Sitting in the car Mrs. Herbst remarked to her husband, This man we were visiting has no love in his heart, not for a single person in this world. Herbst replied, But he has great love for the greatest man in Israel. Mrs. Herbst asked, Who is the greatest man in Israel that Professor Bachlam loves? Herbst answered, He is the one! Professor Bachlam himself is the great man in all his glory. In any case, it’s good that we made the visit. Perhaps on account of it he won’t stand in my way, or at least he’ll soften his objection to me. Mrs. Herbst sighed and said,
If only
!
–
Translated by Jeffrey Saks
(*
Agnon had left these facts
–
particular newly coined Hebrew words, or topic of Meier’s 1,200 page book
–
blank in the MS., apparently planning on filling in at a later point.)
[This chapter, which originally appeared at the end of Book Three, was meant to be the final one. However, at a later date, Agnon put it aside and began writing Book Four.]
S
hira came and stood in the tree, looking straight ahead with bewildered eyes. When she saw Manfred, she shrieked, a fierce and bitter shriek: “What are you doing here?” Manfred answered her and said, “Shira, I’m here because of you.” Shira raised her voice and said, “What madness! You had better get out while you can.” Manfred said, “Let me tell you something.” Shira shouted, “Madman, get out!” Manfred said, “I beg of you, calm down, and I’ll tell you something.” Shira said, “I don’t want to hear what a fool has to tell.” Manfred whispered, “Shira.” Shira turned away from him and was about to go. Manfred said, “Stay a minute and listen. Then you can go.”
Shira watched him and waited. Manfred said, “Give me your hand, Shira.” Shira said, “You must have lost your mind. Don’t you know what you’re risking here?” Manfred nodded and said, “I know, I know.” Shira said, “And you still want to take the risk?” Manfred sighed and said, “Whether I want to or not, I have no choice.” Shira studied him with her searching gaze and inquired, “How is one to understand your words?” Manfred said, “It doesn’t require much wisdom to understand. What I am saying is simple and obvious. I need to be with you, Shira. Even if…” Shira said, “What do you mean, ‘even if?” Manfred said, “Even if I end up in your situation.” Shira said, “What will your wife say? What will your daughters say?” Manfred said, “You ask what my wife will say and what my daughters will say. I have thought about all that. I have also thought about the son borne to me by my wife.” Shira said, “You have a son? Mazel tov.” She extended her hand to congratulate him, but, before touching him, she withdrew it.
Manfred continued, “Yes, Shira. A child was born to me; I was granted a son. He was admitted to the covenant of Abraham today. Do you remember, Shira, the night my daughter Sarah was born? After three daughters, my wife bore me a son, and the
brit
was today.” Shira said, “And you couldn’t find a time to visit me other than today?” Manfred said, “Shira, if it had been in my hands, I would have come sooner.” Shira said, “The last time I saw you, you didn’t seem especially enthralled with me. Remember, the day I bought new shoes?” Manfred nodded and said, “Yes, I remember.” Shira leaned against the wall and lifted her leg to display a lovely, graceful shoe, shaped rather like a sandal. Herbst studied the shoe for a while and said, “Yes, a sandal.” For a while he was silent. Then he sighed, a deep sigh, and asked, “Shira, how did you get here?” Shira said, “How did I get here? I came willingly. I may have come, not on my own and not willingly, but through the will of a power whose decrees determine our fate. Do you remember, Manfred, that I once told you I had been the companion of a Spanish prince and that I took him to the leper colony in Breslau?” Manfred nodded and said, “Yes, yes, Shira, I know. I have often thought about that. I assume that it’s because of him that you are where you are.” Shira said, “So you had better get out while you still can, my friend.” Manfred said, “My dear Shira, I have decided otherwise.” Shira fixed her eyes on him and asked, “Just what did you decide?” Manfred laughed sadly and said, “Can’t you see?” Shira said, “I can’t see anything, and I don’t want to see anything. But I can tell you this – get out! Get out of here, get out immediately!” Manfred said, “If I do go, I’ll come right back. Immediately.” Shira was mystified and asked, “Why? Why do you say that if you go you’ll come back?” Manfred said, “Why? As if I know why. Perhaps this too is the decree of that power whose will determines our actions.”
Shira stood gazing at him in silence. Manfred said, “When I was a child, I read a story about an Indian holy man. There was a beautiful woman living in this holy man’s town, who was pursued by all the men. I won’t prolong the tale, nor will I try to tell you about her beauty and about all the men and their attempts to approach her. But I can tell you this: that monk, that holy man, was the only one in the entire land who had no interest in approaching her, even in looking at her. She sent a message inviting him to visit her, but he didn’t come. She sent another message, but he didn’t come. In time, she was stricken with leprosy, and all her admirers kept their distance. He, however, went to see her. She said to him, ‘My beloved, my holy one, you are too late. I can’t be anything to you now.’ Do you hear me, Shira?” Shira said, “I hear you. And what was that holy man’s response?” Manfred said, “I don’t remember his response, but I remember the end of the story.” Shira said, “What is the end of the story?” Manfred said, “Wait, Shira. I already recalled the end of the story.” Shira said, “Then what is the end of the story?” Manfred said, “In the end, though she had so many admirers, only he stayed with her.” Shira said, “And what did he say to her?” Manfred said, “He said this to her: ‘In your days of glory, I could already foresee your end.” Shira said, “And you saw in me just what that holy man saw?” Manfred said, “I didn’t see those things but…How can I tell you? I once read a poem, and I found a line in it that sticks to my tongue.” “What is it?” “‘Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.’“
While they were standing there, a nurse came and said to Dr. Herbst, “Doctor, it’s time to take leave of the lady.” Manfred said, “Dear nurse, would you allow me to stay just a few minutes more?” The nurse said, “You can stay another five minutes. Five minutes, and no more.” Manfred bowed to the nurse and stood before her in an attitude of mock reverence, saying, “Many thanks to you, kind lady. May the Lord respond to your prayers.” He turned back to Shira rather suddenly and said, “He – that is to say, the Indian – stayed on with her.” Then he said to her, in an altered voice, “And I intend to do what that Indian did. I’m going to stay with you, Shira.” He seized Shira’s hand and held on to it. Shira tried to extricate her hand from his. But he held on to it, fervently, until her hand and his were both bathed in sweat. As he held her hand, he leaned his mouth over hers and kissed it. For a long time, her lips clung to his, of their own accord. She suddenly slipped her mouth away from his and brushed his lips with her hand. Then she brushed her own lips. He, in the meanwhile, embraced her lovingly and exclaimed, “Shira, Shira.”
[This fragment seems to fit into the final chapter (at the break on p. 745), though the chronology is problematic.]
H
erbst asked how he was and what he was doing. The young man smiled with characteristic shyness and thanked Herbst for taking an interest in him and asking about his affairs. But, being too shy to talk about himself, he fell silent. Herbst took no note of this and resumed his conversation with Taglicht. Taglicht interrupted and said to Herbst, “I see that you two are acquainted.” Herbst nodded, as if to indicate that there was no need for elaboration, and once more resumed his conversation. Taglicht placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said to Herbst, “Let’s hear what our friend has to say.” Herbst gazed at the young man, somewhat surprised, as one might gaze at a person he knows well enough to be certain he has nothing to offer.
At this point, it is worth mentioning that this young man, whose name was Heinrich Reiner, had come to Jerusalem a year earlier to enroll in the university, bringing with him letters to several professors and lecturers, including Dr. Herbst, from colleagues abroad, along with the request that they take him under their wing, et cetera. They may have taken him under their wing; they may have not. In any case, each and every one of these professors invited him to attend his lectures. He may have attended one or two lectures, but he didn’t become a university student. Herbst saw him once or twice, after the first time, when he came to his home to deliver regards from a friend. It was not that the young man didn’t appeal to Herbst. But Herbst didn’t especially welcome him and didn’t ask him to come again, because the relationship with that mutual friend was outdated, or perhaps for other reasons. In the interim, Herbst dismissed the young man from his mind and took no interest in him. Being somewhat shy, he didn’t presume to call on Herbst again. Now that he was with Taglicht, they met Herbst, and Taglicht said, “Let’s hear what our friend here has to say.” Herbst seemed surprised but willing to listen. Let me present the substance of his story, some of it in his language and some in my own.
Heinrich Reiner took on a job with a salary that didn’t quite support him but supplemented the allowance his father had provided. What sort of job? One could consider it a job or a mission. There is a place in Jerusalem called a leper colony, inhabited by those whose affliction is incurable. Reiner took it upon himself to visit them, and he made a special point of visiting the newcomers, who did not yet accept their fate and were unwilling to be shut in forever. At this point, Reiner recounted what we already know from the newspapers: that thirteen lepers had been found in an old-age home, that most of them had mild cases of leprosy, but that there was one advanced case among them that seemed to be the source of the contagion. From which ethnic group and from which social class did the patients derive? From every group and every class. Men and women, old and young, Orthodox and free-thinking, poor and rich. Yes, even the rich. There was a young girl there from a rich family. How did she contract leprosy? Until yesterday, no one knew. Her mother visited her yesterday. She saw a woman there who looked familiar, but she didn’t know where she had seen her. She asked her who she was, but the woman couldn’t answer, because half of her tongue and also her lips were so severely infected that she could no longer speak. But the girl’s mother couldn’t rest until she discovered who this woman was. She went to the office to inquire and was told who she was. She remembered that this woman had worked in her house fifteen years earlier, when her daughter was born. Reiner said many other things about those wretchedly afflicted individuals, who are betwixt the living and the dead, who are not quite alive and not quite dead. What he related he related so vividly that one could actually picture it. Now, imagine Manfred Herbst: Manfred Herbst, who could barely tolerate a leper drawn on canvas, was now standing with this man who mingles freely with lepers, speaks with them, and talks about them. True, there are ways to protect oneself from leprosy. Some people spend their vacations in that place. Professor Dalman, for example, spends all his vacations in the leper colony, because his wife is a nurse there. Herbst kept conjuring up images of every deformity, of each disintegrating limb, and the like. He responded with a revulsion that superseded any sort of compassion for these living corpses. At home, he found no respite from this sensation. He washed his face and hands many times with soap and eau de cologne, as if they had the power to erase the filth that filled his imagination. The next day, Herbst still could find no respite. He washed his hands several times that day, and, if he touched a book, he washed again. He didn’t go out for two days and didn’t go to Shira’s apartment. He pictured all sorts of ways to contract that affliction. On the third day, when he went out, he met one of the clerks from the home for the aged, who was strolling with Axelrod, the hospital clerk. Herbst was overcome with terror, for the clerk was from the old-age home where those thirteen lepers had been discovered. And Axelrod, who, after all, worked in a hospital, was walking with him. Who knew if the other clerk had the disease, if he would infect Axelrod, if all the patients in the hospital would then be infected, including women in labor and newborns? But Herbst succeeded in controlling himself and resisted making a fool of himself by scolding Axelrod. He walked on, speculating: What do we know about these living corpses, and what don’t we know about them? Apart from several myths and inane tales, Herbst knew nothing about lepers. He proceeded to collect all his knowledge about them and to consider it detail by detail. They say that, in days past, yet not so distant, when the Turks ruled the country, lepers used to walk through the city, and the people who lived there would fling them food. Herbst remembered this too: he had once read in the newspaper that some lepers in Rumania, who had been contained in a leper colony, escaped and went to a dentist’s office. Several gentlewomen were there at the time. The doctor called the police, who came quickly, aimed their pistols at them, and returned them to the leper colony. Among this profusion of memories, he became aware of the drawing he had seen in the bookstore, with the leper peering at him, studying him, the bell in his hand rattling continually. As it happened, Herbst happened to recall the night he sat with Shira, when she showed him her picture album with an empty space where there had originally been a picture. When Herbst asked about the missing picture, she explained that, when she lived abroad, she had tended a patient who was a Spanish prince, that the prince had befriended her, giving her many gifts, as well as his picture. When, in the end, it turned out that he had leprosy, she was asked to accompany him to the leper colony in Breslau. At this point, she burned all his gifts, removed his picture from the album, and flung it into the fire.