S. Agnon - Shira

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Shira: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Shira is Nobel laureate S.Y. Agnon’s final, epic novel. Unfinished at the time of his death in 1970, the Hebrew original was published a year later. With this newly revised English translation by Zeva Shapiro, including archival material never before published in English, The Toby Press launches its S.Y. Agnon Library — the fullest collection of Agnon’s works in new and revised translations. “Shira is S. Y. Agnon’s culminating effort to articulate through the comprehensive form of the novel his vision of the role of art in human reality…Enacted against the background of Jerusalem life in the gathering shadows of a historical cataclysm of inconceivable proportions, Shira is so brilliantly rendered that, even without an ending, it deserves a place among the major modern novels."

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In the past, when Herbst finished his business in town, he turned toward Shira’s. But, for a long time now, ever since he and his wife came back from Kfar Ahinoam, Herbst had not gone that way or even considered going that way. You know that Shira once ran into him somewhere and told him, “I’ve moved, so take out your notebook and write down my new address.” He didn’t take out his notebook, and he didn’t write in her address, because he knew it was superfluous, that he had no use for her address, that he had banished her from his mind. Now, after the rally, having had a chance to see the climber Shira had told him about, whom he found to be of no interest, it occurred to Herbst that it would be worthwhile to talk to Shira. Two things converged here. In and of themselves, they were unimportant; but together, they assumed importance. Shira was not important to Herbst; neither was that climber important to Herbst. But now that they were allied in his mind, he wished to discuss the man with Shira. For this reason, he turned toward Shira’s apartment. The earth was abandoned. All its children were gone, they had been plucked from the face of the earth. There was not a soul in sight, nor any vehicles either — not a bus, not a car, not a bicycle. Only implements of war filled the land, whose bulky parts looked malevolent and reeked of foul-smelling grease. A policeman, armed from head to toe, stood by, holding a rifle or a gun. A car, belonging to an Englishman or an Arab, suddenly loomed into view. It whizzed by, leaping, skimming the ground, leaving its fumes behind.

It was almost twilight when the hamsin , which had been so oppressive all day, finally relented. But no one remarked, “Thank God the hamsin is over,” for the entire city was enclosed in its houses. There was no sound from within. Those who had food were eating; those who had nothing to eat were hardly aware of hunger, because of the woes that burdened their hearts and because of their impotence. A radio was turned on. Perhaps there would be news of salvation and mercy. As was its wont, the radio offered the sort of news it is hard to hear when one’s heart is sore. After a minute or two, the radio was turned off. The city and its inhabitants were, once again, silent.

Herbst walked on in solitude. He had already disengaged his feet from the road that led to Shira’s house, but he hadn’t turned toward home. His soul was devoid of will; his feet had no direction. He wasn’t drawn toward Shira’s, nor was he drawn toward home.

Suddenly, a human figure emerged from the stillness, and Herbst heard a girlish voice addressing him. Herbst asked the girl, “Firadeus, what are you doing here?” Firadeus said, “I’m coming back from the pharmacy. I have some medicine for my mother.” Herbst said, “Yes, that’s right, I did hear that your mother was ill. Where do you live? Do you live in this neighborhood? Imagine, here I am. I have suddenly landed in your neighborhood. I don’t remember, did I ask about your mother’s illness? I may have asked and forgotten. Yes, yes, your mother’s illness is also due to the government of Palestine. The government’s vile politics. Today it seems to me that all our troubles are due to politics. Because of politics we die, because of politics we’re murdered, because of politics we get sick, and because of politics people make speeches and shoot at each other. You may have heard that a young girl shot a British officer. Did it ever occur to you that a girl — a Jewish girl, a daughter of Israel — would be capable of picking up a gun and killing someone? I myself cannot digest the news. Luckily, she didn’t hit him, and he wasn’t killed. Anyway, he was almost killed. If he has a wife, she would be mourning and lamenting. What are those voices I hear?” Firadeus answered, “That voice is my mother’s. She is mourning my father, who was killed by Arabs. Until today, she used to mourn at night. Today, she has been mourning all day. Some say she is this way because of the hamsin ; others say it’s because of the rally.” “Yes, that’s right,” Herbst said. “It’s because of the rally. Go inside, Firadeus, and bring your mother her medicine.” Firadeus went in, and Herbst stood listening to the woman’s lament for her murdered husband.

This man who cleansed the streets of Jerusalem:

His spilled blood flowed like water through them.

This man who cleared the dusty roads of this quarter:

They spilled his blood like dirty water.

You, God, who are great, enlightened, supreme,

See them ravage his body, once sacred and clean.

Enlightened God, who reigns in the skies.

Do you hear orphans and widows when they cry?

Your right hand, our support, you have withdrawn from

us,

And we are at the mercy of the villainous.

I loathe my life, for he is gone whom I cherish.

Take my soul too and let me perish,

And perhaps I will again see my longtime mate.

Then will my heart rest and my suffering abate.

Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.

Now covered with earth in the grave he lies.

Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.

Now I see darkness by death, multiplied.

My heart yearns for you, to be dead at your side,

In your grave on the Mount where you now abide.

Chapter nine

Let’s return to Herbst’s household and family. As I mentioned, Henrietta is going to give birth, either to a boy, as Manfred believes, or to a girl, as is her habit, for Henrietta is in the habit of giving birth to girls. We will know in due time. For the time being, Henrietta tolerates the indignities of pregnancy rather gracefully. This woman takes great pride in her pregnancy, unlike most women in this country, except for those in the older communities, who welcome children. Firadeus is Henrietta’s mainstay. Firadeus knows what her mistress wants. Not merely from the heaviness of her movements, but from her face as well. Every line of her mistress’s face communicates her needs. Henrietta smiles and says, “You are a prophet, Firadeus. You know what’s hidden in my heart. You guess what I want, and I don’t have to bother with words.” Firadeus tells her mistress, “I only did as I was told. It seems to me that I was given an instruction, which I fulfilled.” Henrietta thinks to herself: I may have whispered something without realizing it. But this was not the case. It was love that whispered to Firadeus, conveying the wishes of her mistress.

Tamara treats her mother with affection too. She doesn’t contradict her, avoids arguing, and stays home a lot, so her mother won’t be alone and Tamara will be available should she be needed. She herself, rather than remain idle, corrects her students’ notebooks. Just between us, they aren’t really notebooks; they are the proclamations of youth leaders not yet fluent in Hebrew, written in other languages and translated into Hebrew by Tamara, so they can be posted in public places and circulated among prominent members of the yishuv community. To prevent British Intelligence from discovering these proclamations and confiscating them, they are sent out under fictitious names, like those of nonexistent businesses, charitable institutions, and schools. When every name had been used, they resorted to Mekitzei Nirdamim (We Wake Those Who Sleep), after a publisher of classical Hebrew manuscripts that were never in print before, an enterprise that goes back about four generations and was directed by some of our greatest leaders. British Intelligence, from whom nothing is hidden, were unaware that various highly respected Englishmen (Moses Montefiore, for example, as well as the chief rabbi of Great Britain) once led this enterprise. When one of these proclamations fell into the hands of Intelligence agents, who read the text and realized its goal was to wake those who were asleep so that they would rebel against the government of Palestine, they decided to bring the directors of this venerable publishing house to trial. If the actual nature of the enterprise and its history hadn’t been uncovered just in time, the eminent persons at the head of the publishing house would have had their peace disturbed. Since this error adds nothing to the story, I’ll say no more about the activities of British Intelligence and get back to the Herbst household.

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