S. Agnon - Shira

When Trudel went off to serve the other customers, Anita Brik said to Herbst, “Trudel and I worked in the same hotel, and we had the same dream: to create a children’s book. I would write some stories, and she would illustrate them. She has golden hands, and her drawings are real drawings. Those who know say she is an artist.” “And what do you say?” “Me? I’m not in that class.” “Why not?” “Why not? That’s how it is. Most of my friends are proficient in one of the arts. They write poems and stories, they draw; some are involved in music, some sculpt. Our parents were wealthy. They provided us with fine teachers in literature, music, the graphic arts. Since we didn’t have to bother about supporting ourselves, we could afford to open our minds and train our hands. How does one distinguish between craft and work, talent and proficiency? I hope you won’t dismiss my words as mere fanciful phrases, Dr. Herbst, but what we need is an expert on experts. I’ll relate something that happened to me. I was once in Haifa. I went to visit a woman who had been my mother’s friend and was from one of the country’s older families, having arrived here even before the war. One of her grandchildren was sick. She sent for the doctor, an Italian Christian. I said to her, ‘Are there no Jewish doctors in Haifa?’ She answered, ‘There are as many doctors as patients, but, let me tell you, most of the Jewish doctors studied medicine, not because they were interested in it and not because they wished to devote themselves to curing the sick, but because their parents wanted them to be doctors. And since they were well-to-do and could attend the university, they divided up the professions, assigning medicine to one, law to another, and so on. This was not the case with gentile doctors, who chose a profession because of their interests, not because of their parents’ wishes.” Herbst made a face and said, “How did you answer that woman, that old-timer who was living in this country even before the war?” Anita said, “It’s not my way to moralize or argue. Besides, there was someone sick in the house, and she was occupied with him, so how could I challenge her?” Herbst said, “And what is your opinion?” “About what?” “About that very subject, about that woman and what she said, that woman who believes that most Jewish doctors studied medicine because their parents wanted them to? I can tell you a story too, if you like. I knew a rabbi once — a traditional rabbi , not a modern rabbi — who had such a passionate interest in medicine that he gave up his position and walked to Berlin. He learned both German and enough science to be admitted to the university to study medicine. All those years, while he was a student, he lived meagerly, on a diet of bread and tea, in a space so small that, when he lay down to sleep, he had to leave the door open in order to have room to stretch out. I have him to thank for the fact that I live here, because, even as a confirmed Zionist, I, like most other Zionists, didn’t feel compelled to come to this country. Although this rabbi was unique, he was not the only Jew to choose medicine out of personal inclination and interest, just as I was not alone in choosing a profession without consulting my father. To get back to the subject, you wanted to write stories, which your friend would illustrate. Why didn’t it work out?”

Anita said, “Trudel didn’t have time to draw because she had so much to do, and I didn’t have time to write because another dream took over, the dream of all who labor: to sleep without dreams and to be able to withstand another day’s work without mental stupor or physical collapse. If you are puzzled, Dr. Herbst, I should repeat what I already said: truth is more powerful than fantasy. Truth is reality, and reality is truth.” Herbst said, “In what language did you plan to write the stories?” Anita said, “As you know, sir, I have no language other than German. I don’t know French or English well enough to write stories in them. I assumed I would write them in German and have them translated into Hebrew. I would be able to find someone to translate the stories. Trudel, however, wouldn’t be able to find anyone to translate her drawings. You are wondering how drawings are translated. The fact is, when I see the picture books that are given to children here, I see that Trudel’s drawings are not for them. She has talent and good taste, whereas our children have become accustomed to kitsch.” Herbst laughed wholeheartedly, clasped Anita’s hands in his own, and said, “Apart from being a poet, you are a perceptive critic.” Anita said, “Being a critic is easy. When you’re young, you criticize the bad things you encounter; as you get older, you criticize the good ones. All the bad things you see influence your taste.” “For better or for worse?” Anita said, “I’m getting older too, and how will I be able to tell good from bad?” Herbst said, “A pity we don’t meet more often. I have no chance to hear what you have to say.” Anita said, “From that point of view, it’s best that you don’t see more of me, since one’s tastes change with age, and, if you hear something tolerable from me today, you will hear something intolerable tomorrow.” Herbst said, “If taste declines with age, I have surely been affected.” Anita said, “I would guess that Dr. Herbst’s sensibilities are constant, impervious to change.” Herbst said, “You consider me so old that my mind is totally calcified.” Anita blushed and said, “Believe me, sir, that’s not what I meant. Trudel, it was good of you to bring our coffee. I’m thirsty. What is that, Trudel? That mountain of cakes. Who is it for?” Trudel said, “They’re for you, because they’re tasty and good.” Anita said, “And whatever is tasty is also good for me?” Trudel said, “There are many good things that even a girl such as you can indulge in.” Herbst said, “Many blessings, Mademoiselle Trudel, for fathoming my mind and bringing something tasty. Though it wasn’t intended for me, I will allow myself to enjoy it.” Trudel said, “I intended it for both you and Anita. Eat while it’s still warm. Anita, you must come and tell me all about your job. I have to go now and fill the gullets of the other customers. They’re beginning to get angry with me.”

After Trudel left, Anita told Herbst about her work. She works for Professor Ernst Weltfremdt’s daughter. They are good people, who don’t expect too much of her. They maintain an efficient household and insist on having everything done on time, according to a schedule. She tries to meet their demands, and they pay her a full salary, regardless. Even when she breaks something, they never deduct it from her pay. Once a week, on Wednesday, she has the afternoon off. If she wishes, she can go out; if she wishes, she can stay in her room. The old woman, the professor’s wife, is especially warm and affectionate. When she visits, she always takes the trouble to come all the way up to her room and ask how she is. But even a good turn is not altogether good. The old woman is addicted to writing. She composes poems, plays, and the like, and, since she has no one to read them to, she has made Anita Brik her audience. A week doesn’t pass without a new play or fantasy in verse. Because of these plays and fantasies, Anita Brik has no time to get involved in a book. The old woman comes every single Wednesday, before Anita has a chance to leave. She comes directly to her room, takes out her notebooks, and begins reading to her. If not for the fact that the professor’s birthday happened to fall on a Wednesday — today, to be precise — so the dear old lady had to stay home and receive well-wishers, Anita would not have been free to go out today either, and she wouldn’t be sitting with Dr. Herbst, who is asking her about the poems she no longer writes. Instead, she would be captive to Mrs. Weltfremdt and her poems.