The Melting-Pot (eBook)

VERA

I will never mention my miserable birthplace to him again.

MENDEL

But you see every few months the newspapers tell us of another pogrom, and then he screams out against what he calls that butcher's face, so that I tremble for his reason. I tremble even when I see him writing that crazy music about America, for it only means he is brooding over the difference between America and Russia.

VERA

But perhaps—perhaps—all the terrible memory will pass peacefully away in his music.

MENDEL

There will always be the scar on his shoulder to remind him—whenever the wound twinges, it brings up these terrible faces and visions.

VERA

Is it on his right shoulder?

MENDEL

No—on his left. For a violinist that is even worse.

VERA

Ah, of course—the weight and the fingering.

[Subconsciously placing and fingering an imaginary violin.]

MENDEL

That is why I fear so for his future—he will never be strong enough for the feats of bravura that the public demands.

VERA

The wild beasts! I feel more ashamed of my country than ever. But there's his symphony.

MENDEL

And who will look at that amateurish stuff? He knows so little of harmony and counterpoint—he breaks all the rules. I've tried to give him a few pointers—but he ought to have gone to Germany.

VERA

Perhaps it's not too late.

MENDEL [Passionately]

Ah, if you and your friends could help him! See—I'm begging after all. But it's not for myself.

VERA

My father loves music. Perhaps he—but no! he lives in Kishineff. But I will think—there are people here—I will write to you.

MENDEL [Fervently]

Thank you! Thank you!

VERA

Now you must go to him. Good-bye. Tell him I count upon him for the Concert.

MENDEL

How good you are!

[He follows her to the street-door.]

VERA [At door]

Say good-bye for me to your mother—she seems asleep.

MENDEL [Opening outer door]

I am sorry it is snowing so.

VERA

We Russians are used to it.

[Smiling, at exit]

Good-bye—let us hope your David will turn out a Rubinstein.

MENDEL [Closing the doors softly]

I never thought a Russian Christian could be so human.

[He looks at the clock.]

Gott in Himmel—my dancing class!

[He hurries into the overcoat hanging on the hat-rack. Re-enter David, having composed himself, but still somewhat dazed.]

DAVID

She is gone? Oh, but I have driven her away by my craziness. Is she very angry?

MENDEL

Quite the contrary—she expects you at the Concert, and what is more——

DAVID [Ecstatically]

And she understood! She understood my Crucible of God! Oh, uncle, you don't know what it means to me to have somebody who understands me. Even you have never understood——

MENDEL [Wounded]

Nonsense! How can Miss Revendal understand you better than your own uncle?

DAVID [Mystically exalted]

I can't explain—I feel it.

MENDEL

Of course she's interested in your music, thank Heaven. But what true understanding can there be between a Russian Jew and a Russian Christian?

DAVID

What understanding? Aren't we both Americans?

MENDEL

Well, I haven't time to discuss it now.

[He winds his muffler round his throat.]

DAVID

Why, where are you going?

MENDEL [Ironically]

Where should I be going—in the snow—on the eve of the Sabbath? Suppose we say to synagogue!

DAVID

Oh, uncle—how you always seem to hanker after those old things!

MENDEL [Tartly]

Nonsense!

[He takes his umbrella from the stand.]

I don't like to see our people going to pieces, that's all.

DAVID

Then why did you come to America? Why didn't you work for a Jewish land? You're not even a Zionist.

MENDEL

I can't argue now. There's a pack of giggling schoolgirls waiting to waltz.

DAVID

The fresh romping young things! Think of their happiness! I should love to play for them.

MENDEL [Sarcastically]

I can see you are yourself again.

[He opens the street-door—turns back.]

What about your own lesson? Can't we go together?

DAVID

I must first write down what is singing in my soul—oh, uncle, it seems as if I knew suddenly what was wanting in my music!

MENDEL [Drily]

Well, don't forget what is wanting in the house! The rent isn't paid yet.

[Exit through street-door. As he goes out, he touches and kisses the Mezuzah on the door-post, with a subconsciously antagonistic revival of religious impulse. David opens his desk, takes out a pile of musical manuscript, sprawls over his chair and, humming to himself, scribbles feverishly with the quill. After a few moments Frau Quixano yawns, wakes, and stretches herself. Then she looks at the clock.]

FRAU QUIXANO

Shabbos!

[She rises and goes to the table and sees there are no candles, walks to the chiffonier and gets them and places them in the candlesticks, then lights the candles, muttering a ceremonial Hebrew benediction.]

Boruch atto haddoshem ellôheinu melech hoôlam assher kiddishonu bemitzvôsov vettzivonu lehadlik neir shel shabbos.

[She pulls down the blinds of the two windows, then she goes to the rapt composer and touches him, remindingly, on the shoulder. He does not move, but continues writing.]

Dovidel!

[He looks up dazedly. She points to the candles.]

Shabbos!

[A sweet smile comes over his face, he throws the quill resignedly away and submits his head to her hands and her muttered Hebrew blessing.]

Yesimcho elôhim ke-efrayim vechimnasseh—yevorechecho haddoshem veyishmerecho, yoer hadoshem ponov eilecho vechunecho, yisso hadoshem ponov eilecho veyosem lecho sholôm.

[Then she goes toward the kitchen. As she turns at the door, he is again writing. She shakes her finger at him, repeating]

Gut Shabbos!

DAVID

Gut Shabbos!

[Puts down the pen and smiles after her till the door closes, then with a deep sigh takes his cape from the peg and his violin-case, pauses, still humming, to take up his pen and write down a fresh phrase, finally puts on his hat and is just about to open the street-door when Kathleen enters from her bedroom fully dressed to go, and laden with a large brown paper parcel and an umbrella. He turns at the sound of her footsteps and remains at the door, holding his violin-case during the ensuing dialogue.]

DAVID

You're not going out this bitter weather?

KATHLEEN [Sharply fending him off with her umbrella]

And who's to shtay me?

DAVID

Oh, but you mustn't—I'll do your errand—what is it?

KATHLEEN [Indignantly]

Errand, is it, indeed! I'm not here!

DAVID

Not here?

KATHLEEN

I'm lavin', they'll come for me thrunk—and ye'll witness I don't take the candleshtick.

DAVID

But who's sending you away?

KATHLEEN

It's sending meself away I am—yer houly grandmother has me disthroyed intirely.

DAVID

Why, what has the poor old la—?

KATHLEEN

I don't be saltin' the mate and I do be mixin' the crockery and——!

DAVID [Gently]

I know, I know—but, Kathleen, remember she was brought up to these things from childhood. And her father was a Rabbi.

KATHLEEN

What's that? A priest?

DAVID

A sort of priest. In Russia he was a great man. Her husband, too, was a mighty scholar, and to give him time to study the holy books she had to do chores all day for him and the children.

KATHLEEN

Oh, those priests!

DAVID [Smiling]

No, he wasn't a priest. But he took sick and died and the children left her—went to America or heaven or other far-off places—and she was left all penniless and alone.

KATHLEEN

Poor ould lady.

DAVID

Not so old yet, for she was married at fifteen.

KATHLEEN

Poor young crathur!

DAVID

But she was still the good angel of the congregation—sat up with the sick and watched over the dead.

KATHLEEN

Saints alive! And not scared?

DAVID

No, nothing scared her—except me. I got a broken-down fiddle and used to play it even on Shabbos—I was very naughty. But she was so lovely to me. I still remember the heavenly taste of a piece of Motso she gave me dipped in raisin wine! Passover cake, you know.

KATHLEEN [Proudly]

Oh, I know Motso.

DAVID [Smacks his lips, repeats]

Heavenly!

KATHLEEN

Sure, I must tashte it.

DAVID [Shaking his head, mysteriously]

Only little boys get that tashte.

KATHLEEN

That's quare.

DAVID [Smiling]

Very quare. And then one day my uncle sent the old lady a ticket to come to America. But it is not so happy for her here because you see my uncle has to be near his theatre and can't live in the Jewish quarter, and so nobody understands her, and she sits all the livelong day alone—alone with her book and her religion and her memories——

KATHLEEN [Breaking down]

Oh, Mr. David!

DAVID

And now all this long, cold, snowy evening she'll sit by the...