One of the weddings of that season happened to take place in the house of the richest peasant of the village, one of those peasants who try to rise above their cla.s.s. It goes without saying that among the invited guests was the very cream of the village society: the few Government officials, the village elder, the clerk of the village, our sergeant, etc. Yes, as to our sergeant, he was a jolly sort of fellow. He enjoyed a good laugh himself, and liked to hear others laugh. He liked to pa.s.s jokes with his soldiers, too. But then he was always the first to laugh at his own jokes; it seemed as if he might laugh himself to death. Of course, his hearty laughter made one laugh with him, joke or no joke. Yes, he was a good fellow; may he, too, have his place among the righteous in Paradise.

True, he had us switched once in a while; but that was the way of the world in those days. For he, too, grew up and had been promoted from under the birch-rods. You know what all this reminds me of?

take this driver, for instance: he is used to belabor his horses with the whip; and yet he likes them, you may be sure. Of course, our sergeant would scold us once in a while, too. But then his scolding seemed to hurt him more than us: he looked as if he had gotten the scolding himself. The jokers of our company used to say of him, that he stood up every morning before his own uniform, and saluted it as it hung on the wall. . . .

In short, he liked to mingle with people and to make merry; then he was always the happiest of all.

Of course, he also had been invited to that wedding.

Marusya, too, was there, and that was against her habit. She kept away from all kinds of public gatherings and festivities. And right she was, too, in staying away. For it was in the company of other girls that her brooding, melancholy disposition showed itself most clearly. Did I say melancholy? No it was not exactly melancholy.

It was rather the feeling of total isolation, which one could not help reading on her face. And a total stranger she certainly was in that throng. When she kept quiet, her very silence betrayed her presence among the chattering girls. One could almost hear her silence. And when she did take part in the conversation, her voice somehow sounded strange and far away in the chorus of voices. Her very dress seemed different, though she was dressed just like any other of the village girls. It was in her gait, her deportment, in her very being that she differed from the rest of the girls. From the moment she entered the house she had to run the gauntlet of inquisitive looks, which seemed to pierce her very body and made her look like a sieve, as it were. I looked at Marusya, and it seemed to me that her face had become longer and her lips more compressed; her eyes seemed wider open and lying deeper in her sockets. She looked shrunken and contracted, very much like my mother on the eve of the Ninth of Av, when she read aloud the Lamentations for the benefit of her illiterate women-friends.

Well, that evening the sergeant danced with Marusya, neglecting the other girls entirely. They kept on refusing the invitations of the cavaliers, in the hope that they might yet have a chance to dance with the sergeant. The result was that the cavaliers were angry with the girls; the girls, with Marusya; and I, with the sergeant.

And when a recess was called, something happened: one of the bachelors, Serge Ivanovich, my old enemy, stood up behind Marusya, and shouted with all his might, "Zhidovka!" Then the envious girls broke out into a malicious giggle.

Marusya turned crimson. She looked first at the sergeant: he was curling his mustache, and tried to look angry. Then Marusya turned away from him, and I caught her eye. Well, that was too much for me. I could not stand it any longer. I sprang at Serge and dragged him to Marusya. I struck him once and twice, got him by the neck, and belabored him with the hilt of my sword.

"Apologize!" said I.

Now, no one is obedient as your Gentile once you have him down. And Serge Ivanovich did not balk. He apologized in the very words that I dictated to him. Then I let him go. The sergeant looked at me approvingly, as if wishing to say, "Well done!" This prevented the young men from attacking me.

Marusya left the house, and I followed her. Once outside, she broke into tears. She said something between sobs, but I could not make out what she meant. I thought she was complaining of someone, probably her mother. I wished very much to comfort her, but I did not know how. So we walked on in silence. The hard, crisp snow was squeaking rhythmically under our feet, as if we were trying to play a tune. And from the house s.n.a.t.c.hes of music reached us, mixed with sounds of quarreling and merry-making. It seemed as if all those sounds were pursuing us: "Zhid! Zhid!" Suddenly a sense of resentment overtook me, as if I had been called upon to defend the Jews. And I blurted out:

"If it is so hard to be insulted once by a youngster who cannot count his own years yet, how much harder is it to hear insults day in and day out, year in and year out?"

Marusya looked at me with sparkling eyes. She thought I was angry with her and meant her. Then she wanted to soothe my feelings, and she said wonderingly:

"Years? What, pray, did I do to you? I only wanted you not to listen to Jacob. He is a bad man. He hates me. He is forever on the lookout to separate us!"

"He is afraid," said I, "I might yet get converted."

At this Marusya gave me an irresistible look, the look of a mother, of a loving sister.

"No," she said decidedly, "I shall not let you do that. You and your daughters will be unhappy forever. You know what I have decided? I have decided never to get married. For I know that my own daughters will always be called Zhidovka." At this point I became sorry for the turn our conversation had taken, and I cared no more for the defense of the Jews. After a brief silence Marusya turned to me:

"Why does mother dislike Jews so much? She surely knows them better than papa does."

"Very likely she fears being called Zhidovka, as they called you."

"But, then, why did she get herself into that trouble?"

"Ask yourself; she may tell you." . . . .

Never mind what pa.s.sed between us afterwards. It does not suit a man of my age to go into particulars, the way the story-writers do.

Suffice it to tell you that our relations became very much complicated. Marusya attached herself to me; she became a sister to me.

So, after all, Jacob's fears had been well founded from the very beginning. I felt I had gotten myself into a tangle, but I did nothing to escape from it; on the contrary, I was getting myself deeper and deeper into it.--

Here the old man's eyes flashed with a fire that fairly penetrated the darkness, and for a moment I thought it was but a youth of eighteen who was sitting opposite me. I was glad that the dark hid the whiteness of the old man's beard from my view. The white beard was entirely out of harmony with the youthful ardor of its owner's speech.

There was a silence of a few minutes, and the old man continued his story:--

X

Hard as Anna's lot was, Peter himself was not very happy either. I do not know how things are managed nowadays. As I told you before, new times bring new people with new ways. It never happened in our day that a Jewish maiden, no matter what cla.s.s she belonged to, should throw herself at a young Gentile, and tell him, "Now, I am ready to leave my faith and my people, if you will marry me." In our day there never was a case of apostasy except after a good deal of courting. No Jewish girl ever left her faith, unless there was a proposal of marriage accompanied by much coaxing. It required a great deal of coaxing and enticing on the part of the man. Only extravagant promises and a.s.surances, which never could be made good, could prompt a Jewish maiden to leave her faith. And such had been the case with Khlopov, as Anna told me afterwards.

Anna, or, as she had been called as a Jewess, Hannah, had spent her girlhood under the rule of a stepmother. Peter was a young man earning a fair salary as a clerk at the Town Hall. He was a frequent visitor at Bendet's wine-shop. And Peter was an expert judge of the comeliness of Jewish maidens in general and of Anna's beauty in particular. So, when Pater did come, he came as a veritable angel-protector. He came to save her from the yoke of a stepmother and make her his wife. He promised her "golden castles"

and a "paradise on earth." All that would be hers but for one obstacle: she had to renounce her faith. At first Anna was unwilling. But the stepmother made Anna as miserable as only human beings know how. Then Bendet's business began to go from bad to worse, so that Anna had very slim prospects of ever exchanging the yoke of a stepmother for that of a husband. At the same time Peter urged his suit, coaxing her more and more. Anna warned Peter, that in her new life she might find misery instead of happiness. She was sure she would be a stranger to the people with whom she would have to come in contact. Should she happen to be below the other women, they would despise her. Should she happen to be above them, they would envy and hate her. Here she certainly spoke like a prophetess. But Peter kept on a.s.suring her that she was the very best of all women, and that he would be her protector in all possible troubles. Then she argued that he might not be happy himself; that he would have to fight many a battle. His parents would surely not agree with him. His relations would shun him. In short, he would be isolated. Peter laughed at her, and told her that all her fears were nothing but the imagination of an unhappy maiden who did not believe in the possibility of ever being happy.

He told her also that not all the women in the world were as bad as her stepmother. Still Hannah was unwilling. Then Peter attacked her with a new weapon. He made believe he was ill, and let her know that if he should die, it would be her fault; and if he did not die, he would commit suicide, and his last thought would be that the Jews are cruel, and rejoice in the misfortune of a Christian. Then Hanna gave in, did as she was urged, and was renamed Anna.

Now what Anna found in actual life far exceeded what Hannah had prophesied. The women of the village kept aloof from her, and for many reasons. The first reason was that she never visited the village tavern. She never drank any liquor herself, nor treated her visitors with it. And nothing in the world brings such people together as liquor does. Then the men hated her for the purity and chast.i.ty which she brought from her father's house. Besides, men and women alike envied the prosperity of Khlopov's household, which was due only to Anna's thrift. All those reasons, as well as many others, were included in the one word "Zhidovka." So that word may stand for anything you choose. As to Peter's brothers and relatives, they not only kept away from him but also became his open or secret enemies.

By and by Peter recognized that Hannah's fears were not the result of mere imagination, but the true prophecy of a mature young woman, who had foreseen her own future, and he could not help feeling hurt.

That bitter thought was possibly the only reason why he frequented the establishment of "our Moshko." He wanted to get rid of the accursed thought; but he did not succeed. He pined for the time when he lived among Jews; but Anna could not possibly return to live among them. In the meantime Peter sickened, and took to bed. Anna knew there was still some litigation pending between Khlopov and his relations, and his t.i.tle to the property he held by inheritance was disputed. And she always feared the worst: should she survive Peter, his relations would start proceedings against her, dispossess her and Marusya, and let them shift for themselves. Many a time did Anna mention the matter to Peter in a casual, off-hand way; but he merely smiled his usual smile, listened, and forgot all about it the next morning.

Well, that was a weakness of Peter's. Writing official papers had been his lifework, and when he had to do writing in his own behalf, he felt disgusted. He could not touch the pen when his own affairs were involved. Even the writing of a simple letter he used to put off from day to day. And when it came to clear up the t.i.tle to his holding, he would have had to write papers and fill out doc.u.ments enough to load two pack-donkeys. Small wonder, then, that he kept putting it off.

But the time came when it was necessary that Anna should speak to him about the matter; and yet she could not muster up enough courage to do it. For at times she thought herself nothing but a stranger in the place. Who was she anyway, to inherit the property left by old Simeon Khlopov, deceased? On one occasion she asked me to call Peter's attention to the matter of his t.i.tle to the property. I entered the sick-room and began to discuss the matter cautiously, in a roundabout way, so as not to excite the patient by implying that his end might be near. But my precautions were unnecessary. He spoke very cooly of the possibility of his end coming at any moment, but at the same time he insisted that there was really no need to hurry, a proper time to settle the matter would be found.

Now here you see one more difference between Jews and Gentiles. To look at the Gentiles, would you ever think them all fools? Why, you may find many a shrewd man among them, many a man who could get me and you into his net, as the spider the fly. But when it comes to taking care of the next day, the future, they are rather foolish.

They do not foresee things as clearly as the Jew does. For instance, do I not work hard to save up money for my daughter's dowry, even though I hardly expect her to get married for two years at least? Do I not try hard to pay off the mortgage on my house, so as to leave it to my children free and clear? Say what you will, I hold to my opinion, that Gentile-folk do not feel the "to-morrow" as keenly as we do. If you like, the whole life of a Jew is nothing but an antic.i.p.ation of "to-morrow." Many a time I went without a meal simply because I forgot to eat, or thought I had eaten already.

But I never forget anything that concerns the coming day. I can hardly explain it to you, but many a time I thought, dull as my brains were made by my soldier's grub, that the Jew is altogether a creature of "to-morrow."

Well, Peter listened to me; he saw there was reason in what I told him; and yet he did not feel that way. He did not feel the necessity of acting immediately, and he put it off.

Now, it seems to me that when things come to such a pa.s.s between a Gentile husband and his Jewish wife, the results are bound to be strange, unusual, and anything but agreeable. It is all something like--let me see--something like what is written in the Bible about the confusion of tongues, when one could not understand the speech of his fellow. Indeed, had Peter known that it was Anna who sent me to him, he would have resented it surely, and would have thought that she cared more for his inheritance than she cared for him.

And Peter died, after a long illness.

Then Anna had to go through an ordeal she had not yet experienced in her life of apostasy: she had to go through the ceremony of mourning according to the prescribed rules. And her fears regarding the house turned out to have been but too well founded. The village elder, in the name of the rest of the relatives, disputed Peter's t.i.tle to the property. Anna was given a small sum of money, and the whole piece of property was deeded over to Serge Ivanovich. As to Anna and Marusya, they had to be satisfied with the little money they received.

In the end it turned out that there was a deeper purpose at the bottom of the whole affair. That scamp, Serge Ivanovich, understood very well that in every respect Marusya was above the rest of the village girls, and he made up his mind to marry her. To be sure, he hated the Jews: they always managed to intrude where they were least wanted; and he never missed an opportunity of insulting Anna and her daughter. But that is just the way they all are: they will spit to-day, to lick it off to-morrow. At the same time he knew well enough that Marusya would not be willing to have him. Yet, in spite of it all, he sent some friends with the formal message of a proposal. As an inducement he promised to deed the whole property to Anna and Marusya. Anna seemed willing enough to accept the offer. Then Marusya turned to me. I began to side with Anna.

"You are a liar!" shouted Marusya, turning to me. And she was right. Indeed, I did not wish at all to see Marusya marry Serve.

But I cannot tell why I had said the opposite. Then Marusya curtly dismissed the representatives of the suitor.

I decided not to part from the two unhappy women just then and leave them alone with their misfortune. But Heaven willed otherwise. The Crimean War had been decided upon, and our regiment was the first to be sent to the front. So I was taken from my dear friends just when they needed me most.--