S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

“In short, my friend, my grandfather sits in front of his house and the bee flies over the tall grasses there and sucks from them. Says my grandfather: I should like to know what this creature is doing here and what it is sucking. So he said once, twice, and perhaps three times, for he, may he rest in peace, did not rely on reason and used to doubt whether people understood what he was saying the first time; and since he doubted others he doubted himself, so he would double every saying and treble it even when he was talking to himself. In short — why should I make the story any longer? — he said it twice and repeated it a third time. But what was the use of it all, if the bee did not know how to answer?

“Sometimes a man’s reason helps him better than talking. Suddenly it came into his mind that, after all, the main purpose that bees were created for is to make honey, and it is a bee’s way not to waste its time for nothing, but there is a definite purpose in every single thing it does. So, says my grandfather, what is the purpose of a bee? Surely, to make honey. Why should I draw out the story, my friend? Before long it came into grandfather’s mind that the bee extracts honey from the grasses, and since bee’s honey is sweet, no doubt the grasses are sweet too, and if the grasses are sweet, it follows that the tea my grandmother makes from them is sweet as well. And if it is not sweet enough, it can be sweetened with sugar as the bees do, for they buzz about the doorways of the shops and take sugar there. At that moment my grandfather was mollified and became tender as wax. And here, my friend, starts the main story. When the time came for the Sabbath evening meal, he began to groan and cough grievously. ‘Sprintze,’ says he to my grandmother, ‘I should like to drink something; don’t you know where my bottle is?’ Now, my grandmother, though she was little in body, was great in wisdom. She realized that the old man meant to take some other drink, not brandy, for the bottle he spoke of was standing in its place before his very eyes. And because she was familiar with his tempers and knew that if she told him to drink some of her tea he would get into a rage and abuse her, she was silent, then sighed and was silent again. ‘Sprintze,’ asks my grandfather, ‘why are you sighing so much?’ Says she, ‘I would like to drink too, but the guests came and drank all my tea, and I haven’t a drop left.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘if that’s all, don’t sigh; in a little while I’ll say the blessing for the end of the Sabbath and you can cook a potful.’ Says she, ‘Is it worth while making the fire and putting on the kettle and taking all that trouble just for my own sake?’ ‘Perhaps I should invite Elijah the Prophet to come and drink with you?’ says he. Says she, ‘If this Elijah’ (meaning my grandfather, for his name was Elijah too) ‘does not drink some of my tea, will Elijah the Prophet drink?’ ‘If it’s only me that’s in your way,’ says he, ‘I don’t mind drinking a drop or two of tea with you.’ In short, my friend, as soon as he had said the blessing, my grandmother got up to make the fire, and my grandfather jumped up like a boy, took the axe, and cut up some wood for her. And what more can I tell you, my friend? My grandfather drank one glass, a second, and a third, and if I weren’t afraid you might think I was exaggerating, I would tell you that he did not stop there and went on to a fourth. From then on, my friend, the brandy vanished from my grandfather’s house, and he did not go into drinking houses either, but sat at home and drank my grandmother’s tea together with her. And if he had started when he was a young man, he would have lived a long time and still been alive today. If so, why didn’t my grandmother live long, for she was in the habit of drinking tea all her life? Well, it was I that caused her death. But then I was not yet in the world when she died, so how can I say I caused her death? Well, at that time my mother, may she rest in peace, became pregnant, and she kept quarreling with Father, may he rest in peace, for he wanted the child to be called after his father’s father, and she wanted it to be called after her father’s father. When my grandmother heard this she said, ‘And if she bears a female?’ She did not mean to provoke them, but wanted to prevent them quarreling. My father got angry with her, because he did not like females, and said, ‘If she bears a female I’ll call her Sprintze, after you, Mother-in-law.’ Now my father was very careful never to let a lie pass his lips, and when people like that let a word pass their lips, the Powers in heaven see that it comes true. In short, my friend, why should I go on talking — cough, cough, cough — that day when I was born my grandmother was taken away from this world, so that the words of both of them could come true, she that said, ‘And if she bears a female,’ and he that said he would call her Sprintze after my grandmother.”

The rains did not stop and the mud became deeper and deeper. The hotel had no guests. Between one rain and the next, Riegel the agent came to tell Babtchi the news that he had separated from his wife. “If so,” said Babtchi, “it is only right to congratulate you on your good luck. So, congratulations on your good luck, sir.” “I hope for a second piece of good luck,” said Riegel. “If you expect a second piece of good luck, sir,” said Babtchi, “you should go back and marry the wife you divorced.”

Riegel set out on his way, and Babtchi went on in her way, and David Moshe wrote, in his way, letters of peace and love. For each generation, its own generation of writers. The rabbi writes commentaries on the Torah, the rabbi’s son writes about the love of the Torah, and the rabbi’s grandson just writes about love.

Since we are talking about writing, it is worth going to visit Leibtche Bodenhaus, who is working day and night to turn the Torah into rhymes, doing what Moses never did, for in Moses’ day the German language did not yet exist and they did not yet make rhymes.

A man does not always do what he is prepared to do. I set out to visit Leibtche Bodenhaus but I went in to see Zechariah Rosen — first, because his shop was nearby, and second, because he too was included in the promise, for I had promised to visit him.

His shop is long and narrow and set in a dark cellar, which he once used for rubbish. When the house was destroyed and nothing was left of it but the cellar, Zechariah Rosen opened a shop for fodder and grains. Zechariah Rosen can not only trace his descent to the illustrious Rav Hai and as far back as King David, but he is a relative of all the great men of Israel. There is no sage, no zaddik, no prince among men but Zechariah Rosen is one of his relatives. And when he mentions them, he says: Our relative the illustrious rabbi, our grandfather the zaddik, our uncle the President, leader of the Council of the Four Lands. Your soul is literally filled with joy that the golden chain still continues up to our own generation.

Since the day the controversy arose between us about Rav Hai’s children, I had not been in Zechariah’s shop, although he had pacified me and asked me to visit him, for I have learned that pacification sometimes leads to a new quarrel worse than the first, and I am a softhearted man and afraid of such things. On the other hand, if I did not go he would be still more annoyed, so I went to visit him.

There are few owners of horses, and still fewer gardeners. So Zechariah Rosen has time. He sits with a book in front of him, reading the testimonials printed at the beginning and the author’s introduction, and picking out names from them, which he records on paper. Paper is better even than a tombstone, for if the tombstone is a large and beautiful one the Gentiles steal it and use it for their buildings, and if it is small it sinks into the ground. Paper is a different matter, for if you print a book it spreads all through the dispersions of Israel and lasts for generations.