by Agnon, S. Y.
His students saw the gloom on his face and were afraid they had offended him by not answering his question. They didn’t know his face was gloomy for another reason; because he paid so little attention to Sarah. And he paid so little attention to Sarah because of Shira, whom he knew because of Sarah’s birth. Both of these facts – the fact that he paid so little attention to Sarah and the fact that his attention was fixed on Shira – made his face gloomy.
The students looked at one another and said, “You speak first.”
The small, dark-haired student was the one who began. “As I was telling my friend here, Hebrew is unlike other languages, and Hebrew poetry is not like any other. Were we to spot a familiar set of words in a poem in some other language, we would disapprove of this borrowed finery. In Hebrew, the more such combinations, the better. Since Hebrew is not a spoken language, its richness is contained in books, and whoever makes literary allusions in his writing imbues the older text with new life that generates and produces in its own image and form. Nonetheless, I can’t forget something that happened to me, which, on the face of it, ought to have been resolved by this approach. But that’s not how it turned out. I have been reading Hebrew since childhood. One day I happened on Bialik’s poem ‘O heavens, seek pity for me.’ I read it, trembling and marveling at this poet who had the audacity to turn to the heavens and ask them to speak for him, who considered himself deserving enough to trouble the heavens on his own behalf. I reviewed those six words again and again. Each time, my soul was stunned by their splendor. Days later, I opened the Midrash and found those very same words. ‘What’s this?’ I cried in alarm. ‘How did those words get into the Midrash?’ I stood bent over the book, my eyes clutching at each word, astonished, for the phrase had lost its impact; it no longer moved me. Was it because I knew it from the poem that it had no effect?”
Herbst lowered his head and reached across the table, touched a dish, withdrew his hand, touched it again, withdrew again. He studied his empty hand, muttering, “Anyone with credit can afford to turn to whomever he wants.” The tall, thin student laughed and said, “The author of the Midrash certainly didn’t lack the means to cover his words. This is probably equally true of our teacher Moses, to whom these words were attributed. He probably didn’t have to look for credit elsewhere.” To which his friend added, “Surely both Moses and the author of the Midrash said only what their credit would support.” The tall, thin student interrupted. “Since we were talking about language earlier, let me say something on that subject. It seems likely to me that those ancient languages that are no longer spoken, the ones we call Semitic, were pronounced without vowels, exactly as they appear in the early inscriptions. SDNM, for example, should be read as it stands, without adding vowels to make SiDoNiM.” Herbst, who was uncomfortable with theories and didn’t enjoy speculating in a field that was not his, smoked in silence, putting out one cigarette and smoking another, dropping the ashes everywhere except in the ashtray. Once or twice he looked in the direction of Shira’s table. Shira wasn’t there. Could she have gone off and left him without saying a word? Then she reappeared. He wanted to leave his students and go to her; he also wanted to invite his students to come sit with him and Shira. These two thoughts were accompanied by a third thought: I have provided more witnesses who could testify that they saw me with Shira.
He got up, went over to Shira, and said, “Come, Shira, let’s sit with those two young men. They’re intelligent people who express their ideas in vigorous language. I know that you’ll enjoy their conversation. This day has been dedicated to literature. On the way here, we discussed hasidic tales; at Anita Brik’s, we discussed poetry. Now, what are these two fellows discussing? Poetics.” Shira said, “Go back to them. I’m too tired to join you.” Herbst said, “Then I’ll call the waiter. I’ll pay, and we can go.” Shira said, “I’ve already paid. Go back and say goodbye to your students, or, if you like, you can sit with them and I’ll find my way home alone.” Herbst said, “I dragged you out of the house, and I’ll return you to it.” Shira said, “Whatever you like.” Herbst said, “If it’s entirely up to me, I choose to go home with you and stay awhile.” Shira said, “I already told you I don’t feel well today.”
Herbst ignored her words. Since the day he met her, he had considered her totally dependent on him, in every aspect of her being, as if she lived through him alone. And, as long as she pleased him, all was well with her. It was merely her obstinacy speaking now, an obstinacy he wished to break. His soul suddenly began to sway, and he was on the verge of falling. He dragged behind her, feebly, accompanied by the memory of her affection, which took several forms. “What’s the matter?” Shira asked. He was overcome with rage. She asks what’s the matter; can’t she see, can’t she tell? He suppressed his anger and asked, “What did you say?” She answered, “I was asking you if anything is the matter.” Herbst glared at her in astonishment and said, “Why do you ask?” Shira said, “You seem to be having trouble walking.” “Yes,” Herbst answered angrily. “My shoelace is loose.” “Your shoelace is loose?” “It’s loose, and it broke off.” “It broke off?” “Not really. Since it was loose, I thought it was broken.” “But it didn’t break?” “It didn’t break, and it isn’t loose. Tell me, Shira, has that never happened to you?” Shira said, “Neither that nor anything similar.” Herbst repeated her words and said, “Please, Shira, explain that to me.” Shira said, “I always tie a knot.” Herbst said, “Even when the shoe has a strap? What sort of shoes are you wearing now?” Shira said, “Do you know what I’d like to say to you?” “What?” Herbst cried, excited. Shira said, “No more questions.” “Why?” “Because they bore me.” Herbst said, “Believe it or not, I see great things in my questions.” Shira said, “In that case, enjoy them yourself; in fact, don’t bother putting them into words.” Herbst said, “It’s not just my thoughts that I want to enjoy, I want – “ Shira interrupted him and said, “I thought a scholar’s chief joy was his thoughts.” Herbst said, “And what about the rest of humanity?” Shira said, “As for the rest of humanity, everyone has his own idea of enjoyment.” Herbst said, “See, Shira, in this respect I’m like the rest of humanity; I’m not satisfied with fantasy.” Shira said, “In that case, you have my blessing. I hope you find what satisfies you.” Herbst said, “Actions speak louder than blessings.” Shira looked at him with open displeasure. Herbst said, “I’ll explain myself.” Shira said, “Don’t be angry with me, Herbst. My head hurts, and my brain won’t tolerate complicated explanations. I’m almost home. The road has never been so long as it is now.” Herbst said, “Is my company so oppressive?” Shira said, “Herbst, let me tell you this: not everything in the world depends on you. There are disruptive factors other than your company. Please, spare me further explanations. Every word I say is fraught with pain.” Herbst said, “It’s that bad?” Shira said, “Please, don’t bother to act surprised. Just give me a chance to recover. I’m glad to be so near home.”
Herbst was in the midst of a vexing muddle. He had already given up on the gratification implicit in staying with Shira. Now all he wanted was to talk. He had nothing specific to say to her, but it was hard for him to let her go. He wanted to engage her in conversation in order to hold on to her, another hour, another half an hour. He remembered Anita Brik and was about to make her a topic of conversation. Before he had a chance to set his tongue in motion, she was forgotten. He recalled Shira’s disdainful remarks about the Hasidim, among them the statement that no one had ever accused her of neglecting them in the hospital, and was going to bring up the subject of sympathies and antipathies – how they don’t always govern our actions. Before he said a word, he forgot what was in his mind. Various other matters muddled his thoughts. Before being transformed into words, they were lost in a muddle. He remembered his students: that he had invited her to sit with them and listen to their talk about language and poetry, and she had refused to join them. He said to her, “Do you ever read essays or articles about authors and
books?” Shira said, “Why all of a sudden?” Herbst said, “It’s not so sudden. I’m asking because you rejected the opportunity to hear a discussion of poetry.” Shira said, “I was tired, and I’m still tired.” Herbst said, “Yes, Shira, you are tired. Still, you could answer my question.” Shira said, “What did you ask?” Herbst said, “When a good book about poetry or poets comes your way, do you read it?” Shira said, “Why read books about books?” Herbst said, “A good essay can sharpen a reader’s perception of a poem.” Shira said, “If I can read the poems themselves, why bother with the critics’ opinions? If I can master something with my own mind, why do I need other people’s?” Herbst said, “True, but they might reveal meanings you wouldn’t be aware of on your own.” Shira shrugged her shoulders and said, “You know something, Manfred? Since my teeth grew in, I’ve been in the habit of chewing my own food. Dear doctor, I see that metaphor seems crude to you, so I won’t speak in metaphor. From the day I learned to read, I read without inviting critics and essayists to chew the words of storytellers or poets beforehand and thrust the results into my mouth.” Herbst said, “You don’t admit that there are some things essayists and critics can elucidate for us?” Shira said, “My dear Manfred, when I was in nursing school and my fellow students used to sit around discussing the professors, the doctors, and the head nurses, I paid no attention. I haven’t changed in this respect, even now that I’m a licensed nurse. Their chatter and opinions had no effect on the doctors’ behavior. What they had in common was the fact that they all went right on doing what they did, and, since the nurses were so used to the doctors, they went right on making them the subject of their conversation.”
Herbst was at a loss for words. His tongue set itself in motion, uttering nothing. Herbst knew that at some point he would challenge her, but there was no way to eradicate her opinions. Your metaphors are certainly crude, Miss Shira, Herbst thought to himself. “Good night,” Shira said, her key in hand. “Good night,” Herbst answered. Shira said, “I should have stopped by the pharmacy.” Herbst said, “Then let’s go back.” Shira said, “I can’t.” “Why?” “Why? Because I’m too tired.” Herbst said, “Say the word and I’ll go.” Shira said, “My dear doctor, I’ll forgo the pharmacy and you’ll forgo the good deed.”
Chapter fifteen
As always when coming from Shira’s, he made his way on foot. Although the roads were desolate because of Arab shells, and Herbst was not without imagination, it didn’t occur to him that the perils that menaced others menaced him as well.
The bus was still running. In fact, service was more frequent, so those in outlying districts who had to congratulate a friend on some joyous occasion and couldn’t call on him on Shabbat because of the distance could go in the evening. But Herbst, as always, was on foot. His mind was brimming with the day’s events, and he didn’t want to be distracted by the crowd on the bus.
Sacharson attached himself to Herbst. Before he could hide from him, there he was. Enraged, Herbst lowered his eyelids and reflected: Only the devil could calculate the precise moment when just about anyone would be unwelcome and then proceed to inflict this nut on me. But he said, “I’m glad I ran into you, Mr. Sacharson. My daughter Tamara went to Greece, and her mother would like to trace her route. If you’re done with the Baedeker and no longer need it, I would like to have it back. Right now, if possible.” Hell, he was annoyed with himself. That nut deserves to be scolded for not returning my book, and I pamper him with words as if I’m asking a favor.
Sacharson smiled abjectly, which was how he responded when he saw someone stumble, and scratched his mouth to camouflage the smile, as he always did at such times. While scratching his lip, his fingers found their way into his mouth, and he began to gnaw at his nails. It was a dark night, and one couldn’t really distinguish his fingernails from his skin, so it wasn’t necessary to camouflage the smile. But, out of habit, he scratched his lip and gnawed at his nails. After spitting out some bits of nail, he coughed to clear his throat and threw out a word, as if adding to what had already been said. It was Sacharson’s style to begin in the middle, as if he were adding to a previous statement. After he had talked for a while, Herbst perked up and said, “You mentioned Norway. What does Norway have to do with us?”
Sacharson’s smile could be seen again, and then it was gone. He said, “I was recounting some of what happened to me a few years back, when I still bore the yoke of the commandments accepted by our people. I say ‘our people’; yes, our people, my dear Mr. Herbst. I still consider myself absolutely Jewish – more so than those who are regarded as proper Jews, more than ever since I associated myself with the new covenant between God and Our Savior, and even more so now that I have the privilege of considering myself faithful to God and His people Israel.” Herbst fixed his eyes on an approaching bus, hoping to be able to flee homeward on it and get rid of Sacharson. But it was headed elsewhere, and Sacharson tagged along behind him, walking and talking. Herbst looked back at him and said hastily, “So, Mr. Sacharson, what were you going to say?”
Sacharson draped his cane over his arm and said, “I see, Dr. Herbst, that your ears didn’t accommodate you by taking in my words. I’m not offended, and I don’t want to appear offended. That’s how people are: some talk, others don’t hear. It’s often better not to hear than to hear what wasn’t said. No need to show signs of displeasure. I don’t intend to offer clever aphorisms. I’ll get right back to the beginning of the story, and you’ll hear what you missed before.” Herbst said, “Tell me, Mr. Sacharson, do tell me. This time I will pay attention.”
Sacharson cleared his throat because of the stiff collar that pinched him, because of the bits of fingernail that were caught in his throat, because of the story he was about to tell. He jerked his thumb at Herbst and said, “It happened during the war between Russia and Japan.” Herbst said, “Then it’s an old story.” Sacharson said, “What I mean to tell is not a war story.” Herbst said, “If it’s not a war story, then what do you mean to tell? Whatever it is, tell it, Mr. Sacharson. Tell it. So, it occurred during the Russo-Japanese War. I don’t think you said what the story is about yet. Or am I mistaken? Anyway, no need to go back to the beginning. So, it happened during the Russo-Japanese War.” Sacharson said, “Yes, during the Russo-Japanese War.” Herbst said, “An unnecessary comment, Mr. Sacharson. I remember every word you said. If you like, I can repeat it. Now then…”
Sacharson repeated, “So, I was on my way to America. I was escaping, Mr. Herbst. Escaping from Russia, like many of my people who had no wish to risk their lives for the brutal czar. You people from the liberal countries can’t imagine the pain of young Jews in Russia. Denied all civil rights, members of a battered and trampled people burdened with harsh rules that were becoming worse with every passing day, all of a sudden we were told: ‘Rise up and join hands with your persecutors to fight a nation you don’t know, that has done you no wrong.’ Anyone who could, escaped this war, as I did. I won’t subject you to the entire story. Imagine it for yourself: fellow Jews, brothers in misery, who ought to stand by each other in time of distress – not only did they not stand by me, but they treated me like merchandise, an object to exploit. They stole my last penny, leaving me with nothing. I’m not here to accuse them, nor do I mean to suggest that Jews have no compassion. But compassion is one thing, and avarice is another. Those Jews who are willing to skin a poor man for a price are the same ones who contribute to charitable causes and, of course, to anything holy. In the great synagogue in my town, there is a Torah scroll donated by a renowned philanthropist. Who was he? A man who used to snatch poor orphans and hand them over to Nicholas’s soldiers in place of the sons of the rich. And the rich men – those same rich men – were God-fearing, performed all of the rituals and commandments, and contributed to every cause. Some built synagogues and seminaries or funded schools. Others supported assorted charities, especially those with a sacred purpose. Jews are attracted to that sort of thing. Remember the Kishinev pogrom?
When it was over, a fund was set up for the victims, who were without food or clothing. A famous rabbi – one of the most famous in your country – was among those who responded. How? By sending them a very large supply of tefillin.” Herbst said, “Please, Mr. Sacharson, tell me, how are tefillin related to Norway?” Sacharson said, “You’re joking, doctor. Wait and you’ll see that it’s all one subject – tefillin and Norway, or Norway without tefillin. As you see, Dr. Herbst, Sacharson can joke too when he wants to.” Herbst said, “Excuse me, Mr. Sacharson. I wasn’t joking. I merely asked a question. Since you began with Norway, I was reminding you about Norway.” Sacharson said, “I’m not fussy. Still, let me remind you that I didn’t begin with Norway. Before I said anything about Norway, we were discussing something else: the Russo-Japanese War and the escape of poor Sacharson, who is now privileged to join you on your walk, a short walk as befits a short tale. Now I’m coming to Norway in my story. After many difficulties, I reached Norway. I arrived with swollen feet and torn shoes; hardest of all, empty-handed. The money my mother had given me for expenses was extorted by our Jewish brothers who were supposed to smuggle me across the border. Actually, those swindlers didn’t get rich on me. My mother was poor. She plucked feathers for a living. How did she have money to give me? She skimped on meals, filling the gap with fast days. If I told you how much she gave me, you would laugh. But all I ask of you is that you hear my story without making fun of me. I ask one further thing: a bit of patience. I’m getting back to the heart of the matter. So I arrived in Norway empty-handed. My paltry sum of money had been stolen at the border. I was allowed to keep my other possessions: three faded shirts, an old set of tefillin, and a frayed prayerbook inherited from my father, whose merit must have worked in my favor. You can’t imagine my misfortune. Empty hands, empty stomach, aching legs. Still, I did not despair. My physical anguish didn’t allow me to indulge in a spiritual response such as despair, but it nonetheless glared forth from my eyes. Some fellow from Norway noticed and said, ‘Come with me.’ He was a merchant who had dealt with Russian Jews and had learned some Yiddish. I went with him. He took me to a hotel and ordered a meal for me on his account. Even if you were never in Scandinavia, you have probably heard that it is the custom in most of the big hotels to offer a great assortment of food for breakfast, twenty or thirty varieties at a time, mostly meat and fish. I couldn’t eat meat, because it wasn’t kosher; nor could I eat fish, because it could have been cooked with shellfish. The sardines had been preserved in wine, so I avoided them too, for fear the wine was un-kosher. I took some of those thin crackers called Norwegian bread and ate until my throat felt scratchy. I was still hungry. My benefactor, who had invited me to eat, was confident that a starving man about to faint from hunger would eat whatever he was offered and didn’t notice what I was eating and what I was rejecting. But the waiter noticed and reported to the kitchen. The cook came and asked, ‘Why aren’t you eating any of the good things we’re providing for your pleasure?’ I told him they were forbidden by our religion, et cetera, et cetera. He listened, astonished. Finally, he glared at me, outraged, and this is what he said: ‘Who are you, and what sort of religion is it that forbids you to enjoy the good food any decent person enjoys?’ At the end, my dear Mr. Herbst, at the end, if you will excuse me, he spat in my face. Those northern people are very fine, but there is something in the Jewish religion that enrages even the best Gentile. And rage, my dear Mr. Herbst, leads to ugly deeds, such as spitting in someone’s face.”