Jewish Children Part 32

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 Pa.s.sover 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 Pa.s.sover 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 Pa.s.sover eve was the same, with all its noise and hurry and flurry and bustle. And out of doors it was also the same Pa.s.sover 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 Pa.s.sover--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 Pa.s.sover. I remembered the new little shoes which my father had bought for her, at that time, for the Pa.s.sover. 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 Pa.s.sover, 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 ap.r.o.n. 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 Pa.s.sover 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_.'"