Stempenyu: A Jewish Romance by Sholem Aleichem, Hannah Berman Read Free Book Online Page A

was waiting for him to come and dance with her.
    And, at last, Rochalle managed to get into the open air.

IX      ROCHALLE’S BIOGRAPHY AND CHAYAETTLE’S ROMANCE
    But, Rochalle found that the open air was hardly any cooler out of doors than indoors. It was a hot July day. The sun was high in the heavens. Its rays were scorching and burning everything up without mercy. The straw roofs of the tiny cottages reflected the rays in a thousand brilliant sparks of light of all possible shades and colour. The sunbeams sparkled and rippled on the surface of the river, and they were beautiful to look upon. The boys of the village called this dancing sunbeam by the name of the “Divine Presence,” meaning thereby that it was an almost unearthly thing, and had in it something holy, and pure, and exceptional.
    Over against where Rochalle was standing was the market square of Tasapevka, now silent and deserted. At the furthest side of the square a long row of booths and little shops spread out their red awnings to the morningsun. At the doors of the tiny edifices, on low, four legged stools, sat the market women, knitting socks with great rapidity, the steel needles flashing in the sun like little daggers. Some of the women had their wares set out on little tables beside them—set forth as temptingly as possible, so that any passerby might be drawn to purchase some of the little tarts, or the shiny berries, or the little buns that were filled with currants.
    A goat was wandering in and out of the booths and the little shops, bent on doing as much mischief as she could. But her career was cut short. She was driven off by the women with shouting and the shaking of large aprons at her.
    In the distance, there might have been seen coming towards the village a huge cart drawn by two oxen fresh from the plough. The cart was laden with corn-stalks, and it rumbled, and rattled, and shook, as it lumbered slowly over the uneven road, the wheels falling into ruts over and over again. Underneath the cart ran a little peasant boy in a big hat, carrying a bag in his hand. He was barefooted, and as he ran, he cracked a whip at the dog that was running around him with his tongue lolling out, and breathing heavily.
    Rochalle stood for a while contemplating the scene that was before her. The commonplace rusticity of it all was not to her liking. She turned her thoughts to her own superiority—her fine clothes and her jewels. And, she felt that she was, in reality, far removed from everybody and everything around her. And, at the same time she realized that she was not definitely better than anyone else. She was neither one thing nor another—neither a market woman nor a great lady. She was, after all, an ordinarymiddle-class woman who neither feared to become a market woman, nor had the least hopes of ever becoming a great lady. She could never be a real peasant woman, any more than she could be a princess. She was married to a man whose father had provided them both with everything, so that there was not the least need for her to put her fingers into cold water. And, her husband spent his days between the House of Learning and the market square. He did nothing but go about, stick in hand, telling stories and cracking jokes.
    Now, as she found herself face to face with the primitive life about her, she began to realize who and what she was. It came strikingly before her, for the first time in her life, that she wanted something. She could not even guess of what nature that something was. She only knew that there was a want within her. She did not question herself. She knew that she had hit upon a profound truth. And, she looked back on herself and her whole life, and found that she was only an ordinary girl—a daughter of the Jewish people. She was neither sharp, nor clever, nor well-educated. She had grown up amongst a lot of other children, and her parents had never petted her nor made much of her.
    “She is only a girl,” they said. “Let