S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Mistress Sarah’s modest eyes shone under her new kerchief. Great are the righteous in their deaths. Her illustrious grandfather’s book had been instrumental, many years after his passing, in getting her a new kerchief.

I bowed and asked how she was. All my life I have grown up among great men and I have forgotten to bow my head to them, but when that woman appeared to me my head bowed itself. “What have they written you from over there?” asked Mistress Sarah. “Were they happy to get that book?” I was cunning enough not to tell her that I had not sent the book, but made up some stories out of whole cloth. For instance, I told her a tale of a pioneer and his wife who were distant from Judaism — not actually distant, for there is no one in the Land of Israel who does evil and not good, but the distance I spoke of was in matters of the heart. When this woman’s time came to give birth, her husband came and asked for the book. The supervisor of the maternity hospital, who was a clever man, at first refused, saying, “How shall I give you the book, when the sacred author did not approve of those with impious views?” So this pioneer man undertook to discard his impious views, his wife agreed, and they gave them the book. And we may assume that they carried out what they undertook, for modern people have a way of keeping their word.

These things I told her are of no importance, for how can invented tales be of any importance? But what Mistress Sarah said was important: “I am sure that saintly man’s book will bring many hearts back to the better way.”

As I went into my hotel I said to myself: I must send off that book, so that this woman should not find out that I am a teller of fables. So I asked Krolka, “Perhaps you have some thick paper to wrap up a parcel and some string to tie it with?” “There is string here,” said Krolka, “but no paper. There was a big thick sheet of paper here, but the master spread his raisins on it, which he is using to make wine for Passover.” So I got up and went to the shop to buy paper.

It was close to the hour of the Afternoon Service and the rabbi was having a stroll before prayer. He had his hands behind his back, holding his stick, which dragged along behind him. “Have you seen my son, sir?” the rabbi asked. “I have seen him,” I replied. “I know that you have seen him,” said he, “but I was thinking of spiritual seeing. What do you say, sir, is he not a great writer?” “I have not read his writings,” I replied. “If you do not read his articles,” said the rabbi, surprised, “who reads them? I and people like me study Gemara. So, for whom is he writing?” “Perhaps,” said I, “he is writing for the ordinary folk.” “For ordinary folk? The ordinary folk had better study The Life of Man or The Shorter Code or other books of religious law, so that they should know what is required of them. Why do you not show your face in my house?” I promised to come. “When?” “Tomorrow.” May God not punish me for failing to keep my word.

When I parted from the rabbi it was already dark. The sun had set and the moon had not yet risen. In the past, the young men and women of Szibucz used to go out to stroll at this hour, and a special man would pass from one end of the town to the other with a ladder on his shoulder, going from lamp to lamp to light them; the young men would look in the girls’ faces and the girls would lower their heads; and there was great joy in the streets of the town, because people were fond of each other, and when they saw one another they were happy. And indeed it was right that they should rejoice in one another, because they were comely and their clothes were comely. Now that the lamps are broken, and kerosene is not very plentiful, and the man with the ladder does not come, and the roads are in bad repair, there are no people in the streets. I doubt if there was anyone in the street at the time except myself and Ignatz.

When he saw me he cried in his nasal way, “ Mu’es !” “You have changed your ways, Ignatz,” said I; “you say ‘ Mu’es ’ before ‘ Pieniadze .’ In fact, you do not say ‘ Pieniadze ’ at all.” Ignatz sighed and said, “What is the use of my saying ‘ Pieniadze ’ if no one gives me anything? As people say, what is the good of knowing Polish if they do not let you in to see the minister?”

I said to myself: This is the Ignatz who is suspected of tale-bearing; let me interrogate him to see how much truth there is in it. So I asked him, “What is your opinion about the people of our town?” “They’re all beggars, every one,” said Ignatz. As he spoke, he gazed at the coin I had given him and said, “Believe me, sir, this is the first coin that has come my way this week. I will go and buy some bread.” “And who spices your bread, the chief priest?” said I. “Hunger,” replied Ignatz. I wished him a good appetite and went back to my hotel to have my supper.

Once again that old man was here, the one who once had many fields in the villages and many houses in the town, and had nothing left of all his wealth but debts that he was being pressed to pay. He had already had the oath on the Bible administered to him twice in court, and now a third oath was being imposed on him for still another claim.

I looked up from my plate at the old man. A glass of tea stood before him, which the mistress of the house had poured out for him in pity, and he sat blowing at the glass, although the tea had cooled. Nearby sat a man I did not know, who said to him, “There was a certain scholar here who, when he was called upon to take the oath, would go to take the oath like a man who goes to obey a divine commandment; he would wash his hands and recite the formula: ‘Behold, I am ready and prepared to perform the commandment of swearing to the truth.’” The old man moved his glass and said, “He swore an honest oath, for they wanted to extract money from him which was not due, but I know that I owe money, and if I swear that I haven’t any, that will be a superfluous oath, for everyone knows that I haven’t any.” “Well,” said the man, “what will you do?” The old man spread out his hands, palms upward, and said, “I can only rely on my Father in heaven to take my soul before that time.” The man sighed and said, “It was a kindness the Almighty did His creatures that He gave them death.” Both of them sighed and broke into tears.

After leaving the hotel to go to the Beit Midrash, I found little Raphael lying in front of his house on his straw mattress. The sun in Szibucz does not enter a poor man’s home, and if Mrs. Bach wants her child to enjoy the sun she takes him outside.

So Raphael lies in the sun and watches it with a shining face, and captures it in his hat and will not let it go, because for several months he has not seen the sun and naturally he does not want to let it go.

I tried to ignore him and pass by; first, because I wanted to go to the Beit Midrash, and second, so as not to disturb the child. But he saw me, stretched out his hand and beckoned to me. When I saw his thin fingers, with the sun shining on them, my heart was filled with pity, so I came and sat down in front of him in silence, and he too was silent.

I cannot just sit and say nothing, I said to myself. So I asked him if he felt warm. “I am warm,” the child replied, “are you warm too?” “It is the same sun,” I said, “and just as it warms the one so it warms the other; if you are warm why should I not feel warm?” “Because you are from the Land of Israel,” the child answered, “and the sun in the Land is twice as warm; I’m sure the whole sun here is not enough for you.” “Men have a way of getting accustomed” said I. “I thought anyone who had been there would feel cold here,” said Raphael. “Why did you think so?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know and yet you say so?” “I know, but I don’t know if you will know when I tell you.” “Tell me, dear, tell me.” “You tell me.” “How can I tell you when I don’t know what?” “Then I’ll ask you something else. Where is it more beautiful, there or there?” “What do you mean, Raphael, what do you mean by ‘there or there’? Or perhaps you meant to ask about there or here, meaning in the Land of Israel or in Szibucz.” Said Raphael, “Yesterday I read in a book about the River Sambatyon and the Ten Tribes and the Sons of Moses, and I ask where is it more beautiful, there or in the Land of Israel?” “You’re asking something that is clear of itself,” I replied; “after all, the Ten Tribes and the Sons of Moses look forward all their lives to go up to the Land of Israel, and unless the Holy One, blessed be He, had not surrounded them with the River Sambatyon, wouldn’t they hurry to the Land of Israel? But all week long the River Sambatyon races rapidly and casts up stones, so that no one can pass, and on the Sabbath, when it rests, they cannot cross, because they are very pious men and observe the Sabbath. And you ask where it is more beautiful! Certainly in the Land of Israel.”