Herbst lay in his bed reviewing his manuscript. He undertook this review to determine what to highlight and what to play down, in the interest of completing the book and preparing himself for a new project. It was not yet clear to him what it would be, but he had a sense of it, as though he were already collecting material.
So as not to interfere with his sleep, he began thinking about a simple aspect of the work: how to set up a new box for his new notes. Even if he completes his large work, the boxes won’t be empty. Those boxes are amazing; though he takes out endless notes for colleagues, students, or minor articles of his own, they always fill up again. When your soul is fixed on a particular idea, you discover it in everything, and, in this process, new notes are constantly created. That night, he decided to abandon the tragedy he had intended to write about the Byzantine woman of the court, the nobleman Yohanan, and Basileios, the faithful servant, which I have described in preceding chapters. Even, before this night, Herbst had begun to suspect that he had nothing to contribute; that, even if he were to make a great effort, he wouldn’t accomplish very much; that whatever he might achieve would be so slight that it would not approach even the tiniest fraction of what Gerhart Hauptmann achieved in Heinrich the Unfortunate, his dramatization of a superb story. Herbst was not presumptuous. He had no illusions about himself as a visionary. Not in his wildest imagination did he compare himself to such a famous poet. But, having given up the idea of composing a tragedy, he began analyzing the work of various authors and ended with Gerhart Hauptmann and his play Heinrich the Unfortunate.
Once he decided to give up the tragedy, he felt a surge of relief and lightness. From now on, his time was his own. He was free to pursue his interests and devote himself to his current book, as he had done when writing the first one. Actually, there was a big difference between the two. One was written in German, a language with thousands of volumes on the subject, while the other was to be written in Hebrew, in which there was not a single pamphlet on the subject. His first book was written in a language with standard, set, accepted terminology, whereas Hebrew possesses no standard terminology, and scholarly writers must improvise, translating or creating terms from scratch. Either way, they struggle and waste time on something a living language simply provides, demanding no effort. Herbst was pleased to be writing in Hebrew, rather than in one of the languages of the world, though those languages promote an author’s name. And he was pleased to be repaying a debt to the language in which he now lectured, at a time when many far more distinguished scholars were being deprived of their posts and were in mortal danger.
From the bed opposite his couch, he could hear Henrietta’s breathing. Her breaths were even and regular. Three long ones and one short one, one short one and three long ones, each breath timed to fit in with the others. Even in her sleep, she wasn’t undisciplined. A woman who is orderly when awake is orderly when asleep. He turned toward her and told himself: Those old bones need rest. Let her sleep. She’s tired, she’s tired from the trip. She was so alert on the way. She noticed every mountain, hill, and forest, every snip of cloud, each bird and grasshopper — everything that crossed the road, man as well as beast, not to mention grasses and flowers. Her eyes soaked up the colors of every blossom. If I were to draw an intelligent woman, one whose vitality has not been diminished by the years, I would draw Henrietta as she was when she sat in the dining room with those girls. Henrietta sat among them like a mother with daughters awaiting her in many different places, with such intense anticipation that their places can no longer contain them, so they come together, and, as soon as she arrives, they swarm around her, fixing their eyes on her lips as she tells each one what she wants to know. This is how it was with Henrietta and those girls: until she spoke, they didn’t know what they were after. When she spoke, they knew she was saying what they wanted to hear. More than surprises or miracles, the heart needs answers to unformed questions.
Chapter twenty-five
The village was asleep; well-earned rest and tranquility enveloped its houses, huts, and tents. An occasional sound was heard — a cow mooing in the barn, chickens clucking in their coop. This was followed by a second sound, sometimes repeating the original one, sometimes sounding surprised at itself. Then the village was silent again, pervaded with quiet peace. The silence was once again broken by the gurgle of irrigation pipes and noises from the water tower, the smell of fading embers emanating from the campfire.
A gust of wind passed through. Tent flaps swelled, and the lights inside quivered. Those who live in the tents are young and hungry for knowledge. On a night such as this, if they are not working, they are sprawled on their beds, reading by candlelight. There are many problems and many hidden secrets; a few of these secrets have been revealed to wise men and are disclosed in their books. There are those who read about cosmic affairs; others read about human affairs. Some read what was written by historians; others read what the poets wrote — the story of Amnon and Tamar, for example. Amnon and Tamar are names picked at random; if you prefer another set of names, they will do as well. Some are reading about soil mechanics; others, about raising livestock and poultry. There is even someone writing, not reading at all. Perhaps future generations will read his words. It is the way of the wind to shift and be everywhere.
I will get back to those people who receive light from others. Right now, let me mention something that is useful to farmers and fruit growers. Both are at war with birds, for they fly in and consume hard-won crops. Those who tend cows and chickens share their grief, for the birds come and eat the animal feed. For this reason, war is declared, even on songbirds. The assault involves not only noisemakers and scarecrows but rifles and other deadly implements. In some poet’s story, we find the tale of a man who had gardens and orchards. He invited birds from near and far to his gardens and orchards, made birdhouses for them, and provided them with food. They grew fond of these gardens and orchards, and became permanent guests. His neighbors said, “Don’t you realize they’re destroying your crops? You give all that up merely for their songs and their beauty.” He said, “Not only do their songs fill my heart with joy. My eyes feast on their feathers. Also, they are useful to me, because they peck at the trees and ferret out insects no human hand can reach.”
The village is deep in well-deserved sleep. Many perils menace these sleepers, for all around them are armed bands with designs on their lives. Yet most of the villagers are immersed in sweet sleep that attached itself to them as soon as they lay down, before they had a chance to think about it. In fact, the watchmen who guard the village function in a remarkable way. They appear to be idle, to be doing nothing, but their roving eyes are a warning to thieves, bandits, and murderers that they had better not approach the village. Occasionally, they approach and even enter, but only after killing the watchman. This is what happened to one of the watchmen in Ahinoam itself, the one whose picture is in the dining hall along with other heroes, whose only daughter is being raised with the rest of the children. The watchmen patrol the four corners of the village, each one heading in a different direction. Those with families think of wives and children, whose sleep they safeguard. Those who are single think of someone special asleep in her tent. Since sleep puts everything out of mind, has she, perhaps, forgotten him? Just then, a tent flap is lifted, and she emerges, the young woman he feared had forgotten him. They run toward each other and walk on together, talking — not in a whisper, which would be frightening; not in a loud voice, for that would disturb those who are asleep — but singing as they go, without raising their voices. They choose, not nostalgic songs, but some of the lighter trifles, such as “Sing a song, song, song, / Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.”