All Israel that was in Jerusalem had foregathered to consecrate the ark, to bear it up from Ben Uri’s chamber to the synagogue. They thronged into Ben Uri’s chamber, but the ark was not there. Bewildered, they cried, “Where is the ark? — the ark of the Lord?” “Where is the ark?” “The ark, where is it?” They were still crying out when they spied it, under the window, prone in the yard. Directly they began to heap abuse on its creator, saying that the ne’er-do-well, the scoundrel was surely an infamous sinner, quite unqualified for the hallowed work of the ark: having presumed to undertake it, he had surely called down the wrath of the heavens, which had overturned it. And, having revered the ark, they loathed it. The rabbi immediately condemned it to banishment. Two Ishmaelites came and heaved it into the lumber room. The congregation dispersed in torment, their heads covered with shame.
The morning star glimmered and dawned, lighting the skies in the east. The folk of Jerusalem awoke as from an evil dream. The ark had been banished, their joy had set, Ben Uri had vanished, none knew whither. Misery reigned in the house of the Sire.
Night and day Dinah keeps to her window. She raises her eyes to the heavens and casts them down again, like a sinner. Sire Ahiezer is dogged by worries. The synagogue his hands had builded stands desolate, without ark, without prayer, without learning. Sire Ahiezer bestirred himself and commissioned an ark to replace Ben Uri’s. They installed it in the synagogue, but it stood there like an emblem of loss. Whoever comes to pray in the synagogue is at once struck by dire melancholy; he slips away from that place and seeks some place of worship, humble and poor, where he can pour out his heart before God.
4
The time of rejoicing is come; the wedding day is near, and in the house of Sire Ahiezer they knead and they bake and they dress all the viands, and prepare fine draperies to hang in the gateway, for the day his daughter will enter under the bridal canopy with her partner in joy, the esteemed and the learned Ezekiel, God preserve him.
And — see! — upon the hillsides the feet of a courier — a special emissary with scroll in hand: “’Twill be the third day hence!” They were preparing themselves to delight in the bride and the bridegroom on the day of their joy, saying, “A precious pearl it is the couriers have drawn from the sea of learning that is Poland, and the festivities will be such that as Jerusalem shall not have seen the likes of, since the day her sons were driven into exile.” All the men of Jerusalem went forth to welcome the bridegroom, and they brought him into the city in great honor, with tabor and cymbal and dancing. They escorted him to the house of Sire Ahiezer, and the great ones of the city, assessing his virtues, were dazzled by a tongue dropping pearls, and by his regal presence. Then the wedding day arrived. They accompanied the bride to the house of the rabbi, to receive her blessing from his lips. Suddenly, she raised her voice in weeping and cried, “Leave us alone!” They left her with the rabbi. She told him all that had happened, how it was she who had overturned the ark. The rabbi stood mute with terror, his very vision was confounded. But, deferring to the eminence of the bride on this, her day of grace and atonement, he began to ply her with comfort. “My child,” he said, “our sages of blessed memory tell us that when a person takes a wife to himself, all his sins fall away. Notice that it was ‘person’ they said, not ‘man,’ and thence we gather that it was not man, the male, that was meant, but mankind in general, so that man and wife are one in this, that on the day of their marriage the Holy One, blessed be He, pardons their sins. And should you ask, How is a woman to earn her absolution, on whom the yoke of works weighs so lightly? — know that the good Lord has called you to the greatest of all works. And should you ask, What could that be? I will tell you: it is the rearing of children in the ways of the Lord.” And he proceeded to speak the praises of her bridegroom, to endear him to her and draw her heart to his virtues. And when the rabbi came to the matter of the ark, he intimated that silence would be seemly and held that the ark would be restored to its rightful place, to the synagogue, and that merciful God would grant Dinah forgiveness. After the bride had left the house of the rabbi, the latter sent Sire Ahiezer word regarding the restoration of Ben Uri’s ark to the synagogue. They sought it, but did not find it. Stolen? Hidden? Ascended to heaven? — who could presume to say?
Day ebbed and the sun set. All the great ones of Jerusalem foregathered with Sire Ahiezer in his house to celebrate his daughter’s marriage. Jerusalem glowed in precious light, and the trees in the garden were fragrant as spices. The musicians plied their instruments, and the servants clapped for good cheer. Yet nonetheless a sort of sadness has found a place among them. This sadness attacks the bridal canopy and rips it into shreds. They assemble at the grandee’s table, to partake of the wedding feast. The throats of the scholars are filled with delicate viands and wines, with song and hymns of praise. The jester calls for a dance for the righteous, and they move out in a ritual ring to cheer the bride and the groom. But this dear pair are afflicted by some sadness; it drives a wedge between them and forces their elbows apart. And neither drew near to the other all that night, even in the seclusion of their chamber. The groom broods in one corner, his thoughts straying elsewhere. He dwells on his father’s house, on Freidele, whose mother had tended his father and him since his sainted mother had died. And Dinah broods in the other, her thoughts going back to the ark and its builder who has vanished from the city, no one knowing where he has turned.
At morning prayers the young man stood wrapped in a prayer shawl and crowned with tefillin. He reigns as bridegroom all the seven days of the feast, and is not left alone, lest envious spirits assail him. But how to ward off the spirits that hold sway in his heart and afflict him greatly? Just when he is preparing to give himself over, heart and soul, to the Shema and shields his eyes with his palms in order to shut out anything that might intrude on his devotions — just then his Freidele slips into the palm of his hand and stands there before his eyes. And once she has accommodated herself there, she stays there till the end of the service, when he unwinds his phylacteries and lays them in their reticule. This reticule — Freidele has made for him with characters embroidered upon it! He folds the reticule, and wraps it in his tallit, and furtively puts it away. His father, come from Poland for the nuptials, watches him, angry and troubled. What might he be wanting in the house of Sire Ahiezer? If wealth he craved, here was wealth, so prodigal; if love of woman, his wife was comely and gracious; if a home, this one was fit for a king. Why, then, was he restless? They went in to breakfast, and chanted the seven blessings of nuptial felicity, and seated the couple side by side. Their bodies are close, but their hearts have been given to others.
5
And they never drew near. Month comes and month goes. In numbers the scholars assembled, to attend the law from Ezekiel’s lips, and the academy was filled with holy lore. Gracious learning was on his tongue, and whatever his mode of expounding — simple or subtle or mystic — bright angels gathered around him, shedding the light of the law on his brow. But even as he teaches, anguish gnaws at his heart, as though — God forbid! — he lacks gratitude for having been deemed worthy to go up to the Holy Land.
And Dinah — Dinah sits, despondent. At times she goes out for a while, and stands by the spot where Ben Uri had wrought, and stares at his implements, which are gathering dust. She clasps her hands and murmurs some few of the songs Ben Uri had sung, sings until her eyes are dimmed by tears. Her soul weeps in secret for her pride. Once, as Rabbi Ezekiel was passing by, he heard a pleasing melody rising within that chamber. When he paused to listen, they told him that it was no mortal voice he heard singing, but rather the evil spirits that had been created out of Ben Uri’s breath as he sat and sang at his work. Rabbi Ezekiel hastened away. Thenceforth, when forced to walk in that part of the house, he averted his head, in order to avoid lending his ears to the chants of such as these.