Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

by S. Y. Agnon

  “But a man should not mourn the loss of imaginary possessions, blessed be the Holy Name for He has not taken His merciful eye from us. Even though the Almighty has not blessed me a second time with wealth and happiness, I thank the Lord daily, for we are not lacking in food. And yet whenever I call to mind the inflictions wrought upon my son, I am tempted to choose death over life.”

  The members of the household dried their tears and the woman asked her husband, “If he were alive today, how old would he be?” “What sort of woman-talk is this?” he answered. “Do not lay reproach on the Almighty; the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh, blessed be the name of the Lord. How splendid are the words of Malbim, blessed be his memory, concerning the verse, “he shall shave his head over the loss of property” – for it is forbidden to do so over the dead.

  The oil in the lamp was nearly spent and I rose from the table and asked, “Tell me please, is there an inn in town, for I will not be able to continue on my way tonight.” The man and woman conferred and said, “There are a number of inns but who knows if you will find comfort in any one of them. Ours is a small town and the inns are of the plainest sort, for respectable guests seldom come here and anyone who isn’t accustomed to such conditions will not find such inns very restful.” The man glanced at his wife and said, “A stranger shall not sleep outside. I will open my door to a guest.”

  The young girl then brought a candle and lit it and placed it on the table as the oil in the lamp was spent. We sat together for another hour. They did not tire of hearing about the wonders of Vienna where the Emperor lives. I felt deeply drawn to their way of life. Later that evening they prepared a bed for me in a corner of the house and I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  And I started awake at the sound of a man’s footsteps. The master of the house stood by my bed, his prayer shawl and phylacteries under his arm and the Morning Prayer on his lips. “Ah, sir,” I cried out, “you are on your way to pray while I lie in the lap of indolence.” The man smiled. “I have already prayed,” he said. “I am on my way back from the synagogue, but be at ease, my son.” And seeing my discomfort, he added, “If you have slept soundly then lie back and rest; the time will come soon enough when there will be no sleep. But if you are awake then rise and we will breakfast together.” After eating I made to pay for my food. The woman and her daughter drew back in shame and the man smiled and said, “Such are the ways of the city dweller, they do not know that an act of charity is honored and that it is a sacred duty to invite a guest into one’s home.” I thanked them for letting me stay in their home for the entire night and morning. “Blessed are you in the eyes of the Lord for your kindness,” I exclaimed. And as I turned to leave, the man inquired, “Where will you be going?” “I will walk the length and breadth of the town,” I answered, “for that is why I have come.” “Go then in peace,” said the man. “But return to eat with us at noon.” “I am unworthy of such kindness,” I said. And I walked into town. Presently I arrived at the Great Synagogue which housed a rare prayerbook whose gilt letters were inscribed on deerskin parchment. But the gold was obscured by a film of smoke that had risen from those martyred in the name of the Holy One and had seeped through and blackened the pages. And I walked over to the Beit Midrash. The sun’s rays beat against its walls. The pupils, seated before the altar, had removed their coats and were surprised to see me. They implored me to speak of other houses of learning, and visions of distant places lit up their eyes. And I left the House of Study and turned towards the forest. I was overwhelmed with grief as I approached the green and somber woods. And I fell to my knees and lay amid the scrub by the oak trees. The Lord’s mercy did not leave me. Suddenly I remembered the invitation extended to me to share the mid-day meal and I rose and returned home.

  The members of the household reproached me as I entered, “We waited for you and you did not come. We thought you had forgotten us and so we ate without you.” “I went for a walk in the forest,” I explained. “I am late and now I will be on my way.” But the woman looked at me and said, “You will go nowhere before having eaten.” And she fried me some eggs. “The cantor will pass before the Ark of the Law,” said the master of the house, “he will pray in the synagogue. Eat something, and then come with me to the synagogue. The bed we prepared for you yesterday is still in its place. Stay with us another night and tomorrow you will be on your way.”

  I do not play an instrument nor can I carry a tune. And my knowledge of music is slight, nor do I understand it. When dragged to the opera I sit and count the windows. But I now told the master of the house, “Very well, I will accompany you.” I will not describe the cantor’s singing, nor will I speak of what was on my mind just then. Rather I will speak of what I did when we returned.

  I returned with the man and after eating we sat on the doorsteps of his home. So, I told myself, have I not longed to travel the length and breadth of the countryside? If I stay here one more day I will surely use up all the days of my vacation. It is fine to explore the countryside, my heart cried out suddenly, but to sit here is even better. I was in the best of health and in those days the thought of taking time off never even crossed my mind. It was like one of those notions a man acquires without knowing how it might bear on his own life. Alas, those days have passed and are gone and whatever peace of mind I had has been swept away with them. The following morning I asked the members of the household, “Tell me, do you happen to have a spare room, as I wish to remain in your company for the rest of my vacation.” So they led me to their succah, a festival booth that also served as a room. “Stay here as long as you wish,” they said. And the woman prepared my meals, while I in turn instructed their daughter in language and reading skills.

  I lodge in the home of these good people. They have vacated a special room for me—the festival booth built as a room. There is even a small stove in the booth. Some will say it has no use, but soon enough winter will come and we will warm ourselves by its heat. And I sit in my rooftop den and look down at the town. From my perch I can see the huge marketplace where women sit, their baskets laden with vegetables. They sell the rotten ones while they keep the good ones until they rot too. And there is a wellspring in the center of the market with water gushing from its two spouts, and the country girls draw from its source. A Jew suddenly approaches one of the young girls, desiring to drink from her pitcher. “Jew,” I call out from my garret, “why do you drink drawn water? Don’t you have the entire well in front of you? And spring water at that?” But the Jew does not hear me. For he is hunched over while I dwell in the heights.

  And a new voice resounded in the house. The voice of a young woman. I folded my coat behind the windowpane to catch a glimpse of myself before descending to see the young woman. Leah introduced me to her friend Mintshi. I greeted her with a bow. Returning to my room I spent the rest of the day lost in delusions and fancied Mintshi lived in the capital, and while there she had witnessed the respect lavished on me when my poems were praised in public. When she returned home, her mother said that a man had lodged in her room. “And what’s his name?” she asked. “Akaviah Mazal.” Then her heart skipped a beat, for she had had the privilege of knowing me. My God, how I held my head high. And I buried myself in religious, ethical tracts; perhaps it would extinguish the glowing ember of lust burning within me. But I could not stamp it out and I sought comfort in moral precepts: You shall love the Lord your God, et cetera, with both inclinations—the good and the bad—taught the Sages of blessed memory. If only it were so.

  The students at the Beit Midrash were delighted to see me. They sought to study the ways of Haskalah literature— and is there a better teacher than I? Today two boys came to see me and instead of reading the Gemara they pored over the contents of profane books. And in my presence one of the boys started to read a German poem, and the one chanted while the other read. My students sigh and ask only to be enlightened by the new literature. As for me? My only desire is to follow in the path of the Lord all the days of
my life.

  What is God’s path? A man takes to the road and his strength fails him. His knees buckle and his tongue is parched. He stumbles seven times and rises without reaching his longed-for destination. The road is long and the illusions are myriad. The man will then say to himself: Perhaps I have strayed from the path, this is not the way. And he will turn off the path he first took. And turning off the path, he sees a light flickering in the distance. Although he does not know yet whether this is the right way, who will say that the man erred in choosing a path different from the first? Even though I am a teacher of the “Haskalah,” I declined the boys’ request. How will I provide for myself if the lining of my purse is empty? I am like a thief who stumbles upon a pouch of coins, returns the pouch to its owner, and then snatches the money back from the owner’s pocket, for he is a thief and cannot live otherwise. I teach Leah and her friend Mintshi, as well as the sons of the rich. My friends mock me in their letters, and my father, seeing that I have abandoned my studies at the university, weeps for my fate daily. Summer swept by and my vacation drew to an end, but I did not return home.

  How resplendent was my booth during the Feast of Tabernacles. We hung from its boughs red lanterns and assembled in it the finest of the household utensils. As Leah made to hand me the mizrah, a ring came undone and fell from one of its corners. Leah took the ring and slipped it on my finger. She then untied the crimson ribbon fastened to her locks and with it secured the mizrah to the wall, reading out loud, “Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee.” I read on, “And he who shall cleave unto Thee.” Suddenly we both blushed, for her father and mother were peering in, their faces beaming with joy. They called me master of the house as we sat together in the booth, and they thought of themselves as my guests. Leah came to the booth at least seven times a day. Sometimes she brought food and other times she cleared the table. And we thanked God for bearing us aloft toward love. How resplendent was my booth during the Feast of the Tabernacles. But the festive booth is now stocked with beans and lentils for a bean merchant has rented the booth to store his merchandise. I have left my home, I have abandoned my booth, and I have rented a room on the outskirts of the town. My lodgings are small and peaceful. An old woman tends to my needs, she prepares my meals and washes my linen. I am surrounded by peace and quiet, yet my heart knows no peace. Mr. Mintz, who has rented the booth, is a wealthy man. His trade has spread throughout the land and Leah’s father has promised him his daughter’s hand in marriage. And I am but a poor and unworthy teacher. They befriended me when I came from the city. Ah, they drew near me with their words while their hearts were elsewhere. How strange are the ways of my brethren.

  In addition to instructing Leah in language and books I also taught her Hebrew. Her parents had been happy to see her learning the Holy Tongue. But her father came to envy her knowledge, and he drew us apart. Ah, sir, surely she will not forget all that I taught her. She will brood over the poems I have written, and though she has left me she will hold fast to my teachings.

  One day I went into town and saw Leah’s father and swiftly made to leave. But he ran after me and said, “Why have you run off, I must talk to you.” My heart pounded. I knew he had nothing to say that could possibly calm me and yet I stood and listened. He is Leah’s father, I thought, he will speak of Leah. He then glanced sideways and seeing no one in sight, continued, “My daughter is ill. She suffers from the same illness as her brother.” I remained silent and he continued as he had begun, “She was not born for toil, physical labor will be the death of her. If I don’t assure her complete rest she will die before my own time has come.” He appeared suddenly to take fright at his own words. At last he raised his voice and blurted out, “Mintz is a wealthy man, her health will be restored under his care. That is why I have promised her to him. He will send her to the mineral springs and will provide for all her needs.”

  “Ah, sir, another illness altogether afflicts your daughter’s heart, which all the spas cannot heal. And I said I would cure her, but you drew us apart.”

  As I moved away from the man I slipped off the ring Leah had given to me. For she is engaged to another man. And a sudden chill swept over my finger.

  So ended the chronicles of Akaviah Mazal.

  Twice, three times a week my father arrived at the Gottliebs and dined with us in the garden. A soothing dusk veiled the table and dishes. We ate by the light of the fireflies. The red lanterns by the tracks lit up the night, for the railroad was not far from the Gottliebs’ home. Rarely was my mother’s name mentioned. And when Mrs. Gottlieb did speak of her you could not tell that the name of the departed was on her lips. Only when I grew accustomed to her words did I understand that she acted out of good sense.

  My father made every possible effort to turn the conversation to my mother, may she rest in peace, exclaiming, “We are the miserable widowers.” How strange his words were—it was as if all of womankind had died and every man was a widower.

  One day Mr. Gottlieb journeyed to see his brother. He was a wealthy man and Gottlieb hoped he might join his business and contribute to the factory’s expansion. Mintshi, who normally did not like to interfere in her husband’s affairs, let slip more than she wished. Suddenly she realized what she had done and seemed to ask me to forget what she had just recounted, and she told me of her first visit to her father-in-law’s house when the groom had entered and welcomed her, and then had turned on his heel and left. Mintshi had been greatly distressed by his abrupt manner. But he was no sooner gone than he returned, and before she had time to recover he asked to kiss her and she had drawn back, offended. Mintshi had not known at the time that she had been greeted at first not by the groom, but by his brother, whose features were identical to the groom’s.

  The holidays were coming to an end. “Stay until Tuesday evening,” my father said. “I will come Tuesday evening and we will return home together.” He was suddenly seized by a spasm of coughing. Mintshi poured him a glass of water. “Have you caught a cold, Mr. Mintz?” she asked my father. “Indeed,” he answered, “I have considered leaving my work.” We listened in astonishment as he continued, “If not for my daughter I would wipe my hands clean of my trade.” How strange a reply. Does a man leave his trade because of a slight cold? To wear a long face would only have led him to think that he was ill. And so Mrs. Gottlieb said, “What will you do then, write books?” We all laughed. He, the merchant, such a practical man, sitting down and writing books.

  The train’s whistle sounded. Mrs. Gottlieb exclaimed, “My husband should be here in ten minutes,” and fell silent. Our conversation was cut short as we waited for Mr. Gottlieb to arrive. Mr. Gottlieb entered. Mintshi peered at him intently; her eyes ran over her spouse. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose and chuckled like a man intending to amuse his listeners. He then spoke to us of his travels and what had happened at his brother’s home. On arriving, he had found his brother’s wife sitting with her son. And he lifted the boy up on his lap and leaped up and whirled him about. They had been surprised, for the boy followed him fearlessly even though he had never seen him before. Mr. Gottlieb’s brother entered while they were playing and the boy stared first at his father and then at his father’s brother—his eyes darting from one to the other in disbelief. All of a sudden he turned his face away, burst into tears and flung his small arms out to his mother, and she embraced him as he buried his face in her bosom.

  I returned home and to school. And my father found me a new Hebrew teacher, a Mr. Segal with whom I studied for many days. Mr. Segal came three times a week, and not liking to skip from subject to subject, divided my studies into three parts: one day of the week I studied the Bible, another, grammar, and on the third day I studied composition. Segal set out to explain the Holy Writings in a lucid manner, and he did not refrain from teaching me the commentaries of our Sages. Hours were spent over such commentaries and exegeses, leaving us little time for the Book. He spoke to me of all the splendors which until then I had not found in books. Wi
shing to revive our language, whenever I spoke he would say, “Please, say it in Hebrew.” He spoke with a certain flourish, like an advocate, and delighted whenever he stumbled upon a passage that resonated in his heart, for a prophet had spoken, and the prophets, after all, knew Hebrew.

  Of all the hours spent in study I cherished most those devoted to composition. Segal would relax and lean back, his left hand under his head and his eyes firmly shut. Ever so quietly he would read from the wellsprings of his heart without glancing even once at the book. Like a musician plying his instrument during the darkest hour of the night, his heart brimming to its banks, without a glance at his notes, playing only what God had placed in his heart—so was this man.

  My father paid Segal three gulden a month for my studies. After clipping the notes together, I would quietly hand them over to Segal. Segal, however, counted the money openly, and exclaimed, “I am not a doctor and needn’t be paid furtively. I’m a worker and am not ashamed to receive a salary for my labors.”

  And my father toiled ceaselessly at his work. Nor did he rest at night. When I went to sleep he would remain seated by the lamplight. Sometimes I rose in the morning to find the light still lit beside him, for being preoccupied with his accounts he would forget to extinguish the light. My mother’s name no longer hovered on his lips.

  On the eve of Yom Kippur my father bought two candles: one candle, the candle of the living, he lit in the house, and the other, the memorial candle, he took to the synagogue. My father brought the candle to the synagogue, and as I accompanied him, he said, “Don’t forget, tomorrow is Remembrance Day for the souls of the dead.” His voice shook as he spoke. I bent forward and kissed his hand.

  We arrived at the synagogue. I peered through the lattice and saw one man greeting another in the midst of the assembly, asking forgiveness of the other. I then saw my father standing in front of a man without a prayer shawl, and I recognized Akaviah Mazal and my eyes misted with tears.