S. Agnon - Shira

Everything turned out as expected. Shira’s door was locked, and he couldn’t tell from the windows whether she had been home since he was last there. After looking at the door and the windows again, he began to believe she might have been home in the interim. As for the fact that he saw no perceptible change, did he have photographs to compare the two visits? He was depending on his own eyes, and eyes that have suffered disappointment are biased and untrustworthy. Herbst walked the alley from beginning to end, backtracked, and walked it from beginning to end again. He repeated this course three or four times. Whenever he came close to her house, he hoped he would and wouldn’t find her door open. He circled so many times that he began to feel dizzy. He decided to leave. As people tend to do when they want something, although they know it’s hopeless, Herbst went back to the house. Once again, he left despondent. Like most people who modify their actions, this way and that, this way and that, to no avail, Herbst became extremely despondent.

Several days earlier, when Herbst had gone there, he had been aware of a person whose eyes seemed to be tracking his every footstep. Though he sensed this, he pretended not to notice, as if they were both pedestrians, passing through the alley with no particular interest in each other. Which was not true of that other person, who sensed that the gentleman had come because of the new tenant, who wasn’t living in the apartment he had rented to her; who had, in fact, already put it back in his hands; who had left several days after she moved in and hadn’t returned. She left and hadn’t returned. The landlord was absolutely confident that the gentleman would return, so he put off talking to him. Whether he was too lazy to initiate a conversation or whether it was wisdom, the landlord assumed that, coming back again and not finding the lady, the gentleman would be interested in chatting about her.

Herbst left the alley despondent and perplexed. He was also annoyed to be wasting time. Having concluded his business with Shira, what did he care if her door was locked? Why did he go back again and again? Did he have such a great need to satisfy his curiosity? And if what was involved was not curiosity, then what was it? For it was clear to him that he had no further business with Shira. Whether or not he knew precisely when his business with Shira had been concluded, he knows that it was concluded and that it makes no sense to revive such things out of curiosity, for there is no telling where that might lead. At the very least, it might lead to wasted time and despondency.

Herbst left the alley without having decided where to go or which way to turn. He didn’t feel like taking up his books; he wasn’t eager for conversation; it wasn’t a good time to call on people about his prospects for a promotion. When your mind is hollow and your heart is troubled, your mouth is not likely to spout words that will impress a listener. Herbst asked himself: Am I so troubled because of Shira? I’m troubled by her because I haven’t been able to find her. If I were to find her, how would it be? At least one thing is clear: I wouldn’t be happy. I would be relieved of the curiosity that sometimes torments me, but I certainly wouldn’t be happy.

To get rid of those thoughts, which were not happy ones, he shifted his mind to the tragedy he meant to write but never wrote. The tragedy unfolded before him, vivid and clear, scene by scene. It seemed to him that, if he were to sit down and write, he would write one scene after another. He might write the entire tragedy. But he had some doubts. Was it a tragedy, or merely a story with tragic events? Herbst, who was a reader, student, and theatergoer, who had analyzed modern tragedies — those that were updated to make them contemporary, as well as those that dealt with the issues of their time — knew and recognized the distinction between tragic events and tragedy. Modern poets are adept at defining tragedy. Some are even more adept than the early poets were. But those early poets were believers, so the creation of tragedy was entrusted to them. He nonetheless began to reconsider the content, along with the overall scheme, and, again, it seemed to him that, if he sat down to write, he would keep writing and finish. Even if he lacked the excitement that inspires poets to write, he did not lack diligence. He had trained himself to work step by step, note by note, whereas the poetic process demands a different work style, because, when a poet’s inspiration is arrested, it cannot be retrieved. This does not apply to those faithful workers who forge ahead relentlessly, whether or not they feel inspired. Fragmentary scenes were already written and recorded in his notebooks, along with an outline of locales, such as the home of Basileios, the faithful servant. It would surely be worthwhile for him to begin; what followed, as well as the conclusion, would take shape on their own. Once again, Herbst imagined himself leaving the university; leaving his colleagues and students; going to some remote place, where he would rent a wooden hut or find an abandoned stone house and live alone, solitary, for weeks and months, days and nights. There, he would write the tragedy of the woman of the court, the nobleman Yohanan, and their faithful servant Basileios, emerging from his seclusion only when he finished the tragedy. Out of a concern for modesty, truth, and to avoid deception, he observed to himself: I call it tragedy, not because I believe I’m writing tragedy, but out of academic habit. So he observed, imagining this was the reason, when actually there was another reason that will seem absurd if I write it. At that moment, Herbst was intimidated by the word tragedy , afraid it would provoke the gods. By degrees, his enthusiasm waned. At first, he told himself: No need to give everything up; I could take time off and go to live in Ahinoam for a while, where my daughter is. I could surely find an empty room there, eat in the dining hall, and be free from all the concerns of my household. Then he said to himself: I have no particular reason to live in the country. I could compose the tragedy in my own home, in my study, at my desk. After which, he said to himself: Nonsense, this man is destined to write essays. One of these days, he may even finish his great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He scrutinized his soul, examined his heart, and reflected: You are not the sort of person who can change his way of life. You’ll be doing well if you succeed in improving it to some extent.

Improving his life? If he were to try to take stock of his way of life, he would find that he had never once thought it needed improvement. He thought about creating books, about writing criticism, about acquiring books, about becoming a professor, about social connections, about Henrietta. He also thought about Shira. So as not to confound the woman who confounded his heart with respect to his wife, who had only his welfare at heart, he stopped speculating about different ways of life. Although he hadn’t thought of personal reform until now, he had thought of educational reform for his son. As I already related, the night his son was admitted to the covenant of Abraham, he sketched out some rules and specifications for the boy’s education. Once again, he outlined a general scheme for his son’s education, and, once again, he pondered the fact that women are in charge of man’s education. Even one’s earliest nourishment comes from woman. One thought led to another. He remembered the tale of the man whose wife died, leaving him an infant to rear; since he couldn’t afford to hire a wetnurse, his two nipples provided milk, so he could suckle his son. Again Herbst’s response was: What a shame, what a shame that the legend doesn’t tell us the outcome — whether that baby fared any better than the rest of humanity, reared on mother’s milk.