"The fiddle, you must understand," went on Naphtali "Bezborodka" to me, and evidently satisfied with the lecture he was giving me, "the fiddle, you must understand, is an instrument that is older than all other instruments. The first man in the world to play on the fiddle was Jubal-Cain, or Methuselah, I don't exactly remember which. You will know that better than I, for, to be sure, you are learning Bible history at school. The second fiddler in the world was King David. Another great fiddler—the third greatest in the world—was Paganini. He also was a Jew. All the best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance there was 'Stempenyu,' and there was 'Pedotchur.' Of myself I say nothing. People tell me that I do not play the fiddle badly. But how can I come up to Paganini? They say that Paganini sold his soul to the Ashmodai for a fiddle. Paganini hated to play before great people like kings and popes, although they covered him with gold. He would much rather play at wayside inns for poor folks, or in villages. Or else he would play in the forest for wild beasts and fowls of the air. What a fiddler Paganini was!...
"Eh, boys, to your places! To your instruments!"
That was the order which Naphtali "Bezborodka" gave to his regiment of children, all of whom came together in one minute. Each one took up an instrument. Naphtali himself stood up, beat his baton on the table, threw a sharp glance on every separate child and on all at once; and they began to play a concert on every sort of instrument with so much force that I was almost knocked off my feet. Each child tried to make more noise than the other. But above all, I was nearly deafened by the noise that one boy made, a little fellow who was called Hemalle. He was a dry little boy with a wet little nose, and dirty bare little feet. Hemalle played a curiously made instrument. It was a sort of sack which, when you blew it up, let out a mad screech—a peculiar sound like a yell of a cat after you have trodden on its tail. Hemalle beat time with his little bare foot. And all the while he kept looking at me out of his roguish little eyes, and winking to me as if he would say: "Well, isn't it so? I blow well—don't I?" But it was Naphtali himself who worked the hardest of all. Along with playing the fiddle, he led the orchestra, waved his hands about, shifted his feet, and moved his nose, and his eyes and his whole body. And if some one made a mistake—God forbid! he ground his teeth and shouted in anger:
"Forte, devil, forte! Fortissimo! Time, wretch, time! One, two, three! One, two, three!"
. . . . .
Having arranged with Naphtali "Bezborodka" that he should give me three lessons a week, of an hour and a half each day, for two "roubles" a month, I again and yet again begged of him that he would keep my visits a secret of secrets; for if he did not, I would be lost forever. He promised me faithfully that not even a bird would hear of my coming and going.
"We are the sort of people," he said to me, proudly, fixing his collar in place, "we are the sort of people who never have any money. But you will find more honour and justice in our house than in the house of the richest man. Maybe you have a few 'groschens' about you?"
I took out a "rouble" and gave it to him. Naphtali took it in the manner of a professor, with his two fingers. He called over "Mother Eve," turned away his eyes, and said to her:
"Here! Buy something to eat."
"Mother Eve" took the "rouble" from him, but with both hands and all her fingers, examined it on all sides, and asked her husband: