Last
Friday was Halloween but on a Friday I much preferred to post faith filled
post, especially since the next day was All Saints Day. So I went with a saintly post instead of a
fiendish one. But now let me make a
Halloween post, an excerpt from a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer titled, “The Gentleman from Cracow.” Part IV of the story is a perfect Halloween
read, from the eerie, portentous setting to the evil supernatural beings that
invade from the sky.
Let
me give you the context. The town of
Frampol, already a humble town, has been further impoverished because of a
drought. Just when the inhabitants are
about to abandon the town, suddenly a rich man from Cracow comes to settle, a
relatively young widower, and he starts giving away money like it’s sand, and
of course the poor people start taking it and going along with his wishes. Slowly, step by sinful step, the traditional
religious ways are compromised and a Sodom and Gomorrah mentality pervades the town. Finally at a dance the Gentleman (we are
never told his name) throws to marry every girl in the town by random lottery,
social breakdown ensues and evil spirits take over the town. In the passage below there are a lot of what
appears to be Jewish folkloric references which I don’t recognize, but I don’t
think the specific references are significant.
Perhaps they are to those that get them, but one doesn’t need to know
them to appreciate this passage. Also,
the girl Hodle in the passage is a girl from the outskirts of town who has been
raised loosely and has a reputation for promiscuous and serial sex. The story is part realism, part folklore, and
part cautionary tale, and only a master short story writer as Singer could pull
this off in just thirteen pages. Enjoy,
and happy Halloween.
IV
The setting sun, remarkably large, stared down angrily,
like a heavenly eye, upon the Frampol market place. Never before had Frampol
seen such a sunset. Like rivers of burning sulphur, fiery clouds streamed
across the heavens, assuming the shapes of elephants, lions, snakes, and
monsters. They seemed to be waging a battle in the sky, devouring one another,
splitting apart, breathing fire. It almost seemed to be the River of Fire they
watched, where demons tortured the evildoers amid glowing coals and heaps of
ashes. The moon swelled, became vast, blood-red, spotted, scarred, and gave off
little light. The evening grew very dark, dissolving even the stars. The young
men fetched torches, and a barrel of burning pitch was prepared. Shadows danced
back and forth as though attending a ball of their own. Around the market place
the houses seemed to vibrate; roofs quivered, chimneys shook. Such gaiety and
intoxication had never before been known in Frampol. Everyone, for the first
time in months, had eaten and drunk to the full. Even the animals participated
in the merrymaking. Horses neighed, cows mooed, and the few roosters that had
survived the general slaughter crowed. Flocks of strange birds flew in to pick
at the leavings. Fireflies illumined the darkness, and lightning flashed on the
horizon. But there was no thunder. A weird circular light glowed in the sky for
a few moments and then suddenly plummeted toward the horizon, trailing a
crimson tail. Then, as everyone stared in wonder at the sky, the gentleman from
Cracow spoke:
“Listen to me. I have wonderful things to tell you, but
let no one be overcome by joy. Men, take hold of your wives. Young men, look to
your girls. You see in me the wealthiest man in the entire world. Money is sand
to me, and diamonds are pebbles. I come from the Land of Ophir, where King
Solomon found the gold for his Temple. I dwell in the palace of the Queen of
Sheba. My coach is solid gold, its wheels inlaid with sapphires, with axles of
ivory, its lamps studded with rubies and emeralds, opals and amethysts. The
Ruler of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel knows of your miseries, and he has sent
me to be your benefactor. But there is one condition. Tonight, every virgin
must marry. I will provide a dowry of ten thousand ducats for each maiden, as
well as a string of pearls down to her knees. But make haste. Every girl must
have a husband before the clocks strike twelve.”
The crowd was hushed. It was as quiet as New Year’s Day
before the blowing of the ram’s horn. One could hear a fly buzz.
Then one old man called out, “But that’s impossible. The
girls are not even betrothed!”
“Let them become betrothed.”
“To whom?”
“We can draw lots,” the gentleman from Cracow replied.
“Whoever is to be married will have his or her name written on a card. Mine
also. And then we shall draw to see who is meant for whom.”
“But a girl must wait seven days. She must have the
prescribed ablutions.”
“Let the sin be on me. She needn’t wait.”
_____________
Despite the protests of the older men and their wives, a
sheet of paper was torn into bits, and on each piece the name of a young man or
young woman was written by a scribe. The town’s beadle, now in the service of
the gentleman from Cracow, drew from one skullcap the names of the young men,
and from the other those of the young women, chanting their names in the same
tune as when he called up members of the congregation for the reading of the
Torah.
“Nahum, son of Katriel, betrothed to Yenel, daughter of
Nathan. Solomon, son of Dov Baer, betrothed to Trina, daughter of Jonah Lieb.”
The assortment was a strange one, but in the night all cats are gray, and the
matches seemed not too absurd. After each drawing, the newly engaged couple,
hand in hand, approached the doctor to collect the dowry and wedding gift. As
he had promised, the gentleman from Cracow gave each the stipulated sum of
ducats, and on the neck of each bride he hung a strand of pearls. Now the
mothers, unable to restrain their joy, began to dance and shout. The fathers
stood by, bewildered. When the girls lifted their dresses to catch the gold
coins given by the doctor, they showed their legs and underclothing, which sent
the men into paroxysms of lust. Fiddles screeched, drums pounded, trumpets
blared. The uproar was deafening. Twelve-year-old boys were mated with
“spinsters” of nineteen. The sons of substantial citizens received the
daughters of paupers as brides; midgets were coupled with giants, beauties with
cripples. On the last two slips appeared the name of the gentleman from Cracow
and that of Hodle, the daughter of Lipa the ragpicker.
The same old man who had called out previously cried
out, “Woe unto us, the girl is a harlot!”
“Come to me, Hodle, come to your bridegroom,” the doctor
bade.
Hodle, her hair in two long braids, dressed in a calico
skirt, and with sandals on her feet, did not wait to be asked twice. As soon as
she had been called she walked to where the gentleman from Cracow sat on his
mare, and fell to her knees. She prostrated herself seven times before him.
“Is it true, what that old fool says?” her prospective
husband asked her.
“Yes, my lord, it is so.”
“Have you sinned only with Jews or with Gentiles as
well?”
“With both.”
“Was it for bread?”
“No. For the sheer pleasure.”
“How old were you when you started?”
“Not quite ten.”
“Are you sorry for what you have done?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I be?” she answered shamelessly.
“You don’t fear the tortures of hell?”
“I fear nothing—not even God. There is no God.”
Once more the old man began to scream, “Woe to us, woe
to us, Jews! A fire is upon us, burning, Jews, Satan’s fire. Save your souls,
Jews. Flee, before it is too late!”
“Gag him,” the gentleman from Cracow commanded.
The guards seized the old man and gagged him. The
doctor, leading Hodle by the hand, began to dance. Now, as though the Powers of
Darkness had been summoned, the rain and hail began to fall; flashes of
lightning were accompanied by mighty thunderclaps. But heedless of the storm,
pious men and women embraced without shame, dancing and shouting as though
possessed. Even the old were affected. In the furor, dresses were ripped, shoes
dropped off, hats, wigs, and skullcaps trampled in the mud. Sashes, slipping to
the ground, twisted there like snakes. Suddenly there was a terrific crash. A
huge bolt of lightning had with one blast struck the synagogue, the study
house, and the ritual bath. The whole town was on fire.
Now at last the deluded people realized that all these
seeming occurrences of nature were unnatural in origin. Though the rain kept
falling, and even increased, the fire was not extinguished. An eerie light
glowed in the market place. Those few prudent individuals who tried to
disengage themselves from the demented crowd were crushed to earth and
trampled.
And then the gentleman from Cracow revealed his true
identity. He was no longer the young man the villagers had welcomed, he was a
creature covered with scales, with an eye in his chest, and on his forehead a
horn that rotated at great speed. His arms were covered with hair, thorns, and
elflocks, and his tail was a mass of live serpents; for he was none other than Ketev
Mriri, Chief of the Devils.
Witches, werewolves, imps, demons, and hobgoblins
plummeted from the sky, some on brooms, others on hoops, still others on spiders.
Osnath, the daughter of Machlath, her fiery hair loosened in the wind, her
breasts bare and thighs exposed, leaped from chimney to chimney, and skated
along the eaves. Namah, Hurmizah the daughter of Aff, and many other she-devils
did all sorts of somersaults. Satan himself gave away the bridegroom, while
four evil spirits held the poles of the canopy, which had turned into writhing
pythons. Four dogs escorted the groom. Hodle’s dress fell from her and she
stood naked. Her breasts hung down to her navel and her feet were webbed. Her
hair was a wilderness of worms and caterpillars. The groom held out a
triangular ring and, instead of saying,” With this ring be thou consecrated to
me according to the laws of Moses and Israel,” he said, “With this ring be thou
desecrated to me according to the blasphemy of Korah and Ishmael.” The evil
spirits called out, “Bad luck,” and they began to chant,
“The curse of Eve, the mark of Cain,
The cunning of the snake, unite the twain.”
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Screaming for the last time, the old man clutched at his
head and died.
Ketev Mriri began his eulogy,
“Devil’s dung and Satan’s spell
Bring his ghost to roast in hell.”
I
didn’t think it possible, but the entire story is on the internet. Commentary magazine posted the story. If my excerpt
was enticing—and how could it not be—run over and read the entire story. It’s not very long and Singer is one of the
great short story writers. Let me know
what you think.
Also,
for some reason Commentary does not attribute
the translation on their posting. The
translation on the internet is the same as the one in The Collected Stories from which I read. The English translators from the original
Yiddish are Martha Glicklich and Elaine Gottlieb.
