S. Agnon - Two Tales - Betrothed & Edo and Enam

Shoshanah’s sickness caused no public alarm and her nursing gave rise to no difficulty, but she was in need of careful supervision. She was put to bed in her room with a nurse to watch over her, and everyone who passed by the room moved very softly, so as not to disturb the invalid and so as to catch something of her slumbering presence.

As for Rechnitz, he pays his calls on Shoshanah’s father, as he did years ago, except that then he would visit him twice yearly and now he comes twice a week. The Consul treats him even more cordially now and talks away on any topic that his mind prompts into words, or that words call up in his mind. So he describes his travels and the various kinds of people he has encountered. What extraordinary things he has seen. Even at the doorstep of his house, a man may behold such things as sometimes lead him to doubt his own eyes; how much more so when he travels into strange and far-off lands. At times the Consul repeats the same story, or confuses persons and places; for having known and seen so much, he is liable to substitute one person for another or this place for that. And when he says, “Now I am going to tell you something I have never talked about before,” you may be sure that he will go over the same story he has related a hundred and one times already. Or he will stop in mid-course, look up alertly, and say, “Haven’t I already told you this? It’s hard on me, Rechnitz, the way you let me run on about things you’ve already heard.” Then Jacob will answer, “Not at all, it’s quite new to me.” So the Consul returns to his story without misgivings. But even if he remembers having told it before, he continues just the same. It is like those songs we sing all our lives; they stir our spirits and remind us of the time we sang them first. The hotel servants come up and remove the loaded ash tray in front of him, replacing it with an empty one. In a deferential whisper they ask, “Would the Consul care for anything?” and withdraw as silently as they came.

Sometimes the Consul would call back the old days when Frau Ehrlich was still alive. When he spoke of those times his description was accurate in every detail, there were no slips; the miracle happened and the past was present once again. Jacob asked no questions about Shoshanah and her father made no mention of her. But now and then he would clutch his head and say, “Any pain’s better than a pain in the head,” as if he had become a partner in Shoshanah’s suffering.

Once before Purim, Rechnitz was about to leave for one of those field trips in which teachers and their students take part together at this time of year. There is no better time for them; mountains and valleys, hills and groves are covered with green and all the country blossoms like God’s own garden. Before going away, Rechnitz came to say goodbye. The Consul gazed at him with admiration. “You look as fresh and blooming as a young god,” he exclaimed. He took Jacob by the arm and led him out into the garden. The young man seemed to him a personification of spring, when the entire world is made new. He, too, would gladly renew himself; if not in the mountains and the valleys, at least in the garden of his hotel.

The flowers were all in blossom, the lemon trees gave off their scent, the spikes of the palm trees reached up to the blue sky, and the sky itself seemed to blossom over every tree and bush. So deeply moved was the Consul that he could hardly find words to speak, beyond exclaiming at the beauty of this tree or that bush. Suddenly he reached out his hand in a gesture of helplessness, saying, “And there Shoshanah lies, unable to see all the things that we can.” A sigh broke from Jacob as he asked, “How is Shoshanah now?”

The Consul took Jacob’s hand in his. “Never,” he said, “have I wished for a better husband for my daughter. But…”

Jacob lowered his eyes and waited. There was a pause, the pause continued, and still Shoshanah’s father did not speak. Jacob raised his head again and looked up. Shoshanah’s father became aware of him and said with a sigh, “Soon we are going to Vienna to see Nothnagel. Let’s pray that he can find a cure for her disease. And you, my son,” he went on, “here you are…” But the words failed him. He remembered a letter that Jacob’s parents had written to him and tried to recall its contents, but could not bring them to mind. To Jacob he said, “Let me put it to you in this way. Suppose I am holding on to some valuable object, which I am about to return to its rightful owner. Suddenly the object slips from my hands before it has reached the owner and there we are, both left empty-handed; I who had it in my grasp and he who reached out to take it.” While he spoke he looked down at his hands as if puzzling over how they had let it slip. Finally he extended his right hand to Rechnitz by way of farewell, and said, “Let’s go now.” Yet he held on to Rechnitz’s hand, as old people do, clinging to the warmth that has come their way. And Rechnitz perceived this and was glad that he had this warmth to offer.

The Consul for his part became aware that Rechnitz still stood expectant. He saw in Rechnitz a healthy, fresh-cheeked young man in all his vigor, at a time when Shoshanah was perhaps more seriously ill than the doctor would admit. His expression changed suddenly to resentment. What does he want of me? he thought. He let his hand fall and said briefly, “Goodbye.”

Rechnitz parted from the old man feeling dejected, for never before had he been treated in this way. As he was going he heard the Consul call after him. Conflicting thoughts entered his mind; hope and expectation, and against this, anxiety and grief, which told him that if he turned back he would hear what was better left unheard. “Oh God,” he prayed under his breath, “save me in your great mercy.”

The Consul said, “I meant to tell you that when you are back from your walking tour you must not forget to come to us.”

Rechnitz laid a hand to his heart and replied, “I shall come.”

The Consul shook hands with him again, wished him a successful trip and showed by his expression that all his former affection had returned. Rechnitz, too, was calm again. Now, he thought, I must set about making the arrangements for my journey. He began reckoning up all the articles he must take with him. At first they came to mind in a confused jumble, but in the end they sorted themselves out of their own accord and there was no need to make a second reckoning.

XXVI

No change, no alteration in Shoshanah’s condition. She would sleep for days on end, or if she awoke, it was only to fall asleep again. Good God, what harm had Shoshanah done that You punish her so? If it was for her haughty bearing, wasn’t this an effect of the disease itself, which makes it harder to behave with normal friendliness towards others? Who would suppose that this charming girl, whose lids close over eyes so beautiful that no man seems worthy to behold them, whose figure has the stateliness of a solitary palm tree, is fated to sleep out her days?

Thus Shoshanah lies in her bed and everyone who passes her room walks softly. Many days have gone by since Jacob last saw her; meanwhile her father has aged beyond his years. Although he has not been visited with the sickness of his daughter, he has lost his capacity for staying awake. When most men are fully alert, he is liable to drop off to sleep, even in the middle of speaking. Bestirring himself, he will sigh and say, “At night when I want to sleep I lie awake, and in the daytime when I want to talk to people I can’t resist the desire for sleep.”

Rechnitz saw his embarrassment and began to keep away from the hotel. Yet when he called to inquire about him, the Consul refrained from asking why he had not been round in the last day or two. There was no change in their relationship; in fact, the Consul felt a new kind of affection for Jacob, but the old age which had so suddenly fallen upon him inevitably left its mark.