Sholem Aleichem - Tevye the Dairyman and Motl the Cantor's Son

“Is that your name, Tevye?” one said. “A good evening to you, Reb Tevye! We don’t see what there is to laugh about. We’re strangers from Yehupetz staying at a dacha in Boiberik. We started out early this morning for a little stroll, and we’ve been going slowly around in circles in these woods all day, getting more and more lost. We can’t seem to get back on the right path. And then we heard this singing in the woods. At first we thought, What if it’s, God forbid, a highwayman? But then when we came closer and saw you were a Jew, thank God, we felt relieved. Now do you understand?”

“Ha ha ha, a fine highwayman!” I laughed. “Have you heard the story about the Jewish highwayman who fell upon a wayfarer and demanded a pinch of snuff? If you’d like, I can tell you the whole story—”

“The story,” they said, “you can leave for another time. Better just show us the road to Boiberik.”

“To Boiberik?” I said. “Look, you’re already on the road to Boiberik! Even if you don’t want it, this road will take you straight to Boiberik.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Why should I shout it?”

“If that’s the case,” they said, “you must know how far we are from Boiberik.”

“To Boiberik,” I said, “it isn’t too far, a few versts, that is, five or six. Maybe seven versts, or maybe even all of eight.”

“Eight versts?!” both women cried out at the same time, wringing their hands and verging on tears. “Do you know what you’re saying? ‘Eight versts,’ he says, as if it were nothing!”

“ Nu, what can I do about it?” said I. “If it were up to me, I’d make it a little shorter. A person has to find things out for himself. It can happen on the road that you drag yourself up a hill through the mud and it’s almost Shabbes. The rain is beating in your face, your hands are numb, your heart is pounding, and then — crash! An axle breaks—”

“You’re rattling on like a madman,” they said to me. “You can’t be in your right mind! All these nonsensical old wives’ tales from A Thousand and One Nights ! We hardly have the strength to stand on our feet. Except for a glass of coffee and a butter roll, we haven’t had a morsel of food in our mouths all day, and here you come along with crazy tales!”

“If that’s the way it is,” said I, “that’s a different story. How do they say— you don’t go dancing before you eat. The taste of hunger I understand very well, you don’t need to tell me. I haven’t tasted or even laid my eyes on coffee or a butter roll for a year.” And as I was speaking, I envisioned a glass of hot coffee with cream and a fresh butter roll along with other delicious foods. Shlimazel, I was scolding myself, is that how I was raised, on coffee and butter rolls? A piece of bread and herring isn’t good enough for me? And he, the Tempter, may he be banished from our thoughts, insisted on coffee, insisted on a butter roll! I smelled the aroma of coffee, tasted the flavor of butter rolls — fresh, delicious, soul-satisfying.

“Do you know what, Reb Tevye?” both women said to me. “Since we’re both standing here, would it be such a bad idea if we got up on your wagon and you kindly took us home to Boiberik? How does that idea strike you?”

“That’s a fine how-do-you-do! I’m coming from Boiberik, and you want to go to Boiberik! How can I go both ways at once?”

“What’s the problem?” they said. “A clever Jew could figure it out. He’d turn the wagon around and go the other way. Don’t worry, Reb Tevye,” they added. “Rest assured that, if God is willing and sees us home safely, we’ll make it worth your while. May we suffer as much as you’ll suffer for it!”

What were they trying to tell me? I wondered. Something out of the ordinary was going on here! There leaped into my mind ghosts, witches, demons, and who knows what else. Oh, what a blockhead I am, I thought, standing there like a bump on a log. I should show the horse the whip and make tracks for home!

But against my will, as bad luck would have it, out of my mouth came: “Climb into the wagon!”

My new friends jumped right on — they didn’t wait to be asked twice. I turned the wagon around, cracked the whip — one two three, giddyap!

Nothing doing! We weren’t going anywhere. The horse wouldn’t budge from the spot, even if you cut him in half. Nu, now I understood what women could do. What had made me stop in the middle of nowhere to carry on a conversation with women? Just picture it — the woods on all sides, the stillness and gloom, night falling, and then these two creatures approaching, women. The imagination could really play tricks on a person. I recalled the story of a coachman who was once riding through the woods all alone when he saw a sack of oats lying on the road. He didn’t waste any time — he quickly got off the wagon, hoisted the heavy sack onto his back with great effort, loaded it onto his wagon, and continued on his way. He drove for about a verst, then turned around to look at the sack. It was gone — no more oats. Instead a goat with a little beard was lying in the wagon. He tried to touch her with his hand, but she stuck out her long tongue at him, let out a weird, wild laugh, and vanished.

“Why aren’t we moving?” the women said to me.

“Why aren’t we moving? Don’t you see?” I said. “The horse won’t cooperate. He’s not in the mood.”

“Show him your whip,” they suggested. “You have a whip.”

“I thank you for your advice,” I said. “It’s a good thing you reminded me. But my boy here isn’t frightened of a whip. He’s as used to it as I am to poverty.” I threw in a little saying to make light of it, but inside I was shaking with frustration.

Why should I bore you? I let out my bitter heart on the poor horse till finally God helped me. The horse decided to move and we were able to continue through the woods.

Oh what a numbskull I was, I thought. I always was a pauper, and I’d always remain a pauper. God had arranged this encounter, something that happens maybe once in a hundred years — and I didn’t settle on a price beforehand. What was I going to get out of it? I was acting according to fairness, decency, righteousness, and law, according to edict, and according to anything I could think of under the sun. But even so, what would have been the harm in earning a little something while I was at it? I should pull up the horse, idiot that I was, and tell them what was what. I should say, “If I am paid so much and so much, all right, and if not, I beg you, if you don’t mind, please get out of the wagon!” But then I saw that I was being an ass. It’s not a good idea to sell the bear’s hide till you’ve caught the bear! I’d wait till we got there.

“Why aren’t you going a little faster?” The women were poking me from behind.

“What’s the rush? Haste makes waste.” I glanced at them out of the corner of my eye. They were ordinary women, one wearing a silk head scarf, the other a wig.

They looked at each other, whispering together. “Is it still far to go?” they asked me.

“As close,” said I, “as from here to there. Soon we’ll be going down a hill and then up a hill. After that, again down a hill and again up a hill, and then comes the really big hill, and from there on the road is straight ahead to Boiberik.”

“What a shlimazel !” one of them exclaimed.

“It’ll take us forever!” said the other.

“It’s the last straw!”

“Strikes me he’s a bit crazy!”

She could say that again, I thought. I had to be crazy to let myself be led around by the nose!

“Where, pray tell, my dear ladies, would you like me to drop you?” I called out to them.