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What was to be done, if the teacher even made game of dreams?
For his own sake, still more for Gütele's, I wished to save him, and I described to him the whole of my dream. But he said dreams were foolish; he paid no attention to such things.
He wanted to prove to me out of the Bible and the Talmud that dreams were rubbish, but I stopped my ears with my little fingers and would not listen.
I saw clearly that he was lost; that his sentence would be a terrible one; that I ought to avoid him like the plague; that he was like to ruin my soul, my young soul.
But, again, what was to be done? I made a hundred resolves to tell my mother, and never kept one of them.
I had my mouth open to speak many a time, but it seemed to me that Gütele stood behind her shoulders, held out her small hands to me in supplication, and spoke with her eyes: "No," she begged, "no, don't tell!"
And the prayer in her eyes overcame my piety; I felt that for her I would go, not through fire and water only, but into hell itself.
And yet it seemed to me a great pity, for my mother and all my teachers were sure that I had in me the making of something remarkable.