Sholem Aleichem - Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories

They didn’t return until Hanukkah, when I received an urgent message from them to please, please come to Yehupetz at once. However you look at it, I thought, if they simply wanted to see me, they could have said as much; why the double “please” and the “at once”? There must be a special reason … but what? And I began to imagine all kinds of things, some good and some bad. Suppose, for instance, that they were already fighting like alley cats and had decided to get a divorce … Right away, though, I told myself, Tevye, you dumbbell, why must you always imagine the worst! How do you know what they want you for? Maybe they miss you … Maybe Beilke would like to have her father nearby … Maybe Podhotzur is planning to take you into his business and give you a nice fat job …

One way or another, I had better go, so I harnessed up and vayeyleykh khoronoh —off to Yehupetz I went. On the way my excitement got the best of me and I began to imagine leaving the village, selling my cows, my horse, my wagon, the whole kit and caboodle, and moving to Yehupetz, where I would first become Podhotzur’s foreman, then his bookkeeper, and finally a partner in his business who rode around with two bolts of greased lightning, one a chestnut and one a dapple-gray … at which point, though, I caught myself and thought: mah zeh ve’al mah zeh— where does a small potato like Tevye get off being such a big shot? Who needs the rat race, the hullabaloo, the night life, the rubbing elbows with millionaires, the whole lehoyshivi im nedivim , when all I want is to enjoy a peaceful old age in which I can study a bit of Mishnah now and then and recite a few chapters of Psalms? It’s about time, Tevye, I said to myself, that you thought of the next world too. King Solomon knew what the score was when he said that a man is nothing but a jackass; he forgets that no matter how long he lives, there comes a day when he doesn’t anymore …

I was still mulling it all over when I arrived safe and sound in Yehupetz, right at Podhotzur’s door. Believe me, if I wanted to boast about his royv godloy veroyv oshroy , his house and all its trimmings, it wouldn’t be hard. Suffice it to say that while I’ve never had the honor of dining with Brodsky, finer than Podhotzur’s his place can’t possibly be. You’ll get an idea what a mansion it was if I tell you that the doorman, a lummox with silver buttons down his chest, wouldn’t agree to let me in for love or money. What was I to do? The door was made of glass, and the lummox, damn his hide, stood on the other side of it brushing off his clothes. I winked at him; I talked to him in sign language; I put on a whole pantomime to tell him that the lady of the house was my own natural-born daughter … none of which meant a thing to that dumb Russian, because he sign-languaged right back to me that I could go take a powder. What a schlimazel I felt like: imagine needing a letter of recommendation to get to see your own child! A sad day it is, Tevye, for your gray hairs, I told myself, when this is what things have come to …

Just then, though, I looked through the glass door again and saw a girl bustling about inside. That must be the chambermaid, I thought, because she has the eyes of a thief (all chambermaids do — my business has brought me to a lot of rich houses and I’ve seen a lot of chambermaids in my day) — and so I winked at her too as if to say, “Open up there, my little pussycat …”

Well, she noticed me, opened the door a crack, and asked me in Yiddish, “Who are you looking for?”

“Is this the Podhotzur place?” I said.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked again, raising her voice.

“When you’re asked a question,” I said, raising my voice louder than hers, “it’s considered polite to answer before asking one of your own. Is this the Podhotzur place?”

“That it is,” she says.

“In that case,” I say, “you and I are practically related. Please be so kind as to tell Madame Podhotzur that she has a guest; her father Tevye has arrived and has been standing outside like a beggar for quite some time, because he failed to pass muster with that silver-buttoned sheygetz of yours, who isn’t worth the nail on your little finger …”

The girl burst out laughing like a shiksa herself, shut the door in my face, ran upstairs, ran back down, opened the door again, and let me into a palace the likes of which my ancestors never saw in their dreams. There was silk and satin and crystal and gold all over, and you could hardly feel yourself walk, because wherever you put your big feet they sank into carpets softer than snow that must have cost a small fortune. And the clocks! There were clocks on the walls, clocks on the tables, clocks everywhere; Father Time himself wouldn’t have known what to do with so many of them. I began to cross the floor with my hands behind my back, taking it all in, when suddenly, in every direction, I saw other Tevyes with their hands behind their backs just like me. One was heading this way, another that, another toward me, another away … the Devil take them, there were mirrors all around! Leave it to that fat cat of a contractor to wallpaper his house with clocks and mirrors …

The thought of that fat, bald, whinnying loudmouth of a Podhotzur reminded me of the first time he came driving his two speed demons to visit us in the village. He sprawled out in a chair as if he owned it, introduced himself to my Beilke, and then took me aside to shout a secret in my ear that could have been heard on the far side of Yehupetz. What was it? It was that my daughter had swept him off his feet and he wanted to marry her “pronto.” His losing his footing was only natural, but that “pronto” of his was like a blunt knife in my heart. What kind of way was that to talk about a wedding? Where did I come in? And where did Beilke? I was about to pin his ears back with a verse or two from the Bible when I thought, lomoh zeh anoykhi —what’s the point, Tevye, of butting in between these children? A lot it helped for you to think your other daughters’ marriages were your business! You made more noise than a kettledrum, you quoted the Bible forwards and backwards, and who came out looking like a fool? Why, Tevye, of course!

But let’s get back to the prince and the princess, as you writers like to say. I came to Yehupetz and was received with open arms. “How are you?… It’s so good to see you!.. How have you been?… Sit down, sit down!..” In short, the usual routine. You can be sure I wasn’t going to be the first to ask mah yoym miyomim , why the rush invitation, because Tevye is no woman, Tevye knows how to wait. Meanwhile a servant in white gloves came to announce that food was on the table, and the three of us rose and went to a room that was all solid oak: the table was oak, and the benches were oak, and the walls were oak, and the ceiling was oak, all painted and lacquered and varnished and stained and carved and chiseled and paneled. The oak table was set for a king, with tea, and coffee, and chocolates, and pastries, and the best French cognac, and the most expensive pickled herring, and all kinds of fruits that I’m ashamed to admit my Beilke never saw in her father’s home in her life. I was poured glass after glass of cognac, and I drank toast after toast, and I thought, looking at my Beilke, why, it’s just like the prayer book says: mekimi mi’ofor dal —when God decides to help a poor person— meyashpoys yorim evyoyn —He goes the whole hog. That’s certainly my Beilke that I’m looking at, but it’s not like any Beilke that I’ve ever seen before.

As a matter of fact, when I compared the Beilke I knew to the Beilke I saw, I had the sinking feeling that I had driven a bad bargain and was left holding the bag. Do you know what it was like? It was like swapping my trusty old nag for a newborn colt without knowing what would come of it, a real horse or a wooden one. Ah, Beilke, Beilke, I thought, just look at you now! Do you still remember sitting up nights by our smoky oil lamp, sewing and humming an old tune? Plunking yourself down on a three-legged stool and milking a cow faster than it could shake its tail at you? Rolling up your sleeves and cooking me a good, down-to-earth borscht, or a dish of bean fritters, or a platter of cheese blintzes, and calling, “Papa, wash up and come eat”? Those words were such music to my ears — and now here was this woman sitting like a queen with her Podhotzur while two servants waited on the table, making a great clatter with the dishes, and where was my Beilke? You see, she didn’t say a single word; Podhotzur was talking for the two of them, he didn’t stop blabbing for a minute! In all my life I’ve never seen a man run on at the mouth like that about the Devil only knows what, and all the time with that high-pitched whinny of his. It’s not everyone who can be the only person to laugh at his own jokes and still go right on telling them …