The Melting-Pot

another three times on the mouth in token of peace and goodwill, and even the Jew-boy felt the spirit of love brooding over the earth, though he did not then know that this Christ, whom holy chants proclaimed re-risen, was born in the form of a brother Jew. And what added to the peace and holy joy was that our own Passover was shining before us. My mother had already made the raisin wine, and my greedy little brother Solomon had sipped it on the sly that very morning. We were all at home-all except my father-he was away in the little Synagogue at which he was cantor. Ah, such a voice he had-a voice of tears and thunder-when he prayed it was like a wounded soul beating at the gates of Heaven-but he sang even more beautifully in the ritual of home, and how we were looking forward to his hymns at the Passover table--

[He breaks down. The BARON has gradually turned round under the

spell of DAVID'S story and now listens hypnotised.] I was playing my cracked little fiddle. Little Miriam was making her doll dance to it. Ah, that decrepit old china doll-the only one the poor child had ever had-I can see it now-one eye, no nose, half an arm. We were all laughing to see it caper to my music.... My father flies in through the door, desperately clasping to his breast the Holy Scroll. We cry out to him to explain, and then we see that in that beloved mouth of song there is no longer a tongue-only blood. He tries to bar the door-a mob breaks in-we dash out through the back into the street. There are the soldiers-and the Face--

[VERA'S eyes involuntarily seek the face of her father, who

shrinks away as their eyes meet.]

VERA [In a low sob]

O God!

DAVID

When I came to myself, with a curious aching in my left shoulder, I saw lying beside me a strange shapeless Something....

[DAVID points weirdly to the floor, and VERA, hunched forwards,

gazes stonily at it, as if seeing the horror.] By the crimson doll in what seemed a hand I knew it must be little Miriam. The doll was a dream of beauty and perfection beside the mutilated mass which was all that remained of my sister, of my mother, of greedy little Solomon-Oh! You Christians can only see that rosy splendour on the horizon of happiness. And the Jew didn't see rosily enough for you, ha! ha! ha! the Jew who gropes in one great crimson mist.

[He breaks down in spasmodic, ironic, long-drawn, terrible

laughter.]

VERA [Trying vainly to tranquillise him]

Hush, David! Your laughter hurts more than tears. Let Vera comfort you.

[She kneels by his chair, tries to put her arms round him. ]

DAVID [Shuddering]

Take them away! Don't you feel the cold dead pushing between us?

VERA [Unfaltering, moving his face toward her lips]

Kiss me!

DAVID

I should feel the blood on my lips.

VERA

My love shall wipe it out.

DAVID

Love! Christian love!

[He unwinds her clinging arms; she sinks prostrate on the floor

as he rises.] For this I gave up my people-darkened the home that sheltered me-there was always a still, small voice at my heart calling me back, but I heeded nothing-only the voice of the butcher's daughter.

[Brokenly] Let me go home, let me go home.

[He looks lingeringly at VERA'S prostrate form, but overcoming

the instinct to touch and comfort her, begins tottering with

uncertain pauses toward the door leading to the hall.]

BARON [Extending his arms in relief and longing]

And here is your home, Vera!

[He raises her gradually from the floor; she is dazed, but

suddenly she becomes conscious of whose arms she is in, and

utters a cry of repulsion.]

VERA

Those arms reeking from that crimson river!

[She falls back.]

BARON [Sullenly]

Don't echo that babble. You came to these arms often enough when they were fresh from the battlefield.

VERA

But not from the shambles! You heard what he called you. Not soldier-butcher! Oh, I dared to dream of happiness after my nightmare of Siberia, but you-you--

[She breaks down for the first time in hysterical sobs. ]

BARON [Brokenly]

Vera! Little Vera! Don't cry! You stab me!

VERA

You thought you were ordering your soldiers to fire at the Jews, but it was my heart they pierced.

[She sobs on.]

BARON

... And my own.... But we will comfort each other. I will go to the Tsar myself-with my forehead to the earth-to beg for your pardon!... Come, put your wet face to little father's....

VERA [Violently pushing his face away]

I hate you! I curse the day I was born your daughter!

[She staggers toward the door leading to the interior. At the

same moment DAVID, who has reached the door leading to the hall,

now feeling subconsciously that VERA is going and that his last

reason for lingering on is removed, turns the door-handle. The

click attracts the BARON'S attention, he veers round.]

BARON [To DAVID]

Halt!

[DAVID turns mechanically. VERA drifts out through her door,

leaving the two men face to face. The BARON beckons to DAVID, who

as if hypnotised moves nearer. The BARON whips out his pistol,

slowly crosses to DAVID, who stands as if awaiting his fate. The

BARON hands the pistol to DAVID.] You were right!

[He steps back swiftly with a touch of stern heroism into the

attitude of the culprit at a military execution, awaiting the

bullet.] Shoot me!

DAVID [Takes the pistol mechanically, looks long and pensively at it as

with a sense of its irrelevance. Gradually his arm droops and lets

the pistol fall on the table, and there his hand touches a string

of his violin, which yields a little note. Thus reminded of it, he

picks up the violin, and as his fingers draw out the broken string

he murmurs] I must get a new string.

[He resumes his dragging march toward the door, repeating

maunderingly] I must get a new string.