S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

“I was a prisoner of war of the Serbs,” Fernheim answered. “You fail to distinguish between friend and foe. I heard he came back.”

Her face reddened and she did not reply.

“You suspect me of having purposely deceived you when I came and told you that I saw Karl Neiss buried in a landslide. I was ready to tell a hundred lies in order to win you. But that was true.”

“True and not true.”

“True and not true? What’s not true about it?”

“It’s true that a landslide fell on top of him, but it didn’t bury him.”

“Then where was he all those years?”

“That’s a long story.”

“You’re afraid to tell me,” said Werner, “for fear I’ll stay here with you that much longer.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“But rather—”

“Rather — I don’t know how to tell stories.”

“At any rate,” said Werner, “I’d like to know what happened and what didn’t happen. With my own eyes I saw a landslide bury him, and you say there was a landslide, but not on him. Forgive me if I repeat myself, but where was he, then, all those years? He wrote no letters, he wasn’t inscribed among the living. Suddenly he comes and says, ‘Lo and behold, here I am, and now, now all we need to do is pluck Werner Fernheim out of the world and take his wife.’ Right, Inge?”

“Please don’t, Werner.”

“Or it would be better were this same Werner, this same Werner Fernheim, Inge’s husband, to pluck himself out of the world, so that Mr. Karl Neis might take to wife Mrs. Inge Fernheim, excuse me, Miss Ingeborg of the house of Starkmat. This is the woman Werner took in holy matrimony, who even bore him a child, and though God did take him, his father is still alive, and means to go on living; yes, to go on living after all the years he was half dead. But this same Werner Femheim, this unlucky fellow, doesn’t want to pluck himself out of the world. To the contrary, he seeks new life. Yesterday I was at our son’s grave. Do you think that with him we buried everything that was between us? Don’t cry, it’s not tears I’m after.”

Suddenly he changed his tone. “I didn’t come to force myself on you against your will. Even the lowest of the low isn’t utterly lacking in honor. But you do understand, don’t you? I had to see you, I have to speak to you; but if you don’t want me to, I’ll go. And maybe the future will be brighter for me than Mr. Hans Steiner and Miss Ingeborg of the house of Starkmat think. My black fate isn’t sealed forever. Not yet. Tell me, Inge, is he here? Don’t be afraid of me, I don’t want to do anything to him. What could I do, if even mountains make a fool of me?”

Inge sat silently sorrowful. Werner looked at her two or three times. Since he had last seen her she had put on a little weight. Or maybe she looked that way because she was wearing black. The black skirt she had on went with her slender figure and her shiny blonde hair. The white of her neck shone, but the radiance that had beamed from her eyes had dimmed. Fernheim knew that this happiness had not come on his account, on his returning from the prison camp; no, her happiness had been held in readiness for the coming of Karl Neiss. And even though at first he had been saddened by the cause, her happiness had made him happy. Now that all happiness had left her, he was overwhelmed with pity for her.

Again he looked at her. She sat hunched over, her face in her hands, wet with tears. Suddenly she shook herself in alarm, as if a hand had touched her shoulder. She extended her hands as if to defend herself and looked at him angrily.

“Well, now I’ll leave,” he said.

“Goodbye, Werner.”

He returned. “You won’t give me your hand?”

She gave him her hand in farewell. Clasping it, he said, “Before I leave, I want to tell you something.”

She removed her hand and shook her shoulders in refusal.

“Still, maybe it would be worth your while to listen. And if not for the sake of the Werner standing here as an uninvited guest, then for the sake of that Werner who was lucky enough to stand under the wedding canopy with Ingeborg. But if you refuse, I won’t impose upon you. And now—”

“And now, goodbye,” said Inge.

“So be it. Goodbye, Ingeborg, goodbye.”

Seeing her turn to go, he stood up.

She stared at him, wondering why he was not leaving.

“At any rate,” said Werner, “it’s rather strange that you don’t want to hear a little of what I went through.”

“Haven’t you told me?”

“When I started to tell you, your ears were already in another place.”

“My ears were in their proper place, but you didn’t say a thing. Really, I don’t recall that you said a thing.”

“Would you like me to tell you?” asked Werner.

“You must have told Hans or Gertrude or both of them,” she replied.

“And if I did?”

“If you did, they’ll tell me.”

“If I understand what you’re really getting at,” said Werner, “you don’t want to hear it.”

“Why do you say that? I expressly said that Gertrude or Hans would tell me, so I do want to hear it.”

“And if I myself were to tell you?”

“What time is it?” said Inge.

Werner smiled. “So goes the proverb doesn’t it? Dem Glücklichen schlägt keine Stunde : the happy person is beyond time.”

“I don’t know what answer to give to that sort of question,” said Inge.

“And are you ready to answer other questions?” he countered.

“That depends on your questions. But now my head aches and I can’t keep talking on and on, and anyway—”

“Anyway what?”

“You have a strange way of latching on to every word,” said Inge.

“Does it seem strange to you that after all the years I haven’t seen you I’m drawn by what you say?”

Inge clutched her temples. “My head, my head! Don’t be difficult, Werner, if I ask you to leave me alone.”

“I’m already leaving,” he said. “Are you looking at my shoes? They’re old, but easy on the feet. You’re quite a la mode, though; you’ve even cut your hair. I can’t say it’s unattractive, but when you had all your hair it was prettier. When did the baby die? I was at his grave and I saw his stone, but I forget the date. Are you crying? My heart cries too, inside of me, but I get hold of myself. If you look at my eyes you won’t find even a trace of a tear. Tell the fellow who’s knocking at the door you can’t get up and open it for him because of your headache. Zigi, are you here? What do you have to say, Zigi? Come here, sweetheart, let’s make up. What’s this in your hand, a letter? You’re a mailman, are you, my dear nephew?”

Zigi gave a note to his aunt and left.

Inge took the note while looking at Werner with a furrowed brow, trying her best to understand why on earth the man would not go away. He should have left long since.

After a while she stopped thinking about him and began saying to herself, I have to leave, I simply must leave, it’s impossible for me not to leave, every wasted minute is precious.

Her mind came back to Fernheim. Can’t he see that I have to go? She looked at him and said, “Excuse me, Werner, but I’m wanted and I have to go.”

“How do you know you’re wanted? The note is still folded in your hand and you haven’t looked at it.”

Inge dropped her shoulders. It seemed that she abrogated her will before his, and that it did not matter whether she went or stayed. Her eyes were extinguished, as it were, and her lids fell down over them.

“Are you tired?” Werner whispered.

Inge opened her eyes. “I’m not tired,” she replied.

A new spirit clothed Werner. “Good, good,” he said, “it’s good that you’re not tired and we can sit and talk with each other. You can’t imagine how I’ve longed for this moment when I should see you. Had it not been for this hope, I would have died long since. Now I see that all that longing is nothing compared to this moment when you and I are seated here together as one. I have no words to express it, but I think you read some of it in my face. You see, my darling, how my knees bend of themselves and kneel before you. So did they bend whenever I thought of you. How lucky I am to be with you once again under the same roof. I’m not an eloquent man, but I tell you this: From the moment that I stepped over the threshold of your room, my soul was stirred as on that day when you placed your hand in mine and agreed to become my wife. Do you remember that moment, when you rested your head on my shoulder while we sat together as one, your hand in mine? Your eyes were closed, as were mine, as I close them now and pass before me all the events of that matchless day. Throwaway the note, Inge, and give me your hand. My eyes are closed, but my heart sees how good you are, how good you are to me.”