The Night of the Feast

The sun leaned toward setting, and the bustle in the city's markets grew. Everyone was coming and going, carrying gifts for the family at the opening of the new year. As for her, she went about the house casting a glance over everything, to see whether all was in perfect readiness to receive the guests invited to the holiday party..?

She passed her mirror and stopped to gaze at the beauty in which she had so long gloried and taken pride — and she was startled to glimpse on her brow a line that had not been there before.. Her heart quailed: was old age overtaking her so early..? She had not yet reached thirty; she was a happy wife and the mother of two beautiful children; her life was not bad, but for trifles not worth mentioning — so why should the wrinkles hasten to give her warning of a hateful, early old age?

She sat down and began to think of the twelve months that had passed so swiftly, cutting away a span of her life — a whole year. She sat reviewing yesterday and thinking of tomorrow: nothing less than a word of farewell and a word of welcome, in haste. Did not the ancients symbolize the new year by a statue with one head and two faces — one face turned backward in farewell, and one looking out upon tomorrow in welcome?

She thought and thought, until, for very thinking, a doze of sleep took her; and all at once she found herself in a cinema, the scenes passing before her on the screen. But the strangest thing of all was that those charmers were like little girls, and she wondered to herself: who are they? and where have they come from? Then someone whispered in her ear, saying: they are the hours that have passed over you, the hours of which the departing year was made.. And she kept gazing and gazing, captivated by the scene: scores of them hurrying past, laughing and singing; scores passing slowly, absorbed and thoughtful.. scores at work, brisk and happy.. But what caught her attention was that in among these beauties there slipped scores of ugly-faced, scowling ones... She stared at them, bewildered — and then one of them rose up before her, grim-faced and knotted, and said in a sharp voice..

I am Rancor. You were wronged, and cast out of the heart you loved — and that is painful and cruel — but you could have forgiven.. What virtue in the world is loftier than the virtue of forgiveness? I am the hour — I am the hours you spent grinding your teeth and wishing you might take revenge. Do not wonder, then, at my scowl and my ugliness..

A second drew near, red as blood, hot as fire. She said: I am Hatred. You should have remembered that hatred is like fire — it burns its bearer before it burns the one who is hated. Do not excuse yourself by saying that we did not create our feelings and so cannot be called to account for them.. True, we do not create our feelings; but we can direct them and curb their onrush..

A third drew near and cried: I am Envy. You were jealous of everything, you grudged everyone everything, and you wanted everything for yourself — for yourself alone..

A fourth passed, calling out: I am Cruelty. You forgot that you are a woman, and that the word "woman" is a synonym for the two words "tenderness" and "mercy"..

Another said, shaking her finger in her face: And you shrank like a coward from speaking the truth. You sided with every woman, flattering and smiling, though you knew that what was being said was not the truth.

And another said: And you did the deed that brings shame. You thought the matter would remain a secret between you and yourself — but I was there. It was I and my companions who printed on your brow the line you saw today in the mirror, to your dismay; and we shall go on drawing lines, and many lines.

Another and yet another drew near her, all of them ugly, scowling, exacting their reckoning — and the poor woman cried out:

Mercy, O cruel hours! Be gentle with me! In doing what you do, you forget that I am a human creature, with her weakness and her faults. Will you not pardon, O hours of human frailty? But it is upon me, from tomorrow, to pay your account in full in the year to come. You shall see me pluck those ugly looks from your eyes and those harsh words from your lips. You shall see — and may God forgive what is past... And it dismayed her to watch them move off in haste, cackling in mockery and chanting:

Yesterday has written down the sins in its book —
who can bring back yesterday once it is gone?

She shuddered and awoke. Evening was drawing near and darkness was settling over the world outside, but bright lights lit her house, and fragrant flowers filled its corners, perfuming and adorning it. The servants were busy everywhere, and the New Year's party for which she had been preparing all week was about to begin. The enchanting gown and the precious jewel were waiting for her in the corner of the wardrobe there — but all of it had lost its splendor.. What, she wondered, would become of her if that dream were true?. But was it not? Those hours that had stood disputing the account with her had not told it everything. They had not said how she had lost the friendship of many women because her rancor toward them left no room for understanding. Her hatred of them was palpable, and her arrogance drove her to take pleasure in provoking them.. They had not told her that her envy was the reason everyone shunned her, and that her cruelty had worked upon those around her, tinting the house and everyone in it a somber shade, so that even her children were growing up hard, knowing no mercy. They had not told her that she had lived all year on the margin of life: when the homeland called, she did not answer; when society called, she did not answer; nor did the family have any share of her giving — indeed she had not profited even herself; and these early lines on her face were nothing but proof that she had not lived the life she ought to live.

And then — had she really been happy during that year? How many times had she laid her head on her pillow and pictured an angry friend, or a neglected child, or a husband silently reproachful? How many times had a voice cried within her: you are a paltry creature, whose motto is "I am a creature who lives only for herself" — "and he who lives only for himself does not deserve to live." Yes: she would see the pictures and shut her eyes against them; she would hear the whispers and stop her ears so that the voice should not reach her heart — driving it away lest it trouble her empty life. Ah! had she then, all through the year, been working against the trust of her conscience? Had she been walking toward the abyss, from bad to worse?

Thanks be to God, then, for this dream. Thanks be to God that there is space left in life, and another year that will begin in a few hours, whose days — nay, whose hours, every one of them — will be good and generous and full of true happiness; and its hours, in the year to come, will surround her as beautiful dancers with no trace of ugliness in them.

Yes, the departing year has passed and will not return; what was written in it has been written and will not be effaced. But the fragrance of years to come will efface its trace from her soul and from her surroundings — and may God help her.

In this new spirit she stood to receive her guests at the threshold of the new year.