Serkele

Well, I can see that you are a clever man, so I will tell you the whole story in brief. [He takes a drink.] As you see me before you, I’m called Reb Smelke [Shmelke, as pronounced by a Litvak—Trans.]. My “German” name is Smelke Traunichts. But the people here, most of whom are my enemies, call me “The Litvak.” Why? Because I am from Lithuania—I’m a native of Vilna. I tell you—Vilna, a Holy Community! You’ve undoubtedly been there, haven’t you?

Once upon a time.

How did you like the big chandeliers and the rooms for midnight prayers [in the Great Synagogue]? Beautiful, aren’t they? Real gems, I tell you! My ancestors were always community councilors there, and rich men. My late father, that saintly man—may he put in a good word for us in heaven—used to do business with Lemberg, sometimes with cowhide, sometimes with tallow, sometimes with anise. Once he came here with hog-bristles and decided that while he was at it he should affiance me with the daughter of the owner of the place where he used to stay. [He takes a drink.] To make it short, I got married and the Lord, may his name be blessed, smiled upon me: I became a very wealthy man. I own a fine inn, a fine wine-cellar, a nice collection of silver. And there’s enough money, too. But then God afflicted me with a great misfortune—namely, that my wife Feygele suddenly fell down the stairs and alas, died young. I wept, I fainted, I moaned. But, what’s the use of moaning? Deceased remains deceased and I had to take care of things by myself. [He takes a drink.] She left me quite a bit of jewelry, too. In short, not to drag things out—I’m a well-regarded and wealthy man . . .

[impatiently]: Well, make it short!

Well, so be it. I won’t spin it out. [He empties his glass and refills it.] So a few weeks later I sent a sadkhen [=shadkhen, marriage broker], a certain Reb Smerele [= Shmerele], a koser [kosher, respectable] Jew to Serkele. She has a daughter, in fact a very nice girl, to tell the truth a bit of a “fine lady” and worldly, but in an inn, especially in an inn like mine, you need that sort of person. You never can tell, maybe sometimes she’ll have to chat with a high official and receive him graciously. Or on the other hand to get angry and yell, you know how it is in inns like mine.

[impatiently]: Well, go on, but make it short.

Yes, I’ll make it short. I don’t want to wear you out. You’re tired from the road. So where was I? Aha! You see, I’m losing track of what I’m saying. The point is, why did I send for Serkele in the first place? Because I had heard from a trustworthy person that she wants to add 1400 rubles to the girl’s dowry in addition to gifts and sundry items and she’s an only daughter too, after all. In any case, to make it short: how can someone like Serkele, who only a few years ago was sitting with her foodstuffs and flour and whose father was no Hebrew calligrapher either. . . . So what if, as people say, he could study the Talmud, what’s so special about that? I’ve seen a lot of learned Jews begging from door to door!

[in German, to himself: Alas, it is all too true!]: Well, tell me more, but make it short.

Yes, I’ll make it extremely short. What’s the pedigree of this wretched woman? Her brother was perhaps a somewhat respectable person, but even he a few years ago he had to run away because of some affair or other and has never come back. How can a misfortune, an affliction, like this Serkele give orders to me, a local wealthy man [he pats himself on the belly], affluent, if I may say so, with these words: “My only daughter will first have to learn to measure [Lithuanian] oats and to speak the Litvak language and then maybe she can become Smelke Litvak’s bride.” A vulgar flour-woman can give me orders like that! I was ashamed for the sadkhen, for Reb Smerele. Well, so what if I do speak the Litvak language? Here in Lemberg they make fun of the Litvak language and we in Vilna make fun of how they speak here. One thing’s for certain: I didn’t create all these languages!