Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  He left the old books and went down the steps to the main store below. Like all modern establishments, it was closed for lunch, but the display windows were exposed to view. He stood looking at Weltfremdt’s book, thinking: I suppose I’ll have to buy it. He had another thought: I have mentioned Gethsemane a hundred times without thinking of those two brothers, the brothers who were killed together near Gethsemane. It wouldn’t surprise me to find a study of this phenomenon: certain place-names evoke memories of events that have occurred there, while other places can be mentioned without evoking any such events. With regard to Gethsemane and the murdered brothers, I blame Sacharson, whose name I don’t like to invoke. Having mentioned him only in order to resolve a dilemma, he has been mentioned, and I won’t pursue the paradox any further. I’ll just go into the café, sit down, and have some coffee.

  He went into the café and ordered hot, not iced, coffee. He waited for it to cool, then drank it up all at once, took out his cigarette case, and sat smoking and reading the paper he had found on the table. He was watching the office girls who were taking a break. They wore good clothes that they couldn’t afford to buy on an office salary. They sat over coffee, tea, or cocoa. Their faces, dimmed by clouds of cigarette smoke, were weary from work and from the weight of the fine clothes on their backs.

  One of them approached Herbst and asked for the newspaper that was next to him. He handed her the one he was reading, assuming that was the one she meant, when actually she had meant the one on the table. She returned his paper to him and picked up the other one. As soon as she was gone, Herbst went back to his paper, but he didn’t continue to read, because his mind was now on her. He hadn’t had occasion to talk to her, but he knew she was married and had children, maybe two, maybe three. She spends eight hours in the office, leaving her husband and children to depend on a housekeeper, who, one imagines, behaves as if she were the lady of the house. What moves this woman to leave her husband and children, to wear herself out eight hours a day in an office, surrounded by the rattle of typewriters, shrieking telephones, squabbles with office mates? If she is competent, her friends are annoyed. And the males in an office still find it hard to accept a woman who surpasses them in skill or earnings. He looked at her and saw that she was sitting with her cup in front of her, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, the newspaper slipping out of her hands as her eyes opened and closed, opened and closed, eager for sleep but afraid to doze off, lest she be late getting back to the office. Herbst looked at his watch and was overwhelmed by sympathy for her and for all the weary workers who would soon have to go back to work. He, too, went back to what he was occupied with earlier: Weltfremdt’s book, the spread of the Goths into Roman territory, and the famine they were confronted with almost as soon as they arrived. The famine was so great that, after the Germans had used up all their resources, offering their cash, carriages, and armor in return for food, Syrian merchants brought emaciated dogs to their camp and traded them for a male or female child.

  Herbst suddenly found himself watching a particular young woman, though there was nothing special about her that would account for his interest, except for her face, which was quite childlike. This young woman, Herbst thought, works for a printer; she works in the office of a printing press. She looks German, but she isn’t. Anyway, I’m clearly right about the work she does. She works in the office of a printing press, and I can even describe what she does there. Henrietta would say, “You have such great intuition, Fred.” While he was celebrating the fact that he had guessed her line of work from her face, she was called to the telephone. Now that she was gone, Herbst turned to the waitress and asked who she was. She told him. Herbst said, “A lawyer, just as I thought. It’s perfectly obvious. What was I about to say?” The waitress stood waiting for him to say it. Herbst noticed and said, “Excuse me. I was going to say something to myself, not to you.” Because she was so tired, she wasn’t paying attention and didn’t find this odd. When she left, he whispered to himself, without letting the words reach any ears other than his own, “Another day is gone. What did I accomplish today? I didn’t accomplish anything. I got up in the morning, picked up half a donkey’s load of books, took them in to breakfast, and told Henrietta I was going to Gethsemane. Henrietta didn’t say, ‘Why go to Gethsemane on such a hot day?’ When I arrived in town, I didn’t go to Gethsemane, because I had no wish to go to Gethsemane. When I met Julian Weltfremdt, I went to a café with him and drank iced coffee. While we sat over the iced coffee, he mentioned that he had heard I was being considered for a promotion. When he said that the kindergartens in this country will become universities, did he mean to irritate me, because I may be about to be promoted? Another day is gone, one of those days that give us nothing beyond the knowledge that our lifetime is now one day shorter. What significance does this have for a man like me whose days have been decreased by one? How did I use this day? I looked at pictures. True, it’s good for a person to look at a fine picture every now and then. How successful that painter was, how vivid the colors on the dead flesh. However, I should say this: I was exaggerating when I said I could hear the voice of the bell in the leper’s hand. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll get The Night Watch and take it to Shira. If I find her, good. If I don’t find her, I’ll leave the picture with one of her neighbors. In any case, I can say one thing: It doesn’t matter if I find her or not. Wait a minute! Shira was looking for that picture of a doctor, some students, and the patient who is the object of their lesson while all this time I’ve been thinking of The Night Watch.”

  He suddenly began to feel the pinch of hunger. He called the waitress and asked for some food that could be considered lunch. “As for bread,” he said, “it doesn’t matter whether it’s black or white.” Though he preferred black bread, he had found that, in this country, one often has to make do with wheat bread, wheat being one of the native species. He learned about this from Gandhi, who wrote that every land produces the bread best suited to its inhabitants. He ate, drank, paid his bill, lit another cigarette, and left.

  His limbs were light, as they tend to be after a light meal and two cups of coffee. The air outside was not light; burnt gasoline, scorched dust, human sweat, the stench of garbage and tobacco produced a mess of smells; the din that filled the air included traffic noise, the clatter of typewriters, the shouts of newspaper boys, the malevolent eyes of policemen, the bold footsteps of young Arabs, the howl of stray dogs, the anguish of human beings wondering what to do next. All this had the potential to unsettle one’s mind, but Herbst’s mind remained composed. His mind was on many things, even on the waitress who had served him in the café, who must have left work by now, put on good clothes, and looked so different that one would barely recognize her. Finally, he too was unsettled. His capacity to be a simple observer was lost, along with his physical lightness, a lightness he used to enjoy without being quite aware of it, a lightness that was once his characteristic mode. Once, before he knew Shira.

  What began to unsettle him again was the tragedy he had wanted to write but never wrote. When he was with Henrietta in Kfar Ahinoam, after the birth of Dani, his daughter’s son, he had decided to abandon the project, and he had done so. Suddenly, all of a sudden, it was on his mind again, suggesting that he take it on. Isn’t it odd that, the minute I give up the idea of writing the tragedy, just then I happen to see a painting of a leper, a painting that could serve as a model for the faithful slave Basileios?

  Chapter sixteen

  The day passed, as most days do, partly in eating, drinking, and sleeping; partly in reading books, articles, and dissertations, and adding to the body of notes. Some notes are definitive; others, tentative, in that the writer jots them down and stores them in a box until he finds better ones. There are days when the writing process demands a certain note, even points it out. On that particular day, most of the new notes were problematic from the outset. Some, he labored over both before and while writing them down, only to tear them up and write them over again,
and then continue to vacillate about putting them in the box. We don’t know how he benefited from such a day. Only that his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium gained nothing.

  On the other hand, his library was enriched – perhaps his range of knowledge, too – for he acquired an additional book. How? Professor Ernst Weltfremdt learned that Herbst wanted his book but didn’t buy it because of the price. What did Professor Weltfremdt do? He sent Herbst a copy of the book, by special messenger, as a present. We have heard that it was Professor Weltfremdt’s way to honor people with his offprints, but not with a book that costs enough to pay for a night in a hotel, even such a place as Bodenheimer’s in Haifa. Herbst was delighted with the book, for he wanted to acquire it but couldn’t afford the price. A lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem earns only thirty-five lirot a month, from which he has to contribute to the national funds, the cultural funds, charitable institutions, and so on.

  Henrietta noticed how pleased Manfred was and said, “I’ll tell you what I think, Fred. I would have preferred for you to buy Weltfremdt’s book, rather than receive it from him as a gift. I don’t know what moves Weltfremdt to send you presents, but I’m sure he has his own interests at heart. You had better be ready to repay his kindness.” Manfred said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have an odd habit, Henriett. Whenever I’m in a good mood, you can’t resist throwing cold water on me. What do you mean, ‘his own interests’? If you mean that he’ll ask me to write about his book, I certainly wouldn’t mind.” Henrietta said, “That’s just fine. But, tell me, Fred, are you sure Weltfremdt will be satisfied with whatever you write about his book?” Manfred said, “Satisfied or not, if I find a misguided opinion in the book, I won’t overlook it, and if I find reason to disagree with him, I won’t hesitate. Let me make this clear to you: I have never gone in for flattery. To this day, I take responsibility for all the reviews I have ever written. As for Ernst Weltfremdt’s book, if I don’t write about it, who will? His cousin Julian, whose anger turns him into a madman, or one of countless others whose intelligence could be deposited on a fly’s wing without weighing it down. Those who acquired a smattering of knowledge managed to forget it, and those who never studied had nothing to forget. There are some reviewers who figure out from the book itself how to take issue with it, though they know nothing about the subject.” Henrietta said, “Then it would be good if you were to review Weltfremdt’s book. But, tell me, Fred, are you sure Weltfremdt will be pleased with what you write about his book?” Manfred said, “Whether or not he is pleased, I already told you that, if I find a misguided opinion or an unfounded premise, I certainly won’t overlook it. In our generation, there is no scholar I admire as much as Professor Neu. Everything I know, the half a million words I have incorporated from teachers and books – all of this is material I can evaluate because of Neu. Nonetheless, when I found an unvalidated premise in his book, I didn’t hesitate to comment on it. Remember the letter he sent me at the time? You don’t remember? I remember. I remember what he wrote, word for word. ‘My dear Herbst,’ Neu wrote. ‘You were right to point out the weak spot in my book. I know that I am right, but, unfortunately, I can’t offer more support for my position. Nor do I expect to be able to do so. I’m too old to return to that subject. I do hope that what I wrote will lead our younger colleagues to persist and find ways to validate my premise, which is true, though it is beyond my power to prove it.’ Anyway, Henriett, you reminded me of something one should beware of. Not for your reason, Henrietta, but for another reason. This country is small, and the Jews in it are crowded together. Especially the academic community, which is like a ghetto within a ghetto. I already see the problems when a review appears in print. The day the review is published, on that very day the critic and the author are likely to run into each other, in the library, at the university, at another professor’s home. Now, imagine what the critic feels when he sees the author right in front of him. Or, reversing it, what the author feels when he sees the critic. Just last Saturday, in Beit Hakerem, an artist saw a critic sitting in an outdoor café with his fiancée. The artist went up to him and slapped his face, because he had criticized his work, and it wasn’t until the critic beat him with his cane that he calmed down. Academics don’t behave that way, but sometimes words can have more of an impact than a strong arm or a cane. Now that scholars and researchers are coming here from all over, I worry about criticism and critics. In the preceding generation, scholars were well off in Jerusalem. They sat comfortably, playing with ideas while they sipped black coffee and smoked narghiles, enjoying each other’s insights, with no breach, with no outcry. Now, my dear Henriett, the idyll is over. Now that so many scholars live in such close quarters, criticism is destined to become less honest. Whether the critic likes it or not, the author’s face will confront him as he writes, and he will adjust his words accordingly. I have often asked myself what the main factors are that lead someone like me, if not to lie, then to use words that camouflage the truth.” Henrietta regarded her husband fondly and said with surprise, “Why, Fred, you aren’t not telling the truth. Because you don’t contaminate your mouth by slandering friends, as Julian Weltfremdt does, you consider yourself a traitor to the truth. You know, Fred, I was never impressed with that secret adviser Mr. Ernst Weltfremdt. Nor was I impressed by the sharp pronouncements of our beloved Dr. Julian Weltfremdt. Having mentioned his name, let me tell you something else. I resent the way he treats Mimi. What does he want from his wife? She is charming and artistic. If she isn’t an expert at cleaning pots, she has many other talents to make up for this deficiency.” Manfred said, “The same is true of our daughter, Tamara, though no one would say she is charming.” Henrietta said, “But she is artistic.” Manfred was annoyed and said, “Forgive me, my dear, forgive me if I have another view. You call her artistic because of the insipid rhymes she makes up when she’s bored. If I’m not mistaken, you already know my view of her rhymes; also, of the rhymes of many others who are considered poets. In my youth, I was exposed to some dreadful rhymed prose. Even when there was an idea or a narrative, those were hardly poems. Hardly, my dear, hardly. I am referring to the poets of the world, not to the Hebrew poets, for whom any trace of a political, nationalist, ethical, or social idea embodied in rhyme constitutes a poem. A favorite student of mine, his name is Elyakum Zuf – maybe you know him: the one with dark curls and black eyes – used to show me poems of that sort regularly, in an effort to convince me of their lyrical quality. I like that young man very much, my dear. And I would like to make him happy. But to accept such poems as poetry is impossible for me, though I know that what I say causes him pain. What is there for fine young men like him to do? The earth they came to redeem doesn’t respond to them, because their strength is meager. What goes on here is hard on them. Not merely the actions of the English and the Arabs, but those of the Jews as well. Men of action fulfill themselves in the Haganah, the Irgun, Lehi. Those who are not men of action find comfort in poetry. In the end, their teachers and mentors come and say, ‘That’s not a poem.’ I’m willing to close an eye to a researcher’s errors. A researcher does his work according to his talent and ability, summarizes his research in terms of his conclusions, and has no special biases. He is content to be given space in some journal so he can publish his findings and have them read by others in his field. Poets are different. If one of them succeeds in arranging his words in rhymed form, it’s as if he has created new heavens, as if all the creatures of his world are in place under his sun and moon. Forgive me, Henriett. I don’t know what suddenly made me so cross. I’m afraid it’s my own fault: because I’m angry at myself, I’m angry at everyone who writes poems.” Henrietta said, “Because you’re angry at yourself? Why at yourself? Do you write poems? Since our wedding day, you haven’t turned out a single poem. Even for my birthday, which was about a week after our wedding, you didn’t write a poem. That entire day, Fred, until we went to sleep that night, I was expecting you to present m
e with a poem or a sonnet. What did that scoundrel do? He pursed his lips and discharged his duty with kisses to match the number of years I was carrying on my back.” Manfred said, “I don’t write poems. But…” “But what?” Manfred said, “If I were to tell you what I am doing, you would laugh.” Henrietta said, “Am I allowed to ask?” Manfred said, “You are allowed to ask, but it would be better if you didn’t.” Henrietta said, “Then I won’t ask. I can count on you to tell me yourself.” Manfred answered, “I hope you won’t be sorry you made me tell you. I’m composing a tragedy. A tragedy, Henriett, a tragedy.” Henrietta said, “A tragedy?” Manfred said, “Yes, Henriett. A tragedy.” Henrietta said, “Your forehead please, my dearest. Let me kiss your forehead. How did you suddenly come to be writing a tragedy? And what is the content of this tragedy?” Manfred passed his hand over his forehead and rested it there, fingers outstretched, first looking at Henrietta, then turning away from her. Then he began, “I don’t recall exactly how I came to be writing the tragedy. But I can outline the plot to you. Believe me, Henriett, I forgot the reason. What I haven’t forgotten is the content of the tragedy. But allow me first to finish what I was saying before. It isn’t always good to have scholars crowded together. Still, it could add to the spiritual intensity to have them all struggling to outdo each other’s scholarship and, when they can’t quite outdo the others, struggling so as not to be lost in the crowd. I already see myself, Henriett, my dear, being stingy with my time, to avoid scattering it to the wind.” Henrietta said, “I’m surprised to hear you say that. In all of Jerusalem, is there anyone as busy and involved as you? Lectures, seminars, discussions with students. Also, the book you are writing. Judging by the amount of activity and the number of notes you have amassed, it will surely measure up to Weltfremdt’s book. Please, Fred, don’t look so indignant. Of course I know that books aren’t measured by their thickness. In any case…” Henrietta laughed and said, “I might as well admit it. The truth is, I said ‘in any case’ without having anything to add.” Herbst laughed and said, “That’s what I love about you, Henriett. You’re not afraid to admit the truth, even when it’s not to your credit. And if you have nothing to add to that ‘in any case,’ I’ll add to it. In any case, it’s to your credit that you tell the truth even when it discredits you. And have you forgotten all about my tragedy?” Henrietta said, “I didn’t forget. I’m waiting for you to begin telling me about it.” Manfred said, “No, you forgot. And, since you forgot, I’m not required to tell you.” Henrietta said, “Please, Fred, don’t tease me. Tell me what that tragedy is about.” Manfred said, “I once went to get a haircut. While I was waiting my turn in the barbershop, I picked up a magazine and saw a cartoon about a playwright who used to instruct his wife to plan menus to match the plots of his plays. One day he told her, ‘My dear wife, cook something happy today. I’m finishing an amusing play.’ Henriett, I trust you to understand. Bring on the cognac, and I’ll have a drop to match the bitterness of my tragedy.”