by S. Agnon
Stanford University Press
Stanford, California
Introduction, Essay, and English Translation of The Parable and Its Lesson ©2014 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. All rights reserved.
The Parable and Its Lesson was originally published in Hebrew in 1973 under the title Hamashal vehanimshal, having appeared as one of several stories in the volume ‘Ir umelo’ah © 1973, Schocken. The English translation is printed with permission.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Agnon, Shmuel Yosef, 1888-1970, author.
[Mashal veha-nimshal. English]
The parable and its lesson : a novella / S.Y. Agnon ; translated and annotated by James S. Diamond ; with an introduction and critical essay by Alan Mintz.
pages cm—(Stanford studies in Jewish history and culture)
“Originally published in Hebrew in 1973 under the title Hamashal vehanimshal, having appeared as one of several stories in the volume ‘Ir umelo’ah.”
ISBN 978-0-8047-8871-1 (cloth : alk. paper)—
ISBN 978-0-8047-8872-4 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Jews—Ukraine—Buchach—Fiction. I. Diamond, James S., translator. II. Mintz, Alan L., writer of introduction, writer of added commentary. III. Title. IV. Series: Stanford studies in Jewish history and culture.
PJ5053.A4M3513 2014
892.43'5—dc23 2013039418
ISBN 978-0-8047-8925-7 (electronic)
Designed by Bruce Lundquist
Typeset at Stanford University Press in 11/15 Adobe Garamond
THE PARABLE AND ITS LESSON
a novella
S.Y. AGNON
TRANSLATED AND ANNOTATED BY
JAMES S. DIAMOND
WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND CRITICAL ESSAY BY
ALAN MINTZ
STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
STANFORD, CALIFORNIA
STANFORD STUDIES IN JEWISH HISTORY AND CULTURE
EDITED BY Aron Rodrigue and Steven J. Zipperstein
James S. Diamond (1939–2013)
IN MEMORIAM
CONTENTS
Introduction
Alan Mintz
THE PARABLE AND ITS LESSON
S. Y. AGNON
Translated and Annotated by James S. Diamond
Essay on The Parable and Its Lesson [Hamashal vehanimshal]
Alan Mintz
Glossary
Printed with permission of Beit Agnon.
INTRODUCTION
ALAN MINTZ
The decisions of the Nobel committee on literature have often been curious, but the award of the prize for 1966 to S. Y. Agnon (together with Nelly Sachs) was not one of those instances. At the time, Agnon was generally regarded as the greatest modern Hebrew writer, and the prize richly deserved. It was also an important moment for Israel and its citizens because this was the first time—and so far the only time—a Hebrew writer was given the award, and the honor was taken as a recognition of the achievements of this new literature in general. Agnon lived just long enough to take great pleasure in the honor and to enjoy the tributes given him not only in Israel but in the United States, which he visited for the first time the year after the award. Agnon died in 1970 at the age of eighty-two.
Agnon’s output was prodigious. He wrote and published continuously from 1905 to his death, after which fourteen more volumes appeared, to be placed alongside the several versions of the collected stories and novels that came out in his lifetime. Agnon was a ceaseless rewriter, and there is scarcely a major text in his oeuvre that has not undergone several revisions. Although Agnon’s forte was the story in all its short and long forms, he also wrote five major novels and devoted himself to compiling thematic anthologies of Jewish classical sources. Rather than turning from one form and immersing himself in another, Agnon would typically work on several projects in different genres at one time. Because the ongoing body of his work is dynamic, polyphonic and unstable, it has been difficult for critics to divide Agnon’s career into usefully identifiable phases. Yet despite these challenges, most students of Agnon would point to the twenty years following his return to Palestine from Germany in 1924 as the high water mark in the master’s career. All of his novels were published or written during this time, as were the modernist parables collected in The Book of Deeds [Sefer Hama’asim]. These latter were the stories that changed the way contemporary readers perceived Agnon. Initially viewing him as a teller of naïve tales of Polish Jewry, readers subsequently came to accept him as an ironic modern master.
From the end of World War Two to his death, Agnon continued to write, revise and publish prolifically, but the work produced during this period seemed to most critics to be a continuation of the various modes, genres and themes of his earlier writing. It is generally assumed that this creative activity was aimed at tying up loose ends, bringing projects to fruition and extending the range of previously secured innovations.
It is now clear that this conception of Agnon’s last phase needs to undergo a fundamental revision. We can now see that one of Agnon’s postwar projects was entirely new: a preoccupying, ambitious, large-scale undertaking that represented a fundamental rethinking of the master’s relationship to the world of Eastern Europe. This is the epic cycle of stories—close to 150 of them—written during the 1950s and 1960s about Buczacz, the Galician town, today in the eastern Ukraine, in which Agnon grew up and lived until his emigration to Palestine at the age of nineteen in 1907. None of the material appears in any earlier collection. The whole was compiled by the Agnon’s daughter Emumah Yaron, according to her father’s instructions, and published under the title ‘Ir umelo’ah [A City in Its Fullness] in 1973. The story cycle endeavors to give an account of Buczacz during the two hundred years that followed the devastating Khmelnitski massacres of 1648. Taken together, the stories constitute Agnon’s comprehensive effort, after the annihilation of European Jewry, to think through the question of what from that lost culture should be retrieved through the resources of the literary imagination. ‘Ir umelo’ah was hardly noticed when it was published, and it remains largely unknown to the non-Hebrew reading world. Yet I would argue that it is one of the most extraordinary responses to the murder of European Jewry in modern Jewish writing. Hamashal vehanimshal, the novella from that collection presented and translated here as The Parable and Its Lesson, reaches back in time to explore the responses to the 1648 massacres in light of our implicit awareness of the great catastrophe of our era. It is a good representative of the larger project of the Buczacz tales because it is concerned both with capturing the pathos of a historical moment in the fortunes of the city and with the ways in which narrative and voice refract reality. Agnon’s passion remained the disingenuous act of storytelling. The Parable and Its Lesson, with its two narrators and sustained monologue and intriguing fissures, provides an excellent instance of Agnon’s mature narrative energies at full tilt.
What is Agnon for us today? Does he number among those once-famous writers who now seem to belong to another time and another world of taste? To be sure, his portrait and quotations from his Nobel Prize speech appear on the fifty-shekel note in Israel, but that only guarantees him a place alongside other forgotten founders. Or does Agnon’s work qualify as being a true classic, if we understand a classic as literature that, despite its rootedness in a particular time and place and conventions of writing, nonetheless possesses enough surplus of meaning to speak
to us now? For the present, Agnon’s place among cultured readers in Israel is secure, although the increasing polarization between secular and religious culture may eventually endanger that status; for the former he may come to seem too foreign and the for latter impure simply for being literature. For young people, Agnon is one of those standard authors you have to get through for exams, even though sensitive readers will often rediscover him as adults. Reading Agnon is not easy. Even committed and discriminating readers who are native speakers of Hebrew have to deal with many unfamiliar references, especially if they lack a background in traditional Jewish texts. The fact that Agnon continues to be read despite these obstacles provides evidence for the claim that he is indeed a classic.
But for a true classic, there is an additional high hurdle: translatability. When the nuances and the echoes and puns and the rhythm are shorn from the work, does it still excite us? In Agnon’s case the record is mixed. The translators who have sought to preserve the special strangeness of Agnon’s Hebrew have been less successful than those who have been willing to sacrifice a great deal in order to create a simulacrum that works as literature in English. It of course makes a great deal of difference what kind of Agnon is being translated. He wrote continuously for more than sixty years, and he wrote in different genres. For example, his first novel, Hakhnasat kalah [The Bridal Canopy, 1931] concerns the peregrinations of a poor Hasid in search of a dowry for his daughters among the townlets of Galicia in the early nineteenth century. This sprawling comic narrative is heavy with biblical allusions and parodies of religious practices and anecdotes about rabbinic sages. Putting such a work into English—it was done, unevenly, by I. M. Lask in 1967—throws up a very different set of problems than works written in a mode closer to European realism, such as Agnon’s second novel, Sipur pashut [A Simple Story, 1935], translated, superbly, by Hillel Halkin in 1985. Set in Agnon’s hometown of Buczacz in the years before World War One, the novel follows the psychological breakdown and recovery of the son of an established merchant family. Although here too there are allusions and submerged subtexts, the object of representation is a much more familiar bourgeois world in which religious learning plays little role.
For the present occasion, we have gone to the difficult end of the Agnon spectrum and chosen to translate a work that poses steep challenges and, because it is a riveting work of art, offers steep rewards as well. First published in Haaretz in 1958, The Parable and Its Lesson is not well known even to aficionados of Agnon in Israel. Set in the late seventeenth century, it is an account of the journey taken by a rabbi and his shamash, his assistant, into Gehinnom, the Underworld, for the purpose of freeing a teenage bride from the bonds of widowhood. The scenes of horrible and peculiar torments they witness there are gruesome in themselves; worse still are the received notions of sin and punishment that they seem to overturn. The journey to Gehinnom is described as part of the testimony that the shamash gives in his own defense at a trial that takes place fifty-four years after the events. The story shows us Buczacz at two removes: in the immediate aftermath of the Khmelnitski massacres, the community struggles to reconstitute itself and mourn its losses, and then a half-century later when the now-prosperous community is on the verge of a disturbing complacency.
This is a truly exciting piece of literature that is unparalleled in the rest of modern Jewish writing. It is also difficult, difficult in Hebrew, and in translation all the more so. This difficulty comes in several specific varieties, and it has been our aim in this edition to account for them and compensate for them in various ways. First, we have provided a glossary of Hebrew terms for readers who are not familiar with traditional Jewish life. We have retained a number of Hebrew terms in the translation—and naturalized them by not italicizing them—because there are simply no adequate English equivalents. A chief example is the main character of the story. To call the shamash, the assistant who accompanies the rabbi on the journey to Gehinnom, a sexton or a beadle is awkward and foreign to the historical context.
Second, we have provided an extensive set of notes that explain biblical allusions, references to the rabbinic literature and medieval compositions, theological concepts from Kabbalah, abstruse ritual practices and relevant historical events. We have chosen not to interfere with the flow of the text by placing endnote or footnote numbers next to the terms that are explained in the notes; rather, we have placed the notes at the end and marked them according to the pages on which appear the terms they explain. They are there, in other words, for those who want them. There are different kinds of readers. For some, the story can be read with pleasure and understanding without recourse to much of the information in the notes; and this is not because that information is already known but because it is not truly necessary to take in the story. Other readers feel intrigued or provoked by unfamiliar references, and they wish to have that gap filled in even if it means an interruption in the flow of reading.
Finally, there are difficulties that have little to do with translation or cultural literacy. These are perplexing interpretive problems that are inherent in the story. Why does the shamash wait a half century to tell his story? What practical purpose is served by the rabbi’s descent into Gehinnom? Why does the story devote so much attention to the ceremonies commemorating the dead of 1648? Why did Agnon name the story The Parable and Its Lesson when the parable in question contributes little to our enlightenment? Hence the usefulness of the interpretative essay that accompanies the story. The essay first describes how Agnon embarked on the massive cycle of the Buczacz stories as a unique response to the murder of European Jewry and how he developed a set of narrative techniques for this project that required a departure from how he wrote in the past. The essay then enters the thicket of interpretive difficulties in the story itself and proposes ways of reading that attempt to make sense of Agnon’s narrative choices. In sum, it is our wager that even a difficult Agnon text—so long as it is a superb Agnon text, as we believe this one to be—can be enjoyed in translation provided the necessary interpretive resources. We hope that reading this one Buczacz tale will stimulate interest in the larger project of which it is a part.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ariel Hirschfeld and Jeffrey Saks were always available for us to draw on their erudition and good judgment. I am grateful to David Stern and Raymond Scheindlin for their encouragement and their help in solving knotty problems.
James S. Diamond was killed in a traffic accident shortly after the manuscript of this book was submitted. His death is a grave loss, and he will be greatly missed.
THE PARABLE AND ITS LESSON
S. Y. AGNON
TRANSLATED AND ANNOTATED BY JAMES S. DIAMOND
AMONG THE LINE OF RABBIS who ruled in our town was the illustrious and godly Rabbi Moshe, a rabbi who, in his lifetime, journeyed to Gehinnom in order to free an agunah. Two purposes motivate me to record this story. One is to tell of the greatness of that saintly rabbi. The other, as I have already noted, is to admonish those among us, old and young alike, who permit themselves to talk during the prayer service and the Torah reading. In Buczacz no one talks during the service and the reading of the Torah. That is the long-standing local custom. But every city has someone who hails from somewhere else, and so it happened that there was in Buczacz just such a man who was unaware of the local custom and chatted while the Torah was being read. This story is about him. It is a story from which we will come to learn what the punishment is for those who conduct conversations during the prayers and the Torah reading. To be sure, some things related here will not square with those who maintain that Buczacz was unaffected by the Khmelnitski pogroms. I leave it to the One who reconciles all matters to settle this one too.
1
There was in our old beit midrash an elderly shamash named Reb Yeruham ben Tanhum. Some insist that his name was Reb Tanhum ben Yeruham and that the Great Synagogue was where he served. Then there are those who claim that this name belongs not to the shamash but to the man who got invo
lved with the him. I, who know only the names of the men who served as shamash in the ten generations before I left my hometown, cannot make this determination. I can only tell the story. Besides, the name itself is immaterial to what follows, even though it is known that a person’s essence, not to mention the incarnations through which his soul passes, can be discerned in his name. Let me, then, put aside what I cannot explain and relate what I do know.
A wealthy man from the upper crust of our town took as his son-in-law a learned young man from a prominent family. The boy was skilled at advancing all kinds of novel interpretations of our holy texts, even when their meanings were already transparent. In fact, sometimes, in his encounter with a text, he would pronounce his own interpretation before he had even digested its plain sense. I refer here not to the nature of his insights but to the fact that his eagerness to propose them overrode any capacity he had for self-restraint. That is the gist of this tale, and the details now follow.
One Sabbath, while the Torah was being read, he was sitting in his regular seat against the eastern wall of the synagogue, a prestigious place that his father-in-law bought for him from an old man who had emigrated to the Land of Israel. A Bible with commentaries was in his hands. The reader was chanting from the scroll and the entire congregation was sitting in rapt attention listening to the words of the Torah, when the young man had a brilliant new ḥidush on that week’s Torah portion or on one of its commentaries. He raised his talit over his eyes, leaned over to the man sitting next to him, and shared his ḥidush with him. The latter looked at him dumbfounded, stunned that someone dared to talk during the Torah reading. As if the words of a mere mortal were superior to those of the living God.
Do not wonder at that man’s astonishment, because in our town there was absolutely no talking during the service and certainly not during the Torah reading. From the moment the Torah scroll was opened until the reading of the weekly portion was concluded everyone strained to listen and concentrated so as to catch every word that issued from God Himself. The elders of that time, going by what they had heard from their fathers, and their fathers from their fathers, said that their forebears would never interrupt the Torah reading even to congratulate the person who had just been called up to the Torah. Three times a year, however, on Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot, after the Yizkor memorial service, the senior member of the congregation would take the Torah scroll in his arms and one by one everyone would come up and tell him his name, his father’s name, and the amount he would contribute. The elder would bless that person and his household and there would be no mention of money. Contributions were brought after the festival. In later times, when expenses increased, they started doing this on every Sabbath, but again, money was never mentioned in the presence of the Torah scroll. Then later, when the number of donors who wanted their charitable intentions made public increased, every penny that had been pledged or contributed would be announced. And then even later, when expenses for nonessential items increased, like the fees for cantors who showed off their vocal talents and turned the prayers into ridiculous performances, all prior restraints were removed, and they would stop between sections of the Torah reading to bless both the one who was called up and the person he instructed the gabbai to bless. Soon they began to exceed the regular number of seven people called up to the Torah, until the Torah readings were sliced up like olives. Eventually things reached the point where there was not only jealousy and enmity among the honorees but insult and invective.
