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

And there worked in her father’s home a young Jewish clerk and she told him, ‘Teach me the laws of the Lord.’ And he said, ‘Alas, I know them not.’ Just then the rabbi’s emissary arrived to buy leaven. The clerk urged her, ‘Speak to him.’ And my mother told the emissary all that I have recounted. ‘Madam,’ said the man, ‘Pray come to my home today and celebrate with us the Passover holiday.’ So that night she went forth to the man’s home and she dined with him and his family and her heart inclined towards the God of Israel and she longed to follow His laws. That clerk was my father, may he rest in peace. He never studied the Torah or the commandments, but God created him pure of heart. My mother cleaved unto him and together they cleaved unto their faith in God. After their wedding they left for Vienna, and said, ‘No one will recognize us there.’ And he lived by the sweat of his brow and they did not turn to my mother’s father for help. My mother gradually adjusted to her new station. My father toiled at his work. And he deprived himself of the fruits of his own labor, his one desire being that I study in the best of schools, gaining through knowledge and science a footing in the best of society, for he knew that he would be unable to leave me any money to speak of on the day of his death. In my father’s eyes it was as if I had been barred from my own inheritance, for had my mother not married him, I would now be the son of a noble family. But my mother had no such designs upon the world. She loved me as a mother loves her son.” It was getting late and Mazal finished his account, and said, “Forgive me, Miss, for I have spoken at great length today.” “Why excuse yourself,” I replied, “when you have done me nothing but good. I now know that you do not despise me, for you have opened your heart to me. Oh, don’t hold back your words anymore!” Mazal passed his hand across his eyes, “Heaven forbid that I should despise you,” he exclaimed. “I am glad to have spoken of my mother and to have found an attentive ear, for I miss her a great deal. But since you feel I have been sparing with my words I will go on and tell you more.” Mazal then told me how he had come here, and yet he did not mention my mother and her father. He spoke of the hard times he had endured. He had yearned with all his heart to complete what his mother had set out to accomplish upon returning to the God of Israel, for he had returned to his people. Yet they did not understand him. He walked as a stranger in their midst — they drew him close, but when he was as one of them they divided their hearts from him.

I returned home in high spirits. I reeled like a drunkard and the moon poured its beams and shone upon my path.

As I walked I said, what will I tell my father? If I speak of all that happened between Mazal and myself he will listen and grow angry. But if I am silent a barrier will rise between us. Now I will go and speak to him, even if he is incensed he will see that I have not concealed my actions from him. I arrived home at the same time as the doctor who had come to pay us a visit upon hearing that my father was ill, and I clamped my mouth shut and did not say a thing, for how could I speak out in front of a stranger? And I did not regret doing so, as my secret consoled me.

I sat peacefully at home. I did not join the company of other young girls, nor did I send letters of greeting. One day, however, the postman arrived with a letter for me. And the letter was written in Hebrew by a young man called Landau. “As the errant wayfarer raises his eyes to the godly stars on a bleak night,” its author wrote, “so do I now dispatch my letter to you, fair and resourceful maiden.” My teacher Segal appeared for our lesson as I was reading the letter. “I have received a letter written in Hebrew,” I said. “I knew you would,” he replied. Segal then told me the young man was a pupil of his and that he was the son of one of the village tenants.

Eight days passed and I forgot the letter. One day I left for the college and caught sight of a woman and a young man. Seeing the young man I was certain that he was the author of the letter. Later in the day I told my father and he laughed, saying, “The son of villagers.” But I thought to myself, Why has the young man behaved this way and why this strange encounter? Suddenly I pictured the young man. I imagined his discomfort and how he had blushed and I regretted not having answered his letter in case he had waited for my reply and had been offended. I would write to him the very next day, I resolved. Though I did not know what I would write. My body then grew numb under the balmy weight of sleep. This is the sweet slumber in which the blood runs smoothly in our arteries and the soul is soothed. Two, three days passed without my penning a reply to the young man and I told myself, It is too late to answer. But it so happened that while preparing my homework and innocently scribbling with my pen on paper, I suddenly found myself replying to the young man. I wrote only a few lines, and reading over my letter I thought that surely this was not the sort of answer that he hoped to receive. Nor did the paper earn my favor. Still, I sent the letter knowing I would not write another of its kind. I will not write any more letters to him, I told myself, for my mind is not intent on letter-writing. Several days passed without a letter from the young man, and I was sorry not to hear from him. But I gradually forgot the young man and his letters. It had been my duty to reply and I had done so. One day my father asked me, “Do you remember the woman and young man?” “I remember,” I replied. “Well,” he said, “the young man’s father came to see me and he spoke of his son. The family is a good family and the young man is learned.” “Will he come here?” I asked. “How can I know,” he replied. “But I will do as you decide, for you have not kept your thoughts from me.” I bowed my head. God, Thou hast known my heart. “So then,” my father added, “we will not go to the stargazers and astrologers, nor will we ask them whether my daughter will find a groom.” And he did not refer to the matter again.

One Sunday evening my father came home accompanied by a man. He asked us to set the kettle on the fire and light the large lamp, and he also looked to see whether the stove gave off a warm glow. Then they sat by the table and talked. The man did not take his eyes off me. I returned to my room to work. But as soon as I sat down at my desk a winter carriage drew to a halt under my window and Kaila came and announced, “Guests have arrived. Why not go straight to the living room.” “I can’t,” I said, “for I have a great deal of work to finish today.” But Kaila wouldn’t leave me alone, and she said, “It is a night that calls for celebration, your father has ordered me to make blintzes.” “In that case,” I replied, “In that case I will help you prepare the meal.” “No,” Kaila insisted, “get you now into the living room. The man who has just arrived is a handsome lad.” “Is Gotteskind also present?” I asked Kaila disdainfully. “Who?” she said. “Gotteskind,” I replied. “Have you forgotten the man and all he had to tell us?” “Your memory is a marvel, Tirtza,” Kaila replied, and left.

The food was ready to be served and I entered the living room and stared in astonishment, for the young man was now transformed into another person altogether. He no longer seemed ill at ease as when I had first seen him. And his black goatskin hat heightened the charm of his red cheeks.

Landau soon returned a second time. He arrived in a winter carriage wearing a wolfskin overcoat. And he smelled of a winter forest. No sooner had he sat down than he was up on his feet again. He was on his way to see the coppersmith and had passed by to ask whether I would join him on his journey. My father gave me his fur coat and we left.