S. Agnon - Shira

Back to Ursula. I meant to dismiss her without further attention, since her affairs are not relevant to the tale of Shira and Herbst, but, in the end, she requires attention. Ursula Katz was lovely and charming. Her ways were altogether pleasant. Even someone such as Taglicht, who isn’t taken in by surfaces, enjoyed talking to her and used to call her Droste, after Droste-Hulshoff, the delightful poet whose hairdo was like hers. Soon after arriving in the country, she found work. When she stopped working for Mustafa and Abdullah, she found a better job, with Jews. She walked out on them too, rather suddenly. When Henrietta asked her why she decided to give up such a good job, working for such fine Jews, she answered, “Jews aren’t gentlemen,” and would say no more. The day before the baby’s brit , she came to see Mrs. Herbst in the hospital, to take leave of her before setting off on her trip. Mrs. Herbst didn’t ask with whom she was going or other similar questions. The information we have was conveyed to us by an official at the Kupat Holim medical clinic. This, in brief, is the story of Ursula Katz. I won’t mention her again, to avoid entangling her in the story of Herbst and Shira or in that of the Herbst family. From the beginning, I hesitated to link her affairs with those of the Herbst household. I now see that what one hesitates about at the beginning is best put aside, that what isn’t put aside at the beginning will be put aside at the end, after creating disorder and confusion.

Gabriel, who is called Gabi because he’s so small, fills the house with his presence. This chick, who hasn’t gotten off the ground yet, is everywhere. Here, water is being heated for Gabi’s bath; over there is Gabi’s crib; Firadeus is hanging out Gabi’s diapers; and that tall, skinny woman there, who looks half-male, would like to be Gabi’s wetnurse. Her chest is flat as a board; her eyes are dry and severe. Yet she insists she produces as much milk as two wetnurses. There is also a round, plump woman, sent by Sarini, who is so eager to nurse Gabi that her milk has become a pressing weight. Sarini herself is unable to nurse Gabi, because her milk has diminished because of her sorrow because of her mad husband, because he is planning a long trip, and, if he takes such a trip in times like these, she will end up an abandoned wife. But her eyes and heart are with Mistress Herberist, which is why she sent such a fine woman to nurse Mistress Herberist’s baby, as she herself had done for his sister Sarah and for her own children — the Lord alone knows how many.

A few days before Gabriel was born, Father Manfred transferred his bedding to his study, and, once again, he spends his days and nights amid his books. But he hasn’t achieved very much. He hasn’t added a single note to his files. While Henrietta was in the hospital, Herbst took time off from his major work and did other things, all of which he did well. Now that he is at it again, not only does no work get done, but other things remain undone too. His fingers are ineffectual; they accomplish nothing. His books are everywhere — piled on the table, on the chairs — making it difficult to tidy up the room and sweep the dust. He really ought to clear away the books and put them back in place, but he does no such thing. He merely moves them from one spot to another. Henrietta, who generally sees what is and isn’t happening, saw that he was in a bad mood, which is what tends to happen when he isn’t absorbed in his work. One day, Henrietta said to Manfred, “Fred, you have to get to work. You are idle so much of the time. It’s almost winter, and you have to prepare for your classes. You mustn’t waste a single hour on me. As you can see, I’m surrounded by helpers and assistants dedicated to my welfare. Even Krautmeir came to see if I need her. Yet you, Fred, have been stationed here as if it is your job to take care of me.” Manfred answered, “So, Mother, in your opinion, what should Fred be doing?” Henrietta answered, “In my opinion, you should sit in your room and pore over your work.” Manfred said, “From what you say, Mother, it would appear that I don’t sit at my desk, in my room. In that case, let me tell you this, Mother. All of last night — more precisely, most of last night — I didn’t stir from my desk. What did I achieve? Only boredom. The boredom begins to bore me. You laugh at that charming phrase, Mother. It’s not mine. It’s Ludwig Richter’s.” Henrietta said, “I won’t suggest ways to escape the boredom that is beginning to bore you, but I will say that you don’t belong here, in this room. We have a houseful of women, which is quite enough. Stand up, Fred. Let me have a look. You’ve put on weight. You ought to weigh yourself.” Fred said, “I, also, think I’ve gotten fatter. A dozen Shylocks could each take a pound of flesh from me, and it wouldn’t look as if anything were missing. Everything about me is becoming slovenly. It’s because I don’t smoke as much.” “Because you don’t smoke as much?” “Yes, Henriett. Yes. Because I’m not as much of a smoker. In the past, when I felt I was missing something — and when doesn’t a person feel he is missing something? — anyway, when I felt I was missing something, I used to stick a cigarette in my mouth and begin smoking. Now, Henriett, now I fill my mouth with chocolate or other sweets that turn into fat. What are you staring at?” Henrietta said, “What am I staring at? If I’m not mistaken, your belt is two holes looser than it used to be.” Manfred said, “You’re mistaken, Henriett, you’re mistaken. I’ve already made an extra hole in the belt. Unless God is a little less generous with me, my belt won’t have room for enough new holes. I’m already afraid I may have to make holes in the air. Most people would suggest that I work in the garden. They don’t realize that gardening stimulates the appetite.” Henrietta said, “You ought to walk.” Manfred said, “Do you mean a stroll around my belly? Believe it or not, I already tried that.” Henrietta said, “If not for the Arabs, I would tell you to go into the hills, as we used to do when we first came to Jerusalem. Oh, Fred, remember those days? On Shabbat, we used to spend six or seven hours hiking through the hills and come home jubilant and happy. I remember one Shabbat, before I had a chance to set up the burner and heat the food, you devoured everything I had prepared for dinner, except for a bottle of wine, which you drank down in one gulp. After that, you played drunk and insisted you were so hungry you would eat me. I was so silly at the time: even though I knew you were pretending, I was a little afraid you were really drunk, and, when you opened your mouth to bite me, I was afraid you really would bite me. And then the mouth that threatened to swallow me up began to overflow with kisses. Remember? It was the year I got pregnant with Tamara. Sometimes, when I think about her and her character, I wonder if she is the way she is because of how carefree we were on those walks. Fred, I don’t want to submerge myself in memories; past memories interfere with current pleasures. As I said before, if not for the Arabs, I would suggest that you go for a walk in the hills. Still, there are places in Jerusalem where you can walk safely. Why don’t you invite Tamara to go along? Tamara would be glad to accompany you, and you would be glad too. When it comes to bringing fathers and daughters together, there is nothing as effective as a walk.”

Henrietta was silent, and Manfred was silent too. I don’t know what this silence was about. It wasn’t that he was tired of listening or that she was tired of talking. In any case, Manfred didn’t move away from Henrietta, and Henrietta didn’t move away from Manfred. After a while, she continued, “Since you mentioned Ludwig Richter, I was reminded of the walks I used to take with my father. At the time, he had been asked by Ullstein Verlag to do some drawings of the countryside around Berlin. Father, who loved Berlin and its environs more than any other piece of land in the world, didn’t linger to negotiate the fee or any other details. As soon as he left the publisher’s office, he filled his pack with paint and brushes, and set out to work. Father was wearing a hunting jacket; he had a small pipe in his mouth, like the one he gave you, perhaps the very same one; his eyes were fixed on his favorite landscapes. It was obvious to me at the time that Father was unaware of my existence, that he didn’t see me and didn’t know I was there, that I was superfluous. Just when I was convinced I was superfluous, Father took my arm and said, ‘Look, Henrietta, look at that drooping tree, that carcass of a tree. That particular tree is the one I mean to paint.’ He noticed that I was surprised by his words, by his emphasis on ‘that particular tree.’ So he began to elaborate: ‘I know the arbiters of taste will disapprove, but I will do what I like, and, if they don’t like it, they can…’ At this point, Father used one of those words that fathers don’t usually use in a daughter’s presence. I myself was delighted with that word, with the sense that Father was treating me as he would treat a friend. You remember Father, of course. At home he was very conventional, but I was told that he was totally transformed when with friends, that he became a different person. What do you want, Sarah? Why are you crying? Who put dirty water in your eyes? Let me wipe them, and tell me why you’re crying.” Sarah forgot she was crying and said, “That lady says Sarah is Sarini’s child, Sarah isn’t Mama’s child. Gabi is Sarini’s child too. Gabi isn’t Mama’s child. If she wants to, Sarini will put Gabi back inside her, and there won’t be any Gabi.” Henrietta smoothed Sarah’s cheek, kissed her, and said, “Go tell that lady, ‘Mama says Sarah is her best, best girl, and Gabi belongs to Mama too.’ Go call Firadeus to come here, so I can tell her to tell that lady never to say such things again. Sarah is definitely Mama’s own girl. Of course she is her Mama’s girl.” Sarah began to cry again, crying harder than at first. I don’t know what made her cry now. When she began talking to her mother, she had stopped crying. Her mother’s words may have made her aware of every possible sadness, which made her feel sorry for herself and brought on another round of tears. Henrietta picked her up, caressed her cheek, kissed and comforted her. “Why are you crying?” she asked. Sarah answered tearfully, “That lady, she took Gabi back inside her, into her heart.” Henrietta said, “Gabi is tough. Gabi took one leap, and out he came. Ask your father. He’ll tell you. Tell her, Father.” Father Manfred said, “You believe that other lady, but you don’t believe your own mother? If your mother says something to me, I listen and believe it. Isn’t that so, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “Now you’ll see, Sarah, that what Father says is true. Tell Father this: ‘Mother says, “Go for a walk, Father,”‘ and, in a minute, Sarah, you’ll see Father going for a walk. Sarah, surely you’ve seen Father go for walks? What’s going on here? I say, ‘Go tell Father,’ and you don’t tell him.” Manfred asked Sarah, “Tell me, Sarah, what did Mother say?” Sarah said, “Mother said that Sarah should tell Father that Father should go for a walk.” Henrietta said, “Very good, Sarah. I see that I can count on you, that I can give you messages and you’ll deliver them. Now, Sarah, ask Father when he plans to take his walk.” Sarah said, “What do you mean, ‘when’?”