by Agnon, S. Y.
The little neighborhood of Orhot Hayim was unusually quiet. As in most of Jerusalem’s neighborhoods, no work was done there on Shabbat. There was no one in sight. Some people were at home reading; others were in bed. Six days have been provided for work and labor; one, for rest and pleasure. Anyone with sense rests on that day and turns away from mundane concerns. Those with even more sense pursue wisdom as well as rest. How? By reading the Five Books of Moses, the commentaries of Rashi, the Ramban, Ibn Ezra. For the Torah is not to be taken literally and must be studied to be understood. If you find the key to its riddles, you are in on the secret of creation and the wisdom of the world. No day is so suited to such pursuits as the seventh, Shabbat, when the world rests. An object at rest is easier to observe, and observers are quiet, as a rule. Only their eyes are astir, exploring the Bible and its commentaries. God’s ways are wondrous. There are realms whose essence is feeling rather than thought. The Holy and Blessed One has granted our sages the wisdom to present these essentials again and again, until you feel you’ve already heard them. And you have in fact heard them. Where did you hear them? It was at Mount Sinai that we heard them, each and every one of us. For whatever our sages have discovered was already conveyed to Moses at Mount Sinai, and, what is more, the soul of every Jew was there listening. Because of the golden calf, forgetfulness was introduced into the world. Most things were forgotten, and it is the task of true commentators to restore what was lost. Man struggles six days, unable to provide essentials. When Shabbat comes, the intelligent soul pursues its true needs, those that relate to the living God. True sages appear and interpret the Torah and commandments, which they then impart to us effortlessly.
The above ideas are not Dr. Herbst’s, but those of the people in that neighborhood, whose grandparents came from the lands of exile to serve God, preserve His teachings, and fulfill His commandments in His chosen city. Dr. Herbst is an intellectual, whose thoughts center on his academic field. Now that he decided to write that article, he walked along thinking about the emperor Justinian and wondering if he really considered himself worthy of being swept up to heaven in a storm. His mind wandered from Justinian to his faithful servant General Belisarius, whom Justinian had blinded out of envy. His mind wandered from Justinian and Belisarius to Antonia, a woman of the court, and Yohanan, who were to be the heroes of the tragedy he planned to write. He didn’t dwell on this, because, whenever he thought about his tragedy, he was in the habit of smoking, and it would be disrespectful to smoke out of doors in Jerusalem on Shabbat, especially in an Orthodox neighborhood. Herbst refrained from smoking out of respect, not fear. This was before zealots in Jerusalem started attacking people for violating the Shabbat in public. They still remembered the special committee that supplied water, food, clothes, and medicine to a hungry Jerusalem in the wake of war, and they closed one eye to public violations of Shabbat, realizing that the offenders might be from the very committee whose help they might need tomorrow, for most of the communities they had depended on for support were now dependent on others and could not be counted on.
Even before the war, Jerusalem’s vigilantes had learned to close an eye when necessary. The following story is still being told. During the language war, when classes in all the Ezra schools were conducted in German and the Zionists demanded that they switch to Hebrew, an Ezra leader came from Berlin to investigate. All of Jerusalem expected a large contribution from him. Jerusalem’s leading citizens went to call on him at his gentile hotel on one of the intermediate days of Passover. He was in the dining room, dipping his biscuit in coffee. It was one of those thin biscuits that German bakers make from flour, egg, and butter. They remarked to him in mock-scholarly terms, “So you agree with those sages who regard watched-matzah and soakedmatzah as ritually independent of one another.”
Herbst abstained from smoking, but his mind did not. It led him to contemplate those brown cigarettes praised by Julian Weltfremdt. Since he didn’t think they were superior in taste or smell, he began to wonder why anyone preferred them. He was once out somewhere, and, noticing that everyone was smoking those cigarettes, it began to seem as if there were a secret society whose members recognized each other by this sign. Dr. Krautmeir was there too, with one of those long cigarettes stuck between her thin lips. Was there some special connection between her and Julian? Or was it the influence of Mimi, Julian’s wife? Was she also a patron of that skillful peddler, promoting his wares?
It’s not likely that there is anything between Julian and Krautmeir. Julian has no interest in women, and Krautmeir is such a cold person, totally devoted to her work, to the young sluts who beat a path to her door, eager to be relieved of their burden of shame. Julian has no interest in women, and Krautmeir, as was already noted, is cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cigarette in her mouth has a cold flame.
So much for Krautmeir; let’s consider why Julian is not attracted to other women. Is it because his wife is so lovely, charming, and gifted, with a fine voice and pleasant ways? Or is it precisely because his wife is lovely, charming, et cetera, that he isn’t attracted to others? This is not a paradox. If he has so little regard for this woman who is lovely and charming, he will certainly have no regard for others whose charm and beauty are no match for hers. So the facts explain each other, but what do we know about the workings of the heart and mind? Would it ever occur to you that a man such as Herbst is attracted to the woman –? We will suppress her name and refrain from saying “Shira,” for, if we say who she is, it will be totally baffling that a man with an intelligent, kind, industrious wife would pursue such a woman. And what is even more surprising: in his heart, he doesn’t fault himself for his actions. Shira herself, on the other hand, protects and safeguards him, by keeping him at a distance.
When Shira comes to mind, she doesn’t soon leave. Now that she was in his mind, she slipped away because of something trivial, because of two bits of wood he remembered leaving in the stove that morning when he took a warm bath. They were being wasted. While he was regretting the wasted firewood, he remembered his little daughter, whose digestion was upset by those grapes. These two causes – the wood and the grapes – were suddenly linked, and he recalled that he had deliberately left the wood burning in the stove, intending to prepare a warm bath for Henrietta. But, since she was so tired, having been up all night with the little one whose stomach was upset by grapes, she chose to do without the bath. The wood was burning, the smoke was trailing upward with no one to enjoy it. Meanwhile he, who would have enjoyed a cigarette, was deprived of this pleasure because those who live in this neighborhood regard Shabbat as the primary day of the week and view its rituals as a source of special sanctity, the core of life’s holiness, believing life should be sanctified, rather than wasted.
Like most Jerusalem neighborhoods on a summer afternoon after lunch, this little neighborhood was quiet. The shutters on its small houses were closed, and no creature stirred in the street, except for a dog or cat silently picking at the garbage. Were it not for the fact that dogs and cats are considered ritually unclean, I would suggest that they imposed this silence on themselves, for, when Jews observe the Shabbat, even animals and birds don’t disrupt them. Only the sun showed its force. Its intense heat was boundless. The air was filled with the scent of watermelons left to cool on windowsills, so they would be ready to eat when the afternoon rest was over. Herbst kept taking off his sunglasses and wiping them. He stood between the little houses, which were surrounded by bramble. It was the seventh year, so the gardens in the area had been left fallow and were taken over by bramble. The dry bramble would bake in the sun and split open, sending out a sharp, invigorating smell that was quite pleasant. Between the bramble and the houses, a dog and cat stood amicably picking at the same heap of garbage.
Herbst was approaching Lisbet Neu’s house. He consulted his watch and saw it wasn’t quite three o’clock. Three in the afternoon was not the time to visit, certainly not for the first time, and certainly not in the case of a well-b
red young woman who lives with her mother. So all he could do was wait. He turned toward the valley, sat down in the shade of a rock, and lit a cigarette. Though there were no shade trees, bushes and rocks warded off the sun and sent up a fine, dust-free scent. When he finished the cigarette, he looked at his watch and saw he would have to be patient.
He took out Neu’s book and read snatches of it. He put it back in his pocket, took out a small notebook, and wrote: “Aristotle’s Poetics, Sophocles’ Antigone, Lessing, Herder, Wilhelm Meister, Goethe’s Profiles, Schiller’s Horen, Schlegel’s Descriptions of Character, Jean Paul, Hume.” Herbst meant to help himself remember some of the books he ought to read for the tragedy he was going to write. Actually, he had read all those books and remembered what was in them. He even knew some of them by heart, but, because he was so exacting, he decided to reread them. I will now leap ahead: Herbst followed through on this list, reading all those books, as well as many others, but the drama he intended to write was never written. Still, nothing was wasted. In taking stock of the characters he had invented and ordering their lives, he considered the events of his own life – how they fit together, as well as their implications. After writing what he wrote, he walked among the parched bushes and the sun-struck bramble splitting open with a sound like that of nuts being cracked, reflecting on the characters he had created.
Meanwhile, the sun began to warm him, shrubs and rock giving back to the sun what they took so easily. Herbst closed his eyes, hoping to doze. Mosquitoes came and stung him. He lit another cigarette to keep the mosquitoes away. The cigarette in his mouth dozed off, and so did he. The mosquitoes, however, instead of dozing, came back and stung him again. He got up, yielded his spot to them, began pacing back and forth, and, as he paced, looked around and began to make archeological speculations. Leaping from rock to rock, he was no longer in the valley but had come to a bald spot between the bushes, adorned with thorns and thistles. It glistened in the sun with countless paths and trails nearby that vanished among the bushes and rocks. There were other paths, one of which wound as far as the eye could see, more than likely extending into town, perhaps even all the way to where Shira lived. He felt the point of a scalpel cutting into his heart. It was not a scalpel; it was the anguish of pain. He closed his eyes tight because of the pain and, with closed eyes, followed his feet. He moved on, his legs striking each other. Had he looked at his watch, he would have seen that he could now call on the Neu ladies. But rather than look at his watch, he looked at the path, retreating and bringing him closer to where he was going. When he realized he was close to Shira’s house, he indulged in the prayer we are familiar with: Let me find a locked door, let me find that Shira’s out. The gods, who mock each other and don’t give human beings a chance to mock them, did what they did. While he was praying that Shira would be out, the gods took charge, brought Shira home, and brought Herbst to Shira’s door.
Chapter twelve
Herbst was at Shira’s house again. He had been at Shira’s many times in the evening, but never by day. Now he was there in the daytime. On which day? On Shabbat, a day when neighbors are free to note nonessentials and their curious eyes scrutinize the very air. Herbst stood at the door, wondering how many times to ring. When their love was new, they had agreed on two long rings and one short one to announce his arrival. Now he hesitated; if she knew who it was, she might pretend not to be in. He decided to be devious and gave an ordinary ring. She didn’t answer. He waited and rang again. She didn’t answer. He left, came back, and gave two long rings and a short one. He soon heard her footsteps and could tell she was coming. After a while she opened the door. Before he had a chance to look at her, she was gone.
He went inside and found her in bed, wrapped and swaddled to her neck in a blanket that rose and fell over her stomach, which pushed the blanket aside and reared out from under it. A gurgling sound bubbled forth from underneath the blanket, the sound of an inverted water bottle. There was, in fact, a hot-water bottle resting on her stomach and bubbling loudly. He took a chair and sat beside her bed, as if he had come to see how she was, as if his only interest were in knowing what she was doing. She welcomed him as she hadn’t done in a long while. Her face was flushed, her cheekbones ashen, and her nose partly red, partly white. The hot-water bottle on her belly continued to rumble. The light was dim, because the curtains were drawn over the window. The entire room had become more like a dingy hallway in which a stranger wouldn’t be able to find the door. When he had collected himself, Herbst asked Shira, “Are you sick?” Rather than sympathy, there was a note of irritation in his voice, because she had chosen to be sick at the very time he had taken the trouble to visit. Shira answered, “I was on the night shift at the hospital, and I put myself to bed to make up the sleep I missed.” Herbst said, “I’m sorry I woke you.” Shira said, “You didn’t wake me. Someone rang earlier and woke me, but I couldn’t open the door because I was sleeping naked, without a nightgown.” Herbst said, “When you came to open the door for me, you put on your nightgown.” Shira said, “How do you know that?” Herbst said, “From what you said, I know you were wearing a nightgown. Also, I can see you are wearing it now.” Shira laughed and said, “You see everything, my dear Sherlock. Close the window, please, and lower the blinds. The sunlight is in my eyes. Many thanks, darling. Just that blind, the one across from the bed. Thanks, darling. You’re not smoking? Would you hand me my bag; it’s on the table. Thanks, darling. Now, darling, the little mirror, please. Thanks, darling. Now sit down, darling. You can sit down. I won’t bother you anymore. You’re probably tired. I assume you had to walk here, since it’s Shabbat. Shabbat…the God of the Jews knows how to torture His followers even more than the Gentiles torture them. No, that’s not the bag I meant. I meant the blue one. Would you please look and see if it fell on the floor. No? Then I left it somewhere, and I don’t know where. I’ll look for it later. Don’t bother. See, when you’re used to doing everything yourself and you ask someone else to do something for you, it’s useless. No, no. Actually, that is the bag I wanted. My mistake. That’s it. I’m surprised at myself. I should have recognized it immediately. I probably didn’t recognize it because of the light.”
Shira opened the bag, took out a small puff, dipped it in powder, and smoothed it over her nose. She sprinkled some powder on her forehead and said, “So you finished your article and even got it published.” Herbst asked in alarm, “Who told you about my article?” Shira said, “I have no contact with angels, and I don’t believe in devils, so you can assume it was a person that told me. Not just any person, but someone from Mount Scopus.” Herbst stared at her fiercely and said, “I demand that you tell me who.” Shira laughed and said, “You certainly are curious, sir. Very curious. If I’m not mistaken, two days after we met I told you I don’t like curious people, and you, sir, are not being considerate of me with this display of curiosity. But I will make an exception and tell you.” “Who was it?” Herbst needed to repeat the question, though he was afraid he might hear a name that would mean his downfall. Though Herbst knew of no such person, his terror was undiminished. Something akin to laughter leaped out of Shira’s eyes, glided over her face, and was intercepted by her ashen freckles before returning to its point of origin. She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes, in which two swirls of laughter shimmered, one filled with malice, the other with affection. She looked at him, laughing, and said, “You want to know who told me?” Herbst wanted to say, “Yes, I demand that you tell me,” but he didn’t say anything. Shira said, “Who was it? It was the very person who is here with me now, in this house, at this moment.” Even though he grasped that she was referring to him, his fear didn’t relent. It took him a minute to recover, feign laughter, move his chair, and say, “Yes, it’s true, I told you myself, and I forgot. Now let’s put the article behind us and talk about something else.” Shira said, “You think I’m too stupid for scholarly chitchat.” Herbst got up, took her hand, and held it, stroking it fondly with his othe
r hand, as if to placate her. Shira made no move to withdraw her hand, but she said, “Dr. Herbst is a very learned man; still, there is no reason to stroke my hand.” Herbst let go and put his hands in his pockets. Shira said, “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Herbst said, “I don’t consider myself offended.” Shira said, “That’s good.” Herbst said, “Good, good.” He leaned to his left and looked at his watch. Shira said, “Sit down and have a cigarette. I’ll get dressed, and we can go for a walk.”
Shira wrapped herself in a robe and got out of bed. Herbst pretended not to be watching as he strained to follow every one of her gestures. He passed his tongue over his lips, speculating: Now she’s putting on her girdle; she’s taking off her robe now and putting on some other garment; she’s slipping her feet into her stockings. His eyelids covered his eyes, but her every move was revealed to him. His fantasies transformed themselves into vision and showed him everything she did. They showed him every single garment, and his mind was fixed on every one of her limbs. Had he uttered their names, he would have been startled. But his mouth was silent. He didn’t have the strength to say anything. Only his lips quivered. Then, all of a sudden, his entire body began to quiver, and he was overcome with sadness.
He was overcome with sadness – because of this woman, because of her clothes, because of her body, because of how she moved, because she paid no attention to him, because she ordered him not to look at her, because she didn’t acknowledge his existence. Would she continue to treat him as she had been treating him recently? His mood vacillated between inertia and turbulence. They finally merged, taking the form of devastating despair.
