S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

I have not said all this to win approval for myself, by showing that I did my duty during the years when I worked. I know that I have done nothing yet, and here I am continuing to do things in my own way.

Every man does things in his own way; so do I in mine, in refutation of that heathen who was so insolent as to tell me that not all ways lead to a useful end.

As I have grown older, this word has grown with me. When I was a child and played with my friends, I heard people asking: And what is the end of it all? I began to write poems and people asked, mocking: After all, what is the end of it? When I went up to the Land of Israel, they said: Is this really an end for a young man to follow? And I need not say that all the time I lived there, people used to complain that they saw no end in it. Thus most of my years have passed and still I have not achieved any end.

Maimonides, of blessed memory, said in the Guide to the Perplexed : “The end is the reality.” There, however, he refers to the reality of the Creator and not to ordinary reality. So the question stands as before: What is the end of this reality in which we live?

A man wastes his time a little and his thoughts waste his time a lot. It was good so long as I meditated on others, but not when I meditated on myself. When I saw this was so, I closed my book and went out for a walk, to distract my mind a little.

The day was pleasant, like the days after Shavuot, on which we do not recite the Penitential Prayer. The shopkeepers stood outside warming themselves and enjoying the new sun. Ignatz leaned on his stick, and I believe he was dozing a little, for when I passed him he did not call out either “ Pieniadze ” or “ Mu’es .” The postman was on his way home, his satchel empty. He had already distributed all the letters that had come to the town. Perhaps there was a letter from Elimelech to his mother left in his satchel, or perhaps Elimelech had no mind to write. One way or the other, the postman was free to go back home, or to go into the tavern, or to dress his mustache, so that it should not hang down on one side and stand up on the other.

The air was fine, the day was pleasant. A day like this is a gift from heaven. Happy the man who does not spend it in idleness.

And praised be the Lord who put wisdom in my heart, so that I did not linger in the town, but went to the forest, where it was particularly pleasant and the air particularly fine. I know that this is not an end to pursue, but since I am not a man with an end in life, I once again did something that leads to no end.

The trees of the forest stood silent; at their feet, down there at the edge of the forest, flowed the river, the River Stripa, and it too was silent. In the past, when the entire town was inhabited, and people with an end in life lived in it, they built a mill, and the waters of the Stripa used to make the wheel go round and grind flour. Now that the city is ruined and the men with an end in life have gone, what end is there to the river and its waters? Or perhaps, after all, the river and its waters have an end, as the trees have an end, although no one cuts them down and trades in them — as Maimonides, of blessed memory, said in that passage when he was discussing reality: “Know that there is no way to postulate an end for the whole of reality, not in our opinion… or according to the opinion of Aristotle.”

Many times this man has seen the forest in his town, and whenever he has seen it he has found something new. The Creator of all the world has given him the privilege of seeing what He has created in His world, and sometimes He raises him from the vegetable order and opens his eyes to see the living things that have made their homes among the trees in the forest. Though a man’s eyeballs are small, the whole world is not enough for them; but sometimes a man’s eyes rest on a leaf of a tree, on a lowly blade of grass in the field, on a small butterfly in the air, on a small insect, and the Holy One, blessed be He, reveals His mysteries to him.

It was good for this man that he had gone out to the forest. The forest, with its trees and branches and leaves, looked kindly upon him and sweetened his hours and moments. What was this man thinking as he lingered in the bosom of the forest? Who knows and who can remember? Perhaps he remembered the days of his youth, when he would sit there alone.

He was alone and solitary then in the forest, as he was alone in the world, for he had not yet joined himself to the world and the world had not yet joined him to itself. Since that time he has seen the world — that world which they call the great world, but in the end he has come back to his own world — which they call the little world.

An unparalleled fragrance rises from the forest. What is this grass that smells so sweet? Perhaps it is the same grass of which the tailor’s wife had spoken: if a man finds the place where this grass grows and smells it, he returns to health.

The fragrance of that first grass was joined by the fragrance of another grass, one that grows in the forest of this man’s town, and it too was good — perhaps better than the first. I am led on by this grass, and hear its voice, and call to it, and feel it with my hand, and take a leaf and chew. And I rejoice at the benefit I draw from all my senses.

After thinking of all that has been created for my enjoyment, I also thought about our old Beit Midrash. Were it not for this old Beit Midrash, I could have remained standing in the forest, uttering praise and thanksgiving to Him who has such a world.

I felt in my pocket. The key was not lost. Now let us return and see if the Beit Midrash is still there. The sun set, and I returned to the town.

Just then Yeruham had finished his day’s work and was about to go home. He no longer ran to wash in the river, for his home was furnished, and he even had a basin to wash in. When he saw me, he asked me to go home with him, and I followed along.

We walked and said nothing — I because I had come from the forest, and he — I do not know why. Perhaps, because I was silent, he was silent.

When we had covered half the way he stopped, arranged the tools on his shoulder and said, “When I went with Rachel to visit her parents at the festival, I did not find you in the hotel.” “Certainly you did not find me in the hotel,” said I, “for no one is in two places at the same time.” “They told me you had gone to a certain village.” “Yes, my friend,” I said, “I went to a certain village.” “No doubt that village has a name,” said Yeruham. “You have guessed right, my fine fellow,” I said, “you have guessed right.” Said Yeruham, “That is easy to guess, and I don’t know why you found it necessary to praise me for it.” “Surely you deserve all this praise,” I replied, “for controlling yourself, covering up your curiosity, and evading what you wish to know until I choose to tell.” “What is there to evade?” said Yeruham. “A man who goes to a village no doubt had to go.” “Quite right, Yeruham,” I said, “I had to go, and so I went. Since you know that, perhaps you know whom I found?” “Whom you found? Gentiles and Jews.” “And to which did I go?” “Easy to guess: you went to the Jews.” “Do you think I took the trouble to go to the village just to see ordinary Jews?” “Perhaps you have friends among them,” said Yeruham. “If I had friends among them,” I replied, “would I have waited until now to see them?” “Perhaps you did not know about them before,” said Yeruham, “or perhaps… I’m sorry, I cannot reply to your Socratic questions.” “You know, Yeruham, but you do not want to.” “Why shouldn’t I want to know?” “Why shouldn’t you want to reply? Tell me yourself.” “If I knew I would not ask.” “That means you believe that if one asks one gets a reply, for you ask and no doubt you want a reply.” “That depends on whether you want to answer me.” “And if I do not answer you?” “Is it a secret from me?” “A secret means something hidden and covered up, not something open and known. And since you know it, that means it is no secret to you. And now, my friend, let us smoke a cigarette. All the time I was in the forest I did not smoke, and you may say that I have not smoked all day. When I went to the Beit Midrash and took out a cigarette to smoke, a certain guardian came and stopped me. Later I went to the forest and forgot all about smoking. Take a cigarette, my friend, and let us send up smoke to the high heavens and their stars.” “I don’t smoke,” replied Yeruham. “But surely I remember that you used to smoke?” “I used to smoke and I stopped.” “You stopped? Whatever for?” “Because Rachel can’t stand cigarette smoke.” Rachel. For many days I had not called Rachel to mind, and now he had reminded me of her.