Final Pages from The Song of Songs

And there was evening, and there was morning—an uncommonly lovely spring morning, the kind that comes during the seven weeks between Passover and Shevuos.

I was among the first to rise that summery day. Dawn was just breaking. A cool, gentle night wind still breezed in the air. Soon the bright warmth-caressing sun would begin its journey across the blue sky. My small sleepy village was just waking from its sweet slumbers. Imperceptibly, as though with angels' wings, the silent earth was astir.

Fully awake. now, my first thought was:

Buzie!

Again Buzie?

Yes, once and again, Buzie. Again and yet again, Buzie. Over and over again, Buzie. For writing about Buzie makes me so happy that I shall never grow tired of telling you stories about her and presenting once again a thumbnail sketch of her. The reader who is already familiar with Buzie will no doubt excuse the digression; but the one who is not should read with care, for it is essential that he know who Buzie is.

I once had a brother named Denny. He drowned in the river. He left an orphaned daughter. She was called Buzie. Short for Esther-Libe: Libuzie-Buzie. And she was as beautiful as the Shulamite of the Song of Songs. We grew up like brother and sister. We loved each other like brother and sister. That's who Buzie is.

Years passed. I went away from home against the will of my parents. I disregarded their wishes, refused to follow their ways, pursued my own path instead, and went to seek a secular education. Once before Passover I got a letter from my father:

“Congratulations! Buzie has become engaged and will be married the Sabbath after Shevuos. We expect you for Passover.”

I returned the good wishes and hurried home for Passover.

Buzie was in full bloom. She was beautiful, lovelier than ever. And in my memory there blossomed the Buzie of old, the Shulamite of the Song of Songs. A storm raged within me and a fire was kindled in my heart—a fire directed at no one but myself. At myself and my boyish dreams, so foolish and golden, for the sake of which I had left my parents, disregarded their wishes and went to seek a secular education. Thus I forfeited happiness. Because of my neglect Buzie became someone else's bride and not my own.

That Buzie was near and dear to me ever since she had baby was true enough. But when I came home and saw Buzie, I realized that I loved her.

I loved her with that holy flaming passion which is so described in the Song of Songs: Strong as death severe as the grave is jealousy, its flashes are of fire, a flame of the Lord.

I was mistaken. I was not the first to rise that morning. My mother had risen even earlier. Already dressed, she was preparing breakfast and brewing tea.

“Father is sleeping. So is the little one.” That's how she referred to Buzie. “What do you want to drink, Shimek?”

It made no difference to me. I would drink whatever she gave me. My mother poured me a glass of tea and served it with her beautiful white hands. No one else had such lovely white hands as my mother. She sat down opposite me and talked softly so that my father would not hear. Indeed, it was my father she spoke of. He wasn't getting any younger. He was getting older and weaker. He was coughing. He coughed mostly in the morning, when he rose. Sometimes he would wake during the night and cough all night long. At times, during the day, too. She tried to convince him to go to. the doctor—but he refused. An obstinate man. His stubbornness was unbearable. Not that she wanted to talk ill of anyone, God forbid. It's just that—well, since the subject had come up, she was talking.

Thus my mother softly talked to me about my father. She also talked about Buzie and her eyes glittered. While pouring me another glass of tea she asked what I thought about Buzie. Knock wood, she had grown like a tree, right? The wedding would take place the Sabbath after Shevuos. God willing, that's when she'd be married. What an excellent match! An intelligent young man. From a fine family. Rich, too. With a beautiful, well-ordered house. Buzie had fallen into a bed of clover.

“Nevertheless,” my mother continued, “you should have seen how much effort it took—it's Buzie I'm talking about—before we finally got her consent to think of a match. But now, thank God, she's happy. Ecstatic! What letters

they write to, each other! Every single day!” My mother's face shone and her eyes sparkled. “What gloom if a day goes by without a letter! But that's how they feel now. But before?. Dear Lord! By the time we were privileged to hear the word 'yes' from her, the lifeblood almost went out of us. Buzie—there's another hardheaded one for you. She's like the rest of her family. They don't give an inch. . . . Not that I want to talk ill of anyone. It's just that—well since the subject has come up, I'm talking.”

We heard my father coughing in his room and at once my mother disappeared.

Who is she that appears like the dawn, as beautiful as the moon, as bright as the sun?

It was Buzie, who had just come out of her room.

I took a good look at Buzie and could have sworn that things had happened: she had either been crying hadn't slept a wink that night.

My mother was right. Buzie had grown like a tree, blossomed like a rose. But that morning her eyes, her beautiful Song of Songs eyes, were misty. A thin veil seemed to cover her face. Buzie was altogether an enigma for me. A painful enigma. There were many things I wanted to know. Why hadn't Buzie slept that night? Whom had she seen in her dream? Was it me, the beloved guest whom she awaited so long and who had rushed in so unexpectedly? Or had she seen someone else in her dream? The one whom my parents had forced upon her against her will? Buzie an enigma, a painful enigma. A garden inclosed is my sister, my bride—a garden inclosed, a sealed fountain.

Buzie was an enigma for me. A painful enigma. Her mood changed several times a day. Just like the weather on a summer day. First hot, then cold. The sun peeps out from behind the clouds and everything becomes beautiful. Along comes another cloud and everything turns dark and gloomy.

Every day Buzie received a letter from a certain “someone.” Every day she answered it. I knew quite well who that “someone” was, but I did not ask her. I did not talk to Buzie about him. I felt that he was an intruder, an interloper. Buzie herself talked about him. But wasn't she overdoing it? The few moments we spent together she talked about him and praised him. Praised him to the skies. Wasn't she going overboard with her praises?

“Do you want to know about him?” she said, lowering her eyes. “He's a wonderful man, simply wonderful. And he's kind. Yes. He's a very kind man. But,” and here she raised her eyes and smiled at me, “he's not fit to be compared to you. How can he possibly measure up to you?”

What did Buzie mean by this? Did she want to console me? Or was she making fun of me? No. Buzie was neither consoling me nor making fun of me. Buzie was unburdening her heart.

It was as clear as day.

After drinking tea, Buzie and my mother went to the kitchen to eat breakfast, and my father and I began our morning prayers. I rushed through the service. When I finished, my father, wrapped in his prayer shawl and phylacteries, still stood facing the wall and praising God. Suddenly Buzie came into the room, parasol in hand, and called to me:

“Come!”

“Where?”

“To the outskirts of town. Let's take a walk. It's such a beautiful day.”

My father turned his head and looked at her over his silver-rimmed glasses.

“Just for a little while, Papa,” Buzie said as she drew on her gloves. “Not for long. We'll be back soon. Mama knows we're going. Well, Shimek? Are you coming?”

The finest Music, the most beautiful symphony, could not have sounded as lovely as those words. In them I heard an echo of the Song of Songs: Come my beloved, let us go out to the field. Let us lodge in the village. Let us take an early stroll in the vineyards. Let us see if the vines have budded, if the pomegranates have flowered.

Intoxicated with joy, I followed Buzie. I felt I was walking on air. What was the matter with Buzie? This was the first time since I had come home that she had invited me for a walk. What was bothering Buzie?

Buzie was right. It was a beautiful day. An uncommonly lovely day.

One could appreciate a summery day like this in my little village only by removing oneself from the straits and the crush to God's big, wide, and beautiful world. The meadow before us, clad in its green mantle and adorned with the gems of its rainbow-colored field flowers, was bordered on one side with a silvery stream and on the other with a small but dense wood. The stream looked like. the silver collar of a new azure-threaded prayer shawl while the wood looked like a thick mop of occasionally windblown curly hair.

Buzie wore a blue baize dress, light as a breeze, transparent as air and sky. Her parasol was ribbed with green her gloves were lavender. Her attire was as bright and rainbow-colored as the field flowers.

“This is the last time that I had to ask Mama's permission. I wanted to say good-bye to the town, its outskirts, its cemetery. I wanted to have one last look at the hills, the stream, and the bridge. And for the sake of this, Mama consented. They have to give in to a bride. A bride everything she wants. . . . What do you say to that, Shimek?”

Shimek did not say a word. Shimek only listened. It seemed to me that Buzie was unusually gay today,, Unnaturally so. She laughed as though she had to. But perhaps I only fancied it.

“Do you remember, Buzie, when we were here last?”

I reminded her. It was long ago. Many years had passed. The two of us had gone to gather greens for Shevuos.

“Remember the last time we followed this same path, passed these mills, and crossed the bridge over the stream? It was different then, Buzie. Then we ran like young gazelles, we jumped like the deer over the mountains of spices. But now?”

“But now?” said Buzie, bending down to pick some flowers.

“Now we're walking primly, as is only fitting for such people like us. . . . Remember, Buzie, when we here last?”

“It was the Eve of Shevuos,” Buzie replied and presented me with a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers.

“Is this for me, Buzie?”

“For you, Shimek,” she said, looking at me with her beautiful blue Song of Songs eyes. And her glance penetrated right into my heart.

The village was far behind us. We were already at the bridge. There I gave her my hand. (The first time since I come home.)

Hand in hand we crossed the bridge. The wooden boards swung back and forth. Beneath us the water streamed. It tumbled and twisted and gurgled so softly on its downhill path that I could hear the knocking of Buzie's heart, which was so near, so near to me. (The first time since I had come home.)

I sensed that Buzie was gradually moving closer and closer. I breathed the familiar scent of her beautiful hair. I felt the tender smoothness of her exquisite hand and the warmth of her body. And I imagined that I could hear her saying the words of the Song of Songs: I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.

I fancied that a new luster, an added charm, had come over sun and sky, field, stream and wood. What a shame, what a terrible shame that the bridge was so short. In another minute we would be on the other side of the bridge, on the meadow. And a moment later her delicate, smooth and exquisite hand slipped out of mine—and sun and sky, field, stream and wood were stripped of their luster and charm.

“It's strange,” Buzie said, and at that moment her beautiful blue Song of Songs eyes became pensive and deep as the sky. “It's strange, but every time I pass a body of water, no matter how small, I see my father, and each time . . . “

“You're talking nonsense,” I quickly interrupted.

Buzie was lost in thought for a moment.

“Nonsense?” she laughed. “You're right. I am talking nonsense. Because I'm a little fool. A foolish little girl. Isn't that so? Tell me the truth, Shimek. I want you to tell me the truth.”

Buzie laughed, threw back her head, and displayed her charming pearl-white teeth. Her face shone in the sunlight, and all the colors of the field sparkled in her beautiful blue eyes, in her pensive Song of Songs eyes.

In vain. I could not get her to agree that she wasn't such a fool, that she wasn't a fool at all. Buzie knew that there were people more foolish than she. Buzie knew it. But compared to me, she said, she was a little fool. Imagine! She believed in dreams.

“What do you say, Shimek? Don't you? I do. Just yesterday I dreamt that my father had come to me from the other world. He was smartly dressed and held a cane in his hand. He was so friendly, spoke so sweetly to me. 'I'm going to be at the wedding,' he said, twirling his cane, Well, what do you say to that, Shimek?”

“Buzie, one must not take stock in dreams. Dreams are all nonsense.”

“Nonsense, you say?”

Buzie fell into a momentary reverie. She began running in the rainbow-colored field, then stopped.

Buzie herself looked like a flower. Like a rainbow-colored flower in that rainbow-colored field which extended endlessly about us into the distance. Buzie was sprinkled with yellow petals and dappled with scarlet shoots. The dome of the blue skycap was over her head, the silvery stream at her feet. From all sides the scents of many pungent spices converged upon us. I was enchanted. I was intoxicated.

Buzie, herself enchanted, stood in the rainbow-colored field and looked at me wistfully, her eyes as deep as the forest.

What was she thinking of now? What were her beautiful eyes, her pensive Song of Songs eyes, saying now?

I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valley.

That's what her eyes told me. And it seemed to me that never before had Buzie been the authentic Shulamite of Songs as she was today.

Buzie looked like a flower, like the rose of Sharon. Like a was she, the lily of the valley, in that rainbow-colored which extended endlessly about us into the distance. She was sprinkled with yellow petals and dappled with shoots. The dome of the blue skycap was over her head, the silvery stream at her feet. From all sides the of many pungent spices converged upon us. I was enchanted. I was intoxicated. . . .

Buzie walked along and I followed her. Her walk was quick and nimble. She moved swift as a gazelle in the rainbow-colored field, which extended endlessly about us into the distance. Her face shone in the bright sun and all colors of the field sparkled in her beautiful blue eyes, her pensive Song of Songs eyes. Never before had Buzie been the authentic Shulamite of the, Song of Songs as she was today.

“Buzie, do you remember this field?”

“Once upon a time it belonged to you.”

“And this hill?”

“Your hill. Once it was all yours. Everything was yours,” said Buzie with a quick smile on her pretty lips. And yet, I felt she was laughing at me as she had years ago.

“Let's sit down?” she said.

“Let's sit down.”

I sat down on the slope of the hill and made room for her. Buzie sat opposite me.

“Right here, remember, Buzie? I once told you how I—”

But Buzie took the words right out of my mouth:

“How you can lift yourself up by pronouncing the holy Name of God and fly like an eagle right up to the clouds, above, the clouds, over fields and forests, mountains and valleys, over seas and deserts, until you come to the other side of the Hills of Darkness to the Crystal Palace. There your enchanted princess has waited for seven years,” Buzie laughed, “until you would finally have pity on her and come flying to rescue her and free her.”

Wait. Buzie was inordinately gay today. Unnaturally gay. She laughed as though she had to. It was high time to have an earnest, sober talk with her. Time to open up my heart, to reveal my inmost soul to her. And I expressed my thought in the language of the Song of Songs: “When the day grows cool—when this blissful day is over—and the shadows flee. . . . “

All the time that I had been at home I had not even told Buzie a fraction of what I poured forth that morning. I laid bare my heart to her, revealed my inmost soul, told her the real reason for my coming home.

Had it not been for my father's congratulatory letter with the four words: “The Sabbath after Shevuos . . .” I would not have seen this downhill-flowing stream nor the little which greened close by.

And I swore to her by the stream and by the forest, by the lovely blue sky mantle above us and by the golden sun which sparkled in her eyes, I swore by everything that was bright and beautiful and holy—I swore that I returned because of her, only because of her. For I loved her—finally the word tore out of me.

“I love you, Buzie, do you hear me, I love you with that flaming passion described in the Song of Songs: Strong as death is love, severe as the grave is jealousy, its flashes are flashes of fire, a flame of the Lord. Buzie, what's the matter? Are you crying? Oh my goodness, Buzie!”

Buzie was weeping.

Buzie wept and the entire world became garbed in gloom. The sun ceased to shine. The stream to flow. The forest to green. The insects to fly. The birds to sing. She hid her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled. And her weeping grew more frantic from moment to moment.

So would weep a child who sensed that he had lost his parents.

So would weep a devoted mother whose child had died.

So would weep a girl who mourned the lover who had deserted her.

So would weep a person who blamed himself for letting happiness slip through his fingers.

In vain was all my consolation. Wasted were all the metaphors from the Song of Songs which I had addressed to her. Buzie refused to be comforted. Buzie refused to hear my metaphors from the Song of Songs. Too late. Too late had I remembered her. Too late had I become aware that someone named Buzie existed—a Buzie who had a heart which yearned and a soul which longed for another sphere. Did I by any chance remember the letters that she had written to me? But—she faltered—how would I remember such foolishness? Shouldn't she have realized that our paths were different? That she couldn't measure up to me. She now realized how great was her folly in pestering me with her childish letters, her silly insinuations that Mama and Papa were longing for me. No! She should have realized that she couldn't measure up to me. How could a provincial Jewish girl like her be compared to me? She should have foreseen that since I had disobeyed my parents, disregarded their wishes, refused to follow their ways but pursued my own instead, I would surely travel far and become so high and mighty that I wouldn't want to see anyone or know anyone.

“No one, except you, Buzie.”

“No—no one. No one. No one at all. You'd see no one, listen to no one, forget everyone.”

“Everyone, except you, Buzie.”

“No. Everyone. Everyone. Everyone!”

Buzie stopped weeping—and everything came to life anew. The sun shone as before. The stream flowed. The forest greened. The insects flew. The birds sang.

Buzie stopped weeping and her eyes, her beautiful Song of Songs eyes, were dry. Her tears dried like drops of dew beneath a burning sun.

And suddenly she began to justify her crying spell. Now she saw how silly she had been. Why all the tears? Did she have any reason to cry? Did she lack anything? Others in her place would feel overjoyed, ecstatic. Her eyes, her beautiful blue Song of Songs eyes, blazed. I had never before seen such fire in Buzie's eyes. Red spots appeared on her cheeks, her beautiful rosy cheeks. Never before had I seen Buzie so inflamed and ablaze. I wanted to take her hand, and I said to her in the language of the Song of Songs:

“Behold, you are beautiful my love. How lovely you are, Buzie, when your cheeks are burning and your eyes shoot flames.”

In vain, Buzie paid no mind to my Song of Songs. Buzie had her own Song of Songs. She did not stop praising “someone”—praising him to the skies.

“My beloved is dazzling and ruddy,” she said to me. “My fiancŽ is fine and handsome. Distinguished among ten thousand. Better than many, many others. Perhaps he's not as learned as some, but he makes up for it with kindness, loyal devotion and love. You ought to see the letters he writes to me. Oh, what letters, they are!”

“You have ravished my heart,” I continued, as though I hadn't heard a word she said. “You have ravished heart, my sister, my bride. You have captured my heart, my sister, the bride-to-be.”

And she replied: “His mouth is most sweet and he is altogether lovely. You ought to see the letters he writes to me. Oh, what letters they are!”

The tone of her voice rang uncommonly strange. The voice I heard—at least so it seemed to me—wanted to overcome, outshout, another voice, the one deep within her.

It was as clear as day to me.

Suddenly Buzie rose from the sweet-smelling grass, brushed herself, smoothed down her dress, and put her hands behind her back. She stood in front of me and looked at me from top to toe.

At that moment Buzie was proud and beautiful, magnificently beautiful—more beautiful than ever before.

I hardly dared utter it, but I felt that were I to designate Buzie the Shulamite of the Song of Songs it would be a great honor for the original Shulamite of old.

Could it be that this was the end of our conversation? I, too, rose and approached Buzie.

“Return, return oh Shulamite—come back to me, I continued my Song of Songs imagery and took her by the hand. “Return to me, Buzie. Return to me while there is yet time. I have another word, just one more word to say to you.”

In vain, in vain. Buzie did not want to hear the one word I wanted to tell her. We had spoken enough, she had told each other enough—perhaps more than have. Enough. Enough. The time was late.

“Look how late it is,” Buzie said, pointing to the sky sun, whose kindly golden beams bathed her in head to foot. And a new color came over Buzie, the lily of the valley, the rose of Sharon. She was now in the rainbow-colored field which extended endlessly about us.

“Let's go home,” she said, urging me on. “Home. Home. It's high time, Shimek. High time. Mama and Papa won't know what to think. Come. Let's go home.”

And in her last phrase I heard the voice of long, long ago echoing with the language of the Ôsong of Songs:

“Make haste, my beloved, and be like a gazelle or a young deer upon the mountains of spices.”

Days passed. Weeks flew by. The beloved holiday of Shevuos arrived. The Sabbath after Shevuos came and went. So did another Sabbath and yet another. And I still remained a guest in my village.

What was I doing here? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

My parents thought that I had repented, turned over a new leaf, regretted the fact that I had disregarded their wishes, refused to follow their ways, but pursued my own instead. And they were pleased, they were very happy.

And I? What was I doing here? What did I seek here? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Every day I walked alone beyond the outskirts of town. Past the mill. Past the bridge. To that rainbow-colored field which extended endlessly, bordered by a silvery stream on one side and a small but dense wood on the other. The stream looked like the silver collar of a new azure-threaded prayer shawl. The wood looked like a thick mop of occasionally windblown curly hair.

There, on the hillside, I sat down alone. On the same slope where the two of us had recently sat—Buzie, the lily of the valley, the rose of Sharon, and I. On that same slope where once, many years ago, the two of us, Buzie and I, ran like young gazelles and leaped like deer upon the mountains of spices. There where the most treasured memories of my eternally lost youth and happiness lie hidden—there I could sit alone for hours on end, bewailing and bemoaning my unforgettable Shulamite from my Song of Songs romance.

And what happened to the Shulamite of my Song of Songs romance? What happened to Buzie? How did it end?

Don't press me to tell you the end of my romance. An ending, even the very best, always contains a note of sadness. But a beginning, even the very worst, is better than the finest ending. Therefore, it is much easier and far more pleasant to tell you the story from the beginning, once and one hundred times. And in the same fashion as always:

“Once I had a brother named Benny. He drowned in the river. He left an orphaned daughter. She was called Buzie. of Esther-Libe: Libuzie-Buzie. And she was as beautiful as the Shulamite of the Song of Songs. We grew brother and sister. We loved each other like brother and sister.

And so on.

A beginning, even the very worst, is better than the finest ending.

And so, let this beginning also be the epilogue to my romance, a true story which I have taken the liberty to call— The Song of Songs.