Jewish Children Part 33

That is what my mother said to me, and with so much affection, so much loyalty and so much pa.s.sionate devotion. And Busie got up, and with silent footfalls, brought me a knife and fork--the well-known Pa.s.sover knife and fork. Everything was familiar to me. Nothing was changed, nor different by a hair. It was the same plate with the big green fig leaves; the same knife and fork with the white bone handles. The same delicious odour of melted goose-fat came in to me from the kitchen; and the fresh Pa.s.sover cake had the same Garden-of-Eden taste. Nothing was changed by a hair. Nothing was different in the least detail.

Only, in the olden times, we ate together on the Pa.s.sover eve, Busie and I, off the same plate. I remember that we ate off the same beautiful Pa.s.sover plate that was surrounded by a design of big green fig leaves.

And, at that time, my mother gave us nuts. I remember how she filled our pockets with nuts. And, at that time, we took hold of one another's hands, Busie and I. And I remember that we let ourselves go, in the open. We flew like eagles. I ran; she ran after me. I leaped over the logs of wood; she leaped after me. I was up; she was up. I was down; she was down.

"Shemak! How long are we going to run, Shemak?"

So said Busie to me. And I answered her in the words of the "Song of Songs": "Until the day break, and the shadows flee away."

This was once on a time, years ago. Now Busie is grown up. She is big.

And I also am grown up. I also am big. Busie is betrothed. She is betrothed to some one--to some one else, and not to me.... And I want to be alone with Busie. I want to speak a few words with her. I want to hear her voice. I want to say to her, in the words of the "Song of Songs": "Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice."

And I imagine that her eyes are answering my unspoken words, also in the words of the "Song of Songs." "Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the fields; let us lodge in the villages.

"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves."

I s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 Pa.s.sover! 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 pa.s.sing 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 Pa.s.sover 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 Pa.s.sover 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 h.e.l.lish 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: