s, who
were all the world to him. His very life was bound up with them, and
when one of them exclaimed, "Oi, cantor! Oi, how you sing!" his
happiness was complete.

The singers had come together from various towns and villages, and all
their conversations and their stories turned and wrapped themselves
round cantors and music. These stories and legends were the cantor's
delight, he would lose himself in every one of them, and give a sweet,
deep sigh:

"As if music were a trifle! As if a feeling were a toy!" And now that he
had begun to fear he was losing his voice, it seemed to him the singers
were different people--bad people! They must be laughing at him among
themselves! And he began to be on his guard against them, avoided taking
a high note in their presence, lest they should find out--and suffered
all the more.

And what would the neighboring cantors say? The thought tormented him
further. He knew that he had a reputation among them, that he was a
great deal thought of, that his voice was much talked of. He saw in his
mind's eye a couple of cantors whispering together, and shaking their
heads sorrowfully: they are pitying him! "How sad! You have heard? The
poor Klemenke cantor----"

The vision quite upset him.

"Perhaps it's only fancy!" he would say to himself in those dreadful
moments, and would begin to sing, to try his highest notes. But the
terror he was in took away his hearing, and he could not tell if his
voice were what it should be or not.

In two weeks time his face grew pale and thin, his eyes were sunk, and
he felt his strength going.

"What is the matter with you, cantor?" said a singer to him one day.

"Ha, what is the matter?" asked the cantor, with a start, thinking they
had already found out. "You ask what is the matter with me? Then you
know something about it, ha!"

"No, I know nothing. That is why I ask you why you look so upset."

"Upset, you say? Nothing more than upset, ha? That's all?"

"The cantor must be thinking out some new piece for the Solemn Days,"
decided the choir.

Another month went by, and the cantor had not got the better of his
fear. Life had become distasteful to him. If he had known for certain
that his voice was gone, he would perhaps have been calmer. Verfallen!
No one can live forever (losing his voice and dying was one and the same
to him), but the uncertainty, the tossing oneself between yes and no,
the Olom ha-Tohu of it all, embittered the cantor's ex