Take, for example, my youngest one, Beilke. You have no idea what kind of child she is. You’ve known me forever, it seems, and you know I am not the kind of father who will praise his children. But when I speak of my Beilke, I cannot say more than two words. Ever since God has created Beilkes, He hasn’t created another like my Beilke. Well, of beauty we don’t have to talk. Tevye’s daughters, as you have seen, are known far and wide as the greatest beauties, but she, Beilke, puts them all to shame. There is no comparison! To describe her properly, you would have to use the words of eyshes chayiclass="underline" Charm is a deception—a woman of valor. I am not speaking so much of beauty as I am of character. Gold, I tell you, pure gold! From the very beginning I was her favorite, but since my Golde passed away, may she have had more years, Beilke’s father became the most important person in her life. Not a speck of dust did she allow to fall on me. I said to myself, as we say in the Rosh Hashanah prayer, The Lord precedes anger with mercy—the One Above sends us the remedy for the affliction He has caused. And do you know, I am not sure which is worse, the remedy or the affliction. Who could be a prophet and guess that Beilke would sell herself to send her father to Eretz Yisroel in his old age? Of course, that’s only a manner of speaking — she is as guilty of selling herself as you are. The one who was entirely guilty is her intended. I don’t wish to curse him, but may a powder keg blow him up. And if I really think about it, ponder it more deeply, I myself may be more to blame than anyone. There is a special saying in the Gemorah: Man is guilt-ridden—but surely I don’t need to tell you what the Gemorah says!
Anyhow, I won’t keep you long. The years went by. My Beilke grew up, became a proper lady, kayn eyn horeh, and Tevye carried on his own business, as always, with his horse and wagon, delivering his wares, summers to Boiberik, winters to Yehupetz, may fire and brimstone befall it like Sodom! I cannot abide that city, and not so much the town as the people, and not so much the people as one person — Ephraim the matchmaker, may a curse befall his father’s father. Listen to what a matchmaker can stir up.
One day in the middle of Elul I arrived in Yehupetz with my meager merchandise. I looked up, and Haman himself — Ephraim the matchmaker — was walking toward me! I once told you about him. Ephraim is a stubborn man, but once you see him, you have to stop. That’s the kind of effect that that Jew has on you.
“Hold up a minute, my sage,” I said to my horse, “and I’ll give you something to chew.” Then I greeted Ephraim the matchmaker. “How’s business?”
He gave a deep sigh. “It’s bitter!”
“In what way?” I asked.
“There’s nothing doing.”
“Really? What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” he said, “is that matches aren’t arranged at home these days.”
“Where then are they arranged?”
“Somewhere abroad.”
“So what would I do when my grandfather’s grandmother never went there?”
“For you, Reb Tevye”—he handed me a pinch of snuff—“I have a special piece of merchandise, right here on the spot.”
“Is that so?”
“A widow lady without children, worth five hundred rubles. She was a cook in all the finest homes.”
I looked at him. “Reb Ephraim, for whom are you making this match?”
“Who else would I be making it for? For you,” he said.
“May all my nightmares fall on my enemies’ heads!” I gave my horse a lash of the whip, wanting to drive on.
Ephraim said, “Don’t get so offended, Reb Tevye. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Who were you thinking of?”
“Who else would I mean if not my youngest daughter?”
He sprang back and slapped his forehead. “Of course! It’s a good thing you reminded me, long life to you, Reb Tevye.”
“Amen, the same to you. May you live until the Messiah comes. But tell me why you are so excited.”
“This is wonderful, Reb Tevye, really good, couldn’t be better!” he said.
“In what way? What’s so good about it?”
“I have for your youngest,” he said, “a match, a perfect choice, a rare find, a stroke of luck, a rich man, a prince, a millionaire, a second Brodsky — a contractor named Podhotsur!”
“Podhotsur? A familiar name from the Bible.”
“What Bible!” he said. “He’s a contractor, this Podhotsur. He builds houses, walls, and factories. He was in Japan during the war and brought back a fortune. He drives around in carriages with fiery steeds, has servants at the door, a private bathtub inside the house, and furniture from Paris. He wears a diamond ring. And he’s not even old — a bachelor, prime goods! He’s looking for a nice girl and will take her as she is, no questions asked, so long as she’s a beauty!”
“Stop!” I said. “If you don’t slow down, Reb Ephraim, we’ll wind up in Hotzenklotz! If I’m not mistaken, you tried to make this same match for my daughter Hodl.”
Ephraim grabbed his sides and laughed so hard, I thought he was having an apoplectic fit. “Aha,” he said, “so you’re remembering a story from ancient times. That one went broke before the war and ran off to America!”
“May his memory be for a blessing,” I said. “Maybe this one will also run off there.”
The matchmaker blew up. “What are you talking about, Reb Tevye? That one was a nothing, a charlatan, a spendthrift! This one is a contractor, with army contracts, with businesses, with shops, with people working for him, with — with—”
What can I say? The matchmaker got so worked up, he pulled me out of the wagon. He grabbed me by the lapels and shook me so hard, a policeman came along and wanted to throw us both in jail. Luckily, I remembered the commentary: Unto a stranger thou mayest lend upon usury—you have to know how to deal with the police.
To make a long story short — why should I keep you? — this Podhotsur became engaged to my youngest daughter Beilke. But it took some time before the wedding canopy was raised. Why? Because Beilke would rather die than go through with the marriage. The more Podhotsur showered her with gifts and gold watches and diamond rings, the more he revolted her. She didn’t have to spell it out for me. I saw it in her face and in her eyes and in her silent weeping.
I decided to have a talk with her. “Listen, Beilke, I’m afraid you love Podhotsur about as much as I do.”
Her face turned fiery red. “Who told you that?”
“There’s a lot of crying at night.”
“Am I crying?”
“No, you’re not crying,” I said, “you’re sobbing. Do you think that by hiding your head in the pillow, you hide your tears from me? Do you think your father is a youngster or that his mind has dried up and he doesn’t understand that you’re doing this for his sake? You want to ensure him a comfortable old age so he’ll have somewhere to lay his head and won’t have to go begging in the streets, God forbid. If that’s your intention,” I said, “you are foolish. We have a great God,” I said, “and Tevye would not be the first person to beg for his bread. And money is as dirt, as it says in the Bible. Here is the proof — your sister Hodl is as poor as can be, and yet see how she writes from who knows where, from the ends of the earth, that she considers herself lucky with her shlimazel Fefferl!”
Can you guess what her reply was?
“Don’t compare me to Hodl,” Beilke said. “Hodl lived at a time when the whole world was in chaos, about to turn upside down, and people were worrying about that and forgetting about themselves. But now,” she said, “that the world is calm again, everyone is worried about himself, and they’ve forgotten about the world.”