S. Agnon - Shira

Henrietta got up and stood next to her husband, smoothing his brow to erase the wrinkles. She said to him, squinting a bit, “I wish I knew the thoughts that make those wrinkles. I know your work involves heavy thought, but this is too much.” Manfred answered, “Henriett, you ask about the thoughts that are wrinkling my brow; actually it’s the lack of thought that makes wrinkles. You see, Henriett, when a waterskin is empty, when it has no water, it begins to wrinkle. Me, too — I’m an empty vessel. If I give a hundred lectures, if I copy a thousand quotations, nothing will change. When I was a boy, I wanted to read many books. When I grew up, I wanted to write books. Now, my dear, now I don’t want to read books, and I don’t want to write them either. When I visited you in the hospital the day Sarah was born, you mentioned Lisbet Modrao, the daughter of Professor Modrao. You mentioned her because of her grandfather’s name, and I am reminded of her for another reason. Lisbet told me — but why did I call her Lisbet, when her name is Elizabeth? — anyway, Elizabeth told me about her eldest brother, who was a minister, a Protestant minister in a small town in Thuringia. He wasn’t especially bright or learned, just an honest man, one who never had a chance to misbehave. During the war, some heretical texts fell into his hands. He read them, and his faith was undermined. He began to loathe his job, as it involved teaching what he no longer believed. One Sunday, after his sermon, he threw off his robes and decided to give up the ministry. At dinner he said to his wife, ‘Thus far and no farther.’ Those were the war years, when food was scarce. But, being a minister, he lacked nothing, as the peasant women used to bring him eggs, chickens, vegetables, butter, cheese, and meat in such quantity that his household was provided for and there was a surplus to send to other relatives. His wife listened and wrote to his father, the professor. The professor came, hoping to restore his faith. When he realized his words were having no impact, he said to him, ‘Truth and justice are fine and praiseworthy, but a man must be concerned with his livelihood. If you abandon the ministry, how will you sustain yourself?’ Economic pressure, Henriett, is not unique to Jews. With the power of German philosophy, which can be used to prove anything, the distinguished professor proved to the honest minister that it was essential that he keep his job and that, in order to do his job justice, he must become more devout. It ended well. A minister is a minister. His sermons were so fervent that he was promoted and his salary was increased, so much so that two of his daughters could study at the university, and the other five found husbands privileged to be in Hitler’s retinue. Why did I tell that story? It’s about me, Henriett. Yes, me. This instructor at the university in Jerusalem is where that minister was at the beginning. Don’t worry, Henriett. I won’t leave my job, and I don’t need a dose of German philosophy. I’ve had a bellyful of it already and wouldn’t mind vomiting some of it up.”

Henrietta asked Manfred, “If you had a choice, what field would you choose?” Manfred answered, “Do you remember Axelrod, who looks in his notebooks and sees prophecies about everyone and his wife? What do you think? If I wanted a job like Axelrod’s, would they give it to me?” Henrietta said, “You have so little respect for your work that you would rather be a hospital clerk?” Manfred said, “It’s not that I underestimate my work, but I’m no longer happy with it. Others are happy with their work; I’m not. I’m not happy. I’m not happy, Henriett, my dear.”

Henrietta said, “Is there some other sort of work that would please you?” Manfred said, “Whether there is or not, isn’t there a song that goes ‘Forest, forest, how far away you are’? Who sang that song to us?” Henrietta said, “Taglicht sang it.” Manfred said, “You remember everything, Henriett. You hear something once, and you never forget it. Since you mention Taglicht, I’ll tell you something I heard from him.

“Taglicht was at a conference of scholars in Jerusalem, seated next to a certain Hebrew poet. This country is so full of poets that I don’t remember his name. Taglicht said to the poet, ‘See what respect the world showers on learned men, but you poets never achieve it.’ The poet remained silent. Taglicht added, ‘Apart from the high regard in which they are held, they also make a living.’ The poet said to Taglicht, ‘You runt, I’ll tell you a splendid story that’s told about your great-great-grandfather, renowned for his righteousness.’ You’ve surely heard, Henriett, that our Taglicht’s forebears were noted for piety and virtue; they were distinguished rabbis, whom you probably read about in Buber’s books. How hard it is for people like us to talk about Jewish subjects. Everything needs an introduction, and every introduction needs to be explicated.” Henrietta said, “What did he tell you?” Manfred said, “He told me a splendid story. But if I tell it to you, I doubt you’ll enjoy it. It would be better to hear it directly from him than from me.”

Much as he resisted, she persisted. He began the story.

“There was once a crippled beggar who sat on a heap of rags at a crossroads, tending his deformity. Passersby took note of him and threw him coins — one, two, three, depending on their resources and compassion. The beggar made a fortune. A son was born to him. He whispered to the midwife, ‘Cripple him, and when the boy grows up, God willing, people will see his handicap and give him money. He won’t have to work for a living.’ The midwife did as she was told. Another son was born to him. He told her what he told her, and she did what she did. So it was with each of his sons; they were provided with a livelihood at birth and spared the need to exert any effort. When his sixth son, or perhaps the seventh or eighth, was born, he went to the midwife again and whispered, ‘Cripple him.’ She saw that the child was good. She felt sorry for him and didn’t cripple him. The father saw this son and preferred him to all the others, because of his charm, and beauty, and because he was not impaired. He held him in his arms, lifted him high, played with him, bounced him on his knee, and taught him all sorts of tricks, when he was small as well as when he grew up, in accord with the boy’s intelligence and the wisdom of the father, who, having sat in the marketplace observing all sorts of people and their behavior as they passed through, was full of wisdom. The boy surpassed all the brothers who preceded him and everyone in the city as well. While the brothers were occupied with their handicaps, tending them and grooming them to arouse sympathy and bring in wealth, while most people were snatching halfswallowed food from one another as others snatched what they could from both parties — which is typical of this generation, as it probably was in earlier times too — that son devoted himself to his father’s teachings. To these, he added his own ideas. And, being occupied with wisdom, he had no interest in anything unrelated to wisdom, which certainly included money, a commodity he didn’t value at all, having watched people throw it around. He himself, being occupied with ideas, didn’t notice that people gave his father money, sometimes out of sympathy, sometimes to delude themselves, thinking they enjoyed every advantage while that poor man sat on a heap of rags in the heat, cold, rain, and snow.

“One day, the man collected his sons and said to them, ‘You’re all crippled. You carry your livelihood with you. All you have to do is display your handicap, and everyone throws you money. All but your little brother, who is healthy and whole, charming and pleasant, with no handicap other than poetry, which most people consider a handicap. How will the boy make his way? How is he to earn his bread? I am, therefore, leaving him my entire fortune. The rest of you can go out and sit on your rags, displaying your handicaps. You will lack for nothing.’”