S. Agnon - Shira

Before he could reach him, he was jostled and swept along by the crowd, until he arrived wherever he arrived. Though he had never been there, he recognized the place. How? From the tragedy he had been working on before the visit to his daughter in Kfar Ahinoam. He took out his notebook and made a drawing of the place that was suddenly so real to him.

He returned the notebook to his pocket and began to think about the tragedy he had resolved to put aside when he was in Kfar Ahinoam. Though he had resolved not to pursue it, he was thinking about it again and considering: It may have been a mistake to add Basileios to the plot, since there was nothing in any of the notes or studies on Antonia and Yohanan about a manservant or maidservant at all similar to Basileios. On the one hand, Herbst was pleased to have added an original element, proving that, contrary to what he thought when he first began to write the tragedy, he wasn’t totally devoid of imagination, for he had added a character to those provided by history. On the other hand, although he had washed his hands of the play that night in Kfar Ahinoam, whatever a man touches, even if he washes his hands of it, retains a trace of this touch, a bit of life that continues to flutter, involuntarily.

We will now dwell on Basileios, the faithful servant. This Basileios was formed in Herbst’s imagination. Herbst didn’t know what he would do with him at first, but he was unwilling to relinquish him, since all the characters in the tragedy were historical and he alone was a product of Herbst’s imagination. It is truly no great feat to take something known and make a play out of it. Goethe used to tell poets: Don’t invent material. Use familiar stories. The essence does not lie in the plot, but in what a poet does with it. Herbst, however — and there were probably many others with him — did not agree. When Herbst saw Gerhart Hauptmann’s drama Heinrich the Unfortunate , he wondered why the poet had seen fit to take a lovely story told by an excellent storyteller and turn it into a play, which added nothing to the story. So, since Herbst didn’t know what to do with Basileios, in the end he made him into a leper, confined to the leper colony.

As we have already observed, Herbst’s contribution was not essential to the tragedy. One could say about this: It’s tragic, but it’s not tragedy. Still, Herbst took pride in Basileios, the product of his imagination.

As I noted, Herbst put Shira out of mind and didn’t feel compelled to see her; indeed, when she wanted to give him her new address, he didn’t even take his notebook from his pocket to write it down.

As it happens, it happened that what he could have gotten with no effort he could not get later even with considerable effort. But I won’t jump ahead; I’ll relate things in their proper order.

At about that time, Professor Bachlam became sick and was taken to the hospital. Herbst went to visit him there. As he sat with his sick friend, it occurred to Herbst that he might see Shira. He felt not a trace of joy, only some curiosity about her. When he left Bachlam without seeing Shira, he decided it must be her day off. Some days later, he went back to visit Professor Bachlam and spent a long time with him. He sat there thinking: I’ll see her today, I’ll surely see her today. I’ll see her soon. In just a little while, I’ll see her. There’s no doubt that I’ll see her. I hear her footsteps now. As time passed and she didn’t appear, he began to wonder: This is the hospital she works in, so why doesn’t she come? Why doesn’t she come to look after the patient?

He had already stayed too long, and he began to imagine: Now Shira will come and suggest that I leave, so the patient can rest. But Shira didn’t come, and he didn’t leave, because, when Bachlam has someone to talk to, he doesn’t let him get away. Herbst sat with Bachlam, annoyed at the hospital for ignoring the patient, for not coming to ask if he needed anything. Since his arrival, no nurse had been in to see to the patient. Once again, his thoughts were of Shira. It made no sense: he had been here twice, and he hadn’t seen her. He finally concluded that she must work on a ward, whereas Bachlam was in a private room. He was annoyed at Bachlam for being in a private room rather than with the ward patients. He pictured the various sections of the hospital, the different halls and rooms, with special attention to the general ward where most of the patients were, where the beds were lined up in row upon row. He searched the vast room in his mind’s eye, looking for Shira. But he did not find her. He concluded that she was working elsewhere, perhaps in the maternity section, which explained why she never came to Bachlam’s room.

Herbst’s thoughts were interrupted by noise from outside. But they resumed their flow. He mused: A patient is lying here in need of rest, and he gets no rest, because the hospital isn’t strict about resting. The noise stopped suddenly, and another sound was heard, the sound of footsteps in the hall on the other side of the door. Herbst bent his ears toward the sound, saying to himself: If those aren’t Shira’s footsteps, I don’t know whose they are. She’s about to come in. Here she comes. I’m about to see her. Shira won’t show her delight, but her eyes will reveal some of what is in her heart. She’s already knocking on the door. Her hand is on the doorknob. She has opened the door. Here she comes.

As it happened, it wasn’t Shira who came in, but an elderly nurse, the one who showed Sarah to him the day she was born. Herbst was encouraged. If this woman is here, Shira is here too. The two of them attended Henrietta when Sarah was born. This old woman, who worked in Obstetrics at the time, works here now, so Shira must be here too. On the other hand, could it be that, because the old woman works here, Shira does not?

The old woman saw and recognized him. With her sugary tongue, she asked after Mrs. Herbst and the darling baby, born with her assistance, with her hands, her very own hands, though that baby deserved to be carried into the world by golden hands bedecked in jewels. As she spoke, she displayed her little hands. Whether or not you believe it, her irritation at Herbst — for not appreciating how darling his daughter was the instant she showed her to him — had vanished, leaving no trace. She asked about the little one again. Herbst behaved appropriately, responding to every question. He even added comments of his own and reported several clever things the child had said. The old woman was thrilled, despite the fact that the child’s cleverness was not news to her. The minute the baby was born, it was obvious that she was extremely clever — so much so that one could say without exaggeration that nowhere in the world was there anyone as clever.

Luckily, none of the grumblers was present. If one of them had been there, he would have jested later that Bachlam was so jealous of the baby that he interrupted the old woman and began recounting his own clever remarks. This is what Herbst was thinking, and what unfolded before his eyes was not very different from what was in his mind. He could see that Bachlam was not very pleased by the old woman’s conversation, which was how he reacted whenever he heard someone else being praised. Herbst tried to avert his eyes, so as not to see what he saw. But he failed, for Bachlam’s eyes glared disapprovingly, the tip of his nose was flushed, and his thin lips trembled. His entire being seemed to proclaim: So they found someone to praise, so they found someone to praise. As if I don’t know what they mean, as if I don’t see what they mean. They do what they do to avoid praising the one who is truly praiseworthy. Herbst turned toward the old woman and gazed at her, like a person in pain seeking relief. Looking at her, he realized how very old she was, how very small, and he was surprised to have mistaken her footsteps for Shira’s. What could he have been thinking? But, because his mind was totally occupied with Shira, every rustle sounded to him like Shira’s footsteps.