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

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

Second, what did I tell you, you damned fool? You should kiss every word I write! “The wise man blesses the whip that flogs him,” says my mother. A fine businessman you’ve turned out to be, you and your rotten gang of provisionals, ragpickers, scribblers, singsongers, and mice chasers — what a laugh! I can’t think of better company in which to sit in a Yehupetz boarding house throwing rubles out the window.

Well, at least you show signs of coming to your senses. You say you reckon you’re not meant to strike it rich. Do you still doubt it, Mendl? I’ve been shouting at you at the top of my lungs to put all that nonsense aside. May my life be as hard and your brains stay as addled as you’ll ever see a million rubles. Forget it, Mendl! Forget there’s a Brodsky in the world! You’ll only be the better for it. “Keep your eyes on the ground, not the clouds”—isn’t that what our holy books say? Stop envying the Yehupetz Jews and their parties. Let them party till they croak. They can break every bone in their bodies! As always I am,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Tell me, my dear Mendl, what’s gotten into you that you suddenly remembered Kasrilevke? And since when do you worry about my health? A body might almost think you miss us. My mother would say, “Let the calf run free, it will come home by itself when it’s hungry.” I’m waiting for a telegram telling me when you’ll arrive. It’s about time. I pray this is my last letter.

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, I’ve had it with business: no more Exchange, no more deals, no more Semadenni’s. They’re all a sneaking, thieving swindle! I have a brand-new profession, a much finer and more respectable one. I’m happy to say I’ve become a writer. In fact, I’m writing already.

How, you ask, do I come by literature? It seems I was born for it.

If you recall my last letter, I mentioned a writer who is staying with me in my boarding house. He writes for the papers and makes a living from it. The way it’s done is, he sits and writes and sends it off and gets a kopeck a line when it’s printed: the more lines, the more kopecks. Well, I thought it over and asked myself: Good lord, what does he do that I can’t? What’s the big trick? After all, I went to school just like he did and have a better handwriting — why not give it a try and toss off a line or two for the Jewish papers? What can I lose? No one will chop off my head. The worst that can happen is, I’ll get no for an answer.

And so I sat down and wrote a letter to the editor with my autogeography — how I played the market in Odessa and Yehupetz, and how I sold my soul for fool’s gold, Londons and stocks & bonds and every horse I could bet on, and how I went from rags to riches and back again, seventy-seven times a millionaire and seventy-eight a beggar. I cut no corners, wrote everything down to the last detail, and sent off ten pages. If they liked my writing, I said, they could have as much as they wanted.

Don’t think that a month and a half didn’t pass without an answer. The paper wrote that it liked my writing and wanted more. If it was as good as the sample I sent, it would print it and pay me a kopeck a line. What do you say to that? I sat down and figured out that in summer, when the days are long, I can knock out a thousand lines per day. That’s a ten-spot right there — and there are thirty days in a month! Not bad, a starting salary of 300 rubles…. Straightaway I went out, bought a ream of paper and a bottle of ink, and got to work. And since I’m busy writing, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest regards to your parents and to the children, each and every one.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. If with God’s help I get ahead with my writing — that is, if I acquire the literary reputation I soon hope to — I’ll ask the editors to advance you a few rubles. I wish you, my dear wife, to benefit equally from my new line of work. It’s more honorable than business, which is why it pays an honorarium and not a commission. It’s an easy way to make a decent living.

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, my precious darling, what can I say? Bullets couldn’t stop you, much less words. One might as well shoot at a stone. My mother, bless her, was a wise woman when she said: “A sick man will recover and a black one will turn white before a fool stops being a fool.” You can’t tell me she wasn’t right! I weep to think of all the tricks you’ve played on me since I’ve had you for a husband …and now, as if all that weren’t enough, you decide to become a circus clown. A penny-a-liner! And to think there are even worse fools than you who will pay to read what you write! Who knows what new trouble your scribbling, God forbid, may get us into? From you, I’ve learned to expect the worst. As my mother says, there’s no need to show the beaten dog a stick…. Not that this will stop his lordship from chasing wild geese and dreaming of easy street. Far from it! He sits writing in his Yehupetz boarding house and leaves the children and me with the grippe in Kasrilevke. Every one of us is down with it, we’ve been sick for the past three weeks…. And as for the advances that I’ll get, I’m much obliged, but you’ll be lucky if that honorarity of yours is enough to buy your fine gang a hot meal. You’re one rarity of a nincompoop yourself! If you don’t want a wife who dies young with a clutch of orphans, give up your littleture and pipe dreams and come home. You’ll be a welcome guest. “Better to foul your own nest than another’s,” my mother says. As always, I wish you the best.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Do you remember Moyshe-Dovid the bill collector? He’s been wanting to dump his wife for some time and couldn’t think of a way, and so he finally took off for America. Well, she caught up with him at the border and taught him a lesson he’ll never forget. I wish he’d get the grippe himself.

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, I’m taking literature by storm, praise God. I’ve already appeared in the papers with all the writers and feel like a new man. The first time I saw my name in print— Menakhem-Mendl —I was moved to tears. What for? For there being such fine, honest people in the world! I’m speaking of the editorial board. After all, I’m not the only writer around, there are plenty of others besides me — and yet not only did it read every word that I wrote, it answered me in writing itself, in a letter delivered to my own mailbox, saying it liked my piece very much. It was just a bit on the long side — that was number one. And number two was, it doesn’t want me making things up. It wants a literary description —its very words — of life in Yehupetz with all its types. That means it wants to know everything.