Her mother, Ziporah the Fat One, often came to visit her. She was always telling Freidel that her father, Isaiah, longs for his daughter; and, that he sent her, Ziporah, to find out how she is. But, Freidel knows that this is a lie. She knows perfectly well that at home her mother is often short of bread to eat, and that she comes to her to break her fast, in spite of her pretenses to the contrary.
“Do you know what, my daughter?” she says. “You ought to make the butter cakes that I used to make long ago. They are delicious with chicory, and very nourishing. And, if one can digest them when made with a lot of butter, they are altogether delicious. And, for breakfast, there is nothing like hot goose-fat, just melted, with onions. Your father, if you remember, was always fond of that. It is very nourishing. Shall I go and get the fat out of the dish?”
And, by degrees, Ziporah gave herself up altogether to the task of inventing new dishes for every meal of the day — for breakfast, dinner, tea and supper. But, it cannot be said that Freidel was overpleased with this. The first few times, she made no comment, and seemed to be taking no notice. But, after about a week or so, she began to give hints to her mother. And, her mother paid her back in the same coin, until they came to quarreling openly, letting out on each other all their anger. Nor did they spare Stempenyu when he tried to make peace between them.
“It is not your business at all!” said Freidel to him. “Have no fear. I will not give my mother your property — the family heirlooms. Be quiet, Stempenyu.”
“It’s a lovely paradise!” cried the mother from her side of the room, with pronounced sarcasm. “An ox has a long tongue; but, it can’t blow a horn. Amongst respectable folks a mother-in-law is treated with as much respect as a mother. I imagine I hear him reply: ‘But, what respect do you get from your daughter?’ What do they say? Cut of your notes to spite your face. And, he never even wags his tongue to reprove her. Do you call that a man? It is exactly as some people say, ‘So long as one dances on the green, all is well.’ I don’t understand it at all. How is it he does not grow weary of all this? What my daughter is so proud of is more than I can tell. If one is lucky, even one’s ox goes to calf. We have already seen such heroes as you are. Your father-in-law, Isaiah, was just as good a fiddler as you are. But — nothing! How do they say, ‘A new broom sweeps clean.’ In everything one must have good luck; and, if God will it, even a broom can shoot. But, Stempenyu, you ought to be offended with me because I am telling you the exact truth. And, though every dog is a master on his own doorstep, you must remember that I am no stranger to you. After all, I am your mother-in-law; and, when one plays with the cat, one must take her scratches for love-tokens.”
Ziporah went on pouring out the words as from a full sack, as was usual with her when she was once started talking. But, Stempenyu would not hear her out. He left the room, and betook himself to his fiddle, as was his habit when his heart was heavy, and when his soul was full to overflowing with anger and resentment and regrets. He forgot, soon after he had started playing, all about his wife, and his mother-in-law, and his load of miseries.
And, once again there stood before him the image of Rochalle…
“She fills my heart’s heart with aching,” he murmured, while his mind was busy trying to devise some means of seeing her in the flesh once more. “How and where is it possible to see her, even if only for a single instant?”
But, these are all empty dreams — vanity, and weariness of the flesh.
Stempenyu does not know that his little song is nearly sung, and that his little world has almost come to an end. He does not know that his black locks are getting thinner day by day, and that his burning eyes are slowly but surely losing their fiery glances, and that his white brow is falling into wrinkles. He has ceased to take the least interest in what befalls him. He is so deeply absorbed in his visions that he has neither eyes nor ears nor senses. He is stupid, and blind, and deaf before his time.
Foolish giant! Do not forget yourself. At your side stands your Delilah — the Delilah that lured you into her arms, and took you on her knee, and rocked you to sleep. And, while you slept, she cut off your locks of hair in which lay the source and origin of your great strength — all your abilities that lifted you up above other men. Your Delilah did unto you just as the Delilah of old did unto her husband, Samson the Strong, after which he was lost and ruined, and fell into the hands of the Philistines…
You have only one consolation left you in the world — only one — your little fiddle. Then play, Stempenyu — play on your fiddle, and we will listen…
About the Author and Translator
Sholom Aleichem was born Solomon Rabinowitz in 1859, the son of a merchant in the Ukrainian village of Pereyaslav. At 14, he wrote his first book: a dictionary of Yiddish curses overheard at home. Despite jobs teaching Russian and writing for Hebrew newspapers, it was his writings in Yiddish — humorous stories about village life — that brought him fame. Using the Yiddish greeting (“Peace unto you”) as his pseudonym, he published 40 volumes of stories and plays, single-handedly creating a literature for what had been primarily a spoken language. Pogroms forced Aleichem to flee Russia in 1905, eventually landing him in New York City, his fame undiminished — introduced to Mark Twain as “the Yiddish Mark Twain,” Twain interrupted to call himself the “American Sholom Aleichem.” Upon Aleichem’s death in 1916, 100,000 mourneres flooded the streets of Manhattan for his funeral. His will, however, asked friends to remember him by an annual reading of one of his funny stories. “Let my name be recalled in laughter,” Aleichem wrote, “or not at all.”
Hannah Berman (1883–1955) was an English novelist (Melutovna), and early translator of significant works in Yiddish.