Children, I will now play for you a little tune on the fiddle. I imagine
there is nothing better and finer in the world than to be able to play
on the fiddle. What? Perhaps it is not so? I don't know how it is with
you. But I know that since I first reached the age of understanding, my
heart longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any musician whatever--no
matter what instrument he played. If there was a wedding anywhere in the
town, I was the first to run forward and welcome the musicians. I loved
to steal over to the bass, and draw my fingers across one of the
strings--Boom! And I flew away. Boom! And I flew away. For this same
"boom" I once got it hot from Berel Bass. Berel Bass--a cross Jew with a
flattened out nose, and a sharp glance--pretended not to see me stealing
over to the bass. And when I stretched out my hand to the thick string,
he caught hold of me by the ear and dragged me, respectfully, to the
door:
"Here, scamp, kiss the '_Mezuzah_.'"
But this was not of much consequence to me. It did not make me go a
single step from the musicians. I loved them all, from Sheika the little
fiddler with his beautiful black beard and his thin white hands, to
Getza the drummer with his beautiful hump, and, if you will forgive me
for mentioning it, the big bald patches behind his ears. Not once, but
many times did I lie hidden under a bench, listening to the musicians
playing, though I was frequently found and sent home. And from there,
from under the bench, I could see how Sheika's thin little fingers
danced about over the strings; and I listened to the sweet sounds which
he drew so cleverly out of the little fiddle.
Afterwards I used to go about in a state of great inward excitement for
many days on end. And Sheika and his little fiddle stood before my eyes
always. At night I saw him in my dreams; and in the daytime I saw him in
reality; and he never left my imagination. When no one was looking I
used to imagine that I was Sheika, the little fiddler. I used to curve
my left arm and move my fingers, and draw out my right hand, as if I
were drawing the bow across the strings. At the same time I threw my
head to one side, closing my eyes a little--just as Sheika did, not a
hair different.
My "_Rebbe_," Nota-Leib, once caught me doing this. It happened in the
middle of a lesson. I was moving my arms about, throwing my head to one
side, and blinking my eyes, and he gave me a sound box on the ears.
"What a scamp can do! We are teaching him his lessons, and he makes
faces and catches flies!"
* * *
I promised myself that, even if the world turned upside down, I must
have a little fiddle, let it cost me what it would. But what was I to
make a fiddle out of? Of cedar wood, of course. But it's easy to talk of
cedar wood. How was I to come by it when, as everybody knows, the cedar
tree grows only in Palestine? But what does the Lord do for me? He goes
and puts a certain thought in my head. In our house there was an old
sofa. This sofa was left us, as a legacy, by our grandfather "_Reb_"
Anshel. And my two uncles fought over this sofa with my father--peace be
unto him! My uncle Benny argued that since he was my grandfather's
oldest son, the sofa belonged to him; and my uncle Sender argued that he
was the youngest son, and that the sofa belonged to him. And my
father--peace be unto him!--argued that although he was no more than a
son-in-law to my grandfather, and had no personal claim on the sofa,
still, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of
"_Reb_" Anshel, the sofa belonged, by right, to her. But all this
happened long ago. And as the sofa has remained in our house, this was a
proof that it was our sofa. And our two aunts interfered, my aunt Etka,
and my aunt Zlatka. They began to invent scandals and to carry tales
from one house to another. It was sofa and sofa, and nothing else but
sofa! The town rocked, all because of the sofa. However, to make a long
story short, the sofa remained our sofa.
This same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa covered with a thin veneer.
This veneer had come unloosened in many places and was split up. It had
now a number of small mounds. And the upper layer of the veneer which
had come unloosened was of the real cedar wood--the wood of which
fiddles are made. At least, that is what I was told at school. The sofa
had one fault, and this fault was, in reality, a good quality. For
instance, when one sat on it one could not get up off it again because
it stood a little on the slant. One side was higher than the other, and
in the middle there was a hole. And the good thing about our sofa was
that no one wanted to sit on it, and it was put away in a corner, to one
side, in compulsory retirement.
It was on this sofa that I had cast my eyes, to make a fiddle out of the
cedar wood veneer. A bow I had already provided myself with, long ago. I
had a comrade, Shimalle Yudel, the car-owner's son. He promised me a few
hairs from the tail of his father's horse. And resin to smear the bow
with I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles. I got the resin from
another friend of mine, Mayer-Lippa, Sarah's son, for a bit of steel
from my mother's old crinoline which had been knocking about in the
attic. Out of this piece of steel, Mayer Lippa afterwards made himself a
little knife. It is true when I saw the knife I wanted him to change
back again with me. But he would not have it. He began to shout:
"A clever fellow that! What do you say to him! I worked hard for three
whole nights. I sharpened and sharpened and cut all my fingers
sharpening, and now he comes and wants me to change back again with
him!"
"Just look at him!" I cried. "Well then, it won't be! A great bargain
for you--a little bit of steel! Isn't there enough steel knocking about
in our attic? There will be enough for our children, and our children's
children even."
Anyway, I had everything that was necessary. And there only remained one
thing for me to do--to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For this
work I selected a very good time, when my mother was in the shop, and my
father had gone to lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself in
a corner and, with a big nail, I betook myself to my work in good
earnest. My father heard, in his sleep, how some one was scraping
something. At first he thought there were mice in the house, and he
began to make a noise from his bedroom to drive them off--"Kush! Kush!"
I was like dead.... My father turned over on the other side and when I
heard him snoring again, I went back to my work. Suddenly I looked about
me. My father was standing and staring at me with curious eyes. It
appeared that he could not, on any account, understand what was going
on--what I was doing. Then, when he saw the spoiled and torn sofa, he
realized what I had done. He pulled me out of the corner by the ear and
beat me so much that I fainted away and had to be revived. I actually
had to have cold water thrown over me to bring me to life again.
"The Lord be with you! What have you done to the child?" my mother
wailed, the tears starting to her eyes.
"Your beautiful son! He will drive me into my grave, while I am still
living," said my father, who was white as chalk. He put his hand to his
heart and was attacked by a fit of coughing which lasted several
minutes.
"Why should you eat your heart out like this?" my mother asked him. "As
it is you are a sickly man. Just look at the face you've got. May my
enemies have as healthy a year!"
* * *
My desire to play the fiddle grew with me. The older I grew, the
stronger became my desire. And, as if out of spite, I was destined to
hear music every day of the week. Right in the middle of the road,
halfway between my home and the school, stood a little house covered
with earth. And from that house came forth various sweet sounds. But
most often than all the playing of a fiddle could be heard. In that
house there lived a musician whose name was Naphtali "_Bezborodka_,"--a
Jew who wore a short jacket, curled-up earlocks, and a starched collar.
He had a fine-sized nose. It looked as if it had been stuck on his face.
He had thick lips and black teeth. His face was pock-pitted, and had not
on it even signs of a beard. That is why he was called "_Bezborodka_,"
the Beardless One. He had a wife who was like a machine. The people
called her "Mother Eve." Of children he had about a dozen and a half.
They were ragged, half-naked, and bare-footed. And each child, from the
biggest to the smallest, played on a musical instrument. One played the
fiddle, another the 'cello, another the double-bass, another the
trumpet, another the "_Ballalaika_," another the drum, and another the
cymbals. And amongst them there were some who could whistle the longest
melody with their lips, or between their teeth. Others could play tunes
on little glasses, or little pots, or bits of wood. And some made music
with their faces. They were demons, evil spirits--nothing else.
I made the acquaintance of this family quite by accident. One day, as I
was standing outside the window of their house, listening to them
playing, one of the children, Pinna the flautist, a youth of about
fifteen, in bare feet, caught sight of me through the window. He came
out to me and asked me if I liked his playing.
"I only wish," said I, "that I may play as well as you in ten years'
time."
"Can't you manage it?" he asked of me. And he told me that for two and a
half '_roubles_' a month, his father would teach me how to play. But if
I liked he himself, the son, that is, would teach me.
"Which instrument would you like to learn to play?" he asked. "On the
fiddle?"
"On the fiddle."
"On the fiddle?" he repeated. "Can you pay two and a half '_roubles_' a
month? Or are you as unfortunate as I am?"
"So far as that goes, I can manage it," I said. "But what then? Neither
my father nor my mother, nor my teacher must know that I am learning to
play the fiddle."
"The Lord keep us from telling it!" he cried. "Whose business is it to
drum the news through the town? Maybe you have on you a cigar end, or a
cigarette? No? You don't smoke? Then lend me a '_kopek_' and I will buy
cigarettes for myself. But you must tell no one, because my father must
not know that I smoke. And if my mother finds that I have money, she
will take it from me and buy rolls for supper. Come into the house. What
are we standing here for?"
* * *
With great fear, with a palpitating heart and trembling limbs, I crossed
the threshold of the house that was to me a little Garden of Eden.
My friend Pinna introduced me to his father.
"Shalom--Nahum Veviks--a rich man's boy. He wants to learn to play the
fiddle."
Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" twirled his earlocks, straightened his collar,
buttoned up his coat, and started a long conversation with me, all about
music and musical instruments in general and the fiddle in particular.
He gave me to understand that the fiddle was the best and most beautiful
of all instruments. There was none older and none more wonderful in the
world than the fiddle. To prove this to me, he went on to tell me that
the fiddle was always the leading instrument of any orchestra, and not
the trumpet or the flute. And this was simply because the fiddle was the
mother of all musical instruments.
And so it came about that Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" gave me a whole
lecture on music. Whilst he was speaking he gesticulated with his hands
and moved his nose, and I stood staring right into his mouth. I looked
at his black teeth and swallowed, yes, positively swallowed, every word
that he said.
"The fiddle, you must understand," went on Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" to
me, and evidently satisfied with the lecture he was giving me, "the
fiddle, you must understand, is an instrument that is older than all
other instruments. The first man in the world to play on the fiddle was
Jubal-Cain, or Methuselah, I don't exactly remember which. You will know
that better than I, for, to be sure, you are learning Bible history at
school. The second fiddler in the world was King David. Another great
fiddler--the third greatest in the world--was Paganini. He also was a
Jew. All the best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance there
was '_Stempenyu_,' and there was '_Pedotchur_.' Of myself I say nothing.
People tell me that I do not play the fiddle badly. But how can I come
up to Paganini? They say that Paganini sold his soul to the Ashmodai for
a fiddle. Paganini hated to play before great people like kings and
popes, although they covered him with gold. He would much rather play at
wayside inns for poor folks, or in villages. Or else he would play in
the forest for wild beasts and fowls of the air. What a fiddler Paganini
was!...
"Eh, boys, to your places! To your instruments!"
That was the order which Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" gave to his regiment of
children, all of whom came together in one minute. Each one took up an
instrument. Naphtali himself stood up, beat his baton on the table,
threw a sharp glance on every separate child and on all at once; and
they began to play a concert on every sort of instrument with so much
force that I was almost knocked off my feet. Each child tried to make
more noise than the other. But above all, I was nearly deafened by the
noise that one boy made, a little fellow who was called Hemalle. He was
a dry little boy with a wet little nose, and dirty bare little feet.
Hemalle played a curiously made instrument. It was a sort of sack which,
when you blew it up, let out a mad screech--a peculiar sound like a yell
of a cat after you have trodden on its tail. Hemalle beat time with his
little bare foot. And all the while he kept looking at me out of his
roguish little eyes, and winking to me as if he would say: "Well, isn't
it so? I blow well--don't I?" But it was Naphtali himself who worked the
hardest of all. Along with playing the fiddle, he led the orchestra,
waved his hands about, shifted his feet, and moved his nose, and his
eyes and his whole body. And if some one made a mistake--God forbid! he
ground his teeth and shouted in anger:
"Forte, devil, forte! Fortissimo! Time, wretch, time! One, two, three!
One, two, three!"
* * *
Having arranged with Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" that he should give me
three lessons a week, of an hour and a half each day, for two
"_roubles_" a month, I again and yet again begged of him that he would
keep my visits a secret of secrets; for if he did not, I would be lost
forever. He promised me faithfully that not even a bird would hear of my
coming and going.
"We are the sort of people," he said to me, proudly, fixing his collar
in place, "we are the sort of people who never have any money. But you
will find more honour and justice in our house than in the house of the
richest man. Maybe you have a few '_groschens_' about you?"
I took out a "_rouble_" and gave it to him. Naphtali took it in the
manner of a professor, with his two fingers. He called over "Mother
Eve," turned away his eyes, and said to her:
"Here! Buy something to eat."
"Mother Eve" took the "_rouble_" from him, but with both hands and all
her fingers, examined it on all sides, and asked her husband:
"What shall I buy?"
"What you like," he answered, pretending not to care. "Buy a few rolls,
two or three salt herring, and some dried sausage. And don't forget an
onion, vinegar and oil. Well, and a glass of brandy, say--"
When all these things were brought home and placed upon the table, the
family fell upon them with as much appetite as if they had just ended a
long fast. I was actually tempted by an evil spirit; and when they asked
me to take my place at the table I could not refuse. I do not remember
when I enjoyed a meal as much as I enjoyed the one at the musician's
house that day.
After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked to the children that
they should take their instruments in their hands. And he treated me,
all over again to a piece--"his own composition." This "composition" was
played with so much excitement and force that my ears were deafened and
my brain was stupefied. I left the house intoxicated by Naphtali
"_Bezborodka's_" "composition." The whole day at school, the teacher and
the boys and the books were whirling round and round in front of my
eyes. And my ears were ringing with the echoes of Naphtali's
"composition." At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini riding on the
Ashmodai, and that he banged me over the head with his fiddle. I awoke
with a scream, and a headache, and I began to pour out words as from a
sack. What I said I do not know. But my older sister, Pessel, told me
afterwards that I talked in heat, and that there was no connection
between any two words I uttered. I repeated some fantastic
names--"Composition." "Paganini," etc.... And there was another thing my
sister told me. During the time I was lying delirious, several messages
were sent from Naphtali the Musician to know how I was. There came some
barefoot boy who made many inquiries about me. He was driven off, and
was told never to dare to come near the house again....
"What was the musician's boy doing here?" asked my sister. And she
tormented me with questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept
repeating the same words:
"I do not know. As I live, I do not know. How am I to know?"
"What does it look like?" asked my mother. "You are already a young man,
a grown-up man--may no evil eye harm you! They will be soon looking for
a bride for you, and you go about with fine friends, barefoot young
musicians. What business have you with musicians? What was Naphtali the
Musician's boy doing here?"
"What Naphtali?" I asked, pretending not to understand. "What musician?"
"Just look at him--the saint!" put in my father. "He knows nothing about
anything. Poor thing! His soul is innocent before the Lord! When I was
your age I was already long betrothed. And he is still playing with
strange boys. Dress yourself, and go off to school. And if you meet
Hershel the Tax-collector, and he asks you what was the matter with you,
you are to tell him that you had the ague. Do you hear what I am saying
to you? The ague!"
I could not for the life of me understand what business Hershel the
Tax-collector had with me. And for what reason was I to tell him I had
been suffering from the ague?... It was only a few weeks later that this
riddle was solved for me.
* * *
Hershel the Tax-collector was so called because he, and his grandfather
before him, had collected the taxes of the town. It was the privilege of
their family. He was a young man with a round little belly, and a red
little beard, and moist little eyes, and he had a broad white forehead,
a sure sign that he was a man of brains. And he had the reputation in
our town of being a fine, young man, a modern, and a scholar. He had a
sound knowledge of the Bible, and was a writer of distinction. That is
to say, he had a beautiful hand. They say that his manuscripts were
carried around and shown in the whole world. And along with these
qualities, he had money, and he had one little daughter--an only child,
a girl with red hair and moist eyes. She and her father, Hershel the
Tax-collector, were as like as two drops of water. Her name was Esther,
but she was called by the nickname of "Plesteril." She was nervous and
genteel. She was as frightened of us, schoolboys, as of the Angel of
Death, because we used to torment her. We used to tease her and sing
little songs about her:
"Estheril."
"Plesteril!"
"Why have you no little sister?"
Well, after all, what is there in these words? Nothing, of course.
Nevertheless, whenever "Plesteril" heard them, she used to cover up her
ears, run home crying, and hide herself away in the farthest of far
corners. And, for several days, she was afraid to go out in the street.
But that was once on a time, when she was still a child. Now she is a
young woman, and is counted amongst the grown-ups. Her hair was tied up
in a red plait, and she was dressed like a bride, in the latest
fashions. My mother had a high opinion of her. She could never praise
her enough, and called her "a quiet dove." Sometimes, on the Sabbath
Esther came into our house, to see my sister Pessel. And when she saw
me, she grew redder than ever, and dropped her eyes. At the same time,
my sister Pessel would call me over to ask me something, and also to
look into my eyes as she looked into Esther's.
And it came to pass that, on a certain day, there came into my school my
father and Hershel the Tax-collector. And after them came Shalom-Shachno
the Matchmaker--a Jew who had six fingers, and a curly black beard, and
who was terribly poor. Seeing such visitors, our teacher, "_Reb_"
Zorach, pulled on his long coat, and put his hat on his head. And
because of his great excitement, one of his earlocks got twisted up
behind his ear. His hat got creased; and more than half of his little
round cap was left sticking out at the back of his head, from under his
hat; and one of his cheeks began to blaze. One could see that something
extraordinary was going to happen.
Of late, "_Reb_" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker had started coming into
the school a little too often. He always called the teacher outside,
where they stood talking together for some minutes, whispering and
getting excited. The matchmaker gesticulated with his hands, and
shrugged his shoulders. He always finished up with a sigh, and said:
"Well, it's the same story again. If it is destined it will probably
take place. How can we know anything--how?"
When the visitors came in, our teacher, "_Reb_" Zorach, did not know
what to do, or where he was to seat them. He took hold of the kitchen
stool on which his wife salted the meat, and first of all spun round and
round with it several times, and went up and down the whole length of
the room. After this, he barely managed to place the stool on the floor
when he sat down on it himself. But he at once jumped up again, greatly
confused; and he caught hold of the back pocket of his long coat, just
as if he had lost a purse of money.
"Here is a stool. Sit down," he said to his visitors.
"It's all right! Sit down, sit down," said my father to him. "We have
come in to you, '_Reb_' Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants
to examine my son--to see what he knows of the Bible."
And my father pointed to Hershel the Tax-collector.
"Oh, by all means! Why not?" answered the teacher, "_Reb_" Zorach. He
took up a little Bible, and handed it to Hershel the Tax-collector. The
expression on his face was as if he were saying: "Here it is for you,
and do what you like."
Hershel the Tax-collector took the Bible in his hand like a man who
knows thoroughly what he is doing. He twisted his little head to one
side, closed one eye, turned and turned the pages, and gave me to read
the first chapter of the "Song of Songs."
"Is it the 'Song of Songs'?" asked my teacher, with a faint smile, as if
he would say: "Could you find nothing more difficult?"
"The 'Song of Songs,'" replied Hershel the Tax-collector. "The 'Song of
Songs' is not as easy as you imagine. One must undehstand the 'Song of
Songs.'" (Hershel could not pronounce the letter R but said H.)
"Certainly," put in Shalom-Shachno, with a little laugh.
The teacher gave me a wink. I went over to the table, shook myself to
and fro for a minute, and began to chant the "Song of Songs" to a
beautiful melody, first introducing this commentary on it:--
"The 'Song of Songs'--a song above all songs! All other songs have been
sung by prophets, but this 'Song' has been sung by a prophet who was the
son of a prophet. All other songs have been sung by men of wisdom, but
this 'Song' has been sung by a man of wisdom who was the son of a man of
wisdom. All other songs have been sung by kings, but this 'Song' has
been sung by a king who was the son of a king."
Whilst I was singing, I glanced quickly at my audience. And on each face
I could see a different expression. On my father's face I could see
pride and pleasure. On my teacher's face were fear and anxiety, lest,
God forbid! I should make a mistake, or commit errors in reading. His
lips, in silence, repeated every word after me. Hershel the
Tax-collector sat with his head a little to one side, the ends of his
yellow beard in his mouth, one little eye closed, the other staring up
at the ceiling. He was listening with the air of a great, great judge.
"_Reb_" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker never took his eyes off Hershel
for a single minute. He sat with half his body leaning forward, shaking
himself to and fro, as I did. And he could not restrain himself from
interrupting me many times by an exclamation, a little laugh and a
cough, all in one breath, as he waved his double-jointed finger in the
air.
"When people say that he knows--then he knows!"
A few days after this, plates were broken, and in a fortunate hour, I
was betrothed to Hershel the Tax-collector's only daughter, Plesteril.
* * *
It sometimes happens that a man grows in one day more than anybody else
grows in ten years. When I was betrothed, I, all at once, began to feel
that I was a "grown-up." Surely I was the same as before, and yet I was
not the same. From my smallest comrade to my teacher "_Reb_" Zorach,
everybody now began to look upon me with more respect. After all, I was
a bridegroom-elect, and had a watch. And my father also gave up shouting
at me. Of smacks there is no need to say anything. How could any one
take hold of a bridegroom-elect who had a gold watch, and smack his face
for him? It would be a disgrace before the whole world, and a shame for
one's own self. It is true that it once happened that a bridegroom-elect
named Eli was flogged at our school, because he had been caught sliding
on the ice with the Gentile boys of the town. But for that again, the
whole town made a fine business of the flogging afterwards. When the
scandal reached the ears of Eli's betrothed, she cried so much until the
marriage contract was sent back to the bridegroom-elect, to Eli, that
is. And through grief and shame, he would have thrown himself into the
river, but that the water was frozen....
Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. But it was not because I got
a flogging, and not because I went sliding on the ice. It was because of
a fiddle.