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A short story by Isaac Loeb Peretz |
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In Time Of Pestilence |
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Title: In Time Of Pestilence Author: Isaac Loeb Peretz [More Titles by Peretz] THE TOWN TAKES FRIGHT It is coming! _öi, it is already near! In the villages round about people are in peril of death! Lord of the world, what is to be done? "Thou shalt not open thy mouth for Satan"--the name of the pestilence may not cross the lips, but fear descends on every heart like a stone. And every day there is worse news. In Apte a water-carrier, carrying his cans, has fallen dead in the street. In Ostrovtze they have made post-mortem examinations on two Jews. In Brotkoff there is a doctor with a student from Warsaw. Racheff is isolated; they let nobody out or in. Radom is surrounded by a chain of Cossacks; in Tzoismir, heaven defend us, they say people are falling like flies. A terror! Trade slackens, piousness increases. Dealers in produce are afraid to leave the spot; big Yossil has already sold his horse and wagon--it's a pity about the oats. The produce-brokers tighten the belt across their empty stomachs, and there is daily more room in the dwellings, because every Friday something more is taken to be pawned against Sabbath. A workman, sometimes even a householder, will take an extra sip of brandy, to put heart into him, but that doesn't go far to fill the innkeeper's pocket, and a peasant is seldom to be seen. To make up for this, the Röfeh's wife has removed her wig and put on a hair-band;[37] a secret Maskil has burnt his "Love of Zion"[38] in public and taken to reciting psalms; the bather's maid-servant has gone to the rabbi and asked him how to do penance for having been in the habit of peeping into the men's bath-house, on Fridays, through a chink in the door. A certain young man, not to mention names, has been fasting a whole month and thinks of becoming an ascetic--heaven only knows for what sin. Some of the tailors now return remnants, butchers are more liberal in their cuts, only Yeruchem Chalfen asks ten per cent. a month on a pawn ticket, and no less with a security. His heart is of flint.
[Footnote 37: Head-dress with broad ribbon to hide the hair of a married woman.] [Footnote 38: A celebrated Hebrew novel by Mapu.]
And faces grow yellow and livid, lips, blue-brown, eyes look large and round, and heads droop; and the street is hushed. Small, scattered groups, men and women apart, stand and hold voiceless conversation; heads are shaken, hands thrown out, and eyes lifted to the leaden sky spread out over the little town. It is quiet even in the house-of-study between afternoon and evening prayers. On the other hand, the women's gallery in the Shool is full. Every few minutes a piteous cry comes through the grating, and the men feel their hair and nails tingle. There is Kol Nidrei[39] every night, and people are bathed in tears.
It is said that in Warsaw they have started tea-houses for the poor, and cheap kitchens; they are giving away coal, clothes, and food for nothing--all "their" precautions, all to imitate the nations of the world, and perhaps to please the chief of police. Here other means are employed--"Meïr Baal-Ness,"[40] wonder-workers, and famous charms. Saturday evening, as soon as it is dark, "candles of blessing" are stuck in the windows; outside the town, Vassil has a mill--the stakes shall be conveyed away by night and buried in holy ground; an orphan boy shall be married to an orphan girl--and every possible thing of the kind; only--only, these charms have been from everlasting, and yet, when there was the plague of 1829, the entire market-place was grass-grown with only a pathway or two in the middle, trodden by those who carried the dead.
"Candles of blessing" are already in the windows, side-glances are being cast at Vassil's mill, and a marriage between two orphans is under discussion. And the terror increases day by day. One had hoped that the calamity would pass away with the summer, with the great heat.... These are all over, the Solemn Days, too. Now, thank God, it is after Tabernacles. One feels the cold in one's bones; it snows a little, not unfrequently, and the pestilence creeps on and on. May God watch over us and protect us.
TWO ARE NOT AFRAID And yet there are two persons in the place who are not afraid; and not only that, but they are hoping for the plague. The two persons are the young doctor, Savitzki, a Christian, and, lehavdîl, Yössil, the beggar-student. Savitzki came two years and a half ago, straight from the university; he came a good Christian, a treasure, quite one of the righteous of the nations of the world; people wished the town-justice were as good. There wasn't a particle of pride in the man; he never gave himself airs; he greeted everyone he passed, even a child, even a woman. For an old person he would step aside. He loved Jewish fish as life itself, and the householders treated him one and all with respect; they bowed to him and took off as much as the whole hat; they sent him Sabbath cakes, and often asked him in to fish. In fact, they wished him all that is good, only--they never consulted him. Who wanted a doctor? Hadn't they a Röfeh? And what a Röfeh! He has only to give the patient one look to know what is the matter with him. So it's no wonder the apothecary is willing to make up his prescriptions. It is possible that another doctor might have got a practice quicker. For instance, if there had come an old doctor with long experience and leaving a large practice somewhere behind him, but there appears this popinjay, who cannot even twirl the down on his upper lip, with a young, pale face like a girl's, dressed like a dandy, a boy fresh from school. And just as the eggs always know more than the hen, so must he think himself better than the old Röfeh, who, as the saying goes, had eaten up his teeth at the work. So must he say, that the sick take overmuch castor oil, that cupping was a mistake, especially for a woman in child-bed; leeches he wanted put on the shelf, that they might do no harm; dry-cupping he made fun of, and he had no faith in salves. Did you ever hear of a doctor without salves and without blood-letting? Who would consult him? An apothecary turns up his nose at such an one's prescriptions--for twenty groschen apiece. Thus it went on for six months; there was open war with the Röfeh and hidden war with the apothecary, and yet he was on very good terms with the householders. Thus it went on, I say, till Savitzki came to the last of the few gulden which he had brought with him from somewhere; after a bit he got behindhand with his rent, and was in debt to the butcher and the grocer and the tailor--he was in debt all round--and the creditors grew daily more impatient. And once, when the butcher had sent back the maid without any meat, Savitzki let his wings droop, and confessed that blood-letting was necessary, and that castor oil might be taken every minute; but this did him no good at all, because, first, no one believed him, that he really meant it--it was very likely only to take people in; secondly, supposing it were so, and he had really given in to the Röfeh, then what was he wanted for? * * * * * Savitzki got another gulden or two from somewhere (Christians often inherit things from rich uncles and aunts), and dragged on another six months, at the end of which he had an inspiration: he became an anti-Semite, and a real bitter one. He left off saluting people, and now, if he stepped aside for a Jew, it was to spit out before him. He persuaded the town-justice, even though it was winter, to drive a few Jewish families off the peasants' land, and when there came a new inspector (the old ones had their hush-money), he would himself take him round the courtyards and show him where there lurked uncleanliness. He told the apothecary one day that in his place he should give all the Jews poison; and many, many more things of the kind. This idea really proved helpful. Certain of the householders began to call him in and paid him for his visits, although they would afterwards tear up his prescriptions, pour out his mixtures, throw away his ointment. The enemy of Israel must have his mouth shut; that also was a kind of "hush-money"; but Savitzki did not make a living by it. He had no more inspirations, and there was no hope of things bettering themselves. In addition to this he had the following misfortunes: he was unable to extract a pea out of a little boy's ear; a sick man risked his life by taking one of Savitzki's prescriptions and in a week he was dead. But the worst was that he forgot himself one day and declared that fever was not in itself an illness, but a remedy, a weapon by means of which the body would rid itself of the disease. Those who heard him all but split with laughter; and still more did they pant for laughing when it happened that he was called in to a woman in child-bed at the critical moment, because the "town-grandmother" was away on business in a village, and there was no help for it. The ridiculous things he did! He called for a basin of water, a piece of soap. He poured something into the basin out of a little bottle he had brought in his pocket. The people stood and watched him, and concluded he made up his medicines at home to annoy the apothecary--but heaven only knew what it was. Then he just went and washed his hands; and yet his hands were as clean as clean could be, as is the way with Christians. And as if that wasn't enough, he took out a knife and cleaned his nails--really, lehavdîl, he might have been a pious Jewess. Then he rubbed his hands and washed them anew. What more shall I say about his conjuring tricks? Then to business. The woman (it was not her first) said he certainly had smaller hands than the "town-grandmother," and was quicker at it, too, except for his fads. But who could stand all that fuss? And when there's no soap to be had? It just happened to have been washing day, but otherwise? The result of all this was that Savitzki went about like a wicked man in the other world, and at the end of two years and a half he saw he would not be able to hold on there; that his "inexpressibles" were getting too big for him, that he was growing daily thinner, and might fall into a decline; he was preparing to run away and leave his debts behind, and now--it was near. No, this is not the time to leave a town of the kind; there are golden days coming. They have already sent an order to build a "barrack" for cholera patients and to set apart a house for their families; and although the heads of the community have forked out and bribed the town-justice and the inspectors, to set down the "expenditures" for the barrack as though it had been built, and not alarm the town, everyone felt it was on the move, that it was coming; that it meant peril of death to everyone and good luck to Savitzki. He will get three to four rubles a day from the government, the sick will pay him extra, and those who are well will pay not to be put down as sick. All the Jews will pay, for disinfection and no-disinfection, isolation and non-isolation, for being let in and let out, for speaking and for being silent, and above all, "burial money"--not to be made the subject of a post-mortem and be buried in pitch. Savitzki revived. His heart grew light within him. He paced the streets whistling a merry air; he looked cheerily into everyone's face, peeped in at all the doors and windows. Jews like to hide themselves, ah! but he will not allow it. They shall pay him for the past years--he will come into his own. Then he will leave the dead-alive place and marry. Whom should he find here? The apothecary's daughter--that ugly thing?
THE SECOND WHO IS NOT AFRAID Yössil, the beggar-student, would also like to marry, and has equally put his hope in the pestilence; he is the one orphan lad in the town. The householders could get no other if they wished. They will have to marry him off. And he wishes it very much, which is no wonder--it is in the family. His father and his grandfather at his age had already buried children, and he is eighteen years old. He is "a scorn and a derision." They call him "bachelor" and "old maid," he has no peace at the academy all day. The allusions made at his expense prick him like pins. At night, it's worse. He lies all alone in the house-of-study on the hard bench, and does not sleep whole nights--the bad dreams will not let him; he is ready to crawl up the wall. He begs and implores the neighbors to marry him. He asks mercy, and the answer is always the same: "Unless it be the Queen of Sheba, who will look at you, scab?" That, as it happened, was something Yössil had not; but he had other attractions. He had come to the place fourteen years before, with his father, a book-peddler who fell ill on his way through and who--not of you be it said!--died there. He had never known his mother, and therefore had wandered about with his father from babyhood. Kohol was moved to pity, householders bought up all the books in order to bury the father, which they did almost for nothing, and even gave him a nice grave. The orphan was taken into the Talmud Torah and told to sleep in the house-of-study; he ate "days,"[41] as he was still doing when my story begins.
The next year brought a new misfortune. In the house-of-study was an old split stove, of which Yössil was the official heater. This oven was a useless old thing and gave out no heat. By day things were bearable; at night the stove went down to freezing-point. Yössil's rags, given him by the householders on some holiday, were hardly enough to clothe him, never sufficient for extra covering at night. One day Yössil thought the matter over, and stole the key of the wood store-room. He commenced to steal wood, and every day he heated the stove more, and sat by the fire and warmed himself. At last, as people said, God punished him for his theft: the stove suddenly burst, and a piece flew out and broke his foot. The town Röfeh cured it, but it remained shorter than the other, and Yössil limped from that day forward. And he was no genius, not even specially diligent. Who would fix on him? Whom was he likely to attract? Not even a water-carrier would take him for a son-in-law. Meantime, as though to spite him, his eyes would burn like hot coals, his heart beat and yearned and sickened after something. He often felt dizzy, there was a sound as of bells in his ears, and he shook as in a fever, hot and cold, hot and cold. But who troubles about an orphan? The householders feel they have done their part in giving him free meals. What sort of meals? Well, what merit is there to be secured in feeding a boy like that? A boy who won't learn, sits over a book, and is all the time wool-gathering? You speak to him and he doesn't hear. And all of a sudden he starts up and jumps away from his place, leaves the book open, and runs about the house-of-study like a mad thing, upsets the reading-desks, upsets the people, like one possessed. A madcap, a scatter-brain. Tendons, bones, mouldy bread, the day before yesterday's porridge--and that's a waste! What's the use of him? He may thank his stars that he's an orphan. A boy of that sort in a family is apprenticed to a workman, but nobody wants to undertake a strange child. Who would care to be responsible for it? Besides, the father was a learned man, who recited Torah in his last moments, and who died like a saint in the seventh month, after making a very clear confession of sins; and who would dare apprentice the child of such an one to a workman?[42] Who would undertake to answer for it to the dead?
But he would not let himself drift; he felt that these were bad thoughts, evil dreams; but they grew stronger and stronger, and his will grew weaker, and he began to fast, but this was of no avail; to recite psalms--no use at all; to study--when he could not read the letters? Fiery wheels circled before his eyes. He saw that the seducer was stronger than he was, and he let his wings droop and ceased to oppose him. He only consoled himself with the thought that he, too, might be married some day. And he waited for the match-mongers, and then, as they did not come to him, he put shame aside and went to them. But that is not done so easily. Months passed before he ventured to speak to a match-monger; first to one, then to another, then to a third, until he had been to all there were in the town. And when the last one had given him the same reply as the others, that no one would look at him but the Queen of Sheba, he fell into great despondency. Life had become hateful to him. One night it occurred to him that it would be better to die than to live thus. He began to battle afresh with this new sinful thought, and again his strength began to fail. The first time the thought came like a lightning-flash and vanished. The following day it came again and stayed longer; on the third day he had time to consider it; he remembered that last week there had been a strong wind, a sign that some one had hanged himself. Perhaps a Gentile? No; there would never be a wind because of a Gentile; it must have been a Jew. A year ago, there was a Jew drowned in the bath, Chaïm the tailor. Who knows, perhaps he drowned himself on purpose? What should a tailor be doing in the bath in the middle of the week? On the eve of the Day of Atonement everyone goes, but on a Wednesday like any other?... A few days later he felt drawn to the bath as though by pincers. Where is the harm? I can go if I like. He went, but he did not even undress. He felt that once in, he would never come out again, that he would remain there. He stood some time leaning over the bath, he could not tear himself away from it, but gazed at the dark water with a faint reflection of himself trembling on the surface. Then it seemed to him, that was not his image, but Chaïm the tailor's, and that Chaïm the tailor smiled and beckoned to him: "Come! come! It is so quiet here, so cool--a delight!" He grew hot all over and fled in terror. It was only in the street that he collected himself again. Passing a rope-maker's, he observed that the ropes lay tossed about anyhow; the rope-maker had gone away somewhere. Why had he just gone away? Where to? A few other such silly questions passed through Yössil's mind, while his hands, acting of themselves, stole away a rope that happened to be lying on the door-step. He was not aware of the theft till he found himself back in the house-of-study. He was very much surprised--he could not think how the cord had got into his pocket. "It is God's doing," he thought, with tears in his eyes; "God Himself wishes me to take my life, to hang myself!" and he felt a bitterly piteous compassion for himself in his heart. God who had created him, who had made him an orphan, who had sent him the small-pox, and had thrown the piece of the stove at him, wishes him now to hang himself. He has refused him this world, and now he is to lose the other as well. Why? Because he had not mastered the seducer? How could he? All by himself--without parents, without companions--and the seducer is, after all, an angel, and has been under arms since the Creation; and Yössil feels very wretched and unhappy. God Himself is unjust to him, if He wishes him to hang himself. He sees it clearly, there is no uncertainty about it. And what is the outcome? If God wills it so, what can he do, he, the worm, the orphan? He cannot withstand the seducer, then how shall he dare to think of going against God? No; he will not attempt to go against God. He takes the rope and goes up into the loft of the Shool. He will not profane the house-of-study. He will not hang himself over against the Ark. In the loft there is a hook, equally provided by Him. How else should there be a hook up there? Who knows how long the hook has been waiting for him? God may have prepared it before he, Yössil, was born or thought of. Thus considering, he folded the rope. Something had occurred to him: And suppose the contrary? Suppose it to be the work of Satan? Suppose the same Satan who sends me the other thoughts had sent me this one, too? And he let the rope be--it is a matter for consideration. He must think it well over. To lose both this world and the world to come is no trifle. Thereupon the clock struck four--dinner-time and he became suddenly aware that his stomach was cramped with hunger. And he came down from the loft and left the rope folded up. Every night he feels drawn to the rope. He does what he can to save himself--he runs to the Ark, puts his head in among the holy scrolls, and cries pitifully to them for help. He frequently clasps a desk, so that it may be more difficult for him to leave the spot, or he clings with all his might to the old stove. And who knows what the issue of the struggle would have been but for the pestilence? Oh! now he drew a deep breath of relief. An end to hanging, an end to melancholy. They will have to give him a companion, and not the Queen of Sheba; he is the one orphan in the town.
SAVITZKI WITHDRAWS--YÖSSIL GOES INTO RETREAT Since the dread of the pestilence had so increased, the townsfolk ran a mile when they saw Savitzki coming. They were afraid of him--and no wonder. After all, a man is only flesh and blood, he may suddenly become indisposed any day, and Savitzki now is cock of the walk. He can have people put to bed, smeared, rubbed, can pour drugs down their throats, drive out the whole family, burn the furniture, poison people, and then make post-mortems. What an outrage! When doctors want to know the nature of an illness, they poison off the first patients and look for little worms inside them. But what is to be done? When one is in exile--one is!... A Röfeh in Apte having declared that the doctor there poisoned his patients, they imprisoned him for three months on bread and water. You think I mean the doctor? No, mercy on us, the Röfeh! That is why, when Savitzki appeared in the street, it grew suddenly empty. If he looked up at a window, a blind was drawn, or the window was filled up with a sheet, a cushion--anything. One fine morning the street where Savitzki lived stood empty--all the householders and the tenants had moved away overnight. No one wished to come within his area. It was a real case of "woe to the wicked and woe to his neighbor!" Savitzki has remarked it, and he is silent. More than that, he has withdrawn himself from the town for the time being--just as a cat will spring aside from a mouse--it won't run away. He sits the whole day at home, or goes for walks outside the town in the mud. He is sure of his game, then why irritate the people by prying? When the time comes, he will know; doors and windows won't keep the thing in; there will be cries as on the Day of Atonement. The Jews have little self-control. They are a people very much afraid of death, and helpless when face to face with sickness. Savitzki had lived through a typhus epidemic; he had seen the overflow of feeling, heard the cries and commotion. He seemed to be in a sea of lamentation and wailing. O no, they will never keep it to themselves. He withdrew from the street. And Yössil withdrew from the street and the house-of-study as well. One wished it, the other had to do it. Since there was more talk of the pestilence, Yössil's whole melancholy had vanished, as though brushed away by the hand. Indeed, he grew more cheerful, merrier day by day, and would often, without meaning to do so, burst out laughing. He could not help himself, it bubbled up within him; he had to laugh. It tickled him in all his limbs. The paler the householders grew, the ruddier grew he; the lower they hung their heads, the higher he carried his; the more subdued grew their voices, the clearer and fuller Yössil's, and--the more the house-of-study sighed, the louder his laughter: ha-ha-ha! And it was not his fault, something in him laughed of itself. And at a time when all other eyes were dim and moist, his shone brighter and brighter; they fairly sparkled. At a time when people stood and looked at each other open-mouthed, not daring to move a limb, his feet danced beneath him; he could have kissed every desk, the stove, the walls. "Is he mad?" people asked, "or what has possessed him?" "He's most certainly mad," was the reply. "Certainly! He ought to be sent to the asylum." Yössil was not afraid even of the asylum; he knows that Kohol will not spend money on that. A few years ago a mad woman was frozen to death in the street, after running around a whole winter without clothes, and all that time it never occurred to anyone to hire a conveyance and have her taken to a refuge. People were extremely sorry for her. Another in her case would have gone about the country and begged a few pence. She hadn't even the wits to do so much. The householders only sighed, and there it ended. Why should he, Yössil, be of more consequence? He is anxious not to make Kohol angry; there is no other orphan, true, but--if Kohol became angry, they might have one brought. And someone else might become an orphan! Alarming thought! Anyhow, Kohol will have to give a wedding-present. It is well to keep on terms with people. Secondly, Yössil is afraid lest they should take him for a real lunatic and have to get another. They would never marry a real lunatic. There would be no use in that. Another thing--and this is the principal one--he needs retirement. He must be alone with his thoughts, he must reflect and consider, and dream by night and by day. He finds rest now at night in the house-of-study; when the others go, and he is left alone with the desks and chairs, he runs to the window, presses his burning forehead against the cold pane; it grows cool in his brain, his ideas move in order. If it is a clear night, he thinks the moon is making signs to him, that is, that Joshua, the son of Nun,[43] says to him, in pantomime, yes or no, as he thinks best.
In the foreground stands Devosheh, daughter of Jeremiah, the shoemaker. The latter was kind to Yössil before he died, and would sometimes call him in and mend his boots; once he gave him a pair of cobbler's shoes; he would spare him a piece of bread and dripping, or an onion. Yössil, on these occasions, could not take his eyes off Devosheh--O, he remembers her well. She stands before him now, a stout, healthy girl, red-cheeked like a Simchas-Torah apple, and strong as they make them. When she takes the hatchet, the splinters fly. If Jeremiah had not died, Yössil would have proposed the match--he liked a fine, healthy girl of the sort. When he thinks of her, his mouth waters. Once--he cannot forget it--he met her on the stairs, and she attracted him like a magnet. He went close and touched her dress, and she gave him a little push which all but sent him rolling down. A good thing he caught hold of the banisters. After that it was some time before he dared show himself upstairs again; he was afraid, lest she should have told her father; and later on when he would have risked it and gone with his life in his hand, Jeremiah was already ill. He lay sick for about three weeks and then died. Then his wife fell into a decline and died, too. Now Devosheh is maid-servant at Saul the money-lender's. When he goes there for his "day," he sometimes finds himself alone with her in the room; then he hasn't the courage to say a word to her; she has a look in her eyes! But if Kohol wishes it, she will never dare to say no! Kohol is Kohol! Devosheh, he thought longingly, would be good to have; he can imagine no better wife. He may possibly get a "pat on the cheek" from her, but that's nothing unusual, and he will take it kindly. He will only hug and kiss her for it. He would wash the dust off her feet and follow her about like a child. He would obey her, stroke her, fondle her, and press her tight to his heart--tighter still, though it should beat even quicker than it was beating now, though it should burst, though it should jump out of him; though his soul should escape, he would die at her feet--and he will press her to himself. Ach! if Kohol would only settle on Devosheh! Her little finger is worth the whole of another woman. He asks for nothing more at present than her little finger; he would take it and squeeze it with all his might, to prove to her that she wanted a husband. But Kohol may think of another orphan. Yonder, at the burial ground, is a second; there she is, though he does not know her name; she is only half an orphan, motherless, but she has a father; only what a father! It were better to have none! A nice person is Beril, the grave-digger. He spends the day in the public houses, and leaves her alone among the graves. Sometimes he even goes home tipsy and beats her; they say he even measures the graves with her, dragging her along by the hair--the whole town says it--but nobody wants to interfere, they are afraid of him; a drunkard and a strong man besides. Some few years ago he gave Mösheh Gläser a poke in the side, just for good fellowship, and the latter has had a lung trouble ever since; he grows paler every day, and can hardly breathe. If the daughter were not as hard as nails, she wouldn't be alive; the mother went down into an early grave. And what does he want with the girl? Yössil feels a pang at his heart. He saw her one day and will never forget it. He saw her at the funeral of Jeremiah, the shoemaker, when he was afraid to go near to the grave lest he should find himself close to Devosheh. She was crying, and her tears would have fallen on his heart like molten lead. So he turned away and walked round about the cemetery, and two or three times he passed the window of Beril, the grave-digger. He saw her standing with downcast eyes peeling potatoes--a pale, ethereal figure. He could have clasped her with one hand; but she must be a good-hearted girl, she has such eyes, such a look. Once she lifted her eyelids--and Devosheh was nowhere. The whole funeral was nowhere--such was the gentleness that beamed in her blue eyes and the sweetness in her face. Only Queen Esther could have looked like that, and Queen Esther was sallow,[44] while she is white like alabaster. Her hair is black as coal, but then, once she was married, it would not be seen any more. Aï, how beautiful she is! How she leads the heart captive! And she has another merit in his eyes; when he sees Devosheh, it excites him, but while he looked at her, it felt good, and light, and warm within him.
Yes, he wants her, too! Let it rather be her; he would just as soon, in fact, it would be better so. He would treat her like a toy, play with her all day, and do everything for her. He would never let her dip a hand in cold water. He would do all the chopping, cooking, baking, and washing, indeed, everything, upon the one condition that she should stand and watch him and smile. When there was time, he would take her and carry her about like a little child. He would rise with the dawn, and, in winter time, soon have the stove lighted; in summer, soon have set the kettle on for morning tea. He would walk softly, on his toes, and quietly dust her dress and shoes; he would quietly place the clothes beside her bed; and then only go noiselessly and bend over her and look at her, and look at her, till the sun rose, and it was broad day, till the sun shone in at the window--then only wake her with a kiss. That would be a life worth the name! And a good match, too! _öi! öi! Devosheh may have a few gulden, she is saving, but she holds a Parnosseh, as it were, in her hand. Everyone knows that Beril is being burnt up by brandy; the Röfeh says he eats nothing and goes about, heaven defend us, with his inside full of holes. In a hundred and twenty years to come, Yössil might take over the grave-digging--why not? At first he would feel frightened of the corpses, but one gets used to everything. With her beside him he would feel at home in Gehenna. It is not a nice Parnosseh, but then he would be able to live outside the town, apart, no one could overlook him. That would be a life--Paradise in the burial ground! But if the lot should fall on "Lapei?" "Lapei" is the nickname of the third orphan girl. When he remembers her, he grows cold in every limb. She is a town orphan, who has been one ever since he can remember--sickly, with a large head, hair that falls out, and somewhat crooked feet. She doesn't walk on her soles, but on her toes, with her heels in the air, and as she walks, she wobbles like a tipsy person. He often meets her in the street; she has no home of her own, but goes from house to house, helping the servants--fetches water for one, wood for another, helps a third to chop up a little resinous fir-wood, carries a bucket, fills a tub. When she has no work, she begs. Once a year she washes the floor of the house-of-study. Where she spends the night, he does not know. Lapei, Lapei! he pictures her to himself and he shudders. He feels cold all over. She must be forty years old. She has looked so much ever since he can remember. "Lord of the world!" he cries out in terror, "that would be worse than hanging!" and lifts his terrified eyes imploringly to heaven. On his pale forehead are drops of perspiration as large as peas. But he is moved to compassion in his heart. Poor thing! She would certainly also like to be married, she is equally a blind sheep, equally an orphan. She has nothing, either, beyond a God in heaven. He feels inclined to weep over her lot and his together, and, on second thoughts, he places himself in God's hands. If God wills it so, it shall be she! He throws himself on God and on Kohol. The one destined by God and given by Kohol shall be his mate, he will honor her and be true to her, and will be to her a husband like any other, and he will forget the other two. Then a fresh anxiety rises within him: If the destined one be Lapei, where are they to live? Where can they go? What will they do? She hasn't a penny, and goes about tattered, a draggle-tail, and sells her birthright for a handful of cold potatoes. She takes two gulden for washing the floor of the house-of-study--not enough for dry bread--and he, what can he do? Of what use is he? Were he not lame, he would be a messenger. He knows no trade, unless (he consoles himself) he became a teacher. All the householders will give wedding-presents, and he will hire a room with the money and start keeping school; he knows quite enough to teach, especially little children. Let come what may if only he has a wife. There are Jews who have uglier wives, and who are worse cripples ... but there they are! A wife is a wife! Only not to live alone and eat "days!" And he may yet succeed in getting one of the other two, and once more he begins to invent a Paradise. And he smiles on at the mud and the leaden clouds. Hush! something has occurred to him. If he knew for certain that poor Lapei was fated to die of the pestilence, he would gladly marry her. At least, poor thing, she would have had a husband before she died. If only for a month. Why not? Is she not a Jewish daughter? It wouldn't hurt him, and it would be fair on the part of His blessed Name. He does not wish her death, heaven forbid! On the contrary, he is sorry for her; he feels and knows the meaning of "misery," of being all alone, always all alone.
SAVITZKI AND YÖSSIL TOGETHER One day, as Yössil, the beggar-student, was splashing through the mud, lost in thought, he suddenly felt himself caught hold of by the sleeve. He turned round in a fright and was still more alarmed on seeing before him--Dr. Savitzki. Savitzki and Yössil had often passed each other outside the town, and Yössil had always taken off his torn cap and bowed low before the Christian. Savitzki, the first time, had spat out; the second time, he had thrown out an evil, anti-Semitic look; the third time, he had only glanced into Yössil's face. Later he half smiled--and to-day, for the first time, he had caught him by the sleeve. They saw in each other's eyes that there was a link between them, that they had a common interest, a common hope, that something bound them together. Savitzki was now quite alone in the town. At one time, he used to go in to the apothecary, but the latter had lately given him to understand, that he had done him harm; that people had grown afraid, on Savitzki's account, of buying bitter-water and castor oil, the apothecary's great stand-by. The Christian townspeople had also begun to avoid him; they, too, believed that doctors poison people, and Savitzki was probably no better than the rest. It was rumored that in some little place or other, a set of tramps had burnt the "barrack" and stoned the doctor. There was occasionally a gleam in the eyes of the townsfolk that boded no good. Yössil got on without other people, Savitzki longed for someone to speak to. He wondered himself how it was that the lame Zhidlak's[45] pitted face seemed so pleasant to him. True, he had a little business with him; it was possible the plague was already there, only people were hiding it. One might be able to learn something from the said Zhidlak.
"Well," inquired Savitzki, in Polish, "no cholera?" Yössil had once driven out with the town Dayan to a mill to guard wheat for Passover, and had there learned a few Polish words. He understood Savitzki's question; the word "cholera," in spite of the fact that it represented all his hopes, gave him a pang "in the seventh rib," his face twitched, but he composed himself and replied: "None, honored sir, none!" And without his being conscious of it, the answer rang sadly. They soon parted. The day following they met again, advancing toward one another. Yössil stood aside like a soldier saluting, but without putting his hand to his cap; Savitzki stopped a moment to ask: "Well, not yet?" "Not yet, honored sir, not yet!" was Yössil's reply. The third day they met again and remained longer together. Savitzki questioned him as to whether there was no talk anywhere of diarrhoea and sickness, cholereen, etc., or any other intestinal trouble. Yössil could not understand everything Savitzki said, but he made a good shot, concluding that he was being asked about sicknesses of a suspicious nature. "Nothing, honored sir, nothing!" he kept answering. He knew that so far all was quiet in the town. "Nothing yet, but it will come!" was Savitzki's consoling observation as he walked away. A little time passed, and they had got into the habit, when they met, of walking a few steps together; Savitzki continued to question and to receive the same reply: "Nothing, sir, nothing," and still he consoled himself and Yössil with: "It will come!" "It must come!" he declared with assurance, and Yössil translated it into Hebrew: "And although it tarry, I expect it,"[46] and his heart expanded. [Footnote 46: Adapted from the twelfth principle of the Jewish faith, relating to the Messiah.]
This lasted a month. Savitzki even began to lose patience, and made Yössil a proposal. He felt sure something must be happening, only that people kept it hid. They were afraid of making it known--Jews are so nervous. So he proposed that Yössil should pry, find out, and tell him of only one hidden case, tell him of anything. He would be grateful to him. * * * * * Savitzki talked too quick for Yössil and too "high Polish," but he understood that Savitzki wished to make a spy of him and have him betray the Jewish sick. "No," he thought, "no, Yössil is not going to turn informer!" He is resolved not to let out a word to Savitzki, and yet, in spite of himself, and for politeness' sake, he nodded in affirmation, and Savitzki walked away. Yössil's determination not to tell tales strengthened, but there was no reason why he should not find out for himself if they were not concealing something, and he began to go in and out among the people assembled for daily prayer, to see if no one were missing; if he remarked any one's absence, he tried to discover the reason, but it came to nothing. It always turned out to be that the person had risked his life going out into a village to buy stores; or else he had quarrelled with his wife, and was ashamed to come to the house-of-study with a swollen cheek, or he had been to the Röfeh to have a tooth out and they couldn't stop the bleeding; and other such trifles that had no connection with the object of his interest. And every day he was able to report honestly to Savitzki: "Nothing, honored sir, nothing!" Every day now they waited one for the other, and every day they talked longer together. Yössil endeavored with all his might to make himself intelligible to Savitzki; he worked his hands and his feet, and Savitzki, who had learnt to understand the gestures, had often to save himself from Yössil's too energetic demonstrations. Savitzki could not make out what Yössil was after, why he kept at a distance from Kohol, and why, as was clearly to be seen, he also wished for the pestilence--but he had no time to busy himself with the problem--to fathom the mind of a Jew. It was probably a matter of business--perhaps he dealt in linen for winding-sheets. Perhaps he made coffins. But when he remarked that Yössil was growing depressed, that he was less sure than Savitzki that it must come to-morrow, he talked to him freely, gave him courage, and made him confident once more that the community would not escape. To Savitzki it was clear as daylight that it would come. It was getting nearer and nearer--was it not in all the papers? Six weeks passed. The sharp frosts, for which the community was hoping, had not been, but the pestilence desired by Savitzki and Yössil delayed equally. Even Savitzki began to have his doubts, but encouraging Yössil, he encouraged himself in the matter. It was simply impossible that it should not come. Was there a less clean town anywhere? Where else did people eat so many gherkins, so much raw fruit, and as many onions? Where were they less well provided with cold water? There were perhaps two or three well-to-do people in the place with metal samovars; three to four houses where they made tea; in the rest they drank pear-drink after the Sholent[47] and old, putrid fish was sold galore.
There were towns over which the pestilence had no power: Aix, Birmingham, and others whose names Yössil could not catch; but there people ate no Sholent, and tea was made with distilled water--that was different. Meantime another week passed and nothing happened. On the contrary, it was reported that in Apte it had decreased considerably; Racheff was open again; in Tzoismir they had even closed the tea-house for poor people, which had been started to please the governor. Yössil began to think his sorry luck would make all his plans evaporate into thin air, that his town was also a kind of Birmingham, over which the pestilence had no power. He began to have his old bad nights and felt restless even in the day-time. The brides seemed further off than ever, and, except during the half-hour spent with Savitzki, he had no rest. He saw the townsfolk growing unmistakably calmer; then it was said that the villages round about had returned to their normal state. The whole town revived; the women ceased to wail in the synagogue; the younger ones gave up coming to prayers at all, except now and again on Sabbath as before; the Röfeh's wife began to think of putting on her wig again. The bather's maid-servant was in people's mouths, and they had even reported her to the rabbi. The Maskil recommenced to write in Hebrew; dealers in produce, to drive out into the country; brokers, to make money; the Sunday market was crowded with peasants, the public-houses filled; salt, naphthaline, and other household wares began to sell. The town assumed its old aspect, window blinds disappeared; Savitzki's street came to life again. Yössil's condition grew daily worse. His former melancholy had returned in part. Instead of brides, he had the rope in the loft continually before his eyes. It beckons him and calls to him: Come, come! rid yourself of Kohol, rid yourself of this wretched life. But he resisted: Savitzki is a doctor, he must know. And Savitzki holds to his opinion. One day Yössil did not meet Savitzki outside the town, and just the day he wanted him most. Hardly had Yössil awoke, early that morning--it was still dark--when the beadle burst joyfully into the house-of-study, with "Do you hear, Yössil? The doctor and the student have left Raeheff! And last night, just at new moon, there was a hard frost, an iron frost. No fear of the pestilence now!" he cried out and ran to call people to prayers with the good news. Yössil dressed quickly, that is, he threw round him the cloak he had been using as a covering, and began to move jerkily to and fro across the house-of-study, every now and then running to the window to see if it were daylight, if it were time to hasten out after Savitzki. Hardly had the day fairly broken, when he recited the morning prayers and ran, without having breakfasted, outside the town. He felt that without comfort from Savitzki his heart would burst. He waited about, hungry, till midday; Savitzki did not come, he must wait--it had happened before that Savitzki did not appear till the afternoon. He is hungry, very hungry, but it never occurs to him to go and buy food; he must wait for Savitzki. Without having seen him and received comfort from him, he could not swallow one bite. He will have another bad night; he will be drawn to the rope. No, let him fast for once! Another hour has passed, it begins to grow dark, the pallid spot of winter sun behind the clouds sinks lower and lower, and will shortly vanish behind Vassil's mill. He shivers with cold; he runs to warm himself, claps his hands together, and Savitzki does not come. He has never been so late before. He began to think there must have been an accident; Savitzki must have been taken ill, or else (Yössil grows angry) he is playing cards, the Gentile! And the pale ball of sun sinks lower and lower, and in the other, clearer half of the sky appears a second pale misty spot like a sickle. That is the young moon, it is time for evening prayer. Yössil loses all hope: Savitzki will not come now. The tears choke him. He hurries back to the house-of-study, to be at least in time for prayers. He met scarcely anyone in the street, the men had all gone to pray, only here and there a woman's voice sounded cheerfully through the doors of the little shops and followed him to the steps of the house-of-study. His limbs shook beneath him from exhaustion; there must be some very good news to make the women laugh so loud. He could hardly climb the stairs. Outside the door he stopped; he had not the courage to turn the handle; the people were not praying, but they were talking cheerily and all at once; heaven knows what the householders were all so happy about. Suddenly he grew angry and flung open the door. "And Savitzki," were the first words he heard, "has also, thank heaven, taken himself off." "Really and truly?" someone asked. "Saw it myself," said the other, "with my own eyes." Yössil heard no more; his limbs gave way and his whole body was seized with trembling; he just dragged himself to a bench and sat there like one turned to stone, with great, staring eyes.
THE END The happy assembly did not notice it. After Minchah and Maariv (some few only after a page of Gemoreh, or a chapter of Mishnayes), they went away and left Yössil alone as usual. Even the householder in whose house Yössil should have eaten that day's meals never thought of going up to him and asking why he had not been to breakfast, and why he was not coming back with him to supper; he just hurried home along with the rest, to tell his wife and children the good news, that Savitzki had gone, that they were rid of that treasure. It was not till the next day that Yössil was missed; then they said, bother would not have taken him, and the beadle lighted the stove himself. The oven smoked and Yössil was talked about the whole day; he was the only one who could manage the stove. They began to wonder if he had gone to Palestine, or else to Argentina? It was true, he had nothing with which to pay his travelling expenses, but then he could always resort to begging. It was only on the sixth day, when the town was looking for the arrival of an inspector of licenses, that the first shop-keeper who climbed up into the loft to hide a piece of imported velvet found Yössil hanging and already stark. [The end] GO TO TOP OF SCREEN |