Part 2

Most handsome of all the disciples was Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael. Once a Roman matron had beheld him, and it seemed to her as if Adonis, the Greek god of strength and youth and beauty, had turned Jew and given himself up to the study of the fathomless Torah. And she called him “the Adonis who turned Jew.” He was tall, slender and agile; the hair of his head and of his small beard was reddish; his eyes were of a colour that changed with the time of day and the temper of his moods, and none could withstand his glance. Out of piety he would shut his eyes on passing a woman, lest unholy thoughts be born in a Jewish daughter’s bosom. But once, on passing Beruriah, he had not shut his eyes, and instead of igniting another, he was himself set on fire, and on his eyes was impressed her image, inextinguishably, even as a seal impresses the burning wax. From that time he saw only her before him; she was his dream by night, his thought by day, nor did his holy studies avail him aught. His striking masculine beauty had found its mate in Beruriah, and he hungered after her as for something that had always belonged to him,—something that ever had been destined for him. He had been pious all his years, had known most ardent prayers and tormenting fasts, bodily tortures and cleansing of the soul. But now his prayers no longer were horror of sin, but plaints and grievances. It was as though the Lord withheld what was justly Simeon’s; as if God had taken away his rightful property, and his alone. And why had God placed Beruriah in his path? Why had the Lord not closed his eyes at their meeting? And in his restless, often feverish thoughts he showed God how he, Simeon, might come to her who was destined to be his. Rabbi Mayer might die, and he would inherit Beruriah; or if God did not wish the death of the holy man, Beruriah could forsake her learned husband,—divorce him and fly to the arms of her twin in beauty. Could not almighty God bring this to pass?

And now that Rabbi Mayer had announced his resolution, it was as if God had answered Simeon’s prayers, knowing that he would be the one to execute the purpose of the Rabbi, which was in reality the hidden purpose of the Almighty. And Rabbi Mayer, after uttering his plan, turned his glance to Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, as if Simeon were he upon whom had fallen the dangerous embassy. But the sage said nothing to indicate any choice on his part. He departed from the Yeshiva at once, leaving the disciples alone to choose the tempter from their number.

And although many eyes sought out Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, his selection was in no wise unanimous. For several others wished to assume the mission, and these were the students who had most openly expressed their doubts as to Beruriah’s constancy.

And one of them spoke:

“In order to seduce Beruriah one need not be the most handsome, but the most subtle. One can steal into her heart, not through her eyes, but through her ears. Her eyes she can close before the most beautiful picture, but there is naught that can seal her ears against subtle speech. The beautiful picture that meets her gaze will vanish the moment she turns her head, but the guileful word will remain in her heart, and delve and burrow. Remember, that even our mother Eve was conquered by wily words from the subtle serpent’s mouth. As the Bible says, ‘Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field.’ And if Beruriah withstand the subtle word, then is her virtue beyond uncertainty.”

And he spoke in such a way that all might see he was most subtle and should be their choice.

But a second arose and spoke:

“In order to win Beruriah one need be neither the handsomest nor the most subtle, but the strongest. For what is the beauty of our most beautiful against her beauty? And what is the guile of our most subtle against her subtlety? Our handsomest will quail before her, asking, ‘Why am I so ugly?’—And our cleverest will confront her like a helpless simpleton. But the presence of a powerful man will descend upon her senses like a cloud; the breath of immense masculine power will penetrate her like wine and intoxicate her. To make a woman bite into a forbidden apple, it takes a wily serpent; but to make a woman lust for a man other than her husband, it requires one whose strength will work upon her like the pressure of two mill-stones. And if Beruriah withstand great masculine strength, then is her virtue beyond uncertainty.”

And he spoke in such a way that all might see he was the strongest and should be their choice.

But a third arose and spoke:

“In order to gain Beruriah, one need not be the handsomest, the wiliest or the strongest, but the most learned. For if our fellow-student is right in all he says as to the wisest and the wiliest then must he surely recognise that not even masculine strength will touch Beruriah’s soul. For she will tell herself, ‘An untamed bull is stronger; and what man is more powerful than a lion? Shall I then languish with desire for the wild bull, the lion, and the elephant?’ But the most learned of us will know how to call forth her admiration, and will win her heart through his skill in holy lore. And if her husband, our master Rabbi Mayer, can demonstrate the purity of a reptile in one hundred and fifty different ways, then her seducer will have to be able, in twice one-hundred and fifty ways, to prove that Reuben did not sin with Bilhah, the wife of his father Jacob,—that King David did not sin with Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite, and that Beruriah’s sin against her husband will likewise be no sin. And if Beruriah withstand the great interpretative power of our most learned associate, then is her virtue beyond uncertainty.”

And he spoke in such a way that all might see he was most learned and should be their choice.

Whereupon a fourth arose and spoke:

“In order to triumph over Beruriah, one need be neither the handsomest nor the wiliest, nor yet the strongest or the most learned. For the sum of his learning will be as naught against her own, and who dare assure us that he will not be left sitting before her like a pupil before a master? And will she not say that in our Yeshiva we study Torah only to make that which is sinful appear pure? Therefore I say to you that in order to triumph over Beruriah one must be the most illustrious. And who is most illustrious if not he who can add to his personal gifts and to his own good name the pedigree of his noted family? Our master, Rabbi Mayer, Beruriah’s husband, is endowed with many virtues. But he springs from lowly, convert stock, and his origin is but an impure source. How Beruriah’s heart will melt with consuming desire when she feels the presence of one whose ancestry dates back to the kings of the House of David! And only after she has withstood the fascination of a genuine descendant from such illustrious forebears will her virtue have been proved beyond all doubt.”

That by these words he meant to indicate himself there was not the slightest question, for he was one who claimed to be descended from the kings of the House of David, and flaunted his ancestry as a peacock displays its tail.

And now there arose one whom all viewed in the greatest astonishment, their eyes distended and their mouths agape, for none could believe that he, too, would rise to speak. And he said:

“In order to seduce Beruriah, one must be the unhappiest of men.”

And because the intense stupefaction with which his rising had been greeted dissolved now into uproarious laughter, he continued with louder voice and vehement gestures:

“Yes, the most unhappy and most wretched! You will succeed in approaching Beruriah’s heart only through compassion. I need only relate to her, with tears in my voice and suffering in my eyes, how the words ‘father, mother’ were never uttered by my lips because my father died before I was born, and my mother died giving birth to me,—how I do not even know who brought me up, because I passed from hand to hand, one stumbling across me on the threshold of his home, another coming upon me before his door, in the darkness of black night. By day the sun scorched me, and by night the cold pierced my flesh, and I stilled my hunger with my cries. In all the world not one soul could be found who would adopt me as a son; they saw in me an evil visitation and only fear of God and His commandments held them back from putting me to death. And thus I grew up in hunger, necessity, and misery, without caresses, without a kiss, without a kind word, without a tender glance, without the slightest token of love, yet with a burning desire for affection and endearments. And I tell you that if Beruriah does not burst into flames of sinful lust out of compassion for me, then is her virtue indeed beyond uncertainty.”

And because his words created a sensation, he was sure that he would be the chosen one.

But now the first to speak began anew, and after him the second, and then the third, and following them the fourth one and the fifth. And then all at the same time. Each tried to drown out the voices of the rest, to annihilate the others. And still others intruded into the discussion, until the Yeshiva resounded with such a tumult as rises from a crowded market-place on a busy day.

Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, alone was silent. He was certain that he would be the chosen one, for thus had Rabbi Mayer spoken with his glance, and such was the will of God. And again, because Simeon, in addition to his great beauty, possessed the other qualities necessary to win Beruriah. For he felt that he was also the most unhappy. Who, indeed, could be more unhappy than he, whom God had been so unkind as to deprive of what should have been his, afterwards revealing to him what he had lost and filling his heart with hopelessness and grief? And let but the time arrive when he could tell Beruriah the tale of all his woes,—the trials that he had undergone for her,—then would she be overcome by pity, and in her heart compassion would pave the way for future love.

And Simeon smiled amidst the wordy din, and spoke no word. When, for a moment, the arguments subsided, again a host of eyes was turned to his. And they recalled that Rabbi Mayer’s glance had really singled him out, and suddenly realised that no fitter messenger than Simeon could be sent. And if Beruriah could withstand the fascination of the Adonis who had turned Jew, then was her virtue indeed beyond uncertainty.

And now from various sides the cry arose, “Let Simeon go! The handsome Simeon! The beautiful son of Rabbi Ismael!”

Thus was Simeon, the son of Rabbi Ismael, chosen to be the touchstone which should test the constancy and purity of the heart of Beruriah, wife of the Master, Rabbi Mayer.

V

He came to her with a letter from her husband, and the letter read, very simply: “The bearer, one of my students, will explain everything.”

He found her in the garden before her house, alone with her thoughts, and she said, somewhat disturbed by a presentiment of evil tidings, “Pardon my not inviting you into my home to offer you refreshment and rest, for I am very anxious and impatient.”

Simeon paused a moment to catch his breath and gain sufficient time thus to recall what had been planned and conspired in the Yeshiva, that the tale he bore should carry confidence and sound as if it were the very truth. Beruriah might be struck by a suspicion of intrigue and bring the plan to naught. Then he began, with a soft, flattering, reassuring voice, glancing downwards, as became a pious student of the Torah, a disciple of the pious Rabbi Mayer.

“Evil decrees are hatching against the Jews. The times of Emperor Hadrian threaten to return. Circumcision may be forbidden, and keeping the Sabbath. The study of the Torah may be proscribed.”

Beruriah’s answer echoed with deep pain: “The rumour aspires to evil reality.”

“Agents have been sent out to seize the Yeshiva heads. Rabbi Mayer, Rabbi Simeon, son of Iuhai and Rabbi Judah, son of Ileai. The authorities wish to cut off the heads, thus destroying the body.”

Beruriah, pale and trembling, cried in fright, “Have the Rabbis been caught?”

“No. The agents have not yet appeared. Perhaps the rumour concerning them is false, and they will never come. But already Rabbi Simeon, son of Iuhai, has gone into hiding and Rabbi Judah has closed his Academy and dismissed his students until the storm rolls by. Rabbi Mayer alone refuses to retreat from the spot where God has placed him and has devised a plan to outwit the authorities.”

Beruriah, who had closed her eyes and raised her head to heaven, her heart filled with thanks that her husband was not so timorous as the others, now opened her eyes wide, piercing Simeon with their glance and awaiting with intense curiosity the details of Rabbi Mayer’s plan.

Simeon recounted the project in a calm voice, with all the self-assurance of speaking the truth, yet with a certain wariness and fear of the inquiring look in her keen eyes.

“One of his students is to go to Rabbi Mayer’s home in Tiberias and live there near Beruriah, his wife. And when the agents come for Rabbi Mayer, his students are to declare that for a long time they have been wandering about like sheep without a shepherd, because Rabbi Mayer has forsaken them, and may be found at Tiberias, at home with Beruriah, his wife. When the pursuers come to Rabbi Mayer’s home, they will find his scholar, whom they will naturally take for Rabbi Mayer, since he dwells under the same roof as Beruriah. Thus Rabbi Mayer will be able to continue expounding the Holy Law to his students, which is so necessary to the existence of the Jewish people, especially in times of sorrow.”

Beruriah was disillusioned. Her heart was not in the plan. There was so much about it that was strange and suspicious. She thought for a moment, seeking some objection, and finally asked, “Suppose the agents know Rabbi Mayer?”

But the reply to this objection had been prepared beforehand, and Simeon made answer in reassuring tones.

“Did you not hear me say ‘his students are to declare’? If the agents come to the Academy they will not find Rabbi Mayer, for a hiding-place has already been secured, and guards will be on the lookout. And should the agents come here and recognise that I am not Rabbi Mayer, you can misdirect their steps and Rabbi Mayer will meanwhile seek new deliverance. But consider, if they do not know him, and if they take me for Rabbi Mayer?”

And Simeon drew himself to his full height, raising his head and showing her his eyes, which were deep brown in the glow of the setting sun that shone through the tall, green trees.

Beruriah thought, “It would be small wonder if the agents did take this man to be Rabbi Mayer.” Yet this made her heart no lighter, and she asked, with quivering spirit, “How long will this have to endure?”

The answer to this was ready in advance.

Thirty days. If, at the end of thirty days the agents should not appear, then the rumour concerning them had been unfounded.

Simeon was waxing jubilant. The plan had so far easily succeeded and been accepted, and now his thirty days were to begin,—destined to be the richest, happiest days of all his life.

But Beruriah sighed heavily. Thirty days of uncertainty and terror, of sorrow and yearning. Then she asked, still sadder than before, “Will Rabbi Mayer not come home at all, in all the thirty days?”

Simeon, piously, almost with reproach, replied, “Would you have him steal time from the Holy Law and give it to you? It may be that the days of our Academy are numbered, and the days of the Torah in it.”

Utterly downcast, she was barely able to whisper, “Will Rabbi Mayer not even send a messenger with news of himself?”

Simeon replied curtly, “Only in case Rabbi Mayer should meet with misfortune may you expect a messenger.”

Sad and dissatisfied, she shook her head, ill content with the plan her husband had devised. But she did not care to question further, and recalled her duties as hostess. And thus she took in under her roof him who had been sent as the touchstone of her virtue, and gave him the room of Rabbi Mayer her husband. If the agents should come, there could be no doubt that he was Rabbi Mayer, head of the Yeshiva, who had left his Academy and his students and was living a secluded life at home, in the company of his beautiful wife.

VI

Simeon entered into Rabbi Mayer’s dwelling, which was to be his own for all of thirty days, and sat down to study. He knew that his voice was sweet and clear, and very masculine, so he began to read from the sacred books aloud. And it seemed to him that were he to draw aside the curtain which separated Rabbi Mayer’s study from the other rooms he would discover Beruriah listening to his voice as he read. He felt her presence, heard her breathing, inhaled her perfume. But he rubbed his forehead to banish these alien thoughts. He desired to study zealously, that Beruriah might detect nothing artificial in his actions, and yet in such wise, too, that the Holy Law be not affronted, and God cherish no anger against him.

For the first three days they saw nothing of each other. His food was brought to him by the aged servant, and whenever he left his room he would walk to the outside door with lowered eyes, looking neither to right nor to left, as one engrossed in deep and ponderous thoughts, afraid to be disturbed. Only on the evening of the fourth day did they meet, for it was the Sabbath eve and he recited grace and sang holy songs, blessing God for their food in a pious voice that was at once inspired and inspiring. And he knew that he was very beautiful, and that the sight of him was as balm to the soul, and that his voice was glorious,—a Sabbath-joy to hear. He looked but rarely at Beruriah; when, however, he raised his eyes to hers, she was pierced by a vague, deep glance, filled with a manly power, yet very sad. And the colour of his eyes was as deeply dark as night, within them dancing the many lights that shone in the room and on the table, doing honour to the Sabbath.

And at night, on his couch, he began to sing, into the darkness of his room, various passages from the Bible, which he knew by heart. Among these were many of the most passionate lines of the Song of Songs. He sang with repressed tones, so that he disturb the sleep of none,—yet his voice filled the entire dwelling with sweet melancholy and deep unrest.

Beruriah lay yearning for Rabbi Mayer, her husband. And because it is not permitted to weep upon the Sabbath she banished from her soul all grief and longing, repeating softly the passages that reached her ear from Simeon, telling herself he was a most remarkable person,—this disciple of her husband,—and that of a certainty he must be one of the most illustrious of Rabbi Mayer’s disciples, since he had been chosen to impersonate his master. She thought, “If every Jew, however lowly, has yet within him a share of God above, how great indeed must be the share of him who possesses Torah and wisdom and beauty, a sweet voice and utmost refinement?”

The next day they met again at the Sabbath table. He recited grace and sang his pious songs, blessing the Lord for the food with exalted, Sabbath voice, which quivered, however, with a certain inquietude and sadness. Again he looked but rarely at Beruriah, with his vague, deep glance so full of manly power and yet so spiritless. And the colour of his eyes was a brilliant blue, even as the sky without, and they were radiant with will indomitable and pride of mastery. And at every glance of his Beruriah trembled with an unpleasant feeling, and she would think that it were better far if Rabbi Mayer were sitting there with her. She was happy that the Sabbath would soon be past, and that for another week she would not meet Simeon,—this remarkable man who possessed so great a share of God—

After the prayer that closed the Sabbath she accompanied him to his room with a glance from the corner of her eye, and it seemed to her that she was being freed of care. But suddenly he stopped upon the threshold, and turned to her with exceeding tenderness.

“Forgive me the glances, my hostess, that I cast upon you yester eve and to-day.”

She answered sternly and indifferently:

“And were they glances such as call for pardon?”

“Did you not feel them?”

“They did not offend me.”

He stepped toward her.

“Oh, surely they did not offend you. How, indeed, could they? But they should have pained you.”

“Pained me?”

She did not understand him.

“Your mother-heart.”

He pronounced the words softly, with a sigh and an abject countenance. Yet still she did not understand. Could it be that he referred to her two children, who had died on the same day,—a Sabbath day? His looks were sad indeed, yet how could she behold in them grief for her children or condolence with her? She spoke once more, quite drily:

“Even now I do not understand you.”

Then he told her the tale of a great misfortune that had befallen a mother, and the even greater heroism she had displayed. He spoke with deep sorrow and emotion in his voice and his eyes peered into the distance as if they beheld there a vision of a divine miracle. This was her own grievous misfortune,—her own heroism, but he told it as a tale that had once occurred,—as a miracle that had once taken place.

* * * * *

There was once a Jewish woman, the wife of a renowned Talmudic sage, and she had two sons of wondrous beauty. Little sons, yet already great hopes. Their father was gifted, yet it could easily be seen that they were still more gifted. Whoever beheld them surrendered to their charm. The sight of them brought joy to all hearts and caused warmth to surge throughout one’s being. And the mother was at a loss for thanks to God for the precious gifts that he had sent to her. When suddenly a plague assailed the town in which she dwelt and on a Sabbath day both her sons died while their father was at a House of Study, reciting the Holy Law before his fellow Jews. In order not to spoil her husband’s Sabbath when he came home, she laid her two sons out in a distant room, covering them with a black shroud, and then sat down to await her husband’s coming, dressed in her Sabbath clothes and on her face a Sabbath air. And when her husband came he could not read from her bearing that a thunderbolt had struck their home, destroying its most treasured possessions.

Accustomed to see his children at the Sabbath table, he asked “Where are our sons?”

The first time she told him a lie and her voice was calm and reassuring:

“Soldiers marched through the town with drums and music, and the children were anxious to see the gay parade. They begged so prettily I could not say them nay, and let them go together with the old servant.”

Her husband eyed her in astonishment.

“A children’s disease is epidemic here; the angel of death lurks now in every street; and you have let our sons trail after a procession?”

She lay her head against his bosom as if to win his pardon, and said, “If God so wills it, Death plucks his victims even in the greatest seclusion.”

The hours of the day passed and he asked again, “Why have our little sons not yet returned?”

And again she answered calmly, with reassurance, “The procession cannot be over yet; or else, they have stopped somewhere to play.”

And she asked him to forgive them for having so childishly forgotten their home, and persuaded him to harbour no uneasiness. Could he not see that she was calm?

But when evening had fallen and time for the closing prayer of Sabbath had come, he became once more uneasy, and exclaimed, “I do not understand you. How can you be so calm? It is already so dark, and still our sons are not here.”

And again she answered serenely and soothingly:

“I am at ease because I know that God is with them on all their ways.”