* * *
You must not ask where the widow's boy got the money to play with. The
great gamblers of the world who have lost and won fortunes, estates and
inheritances--they will know and understand. Woe is me! May the hour
never be known on which the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of one!
There is nothing too hard for him. He breaks into houses, gets through
iron walls, and does the most terrible thing imaginable. It's a name to
conjure with--the spirit of gambling.
First of all, I began to make money by selling everything I possessed,
one thing after the other, my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my
buttons. I had a box that opened and closed, and some wheels of an old
clock--good brass wheels that shone like the sun when they were
polished. I sold them all at any price, flew off, and lost all my money
to Benny. I always left him with a heart full of wounds and the
bitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was not angry with Benny.
God forbid! What had I against him? How was he to blame if he always won
at play? If the top fell on the G for me, he said, I should win. If it
falls on the G for him, then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am
only sorry for myself, for having run through so much money--my mother's
hard-earned "_groschens_," and for having made away with all my things.
I was left almost naked. I even sold my little prayer-book. O that
prayer-book, that prayer-book! When I think of it, my heart aches, and
my face burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book. My mother
bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on the anniversary of my father's
death. And it was a book of books--a good one, a real good one, thick,
and full of everything. It had every prayer one could mention, the "Song
of Songs," the Ethics of the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the
"_Haggadah_," and all the prayers of the whole year round. Then the
print and the binding, and the gold lettering. It was full of
everything, I tell you. Each time Pethachiah the pedlar came round with
his cut moustache that made his careworn face appear as if it was
smiling--each time he came round and opened his pack outside the
synagogue door, I could not take my eyes off that prayer-book.
"What would you say, little boy?" asked Pethachiah, as if he did not
know that I had my eyes on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands
seventeen times, each time asking the price of it.
"Nothing," I replied. "Just so!" And I left him, so as not to be
tempted.
"Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing Pethachiah the pedlar has."
"What sort of a thing?" asked my mother.
"A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-book, I would--I don't
know myself what I would do."
"Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where is your father's prayer-book?"
"You can't compare them. This is an ornament, and my book is only a
book."
"An ornament?" repeated my mother. "Are there then more prayers in an
ornamental book, or do the prayers sound better?"
Well, how can you explain an ornament to your mother--a really fine book
with red covers, and blue edges, and a green back?
"Come," said my mother to me, one evening, taking me by the hand. "Come
with me to the synagogue. Tomorrow is the anniversary of your father's
death. We will bring candles to be lit for him, and at the same time we
will see what sort of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah has."
I knew beforehand that on the anniversary of the death of my father, I
could get from my mother anything I asked for, even to the little plate
from heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat with joy.
When we got to the synagogue, we found Pethachiah with his pack still
unopened. You must know Pethachiah was a man who never hurried. He knew
very well he was the only man at the fair. His customers would never
leave him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his goods, it took a
year. I trembled, I shook. I could hardly stand on my feet. And he did
not care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all.
"Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is you have," said my mother.
Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was not on fire. Slowly,
without haste, he opened his pack, and spread out his wares--big Bibles,
little prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm books and little,
and books for all possible occasions, without an end. Then there were
books of tales from the "_Talmud_," tales of the "_Bal-shem-tov_," books
of sermons, and books of devotion. I imagined he would never run short.
He was a well, a fountain. At last he came to the little books, and
handed out the one I wanted.
"Is this all?" asked my mother. "Such a little one."
"This little one is dearer than a big one," answered Pethachiah.
"And how much do you want for the little squirrel?--God forgive me for
calling it by that name."
"You call a prayer-book a squirrel?" asked Pethachiah. He took the book
slowly out of her hand; and my heart was torn.
"Well, say. How much is it?" asked my mother. But Pethachiah had plenty
of time. He answered her in a sing-song:
"How much is the little prayer-book? It will cost you--it will cost
you--I am afraid it is not for your purse."
My mother cursed her enemies, that they might have black, hideous
dreams, and asked him to say how much.
Pethachiah stated the price. My mother did not answer him. She turned
towards the door, took my hand, and said to me:
"Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here. Don't you know that
'_Reb_' Pethachiah is a man who charges famine prices?"
I followed my mother to the door. And though my heart was heavy, I still
hoped the Lord would pity us, and Pethachiah would call us back. But
Pethachiah was not that sort of a man. He knew we should turn back of
our own accord. And so it was. My mother turned round, and asked him to
talk like a man. Pethachiah did not stir. He looked at the ceiling. And
his pale face shone. We went off, and returned once again.
"A curious Jew, Pethachiah," said my mother to me afterwards. "May my
enemies have the plague if I would have bought the prayer-book from him.
It is at a famine price. As I live, it is a sin. The money could have
gone for your school-fees. But it's useless. For the sake of tomorrow,
the anniversary of your father's death--peace be unto him!--I have
bought you the prayer-book, as a favour. And now, my son, you must do
me a favour in return. Promise me that you will say your prayers
faithfully every day."
Whether I really prayed as faithfully as I had promised, or not, I will
not tell you. But I loved the little book as my life. You may understand
that I slept with it, though, as you know, it is forbidden. The whole
"_Cheder_" envied me the little book. I minded it as if it were the
apple of my eye. And now, this "_Chanukah_"--woe unto me!--I carried it
off with my own hands to Moshe the carpenter's boy, who had long had his
eye on it. And I had to beg of him, for an hour on end, before he bought
it. I almost gave it away for nothing--the little prayer-book. My heart
faints and my face burns with shame. Sold! And to what end? For whose
sake? For Benny's sake, that he might win off me another few "_kopeks_."
But how is Benny to blame if he wins at play?
"That's what a spinning-top is for," explained Benny, putting into his
purse my last few "_groschens_." "If things went with you as they are
going with me, then you would be winning. But I am lucky, and I win."
And Benny's cheeks glowed. It is bright and warm in the house. A silver
"_Chanukah_" lamp is burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From the
kitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly melted goose-fat.
"We are having fritters tonight," Benny told me in the doorway. My heart
was weak with hunger. I flew home in my torn sheep-skin. My mother had
come in from her shop. Her hands were red and swollen with the cold. She
was frozen through and through, and was warming herself at the stove.
Seeing me, her face lit up with pleasure.
"From the synagogue?" she asked.
"From the synagogue," was my lying answer.
"Have you said the evening prayer?"
"I have said the evening prayer," was my second lie to her.
"Warm yourself, my son. You will say the blessing over the '_Chanukah_'
lights. It is the last night of '_Chanukah_' tonight, thank God!"
* * *
If a man had only troubles to bear, without a scrap of pleasure, he
would never get over them, but would surely take his own life. I am
referring to my mother, the widow, poor thing, who worked day and night,
froze, never had enough to eat, and never slept enough for my sake. Why
should she not have a little pleasure too? Every person puts his own
meaning into the word "pleasure." To my mother there was no greater
pleasure in the world than hearing me recite the blessings on Sabbaths
and Festivals. At the Passover I carried out the "_Seder_" for her, and
at "_Chanukah_" I made the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing
over wine or beer? Had we for the Passover fritters or fresh "_matzo_"?
What were the "_Chanukah_" lights--a silver, eight-branched lamp with
olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Believe me, the
pleasure has nothing to do with wine or fritters, or a silver lamp. The
main thing is the blessing itself. To see my mother's face when I was
praying, how it shone and glowed with pleasure was enough. No words are
necessary, no detailed description, to prove that this was unalloyed
happiness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, and recited
the blessing in a sing-song voice. She repeated the blessing after me,
word for word, in the same sing-song. She looked into my eyes, and moved
her lips. I knew she was thinking at the time: "It is he--he in every
detail. May the child have longer years!" And I felt I deserved to be
cut to pieces like the potatoes. Surely, I had deceived my mother, and
for such a base cause. I had betrayed her from head to foot.
The candles in the potatoes--my "_Chanukah_" lights--flickered and
flickered until they went out. And my mother said to me:
"Wash your hands. We are having potatoes and goose-fat for supper. In
honour of '_Chanukah_,' I bought a little measure of goose-fat--fresh,
beautiful fat."