{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27001/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27001","id":"gutenberg_27001","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27001","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Jewish fiction","Jews -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was\nproduced from scanned images of public domain material\nfrom the Google Print project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nJEWISH CHILDREN\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE YIDDISH OF\n\n\"SHALOM ALEICHEM\"\n\nBY HANNAH BERMAN\n\nNEW YORK ALFRED . A . KNOPF MCMXXII\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1921, BY\n\nALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.\n\n_Published January, 1922_\n\n_Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.\nPaper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y.\nBound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y._\n\nMANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nA PAGE FROM THE \"SONG OF SONGS\"\n\nPASSOVER IN A VILLAGE. AN IDYLL\n\nELIJAH THE PROPHET\n\nGETZEL\n\nA LOST \"L'AG BEOMER\"\n\nMURDERERS\n\nTHREE LITTLE HEADS\n\nGREENS FOR \"_SHEVUOUS_\"\n\nANOTHER PAGE FROM THE \"SONG OF SONGS\"\n\nA PITY FOR THE LIVING\n\nTHE TABERNACLE\n\nTHE DEAD CITRON\n\nISSHUR THE BEADLE\n\nBOAZ THE TEACHER\n\nTHE SPINNING-TOP\n\nESTHER\n\nTHE POCKET-KNIFE\n\nON THE FIDDLE\n\nTHIS NIGHT\n\n\n\n\nA Page from the \"Song of Songs\"\n\n\nBusie is a name; it is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: Busie. She is\na year older than I, perhaps two years. And both of us together are no\nmore than twenty years old. Now, if you please, sit down and think it\nout for yourself. How old am I, and how old is she? But, it is no\nmatter. I will rather tell you her history in a few words.\n\nMy older brother, Benny, lived in a village. He had a mill. He could\nshoot with a gun, ride on a horse, and swim like a devil. One summer he\nwas bathing in the river, and was drowned. Of him they said the proverb\nhad been invented: \"All good swimmers are drowned.\" He left after him\nthe mill, two horses, a young widow, and one child. The mill was\nneglected; the horses were sold; the young widow married again, and went\naway, somewhere, far; and the child was brought to us.\n\nThe child was Busie.\n\n* * *\n\nThat my father loves Busie as if she were his own child; and that my\nmother frets over her as if she were an only daughter, is readily\nunderstood. They look upon her as their comfort in their great sorrow.\nAnd I? Why is it that when I come from \"_cheder_,\" and do not find Busie\nI cannot eat? And when Busie comes in, there shines a light in every\ncorner. When Busie talks to me, I drop my eyes. And when she laughs at\nme I weep. And when she....\n\n* * *\n\nI waited long for the dear good Feast of Passover. I would be free then.\nI would play with Busie in nuts, run about in the open, go down the hill\nto the river, and show her the ducks in the water. When I tell her, she\ndoes not believe me. She laughs. She never believes me. That is, she\nsays nothing, but she laughs. And I hate to be laughed at. She does not\nbelieve that I can climb to the highest tree, if I like. She does not\nbelieve that I can shoot, if I have anything to shoot with. When the\nPassover comes--the dear good Passover--and we can go out into the free,\nopen air, away from my father and mother, I shall show her such tricks\nthat she will go wild.\n\n* * *\n\nThe dear good Passover has come.\n\nThey dress us both in kingly clothes. Everything we wear shines and\nsparkles and glitters. I look at Busie, and I think of the \"Song of\nSongs\" that I learnt for the Passover, verse by verse:\n\n\"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves'\neyes within thy locks; thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from\nmount Gilead.\n\n\"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up\nfrom the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among\nthem.\n\n\"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy\ntemples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks.\"\n\nTell me, please, why is it that when one looks at Busie one is reminded\nof the \"Song of Songs\"? And when one reads the \"Song of Songs,\" Busie\nrises to one's mind?\n\n* * *\n\nA beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm.\n\n\"Shall we go?\" asks Busie. And I am all afire. My mother does not spare\nthe nuts. She fills our pockets. But she makes us promise that we will\nnot crack a single one before the \"_Seder_.\" We may play with them as\nmuch as we like. We run off. The nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful\nand fine out of doors. The sun is already high in the heavens, and is\nlooking down on the other side of the town. Everything is broad and\ncomfortable and soft and free, around and about. In places, on the hill\nthe other side of the synagogue, one sees a little blade of grass, fresh\nand green and living. Screaming and fluttering their wings, there fly\npast us, over our heads, a swarm of young swallows. And again I am\nreminded of the \"Song of Songs\" I learnt at school:\n\n\"The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is\ncome, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.\"\n\nI feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings, and can rise up and fly\naway.\n\n* * *\n\nA curious noise comes from the town, a roaring, a rushing, a tumult. In\na moment the face of the world is changed for me. Our farm is a\ncourtyard, our house is a palace. I am a prince, Busie a princess. The\nlogs of wood that lie at our door are the cedars and firs of the \"Song\nof Songs.\" The cat that is warming herself in the sun near the door is a\nroe, or a young hart; and the hill on the other side of the synagogue is\nthe mountain of Lebanon. The women and the girls who are washing and\nscrubbing and making everything clean for the Passover are the daughters\nof Jerusalem.\n\nEverything, everything is from the \"Song of Songs.\"\n\nI walk about with my hands in my pockets. The nuts shake and rattle.\nBusie walks beside me, step by step. I cannot go slowly. I am carried\nalong. I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle. I let\nmyself go. Busie follows me. I jump from one log of wood to the other.\nBusie jumps after me. I am up; she is up. I am down; she is down. Who\nwill tire first? \"How long is this to last?\" asks Busie. And I answer\nher in the words of the \"Song of Songs\": \"'Until the day break, and the\nshadows flee away.' Ba! Ba! Ba! You are tired, and I am not.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI am glad that Busie does not know what I know. And I am sorry for her.\nMy heart aches for her. I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her nature.\nShe is glad and joyous, and suddenly she sits down in a corner and weeps\nsilently. My mother comforts her, and my father showers kisses on her.\nBut, it is useless. Busie weeps until she is exhausted. For whom? For\nher father who died so young? Or for her mother who married again and\nwent off without a good-bye? Ah, her mother! When one speaks of her\nmother to her, she turns all colours. She does not believe in her\nmother. She does not say an unkind word of her, but she does not believe\nin her. Of that I am sure. I cannot bear to see Busie weeping. I sit\ndown beside her, and try to distract her thoughts from herself.\n\n* * *\n\nI keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts, and say to her:\n\n\"Guess what I can do if I like.\"\n\n\"What can you do?\"\n\n\"If I like, all your nuts will belong to me.\"\n\n\"Will you win them off me?\"\n\n\"We shall not even begin to play.\"\n\n\"Then you will take them from me?\"\n\n\"No, they will come to me of themselves.\"\n\nShe lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me--her beautiful, blue, \"Song of\nSongs\" eyes. I say to her:\n\n\"You think I am jesting. Little fool, I know certain magic words.\"\n\nShe opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I explain myself to her,\nlike a great man, a hero:\n\n\"We boys know everything. There is a boy at school. Sheika the blind\none, we call him. He is blind of one eye. He knows everything in the\nworld, even '_Kaballa_.' Do you know what '_Kaballa_' is?\"\n\n\"No. How am I to know?\"\n\nI am in the seventh heaven because I can give her a lecture on\n\"_Kaballa_.\"\n\n\"'_Kaballa_,' little fool, is a thing that is useful. By means of\n'_Kaballa_' I can make myself invisible to you, whilst I can see you. By\nmeans of '_Kaballa_' I can draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall.\nBy means of '_Kaballa_' I can manage that we two shall rise up into the\nclouds, and even higher than the clouds.\"\n\n* * *\n\nTo rise up in the air with Busie, by means of \"_Kaballa_,\" into the\nclouds, and higher than the clouds, and fly with her far, far over the\nocean--that was one of my best dreams. There, on the other side of the\nocean, live the dwarfs who are descended from the giants of King David's\ntime. The dwarfs who are, in reality, good-natured folks. They live on\nsweets and the milk of almonds, and play all day on little flutes, and\ndance all together in a ring, romping about. They are afraid of nothing,\nand are fond of strangers. When a man comes to them from our world, they\ngive him plenty to eat and drink, dress him in the finest garments, and\nload him with gold and silver ornaments. Before he leaves, they fill his\npockets with diamonds and rubies which are to be found in their streets\nlike mud in ours.\n\n\"Like mud in the streets? Well!\" said Busie to me when I had told her\nall about the dwarfs.\n\n\"Do you not believe it?\"\n\n\"Do you believe it?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Where did you hear it?\"\n\n\"Where? At school.\"\n\n\"Ah! At school.\"\n\nThe sun sank lower and lower, tinting the sky with red gold. The gold\nwas reflected in Busie's eyes. They were bathed in gold.\n\n* * *\n\nI want very much to surprise Busie with Sheika's tricks which I can\nimitate by means of \"_Kaballa_.\" But they do not surprise her. On the\ncontrary, I think they amuse her. Why else does she show me her\npearl-white teeth? I am a little annoyed, and I say to her:\n\n\"Maybe you do not believe me?\"\n\nBusie laughs.\n\n\"Maybe you think I am boasting? Or that I am inventing lies out of my\nown head?\"\n\nBusie laughs louder. Oh, in that case, I must show her. I know how. I\nsay to her:\n\n\"The thing is that you do not know what '_Kaballa_' means. If you knew\nwhat '_Kaballa_' was you would not laugh. By means of '_Kaballa_,' if I\nlike, I can bring your mother here. Yes, yes! And if you beg hard of me,\nI will bring her this very night, riding on a stick.\"\n\nAll at once she stops laughing. A cloud settles on her beautiful face.\nAnd I imagine that the sun has disappeared. No more sun, no more day! I\nam afraid I went a little too far. I had no right to pain her--to speak\nof her mother. I am sorry for the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I\nmust ask her forgiveness. I creep close to her. She turns away from me.\nI try to take her hand. I wish to say to her in the words of the \"Song\nof Songs\": \"'Return, return, O Shulamite!' Busie!\" Suddenly a voice\ncalled from the house:\n\n\"Shemak! Shemak!\"\n\nI am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go to the synagogue with father.\n\n* * *\n\nTo go to the synagogue with one's father on the Passover eve--is there\nin the world a greater pleasure than that? What is it worth to be\ndressed in new clothes from head to foot, and to show off before one's\nfriends? Then the prayers themselves--the first Festival evening prayer\nand blessing. Ah, how many luxuries has the good God prepared for his\nJewish children.\n\n\"Shemak! Shemak!\"\n\nMy mother has no time.\n\n\"I am coming. I am coming in a minute. I only want to say a word to\nBusie--no more than a word.\"\n\nI confess to Busie that I told her lies. One cannot make people fly by\nmeans of \"_Kaballa_.\" One may fly one's self. And I will show her, after\nthe Festival, how I can fly. I will rise from this same spot on the\nlogs, before her eyes, and in a moment reach the other side of the\nclouds. From there, I will turn a little to the right. You see, there\nall things end, and one comes upon the shore of the frozen ocean.\n\n* * *\n\nBusie listens attentively. The sun is sending down its last rays, and\nkissing the earth.\n\n\"What is the frozen sea?\" asks Busie.\n\n\"You don't know what the frozen sea is? It is a sea whose waters are\nthick as liver and salt as brine. No ships can ride on it. When people\nfall into it, they can never get out again.\"\n\nBusie looks at me with big eyes.\n\n\"Why should you go there?\"\n\n\"Am I going, little fool? I fly over it like an eagle. In a few minutes\nI shall be over the dry land and at the twelve mountains that spit fire.\nAt the twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come down and walk seven\nmiles, until I come to a thick forest. I shall go in and out of the\ntrees, until I come to a little stream. I shall swim across the water,\nand count seven times seven. A little old man with a long beard appears\nbefore me, and says to me: 'What is your request?' I answer: 'Bring me\nthe queen's daughter.'\"\n\n\"What queen's daughter?\" asks Busie. And I imagine she is frightened.\n\n\"The queen's daughter is the princess who was snatched away from under\nthe wedding canopy and bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal seven\nyears ago.\"\n\n\"What has that to do with you?\"\n\n\"What do you mean by asking what it has to do with me? I must go and set\nher free.\"\n\n\"You must set her free?\"\n\n\"Who else?\"\n\n\"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBusie takes hold of my hand, and I feel her little white hand is cold. I\nlook into her eyes, and I see in them the reflection of the red gold sun\nthat is bidding farewell to the day--the first, bright, warm Passover\nday. The day dies by degrees. The sun goes out like a candle. The noises\nof the day are hushed. There is hardly a living soul in the street. In\nthe little windows shine the lights of the festival candles that have\njust been lit. A curious, a holy stillness wraps us round, Busie and\nmyself. We feel that our lives are fast merging in the solemn stillness\nof the festive evening.\n\n\"Shemak! Shemak!\"\n\n* * *\n\nMy mother calls me for the third time to go with my father to the\nsynagogue. Do I not know myself that I must go to prayers? I will sit\nhere another minute--one minute, no more. Busie hears my mother calling\nme. She tears her hand from mine, gets up, and drives me off.\n\n\"Shemak, you are called--you. Go, go! It is time. Go, go!\"\n\nI get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is extinguished. Its gold beams\nhave turned to blood. A little wind blows--a soft, cold wind. Busie\ntells me to go. I throw a last glance at her. She is not the same Busie.\nIn my eyes she is different, on this bewitching evening. The enchanted\nprincess runs in my head. But Busie does not leave me time to think.\nShe drives me off. I go. I turn round to look at the enchanted princess\nwho is completely merged into the beautiful Passover evening. I stand\nlike one bewitched. She points to me to go. And I imagine I hear her\nsaying to me, in the words of the \"Song of Songs\":\n\n\"Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart\nupon the mountains of spices.\"\n\n\n\n\nPassover in a Village\n\nAN IDYLL\n\n\nLet winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the world turn upside down. The old\noak, which has been standing since the creation of the world, and whose\nroots reach to God-knows-where--what does he care for winds? What are\nstorms to him?\n\nThe old tree is not a symbol--it is a living being, a man whose name is\nNachman Veribivker of Veribivka. He is a tall Jew, broad-shouldered, a\ngiant. The townspeople are envious of his strength, and make fun of him.\n\"Peace be unto you. How is a Jew in health?\" Nachman knows he is being\nmade fun of. He bends his shoulders so as to look more Jewish. But, it\nis useless. He is too big.\n\nNachman has lived in the village a long time. \"Our 'Lachman,'\" the\npeasants call him. They look upon him as a good man, with brains. They\nlike to have a chat with him. They follow his advice. \"What are we to do\nabout bread?\" \"Lachman\" has an almanack, and he knows whether bread will\nbe cheap or dear this year. He goes to the town, and so knows what is\ndoing in the world.\n\nIt would be hard to imagine Veribivka without Nachman. Not only was his\nfather, Feitel, born in Veribivka, but his grandfather, Arya. He was a\nclever Jew, and a wit. He used to say that the village was called\nVeribivka because Arya Veribivker lived in it, because, before Veribivka\nwas Veribivka, he, Arya Veribivker was already Arya Veribivker. That's\nwhat his grandfather used to say. The Jews of those times!\n\nAnd do you think Arya Veribivker said this for no reason? Arya was not\nan ordinary man who made jokes without reason. He meant that the\ncatastrophes of his day were Jewish tragedies. At that time they already\ntalked of driving the Jews out of villages. And not only talked but\ndrove them out. All the Jews were driven out, excepting Arya Veribivker.\nIt may be that even the governor of the district could do nothing,\nbecause Arya Veribivker proved that according to the law, he could not\nbe driven out. The Jews of those times!\n\n* * *\n\nCertainly, if one has inherited such a privilege, and is independent,\none can laugh at the whole world. What did our Nachman Veribivker care\nabout uprisings, the limitations of the Pale, of Circulars? What did\nNachman care about the wicked Gentile Kuratchka and the papers that he\nbrought from the court? Kuratchka was a short peasant with short\nfingers. He wore a smock and high boots, and a silver chain and a watch\nlike a gentleman. He was a clerk of the court. And he read all the\npapers which abused and vilified the Jews.\n\nPersonally, Kuratchka was not a bad sort. He was a neighbour of Nachman\nand pretended to be a friend. When Kuratchka had the toothache, Nachman\ngave him a lotion. When Kuratchka's wife was brought to bed of a child,\nNachman's wife nursed her. But for some time, the devil knows why,\nKuratchka had been reading the anti-Semitic papers, and he was an\naltered man. \"Esau began to speak in him.\" He was always bringing home\nnews of new governors, new circulars from the minister, and new edicts\nagainst Jews. Each time, Nachman's heart was torn. But, he did not let\nthe Gentile know of it. He listened to him with a smile, and held out\nthe palm of his hand, as if to say, \"When hair grows here.\"\n\nLet governors change. Let ministers write circulars. What concern is it\nof Nachman Veribivker of Veribivka?\n\nNachman lived comfortably. That is, not as comfortably as his\ngrandfather Arya had lived. Those were different times. One might almost\nsay that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He had the inn, the\nstore, a mill, a granary. He made money with spoons and plates, as they\nsay. But, that was long ago. Today, all these things are gone. No more\ninn; no more store; no more granary. The question is why, in that case,\ndoes Nachman live in the village? Where then should he live? In the\nearth? Just let him sell his house, and he will be Nachman Veribivker no\nmore. He will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is, he has at least a\ncorner of his own, a house to live in, and a garden. His wife and\ndaughters cultivate the garden. And if the Lord helps them, they have\ngreens for the summer, and potatoes for the whole winter, until long\nafter the Passover. But, one cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said\nthat one wants bread with potatoes. And when there's no bread, a Jew\ntakes his stick, and goes through the village in search of business. He\nnever comes home empty-handed. What the Lord destines, he buys--some old\niron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or else a hide. The hide is\nstretched and dried, and is taken to the town, to Abraham-Elijah the\ntanner. And on all these one either earns or loses money.\n\nAbraham-Elijah the tanner, a man with a bluish nose and fingers as black\nas ink, laughs at Nachman, because he is so coarsened through living\nwith Gentiles that he even speaks like them.\n\n* * *\n\nYes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He grows coarser each year.\nOh, if his grandfather Reb Arya--peace be unto him!--could see his\ngrandson. He had been a practical man, but had also been a scholar. He\nknew whole passages of the Psalms and the prayers off by heart. The Jews\nof those times! And what does he, Nachman, know? He can only just say\nhis prayers. It's well he knows that much. His children will know even\nless. When he looks at his children, how they grow to the ceiling, broad\nand tall like himself, and can neither read nor write, his heart grows\nheavy. More than all, his heart aches for his youngest child, who is\ncalled Feitel, after his father. He was a clever child, this Feitel. He\nwas smaller in build, more refined, more Jewish than the others. And he\nhad brains. He was shown the Hebrew alphabet once, in a prayer-book, and\nhe never again confused one letter with the other. Such a fine child to\ngrow up in a village amongst calves and pigs! He plays with Kuratchka's\nson, Fedoka. He rides on the one stick with him. They both chase the one\ncat. They both dig the same hole. They do together everything children\ncan do. Nachman is sorry to see his child playing with the Gentile\nchild. It withers him, as if he were a tree that had been stricken by\nlightning.\n\n* * *\n\nFedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant face and a dimpled chin,\nand flaxen hair. He loves Feitel, and Feitel does not dislike him. All\nthe winter each child slept on his father's stove. They went to the\nwindow and longed for one another. They seldom met. But now the long\nangry winter is over. The black earth throws off her cold white mantle.\nThe sun shines; and the wind blows. A little blade of grass peeps out.\nAt the foot of the hill the little river murmurs. The calf inhales the\nsoft air through distended nostrils. The cock closes one eye, and is\nlost in meditation. Everything around and about has come to life again.\nEverything rejoices. It is the Passover eve. Neither Feitel nor Fedoka\ncan be kept indoors. They rush out into God's world which has opened up\nfor them both. They take each other's hands, and fly down the hill that\nsmiles at them--\"Come here, children!\" They leap towards the sun that\ngreets them and calls them: \"Come, children!\" When they are tired of\nrunning, they sit down on God's earth that knows no Jew and no Gentile,\nbut whispers invitingly: \"Children, come to me, to me.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThey have much to tell each other, not having met throughout the whole\nwinter. Feitel boasts that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka\nboasts that he has a whip. Feitel boasts that it is the eve of Passover.\nThey have \"_matzos_\" for the whole festival and wine. \"Do you remember,\nFedoka, I gave you a '_matzo_' last year?\" \"'_Matzo_,'\" repeats Fedoka.\nA smile overspreads his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste\nof the \"_matzo_.\" \"Would you like to have some '_matzo_' now, fresh\n'_matzo_'?\" Is it necessary to ask such a question? \"Then come with me,\"\nsays Feitel, pointing up the hill which smiled to them invitingly. They\nclimbed the hill. They gazed at the warm sun through their fingers. They\nthrew themselves on the damp earth which smelled so fresh. Feitel drew\nout from under his blouse a whole fresh, white \"_matzo_,\" covered with\nholes on both sides. Fedoka licked his fingers in advance. Feitel broke\nthe \"_matzo_\" in halves, and gave one half to his friend. \"What do you\nsay to the '_matzo_,' Fedoka?\" What could Fedoka say when his mouth was\nstuffed with \"_matzo_\" that crackled between his teeth, and melted under\nhis tongue like snow? One minute, and there was no more \"_matzo_.\" \"All\ngone?\" Fedoka threw his grey eyes at Feitel's blouse as a cat looks at\nbutter. \"Want more?\" asked Feitel, looking at Fedoka through his sharp\nblack eyes. What a question! \"Then wait a while,\" said Feitel. \"Next\nyear you'll get more.\" They both laughed at the joke. And without a\nword, as if they had already arranged it, they threw themselves on the\nground, and rolled down the hill like balls, quickly, quickly downwards.\n\n* * *\n\nAt the bottom of the hill they stood up, and looked at the murmuring\nriver that ran away to the left. They turned to the right, going further\nand further over the broad fields that were not yet green in all places,\nbut showed signs of being green soon--that did not yet smell of grass,\nbut would smell of grass soon. They walked and walked in silence\nbewitched by the loveliness of the earth, under the bright, smiling sun.\nThey did not walk, but swam. They did not swim, but flew. They flew like\nbirds that sweep in the soft air of the lovely world which the Lord has\ncreated for all living things. Hush! They are at the windmill which\nbelongs to the village elder. Once it belonged to Nachman Veribivker.\nNow it belongs to the village elder whose name is Opanas--a cunning\nGentile with one ear-ring, who owns a \"_samovar_.\" Opanas is a rich\nEpicurean. Along with the mill he has a store--the same store which once\nbelonged to Nachman Veribivker. He took both the mill and the store from\nthe Jew by cunning.\n\nThe mill went round in its season, but this day it was still. There was\nno wind. A curious Passover eve without winds. That the mill was not\nworking was so much the better for Feitel and Fedoka. They could see the\nmill itself. And there was much to see in the mill. But to them the mill\nwas not so interesting as the sails, and the wheel which turns them\nwhichever way the wind blows. They sat down near the mill, and talked.\nIt was one of those conversations which have no beginning and no end.\nFeitel told stories of the town to which his father had once taken him.\nHe was at the fair. He saw shops. Not a single shop as in Veribivka, but\na lot of shops. And in the evening his father took him to the synagogue.\nHis father had \"_Yahrzeit_\" after his father. \"That means after my\ngrandfather,\" explained Feitel. \"Do you understand, or do you not?\"\n\nFedoka might have understood, but he was not listening. He interrupted\nwith a story that had nothing to do with what Feitel was talking about.\nHe told Feitel that last year he saw a bird's nest in a high tree. He\ntried to reach it, but could not. He tried to knock it down with a\nstick, but could not. He threw stones at the nest, until he brought down\ntwo tiny, bleeding fledglings.\n\n\"You killed them?\" asked Feitel, fearfully, and made a wry face.\n\n\"Little ones,\" replied Fedoka.\n\n\"But, they were dead?\"\n\n\"Without feathers, yellow beaks, little fat bellies.\"\n\n\"But killed, but killed!\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt was rather late when Feitel and Fedoka saw by the sun in the heavens\nthat it was time to go home. Feitel had forgotten that it was the\nPassover eve. He remembered then that his mother had to wash him, and\ndress him in his new trousers. He jumped up and flew home, Fedoka after\nhim. They both flew home, gladly and joyfully. And in order that one\nshould not be home before the other, they held hands, flying like arrows\nfrom bows. When they got to the village, this was the scene which\nconfronted them:--\n\nNachman Veribivker's house was surrounded by peasants, men and women,\nboys and girls. The clerk, Kuratchka, and Opanas the village elder and\nhis wife, and the magistrate and the policeman--all were there, talking\nand shouting together. Nachman and his wife were in the middle of the\ncrowd, arguing and waving their hands. Nachman was bent low and was\nwiping the perspiration from his face with both hands. By his side stood\nhis older children, gloomy and downcast. Suddenly, the whole picture\nchanged. Some one pointed to the two children. The whole crowd,\nincluding the village elder and the magistrate, the policeman and the\nclerk, stood still, like petrified. Only Nachman looked at the people,\nstraightened out his back, and laughed. His wife threw out her hands and\nbegan to weep.\n\nThe village elder and the clerk and the magistrate and their wives\npounced on the children.\n\n\"Where were you, you so-and-so?\"\n\n\"Where were we? We were down by the mill.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got punished without knowing\nwhy.\n\nFeitel's father flogged him with his cap. \"A boy should know.\" What\nshould a boy know? Out of pity his mother took him from his father's\nhands. She gave him a few smacks on her own account, and at once washed\nhim and dressed him in his new trousers--the only new garment he had for\nthe Passover. She sighed. Why? Afterwards, he heard his father saying to\nhis mother: \"May the Lord help us to get over this Festival in peace.\nThe Passover ought to have gone before it came.\" Feitel could not\nunderstand why the Passover should have gone before it came. He worried\nhimself about this. He did not understand why his father had flogged\nhim, and his mother smacked him. He did not understand what sort of a\nPassover eve it was this day in the world.\n\n* * *\n\nIf Feitel's Jewish brains could not solve the problems, certainly\nFedoka's peasant brains could not. First of all his mother took hold of\nhim by the flaxen hair, and pulled it. Then she gave him a few good\nsmacks in the face. These he accepted like a philosopher. He was used to\nthem. And he heard his mother talking with the peasants. They told\ncurious tales of a child that the Jews of the town had enticed on the\nPassover eve, hidden in a cellar a day and a night, and were about to\nmake away with, when his cries were heard by passers-by. They rescued\nhim. He had marks on his body--four marks, placed like a cross.\n\nA cunning peasant-woman with a red face told this tale. And the other\nwomen shook their shawl-covered heads, and crossed themselves. Fedoka\ncould not understand why the women looked at him when they were talking.\nAnd what had the tale to do with him and Feitel? Why had his mother\npulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears? He did not care about these.\nHe was used to them. He only wanted to know why he had had such a good\nshare that day.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Well?\" Feitel heard his father remark to his mother immediately after\nthe Festival. His face was shining as if the greatest good fortune had\nbefallen him. \"Well? You fretted yourself to death. You were afraid. A\nwoman remains a woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, and\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Thank God,\" replied his mother. And Feitel could not understand what\nhis mother had feared. And why were they glad that the Passover was\ngone? Would it not have been better if the Passover had been longer and\nlonger?\n\nFeitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could not contain himself, but\ntold him everything--how they had prayed, and how they had eaten. Oh,\nhow they had eaten! He told him how nice all the Passover dishes were,\nand how sweet the wine. Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes\non Feitel's blouse. He was still thinking of \"_matzo_.\" Suddenly there\nwas a scream, and a cry in a high-pitched soprano:\n\n\"Fedoka, Fedoka!\"\n\nIt was his mother calling him in for supper. But Fedoka did not hurry.\nHe thought she would not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not\nbeen at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover. After the\nPassover there was no need to be afraid of the Jews. He stretched\nhimself on the grass, on his stomach, propping up his white head with\nhis hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, his black head propped up by his\nhands. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. The little wind fans one and\nplays with one's hair. The little calf stands close by. The cock is also\nnear, with his wives. The two heads, the black and the white, are close\ntogether. The children talk and talk and talk, and cannot finish\ntalking.\n\n* * *\n\nNachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in the morning he took his\nstick, and let himself go over the village, in search of business. He\nstopped at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning, calling each one\nby name, and talked with them on every subject in the world. But he\navoided all reference to the Passover incident, and never even hinted at\nhis fears of the Passover. Before going away, he said: \"Perhaps, friend,\nyou have something you would like to sell?\" \"Nothing, 'Lachman,'\nnothing.\" \"Old iron, rags, an old sack, or a hide?\" \"Do not be offended,\n'Lachman,' there is nothing. Bad times!\" \"Bad times? You drank\neverything, maybe. Such a festival!\" \"Who drank? What drank? Bad\ntimes.\"\n\nThe Gentile sighed. Nachman also sighed. They talked of different\nthings. Nachman would not have the other know that he came only on\nbusiness. He left that Gentile, and went to another, to a third, until\nhe came upon something. He would not return home empty-handed.\n\nNachman Veribivker, loaded and perspiring, tramped home, thinking only\nof one problem--how much he was going to gain or lose that day. He has\nforgotten the Passover eve incident. He has forgotten the fears of the\nPassover. The clerk, Kuratchka, and his governors and circulars have\ngone clean out of the Jew's head.\n\nLet winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the world turn upside down. The old\noak which has been standing since the creation of the world, and whose\nroots reach to God-knows-where--what does he care for winds? What are\nstorms to him?\n\n\n\n\nElijah the Prophet\n\n\nIt is not good to be an only son, to be fretted over by father and\nmother--to be the only one left out of seven. Don't stand here. Don't go\nthere. Don't drink that. Don't eat the other. Cover up your throat. Hide\nyour hands. Ah, it is not good--not good at all to be an only son, and a\nrich man's son into the bargain. My father is a money changer. He goes\nabout amongst the shopkeepers with a bag of money, changing copper for\nsilver, and silver for copper. That is why his fingers are always black,\nand his nails broken. He works very hard. Each day, when he comes home,\nhe is tired and broken down. \"I have no feet,\" he complains to mother.\n\"I have no feet, not even the sign of a foot.\" No feet? It may be. But\nfor that again he has a fine business. That's what the people say. And\nthey envy us that we have a good business. Mother is satisfied. So am I.\n\"We shall have a Passover this year, may all the children of Israel have\nthe like, Father in Heaven!\"\n\nThat's what my mother said, thanking God for the good Passover. And I\nalso was thankful. But shall we ever live to see it--this same Passover?\n\nPassover has come at last--the dear sweet Passover. I was dressed as\nbefitted the son of a man of wealth--like a young prince. But what was\nthe consequence? I was not allowed to play, or run about, lest I caught\ncold. I must not play with poor children. I was a wealthy man's boy.\nSuch nice clothes, and I had no one to show off before. I had a\npocketful of nuts, and no one to play with.\n\nIt is not good to be an only child, and fretted over--the only one left\nout of seven, and a wealthy man's son into the bargain.\n\nMy father put on his best clothes, and went off to the synagogue. Said\nmy mother to me: \"Do you know what? Lie down and have a sleep. You will\nthen be able to sit up at the '_Seder_' and ask the 'four questions'!\"\nWas I mad? Would I go asleep before the \"_Seder_\"?\n\n\"Remember, you must not sleep at the '_Seder_.' If you do, Elijah the\nProphet will come with a bag on his shoulders. On the two first nights\nof Passover, Elijah the Prophet goes about looking for those who have\nfallen asleep at the '_Seder_,' and takes them away in his bag.\" ... Ha!\nHa! Will I fall asleep at the \"_Seder_\"? I? Not even if it were to last\nthe whole night through, or even to broad daylight. \"What happened last\nyear, mother?\" \"Last year you fell asleep, soon after the first\nblessing.\" \"Why did Elijah the Prophet not come then with his bag?\"\n\"Then you were very small, now you are big. Tonight you must ask father\nthe 'four questions.' Tonight you must say with father--'Slaves were\nwe.' Tonight, you must eat with us fish and soup and '_Matzo_'-balls.\nHush, here is father, back from the synagogue.\"\n\n\"Good '_Yom-tov_'!\"\n\n\"Good '_Yom-tov_'!\"\n\nThank God, father made the blessing over wine. I, too. Father drank the\ncup full of wine. So did I, a cup full, to the very dregs. \"See, to the\ndregs,\" said mother to father. To me she said: \"A full cup of wine! You\nwill drop off to sleep.\" Ha! Ha! Will I fall asleep? Not even if we are\nto sit up all the night, or even to broad daylight. \"Well,\" said my\nfather, \"how are you going to ask the 'four questions'? How will you\nrecite '_Haggadah_'? How will you sing with me--'Slaves were we'?\" My\nmother never took her eyes off me. She smiled and said: \"You will fall\nasleep--fast asleep.\" \"Oh, mother, mother, if you had eighteen heads,\nyou would surely fall asleep, if some one sat opposite you, and sang in\nyour ears: 'Fall asleep, fall asleep'!\"\n\nOf course I fell asleep.\n\nI fell asleep, and dreamt that my father was already saying: \"Pour out\nthy wrath.\" My mother herself got up from the table, and went to open\nthe door to welcome Elijah the Prophet. It would be a fine thing if\nElijah the Prophet did come, as my mother had said, with a bag on his\nshoulders, and if he said to me: \"Come, boy.\" And who else would be to\nblame for this but my mother, with her \"fall asleep, fall asleep.\" And\nas I was thinking these thoughts, I heard the creaking of the door. My\nfather stood up and cried: \"Blessed art thou who comest in the name of\nthe Eternal.\" I looked towards the door. Yes, it was he. He came in so\nslowly and so softly that one scarcely heard him. He was a handsome man,\nElijah the Prophet--an old man with a long grizzled beard reaching to\nhis knees. His face was yellow and wrinkled, but it was handsome and\nkindly without end. And his eyes! Oh, what eyes! Kind, soft, joyous,\nloving, faithful eyes. He was bent in two, and leaned on a big, big\nstick. He had a bag on his shoulders. And silently, softly, he came\nstraight to me.\n\n\"Now, little boy, get into my bag, and come.\" So said to me the old man,\nbut in a kind voice, and softly and sweetly.\n\nI asked him: \"Where to?\" And he replied: \"You will see later.\" I did not\nwant to go, and he said to me again: \"Come.\" And I began to argue with\nhim. \"How can I go with you when I am a wealthy man's son?\" Said he to\nme: \"And as a wealthy man's son, of what great value are you?\" Said I:\n\"I am the only child of my father and mother.\" Said he: \"To me you are\nnot an only child!\" Said I: \"I am fretted over. If they find that I am\ngone, they will not get over it, they will die, especially my mother.\"\nHe looked at me, the old man did, very kindly, and he said to me, softly\nand sweetly as before: \"If you do not want to die, then come with me.\nSay good-bye to your father and mother, and come.\" \"But, how can I come\nwhen I am an only child, the only one left alive out of seven?\"\n\nThen he said to me more sternly: \"For the last time, little boy. Choose\none of the two. Either you say good-bye to your father and mother, and\ncome with me, or you remain here, but fast asleep for ever and ever.\"\n\nHaving said these words, he stepped back from me a little, and was\nturning to the door. What was to be done? To go with the old man,\nGod-knows-where, and get lost, would mean the death of my father and\nmother. I am an only child, the only one left alive out of seven. To\nremain here, and fall asleep for ever and ever--that would mean that I\nmyself must die....\n\nI stretched out my hand to him, and with tears in my eyes I said:\n\"Elijah the Prophet, dear, kind, loving, darling Elijah, give me one\nminute to think.\" He turned towards me his handsome, yellow, wrinkled\nold face with its grizzled beard reaching to his knees, and looked at me\nwith his beautiful, kind, loving, faithful eyes, and he said to me with\na smile: \"I will give you one minute to decide, my child--but, no more\nthan one minute.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI ask you. \"What should I have decided to do in that one minute, so as\nto save myself from going with the old man, and also to save myself from\nfalling asleep for ever? Well, who can guess?\"\n\n\n\n\nGetzel\n\n\n\"Sit down, and I will tell you a story about nuts.\"\n\n\"About nuts? About nuts?\"\n\n\"About nuts.\"\n\n\"Now? War-time?\"\n\n\"Just because it's war-time. Because your heart is heavy, I want to\ndistract your thoughts from the war. In any case, when you crack a nut,\nyou find a kernel.\"\n\n* * *\n\nHis name was Getzel, but they called him Goyetzel. Whoever had God in\nhis heart made fun of Getzel, ridiculed him. He was considered a bit of\na fool. Amongst us schoolboys he was looked upon as a young man. He was\na clumsily built fellow, had extremely coarse hands, and thick lips. He\nhad a voice that seemed to come from an empty barrel. He wore wide\ntrousers and big top-boots, like a bear. His head was as big as a\nkneading trough. This head of his, \"_Reb_\" Yankel used to say, was\nstuffed with hay or feathers. The \"_Rebbe_\" frequently reminded Getzel\nof his great size and awkwardness. \"Goyetzel,\" \"Coarse being,\"\n\"Bullock's skin,\" and other such nicknames were bestowed on him by the\nteacher. And he never seemed to care a rap about them. He hid in a\ncorner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a calf. You must know\nthat Getzel was fond of eating. Food was dearer to him than anything\nelse. He was a mere stomach. The master called him a glutton, but Getzel\ndidn't care about that either. The minute he saw food, he thrust it into\nhis mouth, and chewed and chewed vigorously. He had sent to him, to the\n\"_Cheder_,\" the best of everything. This great clumsy fool was, along\nwith everything else, his wealthy mother's darling--her only child. And\nshe took the greatest care of him. Day and night, she stuffed him like a\ngoose, and was always wailing that her child ate nothing.\n\n\"He ought to have the evil eye averted from him,\" our teacher used to\nsay, behind Getzel's back, of course.\n\n\"To the devil with his mother,\" the teacher's wife used to add, in such\na voice, and making such a grimace over her words that it was impossible\nto keep from laughing. \"In Polosya they keep such children in swaddling\nclothes. May he suffer instead of my old bones!\"\n\n\"May I live longer than his head,\" the teacher put in, after her, and\npulled Getzel's cap down over his ears.\n\nThe whole \"_Cheder_\" laughed. Getzel sat silent. He was sulky, but kept\nsilent. It was hard to get him into a temper. But, when he did get into\na temper, he was terrible. Even an angry bear could not be fiercer than\nhe. He used to dance with passion, and bite his own big hands with his\nstrong white teeth. If he gave one a blow, one felt it--one enjoyed it.\nThis the boys knew very well. They had tasted his blows, and they were\nterribly afraid of him. They did not want to have anything to do with\nhim. You know that Jewish children have a lot of respect for beatings.\nAnd in order to protect themselves against Getzel, all the ten boys had\nto keep united--ten against one. And that was how it came about that\nthere were two parties at \"_Reb_\" Yankel's \"_Cheder_.\" On the one side,\nall the pupils; on the other, Getzel. The boys kept their wits about\nthem; Getzel his fists. The boys worked at their lessons; Getzel ate\ncontinually.\n\n* * *\n\nIt came to pass that on a holiday the boys got together to play nuts.\nPlaying nuts is a game like any other, neither better than tops, nor\nworse than cards. The game is played in various ways. There are \"holes\"\nand \"bank\" and \"caps.\" But every game finishes up in the same way. One\nboy loses, another wins. And, as always, he who wins is a clever fellow,\na smart fellow, a good fellow. And he who loses is a good-for-nothing, a\nfool and a ne'er-do-well; just as it happens in the big cities, at the\nclubs, where people sit playing cards night and day.\n\nThe ten boys got together in the \"_Cheder_\" to play nuts. They turned\nover a bench, placed a row of nuts on the floor, and began rolling other\nnuts downwards. Whoever knocked the most nuts out of the row won the\nwhole lot. Suddenly the door opened, and Getzel came in, his pockets\nloaded with nuts, as usual.\n\n\"Welcome art thou--a Jew!\" cried one of the boys.\n\n\"If you speak of the Messiah,\" put in a second.\n\n\"_Vive_ Haman!\" cried a third.\n\n\"And Rashi says, 'The devil brought him here.'\" cried a fourth.\n\n\"What are you playing? Bank? Then I'll play too,\" said Getzel, to which\nhe got an immediate reply:\n\n\"No, with a little cap.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Just for that.\"\n\n\"Then I won't let you play.\"\n\nHe didn't hesitate a moment, but scattered the nuts about the floor with\nhis bear's paws. The boys got angry. The cheek of the rascal!\n\n\"Boys, why don't you do something?\" asked one.\n\n\"What shall we do?\" asked a second.\n\n\"Lets break his bones for him,\" suggested a third.\n\n\"All right. Try it on,\" cried Getzel. He turned up his sleeves, ready\nfor work.\n\nAnd there took place a battle, a fight between the two parties. On the\none side was the whole \"_Cheder_,\" on the other Getzel.\n\nTen is not one. It was true they felt what Getzel's fists tasted like.\nBruises and marks around the eyes were the portion of the ten. But for\nthat, again, they gave him a good taste of the world with their sharp\nnails and their teeth, and every other thing they could. From the front\nand from the back and from all sides, he got blows and kicks and pulls\nand thumps and bites and scratches. Well, ten is not one. They overcame\nhim. Getzel had to get himself off, disappear. And now begins the real\nstory of the nuts.\n\n* * *\n\nAfter he left the \"_Cheder_,\" bruised and scratched and torn and\nbleeding, Getzel stood thinking for a while. He clapped his hands on his\npockets, and there was heard the rattling of nuts.\n\n\"You don't want to play nuts with me, then may the Angel of Death play\nwith you. I want you for ten thousand sacrifices. I can manage. We two\nwill play by ourselves.\"\n\nThat was what Getzel said to himself. The next minute he was off like\nthe wind. He stopped in the middle of the road to say aloud, as if there\nwas some one with him:\n\n\"Where to? Where, for instance, shall we go, Getzel?\" And at once he\nanswered himself: \"There, far outside the town, on the other side of the\nmill. There we shall be alone, the two of us. No one will disturb us.\nLet any one attempt to disturb us, and we will break bones, and make an\nend.\"\n\nTalking with himself, Getzel felt that he was not alone. He was not one\nbut two; and he felt as strong as two. Let the boys dare to come near\nhim, and he would break them to atoms. He would reduce them to a\ndust-heap. He enjoyed listening to his own words, and did not stop\ntalking to himself, as if he really had some one beside him.\n\n\"Listen to me. How far are we going to go?\" he asked himself. And he\nanswered himself almost in a strange voice:\n\n\"Well, it all depends on you.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we ought to sit down here and play nuts. Well? What do you say,\nGetzel?\"\n\n\"It's all the same to me.\"\n\nGetzel sat down on the ground, far beyond the town, behind the mill,\ntook out the nuts, counted them, divided them in two equal parts, put\none lot in his right-hand pocket, and the other in his left. He took off\nhis cap, and threw into it a few nuts from his right-hand pocket. He\nsaid to himself:\n\n\"They imagine I can't get on without them. Listen, Getzel, what game are\nwe playing?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Whatever game you like.\"\n\n\"Then let us play 'odd or even.'\"\n\n\"I'm quite willing.\"\n\nHe shook his cap.\n\n\"Now, guess. Odd or even? Well, speak out,\" he said to himself. He dug\nhis elbow into his own ribs, and said to himself:\n\n\"Even.\"\n\n\"Even did you say? Who'll thrash you? You have lost. Hand over three\nnuts.\"\n\nHe took three nuts from his left-hand pocket, and put them into the\nright. Again he shook the cap, and again he asked:\n\n\"Odd or even this time?\"\n\n\"Odd.\"\n\n\"Did you say odd? May you suffer for ever! Hand them over here. You have\nlost four nuts.\"\n\nHe changed four nuts from his left-hand pocket to the right, shook the\ncap and said again:\n\n\"Well, maybe you'll guess right now. Odd or even?\"\n\n\"Even.\"\n\n\"Even did you say? May your bones rot! You rascal, hand out here five\nnuts.\"\n\n\"Isn't it enough that I lose. Why do you curse me?\"\n\n\"Whose fault is it that you are a fool and that you guess as a blind man\nguesses a hole? Well, say again--odd or even? This time you must be\nright.\"\n\n\"Even.\"\n\n\"Even? May you live long! Hand out seven nuts, you fool, and guess\nagain. Odd or even?\"\n\n\"Even.\"\n\n\"Again even. May you be my father! Good-for-nothing, hand over five more\nnuts, and guess again. Maybe you will guess right for once. Odd or even?\nWhy are you silent--eh?\"\n\n\"I have no more nuts.\"\n\n\"It's a lie, you have!\"\n\n\"As I am a Jew, I haven't.\"\n\n\"Just look in your pocket, like this.\"\n\n\"There isn't even a sign of one.\"\n\n\"None? Lost all the nuts? Well, what good has it done you? Aren't you a\nfool?\"\n\n\"Enough! You have won all my nuts, and now you torment me.\"\n\n\"It's good, it's all right. You wanted to win all my nuts, and I have\nwon yours.\"\n\nGoyetzel was well satisfied that Getzel had lost, whilst he, Goyetzel\nhad won. He felt it was doing him good to win. He felt equal to winning\nall the nuts in the whole world. \"Where are they now, the '_Cheder_'\nboys? I would have got my own back from them. I would not have left them\nthe smallest nut, not even for a cure. They would have died here on the\nground in front of me.\"\n\nGetzel grew angry, fierce. He closed his fists, clenched his teeth, and\nspoke to himself, just as if there was some one beside him.\n\n\"Well, try now. Now that I am not by myself. Now that there are two of\nus. Well, Getzel, why are you sitting there like a bridegroom? Let's\nplay nuts another little while.\"\n\n\"Nuts? Where have I nuts? Didn't I tell you I haven't a single one?\"\n\n\"Ah, I forgot that you have no more nuts. Do you know what I would\nadvise you, Getzel?\"\n\n\"For instance?\"\n\n\"Have you any money?\"\n\n\"I have. Well, what of that?\"\n\n\"Buy nuts from me.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by saying I should buy nuts off you?\"\n\n\"Fool! Don't you know what buying means? Give me money, and I'll give\nyou nuts. Eh?\"\n\n\"Well, I agree to that.\"\n\nHe took from his purse a silver coin, bargained about the price, counted\na score of nuts from the right-hand pocket to the left, and the play\nbegan all over again.\n\nAn experienced card-player, the story goes, half an hour before his\ndeath called his son--also a gambler--to his bedside, and said to him:\n\n\"My child, I am going from this world. We shall never meet again. I know\nyou play cards. You have my nature. You may play as much as you like,\nonly take care not to play yourself out.\"\n\nThese words are almost a law. There is nothing worse in the world than\nplaying yourself out. Experienced people say it deprives a man even of\nhis last shirt. It drives a man to desperate acts. And one cannot hope\nto rise at the Resurrection after that. So people say. And so it\nhappened with our young man. He worked so long, shaking his cap, \"odd or\neven,\" taking from one pocket and putting into the other, until his\nleft-hand pocket hadn't a single nut in it.\n\n\"Well, why don't you play?\"\n\n\"I have nothing to play with.\"\n\n\"Again you have no nuts, good-for-nothing!\"\n\n\"You say I am a good-for-nothing. And I say you are a cheat.\"\n\n\"If you call me a cheat again, I will give you a clout in the jaw.\"\n\n\"Let the Lord put it into your head.\"\n\nGetzel sat quiet for a few minutes, scraping the ground with his\nfingers, digging a hole, and muttering a song under his breath. Then he\nsaid:\n\n\"Dirty thing, let us play nuts.\"\n\n\"Where have I nuts?\"\n\n\"Haven't you money? I will sell you another ten.\"\n\n\"Money? Where have I money?\"\n\n\"No money and no nuts? Oh, I can't stand it. Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\nThe laugh echoed over the whole field, and re-echoed in the distant\nwood. Getzel was convulsed with laughter.\n\n\"What are you laughing at, you Goyetzel you?\" he asked himself. And he\nanswered himself in a different voice:\n\n\"I am laughing at you, good-for-nothing. Isn't it enough that you lost\nall my nuts on me? Why did you want to go and lose my money as well?\nSuch a lot of money. You fool of fools! Oh, I can't get over it. Ha! ha!\nha!\"\n\n\"You yourself brought me to it. You wicked one of wicked ones! You\nscamp! You rascal!\"\n\n\"Fool of the night! If I were to tell you to cut off your nose, must you\ndo it? You idiot! You animal with the horse's face, you! Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Be quiet, at any rate, you Goyetzel, you. And let me not see your\nforbidding countenance.\"\n\nAnd he turned away from himself, sat sulky for a few minutes, scraping\nthe earth with his fingers. He covered the hole he had made, as he sang\na little song under his breath.\n\n\"Do you know what I will tell you, Getzel?\" he said to himself a few\nminutes later. \"Let us forgive one another. Let us be friends. The Lord\nhelped me. It was my luck to win so many nuts--may no evil eye harm\nthem! Why should we not enjoy ourselves? Let's crack a few nuts. I\nshould think they are not bad! Well, what do you say, Getzel?\"\n\n\"Yes, I also think they ought not to be bad,\" he answered himself. He\nthrust a nut into his mouth, a second, a third. Each time, he banged his\nteeth with his fists. The nut was cracked. He took out a fat kernel,\ncleaned it round, threw it back in his mouth, and chewed it pleasurably\nwith his strong white teeth. He crunched them as a horse crunches oats.\nHe said to himself:\n\n\"Would you also like the kernel of a nut, Getzel? Speak out. Do not be\nashamed.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\nThat was how he answered himself. He stretched out his left hand, but\nonly smacked it with his right.\n\n\"Will you have a plague?\"\n\n\"Let it be a plague.\"\n\n\"Then have two.\"\n\nAnd he did not cease from cracking the nuts, and crunching them like a\nhorse. It was not enough that he sat eating and gave none to the other,\nbut he said to him:\n\n\"Listen, Getzel, to what I will ask you. How, for example, do you feel\nwhile I am eating and you are only looking on?\"\n\n\"How do I feel? May you have such a year!\"\n\n\"Ah, I see you've got a temper. Here is a kernel for you.\"\n\nAnd Getzel's right hand gave the left a kernel. The right turned upside\ndown. The left hand smacked the right. The left hand smacked the right\ncheek. Then the right hand smacked the left cheek twice. The left hand\ncaught hold of the right lapel of his coat, and the right hand at once\ntore off the left lapel, from top to bottom. The left hand pulled the\nright earlock. The right hand gave the left ear a terrible bang.\n\n\"Let go of my earlock, Getzel. Take my advice, and let go of my\nearlock!\"\n\n\"A plague!\"\n\n\"Then you'll have no earlock, Getzel.\"\n\n\"Then you, Goyetzel, will have no ear.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"Oh! Oh!\"\n\n* * *\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nFor several minutes our Getzel rolled on the ground. Now he lay right\nside up, and now he lay left side up. He held his pocketful of nuts with\nboth hands.... One minute Goyetzel was victorious. The next it was\nGetzel, until he got up from the ground covered with dirt, like a pig.\nHe was torn to pieces, had a bleeding ear, and a torn earlock. He took\nall the nuts from his pocket, and threw them into the mud of the river,\nfar away, behind the mill. He muttered angrily:\n\n\"That's right. It's a good deed.\"\n\n\"Neither you--nor me.\"\n\n\n\n\nA Lost \"L'Ag Beomer\"\n\n\nOur teacher, \"_Reb_\" Nissel the small one--so called on account of his\nsize--allowed himself to be led by the nose by his assistants. Whatever\nthey wanted they got. When the first assistant said the children were to\nbe sent home early that day, he sent them home early. The second\nassistant said that the boys would turn the world upside down, and ought\nto be kept at school, and he kept them at school. He could never decide\nanything for himself. That was why his assistants controlled the school,\nand not he. At other schools the assistants teach the children to wash\ntheir hands and say the blessing. At our school, the assistants would\nnot do this for us, nor fetch us our meals, nor take us to school on\ntheir shoulders. No, they liked to go for our meals. They ate them\nthemselves on the road. We did not dare to tell the master of this. The\nassistants kept us in fear and trembling. If a boy whispered a word of\ntheir doings to the teacher, he would be flogged, his skin would be cut.\nOnce, a daring boy told the master something; and the assistant beat him\nso terribly that he was laid up in bed for months. He warned the boys\nnever to tell the master anything, no matter what the assistants did.\n\nThis period of our schooldays might be called the Tyranny of the\nAssistants.\n\n* * *\n\nAnd it came to pass that we were under the yoke of the assistants. One\nyear, we had a cold \"_L'ag Beomer_.\" It was a cold, wet May, such as we\nsometimes had in our town, Mazapevka. The sun barely showed itself. A\nsharp wind blew, brought us clouds, tore open our coats, and threw us\noff our feet. It was not pleasant out of doors.\n\nJust then the assistants took it into their heads to take us for a walk\noutside the town, so that we might play at wars, with swords and\npop-guns and bows and arrows.\n\nIt is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to become war-like on the\n\"_L'ag Beomer_.\" They arm themselves from head to foot with wooden\nswords, pop-guns and bows and arrows. They take food with them, and go\noff to wage war. Jewish children who are the whole year round closed up\nin small \"_Chedorim_,\" oppressed by fears of the master, and trembling\nunder the whips of the assistants, when \"_L'ag Beomer_\" comes round, and\nthey may go out into the open, armed from head to foot, imagine that\nthey are giants who can overcome the strongest foe and reduce the world\nto ruins. All at once they grow brave. They step forward eagerly,\nsinging songs that are a curious mixture of Yiddish and Russian.\n\n    \"One, two, three, four!\n    Jewish children\n    Learn the '_Torah_,'\n    Believe in miracles,\n    Are not afraid.\n    Hear, O Israel! Nothing matters.\n    We are not afraid of any one,\n    Excepting God.\"\n\nAnd we carried out the old custom. We took down our swords of last year\nfrom the attic, and we made bows from the hoops of old wine barrels.\nPop-guns the assistants provided us with, for money, of course--fine\nguns with which one could shoot flies if they only stood still long\nenough. In a word, we had all the Jewish weapons to frighten tiny\ninfants to death. And we provided ourselves with food in good earnest,\neach boy as much as the Lord had blessed him with, and his mother would\ngive him, out of her generosity. We arrived at \"_Cheder_\" armed from\nhead to foot, and our pockets bulging out with good things--rolls,\ncakes, boiled eggs, goose-fat, cherry-wine, fruit, fowls, livers, tea\nand sugar, and preserves and jam, and also many \"_groschens_\" in money.\nEach boy tried to show off by bringing the best and the largest\nquantity. And we wished to please the assistants. They praised us, and\nsaid we were very good boys. They took our food and put it into their\nbags. They placed us in rows, like soldiers, and commanded us.\n\n\"Jewish children, take hands, and march across the bridge, straight for\nMezritzer fields. There you will meet the sea-cats, and do battle with\nthem.\"\n\n\"Hurrah for the sea-cats!\" we shouted in one voice. We took hands and\nwent forward, like giants, strong and courageous.\n\n* * *\n\nWe called the Free School boys sea-cats because they were short little\nchildren in the A B C class. They appeared to us \"_Chumash_\" boys like\nflies, ants. We imagined that with one blow--phew! we would make an end\nof them. We were certain that when they saw us, how we were armed from\nhead to foot with swords and bows and arrows and pop-guns, they would\nsurely fly away. It was no trifle to encounter such giants. You play\nwith \"_Chumash_\" boys, warriors with long legs!\n\nWe had never fought the sea-cats before. But we had every reason to\nbelieve, we were convinced, we would conquer these squirrels with a\nglance, destroy them, make an end of them. Along with giving them a good\nlicking, we would take spoil from them, that is to say, their food, and\nlet them go hungry.\n\nWe were so full of our own courage, and so enthusiastic about the brave\ndeeds we were going to do that we pushed each other forward, clapped\neach other on the shoulder. Then, too, the assistants urged us forward.\n\n\"Why do you crawl like insects?\" they asked us. They themselves stopped\nfrequently, opened the bags, and tasted our food and cherry-wine, which\nthey praised highly.\n\n\"Excellent cherry-wine,\" they said, passing round the bottles, and\nletting the liquid gurgle down their throats. \"Splendid liquor. The best\nI ever tasted.\"\n\nThat was what the assistants said. They actually licked their fingers.\nThey remained in the distance, but indicated with their hands that we\nmust go forward, forward.\n\nWe went on and on, over the wide Mezritzer field, though the wind blew\nstronger and stronger. The sky grew black with clouds, and a cold, thick\nrain beat into our faces. Our hands were blue with the cold. Our boots\nsquelched in the mud. We had long given up singing songs. We were tired\nand hungry, very hungry. We decided to sit down and rest, and have\nsomething to eat.\n\n\"Where are the assistants? Where is the food--where is it?\"\n\nThe boys began to murmur against the assistants.\n\n\"It is a dirty trick to take all our food from us, and our cherry-wine\nand our few '_groschens_,' and to leave us here in the desert, cold and\nhungry. May the devil take them!\"\n\n\"May a bad end come to the assistants!\"\n\n\"May the cholera strike down all the assistants in the world!\"\n\n\"May they be the sacrifices for our tiniest nails!\"\n\n\"Hush. Let there be silence. Here come our foes, our enemies.\"\n\n\"Little squirrels with big sticks.\"\n\n\"The sea-cats--the sea-cats!\"\n\n\"Hurrah for the sea-cats!\"\n\nThe moment we saw them, we rushed towards them, like fierce starving\nwolves. We were ready to tear them to pieces. But there happened to us a\nmisfortune, a great misfortune which no one could possibly have\nforeseen.\n\nIf it is not destined, neither wisdom nor strength nor smartness are of\nany avail. Listen to what can happen.\n\n* * *\n\nThe sea-cats, though they were small, short little squirrels, were\nevidently no fools. Before going to do battle on the broad Mezritzer\nfield, they had prepared themselves well at home, gone through their\ndrill. Afterwards, they fed up. They also took with them warm clothing\nand rubber goloshes. They were armed from head to foot no worse than we\nwere, with swords and pop-guns and bows and arrows. They would not wait\nuntil we had taken the offensive. They attacked us first, and began to\nbreak our bones. And how, do you think? From all sides at once, and so\nsuddenly that we had no time to look about us. Before we realized it,\nthey were upon us. They were not alone, but had their assistants to urge\nthem on and encourage them.\n\n\"Pay out the '_Chumash_' boys. Beat them, the boys with the long legs.\"\n\nNaturally we were not silent either. We stood up against the squirrels,\nlike giants, beat them with our swords, aimed our arrows at them, and\nshot at them with our pop-guns. But, alas! our swords were dull as\nwood; and before we could set our bows, they had thrashed us. I say\nnothing of the guns. What can you do with a pop-gun if the foe will not\nwait until you have taken aim at him? They rushed forward and knocked\nthe guns out of our hands. What could we do?\n\nWe had to throw away our weapons, our swords and pop-guns and bows and\narrows, and fight as the Lord has ordained. That is to say, we fought\nwith our fists. But we were hungry and tired and cold, and fought\nwithout a plan, because our assistants had remained behind. They let us\nfight whilst they ate our food and drank our cherry-wine--the devil take\nthem! And they, the little squirrels, well-fed and well-clad, had crept\nupon us from three sides at once, each moment growing stronger and\nstronger. They rained down on us blows and thumps and digs. The same\nblows that we had reckoned on giving them they gave us. And their\nassistants went in front of them, and never ceased from urging them on.\n\n\"Pay back the '_Chumash_' boys. Beat them, beat them, the boys with the\nlong legs.\"\n\nWho was the first to turn his back on the enemy? It would be hard to\nsay. I only know we ran quickly, helter-skelter, back home, back to\nMazapevka. And they, the little squirrels--may they burn!--ran after us,\nshouting and yelling and laughing at us, right on top of us.\n\n\"Hurrah! '_Chumash_' boys! Hurrah! Big boys!\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe arrived home exhausted, ragged, bruised, beaten. And we giants\nimagined that our parents would pity us, give us cakes because of the\nblows we got. But it turned out we were mistaken. No one thought of us.\nWe thanked God we were so fortunate as to escape without beatings from\nour parents for our torn clothes and twisted boots. But next morning we\ngot a good whipping from our teacher, Nissel the small one, for the\nbruises we had on our foreheads and the blue marks around our eyes. It\nis shameful to tell it--we were each whipped in the true style. This was\na mere addition, as if we had not had enough.\n\nWe were not sorry for anything but that the assistants gave us another\nshare. When a father or a mother beats one, it is out of kindness. When\na teacher beats one it is because he is a teacher. And what is his rod\nfor, anyway? But the assistants! Our curses upon them! As if it were not\nenough that they had eaten all our food, and drunk our cherry-wine--may\nthey suffer for it, Father of the Universe!--as if it were not enough\nthat they had left us to fight alone, in the middle of the field, but\nwhen they were whipping us they held our feet, so that we might not kick\neither.\n\n* * *\n\nAnd that was how our holiday ended up. It was a dark, dreary, lost\n\"_L'ag Beomer_.\"\n\n\n\n\nMurderers\n\n\n\"Is he still snoring?\"\n\n\"And how snoring!\"\n\n\"May he perish!\"\n\n\"Wake him up. Wake him up.\"\n\n\"Leib-Dreib-Obderick!\"\n\n\"Get up, my little bird.\"\n\n\"Open your little eyes.\"\n\nI barely managed to open my eyes, raise my head, and look about me. I\nsaw a whole crowd of rascals, my school-fellows. The window was open,\nand along with their sparkling eyes I saw the first rays of the bright,\nwarm early morning sun. I looked about me, on all sides.\n\n\"Just see how he looks.\"\n\n\"Like a sinner.\"\n\n\"Did you not recognize us?\"\n\n\"Have you forgotten that it is '_L'ag Beomer_' today?\"\n\nThe words darted through all my limbs like a flash of lightning. I was\ncarried out of bed by them. In the twinkling of an eye, I was dressed. I\nwent in search of my mother, who was busy with the breakfast and the\nyounger children.\n\n\"Mother, today is '_L'ag Beomer_.'\"\n\n\"A good '_Yom-tov_' to you. What do you want?\"\n\n\"I want something for the party.\"\n\n\"What am I to give you? My troubles? Or my aches?\"\n\nSo said my mother to me. Nevertheless, she was ready to give me\nsomething towards the party. We bargained about it. I wanted a lot. She\nwould only give a little. I wanted two eggs. Said she: \"A suffering in\nthe bones!\" I began to grow angry. She gave me two smacks. I began to\ncry. She gave me an apple to quieten me. I wanted an orange. Said she:\n\"Greedy boy, what will you want next?\" And my friends on the other side\nof the window were kicking up a row.\n\n\"Will you ever come out, or not?\"\n\n\"Leib-Dreib-Obderick!\"\n\n\"The day is flying!\"\n\n\"Quicker! Quicker!\"\n\n\"Like the wind.\"\n\nAfter much arguing, I got round my mother. I snatched up my breakfast\nand my share of the party, and flew out of the house, fresh, lively,\njoyful, to my waiting comrades. All together we flew down the hill to\nthe \"_Cheder_.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe \"_Cheder_\" was full of noise and tumult and shouting that reached to\nthe sky. A score of throats shouted at the one time. The table was\ncovered with delicacies. We had never had such a party as we were going\nto have that \"_L'ag Beomer_.\" We had wine and brandy, for which we had\nto thank Berrel Yossel, the wine-merchant's son. He had brought a\nbottle of brandy and two bottles of wine made by Yossel himself. His\nfather had given him the brandy, but the wine he had taken himself.\n\n\"What do you mean by saying he took it himself?\"\n\n\"Don't you understand, peasant's head? He took it from the shelf when no\none was looking.\"\n\n\"Gracious me! That means he stole?\"\n\n\"Fool of the night! Well, what then?\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Then he is a thief?\"\n\n\"For the sake of the party, fool.\"\n\n\"Is it a good deed to steal for that?\"\n\n\"Certainly. What do you say to the wise one of the 'Four questions'?\"\n\n\"Where is it written?\"\n\n\"He wants us to tell him where it is written?\"\n\n\"Tell him it is written in the Book of Jests.\"\n\n\"In the chapter called 'And he took.'\"\n\n\"Beginning with the words 'Bim-bom.'\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Hush, children, Mazeppa comes.\"\n\nAll at once there was silence. We were sitting around the table quiet as\nlambs, like angels, golden children who could not count two, and whose\nsouls were innocent.\n\n* * *\n\nMazeppa was the teacher's name. That is to say, his real name was\nBaruch-Moshe. He had come to our town from Mazapevka not long before,\nand the people called him the Mazapevkar. We boys shortened his name to\nMazeppa. And when pupils crown their teacher with such a lovely name, he\nmust be worthy of it. Let me introduce him.\n\nHe is small, thin, dried-up, hideously ugly. He hasn't even the signs of\na moustache or beard or eyebrows. Not because he shaved. God forbid, but\nsimply because they would not grow. But for that again he had a pair of\nlips and a nose. Oh, what a nose! It was curved like a ram's horn. And\nhe had a voice like a bull. He growled like a lion. Where did such a\ncreature get such a terrible roar? And where did he get so much\nstrength? When he took hold of you by the hand with his cold, bony\nfingers, you saw the next world. When he boxed your ears, you felt the\nsmart for three days on end. He hated arguing. For the least thing,\nguilty or not guilty, he had one sentence: \"Lie down.\"\n\n\"'_Rebbe_,' Yossel-Yakov-Yossels thumped me.\"\n\n\"Lie down.\"\n\n\"'_Rebbe_,' it's a lie. He first kicked me in the side.\"\n\n\"Lie down.\"\n\n\"'_Rebbe_,' Chayim-Berrel Lippes put out his tongue at me.\"\n\n\"Lie down.\"\n\n\"'_Rebbe_,' it's a lie of lies. He made a noise at me.\"\n\n\"Lie down.\"\n\nAnd you had to lie down. Nothing would avail you. Even Elya the red one,\nwho is already \"_Bar-mitzvah_,\" and is engaged to be married, and wears\na silver watch--do you think he is never flogged? Oh yes! And how? Elya\nsays he will be avenged for the floggings he gets. Some day or other he\nwill pay back the \"_Rebbe_\" in such a way that his children's children\nwill remember it. That's what Elya says after each flogging. And we echo\nhis words.\n\n\"Amen! May it be so! From your mouth into God's ears!\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe said our prayers with the teacher, as usual. (He never let us pray by\nourselves because he thought we might skip more than half the prayers.)\nMazeppa said to us in his lion's roar:\n\n\"Now, children, wash your hands and sit down to the party. After grace I\nwill let you go for a walk.\"\n\nWe used to hold our \"_L'ag Beomer_\" party outside the town, in the open\nair, on the bare earth, under God's sky. We used to throw crumbs of\nbread to the birds. Let them also know that it is \"_L'ag Beomer_\" in the\nworld. But one does not argue with Mazeppa. When he told one to sit\ndown, one sat down, lest he might tell one to lie down.\n\n\"Eat in peace,\" he said to us, after we had pronounced the blessing.\n\n\"Come and eat with us,\" we replied out of politeness.\n\n\"Eat in health,\" he said. \"I do not wish to eat yet. But, if you like, I\nwill make a blessing over the wine. What have you in that bottle?\nBrandy?\" he asked, and stretched out his long, dried-up hand with its\nbony fingers to the bottle of brandy. He poured out a glassful, tasted\nit, and made such a grimace that we must have been stronger than iron to\ncontrol ourselves from exploding with laughter.\n\n\"Whose is this terrible thing?\" he asked, taking another drop. \"It's not\na bad brandy.\" He filled a third glass and drank our health.\n\n\"Long life to you, children. May God grant that we be alive next year,\nand--and.... Haven't you anything to bite? Well, in honour of '_L'ag\nBeomer_' I will wash my hands and eat with you.\"\n\nWhat is wrong with our teacher? He's not the same Mazeppa. He is in good\nhumour, and talkative. His cheeks are shining; his nose is red; and his\neyes are sparkling. He eats and laughs and points to the bottle of wine.\n\n\"What sort of wine have you there? Passover wine?\" (He tasted it and\npursed up his lips.) \"P-s-ss! The best wine in the world.\" (He drank\nmore.) \"It's a long time since I tasted such wine.\" (To Yossel the\nwine-merchant's son, with a laugh.) \"The devil take your father's\ncellar. I saw there barrels upon barrels. And of the finest raisins. Ha!\nha! To your health, children. May the Lord help you to be honest, pious\nJews, and may you--may you open the second bottle. Take glasses and\ndrink to long life. May God grant that--that----\" (He licked his lips.\nHis eyes were closing.) \"All good to the children of Israel.\"\n\n* * *\n\nHaving eaten and said grace, Mazeppa turned to us, his tongue failing\nhim as he spoke:\n\n\"Then we have carried out the duty of eating together on '_L'ag\nBeomer_.' Well, and what next, eh?\"\n\n\"Now we will go for the walk.\"\n\n\"For the walk, eh? Excellent. Where do we go?\"\n\n\"To the black forest.\"\n\n\"Ha? To the black forest? Excellent. I go with you. It is good to walk\nin a forest, very healthy, because a forest.... Well, I will explain to\nyou what a forest is.\"\n\nWe went off with our teacher, beyond the town. We were not altogether\ncomfortable having him with us. But, shah! The teacher walked in the\nmiddle, waving his hands and explaining to us what a forest was.\n\n\"The nature of the forest, you must know, is as the Lord has created it.\nIt is full of trees. On the trees are branches; and the branches are\ncovered with leaves that give out a pleasant, pungent odour.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he sniffed the air that was not yet either pleasant or\npungent.\n\n\"Well, why are you silent?\" he asked. \"Say something nice. Sing a song.\nWell, I was also a boy once, and mischievous like you. I also had a\nteacher. Ha! ha!\"\n\nThat Mazeppa had once been a mischievous boy and had had a teacher we\ncould not believe. It was curious. Mazeppa playful? We exchanged\nglances, and giggled softly. We tried to imagine Mazeppa playful and\nhaving a teacher. And did his teacher also----? We were afraid to think\nof such a thing. But Elya stopped to ask a question:\n\n\"'_Rebbe_,' did your teacher also flog you as you flog us?\"\n\n\"What? And what sort of floggings? Ha! ha!\"\n\nWe looked at the teacher and at each other. We understood one another.\nWe laughed with him, until we were far from the town, in the broad\nfields, close to the forest.\n\n* * *\n\nThe fields were beautiful--a Garden of Eden. Green, fragrant grass,\nwhite boughs, yellow flowers, green flies, and above us the blue sky\nthat stretched away endlessly. Facing us was the forest in holiday\nattire. In the trees the birds hopped, twittering, from branch to\nbranch. They were welcoming us on the dear day of \"_L'ag Beomer_.\" We\nsought shelter from the burning rays of the sun under a thick tree. We\nsat down on the ground in a row, the \"_Rebbe_\" in the middle.\n\nHe was worn out. He threw himself on the ground, full-length, his face\nupwards. His eyes were closing. He could hardly manage to speak.\n\n\"You are dear, golden children.... Jewish children.... Saints.... I love\nyou, and you love me.... Oh yes, you l-love me?\"\n\n\"Like a pain in the eyes,\" replied Elya.\n\n\"Well, I know you l-love me,\" went on the teacher.\n\n\"May the Lord love you as we do,\" said Elya.\n\nWe were frightened, and whispered to Elya:\n\n\"The Lord be with you!\"\n\n\"Fools!\" he said with a laugh. \"What are you afraid of? Don't you see he\nis drunk?\"\n\n\"What?\" queried the teacher, one of whose eyes was already closed. \"What\nare you saying? Saints? Of course.... The guardian of Israel. Hal! Hal!\nHal! Rrrssss!\"\n\nAnd our teacher fell fast asleep. The snores burst from his nose like\nthe blasts from a ram's horn, sounding far into the forest. We sat\naround him, and our hearts grew heavy.\n\nIs this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we fear? Is this Mazeppa?\n\n* * *\n\n\"Children,\" said Elya to us, \"why are we sitting like lumps of stone?\nLet us think of a punishment for Mazeppa.\"\n\nA great fear fell upon us.\n\n\"Fools, what are you afraid of?\" he went on. \"He is now like a dead\nbody, a corpse.\"\n\nWe trembled still more. Elya went on:\n\n\"Now we may do with him what we like. He flogged us the whole winter, as\nif we were sheep. Let us take revenge of him this once, at least.\"\n\n\"What would you do to him?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I will only frighten him.\"\n\n\"How will you frighten him?\"\n\n\"You shall soon see.\" And he got up from the ground. He went over to\nthe teacher, took off his leather strap and said to us:\n\n\"See, we will fasten him to the tree with his own belt in such a way\nthat he will not be able to free himself. Then one of us will go over to\nhim and shout in his ear: \"'_Rebbe_,' murderers!\"\n\n\"What will happen?\"\n\n\"Nothing. We will run away, and he will shout, 'Hear, O Israel!'\"\n\n\"How long will he shout?\"\n\n\"Until he gets used to it.\"\n\nWithout another word, Elya tied the \"_Rebbe_\" to the tree by the hands.\nWe stood looking on, and a shudder passed over our bodies.\n\nIs this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we fear? Is this Mazeppa?\n\n\"Why do you stand there like clay images?\" said Elya to us. \"The Lord\nhas performed a miracle. Mazeppa has fallen into our hands. Let us dance\nfor joy.\"\n\nWe took hands and danced around the sleeping Mazeppa like savages. We\ndanced and leaped and sang like lunatics.\n\nWe stopped. Elya bent over the sleeping teacher and shouted into his ear\nin a voice to waken the dead:\n\n\"Help, '_Rebbe_'! Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe flew off together, like arrows from bows. We were afraid to stop a\nmoment. We were even afraid to look around us. A great dread fell upon\nus, even upon Elya, although he never ceased from shouting at us:\n\n\"Donkeys, fools, animals! Why do you run?\"\n\n\"Why do you run?\"\n\n\"When you run I run too.\"\n\nWe got into the town full of excitement, and still shouting:\n\n\"Murderers! Murderers!\"\n\nWhen the people saw us running, they ran after us. Seeing them running\nanother crowd ran after them.\n\n\"Why are you running?\"\n\n\"How are we to know? Others run, and we run too.\"\n\nAfter some time, one of our boys stopped. And seeing him, we also\nstopped, but still shouted:\n\n\"Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!\"\n\n\"Where? Where? Where?\"\n\n\"There, in the black forest, murderers beset us. They bound our teacher\nto a tree, and God knows if he is still alive.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIf you envy us because we are free, because we do not go to \"_Cheder_\"\n(the \"_Rebbe_\" is lying ill), it is for nothing--for nothing. No one\nknows whom the shoe pinches--no one. No one knows who the real murderers\nare. We rarely see one another. When we meet, the first words are: \"How\nis the teacher?\" (He is no more Mazeppa.) And when we pray, we ask God\nto save the teacher. We weep in silence: \"Oh, Father of the Universe!\nFather of the Universe!\" And Elya? Don't ask about him. May the devil\ntake him--that same Elya!\n\n* * *\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nWhen the \"_Rebbe_\" recovered (he was ill six weeks, in the height of\nfever, and babbled constantly of murderers) and we went back to\n\"_Cheder_,\" we hardly recognized him, so greatly had he changed. What\nhad become of his lion's roar? He had put away his strap, and there was\nno more \"Lie down,\" and no more Mazeppa. On his face there was to be\nseen a gentle melancholy. A feeling of regret stole into our hearts. And\nMazeppa suddenly grew dear to us, dear to our souls. Oh, if he had only\nscolded us! But it was as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, he stopped\nus in the middle of the lesson, and asked us to tell him again the story\nof that \"_L'ag Beomer_\" day, and of the murderers in the forest. We did\nnot hesitate, but told him again and again the story we knew off by\nheart--how murderers had come upon us in the forest, how they fell upon\nhim, tied him to the tree, and were going to kill him with a knife, and\nhow we rushed excitedly into the town, and by our shouting and clamours\nsaved him.\n\nThe \"_Rebbe_\" listened to us with closed eyes. Then he sighed, and asked\nus suddenly:\n\n\"Are you quite sure they were murderers?\"\n\n\"What else were they?\"\n\n\"Perhaps bandits?\"\n\nAnd the teacher's eyes sought the distance. And we imagined that a\ncuriously cunning smile was hovering around his thick lips.\n\n\n\n\nThree Little Heads\n\n\nIf my pen were an artist's brush, or at the very least a photographic\ncamera, I would create for you, my friend, a picture, for a present in\nhonour of \"_Shevuous_,\" of a rare group of three pretty little heads, of\nthree poor naked, barefoot Jewish children. All three little heads are\nblack, and have curly hair. The eyes are big and shiny and burning. They\ngaze out in wonder, and seem to be always asking of the world the one\nquestion: Wherefore? You look at them, and marvel at them, and feel\nguilty towards them, just as if you were really responsible for\nthem--for the existence of three little superfluous mortals in the\nworld.\n\nThe three pretty little heads are of two brothers and a little sister,\nAbramtzig, Moshetzig, and Dvairke. They were brought up by their father\nin the true Russian style, petted and spoiled. Their father was Peisa\nthe box-maker. And if he had not been afraid of his wife, Pessa, and if\nhe had not been such a terribly poor man, he would have changed his\nJewish name of Peisa into the Russian name of Petya. But, since he was a\nlittle afraid of his wife, Pessa, and since he was extremely poor--may\nit remain far from us!--he kept to his own name of Peisa the box-maker,\nuntil the good time comes, when everything will be different, as Bebel\nsays, as Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise people say--when\neverything, everything will be different. But until the good and happy\ntime comes, one must get up at the dawn of day, and work far into the\nnight, cutting out pieces of cardboard and pasting boxes and covers of\nbooks. Peisa the box-maker stands at his work all day long. He sings as\nhe works, old and new songs, Jewish and non-Jewish, mostly gay-sorrowful\nsongs, in a gay-sorrowful voice.\n\n\"Will you ever give up singing those Gentile songs? Such a man! And how\nhe loves the Gentiles. Since we have come to this big town, he has\nalmost become a Gentile.\"\n\nAll three children, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and Dvairke, were born and\nbrought up in the same place--between the wall and the stove. They\nalways saw before them the same people and the same things: the gay\nfather who cut cardboards, pasted boxes, and sang songs, and the\ncareworn, hollow-cheeked mother who cooked and baked, and rushed about,\nand was never finished her work. They were always at work, both of\nthem--the mother at the stove, and the father at the cardboards. What\nwere all the boxes for? Who wanted so many boxes? Is the whole world\nfull of boxes? That was what the three little heads wanted to know. And\nthey waited until their father had a great pile of boxes ready, when he\nwould take them on his head and in his arms--thousands of them--to the\nmarket. He came back without the boxes, but with money for the mother,\nand with cakes and buns for the children. He was a good father--such a\ngood father. He was gold. The mother was also gold, but she was cross.\nOne got a smack from her sometimes, a dig in the ribs, or a twist of an\near. She does not like to have the house untidy. She does not allow the\nchildren to play \"fathers and mothers.\" She forbids Abramtzig to pick up\nthe pieces of cardboard that have fallen to the floor, and Moshetzig to\nsteal the paste from his father, and Dvairke to make bread of sand and\nwater. The mother expects her children to sit still and keep quiet. It\nseems she does not know that young heads will think, and young souls are\neager and restless. They want to go. Where? Out of doors, to the light.\nTo the window--to the window.\n\n* * *\n\nThere was only one window, and all three heads were stuck against it.\nWhat did they see out of it? A wall. A high, big, grey, wet wall. It was\nalways and ever wet, even in summer. Does the sun ever come here? Surely\nthe sun comes here sometimes, that is to say, not the sun itself, but\nits reflection. Then there is a holiday. The three beautiful heads press\nagainst the little window. They look upwards, very high, and see a\nnarrow blue stripe, like a long blue ribbon.\n\n\"Do you see, children?\" says Abramtzig. He knows. He goes to \"_Cheder_.\"\nHe is learning \"_Kometz Aleph_.\" The \"_Cheder_\" is not far away, in the\nnext house, that is to say, in the next room. Ah, what stories Abramtzig\ntells about the \"_Cheder_\"! He tells how he saw with his own eyes--may\nhe see all that is good!--a big building, with windows from top to\nbottom. Abramtzig swears that he saw--may he see all that is good!--a\nchimney--a high chimney from which there came out smoke. Abramtzig tells\nthat he saw with his own eyes--may he see all that is good!--a machine\nthat sewed without hands. Abramtzig tells that he saw with his own\neyes--may he see all that is good!--a car that went along without\nhorses. And many more wonderful things Abramtzig tells from the\n\"_Cheder_.\" And he swears, just as his mother swears--that he may see\nall that is good. And Moshetzig and Dvairke listen to him and sigh. They\nenvy Abramtzig because he knows everything--everything.\n\nFor instance, Abramtzig knows that a tree grows. It is true he never saw\na tree growing. There are no trees in the street--none. But he knows--he\nheard it at \"_Cheder_\"--that fruit grows on a tree, for which reason one\nmakes the blessing--\"Who hast created the fruit of the tree.\" Abramtzig\nknows--what does he not know?--that potatoes and cucumbers and onions\nand garlic grow on the ground. And that's why one says the blessing over\nthem--\"Who hast created the fruit of the ground.\" Abramtzig knows\neverything. Only he does not know how and by what means things grow,\nbecause, like the other children, he never saw them. There is no field\nin their street, no garden, no tree, no grass--nothing--nothing. There\nare big buildings in their street, grey walls and high chimneys that\nbelch out smoke. Each building has a lot of windows, thousands and\nthousands of windows, and machines that go without hands. And in the\nstreets there are cars that go without horses. And beyond these,\nnothing--nothing.\n\nEven a little bird is seldom seen here. Sometimes an odd sparrow strays\nin--grey as the grey walls. He picks, picks at the stones. He spreads\nout his wings and flies away. Fowls? The children sometimes see the\nquarter of one with a long, pale leg. How many legs has a fowl? \"Four,\njust like a horse,\" explains Abramtzig. And surely he knows everything.\nSometimes their mother brings home from the market a little head with\nglassy eyes that are covered with a white film. \"It's dead,\" says\nAbramtzig, and all three children look at each other out of great black\neyes; and they sigh.\n\nBorn and brought up in the big city, in the huge building, in the\ncongestion, loneliness and poverty, not one of the three children ever\nsaw a living creature, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor any other animal,\nexcepting the cat. They have a cat of their own--a big, live cat, as\ngrey as the high damp grey wall. The cat is their only play-toy. They\nplay with it for hours on end. They put a shawl on her, call her \"the\nwedding guest,\" and laugh and laugh without an end. When their mother\nsees them, she presents them--one with a smack, a second with a dig in\nthe ribs, and the third with a twist of the ear. The children go off to\ntheir hiding-place behind the stove. The eldest, Abramtzig, tells a\nstory, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke, listen to him. He says\ntheir mother is right. They ought not to play with the cat, because a\ncat is a wicked animal. Abramtzig knows everything. There is nothing in\nthe world that he does not know.\n\n* * *\n\nAbramtzig knows everything. He knows there is a land far away called\nAmerica. In America they have a lot of relatives and friends. In that\nsame America the Jews are well-off and happy--may no evil eye rest on\nthem! Next year, if God wills it, they will go off to America--when they\nget tickets. Without tickets no one can go to America, because there is\na sea. And on the sea there is a storm that shakes one to the very soul.\nAbramtzig knows everything.\n\nHe even knows what goes on in the other world. For instance, he knows\nthat in the other world there is a Garden of Eden, for Jews, of course.\nIn the Garden of Eden there are trees with the finest fruits, and rivers\nof oil. Diamonds and rubies are to be found there in the streets. Stoop\ndown and pick them up and fill your pockets. And there good Jews study\nthe Holy Law day and night, and enjoy the holiness.\n\nThat is what Abramtzig tells. And Moshetzig's and Dvairke's eyes are\nburning. They envy their brother because he knows everything. He knows\neverything, even to what goes on in the heavens. Abramtzig swears that\ntwice a year, on the nights of \"_Hashono Rabo_\" and \"_Shevuous_,\" the\nsky opens. It is true he himself never saw the sky opening, because\nthere is no sky near them. But his comrades saw it. They swore--may they\nsee all that is good!--And they would not swear to a lie. How can one\nswear to a lie? It's a pity they have no sky in their street, only a\nlong, narrow blue stripe, like a long, narrow blue ribbon. What can one\nsee in such a tiny scrap of sky, beyond a few stars and the reflection\nof the moon? In order to prove to his little sister and brother that the\nsky opens, Abramtzig goes over to his mother, and pulls her by the\nskirt.\n\n\"Mother, is it true that in the very middle of '_Shevuous_' night the\nsky opens?\"\n\n\"I will open your head for you.\"\n\nWhen he got no satisfaction from his mother, Abramtzig waited for his\nfather, who had gone off to the market with a treasure of boxes.\n\n\"Children, guess what present father will bring us from the market,\"\nsaid Abramtzig. And the children tried to guess what their father would\nbring them from the market. They counted on their fingers everything\nthat was in the market--everything that an eye could see, and a heart\ndesire--cakes and buns and sweets. But no one guessed aright. And I am\nafraid you will not guess aright either. Peisa the box-maker brought\nfrom the market this time neither cakes, nor buns nor sweets. He brought\nthe children grass--curious, long, sweet-smelling grass.\n\nAnd all three children gathered around their father.\n\n\"Father, what is it--that?\"\n\n\"It is grass.\"\n\n\"What is grass?\"\n\n\"It is a bunch of greens for '_Shevuous_.' Jews need grass for\n'_Shevuous_.'\"\n\n\"Where do they get it, father?\"\n\n\"Where do they get it? H'm! They buy it. They buy it in the market,\"\nsaid their father. And he strewed the green, sweet-smelling grass over\nthe freshly-swept floor. And he was delighted; it was green and smelt\nsweet. He said to the mother gaily, as is his way:\n\n\"Pessa, good '_Yom-tov_' to you!\"\n\n\"Good luck! A new thing! The young devils will now have something to\nmake a mess with,\" replied the mother, crossly, as is her way. And she\ngave one of the children a smack, the second a dig in the ribs, and the\nthird a twist of the ear. She is never satisfied, always cross, and\nalways sour, exactly the opposite of father.\n\nThe three pretty heads looked at the mother, and at the father, and at\none another. The moment their parents turned away, they threw themselves\non the floor, and put their faces to the sweet-smelling grass. They\nkissed it--the green grass that Jews need for \"_Shevuous_\" and which is\nsold at the market.\n\nEverything is to be found at the market, even greens. The father buys\neverything. Jews want everything, even greens--even greens.\n\n\n\n\nGreens for \"Shevuous\"\n\n\nOn the eve of \"_Shevuous_,\" I induced my mother--peace be unto her!--to\nlet me go off outside the town, by myself, to gather greens for the\nFestival.\n\nAnd my mother let me go off alone to gather the greens for the Festival.\nMay she have a bright Paradise for that!\n\nA real pleasure is a pleasure that one enjoys by one's self, without a\ncompanion, and without a single argument. I was alone, free as a bird,\nin the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole of the blue cap\ncalled \"the sky.\" For me alone shone the beautiful queen of the day, the\nsun. For my sake there came together, here in the big field, all the\nsingers and warblers and dancers. For my sake there was spread before me\nthe row of tall sunflowers, and the delicate growths were scattered all\nover the field by a benevolent nature. No one bothered me. No one\nprevented me from doing what I liked. No one saw me but God. And I could\ndo what I liked. If I liked I might sing. If I liked I might shout and\nscream at the top of my voice. If I liked I might make a horn with my\nhands, and blow out a melody. If I liked I might roll on the green grass\njust as I was, curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to give\nme orders? And whom would I pay heed to? I was free--I was free.\n\nThe day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the sky so clear, the field\nso green, the grass so fresh, my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful\nthat I forgot completely I was a stranger in the field and had merely\ncome out to cut green boughs for \"_Shevuous_.\" I imagined I was a\nprince, and the whole field that my eyes rested on, and everything in\nthe field, and even the blue sky above it--all were mine. I owned\neverything, and could do what I liked with it--I, and no one else. And\nlike an overlord who had complete control of everything, I longed to\nshow my power, my strength, my authority--all that I could and would do.\n\n* * *\n\nFirst of all I was displeased with the tall giants with the yellow\nhats--the sunflowers. Suddenly they appeared to me as my enemies. And\nall the other plants with and without stalks, the beans and beanstalks,\nwere enemies too. They were the Philistines that had settled on my\nground. Who had sent for them? And those thick green plants lying on the\nground, with huge green heads--the cabbages, what are they doing here?\nThey will only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me. Let them go\ninto the earth. I do not want them. Angry thoughts and fierce instincts\nawoke within me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took possession of\nme. I began to avenge myself of my enemies. And what a vengeance it was!\n\nI had with me all the tools I would need for cutting the green boughs\nfor the Festival--pocket-knife with two blades, and a sword--a wooden\nsword, but a sharp one.\n\nThis sword had remained with me after \"_L'ag Beomer_.\" And although I\nhad carried it with me when I had gone with my comrades to do battle\noutside the town, yet I could swear to you, though you may believe me\nwithout an oath, that the sword had not spilled one drop of blood. It\nwas one of those weapons that are carried about in times of peace. There\nwas not a sign of war. It was quiet and peaceful around and about. I\ncarried the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of peace, one must\nhave in readiness swords and guns and rifles and cannon, horses and\nsoldiers. May they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to say\nwhen she was making preserves.\n\n* * *\n\nIt is the same all the world over. In a war, one aims first at the\nleaders, the officers. It is better still if one can hit the general.\nAfter that the soldiers fall like chaff, in any event. Therefore you\nwill not be surprised to hear that, first of all, I fell upon Goliath\nthe Philistine. I gave him a good blow on the head with my sword, and a\nfew good blows from the back. And the wicked one was stretched at my\nfeet, full length. After that I knocked over a good many more wicked\nones. I pulled the stalks out of the ground, and threw them to the\ndevil. The short, fat green enemies I attacked in a different manner.\nWherever I could, I took the green heads off. The others I trampled\ndown with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of them.\n\nDuring a battle, when the blood is hot, and one is carried away by\nexcitement, one cuts down everything that is at hand, right and left.\nWhen one is spilling blood, one loses one's self, one does not know\nwhere one is in the world. At such a time, one does not honour old age.\nOne does not care about weak women. One has no pity for little children.\nBlood is simply poured out like water.... When I was cutting down the\nenemy, I felt a hatred and a malice I had never experienced before,\nimmediately after I had delivered the first blow. The more I killed the\nmore excited I became. I urged myself to go on. I was so beside myself,\nso enflamed, so ecstatic that I smashed up, and destroyed everything\nbefore me. I cut about me on all sides. Most of all the \"little ones\"\nsuffered at my hands--the young peas in the fat little pods, the tiny\ncucumbers that were just showing above ground. These excited me by their\nsilence and their coldness. And I gave them such a share that they would\nnever forget me. I knocked off heads, tore open bellies, shattered to\natoms, beat, murdered, killed. May I know of evil as little as I know\nhow I came to be so wicked. Innocent potatoes, poor things, that lay\ndeep in the earth, I dug out, just to show them that there was no hiding\nfrom me. Little onions and green garlic I tore up by the roots. Radishes\nflew about me like hail. And may the Lord punish me if I even tasted a\nsingle bite of anything. I remembered the law in the Bible forbidding\nit. And Jews do not plunder. Every minute, when an evil spirit came and\ntempted me to taste a little onion or a young garlic, the words of the\nBible came into my mind.... But I did not cease from beating, breaking,\nwounding, and killing and cutting to pieces, old and young, poor and\nrich, big and little, without the least mercy....\n\nOn the contrary, I imagined I heard their wails and groans and cries for\nmercy, and I was not moved. It was remarkable that I who could not bear\nto see a fowl slaughtered, or a cat beaten, or a dog insulted, or a\nhorse whipped--I should be such a tyrant, such a murderer....\n\n\"Vengeance,\" I shouted without ceasing, \"vengeance. I will have my\nrevenge of you for all the Jewish blood that was spilled. I will repay\nyou for Jerusalem, for the Jews of Spain and Portugal, and for the Jews\nof Morocco. Also for the Jews who fell in the past, and those who are\nfalling today. And for the Scrolls of the Law that were torn, and for\nthe ... Oh! oh! oh! Help! Help! Who has me by the ear?\"\n\nTwo good thumps and two good smacks in the face at the one time sobered\nme on the instant. I saw before me a man who, I could have sworn, was\nOkhrim, the gardener.\n\n* * *\n\nOkhrim the gardener had for years cultivated fields outside the town. He\nrented a piece of ground, made a garden of it, and planted in it melons\nand pumpkins, and onions and garlic and radishes and other vegetables.\nHe made a good living in this way. How did I know Okhrim? He used to\ndeal with us. That is to say, he used to borrow money off my mother\nevery Passover eve, and about \"_Succoth_\" time, he used to begin to pay\nit back by degrees. These payments used to be entered on the inside\ncover of my mother's prayer-book. There was a separate page for Okhrim,\nand a separate account. It was headed in big writing, \"Okhrim's\naccount.\" Under these words came the entries: \"A '_rouble_' from Okhrim.\nAnother 'rouble' from Okhrim. Two 'roubles' from Okhrim. Half a\n'_rouble_' from Okhrim. A sack of potatoes from Okhrim,\" and so on....\nAnd though my mother was not rich--a widow with children, who lived by\nmoney-lending--she took no interest from Okhrim. He used to repay us in\ngarden-produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We never quarrelled with\nhim.\n\nIf the harvest was good, he filled our cellar with potatoes and\ncucumbers to last us all the winter. And if the harvest was bad, he used\nto come and plead with my mother:\n\n\"Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the harvest is bad.\"\n\nMy mother forgave him, and told him not to be greedy next year.\n\n\"You may trust me, Mrs. Abraham, you may trust me,\" Okhrim replied. And\nhe kept his word. He brought us the first pickings of onions and garlic.\nWe had new potatoes and green cucumbers before the rich folks. I heard\nour neighbours say, more than once, that the widow was not so badly off\nas she said. \"See, they bring her the best of everything.\" Of course, I\nat once told my mother what I had heard, and she poured out a few curses\non our neighbours.\n\n\"Salt in their eyes, and stones in their hearts! Whoever begrudges me\nwhat I have, let him have nothing. I wish them to be in my position next\nyear.\"\n\nNaturally, I at once told my neighbours what my mother had wished them;\nand, of course, for these words they were enraged against her. They\ncalled her by a name I was ashamed to hear.... Naturally I was angry,\nand at once told my mother of it. My mother gave me two smacks and told\nme to give up carrying \"'_Purim_' presents\" from one to the other. The\nsmacks pained, and the words \"'_Purim_' presents\" gnawed at my brain. I\ncould not understand why she said \"'_Purim_' presents.\"\n\nI used to rejoice when I saw Okhrim from the distance, in his high boots\nand his thick, white, warm, woollen pellisse which he wore winter and\nsummer. When I saw him, I knew he was bringing us a sackful of garden\nproduce. And I flew into the kitchen to tell my mother the news that\nOkhrim was coming.\n\n* * *\n\nI must confess that there was a sort of secret love between Okhrim and\nmyself--a sort of sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We\nrarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his\nlanguage, that is to say, I understood his but he did not understand\nmine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim? I had\nto ask my mother to be our interpreter.\n\n\"Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some grapes.\"\n\n\"Where is he going to get them? There are no grapes growing in a\nvegetable garden.\"\n\n\"Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden?\"\n\n\"Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables.\"\n\n\"Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables?\"\n\n\"Why--why--why? You are a fool,\" cried my mother, and gave me a smack in\nthe face.\n\n\"Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child,\" said Okhrim, defending me.\n\nThat is the sort of Gentile Okhrim was. And it was in his hands I found\nmyself that day when I waged war against the vegetables.\n\nThis is what I believe took place: When Okhrim came up and saw his\ngarden in ruins, he could not at once understand what had happened. When\nhe saw me swinging my sword about me on all sides, he ought to have\nrealized I was a terrible being, an evil spirit, a demon, and crossed\nhimself several times. But when he saw that it was a Jewish boy who was\nfighting so vigorously, and with a wooden sword, he took hold of me by\nthe ear with so much force that I collapsed, fell to the ground, and\nscreamed in a voice unlike my own:\n\n\"Oh! Oh! Oh! Who is pulling me by the ear?\"\n\nIt was only after Okhrim had given me a few good thumps and several\nresounding smacks that we encountered each other's eyes and recognized\none another. We were both so astonished that we were speechless.\n\n\"Mrs. Abraham's boy!\" cried Okhrim, and he crossed himself. He began to\nrealize the ruin I had brought on his garden. He scrutinized each bed\nand examined each little stick. He was so overcome that the tears filled\nhis eyes. He stood facing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only one\nsolitary question:\n\n\"Why have you done this to me?\"\n\nIt was only then that I realized the mischief I had done, and whom I had\ndone it to. I was so amazed at myself that I could only repeat:\n\n\"Why? Why?\"\n\n\"Come,\" said Okhrim, and took me by the hand. I was bowed to the earth\nwith fear. I imagined he was going to make an end of me. But Okhrim did\nnot touch me. He only held me so tightly by the hand that my eyes began\nto bulge from my head. He brought me home to my mother, told her\neverything, and left me entirely in her hands.\n\n* * *\n\nNeed I tell you what I got from my mother? Need I describe for you her\nanger, and her fright, and how she wrung her hands when Okhrim told her\nin detail all that had taken place in his garden, and of all the damage\nI had done to his vegetables? Okhrim took his stick and showed my mother\nhow I had destroyed everything on all sides, how I had smashed and\nbroken, and trampled down everything with my feet, pulled the little\npotatoes out of the ground, and torn the tops off the little onions\nand the garlic that were just showing above the earth.\n\n\"And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abraham--why?\"\n\nOkhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in his throat and choked him.\n\nI must tell you the real truth, children. I would rather Okhrim with the\nstrong arms had beaten me, than have got what I did from my mother,\nbefore \"_Shevuous_,\" and what the teacher gave me after \"_Shevuous_.\"\n... And the shame of it all. I was reminded of it all the year round by\nthe boys at \"_Cheder_.\" They gave me a nickname--\"The Gardener.\" I was\nYossel \"the gardener.\"\n\nThis nickname stuck to me almost until the day I was married.\n\nThat is how I went to gather greens for \"_Shevuous_.\"\n\n\n\n\nAnother Page from \"The Song of Songs\"\n\n\n\"Quicker, Busie, quicker!\" I said to her the day before the\n\"_Shevuous_.\" I took her by the hand, and we went quickly up the hill.\n\"The day will not stand still, little fool. And we have to climb such a\nhigh hill. After the hill we have another stream. Over the stream there\nare some boards--a little bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and\nthe boards shake and tremble. On the other side of the bridge, over\nthere is the real Garden of Eden--over there begins my real property.\"\n\n\"Your property?\"\n\n\"I mean the Levada--a big field that stretches away and away, without a\nbeginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle,\nsprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little red nails. It\ngives out a delicious odour. The most fragrant spices in the world are\nthere. I have trees there beyond the counting, tall many-branched trees.\nI have a little hill there that I sit on when I like. Or else, by\npronouncing the Holy Name, I can rise up and fly away like an eagle,\nacross the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts until I\ncome to the other side of the mountain of darkness.\"\n\n\"And from there,\" puts in Busie, \"you walk seven miles until you come to\na little stream.\"\n\n\"No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out of the trees, and after that\nI come to the little stream.\"\n\n\"You swim across the water, and count seven times seven.\"\n\n\"And there appears before me a little old man with a long beard.\"\n\n\"He asks you: 'What is your desire?'\"\n\n\"I say to him: 'Bring me the Queen's daughter.'\"\n\nBusie takes her hand from mine, and runs down the hill. I run after her.\n\n\"Busie, why are you running off?\"\n\nBusie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her\nexcepting the part about the Queen's daughter.\n\n* * *\n\nYou have not forgotten who Busie is? I told you once. But if you have\nforgotten, I will tell you again.\n\nI had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a\nwater-mill, a young widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was\nneglected; the horses were sold; the widow married again, and went away,\nsomewhere far; and the child was brought to us. This child was Busie.\n\nHa! ha! ha! Everybody thinks that Busie and I are sister and brother.\nShe calls my mother \"mother,\" and my father \"father.\" And we two live\ntogether like sister and brother, and love one another, like sister and\nbrother.\n\nLike sister and brother? Then why is Busie ashamed before me?\n\nIt happened once that we two were left alone in the house--we two by\nourselves in the whole house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My\nfather had gone to the synagogue to recite the mourners' prayer after my\ndead brother Benny, and my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie and\nI crept into a corner, and I told her stories. Busie likes me to tell\nher stories--fine stories of \"_Cheder_,\" or from the \"Arabian Nights.\"\nShe crept close to me, and put her hand into mine.\n\n\"Tell me something, Shemak, tell me.\"\n\nSoftly fell the night around us. The shadows crept slowly up the walls,\npaused on the floor, and stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see\none another's face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard her little heart\nbeating. I saw her eyes shining in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand\nfrom mine.\n\n\"What is it, Busie?\"\n\n\"We must not.\"\n\n\"What must we not?\"\n\n\"Hold each other's hands.\"\n\n\"Why not? Who told you that?\"\n\n\"I know it myself.\"\n\n\"Are we strangers? Are we not sister and brother?\"\n\n\"Oh, if we were sister and brother,\" cried Busie. And I imagined I heard\nin her voice the words from the \"Song of Songs,\" \"O that thou wert as\nmy brother.\"\n\nIt is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always think of the \"Song of\nSongs.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWhere was I? I was telling you of the eve of the \"_Shevuous_.\" Well, we\nran down hill, Busie in front, I after her. She is angry with me because\nof the Queen's daughter. She likes all my stories excepting the one\nabout the Queen's daughter. But Busie's anger need not worry one. It\ndoes not last long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She is again\nlooking up at me with her great, bright, thoughtful eyes. She tosses\nback her hair and says to me:\n\n\"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going\non all around us.\"\n\n\"I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see a sky. I feel a warm\nbreeze blowing. I hear the birds piping and twittering as they fly over\nour heads. It is our sky, and our breeze. The little birds are ours\ntoo--everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Busie.\"\n\nNo, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed\nbefore me? Why does she grow red?\n\n\"There,\" says Busie to me--\"over there, on the other side of the\nbridge.\" And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in\nthe \"Song of Songs.\"\n\n\"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the\nvillages.\n\n\"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish,\nwhether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth.\"\n\nAnd we are at the little bridge.\n\n* * *\n\nThe stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of the little bridge are\nshaking. Busie is afraid.\n\n\"Ah, Busie, you are a---- Why are you afraid, little fool? Hold on to\nme. Or, let us take hold of one another, you of me, and I of you. See?\nThat's right--that's right.\"\n\nNo more little bridge.\n\nWe still cling to one another, as we walk along. We are alone in this\nGarden of Eden. Busie holds me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but\nI imagine she is talking to me in the words from the \"Song of Songs\":\n\n\"My beloved is mine, and I am his.\"\n\nThe Levada is big. It stretches away without a beginning and without an\nend. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers,\nand nailed down with red nails. It gives out a delicious odour--the most\nfragrant spices in the world are there. We walked along, embraced--we\ntwo alone in the Garden of Eden.\n\n\"Shemak,\" says Busie to me, looking straight into my eyes, and nestling\nstill closer to me, \"when shall we start gathering the green boughs for\nthe '_Shevuous_'?\"\n\n\"The day is long enough, little fool,\" I say to her. I am on fire. I do\nnot know where to look first, whether at the blue sky, or the green\nfields, or over there, at the end of the world, where the sky has become\none with the earth. Or shall I look at Busie's shining face--into her\nlarge beautiful eyes that are to me deep as the heavens and dreamy as\nthe night? Her eyes are always dreamy. A deep sorrow lies hidden within\nthem. They are veiled by a shade of melancholy. I know her sorrow. I am\nacquainted with the cause of her melancholy. She has a great grief in\nher heart. She is pained because her mother married a stranger, and went\naway from her for ever and ever, as if she had been nothing to her. In\nmy home her mother's name must not be mentioned. It is as if Busie had\nnever had a mother. My mother is her mother, and my father is her\nfather. They love her as if she were their own child. They fret over\nher, and give her everything that her heart desires. There is nothing\ntoo dear for Busie. She wanted to go with me to gather green boughs for\nthe Festival decorations (I told her to ask it), and my father said to\nmy mother:\n\n\"What do you think?\" He looked over his silver spectacles, and stroked\nthe silver white hair of his beard. And there went on an argument\nbetween my father and mother about our going off outside the town to\ngather green boughs for the \"_Shevuous_.\"\n\nFather: \"What do you say?\"\n\nMother: \"What do you say?\"\n\nFather: \"Shall we let them go?\"\n\nMother: \"Why should we not let them go?\"\n\nFather: \"Do I say we should not?\"\n\nMother: \"What then are you saying?\"\n\nFather: \"I am saying that we should let them go.\"\n\nMother: \"Why should they not go?\"\n\nAnd so forth. I know what is worrying them. About twenty times my mother\nwarned me, my father repeating the words after her, that there is a\nbridge to be crossed, and under the little bridge there is a water--a\nstream, a stream, a stream.\n\n* * *\n\nWe, Busie and I, have long forgotten the little bridge and the river,\nthe stream. We are going across the broad free Levada, under the blue,\nopen sky. We run across the green field, fall and roll about on the\nsweet-smelling grass. We get up, fall again, and roll about again, and\nyet again. We have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the Festival\ndecorations. I take Busie over the length and breadth of the Levada. I\nshow off before her with my property.\n\n\"Do you see those trees? Do you see this sand? Do you see that little\nhill?\"\n\n\"Are they all yours?\" asks Busie. Her eyes are laughing. I am annoyed\nbecause she laughs at me. She always laughs at me. I get sulky and turn\naway from her for a moment. Seeing that I am sulky, she goes in front of\nme, looks into my eyes, takes my hand, and says to me: \"Shemak!\" My\nsulks are gone and all is forgotten. I take her hand and lead her to my\nhill, there where I sit always, every summer. If I like I sit down, and\nif I like I rise up with the help of the Lord, by pronouncing His Holy\nName. And I fly off like an eagle, above the clouds, over fields and\nwoods, over seas and deserts.\n\n* * *\n\nWe sit on the hill, Busie and I. (We have not yet gathered a single\ngreen leaf for the Festival.) We tell stories. That is to say, I tell\nstories, and she listens. I tell her what will happen at some far, far\noff time. When I am a man and she is a woman we will get married. We\nwill both rise up, by pronouncing the Holy Name, and travel the whole\nworld. First we will go to all the countries that Alexander the Great\nwas in. Then we will run over to the Land of Israel. We will go to the\nHills of Spices, fill our pockets with locust-beans, figs, dates, and\nolives, and fly off further and still further. And everywhere we will\nplay a different sort of trick, for no one will see us.\n\n\"Will no one see us?\" asks Busie, catching hold of my hand.\n\n\"No one--no one. We shall see every one, but no one will see us.\"\n\n\"In that case, I have something to ask you.\"\n\n\"A request?\"\n\n\"A little request.\"\n\nBut I know her little request--to fly off to where her mother is, and\nplay a little trick on her step-father.\n\n\"Why not?\" I say to her. \"With the greatest of pleasure. You may leave\nit to me, little fool. I can do something which they will not forget in\na hurry.\"\n\n\"Not them, him alone,\" pleads Busie. But I do not give in so readily.\nWhen I get into a temper it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for\nwhat she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman? The idea of marrying\nanother man and going off with him, the devil knows where, leaving her\nchild behind, and never even writing a letter! Did any one ever hear of\nsuch a wrong?\n\n* * *\n\nI excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as if dogs were gnawing at\nme, but it was too late. Busie had covered her face with her two hands.\nWas she crying? I could have torn myself to pieces. What good had it\ndone me to open her wound by speaking of her mother? In my own heart I\ncalled myself every bad name I could think of: \"Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat,\nGood-for-nothing, Long-tongue.\" I drew closer to Busie, and took hold of\nher hand. I was about to say to her, the words of the \"Song of Songs\":\n\n\"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice.\"\n\nSuddenly--How do my father and mother come here?\n\n* * *\n\nMy father's silver spectacles shine from the distance. The silver\nstrands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is\nwaving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are\nlike paralysed. What are my parents doing here?\n\nThey had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident\nhad befallen us--God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a\nstream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother.\n\n\"And where are your green boughs?\"\n\n\"What green boughs?\"\n\n\"The green boughs that you went to gather for the '_Shevuous_'\ndecorations.\"\n\nBusie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I\nheard her saying to me, in the words of the \"Song of Songs\":\n\n\"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for '_Shevuous_' somehow,\"\nsays my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white\nbeard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. \"Thank\nGod the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them.\"\n\n\"Praised be the Lord!\" replies my mother to him, wiping her moist red\nface with the ends of her shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to\ngrow broader than long with delight.\n\nCurious, curious father and mother!\n\n\n\n\nA Pity for the Living\n\n\n\"If you were a good boy, you would help us to scrape the horse-radish\nuntil we are ready with the fish for the holy festival.\"\n\nThat was what my mother said to me on the eve of \"_Shevuous_,\" about\nmid-day. She was helping the cook to prepare the fish for the supper.\nThe fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they were put into a\nclay basin and covered with water they were still struggling.\n\nMore than any of the others there struggled a little carp with a broad\nback, and a round head and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had\na strong desire to get back into the river. It struggled hard. It leaped\nout of the basin, flapped its tail, and splashed the water right into my\nface. \"Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me!\"\n\nI wiped my face, and betook myself to the task of scraping the\nhorse-radish for the supper. I thought within myself, \"Poor little fish.\nI can do nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. You will be\nscaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, put in a pot, salted and\npeppered, placed on the fire, and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and\nsimmered.\"\n\n\"It's a pity,\" I said to my mother. \"It's a pity for the living.\"\n\n\"Of whom is it a pity?\"\n\n\"It's a pity of the little fishes.\"\n\n\"Who told you that?\"\n\n\"The teacher.\"\n\n\"The teacher?\"\n\nShe exchanged glances with the cook who was helping her, and they both\nlaughed aloud.\n\n\"You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater fool. Ha! ha! Scrape\nthe horse-radish, scrape away.\"\n\nThat I was a fool I knew. My mother told me that frequently, and my\nbrothers and my sisters too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than\nI--that was news to me.\n\n* * *\n\nI have a comrade, Pinalle, the \"_Shochet's_\" son. I was at his house one\nday, and I saw how a little girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs\ntied with a string. My comrade's father, the \"_Shochet_,\" was asleep,\nand the little girl sat at the door and waited. The cock, a fine strong\nbird, tried to get out of the girl's arms. He drove his strong feet into\nher, pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud\n\"Cock-a-doodle-doo!\" protested as much as he could. But the girl was no\nweakling either. She thrust the head of the rooster under her arm and\ndug her elbows into him, saying:\n\n\"Be still, you wretch!\"\n\nAnd he obeyed and remained silent.\n\nWhen the \"_Shochet_\" woke up, he washed his hands and took out his\nknife. He motioned to have the bird handed to him. I imagined that the\ncock changed colour. He must have thought that he was going to be freed\nto race back to his hens, to the corn and the water. But it was not so.\nThe \"_Shochet_\" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust\nback his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little\nfeathers, pronounced a blessing--heck! the knife was drawn across his\nthroat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces.\n\n\"Pinalle, your father is a heathen,\" I said to my comrade.\n\n\"Why is he a heathen?\"\n\n\"He has in him no pity for the living.\"\n\n\"I did not know you were so clever,\" said my comrade, and he pulled a\nlong nose right into my face.\n\n* * *\n\nOur cook is blind of one eye. She is called \"Fruma with the little eye.\"\nShe is a girl without a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for\nhaving run away with a little liver from the board. Afterwards, when she\ncounted the fowls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a\nmistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of course, seven\nlittle livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fowls\nthere could be only six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the\ncat wrongly.\n\nYou might imagine that Fruma was sorry and apologized to the cat. But it\nappeared she forgot all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about\nit. A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking herself as if\nnothing had happened. It's not for nothing that people say: \"A cat's\nbrains!\"\n\nBut I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I said to the cook: \"You\nbeat the cat for nothing. You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for\nthe living. The Lord will punish you.\"\n\n\"Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across the face with the\ntowel.\"\n\nThat is what \"Fruma with the little eye\" said to me. And she added:\n\n\"Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do such children come from?\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt was all about a dog that had been scalded with boiling water by the\nsame \"Fruma with the little eye.\" Ah, how much pain it caused the dog.\nIt squealed, howled and barked with all its might, filling the world\nwith noise. The whole town came together at the sound of his howling,\nand laughed, and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out of\nsympathy, each from his own kennel, and each after his own fashion. One\nmight think that they had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the\nscalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and muttered and licked his\nsores, and growled softly. My heart melted within me. I went over to him\nand was going to fondle him.\n\n\"Here, Sirko!\"\n\nThe dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if he had been scalded\nagain, took his tail between his legs and ran away--away.\n\n\"Shah! Sirko!\" I said trying to soothe him with soft words. \"Why do you\nrun away like that, fool? Am I doing you any harm?\"\n\nA dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He knows nothing of pity for the\nliving.\n\nMy father saw me running after the dog and he pounced down on me.\n\n\"Go into '_Cheder_,' dog-beater.\"\n\nThen I was the dog-beater.\n\n* * *\n\nIt was all about two little birds--two tiny little birds that two boys,\none big and one small, had killed. When the two little birds dropped\nfrom the tree they were still alive. Their feathers were ruffled. They\nfluttered their wings, and trembled in every limb.\n\n\"Get up, you hedgehog,\" said the big boy to the small boy. And they took\nthe little birds in their hands and beat their heads against the\ntree-trunk, until they died.\n\nI could not contain myself, but ran over to the two boys.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" I asked.\n\n\"What's that to do with you?\" they demanded in Russian. \"What harm is\nit?\" they asked calmly. \"They are no more than birds, ordinary little\nbirds.\"\n\n\"And if they are only birds? Have you no pity for the living--no mercy\nfor the little birds?\"\n\nThe boys looked curiously at one another, and as if they had already\nmade up their minds in advance to do it, they at once fell upon me.\n\nWhen I came home, my torn jacket told the story, and my father gave me\nthe good beating I deserved.\n\n\"Ragged fool!\" cried my mother.\n\nI forgave her for the \"ragged fool,\" but why did she also beat me?\n\n* * *\n\nWhy was I beaten? Does not our teacher himself tell us that all\ncreatures are dear to the Lord? Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt,\nhe says, out of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil\nspirit, must not be killed either, he tells us emphatically.\n\n\"If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Himself would slay him.\"\n\nThen comes the question: Very well, if that is so, then why do the\npeople slaughter cows and calves and sheep and fowls every day of the\nweek?\n\nAnd not only cows and other animals and fowls, but do not men slaughter\none another? At the time when we had the \"_Pogrom_,\" did not men throw\ndown little children from the tops of houses? Did they not kill our\nneighbours' little girl? Her name was Peralle. And how did they kill\nher?\n\nAh, how I loved that little girl. And how that little girl loved me!\n\"Uncle Bebebe,\" she used to call me. (My name is Velvalle.) And she used\nto pull me by the nose with her small, thin, sweet little fingers.\nBecause of her, because of Peralle, every one calls me \"Uncle Bebebe.\"\n\n\"Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take you in hand.\"\n\n* * *\n\nPeralle was a sickly child. That is to say, in the ordinary way she was\nall right, but she could not walk, neither walk nor stand, only sit.\nThey used to carry her into the open and put her sitting in the sand,\nright in the sun. She loved the sun, loved it terribly. I used to carry\nher about. She used to clasp me around the neck with her small, thin,\nsweet little fingers, and nestle her whole body close to me --closer and\ncloser. She would put her head on my shoulder. \"I love Uncle Bebebe.\"\n\nOur neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget Uncle Bebebe to this day.\nWhen she sees me, she says she is again reminded of her Peralle.\n\nMy mother is angry with her for weeping.\n\n\"We must not weep,\" says my mother. \"We must not sin. We must\nforget--forget.\"\n\nThat is what my mother says. She interrupts Krenni in the middle and\ndrives me off.\n\n\"If you don't get into our eyes, we won't remember that which we must\nnot.\"\n\nHa! ha! How is it possible to forget? When I think of that little girl\nthe tears come into my eyes of their own accord--of their own accord.\n\n\"See, he weeps again, the wise one,\" cries \"Fruma with the little eye\"\nto my mother. My mother gives me a quick glance and laughs aloud.\n\n\"The horse-radish has gone into your eyes. The devil take you. It's a\nhard piece of horse-radish. I forgot to tell him to close his eyes. Woe\nis me! Here is my apron. Wipe your eyes, foolish boy. And your nose,\ntoo, wipe at the same time your nose, your nose.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Tabernacle\n\n\nThere are people who have never been taught anything, and know\neverything, have never been anywhere, and understand everything, have\nnever given a moment's thought to anything, and comprehend everything.\n\n\"Blessed hands\" is the name bestowed on these fortunate beings. The\nworld envies, honours and respects them.\n\nThere was such a man in our town, Kassrillevka. They called him\nMoshe-for-once, because, whatever he heard or saw or made, he exclaimed:\n\n\"It is such-and-such a thing for once.\"\n\nA new cantor in the synagogue--he is a cantor for once.\n\nSome one is carrying a turkey for the Passover--it is a turkey for once.\n\n\"There will be a fine frost tomorrow.\"\n\n\"A fine frost for once.\"\n\n\"There were blows exchanged at the meeting.\"\n\n\"Good blows for once.\"\n\n\"Oh, Jews, I am a poor man.\"\n\n\"A poor man for once.\"\n\nAnd so of everything.\n\nMoshe was a---- I cannot tell you what Moshe was. He was a Jew, but what\nhe lived by it would be hard to say. He lived as many thousands of Jews\nlive in Kassrillevka--tens of thousands. He hovered around the overlord.\nThat is, not the overlord himself, but the gentlefolks that were with\nthe overlord. And not around the gentlefolks themselves, but around the\nJews that hovered around the gentlefolks who were with the overlord. And\nif he made a living--that was another story. Moshe-for-once was a man\nwho hated to boast of his good fortune, or to bemoan his ill-fortune. He\nwas always jolly. His cheeks were always red. One end of his moustache\nwas longer than the other. His hat was always on one side of his head;\nand his eyes were always smiling and kindly. He never had any time, but\nwas always ready to walk ten miles to do any one a favour.\n\nThat's the sort of a man Moshe-for-once was.\n\n* * *\n\nThere wasn't a thing in the world Moshe-for-once could not make--a\nhouse, or a clock, or a machine, a lamp, a spinning-top, a tap, a\nmirror, a cage, and what not.\n\nTrue, no one could point to the houses, the clocks, or the machines that\ncame from his hands; but every one was satisfied Moshe could make them.\nEvery one said that if need be, Moshe could turn the world upside down.\nThe misfortune was that he had no tools. I mean the contrary. That was\nhis good fortune. Through this, the world was not turned upside down.\nThat is, the world remained a world.\n\nThat Moshe was not torn to pieces was a miracle. When a lock went wrong\nthey came to Moshe. When the clock stopped, or the tap of the\n\"_Samovar_\" went out of order, or there appeared in a house\nblackbeetles, or bugs, or other filthy creatures, it was always Moshe\nwho was consulted. Or when a fox came and choked the fowls, whose advice\nwas asked? It was always and ever Moshe-for-once.\n\nTrue, the broken lock was thrown away, the clock had to be sent to a\nwatchmaker, and the \"_Samovar_\" to the copper-smith. The blackbeetles,\nand bugs and other filthy things were not at all frightened of Moshe.\nAnd the fox went on doing what a fox ought to do. But Moshe-for-once\nstill remained the same Moshe-for-once he had been. After all, he had\nblessed hands; and no doubt he had something in him. A world cannot be\nmad. In proof of this--why do the people not come to you or me with\ntheir broken locks, or broken clocks, or for advice how to get rid of\nfoxes, or blackbeetles and bugs and other filthy things? All the people\nin the world are not the same. And it appears that talent is rare.\n\n* * *\n\nWe became very near neighbours with this Moshe-for-once. We lived in the\nsame house with him, under the one roof. I say became, because, before\nthat, we lived in our own house. The wheels of fortune suddenly turned\nround for us. Times grew bad. We did not wish to be a burden to any one.\nWe sold our house, paid our debts, and moved into Hershke Mamtzes'\nhouse. It was an old ruin, without a garden, without a yard, without a\npaling, without a body, and without life.\n\n\"Well, it's a hut,\" said my mother, pretending to be merry. But I saw\ntears in her eyes.\n\n\"Do not sin,\" said my father, who was black as the earth. \"Thank God for\nthis.\"\n\nWhy for \"this,\" I do not know. Perhaps because we were not living on the\nstreet? I would rather have lived on the street than in this house, with\nstrange boys and girls whom I did not know, nor wish to know, with their\nyellow hair, and their running noses, with their thin legs and fat\nbellies. When they walked they waddled like ducks. They did nothing but\neat, and when any one else was eating, they stared right into his mouth.\n\nI was very angry with the Lord for having taken our house from us. I was\nnot sorry for the house as for the Tabernacle we had there. It stood\nfrom year to year. It had a roof that could be raised and lowered, and a\nbeautiful carved ceiling of green and yellow boards, made into squares\nwith a \"Shield of David\" in the middle. True, kind friends told us to\nhope on, for we should one day buy the house back, or the Lord would\nhelp us to build another, and a better, and a bigger and a handsomer\nhouse than the one we had had to sell. But all this was cold comfort to\nus. I heard the same sort of words when I broke my tin watch,\naccidentally, of course, into fragments. My mother smacked me, and my\nfather wiped my eyes, and promised to buy me a better, and bigger and\nhandsomer watch than the one I broke. But the more my father praised the\nwatch he was going to buy for me, the more I cried for the other, the\nold watch. When my father was not looking, my mother wept silently for\nthe old house. And my father sighed and groaned. A black cloud settled\non his face, and his big white forehead was covered with wrinkles.\n\nI thought it was very wrong of the Father of the Universe to have taken\nour house from us.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I ask you--may your health increase!--what are we going to do with the\nTabernacle?\" asked my mother of my father some time before the Feast of\nTabernacles.\n\n\"You probably mean to ask what are we going to do without a Tabernacle?\"\nreplied my father, attempting to jest. I saw that he was distressed. He\nturned away to one side, so that we might not see his face, which was\ncovered with a thick black cloud. My mother blew her nose to swallow her\ntears. And I, looking at them.... Suddenly my father turned to us with a\nlively expression on his face.\n\n\"Hush! We have here a neighbour called Moshe.\"\n\n\"Moshe-for-once?\" asked my mother. And I do not know whether she was\nmaking fun or was in earnest. It seemed she was in earnest, for, half an\nhour later, the three were going about the house, father, Moshe, and\nHershke Mamtzes, our landlord, looking for a spot on which to erect a\nTabernacle.\n\n* * *\n\nHershke Mamtzes' house was all right. It had only one fault. It stood\non the street, and had not a scrap of yard. It looked as if it had been\nlost in the middle of the road. Somebody was walking along and lost a\nhouse, without a yard, without a roof, the door on the other side of the\nstreet, like a coat with the waist in front and the buttons underneath.\nIf you talk to Hershke, he will bore you to death about his house. He\nwill tell you how he came by it, how they wanted to take it from him,\nand how he fought for it, until it remained with him.\n\n\"Where do you intend to erect the Tabernacle, '_Reb_' Moshe?\" asked\nfather of Moshe-for-once. And Moshe-for-once, his hat on the back of his\nhead, was lost in thought, as if he were a great architect formulating a\nbig plan. He pointed with his hand from here to there, and from there to\nhere. He tried to make us understand that if the house were not standing\nin the middle of the street, and if it had had a yard, we would have had\ntwo walls ready made, and he could have built us a Tabernacle in a day.\nWhy do I say in a day? In an hour. But since the house had no yard, and\nwe needed four walls, the Tabernacle would take a little longer to\nbuild. But for that again, we would have a Tabernacle for once. The main\nthing was to get the material.\n\n\"There will be materials. Have you the tools?\" asked Hershke.\n\n\"The tools will be found. Have you the timber?\" asked Moshe.\n\n\"There is timber. Have you the nails?\" asked Hershke.\n\n\"Nails can be got. Have you the fir-boughs?\" asked Moshe.\n\n\"Somehow, you are a little too so-so today,\" said Hershke.\n\n\"A little too what?\" asked Moshe. They looked each other straight in the\neyes, and both burst out laughing.\n\n* * *\n\nWhen Hershke Mamtzes brought the first few boards and beams, Moshe said\nthat, please God, it would be a Tabernacle for once. I wondered how he\nwas going to make a Tabernacle out of the few boards and beams. I begged\nof my mother to let me stand by whilst Moshe was working. And Moshe not\nonly let me stand by him, but even let me be his assistant. I was to\nhand him what he wanted, and hold things for him.\n\nOf course this put me into the seventh heaven of delight. Was it a\ntrifle to help build the Tabernacle? I was of great assistance to Moshe.\nI moved my lips when he hammered; went for meals when he went; shouted\nat the other children not to hinder us; handed Moshe the hammer when he\nwanted the chisel, and the pincers when he wanted a nail. Any other man\nwould have thrown the hammer or pincers at my head for such help, but\nMoshe-for-once had no temper. No one had ever had the privilege of\nseeing him angry.\n\n\"Anger is a sinful thing. It does as little good as any sin.\"\n\nAnd because I was greatly absorbed in the work, I did not notice how and\nby what miracle the Tabernacle came into being.\n\n\"Come and see the Tabernacle we have built,\" I said to father, and\ndragged him out of the house by the tails of his coat. My father was\ndelighted with our work. He looked at Moshe with a smile, and said,\npointing to me:\n\n\"Had you at any rate a little help from him?\"\n\n\"It was a help, for once,\" replied Moshe, looking up at the roof of the\nTabernacle with anxious eyes.\n\n\"If only our Hershke brings us the fir-boughs, it will be a Tabernacle\nfor once.\"\n\nHershke Mamtzes worried us about the fir-boughs. He put off going for\nthem from day to day. The day before the Festival he went off and\nbrought back a cart-load of thin sticks, a sort of weeds, such as grow\non the banks of the river. And we began to cover the Tabernacle. That is\nto say, Moshe did the work, and I helped him by driving off the goats\nwhich had gathered around the fir-boughs, as if they were something\nworth while. I do not know what taste they found in the bitter green\nstalks.\n\nBecause the house stood alone, in the middle of the street, there was no\ngetting rid of the goats. If you drove one off another came up. The\nsecond was only just got rid of, when the first sprang up again. I drove\nthem off with sticks.\n\n\"Get out of this. Are you here again, foolish goats? Get off.\"\n\nThe devil knows how they found out we had green fir-boughs. It seems\nthey told one another, because there gathered around us all the goats of\nthe town. And I, all alone, had to do battle with them.\n\nThe Lord helped us, and we had all the fir-boughs on the roof. The goats\nremained standing around us like fools. They looked up with foolish\neyes, and stupidly chewed the cud. I had my revenge of them, and I said\nto them:\n\n\"Why don't you take the fir-boughs now, foolish goats?\"\n\nThey must have understood me, for they began to go off, one by one, in\nsearch of something to eat. And we began to decorate the Tabernacle from\nthe inside. First of all, we strewed the floor with sand; then we hung\non the walls all the wadded quilts belonging to the neighbours. Where\nthere was no wadded quilt, there hung a shawl, and where there was no\nshawl, there was a sheet or a table-cloth. Then we brought out all the\nchairs and tables, the candle-sticks and candles, the plates and knives\nand forks and spoons. And each of the three women of the house made the\nblessing over her own candles for the Feast of Tabernacles.\n\n* * *\n\nMy mother--peace be unto her!--was a woman who loved to weep. The Days\nof Mourning were her Days of Rejoicing. And since we had lost our own\nhouse, her eyes were not dry for a single minute. My father, though he\nwas also fretted, did not like this. He told her to fear the Lord, and\nnot sin. There were worse circumstances than ours, thank God. But now,\nin the Tabernacle, when she was blessing the Festival candles, she could\ncover her face with her hands and weep in silence without any one\nknowing it. But I was not to be fooled. I could see her shoulders\nheaving, and the tears trickling through her thin white fingers. And I\neven knew what she was weeping for.... It was well for her that father\nwas getting ready to go to synagogue, putting on his Sabbath coat that\nwas tattered, but was still made of silk, and his plaited silk girdle.\nHe thrust his hands into his girdle, and said to me, sighing deeply:\n\n\"Come, let us go. It is time we went to synagogue to pray.\"\n\nI took the prayer-books, and we went off. Mother remained at home to\npray. I knew what she would do--weep. She might weep as much as she\nliked, for she would be alone. And it was so. When we came back, and\nentered the Tabernacle, and father started to make the blessing over the\nwine, I looked into her eyes, and they were red, and had swollen lids.\nHer nose was shining. Nevertheless, she was to me beautiful as Rachel or\nAbigail, or the Queen of Sheba, or Queen Esther. Looking at her, I was\nreminded of all our beautiful Jewish women with whom I had just become\nacquainted at \"_Cheder_.\" And looking at my mother, with her lovely face\nthat looked lovelier above the lovely silk shawl she wore, with her\nlarge, beautiful, careworn eyes, my heart was filled with pain that such\nlovely eyes should be tear-stained always--that such lovely white hands\nshould have to bake and cook. And I was angry with the Lord because He\ndid not give us a lot of money. And I prayed to the Lord to destine me\nto find a treasure of gold and diamonds and brilliants. Or let the\nMessiah come, and we would go back to the Land of Israel, where we\nshould all be happy.\n\nThis was what I thought. And my imagination carried me far, far away, to\nmy golden dreams that I would not exchange for all the money in the\nworld. And the beautiful Festival prayers, sung by my father in his\nsoftest and most melodious voice, rang in my ears.\n\n\"Thou hast chosen us above all peoples, Us hast Thou chosen Of all the\nnations.\"\n\nIs it a trifle to be God's chosen people? To be God's only child? My\nheart was glad for the happy chosen people. And I imagined I was a\nprince. Yes, a prince. And the Tabernacle was a palace. The Divine\nHoliness rested on it. My mother was the beautiful daughter of\nJerusalem, the Queen of Sheba. And on the morrow we would make the\nblessing over the most beautiful fruit in the world--the citron. Ah, who\ncould compare with me? Who could compare with me?\n\n* * *\n\nAfter father, Moshe-for-once pronounced the blessing over the wine. It\nwas not the same blessing as my father's--but, really not. After him,\nthe landlord, Hershke Mamtzes pronounced the blessing over the wine. He\nwas a commonplace man, and it was a commonplace blessing. We went to\nwash our hands, and we pronounced the blessing over the bread. And each\nof the three women brought out the food for her family--fine, fresh,\nseasoned, pleasant, fragrant fish. And each family sat around its own\ntable. There were many dishes; a lot of people had soup; a lot of mouths\nwere eating. A little wind blew into the Tabernacle, through the frail\nthin walls, and the thin roof of fir-boughs. The candles spluttered.\nEvery one was eating heartily the delicious Festival supper. And I\nimagined it was not a Tabernacle but a palace--a great, big, brilliantly\nlit-up palace. And we Jews, the chosen people, the princes, were sitting\nin the palace and enjoying the pleasures of life. \"It is well for you,\nlittle Jews,\" thought I. \"No one is so well-off as you. No one else is\nprivileged to sit in such a beautiful palace, covered with green\nfir-boughs, strewn with yellow sand, decorated with the most beautiful\ntapestries in the world, on the tables the finest suppers, and real\nFestival fish which is the daintiest of all dainties. And who speaks\nof----\" Suddenly, crash! The whole roof and the fir-boughs are on our\nheads. One wall after the other is falling in. A goat fell from on high,\nright on top of us. It suddenly grew pitch dark. All the candles were\nextinguished. All the tables were over-turned. And we all, with the\nsuppers and the crockery and the goat, were stretched out on the sand.\nThe moon shone, and the stars peeped out, and the goat jumped up,\nfrightened, and stood on its thin legs, stock-still, while it stared at\nus with foolish eyes. It soon marched off, like an insolent creature,\nover the tables and chairs, and over our heads, bleating \"Meh-eh-eh-eh!\"\nThe candles were extinguished; the crockery smashed; the supper in the\nsand; and we were all frightened to death. The women were shrieking, the\nchildren crying. It was a destruction of everything--a real destruction.\n\n* * *\n\n\"You built a fine Tabernacle,\" said Hershke Mamtzes to us in such a\nvoice, as if we had had from him for building the Tabernacle goodness\nknows how much money. \"It was a fine Tabernacle, when one goat could\noverthrow it.\"\n\n\"It was a Tabernacle for once,\" replied Moshe-for-once. He stood like\none beaten, looking upwards, to see whence the destruction had come. \"It\nwas a Tabernacle for once.\"\n\n\"Yes, a Tabernacle for once,\" repeated Hershke Mamtzes, in a voice full\nof deadly venom. And every one echoed his words, all in one voice:\n\n\"A Tabernacle for once.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Dead Citron\n\n\nMy name is Leib. When I am called up to read the portion of the Law it\nis by the name of Yehudah-Leib. At home, I sign myself Lyef Moishevitch.\nAmongst the Germans I am known as Herr Leon. Here in England, I am Mr.\nLeon. When I was a child I was called Leibel. At \"_Cheder_\" I was\nLieb-Dreib-Obderick. You must know that at our \"_Cheder_\" every boy has\na nickname. For instance--\"Mottel-Kappotel,\" \"Meyer-Dreyer,\"\n\"Mendel-Fendel,\" \"Chayim-Clayim,\" \"Itzig-Shpitzig,\" \"Berel-Tzap.\" Did\nyou ever hear such rhymes? That Itzig rhymes with Shpitzig, and Mendel\nwith Fendel, and Chayim with Clayim is correct. But what has Berel to do\nwith Tzap, or how does Leib rhyme with Obderick? I did not like my\nnickname. And I fought about it. I got blows and thumps and smacks and\nwhacks and pinches and kicks from all sides. I was black and blue.\nBecause I was the smallest in the \"_Cheder_\"--the smallest and the\nweakest and the poorest, no one defended me. On the contrary, the two\nrich boys tortured me. One got on top of me, and the other pulled me by\nthe ear. Whilst the third--a poor boy--sang a song to tease me--\n\n    \"Just so! Just so!\n    Give it to him.\n    Punch him.\n    Bang him.\n    His little limbs,\n    His little limbs.\n    Just so! Just so!\n\nAt such times I lay quiet as a kitten. And when they let me go I went\ninto a corner and wept silently. I wiped my eyes, went back to my\ncomrades, and was all right again.\n\nJust a word--whenever you meet the name Leibel in this story, you will\nknow it refers to me.\n\nI am soft as down, short and fat. In reality, I am not so fat as I look.\nOn the contrary, I am rather bony, but I wear thick, wadded little\ntrousers, a thick, wadded vest, and a thick wadded coat. You see my\nmother wants me to be warm. She is afraid I might catch cold, God\nforbid! And she wraps me in cotton-wool from head to foot. She believes\nthat cotton-wool is very good to wrap a boy in, but must not be used for\nmaking balls. I provided all the boys with cotton-wool I pulled it out\nof my trousers and coat until she caught me. She beat me, and whacked\nme, and thumped me and pinched me. But Leibel went on doing what he\nliked--distributing cotton-wool.\n\nMy face is red, my cheeks rather blue, and my nose always running. \"Such\na nose!\" cries my mother. \"If he had no nose, he would be all right. He\nwould have nothing to freeze in the cold weather.\" I often try to\npicture to myself what would happen if I had no nose at all. If people\nhad no noses, what would they look like? Then the question is--? But I\nwas going to tell you the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered\noff to goodness knows where. I will break off in the middle of what I\nwas saying, and go back to the story of the dead citron.\n\n* * *\n\nMy father, Moshe-Yankel, has been a clerk at an insurance company's\noffice for many years. He gets five and a half \"_roubles_\" a week. He is\nwaiting for a rise in wages. He says that if he gets his rise this year,\nplease God, he will buy a citron. But my mother, Basse-Beila, has no\nfaith in this. She says the barracks will fall down before father will\nget a rise.\n\nOne day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel overheard the following\nconversation between his father and his mother.\n\nHe: \"Though the world turn upside down, I must have a citron this year!\"\n\nShe: \"The world will not turn upside down, and you will have no citron.\"\n\nHe: \"That's what you say. But supposing I have already been promised\nsomething towards a citron?\"\n\nShe: \"It will have to be written into the books of Jests. In the month\ncalled after the town of Kreminitz a miracle happened--a bear died in\nthe forest. But what then? If I do not believe it, I shall not be a\ngreat heretic either.\"\n\nHe: \"You may believe or not. I tell you that this Feast of Tabernacles,\nwe shall have a citron of our own.\"\n\nShe: \"Amen! May it be so! From your mouth into God's ears!\"\n\n\"Amen, amen,\" repeated Leibel in his heart. And he pictured to himself\nhis father coming into the synagogue, like a respectable householder,\nwith his own citron and his own palm-branch. And though Moshe-Yankel is\nonly a clerk, still when the men walk around the Ark with their palms\nand their citrons, he will follow them with his palm and citron. And\nLeibel's heart was full of joy. When he came to \"_Cheder_,\" he at once\ntold every one that this year his father would have his own palm and\ncitron. But no one believed him.\n\n\"What do you say to his father?\" asked the young scamps of one another.\n\"Such a man--such a beggar amongst beggars desires to have a citron of\nhis own. He must imagine it is a lemon, or a '_groschen_' apple.\"\n\nThat was what the young scamps said. And they gave Leibel a few good\nsmacks and thumps, and punches and digs and pushes. And Leibel began to\nbelieve that his father was a beggar amongst beggars. And a beggar must\nhave no desires. But how great was his surprise when he came home and\nfound \"_Reb_\" Henzel sitting at the table, in his Napoleonic cap, facing\nhis father. In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the beautiful\nperfume of which reached the furthest corners of the house.\n\n* * *\n\nThe cap which \"_Reb_\" Henzel wore was the sort of cap worn in the time\nof Napoleon the First. Over there in France, these caps were long out of\nfashion. But in our village there was still one to be found--only one,\nand it belonged to \"_Reb_\" Henzel. The cap was long and narrow. It had a\nslit and a button in front, and at the back two tassels. I always wanted\nthese tassels. If the cap had fallen into my hands for two minutes--only\ntwo, the tassels would have been mine.\n\n\"_Reb_\" Henzel had spread out his whole stock-in-trade. He took up a\ncitron with his two fingers, and gave it to father to examine.\n\n\"Take this citron, '_Reb_' Moshe-Yankel. You will enjoy it.\"\n\n\"A good one?\" asked my father, examining the citron on all sides, as one\nmight examine a diamond. His hands trembled with joy.\n\n\"And what a good one,\" replied \"_Reb_\" Henzel, and the tassels of his\ncap shook with his laughter.\n\nMoshe-Yankel played with the citron, smelled it, and could not take his\neyes off it. He called over his wife to him, and showed her, with a\nhappy smile, the citron, as if he were showing her a precious jewel, a\npriceless gem, a rare antique, or an only child--a dear one.\n\nBasse-Beila drew near, and put out her hand slowly to take hold of the\ncitron. But she did not get it.\n\n\"Be careful with your hands. A sniff if you like.\"\n\nBasse-Beila was satisfied with a sniff of the citron. I was not even\nallowed to sniff it. I was not allowed to go too near it, or even to\nlook at it.\n\n\"He is here, too,\" said my mother. \"Only let him go near it, and he will\nat once bite the top off the citron.\"\n\n\"The Lord forbid!\" cried my father.\n\n\"The Lord preserve us!\" echoed \"_Reb_\" Henzel. And the tassels shook\nagain. He gave father some cotton-wool into which he might nest the\ncitron. The beautiful perfume spread into every corner of the house. The\ncitron was wrapped up as carefully as if it had been a diamond, or a\nprecious gem. And it was placed in a beautiful round, carved, painted\nand decorated wooden sugar box. The sugar was taken out, and the citron\nwas put in instead, like a beloved guest.\n\n\"Welcome art thou, '_Reb_' citron! Into the box--into the box!\"\n\nThe box was carefully closed, and placed in the glass cupboard. The door\nwas closed over on it, and good-bye!\n\n\"I am afraid the heathen\"--that was meant for me--\"will open the door,\ntake out the citron, and bite its top off,\" said my mother. She took me\nby the hand, and drew me away from the cupboard.\n\nLike a cat that has smelt butter, and jumps down from a height for it,\nstraightens her back, goes round and round, rubbing herself against\neverything, looks into everybody's eyes, and licks herself--in like\nmanner did Leibel, poor thing, go round and round the cupboard. He gazed\nin through the glass door, smiled at the box containing the citron,\nuntil his mother saw him, and said to his father that the young scamp\nwanted to get hold of the citron to bite off its top.\n\n\"To '_Cheder_,' you blackguard! May you never be thought of, you scamp!\"\n\nLeibel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and went off to \"_Cheder_.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe few words his mother had said to his father about his biting off the\ntop of the citron burned themselves into Leibel's heart, and ate into\nhis bones like a deadly poison.\n\nThe top of the citron buried itself in Leibel's brain. It did not leave\nhis thoughts for a moment. It entered his dreams at night, worried him,\nand almost dragged him by the hand. \"You do not recognize me, foolish\nboy? It is I--the top of the citron.\" Leibel turned round on the other\nside, groaned, and went to sleep. It worried him again. \"Get up, fool.\nGo and open the cupboard, take out the citron, and bite me off. You will\nenjoy yourself.\"\n\nLeibel got up in the morning, washed his hands, and began to say his\nprayers. He took his breakfast, and was going off to \"_Cheder_.\" Passing\nby, he glanced in the direction of the glass cupboard. Through the glass\ndoor, he saw the box containing the citron. And he imagined the box was\nwinking at him. \"Over here, over here, little boy.\" Leibel marched\nstraight out of the house.\n\nOne morning, when Leibel got up, he found himself alone in the house.\nHis father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market.\nThe servant was busy in the kitchen. \"Every one is gone. There isn't a\nsoul in the house,\" thought Leibel. Passing by, he again looked inside\nthe glass cupboard. He saw the sugar box that held the citron. It seemed\nto be beckoning to him. \"Over here, over here, little boy.\" Leibel\nopened the glass door softly and carefully, and took out the box--the\nbeautiful, round, carved, decorated wooden box, and raised the lid.\nBefore he had time to lift out the citron, the fragrance of it filled\nhis nostrils--the pungent, heavenly odour. Before he had time to turn\naround, the citron was in his hand, and the top of it in his eyes.\n\n\"Do you want to enjoy yourself? Do you want to know the taste of\nParadise? Take and bite me off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No one\nwill know of it. Not a son of Adam will see you. No bird will tell on\nyou.\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou want to know what happened? You want to know whether I bit the top\noff the citron, or held myself back from doing it? I should like to know\nwhat you would have done in my place--if you had been told ten times not\nto dare to bite the top off the citron? Would you not have wanted to\nknow what it tasted like? Would you not also have thought of the\nplan--to bite it off, and stick it on again with spittle? You may\nbelieve me or not--that is your affair--but I do not know myself how it\nhappened. Before the citron was rightly in my hands, the top of it was\nbetween my teeth.\n\n* * *\n\nThe day before the Festival, father came home a little earlier from his\nwork, to untie the palm-branch. He had put it away very carefully in a\ncorner, warning Leibel not to attempt to go near it. But it was useless\nwarning him. Leibel had his own troubles. The top of the citron haunted\nhim. Why had he wanted to bite it off? What good had it done him to\ntaste it when it was bitter as gall? It was for nothing he had spoiled\nthe citron, and rendered it unfit for use. That the citron could not now\nbe used, Leibel knew very well. Then what had he done this for? Why had\nhe spoiled this beautiful creation, bitten off its head, and taken its\nlife? Why? Why? He dreamt of the citron that night. It haunted him, and\nasked him: \"Why have you done this thing to me? Why did you bite off my\nhead? I am now useless--useless.\" Leibel turned over on the other side,\ngroaned, and fell asleep again. But he was again questioned by the\ncitron. \"Murderer, what have you against me? What had my head done to\nyou?\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe first day of the Feast of Tabernacles arrived. After a frosty night,\nthe sun rose and covered the earth with a delayed warmth, like that of a\nstep-mother. That morning Moshe-Yankel got up earlier than usual to\nlearn off by heart the Festival prayers, reciting them in the beautiful\nFestival melody. That day also Basse-Beila was very busy cooking the\nfish and the other Festival dishes. That day also Zalmen the carpenter\ncame to our Tabernacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm\nbefore any one else, so that he might be able to drink tea with milk and\nenjoy the Festival.\n\n\"Zalmen wants the palm and the citron,\" said my mother to my father.\n\n\"Open the cupboard, and take out the box, but carefully,\" said my\nfather.\n\nHe himself stood on a chair and took down from the top shelf the palm,\nand brought it to the Tabernacle to the carpenter.\n\n\"Here, make the blessing,\" he said. \"But be careful, in Heaven's name be\ncareful!\"\n\nOur neighbour Zalmen was a giant of a man--may no evil eye harm him! He\nhad two hands each finger of which might knock down three such Leibels\nas I. His hands were always sticky, and his nails red from glue. And\nwhen he drew one of these nails across a piece of wood, there was a mark\nthat might have been made with a sharp piece of iron.\n\nIn honour of the Festival, Zalmen had put on a clean shirt and a new\ncoat. He had scrubbed his hands in the bath, with soap and sand, but had\nnot succeeded in making them clean. They were still sticky and the nails\nstill red with glue.\n\nInto these hands fell the dainty citron. It was not for nothing\nMoshe-Yankel was excited when Zalmen gave the citron a good squeeze and\nthe palm a good shake.\n\n\"Be careful, be careful,\" he cried. \"Now turn the citron head downwards,\nand make the blessing. Carefully, carefully. For Heaven's sake, be\ncareful!\"\n\nSuddenly Moshe-Yankel threw himself forward, and cried out, \"Oh!\" The\ncry brought his wife, Basse-Beila, running into the Tabernacle.\n\n\"What is it, Moshe-Yankel? God be with you!\"\n\n\"Coarse blackguard! Man of the earth!\" he shouted at the carpenter, and\nwas ready to kill him.\n\n\"How could you be such a coarse blackguard? Such a man of the earth? Is\na citron an ax? Or is it a saw? Or a bore? A citron is neither an ax nor\na saw nor a bore. You have cut my throat without a knife. You have\nspoiled my citron. Here is the top of it--here, see! Coarse blackguard!\nMan of the earth!\"\n\nWe were all paralysed on the instant. Zalmen was like a dead man. He\ncould not understand how this misfortune had happened to him. How had\nthe top come off the citron? Surely he had held it very lightly, only\njust with the tips of his fingers? It was a misfortune--a terrible\nmisfortune.\n\nBasse-Beila was pale as death. She wrung her hands and moaned.\n\n\"When a man is unfortunate, he may as well bury himself alive and fresh\nand well, right in the earth.\"\n\nAnd Leibel? Leibel did not know whether he should dance with joy because\nthe Lord had performed a miracle for him, released him from all the\ntrouble he had got himself into, or whether he should cry for his\nfather's agony and his mother's tears, or whether he should kiss\nZalmen's thick hands with the sticky fingers and the red nails, because\nhe was his redeemer, his good angel.... Leibel looked at his father's\nface and his mother's tears, the carpenter's hands, and at the citron\nthat lay on the table, yellow as wax, without a head, without a spark of\nlife, a dead thing, a corpse.\n\n\"A dead citron,\" said my father, in a broken voice.\n\n\"A dead citron,\" repeated my mother, the tears gushing from her eyes.\n\n\"A dead citron,\" echoed the carpenter, looking at his hands. He seemed\nto be saying to himself: \"There's a pair of hands for you! May they\nwither!\"\n\n\"A dead citron,\" said Leibel, in a joyful voice. But he caught himself\nup, fearing his tones might proclaim that he, Leibel, was the murderer,\nthe slaughterer of the citron.\n\n\n\n\nIsshur the Beadle\n\n\nWhen I think of Isshur the beadle, I am reminded of Alexander the Great,\nNapoleon Bonaparte, and other such giants of history.\n\nIsshur was not a nobody. He led the whole congregation, the whole town\nby the nose. He had the whole town in his hand. He was a man who served\neverybody and commanded everybody; a man who was under everybody, but\nfeared nobody. He had a cross look, terrifying eyebrows, a beard of\nbrass, a powerful fist, and a long stick. Isshur was a name to conjure\nwith.\n\nWho made Isshur what he was? Ask me an easier question. There are types\nof whom it can be said they are cast, fixed. They never move out of\ntheir place. As you see them the first time, so are they always. It\nseems they always were as they are, and will ever remain the same. When\nI was a child, I could not tear myself away from Isshur. I was always\npuzzling out the one question--What was Isshur like before he was\nIsshur? That is to say, before he got those terrifying eyebrows, and the\nbig hooked nose that was always filled with snuff, and the big brass\nbeard that started by being thick and heavy, and ended up in a few, long\nstraggling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he was a child, ran\nabout barefoot, went to \"_Cheder_,\" and was beaten by his teacher? And\nwhat was Isshur like when his mother was carrying him about in her arms,\nwhen she suckled him, wiped his nose for him, and said: \"Isshur, my\nsweet boy. My beautiful boy. May I suffer instead of your little bones?\"\n\nThese were the questions that puzzled me when I was a child, and could\nnot tear myself away from Isshur.\n\n\"Go home, wretches. May the devil take your father and mother.\" And\nIsshur would not even allow any one to think of him.\n\nSurely, I was only one boy, yet Isshur called me wretches. You must know\nthat Isshur hated to have any one staring at him. Isshur hated little\nchildren. He could not bear them. \"Children,\" he said, \"are naturally\nbad. They are scamps and contradictory creatures. Children are goats\nthat leap into strange gardens. Children are dogs that snap at one's\ncoat-tails. Children are pigs that crawl on the table. Children should\nbe taught manners. They ought to be made to tremble, as with the ague.\"\nAnd we did tremble as if we had the ague.\n\nWhy were we afraid, you ask. Well, would you not be afraid if you were\ntaken by the ear, dragged to the door, and beaten over the neck and\nshoulders?\n\n\"Go home, wretches. May the devil take your father and mother.\"\n\nYou will tell your mother on him? Well, try it. You want to know what\nwill happen? I will tell you. You will go home and show your mother\nyour torn ear. Your mother will pounce on your father. \"You see how the\ntyrant has torn the ear of your child--your only son.\" Your father will\ntake you by the hand to the synagogue, and straight over to Isshur the\nbeadle, as if to say to him: \"Here, see what you have done to my only\nson. You have almost torn off his ear.\" And Isshur will reply to my\nfather's unspoken words: \"Go in health with your wretches.\" You hear?\nEven an only son is also wretches. And what can father do? Push his hat\non one side, and go home. Mother will ask him: \"Well?\" And he will\nreply: \"I gave it to him, the wicked one, the Haman! What more could I\ndo to him?\"\n\nIt is not at all nice that a father should tell such a big lie. But what\nis one to do when one is under the yoke of a beadle?\n\n* * *\n\nOne might say that the whole town is under Isshur's yoke. He does what\nhe likes. If he does not want to heat the synagogue in the middle of\nwinter, you may burst arguing with him. He will heed you no more than\nlast year's snow. If Isshur wants prayers to start early in the morning,\nyou will be too late whenever you come. If Isshur does not want you to\nread the portion of the Law for eighteen weeks on end, you may stare at\nhim from today till tomorrow, or cough until you burst. He will neither\nsee nor hear you. It is the same with your praying-shawl, or your\nprayer-book, or with your citron, or the willow-twigs. Isshur will bring\nthem to you when he likes, not when you like. He says that householders\nare plentiful as dogs, but there is only one beadle--may no evil eye\nharm him! The congregation is so big, one might go mad.\n\nAnd Isshur was proud and haughty. He reduced every one to the level of\nthe earth. The most respectable householder often got it hot from him.\n\"It is better for you not to start with me,\" he said. \"I have no time to\ntalk to you. There are a lot of you, and I am only one--may no evil eye\nharm me!\" And nobody began with him. They were glad that he did not\nbegin with them.\n\nNaturally, no one would dream of asking Isshur what became of the money\ndonated to the synagogue, or of the money he got for the candles, and\nthe money thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did they ask him any\nother questions relating to the management of the synagogue. He was the\nmaster of the whole concern. And whom was he to give an account to? The\npeople were glad if he left them alone, and that he did not throw the\nkeys into their faces. \"Here, keep this place going yourselves. Provide\nit with wood and water, candles and matches. The towels must be kept\nclean. A slate has to be put on the roof frequently, and the walls and\nceiling have to be whitewashed. The stands have to be repaired, and the\nbooks bought. And what about the '_Chanukali_' lamp? And what of the\npalm-branch and the citron? And where is this, and where is that?\" And\nthough every one knew that all the things he mentioned not only did not\nmean an outlay of money, but were, on the contrary, a source of income,\nyet no one dared interfere. All these belonged to the beadle. They\nwere his means of livelihood. \"The fine salary I get from you! One's\nhead might grow hard on it. It's only enough for the water for the\nporridge,\" said Isshur. And the people were silent.\n\nThe people were silent, though they knew very well that \"_Reb_\" Isshur\nwas saving money. They knew very well he had plenty of money. It was\npossible he even lent out money on interest, in secret, on good\nsecurities, of course. He had a little house of his own, and a garden,\nand a cow. And he drank a good glassful of brandy every day. In the\nwinter he wore the best fur coat. His wife always wore good boots\nwithout holes. She made herself a new cloak not long ago, out of the\npublic money. \"May she suffer through it for our blood, Father in\nheaven!\"\n\nThat's what the villagers muttered softly through their teeth, so that\nthe beadle might not hear them. When he approached, they broke off and\nspoke of something else. They blinked their eyes, breathed hard, and\ntook from the beadle a pinch of snuff with their two fingers. \"Excuse\nme.\"\n\nThis \"excuse me\" was a nasty \"excuse me.\" It was meant to be flattering,\nto convey the sense of--\"Excuse me, your snuff is surely good.\" And,\n\"Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in peace.\"\n\nIsshur understood the compliment, and also the hint. He knew the people\nloved him like sore eyes. He knew the people wished to take away his\noffice from him as surely as they wished to live. But he heeded them\nas little as Haman heeds the \"_Purim_\" rattles. He had them in his\nfists, and he knew what to do.\n\n* * *\n\nHe who wants to find favour with everybody will find favour with nobody.\nAnd if one has to bow down, let it be to the head, not to the feet.\n\nIsshur understood these two wise sayings. He sought the favour of the\nleaders of the community. He did everything they told him to, lay under\ntheir feet, and flew on any errand on which they sent him. And he\nflattered them until it made one sick. There is no need to say anything\nof what went on at the elections. Then Isshur never rested. Whoever has\nnot seen Isshur at such a time has seen nothing. Covered with\nperspiration, his hat pushed back on his head, Isshur kneaded the thick\nmud with his high boots, and with his big stick. He flew from one\ncommittee-man to another, worked, plotted, planned, told lies, and\ncarried on intrigues and intrigues without an end.\n\nIsshur was always first-class at carrying on intrigues. He could have\nbrought together a wall and a wall. He could make mischief in such a way\nthat every person in the town should be enraged with everybody else,\nquarrel and abuse his neighbour, and almost come to blows. And he was\ninnocent of everything. You must know that Isshur had the town very\ncleverly. He thought within himself: \"Argue, quarrel, abuse one another,\nmy friends, and you will forget all about the doings of Isshur the\nbeadle.\"\n\nThat they should forget his doings was an important matter to Isshur,\nbecause, of late, the people had begun to talk to him, and to demand\nfrom him an account of the money he had taken for the synagogue. And who\nhad done this? The young people--the young wretches he had always hated\nand tortured.\n\nThey say that children become men, and men become children. Many\ngenerations have grown up, become men, and gone hence. The youngsters\nbecame greybeards. The little wretches became self-supporting young men.\nThe young men got married and became householders. The householders\nbecame old men, and still Isshur was Isshur. But all at once there grew\nup a generation that was young, fresh, curious--a generation which was\ncalled heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, wretches. The Lord help and\npreserve one from them.\n\n\"How does Isshur come to be an overlord? He is only a beadle. He ought\nto serve us, and not we him. How long more will this old Isshur with the\nlong legs and big stick rule over us? The account. Where is the account?\nWe must have the account.\"\n\nThis was the demand of the new generation that was made up entirely of\nheathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches. They\nshouted in the yard of the synagogue at the top of their voices. Isshur\npretended to be deaf, and not to hear anything. Afterwards, he began\nto drive them out of the yard. He extinguished the candles in the\nsynagogue, locked the door, and threw out the boys. Then he tried to\nturn against them the anger of the householders of the village. He told\nthem of all their misdeeds--that they mocked at old people, and\nridiculed the committee-men. In proof of his assertions, he showed the\nmen a piece of paper that one of the boys had lost. On it was written a\nlittle poem.\n\nWho would have thought it? A foolish poem, and yet what excitement it\ncaused in the village--what a revolution. Oh! oh! It would have been\nbetter if Isshur had not found it, or having found it, had not shown it\nto the committee-men. It would have been far better for him. It may be\nsaid that this song was the beginning of Isshur's end. The foolish\ncommittee-men, instead of swallowing down the poem, and saying no more\nabout it, injured themselves by discussing it. They carried it about\nfrom one to the other so long, until the people learnt it off by heart.\nSome one sang it to an old melody. And it spread everywhere. Workmen\nsang it at their work; cooks in their kitchens; young girls sitting on\nthe doorsteps; mothers sang their babies to sleep with it. The most\nfoolish song has a lot of power in it. When the throat is singing the\nhead is thinking. And it thinks so long until it arrives at a\nconclusion. Thoughts whirl and whirl and fret one so long, until\nsomething results. And when one's imagination is enkindled, a story is\nsure to grow out of it.\n\nThe story that grew out of this song was fine and brief. You may listen\nto it. It may come in useful to you some day.\n\n* * *\n\nThe heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches burrowed\nso long, and worked so hard to overthrow Isshur, that they succeeded in\narriving at a certain road. Early one morning they climbed into the\nattic of the synagogue. There they found the whole treasure--a pile of\ncandles, several \"_poods_\" of wax, a score of new \"_Tallissim_,\" a\nbundle of prayer-books of different sorts that had never been used. It\nmay be that to you these things would not have been of great value, but\nto a beadle they were worth a great deal. This treasure was taken down\nfrom the attic very ceremoniously. I will let you imagine the picture\nfor yourself. On the one hand, Isshur with the big nose, terrifying\neyebrows, and the beard of brass that started thick and heavy, and\nfinished up with a few thin terrifying hairs. On the other hand, the\nyoung heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches\ndragging out his treasure. But you need not imagine Isshur lost himself.\nHe was not of the people that lose themselves for the least thing. He\nstood looking on, pretending to be puzzling himself with the question of\nhow these things came to be in the attic of the synagogue.\n\nEarly next morning, the following announcement was written in chalk on\nthe door of the synagogue:--\n\n\"Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale price.\"\n\nNext day there was a different inscription. On the third day still\nanother one. Isshur had something to do. Every morning he rubbed out\nwith a wet rag the inscriptions that covered the whole of the door of\nthe synagogue. Every Sabbath morning, on their desks the congregants\nfound bundles of letters, in which the youngsters accused the beadle and\nhis bought-over committee-men of many things.\n\nIsshur had a hard time of it. He got the committee-men to issue a\nproclamation in big letters, on parchment.\n\n\"Hear all! As there have arisen in our midst a band of hooligans,\nscamps, good-for-nothings who are making false accusations against the\nmost respected householders of the village, therefore we, the leaders of\nthe community, warn these false accusers openly that we most strongly\ncondemn their falsehoods, and if we catch any of them, we will punish\nhim with all the severities of the law.\"\n\nOf course, the boys at once tore down this proclamation. A second was\nhung in its place. The boys did not hesitate to hang up a proclamation\nof their own in its stead. And the men found on their desks fresh\nletters of accusation against the beadle and the committee-men. In a\nword, it was a period when the people did nothing else but write. The\ncommittee-men wrote proclamations, and the boys, the scamps, wrote\nletters. This went on until the Days of Mourning arrived--the time of\nthe elections. And there began a struggle between the two factions. On\nthe one side there was Isshur and his patrons, the committee-men; and on\nthe other side, the youngsters, the heathens, the scamps, and their\ncandidates. Each faction tried to attract the most followers by every\nmeans in its power. One faction tried impassioned words, enflamed\nspeeches; the other, soft words, roast ducks, dainties, and liberal\npromises. And just think who won? You will never guess. It was we young\nscamps who won. And we selected our own committee-men from amongst\nourselves--young men with short coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame\nto tell it, but we chose working men--ordinary working men.\n\n* * *\n\nI am afraid you are anxious for my story to come to an end. You want to\nknow how long it is going to last? Or would you rather I told you how\nour new committee-men made up their accounts with the old beadle? Do you\nwant to hear how the poor old beadle was dragged through the whole\nvillage by the youngsters, with shouting and singing? The boys carried\nin front of the procession the whole treasure of candles, wax,\n\"_Tallissim_\" and prayer-books which they had found in the attic of the\nsynagogue. No, I don't think you will expect me to tell you of these\nhappenings.\n\nTake revenge of our enemy--bathe in his blood, so to speak? No! We could\nnot do that. I shall tell you the end in a few words.\n\nLast New Year I was at home, back again in the village of my birth. A\nlot, a lot of water had flown by since the time I have just told you of.\nStill, I found the synagogue on the same spot. And it had the same Ark\nof the Law, the same curtains, the same reader's-desk, and the same\nhanging candlesticks. But the people were different; they were greatly\nchanged. It was almost impossible to recognize them. The old people of\nmy day were all gone. No doubt there were a good many more stones and\ninscriptions in the holy place. The young folks had grown grey. The\ncommittee-men were new. The cantor was new. There was a new beadle, and\nnew melodies, and new customs. Everything was new, and new, and new.\n\nOne day--it was \"_Hoshana Rabba_\"--the cantor sang with his choir, and\nthe people kept beating their willow-twigs against the desks in front of\nthem. (It seems this custom has remained unchanged.) And I noticed from\nthe distance a very old man, white-haired, doubled-up, with a big nose,\nand terrifying eyebrows, and a beard that started thick and heavy, but\nfinished up with a few straggling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted to\nthis old man. I went over to him, and put out my hand.\n\n\"Peace be unto you!\" I said. \"I think you are '_Reb_' Isshur the\nbeadle?\"\n\n\"The beadle? What beadle? I am not the beadle this long time. I am a\nbare willow-twig this long time. Heh! heh!\"\n\nThat is what the old man said to me in a tremulous voice. And he pointed\nto the bare willow-twigs at his feet. A bitter smile played around his\ngrizzled beard that started thick and heavy, but finished off with a few\nstraggling, terrifying hairs.\n\n\n\n\nBoaz the Teacher\n\n\nThat which I felt on the first day my mother took me by the hand to\n\"_Cheder_\" must be what a little chicken feels, after one has made the\nsacrificial blessing over her and is taking her to be slaughtered. The\nlittle chicken struggles and flutters her wings. She understands\nnothing, but feels she is not going to have a good time, but something\ndifferent.... It was not for nothing my mother comforted me, and told me\na good angel would throw me down a \"_groschen_\" from the ceiling. It was\nnot for nothing she gave me a whole apple and kissed me on the brow. It\nwas not for nothing she asked Boaz to deal tenderly with me--just a\nlittle more tenderly because \"the child has only recovered from the\nmeasles.\"\n\nSo said my mother, pointing to me, as if she were placing in Boaz's\nhands a rare vessel of crystal which, with one touch, would be a vessel\nno more--God forbid!\n\nMy mother went home happy and satisfied, and \"the child that had only\nrecovered from the measles,\" remained behind, alone. He cried a little,\nbut soon wiped his eyes, and was introduced to the holiness of the\n\"_Torah_\" and a knowledge of the ways of the world. He waited for the\ngood angel to throw him the \"_groschen_\" from the ceiling.\n\nOh, that good angel--that good angel! It would have been better if my\nmother had never mentioned his name, because when Boaz came over, took\nhold of me with his dry, bony hand and thrust me into a chair at the\ntable, I was almost faint, and I raised my head to the ceiling. I got a\ngood portion from Boaz for this. He pulled me by the ear and shouted:\n\n\"Devil, what are you looking at?\"\n\nOf course, \"the child that had only recovered from the measles\" began to\nwail. It was then he had his first good taste of the teacher's\nfloggings. \"A little boy must not look where it is forbidden. A little\nboy must not bleat like a calf.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBoaz's system of teaching was founded on one thing--whippings. Why\nwhippings? He explained the reason by bringing forward the case of the\nhorse. Why does a horse go? Because it is afraid. What is it afraid of?\nWhippings. And it is the same with a child. A child must be afraid. He\nmust fear God and his teacher, and his father and his mother, a sin and\na bad thought. And in order that a child should be really afraid, he\nmust be laid down, in true style, and given a score or so lashes. There\nis nothing better in the world than the rod. May the whip live long!\n\nSo says Boaz. He takes the strap slowly in his hands, without haste,\nexamines it on all sides as one examines a citron. Then he betakes\nhimself to his work in good earnest, cheerfully singing a song by way of\naccompaniment.\n\nWonder of wonders! Boaz never counts the strokes, and never makes a\nmistake. Boaz flogs, and is never angry. Boaz is not a bad tempered man.\nHe is only angry when a boy will not let himself be whipped, tries to\ntear himself free, or kicks out his legs. Then it is different. At such\ntimes Boaz's eyes are bloodshot, and he flogs without counting and\nwithout singing his little song. A little boy must be still while his\nteacher flogs him. A little boy must have manners, even when he is being\nflogged.\n\nBoaz is also angry if a boy laughs when he is being whipped. (There are\nchildren who laugh when they are beaten. People say this is a disease.)\nTo Boaz laughing is a danger to the soul. Boaz has never laughed as long\nas he is alive. And he hates to see any one else laughing. One might\neasily have promised the greatest reward to the person who could swear\nhe once saw Boaz laughing. Boaz is not a man for laughter. His face is\nnot made for it. If Boaz laughed, he would surely look more terrible\nthan another man crying. (There are such faces in the world.) And\nreally, what sort of a thing is laughter? It is only idlers who laugh,\nempty-headed gools, good-for-nothings, devil-may-care sort of people.\nThose who have to work for a living, or carry on their shoulders the\nburden of a knowledge of the Holy Law and of the ways of the world, have\nno time to laugh. Boaz never has time. He is either teaching or\nwhipping. That is to say, he teaches while he whips, and whips while he\nteaches. It would be hard to divide these two--to say where teaching\nended and whipping began.\n\nAnd you must know that Boaz never whipped us for nothing. There was\nalways a reason for it. It was either for not learning our lessons, for\nnot wanting to pray well, for not obeying our fathers and mothers, for\nnot looking in, and for not looking out, for just looking, for praying\ntoo quickly, for praying too slowly, for speaking too loudly, for\nspeaking too softly, for a torn coat, a lost button, a pull or a push,\nfor dirty hands, a soiled book, for being greedy, for running, for\nplaying--and so on, and so on, without an end.\n\nOne might say we were whipped for every sin that a human being can\ncommit. We were whipped for the sake of the next world as well as this\nworld. We were whipped on the eve of every Sabbath, every feast and\nevery fast. We were told that if we had not earned the whippings yet, we\nwould earn them soon, please God. And Boaz gave us all the whippings we\nought to have had from our friends and relatives. They gave the pleasant\ntask in to his hands. Then we got whippings of which the teacher said:\n\n\"You surely know yourself what they are for.\" And whippings just for\nnothing. \"Let me see how a little boy lets himself be whipped.\" In a\nword, it was whippings, rods, leathers, fears and tears. These prevailed\nat that time, in our foolish little world, without a single solution to\nthe problems they brought into being, without a single remedy for the\nevils, without a single ray of hope that we would ever free ourselves\nfrom the fiendish system under which we lived.\n\nAnd the good angel of whom my mother spoke? Where was he--that good\nangel?\n\n* * *\n\nI must confess there were times when I doubted the existence of this\ngood angel. Too early a spark of doubt entered my heart. Too early I\nbegan to think that perhaps my mother had fooled me. Too early I became\nacquainted with the emotion of hatred. Too early, too early, I began to\nhate my teacher Boaz.\n\nAnd how could one help hating him? How, I ask you, could one help hating\na teacher who does not allow you to lift your head? That you may not\ndo--this you may not say. Don't stand here. Don't go there. Don't talk\nto So-and-so. How can one help hating a man who has not in him a germ of\npity, who rejoices in another's pains, bathes in other's tears, and\nwashes himself in other's blood? Can there be a more shameful word than\nflogging? And what can be more disgraceful than to strip anybody stark\nnaked and put him in a corner? But even this was not enough for Boaz. He\nrequired you to undress yourself, to pull your own little shirt over\nyour own head, and to stretch yourself face downwards. The rest Boaz\nmanaged.\n\nAnd not only did Boaz flog the boys himself, but his assistants helped\nhim--his lieutenants, as he called them, naturally under his direction,\nlest they might not deliver the full number of strokes. \"A little less\nlearning and a little more flogging,\" was his rule. He explained the\nwisdom of his system in this way: \"Too much learning dulls a boy, and a\nwhipping too many does not hurt. Because, what a boy learns goes\nstraight to his head, and his senses are quickened and his brains\nloaded. With the floggings it is the exact opposite. Before the effects\nof the flogging reach the brain the blood is purified, and by this means\nthe brain is cleared. Well, do you understand?\"\n\nAnd Boaz never ceased from purifying our blood, and clearing our brain.\nAnd woe unto us! We did not believe any more in the good angel that\nlooked down upon us from above. We realized that it was only a\nfairy-tale, an invented story by which we were fooled into going to\nBoaz's \"_Cheder_.\" And we began to sigh and groan because of our\nsufferings under Boaz. And we also began to make plans, to talk and\nargue how to free ourselves from our galling slavery.\n\n* * *\n\nIn the melancholy moments between daylight and darkness, when the fiery\nred sun is about to bid farewell to the cold earth for the night--in\nthese melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is departing, and on\nits heels is treading silently the still night, with its lonely\nsecrets--in these melancholy moments, when the shadows are climbing on\nthe walls growing broader and longer--in these melancholy moments\nbetween the afternoon and the evening prayers, when the teacher is at\nthe synagogue, and his wife is milking the goat or washing the crockery,\nor making the \"_Borsht_\"--then we youngsters came together at\n\"_Cheder_,\" beside the stove. We sat on the floor, our legs curled up\nunder us, like innocent lambs. And there in the evening darkness, we\ntalked of our terrible Titus, our angel of death, Boaz. The bigger boys,\nwho had been at \"_Cheder_\" some time, told us the most awful tales of\nBoaz. They swore by all the oaths they could think of that Boaz had\nflogged more than one boy to death, that he had already driven three\nwomen into their graves, and that he had buried his one and only son. We\nheard such wild tales that our hair stood on end. The older boys talked,\nand the younger listened--listened with all their senses on the alert.\nBlack eyes gleamed in the darkness. Young hearts palpitated. And we\ndecided that Boaz had no soul. He was a man without a soul. And such a\nman is compared to an animal, to an evil spirit that it is a righteous\nact to get rid of. Thousands of plans, foolish, childish plans, were\nformed in our childish brains. We hoped to rid ourselves of our angel of\ndeath, as we called Boaz. Foolish children! These foolish plans buried\nthemselves deep in each little heart that cried out to the Lord to\nperform a miracle. We asked that either the books should be burnt, or\nthe strap he whipped us with taken to the devil, or--or.... No one\nwished to speak of the last alternative. They were afraid to bring it to\ntheir lips. And the evil spirit worked in their hearts. The young\nfancies were enkindled, and the boys were carried away by golden dreams.\nThey dreamed of freedom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in\nthe river, playing horses, jumping over the logs. They were good, sweet,\nfoolish dreams that were not destined to be realized. There was heard a\nfamiliar cough, a familiar footfall. And our hearts were frozen. All our\nlimbs were paralysed, deadened. We sat down at the table and started our\nlessons with as much enthusiasm as if we were starting for the gallows.\nWe were reading aloud, but still our lips muttered: \"Father in Heaven,\nwill there never come an end to this tyrant, this Pharaoh, this Haman,\nthis Gog-Magog? Or will there ever come a time when we shall be rid of\nthis hard, hopeless, dark tyranny? No, never, never!\"\n\nThat is the conclusion we arrived at, poor innocent, foolish children!\n\n* * *\n\n\"Children, do you want to hear of a good plan that will rid us of our\nGog-Magog?\"\n\nThat was what one of the boys asked us on one of those melancholy\nmoments already described. His name was Velvel Leib Aryas. He was a\nyoung heathen. When he was speaking his eyes gleamed in the darkness\nlike those of a wolf. And the whole school of boys crowded around Velvel\nto hear the plan by which we might get rid of our Gog-Magog. Velvel\nbegan his explanation by giving us a lecture--how impossible it was to\nstand Boaz any longer, how the Ashmodai was bathing in our blood, how he\nregarded us as dogs--worse than dogs, because when a dog is beaten with\na stick it may, at any rate, howl. And we may not do that either. And\nso on, and so on. After this Velvel said to us:\n\n\"Listen, children, to what I will ask you. I am going to ask you\nsomething.\"\n\n\"Ask it,\" we all cried in one voice.\n\n\"What is the law in a case where, for example, one of us suddenly\nbecomes ill?\"\n\n\"It is not good,\" we replied.\n\n\"No, I don't mean that. I mean something else. I mean, if one of us is\nill does he go to '_Cheder_,' or does he stay at home?\"\n\n\"Of course he stays at home,\" we all answered together.\n\n\"Well, what is the law if two of us get ill?\"\n\n\"Two remain at home.\"\n\n\"Well, and if three get ill?\" Velvel went on asking us, and we went on\nanswering him.\n\n\"Three stay at home.\"\n\n\"What would happen if, for example, we all took ill?\"\n\n\"We should all stay at home.\"\n\n\"Then let a sickness come upon us all,\" he cried joyfully. We replied\nangrily:\n\n\"The Lord forbid! Are you mad, or have you lost your reason?\"\n\n\"I am not mad, and I have not lost my reason. Only you are fools, yes.\nDo I mean that we are to be really ill? I mean that we are to pretend to\nbe ill, so that we shall not have to go to '_Cheder_.' Do you understand\nme now?\"\n\nWhen Velvel had explained his plan to us, we began to understand it, and\nto like it. And we began to ask ourselves what sort of an illness we\nshould suffer from. One suggested toothache, another headache, a third\nstomach-ache, a fourth worms. But we decided that it was not going to be\ntoothache, nor headache, nor stomach-ache, nor worms. What then? We must\nall together complain of pains in our feet, because the doctor could\ndecide whether we really suffered from any of the other illnesses or\nnot. But if we told him we had pains in our feet, and were unable to\nmove them, he could do nothing.\n\n\"Remember, children, you are not to get out of bed tomorrow morning. And\nso that we may all be certain that not one of us will come to '_Cheder_'\ntomorrow, let us promise one another, take an oath.\"\n\nSo said our comrade Velvel. And we gave each other our promise, and took\nan oath that we would not be at \"_Cheder_\" next morning. We went home\nfrom \"_Cheder_\" that evening lively, joyful, and singing. We felt like\ngiants who knew how to overcome the enemy and win the battle.\n\n\n\n\nThe Spinning-Top\n\n\nMore than any of the boys at \"_Cheder_,\" more than any boy of the town,\nand more than any person in the world, I loved my friend, Benny\n\"_Polkovoi_.\" The feeling I had for him was a peculiar combination of\nlove, devotion, and fear. I loved him because he was handsomer, cleverer\nand smarter than any other boy. He was kind and faithful to me. He took\nmy part, fought for me, and pulled the ears of those boys who annoyed\nme.\n\nAnd I was afraid of him because he was big and quarrelsome. He could\nbeat whom he liked, and when he liked. He was the biggest, oldest, and\nwealthiest boy in the \"_Cheder_.\" His father, Mayer \"_Polkovoi_,\" though\nhe was only a regimental tailor, was nevertheless a rich man, and played\nan important part in public affairs. He had a fine house, a seat in the\nsynagogue beside the ark. At the Passover, his \"_Matzo_\" was baked\nfirst. At the feast of Tabernacles his citron was the best. On the\nSabbath he always had a poor man to meals. He gave away large sums of\nmoney in charity. And he himself went to the house of another to lend\nhim money as a favour. He engaged the best teachers for his children. In\na word, Mayer \"_Polkovoi_\" tried to refine himself--to be a man amongst\nmen. He wanted to get his name inscribed in the books of the best\nsociety, but did not succeed. In our town, Mazapevka, it was not easy to\nget into the best society. We did not forget readily a man's\nantecedents. A tailor may try to refine himself for twenty years in\nsuccession, but he will still remain a tailor to us. I do not think\nthere is a soap in the world that will wash out this stain. How much do\nyou think Mayer \"_Polkovoi_\" would have given to have us blot out the\nname bestowed upon him, \"_Polkovoi_\"? His misfortune was that his family\nwas a thousand times worse than his name. Just imagine! In his passport\nhe was called Mayor Mofsovitch Heifer.\n\nIt is a remarkable thing. May Mayer's great-great-grandfather have a\nbright Paradise! He also must have been a tailor. When it came to giving\nhimself a family name, he could not find a better one than Heifer. He\nmight have called himself Thimble, Lining, Buttonhole, Bigpatch,\nLongfigure. These are not family names either, it is true, but they are\nin some way connected with tailoring. But Heifer? What did he like in\nthe name of Heifer? You may ask why not Goat? Are there not people in\nthe world called Goat? You may say what you like, Heifer and Goat are\nequally nice. Still, they are not the same. A Heifer is not a Goat.\n\nBut we will return to my friend Benny.\n\n* * *\n\nBenny was a nice boy, with yellow tousled hair, white puffed-out cheeks,\nscattered teeth, and peculiar red, bulging, fishy eyes. These red,\nfishy eyes were always smiling and roguish. He had a turned-up nose. His\nwhole face had an expression of impudence. Nevertheless, I liked his\nface, and we became friends the first hour we met.\n\nWe met for the first time at \"_Cheder_,\" at the teachers' table. When my\nmother took me to \"_Cheder_,\" the teacher was sitting at his table with\nthe boys, teaching them the book of Genesis. He was a man with thick\neyebrows and a pointed cap. He made no fuss of me. He asked me no\nquestions, neither did he take my measurements, but said to me--\n\n\"Get over there, on that bench, between those two boys.\"\n\nI got on the bench, between the boys, and was already a pupil. There was\nno talk between my mother and the teacher. They had made all\narrangements beforehand.\n\n\"Remember to learn as you ought,\" said my mother from the doorway. She\nturned to look at me again, lovingly, joyfully. I understood her look\nvery well. She was pleased that I was sitting with nice children, and\nlearning the \"_Torah_.\" And she was pained because she had to part with\nme.\n\nI must confess I felt much happier than my mother. I was amongst a crowd\nof new friends--may no evil eye harm them! They looked at me, and I\nlooked at them. But the teacher did not let us idle for long. He shook\nhimself, and shouted aloud the lesson we had to repeat after him at the\ntop of our voices.\n\n\"Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field.\"\n\nBoys who sit so close together, though they shake and shout aloud,\ncannot help getting to know one another, or exchange a few words. And so\nit was.\n\nBenny \"_Polkovoi_,\" who sat crushing me, pinched my leg, and looked into\nmy eyes. He went on shaking himself, and shouting out the lesson with\nthe teacher and the other boys. But he threw his own words into the\nmiddle of the sentence we were translating.\n\n\"And Adam knew (here are buttons for you) Eve his wife. (Give me a\nlocust-bean and I will give you a pull of my cigarette.)\"\n\nI felt a warm hand in mine, and I had some smooth buttons. I confess I\ndid not want the buttons, and I had no locust-beans, neither did I smoke\ncigarettes. But I liked the idea of the thing. And I replied in the same\ntones in which the lesson was being recited:\n\n\"And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who told you I have locust-beans?)\"\n\nThat is how we conversed the whole time, until the teacher suspected\nthat though I shook myself to and fro, my mind was far from the lesson.\nHe suddenly put me through an examination.\n\n\"Listen, you, whatever your name is, you surely know whose son Cain was,\nand the name of his brother?\"\n\nThis question was as strange to me as if he had asked me when there\nwould be a fair in the sky, or how to make cream-cheese from snow, so\nthat they should not melt. In reality my mind was elsewhere, I don't\nknow where.\n\n\"Why do you look at me so?\" asked the teacher. \"Don't you hear me? I\nwant you to tell me the name of the first man, and the story of Cain and\nhis brother Abel.\"\n\nThe boys were smiling, smothering their laughter. I did not know why.\n\n\"Fool, say you do not know, because we have not learnt it,\" whispered\nBenny in my ear, digging me with his elbow. I repeated his words, like a\nparrot. And the \"_Cheder_\" was filled with loud laughter.\n\n\"What are they laughing at?\" I asked myself. I looked at them, and at\nthe teacher. All were rolling with laughter. And, at that moment, I\ncounted the buttons from one hand into the other. There were exactly\nhalf a dozen.\n\n\"Well, little boy, show me your hands. What are you doing with them?\"\nAnd the teacher bent down and looked under the table.\n\nYou are clever boys, and you will understand yourselves what I had from\nthe teacher, for the buttons, on my first day at \"_Cheder_.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWhippings heal up; shame is forgotten. Benny and I became good friends.\nWe were one soul. This is how it came about:--\n\nNext morning I arrived at \"_Cheder_\" with my Bible in one hand and my\ndinner in the other. The boys were excited, jolly. Why? The teacher was\nnot there. What had happened? He had gone off to a Circumcision with his\nwife. That is to say, not with her, God forbid! A teacher never walks\nwith his wife. The teacher walks before, and his wife after him.\n\n\"Let us make a bet,\" cried a boy with a blue nose. His name was Hosea\nHessel.\n\n\"How much shall we bet?\" asked another boy, Koppel Bunnas. He had a torn\nsleeve out of which peeped the point of a dirty elbow.\n\n\"A quarter of the locust-beans.\"\n\n\"Let it be a quarter of the locust-beans. What for? Let us hear.\"\n\n\"I say he will not stand more than twenty-five.\"\n\n\"And I say thirty-six.\"\n\n\"Thirty-six. We shall soon see. Boys, take hold of him.\"\n\nThis was the order of Hosea Hessel, of the blue nose. And several boys\ntook hold of me, all together, turned me over on the bench, face\nupwards. Two sat on my legs, two on my arms, and one held my head, so\nthat I should not be able to wriggle. And another placed his left\nforefinger and thumb at my nose. (It seemed he was left-handed.) He\ncurled up his finger and thumb, closed his eye, and began to fillip me\non the nose. And how, do you think? Each time I saw my father in the\nother world. Murderers, slaughterers! What had they against my nose?\nWhat had it done to them? Whom had it bothered? What had they seen on\nit--a nose like all noses.\n\n\"Boys, count,\" commanded Hosea Hessel. \"One, two, three--\"\n\nBut suddenly....\n\nNearly always, since ever the world began, when a misfortune happens to\na man--when robbers surround him in a wood, bind his hands, sharpen\ntheir knives, tell him to say his prayers, and are about to finish him\noff, there comes a woodman with a bell. The robbers run away, and the\nman lifts his hands on high and praises the Lord for his deliverance.\n\nIt was just like that with me and my nose. I don't remember whether it\nwas at the fifth or sixth blow that the door opened, and Benny\n\"_Polkovoi_\" came in. The boys freed me at once, and remained standing\nlike blocks of wood. Benny took them in hand, one by one. He caught each\nboy by the ear, twisted it round, and said:\n\n\"Well, now you will know what it means to meddle with a widow's boy.\"\n\nFrom that day the boys did not touch either me or my nose. They were\nafraid to begin with the widow's boy whom Benny had taken under his\nwing, into his guardianship, under his protection.\n\n* * *\n\n\"The widow's boy\"--- I had no other name at \"_Cheder_.\" This was because\nmy mother was a widow. She supported herself by her own work. She had a\nlittle shop in which were, for the most part, so far as I can remember,\nchalk and locust-beans--the two things that sell best in Mazapevka.\nChalk is wanted for white-washing the houses, and locust-beans are a\nluxury. They are sweet, and they are light in weight, and they are\ncheap. Schoolboys spend on them all the money they get for breakfast\nand dinner. And the shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. I could\nnever understand why my mother was always complaining that she could\nhardly make enough to pay the rent and my school-fees. Why school-fees?\nWhat about the other things a human being needs, food and clothes and\nboots, for example? She thought of nothing but the school-fees. \"When\nthe Lord punished me,\" she wailed, \"and took my husband from me--and\nsuch a husband!--and left me all alone, I want my son to be a scholar,\nat any rate.\" What do you say to that? Do you think she did not come\nfrequently to the \"_Cheder_\" to find out how I was getting on? I say\nnothing of the prayers she took good care I should recite every morning.\nShe was always lecturing me to be even half as good as my father--peace\nbe unto him! And whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly like\nhim--may I have longer years than he! And her eyes grew moist. Her face\ngrew curiously careworn, and had a mournful expression.\n\nI hope he will forgive me, I mean my father, from the other world, but I\ncould not understand what sort of a man he had been. From what my mother\ntold of him, he was always either praying or studying. Had he never been\ndrawn, like me, out into the open, on summer mornings, when the sun was\nnot burning yet, but was just beginning to show in the sky, marching\nrapidly onwards, a fiery angel, in a fiery chariot, drawn by fiery\nhorses, into whose brilliant, burning, guinea-gold faces it was\nimpossible to look? I ask you what taste have the week-day prayers on\nsuch a morning? What sort of a pleasure is it to sit and read in a\nstuffy room, when the golden sun is burning, and the air is hot as an\niron frying-pan? At such a time, you are tempted to run down the hill,\nto the river--the beautiful river that is covered with a green slime. A\npeculiar odour, as of a warm bath, comes from the distance. You want to\nundress and jump into the warm water. Under the trees it is cool and the\nmud is soft and slippery. And the curious insects that live at the\nbottom of the river whirl around and about before your eyes. And\ncurious, long-legged flies slip and slide on the surface of the water.\nAt such a time one desires to swim over to the other side--over to where\nthe green flags grow, their yellow and white stalks shimmering in the\nsun. A green, fresh fern looks up at you, and you go after it,\nplash-plash into the water, hands down, and feet up, so that people\nmight think you were swimming. I ask you again, what pleasure is it to\nsit in a little room on a summer's evening, when the great dome of the\nsky is dropping over the other side of the town, lighting up the spire\nof the church, the shingle roofs of the baths, and the big windows of\nthe synagogue. And on the other side of the town, on the common, the\ngoats are bleating, and the lambs are frisking, the dust rising to the\nheavens, the frogs croaking. There is a tearing and a shrieking and a\ntumult as at a regular fair. Who thinks of praying at such a time? But\nif you talk to my mother, she will tell you that her husband--peace be\nunto him!--did not succumb to temptations. He was a different sort of a\nman. What sort of a man he was I do not know--asking his pardon. I only\nknow that my mother annoys me very much. She reminds me every minute\nthat I had a father; and throws it into my teeth that she has to pay my\nschool-fees for me. For this she asks only two things of me--that I\nshould learn diligently, and say my prayers willingly.\n\n* * *\n\nIt could not be said that the widow's boy did not learn well. He was not\nin any way behind his comrades. But I cannot guarantee that he said his\nprayers willingly. All children are alike. And he was as mischievous as\nany other boy. He, like the rest, was fond of running away and playing,\nthough there is not much to be said of the play of Jewish children. They\ntie a paper bag to a cat's tail so that she may run through the house\nlike mad, smashing everything in her way. They lock the women's portion\nof the synagogue from the outside on Friday nights, so that the women\nmay have to be rescued. They nail the teacher's shoes to the floor, or\nseal his beard to the table with wax when he is asleep. But oh, how many\nthrashings do they get when their tricks are found out! It may be\ngathered that everything must have an originator, a commander, a head, a\nleader who shows the way.\n\nOur leader, our commander was Benny \"_Polkovoi_.\" From him all things\noriginated; and on our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the fat\nface and red, fishy eyes, always managed to escape scot free from the\nscrapes. He was always innocent as a dove. Whatever tricks or mischief\nwe did, we always got the idea from Benny. Who taught us to smoke\ncigarettes in secret, letting the smoke out through our nostrils? Benny.\nWho told us to slide on the ice, in winter, with the peasant-boys?\nBenny. Who taught us to gamble with buttons--to play \"odd or even,\" and\nlose our breakfasts and dinners? Benny. He was up to every trick, and\ntaught us them all. He won our last \"_groschens_\" from us. And when it\ncame to anything, Benny had disappeared. Playing was to us the finest\nthing in the world. And for playing we got the severest thrashings from\nour teacher. He said he would tear out of us the desire to play.\n\n\"Play in my house? You will play with the Angel of Death,\" said the\nteacher. And he used to empty our pockets of everything, and thrash us\nmost liberally.\n\nBut there was one week of the year when we were allowed to play. Why do\nI say allowed? It was a righteous thing to play then.\n\nAnd that week was the week of \"Chanukah.\" And we played with\nspinning-tops.\n\n* * *\n\nIt is true that the games of cards--bridge and whist, for example--which\nare played at \"_Chanukah_\" nowadays have more sense in them than the old\ngame of spinning-tops. But when the play is for money, it makes no\ndifference what it is. I once saw two peasant-boys beating one another's\nheads against the wall. When I asked them why they were doing this, if\nthey were out of their minds, they told me to go my road. They were\nplaying a game, for money, which of them would get tired the soonest of\nhaving his head banged on the wall.\n\nThe game of spinning-tops that have four corners, each marked with a\nletter of the alphabet, and are like dice, is very exciting. One can\nlose one's soul playing it. It is not so much the loss of the money as\nthe annoyance of losing. Why should the other win? Why should the top\nfall on the letter G for him, and on the N for you? I suppose you know\nwhat the four letters stand for? N means no use. H means half. B means\nbad. And G means good. The top is a sort of lottery. Whoever is\nfortunate wins. Take, for example, Benny \"_Polkovoi_.\" No matter how\noften he spins the top, it always falls on the letter G.\n\nThe boys said it was curious how Benny won. They kept putting down their\nmoney. He took on their bets. What did he care? He was a rich boy.\n\n\"G again. It's curious,\" they cried, and again opened their purses and\nstaked their money. Benny whirled the top. It spun round and round, and\nwobbled from side to side, like a drunkard, and fell down.\n\n\"G,\" said Benny.\n\n\"G, G. Again G. It's extraordinary,\" said the boys, scratching their\nheads and again opening their purses.\n\nThe game grew more exciting. The players grew hot, staked their money,\ncrushed one another, and dug one another in the ribs to get nearer the\ntable, and called each other peculiar names--\"Black Tom-cat! Creased\nCap! Split Coat!\" and the like. They did not see the teacher standing\nbehind them, in his woollen cap and coat, and carrying his \"_Tallis_\"\nand \"_Tephilin_\" under his arm. He was going to the synagogue to say his\nprayers, and seeing the crowd of excited boys, he drew near to watch the\nplay. This day he does not interfere. It is \"_Chanukah_.\" We are free\nfor eight days on end, and may play as much as we like. But we must not\nfight, nor pull one another by the nose. The teacher's wife took her\nsickly child in her arms, and stood at her husband's shoulder, watching\nthe boys risk their money, and how Benny took on all the bets. Benny was\nexcited, burning, aflame, ablaze. He twirled the top. It spun round and\nround, wobbled and fell down.\n\n\"G all over again. It's a regular pantomime.\"\n\nBenny showed us his smartness and his quick-wittedness so long, until\nour pockets were empty. He thrust his hands in his pockets, as if\nchallenging us--\"Well, who wants more?\"\n\nWe all went home. We carried away with us the heartache and the shame of\nour losses. When we got home, we had to tell lies to account for the\nloss of the money we had been given in honour of \"_Chanukah_.\" One boy\nconfessed he had spent his on locust-beans. Another said the money had\nbeen stolen out of his pocket the previous night. A third came home\ncrying. He said he had bought himself a pocket-knife. Well, why was he\ncrying? He had lost the knife on his way home.\n\nI told my mother a fine story--a regular \"Arabian Nights\" tale, and got\nout of her a second \"_Chanukah_\" present of ten \"_groschens_.\" I ran off\nwith them to Benny, played for five minutes, lost to him, and flew back\nhome, and told my mother another tale. In a word, brains were at work\nand heads were busy inventing lies. Lies flew about like chaff in the\nwind. And all our \"_Chanukah_\" money went into Benny's pockets, and was\nlost to us for ever.\n\nOne of the boys became so absorbed in the play that he was not satisfied\nto lose only his \"_Chanukah_\" money, but went on gambling through the\nwhole eight days of the festival.\n\nAnd that boy was no other than myself, \"the widow's son.\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou must not ask where the widow's boy got the money to play with. The\ngreat gamblers of the world who have lost and won fortunes, estates and\ninheritances--they will know and understand. Woe is me! May the hour\nnever be known on which the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of one!\nThere is nothing too hard for him. He breaks into houses, gets through\niron walls, and does the most terrible thing imaginable. It's a name to\nconjure with--the spirit of gambling.\n\nFirst of all, I began to make money by selling everything I possessed,\none thing after the other, my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my\nbuttons. I had a box that opened and closed, and some wheels of an old\nclock--good brass wheels that shone like the sun when they were\npolished. I sold them all at any price, flew off, and lost all my money\nto Benny. I always left him with a heart full of wounds and the\nbitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was not angry with Benny.\nGod forbid! What had I against him? How was he to blame if he always won\nat play? If the top fell on the G for me, he said, I should win. If it\nfalls on the G for him, then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am\nonly sorry for myself, for having run through so much money--my mother's\nhard-earned \"_groschens_,\" and for having made away with all my things.\nI was left almost naked. I even sold my little prayer-book. O that\nprayer-book, that prayer-book! When I think of it, my heart aches, and\nmy face burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book. My mother\nbought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on the anniversary of my father's\ndeath. And it was a book of books--a good one, a real good one, thick,\nand full of everything. It had every prayer one could mention, the \"Song\nof Songs,\" the Ethics of the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the\n\"_Haggadah_,\" and all the prayers of the whole year round. Then the\nprint and the binding, and the gold lettering. It was full of\neverything, I tell you. Each time Pethachiah the pedlar came round with\nhis cut moustache that made his careworn face appear as if it was\nsmiling--each time he came round and opened his pack outside the\nsynagogue door, I could not take my eyes off that prayer-book.\n\n\"What would you say, little boy?\" asked Pethachiah, as if he did not\nknow that I had my eyes on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands\nseventeen times, each time asking the price of it.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I replied. \"Just so!\" And I left him, so as not to be\ntempted.\n\n\"Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing Pethachiah the pedlar has.\"\n\n\"What sort of a thing?\" asked my mother.\n\n\"A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-book, I would--I don't\nknow myself what I would do.\"\n\n\"Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where is your father's prayer-book?\"\n\n\"You can't compare them. This is an ornament, and my book is only a\nbook.\"\n\n\"An ornament?\" repeated my mother. \"Are there then more prayers in an\nornamental book, or do the prayers sound better?\"\n\nWell, how can you explain an ornament to your mother--a really fine book\nwith red covers, and blue edges, and a green back?\n\n\"Come,\" said my mother to me, one evening, taking me by the hand. \"Come\nwith me to the synagogue. Tomorrow is the anniversary of your father's\ndeath. We will bring candles to be lit for him, and at the same time we\nwill see what sort of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah has.\"\n\nI knew beforehand that on the anniversary of the death of my father, I\ncould get from my mother anything I asked for, even to the little plate\nfrom heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat with joy.\n\nWhen we got to the synagogue, we found Pethachiah with his pack still\nunopened. You must know Pethachiah was a man who never hurried. He knew\nvery well he was the only man at the fair. His customers would never\nleave him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his goods, it took a\nyear. I trembled, I shook. I could hardly stand on my feet. And he did\nnot care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all.\n\n\"Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is you have,\" said my mother.\n\nPethachiah had plenty of time. The river was not on fire. Slowly,\nwithout haste, he opened his pack, and spread out his wares--big Bibles,\nlittle prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm books and little,\nand books for all possible occasions, without an end. Then there were\nbooks of tales from the \"_Talmud_,\" tales of the \"_Bal-shem-tov_,\" books\nof sermons, and books of devotion. I imagined he would never run short.\nHe was a well, a fountain. At last he came to the little books, and\nhanded out the one I wanted.\n\n\"Is this all?\" asked my mother. \"Such a little one.\"\n\n\"This little one is dearer than a big one,\" answered Pethachiah.\n\n\"And how much do you want for the little squirrel?--God forgive me for\ncalling it by that name.\"\n\n\"You call a prayer-book a squirrel?\" asked Pethachiah. He took the book\nslowly out of her hand; and my heart was torn.\n\n\"Well, say. How much is it?\" asked my mother. But Pethachiah had plenty\nof time. He answered her in a sing-song:\n\n\"How much is the little prayer-book? It will cost you--it will cost\nyou--I am afraid it is not for your purse.\"\n\nMy mother cursed her enemies, that they might have black, hideous\ndreams, and asked him to say how much.\n\nPethachiah stated the price. My mother did not answer him. She turned\ntowards the door, took my hand, and said to me:\n\n\"Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here. Don't you know that\n'_Reb_' Pethachiah is a man who charges famine prices?\"\n\nI followed my mother to the door. And though my heart was heavy, I still\nhoped the Lord would pity us, and Pethachiah would call us back. But\nPethachiah was not that sort of a man. He knew we should turn back of\nour own accord. And so it was. My mother turned round, and asked him to\ntalk like a man. Pethachiah did not stir. He looked at the ceiling. And\nhis pale face shone. We went off, and returned once again.\n\n\"A curious Jew, Pethachiah,\" said my mother to me afterwards. \"May my\nenemies have the plague if I would have bought the prayer-book from him.\nIt is at a famine price. As I live, it is a sin. The money could have\ngone for your school-fees. But it's useless. For the sake of tomorrow,\nthe anniversary of your father's death--peace be unto him!--I have\nbought you the prayer-book, as a favour. And now, my son, you must do\nme a favour in return. Promise me that you will say your prayers\nfaithfully every day.\"\n\nWhether I really prayed as faithfully as I had promised, or not, I will\nnot tell you. But I loved the little book as my life. You may understand\nthat I slept with it, though, as you know, it is forbidden. The whole\n\"_Cheder_\" envied me the little book. I minded it as if it were the\napple of my eye. And now, this \"_Chanukah_\"--woe unto me!--I carried it\noff with my own hands to Moshe the carpenter's boy, who had long had his\neye on it. And I had to beg of him, for an hour on end, before he bought\nit. I almost gave it away for nothing--the little prayer-book. My heart\nfaints and my face burns with shame. Sold! And to what end? For whose\nsake? For Benny's sake, that he might win off me another few \"_kopeks_.\"\nBut how is Benny to blame if he wins at play?\n\n\"That's what a spinning-top is for,\" explained Benny, putting into his\npurse my last few \"_groschens_.\" \"If things went with you as they are\ngoing with me, then you would be winning. But I am lucky, and I win.\"\n\nAnd Benny's cheeks glowed. It is bright and warm in the house. A silver\n\"_Chanukah_\" lamp is burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From the\nkitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly melted goose-fat.\n\n\"We are having fritters tonight,\" Benny told me in the doorway. My heart\nwas weak with hunger. I flew home in my torn sheep-skin. My mother had\ncome in from her shop. Her hands were red and swollen with the cold. She\nwas frozen through and through, and was warming herself at the stove.\nSeeing me, her face lit up with pleasure.\n\n\"From the synagogue?\" she asked.\n\n\"From the synagogue,\" was my lying answer.\n\n\"Have you said the evening prayer?\"\n\n\"I have said the evening prayer,\" was my second lie to her.\n\n\"Warm yourself, my son. You will say the blessing over the '_Chanukah_'\nlights. It is the last night of '_Chanukah_' tonight, thank God!\"\n\n* * *\n\nIf a man had only troubles to bear, without a scrap of pleasure, he\nwould never get over them, but would surely take his own life. I am\nreferring to my mother, the widow, poor thing, who worked day and night,\nfroze, never had enough to eat, and never slept enough for my sake. Why\nshould she not have a little pleasure too? Every person puts his own\nmeaning into the word \"pleasure.\" To my mother there was no greater\npleasure in the world than hearing me recite the blessings on Sabbaths\nand Festivals. At the Passover I carried out the \"_Seder_\" for her, and\nat \"_Chanukah_\" I made the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing\nover wine or beer? Had we for the Passover fritters or fresh \"_matzo_\"?\nWhat were the \"_Chanukah_\" lights--a silver, eight-branched lamp with\nolive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Believe me, the\npleasure has nothing to do with wine or fritters, or a silver lamp. The\nmain thing is the blessing itself. To see my mother's face when I was\npraying, how it shone and glowed with pleasure was enough. No words are\nnecessary, no detailed description, to prove that this was unalloyed\nhappiness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, and recited\nthe blessing in a sing-song voice. She repeated the blessing after me,\nword for word, in the same sing-song. She looked into my eyes, and moved\nher lips. I knew she was thinking at the time: \"It is he--he in every\ndetail. May the child have longer years!\" And I felt I deserved to be\ncut to pieces like the potatoes. Surely, I had deceived my mother, and\nfor such a base cause. I had betrayed her from head to foot.\n\nThe candles in the potatoes--my \"_Chanukah_\" lights--flickered and\nflickered until they went out. And my mother said to me:\n\n\"Wash your hands. We are having potatoes and goose-fat for supper. In\nhonour of '_Chanukah_,' I bought a little measure of goose-fat--fresh,\nbeautiful fat.\"\n\nI washed myself with pleasure, and we sat down to supper.\n\n\"It is a custom amongst some people to have fritters for supper on the\nlast night of '_Chanukah_,'\" said my mother, sighing. And there arose to\nmy mind Benny's fritters, and Benny's spinning-top that had cost me all\nI possessed in the world. I had a sharp pain at my heart. More than all,\nI regretted the little prayer-book. But, of what use were regrets? It\nwas all over and done with.\n\nEven in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I heard my mother's groans. I\nheard her bed creaking, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning.\nOut of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling the windows, tearing at the\nroof, whistling down the chimney, sighing loudly. A cricket had come to\nour house a long time before. It was now chirping from the wall,\n\"Tchireree! Tchireree!\" And my mother did not cease from sighing and\ngroaning. And each sigh and each groan echoed itself in my heart. I only\njust managed to control myself. I was on the point of jumping out of\nbed, falling at my mother's feet, kissing her hands, and confessing to\nher all my sins. I did not do this. I covered myself with all the\nbed-clothes, so that I might not hear my mother sighing and groaning and\nher bed creaking. My eyes closed. The wind howled, and the cricket\nchirped, \"Tchireree! Tchireree! Tchireree! Tchireree!\" And there spun\naround before my eyes a man like a top--a man I seemed to know. I could\nhave sworn it was the teacher in his pointed cap. He was spinning on one\nfoot, round, and round, and round. His cap sparkled, his eyes glistened,\nand his earlocks flew about. No, it was not the teacher. It was a\nspinning-top--a curious, living top with a pointed cap and earlocks. By\ndegrees the teacher-top, or the top-teacher ceased from spinning round.\nAnd in its place stood Pharaoh, the king of Egypt whose story we had\nlearnt a week ago. Pharaoh, king of Egypt, stood naked before me. He\nhad only just come out of the river. He had my little prayer-book in\nhis hand. I could not make out how that wicked king, who had bathed in\nJewish blood, came to have my prayer-book. And I saw seven cows, lean\nand starved, mere skin and bones, with big horns and long ears. They\ncame to me one after the other. They opened their mouths and tried to\nswallow me. Suddenly, there appeared my friend Benny. He took hold of\ntheir long ears, and twisted them round. Some one was crying softly,\nsobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. A man stood near me. He was not\na human being. He said to me softly:\n\n\"Tell me, son, on which day do you recite the mourner's prayer for me?\"\n\nI understood that this was my father of whom my mother had told me so\nmany good things. I wanted to tell him the day on which I must say the\nmourner's prayer for him, but I had forgotten it. I fretted myself. I\nrubbed my forehead, and tried to remind myself of the day, but I could\nnot. Did you ever hear the like? I forgot the day of the anniversary of\nmy father's death. Listen, Jewish children, can you not tell me when the\nday is? Why are you silent? Help! Help! Help!\n\n* * *\n\n\"God be with you! Why are shouting? Why do you shriek? What is the\nmatter with you? May the Lord preserve you!\"\n\nYou will understand it was my mother who was speaking to me. She held my\nhead. I could feel her trembling and shaking. The lowered lamp gave out\nno light, but an oppressive stench. I saw my mother's shadow dancing on\nthe wall. The points of the kerchief she wore on her head were like two\nhorns. Her eyes gleamed horribly in the darkness.\n\n\"When do I say the mourner's prayer, mother? Tell me, when do I say the\nmourner's prayer?\"\n\n\"God be with you! The anniversary of your father's death was not long\nago. You have had a bad dream. Spit out three times. Tfu! Tfu! Tfu! May\nit be for a good sign! Amen! Amen! Amen!\"\n\n* * *\n\nChildren, I grew up, and Benny grew up. He became a young man with a\nyellowish beard and a round belly. He wears a gold chain across it. It\nseems he is a rich man.\n\nWe met in the train. I recognized him by his fishy, bulging eyes and his\nscattered teeth. We had not met for a long time. We kissed one another\nand talked of the good old times, the dear good days of our childhood,\nand the foolish things we did then.\n\n\"Do you remember, Benny, that '_Chanukah_' when you won everything with\nthe spinning top? The G always fell for you.\"\n\nI looked at Benny. He was convulsed with laughter. He held his sides. He\nwas rolling over. He was actually choking with laughter.\n\n\"God be with you, Benny! Why this sudden burst of laughter, Benny?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" he cried, \"oh! go away with your spinning-top! That was a good\ntop. It was a real top. It was a pudding made only of suet. It was a\nstew of nothing but raisins.\"\n\n\"What sort of a top was it, Benny? Tell me quicker.\"\n\n\"It was a top that had all around it, on all the corners only the one\nletter, G.\"\n\n\n\n\nEsther\n\n\nI am not going to tell you a story of \"_Cheder_\" or of the teacher, or\nof the teacher's wife. I have told you enough about them. Perhaps you\nwill allow me, this time, in honour of the feast of \"_Purim_,\" to tell\nyou a story of the teacher's daughter, Esther.\n\n* * *\n\nIf the Esther of the Bible was as beautiful a creature as the Esther of\nmy story, then it is no wonder she found favour in the eyes of King\nAhasuerus. The Esther of whom I am going to tell you was loved by\neverybody, everybody, even by me and by my older brother Mottel,\nalthough he was \"_Bar-mitzvah_\" long ago, and they were making up a\nmatch for him, and he was wearing a watch and chain this good while. (If\nI am not mistaken, he had already started to grow a beard at the time I\nspeak of.) And that my brother Mottel loves Esther, I am positive. He\nthinks I do not know that his going to \"_Cheder_\" every Sabbath to read\nwith the teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday's day! The teacher\nsnores loudly. The teacher's wife stands on the doorstep talking with\nthe women. We boys play around the room, and Mottel and Esther are\nstaring--she at him, and he at her. It sometimes happens that we boys\nplay at \"blind-man's-buff.\" Do you know what \"blind-man's-buff\" is?\nWell, then I will tell you. You take a boy, bandage his eyes with a\nhandkerchief, place him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys fly\nround him crying: \"Blindman, blindman, catch me!\"\n\nMottel and Esther also play at \"blind-man's-buff\" with us. They like the\ngame because, when they are playing it, they can chase one another--she\nhim, and he her.\n\nAnd I have many more proofs I could give you that--But I am not that\nsort.\n\nI once caught them holding hands, he hers, and she his. And it was not\non the Sabbath either, but on a week-day. It was towards evening,\nbetween the afternoon and the evening prayers. He was pretending to go\nto the synagogue. He strayed into \"_Cheder_.\" \"Where is the teacher?\"\n\"The teacher is not here.\" And he went and gave her his hand, Esther,\nthat is. I saw them. He withdrew his hand and gave me a \"_groschen_\" to\ntell no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I asked three, and he gave\nme three. What do you think--if I had asked four, or five, or six, would\nhe not have given them? But I am not that sort.\n\nAnother time, too, something happened. But enough of this. I will rather\ntell you the real story--the one I promised you.\n\n* * *\n\nAs I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. He does not go to\n\"_Cheder_\" any more, nor does he wish to learn anything at home. For\nthis, my father calls him \"Man of clay.\" He has no other name for him.\nMy mother does not like it. What sort of a habit is it to call a young\nman, almost a bridegroom, a man of clay? My father says he is nothing\nelse but a man of clay. They quarrel about it. I do not know what other\nparents do, but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and night they\nare quarrelling.\n\nIf I were to tell you how my father and mother quarrel, you would split\nyour sides laughing. But I am not that sort.\n\nIn a word, my brother Mottel does not go to \"_Cheder_\" any more.\nNevertheless, he does not forget to send the teacher a \"_Purim_\"\npresent. Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice poem in Hebrew,\nilluminated with a \"Shield of David,\" and two paper \"_roubles_.\" With\nwhom does he send this \"_Purim_\" present? With me, of course. My brother\nsays to me, \"Here, hand the teacher this \"_Purim_\" present. When you\ncome back, I will give you ten '_groschens_.'\" Ten \"_groschens_\" is\nmoney. But what then? I want the money now. My brother said I was a\nheathen. Said I: \"It may be I am a heathen. I will not argue about it.\nBut I want to see the money,\" said I. Who do you think won?\n\nHe gave me the ten \"_groschens_,\" and handed me the teacher's \"_Purim_\"\npresent in a sealed envelope. When I was going off, he thrust into my\nhand a second envelope and said to me, in a quick whisper: \"And this you\nwill give to Esther.\" \"To Esther?\" \"To Esther.\" Any one else in my\nplace would have asked twice as much for this. But I am not that sort.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Father of the Universe,\" thought I, when I was going off with the\n\"_Purim_\" present, \"what can my brother have written to the teacher's\ndaughter? I must have a peep--only just a peep. I will not take a bite\nout of it. I will only look at it.\"\n\nAnd I opened Esther's letter and read a whole \"Book of Esther.\" I will\nrepeat what was there, word for word.\n\n\"FROM MORDECAI TO ESTHER,\n\n\"And there was a man, a young man in Shushan--our village. His name was\nMordecai and he loved a maiden called Esther. And the maiden was\nbeautiful, charming. And the maiden found favour in his eyes. The maiden\ntold this to no one because Mottel had asked her not to. Every day\nMottel passes her house to catch a glimpse of Esther. And when the time\ncomes for Esther to get married, Mottel will go with her under the\nwedding canopy.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWhat do you say to my brother--how he translated the \"Book of Esther\"? I\nshould like to hear what the teacher will say to such a translation. But\nhow comes the cat over the water? Hush! There's a way, as I am a Jew! I\nwill change the letters, give the teacher's poem to Esther, and Esther's\nletter to the teacher. Let him rejoice. Afterwards, if there's a fine\nto do, will I be to blame? Don't all people make mistakes sometimes?\nDoes it not happen that even the postmaster of our village himself\nforgets to give up letters? No such thing will ever happen to me. I am\nnot that sort.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Good '_Yom-tov_,' teacher,\" I cried the moment I rushed into\n\"_Cheder_,\" in such an excited voice that he jumped. \"My brother Mottel\nhas sent you a '_Purim_' present, and he wishes you to live to next\nyear.\"\n\nAnd I gave the teacher Esther's letter. He opened it, read it, thought a\nwhile, looked at it again, turned it about on all sides, as if in search\nof something. \"Search, search,\" I said to myself, \"and you will find\nsomething.\"\n\nThe teacher put on his silver spectacles, read the letter, and did not\neven make a grimace. He only sighed--no more. Later he said to me:\n\"Wait. I will write a few lines.\" And he took the pen and ink and\nstarted to write a few lines. Meanwhile, I turned around in the\n\"_Cheder_.\" The teacher's wife gave me a little cake. And when no one\nwas looking, I put into Esther's hand the poem and the money intended\nfor her father. She reddened, went into a corner, and opened the\nenvelope slowly. Her face burnt like fire, and her eyes blazed\ndangerously. \"She doesn't seem to be satisfied with the '_Purim_'\npresent,\" I thought. I took from the teacher the few lines he had\nwritten.\n\n\"Good '_Yom-tov_' to you, teacher,\" I cried in the same excited voice\nas when I had come in. \"May you live to next year.\" And I was gone.\n\nWhen I was on the other side of the door, Esther ran after me. Her eyes\nwere red with weeping. \"Here,\" she said angrily, \"give this to your\nbrother!\"\n\nOn the way home I first opened the teacher's letter. He was more\nimportant. This is what was written in it.\n\n\"MY DEAR AND FAITHFUL PUPIL, MORDECAI N.\n\n\"I thank you many times for your '_Purim_' present that you have sent\nme. Last year and the year before, you sent me a real '_Purim_' present.\nBut this year you sent me a new translation of the 'Book of Esther.' I\nthank you for it. But I must tell you, Mottel, that your rendering does\nnot please me at all. Firstly, the city of Shushan cannot be called 'our\nvillage.' Then I should like to know where it says that Mordecai was a\nyoung man? And why do you call him Mottel? Which Mottel? And where does\nit say he loved a maiden? The word referring to Mordecai and Esther\nmeans 'brought up.' And your saying 'he will go with her under the\nwedding canopy' is just idiotic nonsense. The phrase you quote refers to\nAhasuerus, not to Mordecai. Then again, it is nowhere mentioned in the\n'Book of Esther' that Ahasuerus went with Esther under the wedding\ncanopy. Does it need brains to turn a passage upside down? Every passage\nmust have sense in it. Last year, and the year before, you sent me\nsomething different. This year you sent your teacher a translation of\nthe 'Book of Esther,' and a distorted translation into the bargain.\nWell, perhaps it should be so. Anyhow, I am sending you back your\ntranslation, and may the Lord send you a good year, according to the\nwishes of your teacher.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWell, that's what you call a slap in the face. It serves my brother\nright. I should think he will never write such a \"Book of Esther\" again.\n\nHaving got through the teacher's letter, I must see what the teacher's\ndaughter writes. On opening the envelope, the two paper \"_roubles_\" fell\nout. What the devil does this mean? I read the letter--only a few lines.\n\n\"Mottel, I thank you for the two '_roubles_.' You may take them back. I\nnever expected such a '_Purim_' present from you. I want no presents\nfrom you, and certainly no charity.\"\n\nHa! ha! What do you say to that? She does not want charity. A nice\nstory, as I am a Jewish child! Well, what's to be done next? Any one\nelse in my place would surely have torn up the two letters and put the\nmoney in his pocket. But I am not that sort. I did a better thing than\nthat. You will hear what. I argued with myself after this fashion: When\nall is said and done, I got paid by my brother Mottel for the journey.\nThen what do I want him for now? I went and gave the two letters to my\nfather. I wanted to hear what he would say to them. He would understand\nthe translation better than the teacher, though he is a father, and the\nteacher is a teacher.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat happened? After my father had read the two letters and the\ntranslation, he took hold of my brother Mottel and demanded an\nexplanation of him. Do not ask me any more.\n\nYou want to know the end--what happened to Esther, the teacher's\ndaughter, and to my brother Mottel? What could have happened? Esther got\nmarried to a widower. Oh, how she cried. I was at the wedding. Why she\ncried so much I do not know. It seemed that her heart told her she would\nnot live long with her husband. And so it was. She lived with him only\none-half year, and died. I do not know what she died of. I do not know.\nNo one knows. Her father and mother do not know either. It was said she\ntook poison--just went and poisoned herself. \"But it's a lie. Enemies\nhave invented that lie,\" said her mother, the teacher's wife. I heard\nher myself.\n\nAnd my brother Mottel? Oh, he married before Esther was even betrothed.\nHe went to live with his father-in-law. But he soon returned, and alone.\nWhat had happened? He wanted to divorce his wife. Said my father to him:\n\"You are a man of clay.\" My mother would not have this. They quarrelled.\nIt was lively. But it was useless. He divorced his wife and married\nanother woman. He now has two children--a boy and a girl. The boy is\ncalled Herzl, after Dr. Herzl, and the girl is called Esther. My father\nwanted her to be named Gittel, and my mother was dying for her to be\ncalled Leah, after her mother. There arose a quarrel between my father\nand mother. They quarrelled a whole day and a whole night. They decided\nthe child should be named Leah-Gittel, after their two mothers.\nAfterwards my father decided he would not have Leah-Gittel. \"What is the\nsense of it? Why should her mother's name go first?\" My brother Mottel\ncame in from the synagogue and said he had named the child Esther. Said\nmy father to him: \"Man of clay, where did you get the name Esther from?\"\nMottel replied: \"Have you forgotten it will soon be '_Purim_'?\" Well,\nwhat have you to say now? It's all over. My father never calls Mottel\n\"man of clay\" since then. But both of them--my mother and my\nfather--exchanged glances and were silent.\n\nWhat the silence and the exchange of glances meant I do not know.\nPerhaps you can tell me?\n\n\n\n\nThe Pocket-Knife\n\n\nListen, children, and I will tell you a story about a little knife--not\nan invented story, but a true one, that happened to myself.\n\nI never wished for anything in the world so much as for a pocket-knife.\nIt should be my own, and should lie in my pocket, and I should be able\nto take it out whenever I wished, to cut whatever I liked. Let my\nfriends know. I had just begun to go to school, under Yossel Dardaki,\nand I already had a knife, that is, what was almost a knife. I made it\nmyself. I tore a goose-quill out of a feather brush, cut off one end,\nand flattened out the other. I pretended it was a knife and would cut.\n\n\"What sort of a feather is that? What the devil does it mean? Why do you\ncarry a feather about with you?\" asked my father--a sickly Jew, with a\nyellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of coughing. \"Here are feathers for\nyou--playtoys! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\n\"What do you care if the child plays?\" asked my mother of him. She was a\nshort-built woman and wore a silk scarf on her head. \"Let my enemies eat\nout their hearts!\"\n\nLater, when I was learning the Bible and the commentaries, I very nearly\nhad a real knife, also of my own making. I found a bit of steel\nbelonging to my mother's crinoline, and I set it very cleverly into a\npiece of wood. I sharpened the steel beautifully on a stone, and\nnaturally cut all my fingers to pieces.\n\n\"See, just see, how he has bled himself, that son of yours,\" said my\nfather. He took hold of my hands in such a way that the very bones\ncracked. \"He's a fine fellow! Heh-heh-heh!\"\n\n\"Oh, may the thunder strike me!\" cried my mother. She took the little\nknife from me, and threw it into the fire. She took no notice of my\ncrying. \"Now it will come to an end. Woe is me!\"\n\nI soon got another knife, but in reality, a little knife. It had a\nthick, round, wooden handle, like a barrel, and a curved blade which\nopened as well as closed. You want to know how I came by it? I saved up\nthe money from what I got for my breakfasts, and I bought the knife for\nseven \"_groschens_\" from Solomon, and I owed him three more\n\"_groschens_.\"\n\nOh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home from school black and\nblue, hungry and sleepy, and with my ears well boxed. (You see, I had\njust started learning the \"_Gemarra_\" with Mottel, the \"Angel of Death.\"\n\"If an ox gore a cow\" I learnt. And if an ox gores a cow, then I must\nget beaten.) And the first thing I did was to take out my pocket-knife\nfrom under the black cupboard. (It lay there the whole day, because I\ndared not take it to school with me; and at home no one must know that\nI have a knife.) I stroked it, I cut a piece of paper with it, split a\nstraw in halves, and then cut up my bread into little cubes which I\nstuck on the tip of the blade, and afterwards put into my mouth.\n\nLater, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife, and scrubbed it, and\npolished it. I took the sharpening stone, which I found in the hayloft,\nspit on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening the little knife,\nsharpening, sharpening.\n\nMy father, his little round cap on his head, sat over a book. He coughed\nand read, read and coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making bread. I\ndid not cease from sharpening my knife, and sharpening it.\n\nSuddenly my father woke up, as from a deep sleep.\n\n\"Who is making that hissing noise? Who is working? What are you doing,\nyou young scamp?\"\n\nHe stood beside me, and bent over my sharpening-stone. He caught hold of\nmy ear. A fit of coughing choked him.\n\n\"Ah! Ah! Ah! Little knives! Heh-heh-heh!\" said my father, and he took\nthe knife and the sharpening-stone from me. \"Such a scamp! Why the devil\ncan't he take a book into his hand? Tkeh-heh-heh!\"\n\nI began to cry. My father improved the situation by a few slaps. My\nmother ran in from the kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began to\nshout:\n\n\"Shah! Shah! What's the matter here? Why do you beat him? God be with\nyou! What have you against the child? Woe is me!\"\n\n\"Little knives,\" said my father, ending up with a cough. \"A tiny child.\nSuch a devil. Tkeh-heh-heh! Why the devil can't he take a book into his\nhand? He's already a youth of eight years.... I will give you\npocket-knives--you good-for-nothing, you. In the middle of everything,\npocket-knives. Thek-heh-heh!\"\n\nBut what had he against my little knife? How had it sinned in his eyes?\nWhy was he so angry?\n\nI remember that my father was nearly always ailing--always pale and\nhollow-cheeked, and always angry with the whole world. For the least\nthing he flared up and would tear me to pieces. It was fortunate my\nmother defended me. She took me out of his hands.\n\nAnd that pocket-knife of mine was thrown away somewhere. For eight days\non end I looked and looked for it, but could not find it. I mourned\ndeeply for that curved knife--the good knife. How dark and embittered\nwas my soul at school when I remembered that I would come home with a\nswollen face, with red, torn ears from the hands of Mottel, the \"Angel\nof Death,\" because an ox gored a cow, and I would have no one to turn to\nfor comfort. I was lonely without the curved knife--lonely as an orphan.\nNo one saw the tears I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after I had\ncome back from \"_Cheder_.\" In silence, I cried my eyes out. In the\nmorning I was again at \"_Cheder_,\" and again I repeated: \"If an ox gore\na cow,\" and again I felt the blows of Mottel, the \"Angel of Death\";\nagain my father was angry, coughed, and swore at me. I had not a free\nmoment. I did not see a smiling face. There was not a single little\nsmile for me anywhere, not a single one. I had nobody. I was alone--all\nalone in the whole world.\n\n* * *\n\nA year went by, and perhaps a year and a half. I was beginning to forget\nthe curved knife. It seems I was destined to waste all the years of my\nchildhood because of pocket-knives. A new knife was created--to my\nmisfortune--a brand new knife, a beauty, a splendid one. As I live, it\nwas a fine knife. It had two blades, fine, steel ones, sharp as razors,\nand a white bone handle, and brass ends, and copper rivets. I tell you,\nit was a beauty, a real good pocket-knife.\n\nHow came to me such a fine knife, that was never meant for such as I?\nThat is a whole story--a sad, but interesting story. Listen to me\nattentively.\n\nWhat value in my eyes had the German Jew who lodged with us--the\ncontractor, Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, when he spoke Yiddish, went about\nwithout a cap, had no beard or earlocks, and had his coat-tails cut off?\nI ask you how I could have helped laughing into his face, when that\nJewish-Gentile, or Gentilish-Jew talked to me in Yiddish, but in a\ncurious Yiddish with a lot of A's in it.\n\n\"Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will be read this week?\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\" I burst out laughing and hid my face in my hands.\n\n\"Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the Law will be read this\nweek?\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha! Balak,\" I burst out with a laugh, and ran away.\n\nBut that was only in the beginning, before I knew him. Afterwards, when\nI knew Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz better (he lived at our house for over a\nyear) I loved him so well that I did not care if he said no prayers, and\nate his food without saying the blessings. Nevertheless, I did not\nunderstand how he existed, and why the Lord allowed him to remain in the\nworld. Why was he not choked at table? And why did the hair not fall out\nof his uncovered head? I had heard from my teacher, Mottel, the \"Angel\nof Death,\" from his own mouth, that this German Jew was only a spirit.\nThat is to say, a Jew was turned into a German; and later on he might\nturn into a wolf, a cow, a horse, or maybe a duck. A duck?\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha! A fine story,\" thought I. But I was genuinely sorry for the\nGerman. Nevertheless, I did not understand why my father, who was a very\northodox Jew, should pay the German Jew so much respect, as also did the\nother Jews who used to come into our house.\n\n\"Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz! Blessed art thou who comest, Reb\nHertz Hertzenhertz!\"\n\nI once ventured to ask my father why this was so, but he thrust me to\none side and said:\n\n\"Go away. It is not your business. Why do you get under our feet? Who\nthe devil wants you? Why the devil can't you take a book into your\nhands? Heh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\nAgain a book? Lord of the world, I also want to see; I also want to hear\nwhat people are saying.\n\nI went into the parlour, hid myself in a corner, and heard everything\nthe men talked about. Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked\nthick black cigars that had a very strong smell. Suddenly my father came\nover to me, and gave me a smack.\n\n\"Are you here again, you idler and good-for-nothing? What will become of\nyou, you dunce? What will become of you? Heh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\nIt was no use. My father drove me out. I took a book into my hands, but\nI did not want to read it. What was I to do? I went about the house,\nfrom one room to the other, until I came to the nicest room of all--the\nroom in which slept Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and\nbright it was! The lamps were lit, and the mirror shone. On the table\nwas a big, beautiful silver inkstand, and beautiful pens, also little\nornaments--men, and animals, and flowers, and bones and stones, and a\nlittle knife! Ah, what a beautiful knife! What if I had such a knife?\nWhat fine things I would make with it. How happy I should be. Well, I\nmust try it. Is it sharp? Ah, it cuts a hair. It slices up a hair. Oh,\noh, oh, what a knife!\n\nOne moment I held the knife in my hand. I looked about me on all sides,\nand slipped it into my pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was beating\nso loudly that I could hear it saying, \"Tick, tick, tick!\" I heard some\none coming. It was he--Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, what was I to do?\nThe knife might remain in my pocket. I could put it back later on.\nMeanwhile, I must get out of the room, run away, away, far.\n\nI could eat no supper that night. My mother felt my head. My father\nthrew angry glances at me, and told me to go to bed. Sleep? Could I\nclose my eyes? I was like dead. What was I to do with the little knife?\nHow was I going to put it back again?\n\n* * *\n\n\"Come over here, my little ornament,\" said my father to me next day.\n\"Did you see the little pocket-knife anywhere?\"\n\nOf course I was very much frightened. It seemed to me that he knew--that\neverybody knew. I was almost, almost crying out: \"The pocket-knife? Here\nit is.\" But something came into my throat, and would not let me utter a\nsound for a minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied:\n\n\"Where? What pocket-knife?\"\n\n\"Where? What knife?\" my father mocked at me. \"What knife? The golden\nknife. Our guest's knife, you good-for-nothing, you! You dunce, you!\nTkeh-heh-heh!\"\n\n\"What do you want of the child?\" put in my mother. \"The child knows\nnothing of anything, and he worries him about the knife, the knife.\"\n\n\"The knife--the knife! How can he not know about it?\" cried my father\nangrily. \"All the morning he hears me shouting--The knife! The knife!\nThe knife! The house is turned upside down for the knife, and he asks\n'Where? What knife?' Go away. Go and wash yourself, you\ngood-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce! Tkeh-heh-heh!\"\n\nI thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they did not search me. But\nwhat was I to do next? The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe\nplace. Where was I to hide it? Ah! In the attic. I took the knife\nquickly from my pocket, and stuck it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did\nnot know what I was eating. I was choking.\n\n\"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil ...?\" asked my father.\n\n\"I am hurrying off to school,\" I answered, and grew red as fire.\n\n\"A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say to such a saint?\" he\nmuttered, and glared at me. I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and\nsay grace.\n\n\"Well, why are you not off to '_Cheder_,' my saint?\" asked my father.\n\n\"Why do you hunt him so?\" asked my mother. \"Let the child sit a minute.\"\n\nI was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the beautiful knife. It lay\nthere in silence.\n\n\"What are you doing in the attic?\" called out my father. \"You\ngood-for-nothing! You street-boy! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\n\"I am looking for something,\" I answered. I nearly fell down with\nfright.\n\n\"Something? What is the something? What sort of a thing is that\nsomething?\"\n\n\"A--a bo--ok. An--an old '_Ge--gemar--ra_.'\"\n\n\"What? A '_Gemarra_'? In the attic? Ah, you scamp you! Come down at\nonce. Come down. You'll get it from me. You street-boy! You dog-beater!\nYou rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\nI was not so much afraid of my father's anger as that the pocket-knife\nmight be found. Who could tell? Perhaps some one would go up to the\nattic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the rafters? The knife\nmust be taken down from there, and hidden in a better place. I went\nabout in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father told me that he\nknew, and that now, now he was going to talk to me of the guest's knife.\nI had a place for it--a grand place. I would bury it in the ground, in a\nhole near the wall. I would put some straw on the spot to mark it. The\nmoment I came from \"_Cheder_\" I ran out into the yard. I took the knife\ncarefully from my pocket, but had no time to look at it, when my father\ncalled out:\n\n\"Where are you at all? Why don't you go and say your prayers? You\nswine-herd you! You are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh!\"\n\nBut whatever my father said to me, and as much as the teacher beat me,\nit was all rubbish to me when I came home, and had the pleasure of\nseeing my one and only dear friend--my little knife. The pleasure was,\nalas! mixed with pain, and embittered by fear--by great fear.\n\n* * *\n\nIt is the summer time. The sun is setting. The air grows somewhat\ncooler. The grass emits a sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick\nclouds fly by, without rain, across the moon. They wish to swallow her\nup. The silvery white moon hides herself every minute, and shows herself\nagain. It seemed to me that she was flying and flying, but was still on\nthe same spot. My father sat down on the grass, in a long mantle. He had\none hand in the bosom of his coat, and with the other he smoothed down\nthe grass. He looked up at the star-spangled sky, and coughed and\ncoughed. His face was like death, silvery white. He was sitting on the\nexact spot where the little knife was hidden. He knew nothing of what\nwas in the earth under him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance,\nwould he say, and what would happen to me?\n\n\"Aha!\" thought I within myself, \"you threw away my knife with the curved\nblade, and now I have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on it,\nand you know nothing. Oh, father, father!\"\n\n\"Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat?\" asked my father. \"Why do you\nsit with folded arms like a self-satisfied old man? Can you not find\nsomething to do? Have you said the night prayer? May the devil not take\nyou, scamp! May an evil end not come upon you! Tkeh-heh-heh!\"\n\nWhen he says may the devil _not_ take you, and may an evil end _not_\ncome upon you, then he is not angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that\nhe is in a good humour. And, surely, how could one help being in a good\nhumour on such a wonderfully beautiful night, when every one is drawn\nout of doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant sky?\nEvery one is now out of doors--my father, my mother, and the younger\nchildren who are looking for little stones and playing in the sand. Herr\nHertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the yard, without a hat, smoking a\ncigar, and singing a German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably\nhe was laughing because my father was driving me away. But I laughed at\nthem all. Soon they would be going to bed, and I would go out into the\nyard (I slept in the open, before the door, because of the great heat),\nand I would rejoice in, and play with my knife.\n\nThe house is asleep. It is silent around and about. Cautiously I get up;\nI am on all fours, like a cat; and I steal out into the yard. The night\nis silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly I creep over to the spot\nwhere the little knife lies buried. I take it out carefully, and look at\nit by the light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like guinea-gold,\nlike a diamond. I lift up my eyes, and I see that the moon is looking\nstraight down on my knife. Why is she looking at it so? I turn round.\nShe looks after me. Maybe she knows whose knife it is, and where I got\nit? Got it? Stole it!\n\nFor the first time since the knife came into my hands has this terrible\nword entered my thoughts. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a\ncommon thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, are written, in\nbig letters: \"THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.\"\n\nThou shalt not steal. And I have stolen. What will they do to me in hell\nfor that? Woe is me! They will cut off my hand--the hand that stole.\nThey will whip me with iron rods. They will roast and burn me in a hot\noven. I will glow for ever and ever. The knife must be given back. The\nknife must be put back in its place. One must not hold a stolen knife.\nTomorrow I will put it back.\n\nThat was what I decided. And I put the knife into my bosom. I imagined\nit was burning, scorching me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the\nearth till tomorrow. The moon still looked down on me. What was she\nlooking at? The moon saw. She was a witness.\n\nI crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place. I lay down again, but\ncould not sleep. I tossed about from side to side, but could not fall\nasleep. It was already day when I dozed off. I dreamt of a moon, I\ndreamt of iron rods, and I dreamt of little knives. I got up very early,\nsaid my prayers with pleasure, with delight, ate my breakfast while\nstanding on one foot, and marched off to \"_Cheder_.\"\n\n\"Why are you in such a hurry for '_Cheder_'?\" cried my father to me.\n\"What is driving you? You will not lose your knowledge if you go a\nlittle later. You will have time enough for mischief. You scamp! You\nepicurean! You heathen! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Why so late? Just look at this.\" The teacher stopped me, and pointed\nwith his finger at my comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in\nthe corner with his head down.\n\n\"Do you see, bandit? You must know that from this day his name is not\nBerrel the red one, as he was called. He is now called a fine name. His\nname is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, children. Berrel the thief!\nBerrel the thief!\"\n\nThe teacher drew out the words, and put a little tune into them. The\npupils repeated them after him, like a chorus.\n\n\"Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!\"\n\nI was petrified. A cold wave passed over my body. I did not know what it\nall meant.\n\n\"Why are you silent, you heathen, you?\" cried the teacher, and gave me\nan unexpected smack in the face. \"Why are you silent, you heathen? Don't\nyou hear the others singing? Join in with them, and help them. Berrel\nthe thief--Berrel the thief!\"\n\nMy limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I helped the others to shout\naloud \"Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!\"\n\n\"Louder, heathen,\" prompted the teacher. \"In a stronger\nvoice--stronger.\"\n\nAnd I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out in a variety of\nvoices, \"Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!\"\n\n\"Sh--sh--sh--a--a--ah!\" cried the teacher, banging the table with his\nopen hand. \"Hush! Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing\njudgment.\" He spoke in a sing-song voice.\n\n\"Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my child. Quicker, a little\nquicker. Tell me, my boy, what your name is.\" This also was said in a\nsing-song.\n\n\"Berrel.\"\n\n\"What else?\"\n\n\"Berrel--Berrel the thief.\"\n\n\"That's right, my dear child. Now you are a good boy. May your strength\nincrease, and may you grow stronger in every limb!\" (Still in the same\nsing-song.) \"Take off your clothes. That's right. But can't you do it\nquicker? I beg of you, be quick about it. That's right, little Berrel,\nmy child.\"\n\nBerrel stood before us as naked as when he was born. Not a drop of blood\nshowed in his body. He did not move a limb. His eyes were lowered. He\nwas as dead as a corpse.\n\nThe teacher called out one of the older scholars, still speaking in the\nsame sing-song voice:\n\n\"Well, now, Hirschalle, come out from behind the table, over here to me.\nQuicker. Just so. And now tell us the story from beginning to end--how\nour Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, pay attention.\"\n\nAnd Hirschalle began to tell the story. Berrel had got the little\ncollecting box of \"Reb\" Mayer the \"Wonder-worker,\" into which his mother\nthrew a \"_kopek_,\" sometimes two, every Friday, before lighting the\nSabbath candles. Berrel had fixed his eyes on that box, on which there\nhung a little lock. By means of a straw gummed at the end, he had\nmanaged to extract the \"_kopeks_\" from the box, one by one. His mother,\nSlatte, the hoarse one, suspecting something wrong, opened the box, and\nfound in it one of the straws tipped with gum. She beat her son Berrel.\nAnd after the whipping she had prevailed on the teacher to give him, he\nconfessed that for a whole year--a round year, he had been extracting\nthe \"_kopeks_,\" one by one, and that, every Sunday, he had bought\nhimself two little cakes, some locust beans, and--and so forth, and so\nforth.\n\n\"Now, boys, pronounce judgment on him. You know how to do it. This is\nnot the first time. Let each give his verdict, and say what must be done\nto a boy who steals '_kopeks_' from a charity-box, by means of a straw.\"\n\nThe teacher put his head to one side. He closed his eyes, and turned his\nright ear to Hirschalle. Hirschalle answered at the top of his voice:\n\n\"A thief who steals '_kopeks_' from a charity-box should be flogged\nuntil the blood spurts from him.\"\n\n\"Moshalle, what is to be done to a thief who steals '_kopeks_' from a\ncharity-box?\"\n\n\"A thief,\" replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice, \"a thief who steals\n'_kopeks_' from a charity-box should be stretched out. Two boys should\nbe put on his head, two on his feet, and two should flog him with\npickled rods.\"\n\n\"Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a thief who steals '_kopeks_'\nfrom a charity-box?\"\n\nKopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pronounce the letters K and G,\nwiped his face, and gave his verdict in a squeaking voice.\n\n\"A boy who steals 'topets' from the charity-bots should be punished lite\nthis. Every boy should do over to him, and shout into his face, three\ntimes, thief, thief, thief.\"\n\nThe whole school laughed. The master put his thumb on his wind-pipe,\nlike a cantor, and called out to me, as if I were a bridegroom being\ncalled up, at the synagogue, to read the portion of the Law for the\nweek:\n\n\"Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would you say should be done to\na thief who steals '_kopeks_' from a charity-box.\"\n\nI tried to reply, but my tongue would not obey me. I shivered as with\nague. Something was in my throat, choking me. A cold sweat broke out all\nover my body. There was a whistling in my ears. I saw before me, not the\nteacher, nor the naked Berrel the thief, nor my comrades. I saw before\nme only knives--pocket-knives without an end, white, open knives that\nhad many blades. And there, beside the door, hung the moon. She looked\nat me, and smiled, like a human being. My head was going round. The\nwhole room--the table and the books, the boys and the moon that hung\nbeside the door, and the little knives--all were whirling round. I felt\nas if my two feet were chopped off. Another moment, and I might have\nfallen down, but I controlled myself with all my strength, and I did not\nfall.\n\nIn the evening, I came home, and felt that my face was burning. My\ncheeks were on fire, and in my ears was a hissing noise. I heard some\none speaking to me, but what they said I do not know. My father was\nsaying something, and seemed to be angry. He wanted to beat me. My\nmother intervened. She spread out her apron, as a clucking hen spreads\nout her wing to defend her chickens from injury. I heard nothing, and\ndid not want to hear. I only wanted the darkness to fall sooner, so that\nI might make an end of the little knife. What was I to do with it?\nConfess everything, and give it up? Then I would suffer the same\npunishment as Berrel. Throw it carelessly somewhere? But I may be\ncaught? Throw it away, and no more, so long as I am rid of it? Where was\nI to throw it in order that it might not be found by anybody? On the\nroof? The noise would be heard. In the garden? It might be found. Ah, I\nknow! I have a plan, I'll throw it into the water. A good plan, as I\nlive. I'll throw it into the well that is in our own yard. This plan\npleased me so much that I did not wish to dwell on it longer. I took up\nthe knife, and ran off straight to the well. It seemed to me that I was\ncarrying in my hand not a knife but something repulsive--a filthy little\ncreature of which I must rid myself at once. But, still I was sorry. It\nwas such a fine little knife. For a moment, I stood thinking, and it\nseemed to me that I was holding in my hand a living thing. My heart\nached for it. Surely, surely, it has cost me so much heartache. It is a\npity for the living. I summoned all my courage, and let it out suddenly\nfrom my fingers. Plash! The water bubbled up for a moment. Nothing more\nwas heard, and my knife was gone. I stood a moment at the well and\nlistened. I heard nothing. Thank God, I was rid of it. My heart was\nfaint, and full of longing. Surely, it was a fine knife--such a knife!\n\n* * *\n\nI went back to bed, and saw that the moon was still looking down at me.\nAnd it seemed to me she had seen everything I had done. From the\ndistance a voice seemed to be saying to me: \"But, you are a thief all\nthe same. Catch him, beat him. He is a thief, a thief.\"\n\nI stole back into the house, and into my own bed.\n\nI dreamt that I ran, swept through the air. I flew with my little knife\nin my hand. And the moon looked at me and said:\n\n\"Catch him, beat him. He is a thief--a thief.\"\n\n* * *\n\nA long, long sleep, and a heavy, a very heavy dream. A fire burnt within\nme. My head was buzzing. Everything I saw was red as blood. Burning rods\nof fire cut into my flesh. I was swimming in blood. Around me wriggled\nsnakes and serpents. They had their mouths open, ready to swallow me.\nRight into my ears some one was blowing a trumpet. And, some one was\nstanding over me, and shouting, keeping time with the trumpet: \"Whip\nhim, whip him, whip him. He is a thie--ef.\" And I myself shouted: \"Oh,\noh, take the moon away from me. Give her up the little knife. What have\nyou against poor Berrel? He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief--a\nthief.\"\n\nBeyond that, I remember nothing.\n\n* * *\n\nI opened one eye, then the other. Where was I? On a bed, I think. Ah, is\nthat you, mother, mother? She does not hear me. Mother, mother,\nmo--o--other! What is this? I imagine I am shouting aloud. Shah! I\nlisten. She is weeping silently. I also see my father, with his yellow,\nsickly face. He is sitting near me, an open book in his hand. He reads,\nand sighs, and coughs and groans. It seems that I am dead already.\nDead?... All at once, I feel that it is growing brighter before my eyes.\nEverything is growing lighter, too. My head and my limbs are lighter.\nThere is a ringing in my ear, and in my other ear. Tschinna! I sneezed.\nAkhstchu!\n\n\"Good health! May your days be lengthened! May your years be prolonged!\nIt is a good sign. Blessed art Thou, O Lord!\"\n\n\"Sneezed in reality? Blessed be the Most High!\"\n\n\"Let us call at once Mintze the butcher's wife. She knows how to avert\nthe evil eye.\"\n\n\"The doctor ought to be called--the doctor.\"\n\n\"The doctor? What for? That is nonsense. The Most High is the best\ndoctor. Blessed be the Lord, and praised be His Name!\"\n\n\"Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is terribly hot. In the name of\nGod, go away.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover him with wax. Well, who is\nright?\"\n\n\"Praise be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy Name! Ah, God! God! Blessed\nbe the Lord! and praised be His Holy Name!\"\n\nThey fluttered about me. They looked at me. Each one came and felt my\nhead. They prayed over me, and buzzed around me. They licked my\nforehead, and spat out, by way of a charm. They poured hot soup down my\nthroat, and filled my mouth with spoonfuls of preserves. Every one flew\naround me. They cared for me as if I were the apple of their eye. They\nfed me with broths and tiny chickens, as if I were an infant. They did\nnot leave me alone. My mother sat by me always, and told me over and\nover again the whole story of how they had lifted me up from the ground,\nalmost dead, and how I had been lying for two weeks on end, burning like\na fire, croaking like a frog, and muttering something about whippings\nand little knives. They already imagined I was dead, when suddenly I\nsneezed seven times. I had practically come to life again.\n\n\"Now we see what a great God we have, blessed be He, and praised be His\nName!\" That was how my mother ended up, the tears springing to her eyes.\n\"Now we can see that when we call to Him He listens to our sinful\nrequests and our guilty tears. We shed a lot, a lot of tears, your\nfather and I, until the Lord had pity on us.... We nearly, nearly lost\nour child through our sinfulness. May we suffer in your stead! And\nthrough what? Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel whom the\nteacher flogged at '_Cheder_,' almost until he bled. When you came home\nfrom '_Cheder_' you were more dead than alive. May your mother suffer\ninstead of you! The teacher is a tyrant, a murderer. The Lord will\npunish him for it--the Lord of the Universe. No, my child, if the Lord\nlets us live, when you get well, we will send you to another teacher,\nnot to such a tyrant as is the 'Angel of Death,'--may his name be\nblotted out for ever!\"\n\nThese words made a terrible impression on me. I threw my arms around my\nmother, and kissed her.\n\n\"Dear, dear mother.\"\n\nAnd my father came over to me softly. He put his cold, white hand on my\nforehead, and said to me kindly, without a trace of anger:\n\n\"Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!\"\n\nAlso the Jewish German, or the German Jew, Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, his\ncigar between his teeth, bent down and touched my cheek, with his\nclean-shaven chin. He said to me in German:\n\n\"Good! Good! Be well--be well!\"\n\n* * *\n\nA few weeks after I got out of bed, my father said to me:\n\n\"Well, my son, now go to '_Cheder_,' and never think of little knives\nagain, or other such nonsense. It is time you began to be a bit of a\nman. If it please God, you will be '_Bar-Mitzvah_' in three years--may\nyou live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh-heh-heh!\"\n\nWith such sweet words did my father send me off to \"_Cheder_,\" to my new\nteacher, \"_Reb_\" Chayim Kotter. It was the first time that I had heard\nsuch good kind words from my father. And I forgot, in a moment, all his\nharshness, and all his abuse, and all his blows. It was as if they had\nnever existed in the world. If I were not ashamed, I would have thrown\nmy arms about his neck, and kissed him. But how can one kiss a father?\nHa! ha! ha!\n\nMy mother gave me a whole apple and three \"_groschens_\" to take to\n\"_Cheder_,\" and the German gave me a few \"_kopeks_.\" He pinched my\ncheek, and said in his language:\n\n\"Best boy, good, good!\"\n\nI took my \"_Gemarra_\" under my arm, kissed the \"_Mezuzah_,\" and went off\nto \"_Cheder_\" like one newly born, with a clean heart, and fresh, pious\nthoughts. The sun looked down, and greeted me with its warm rays. The\nlittle breeze stole in under one of my earlocks. The birds\ntwittered--Tif--tif--tif--tif! I was lifted up. I was borne on the\nbreeze. I wanted to run, jump, dance. Oh, how good it is--how sweet to\nbe alive and to be honest, when one is not a thief and not a liar.\n\nI pressed my \"_Gemarra_\" tightly to my breast, and still tighter. I ran\nto \"_Cheder_\" with pleasure, with joy. And I swore by my \"_Gemarra_\"\nthat I would never, never touch what belonged to another--never, never\nsteal, and never, never deny anything again. I would always be honest,\nfor ever and ever honest.\n\n\n\n\nOn the Fiddle\n\n\nChildren, I will now play for you a little tune on the fiddle. I imagine\nthere is nothing better and finer in the world than to be able to play\non the fiddle. What? Perhaps it is not so? I don't know how it is with\nyou. But I know that since I first reached the age of understanding, my\nheart longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any musician whatever--no\nmatter what instrument he played. If there was a wedding anywhere in the\ntown, I was the first to run forward and welcome the musicians. I loved\nto steal over to the bass, and draw my fingers across one of the\nstrings--Boom! And I flew away. Boom! And I flew away. For this same\n\"boom\" I once got it hot from Berel Bass. Berel Bass--a cross Jew with a\nflattened out nose, and a sharp glance--pretended not to see me stealing\nover to the bass. And when I stretched out my hand to the thick string,\nhe caught hold of me by the ear and dragged me, respectfully, to the\ndoor:\n\n\"Here, scamp, kiss the '_Mezuzah_.'\"\n\nBut this was not of much consequence to me. It did not make me go a\nsingle step from the musicians. I loved them all, from Sheika the little\nfiddler with his beautiful black beard and his thin white hands, to\nGetza the drummer with his beautiful hump, and, if you will forgive me\nfor mentioning it, the big bald patches behind his ears. Not once, but\nmany times did I lie hidden under a bench, listening to the musicians\nplaying, though I was frequently found and sent home. And from there,\nfrom under the bench, I could see how Sheika's thin little fingers\ndanced about over the strings; and I listened to the sweet sounds which\nhe drew so cleverly out of the little fiddle.\n\nAfterwards I used to go about in a state of great inward excitement for\nmany days on end. And Sheika and his little fiddle stood before my eyes\nalways. At night I saw him in my dreams; and in the daytime I saw him in\nreality; and he never left my imagination. When no one was looking I\nused to imagine that I was Sheika, the little fiddler. I used to curve\nmy left arm and move my fingers, and draw out my right hand, as if I\nwere drawing the bow across the strings. At the same time I threw my\nhead to one side, closing my eyes a little--just as Sheika did, not a\nhair different.\n\nMy \"_Rebbe_,\" Nota-Leib, once caught me doing this. It happened in the\nmiddle of a lesson. I was moving my arms about, throwing my head to one\nside, and blinking my eyes, and he gave me a sound box on the ears.\n\n\"What a scamp can do! We are teaching him his lessons, and he makes\nfaces and catches flies!\"\n\n* * *\n\nI promised myself that, even if the world turned upside down, I must\nhave a little fiddle, let it cost me what it would. But what was I to\nmake a fiddle out of? Of cedar wood, of course. But it's easy to talk of\ncedar wood. How was I to come by it when, as everybody knows, the cedar\ntree grows only in Palestine? But what does the Lord do for me? He goes\nand puts a certain thought in my head. In our house there was an old\nsofa. This sofa was left us, as a legacy, by our grandfather \"_Reb_\"\nAnshel. And my two uncles fought over this sofa with my father--peace be\nunto him! My uncle Benny argued that since he was my grandfather's\noldest son, the sofa belonged to him; and my uncle Sender argued that he\nwas the youngest son, and that the sofa belonged to him. And my\nfather--peace be unto him!--argued that although he was no more than a\nson-in-law to my grandfather, and had no personal claim on the sofa,\nstill, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of\n\"_Reb_\" Anshel, the sofa belonged, by right, to her. But all this\nhappened long ago. And as the sofa has remained in our house, this was a\nproof that it was our sofa. And our two aunts interfered, my aunt Etka,\nand my aunt Zlatka. They began to invent scandals and to carry tales\nfrom one house to another. It was sofa and sofa, and nothing else but\nsofa! The town rocked, all because of the sofa. However, to make a long\nstory short, the sofa remained our sofa.\n\nThis same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa covered with a thin veneer.\nThis veneer had come unloosened in many places and was split up. It had\nnow a number of small mounds. And the upper layer of the veneer which\nhad come unloosened was of the real cedar wood--the wood of which\nfiddles are made. At least, that is what I was told at school. The sofa\nhad one fault, and this fault was, in reality, a good quality. For\ninstance, when one sat on it one could not get up off it again because\nit stood a little on the slant. One side was higher than the other, and\nin the middle there was a hole. And the good thing about our sofa was\nthat no one wanted to sit on it, and it was put away in a corner, to one\nside, in compulsory retirement.\n\nIt was on this sofa that I had cast my eyes, to make a fiddle out of the\ncedar wood veneer. A bow I had already provided myself with, long ago. I\nhad a comrade, Shimalle Yudel, the car-owner's son. He promised me a few\nhairs from the tail of his father's horse. And resin to smear the bow\nwith I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles. I got the resin from\nanother friend of mine, Mayer-Lippa, Sarah's son, for a bit of steel\nfrom my mother's old crinoline which had been knocking about in the\nattic. Out of this piece of steel, Mayer Lippa afterwards made himself a\nlittle knife. It is true when I saw the knife I wanted him to change\nback again with me. But he would not have it. He began to shout:\n\n\"A clever fellow that! What do you say to him! I worked hard for three\nwhole nights. I sharpened and sharpened and cut all my fingers\nsharpening, and now he comes and wants me to change back again with\nhim!\"\n\n\"Just look at him!\" I cried. \"Well then, it won't be! A great bargain\nfor you--a little bit of steel! Isn't there enough steel knocking about\nin our attic? There will be enough for our children, and our children's\nchildren even.\"\n\nAnyway, I had everything that was necessary. And there only remained one\nthing for me to do--to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For this\nwork I selected a very good time, when my mother was in the shop, and my\nfather had gone to lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself in\na corner and, with a big nail, I betook myself to my work in good\nearnest. My father heard, in his sleep, how some one was scraping\nsomething. At first he thought there were mice in the house, and he\nbegan to make a noise from his bedroom to drive them off--\"Kush! Kush!\"\nI was like dead.... My father turned over on the other side and when I\nheard him snoring again, I went back to my work. Suddenly I looked about\nme. My father was standing and staring at me with curious eyes. It\nappeared that he could not, on any account, understand what was going\non--what I was doing. Then, when he saw the spoiled and torn sofa, he\nrealized what I had done. He pulled me out of the corner by the ear and\nbeat me so much that I fainted away and had to be revived. I actually\nhad to have cold water thrown over me to bring me to life again.\n\n\"The Lord be with you! What have you done to the child?\" my mother\nwailed, the tears starting to her eyes.\n\n\"Your beautiful son! He will drive me into my grave, while I am still\nliving,\" said my father, who was white as chalk. He put his hand to his\nheart and was attacked by a fit of coughing which lasted several\nminutes.\n\n\"Why should you eat your heart out like this?\" my mother asked him. \"As\nit is you are a sickly man. Just look at the face you've got. May my\nenemies have as healthy a year!\"\n\n* * *\n\nMy desire to play the fiddle grew with me. The older I grew, the\nstronger became my desire. And, as if out of spite, I was destined to\nhear music every day of the week. Right in the middle of the road,\nhalfway between my home and the school, stood a little house covered\nwith earth. And from that house came forth various sweet sounds. But\nmost often than all the playing of a fiddle could be heard. In that\nhouse there lived a musician whose name was Naphtali \"_Bezborodka_,\"--a\nJew who wore a short jacket, curled-up earlocks, and a starched collar.\nHe had a fine-sized nose. It looked as if it had been stuck on his face.\nHe had thick lips and black teeth. His face was pock-pitted, and had not\non it even signs of a beard. That is why he was called \"_Bezborodka_,\"\nthe Beardless One. He had a wife who was like a machine. The people\ncalled her \"Mother Eve.\" Of children he had about a dozen and a half.\nThey were ragged, half-naked, and bare-footed. And each child, from the\nbiggest to the smallest, played on a musical instrument. One played the\nfiddle, another the 'cello, another the double-bass, another the\ntrumpet, another the \"_Ballalaika_,\" another the drum, and another the\ncymbals. And amongst them there were some who could whistle the longest\nmelody with their lips, or between their teeth. Others could play tunes\non little glasses, or little pots, or bits of wood. And some made music\nwith their faces. They were demons, evil spirits--nothing else.\n\nI made the acquaintance of this family quite by accident. One day, as I\nwas standing outside the window of their house, listening to them\nplaying, one of the children, Pinna the flautist, a youth of about\nfifteen, in bare feet, caught sight of me through the window. He came\nout to me and asked me if I liked his playing.\n\n\"I only wish,\" said I, \"that I may play as well as you in ten years'\ntime.\"\n\n\"Can't you manage it?\" he asked of me. And he told me that for two and a\nhalf '_roubles_' a month, his father would teach me how to play. But if\nI liked he himself, the son, that is, would teach me.\n\n\"Which instrument would you like to learn to play?\" he asked. \"On the\nfiddle?\"\n\n\"On the fiddle.\"\n\n\"On the fiddle?\" he repeated. \"Can you pay two and a half '_roubles_' a\nmonth? Or are you as unfortunate as I am?\"\n\n\"So far as that goes, I can manage it,\" I said. \"But what then? Neither\nmy father nor my mother, nor my teacher must know that I am learning to\nplay the fiddle.\"\n\n\"The Lord keep us from telling it!\" he cried. \"Whose business is it to\ndrum the news through the town? Maybe you have on you a cigar end, or a\ncigarette? No? You don't smoke? Then lend me a '_kopek_' and I will buy\ncigarettes for myself. But you must tell no one, because my father must\nnot know that I smoke. And if my mother finds that I have money, she\nwill take it from me and buy rolls for supper. Come into the house. What\nare we standing here for?\"\n\n* * *\n\nWith great fear, with a palpitating heart and trembling limbs, I crossed\nthe threshold of the house that was to me a little Garden of Eden.\n\nMy friend Pinna introduced me to his father.\n\n\"Shalom--Nahum Veviks--a rich man's boy. He wants to learn to play the\nfiddle.\"\n\nNaphtali \"_Bezborodka_\" twirled his earlocks, straightened his collar,\nbuttoned up his coat, and started a long conversation with me, all about\nmusic and musical instruments in general and the fiddle in particular.\nHe gave me to understand that the fiddle was the best and most beautiful\nof all instruments. There was none older and none more wonderful in the\nworld than the fiddle. To prove this to me, he went on to tell me that\nthe fiddle was always the leading instrument of any orchestra, and not\nthe trumpet or the flute. And this was simply because the fiddle was the\nmother of all musical instruments.\n\nAnd so it came about that Naphtali \"_Bezborodka_\" gave me a whole\nlecture on music. Whilst he was speaking he gesticulated with his hands\nand moved his nose, and I stood staring right into his mouth. I looked\nat his black teeth and swallowed, yes, positively swallowed, every word\nthat he said.\n\n\"The fiddle, you must understand,\" went on Naphtali \"_Bezborodka_\" to\nme, and evidently satisfied with the lecture he was giving me, \"the\nfiddle, you must understand, is an instrument that is older than all\nother instruments. The first man in the world to play on the fiddle was\nJubal-Cain, or Methuselah, I don't exactly remember which. You will know\nthat better than I, for, to be sure, you are learning Bible history at\nschool. The second fiddler in the world was King David. Another great\nfiddler--the third greatest in the world--was Paganini. He also was a\nJew. All the best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance there\nwas '_Stempenyu_,' and there was '_Pedotchur_.' Of myself I say nothing.\nPeople tell me that I do not play the fiddle badly. But how can I come\nup to Paganini? They say that Paganini sold his soul to the Ashmodai for\na fiddle. Paganini hated to play before great people like kings and\npopes, although they covered him with gold. He would much rather play at\nwayside inns for poor folks, or in villages. Or else he would play in\nthe forest for wild beasts and fowls of the air. What a fiddler Paganini\nwas!...\n\n\"Eh, boys, to your places! To your instruments!\"\n\nThat was the order which Naphtali \"_Bezborodka_\" gave to his regiment of\nchildren, all of whom came together in one minute. Each one took up an\ninstrument. Naphtali himself stood up, beat his baton on the table,\nthrew a sharp glance on every separate child and on all at once; and\nthey began to play a concert on every sort of instrument with so much\nforce that I was almost knocked off my feet. Each child tried to make\nmore noise than the other. But above all, I was nearly deafened by the\nnoise that one boy made, a little fellow who was called Hemalle. He was\na dry little boy with a wet little nose, and dirty bare little feet.\nHemalle played a curiously made instrument. It was a sort of sack which,\nwhen you blew it up, let out a mad screech--a peculiar sound like a yell\nof a cat after you have trodden on its tail. Hemalle beat time with his\nlittle bare foot. And all the while he kept looking at me out of his\nroguish little eyes, and winking to me as if he would say: \"Well, isn't\nit so? I blow well--don't I?\" But it was Naphtali himself who worked the\nhardest of all. Along with playing the fiddle, he led the orchestra,\nwaved his hands about, shifted his feet, and moved his nose, and his\neyes and his whole body. And if some one made a mistake--God forbid! he\nground his teeth and shouted in anger:\n\n\"Forte, devil, forte! Fortissimo! Time, wretch, time! One, two, three!\nOne, two, three!\"\n\n* * *\n\nHaving arranged with Naphtali \"_Bezborodka_\" that he should give me\nthree lessons a week, of an hour and a half each day, for two\n\"_roubles_\" a month, I again and yet again begged of him that he would\nkeep my visits a secret of secrets; for if he did not, I would be lost\nforever. He promised me faithfully that not even a bird would hear of my\ncoming and going.\n\n\"We are the sort of people,\" he said to me, proudly, fixing his collar\nin place, \"we are the sort of people who never have any money. But you\nwill find more honour and justice in our house than in the house of the\nrichest man. Maybe you have a few '_groschens_' about you?\"\n\nI took out a \"_rouble_\" and gave it to him. Naphtali took it in the\nmanner of a professor, with his two fingers. He called over \"Mother\nEve,\" turned away his eyes, and said to her:\n\n\"Here! Buy something to eat.\"\n\n\"Mother Eve\" took the \"_rouble_\" from him, but with both hands and all\nher fingers, examined it on all sides, and asked her husband:\n\n\"What shall I buy?\"\n\n\"What you like,\" he answered, pretending not to care. \"Buy a few rolls,\ntwo or three salt herring, and some dried sausage. And don't forget an\nonion, vinegar and oil. Well, and a glass of brandy, say--\"\n\nWhen all these things were brought home and placed upon the table, the\nfamily fell upon them with as much appetite as if they had just ended a\nlong fast. I was actually tempted by an evil spirit; and when they asked\nme to take my place at the table I could not refuse. I do not remember\nwhen I enjoyed a meal as much as I enjoyed the one at the musician's\nhouse that day.\n\nAfter they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked to the children that\nthey should take their instruments in their hands. And he treated me,\nall over again to a piece--\"his own composition.\" This \"composition\" was\nplayed with so much excitement and force that my ears were deafened and\nmy brain was stupefied. I left the house intoxicated by Naphtali\n\"_Bezborodka's_\" \"composition.\" The whole day at school, the teacher and\nthe boys and the books were whirling round and round in front of my\neyes. And my ears were ringing with the echoes of Naphtali's\n\"composition.\" At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini riding on the\nAshmodai, and that he banged me over the head with his fiddle. I awoke\nwith a scream, and a headache, and I began to pour out words as from a\nsack. What I said I do not know. But my older sister, Pessel, told me\nafterwards that I talked in heat, and that there was no connection\nbetween any two words I uttered. I repeated some fantastic\nnames--\"Composition.\" \"Paganini,\" etc.... And there was another thing my\nsister told me. During the time I was lying delirious, several messages\nwere sent from Naphtali the Musician to know how I was. There came some\nbarefoot boy who made many inquiries about me. He was driven off, and\nwas told never to dare to come near the house again....\n\n\"What was the musician's boy doing here?\" asked my sister. And she\ntormented me with questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept\nrepeating the same words:\n\n\"I do not know. As I live, I do not know. How am I to know?\"\n\n\"What does it look like?\" asked my mother. \"You are already a young man,\na grown-up man--may no evil eye harm you! They will be soon looking for\na bride for you, and you go about with fine friends, barefoot young\nmusicians. What business have you with musicians? What was Naphtali the\nMusician's boy doing here?\"\n\n\"What Naphtali?\" I asked, pretending not to understand. \"What musician?\"\n\n\"Just look at him--the saint!\" put in my father. \"He knows nothing about\nanything. Poor thing! His soul is innocent before the Lord! When I was\nyour age I was already long betrothed. And he is still playing with\nstrange boys. Dress yourself, and go off to school. And if you meet\nHershel the Tax-collector, and he asks you what was the matter with you,\nyou are to tell him that you had the ague. Do you hear what I am saying\nto you? The ague!\"\n\nI could not for the life of me understand what business Hershel the\nTax-collector had with me. And for what reason was I to tell him I had\nbeen suffering from the ague?... It was only a few weeks later that this\nriddle was solved for me.\n\n* * *\n\nHershel the Tax-collector was so called because he, and his grandfather\nbefore him, had collected the taxes of the town. It was the privilege of\ntheir family. He was a young man with a round little belly, and a red\nlittle beard, and moist little eyes, and he had a broad white forehead,\na sure sign that he was a man of brains. And he had the reputation in\nour town of being a fine, young man, a modern, and a scholar. He had a\nsound knowledge of the Bible, and was a writer of distinction. That is\nto say, he had a beautiful hand. They say that his manuscripts were\ncarried around and shown in the whole world. And along with these\nqualities, he had money, and he had one little daughter--an only child,\na girl with red hair and moist eyes. She and her father, Hershel the\nTax-collector, were as like as two drops of water. Her name was Esther,\nbut she was called by the nickname of \"Plesteril.\" She was nervous and\ngenteel. She was as frightened of us, schoolboys, as of the Angel of\nDeath, because we used to torment her. We used to tease her and sing\nlittle songs about her:\n\n\"Estheril.\"\n\n\"Plesteril!\"\n\n\"Why have you no little sister?\"\n\nWell, after all, what is there in these words? Nothing, of course.\nNevertheless, whenever \"Plesteril\" heard them, she used to cover up her\nears, run home crying, and hide herself away in the farthest of far\ncorners. And, for several days, she was afraid to go out in the street.\n\nBut that was once on a time, when she was still a child. Now she is a\nyoung woman, and is counted amongst the grown-ups. Her hair was tied up\nin a red plait, and she was dressed like a bride, in the latest\nfashions. My mother had a high opinion of her. She could never praise\nher enough, and called her \"a quiet dove.\" Sometimes, on the Sabbath\nEsther came into our house, to see my sister Pessel. And when she saw\nme, she grew redder than ever, and dropped her eyes. At the same time,\nmy sister Pessel would call me over to ask me something, and also to\nlook into my eyes as she looked into Esther's.\n\nAnd it came to pass that, on a certain day, there came into my school my\nfather and Hershel the Tax-collector. And after them came Shalom-Shachno\nthe Matchmaker--a Jew who had six fingers, and a curly black beard, and\nwho was terribly poor. Seeing such visitors, our teacher, \"_Reb_\"\nZorach, pulled on his long coat, and put his hat on his head. And\nbecause of his great excitement, one of his earlocks got twisted up\nbehind his ear. His hat got creased; and more than half of his little\nround cap was left sticking out at the back of his head, from under his\nhat; and one of his cheeks began to blaze. One could see that something\nextraordinary was going to happen.\n\nOf late, \"_Reb_\" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker had started coming into\nthe school a little too often. He always called the teacher outside,\nwhere they stood talking together for some minutes, whispering and\ngetting excited. The matchmaker gesticulated with his hands, and\nshrugged his shoulders. He always finished up with a sigh, and said:\n\n\"Well, it's the same story again. If it is destined it will probably\ntake place. How can we know anything--how?\"\n\nWhen the visitors came in, our teacher, \"_Reb_\" Zorach, did not know\nwhat to do, or where he was to seat them. He took hold of the kitchen\nstool on which his wife salted the meat, and first of all spun round and\nround with it several times, and went up and down the whole length of\nthe room. After this, he barely managed to place the stool on the floor\nwhen he sat down on it himself. But he at once jumped up again, greatly\nconfused; and he caught hold of the back pocket of his long coat, just\nas if he had lost a purse of money.\n\n\"Here is a stool. Sit down,\" he said to his visitors.\n\n\"It's all right! Sit down, sit down,\" said my father to him. \"We have\ncome in to you, '_Reb_' Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants\nto examine my son--to see what he knows of the Bible.\"\n\nAnd my father pointed to Hershel the Tax-collector.\n\n\"Oh, by all means! Why not?\" answered the teacher, \"_Reb_\" Zorach. He\ntook up a little Bible, and handed it to Hershel the Tax-collector. The\nexpression on his face was as if he were saying: \"Here it is for you,\nand do what you like.\"\n\nHershel the Tax-collector took the Bible in his hand like a man who\nknows thoroughly what he is doing. He twisted his little head to one\nside, closed one eye, turned and turned the pages, and gave me to read\nthe first chapter of the \"Song of Songs.\"\n\n\"Is it the 'Song of Songs'?\" asked my teacher, with a faint smile, as if\nhe would say: \"Could you find nothing more difficult?\"\n\n\"The 'Song of Songs,'\" replied Hershel the Tax-collector. \"The 'Song of\nSongs' is not as easy as you imagine. One must undehstand the 'Song of\nSongs.'\" (Hershel could not pronounce the letter R but said H.)\n\n\"Certainly,\" put in Shalom-Shachno, with a little laugh.\n\nThe teacher gave me a wink. I went over to the table, shook myself to\nand fro for a minute, and began to chant the \"Song of Songs\" to a\nbeautiful melody, first introducing this commentary on it:--\n\n\"The 'Song of Songs'--a song above all songs! All other songs have been\nsung by prophets, but this 'Song' has been sung by a prophet who was the\nson of a prophet. All other songs have been sung by men of wisdom, but\nthis 'Song' has been sung by a man of wisdom who was the son of a man of\nwisdom. All other songs have been sung by kings, but this 'Song' has\nbeen sung by a king who was the son of a king.\"\n\nWhilst I was singing, I glanced quickly at my audience. And on each face\nI could see a different expression. On my father's face I could see\npride and pleasure. On my teacher's face were fear and anxiety, lest,\nGod forbid! I should make a mistake, or commit errors in reading. His\nlips, in silence, repeated every word after me. Hershel the\nTax-collector sat with his head a little to one side, the ends of his\nyellow beard in his mouth, one little eye closed, the other staring up\nat the ceiling. He was listening with the air of a great, great judge.\n\"_Reb_\" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker never took his eyes off Hershel\nfor a single minute. He sat with half his body leaning forward, shaking\nhimself to and fro, as I did. And he could not restrain himself from\ninterrupting me many times by an exclamation, a little laugh and a\ncough, all in one breath, as he waved his double-jointed finger in the\nair.\n\n\"When people say that he knows--then he knows!\"\n\nA few days after this, plates were broken, and in a fortunate hour, I\nwas betrothed to Hershel the Tax-collector's only daughter, Plesteril.\n\n* * *\n\nIt sometimes happens that a man grows in one day more than anybody else\ngrows in ten years. When I was betrothed, I, all at once, began to feel\nthat I was a \"grown-up.\" Surely I was the same as before, and yet I was\nnot the same. From my smallest comrade to my teacher \"_Reb_\" Zorach,\neverybody now began to look upon me with more respect. After all, I was\na bridegroom-elect, and had a watch. And my father also gave up shouting\nat me. Of smacks there is no need to say anything. How could any one\ntake hold of a bridegroom-elect who had a gold watch, and smack his face\nfor him? It would be a disgrace before the whole world, and a shame for\none's own self. It is true that it once happened that a bridegroom-elect\nnamed Eli was flogged at our school, because he had been caught sliding\non the ice with the Gentile boys of the town. But for that again, the\nwhole town made a fine business of the flogging afterwards. When the\nscandal reached the ears of Eli's betrothed, she cried so much until the\nmarriage contract was sent back to the bridegroom-elect, to Eli, that\nis. And through grief and shame, he would have thrown himself into the\nriver, but that the water was frozen....\n\nNearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. But it was not because I got\na flogging, and not because I went sliding on the ice. It was because of\na fiddle.\n\nAnd here is the story for you:--\n\nAt our wine-shop we had a frequent visitor, Tchitchick, the bandmaster,\nwhom we used to call \"Mr. Sergeant.\" He was a tall, powerful man with a\nbig round beard and terrifying eyebrows. And he talked a curiously\nmixed-up jargon composed of several languages. When he talked, he moved\nhis eyebrows up and down. When he lowered his eyebrows, his face was\nblack as night. When he raised them up, his face was bright as day. And\nthis was because, under these same thick eyebrows he had a pair of\nkindly, smiling light blue eyes. He wore a uniform with gilt buttons,\nand that is why he was called at our place \"Mr. Sergeant.\" He was a very\nfrequent visitor at our wine-shop. Not because he was a drunkard. God\nforbid! But for the simple reason that my father was very clever at\nmaking from raisins \"the best and finest Hungarian wine.\" Tchitchick\nused to love this wine. He never ceased from praising it. He used to put\nhis big, terrifying hand on my father's shoulder, and say to him:\n\n\"Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian wine. There isn't such wine\nin Buda Pesth, by God!\"\n\nWith me Tchitchick was always on the most intimate terms. He praised me\nfor learning such a lot at school. He often examined me to see if I knew\nwho Adam was. And who was Isaac? And who was Joseph?\n\n\"Yousef?\" I asked him, in Yiddish. \"Do you mean Yousef the Saint?\"\n\n\"Joseph,\" he repeated.\n\n\"Yousef,\" I corrected him, once again.\n\n\"With us it's Joseph. With you it's Youdsef,\" he said to me, and pinched\nmy cheek. \"Joseph, Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf--what does it matter? It\nis all the same.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\nI buried my face in my hands, and laughed heartily.\n\nBut from the day I became a bridegroom-elect, Tchitchick gave up playing\nwith me as if I were a clown; and he began to talk to me as if I were\nhis equal. He told me stories of the regiment and of musicians. \"Mr.\nSergeant\" had a tremendous lot of talk in him. But no one else excepting\nmyself had the time to listen to him. On one occasion he began to talk\nto me of playing. And I asked him:\n\n\"On which instrument does 'Mr. Sergeant' play?\"\n\n\"On all instruments,\" he answered, and raised his eyebrows at me.\n\n\"On the fiddle, also?\" I asked him. And all at once he took on, in my\nimagination, the face of an angel.\n\n\"Come over to me some day,\" he said, \"and I will play for you.\"\n\n\"When can I come to you Mr. Sargeant, if not on the Sabbath day?\" I\nasked. \"But I can only come on condition that no-one knows anything\nabout it.\" \"Can you promise that?\"\n\n\"As I serve God,\" he exclaimed, and lifted his eyebrows at me.\n\nTchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy\nwindows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green\ngarden from out of which peeked proudly a number of tall, yellow\nsunflowers. As if they were something important. They bent their heads a\nlittle to one side and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed to me that\nthey were calling out to me, \"Come over here to us, boy.\" \"There is\ngrass here. There is freedom here. There is light here. It is fresh\nhere. It is warm here. It is pleasant here.\" And after the stench and\nheat and dust of the town, and after the overcrowding and the noise and\nthe tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get here because there\nis grass here. It is fresh here. It is bright here. It is warm here. It\nis pleasant here. One longs to run, leap shout and sing. Or else one\nwants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in\nthe green sweet smelling grass.\n\nBut alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green\nleaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. Do not be offended Jewish\nchildren. But all these have not grown up out of your rubbish.\n\nI was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with red, fiery eyes. He fell upon\nme with so much fierceness that the soul almost dropped out of my body.\nIt was fortunate that he was tied up with a rope.\n\nOn hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew out without his jacket and began\nordering the dog to be silent. And he was silent.\n\nAfterwards, Tchitchick took hold of my hand, led me straight to the\nblack dog and told me not to be afraid. He would not harm me.\n\n\"Just try and pat him on the back,\" said Tchitchick to me. And without\nwaiting, took hold of my hand and drew it all over the dog's skin. At\nthe same time calling him many curious names and speaking kind words to\nhim.\n\nThe black villain lowered his head, wagged his tail and licked himself\nwith his tongue. He threw at me a glance of contempt. As if he would\nsay, \"It's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you.\nOtherwise you would have gone from here without a hand.\"\n\nI got over my terror of the dog. I entered the house with Mr. Sargeant\nand I was struck dumb with astonishment. All the walls were covered with\nguns. From top to bottom. And on the floor lay a skin with the head of a\nlion or a leopard. It had terribly sharp teeth. But the lion was half an\nevil. After all, it was dead. But the guns. The guns! I did not even\ncare about the fresh plums and the apples which the master of the house\noffered me out of his own garden. My eyes did not cease leaping from one\nwall to the other.... But later on, when Tchitchick took a little fiddle\nout of a red drawer--a beautiful, round little fiddle, with a curious\nlittle belly, let his big spreading beard droop over it, and held it\nwith his big strong hands, and drew the bow across the strings a few\ntimes, backwards and forwards, I forgot, in the blinking of an eye, the\nblack dog and the terrible lion, and the loaded guns. I only saw before\nme Tchitchick's spreading beard and his black, lowered eyebrows. I only\nsaw a round little fiddle with a curious little belly, and fingers which\ndanced over the strings so rapidly that no human brain could answer the\nquestions which arose to my mind: \"Where does one get so many fingers?\"\n\nPresently, Tchitchick and his spreading beard, vanished, along with his\nthick eyebrows and his wonderful fingers. And I saw nothing at all\nbefore me. I only heard a singing, a groaning, a weeping, a sobbing, a\ntalking, and a growling. They were extraordinary, peculiar sounds that I\nheard, the like of which I had never heard before, in all my life.\nSounds sweet as honey, and smooth as oil were pouring themselves right\ninto my heart, without ceasing. And my soul went off somewhere far from\nthe little house, into another world, into a Garden of Eden which was\nnothing else but beautiful sounds--which was one mass of singing, from\nbeginning to end....\n\n\"Do you want some tea?\" asked Tchitchick of me, putting down the little\nfiddle, and slapping me on the shoulder.\n\nI felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh heaven on to the earth.\n\nFrom that day I visited Tchitchick regularly every Sabbath afternoon, to\nhear him playing the fiddle. I went straight to the house. I was afraid\nof no one; and I even became such good friends with the black dog that,\nwhen he saw me, he wagged his tail, and wanted to fall upon me to lick\nmy hands. I would not let him do this. \"Let us rather be good friends\nfrom the distance.\"\n\nAt home not even a bird knew where I spent the Sabbath afternoons. I was\na bridegroom-elect, after all. And no one would have known of my visits\nto Tchitchick to this day, if a new misfortune had not befallen me--a\ngreat misfortune, of which I will now tell you.\n\n* * *\n\nSurely it is no one's affair if a Jewish young man goes for a walk on\nthe Sabbath afternoon a little beyond the town? Have people really got\nnothing better to do than to think of others and look after them to see\nwhere they are going? But of what use are such questions as these? It\nlies in our nature, in the Jewish nature, I mean, to look well after\nevery one else, to criticize others and advise them. For example, a Jew\nwill go over to his neighbour, at prayers, and straighten out the\n\"Frontispiece\" of his phylacteries. Or he will stop his neighbour, who\nis running with the greatest haste and excitement, to tell him that the\nleg of his trouser is turned up. Or he will point his finger at his\nneighbour, so that the other shall not know what is amiss with him,\nwhether it is his nose, or his beard, or what the deuce is wrong with\nhim. Or a Jew will take a thing out of his neighbour's hand, when the\nother is struggling to open it, and will say to him: \"You don't know\nhow. Let me.\" Or should he see his neighbour building a house, he will\ncome over to look for a fault in it. He says he believes the ceiling is\ntoo high, the rooms are too small, or the windows are awkwardly large.\nAnd there seems nothing else left the builder to do but scatter the\nhouse to pieces, and start it all over again.... We Jews have been\ndistinguished by this habit of interfering from time immemorial--from\nthe very first day on which the world was created. And you and I between\nus will never alter the world full of Jews. It is not our duty to even\nattempt it....\n\nAfter this long introduction, it will be easy for you to understand how\nEphraim Log-of-wood--a Jew who was a black stranger to me, and who did\nnot care a button for any of us--should poke his nose into my affairs.\nHe sniffed and smelled my tracks, and found out where I went on Sabbath\nafternoons, and got me into trouble. He swore that he himself saw me\neating forbidden food at the house of \"Mr. Sergeant,\" and that I was\nsmoking a cigarette on the Sabbath. \"May I see myself enjoying all that\nis good!\" he cried. \"If it is not as I say, may I never get to the\nplace where I am going,\" he said. \"And if I am uttering the least word\nof falsehood, may my mouth be twisted to one side, and may my two eyes\ndrop out of my head,\" he added.\n\n\"Amen! May it be so,\" I cried.\n\nAnd I caught from my father another smack in the face. I must not be\ninsolent, he told me....\n\nBut I imagine I am rushing along too quickly with my story. I am giving\nyou the soup before the fish. I was forgetting entirely to tell you who\nEphraim Log-of-wood was, and what he was, and how the incident happened.\n\nAt the end of the town, on the other side of the bridge, there lived a\nJew named Ephraim Log-of-wood. Why was he called Log-of-wood? Because he\nhad once dealt in timber. And today he is not dealing in timber because\nsomething happened to him. He said it was libel, a false accusation.\nPeople found at his place a strange log of wood with a strange name\nbranded on it. And he had a fine lot of trouble after that. He had a\ncase, and he had appeals, and he had to send petitions. He just managed\nto escape from being put into prison. From that time, he threw away all\ntrading, and betook himself to looking after public matters. He pushed\nhimself into all institutions, the tax-collecting, and the work done at\nthe House of Learning. Generally speaking, he was not so well off. He\nwas often put to shame publicly. But as time went on, he insinuated\nhimself into everybody's bones. He gave people to understand that \"He\nknew where a door was opening.\" And in the course of time, Ephraim\nbecame a useful person, a person it was hard to do without. That is how\na worm manages to crawl into an apple. He makes himself comfortable,\nmakes a soft bed for himself, makes himself a home, and in time becomes\nthe real master of the house.\n\nIn person, Ephraim was a tiny little man. He had short little legs, and\nsmall little hands, and red little cheeks, and a quick walk which was a\nsort of a little dance. And he tossed his little head about. His speech\nwas rapid, and his voice squeaky. And he laughed with a curious little\nlaugh which sounded like the rattling of dried peas. I could not bear to\nlook at him, I don't know why. Every Sabbath afternoon, when I was going\nto Tchitchick's, I used to meet Ephraim on the bridge, walking along, in\na black, patched cloak, the sleeves of which hung loosely over his\nshoulders. His hands were folded in front of him, and he was singing in\nhis thin little voice. And the ends of his long cloak kept dangling at\nhis heels.\n\n\"A good Sabbath,\" I said to him.\n\n\"A good Sabbath,\" he replied. \"And where is a boy going?\"\n\n\"Just for a walk,\" I said.\n\n\"For a walk? All alone?\" he asked. And he looked straight into my eyes\nwith such a little smile that it was hard to guess what he meant by\nit--whether he thought that it was very brave of me to be walking all\nalone or not. Was it, in his opinion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish?\n\n* * *\n\nOn one occasion, when I was going to Tchitchick's house, I noticed that\nEphraim Log-of-wood was looking at me very curiously. I stopped on the\nbridge and gazed into the water. Ephraim also stopped on the bridge, and\nhe also gazed into the water. I started to go back. He followed me. I\nturned round again, to go forward, and he also turned round in the same\ndirection. A few minutes later, he was lost to me. When I was sitting at\nTchitchick's table, drinking tea, we heard the black dog barking loudly\nat some one, and tearing at his rope. We looked out of the window, and I\nimagined I saw a low-sized, black figure with short little legs,\nrunning, running. Then it disappeared from view. From his manner of\nrunning, I could have sworn the little creature was Ephraim Log-of-wood.\n\nAnd thus it came to pass--\n\nI came home late that Sabbath evening. It was already after the\n\"_Havdalah_.\" My face was burning. And I found Ephraim Log-of-wood\nsitting at the table. He was talking very rapidly, and was laughing with\nhis curious little laugh. When he saw me, he was silent. He started\ndrumming on the table with his short little fingers. Opposite him sat my\nfather. His face was death-like. He was pulling at his beard, tearing\nout the hairs one by one. This was a sure sign that he was in a temper.\n\n\"Where have you come from?\" my father asked of me and looked at\nEphraim.\n\n\"Where am I to come from?\" said I.\n\n\"How do I know where you are to come from?\" said he. \"You tell me where\nyou have come from. You know better than I.\"\n\n\"From the House of Learning,\" said I.\n\n\"And where were you the whole day?\" said he.\n\n\"Where could I be?\" said I.\n\n\"How do I know?\" said he. \"You tell me. You know better than I.\"\n\n\"At the House of Learning,\" said I.\n\n\"What were you doing at the House of Learning?\" said he.\n\n\"What should I be doing at the House of Learning?\" said I.\n\n\"Do I know what you could be doing there?\" said he.\n\n\"I was learning,\" said I.\n\n\"What were you learning?\" said he.\n\n\"What should I learn?\" said I.\n\n\"Do I know what you should learn?\" said he.\n\n\"I was learning '_Gemarra_' were you learning?\" said he.\n\n\"What '_Gemarra_' should I learn?\" said I.\n\n\"Do I know what '_Gemarra_' you should learn?\" said he.\n\n\"I learnt the '_Gemarra_', '_Shabos_',\" said I.\n\nAt this Ephraim Log-of-wood burst out laughing in his rattling little\nlaugh. And it seemed that my father could bear no more. He jumped up\nfrom his seat and delivered me two resounding fiery boxes on the ears.\nStars flew before my eyes. My mother heard my shouts from the other\nroom. She flew into us with a scream.\n\n\"Nahum! The Lord be with you! What are you doing? A young man--a\nbridegroom-elect! Just before his wedding! Bethink yourself! If her\nfather gets to know of this--God forbid!\"\n\n* * *\n\nMy mother was right. The girl's father got to know the whole story.\nEphraim Log-of-wood went off himself and told it to him. And in this way\nEphraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-collector; for the two had\nalways been at the point of sticking knives into one another.\n\n* * *\n\nNext day I got back the marriage-contract and the presents which had\nbeen given to the bride-elect. And I was no longer a bridegroom-elect.\n\nThis grieved my father so deeply that he fell into a very serious\nillness. He was bedridden for a long time. He would not let me come near\nhim. He refused to look into my face. All my mother's tears and\narguments and explanations and her defence of me were of no use at all.\n\n\"The disgrace,\" said my father, \"the disgrace of it is worse than\nanything else.\"\n\n\"May it turn out to be a real, true sacrifice for us all,\" said my\nmother to him. \"The Lord will have to send us another bride-elect. What\ncan we do? Shall we take our own lives? Perhaps it is not his destiny to\nmarry this girl.\"\n\nAmongst those who came to visit my father in his illness was Tchitchick\nthe bandmaster.\n\nWhen my father saw him, he took off his little round cap, sat up in his\nbed, stretched out his hand to him, looked straight into his eyes and\nsaid:\n\n\"Oh, 'Mr. Sergeant!' 'Mr. Sergeant!'\"\n\nHe could not utter another sound, because he was smothered by his tears\nand his cough....\n\nThis was the first time in my life that I saw my father crying. His\ntears gripped hold of my heart, and chilled me to the very soul.\n\nI stood and looked out of the window, swallowing my tears in silence. At\nthat moment, I was heartily sorry for all the mischief I had done. I\ncried within myself, from the very depths of my heart, beating my\nbreast: \"I have sinned.\" And within myself, I vowed solemnly to myself\nthat I would never, never anger my father again, and never, never cause\nhim any pain.\n\nNo more fiddle!\n\n\n\n\nThis Night\n\n\n     \"TO MY DEAR SON,\n\n     \"I send you--'_roubles_,' and beg of you, my dear son, to do me the\n     favour, and come home for the Passover Festival. It is a disgrace\n     to me in my old age. We have one son, an only child, and we are not\n     worthy to see him. Your mother also asks me to beg of you to be\n     sure to come home for the Passover. And you must know that Busie is\n     to be congratulated. She is now betrothed. And if the Lord wills\n     it, she is going to be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of\n     Weeks.\n\n     \"From me,\n\n         \"YOUR FATHER.\"\n\nThis is the letter my father wrote to me. For the first time a sharp\nletter--for the first time in all those years since we had parted. And\nwe had parted from one another, father and I, in silence, without\nquarrelling. I had acted in opposition to his wishes. I would not go his\nroad, but my own road. I went abroad to study. At first my father was\nangry. He said he would never forgive me. Later, he began to send me\nmoney.\n\n\"I send you--'_roubles_,'\" he used to write, \"and your mother sends you\nher heartiest greetings.\"\n\nShort, dry letters he wrote me. And my replies to him were also short\nand dry:\n\n\"I have received your letter with the--'_roubles_.' I thank you, and I\nsend my mother my heartiest greetings.\"\n\nCold, terribly cold were our letters to one another. Who had time to\nrealize where I found myself in the world of dreams in which I lived?\nBut now my father's letter woke me up. Not so much his complaint that it\nwas a shame I should have left him alone in his old age--that it was a\ndisgrace for him that his only son should be away from him. I will\nconfess it that this did not move me so much. Neither did my mother's\npleadings with me that I should have pity on her and come home for the\nPassover Festival. Nothing took such a strong hold of me as the last few\nlines of my father's letter. \"And you must know that Busie is to be\ncongratulated.\"\n\nBusie! The same Busie who has no equal anywhere on earth, excepting in\nthe \"Song of Songs\"--the same Busie who is bound up with my life, whose\nchildhood is interwoven closely with my childhood--the same Busie who\nalways was to me the bewitched Queen's Daughter of all my wonderful\nfairy tales--the most wonderful princess of my golden dreams--this same\nBusie is now betrothed, is going to be married on the Sabbath after the\nFeast of Weeks? Is it true that she is going to be married, and not to\nme, but to some one else?\n\n* * *\n\nWho is Busie--what is she? Oh, do you not know who Busie is? Have you\nforgotten? Then I will tell you her biography all over again, briefly,\nand in the very same words I used when telling it you once on a time,\nyears ago.\n\nI had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a\nwater-mill, a young widow, two horses, and one child. The mill was\nneglected; the horses were sold; the young widow married again and went\naway somewhere, far; and the child was brought home to our house.\n\nThat child was Busie.\n\nAnd Busie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite of the \"Song of Songs.\"\nWhenever I saw Busie I thought of the Shulamite of the \"Song of Songs.\"\nAnd whenever I read the \"Song of Songs\" Busie's image came up and stood\nbefore me.\n\nHer name is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: Busie. She grew up\ntogether with me. She called my father \"father,\" and my mother \"mother.\"\nEverybody thought that we were sister and brother. And we grew up\ntogether as if we were sister and brother. And we loved one another as\nif we were sister and brother.\n\nLike a sister and a brother we played together, and we hid in a\ncorner--we two; and I used to tell her the fairy tales I learnt at\nschool--the tales which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who knew\neverything, even \"_Kaballa_.\" I told her that by means of \"_Kaballa_,\" I\ncould do wonderful tricks--draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall.\nBy means of \"_Kaballa_,\" I told her, I could manage that we two should\nrise up into the clouds, and even higher than the clouds. Oh, how she\nloved to hear me tell my stories! There was only one story which Busie\ndid not like me to tell--the story of the Queen's Daughter, the princess\nwho had been bewitched, carried off from under the wedding canopy, and\nput into a palace of crystal for seven years. And I said that I was\nflying off to set her free.... Busie loved to hear every tale excepting\nthat one about the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was flying off to\nset free.\n\n\"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not.\"\n\nThis is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face her beautiful blue\n\"Song of Songs\" eyes.\n\nThat is who and what Busie is.\n\nAnd now my father writes me that I must congratulate Busie. She is\nbetrothed, and will be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks.\nShe is some one's bride--some one else's, not mine!\n\nI sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in answer to his.\n\n     \"TO MY HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER,\n\n     \"I have received your letter with the--'_roubles_.' In a few days,\n     as soon as I am ready, I will go home, in time for the first days\n     of the Passover Festival--or perhaps for the latter days. But I\n     will surely come home. I send my heartiest greetings to my mother.\n     And to Busie I send my congratulations. I wish her joy and\n     happiness.\n\n     \"From me,\n\n     \"YOUR SON.\"\n\nIt was a lie. I had nothing to get ready; nor was there any need for me\nto wait a few days. The same day on which I received my father's letter\nand answered it, I got on the train and flew home. I arrived home\nexactly on the day before the Festival, on a warm, bright Passover eve.\n\nI found the village exactly as I had left it, once on a time, years ago.\nIt was not changed by a single hair. Not a detail of it was different.\nIt was the same village. The people were the same. The Passover eve was\nthe same, with all its noise and hurry and flurry and bustle. And out of\ndoors it was also the same Passover eve as when I had been at home,\nyears ago.\n\nThere was only one thing missing--the \"Song of Songs.\" No; nothing of\nthe \"Song of Songs\" existed any longer. It was not now as it had been,\nonce on a time, years ago. Our yard was not any more King Solomon's\nvineyard, of the \"Song of Songs.\" The wood and the logs and the boards\nthat lay scattered around the house were no longer the cedars and the\nfir trees. The cat that was stretched out before the door, warming\nherself in the sun, was no more a young hart, or a roe, such as one\ncomes upon in the \"Song of Songs.\" The hill on the other side of the\nsynagogue was no more the Mountain of Lebanon. It was no more one of the\nMountains of Spices.... The young women and girls who were standing out\nof doors, washing and scrubbing and making everything clean for the\nPassover--they were not any more the Daughters of Jerusalem of whom\nmention is made in the \"Song of Songs.\" ... What has become of my \"Song\nof Songs\" world that was, at one time, so fresh and clear and\nbright--the world that was as fragrant as though filled with spices?\n\n* * *\n\nI found my home exactly as I had left it, years before. It was not\naltered by a hair. It was not different in the least detail. My father,\ntoo, was the same. Only his silvery-white beard had become a little more\nsilvery. His broad white wrinkled forehead was now a little more\nwrinkled. This was probably because of his cares.... And my mother was\nthe same as when I saw her last. Only her ruddy cheeks were now slightly\nsallow. And I imagined she had grown smaller, shorter and thinner.\nPerhaps I only imagined this because she was now slightly bent. And her\neyes were slightly enflamed, and had little puffy bags under them, as if\nthey were swollen. Was it from weeping, perhaps?...\n\nFor what reason had my mother been weeping? For whom? Was it for me, her\nonly son who had acted in opposition to his father's wishes? Was it\nbecause I would not go the same road as my father, but took my own road,\nand went off to study, and did not come home for such a long time?... Or\ndid my mother weep for Busie, because she was getting married on the\nSabbath after the Feast of Weeks?\n\nAh, Busie! She was not changed by so much as a hair. She was not\ndifferent in the least detail. She had only grown up--grown up and also\ngrown more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. She had grown up\nexactly as she had promised to grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and\nfull of grace. Her eyes were the same blue \"Song of Songs\" eyes, but\nmore thoughtful than in the olden times. They were more thoughtful and\nmore dreamy, more careworn and more beautiful \"Song of Songs\" eyes than\never. And the smile on her lips was friendly, loving, homely and\naffectionate. She was quiet as a dove--quiet as a virgin.\n\nWhen I looked at the Busie of today, I was reminded of the Busie of the\npast. I recalled to mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which my\nmother had made for her, at that time, for the Passover. I remembered\nthe new little shoes which my father had bought for her, at that time,\nfor the Passover. And when I remembered the Busie of the past, there\ncame back to me, without an effort on my part, all over again, phrase by\nphrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten \"Song of Songs.\"\n\n\"Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of\ngoats, that appear from mount Gilead.\n\n\"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up\nfrom the washing: whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among\nthem.\n\n\"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy\ntemples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks.\"\n\nI look at Busie, and once again everything is as in the \"Song of Songs,\"\njust as it was in the past, once on a time, years before.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Busie, am I to congratulate you?\"\n\nShe does not hear me. But why does she lower her eyes? And why have her\ncheeks turned scarlet? No, I must bid her joy--I must!\n\n\"I congratulate you, Busie.\"\n\n\"May you live in happiness,\" she replies.\n\nAnd that is all. I could ask her nothing. And to talk with her? There\nwas nowhere where I might do that. My father would not let me talk with\nher. My mother hindered me. Our relatives prevented it. The rest of the\nfamily, the friends, neighbours and acquaintances who flocked into the\nhouse to welcome me, one coming and one going--they would not let me\ntalk with Busie either. They all stood around me. They all examined me,\nas if I were a bear, or a curious creature from another world. Everybody\nwanted to see and hear me--to know how I was getting on, and what I was\ndoing. They had not seen me for such a long time.\n\n\"Tell us something new. What have you seen? What have you heard?\"\n\nAnd I told them the news--all that I had seen and all that I had heard.\nAt the same time I was looking at Busie. I was searching for her eyes.\nAnd I met her eyes--her big, deep, careworn, thoughtful, beautiful blue\n\"Song of Songs\" eyes. But her eyes were dumb, and she herself was dumb.\nHer eyes told me nothing--nothing at all. And there arose to my memory\nthe words I had learnt in the past, the \"Song of Songs\" sentence by\nsentence--\n\n\"A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up, a fountain\nsealed.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAnd a storm arose within my brain, and a fire began to burn within my\nheart. This terrible fire did not rage against anybody, only against\nmyself--against myself and against my dreams of the past--the foolish,\nboyish, golden dreams for the sake of which I had left my father and my\nmother. Because of those dreams I had forgotten Busie. Because of them I\nhad sacrificed a great, great part of my life; and because of them, and\nthrough them I had lost my happiness--lost it, lost it for ever!\n\nLost it for ever? No, it cannot be--it cannot be! Have I not come\nback--have I not returned in good time?... If only I could manage to\ntalk with Busie, all alone with her! If only I could get to say a few\nwords to her. But how could I speak with her, all alone, the few words I\nlonged to speak, when everybody was present--when the people were all\ncrowding around me? They were all examining me as if I were a bear, or a\ncurious creature from another world. Everybody wanted to see and hear\nme--to know how I was getting on, and what I was doing. They had not\nseen me for such a long time!\n\nMore intently than any one else was my father listening to me. He had a\nHoly Book open in front of him, as always. His broad forehead was\nwrinkled up, as always. He was looking at me from over his silver\nspectacles, and was stroking the silver strands of his silvery-white\nbeard, as always. And I imagined that he was looking at me with other\neyes than he used to look. No, it was not the same look as always. He\nwas reproaching me. I felt that my father was offended with me. I had\nacted contrary to his wishes. I had refused to go his road, and had\ntaken a road of my own choosing....\n\nMy mother, too, was standing close behind me. She came out of the\nkitchen. She left all her work, the preparations for the Passover, and\nshe was listening to me with tears in her eyes. Though her face was\nstill smiling, she wiped her eyes in secret with the corners of her\napron. She was listening to me attentively. She was staring right into\nmy mouth; and she was swallowing, yes, swallowing every word that I\nsaid.\n\nAnd Busie also stood over against me. Her hands were folded on her\nbosom. And she was listening to me just as the others were. Along with\nthem, she was staring right into my mouth. I looked at Busie. I tried to\nread what was in her eyes; but I could read nothing there, nothing at\nall, nothing at all.\n\n\"Tell more. Why have you grown silent?\" my father asked me.\n\n\"Leave him alone. Did you ever see the like?\" put in my mother hastily.\n\"The child is tired. The child is hungry, and he goes on saying to him:\n'Tell! Tell! Tell! And tell!'\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe people began to go away by degrees. And we found ourselves alone, my\nfather and my mother, Busie and I. My mother went off to the kitchen.\nIn a few minutes she came back, carrying in her hand a beautiful\nPassover plate--a plate I knew well. It was surrounded by a design of\nbig green fig leaves.\n\n\"Perhaps you would like something to eat, Shemak? It is a long time to\nwait until the '_Seder_.'\"\n\nThat is what my mother said to me, and with so much affection, so much\nloyalty and so much passionate devotion. And Busie got up, and with\nsilent footfalls, brought me a knife and fork--the well-known Passover\nknife and fork. Everything was familiar to me. Nothing was changed, nor\ndifferent by a hair. It was the same plate with the big green fig\nleaves; the same knife and fork with the white bone handles. The same\ndelicious odour of melted goose-fat came in to me from the kitchen; and\nthe fresh Passover cake had the same Garden-of-Eden taste. Nothing was\nchanged by a hair. Nothing was different in the least detail.\n\nOnly, in the olden times, we ate together on the Passover eve, Busie and\nI, off the same plate. I remember that we ate off the same beautiful\nPassover plate that was surrounded by a design of big green fig leaves.\nAnd, at that time, my mother gave us nuts. I remember how she filled our\npockets with nuts. And, at that time, we took hold of one another's\nhands, Busie and I. And I remember that we let ourselves go, in the\nopen. We flew like eagles. I ran; she ran after me. I leaped over the\nlogs of wood; she leaped after me. I was up; she was up. I was down; she\nwas down.\n\n\"Shemak! How long are we going to run, Shemak?\"\n\nSo said Busie to me. And I answered her in the words of the \"Song of\nSongs\": \"Until the day break, and the shadows flee away.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThis was once on a time, years ago. Now Busie is grown up. She is big.\nAnd I also am grown up. I also am big. Busie is betrothed. She is\nbetrothed to some one--to some one else, and not to me.... And I want to\nbe alone with Busie. I want to speak a few words with her. I want to\nhear her voice. I want to say to her, in the words of the \"Song of\nSongs\": \"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice.\"\n\nAnd I imagine that her eyes are answering my unspoken words, also in the\nwords of the \"Song of Songs.\" \"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into\nthe fields; let us lodge in the villages.\n\n\"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish,\nwhether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there\nwill I give thee my loves.\"\n\nI snatched a glimpse through the window to see what was going on out of\ndoors. Ah, how lovely it was! How beautiful! How fragrant of the\nPassover! How like the \"Song of Songs\"! It was a sin to be indoors. Soon\nthe day would be at an end. Lower and lower sank the sun, painting the\nsky the colour of guinea-gold. The gold was reflected in Busie's eyes.\nThey were bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I\nwould have no time to say a single word to Busie. The whole day was\nspent in talking idly with my father and my mother, my relatives and\nfriends, telling them of all that I had heard, and all that I had seen.\nI jumped up, and went over to the window. I looked out of it. As I was\npassing her, I said quickly to Busie:\n\n\"Perhaps we should go out for a while? It is so long since I was at\nhome. I want to see everything. I want to have a look at the village.\"\n\n* * *\n\nCan you tell me what was the matter with Busie? Her cheeks were at once\nenflamed. They burned with a great fire. She was as red as the sun that\nwas going down in the west. She threw a glance at my father. I imagined\nshe wanted to hear what my father would say. And my father looked at my\nmother, over his silver spectacles. He stroked the silver strands of his\nsilvery-white beard, and said casually, to no one in particular:\n\n\"The sun is setting. It's time to put on our Festival garments, and to\ngo into the synagogue to pray. It is time to light the Festival candles.\nWhat do you say?\"\n\nNo! It seemed that I was not going to get the chance of saying anything\nto Busie that day. We went off to change our garments. My mother had\nfinished her work. She had put on her new silk Passover gown. Her white\nhands gleamed. No one has such beautiful white hands as my mother. Soon\nshe will make the blessing over the Festival candles. She will cover her\neyes with her snow-white hands and weep silently, as she used to do\nonce on a time, years ago. The last lingering rays of the setting sun\nwill play on her beautiful, transparent white hands. No one has such\nbeautiful, white transparent hands as my mother.\n\nBut what is the matter with Busie? The light has gone out of her face\njust as it is going out of the sun that is slowly setting in the west,\nand as it is going out of the day that is slowly dying. But she is\nbeautiful, and graceful as never before. And there is a deep sadness in\nher beautiful blue \"Song of Songs\" eyes. They are very thoughtful, are\nBusie's eyes.\n\nWhat is Busie thinking of now? Of the loving guest for whom she had\nwaited, and who had come flying home so unexpectedly, after a long, long\nabsence from home?... Or is she thinking of her mother, who married\nagain, and went off somewhere far, and who forgot that she had a\ndaughter whose name was Busie?... Or is Busie now thinking of her\nbetrothed, her affianced husband whom, probably, my father and mother\nwere compelling her to marry against her own inclinations?... Or is she\nthinking of her marriage that is going to take place on the Sabbath\nafter the Feast of Weeks, to a man she does not know, and does not\nunderstand? Who is he, and what is he?... Or, perhaps, on the contrary,\nI am mistaken? Perhaps she is counting the days from the Passover to the\nFeast of Weeks, until the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, because the\nman she is going to marry on that day is her chosen, her dearest, her\nbeloved? He will lead her under the wedding canopy. To him she will give\nall her heart, and all her love. And to me? Alas! Woe is me! To me she\nis no more than a sister. She always was to me a sister, and always will\nbe.... And I imagine that she is looking at me with pity and with\nregret, and that she is saying to me, as she said to me, once on a time,\nyears ago, in the words of the \"Song of Songs:\"\n\n\"O that thou wert as my brother.\"\n\n\"Why are you not my brother?\"\n\nWhat answer can I make her to these unspoken words? I know what I should\nlike to say to her. Only let me get the chance to say a few words to\nher, no more than a few.\n\nNo! I shall not be able to speak a single word with Busie this day--nor\neven half a word. Now she is rising from her chair. She is going with\nlight, soft footfalls to the cupboard. She is getting the candles ready\nfor my mother, fixing them into the silver candlesticks. How well I know\nthese silver candlesticks! They played a big part in my golden, boyish\ndreams of the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was going to rescue from\nthe palace of crystal. The golden dreams, and the silver candlesticks,\nand the Sabbath candles, and my mother's beautiful, white transparent\nhands, and Busie's beautiful blue \"Song of Songs\" eyes, and the last\nrays of the sun that is going down in the west--are they not all one and\nthe same, bound together and interwoven for ever?...\n\n\"Ta!\" exclaimed my father, looking out of the window, and winking to me\nthat it was high time to change and go into the synagogue to pray.\n\nAnd we changed our garments, my father and I, and we went into the\nsynagogue to say our prayers.\n\n* * *\n\nOur synagogue, our old, old synagogue was not changed either, not by so\nmuch as a hair. Not a single detail was different. Only the walls had\nbecome a little blacker; the reader's desk was older; the curtain before\nthe Holy Ark had drooped lower; and the Holy Ark itself had lost its\npolish, its newness.\n\nOnce on a time, our synagogue had appeared in my eyes like a small copy\nof King Solomon's Temple. Now the small temple was leaning slightly to\none side. Ah, what has become of the brilliance, and the holy splendour\nof our little old synagogue? Where now are the angels which used to\nflutter about, under the carved wings of the Holy Ark on Friday\nevenings, when we were reciting the prayers in welcome of the Sabbath,\nand on Festival evenings when we were reciting the beautiful Festival\nprayers?\n\nAnd the members of the congregation were also very little changed. They\nwere only grown a little older. Black beards were now grey. Straight\nshoulders were stooped a little. The satin holiday coats that I knew so\nwell were more threadbare, shabbier. White threads were to be seen in\nthem and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor sang as beautifully as in the\nolden times, years ago. Only today his voice is a little husky, and a\nnew tone is to be heard in the old prayers he is chanting. He weeps\nrather than sings the words. He mourns rather than prays. And our rabbi?\nThe old rabbi? He has not changed at all. He was like the fallen snow\nwhen I saw him last, and today is like the fallen snow. He is different\nonly in one trifling respect. His hands are trembling. And the rest of\nhis body is also trembling, from old age, I should imagine. Asreal the\nBeadle--a Jew who had never had the least sign of a beard--would have\nbeen exactly the same man as once on a time, years before, if it were\nnot for his teeth. He has lost every single tooth he possessed; and with\nhis fallen-in cheeks, he now looks much more like a woman than a man.\nBut for all that, he can still bang on the desk with his open hand.\nTrue, it is not the same bang as once on a time. Years ago, one was\nalmost deafened by the noise of Asreal's hand coming down on the desk.\nToday, it is not like that at all. It seems that he has not any longer\nthe strength he used to have. He was once a giant of a man.\n\nOnce on a time, years ago, I was happy in the little old synagogue; I\nremember that I felt happy without an end--without a limit! Here, in the\nlittle synagogue, years ago, my childish soul swept about with the\nangels I imagined were flying around the carved wings of the Holy Ark.\nHere, in the little synagogue, once on a time, with my father and all\nthe other Jews, I prayed earnestly. And it gave me great pleasure, great\nsatisfaction.\n\n* * *\n\nAnd now, here I am again in the same old synagogue, praying with the\nsame old congregation, just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the\nsame Cantor singing the same melodies as before. And I am praying along\nwith the congregation. But my thoughts are far from the prayers. I keep\nturning over the pages of my prayer-book idly, one page after the other.\nAnd--I am not to blame for it--I come upon the pages on which are\nprinted the \"Song of Songs.\" And I read:\n\n\"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are fair; thou hast dove's\neyes within thy locks.\"\n\nI should like to pray with the congregation, as they are praying, and as\nI used to pray, once on a time. But the words will not rise to my lips.\nI turn over the pages of my prayer-book, one after the other, and--I am\nnot to blame for it--again I turn up the \"Song of Songs,\" at the fifth\nchapter.\n\n\"I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse.\"\n\nAnd again:\n\n\"I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with\nmy honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk.\"\n\nBut what am I talking about? What am I saying? The garden is not mine. I\nshall not gather any myrrh, nor smell any spices. I shall eat no honey,\nand drink no wine. The garden is not my garden. Busie is not my\nbetrothed. Busie is betrothed to some one else--to some one else, and\nnot to me.... And there rages within me a hellish fire. Not against\nBusie. Not against anybody at all. No; only against myself alone.\nSurely! How could I have stayed away from Busie for such a long time?\nHow could I have allowed it--that Busie should be taken away from me,\nand given to some one else? Had she not written many letters to me,\noften, and given me to understand that she hoped to see me shortly?...\nHad I not myself promised to come home, and then put off going, from one\nFestival to another, so many times until, at last, Busie gave up writing\nto me?\n\n* * *\n\n\"Good '_Yom-Tov_'! This is my son!\"\n\nThat was how my father introduced me to the men of the congregation at\nthe synagogue, after prayers. They examined me on all sides. They\ngreeted me with, \"Peace be unto you!\" and accepted my greeting, in\nreturn, \"Unto you be peace!\" as if it were no more than their due.\n\n\"This is my son....\"\n\n\"That is your son? Here is a 'Peace be unto you!'\"\n\nIn my father's words, \"This is my son,\" there were many shades of\nfeeling, many meanings--joy, and happiness, and reproach. One might\ninterpret the words as one liked. One might argue that he meant to say:\n\n\"What do you think? This is really my _son_.\"\n\nOr one might argue that he meant to say:\n\n\"Just imagine it--_this_ is my son!\"\n\nI could feel for my father. He was deeply hurt. I had opposed his\nwishes. I had not gone his road, but had taken a road of my own. And I\nhad caused him to grow old before his time. No; he had not forgiven me\nyet. He did not tell me this. But his manner saved him the trouble of\nexplaining himself. I felt that he had not forgiven me yet. His eyes\ntold me everything. They looked at me reproachfully from over his\nsilver-rimmed spectacles, right into my heart. His soft sigh told me\nthat he had not forgiven me yet--the sigh which tore itself, from time\nto time, out of his weak old breast....\n\nWe walked home from the synagogue together, in silence. We got home\nlater than any one else. The night had already spread her wings over the\nheavens. Her shadow was slowly lowering itself over the earth. A silent,\nwarm, holy Passover night it was--a night full of secrets and mysteries,\nfull of wonder and beauty. The holiness of this night could be felt in\nthe air. It descended slowly from the dark blue sky.... The stars\nwhispered together in the mysterious voices of the night. And on all\nsides of us, from the little Jewish houses came the words of the\n\"_Haggadah_\": \"We went forth from Egypt on this night.\"\n\nWith hasty, hasty steps I went towards home, on this night. And my\nfather barely managed to keep up with me. He followed after me like a\nshadow.\n\n\"Why are you flying?\" he asked of me, scarcely managing to catch his\nbreath.\n\nAh, father, father! Do you not know that I have been compared with \"a\nroe or a young hart upon the mountains of spices\"?... The time is long\nfor me, father, too long. The way is long for me, father, too long. When\nBusie is betrothed to some one--to some one else and not to me, the\nhours and the roads are too long for me.... I am compared with \"a roe\nor a young hart upon the mountains of spices.\"\n\nThat is what I wanted to say to my father, in the words of the \"Song of\nSongs.\" I did not feel the ground under my feet. I went towards home\nwith hasty, hasty steps, on this night. My father barely managed to keep\nup with me. He followed after me like a shadow.\n\n* * *\n\nWith the same \"Good '_Yom-Tov_'\" which we had said on coming in from the\nsynagogue on such a night as this, years ago, we entered the house on\nthis night, my father and I.\n\nWith the same \"Good '_Yom-Tov_,' good year,\" with which my mother and\nBusie used to welcome us, on such a night as this, once on a time, years\nago, they again welcomed us on this night, my father and me.\n\nMy mother, the Queen of the evening, was dressed in her royal robes of\nsilk; and the Queen's Daughter, Busie, was dressed in her snow-white\nfrock. They made the same picture which they had made, once on a time,\nyears ago. They were not altered by as much as a hair. They were not\ndifferent in a single detail.\n\nAs it had been years ago, so it was now. On this night, the house was\nfull of grace. A peculiar beauty--a holy, festive, majestic loveliness\ndescended upon our house. A holy, festive glamour hung about our house\non this night. The white table-cloth was like driven snow. And\neverything which was on the table gleamed and glistened. My mother's\nFestival candles shone out of the silver candlesticks. The Passover wine\ngreeted us from out the sparkling bottles. Ah, how pure, how simple the\nPassover cakes looked, peeping innocently from under their beautiful\ncover! How sweetly the horse-radish smiled to me! And how pleasant was\nthe \"mortar\"--the mixture of crushed nuts and apples and wine which\nsymbolized the mortar out of which the Israelites made bricks in Egypt,\nwhen they were slaves! And even the dish of salt-water was good to look\nupon.\n\nProudly and haughtily stood the throne on which my father, the King of\nthe night, was going to recline. A glory shone forth from my mother's\ncountenance, such as I always saw shining forth from it on such a night.\nAnd the Queen's Daughter, Busie, was entirely, from her head to her\nheels, as if she really belonged to the \"Song of Songs.\" No! What am I\nsaying? She was the \"Song of Songs\" itself.\n\nThe only pity was that the King's son was put sitting so far away from\nthe Queen's Daughter. I remember that they once sat at the Passover\nceremony in a different position. They were together, once on a time,\nyears ago. One beside the other they sat....\n\nI remember that the King's Son asked his father \"The Four Questions.\"\nAnd I remember that the Queen's Daughter stole from his Majesty the\n\"_Afikomen_\"--the pieces of Passover cake he had hidden away to make\nthe special blessing over. And I? What had I done then? How much did we\nlaugh at that time! I remember that, once on a time, years ago, when the\n\"_Seder_\" was ended, the Queen had taken off her royal garment of silk,\nand the King had taken off his white robes, and we two, Busie and I, sat\ntogether in a corner playing with the nuts which my mother had given us.\nAnd there, in the corner, I told Busie a story--one of the fairy tales I\nhad learnt at school from my comrade Sheika, who knew everything in the\nworld. It was the story of the beautiful Queen's Daughter who had been\ntaken from under the wedding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of\ncrystal for seven years on end, and who was waiting for some one to\nraise himself up into the air by pronouncing the Holy Name, flying above\nthe clouds, across hills, and over valleys, over rivers, and across\ndeserts, to release her, to set her free.\n\n* * *\n\nBut all this happened once on a time, years ago. Now the Queen's\nDaughter is grown up. She is big. And the King's Son is grown up. He is\nbig. And we two are seated in such a way, so pitilessly, that we cannot\neven see one another. Imagine it to yourself! On the right of his\nmajesty sat the King's Son. On the left of her majesty sat the Queen's\nDaughter!... And we recited the \"_Haggadah_,\" my father and I, at the\ntop of our voices, as once on a time, years ago, page after page, and in\nthe same sing-song as of old. And my mother and Busie repeated the\nwords after us, softly, page after page, until we came to the \"Song of\nSongs.\" I recited the \"Song of Songs\" together with my father, as once\non a time, years ago, in the same melody as of old, passage after\npassage. And my mother and Busie repeated the words after us, softly,\npassage after passage, until the King of the night, tired out, after the\nlong Passover ceremony, and somewhat dulled by the four cups of raisin\nwine, began to doze off by degrees. He nodded for a few minutes, woke\nup, and went on singing the \"Song of Songs.\" He began in a loud voice:\n\n\"Many waters cannot quench love.\"....\n\nAnd I caught him up, in the same strain:\n\n\"Neither can floods drown it.\"\n\nThe recital grew softer and softer with us both, as the night wore on,\nuntil at last his majesty fell asleep in real earnest. The Queen touched\nhim on the sleeve of his white robe. She woke him with a sweet,\naffectionate gentleness, and told him he should go to bed. In the\nmeantime, Busie and I got the chance of saying a few words to one\nanother. I got up from my place and went over close beside her. And we\nstood opposite one another for the first time, closely, on this night. I\npointed out to her how rarely beautiful the night was.\n\n\"On such a night,\" I said to her, \"it is good to go walking.\"\n\nShe understood me, and answered me, with a half-smile by asking:\n\n\"On such a night?\" ...\n\nAnd I imagined that she was laughing at me. That was how she used to\nlaugh at me, once on a time, years ago.... I was annoyed. I said to her:\n\n\"Busie, we have something to say to one another--we have much to talk\nabout.\"\n\n\"Much to talk about?\" she replied, echoing my words.\n\nAnd again I imagined that she was laughing at me.... I put in quickly:\n\n\"Perhaps I am mistaken? Maybe I have nothing at all to say to you now?\"\n\nThese words were uttered with so much bitterness that Busie ceased from\nsmiling, and her face grew serious.\n\n\"Tomorrow,\" she said to me, \"tomorrow we will talk.\" ...\n\nAnd my eyes grew bright. Everything about me was bright and good and\njoyful. Tomorrow! Tomorrow we will talk! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!...\n\nI went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance of her hair, the\nfragrance of her clothes--the same familiar fragrance of her. And there\ncame up to my mind the words of the \"Song of Songs\":\n\n\"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under\nthy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of\nLebanon.\" ...\n\nAnd all our speech this night was the same--without words. We spoke\ntogether with our eyes--with our eyes.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Busie, good-night,\" I said to her softly.\n\nIt was hard for me to go away from her. The one God in Heaven knew the\ntruth--how hard it was.\n\n\"Good-night,\" Busie made answer.\n\nShe did not stir from the spot. She looked at me, deeply perplexed, out\nof her beautiful blue \"Song of Songs\" eyes.\n\nI said \"good-night\" to her again. And she again said \"good-night\" to me.\nMy mother came in and led me off to bed. When we were in my room, my\nmother smoothed out for me, with her beautiful, snow-white hands, the\nwhite cover of my bed. And her lips murmured:\n\n\"Sleep well, my child, sleep well.\"\n\nInto these few words she poured a whole ocean of tender love--the love\nwhich had been pent up in her breast the long time I had been away from\nher. I was ready to fall down before her, and kiss her beautiful white\nhands.\n\n\"Good-night,\" I murmured softly to her.\n\nAnd I was left alone--all alone, on this night.\n\n* * *\n\nI was all alone on this night--all alone on this silent, soft, warm,\nearly spring night.\n\nI opened my window and looked out into the open, at the dark blue night\nsky, and at the shimmering stars that were like brilliants. And I asked\nmyself:\n\n\"Is it then true? Is it then true?...\n\n\"Is it then true that I have lost my happiness--lost my happiness for\never?\n\n\"Is it then true that with my own hands I took and burnt my wonderful\ndream-palace, and let go from me the divine Queen's Daughter whom I had\nmyself bewitched, once on a time, years ago? Is it then so? Is it so?\nMaybe it is not so? Perhaps I have come in time? 'I am come into my\ngarden, my sister, my spouse.'\" ...\n\nI sat at the open window for a long time on this night. And I exchanged\nwhispered secrets with the silent, soft, warm early spring night that\nwas full--strangely full--of secrets and mysteries....\n\nOn this night, I made a discovery--\n\nThat I loved Busie with that holy, burning love which is so wonderfully\ndescribed in our \"Song of Songs.\" Big fiery letters seemed to carve\nthemselves out before my eyes. They formed themselves into the words\nwhich I had only just recited, my father and I--the words of the \"Song\nof Songs.\" I read the carved words, letter by letter.\n\n\"Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals\nthereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.\"\n\nOn this night, I sat down at my open window, and I asked of the night\nwhich was full of secrets and mysteries, that she should tell me this\nsecret:\n\n\"Is it true that I have lost Busie for ever? Is it then true?\" ...\n\nBut she is silent--this night of secrets and mysteries. And the secret\nmust remain a secret for me--until the morrow.\n\n\"Tomorrow,\" Busie had said to me, \"we will talk.\"\n\nAh! Tomorrow we will talk!...\n\nOnly let the night go by--only let it vanish, this night!\n\nThis night! This night!\n\n\nTHE END\n\n*       *       *       *       *\n\n\n_NEW BORZOI NOVELS_\n\n_SPRING, 1922_\n\nWANDERERS\n  _Knut Hamsun_\n\nMEN OF AFFAIRS\n  _Roland Pertwee_\n\nTHE FAIR REWARDS\n  _Thomas Beer_\n\nI WALKED IN ARDEN\n  _Jack Crawford_\n\nGUEST THE ONE-EYED\n  _Gunnar Gunnarsson_\n\nTHE GARDEN PARTY\n  _Katherine Mansfield_\n\nTHE LONGEST JOURNEY\n  _E. M. Forster_\n\nTHE SOUL OF A CHILD\n  _Edwin Bjoerkman_\n\nCYTHEREA\n  _Joseph Hergesheimer_\n\nEXPLORERS OF THE DAWN\n  _Mazo de la Roche_\n\nTHE WHITE KAMI\n  _Edward Alden Jewell_","title":"Jewish children","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":66035}