Читать книгу The Melting-Pot - Israel Zangwill - Страница 5
ОглавлениеVERA
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?
