“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.
“Where is your match from? Do I know him? If he smells of a butcher shop,” I said, “I don’t want to hear of it!”
“God forbid! He doesn’t begin to smell of a butcher shop. You know him, Reb Tevye, very well!”
“Is it really a good match?”
“It’s made to measure! It’s custom made, one-of-a-kind, cut and sewn to order!”
“Who is it, this match?” I asked.
“Who is it?” His eyes always looked toward the girls. “The match is, please understand me, Reb Tevye, I myself.”
When he uttered those words, I leaped up as if scalded, as did he, and we stood facing each other like two bristling roosters. “Are you crazy?” I said. “Or are you just out of your mind? You are the matchmaker and the bridegroom? Will you be playing the music too at your own wedding? I’ve never heard of such a thing — a young man arranging a match for himself!”
“Are you saying, Reb Tevye, that I’m crazy?” he said. “May our enemies be as crazy. I am, you may believe me, in my right mind. No one has to be crazy to want to marry your Tzeitl. The proof is that Lazer-Wolf, the richest man in our town, wants to marry her without any conditions. Do you think it’s a secret? The whole town knows about it! You surprise me when you’re shocked that I am my own matchmaker,” he said. “You are, after all, Reb Tevye, a man who doesn’t need things spelled out for him. But what good is talking? This is the way it is: I and your daughter Tzeitl pledged to marry over a year ago.”
Had someone plunged a knife into my heart, it would have been less painful than those words. First of all, where did he, Motl, a tailor, come off wanting to be Tevye’s son-in-law? And second of all, what kind of talk is that, pledging to marry? Nu, and where did I come in? “Don’t I have a little something to say about my child,” I said, “or don’t you ask anymore?”
“God forbid,” he said. “That’s why, when I heard Lazer-Wolf was asking to marry your daughter, whom I have loved for over a year, I came to talk it over with you.”
“All I know is,” I said, “Tevye has a daughter Tzeitl, and your name is Motl Komzoil, and you are just a tailor. What do you have against her? Why do you hate her?”
“No, that’s not the way it is at all,” he said. “It’s quite the other way around. I love your daughter, and your daughter loves me, and it’s been over a year since we gave each other our pledge to marry. Several times I wanted to discuss it with you, and I kept putting it off until I had saved up some money for a sewing machine and was able to get some proper clothes for myself. Nowadays every young man has two suits and several shirts.”
“I don’t want to listen to this childish nonsense,” I said to him. “What will you do after the wedding, pawn your teeth for food? Or are you going to support her by sewing shirts?”
“Ah, I am surprised that you, Reb Tevye, would speak that way,” he said. “When you got married, I imagine you didn’t have a mansion yet. Nevertheless you can see for yourself. The whole world manages, and I will manage too. Now more business is coming my way.”