_The Mendele Review_: Yiddish Literature and Language (A Companion to _MENDELE_) ______________________________________________________ Contents of Vol. 04.010 30 June 2000 1) The Curious Publication History of the Text of the Russian Constitution of 1905 (Aharon Ariel) 2) THE NEWBORN, OR RASL (Sholem Aleichem) 1)---------------------------------------------------- Date: 30 June 2000 From: Aharon Ariel Subject: The Curious Publication History of the Text of the Russian Constitution of 1905 Louis Fridhandler's lively translation of Sholem Aleichem's little-known satire on the Russian constitution of 1905 gains in interest when we look at its publishing history. The feuilleton mocks the element of secrecy in the Russian government's handling of the public announcement of the constitution. There was, of course, no reason for the secrecy -- the tzarist regime was simply not used to sharing its business with its subjects. Astounding as it may seem, the text of the constitution was first publicized in Hebrew in the Hebrew journal _Hazman_, edited by the writer and journalist Ben-Zion Katz (1875-1958). In his autobiographical _Al itonim vaanashim_ ('On Periodicals and People') [Tel-Aviv: Tcherikover, 1983, pp. 56-58], Katz tells us that the London _Times_ and other major newspapers announced the news of the constitution on the basis of its publication in the Vilna Hebrew daily _Hazman_! The fact that a Hebrew translation preceded the Russian original was keenly felt in several quarters. The Russian antisemitic journal _Novoye Vremia_ expressed its amazement that "the paper of the zhids" knew about the constitution and they did not. Having been doubly "scooped", the Russian government finally printed the original Russian text. The constitution itself, and not merely the secrecy surrounding it, invited the scorn of Sholem Aleichem, as well as of all Jews. They knew that the constitution would do nothing to alleviate the oppressive laws and edicts under which Russian Jewry lived, and that it was never intended to do so. Katz writes about the censor, Yehoyshue Shteynberg, who approved the publication of the text of the constitution. He generally cooperated with editors and publishers: "hatsenzur lo garam lanu tsarot" -- 'The censor caused us no problems'. He was, however, pedantic regarding Hebrew grammatical correctness. For example, he disapproved strongly of the use by one writer of the word _arelit_, recognizing only the masculine form _arel_ 'uncircumcized person; gentile (pejorative)'. The feminine form, however, was good enough for Sh.-Y. Agnon, who used it a few years later. [Yiddish _areylis_, of course, is an alternative form of Yiddish _orlte_/_erlte_]. _TMR_ readers will be interested in Katz's statistics of the Hebrew and Yiddish press in Russia in 1905 -- almost a century ago. The three Hebrew dailies together -- _Hatsefira_, _Hatsofe_ and _Hazman_ -- had a little more than 20,000 subscribers, mainly intelligentsia, Zionists and Hebrew-language lovers [khovevey sfat-ever]. Each issue, Katz notes, had many readers. The sole Yiddish daily _Fraynd_ had many more subscribers than all three Hebrew papers combined. The total Jewish population in Russia then numbered over five million and Katz claims that more than 200,000 of them "knew Hebrew well," implying "well enough to read a Hebrew newspaper." Women did not know Hebrew and read either Yiddish or Russian. _Fraynd_ had the advantage of being a paper that both husband and wife could read. 2)---------------------------------------------------- Date: 30 June 2000 From: Louis FridhandlerSubject: THE NEWBORN, OR RASL (Sholem Aleichem) THE NEWBORN, OR RASL by Sholem Aleichem Translated by Louis Fridhandler >From the Yiddish "Dos Naygeborene oder Rasl" by Sholem Aleichem, in _Felyetonen_, Tel Aviv: Bet Shalom Aleichem, I.L.Peretz Publishing House, 1976, pp. 94-101. Translator's introduction: This satirical allegory focuses on the difficult "birth pangs" that the tsar apparently suffered until "delivering" a promised constitution. The piece contains no reference to the tsar, but there may be a hidden pun here. In Yiddish, _tsar_ means 'sorrow', 'anxiety'. "Der tsar fun trogn" refers to the anguish and distress of carrying (a pregnancy). The piece (bearing the title _Rasl; maasiya khadasha_ 'Rasl; a new tale') first appeared in a Hebrew version (available in Sholem Aleichem: _Katavim ivriim_ ['Hebrew Writings'], selected and edited by Khone Shmeruk, Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1976, pp. 322-330). Under the title, Sholem Aleichem added a note: "This story may be read by whoever wants to, except little boys and big girls." Khone Shmeruk adds (p. 322): The story appeared in _Hazman_, no. 94, 16 May 1905. No other publication of the Hebrew text has as yet been located. Seven months later, the Yiddish version (under the title _Dos naygeborene, a siper hamayse_) was printed in the Warsaw paper, _Der Veg_, 15 Dec. 1905, p. 74. The staff added the following note (in Yiddish): This feuilleton was sent to us three months ago, but the censor drew certain implications: that Rasl(1) meant Russia, Anzi and Franzi stood for England and France, Rive-Leyetshe (the midwife) represented revolution [in Yiddish, revolutsye], the newborn child meant the constitution, etc. Consequently, we were not able to print it until now. If we rely on the notations by the staff of _Der Veg_, it seems that the Hebrew text was passed by the censor due to the good connections with the authorities enjoyed by Ben-Zion Katz and his paper. After the October revolution, the 1905 constitution was granted. Only then was publication of the Yiddish text permitted when Sholem Aleichem was already out of the country. It is therefore quite possible that Sholem Aleichem was unaware of the publication in _Der Veg_. The story appeared in an unidentified Am erican Yiddish paper with a note given by I.D. Berkowitz in _Dos Sholem-Aleykhem Bukh_, p. 365. The information there is incomplete and erroneous. (Translated from Khone Shmeruk's Hebrew text by the late Harry Gonda, M.D. who survived the Holocaust with the help of Raoul Wallenberg.) [Translator's comments resumed] Sholem Aleichem and his family left Russia at the end of 1905 shortly after the widespread pogroms in the wake of the newly granted constitution. Besides his disgust with the state of affairs in Russia in general, he may have perceived a directly personal threat to his safety. His brother, Vevik Rabinovitch, wrote a biography of Sholem Aleichem [_Mayn Bruder, Sholem-Aleykhem_, fun Vevik Rabinovitsh, Kiev: Melukhe Farlag far di Natsyonale Minderhaytn in USSR, 1939]. On page 137, Vevik shows a photograph of a document from the files of the Russian secret police, social division, dated October 14-15, 1903. Orders were issued to maintain surveillance and to file systematic reports on the acquaintances, relatives, meetings, and occupation of Solomon Naumovitch (as Sholem Aleichem was known, Russian style to Russian authorities). On page 135, Vevik quotes Sholem Aleichem, "Who knows? Maybe a shadowy stranger now follows me" indicating his apprehension of being closely watched by police. Thus, in the face of the 1905 pogroms, Sholem Aleichem was not only fed up with chaotic Russia, but fearful that something in his background might single him and his family out for special "treatment." Sholem Aleichem could not have expected that the publication of this satire (as well as his satire on the Russo-Japanese war) would endear him to the Russian regime. For several reasons, it was time to leave. In addition to the political allusions quoted in Shmeruk's introduction (above), we may draw allusions probably obvious to Sholem Aleichem's contemporary readers: the "big family" meant Russia; "papa and mama" were the authoritarian rulers; the annoying " children" ever underfoot were the Russian populace; the "cheeky rhymester" was Sholem Aleichem himself. Now to the story. 1. Our family is a big family, great and famous. You want to know what makes it famous? "Its drunken skunks and thieving punks; haughty clods, and pious frauds; moneyed frumps and highborn lumps; brawling toughs with filthy scruffs; and...." That's what some relative said of our family. But then, he's a writer, a cheeky rhymester, a sly mischief-maker. Who can tell what a versifier might think of next! So who cares? Actually, the way I remember it, our house was pious, observant and honor able. We skipped no prayers and blessings. We washed before meals. God forbid that anyone speak loud at the table, or burst out laughing, or go where they're not supposed to, or speak of matters not allowed. Only at the risk of life could you stick yo ur nose into house affairs, or question management, or try sniffing out what the cooks were up to. In a word, respect was sternly enforced through fear: "If you know what's good for you, you will do what God commands, what papa and mama demand, what all good, pious people demand." Now can you imagine this disgrace? Our Rasl, our sister Rasl, a grown girl, modest, devout, fell suddenly ill. Nobody knows why or how (may we be guarded and protected from that). She remained strong and healthy in body, but a sort of melancholy came over her, and she could find no place of rest for herself. Couldn't sit, lie down, walk, or stand. "What's the matter, Rasl?" "I don't know." "Where does it hurt?" "Nowhere." Papa and mama took her to a well-known wonder-worker, laid cash on the table, and told the story. "She won't eat, can't sleep, can't rest. She's just not her old self at all any more!" The man of miracles gave her an amulet, and suggested remedies to guarantee complete and perfect recovery. Nothing helped. Day by day, poor Rasl got worse. Not the way she used to be! As she didn't eat or sleep, and had no rest, she should have shrunk, become thin. The only miracle, however, was that poor Rasl beca me fatter and wider, instead. In desperation they sent for the sorceress and paid her to try exorcism. She conjured spells by moonlight, and advised that Rasl be rolled about wrapped in cold sheets, and bound with ropes. Did it help? Like the snows of yesteryear. Rasl, alas, worsened every day. Didn't eat or drink or sleep or rest. Not the Rasl we knew! 2. Our family, as I already told you, is a big one, but dependable. For example, if one of us suffers ruination the others come to pay a sick call. When Rasl took to bed, along came all the uncles and aunts, the cousins and second cousins, asking about Ras l (not out of pity but simply to find out). "What's with Rasl? How come we don't see Rasl around these days?" More eager to know than everybody else were Auntie Anzi and Auntie Franzi. It occurs to me that I ought to introduce you to those two aunties. Auntie Anzi is tall and skinny as a palm twig. She's a rich aristocrat, but (may she forgive me) a cunning hypocrite. My mama says, "May half of what she wishes us happen to her!" Auntie Anzi is vain and proud. We don't expect her to visit except maybe on a holiday; but when Rasl began ailing, she turned into a devoted auntie, coming over every day asking, "What's up with Rasl? Why don't we ever see Rasl these days?" So different from Auntie Anzi is Auntie Franzi: petite, full of cheer (in fact, a bit too jolly); paints and powders herself; pirouettes this way and that. She wears a large, fine-feathered hat, and claims to be our only tried and true friend. "My heart aches so," she said, "For your Rasl, poor thing." That's what she said, slyly casting glance after glance at Rasl, all the while nodding her head and smiling strangely. "If you'd take my advice," said she, "You'd pay a visit to the doctor. I myself once had the same disease." "Really? Just what kind of disease was that?" asked mama. "Whatever it was, that's what it was, as long as I'm done with it." So said Auntie Franzi as she peeked at Rasl, nodding her head while smiling strangely. Auntie Franzi badgered us with "doctor, doctor" and tried our patience until mama took Rasl to the doctor who asked where it hurt. "No place," answered mama. "But she won't eat or drink, sleep or rest. She's not the same Rasl any more!" After he examined her, the doctor told Rasl to leave the office, and asked mama to stay. He had something to tell mama that no one else should hear. What he told her, nobody knows, but when she came home, mama's face was fiery red. She called papa aside, locked herself up with him in their room, and they whispered secrets for a long, long time. Both were flushed with anger when they came out. In a burning rage they favored us, the youngsters, with a few fine smacks, shoves and jabs, twisting our ears, yelling, "Why are you children always underfoot, tangling our legs?" That evening, they summoned the religious teacher and the tutor (in our house we had both) to settle accounts. Then those two were sent packing, and politely told to go away, the farther the better, the sooner the better; and they were asked to forget they were ever here. It broke our hearts to see this pair go. Sadly, we youngsters ushered them out. On the way out, we caught a few jabs from our parents, as usual. "Children shouldn't always be underfoot, tripping us." 3. After that, Rasl could not leave the house. They didn't let her see the light of day, kept every living soul away from her, except some old woman, dark as a gypsy, with blazing, black, beady eyes. Looked like a witch. Nobody knows what the witch was doing there. All we heard were shouts, weird groans and crying. We had to watch our step as things got very strict at our house. Everybody sulked, walked about seething with anger. Papa and mama snapped at each other, and both were exasperated with the whole world. They took out their bitterness on us, the children , as usual. For just one unbidden word, we were ripped apart, beaten up and scolded. "Children shouldn't always be underfoot, tripping us up." Later, they didn't even call poor Rasl to the table at mealtime. They didn't let her out of her room, or let us get near her. Her name was no longer mentioned as though Rasl had never existed. How strange! The more they hid Rasl, the more we wanted to see her. We were drawn to her like a magnet. An idea popped into our heads, and we wrote her a letter. Our relative, that luckless ne'er-do-well, that writer we told you about, wrote it for us (in rhyme, of course). We held on to the letter for a few days, not knowing how to deliver it. Then we turned to the witch (that was our only name for her), and told her she could do us a big favor. The witch listened to us attentively with a very amiable smile, and promised to help. "O, with the greatest of pleasure! Children ask? Sure! Why not?" She took the letter and promised to fulfill our plot in utmost secrecy. That very night, papa invited us into a separate room, made us lie down, and (begging our pardon) rendered judgment and punishment in the old-fashioned way. He assured us that should we ever dare to write such letters to Rasl again, we'd get much more of the same, in double portions. Of course, we soon conveyed news of this to our penniless relative, that hapless writer. He burned with indignation, gripped pen in hand, and dashed off a few verses about our family. The poem, I recall, began like this: A noble family did fall, Its high repute dismissed by all: One evening with no chaperone Their pious daughter walked alone, But as she walked without a light Distracted from her path that night, She trod with care as though through jelly, And then developed quite a .... I don't remember what came after that, but we copied and memorized those verses, howling with laughter as we rehearsed them. Our parents noticed the bits of paper stuck all around us and heard the hearty laughter we enjoyed. They began to search us, and shook the fine little poem out of our pockets. Before any other ceremony, they delivered as many blows as we could stand. Then they locked us in the calf's stall for the night with a warning that death would be the least we'd suffer if we ever met with that poor relative again. That sorry good-for-nothing! They sent a message to the poet that should he ever set foot on our terrain, he'd learn what it meant to have arms and legs broken. 4. The family kept coming to call. As usual, Aunties Anzi and Franzi came more often than any other relative. They asked, "What's with Rasl? Why don't we see Rasl anywhere these days?" Auntie Anzi all at once became attached to us with great warmth and compassion. Each day she sent someone to ask if we needed a piece of ice or a bit of jam, or this or that. Once she condescended to come herself, and proposed something, whispering into mama's ear. Mama flew into a rage. "Who asked you?" she yelled. "Don't offer us any of your favors! Go, in the best of health. We know plenty about you and your kind favors!" Auntie Anzi left in a huff, but later sent diapers, swaddling clothes, and children's leggings. We didn't understand at all why anyone should be so irritated by a gift of leggings. Anyhow, we got our fill of smacks that night. "Why must children always be underfoot?" Auntie Franzi (whom we all considered our only friend, tried and true) came over once wearing her fine hat and a pretty veil. She sat for a while, and kept on sitting with us, as she glanced slyly and peeked coyly, until she finally said to mama with a friendly smile, "If you like, I'll send over Rive-Leyetshe. She is a wonderful jewel! Her hands have such a light touch. If not for Rive-Leyetshe," said Auntie Franzi with a syrupy smile, "I don't know what would have happened to me that time, when I was... (God forbid it should ever happen again)." Mama somehow didn't like that syrupy smile, and answered with a dig, "For your kindness, may the One above repay you double, but there is an old saying: God, please defend me from good friends; I can protect myself from enemies." Auntie Franzi figured out which way the wind blew, got up, and went off smiling her same old sugary smile. 5. A frightful tumult, an uproar awakened us one night: doors banged, feet stomped up and down stairs, many, many people jabbered noisily. Wild, unearthly yells came from Rasl's chamber, as though somebody was being murdered. It was dark in the house, and bedlam ruled the street. We youngsters were afraid to get out of bed. Our teeth chattered as we dug our faces into the pillows. Then a strange hush fell over the house. We heard an occasional groan, and finally, an odd shriek. Open-mouthed, we strain ed our ears. What was it all about? Then we heard a familiar voice, papa's, say, "Well?" Mama's voice answered, "It's over." * * * It was a bright and lovely summer day. The sun gently warmed every nook and cranny. Faces, too, were summery, warm, bright and cheerful. Even the servants in the house walked about with heads held high. Everything had been turned upside down in our ho use. Mama and papa were not angry with each other, nor with us youngsters. No more were we carried by our hair. They didn't twist our ears, or jab us in the belly so that "children shouldn't always hang around underfoot." In our house, everything had turned around. What brought about this transformation? Apparently from whatever happened in Rasl's room; because every time mama came out, her face shone, and her moist eyes seemed lightly covered by a thin, transparent veil. In that room lay Rasl, softly groaning and moaning, "Oy." The turnaround had come from a newborn little creature whose voice was also heard. It was a little girl named.... Can you guess what name she was given? ____________ Notes 1) The name _Rasl_ is clearly Litvish _sabesdik losn_ (= _shabesdik loshn_) for _Rashl_, a diminutive of _Rokhl_ 'Rachel'. [There is a character named Beyle-Rashe in Yekheskl Kotik's _Mayne zikhroynes_ (Vol. 2, chapter 1 and passim)]. _Rashe_ is either a back-formation from Rashl or Rashl is a diminutive of Rashe. [_roshe_ 'evil person' has /o/ and not /a/; Louis Fridhandler has mentioned to me seeing a pun on _roshe_ in one of Sholem Aleichem's letters.] The alliterated initial consonant /r/ itself is probably enough to alert the reader to the allegorical sense, given the total context of the feuilleton. _Rive-Leyetshe_ is a transparent and cleverly comical play on _revolutsye_, whose two initial unstressed syllables many Yiddish speakers would indeed pronounce /rive/. The diminutive _tshe_ mocks the high-sounding but too often insidious "revolutsye." A midwife called Rive-Leyetshe sounds real; the party of revolution often employed the midwife metaphor. [L.P.] __________________________________________ End of _The Mendele Review_ 04.010 Leonard Prager, editor Subscribers to _Mendele_ (see below) automatically receive _The Mendele Review_. Send "to subscribe" or change-of-status messages to: listproc@lists.yale.edu a. For a temporary stop: set mendele mail postpone b. To resume delivery: set mendele mail ack c. To subscribe: sub mendele first_name last_name d. To unsubscribe kholile: unsub mendele ****Getting back issues**** _The Mendele Review_ archives can be reached at: http://www2.trincoll.edu/~mendele/tmrarc.htm