But from the day I became a bridegroom-elect, Tchitchick gave up playing
with me as if I were a clown; and he began to talk to me as if I were
his equal. He told me stories of the regiment and of musicians. "Mr.
Sergeant" had a tremendous lot of talk in him. But no one else excepting
myself had the time to listen to him. On one occasion he began to talk
to me of playing. And I asked him:
"On which instrument does 'Mr. Sergeant' play?"
"On all instruments," he answered, and raised his eyebrows at me.
"On the fiddle, also?" I asked him. And all at once he took on, in my
imagination, the face of an angel.
"Come over to me some day," he said, "and I will play for you."
"When can I come to you Mr. Sargeant, if not on the Sabbath day?" I
asked. "But I can only come on condition that no-one knows anything
about it." "Can you promise that?"
"As I serve God," he exclaimed, and lifted his eyebrows at me.
Tchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy
windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green
garden from out of which peeked proudly a number of tall, yellow
sunflowers. As if they were something important. They bent their heads a
little to one side and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed to me that
they were calling out to me, "Come over here to us, boy." "There is
grass here. There is freedom here. There is light here. It is fresh
here. It is warm here. It is pleasant here." And after the stench and
heat and dust of the town, and after the overcrowding and the noise and
the tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get here because there
is grass here. It is fresh here. It is bright here. It is warm here. It
is pleasant here. One longs to run, leap shout and sing. Or else one
wants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in
the green sweet smelling grass.
But alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green
leaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. Do not be offended Jewish
children. But all these have not grown up out of your rubbish.
I was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with red, fiery eyes. He fell upon
me with so much fierceness that the soul almost dropped out of my body.
It was fortunate that he was tied up with a rope.
On hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew out without his jacket and began
ordering the dog to be silent. And he was silent.
Afterwards, Tchitchick took hold of my hand, led me straight to the
black dog and told me not to be afraid. He would not harm me.
"Just try and pat him on the back," said Tchitchick to me. And without
waiting, took hold of my hand and drew it all over the dog's skin. At
the same time calling him many curious names and speaking kind words to
him.
The black villain lowered his head, wagged his tail and licked himself
with his tongue. He threw at me a glance of contempt. As if he would
say, "It's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you.
Otherwise you would have gone from here without a hand."
I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the house with Mr. Sargeant
and I was struck dumb with astonishment. All the walls were covered with
guns. From top to bottom. And on the floor lay a skin with the head of a
lion or a leopard. It had terribly sharp teeth. But the lion was half an
evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns. The guns! I did not even
care about the fresh plums and the apples which the master of the house
offered me out of his own garden. My eyes did not cease leaping from one
wall to the other.... But later on, when Tchitchick took a little fiddle
out of a red drawer--a beautiful, round little fiddle, with a curious
little belly, let his big spreading beard droop over it, and held it
with his big strong hands, and drew the bow across the strings a few
times, backwards and forwards, I forgot, in the blinking of an eye, the
black dog and the terrible lion, and the loaded guns. I only saw before
me Tchitchick's spreading beard and his black, lowered eyebrows. I only
saw a round little fiddle with a curious little belly, and fingers which
danced over the strings so rapidly that no human brain could answer the
questions which arose to my mind: "Where does one get so many fingers?"
Presently, Tchitchick and his spreading beard, vanished, along with his
thick eyebrows and his wonderful fingers. And I saw nothing at all
before me. I only heard a singing, a groaning, a weeping, a sobbing, a
talking, and a growling. They were extraordinary, peculiar sounds that I
heard, the like of which I had never heard before, in all my life.
Sounds sweet as honey, and smooth as oil were pouring themselves right
into my heart, without ceasing. And my soul went off somewhere far from
the little house, into another world, into a Garden of Eden which was
nothing else but beautiful sounds--which was one mass of singing, from
beginning to end....
"Do you want some tea?" asked Tchitchick of me, putting down the little
fiddle, and slapping me on the shoulder.