"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: