meals. What sort of meals? Well, what merit is there to be secured in
feeding a boy like that? A boy who won't learn, sits over a book, and is
all the time wool-gathering? You speak to him and he doesn't hear.
And all of a sudden he starts up and jumps away from his place, leaves
the book open, and runs about the house-of-study like a mad thing,
upsets the reading-desks, upsets the people, like one possessed.
A madcap, a scatter-brain. Tendons, bones, mouldy bread, the day before
yesterday's porridge--and _that's_ a waste! What's the use of him? He
may thank his stars that he's an orphan.
A boy of that sort in a family is apprenticed to a workman, but nobody
wants to undertake a strange child. Who would care to be responsible for
it? Besides, the father was a learned man, who recited Torah in his last
moments, and who died like a saint in the seventh month, after making a
very clear confession of sins; and who would dare apprentice the child
of such an one to a workman?[42] Who would undertake to answer for it to
the dead?
And so Yössil grew up alone in the house-of-study; by day he was
tormented by malicious observations and at night by bad dreams; it is
two or three years since he had rest.
But he would not let himself drift; he felt that these were bad
thoughts, evil dreams; but they grew stronger and stronger, and his will
grew weaker, and he began to fast, but this was of no avail; to recite
psalms--no use at all; to study--when he could not read the letters?
Fiery wheels circled before his eyes.
He saw that the seducer was stronger than he was, and he let his wings
droop and ceased to oppose him. He only consoled himself with the
thought that he, too, might be married some day. And he waited for the
match-mongers, and then, as they did not come to him, he put shame aside
and went to them. But that is not done so easily.
Months passed before he ventured to speak to a match-monger; first to
one, then to another, then to a third, until he had been to all there
were in the town. And when the last one had given him the same reply as
the others, that no one would look at him but the Queen of Sheba, he
fell into great despondency.
Life had become hateful to him. One night it occurred to him that it
would be better to die than to live thus.
He began to battle afresh with this new sinful thought, and again his
strength began to fail. The first time the thought came like a
lightning-flash and vanished. The following day it came again and stayed
longer; on the third day he had time to consider it; he remembered that
last week there had been a strong wind, a sign that some one had hanged
himself. Perhaps a Gentile? No; there would never be a wind because of a
Gentile; it must have been a Jew. A year ago, there was a Jew drowned in
the bath, Chaïm the tailor. Who knows, perhaps he drowned himself on
purpose? What should a tailor be doing in the bath in the middle of the
week? On the eve of the Day of Atonement everyone goes, but on a
Wednesday like any other?...
A few days later he felt drawn to the bath as though by pincers. Where
is the harm? I can go if I like. He went, but he did not even undress.
He felt that once in, he would never come out again, that he would
remain there. He stood some time leaning over the bath, he could not
tear himself away from it, but gazed at the dark water with a faint
reflection of himself trembling on the surface. Then it seemed to him,
that was not _his_ image, but Chaïm the tailor's, and that Chaïm the
tailor smiled and beckoned to him: "Come! come! It is so quiet here, so
cool--a delight!"
He grew hot all over and fled in terror. It was only in the street that
he collected himself again. Passing a rope-maker's, he observed that the
ropes lay tossed about anyhow; the rope-maker had gone away somewhere.
Why had he just gone away? Where to? A few other such silly questions
passed through Yössil's mind, while his hands, acting of themselves,
stole away a rope that happened to be lying on the door-step.
He was not aware of the theft till he found himself back in the
house-of-study. He was very much surprised--he could not think how the
cord had got into his pocket.
"It is God's doing," he thought, with tears in his eyes; "God Himself
wishes me to take my life, to hang myself!" and he felt a bitterly
piteous compassion for himself in his heart. God who had created him,
who had made him an orphan, who had sent him the small-pox, and had
thrown the piece of the stove at him, wishes him now to hang himself. He
has refused him _this_ world, and now he is to lose the other as well.
Why?
Because he had not mastered the seducer?
How could he? All by himself--without parents, without companions--and
the seducer is, after all, an angel, and has been under arms since the
Creation; and Yössil feels very wretched and unhappy. God Himself is
unjust to him, if He wishes him to hang himself. He sees it clearly,
there is no uncertainty about it. And what is the outcome? If God wills
it so, what can he do, he, the worm, the orphan?
He cannot withstand the seducer, then how shall he dare to think of
going against God? No; he will not attempt to go against God.
He takes the rope and goes up into the loft of the Shool. He will not
profane the house-of-study. He will not hang himself over against the
Ark.
In the loft there is a hook, equally provided by Him. How else should
there be a hook up there? Who knows how long the hook has been waiting
for him? God may have prepared it before he, Yössil, was born or thought
of.
Thus considering, he folded the rope. Something had occurred to him: And
suppose the contrary? Suppose it to be the work of Satan? Suppose the
same Satan who sends me the other thoughts had sent me this one, too?
And he let the rope be--it is a matter for consideration. He must think
it well over. To lose both this world and the world to come is no
trifle.
Thereupon the clock struck four--dinner-time and he became suddenly
aware that his stomach was cramped with hunger.
And he came down from the loft and left the rope folded up.
Every night he feels drawn to the rope. He does what he can to save
himself--he runs to the Ark, puts his head in among the holy scrolls,
and cries pitifully to them for help. He frequently clasps a desk, so
that it may be more difficult for him to leave the spot, or he clings
with all his might to the old stove.
And who knows what the issue of the struggle would have been but for the
pestilence?
Oh! now he drew a deep breath of relief. An end to hanging, an end to
melancholy. They will have to give him a companion, and _not_ the Queen
of Sheba; he is the _one_ orphan in the town.
4
SAVITZKI WITHDRAWS--YÖSSIL GOES INTO RETREAT
Since the dread of the pestilence had so increased, the townsfolk ran a
mile when they saw Savitzki coming. They were afraid of him--and no
wonder. After all, a man is only flesh and blood, he may suddenly become
indisposed any day, and Savitzki now is cock of the walk. He can have
people put to bed, smeared, rubbed, can pour drugs down their throats,
drive out the whole family, burn the furniture, poison people, and then
make post-mortems. What an outrage! When doctors want to know the nature
of an illness, they poison off the first patients and look for little
worms inside them. But what is to be done? When one is in exile--one
is!...
A Röfeh in Apte having declared that the doctor there poisoned his
patients, they imprisoned him for three months on bread and water. You
think I mean the doctor? No, mercy on us, the Röfeh!
That is why, when Savitzki appeared in the street, it grew suddenly
empty. If he looked up at a window, a blind was drawn, or the window was
filled up with a sheet, a cushion--anything.
One fine morning the street where Savitzki lived stood empty--all the
householders and the tenants had moved away overnight. No one wished to
come within his area. It was a real case of "woe to the wicked and woe
to his neighbor!"
Savitzki has remarked it, and he is silent. More than that, he has
withdrawn himself from the town for the time being--just as a cat will
spring aside from a mouse--it won't run away.
He sits the whole day at home, or goes for walks outside the town in the
mud. He is sure of his game, then why irritate the people by prying?
When the time comes, he will know; doors and windows won't keep the
thing in; there will be cries as on the Day of Atonement. The Jews have
little self-control. They are a people very much afraid of death, and
helpless when face to face with sickness.
Savitzki had lived through a typhus epidemic; he had seen the overflow
of feeling, heard the cries and commotion. He seemed to be in a sea of
lamentation and wailing. O no, they will never keep it to themselves.
He withdrew from the street. And Yössil withdrew from the street and the
house-of-study as well. One wished it, the other had to do it.
Since there was more talk of the pestilence, Yössil's whole melancholy
had vanished, as though brushed away by the hand. Indeed, he grew more
cheerful, merrier day by day, and would often, without meaning to do so,
burst out laughing. He could not help himself, it bubbled up within him;
he had to laugh. It tickled him in all his limbs. The paler the
householders grew, the ruddier grew he; the lower they hung their heads,
the higher he carried his; the more subdued grew their voices, the
clearer and fuller Yössil's, and--the more the house-of-study sighed,
the louder his laughter: ha-ha-ha! And it was not his fault, something
in him laughed of itself.
And at a time when all other eyes were dim and moist, his shone brighter
and brighter; they fairly sparkled. At a time when people stood and
looked at each other open-mouthed, not daring to move a limb, his feet
danced beneath him; he could have kissed every desk, the stove, the
walls.
"Is he mad?" people asked, "or what has possessed him?"
"He's most certainly mad," was the reply.
"Certainly! He ought to be sent to the asylum."
Yössil was not afraid even of the asylum; he knows that Kohol will not
spend money on that. A few years ago a mad woman was frozen to death in
the street, after running around a whole winter without clothes, and all
that time it never occurred to anyone to hire a conveyance and have her
taken to a refuge. People were extremely sorry for her. Another in her
case would have gone about the country and begged a few pence. She
hadn't even the wits to do so much. The householders only sighed, and
there it ended. Why should he, Yössil, be of more consequence? He is
anxious not to make Kohol angry; there is no other orphan, true, but--if
Kohol became angry, they might have one brought. And someone else might
become an orphan! Alarming thought! Anyhow, Kohol will have to give a
wedding-present. It is well to keep on terms with people.
Secondly, Yössil is afraid lest they should take him for a real lunatic
and _have_ to get another. They would never marry a _real_ lunatic.
There would be no use in that. Another thing--and this is the principal
one--he needs retirement. He must be alone with his thoughts, he must
reflect and consider, and dream by night and by day.
He finds rest now at night in the house-of-study; when the others go,
and he is left alone with the desks and chairs, he runs to the window,
presses his burning forehead against the cold pane; it grows cool in his
brain, his ideas move in order. If it is a clear night, he thinks the
moon is making signs to him, that is, that Joshua, the son of Nun,[43]
says to him, in pantomime, yes or no, as he thinks best.
By day he saunters about by himself outside the town. He does not feel
the creeping cold that makes its way in through the holes in his
garments; he does not feel the wet that enters boldly his half-open
boots; he makes gestures with his hand, talks to himself, to the leaden
clouds, or to the pale winter sun; he has so much to think about, so
much to say. He is the one orphan lad, but there are three orphan girls,
and he would like to know which of them is for him.
In the foreground stands Devosheh, daughter of Jeremiah, the shoemaker.
The latter was kind to Yössil before he died, and would sometimes call
him in and mend his boots; once he gave him a pair of cobbler's shoes;
he would spare him a piece of bread and dripping, or an onion. Yössil,
on these occasions, could not take his eyes off Devosheh--O, he
remembers her well. She stands before him now, a stout, healthy girl,
red-cheeked like a Simchas-Torah apple, and strong as they make them.
When she takes the hatchet, the splinters fly. If Jeremiah had not died,
Yössil would have proposed the match--he liked a fine, healthy girl of
the sort. When he thinks of her, his mouth waters. Once--he cannot
forget it--he met her on the stairs, and she attracted him like a
magnet. He went close and touched her dress, and she gave him a little
push which all but sent him rolling down. A good thing he caught hold of
the banisters. After that it was some time before he dared show himself
upstairs again; he was afraid, lest she should have told her father; and
later on when he would have risked it and gone with his life in his
hand, Jeremiah was already ill. He lay sick for about three weeks and
then died. Then his wife fell into a decline and died, too. Now Devosheh
is maid-servant at Saul the money-lender's. When he goes there for his
"day," he sometimes finds himself alone with her in the room; then he
hasn't the courage to say a word to her; she has a look in her eyes! But
if Kohol wishes it, she will _never_ dare to say _no_! Kohol is Kohol!
Devosheh, he thought longingly, would be good to have; he can imagine
_no_ better wife. He may possibly get a "pat on the cheek" from her, but
that's nothing unusual, and he will take it kindly. He will only hug and
kiss her for it. He would wash the dust off her feet and follow her
about like a child. He would obey her, stroke her, fondle her, and press
her tight to his heart--tighter still, though it should beat even
quicker than it was beating now, though it should burst, though it
should jump out of him; though his soul should escape, he would die at
her feet--and he _will_ press her to himself.
_Ach!_ if Kohol would only settle on Devosheh! Her little finger is
worth the whole of another woman. He asks for nothing more at present
than her little finger; he would take it and squeeze it with all his
might, to prove to her that she wanted a husband.
But Kohol may think of another orphan.
Yonder, at the burial ground, is a second; there she is, though he does
not know her name; she is only half an orphan, motherless, but she has a
father; only what a father! It were better to have none! A nice person
is Beril, the grave-digger. He spends the day in the public houses, and
leaves her alone among the graves. Sometimes he even goes home tipsy and
beats her; they say he even measures the graves with her, dragging her
along by the hair--the whole town says it--but nobody wants to
interfere, they are afraid of him; a drunkard and a strong man besides.
Some few years ago he gave Mösheh Gläser a poke in the side, just for
good fellowship, and the latter has had a lung trouble ever since; he
grows paler every day, and can hardly breathe. If the daughter were not
as hard as nails, she wouldn't be alive; the mother went down into an
early grave. And what does he want with the girl? Yössil feels a pang at
his heart. He saw her one day and will never forget it. He saw her at
the funeral of Jeremiah, the shoemaker, when he was afraid to go near to
the grave lest he should find himself close to Devosheh.
She was crying, and her tears would have fallen on his heart like molten
lead. So he turned away and walked round about the cemetery, and two or
three times he passed the window of Beril, the grave-digger. He saw her
standing with downcast eyes peeling potatoes--a pale, ethereal figure.
He could have clasped her with one hand; but she must be a good-hearted
girl, she has such eyes, such a look. Once she lifted her eyelids--and
Devosheh was nowhere. The whole funeral was nowhere--such was the
gentleness that beamed in her blue eyes and the sweetness in her face.
Only Queen Esther could have looked like that, and Queen Esther was
sallow,[44] while she is white like alabaster. Her hair is black as
coal, but then, once she was married, it would not be seen any more.
_Aï_, how beautiful she is! How she leads the heart captive! And she has
another merit in his eyes; when he sees Devosheh, it excites him, but
while he looked at her, it felt good, and light, and warm within him.
From that day forward he attended every funeral, and glanced in at the
window.
Yes, he wants her, too! Let it rather be her; he would just as soon, in
fact, it would be better so.
He would treat her like a toy, play with her all day, and do everything
for her. He would never let her dip a hand in cold water. He would do
all the chopping, cooking, baking, and washing, indeed, everything, upon
the one condition that she should stand and watch him and smile. When
there was time, he would take her and carry her about like a little
child. He would rise with the dawn, and, in winter time, soon have the
stove lighted; in summer, soon have set the kettle on for morning tea.
He would walk softly, on his toes, and quietly dust her dress and shoes;
he would quietly place the clothes beside her bed; and then only go
noiselessly and bend over her and look at her, and look at her, till the
sun rose, and it was broad day, till the sun shone in at the
window--then only wake her with a kiss. That would be a life worth the
name!
And a good match, too! _öi! öi!_ Devosheh may have a few gulden, she is
saving, but _she_ holds a Parnosseh, as it were, in her hand. Everyone
knows that Beril is being burnt up by brandy; the Röfeh says he eats
nothing and goes about, heaven defend us, with his inside full of holes.
In a hundred and twenty years to come, Yössil might take over the
grave-digging--why not? At first he would feel frightened of the
corpses, but one gets used to everything. With _her_ beside him he would
feel at home in Gehenna. It is not a nice Parnosseh, but then he would
be able to live outside the town, apart, no one could overlook him. That
would be a life--Paradise in the burial ground!
But if the lot should fall on "Lapei?" "Lapei" is the nickname of the
third orphan girl. When he remembers _her_, he grows cold in every limb.
She is a town orphan, who has been one ever since he can
remember--sickly, with a large head, hair that falls out, and somewhat
crooked feet. She doesn't walk on her soles, but on her toes, with her
heels in the air, and as she walks, she wobbles like a tipsy person. He
often meets _her_ in the street; she has no home of her own, but goes
from house to house, helping the servants--fetches water for one, wood
for another, helps a third to chop up a little resinous fir-wood,
carries a bucket, fills a tub. When she has no work, she begs. Once a
year she washes the floor of the house-of-study. Where she spends the
night, he does not know. Lapei, Lapei! he pictures her to himself and he
shudders.
He feels cold all over. She must be forty years old. She has looked so
much ever since he can remember.
"Lord of the world!" he cries out in terror, "that would be worse than
hanging!" and lifts his terrified eyes imploringly to heaven. On his
pale forehead are drops of perspiration as large as peas.
But he is moved to compassion in his heart. Poor thing! She would
certainly also like to be married, she is equally a blind sheep, equally
an orphan. She has nothing, either, beyond a God in heaven. He feels
inclined to weep over her lot and his together, and, on second thoughts,
he places himself in God's hands. If God wills it so, it shall be she!
He throws himself on God and on Kohol. The one destined by God and given
by Kohol shall be his mate, he will honor her and be true to her, and
will be to her a husband like any other, and he will forget the other
two.
Then a fresh anxiety rises within him: If the destined one be Lapei,
where are they to live? Where can they go? What will they do? She hasn't
a penny, and goes about tattered, a draggle-tail, and sells her
birthright for a handful of cold potatoes. She takes two gulden for
washing the floor of the house-of-study--not enough for dry bread--and
he, what can he do? Of what use is he?
Were he not lame, he would be a messenger. He knows no trade, unless (he
consoles himself) he became a teacher. All the householders will give
wedding-presents, and he will hire a room with the money and start
keeping school; he knows quite enough to teach, especially little
children. Let come what may if only he has a wife. There are Jews who
have uglier wives, and who are worse cripples ... but there they are! A
wife is a wife! Only not to live alone and eat "days!"
And he may yet succeed in getting one of the other two, and once more he
begins to invent a Paradise. And he smiles on at the mud and the leaden
clouds.
Hush! something has occurred to him. If he knew for certain that poor
Lapei was fated to die of the pestilence, he would gladly marry her. At
least, poor thing, she would have had a husband before she died. If only
for a month. Why not? Is she not a Jewish daughter? It wouldn't hurt
him, and it would be fair on the part of His blessed Name. He does not
wish her death, heaven forbid! On the contrary, he is sorry for her; he
feels and knows the meaning of "misery," of being all alone, always all
alone.
5
SAVITZKI AND YÖSSIL TOGETHER
One day, as Yössil, the beggar-student, was splashing through the mud,
lost in thought, he suddenly felt himself caught hold of by the sleeve.
He turned round in a fright and was still more alarmed on seeing before
him--Dr. Savitzki.
Savitzki and Yössil had often passed each other outside the town, and
Yössil had always taken off his torn cap and bowed low before the
Christian. Savitzki, the first time, had spat out; the second time, he
had thrown out an evil, anti-Semitic look; the third time, he had only
glanced into Yössil's face. Later he half smiled--and to-day, for the
first time, he had caught him by the sleeve.
They saw in each other's eyes that there was a link between them, that
they had a common interest, a common hope, that something bound them
together.
Savitzki was now quite alone in the town. At one time, he used to go in
to the apothecary, but the latter had lately given him to understand,
that he had done him harm; that people had grown afraid, on Savitzki's
account, of buying bitter-water and castor oil, the apothecary's great
stand-by.
The Christian townspeople had also begun to avoid him; they, too,
believed that doctors poison people, and Savitzki was probably no better
than the rest.
It was rumored that in some little place or other, a set of tramps had
burnt the "barrack" and stoned the doctor. There was occasionally a
gleam in the eyes of the townsfolk that boded no good.
Yössil got on without other people, Savitzki longed for someone to speak
to. He wondered himself how it was that the lame _Zhidlak's_[45] pitted
face seemed so pleasant to him. True, he had a little business with
him; it was possible the plague was already there, only people were
hiding it. One might be able to learn something from the said _Zhidlak_.
Yössil, on being caught by the sleeve, had given a start; but he soon
recovered himself, and did not even notice how quickly Savitzki let go
of his dirty coat; he only saw that Savitzki was no longer angry, but
smiling.
"Well," inquired Savitzki, in Polish, "no cholera?"
Yössil had once driven out with the town Dayan to a mill to guard wheat
for Passover, and had there learned a few Polish words. He understood
Savitzki's question; the word "cholera," in spite of the fact that it
represented all his hopes, gave him a pang "in the seventh rib," his
face twitched, but he composed himself and replied: "None, honored sir,
none!" And without his being conscious of it, the answer rang sadly.
They soon parted. The day following they met again, advancing toward one
another.
Yössil stood aside like a soldier saluting, but without putting his hand
to his cap; Savitzki stopped a moment to ask:
"Well, not yet?"
"Not yet, honored sir, not yet!" was Yössil's reply.
The third day they met again and remained longer together.
Savitzki questioned him as to whether there was no talk anywhere of
diarrhoea and sickness, cholereen, etc., or any other intestinal
trouble.
Yössil could not understand everything Savitzki said, but he made a good
shot, concluding that he was being asked about sicknesses of a
suspicious nature.
"Nothing, honored sir, nothing!" he kept answering. He knew that so far
all was quiet in the town.