For three days longer the yearning and the entreaty continued. And of
a sudden the voice was transformed into a wild, unbearable shrieking.
Simeon had fallen into despair. The thirty days were fast drawing to
a close and his love for Beruriah had flamed up like the fires of
hell. He lost his peace of mind entirely, and his body began to be
consumed by passion. His cheeks grew thin, his eyes looked sunken,
reddish-yellow, ill. It seemed to him as if his body were incessantly
smitten, and within, his being cried aloud its pain. His voice took
up the cry. But it was the cry of the ox for the cow,—only more
passionate, more pain-stricken, more excruciating.
When Beruriah heard such a voice she was seized with trembling; a
feeling of disgust surged over her. For days at a time she shunned
her very dwelling, but the suffering of repulsion she carried plainly
with her. Whoever met her said, “Beruriah is stricken with an evil
illness.” And her friends questioned her, “What has befallen you?”
She avoided all encounter with Simeon, and at night in her room she
had her aged servant stay with her. Friday evening she had Simeon
notified that she could not come to table, but that she would hear
his saying of grace from where she lay. His saying of grace, however,
caused her to shudder. He groaned it rather than recited it. His
breath came like that of an animal wounded unto death. His voice was
hoarse and choked with angry tears. He barely approached his food
and looked around with savage eyes. The old domestic heaved a sigh
of thankfulness when Simeon dashed from the dining-room. Had he sung
the Sabbath songs? Had he blessed the Lord? Or had he been uttering
blasphemy altogether? His voice rang more with upbraiding than with
benediction. Now he knew that God had forsaken him, and had showed
him Beruriah only to crush him. Need he restrain himself? Need he
pretend? Let the woman know how he was suffering through her,—how he
loved her, how he desired her.
And amidst the gloom of his room, he repeated in a voice made hoarse
with lust, passages from the Song of Songs,—those impregnated with
most love and passion.
“How fair and how pleasant art thou, Oh love, for delights! This
thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of
grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of
the branches thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of
the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples.”
He sang them again and again, wildly, passionately, lustfully.
And Beruriah was engulfed in still deeper loathing. It was as
though some one had made her body unclean. She huddled together,
shuddering. She opened her eyes wide, peering into the dense
darkness, speaking to God as if she beheld Him there before her, in
the gloom.
“I accepted as a boon the grievous sorrow Thou sentest unto me. But
this indignity I cannot suffer. How have I merited it? What is Thy
aim? How have I sinned that Thou so shouldst humble me? My heart is
weak and wracked; wouldst Thou rend it utterly? Then tear it out, Oh
Lord, and I will thank Thee. But remove from me the burden of this
insult. Deliver me from this uncleanliness.”
* * * * *
The lustful voice, however, did not cease. Indeed, it rang with even
greater lust, grovelling before her, embracing her, clawing her.
And Beruriah groaned like a wounded deer, taking refuge beneath her
pillow and her coverlet, as if to smother herself, prepared to die—
All that Sabbath day she remained in her room, behind lock and
key,—indignant, overcome by aversion, anger, fury. Too, on the other
days she avoided Simeon, even as a nauseating leper is tremblingly
shunned. But on the thirtieth day Simeon lay in waiting, and late
in the afternoon met her face to face. He was dressed ready for his
departure, staff in hand and wallet across his shoulder. But not
the proud, handsome Simeon stood before her; not the Adonis who had
turned Jew. He was wan, thin, bent; his face sallow, his eyes sunken,
feverish and red; his beard unkempt; his head-covering awry. Adonis
had forgotten to be beautiful. Adonis had become infirm and old.
Adonis bore in his heart a fatal wound.
Beruriah straightened up in all her pride, in all her beauty, and
looked at him ruthlessly, haughtily, wishing to pass him by. But he
barred her way. A moment they eyed each other without a word; then he
opened his lips and spoke to her:
“Cursed be the day when I first gazed upon you, but sevenfold
accursed be the day on which my companions chose me to be your
touchstone, and seventy-seven times accursed be the day on which I
crossed the threshold of your home. May these days be obliterated
from God’s year, and may the memory of them be a curse for
generations. May they be days of calamity——”
Beruriah interrupted his malediction, speaking with merciless
austerity:
“Job, too, did once the same and cursed a day of God’s. You may spare
yourself this art of imprecation. Go your way and thank God that he
led you to Beruriah’s home, and brought you not to greater sin,—Thank
Him that two souls were rescued from eternal perdition. But before
you leave, explain one thing to me. What do you mean when you say
that your companions chose you to be my touchstone? If I understand
you aright——”
Her glance was sharp and deeply penetrating, and Simeon replied, “You
have understood me aright!”
With eyes agape and quickening breath she questioned further.
“And the story of the agents was a lie?”
Simeon answered feverishly, trembling in every limb.
“The tale was false from the beginning to the end. No single word
of truth was in it. The Academy, who knew the fortitude of your
heart against death, wished to know, too, the strength of your heart
against love. And they chose me——”
Again she interrupted his account, with staring eyes and breath that
came in gasps.
“And—Rabbi—Mayer?”
“_He_ devised the plan.”
She uttered a shriek as if her heart had suddenly been pierced,
breathed heavily and shut her eyes. A moment later she asked, with
her eyes still closed, “Did Rabbi Mayer, too, desire to know the
fortitude of my heart against sinful love?”
And Simeon answered weakly, wearily:
“At first he flew into a fury against the students for their
doubts as to your virtue, but afterwards their mistrust became his
mistrust.”
Beruriah, astounded, groaned with pain, and Simeon continued his
account:
“‘The apple is wondrous fair,’ said Rabbi Mayer, ‘but who can say
what passes in its heart?’”
Beruriah moaned, more heavily grieved than ever. And Simeon,
mercilessly, indifferently, wearily added, “And he said, ‘What does
one do to learn whether the beautiful apple is sound at the core? He
cuts it open——’”
Beruriah turned, wincing as if under knives, and suddenly wailed in a
voice that was not her own, “Go!” Then she rushed into her room, her
eyes closed, stupefied, stunned.
And Simeon went forth upon his way, slowly, exhaustedly, his head
bowed and his limbs heavy, like one who has been banished into
exile,—homeless and forlorn.
X
Beruriah stood in her room, pressing her hands to her face, to her
eyes, as if seeking to drive something away,—a nightmare, an evil
vision. She closed her eyes, suddenly, and as suddenly opened them
wide—once, twice, three times; her heart beat wildly and shrieked
strange things within her.
“_He_ had doubts about me! _He_ sent a man to test me! Is it
possible? Is it possible?”
She ran in pursuit of Simeon. She must question him further. Perhaps
he had told her a lie? Perhaps this tale of testing was his own
invention? Perhaps the story about the agents was the truth? Perhaps
she had heard wrong? May it not all have been a fiction of her
imagination? Maybe it was all an evil dream?
Simeon was far along the road, walking with heavy step, as if grown
old. She wished to call to him, to run after him, but suddenly it
came to her that this was neither an evil dream nor her fantasy,—that
this time the son of Rabbi Ismael had not deceived her. The curse
that he had called down upon the second day had surely not been
feigned. The words he had put into Rabbi Mayer’s mouth came surely
from Rabbi Mayer.
Tears began to oppress her and she hastened back to her room, threw
herself upon the bed and burst into long and bitter weeping. She tore
her hair, sank her nails into her cheeks, bit the bedclothes beneath
her, wailing and lamenting. But when she heard the steps of her aged
servant, she mastered herself, grew quiet and lay there calmly. She
placed herself so that it might appear she lay there thus, asleep.
The servant brought in lights and reminded her that it was time to
eat the evening meal. Beruriah stammered she was feeling ill that
evening and that food would do her harm. But the kind old servant
tempted her with some dainties and asked whether the mistress would
want her company that night, too, in the bedroom. Receiving the
answer “No,” she wished Beruriah good-night and walked away to her
usual place.
Beruriah lay with open eyes and gazed into the shadows of the
half-lighted room. Her head was in a maze; she could not think a
single definite thought. She only knew that a terrible misfortune
had befallen her,—a misfortune greater far than the loss of her two
sons,—a catastrophe great beyond all explanation. She could not yet
conceive it; it was such as must undo her evermore,—must work the
profoundest transformation in her life.
And all at once she wearily arose, her eyes dilated, gazing straight
ahead.
Yes. Even so. Rabbi Mayer could be her husband no longer.
She clenched her teeth and fortified her heart; her distended eyes
still fixed their glance before her. Now she could think quite
clearly.
Had Rabbi Mayer himself betrayed no doubt, but simply yielded to the
doubts of others, she would have felt no insult and her heart would
have remained quite calm. She would have rejoiced at the strength of
his faith in her. And her own strength, too, would have been a double
boon. She would have twitted him upon the daring step he had taken,
and told him that such a course was foolish, and would have aided
him to triumph over the evil cavillers, who had dared to drag her
down into the mire of their suspicions.
But he alone had doubted! He alone had desired the test, to support
his faith in her. He alone had dared be unassured of his Beruriah’s
strength! Her own husband had not known her heart and had sullied its
purity with the filth of doubt!
Suppose she had not triumphed over the test? The peril had been
great; the handsome Simeon, too, was very dangerous. Yet Rabbi Mayer
had not feared to lose her. He had risked her in a game,—had led her
to sacrifice!
He could be her husband no longer!
She repeated this over and over again, insistently, with raging
harshness cutting it into her soul.
He should have to grant her a divorce; she should remain alone. All
alone,—all, all alone.
A bitter grief assailed her, making her close her eyes, and a great
wretchedness enfolded her. She was seized with a deep yearning for
her departed children; her heart went out to them; she stretched
forth her hands to them, and pressed her hands to her bosom, shaking
her head; the tears came fast as she whispered fond endearments and
mother-words.
She saw them before her, just as they looked in the final days
before their sudden death. Playful, laughing, bright. She felt their
presence so plainly that she looked around for them. No. They were
not there. They were dead. They lay in the distant graveyard, deep in
the cold earth, encased in boards. Strewn with earth. Alone they lay
there, so forsaken,—her little darlings,—and were longing perhaps for
their mother, even as their mother longed for them.
This thought sank deep and took root in her heart. At last she began
to weep softly, convulsively:
“My children need me, and I have need of them.”
And when she had wept out all her tears she made a resolution. Once
this was determined upon she turned to God.
“What I am about to do is a great transgression. I will disobey
Thy sacred commandment and violate Thy counsel. But I cannot do
otherwise. God in heaven, I can live no longer. May the good merits
of my father intercede for me. The worth of my father, the holy
martyr, who refused the offer of the executioner to hasten his
horrible death, lest the forced hastening resemble, in Thine eyes,
self-murder. May he protect me. Thou wilt have to grant his daughter
forgiveness for taking her own life in order all the sooner to meet
her children. Eternal God, take me to them; part us nevermore. Punish
me not after death as severely as Thou hast punished me in my life.
I surrender my soul into Thy merciful hands. I go to Thee and to my
children.”
Now she arose from her bed and garbed herself in purest white,
writing with firm hand something upon a tablet. Then from a
casket she drew a small, sharp knife, testing its blade upon her
finger-nail. Calmly and piously she prayed “Hear, Oh Israel,” and
severed the veins of both her arms. With blood streaming from her,
and without a cry of pain, she extinguished the light, stretched
herself out upon the bed, and began the journey to her little ones.
She kept her eyes wide open as she lay there bleeding to death, and
beheld her children before her. Far off there in the graveyard, in
their graves, they had sat up, white and steeped in sadness, awaiting
her arrival. And she said to them, “Wait, I come to you, my darling
sons! Soon I shall be with you, precious hearts!” Endlessly she
whispered fond endearments, mother-words.
Not for a moment did she give a thought to the olden days. She could
behold only her children and the road to them. Only at the end,
when the long, long sleep was coming over her and the vision of her
children and the way to them grew blurred and dim, did she utter in
peaceful yearning, with silent tears, “Mayer! Mayer!”