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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.bleman 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 Gutel 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 Gutel, 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 Gutel, 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, G.o.d 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 b.o.o.by--"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 Gutel! 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 Rofeh. 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 Mer 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 Gutel, sends you a very friendly greeting; the bride, another. One of these days, G.o.d 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 Gutel, who wrote the Torah; it was not I, Eva Gutel, 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 doc.u.ment 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 Gutel! Eva Gutel, and once more, Eva Gutel! If you haven't Parnosseh, whose fault? Eva Gutel's, and you pour out upon her the bitterness of your heart. If the child is ill, whose fault? Of course, Eva Gutel's, and you scream my head off. G.o.d 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 compa.s.sion! It is time you left off writing those affectionate letters of yours. And, for heaven's sake, come to the wedding, which, please G.o.d, 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 GuTEL.

2

Four letters which Hannah received from her husband, Shmuel Mosheh.

FIRST LETTER

To my beloved wife Mistress Hannah:

When my letter is given into your hands, I, Shmuel Mosheh, 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d's help and with the sweat of my brow and with my ten fingers, I will earn my bread, and perhaps G.o.d 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, Shmuel Mosheh, 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 compa.s.sion, and that, when your brother the bandit, hears that I, heaven forbid, have left you a gra.s.s-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.

I only waited till the child should be well. And when it got better, I hadn't the heart to tell you I wanted to go away, whither my eyes should take me. I was afraid you would say you wouldn't allow it, and that I should not be able to act against your will. So I kept everything to myself, ate my heart out in silence. But the day before yesterday, when you brought home a pound of bread, and divided it between me and the child, and said, you had eaten at our neighbor's, and I saw in your face, which turned all colors--because you cannot tell a lie--that you were fooling me, that you hadn't had a bite, then I felt how I was sinning against you. Eating the bread, I felt as if it were your flesh, and afterward, drinking a gla.s.s of tea, as if it were your blood. My eyes opened, and I saw, for the first time, what a sinner in Israel I was. And yet I was afraid to speak out. I ran away without your knowing.

I p.a.w.ned my outer cloak and prayer-scarf to Yechiel the money-lender--but don't, for the love of heaven, let anyone know--and paid for my journey. And if I should be in need, Jews are charitable and will not let me fall dead in the street; and I have made a vow that later on, when His Name shall have had mercy, and I have earned something, to give it in charity, not only what I got, but more, too, if G.o.d so please.

You must understand, my precious Hannah, how hard and bitter it is for me to go away. When our dear only child was born, it never occurred to me that I should have to leave it fatherless, even for a time.

The night I left I must have stood over your bed an hour by the clock.

You were asleep. And I saw in the moonlight, for the first time, what you, poor thing, have come to look like; and that the child was as yellow as wax. My heart choked me for terror and pity--I nearly burst out crying, and I left the room half-dead. I knocked at the baker's and bought a loaf, stole back into the house and left it with you, and stood and looked at you a little while longer, and it was all I could do to drag myself away. What more am I to tell you? A man can go through the suffering of a hundred years in one minute.