Her expression was divided, as it were: one of her faces was angry, the other was gracious. If her mother asked her anything she replied as if from the bottom of a well. She, too, fixed her eyes on her father’s face — not like Mr. Riegel, who gazed at him with admiration, but like a mute lamb, innocent of sin. Her father sat as usual, his head bowed and his hands under the table, singing the Sabbath hymns.
Between the fish and its sauce, Lolik came, followed by Dolik, and brought news from the town. Since no one heeded them, they smiled to themselves, one a malicious smile and the other his feminine smile. Krolka served the table in utter silence, took away the empty plates and brought full ones, trimmed the candles, came in and went out, and did not utter a sound as she came and went.
When the fingerbowl water was brought, the master of the house raised his eyes, looked at Riegel for a while, and knitted his eyebrows, like one who is considering a question and does not know how to decide. He was probably wondering whether to count Riegel in for the Invitation to the Grace, because Mr. Zommer was not in the habit of reciting the Invitation with his sons, except for Passover eves, when they used to sit down at the table with him before the Kiddush.
After the grace, Mr. Zommer said to the agent, “What has Mr. Riegel to tell us?” Riegel, who was accustomed to my host’s holding his peace and not calling him by name, but addressing him as Mr. Agent (an appellation that sets a barrier between a man and his neighbor), stammered and said, “It is good to celebrate the Sabbath with Jews.” “And is not Mr. Riegel a Jew?” cried Mr. Zommer in surprise. Riegel put his right hand on his heart and said with great enthusiasm, “I am a Jew, Mr. Zommer, I am a Jew, but I am not the kind of person a Jew ought to be.” “What must a Jew do in order to be the kind of Jew a Jew ought to be?” asked Dolik. “What your father does, Mr. Zommer,” replied Riegel. “And what should a Jewess do?” asked Lolik. “Like Babtchi?” Babtchi stirred and looked at him angrily. And she did not look kindly at Riegel either. Since the day this agent came for the second time, she has not looked at him with favor. Babtchi does not hate him, but before he came for the second time she was at peace with the world and the world was at peace with her. Zwirn had doubled her pay and given her material for a dress (this was the dress he had torn on the Sabbath eve at dark), and David Moshe used to write her letters of love and salutation. She jested about it when she wished to, and when she wished to she thought about it. If Zwirn put out his lips to kiss her, she smacked him on the hand and he took it lovingly. Babtchi had never worried about this kind of thing, but suddenly the devil had got into Riegel and he was bothering her about his wives. In sober truth, Riegel had scarcely one wife, and even this one he wanted to get rid of; but in her anger Babtchi was confused and had hung two wives on him, and indeed the one who was surplus was Babtchi herself. I got up from my chair and was about to go, but Mr. Zommer said, “Why are you getting up, sir? Sit with us and let us spend some time.”
These people have nothing to say, but when you wish to take your leave of them they say, “Sit and let us spend some time.” Perhaps the master of the house has something to say, but he is keeping his thoughts to himself. As for Riegel, however, I doubt if he knows anything apart from bargaining over trade. Have you seen him sitting with Babtchi and crushing his cigarettes? — he deserved your pity and so did his cigarettes, but he did not deserve your wasting time with him. On the other hand, had he smoked a cigarette — which is forbidden on the Sabbath — both he and the cigarette would have felt better.
Dolik got up and went into a certain other room. When he came back he covered his mouth, to shield the smell of his cigarette.
My host fingered the tablecloth and said to his wife, “Perhaps you would give us some of the good things you have prepared in honor of the Sabbath.” And as he spoke he smiled, like a child who has snatched the sweets before they were given him.
Mrs. Zommer hurried and brought some sweetmeats. “And what will you give us to drink?” said Mr. Zommer. “Perhaps soda with raspberry juice?” asked Mrs, Zommer. “Perhaps some real liquor?” said Mr. Zommer. “They want to have a betrothal here,” said Lolik. “Babtchi, perhaps you know who is the bride?” “Look in the mirror,” said Babtchi, “and you’ll see the bride.”
Who is coming? No doubt a new guest. “I do not take in new guests on the Sabbath,” said the hotelkeeper. Schutzling came in and sat down beside me.
Aaron Schutzling is not in favor with the master of the house or the members of his family, each for his own reason. When I realized this, I got up and went out with him.
Schutzling was depressed — perhaps because I had seen him the worse for drink in the tavern, or perhaps because he had left me to pay the bill, though it was he who invited me, and a person who invites his friend to drink with him ought to pay. “I have taken you out of your warm nest,” said Schutzling. “But it isn’t cold outside either. Or perhaps you feel cold? After all, you come from a warm country. What shall we do now? Perhaps we should stroll for a while?” “Here we are strolling.” “Are you angry with me?” “Not at all, the night is pleasant and the moon is shining — the night was made for a stroll.” But as I was saying this, I thought: All we had to tell we told on the Sabbath eve, and there was no need for him to come back. Said Schutzling, “A man’s days and years are drawn out until he pays back for all the pleasure he has had in the world.” “What are you referring to?” “I was referring to nothing else but the moon,” replied Schutzling. “To the moon? And what has the moon to do with it?” “That’s just it,” said Schutzling, “she doesn’t; but this fool, Aaron, the baker’s son, believed that she still shone as in the early days when I was a boy and the charming brunette was a young girl. When I left the tavern, I said to myself: Let me go and see the brunette’s house. When I got there I slipped and fell into a ditch, and almost broke my legs.” “Do you feel pain in your legs?” He put his hand on his heart and said, “Here, my friend, here I feel pain. Do you remember Knabenhut?” Schutzling went on. “He is dead and gone. It was through him I got to know her at the time of the tailors’ strike. Those were the days. Days like those will never come back. You go on strike by day, and sing and dance by night. Knabenhut did not take part in the fun or dance with the girls, but he was not jealous of anyone who was lucky and found himself a pretty girl. During the war I found myself in Vienna and saw him standing on the bridge over the Danube, gazing at the passers-by. I wanted to pass him in silence, so as not to get him angry, as he was in the old days when I became an anarchist; after all, some said that he had betrayed me to the authorities and that I had run away to America just in time. He beckoned to me and I went up to him. ‘Don’t come near me,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an infection.’ I stood a little distance away. He started preaching about the war and the disaster in store for us and the whole world. His voice was weak, but his words were strong and eloquent. And again I stood before him as in the early days, when he drew me out from behind the stove in my father’s house and enlightened me with his speeches. Finally he whispered to me, ‘This generation that is coming is worse than all the generations before it. And I will tell you this too: the world is getting uglier and uglier, uglier than you and I wanted to make it.’ Now, my friend, we have come back to your hotel. Go in and go to sleep.” After he had gone I stood on the threshold of the hotel and looked after him. His hands, his voice were trembling…
“In sorrow and nothing my life is done—