Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural

by Marvin Kaye (ed. )

  “My mother, what is happiness?

  My mother, what is Hell?

  With William is my happiness,—

  Without him is my Hell!

  Spark of my life! down, down to the tomb:

  Die away in the night, die away in the gloom!

  Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and earth,

  Reft of William are nothing worth.”

  Thus grief racked and tore the breast of Lenore,

  And was busy at her brain;

  Thus rose her cry to the Power on high,

  To question and arraign:

  Wringing her hands and beating her breast,—

  Tossing and rocking without any rest;—

  Till from her light veil the moon shone thro’,

  And the stars leapt out on the darkling blue.

  But hark to the clatter and the pat pat patter!

  Of a horse’s heavy hoof!

  How the steel clanks and rings as the rider springs!

  How the echo shouts aloof!

  While slightly and lightly the gentle bell

  Tingles and jingles softly and well;

  And low and clear through the door plank thin

  Comes the voice without to the ear within:

  “Holla! holla! unlock the gate;

  Art waking, my bride, or sleeping?

  Is thy heart still free and still faithful to me?

  Art laughing, my bride, or weeping?”

  “Oh! wearily, William, I’ve waited for you,—

  Woefully watching the long day thro’,—

  With a great sorrow sorrowing

  For the cruelty of your tarrying.”

  “Till the dead midnight we saddled not,—

  I have journeyed far and fast—

  And hither I come to carry thee back

  Ere the darkness shall be past.”

  “Ah! rest thee within till the night’s more calm;

  Smooth shall thy couch be, and soft, and warm:

  Hark to the winds, how they whistle and rush

  Thro’ the twisted twine of the hawthorn-bush.”

  “Thro’ the hawthorn-bush let whistle and rush,—

  Let whistle, child, let whistle!

  Mark the flash fierce and high of my steed’s bright eye,

  And his proud crest’s eager bristle.

  Up, up and away! I must not stay:

  Mount swiftly behind me! up, up and away!

  An hundred miles must be ridden and sped

  Ere we may lie down in the bridal-bed.”

  “What! ride an hundred miles to-night,

  By thy mad fancies driven!

  Dost hear the bell with its sullen swell,

  As it rumbles out eleven?”

  “Look forth! look forth! the moon shines bright:

  We and the dead gallop fast thro’ the night.

  ’Tis for a wager I bear thee away

  To the nuptial couch ere break of day.”

  “Ah! where is the chamber, William dear,

  And William, where is the bed?”

  “Far, far from here: still, narrow, and cool;

  Plank and bottom and lid.”

  “Hast room for me?”—“For me and thee;

  Up, up to the saddle right speedily!

  The wedding-guests are gathered and met,

  And the door of the chamber is open set.”

  She busked her well, and into the selle

  She sprang with nimble haste,—

  And gently smiling, with a sweet beguiling,

  Her white hands clasped his waist:—

  And hurry, hurry! ring, ring, ring!

  To and fro they sway and swing;

  Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,

  And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

  Here to the right and there to the left

  Flew fields of corn and clover,

  And the bridges flashed by to the dazzled eye,

  As rattling they thundered over.

  “What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

  Bravely the dead men ride through the night.

  Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?”

  “Ah! no;—let them sleep in their dusty bed!”

  On the breeze cool and soft what tune floats aloft,

  While the crows wheel overhead?—

  Ding dong! ding dong! ’tis the sound, ’tis the song,—

  “Room, room for the passing dead!”

  Slowly the funeral-train drew near,

  Bearing the coffin, bearing the bier;

  And the chime of their chaunt was hissing and harsh,

  Like the note of the bull-frog within the marsh.

  “You bury your corpse at the dark midnight,

  With hymns and bells and wailing;—

  But I bring home my youthful wife

  To a bride-feast’s rich regaling.

  Come, chorister, come with thy choral throng,

  And solemnly sing me a marriage-song;

  Come, friar, come,—let the blessing be spoken,

  That the bride and the bridegroom’s sweet rest be unbroken.”

  Died the dirge and vanished the bier:—

  Obedient to his call,

  Hard hard behind, with a rush like the wind,

  Came the long steps’ pattering fall:

  And ever further! ring, ring, ring!

  To and fro they sway and swing;

  Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,

  And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

  How flew to the right, how flew to the left,

  Trees, mountains in the race!

  How to the left, and the right and the left,

  Flew town and market-place!

  “What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

  Bravely the dead men ride thro’ the night.

  Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?”

  “Ali! let them alone in their dusty bed!”

  See, see, see! by the gallows-tree,

  As they dance on the wheel’s broad hoop,

  Up and down, in the gleam of the moon

  Half lost, an airy group:—

  “Ho! ho! mad mob, come hither amain,

  And join in the wake of my rushing train;—

  Come, dance me a dance, ye dancers thin,

  Ere the planks of the marriage-bed close us in.”

  And hush, hush, hush! the dreamy rout

  Came close with a ghastly bustle,

  Like the whirlwind in the hazel-bush,

  When it makes the dry leaves rustle:

  And faster, faster! ring, ring, ring!

  To and fro they sway and swing;

  Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,

  And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

  How flew the moon high overhead,

  In the wild race madly driven!

  In and out, how the stars danced about,

  And reeled o’er the flashing heaven!

  “What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

  Bravely the dead men ride thro’ the night.

  Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?”

  “Alas! let them sleep in their dusty bed.”

  “Horse, horse! meseems ’tis the cock’s shrill note,

  And the sand is well nigh spent;

  Horse, horse, away! ’tis the break of day,

  ’Tis the morning air’s sweet scent.

  Finished, finished is our ride:

  Room, room for the bridegroom and the bride!

  At last, at last, we have reached the spot,

  For the speed of the dead man has slackened not!”

  And swiftly up to an iron gate

  With reins relaxed they went;

  At the rider’s touch the bolts flew back,

  And the bars were broken and bent;

  The doors were burst with a deafening knell,

  And over the white graves they dashed pell mell:

  The tombs around
looked grassy and grim,

  As they glimmered and glanced in the moonlight dim.

  But see! but see! in an eyelid’s beat,

  Towhoo! a ghastly wonder!

  The horseman’s jerkin, piece by piece,

  Dropped off like brittle tinder!

  Fleshless and hairless, a naked skull,

  The sight of his weird head was horrible;

  The lifelike mask was there no more,

  And a scythe and a sandglass the skeleton bore.

  Loud snorted the horse as he plunged and reared,

  And the sparks were scattered round:—

  What man shall say if he vanished away,

  Or sank in the gaping ground?

  Groans from the earth and shrieks in the air!

  Howling and wailing everywhere!

  Half dead, half living, the soul of Lenore

  Fought as it never had fought before.

  The churchyard troop,—a ghostly group,—

  Close round the dying girl;

  Out and in they hurry and spin

  Through the dance’s weary whirl:

  “Patience, patience, when the heart is breaking;

  With thy God there is no question-making:

  Of thy body thou art quit and free:

  Heaven keep thy soul eternally!”

  ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER, Nobel prizewinning author, was born in 1904 in Poland and grew up in Warsaw. An illustrious resident of New York’s Upper West Side, Mr. Singer chooses to write in Yiddish, and his works are then translated into English. “The Black Wedding,” from the collection The Spinoza of Market Street, is a tale that accomplishes in a few pages all the promise undelivered in Ira Levin’s over-praised novel Rosemary’s Baby. (For further comment, see the “Afterword.”)

  The Black Wedding

  By Isaac Bashevis Singer

  I

  Aaron Naphtali, Rabbi of Tzivkev, had lost three-fourths of his followers. There was talk in the rabbinical courts that Rabbi Aaron Naphtali alone had been responsible for driving away his Chassidim. A rabbinical court must be vigilant, more adherents must be acquired. One has to find devices so that the following will not diminish. But Rabbi Aaron Naphtali was apathetic. The study house was old and toad-stools grew unmolested on the walls. The ritual bath fell to ruin. The beadles were tottering old men, deaf and half-blind. The rabbi passed his time practicing miracle-working cabala. It was said that Rabbi Aaron Naphtali wanted to imitate the feats of the ancient ones, to tap wine from the wall and create pigeons through combinations of holy names. It was even said that he molded a golem secretly in his attic. Moreover, Rabbi Naphtali had no son to succeed him, only one daughter named Hindele. Who would be eager to follow a rabbi under these circumstances? His enemies contended that Rabbi Aaron Naphtali was sunk in melancholy, as were his wife and Hindele. The latter, at fifteen, was already reading esoteric books and periodically went into seclusion like the holy man. It was rumored that Hindele wore a fringed garment underneath her dress like that worn by her saintly grandmother after whom she had been named.

  Rabbi Aaron Naphtali had strange habits. He shut himself in his chamber for days and would not come out to welcome visitors. When he prayed, he put on two pairs of phylacteries at once. On Friday afternoons, he read the prescribed section of the Pentateuch—not from a book but from the parchment scroll itself. The rabbi had learned to form letters with the penmanship of the ancient scribes, and he used this script for writing amulets. A little bag containing one of these amulets hung from the neck of each of his followers. It was known that the rabbi warred constantly with the evil ones. His grandfather, the old Rabbi of Tzivkev, had exorcised a dybbuk from a young girl and the evil spirits had revenged themselves upon the grandson. They had not been able to bring harm to the old man because he had been blessed by the Saint of Kozhenitz. His son, Rabbi Hirsch, Rabbi Aaron Naphtali’s father, died young. The grandson, Rabbi Aaron Naphtali, had to contend with the vengeful devils all his life. He lit a candle, they extinguished it. He placed a volume on the bookshelf, they knocked it off. When he undressed in the ritual bath, they hid his silk coat and his fringed garment. Often, sounds of laughter and wailing seemed to come from the rabbi’s chimney. There was a rustling behind the stove. Steps were heard on the roof. Doors opened by themselves. The stairs would screech although nobody had stepped on them. Once the rabbi laid his pen on the table and it sailed out through the open window as if carried by an unseen hand. The rabbi’s hair turned white at forty. His back was bent, his hands and feet trembled like those of an ancient man. Hindele often suffered attacks of yawning; red flushes spread over her face, her throat ached, there was a buzzing in her ears. At such times incantations had to be made to drive away the evil eye.

  The rabbi used to say, “They will not leave me in peace, not even for a moment.” And he stamped his foot and asked the beadle to give him his grandfather’s cane. He rapped it against each corner of the room and cried out, “You will not work your evil tricks on me!”

  But the black hosts gained ascendency just the same. One autumn day the rabbi became ill with erysipelas and it was soon apparent that he would not recover from his sickness. A doctor was sent for from a nearby town, but on the way the axle of his coach broke and he could not complete the journey. A second physician was called for, but a wheel of his carriage came loose and rolled into a ditch, and the horse sprained his leg. The rabbi’s wife went to the memorial chapel of her husband’s deceased grandfather. to pray, but the vindictive demons tore her bonnet from her head. The rabbi lay in bed with a swollen face and a shrunken beard, and for two days he did not speak a word. Quite suddenly he opened an eye and cried out, “They have won!”

  Hindele, who would not leave her father’s bed, wrung her hands and began to wail in despair, “Father, what’s to become of me?”

  The rabbi’s beard trembled. “You must keep silent if you are to be spared.”

  There was a great funeral. Rabbis had come from half of Poland. The women predicted that the rabbi’s widow would not last much longer. She was white as a corpse. She hadn’t enough strength in her feet to follow the hearse and two women had to support her. At the burial she tried to throw herself into the grave and they could barely restrain her. All through the Seven Days of Mourning, she ate nothing. They tried to force a spoon of chicken broth into her mouth, but she was unable to swallow it. When the Thirty Days of Mourning had passed, the rabbi’s wife still had not left her bed. Physicians were brought to her but to no avail. She herself foresaw the day of her death and she foretold it to the minute. After her funeral, the rabbi’s disciples began to look around for a young man for Hindele. They had tried to find a match for her even before her father’s death, but her father had been difficult to please. The son-in-law would eventually have to take the rabbi’s place and who was worthy to sit in the Tzivkev rabbinical chair? Whenever the rabbi finally gave his approval, his wife found fault with the young man. Besides, Hindele was known to be sick, to keep too many fast days and to fall into a swoon when things did not go her way. Nor was she attractive. She was short, frail, had a large head, a skinny neck, and flat breasts. Her hair was bushy. There was an insane look in her black eyes. However, since Hindele’s dowry was a following of thousands of Chassidim, a candidate was found, Reb Simon, son of the Yampol Rabbi. His older brother having died, Reb Simon would become Rabbi of Yampol after his father’s death. Yampol and Tzivkev had much in common If they were to unite, the glory of former times would return. True, Reb Simon was a divorced man with five children. But as Hindele was an orphan, who would protest? The Tzivkev Chassidim had one stipulation—that after his father’s death, Reb Simon should reside in Tzivkev.

  Both Tzivkev and Yampol were anxious to bring the union about. Immediately after the marriage contract was written, wedding preparations were begun, because the Tzivkev rabbinical chair had to be filled. Hindele had not yet seen her husband-to-be. She was told that he was a widower, and nothing was said about the five children
. The wedding was a noisy one. Chassidim came from all parts of Poland. The followers of the Yampol court and those of the Tzivkev court began to address one another by the familiar “thou.” The inns were full. The innkeeper brought straw mattresses down from the attic and put them out in corridors, granaries, and tool sheds, to accommodate the large crowd. Those who opposed the match foretold that Yampol would engulf Tzivkev. The Chassidim of Yampol were known for their crudeness. When they played, they became boisterous. They drank long draughts of brandy from tin mugs and became drunk. When they danced, the floors heaved under them. When an adversary of Yampol spoke harshly of their rabbi, he was beaten. There was a custom in Yampol that when the wife of a young man gave birth to a girl, the father was placed on a table and lashed thirty-nine times with a strap.

  Old women came to Hindele to warn her that it would not be easy to be a daughter-in-law in the Yampol court. Her future mother-in-law, an old woman, was known for her wickedness. Reb Simon and his younger brothers had wild ways. The mother had chosen large women for her sons and the frail Hindele would not please her. Reb Simon’s mother had consented to the match only because of Yampol’s ambitions regarding Tzivkev.

  From the time that the marriage negotiations started until the wedding, Hindele did not stop crying. She cried at the celebration of the writing of the marriage contract, she cried when the tailors fitted her trousseau, she cried when she was led to the ritual bath. There she was ashamed to undress for the immersion before the attendants and the other women, and they had to tear off her stays and her underpants. She would not let them remove from her neck the little bag which contained an amber charm and the tooth of a wolf. She was afraid to immerse herself in the water. The two attendants who led her into the bath, held her tightly by her wrists and she trembled like the sacrificial chicken the day before Yom Kippur. When Reb Simon lifted the veil from Hindele’s face after the wedding, she saw him for the first time. He was a tall man with a broad fur hat, a pitch-black disheveled beard, wild eyes, a broad nose, thick lips, and a long moustache. He gazed at her like an animal. He breathed noisily and smelled of perspiration. Clusters of hair grew out of his nostrils and ears. His hands, too, had a growth of hair as thick as fur. The moment Hindele saw him she knew what she had suspected long before—that her bridegroom was a demon and that the wedding was nothing but black magic, a satanic hoax. She wanted to call out “Hear, O Israel” but she remembered her father’s deathbed admonition to keep silent. How strange that the moment Hindele understood that her husband was an evil spirit, she could immediately discern what was true and what was false. Although she saw herself sitting in her mother’s living room, she knew she was really in a forest. It appeared to be light, but she knew it was dark. She was surrounded by Chassidim with fur hats and satin gabardines, as well as by women who wore silk bonnets and velvet capes, but she knew it was all imaginary and that the fancy garments hid heads grown with elf-locks, goose-feet, unhuman navels, long snouts. The sashes of the young men were snakes in reality, their sable hats were actually hedgehogs, their beards clusters of worms. The men spoke Yiddish and sang familiar songs, but the noise they made was really the bellowing of oxen, the hissing of vipers, the howling of wolves. The musicians had tails, and horns grew from their heads. The maids who attended Hindele had canine paws, hoofs of calves, snouts of pigs. The wedding jester was all beard and tongue. The so-called relatives on the groom’s side were lions, bears, boars. It was raining in the forest and a wind was blowing. It thundered and flashed lightning. Alas, this was not a human wedding, but a Black Wedding. Hindele knew, from reading holy books, that demons sometimes married human virgins whom they later carried away behind the black mountains to co-habit with them and sire their children. There was only one thing to do in such a case—not to comply with them, never willingly submit to them, to let them get everything by force as one kind word spoken to Satan is equivalent to sacrificing to the idol. Hindele remembered the story of Joseph De La Rinah and the misfortune that befell him when he felt sorry for the evil one and gave him a pinch of tobacco.