S. Agnon - Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

One day I went into town and saw Leah’s father and swiftly made to leave. But he ran after me and said, “Why have you run off, I must talk to you.” My heart pounded. I knew he had nothing to say that could possibly calm me and yet I stood and listened. He is Leah’s father, I thought, he will speak of Leah. He then glanced sideways and seeing no one in sight, continued, “My daughter is ill. She suffers from the same illness as her brother.” I remained silent and he continued as he had begun, “She was not born for toil, physical labor will be the death of her. If I don’t assure her complete rest she will die before my own time has come.” He appeared suddenly to take fright at his own words. At last he raised his voice and blurted out, “Mintz is a wealthy man, her health will be restored under his care. That is why I have promised her to him. He will send her to the mineral springs and will provide for all her needs.”

“Ah, sir, another illness altogether afflicts your daughter’s heart, which all the spas cannot heal. And I said I would cure her, but you drew us apart.”

As I moved away from the man I slipped off the ring Leah had given to me. For she is engaged to another man. And a sudden chill swept over my finger.

So ended the chronicles of Akaviah Mazal.

Twice, three times a week my father arrived at the Gottliebs and dined with us in the garden. A soothing dusk veiled the table and dishes. We ate by the light of the fireflies. The red lanterns by the tracks lit up the night, for the railroad was not far from the Gottliebs’ home. Rarely was my mother’s name mentioned. And when Mrs. Gottlieb did speak of her you could not tell that the name of the departed was on her lips. Only when I grew accustomed to her words did I understand that she acted out of good sense.

My father made every possible effort to turn the conversation to my mother, may she rest in peace, exclaiming, “We are the miserable widowers.” How strange his words were — it was as if all of womankind had died and every man was a widower.

One day Mr. Gottlieb journeyed to see his brother. He was a wealthy man and Gottlieb hoped he might join his business and contribute to the factory’s expansion. Mintshi, who normally did not like to interfere in her husband’s affairs, let slip more than she wished. Suddenly she realized what she had done and seemed to ask me to forget what she had just recounted, and she told me of her first visit to her father-in-law’s house when the groom had entered and welcomed her, and then had turned on his heel and left. Mintshi had been greatly distressed by his abrupt manner. But he was no sooner gone than he returned, and before she had time to recover he asked to kiss her and she had drawn back, offended. Mintshi had not known at the time that she had been greeted at first not by the groom, but by his brother, whose features were identical to the groom’s.

The holidays were coming to an end. “Stay until Tuesday evening,” my father said. “I will come Tuesday evening and we will return home together.” He was suddenly seized by a spasm of coughing. Mintshi poured him a glass of water. “Have you caught a cold, Mr. Mintz?” she asked my father. “Indeed,” he answered, “I have considered leaving my work.” We listened in astonishment as he continued, “If not for my daughter I would wipe my hands clean of my trade.” How strange a reply. Does a man leave his trade because of a slight cold? To wear a long face would only have led him to think that he was ill. And so Mrs. Gottlieb said, “What will you do then, write books?” We all laughed. He, the merchant, such a practical man, sitting down and writing books.

The train’s whistle sounded. Mrs. Gottlieb exclaimed, “My husband should be here in ten minutes,” and fell silent. Our conversation was cut short as we waited for Mr. Gottlieb to arrive. Mr. Gottlieb entered. Mintshi peered at him intently; her eyes ran over her spouse. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose and chuckled like a man intending to amuse his listeners. He then spoke to us of his travels and what had happened at his brother’s home. On arriving, he had found his brother’s wife sitting with her son. And he lifted the boy up on his lap and leaped up and whirled him about. They had been surprised, for the boy followed him fearlessly even though he had never seen him before. Mr. Gottlieb’s brother entered while they were playing and the boy stared first at his father and then at his father’s brother — his eyes darting from one to the other in disbelief. All of a sudden he turned his face away, burst into tears and flung his small arms out to his mother, and she embraced him as he buried his face in her bosom.

I returned home and to school. And my father found me a new Hebrew teacher, a Mr. Segal with whom I studied for many days. Mr. Segal came three times a week, and not liking to skip from subject to subject, divided my studies into three parts: one day of the week I studied the Bible, another, grammar, and on the third day I studied composition. Segal set out to explain the Holy Writings in a lucid manner, and he did not refrain from teaching me the commentaries of our Sages. Hours were spent over such commentaries and exegeses, leaving us little time for the Book. He spoke to me of all the splendors which until then I had not found in books. Wishing to revive our language, whenever I spoke he would say, “Please, say it in Hebrew.” He spoke with a certain flourish, like an advocate, and delighted whenever he stumbled upon a passage that resonated in his heart, for a prophet had spoken, and the prophets, after all, knew Hebrew.

Of all the hours spent in study I cherished most those devoted to composition. Segal would relax and lean back, his left hand under his head and his eyes firmly shut. Ever so quietly he would read from the wellsprings of his heart without glancing even once at the book. Like a musician plying his instrument during the darkest hour of the night, his heart brimming to its banks, without a glance at his notes, playing only what God had placed in his heart — so was this man.

My father paid Segal three gulden a month for my studies. After clipping the notes together, I would quietly hand them over to Segal. Segal, however, counted the money openly, and exclaimed, “I am not a doctor and needn’t be paid furtively. I’m a worker and am not ashamed to receive a salary for my labors.”

And my father toiled ceaselessly at his work. Nor did he rest at night. When I went to sleep he would remain seated by the lamplight. Sometimes I rose in the morning to find the light still lit beside him, for being preoccupied with his accounts he would forget to extinguish the light. My mother’s name no longer hovered on his lips.

On the eve of Yom Kippur my father bought two candles: one candle, the candle of the living, he lit in the house, and the other, the memorial candle, he took to the synagogue. My father brought the candle to the synagogue, and as I accompanied him, he said, “Don’t forget, tomorrow is Remembrance Day for the souls of the dead.” His voice shook as he spoke. I bent forward and kissed his hand.

We arrived at the synagogue. I peered through the lattice and saw one man greeting another in the midst of the assembly, asking forgiveness of the other. I then saw my father standing in front of a man without a prayer shawl, and I recognized Akaviah Mazal and my eyes misted with tears.

The cantor intoned Kol Nidre and his singing waxed from one moment to the next. The candles flickered and the building filled with light. The men swayed between the candles, their faces covered. How I loved the holiness of the day.