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

And so it was. I drove on for a verst or two, when not far from home I saw in the middle of the road coming toward me a figure in the shape of a woman. I drove closer and saw it was — Tzeitl! I don’t know why, but I felt a pang in my heart when I saw her. I sprang down from the wagon. “Tzeitl, is that you? What are you doing here?”

And didn’t she fall on my neck sobbing! “God be with you,” I said, “my daughter, why are you crying?”

“Oy,” she said, “Papa, Papa!” and her face was drenched in tears. My heart sank, and I imagined the worst.

“What is it, daughter?” I said. “Tell me what has happened to you.” I embraced her, patted her, and kissed her.

“Papa, Papa, dear, beloved father,” she wailed. “Have pity on me, on my youth!” She dissolved in tears, unable to speak another word.

Woe is me, I was thinking. I was preparing myself for the worst! What evil spirit had taken me to Boiberik?

“Why do you cry?” I said to her, stroking her head. “Little silly, why do you cry? Never mind,” I said. “If you say no, it’s no. No one will force you, God forbid. We only meant it for the best, for your own good,” I said. “But if that’s not what your heart tells you, what can we do? Most likely,” I said, “it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, “long life to you.” And she fell on my neck and again kissed me and wept, the tears gushing.

“But enough crying,” I said. “ All is vanity —even eating kreplach can be tiresome. Climb into the wagon, and let’s go home. Your mother will begin to think who knows what!”

Well, we seated ourselves in the wagon, and I began to calm her down with whatever came to mind. I told her we had meant no harm. God knew the truth, that we wanted only to spare our child from need. “Ay, it seems God does not want that,” I said. “It’s not meant to be, my daughter, that you marry without a dowry, that you have riches and all the comforts of life with a fine household, and that we have joy in our old age after all our hard work, day and night, harnessed to a wagon, without a happy moment, only suffering, poverty, squalor, only bad, bad luck in every way!”

“Oy, Papa,” she said, again weeping, “I’ll hire myself out to haul rocks, dig ditches!”

“Why are you still crying, silly girl?” I said. “Am I complaining? Am I blaming you? It’s just that whenever I feel miserable and wretched, I pour my heart out to the ruler of the universe about the way he deals with me. He is a merciful Father. He has pity on me, but He also turns against me, may I not be punished for these words. I try to reason with Him as with a father, but you might as well cry out to the heavens! But most likely,” I said, “that’s the way it has to be. He is high above, and we are here below, forever bound to the earth on which we lie, so we must say that He is right and that His judgment is just.

“But think about it another way. Am I not a great fool? Why am I crying out? Why am I making such a fuss? Who am I,” I said, “to confront Him with my foolish reasoning and try to give Him advice on how to run His little world? I’m no more than a worm crawling on the earth whom the slightest little breeze, if God so wills it, will destroy in the wink of an eye. If He says so, that’s the way it has to be. What good are complaints? Forty days,” I said, “it is written in our holy books that forty days before the child is created in the mother’s womb, an angel comes and cries: ‘Let Tevye’s daughter take this one or that one, and you, Lazer-Wolf, be so kind as to go somewhere else to find someone fit for you. She is waiting for you.’ And you, Tzeitl,” I said, “may God send you your intended, but the right one, and the sooner the better, amen, may it be so. Let’s hope your mother doesn’t take out after me — I know what I’ll get from her!”

And so we came home. I unhitched the horse and sat down on the grass near the house to try to figure out how to tell my wife a Thousand and One Nights tale in order to avoid trouble. It was evening, and the sun was setting, a lovely time of summer. The frogs were croaking in the distance while the horse, his legs hobbled, was nibbling grass. The cows, having just come in from the pasture with the herd, were standing in their stalls waiting to be milked. The delicious aroma of grass filled the air all around — a paradise! I sat and drank it all in as I was thinking how cleverly the Creator of the universe had made His little world so that every creature, from a man to a cow, forgive the comparison, should earn its keep — nothing comes free! If you, cow, want to eat, then you must give milk, provide a livelihood for a man with a wife and little children! You, horse, do you want to chew? Then run back and forth day in and day out with pots to Boiberik! And the same goes for you, O man. Do you want a crust of bread? Then go toil, milk the cows, carry the jugs, churn butter, make cheese, harness the horse, and drag yourself every morning to the Boiberik dachas, bow and scrape to the Yehupetz rich folks, smile for them, charm each one, and be sure they are satisfied and that their pride hasn’t been hurt!

Ah, but the question from the Haggadah still remains: Wherefore is this night different? Where was it written that Tevye had to labor for them, to wake up so early that God Himself was still asleep? Why? Was it so the rich folks could have a fresh piece of cheese and butter in time for their coffee? Where was it written that I had to break my back for some thin soup and a loaf of barley bread while the Yehupetz tycoons rested their bones in their dachas, didn’t have to lift a finger, and ate only roasted duck and hot knishes, blintzes, and varnishkes ? Was I not as much a person as they were? Wouldn’t it be just if Tevye could stay just one summer in a dacha? Ay, but then where would people get their cheese and butter? Who would milk the cows? The Yehupetz aristocrats? I laughed at that insane thought. There is a saying: “If God were to listen to fools, the world would look altogether different.”

“Good evening, Reb Tevye!” someone called me. I turned around and looked — a familiar face. It was Motl Komzoil, a young tailor from Anatevka.

“And to you,” I said. “Look who’s here! Sit, Motl, on God’s earth. What brings you here?”

“What brings me here? My feet,” he said, and sat down beside me on the grass, all the time looking toward where my daughters were working with the pots and jugs. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a long time, Reb Tevye,” he said, “but I haven’t had the time. As soon as I finish one piece of work, I have to start another. Nowadays I work for myself as a tailor. There is, thank God, plenty of work — all the tailors have as much work as they can handle. It’s a continuous summer of weddings: Berl Fonfatch is marrying off a daughter, Yenkl Sheygetz is marrying off a daughter, Mendl Zaika is marrying off a daughter, Yenkl Piskatch is marrying off a daughter. Moishe Gorgel is marrying off a daughter.

Meyer Kropeve is marrying off a daughter. Chayim Loshek is marrying off a daughter, and even Trihubeche the widow is marrying off a daughter!”

“Everyone is marrying off daughters,” I said. “But I’m not at that point yet. Perhaps I’m not worthy in God’s eyes.”

“No, you are mistaken, Reb Tevye,” he said, looking toward where the girls were. “If you wanted, you would also be marrying off a daughter. It depends on you.”

“Really?” I said. “In what way Perhaps you have a match for my Tzeitl?”

“A perfect fit!” he said.

“Is it at least the right match?” I was thinking that it would be funny if he meant Lazer-Wolf the butcher.

“Like a glove!” he answered in tailor-talk, still looking toward the girls.