 CHAPTER 18 ON THE FIDDLE Children, I will now play for you a little tune on the fiddle. I imagine there is nothing better and finer in the world than to be able to play on the fiddle. What? Perhaps it is not so. I don't know how it is with you, but I know that since I first reached the age of understanding my heart longed for a fiddle. I loved to my life as any musician whatever, no matter what instrument he played. If there was a wedding anywhere in town, I was the first to run forward and welcome the musicians. I loved to steal over to the bass and draw my fingers across one of the strings. Boom! And I flew away. For this same boom I once got it hot from Beryl Bass. Beryl Bass, a cross due with a flattened out nose and a sharp glance, pretended not to see me stealing over to the bass, and when I stretched out my hand to the thick string he caught hold of me by the ear and dragged me respectfully to the door. Hear, scamp, kiss the mazuza! But this was not a much consequence to me. It did not make me go a single step from the musicians. I loved them all, from Shiker, the little fiddler with his beautiful black beard and his thin white hands, to Getzer, the drummer with his beautiful hump, and if you will forgive me for mentioning it, the bigger bald patches behind his ears. Not once, but many times did I lie hidden under a bench listening to the musicians playing, though I was frequently found and sent home. And from there, from under the bench, I could see how Shiker's thin little fingers danced about over the strings, and I listened to the sweet sounds which he drew so cleverly out of the little fiddle. Afterwards I used to go about in a state of great inward excitement for many days on end, and Shiker and his little fiddle stood before my eyes always. At night I saw him in my dreams, and in the daytime I saw him in reality, and he never left my imagination. When no one was looking, I used to imagine that I was Shiker, the little fiddler. I used to curve my left arm, and move my fingers, and draw out my right hand as if I were drawing the bow across the strings. At the same time I threw my head to one side, closing my eyes a little, just as Shiker did, not a hair different. My Rebbe, not a Leeb, once caught me doing this. It happened in the middle of a lesson. I was moving my arms about throwing my head to one side and blinking my eyes, and he gave me a sound box on the ears. What a scam can do! We are teaching him his lessons, and he makes faces and catches flies. I promised myself that, even if the world turned upside down, I must have a little fiddle. Let it cost me what it would. But what was I to make a fiddle out of? Cedar wood, of course. But it's easy to talk of Cedar wood. How was I to come by it when, as everybody knows, the cedar tree grows only in Palestine. But what does the Lord do for me? He goes and puts a certain thought into my head. In our house there was an old sofa. This sofa was left to us as a legacy by our grandfather Reb Anchel. And my two uncles fought over this sofa with my father, peace be unto him. My Uncle Benny argued that since he was my grandfather's oldest son the sofa belonged to him, and my Uncle Cender argued that he was the youngest son and that the sofa belonged to him. And my father, peace be unto him, argued that although he was no more than a son-in-law to my grandfather and had no personal claim on the sofa, still, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of Reb Anchel, the sofa belonged by right to her. But all this happened long ago, and as the sofa has remained in our house this was a proof that it was our sofa. And our two aunts interfered, my Aunt Etka and my Aunt Zalatka. They began to invent scandals and to carry tales from one house to another. It was sofa and sofa and nothing else but sofa. The town rocked all because of the sofa. However, to make a long story short, the sofa remained our sofa. This same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa covered with a thin veneer. This veneer had come unloosened in many places and was split up. It had now a number of small mounds, and the upper layer of the veneer, which had come unloosened, was of the real cedar wood, the wood of which fiddles are made. At least that is what I was told at school. The sofa had one fault, and this fault was, in reality, a good quality. For instance, when one sat on it one could not get up off of it. Again, because it stood a little on the slant, one side was higher than the other, and in the middle there was a hole. And the good thing about our sofa was that no one wanted to sit on it, and it was put away in a corner to one side in compulsory retirement. It was on this sofa that I had cast my eyes to make a fiddle out of the cedar wood veneer. A bow I had already provided myself with long ago. I had a comrade, Schimmel Yudel, the car-owner's son. He promised me a few hairs from the tail of his father's horse, and resin to smear the bow with which I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles. I got the resin from another friend of mine, Maya Lippa, Sarah's son, for a bit of steel from my mother's old crinoline which had been knocking about in the attic. Out of this steel Maya Lippa afterwards made himself a little knife. It is true when I saw the knife I wanted him to change back again with me, but he would not have it. He began to shout, a clever fellow that, what do you say to him? I worked hard for three whole nights. I sharpened and sharpened and cut all my fingers sharpening, and now he comes and wants me to change back again with him. Just look at him, I cried, and then it won't be. A great bargain for you, a little bit of steel. Isn't there enough steel knocking about in our attic? There will be enough for our children and our children's children even. Anyway, I had everything that was necessary, and there only remained one thing for me to do, to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For this work I selected a very good time when my mother was in the shop, and my father had gone off to lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself in a corner, and, with a big nail, I betook myself to my work in good earnest. My father heard, in his sleep, how someone was scraping something. At first he thought there were mice in the house, and he began to make a noise from his bedroom to drive them off. I was like dead. My father turned over on the other side, and when I heard him snoring again, I went back to my work. Finally I looked about me. My father was standing, and staring at me with curious eyes. It appeared that he could not, on any account, understand what was going on, what I was doing. Then when he saw the spoiled and torn sofa, he realized what I had done. He pulled me out of the corner by the ear, and beat me so much that I fainted away, and had to be revived. I actually had to have cold water thrown over me to bring me to life again. The Lord be with you. What have you done to the child? My mother wailed, the tears starting to her eyes. Your beautiful son, he will drive me into my grave while I am still living," said my father, who was white as chalk. He put his hand to his heart, and was attacked by a fit of coughing which lasted several minutes. Why should you eat your heart out like this? My mother asked him. As it is, you are a sickly man. Just look at the face you've got, may my enemies have as healthy a year. My desire to play the fiddle grew with me. The older I grew, the stronger became my desire. And as if out of spite, I was destined to hear music every day of the week. Right in the middle of the road, halfway between my home and the school, stood a little house covered with earth, and from that house came forth various sweet sounds. But most often the playing of a fiddle could be heard. In that house there lived a musician whose name was Naftali Besparotka, a Jew who wore a short jacket, curled up earlocks, and a starched collar. He had a fine-sized nose. It looked as if it had been stuck on his face. He had thick lips and black teeth. His face was pock-pitted, and had not even the signs of a beard. That is why he was called Besparotka, the beardless one. He had a wife who was like a machine. The mother called her Mother Eve. Of children he had about a dozen and a half. They were ragged, half-naked, and barefooted. And each child, from the biggest to the smallest, played on a musical instrument. One played the fiddle, another the cello, another the double bass, another the trumpet, another the battle-liker, another the drum, and another the cymbals. And amongst them there were some who could whistle the longest melody with their lips or between their teeth. Others could play tunes on little glasses or little pots or bits of wood. And some made music with their faces. They were demons, evil spirits, nothing else. I made the acquaintance of this family quite by accident. One day, as I was standing outside the window of their house listening to them playing, one of the children, Pina, the floutest, a youth of about fifteen in bare feet, caught sight of me through the window. He came out to me and asked me if I liked his playing. I only wish, said I, that I may play as well as you in ten years' time. Can't you manage it? He asked of me. And he told me that for two-and-a-half rubles a month his father would teach me how to play. But if I liked, he himself, the son, that is, would teach me. Which instrument would you like to learn to play? He asked. On the fiddle? On the fiddle. On the fiddle? He repeated. Can you pay two-and-a-half rubles a month, or are you as unfortunate as I am? So far as that goes, I can manage it, I said. But what then? Neither my father nor my mother nor my teacher must know that I am learning to play the fiddle. The Lord keep us from telling it, he cried. Whose business is it to drum the news through the town? Maybe you have on you a cigar end or a cigarette. No, you don't smoke. Then lend me a coppeck, and I will buy cigarettes for myself. And you must tell no one, because my father must not know that I smoke. And if my mother finds that I have money, she will take it from me, and buy rolls for supper. Come into the house, what are we standing here for? With great fear, with a palpitating heart and trembling limbs, I crossed the threshold of the house, that was to me a little garden of Eden. My friend Pinner introduced me to his father. Shalom! Naim Veviks! A rich man's boy! He wants to learn to play the fiddle. Naftali Bezborodka twirled his ear-locks, straightened his collar, buttoned up his coat, and started a long conversation with me all about music and musical instruments in general, and the fiddle in particular. He gave me to understand that the fiddle was the best and most beautiful of all instruments. There was none older, and none more wonderful in all the world than the fiddle. To prove this to me, he went on to tell me that the fiddle was always the leading instrument of any orchestra, and not the trumpet or the flute. And this was simply because the fiddle was the mother of all musical instruments. And so it came about that Naftali Bezborodka gave me a whole lecture on music. Whilst he was speaking, he gesticulated with his hands and moved his nose, and I stood staring right into his mouth. I looked at his black teeth and swallowed, yes, positively swallowed every word that he said. The fiddle, you must understand, went on Naftali Bezborodka to me and evidently satisfied with the lecture he was giving me. The fiddle, you must understand, is an instrument that is older than all other instruments. The first man in the world to pay the fiddle was Jubal Cain, or Methuselah. I don't exactly remember which. You will know that better than I for, to be sure, you are learning Bible history at school. The second fiddler in the world was King David. Another great fiddler. The third greatest in the world was Paganini. He also was a Jew. All the best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance, there was Stempeju, and there was Padochka. Of myself I say nothing. People tell me that I do not play the fiddle badly, but how can I come up to Paganini? They say that Paganini sold his soul to the Ashmedai for a fiddle. Paganini hated to play before great people like kings and popes, although they covered him with gold. He would rather play at wayside inns for poor folks or in villages, or else he would play in the forest for wild beasts and the fowls of the air, what a fiddle Paganini was. Hey, boys, to your places, to your instruments. That was the order which Naftali Besparodka gave to his regiment of children, all of whom came together in one minute. Each one took up an instrument. Naftali himself stood up, beat his baton on the table, threw a sharp glance on every separate child, and on all at once. And they began to play a concert on every sort of instrument with so much force that I was almost knocked off my feet. Each child tried to make more noise than the other, but above all I was nearly deafened by the noise that one boy made. A little fellow who was called Himali. He was a dry little boy with a wet little nose and dirty, bare little feet. Himali played a curiously made instrument. It was a sort of sack which, when you blew it up, let out a mad screech, a peculiar sound like the yellow a cat after you have trodden on its tail. Himali beat time with his little bare foot, and all the while he kept looking at me out of his roguish little eyes and winking to me as if to say, well, isn't it so? I blow well, don't I? But it was Naftali himself who worked the hardest of all. Along with playing the fiddle, he led the orchestra, waved his hands about, shifted his feet and moved his nose and his eyes and his whole body. And if someone made a mistake, God forbid, he ground his teeth and shouted in anger, Forte, Forte, Fortissimo, time, wretch time, one, two, three, one, two, three. Having arranged with Naftali Besbaradkar that he should give me three lessons a week, of an hour and a half each day, for two rubles a month, I again and yet again begged of him that he would keep my visits a secret of secrets, for if he did not I would be lost for ever. He promised me faithfully that not even a bird would hear of my coming and going. We are the sort of people, he said to me, proudly fixing his collar in place. We are the sort of people who never have any money, but you will find more honour and justice in our house than in the house of the richest man. May you have a few groanings about you? I took out a ruble and gave it to him. Naftali took it in the manner of a professor with his two fingers. He called over Mother Eve, turned away his eyes and said to her, here, buy something to eat. Mother Eve took the ruble from him, but with both hands and all her fingers, examined it on all sides, and asked her husband, what shall I buy? What you like? he answered, pretending not to care, buy a few rolls, two or three salt herring and some dried sausage, and don't forget an onion, vinegar, and oil, well, and a glass of brandy, say. 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, Naftali 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 Naftali Bezbaradka'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 Naftali's composition. At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini riding on the Ashmadai 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 elder 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 Naftali 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 I harm you. They will be soon looking for a bride for you, and you go about with fine friends, barefoot young musicians. What business of you with musicians? What was Naftali the musician's boy doing here? What Naftali? 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 Herschel, 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 Herschel, the tax collector, had with me, and for what reason I was to tell him I had been suffering from the ague. It was only a few weeks later that this riddle was solved for me. Herschel, 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, Herschel, the tax collector, were as like as two drops of water. Her name was Esther, but she was called by the nickname of Plessteril. She was nervous and genteel. She was as frightened of us, the 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, Pesteril, why have you no little sister? Well, after that, what is there in these words? Nothing, of course. Nevertheless, whenever Pesteril 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 plaid, 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, Pessil. And when she saw me, she grew redder than ever and dropped her eyes. At the same time my sister Pessil 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 Herschel the tax collector. And after them came Sholom Shackno, the matchmaker. A Jew 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, 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 Sholom Shackno 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's 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 jumped up at once 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 into 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 Herschel, the tax collector. Oh, by all means, why not? answered the teacher, Reb Zorach. He took up a little Bible and handed it to Herschel, the tax collector. The expression on his face was as if he was saying, Here it is for you, and do what you like. Herschel, 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 Herschel, the tax collector, the Song of Songs is not as easy as you imagine. One must understand the Song of Songs. Herschel could not pronounce the letter R, but said H. Certainly put in Sholom Shacknoe 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 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. Herschel, 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 batch-maker, never took his eyes off Herschel 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 Herschel the tax-collector's only daughter, Plesserill. 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, Rebzorach. 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 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 river 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, Chitchick, the bandmaster, whom we used to call Mr. Sargent. He was a tall, powerful man with a big, round beard and terrifying eyebrows, and he talked a curious, 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 those 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. Sargent. 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. Chitchick 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. Sellerer, you have the best Hungarian wine. There isn't such a wine in Budapest by God. With me Chitchick 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? Youssef? I answered him in Yiddish. Do you mean Youssef the Saint? Youssef, he repeated. Youssef, I corrected him once again. With us it is Youssef, with you it is Youssef. He said to me and pinched my cheek. Youssef, Youssef, Youssef, dootsef, what does it matter? It's all the same. I buried my face in my hands and laughed heartily, but from the day I became a bridegroom-elect, Chitchick 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. Sargent 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 what instrument does Mr. Sargent 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. Sargent, 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. Chitchick lived far out of town, in a little white house that had tiny windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it there was a big green garden, from out of which peeped 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 suddenly wants to throw oneself on the bare 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, Chichik flew out without his jacket, and began ordering the dog to be silent. And he was silent. Afterwards Chichik 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 Chichik to me. And without waiting, he 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. Sargent, 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 only 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 Chichik 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 Chichik's spreading beard and his black, lowered eyebrows. I only saw a little round 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 Chichik 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 Chichik of me, putting down the little finger and slapping me on the shoulder. I felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh heaven onto the earth. From that day I visited Chichik 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 a 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 Chichik 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 everyone else, to criticise others and advise them. For example, a Jew will go over to his neighbours at prayers and straighten out the frontest piece 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 juice 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 to 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. 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. Sargent 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 cried. Oh, Maid, 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 called 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 a liable, 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 into 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 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 Chichix, 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 out 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 Chichix'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 Chichix's table, drinking tea, we heard the black dog barking loudly at someone 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 Havdala. 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 deathlike. 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? says 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 Gamara. said I. "'What Gamara were you learning?' said he. "'What Gamara should I learn?' said I. "'Do I know what Gamara you should learn?' said he. "'I learned the Gamara Shabbos,' 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. "'Nahem, the Lord be with you. What are you doing, a young man, a bridegroom-elect, just before his wedding? Think yourself if a father gets to know of this God for a bid!' 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 Herschel 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? How 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 Chichik, the bandmaster. When my father saw him he took off his little round cap, sat up in bed, stretched out his hand to him, and looked straight into his eyes, and said, "'Ah, 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, never anger my father again, and never, never cause him any pain. No more fiddle. CHAPTER XIX Translated by Hannah Berman And read by Adrian Pretzelis in March 2008 in Santa Rosa, California. CHAPTER XIX To my dear son, I send you rubles 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 Bussy 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 Festival 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. But first my father was angry. He said he would never forgive me. Later he began to send me money. I send you rubles, 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 rubles. I thank you, and I send my mother my heartiest greetings. Terribly cold were our letters to one another. Who had time to realise 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 lines of my father's letter. And you must know that Bussie is to be congratulated. Bussie! The same Bussie who has no equal anywhere on earth, accepting in the Song of Songs, the same Bussie who is bound up with my life, whose childhood is interwoven closely with my childhood, the same Bussie 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 Bussie is now betrothed. She is going to be married on the Sabbath after the festival of weeks. Is it true that she is going to be married, and not to me, but someone else? Who is Bussie? What is she? Oh! You do not know who Bussie 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 to 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 Bussie. Bussie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite of the Song of Songs. Whenever I saw Bussie, I thought of the Shulamite of the Song of Songs, and whenever I read the Song of Songs, Bussie's image came up and stood before me. Her name was the short for Esther Libber, Libassa Bussie. She grew up together with me. She called my father, father, and my mother, mother. Everybody thought 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 too, and I used to tell her the fairy tales I learnt at school, the tales which were told me by my comrade Sheikah, who knew everything, even Kabbalah. I told her by means of Kabbalah I could do wonderful tricks, draw wine from a stone and gold from a wall. By means of Kabbalah I told her I could manage that we too 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 Bussie 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. Bussie loved to hear every tale, accepting that one alone. Accepting 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 Bussie said to me, fixing on my face her beautiful blue song of song eyes. That is who and what Bussie is. And now my father writes me that I must congratulate Bussie. She is betrothed and will be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. She is someone's bride, someone 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 rubles. 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 Bussie 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 Passover, 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 heart or a row, such as one comes upon in the song of songs. The hill on the other side of the synagogue was no more than 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 so 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 imagine she had grown smaller, shorter and thinner. Perhaps I only imagined this because she was now slightly bent, and her eyes were slightly inflamed, 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 Bussie, because she was getting married on the Sabbath after the festival of weeks? Ah, Bussie! 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 song eyes, but more thoughtful than in the olden times. They were more thoughtful and more dreamy, more care-worn, and more beautiful song of song 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 Bussie of today, I was reminded of the Bussie of the past. I recalled to mind Bussie 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 brought for her at that time for the Passover. And when I remembered the Bussie of the past, there came back to me without an effort on my part all over again phrase by phrase, chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten song of songs. Thou hast dove's eyes within thy locks, thy hair is 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 bears 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 Bussie, and once again everything is as in the song of songs just as it was in the past, once upon a time, years before. Bussie, 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, Bussie. 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 Bussie, 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? When I told them the news, all that I had seen and all that I had heard. At the same time I was looking at Bussie. I was searching for her eyes, and I met her eyes, her big, deep, care-worn, thoughtful, beautiful, blue, song-of-song 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 learned in the past, the song of songs, sentence by sentence. A garden enclosed 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 Bussie. 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 to Bussie, all alone with her! If only I could get to say a few words to her! And 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 to 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. Although 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 Bussy 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 Bussy. I tried to read what was in her eyes, but I could read nothing there, nothing at all, nothing at all. "'Tell me, 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, Bussy 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 she would like something to eat, she mack. It is a long time to wait until the sader. That is what my mother said to me, and with so much affection, so much loyalty, and so much passionate devotion. And Bussy got up, and with silent footfalls brought me a knife and a fork—the well-known Passover knife and a fork. Everything was familiar to me. Nothing was changed, nor different by a hair. It was the same plates 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 into me from the kitchen, and the fresh Passover cake had the same garden of Eden taste. Nothing was changed by a hair. Everything was different in the least detail. Only in the olden times we ate together on the Passover Eve, Bussy 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, Bussy and I. And I remember that we let ourselves go in the open. We flew like eagles. I ran. She ran after me. I leapt over the logs of wood. She leapt after me. I was up. She was up. I was down. She was down. She, Mac, how long are we going to run, she, Mac? Shadow said Bussy 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 Bussy is grown up. She is big. And I also am grown up. I also am big. Bussy is betrothed. She is betrothed to someone, to someone else, and not to me. And I want to be alone with Bussy. 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 Bussy'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 Bussy. 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 Bussy, 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 look at the village. Can you tell me what was the matter with Bussy? Her cheeks were at once inflamed. 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 is time to put down 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 Bussy 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 Bussy? 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 song eyes. They are very thoughtful our Bussy's eyes. What is Bussy thinking of now? Was 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 afar, and who forgot that she had a daughter whose name was Bussy? Or is Bussy 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 festival 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 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, Oh, that thou wordest 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 Bassey 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 those 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 Bassey's beautiful blue Song of Song 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? Taa! 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, and 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! And 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 threadbear, shabbier. White threads were to be seen in them, and yellow stripes. Melech the canter 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. As real the beetle, a Jew who 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 Azrael'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 canter 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 I printed the song of songs, and I read, Behold, thou art fair, my love, behold, thou art 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 coming to 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. Bussy is not my betrothed. Bussy is betrothed to some one else, to some one else, and not to me. And there rages within me a hellish fire. Not against Bussy. Not against any one at all. No. Only against myself alone. Surely how could I have stayed away from Bussy for such a long time? How could I have allowed it? That Bussy should be taken away from me and given to someone 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 Bussy 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. There is a peace 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 pass over 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 row or a young heart upon the mountains of spices? The time is long for me, father, too long. The way is long for me, father, too long. When bussy is betrothed to someone, to someone else, and not to me, the hours and the roads are too long for me. I am compared with a row or a young heart 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 year's 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 bussy 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, bussy, 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 tablecloth was like driven snow, and everything which was on the table gleamed and glistened. My mother's festival candle 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 horseradish smiled to me. And how pleasant was the mortar, the mixture of crushed nuts and apples and wine, which symbolised 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, Basi, was entirely from her head to her heels, as if she were 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 Aphecomon, the pieces of the 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 too, Basi and I, sat together in a corner playing with the nuts which my mother had given us. And there, in the corner, I told Basi a story, one of the fairy tales I had learned at school from my comrade Shaker, 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 someone to raise himself up into the air by pronouncing the holy name, flying above the clouds, across the hills, and over valleys, over rivers, and across deserts, to release her, to set her free. And 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 too 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, in the same sing-song as of old, and my mother and Basi 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 Basi repeated the words after us, softly, passage after passage, until the king of the night tired out, after that long pass-over 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 at 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 Basi 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, Basi, 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 Basi 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 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. Basi, 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, Basi made answer. She did not stir from the spot. She looked at me deeply perplexed out of her beautiful blue song of song 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 put like brilliance. 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 coming to 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 a 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 Bussie 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 the secret. Is it true that I have lost Bussie 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, Bussie 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. End of CHAPTER and END OF Jewish CHILDREN YUDASHA KINDER by Sholam Aleichem Translated by Hannah Berman and read by Adrian Pretzellus Zegazint