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

I was surprised that both Mintshi and my father spoke circumspectly. Still, my happiness did not leave me. While I was absorbed in my own thoughts Mrs. Gottlieb said, “My task is an odd one, my dear friend. I must play the bad aunt. But what can I do? I thought your folly was that of a young girl, but…” Mintshi did not complete her thought, nor did I ask her the meaning of the word “but.” She sat by my side for another half hour and upon leaving kissed my forehead. And I savored in that kiss the tang of a new flavor. I embraced her. “Ah, little monster,” she cried, “you’ve messed up my hair. Let go of me, I must tidy my hair.” And picking up the mirror Mintshi laughed loudly. “Why are you laughing?” I asked, affronted. Mintshi gave me the mirror. And I saw that every inch of its surface was scratched, for I had etched into the silver the name Akaviah Mazal over and over.

A week passed and Mazal did not come to inquire about my health. At times I reproached him for fearing my father and acting in a cowardly fashion, and at times I feared that he too was ill. But I did not ask my father, nor did I have any desire to talk of the matter. Then I remembered the legend of the Baron’s daughter who had loved a man from among the poor of the land. “It shall not come to pass,” her father had decreed. Hearing her father’s words the girl took ill and nearly died. And seeing how ill she was the doctors had said, “The wound is grievous, there is no healing of the fracture, for she is stricken by love.” Her father had then gone forth to her suitor and implored him to marry his daughter. So I remained confined to my bed as sundry visions washed over me. And whenever the door turned on its hinges I asked, “Who’s there?” My heart beat feebly and my voice was like my mother’s voice at the time of her illness.

One day my father said, “The doctor tells me you have regained your strength.” “Tomorrow I will go out,” I replied. “Tomorrow,” my father said, frowning. “Please wait another two or three days before going out, for who knows if the open air will, heaven forbid, not harm you. Three days hence and ours will be a different road. Stay here until the Memorial Day for your mother’s death and we will visit her grave together. You will also find Mr. Mazal there.” My father turned to go.

His words puzzled me, how did he know Mazal would come? Had they met? And if so, was it out of good will? And why had Akaviah not come to see me? And what was to happen? I was so excited that my teeth chattered and I feared I would fall ill again. Why had Akaviah not answered my letters? I cried out. And suddenly my heart was silenced, I ceased mulling over my thoughts, and I drew the covers over my hot flesh and shut my eyes. The day is still far off, I told myself, now I will sleep and the Lord will do what is good in His eyes.

What then happened to me I shall never know, for I lay on my sickbed for a great many days. And when I opened my eyes I beheld Akaviah seated in a chair, and his face lit up the room. I laughed in embarrassment and he too laughed, and it was the laugh of a good man. Just then my father entered and cried out, “Praised be God!” He then strode towards me and kissed my brow. I stretched my arms out and embraced and kissed him, “Oh father, father, my dear father,” I exclaimed. My father, however, forbade me to utter another word. “Calm down, my joy of joys, calm down, Tirtza, be patient for a few more days and then you will talk to your heart’s content.” Later that afternoon the old doctor arrived. And after examining me he stroked my cheek and said, “You are a courageous girl. This time you’ve come round, and now all the medicines in the world won’t do you any harm either.” “Blessed be the name of the Lord!” Kaila cried out from the doorway. Winter drew to an end and I was saved.

I was married on the eve of Shabbat Nahamu . A mere ten people were called to the bridal canopy. A mere ten and the entire town buzzed, for until that day such a simple wedding had never been witnessed in our town. And after the Sabbath we left our town for a summer resort and found lodgings in the home of a widow. The woman served us breakfast and dinner, but we lunched at the dairyman’s house in the village. Three times a week a letter arrived from my father, and I too wrote regularly. Wherever I chanced upon a postcard I sent it to my father. Akaviah did not write other than enclosing his regards. And yet he gave a different shade of meaning to each of his greetings. And a letter arrived from Mintshi Gottlieb telling us that she had found us a place to live. And she drew a ground plan of the house and its rooms on a sheet of paper. Mintshi wished to know whether to rent the lodgings, thereby assuring us of a home on our return. Two days elapsed and we did not answer Mintshi’s letter, and on the third day there were peals of thunder and flashes of lightning and all morning a hard rain poured down. The landlady came to ask whether to light the stove. “But it is not winter yet,” I said laughing. And Akaviah told the woman, “If the sun has drawn in its flames then the heat from the stove will be sweeter sevenfold.”

“Today,” Akaviah said to me, “we will answer Mrs. Gottlieb’s letter.” “But what shall we say?” I asked. “I will teach you how to put reason to good use,” my husband said, “and you will know what to answer. Mrs. Gottlieb has written us a letter to say she has found us lodgings, and this did not come as a surprise, for we are indeed in need of lodgings, and the rooms are agreeable and the woman is a woman of good taste as well as a friend, which gives us all the more reason to trust her words.” “In that case I will write and say that the lodgings please us.” “Wait,” Akaviah said, “someone is knocking. The landlady is here to light the stove.” And the woman kindled the fire with the wood she had brought. She then told us how she and her forefathers and her fathers’ forefathers were born in this very village. She would never leave the village; here she was born, grew up and would die. It was beyond her why people left their birthplace and wandered to the far corners of the world. You have a home? Honor it and dwell in it. And if you say, ‘I like my friend’s garden,’ well, why don’t you plant a garden yourself? Why should the air stink in your own neighborhood, while it smells good in another part of town where your friend lives?” My husband laughed at her words and said, “Her words ring true.”

The rain had stopped, but the soil hadn’t dried yet. The fire blazed in the stove and we sat in our room and warmed ourselves. My husband said, “We have had such a good time that we nearly forgot about our future lodgings. But listen to what I propose and tell me whether it seems right in your eyes. You are familiar with my house, if it is too small we could add a room and live in it. Now we must write to Mintshi Gottlieb to thank her for her labors.” We wrote Mintshi a letter of gratitude, and to my father we announced our decision to move into Akaviah’s home. Our plans did not please my father, for Akaviah lived in a peasant’s house. Yet my father did repairs on the house and he also built us a new room. A month passed and we returned. My home won over my heart. Although it was no different from the other farmhouses, a different spirit dwelled within it. And as we entered we were greeted by the sweet fragrance of potted flowers and a freshly baked cake prepared by Mintshi for our homecoming. The rooms were attractive and cozy, for the hands of a wise woman had adorned them. An adjoining servant’s room had also been built. But there was no maidservant to serve the house. My father sent Kaila but I promptly sent her back, preferring to eat at my father’s until we should find a young maidservant. And we would arrive at noon and return in the evening.