S. Agnon - Shira

The Herbsts are in Kfar Ahinoam, eating, drinking, sleeping, walking, kissing the hands and feet of Zahara’s baby. Out of love for his daughter’s son, Grandfather doesn’t smoke in his presence, much less when he holds him in his arms. It’s lucky that Grandpa Manfred doesn’t wear glasses, as most professors do, the eyes being so close to the nose. And it’s lucky that Grandpa can do without his pipe. Dani isn’t accustomed to the smell of tobacco, for neither his progenitress nor her constant companion is a smoker, unlike some people we know, who are never without a cigarette — the fathers even when they hold their child, the mothers even during pregnancy and while they are nursing.

The Herbsts spent three days and three nights in Kfar Ahinoam. They stayed in a single room that belonged to the nurse who had gone to Jerusalem with a young woman who was distraught because of the doctor who had refused to do what she had asked him to do for her. The doctor had said, “How many nights do I spend without sleep to keep a patient alive; how many times do I risk my life, exposed to the hazards of the road, the weather, and Arab gunfire — and you ask me to kill the baby in your womb.” Since the local doctor wouldn’t accommodate her, she went where she went, to someone who did what he did, causing what he caused. And the nurse had to take her to Jerusalem, because that local doctor had gone off to earn his livelihood elsewhere, for no one had the right to demand that he do what he didn’t want to do, what no doctor wants to do. But it’s doubtful that he will find work, since the country is full of doctors, among them some esteemed and famous men who escaped the Nazi sword but now have no means of support. Female doctors fare better: they can support themselves doing housework.

So the Herbsts spent their nights in the nurse’s room in the infirmary building, a second bed having been brought in for them. Because she was preoccupied with her son, Zahara had forgotten to say that her father and mother should be given separate quarters, as at home in Jerusalem. After the birth of Sarah, the child of his old age, Manfred had moved his bed to his study. So the Herbsts slept in one room, in adjoining beds, and this became their custom thereafter, at home in Jerusalem.

When Henrietta saw that she could no longer conceal what was becoming more and more obvious, she decided to tell her husband. Manfred listened, his face taut from end to end, his eyes altering their aspect. After a moment, he laughed, every limb laughing with him. After another moment, he reached for his wife, embraced her, placed his head on her heart, and was silent. She was silent too. The two of them sat in absolute silence, clinging to one another. Then Manfred looked up at her, afraid he had done some harm when he embraced her. Henrietta, reading his mind, laughed to herself. He saw her face aglow with serene joy. Putting together his assorted thoughts, he saw they contradicted each other. He tried to figure out just how, and found only this: Henriett, who produces female babies, will produce a male; although there is no evidence for this, it would be right and appropriate, since her three other pregnancies brought forth only girls. Which was not the case with Zahara. The very first time, she gave birth to a son.

Let us think and consider, what was it like for Zahara when she discovered she was pregnant and what was it like for him when Henrietta told him, in a whisper, that Zahara was pregnant. So many thoughts darted through his mind that he dismissed them all and concentrated on Sarah, child of his old age, who was born suddenly, arriving in the world suddenly, without his knowing she was on the way. Now that this pregnancy was conferred on her mother, Sarah no longer occupied her previous position.

What happened to him the night Sarah was born? It’s impossible to say nothing happened, but it is possible to say it was an error. Now that Shira no longer shows herself to him and he makes no effort to see her, he considers himself liberated.

Herbst was glad to be free of those things whose very goodness is bad. If he still had his youthful energy, he would devote it to his book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He would finish that book and write more. Not because a man’s wisdom is measured by the number of books he writes; not because of Weltfremdt, who reminded him that such-and-such a number of years had elapsed since his first book was published, the one that led to his appointment by the university, and in the interim he had written only articles. He would write books for his own sake, because of his ideas, which were so prolific that they could fill several volumes and were already inscribed in notebooks, in papers, and in his heart.

Among the books he meant to write, we will mention the tragedy of the court woman, the nobleman, and his slave, as well as the book about the craft of tragedy. Even before he began, he renounced these plans.

He gave up the idea of writing about the craft of tragedy because he looked at the books others had written and saw that they were written only because their authors had read so much, and, having read a lot, they wrote a lot. He didn’t write the tragedy in order to avoid being troubled by those dreadful events, for a great calamity befell the woman of the court, the nobleman, and his slave, sweeping others along in its wake, and they all vanished from the world.

During this period, Herbst took things in hand, got back to work, and achieved in a small number of days what he hadn’t achieved in many months. There had been books on his desk, piled half a meter high and extending all around. Suddenly, in two or three days, all the books were cleared away, as if a magic wand had been at work.

The magic wand was a long, thick pencil, the kind factories distribute to advertise themselves. When Henrietta bought a portable stove for Zahara, the shopkeeper gave her the pencil to give to Dr. Herbst. As he read, Dr. Herbst marked what was of interest, copying the material into his notes immediately. When his mind was distracted by thoughts of Shira, he became ineffectual, stopped copying, and placed a scrap of paper between the pages as a marker, hoping to get back to work soon and continue copying. He didn’t get back to work soon, and he didn’t continue copying. His desk remained full of books, which were piled like two pillars designed to support the ceiling. I may be exaggerating; nevertheless, there is some truth to the description. The space between the books and the ceiling was minimal. Suddenly, all at once, the books were gone and the desk was clear. Herbst managed to copy in two or three days what he had failed to copy in many days. The blank scraps placed in books to mark material to be copied, he now wrote on in pencil. He began copying, continuing to work until everything was copied onto his note papers.

These papers were placed in a box about as thick as a mediumsized book. The enormous pile of books that had occupied the desk was replaced by a box, not large, not long. A box with several sections divided by colored pages — reddish, greenish, pink, dark brown, yellowish — in which his notes were arranged by subject. At the top of each page was a heading to indicate the subject. When there were no books left on the desk, the note box was full. Not one more note could have been stuffed in.

He went to Asher the bookbinder on Ben Yehuda Street to order a new box, so many centimeters long and so many centimeters wide, to match the first one, which he had brought from Germany along with his books. He went to Shiryon, a shop on Jaffa Road, to buy paper for new notes. He took the paper back to Asher the bookbinder and gave it to him to cut, so the notes would be the right size. Asher the bookbinder cut the paper according to Dr. Herbst’s specifications, like those of a publisher who indicates the length and width of every manuscript he sends to the printer.