Tevye the Dairyman & Motl the Cantor's Son

by Sholem Aleichem

  One evening I came home from Boiberik with a heavy heart. Imagine the child’s grief, her humiliation. The sheer pity for her! The widow and her son? They went off without so much as a goodbye! It’s an embarrassment to say it, but they left owing me money for cheese and butter! I’m not speaking of that; they probably forgot. I am speaking of their leaving without a goodbye. What that poor child went through no one ever knew except me, because I am a father and a father’s heart understands. Do you think she said so much as a word to me, that she lamented or wept? Eh! Then you don’t know Tevye’s daughters! Quietly, turning inward into herself, she languished and flickered like a dying candle. Once in a while she would utter a sigh, the kind that tears out a piece of your heart.

  One day I was riding home, sunk in sorrowful thoughts, asking questions of the Almighty and answering them myself. I wasn’t worried about God—I had more or less made my peace with Him. I was upset about people. Why should people be so bad when they can be good? Why should people embitter the lives of others as well as their own when life could be sweet and happy for all? Is it a given that God created man in order to have him suffer? Of what use was that for Him?

  I drove in to my farm and saw, in the distance, a crowd of people, peasants from the village, near the pond. What could it be? There was no fire. Perhaps it was a drowning; someone had been swimming in the pond and met his death. No one knows where the Angel of Death awaits him, as we say in the U’netaneh tokef on Yom Kippur.

  Suddenly my Golde came running, her shawl flying, her arms stretched out in front of her, and ahead of her were Teibl and Beilke, and all three were screaming and wailing and weeping, “Daughter! Sister! Shprintze!” I sprang down from the wagon so quickly, I nearly broke apart. But by the time I got to the pond it was too late.

  What did I want to ask you? Yes! Have you ever seen a drowned person? Never? When a person dies, most of the time he dies with his eyes shut. A drowned person’s eyes are open. Do you know why? Forgive me for taking up so much of your time. I too am busy. I have to tend to my horse and deliver my goods. The world remains a world. And you must also think of earning money—and to forget what has been, because what the earth has covered up must, they say, be forgotten, and if you are a living human being, you cannot spit out your soul. You can’t get around it, and we must return to the old saying that as long as my soul abides within me—you have to keep on going, Tevye! Be well, and if you do think of me, don’t think ill of me.

  TEVYE IS GOING TO ERETZ YISROEL

  Told by Tevye the dairyman as he was riding on a train

  WRITTEN IN 1909.

  Well, what a surprise! I never expected to find you here! That I’d be seeing you! How are you, Reb Sholem Aleichem? I’d been wondering why I haven’t seen you in such a long time, not in Boiberik, not in Yehupetz. Who knows what happens to a person? Maybe he cashed it all in and took himself to that other place where they don’t eat radishes with shmaltz. But then again, I thought to myself, why would you do a foolish thing like that? After all, you’re a reasonable person! So praise His holy name, now I see you again and in good health. As it is said, “Two mountains never meet”—but two men can. You are looking at me, Pani Sholem Aleichem, as if you don’t remember who I am. It’s me, your old friend Tevye. “Look not at the storage jar but at what it stores”—don’t be taken in because a Jew is wearing a new coat. It’s the same shlimazel Tevye as always, not changed a hair. If you put on a Shabbes suit, you look a little better, like a man with money, because if you go out among people, you must look presentable, especially if you are starting out on a long journey as I am, to Eretz Yisroel, that’s no small matter.

  You are probably wondering how a fellow like me, who always dealt in dairy, can afford to travel in his old age like a Brodsky. Believe me, Pani Sholem Aleichem, it’s as they say “altogether questionable,” and that quote is right on the mark. Move your suitcase over a bit, if you please, and I’ll sit down next to you and I’ll tell you a story. And you will be in awe at what God can do.

  I must tell you first of all that I am a widower, may it not happen to you. My Golde, may she rest in peace, was a simple woman without pretensions or guile, but a true saint, may she intercede on behalf of her children. She suffered plenty for their sakes and perhaps even left this world when she did on account of them. She couldn’t take it anymore, because they had all gone off, scattered to the winds. “My heart is broken,” she said. “What is my life when there isn’t a child about? Even a cow, no comparison intended,” she would say, “grieves if you take away her calf.” That’s what Golde said to me as she wept bitter tears.

  The woman was fading like a candle from day to day. I spoke comforting words to her from my heart out of pity and sorrow. “Come now, my darling,” I said. “There is a saying, ‘Judge us as Thy sons or judge us as Thy servants’—it is the same with children as without children. We have,” I said, “a great God and a good God and a strong God, but still may I have as many blessings as the times the One Above did me in, may it befall my enemies.”

  But she was, forgive me, a woman, and she said to me, “You sin, Tevye, you mustn’t sin.”

  “What did I say wrong?” I said. “Am I saying something against God and His ways? Since He did such a wonderful job of creating this little world of ours, a world in which children don’t behave like children and parents are worth little in their eyes, He most likely knew what He was doing.”

  She didn’t understand a word I was saying, and spoke in a whisper. “I am dying, Tevye. Who will cook supper for you?” Her eyes would have moved a stone to tears.

  But Tevye is not a woman, and so I answered her with a saying and a commentary and a chapter and another midrash. “Golde,” I said, “you’ve been devoted to me for so many years. Don’t make fun of me in my old age.” I looked at her. She did look dreadful. “What’s the matter with you, Golde?”

  “Nothing,” she said, barely able to speak.

  Ach! Seeing that the devil was doing his work, I hitched up my horse and sped to town for a doctor, the best doctor I could find. I arrived home—dear God! My Golde was already laid out on the ground with a candle at her head, looking like a small mound of earth that had been swept up and covered with a black cloth. For this is the whole of man, I thought. Is this the way a person ends up? Oh you Lord of the Universe, what have you done to Tevye? What will I do now in my old age, in my miserable old age?

  I dropped to the ground beside her, but what good would that do? Do you hear what I’m saying? Once you see death before your eyes, you must become a heretic and begin to reason, for that is the whole of man. What does it all amount to, this world of devils speeding around in trains, running crazily in circles, when even Brodsky with his millions comes to nothing in the end?

  To make a long story short, I hired a Jew to say kaddish for her, may she rest in peace, paying him for a whole year in advance. I had no choice since God had punished me by giving me only daughters and more daughters. Not one son, may no Jew know that fate. Do other Jews suffer as much with their daughters as I have? Or am I a miserable shlimazel who simply has no luck? I don’t have anything against my daughters, and luck is in God’s hands. May I have half as much as what my daughters wish for me. If anything, they are too devoted, much too devoted.

  Take, for example, my youngest one, Beilke. You have no idea what kind of child she is. You’ve known me forever, it seems, and you know I am not the kind of father who will praise his children. But when I speak of my Beilke, I cannot say more than two words. Ever since God has created Beilkes, He hasn’t created another like my Beilke. Well, of beauty we don’t have to talk. Tevye’s daughters, as you have seen, are known far and wide as the greatest beauties, but she, Beilke, puts them all to shame. There is no comparison! To describe her properly, you would have to use the words of eyshes chayil: Charm is a deception—a woman of valor. I am not speaking so much of beauty as I am of character. Gold, I tell you, pure gold! From the very beginning I was her favorit
e, but since my Golde passed away, may she have had more years, Beilke’s father became the most important person in her life. Not a speck of dust did she allow to fall on me. I said to myself, as we say in the Rosh Hashanah prayer, The Lord precedes anger with mercy—the One Above sends us the remedy for the affliction He has caused. And do you know, I am not sure which is worse, the remedy or the affliction. Who could be a prophet and guess that Beilke would sell herself to send her father to Eretz Yisroel in his old age? Of course, that’s only a manner of speaking—she is as guilty of selling herself as you are. The one who was entirely guilty is her intended. I don’t wish to curse him, but may a powder keg blow him up. And if I really think about it, ponder it more deeply, I myself may be more to blame than anyone. There is a special saying in the Gemorah: Man is guilt-ridden—but surely I don’t need to tell you what the Gemorah says!

  Anyhow, I won’t keep you long. The years went by. My Beilke grew up, became a proper lady, kayn eyn horeh, and Tevye carried on his own business, as always, with his horse and wagon, delivering his wares, summers to Boiberik, winters to Yehupetz, may fire and brimstone befall it like Sodom! I cannot abide that city, and not so much the town as the people, and not so much the people as one person—Ephraim the matchmaker, may a curse befall his father’s father. Listen to what a matchmaker can stir up.

  One day in the middle of Elul I arrived in Yehupetz with my meager merchandise. I looked up, and Haman himself—Ephraim the matchmaker—was walking toward me! I once told you about him. Ephraim is a stubborn man, but once you see him, you have to stop. That’s the kind of effect that that Jew has on you.

  “Hold up a minute, my sage,” I said to my horse, “and I’ll give you something to chew.” Then I greeted Ephraim the matchmaker. “How’s business?”

  He gave a deep sigh. “It’s bitter!”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing doing.”

  “Really? What’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” he said, “is that matches aren’t arranged at home these days.”

  “Where then are they arranged?”

  “Somewhere abroad.”

  “So what would I do when my grandfather’s grandmother never went there?”

  “For you, Reb Tevye”—he handed me a pinch of snuff—“I have a special piece of merchandise, right here on the spot.”

  “Is that so?”

  “A widow lady without children, worth five hundred rubles. She was a cook in all the finest homes.”

  I looked at him. “Reb Ephraim, for whom are you making this match?”

  “Who else would I be making it for? For you,” he said.

  “May all my nightmares fall on my enemies’ heads!” I gave my horse a lash of the whip, wanting to drive on.

  Ephraim said, “Don’t get so offended, Reb Tevye. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Who were you thinking of?”

  “Who else would I mean if not my youngest daughter?”

  He sprang back and slapped his forehead. “Of course! It’s a good thing you reminded me, long life to you, Reb Tevye.”

  “Amen, the same to you. May you live until the Messiah comes. But tell me why you are so excited.”

  “This is wonderful, Reb Tevye, really good, couldn’t be better!” he said.

  “In what way? What’s so good about it?”

  “I have for your youngest,” he said, “a match, a perfect choice, a rare find, a stroke of luck, a rich man, a prince, a millionaire, a second Brodsky—a contractor named Podhotsur!”

  “Podhotsur? A familiar name from the Bible.”

  “What Bible!” he said. “He’s a contractor, this Podhotsur. He builds houses, walls, and factories. He was in Japan during the war and brought back a fortune. He drives around in carriages with fiery steeds, has servants at the door, a private bathtub inside the house, and furniture from Paris. He wears a diamond ring. And he’s not even old—a bachelor, prime goods! He’s looking for a nice girl and will take her as she is, no questions asked, so long as she’s a beauty!”

  “Stop!” I said. “If you don’t slow down, Reb Ephraim, we’ll wind up in Hotzenklotz! If I’m not mistaken, you tried to make this same match for my daughter Hodl.”

  Ephraim grabbed his sides and laughed so hard, I thought he was having an apoplectic fit. “Aha,” he said, “so you’re remembering a story from ancient times. That one went broke before the war and ran off to America!”

  “May his memory be for a blessing,” I said. “Maybe this one will also run off there.”

  The matchmaker blew up. “What are you talking about, Reb Tevye? That one was a nothing, a charlatan, a spendthrift! This one is a contractor, with army contracts, with businesses, with shops, with people working for him, with—with—”

  What can I say? The matchmaker got so worked up, he pulled me out of the wagon. He grabbed me by the lapels and shook me so hard, a policeman came along and wanted to throw us both in jail. Luckily, I remembered the commentary: Unto a stranger thou mayest lend upon usury—you have to know how to deal with the police.

  To make a long story short—why should I keep you?—this Podhotsur became engaged to my youngest daughter Beilke. But it took some time before the wedding canopy was raised. Why? Because Beilke would rather die than go through with the marriage. The more Podhotsur showered her with gifts and gold watches and diamond rings, the more he revolted her. She didn’t have to spell it out for me. I saw it in her face and in her eyes and in her silent weeping.

  I decided to have a talk with her. “Listen, Beilke, I’m afraid you love Podhotsur about as much as I do.”

  Her face turned fiery red. “Who told you that?”

  “There’s a lot of crying at night.”

  “Am I crying?”

  “No, you’re not crying,” I said, “you’re sobbing. Do you think that by hiding your head in the pillow, you hide your tears from me? Do you think your father is a youngster or that his mind has dried up and he doesn’t understand that you’re doing this for his sake? You want to ensure him a comfortable old age so he’ll have somewhere to lay his head and won’t have to go begging in the streets, God forbid. If that’s your intention,” I said, “you are foolish. We have a great God,” I said, “and Tevye would not be the first person to beg for his bread. And money is as dirt, as it says in the Bible. Here is the proof—your sister Hodl is as poor as can be, and yet see how she writes from who knows where, from the ends of the earth, that she considers herself lucky with her shlimazel Fefferl!”

  Can you guess what her reply was?

  “Don’t compare me to Hodl,” Beilke said. “Hodl lived at a time when the whole world was in chaos, about to turn upside down, and people were worrying about that and forgetting about themselves. But now,” she said, “that the world is calm again, everyone is worried about himself, and they’ve forgotten about the world.”

  I couldn’t figure out what she meant! Nu, you are something of an expert on Tevye’s daughters. You should have seen her at her wedding—a princess! I glowed with pride and marveled. Was this really Beilke, Tevye’s daughter? Where had she learned to stand like that, to walk like that, and to hold her head and to dress as if she had been poured into her clothes? But I couldn’t bask in my pride too long, because the same day as the wedding, around half past six in the evening, the couple drove off in a carriage, who knows where, maybe to Italy, as was the custom with the rich, and they didn’t come back till Chanukah, when they sent for me to come as soon as possible to Yehupetz.

  All right, if they wanted me to pay them a visit in Yehupetz, they only had to say so, and that would have been the end of it. But why did they want me to come as soon as possible? There had to be a reason! But what was it? Maybe they were fighting like cats and were on the point of divorcing? But I put that idea away, scolding myself for only thinking the worst. How should I know why they wanted me to come as soon as possible? Maybe they missed me and wanted to see me. Or maybe Beilke wanted her father to be near h
er. Or maybe Podhotsur wanted to give Tevye a job or make him a supervisor in one of his enterprises. In any case, I had to go, and I set out “as soon as possible” for Yehupetz.

  As I was driving along, my imagination took over. I pictured myself leaving the village and selling the cows, the horse and wagon, and everything to become a supervisor for Podhotsur, then a treasurer, then the overseer of all his estates, then an equal partner in all his affairs, half and half, fifty-fifty, riding around with him all over with his steeds, one a chestnut, one a dapple gray. But then I thought it over. What is this and what is it all for—what did I, a quiet little fellow like Tevye, have to do with such grand businesses? Who needed all the fuss and bother and noise of the marketplace, all day and all night? As it is said, So that He may set him with princes—rub elbows with millionaires? Leave me be. I want to have a peaceful old age, take time to look into the Holy Book, read a few chapters, a few Psalms. You have to think about the world to come, no? How did King Solomon put it? A person is nothing but a jackass and forgets that however long he lives, he must still die.

  When I reached Yehupetz, I went straight to Podhotsur’s place. Well, if I were to brag to you about the multitude of his riches and wealth, his home and its furnishings, I could go on and on. I have never had the honor of going to Brodsky’s, but nothing could have been finer or more beautiful than this Podhotsur’s home. What a mansion it was! When I arrived at the door, the doorman, a huge man with silver buttons, refused to let me in. What was going on? It was a glass door, and I could see him, curse him, brushing clothes. I winked at him, gestured to him in sign language to let me in, trying to get across that his master’s wife was my daughter. But he didn’t understand my meaning, the idiot, and signaled me to go away. What a shlimazel! To think you needed special documents to visit your own daughter! Woe unto you, Tevye, to have lived to see this!