I finally convinced him to kindly allow me to hitch him up to the wagon. We headed home, both of us, in a lively, happy frame of mind, I singing “God Our King” tipsily. My little horse was not the same as before — he seemed to have grown a new coat of fur. He didn’t even wait for the whip but ran like the wind. We arrived late that night, and with great excitement and joy I woke up my wife.
“Good evening!” I said. “Happy holiday, Golde!”
“A dismal happy holiday to you, a miserable one,” she said. “What makes you so jolly, my worthy breadwinner? Are you coming from a wedding or from a bris, my gold spinner?”
“It’s a wedding,” I said, “and a bris! Just wait, my wife, and you’ll soon see the treasure I’ve brought home. But first wake up the children, let the poor things also enjoy the Yehupetz delicacies.”
“Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind or just delirious? You’re talking like a madman, heaven help us!” She treated me to all the curses in the Bible, as a woman can do.
“A woman,” I said, “remains a woman. No wonder King Solomon complained that even among his thousand wives he couldn’t find a proper one. It’s a good thing, believe me, that it’s out of fashion nowadays to have a lot of wives.”
I went out to my wagon, brought in all the wonderful things they had packed for me, and laid them all out on the table. When my little gang set eyes on the breads and sniffed the meats, they fell upon the table like starving wolves, poor things. It turned into a grab-fest, hands trembling, teeth working. As Rashi stated: “Eat!” They chomped away like locusts. Tears came to my eyes.
“Now tell me,” my wife said to me. “Where did you get this fancy banquet, this feast, and how come you’re looking so smug?”
“Be patient, my Golde,” I said. “You’ll soon know everything. Why don’t you blow on the coals under the samovar, and then we can all sit around the table and drink our tea properly? A person,” I said, “only lives once, not twice — especially now that we’ll have our own milk cow that gives twenty-four glasses of milk a day. Tomorrow, God willing, I’ll bring her home. Come on, Golde.” I pulled the banknotes from my pockets. “Come, let’s see if you can guess how much money we have here.”
My wife was dumbstruck, mouth agape.
“God be with you, Golde dear,” I said. “Are you afraid that maybe I stole it or robbed someone? Feh, shame on you! You’re Tevye’s wife so many years, and you can still think that way about me? Silly,” I said, “this is kosher money, honestly earned with my own cleverness and with my own hard work. I rescued two souls from great peril,” I told her. “If not for me, God knows what would have happened to them!”
And I told her everything from A to Z, how God had dealt with me. And then we both counted the money. We counted it over and over again. There was exactly twice eighteen plus one, which comes to no less than thirty-seven rubles! My wife broke down in tears.
“Why are you crying, foolish woman?” I asked.
“How can I help crying when tears come? If your heart is full,” she said, “the eyes overflow. May God help me, my heart told me you’d come back with good news. One time my grandmother Tzeitl came to me in a dream. I was lying in bed asleep, and suddenly I dreamed about a milk pail, a full one. Grandma Tzeitl, may she rest in peace, was carrying the full milk pail under her apron so it wouldn’t tempt the evil eye, and the children were crying, ‘Mama, look!’—”
“Don’t put the cart before the horse, my dear,” I interrupted. “May Grandma Tzeitl have a bright paradise, but I still don’t know if something good will come of this dream. Still, if God could miraculously bring us our own cow, He could also make her give milk. Give me advice, Golde darling — what should we do with the money?”
“Well,” she said, “what do you think we should do with the money, kayn eyn horeh?”
“Well, again and yet again,” I said, “what do you think we should do with this kind of capital?” And we racked our brains trying to come up with an idea. We considered every kind of business: we would buy a pair of horses and sell them for a profit; we would open a grocery store in Boiberik, sell out the stock, and then open a dry-goods store. We would invest in timber, find a buyer, make some money, and get rid of it. We would buy an Anatevka tax-collecting contract and with the profit go into the moneylending business.
“Are you out of your mind?” my wife finally exclaimed. “Do you want to squander these few groschens and be left with nothing but your whip?”
“What, then?” I said. “Is it better to sell grain and go bankrupt?
Everyone is going broke selling wheat. Just see what’s happening in Odessa!”
“What do I care about Odessa?” she said. “My family never was there, and my children will never be there so long as I can stand on my own two feet.”
“What do you want?” I said.
“What do I want?” she said. “I want you to stop talking nonsense.”
“So now you’re the smart one. As they say: ‘If the money comes, the schemes follow, and if you are rich, you’re certainly clever.’ It’s always like that!”
In short, we had a spat but soon made up. We decided on a plan: in addition to the milk cow we’d have tomorrow, we would buy another cow, one that would also give milk.
You will probably ask, Why a cow and not a horse? To which I will answer, Why a horse and not a cow? Every summer all the rich folks from Yehupetz go to their dachas in Boiberik. And these Yehupetz folks are all very refined people who are used to having everything served up to them — wood for the fire, meat and eggs, chickens and onions, peppers and radishes. Why shouldn’t someone make it his business to bring to their doorstep every morning milk, cheese, butter, and sour cream? And as the Yehupetzers like to eat well and don’t give a fig about money, you can charge high prices. But it’s important that the merchandise be of the highest quality, and my merchandise you can’t get even in Yehupetz. May we both have as many blessings as the number of times that people, even high-up Christians, have begged me to sell them my merchandise.
“We hear, Tevel,” they say, “that you’re an honest man even though you’re a filthy Jew.” Would you ever hear a compliment like that from a Jew? May my enemies suffer until that ever happens! You never hear a kind word from our little Jews. They only know about looking into your private business. They see a new cow at Tevye’s, a new cart, and they’re breaking their heads: “Where did it come from? Is this Tevye possibly dealing with counterfeit banknotes? Or might he be cooking up some moonshine in a still?” Ha ha ha! Break your heads, boys, I am thinking!
I don’t know if you believe my story — you’re the first one I’ve told it to, how and what and when, but now I think I’ve gone on too long. Don’t be offended, but one must tend to one’s business. Or as they say, “Each to his own”—you to your books, I to my pots and my jugs. I would like to ask one thing of you, Pani. Don’t write about me in any of your books, and if you do, don’t mention my name. Be well and have a good life.
THE ROOF FALLS IN
WRITTEN IN 1899.
Many are the thoughts in a man’s heart—isn’t that what it says in our holy Torah? I don’t need to interpret that verse for you, Reb Sholem Aleichem. But in Ashkenaz, or plain Yiddish, it means: “The best horse needs a whip, the smartest person — advice.” About what am I telling you this? About myself, in fact, because if I had had the sense not to go to a good friend and tell him thus and so, and this and that, things would surely not have turned out as badly as they did. But what could I do? If God wants to punish a person, he takes away his good sense. How many times have I thought, Think about it, Tevye, you ass. You’re no fool — why do you let yourself be led around by the nose in such a stupid way? I was already making a little living, kayn eyn horeh, with my dairy business, which had a good reputation everywhere, in Boiberik and in Yehupetz and where not. What was so wrong with that? How sweet and good it would have been now if those coins were still lying quietly in the money chest, safely hidden away, because whose business is it, I ask you, whether Tevye has any money or not?