VERA [Smiling]
That's a nasty one for the critics. But tell father what a genius Da-Mr. Quixano is.
BARONESS [Desperately intervening]
Good-bye, Vera.
[She thrusts out her hand, which VERA takes.] I have a headache. You muz excuse me. Herr Pappelmeister, au plaisir de vous revoir.
[PAPPELMEISTER hastens to the door, which he holds open. The
BARONESS turns and glares at the BARON.]
BARON [Agitated]
Let me see you to the auto--
BARONESS
You could see me to ze hotel almost as quick.
BARON [To VERA]
I won't say good-bye, Verotschka-I shall be back.
[He goes toward the hall, then turns.] You will keep your Rubinstein waiting?
[VERA smiles lovingly.]
BARONESS
You are keeping me vaiting.
[He turns quickly. Exeunt BARON and BARONESS.]
PAPPELMEISTER
And now broduce Mr. Quixano!
VERA
Not so fast. What are you going to do with him?
PAPPELMEISTER
Put him in my orchestra!
VERA [Ecstatic]
Oh, you dear!
[Then her tone changes to disappointment.] But he won't go into Mr. Davenport's orchestra.
PAPPELMEISTER
It is no more Mr. Davenport's orchestra. He fired me, don't you remember? Now I boss-how say you in American?
VERA [Smiling]
Your own show.
PAPPELMEISTER
Ja, my own band. Ven I left dat comic opera millionaire, dey all shtick to me almost to von man.
VERA
How nice of them!
PAPPELMEISTER
All egsept de Christian-he vas de von man. He shtick to de millionaire. So I lose my brincipal first violin.
VERA
And Mr. Quixano is to-oh, how delightful!
[She claps her hands girlishly.]
PAPPELMEISTER [Looks round mischievously]
Ach, de magic failed.
VERA [Puzzled]
Eh!
PAPPELMEISTER
You do not broduce him. You clap de hands-but you do not broduce him. Ha! Ha! Ha!
[He breaks into a great roar of genial laughter.]
VERA [Chiming in merrily]
Ha! Ha! Ha! But I said I have to know everything first. Will he get a good salary?
PAPPELMEISTER
Enough to keep a vife and eight children!
VERA [Blushing]
But he hasn't a--
PAPPELMEISTER
No, but de Christian had-he get de same-I mean salary, ha! ha! ha! not children. Den he can be independent-vedder de fool-public like his American symphony or not-nicht wahr?
VERA
You are good to us--
[Hastily correcting herself] to Mr. Quixano.
PAPPELMEISTER [Smiling]
And aldough you cannot broduce him, I broduce his symphony. Was?
VERA
Oh, Herr Pappelmeister! You are an angel.
PAPPELMEISTER
Nein, nein, mein liebes Kind! I fear I haf not de correct shape for an angel.
[He laughs heartily. A knock at the door from the hall. ]
VERA [Merrily]
Now I clap my hands.
[She claps.] Come!
[The door opens.] Behold him!
[She makes a conjurer's gesture. DAVID, bare-headed, carrying
his fiddle, opens the door, and stands staring in amazement at
PAPPELMEISTER.]
DAVID
I thought you asked me to meet your father.
PAPPELMEISTER
She is a magician. She has changed us.
[He waves his umbrella.] Hey presto, was? Ha! Ha! Ha!
[He goes to DAVID, and shakes hands.] Und wie geht's? I hear you've left home.
DAVID
Yes, but I've such a bully cabin--
PAPPELMEISTER [Alarmed]
You are sailing avay?
VERA [Laughing]
No, no-that's only his way of describing his two-dollar-a-month garret.
DAVID
Yes-my state-room on the top deck!
VERA [Smiling]
Six foot square.
DAVID
But three other passengers aren't squeezed in, and it never pitches and tosses. It's heavenly.
PAPPELMEISTER [Smiling]
And from heaven you flew down to blay in dat beer-hall. Was?
[DAVID looks surprised.] I heard you.
DAVID
You! What on earth did you go there for?
PAPPELMEISTER
Vat on earth does one go to a beer-hall for? Ha! Ha! Ha! For vawter! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ven I hear you blay, I dink mit myself-if my blans succeed and I get Carnegie Hall for Saturday Symphony Concerts, dat boy shall be one of my first violins. Was?
[He slaps DAVID on the left shoulder.]
DAVID [Overwhelmed, ecstatic, yet wincing a little at the slap on his
wound.] Be one of your first--
[Remembering] Oh, but it is impossible.
VERA [Alarmed]
Mr. Quixano! You must not refuse.
DAVID
But does Herr Pappelmeister know about the wound in my shoulder?
PAPPELMEISTER [Agitated]
You haf been vounded?
DAVID
Only a legacy from Russia-but it twinges in some weathers.
PAPPELMEISTER
And de pain ubsets your blaying?
DAVID
Not so much the pain-it's all the dreadful memories-
VERA [Alarmed]
Don't talk of them.
DAVID
I must explain to Herr Pappelmeister-it wouldn't be fair. Even now
[Shuddering] there comes up before me the bleeding body of my mother, the cold, fiendish face of the Russian officer, supervising the slaughter--
VERA
Hush! Hush!
DAVID [Hysterically]
Oh, that butcher's face-there it is-hovering in the air, that narrow, fanatical forehead, that--
PAPPELMEISTER [Brings down his umbrella with a bang]
Schluss! No man ever dared break down under me. My baton will beat avay all dese faces and fancies. Out with your violin!
[He taps his umbrella imperiously on the table.] Keinen Mut verlieren!
[DAVID takes out his violin from its case and puts it to his
shoulder, PAPPELMEISTER keeping up a hypnotic torrent of
encouraging German cries.] Also! Fertig! Anfangen!
[He raises and waves his umbrella like a baton.] Von, dwo, dree, four--
DAVID [With a great sigh of relief]
Thanks, thanks-they are gone already.
PAPPELMEISTER
Ha! Ha! Ha! You see. And ven ve blay your American symphony--
DAVID [Dazed]
You will play my American symphony?
VERA [Disappointed]
Don't you jump for joy?
DAVID [Still dazed but ecstatic]
Herr Pappelmeister!
[Changing back to despondency] But what certainty is there your Carnegie Hall audience would understand me? It would be the same smart set.
[He drops dejectedly into a chair and lays down his violin. ]
PAPPELMEISTER
Ach, nein. Of course, some-ve can't keep peoble out merely because dey pay for deir seats. Was?
[He laughs.]
DAVID
It was always my dream to play it first to the new immigrants-those who have known the pain of the old world and the hope of the new.
PAPPELMEISTER
Try it on the dog. Was?
DAVID
Yes-on the dog that here will become a man!
PAPPELMEISTER [Shakes his head]
I fear neider dogs nor men are a musical breed.
DAVID
The immigrants will not understand my music wit
h their brains or their ears, but with their hearts and their souls.
VERA
Well, then, why shouldn't it be done here-on our Roof-Garden?
DAVID [Jumping up]
A Bas-Kôl! A Bas-Kôl!
VERA
What are you talking?
DAVID
Hebrew! It means a voice from heaven.
VERA
Ah, but will Herr Pappelmeister consent?
PAPPELMEISTER [Bowing]
Who can disobey a voice from heaven?... But ven?
VERA
On some holiday evening.... Why not the Fourth of July?
DAVID [Still more ecstatic]
Another Bas-Kôl!... My American Symphony! Played to the People! Under God's sky! On Independence Day! With all the--
[Waving his hand expressively, sighs voluptuously.] That will be too perfect.
PAPPELMEISTER [Smiling]
Dat has to be seen. You must permit me to invite--
DAVID [In horror]
Not the musical critics!
PAPPELMEISTER [Raising both hands with umbrella in equal horror ]
Gott bewahre! But I'd like to invite all de persons in New York who really undershtand music.
VERA
Splendid! But should we have room?
PAPPELMEISTER
Room? I vant four blaces.
VERA [Smiling]
You are severe! Mr. Davenport was right.
PAPPELMEISTER [Smiling]
Perhaps de oders vill be out of town. Also!
[Holding out his hand to DAVID] You come to Carnegie to-morrow at eleven. Yes? Fräulein.
[Kisses her hand.] Auf Wiedersehen!
[Going] On de Roof-Garden-nicht wahr?
VERA [Smiling]
Wind and weather permitting.
PAPPELMEISTER
I haf alvays mein umbrella. Was? Ha! Ha! Ha!
VERA [Murmuring]
Isn't he a darling? Isn't he--?
PAPPELMEISTER [Pausing suddenly]
But ve never settled de salary.
DAVID
Salary!
[He looks dazedly from one to the other.] For the honour of playing in your orchestra!
PAPPELMEISTER
Shylock!!... Never mind-ve settle de pound of flesh to-morrow. Lebe wohl!
[Exit, the door closes.]
VERA [Suddenly miserable]
How selfish of you, David!
DAVID
Selfish, Vera?
VERA
Yes-not to think of your salary. It looks as if you didn't really love me.
DAVID
Not love you? I don't understand.
VERA [Half in tears]
Just when I was so happy to think that now we shall be able to marry.
DAVID
Shall we? Marry? On my salary as first violin?
VERA
Not if you don't want to.
DAVID
Sweetheart! Can it be true? How do you know?
VERA [Smiling]
I'm not a Jew. I asked.
DAVID
My guardian angel!
[Embracing her. He sits down, she lovingly at his feet. ]
VERA [Looking up at him]
Then you do care?
DAVID
What a question!
VERA
And you don't think wholly of your music and forget me?
DAVID
Why, you are behind all I write and play!
VERA [With jealous passion]
Behind? But I want to be before! I want you to love me first, before everything.
DAVID
I do put you before everything.
VERA
You are sure? And nothing shall part us?
DAVID
Not all the seven seas could part you and me.
VERA
And you won't grow tired of me-not even when you are world-famous--?
DAVID [A shade petulant]
Sweetheart, considering I should owe it all to you--
VERA [Drawing his head down to her breast]
Oh, David! David! Don't be angry with poor little Vera if she doubts, if she wants to feel quite sure. You see father has talked so terribly, and after all I was brought up in the Greek Church, and we oughtn't to cause all this suffering unless--
DAVID
Those who love us must suffer, and we must suffer in their suffering. It is live things, not dead metals, that are being melted in the Crucible.
VERA
Still, we ought to soften the suffering as much as--
DAVID
Yes, but only Time can heal it.
VERA [With transition to happiness]
But father seems half-reconciled already! Dear little father, if only he were not so narrow about Holy Russia!
DAVID
If only my folks were not so narrow about Holy Judea! But the ideals of the fathers shall not be foisted on the children. Each generation must live and die for its own dream.
VERA
Yes, David, yes. You are the prophet of the living present. I am so happy.
[She looks up wistfully.] You are happy, too?
DAVID
I am dazed-I cannot realise that all our troubles have melted away-it is so sudden.
VERA
You, David? Who always see everything in such rosy colours? Now that the whole horizon is one great splendid rose, you almost seem as if gazing out toward a blackness--
DAVID
We Jews are cheerful in gloom, mistrustful in joy. It is our tragic history--
VERA
But you have come to end the tragic history; to throw off the coils of the centuries.
DAVID [Smiling again]
Yes, yes, Vera. You bring back my sunnier self. I must be a pioneer on the lost road of happiness. To-day shall be all joy, all lyric ecstasy.
[He takes up his violin.] Yes, I will make my old fiddle-strings burst with joy!
[He dashes into a jubilant tarantella. After a few bars there is
a knock at the door leading from the hall; their happy faces
betray no sign of hearing it; then the door slightly opens, and
BARON REVENDAL'S head looks hesitatingly in. As DAVID perceives
it, his features work convulsively, his string breaks with a
tragic snap, and he totters backward into VERA'S arms. Hoarsely] The face! The face!
VERA
David-my dearest!
DAVID [His eyes closed, his violin clasped mechanically]
Don't be anxious-I shall be better soon-I oughtn't to have talked about it-the hallucination has never been so complete.
VERA
Don't speak-rest against Vera's heart-till it has passed away.
[The BARON comes dazedly forward, half with a shocked sense of
VERA'S impropriety, half to relieve her of her burden. She
motions him back.] This is the work of your Holy Russia.
BARON [Harshly]
What is the matter with him?
[DAVID'S violin and bow drop from his grasp and fall on the
table.]
DAVID
The voice!
[He opens his eyes, stares frenziedly at the BARON, then
struggles out of VERA'S arms.]
VERA [Trying to stop him]
Dearest--
DAVID
Let me go.
[He moves like a sleep-walker toward the paralysed BARON, puts
out his hand, and testingly touches the face.]
BARON [Shuddering back]
Hands off!
DAVID [With a great cry]
A-a-a-h! It is flesh and blood. No, it is stone-the man of stone! Monster!
[He raises his hand frenziedly.]
BARON [Whipping out his pistol]
Back, dog!
[VERA darts between them with a shriek.]
DAVID [Frozen again, surveying the pistol stonily]
Ha! You want my life,
too. Is the cry not yet loud enough?
BARON
The cry?
DAVID [Mystically]
Can you not hear it? The voice of the blood of my brothers crying out against you from the ground? Oh, how can you bear not to turn that pistol against yourself and execute upon yourself the justice which Russia denies you?
BARON
Tush!
[Pocketing the pistol a little shamefacedly.]
VERA
Justice on himself? For what?
DAVID
For crimes beyond human penalty, for obscenities beyond human utterance, for--
VERA
You are raving.
DAVID
Would to heaven I were!
VERA
But this is my father.
DAVID
Your father!... God!
[He staggers.]
BARON [Drawing her to him]
Come, Vera, I told you--
VERA [Frantically, shrinking back]
Don't touch me!
BARON [Starting back in amaze]
Vera!
VERA [Hoarsely]
Say it's not true.
BARON
What is not true?
VERA
What David said. It was the mob that massacred-you had no hand in it.
BARON [Sullenly]
I was there with my soldiers.
DAVID [Leaning, pale, against a chair, hisses]
And you looked on with that cold face of hate-while my mother-my sister--
BARON [Sullenly]
I could not see everything.
DAVID
Now and again you ordered your soldiers to fire--
VERA [In joyous relief]
Ah, he did check the mob-he did tell his soldiers to fire.
DAVID
At any Jew who tried to defend himself.
VERA
Great God!
[She falls on the sofa and buries her head on the cushion,
moaning] Is there no pity in heaven?
DAVID
There was no pity on earth.
BARON
It was the People avenging itself, Vera. The People rose like a flood. It had centuries of spoliation to wipe out. The voice of the People is the voice of God.
VERA [Moaning]
But you could have stopped them.
BARON
I had no orders to defend the foes of Christ and
[Crossing himself] the Tsar. The People--
VERA
But you could have stopped them.
BARON
Who can stop a flood? I did my duty. A soldier's duty is not so pretty as a musician's.
VERA
But you could have stopped them.
BARON [Losing all patience]
Silence! You talk like an ignorant girl, blinded by passion. The pogrom is a holy crusade. Are we Russians the first people to crush down the Jew? No-from the dawn of history the nations have had to stamp upon him-the Egyptians, the Assyrians, the Persians, the Babylonians, the Greeks, the Romans--
The Melting-Pot Page 8
