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

Well, about my second daughter, Hodl, I don’t need to tell you, you know about her. I lost her — she’s gone forever! Only God knows if my eyes will ever look upon her, unless it’s in the world to come, may it be in a hundred twenty years. To this day, when I talk about Hodl, I cannot calm myself, it’s the end of me! I should forget her, you say? How can you forget a living person, especially a child like Hodl? You should see the letters she writes me; they would make your heart melt. She says things are going very well for them. He is in prison, and she is earning money. She takes in laundry, reads books, and sees him every week. She hopes things will calm down between us, she says. One day the sun will rise and it will be light, and he, along with many others like himself, will be set free, and then they will get down to the real business of turning the world on its head. Nu? How do you like that? Good? Ha! What does the Master of the Universe decide to do? He is, after all, as you say, a merciful and compassionate God. He says to me: “Wait, Tevye, I will make it so you forget all your past troubles!”

And so it was — just listen. I would not tell this to anyone else because the pain is great and the shame is even greater! But as it is written: Shall I hide from Abraham? — do I have any secrets from you? Whatever I live through, I tell you. What then is the problem? I ask but one thing of you: let it remain between us. I tell you again, the pain is great, but the shame, the shame is even greater!

In a word, as it is written in the chapter: The Holy One, blessed be He, wished to grant merit —God wanted to do Tevye a favor, and so He blessed him with seven daughters, all pretty, gifted, healthy, and clever, I tell you, like slender young pine trees! Oy, how I wish they were ugly and bad-tempered. It might have been better for them and healthier for me. What is the good, I ask you, of having a good horse if it stays in its stall? What is the good of having pretty daughters if you are stuck with them in the middle of nowhere? We hardly see a living person except Ivan Poperilo, the Gentile mayor of the town; the writer Chvedka Galagan, a tall Gentile boy with thick hair and high boots; and the priest, may his name be eradicated. I cannot bear to hear his name. Not because I am a Jew and he a priest — on the contrary, we’ve been on friendly terms for many years, not that we would invite each other for celebrations or holidays. It’s just that if we meet, we say good morning, have a good year, what’s new.

I avoid long discussions with this priest because right away we get into the whole business of your God and our God. I cut him off with a proverb and tell him we have a fitting commentary. Then he cuts me off and says he knows the commentaries as well as I do and perhaps better, and then he begins to recite from memory from our Bible, pronouncing it just like a Christian: “Bereshit bara alokim” —every time, every time the same. So I interrupt him and tell him we have a midrash. “A midrash,” he says, “is the same as Talmud,” and he dislikes Talmud because Talmud is, he says, “nothing but a swindle.” I get very angry and pour out whatever comes out of my mouth. Do you think that bothers him? Not at all. He looks at me and laughs as he smooths his beard. I tell you, there is nothing worse in the world than when you insult someone, make mud out of him, and he doesn’t say a word. Your blood is boiling, and he is sitting and smiling! At that time I didn’t understand that little smile, but now I know what it meant.

One evening before nightfall I came home and encountered the writer Chvedka standing outside with my Chava, my third daughter, the one after Hodl. Seeing me, the young man spun around, tipped his hat, and left. I asked Chava, “What is Chvedka doing here?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“We were just talking.”

“What business do you have with Chvedka?”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“ Mazel tov to you for that friendship! A fine friend, Chvedka!”

“Do you know him? Do you know who he is?”

“Who he is, I don’t know, I haven’t seen his family tree,” I said. “But he must have a great line. His father had to be a shepherd, or a janitor, or just a plain drunkard.”

“What his father was I don’t know and don’t want to know, because to me all people are equal. But he is not an ordinary person, of that I am sure,” she said.

“Well then, what sort of person is he? Let’s hear.”

“If I told you,” she said, “you wouldn’t understand. Chvedka is a second Gorky.”

“A second Gorky? Who then was the first Gorky?”

“Gorky,” she said, “is almost the most important man in the world.”

“Where does he live,” I said, “this sage of yours? What is his occupation, and what words of wisdom has he uttered lately?”

“Gorky is a famous author, a person who writes books, and a dear, rare, honest person who comes from simple people. He never studied anywhere but is self-taught. Here is his portrait.” She removed a small photograph from her pocket.

“So this is your sage Reb Gorky?” I said. “I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere, either at the train station carrying sacks or in the woods hauling logs.”

“Is it a fault in your eyes,” she said, “that a person works with his hands? Don’t you yourself work? And don’t we work?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. We have a special verse in the Bible: For thou shall eat the labor of thy hands —if you don’t work, you won’t eat. But still and all, I don’t understand what Chvedka is doing here. I would be happier,” I said, “if you knew him from a distance. You mustn’t forget whence you come and whither you go —who you are and who he is.”

“God created all people equal,” she said to me.

“Yes, yes, God created Adam in His own image,” I said. “But you mustn’t forget that everyone must seek his own, as it says, To every man as he is able. ”

“Amazing!” she said. “You have a quotation for everything! Maybe you can find one about how people separated themselves into Jews and Gentiles, into masters and slaves, into landowners and beggars?”

“Now, now! I think you’ve gone too far, my daughter!” And I gave her to understand that the world had been that way since the Creation.

“Why should the world be like that?” she asked me.

“Because that’s the way God created it.”

“Why did He create it like that?”

“Eh! If we begin asking questions, why this and why that, it’s a story without an end!” I said.

“That’s why God gave us reason, so we could ask questions.”

“We have a custom that when a hen begins to crow like a rooster, you should take it immediately to the slaughterer. As we say in the prayers: He giveth the rooster knowledge to discern the dawn from the night .”

“Haven’t you two prattled enough?” my Golde called from the house. “The borscht is on the table for an hour, and he’s chanting prayers!”

“Another voice heard from!” I said. “Not for nothing did our sages say, The fool has seven traits —a woman has nine yards of talk. We are talking about serious matters, and along she comes with her dairy borscht!”

“The dairy borscht,” she said, “is as important as all your serious talk.”

“ Mazel tov! We have here a new philosopher, fresh from the oven!” I said. “As if I didn’t have enough enlightened daughters, now Tevye’s wife has also started to spread her wings and fly!”

“If that’s the case,” she said, “drop dead!” How’s that for a fine dinner invitation to a hungry man?