S. Agnon - Shira

What is more, before placing a note in the box, Dr. Herbst examined it carefully to determine how important it was. He arranged the notes by subject, then he grouped them, tying a string around each group, for the quantity of notes matters less than the range of categories. And what matters even more is that they be in good order.

Some notes are an asset and some are a liability. If they are orderly and well sorted, all is well. If you are looking for material for a book or an article, you reach into the box of notes, and they fall into your hand. But they can be a liability. If the notes aren’t orderly and well sorted, they confuse you. The more you use them, the more they divert you from your purpose, pulling you in their direction and causing you to waste time. Even more troublesome are notes that haven’t been checked. They seem to have the makings of a book, but, when you are ready to begin, you discover that you have copied the same thing a number of times. Not everyone can remember what he has already copied and what he hasn’t.

Having made order of his notes, Herbst tried to do the same with his notebooks and pads. He erased what was superfluous and discarded what was copied in another place. Seeing Herbst at work, double-checking, writing, erasing, reading, discarding, writing more, discarding more, one might think a pedantic impulse had overtaken the man. But this was not the case. He was taking such care because of a sense of reality.

Let me explain. A scholar sits in the midst of a heap of books, reading, writing, documenting, copying, preparing material for a book he is eager to complete. He does not put down a single volume without copying something from it, for a writer does well not to give anyone the opportunity to say he overlooked what someone or other wrote. He devotes most of his years to this process, and he keeps adding more and more notes; by now, there are many full boxes. His greatest satisfaction derives from surveying his notes, which he views as the core of several books. When he dies, all those notes don’t have the making of a single pamphlet to perpetuate his memory. Why? Because he has been so busy accumulating notes that he never took the time to see whether he hadn’t copied the same thing over and over.

Anyone who saw Dr. Herbst before he left for Kfar Ahinoam, sitting at his desk, surrounded by books, so that all one glimpsed of him was the smoke from his pipe, would regard him as the prototype of the scholar, renouncing himself for the sake of his work. To be truthful, in those days he was using his pipe more than his pen or pencil, puffing away, letting time go up in smoke.

His desk was now empty. There were only two or three books on it, along with the new box waiting to absorb new notes. It sat there chastely, without shouting: See how learned I am, how much wisdom I contain. Herbst’s desk was empty now, and Firadeus could brush off the dust.

The day his desk was dusted, the ashtray was emptied too. It was full of ashes from his pipe, as well as from the cigarettes he used to get from the peddler who considered Mimi and Julian Weltfremdt his patrons. They were brown and slender, as long as a small child’s pencil on his first day of school. These cigarettes lasted as long as a lit match, and they left behind a charred tip.

Herbst wished to behave in all his affairs, including those related to becoming a professor, as he had behaved with respect to his book. Like all the other lecturers at the university, Herbst was hoping for a promotion. But it was not his way to reach out for something unless it was close at hand. So he didn’t lift a finger for the sake of a promotion. He said to himself: I’ll finish my book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, the scholarly community will take notice, and their views will reach the patrons of the Hebrew University, who will promote me to the rank of professor. Such was the case with my first book, as a result of which I was invited to be a lecturer at the university. When two lecturers were made professors on one day, Herbst began to wonder. Apart from a dissertation that added nothing to the realm of scholarship, the older one had produced only a small pamphlet distinguished by its meagerness, plus three flimsy articles offering very little that could qualify as scholarship. They found their rightful place in those journals whose editors are publicists, not scholars. The other newly appointed professor, an author of many books, was merely the sum of what he himself had written about them. And there was nothing in his books beyond what was in earlier ones; if I don’t admit these books to my house, I am sure they won’t be missed.

Herbst began to speculate. Perhaps it was his turn to become a professor. Although he hadn’t produced another book, his articles were more important than several books.

Herbst was not a man of action, so he did not want to discuss this matter with Henrietta. Whenever Henrietta heard something congenial from him, she would press him to act on it instantly, as if it were up to him, as if he could declare himself a professor. Herbst knew one thing, and he stood by it: he must be careful not to say anything that might suggest he was eager for a promotion. Herbst did not want to be associated with those pathetic grumblers who considered themselves deprived because they weren’t professors.

After two or three days, he dismissed the matter. When he did think about it, he was surprised at himself, for he had come close to doing something that was close to pulling strings, which was close to the sort of manipulation that was so alien to him.

Iwill forgo the saga of the professorship in favor of a chapter on Shira. But first, let me make two or three comments about Herbst’s household.

Once again, Herbst surveyed his world and was amazed to find that all was well. This did not result in an emotional muddle, although surprise usually does muddle the emotions. On the contrary, that very surprise was a source of strength, making him feel fortunate, as if to say, “What applies to others doesn’t apply to me.” Since it’s not in my power to explain thought processes, I will begin with a pronouncement of my own: Herbst felt as if all the household winds were at one with him.

All the household winds were at one with him, and he was at one with the household. How far did this go? It was the custom at that time for Arab boys to hide behind a tree, a fence, or a pile of refuse and, when they saw a Jew walking alone, to shoot at him. Once, past midnight, Herbst was coming from Shira’s house. He was close to home when he heard a shot, felt the bullet whiz by, and realized it was intended for him. Herbst recognized that, as long as he lived in an Arab neighborhood, he was risking his life and the lives of his family. Since this never recurred, he regarded the event as chance and dismissed it from his mind.

Actually, it wasn’t chance. Those who threaten our lives were intimidated by the Haganah, and, in areas patrolled by Haganah forces, there had been no more shooting. Though Herbst suspected that many of his students were Haganah members, he did not know this for a fact. Since there were no further ambushes, he dismissed what had happened to him near his home that night, after midnight, on the way back from Shira’s.

So much for Dr. Herbst and his tranquility. We will now tell what happened to him during his tranquil days, as well as what happened to him when the tranquil days were over, and what happened to the people whose lives intersected with his, at home, at the university, and in several other places.

Since the day the Herbsts visited Bachlam, there was no longer a barrier between him and Herbst, and they grew close to one another. When they turned up in the same place, Herbst always asked how he was, and, if it was convenient, he would walk him home and go inside with him. Occasionally, he went to visit him on his own. Herbst, who was not in Bachlam’s camp, had always behaved like those of his colleagues who were not in that camp either. Now that he was a friend, he no longer mocked him. In fact, he praised him. Herbst would now say, “Those two people — Bachlam and his wife — are not what you think they are.” Having become accustomed to Bachlam’s ways, he didn’t notice what was ridiculous about him and tried to see his good side. Bachlam stopped hating Herbst, whom he used to include among the traitors, those professors and lecturers who came from Germany, took over the university, and deserved to be hanged. What is more, he began to treat him generously. He gave him a dozen offprints and wrote, on every single one, half a page or more in praise of his young friend, a man with a glowing future. He gave him a copy of one of his recent books, in which he wrote that he, too, was destined to produce fine and useful work. The phrase “he, too” was an allusion to the fond hope that Herbst might one day become like him. Because he was close to Bachlam, Herbst heard his friends defamed by Bachlam; he also heard Bachlam defamed by his friends. He would say, “What’s it to them if the old man lets off a little steam?” Or, “What’s it to the old man if they joke about him? They are both used to this.”