S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Hanoch raised his head from the horse’s neck and said, “But we are free to choose.” “What has free choice to do with it?” said I. “There is free choice,” he whispered, “for by free choice it is possible to change good to evil and vice versa.” My heart became as weak as wax.

I pulled myself together and began to speak angrily. “That means,” said I, “that in your opinion I am to blame for everything that has befallen you. But here you are alive, which means that nothing has happened to you. And if nothing has happened to you I am not to blame for anything. Why do you not answer me?” “I did not hear what you said,” said Hanoch. “You did not hear?” said I. “It does not matter to you that I am standing in the cold when I should be lying in my bed asleep?” “Forgive me, sir,” said Hanoch, “I am busy looking for a grave for myself.” “A grave?” “It’s hard lying in the snow,” replied Hanoch. I turned my eyes from him and looked at his horse and said, “And Henoch?” “He is looking after me, so that I should not go astray,” said Hanoch.

Henoch stood in his place, his eyes sunken, his lean ribs quivering, and his black teeth rising and falling in his mouth as if he were chewing Hanoch’s words and enjoying them. Finally he lowered his head modestly, as if he were saying, “Who am I to have been made my master’s keeper?” But by the way he lowered his head it could be seen that he felt proud of himself, as if to say that, had it not been for him, his master would have gone astray.

I was irritated by the horse’s deplorable modesty and wanted to say to him, “You of the rickety backbone and the bedraggled tail, it is you who have led Hanoch into this trouble, and in the end you expect gratitude?” The horse stamped on the ground and sprinkled my face with snow water, then he put down his feet quietly and neighed in his throat. My anger rose and I wanted to strike him on the muzzle. Henoch saw that I was angry and neighed again — not a neigh of vindictiveness but a neigh of invitation to quarrel. I pretended I did not notice him and said to Hanoch, “Between ourselves, Hanoch, it seems to me that you are in the limbo of lost souls.” Hanoch raised his two hands and looked at me, but did not answer.

I said to him, “I have already told you that you know nothing because you lack the power of imagination, for if you had it you would know where you are situated. Now I will ask you a simple thing which does not require the imaginative power: Which world is more beautiful, the one you have left or the one to which you have gone? Or perhaps both of them are hard, especially for him who has left one world and not entered the other. If you wish, Hanoch, I will say the Kaddish for the elevation of your soul. Why do you not answer me? Are you afraid of the rabbi, who ordered your sons not to say Kaddish and your wife not to mourn for you? What do you think about the rabbi? Did he behave well to Reb Hayim? Why do you not answer me? You are asleep. If so, I am afraid that there may happen to you a second time what happened to you the first time.”

Hanoch was sunk in sleep, and so was his horse. Only the bell on the horse’s neck tinkled. The sound began to make my limbs sleepy and my eyes began to close. So I picked up my feet and went to my hotel, but before I took leave of him I reminded him of the story of the wagoner and his horse who slipped and fell into the river, and warned him to take care.

I have mentioned all this because my heart rebuked me for leaving Hanoch without protection. And here I can say that everything that happened to Hanoch did not happen because of me, and his end also proved that I was not to blame for his death. But what belongs later should not be told before. Let us return to our affairs, until the time comes that will reveal my innocence.

During the night I spent with Yeruham and Rachel, a woman came to my hotel and asked for me. If you should like to know who that woman was, she was the widow of Reb Jacob Moses, of blessed memory, and the daughter-in-law of Reb Abraham, of blessed memory. If you should like to know who Reb Abraham was, he was the pride of our town, wealthy son of wealthy parents, scholar and son of a scholar, of distinguished lineage on his father’s side, all great and sanctified scholars, as well as on the side of his father-in-law, the great scholar who wrote The Hands of Moses , a book that was accepted throughout the dispersions of Israel — commentaries have been written upon it; indeed, in some places it is studied by special groups, and its words are meticulously studied like the words of the early fathers. If you have heard that there were wealthy men in Szibucz, you ought to know that Reb Abraham was wealthier. And if you have heard that there were scholars in Szibucz, you ought to know that Reb Abraham was one of them. As for pedigree, there was no pedigree like his. Once we were sitting in the klois telling the praises of the great men of Israel. The talk turned to a famous scholar, one of the greatest of the generation, who had the same family name as Reb Abraham. I said to Reb Abraham’s grandson. “No doubt he is a relative of yours.” He motioned with his hand and said, “We are not relatives.” And from the way he motioned with his hand we could see that we had offended the honor of his family, by describing as a relative that great scholar who did not have so noble a lineage as his.

Just as Reb Abraham’s father had married him to the daughter of a great and distinguished rabbi, so did Reb Abraham marry his sons to the daughters of the great scholars of the generation, and they too gave their sons in marriage with their like. Once, on the Three Days of Circumscription, when Reb Abraham’s grandson was getting married, all the relatives of the bride came to our town. When all those rabbis went out to the forest outside the town, in memory of the command “And be ready against the third day” before the giving of the Torah in the wilderness, and stood leaning on the trees, which were in full blossom, discoursing on law and legend, we said: This is the forest our forefathers came upon when they entered Poland, where they found a tractate of the Talmud written on each tree.

Once I saw Reb Abraham. I happened to have risen early to go to school, and I saw an old man, handsome and of goodly appearance, dressed in satin, going up the steps of the synagogue, with the satchel for his tallit and tefillin under his arm. And it seemed to me as if he and that velvet satchel containing his tallit and tefillin had been born together. On one other occasion I saw him in his house. It happened that he and my father met at a festive meal. My father expressed a view on a point of Torah, and Reb Abraham took a different view. Father went into the Beit Midrash, searched, and found in the book The Hands of Moses proof of what he had said. So my father sent me to Reb Abraham, and I found him sitting in a large room, full of beautiful pictures and many mirrors hanging on every wall, except for one wall on which there was no mirror, but a space a cubit square, neither painted nor decorated. “Who are you, my son?” Reb Abraham asked. “I am the son of the man who differed from Reb Abraham,” I replied. If you will look at this book, The Hands of Moses , which I have here, sir, you will see whether what my father said was right.” He looked at it two or three moments and said, “Your father understood it rightly.” My spirits rose. Every mirror reflected my image, and I saw that there were many like me.

Reb Jacob Moses, Reb Abraham’s son, and my father, may they rest in peace, were very good friends; they used to tell each other every new meaning they found in the Torah, and on Sabbath they would send their sons to each other to be examined in their studies. Even in death my father was not parted from him, and appointed him the guardian of his orphans, until he too died during the war.