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

We galloped under the moonlight along trails powdered with snow. The gleam of hooves mingled with the song of the horses’ harness bells. I sat to the right of the young man and gazed out of the animal pelt. Buried in my overcoat I was unable to speak. Landau reined in the horses in front of the smith’s house and alighted. He then lifted me out of the carriage and we entered. Our glasses were filled with brandy and apples were baked in our honor. And Landau asked the smith to come to our village the following day as the kegs in the winery needed mending. The members of the household hung on his every word, for he spoke with the authority of a prince. I too stared at Landau and was astonished. Was this the young man whose letters were the outcry of a solitary heart? On our way back I did not bury my face in the folds of my overcoat, as I had grown used to the cold. And yet we did not exchange a word, for my heart was girded in silence. Landau too remained silent, only now and then speaking to his horses.

And my father said to me, “The old man Landau has spoken to me of his son, for his heart is drawn to your heart, and now tell me what I should say.” Seeing my discomfort, however, he added, “There is time for us to talk about the matter, after all, the young man is not about to be conscripted into the army and you are still young.” Several days passed and Landau once again began writing me high-flown letters filled with visions of Israel and its land. His roots were in the village and since boyhood he had tilled its soil, and the land did not cease to nourish him with dreams and visions. With time his letters stopped arriving and he would occasionally come into town on foot. He was constantly on edge lest he be found fit enough to be pressed into the king’s army. He would roam at night in the market and streets with the penitents. I shuddered in anguish whenever I recalled their late-night melodies. And I thought of my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had come to an untimely end in the army. So I told myself that if only I could accept Landau I would now be his wedded wife. One day I ran into Landau on his way into town. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks sallow and his clothes reeked of stale tobacco. He had the appearance of a sick man. Returning home I seized hold of a book, telling myself, I will study and soothe my grief. But my throat hurt and I could not study. I then opened the book of Psalms and read out loud. Perhaps God will think of him and the young man will not perish.

And at the Gottliebs workers were busy constructing a left wing to serve as a home for Gottlieb’s brother who, as partner to the factory, had come to live with him. Once the wing was completed Gottlieb held a housewarming party. Until that day Gottlieb had never held a housewarming party, for only then was the house built to his liking. Gottlieb was transformed. He even altered the cut of his beard. I saw the two brothers and laughed, remembering how Mintshi had been startled when she had first come to their father’s home. During lunch Gottlieb removed a letter from his pocket and said to his wife, “I almost forgot, a letter has arrived from Vienna.” And she asked, “Is there any news?” “No news,” he said. “He sends his blessings for the housewarming. And his mother’s condition hasn’t changed — it’s neither better nor worse.” I realized they were speaking of Mazal, for I had heard his mother had taken ill and that he had left for Vienna to see to her health. And I recalled the day I had visited his home and the memory was a blessing to me.

After the meal Mintshi strolled with me into the garden. She had been restless while sitting with her sister-in-law and now she looked back on earlier times. “Screwy,” she suddenly called out, and a small dog leaped towards her. I almost took fright. Mintshi fondly patted his head and said, “Screwy, Screwy, Screwy, my boy.” Although I disliked dogs I stroked his coat and patted him. The dog looked at me warily and then barked in approval. I hugged Mintshi and she kissed me.

Their large home stood a short distance away. The clamor of children and the untiring sound of a woman’s voice rose from within. The sun set and streaked the treetops red and a sudden gust of cold wind blew. “It has been a hot day,” Mintshi said in a low voice. “Summer is almost over. Ah, I cannot bear all this commotion. Since the day they arrived even the birds in the garden have fallen silent.” The dog barked a second time and Mintshi growled back, “What’s wrong, Screwy?” She then turned to me and said, “Have you noticed, Tirtza, how a dog will bark whenever the postman approaches?” “We don’t have a dog at home,” I replied, “and no one writes me any letters.” Paying no attention to my words, Mintshi continued, “The letter my sister-in-law sent after she left, telling me of her safe return, was delayed, for apparently it had slipped behind the gate and the postman had scribbled on the envelope, ‘I have not delivered this letter to your door because of the dog.’ Screwy, my clever one, come here!” Mintshi called out to the dog and resumed stroking his coat.

The evening twilight enveloped us and a light lit up the windows. “Let’s go in, Tirtza, and prepare supper.” As we walked back Mintshi said, “Mazal will soon return,” and she embraced me. We entered the house. That evening the factory hands came to toast their masters, as they had not come during the day when the guests had been present. Mintshi set a table for them and when their hearts were merry with wine, they burst into song. And the worker who had been released from prison warmed our hearts with tales he had heard straight from the mouths of the prisoners. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose, as was his way. I looked at Mintshi. Her face exuded verve and vigor and her sorrow was nowhere to be seen.

The holidays were over and the autumn skies lowered over the town. My father was preoccupied with his business and did not come home for lunch. I came to appreciate the autumn season and the splendor of its might. The sight of the russet woods and coppery leaves fortified the land far and wide.

My studies at the college resumed and grew more serious. That year our tutors ushered us into the classroom where we were expected to show our skills in teaching. I displayed little talent. Even so, I did as I was told.

Akaviah Mazal returned to town. He spoke to the local chroniclers and gathered material on the history of our town. When he unearthed ancient relics in the cemetery, Mazal’s heart was so filled with joy in his work that he did not even heed the principal’s summons to resume teaching at the college, for Kefirmilch had long been forgotten.

At that time my father’s sister arrived, for her daughter’s praises were being sung here and she had come to see the young man. This aunt of mine was quite unlike my father in the way she took pleasure in life. “I am glad, my daughter,” my father said, “that you are fond of your aunt. She is a good woman and she is gracious and pleasant in every way. And yet I am not fond of her; perhaps it is because of you that I disapprove of her.” And he fell silent.

My aunt returned to her home at the end of autumn. I cut across the open fields on my way back from the train station. The train’s whistle faded in the air. Potatoes were unearthed from the bare fields that shimmered under the yellow sun and red currants gazed up. I remembered the tale of the currants and I walked in a daze.

I passed a farmhouse where I had bought fruit in the summer and the farmer gave me a bouquet of asters. I took the autumn flowers and continued on my way. Now as I walked home I noticed I was close to Mazal’s home. I will go there and bid him good day, I thought to myself, for I have not seen him since he returned.

Mazal was not at home and the old servant sat by the doorway, waiting for him. Because of her grandson, Kefirmilch, she had had to leave her master’s house, and she had gone to live in a neighboring village. And now, on her way into town with her harvest of wheat, she had stopped to see how he was faring. The old woman spoke of her master’s good deeds. I was pleased to hear such words of praise, and as I turned to leave I scattered my flowers by the door.