Tevye the Dairyman & Motl the Cantor's Son

by Sholem Aleichem

  “Who is your brother?” he asks me.

  “My brother Elyahu.”

  “Who is this Elyahu?”

  “Speak not, foolish youth, concerning thy brother!” Several Jews speak in a mixture of Hebrew and English designed to baffle the policeman’s understanding. The crowd becomes unruly, noisy, about to riot. New people arrive on the scene. The Russian policeman takes me by the hand and is about to haul me and my drink right over to the station. The shouting becomes louder—“An orphan! A poor orphan!” I hear from all sides. I’m in a tight spot. I look at the crowd surrounding me. “Jews, have pity!” I exclaim.

  They try to bribe the policeman, but he refuses. An old Jew with shifty eyes cries out to me in a mixture of Hebrew and Yiddish, “Motl! Pull thy hand away from the Russian policeman and take to thy heels as fast as thou canst!”

  I tear away and run full speed home.

  Half-dead, I burst into my house.

  “Where’s the jug?” my brother Elyahu asks.

  “At the police station!” I answer, and run into my mother’s arms, in tears.

  VIII

  WE FLOOD THE WORLD WITH INK

  A .

  Oh, am I a fool! Because I’ve sold soapy, spoiled kvass, I thought surely the police would behead me! But in the end nothing happened. My fears were groundless. “Didn’t Yente sell tallow for goose fat? And didn’t Gedalye the butcher feed the whole town for an entire year with unkosher meat?” That’s how our neighbor Pessi consoles my mother. My mother! She takes everything to heart. That’s why I love my brother Elyahu. He doesn’t think worse of himself because we were burned by the kvass. As long as he has the book, he’s happy, the book he bought for a ruble, called From One Ruble—A Hundred! He sits and learns it by heart. By now he knows almost all the recipes, how to make ink, how to make shoe wax, and how to get rid of mice, cockroaches, and other vermin.

  Now he decides to make ink. Ink, he says, is a good product. Everyone has to write. He asks Yudl the writing teacher how much he spent on ink. “A fortune!” he says.

  Yudl teaches writing to about sixty girls. Boys don’t study with him. They’re afraid of him. He spanks them or strikes them over their hands with a ruler. You can’t hit girls, and you certainly can’t spank them. I wish I was born a girl. I wouldn’t have to pray every day. I’m sick of it—every day the same thing. And I wouldn’t have to go to Hebrew school. Now I go there half a day. What I learn, you can put on the head of a pin, but of slaps there are more than enough. You think the slaps come from the rebbe? No, they come from his wife, the rebbetzin. What business is it of hers that I feed the cat? You should see her cat—God’s pity on it! She’s always hungry. She mews quietly to herself, whining like a human being, forgive the comparison. It can tear your heart out! They have not one drop of pity. If she so much as goes over to sniff someone, they scream at her, “Scat!” and she scurries off in a shot. They don’t let her get away with anything. Once she was lost for a few days. I thought she was dead for sure. But it turned out she had had kittens. But I must return to my brother Elyahu’s ink.

  B.

  My brother Elyahu says the world isn’t what it used to be. Once upon a time, to make ink you had to buy black walnuts, chop them up, cook them on the fire for who knew how long, and then pour in some copper water; and to make the ink shiny, you had to add sugar—a big fuss! Today, he says, it’s as easy as pie! You buy special powders and a bottle of glycerin at the apothecary, mix them with water, boil it on the fire—presto! Ink. So says my brother Elyahu.

  He goes off to the apothecary and brings back a bag of the special powders and a large bottle of glycerin. Then he locks himself up in my mother’s room and does something—what, I don’t know. It’s a secret. With him everything is a secret. When he needs the pestle from the mortar, he calls my mother over and whispers, “Mama! The pestle from the mortar!” He mixes the powders and the glycerin in a very large pot, a new one he bought. He shoves the pot into the oven and whispers to my mother to lock the door.

  We can’t imagine what’s going on. My mother glances at the oven every minute, scared it will explode. Then we roll in a kvass jug. Carefully we remove the pot from the oven and pour the mixture into the jug. Then we pour water in until the jug is filled a little more than halfway.

  My brother Elyahu says, “Enough!” and consults the book From One Ruble—A Hundred! In a whisper he asks for a pen and a sheet of white paper. “These are the ones we write petitions with,” he whispers in my mother’s ear. He dips the pen into the jug and writes something on the white sheet of paper with a swirl and a flourish. He shows the writing first to my mother, then to my sister-in-law Bruche.

  Both look at it and say to him, “It writes!”

  They get back to work. After pouring in a few more pails of water, my brother Elyahu raises his hand and says, “Enough!” Again he dips the pen into the jug, again he writes something on the paper, and again shows the writing to my mother and my sister-in-law Bruche.

  Again they both look at the paper and say, “It writes!”

  This they do several times until the jug is full to the brim. There is no room for any more water. Then my brother Elyahu raises his hand and says, “Enough!” and the four of us sit down to supper.

  C.

  After supper we busy ourselves pouring the ink into bottles. My brother Elyahu has collected bottles from all over, all kinds of bottles and flasks, big and little, beer bottles, wine bottles, kvass bottles, whiskey bottles, and just plain bottles. He has also bought up old corks to save money. He bought a new funnel and an old quart measure with which to pour the ink from the jug into the bottles. Here he again whispers into my mother’s ear to lock the door. Then the four of us get down to work.

  The work is divided evenly. My sister-in-law Bruche rinses out the bottles and hands them to my mother. My mother examines each bottle and then gives them over to me. I place the funnel in each one and hold it there with one hand and the bottle with the other. And my brother Elyahu has only one job: to pour the ink from the jug into the quart measure and then into the funnel and the bottles. The work is enjoyable and pleasant. The only problem is the ink. It stains your fingers, your hands, your nose, your whole face. Both of us, I and my brother Elyahu, look as black as devils. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen my mother laugh. And you can imagine my sister-in-law Bruche—she almost splits her sides laughing. My brother Elyahu hates when someone laughs at him. He gets angry at my sister-in-law Bruche and demands to know why she’s laughing. That makes her laugh even harder. He gets even angrier, and she laughs all the more. The laughter keeps coming, in uncontrollable spasms! My mother finally begs her to stop and tells us to go wash up. But my brother Elyahu doesn’t have time. The last thing on his mind is washing. All he thinks of is filling the bottles.

  Finally all the bottles are filled. No more bottles! Where to get more? He calls my sister-in-law Bruche off to the side, gives her money, and whispers to her to buy more bottles. She hears him out, looks him in the face, and bursts out laughing. He gets angry and calls my mother over and tells her the same thing. My mother goes off to buy bottles.

  We continue pouring water into the jug, not all at once, you understand, but a little at a time. After each pailful of water, he raises his hand and says to himself, “Enough!” Then he dips the pen into the jug and writes on the white sheet of paper and says, “It writes!”

  He does this several times till my mother comes back with a new supply of bottles. We get back to our original task of pouring ink into the bottles, till we again run out of bottles.

  “How long can this go on?” says my sister-in-law Bruche.

  “Kayn eyn horeh, why stop a good thing?” says my mother.

  My brother Elyahu shoots an angry look at Bruche, as if to say, You are my wife, but you are also a dunce, may God have pity on you!

  D.

  How much ink we make, I cannot tell you. I’m afraid it’s a thousand bottles! But what good is it if there�
��s no place to sell the ink? My brother Elyahu looks everywhere. Selling the ink retail, bottle by bottle, one at a time, doesn’t make sense. That’s what my brother Elyahu says to my neighbor’s husband Moishe the bookbinder. Moishe comes into our house and sees all those bottles—and springs back in fright. My brother Elyahu sees it, and a strange conversation follows between the two. I’ll relate it to you word for word:

  ELYAHU: What scared you so?

  BOOKBINDER: What’s in those bottles?

  ELYAHU: What could it be—wine?

  BOOKBINDER: Wine? That’s ink!

  ELYAHU: Why ask then?

  BOOKBINDER: What are you going to do with so much ink?

  ELYAHU: Drink it!

  BOOKBINDER: No, stop joking. You’re going to sell it retail?

  ELYAHU: What am I, crazy? If I sell it, I’ll sell it ten, twenty, fifty bottles at a time. That’s called wholesale. Do you know what wholesale means?

  BOOKBINDER: I know what wholesale means. To whom are you going to sell it?

  ELYAHU: To whom? To the rabbi!

  And my brother Elyahu goes off to the stores. When he comes to this big wholesaler, the wholesaler examines a bottle. But another wholesaler won’t even test the bottle in my brother Elyahu’s hand because it doesn’t have a label. “On the bottle,” he says, “there has to be a nice label with a design.”

  My brother Elyahu says to him, “I don’t make designs. I make ink.”

  The other one answers, “Suit yourself.”

  Then my brother Elyahu hurries off to Yudel the writing teacher, who says something very nasty to him. He’s already bought a summer’s supply of ink.

  My brother Elyahu asks him, “How many bottles of ink did you buy?”

  Yudel the writing teacher says, “Bottles? I bought one bottle of ink. It will last and last, and when I run out, I’ll buy another bottle.”

  How do you like that! Only a scribbler can think like that. First he says he’s spent a fortune on ink, and then he buys a bottle that will last forever. My poor brother Elyahu is beside himself. He doesn’t know what to do with so much ink. Originally he said he wouldn’t sell any ink retail, only wholesale. Now he thinks better of it. He will begin, he says, to sell it wholesale and retail. I would like to know what wholesale means.

  This is what wholesale means. Just listen.

  E .

  My brother Elyahu brings back a large sheet of paper. He sits down and prints on it in large block letters:

  INK SOLD WHOLESALE HERE

  RETAIL—GOOD AND CHEAP

  The words wholesale and retail are written so large, they take up almost the whole sheet. When the lettering dries, he attaches the paper on the outside of our door. I see through the window that many passersby stop to look.

  My brother Elyahu also looks out the window and cracks his knuckles. That’s a sign that he’s upset. He says to me, “Just stand by the door and listen to what they’re saying.”

  I stand by the door for half an hour and then come back into the house. My brother Elyahu asks me quietly, “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What did they say?”

  “Who?”

  “The people who passed by.”

  “They said it was nicely printed.”

  “And nothing more?”

  “Nothing more.”

  My brother Elyahu sighs. Why was he sighing?

  My mother has the same question. “Why are you sighing, silly? Wait a little. Did you expect in one day to sell out all the merchandise?”

  “At least one sale!” says my brother Elyahu, his voice choking.

  “You’re a great fool, I tell you. Just wait, my child, and you will, God willing, make a sale.”

  My mother sets the table. We wash and sit down to eat. The four of us squeeze together into one tight space. Because of all the bottles, it’s terribly crowded in the house. We make the blessing over the bread—when a strange man arrives. I know him. His name is Kopl. His father is a ladies’ tailor. He’s betrothed to be married.

  “Do you sell single bottles of ink here?”

  “Yes, what do you want?”

  “I want some ink.”

  “How much ink do you need?”

  “Give me a kopek’s worth.”

  My brother Elyahu is really upset. If my mother hadn’t been there, he would have slapped this betrothed Kopl a few times and then thrown him out of the house. But he controls himself and pours out a kopek’s worth of ink. Less than a quarter of an hour later, a young girl comes in. I don’t know her. She picks her nose and says to my mother, “Do you make ink here?”

  “Yes, what would you like?”

  “My sister wants to know if you can lend her a little ink. She has to write a letter to her future husband in America.”

  “Who is your sister?”

  “Basya the seamstress.”

  “Ah? Look how she’s grown up! Kayn eyn horeh! I didn’t recognize you. Do you have an inkwell?”

  “Where would we get an inkwell? My sister wants to know if you have a pen, and as soon as she finishes writing the letter to America, she’ll give you back the ink and the pen.”

  My brother Elyahu has vanished from the table. He is in my mother’s room. pacing quietly, head down, biting his nails.

  F.

  “Why did you make so much ink? It looks like you want to supply the whole world with ink in case there’s a shortage.”

  That’s what our neighbor’s husband Moishe the bookbinder says. What a strange man that bookbinder is! He has a habit of rubbing salt in your wounds. Usually he’s a tolerable fellow, just a bit of a pest—he likes to get under your skin.

  But my brother Elyahu really gets back at him! He tells him to mind his own business and to be careful not to bind together a Haggadah with the High Holiday penitential prayers. Moishe the bookbinder knows very well what that dig is about! He was once engaged by a coachman to do a job. The coachman had given him a Haggadah to bind, but by mistake the bookbinder bound in with it a section of the penitential slichot prayers of the High Holidays instead of the welcoming prayers for Elijah at the Passover seder. Everyone at the seder laughed. The following morning the coachman went to our neighbor the bookbinder and wanted to tear him limb from limb.

  “Villain, what did you do to me? Why did you stick an unkosher prayer into my Passover Haggadah? I’m going to rip the guts out of your belly!”

  Yes, that was quite a jolly Passover.

  But don’t be upset that I brought in another story. I’ll get back to our moneymaking ventures now.

  IX

  AFTER THE FLOOD (of Ink)

  A .

  My brother Elyahu is beside himself with worry. What to do with all that unsold merchandise?

  “Still with the ink?” my mother asks him.

  “I’m not talking about ink!” my brother Elyahu answers. “To the devil with the ink! I’m talking about the bottles! There’s a fortune in them! We have to make sure to empty the bottles so we can get our money out of them!”

  Everything has to be turned into money! My brother Elyahu decides we have to get rid of all that ink, no matter how. But that’s the problem—where to pour it all? It could be embarrassing.

  “There’s nothing to it,” says my brother Elyahu. “We have to wait till night. At night it’s dark, no one will see.”

  Night falls at last. Out of spite, the moon shines like a lantern. “When you need it, it hides. But look at it now, as if we’d sent for it!” my brother Elyahu says as we carry out bottle after bottle and—splash! pour the ink onto the street. A huge puddle grows in the place where we’re pouring the ink. “We shouldn’t pour it all in one place,” says my brother Elyahu, and I obey him. I find a fresh place to pour the bottles. Splash! Against a neighbor’s wall! Splash! Against another neighbor’s fence! Splash! All over two goats chewing their cuds in the moonlight!

  “That’s enough for tonight!” my brother Elyahu says, and we go to bed. It’s quiet and dark.
I can hear the crickets. The cat is purring under the stove—that sleepyhead! Day and night all she wants is to warm herself and doze. I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. Could it be some bad person? No, it’s my mother—she isn’t sleeping. It seems she never sleeps. During the nights I can always hear her cracking her knuckles, sighing and groaning, and talking to herself. That’s her habit. Every night she talks out her troubles. To whom is she talking? To God. Every other minute she lets out an “Oy, God! God!”

  B .

  I’m lying on my bedding on the floor and hear a hubbub of familiar voices in my sleep. Slowly I open my eyes—it’s broad daylight. The bright sunlight bursts through the window. It’s calling me outdoors. I try to remember what happened the night before—aha! Ink! I jump up and quickly dress. My mother is teary-eyed—but when isn’t she teary-eyed? My sister-in-law Bruche is furious—but when isn’t she furious? And my brother Elyahu is standing in the middle of the room, hanging his head, trying to look innocent as a lamb.

  What’s been happening? A great deal! Once our neighbors woke up this morning, all hell broke loose. You’d think they were being slaughtered! One neighbor’s wall is splashed with ink. Another neighbor’s fence, a new fence, has ink all over it. A third neighbor had two white goats but now they’re black, unrecognizable. All this might be tolerable were it not for the slaughterer’s wife’s stockings. She had hung out her new pair of white stockings to dry on our neighbor’s fence. They’re ruined. To keep the peace, my mother promises to buy her a new pair of stockings. But what about the wall and the fence? We decide that my mother and sister-in-law Bruche will very kindly take two brushes and whitewash the stains.