She came home but seldom,
and when she did we scarcely ever talked to each other. The
coarse brightness of her complexion and the harsh femininity of
her laughter repelled me
"I do hate her," I once said to myself, as I heard that laugh of hers
"And yet you would not mind kissing her, would you, now?" a
voice retorted
I had to own that I would not, and then I cudgeled my brains over
the amazing discrepancy of the thing. Kissing meant being fond of
one. I enjoyed kissing my mother, for instance. Now, I certainly
was not fond of Esther. I was sure that I hated her. Why, then, was
I impelled to kiss her? How could I hate and be fond of her at
once? I went on reasoning it out, Talmud fashion, till I arrived at
the conclusion that there were two kinds of kisses: the kiss of
affection and the kiss of Satan. I submitted it, as a discovery, to
some of the other young Talmudists, but they scouted it as a
truism. A majority of us were modest of speech and conduct. But
there were some who were not
CHAPTER III WHEN I was a little over eighteen the number of
steady readers at the Old Synagogue was increased by the advent
of a youth from the Polish provinces.
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