I Get Married
Translator's introduction
Peretz immersed himself in a number of impressive
long-term projects near the end of his life,
among them his disturbing symbolic play Bay
nakht afn altn mark (At Night in the Old Market
Place) and his Memoirs (Mayne zikhroynes).
The editors of the Warsaw Yiddishe Velt asked him
to write his memoirs as a shlisl (a key) to his
works, and published chapters one to nine in
serialized form in 1913. They are a memoir of his
childhood and clearly end with a brief
farcical-sad reference to his wedding day (at age
19, though Peretz doesn't give his age or the
date-he declares at the outset that he isn't
interested in bookkeeping of that sort). Then he
wrote chapter 10-given here in an edited
version-an account of his betrothal and wedding
day, for Dos Lebn, which published it in 1914,
and ended his Memoirs on quite a different note,
a remarkable prose lyric that recalls a moment of
intense, liberating self-acceptance.
My Memoirs are written as a stream of
associations around given themes and time
periods. They present a flow of consciousness, a
kind of internal commentary along with external
observation. Along with that is Peretz's virtuoso
control of voice-he speaks from the point of view
of the character, and yet from a distanced point
of view as well. He gives us the incendiary,
uncertain youngster he was, on the verge of
defiance against all that he was brought up to
believe. And yet he sees himself from the adult's
point of view as well and makes himself a comic
figure and a little later a pathetic figure,
along with his new girl-wife. But he ends with a
liberating, exhilarating moment of association,
when he breaks off after telling about a
whistling he heard on his wedding day and recalls
a whistling he heard years later that was even
more powerful and beautiful to him.
As I got older my cloud of melancholy lifted. I
was less tragic. And when I was betrothed I felt
even easier. I would be with Gavriel Yehudah
Lichtenfeld, my fiancée's father, a mathematician
and philosopher and reputedly a man of great
knowledge. He would explain everything. He would
answer all my questions about God and the world.
I stored them up in my memory in anticipation of
meeting him. I didn't think about my
bride-to-be, I didn't care what the betrothal
contract stipulated, but I looked forward to the
wedding as if the Messiah would be there- the
redeemer from doubt.
And in the meantime I lived a double life.
Outwardly I was like all the other respectable
betrothed young men. I ate sedately, went
strolling sedately, and sometimes talked about
serious matters with the rest of them. I'd be
their peer soon.
I compare myself of those days to a field of
crude oil-apparently dry, but toss a lighted
match into it, and it's smoke and flames. I
often did crazy things. Once in front of the
whole congregation at the besmedresh (house of
study) I took a reknowned volume of rabbinic
"responsa" (commentary) from the shelves on the
Eastern wall, and with a blue pencil (that I and
no one else possessed) publicly crossed out two
or three verses in which the author expressed
dissatisfaction with The Guide For The Perplexed.
I leaped up on the dais and took a stand in front
of the curtained ark, ready to be martyred,
crossing my arms on my chest like Napoleon,
staring straight at the congregation. This made
an impression on them, and they moved slowly back
muttering, "crazy" under their breaths.
The wedding was to be in a village midway between
Apt and Zamosc. As the wedding day approached I
began having troubled sleep and terrible dreams.
Suppose the bride was blind in one eye? Suppose
she was lame? She wasn't a girl I'd fallen in
love with or picked for myself. Suppose when I
was veiling the bride I saw an awful face? And
I'd wake up and lie there for hours thinking, why
did it have to be a bride from Apt? Why didn't I
pick a bride for myself in Zamosc? True, we
didn't have Gavriel Yehudah Lichtenfeld in
Zamosc. And any other family with whom my father
could make a match wouldn't take me for a
son-in-law. Didn't we all know that?
I suddenly felt very lonely, and didn't fall
asleep till just before dawn, with my heart
aching, making up my mind as I drifted off that,
no matter what happened, I wouldn't fast on the
wedding day, and for all I cared, the bride could
cross the threshold before me. It was all
nonsense! And I absolutely wouldn't let them
shave the bride's hair, whatever colour it was.
And she would not wear a kerchief or a wig. She'd
wear her own hair in long or short braids rolled
in a bun. And I smiled half-asleep into my
pillow. Gavriel Yehudah Lichtenfeld would be
pleased with me.
So I finally fell asleep at daybreak, but my
grown-up childish heart was awake, and I heard
two wagons pull up down below in front of the
windows and two peasants crack two whips, one
after the other, to let us know they'd arrived. I
jumped out of bed and repeated to myself even
before I poured water over my fingernails, "I
won't fast, I won't allow the bride's hair to be
cut, I won't even break the wine glass under the
canopy. Let them storm against me! And maybe I'd
go further than that and refuse to have the bride
circle me seven times! Why seven? It was probably
an idolatrous custom anyway.
I poured the water over my fingernails, and my
heart felt like lead. "But the main thing is,
what does she look like?"
After a while we set off travelling through flat
land between fields stretching right and left,
tired-looking, harvested land, sunk in
melancholy, even though the sky above was blue
and festive.
"Well, it certainly won't rain," someone said.
"Because the groom doesn't eat sweets."
"Probably the bride doesn't either"
I sank into my own thoughts. I was sitting in the
women's wagon with my mother and my aunts.
Suddenly I remembered that I was fasting and got
angry and pulled out the sack of butter cookies.
Very agitated glances from my aunts, while my
mother pretended not to see. I took out a cookie
and bit into it. Pure salt! The bundle had come
apart during the ride and the salt had spilled.
The cookie wasn't fit to eat, but I made do with
it. Now I certainly wouldn't be able to say
confession at the afternoon prayer!
Then I began to have regrets. Why not fast? I
tried to think why not and couldn't.
We drove into the village. The host of the place
where we'd be staying came running right up to
us, dressed in his shabes clothes, along with his
wife, also dressed up, a broad-shouldered woman,
with a little girl scared of the strange people,
holding her apron and screwing up her dirty
little face, not sure whether to cry or laugh.
We climbed down and walked the rest of the way.
We asked, "Is the bride's family here?" "Not
yet," they answered. "With God's help they'll be
here soon." My father said, "Tell Chaim (the
host at the place where the bride's family would
be staying) to let us know as soon as they get
here, and we'll have the veiling of the bride and
the wedding ceremony right away." "He never has
any time," my mother murmured, unhappy with all
the rush. And my Aunt Yenta protested, "And when
will we wash and dress?"
A shiver went up my spine. My neck was burning
hot. They all went into the house and forgot
about me for the time being. I stayed outside and
pulled the little girl with the dirty face and
flaxen white hair away from her mother's apron.
She had blue, scared, smiling eyes. I took hold
of her, threw her into the air and caught her,
and the little girl laughed and laughed, and her
laughter sounded so full of joyful life and so
free.
Chaim came from across the way, out of breath,
calling from a distance, "They're here, they're
here! Good luck!"
I've already mentioned [in the previous chapter]
that there was a slight drizzle and I ran from
under the canopy to the porch of the house,
followed by the bride, the musicians, the lit
havdala candles, the wedding canopy, and short
Gavriel Yehudah Lichtenfeld, smiling indulgently.
The next day the bright autumn sun forced its way
through the small village window between the
tangled leaves of yellow flowerpots. It woke a
crawling grey thought in my brain. "Is that the
whole thing?"
My newly acquired better half lay there with her
head covered, still asleep. Or maybe not. Maybe
she was thinking the same thing I was thinking.
Maybe she was shy and feeling more heartache.
Maybe she was silently crying. And I was suddenly
seized by a muddled kind of pity for both of us,
two fish caught in the same net. So was that the
whole thing?
One of my uncles knocked, calling me to morning
prayers. I got into my clothes quickly. "Coming
right away!" and ran out to the entrance hall. My
uncle had disappeared. There was an open door
leading to a little village garden, and suddenly
a strong-scented autumn breeze blew over me. I
escaped from the sound of prayer in the house
into a little garden full of colour. And then I
suddenly felt crowded and lonely in this little
garden with so many unfamiliar things in it, and
I jumped over to the way out. Which way to my
house, right or left?
I heard, "Moo!" and saw a well and a little
peasant boy standing barefoot on the ledge,
drawing up water and pouring it into the watering
trough. Cows with their melancholy heads and big
barely-bright eyes stood at the trough drinking
and lifting their heads to the blue sky between
one slurp and the next. "Moo!" You couldn't tell
whether that meant joy or grief. "Moo-oo".
The little peasant boy let go of the empty
bucket. It swung into the air, tossed, quivered,
and stopped. The little boy's tanned chest was
visible under his grey linen shirt. His feet were
smeared with clay. He jumped down, lifted his
little whip from the ground, and gave a loud
whistle. The cows lifted their heads. He cracked
his whip and they moved. Home from the village,
home over the harvested field, to a farm in the
distance where a peasant was harrowing the grain
and several bending peasant women were picking
something. "Moo-oo", you could still hear the
cows.
And at that moment I heard music way off at the
house. It was time for breakfast, the seven
blessings for the married couple, the trip home.
And after that we said goodbye. We were open and
sincere. I parted from Gavriel Yehudah
Lichtenfeld, whom I would never ask any
questions. I would only learn some mathematics
from him and we would publish a book of Hebrew
poems together- I blush when I think of them-and
we headed back home.
I sat there on the wagon, a married man next to
my better half, facing an aunt and uncle. They'd
danced all night and they were exhausted. They
dozed and bumped their heads and drew apart, and
bumped again. I was ashamed to laugh. My better
half, taking advantage of their nap, asked shyly,
"Can you really study so well?" "Yes." And she
took hold of my hand gratefully. "And do you sit
and study?" "No." And she let my hand go. But
after a while, "And if I ask you to?" And her
hand moved back. The driver answered for me,
"Giddap, you bag of bones!" He turned
three-quarters toward us and said, "It's going to
rain."
A breeze came up, the clouds rushed in faster,
and the sun disappeared. It was getting dark and
chilly and some drops were falling.
"It's getting windy," the driver answered,
whipping the horses on. "Maybe we can make it to
the inn."
There was the inn! We got there just in time. It
was just starting to pour. My Uncle Joseph had
already jumped down and was taking my aunt down
and leading her in. I was down and thought of
helping my better half, who stood up and placed a
foot on the wagon step, and-I have wooden
hands-and I didn't reach out to her. Some one who
came up from the other wagon helped her down. So
we were inside, along with our sacks of food.
"Tea! Tea!" my Uncle Joseph called out.
It was a Gentile inn. "I won't drink any," my aunt insisted.
Commotion. Some were washing, others were pacing
the room with glasses of tea in the palms of
their hands, and I walked around the inn alone
and whistled. Something in me whistled just like
the barefoot peasant boy, and I felt lighter and
easier, and my melancholy cloud wafted away. "So
what! It's all silly. Whistle!" Of course my
mouth was like my hands, and wouldn't obey, but a
bit of abandon took hold inside of me-enough to
last me for years- enough to see me through
Zamosc, Apt, Tsoizmer, Warsaw, Great Poland, and
back to Warsaw- till something entirely new
happened to me. A whistle has power over
everything that invades us unexpectedly. It gives
us time to shut our doors and gates and veil
ourselves from strangers. (I put that whistle
into quite a few of my writings-The Teacher of
Chelm", "Mockery", and in a way in "The Fur Lined
Hat", though with a different intent.)
I walked around the inn whistling inwardly, with
heart, and suddenly my better half looked
dissatisfied and said, "Where were you during
morning prayers?"
"I was listening to someone whistling."
Her brown eyes looked angry. "What?"
So I told her about the little barefoot peasant
boy, his cows, their eyes, and his whistling. And
she listened. The angry look left her brown eyes
and she asked if I could whistle-
I just now remembered whistling that I heard only
a few years ago that had a deeper and greater
influence on me than that first whistling. It was
on a mountain in Switzerland where I was resting
one evening after a serious heart attack, tired,
indifferent, barely seeing or hearing what went
on around me. My eyes and ears were open, and I
was in Switzerland, but I had no desire either to
look or to hear. Whatever came of itself slipped
into my consciousness but had no effect on me.
Farther down the mountainside there was grass and
there were cows and you could hear a cowbell
here, a cowbell there, and there'd be a fat
reddish cow back here and there in the grass, and
a heavy head would lift and look around without
seeing. And then again, cling, clang. The cow
would see a juicy bit of grass and go to it. And
below, at the foot of the mountain, sounding
softly through the clang of the bells, was a
rushing mountain stream. And on the other side of
the stream, bright white houses with open green
shutters and crystal windows that looked like
they were laughing, free and easy on God's green
earth. You could hear piano sounds coming from
these little windows. And the sound of yodeling
came from other mountains farther off, and
resounded and travelled. And all these sounds
mingled in the scented air and came to my ears,
and colours melted together, the green, the
white, the grey of the mountain rock, the blue,
blue sky over it all, and soothed my half
unnoticing eye.
And suddenly from among the white of the mountain
peaks there was a thunderclap, then another,
signs that a storm was on its way. All at once a
cloud all bunched up on itself moved in. The wind
rushed in with a roar like a thing unleashed.
The cows ran down, the bells sounded scared. A
small shepherd boy, barefoot and hatless like the
boy on my wedding day, cracked an oddly overlong
whip at the cows. And below, the shutters were
slammed shut, the piano was silent, the yodeling
was interrupted. I dragged along downhill dead
tired and saw the little Swiss boy drive the
cows, one group after another, into the barn, and
lock them in quickly. But he didn't hide. He went
back uphill, facing me as he went, but not seeing
me. The air was full of rumbling. The distant
mountain peaks were veiled in heavy mist and
there were thunderclaps and lightning and
downpour, a flood from the sky, commotion, and
half darkness. The Swiss paradise suddenly became
a crashing, panicky gehenna. It was pouring and
thundering, and in the midst of it all, my little
Swiss boy, barefoot, half naked, his head
uncovered, his hair windblown, jumped onto a
boulder, put his hands flat against his mouth and
whistled for all he was worth. His whistling cut
through the half dark and the downpour and the
thunderclaps like a knife, and got bolder and
bolder and clearer and clearer, and it said,
"You're going to listen to me! You have to listen to me!"
This chapter of Peretz's Mayne Zikhroynes (My
Memoirs) was originally published in Dos Lebn,
Warsaw, 1914. Condensed and translated from the
Yiddish by Seymour Levitan. English translation
copyright Seymour Levitan, 2005. For a different
version of this translation, see The I.L.
Peretz Reader, ed. Ruth Wisse (Schocken Books,
1990).