The innkeeper and his wife are right: I ought to have some warm clothing made, for all I have are summer garments from the Land of Israel, which cover the body but do not warm it, and this cold that’s on the way is a severe cold, and lasts six months and more, and never stops, night or day. Even those who are accustomed to it need warm clothes; all the more so I, who am not.
Now this overcoat, how shall I have it made? And even if I have it made, how shall I show myself in it in front of people, when I am ashamed to go out in new clothes? And why am I ashamed? It may be because I do not want to shame those who have no new clothes, or it may be something else that worries me — a new garment marks its wearer, and marks him only because of his dress, as in that story about a man who went to seek a maiden’s hand. When this man appeared before the girl’s father dressed in new clothes, the father said, “Since he is completely dressed in new clothes, it seems his old ones are not fit to wear; a man like that is not suitable for my daughter.”
The parable is not quite a close fit, and it would be wrong to put off making the coat because of the story — even so, it is worth remembering. That young man put on new clothes to improve his appearance, but in the end he was sadly disillusioned, because all that people saw in him was his clothes.
I go to the Beit Midrash, but my going gives me no satisfaction. I do not suffer from the cold as yet, but something else troubles me as I go, for I scrutinize the passers-by, looking at them and their clothes. I, who am not accustomed to observe anything outside my own little acre, have become a noser. And the trouble is that since I pay attention to others I no longer pay attention to myself.
But since I am looking at the people, I will say something about them. Everyone here wears old clothes. They are so old that you doubt if they were ever new; in other words, they were already old when they were bought. And those they bought them from had also bought the clothes when they were old. This is particularly noticeable with the children. There is not a single child whose clothes are not older than himself.
The cold that was on the way took another course and flowed to the forests and the rivers, the hills and the valleys, but its traces and the traces of its traces could be felt in the town.
Sour and insipid fruit sprout in the marketplace, autumn fruit without any sap; salt herrings, whole and chopped, give out a salty and rancid odor; the smell of pickled cabbage, sour marrows, and the garlic with which the preserves are made, is wafted from every house. The sweet odor of millet in honey — the odor that sweetens our town from the day after Passover until the middle of November — has evaporated.
The sun is hidden in the sky and comes out only at intervals, and when it does come out it is wrapped in clouds, like a sick man who is set down in the open for a little while. A sick man who has been brought outside finds fault with every place where they set him down; he wraps himself up, and covers his face, complaining, “The wind is blowing; it’s cold outside; it’s raining.” And when they put him back inside, he turns his face away and sulks.
Even worse than the sun is the ground. Either it sends up clouds of dust, or it makes puddles and patches of swamp and rottenness. Poets are in the habit of comparing the winter to a dead man and the snow to the graveclothes. Perhaps there is some resemblance, and perhaps not, but, in any case, if the snow does not come down and cover up the earth, the stench will surely bury the town.
The whole town is weary and sad. If a man has a house, the roof is shaky and the windows broken, and it goes without saying that he does not have double windows. If he has sons and daughters, he has not yet had shoes made for their feet, bought potatoes for them, or prepared wood for the fire.
The skies hang sluggishly — skies? or clouds? — dripping, dripping drops like needles that have gone rusty. The town’s two wagoners stand in the marketplace clapping their hands to warm themselves a little. Winter is not yet here, but a man’s body is already cold. The wagon horses stand with heads bowed, looking at the ground, which yesterday was joyful and today is sad, wondering at their shadows, which lie so cold beneath their feet. Those men whom I found in the Great Synagogue on the eve of Atonement Day walking up and down to show themselves as proprietors now stand at the doors of their shops, how poor, how helpless. From the ninety villages that surround the town, not a man comes to buy anything in the shops — not because the ground is rotting and the villager has become finicky, but because each village has learned to have its own shop. Each farmer sells his crops himself, and has no need of a middleman. And even the Jews who used to live in the village, and through whom the townsfolk used to earn their livelihood, have moved out and now rot in poverty together with their fellows.
There are old men in the town who remember other days, when there was peace in the world, and joy, when a man had his victuals in plenty and his belly carried his legs; for people used to eat much and there was strength in their legs; a man had shoes on his feet, and his body was dressed in fine clothes, and everyone’s livelihood came flying straight into his house. And how was that? Immediately after the festival season the landowners used to come into town, with their wives and sons and daughters, their manservants and maidservants. All the village gentry would set out in dancing carriages harnessed to two or four horses and drive into town with loud and happy cries. They sold their winter crops to the grain merchants, the brandy of their distilleries to the brandy merchants, leased their forests to the timber agents, and all the craftsmen in the town would stand around them and ask, “Have you any repairs to make in your houses?” And they would go in and buy copper and zinc and lead to repair vats and boilers and kettles. When they had finished their business, they would go to the shopkeeper and buy winter clothing, of wool and leather, long and short, for home and travel, for themselves and their households, and for their mistresses and their households. The days gone by were not like these days of ours. In these days, when one of the gentry casts his eye on a woman, he takes her to some such place as the divorcee’s inn, and that’s the only roof he’ll ever provide her with. But in days gone by, the gentry used to build mansions for their mistresses, and provide them with every luxury, with footmen and maids to serve them. As for the clothes the gentry used to have made — five people would get a profit out of every single garment: the seller of the cloth, the seller of the fur, the tailor, the furrier, and the go-between. Or perhaps we should say six, for there is no go-between without another go-between at his heels.
But a simple fur is not enough to warm a man. And if even he who cannot afford to buy a simple skin buys a decent garment, you can be quite sure that he who can afford to buy a simple skin also buys many other clothes. You see this street; now it is in ruins and the shops are a heap of rubble. In the past there were two rows of shops here, one on one side and one on the other, and every shop was full of cloths and fabrics, velvet and satin, silk and linen. People used to go in and buy whether they needed to or not. Often the shop was too small to hold all the customers; so the people would go to another street and buy shoes. If those shops were full, they would turn to the grocers, and if they were full, they went to the restaurants. This body of ours has both an inside and an outside; just as you must clothe and shoe it, so must you feed it. So people would eat and drink and make merry, and gladden their servants with gifts of money. And when the servants had money they would also go to the shops to buy clothes and shoes and hats, for they had bodies too; the inner man they would sustain in the restaurants, and the outer man in the shops.