A Simple Story

by S. Y. Agnon

  Hirshl had eyes for her alone. He saw her even when she was elsewhere. A skillful Artist had sketched her portrait in his mind, and her beauty was always on display there.

  In the store he stood staring into space. Whole days passed with his lips slightly parted and his tongue firmly tucked in his mouth, as if he had been given a candy to suck on and wished to retain the taste of it. His heart quickened when he heard Blume’s footsteps as she went about her work. Prudence alone kept him from seeking out the room she was in, reaching out his arms, and embracing the wondrous mystery of her that caused him such sweet distress.

  Hirshl was no little innocent. He may not have known the taste of sin yet, but the thought of sin can be worse than sin itself. Nor does lewdness ever lack for company. Even in little Szybusz, the most dissolute of whose sons had scant opportunity for sowing their wild oats, there were young men who had lost not only their virtue but with it all sense of shame, so that they actually boasted of their deeds. Such loose talk stained Hirshl’s pure spirit. Sometimes, when he was alone, he imagined all kinds of women who existed only for men’s pleasures. And such imaginings, once yielded to, made him want the pleasures themselves. It was hard to think about such things and hard not to. Shame, anger, and frustration came and went in him at will. If he tried not looking at women, he felt thwarted; if he looked, he felt ashamed; and one way or another, he felt agitated all the time.

  Hirshl would have liked greatly to sit beside a woman who, her loose hair falling over him, gave him her hand to hold while brushing his ear with her soft voice. Once would be enough: he would be satisfied forever after. In perfect stillness he let his imagination conjure up the faces of the women singers and performers who came to town with their minstrel troops two or three times a year and sang songs put to bawdy lyrics. The men’s collars gleamed; their shirts were always well starched; their eyes shone with a strange glitter that gave them a rheumy look; and they smelled of all kinds of things, such as tobacco, eau de cologne, and the dust of many roads. There was no telling whether the fancily dressed women talking and laughing in loud voices were their girlfriends or their wives. At night they set up a stage on which they sang, danced, and told jokes. Hirshl always went to see these performances, as did many of his young acquaintances—and while he never failed to pray that he had not been spied by them there, they were certain to be in the audience, praying the same thing about him. After the show, the fast set in Szybusz took the performers out to eat, drink, and carouse. Though Hirshl envied them, he was too embarrassed to join them. The minstrels’ songs had made him shake with sin—how could he eat with them now?

  Of course, times and attitudes had changed, and the same minstrels who once were held in low repute were suddenly being treated with respect. Students strolled with them in public, referred to them as artists, drank with them in the taverns, lectured on them and their folk songs, and gave their women bouquets of flowers while plying them with boxes of chocolates. Yet whether or not the minstrels had changed, Hirshl clearly had not. The good breeding he had received at home was not easily overcome. It was simple to wrap a box of chocolates but difficult to present it to a woman one did not know. And so, his heart as full as his hands were empty, he continued to watch from a distance while his friends went off to enjoy themselves.

  Hirshl knew that his dilemma was not easily solved. The religious studies of his childhood still influenced him. If he eyed some Polish or Ukrainian, they made him look away; if he imagined a rendezvous with her, they reminded him of stories of the sages, such as the tale of Rabbi Matya ben Harash, who never so much as looked at a woman until the Devil grew jealous and disguised himself as the most beautiful enchantress who had ever lived. Of course, Rabbi Matya turned his back on her the minute he saw her; yet seeing her again and again until he realized she could not be gotten rid of, he took a nail, heated it in a fire, and put out both his eyes.

  Needless to say, a young shopkeeper in Szybusz was not a Talmudic sage of yore. Here, however, prudence again came to the rescue by pointing out the disgrace that was sure to follow even a single sin. Far better to die a thousand deaths than to be disgraced even once.

  It almost seemed that with one hand God was making Blume more beautiful each day while with the other He was opening Hirshl’s eyes wider every minute. Hirshl thought of a thousand different excuses to be with her. And yet his legs trembled when he was, nor could he say a word to her without stammering; indeed, he had not the slightest idea of what he was saying, and neither for that matter did she. But as the heart knows more than does the mouth, so can the ear hear what the tongue never speaks.

  One day Hirshl entered Blume’s room. Before he could say anything, the ground quaked beneath him; he felt as if a cavern had opened at his feet, revealing a hidden treasure that was his for the taking. All at once, though, his arms failed him, and, paralyzed, he froze. Blume too seemed dazed. Suddenly there was a great divide between them.

  They were both bewildered. The smile on Blume’s lips vanished. Hastily she reached up to arrange a loose wisp of hair, then shook his hand to signal him to go. Yet he did not go, nor did he release her hand. Their faces crimsoned as if they had been caught doing something wrong. She wrenched her hand free and left the room.

  How long did Hirshl remain there by himself? Not very. Still, it was long enough to think of what many hours might not ordinarily have sufficed for.

  What was it that Hirshl thought? That although they had not actually done anything, something had happened all the same. I must not let it happen again, he told himself. And yet no sooner had he done so than it seemed that nothing had happened after all.

  Perhaps it had not. Perhaps that was the very reason for his turmoil. He had not hugged her or stroked her hair, though he easily could have; nor, when she finally wrested her hand back, had he sought to detain her. Though were he to think of her for a thousand years he would still find the wonderful light of her eyes and the bright shimmer of her hair lovelier each moment, Hirshl had the presence of mind to realize that he should not have clutched at her hand. Indeed, had she not left the room when she did, he would have had to leave it himself.

  It was actually a relief for Hirshl to discover that he was still in control of himself and not a slave to his passion. He felt like a man awakening from a drugged sleep; while the effects of the drug were still wearing off his whole body felt numb, yet once they were gone he was perfectly normal again.

  And so Hirshl went back to keeping shop. Not that he was all that keen on it. Just as when studying religious books he had never really cared about being a rabbi, so now, working in the store, he did not really care about making money. If his father had wanted the rabbinate for him and his mother the life of commerce, he himself had no great expectations of either. And if after parting from Blume that day he threw himself into the business, this was only because he saw that unless he kept occupied he would be at the mercy of his caprices.

  It did Tsirl good to see all this. Hirshl had never been so involved with the store before. Although it was she who had introduced him to it, she had never dared hope that he would amount to much of a merchant. It had been enough for her to know that working there would keep him out of mischief. Now, however, she saw that he had the makings of a true businessman.

  “I tell you, Boruch Meir,” she remarked to her husband, “we may make something of the boy yet.”

  “Yes, indeed,” nodded Boruch Meir. He himself had never worried about how his son would turn out. He was no teller of fortunes. The good Lord, who looked after all His creatures, would take care of Hirshl, too. Who could know what the future held in store for him? And even if one could, what could be done about it? Of course, if that was Tsirl’s opinion, there was no point disagreeing. Yet Tsirl, he mused, wished to change Hirshl without realizing that there was no changing anyone. In the end he would do what he wanted, even if it was behind her back. Boruch Meir could see that his son was not cut out to be a practical man of affairs—which was all t
he more reason, he thought, to polish him carefully so that no fatal flaw in his character developed. Though Hirshl would have made a better rabbi than a storekeeper, since a storekeeper was what he now was, he might as well be taught to be a good one. He may be the only one of his kind, thought Boruch Meir, but then how many of a kind are like me? In a town full of merchants you can always find room for one odd one.

  Tsirl’s mood in the store was expansive. Not that there had been any cause to complain before, but at last Hirshl was shaping up and showing real business skills. Though it had taken him a few years to find his own feet, he was now solidly on them. Even the two shopboys had noticed the difference and were beginning to take him more seriously. Getzel Stein, for instance, the son of the town’s deposed chicken slaughterer, who had considered himself the store’s mainstay before Hirshl came to work in it, and even afterwards had shown him scant respect, now whistled a different tune and consulted him constantly as a good employee should. Or take Getzel’s assistant, Feyvel, who was both older and more educated than Getzel himself, with whom he was continually at loggerheads: though at first he had treated Hirshl no differently from Getzel, he now obeyed his every word and even addressed him as “sir.”

  Hirshl hardly noticed any of this. And by the time he did, he had already taken it for granted. Perhaps this should have struck him as strange, but it did not. He had other things on his mind, and not all that is strange to a shopboy is also strange to his employer.

  Hirshl was not disposed to puzzle over things that others found puzzling. He did wonder, however, about things that they did not, such as the woman customer who entered the store one day and made some purchase from him. You might have thought it a simple matter to sell something to a woman, but not if you were Hirshl. Why, he remarked to himself when she was gone, I just weighed and sold her that item without even thinking how attractive she was! Why didn’t I? Because I kept my mind off her, just as I’ve kept it off Blume. What you don’t think of can’t attract you; if she is not in my thoughts, she does not exist for me. Then, thinking of how Blume was not in his thoughts, he thought of Blume herself.

  Blume was feeling irritable and low. When most people feel that way they can usually make themselves scarce, but when the person is a housemaid there is no place to hide, since a housemaid must be seen around the house. Like it or not, her feelings are there to see too.

  Hirshl was the son of Blume’s masters, and Blume was a servant in his home. Whatever her job demanded she performed irreproachably, for though a veteran in the Hurvitz house, she did not know what idleness meant. Yet if her two hands were the household’s in exchange for her room, board, and clothes, her face and her heart were her own. Like it or not, they belonged to her alone. Perhaps indeed they did not belong to her either but to One even greater than her masters. In any case, Blume could not force herself to look happy when she was not. She came and went in silence when she served Hirshl his meals and kept her eyes on the table. God in heaven knew she had tact.

  Hirshl sat eating his meal. Though a white cloth half covered the table, he saw neither the half of the table that was covered nor the half that was not. He had eyes only for Blume, who had just curtly left the dining room.

  I see you’re keeping accounts, thought Hirshl. If you mean to give me the silent treatment, believe me, two can play at that game: I can be as silent as you. And yet the fact was that it was Hirshl, the son and grandson of storekeepers who were used to weighing and measuring all things, who was keeping accounts. Nor should he have thought that he could play at Blume’s game, because at the first opportunity the words tumbled out by themselves. Blume’s eyes looked so anguished that he simply had to say something, and so he followed her back to her room.

  “What’s wrong, Blume?” he asked.

  Blume sat down without answering.

  The chair she sat down in was the only one in her room, which was not intended for guests. Hirshl was left standing limply, his mouth quivering as if wanting to say more. God in heaven knew what that could be.

  Hirshl stood for a while longer in the middle of the room. Its walls bore down on him. How near he was to her and how far she was from him. And yet not so far as all that. He need simply reach out his arms and she would be closer than ever before.

  In the end he obeyed his heart’s counsel, extended a hand, and conciliatingly sought to take hers. Before he could do so, however, she was gone from the room.

  He himself remained there. In her absence he felt her presence even more. The whole room was filled with her scent, which was like a freshly fallen apple’s. He looked about, saw he was alone, and lay his head on her bed.

  A thousand years might well have passed, for the world had ceased to exist for him. He lay without moving, suffused by a honeyed sweetness. Never had his body felt so fully alive. God in heaven knew how long it lasted. Then a woman’s hand touched his head and stroked his hair. Who of you has not already guessed that it was Blume’s? He came to his senses, rose, and left the room.

  Hirshl grew taciturn. If alone in the store, he stared vacantly at nothing in particular. Though the store was stocked with merchandise that belonged to his parents and would one day be his, their only heir, this made him neither glad nor proud. He had other, more troubling thoughts on his mind. Sometimes he laid a hand on the scales, which rang against the counter without his noticing.

  He did not speak to Blume, either. He was embarrassed to be with her. Even though he longed for her, he hid from her. Several days went by without their meeting. Yet the ray of golden light that shone from beneath her lashes when she looked at him was before him all the time.

  Blume went about her work in the Hurvitz home, cooking, baking, washing, and mending. She did everything in the household except for such drudgery as scrubbing the floors, which could not be expected of a cousin. In a word, she was one of the family. And yet though many a young girl would gladly have traded places with her, she seemed to have no idea how lucky she was. Never once did she smile, while her mouth hung slightly open as if it had either given up talking in the middle of a sentence or else were about to scream.

  God in heaven saw Blume’s unhappiness and prompted Hirshl to approach her. God had made Hirshl an honest young man, nor was there any guile in Blume. No longer did their paths cross in self-imposed silence. Hirshl had much to say, and Blume was a willing listener. Though his conversation was trivial, it pleased her nonetheless. Let the nightingale sing what he wishes, his mate never tires of hearing it. And while Hirshl still began each tête-à-tête with a sigh, all this meant was, Though God in heaven will surely have mercy and never come between us, we had better be careful in the meantime not to upset my father and mother.

  Hirshl and Blume were careful. Not that they had anything to hide. But being a good Jewish boy, the more honorable his conduct with a good Jewish girl was, the more Hirshl felt called upon to conceal it.

  (This remark may seem to demand an explanation, perhaps even an illustration. The problem is, though, that any illustration will just lead us back to Hirshl and Blume.)

  Tsirl began to take note. Had Hirshl not tried hiding his love, she would never have noticed it. But He who put the love of his cousin in his heart had not put the wits of his mother in his head.

  Chapter six

  Though Tsirl saw what was happening with her son, she said nothing. The same good sense that made her think, Why, the boy would have to be mad to fall in love with a penniless orphan, made her keep silent too. Let him have his flirtation with Blume, she thought. Once he grows up, he’ll marry someone suitable.

  Tsirl pretended that she saw and heard nothing. She neither discussed the matter with Hirshl nor sought to keep Blume away from him. On the contrary, she felt grateful to Blume for keeping Hirshl away from other girls, for even in Szybusz, she knew, youthful morals were not what they once were. As long as Hirshl had not found a mate for life, he was best off being friendly with Blume, who at least kept him out of worse hands.

  On
e day, however, when it was announced that the draft board would soon be coming to Szybusz, Tsirl remarked that if a good match came her way she would not even put it off until after the army physical. Yona Toyber happened to be in the store. As he departed, Tsirl said, “By the way, Gedalia Ziemlich has a daughter named Mina. Don’t you think that bears looking into, Mr. Toyber?”

  Yona Toyber took out some paper and tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. He broke it in two, stuck one half into the inner pocket of his coat and the other into a little holder, popped his head back into the store, lit his cigarette, popped his head back out again, and left.

  Tsirl rubbed her hands together as her husband liked to do when he had reason to be pleased with himself.

  Yona Toyber was a matchmaker. Though on the face of it he had never made a match in his life, no one in Szybusz married anyone in Szybusz without his help. True, if someone happened to mention in his presence that he had a marriageable son and was thinking of so-and-so’s daughter, Toyber would not even deign to reply, as if such things were beneath him. The next day, however, he would be sure to run into the young man in question, nor would the two of them have parted before there was such camaraderie between them that the young man’s heart was putty in Yona’s hands. Not that Yona ever laid down the law to anyone; it was enough for him to mumble a word or two, and the rest simply happened by itself. No matter whom a youngster thought he loved, Yona could make him think otherwise, and whomever his parents thought he should love Yona could make him love too, so that in the end, as it were, he fell in love with her all by himself while Yona simply gave his approval. There were some quite educated people in Szybusz who snorted at the notion of an arranged marriage without knowing that they themselves were a match made by Yona.