The Project Gutenberg EBook of Anathema, by Leonid Andreyev This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Anathema A Tragedy in Seven Scenes Author: Leonid Andreyev Translator: Herman Bernstein Release Date: August 5, 2015 [EBook #49606] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANATHEMA *** Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) ANATHEMA A Tragedy in Seven Scenes BY 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....