LEONID ANDREYEV

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY

HERMAN BERNSTEIN

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1910

"I myself shall bring them bread and milk.... Children are so tender.... They need so little; they eat a little crust of bread and they have enough, they drink a cup of milk and they know no thirst any longer. Then they sing...."—DAVID LUIZER.

To

NATHAN STRAUS

WHO SO GENEROUSLY SAVED THE LIVES OF THOUSANDS OF CHILDREN THE TRANSLATION OF THIS WORK IS HEARTILY DEDICATED BY HERMAN BERNSTEIN

CHARACTERS GUARDIAN OF THE ENTRANCES ANATHEMA DAVID LEIZER SARAH, his wife NAUM } their children ROSA } IVAN BEZKRAINY } SONKA ZITRON } tradespeople PURIKES DANCING-MASTER YOUNG MAN PALE MAN ORGAN-GRINDER WANDERER ABRAHAM KHESSIN WEEPING WOMAN WOMAN WITH CHILD IN HER ARMS DRUNKARD SONKA'S LITTLE GIRL LEIBKE

Musicians, Blind People, Crowd

ANATHEMA

PROLOGUE.

The scene represents a wild, deserted place, the slope of a mountain rising to infinite heights. In the rear of the stage, halfway up the mountain, huge iron gates, tightly closed, indicate the boundary of the world as we conceive it. Beyond the iron gates, which oppress the earth with their enormous weight, in silence and in mystery, dwells the Beginning of every being, the Supreme Wisdom of the universe.

At the foot of the Gates stands Someone guarding the entrances, leaning upon a long sword, perfectly motionless. Garbed in wide clothes, which are like stone in the motionlessness of their folds and creases, He hides His face beneath a dark cover, and is Himself the greatest of mysteries. Standing on the boundary separating two worlds, he is dual in his make-up;—in appearance a man, in reality a spirit. An arbitrator between two worlds, He is like unto a huge shield, which gathers all bolts,—all looks, all entreaties, all expectations, reproaches, and curses. The bearer of two elements, He wraps his speech in silence, which is like the silence of the iron gates, and sometimes in human words.

Amidst the rocks, looking around on all sides strangely and shyly, appears Anathema, someone accursed. Clinging to the grey rocks, himself grey, cautious and flexible, like a serpent seeking a hole, he goes stealthily and quietly to the Guardian of the Entrances, desiring to strike him with an unexpected blow. But he is frightened by his own audacity and, jumping to his feet, laughs defiantly and maliciously. Then he sits down on a rock, with an air of freedom and independence, and throws small cobblestones at the feet of the Guardian of the Entrances;—cunning, he conceals his fear beneath the mask of raillery and slight audacity. In the faint, grey, almost colorless light, the head of the accursed one seems enormous; especially large is his high forehead, which is furrowed by wrinkles of fruitless reflections and unsolvable eternal problems. Anathema's thin beard is perfectly grey; his hair, once jet black, is also greyish, rising on his head in disordered tufts. Restless in his movements, he is vainly trying to conceal his alarm and his purposeless haste, which are forever devouring him. Endeavoring to emulate the proud stillness of the Guardian of the Entrances, he grows quiet for an instant in the pose of proud majesty, but the very next moment, in painful quest after the eternally elusive, he wriggles in mute spasms, like a worm under foot. And in his questions he is rapid and impetuous like a whirlwind, drawing strength and fury in his mad whirl....

ANATHEMA.

You are still here on guard? And I thought you were away,—even a chained dog has his moments of rest or sleep, even though the whole world be his kennel and Eternity his master! Is Eternity afraid of thieves? But do not be angry. I have come to you as a good friend and I implore humbly: Open the heavy Gates for an instant and allow me to have a glimpse of Eternity. You dare not? But perhaps the mighty gates have cracked from age, and the unfortunate, honest Anathema could peep into the narrow cleft, without disturbing any one,—show me it with a sign. Softly, on my belly, will I crawl over, I will glance at it and crawl back,—and He will not know. But I shall know and become a God, become a God, a God! I have so long wanted to become a God—and would I be a poor God? Look!

He assumes a haughty pose, but immediately bursts into laughter. Then he sits down calmly on a flat rock and, folding his legs under him, takes out dice. He mutters something to himself, yet loud enough to be heard by the Guardian of the Entrances.

If you don't want to you need not do it,—I shall not fight with you. Have I come here for that purpose? I simply roamed about the world and came here by mere accident—I have nothing to do, so I roam about. And now I am going to throw dice. If He were not so serious, I would have invited Him, too,—but He is too proud, too proud, and He does not understand the pleasure of the game. Six, eight, twenty—correct! It's always correct when the Devil plays, even when he plays honestly.... David Leizer ... David Leizer ...

Turning to the Guardian of the Entrances, he speaks freely.

Do you know David Leizer? You surely do not know him. He is a sick and foolish old Jew, whom no one knows, and even your Master has forgotten about him. So says David Leizer, and I cannot help believing him—he is a foolish, but honest man. He is the man I have won just now with my dice—you saw it: six, eight, twenty.... One day I met David Leizer by the seashore, when he was questioning what the waves were complaining of; and I liked him. He is a foolish, but honest man, and if he should be well tarred and lighted, he would make a brilliant torch for my feast.

Chatting with feigned ease, he steps over softly to the rock nearest the Guardian.

No one knows David Leizer, but I shall make him famous, I shall make him mighty and great—it is very possible that I shall even make him immortal! You do not believe me? No one believes the wise Anathema, even when he speaks the truth—and who loves the truth more than Anathema does? Perhaps you? You silent dog, you who have stolen the truth from the world, you who have barred the entrances with iron!...

He rushes furiously toward the Guardian of the Entrances, but retreats from the stern, motionless Guardian, with a shriek of horror and pain. And he speaks plaintively, falling with his grey chest upon the grey rock.

Oh, the Devil's hair is grey! Weep, you who have grown fond of Anathema! Wail and grieve, you who are striving toward Truth, who are honoring wisdom—Anathema's hair is grey! Who will help the son of Dawn? He is alone in the universe. Wherefore, O Great One, have you frightened the fearless Anathema—he did not intend to strike you, he only wanted to approach you. May I come over to you? Tell me.

The Guardian of the Entrances is silent, but to Anathema it seems that he hears something in the silence. Outstretching his serpentine neck, he shouts passionately.

Louder! Louder! Are you silent, or did you speak? I do not understand. The accursed one has a sensitive ear and discerns the shades of certain words in your silence; he feels a vague movement of thoughts in your motionlessness,—but he does not understand. Did you speak or are you silent? Did you say: "Come," or did it only sound so to me?

THE GUARDIAN.

Come.

ANATHEMA.

You said it, but I dare not come up to you.

GUARDIAN.

Come.

ANATHEMA.

I am afraid.

He advances toward the Guardian irresolutely, in zigzag movements; lies down on his belly and crawls, wailing with longing and fear.

Oh, I the prince of darkness, wise and powerful, and yet you see—I am crawling on my belly like a dog. And I am doing it because I love you, I want to kiss the hem of your cloak. But why does my old heart ache so much? Tell me, Omniscient.

GUARDIAN.

The accursed one has no heart.

ANATHEMA.

Advancing.

Yes, yes. The accursed has no heart, his chest is mute and motionless like the grey rock which does not breathe. Oh, if Anathema had a heart, you would have destroyed him long ago by his sufferings, even as you destroy the foolish man. But Anathema has a mind that is searching for the Truth, unprotected against your blows—spare it.... Here I am at your feet, reveal your face to me. Only for an instant, as brief as the flash of lightning,—reveal your face to me.

He cringes servilely at the feet of the Guardian, not daring, however, to touch his cloak. He is vainly endeavoring to lower his eyes, which are quick and searching, sharp, flashing like coals beneath grey ashes. The Guardian is silent and Anathema continues his fruitless and persistent entreaties.

Do you not want to do it? Then call the name of Him who is beyond the Gates. Call it in a soft voice, and no one will hear it; only I will know it, the wise Anathema, longing for Truth. Is it not true that it consists of seven letters? Or of six? Or of one? Tell me. Only one letter—and you will save the accursed one from eternal tortures, and the earth, which I am tearing with my nails, will bless you. You may say it softly, softly, you may only breathe it, and I shall understand it, and I shall bless you.... Tell me.

The Guardian is silent, and Anathema, after some hesitation, full of fury, crawls away slowly, growing holder with every step.

It is not true that I love you.... It is not true that I wanted to kiss the hem of your cloak.... I feel sorry for you, if you believed me.... I simply have nothing to do, so I roam about in the world.... I have nothing to do, so I question the passers-by about this and that,—about things I know myself.... I know everything!

He rises, shakes himself like a dog that has just come out of the water, and choosing the highest rock, stands up there in a haughty, actorlike pose.

I know everything. With my wisdom I have penetrated the meaning of all things, the laws of numbers are known to me, and the book of Fates is open to me. At one glance I embrace life, I am the axis in the circle of time, which whirls rapidly. I am great, I am mighty, I am immortal, and man is in my power. Who will dare struggle with the Devil? The strong, I kill, and the weak I force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance, a mad dance, a devilish dance. I have poisoned all the sources of life, on all its roads I have built ambuscades.... Do you hear the voice of those who curse? The voice of those who are exhausted under the burden of evil? Of those who dare in vain? Of those who long endlessly and terribly?

GUARDIAN.

I do.

ANATHEMA.

Laughing.

The name! Call the name! Illumine the way for the Devil and for man. All in the world want goodness, but know not where to find it; all in the world want fife, but meet only death. The name! Call the name of goodness, call the name of eternal life. I am waiting!

GUARDIAN.

There is no name for that which you ask, Anathema. There is no number by which to count, no measure by which to measure, no scales by which to weigh that which you ask, Anathema. Every one who has said the word, Love, has lied. Every one who has said the word, Wisdom,—has lied. And even he who has uttered the word, God,—has lied with the greatest and most terrible lie. For there is no number, no measure, no scale, no name for that which you ask, Anathema.

ANATHEMA.

Where shall I go? Tell me.

GUARDIAN.

Where you are going.

ANATHEMA.

What shall I do? Tell me.

GUARDIAN.

What you are doing.

ANATHEMA.

You speak through silence—can I understand the language of your silence? Tell me.

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 shall never see, and you shall never hear, and you shall never know, Anathema, unfortunate spirit, deathless in numbers, eternally alive in measures and in weights, but as yet unborn to life.

ANATHEMA.

Tormented.

Never?

GUARDIAN.

Never.

Anathema leaps down from the rocks, and tosses about madly, devoured by grief. Clinging to the rocks, he embraces them tenderly and then pushes them away angrily; he moans bitterly. He turns his face to West and East, to North and South of the earth, flourishing his arms, as if calling the earth to wrath and vengeance. But the grey rocks are silent, West and East are silent, North and South are silent, and in stern motionlessness, heavily leaning on his sword, stands the Guardian of the Entrances.

ANATHEMA.

Rise, O Earth! Rise, O Earth, and gird your sword, O man. There will be no peace between you and Heaven; the earth is becoming the abode of darkness and death, and the Prince of Darkness ascends to his throne upon it—from now on and forever. I am going to you, David. I will hurl your sad life towards the proud heaven like a stone from a sling—and the foundations of the high heavens will tremble. My slave, David! With your lips I will proclaim the truth about the fate of man.

He turns to the Guardian of the Entrances.

And you!...

He becomes silent, bashfully, confused by the Silence. He stretches himself lazily, as from tediousness, and mutters in a voice loud enough to be heard by the Guardian of the Entrances.

But am I not roaming about, because I have nothing to do? I have been here, and now I shall go there. Are there not plenty of roads for the gay Anathema, who is fond of healthy laughter and a carefree jest? Six.... That means that I bring to David a fortune which he does not expect.... Eight.... That means that David Leizer is healing the sick and reviving the dead. Twenty.... Correct! That means ... That means that David and I come to express our gratitude. David Leizer, the great, the powerful, the immortal David Leizer and I.... I am going.

Anathema departs.

Silence. The rocks are silent; the mute Gates, pressing the earth with their enormous weight, are silent; the Guardian, petrified, is silent.

Silence. But did not Anathema's footsteps awaken an alarming, resounding echo? One, two—some heavy steps are heard coming. It is like one footstep, but many people are coming; they are silent, but the silence is already quivering. A momentary confusion of sounds, of helplessness and tremulous outbursts, and suddenly the silence breaks out in high yellow flames of fire: somewhere below, in the invisible distance, on earth, long trumpets, carried by hands uplifted high, are blaring in rebellious, brasslike tones,—their defiant cry of revolt is turned both to earth and to Heaven.

One, two,—now it is clear that a crowd is moving; its monstrous voice, its blended and separate sobs, its noisy and stormy speech is heard; and below, in the labyrinth from broken and dark passages, the first distinct sound rings out: "Da-a-vid!" It grows more distinct, rises higher, and now it soars overhead-on the wings of this brass fanfare, above the heavy stamping of the marching feet.

"Da-a-vid! Da-a-a-vid! Da-a-a-vid!"

The sounds blend harmoniously. They become the song of millions of people. The trumpets are blaring, exhausted; they call hoarsely with their brass voices—

Does the Guardian of the Entrances hear them? The grey rocks are covered with moans; passionate sobs rise to His feet, but the Guardian is motionless, the Guardian is speechless, and the iron Gates are mute.

The abyss crashes.

With one blow, as if splitting the earth, a brass roar and shout breaks forth,—and out of the fragments, like a spring from a rock that is split by lightning, a soft, harmonious, bright melody comes forth.

Then it dies out.

Silence. Immobility. Expectation, expectation, expectation.

CURTAIN

ACT ONE

The south of Russia. A hot summer midday. A wide road near the end of a large, thickly populated city. Starting from the left corner of the stage, the road crosses it diagonally, turning in the rear of the stage to the right. Two high stone posts, of ancient construction, dilapidated and slightly bent, indicate the boundary of the city. On the side of the city line, at the right post, there is a deserted, once yellow sentry-box, the plaster fallen of in spots and the windows tightly boarded and nailed up. On the sides of the road there are several small shops made of cheap wood, separated from one another by narrow passages—in the desperate and ineffectual struggle for existence the little shops seem to be clambering stupidly upon one another. The people are dealing in all sorts of merchandise: candies, sunflower seeds, cheap sausages, herrings; each shop has a small, dirty counter, through which a pipe with two faucets stands out prominently—one of them for soda-water, at a penny a glass,—the other for seltzer. One of the little shops belongs to David Leizer; the others—to the Greek Purikes, to the young Jewess Sonka Zitron, and to the Russian, Ivan Bezkrainy, who, in addition to his business, mends shoes and rubbers; he is the only one who has "real noblemen's" cider for sale.

The sun is burning mercilessly and the few small trees, with their leaves curled up from the heat, are pining for rain; the dusty road is deserted. Beyond the posts, where the road is turning toward the right, there is a high precipice—the dust-covered tops of trees are seen here and there in the descending distance. And embracing the entire horizon, the sea has stretched itself in a smoky blue strip, sleeping peacefully in the heat and glare of the sun.

Sarah, David Leizer's wife, an old Jewess, exhausted by life, is seated in front of her little shop. She is mending some rags and is chatting languidly with the other shopkeepers.

SARAH.

No one is buying anything. No one is drinking any soda-water; no one is buying any sunflower seeds or any fine candies which melt in the mouth.

PURIKES.

Like an echo.

No one is buying anything.

SARAH.

One might think that all the people have died so as not to buy anything. One might think that we remained alone with our stores in the whole world—we alone in the whole world.

PURIKES.

Like an echo.

We alone.

BEZKRAINY.

The sun has burnt all the customers—only the shopkeepers remained.

Silence. The soft sobbing of Sonka is heard.

BEZKRAINY.

Sonka, yesterday you bought a chicken. Did you kill or rob anybody that you can afford to buy chickens? And if you are so rich and you hide your money, why do you deal here and hinder us from making a living?

PURIKES.

Like an echo.

And hinder us from making a living?

BEZKRAINY.

Sonka, I am asking you,—is it true that you bought a chicken yesterday? Don't lie, I know it from trustworthy people.

Sonka maintains silence, weeping.

SARAH.

When a Jew buys a chicken, it is because either the Jew is sick or the chicken is sick. Sonka Zitron's son is dying; yesterday he commenced to die and to-day he will end it—the boy is tenacious and he is dying slowly.

BEZKRAINY.

Why did she come here if her son is dying?

SARAH.

Because it is necessary to trade.

PURIKES.

It is necessary to trade.

Sonka is weeping.

SARAH.

Yesterday we ate nothing, we waited for to-day; and to-day we will eat nothing, waiting that to-morrow will bring us customers and happiness. Happiness! Who knows what is happiness? All people are equal before God, and yet one sells two cents' worth, while another sells thirty cents' worth. And one always two cents' worth, while the other always thirty cents' worth, and no one knows why happiness is given to a person.

BEZKRAINY.

I used to sell thirty cents' worth, and now I sell only two cents' worth. At that time I had no "noblemen's" cider, and now I have it, and yet I sell only two cents' worth now. Luck is changeable!

PURIKES.

Luck is changeable.

SARAH.

Yesterday my son Naum came and asked me: "Mother, where is father?" So I said to him: "What for do you want to know where father is? David Leizer, your father, is a sick, unfortunate man, who is going to die soon; and he goes to the seashore to commune in solitude with God about his fate. Don't disturb your father, he is going to die soon—you had better tell me what you want to say." And Naum answered: "I will tell you, mother,—I am beginning to die!" That is what Naum answered. When David Leizer, my old husband, came home, I said to him: "You are still steadfast in your uprightness! Blaspheme God and die! For your son Naum is already beginning to die."

Sonka is weeping more loudly.

PURIKES.

Suddenly looks around, frightened.

But what—But what if people should stop buying things altogether?

SARAH.

Frightened.

What do you mean?

PURIKES.

With ever growing fear.

What if people should suddenly stop buying things altogether? What are we to do then?

BEZKRAINY.

With alarm.

How is it possible that people should stop buying things altogether? That's impossible!

SARAH.

That's impossible.

PURIKES.

It is possible. Suddenly everybody may stop buying things.

All are seized with horror; even Sonka stops weeping, and pale-faced, she surveys the deserted road with her frightened, dark eyes. The sun is burning mercilessly. Anathema appears in the distance, at the turn of the road.

SARAH.

A customer!

PURIKES.

A customer!

SONKA.

A customer! A customer!

She cries again. Anathema comes nearer to them. Notwithstanding the heat, he wears a black coat of fine cloth, a black silk hat, black gloves; only his necktie is white, lending a solemn air to his costume. He is tall, and, though grey-haired, straight and stately. The face of the accursed one is of a swarthy-grey color; his features are stern and of peculiar beauty. When Anathema takes off his hat, his enormous forehead is revealed, furrowed by wrinkles. His head is unusually large and his greyish black hair is dishevelled. Anathema's neck is wiry and strong, but it is rather thin and long, and in his nervous contortions he carries his head like a heavy weight, giving it the appearance of strange inquisitiveness, restlessness and malignity.

SARAH.

Do you want perhaps a glass of soda-water, sir? It is as hot as in Hell, and if you don't drink, you may die of a sunstroke.

BEZKRAINY.

Real noblemen's cider!

PURIKES.

Violet soda! My God, violet soda!

SARAH.

Soda, seltzer!

BEZKRAINY.

Don't drink her soda-water. From her water rats are dying and roaches stand up on their hind legs.

SARAH.

Ivan, aren't you ashamed to take away a customer? I am not saying anything about your noblemen's cider, which is fit only for mad dogs to drink.

PURIKES.

Joyously.

A customer! A customer! Please don't buy anything from me, you needn't buy anything from me,—all I want is to look at you. Sonka, do you see? A buyer!

SONKA.

I don't see anything. I can't see.

Anathema lifts his hatband bows to all kindly.

ANATHEMA.

Thank you. I will drink a glass of soda-water with pleasure, and perhaps even a glass of your noblemen's cider. But I should like to know where David Leizer's business place is.

SARAH.

Surprised.

It is here. Do you want David? I am his wife, Sarah.

ANATHEMA.

Yes, madam Leizer, I want to see David, David Leizer.

SARAH.

Suspiciously.

You have come with bad news: David has no friends that wear clothes of such fine cloth as you wear. If that is so, you had better go away. David is not here, and I will not tell you where he is.

ANATHEMA.

Heartily.

Oh, no, madam, don't be uneasy; I am not bringing you any bad news. But how pleasant it is to see such love.—Do you love your husband very much, madam Leizer? He must be a very strong and healthy man, earning much money.

SARAH.

Frowning.

No, he is sick and old and unable to work. But he has not sinned against God or man in any way, and even his enemies dare not say anything bad about him. Here is some seltzer, sir, it is better than soda. And if you are not afraid of the heat, I would ask you to sit down and wait a while; David will soon be here.

ANATHEMA.

Sitting down.

Yes, I have heard many good things about your husband, but I did not know that he was so feeble and old. Have you any children, madam Leizer?

SARAH.

We had six, but the first four died....

ANATHEMA.

Nods his head compassionately.

SARAH.

Yes, we lived miserably, sir. And we have only two left. Our son Naum....

BEZKRAINY.

A good-for-nothing, who makes believe that he is sick and saunters about the city all day long.

SARAH.

Stop, Ivan, aren't you ashamed to slander honest people? Naum is going around because he has to get credit. Then, sir, we have a daughter, and her name is Rosa. But unfortunately she is too beautiful, too beautiful, sir. Happiness what is happiness? One person dies of smallpox, while another person needs smallpox, but it would not come, and the face is as pure as a flower leaf.

ANATHEMA.

Feigning amazement.

Why are you so sorry about it? Beauty is a gift from God, which He has bestowed upon man, whom he has thus elevated and brought nearer to Himself.

SARAH.

Who knows? It may be a gift from God, and it may be a gift from somebody else of whom I would not speak. But there is one thing I do not know; why has a man beautiful eyes, if he must hide them? Why has he a white face, if he must cover it with soot and filth? Beauty is a too dangerous treasure, for it is easier to hide money from a robber, than beauty from a wicked man. (Suspiciously.) Did you come perhaps to see Rosa? Then you better go away,—Rosa is not here, and I will not tell you where she is.

PURIKES.

A buyer. Sarah, look, a buyer is here.

SARAH.

Yes, yes, Purikes. But he will not buy that which he has come for, and he will not find that which he is seeking.

Anathema smiles good-naturedly and listens attentively to the conversation; every time some one begins to speak, he stretches his neck and turns his head to the speaker, holding it slightly bent on one side. He makes grimaces like an actor, expressing now amazement, now sorrow or indignation. He laughs, inappropriately, thereby frightening and surprising the people.

BEZKRAINY.

Sarah, you are making a mistake in valuing your goods too highly and not selling when people are ready to buy. Every article loses its value if you keep it too long.

SARAH

Tearfully.

What a wicked man you are, Ivan. I gave you credit for ten copecks, and you are forever slandering us.

BEZKRAINY.

Don't pay any attention to me, Sarah,—I am wicked because I am hungry. You, sir, in that black coat, go away: Sarah is an honest woman and she will not sell her daughter to you, even if you offered her a million.

SARAH.

Hotly.

That's right, Ivan, thank you. But who told you, sir, that our Rosa is beautiful? It is not true—don't laugh, it isn't true, she is as ugly as deadly sin. She is as filthy as a dog that has just crawled out of the coal-hole of a ship; her face is furrowed by smallpox and it looks like a field where people dig lime and sand; there is on her right eye a cataract as large as on an old horse. Look at her hair—it is like faded wool, half torn away by birds; and when she walks, she stoops,—I swear to you, she stoops when she walks! If you take her, everybody will laugh at you, everybody will spit at you, the street urchins will give you no rest....

ANATHEMA.

Surprised.

But, madam Leizer, I have heard—

SARAH.

Sorrowfully.

You have heard nothing! I swear to you, you have heard nothing.

ANATHEMA.

But you yourself—

SARAH.

Imploringly.

Have I said anything? My God, women are so talkative, sir; and they love their children so dearly that they always consider them beautiful. Rosa—beautiful! (Laughs.) Just think of it, Purikes,—Rosa is beautiful!

She laughs. Rosa comes over from the direction of the city. Her hair is disheveled, almost covering her black, flashing eyes; her face is smeared with something black, and she is dressed wretchedly. She walks with a youthful and stately gait, but on noticing the strange man, she stoops like an old woman.

SARAH.

Here, here is Rosa; look, sir! My God, how ugly she is. David cries every time he sees her.

ROSA.

Offended, straightens herself.

There are uglier women than I am.

SARAH.

Persuasively.

What are you saying, Rosa? There is no uglier girl than you in the whole world. (Whispers entreatingly.) Hide your beauty, Rosa. A robber has come, Rosa,—hide your beauty! At night I will wash your face myself, I will comb your braids myself, and you will be as beautiful as a heavenly angel, and we will all pray to you. A robber has come, Rosa. (Aloud.) Did they throw stones at you again?

ROSA.

Hoarsely.

Yes, they did.

SARAH.

And the dogs attacked you, too?

ROSA.

Yes, they did.—

SARAH.

So you see, sir? Even the dogs!

ANATHEMA.

In a friendly tone.

Yes, it seems that I have made a mistake. To my regret, your daughter is really not pretty and it is painful to look at her.

SARAH.

Of course, there are uglier girls than she is, but—Go, Rosochka, go over there, take your work—What is there for a poor and ugly girl to do but work? Go, my poor Rosochka, go.

Rosa takes some rags to mend and disappears behind the counter. Silence.

ANATHEMA.

Is it long since you have this store, madam Leizer?

SARAH.

Calmed down.

Thirty years already, ever since David became sick. A misfortune happened to him when he served in the army,—he was trampled by horses and they crushed his chest.

ANATHEMA.

Was David a soldier?

BEZKRAINY.

Interposing.

David had an older brother, and he was a scoundrel, and his name was Moses.

SARAH.

With a sigh.

And his name was Moses.

BEZKRAINY.

And when the time came for Moses to serve in the army, he ran off on an Italian steamer. And David was taken in his place.

SARAH.

With a sigh.

David was taken.

ANATHEMA.

What injustice!

BEZKRAINY.

Have you ever met justice in the world?

ANATHEMA.

Of course I have. You are no doubt an unfortunate man, and everything appears to you in dark colors. But you will see, you will soon see, that justice does exist. (Freely.) The devil take it, I have nothing to do, so I always roam about the world, and I have not seen anything so plentiful as justice. How shall I say it, madam Leizer? There is more justice on earth than fleas on a good dog.

SARAH.

Smiling.

But what if it is just as hard to catch justice as to catch fleas....

BEZKRAINY.

And what if it bites just as the fleas do?

All laugh. From the side of the city appears an organ-grinder, exhausted, half-blinded from dust and perspiration. He wants to pass by, but suddenly he pauses in despair, and begins to play a terrible tune.

SARAH.

Pass on, please, pass on. We need no music.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Playing.

Neither do I need it.

SARAH.

We have nothing to give you. Pass on.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Playing.

Then I will die to the strains of music.

ANATHEMA.

Generously.

Please, madam Leizer, give him something to eat and water—I will pay for everything.

SARAH.

What a kind-hearted man you are. Go, musician, eat and drink. But for the water I will not take anything from you—let the water be mine.

The organ-grinder sits down and eats ravenously.

ANATHEMA.

Friendly.

Is it long you have been roaming over the world, musician?

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Morosely,

I used to have a monkey before—music and a monkey. The monkey was eaten up by the fleas, and my music box started to screech, and I am looking for a tree on which to hang myself. That is all.

A little girl runs in. She looks curiously at the organ-grinder, then turns to Sonka.

LITTLE GIRL.

Sonka, Ruzya died.

SONKA.

Already?

LITTLE GIRL.

Yes, he died. May I take some seeds?

SONKA.

Closing her store.

You may. Sarah, if a customer comes, tell him that I will attend to business to-morrow again, otherwise he may think that my store is closed for good. Have you heard it? Ruzya died.

SARAH.

Already?

LITTLE GIRL.

Yes, he died. Is the musician going to play?

Anathema whispers to Sarah and puts something into her hand.

SARAH.

Sonka, here is a rouble for you; you see, a rouble?

BEZKRAINY.

There is luck! Yesterday a chicken, to-day a rouble. Take it, Sonka.

All look greedily upon the rouble. Sonka and the little girl go out.

SARAH.

You are very rich, sir.

ANATHEMA.

With self-satisfaction.

Yes. I have a large practice—I am a lawyer.

SARAH.

Quickly.

David has no debts.

ANATHEMA.

Oh, I haven't come for that at all, madam Leizer. When you know me better, you will see that I bring, but do not take, that I make gifts, but do not take them back.

SARAH.

With fear.

Do you come from God?

ANATHEMA.

It would be too much honor for me and for you, madam Leizer, if I came from God. No, I have come of my own accord.

Naum comes over, looks at the customer with amazement, and sits down, exhausted, upon a rock. Naum is a tall, thin young man, with a narrow chest and a large, pale nose. He looks around on all sides.

NAUM.

Where is Rosa?

SARAH.

In a whisper.

Not so loud,—she is there. (Aloud.) Well, hew was it, Naum? Did you get any credit?

NAUM.

Slowly.

No, mother, I did not get any credit. I am beginning to die, mother,—everybody feels hot, while I am very cold; and I am perspiring, but my perspiration is cold. I met Sonka—Ruzya died already.

SARAH.

You will live yet, Naum, you will live yet.

NAUM.

Slowly.

Yes, I will live yet. Why isn't father coming? It is time for him to be here.

SARAH.

Clean a herring, Rosa. This gentleman is waiting for David a long time already, and David isn't here.

NAUM.

What does he want?

SARAH.

I don't know, Naum. Since he came, I suppose it was necessary.

Silence.

NAUM.

Mother, I am not going for credit any more. I will go with father to the sea. The time has come when I must go and ask God about my fate.

SARAH.

Do not ask Him, Naum, do not ask.

NAUM.

I will ask Him.

SARAH.

Entreatingly.

Don't do it, Naum, don't ask.

ANATHEMA.

Why not, madam Leizer? Do you fear that God will give him a bad answer? You should have more faith, madam Leizer. If David heard you, he would not approve your words.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Raising his head.

Is it you, young man, who wants to speak to God?

NAUM.

Yes, it is I. Every man can speak with God.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Do you think so? Then ask for a new organ. Tell Him that this one is screeching.

ANATHEMA.

Compassionately.

He might add that the monkey was eaten up by the fleas—that he needs a new monkey.

He laughs. All look at him in perplexity; the organ-grinder rises and takes up his organ silently.

SARAH.

What do you want to do, musician?

ORGAN-GRINDER.

I want to play.

SARAH.

What for? We don't need any music.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

I must thank you for your kindness.

He plays something weird: the organ screeches, breaks off, wheezes. Anathema, with eyes lifted dreamily to the sky, keeps time with his hand, and whistles.

SARAH.

My God, how badly it sounds.

ANATHEMA.

This, madam Leizer (whistles),—this is called the world harmony.

The conversation dies away for some time: only the screeching of the organ and the whistling of Anathema are heard. The sun is still shining mercilessly.

ANATHEMA.

I have nothing to do, so I wander over the world.

He is carried away by the playing of the organ. Suddenly the organ breaks off with a screech, which rings in the ears for a long time, and Anathema remains as petrified with uplifted hand.

ANATHEMA.

Perplexedly.

Does it always end like this?

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Sometimes even worse. Good-by.

ANATHEMA.

Feeling his vest pocket.

No, no, you mustn't go away like that.... You have afforded us genuine pleasure, and I do not want you to hang yourself. Here is some change for you, and live on.

SARAH.

Pleasantly surprised.

Who could ever think, by looking at your face, that you are such a cheerful and kind-hearted man?

ANATHEMA.

Flattered.

Oh, do not embarrass me with your praise, madam Leizer. Why shouldn't I help a poor man who would otherwise hang himself! The life of man is a precious thing, madam Leizer,—and I always carry change with me.... But isn't that venerable man I see there David Leizer?

He looks in the direction where the road turns to the right.

SARAH.

Also looking at the road.

Yes, that is David.

All wait silently. On the dust-covered road appears David Leizer, walking slowly. He is tall, bony, with long, grey locks and a grey beard; on his head he wears a high, black cap; in his hand a staff with which he seems to measure the road. He looks down from under his heavy eyebrows; and thus, without lifting his eyes, he advances slowly and seriously to the people, and stops, leaning upon the staff with both hands.

SARAH.

Rising respectfully.

Where were you, David?

DAVID.

Not lifting his eyes.

I was by the sea.

SARAH.

What did you do there, David?

DAVID.

I looked at the waves, Sarah, and asked them whence they came and whither they were going. I was thinking of life, Sarah—whence it came and whither it is going....

SARAH.

What did the waves tell you, David?

DAVID.

They did not tell me anything, Sarah.... They come and go away again, and the man by the sea is waiting in vain for an answer from the sea.

SARAH.

With whom did you speak, David?

DAVID.

I spoke with God, Sarah. I asked Him about the fate of David Leizer, the poor Jew who is going to die soon.

SARAH.

With emotion.

And what did God tell you?

David is silent, his eyes lowered.

SARAH.

Our son Naum also wants to go with you to the sea and ask about his fate.

DAVID.

Lifting his eyes.

Is Naum going to die soon?

NAUM.

Yes, father,—I have already commenced to die.

ANATHEMA.

But, pardon me, gentlemen.... Why should you speak of death, since I have brought you life and happiness?

DAVID.

Turning his head to him.

Do you come from God? Sarah, who is he who dares to speak like this?

SARAH.

I don't know. He has been waiting for you a long time.

ANATHEMA.

Bustling about joyously.

Oh, ladies and gentlemen, smile. Attention for one minute and I will make you all laugh. Attention, gentlemen. Attention!

All look with tense attention at Anathema's mouth.

ANATHEMA.

Taking out a paper, solemnly.

Are you not David Leizer, the son of Abraham Leizer?

LEIZER.

Frightened.

Well, yes, I am. But there may be another David Leizer. I don't know—ask the people.

ANATHEMA.

Interrupting him with a gesture.

Didn't you have a brother, Moses Leizer, who fled to America thirty-five years ago on the Italian steamship Fortuna?

ALL.

Yes, he did.

DAVID.

But I did not know that he was in America.

ANATHEMA.

David Leizer, your brother Moses died!

Silence.

DAVID.

I have long forgiven him.

ANATHEMA.

And before he died he bequeathed all his fortune, amounting to two million dollars (to the people surrounding him), which means four million roubles,—to you, David Leizer.

A deep sigh goes through the crowd and all seem as petrified.

ANATHEMA.

Outstretching the paper.

Here is the document, you see—the seal.

DAVID.

Pushing the paper aside.

No, don't! Don't do that! You were not sent by God. God would not make sport of man in this way.

ANATHEMA.

Heartily.

This is not a jest. Upon my honor, it is the truth,—four millions. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you and to shake your honest hand warmly. (Takes David Leizer's hand and shakes it.) Well, madam Leizer, what have I brought you? And what will you say now? Is your daughter Rosa beautiful now or is she ugly? Aha! Are you going to die so soon, Naum? Aha! (Tearfully.) That's what I have brought you, people, and now permit me to step aside—and not to disturb you—

Lifts a handkerchief to his eyes and steps aside, apparently agitated.

SARAH.

Wildly.

Rosa!

ROSA.

Also wildly.

What is it, mamma?

SARAH.

Wash your face! Wash your face, Rosa! My God, quicker, quicker,—wash your face!

As though insane, she drags Rosa, washes her, splashing the water with trembling hands. Naum clings to his father's arm, hanging on to it, as though he is about to lose consciousness.

DAVID.

Take back your paper! (Firmly.) Take back your paper!

SARAH.

Have you lost your mind, David? Don't listen to him. Wash yourself, Rosochka, wash yourself! Let all the people see your beauty!

NAUM.

Seizing the paper.

It is ours, father. Father,—this is how God has answered you. Look at mother, look at Rosa—look at me: I was already commencing to die.

PURIKES.

Shouts.

Ai, Ai, look out, they'll tear the paper. Ai, Ai, take away the paper from them, quick!

Naum cries, Rosa, radiantly beautiful, her hair wet, but no longer covering her eyes, comes over to her father, laughing.

ROSA.

It is I, father! It is I! It is—I!

SARAH.

Wildly.

Where were you, Rosa?

ROSA.

I wasn't—I've just been born, mamma!

SARAH.

See, David, see—a human being has just been born! Oh, look at her, every one of you! Oh, open the doors of your vision, throw open the gates of your eyes—look at her, every one of you!

Suddenly David realizes the meaning of what has happened. He throws his cap from his head, tears his clothing, which seems to suffocate him, and pushing everybody aside, rushes to Anathema.

DAVID.

Sternly.

Why have you brought this?

ANATHEMA.

Meekly.

But, pardon me, Mr. Leizer, I am only a lawyer. I am sincerely glad.

DAVID.

Why have you brought this?

He pushes Anathema aside, and reeling, goes to the road. Suddenly he stops, turns around and shouts, flourishing his hands.

DAVID.

I Drive him away—that is the Devil. Do you think he brought me four million roubles? No, he brought me four million insults. Four million mockeries he hurled upon the head of David ... Four oceans of bitter tears have I shed over life, my sighs were four winds of the earth, my four children were devoured by hunger and diseases—and now, when I must die, he brings me four millions. Will they return to me my youth which I passed in privation, oppressed with grief, wrapped with sorrows, crowned with anguish? Will they repay me for one day of my starvation, one tear that fell upon a rock, one insult hurled at my face? Four million curses—that's what your four million roubles are—oh, Hannah, oh, Benjamin, and Raphael, and my little Moishe,—you, my little birdies, who died of hunger upon the naked branches of winter—what will you say if your father should touch this money? No, I don't need any money. I am telling you—I, an old Jew, dying of hunger. I don't need any money. I don't see God in this. But I shall go to Him, I shall tell Him: What are you doing with David?—I am going.

Goes away, brandishing his hands.

SARAH.

Crying.

David, come back, come back.

PURIKES.

In despair.

The paper, pick up the paper.

ANATHEMA.

Turns around.

Calm yourself, madam Leizer, he will come back. It is always thus at first. I have wandered a great deal over the world and I know it. The blood rushes to the head, the feet begin to quiver, and man curses. That's nonsense!

ROSA.

What a crooked mirror, mother!

NAUM.

Cries.

Mamma, where is father going? I want to live.

ANATHEMA.

Throw away that piece of glass, Rosa. Mankind will reflect your beauty, the world will reflect your beauty—you will see yourself in the world.... Ah, you are still here, musician. Play something for us, please. Such a holiday must not pass without music!

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Shall I play the same?

ANATHEMA.

The same.

The organ wails and wheezes. Anathema whistles furiously, waving his hands, as though blessing everybody with the music and the whistling.

CURTAIN.

ACT TWO.

David Leizer lives richly. At the urgent request of his wife and his children he has hired a rich villa, by the sea-shore, engaged numerous servants, bought horses and carriages. Anathema, under the pretext that he had grown tired of his law practice, remained with David as his private secretary. Rosa is taking lessons in languages and deportment. Naum, who has grown very sick, near to death, is learning how to dance. The money has not yet arrived from America, but to David Leizer, the millionaire, a large credit has been extended.

The stage represents a rich parlor, white marble here and there, with large Italian windows and a door leading to a veranda. It is midday. Beyond the open windows, semi-tropical plants are visible, and the deep blue sea in the distance; through one of the windows, a view of the city is seen.

David Leizer is seated by the table, greatly depressed. A short distance away, on a divan, Sarah is seated, dressed richly, but without taste; she watches Naum learning how to dance. Naum is very pale, he coughs and almost falls from weakness, especially when, according to the rules of the dance, he must stand on one foot; but he is studying diligently! He is dressed rather richly, but his bright-colored vest and necktie spoil the elegance of his appearance. Near Naum, the dancing-master, with a fiddle and how, is hustling about, balancing himself, rising up and down. He is a man of unusual refinement and grace; he wears a white vest, patent-leather slippers, and a smoking jacket. And Anathema, standing at the veranda door, looks upon all this with an air of sadness and reproach.

DANCING-MASTER.

One—two—three; one—two—three.

SARAH.

Look, David, see how successful our Naum is in his dancing. I could not hop like that for anything? poor boy!

DAVID.

I see.

DANCING-MASTER.

Monsieur Naum is very talented. Please, one-two—three; one—two—three. Pardon me, pardon me, this isn't exactly right. You must make the step more precise, neatly rounding the motion of the right foot. This way—this way.

Shows him how to do it.

Madam Leizer, dancing is quite like mathematics, a circle is necessary.

SARAH.

Do you hear, David?

DAVID.

I hear.

DANCING-MASTER.

Please, monsieur Naum. One—two—three.

Plays on his violin.

NAUM.

Out of breath.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

He turns around, and then, suddenly, almost falls down. He stops. His face is exhausted, deathly pale; he is seized with a fit of coughing. Then he resumes dancing.

NAUM,

One, two, three.

DANCING-MASTER.

That's the way, that's the way, monsieur Naum. Please, more neatly! More neatly, please! One, two, three.

He plays. Anathema walks over to Sarah cautiously and says in a low voice, yet loud enough to be heard by David:

ANATHEMA.

Madam Leizer, does it not seem to you that Naum is rather tired? This dancing-master knows no mercy.

DAVID.

Turning around.

Yes, it is enough. Sarah, you are willing to torture the boy.

SARAH.

Confusedly.

What have I to do with it, David? Don't I see that he is tired, but he wants to dance? Naum, Naum!

DAVID.

Enough, Naum! Take a rest.

NAUM.

Out of breath.

I want to dance.

Stops and stamps his foot hysterically.

Why am I not allowed to dance? Or do you all want me to die soon?

SARAH.

You will live yet, Naum. You will live yet.

NAUM.

Almost crying.

Why don't they allow me to dance? I want to dance. I have looked for credit long enough, I want to amuse myself. Am I an old man to be in bed and cough there? Cough! Cough!

He coughs and cries simultaneously. Anathema whispers something to the dancing-master, who expresses compassion, nods his head, and prepares to go.

DANCING-MASTER.

Until to-morrow, monsieur Naum. I am afraid that our lesson was a little too long.

NAUM.

To-morrow—don't fail to come to-morrow. Do you hear? I want to dance.

The dancing-master goes out, bowing. Naum follows him.

NAUM.

To-morrow, without fail. Do you hear? Without fail.

They go out.

ANATHEMA.

What are you thinking of, David? Allow me to be not only your private secretary—although I am proud of this honor—but also your friend. Since the time when you received the money you are oppressed by a dark sorrow, and it pains me to look at you.

DAVID.

What is there that I should rejoice over, Nullius?

SARAH.

And Rosa? Do not sin against God, David! Do not our eyes rest upon her beauty and youth? Before even the silent moon dared not look at her, one star dared not whisper about her to any other star,—while now she is riding about in a carriage, and everybody looks at her, and horsemen gallop after her. Just think of it, Nullius, horsemen gallop after her!

DAVID.

And Naum?

SARAH.

What about Naum? He has long been ill, you know it, and death upon a soft bed is not worse than death upon the pavement. And perhaps he will live yet, he will live yet (cries.) David, Abraham Khessin and Sonka's girl are waiting for you in the yard.

DAVID.

Morosely.

What do they want, money? Sarah, give them a few pennies and let them go.

SARAH.

In the end they will draw out all the money we have, Nullius. I have given to Khessin twice already. He is like sand,—no matter how much water you pour into it, it is always dry and greedy.

DAVID.

Nonsense! we have too much money, Sarah. But it pains me to look at the people, Nullius. Since the time when you brought us this fortune—

ANATHEMA.

Which you earned by your sufferings, Leizer.

DAVID.

Since that time, the people have changed so much for the worse. You like to have the people bow to you very low, Nullius? I do not like it—human beings are not dogs that they should crawl on their bellies. And you like to have the people tell you, Nullius, that you are the wisest, the most magnanimous, the best of all living beings—whereas you are only an ordinary old Jew, like many another Jew. I do not like it, Nullius,—for the sons of the God of truth and mercy it is unbecoming to lie, even while dying of the cruelties of truth.

ANATHEMA.

Thoughtfully.

Riches are a terrible power, Leizer. No one asks you where your money came from; they see your might and they worship it.

DAVID.

Might? And Naum? And I, Nullius? Can I buy for all the money even a single day of health and life?

ANATHEMA.

You look considerably fresher now.

DAVID.

Smiling gloomily.

Yes? Should I, perhaps, also engage a dancing-master? What do you advise me, Nullius?

SARAH.

Don't forget Rosa, father. Is it not a great sin against God to hide the beauty of the face? It is given as a joy and a pleasure to the eyes; God Himself reveals His beauty in a beautiful face, and did we not lift our hands against God Himself when we stained our Rosa's face with coal and soot, when we made her terrible and sorrowful to look upon?

DAVID.

Beauty is withering. Everything is dying, Sarah.

SARAH.

But the lily also withers, and the narcissus dies, the petals of the yellow rose fall apart—would you, David, trample all flowers under foot and heap abuse upon the yellow rose? Do not doubt, David,—the God of righteousness has given you riches—will you who were so firm in misfortune that you did not blaspheme God even once—will you grow weak in your happiness?

ANATHEMA.

You are perfectly right, madam Leizer. Rosa has so many suitors that all she needs is to choose.

DAVID.

Rising angrily.

I will not give Rosa to any of them.

SARAH.

Why not, David?

DAVID.

I will not give Rosa to any of them. They are like dogs that want to eat out of the golden bowl—I will drive the dogs away.

Enter Rosa. She is dressed richly, but simply. She is somewhat pale and fatigued, but very beautiful. She tries to speak and to move gracefully, but at times she forgets herself and becomes rude and vociferous. She feds tormented by this. Rosa is accompanied by two horsemen. The older man is very pale and he frowns angrily. Naum clings to Rosa, as though seeking protection in her youth, strength, and beauty, and he walks faintly after her.

DAVID.

In a rather loud voice.

Sarah, here are the suitors.

SARAH.

Waving her hand.

Oh, be silent, David.

ROSA.

Kissing her mother carelessly.

How tired I am, mamma. Good afternoon, father.

SARAH.

Take care of yourself, Rosochka; you mustn't study so much.

To the older of the two cavaliers.

Please tell her that she mustn't work so hard—what does she need to work for now?

YOUNG RIDER.

In a low voice.

People should pray before your daughter, madam Leizer. Soon a temple will be erected in her honor.

OLDER RIDER.

Smiling.

And near the temple, a cemetery. Madam Leizer, there are always cemeteries near the temples.

ROSA.

Good-by. I am tired. If you are disengaged, come in to-morrow morning—I may go out with you again.

OLDER RIDER.

Shrugging his shoulders.

Disengaged? Oh, yes, of course, we are entirely free.

Harshly.

Good-by.

YOUNG RIDER.

With a sigh.

Good-by.

They go out.

SARAH.

Uneasily.

Rosochka, I think you have offended him. Why did you do it?

ROSA.

That doesn't matter, mamma.

ANATHEMA.

To David.

These are not suitors, David.

David laughs morosely. Anathema runs over to Rosa and offers her his arm. He leads her, half-dancing, merrily whistling the same tune that the organ had played.

ANATHEMA.

Oh, Rosa, were it not for my age (whistles) and not for my illness (whistles), I would be the first to ask your hand.

ROSA.

Laughing haughtily.

Better illness than death.

DAVID.

You are a very gay man, Nullius.

ANATHEMA.

Whistling.

The absence of wealth and, then, a clear conscience, David, a clear conscience. I have nothing to do, so I walk arm in arm with Rosa. You spoke of death, Rosa?

ROSA.

Yes.

ANATHEMA.

Stopping.

You are indeed beautiful, Rosa.

Thoughtfully.

And what if.... If.... But no; duty above all. Listen to me, Rosa: don't give yourself away to any one less than a prince, even though the prince of darkness.

NAUM.

Rosochka, why did you go away from me? I feel cold when you do not hold my hand. Hold my hand, Rosochka.

ROSA.

Hesitating.

But I must go to change my dress, Naum.

NAUM.

I will accompany you as far as your room. You know, I danced again to-day and danced very well. I am not so short of breath now any longer.

With a feeling of adoration and slight envy.

How beautiful you are, Rosochka!

SARAH.

Wait, Rosochka, I will comb your hair myself. Will you allow me?

ROSA.

You do it very badly, mamma; you kiss it more than you comb it—my hair gets entangled from your kisses.

DAVID.

Is that how you answer your mother, Rosa?

ROSA.

Stopping.

Why do you despise my beauty, father?

DAVID.

Before, I used to love your beauty, Rosa.

SARAH.

With indignation.

What did you say, David?

DAVID.

Yes, Sarah. I love the pearl when it is on the bottom of the sea; but after it is taken out of the sea, it becomes blood—and then I do not like pearls, Sarah.

ROSA.

Why do you despise my beauty, father? Do you know what another girl in my place would have done? She would have lost her mind and would have whirled about on earth like a dog that swallowed a pin. But what am I doing? I am studying, father. I am studying by day and night, father.

In great agitation.

I don't know anything. I don't know how to speak, I don't even know how to walk—I stoop, I stoop as I walk.

SARAH.

That isn't true, Rosa.

ROSA.

Agitated.

Here I have forgotten myself for a while, and I am shouting, I am croaking hoarsely, like a crow that has caught cold. I want to be beautiful—that's what I was born for. You laugh? It is in vain. Do you know that your daughter will be a duchess, a princess? I want to add a scepter to my crown!

ANATHEMA.

Oho!

All three go out. David jumps from his seat angrily and paces the room quickly.

DAVID.

What a comedy, Nullius! Yesterday she begged Heaven for a herring, and to-day a crown is not enough for her. To-morrow she will take the throne away from Satan and will sit upon it, Nullius, and she will sit firmly! What a comedy!

Anathema has changed the expression of his face; he is stern and morose.

ANATHEMA.

No, David Leizer, it is a tragedy.

DAVID.

'Tis a comedy, Nullius, a comedy. Don't you hear the laughter of Satan in all this?

Pointing at the door.

You saw a corpse dancing—I see it every morning.

ANATHEMA.

Is Naum so dangerously ill?

DAVID.

Dangerously ill? Three physicians, three serious gentlemen, examined him yesterday and told me quietly that in a month from now Naum will die, that he is already more than half a corpse. And every morning I see in this white marble parlor a corpse jumping to the tune of music—is it not a dream, Nullius? Is it not the laughter of Satan?

ANATHEMA.

And what did they say about your health, David?

DAVID.

I did not ask them. I don't want them to tell me. You may also jump to the tune of music, David. How would you like it, Nullius: two corpses dancing in a white marble hall?

He laughs bitterly.

ANATHEMA.

You frighten me, my friend. What is going on within your soul?

DAVID.

Do not touch my soul, Nullius—there is horror in it!

Clasps his head.

Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do? I am alone in the whole world.

ANATHEMA.

What ails you, David? Calm yourself.

DAVID.

Stopping before Anathema, horror-stricken.

Death, Nullius, death! You have brought us death. Was I not mute before the face of Death? Did I not wait for it as for a friend? But here you have brought us riches—and I want to dance. I want to dance, yet death clutches at my heart; I want to eat, for hunger has entered my very bones,—but my old stomach refuses to accept any food; I want to laugh, but my face is sobbing, my eyes are weeping, and my soul is crying with mortal fear. Hunger has crept into my bones, and poison is already in my blood—there is no salvation for me; Death has overtaken me.

ANATHEMA.

Significantly.

The poor are waiting for you, David.

DAVID.

What matters it?

ANATHEMA.

The poor are waiting for you, David.

DAVID.

The poor are always waiting.

ANATHEMA.

Sternly.

Now I see that you are really lost, David. God has forsaken you.

David stops and looks at him, surprised and angry. Anathema, with head thrown back haughtily, meets his look calmly and sternly. Silence.

DAVID.

You say this to me, Nullius?

ANATHEMA.

Yes, I say this to you, David Leizer. Beware, David Leizer, you are in Satan's hands.

DAVID.

Terrified.

Nullius, my friend, you frighten me. What have I done to deserve your anger and these cruel, terrible words of yours? You have always treated me and my children so kindly.... Your hair is just as grey as mine, in your face I have long observed a hidden grief, and—I respect you, Nullius! Why are you silent? A terrible fire is burning in your eyes.—Who are you, Nullius? But you are silent.—No, no, do not lower your eyes, I am even more terrified when they are lowered, for then upon your brow appear fiery letters of some vague—of some terrible—fatal truth.

ANATHEMA.

Tenderly.

David!

DAVID.

Joyously.

You have started to speak, Nullius.

ANATHEMA.

Be silent and listen to me. From madness I will bring you back to wisdom, from death to life.

DAVID.

I am silent and I am listening.

ANATHEMA.

Your madness consists of this, David Leizer,—you have sought for God all your life, and when God came to you, you said: "I do not know You." Your death consists of this, David Leizer,—blinded by misfortunes, like a horse that is turning around in the darkness, you failed to notice the people and you remained in their midst alone, with your illness and your riches. There in the yard Life is waiting for you—and you, blind man, you close the door against it. Dance, David, dance,— Death has lifted the bow and is waiting for you. Be more graceful, David Leizer, more graceful; round out your steps more neatly!

DAVID.

What do you want of me?

ANATHEMA.

Return to God that which God has given to you.

DAVID.

Darkly.

Has God given me anything?

ANATHEMA.

Every rouble in your pocket is a knife which you thrust into the heart of the hungry. Distribute your fortune to the poor, give bread to the hungry, and you will conquer Death.

DAVID.

No one gave a crust of bread to David when he was hungry. By satisfying their hunger, will I still the hunger that is in my bones?

ANATHEMA.

In them your own hunger will be stilled.

DAVID.

Shall I get back my health and my strength?

ANATHEMA.

In them you will be strong.

DAVID.

Shall I drive out death, already in my blood, which is as thin as water, which is already in my veins, that have become hard like dried-up cords? Shall I recover life?

ANATHEMA.

By their life you will prolong your life. Now you have but one heart, David,—but then you will have a million hearts.

DAVID.

But I shall die!

ANATHEMA.

No, you will be immortal!

David retreats in horror.

DAVID.

Your lips have uttered a terrible word. Who are you that you dare promise immortality? Are not life and death in the hand of God?

ANATHEMA.

God said: Reestablish life through life.

DAVID.

But people are wicked and vicious, and the hungry one is nearer to God than the well-fed.

ANATHEMA.

Remember Hannah and Benjamin....

DAVID.

Be silent!

ANATHEMA.

Remember Raphael and little Moishe....

DAVID.

Grief-stricken.

Be silent, be silent!

ANATHEMA.

Remember your little birds who died upon the cold branches of winter—

David cries Utterly.

ANATHEMA.

When the lark sings in the blue sky, will you say to it: "Be silent, little bird, God does not need your song"—And will you not give a kernel to it when it is hungry? And will you not cover it upon your breast when it is cold, that it may feel warm and save its voice for Spring? Who are you, then, unfortunate man, who has no pity on birds and who turns children out into the storm? Remember how your little Moishe died. Remember, David, and say: "The people are vicious, wicked, and unworthy of my kindness!"

David bends his knees as under a heavy weight and lifts his hands, as though warding off from his head a blow from the sky. He speaks hoarsely.

DAVID.

Adenoi! Adenoi!

Anathema, with arms folded on his breast, looks at him in silence.

DAVID.

Mercy! Mercy!

ANATHEMA.

Quickly.

David, the poor are waiting for you. They will go away soon.

DAVID.

No, no!

ANATHEMA.

The poor are always waiting, but they grow tired of waiting and they go away.

DAVID.

They will not go away from me. Oh, Nullius, Nullius!... Oh, wise Nullius! Oh, foolish Nullius! Is it possible that you did not understand that I have long been waiting for the poor and that their voice is in my ears and in my heart? When wheels are riding along a dust-covered road, on which rain had just fallen, they think as they turn and leave a trace: Here we are making a road. But the road was there before, Nullius, the road was there before!

Gayly.

Call the poor over to me.

ANATHEMA.

Consider, David, whom you are calling.

Darkly.

Do not deceive me, David.

DAVID

I have never deceived any one, Nullius.

Resolutely and majestically.

You spoke and I was silent, and I listened; now be silent and listen to me: I have given my soul not to man but to God, and His power is over me. And I command you: Call my wife Sarah over here, and my children Naum and Rosa, and all the people in my household, whoever they may be.

ANATHEMA.

Obediently.

I shall call them.

DAVID.

And call the poor who are waiting for me in the yard. And when you go out on the street, see whether there are any poor people waiting for me, and if you see them, call them also. For my lips are burning with their thirst, their hunger torments my body with insatiable hunger, and I am hastening to announce to the people my last, unchangeable will. Go!

ANATHEMA.

Obediently.

Your will is upon me.

Anathema goes to the door. Silence.

DAVID.

The spirit of God has come over me. Adenoi. Adenoi.... Who was the terrible one that spoke through the voice of old Nullius, when he spoke about my little children who died? Only an arrow out of the bow of the Omniscient strikes the very heart with such good aim. My little birds.... Verily, You have saved me upon the edge of the abyss, and You have torn my spirit away from the clutches of the Devil. He who looks straight at the sun may grow blind, but with the lapse of time the light may come back to the revived eyes; but he who looks into darkness grows blind forever. My little birds....

Suddenly he laughs softly and joyously, and he whispers.

I myself shall bring them bread and milk, I shall hide myself behind the bed-curtain that they should not see me—children are so tender and easily frightened and they are afraid of unfamiliar people; and I have such a terrible beard. (Laughs.) I shall hide myself behind the bed-curtain and will watch how the children are eating. They need so little; they eat a little crust of bread and they have enough; they drink a cup of milk and they know no thirst any longer. Then they sing—But how strange! does not the night pass away when the sun comes? do not the waves, at the end of the storm, lie down calmly and quietly like lambs resting in the pasture? Whence came the alarm, the slight confusion, and the fear? Shades of unknown woes are passing over my soul and soaring noiselessly over my thoughts. Ah, if I remained poor, if I remained unknown, under the shade of the fence where the refuse is cast away! You have lifted me to the peak of the mountain and You show my old, sorrowful face to the world. But such is Your will. You will command—and the lamb will become a lion; You will command—and the furious lion will stretch out her powerful breasts to her little ones; You will command—and David Leizer, who has grown white in shade, will fearlessly rise to the sun. Adenoi! Adenoi!

Sarah, Naum, and Rosa enter, alarmed.

SARAH.

David, what is it you have called us for? And why was your Nullius so strict when he told us of your command? We have not sinned against you, and if we have sinned, investigate it, but do not look at us so sternly.

ROSA.

May I sit down?

DAVID.

Be silent and wait. All those whom I have called are not here yet. Be seated, Rosa, if you are tired, but when the time comes, rise. You, too, may sit down, Naum.

The servants enter irresolutely; a lackey, resembling an English Minister; a chamber-maid; a cook; a gardener; a dish-washer, and others. They move about in confusion. Soon about fifteen or twenty poor people enter, in groups. Among them are: Abraham Khessin, an old man; Sonka's girl; Joseph Kritsky, Sarah Lepke, and several other Jews and Jewesses. But there are also Greeks, and Little Russians, and Russians and other paupers whose nationality has been lost in rags and filth; two drunkards. Purikes, Ivan Bezkrainy, and the Organ-grinder, with the same outworn instrument, are also here. But Anathema is still away.

DAVID.

Please, please. Come in more boldly, don't stop at the threshold,—others are coming behind you. But it would be well if you wiped your feet first; this rich house is not mine, and I must return it as clean as when I took it.

KHESSIN.

We have not yet learned how to walk on rugs, and we have not yet any patent leather shoes, as your son Naum has. How do you do, David Leizer? Peace be upon your house.

DAVID.

Peace unto you, too, Abraham. But why do you call me David Leizer, when you used to call me simply David before?

KHESSIN.

You are now such a mighty man, David Leizer. Yes, I used to call you merely David before, but here I was waiting for you in the yard, and the longer I waited, the longer your name grew, Mr. David Leizer.

DAVID.

You are right, Abraham: when the sun sets, the shadows become longer, and when a man becomes smaller, his name grows longer. But wait another while, Abraham.

LACKEY.

To drunkard.

You better move away from me.

DRUNKARD.

Keep quiet, fool! You are a servant here, while we are the guests.

LACKEY.

Ruffian! You aren't in a car here, that you spit on the floor.

DRUNKARD.

Mr. Leizer, a certain man, who looked like an old devil, caught me by the collar and said: "David Leizer, who received an inheritance, is calling you." I asked him, "What for?" So he answered: "David wants to make you his heir," and he began to laugh. And now that I came here, your servant is chasing me away.

DAVID.

Smiling.

Nullius is a gay man and he never misses an opportunity for jesting. But you are my guest, and I ask you to wait.

SARAH.

After some hesitancy.

Well, how is your business getting along, Ivan? You have fewer competitors now.

BEZKRAINY.

It's bad, Sarah; we have no customers.

PURIKES.

Like an echo.

No customers.

SARAH.

Compassionately.

Ai—Ai—Ai! It's bad, if there are no customers.

ROSA.

Don't speak, mamma. Do you want, perhaps, to smear my face again with soot?

Pushing several paupers into the door, Anathema enters, apparently fatigued.

ANATHEMA.

Well, David, meanwhile receive these. Your millions frighten the poor, and nobody wanted to follow me, thinking that some deception is hidden here.

DRUNKARD.

This is the man who caught me by the collar.

ANATHEMA.

Ah, is that you? How do you do? How do you do?

DAVID.

Thank you, Nullius. Now take ink and paper and sit down near me, by the table; bring me my old counting-board.... As everything I am about to say is very important, I ask you to write it correctly and to make no errors—we shall give an account of every word before God. I ask you all to rise and listen attentively, striving to understand the great words which I am about to utter.

Sternly.

Rise, Rosa.

SARAH.

God, have mercy on us! What are you going to do, David?

DAVID.

Be silent, Sarah. You will come with me.

ANATHEMA.

Ready.

All listen, standing.

DAVID.

Solemnly.

Upon the death of my brother, Moses Leizer, I received an inheritance (on the counting-board) of two million dollars.

ANATHEMA.

Nervously, lifting four fingers.

Which means four million roubles.

DAVID.

Sternly.

Do not interrupt me, Nullius. Yes, it does mean four million roubles. And now, submitting to the voice of my conscience and the command of God, and also in memory of my children, Hannah, Benjamin, Raphael, and Moses, who died of hunger and disease in their childhood....

He lowers his head and weeps bitterly. Sarah also cries bitterly.

SARAH.

Oh, my little Moishe! David, David, our little Moishe is dead.

DAVID.

Wiping his eyes with a large red handkerchief.

Be silent, Sarah. What was I going to say to them, Nullius?... Well, write, Nullius, write. I know.

Firmly.

I have resolved, in accordance with the command of God, who is Truth and Mercy, to distribute all my possessions to the poor. Am I speaking properly, Nullius?

ANATHEMA.

I hear God in your words.

At first no one believes David; but soon joyous doubts and unexpected fear come over them. As though in sleep the people repeat: "Four millions, four millions!" and they hide their faces with their hands. The Organ-grinder comes forward.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Morosely.

Will you buy me a new organ, David?

ANATHEMA.

Hush, musician! Back!

ORGAN-GRINDER.

Retreating.

I want also a new monkey.

DAVID.

Let your hearts rejoice, O unfortunate people, and with a smile on your lips answer the mercy of Heaven. Go from here to the city, like heralds of happiness,—go through all its streets and squares, and shout everywhere: "David Leizer, the old Jew, who is to die soon, received an inheritance and now distributes it among the poor." And if you will see a man weeping, and a child whose face is bloodless and whose eyes are dim, and a woman whose breasts are shrunken like those of an old goat,—tell them also: "Go, David is calling you." Do I speak properly, Nullius?

ANATHEMA.

Yes, yes. But have you called all those who should be called?

DAVID.

And if you should see an intoxicated man slumbering amidst his vomitings, wake him and tell him: "Go, David is calling you." And if you should see a thief thrashed in the market-place by those he had robbed, call him also, with words of kindness, yet firm enough to be regarded as a command: "Go, David is calling you." And if you should see people who in their misery have become irritated and furious and who are beating one another with sticks and bits of brick, announce to them also in words of peace: "Go, David is calling you." And if you should see a bashful man, who while walking in the wide street lowers his eyes before the eyes of others, but who stares greedily when no one looks at him, tell him also in a low voice, without offending his pride: "Are you not looking for David? Go, he has long been waiting for you." And if in the evening, when the Devil sows the seeds of night over the earth, you should see a woman, hideously painted, just as the heathen paint the bodies of their dead, and who stares boldly, for she has lost all shame, and who lifts her shoulders, for fear of a blow, tell her also: "Go, David is calling you." Do I speak properly, Nullius?

ANATHEMA.

Yes, David. But have you called all who should be called?

DAVID.

And whatever form of aversion or fear poverty may assume, and in whatever colors misery may paint itself, and by whatever words suffering may fence itself around, rouse with a loud call those who are fatigued, in words of life return life to those who are dying! Do not trust the silence and the darkness if they obstruct your way like a wall: Shout more loudly into the silence and the darkness, for there dwells unspeakable horror.

ANATHEMA.

That's right, David, that's right! I see how your spirit climbs to the peak of the mountain and how you knock loudly at the iron gates of eternity: Open! I love you, David, I kiss your hand, David,—like a dog I am ready to crawl before you and to obey your commandments. Call, David, call! Rise, O earth! North and South, East and West, I command you, by the will of David, my master, answer the call of him who calls you, and stop at his feet like four oceans of tears. Call, David, call!

DAVID.

Lifting his hands.

North and South....

ANATHEMA.

East and West....

DAVID.

David is calling you all.

ANATHEMA.

David is calling you all.

Confusion, tears, laughter,—for all believe him now. Anathema kisses David's hand, springing about delightedly. He drags the Organ-grinder by the collar to the center.

ANATHEMA.

Look, David, here's a musician!

Laughs and shakes the Organ-grinder.

So you don't want your old music, eh? You need a new monkey, eh? Perhaps you will ask for a powder that destroys the fleas? Ask; we shall give you everything.

DAVID.

Be quiet, Nullius, be quiet. We must work. You are an expert at counting, Nullius, are you not?

ANATHEMA.

I? Oh, Rabbi David! I am myself Numbers, I am myself—Measures and Weights.

DAVID.

Be seated, then; write and count. But there is one more thing, my dear children: I am an old Jew, who can divide a piece of garlic into ten portions. I know not only the need of man, but I saw also how a roach was starving—yes,—I saw also how small children died of hunger....

Lowers his head and heaves a deep sigh.

Therefore do not deceive me, and remember that there is a number and a measure for everything. And where ten copecks are needed, do not ask for twenty, and where one measure of grain is needed, do not ask for two, for what is superfluous for one is always essential to another. Like brothers having one mother whose breasts are full but are quickly exhausted, do not abuse one another, and do not offend the generous but careful mother.... You may begin. Nullius, is everything ready?

ANATHEMA.

You may begin. I am waiting, David.

DAVID.

Stand in line, then, I beg you. I have not received the money yet; it is still in America, but I shall write down exactly how much each one of you is to get according to his need.

SARAH.

David, David, what are you doing with us? Look at Rosa, look at poor Naum.

Naum is dumfounded—he wants to say something, but is unable; he clutches the air with outstretched fingers. A little distance away from him, alone in her youth, strength, and beauty, amidst all these poor people, with emaciated faces and flat breasts, stands Rosa, who looks at her father defiantly.

ROSA.

Are we less your children than these who have been picked up in the street? And are we not brother and sister to those who died?

DAVID.

Rosa is right, mother,—everybody will get the proper share.

ROSA.

Yes? But do you know, father, what is the proper share for everybody?

She laughs bitterly and wants to go away.

DAVID.

Gently and sadly.

Stay here, Rosa!

ROSA.

I have nothing to do here. I have heard you call everybody.... Oh, you called very loudly! ... But did you call the beautiful? I have nothing to do here.

Goes out.

SARAH.

Rising irresolutely.

Rosochka!...

DAVID.

As gently as before, with a smile.

Stay here, mother. Where will you go? You will come with me.

Naum makes a few steps after Rosa, then he returns and sits down near Sarah.

DAVID.

Ready, Nullius? Come over, then, honorable man, you who stand first in the line.

KHESSIN.

Advancing.

Here I am, David.

DAVID.

What is your name?

KHESSIN.

My name is Abraham Khessin.... But have you forgotten my name? You and I played together when we were children.

DAVID.

Hush! It is necessary for the sake of maintaining order, Abraham. Write the name clearly, Nullius. This is the first who waited for me and upon whom the will of my God has manifested itself.

ANATHEMA.

Writes carefully.

Number one.... I'll rule the paper later, David. Number one: Abraham Khessin....

NAUM.

In a low voice.

Mamma, I will not dance any more.

CURTAIN.

ACT THREE

The same dust-covered road, with the bent posts and the old, deserted sentinel-box; the same little shops. The sun is burning as mercilessly as when Anathema first appeared there.

A large number of poor people are gathered there to welcome David Leizer, who had distributed his fortune among the poor. The air is rent by shouting, motion, and merry bustling. Purikes, Bezkrainy, and Sonka, happy now, and proud of their shops, are doing a brisk business in soda-water and candies. Sarah Leizer is sitting as before near her little shop, dressed neatly but poorly.

A solemn welcome is arranged for David and Anathema, who had gone to the seashore. All the little shops, even the posts and the deserted sentinel-box, are decorated with parti-colored rags and with branches of trees; on the right side of the road, upon the scorched grass, an orchestra is preparing to meet David—several Jews with various instruments, among which there are: a good violin, cymbals, a broken brass trumpet, and even a drum, slightly broken. The members of the orchestra are scolding one another criticizing each other's instruments.

There are a number of children in the crowd. Also, little babes in arms. Abraham Khessin and those who were in line when David started to distribute his money are there; a little distance away from the crowd stands the stern organ-grinder, with his organ.

YOUNG JEW.

Blowing his crushed trumpet.

But why does it play only on one side? Such a good trumpet.

VIOLINIST.

Agitated.

What do you want to do with me? How can you welcome David Leizer with such a trumpet? You might as well have brought along a cat and pulled her by the tail, and think that David would call you his son?

YOUNG JEW.

Obstinately.

It's a good trumpet. My father played it when he was in the army, and everybody was thankful to him.

VIOLINIST.

Your father played it, but who sat upon it? Why is it so crushed? How can you welcome David Leizer with such a crushed trumpet?

YOUNG JEW.

With tears.

It's a very good trumpet.

VIOLINIST.

To a clean-shaven old man.

Is that your drum? Tell me, do you seriously believe that this is a drum? Have you ever seen another drum with a hole big enough for a dog to crawl through?

KHESSIN.

Don't get excited, Leibke. You are a very talented man, and your music will be fine, and David Leizer will be greatly moved by it.

VIOLINIST.

But I can't bear it. You are a very honorable man, Abraham Khessin, you have lived long in the world, but have you ever seen such a big hole in a drum?

KHESSIN.

No, Leibke, I haven't seen such a big hole, but that is not at all important. David Leizer was a multimillionaire, he had twenty million roubles, but he is unspoiled and humble, and your love will afford him joy. Does the soul need a drum to be able to express its love? I see here people who have neither drums nor trumpets, and who weep for happiness—their tears are noiseless like the dew.—Rise higher, Leibke, rise a little higher to the sky, and you will not hear any drums there, but therefore you will hear the tears falling.

OLD MAN.

You mustn't quarrel and darken the days of bright happiness,—that would be disagreeable to David.

A Wanderer is listening to their conversation; his face is stern and swarthy. His hair and his clothes are covered with dust. He is guarded in his movements, but his eyes, lustreless, stare ahead fixedly, like open windows at night.

WANDERER.

He has brought peace and happiness on earth, and the whole world knows of him already. I have come from distant places, where the people are different from you, and where the customs are different from yours, and only in their suffering and their misery they are your brethren. And there they know already about David Leizer, who distributes bread and happiness, and they bless his name.

KHESSIN.

Do you hear, Sarah?

Wiping his eyes.

It is of your husband they are speaking, of David Leizer.

SARAH.

I hear, Abraham, I hear everything. But I hear no longer the voice of Naum who died; I hear no longer the voice of Rosa. Old man, you have wandered much over the world, and you know even the people that do not resemble us,—have you not met on the road a beautiful girl, the most beautiful of all girls on earth?

BEZKRAINY.

She had a daughter, Rosa, a beautiful girl, she ran away from home because she would not give up her share to the poor. Did she take much money along with her, Sarah?

SARAH.

Can there be such a thing as too much money for Rosa? You may as well say that there are too many diamonds in the Czar's crown and too many rays in the sun.

WANDERER.

No, I have not seen your daughter: I am traveling along the highways, and there you can see neither the rich nor the beautiful.

SARAH.

But perhaps you have seen people gathered, talking enthusiastically about a certain beautiful girl? That is my daughter, old man.

WANDERER.

No, I have not seen such people. But I have seen other people gathered, speaking about David Leizer, who is distributing bread and happiness. Is it true that your David has healed a woman who was suffering from an incurable disease and was already dying?

KHESSIN.

Smiling.

No, that is not true.

WANDERER.

Is it true that David restored sight to a man who was blind from the day of his birth?

KHESSIN.

Shaking his head.

No, that is not true. Some one has been deceiving the people who do not resemble us. Only God can perform miracles—David Leizer is only a kind-hearted and worthy man, such as all men who have not forgotten God should be.

PURIKES.

It is not true, Abraham Khessin. David is not an ordinary man, and he possesses a superhuman power. I know it.

The crowd that surrounded them is eagerly listening to Purikes.

PURIKES.

I saw with my own eyes, how the one we regarded as a customer came upon the deserted, sunny road, but he was not a customer. I saw with my own eyes how he touched David with his hand, and David started to speak so terribly that I could not listen to him. Do you remember it, Ivan?

BEZKRAINY.

That's true. David is not an ordinary man.

SONKA.

Does an ordinary man throw money at people, like stones at a dog? Does an ordinary man go to weep over the grave of another's child, whom he did not bring forth, whom he did not fondle, and whom he did not bury when death came?

WOMAN.

With child in her arms.

David is not an ordinary man. Who ever saw an ordinary man who was more a mother to a child than his own mother? Who hides behind the bed-curtain and watches how other people's children are eating, and who weeps for joy at the sight of them? Of whom even the tiniest children are not afraid, and they play with his venerable beard as with the beard of their grandfather? Did not the stupid little Rubin tear out a tuft of grey hair from David Leizer's venerable beard? Did David grow angry? Did he cry out for pain, did he stamp his feet? No, he began to laugh as if overcome with happiness, and he cried as though for joy.

DRUNKARD.

David is not an ordinary man. He is a queer fellow. I said to him: "Why do you give me money? It is true, I am barefooted and unwashed, but do not think that I will buy boots and soap for the money you give me. I'll spend it on drink in the nearest dram-shop." That's what I had to tell him, for although I am a drunkard, I am an honest man. And the queer David answered me jestingly, like a good-natured lunatic: "Semyon, if it pleases you to drink, please drink,—I have not come to teach the people but to bring them joy."

OLD JEW.

There are many teachers, but there is none to bring them joy. May God bless David who brings joy to mankind.

BEZKRAINY.

To the drunkard.

So you didn't buy any boots, did you?

DRUNKARD.

No, I am an honest man.

VIOLINIST.

In despair.

Well, tell me all, you who have any conscience: Is this the kind of music that should greet him who brings joy to mankind? I am ashamed that I have gotten together such a poor orchestra, and I would rather die than disgrace myself before David.

SARAH.

To the organ-grinder.

Will you also play? You have such a fine organ now that even angels might dance to your music.

ORGAN-GRINDER.

I will.

SARAH.

But why have you no monkey?

ORGAN-GRINDER.

I couldn't find a good monkey. All the monkeys I have seen are either old, or mean, or altogether untalented, and are even unable to catch fleas. The fleas have already destroyed one of my monkeys, and I don't want another monkey destroyed that way. A monkey needs talent, just like a man,—it isn't enough to have a tail, even to be a monkey.

The wanderer is questioning Khessin in a low voice.

WANDERER.

Tell me the truth, Jew: I was sent here by my people, and I walked many miles on my old legs, under the mercilessly scorching sun, for the purpose of learning the truth. Who is this David who brings joy to mankind. Let it be as you say that he does not heal the sick....

KHESSIN.

It is a sin and an offence against God to think that a human being can heal.

WANDERER.

Be it so. But is it not true that Leizer wants to build an enormous palace of white stone and blue glass and gather together all the poor of the world there?

KHESSIN.

In embarrassment.

I do not know. Is it possible to build such a large palace?

WANDERER.

With conviction.

It is possible. Is it true that he wants to take away the power from the rich and bestow it upon the poor? (In a whisper.) And to take the power from those who rule, the might from those who are in command, and distribute it among all the people on earth, giving an equal share to each of them?

KHESSIN.

I do not know

Timidly.

You frighten me, old man.

WANDERER.

Looking around cautiously.

And is it true that he has already sent heralds to the black people that they, too, shall prepare themselves to accept the new kingdom, for he wants to bestow the power equally upon the black as upon the white, giving to each one according to his desire.

(In a mysterious whisper.)

In accordance with justice.

On the road appears David Leizer, walking slowly; in his right hand, a staff; Anathema is holding his left arm reverently. There is agitation and confusion among the waiting crowd: the musicians rush for their instruments; the women pick up their children quickly. They shout: "He's coming! He's coming!" They call: "Moishe, Petya, Sarah!"

WANDERER.

And is it true....

KHESSIN.

Ask him. Here he is coming.

Noticing the crowd, Anathema stops David, who is absorbed in thought, and he points triumphantly to the people. Thus they stand for some time: David with his grey head thrown back, and Anathema clinging close to him. Anathema whispers something in David's ear and keeps on pointing with his left hand. Leibke, bustling about desperately, gets his orchestra together and they begin to play a lively wild tune which is as discordant as the fluttering parti-colored rags. Shouting, laughter, the children are rushing forward, some one is crying; many people are outstretching their hands prayerfully to David. Then David moves forward amidst this chaos of lively sounds. The crowd makes room for him to pass; many throw branches and twigs on the ground and spread their clothes before him; women tear of their head-dress and throw it at his feet on the dusty road. Thus he walks over to Sarah, who rises and welcomes him together with the other women. The music stops. But David is silent. Confusion.

KHESSIN.

Why are you silent, David? The people you have made happy are greeting you and spreading their clothing before you on the ground, for their love is great and their hearts cannot comprise all their joy. Say a word to them—they are waiting.

David remains standing, with lowered eyes; with both hands he is leaning on his staff; his face is stern and serious. Anathema looks at him, over his shoulder, with alarm.

ANATHEMA.

They are waiting for you, David. Say unto them a word of joy and calm their love.

David is silent.

WOMAN.

Why are you silent, David? You frighten us. Are you not the David who brings joy to mankind?

ANATHEMA.

Impatiently.

Speak, David. Their agitated ears are waiting for a word of joy and by your silence, which is like the dumbness of the rock, you crush their soul to the earth. Speak!

DAVID.

Lifting his eyes and surveying the crowd sternly.

Wherefore these honors and the noise of voices, and the music which plays so loudly? To whom do you render honors worthy of a prince or of one who has performed a great deed? Is it before me, before a poor old man who must die soon, that you spread out your clothes upon the ground? What have I done to deserve your delight and exultation, to force tears of senseless joy from your eyes? I gave you money and bread—but that was the money of the Uppermost, it came from Him and went back to Him through you. The only thing I have done was not to hide the money like a thief, I did not become a plunderer, like those who have forgotten God. Do I speak properly, Nullius?

ANATHEMA.

No, David, no. Your speech is not worthy of a wise man and it does not come forth from the lips of a humble man.

OLD MAN.

Bread without love is like grass without salt,—the stomach may be filled, but it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and a bitter recollection.

DAVID.

Have I forgotten anything, Nullius? Remind me, my friend: I am old and my eyesight is poor, but do I not see musicians there, Nullius? Tell me! Do I not see flags as red as the tongues of crows over my head? Tell me, Nullius.