S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Daniel drummed on the table with his fingers and said, “Arguments I hear; you started with a story and ended with an argument.”

“Daddy,” the child said, “What is an argument?” Said Daniel, “Erela, how can we explain it to him?” Said Erela, “What do you mean how can we explain it? Surely it’s simple: anything that people argue about is called an argument.”

The child’s father smiled and said, “You have learned Bible, son, and you remember how Abraham spoke to the Almighty about Sodom: ‘Perhaps there are fifty righteous men in the city; will You sweep away the righteous with the wicked?’—and so forth.” “That isn’t an argument,” said the child. “So what is it, supplication and entreaty?” “That’s Torah,” said the child. “For them,” said Erela, “everything is Torah.” “Not everything is Torah,” said the child, “only what is written in the Torah is Torah.”

Said Daniel Bach to his wife, “Perhaps we should have tea? What do you think about that?” “The kettle is boiling,” said Mrs. Bach. “I’ll bring the tea right away. You’ll be so kind as to drink a glass of tea, sir, won’t you? I’m sorry I didn’t bake a cake.” Daniel Bach smiled and said, “My wife is of the opinion that one does not fulfill the duty of after Sabbath supper with a cup of tea. But who told you a glass of tea calls for cakes? Was it from the Germans in Vienna you learned that?” Mrs. Bach replied, “And without that, don’t I bake you a cake?” and she blushed as she spoke.

“It is the Shavuot festival that calls for cakes,” said her husband. “I hope to bake you a cake before then,” said Mrs. Bach. “If you really want to, I won’t stop you,” said her husband. “Let us drink the tea before it gets cold.”

I drank and said, “From now on, Reb Hayim’s work will be easier; the spring is coming and the stove will not need wood.”

Mrs. Bach sighed and said, “Spring days are coming and winter days are going.” Said Mr. Bach, “Even the stoves need a rest. Have you heard that Reb Hayim’s son-in-law is pressing him to come and stay with him?” “And what did Reb Hayim reply?” “Who knows? It isn’t Reb Hayim’s way to tell.”

Said Erela, “Do you think you did right, sir, to take the book from the women?” “Which book?” “That book whose name I forget — the one they put under the heads of silly women when they give birth.” “Are you afraid, miss, that the town may remain without its talisman?” “Not at all,” said Erela, “but I am worried about this fanaticism, and because people will say that the Land of Israel needs talismans and charms and all kinds of stuff and nonsense.”

Erela’s father smiled and said, “On the contrary, Erela, it is an honor for Szibucz if people see that we too are not short of wonderworkers. And if we cannot help in the building of the Land with money, at least we help with souls.”

Said Erela, “If I may speak before my father, I permit myself to ask: What did Father mean by that word?” “What word do you mean?” “What word do I mean? If my father does not remember, I take the liberty of reminding him. What did you really mean when you spoke of ‘souls,’ that people could say that we are helping the building of the Land with souls.”

“Now that our friend has been good enough to send them that book,” replied Daniel, “the women will not miscarry there. The result is that we are helping them with souls.” “Father,” said Erela, “you make me angry.” Said Mrs. Bach, “You can’t deny that the book has often done what midwives and doctors could not do.” Erela looked at her mother angrily and shrugged her shoulders, saying, “I know there are still many people who believe in nonsense, but that it should be my fate to have my father and mother among them, that is too hard to bear.”

Her father looked at her quietly and said, “My daughter Erela keeps to her principle that whatever is beyond our reason must not be used, even if she knows it is useful to many people, as we have seen in the virtues of the book, which has helped many women.” “What is the use of it,” said Erela, “helping to bear children who will believe all that nonsense?” Bach stroked his artificial leg and said, “My daughter Erela is a rationalist. Perhaps we should drink another glass?” “Many thanks. I believe the time has come for me to go.” “Not at all,” said Mr. Bach, “wait a little, sir, and let us spend some more time together. What news have you heard from the Land of Israel? For several weeks we have not had a letter from my father. Perhaps something has happened to him? Perhaps he is sick, or there have been disturbances and they have attacked Ramat Rahel? This Mufti, what is he?” “He is an Arab.” “And if he is an Arab,” said Mr. Bach, “does innocent blood have to be spilled?” “Not because he is an Arab,” I replied, “but because the strong are always likely to attack the weak. And so long as we are few and weak, we can expect any kind of trouble.” Said Erela, “What you are saying makes me laugh. Anyone who hears what you say might imagine that we are sitting there with folded arms, stretching out our necks to the slaughter, like our Jews in Szibucz. Anyone who reads the papers is well aware of all the heroic deeds that are being done there.”

I shook my head and said, “I have seen more than what is written in newspapers. But what is the use of heroism that destroys its heroes? If the hero must always be engaged in warfare, in the end he is weakened and falls.” Said Erela, “According to what you say, it follows that we should stretch out our throats and say, ‘Executioner, here is the neck; come, butcher me!’ as our poet Bialik said so well in his poem ‘On the Slaughter.’” “That was not what I meant, miss,” said I. “So what did you mean?” said she. “I believe I am entitled to say that I understand the meaning of words. Or perhaps there is another meaning to the concept of hero, which I have not succeeded in finding in the dictionary.” “There is no other meaning,” I replied, “but if one may be entitled to suggest an interpretation that is not in the dictionary, I would say that a hero is the man whom everyone fears, so that no one comes to attack him.” Erela laughed and said, “Utopia! If that is the kind of hero you are looking for, sir, you should go to the sports field. There you will find the hero you seek.” Said Mr. Bach, “And will things go on there like this forever?”

“I have put that question to wise men,” I said, “but their answers did not satisfy me, until a certain wise man gave me an explanation. This wise man is one whose good deeds come before his learning. At the time when most of our wise men remained abroad and preached sermons about Zionism, he went up to the Land and succeeded in doing what the organs of speech cannot do. He used to say, ‘Do, and expect nothing.’ And since he did, his deeds combined to make a substantial reality. For such is the way of deeds: if a man does one thing today and another tomorrow, in the course of time they combine into a great deed. After the Arabs had destroyed my house, leaving me without a roof to my head, he invited me into his house and gave me a bed and a table. Once he found me grieving. ‘Do not grieve,’ he said to me, ‘all will be well.’ ‘What good can we expect?’ I said to him. ‘If we build, our neighbors destroy; if we plant, our neighbors uproot. See how many settlements have been laid waste in one day, see how many families have been killed in one hour — and you say, “All will be well.” If good were to come out of all this it would have come already, for our neighbors know that we have turned the desolate wilderness into a settled land, and they have been the first to enjoy the benefits, but in the end they have done us all this evil. It seems to me that the early days were better than these, and you say, “All will be well.” You, who said, “Do, and expect nothing,” have suddenly become an advocate of hope.’ He replied, ‘At first I expected nothing, but now I expect many things, for we have already entered into the second era.’ And he sat down and explained: ‘There are three eras in the life of a people. In the first era, the nation is small and weak, despised by its neighbors, who look upon it as if it did not exist. And since it is lowly and despised, sometimes people have pity on it and treat it kindly, like a strong man who is kind to the weak. The second era comes when the nation rouses itself from its lowliness and becomes stronger and stronger. If its neighbors are wise, they establish bonds of friendship and brotherhood with it, and they benefit each other. If they are not wise, they hinder it at every turn, and in the end they make war upon it. It defends itself, and girds itself with strength and valor, because it knows that if it falls into its enemies’ hands, no one will have mercy on it. So it does not fear the clash of shields or the onslaught of fighters. When its neighbors see this, they make peace with it, then they seek its friendship, and then regard it as a nation equal to themselves. First they seek its friendship for their own advantage, then for the benefit of both, and then they help each other. Until now we have lived in the first era, when a nation is lowly and despised, and now we have reached the second era, of a nation that has fortified itself and gained in strength; our children, who will come after us, will be privileged to reach the third era, of a nation like all the other nations. And what will come after that — no eye has yet seen that.’”