But Drabkin married. Not Chashke, but a certain Chyenke, a girl with
a dowry of five hundred roubles.
This happened to him after a terrible fit of fury against all the
bosses in the world. He came to a great determination: he would
himself become a boss.
“Let all trace of them be wiped off the face of the earth,—the
exploiters!” he cried, running up and down the room. “Let no memory
of them remain,—the vampires! May they be sown thickly and grow
up sparse, the cannibals! Enough! All over! I’ll become a boss
myself!...”
He became silent, but continued to pace about. He was planning.
“He’ll become a boss!” scoffed the old woman. “A bosh, you mean!”
She broke into cutting laughter. Chashke looked at her uneasily.
“For myself, in business only for myself,” he spoke, meditatively.
“Ha-ha! He’ll have to pawn his breeches,” laughed the old woman.
And Chashke transferred her uneasy look to Drabkin. She had at once
begun to wonder how he was going to make even a start.
“Never mind. I’ll get money!” he assured them. “I can get ten times
as many partners as I need. Everybody knows what an expert worker I
am.”
“God grant it!” answered the mother, doubtfully. She had little
confidence in Drabkin. But Chashke’s heart was eased of a burden. She
believed that it would be easy for him to find a partner.
He, however, found something that he was not seeking. He found a
bride with a dowry.
This happened just at the time when he was tiring of looking about
for a partner. He was pouring out the bitterness of his heart before
an old friend.
“Enough! I’ve got the right partner for you!” cried the friend. “And
a partner for your whole life.”
Drabkin looked hard at him.
“Do you want to marry a girl with five hundred roubles?”
Drabkin’s heart sank within him. To descend to mere matchmaking! Five
hundred roubles! Suddenly before his eyes appeared the vision of
Chashke.
“The people I’m talking about are very anxious to have you,” his
friend was saying. “A perfect doll of a girl! And clever at her
trade,—one out of a thousand.... Hush, she’s a pocketbook maker, just
like yourself.”
Drabkin was still unable to realise what it was all about, and the
image of Chashke continued to hover before his eyes.
“They’re very anxious to have you,” repeated his friend. “It seems to
me that the girl is head over heels in love with you. She knows you
for a long time. I believe she used to work with you. Well, are you
willing? Just say the word and one, two,—it’s done. I won’t ask you
for any marriage-broker’s fee. I’ll ask only the honour of leading
you under the canopy. Well?”
“A match?” was all Drabkin could stammer. “I’ll not listen to the
idea!...”
“What? Don’t you ever intend to marry?” interrupted the other, with
scorn. “Are you going to enter a monastery? Don’t be a fool, and
listen to good advice. Five hundred roubles dowry, and you become a
boss, with a wife that’ll be a true help to you. Don’t waste a moment
thinking it over!... As true as I’m a Jew, you’ll just _have_ to
marry that girl!”
His friend was getting excited. He divulged the name of the
prospective father-in-law,—Grunim the glazier—and that of the
girl—Chyenke, a maiden of golden virtues, so beautiful that Drabkin,
compared with her, would have to hide in the oven,—and smart? A
question! Just like Bileam! As decent as God has ordained,—a
virtuous child, “so may I have good fortune!”
His friend wrought with might and main,—argued, vociferated,
screamed, bellowed, thundered,—and finally Drabkin had to adjourn
with him to a tavern and treat to drinks. And after the first three
glasses the friend ran off to the girl’s father.
“You’ll thank me as long as you live!” was his farewell to Drabkin.
Left to himself, Drabkin began to feel that the match was really a
windfall. Five hundred roubles! He—with five hundred roubles! He
would work miracles, overturn worlds, he—with five hundred roubles!...
And he really knew her. His friend had not told many lies. She wasn’t
such a marvel, but at the same time girls like her were not to be
found at every turn. Oh yes,—he recalled her perfectly. She was a
trifle taller than Chashke,—a bit plumper, too, he imagined....
A blonde.... She must be quite a lively article, too ... a fiery
creature....
Five hundred roubles! Why, to him that meant ... unlimited
possibilities!... Five hundred roubles.... Imagine, he would....
H’m!...
He couldn’t recall exactly, but it seemed to him that she was very
skilful at her work. Now wait,—at whose place was it that she and he
had worked together?
He shut his eyes and tried to remember. Was it at Abraham Baer’s?
Or at ... at.... Where the devil had they worked together?... No,
he could not recall it. But he recalled distinctly that she was a
good pocketbook-maker. And once she came into his hands he’d make an
expert of her.
Chashke’s figure still kept looming before him, yet he imagined that
he was thinking of Chyenke and beholding her.
When Chashke came home that evening he at once related the proposed
match to her and asked her advice.
Chashke turned pale and then red.
“Oh, what a terrible headache I have to-day!” she answered, with a
quiver in her voice.
Drabkin believed her headache. So did her mother.
“Probably choked with bad air,” murmured the old woman. “Over in her
shop they’re all afraid they’ll freeze. Destruction seize them! I’ll
take the hot water out of the oven and you’ll bathe your head and
feel better.”
In this way she poured out her heart upon the heads of Chashke’s
employers. For her heart was sorely embittered: all along she had
looked upon Drabkin as her Chashke’s future husband.
Chashke was silent. Drabkin looked at her, waiting for a reply.
“Perhaps you know this Chyenke?” he began anew. “They say she’s a
splendid girl.”
“What should I know? It looks like a good proposition. Five hundred
roubles. And Chyenke, from what I know of her, is really a splendid
girl. Good luck to you!”
Yet at the last words her voice trembled.
The old woman spoke nothing to spoil the match, and became enraged
against Chyenke and her five hundred roubles,—against Drabkin,
against Chashke, against herself and her whole life of poverty. She
restrained her tears and prepared many a complaint for the Lord of
the universe.
Meanwhile Drabkin was laying his plans. He spoke in a merry mood and
did not notice the grief about him.
He noticed it, however, a few days later, when he entered the house
in glee and announced that the betrothal was to take place the
following day. Chashke turned pale, seized her breast and nearly
swooned. His words died on his lips: now he understood everything.
“Chashke, what’s the matter?” he cried, in his fright, although he
knew very well what was the matter. He brought her a glass of water.
The old woman danced about her daughter and Drabkin stood there,
overwhelmed. Tears came to his eyes. Now, for the first time, he
understood why, in the past few days, Chashke had come so often
before his eyes when he spoke of the other girl. For the first time
he realised whom he really needed.
He was seized with an impulse to rush over to Chashke, embrace her,
throw his arms about her neck, kiss her, and swear to her that he
would marry only her....
He dashed into his room in distraction, pale, agitated.
“What madness has possessed him?” asked the old woman angrily.
And Chashke began to weep even more bitterly, and pressed her breast
harder than ever.
V
Drabkin’s wedding was postponed for half a year, but the dowry of
five hundred roubles was at once placed into his hands, that he might
open a shop immediately. For he was known by all to be an honourable
man.
He bought a sewing-machine, shears, knives; wooden pliers he made
himself; and together with his future wife he sat down to work. The
shop, naturally, was in her name.
He was submerged with orders.
He became a new man,—jollier, livelier, more enthusiastic. He
attacked his work arduously.
It seemed that he wanted to pile up more and more money.
He felt a sensation that he had never before experienced. He had
money! He had money! He was a boss for himself! Often he would get a
ticklish feeling, and he would smile happily and begin to hum a tune.
He was superlatively happy. He made plans—the dowry would grow, he
would accumulate heaps of money, he would accomplish miracles!...
“I’ll show them!” he would shout, triumphantly, to nobody in
particular, pushing the treadle of his machine vigorously as he sewed
away.
“Show whom?” asked his fiancée, after he had shouted his defiance for
the tenth time.
“Everybody!” he replied. “They’ll hear from me!”
And then he would fall to explaining just how he would “show them.”
A single cloud, however, darkened his bright sky: he longed for
Chashke. Chashke was lacking.
He would blink, screw up his eyes as he smeared a thread with pitch,
and gaze at his betrothed, but all the time he would be thinking of
Chashke, comparing her with his affianced.
“Why do you look at me like that?” Chyenke would ask with a smile.
But he would make no reply, continuing to smear his thread with pitch.
“Haven’t you ever seen me before? Do you want to see whether you’ve
made a mistake in choosing me?” she would continue, throwing her work
aside and placing her arms about his neck.
But he remained silent. He stuck the thread through the eye of the
needle and began to sew. He felt that this woman beside him was a
stranger,—that he did not even know her.
“Are you angry with me?” asked the stranger, releasing his head and
ready to become angry herself.
“Why angry?” he replied, looking intently upon the pocketbook as he
pierced it with the needle. “I looked at you. Is it forbidden me to
look at you?”
He would step often into Chashke’s, if only for a few moments. And
for even these few moments they both felt heavy at heart. Both stood
there with tears in their eyes.
When Drabkin would come for a visit, the old woman would go off into
the kitchen, muttering to herself and wrinkling her brow. There
she would sit down before a dingy little lamp, beginning to darn a
stocking and staring into the semi-gloom, lost in thought of her
foolish, unfortunate daughter.
Drabkin, at such times, would stand by the window and write upon the
panes with his fingers, or gaze vacantly before him, waiting for
Chashke to speak.
And Chashke sat bent over her work, and something tugged, tugged away
at her heart-strings.
She was waging a tremendous battle. She wished to forget everything.
All was over! Too late! It was so decreed by Fate! Yet a frightful,
poignant yearning held her in its grip. And in the solitude of night
she would moisten the pillow with hot tears that rolled slowly down
her cheeks. And often it would seem to her that there would come a
day,—who knew in how many years around?—when he would come falling
at her feet and.... Ah, she had never thought the matter out to its
conclusion....
But he must not learn of her sufferings!
And Chashke would take courage, breathe more easily, and be the first
to speak.
“How are you getting along? Plenty of work?”
Yes. On this topic he could find ever so much to say. But he felt sad
at heart. He then replied in a nasal tone, “Nothing to complain. Work
is the least of my worries.”
“For whom are you making purses now?” she asked, ignoring his last
words.
“For Etkin,” he replied, curtly, as if angry that she should harp on
that theme.
But no, he must really tell her how, from his own former employer,
Mayshe Baruch, he had won away as a customer the shopkeeper Etkin.
That was certainly interesting. And gradually he became engrossed in
his talk and warmed to his subject, telling how he had brought a
piece of his work into Etkin’s and how everybody had viewed it with
delight. And at once he received a big order for more. And Mayshe
Baruch had met him and tried to intimidate him by threatening to slap
his face. Ha-ha-ha, he had found the right one to scare! No sirree!
He’d show Mayshe! He would go in to Brzerzinski, for whom Mayshe
Baruch did work, and let Mayshe try to do something to him! Aha! He’d
put Mayshe Baruch out of business in a jiffy.... And he was even
considering going in to Abraham Baer’s customers. He had a score to
settle with Abraham Baer. He knew all his customers, even those from
out of town, and he would send quotations for work to all of them....
He’d show them!... He’d lead the bosses a merry dance!
Chashke listened with delight. But a single question weighed upon her
heavily; she could not repress it. She lowered her head over her
work and asked, with a stifled voice, “How is your Chyenke?”
He interrupted his account and suddenly became sad once more.
“How should she be? She works.”
And again he stared vacantly through the window. She remained bent
over her work, without raising her eyes. And soon they parted, with
hearts as heavy as stone....
But later he became so engrossed in his work that he forgot the
burden of his heart. He grew accustomed to Chyenke and became more
talkative. And once he began to tell her how he used to quarrel with
his employers and get the best of them. She laughed. Yes, she knew
all about him and his pranks.
“I never spoke a pleasant word to any of them. Not even with the best
of them,” he told her. “I always showed them my claws.”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” she asserted, with a serious mien. “If I
had been your employer I wouldn’t have let you darken my door. Even
if I knew that I’d make millions from you.”
He made no reply, working the treadle faster than before, and waiting
for Chyenke to continue.
“It won’t be like that in our shop,” she added.
“Certainly not,” he hastened to agree. “We’ll deal differently with
our employés.”
“Differently or not differently,” she replied, “if anybody tries such
tricks with us, we’ll take him by the collar right away and down the
stairs he goes!”
“That’s merely what you say....”
“And that’s exactly how it’ll be,” she answered with the same gravity
as before. “If I’m a boss, then I must be a boss. I know. I’ve worked
for bosses, too, and have quarrelled with them. And you may be sure
that they were in the wrong. But to fight just for the fun of it! I’d
like to see them try it!”
“It couldn’t happen in our place,” he said. “I’ll yield to them in
everything.”
“What do you mean, yield to them in everything?” Her voice rose
slightly. “Bah! Not even a hair’s breadth! Why should I treat people
better than I myself was treated?”
Drabkin turned pale. His hand trembled.
“We’ll see about that,” he answered weakly. He restrained himself,
but his blood was boiling.
“What shall we see, what?” asked Chyenke. “I certainly won’t treat my
employés any better than I was treated. Why should I give in to them?
Let them walk all over me?”
He was silent. He was already infuriated, but strove to choke back
his words. He applied himself industriously to his work and did not
utter another sound, although it was a long time before Chyenke
stopped talking....
That night he ran to Chashke. He repeated the conversation to her.
“Did you ever hear such talk?” he cried, as he finished his story.
“Chyenke is as right as the day,” interposed the old woman.
“Did you ever hear such talk?” he repeated, looking into Chashke’s
eyes.
“Well?” she queried, coldly.
“What do you mean, ‘Well?’” he shouted. “What do you mean by your
‘Well?’”
“What do you expect? Everybody to agree with you?”
“What do you mean, everybody to agree with me? What do you mean?” he
gesticulated. “Isn’t she engaged to me?”
“But you each have minds of your own and hearts of your own,” replied
Chashke.
“He’d like his betrothed to be as stupid as himself,” the old woman
chimed in.
“But why? How comes it that you understand?” he insisted to Chashke.
“She always was a big fool,” the mother replied. But the daughter
blushed, and was silent.
“Then why shouldn’t she?” persisted Drabkin, referring to his
betrothed.
“Well——” interrupted Chashke.
He was at a loss for a plausible response.
“Well, speak, what is it you wish?”
“What should I wish? I don’t wish anything,” he snarled indignantly.
He left the house in silent anger. He had wanted her to help him feel
angry, to be beside himself with rage as usual....
The following day he tried again to talk the matter over with
Chyenke, but she merely repeated her opinions of yesterday.
“Then I tell you,” he exclaimed, concisely and firmly, “that our
employés shall be treated as _I_ see fit!”
“And I tell you,” interjected Chyenke, “that in the first place we
haven’t any employés, nor are we hiring any. And in the second place,
they’ll be treated as _I_ think proper!”
“We shall _see_!”
“We _shall_ see!”
He became angry, she became angry, and they did not speak to each
other for the rest of that day.
“If that’s the kind of a fellow he is,” she thought, “then he’s not
going to have the say about the money.”
He sat there as if on pins and needles. He was in a rage; his blood
was boiling. He wanted to spring up, spit out with scorn and break
with Chyenke for good. But something restrained him. That “something”
did not permit him to carry out what he yearned so strongly to do.
That “something” held him riveted to the spot and dammed his anger.
And that “something” was not very clear to him. He only felt it
strongly; it sent a warmth through his whole body.... Just through
his inside pocket....
“Well, well. We’ll see,” he thought. “After the wedding it’ll be a
different story.”
When they separated at the end of that day Chyenke said to him,
“Well, now run off to your Chashke and fill her ears with complaints
against me.”
“If I want to run to her, I won’t ask you.”
Chyenke had resolved to put an end to his visits to Chashke. If he
cared more for Chashke, then let him take her. She could afford to
have a sweetheart all her own.
But she desired to raise no scandals before the wedding. After their
marriage she would know how to wean him away from Chashke’s, and how
to keep her from ever crossing their threshold....
But Drabkin seemed to have lost all desire to go to Chashke. He did
not go to her that evening, nor the next. Why should he? He was angry
with her.