Part 4

“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!”

XI

And it happened that when the handsome Simeon returned to the Yeshiva the students there cried out in horror at his altered looks.

“See,” he exclaimed, “what has overtaken me because for thirty days I dashed myself against the stony strength of Beruriah. Her strength and purity are above all uncertainty, but I am utterly undone.”

And Rabbi Mayer glowered triumphantly at his disciples, took his staff and wallet and left to seek Beruriah. But he found her dead,—gone to join her children. And on the tablet were written these few words: “He who cuts open the apple also destroys it.”

He seized his temples, his eyes expanded wildly, and he burst forth into a heart-breaking, soul-rending wail: “Beruriah!”

THE TEMPTATIONS OF RABBI AKIBA

THE TEMPTATIONS OF RABBI AKIBA

Heavens, how stern and pious a Jew this Rabbi Akiba was! Scarcely his peer to be found in all Judea.

He devoted all his days and all his nights to the Holy Law, studying it himself and expounding it to others. The number of his disciples was a veritable army, and whoever heard the Torah from his lips felt that he drank from the very source of life.

Not only did he teach the Torah’s word, but also how to live its very spirit, how to purge oneself of gaiety; for laughter, play and mirth all led to sin.

He, too, dwelt in all simplicity, renouncing every earthly pleasure. He was deeply in love with his wife, the beautiful Rachel, the wise and learned daughter of Kalba-Sabua. But in order to belong entirely to the Torah he even parted from his sweet beloved and became an ascetic.

This was a sore burden to him. He longed deeply for his wife, and he was still a man in the very prime of life. In order not to weaken, and to make sure of maintaining this separation and his pious seclusion, he made a vow to himself that he should not return to his wife until he acquired twelve thousand disciples. This he did because he held that an oath was as a wall around holy retirement. He would have to keep his word and his absence from his wife would thus be ensured.

This fortitude, however, caused him to be unrelenting toward every one else. What he could do, all must be able to do. And he demanded of all the strictest abstention from the sins of the flesh, excoriating with barbed words the desire for women in the hearts of men.

Whereupon the weaklings—those who could not withstand the woman-lust in their hearts and were wracked by the sins of the flesh—spoke thus of Akiba:

“Merely because he was able to part from his wife is no proof that he is above temptation. Let Satan but approach him in the form of a naked woman and lust will suddenly befall him like an enemy from ambush, and rob him of all his senses, even as a thief robs his victim in the night.”

And they added to their prayers an entreaty that God should lead the Rabbi into such temptation. And, to their own punishment, God heard their prayers.

* * * * *

When Rabbi Akiba left his wife he also left the city in which she dwelt. This he did, not so much from personal choice, lest the proximity of his wife allure him, but rather for her sake, lest his nearness too much affect her. And in order that his wife, in her feminine weakness, should not follow him to the new place in which he intended to settle, he did not for a long time establish himself anywhere, journeying from city to city and from land to land.

And once, in his peregrinations, he came to a land in which remarkable customs and manners prevailed. One of these customs was to sweeten the nights of the honoured guests with the company of women.

And it happened that when the ruler of this land learned of Rabbi Akiba’s arrival and the importance of his guest, he sent to him for the night two beautiful damsels, the most beautiful in his realms. In the manner of women both beauties did their best to heighten their charms and increase the power of their attraction. They freshened themselves in the bath; the enchanting odour of their youthful bodies they rendered more intoxicating than ever with rare perfumes; they arrayed themselves seductively like brides on the wedding night. And they came to Rabbi Akiba in radiant half-nakedness, with an inviting smile upon their cherry lips, with the fire of passion and voluptuousness in their sparkling eyes.

They knew that they were going to a highly honoured guest, but they did _not_ know that they would encounter a very handsome man of gigantic stature. When they beheld him their passion flamed still higher, and each tried to display before him the most enticing allurements of her person.

“Come to me,” said one.

“Come to me,” invited the other.

And they passed close to him with their naked bodies, and each praised her person and its charms, and the pleasures it afforded.

“My body is as white as the full moon.”

“And my body is as rosy as the rising sun.”

“In my embrace you will lie as softly as in warm down.”

“And in my arms you will feel the tender warmth of newly-shorn lambs’ wool.”

“The kiss of my lips is like the wine of Damascus.”

“And my lips are like the round grapes in which the sunbeams have chosen their home.”

And thus they continued,—the firmness of their breasts, the velvety softness of their skin, the ravishing delight of their legs, and the intoxication of their tenderness. One wrapped him about with her dark hair; the blonde tresses of the other likewise enmeshed him. And with the passing of the hours their lust increased; their naked bodies turned and writhed, wracked and tortured by rising desire.

“Come, take me!” implored the one.

“Come, take me!” panted the other.

But Rabbi Akiba sat between them and—spat. For a whole night he sat between them and spat, looking neither upon one nor the other. He did not try to distract his mind with Torah thoughts, for he did not wish to bring the Torah into the company of two naked women. He simply tried to work himself into a feeling of repulsion, to rouse within him a powerful resistance.

And thus he sat and spat—more vehemently, more impatiently than ever, with rising disgust, with increasing aversion. At last, however, he became calm, indifferent, ice-cold.

At first the two beautiful damsels looked at him in astonishment. Why was he spitting so? Why did he not touch them? Was he a fool? Was he crazy? Were they not beautiful enough? Not young enough? Not passionate enough?

They questioned him; he vouchsafed no reply. Then they were on the point of leaving him, when they looked at him again and saw how handsome he was, and gazed once more into his eyes and saw wisdom itself beaming out of them. Then they forgot his remarkable behaviour, disregarded his incessant spitting, threw their nakedness and the fire of their bodies upon him, and pleaded and begged and groaned, calling to him in their intoxication.

“Take _me_!”

“Take _me_!”

The whole night passed in this way. In the morning, weary and exhausted, they went to the ruler and complained to him against Rabbi Akiba. In despair, they cried out, “Sooner death than another time with that man!”

The ruler sent for Rabbi Akiba and questioned him.

“Why did you not act toward the women I sent in to you as the sons of man act with women? Are they not beautiful? Are they not human, like you? Has not He, who created you, likewise created them?”

If Rabbi Akiba had replied that, in spending the night with them in the manner of the sons of man with woman, he would have committed a sin, then the ruler would surely become angry. Did his hospitality then lead to sin? Was his hospitality an incentive to wrong-doing?

Rabbi Akiba’s wisdom saw this at once, and with an altogether innocent expression he replied, “What could I do? Before they came to me they must surely have eaten impure things, and the odour from them was that of carrion-meat, impurities, reptiles.”

And Rabbi Akiba quickly left this land with its remarkable hospitality, happy in the consciousness that he had overcome the greatest of temptations,—filled with thanks to God for having so wonderfully given strength to his heart.

As the number of his disciples at this time had reached to twelve thousand, and as the wall that separated him from his wife thereby crumbled, he went back to her. As he came to the door of his house he heard a strange woman say to his wife, “Are you happy that your husband is returning after having acquired twelve thousand disciples?”

“I should be still happier,” answered his wife, “if he returned with twenty-four thousand.”

And Rabbi Akiba did not open the door of his house, nor did he go in to his wife. Once again he imposed upon himself separation from his mate, and erected a new wall about himself, with a vow that he should not approach his wife until he acquired four and twenty thousand disciples. And again he left, to wander through cities and lands, to spread the word of God and assemble disciples.

From now on he became more severe than ever in his religious demands, and his condemnations grew harsher. One who, like him, had triumphed over such great temptations, had full right to demand similar continence and willpower on the part of others. And he was wont to mock, jeer and jest at all who committed a sin.

He had forgotten the saying: “Believe not thyself until the day of thy death.” And in Heaven it was decreed that he should be reminded of it.

* * * * *

One day his travels led him to a beautiful spot, through woods and fields. It was a wonderful day. The sun, midway in the sky, did not burn, but laughed and sang of the splendour of existence, pouring out joy upon the entire land, upon wood and field, upon tree and grass. All the birds and beasts and insects laughed and sang together with it. Rabbi Akiba, filled with the great gladness, forgot the passage of the Torah that was running through his mind and across his lips but a moment before, and could not remove his glance from the sunny splendours that surrounded him.

Suddenly it seemed as if some one had thrust him backward. But it was nobody. It was his own blood, and the blow that he had felt was the throb of his own heart.

Were not his eyes deceiving him? He opened them wide and looked again, intently.

No. His eyes saw clearly. A wondrously beautiful naked girl at the top of a palm tree.

He could not believe his eyes, but there was the girl looking down at him, smiling at him so enticingly, intoxicating him with the pearly whiteness of her teeth.

She was so beautiful and entrancing that the sun had forgot its wedding-procession. It had stopped in its path—this shining star—and had enfolded the maiden’s naked body in its rays, colouring it a rosy red and filling its veins with red wine.

Rabbi Akiba, too, stopped in his path, unable to move from the spot, unable to tear himself away from the dazzling vision. His heart palpitated, his body burned, his tongue became dry. He stood dumbfounded, and could not himself hear how he barely managed to utter, “Who are you?”

And the vision upon the tree laughed seductively down to him.

“Come up and I will tell you.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Come up, and you shall see.”

“Are you gathering dates?”

“What need have I of them? I feed myself and feed others with my own sweetness. Do you not wish to taste it?”

“Why are you naked?”

“So that the sunbeams may enjoy me, and the wind, and the hills, and the valleys, and the heavens, and God.”

“How can you lie there so?”

“I have a couch here made of leaves and branches,—a soft couch for me and for those whom I invite to enjoy me. Soft is my bed and fragrant,—but even softer and more fragrant am I. Will you not feel us?”

And in utter forgetfulness, filled with a single intense desire, Rabbi Akiba approached very close to the tree and scarcely had breath to ask, “How can I get to you?”

The glorious vision uttered a magic laugh.

“Were you, then, never a little boy? What did you do when a tempting apple nodded to you from among the branches of an apple-tree? You removed your clothes, made yourself as light as possible, and climbed up the tree after the beautiful, ripening fruit. Am I less than the fruit? Is it not worth while to climb up after me? Or are you old, and have your bones become hard, and is climbing now beyond your years and your strength? Take off your clothes; you will have no need of them in any case, up here. Make yourself light, and with all the youth that has now been born anew in you, climb up to me....”