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My father distinguished himself for scholarship from the first. Five years old when he entered heder, at eleven he was already a yeshibah bahur a student in the seminary. The rebbe never had occasion to use the birch on him. On the contrary, he held him up as an example to the dull or lazy pupils, praised him in the village, and carried his fame to Polotzk.
If I was not Pondicherry born I must at least have lived there in order to have learnt the language. "Pondy, I was never there," I answered. He evidently did not believe me. I had some mysterious reason for concealing that I was either Pondicherry born or that I had resided there. "Then you didn't know it?" "No." "And you have not been in Villianur?" "No." "Or Bahur?" I shook my head.
The ideal of every Lithuanian Jew was, if not to marry his daughter to a scholar, at least to have a Bahur at his table, a student of the Talmud, a prospective Rabbi.
The ambition of the wealthy was no longer to have a son-in-law who was well-versed in the Torah, but a graduate from a university, the possessor of a diploma, the wearer of a uniform. The bahur lost his lustre in the presence of the "gymnasiast." This ambition pervaded more or less all classes of Russo-Jewish society.
And then the poet, in an access of patriotism, cries out: "And what, in fine, art thou, O Israel, but a poor Bahur among the peoples, eating one day with one of them, another day with the other!... "Thou hast kindled a perpetual lamp for the whole world. Around thee alone the world is dark, O People, slave of slaves, desperate and despised!"
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