STEMPENIU: A JEWISH ROMANCE
- SHOLOM ALEICHEM
STEMPENIU'S ESCUTCHEON
Stempeniu. That was a sort of nickname he inherited
from his father. His dad, may he rest in peace, was a musician, he was
known as Beryl the Bassist or Beryl of Stempeni, a village in the area
of Mazepevke. He played the bass and he was also a good wedding Jester,
a fine rhymester, a crafty prankster, he disguised himself as a beggar
at all weddings, twisted his eyes, danced like a bear, mimicked a woman
in labor yelling "Oh God, oh God, I swear on a stack of Bibles it'll never
happen again! . . ." Or else he let out a stream of water in the middle
of a room so that all the men rolled up their coattails and the women lifted
their skirts. Or else he hung some sort of rubbish on the mother-in-law's
apron, and he played further tricks and hoaxes galore.
They had been musicians for generations. Beryl
the Bassist or Beryl of Stempeni, as we know, played the bass. Beryl's
father, Shmulik the Trumpeter, had played the trumpet. His grandfather,
Faivish the Cymbalist, had played the cymbals, and his great-grandfather,
Ephraim the Violist .... In short, Stempeniu came from a long line of musicians,
and he wasn't the least bit ashamed (unlike many Jewish craftsmen, who,
just between you and me, are ashamed of what they are). And no wonder:
The name he made for himself in Mazepevke, the renown he acquired throughout
the world - those were no mean accomplishments. Now there was a
musician for you!
It was an honor for Jews everywhere to hear Nissi
Belzer sing, Godik the Wedding jester recite, and Stempeniu play. Which
goes to show that Stempeniu was no run-of-the-mill fiddler, no garden-variety
performer, and there must have been solid reasons for the fame he enjoyed
among the great. Jews love music and have an ear for song-which even our
enemies cannot deny .... Though you may counter that Jews don't get that
many chances to listen to music - what reasons do we have for celebrating?
How often can we just start playing or dancing at the drop of a hat? But,
say what you like, we are still mayvens, experts on singing, playing, and
everything else. Why, if a cantor should come to town, we all go running
for tickets, and having musicians at a wedding is a downright obligation
for us, we would give a bag of borsht just to hear the band playing as
the happy couple begin to sip the golden broth-not a merry ditty, of course,
a merry one comes later. The company sits about in great respect, the musicians
play a doleful tune, a mournful, plaintive dirge. The fiddle weeps, and
the rest of the band accompanies it very sorrowfully. The audience is seized
with melancholy, and everyone feels grief, a pleasant grief, but still
a grief. "Each guest becomes wistful, lowers his head, and, rubbing his
finger on his plate or kneading balls from the fresh challah, he drifts
off in his own thoughts, his own sad thoughts, for each guest must have
his own worries, and trouble is one thing a Jew doesn't go borrowing. And
so, the gloomy playing and the dismal thinking fuse into one, and every
moan of the violin touches the hearts of the wedding guests and finds an
echo there. Any heart, especially a Jewish heart is a fiddle: You squeeze
the strings and you draw forth all kinds of songs, mostly sad and gloomy
songs .... All you need is the right musician, a master violinist, the
kind of master that Stempeniu was.
Oh, what a master he was! He would grab the violin
and apply the bow, just one stroke, nothing more, and the violin had already
begun to speak. And how do you think it spoke? Why, with words, with a
tongue, like a living human being - if you'll forgive my mentioning them
in the same breath. It spoke, pleaded, crooned tearfully, in a Jewish mode,
with a force, a scream from the depths of the heart, the soul. Stempeniu
would lean his head to one side, the long, black shock of hair flowing
across his wide shoulders, his eyes, his black, burning eyes, peering upward,
and his lovely radiant face would suddenly turn as pale as death. Another
minute - and no more Stempeniu! All you could see was a hand flying up
and down, up and down, and you could hear all kinds of sounds, and all
sorts of singing came pouring out, dark, melancholy, cutting to the quick,
piercing the soul, shattering the mind. The audience was fainting, languishing,
perishing in every limb. Hearts filled up, they overflowed, and tears came
to all eyes. Jews sighed, Jews moaned, Jews wept. And Stempeniu? Who cared
about Stempeniu? Not even Stempeniu knew where he was. He did what he had
to do, he fiddled, and that was that! And when he stopped playing, he threw
down the violin and put his hand to his heart. And his eyes burnt like
Sabbath candles, and his beautiful face shone in ecstasy. The listeners
awoke as though from sleep, a sad but sweet sleep, and they gave voice
to their enthusiasm, all of them at once. They oohed, they aahed, they
mmmmed, they lauded, they were beside themselves, they couldn't stop praising
him.
"Ooh, Stempeniu! Ah, Stempeniu!"
And the women? What can I tell you about the
women? I doubt very much whether they shed as many tears on the Day of
Atonement as they did for Stempeniu's music. You mustn't even weep as much
for the Destruction of the Temple as the women wept during Stempeniu's
playing.
"If only God will let me have Stempeniu for my
youngest daughter's wedding! Oh, Lord, oh Lord!"
And thus the women made their wishes, wiped their
red, swollen eyes, blew what was left in their noses, and, while they made
their wishes, their strings of pearls and gold earrings, and rings, and
brooches, and necklaces, and all the other Jewish baubles twinkled and
glittered and sparkled.
And then there were the girls, the young ladies.
They were shackled to the earth, like mannequins, gaping at Stempeniu and
his violin, not stirring a limb, not batting an eyelash, but somewhere,
inside their corsets, hearts were fluttering, and concealed sighs kept
escaping . . . .
  
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