Imagine, for instance, Paltiel the wadding-maker and Yossil the tanner coming and saying that our rabbi is not learned; that he is not experienced enough in the application of the Law, or that they are not satisfied with the head of the community--that they want another rabbi, another communal head. Well, wouldn't one hold one's sides laughing?

And here, in America, workmen, cigar-cutters, for instance like me, have a word to say in everything. They share in the elections, take part in the voting, and choose--a President.

And what do you think that is? A President is nothing more nor less than the supreme head of the whole country. And America, so I have heard, is ten times as large as the whole of Europe. You see what that means? Now imagine my surprise, as I sit in my room one evening, thinking of home, and suddenly the door opens, and there come in two workmen, ordinary workmen, who stand with me at the same machine, and are _Achenu Bene Yisroel_.[126] And they laid two names before me, I don't even recollect what they were, and tell me, I also am a workman, and must see to the election of a President who shall favor our cla.s.s.

And they told me that _one_ President was all for the rich people and trod down all those who lived by their ten fingers; while the second, the one they wanted to have elected, was a jewel; he stood for the workingman like a flint, and pursued the bloated upper cla.s.ses with a fierce hatred. And more such foolishness, which I did not understand.

Inwardly I laughed at them. But for the sake of peace--it is not seemly to be rude to people--I did them the favor and nodded yes.

All I wanted was to get rid of them, so as to sit down and write to you.

But--isn't it a madness?

They say, if the President is elected according to their wish, I shall earn ten dollars a week, and if not, only nine or perhaps eight.

And Leeb the reader says he understands politics--that there is sense in it all--and that if I remain here some time, I shall get to know something about it, too. Well, perhaps so--I nod my head. And I think to myself, he has taken a drop too much and is talking nonsense. But he swore that during election-time he lived on it, and had a little money over for later. I'm sure I don't see how.

But, joking apart, it's not our affair whether one or the other is President; it won't make much difference to us.

The fact is, I often feel very depressed, the tears fall from my eyes on the tobacco leaves that I am cutting, and I don't sleep well at night.

Sometimes there is a noise in my ears, and my head aches whole days together--and there is no better remedy for all this than to take paper, pen, and ink, and write a letter to my dear Hannah.

My precious wife, I cannot keep anything from you. I have to tell you everything: I am still reading the Mishnah--I have got no Talmud yet.

And do you know why? Because I have had to make another outlay.

You know that it is everywhere the same world. Although here they cry without stopping, "Liberty! liberty!" it isn't worth an onion. Here, too, they dislike Jews. They are, if possible, more contemptuous of their appearance. There are no dogs that bark at them in the street and tear their skirts, but there are plenty of hooligans here also. As soon as they catch sight of a "capote"[127] there is a cry: "Jew, Jew!" which is the same as _Zhidd_[128] with us. And they throw stones and mud--there is no lack of mud here, either. So what could I do? I did what all the Jews do here--I tucked away my ear-locks behind my ears, and I bought (to be paid for by degrees--a custom they have) "German"

clothes. There was an end to the money. And you, too, Hannah'li, when you come, will have to dress differently, for a custom stultifies a law--and it is their custom.

And as to your writing that you don't like Genendil, I cannot see why.

What ails you at her? It is not for me to set other people right.

Besides, I am sure she only does it all for Parnosseh. She is as modest by nature as any other Jewish daughter. All day long, while Leeb the reader and I are at the factory, she cooks and washes and sweeps out the rooms. It is only in the evening that she goes with her father to _their_ places of amus.e.m.e.nt, where she sings and plays and dances before the public. I sit by myself at home, read Torah, and write to you.

Towards midnight they come home, we drink tea together, and we go to bed.

And as to your saying, you think Genendil stole the spoon which was afterwards missing--that is nonsense!

Genendil may not be very pious as regards the faith, but she would never think of touching other people's property. For goodness' sake, don't ever let her hear of it. She treats me like her own child, and is always asking me if I don't need a clean shirt or a gla.s.s of tea.

She is really and truly a good girl. She gives all her earnings to her father, and treats him in a way he doesn't deserve, although at times he comes home very cheerful and talks nineteen to the dozen.

And Leeb the reader has told me that he is collecting a dowry for her, and that, as soon as he has the first thousand dollars, he will find her a bridegroom and marry her according to the law of Moses and of Israel, and she will not have to strain her throat for the public any more. I don't know if he really means it--but I hope so. G.o.d grant he may succeed and rid her of the ugly Parnosseh.

Genendil was there when he said this and blushed for shame, as a Jewish girl should do; so she is evidently agreed.

I implore you, dearest Hannah, to put away calumny and evil-speaking.

That is not right, it only does for gossips in a small town. And you, Hannah dear, must come to America. Here the women are different--less flighty, more serious, and as occupied as the men.

To return to the subject, your Shmuel Mosheh is no tailor or shoemaker, to throw over his wife for another woman. You mustn't imagine such a thing! It is an insult! You know that your words pierce my heart like knives, and if Leeb the reader and his daughter knew of it, they would forsake me, and I should be left alone in a desert! It would be a calamity, for I don't know the language, only a few words, and I should be quite helpless.

And now I beg of you, my dear Hannah, I beg very much, take the child's hand and guide it across the paper, so that it may write me something--let me see at least a mark or two it has made! Lord of the world, how often I get away into a corner and have a good cry! And why?

Because I was not found worthy to teach my child the Law! And as if I were not suffering enough, there come your letters and strew salt on my wounds. Look here, to-day Leeb the reader asked me, and Genendil, too (here she is called Sophie), nodded her head, to go with them and hear her sing and see her dance, and I wouldn't. Leeb the reader said, "Foolish Chossid!" _She_ turned up her nose. But I don't care! I shall go my own ways and not a hair's breadth will I turn aside!

Keep well, you and our child. Such is the wish of your husband

SHMuEL MoSHEH.

Please don't let on about the clothes! Not a soul in our town must know of it, or I would be ashamed to lift my eyes.

S. M.

FOURTH LETTER

To my worthy wife Mistress Hannah:

I have written ten letters without mentioning Genendil's name. I have not even mentioned her father, Leeb the reader. After a great deal of trouble, I have gone into another lodging, at a Shochet's, and haven't seen her for weeks, and yet you go on writing nothing but Genendil and Genendil, and Sophie and Sophie! And what is it you want of her? What?

May I be well, and may you be well, and may it be granted us to meet again in peace, with the child, as surely as I saw Sophie come into the factory to see her father--and the director himself went up to her and began to talk to her and to pay her compliments; and although I did not understand what he said, I know he meant no good by it. And he wanted to stroke her cheek. Well, what do you think? She gave him such a slap across the hand that I was dumbfounded! And you should have seen the way she turned away from him and went out! I was just delighted.

So you see that, in spite of everything, Genendil is a good girl, and that you are unjust to her. You tell me I shall be caught like a fish in a net and such-like rubbish. I swear to you, as it were by the Torah on the Day of Atonement, that it is a lie; that for your sake I have gone away from her and avoid her as far as possible. If we do meet, I answer a hundred words with a nod. Once more: Upon my faith, you are unjust to her! Heaven forbid, you sin before G.o.d! But that is nothing, I would have pa.s.sed it over as usual, only it has led to something so dreadful, that, G.o.d help us! I would rather the earth had swallowed me up than that I had lived to endure the shame.

Last week I was taken poorly while at work; I grew giddy and fainted.

When I came to myself, I was in bed in my own room. Beside the bed stood a doctor. He said it was a fever. I was laid up for ten days. And Leeb the reader never left me the whole time, and nursed me as if I had been his own child. Afterward, when I had recovered full consciousness, I learnt that while I lay in the fever, Sophie used to come in, too, and visit me--and it was just then there came one of your post-cards in which you pour out upon her the bitterness of your heart--they most certainly read it, because I was lying in a fever.

And while you were writing your ugly words and calumnies, they, so to say, were risking their lives for me--they sent for doctors, made up my bed and re-made it, gave me medicine, and even p.a.w.ned a few of their treasures, so that help should be there. They even brought me a bottle of wine. I never touched a drop, upon my word! but they meant it well.

Besides that they measured the height of the fever three times a day with a little gla.s.s tube--the doctors here order it to be done. And who told me all this? The butcher and his wife. Had it not been for Leeb the reader and Sophie, you would be a widow. And at the very same time, you write such foolish things. _Phe_, it is a shame! I really don't know how you are to come to America, how you are to live in America! I hope, dear Hannah'li, that you will throw off this foolishness, and not darken my life with any more such letters.

I often don't sleep at night. I imagine I see you plainly sitting at the table writing to me. You write and scratch out, and write and scratch out, and I see the letter, but I cannot read the words at the distance, and it grieves me very much that I cannot read the letter so far off.

And you take the pen and put it into the child's hand--the child is in your lap--and guide its fingers!

And you see, my dear wife, that I send you five dollars every week, that I manage with very little. And I have only three shirts altogether. I cannot ask Sophie to buy me any, and the Shochet's wife has given birth to a baby, and is not yet about again. The circ.u.mcision, please G.o.d, will be to-morrow. Yes--but that is not to the point. What I mean is, be reasonable, for your own sake, and for the sake of me, your husband

SHMuEL MoSHEH.

A postscript, written sideways down the whole length of the letter:

I have this minute received another letter from you. And now, my Hannah'li, I tell you once and for all, it is enough to make one's hair stand on end, and hardly to be believed! You write that you may as well let your hair grow and talk with gentlemen, that you also can dance and sing--and that you will go to the Rebbe's and get him to send a "special death" to both of us.

What do you mean? What words are these?

Lord of the world, what has come to you?

I think and think, till I don't know _what_ to think! This is my advice: Put away your evil-speaking and calumnies and curses! They are not for such as you! And I tell you simply this, that if you do not soon write the letter a good Jewess ought to write, I shall send and fetch the child away without you--do you hear? Otherwise--I shall throw myself into the sea. It is enough, heaven forbid, to drive one mad!

Your husband

S. M.

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