S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

The locksmith kept his promise and made me a key. I took the key and said: Yesterday you were a lump of iron; the craftsman cast his eyes upon you and made you into a precious thing. Similarly, I said to myself: Yesterday you were a lump of flesh; now the Beit Midrash has been opened to you, and you have become a man. I placed the key in my pocket and said: From now on I shall watch over you, so that you may watch over me.

The Beit Midrash was just as it had been. Even the books I had studied before the key was lost were lying in the same places on the table. It looked as if they were waiting for me to come back. And I did not disappoint the books or betray their expectations. As soon as I entered the Beit Midrash I sat down and began to study.

What is the difference between the Torah I had learned before and the Torah I was learning now? Dear brothers, there is no time when man is more blessed than the time he spends in his mother’s womb, for then he is taught the entire Torah, but as soon as he comes out into the air of the world, along comes an angel and strikes him on the mouth, making him forget the entire Torah. How great is the Torah that he is taught in those days — even so, there is no joy in the Torah unless one toils for it. It is like a man who has lost his key and found it.

So long as I sit and study, it is good; when I stop studying, it is not good. And if you wanted to, you could say that even while I am studying, I can feel the pain in my hands and feet and all the rest of my body. Between one key and the next, the Almighty has chilled the world and brought the winter upon us.

I have found it written in a book: You cannot change the air outside, but you can change the air inside. This was meant to refer to spiritual matters, but I interpreted it literally. I could not heat the air outside, but I could heat the air inside the Beit Midrash.

I went up to the stove and opened the door. A cold wind swept down the chimney and into the house. I said to myself: I shall put in two or three blocks of wood and kindle them; fire will at once come forth and touch the wings of the wind, and the wind will flee immediately, never to return.

I searched in the woodbin, but did not find even a chip. For many years no one had brought wood to the Beit Midrash. I remembered how, in the days gone by, when we wished to heat the stove and the wood was not sufficient, we used to take the reading desk of a householder who had avoided donating wood to the Beit Midrash, break it up, and put it in the stove. The few desks that were left in the Beit Midrash did not sense my thought. In any case, I said to them: Have no fear, I shall not touch you. On the contrary, I am glad you still exist, for I have studied the Torah on you, and inside you I used to hide the little books that made me leave off the study of the Torah. If I could burn the space inside and preserve you, I should burn the space; but since that is impossible, I shall keep my hands off you.

I explained the difficulty to the innkeeper. His wife said, “If only we could get rid of all our troubles as easily as this one. All we have to do is go to Daniel Bach and order some wood.”

When I came to Daniel Bach’s, Hanoch happened to be there, he and his horse and cart. “Load up a cartful of wood,” Daniel said to Hanoch, “and take it to the old Beit Midrash.”

So Hanoch took a pile of wood, put it in his cart, and persuaded his horse to start out. And he too went off with him. So the three of them, namely Hanoch, his cart, and horse, kept moving until they reached the Beit Midrash.

Hanoch’s cart is small and his horse weak, and they were meant only to take haberdashery to the villages and bring back a chicken or an egg, but out of respect for Hanoch we call his cart a cart and his horse a horse.

Hanoch unloaded the wood, brought it into the Beit Midrash, and wanted to make a fire in the stove. “Hanoch,” I said to him, “by the time the stove heats up the horse will catch cold. Go back to your work and I will make the fire.” So I gave him his pay and sent him off.

Before long I had made a fire in the stove. The whole house filled with smoke; first, because I was not accustomed to the task, and second, because the stove had not been lit for several years. When I was getting tired and about to despair, the stove had compassion on this man and began to grow steadily warmer, and so did the whole Beit Midrash. Great was the joy of that hour. I shall not exaggerate if I say that even the walls of the Beit Midrash perspired with joy.

That day I studied for a long time, for outside it was cold and in the Beit Midrash there was warmth. So I preferred to sit in the Beit Midrash rather than wander about outdoors.

After the wood was finished I ordered more. Since then Hanoch brings me a cartful of wood once every three or four days. He is little and his horse is little and his cart is little; these three things which are little upon the earth have to sustain a whole family. They travel about among the villages near the town and sell haberdashery to the uncircumcised and their women. And this is one example of the power of the Almighty, that He provides a living for His creatures even by way of small utensils.

Hanoch rejoices in his lot and gives joy to his horse. Before he himself eats and drinks, he feeds his animal. The horse does not ask for bird’s milk, and what he asks Hanoch gives him. So the two of them like each other and help each other. When Hanoch is tired the horse pulls the cart; when the horse is tired Hanoch pulls the cart; and when the cart is tired, both of them pull it.

“Are you making a living?” I asked Hanoch. “Thank God,” Hanoch replied, “more than we deserve of Him. If we deserved more, He would give more.” “And don’t you deserve more?” I said to him. “The proof is that He doesn’t give more,” he replied. “If your utensils were bigger,” said I, “perhaps He would give more.” “He would give,” said Hanoch, “but His agents would keep what He gives for themselves.” “Are you not satisfied with human beings either?” said I. “I have never thought about it,” said Hanoch. “That means,” said I, “that you say things you have not thought about.” Said Hanoch, “I do not think about things, but whatever the blessed God puts in my mouth I let out with my lips.”

I said to myself: Perhaps I will give Hanoch enough to exchange his small horse and cart for a big one, so that his income should not be so small. I hastily put my hand in my pocket and took out a purse and said to him, “Here is your pay, Hanoch.” At first I wanted to give him the whole purse, but when I had taken it out I changed my mind and gave him a small coin. The Almighty wanted to give him the whole purse, but the agent He chose kept His gift for himself.

This Hanoch has a weak mind, and he does not grasp anything that is higher than his cap. Nevertheless I talk to him about matters of the utmost significance and explain them to him. If he does not understand, I elucidate with a parable. But even so, he does not understand my meaning in the least, because a man needs a little imagination for that.

“Do you know what imagination is, Hanoch?” I ask him. “I don’t know,” says he. “If so,” I say to Hanoch, “sit down and I will explain it to you. Imagination is something through which everyone in this world lives: you and I and your horse and your cart. How can that be? Well, you go out to the village because you imagine that your income is assured there. The same applies to your horse and the same to your cart, for without the power of imagination the world would not go on living. Happy is the man who uses his imagination to feed his household, and woe to the man who uses it for vanities, like those who present dramas and farces. Once I went into a theater where they were showing a kind of drama. I said to my neighbors: ‘I know the end of this drama from its very beginning.’ And what I said was fully confirmed, because all I had to do was mirror one thing with another. And this I did through the power of the simple imagination, but if I had used the higher imagination I should have been proved wrong, for most plays are made with the simple imagination, because the authors have not been privileged to possess the higher imagination.