"Anyway, they're asleep--that is something. O, my poor children!"
She can control herself no longer, and begins to cry quietly.
"What are you crying for?" asks the man.
"O, Mendele, the children are so hungry." She is making desperate
efforts to gulp down her tears.
"And what is to become of us?" she moans. "Things only get worse and
worse!"
"Worse? No, Sarah! It is a sin to speak so. We are better off than we
were this time last year. I had no food to give you, and no shelter. The
children were all day rolling in the gutter, and they slept in the
dirty courts. Now, at least, they sleep on straw, they have a roof over
their head."
Sarah's sobs grow louder.
She has been reminded of the child that was taken from her out there in
the streets. It caught cold, grew hoarse, and died--and died, as it
might have died in the forest, without help of any kind--no tearing open
the Ark[117]--no measuring of graves--nothing said over it to exorcise
the evil eye--it went out like a candle.
He tries to comfort her:
"Don't cry, Sarah; don't cry so! Do not sin against God!"
"Oh, Mendele, if only He would help us!"
"Sarah, for your own sake don't take things so to heart. See what a
figure you have made of yourself. Do you know, it is ten years to-day
since we were married? Well, well, who would think you were the beauty
of the town!"
"And you, Mendele; do you remember, you were called Mendele the
strong--and now you are bent double, you are ill--and you don't tell me!
O, my God, my God!"
The cry escapes her, the children are startled out of their sleep, and
begin to wail anew: "Bread! Hungry!"
"Who ever heard of such a thing! Who is going to think of eating
to-day!" is Mendele's sudden exclamation.
The children sit up in alarm.
"This is a fast-day!" continues Mendele with a stern face.
Several minutes elapse before the children take in what has been said to
them.
"What sort of fast is it?" they inquire tearfully.
And Mendele with downcast eyes tells them that in the morning, during
the Reading of the Law, the Scroll fell from the desk. "Whereupon," he
continues, "a fast was proclaimed, in which even sucking-children are to
take part." The children are silent, and he goes on to say:
"A fast like that on the Day of Atonement, beginning overnight."
The four children tumble out of bed; bare-footed, in their little ragged
shirts, they begin to caper round the room, shouting: "We are going to
fast, to fast, to fast!"
Mendele screens the light with his shoulders, so that they shall not see
their mother's tears:
"There, that will do, children, that will do! Fast-days were not meant
for dancing. When the Rejoicing of the Law comes, then we will dance,
please God!" The children get back into bed. Their hunger is forgotten.
One of them, a little girl, starts singing: "Our Father, our King,"
etc., and "On the High Mountain," etc.
Mendele shivers from head to foot.
"One does not sing, either," he says in a choked voice.
The children are silent, and go off to sleep, tired out with singing and
dancing. Only the eldest opens his eyes once more and inquires of his
father:
"Tate, when shall I be Bar-Mitzwah?"[118]
"Not yet, not for a long time--in another four years. You must grow and
get strong."
"Then you will buy me a pair of phylacteries?"
"Of course."
"And a little bag to hold them?"
"Why, certainly!"
"And a little, tiny prayer-book with gilt edges?"
"With God's help! You must pray to God, Chaïmle!"
"Then I shall keep all the fasts!"
"Yes, yes, Chaïmle, all the fasts," adding, below his breath: "Lord of
the world, only not any like this one--not like to-day's."
XX
THE WOMAN MISTRESS HANNAH
A PACKET OF LETTERS
1
Two letters which Hannah received from her brother Menachem Mendil, and
one letter from her sister-in-law, Eva Gütel; altogether, three letters.
FIRST LETTER
Life and peace to my worthy sister, Mistress Hannah.
I have received your letter, and I can tell you, I wept tears enough
over it, and lay sighing and groaning one whole night long. But what was
the good, seeing God in heaven is witness that I can do nothing to help
you? And as to what you write about the inheritance, I must tell you,
dear sister, there is no sense in it. According to the Jewish law, you
have no claim upon any part. Ask your husband, he is learned, he will
tell you the same thing. But you need not wait for him to tell you: a
clever woman like you can open the "German Pentateuch" and see for
herself that Zelophehad's daughters only inherited because there were no
sons. As soon as there are sons, the daughters inherit nothing, and our
father left no deed directing you were to inherit half as much as his
male descendants.
And all you say about our father, peace be upon him, not having given
you the whole of your dowry, has nothing in it, because, if you come to
think, who _does_ get the whole? You know _I_ did not, and yet I have no
claim on anyone.
Besides, common sense will tell you that if our father, peace be upon
him, did not keep to his engagement, neither did the other side, and so
the matter rested. The two parties forgave each other, as is the custom
among us Jews.
I would not trust my own judgment, but talked the matter over with our
rabbi and his assistants, and we were all agreed that so it should be.
Further, as regards your contention that you boarded at home only half a
year instead of a whole one--I know nothing about it. Our father, peace
be upon him, never told me. And you know quite well that just then I was
living separated from my family and spent the whole time at the Rebbe's,
long life to him! and Eva Gütel tells me it was this way: there was a
bit of a dispute between you over our mother's seat in the women's Shool
(peace be upon her), and you tore each other's hair, and our mother
(peace be upon her) was greatly distressed. And one Sabbath evening you
picked up your bundle and your husband and were off to his native town.
If so, what do we owe you?
Whom do you mean in your letter? Who asked you to run away? When people
want to board, they should board.
But heaven forbid that I should distress you with reproaches! I only
wish to show you how unjust you are. Of course, right or wrong, one has
to act according to law, specially in the case of a sister. Only--what
is the good of wishing? If one can't, one can't! You must know, dear
sister, that before our father of blessed memory departed, he made a
will, by which he left the large Talmud to the large house-of-study and
the small edition to the small house-of-study; the Mishnayes and the
Bible were to be sent to the meeting-room where he used to recite the
prayers--the funeral cost two hundred gulden, and I distributed alms to
the amount of fifty gulden--what am I saying? a great deal more than
fifty. I divided our father's clothes among the poor, except the silk
cloak, which I am keeping, agreeably to the will, for my little Mösheh,
so that in a propitious hour he may walk in it to the marriage canopy,
and may it be soon, even in our days, amen! What remains?
Nothing remains but the house. Well it isn't worth insuring. Even the
roof, not of you be it said, has the falling-sickness--it hangs by a
hair. The town-justice says, the old fire-wall must be taken down, and
altogether it's in a dangerous state.
You fancy, dear sister, that I am doing well for myself! When our father
died and there was an end of board, I let the three little rooms to the
left to Grunem, the dealer, called Grunem Tzop (you must have known him
and his wife Zlate). I worry along with the money, and can only just pay
the taxes and other duties that grow from day to day. Meantime I try
dodges, give the collector a sip of brandy--come later, come to-morrow!
and so on, but the rope round my neck tightens every day, and what the
end of it will be, heaven only knows!
I live in the three rooms to the right, that are one with the inn and
the public room. Times are very bad, the villages round about have taken
the pledge not to drink brandy. Beside this, the land-owner has opened
cheap eating shops and tea houses for the peasants--what more need I
say? It's despair! One may stare one's eyes out before one sees a
peasant come.
You say in your letter that everyone from here tells you I am
flourishing. The fact is, people see the possessions of others with
bigger eyes. One has to struggle for every dreier, and meanwhile there
is Beile-Sasha's wedding coming, and I am getting old and gray with it
all! The expenses are endless; they will lend you nothing; there is
still a silk over-robe wanting for the wedding outfit, and as soon as
the wedding is over, my Eva Gütel must consult a doctor. If Shmüel, the
Röfeh, advises her to go, you can imagine the condition she must be in.
I consulted the Rebbe (long life to him), and he also advised her going
to Warsaw. Her cough gets worse every day--you would think people were
chopping wood in the room.
And as to your trying to frighten me by saying that if I don't behave
myself, you will write to our relative in Lublin, and she will go to her
lawyer, and have me handed over to the Gentiles--you know, my dear
sister, that I am not the least afraid. First, because a pious woman
like you, my sister, knows very well what a Jewish court is and
(lehavdîl) what a Gentile court is. You wouldn't do anything so stupid!
No Jewish woman would do that! And, even if you wanted to, you have a
husband, and he would never allow such a shameful proceeding. He would
never dare to show himself to his Rebbe or at the Stübel again.
Besides that, I advise you not to throw away money on lawyers, they are
incredible people; you give and give, and the moment you stop giving,
they don't know who you are.
And I must remind you of the Tomàshef story which our father, on whom be
peace, used to tell. You may have forgotten it, so I will tell it you
over again. In Tomàshef there died a householder, and his daughter, a
divorced woman, fell upon the assessor--he was to give her a share in
the inheritance, according to _their_ custom. As she stood talking with
the assessor, a coal sprang out of the hearth in her room at home, the
room took fire, and a child of hers (not of you or any Jew be it said
again) was burned.
And I advise you, sister Hannah, to be sorry, and do penance for what
you have written. Trouble, as they say, steals a man's wits--but it
might, heaven forbid, be brought against you, and you ought to impose
something on yourself, if only a day's fasting.
I, for my part, forgive you with my whole heart, and if, please God, you
come to my daughter's wedding, everything will be made up, and we shall
all be happy together. Only forbear, for heaven's sake, to begin again
about going to law.
And I am vexed on account of your husband, who says nothing to me about
his health; if he is angry with me, he commits a sin; he must know what
is written about the sinfulness of anger, besides which there is a rumor
current that he was not once at the Rebbe's during the Solemn Days, but
prayed all the while in the house-of-study, and they also say that he
intends to abandon study and take up something or other else. He says he
intends to work with his hands. You can imagine the grief this is to me.
Because what shall become of the Torah? And who shall study if not a
clever head like him?
He must know that our father, on whom be peace, did not agree to the
marriage on _that_ condition. And especially nowadays, when the
"nations-of-the-world" are taking to trade, and business decreases
daily, it is for the women to do business and for the men to devote
themselves to the Torah, and then God may have mercy on us. It would be
better for him to get a diploma as a rabbi, or let him become a Shochet
or a teacher--anything--only not a trader! If I were only sure that he
wouldn't turn my child's heart away from _my_ Rebbe, I would send him my
Mösheh'le for teaching and board.
See to it that your husband gives up those silly notions, and do you buy
a shop or a stall--and may the merits of the fathers on your side and on
his be your help and stay!
Further, I advise you to throw off the melancholy with which your letter
is penetrated, so that it is heart-breaking to read. A human being
without faith is worse than a beast. He goes about the world like an
orphan without a father. We have a God in heaven, blessed be He, and He
will not forsake us.
When a person falls into melancholy, it is a sign that he has no faith
and no trust. And this leads, heaven forbid, to worse things, the very
names of which shall not pass my lips.
Write me also, sister Hannah, how peas are selling with you. Our two
great traders--you remember them? the lame Yochanan and the blind
Yoneh--have raised the price, and our nobleman cannot get any for
seed--one might do a little business. It may be heaven's will that I
should make a trifle toward wedding expenses. Of course, I don't mean
you to do me a kindness for nothing. If anything comes of it, I will
send you some money, so that you and your husband may come to
Beile-Sasha's wedding--and I will give a present for you--a wedding
present from the bride's family.
Eva Gütel sends you her very friendly greetings; she does not write
herself because it is fair-day; there are two produce dealers here of
the Samoscz gluttons, and they insist on having stuffed fish. The bride
has gone to the tailor's to be measured for a dress, and I am left alone
to keep an eye on the Gentile cooks.
Try now, dear sister, for heaven's sake, not to take things to heart and
to have faith. He who feeds the worm in the earth and the bird in its
nest, will not forsake you.
Greet your husband.
From me, your brother
MENACHEM MENDIL.
SECOND LETTER
Life and peace to my sister Mistress Hannah.
I have received your second letter. It was soaked with tears and full of
insults directed against me, my wife Eva Gütel, and even the bride,
Beile-Sasha, and it has upset me very much, for why? You say, sister
Hannah, that I am a bandit, that I met you, heaven forbid, in a wood,
and, heaven forbid, murdered you; that it was I and my wife, Eva Gütel,
who drove you from the house; that Beile-Sasha, in your opinion, is a
hussy, because she is ordering silk dresses--what am I to say? I must
listen in silence, knowing the trouble you are in--that it is not you
that speak, but your heavy heart.
But it is not as you think. I am no murderer, thank heaven! And were any
one to come from the street and declare that the cloak I am wearing is
his, and that he is going to law about it, I should go with him to the
rabbi's without a word. And if, God willing, you come to the wedding, we
will go together and have it out.
And see here: About the board you did not eat, you confess yourself in
your letter that it came about through a quarrel between you and my wife
(it's not my affair who began it), and all I see is, that your husband
was a great booby--"that he followed after his wife." They say that you
ran away in the evening following Sabbath, and made yourselves a
laughing-stock. Our father was greatly distressed, and it shortened his
days (he said so plainly--neighbors heard it), and you put it all on Eva
Gütel! It's a calumny!
But what is done, is done! Our father lies in his grave. There can be no
more question of board or anything else.
And you know very well that Beile-Sasha, the bride, is no hussy. She,
poor thing, is quite innocent in the matter. Her future father-in-law,
the Takif,[119] forced me to order the silk dresses. Once even she
cried, and said it would ruin us, but what am I to do, when the contract
says "in dresses of silk and satin," and he will hear of no
alteration--it's take it or leave it. And there would be no choice but
to see my daughter an old maid.
And you know the dowry will not be given entirely in cash. I have
promised six, and given three, hundred rubles; I have mortgaged the
house for two hundred rubles, and you know the house stands in our
father's name, so that I had to pay extra--and now I am so short of
money that may God have mercy on me.
But what is the use of telling that to a woman! Our sages were right
when they said: "Women are feather-brained," and there is the proverb:
"Long hair (in girls, of course) and short wits." I shall write
separately to your husband; he is a man learned in the Law, and he will
know that one human being should not lean upon another, because, as we
are told, a human being can only just support himself. One must have
faith.
And I am convinced that God will not forsake you. He does not forsake
the weakest fly. The Almighty alone can help you, you must pray to Him,
and I, for my part, when next I am, God willing, at _his_ house[120]
(long life to him), I shall make a special offering in your behalf. That
_must_ help.
As to the peas, the business is off. Before there was time to turn,
Gabriel, the tenant, had brought several cartloads from your part of the
country--he has made a fortune. He is about to marry a son and has
actually given a dowry! It so pleased God that you should not be able
to afford a stamp, your answer was belated, and Gabriel is the winner.
And as to what you write about your child being poorly, you must consult
the Röfeh. Don't fancy it in danger. Keep up your spirits. I have done
my part: I got up quite early, went to the great house-of-study, dropped
a coin into the collecting box of Meïr Baal-Ness, wrote on the east wall
"for complete recovery," in big letters, and as soon as we have made a
little money I will send some candles to the Shool. I will also tell the
Rebbe, and _not_ explain that your husband is no follower of _his_. And
you know that I am quite a son of the house.
From me, thy brother
MENACHEM MENDIL.
My wife, Eva Gütel, sends you a very friendly greeting; the bride,
another. One of these days, God willing, you will receive an invitation
to the wedding, and may it bring us all good luck.
MENACHEM MENDIL, the above.
THIRD LETTER
To my beloved sister-in-law and worthy relative, the excellent woman,
Mistress Hannah.
I beg to inform you that from this time on _I_ shall receive your
letters, and not my tender-hearted husband, and _I_--I will burn them.
Secondly, my dear sister-in-law, between ourselves, it was great
forwardness on your part to fall upon us just before the wedding,
turning our days into nights, and now you wish to blight our married
life with discord. You must fancy that you are still boarding with my
father-in-law, a spoiled only daughter that has never learned manners;
and just because you can't have the moon to play with, you are ready to
scratch people's eyes out, turn the world upside down, and your cries
pierce the heavens. I can hear you now, tapping with your feet, and the
bang of your fist on the table, while your ninny of a husband goes into
the corner, wags his sheep's head, and his ear-locks shake like Lulavim;
and father-in-law, may he forgive me, lets the spoiled child have her
way.
Dear sister-in-law Hannah! It is time to awaken from sleep, to forget
the empty dreams, and to realize the kind of world one is in. My
father-in-law of blessed memory has long lain in his grave--there is an
end to boarding. You can only be spoiled by your husband now, and
I--show you twice five fingers.
And I have told the postman to deliver your letters to me, not to my
husband, my innocent lamb. You know, dear sister-in-law, that people are
scandalized at the way you go on. Whoever hears of it thinks you are
possessed. Soril the Neggidah[121] told me plainly, she thought you
deserved to be crimped like a fish. And I cannot make out what it is you
want of me. It was not I, Eva Gütel, who wrote the Torah; it was not I,
Eva Gütel, who descended on Sinai, with thunder and lightning, to
deprive you of a share in the inheritance. And if my father-in-law was
as great an idler as your husband is a ninny, and no document made
special provision for you, am I to blame? It is not for me to advise the
Almighty, the keys of the Gate of Mercy are not in my pocket. There is a
Somebody whom to implore. Have you no prayer-book, no Supplications?
Pray, beg for mercy! And if your child is really ill, is there no Ark to
tear open--are there no graves to measure--no pious offerings to make?
But the only idea you have is: Eva Gütel! Eva Gütel, and once more, Eva
Gütel! If you haven't Parnosseh, whose fault? Eva Gütel's, and you pour
out upon her the bitterness of your heart. If the child is ill, whose
fault? Of course, Eva Gütel's, and you scream my head off. God in heaven
knows the truth, I am a sick woman; I struggle for breath, and if I am
vexed, I am at death's door. And when the cough seizes me, I think it's
all over--that I am done for. I live, as they say, with one foot in the
house and one in the grave. And if the doctors order me abroad to drink
the waters, I shall be left, heaven forbid, without so much as a
chemise. And who is to look after the house, and the housekeeping, and
the sick children, _wos_?
I think you know that the whole house depends on me, that Menachem
Mendil has only to move to cause a disaster. Of all putty-fingers! A man
that's no use to heaven or earth, can't put a hand into cold
water--nothing! And now, as if I hadn't troubles enough, the doctor must
needs come and say my liver is enlarged, the danger great, and, in fact,
that may heaven have mercy on me! And _you_ insisting that I am a rich
woman who can help you!
Dear sister-in-law, I tell you, you have the heart of a Tartar, not that
of a Jewish daughter; you are without compassion! It is time you left
off writing those affectionate letters of yours. And, for heaven's sake,
come to the wedding, which, please God, will be soon. _When_, I don't
exactly know, and I will not be responsible for the day. Menachem Mendil
shall go to the holy man and consult with him, so that it take place in
a propitious hour. I will be sure to tell you. And you are not to bring
presents, and if your husband, as I hope, comes with you, you will be
among the privileged guests, and I will seat you at the top of the
table. And the bride also begs very much that you will come to her
wedding. Only you must behave well, remember where you are, and not put
us to shame and confusion.
Greet your husband and wish the child a complete recovery.
From me, your sister-in-law
EVA GÜTEL.
2
Four letters which Hannah received from her husband, Shmùel Mösheh.
FIRST LETTER
To my beloved wife Mistress Hannah:
When my letter is given into your hands, I, Shmùel Mösheh, shall be
already far away. And I beg you with my whole heart to forgive me for
that same. I left you not of my own good will: I couldn't bear it any
longer, I saw plainly that there was no help for it, that the trouble
was not to be borne. We have eaten up the dowry, the inheritance has
been swallowed by your bandit of a brother. He used the time when the
letters were passing between you to have the house entered in the name
of his son-in-law's father. I couldn't set up any kind of business, I
hadn't the wherewithal. There was nothing left for me but to hang
myself, which heaven forbid, like Leezer, the tailor, or to run away to
America. I chose America, so as at least not to lose the other world as
well. And I shall not be idle there. With God's help and with the sweat
of my brow and with my ten fingers, I will earn my bread, and perhaps
God will have mercy and send a blessing into my ten fingers, and perhaps
he will also bless your trade in onions, and bring us together again;
either me to you or you to me. Amen, thus may it seem good in His sight.
And I beg of you, dear, good Hannah, not to take it to heart, not to cry
so much! You know, I only go away for the sake of Parnosseh--a "bit of
bread." You are my wife Hannah, and I am your husband, Shmùel Mösheh,
and we are both bound to the child, life and health to it. If there had
only been a piece of dry bread, I wouldn't have done it. Perhaps He
whose Name is blessed may meantime have compassion, and that, when your
brother the bandit, hears that I, heaven forbid, have left you a
grass-widow, he will be touched, his stony heart will soften, and he
will perhaps send you a few rubles.
My precious Hannah, what am I to say to you? I must tell you that the
idea of going away and leaving you with the child came into my head many
and many a time. I saw long ago that I had no other choice. I thought
it over day and night, at prayer and at study.