ed it, they would not have obeyed. A week ago my father came
to me in great fury and ordered me to give up the accursed book we
had been reading on the meadow. He shouted at me, 'Have you that
book?' I said, 'I have.' He then asked me, 'Where is it?' I remained
silent. He looked as if he would have liked to beat me, but did not
dare, on account of my position in the synagogue, and the love people
bear me. He then ransacked the whole room, and at last found it under
the pillow. He wanted to carry it to the Rabbi, but I knelt before
him and begged him not to do so, as he would not allow me to sing any
more, and would deprive me of people's love, and of my singing.
Father seemed struck by my remark, for he is proud that a son of his,
and one so young in years, holds such a position, and he thinks,
also, that, when his son sings and prays before the Lord, the Lord
will prosper him in his business, and forgive all his sins. So he did
not take the book to the Rabbi, but thrust it into the fire, and,
when it burned and crackled, he leaped and danced for joy."

"And you, Eliezer, you looked on and did nothing?"

"What could I do?" whispered the singer.

"I should have put the book on my breast, protected it with my arms,
and said to my father, 'If you wish to burn it, burn me with it.'"

Meir said this with indignation, almost anger, against his friend.

Eliezer stood before him with downcast eyes, sad, and humbled.

"I could not," he whispered. "I was afraid they would deprive me of
my office, and denounce me as an infidel. But look at me, Meir, and
judge from it how I loved our Master; since he was taken away from me
my face has shrunk, and my eyes are red with tears."

"Oh, tears! tears! tears!" exclaimed Meir, throwing himself upon a
chair, and pressing his throbbing temples with both hands; "always
those tears and tears!" he repeated, with a half-sarcastic,
half-sorrowful voice. "You may weep for ever, and do no good either
to yourself or to others. Eliezer! I love you even as a brother; but
I do not like your tears, and do not care to look at your reddened
eyes. Eliezer, do not show me tears again; show me eyes full of fire.
The people love you, and would follow you like a child its mother."

Scolding and upbraiding his friend, Meir's eyes betrayed a moisture
which, not wishing to betray, he buried his face in both hands.

"Oh, Eliezer, what have you done to give up that book? Where shall we
go now for advice and