S. Agnon - Shira

He could hear Henrietta’s footsteps, light and jaunty, as she prepared breakfast, then the sound of coffee being ground. That good, dry smell, pervasive and stimulating, began to filter through and cling to the veins of his throat. Body and soul craved the brew — its appealing taste, aroma, and sight — so invigorating that it erodes the boundary between ability and will. Herbst put down the book and went to wash up and shave, so he would be ready to drink the coffee while it was hot and fresh. On the way, he stopped to say good morning to Henrietta and added, “Don’t bother about me, Henriett, I’ll have coffee alone today, and I’ll have breakfast later, after I’m into my work.”

A little later, Henrietta brought the coffee to his room. She was pleased to see him with the open book before him and said, “Drink a little at a time. I won’t give you more than one cup, because I made your coffee strong today. You didn’t shave.” “No,” Manfred answered. He lowered his eyes, looked at the book, and took a sip, thinking: I’m drinking now and enjoying it, but suddenly all the coffee will be gone, and there I’ll be, my mouth open, looking for another sip and not finding it. Henrietta left quietly. At the door, she turned toward her husband and said, “You could say thank you.” Manfred looked up from his book, cup in hand, and said, “Thanks, Henrietta. Thanks. Also, thank you for breakfast. Whether I eat it or not, I thank you for it. The coffee’s good.”

Henrietta left, and Manfred went back to work. He picked up a pencil and reviewed yesterday’s notes. He lit a cigarette, then looked in the cup to be sure there wasn’t another drop. Though not a single drop was left, the cup still smelled of coffee. Herbst took two or three puffs of his cigarette, like a winemaker drawing liquid through a tube, and went back to the book. He stared at the pencil marks, took some books from the shelf, and began reading, checking up on the author. As it happened, they happened to lead him to conclusions that were different from the author’s. In some cases, this occurred because the author had a superficial understanding of the text; in others, because he had copied fragments of the data rather than the whole, either out of sloppiness or for some other reason, such as political motives of the sort that prevailed in Germany after its defeat. Herbst, who detested scholarship that was being used as a means to a political end, was appalled by this diligent author who had used old texts so cleverly. But he decided to ignore these motives and consider the book in purely scholarly terms.

The house was quiet. Not a voice was heard, not Sarah’s, not Sarini’s, not anyone’s. Sensing that Manfred was preparing to do important work that required concentration, Henrietta took charge of the silence. After a while she came back and asked Manfred when he would like some food. Manfred was startled and said, “Food, what a monstrous thought! But a cup of coffee would be nice. I beg you, Henrietta, be so kind as to forgo your principles and make me coffee. Just one more cup, and I promise that, as soon as I’m done with this book and with the article I’m writing, not a drop of coffee will cross my lips until you invite me to drink it.” Henrietta said, “Coffee again. You think I’m running a café here, that I’m sitting and waiting for customers like you. You’d do better to eat something, instead of drinking coffee. Tell me, how many cigarettes have you smoked today? One, two, three. All before breakfast. Not another drop of coffee for you today.” As she spoke, she made an about-face; then she left the room and came back carrying a cup of coffee that had been ready and waiting. Manfred leaped up to take it from her, leaned over, and kissed her hand, saying, “Many thanks, Henriett, for the coffee and many thanks for the timing. Now, Henriett, give me your hand and let’s say farewell until the third cup. Then I won’t drink any more until the government drives the dragons out of the Salt Sea, so they won’t swallow up the herrings. Incidentally, tell me, Henriett, why is it that we don’t see salt herrings anymore? Did you tell them I’ve become a vegetarian? As you can see, Henriett, this cup will guarantee a good job — if not good, then halfway good, for sure. In any case, this book and this author are getting more than they deserve. If you bring me breakfast now, I’ll eat it.” Henrietta said, “Tomorrow you’ll get herring for breakfast. May I ask what you’re writing?” Manfred said, “Why not? I already told you that the National Library was so kind as to send me a new book to review. So I am being so kind as to review it. Now you understand why I wanted coffee. As for the herring, I didn’t mention it with any ulterior motive. Still and all, if you mean to get a herring, I won’t keep you from getting a nice fat one. I myself certainly don’t need herring. I mentioned it only by way of association. Since we mentioned the Salt Sea, I mentioned salt herring. What did we drink at that inn near the Salt Sea? Was it tea or coffee? Even if you made me read one of Bachlam’s books as a penalty, I wouldn’t be able to remember.”

Seven or eight days later, Herbst finished his article. It had worked out well, not only in quality but in quantity. He had intended to write three or four pages but ended up with eight and a half, to which he added more than two and a quarter pages when editing — all this apart from the notes or the notes on the notes. As it turned out, in several days he had produced a real pamphlet. It was true that Avgad and Lemner turn out long articles regularly, not to mention Bachlam, whose papers cover the face of the earth. But any discerning reader would discern the difference between Herbst’s writing and theirs. Herbst examined his article, word by word, phrase by phrase. He cut it where it was longwinded, and where it was muddled he added clarification. He replaced one word with another, substituting the explicit for the vague. Here and there, he made slight corrections, adding, deleting, tightening, elaborating. He replaced idioms that struck him as Teutonic with Hebrew equivalents, and those that seemed florid he replaced with simpler ones. He then took the pages, held them in his hand, and read aloud, tapping on the table like a musician checking his tone. He seemed satisfied. Then, suddenly, he was sad to have written in Hebrew, a language with no terminology, and, even though he had found appropriate words for all the ideas he wanted to communicate, he wondered to what extent he would be understood. Had he been writing in German, there would be no need to waste time on style, and he would have written the entire article in two or three days, without any question about making himself understood. Just as suddenly, he was overcome with joy no article had inspired before, joy derived from the conquest of language. While he was rejoicing, a wave of sorrow took over, for his words were not likely to be read by anyone with a flair for language. They would be read by Bachlams and Lemners, who have no sense of style.

Henrietta brought him a raspberry drink. Manfred pretended not to see her, not to notice what she was bringing, not to smell the raspberry, not to feel what he always felt when he smelled a food or a drink he was fond of before coming to this country. When she was on her way out, he looked up, waved his papers at her, and called out, “Look, look, voilà! The article is ready, finished, done.” Henrietta regarded him without an ounce of disdain, sharing his joy. Actually, she valued these articles not for what they were but for his sake. They seemed to make him tranquil, to put him at peace with the world. In the past, in the first year of their marriage, before Zahara was born, when Henrietta saw Fred poring over his books day and night, writing, underlining, typing, editing, she would try to understand the secret of the subjects to which he was devoted and for which he was willing to forgo so many pleasures. Such interests were not his alone; he shared them with other scholars. She read some of this material, but it meant nothing to her, so she dismissed it. Having dismissed it, she turned again for satisfaction to books that could be read without much effort, those that sustain the soul in times of anxiety. When she was young, she loved the poems of Rilke; later, she found herself in the poems of Stefan George. Now, too, she often finds in them a source of strength, although their landscape is so different from that of this land and although their subjects have become foreign to her soul.