S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

“So far, so good, my chick, but from now on everything went bad. When the Almighty gives a man bread, men come to wrench out his teeth. A certain lawyer, a wicked man, who profaned the Sabbath in public, Ausdauer, may his name be forgotten, built himself a house near Father’s. That wicked man did not take pleasure in people’s taking pleasure; he said it was not to his honor that people should go about naked near his house. So he used his tricks and they pulled down the huts. And that wicked man was not content until he had tried to have us driven off our property that the Almighty had given us, because it was not to his honor to have Father as a neighbor. He wanted to buy the house, but Father did not want to sell. From then on, not a week passed when they did not fine us, because of an eggshell that was thrown out of the house or a drop of water that was spilled in front of it. So long as Father was alive he held his own, but when Father passed away and went to his rest, and I inherited the house, I said: Either that wicked man leaves the world or we leave the house, for I am a feeble woman, my chick, and I cannot bear to be provoked; and when that wicked man reviled me I would tremble, and I could see that he and I could not live as neighbors. But Ephraim Yossel — may he be our spokesman in heaven — was a stubborn man and an angry man, and he would answer, ‘This pleasure, Freide, I won’t give you, to leave my house because you are trembling.’ But Ausdauer, may his name be forgotten, was even more stubborn, and he went on tormenting us until Ephraim Yossel, may he rest in peace, agreed to sell him the house and go to America with the money. Elimelech, who is more stubborn than the whole world, dug in his heels and said, ‘In spite of Ausdauer we will stay here and not move.’ In the meantime the war came, and the Russians came and destroyed Ausdauer’s house; they did not leave one stone on another. But they did not touch our house, and here it stands in its place — and more, it is finer than it was, for so long as that wicked man’s house was there, it hid the sun, and now that it is destroyed it hides the sun no longer. Nevertheless, my joy is not complete, my chick. What happiness can a mother have who has been left alone, without her four sons and her two daughters, and this Elimelech, who used to shout, ‘We will stay here and not move,’ is wandering about like a man who has no home.”

Here Freide stopped and looked at me, and then started again: “You tell me, my chick, you have read his letters, haven’t you; what do you think? Is there any hope that he will come back?” “Why should he not come back?” I said. “That’s what I say,” said Freide. “But I am afraid he may dig in his heels as he usually does and won’t want to come back, or he may come back after I am dead. And I, my chick, am not stubborn like him; I cannot dig in my heels and live until he comes back. You, my chick, you were there in Jerusalem, or in the Land of Israel, weren’t you? And since everyone there knows — tell me, my chick, when will the Messiah come? Don’t be afraid, my chick, I won’t tell anyone else, but for myself I should like to know when the Messiah will come. You see that my house is fine and the dishes are washed and you think Freide does not need the Messiah. But I want you to know, my chick, not everything that looks nice outside is nice inside. Inside my heart, oh, my chick, everything is not so nice. So, my chick, don’t be angry with me, that I want to see a little bit of pleasure.”

As soon as I had left, a man some fifty years old came up to me. He was well dressed, his yellowish beard rounded and handsome, and all his movements were sober and deliberate. You do not see such men in Szibucz. At first sight he looked like a leader of the religious Zionist Mizrachi party who had turned up from elsewhere, but his complete self-confidence showed that he belonged to the town.

He put out his hand to greet me and said in Hebrew, “ Shalom,” but immediately greeted me again in Yiddish with “ Sholom Aleichem ,” so that I should not mistake him for a Zionist. “It is a great pleasure to make your personal acquaintance,” he said, rubbing his hands together joyfully as he spoke, and added, “Don’t you know me? If I tell you my name you will know who I am.”

In this way did Pinhas Aryeh make himself known to me. This Pinhas Aryeh was the son of the town rabbi — that son we have already mentioned, who was an important figure in the orthodox Agudat Israel and wrote in their papers. Now that the editorial office was closed for the festival period, he and his wife had come to visit his father and mother.

He immediately entered into conversation with me and told what he told. Whenever he made a statement, he started hesitantly, as if he felt doubtful, but at once added something more to reinforce the statement and tell you that this was so and there could be no question about it — like a man who is cracking a nut and hovers in the air above it with the hammer, but when he hits the nut he strikes it with all his might.

The winter cold had gone; the air was tepid, neither cold nor warm. I walked along with Pinhas Aryeh. Once he made me walk to his right, and once he made me walk to his left, and he talked without a stop. He did not notice that I was silent, or perhaps he noticed but did not care. Suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Surely you are one of us?” I do not know whether he really thought so, or whether he believed he was giving me pleasure by this. From then on, for all the rest of his stay in Szibucz, we used to walk together.

Spring was abroad, and the soil felt rich and soft. The skies, which had been sealed by clouds, grew clearer now; wisps of cloud embraced each other, then parted gently, as clouds do when there is peace on high. Below, too — in Szibucz, that is to say — there was a noticeable change for the better. Men were pleasant to each other and looked graciously upon this man.

Babtchi put away her leather coat and put on a new dress, like most of the girls in the town; if I am not mistaken she grew her hair longer and arranged it in a kind of coil above her neck at the back. Three or four times I met her on the street. The first time she nodded her head and greeted me, her hair dancing on her neck; the second and third times she lowered her eyes modestly. From the time I first knew Babtchi I had never seen her like this. A person’s clothes change his character, and God’s holy days change his clothes.

My companion watched her pass and said, “Who is that girl walking there? Isn’t she the daughter of Zommer the innkeeper?” I nodded and went back to the subject we were talking about before. Said Pinhas Aryeh, “He served you right, that Yeruham, when he spurned you and came home. The return of that pioneer is worth more than a thousand warnings from all the God-fearing.” I lowered my head and said nothing. “Why have you grown so sad?” asked Pinhas Aryeh. “I remembered the story of his father,” I replied. “Are you so grudging and spiteful?” said he. “What spite? What grudge?” said I. Said Pinhas Aryeh, “I reminded you of the act of the son who spurned you, and you reminded me of the act of the father who defiled the Torah, hinting that even our camp is not free from sinners.” “What is your camp?” I asked. “Those who walk in the way of the Torah,” said Pinhas Aryeh. “You are indeed to be envied,” said I. “You have taken the Torah for your own, as if you and the Torah were one.” “Are you angry with me?” said he. “I am not angry, but you make me laugh,” said I. “This is a displeasing way you have, to pre-empt the Torah for yourselves, as if it had been given only to you, especially as you use the Torah for purposes that have nothing to do with it. I do not say that we (we as opposed to you) live by the Torah, but we want to live by it — only the vessels of our souls are broken, and cannot hold it. The Torah is whole, but the case in which it is kept is broken. And our longings will lead us to accept the Torah a second time — the eternal Torah that is never changed by the conditions of the times or the passing of the ages. While you and your colleagues, my friend, wish to gain power through the Torah, we wish to give the Torah power over ourselves. And if our capability is small, our will is great. In such matters, the will is more important than the capability, for the will has no end, but the capability — alas — is small and circumscribed. The will flows from the abundance of the supreme and infinite Will, while the capability is of man born of woman, whose days are short and full of pain. The capability is slack, but the will is alive, and we hope it will repair the broken vessels of our souls. Now, Reb Pinhas, I take my leave of you.” “Why are you in such a hurry? Perhaps I can answer you.” “I have no doubt you can answer me,” said I. “If you like, I will answer myself instead. But mere arguments accomplish nothing. Your thinking repels me from the beginning, because you make the sacred secular. The political affairs that interest you do not concern me, for to me the State and its affairs are only minor servants of the Torah, and it is not for the Torah to serve them. I know, Reb Pinhas Aryeh, that I have not clarified the matter sufficiently, and to tell you the truth I have not clarified it to myself either, so silence is best. I don’t believe that it is talk that will help us see this subject whole.”