by Agnon, S. Y.
Manfred said, “Now I know what nurses talk about when they come to visit a respected lady such as Henrietta Herbst.” Henrietta said, “Now you know about the ingratitude of respected gentlemen such as Dr. Herbst.” “How is that?” “He sits and listens attentively, eager not to miss a single word. Then he expresses disapproval. You got what you deserved, Manfred.” Manfred said, “Mother, shouldn’t you lie down? I really think you ought to lie down after lunch.” Henrietta said, “Don’t mind me. If you want to go to your room, go ahead.” Manfred said, “I’m going up to my room, but not to lie down.” Henrietta said, “Do whatever you like.” Manfred said, “I would like to go into town. Believe it or not, I have no specific reason to go. But I’d like to, with nothing specific in mind.” Henrietta said, “That’s the best reason. A man shouldn’t always have specific things to do. As a matter of fact, why not go into town and amuse yourself? You’ll come home in a better mood.” Manfred said, “I’ll try.”
As soon as he entered his room, he saw the woven tray with the peach pits on it. Because the household routines had been disrupted by the nurse who chose to visit at lunchtime, Firadeus had forgotten to clear away the tray. Herbst didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he was pleased that the peach pits were still there, so he could crack them open and eat the insides. But a peach pit is tough. It takes a hammer to crack it, and there was no hammer in his room. The hammer was downstairs with all the other tools. He didn’t want to go downstairs, preferring not to get involved in conversation with Henrietta, who would hear him and come, or else call to him. He looked around for a hard object or a rock to use to split open the pit. Not finding it, he went over to the window with the pit in his hand. He aimed it at a bush whose roses had wilted. As it happened, he hit the target. He smiled to himself, musing: Too bad I had no scheme for this game. For example: if the pit hits the bush, it’s a sign that I’ll find Shira today. Again he thought: Too bad. Then he reconsidered, noting to himself: There are five more pits here; what I didn’t do with the first one, I can now do with these. He picked up a pit, aimed at the bush, and hit it. He smiled and thought: What do I gain from this activity, if I don’t see a sign in it? He picked up another pit and thought: My hand is trained to hit that particular bush; now I’ll set myself a different target. He surveyed the garden and noticed a starling, its beak stuck in the ground. Herbst thought: I’ll test my power on him. Before he had a chance to pick up the pit, the starling took off with a screech and flew away. Herbst laughed heartily and mused: That starling knew what I was up to and didn’t want to oblige me with his body. He looked at the plate and counted the remaining pits. There were three left. He took another pit and was going to throw it. Before he could decide on a target, he saw Sarah ambling through the garden. He called to her. As soon as he called to her, he regretted it. He didn’t want to get involved with her, because, if he meant to go into town and find Shira, this was the time to go. It was possible that, at such an hour, when people don’t usually visit each other, he might find her at home. It occurred to him to wonder why she would be hiding in her house, having just said that, at this particular hour, when people don’t usually visit each other, he might find her in. He looked at his watch and saw that it was four o’clock. It would be good to have some coffee, but that would delay him. He left his room, thinking that it would be good to have coffee first, but that he would get some in town.
Chapter five
Though he guessed that this would be an opportune time to find Shira at home, he nevertheless went on foot rather than take the bus, for he had noticed that he was getting fat from too much food and too few walks. Jerusalem had been reduced to about half its size because of Arab snipers, and there were fewer and fewer areas a Jew could walk in without risking his life. Even in Baka, a Jew’s life was not secure, but, as nothing had ever happened to him in daylight, he didn’t worry about walking the streets by day.
At about five o’clock, he reached Rehavia. He had encountered no delays along the way. It’s not every day that one spends threequarters of an hour walking in Jerusalem without being delayed.
Herbst was pleased and displeased. He didn’t know why he was pleased and displeased. Since he was in the habit of looking for reasons for his behavior and emotions, he pondered awhile and realized he was pleased because he had arrived in town without being delayed and displeased because he foresaw further disappointment. He assumed he would find Shira’s door locked once again. But this was not the source of these two contrasting emotions, which were actually one and its reverse. He was displeased because he was sure there was nothing more between him and Shira, so why seek her out? He was pleased with the walk itself and the exercise it provided.
Everything turned out as expected. Shira’s door was locked, and he couldn’t tell from the windows whether she had been home since he was last there. After looking at the door and the windows again, he began to believe she might have been home in the interim. As for the fact that he saw no perceptible change, did he have photographs to compare the two visits? He was depending on his own eyes, and eyes that have suffered disappointment are biased and untrustworthy. Herbst walked the alley from beginning to end, backtracked, and walked it from beginning to end again. He repeated this course three or four times. Whenever he came close to her house, he hoped he would and wouldn’t find her door open. He circled so many times that he began to feel dizzy. He decided to leave. As people tend to do when they want something, although they know it’s hopeless, Herbst went back to the house. Once again, he left despondent. Like most people who modify their actions, this way and that, this way and that, to no avail, Herbst became extremely despondent.
Several days earlier, when Herbst had gone there, he had been aware of a person whose eyes seemed to be tracking his every footstep. Though he sensed this, he pretended not to notice, as if they were both pedestrians, passing through the alley with no particular interest in each other. Which was not true of that other person, who sensed that the gentleman had come because of the new tenant, who wasn’t living in the apartment he had rented to her; who had, in fact, already put it back in his hands; who had left several days after she moved in and hadn’t returned. She left and hadn’t returned. The landlord was absolutely confident that the gentleman would return, so he put off talking to him. Whether he was too lazy to initiate a conversation or whether it was wisdom, the landlord assumed that, coming back again and not finding the lady, the gentleman would be interested in chatting about her.
Herbst left the alley despondent and perplexed. He was also annoyed to be wasting time. Having concluded his business with Shira, what did he care if her door was locked? Why did he go back again and again? Did he have such a great need to satisfy his curiosity? And if what was involved was not curiosity, then what was it? For it was clear to him that he had no further business with Shira. Whether or not he knew precisely when his business with Shira had been concluded, he knows that it was concluded and that it makes no sense to revive such things out of curiosity, for there is no telling where that might lead. At the very least, it might lead to wasted time and despondency.
Herbst left the alley without having decided where to go or which way to turn. He didn’t feel like taking up his books; he wasn’t eager for conversation; it wasn’t a good time to call on people about his prospects for a promotion. When your mind is hollow and your heart is troubled, your mouth is not likely to spout words that will impress a listener. Herbst asked himself: Am I so troubled because of Shira? I’m troubled by her because I haven’t been able to find her. If I were to find her, how would it be? At least one thing is clear: I wouldn’t be happy. I would be relieved of the curiosity that sometimes torments me, but I certainly wouldn’t be happy.
To get rid of those thoughts, which were not happy ones, he shifted his mind to the tragedy he meant to write but never wrote. The tragedy unfolded before him, vivid and clear, scene by scene. It seemed to him that, if he were to sit down and write, he would write one scene after another.
He might write the entire tragedy. But he had some doubts. Was it a tragedy, or merely a story with tragic events? Herbst, who was a reader, student, and theatergoer, who had analyzed modern tragedies – those that were updated to make them contemporary, as well as those that dealt with the issues of their time – knew and recognized the distinction between tragic events and tragedy. Modern poets are adept at defining tragedy. Some are even more adept than the early poets were. But those early poets were believers, so the creation of tragedy was entrusted to them. He nonetheless began to reconsider the content, along with the overall scheme, and, again, it seemed to him that, if he sat down to write, he would keep writing and finish. Even if he lacked the excitement that inspires poets to write, he did not lack diligence. He had trained himself to work step by step, note by note, whereas the poetic process demands a different work style, because, when a poet’s inspiration is arrested, it cannot be retrieved. This does not apply to those faithful workers who forge ahead relentlessly, whether or not they feel inspired. Fragmentary scenes were already written and recorded in his notebooks, along with an outline of locales, such as the home of Basileios, the faithful servant. It would surely be worthwhile for him to begin; what followed, as well as the conclusion, would take shape on their own. Once again, Herbst imagined himself leaving the university; leaving his colleagues and students; going to some remote place, where he would rent a wooden hut or find an abandoned stone house and live alone, solitary, for weeks and months, days and nights. There, he would write the tragedy of the woman of the court, the nobleman Yohanan, and their faithful servant Basileios, emerging from his seclusion only when he finished the tragedy. Out of a concern for modesty, truth, and to avoid deception, he observed to himself: I call it tragedy, not because I believe I’m writing tragedy, but out of academic habit. So he observed, imagining this was the reason, when actually there was another reason that will seem absurd if I write it. At that moment, Herbst was intimidated by the word tragedy, afraid it would provoke the gods. By degrees, his enthusiasm waned. At first, he told himself: No need to give everything up; I could take time off and go to live in Ahinoam for a while, where my daughter is. I could surely find an empty room there, eat in the dining hall, and be free from all the concerns of my household. Then he said to himself: I have no particular reason to live in the country. I could compose the tragedy in my own home, in my study, at my desk. After which, he said to himself: Nonsense, this man is destined to write essays. One of these days, he may even finish his great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He scrutinized his soul, examined his heart, and reflected: You are not the sort of person who can change his way of life. You’ll be doing well if you succeed in improving it to some extent.
Improving his life? If he were to try to take stock of his way of life, he would find that he had never once thought it needed improvement. He thought about creating books, about writing criticism, about acquiring books, about becoming a professor, about social connections, about Henrietta. He also thought about Shira. So as not to confound the woman who confounded his heart with respect to his wife, who had only his welfare at heart, he stopped speculating about different ways of life. Although he hadn’t thought of personal reform until now, he had thought of educational reform for his son. As I already related, the night his son was admitted to the covenant of Abraham, he sketched out some rules and specifications for the boy’s education. Once again, he outlined a general scheme for his son’s education, and, once again, he pondered the fact that women are in charge of man’s education. Even one’s earliest nourishment comes from woman. One thought led to another. He remembered the tale of the man whose wife died, leaving him an infant to rear; since he couldn’t afford to hire a wetnurse, his two nipples provided milk, so he could suckle his son. Again Herbst’s response was: What a shame, what a shame that the legend doesn’t tell us the outcome – whether that baby fared any better than the rest of humanity, reared on mother’s milk.
He suddenly remembered the time he went into his daughter Zahara’s room and she covered her bosom in shame. This may have been the first time the girl herself was conscious of being a woman. What about Tamara? When was she first conscious of being a woman? How would it be with Sarah? Sarah is still a baby. Her mother still bathes her in his presence; she is naked and unashamed. As a matter of fact, she often calls to him, “Father, see Sarah, he’s washing.” She means, “See Sarah, she’s washing.” And Firadeus: in all the time he’s known her, it never occurred to him that she was a woman. He regards her as a vessel filled with sorrow and anguish, waiting to serve him, reticent, submissive, compliant. Still, when she was upset by the nurse who came to visit Henrietta, she neglected to clear away the dish, which is what caused him to throw the pits. He threw two at the wilted rosebush and one at a starling that took flight, without seeing any sign about Shira in this game. When he finally went to Shira, he didn’t find her. But he found someone else, whose eyes tracked his every footstep. Were their circumstances similar? Was he also on intimate terms with Shira? Only the devil knows her ways. That woman is capable of actions and relationships that would be bizarre for any other woman, but not for Shira. Even if there was nothing between that man and Shira, it was good that he didn’t speak with him. They would surely have hidden the truth from each other, so what was there to gain from such a conversation?
Herbst was not fanatical about the truth, but he avoided lies, and he had never lied until the night he visited Shira for the first time. What was there for him to do after that night? He had no choice but to superimpose one lie on another, to camouflage his lies with lies, because, in his mind, he was bound to that woman, compelled to seek her out again and again. Marriage is a respected and fine institution which humanity has, no doubt, arrived at as a result of many difficult experiments, but not all marriages promote truth. In the interest of peace and tranquility, one sometimes finds it necessary to heap lie upon lie. What happened to that pious young man who was found in bed with Dr. Krautmeir? What was Henrietta referring to when she called it a Balzacian tale? She was referring to those young people who came to their elders before the wedding ceremony to learn the secrets of sex and were taught on their own bodies. Try to picture that frosty, deliberate woman, without an erotic line on her face, without a tremor of desire, about whose intimate life nothing is known. Picture her in the arms of a young Hasid, half her age, a poor fellow who pays for his love by soiling his black hat, his elegant caftan, and his good name. It’s very odd. As Henrietta heard it from the nurse, the fellow’s wife is a freshly blooming rose. As for Krautmeir, we all know about her. She isn’t ugly, but she certainly isn’t attractive. She’s quite tall. Her body isn’t gross, but it certainly isn’t delicate. Her conversation is always deliberate. She probably has some spiritual needs; she might read a nonprofessional text on occasion. What we know about her is very limited. What can we know about a woman we aren’t close to? And, even if we were close, we wouldn’t know very much. If we were to put together all our information about Shira, it would not be very enlightening. Rika Weltfremdt’s life seems accessible to us, but what we see may be the surface. It is possible that even that woman, whose way of life is simple and obvious, is concealing a monumental secret, the secret of someone who craves poetry and pursues it, only to turn out insipid verse. Though he would have liked to laugh at her verse, he felt melancholy and was depressed by the suspicion that he was remembering her and her verse only because he had once dared to regard himself as the author of a tragedy.
Chapter six
Once again, life’s routines are orderly, without any exceptional events. Gabi keeps growing. Gabi, like his sister Sarah, isn’t very much trouble to his mother, not to mention his father. It’s good that he doesn’t trouble his father, because he is busy preparing lectures for the winter semester, and it wouldn’t do to confound his mind with irrelevant concerns. Sarah had one advantage: Sarini, who was already mentioned, was her only wetnurse, whereas Gabi has already had to adjust to four s
ets of nipples, and no one knows how many changes are ahead before he is weaned, because of diminished milk, because of childbirth, because of Arab terror. If Herbst doesn’t move, I don’t know what’s in store for him and his family. The Arabs are insolent. They are a menace to any Jew who shows his face in Baka. By day, they are menacing; by night, they shoot. Sacharson is already planning to move out of Baka, so as not to cause an Arab to kill a Christian when he really means to kill a Jew. The shohet who used to come from Mekor Hayim every week to slaughter chickens no longer appears at the Herbsts’ home. Unless Henrietta follows the example of other ladies, who wring the chicken’s neck themselves, she will have to deal with the Arab butcher. She doesn’t want to get meat from the Arabs, because, as her father used to say, if we give up the slaughterer and the butcher, what aspects of Judaism will we be left with? It’s enough that she gets other food from the Arabs. If she orders from a Jewish storekeeper, he won’t deliver to her home, because he is afraid. She begins to see herself as someone whose support comes from Jews, without a penny of it reverting to them. How is this? They live in an Arab house. They buy bread from a German bakery; meat from an Arab butcher; fruit, vegetables, and eggs from Arab women; staples from the English. Their books and newspapers are foreign, and, when they want a rest, they go to Father Miller’s pension. Whatever Jews earn through their efforts, they hand over to Gentiles, retaining no benefit for themselves. Tamara is not pleased to be living in Baka either. At least once, she didn’t come home at night. Not because she was out of Jerusalem, but because she was afraid. If this is how it is for Tamara, who is usually accompanied by two dozen young men, what is an ordinary person to do?
Back to Gabi. He keeps growing. And, when you pick him up, you feel his weight. So far, his magnitude derives from weight, not might or valor. For this reason, he needs to be protected from Sarah’s doll and from Sarah. One tries to get her hands on him; the other attacks him with a slipper. Luckily, the doll’s slipper is made of silk. Envy is characteristic of all living things, including this child of old age, who was indulged by everyone until a new creature appeared and appropriated some of the attention. A few days earlier, she had cried because some woman said Sarini would put Gabi back in her belly, and today she incited her doll to throw a slipper at him.
