I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young widow, two horses, and one child. The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the young widow married again and went away somewhere, far; and the child was brought home to our house.
That child was Busie.
And Busie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite of the "Song of Songs." Whenever I saw Busie I thought of the Shulamite of the "Song of Songs." And whenever I read the "Song of Songs" Busie's image came up and stood before me.
Her name is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: Busie. She grew up together with me. She called my father "father," and my mother "mother." Everybody thought that we were sister and brother. And we grew up together as if we were sister and brother. And we loved one another as if we were sister and brother.
Like a sister and a brother we played together, and we hid in a corner—we two; and I used to tell her the fairy tales I learnt at school—the tales which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who knew everything, even "Kaballa." I told her that by means of "Kaballa," I could do wonderful tricks—draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall. By means of "Kaballa," I told her, I could manage that we two should rise up into the clouds, and even higher than the clouds. Oh, how she loved to hear me tell my stories! There was only one story which Busie did not like me to tell—the story of the Queen's Daughter, the princess who had been bewitched, carried off from under the wedding canopy, and put into a palace of crystal for seven years. And I said that I was flying off to set her free.... Busie loved to hear every tale excepting that one about the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was flying off to set free.
"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not."
This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.
That is who and what Busie is.
And now my father writes me that I must congratulate Busie. She is betrothed, and will be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. She is some one's bride—some one else's, not mine!
I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in answer to his.