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.