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

I raised my eyes — and saw a young man trudging along the path with a bundle under one arm, sweating profusely and panting heavily. “Rise, O son of Reb Yuckel ben Fleckel!” I said to him. “Sit down up here and I’ll give you a lift. I have plenty of room. If you come across your friend’s donkey it is written: Thou shalt surely help him and not abandon him —then why not a fellow human being?”

He laughed, the shlimazel, and didn’t need to be asked again before hopping onto the wagon. “Where is a young man like you coming from?” I said.

“From Yehupetz.”

“What,” I said, “is a young man like you doing in Yehupetz?”

“A young man like myself,” he said, “is preparing for his entrance exam.”

“What,” I said, “is a young man like you studying?”

“A young man like myself,” he said, “doesn’t know yet what he is studying.”

“If so,” I said, “why is a young man like you bothering your head for nothing?”

“Don’t worry, Reb Tevye. A young man like myself,” he said, “already knows what he has to do.”

“Then tell me, since you know who I am, tell me who you are.”

“Who am I? I am a person.”

“I see you’re not a horse. I mean whose are you?”

“Whose should I be? I am God’s.”

“I know,” I said, “you are God’s. It is written: All creatures and all cattle. I mean where do you come from. Are you one of ours or maybe from Lithuania?”

“I come from Adam, the first man,” he said, “but am from around here. You know me.”

“Who then is your father? Tell me already!”

“My father was called Perchik.”

“Damn!” I spat. “Did you have to string me along all this time? So you are Perchik the cigarette-maker’s son?”

“I am,” he said, “Perchik the cigarette-maker’s son.”

“And you are taking classes?”

“And I am taking classes.”

“Well, well, very nice,” I said. “A man and a bird and a duck all try to move ahead in this world. Tell me, my young rascal, what do you live on?”

“I live on what I eat.”

“Aha, that’s good. But what,” I said, “do you eat?”

“Everything,” he said, “that they give me.”

“I understand,” I said, “you aren’t fussy. If there is enough to eat, you eat, and if there isn’t enough to eat, you bite your lip and go to bed hungry. But it’s worth it so long as you are studying. You’re comparing yourself,” I said, “to the Yehupetz rich folks. As it says in the morning prayers: All are beloved, all are elect. ” I quoted a portion to him, as only Tevye can.

Do you think he took this lying down? “May the rich not live to see the day when I compare myself to them! Let them all go to hell!”

“You seem all worked up about the rich folks. Have they divided up your father’s inheritance among themselves?”

“You should know,” he said, “that you and I and all of us have a large share in their inheritance.”

“Let your enemies talk like that,” I said. “I see only one thing, that you are not a hopeless young man and that you know how to use your tongue. If,” I said, “you have time, why don’t you come to my house tonight, and we’ll talk some more and, while we’re at it, have a little supper?”

You can be sure I did not have to repeat the invitation. He arrived exactly at the moment the borscht was on the table and the cheese knishes were baking in the oven. “You have perfect timing. Everything is all set for you,” I said. “You can wash your hands or not, it’s up to you. I am not God’s watchman and will not be punished in the next world for your sins.” As I talked with this young fellow, for some reason I felt drawn to him. Maybe it’s because I like a person with whom I can talk, with whom I can discuss a biblical commentary, have a philosophical argument, speculate about life, on this, on that, and who knows what else. That’s the kind of person Tevye is.

From that time on, my young friend began coming to my house almost every day. After he was finished with his tutoring job, he would come for a rest and a visit. You can imagine how little he earned from that tutoring when you realize that the richest man in town would pay him eighteen kopeks an hour for teaching his sons while also helping him read telegrams, write addresses, and even run errands. And why not? As the passage goes: With all thy heart and with all thy soul —if you eat bread, you have to pay for it. Luckily he ate at my house, and in exchange he tutored my daughters. As it is said: An eye for an eye —a slap for a slap. He became like a member of our family. The children would bring him a glass of milk, and my wife made sure he had a shirt on his back and a pair of mended socks. We started calling him Fefferl, the Yiddish version of the Russian Perchik, and it is safe to say we all loved him as one of our own because he was by nature a fine person, simple, outgoing, a down-to-earth man, and generous, what’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine.

But there was one thing I did not like about him: he kept disappearing. He would suddenly get up and leave, and as it is written in Genesis : The child is not there —Fefferl was gone! “Where have you been, my dear fly-by-night?” I would ask when he came the next day. But he was as mute as a fish. I don’t know about you, but I hate a person with secrets. I like a person who talks to you and tells you things. But he did have this virtue: once he started talking, it was a passionate, unstoppable stream, like fire and water. What a tongue — not to be stopped! He spoke out against God, against the Messiah, and against injustice, conjuring up wild schemes, all upside down, all crazy. For instance, a rich man, according to his backward reasoning, was less worthy than a poor man, who to him was a jewel. A man who was a worker was beyond estimation because he worked.

“That’s all well and good,” I said, “but will that get you any money?”

He became angry and tried to convince me that money was the root of all evil. “Money,” he said, “is the source of the world’s falsehood, and everything not done in the world out of a sense of justice.” He gave me a thousand examples and illustrations that made no sense to me at all.

“Then according to your crazy way of thinking,” I said, “it is unjust to milk my cow, and for my horse to pull my wagon?” That’s how I would confront him after every foolish statement, and I challenged his every opinion, as only Tevye can! But my Fefferl could also argue, and did he argue! I wish that he didn’t argue so well. If he has something to say, he speaks up!

One evening we were sitting in front of my house talking about philosophy. Fefferl said to me, “Do you know, Reb Tevye, that you have very capable daughters?”

“Is that so?” I said. “Thank you for that news. They have whom to take after.”

“One of them,” he went on, “the eldest, is really very bright, very mature.”

“I know that without your telling me,” I said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” My heart swelled with pride, for what father, I ask you, does not love it when someone praises his children? How was I to have been a prophet and known that from that praise would spring a passionate love affair? May God protect me! You must hear this.

In short , and there was evening and there was morning, as it says in Genesis — it was between day and night when I was making my rounds of the Boiberik dachas with my wagon when someone stopped me. I looked and saw Ephraim the matchmaker. Ephraim, you must know, is a matchmaker like all matchmakers and makes matches. When Ephraim saw me in Boiberik, he stopped me and said, “If you please, Reb Tevye, I have to ask you something.”