by Agnon, S. Y.
The workers were all back from the fields. The unmarried men and women ran to the showers, and those with families rushed off to see their children, stopping briefly at the office to ask for mail. Not all the children in Ahinoam were from that settlement. The kvutza was still young and hadn’t produced many children yet, but, since its climate was so pleasant, several children from less comfortable settlements were spending the summer there.
The entire village was bustling. In one corner, a father was carrying around a child. In another, a mother nursed a baby. Nearby, a young man pranced around with a little girl whose father had been killed on guard duty. Next to them, someone was standing on his head, clapping his feet together. Slim girls with cropped hair, dressed in men’s clothing, their shoulders like those of young boys, gurgled at their infants. Alongside each such girl was a suntanned boy with a peeling nose. The setting sun cast its final light, as it did each day, releasing specially created colors in a band that extended around the village from the westernmost reaches of the world. Birds were heard returning to their nests with a final chirp before hiding themselves among the branches for the night. The rabbits scurried around in their box and were suddenly still. A gentle breeze blew. All this lasted less than a minute. Then the bell was heard, announcing dinner.
From all the houses, huts, and tents, they assembled, filing into the dining room. Some had come to eat; others waited. The dining room was small, and there were two shifts, one entering, one leaving. Zahara was occupied with her son, so she didn’t come to supper. Avraham-and-a-half was busy helping Zahara, so he didn’t come to supper. But her father and mother were seated under the clock, between the windows and across from the door, in a spot reserved for important guests, from which they could see everyone in the kvutza.
The Herbsts were in the midst of a circle of young men and women. Some were cutting vegetables; some were spreading margarine on their bread. Some drank tea; others gulped water. Some were calm; others noisy, either behaving as they had learned to at home or demonstrating their liberation from bourgeois table manners. They all ate their fill. Then someone looked up from his bowl and, seeing the Herbsts, leaped up and went to sit with them. Others followed, welcomed them, poured their tea, peeled their cucumbers, sliced their radishes, made them salad and sprinkled it with oil and salt, and handed them dishes, the salt-shaker, the cruet of oil, urging them cordially to enjoy everything. As Herbst picked up his tea and was about to drink, a pretty young woman came running with sugar she had obtained especially for the guests. Someone asked, “Has Zahara been informed that she has guests?” Someone else answered, “By the time a speedy fellow like you makes a move to go tell Zahara, it will be time to tell Zahara’s grandchild that his grandpa and grandma are here.”
The entire kvutza responded warmly to Zahara’s parents. Some knew the Herbsts, because they had been in their house, enjoyed Mrs. Herbst’s cooking and Dr. Herbst’s conversation, fingered the books on his shelves, and been stimulated by his ideas. Others didn’t know them but had heard about them. Everyone welcomed them, as young people tend to do when company is congenial. There were some guests they were required to welcome: tourists who were ridiculous and whose questions were just as ridiculous; official guests from the national bodies that determined the budget; cultural windbags who assumed they were indispensable. But the Herbsts were welcomed because of Zahara and because of who they were. They were “like us,” and, even if our problems weren’t theirs, when we discussed them, we didn’t run into a stone wall. Furthermore, although Herbst was a scholar, he wrote academic papers in ordinary language.
The two Heinzes – Heinz the Berliner and Heinz from Darmstadt – took charge of the Herbsts. They sat with them and told them what had been happening in the kvutza and what was about to happen. They sat talking until a few members of the Culture Committee came to invite Dr. Herbst to give a lecture. “A lecture?” Herbst asked in dismay. “As I was leaving, I stored all my wisdom in a desk drawer. It didn’t occur to me that anyone here would be interested in my merchandise.” He scrutinized the young people, their amiable charm and lively innocence, and it seemed odd to him to stand up and lecture on his usual topics, which, though important in themselves, were of no consequence here. They pressed him, suggesting all sorts of subjects. He listened and responded, answering with repeated qualifiers that contained not a trace of scorn, only wonder that anyone was still interested in such things.
While the Culture Committee was negotiating with Dr. Herbst, a group of young women were engaged in conversation with Mrs. Herbst on such subjects as cooking, baking, sewing, and weaving. Mrs. Herbst thought in wonderment: When they come to Jerusalem, they pursue everything except domestic activities; here, their interests are exclusively domestic. She had some questions too: Why aren’t the thorns at the gate being destroyed, when do the thistles wither here? In her experience, they wither in July, yet here they are still in bloom. Mrs. Herbst also asked why the olives were preserved in soda, which spoils their taste. She still remembered eating marvelous olives when she first came to the country. The two Heinzes left with the Culture Committee, to give Herbst a chance to prepare his lecture. Herbst watched the Heinzes go, thinking: They’re both more attractive than that beanpole Zahara chose. He turned to Henrietta and asked, “Where is Avraham?”
Chapter twenty-two
When dinner was over, the bell at the top of the water tower rang once again. It was a long time since the bell had sounded so gay, so inviting, so full of promise, saying, “Come everyone, come. You won’t be sorry. You can trust me not to mislead you. Remember, when that windbag was sent to talk to you, I hinted that you wouldn’t miss anything if you stayed away. He accused you of hating culture, not realizing it was because you are cultured that you stayed away. Now I’m telling you to come. You can count on me. It will be worthwhile.”
After the children were put to bed, their parents arrived in the dining room. They had been preceded by the unmarried settlers, who were preceded by those who knew the lecturer. Before long, the room was full. People who weren’t particularly attracted to lectures came too; there was nothing else for them to do, since everyone else was going to the lecture.
The supper dishes were cleared, the floor was swept, the doors and windows were opened, and the fan was turned on to disperse the smells. Only the odor of cigarettes clung to the walls and the window screens. The tables were arranged as if for a holiday: a short table connected two long ones, adorned with a large green bowl full of wildflowers. Everyone found a seat. Those who tended to stay until the very end sat near the lecturer; those who tended to leave midway through sat near the door. The chairs in the middle were empty. After a while, they were occupied by the people who had been hugging the door.
Herbst was still wavering about his subject. He was in the habit of lecturing to students who come because of the subject, who have made a choice; when he lectures to them, he knows what they expect. The intellectual level of this group of youngsters is not clear. Some of them know things most people don’t, yet they don’t know what a beginning student knows. Some of them read a great deal; others never open a book. To whom should he direct his words? In the past, when he gave public lectures, he knew what would be appealing. Now that he hasn’t given one in years, it is hard to decide. He considered several subjects and settled on “The Art of Byzantium.” Lectures on art are always popular. But he had second thoughts. Without illustrations and a slide projector, such a talk would be boring. He considered lecturing on the Crusaders in Byzantium and thought better of that, because he would first have to review what happened along the way, and it would take an hour to arrive at the gates of Byzantium. He considered lecturing on the Crusaders in general, but there was another problem. It is generally assumed that the Crusades had a positive outcome, opening up the mysterious Orient to Europeans, but he is not of this opinion. If he intends to challenge the accepted view, he would have to elaborate, and this is neither the time nor the place. He considered lectu
ring on contacts between Russia and Byzantium, and the Byzantine influence on Russia. Since these youngsters are sympathetic to Russia, the subject would appeal to them. But he hesitated, lest this lead to political debate. He hates the political debate that ensues from scholarly discourse.
One of the young women brought him a pitcher of water and a glass. She struck him as a model of Byzantine beauty. It occurred to him that he could lecture on images of Byzantine women. However, he would be embarrassed to discuss their behavior in mixed company. He rejected this and thought of lecturing on the poet Romanos. But the poets who influenced him ought to be mentioned, and he didn’t know a single related poem by heart, nor could he expect to find a text here. As he reviewed all these possibilities, they converged, reminding him of Constantinople and bringing to mind the truism “All good things must come to an end.” He decided to begin there, roughly in this vein: Constantinople was greater than any city known in Europe, so much so that it became the standard for everything great and enduring. As he began outlining his talk, he pictured a dead body seated on a throne, wrapped in a magnificent cloak, wearing the headdress of the Greek patriarch on its head and flanked by robed priests holding lighted candles and intoning mournful chants and dirges. He remembered that he once went into town to buy an oil lamp, so it would be possible to sit in the garden at night when it was too windy for a candle, which would please Henrietta. He remembered meeting up with the funeral of the Greek patriarch and being unable to buy the lamp, because the stores were closed. Since then, another patriarch had been appointed, who was subsequently removed and replaced by yet another, but he still hadn’t bought the lamp. Herbst managed to think many thoughts in a short time and to sort them out before contemplating the patriarch’s funeral itself. Now that he was ready to contemplate the funeral, he began to consider lecturing on the prohibition against keeping corpses overnight, which was a rule in the holy cities of Greece. This subject prevailed.
Herbst stood at the head of the table in the dining room. On the table were a pitcher of water, a thick round glass, and a bowl of flowers. On his left sat Zahara, her face beaming with love for the entire world – the world being the kvutza and all its members, plus her mother and father. But all this amounts to nothing compared to Dani, who embodies all love. Henrietta sat to the right of Herbst. She hasn’t heard her husband lecture in years. Now she is here, at his side, while he speaks. Though she knows him so well and is thoroughly familiar with his voice, she looks up to see if that is truly Fred, for his voice has a new ring, a ring of confidence. His voice has something in it of Neu’s tone and of that of all the teachers he is fond of – yet it is his alone, unlike anyone else’s True, she hasn’t heard every voice in the world; still, it is clear to her that his tone is unique and no one in the world can match it. Avraham-and-a-half stood at a distance from the lecturer. He was the tallest person in the room, soaring over everyone, surveying the heads of his friends and trying to determine, by their hair, who they were and how they were at that particular moment. The driver who had brought the Herbsts to Ahinoam stood next to Avraham-and-a-half, surprised at himself for not having noticed right away that his passenger was an interesting man. Before he started speaking, he had seemed like all the others. As soon as he began, he proved he wasn’t one of them. Herbst was an experienced lecturer. When he spoke, his words drew you in. Herbst was confronted with a mass of uninhibited listeners, careless of their manners – in some cases deliberately so, to show their indifference to good manners. After a while, habit notwithstanding, they began to listen, each according to his ability and even beyond. After a vigorous workday, they were tired, and some of them had come to listen a bit and doze a bit. In the end, what they were hearing ruled out sleep.
Herbst’s mode of thought begins with an overview and includes a range of subjects – skimming the surface, touching yet not touching – until, finally, he ends up where he began. In his lectures, he begins with essentials, never straying far from the heart of his subject, patiently clarifying and elucidating it. He is careful not to startle the listener with new interpretations and refrains from emphasizing any particular word. Just as he wouldn’t underline a phrase in one of his books, so, on the same principle, he doesn’t emphasize words when lecturing. It is not his way to begin at a barely audible pitch and work up to a crescendo.
On this night, he changed his tack – not in terms of form, but in terms of the lecture itself, introducing material that was somewhat tangential. He began with the prohibition against keeping corpses overnight that prevailed in the holy cities of ancient Greece. In this context, he formulated the very essence of Greek philosophy and the principles of religion. He looked at the arts, theater, the circus, athletic games, and the marketplace, where citizens dealt with issues of state – the entire range of Greek manners and pastimes before Christianity appeared, obliterating everything. Herbst, a disciple of Neu, who viewed economics as a force but not a primary force, mentioned the economic factor without dwelling on it. Finally, he came to the decline of Greece and of all civilization until the rise of Christianity, which delivered the fatal blow. Having mentioned the holy cities of Greece, he remarked on the Greek cities in the Land of Israel, too – how they were maintained, how they were destroyed. Finally, he told of the destruction of Gaza and the struggles of Porphyry, the bishop of Gaza, who witnessed its destruction. Here, Herbst offered facts not noted by Marcus the Deacon or by any other chronicler.
Chapter twenty-three
The lecture was successful beyond all expectations. I have already described Herbst’s prowess; now let me describe the prowess of his listeners. They listened, not merely with their ears, but with their soul, alerting their ears so their soul could hear. Those who had left school to come to the Land of Israel, abandoning their studies in the middle, remembered things they had been too young to appreciate. Now that Herbst was bringing up these subjects, they recognized what they had lost, and what was lost to the world with the destruction of Greece. When had their loss occurred? The day they left their parents’ home and the town in which they were born. Throughout Herbst’s lecture, some of our friends sat summing up accounts vis-àvis the Land of Israel, comparing themselves to the last of the Greek philosophers, who watched as Christian invaders destroyed all that was good in the world, stamping out life’s joy and beauty. Were it not for the Land of Israel, they would be with their families, tranquil in their homes, serene in their towns, free from fiscal worries, hostile Arabs, and the blistering heat of hamsin winds.
Others, who came from the study houses of Galicia, knew hardly anything about Greek cities beyond what appears in the Gemara and in Josephus. Macedonia, for example they related to Alexander of Macedon, conqueror of Judea in 322 b.c.e.; Athens, to the elders of the Athenian school, and to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananiah; Corfu, to news items about its citrons on Sukkot. They were astonished by everything Dr. Herbst said, especially about burial customs. Jerusalem was known to be the only place in the ancient world with a prohibition against keeping corpses overnight; now he claimed that idol worshipers lived by the same rule. They were further astonished to hear him refer to worldly scholars as zaddikim. Though they themselves had changed since childhood, their faith in these righteous zaddikim was intact. And who were the zaddikim? They were rabbis whose greatness was on the lips of everyone, the teachers of the Hasidim. When these young people moved away from the Torah and began reading secular books, they found support for much of what they had heard. Herbst, as you know, always responded to young people’s questions as if they were those of a scholar and made every effort to satisfy them. Now he was quiet, reflecting on statements he had heard from Shira. Once, walking together on a Shabbat afternoon, they encountered a group of Hasidim. Shira was annoyed and imputed all sorts of evils to those pious people, Hasidim and zaddikim alike. But his mind didn’t dwell on Shira. The road, the village, the lecture dissolved the image of Shira.
Others, because of poverty or the effects of war on their childhood,
had never studied and never read. Still, they considered what Dr. Herbst told them and thought: What Dr. Herbst described may have happened in the past, one or two hundred years ago; in more recent times, such things couldn’t happen.
One by one, several kvutza members slipped away to do chores. Those who were at leisure stayed on with the Herbsts. They brought tea and cake, and presented Herbst with further questions, which they had forgotten but remembered again. A breeze began to blow. Mrs. Herbst said, “Why don’t we go outside. You don’t mind, do you, Fred?” They got up, went outside, and stretched out on the lawn behind the dining room.
The fresh grass gave off a fragrance enhanced by the myrtle trees alongside the steps, whose scent was diffused by evening dew. They brought straw mats, which they spread on the grass, and blankets. The Herbsts sat on their mat and covered themselves with blankets. The affection of their hosts was all around them; bright stars were embedded in the darkness above. A light suddenly began to twinkle in the grove at the edge of the village; it split into several lights, and a bark resounded from the cucumber field where Shomron slept. The bark was followed by three cries, then the call of a nightbird.
From the western part of the village, where the light was, came the sound of singing and the smell of burning twigs. Henrietta looked in that direction and turned so she could listen. Someone noticed and explained, “The Palmach people have built a campfire. They like to sit around it and sing.” Henrietta nodded and said, “I see, I see.” She was thinking: Tamara is already grown and Sarah is still small. Because of age and circumstance they’re safe from such adventures.