After we had warmed ourselves a little in the village inn, we
returned to our seats in the coach, and the drive continued his
"talk" with the horses. The old man resumed his story:--
Well, I had fallen into debt; and my two creditors were very hard to
satisfy. Jacob had offered, though vainly, to sacrifice his skin
for mine and suffer the lashes intended for me. Marusya took the
trouble to walk all the way to the sergeant's house and talk with
him, to save me from punishment. Thus I was indebted to both of
them, but with a difference. While trying to belittle the good
intentions of jacob, I tried at the same time to belittle my
obligation to him, whose authority was fast becoming irksome.
Marusya, on the other hand, refused to accept my thanks. . . . .
Well, by that time I had long considered myself a good young
soldier. I knew I was growing in the favor of my superiors. The
sergeant had praised me repeatedly, in my presence and in my
absence. I began to feel my own worth, to cherish military
aspirations, and to burn with the ambition of a soldier. Many a
time I dreamt I was promoted from the ranks, had become a colonel,
and was promoted to a higher rank still. . . . I fought in battles,
performed wonderful feats. . . .
About that time they began to talk in the army about the Turks.
Jacob and I had our differences with respect to them. He tried to
prove to me that the Turks, being the sons of Ishmael, were our
cousins. But I did not believe it. I did not wish to believe it,
in spite of everything. He claimed that the children of Ishmael
were heroes, brave as lions. But I used to say, "Just give me ten
Turks, and I shall put them out of business with one shot!"
On account of these talks Jacob and I began to avoid one another's
company. He was too hard on me, with his endless contradictions,
admonitions, and warnings.
One day we went out target shooting. Jacob fired twelve shots in
succession, at long range, and every shot was a bull's eye. He
outdid all his comrades on that day. Then the sergeant put his hand
on Jacob's shoulder, and said: "Bravo, Jacob! I see a coming
officer in you! Have you a petition to make of me for something I
can grant?" Then Jacob saluted, and asked to be permitted to recite
his Hebrew prayers daily and rest on Saturdays. The sergeant
smiled, and granted Jacob's request.
I may just as well tell you now that long before this incident the
authorities had lost all hope of getting us converted to the ruling
faith. They became convinced that we did not budge so much as an
inch, in spite of all the pressure and tortures we had to stand.
they realized at last that only compulsion could make us say certain
prayers before the crucifix every morning. So by and by they gave
it up. And Jacob's request was not so hard to grant after all.
From that moment Jacob became a bitter enemy of the Turks. He
pictured them as midgets, and named his patron's dog "Turk." Aside
from all this there was a general change in Jacob's disposition; it
was something that one could only feel, but not exactly see.
We had a very hard winter that year, quite different from what we
have now. Nowadays the very seasons of the year seem to have
softened: new generations--new people; new times--new winters. Why,
only last mid-winter I saw the rabbi's daughter-in-law pass through
the streets bareheaded. In the mid-summer she drank hot tea, and
caught a cold in her teeth. It is all the way I am telling you: the
word is turned topsyturvy. In olden times a married woman would not
dare uncover her hair even in the presence of her husband; it was
also thought dangerous even for a man to go out bareheaded in winter
time; and nobody ever caught a cold in midsummer. Nowadays things
are different: only last winter I saw soldiers shiver with cold,
while in our time a soldier was ashamed to show he was afraid of the
cold. Yes, new generations, new soldiers; new times, new seasons.
. . .
In short, that winter was a very hard one: heavy snowfalls,
snow-storms, and no roads. The peasants could not go outside of the
village; they had to stay home, and being idle and lonesome, they
celebrated their weddings at that convenient season. Many people
used to go to their weddings merely as sight-seers, I among them,
for my sergeant gave me plenty of freedom. I had been excused from
a large part of the drill; it was really superfluous as far as I was
concerned. I had long learned all there was to learn. So I had
much leisure to knock about in. Well, my sergeant rather liked us
grown-up Cantonists. We were, with hardly an exception, very good
soldiers indeed. And, after all, what was the hope of the sergeant,
if not the praise of his superior, "Bravo, sergeant!" He liked to
hear it, just as we ourselves liked to hear his "Bravo, boys, well
done!"
One of the weddings of that season happened to take place in the
house of the richest peasant of the village, one of those peasants
who try to rise above their class. It goes without saying that
among the invited guests was the very cream of the village society:
the few Government officials, the village elder, the clerk of the
village, our sergeant, etc. Yes, as to our sergeant, he was a jolly
sort of fellow. He enjoyed a good laugh himself, and liked to hear
others laugh. He liked to pass jokes with his soldiers, too. But
then he was always the first to laugh at his own jokes; it seemed as
if he might laugh himself to death. Of course, his hearty laughter
made one laugh with him, joke or no joke. Yes, he was a good
fellow; may he, too, have his place among the righteous in Paradise.
True, he had us switched once in a while; but that was the way of
the world in those days. For he, too, grew up and had been promoted
from under the birch-rods. You know what all this reminds me of?
take this driver, for instance: he is used to belabor his horses
with the whip; and yet he likes them, you may be sure. Of course,
our sergeant would scold us once in a while, too. But then his
scolding seemed to hurt him more than us: he looked as if he had
gotten the scolding himself. The jokers of our company used to say
of him, that he stood up every morning before his own uniform, and
saluted it as it hung on the wall. . . .
In short, he liked to mingle with people and to make merry; then he
was always the happiest of all.
Of course, he also had been invited to that wedding.
Marusya, too, was there, and that was against her habit. She kept
away from all kinds of public gatherings and festivities. And right
she was, too, in staying away. For it was in the company of other
girls that her brooding, melancholy disposition showed itself most
clearly. Did I say melancholy? No it was not exactly melancholy.
It was rather the feeling of total isolation, which one could not
help reading on her face. And a total stranger she certainly was in
that throng. When she kept quiet, her very silence betrayed her
presence among the chattering girls. One could almost hear her
silence. And when she did take part in the conversation, her voice
somehow sounded strange and far away in the chorus of voices. Her
very dress seemed different, though she was dressed just like any
other of the village girls. It was in her gait, her deportment, in
her very being that she differed from the rest of the girls. From
the moment she entered the house she had to run the gauntlet of
inquisitive looks, which seemed to pierce her very body and made her
look like a sieve, as it were. I looked at Marusya, and it seemed
to me that her face had become longer and her lips more compressed;
her eyes seemed wider open and lying deeper in her sockets. She
looked shrunken and contracted, very much like my mother on the eve
of the Ninth of Av, when she read aloud the Lamentations for the
benefit of her illiterate women-friends.
Well, that evening the sergeant danced with Marusya, neglecting the
other girls entirely. They kept on refusing the invitations of the
cavaliers, in the hope that they might yet have a chance to dance
with the sergeant. The result was that the cavaliers were angry
with the girls; the girls, with Marusya; and I, with the sergeant.
And when a recess was called, something happened: one of the
bachelors, Serge Ivanovich, my old enemy, stood up behind Marusya,
and shouted with all his might, "Zhidovka!" Then the envious girls
broke out into a malicious giggle.
Marusya turned crimson. She looked first at the sergeant: he was
curling his mustache, and tried to look angry. Then Marusya turned
away from him, and I caught her eye. Well, that was too much for
me. I could not stand it any longer. I sprang at Serge and dragged
him to Marusya. I struck him once and twice, got him by the neck,
and belabored him with the hilt of my sword.
"Apologize!" said I.
Now, no one is obedient as your Gentile once you have him down. And
Serge Ivanovich did not balk. He apologized in the very words that
I dictated to him. Then I let him go. The sergeant looked at me
approvingly, as if wishing to say, "Well done!" This prevented the
young men from attacking me.
Marusya left the house, and I followed her. Once outside, she broke
into tears. She said something between sobs, but I could not make
out what she meant. I thought she was complaining of someone,
probably her mother. I wished very much to comfort her, but I did
not know how. So we walked on in silence. The hard, crisp snow was
squeaking rhythmically under our feet, as if we were trying to play
a tune. And from the house snatches of music reached us, mixed with
sounds of quarreling and merry-making. It seemed as if all those
sounds were pursuing us: "Zhid! Zhid!" Suddenly a sense of
resentment overtook me, as if I had been called upon to defend the
Jews. And I blurted out:
"If it is so hard to be insulted once by a youngster who cannot
count his own years yet, how much harder is it to hear insults day
in and day out, year in and year out?"
Marusya looked at me with sparkling eyes. She thought I was angry
with her and meant her. Then she wanted to soothe my feelings, and
she said wonderingly:
"Years? What, pray, did I do to you? I only wanted you not to
listen to Jacob. He is a bad man. He hates me. He is forever on
the lookout to separate us!"
"He is afraid," said I, "I might yet get converted."
At this Marusya gave me an irresistible look, the look of a mother,
of a loving sister.
"No," she said decidedly, "I shall not let you do that. You and
your daughters will be unhappy forever. You know what I have
decided? I have decided never to get married. For I know that my
own daughters will always be called Zhidovka." At this point I
became sorry for the turn our conversation had taken, and I cared no
more for the defense of the Jews. After a brief silence Marusya
turned to me:
"Why does mother dislike Jews so much? She surely knows them better
than papa does."
"Very likely she fears being called Zhidovka, as they called you."
"But, then, why did she get herself into that trouble?"
"Ask yourself; she may tell you." . . . .
Never mind what passed between us afterwards. It does not suit a
man of my age to go into particulars, the way the story-writers do.
Suffice it to tell you that our relations became very much
complicated. Marusya attached herself to me; she became a sister to
me.
So, after all, Jacob's fears had been well founded from the very
beginning. I felt I had gotten myself into a tangle, but I did
nothing to escape from it; on the contrary, I was getting myself
deeper and deeper into it.--
Here the old man's eyes flashed with a fire that fairly penetrated
the darkness, and for a moment I thought it was but a youth of
eighteen who was sitting opposite me. I was glad that the dark hid
the whiteness of the old man's beard from my view. The white beard
was entirely out of harmony with the youthful ardor of its owner's
speech.
There was a silence of a few minutes, and the old man continued his
story:--
X
Hard as Anna's lot was, Peter himself was not very happy either. I
do not know how things are managed nowadays. As I told you before,
new times bring new people with new ways. It never happened in our
day that a Jewish maiden, no matter what class she belonged to,
should throw herself at a young Gentile, and tell him, "Now, I am
ready to leave my faith and my people, if you will marry me." In
our day there never was a case of apostasy except after a good deal
of courting. No Jewish girl ever left her faith, unless there was a
proposal of marriage accompanied by much coaxing. It required a
great deal of coaxing and enticing on the part of the man. Only
extravagant promises and assurances, which never could be made good,
could prompt a Jewish maiden to leave her faith. And such had been
the case with Khlopov, as Anna told me afterwards.
Anna, or, as she had been called as a Jewess, Hannah, had spent her
girlhood under the rule of a stepmother. Peter was a young man
earning a fair salary as a clerk at the Town Hall. He was a
frequent visitor at Bendet's wine-shop. And Peter was an expert
judge of the comeliness of Jewish maidens in general and of Anna's
beauty in particular. So, when Pater did come, he came as a
veritable angel-protector. He came to save her from the yoke of a
stepmother and make her his wife. He promised her "golden castles"
and a "paradise on earth." All that would be hers but for one
obstacle: she had to renounce her faith. At first Anna was
unwilling. But the stepmother made Anna as miserable as only human
beings know how. Then Bendet's business began to go from bad to
worse, so that Anna had very slim prospects of ever exchanging the
yoke of a stepmother for that of a husband. At the same time Peter
urged his suit, coaxing her more and more. Anna warned Peter, that
in her new life she might find misery instead of happiness. She was
sure she would be a stranger to the people with whom she would have
to come in contact. Should she happen to be below the other women,
they would despise her. Should she happen to be above them, they
would envy and hate her. Here she certainly spoke like a
prophetess. But Peter kept on assuring her that she was the very
best of all women, and that he would be her protector in all
possible troubles. Then she argued that he might not be happy
himself; that he would have to fight many a battle. His parents
would surely not agree with him. His relations would shun him. In
short, he would be isolated. Peter laughed at her, and told her
that all her fears were nothing but the imagination of an unhappy
maiden who did not believe in the possibility of ever being happy.
He told her also that not all the women in the world were as bad as
her stepmother. Still Hannah was unwilling. Then Peter attacked
her with a new weapon. He made believe he was ill, and let her know
that if he should die, it would be her fault; and if he did not die,
he would commit suicide, and his last thought would be that the Jews
are cruel, and rejoice in the misfortune of a Christian. Then Hanna
gave in, did as she was urged, and was renamed Anna.
Now what Anna found in actual life far exceeded what Hannah had
prophesied. The women of the village kept aloof from her, and for
many reasons. The first reason was that she never visited the
village tavern. She never drank any liquor herself, nor treated her
visitors with it. And nothing in the world brings such people
together as liquor does. Then the men hated her for the purity and
chastity which she brought from her father's house. Besides, men
and women alike envied the prosperity of Khlopov's household, which
was due only to Anna's thrift. All those reasons, as well as many
others, were included in the one word "Zhidovka." So that word may
stand for anything you choose. As to Peter's brothers and
relatives, they not only kept away from him but also became his open
or secret enemies.
By and by Peter recognized that Hannah's fears were not the result
of mere imagination, but the true prophecy of a mature young woman,
who had foreseen her own future, and he could not help feeling hurt.
That bitter thought was possibly the only reason why he frequented
the establishment of "our Moshko." He wanted to get rid of the
accursed thought; but he did not succeed. He pined for the time
when he lived among Jews; but Anna could not possibly return to live
among them. In the meantime Peter sickened, and took to bed. Anna
knew there was still some litigation pending between Khlopov and his
relations, and his title to the property he held by inheritance was
disputed. And she always feared the worst: should she survive
Peter, his relations would start proceedings against her, dispossess
her and Marusya, and let them shift for themselves. Many a time did
Anna mention the matter to Peter in a casual, off-hand way; but he
merely smiled his usual smile, listened, and forgot all about it the
next morning.
Well, that was a weakness of Peter's. Writing official papers had
been his lifework, and when he had to do writing in his own behalf,
he felt disgusted. He could not touch the pen when his own affairs
were involved. Even the writing of a simple letter he used to put
off from day to day. And when it came to clear up the title to his
holding, he would have had to write papers and fill out documents
enough to load two pack-donkeys. Small wonder, then, that he kept
putting it off.
But the time came when it was necessary that Anna should speak to
him about the matter; and yet she could not muster up enough courage
to do it. For at times she thought herself nothing but a stranger
in the place. Who was she anyway, to inherit the property left by
old Simeon Khlopov, deceased? On one occasion she asked me to call
Peter's attention to the matter of his title to the property. I
entered the sick-room and began to discuss the matter cautiously, in
a roundabout way, so as not to excite the patient by implying that
his end might be near. But my precautions were unnecessary. He
spoke very cooly of the possibility of his end coming at any moment,
but at the same time he insisted that there was really no need to
hurry, a proper time to settle the matter would be found.
Now here you see one more difference between Jews and Gentiles. To
look at the Gentiles, would you ever think them all fools? Why, you
may find many a shrewd man among them, many a man who could get me
and you into his net, as the spider the fly. But when it comes to
taking care of the next day, the future, they are rather foolish.
They do not foresee things as clearly as the Jew does. For
instance, do I not work hard to save up money for my daughter's
dowry, even though I hardly expect her to get married for two years
at least? Do I not try hard to pay off the mortgage on my house, so
as to leave it to my children free and clear? Say what you will, I
hold to my opinion, that Gentile-folk do not feel the "to-morrow" as
keenly as we do. If you like, the whole life of a Jew is nothing
but an anticipation of "to-morrow." Many a time I went without a
meal simply because I forgot to eat, or thought I had eaten already.
But I never forget anything that concerns the coming day. I can
hardly explain it to you, but many a time I thought, dull as my
brains were made by my soldier's grub, that the Jew is altogether a
creature of "to-morrow."
Well, Peter listened to me; he saw there was reason in what I told
him; and yet he did not feel that way. He did not feel the
necessity of acting immediately, and he put it off.
Now, it seems to me that when things come to such a pass between a
Gentile husband and his Jewish wife, the results are bound to be
strange, unusual, and anything but agreeable. It is all something
like--let me see--something like what is written in the Bible about
the confusion of tongues, when one could not understand the speech
of his fellow. Indeed, had Peter known that it was Anna who sent me
to him, he would have resented it surely, and would have thought
that she cared more for his inheritance than she cared for him.
And Peter died, after a long illness.
Then Anna had to go through an ordeal she had not yet experienced in
her life of apostasy: she had to go through the ceremony of mourning
according to the prescribed rules. And her fears regarding the
house turned out to have been but too well founded. The village
elder, in the name of the rest of the relatives, disputed Peter's
title to the property. Anna was given a small sum of money, and the
whole piece of property was deeded over to Serge Ivanovich. As to
Anna and Marusya, they had to be satisfied with the little money
they received.
In the end it turned out that there was a deeper purpose at the
bottom of the whole affair. That scamp, Serge Ivanovich, understood
very well that in every respect Marusya was above the rest of the
village girls, and he made up his mind to marry her. To be sure, he
hated the Jews: they always managed to intrude where they were least
wanted; and he never missed an opportunity of insulting Anna and her
daughter. But that is just the way they all are: they will spit
to-day, to lick it off to-morrow. At the same time he knew well
enough that Marusya would not be willing to have him. Yet, in spite
of it all, he sent some friends with the formal message of a
proposal. As an inducement he promised to deed the whole property
to Anna and Marusya. Anna seemed willing enough to accept the
offer. Then Marusya turned to me. I began to side with Anna.
"You are a liar!" shouted Marusya, turning to me. And she was
right. Indeed, I did not wish at all to see Marusya marry Serve.
But I cannot tell why I had said the opposite. Then Marusya curtly
dismissed the representatives of the suitor.
I decided not to part from the two unhappy women just then and leave
them alone with their misfortune. But Heaven willed otherwise. The
Crimean War had been decided upon, and our regiment was the first to
be sent to the front. So I was taken from my dear friends just when
they needed me most.--