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?