S. Agnon - Shira

The day passed, as most days do, partly in eating, drinking, and sleeping; partly in reading books, articles, and dissertations, and adding to the body of notes. Some notes are definitive; others, tentative, in that the writer jots them down and stores them in a box until he finds better ones. There are days when the writing process demands a certain note, even points it out. On that particular day, most of the new notes were problematic from the outset. Some, he labored over both before and while writing them down, only to tear them up and write them over again, and then continue to vacillate about putting them in the box. We don’t know how he benefited from such a day. Only that his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium gained nothing.

On the other hand, his library was enriched — perhaps his range of knowledge, too — for he acquired an additional book. How? Professor Ernst Weltfremdt learned that Herbst wanted his book but didn’t buy it because of the price. What did Professor Weltfremdt do? He sent Herbst a copy of the book, by special messenger, as a present. We have heard that it was Professor Weltfremdt’s way to honor people with his offprints, but not with a book that costs enough to pay for a night in a hotel, even such a place as Bodenheimer’s in Haifa. Herbst was delighted with the book, for he wanted to acquire it but couldn’t afford the price. A lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem earns only thirty-five lirot a month, from which he has to contribute to the national funds, the cultural funds, charitable institutions, and so on.

Henrietta noticed how pleased Manfred was and said, “I’ll tell you what I think, Fred. I would have preferred for you to buy Weltfremdt’s book, rather than receive it from him as a gift. I don’t know what moves Weltfremdt to send you presents, but I’m sure he has his own interests at heart. You had better be ready to repay his kindness.” Manfred said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have an odd habit, Henriett. Whenever I’m in a good mood, you can’t resist throwing cold water on me. What do you mean, ‘his own interests’? If you mean that he’ll ask me to write about his book, I certainly wouldn’t mind.” Henrietta said, “That’s just fine. But, tell me, Fred, are you sure Weltfremdt will be satisfied with whatever you write about his book?” Manfred said, “Satisfied or not, if I find a misguided opinion in the book, I won’t overlook it, and if I find reason to disagree with him, I won’t hesitate. Let me make this clear to you: I have never gone in for flattery. To this day, I take responsibility for all the reviews I have ever written. As for Ernst Weltfremdt’s book, if I don’t write about it, who will? His cousin Julian, whose anger turns him into a madman, or one of countless others whose intelligence could be deposited on a fly’s wing without weighing it down. Those who acquired a smattering of knowledge managed to forget it, and those who never studied had nothing to forget. There are some reviewers who figure out from the book itself how to take issue with it, though they know nothing about the subject.” Henrietta said, “Then it would be good if you were to review Weltfremdt’s book. But, tell me, Fred, are you sure Weltfremdt will be pleased with what you write about his book?” Manfred said, “Whether or not he is pleased, I already told you that, if I find a misguided opinion or an unfounded premise, I certainly won’t overlook it. In our generation, there is no scholar I admire as much as Professor Neu. Everything I know, the half a million words I have incorporated from teachers and books — all of this is material I can evaluate because of Neu. Nonetheless, when I found an unvalidated premise in his book, I didn’t hesitate to comment on it. Remember the letter he sent me at the time? You don’t remember? I remember. I remember what he wrote, word for word. ‘My dear Herbst,’ Neu wrote. ‘You were right to point out the weak spot in my book. I know that I am right, but, unfortunately, I can’t offer more support for my position. Nor do I expect to be able to do so. I’m too old to return to that subject. I do hope that what I wrote will lead our younger colleagues to persist and find ways to validate my premise, which is true, though it is beyond my power to prove it.’ Anyway, Henriett, you reminded me of something one should beware of. Not for your reason, Henrietta, but for another reason. This country is small, and the Jews in it are crowded together. Especially the academic community, which is like a ghetto within a ghetto. I already see the problems when a review appears in print. The day the review is published, on that very day the critic and the author are likely to run into each other, in the library, at the university, at another professor’s home. Now, imagine what the critic feels when he sees the author right in front of him. Or, reversing it, what the author feels when he sees the critic. Just last Saturday, in Beit Hakerem, an artist saw a critic sitting in an outdoor café with his fiancée. The artist went up to him and slapped his face, because he had criticized his work, and it wasn’t until the critic beat him with his cane that he calmed down. Academics don’t behave that way, but sometimes words can have more of an impact than a strong arm or a cane. Now that scholars and researchers are coming here from all over, I worry about criticism and critics. In the preceding generation, scholars were well off in Jerusalem. They sat comfortably, playing with ideas while they sipped black coffee and smoked narghiles, enjoying each other’s insights, with no breach, with no outcry. Now, my dear Henriett, the idyll is over. Now that so many scholars live in such close quarters, criticism is destined to become less honest. Whether the critic likes it or not, the author’s face will confront him as he writes, and he will adjust his words accordingly. I have often asked myself what the main factors are that lead someone like me, if not to lie, then to use words that camouflage the truth.” Henrietta regarded her husband fondly and said with surprise, “Why, Fred, you aren’t not telling the truth. Because you don’t contaminate your mouth by slandering friends, as Julian Weltfremdt does, you consider yourself a traitor to the truth. You know, Fred, I was never impressed with that secret adviser Mr. Ernst Weltfremdt. Nor was I impressed by the sharp pronouncements of our beloved Dr. Julian Weltfremdt. Having mentioned his name, let me tell you something else. I resent the way he treats Mimi. What does he want from his wife? She is charming and artistic. If she isn’t an expert at cleaning pots, she has many other talents to make up for this deficiency.” Manfred said, “The same is true of our daughter, Tamara, though no one would say she is charming.” Henrietta said, “But she is artistic.” Manfred was annoyed and said, “Forgive me, my dear, forgive me if I have another view. You call her artistic because of the insipid rhymes she makes up when she’s bored. If I’m not mistaken, you already know my view of her rhymes; also, of the rhymes of many others who are considered poets. In my youth, I was exposed to some dreadful rhymed prose. Even when there was an idea or a narrative, those were hardly poems. Hardly, my dear, hardly. I am referring to the poets of the world, not to the Hebrew poets, for whom any trace of a political, nationalist, ethical, or social idea embodied in rhyme constitutes a poem. A favorite student of mine, his name is Elyakum Zuf — maybe you know him: the one with dark curls and black eyes — used to show me poems of that sort regularly, in an effort to convince me of their lyrical quality. I like that young man very much, my dear. And I would like to make him happy. But to accept such poems as poetry is impossible for me, though I know that what I say causes him pain. What is there for fine young men like him to do? The earth they came to redeem doesn’t respond to them, because their strength is meager. What goes on here is hard on them. Not merely the actions of the English and the Arabs, but those of the Jews as well. Men of action fulfill themselves in the Haganah, the Irgun, Lehi. Those who are not men of action find comfort in poetry. In the end, their teachers and mentors come and say, ‘That’s not a poem.’ I’m willing to close an eye to a researcher’s errors. A researcher does his work according to his talent and ability, summarizes his research in terms of his conclusions, and has no special biases. He is content to be given space in some journal so he can publish his findings and have them read by others in his field. Poets are different. If one of them succeeds in arranging his words in rhymed form, it’s as if he has created new heavens, as if all the creatures of his world are in place under his sun and moon. Forgive me, Henriett. I don’t know what suddenly made me so cross. I’m afraid it’s my own fault: because I’m angry at myself, I’m angry at everyone who writes poems.” Henrietta said, “Because you’re angry at yourself? Why at yourself? Do you write poems? Since our wedding day, you haven’t turned out a single poem. Even for my birthday, which was about a week after our wedding, you didn’t write a poem. That entire day, Fred, until we went to sleep that night, I was expecting you to present me with a poem or a sonnet. What did that scoundrel do? He pursed his lips and discharged his duty with kisses to match the number of years I was carrying on my back.” Manfred said, “I don’t write poems. But…” “But what?” Manfred said, “If I were to tell you what I am doing, you would laugh.” Henrietta said, “Am I allowed to ask?” Manfred said, “You are allowed to ask, but it would be better if you didn’t.” Henrietta said, “Then I won’t ask. I can count on you to tell me yourself.” Manfred answered, “I hope you won’t be sorry you made me tell you. I’m composing a tragedy. A tragedy, Henriett, a tragedy.” Henrietta said, “A tragedy?” Manfred said, “Yes, Henriett. A tragedy.” Henrietta said, “Your forehead please, my dearest. Let me kiss your forehead. How did you suddenly come to be writing a tragedy? And what is the content of this tragedy?” Manfred passed his hand over his forehead and rested it there, fingers outstretched, first looking at Henrietta, then turning away from her. Then he began, “I don’t recall exactly how I came to be writing the tragedy. But I can outline the plot to you. Believe me, Henriett, I forgot the reason. What I haven’t forgotten is the content of the tragedy. But allow me first to finish what I was saying before. It isn’t always good to have scholars crowded together. Still, it could add to the spiritual intensity to have them all struggling to outdo each other’s scholarship and, when they can’t quite outdo the others, struggling so as not to be lost in the crowd. I already see myself, Henriett, my dear, being stingy with my time, to avoid scattering it to the wind.” Henrietta said, “I’m surprised to hear you say that. In all of Jerusalem, is there anyone as busy and involved as you? Lectures, seminars, discussions with students. Also, the book you are writing. Judging by the amount of activity and the number of notes you have amassed, it will surely measure up to Weltfremdt’s book. Please, Fred, don’t look so indignant. Of course I know that books aren’t measured by their thickness. In any case…” Henrietta laughed and said, “I might as well admit it. The truth is, I said ‘in any case’ without having anything to add.” Herbst laughed and said, “That’s what I love about you, Henriett. You’re not afraid to admit the truth, even when it’s not to your credit. And if you have nothing to add to that ‘in any case,’ I’ll add to it. In any case, it’s to your credit that you tell the truth even when it discredits you. And have you forgotten all about my tragedy?” Henrietta said, “I didn’t forget. I’m waiting for you to begin telling me about it.” Manfred said, “No, you forgot. And, since you forgot, I’m not required to tell you.” Henrietta said, “Please, Fred, don’t tease me. Tell me what that tragedy is about.” Manfred said, “I once went to get a haircut. While I was waiting my turn in the barbershop, I picked up a magazine and saw a cartoon about a playwright who used to instruct his wife to plan menus to match the plots of his plays. One day he told her, ‘My dear wife, cook something happy today. I’m finishing an amusing play.’ Henriett, I trust you to understand. Bring on the cognac, and I’ll have a drop to match the bitterness of my tragedy.”