THE few days which I passed away from home and my first glimpse of the city gave rise to very definite ideas in my mind: that there was a better life than ours, and that this better life could be found only in a large city, in those tall buildings and well-lighted streets. These thoughts pursued me wherever I went and whatever I did. My mother beat me; she burned the books which I read by stealth—she was illiterate and considered reading a waste of time—but I bravely bore the persecution of my mother and elder sister, and nothing could kill my desire to learn about that life. I could hardly read on week-days, because the work tired me out to such an extent that I used to fall fast asleep early in the evening, but on Saturdays I spent the whole day reading. I called my girl-friends together and we locked ourselves in the barn. I read to them the “Four Brothers,” the only book I knew well, and which I could almost recite from memory. I also shared with them any ideas which I picked up in my association with Hannah.

My brother Wolf and I resorted to all sorts of tricks in order to gain more time for reading. He liked books of travel and romance. After reading a book of this kind, he imagined himself the hero and acted accordingly.

On Friday evening, for economy’s sake, mother poured little kerosene into the lamp. It was considered a great sin to put out the light on that evening, and the lamp had to burn itself out. Wolf and I waited until all fell asleep. Then we poured in more kerosene, seated ourselves so that the light should not be seen, and read till late at night. No one in the house knew of our scheme. But once my father got up quite unexpectedly and saw us seated on the table with books in our hands. Without saying anything about the dreadful sin we had committed, he remarked:

“You will ruin your eyes reading by such a light. You had better go to sleep.”

We complied, having left off at the most interesting passage.