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 threadbare, shabbier. White threads were to be seen in them and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor 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. Asreal the Beadle—a Jew who had 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 Asreal'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 Cantor 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 are printed the "Song of Songs." And I read:
"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are 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 come into 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. Busie is not my betrothed. Busie is betrothed to some one else—to some one else, and not to me.... And there rages within me a hellish fire. Not against Busie. Not against anybody at all. No; only against myself alone. Surely! How could I have stayed away from Busie for such a long time? How could I have allowed it—that Busie should be taken away from me, and given to some one 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, Busie gave up writing to me?