"The collected stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer"
Publisher: Farrar Straus & Giroux, Paperback ISBN:0-374-51788-6
("Taibele and her demon" translated from the Yiddish by Mirra Ginsburg)
In the town of Lashnik, not far from Lublin, there lived a man and his
wife. His name was Chaim Nossen, hers Taibele. They had no children. Not
that the marriage was barren; Taibele had borne her husband a son and two
daughters, but all three had died in infancy - one of whooping cough, one of
scarlet fever, and one of diphtheria. After that Taibele's womb closed up,
and nothing availed: neither prayers, nor spells, nor potions. Grief drove
Chaim Nossen to withdraw from the world. He kept apart from his wife,
stopped eating meat and no longer slept at home, but on a bench in the
prayer house. Taibele owned a dry-goods store, inherited from her parents,
and she sat there all day, with a yardstick on her right, a pair of shears
on her left, and the women's prayer book in Yiddish in front of her.
Chaim Nossen, tall, lean, with black eyes and a wedge of a beard, had
always been a morose, silent man even at the best times. Taibele was small
and fair, with blue eyes and a round face. Although punished by Almighty,
she still smiled easily, the dimples playing on her cheeks. She had no one
else to cook for now, but she lit the stove or the tripod every day and
cooked some porridge or soup for herself. She also went on with knitting -
now a pair of stockings, now a vest; or else she would embroider something
on canvas. It wasn't in her nature to rail at fate or cling to sorrow.
One day Chaim Nossen put his prayer shawl and phylacteries, a change of
underwear, and a loaf of bread into a sack and left the house. Neighbors
asked where he was going; he answered: "Wherever my eyes lead me." When
people told Taibele that her husband had left her, it was too late to catch
up with him. He was already across the river. It was discovered that he had
hired a cart to take him to Lublin. Taibele sent a messenger to seek him
out, but neither her husband nor the messenger was ever seen again. At
thirty-three, Taibele found herself a deserted wife.
After a period of searching, she realized that she had nothing more to
hope for. God had taken both her children and her husband. She would never
be able to marry again; from now on she would have to live alone. All she
had left was her house, her store, and her belongings. The townspeople
pitied her, for she was a quite woman, kindhearted and honest in her
business dealings. Everyone asked: how did she deserve such misfortunes? But
God's ways are hidden from man.
Taibele had several friends among the town matrons whom she had know
since childhood. In the daytime housewives are busy with their pots and
pans, but in the evening Taibele's friends often dropped in for a chat. In
the summer, they would sit on a bench outside the house, gossiping and
telling each other stories.
One moonless summer evening when the town was as dark as Egypt, Taibele
sat with her friends on the bench, telling them a tale she had read in a
book bought from a peddler. It was about a young Jewish woman, and a demon
who had ravished her and lived with her as man and wife. Taibele recounted
the story in all its details. The women huddled closer together, joined
hands, spat to ward of evil, and laughed the kind of laughter that comes
from fear.
One of them asked: "Why didn't she exorcise him with an amulet?"
"Not every demon is frightened of amulets," answered Taibele.
"Why didn't she make a journey to a holy rabbi?"
"The demon warned her that he would choke her if she revealed the
secret."
"Woe is me, may Lord protect us, may no one know of such things!" a
woman cried out.
"I'll be afraid to go home now", said another.
"I'll walk with you," a third one promised.
While they were talking, Alchonon, the teacher's helper who hoped one
day to become a wedding jester, happened to be passing by. Alchonon, five
years a widower, had the reputation of being a wag and a prankster, a man
with a screw loose. His steps were silent because the soles of his shoes
were worn through and he walked on his bare feet. When he heard Taibele
telling the story, he halted to listen. The darkness was so thick, and the
woman so engrossed in the weird tale, that they did not see him. This
Alchonon was a dissipated fellow, full of cunning goatish tricks. On the
instant, he formed a mischievous plan.
After the women had gone, Alchonon stole into Taibele's yard. He hid
behind a tree and watched through the window. When he saw Taibele go to bed
and put out the candle, he slipped into the house. Taibele had not bolted
the door; thieves were unheard of in that town. In the hallway, he took off
his shabby caftan, his fringed garment, his trousers, and stood as naked as
his mother bore him. Then he tiptoed to Taibele's bed. She was almost
asleep, when suddenly she saw a figure looming in the dark. She was too
terrified to utter a sound.
"Who is it?" she whispered, trembling.
Alchonon replied in a hollow voice: "Don't scream, Taibele. If you cry
out, I will destroy you. I am the demon Hurmizah, ruler over darkness, rain,
hail, thunder and wild beasts. I am the evil spirit who espoused the young
woman you spoke about tonight. And because you told the story with such
relish, I heard your words from the abyss and was filled with lust for your
body. Do not try to resist, for I drag away those who refuse to do my will
beyond the Mountains of Darkness - to Mount Sair, into wilderness where
man's foot is unknown, where no beast dares to thread, where the earth is of
iron and the sky of copper. And I roll them in thorns and in fire, among
adders and scorpions, until every bone of their body is ground to dust, and
they are lost for eternity in the nether depths. But if you comply with my
wish, not a hair of your head will be harmed, and I will send you success in
every undertaking..."
Hearing these words, Taibele lay motionless as in a swoon. Her heart
fluttered and seemed to stop. She thought her end had come. After a while,
she gathered courage and murmured: "What do you want of me? I am a married
woman!"
"Your husband is dead. I followed in his funeral procession myself."
The voice of the teacher's helper boomed out. "It is true that I cannot go
to the rabbi to testify and free you to remarry, for the rabbis don't
believe our kind. Besides, I don't dare step across the threshold of the
rabbi's chamber - I fear the Holly Scrolls. But I am not lying. Your husband
died in an epidemic, and the worms have already gnawed away his nose. And
even were he alive, you would not be forbidden to lie with me, for the laws
of the Shulchan Aruch do not apply to us."
Hurmizah the teacher's helper went on with his persuasions, some sweet,
some threatening. He invoked the names of angels and devils, of demonic
beasts and vampires. He swore that Asmodeus, King of the Demons, was his
step-uncle. He said that Lilith, Queen of the Evil Spirits, danced for him
on one foot and did every manner of thing to please him. Shibtah, the
she-devil who stole babies from women in childbed, baked poppyseed cakes for
him in Hell's ovens and leavened them with the fat of wizards and black
dogs. He argued so long, adducing such witty parables and proverbs, that
Taibele was finally obliged to smile, in her extremity.
Hurmizah vowed that he had loved Taibele for a long time. He described
to her the dresses and shawls she had worn that year and the year before; he
told her the secret thoughts that came to her as she kneaded dough, prepared
her Sabbath meal, washed herself in the bath, and saw her needs at the
outhouse. He also reminded her of the morning when she had wakened with a
black and blue mark on her breast. She had thought it was the pinch of a
ghoul. But it was really the mark left by a kiss of Hurmizah's lips, he
said.
After a while, the demon got into Taibele's bed and had his will of
her. He told her that from then on he would visit her twice a week, on
Wednesdays and on Sabbath evenings, for those were the nights when the
unholy ones were abroad in the world. He warned her, though, not to divulge
to anyone what had befallen her, or even hint at it, on pain of dire
punishment: he would pluck put the hair from her skull, pierce her eyes, and
bite out her navel. He would cast her into a desolate wilderness where bread
was dung and water is blood, and where the wailing of Zalmaveth was heard
all day and all night. He commanded Taibele to swear by the bones of her
mother that she would keep the secret to her last day. Taibele saw that
there was no escape for her. She put her hand on his thigh and swore an
oath, and did all that the monster bade her.
Before Hurmizah left, he kissed her long and lustfully, and since he
was a demon and not a man, Taibele returned his kisses and moistened his
beard with her tears. Evil spirit though he was, he had treated her
kindly...
When Hurmizah was gone, Taibele sobbed into her pillow until sunrise.
Hurmizah came every Wednesday night and every Sabbath night. Taibele
was afraid that she might find herself with child and give birth to some
monster with tail and horns - an imp or a mooncalf. But Hurmizah promised to
protect her against shame. Taibele asked whether she need to go to the
ritual bath to cleanse herself after the impure days, but Hurmizah said that
the laws concerning menstruation did not extend to those who consorted with
the unclean host.
As the saying goes, may God preserve us from all that we can get
accustomed to. And so it was with Taibele. In the beginning she had feared
that her nocturnal visitant might do her harm, give her boils or elflocks,
make her bark like a dog or drink urine, and bring disgrace upon her. But
Hurmizah did not whip her or pinch her or spit on her. On the contrary, he
caressed her, whispered endearments, made puns and rhymes for her. Sometimes
he pilled such pranks and babbled such devil's nonsense, that she was forced
to laugh. He tugged at the lobe of her ear and gave her love bites on the
shoulder, and in the morning she found the marks of his teeth on her skin.
He persuaded her to let her hair grow under her cap and he wove it into
braids. He taught he charms and spells, told her about his night-brethren,
the demons with whom he flew over ruins and fields of toadstools, over the
salt marshes of Sodom, and the frozen wastes of the Sea of Ice. He did not
deny that he had other wives, but they were all she-devils; Taibele was the
only human wife he possessed. When Taibele asked him the names of his wives,
he enumerated them: Namah, Machlath, Alf, Chuldah, Zluchah, Nafkah and
Cheimah. Seven altogether.
He told her that Namah was black as pitch and full of rage. When she
argued with him, she spat venom and blew fire and smoke through her
nostrils.
Machlath had face of a leech, and those whom she touched with her
tongue were forever branded.
Alf loved to adorn herself with silver, emeralds, and diamonds. Her
braids were spun gold. On her ankles she wore bells and bracelets; when she
danced, all the deserts rang put with their chiming.
Chuldah had the shape of a cat. She meowed instead of speaking. Her
eyes were green as gooseberries. When she copulated, she always chewed
bear's liver.
Zluchah was the enemy of brides. She robbed bridegrooms of potency. If
a bride stepped outside alone during the Seven Nupital Benedictions, Zluchah
danced up to her and the bride lost the power of speech or was taken by a
seizure.
Nafkah was lecherous, always betraying him with other demons. She
retained his affection only by her vile and insolent talk, which delighted
his heart.
Cheimah should have, according to her name, been as vicious as Namah
should have been mild, but reverse was true: Cheimah was a she-devil without
gall. She was forever doing charitable deeds, kneading dough for housewives
when they were ill, or bringing bread to the homes of the poor.
Thus Hurmizah described his wives, and told Taibele how he disported
himself with them, playing tag over roofs and engaging in all sort of
pranks. Ordinarily, a woman is jealous when a man consorts with other women,
but how can a human be jealous of a female devil? Quite the contrary.
Hurmizah's tales amused Taibele, and she was always plying him with
questions. Sometimes he revealed to her mysteries no mortal may know - about
God, his angels and seraphs, his heavenly mansions, and the seven heavens.
He also told her how sinners, male and female, were tortured in barrels of
pitch and caldrons of fiery coals, on beds studded with nails and in pits of
snow, and how the Black Angels beat the bodies of the sinners with rods of
fire.
The greatest punishment in Hell was tickling, Hurmizah said. There was
a certain imp in Hell by the name of Lekish. When Lekish tickled an
adulteress on her soles or under the arms, her tormented laughter echoed all
the way to the island of Madagascar.
In this way, Hurmizah entertained Taibele all through the night, and
soon it came about that she began to miss him when he was away. The summer
nights seemed too short, for Hurmizah would leave soon after cockcrow. Even
winter nights were not long enough. The truth was that she now loved
Hurmizah, and though she knew a woman must not lust after a demon, she
longed for him day and night.
II
Although Alchonon had been a widower for many years, matchmakers still
tried to marry him off. The girls they proposed were from mean homes, widows
and divorcees, for a teacher's helper was a poor provider, and Alchonon had
besides the reputation of being a shiftless ne'er-do-well. Alchonon
dismissed the offers on various pretexts: one woman was too ugly, the other
had a foul tongue, the third was a slattern. The matchmakers wondered: how
could a teacher's helper who earned nine groschen a week presume to be such
a picker and a chooser? And how long could a man live alone? But no one can
be dragged by force to the wedding canopy.
Alchonon knocked around town - long, lean, tattered, with a red
disheveled beard, in a crumpled shirt, with his pointed Adam's apple jumping
up and down. He waited for the wedding jester Reb Zekele to die, so that he
could take over his job. But Reb Zekele was in no hurry to die; he still
enlivened weddings with an inexhaustible flow of quips and rhymes, as in his
younger days. Alchonon tried to set up on his own as a teacher for
beginners, but no householder would entrust his child to him. Morning and
evenings, he took the boys to and from the cheder. During the day he sat in
Reb Itchele the teacher's courtyard, idly whiting wooden pointers, or
cutting out paper decorations which were used only once a year, at
Pentecost, or modeling figurines from clay.
Not far from Taibele's store there was a well, and Alchonon came there
many times a day, to draw a pail of water or to take a drink, spilling the
water over his red beard. At these times, he would throw a quick glance at
Taibele. Taibele pitted him: why was the man knocking about all by himself?
And Alchonon would say to himself each time: "Woe, Taibele, if you knew the
truth!"
Alchonon lived in a garret, in the house of an old widow who was deaf
and half-blind. The crone often chided him for not going to the synagogue to
pray like other Jews. For as soon as Alchonon had taken the children home,
he said a hasty evening prayer and went to bed. Sometimes the old woman
thought she heard the teacher's helper get up in the middle of the night and
go off somewhere. She asked him where he wandered at night, but Alchonon
told her that she had been dreaming. The women who sat on benches in the
evenings, knitting socks and gossiping, spread the rumor that after midnight
Alchonon turned into a werewolf. Some women said he was consorting with a
succubus. Otherwise, why should a man remain so many years without a wife?
The rich men would not trust their children to him any longer. He now
escorted only the children of the poor, and seldom ate a spoonful of hot
food, but had to content himself with dry crusts.
Alchonon became thinner and thinner, but his feet remained as nimble as
ever. With his lanky legs, he seemed to stride down the street as though on
stilts. He must have suffered constant thirst, for he was always coming down
to the well. Sometimes he would merely help a dealer or a peasant to water
his horse. One day, when Taibele noticed from the distance how his caftan
was torn and ragged, she called him into her shop. He threw a frightened
glance and turned white.
"I see your caftan is torn," said Taibele. "If you wish, I will advance
you a few yards of cloth. You can pay it off later, five pennies a week."
"No."
"Why not?" Taibele asked in astonishment. "I won't haul you before the
rabbi if you fall behind. You'll pay when you can."
"No."
And he quickly walked out of the store, fearing she might recognize his
voice.
In summertime it was easy to visit Taibele in the middle of the night.
Alchonon made his way through back lanes, clutching his caftan around his
naked body. In winter, the dressing and undressing in Taibele's cold hallway
became increasingly painful. But worst of all were the nights after a fresh
snowfall. Alchonon was worried that Taibele or one of the neighbors might
notice his tracks. He caught cold and began to cough. One night he got into
Taibele's bed with his teeth chattering; he could not warm up for a long
time. Afraid that she might discover his hoax, he invented explanations and
excuses. But Taibele neither probed nor wished to probe to closely. She had
long discovered that a devil had all the habits and frailties of a man.
Hurmizah perspired, sneezed, hiccupped, yawned. Sometimes his breath smelled
of onion, sometimes of garlic. His body felt like the body of her husband,
bony and hairy, with Adam's apple and a navel. At times, Hurmizah was in a
jocular mood, at other times a sigh broke from him. His feet were not goose
feet, but human, with nails and frost blisters. Once Taibele asked him the
meaning of these things, and Hurmizah explained: "When one of us consorts
with a human female, he assumes the shape of a man. Otherwise, she would die
of fright."
Yes, Taibele got used to him and loved him. She was no longer terrified
of him or his impish antics. His tales were inexhaustible, but Taibele often
found contradictions in them. Like all liars, he had a short memory. He had
told her at first that devils were immortal. But one night he asked: "What
will you do if I die?"
"But devils don't die!"
"They are taken to the lowest abyss..."
That winter there was an epidemic in town. Foul winds came from the
river, the woods, and the swamps. Not only children, but adults as well were
brought down with the ague. It rained and it hailed. Floods broke the dam of
the river. The storms blew off an arm of the windmill. On Wednesday night,
when Hurmizah came into Taibele's bed, she noticed that his body was burning
hot, but his feet were icy. He shivered and moaned. He tried to entertain
her with talk of she-devils, of how they seduced young men, how they
cavorted with other devils, splashed about in the ritual bath, tied elflocks
in old men's beards, but he was weak and unable to possess her.
She had never seen him in such a wretched state. Her heart misgave her.
She asked: "Shall I get you some raspberries with milk?"
Hurmizah replied: "Such remedies are not for our kind."
"What do you do when you get sick?"
"We itch and we scratch..."
He spoke little after that. When he kissed Taibele, his breath was
sour. He always remained with her until cockcrow, but this time he left
early. Taibele lay silent, listening to his movements in the hallway. He had
sworn to her that he flew out of the window even whet it was closed and
sealed, but she heard the door creak. Taibele knew, that it was sinful to
pray for devils, that one must curse them and blot them from memory; yet she
prayed to God for Hurmizah.
She cried in anguish: "There are so many devils, let there be one
more..."
On the following Sabbath, Taibele waited in vain for Hurmizah until
dawn; he never came. She called him inwardly and mutterer the spells he had
taught her, but the hallway was silent. Taibele lay benumbed. Hurmizah had
once boasted that he had danced for Tubal-cain and Enoch, that he had sat on
the roof of Noah's Ark, licked the salt from the nose of Lot's wife, and
plucked Ahasuerus by the beard. He had prophesied that she would be
reincarnated after a hundred years as a princess, and that he, Hurmizah,
would capture her, with the help of his slaves Chittim and Tachtim, and
carry her off to the palace of Bashemath, the wife of Esau. But now he was
probably lying somewhere ill, a helpless demon, a lonely orphan - without
father or mother, without a faithful wife to care for him. Taibele recalled
how his breath came rasping like s saw when he had been with her last; when
he blew his nose, there was a whistling in his ear. From Sunday to
Wednesday, Taibele went out as one in a dream. On Wednesday she could hardly
wait until the clock struck midnight, but the night went, and Hurmizah did
not appear. Taibele turned her face to the wall.
The day began, dark as evening. Fine snow dust was falling from the
murky sky. The smoke could not rise from the chimneys; it spread over the
roofs like ragged sheets. The rooks cawed harshly. Dogs barked. After the
miserable night, Taibele had no strength to go to her store. Nevertheless,
she dressed and went outside. She saw four pallbearers carrying a stretcher.
From under the snow-swept coverlet protruded the blue feet of a corpse. Only
sexton followed the dead man.
Taibele asked who it was, and the sexton answered: "Alchonon, the
teacher's helper."
A strange idea came to Taibele - to escort Alchonon, the feckless man
who had lived alone and died alone, on his last journey. Who would come to
the store today? And what did she care for business? Taibele had lost
everything. At least, she would be doing a good deed. She followed the dead
on the long road to the cemetery. There she waited while the gravedigger
swept away the show and dug a grave in the frozen earth. They wrapped
Alchonon the teacher's helper in a prayer shawl and a cowl, placed shards on
his eyes, and stuck between his fingers a myrtle twig that he would use to
dig his was to Holy Land when Messiah came. Then the grave was closed and
the gravedigger recited the Kaddish. A cry broke from Taibele. This Alchonon
had lived a lonely life, just as she did. Like her, he left no heir. Yes,
Alchonon the teacher's helper had danced his last dance. From Hurmizah's
tales, Taibele knew that the deceased did not go straight to Heaven. Every
sin creates a devil, and these devils are a man's children after his death.
They come to demand their share. They call the dead man Father and roll him
through forest and wilderness until the measure of his punishment is filled
and he is ready for purifications in Hell.
From then on, Taibele remained alone, doubly deserted - by an ascetic
and by a devil. She aged quickly. Nothing was left to her of the past except
a secret that could never be told and would be believed by no one. There are
secrets that the heart cannot reveal to the lips. They are carried to the
grave. The willows murmur of them, the rooks caw about them, the gravestones
converse about them silently, in the language of stone. The dead will awaken
one day, but their secrets will abide with the Almighty and His judgment
until the end of all generations.