Women A Prose Poem
: LOeB SCHAPIROHedged round with tall, thick woods, as though designedly, so that no
one should know what happens there, lies the long-drawn-out old town of
Pereyaslav.
To the right, connected with Pereyaslav by a wooden bridge, lies another
bit of country, named--Pidvorkes.
The town itself, with its long, narrow, muddy streets, with the crowded
houses propped up one against the other like tombstones, with
meagre grey walls all to pieces, with the broken window-panes stuffed
with rags--well, the town of Pereyaslav was hardly to be distinguished
from any other town inhabited by Jews.
Here, too, people faded before they bloomed. Here, too, men lived on
miracles, were fruitful and multiplied out of all season and reason.
They talked of a livelihood, of good times, of riches and pleasures,
with the same appearance of firm conviction, and, at the same time the
utter disbelief, with which one tells a legend read in a book.
And they really supposed these terms to be mere inventions of the
writers of books and nothing more! For not only were they incapable of a
distinct conception of their real meaning, but some had even given up
the very hope of ever being able to earn so much as a living, and
preferred not to reach out into the world with their thoughts, straining
them for nothing, that is, for the sake of a thing so plainly out of
the question as a competence. At night the whole town was overspread by
a sky which, if not grey with clouds, was of a troubled and washed-out
blue. But the people were better off than by day. Tired out,
overwrought, exhausted, prematurely aged as they were, they sought and
found comfort in the lap of the dreamy, secret, inscrutable night. Their
misery was left far behind, and they felt no more grief and pain.
An unknown power hid everything from them as though with a thick, damp,
stone wall, and they heard and saw nothing.
They did not hear the weak voices, like the mewing of blind kittens, of
their pining children, begging all day for food as though on purpose--as
though they knew there was none to give them. They did not hear the
sighs and groans of their friends and neighbors, filling the air with
the hoarse sound of furniture dragged across the floor; they did not
see, in sleep, Death-from-hunger swing quivering, on threads of
spider-web, above their heads.
Even the little fires that flickered feverishly on their hearths, and
testified to the continued existence of breathing men, even these they
saw no longer. Silence cradled everything to sleep, extinguished it, and
caused it to be forgotten.
Hardly, however, was it dawn, hardly had the first rays pierced beneath
the closed eyelids, before a whole world of misery awoke and came to
life again.
The frantic cries of hundreds of starving children, despairing
exclamations and imprecations and other piteous sounds filled the air.
One gigantic curse uncoiled and crept from house to house, from door to
door, from mouth to mouth, and the population began to move, to bestir
themselves, to run hither and thither.
Half-naked, with parched bones and shrivelled skin, with sunken yet
burning eyes, they crawled over one another like worms in a heap,
fastened on to the bites in each other's mouth, and tore them away--
But this is summer, and they are feeling comparatively cheerful, bold,
and free in their movements. They are stifled and suffocated, they are
in a melting-pot with heat and exhaustion, but there are
counter-balancing advantages; one can live for weeks at a time without
heating the stove; indeed, it is pleasanter indoors without fire, and
lighting will cost very little, now the evenings are short.
In winter it was different. An inclement sky, an enfeebled sun, a sick
day, and a burning, biting frost!
People, too, were different. A bitterness came over them, and they went
about anxious and irritable, with hanging head, possessed by gloomy
despair. It never even occurred to them to tear their neighbor's bite
out of his mouth, so depressed and preoccupied did they become. The days
were months, the evenings years, and the weeks--oh! the weeks were
eternities!
And no one knew of their misery but the winter wind that tore at their
roofs and howled in their all but smokeless chimneys like one bewitched,
like a lost soul condemned to endless wandering.
But there were bright stars in the abysmal darkness; their one pride and
consolation were the Pidvorkes, the inhabitants of the aforementioned
district of that name. Was it a question of the upkeep of a Reader or of
a bath, the support of a burial-society, of a little hospital or refuge,
a Rabbi, of providing Sabbath loaves for the poor, flour for the
Passover, the dowry of a needy bride--the Pidvorkes were ready! The sick
and lazy, the poverty-stricken and hopeless, found in them support and
protection. The Pidvorkes! They were an inexhaustible well that no one
had ever found to fail them, unless the Pidvorke husbands happened to be
present, on which occasion alone one came away with empty hands.
The fair fame of the Pidvorkes extended beyond Pereyaslav to all poor
towns in the neighborhood. Talk of husbands--they knew about the
Pidvorkes a hundred miles round; the least thing, and they pointed out
to their wives how they should take a lesson from the Pidvorke women,
and then they would be equally rich and happy.
It was not because the Pidvorkes had, within their border, great, green
velvety hills and large gardens full of flowers that they had reason to
be proud, or others, to be proud of them; not because wide fields,
planted with various kinds of corn, stretched for miles around them, the
delicate ears swaying in sunshine and wind; not even because there
flowed round the Pidvorkes a river so transparent, so full of the
reflection of the sky, you could not decide which was the bluest of the
two. Pereyaslav at any rate was not affected by any of these things,
perhaps knew nothing of them, and certainly did not wish to know
anything, for whoso dares to let his mind dwell on the like, sins
against God. Is it a Jewish concern? A townful of men who have a God,
and religious duties to perform, with reward and punishment, who have
that world to prepare for, and a wife and children in this one,
people must be mad (of the enemies of Zion be it said!) to stare at the
sky, the fields, the river, and all the rest of it--things which a man
on in years ought to blush to talk about.
No, they are proud of the Pidvorke women, and parade them continually.
The Pidvorke women are no more attractive, no taller, no cleverer than
others. They, too, bear children and suckle them, one a year, after the
good old custom; neither are they more thought of by their husbands. On
the contrary, they are the best abused and tormented women going, and
herein lies their distinction.
They put up, with the indifference of all women alike, to the belittling
to which they are subjected by their husbands; they swallow their
contempt by the mouthful without a reproach, and yet they are
exceptions; and yet they are distinguished from all other women, as the
rushing waters of the Dnieper from the stagnant pools in the marsh.
About five in the morning, when the men-folk turn in bed, and bury their
faces in the white feather pillows, emitting at the same time strange,
broken sounds through their big, stupid, red noses--at this early hour
their wives have transacted half-a-day's business in the market-place.
Dressed in short, light skirts with blue aprons, over which depends on
their left a large leather pocket for the receiving of coin and the
giving out of change--one cannot be running every minute to the
cash-box--they stand in their shops with miscellaneous ware, and toil
hard. They weigh and measure, buy and sell, and all this with wonderful
celerity. There stands one of them by herself in a shop, and tries to
persuade a young, barefoot peasant woman to buy the printed cotton she
offers her, although the customer only wants a red cotton with a large,
flowery pattern. She talks without a pause, declaring that the young
peasant may depend upon her, she would not take her in for the world,
and, indeed, to no one else would she sell the article so cheap. But
soon her eye catches two other women pursuing a peasant man, and before
even making out whether he has any wares with him or not, she leaves her
customer and joins them. If they run, she feels so must she. The peasant
is sure to be wanting grease or salt, and that may mean ten kopeks'
unexpected gain. Meantime she is not likely to lose her present
customer, fascinated as the latter must be by her flow of speech.
So she leaves her, and runs after the peasant, who is already surrounded
by a score of women, shrieking, one louder than the other, praising
their ware to the skies, and each trying to make him believe that he and
she are old acquaintances. But presently the tumult increases, there is
a cry, "Cheap fowls, who wants cheap fowls?" Some rich landholder has
sent out a supply of fowls to sell, and all the women swing round
towards the fowls, keeping a hold on the peasant's cart with their left
hand, so that you would think they wanted to drag peasant, horse, and
cart along with them. They bargain for a few minutes with the seller of
fowls, and advise him not to be obstinate and to take their offers, else
he will regret it later.
Suddenly a voice thunders, "The peasants are coming!" and they throw
themselves as for dear life upon the cart-loads of produce; they run as
though to a conflagration, get under each other's feet, their eyes
glisten as though they each wanted to pull the whole market aside. There
is a shrieking and scolding, until one or another gets the better of the
rest, and secures the peasant's wares. Then only does each woman
remember that she has customers waiting in her shop, and she runs in
with a beaming smile and tells them that, as they have waited so long,
they shall be served with the best and the most beautiful of her store.
By eight o'clock in the morning, when the market is over, when they have
filled all the bottles left with them by their customers, counted up the
change and their gains, and each one has slipped a coin into her knotted
handkerchief, so that her husband should not know of its existence (one
simply must! One is only human--one is surely not expected to wrangle
with him about every farthing?)--then, when there is nothing more to
be done in the shops, they begin to gather in knots, and every one tells
at length the incidents and the happy strokes of business of the day.
They have forgotten all the bad luck they wished each other, all the
abuse they exchanged, while the market was in progress; they know that
"Parnosseh is Parnosseh," and bear no malice, or, if they do, it is only
if one has spoken unkindly of another during a period of quiet, on a
Sabbath or a holiday.
Each talks with a special enthusiasm, and deep in her sunken eyes with
their blue-black rings there burns a proud, though tiny, fire, as she
recalls how she got the better of a customer, and sold something which
she had all but thrown away, and not only sold it, but better than
usual; or else they tell how late their husbands sleep, and then imagine
their wives are still in bed, and set about waking them, "It's time to
get up for the market," and they at once pretend to be sleepy--then,
when they have already been and come back!
And very soon a voice is heard to tremble with pleasant excitement, and
a woman begins to relate the following:
"Just you listen to me: I was up to-day when God Himself was still
asleep."--"That is not the way to talk, Sheine!" interrupts a
second.--"Well, well, well?" (there is a good deal of curiosity). "And
what happened?"--"It was this way: I went out quietly, so that no one
should hear, not to wake them, because when Lezer went to bed, it was
certainly one o'clock. There was a dispute of some sort at the Rabbi's.
You can imagine how early it was, because I didn't even want to wake
Soreh, otherwise she always gets up when I do (never mind, it won't hurt
her to learn from her mother!). And at half past seven, when I saw there
were no more peasants coming in to market, I went to see what was going
on indoors. I heard my man calling me to wake up: 'Sheine, Sheine,
Sheine!' and I go quietly and lean against the bed, and wait to hear
what will happen next. 'Look here!--There is no waking her!--Sheine!
It's getting-up time and past! Are you deaf or half-witted? What's come
to you this morning?' I was so afraid I should laugh. I gave a jump and
called out, O woe is me, why ever didn't you wake me sooner? Bandit!
It's already eight o'clock!"
Her hearers go off into contented laughter, which grows clearer, softer,
more contented still. Each one tells her tale of how she was wakened
by her husband, and one tells this joke: Once, when her husband had
called to rouse her (he also usually woke her after market), she
answered that on that morning she did not intend to get up for market,
that he might go for once instead. This apparently pleases them still
better, for their laughter renews itself, more spontaneous and hearty
even than before. Each makes a witty remark, each feels herself in merry
mood, and all is cheerfulness.
They would wax a little more serious only when they came to talk of
their daughters. A woman would begin by trying to recall her daughter's
age, and beg a second one to help her remember when the girl was born,
so that she might not make a mistake in the calculation. And when it
came to one that had a daughter of sixteen, the mother fell into a brown
study; she felt herself in a very, very critical position, because when
a girl comes to that age, one ought soon to marry her. And there is
really nothing to prevent it: money enough will be forthcoming, only let
the right kind of suitor present himself, one, that is, who shall insist
on a well-dowered bride, because otherwise--what sort of a suitor do you
call that? She will have enough to live on, they will buy a shop for
her, she is quite capable of managing it--only let Heaven send a young
man of acceptable parentage, so that one's husband shall have no need to
blush with shame when he is asked about his son-in-law's family and
connections.
And this is really what they used to do, for when their daughters were
sixteen, they gave them in marriage, and at twenty the daughters were
"old," much-experienced wives. They knew all about teething,
chicken-pox, measles, and more besides, even about croup. If a young
mother's child fell ill, she hastened to her bosom crony, who knew a lot
more than she, having been married one whole year or two sooner, and got
advice as to what should be done.
The other would make close inquiry whether the round swellings about the
child's neck increased in size and wandered, that is, appeared at
different times and different places, in which case it was positively
nothing serious, but only the tonsils. But if they remained in one place
and grew larger, the mother must lose no time, but must run to the
doctor.
Their daughters knew that they needed to lay by money, not only for a
dowry, but because a girl ought to have money of her own. They knew as
well as their mothers that a bridegroom would present himself and ask a
lot of money (the best sign of his being the right sort!), and they
prayed God for the same without ceasing.
No sooner were they quit of household matters than they went over to the
discussion of their connections and alliances--it was the greatest
pleasure they had.
The fact that their children, especially their daughters, were so
discreet that not one (to speak in a good hour and be silent in a bad!)
had as yet ever (far be it from the speaker to think of such a thing!)
given birth to a bastard, as was known to happen in other places--this
was the crowning point of their joy and exultation.
It even made up to them for the other fact, that they never got a good
word from their husbands for their hard, unnatural toil.
And as they chat together, throwing in the remark that "the apple never
falls far from the tree," that their daughters take after them in
everything, the very wrinkles vanish from their shrivelled faces, a
spring of refreshment and blessedness wells up in their hearts, they are
lifted above their cares, a feeling of relaxation comes over them, as
though a soothing balsam had penetrated their strained and weary limbs.
Meantime the daughters have secrets among themselves. They know a
quantity of interesting things that have happened in their quarter, but
no one else gets to know of them; they are imparted more with the eyes
than with the lips, and all is quiet and confidential.
And if the great calamity had not now befallen the Pidvorkes, had it not
stretched itself, spread its claws with such an evil might, had the
shame not been so deep and dreadful, all might have passed off quietly
as always. But the event was so extraordinary, so cruelly unique--such a
thing had not happened since girls were girls, and bridegrooms,
bridegrooms, in the Pidvorkes--that it inevitably became known to all.
Not (preserve us!) to the men--they know of nothing, and need to know of
nothing--only to the women. But how much can anyone keep to oneself? It
will rise to the surface, and lie like oil on the water.
From early morning on the women have been hissing and steaming, bubbling
and boiling over. They are not thinking of Parnosseh; they have
forgotten all about Parnosseh; they are in such a state, they have even
forgotten about themselves. There is a whole crowd of them packed like
herrings, and all fire and flame. But the male passer-by hears nothing
of what they say, he only sees the troubled faces and the drooping
heads; they are ashamed to look into one another's eyes, as though they
themselves were responsible for the great affliction. An appalling
misfortune, an overwhelming sense of shame, a yellow-black spot on their
reputation weighs them to the ground. Uncleanness has forced itself into
their sanctuary and defiled it; and now they seek a remedy, and means to
save themselves, like one drowning; they want to heal the plague spot,
to cover it up, so that no one shall find it out. They stand and think,
and wrinkle the brows so used to anxiety; their thoughts evolve rapidly,
and yet no good result comes of it, no one sees a way of escape out of
the terrifying net in which the worst of all evil has entangled them.
Should a stranger happen to come upon them now, one who has heard of
them, but never seen them, he would receive a shock. The whole of
Pidvorkes looks quite different, the women, the streets, the very sun
shines differently, with pale and narrow beams, which, instead of
cheering, seem to burden the heart.
The little grey-curled clouds with their ragged edges, which have
collected somewhere unbeknown, and race across the sky, look down upon
the women, and whisper among themselves. Even the old willows, for whom
the news is no novelty, for many more and more complicated mysteries
have come to their knowledge, even they look sad, while the swallows, by
the depressed and gloomy air with which they skim the water, plainly
express their opinion, which is no other than this: God is punishing the
Pidvorkes for their great sin, what time they carried fire in their
beaks, long ago, to destroy the Temple.
God bears long with people's iniquity, but he rewards in full at the
last.
The peasants driving slowly to market, unmolested and unobstructed,
neither dragged aside nor laid forcible hold of, were singularly
disappointed. They began to think the Jews had left the place.
And the women actually forgot for very trouble that it was market-day.
They stood with hands folded, and turned feverishly to every newcomer.
What does she say to it? Perhaps she can think of something to advise.
No one answered; they could not speak; they had nothing to say; they
only felt that a great wrath had been poured out on them, heavy as lead,
that an evil spirit had made its way into their life, and was keeping
them in a perpetual state of terror; and that, were they now to hold
their peace, and not make an end, God Almighty only knows what might
come of it! No one felt certain that to-morrow or the day after the same
thunderbolt might not fall on another of them.
Somebody made a movement in the crowd, and there was a sudden silence,
as though all were preparing to listen to a weak voice, hardly louder
than stillness itself. Their eyes widened, their faces were contracted
with annoyance and a consciousness of insult. Their hearts beat faster,
but without violence. Suddenly there was a shock, a thrill, and they
looked round with startled gaze, to see whence it came, and what was
happening. And they saw a woman forcing her way frantically through the
crowd, her hands working, her lips moving as in fever, her eyes flashing
fire, and her voice shaking as she cried: "Come on and see me settle
them! First I shall thrash him, and then I shall go for her! We must
make a cinder-heap of them; it's all we can do."
She was a tall, bony woman, with broad shoulders, who had earned for
herself the nickname Cossack, by having, with her own hands, beaten off
three peasants who wanted to strangle her husband, he, they declared,
having sold them by false weight--it was the first time he had ever
tried to be of use to her.
"But don't shout so, Breindel!" begged a woman's voice.
"What do you mean by 'don't shout'! Am I going to hold my tongue? Never
you mind, I shall take no water into my mouth. I'll teach them, the
apostates, to desecrate the whole town!"
"But don't shout so!" beg several more.
Breindel takes no notice. She clenches her right fist, and, fighting the
air with it, she vociferates louder than ever:
"What has happened, women? What are you frightened of? Look at them, if
they are not all a little afraid! That's what brings trouble. Don't let
us be frightened, and we shall spare ourselves in the future. We shall
not be in terror that to-morrow or the day after (they had best not live
to hear of it, sweet Father in Heaven!) another of us should have this
come upon her!"
Breindel's last words made a great impression. The women started as
though someone had poured cold water over them without warning. A few
even began to come forward in support of Breindel's proposal. Soreh Leoh
said: She advised going, but only to him, the bridegroom, and telling
him not to give people occasion to laugh, and not to cause distress to
her parents, and to agree to the wedding's taking place to-day or
to-morrow, before anything happened, and to keep quiet.
"I say, he shall not live to see it; he shall not be counted worthy to
have us come begging favors of him!" cried an angry voice.
But hereupon rose that of a young woman from somewhere in the crowd, and
all the others began to look round, and no one knew who it was speaking.
At first the young voice shook, then it grew firmer and firmer, so that
one could hear clearly and distinctly what was said:
"You might as well spare yourselves the trouble of talking about a
thrashing; it's all nonsense; besides, why add to her parents' grief by
going to them? Isn't it bad enough for them already? If we really want
to do something, the best would be to say nothing to anybody, not to get
excited, not to ask anybody's help, and let us make a collection out of
our own pockets. Never mind! God will repay us twice what we give. Let
us choose out two of us, to take him the money quietly, so that no one
shall know, because once a whisper of it gets abroad, it will be carried
over seven seas in no time; you know that walls have ears, and streets,
eyes."
The women had been holding their breath and looking with pleasurable
pride at young Malkehle, married only two months ago and already so
clever! The great thick wall of dread and shame against which they had
beaten their heads had retreated before Malkehle's soft words; they felt
eased; the world grew lighter again. Every one felt envious in her heart
of hearts of her to whose apt and golden speech they had just listened.
Everyone regretted that such an excellent plan had not occurred to
herself. But they soon calmed down, for after all it was a sister who
had spoken, one of their own Pidvorkes. They had never thought that
Malkehle, though she had been considered clever as a girl, would take
part in their debate; and they began to work out a plan for getting
together the necessary money, only so quietly that not a cock should
crow.
And now their perplexities began! Not one of them could give such a
great sum, and even if they all clubbed together, it would still be
impossible. They could manage one hundred, two hundred, three hundred
rubles, but the dowry was six hundred, and now he says, that unless
they give one thousand, he will break off the engagement. What, says he,
there will be a summons out against him? Very likely! He will just risk
it. The question went round: Who kept a store in a knotted handkerchief,
hidden from her husband? They each had such a store, but were all the
contents put together, the half of the sum would not be attained, not by
a long way.
And again there arose a tempest, a great confusion of women's tongues.
Part of the crowd started with fiery eloquence to criticise their
husbands, the good-for-nothings, the slouching lazybones; they proved
that as their husbands did nothing to earn money, but spent all their
time "learning," there was no need to be afraid of them; and if once in
a way they wanted some for themselves, nobody had the right to say them
nay. Others said that the husbands were, after all, the elder, one must
and should ask their advice! They were wiser and knew best, and why
should they, the women (might the words not be reckoned as a sin!), be
wiser than the rest of the world put together? And others again cried
that there was no need that they should divorce their husbands because a
girl was with child, and the bridegroom demanded the dowry twice over.
The noise increased, till there was no distinguishing one voice from
another, till one could not make out what her neighbor was saying: she
only knew that she also must shriek, scold, and speak her mind. And who
knows what would have come of it, if Breindel-Cossack, with her powerful
gab, had not begun to shout, that she and Malkehle had a good idea,
which would please everyone very much, and put an end to the whole
dispute.
All became suddenly dumb; there was a tense silence, as at the first of
the two recitals of the Eighteen Benedictions; the women only cast
inquiring looks at Malkehle and Breindel, who both felt their cheeks
hot. Breindel, who, ever since the wise Malkehle had spoken such golden
words, had not left her side, now stepped forward, and her voice
trembled with emotion and pleasant excitement as she said: "Malkehle and
I think like this: that we ought to go to Chavvehle, she being so wise
and so well-educated, a doctor's wife, and tell her the whole story from
beginning to end, so that she may advise us, and if you are ashamed to
speak to her yourselves, you should leave it to us two, only on the
condition that you go with us. Don't be frightened, she is kind; she
will listen to us."
A faint smile, glistening like diamond dust, shone on all faces; their
eyes brightened and their shoulders straightened, as though just
released from a heavy burden. They all knew Chavvehle for a good and
gracious woman, who was certain to give them some advice; she did many
such kindnesses without being asked; she had started the school, and she
taught their children for nothing; she always accompanied her husband on
his visits to the sick-room, and often left a coin of her own money
behind to buy a fowl for the invalid. It was even said that she had
written about them in the newspapers! She was very fond of them. When
she talked with them, her manner was simple, as though they were her
equals, and she would ask them all about everything, like any plain
Jewish housewife. And yet they were conscious of a great distance
between them and Chavveh. They would have liked Chavveh to hear nothing
of them but what was good, to stand justified in her eyes as (ten times
lehavdil) in those of a Christian. They could not have told why, but the
feeling was there.
They are proud of Chavveh; it is an honor for them each and all (and who
are they that they should venture to pretend to it?) to possess such a
Chavveh, who was highly spoken of even by rich Gentiles. Hence this
embarrassed smile at the mention of her name; she would certainly
advise, but at the same time they avoided each other's look. The wise
Malkeh had the same feeling, but she was able to cheer the rest. Never
mind! It doesn't matter telling her. She is a Jewish daughter, too, and
will keep it to herself. These things happen behind the "high windows"
also. Whereupon they all breathed more freely, and went up the hill to
Chavveh. They went in serried ranks, like soldiers, shoulder to
shoulder, relief and satisfaction reflected in their faces. All who met
them made way for them, stood aside, and wondered what it meant. Some of
their own husbands even stood and looked at the marching women, but not
one dared to go up to them and ask what was doing. Their object grew
dearer to them at every step. A settled resolve and a deep sense of
goodwill to mankind urged them on. They all felt that they were going in
a good cause, and would thereby bar the road to all such occurrences in
the future.
The way to Chavveh was long. She lived quite outside the Pidvorkes, and
they had to go through the whole market-place with the shops, which
stood close to one another, as though they held each other by the hand,
and then only through narrow lanes of old thatched peasant huts, with
shy little window-panes. But beside nearly every hut stood a couple of
acacia-trees, and the foam-white blossoms among the young green leaves
gave a refreshing perfume to the neighborhood. Emerging from the
streets, they proceeded towards a pretty hill planted with
pink-flowering quince-trees. A small, clear stream flowed below it to
the left, so deceptively clear that it reflected the hillside in all its
natural tints. You had to go quite close in order to make sure it was
only a delusion, when the stream met your gaze as seriously as though
there were no question of it at all.
On the top of the hill stood Chavveh's house, adorned like a bride,
covered with creepers and quinces, and with two large lamps under white
glass shades, upheld in the right hands of two statues carved in white
marble. The distance had not wearied them; they had walked and conversed
pleasantly by the way, each telling a story somewhat similar to the one
that had occasioned their present undertaking.
"Do you know," began Shifreh, the wholesale dealer, "mine tried to play
me a trick with the dowry, too? It was immediately before the ceremony,
and he insisted obstinately that unless a silver box and fifty rubles
were given to him in addition to what had been promised to him, he would
not go under the marriage canopy!"
"Well, if it hadn't been Zorah, it would have been Chayyim Treitel,"
observed some one, ironically.
They all laughed, but rather weakly, just for the sake of laughing; not
one of them really wished to part from her husband, even in cases where
he disliked her, and they quarrelled. No indignity they suffered at
their husbands' hands could hurt them so deeply as a wish on his part to
live separately. After all they are man and wife. They quarrel and make
it up again.
And when they spied Chavvehle's house in the distance, they all cried
out joyfully, with one accord:
"There is Chavvehle's house!" Once more they forgot about themselves;
they were filled with enthusiasm for the common cause, and with a pain
that will lie forever at their heart should they not do all that sinful
man is able.
The wise Malkehle's heart beat faster than anyone's. She had begun to
consider how she should speak to Chavvehle, and although apt, incisive
phrases came into her head, one after another, she felt that she would
never be able to come out with them in Chavvehle's presence; were it not
for the other women's being there, she would have felt at her ease.
All of a sudden a voice exclaimed joyfully, "There we are at the house!"
All lifted their heads, and their eyes were gladdened by the sight of
the tall flowers arranged about a round table, in the shelter of a
widely-branching willow, on which there shone a silver samovar. In and
out of the still empty tea-glasses there stole beams of the sinking sun,
as it dropt lower and lower behind the now dark-blue hill.
"What welcome guests!" Chavveh met them with a sweet smile, and her eyes
awoke answering love and confidence in the women's hearts.
Not a glance, not a movement betrayed surprise on Chavvehle's part, any
more than if she had been expecting them everyone.
They felt that she was behaving like any sage, and were filled with a
sense of guilt towards her.
Chavvehle excused herself to one or two other guests who were present,
and led the women into her summer-parlor, for she had evidently
understood that what they had come to say was for her ears only.
They wanted to explain at once, but they couldn't, and the two who of
all found it hardest to speak were the selected spokeswomen,
Breindel-Cossack and Malkehle the wise. Chavvehle herself tried to lead
them out of their embarrassment.
"You evidently have something important to tell me," she said, "for
otherwise one does not get a sight of you."
And now it seemed more difficult than ever, it seemed impossible ever to
tell the angelic Chavvehle of the bad action about which they had come.
They all wished silently that their children might turn out one-tenth as
good as she was, and their impulse was to take Chavvehle into their
arms, kiss her and hug her, and cry a long, long time on her shoulder;
and if she cried with them, it would be so comforting.
Chavvehle was silent. Her great, wide-open blue eyes grew more and more
compassionate as she gazed at the faces of her sisters; it seemed as
though they were reading for themselves the sorrowful secret the women
had come to impart.
And the more they were impressed with her tactful behavior, and the more
they felt the kindness of her gaze, the more annoyed they grew with
themselves, the more tongue-tied they became. The silence was so intense
as to be almost seen and felt. The women held their breath, and only
exchanged roundabout glances, to find out what was going on in each
other's mind; and they looked first of all at the two who had undertaken
to speak, while the latter, although they did not see this, felt as if
every one's gaze was fixed upon them, wondering why they were silent and
holding all hearts by a thread.
Chavvehle raised her head, and spoke sweetly:
"Well, dear sisters, tell me a little of what it is about. Do you want
my help in any matter? I should be so glad----"
"Dear sisters" she called them, and lightning-like it flashed through
their hearts that Chavveh was, indeed, their sister. How could they feel
otherwise when they had it from Chavveh herself? Was she not one of
their own people? Had she not the same God? True, her speech was a
little strange to them, and she was not overpious, but how should God be
angry with such a Chavveh as this? If it must be, let him punish them
for her sin; they would willingly suffer in her place.
The sun had long set; the sky was grey, save for one red streak, and the
room had grown dark. Chavvehle rose to light the candles, and the women
started and wiped their tearful eyes, so that Chavveh should not remark
them. Chavveh saw the difficulty they had in opening their hearts to
her, and she began to speak to them of different things, offered them
refreshment according to their several tastes, and now Malkehle felt a
little more courageous, and managed to say:
"No, good, kind Chavvehle, we are not hungry. We have come to consult
with you on a very important matter!"
And then Breindel tried hard to speak in a soft voice, but it sounded
gruff and rasping:
"First of all, Chavveh, we want you to speak to us in Yiddish, not in
Polish. We are all Jewish women, thank God, together!"
Chavvehle, who had nodded her head during the whole of Breindel's
speech, made another motion of assent with her silken eyebrows, and
replied:
"I will talk Yiddish to you with pleasure, if that is what you prefer."
"The thing is this, Chavvehle," began Shifreh, the wholesale dealer, "it
is a shame and a sorrow to tell, but when the thunderbolt has fallen,
one must speak. You know Rochel Esther Leoh's. She is engaged, and the
wedding was to have been in eight weeks--and now she, the
good-for-nothing, is with child--and he, the son of perdition, says now
that if he isn't given more than five hundred rubles, he won't take
her----"
Chavvehle was deeply troubled by their words. She saw how great was
their distress, and found, to her regret, that she had little to say by
way of consolation.
"I feel with you," she said, "in your pain. But do not be so dismayed.
It is certainly very bad news, but these things will happen, you are not
the first----"
She wanted to say more, but did not know how to continue.
"But what are we to do?" asked several voices at once. "That is what we
came to you for, dearie, for you to advise us. Are we to give him all
the money he asks, or shall they both know as much happiness as we know
what to do else? Or are we to hang a stone round our necks and drown
ourselves for shame? Give us some advice, dear, help us!"
Then Chavvehle understood that it was not so much the women who were
speaking and imploring, as their stricken hearts, their deep shame and
grief, and it was with increased sympathy that she answered them:
"What can I say to help you, dear sisters? You have certainly not
deserved this blow; you have enough to bear as it is--things ought to
have turned out quite differently; but now that the misfortune has
happened, one must be brave enough not to lose one's head, and not to
let such a thing happen again, so that it should be the first and last
time! But what exactly you should do, I cannot tell you, because I don't
know! Only if you should want my help or any money, I will give you
either with the greatest pleasure."
They understood each other----
The women parted with Chavveh in great gladness, and turned towards home
conscious of a definite purpose. Now they all felt they knew just what
to do, and were sure it would prevent all further misfortune and
disgrace.
They could have sung out for joy, embraced the hill, the stream, the
peasant huts, and kissed and fondled them all together. Mind you, they
had even now no definite plan of action, it was just Chavvehle's
sympathy that had made all the difference--feeling that Chavveh was
with them! Wrapped in the evening mist, they stepped vigorously and
cheerily homewards.
Gradually the speed and the noise of their march increased, the air
throbbed, and at last a high, sharp voice rose above the rest, whereupon
they grew stiller, and the women listened.
"I tell you what, we won't beat them. Only on Sabbath we must all come
together like one man, break into the house-of-study just before they
call up to the Reading of the Law, and not let them read till they have
sworn to agree to our sentence of excommunication!
"She is right!"
"Excommunicate him!"
"Tear him in pieces!"
"Let him be dressed in robe and prayer-scarf, and swear by the eight
black candles that he----"
"Swear! Swear!"
The noise was dreadful. No one was allowed to finish speaking. They were
all aflame with one fire of revenge, hate, and anger, and all alike
athirst for justice. Every new idea, every new suggestion was hastily
and hotly seized upon by all together, and there was a grinding of teeth
and a clenching of fists. Nature herself seemed affected by the tumult,
the clouds flew faster, the stars changed their places, the wind
whistled, the trees swayed hither and thither, the frogs croaked, there
was a great boiling up of the whole concern.
"Women, women," cried one, "I propose that we go to the court of the
Shool, climb into the round millstones, and all shout together, so that
they may know what we have decided."
"Right! Right! To the Shool!" cried a chorus of voices.
A common feeling of triumph running through them, they took each other
friendly-wise by the hand, and made gaily for the court of the Shool.
When they got into the town, they fell on each other's necks, and kissed
each other with tears and joy. They knew their plan was the best and
most excellent that could be devised, and would protect them all from
further shame and trouble.
The Pidvorkes shuddered to hear their tread.
All the remaining inhabitants, big and little, men and women, gathered
in the court of the Shool, and stood with pale faces and beating hearts
to see what would happen.
The eyes of the young bachelors rolled uneasily, the girls had their
faces on one another's shoulders, and sobbed.
Breindel, agile as a cat, climbed on to the highest millstone, and
proclaimed in a voice of thunder:
"Seeing that such and such a thing has happened, a great scandal such as
is not to be hid, and such as we do not wish to hide, all we women have
decided to excommunicate----"
Such a tumult arose that for a minute or two Breindel could not be
heard, but it was not long before everyone knew who and what was meant.
"We also demand that neither he nor his nearest friends shall be called
to the Reading of the Law; that people shall have nothing to do with
them till after the wedding!"
"Nothing to do with them! Nothing to do with them!" shook the air.
"That people shall not lend to them nor borrow of them, shall not come
within their four ells!" continued the voice from the millstone.
"And she shall be shut up till her time comes, so that no one shall
see her. Then we will take her to the burial-ground, and the child shall
be born in the burial-ground. The wedding shall take place by day, and
without musicians--"
"Without musicians!"
"Without musicians!"
'Without musicians!"
"Serve her right!"
"She deserves worse!"
A hundred voices were continually interrupting the speaker, and more
women were climbing onto the millstones, and shouting the same things.
"On the wedding-day there will be great black candles burning throughout
the whole town, and when the bride is seated at the top of the
marriage-hall, with her hair flowing loose about her, all the girls
shall surround her, and the Badchen shall tell her, 'This is the way we
treat one who has not held to her Jewishness, and has blackened all our
faces----'"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"So it is!"
"The apostates!"
The last words struck the hearers' hearts like poisoned arrows. A
deathly pallor, born of unrealized terror at the suggested idea,
overspread all their faces, their feelings were in a tumult of shame and
suffering. They thirsted and longed after their former life, the time
before the calamity disturbed their peace. Weary and wounded in spirit,
with startled looks, throbbing pulses, and dilated pupils, and with no
more than a faint hope that all might yet be well, they slowly broke the
stillness, and departed to their homes.
More
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