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

Perhaps in the future, said I, my words will be chosen with care, since you teach me how one must speak. “Happy is the man who does not forget Thee.” It is a text of much meaning.

She said: You are a good man, and it is a good verse you have told me; so I too shall not withhold good words. You asked why I was joyful, and why I was sad, and why I now rejoice.

Assuredly you know as I do, that all a man’s deeds are appointed, from the hour of his birth to the hour of his death; and accordingly, the number of times he shall say his psalms. But the choice is free how many psalms he will say on any one day. This man may complete the whole book in a day, and that man may say one section a day, or the psalms for each day according to the day. I have made it my custom to say each day the psalms for that day; but this morning I went on and said the psalms for two days together. When I became aware of this I was sad, lest it mean that there was no more need for me in the world, and that I was disposed of and made to finish my portion in haste. For “it is a good thing to give thanks to the Lord,” and when I am dead I shall not be able to say one psalm, or even one word. Then the Holy One saw my grief, and showed His marvelous kindness by allowing me to know that such is His very own will. If it pleases The Name to take my life, who am I that I should grieve? Thus He at once turned away my sorrow. Blessed be He and blessed be His name.

I glanced at her, wondering to myself by what path one might come to a like submission. I thought of the men of ancient times, and their virtuous ways; I spoke to her of past generations. Then I said, You have seen with your own eyes more than I can describe in words.

She answered: When a person’s life is prolonged for many days and years, it is granted him to see many things; good things, and yet better things.

Tell me, I said to her, of these same good things.

She was silent for a little while; then she said: How shall I begin? Let me start with my childhood. When I was a little girl, I was a great chatterbox. Really, from the time I stood up in the morning till the time I lay down at night, chatter never ceased from my lips. There was an old man in our neighborhood, who said to those delighting in my chatter: “A pity it is for this little girl; if she wastes all her words in childhood, what will be left for her old age?” I became terribly frightened, thinking this meant that I might die the very next day. But in time I came to fathom the old man’s meaning, which was that a person must not use up in a short while what is allotted him for a whole lifetime. I made a habit of testing each word to see if there was real need for it to be said, and practiced a strict economy of speech. As a result of this economy, I saved up a great store of words, and my life has been prolonged until they are all finished. Now that only a few words remain, you ask me to speak them. If I do so it will hasten my end.

Upon such terms, said I, I would certainly not ask you to speak. But how is it that we keep walking and walking, yet we have still not come to the house of the rabbanit?

She said: You still have in mind those courtyards we used to take for a short cut. But now that most of the City has been settled by the Arabs, we must go by a roundabout way.

We approached one of these courtyards. She said: Do you see this courtyard? Forty families of Israel once lived here, and here were two synagogues, and here in the daytime and night-time there was study and prayer. But they left this place, and Arabs came and occupied it.

We approached a coffee house. She said: Do you see this house? Here was a great yeshiva where the scholars of the Torah lived and studied. But they left this house, and Arabs came and occupied it.

We came to the asses’ stalls. She said: Do you see these stalls? Here stood a soup-kitchen, and the deserving poor would enter hungry and go forth satisfied. But they abandoned this place, and Arabs came and occupied it. Houses from which prayer and charity and study of the Torah never ceased now belong to the Arabs and their asses. My son, we have reached the courtyard of the rabbanit’s house. Go in, and I shall follow you later. This unhappy woman, because of the seeming good she has known abroad, does not see the true good at home.

What is the true good? I asked.

She laughed, saying, Ah my son, you should not need to ask. Have you not read the verse, “Happy is he Thou choosest and bringest near to dwell in Thy courts?” For the same courts are the royal courts of the Holy One, the courts of our God, in the midst of Jerusalem. When men say “Jerusalem,” their way is to add the words, “ — the Holy City.” But when I say “Jerusalem,” I add nothing more, since the holiness is contained in the name; yes, in the very name itself. Go up, my son, and do not trip on the stairs. Many a time have I said to the treasurer of the community funds that these stairs are in need of repair; and what answer did he give me? That this building is old and due to be demolished, therefore it is not worth while spending a penny on its upkeep. So the houses of Israel fall into disuse until they are abandoned, and the sons of Ishmael enter and take possession. Houses that were built with the tears of their fathers — and now they abandon them. But again I have become a chatterer, and hasten my end.

I entered, and found the rabbanit lying in bed. Her head was bandaged and a poultice had been laid upon her throat. She coughed loudly, so that even the medicine bottles placed by her bedside would shake at each cough. I said to her: Rabbanit , are you ill? — She sighed and her eyes filled with tears. I sought for words of comfort, but the words would not come. All I could say, with my eyes downcast, was: So you are ill and deserted.

She sighed again and replied: Yes, I am ill as ill can be. In the whole world there is no one so ill as I am. All the same, I am not deserted. Even here in Jerusalem, where nobody knows me, and nobody knows the honors done to me in my own town, even here there is one woman who waits on me, who comes to my room and fetches a drop of soup for my bedridden meal. What do you hear from my grandson? No doubt he is angry with me, because I have not written to thank him for the stove. Now I ask you, how shall I go out to buy ink and pen and paper for the writing of letters? It is hard enough even to bring a spoonful of soup to my lips. I am surprised that Tilli has not come.

If you are speaking, said I, of that gracious old woman who brought me here, she told me that she would come very soon.

Said the rabbanit , I cannot tell whether she is gracious: at least she is efficacious. Look you, how many holy, holy women there are about Jerusalem, who go buzzing like bees with their incantations and supplications, yet not one of them has come to me and said, “ Rabbanit , do you need any help?”—My head, oh my head. If the pains in my heart won’t take me off, the pains in my head will take me off first.

I said to her, I can see that speech is difficult for you.

She answered: You say that speech is difficult for me; and I say that my whole existence is difficult for me. Even the cat knows this, and keeps away from his home. Yet people say that cats are home-loving creatures. He finds my neighbors’ mice more tasty, to be sure, than all the dainties I feed him. What was I meaning to say? I forget all I mean to say. Now Tilli is so different. There she goes, with the bundles of years heaped up on her shoulders, bundle on bundle; yet all her wits serve her, although she must be twice my age. If my father — God bless his pious memory — were alive today, he would be thought of as a child beside her.

I urged the rabbanit to tell me about this Tilli.