Binding works on jurisprudence for the notary, he developed his philosophy of law; returning some volumes to the village doctor, he surprised that worthy by launching forth with enthusiasm into a disquisition on medicine; and dropping in one fine day at Professor Gambert’s,—­the pensioned schoolmaster,—­he proved himself no mean adversary in a discussion upon natural history.  He invariably approached a subject with a refreshing originality, and on one occasion maintained with an obstinacy born of conviction that the reason Moses had prohibited the Jews from eating pork was because he had discovered the trichina.

Simcha Kalimann had taken upon himself the office of censor in his village, as may be seen by the following incident.  The widow had given him a richly illustrated German edition of “Nana” to bind.  At dusk one evening he discovered his apprentice crouched in a corner by the window, evidently intensely amused over the illustrations.  He quietly seized the culprit by the hair, shook him as he would a puppy, and then, putting on his spectacles, began inspecting the volume himself.  At first he shook his head, then took off his glasses and rubbed them as though they were playing him some prank, and finally closed the book with an expression of profound disgust.

Mrs. Barkany awaited the return of her “Nana” with unruffled patience; finally she despatched her cook Gutel with an order for the book.  Kalimann was ready with his excuses, and after a fortnight’s delay the widow found her way into the workshop, and began suing for the book in person.

“I want my copy of ‘Nana,’” she began.

“Nana?” Kalimann went on with his work.

“You have not bound it yet?”

“No, madame.”

“But when am I to have it?” “You are not to have that book at all.”

“What!  You talk absurdly.”

   “We merit trust, the Count will own;
   For nothing’s left of flesh or bone,”

quoted Kalimann from Schiller’s ballad “The Forge.”  “As for ‘Nana,’ I’ve simply pushed it in the stove.”

“Kalimann, this is going too far.”

“It is not a book for a Jewish woman to own.”

The widow flushed indignantly, but would not yield the victory to her adversary.

“If you have burned my book you must give me an equivalent.”

“With pleasure,” replied the bookbinder, and taking down a picture from the wall, he begged her acceptance of it.  It represented a scene from Schiller’s “Song of the Bell,” a fair young woman, surrounded by her children, seated on the balcony of her house.  As title to the picture were printed these lines: 

     “The house spreadeth out,
     And in it presides
     The chaste gentle housewife,
     The mother of children;
     And ruleth metely
     The household discreetly.”

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.”