S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

So Zechariah Rosen sits and tells me all the glories of his father’s house. Opposite him, in a corner of the shop near the wall, sits Yekutiel his son. He covers his elbows with his hands, because his coat is torn there, and his mother is dead and there is no one to patch it for him, and he has no other coat, for of all the glory of his father’s house he has nothing left but the clothes on his back. Zechariah, who is an old man, pays no attention to such things; his son, being a young man, is ashamed of his torn garments.

To give the old man pleasure and show affection to the son, I said to Yekutiel, “Have you heard what your father told us?” Yekutiel nodded his head, smiled, and said, “Yes, I heard.” I was filled with pity for this son of a great family who had been stricken by the wheel of fortune and did not know when the wheel would revolve again and bring back his happiness, and I was grieved at the lords and nobles who had been garbed in satins and lived in palaces, while their son’s son lived in a dark cellar and his clothing was torn — and perhaps his shoes were cracked too, which was why he hid his feet under the table.

So that it should not occur to him that I was looking at his shoes, I raised my eyes and looked him in the face. I said to myself: What is this smile that does not leave his lips — just a smile, or the smile of a king’s son? And if he is a king’s son, where is the king’s daughter who awaits him? And if a king’s daughter awaits him, it is certain that she does not belong to our town, for all the girls in our town have forgotten that they are kings’ daughters.

I sat and thought about the daughters of my town. Rachel, my host’s youngest daughter, is already married; Babtchi her sister is going to marry Dr. Zwirn, or David Moshe the rabbi’s grandson, or Riegel the agent, or someone else. As for Reb Hayim’s daughters, one lives with her married sister, and the other heaven only knows where. Some say she ran away to Russia and some say she lives with pioneers in some village. And the smallest one, Zippora, who washes her father’s shirt, is a little butterfly, and her time has not yet come. There is one more girl, Erela Bach. Everyone who wishes her father and mother well would be glad to see her married, but she is older than Yekutiel Rosen. And even if they were both the same age, they are poor, and who will pay the matchmaker’s fee?

So I sit and think about the girls in our town, those I know and those I have heard about. Each of them will find her mate, but Yekutiel will be left without a wife or children, and the pedigree his father has discovered for him will have no heir.

Zechariah Rosen goes on talking, and in the middle he turns to a wagoner who has come to buy a bundle of hay for his horses and asks him, “What do you want?” The customer does not like his tone, so he answers, “I just came in to pass the time of day,” and he turns and goes away. “Run after him and bring him back,” says Zechariah to his son. The son runs and brings back the customer, who buys the hay for his horse and pays for it. Zechariah takes the money, gives some to his son, and says, “Buy yourself a bun.” Yekutiel takes the coin and goes out happy. I, too, am happy that the Almighty has provided a bun for this son of kings.

The rains stopped, the sun came out, the roads were getting dry, and I went out again to stroll in the fields and the forest. Sometimes I went into the Beit Midrash, but I did not stay there, only opening the door and locking it again, so that the key should not get rusty. And again I strolled as before in the fields and the forest.

One day, when I was walking in the center of the town, I passed Hanoch’s house and heard the pleasant voice of a teacher with children. I stood in front of the door and saw Reb Hayim sitting on a heap of sacks with Hanoch’s child in front of him. He was teaching him from the Books of Moses, his hand on the child’s chin, and explaining — with chanting — each word.

Being used to finding Reb Hayim silent, I was surprised to find him talking at such length to the child and making remarks before his explanations, such as “Raise your voice, my child, so that your father should hear you in paradise and rejoice that his son is learning the Torah of the living God. And when you have the privilege, my son, of knowing our sacred Torah, you shall have the privilege of being a good Jew, and your father will rejoice in paradise, and you too, my son, will rejoice, and our Father in heaven will also rejoice, for He has no joy except when His sons know the Torah and fulfill His commandments. Now, my son, when we have finished the chapter, let me hear if you have not forgotten the Kaddish in the meantime.”

The child kissed the book, closed it, stood up, and recited: “Praised and sanctified be His Great Name.” “Fine, fine,” said Reb Hayim, “‘In the world that He has created according to His will’”—and the child repeated after him, “‘According to His will.’” “Now, my son,” said Reb Hayim, “join all the words together. Why are you looking outside?” “There’s a man standing there,” replied the child. “There is no one here, except for ourselves and our Father in heaven,” said Reb Hayim. “You are tired, my son, off you go outside.”

The child went outside, while Reb Hayim took a handmill and began grinding groats. I went into the house and greeted him. Reb Hayim pointed to the heap of sacks and asked me to sit down. “Where did you learn to grind with a mill?” I asked. “I have ground with a bigger mill than that,” replied Reb Hayim. “What did you grind, sir?” “I used to grind manna for the righteous.”

A great change could be seen in Reb Hayim. Not only did he converse with me, but he jested. Finally he fell silent again. I took my leave of him and went away — first, so as not to disturb him at his work, and, second, so as not to disturb his studies.

A man is jealous of everything. I envied Reb Hayim for sitting and teaching children, for besides Hanoch’s little son he also taught the other children. Of the dead one should say nothing but praise, so I hope God will not punish me for what I say, but Hanoch, may he rest in peace, did not teach his children the Torah, because he had not enough money to hire a tutor, and there were no children’s tutors in the town. It is undoubtedly a privilege for Hanoch to have Reb Hayim looking after the orphans and teaching them the Torah and the mourners’ Kaddish. Then I said to myself: How many boys are walking about without studying! Let me take them into the Beit Midrash and teach them a chapter from the Books of Moses.

As in a vision I saw myself sitting at the head of the table, with a group of little ones surrounding me, teaching them the Books of Moses with Rashi’s commentary, and the boys’ voices in my ears bringing joy to my heart. My heart said to me, “Do you want to settle down permanently here and not return to the Land of Israel?” I said to my heart, “There once was a zaddik who set out for the Land. On the way he reached a certain place and saw that they knew nothing of the Torah, except the verse, ‘Hear, O Israel.’ So he stayed with them seven years and taught them Scripture and Mishna, Law and Legend, until they became scholars. At the end of the seven years he set out on his way, going on foot, because he had spent his money to buy books and had nothing left to pay for the journey. The road to the Land of Israel was infested with bands of robbers and savage beasts. A lion came and crouched before him. He got on its back and it brought him to the Land of Israel. And they called him Ben Levi — which means ‘Son of the Lion.’”

“What have you to do with legends?” my heart said to me. “Keep your mind on the realities.” “I know another man in Jerusalem,” said I to my heart, “who on the Sabbath brings the children in from the street, takes them to the Beit Midrash, recites psalms with them, and gives them sweets after each book.” I told Daniel Bach what I wanted to do. Said Daniel Bach, “You will find sweets, but I doubt if you will find boys who want to study the Torah.”