Tevye the Dairyman & Motl the Cantor's Son

by Sholem Aleichem

  I went out to my wagon, brought in all the wonderful things they had packed for me, and laid them all out on the table. When my little gang set eyes on the breads and sniffed the meats, they fell upon the table like starving wolves, poor things. It turned into a grab-fest, hands trembling, teeth working. As Rashi stated: “Eat!” They chomped away like locusts. Tears came to my eyes.

  “Now tell me,” my wife said to me. “Where did you get this fancy banquet, this feast, and how come you’re looking so smug?”

  “Be patient, my Golde,” I said. “You’ll soon know everything. Why don’t you blow on the coals under the samovar, and then we can all sit around the table and drink our tea properly? A person,” I said, “only lives once, not twice—especially now that we’ll have our own milk cow that gives twenty-four glasses of milk a day. Tomorrow, God willing, I’ll bring her home. Come on, Golde.” I pulled the banknotes from my pockets. “Come, let’s see if you can guess how much money we have here.”

  My wife was dumbstruck, mouth agape.

  “God be with you, Golde dear,” I said. “Are you afraid that maybe I stole it or robbed someone? Feh, shame on you! You’re Tevye’s wife so many years, and you can still think that way about me? Silly,” I said, “this is kosher money, honestly earned with my own cleverness and with my own hard work. I rescued two souls from great peril,” I told her. “If not for me, God knows what would have happened to them!”

  And I told her everything from A to Z, how God had dealt with me. And then we both counted the money. We counted it over and over again. There was exactly twice eighteen plus one, which comes to no less than thirty-seven rubles! My wife broke down in tears.

  “Why are you crying, foolish woman?” I asked.

  “How can I help crying when tears come? If your heart is full,” she said, “the eyes overflow. May God help me, my heart told me you’d come back with good news. One time my grandmother Tzeitl came to me in a dream. I was lying in bed asleep, and suddenly I dreamed about a milk pail, a full one. Grandma Tzeitl, may she rest in peace, was carrying the full milk pail under her apron so it wouldn’t tempt the evil eye, and the children were crying, ‘Mama, look!’—”

  “Don’t put the cart before the horse, my dear,” I interrupted. “May Grandma Tzeitl have a bright paradise, but I still don’t know if something good will come of this dream. Still, if God could miraculously bring us our own cow, He could also make her give milk. Give me advice, Golde darling—what should we do with the money?”

  “Well,” she said, “what do you think we should do with the money, kayn eyn horeh?”

  “Well, again and yet again,” I said, “what do you think we should do with this kind of capital?” And we racked our brains trying to come up with an idea. We considered every kind of business: we would buy a pair of horses and sell them for a profit; we would open a grocery store in Boiberik, sell out the stock, and then open a dry-goods store. We would invest in timber, find a buyer, make some money, and get rid of it. We would buy an Anatevka tax-collecting contract and with the profit go into the moneylending business.

  “Are you out of your mind?” my wife finally exclaimed. “Do you want to squander these few groschens and be left with nothing but your whip?”

  “What, then?” I said. “Is it better to sell grain and go bankrupt?

  Everyone is going broke selling wheat. Just see what’s happening in Odessa!”

  “What do I care about Odessa?” she said. “My family never was there, and my children will never be there so long as I can stand on my own two feet.”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “What do I want?” she said. “I want you to stop talking nonsense.”

  “So now you’re the smart one. As they say: ‘If the money comes, the schemes follow, and if you are rich, you’re certainly clever.’ It’s always like that!”

  In short, we had a spat but soon made up. We decided on a plan: in addition to the milk cow we’d have tomorrow, we would buy another cow, one that would also give milk.

  You will probably ask, Why a cow and not a horse? To which I will answer, Why a horse and not a cow? Every summer all the rich folks from Yehupetz go to their dachas in Boiberik. And these Yehupetz folks are all very refined people who are used to having everything served up to them—wood for the fire, meat and eggs, chickens and onions, peppers and radishes. Why shouldn’t someone make it his business to bring to their doorstep every morning milk, cheese, butter, and sour cream? And as the Yehupetzers like to eat well and don’t give a fig about money, you can charge high prices. But it’s important that the merchandise be of the highest quality, and my merchandise you can’t get even in Yehupetz. May we both have as many blessings as the number of times that people, even high-up Christians, have begged me to sell them my merchandise.

  “We hear, Tevel,” they say, “that you’re an honest man even though you’re a filthy Jew.” Would you ever hear a compliment like that from a Jew? May my enemies suffer until that ever happens! You never hear a kind word from our little Jews. They only know about looking into your private business. They see a new cow at Tevye’s, a new cart, and they’re breaking their heads: “Where did it come from? Is this Tevye possibly dealing with counterfeit banknotes? Or might he be cooking up some moonshine in a still?” Ha ha ha! Break your heads, boys, I am thinking!

  I don’t know if you believe my story—you’re the first one I’ve told it to, how and what and when, but now I think I’ve gone on too long. Don’t be offended, but one must tend to one’s business. Or as they say, “Each to his own”—you to your books, I to my pots and my jugs. I would like to ask one thing of you, Pani. Don’t write about me in any of your books, and if you do, don’t mention my name. Be well and have a good life.

  THE ROOF FALLS IN

  WRITTEN IN 1899.

  Many are the thoughts in a man’s heart—isn’t that what it says in our holy Torah? I don’t need to interpret that verse for you, Reb Sholem Aleichem. But in Ashkenaz, or plain Yiddish, it means: “The best horse needs a whip, the smartest person—advice.” About what am I telling you this? About myself, in fact, because if I had had the sense not to go to a good friend and tell him thus and so, and this and that, things would surely not have turned out as badly as they did. But what could I do? If God wants to punish a person, he takes away his good sense. How many times have I thought, Think about it, Tevye, you ass. You’re no fool—why do you let yourself be led around by the nose in such a stupid way? I was already making a little living, kayn eyn horeh, with my dairy business, which had a good reputation everywhere, in Boiberik and in Yehupetz and where not. What was so wrong with that? How sweet and good it would have been now if those coins were still lying quietly in the money chest, safely hidden away, because whose business is it, I ask you, whether Tevye has any money or not?

  I really mean it. Did the world show any interest in me when I was, may it never happen to a Jew, buried deep in poverty, perishing three times a day of hunger together with my wife and children? Only when God showed his favor to Tevye, suddenly made me rich so I could finally make something of myself, put away a few rubles, only then did the world take notice and Tevye become Reb Tevye—some joke! Many good friends suddenly began to show up, as the verse says: All are beloved, all are elect—when God grants a spoonful, people offer a shovelful. Every person came with his own advice. This one said a dry-goods store, that one a grocery; another one said a house, a good lasting investment. This one said wheat, that one timber, another auctioneering. “Friends!” I cried. “Back off! You are making a great mistake. Do you think I’m Brodsky? May we all have the amount less than three hundred, even two hundred and even one hundred and fifty, that I really have. It’s easy to imagine that another’s wealth glitters like gold, but when you get closer, it turns out to be a brass button.”

  In short, our little Jews—don’t even mention them—gave me the evil eye! God sent me a relative, Menachem-Mendl was his name—a fly-by-night, a who knows what, a wheel
er-dealer, a manipulator, may he never find a resting place! He roped me in and spun my head around with dreams of things that never were and never could be. You will ask how I met Menachem-Mendl. I will give you an answer: Slaves we were—it was fated to be. Listen to this story.

  One day at the beginning of winter I arrived in Yehupetz with my little bit of dairy—some twenty or so pounds of the best fresh butter you can buy, and two fine wheels of cheese worth their weight in gold and silver, may we both have as much! Of course, I sold out my merchandise completely, nothing at all was left even if my life depended on it. I was so busy, I had no time to chat with my summer customers, the Boiberik dacha owners, who wait for me as if I were the Messiah because the Yehupetz merchants’ produce can’t hold a candle to Tevye’s. I needn’t tell you, as the prophet said: Let other men praise thee—good products praise themselves.

  Having sold everything and thrown some hay to my horse, I decided to take a stroll around town. As it is said, Man is but dust—a man is only human. I wanted to see a bit of the world, breathe the air, and look at the fine goods that Yehupetz displays in its shopwindows, which seem to say, “Look with your eyes as much as you like, but to touch—don’t dare!” Standing just like that at a large shopwindow with a pocketful of coins and ruble notes, I thought, God in heaven! If I had a tenth of what I see here, I would never complain to God again. I’d make a match for my eldest daughter and give her a good dowry, besides wedding presents, a wardrobe, and wedding expenses. I’d sell the horse and wagon and the little cows and move right into town, buy a seat by the eastern wall of the shul. I’d get pearls for my wife, long may she live, and distribute charity like the biggest property owner. I’d see to it that the house of study had a metal roof, not a roof about to collapse any minute. I’d open a religious school in town and a hospital and a shelter like in other respectable cities so poor people wouldn’t have to lie around on the bare floor of the house of study. I’d get rid of Yenkl Sheygetz, the head of the burial society—enough drinking brandy and eating gizzards and chicken livers at the community’s expense.

  “Sholem aleichem, Reb Tevye!” I heard someone call from behind me. “How are you?”

  I turned and could have sworn I knew him. “Aleichem sholem,” I said. “Where do I know you from?”

  “From where? From Kasrilevka,” the man said to me. “I’m a friend of yours. I mean, I’m your second cousin once removed. Your wife Golde is my second cousin.”

  “Say now,” I said, “can you be Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s son-in-law?”

  “You got that right,” he said to me. “I am a son-in-law of Leah-Dvossi’s, and my wife’s name is Sheyne-Sheyndl Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s son-in-law. Now do you remember who I am?”

  “Be quiet a minute,” I said. “I believe your mother-in-law’s grandmother Sora-Yente and my wife’s aunt Frume-Zlate were cousins, and if I’m not mistaken, you are the middle son-in-law of Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s. But do you know, I’ve forgotten your name, it’s just flown out of my head. What is your name? What do they actually call you?”

  “They call me Menachem-Mendl Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s—that’s what they call me at home in Kasrilevka.”

  “If that’s so, my dear Menachem-Mendl,” I said to him, “I really have to give you a proper sholem aleichem! Tell me, my dear Menachem-Mendl, what are you doing here? How are your mother-in-law and father-in-law, long life to them? How are things going for you? How is your health, and how is business?”

  “Well,” he said, “as for my health, thank God, one lives, but business is not so rosy these days.”

  “God will help.” I stole a glance at his shabby clothes, patched in many places, the shoes almost worn through. “You can be sure God will help you and things will get better. As it says in the Bible: All is vanity. Money,” I said, “is round, one day it rolls this way, another day it rolls that way, so long as you are alive. The most important thing is faith. A Jew must have hope. Ay, what if things really go bad? For that reason we are Jews. As they say, if you’re a soldier, smell gunpowder. The whole world is but a dream. But better tell me, my dear Menachem-Mendl, what brings you to, of all places, Yehupetz?”

  “What do you mean? I’ve been here for a year and a half.”

  “Is that so? Are you a native? A Yehupetzer?”

  “Sshhh,” he said, looking around. “Don’t shout so loudly, Reb Tevye. I am living here, but it must remain between us.”

  I stared at him as if he were crazy. “You’re here illegally,” I said, “and you’re out in the open in the Yehupetz market square?”

  “Don’t ask, Reb Tevye,” he said. “That’s the way it is. You obviously aren’t acquainted with Yehupetz regulations. Come, I’ll tell you, and you’ll understand what it means to be a resident and not a resident.” And he gave me a long, drawn-out account of how you go crazy trying to get a permit to live there.

  “Listen to me, Menachem-Mendl,” I said, “come to my place for a day, and you can at least rest your bones. You’ll be my guest,” I said, “and a welcome one too. My wife will be happy to have you.”

  In short, he agreed. We drove home together, and everyone was delighted to see him—a guest! Here was our own second cousin, no small matter. As they say, “One’s own are not strangers.” Golde’s grilling began: “How are things in Kasrilevka? How is Uncle Boruch-Hersh? How are Aunt Leah-Dvossi and Uncle Yossil-Menashe and Aunt Dobrish? And how are their children? Who died? Who got married? Who got divorced? Who has given birth and who is expecting?”

  “Why do you need to know about other people’s weddings and other people’s brises?” I said. “Better see that there is something to eat. Let all who are hungry come and partake—you can’t dance on an empty stomach. If you have a borscht, good, and if not, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’ll have knishes or kreplach or knaidlach or maybe even blintzes. You can decide, but be quick about it.”

  We all washed our hands and ate well, as Rashi said: And thou shalt eat, as God commanded. “Eat, Menachem-Mendl,” I said to him. “As King David said: ‘It’s a foolish world and a false one.’ Health, as my grandmother Nechama, of blessed memory, used to say—she was a wise woman, sharp as a tack—‘seek health and pleasure in the dish before you.’ ” My poor guest’s hands were trembling, and he couldn’t praise my wife’s cooking enough, swearing to God he could not remember the time he had eaten such a delicious dairy meal, such tasty knishes, and such savory knaidlach. “Nonsense,” I said. “You should taste her taiglach, her poppyseed cookies, and then you’d know what paradise really is!”

  After we finished eating and saying the blessings, we chatted, I about my business, he about his, telling stories about Odessa and Yehupetz, how one day he’s rich and the next a pauper. He was using strange, complicated words that I had never in my life heard of, like stocks and shares, selling high and buying low, options, the devil only knows, and accounts and reckonings, ten thousand, twenty thousand—money like water!

  “To tell the truth, Menachem-Mendl,” I said to him, “what you are telling me about your financial dealings is impressive. You must know a lot about such things. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. I’m surprised your wife lets you run around like this and doesn’t come after you riding on a broomstick.”

  “Ah,” he said to me with a sigh, “don’t remind me of it, Reb Tevye. I have enough problems with her. You should see what she writes me. You yourself would say I’m a saint to take it. But that’s a small matter. That’s what a wife is for, to put you down. I have a much worse problem. I have, you understand me, a mother-in-law to deal with! I don’t need to tell you. You know her!”

  “You are telling me it’s like in the Bible: streaked, speckled, and spotted, which means a blister on a boil on an abscess.”

  “Yes, Reb Tevye,” he said, “you said it exactly. A boil is a boil, but the abscess, oy, the abscess is worse than the boil!”

  We went on chatting idly this way till late into the night. His stor
ies of wild business deals involving thousands of rubles flying up and down in value, and the fortune that Brodsky was earning, made my head spin. My dreams that night were a tangle of Yehupetz shopwindows, half shares, Brodsky, Menachem-Mendl, and his mother-in-law. Not until morning did he finally get to the point: “Here’s how it’s been going for us in Yehupetz for some time now. Money is scarce, and goods are just sitting there not sold,” he said to me. “You now have the chance, Reb Tevye, to make quite a few groschens and also save my life, literally bring me back from the dead.”

  “You’re talking like a child,” I said. “The difference between what I have and what Brodsky has, we should both earn between now and Passover.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I know that. But you really don’t need a great deal of money. If you were to give me a hundred rubles right now, in three or four days I would make it into two hundred, three hundred, six or seven hundred, and why not a thousand?”

  “That’s certainly possible,” I said, “but what would make it possible? You must have something to invest. But if there aren’t a hundred rubles, then as Rashi says: If thou investeth in an illness, thy profit shall be the ague.”

  “Really now,” he said, “are you telling me you can’t find a mere hundred, Reb Tevye, with your business, and your reputation, kayn eyn horeh?”

  “What good comes from a reputation?” I said. “A reputation is certainly a good thing, but what of it? I have my reputation, and Brodsky still has the money. If you want to know, I can barely pull together a hundred, and there are eighteen holes to fill with it. First of all, I have to marry off a daughter—”

  “Listen to me,” he said, “that’s the point I’m making! When, Reb Tevye, will you have another chance to put in a hundred and take out, God willing, so much that you will have enough to marry off your daughter and then some?” And in the next three hours he gave me a song and dance about how he had made from one ruble three and from three ten. “First of all,” he said, “you take a hundred, and you tell them to buy ten shares” or whatever he called them. “You wait a few days till they go up. You send a telegram and tell them to sell, and for that money you buy twice as many. Then you start all over again and again send off a telegram, until finally from the hundred you have two; from the two, four; and from the four, eight; from the eight, sixteen—wonder of wonders! There are,” he said, “in Yehupetz those who were not too long ago going around without shoes, were nobodies, servants, porters. Today they have their own houses made of stone surrounded by high walls. Their wives complain about their indigestion and go abroad for a cure, while they ride around Yehupetz on rubber wheels and pretend not to know anyone!”