S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Before I went to sleep I knew that this night would not pass without dreams. And so it was. I myself opened the door to the Master of Dreams, that he might come and provoke me. But I overcame the Master of Dreams, and left him behind me — whenever I left him — and I arose and embarked in a ship full of Jews, old men and old women, lads and maidens. Never in my life have I seen such beautiful people. I might compare the men with the sun and the women with the moon, but the sun and the moon are covered sometimes and their light cannot be seen, while these people shone without a pause. Once on the Day of Atonement, near the hour of the Afternoon Service, I had seen a marvelous light through the window of the old Beit Midrash and I believed that there could be none to compare with it, but now I suddenly saw a light more marvelous still. Moreover, the light in our Beit Midrash was inanimate, while here the light was alive — or, if you like, eloquent, for every single spark sang. Has light a voice? Can it speak or sing? This is a thing that cannot be explained, and even if I were able to explain it I would not do so — instead I would enjoy the light.

Now, what were these people doing on the sea? The old men and women sat, with their hands on their knees, gazing at the sea, while the lads and maidens danced and sang and danced. And do not be surprised, for that ship was going to the Land of Israel. I too danced, and when I stopped my feet rose up and made me dance again. An old man took hold of me and said, “We are one short of the minyan for prayer.” I wrapped myself in my tallit, and went with him to the room set aside for prayer. All the congregation were surprised, for it was time for the Evening Service, when the tallit is not worn. The old man went up to the Ark and lit a candle. I went after him to take a prayer book. The candle touched my prayer shawl and the fire caught it. I was confused and jumped into the sea. If I had thrown off my tallit I could have been saved from the flames. But I did not do so; instead I jumped into the sea. Not only was I not saved from the flames, but I was about to drown. I raised my voice and shouted, so that others should hear and shout and come to my aid. But they did not shout; no voice was heard except my own, crying out, “Comfort the city that is mourning and burned.” I said to myself: Where is the old man? I raised my eyes and saw him leaning on the rail of the ship, not moving or nodding his beard. A man came up, resembling Daniel Bach, but he is missing one leg and this one was missing his two hands. I despaired and resigned myself to the waves of the sea. The sea lifted me gently and carried me to a certain place. I saw a light glimmering and thought: The place is inhabited, and surely the Jews will have mercy on me and bring me to dry land. I raised my eyes to see where the light was coming from. A strong wind came and put out the candle. I saw that it was the same candle I had lit beside my bed. I turned over and closed my eyes. Sleep fell upon me and I slumbered.

After I had eaten breakfast I took the key and went to the Beit Midrash, opened the door, went in and took out a book, and sat down to study. My book gripped me, and I studied with joy.

The coming of the cold days was in the air; its fear touched every living thing. The sun stayed hidden in the clouds, appearing only briefly, and when it did emerge it no longer looked as it had yesterday and the day before. So it was with the people; they went to market with gloomy faces. More than at other times they talked of clothes; everyone needed them, but not everyone could purchase them.

One day, as I rose from the midday meal, the innkeeper came up to me, examined my clothes, and asked if I had no others. His wife heard him and said, “We have severe frosts in our town, and if you don’t get a warm overcoat made you won’t be able to stand the cold.” Here she hunched her shoulders and bent her neck like one shivering with cold. Her husband looked at her and twitched his eyes, like someone who wants to say something and has been stopped. He looked again at my clothes and said, “You ought to have some warm clothing made, sir.”

The innkeeper and his wife are right: I ought to have some warm clothing made, for all I have are summer garments from the Land of Israel, which cover the body but do not warm it, and this cold that’s on the way is a severe cold, and lasts six months and more, and never stops, night or day. Even those who are accustomed to it need warm clothes; all the more so I, who am not.

Now this overcoat, how shall I have it made? And even if I have it made, how shall I show myself in it in front of people, when I am ashamed to go out in new clothes? And why am I ashamed? It may be because I do not want to shame those who have no new clothes, or it may be something else that worries me — a new garment marks its wearer, and marks him only because of his dress, as in that story about a man who went to seek a maiden’s hand. When this man appeared before the girl’s father dressed in new clothes, the father said, “Since he is completely dressed in new clothes, it seems his old ones are not fit to wear; a man like that is not suitable for my daughter.”

The parable is not quite a close fit, and it would be wrong to put off making the coat because of the story — even so, it is worth remembering. That young man put on new clothes to improve his appearance, but in the end he was sadly disillusioned, because all that people saw in him was his clothes.

I go to the Beit Midrash, but my going gives me no satisfaction. I do not suffer from the cold as yet, but something else troubles me as I go, for I scrutinize the passers-by, looking at them and their clothes. I, who am not accustomed to observe anything outside my own little acre, have become a noser. And the trouble is that since I pay attention to others I no longer pay attention to myself.

But since I am looking at the people, I will say something about them. Everyone here wears old clothes. They are so old that you doubt if they were ever new; in other words, they were already old when they were bought. And those they bought them from had also bought the clothes when they were old. This is particularly noticeable with the children. There is not a single child whose clothes are not older than himself.

The cold that was on the way took another course and flowed to the forests and the rivers, the hills and the valleys, but its traces and the traces of its traces could be felt in the town.

Sour and insipid fruit sprout in the marketplace, autumn fruit without any sap; salt herrings, whole and chopped, give out a salty and rancid odor; the smell of pickled cabbage, sour marrows, and the garlic with which the preserves are made, is wafted from every house. The sweet odor of millet in honey — the odor that sweetens our town from the day after Passover until the middle of November — has evaporated.

The sun is hidden in the sky and comes out only at intervals, and when it does come out it is wrapped in clouds, like a sick man who is set down in the open for a little while. A sick man who has been brought outside finds fault with every place where they set him down; he wraps himself up, and covers his face, complaining, “The wind is blowing; it’s cold outside; it’s raining.” And when they put him back inside, he turns his face away and sulks.

Even worse than the sun is the ground. Either it sends up clouds of dust, or it makes puddles and patches of swamp and rottenness. Poets are in the habit of comparing the winter to a dead man and the snow to the graveclothes. Perhaps there is some resemblance, and perhaps not, but, in any case, if the snow does not come down and cover up the earth, the stench will surely bury the town.