Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

by S. Y. Agnon

  Some days later I went again to the City, this time to visit the aged widow of a rabbi; for I had promised her grandson before my return that I would visit her.

  That day marked the beginning of the rainy season. Already the rain was falling, and the sun was obscured by clouds. In other lands this would have seemed like a normal day of spring; but here in Jerusalem, which is pampered with constant sunshine through seven or eight months of the year, we think it is winter should the sun once fail to shine with all its might, and we hide ourselves in houses and courtyards, or in any place that affords a sheltering roof.

  I walked alone and free, smelling the good smell of the rains as they fell exultantly, wrapping themselves in mist, and heightening the tints of the stones, and beating at the walls of houses, and dancing on roofs, and making great puddles beneath, that were sometimes murky and sometimes gleamed in the sunbeams that intermittently broke through the clouds to view the work of the waters. For in Jerusalem even on a rainy day the sun yet seeks to perform its task.

  Turning in between the shops with their arched doorways at the Street of the Smiths, I went on past the spice merchants, and the shoemakers, and the blanket-weavers, and the little stalls that sell hot broths, till I came to the Street of the Jews. Huddled in their tattered rags sat the beggars, not caring even to reach a hand from their cloaks, and glowering sullenly at each man who passed without giving them money. I had with me a purse of small coins, and went from beggar to beggar distributing them. Finally I asked for the house of the rabbanit, and they told me the way.

  I entered a courtyard, one of those which to a casual passerby seems entirely deserted, and upon mounting six or seven broken stairs, came to a warped door. Outside I bumped into a cat, and within, a heap of rubbish stood in my way. Because of the mist I could not see anyone, but I heard a faint, apprehensive voice calling: Who is there? Looking up, I now made out a kind of iron bed submerged in a wave of pillows and blankets, and in its depths an alarmed and agitated old woman.

  I introduced myself, saying that I was recently come from abroad with greetings from her grandson. She put out a hand from under the bedding to draw the coverlet up to her chin, saying: Tell me now, does he own many houses, and does he keep a maidservant, and has he fine carpets in every room? Then she sighed, This cold will be the death of me.

  Seeing that she was so irked with the cold, it occurred to me that a kerosene heater might give her some ease: so I thought of a little stratagem.

  Your grandson, I said, has entrusted me with a small sum of money to buy a stove: a portable stove that one fills with kerosene, with a wick that burns and gives off much heat. I took out my wallet and said, See, here is the money.

  In a vexed tone she answered: And shall I go now to buy a stove, with these feet that are on me? Did I say feet? Blocks of ice I should say. This cold will drive me out of my wits if it won’t drive me first to my grave, to the Mount of Olives. And look you, abroad they say that the Land of Israel is a hot land. Hot it is, yes, for the wicked in Hell.

  Tomorrow, I said, the sun will shine out and make the cold pass away.

  “Ere comfort comes, the soul succumbs.”

  In an hour or two, I said, I shall have sent you the stove.

  She crouched down among her pillows and blankets, as if to show that she did not trust me in the part of benefactor.

  I left her and walked out to Jaffa Road. There I went to a shop that sold household goods, bought a portable stove of the best make in stock, and sent it on to the old rabbanit. An hour later I returned to her, thinking that, if she was unfamiliar with stoves of this kind, it would be as well to show her the method of lighting it. On the way, I said to myself: Not a word of thanks, to be sure, will I get for my pains. How different is one old woman from another! For she who showed me the way to the scholar’s house is evidently kind to all corners; and this other woman will not even show kindness to those who are prompt to secure her comfort.

  But at this point I must insert a brief apology. My aim is not to praise one woman to the detriment of others; nor, indeed, do I aspire to tell the story of Jerusalem and all its inhabitants. The range of man’s vision is narrow: shall it comprehend the City of the Holy One, blessed be He? If I speak of the rabbanit it is for this reason only, that at the entrance to her house it was again appointed for me to encounter the other old woman.

  I bowed and made way for her; but she stood still and greeted me as warmly as one may greet one’s closest relation. Momentarily I was puzzled as to who she might be. Could this be one of the old women I had known in Jerusalem before leaving the country? Yet most of these, if not all, had perished of hunger in the time of the war. Even if one or two survived, I myself was much changed; for I was only a young man when I left Jerusalem, and the years spent abroad had left their mark.

  She saw that I was surprised, and smiled, saying: It seems you do not recognize me. Are you not the man who wished to carry my pail on the way to so-and-so’s house?

  And you are the woman, said I, who showed me the way. Yet now I stand here bewildered, and seem not to know you.

  Again she smiled.—And are you obliged, then, to remember every old woman who lives in the City?

  Yet, I said, you recognized me.

  She answered: Because the eyes of Jerusalem look out upon all Israel, each man who comes to us is engraved on our heart; thus we never forget him.

  It is a cold day, I said; a day of wind and rain; while here I stand, keeping you out of doors.

  She answered, with love in her voice: I have seen worse cold than any we have in Jerusalem. As for wind and rain, are we not thankful? For daily we bless God as “He who causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall.” You have done a great mitzva: you have put new life into old bones. The stove which you sent to the rabbanit is warming her, body and soul.

  I hung my head, as a man does who is abashed at hearing his own praise. Perceiving this, she said:

  The doing of a mitzva need not make a man bashful. Our fathers, it is true, performed so many that it was needless to publicize their deeds. But we, who do less, perform a mitzva even by letting the mitzva be known: then others will hear, and learn from our deeds what is their duty too. Now, my son, go to the rabbanit, and see how much warmth lies in your mitzva.

  I went inside and found the stove lit, and the rabbanit seated beside it. Light flickered from the perforated holes, and the room was full of warmth. A scrawny cat lay in her lap, and she was gazing at the stove and talking to the cat, saying to it: It seems that you like this heat more than I do.

  I said: I see that the stove burns well and gives off excellent heat. Are you satisfied?

  And if I am satisfied, said the rabbanit, will that make it smell the less or warm me the more? A stove there was in my old home, that would burn from the last day of Sukkot to the first night of Passover, and give off heat like the sun in the dog-days of summer, a lasting joy it was, not like these bits of stove which burn for a short while. But nowadays one cannot expect good workmanship. Enough it is if folk make a show of working. Yes, that is what I said to the people of our town when my dear husband, the rabbi, passed away: may he watch over me from the world to come! When they got themselves a new rabbi, I said to them, What can you expect? Do you expect that he will be like your old rabbi? Enough it is if he starts no troubles. And so I said to the neighbors just now, when they came to see the stove that my grandson sent me through you. I said to them, This stove is like the times, and these times are like the stove. What did he write you, this grandson? Didn’t write at all? Nor does he write to me, either. No doubt he thinks that by sending me this bit of a stove he has done his duty.

  After leaving the rabbanit, I said to myself: I too think that by sending her this “bit of a stove” I have done my duty: surely there is no need to visit her again. Yet in the end I returned, and all because of that same gracious old woman; for this was not the last occasion that was appointed for me to see her.

  Again I must say th
at I have no intention of recounting all that happened to me in those days. A man does many things, and if he were to describe them all he would never make an end to his story. Yet all that relates to that old woman deserves to be told.

  At the eve of the New Moon I walked to the Western Wall, as we in Jerusalem are accustomed to do, praying at the Western Wall at the rising of each moon.

  Already most of the winter had passed, and spring blossoms had begun to appear. Up above, the heavens were pure, and the earth had put off her grief. The sun smiled in the sky; the City shone in its light. And we too rejoiced, despite the troubles that beset us; for these troubles were many and evil, and before we had reckoned with one, yet another came in its wake.

  From Jaffa Gate at far as the Western Wall, men and woman from all the communities of Jerusalem moved in a steady stream, together with those newcomers whom The Place had restored to their place, albeit their place had not yet been found. But in the open space before the Wall, at the guard booth of the Mandatory Police, sat the police of the Mandate, whose function was to see that no one guarded the worshippers save only they. Our adversaries, wishing to provoke us, perceived this and set about their provocations. Those who had come to pray were herded together and driven to seek shelter close up against the stones of the Wall, some weeping and some as if dazed. And still we say, How long, O Lord? How long? For we have trodden the lowest stair of degradation, yet You tarry to redeem us.

  I found a place for myself at the Wall, standing at times amongst the worshippers, at times amongst the bewildered bystanders. I was amazed at the peoples of the world: as if it were not sufficient that they oppressed us in all their lands, yet they must also oppress us in our home.

  As I stood there I was driven from my place by one of the British police who carried a baton. This man was in a great rage, on account of some ailing old woman who had brought a stool with her to the Wall. The policeman jumped to it and gave a kick, throwing the woman to the ground, and confiscated the stool: for she had infringed the law enacted by the legislators of the Mandate, which forbade worshippers to bring seats to the Wall. And those who had come to pray saw this, yet held their peace: for how can right dispute against might? Then came forward that same old woman whom I knew, and looked the policeman straight in the eyes. And the policeman averted his glance, and returned the stool to its owner.

  I went up to her and said: Your eyes have more effect than all the pledges of England. For England, who gave us the Balfour Declaration, sends her officers to annul it; while you only looked upon that wicked one, and frustrated his evil intent.

  She replied: Do not speak of him so; for he is a good goy, who saw that I was grieved and gave back her stool to that poor woman. But have you said your afternoon prayer? I ask because, if you are free, I can put in your way the mitzva of visiting the sick. The rabbanit is now really and truly ill. If you wish, come with me and I shall take you by a short route.—I joined her and we went together.

  From alley to alley, from courtyard to courtyard, we made our way down, and at each step she took she would pause to give a sweet to a child, or a coin to a beggar, or to ask the health of a man’s wife, or if it were a woman, the health of her husband. I said, Since you are concerned with everyone’s welfare, let me ask about yours.

  She answered: Blessed be God, for I lack nothing at His hand. The Holy One has given to each of His creatures according to its need; and I too am one of these. But today I have special cause for thanking Him, for He has doubled my portion.

  How is this? I asked.

  She replied: Each day I read the psalms appointed for the day: but today I read the psalms for two days together.

  Even as she spoke, her face clouded over with grief.

  Your joy has passed away, I said.

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said: Yes, my son, I was joyful, and now it is not so.

  Yet even as she spoke, the light shone out again from her face. She raised her eyes and said: Blessed be He, Who has turned away my sorrow.

  Why, I asked, were you joyful, yet afterwards sad, and now, joyful again?

  She said, very gently: Since your words are not chosen with care, I must tell you, this was not the right way to ask. Rather should you have said, “How have you deserved that God should turn away your sorrow?” For in His blessed eyes, all is one, whether sorrow or joy.

  Perhaps in the future, said I, my words will be chosen with care, since you teach me how one must speak. “Happy is the man who does not forget Thee.” It is a text of much meaning.

  She said: You are a good man, and it is a good verse you have told me; so I too shall not withhold good words. You asked why I was joyful, and why I was sad, and why I now rejoice.

  Assuredly you know as I do, that all a man’s deeds are appointed, from the hour of his birth to the hour of his death; and accordingly, the number of times he shall say his psalms. But the choice is free how many psalms he will say on any one day. This man may complete the whole book in a day, and that man may say one section a day, or the psalms for each day according to the day. I have made it my custom to say each day the psalms for that day; but this morning I went on and said the psalms for two days together. When I became aware of this I was sad, lest it mean that there was no more need for me in the world, and that I was disposed of and made to finish my portion in haste. For “it is a good thing to give thanks to the Lord,” and when I am dead I shall not be able to say one psalm, or even one word. Then the Holy One saw my grief, and showed His marvelous kindness by allowing me to know that such is His very own will. If it pleases The Name to take my life, who am I that I should grieve? Thus He at once turned away my sorrow. Blessed be He and blessed be His name.

  I glanced at her, wondering to myself by what path one might come to a like submission. I thought of the men of ancient times, and their virtuous ways; I spoke to her of past generations. Then I said, You have seen with your own eyes more than I can describe in words.

  She answered: When a person’s life is prolonged for many days and years, it is granted him to see many things; good things, and yet better things.

  Tell me, I said to her, of these same good things.

  She was silent for a little while; then she said: How shall I begin? Let me start with my childhood. When I was a little girl, I was a great chatterbox. Really, from the time I stood up in the morning till the time I lay down at night, chatter never ceased from my lips. There was an old man in our neighborhood, who said to those delighting in my chatter: “A pity it is for this little girl; if she wastes all her words in childhood, what will be left for her old age?” I became terribly frightened, thinking this meant that I might die the very next day. But in time I came to fathom the old man’s meaning, which was that a person must not use up in a short while what is allotted him for a whole lifetime. I made a habit of testing each word to see if there was real need for it to be said, and practiced a strict economy of speech. As a result of this economy, I saved up a great store of words, and my life has been prolonged until they are all finished. Now that only a few words remain, you ask me to speak them. If I do so it will hasten my end.

  Upon such terms, said I, I would certainly not ask you to speak. But how is it that we keep walking and walking, yet we have still not come to the house of the rabbanit?

  She said: You still have in mind those courtyards we used to take for a short cut. But now that most of the City has been settled by the Arabs, we must go by a roundabout way.

  We approached one of these courtyards. She said: Do you see this courtyard? Forty families of Israel once lived here, and here were two synagogues, and here in the daytime and night-time there was study and prayer. But they left this place, and Arabs came and occupied it.

  We approached a coffee house. She said: Do you see this house? Here was a great yeshiva where the scholars of the Torah lived and studied. But they left this house, and Arabs came and occupied it.

  We came to the asses’ stalls. She said: Do you see these st
alls? Here stood a soup-kitchen, and the deserving poor would enter hungry and go forth satisfied. But they abandoned this place, and Arabs came and occupied it. Houses from which prayer and charity and study of the Torah never ceased now belong to the Arabs and their asses. My son, we have reached the courtyard of the rabbanit’s house. Go in, and I shall follow you later. This unhappy woman, because of the seeming good she has known abroad, does not see the true good at home.

  What is the true good? I asked.

  She laughed, saying, Ah my son, you should not need to ask. Have you not read the verse, “Happy is he Thou choosest and bringest near to dwell in Thy courts?” For the same courts are the royal courts of the Holy One, the courts of our God, in the midst of Jerusalem. When men say “Jerusalem,” their way is to add the words, “ – the Holy City.” But when I say “Jerusalem,” I add nothing more, since the holiness is contained in the name; yes, in the very name itself. Go up, my son, and do not trip on the stairs. Many a time have I said to the treasurer of the community funds that these stairs are in need of repair; and what answer did he give me? That this building is old and due to be demolished, therefore it is not worth while spending a penny on its upkeep. So the houses of Israel fall into disuse until they are abandoned, and the sons of Ishmael enter and take possession. Houses that were built with the tears of their fathers—and now they abandon them. But again I have become a chatterer, and hasten my end.

  I entered, and found the rabbanit lying in bed. Her head was bandaged and a poultice had been laid upon her throat. She coughed loudly, so that even the medicine bottles placed by her bedside would shake at each cough. I said to her: Rabbanit, are you ill?—She sighed and her eyes filled with tears. I sought for words of comfort, but the words would not come. All I could say, with my eyes downcast, was: So you are ill and deserted.