S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Do you remember, my friend, the story of a certain young man who had only two coppers in his possession, so he bought a bunch of flowers with one and had his shoes shined with the other? When that happened to this man, his hands held a bunch of flowers and his shoes were shining; now his hands hold the hands of a disfigured beggar and his shoes are not shining.

After I had parted from Ignatz I said to myself: I should not have brought him to the point of weeping, for if I had given him the money little by little the poor fellow’s heart would not have been so moved and he would not have wept. But the other one (namely, the devil, or the evil impulse, who does not allow me to enjoy any good deed I do) said, “Today he weeps because you gave him all your money; tomorrow, when you have nothing to give him, he will laugh.”

Since all my money was spent, I was afraid to show myself in the street, for I felt as if everyone who met me wanted money. So I went to the Beit Midrash and sat there. I thought of all I had done and what I had not done. I thought I would study a page of Gemara — perhaps it would sweeten the passing time; but because of all my anxiety I found no satisfaction in study. I began to rail at Yeruham for holding me up because of his wife. The door opened and in came Mrs. Zommer, with another woman. She spread out her hands and said, weeping, “I beg of you, give us the book The Hands of Moses— Rachel is having a difficult labor.” “I have already sent it to the Land of Israel,” said I. “Oh, what shall I do?” she cried, clasping her hands in anguish.

But the woman who came with Mrs. Zommer was experienced. “What did they do before they had that book?” she said. “And what do they do in other towns, where they do not have the book? They take the key of the Great Synagogue and put it into the woman’s hands — and she gives birth.”

So they went to the synagogue to ask for the key. But they did not find it, for on that day they were administering the oath to that old man who had been required to take the oath in court, and the beadle, who had gone to bring a Scroll of the Law, had locked the synagogue and taken the key away with him.

It takes an average man a quarter of an hour to go from the synagogue to the court, but a person’s thoughts speed like an arrow from a bow. Before anyone could prepare to go, the woman had an idea. “I remember,” she said, “once they gave a woman in her pains the key of the old Beit Midrash, and she gave birth.”

So I locked the doors of the Beit Midrash from the outside and gave her the key. Mrs. Zommer took the key and ran with all her might, as a mother runs when she is given the power to bring life and healing to her daughter, and I stood like someone who has been bereft of all he loves.

But I set aside my own desires and prayed for Bachel, for besides all the pain I felt for her, my conscience reproached me for sending away a book by which women were saved in the hour of birth. How imperfect are the kindnesses of flesh and blood! I did a favor to Mistress Sarah and her sisters-in-law, and did harm to Bachel.

As I stood there, I heard a man jeering and scoffing: “The child does not want to come out, so as not to shame its mother, for it isn’t seven months since her wedding day.”

While that one was counting days and months, the unborn child saw that it was bringing its mother into danger, so it started struggling and straining with itself. Then Rachel’s mother came and put the key of our old Beit Midrash into her hand. When the child saw the key, it came out, and before much time had passed the news was heard that Bachel had borne a male child.

It was several years since a woman in Szibucz had borne either a son or a daughter. Pharaoh issued his decree only against the males, but the daughters in our town were even more severe with themselves: they added one decree to another and bore neither males nor females. So the whole town took notice, and one could sense a kind of joy. I went to Yeruham and offered my congratulations. He reminded me of my promise, and I said, “What I promised I shall fulfill.”

That day I began preparing for my journey and went to take my leave of all those I had known in the town, whether I knew them before I came here on this last visit or came to know them afterward. If God had blessed them with a little happiness, a little light in their faces, I would spin out my story; but since they lived in sorrow and their faces were black as kettles, why should I make the story any longer? Poverty has many faces, but no matter which face it turns toward you, it looks in pain and suffering. I had another cause for regret in the house of Henoch’s wife, for I was unable to give the orphans even a little present. I fumbled with the buttons of my coat and thought of the sons of that teacher in the “Ballad of the Letters” in my book The Bridal Canopy , who used to make silver buttons for his fringed garment, and if a poor man came along he would pull off a button and give it to him. Hanoch’s orphans did not notice my regret; in fact, they were very happy, for on that day the youngest of them had started to recite the Kaddish by heart. All the trouble Reb Hayim had taken had not been in vain.

On the way, I met Ignatz, but he did not cry “ Mu’es ” or “ Pieniadze .” Perhaps it was because he looked into my heart and saw that the cry of “ Mu’es ” would have no effect, or because at that moment he was standing with the priest. From the winks of that noseless fellow, it was obvious that he was telling the priest something about me, for I noticed the priest turning and looking at me. If his intentions were good — good; if the contrary, may the Almighty turn it into good.

After taking leave of all my acquaintances I went to the rabbi. He sat me down on his right hand, and rebuked me for not showing my face to him for so many days now. I said I had been busy. “And is that the only reason why you did not come to visit me?” said he. “I come from the Land of Israel,” I replied, “so I find it hard to hear it disparaged, and when I come to you, sir, you speak ill of the Land.”

The rabbi took his beard in his right hand, looked at me with affection, and said pleasantly, “But I love you with all my soul.” “Who am I and what am I that you should love me?” said I. “I wish I might be found worthy to be a little grain in the dust of the Land of Israel.” “Do I disparage the holy soil?” said the rabbi. “I only disparage those who live on it.” “To which of its inhabitants do you refer, sir?” said I. “Is it to those who dedicate their lives to its soil, who revive its desolation, plow and sow, and plant life for its inhabitants? Or perhaps you refer to its guardians, who are ready to sacrifice themselves for every little piece of it, or to those who study the Torah in poverty and do not feel their sufferings, for love of the Almighty and the sacred Torah. Or perhaps to those who disregard their own honor in honoring the Divine Presence, and spend all their lives in prayer. Or perhaps you are referring, sir, to the humble people of the Land, to the carriers and porters, tailors and cobblers, carpenters and builders, plasterers and quarrymen and shoeblacks, and all the other artisans who support their families in honesty and beautify the Land with their handiwork. Once I happened to meet a tailor dressed in rags, and found that he knew all the rules and regulations of the Arba Turim by heart. I said to him, ‘You know so much and yet you put on patches.’ He showed me a barefoot cobbler, who knew how to quote every single source for the teachings of Maimonides, but was not fit to shine the shoes of a certain shoeblack who sat in the marketplace of Jerusalem and was capable of deciding the law on the basis of secret writings of the Zohar. And this last was only a humble pupil in the college of the porters, who were well versed in drawing out all the secrets of the Kabbalah from the Gemara. But no doubt your honor was referring to those whom the Land suckles with its milk and they impregnate it with their venom, as when a woman suckles her son, and a serpent comes and sucks with him and impregnates her with its venom. Father in heaven, if you can suffer them, we can suffer them too.” When I had finished I rose and said farewell.