S. Agnon - Shira

Henrietta smiled contentedly and said, “No woman is likely to forget such a night.” Manfred said, “I haven’t forgotten it either. I didn’t tell you the dream I had, nor did you urge me to tell it. If you like, I’ll tell it to you now.” A tremor passed through his flesh; a similar tremor passed through her flesh as well. Manfred took his wife’s hand, caressed it, and said to her, “There aren’t many women like you. You don’t burden me with questions, for which I am always very grateful.” Henrietta said, “Didn’t you want to tell me your dream?” Manfred caressed her again and said, “Yes, I did. I will tell it now. That night, I was being led to the gallows.” “My God, how awful,” Henrietta cried, burying her face in her hands. “Yes, it was awful; it was dreadful,” Manfred echoed. “But not for your reason, Mother. For another reason. I knew there was one person who could have saved me. But that person didn’t lift a finger on my behalf.” Henrietta asked Manfred, “Do you remember who that person was?” Manfred said, “Don’t ask, Mother. Don’t ask.” Henrietta said, “I’m not asking, and I don’t want to know.” Manfred said, “I don’t actually remember who it was. But that night, at that moment, I knew who it was.” “That’s odd.” “Even more odd is the fact that, in my dream, I was upset by the idea that if you — meaning you and our daughters — should hear this news, you would also be upset.” Henrietta looked at him in astonishment and said, “Did you doubt that — “ Manfred interrupted her and said, “That’s not what seemed odd to me. What seemed odd was that I thought I wouldn’t be upset if I were to vanish from the face of the earth, though I was aware of the pain it would cause the rest of you. Don’t be angry with me, Mother. It’s not that you taught me at all times, to be truthful with you, Mother. But your proper life and your upright opinions lead me to tell you the truth, whether I want to or not.”

Henrietta took Manfred’s hand, placed it on her heart, and said, “Life is so hard for you, Manfred.” “Hard for me?” Manfred exclaimed in surprise, as if he had been addressed by a name other than his own. Henrietta said, “What brings on these sad thoughts?” Manfred answered, laughing, “The sad thoughts bring themselves on. It’s not a paradox, Mother. That’s really how it is. You may think I am sad because I failed to finish my book. Believe me, even if I had finished two arm-lengths worth of books, nothing would change for me. Do you remember what Goethe said about writing Werther ? I don’t remember the precise words, but I do remember the message. Even if I had a tenured professorship, that wouldn’t change anything. My daughters don’t need me. You, Mother, don’t need me either. I myself have no need of me. So…” “So …?” “Now, Mother, don’t worry that I’ll put a bullet through my heart. People like me don’t take their own life. They go on living, even when their strength gives out and they don’t have what it takes to live. They live on, to the point of total decay, through all sorts of situations, by any means.”

Henrietta gazed at her husband with a cold, analytical eye, with neither animosity nor empathy, and said, “Has something happened to you?” Manfred said, “Nothing happened to me.” Henrietta said, “The kind of things you’ve been saying don’t occur to a person all of a sudden.” “All of a sudden?” “Henrietta added, “And their cause isn’t simple.” “Simple?” Herbst already regretted what he had said to his wife and hoped to blur his words. He looked at his wife, searching her face for a sign of affection. Her face looked harsh and was glazed with contempt. She got up, but she didn’t clear the empty dishes, nor did she collect the remnants of the meal. Manfred got up, too, and went to his room. He paced back and forth, looked out the window, and resumed his pacing, as though there were no chair or couch in the room. After a while, he lit a cigarette and went to the window. The ashes fell on the rug, but he took no notice. When the cigarette began to burn his fingers, he started, dumped it in an ashtray, and crushed it with a book. Then he went to the bookcase, extended his arms, and, with a sweeping gesture, declared, in the style of Professor Bachlam, “I am not the author of these books. I don’t wish to be an Author of Many Books. I’m willing to disavow what I’ve already written, if you like.” He gazed at the two bookcases again and calculated: What will you be worth to my wife when I’m dead? He pictured his friends coming to her, feigning virtue to acquire valuable books at bargain prices. “Damn it!” he shouted, spitting angrily. He began to pace the room again, scanning the walls, which were lined with photographs of himself and his friends, each face expressing genius that would be everlasting and eternal, all of them learned, involved in scholarship and in the pursuit of wisdom, maintaining contact with scholars throughout the world. She’s first rate, Herbst reflected, contemplating the picture of his wife that was on his desk. If not for her, I would run away to the ends of the earth, to far-off isles, leaving you, all of you, to your own devices, to make a mess of your own — to paraphrase the words of Augustus, king of Saxony, when he was about to be deposed.

Henrietta opened the door quietly and came in. She said, “So you’re not asleep.” She placed her hand on his shoulders and said, “I see you were working.” He glanced at the bundle of notes and offprints, and said with disdain, “You’re deceiving yourself, just as I have deceived myself. If I were an honest man, I would burn this entire heap of garbage and scatter it to the winds.” “Don’t be so harsh. Not everyone has the privilege of being an outstanding scholar. Who was it you wanted to name our son after? It was Shlomo, and there was another name too.” “It doesn’t matter now.” “But it matters to me. Tell me.” “Shlomo Yehuda Rappaport.” “I thought it over, and I realize that Shlomo Yehuda is a fine name.” “How could you think it over if you didn’t even remember the second name? We must be honest rather than deceive ourselves, even in trivial matters. If one allows himself to cheat in trivial matters, he ends up deceiving himself in important matters as well.” She smoothed his hair and said, “Is that what you think of me, Manfred? You think I deceive myself?” “You’re first rate, but anything that gets dragged in the mud all the time ends up damaged. It’s good that you’ve changed your shoes. In my childhood, I never pictured a respectable woman in house slippers, certainly not in sandals. All these young women in their odd costumes — in pants, even work pants — are defacing the Jerusalem landscape. Don’t you agree?” He took her hand in his and studied her face. Then he withdrew his hand and said, “I have something awful to tell you.” Mrs. Herbst was alarmed and said, “You’ve had some news about the girls?” “Calm down, Mother. Calm down. I didn’t hear anything about the girls. There’s no reason to think anything bad has happened to them. What I want to tell you is entirely unrelated to our daughters.” “You frighten me so,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s best that you know the truth. We were talking about the nurse Shira today. You ought to know that, the very night you were in the hospital, in the throes of labor, I made love to her. Why are you silent, Henrietta?” “And this fills you with the sadness of remorse, though in fact she didn’t bear your child.” “I expected you to fling your sandal in my face.” “But I’m wearing shoes.” “You’re teasing me. If you knew how much I’ve suffered and agonized over this.” She smoothed his brow and said, “Calm down, Manfred. Calm down. In our generation, men are no longer angels.” “But women are all angels. They’re all like you, right?” Manfred screamed, a terrifying scream. “I’m no angel either. If I have restricted myself to this company there are other reasons: because I don’t follow my heart.” “If I could reproach you in this matter, it would be easier for me to bear my sorrow. You don’t want to hear how it happened.” “I can imagine. You were without a woman for several months. Then a woman appeared, and you were seduced.” “That’s exactly how it was. You don’t hate her? But I hate her. My heart seethes with repressed hate for that woman, because…” “Because she was your downfall.” “Yes. But, to tell the truth, because she didn’t want to be my downfall any longer.” “So you continued to pursue her, but she didn’t respond. And, as I understand it, you still want her.” “How can you say such a thing, when she is dead?” “Dead? Didn’t you say she disappeared?” “Whether or not she disappeared, in any case she doesn’t exist for me.” “But you think about her?” “Is there anyone I don’t think about? If I told you all the women I think about, you would be shocked.” “Thoughts are permitted.” “In your opinion, actions are permitted too.” “This doesn’t apply to everyone, or to every situation. Let’s have some coffee.” “Actually, Henrietta, I ought to be pleased that you accepted the news without rage or anger. But, to tell the truth, it would be better if you had thrown me out, if you had called me a villain, slapped my face, spat on me.” She took his hand, slapped his fingers, and said, “You’re a glutton. That’s what we do to gluttons.” “You’re making a farce out of this.” “Would you rather I made it into a tragedy?” she said, somewhat sternly, so that Manfred began to regret having challenged her. She seemed suddenly upset, but then her face was overcome with joy, and she said, “Shlomo Yehuda is announcing himself. See, I also think it’s a boy.” “I hear someone coming. To hell with whomever is coming. I don’t want to see anyone.” “Manfred, brace yourself. Here’s the cologne. Sprinkle a few drops on your forehead, Oh, you spilled it on your papers.” “Then it will be easier to set fire to them.” “That’s how much regard you have for years of work.” She, too, grew sad, which she hadn’t been in a long time.