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

The days of Hanukkah had arrived and geese were slaughtered. One day Kaila left to ask the rabbi a question and a man well advanced in age appeared. “When will your father be coming home?” he asked, and I replied, “Sometimes he comes at eight and sometimes at seven-thirty.” “In that case I am early,” he declared, “for it is now five-thirty.” I said, “Yes, it is five-thirty.” And he said, “It doesn’t matter.”

I drew up a chair for him. “But why should I sit,” he said. “Bring me some water.” And as I poured him tea into a glass, he exclaimed, “He asked for water and she gave him tea.” He then poured some of the tea from the glass onto his hand and cried out, “Well, well, and the mizrah ?” Turning towards the wall he continued, “In your grandfather’s house a man didn’t have to ask such questions, for the mizrah hung on the wall.” He then rose to his feet and prayed. I took two, three large, dollops of goose fat and placed them in a bowl on the table. The man finished praying and ate and drank and said, his lips dripping with fat, “Schmaltz, my dear, schmaltz.” “Here,” I said, “I will bring you a napkin to wipe your hands.” “Rather bring me a slice of cake,” he said. “Do you have a cake that doesn’t require hand washing?” “Yes, and enough to spare,” I said. “I will bring you some cake at once.” “Please don’t hurry, you can bring the cake along with the second helping. Will you not give me another helping?” “Why, of course.” “I knew you would, but you still don’t know who I am. It doesn’t matter,” the man said softly. “I’m Gotteskind. So your father is indeed late today.” I glanced at my watch. “It is a quarter after six, my father will not arrive before half-past seven.” “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “But do go on with your work. Don’t let me disturb you.” I reached for a book. And he said, “What’s that you have in your hands?” “A book of geometry,” I replied. Gotteskind seized the book and asked, “And do you know how to play the piano as well? No? Why didn’t they teach you how to play the piano? Why, I’ve just come from the pharmacy where the pharmacist told me he would never wed a woman who didn’t know how to play the piano. ‘Listen, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said, ‘I’m prepared to live in a small town since I can’t afford to buy a pharmacy in the city.’ But I failed to mention that he isn’t really a pharmacist but the pharmacist’s assistant. But what does it matter, assistant pharmacist, pharmacist, it’s all one and the same. Surely you’ll say: why, he doesn’t even own a pharmacy. It doesn’t matter, soon enough he’ll purchase himself a pharmacy. ‘And so, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said to me, ‘here I am about to settle down in a small town. If my wife doesn’t play the piano she will surely die of boredom.’ So, knowing how to play an instrument is a rare gift indeed, apart from the enjoyment of striking the keys, think of it also as a source of wisdom. But the hour of seven is about to strike and though I said I would go, will your father not be arriving soon?” Gotteskind stroked the wisps of his beard and continued, “Indeed, your father should realize that a faithful friend is waiting for him. And so, man knows least where his good fortune lies. The clock is striking two, three, four, five, six, seven. Let the clock be witness to the truth of my words.” I grew weary, but Gotteskind prattled on, “Why, you didn’t know who I was, nor did you hear mention of my name until today. And I knew you before you were formed, it was through my good services that your mother wedded your father.”

He was still talking when Kaila arrived and we set the table. “You are also an accomplished housekeeper?” Gotteskind exclaimed with surprise. “And you said your father will soon return. If so, let us wait for him,” Gotteskind said, as though having just made up his mind to wait.

My father arrived a little before eight. “We mentioned your name and here you are,” Gotteskind said to my father. “Lo, the clock has struck. It will be witness to the truth of my words.” And he winked at my father and went on, “I came to see you but behold the Almighty has also shown me your daughter.”

That night I dreamt my father gave me away in marriage to the high chief of an Indian tribe. My entire body was impressed with tattoos of kissing lips and my husband sat opposite me on the sharp edge of a crag, combing his beard with the seven talons of an eagle. I was struck with wonder, for I was certain that Indians shaved their heads and beards. How then had my husband acquired such a thick crop of hair?

Four days had lapsed since I met with Mazal. I did not go to school. And I feared lest my father would take notice and fret over me. I was of two minds whenever I thought of returning to school. Perhaps I would blush with shame upon seeing Mazal? And if Mazal was absent that day perhaps I’d shudder in anticipation of the sound of his footsteps? And what if I arrived after classes had begun, and what if he then suddenly cast his eyes upon me? In the end I did leave for the college, but only to find another man reading out our lessons. I asked one of the students, “Why hasn’t Mazal arrived today?” “He didn’t come yesterday either, nor the day before, and who knows if he will ever return to the college,” she replied. “Your words don’t make any sense,” I said. “A woman’s hand is in the matter,” she replied. I shuddered at her words. The girl went on to tell me how Mazal had been forced to leave the school because of the teacher Kefirmilch who received from his grandmother an allowance earned as a servant in Mazal’s home. One day she had slipped the money in an envelope taken from her master’s letterbox. Kefirmilch unsealed the envelope and discovered a letter written to Mazal by one of the schoolgirls in the college. It so happened that the girl’s father had lent Kefirmilch some money. Kefirmilch now told the man, “Forget my debt and I will give you your daughter’s letter written to her lover Mazal.” And hearing what had happened, Mazal, left the college lest the institution’s name be tainted by his presence.

I returned home, relieved at not having seen Mazal at the college, and I did not tell myself: he has been stripped of his livelihood. From now on I will rarely see Mazal but neither will I blush in shame if I should happen to see him. And I suddenly loathed going to school. I stayed at home and helped Kaila with the housework. How I recoiled in horror whenever I thought of the aging schoolmistresses. Should I waste my life bent over books I couldn’t understand and end up like one of them? Caught in such thoughts I forgot my own work and neglected the housework. I longed to leave the house, to fill my lungs with fresh air and stretch my legs. I rose, buttoned my coat, and went out. Once on my way I turned in the direction of the Gottliebs’ home. Mintshi hastened towards me and took my hand and warmed it in her own, and she peered deep into my eyes, eager to know what tidings I brought. “No news,” I said. “I went out for a walk and turned in your direction.” Mintshi took my coat and seated me by the stove. After drinking a glass of tea I stood up and prepared to leave, for I had heard that the tax inspector was expected for dinner and I was afraid I would disturb Mr. Gottlieb in his business affairs with him.

The earth was drenched in rain and I remained at home. All day long I read books or else sat in the kitchen and helped Kaila with her chores. Desire no longer tugged at my heartstrings. I knew no wrong.

At eight o’clock my father returned home. He quietly removed his shoes and slipped on a pair of felt slippers. The faint shuffle of his slippers brought back to mind the stillness of the house. The table had been set before his arrival and when he arrived we sat and ate. After dinner my father returned to his accounts and I sat by his side until ten o’clock, when he rose and said, “Now, my daughter, to bed.” Sometimes he would stroke my hair with his warm hand and I bowed my head. My happiness was too great to bear. So the rains came and went.