Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

by S. Y. Agnon

  As I accompanied Gottlieb to the door he exclaimed, “From one sickbed to another.” “Who is sick?” I asked, concealing my confusion. “Mr. Mazal is ill,” Gottlieb answered. For a second I longed to accompany him. And yet I restrained myself and did not go.

  “Isn’t it amazing, Tirtza,” my father said, “Gottlieb has always been a hardworking man and hasn’t ever complained at being childless. So who will inherit the fruit of his labors when his final hour comes?” My father asked me to bring his ledger and he sat up in bed and worked until suppertime. The following morning he rose from his sickbed in good health, and that afternoon left for the store, while I set out to Mazal’s home.

  I knocked on the door, but there was no sound nor did anyone answer. I then said, thank God, the man is not home. Still I did not move. All at once, thinking that no one was at home, my hand grew bold and I knocked loudly.

  Several moments passed and my heart beat feebly. Suddenly I heard someone stirring within the house and I took fright. Just as I meant to go, Mazal appeared. He greeted me buried in his overcoat. I lowered my eyes, and said: “Mr. Gottlieb dropped by yesterday and mentioned that sir was taken ill and I have come to inquire of his health.” Mazal did not say anything. He beckoned me into his home with one hand as he clutched his collar with the other. I shuffled my feet in misery and he said, “Forgive me, Miss, for I cannot speak like this,” and he vanished into the back room only to reappear several moments later dressed in his best clothes. Mazal coughed. The room suddenly grew silent and the two of us were alone in the room. “Please, sit down, Miss,” he said, drawing a chair to the stove. “Has your hand healed from the dog bite?” he inquired. I stared into his face, my eyes filling with tears. Mazal took my hand into his own. “Forgive me,” he said. His soft voice was warm and full of compassion. Little by little I grew less embarrassed. I stared at the room I had known as a child and suddenly it seemed new to me. The heat from the stove warmed my body and my spirits revived within me.

  Mazal put a log into the stove and I hastened to help him. But in my haste I thrust my hand out and knocked a photograph off the table. I reached out for it and noticed it was a photograph of a woman. She bore the appearance of a woman who never lacked a thing, and yet her brows were knitted in worry, for her happiness was uncertain. “It is a photograph of my mother,” Mazal said as he set it in place. “There exists only a single photograph of her, for only once in her youth was she photographed. Many years have since passed. Her face no longer resembles the face you see in the photograph, but I will always cherish the likeness of her face as captured here. It is as if time passed and yet nothing changed.” What prompted Mazal to speak? Was it the room’s stillness, or was it my sitting by his side at dusk? Mazal spoke at length, and he told me of all that had happened to his kind mother. And he said:

  “My mother is a member of the Bauden-Bach family and all the Bauden-Bachs are apostates. Her grandfather, Rabbi Israel, was wealthier than all his countrymen. He had a winery and fields and villages. He gave generously to scholars and he built centers of religious study. And at the time his name was lauded in print, for he dispensed freely of his money and gold in honor of the Torah and in pursuit of its study.

  In those days it was decreed that all lands owned by Jews would be confiscated. Hearing this, Rabbi Israel spared no effort to protect his land, but all his efforts came to naught. So he changed his religion and returned to his home and estate where he found his wife reciting the morning prayer. ‘I have converted,’ he announced. ‘Hurry now and take the children to the priest.’ The woman recited the Aleinu, saying, ‘Who has not made us as the heathen of the land,’ and she spat three times and pressed her lips to her prayerbook, and she and all her sons went and changed their religion. Close upon that time she bore a son who was circumcised by my great-grandfather, Rabbi Israel, for they kept the Lord’s commandments and only in the eyes of the gentiles did they behave as Christians. And they rose in their station and received the same respect accorded to nobles. The new generation, however, forgot their God, their creator, nor did they return to their religion when the decree was nullified, nor were they God-fearing, nor did they live by the commandments of the Torah. The only commandment they followed was to sell their leaven to the rabbi’s emissary on the eve of Passover, for otherwise Jews would not touch their corn wine. Such is the law concerning leaven which is not sold to a gentile on the eve of Passover. My mother is the granddaughter of the youngest son. And she sat over the catechism yet all the priest’s efforts came to naught. But time is too short to recount all that she suffered until the day the Lord took mercy on her and she found peace in his shadow. For she was also sent to a convent school and she was placed in the hands of harsh teachers. But she did not follow their ways. And she bent her mind over what was sealed and concealed from her. One day my mother found a picture of her grandfather and he looked like a rabbi. ‘Who is he?’ she asked. ‘It is your grandfather,’ they replied. My mother was stunned. ‘What are those locks of hair falling over his cheeks, and what is that book he is reading?’ ‘He is reading the Talmud and he is twirling his earlocks,’ they answered, and they told her grandfather’s story. Thereafter she walked about like a shadow and she tossed in her sleep at night on account of her dreams. Once her grandfather appeared and took her on his knees and she combed his beard. Another time she saw her grandmother holding a prayerbook in her hands. She then taught her the holy letters, and when she awoke she wrote down the letters on a tablet. It was a miracle, for until that day my mother had never set eyes on a Hebrew book.

  And there worked in her father’s home a young Jewish clerk and she told him, ‘Teach me the laws of the Lord.’ And he said, ‘Alas, I know them not.’ Just then the rabbi’s emissary arrived to buy leaven. The clerk urged her, ‘Speak to him.’ And my mother told the emissary all that I have recounted. ‘Madam,’ said the man, ‘Pray come to my home today and celebrate with us the Passover holiday.’ So that night she went forth to the man’s home and she dined with him and his family and her heart inclined towards the God of Israel and she longed to follow His laws. That clerk was my father, may he rest in peace. He never studied the Torah or the commandments, but God created him pure of heart. My mother cleaved unto him and together they cleaved unto their faith in God. After their wedding they left for Vienna, and said, ‘No one will recognize us there.’ And he lived by the sweat of his brow and they did not turn to my mother’s father for help. My mother gradually adjusted to her new station. My father toiled at his work. And he deprived himself of the fruits of his own labor, his one desire being that I study in the best of schools, gaining through knowledge and science a footing in the best of society, for he knew that he would be unable to leave me any money to speak of on the day of his death. In my father’s eyes it was as if I had been barred from my own inheritance, for had my mother not married him, I would now be the son of a noble family. But my mother had no such designs upon the world. She loved me as a mother loves her son.” It was getting late and Mazal finished his account, and said, “Forgive me, Miss, for I have spoken at great length today.” “Why excuse yourself,” I replied, “when you have done me nothing but good. I now know that you do not despise me, for you have opened your heart to me. Oh, don’t hold back your words anymore!” Mazal passed his hand across his eyes, “Heaven forbid that I should despise you,” he exclaimed. “I am glad to have spoken of my mother and to have found an attentive ear, for I miss her a great deal. But since you feel I have been sparing with my words I will go on and tell you more.” Mazal then told me how he had come here, and yet he did not mention my mother and her father. He spoke of the hard times he had endured. He had yearned with all his heart to complete what his mother had set out to accomplish upon returning to the God of Israel, for he had returned to his people. Yet they did not understand him. He walked as a stranger in their midst—they drew him close, but when he was as one of them they divided their hearts from him.

  I returned home in h
igh spirits. I reeled like a drunkard and the moon poured its beams and shone upon my path.

  As I walked I said, what will I tell my father? If I speak of all that happened between Mazal and myself he will listen and grow angry. But if I am silent a barrier will rise between us. Now I will go and speak to him, even if he is incensed he will see that I have not concealed my actions from him. I arrived home at the same time as the doctor who had come to pay us a visit upon hearing that my father was ill, and I clamped my mouth shut and did not say a thing, for how could I speak out in front of a stranger? And I did not regret doing so, as my secret consoled me.

  I sat peacefully at home. I did not join the company of other young girls, nor did I send letters of greeting. One day, however, the postman arrived with a letter for me. And the letter was written in Hebrew by a young man called Landau. “As the errant wayfarer raises his eyes to the godly stars on a bleak night,” its author wrote, “so do I now dispatch my letter to you, fair and resourceful maiden.” My teacher Segal appeared for our lesson as I was reading the letter. “I have received a letter written in Hebrew,” I said. “I knew you would,” he replied. Segal then told me the young man was a pupil of his and that he was the son of one of the village tenants.

  Eight days passed and I forgot the letter. One day I left for the college and caught sight of a woman and a young man. Seeing the young man I was certain that he was the author of the letter. Later in the day I told my father and he laughed, saying, “The son of villagers.” But I thought to myself, Why has the young man behaved this way and why this strange encounter? Suddenly I pictured the young man. I imagined his discomfort and how he had blushed and I regretted not having answered his letter in case he had waited for my reply and had been offended. I would write to him the very next day, I resolved. Though I did not know what I would write. My body then grew numb under the balmy weight of sleep. This is the sweet slumber in which the blood runs smoothly in our arteries and the soul is soothed. Two, three days passed without my penning a reply to the young man and I told myself, It is too late to answer. But it so happened that while preparing my homework and innocently scribbling with my pen on paper, I suddenly found myself replying to the young man. I wrote only a few lines, and reading over my letter I thought that surely this was not the sort of answer that he hoped to receive. Nor did the paper earn my favor. Still, I sent the letter knowing I would not write another of its kind. I will not write any more letters to him, I told myself, for my mind is not intent on letter-writing. Several days passed without a letter from the young man, and I was sorry not to hear from him. But I gradually forgot the young man and his letters. It had been my duty to reply and I had done so. One day my father asked me, “Do you remember the woman and young man?” “I remember,” I replied. “Well,” he said, “the young man’s father came to see me and he spoke of his son. The family is a good family and the young man is learned.” “Will he come here?” I asked. “How can I know,” he replied. “But I will do as you decide, for you have not kept your thoughts from me.” I bowed my head. God, Thou hast known my heart. “So then,” my father added, “we will not go to the stargazers and astrologers, nor will we ask them whether my daughter will find a groom.” And he did not refer to the matter again.

  One Sunday evening my father came home accompanied by a man. He asked us to set the kettle on the fire and light the large lamp, and he also looked to see whether the stove gave off a warm glow. Then they sat by the table and talked. The man did not take his eyes off me. I returned to my room to work. But as soon as I sat down at my desk a winter carriage drew to a halt under my window and Kaila came and announced, “Guests have arrived. Why not go straight to the living room.” “I can’t,” I said, “for I have a great deal of work to finish today.” But Kaila wouldn’t leave me alone, and she said, “It is a night that calls for celebration, your father has ordered me to make blintzes.” “In that case,” I replied, “In that case I will help you prepare the meal.” “No,” Kaila insisted, “get you now into the living room. The man who has just arrived is a handsome lad.” “Is Gotteskind also present?” I asked Kaila disdainfully. “Who?” she said. “Gotteskind,” I replied. “Have you forgotten the man and all he had to tell us?” “Your memory is a marvel, Tirtza,” Kaila replied, and left.

  The food was ready to be served and I entered the living room and stared in astonishment, for the young man was now transformed into another person altogether. He no longer seemed ill at ease as when I had first seen him. And his black goatskin hat heightened the charm of his red cheeks.

  Landau soon returned a second time. He arrived in a winter carriage wearing a wolfskin overcoat. And he smelled of a winter forest. No sooner had he sat down than he was up on his feet again. He was on his way to see the coppersmith and had passed by to ask whether I would join him on his journey. My father gave me his fur coat and we left.

  We galloped under the moonlight along trails powdered with snow. The gleam of hooves mingled with the song of the horses’ harness bells. I sat to the right of the young man and gazed out of the animal pelt. Buried in my overcoat I was unable to speak. Landau reined in the horses in front of the smith’s house and alighted. He then lifted me out of the carriage and we entered. Our glasses were filled with brandy and apples were baked in our honor. And Landau asked the smith to come to our village the following day as the kegs in the winery needed mending. The members of the household hung on his every word, for he spoke with the authority of a prince. I too stared at Landau and was astonished. Was this the young man whose letters were the outcry of a solitary heart? On our way back I did not bury my face in the folds of my overcoat, as I had grown used to the cold. And yet we did not exchange a word, for my heart was girded in silence. Landau too remained silent, only now and then speaking to his horses.

  And my father said to me, “The old man Landau has spoken to me of his son, for his heart is drawn to your heart, and now tell me what I should say.” Seeing my discomfort, however, he added, “There is time for us to talk about the matter, after all, the young man is not about to be conscripted into the army and you are still young.” Several days passed and Landau once again began writing me high-flown letters filled with visions of Israel and its land. His roots were in the village and since boyhood he had tilled its soil, and the land did not cease to nourish him with dreams and visions. With time his letters stopped arriving and he would occasionally come into town on foot. He was constantly on edge lest he be found fit enough to be pressed into the king’s army. He would roam at night in the market and streets with the penitents. I shuddered in anguish whenever I recalled their late-night melodies. And I thought of my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had come to an untimely end in the army. So I told myself that if only I could accept Landau I would now be his wedded wife. One day I ran into Landau on his way into town. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks sallow and his clothes reeked of stale tobacco. He had the appearance of a sick man. Returning home I seized hold of a book, telling myself, I will study and soothe my grief. But my throat hurt and I could not study. I then opened the book of Psalms and read out loud. Perhaps God will think of him and the young man will not perish.

  And at the Gottliebs workers were busy constructing a left wing to serve as a home for Gottlieb’s brother who, as partner to the factory, had come to live with him. Once the wing was completed Gottlieb held a housewarming party. Until that day Gottlieb had never held a housewarming party, for only then was the house built to his liking. Gottlieb was transformed. He even altered the cut of his beard. I saw the two brothers and laughed, remembering how Mintshi had been startled when she had first come to their father’s home. During lunch Gottlieb removed a letter from his pocket and said to his wife, “I almost forgot, a letter has arrived from Vienna.” And she asked, “Is there any news?” “No news,” he said. “He sends his blessings for the housewarming. And his mother’s condition hasn’t changed—it’s neither better nor worse.” I realized they were speaking of Mazal, for I
had heard his mother had taken ill and that he had left for Vienna to see to her health. And I recalled the day I had visited his home and the memory was a blessing to me.

  After the meal Mintshi strolled with me into the garden. She had been restless while sitting with her sister-in-law and now she looked back on earlier times. “Screwy,” she suddenly called out, and a small dog leaped towards her. I almost took fright. Mintshi fondly patted his head and said, “Screwy, Screwy, Screwy, my boy.” Although I disliked dogs I stroked his coat and patted him. The dog looked at me warily and then barked in approval. I hugged Mintshi and she kissed me.

  Their large home stood a short distance away. The clamor of children and the untiring sound of a woman’s voice rose from within. The sun set and streaked the treetops red and a sudden gust of cold wind blew. “It has been a hot day,” Mintshi said in a low voice. “Summer is almost over. Ah, I cannot bear all this commotion. Since the day they arrived even the birds in the garden have fallen silent.” The dog barked a second time and Mintshi growled back, “What’s wrong, Screwy?” She then turned to me and said, “Have you noticed, Tirtza, how a dog will bark whenever the postman approaches?” “We don’t have a dog at home,” I replied, “and no one writes me any letters.” Paying no attention to my words, Mintshi continued, “The letter my sister-in-law sent after she left, telling me of her safe return, was delayed, for apparently it had slipped behind the gate and the postman had scribbled on the envelope, ‘I have not delivered this letter to your door because of the dog.’ Screwy, my clever one, come here!” Mintshi called out to the dog and resumed stroking his coat.

  The evening twilight enveloped us and a light lit up the windows. “Let’s go in, Tirtza, and prepare supper.” As we walked back Mintshi said, “Mazal will soon return,” and she embraced me. We entered the house. That evening the factory hands came to toast their masters, as they had not come during the day when the guests had been present. Mintshi set a table for them and when their hearts were merry with wine, they burst into song. And the worker who had been released from prison warmed our hearts with tales he had heard straight from the mouths of the prisoners. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose, as was his way. I looked at Mintshi. Her face exuded verve and vigor and her sorrow was nowhere to be seen.