Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Now, Herbst thought, I’ll try one of the cigarettes Julian Weltfremdt recommended. He leaned over and pressed the remnants of a cigarette into the ashtray, took out a long brown one, and smoked it slowly to assess its flavor. Now, Herbst said to himself, now I’ll look at the map and trace Tamara’s route. He got up, opened the door, and called out, “Henriett, Henriett, do you want to see where your daughter is?”

  Henrietta came, parting the clouds of smoke with her hand, went to open the window, and found it open. She laughed in annoyance and said, “Unless your cigarettes induce amnesia, I don’t know why I forget the windows are all open.” Herbst laughed and said, “They don’t induce amnesia, but they do have a trace of mandrake.” Henrietta said, “You were going to show me where Tamara is now. Is there another card from her? I didn’t see the mailman today.” Manfred said, “The mailman wasn’t here, and there are no new cards. We can nonetheless look at the map and see her route.” Henrietta said, “What a good idea.” Manfred said, “But I doubt she is enjoying the trip.” Henrietta said, “Why not?” Manfred said, “Because she wasn’t prepared. She knows less than nothing about Greece. She hasn’t read Homer and doesn’t know Plato. She knows nothing at all about that civilization. Tell me, Henriett, how did Tamara qualify for a teaching certificate?” Henrietta said, “She’s as qualified as her friends.” Manfred said, “I’m not asking only about her; I’m asking about her friends too, and even her teachers. How are they qualified to be teachers?” Henrietta said, “You don’t mean to say they became teachers by pulling strings?” Manfred said, “I wouldn’t say that, but I judge teachers by their pupils.” “What do you learn?” Manfred laughed and said, “I learn, my dear, that they have all learned nothing.” “Nothing?” Manfred said, “Anyway, they didn’t learn what they should have learned. How many poems did you know by heart when you were Tamara’s age? If we were to be exiled somewhere, with no books, I would be content with the poems you remember from your youth. But our Tamara – except for the insipid jingles she sings – probably doesn’t know one entire poem.” Henrietta said, “It’s not her fault.” “If it’s not her fault, whose is it?” Henrietta said, “It may be Hebrew poetry that’s at fault for not lending itself to song.” Manfred said, “You have an excuse for everything, only the excuse is more radical than the problem. Now let’s spread the map and see what places Tamara has graced with the light of her eyes. First let me get a cigarette.” Henrietta said, “And I was going to ask you not to smoke for a while.” Manfred said, “You’re asking the impossible, but is there anything in the world I’m unwilling to give up for you? You’re asking me not to smoke for a while. That’s fine. But first let me have two or three puffs. This is a new brand. Weltfremdt recommended it.” Henrietta said, “Does Weltfremdt smoke?” Manfred said, “If you mean that secret adviser, Professor Ernst Weltfremdt, he doesn’t smoke. No, he doesn’t. But if you mean Dr. Julian Weltfremdt, I can tell you beyond doubt, beyond any doubt, that the gentleman certainly smokes. Yes, indeed, that gentleman certainly does smoke.” Henrietta laughed and said, “If I hadn’t seen your lips moving, I would be sure Professor Weltfremdt himself was talking.” Manfred said, “See, my dear, what close friendship achieves. Sometimes the mere mention of a fine gentleman such as Professor Weltfremdt causes us – indeed, it causes us – to adopt his rhetoric, his very own rhetoric.” Henrietta said, “You admit that you meant to imitate his speech.” Manfred said, “Intentionally or not, either way I succeeded. Isn’t that so, Henriett?” Henrietta said, “Besserman couldn’t do any better. Now let’s sit down and trace Tamara’s route.” After outlining Tamara’s entire route with his finger, Manfred said, “Now I’ll give you the Baedeker, and you can read about all those places.”

  Herbst had a collection of Baedekers he was proud of. His pride may have been due to the careless comment of a Scandinavian, one of Strindberg’s last surviving friends, who remarked about Herbst’s collection that not even Strindberg had a better one. He searched but didn’t find the volume, and he remembered it had been borrowed by Sacharson. It was more than a year since Sacharson had borrowed it, and he hadn’t bothered to bring it back. “What a pig,” Herbst said, “to borrow a book and not return it. When I’m done with him, he’ll forget his conversion certificate. But first I have to scold myself. Fool that I am, I should have learned from experience. I once lent someone the Baedeker of Palestine, and it was returned to me without the map of Jerusalem.” Henrietta said, “It’s possible he took the map out for convenience and forgot to put it back.” Manfred said, “If you want to give people the benefit of the doubt, fine. But not when it comes to borrowing books. I’ll have to get Sacharson to return my Baedeker. Now, Henriett, am I released from the ban?” “What ban?” “The ban on smoking.” Henrietta said, “If you must smoke, then smoke. But not the black ones, please.” Manfred laughed and said, “Why is that? Because they have a pinch of mandrake, or because they have no mandrake?” Henrietta said, “What’s so funny about mandrake?” Manfred said, “Have you forgotten the erotic properties of mandrake?” Henrietta said, “To think that the father of a married daughter and of another whose hand is being sought in marriage is making such jokes! But who can blame you – you are young, truly young. If we were Yemenites, I myself would find you another wife.” Manfred said, “You? You would find me another wife?” Henrietta said, “Why not?” Manfred said, “I don’t think a European woman could do that.” “Do what?” “Yield her position to another woman.” Henrietta said, “You’ve forgotten the wife of the teacher from Beit Hakerem.” Manfred said, “To whom are you referring?” Henrietta said, “I think what I said was clear.” Manfred said, “One thing is clear, there is a neighborhood in Jerusalem known as Beit Hakerem. Many teachers live in Beit Hakerem, some of whom are clearly married, and it is also clear that, though what you said is crystal clear, the heart of the matter isn’t clear at all.” Henrietta said, “I know you remember the story, but you want to hear it from me.” Manfred’s eyes twinkled with repressed laughter as he said, “If so, all the more reason why you are required to tell it.” “Required? I don’t like requirements.” Manfred caught her by the chin and said, “Nu, nu, tell me.” Henrietta said, “Don’t you remember? We were walking in Beit Hakerem, and you were thirsty. We went into a house for water and found a young woman with a baby in her arms.” Manfred said, “A sign within a sign. A young woman with a baby in her arms.” Henrietta said, “It seems to me that you know a woman who isn’t so young with a baby in her arms. If you want me to speak, don’t interrupt.” Manfred said, “And then?” Henrietta said, “Why should I repeat things you know as well as I do?” Manfred said, “What do you care? So then the woman said, ‘I can’t go with my husband because the children are small.’“ Henrietta said, “You remember every word, yet you let me wear out my tongue. Do you want to bore us both?” Manfred said, “If I ask you, what’s it to you if you do as I ask? Do you have some special reason not to tell?” Henrietta said, “What reason could there be?” Manfred said, “Then tell me.” Henrietta said, “So the woman continued, ‘On a teacher’s salary, I can’t afford to hire help. What’s the solution? My husband could have two wives. When he is out with one, the other one could look after the child, and then they would switch.’“ Manfred said, “De jure but not de facto.” Henrietta said, “What do you mean, ‘de jure but not de facto’?” Manfred said, “Those are common terms, meaning ‘easier said than done.’ What woman could see her husband in someone else’s arms and be silent? In any case, I wouldn’t subject my wife to such a test.” Henrietta said, “Do you ever have such thoughts?” Manfred said, “Me? What are you saying? Me, God forbid.” Henrietta said, “You stuck another cigarette in your mouth. You still have one, and you’re reaching for more. Another woman, in my place, would see that as symbolic.” Manfred pressed his palms against each other, folded them over his heart, closed his eyes, and crooned a song:

  I am tender, my heart pure,

  No trace of sin in it;


  Only you forevermore,

  My sweet Henriett;

  Only you forevermore,

  My sweet Henriett.

  Chapter seven

  The play didn’t develop. Not for lack of imagination alone did it fail to develop, nor because the material was insufficiently dramatic, but something seemingly trivial interfered with the creation of the tragedy. The insipid jingles with which Tamara filled her postcards had an adverse effect on Herbst. On the one hand, he considered them meager and empty; on the other, they led him to look at verses written by poets who weren’t real poets but, inasmuch as they had a command of the language and could rhyme, were regarded as poets. Because he gave these works too much attention, it occurred to him that he could set the story of Antonia and Yohanan in romance or ballad form. Dr. Herbst was mistaken to think that, having written a scholarly paper in Hebrew, he would be able to turn out romances and ballads. What happened in the end was that seven times he dipped his pen in ink without producing a single verse. After several attempts, he gave up on Hebrew and turned his pen to the left, intending to write his romances and ballads in German. An odd thing happened. This scholar – born and educated in Germany, author of a six-hundred-page tome and many essays in German, who spoke German to his wife and most of his friends, who thought in German – when he was about to pour his lyrical musings into German verse, found neither the words nor the form. Herbst was caught between two tongues. When he tried writing in Hebrew, it seemed German would be more responsive; when he tried German, it seemed Hebrew would be more responsive. In fact, neither language responded. The Hebrew wouldn’t come; the German fled. Herbst went to the shelf where things he no longer used were stored, took out his old pipe and cleaned it well, dissected several cigarettes, filled the pipe with tobacco, and sat on his chair smoking away, smoking and thinking: I’ll go back to the beginning and write the tragedy in simple prose, neither rhymed nor metered. He was confident, since the plot, the time, and the place were clear to him, that nothing would prevent him from writing the tragedy. He took out a new notebook and wrote the names of the characters. Then he drew a map of the house and the courtyard, including something he hadn’t thought of originally, which added interest: a drawing of the leper colony in which Antonia’s slave lived out his final years. His drawing of the place was so successful that he feared his dreams would be haunted by what he had pictured when awake. Oddly enough, although he thought a great deal about the leper colony and the faithful slave who spent his final days there, at night Herbst saw neither the slave nor the leper colony.

  Now I’ll revert to an orderly account, describing how one thing flowed from another and how everything interlocked, going back to the night after Herbst first wrote the names of the characters associated with the exploits of Antonia, woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan. If I omit something that happened to Herbst, I omit it because it’s unimportant, though when it happened it seemed essential. When a man has a toothache, the entire world seems worthless. He goes to a doctor, who fixes the tooth; then he forgets all about it, and everything is normal again.

  He had another sleepless night. He saw a thousand things, but not a single drop of sleep. Some of these things appeared because he summoned them, because he said, “Come, come,” whereas others appeared on their own. Their pace was at first steady and regular, then intense and chaotic. The story of Antonia, woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan was so intense that his eyes began to hurt, and he had to close them because of the pain. It was, on the face of it, good that he closed his eyes, but this didn’t last, because he had to move to more modest quarters where he could work without being interrupted, having taken it upon himself to write the tragedy of Antonia and Yohanan at the same time that he was assigned by the university to lead a group of young scholars who were touring Greece because Tamara was eager to study the mechanics of poetic meter. It was good that Herbst went with Tamara to Greece. Otherwise, she would have seen him walking with Shira, which was not advisable, because Henrietta was in collusion with the wife of a teacher from Beit Hakerem. They agreed to prohibit their husbands from bringing other women to their studios, declaring, “If they want to draw – let them draw skulls.”

  Unrelated to the skull or to poetic meter, the map of Jerusalem appeared, the one that was torn from the Baedeker. Unrelated to the map of Jerusalem, the brown cigarettes, distinguished by neither taste nor aroma, appeared. The fact that their long stems filled the ashtray was their sole distinction. Unrelated to the brown cigarettes, Avraham-and-a-half appeared. Not in person, but in the form of something sweet and good that stretches without limits and endlessly. In the midst of all this, he heard a voice calling, “Adam, Adam.” He pondered a while and concluded: This probably doesn’t refer to Adam Ahlenschlager, whose books I have never even touched. Then to whom does it refer? To Adam Miesckewicz, perhaps, whose poetry was translated into German by two converts, neither of whom was named Sacharson. In the end, everything was covered by a small leather strip, stretching to cover Wechsler and his colleagues, extending over Jerusalem and its inhabitants, and covering Herbst’s eyes, which pained him so much that he closed them, asking the strip of leather, “What is this?” He answered, “It’s that same leather strip, the ptygyl fragment.”

  Chapter eight

  Having touched on questions of poetry and language, I won’t refrain from relating and clarifying what Dr. Herbst knew about Hebrew literature, what he saw in it, and how he happened to study the language and learn it well enough to write an essay and try his hand at writing a play in Hebrew. Even without the metered verse he had in mind originally, a prose play would be amazing.

  As you already know, Manfred Herbst was born and educated in Germany, in German schools, in German scholarship and poetics, like his contemporaries, Jews and non-Jews. I will add some information about Manfred Herbst’s progenitors.

  Moritz Herbst, Manfred’s father, was from a small town in Poznan. Like many other Jews who couldn’t make a living there, he went off to Berlin to seek his fortune. He brought no capital to do business with, only the sort of sterling talents that can be converted into silver by their owner: good sense, goodwill, enterprise, and diligence. As a favor to an old man from his town, who, in his youth, had studied Mishnah with Moritz’s father, Moritz was given a job in an office-supply store. This store, one of the first to limit its trade to office supplies, specialized in all sorts of business equipment. Furthermore, anyone who was about to open an office turned to Rosenthal and Co. for advice. When Moritz Herbst began working there, he had only the word of his father’s childhood friend to recommend him. Before long, his actions spoke for him, his talents displayed themselves, and their outcome became more and more apparent. His employer took note and began to linger over the young man from Poznan, to observe how he arranged merchandise, how he dealt with customers, and the like. The employer sometimes expressed himself with an approving nod; he sometimes allowed him to accompany him home, so he could hear his opinion about various customers – who should be allowed to buy on credit and who should be turned down. At first, the employer suspected that he had hired the boy from Poznan only as a favor to that old man and that he would not last long; he soon began to recognize his worth and to befriend him. After a while, he invited him home for afternoon coffee on the weekend. After a further while, he invited him for lunch. From then on, he often invited him to eat in his home. Little by little, Moritz Herbst relinquished the manners he had brought from his village, especially those he realized were inappropriate in Berlin, and made an effort to please the wife of his employer, as well as his handsome and charming daughter, whose manners impressed the young man from Poznan as ultimate perfection. Though this young man seemed somewhat ridiculous to her, she found that there was something different about him. Not knowing how to describe this quality, she called it loyalty. Unless we project this word into the future, it remains abstract, for so far she had had no opportunity to test his loyalty. By and by, the young man from Poznan
became a regular guest in this Berlin household, almost a member of the family, welcomed by all. The lady of the house sometimes made him mediate between her and her husband, and her daughter made him mediate between herself and her parents. The employer, seeing that this young man was dependable, turned over some of his own responsibilities to him and, in every case, was pleased with how they were carried out. Three years passed in this fashion. In this period he received three raises, as well as several bonuses. Moritz Herbst advanced from the lowest position to chief clerk, and, when a buyer left to establish his own business, Herbst was promoted and became the buyer. In all those years, Moritz Herbst gave his employer no cause for complaint or envy, although he introduced many innovations and expanded the business more and more. He never made a move without consulting his employer first, phrasing everything as a request, as if he were saying, “I have a favor to ask, sir,” which allowed the employer to believe that everything emanated from him. From the time Moritz Herbst began working in this office-supply store, it never occurred to the owner that he might leave to work elsewhere, nor did Herbst consider leaving. So they grew accustomed to one another, as if they belonged to each other.

  As I noted, this store was one of the first to specialize in office supplies. In time, there were many competitors, and Herbst was urged to abandon his patron and work for them. Each tried to attract him with double the salary paid by Rosenthal and Co. But Moritz Herbst remained loyal and continued to work for the allotted salary, never asking for a raise and never considering leaving to work elsewhere at a higher salary. Until something happened that demonstrated that anything can change, even a faithful servant. His employer sent him to transact some business in his name. He discovered, inadvertently, that the transaction was risky and that it would be a mistake to proceed on the basis of credit. He therefore didn’t conclude the transaction. On the other hand, another much larger transaction came his way, in which the bulk of the merchandise would be paid for in cash. Not only did he prevent his employer from losing a fortune, but he found him another deal, which was profitable far beyond what was anticipated. When the employer became aware of these events, he immediately doubled Herbst’s salary. He expected him to be extremely grateful, to say, “Many thanks to you, kind sir, for your great generosity.” Not only did he not thank him, but he said, “I’m sorry, sir, but unless I can become a partner, I will resign to go into business on my own.” The employer answered, “You can’t be a partner, since it is the custom in our family to include only relatives in the business. And, as you know, we are not related in any way.” Herbst said, “That need not present a problem. With your consent, I can become related to you and your family through your daughter.” The man was stunned into silence. Then he asked, “What will my daughter say about this?” Herbst answered, “I already have her word. Now we are asking for your consent.” Not long afterward, Moritz Herbst married the daughter of his employer, becoming a partner in a business that had been selling equipment to offices, banks, and stores for several generations. It had always been known as Rosenthal’s but would henceforth be known as Rosenthal and Co.