Chapter 15

I snatched a glimpse through the window to see what was going on out of doors. Ah, how lovely it was! How beautiful! How fragrant of the Passover! How like the "Song of Songs"! It was a sin to be indoors. Soon the day would be at an end. Lower and lower sank the sun, painting the sky the colour of guinea-gold. The gold was reflected in Busie's eyes. They were bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I would have no time to say a single word to Busie. The whole day was spent in talking idly with my father and my mother, my relatives and friends, telling them of all that I had heard, and all that I had seen. I jumped up, and went over to the window. I looked out of it. As I was passing her, I said quickly to Busie:

"Perhaps we should go out for a while? It is so long since I was at home. I want to see everything. I want to have a look at the village."

* * *

Can you tell me what was the matter with Busie? Her cheeks were at once enflamed. They burned with a great fire. She was as red as the sun that was going down in the west. She threw a glance at my father. I imagined she wanted to hear what my father would say. And my father looked at my mother, over his silver spectacles. He stroked the silver strands of his silvery-white beard, and said casually, to no one in particular:

"The sun is setting. It's time to put on our Festival garments, and to go into the synagogue to pray. It is time to light the Festival candles. What do you say?"

No! It seemed that I was not going to get the chance of saying anything to Busie that day. We went off to change our garments. My mother had finished her work. She had put on her new silk Passover gown. Her white hands gleamed. No one has such beautiful white hands as my mother. Soon she will make the blessing over the Festival candles. She will cover her eyes with her snow-white hands and weep silently, as she used to do once on a time, years ago. The last lingering rays of the setting sun will play on her beautiful, transparent white hands. No one has such beautiful, white transparent hands as my mother.

But what is the matter with Busie? The light has gone out of her face just as it is going out of the sun that is slowly setting in the west, and as it is going out of the day that is slowly dying. But she is beautiful, and graceful as never before. And there is a deep sadness in her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes. They are very thoughtful, are Busie's eyes.

What is Busie thinking of now? Of the loving guest for whom she had waited, and who had come flying home so unexpectedly, after a long, long absence from home?... Or is she thinking of her mother, who married again, and went off somewhere far, and who forgot that she had a daughter whose name was Busie?... Or is Busie now thinking of her betrothed, her affianced husband whom, probably, my father and mother were compelling her to marry against her own inclinations?... Or is she thinking of her marriage that is going to take place on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, to a man she does not know, and does not understand? Who is he, and what is he?... Or, perhaps, on the contrary, I am mistaken? Perhaps she is counting the days from the Passover to the Feast of Weeks, until the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, because the man she is going to marry on that day is her chosen, her dearest, her beloved? He will lead her under the wedding canopy. To him she will give all her heart, and all her love. And to me? Alas! Woe is me! To me she is no more than a sister. She always was to me a sister, and always will be.... And I imagine that she is looking at me with pity and with regret, and that she is saying to me, as she said to me, once on a time, years ago, in the words of the "Song of Songs:"

"O that thou wert as my brother."

"Why are you not my brother?"

What answer can I make her to these unspoken words? I know what I should like to say to her. Only let me get the chance to say a few words to her, no more than a few.

No! I shall not be able to speak a single word with Busie this day--nor even half a word. Now she is rising from her chair. She is going with light, soft footfalls to the cupboard. She is getting the candles ready for my mother, fixing them into the silver candlesticks. How well I know these silver candlesticks! They played a big part in my golden, boyish dreams of the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was going to rescue from the palace of crystal. The golden dreams, and the silver candlesticks, and the Sabbath candles, and my mother's beautiful, white transparent hands, and Busie's beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes, and the last rays of the sun that is going down in the west--are they not all one and the same, bound together and interwoven for ever?...

"Ta!" exclaimed my father, looking out of the window, and winking to me that it was high time to change and go into the synagogue to pray.

And we changed our garments, my father and I, and we went into the synagogue to say our prayers.

* * *

Our synagogue, our old, old synagogue was not changed either, not by so much as a hair. Not a single detail was different. Only the walls had become a little blacker; the reader's desk was older; the curtain before the Holy Ark had drooped lower; and the Holy Ark itself had lost its polish, its newness.

Once on a time, our synagogue had appeared in my eyes like a small copy of King Solomon's Temple. Now the small temple was leaning slightly to one side. Ah, what has become of the brilliance, and the holy splendour of our little old synagogue? Where now are the angels which used to flutter about, under the carved wings of the Holy Ark on Friday evenings, when we were reciting the prayers in welcome of the Sabbath, and on Festival evenings when we were reciting the beautiful Festival prayers?

And the members of the congregation were also very little changed. They were only grown a little older. Black beards were now grey. Straight shoulders were stooped a little. The satin holiday coats that I knew so well were more threadbare, shabbier. White threads were to be seen in them and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor sang as beautifully as in the olden times, years ago. Only today his voice is a little husky, and a new tone is to be heard in the old prayers he is chanting. He weeps rather than sings the words. He mourns rather than prays. And our rabbi? The old rabbi? He has not changed at all. He was like the fallen snow when I saw him last, and today is like the fallen snow. He is different only in one trifling respect. His hands are trembling. And the rest of his body is also trembling, from old age, I should imagine. Asreal the Beadle--a Jew who had never had the least sign of a beard--would have been exactly the same man as once on a time, years before, if it were not for his teeth. He has lost every single tooth he possessed; and with his fallen-in cheeks, he now looks much more like a woman than a man. But for all that, he can still bang on the desk with his open hand. True, it is not the same bang as once on a time. Years ago, one was almost deafened by the noise of Asreal's hand coming down on the desk. Today, it is not like that at all. It seems that he has not any longer the strength he used to have. He was once a giant of a man.

Once on a time, years ago, I was happy in the little old synagogue; I remember that I felt happy without an end--without a limit! Here, in the little synagogue, years ago, my childish soul swept about with the angels I imagined were flying around the carved wings of the Holy Ark. Here, in the little synagogue, once on a time, with my father and all the other Jews, I prayed earnestly. And it gave me great pleasure, great satisfaction.

* * *

And now, here I am again in the same old synagogue, praying with the same old congregation, just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the same Cantor singing the same melodies as before. And I am praying along with the congregation. But my thoughts are far from the prayers. I keep turning over the pages of my prayer-book idly, one page after the other. And--I am not to blame for it--I come upon the pages on which are printed the "Song of Songs." And I read:

"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are fair; thou hast dove's eyes within thy locks."

I should like to pray with the congregation, as they are praying, and as I used to pray, once on a time. But the words will not rise to my lips. I turn over the pages of my prayer-book, one after the other, and--I am not to blame for it--again I turn up the "Song of Songs," at the fifth chapter.

"I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse."

And again:

"I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk."

But what am I talking about? What am I saying? The garden is not mine. I shall not gather any myrrh, nor smell any spices. I shall eat no honey, and drink no wine. The garden is not my garden. Busie is not my betrothed. Busie is betrothed to some one else--to some one else, and not to me.... And there rages within me a hellish fire. Not against Busie. Not against anybody at all. No; only against myself alone. Surely! How could I have stayed away from Busie for such a long time? How could I have allowed it--that Busie should be taken away from me, and given to some one else? Had she not written many letters to me, often, and given me to understand that she hoped to see me shortly?... Had I not myself promised to come home, and then put off going, from one Festival to another, so many times until, at last, Busie gave up writing to me?

* * *

"Good '_Yom-Tov_'! This is my son!"

That was how my father introduced me to the men of the congregation at the synagogue, after prayers. They examined me on all sides. They greeted me with, "Peace be unto you!" and accepted my greeting, in return, "Unto you be peace!" as if it were no more than their due.

"This is my son...."

"That is your son? Here is a 'Peace be unto you!'"

In my father's words, "This is my son," there were many shades of feeling, many meanings--joy, and happiness, and reproach. One might interpret the words as one liked. One might argue that he meant to say:

"What do you think? This is really my _son_."

Or one might argue that he meant to say:

"Just imagine it--_this_ is my son!"

I could feel for my father. He was deeply hurt. I had opposed his wishes. I had not gone his road, but had taken a road of my own. And I had caused him to grow old before his time. No; he had not forgiven me yet. He did not tell me this. But his manner saved him the trouble of explaining himself. I felt that he had not forgiven me yet. His eyes told me everything. They looked at me reproachfully from over his silver-rimmed spectacles, right into my heart. His soft sigh told me that he had not forgiven me yet--the sigh which tore itself, from time to time, out of his weak old breast....

We walked home from the synagogue together, in silence. We got home later than any one else. The night had already spread her wings over the heavens. Her shadow was slowly lowering itself over the earth. A silent, warm, holy Passover night it was--a night full of secrets and mysteries, full of wonder and beauty. The holiness of this night could be felt in the air. It descended slowly from the dark blue sky.... The stars whispered together in the mysterious voices of the night. And on all sides of us, from the little Jewish houses came the words of the "_Haggadah_": "We went forth from Egypt on this night."

With hasty, hasty steps I went towards home, on this night. And my father barely managed to keep up with me. He followed after me like a shadow.

"Why are you flying?" he asked of me, scarcely managing to catch his breath.

Ah, father, father! Do you not know that I have been compared with "a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of spices"?... The time is long for me, father, too long. The way is long for me, father, too long. When Busie is betrothed to some one--to some one else and not to me, the hours and the roads are too long for me.... I am compared with "a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of spices."

That is what I wanted to say to my father, in the words of the "Song of Songs." I did not feel the ground under my feet. I went towards home with hasty, hasty steps, on this night. My father barely managed to keep up with me. He followed after me like a shadow.

* * *

With the same "Good '_Yom-Tov_'" which we had said on coming in from the synagogue on such a night as this, years ago, we entered the house on this night, my father and I.

With the same "Good '_Yom-Tov_,' good year," with which my mother and Busie used to welcome us, on such a night as this, once on a time, years ago, they again welcomed us on this night, my father and me.

My mother, the Queen of the evening, was dressed in her royal robes of silk; and the Queen's Daughter, Busie, was dressed in her snow-white frock. They made the same picture which they had made, once on a time, years ago. They were not altered by as much as a hair. They were not different in a single detail.

As it had been years ago, so it was now. On this night, the house was full of grace. A peculiar beauty--a holy, festive, majestic loveliness descended upon our house. A holy, festive glamour hung about our house on this night. The white table-cloth was like driven snow. And everything which was on the table gleamed and glistened. My mother's Festival candles shone out of the silver candlesticks. The Passover wine greeted us from out the sparkling bottles. Ah, how pure, how simple the Passover cakes looked, peeping innocently from under their beautiful cover! How sweetly the horse-radish smiled to me! And how pleasant was the "mortar"--the mixture of crushed nuts and apples and wine which symbolized the mortar out of which the Israelites made bricks in Egypt, when they were slaves! And even the dish of salt-water was good to look upon.

Proudly and haughtily stood the throne on which my father, the King of the night, was going to recline. A glory shone forth from my mother's countenance, such as I always saw shining forth from it on such a night. And the Queen's Daughter, Busie, was entirely, from her head to her heels, as if she really belonged to the "Song of Songs." No! What am I saying? She was the "Song of Songs" itself.

The only pity was that the King's son was put sitting so far away from the Queen's Daughter. I remember that they once sat at the Passover ceremony in a different position. They were together, once on a time, years ago. One beside the other they sat....

I remember that the King's Son asked his father "The Four Questions." And I remember that the Queen's Daughter stole from his Majesty the "_Afikomen_"--the pieces of Passover cake he had hidden away to make the special blessing over. And I? What had I done then? How much did we laugh at that time! I remember that, once on a time, years ago, when the "_Seder_" was ended, the Queen had taken off her royal garment of silk, and the King had taken off his white robes, and we two, Busie and I, sat together in a corner playing with the nuts which my mother had given us. And there, in the corner, I told Busie a story--one of the fairy tales I had learnt at school from my comrade Sheika, who knew everything in the world. It was the story of the beautiful Queen's Daughter who had been taken from under the wedding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal for seven years on end, and who was waiting for some one to raise himself up into the air by pronouncing the Holy Name, flying above the clouds, across hills, and over valleys, over rivers, and across deserts, to release her, to set her free.

* * *

But all this happened once on a time, years ago. Now the Queen's Daughter is grown up. She is big. And the King's Son is grown up. He is big. And we two are seated in such a way, so pitilessly, that we cannot even see one another. Imagine it to yourself! On the right of his majesty sat the King's Son. On the left of her majesty sat the Queen's Daughter!... And we recited the "_Haggadah_," my father and I, at the top of our voices, as once on a time, years ago, page after page, and in the same sing-song as of old. And my mother and Busie repeated the words after us, softly, page after page, until we came to the "Song of Songs." I recited the "Song of Songs" together with my father, as once on a time, years ago, in the same melody as of old, passage after passage. And my mother and Busie repeated the words after us, softly, passage after passage, until the King of the night, tired out, after the long Passover ceremony, and somewhat dulled by the four cups of raisin wine, began to doze off by degrees. He nodded for a few minutes, woke up, and went on singing the "Song of Songs." He began in a loud voice:

"Many waters cannot quench love."....

And I caught him up, in the same strain:

"Neither can floods drown it."

The recital grew softer and softer with us both, as the night wore on, until at last his majesty fell asleep in real earnest. The Queen touched him on the sleeve of his white robe. She woke him with a sweet, affectionate gentleness, and told him he should go to bed. In the meantime, Busie and I got the chance of saying a few words to one another. I got up from my place and went over close beside her. And we stood opposite one another for the first time, closely, on this night. I pointed out to her how rarely beautiful the night was.

"On such a night," I said to her, "it is good to go walking."

She understood me, and answered me, with a half-smile by asking:

"On such a night?" ...

And I imagined that she was laughing at me. That was how she used to laugh at me, once on a time, years ago.... I was annoyed. I said to her:

"Busie, we have something to say to one another--we have much to talk about."

"Much to talk about?" she replied, echoing my words.

And again I imagined that she was laughing at me.... I put in quickly:

"Perhaps I am mistaken? Maybe I have nothing at all to say to you now?"

These words were uttered with so much bitterness that Busie ceased from smiling, and her face grew serious.

"Tomorrow," she said to me, "tomorrow we will talk." ...

And my eyes grew bright. Everything about me was bright and good and joyful. Tomorrow! Tomorrow we will talk! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!...

I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance of her hair, the fragrance of her clothes--the same familiar fragrance of her. And there came up to my mind the words of the "Song of Songs":

"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon." ...

And all our speech this night was the same--without words. We spoke together with our eyes--with our eyes.

* * *

"Busie, good-night," I said to her softly.

It was hard for me to go away from her. The one God in Heaven knew the truth--how hard it was.

"Good-night," Busie made answer.

She did not stir from the spot. She looked at me, deeply perplexed, out of her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.

I said "good-night" to her again. And she again said "good-night" to me. My mother came in and led me off to bed. When we were in my room, my mother smoothed out for me, with her beautiful, snow-white hands, the white cover of my bed. And her lips murmured:

"Sleep well, my child, sleep well."

Into these few words she poured a whole ocean of tender love--the love which had been pent up in her breast the long time I had been away from her. I was ready to fall down before her, and kiss her beautiful white hands.

"Good-night," I murmured softly to her.

And I was left alone--all alone, on this night.

* * *

I was all alone on this night--all alone on this silent, soft, warm, early spring night.

I opened my window and looked out into the open, at the dark blue night sky, and at the shimmering stars that were like brilliants. And I asked myself:

"Is it then true? Is it then true?...

"Is it then true that I have lost my happiness--lost my happiness for ever?

"Is it then true that with my own hands I took and burnt my wonderful dream-palace, and let go from me the divine Queen's Daughter whom I had myself bewitched, once on a time, years ago? Is it then so? Is it so? Maybe it is not so? Perhaps I have come in time? 'I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse.'" ...

I sat at the open window for a long time on this night. And I exchanged whispered secrets with the silent, soft, warm early spring night that was full--strangely full--of secrets and mysteries....

On this night, I made a discovery--

That I loved Busie with that holy, burning love which is so wonderfully described in our "Song of Songs." Big fiery letters seemed to carve themselves out before my eyes. They formed themselves into the words which I had only just recited, my father and I--the words of the "Song of Songs." I read the carved words, letter by letter.

"Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame."

On this night, I sat down at my open window, and I asked of the night which was full of secrets and mysteries, that she should tell me this secret:

"Is it true that I have lost Busie for ever? Is it then true?" ...

But she is silent--this night of secrets and mysteries. And the secret must remain a secret for me--until the morrow.

"Tomorrow," Busie had said to me, "we will talk."

Ah! Tomorrow we will talk!...

Only let the night go by--only let it vanish, this night!

This night! This night!

THE END

* * * * *

_NEW BORZOI NOVELS_

_SPRING, 1922_

WANDERERS _Knut Hamsun_

MEN OF AFFAIRS _Roland Pertwee_

THE FAIR REWARDS _Thomas Beer_

I WALKED IN ARDEN _Jack Crawford_

GUEST THE ONE-EYED _Gunnar Gunnarsson_

THE GARDEN PARTY _Katherine Mansfield_

THE LONGEST JOURNEY _E. M. Forster_

THE SOUL OF A CHILD _Edwin Bjoerkman_

CYTHEREA _Joseph Hergesheimer_

EXPLORERS OF THE DAWN _Mazo de la Roche_

THE WHITE KAMI _Edward Alden Jewell_

End of Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich