in the world."
He let me go, and I ran into the house. I felt that all the blood had
rushed into my face at once. I squeezed into the darkest corner behind
the stove, under pretense of counting the soiled linen. That was on a
Wednesday.
On Friday, for the first time, I reminded my mother of my own accord
that my head needed washing, that it was frowzy.
"More shame to me!" exclaimed my mother, wringing her hands. "I haven't
combed her hair these three weeks."
Suddenly she grew angry: "Lazy thing!" she cried; "a great girl like you
and not able to comb her own hair! Another at your age would have washed
the other children."
"Sarah'le, don't scream," begged father; but her anger only grew more
violent.
"Lazy girl, you _shall_ comb your own hair, and this minute. Do you
hear?"
But I was afraid to go to the fire-place, where the hot water stood,
because I had to pass mother, who would have given me a slap. Father
saved me, as usual.
"Sarah'le," he moaned, "don't scream, my head does ache so."
That was enough. My mother's anger vanished. I ran freely across the
room to the hot water.
As I awkwardly combed my hair, I saw my mother go up to my father and
point at me with a heavy sigh:
"Lord of the world, the poor child grows taller every day," she
whispered to my father, but my ears caught every word. "Fine as
gold--and what's to be done with her?"
Father answered with a still heavier sigh.
The Röfeh assured us several times that father had nothing serious the
matter with him. Worry of mind had gone to his liver, and this had
swollen and pressed against the heart; nothing worse. He was to drink
milk and not trouble any more, walk out into the street, talk with his
friends, and find something to do; but father said his feet refused to
carry him. Why, I only knew later.
Early one summer morning I was awakened by the following conversation
between my parents:
"Did you knock yourself up in the woods?" asked my mother.
"Looks like it," answered my father. "They were cutting down in twenty
places at once. You see, the wood is the nobleman's, but the peasants
have certain privileges;[12] they get the twigs that fall and lie about
on the ground, and the wood of any tree that is struck by lightning.
Well, when the trees are cut down they lose their privileges, and have
to buy wood for building and for heating purposes. So, of course, they
wanted to stop it and bring down a commissioner. But they set about it
too late. Reb Zeinwill no sooner saw them scratching their heads than he
gave orders to put on forty axes. It was a Gehenna! They were felling in
perhaps twenty different places, and one had to be everywhere. Well,
what could you expect? My feet swelled like toadstools."
"Sinner that I am," sighed my mother. "And there was I fancying you had
nothing to do."
"Nothing at all," my father smiled sadly; "I was only on my feet from
dawn to dark."
"And three rubles a week wages," added my mother, angrily.
"He consented to raise them; meanwhile, you know, the timber raft was
sunk, and he told me he was a poor man."
"And you believe it?"
"It may be."
"He is always saying that" (angrily), "and yet the fortune goes on
increasing."
"With God's help," sighed father.
There was silence for a while.
"Do you know what he is doing now?" asked father, who had scarcely left
the house for a year.
"What should he? He trades in flax and eggs; he has a public-house."
"And she?"
"Sick, poor thing."
"A pity; she was a good woman."
"A jewel. The only lady who was not allowed to put up a groschen's worth
of preserves! _She_ would have paid me regularly, but she hadn't much to
say in the matter."
"I fancy she is his third wife," said my father.
"She is," my mother agreed.
"Well, Sarah, here we have a rich Jew, one who might live comfortably,
and, lo and behold, he has no luck with his wives--we all have our
troubles."
"Such a young woman, too," said my mother; "not more than two or three
and twenty."
"There's no accounting for these things; he must be seventy, and he's
solid as iron."
"You don't say so."
"And no spectacles."
"And when he walks, he shakes the planks."
"And here am I in bed."
These last words gave me a pang.
"God will help," mother consoled him.
"Only she--she--," sighed my mother, and glanced toward my box, "she is
growing taller and taller, do you see?"
"Of course, I see!"
"And a face--bright as the sun."
There is a silence.
"Sarah'le, we are not doing our duty."
"In what respect?"
"In respect to her. How old were you when you married?"
"I was younger than she is."
"Well?"
"Well--what?"
At that moment there were two raps at the shutter.
Mother sprang out of bed; in one minute she had torn down the string by
which the shutter was held to, and thrown open the window, which had
long been without a fastening.
"What is it?" she called into the street.
"Rebekah Zeinwill is dead!"
Mother left the window.
"Blessed be the righteous Judge!" said my father. "To die is nothing."
"Blessed be the righteous Judge!" said my mother. "We were just talking
about her."
* * * * *
I was very restless in those days. I don't know myself what ailed me.
Sometimes I would lie awake all night. Hammers beat in my temples, and
my heart pained me as though filled with fear, or else with a longing
after something for which it had no name. At other times it grew so warm
and tender, I could have taken everything and everyone round me in my
arms and kissed them and hugged them.
Only whom? The little brothers wouldn't let me--even the five-year old
Yochanan butted and screamed; he wouldn't play with a girl. My mother,
besides my being afraid of her, was always cross and overdriven; my
father--growing from bad to worse.
In a short time he was as gray as a pigeon, his face shrivelled like
parchment, and his eyes had such a helpless, pleading stare, it needed
only one glance at them to send me out of the room crying.
Then I used to think of Beril. I could have told him everything, I could
have hugged and kissed him. Now he lay in the cold earth, and I cried
more bitterly than ever.
Indeed, the tears often came without any reason at all. Sometimes I
would be looking out of the window into the yard and see the moon
swimming nearer and nearer to the whitewashed fence opposite, and not
able to swim over it.
And I would be seized with pity for the moon and feel a sudden
contraction of the heart, and the tears flowed and flowed.
Other days I was listless. I hung round with no energy and a pale face
with drooping eyelids. There was a rushing in my ears, my head was
heavy, and life seemed so little worth living, it would be best to die.
At these times I envied Beril his lot. He lay in the earth, where it is
quiet.
And I often dreamt that I was dead; that I lay in the grave, or else
that I was flying about in heaven in a shift with my hair loose, and
that I looked down to see what people were about on the earth.
Just about then I lost all the companions with whom I used to play at
marbles in days gone by, and they were not replaced. One of them already
went out on Sabbath with a satin skirt and a watch and chain. It was
soon to be her wedding. Others were "Kallah-Mädlich";[13] match-makers
and future fathers-in-law were "breaking in the doors," and there was
combing and washing and dressing, when _I_ was still going barefoot, in
an old bodice and a short skirt and a faded cotton waist, which had
burst in several places right in front, and which I had patched with
calico of a different color. The "Kallah-Mädlich" avoided me, and I was
ashamed to play with younger children; besides, marbles amused me no
longer. So I never showed myself in the street by day. Mother never sent
me out on errands, and one day when I intended to go somewhere, she
prevented me. I often used to slip out after dark, and walk about behind
the house near the barns, or else sit down beside the river.
In summer time, I sat there till quite late at night.
Some evenings, mother would come out after me. She never came up to me,
but would stand in the gateway, look round--and I could almost hear the
sigh she gave as she watched me in the distance.
That also came to an end in time; I would sit by myself there for hours,
listening to the noise of the little mill stream, watching the frogs
jump out of the grass into the water, or following a cloud through the
sky.
At times I would fall half asleep with my eyes open.
One evening I heard a melancholy song. The voice was young and fresh,
and yet the song thrilled me with emotion; it was a Jewish song.
"That is the Röfeh-boy singing," I said to myself. "Another would have
sung hymns, not a song."
I also said to myself that one should go indoors, so as not to hear it
or meet the Röfeh-boy, and yet I remained sitting; I was in a dreamy
state, with no energy to move, and I sat on, though my heart was beating
anxiously.
The song drew nearer; it was coming from the opposite bank--across the
bridge.
Already I hear steps in the sand, I want to run away, but my limbs are
disobedient, and I remain sitting.
At last he comes to the spot where I am.
"Is it you, Leah?"
I do not answer.
The noise in my ears is louder than ever, the hammering in my temples,
busier, and it seems to me the kindest and sweetest voice I ever heard.
My not answering matters little to him, he sits down beside me on the
log, and looks me straight in the face.
I do not _see_ his look, because I dare not raise my eyes, but I feel
how it is scorching me.
"You are a pretty girl, Leah," he says, "it's a pity to hide yourself."
A dreadful crying fit seizes hold of me, and I run away.
The next evening I stayed at home, and the one after. On the third,
Friday night, my heart was so heavy, I _had_ to go out--I felt I should
suffocate indoors. He was apparently waiting for me in the shadow round
a corner of the house, for hardly had I sat down in my accustomed place
when he stood before me as though he had grown out of the ground.
"Don't run away from me, Leah," he begged gently. "Believe me, I will do
you no harm."
His gentle, earnest voice touched me. Then he began to sing a low, sad
song, and again the tears came into my eyes. I could not keep them back,
and began to cry quietly.
"Why are you crying, Leah," he broke off, and took my hand.
"You sing so sadly," I answered, and withdrew my hand from his.
"I am an orphan," he said, "unhappy--among strangers."
Someone appeared in the street and we fled in different directions.
I learned the song and used to hum it softly over to myself in bed; I
went to sleep with it, and I rose with it next morning. And yet I
frequently had remorse, and cried because I had made acquaintance with a
Röfeh-boy who dressed German fashion and shaved his chin. Had he dressed
like the old Röfeh, had he at least been pious! I knew that if my father
heard of it, the grief would kill him; my mother would do herself a
mischief, and the secret lay on my heart like a stone.
I go up to my father's bed to hand him something, and my mother comes in
from the street, and my sin overwhelms me, so that hands and feet shake,
and all the color goes from my face. And yet every night I consented to
come out again the next, and I felt no desire to run away from him now.
He never took my hand again and told me I was a pretty girl. He only
talked with me, taught me songs; but one day he brought me a bit of St.
John's Bread.
"Eat it, Leah."
I wouldn't take it.
"Why not?" he asked sadly. "Why will you not take anything from me?"
I blurted out that I would rather have a piece of bread.
* * * * *
How long our sitting together and singing lasted, I don't know.
But one day he came sadder than usual; I saw it in his face and asked
him what was the matter.
"I have to go."
"Where to?" I asked faintly.
"To the recruiting station."
I caught hold of his hand.
"You are going into the army?"
"No," he replied, and pressed my fingers, "I am not strong. I suffer
from the heart. I shall not be taken for a soldier, but I must present
myself."
"Shall you come back?"
"Of course!"
We are both silent.
"It will only be for a few weeks," he said.
I was silent, and he looked at me pleadingly.
"Shall you miss me?"
"Yes." I scarcely heard my own reply.
Another silence.
"Let us say good-bye."
My hand still lay in his.
"Go in health," I said in a trembling voice.
He leaned over, kissed me, and vanished.
I stood there a long time like one tipsy.
"Leah!" It was mother's voice, but the old, gentle, almost singing voice
of the days when father was well.
"Leah'she!"
I had not been called that for a long time. One more quiver, and I ran
indoors with lips still burning from his kiss. I scarcely recognized the
room. On the table stood two strange candle-sticks with lighted candles,
and beside them, brandy and gingerbread. Father was sitting on a chair
propped up with cushions, joy smiling out of every wrinkle in his face.
And round the table were strange chairs with strange people--and mother
caught me in her arms and kissed me.
"Good luck to you, daughter, my little daughter, Leah'she! good luck to
you!"
I don't understand, but I am frightened, and my heart beats wildly. When
my mother let me loose, my father called me. I had no strength to stand,
and I dropped on my knees beside him, and laid my head in his lap. He
stroked my head, curled my hair with his fingers.
"My child you will never suffer want and hunger again, you will never go
barefoot--you will be a lady--you will be rich--you will pay for the
teaching of your little brothers--so that they shall not be turned out
of the Cheder--you will help _us_, too--I-shall get well."
"And do you know who the suitor is?" asked mother, excitedly. "Reb
Zeinwill! fancy, Reb Zeinwill! He sent the match-maker himself."
* * * * *
I don't know what happened to me, but I woke to find myself on my bed in
broad daylight.
"God be praised!" cried my mother.
"Praised be His dear Name!" said my father.
And they continued to embrace and kiss me. They even offered me
preserves.... Would I like syrup in water?... Perhaps a sip of wine?
I shut my eyes again, and was choked with a terrible fit of crying.
"Never mind, never mind," said my mother, joyfully. "Poor child, let her
have her cry out. It is our fault for telling her the good news all at
once, so suddenly. She might have burst a vein, which heaven forbid.
But God be praised! Yes, cry your heart out. May all sorrow swim away
with the tears, and a new life begin for you--a new life."
Man has two angels, a good and a bad, and I felt convinced that the good
angel bade me forget my Röfeh-boy, eat Reb Zeinwill's preserves, drink
his syrup in water, and dress at his expense, while the bad angel urged
me to tell my parents, once and for all, that I would not consent, that
on no account would I consent.
I did not know Reb Zeinwill, unless I had seen him once and then
forgotten--or else not known who it was--but I disliked him.
The second night I dreamed that I stood under the wedding canopy.
The bridegroom is Reb Zeinwill, and they lead me round him seven times,
but my feet are as if paralyzed, and they carry me in their hands.
Then I am taken home.
My mother comes to meet me with a cake, and they are bringing the golden
broth.[14]
I am afraid to raise my eyes. I feel sure I shall see before me a blind
man, both eyes gone, with a dreadfully long nose--a cold shudder runs
through me--but someone whispers in my ear:
"Leah, what a pretty girl you are!" And the voice is not that of an old
man; it is _his_ voice. I open my eyes a little way; it is _his_ face:
"Sst!" he whispers; "don't tell! I enticed Reb Zeinwill into the wood,
put him into a sack, tied it up, and threw it into the river (this was
out of a story my mother once told me), and I am here in his place!"
I woke trembling.