S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

In that generation the honor of the Torah had deteriorated in our town, and there was no more respect paid to scholars because it was all paid to doctors. When the scholars saw the book and the recommendations in it, their heads were immediately lifted up. It was like the case of the king whose enemies have conquered his country and weakened his loyal supporters. Suddenly it is rumored that the king is returning to his land with a host of heroes, so all his supporters summon up strength and march out to restore him to his throne.

And why did that Lithuanian take the trouble to come here? Wouldn’t the rich Jews in Russia have jumped at him and squandered large sums to have the privilege of getting him for their daughters? Fine and true — except for a government decree; for when he was called up to the army he had been found free of any blemish, and there was nothing whatever wrong with him to give the authorities an excuse for taking a thousand pieces of silver to exempt him. So, since he was on the government’s list, he decided to go into exile, and the leading men of the time advised him to go to Galicia, where most of the people still had so much love for the Torah.

When evening fell, the whole town assembled in the old Beit Midrash to hear the sermon of the young genius, but since there was not enough room for all who came, they brought him to the Great Synagogue. He went up and took his place before the Holy Ark and preached with sharpness and mastery on the Halacha, on Sifre and Sifra, Tosefta and Mechilta, the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud, the early authorities and the later authorities; and on each and every matter he raised five or six or seven difficulties and explained them all away with one answer. When all the objections had been answered, he went back and raised more objections about the answers. To these it seemed that there was no answer, but again he explained them away with a single answer. The scholars had lost their grip and could no longer follow the connection between one matter and another, for they already realized that not every mind could grasp the whole give-and-take — it was so subtle. And he was like an ever swelling fountain and a river that knows no rest.

Suddenly the voice of my father and teacher, of blessed memory, was heard. He had already understood the character of that young man, who was distorting the words of the Gemara and blinding the eyes of his hearers. My father and teacher recited the text of the Gemara and showed that its words stood fast as they were, and provoked no objections and needed no explanations. At this, the young man shifted, quoting the text of the Gemara as given by the great scholar Al-Fasi, but he stumbled, for Al-Fasi had never commented on that particular text.

Another scholar, Reb Hayim by name (this is the Reb Hayim whom we mentioned at the beginning of the book in connection with the divorcee’s hotel), trapped the preacher in his own words, for even if one admitted that the text of the Gemara was as the questioner said, his explanation was not sound, and if the explanation was not sound, then the difficulties still remained. Then my father spoke up again, and showed that even if the text of the Gemara was as the preacher said, the supposed difficulties were not difficult, because he had related matters that had no relation to each other. At this, the young man raised fresh difficulties and explained them away in still another explanation, but once again Reb Hayim refuted his explanations. The young man turned and referred him to still another matter, raising other difficulties, and said, “If you are such learned men, come forward and explain them to me.” My father retorted and showed that the speaker had not understood the simple meaning of the text, and therefore the difficulties called for no explanation. And Reb Hayim added that even so they could be explained thus and thus. The questioner refuted Reb Hayim and offered a different answer to the difficulties. And here he blundered in a matter that even school children know.

Then the eyes of some learned men were opened and they saw that the young man had twisted the text so as to display his penetration and learning, and not to bring out the truth of the Torah. Nevertheless, they stood there as if intoxicated by the wine of his learning, resenting my father’s action in annihilating the words of that genius and making him out to be a deceiver, and resenting Reb Hayim as well. And still that young man would not quiet down and he started his give-and-take again. Finally he shifted over to preaching on Agada. And what did he preach? He cited, ‘When He maketh inquisition for blood, He remembereth them”—where “maketh inquisition for blood” can also mean “demands money,” and “remembereth them” can also mean “they are male”—and he commented: It is the nature of the male to bestow himself upon the female; so it is with the preacher who preaches before the people to arouse their hearts to love the Torah, for he partakes of the nature of the male, who bestows love, so that children should be born to the Torah. But in the case of the preacher who preaches for money, for the sake of gain, it is the congregation that plays the part of the male, for they are active now and he is passive, for it is they who pay him for his preaching. And here the young man became ecstatic and said, “ Teirinke briderlech , dear brethren, it is not to preach for money that I have come here, but for the sake of our sacred Torah, for it is our life and our length of days, and even if I were given all the money in the world I would not take it.” The Lithuanian lilt, which enfolds the heart and warms the soul, excited the people and they all followed him. The very fact that a young man stood before the congregation and preached was a novelty, especially as he recited many sections of the Gemara by heart just as a man says his daily prayers.

When he concluded his preaching they showed him great honor and carried him away in triumph. A certain wealthy man sent his servant to his inn, brought his belongings to his house, and gave him a dwelling place in keeping with his honor. All the leading men in the town came and sat before him, and he went on with his disputations. And precisely those doubters who had at first been skeptical of his wisdom now showed him the greatest affection. They said, “If he made a mistake in the Gemara, it was only because ‘acuteness makes one blunder.’” In any case, they said, he was worthy of honor, because he was marvelously learned in the Torah. Just then, the simple folk surrounded the house, clamoring and shouting that the rabbi should be deposed from the seat of learning and the young genius put in his place. And as for his being a bachelor, they wished they had bars of gold that were worth as much — and weighed as much — as the bride they would give to him in marriage. And not only the simple people but some of the scholars wanted to establish a place for him in the town, for instance by making a great yeshiva for him, so that men should come from all countries to learn the Torah from his lips. The town was still weary from the controversy about Reb Hayim, who had tried to get the post of Rabbi of Szibucz. (The story of Reb Hayim is a matter for itself and is not in place here.) Next day two scholars went forth to sell the book that young man had written, and everyone who could afford it bought the book, some for a crown, some for two crowns, and some for more. Meanwhile the young man sat wrapped in his tefillin, writing new interpretations to be added to the book and pronouncing disputations before his hearers, like a man who has two brains and does two things at the same time.

That rich man, who had made his house a home for this young fellow, had an only daughter, tender and sweet, pure and chaste, and he set his eye on giving her to him in marriage. He undertook to establish a great yeshiva for him, in which he would maintain at his own expense two hundred students. And so that no one should forestall him, he hurriedly made a wedding for them at once. The whole town was jealous of him, but their envy did not last long, just as the rich man’s joy did not last. For all through the traditional seven days of the newlyweds’ celebration, women kept coming in from the countryside crying, “This bridegroom is my husband!” And while one was still shouting, another came and cried, “ I am his wife and he is my husband!” The young man was afraid that even more women would come, so he got up and ran away. The father-in-law left all his business and went to look for him, to get his daughter a divorce and not leave her tied to an absent husband all her life, for she was still a child of seventeen or eighteen. Rut before he could find him, she bore a son, and died. The father of the girl died, too, and they called the child, after him, Yeruham.