S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

When he heard I was Naomi’s master, he stood up and started to treat me with deference. He snatched a chair and then another, set them before me and asked me to sit down, and began to say how fond of me Naomi’s family were. And, since he was a relative of Naomi’s and now had the privilege of seeing me in his home, I must eat something to bring a blessing on his house. So he called his wife and told her to bring refreshments. His wife came and brought some sweetmeats. She spread her hands in front of her eyes and kissed the tips of her fingers, as simple women do when the scroll of the law is taken out of the Ark. So sacred was the virtue of hospitality in her eyes. She started persuading me to eat and drink, while her husband begged me to drink and eat, she on one side and he on the other.

My lips were sealed and my hands were numb; they would not obey me and take some food or drink. I overcame them and replied in speech and gesture: “Impossible, I am in a hurry. I cannot stay here. I have to rush away.” But Naomi’s relatives turned a deaf ear, repeating their invitation over and over again. So I took something of what they offered me.

So there I sat against my will, eating and drinking whatever Naomi’s relatives gave me. At first I ate and drank against my will, without enjoyment, and then willingly, for hunger had begun to torment me. My house was locked, the key in the valise, the valise in the railway carriage, and the carriage on the way to its destination, and all my thoughts were with my mother; perhaps while I was filling my gullet they were sealing her grave. I turned my head aside so as not to look at what I saw. My image rose before me from the mirror in the wardrobe, which the carpenter had been fixing an hour before. The mirror stared at me face to face, reflecting back every movement of the hand and quiver of the lips, like all polished mirrors, which show you whatever you show them, without partiality or deceit. And it, namely, the revelation of the thing, surprised me more than the thing itself, perhaps more than it had surprised me in my childhood, perhaps more than it had ever surprised me before.

1

I had been busy that entire year. Every day, from morning until midnight, I would sit at my table and write — at times out of habit, and at times stimulated by the pen. We sometimes dare to call this divine inspiration. I therefore became oblivious to all other affairs; and I would recall them only to postpone them. But on the eve of Rosh ha-Shanah I said to myself: A new year is approaching, and I have left many letters unattended. Let me sit down and reply to them, and enter the new year without obligations.

I proceeded on that day as on every other, save that I am regularly accustomed to arise at dawn, and that day I arose three hours earlier. For this is a night when one arises especially early for penitential prayers on the theme of “Remember the Covenant.”

Before I sat down to take care of the letters, I reflected: A new year is approaching, and one ought to enter it clean, but if time does not permit me to go and bathe in the river, because of these letters, I will take a hot bath.

At that moment Charni happened to be visiting us. The same old Charni who usually boasts to me that she served in my grandfather’s house long before I was born. Charni said: “Your wife is busy with holiday preparations, and you are placing extra burdens upon her. Come to our house and I will prepare you a hot bath.” I liked her suggestion; after all, I needed a haircut in honor of the Rosh ha-Shanah festival, and on the way to the barber I would stop off and bathe.

I examined the letters and weighed which of them ought to be answered first. Since they were many and the time was short, it was impossible to answer in one day all that many men had written to me in the course of an entire year, and I decided to pick out the most important ones, then to deal with those of middling importance, and afterwards with the least important. While I stood deliberating, it occurred to me that I should get rid of the trivial letters first, in order to be free for the more important ones.

Trivia tend to be frustrating. Because a matter is trivial and has no substance, it is difficult to handle. If there is a trace of substance, it lies in what the author of the letter had in mind and what answer he expected. As much as I knew that I had nothing to say in reply, my desire to answer increased, for if I left them unattended, they would trouble me. Their very existence is a burden, for I remember them and come to trivial thoughts.

I picked up a pen to write, but my mind was blank. How strange! The entire year I write effortlessly, and now that I have to write two or three inconsequential lines, my pen refuses to cooperate. I put that letter down and picked up another.

This letter was no letter, but a ticket to a concert conducted by the king of musicians. I have heard that the minds of those who hear him are transformed. There actually was a man who used to go to all the concerts but got nothing out of them; he used to think that he did not appreciate music until he chanced upon a concert of this conductor. He said afterward: “Now I know that I do understand music, but that all musicians whom I have heard until now do not know what music is.” I took the concert ticket and put it in my pocket.

2

The days before a holiday are brief — some of them because sundown is early and others because holiday preparations are heavy. All the more so the day before Rosh ha-Shanah, which is short in itself and is sped by preparations for the Day of Judgment. By noon I hadn’t managed to answer so much as a single letter. I put the letters aside and said to myself that what I had not managed to do before Rosh ha-Shanah I would do in the days between Rosh ha-Shanah and the Day of Atonement. It would have been good to enter a new year free of obligations, but what was I to do when trivial letters did not instruct me how they were to be answered.

I got up and went to my grandfather’s house to bathe before the holiday, for Charni had prepared me there a hot bath. But when I got to the house, I found the door locked. I walked around and around the house, and each time I reached the door, I stopped and knocked. A neighbor peeked out from behind her curtains and said: “Are you looking for Charni? Charni went to the market to buy fruit for the holiday benediction.” I continued walking around the house until Charni arrived.

By rights the old lady should have apologized for making me wait and robbing me of my time. But not only didn’t she excuse herself, she stood and chattered. If I remember correctly, she told about finding a pomegranate which was partly squashed, yet its seeds had not separated.

Suddenly three sounds were heard from the tower of the Council house. I looked at my watch and saw that it was already three o’clock. My watch is always in dispute with the tower of the Council house, and today it made peace with it. And it seemed that the Heavens were agreeing with them. Had I tarried so long on the way, and been detained walking around the house? In any case, three hours had passed and scarcely two and a half remained before the New Year’s festival began. And this old woman was standing and chattering about a pomegranate that was squashed and about its seeds that had not separated.

I interrupted her and asked: “Have you prepared the bath for me, and is the water heated?” Charni set down her basket and exclaimed: “God in Heaven, I had intended to prepare a bath for you!” I said: “And you haven’t done it?” She replied: “Not yet, but I will do it right away.” I urged: “Hurry, Charni, hurry. The day doesn’t stand still.” She picked between her teeth with her finger and said: “You don’t have to rush me. I know that time doesn’t stand still, and neither will I. Look, I am already on my way in to make the fire and warm up some water. You practically have your hot bath.” I took a walk in front of the house while waiting for the water to heat.