Chapter VII: Part 7

When all these things were brought home and placed upon the table, the family fell upon them with as much appetite as if they had just ended a long fast. I was actually tempted by an evil spirit; and when they asked me to take my place at the table I could not refuse. I do not remember when I enjoyed a meal as much as I enjoyed the one at the musician's house that day.

After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked to the children that they should take their instruments in their hands. And he treated me, all over again to a piece--"his own composition." This "composition" was played with so much excitement and force that my ears were deafened and my brain was stupefied. I left the house intoxicated by Naphtali "_Bezborodka's_" "composition." The whole day at school, the teacher and the boys and the books were whirling round and round in front of my eyes. And my ears were ringing with the echoes of Naphtali's "composition." At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini riding on the Ashmodai, and that he banged me over the head with his fiddle. I awoke with a scream, and a headache, and I began to pour out words as from a sack. What I said I do not know. But my older sister, Pessel, told me afterwards that I talked in heat, and that there was no connection between any two words I uttered. I repeated some fantastic names--"Composition." "Paganini," etc.... And there was another thing my sister told me. During the time I was lying delirious, several messages were sent from Naphtali the Musician to know how I was. There came some barefoot boy who made many inquiries about me. He was driven off, and was told never to dare to come near the house again....

"What was the musician's boy doing here?" asked my sister. And she tormented me with questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept repeating the same words:

"I do not know. As I live, I do not know. How am I to know?"

"What does it look like?" asked my mother. "You are already a young man, a grown-up man--may no evil eye harm you! They will be soon looking for a bride for you, and you go about with fine friends, barefoot young musicians. What business have you with musicians? What was Naphtali the Musician's boy doing here?"

"What Naphtali?" I asked, pretending not to understand. "What musician?"

"Just look at him--the saint!" put in my father. "He knows nothing about anything. Poor thing! His soul is innocent before the Lord! When I was your age I was already long betrothed. And he is still playing with strange boys. Dress yourself, and go off to school. And if you meet Hershel the Tax-collector, and he asks you what was the matter with you, you are to tell him that you had the ague. Do you hear what I am saying to you? The ague!"

I could not for the life of me understand what business Hershel the Tax-collector had with me. And for what reason was I to tell him I had been suffering from the ague?... It was only a few weeks later that this riddle was solved for me.

* * *

Hershel the Tax-collector was so called because he, and his grandfather before him, had collected the taxes of the town. It was the privilege of their family. He was a young man with a round little belly, and a red little beard, and moist little eyes, and he had a broad white forehead, a sure sign that he was a man of brains. And he had the reputation in our town of being a fine, young man, a modern, and a scholar. He had a sound knowledge of the Bible, and was a writer of distinction. That is to say, he had a beautiful hand. They say that his manuscripts were carried around and shown in the whole world. And along with these qualities, he had money, and he had one little daughter--an only child, a girl with red hair and moist eyes. She and her father, Hershel the Tax-collector, were as like as two drops of water. Her name was Esther, but she was called by the nickname of "Plesteril." She was nervous and genteel. She was as frightened of us, schoolboys, as of the Angel of Death, because we used to torment her. We used to tease her and sing little songs about her:

"Estheril."

"Plesteril!"

"Why have you no little sister?"

Well, after all, what is there in these words? Nothing, of course. Nevertheless, whenever "Plesteril" heard them, she used to cover up her ears, run home crying, and hide herself away in the farthest of far corners. And, for several days, she was afraid to go out in the street.

But that was once on a time, when she was still a child. Now she is a young woman, and is counted amongst the grown-ups. Her hair was tied up in a red plait, and she was dressed like a bride, in the latest fashions. My mother had a high opinion of her. She could never praise her enough, and called her "a quiet dove." Sometimes, on the Sabbath Esther came into our house, to see my sister Pessel. And when she saw me, she grew redder than ever, and dropped her eyes. At the same time, my sister Pessel would call me over to ask me something, and also to look into my eyes as she looked into Esther's.

And it came to pass that, on a certain day, there came into my school my father and Hershel the Tax-collector. And after them came Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker--a Jew who had six fingers, and a curly black beard, and who was terribly poor. Seeing such visitors, our teacher, "_Reb_" Zorach, pulled on his long coat, and put his hat on his head. And because of his great excitement, one of his earlocks got twisted up behind his ear. His hat got creased; and more than half of his little round cap was left sticking out at the back of his head, from under his hat; and one of his cheeks began to blaze. One could see that something extraordinary was going to happen.

Of late, "_Reb_" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker had started coming into the school a little too often. He always called the teacher outside, where they stood talking together for some minutes, whispering and getting excited. The matchmaker gesticulated with his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. He always finished up with a sigh, and said:

"Well, it's the same story again. If it is destined it will probably take place. How can we know anything--how?"

When the visitors came in, our teacher, "_Reb_" Zorach, did not know what to do, or where he was to seat them. He took hold of the kitchen stool on which his wife salted the meat, and first of all spun round and round with it several times, and went up and down the whole length of the room. After this, he barely managed to place the stool on the floor when he sat down on it himself. But he at once jumped up again, greatly confused; and he caught hold of the back pocket of his long coat, just as if he had lost a purse of money.

"Here is a stool. Sit down," he said to his visitors.

"It's all right! Sit down, sit down," said my father to him. "We have come in to you, '_Reb_' Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants to examine my son--to see what he knows of the Bible."

And my father pointed to Hershel the Tax-collector.

"Oh, by all means! Why not?" answered the teacher, "_Reb_" Zorach. He took up a little Bible, and handed it to Hershel the Tax-collector. The expression on his face was as if he were saying: "Here it is for you, and do what you like."

Hershel the Tax-collector took the Bible in his hand like a man who knows thoroughly what he is doing. He twisted his little head to one side, closed one eye, turned and turned the pages, and gave me to read the first chapter of the "Song of Songs."

"Is it the 'Song of Songs'?" asked my teacher, with a faint smile, as if he would say: "Could you find nothing more difficult?"

"The 'Song of Songs,'" replied Hershel the Tax-collector. "The 'Song of Songs' is not as easy as you imagine. One must undehstand the 'Song of Songs.'" (Hershel could not pronounce the letter R but said H.)

"Certainly," put in Shalom-Shachno, with a little laugh.

The teacher gave me a wink. I went over to the table, shook myself to and fro for a minute, and began to chant the "Song of Songs" to a beautiful melody, first introducing this commentary on it:--

"The 'Song of Songs'--a song above all songs! All other songs have been sung by prophets, but this 'Song' has been sung by a prophet who was the son of a prophet. All other songs have been sung by men of wisdom, but this 'Song' has been sung by a man of wisdom who was the son of a man of wisdom. All other songs have been sung by kings, but this 'Song' has been sung by a king who was the son of a king."

Whilst I was singing, I glanced quickly at my audience. And on each face I could see a different expression. On my father's face I could see pride and pleasure. On my teacher's face were fear and anxiety, lest, God forbid! I should make a mistake, or commit errors in reading. His lips, in silence, repeated every word after me. Hershel the Tax-collector sat with his head a little to one side, the ends of his yellow beard in his mouth, one little eye closed, the other staring up at the ceiling. He was listening with the air of a great, great judge. "_Reb_" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker never took his eyes off Hershel for a single minute. He sat with half his body leaning forward, shaking himself to and fro, as I did. And he could not restrain himself from interrupting me many times by an exclamation, a little laugh and a cough, all in one breath, as he waved his double-jointed finger in the air.

"When people say that he knows--then he knows!"

A few days after this, plates were broken, and in a fortunate hour, I was betrothed to Hershel the Tax-collector's only daughter, Plesteril.

* * *

It sometimes happens that a man grows in one day more than anybody else grows in ten years. When I was betrothed, I, all at once, began to feel that I was a "grown-up." Surely I was the same as before, and yet I was not the same. From my smallest comrade to my teacher "_Reb_" Zorach, everybody now began to look upon me with more respect. After all, I was a bridegroom-elect, and had a watch. And my father also gave up shouting at me. Of smacks there is no need to say anything. How could any one take hold of a bridegroom-elect who had a gold watch, and smack his face for him? It would be a disgrace before the whole world, and a shame for one's own self. It is true that it once happened that a bridegroom-elect named Eli was flogged at our school, because he had been caught sliding on the ice with the Gentile boys of the town. But for that again, the whole town made a fine business of the flogging afterwards. When the scandal reached the ears of Eli's betrothed, she cried so much until the marriage contract was sent back to the bridegroom-elect, to Eli, that is. And through grief and shame, he would have thrown himself into the river, but that the water was frozen....

Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. But it was not because I got a flogging, and not because I went sliding on the ice. It was because of a fiddle.

And here is the story for you:--

At our wine-shop we had a frequent visitor, Tchitchick, the bandmaster, whom we used to call "Mr. Sergeant." He was a tall, powerful man with a big round beard and terrifying eyebrows. And he talked a curiously mixed-up jargon composed of several languages. When he talked, he moved his eyebrows up and down. When he lowered his eyebrows, his face was black as night. When he raised them up, his face was bright as day. And this was because, under these same thick eyebrows he had a pair of kindly, smiling light blue eyes. He wore a uniform with gilt buttons, and that is why he was called at our place "Mr. Sergeant." He was a very frequent visitor at our wine-shop. Not because he was a drunkard. God forbid! But for the simple reason that my father was very clever at making from raisins "the best and finest Hungarian wine." Tchitchick used to love this wine. He never ceased from praising it. He used to put his big, terrifying hand on my father's shoulder, and say to him:

"Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian wine. There isn't such wine in Buda Pesth, by God!"

With me Tchitchick was always on the most intimate terms. He praised me for learning such a lot at school. He often examined me to see if I knew who Adam was. And who was Isaac? And who was Joseph?

"Yousef?" I asked him, in Yiddish. "Do you mean Yousef the Saint?"

"Joseph," he repeated.

"Yousef," I corrected him, once again.

"With us it's Joseph. With you it's Youdsef," he said to me, and pinched my cheek. "Joseph, Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf--what does it matter? It is all the same."

"Ha! ha! ha!"

I buried my face in my hands, and laughed heartily.

But from the day I became a bridegroom-elect, Tchitchick gave up playing with me as if I were a clown; and he began to talk to me as if I were his equal. He told me stories of the regiment and of musicians. "Mr. Sergeant" had a tremendous lot of talk in him. But no one else excepting myself had the time to listen to him. On one occasion he began to talk to me of playing. And I asked him:

"On which instrument does 'Mr. Sergeant' play?"

"On all instruments," he answered, and raised his eyebrows at me.

"On the fiddle, also?" I asked him. And all at once he took on, in my imagination, the face of an angel.

"Come over to me some day," he said, "and I will play for you."

"When can I come to you Mr. Sargeant, if not on the Sabbath day?" I asked. "But I can only come on condition that no-one knows anything about it." "Can you promise that?"

"As I serve God," he exclaimed, and lifted his eyebrows at me.

Tchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green garden from out of which peeked proudly a number of tall, yellow sunflowers. As if they were something important. They bent their heads a little to one side and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed to me that they were calling out to me, "Come over here to us, boy." "There is grass here. There is freedom here. There is light here. It is fresh here. It is warm here. It is pleasant here." And after the stench and heat and dust of the town, and after the overcrowding and the noise and the tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get here because there is grass here. It is fresh here. It is bright here. It is warm here. It is pleasant here. One longs to run, leap shout and sing. Or else one wants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in the green sweet smelling grass.

But alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green leaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. Do not be offended Jewish children. But all these have not grown up out of your rubbish.

I was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with red, fiery eyes. He fell upon me with so much fierceness that the soul almost dropped out of my body. It was fortunate that he was tied up with a rope.

On hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew out without his jacket and began ordering the dog to be silent. And he was silent.

Afterwards, Tchitchick took hold of my hand, led me straight to the black dog and told me not to be afraid. He would not harm me.

"Just try and pat him on the back," said Tchitchick to me. And without waiting, took hold of my hand and drew it all over the dog's skin. At the same time calling him many curious names and speaking kind words to him.

The black villain lowered his head, wagged his tail and licked himself with his tongue. He threw at me a glance of contempt. As if he would say, "It's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you. Otherwise you would have gone from here without a hand."

I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the house with Mr. Sargeant and I was struck dumb with astonishment. All the walls were covered with guns. From top to bottom. And on the floor lay a skin with the head of a lion or a leopard. It had terribly sharp teeth. But the lion was half an evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns. The guns! I did not even care about the fresh plums and the apples which the master of the house offered me out of his own garden. My eyes did not cease leaping from one wall to the other.... But later on, when Tchitchick took a little fiddle out of a red drawer--a beautiful, round little fiddle, with a curious little belly, let his big spreading beard droop over it, and held it with his big strong hands, and drew the bow across the strings a few times, backwards and forwards, I forgot, in the blinking of an eye, the black dog and the terrible lion, and the loaded guns. I only saw before me Tchitchick's spreading beard and his black, lowered eyebrows. I only saw a round little fiddle with a curious little belly, and fingers which danced over the strings so rapidly that no human brain could answer the questions which arose to my mind: "Where does one get so many fingers?"

Presently, Tchitchick and his spreading beard, vanished, along with his thick eyebrows and his wonderful fingers. And I saw nothing at all before me. I only heard a singing, a groaning, a weeping, a sobbing, a talking, and a growling. They were extraordinary, peculiar sounds that I heard, the like of which I had never heard before, in all my life. Sounds sweet as honey, and smooth as oil were pouring themselves right into my heart, without ceasing. And my soul went off somewhere far from the little house, into another world, into a Garden of Eden which was nothing else but beautiful sounds--which was one mass of singing, from beginning to end....

"Do you want some tea?" asked Tchitchick of me, putting down the little fiddle, and slapping me on the shoulder.

I felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh heaven on to the earth.

From that day I visited Tchitchick regularly every Sabbath afternoon, to hear him playing the fiddle. I went straight to the house. I was afraid of no one; and I even became such good friends with the black dog that, when he saw me, he wagged his tail, and wanted to fall upon me to lick my hands. I would not let him do this. "Let us rather be good friends from the distance."

At home not even a bird knew where I spent the Sabbath afternoons. I was a bridegroom-elect, after all. And no one would have known of my visits to Tchitchick to this day, if a new misfortune had not befallen me--a great misfortune, of which I will now tell you.

* * *

Surely it is no one's affair if a Jewish young man goes for a walk on the Sabbath afternoon a little beyond the town? Have people really got nothing better to do than to think of others and look after them to see where they are going? But of what use are such questions as these? It lies in our nature, in the Jewish nature, I mean, to look well after every one else, to criticize others and advise them. For example, a Jew will go over to his neighbour, at prayers, and straighten out the "Frontispiece" of his phylacteries. Or he will stop his neighbour, who is running with the greatest haste and excitement, to tell him that the leg of his trouser is turned up. Or he will point his finger at his neighbour, so that the other shall not know what is amiss with him, whether it is his nose, or his beard, or what the deuce is wrong with him. Or a Jew will take a thing out of his neighbour's hand, when the other is struggling to open it, and will say to him: "You don't know how. Let me." Or should he see his neighbour building a house, he will come over to look for a fault in it. He says he believes the ceiling is too high, the rooms are too small, or the windows are awkwardly large. And there seems nothing else left the builder to do but scatter the house to pieces, and start it all over again.... We Jews have been distinguished by this habit of interfering from time immemorial--from the very first day on which the world was created. And you and I between us will never alter the world full of Jews. It is not our duty to even attempt it....

After this long introduction, it will be easy for you to understand how Ephraim Log-of-wood--a Jew who was a black stranger to me, and who did not care a button for any of us--should poke his nose into my affairs. He sniffed and smelled my tracks, and found out where I went on Sabbath afternoons, and got me into trouble. He swore that he himself saw me eating forbidden food at the house of "Mr. Sergeant," and that I was smoking a cigarette on the Sabbath. "May I see myself enjoying all that is good!" he cried. "If it is not as I say, may I never get to the place where I am going," he said. "And if I am uttering the least word of falsehood, may my mouth be twisted to one side, and may my two eyes drop out of my head," he added.

"Amen! May it be so," I cried.

And I caught from my father another smack in the face. I must not be insolent, he told me....

But I imagine I am rushing along too quickly with my story. I am giving you the soup before the fish. I was forgetting entirely to tell you who Ephraim Log-of-wood was, and what he was, and how the incident happened.

At the end of the town, on the other side of the bridge, there lived a Jew named Ephraim Log-of-wood. Why was he called Log-of-wood? Because he had once dealt in timber. And today he is not dealing in timber because something happened to him. He said it was libel, a false accusation. People found at his place a strange log of wood with a strange name branded on it. And he had a fine lot of trouble after that. He had a case, and he had appeals, and he had to send petitions. He just managed to escape from being put into prison. From that time, he threw away all trading, and betook himself to looking after public matters. He pushed himself into all institutions, the tax-collecting, and the work done at the House of Learning. Generally speaking, he was not so well off. He was often put to shame publicly. But as time went on, he insinuated himself into everybody's bones. He gave people to understand that "He knew where a door was opening." And in the course of time, Ephraim became a useful person, a person it was hard to do without. That is how a worm manages to crawl into an apple. He makes himself comfortable, makes a soft bed for himself, makes himself a home, and in time becomes the real master of the house.

In person, Ephraim was a tiny little man. He had short little legs, and small little hands, and red little cheeks, and a quick walk which was a sort of a little dance. And he tossed his little head about. His speech was rapid, and his voice squeaky. And he laughed with a curious little laugh which sounded like the rattling of dried peas. I could not bear to look at him, I don't know why. Every Sabbath afternoon, when I was going to Tchitchick's, I used to meet Ephraim on the bridge, walking along, in a black, patched cloak, the sleeves of which hung loosely over his shoulders. His hands were folded in front of him, and he was singing in his thin little voice. And the ends of his long cloak kept dangling at his heels.

"A good Sabbath," I said to him.

"A good Sabbath," he replied. "And where is a boy going?"

"Just for a walk," I said.

"For a walk? All alone?" he asked. And he looked straight into my eyes with such a little smile that it was hard to guess what he meant by it--whether he thought that it was very brave of me to be walking all alone or not. Was it, in his opinion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish?

* * *

On one occasion, when I was going to Tchitchick's house, I noticed that Ephraim Log-of-wood was looking at me very curiously. I stopped on the bridge and gazed into the water. Ephraim also stopped on the bridge, and he also gazed into the water. I started to go back. He followed me. I turned round again, to go forward, and he also turned round in the same direction. A few minutes later, he was lost to me. When I was sitting at Tchitchick's table, drinking tea, we heard the black dog barking loudly at some one, and tearing at his rope. We looked out of the window, and I imagined I saw a low-sized, black figure with short little legs, running, running. Then it disappeared from view. From his manner of running, I could have sworn the little creature was Ephraim Log-of-wood.

And thus it came to pass--

I came home late that Sabbath evening. It was already after the "_Havdalah_." My face was burning. And I found Ephraim Log-of-wood sitting at the table. He was talking very rapidly, and was laughing with his curious little laugh. When he saw me, he was silent. He started drumming on the table with his short little fingers. Opposite him sat my father. His face was death-like. He was pulling at his beard, tearing out the hairs one by one. This was a sure sign that he was in a temper.

"Where have you come from?" my father asked of me and looked at Ephraim.

"Where am I to come from?" said I.

"How do I know where you are to come from?" said he. "You tell me where you have come from. You know better than I."

"From the House of Learning," said I.

"And where were you the whole day?" said he.

"Where could I be?" said I.

"How do I know?" said he. "You tell me. You know better than I."

"At the House of Learning," said I.

"What were you doing at the House of Learning?" said he.

"What should I be doing at the House of Learning?" said I.

"Do I know what you could be doing there?" said he.

"I was learning," said I.

"What were you learning?" said he.

"What should I learn?" said I.

"Do I know what you should learn?" said he.

"I was learning '_Gemarra_' were you learning?" said he.

"What '_Gemarra_' should I learn?" said I.

"Do I know what '_Gemarra_' you should learn?" said he.

"I learnt the '_Gemarra_', '_Shabos_'," said I.

At this Ephraim Log-of-wood burst out laughing in his rattling little laugh. And it seemed that my father could bear no more. He jumped up from his seat and delivered me two resounding fiery boxes on the ears. Stars flew before my eyes. My mother heard my shouts from the other room. She flew into us with a scream.

"Nahum! The Lord be with you! What are you doing? A young man--a bridegroom-elect! Just before his wedding! Bethink yourself! If her father gets to know of this--God forbid!"

* * *

My mother was right. The girl's father got to know the whole story. Ephraim Log-of-wood went off himself and told it to him. And in this way Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-collector; for the two had always been at the point of sticking knives into one another.

* * *

Next day I got back the marriage-contract and the presents which had been given to the bride-elect. And I was no longer a bridegroom-elect.

This grieved my father so deeply that he fell into a very serious illness. He was bedridden for a long time. He would not let me come near him. He refused to look into my face. All my mother's tears and arguments and explanations and her defence of me were of no use at all.

"The disgrace," said my father, "the disgrace of it is worse than anything else."

"May it turn out to be a real, true sacrifice for us all," said my mother to him. "The Lord will have to send us another bride-elect. What can we do? Shall we take our own lives? Perhaps it is not his destiny to marry this girl."

Amongst those who came to visit my father in his illness was Tchitchick the bandmaster.

When my father saw him, he took off his little round cap, sat up in his bed, stretched out his hand to him, looked straight into his eyes and said:

"Oh, 'Mr. Sergeant!' 'Mr. Sergeant!'"

He could not utter another sound, because he was smothered by his tears and his cough....

This was the first time in my life that I saw my father crying. His tears gripped hold of my heart, and chilled me to the very soul.

I stood and looked out of the window, swallowing my tears in silence. At that moment, I was heartily sorry for all the mischief I had done. I cried within myself, from the very depths of my heart, beating my breast: "I have sinned." And within myself, I vowed solemnly to myself that I would never, never anger my father again, and never, never cause him any pain.

No more fiddle!

This Night

"TO MY DEAR SON,

"I send you--'_roubles_,' and beg of you, my dear son, to do me the
favour, and come home for the Passover Festival. It is a disgrace
to me in my old age. We have one son, an only child, and we are not
worthy to see him. Your mother also asks me to beg of you to be
sure to come home for the Passover. And you must know that Busie is
to be congratulated. She is now betrothed. And if the Lord wills
it, she is going to be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of
Weeks.

"From me,

"YOUR FATHER."

This is the letter my father wrote to me. For the first time a sharp letter--for the first time in all those years since we had parted. And we had parted from one another, father and I, in silence, without quarrelling. I had acted in opposition to his wishes. I would not go his road, but my own road. I went abroad to study. At first my father was angry. He said he would never forgive me. Later, he began to send me money.

"I send you--'_roubles_,'" he used to write, "and your mother sends you her heartiest greetings."

Short, dry letters he wrote me. And my replies to him were also short and dry:

"I have received your letter with the--'_roubles_.' I thank you, and I send my mother my heartiest greetings."

Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one another. Who had time to realize where I found myself in the world of dreams in which I lived? But now my father's letter woke me up. Not so much his complaint that it was a shame I should have left him alone in his old age--that it was a disgrace for him that his only son should be away from him. I will confess it that this did not move me so much. Neither did my mother's pleadings with me that I should have pity on her and come home for the Passover Festival. Nothing took such a strong hold of me as the last few lines of my father's letter. "And you must know that Busie is to be congratulated."

Busie! The same Busie who has no equal anywhere on earth, excepting in the "Song of Songs"--the same Busie who is bound up with my life, whose childhood is interwoven closely with my childhood--the same Busie who always was to me the bewitched Queen's Daughter of all my wonderful fairy tales--the most wonderful princess of my golden dreams--this same Busie is now betrothed, is going to be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks? Is it true that she is going to be married, and not to me, but to some one else?

* * *

Who is Busie--what is she? Oh, do you not know who Busie is? Have you forgotten? Then I will tell you her biography all over again, briefly, and in the very same words I used when telling it you once on a time, years ago.

I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young widow, two horses, and one child. The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the young widow married again and went away somewhere, far; and the child was brought home to our house.

That child was Busie.

And Busie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite of the "Song of Songs." Whenever I saw Busie I thought of the Shulamite of the "Song of Songs." And whenever I read the "Song of Songs" Busie's image came up and stood before me.

Her name is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: Busie. She grew up together with me. She called my father "father," and my mother "mother." Everybody thought that we were sister and brother. And we grew up together as if we were sister and brother. And we loved one another as if we were sister and brother.

Like a sister and a brother we played together, and we hid in a corner--we two; and I used to tell her the fairy tales I learnt at school--the tales which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who knew everything, even "_Kaballa_." I told her that by means of "_Kaballa_," I could do wonderful tricks--draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall. By means of "_Kaballa_," I told her, I could manage that we two should rise up into the clouds, and even higher than the clouds. Oh, how she loved to hear me tell my stories! There was only one story which Busie did not like me to tell--the story of the Queen's Daughter, the princess who had been bewitched, carried off from under the wedding canopy, and put into a palace of crystal for seven years. And I said that I was flying off to set her free.... Busie loved to hear every tale excepting that one about the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was flying off to set free.

"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not."

This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.

That is who and what Busie is.

And now my father writes me that I must congratulate Busie. She is betrothed, and will be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. She is some one's bride--some one else's, not mine!

I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in answer to his.

"TO MY HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER,

"I have received your letter with the--'_roubles_.' In a few days,
as soon as I am ready, I will go home, in time for the first days
of the Passover Festival--or perhaps for the latter days. But I
will surely come home. I send my heartiest greetings to my mother.
And to Busie I send my congratulations. I wish her joy and
happiness.

"From me,

"YOUR SON."

It was a lie. I had nothing to get ready; nor was there any need for me to wait a few days. The same day on which I received my father's letter and answered it, I got on the train and flew home. I arrived home exactly on the day before the Festival, on a warm, bright Passover eve.

I found the village exactly as I had left it, once on a time, years ago. It was not changed by a single hair. Not a detail of it was different. It was the same village. The people were the same. The Passover eve was the same, with all its noise and hurry and flurry and bustle. And out of doors it was also the same Passover eve as when I had been at home, years ago.

There was only one thing missing--the "Song of Songs." No; nothing of the "Song of Songs" existed any longer. It was not now as it had been, once on a time, years ago. Our yard was not any more King Solomon's vineyard, of the "Song of Songs." The wood and the logs and the boards that lay scattered around the house were no longer the cedars and the fir trees. The cat that was stretched out before the door, warming herself in the sun, was no more a young hart, or a roe, such as one comes upon in the "Song of Songs." The hill on the other side of the synagogue was no more the Mountain of Lebanon. It was no more one of the Mountains of Spices.... The young women and girls who were standing out of doors, washing and scrubbing and making everything clean for the Passover--they were not any more the Daughters of Jerusalem of whom mention is made in the "Song of Songs." ... What has become of my "Song of Songs" world that was, at one time, so fresh and clear and bright--the world that was as fragrant as though filled with spices?

* * *

I found my home exactly as I had left it, years before. It was not altered by a hair. It was not different in the least detail. My father, too, was the same. Only his silvery-white beard had become a little more silvery. His broad white wrinkled forehead was now a little more wrinkled. This was probably because of his cares.... And my mother was the same as when I saw her last. Only her ruddy cheeks were now slightly sallow. And I imagined she had grown smaller, shorter and thinner. Perhaps I only imagined this because she was now slightly bent. And her eyes were slightly enflamed, and had little puffy bags under them, as if they were swollen. Was it from weeping, perhaps?...

For what reason had my mother been weeping? For whom? Was it for me, her only son who had acted in opposition to his father's wishes? Was it because I would not go the same road as my father, but took my own road, and went off to study, and did not come home for such a long time?... Or did my mother weep for Busie, because she was getting married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks?

Ah, Busie! She was not changed by so much as a hair. She was not different in the least detail. She had only grown up--grown up and also grown more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. She had grown up exactly as she had promised to grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and full of grace. Her eyes were the same blue "Song of Songs" eyes, but more thoughtful than in the olden times. They were more thoughtful and more dreamy, more careworn and more beautiful "Song of Songs" eyes than ever. And the smile on her lips was friendly, loving, homely and affectionate. She was quiet as a dove--quiet as a virgin.

When I looked at the Busie of today, I was reminded of the Busie of the past. I recalled to mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which my mother had made for her, at that time, for the Passover. I remembered the new little shoes which my father had bought for her, at that time, for the Passover. And when I remembered the Busie of the past, there came back to me, without an effort on my part, all over again, phrase by phrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten "Song of Songs."

"Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.

"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up from the washing: whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."

I look at Busie, and once again everything is as in the "Song of Songs," just as it was in the past, once on a time, years before.

* * *

"Busie, am I to congratulate you?"

She does not hear me. But why does she lower her eyes? And why have her cheeks turned scarlet? No, I must bid her joy--I must!

"I congratulate you, Busie."

"May you live in happiness," she replies.

And that is all. I could ask her nothing. And to talk with her? There was nowhere where I might do that. My father would not let me talk with her. My mother hindered me. Our relatives prevented it. The rest of the family, the friends, neighbours and acquaintances who flocked into the house to welcome me, one coming and one going--they would not let me talk with Busie either. They all stood around me. They all examined me, as if I were a bear, or a curious creature from another world. Everybody wanted to see and hear me--to know how I was getting on, and what I was doing. They had not seen me for such a long time.

"Tell us something new. What have you seen? What have you heard?"

And I told them the news--all that I had seen and all that I had heard. At the same time I was looking at Busie. I was searching for her eyes. And I met her eyes--her big, deep, careworn, thoughtful, beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes. But her eyes were dumb, and she herself was dumb. Her eyes told me nothing--nothing at all. And there arose to my memory the words I had learnt in the past, the "Song of Songs" sentence by sentence--

"A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up, a fountain sealed."

* * *

And a storm arose within my brain, and a fire began to burn within my heart. This terrible fire did not rage against anybody, only against myself--against myself and against my dreams of the past--the foolish, boyish, golden dreams for the sake of which I had left my father and my mother. Because of those dreams I had forgotten Busie. Because of them I had sacrificed a great, great part of my life; and because of them, and through them I had lost my happiness--lost it, lost it for ever!

Lost it for ever? No, it cannot be--it cannot be! Have I not come back--have I not returned in good time?... If only I could manage to talk with Busie, all alone with her! If only I could get to say a few words to her. But how could I speak with her, all alone, the few words I longed to speak, when everybody was present--when the people were all crowding around me? They were all examining me as if I were a bear, or a curious creature from another world. Everybody wanted to see and hear me--to know how I was getting on, and what I was doing. They had not seen me for such a long time!

More intently than any one else was my father listening to me. He had a Holy Book open in front of him, as always. His broad forehead was wrinkled up, as always. He was looking at me from over his silver spectacles, and was stroking the silver strands of his silvery-white beard, as always. And I imagined that he was looking at me with other eyes than he used to look. No, it was not the same look as always. He was reproaching me. I felt that my father was offended with me. I had acted contrary to his wishes. I had refused to go his road, and had taken a road of my own choosing....

My mother, too, was standing close behind me. She came out of the kitchen. She left all her work, the preparations for the Passover, and she was listening to me with tears in her eyes. Though her face was still smiling, she wiped her eyes in secret with the corners of her apron. She was listening to me attentively. She was staring right into my mouth; and she was swallowing, yes, swallowing every word that I said.

And Busie also stood over against me. Her hands were folded on her bosom. And she was listening to me just as the others were. Along with them, she was staring right into my mouth. I looked at Busie. I tried to read what was in her eyes; but I could read nothing there, nothing at all, nothing at all.

"Tell more. Why have you grown silent?" my father asked me.

"Leave him alone. Did you ever see the like?" put in my mother hastily. "The child is tired. The child is hungry, and he goes on saying to him: 'Tell! Tell! Tell! And tell!'"

* * *

The people began to go away by degrees. And we found ourselves alone, my father and my mother, Busie and I. My mother went off to the kitchen. In a few minutes she came back, carrying in her hand a beautiful Passover plate--a plate I knew well. It was surrounded by a design of big green fig leaves.

"Perhaps you would like something to eat, Shemak? It is a long time to wait until the '_Seder_.'"

That is what my mother said to me, and with so much affection, so much loyalty and so much passionate devotion. And Busie got up, and with silent footfalls, brought me a knife and fork--the well-known Passover 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 Passover 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 Passover eve, Busie and I, off the same plate. I remember that we ate off the same beautiful Passover 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 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.