S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

I did not expect to sleep, but sleep came upon me unawares, and I slept until the day dawned and it was time to get up. Morning came; it was past nine o‘clock, perhaps ten. I looked at my watch; it ticked as usual but did not show the time. Since the day I went abroad, my watch is sometimes normal and sometimes out of its mind. Not every watch can stand the air outside the Land.

To rise or not to rise? From the logical point of view, there was no need to rise, for the times were all confused, and there were no fixed hours for meals. This Babtchi, may God be kind to her, treats the guests as if every morsel she gives them were a kindness on her part. Since I was not hungry I could do without her kindnesses, and if I grew hungry, Krolka would make me a light and pleasant meal in the evening.

So I lay in bed and examined my doings. I saw that I had deceived myself, for the letters I had written were not that significant, and there wasn’t that much need to write them, while the letters that remained unanswered cried out from their envelopes for a reply. From the bed to the letters that were waiting for an answer was no more than a stretch of the hand, but I had no power to stretch out a hand. So I lay in bed and wondered what I could reply and how I should make my excuses for having delayed until now. Oh, how many excuses I would have to make for having delayed my replies. After an hour or two I got out of bed and, wonderful to relate, began copying down my thoughts in writing. And if I lengthened a letter that should have been short or shortened a letter that should have been long, in the world of thought it would all be equalized. So I sat and wrote all day and part of the night. Finally, I got up from the table and went into the dining room. Then I remembered a phrase that I had struggled with the night before, namely that Krolka was a good Jewess for a Christian. I recalled that it was Genendel who had said so, and laughed at the strange combination of words. When I went into the dining room, I found Mrs. Zommer weeping and crying, “It’s all true, it’s all true!”

I asked her what she was crying about, but her husband beckoned with his hand that I should leave her alone and not ask; then he stood up and came over to me, leaning on his stick, looked at me, and said, “Mr. Schutzling is your friend, isn’t he?” I nodded my head and asked, “Has anything happened?” Mr. Zommer replied, “Schutzling’s sister is not in good health.” Mrs. Zommer got up, wiped her eyes, and asked if I had eaten. Then she went into the kitchen and sent me my supper. She did not show herself again either that night or the next day.

Genendel sat wrapped in a woollen shawl, with a blanket on her knees. I greeted her and asked how she was. She looked at me and asked, “Who are you?” I told her my name. “I don’t know you,” said she. “Don’t you remember, Genendel,” said I, “that I was in your house with your brother Aaron, and you made us a big meal?” “Yes, yes, my dear,” said Genendel, “I remember, I remember, my dear. Take a chair and sit down in front of me. What do you say to this business?” And as she spoke she dropped her head on her breast and dozed off.

After a little while she raised her head and looked at me and asked, “Who are you?” I told her. She nodded her head and said, “Yes, yes, my dear, I remember. Aren’t you Esther’s son, aren’t you? Where have you been all this time? I heard you had gone away. Wait and let me remember where you went to.” She dropped her head on her breast and dozed off.

After a little while she awoke and said, “It seems to me that there was someone here.” “Yes, Genendel,” said I, “I am here.” Genendel opened her eyes and said, “You are here. Fine, fine. Who are you, my dear? It seems to me I have already seen you. Aren’t you…? Wait a while and let me remember.” I told her my name again. “Yes, yes, my dear,” said Genendel, “I know you, don’t I? Tell me, where have I seen you? What do you say to my sorrows? They take a little butterfly and wring its neck!” And again she laid her head on her breast and closed her eyes.

Leibtche Bodenhaus came in. Genendel awoke and said, “You here, Aaron? Sit, son, sit. What have you to tell me, Aaron? What did the doctor say? She will live, won’t she?” “Calm yourself, Aunt, calm yourself,” said Leibtche, “there is a telegram from Aaron.” “Well, so you are here, Leibtche,” said Genendel, “it was good of you to come. I believe you said something; what did you say, Leibtche? Don’t be so tongue-tied. What was the telegram you mentioned?” And as she spoke she fixed her eyes on me and said, “You here too? Sit down, my dear, sit down. Perhaps you will ask Leibtche what this telegram is about. Why hasn’t Aaron come?”

Leibtche took out the telegram and read, “I have fallen ill.” “Who has fallen ill?” said the old woman. “Is it Leibtche?” “Calm yourself, Aunt,” said Leibtche. “I am well.” “Then why did you say you had fallen ill?” said the old woman. “It was not I who had fallen ill,” said Leibtche, “but…”

“Are you making a fool of me, then?” said the old woman. “What is your wife’s name? That was a woman. May God not punish me for saying so, but I never liked her. Fool, a whole shopful of shoes you have and you sit barefoot. Take a pair of shoes and put them on and run away. Who is this gentleman who is sitting here with us?” Leibtche told her my name and said, “Don’t you remember, Aunt? He was in your house, with your brother Aaron.” The old woman looked at me kindly and said, “I knew your grandmother. A great woman she was. I heard she went up to the Land of Israel.” “It was my grandmother’s mother who went up to the Land,” I told Genendel. She nodded her head affectionately and said, “Yes, yes, my dear. Her mother went up to the Land of Israel. What was her name? Milkah it was. How is she? What was the telegram she sent us? I will tell you something that will give you pleasure. When your grandmother saw a poor woman with a torn dress, she would take off her cape and say, ‘ Was told mir das ?’ and give it to her. For that was the way respectable ladies used to talk in those days, in antiquated language. And what she meant was, ‘What do I need this for?’ And how is your mother? She’s dead too. So all three of them died. And my little butterfly died too. Everyone dies but this dry bone.” And as she spoke, Genendel beat her heart and said, “ Was told mir das ?” And again she laid her head on her breast and dozed off.

I got up from my chair and said, “What has happened here?” “Don’t ask, my dear sir, don’t ask,” said Leibtche, “more than my aunt knows happened here. There are things, my dear sir, that are beyond the reach of human reason.” “I beg of you, Mr. Bodenhaus, tell me,” said I. “Where is the tongue that can tell all that has happened,” said Leibtche. “More than we ever knew has happened.” After a little while he beckoned to me with his finger and I went up to him. He put his two fingers on his mouth and said, “My dear sir, put your ear close to my mouth, so that the old woman should not hear.” “Who are all three of them?” “My dear sir,” said Leibtche, “have you not heard anything? Wait a moment, if you don’t mind, and I will go and see if Aunt has wakened. Praise God, she is asleep. There is nothing better than sleep. Since the day the news came, she has grown old all of a sudden. Oh, my dear sir, what are we, and what are our lives? ‘If the flame has caught the cedars, what can the moss on the wall expect?’ Forgive me, my dear sir, I was not thinking of you, sir, I know how to keep my distance. I was thinking only about myself — a worm and not a man. Suddenly one day they take three young people and bring them down to the grave. And I am afraid, my dear sir, that we have not yet reached the end of it. This telegram from Mr. Schutzling does not bode well. Read it, sir, and you will see, but read it in a whisper, so that my aunt should not hear. Three days ago she looked as if she were forty, and now she is like ninety or a hundred. Hush, my dear sir, Aunt has awakened. Don’t be angry with me, my dear sir, for leaving you and running to the old woman.”