S. Agnon - Shira

As soon as he left the room, his pain vanished, his shoulders relaxed, and his stomach no longer bothered him. He felt not a trace of faintness. He was on the verge of going back to that room, back to those books, especially the ones every collector was after. The telephone rang, and the clerk ran to answer it. Herbst stood and waited for him to finish talking. When Herbst saw that it was likely to be a long conversation, he wandered into a room he was unfamiliar with, because there were art books in it, and he wasn’t an art collector. Herbst didn’t collect works of art. In his home, he had no drawings, no sketches, no art folios, because he knew himself well enough to realize that, if he allowed even one piece of art into his house, many more would soon follow. He was the sort of man who was moved by anything artistic, and he had to be very careful not to let himself be captivated by whatever he saw, to leave time for his work, for his research, for the things he was required to do. This is why he gave up chess in his youth; this is why he had put his poems aside and resolved not to write any more of them; this is why he had renounced various pastimes he once enjoyed. Now that he was waiting for the clerk to finish talking, because he was interested in the books left behind by the murdered scholar, which had led him to relinquish those German classics, he wasn’t afraid to go into the fine-arts room and pass the time there.

So Herbst went into the room with the art books. He glanced at the shelves before catching a glimpse of the paintings and drawings that hung on the walls between the bookcases. Without having so much as picked up a folio yet, he remembered that, before he came to this country, he used to say, “I could give up anything to settle in the Land of Israel, even theater and concerts, but not the sculpture and paintings I can see in the lands of exile.” By now, he had been in the country quite a number of years, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he had given up things he once thought he could never do without.

He took a folio of drawings off the shelf and leafed through it aimlessly, not bothering to see who the artist was. Putting down one folio and opening another, his mind wandered back to Ernst Weltfremdt’s book. He found himself thinking about a chapter that had already appeared in some collection, the chapter about the major forces that impelled Valens to allow thirty thousand Goths to cross… As he examined Ernst Weltfremdt’s argument, he began to wonder why he hadn’t emphasized the fact that Valens had allowed the Goths to enter Roman territory so that some of their regiments could fight the Persians. While he was considering this idea, he opened a folio containing the work of several artists. He gazed at the drawings and muttered: “They’re from Bruegel’s school, but, unlike Bruegel, they don’t give one pleasure. Now I’ll go and see what the clerk is doing.”

His eyes were pulled in several directions. He stood trembling and astonished. What is this? A leper. A painting of a leper standing at the city gate, ringing a bell to warn the people to keep their distance. Herbst picked up the picture and stood it up so he could see it better. The eyes were awesome and sad. Their sockets had, for the most part, been consumed by leprosy, yet they were alive and wished to live. Sadder and more awesome was the hand holding the bell, a hand consumed by disease that could not be reversed. Even sadder and more awesome was the bell, warning people to keep their distance. The painter was a great artist to see the bell as the source of pestilence. Why? This cannot be explained, but it is surely correct.

Herbst stood before the picture, examining it first from one angle, then from another, looking into the leper’s eyes, at his hands, at the open city gates. Within the city, on one side of the gate, people were milling about, on the way to church, to a tavern, to do business, or just to pass the time. The infected man stood on the other side. In his leprous hand, he held a little bell, and it alone was unblighted, although it was the source of all blight. Who painted this picture? What is the name of the great painter who imbued the inanimate with the breath of life? The men and women of the town fade in and out of view, yet the figure of the afflicted man is extremely clear; he, his hand, his bell. The entire city — the men, the women, the houses, the marketplace, the well — are serene and unconcerned. But the sound of the bell is already disengaged from it, rattling, tinkling, moving out of the afflicted man’s hand. A great calamity is imminent. Herbst looked at the picture once again; at the leper, at his hand, but not at the bell, because by now he recognized that the blight was not in the bell. All this time, Herbst had avoided touching the picture, as if it were alive and afflicted. Readers, you know me by now. You know that I don’t exaggerate. And if I tell you something, don’t say, “What an exaggeration!” At that instant, it was clear to Herbst that he heard a voice from within the bell the leper was holding, cautioning, “Go away, don’t touch me.” Herbst listened to the cautionary voice and didn’t touch the picture. But he looked at it, again and again, with panic in his eyes and desire in his heart. Then he took down another folio, which he placed on top of the picture of the leper, and left. He came back again, exposed the picture, but didn’t look at it. Then he took down a folio of Rembrandt drawings. He looked at several reproductions, then took out The Night Watch and studied it. What happens to anyone with a discerning eye happened to Herbst. The melancholy that emanates from Rembrandt’s work soothed his spirit and brought on tranquility — a tranquility known as harmony, though I call it understanding and certainty.

The clerk appeared and apologized to Herbst for having abandoned him in mid-conversation. Some consulate or other called about some dictionary or other for some language or other. When the conversation with the consulate was over, the phone had rung again, and someone from the high commissioner’s office inquired about the new location of a certain bookbinder, a woman to whom the high commissioner always sent his books.

“The high commissioner is a celebrated collector. He haunts the bookstores, especially this one. His car swallows up an infinite number of volumes. He doesn’t admit Jews to Palestine, but he craves their books. I see you have been leafing through the pictures, Dr. Herbst.” Herbst pointed to The Night Watch and asked the price. He told him. He said, “Wrap it up and add it to my account. I want to send a gift to a doctor I once consulted, who refused to accept a fee. I’ll leave it with you for now. Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll pick it up.”

Herbst lit another cigarette. After putting the case back in his pocket, he took it out again and offered the clerk a cigarette. “They’re black,” he said. “Since I came to this country, I haven’t smoked a black cigarette.” The clerk put down The Night Watch and lit his cigarette. He studied it, then he said, “Actually, it’s not black, it’s dark brown.” Herbst stood in front of The Night Watch , considering: Shira told me she wanted a reproduction of The Night Watch but couldn’t find one. I’ll take it to her tomorrow; she’ll be pleased. Henrietta is eating lunch now. Firadeus is eating with her, watching Mrs. Herbst’s gestures to learn how to handle herself. Firadeus is a good student. She learns the manners of the Ashkenazim very fast and regards them as the only truly well-mannered people. If I were to go back now, Henrietta would say, “But, Fred, you told me you wouldn’t be back for lunch, so I wasn’t expecting you and I didn’t prepare anything. But, if you give me a minute, I’ll fix something for you.” Herbst looked at his watch and considered: It’s lunchtime, and I really ought to leave. The clerk is probably eager to be rid of me, so he can have his lunch. He looked at his watch again, not that he had forgotten what time it was, but to be sure he was right. It crossed his mind that he ought to go to Gethsemane, not because of the monk, but because he had told Henrietta he was going to Gethsemane. He knew he wouldn’t go to Gethsemane, that, if he did set out, he would turn back midway. In that case, Herbst told himself, I won’t go, and I won’t have to turn back. I’ll go to a café, have some coffee, and look at the newspapers. Then I’ll go home and get back to my work. Work that follows leisure is twice as pleasant.