Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

by S. Y. Agnon

  The cantor intoned Kol Nidre and his singing waxed from one moment to the next. The candles flickered and the building filled with light. The men swayed between the candles, their faces covered. How I loved the holiness of the day.

  We returned home without speaking a word. The stars of silence in the firmament and the candles of the living in each home lit up our way. We took the path leading to the bridge, for my father said, “Let us rest by the water for a while, my throat is choked with dust.” From within the rippling water the nocturnal stars peered out at the stars in the sky. The moon broke through the furrowed clouds and a low murmuring sound rose from the water. From his heavenly heights God sent forth silence. I shall never forget that night. The candle of the living bent its flame towards us as we arrived home. I read the Shema and slept till morning. I was roused from my sleep in the morning by my father’s voice. We left for the house of prayer. The sky had veiled itself in white as was its custom in autumn. The trees cast their russet leaves earthward and the old womenfolk bestirred themselves to gather the leaves into their homes. From the surrounding farmhouses thin plumes of smoke rose where the dry leaves burned in the stoves. People wrapped in white garments swayed back and forth in the courtyards. We arrived at the synagogue and prayed, meeting in the courtyard between the morning prayer and the additional service, and then again between the additional service and the afternoon prayer. My father asked whether the fast was not too great a strain for me. How my father’s voice confused me.

  I barely saw my father during the holiday. I studied in a Polish school and we were not exempt from class during our own holidays. Returning from school at noon I would find my father and the neighbors crowded together in the succah. And I would eat by myself, as there was no place for women in the booth. But I was consoled by the coming of winter. Late in the evening we supped together and then bent over our work by the light of a single lamp. And the white oval shade cast its light over us as our heads merged into one black presence in the shadows. I prepared my lessons and my father put his accounts into order. At nine o’clock Kaila set before us three glasses of tea, two for my father and one for me. My father pushed aside ledger and pen, and reached for the glass of tea. One glass he drained steaming hot, and the second he drained cold after dropping into it a lump of sugar. We then resumed our work, I my lessons, and my father his accounts. At ten o’clock my father would rise, stroke my hair, and say, “And now go to sleep, Tirtza.” How I loved his use of the conjunction “and”. I always grew happy in its presence: it was as though all that my father told me was but the continuation of his innermost thoughts. That is, first he spoke to me from within his heart and then out loud. And so I would say to my father, “If you are not going to sleep I too will not sleep, I will stay up with you until you go to sleep.” But my father did not pay attention to my words, so I would go to bed. And when I woke I would find my father still bent over his accounts, his ledgers crowding the table. Had he risen early or had he not slept the entire night? I did not ask nor did I ever find out. Late into the night I told myself: I will go now and appeal to his heart, perhaps he will listen to me and rest. But I would fall fast asleep before ever getting out of bed. I knew my father intended to leave his business, and that wishing to set his accounts in order, he now bent over his affairs with redoubled effort. I did not ask what he would do afterwards.

  I turned sixteen and was no longer obliged by law to attend school. When the school year came to an end my father sent me to a teacher’s college. He did not send me because of my talents. I had no talent for teaching, but I showed little enthusiasm for anything else as yet. I believed at the time that a person’s future was determined by others. And I told myself so be it. My relatives and friends were baffled. How in the world will Mintz make a teacher out of his daughter?

  To labor is our lot and therein lies all hope. We knew the teachers among the Hebrew women to be different from the Christian, for the former were sent to remote hamlets where, being Jewish, they were harassed by the cruel-hearted villagers. And one’s earnings were quite spent by the time one arrived at the village, for all of it went on travel. And yet a great number of Hebrew women attended the college.

  The college was a private institution and Mazal was employed there as a teacher. Once a year the principal traveled with his pupils to the district capital where the pupils were examined. The schoolgirls then applied themselves to their studies with redoubled effort. A girl was put to shame if she returned without a certificate in her hand, for the travel expenses were high. And she made herself a new dress before departing, and if she returned from the examination and had failed, her rival would say, “Why, you have a new dress. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before.” “It is not new,” the girl would answer. And the other would say, “Didn’t you sew it to wear for your examinations? But where is your certificate?” And if the girl happened not to be wearing her new dress, she was asked, “But where is your new dress, the one for your examinations?” That’s how they would remind her of her shameful lack of a certificate. This is why the girls labored unceasingly at their studies. If the brain did not grasp then they drilled their lessons in by rote, for what the brain cannot do, memory shall.

  I was surprised that Mazal gave no sign of recognizing me when I arrived at the college. I asked myself: do I not find favor in his eyes? Does he not know who I am? For days on end I could not keep myself from brooding over such feelings, and I studied twice as hard and was never idle.

  In those days I loved to take solitary walks. No sooner had I finished my lessons than I would set forth to the open fields. If I happened to meet a friend on the way I did not call out a greeting, and when hailed I answered in a low voice, lest the person join me, when all I desired was to walk alone. Winter had arrived.

  One evening I was out walking when I heard a dog barking and then the sound of a man’s footsteps. I recognized the man: it was Mazal. And I wound my handkerchief around my hand and waved it before him in greeting. Mazal stopped in his tracks and asked, “What is wrong, Miss Mintz?” “The dog,” I replied. “Did the dog bite you?” he asked, startled. “The dog bit me,” I answered. “Show me your hand,” he said, almost breathless. “Please,” I said, “bind the handkerchief for me over my wound.” Mazal took hold of my hand with shaking fingers, and as he held my hand I unwound the handkerchief and jumped up in the air, exclaiming as I laughed out loud, “There is nothing, sir! Neither a dog, nor a wound.” Mazal was so taken aback by my words that for a moment he could only stand there frozen, knowing not whether to scold me or laugh. But he quickly recovered, and then he too laughed loudly and cheerfully, and said, “Ah, you are a bad girl. How you frightened me.” He then accompanied me home, and before leaving he stared deep into my eyes. And I told myself: surely he now knows that I know he knows my secret. But I thought to myself, I will be grateful if you do not remind me of that which you do know.

  That night I tossed and turned in my bed. I thrust my hand into my mouth and stared at the designs on my handkerchief. I regretted not having asked Mazal into the house. If Mazal had entered we would now be sitting in the room and I would not be nursing such delusions. The following morning I rose and gloomily paced about overwrought with emotions. Now I stretched out on my bed and now on the carpet, and I was beguiled by a fickle wind of delusions. Only towards evening was I able to calm down. I was like someone with a case of nerves who dozes off during the day and starts awake at night. Calling to mind all that I had done the previous day I rose and tied a red string around my wrist as a reminder.

  The days of Hanukkah had arrived and geese were slaughtered. One day Kaila left to ask the rabbi a question and a man well advanced in age appeared. “When will your father be coming home?” he asked, and I replied, “Sometimes he comes at eight and sometimes at seven-thirty.” “In that case I am early,” he declared, “for it is now five-thirty.” I said, “Yes, it is five-thirty.” And he said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  I drew up a ch
air for him. “But why should I sit,” he said. “Bring me some water.” And as I poured him tea into a glass, he exclaimed, “He asked for water and she gave him tea.” He then poured some of the tea from the glass onto his hand and cried out, “Well, well, and the mizrah?” Turning towards the wall he continued, “In your grandfather’s house a man didn’t have to ask such questions, for the mizrah hung on the wall.” He then rose to his feet and prayed. I took two, three large, dollops of goose fat and placed them in a bowl on the table. The man finished praying and ate and drank and said, his lips dripping with fat, “Schmaltz, my dear, schmaltz.” “Here,” I said, “I will bring you a napkin to wipe your hands.” “Rather bring me a slice of cake,” he said. “Do you have a cake that doesn’t require hand washing?” “Yes, and enough to spare,” I said. “I will bring you some cake at once.” “Please don’t hurry, you can bring the cake along with the second helping. Will you not give me another helping?” “Why, of course.” “I knew you would, but you still don’t know who I am. It doesn’t matter,” the man said softly. “I’m Gotteskind. So your father is indeed late today.” I glanced at my watch. “It is a quarter after six, my father will not arrive before half-past seven.” “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “But do go on with your work. Don’t let me disturb you.” I reached for a book. And he said, “What’s that you have in your hands?” “A book of geometry,” I replied. Gotteskind seized the book and asked, “And do you know how to play the piano as well? No? Why didn’t they teach you how to play the piano? Why, I’ve just come from the pharmacy where the pharmacist told me he would never wed a woman who didn’t know how to play the piano. ‘Listen, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said, ‘I’m prepared to live in a small town since I can’t afford to buy a pharmacy in the city.’ But I failed to mention that he isn’t really a pharmacist but the pharmacist’s assistant. But what does it matter, assistant pharmacist, pharmacist, it’s all one and the same. Surely you’ll say: why, he doesn’t even own a pharmacy. It doesn’t matter, soon enough he’ll purchase himself a pharmacy. ‘And so, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said to me, ‘here I am about to settle down in a small town. If my wife doesn’t play the piano she will surely die of boredom.’ So, knowing how to play an instrument is a rare gift indeed, apart from the enjoyment of striking the keys, think of it also as a source of wisdom. But the hour of seven is about to strike and though I said I would go, will your father not be arriving soon?” Gotteskind stroked the wisps of his beard and continued, “Indeed, your father should realize that a faithful friend is waiting for him. And so, man knows least where his good fortune lies. The clock is striking two, three, four, five, six, seven. Let the clock be witness to the truth of my words.” I grew weary, but Gotteskind prattled on, “Why, you didn’t know who I was, nor did you hear mention of my name until today. And I knew you before you were formed, it was through my good services that your mother wedded your father.”

  He was still talking when Kaila arrived and we set the table. “You are also an accomplished housekeeper?” Gotteskind exclaimed with surprise. “And you said your father will soon return. If so, let us wait for him,” Gotteskind said, as though having just made up his mind to wait.

  My father arrived a little before eight. “We mentioned your name and here you are,” Gotteskind said to my father. “Lo, the clock has struck. It will be witness to the truth of my words.” And he winked at my father and went on, “I came to see you but behold the Almighty has also shown me your daughter.”

  That night I dreamt my father gave me away in marriage to the high chief of an Indian tribe. My entire body was impressed with tattoos of kissing lips and my husband sat opposite me on the sharp edge of a crag, combing his beard with the seven talons of an eagle. I was struck with wonder, for I was certain that Indians shaved their heads and beards. How then had my husband acquired such a thick crop of hair?

  Four days had lapsed since I met with Mazal. I did not go to school. And I feared lest my father would take notice and fret over me. I was of two minds whenever I thought of returning to school. Perhaps I would blush with shame upon seeing Mazal? And if Mazal was absent that day perhaps I’d shudder in anticipation of the sound of his footsteps? And what if I arrived after classes had begun, and what if he then suddenly cast his eyes upon me? In the end I did leave for the college, but only to find another man reading out our lessons. I asked one of the students, “Why hasn’t Mazal arrived today?” “He didn’t come yesterday either, nor the day before, and who knows if he will ever return to the college,” she replied. “Your words don’t make any sense,” I said. “A woman’s hand is in the matter,” she replied. I shuddered at her words. The girl went on to tell me how Mazal had been forced to leave the school because of the teacher Kefirmilch who received from his grandmother an allowance earned as a servant in Mazal’s home. One day she had slipped the money in an envelope taken from her master’s letterbox. Kefirmilch unsealed the envelope and discovered a letter written to Mazal by one of the schoolgirls in the college. It so happened that the girl’s father had lent Kefirmilch some money. Kefirmilch now told the man, “Forget my debt and I will give you your daughter’s letter written to her lover Mazal.” And hearing what had happened, Mazal, left the college lest the institution’s name be tainted by his presence.

  I returned home, relieved at not having seen Mazal at the college, and I did not tell myself: he has been stripped of his livelihood. From now on I will rarely see Mazal but neither will I blush in shame if I should happen to see him. And I suddenly loathed going to school. I stayed at home and helped Kaila with the housework. How I recoiled in horror whenever I thought of the aging schoolmistresses. Should I waste my life bent over books I couldn’t understand and end up like one of them? Caught in such thoughts I forgot my own work and neglected the housework. I longed to leave the house, to fill my lungs with fresh air and stretch my legs. I rose, buttoned my coat, and went out. Once on my way I turned in the direction of the Gottliebs’ home. Mintshi hastened towards me and took my hand and warmed it in her own, and she peered deep into my eyes, eager to know what tidings I brought. “No news,” I said. “I went out for a walk and turned in your direction.” Mintshi took my coat and seated me by the stove. After drinking a glass of tea I stood up and prepared to leave, for I had heard that the tax inspector was expected for dinner and I was afraid I would disturb Mr. Gottlieb in his business affairs with him.

  The earth was drenched in rain and I remained at home. All day long I read books or else sat in the kitchen and helped Kaila with her chores. Desire no longer tugged at my heartstrings. I knew no wrong.

  At eight o’clock my father returned home. He quietly removed his shoes and slipped on a pair of felt slippers. The faint shuffle of his slippers brought back to mind the stillness of the house. The table had been set before his arrival and when he arrived we sat and ate. After dinner my father returned to his accounts and I sat by his side until ten o’clock, when he rose and said, “Now, my daughter, to bed.” Sometimes he would stroke my hair with his warm hand and I bowed my head. My happiness was too great to bear. So the rains came and went.

  The sun rose over the town and the puddles were nearly dry. I lay wide awake in the morning, unable to sleep, as I sensed that something ominous had taken place. I turned towards the window where a faint bluish light shone. How could such a light have existed unbeknownst to me? Several moments passed before I realized I had been fooled by the curtain. And still my happiness did not leave me.

  I leapt out of bed and dressed. Something had happened. I would go now and see what it was. I ventured out. And I stood spellbound whichever way I turned. I peered into the shop windows and the windows glowed in the daylight. And I told myself, I will enter and purchase something. I did not know what I would buy, but I insisted, I’ll buy something and Kaila won’t have to trouble herself. But I did not go into any of the shops and I turned and set out towards the bridge at the edge of town. And there was a cluster of dwellings under the bridge on both
sides of the banks. Pigeons flitted from roof to roof and a man and woman stood on one of the rooftops mending its shingles. I called out good-morning to them and they returned my greeting. And as I made to walk on, I caught sight of an old woman waiting, or so it seemed, for me to ask her the way. But I did not ask. I returned home and gathered my books and left for the college. But the college had become alien to me. This house is a den of boredom. I realized there wasn’t a soul to whom I could pour out my heart, and my disdain grew and I could not bear my studies. So I thought, I will speak to Mazal. I did not know how he could help, still, I welcomed and toyed with the thought all day long. But how was I to approach him? I dared not approach his home, nor would I find him outside. Winter passed, the snow melted and we did not meet.

  At that time my father fell ill and Mr. Gottlieb came to inquire of his health, and he told my father that he was expanding his factory, for on becoming a partner in the factory his brother had given freely of his own money and the government had stopped putting any obstacles in their way since an important minister had sought his help after taking a bribe. “My dear sir,” the minister had told Gottlieb, “all the bureaucrats, including the Emperor himself, hunger for money. There isn’t a minister in this country who won’t accept a bribe. Let me give you an example,” said the minister. “When we ask, what makes Mr. So-and-so unique, are we not surprised when we are told, why the length of his nose is five centimeters. But five centimeters is indeed the length of every proboscis.” “Heaven forbid I should condemn them,” Gottlieb said to my father, “but their hypocrisy maddens me. Today you shower them with gifts and tomorrow you are a complete stranger to them. In this I admire the Russian bureaucrats; at least they accept a bribe without pretending to be honest.”