LEONID ANDREYEV (continued 2)
Herman Bernstein translation
ANATHEMA.
You have forgotten the people, David. You do not see the children, David Leizer.
DAVID.
The children?
The women, weeping, hold out their children to David.
VOICES.
"Bless my son, David!" ... "Touch my little girl with your hand, David." "Bless." ... "Touch her with your hand." ...
DAVID.
Raising his hands heavenward.
Oh, Hannah, oh, Benjamin, oh, Raphael, and my little Moishe!...
Looks down, outstretching his arms to the children.
DAVID.
Oh, my little birds who died on the naked branches of the winter!... Oh, children, my children, little children, tiny children!... Well, Nullius, am I not weeping? Am I not weeping, Nullius? Well, let everybody weep. Let the musicians play, Nullius—I understand everything now. Oh, children, little children, I gave you all, I gave you my old heart, I gave you my sorrow and my joy—Did I not give them all my soul, Nullius?
Crying and laughing through tears.
You have again wrenched my soul from the jaws of sin, Nullius. On the day of rejoicing I appeared mournful before the people, on the day of the people's exultation I did not raise my eyes to Heaven, but lowered them to the ground,—bad old man that I am. Whom did I want to deceive with my insincerity? Do I not live by day and night in raptures of joy, and do I not draw love and happiness with full hands? Why have I feigned sadness?... I do not know your name, woman; give me your child, the one that is laughing when everybody is crying, because he alone is sensible.
Smiling through tears.
Or are you perhaps afraid that I will steal it like a gypsy?
The woman kneels and holds out her child.
WOMAN.
Take it, David! Everything belongs to you,—we and our children.
SECOND WOMAN.
Take mine, too, David!
THIRD WOMAN.
Mine, mine!
DAVID.
Takes the child and presses it to his breast, covering it with his grey beard.
Hush!... It's my beard! Oh, what a terrible beard! But never fear, my little one, press to me more closely and laugh—you are the wisest of all. Sarah, my wife, come over here.
SARAH.
Weeping.
I am here.
DAVID.
Let us step aside for a while. Woman, I will return the child to you, I will only hold it for a while.... Come, Sarah, let us step aside. Before you I am not ashamed to cry, be they tears of sorrow or tears of joy.
They step aside and cry softly. Only their stooping backs are seen, and David's red handkerchief with which he wipes his eyes, and the tear-stained face of the child.
VOICES.
Hush! hush! They are crying. Don't disturb their crying. Hush! hush!
Anathema, on tiptoe, whispers: "Hush, hush!" Then he goes over to the musicians and speaks to them in a low voice, conducting with his hand. Little by little the noise grows louder. Bezkrainy, Purikes, and Sonka are waiting, holding filled glasses in their hands.
DAVID.
Returns and wipes his eyes with his kerchief.
Here is your child, woman. We don't like him at all, do we, Sarah?
SARAH.
Weeping.
We have no children any longer, David.
DAVID.
Smiling.
No, no, Sarah! But are not all the children in the world our children? He has no children who has three, six, or even twelve, but not he who knows not their number.
SONKA.
Drink a glass of soda-water, honorable David Leizer—it is your water.
PURIKES.
Drink a glass of mine, David,—this will bring me customers.
BEZKRAINY.
Drink a glass of noblemen's cider, David. Now it is real noblemen's cider. I can say it frankly; with your money everything is becoming real.
SARAH.
Through tears.
I have always told you that your cider was bad, Ivan. And now, when it is real cider, you do not offer it to me.
BEZKRAINY.
Oh, Sarah....
DAVID.
She is jesting, Ivan. Thank you, but I cannot drink so much,—I will taste everybody's. It's very, very good water, Sonka. You have discovered the secret and you will soon grow rich.
SONKA.
I put a little more soda into the water, David.
WANDERER.
To Anathema, in a law voice.
Is it true—you are a close friend of David Leizer's, and you can tell it to me—is it true that he wants to build—
ANATHEMA.
Why so loud? Let us step aside.
They speak in a whisper. Anathema shakes his head negatively. He is truthful. He smiles and pats the old man on the shoulder. The old man evidently does not believe him. Then Anathema gradually leads the musicians away, also the Organ-grinder and the people beyond the stone pillars. Only the sound of their voices, their exclamations, their laughter are heard. A few remain and speak with David reverently.
KHESSIN.
Is it true, David, that you and Sarah are going to Jerusalem, to the Holy City, of which we can only dream?
DAVID.
Yes, it is true, Abraham. Although I am stronger now and I feel no longer any pain in my chest—
KHESSIN.
But that is a miracle, David!
DAVID.
Joy restores health, Abraham, and the serving of God strengthens a man. But after all, Sarah and I cannot live much longer, and we should like to rest our eyes upon the wonderful beauty of God's land. But why do you address me as a stranger, old friend? Have you not yet forgiven me?
KHESSIN.
Frightened.
Oh, do not say that, David! If you were to tell me: Call me "thou" or kill yourself, I would rather kill myself, but would not say "thou" to you. You are not an ordinary man, David.
DAVID.
I am not an ordinary man. I am a happy man. But where is the gay man Nullius? I don't see him. I suppose he is preparing some prank or another—I know him. There is a man who does not darken the face of the earth with gloom, Abraham, who is never averse to laughter, which is to life like dew upon grass, and which sparkles in many colors in the rays of the sun. Of course he is playing his pranks; do you hear?
Music is playing beyond the pillars; the organ, together with the orchestra, is playing the same tune it had played before. The sounds are discordant, somewhat wild, but strangely gay. Together with the music the crowd appears in a solemn procession. At the head of the procession, side by side with the Organ-grinder, walks Anathema, as if dancing. He carries the organ on a strap and turns the handle with one hand, keeping time with the other hand, whistling shrilly, and casting glances on all sides and skyward. The musicians and the poor, now gay, follow him. On passing David, Anathema bends his head toward him and keeps on playing and whistling. David, smiling, nods his head and adjusts his grey, long beard. The procession disappears.
SARAH.
With emotion.
What beautiful music! How fine, how solemn, David! David, is all this for you?
DAVID.
For us, Sarah.
SARAH.
What am I? I can only love our children. But you, but you—
With certain fear.
You are not an ordinary man, David.
DAVID.
Smiling.
So, so.... Well, what am I, then,—a governor?
Or, perhaps, a general?
SARAH.
Do not make light of this, David. You are not an ordinary man.
The Wanderer, who stood near by all the time and saw the solemn procession, now listens to Sarah's words and nods his head. Anathema, gay, somewhat out of breath, appears.
ANATHEMA.
How was it, David? I think it was not bad. They marched very well—better than I expected. Only that stupid trumpet.
Dancing, he passes David again, whistling. Then he bursts into laughter.
DAVID.
Good-naturedly.
Yes, Nullius. The music was very good. I never before heard such fine music. I thank you, Nullius,—you have afforded great pleasure to the people by your gayety.
ANATHEMA.
To the Wanderer.
Did you like it, old man?
WANDERER.
I liked it fairly well. But what will happen when all the nations on earth will bend at the feet of David Leizer?
ANATHEMA.
Astonished.
What is he saying, Nullius?
ANATHEMA.
Oh, David, it is very touching: the people are in love with you, even as a bride is in love with the bridegroom. This wonderful man, who has come thousands of miles—
WANDERER.
More.
ANATHEMA.
Asked me: "Does David Leizer perform miracles?" Well,... I laughed, I laughed.
KHESSIN.
He asked me, too, but to me it was not laughable. The ear of him who waits is keen,—even the stones seem to sing to him.
WANDERER.
Only the footsteps of the blind are short, but their thoughts are long.
He steps aside and, watches David. It is near sunset and the earth is in the embrace of shadows. Abraham Khessin bids David farewell and goes away. The shopkeepers prepare to close their shops. Silence and peace.
ANATHEMA.
Breathing with difficulty.
At last. We have worked quite hard, David—the trumpet alone (closes his ears)—what is that worth? (Candidly) My misfortune is that my ear is keen, unbearably sharp, almost—yes, almost like that of a dog. If I hear—
DAVID.
I am very tired, Nullius, and I want to rest. I do not feel like seeing any more people to-day, and you will not be offended, my old friend—
ANATHEMA.
I understand. I will only escort you to your palace.
DAVID.
Yes, yes, to my palace. According to my contract, I am king for six months more. Come, Sarah,—with you alone I want to pass the remainder of this great day in peace and joy.
SARAH.
You are not an ordinary man, David. How did you guess my desire?
They go away towards the pillars. David pauses, looks back, and says, leaning upon Sarah's shoulder:
DAVID.
Look, Sarah; this is the place where our life has passed—how sad and poor it is, Sarah, and it breathes of the homelessness of the desert. But was not it here, Sarah, that I learned the great truth concerning the fate of man? I was poor, alone, and near death, a foolish old man, seeking an answer from the waves. But now people have come—Am I alone now? Am I poor and near death? Listen to me, Nullius; there is no death for man. What death is there? What is death? Who was the mournful one that invented this strange word—Death?—Perhaps it does exist, I do not know—but I, Nullius—I am immortal.
As though struck, he lends down, but lifts his arms upward.
Oh, how terrible it is: I am immortal! Where is the end of the sky? I have lost it. I am immortal! Oh, the breast of man aches from immortality, and his joy bums him like a fire. Where is the end of man?—I am immortal. Adenoi! Adenoi! Blessed be the mysterious name of Him who has given immortality to man, forever and aye.
ANATHEMA.
Hastily.
The name! The name! Do you know the name? You have deceived me.
DAVID.
Not listening to him.
I give the spirit of man over to the boundless space of Time. May it five immortally, in the immortality of fire. May it live immortally in the immortality of light, which is life. And may darkness stop before the dwelling of immortal light. I am happy, I am immortal—O my God!
ANATHEMA.
Ecstatically.
It is a lie! Oh, how long yet will I listen to this foolish man? North and South, East and West, I am calling you. Quicker, come here, to the aid of the Devil! Rush over here in four oceans of tears and bury man in your abyss. Come here! This way!
No one heeds Anathema's sobs, neither David, radiant with the ecstasy of immortality, nor Sarah, nor the other people, who listen attentively to David. Anathema moves restlessly about, alone, cursing. A shrill voice is heard; a woman, terribly painted, rushes in from the road. Her clothes are torn, and her beautiful face is disfigured. She screams and sobs and calls wildly.
WOMAN.
My God! Where is David, who is distributing his fortune? Two days and two nights, two days and two nights, I have been looking for him all over the city, but the houses are silent and the people are laughing. Tell me, kind people, have you not seen David, who brings joy to the people? Do not look upon my open bosom—a wicked man tore my clothes and scratched my face. Oh, do not look upon my open bosom: it never knew the happiness of feeding innocent lips.
WANDERER.
David is here.
WOMAN.
Falling on her knees.
David is here? Oh, have pity on me, people! do not deceive me; I am blinded by deceit, and falsehoods have made me deaf. Do I hear right? Is David here?
BEZKRAINY.
Yes, there he stands. But you are too late—he has already distributed all his fortune.
PURINES.
He has already distributed all his fortune.
WOMAN.
What are you doing to me, people? Two days and two nights I have been looking for him—the people deceived me, and now I am too late. I will die on the way now—I have nowhere else to go.
Tearfully, flings herself about on the dust-covered road.
ANATHEMA.
It seems that somebody has come to you, David.
DAVID.
Advancing.
What does this woman wish?
WOMAN.
Without lifting her head.
Are you David, who has brought joy to mankind?
WANDERER.
Yes, it is he.
DAVID.
Yes, it is I.
WOMAN.
Without lifting her head.
I do not dare glance at you. You must be like the sun.
Gently and trustfully.
Oh, David, how long I have been looking for you!... The people kept deceiving me all the time. They told me that you went away, that you do not exist at all, and that you never existed. One man said to me that he was David, and he seemed to be kind, but he treated me like a robber.
DAVID.
Rise!
WOMAN.
Permit me to rest here, at your feet. Like a bird that has crossed the sea, I am beaten by the rain, I am exhausted by the storms, I am tired to death.
Weeps; continues trustfully.
Now I am calm, now I am happy: I am at the feet of David, who has brought joy to mankind.
DAVID.
Irresolutely.
But you have come too late, woman. I have already given away everything I had, and I have nothing left.
ANATHEMA.
Yes. We have distributed all the money. Go home, woman,—we have nothing left. We feel sorry for you, but you are too late. Do you understand? You are too late,—only this morning we gave away the last penny.
DAVID.
Don't be so cruel, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
But it is the truth, David.
WOMAN.
Doubtingly.
That is impossible!
Lifting her eyes.
Are you David? How kind-hearted you are. Did you say that I am too late? No, he said it—his face is mean. David, please give me some money and save me. I am tired to death. And your name is Sarah? You are his wife? I have heard about you, too.
Crawls over to her and kisses her dress.
WOMAN.
Plead for me, Sarah.
SARAH.
Weeping.
Give her some money, David. Get up, my dear; it is very dusty here—you have such beautiful black hair. Sit down here, and rest yourself. David will soon give you money.
Lifts the woman and seats her near herself upon a rock, and caresses her.
DAVID.
What shall I do?
Confusedly; wiping his face with a red kerchief.
What shall I do, Nullius? You are such a wise man,—help me.
ANATHEMA.
Outstretching his arms.
By God, I do not know. Here is the list—we have not a cent, and I am an honest lawyer, not a counterfeiter. I can't bring you every day an inheritance from America.
Whistles.
I have nothing to do, so I roam about the world.
DAVID.
Indignantly.
That is cruel, Nullius. I did not expect it from you. But what shall I do? what shall I do?
Anathema shrugs his shoulders.
SARAH.
Sit here, my dear; I will come back soon. David, let us step aside; I must tell you something.
They step aside and whisper.
ANATHEMA.
Did they beat you hard, woman? Evidently the man who was beating you was not skillful—he did not knock your eyes out, as he wanted to do.
WOMAN.
Covering her face with her hair.
Do not look upon me!
SARAH.
Nullius, come over here.
ANATHEMA.
Goes to her.
Here I am, madam Leizer.
DAVID.
In a low voice.
How much money have we for our journey to Jerusalem?
ANATHEMA.
Three hundred roubles.
DAVID.
Give it to the woman.
Smiling and crying.
Sarah does not want to go to Jerusalem. She wants to continue in business here until death comes. What a foolish woman, Nullius, isn't she?
Cries restrainedly.
SARAH.
Does that cause you much pain, David? Were you so eager to go?
DAVID.
What a foolish woman, Nullius. She does not understand that I also want to remain in business here.
Cries.
ANATHEMA.
Moved.
You are not an ordinary man, David.
DAVID.
It was my dream, Nullius, to die in the Holy City and to join my dust to the dust of the righteous people buried there. But (he smiles) is not the ground everywhere kind to its dead? Give the money to the poor woman. Well, Sarah, how shall it be? We must open a store and learn from Sonka how to make good soda-water.
ANATHEMA.
Triumphantly.
Woman, David, who has brought joy to mankind, gives you money and happiness.
BEZKRAINY.
To Sonka.
I told you that he has not distributed all his money. He has millions.
WANDERER.
Listening.
That's right. How could David give away everything? He only started to give away.
The woman thanks David and Sarah; he places his hands upon her head, as though blessing her. Behind him, from the side of the field, something grey appears, dust-covered, moving slowly. They move silently, and it is hard to discern at first that they are human beings. The grey dust has equalized them—their distress and their suffering have made them brethren. There is something alarming in their dull, inflexible movement—and the people look upon them uneasily.
BEZKRAINY.
Who is coming there on the road?
SONKA.
Something grey is crawling along the road. If they are human beings, they do not look like human beings.
PURIKES.
Oh, I am afraid for David. He stands with his back toward them, and does not see them. And they are coming like blind people.
SONKA.
They will soon crush him. David, David, turn around and look.
ANATHEMA.
It is too late, Sonka,—David can't hear you now.
PURIKES.
But who is that? I am afraid of them.
WANDERER.
These are our people! These are blind people from our land,—they have come to David for their eyesight.
Loudly.
Stop, stop! you have reached your destination. David is in your midst.
The blind, almost crushing the frightened David, pause and seek him with their fingers.
THE BLIND.
Where is David? Help us to find David. Where is David, who brings joy to mankind? He is here. I feel him already with my fingers. Are you David? Where is David? Where is David? Are you David?
DAVID.
Frightened voices come out of the darkness.
It is I—I am David Leizer. What is it you wish of me?
SARAH.
Weeping.
David! David!
I don't see you.
David, David, where are you?
THE BLIND.
Closing in around him.
Here is David. Are you David?
CURTAIN.
ACT FOUR
A large, high, somewhat dark room—David's study in the rich villa where he spends his last days. Two large windows in the room: one overlooking the road to the city; the other, on the left, overlooking the garden. Near this window, a large writing-table, covered with papers in disorder—sheets of paper of various sizes, and large books. Under the table, and near it, paper torn into small bits. A large Bible, bound in old leather, lies on the floor, open, with its back upward, resembling the roof of a house which is falling apart. Notwithstanding the heal, there is a fire in the fireplace. David Leizer feels cold and feverish.
It is growing dark. Through the lowered blinds, faint sunlight comes in, but it is already dark in the room. Only the small lamp on the table brings out into bold relief the white heads of David and Anathema.
David is sitting by the table. His hair and beard, unkempt for some time, lend him a savage and terrible appearance; his face is emaciated, his eyes are wide open; clasping his head with both hands, he stares fixedly through his large spectacles, examines a paper, throws it aside, takes up another paper, and nervously turns the leaves of a heavy volume.
Anathema stands near him, holding the back of his arm-chair. He is motionless, thoughtful, and stern.
The windows are closed, but through the dosed windows comes the muffled noise of many voices. It increases slowly, wavering in force and impassionateness. Those who had been called by David are now besieging his house. Silence.
DAVID.
It has crumbled away into dust; Nullius! The mountain that reached the sky has split into rocks, the rocks have turned into dust, and the wind has carried the dust away. Where is the mountain, Nullius? Where are the millions which you brought me? Here I have been looking for an hour through my papers for one copeck, only one copeck, that I may give it to him who asks for it, but I cannot find it. What is lying around there?
ANATHEMA.
The Bible.
DAVID.
No, no, I mean there, among the papers. Let me have it. I think it is an account I haven't examined yet. That would be good luck, Nullius!
Stares intently.
No, it is all crossed out here. Look, Nullius, look! A hundred, then fifty, then twenty,—and then one copeck. But I cannot take this copeck away from him, can I?
ANATHEMA.
Six, eight, twenty,—correct.
DAVID.
No, no, Nullius,—one hundred, fifty—twenty,—one copeck. It has all melted away, it slipped through my fingers like water. And the fingers are dry already—and I feel cold, Nullius!
ANATHEMA.
It is warm here.
DAVID.
I say it is cold here, Nullius. Throw some logs of wood into the fireplace.... No, wait. How much does a log cost? Oh, it costs a great deal; put it away, Nullius,—this accursed fire is devouring wood so quickly, as though it did not know that every log of wood is—a life. Wait, Nullius.... You have a splendid memory, you never forget anything, like a book—don't you remember how much I designated for Abraham Khessin?
ANATHEMA.
At first, five hundred.
DAVID.
Yes, yes, Nullius, of course,—he is an old friend of mine; we used to play together. And for a friend five hundred is not much at all. Of course, he is an old friend of mine, and I must have pitied him and left to him more than to the others in the end—for our friendship is such a tender feeling, Nullius. But it is bad if a man wrongs strangers and distant people on account of a friend—for they have no friends or protection. And we will cut down Abraham Khessin's allowance, we will cut it down just a little bit....
With fear.
Tell me, how much have I now allowed for Abraham?
ANATHEMA.
One copeck.
DAVID.
Impossible! Tell me that you have made an error! Have pity on me, and tell me that you have made an error, Nullius! It cannot be—Abraham is my friend—we used to play together. Do you understand what it means when children play together, and then they grow up and they have grey beards, and they smile together at the past? You have also a grey beard, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Yes, my beard is grey. You allowed one copeck for Khessin.
DAVID.
Takes Anathema by the arm; in a whisper.
But she said that her child would die, Nullius,—that he is dying already. Understand me, my old friend, I must have money. You are such a fine man, you are (pats his arm) such a kind man, you remember everything, like a book,—search a little more.
ANATHEMA.
Bethink yourself, David; your reason is betraying you. It is already two days that you have been sitting here at this table, looking for that which is no more. Go out to the people who are waiting for you, tell them that you have nothing left, and dismiss them.
Angrily.
DAVID.
But did I not go out ten times already to the people and did I not tell them that I have nothing left? Did a single one of them go away? They stand and wait there, and they are firm in their misery, like a rock, obstinate like the child at the mother's breast. Does a child ask whether there is milk in the mother's breast? When I speak, they are silent and they listen to me like reasonable people; but when I become silent, the spirit of despair and want seizes upon them and wails in a thousand voices. Did I not give everything away to them, Nullius? Did I not cry out all my tears? Did I not give them away all the blood of my heart? What are they waiting for, Nullius? What do they want of the poor Jew, who has already exhausted his life?...
ANATHEMA.
They are waiting for a miracle, David.
DAVID.
Rising, with fear.
Be silent, Nullius, be silent,—you are tempting God. Who am I that I should perform miracles? Bethink yourself, Nullius. Can I make two copecks of one? Can I come over to the mountains and say: "Mountains of the earth, turn into mountains of bread and satisfy the hunger of the hungry"? Can I come over to the ocean and say: "Sea of water as salty as tears, turn into a sea of milk and honey and quench the thirst of the thirsty"? Think of it, Nullius!
ANATHEMA.
Did you see the blind?
DAVID.
Only once did I dare lift my eyes,—but I saw strange, grey people, into whose eyes some one had spat something white, and they feel the air as if it were a danger, and they fear the earth as though it were a horror. What do they want, Nullius?
ANATHEMA.
Did you see the sick and the maimed, with organs of the body missing,—did you see them crawl on the ground? Out of the pores of the earth they come like a perspiration of blood—the earth is of them.
DAVID.
Be silent, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Did you see people who are devoured by their conscience: their face is dark, as though scorched by fire, and their eyes are surrounded with white rings, and they run about in a circle like mad horses? Did you see people who look straight ahead, and in their hands they hold long staffs for measuring the road? These are the people searching after truth.
DAVID.
I dared not look any further.
ANATHEMA.
Did you hear the voice of the earth, David?
Enter Sarah; she advances to David timidly.
DAVID.
Is that you, Sarah? Shut the door tightly, do not leave a crevice behind you. What is it you wish, Sarah?
SARAH.
With fear and faith.
Are you not entirely prepared yet, David? Make haste and go out to the people: they are tired of waiting and many of them fear death. Dismiss these, for others are coming, David, and soon there will be no place for a man to stand. The water has already given out in the fountains and they are not bringing any bread from the city, as you have ordered, David.
DAVID.
Uplifting his hands; horrified.
Awaken, Sarah, sleep has enmeshed you in nets of cunning and your heart is poisoned with the madness of love. It is I, David!...
With fear.
And I did not command to bring bread.
SARAH.
If you are not quite ready, David, they can wait. But order lamps lighted and give bedding for the women and the children,—for night will soon set in and the earth will grow cold. And order them to give milk to the children—they are starved. There, in the distance, we have heard the sound of innumerable footsteps: are those not herds of cows and goats, full of milk, driven here at your command?
DAVID.
Hoarsely.
Oh, my God, my God!...
ANATHEMA.
In a low voice, to Sarah.
Go away, Sarah: David is praying. Do not disturb his prayer.
Sarah goes away timidly and cautiously.
DAVID.
Mercy! Mercy!
The noise outside the windows subsides. Suddenly it is heard again: Sarah had notified them that they must wait.
DAVID.
Mercy! Mercy!
ANATHEMA.
In a commanding tone.
David be a man in the face of the great fear. Did you not call them here? Did you not call loudly, in a voice of love, to the silence and the darkness where unspeakable horror dwells? And now they have come to you—North and South, East and West, and like four oceans of tears they have stretched themselves at your feet. Rise, David!
DAVID.
What shall I do, Nullius?
ANATHEMA.
Tell them the truth.
DAVID.
What shall I do, Nullius? Shall I perhaps take a rope and, hanging it upon a tree, strangle myself like the one who had once betrayed? Am I, perhaps, a traitor, having called them and not given anything to them, and loving them in order to destroy them? Oh, how my heart is aching!... Oh, how my heart is aching, Nullius! Oh, I feel as cold as the ground that is covered with ice, and within it there is heat and white flame. Oh, Nullius, have you seen the white flame on which the moon turns dark and the sun burns like yellow straw?
He tosses about.
Hide me, Nullius. Is there not a dark room, where the light does not penetrate? are there not strong walls through which I would not hear these voices? Whither are they calling me? I am a sick old man, I cannot endure and suffer so long—I myself had small children, and did they not die? What were their names, Nullius? I have forgotten. Who is it they call David, the man who has brought joy to mankind?
ANATHEMA.
That was your name, David Leizer. You are deceived, Leizer. You are deceived even as I am deceived!
DAVID.
With entreaty.
Protect me, Nullius. Go out to them and tell them aloud, so they all can hear: "David Leizer is a sick old man, and he has nothing left." They will listen to you, Nullius,—you have such a respectful appearance,—and they will return to their homes.
ANATHEMA.
Yes, yes, David. You see the truth already, and you will soon proclaim it to the people. Ha, ha! Who said that David Leizer could perform miracles?
DAVID.
Folding his arms.
Yes, yes, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Who dares demand miracles of Leizer? Is he not a sick old man,—mortal like all the rest?
DAVID.
Yes, yes, Nullius,—a man.
ANATHEMA.
Did not love deceive Leizer? It said to him: "I shall do everything,"—and it raised only dust on the road like the blind wind from behind a corner, which bursts in noisily and lies down quietly, which blinds the eyes and stirs up the dust. Let us go, then, to Him who gave love to David, and ask Him: "Wherefore did you deceive our brother David?"
DAVID.
Yes, yes, Nullius! Of what good is love to man if it is powerless? Of what good is life if there is no immortality?
ANATHEMA.
Rapidly.
Go out and tell this to them,—they will listen to you. They will lift their voice to Heaven—and we shall hear the answer of Heaven, David! Tell them the truth and you will stir up the earth.
DAVID.
I am going, Nullius. And I will tell them the truth—I have never lied. Open the doors, Nullius.
Anathema quickly throws the door open and respectfully allows David to pass to the balcony. David walks slowly, with an air of importance. Then Anathema closes the door behind David. The noise suddenly subsides, a deathlike silence sets in, and David's quivering voice is heard faintly. Anathema dances about the room in a fit of ecstasy.
ANATHEMA.
Ah! you would not listen to me,—now listen to them. Ah! you forced me to crawl on my belly like a dog. You would not permit me to glimpse even through a crevice!... You laughed at me in your silence!... You tortured me by your motionlessness. Listen, then, and answer, if you can. It is not the Devil who speaks to you, it is not the son of Dawn who raises his voice,—it is man, it is your favorite son, your care, your love, your tenderness, and your proud hope, that is wriggling under your foot like a worm. Well? You are silent? Lie to him by your thunder, deceive him with your lightning,—how dares he look into the heavens? Let him, like Anathema?
Wailing.
The poor, offended Anathema, who is crawling on his belly like a dog....
Furiously.
Let man crawl back again to his dark hole, let him decay in silence, bury himself in gloom, where unspeakable horror dwells.
A myriad-voiced sound is heard from outside the windows.
ANATHEMA.
Do you hear?
Sarcastically.
It is not I. It is they. Six, eight, twenty-correct. It is always correct with the Devil....
The door opens and David, horror-stricken, runs in. A shout is heard behind him. David closes the door and holds it with his shoulder.
DAVID.
Help, Nullius! They will soon break in—the door is not strong; they will break it.
ANATHEMA.
What do they say?
DAVID.
They do not believe me, Nullius. They ask for a miracle. But do the dead also shout?—I saw the dead they have brought here.
ANATHEMA.
Furiously.
Then lie to them, Jew!
David goes away from, the door and says mysteriously, with confusion and fear:
DAVID.
Do you know, Nullius, something is going on within me,—I have nothing,—but here I went out to them, I saw them and suddenly I felt that it is not true—I do have something. And I spoke, but I did not believe it myself; I spoke, and yet I felt that I stood with them and shouted against myself, and demanded angrily.... With my lips I declare that I have nothing,'and with my heart I promise them, and with my eyes I cry out, Yes, yes, yes! What shall I do, Nullius? Tell me, are you sure that I have nothing?
Anathema smiles. Sarah's, voice is heard behind the door on the right; a knock at the door.
SARAH.
Let me in, David.
DAVID.
Do not open the door, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
It is your wife, Sarah.
He opens the door. Sarah enters, leading by the hand a pale-faced woman who is carrying something in her arms.
SARAH.
Meekly.
Forgive me, David. But this woman says that she cannot wait any more. She says that if you delay any longer, she will not recognize her child when he is revived. If it is necessary for you to know his name, it is Moishe, little Moishe. He is a dark little one,—I looked at him.
WOMAN.
Falling down on her knees.
Forgive me, David, for breaking the line and not waiting for my turn. But there are those who died but a little while ago, while I am carrying him already three days and three nights on my breast. Perhaps it is necessary for you to take a look at him? Then I will uncover him—I am not deceiving you, David.
SARAH.
I have looked at him already, David. She let me hold him awhile. She is very tired, David.
David retreats slowly, the palms of his hands outstretched forward. He moves thus until he reaches the wall.
DAVID.
Mercy! Mercy!
Both women wait patiently.
DAVID.
What shall I do? I am fainting, O God! Nullius, tell them that I do not resurrect the dead!
WOMAN.
I implore you, David! Do I ask you to restore life to an old man who has lived long and who has deserved death for his evil deeds? Do I not understand whom it is possible to resurrect and whom it is not possible to resurrect? But perhaps it is hard for you because he is dead so long. I did not know this,—forgive me. And when he was dying, I promised him: "Moishe, do not be afraid to die—David, who brings joy to mankind, will restore your little life to you."
DAVID.
Show him to me.
Looks at him, shaking his head, and weeps, wiping his eyes with his red kerchief. Sarah looks at him confidently, leaning on his shoulder.
SARAH.
How old was he?
WOMAN.
Two years, going on the third.
David turns his tear-stained face to Anathema and says in a strange voice:
DAVID.
Shall I make an attempt, perhaps, Nullius?
Suddenly he bends down and cries hoarsely:
Adenoi!... Adenoi!... Begone! Begone! The Devil has sent you here. Tell them, Nullius, that I do not resurrect the dead. They have come to mock me! Look, they are both laughing there. Begone! Begone!
ANATHEMA.
In a low voice, to Sarah.
Go away, Sarah, and lead the woman away. David is not quite ready yet.
SARAH.
In a whisper.
I will take her to my room. Later you may tell David that she is there.
To the woman.
Come, woman,—David is not quite ready yet.
They go out. David, exhausted, sits down in an arm-chair and lowers his grey head. He reads something softly.
ANATHEMA.
They have gone, David. Do you hear? They have gone away.
DAVID.
Nullius, did you see? It was a dead child. Moishe.... Yes, yes, Moishe, a dark little one; we looked at him.... (Loudly, in despair.) What shall I do? Teach me, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Quickly.
Flee!
Listens to what is going on outside the window, nods his head affirmatively, and advances to David cautiously, like a conspirator; David waits for him, with his arms folded as in prayer, a confident smile on his lips. His back is bent, and he frequently takes his red kerchief from his pocket, but does not know what to do with it.
ANATHEMA.
In a whisper.
We must flee, David, flee!
DAVID.
Joyously.
Yes, yes, Nullius,—we must flee.
ANATHEMA.
I shall hide you in a dark room which no one knows of; when they fall asleep, tired of waiting and hungry, I shall lead you through the sleeping people—and will save you.
DAVID.
Joyously.
Yes, yes, save me.
ANATHEMA.
And they will be waiting! In their sleep they will, wait and dream dreams of great expectations—and you will not be here any longer!
DAVID.
Nodding his head joyously.
And I shall not be here any longer, Nullius! And I shall have fled already, Nullius!
Laughs.
ANATHEMA.
Laughing.
And you will not be here any longer! You will have fled! Let them speak to Heaven then.
They look at each other and laugh.
ANATHEMA.
In a friendly tone.
Wait for me, David. I shall go out at once and see whether the house is still surrounded. They are such madmen!
DAVID.
Yes, yes, look. They are such madmen! Meanwhile I shall prepare myself, Nullius.... But I ask you, do not leave me here all alone for a long time.
Anathema goes out. David goes cautiously on tiptoe to the window and wants to look out, but he dares not; he goes to the table and is frightened by the scattered sheets of paper; he moves cautiously to the corner where his clothes are. He dresses hastily, mixing up his clothes. For a long time he does not know what to do with his beard; suddenly he pushes it under his coat and hides it with his collar.
DAVID.
Muttering.
Yes, yes. I must hide my beard. All the children know my beard.... But why did they not tear it out? Yes, yes, my beard.... But what a black coat! It does not matter, you will hide it. That's the way. Rosa had a mirror.... But Rosa ran away, and Naum also died, and Sarah—oh, but why does not Nullius come? Does he not hear how they are shouting?...
A knock on the door.
DAVID.
Frightened.
Who is there? David Leizer is not here.
ANATHEMA.
It is I, David; let me in.
Anathema enters.
DAVID.
Well, Nullius,—it is possible to recognize me now, is it not?
ANATHEMA.
Very good, David. But I don't know how we can get out. Sarah has filled the house with guests: in every room the blind and the maimed are waiting for you with a pleasant smile; there are also dead people there, David. Your Sarah is a splendid woman, but she is too much of a hostess, David, and she intends to build up a fine household on miracles.
DAVID.
But she must not do it, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Many people are already sleeping at your doors, smiling in their dreams,—self-confident, lucky people, who have managed to outstrip the others.... And in the garden and in the yard....
DAVID.
With fear.
What is there in the yard?...
ANATHEMA.
Not so loud, David. Look and listen.
He puts out the light in the room and draws aside the draperies; the windows are lit up with a red light; it is dark in the room, but David's head, and the paper on the floor, are tinted a pale crimson hue.
DAVID.
Frightened, in a whisper.
Where does this fire come from, Nullius? I am afraid.
ANATHEMA.
Also in a whisper.
'Tis a cold night, and they have started bonfires. Sarah told them that they would have to wait a long time yet, so they have taken precautions.
DAVID.
Where did they get the wood?
ANATHEMA.
They broke certain things. Sarah told them that you ordered them to start bonfires, and they are humbly burning whatever wood they find.... And there, David, farther away....
DAVID.
In despair.
What is it, Nullius? What else can there be, there yonder?...
ANATHEMA.
I do not know, David. But from the upper window, which was wide open, I heard something like the roaring of the ocean when the rocks tremble with pain from the beating of the breakers; it was as though the roaring of brass trumpets that I heard, David,—they are shouting to the sky and to you, and they are calling you.... Do you hear?
In the muffled noise and chaos of sounds, ring out the sounds: Da-vid! Da-vid! Da-vid!
DAVID.
I hear my name. Who is calling? What do they want?
ANATHEMA.
I don't know. Perhaps they want to crown you as their king.
DAVID.
Me?
ANATHEMA.
You, David Leizer. Perhaps they are bringing you might and power—and the power of performing miracles—do you not want perhaps to become a God, David? Look and listen.
He throws the windows wide open. The sounds of the voices calling "Da-vid, Da-vid, Da-vid!" grow louder and are mingled with the blowing of trumpets.
David at first moves to the wall, then he slowly advances to the window. He straightens himself, looks out of the window, and pushing Anathema aside, outstretches his arms to the poor of the earth.
DAVID.
Calling.
Come this way! Come here! To me! I am here! I am with you!
ANATHEMA.
Astonished.
What? You are calling them? You—are—calling—them? Bethink yourself, Leizer!
DAVID.
Angrily.
Be silent! you do not understand me! We are all human beings and we shall go together.
Enthusiastically.
And we shall go together! Come here, brethren, come! Look, Nullius,—they have lifted their heads, they are looking, they hear me. This way! this way!
ANATHEMA.
Will you perform miracles?
DAVID.
Angrily.
Be silent—you are a stranger. You speak as an enemy of God and mankind. You know neither pity nor compassion. We are tired, we are exhausted,—even the dead have grown tired of waiting. Come here—and we shall go together. This way!
ANATHEMA.
Looking at David.
Are not the blind showing the way to them?
DAVID.
Who needs eyesight if not the blind? This way, blind!
ANATHEMA.
Are not the lame making the road and swallowing the dust there?
DAVID.
Who needs the road if not the lame? This way, maimed!
ANATHEMA.
Are they not carrying the dead on the stretchers, swaying with measured steps? Look, David, and dare to say: "Come this way, to me. I am he who resurrects the dead!"
DAVID.
Tormented.
You know no love, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
"I am he who restores sight to the blind"—
Loudly, through the window.
This way! Nations of the earth, seeking God,—come together, at the feet of David—he is here!
DAVID.
Not so loud.
ANATHEMA.
Eh, this way! Suffering mothers,—fathers who have lost their reason in grief,—brothers and sisters who devour one another in the convulsions of hunger—come this way, to David, who has brought joy to mankind!
DAVID.
Seizing him by the shoulder.
You have lost your mind, Nullius. They may hear you and may break into the house.... What are you doing, Nullius? Be more cautious.
ANATHEMA.
Shouting.
David is calling you!
DAVID.
Dragging him away from the window forcibly.
Be silent! I'll choke you if you utter another word. You dog!
ANATHEMA.
Releasing himself.
You are as foolish as a human being. When I call you to flee from here, you curse me. When I call you to love—you want to choke me.
With contempt.
Man!
DAVID.
Enfeebled.
Oh, do not ruin me, Nullius. Oh, forgive me if I have angered you, foolish old man that I am, with a memory that fails me. But I cannot—I cannot perform any miracles!
ANATHEMA.
Let us flee from here.
DAVID.
Yes, yes, let us flee.
Irresolutely.
But where? Where do you want to lead me, Nullius? Is there a place on earth where God is not present?
ANATHEMA.
I shall lead you to God.
DAVID.
No, I don't want to go to Him. What will God tell me? And what shall I answer Him? Be considerate, Nullius. Can I say anything in answer to God now?
ANATHEMA.
I shall lead you to the desert. We shall leave here these wicked and vicious people, who are seized with the itch of suffering and who break down posts and fences like hogs that scratch themselves.
DAVID.
Irresolutely.
But they are human beings, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Renounce them, and, pure, stand up in the desert before the face of God. Let the rock be your bed, let the howling jackal become your friend, let only the sky and the sand hear the penitent moans of David—not a single stain of another's sin shall come upon the pure snow of his soul. He who remains with lepers becomes a leper himself—only in solitude will you see God. To the desert, David, to the desert!
DAVID.
I shall pray.
ANATHEMA.
You will pray.
DAVID.
I shall exhaust my body with fasting.
ANATHEMA.
You will exhaust your body with fasting.
DAVID.
I shall cover my head with ashes.
ANATHEMA.
What for? Unfortunate people do that. But you will be happy, David, in your sinlessness. To the desert, David, to the desert!
DAVID.
To the desert, Nullius, to the desert!
ANATHEMA.
Quickly.
Let us run. There is a cellar here of which no one knows. There are old barrels there, and there is the smell of wine. I shall hide you. And when they fall asleep—
DAVID.
To the desert! To the desert!
They rush out quickly. Disorder and silence in the room.. Through the open window soon comes in the noise of voices and of brass trumpets, moans and sobs of the mob,—"Da-a-a-vid!"
And with its pages bent under it, like a house that is falling apart, lies the Bible, with its back upward.
SLOW CURTAIN.
ACT FIVE.
On the right, upon the slope of a mountain, a dilapidated stone fence. On the left, the sea is seen. Beyond the fence, a deserted garden; among the trees two tall cypress trees stand out prominently. The sea is dark. It is before a storm. The sky is overcast with heavy clouds, which are driven rapidly by the wind.
As the curtain goes up no one is on the stage; then Anathema climbs over the fence and assists David over the fence. David is very weak and moves with difficulty. Their dark clothes are covered with mud and torn in places. Both have lost their hats on the way.
ANATHEMA.
Quicker, quicker, David! They are pursuing us. In this dark garden, where it is so quiet, I heard a roaring in the distance, on that side,—as though there were another sea there. Quicker, David!
DAVID.
I can't, Nullius. Put me down here that I may die.
ANATHEMA.
Put your foot here, on this rock. Take care.
DAVID.
Before my eyes are paths which turn and turn and lead to the wall. Then there are more walls, Nullius, and this dark ditch where a bloated dead horse is lying. Where are we, Nullius?
ANATHEMA.
We are at the sea. We shall take a boat from the fishermen and trust ourselves to the waves—You will sooner find mercy with the senseless waves, David, than with the maddened people.
DAVID.
Yes, it is better to die.
He lies down by the fence.
I am fifty-eight years old, Nullius, and I must have a rest.... But who was the man that met us on the highway and was so greatly overjoyed, and ran off shouting: "Here is David, who has brought joy to mankind? How does he know me? I had never seen him before.
ANATHEMA.
As if surveying the shore.
Your fame is great, David.... Strange, I do not find any path leading downward.
DAVID.
Shutting his eyes.
The cypress trees have turned dark—there will be a storm to-night, Nullius. We should have remained at the stone pit: it was dark and quiet there, and I slept like a man with clear conscience.
Grumbling.
But why are you silent, Nullius? Or am I to speak all alone, as if I were already in the desert?
NULLIUS.
I am searching.
DAVID.
With dissatisfaction.
What else is there to search for? We have searched enough to-day, and we jumped like trained dogs. I felt ashamed, Nullius, when I climbed the fences like a little boy stealing apples. You had better come over here and tell me something about your wanderings. I am too tired to sleep.
ANATHEMA.
You'll not be able to sleep, David.
Advancing.
There is no way down to the sea.
DAVID.
What of it? Look for it elsewhere.
ANATHEMA.
Outstretching his hand in the direction of the city.
Look, David; what is that white line there in the distance?
DAVID.
Lifting his head.
I don't see it.
ANATHEMA.
It is the city which is awaiting you. Now listen. What is that noise in the distance?
DAVID.
Listening.
That—of course, Nullius, that is the echo of the waves of the sea.
ANATHEMA.
No. It is the voice of the people, who will come here soon and will demand miracles from you, and will offer you the kingdom of the poor on earth. When we were hiding in the rocks, I heard two men speak as they hastened to the city: they said that you had been carried away by some evil one and that it was necessary to rescue you from that evil one and offer you the kingdom.
DAVID.
Am I not a sick old Jew? Am I a piece of gold that I should be stolen? Leave me alone, Nullius; you are raving like the other people.... I am sleepy.
ANATHEMA.
Impatiently.
But they are coming this way.
DAVID.
Let them come. You will tell them that David is sleeping and that he does not want to perform miracles.
He prepares himself for sleep.
ANATHEMA.
Bethink yourself, David.
DAVID.
Stubbornly.
He does not want to perform any miracles. Good night, Nullius. I am old and I do not like to talk nonsense.
ANATHEMA.
David!
David does not answer; he falls asleep, his hands folded under his head.
ANATHEMA.
Awaken, David! the people have come here.
Pushes him angrily.
Get up, I say. You make believe that you are asleep—I don't believe you. Do you hear?
Through his teeth.
You've fallen asleep—damned flesh!
Steps aside and listens.
ANATHEMA.
Ha, ha! They are coming.... They are coming.... And their king is sleeping! They are coming—and their miracle-worker is sleeping the sleep of the horse which draws water. They are carrying a crown and death—and their victim and master is catching the wind with an open mouth, smacking his lips for pleasure. O miserable race! There is treachery in your bones, betrayal in your blood, and falsehood in your heart! It is better to rely upon flowing waters, to walk upon the waves as upon a bridge; it is better to lean upon the air as upon a rock, than to trust one's haughty anger and bitter dreams to a traitor.
Goes over to David and pushes him rudely.
Get up! Get up, David,—Sarah is here, Sarah, Sarah!
DAVID.
Awakening.
Are you here, Sarah? I'll be up soon; I am very tired, Sarah.... What is this? You, Nullius? Where is Sarah? Didn't she call me just now? How tired I am! how tired I am, Nullius!
ANATHEMA.
Sarah is coming. Sarah is carrying an infant.
DAVID.
What infant? We have no small children. Our children—
Half rises, looks around, frightened.
What is that, Nullius? who is crying there?
ANATHEMA.
Sarah is carrying a dead child. You must resurrect the dead child, David. He is dark, and his name is Moishe—Moishe—Moishe!
DAVID.
Rising.
We must flee, Nullius. We must flee. But where is the road? Where have you led me to?
Seizes Anathema by the arm.
Listen how they are shouting. They are coming this way, to me—oh, save me, Nullius!
ANATHEMA.
There is no way.
Holding David.
There is an abyss.
DAVID.
What shall I do, Nullius? Shall I, mayhap, hurl myself down and dash my head against the rocks? But am I a wicked wretch that I should come to God without His calling me? Oh, if God only called me—faster than an arrow would my old soul rush to Him....
Listens.
They are shouting. They are calling ... calling? Step aside, Nullius; I want to pray.
ANATHEMA.
Steps aside.
But make haste, David; they are near.
DAVID.
Do you hear? They are coming. I love them, but my love is bitterer than hatred, and it is as powerless as indifference. Kill me, and meet them yourself. Kill me—and meet them with mercy, with love. Fertilize the hungry earth with my body and grow bread upon it, drown sorrow with my soul and grow laughter upon it. And joy, O Lord, joy for mankind....
The approach of an enormous mob is heard.
ANATHEMA.
Advancing.
Quicker, David, quicker,—they are approaching.
DAVID.
One moment, one moment.
In despair.
Joy ... What else? Only one word—only one word—but I have forgotten it.
Weeping.
Oh, what a great number of words there are, but one is missing.... But, perhaps, you need no words at all?
ANATHEMA.
Only one word is missing? How strange! It seems that they have found their word—do you hear them wailing? "Da-a-vid! Da-a-vid!"
Rise, David, and meet them proudly; it seems they are beginning to mock you.
David rises. Some one rushes in ahead of the mob, shouting joyously: "David!" and runs back. The sea looks in one place as though stained with blood.
DAVID.
Retreating a step.
I am afraid, Nullius. This is the same one we met on the road, with a red little beard.... I fear him, Nullius.
ANATHEMA.
Meet them proudly. Strike them with the truth, David,—with the truth!
DAVID.
But do not leave me alone, Nullius, or I shall forget again where the truth is.
People appear on the fence. They are exhausted, mud-covered, like David. They seem to be blind yet their faces are radiant with joy, and they keep exclaiming: "Da-vid! Da-vid!"
DAVID.
Outstretching his arms.
Back—
They do not listen to him and keep climbing the fence, wailing.
ANATHEMA.
Audaciously.
Where are you going? Back—back, you were told.
The people in the front rank pause in fear.
VOICES.
Stop! Stop! Who's that? That's David. No, that's the robber. The one who has carried him off. The robber.
A RESTLESS MAN.
Silence! Silence! David wishes to speak. Listen to David.
They become silent; but in the distance people are still shouting: "Da-vid!"
DAVID.
What is it you want? Yes, it is I, David Leizer, a Jew from the same city that you come from. Why do you pursue me like a thief and frighten me like a robber with your shouting?
ANATHEMA.
Audaciously.
What do you want? Go away from here. My friend David Leizer does not want to see you.
DAVID.
Yes. Let me die here, for death is already approaching my heart; go home to your wives and your children. I cannot ease your sufferings in any way,—go. Do I speak properly, Nullius?
ANATHEMA.
Yes, David.
THE RESTLESS MAN.
Our wives are here and our children are here. Here they stand, waiting for your word of kindness, David,—you who have brought joy to mankind! I have no strength left in me and I have nothing to say. Go.
WOMAN.
Move forward a little, Rubin, and bow to our master David. You probably remember him, David? Bow to him once more, Rubin.
The boy bows timidly and hides in the crowd again. Laughter.
OLD MAN.
Smiling.
He is afraid of you, David. Don't be afraid, boy.
Milled laughter. The Wanderer comes forward.
WANDERER.
You have called us, David, and we have come. We have long waited silently for your merciful call, and now your call has reached the remotest boundaries of the earth. The roads have become black with people; the deserted roads have come to life and the narrow paths are filled with footsteps, and they will soon become highways—and even as the blood that is in the body all rushes to the heart, so all the poor on earth will come to you alone. Welcome to you, our master David—the people are bowing before you with their life and the earth.
DAVID.
Tormented.
What do you want?
WANDERER.
Softly.
Righteousness.
DAVID.
What do you want?
ALL.
Righteousness.
Expectation.
DAVID.
With sudden hope.
Tell me, Nullius, tell me: Is righteousness a miracle?
ANATHEMA.
Bitterly.
There are the blind—they are innocent. There are the dead—and they are also innocent. The earth is bowing before you with its graves, and it greets you with darkness. Perform a miracle.
DAVID.
A miracle? Again a miracle?
WANDERER.
Suspiciously and sternly.
And the people do not want you to speak with him whose name we dare not utter. He is an enemy of mankind, and at night, when you were asleep, he carried you off to this mountain—but it did not occur to him to carry off the heart of the people; and, beating unceasingly, this heart has brought us to you.
ANATHEMA.
Audaciously.
It seems that I am superfluous here.
DAVID.
No, no. Do not forsake me, Nullius.
Tormented.
Begone, begone from here! You are tempting God—I do not know you. Begone.... Begone!
ANATHEMA.
Begone!
VOICES.
Frightened.
David is angry. What shall we do? The master is angry. David is angry.
OLD MAN.
Call Sarah.
WOMAN.
Call Sarah. Sarah!
VOICES.
Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!...
DAVID.
Horror-stricken.
Do you hear? They are calling.
JOYOUS VOICE.
Sarah is coming.
The mob grows bolder.
KHESSIN.
Bowing several times.
It is I, David,—I. Peace be with you, our master David.
SONKA.
Smiling and bowing.
Peace be with you. Peace be with you, David.
David turns aside and covers his face with his hands.
ANATHEMA.
Indifferently.
Begone!
General confusion; interrupted smiles, muffled groans. Sarah, led respectfully by the arms, advances to David. Nearing him, she walks alone.
ANATHEMA.
Turn around, David.... Sarah is here.
SARAH.
Peace be with you, David. Forgive me for disturbing you, but the people have asked me to speak with you and to find out when you intend to return home to your palace. And they have also asked you to make haste, David, for many have died already of unbearable sufferings—and the dead have already grown tired of waiting. And many have already lost their reason from their unbearable sufferings, and they will soon commence to murder; if you will not make haste, David, all the people will become enemies—and it will be hard for you to establish a kingdom upon the dead earth.
Bitter wailings in the distance: "Da-vid! Da-vid! Da-vid!"
DAVID.
With restraint.
Go away, Sarah.
SARAH.
Humbly.
Your clothes are torn, David, and I fear that there are wounds upon your body. What ails you? Why do you not rejoice with us?
DAVID.
Weeping.
Oh, Sarah, Sarah! What are you doing with me? Consider, Sarah,—consider you all. Have I not given everything away to you? I have nothing left. Have pity on me even as I had pity on you,—and kill my unnecessary body with stones. I love you—and words of anger are powerless upon my lips, and wrath upon loving lips does not frighten you—have pity on me. I have nothing more. I have a little blood in my veins, but would I not give away the last drop of it, if I could only quench your bitter thirst? Like a sponge I would have squeezed my heart between the palms of my hands—and the cunning heart, so greedy for life, would not dare hide a single drop....
Be tears his clothes and scratches his chest with his nails.
Here my blood is flowing—my blood is flowing? has a single one of you smiled a smile of joy? Here I am tearing the hair of my beard and I fling the grey locks—I fling them at your feet—has a single dead person risen? Here I spit into your eyes—will one blind man regain his sight? Here I bite the rocks—the rocks—like a mad beast—will one hungry person be satiated? Here I hurl myself at you—
Be makes several quick steps, and the crowd retreats in horror.
ANATHEMA.
That's right, David! Strike them!
SARAH.
Retreating.
Oh, do not punish us, David.
WANDERER.
To the crowd.
He obeys the one who carried him off. He says: I shall not give anything to the people. He spits and says he spits into the eyes of the people....
Cries of horror and growing malice. But in the distance there are still prayerful wailings: "Da-vid! Da-vid! Da-vid!"
SOMEONE.
He dares not spit at the people. We have done him no wrong.
ANOTHER VOICE.
I saw it, I saw it. He lifted stones. Defend yourselves.
ANATHEMA.
Be on your guard; they will soon throw stones at you. They are beasts.
WANDERER.
To David.
You have deceived us, you Jew.
SARAH.
Do not dare speak like this.
KHESSIN.
Seizes the Wanderer by the chest.
Another word and I shall choke you.
DAVID.
Shouting.
I have not deceived any one. I have given everything away and have nothing left.
ANATHEMA.
Do you hear, fools? David has nothing.
Laughs.
Nothing. Am I not telling the truth, David?
WANDERER.
Do you hear? He has nothing. Why, then, did he call us? He has deceived us. He has deceived us.
KHESSIN.
Perplexed.
But that is true, Sarah; he himself says that he has nothing.
SARAH.
Do not mind David. He is ill. He is tired. He will give us everything.
WANDERER.
With sorrow and anger.
How could you do that, David? What have you done with the people, accursed one?
RESTLESS MAN.
Listen what David, who has brought joy to mankind, has done to me. He promised me ten roubles, and then took it back and gave me one copeck, and I thought that the copeck was not really a copeck—I went to a store with it and demanded a great deal, but they laughed and chased me away as a thief. You are the thief. You are the robber; you have left my children without milk. Here is your copeck.
Throws the copeck at David's feet. Many other people follow his example.
SARAH.
Defending David.
Do not dare offend David.
David weeps silently, his face covered with his hands.
ANGRY MAN.
Traitor! He raised the dead out of their graves in order to make sport of them. Strike him with stones.
Bends down to lift a stone. A strong wind rises; in the distance thunder-peals resound. The mob is horror-stricken.
DAVID.
Raising his head and baring his chest.
Stone me—I am a traitor!
Louder thunder-peals. Anathema laughs merrily.
WANDERER.
Traitor! Stone him! He has deceived us! He has betrayed us! He has lied to us!
Confusion. They advance towards David, lifting stones; some flee, sobbing.
DAVID.
Take me. I am going to you.
ANATHEMA.
Where? They will kill you!
DAVID.
You are my enemy. Leave me.
Releases himself from his grasp.
WANDERER.
Raising a stone above his head.
Back! Satan!
ANATHEMA.
Hastily.
Curse them, David. They will soon put you to death. Quick!
David lifts his arms and sinks down, struck by a stone. Almost in silence, grumbling, they hurl stones upon his motionless body. Thunder-peals. Anathema is laughing. Suddenly a woman screams. Then another. All are shouting. The mob runs away. The last one lifts a stone to throw it on David's head, but looks around and finding himself alone, lets the stone fall out of his hand and runs away with a wild outcry.
ANATHEMA.
Swaying himself in every direction, he leaps upon a rock, jumps down, then up again.
Ah, you have triumphed, David!
Laughter.
Look! Look how the herd you have cursed is fleeing. Ha, ha! They are falling from the rocks. Ha, ha! They are hurling themselves into the sea. Ha! They are trampling children under their feet. Look, David,—they are trampling upon children. You have done it. Great and mighty David Leizer! Favorite son of God! You have done it. Ha, ha, ha!
He whirls around, madly laughing.
Ah, where shall I go with my joy? Ah, where shall I go with my tidings? the earth is too small for it! East and West! North and South! Look and listen. David, who has brought joy to mankind, is put to death by mankind and by God. And upon his ill-smelling corpse I—Anathema—will put my foot.
To heaven.
Do you hear? Answer, if you can.
He tramples upon David's body. Then a groan is heard, and David's grey, blood-stained head lifts itself, quivering strangely.
ANATHEMA.
Retreating.
You are still alive? You have lied even this time.
DAVID.
Crawls.
I am coming to you. Wait for me, Sarah. One moment.
ANATHEMA.
Bending over, examines David.
You are crawling? Like myself? Like a dog? After them?
DAVID.
In the agony of death.
Oh, I cannot reach them. Carry me, Nullius. Do I say that it is not necessary to stone me? Oh, let them stone me. Carry me, Nullius. I shall lie down quietly on the threshold, I shall only look through the crevice and see how the little children are eating.... Oh, my beard.... Oh, my terrible beard.... Oh, don't be afraid, my little one,—you alone are laughing. My little children, my tiny little children....
ANATHEMA.
Stamping his foot.
You are mistaken, David. You are dead. And your children are dead. The earth is dead—dead—dead. Look.
David rises with difficulty and looks into the distance, his weak hands outstretched.
DAVID.
I see, Nullius. My old friend—my old friend, stay here, I beg you—and I shall go to them. Do you know, Nullius....
Confused.
I think that I found a copeck....
Laughs quietly.
I told you, Nullius, to examine that paper. Abraham Khessin, my friend—
Firmly.
Abraham Khessin is my friend....
He sinks down and dies.
Thunder in the distance. It is dark; the sun, red, is seen on the horizon, near the water. It sets.
ANATHEMA.
Bending over him.
Is it true this time? Are you dead? Or do you He again? No—it is an honest death now. Let me have your fist. Open it. You don't want to? But I am stronger than you.
Rises and examines what David had in his hand.
A copeck!
Throws it down with contempt. Pushes David with his foot.
Farewell, fool. To-morrow people will find your body here and will bury you with pomp, according to the custom of the people. Kind-hearted murderers, they love those they kill. And out of the rocks with which they stoned you for your love, they will erect a tall, crooked, and stupid tombstone. And in order to enliven the stupid, dead pile of stone, they will put me on the top.
He laughs. Then he suddenly breaks of his laughter and assumes a haughty pose.
Who shall wrench the victory from the hands of Anathema? The strong I kill, the weak I force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance—a mad dance—a devilish dance.
He strikes the ground with his foot.
Be subdued, O earth, and bring me your gifts humbly! Kill, burn, betray, O man, in the name of your master! I steer my boat over a sea of blood which smells so sweetly,—and my sails are burning red—
To heaven.
To you, for an answer! Not as a dog crawling on his belly, but as a distinguished guest, as the reigning prince of the earth, I shall come sailing to your mute shores.
Majestically.
Be prepared. I shall demand an exact answer. Ha, ha, ha!
Disappears in the darkness, bursting into laughter.
CURTAIN.
EPILOGUE.
Nothing has happened; nothing has changed. As before, the earth is weighted down by the heavy iron Gates, closed from time immemorial, beyond which dwells in silence and in mystery the Beginning of every being, the Supreme Wisdom of the universe. And the Guardian of the Entrances is just as silent and as sternly motionless as before. Nothing has happened; nothing has changed.
The grey light, as grey as the rocks, is terrible; the place is terrible, but Anathema likes it. And he appears again; but he does not crawl on his belly like a dog; nor does he hide himself beyond the rocks like a thief. Like a conqueror, he is trying to seal his victory by his haughty gait, by the importance of his slow movements. But as the Devil can never be truthful, and as there are no bounds to his doubts, he brings his duality even into this: He walks like a conqueror, yet he is afraid; he throws his head back high like a sovereign, and yet he laughs at his exaggerated self-importance; a gloomy and malicious clown, he longs for greatness; and forced to laugh, he despises laughter.
Thus, assuming important airs beyond measure, he goes up to the middle of the mountain and waits there in a haughty pose. But his uncertain importance is devoured by the silence, even as dry wood is devoured by fire—and he begins to hurry, without holding out the pause, like a poor musician, striving to conceal himself and his doubts and his odious fear in a vast deal of jests, in loud shouting and in rapid gestures. He stamps his foot and shouts in a voice of assumed sternness.
ANATHEMA.
Why are there no trumpets here? Why no celebration? Why are these old and rusty gates closed? And why does no one hand me the keys? Is it proper in decent circles to meet thus an eminent guest, the reigning prince of the earth, which is friendly to us? Only the doorkeeper is here, apparently asleep, and no one else. It is bad—bad!
He bursts into laughter, and stretching himself wearily, sits down upon a rock. He speaks humbly and with an air of fatigue.
But I am not vainglorious. Trumpets, flowers, and shouting—all this is useless! I myself heard at one time how the people trumpeted glory for David Leizer, but what has come of it?
He heaves a sigh.
It is sad to think of it.
He whistles mournfully.
You have surely heard of the misfortune that has come upon my friend David Leizer? I remember when I last chatted with you,—you did not know this name then.... But do you know it now? It is a name to be proud of! When I left the earth, the entire earth in a million of hungry throats called this glorious name, shouting: "David is a deceiver! David is a traitor! David is a liar!" Then it seemed to me that some of the people reproached also another one—for my honest friend, who died an untimely death, did not act so incautiously in his own name.
The Guardian is silent. And Anathema shouts now with an air of real triumph, breathing malice.
The name! Call the name of him who has ruined David and thousands of people! I, Anathema, have no heart, my eyes have dried up from the fire of Hell, and there are no tears in them, but if the tears were there I would have given them all to David. I have no heart, but there was an instant when something five trembled in my chest, and I was frightened: I wondered whether a heart could be born. I saw how David was perishing and thousands of people with him, I saw how his spirit, grown dark, curled up piteously like a dead worm in the sun, was hurled down into the abyss of non-existence, into my abode of darkness and death.... Tell me, are you not the one who has ruined David?
GUARDIAN OF THE ENTRANCES.
David has attained immortality, and he lives forever in the deathlessness of fire. David has attained immortality, and he fives forever in the deathlessness of fight, which is fife.
Dumfounded, Anathema falls to the ground and lies motionless for an instant. Then he lifts his head, which is as angry as that of a serpent. He rises and speaks with the calm of boundless wrath.
ANATHEMA.
You fie! Forgive me my daring, but you fie. Surely your power is immense—and you can give immortality to a dead worm that has turned black from the sun. But would that be just? Or do the numbers fie to which you, too, must submit? Or do all the scales fie, and is all your world nothing but one fie,—a cruel and mad game of laws, a malicious laugh of a despot at the dumbness and submissiveness of the slave?
He speaks gloomily, in the grief of deathless blindness.
ANATHEMA.
I am tired of searching. I have grown tired of life, of aimless tortures—of the quest after the ever elusive. Give me death, but do not torment me with ignorance; answer me honestly, even as I am honest in my uprising as a slave. Did not David love? Answer. Did not David give his soul away? Answer. And did they not stone David, who had given his soul away? Answer.
GUARDIAN.
Yes. They stoned David, who had given his soul away.
ANATHEMA.
Smiling darkly.
Now you are honest and you answer me with modesty. Without having stilled the hunger of the hungry, without having restored sight to the blind, without having brought to life those who had died innocently,—having stirred up dissension and dispute and cruel bloodshed, for the people have already risen against one another and are committing violence, murder, and plunder in the name of David,—did not David manifest the powerlessness of love, and did he not create a great evil which could be numbered and weighed?
GUARDIAN.
Yes. David has done that which you say; and the people have done that of which you accuse them. And the numbers do not lie, and the scales are correct, and every measure is what it is.
ANATHEMA.
Triumphantly.
You say that!
GUARDIAN.
But that which you do not know, Anathema, is not measured with a measure, and is not calculated in numbers, and is not weighed on scales. Light has no boundaries, nor is there any boundary for the glow of fire—there is a red fire, and there is a yellow fire, and there is a white fire, in which the sun bums like a yellow straw,—and there is still another unknown fire, whose name no one knows—for there is no limit to the glow of fire. Having died in numbers, having died in measures and in weights, David has attained immortality in the deathlessness of fire.
ANATHEMA.
You lie again!
He flings himself about on the ground in despair.
ANATHEMA.
Oh, who will help the honest Anathema? He is being deceived eternally. Oh, who will help the unfortunate Anathema? His immortality is deception. Oh, weep, you who have grown fond of the Devil; wail and grieve, you who strive for truth, who honor wisdom,—Anathema is being deceived eternally. When I win, he takes it away from me. When I come out victorious, he fetters the conqueror in chains, he pricks out the eyes of the ruler, and to the haughty he gives the traits of a dog, a wagging and quivering tail. David, David, I was a friend to you,—tell him that he lies.
He puts his head down on his outstretched arms, like a dog, and wails bitterly.
Where is the truth? Where is the truth? Where is the truth? Was it not crushed with stones? Is it not lying in the ditch together with the carrion? Oh, the light has died out from the world! Oh, the world has no eyes!... he crows have pecked them out.... Where is the truth? Where is the truth? Where is the truth?
Plaintively.
Tell me, will Anathema ever learn the truth?
GUARDIAN.
No.
ANATHEMA.
Tell me, will Anathema ever see the gates open? Shall I ever see your face?
GUARDIAN.
No. Never. My face is open, but you see it not. My speech is loud, but you hear it not. My commands are clear, but you know them not, Anathema. And you will never see, and you will never hear, and you will never know, Anathema, unfortunate spirit, deathless in numbers, ever alive in measure and in weight, but as yet unborn to life.
Anathema leaps to his feet.
ANATHEMA.
You lie,—silent dog, you who have robbed the world of the truth, you who have barred the entrances with iron! Farewell; I like a fair game, and I pay when I lose. And if you will not pay, I shall cry before the whole universe: "Help! I have been robbed!"
He bursts into laughter. Whistling, he retreats a few steps, and turns around. He speaks unconcernedly.
ANATHEMA.
I have nothing to do, so I roam about the world. Do you know where I am going now? I shall go to the grave of David Leizer. Like a grieving widow, like the son of a father who had been murdered from behind the corner by a traitor's blow,—I shall sit down on David Leizer's grave and shall weep so bitterly, and cry so loudly, and call so terribly, that not one honest soul will remain that would not curse the murderer. Insane from grief, I shall point to the right and to the left.... Was not this the one who killed him? Did not that one assist in the bloody crime? Did not that one betray? I shall cry so bitterly, I shall accuse so sternly, that all on earth will become murderers and hangmen, in the name of Leizer, in the name of David Leizer, in the name of David, who brought joy to mankind! And when from the heap of corpses, of filthy, foulsmelling, and disgusting corpses I shall announce to the people that you are the one who killed David and the people,—they will believe me.
Bursts into laughter.
For you have such a bad reputation—of a liar, a deceiver, a murderer. Good-by.
He goes off laughing. His laughter resounds once more from the depths. And then everything relapses into silence.