Our bookbinder had a reverential admiration for all scholars, poets,
or artists, irrespective of race or creed. Awaiting the widow in her
library one day, his attention was attracted by an engraving
representing Schiller at Carlsbad seated upon an ass. His eyes
filled with tears at the sight. "A man like that," he exclaimed,
"riding upon an ass! While ordinary people like Baron Fay or Mr. de
Mariassy ride about proudly on horses."

Later on it occurred to him that Balaam too was mounted on an ass,
and he derived a measure of consolation from the thought that
Schiller was a prophet as well. Would it be venturesome to say that
in Kalimann there was the stuff for poet or prophet?

In addition to his trade, our bookbinder carried on another pursuit
which was quite lucrative in its way, and one universally well
established among all Jewish communities of Eastern Europe. Kalimann
was Cupid's secretary: in other words, he wrote love-letters for
those who could neither read nor write. The opportunity thus
vouchsafed his native tendency toward sentiment helped not only to
swell the hearts of his clients with gratitude, but also to swell
his own slender income. Thus it was that the fire of his poetic
genius was enkindled, and thus it was he became the Petrarch of
Hort.

One day Gutel Wolfner, Mrs. Barkany's cook, came to him with the
request that he would write a letter for her to a friend at Gyongos.

"Well, well, little one," said the scribe, "so Love's arrow has
reached you at last!"