A Simple Story

by S. Y. Agnon

  Although she had studied in Stanislaw, Mina had not even known when the city was founded, much less that it was sacked by the Tatars in 1692, let alone that such great scholars had lived in it that it had supplanted Tisminic as the center of Jewish learning in Galicia, not to mention the fact that a well-known Hebrew poet who did translations on commission from the Kaiser still resided there. And though none of this could be said to matter very much to a young lady like her, she listened raptly to it all and even sighed “Oh!” over each new disclosure, spurring Hirshl on to ever greater efforts.

  It is possible to know something without knowing all of it; or to hear something and wish to hear more; or to learn something but not fully understand it: imagine then one’s gratitude when someone comes along and fills in all the missing pieces. Suppose, for example, that you had once heard a story about a party of Jewish refugees from Rumania who appeared one day before you were born in Stanislaw, where the bailiff of the community refused to take them in for fear of their becoming a burden, so that they were forced to squat in squalor with their wives and children before the city gates until their cries for help reached the heavens; suppose, moreover, that you were only a child at the time and did not have the presence of mind to ask how the story ended; indeed, suppose you so regretted not asking that you went and forgot the whole thing—or that, on the contrary, you never managed to forget it at all; and suppose that you were now suddenly told everything you had ever wished to know about it: even though it had happened long ago and nothing could be done anymore to help the poor Jews who had died or wandered on, or to demand restitution from the hard-hearted bailiff; was not hearing about it from Hirshl every bit as good as reading it in a history book? And even if such an incident, which was a far from unusual one in Jewish history, was of no particular interest to Mina, who may have wondered about it no more than she did about any of the world’s other problems, the very fact of Hirshl’s telling it made it seem so fascinating that she regarded him with astonishment. How curious, she marveled, thinking of the hard-hearted bailiff: I’ve been in that man’s house to visit his granddaughters and never found him cruel at all. In fact, he once even gave me a friendly pat on the back. And even if his cheeks are blue and he always looks unshaven, what sort of proof of cruelty is that?

  Hirshl was still talking when Tsirl stepped into the room with a gay smile. Hirshl fell silent, feeling annoyed. Just then Mina did not seem to him someone his parents wished him to marry but simply a young lady with whom he was having a good time that his mother had come to put an end to. He took her hand and squeezed it as if it were his only support in the world.

  A minute later a servant girl appeared and summoned them to dinner.

  Chapter thirteen

  What, you too are here?” Yona Toyber asked Hirshl in amazement.

  “So it would seem,” replied Hirshl.

  Boruch Meir rubbed his hands with pleasure. Such a comeback had not even occurred to the condemned man in the joke who was asked the same question by the hangman. Boruch Meir was in too good a mood to notice that the comparison was not auspicious.

  Toyber shut his eyes as if he were having a pleasant dream.

  The guests washed their hands and sat down to eat.

  The table was set with braided breads and three kinds of brandy, one ordinary, one flavored with fennel, and one with a fruit infusion for the ladies. The appetizer was a dish of mushrooms marinated in vinegar and bay leaves. They drank to each other’s health and broke bread.

  Tsirl and Boruch Meir were not used to eating mushrooms in wintertime and consumed so many of them that their hostess grew worried that they would be too full for the rest of the meal that she feared having labored on in vain, the main course of which was a roast in gravy and a bird called grechky hiener, that is to say, Greek chicken. Although this guinea hen, to call it by its proper name, which the Jews of the region were wary of eating because of its strange size and shape, laid eggs with one round and one pointy end as prescribed by law and had not only been declared indubitably kosher by the leading rabbis of Galicia, who had found in it all three signs of gallinaceous legitimacy, namely, a spur, a crop, and a membranous gizzard, but was in addition sanctioned by the weight of tradition, observed to mate with ordinary roosters and produce chickenlike offspring, and reported by reliable eyewitnesses to be eaten with relish by the Jews of the Holy Land itself, it still was not on sale in Szybusz, the only place to obtain it being from the barnyards of the rich, which was the reason that Bertha so wanted the Hurvitzes to have room for it.

  “Just look at me,” said Tsirl. “In the summer when the forests are bursting with mushrooms you can’t even get me to look at one, and now I can’t stop eating them.”

  “Enjoy them,” said Bertha. “Enjoy them, mother of the groom, eat as much as you want. I have more jars put away.”

  “I have a cousin,” said Boruch Meir, “who is so afraid of being poisoned that he won’t eat a mushroom on the day that it’s cooked. He always first waits a day to make sure no one else in his family has been killed by it.”

  “Do you think that’s the reason I don’t eat mushrooms in summer?” Tsirl asked.

  “I think,” said Boruch Meir, “that that’s the reason they taste so much better in winter.”

  As they were talking, a serving girl appeared with a china dish shaped like a goose. Bertha rose, removed the lid, and ladled out gravy from it. The china bird stood flat and backless, its beak angrily open as if the food had been snatched from its mouth. Hot, fatty vapors clouded the overhead lamp before Bertha could replace the lid.

  Hirshl was dining out for the second time that week. The first time, at the Gildenhorns’, he had not given the matter much thought. Now, though, it struck him as odd that one should travel all the way to someone’s house just in order to eat.

  Gedalia Ziemlich looked approvingly at his guests enjoying the food. Although he enjoyed it too, he could not help anxiously wondering with each bite whether there would be any leftovers for tomorrow.

  “You city folk,” said Bertha, “are used to finer fare, but as long as you’ve made the trip out here, I hope you’ve found the fixings good.” Not that she thought she had anything to be ashamed of, but she did appreciate the Hurvitzes’ having come to Malikrowik.

  Tsirl helped herself to seconds. The carriage ride and the happy occasion had given her an appetite. Even the ordinary dishes on the table tasted better than they did at home, and she asked for the recipe of each of them. Bertha found herself liking her more and more.

  Yona Toyber sat unobtrusively behind some serving dishes and ate a great deal. As long as his wife had been in good health she had fed him well, yet since the day she took sick he had hardly touched his food for fear of depriving his children, so that now that he was dining without them at the Ziemlichs’ he made the most of the opportunity. Throughout the meal he kept his eyes half shut as though meditating on something of a highly private nature.

  The dinner was a leisurely one. The company took its time eating and kept asking for more. At long last the last fork was laid on its plate and the last face was wiped clean.

  Boruch Meir stroked his beard with a backward twist and reflected that after so much food and drink a bit of conversation was in order. And so, noticing that Hirshl had hardly eaten, he remarked, “From the looks of your plate one might think this were a fast day,” and then, turning to Mina, “What a nice place you have here, miss.”

  Bertha stared at him in surprise. “I should think,” she said, “that you might call your daughter-in-law by her first name.”

  Yona Toyber opened his eyes to look at Mina, who said nothing. Boruch Meir glanced at him and rubbed his hands as if anticipating an after-dinner speech. Yona pretended not to notice, or perhaps he really did not, yet in the end he cleared his throat and said:

  “Let me tell you all something. And not just anything but something worth hearing. Once I happened to spend a day in the dinkiest little town I ever saw. Apart from a
flock of geese in the marketplace there wasn’t a sign of life. It was a burning hot summer day and I was dying of thirst. I looked around, saw what seemed to be a grocery store, and went in to buy a lemon to make myself some lemonade. The storekeeper looked at me as if he had never heard of a lemon before. So I asked for a glass of beer and got the same look. You would have thought I was asking for the moon. Finally I asked for a glass of plain water. And here’s the point: I won’t tell you that I wasn’t given the water, but neither will I tell you that it came in a glass, because that water was brought in a black, crumpled can that had specks of rust floating in it. While I was trying to decide whether to drink it or not I looked up to see who it came with. Why, if she isn’t a princess, I thought, that’s only because no princess would ever live in a dump like this.”

  If Yona Toyber had some parable in mind its message was none too clear, for the Ziemlichs’ dining room bore no resemblance to a grocery store, and Mina, however well-bred and attractive, was certainly no princess; yet the mere telling of it made the mood more relaxed. There is nothing more awkward than a room of silent people at the end of a big meal.

  Hirshl, who had hardly eaten, glanced about at the company, which looked exhausted from its labors. Though he did not enjoy being hungry, he was glad his stomach felt so light. Just a few days before, he had come across a pamphlet attacking the consumption of meat, fish, wine, and other extravagances, and now that he saw so many full people still cramming their stomachs with food he wondered whether his late uncle might not have been a misunderstood vegetarian who took to the woods to lead a healthier life; perhaps indeed the pamphlet was right about overeating and the craving for luxuries being the root of all evil. If my mother did not have her heart set on Ziemlich’s money, thought Hirshl, I would not have to be sitting here right now with all this cooked dead flesh in front of me. He looked up to see if anything was left of these abominations, whose smell was making his mouth water, and caught sight of Mina. She too seemed ill at ease. Perhaps she was thinking the same things. He wished he could ask if she was.

  It simply is not true, thought Hirshl, that hunger dulls the mind. On the contrary, the emptier one’s stomach, the clearer one’s thoughts. Being hungry has made me realize that it’s time I made something of myself. Only how can I make anything of myself when I’m still so dependent on my parents? He looked again at Mina and wondered if she could read his mind.

  Mina wished she were somewhere else. Her corset was pressing on her. The poor child’s done herself up too tight, thought Bertha, noticing her distress. Thank God, thought Tsirl, giving her a fond look, that when I was a child such tortures were not yet invented.

  The serving girl reappeared with a large cornmeal pudding in the shape of a derby hat, stuffed with plums and walnuts and sprinkled with sugar coins. Though everyone except Hirshl was bursting at the seams, the aroma proved irresistible. Even Hirshl took a large slice and ate it with gusto.

  “You must admit, Hirshl,” said Tsirl, flashing him a smile, “that this pudding is delicious.” Hirshl blushed. After priding himself on his self-restraint, here he was being a pig like the rest of them. Nor was that the worst of it. The worst of it was that his mother’s words were the same as those he had spoken to her on the day of Blume’s arrival in their house, when she had brought with her the most delicious home-baked cakes.

  Following the grace after meals they retired to the drawing room, in which stood a table with cigarettes and sweets. This was an innovation brought back from Stanislaw by Mina, who had seen it at a dinner party there.

  “Gedalia,” said Bertha, turning to her husband, “why don’t you tell us where these cigarettes come from?”

  Gedalia looked puzzled. “What is there to tell?”

  “Oh, come,” said Bertha. “It makes a good story.”

  Tsirl looked coaxingly at Gedalia and said, “Come on, father of the bride, tell us where they come from.”

  “Our local count,” said Gedalia, taking a deep breath as if he were under suspicion of smuggling, “has a rather free-spending younger brother who brings these cigarettes with him each time he comes to Malikrowik.”

  “But you left out the whole story, Gedalia!” exclaimed Bertha anxiously.

  “He’s still in the middle of it,” said Tsirl, coming to his defense.

  Gedalia wiped his brow and went on:

  “The story is that these cigarettes are made exclusively for the count’s brother by a factory in Paris according to a special formula. And since our count keeps his brother on a short leash because he’s such a big spender, the brother uses cigarettes as money. If a servant helps him out of his coat, or a coachman takes him for a ride, that’s what he tips them with. Well, yesterday the count’s coachman stopped for a drink at our tavern. He paid the tavernkeeper with these cigarettes, and the tavernkeeper sold them to me.”

  “Aren’t you curious to see what a count’s brother smokes, Hirshl?” asked Boruch Meir, rubbing his hands. “Here, have a cigarette. Your mother and I will excuse your smoking in front of us.”

  Toyber took a cigarette from the box, inspected it carefully, and stuck it in his mouth. Then, still without lighting it, he put his hand on Hirshl’s shoulder and steered him away from the company. Whether it was because he had nothing more to say to Mina, or because he was relieved to stretch his legs after sitting so long at the table, Hirshl was glad to be taken aside.

  “A cultured young lady,” said Toyber, his face as blank as a sleepwalker’s.

  One might have thought it was Culture itself that was being praised.

  Toyber squinted as if searching for the right word, shook Hirshl’s hand, and declared, “And now, Mr. Hurvitz, I must bid you good night. My constitution is not of the best, and I need sleep.”

  With which he lit his cigarette and left.

  Hirshl remained standing by himself. His hand felt warm where Toyber’s had gripped it, and the matchmaker’s voice still tingled in his ears.

  The grandfather clock began to chime. Boruch Meir stifled a yawn and said, “Ten o’clock.”

  “It’s time we started back,” Tsirl said, getting up.

  “What’s the rush?” asked Bertha.

  “We have a store to open,” said Tsirl with a smile.

  “But you needn’t open it until the morning,” objected Gedalia, taking her literally. “Where’s Yona?”

  “Toyber has already gone to sleep,” said Bertha. “If you had his habits, you’d live to be a hundred.”

  “I say he should live to be a hundred and twenty,” said Boruch Meir, “and enjoy every minute of it.”

  Stach harnessed the horses. Boruch Meir, Tsirl, and Hirshl put on the Ziemlichs’ fur wraps and climbed into the carriage. The dogs bayed, fell silent, and bayed once more. Stach cracked his whip and clucked to the horses, who set out.

  They traveled in silence. The snow, which had been powdery on their way to Malikrowik but was now packed hard, glistened on either side of the road. The only sound was the clip-clop of the horses and the jingle of the bells around their necks.

  Stach leaned forward, flicking the horses’ haunches and singing to himself.

  Boruch Meir chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Tsirl asked.

  “I once had an old woman for a neighbor,” said Boruch Meir, “who groaned whenever she saw a horse whipped. ‘Leave it alone,’ she’d say. ‘Being a horse is hard enough as it is.’”

  Hirshl sat huddled in his fur, trying to remember what he had been thinking about. Could it have been about the healthy life and making something of himself? Yes, I was thinking of making something of myself. How soft Toyber’s hand is. A person with his habits really could live to be a hundred. But as long as I’m living with my parents, not even my habits are my own.

  Chapter fourteen

  Szybusz had nothing bad to say about the match between Hirshl and Mina. On the contrary, the whole town was as happy for the Hurvitzes as it always was. Indeed, Szybusz without Boruch Meir and Ts
irl was no more imaginable than gefilte fish without pepper. Not that they weren’t poked fun at now and then—but if anyone laughed at such jokes it was only to be polite. When God is with one, one’s fellow townsmen are likely to be too. Boruch Meir had started out as a petty shop clerk and was now a wealthy merchant. His very movements, which were never hasty or impulsive, even his beard, which was neither too long nor too short, showed what kind of person he was. A man like Boruch Meir need fear going nowhere, not even to the baths in Karlsbad. He never quarreled with anyone and had no grudges held against him—apart, that is, from one time when, in the local elections, he had chosen to support Bloch against the wishes of the town’s leading citizen, Sebastian Montag, who came out for Bick. Yet in this Boruch Meir was far from alone, nearly all of Szybusz having voted for Bloch, and the fact that Bick was elected anyway is another story that need not concern us here.

  In any case, a great deal of water had flowed down the River Strypa since then to wash Szybusz of its sins, and Boruch Meir and Sebastian Montag had made up, the best proof being that more than one delicacy served on Montag’s table had its source in Boruch Meir’s store. There was even a special page in Boruch Meir’s account book that bore the heading “Gifts for R.Z.,” that is, for Reb Zanvil, which was Montag’s original name. Whenever R.Z. Sebastian Montag stepped into the store Tsirl greeted him with brandy and something to eat, while home deliveries were made to him without his even having to ask. It was a good thing they were, too, since otherwise Mrs. Montag might well have starved to death, Sebastian being a terrible wastrel who squandered all his money on cards and “nebbichlach,” which was his compassionate term of endearment for the young demimondes that he spent all his time with. Indeed, Sebastian Montag was the most generous of men and was always sure to be refinanced when insolvent, inasmuch as it would have been an insupportable scandal to send the town’s richest Jew to the poorhouse—to say nothing of all his friends and relations, who could turn quite devilish if not treated with the milk of human kindness, let alone the more ordinary residents of Szybusz, who had to eat too. Not all of the town’s eight thousand Jews were comfortably off. Some, who lived in large houses and breakfasted on white bread and cocoa, had no cause for complaint; yet there were others who could not even count on black bread and onions or on a roof over their heads. Boruch Meir never turned a poor man away without a penny, nor was he unmindful of the once but no longer rich. Though others might shout at a beggar to find a job, it was Boruch Meir’s considered opinion that the world would be no different if he did; while of anyone who had gone bankrupt he would say, “Why, we should be grateful that he went out of business, because who knows whom else he might have dragged down with him if he hadn’t?”