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