Mrs. Weltfremdt returned, carrying a bunch of notebooks tied together with colorful string. She looked warmly at Professor Herbst, who had agreed to hear her verses, and imploringly at her husband, wishing he would stop talking and let her read. Her husband took no notice but went on talking to Herbst, explicating every new point in his article, for he gravely doubted that his colleagues would grasp it. “I’m not saying that all of our eminent colleagues are imbeciles. There are surely one or two — perhaps even three — who are capable of grasping my insights, but since they measure with their own yardsticks, they have the impression that my insights are no better than theirs. In any case, there’s nothing to stop them from claiming my insights as their own, with a change of language or an additional phrase, to the point where the sheer verbiage disguises the source.” If not for Lemner, who loved to disclose the sources authors use, none of them would realize that many of Weltfremdt’s insights were incorporated in their books. Mrs. Weltfremdt saw there was no end in sight and went off. In the interim, the sun set, the day darkened, and Herbst got up to go.
Weltfremdt remembered his wife and her verses. He opened the door and called, “Dikchen, Dikchen, what’s going on? We have here one-third of one-half of one dozen distinguished gentlemen eager to bask in your delightful verse, and you withhold its light.”
Mrs. Weltfremdt heard him and appeared. Professor Weltfremdt said, “It’s good you came, Dikchen. I was talking to our friend, Doctor Herbst, about our revered cousin, who never deigns to come to us, and I asked Doctor Herbst, if he should see our cousin, to tell him to be so kind as to come. What’s your opinion, Dikchen? Will he find a place to sit in our house? As for your verses, it’s good you brought them. Let me see if you brought the notebook with the humorous ones. Yes, yes. Here’s the notebook, and here are the verses. Bravo. What was I going to ask? Yes, yes…. Who’s that knocking? Isn’t there a bell in the house? Problems with the electricity again. Storrs may be right to keep everything modern out of Jerusalem. Even the electric lights go out most nights, leaving us in darkness. Dikchen, I see we won’t get to your verses tonight. I certainly won’t agree to let you ruin your eyes in the light of the kerosene lamp. I don’t know how anyone reads in that light. When I touch a kerosene lamp, I can’t get rid of the smell. Now, Doctor Herbst, it isn’t right to keep you here in this dark dungeon. Dikchen, allow me to go two or three steps with Doctor Herbst, and don’t be upset if I make it four or five. You know I’m no mathematician.”
When they were outside, Weltfremdt said to Herbst, “Dear doctor, why is it that Julian finds it necessary to malign me everywhere? In any case, I can say, like King David in his time, my throne and I are pure. I don’t know if I’ve quoted the phrase correctly, but I’ve made my point. Incidentally, your article was very successful. I said this in so many words at the senate meeting. You ought to publish more articles like that one, doctor. Just like it. Yes, indeed. I have an important subject for you to investigate: when Athanasius went to Rome to seek support, why did the journey take a whole year? As for my cousin Julian, when he discredits Wechsler and Bachlam, we can say that, if he isn’t one hundred percent justified, he is surely fifty or sixty percent right. I’m not a mathematician, and I can’t formulate the precise percentage. But when he maligns me, he does himself harm, because everyone knows he’s not familiar with my field. All of Jerusalem has light, except for my house. My best to Mrs. Herbst and to you, too, doctor. Above all, let’s get together again. Really. Yes, yes. Back to the subject of Julian. When his little girl got sick and was taken to Hadassah Hospital, where she stayed many days, who was it who tried to get the bill canceled, if not me? And when the child died, who paid for her burial? I was the one who paid to have her buried. In Jerusalem, nothing is free. Now I have to go home too. I assume it was the printer’s messenger knocking at the door, coming for the galleys of my article for Bachlam’s jubilee volume. See you soon, doctor. I really mean it. I hope to see you soon.”
Chapter seventeen
How long did he keep himself at home, occupied with things he hadn’t done in years, for one purpose — so he wouldn’t go into town? If he were to go to town, his feet would run to Shira. How he agonized the night he visited Weltfremdt! And he triumphed. In the end, he didn’t go to Shira, though he knew she was at home, perhaps even expecting him. That witch, she never said, “I expect you to come.” Still, even someone inept in the realm of women’s wiles could sense it. So he kept himself at home, hanging around his wife while she worked. At this point, Henrietta even allowed him to do household chores without protesting. Sometimes she even asked him to relieve her, teasing, “If you had teats, we wouldn’t need a wetnurse.”
Manfred is with Henrietta, arranging Sarah’s crib, spreading her rubber sheet, smoothing the wrinkles, while Henrietta plays with the baby, cooing at her like any mother with an infant daughter. Manfred watches them, thinking: If I didn’t know otherwise, I would think the baby was with her grandmother. Manfred looks furtively for some trace of youthful charm, but he sees an old woman. He starts to pity her and is overcome with renewed affection. He engraves its new form in his heart. He is warmed by this affection. The One who was created only to cause trouble asks: Isn’t she an obstacle in your path, the one that keeps you from living your life? Manfred sighs and reflects: Life…the life that seduces us is, perhaps, not really life. It may be the mission of our life to live with the wife we were given. If not for a man’s wife, he would sink from bad to worse.
Those were good days. His evil thoughts lost their sting, and he began to cherish his wife, for it was through her that he avoided a reckless course. At first he kept himself at home, helping his wife just to prevent his feet from heading toward town; now he was helping her in order to ease her burdens. Henrietta would take note and say, “Thank you, thank you, my dear. You did such a good job. Now, dear, you can go back to your own work.” Manfred would take her advice, go to his room, and sit at his desk, editing lectures he had prepared for the winter term. Should you stop in he doesn’t behave as if you’ve kept him from discovering the symbol for zero, for example, or impeded him in his conquest of Mesopotamia. Should a student stop in, Herbst receives him warmly, gives him a chair, hears his questions, provides advice as well as research data from the box of notes, gratis, without suggesting he has offered all the Indies as a gift. A student who arrives at teatime is served tea with a slice of cake, along with cordial conversation unrelated to scholarly work. Dr. Herbst doesn’t have many students, but if you combine all of them over his entire career, there are more than a few.
We could dwell a bit on Dr. Herbst’s students without arresting the pace of our story. They came from various countries, where they roamed the roads for many years, sustaining themselves as porters. Even here, their sustenance doesn’t simply land in their mouths. Some of them deliver newspapers; others are teachers and accountants. Those privileged to deliver papers are up before dawn. After distributing the papers, they race up to class on Mount Scopus, on foot, since even those who do well can’t afford the busfare. Sometimes they are up early, but to no avail, because of a hand that tampers with the papers: censors appointed by the Mandate government often allow things to be printed, only to ban them suddenly. The Hebrew newspapers remain in their place and never reach their readers. Those who deliver them are demoralized by the wasted time and loss of income. The others — those who are accountants or teachers — are no better off. But those with a talent for writing fare worst. They hire themselves out to all sorts of operators, do-gooders, and ordinary people who wish to perpetuate themselves through memoirs, although they haven’t the ability to write two or three lines properly. They write what they write and hire a poor student to translate their words into civilized language. They pay by the hour and include proofreading in the price. Not only do the students invest their strength in others, whose business is of no interest to them, but they don’t get to do what is suited to their talents. There is even a young woman, the mother of a baby, among those who listen to Herbst’s lectures. She is in Jerusalem five days a week, cleaning office floors for a living. On Friday nights, she goes down to Tel Aviv to enjoy her husband and the small daughter she leaves with her mother-in-law. On Sunday mornings, she returns to Jerusalem, to her studies and her job. What moves them to learn about subjects such as the history of Byzantium? Perhaps they are eager for knowledge, and it is not the subject that is crucial, but the learning process. Herbst is a splendid teacher, the sort one can learn from. Even if you wanted to, how could you pursue the subject of your choice, when the university is small and in many areas there are no teachers, so that what you want to study may be taught by some imbecile who distorts the material?