Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories

by Sholem Aleichem

  “The perfect fit!” he says with another look at my girls.

  “Where does this match of yours come from?” I ask him. “I’m warning you right now that if he smells of the meat counter, I don’t want to hear another word!”

  “God forbid!” he says. “There’s not an ounce of meat on him. As a matter of fact, Reb Tevye, it’s someone you know well.”

  “And you’re sure it’s on the up-and-up?” I say.

  “Why, it’s so far up it’s heavenly!” he says. “It’s a dream—custom-made and alterations free.”

  “In that case,” I say, “perhaps I can ask you who it is.”

  “Who is it?” he says, stealing a sideways glance once more. “The match I have in mind for you, Reb Tevye, is none other than myself.”

  I wouldn’t have jumped to my feet any faster if he had poured boiling water over me. He jumped up too, and we stood facing each other like a pair of fighting cocks.

  “Are you crazy?” I said. “Since when can you be the matchmaker, the father-in-law, and the groom all rolled into one? I suppose you want to be the rabbi and the bandleader too! I never in all my life heard of a young man making matches for himself.”

  “All your enemies, Reb Tevye,” he says, “should be as crazy as you think I am. You can take my word for it that they don’t come any saner than me. In fact, it’s a sign of my sanity that I want to marry your Tsaytl—and the proof is that even the richest Jew in Anatevka, Layzer Wolf, wants to take her off your hands free of charge. Do you think that’s a secret? Why, the whole town knows about it! And as for what you say about a matchmaker, I’m surprised at you, Reb Tevye. I wouldn’t have thought that a Jew like yourself had to be spoon-fed … But why beat around the bush? The truth of the matter is that your daughter Tsaytl and I decided to get married a year ago.”

  I tell you, he might as well have knifed me in the heart! In the first place, how could a tailor boy like Motl even dream of being my son-in-law? And in the second place, what kind of decided to get married a year ago?

  “Well,” I said to him, “and just where does that leave me? Did it ever occur to you that I might also be asked—that I might happen to have an opinion on my daughter’s future too?”

  “Of course it did,” he says. “That’s why I’m here, to ask you. As soon as I heard that Layzer Wolf was interested in your daughter, who I’ve been in love with for over a year, as you know—”

  “So far,” I say, “all I know is that Tevye has a daughter named Tsaytl and that you’re Motl Komzoyl the tailor boy. But what do you have against her that you want to marry her?”

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “I’m not just telling you that I love your daughter. I’m telling you that she loves me too. It’s been over a year since we swore to be husband and wife. I had meant to talk to you about it long ago, but I kept putting it off until I had saved up a few rubles to buy a sewing machine and outfit myself properly, because anyone who’s anyone these days owns at least two suits and a pair of matching vests …”

  “Tfu!” I said. “A child like you ought to be spanked. What exactly do you propose to live on after the wedding—the money you’ll get from pawning your stomachs, since you won’t be needing them anyway? Or do you plan to feed your wife matching vests?”

  “Reb Tevye, I’m amazed at you,” he says. “I don’t believe you had a house to call your own when you were married, either—and yet just look at you now! What’s good enough for other Jews is good enough for me. And besides, I have a profession …”

  Well, to make a long story short, he talked me into it. After all, why pretend: what do most Jewish children have in the bank when they marry? If everyone acted sensibly, there wouldn’t be a Jewish wedding in the world.

  One thing still bothered me, though: I simply couldn’t understand how they had decided such a thing on their own. What has the world come to when a boy meets a girl and says to her, “Let’s you and I get married, just the two of us”? You’d think it was as simple as eating an onion!… But when I saw my Motl standing there with his head bowed contritely, looking so serious and sincere, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I had the wrong attitude. What was I being so snooty about and who did I think I was, the great-grandson of Rabbi Tsatskeleh of Pripichek? One might suppose I was giving my daughter a huge dowry and buying her a grand trousseau … Motl Komzoyl may be only a tailor, I thought, but he’s a fine, hardworking boy who’ll support his family, and he’s as honest as the day is long, why look down on him? Tevye, I said to myself, stop hemming and hawing and sign on the dotted line! How does the Bible put it? Solakhti kidvorekho—congratulations and good luck to you both!

  But what was I going to do about the wife? I was sure to get it in the neck from her unless I could make her see the light. “You know what, Motl?” I said to my future son-in-law. “You go home and leave the rest of it to me. There’s one or two people I need to have a word with. As it says in the Book of Esther, vehashtiyoh kedos—there’s a right and a wrong way to do everything. Tomorrow, God willing, if you haven’t changed your mind, you and I will meet again …”

  “Changed my mind?” he says. “I should change my mind? May sticks and stones break all my bones if I do a thing like that!”

  “There’s no need for oaths,” I say, “because I believe you without them. Now run along home, and sweet dreams …”

  And with that I went to bed too. But I couldn’t fall asleep. I was thinking so hard of plan after plan that I was afraid my head would explode. Until finally I hit on the right one. What was it? Be patient and you’ll hear what a brainstorm Tevye had.

  In a word, in the middle of the night, when the whole house was sound asleep, snoring and whistling to wake the dead, I suddenly sat up in bed and began to shout at the top of my voice, “Help! Help! For God’s sake, help!”

  Everyone woke up, of course, and quickest of all, my wife Golde. “My God, Tevye,” she said, shaking me, “wake up! What is it? What are you screaming for?”

  I opened my eyes, glanced all around as though looking for someone, and gasped in a trembling voice, “Where is she?”

  “Where is who?” asks my wife. “Who are you looking for?”

  “For Frume Soreh,” I say. “Layzer Wolf’s Frume Soreh was just here.”

  “You must have a fever,” she says. “God help you, Tevye, Layzer Wolf’s Frume Soreh passed away years ago.”

  “I know she did,” I say. “But she was just standing here by my bed, talking to me. And then she grabbed me by the throat and tried to choke me!”

  “Oh, my God, Tevye,” she says, “you’re delirious. It was only a dream. Spit three times against the Evil Eye, tell me what you dreamed, and you’ll see that it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “God bless you, Golde,” I say. “If it weren’t for you, I would have croaked on the spot from sheer fright. Bring me a glass of water and I’ll tell you my dream. But I’ll have to ask you, Golde, to control yourself and not panic, because our holy books say that no dream can come true more than seventy-five percent, and that the rest of it is pure poppycock, such stuff and nonsense that only a fool would believe in … And now listen. At first I dreamed that we were having some sort of celebration, a wedding or an engagement party, I’m not sure which. All sorts of people were there, the rabbi too, even a band of musicians. Then a door opened and in came your Grandmother Tsaytl, God rest her soul …”

  As soon as I mentioned her grandmother, my wife turned as white as the wall and cried out, “How did she look and what was she wearing?”

  “She looked,” I said, “like your enemies should, as yellow as wax, and she was wearing something white, it must have been a funeral shroud … ‘Mazel tov!’ she says to me. ‘I’m so pleased to hear that you’ve chosen a fine young man for your Tsaytl, your eldest daughter who’s named for me. He’s called Motl Komzoyl, after my cousin Mordechai, and he’s an excellent fellow, even if he is a tailor …’ ”

  “Why in the world,” says my Golde,
“is she bringing us a tailor? We’ve always had teachers in our family, cantors, beadles, even undertakers—I won’t say that some of them weren’t poor, but we never, God forbid, had a shoemaker or a tailor.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Golde,” I said. “Your Grandmother Tsaytl must know what she’s talking about—though in fact I also said, ‘Grandma, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong: Tsaytl’s fiancé is a butcher, not a tailor, and his name is Layzer Wolf, not Motl Komzoyl …’ ‘No,’ says your Grandma Tsaytl. ‘No, Tevye, you’ve got it wrong: Tsaytl’s young man is called Motl. He’s a tailor, all right, and he and she, God willing, will have a long and happy life together …’ ‘Right you are, Grandma,’ I say. ‘But what exactly do you propose that we do about Layzer Wolf? I hope you realize that I’ve given him my word …’ No sooner had I said that than I looked up—your Grandmother Tsaytl was gone! Now Frume Soreh was standing in her place, and this is what she said to me: ‘Reb Tevye! I’ve always thought you were a learned, honorable Jew; would you kindly explain to me, then, how you can let your daughter take over my house, sit in my chairs, carry my keys, walk around in my coats, put on my jewelry, and wear my pearls?’ ‘But why blame me?’ I say to her. ‘That’s what your Layzer Wolf wants.’ ‘Layzer Wolf?’ she says. ‘Layzer Wolf will come to no good end, while as for your daughter Tsaytl—I feel sorry for your daughter, Reb Tevye, because she won’t live out three weeks with him. If she does, I promise you that I’ll come to her in person the next night and throttle her, like this …’ And with those very words, Golde, Frume Soreh grabbed me by the throat and began to squeeze so hard that if you hadn’t waked me when you did, I’d be in the world to come now.”

  “Tfu! Tfu! Tfu!” goes my wife, spitting three times. “May the river drown it, may the earth swallow it up, may the wind carry it off, may the forest blot it out, and no harm come to us and our children! May the butcher have black dreams himself! He should break a hand and a foot before anything happens to Motl Komzoyl’s little finger, even if he is a tailor! Believe me, if he’s named after my cousin Mordechai he doesn’t have a tailor’s soul. And if my grandmother, may she rest in peace, has taken the trouble of coming all the way from the next world to wish us a mazel tov, we’d better say mazel tov ourselves. It should only turn out for the best. They should have lots of happiness, amen and amen!”

  Why make a short story long? I must be made of iron if I could manage to lie there under the blankets without bursting from laughter. Borukh shelo osoni ishoh—a woman is always a woman … Needless to say, we celebrated the engagement the next day and the wedding soon after, and the two lovebirds are as happy as can be. He tailors in Boiberik, going from dacha to dacha for work, and she’s busy day and night, cooking, and baking, and washing, and scrubbing, and fetching water from the well. They barely manage to get by. In fact, if I didn’t bring them some produce now and then, and sometimes a bit of cash, they’d be in a real fix—but listen to her and she’s sitting on top of the world as long as she has her Motl …

  Well, go argue with today’s children! It’s like I said at the beginning, bonim gidalti veroymamti: you can slave for them, you can knock your head against the wall—veheym poshu vi, they still think they know better than you do. No, say what you will, today’s children are too smart for their own good. But I’m afraid I’ve chewed your ear off even more than usual today. Please don’t hold it against me—you should only take care and be well!

  (1899)

  HODL

  You’ve been wondering, have you, Pan Sholem Aleichem, where I’ve been all this time? Tevye’s changed quite a bit, you say, grown suddenly gray? Ah, if only you knew the troubles, the heartache, that I’ve been through! It’s written that odom yesoydoy mi’ofor vesoyfoy le’ofor, that a man can be weaker than a fly and stronger than steel—I tell you, that’s a description of me! Maybe you can tell me, though, why it is that whenever something goes wrong in this world, it’s Tevye it goes wrong with. Do you think that’s because I’m a gullible fool who believes whatever he’s told? If only I’d managed to remember what our rabbis said a thousand times, kabdeyhu vekhoshdeyhu—a man musn’t trust his own dog … But what can I do, I ask you, if that’s my nature? And besides, I’m a man of faith, as you know, I have no complaints against God. Not that they would do me the least bit of good if I had them! Whatever He does must be for a reason, though. It’s like the prayer book says, haneshomoh lokh vehaguf shelokh—what does a man ever know and what is he really worth? My wife and I quarrel about that. “Golde,” I’m always telling her, “it’s a sin even to think such things. There’s a story in the Talmud that—” “Leave me alone with your Talmud!” she says. “We have a daughter to marry off, and after her, touch wood, two others, and after them three more, if first they don’t break a leg …” “You musn’t talk that way, Golde,” I say. “Our rabbis warned against it. In the Talmud it also says—” But she never lets me finish. “A house full of growing daughters,” she says, “is all the Talmud I need to know!” Go argue with a woman, I tell you!

  In short, I don’t have to remind you that I have, touch wood, some fine goods at home, each better-looking than the other. God forgive me for boasting. It’s not a man’s job to praise his own daughters, but you should hear the whole world tell me what knockouts they are! And most of all my Hodl, who’s next after Tsaytl, the one who fell for the tailor, if you recall. I can’t begin to tell you how gorgeous she is—I mean Hodl, my second daughter; she’s like the Bible says of Queen Esther, ki toyvas mar’eh hi—prettier than a picture! And if looks aren’t bad enough, she has the brains to go with them; she reads and writes both Yiddish and Russian and swallows books like hot cakes. What, you may ask, do a book and a dairyman’s daughter have in common? Well, I ask them the same riddle—I mean all those nice Jewish youngsters who, begging your pardon, don’t own a pair of britches for their backsides, yet only want to study all day long. Kulonu khakhomim, kulonu nevoynim, as it says in the Haggadah—nowadays everyone wants to be a student. Where? How? Why, a cow can sooner jump over a roof than a Jew get into a Russian university! Al tishlakh yodkho: they guard their schools from us like a bowl of cream from a cat. Not that it keeps us from studying anyway—and plain ordinary boys and girls too, the children of tailors and shoemakers, God help me if I don’t see them everywhere! They leave home for Yehupetz or Odessa, they live there in attics and garrets, they eat the ten plagues of Egypt with the eleventh for dessert, they go for months on end without seeing a scrap of meat, a single roll and a herring is a feast for a dozen of them. Vesomakhto bekhagekho—life for them is one big holiday …

  Well, one such character turned up in our neck of the woods, a real vagabond, too. In fact, I once knew his father, a man who peddled homemade cigarettes and was a beggar seven times over. But that’s a whole other story—and besides, if the Talmud tells us that Rabbi Yochanan the Cobbler made a living patching shoes, a person can be permitted a father who didn’t make one selling cigarettes. What annoyed me was something else: where did a pauper like him get off thinking he was a student? Not that he was born feebleminded, God forbid, because he had a good head on his shoulders. And though his name was Pertchik, we all called him Peppercorn, because that’s exactly what he looked like: a small, black, puny little ragamuffin. Still, they don’t come any brighter, and when he let loose with his tongue … whew, you had better step back!

  Listen to how I met him. Vayehi hayoym, one fine day I’m on my way home from Boiberik, having sold a bit of merchandise, a whole wagon full of cheese, cream, butter, and other such vegetables. As usual I was thinking about the world’s problems, such as why in Yehupetz they had it so good, whether Tevye ever would, what my horse would say if he could, and so on and so forth. It was summertime; the sun was shining down; the flies were biting; and the whole wide world seemed such a delicious place that it made you want to sprout wings and fly off into it …

  Just then I looked ahead and saw a young man trudging along by the side of the path, a bundle under one
arm, all sweaty and falling off his feet. “Hurry up or you’ll be late for the wedding!” I called out to him. “Come to think of it, hop aboard; I’m going your way and my wagon is empty. You know what the Bible says: help the jackass of your neighbor if you pass him on the road, and your jackass of a neighbor too.”

  He laughed and jumped into the wagon without having to be asked twice.

  “Where might a young fellow like you be coming from?” I asked.

  “From Yehupetz,” he says.

  “And what might a young fellow like you be doing in Yehupetz?” I ask.

  “A young fellow like me,” he says, “is preparing for his entrance exams.”

  “And what,” I ask, “might a young fellow like you be planning to study?”

  “A young fellow like me,” he says, “hasn’t decided that yet.”

  “In that case,” I ask, “why’s a young fellow like you beating his brains out?”

  “Don’t you worry, Reb Tevye,” he says. “A young fellow like me knows what he’s doing.”

  “Tell me,” I say, “since you seem to be a personal acquaintance of mine, just who exactly are you?”

  “Who am I?” he says. “A human being.”

  “I already guessed as much,” I said, “because you didn’t look like a horse to me. What I meant was, whose child are you?”

  “Whose child?” he says. “I’m a child of God’s.”

  “I knew that too,” I say. “After all, it’s written, vaya’as eloyhim—and God made every creeping thing. I mean, who’s your family? Are you from hereabouts or from elsewhere?”

  “My family,” he says, “is the human race. But I was born and raised around here. You even know me.”

  “Then out with it!” I say. “Who is your father?”

  “My father,” he says, “was named Pertchik.”