S. Agnon - Shira

The three of them sit together, engrossed in their conversation. I said “their conversation,” though it is actually her conversation. She does all the talking. What does she talk about, and what doesn’t she talk about? What does she tell about? What doesn’t she tell about? All of Jerusalem rolls off her tongue: Jews, Ishmaelites, Christians alike. She has something to say about them all, a story to tell about everyone. It is the convention to assume that doctors are on the most intimate terms with their fellow human beings, because a sick person is likely to open his heart and reveal what he wouldn’t otherwise reveal, not even to himself. But how much time does a doctor spend with a patient? A famous doctor, who has many patients, is short on time, whereas doctors who aren’t famous pretend to be busy and in great demand. As it turns out, doctors spend very little time with patients. But a nurse is with the patient all the time, always, even longer. Patients get bored and are eager to extract hidden information from the nurse, such as, Is there a chance they will recover? Is there hope they will live? In this context, they talk to the nurse and tell her things they themselves were not aware of before. They do this to stir her heart, so she will reveal what they want to know, which allows a nurse to hear things not everyone gets to hear. Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t say very much about Jews. First of all, because Jewish patients are so preoccupied with their illnesses that, though the illnesses vary, they talk about them in one and the same way. Second, if she were to report what they say, it would sound like gossip and slander. But she tells about Muslims and Christians, because, to the general Jewish society, they are mere names, like those in the tales of A Thousand and One Nights and the Brothers Grimm. She admits that she doesn’t have the talent of either Scheherazade or the Grimm brothers, but her stories have one advantage. They are true. True, not concocted. True, without a particle of fantasy.

It’s impossible to tell all of her stories, but some of them can be told. So I will tell two of them that add up to a little less than two segments of a thousand and one stories. The young wife of Ibn Saud’s hangman was both very pretty and very sick. In all of Saudi Arabia, there was no doctor who could cure her. They put her in a bed, which was lifted onto a camel’s back, and carried her from land to land, from country to country, to each of the seven Arab kingdoms, but they found no cure for her illness. They took her to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Back in Ibn Saud’s country, that hangman had a title equivalent to vizier, and his wife was nobility, true nobility. He had achieved rank because of his occupation, but her nobility derived from her person. It was the custom there that, once a year, all the noblewomen in the kingdom would come to kiss Ibn Saud’s hand. She, too, came to kiss his hand. Hearing she was sick, he commanded that no effort be spared to cure her, which is why she was finally taken to Hadassah. It was obvious to Ludmilla the nurse, who was in charge of her, that, apart from being sick, she was a delicate and well-mannered woman. Having mentioned hand kissing, she mentioned another incident that revolved around this custom. Every year, around the time of the Muslim holidays, Master Salomiac used to bring a gift to the old mufti, who was the father of Amin Husseini, the current mufti. Master Salomiac was the Russian emissary, and, as such, he had dealings with Muslim leaders as well as with the mufti. His relationship with them was one of great affection. Whenever he came to the mufti, he was offered the seat of honor and was served coffee, sweets, and a narghile, in accordance with Ishmaelite custom. While they were discussing politics, Amin Husseini entered and bowed to the guest. His father scolded him and said, “You insect, why haven’t you kissed his honor’s hand?” Amin Husseini bowed to Master Salomiac and kissed his hand. The two of them remember that exchange to this day. Ludmilla the nurse once went to the Old City to watch the Nebi Mussa celebrations and found herself standing next to Master Salomiac. He said to her, “Come, I have something to show you. See the mufti over there, riding on his white mule, facing the crowd of celebrants? You’re about to see him turn his face away.” Master Salomiac positioned himself in front of the mufti, who immediately turned his face in the other direction. Master Salomiac moved so that, once again, he was directly in front of the mufti. Once again, the mufti turned his face away. This was enacted several times. Master Salomiac said to Ludmilla the nurse, “It’s hard for that villain to look me in the face from such an elevated position. He still remembers that he once kissed my hand.”

Manfred sits there, his heart pounding with hunger and dread, for Ludmilla the nurse might mention Shira. She doesn’t mention Shira. Is it because she is determined not to talk about Jews, or is it to avoid upsetting Herbst? Who can fathom a woman’s heart? All our speculations about women are inherently contradictory. Ludmilla the nurse has visited Mrs. Herbst many times. She has consumed a keg of coffee and a mound of cakes; she has told a thousand and one stories, none of them about Shira. For this reason, I will say no more about Ludmilla the nurse and return to Herbst’s essential concerns.

Herbst returned to his own concerns, concerns that have been essential to him since the day he was imbued with an inquiring soul. True, he has made other concerns his concern, but these are not relevant to his essential concern, which is the history of Byzantium. In any case, it is baffling: what does such a man, such a scholar, have in common with Shira? Even if we grant that no scholar can survive on his work alone, in what way are they compatible? Scholarship is totally alien to her. She neither understands it nor wishes to understand it. If he had become involved with Lisbet Neu, I would have said it was because of her uncle. But why does he cling to Shira? Is it because professionals are attracted to the nonprofessional world? I may be mistaken, just as I was mistaken about Ludmilla the nurse, to whom I have devoted so much attention, although she is not connected to the story of Herbst and the nurse Shira. On the other hand, whatever surrounds the core may be essential, just as the whiteness around a letter sustains its shape. Without a context, we wouldn’t recognize the text. So much for the irrelevant; now on to essentials.

We are familiar with Dr. Manfred Herbst’s work habits, which are probably no different from those of most scholars. He sits at his desk, in his study, bent over his books and his notes, reading, adding notes to his notes, which are filed in a special box. Sometimes, the box fills up before he has a chance to use them. At other times, the hour passes before the box is full. When it’s time to write a chapter or an article, he takes out his notes, puts them together, organizes them by subject, ties them in a bundle, then reads them, and writes what he writes. I’m not mentioning the cigarettes and the pipe, because they don’t apply to all scholars. He sometimes succeeds in writing a page or two at one sitting; at other times, he barely manages to produce two or three lines. But he adds one line, then another line, until, in time, he can put together half a chapter or even a whole chapter. All this relates to the actual work, to the work process itself.

I will now attempt to clarify just how he handles ideas. A learned man’s mind isn’t always filled with ideas. Even if his brain is as busy as a beehive, when he looks into it, he might find it empty. Sometimes, inadvertently, suddenly and inadvertently, when he least expects it, a good idea comes to him. When he’s alert, he follows through with an action: he writes it in his notebook. When he’s less alert, he tosses it around until it floats away. Then, later, when he is ready to write it down, he finds his hands are empty, unless it was replaced by a similar idea while he was hesitating. If I’m not mistaken, I have outlined most of Herbst’s habits with respect to his work.