“Oh, Beruriah, hear me out! For three days and three nights I was filled with the grief of your grief; for three days and three nights I have not ceased to ask why you were so heavily punished with the death of your two little ones—You, the chosen of God,—you, the blessed one! If I asked that even before I knew you, how then must it have cried aloud within me when the greatness of your soul was discovered to me in all its splendour? To think that you of all should be martyred so! That you should be the victim of a never-ending sorrow! And my heart rebelled within me, and like Job I could see no justice in the ways of God. And when one ceases to behold justice in the ways of God, how dark and dreary must the world become! But suddenly, on the fourth day, it seemed to me as if God must have raised a trifle the veil that screens the purpose of His deeds and allowed me to gaze upon their goal. How would the world have realised the grandeur of your soul, if not through the great grief that befell you? How should we have known what Beruriah was, if her heart had not been delivered into the hands of the torturer? Your two sons, had they lived, would have made mankind richer by two living beings,—perhaps worthless ones, unnecessary, unhappy; but through their death they made humanity the richer by a living Beruriah. Now for the first time do we conceive what we possess in you; now for the first time do we know your worth. That which lay veiled in darkness has been illuminated by a glorious light. Boundless treasures that have lain buried have been brought forth for the use of all. We have all grown richer through you, and future generations will enjoy that wealth. As from a spring of life humanity will imbibe its power from you, its consolation. ‘See,’ they will say, ‘how Beruriah mastered her enormous grief, her double bereavement. Emulate her and be consoled!’ Oh, Beruriah, when this flashed upon me, how could I help feel joyous, and how could I keep my glances from betraying exaltation and admiration for you?”
And before Beruriah could open her lips to make reply, he fell to his knees and kissed the hem of her garment, pressing it to his lips far longer than the first time; then he arose and left the room, holding his head erect, half-dancing, in token of his jubilation. And soon his voice was resounding through the house,—a ringing, singing, joyous, jubilant voice, filled with power and fervour. Was not Beruriah now full of him? Had he not won her now?
Beruriah sat in confusion, indeed full of his voice and his presence, and at times it seemed as if an angel from heaven were addressing her. Only when she was able to give thought to what he had said could she liberate herself from his spell. Her mind grew clearer and with a sigh she rose. And this is what she told her unhappy mother-heart:
“It is possible that the world has been made richer, and that such was the purpose of God when he took from me my two children. He has His goal and His aims, and His ways are hidden from our sight. But I have become so poor, so poor....”
VIII
During the whole of the first day of the new week his voice was scarcely heard, and Beruriah wondered. Had anything happened to him? She fairly longed for his voice. The aged servant, however, brought her the news that the guest, for the most part, paced back and forth in his room. And when he seated himself at his table, he buried his head in his arms and remained thus motionless.
And Beruriah said that surely he had encountered a difficult passage in the Torah. Rabbi Mayer, too, was in the habit of acting so when confronted by a perplexing problem, and the student must take after the master.
Yet that same evening his voice was heard again, but altogether altered. There was in it nothing of its former joyousness, and nothing of its still earlier sorrow. There was, however, a certain something that made Beruriah listen, pouring unrest into her soul. It was a note of yearning, and a note of entreaty. A sort of petulance, as if from a pampered child, and a kind of supplication, like a beggar at the door. What did his voice wish now to say? What did it mean now? To whom was he now speaking? To God? To his own heart? In what measure was she, Beruriah, here involved? If at first it had been she who sounded in his voice, what did he wish of her now? Was he praying to God in her behalf? What did he ask of God for her?
She tossed from side to side upon her bed, and thought how really wondrous was this man. She saw him stand before her in all his beauty, with his sadness and his fervour, and with his eyes in which the colours dissolved; she heard his voice, which penetrated her heart and her very soul; she exiled her thoughts with the ardent prayer that the thirty days should pass as quickly as possible.
But the days that followed dragged on frightfully, for they were filled with a rising pathos and plaintiveness in Simeon’s voice,—with increasing supplication and entreaty. It rose to an ever louder appeal for pity, an ever more languishing cry for love. The air in Beruriah’s room became difficult for her to breathe and she began to seek calm in long walks and frequent visits, but she was haunted by the sensation that there in her room resounded Simeon’s yearning, imploring voice. And the voice followed her into the distant streets, walked with her into the strangers’ houses, took part in all her conversations. Returning to her home became for Beruriah a trial. She could not bear to listen to the voice; she feared it, and feared even more an accidental meeting with him, for the far-off gaze of his eyes, which had now become quite black, gleamed with such desire and love-entreaty that it was impossible for a human soul to bear it.