Sholem Aleichem - The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son

I wish you all the best,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Here’s an item for you. Do you remember Meir-Meshulams? He has a daughter, Shprintsl. She’s as strong and healthy as a horse — old enough to be married by now, it’s true, but still a fine girl. Well, who goes and falls for her but a book peddler, a fellow that goes from house to house with penny novels. Poor Shprintsl took such a fancy to them that she must have read a hundred and now she’s tetched in the head. She talks in strange words that no one understands, insists her name is Bertha and not Shprintsl, and says she’s waiting for a calvalier to carry her off through the window and the devil knows where, London or Stamboul…. You tell me: don’t the waffleheads who write such crazy stuff deserve to be strung up?

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, we have a great God! Just listen to this.

Now that I’m a regular at Brodsky’s, I’m known all over the Exchange. Traders come to me with a thousand different proposals: houses, country property, lumber, railroads, steamboats, factories worth millions, all on account of Brodsky…. Well, there are these two partners, neither from these parts. One goes around in a long cape with a hood and the other has a name that’s too weird to write. One day they get hold of me on my way to Brodsky’s and Long Cape says: “Listen here, Reb Menakhem-Mendl, we’d like a word with you. It’s like this. We’ve heard you’re friends with Brodsky. Don’t get us wrong. We have nothing against that.” “Well, then,” I say, “what is it that you want?” “What is it that we want?” they answer. “We want what everyone does: to make some cash. We’re traders ourselves, we have businesses. Let’s not quibble over who needs who more, because we’d like to make you a fifty-fifty offer. We’ll all earn a little less that way, but it will be money in the bank. Better a bird in the hand, as they say.” “Look,” I tell them, “let’s not beat around the bush. Don’t be shy and show me your cards.” “Praise God,” they say, “we have a full deck of them. We have coal in Poltava. We have iron in Kanyov. We have a burned-out mill in Pereyaslav. We have some brand-new machines invented by a Jew from Pinsk. We have a country squire out to trade a forest for a distillery. We have a Jew looking for a large, cheap house in Yehupetz. We have country property, woodland! Bring us the buyers and we have the estate; bring us the estate and we have the buyers.” “Nix to that,” I say. “I’m through with country property and forests. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole.” “Come, come,” says Long Cape. “You know every deal is not the same. Why, I have a property now in the Caucasus, a place sitting on fields of oil — whole geysers are gushing from the ground! They say it’s good for a million barrels a day.” “Now you’re talking!” I say. “That’s what I call a business. Count me in.”

The three of us went to the Jewish cafeteria. (I’ve stopped going to Semadenni’s because they just chuck you out anyway. The cafeteria is cozier and you can talk all day.) Just as we’re about to sign on the dotted line, in walk four more partners: a fellow I know with fat lips, a blond bluffer who sells watches, a bigger one with a red, warty nose, and another man, a widower. I needn’t tell you that I wasn’t thrilled by that, but Long Cape gave me such a lecture, with so many good points in it, that I agreed to go along. Of course, you can’t have partners without quarrels: everyone wanted a bigger share. Still, if we come to terms with the oilmen, God willing, as easily as we did with each other, we won’t be doing badly. It’s a million-smacker-apiece deal. Let it go through and I’ll rent an office on Nikolaievsky Street and be in the big time! But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fond greetings to the children, each and every single one of them.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. There was something important that I wanted to write you, but I can’t remember what it was. I’ll have to leave it for the next time.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I’ll be brief myself, because I have no strength left to write. A body might as well throw peas at the wall. “No bridegroom,” my mother says, “hears sad music at his own wedding.” Rolling in millions outside Brodsky’s door may make you a hero in Yehupetz, but you’re not such a big shot here. The millions roll past you to Brodsky and your fields of oil are a lot of water on the brain. All you’ll get from them is a good soaking! Listen to me and come home. Forget the past and anything mean I may have said. “Better a slap from a friend than a kiss from an enemy,” says my mother. Send a telegram and catch the first coach home. It will be the end of all my troubles.

I wish you nothing but the best,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

If you’d like to hear the latest news, the whole town is talking about it. Do you remember Moyshe-Meir’s Meir-Motl? He has a daughter named Ratzl and some Ratzl she is — an honest-to-God spitfire, a maddymissell with book-learning who speaks French and plays the pianer and wouldn’t give a young man the time of day. You’d never guess she came from a long line of butchers — but a miserly father makes a spendthrift son, my mother says. She’s gotten a heap of proposals, Ratzl has, and turned down every one. Nobody is good enough for her. The husband she marries has to have everything: looks, brains, money — a prince from a fairy tale! The matchmakers have tried everything. The last fellow they came up with was a real gem, a young man as rare as a drop-o’-cool fruit, a small-town boy from Avrich. They picked a halfway spot, brought the two of them there, and put them in a room to get acquainted. Right off Ratzl turns to the young man and asks, “So, what’s your opinion of Dryfuss?” “Dry-who?” he asks. “Who’s that?” “What?” screams Ratzl. “You’ve never heard of Dryfuss?” “No,” he says. “What’s his line?” The next thing you know Ratzl runs out of the room and faints and the poor fellow crawls back to Avrich with his tail between his legs. The devil take them both! Just tell me one thing: you keep smart company — who is this Dryfuss and what’s the fuss all about?

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, Brodsky and I have split up. Not that we’ve quarreled, God forbid. I simply steer clear of him. Why hang around with Brodsky when I’m about to see Rothschild in Paris?

You must be wondering why I need to see Rothschild. The answer is Caucasus oil. All the oil there belongs to Rothschild, even though he spends his time in Paris. How, then, do we bring the horse to water? Well, I had an idea. There was a big investor on the Exchange named Todres, a real go-getter. Back when the market crashed and we all took up trading, Todres went to Paris and became a millionaire. Now, by a stroke of luck, he’s in Yehupetz. I wasted no time, went to see him, and let him know loud and clear that I’m into land in the Caucasus that’s gushing with oil and needs capital. Right off the bat he says, “I have the man for you.” “And who,” I ask, “might that be?” “Rothschild,” he says. “You mean to say you know Rothschild?” I ask. “Do I know Rothschild?” he says. “I’ve lost count of how many deals we’ve done together and how much I’ve made from them.” “Excuse me for asking,” I say, “but would it be too much trouble for you to drop him a line?” “Writing Rothschild,” he says, “is no problem. The two of us are thick as thieves. But that’s neither here nor there. You have to have an itemized proposal. Otherwise there’s no point.”