. . . . .
If the Esther of the Bible was as beautiful a creature as the Esther of my story, then it is no wonder she found favour in the eyes of King Ahasuerus. The Esther of whom I am going to tell you was loved by everybody, everybody, even by me and by my older brother Mottel, although he was "Bar-mitzvah" long ago, and they were making up a match for him, and he was wearing a watch and chain this good while. (If I am not mistaken, he had already started to grow a beard at the time I speak of.) And that my brother Mottel loves Esther, I am positive. He thinks I do not know that his going to "Cheder" every Sabbath to read with the teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday's day! The teacher snores loudly. The teacher's wife stands on the doorstep talking with the women. We boys play around the room, and Mottel and Esther are staring—she at him, and he at her. It sometimes happens that we boys play at "blind-man's-buff." Do you know what "blind-man's-buff" is? Well, then I will tell you. You take a boy, bandage his eyes with a handkerchief, place him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys fly round him crying: "Blindman, blindman, catch me!"
Mottel and Esther also play at "blind-man's-buff" with us. They like the game because, when they are playing it, they can chase one another—she him, and he her.
And I have many more proofs I could give you that—But I am not that sort.
I once caught them holding hands, he hers, and she his. And it was not on the Sabbath either, but on a week-day. It was towards evening, between the afternoon and the evening prayers. He was pretending to go to the synagogue. He strayed into "Cheder." "Where is the teacher?" "The teacher is not here." And he went and gave her his hand, Esther, that is. I saw them. He withdrew his hand and gave me a "groschen" to tell no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I asked three, and he gave me three. What do you think—if I had asked four, or five, or six, would he not have given them? But I am not that sort.
Another time, too, something happened. But enough of this. I will rather tell you the real story—the one I promised you.
. . . . .
As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. He does not go to "Cheder" any more, nor does he wish to learn anything at home. For this, my father calls him "Man of clay." He has no other name for him. My mother does not like it. What sort of a habit is it to call a young man, almost a bridegroom, a man of clay? My father says he is nothing else but a man of clay. They quarrel about it. I do not know what other parents do, but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and night they are quarrelling.
If I were to tell you how my father and mother quarrel, you would split your sides laughing. But I am not that sort.
In a word, my brother Mottel does not go to "Cheder" any more. Nevertheless, he does not forget to send the teacher a "Purim" present. Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice poem in Hebrew, illuminated with a "Shield of David," and two paper "roubles." With whom does he send this "Purim" present? With me, of course. My brother says to me, "Here, hand the teacher this "Purim" present. When you come back, I will give you ten 'groschens.'" Ten "groschens" is money. But what then? I want the money now. My brother said I was a heathen. Said I: "It may be I am a heathen. I will not argue about it. But I want to see the money," said I. Who do you think won?