The melting pot cookbook pdf

A parallel outcome on a structural plane is a pattern of widespread marriage across ethnic lines, in The articles in Mosaic or Melting Pot represent an important contribution to the intellectual and practical discussion of the substantial social issues which have arisen from the mixed ethnic origin of the Autralian community. The editors have attempted the difficult task of striking a balance between attending to practical inquiries and recognising underlying principles or theories.

Part 1 is Melting Pot by: Anna Quindlen My children are upstairs in the house next door, having dinner with the Ecuadorean family that lives on the top floor. The father speaks … pdf book american cooking the melting pot download ebook american cooking the melting pot pdf ebook american cooking the melting pot Page 3. Whether you are celebrating a special occasion, spending time with good friends or wowing a business The concept of the melting pot was later expanded to include people from different races and backgrounds as it became one of the cornerstones of assimilation theory.

Click Download or Read Online button to get the-melting-pot-in-israel book now. He was a self-made man, a shining example of the so-called American Dream. This is a subreddit for discussing cookbooks, both old and new. We hope to create a forum where people can openly share their latest reads, ask for recommendations, share recipe results, and overall have fun!

Internet could be cruel to us who looking for free thing. Posted on Dec Great Chicago Melting Pot Cookbook pleasevisitme. The melting pot cookbook pdf Home December 1 The melting pot cookbook pdf. Post navigation The monk who sold ferrari pdf. The management and control of quality 7th edition pdf. And I can never be grateful enough to Herr Pappelmeister. It is an honour even to meet him.

Before I accept Mr. Davenport's kindness, I must know to whom I am indebted—and if Mr. Davenport is the man who——. Who travelled with you to New York? No, I'm only the junior. I beg your pardon? Oh, it's rather fun to hear what the masses read about me. Fire ahead. Is what true? That's true enough. Marriage in high life, they said, didn't they?

And is it true you live in America only two months in the year, and then only to entertain Europeans who wander to these wild parts? Lucky for you, young man. You'll have an Italian prince and a British duke to hear your scribblings.

And the palace where they will hear my scribblings—is it true that——? Ah, Miss Revendal—what a pity you refused that invitation! It was a fairy scene of twinkling lights and delicious darkness—each couple had their own gondola to sup in, and their own side-canal to slip down.

And this is the sort of people you would invite to hear my symphony—these gondola-guzzlers! These magnificent animals who went into the gondolas two by two, to feed and flirt! I should be a new freak for you for a new freak evening—I and my dreams and my music! Not for you and such as you have I sat here writing and dreaming; not for you who are killing my America! But a Jew who knows that [Pg 87] your Pilgrim Fathers came straight out of his Old Testament, and that our Jew-immigrants are a greater factor in the glory of this great commonwealth than some of you sons of the soil.

It is you, freak-fashionables, who are undoing the work of Washington and Lincoln, vulgarising your high heritage, and turning the last and noblest hope of humanity into a caricature.

I am nothing but a simple artist, but I come from Europe, one of her victims, and I know that she is a failure; that her palaces and peerages are outworn toys of the human spirit, and that the only hope of mankind lies in a new world.

And here—in the land of to-morrow—you are trying to bring back Europe——. Europe with her comic-opera coronets and her worm-eaten stage decorations, and her pomp and chivalry built on a morass of crime and misery——. But you shall not kill my dream! There shall come a fire round the Crucible that will melt you and your breed like wax in a blowpipe——.

Pappelmeister turns to Quincy Davenport. Pray, pray, accept my apologies—believe me, if I had known— [Pg 89] —. And saved my soul. Dollars are de devil. Now I must to an appointment. Auf baldiges Wiedersehen. David and Vera stand gazing at each other. I hate the smart set as much as you—but as your ladder and your trumpet——.

I would not stand indebted to them. I know you [Pg 90] meant it for my good, but what would these Europe-apers have understood of my America—the America of my music?

They look back on Europe as a pleasure ground, a palace of art—but I know. No, I am not offended. But I have failed to help you. We have nothing else to meet for. What else? When you are with me, all the air seems to tremble with fairy music played by some unseen fairy orchestra. Yes, I know I became overbold—but to take all that magic sweetness out of my life for ever—you don't call that a punishment? He comes nearer. Passionately ].

Yes, all Russians are. My father is Baron Revendal, but I have long since carved out a life of my own. They separate. The automobile is heard clattering off.

He opens it and she slips out. I don't wonder you're amazed. Maybe you think I wasn't. It is as if an angel should stoop down——. This is true? This is not some stupid Purim joke? Yes, and just think! She was bred up to despise Jews—her father was a Russian baron——. It is not so much the synagogue—it is the call of our blood through immemorial generations. You say that! You who have come to the heart of the Crucible, where the roaring fires of God are fusing our race with all the others.

Not our race, not your race and mine. The pride and the prejudice, the dreams and the sacrifices, the traditions and the superstitions, the fasts and the feasts, things noble and things sordid—they must all into the Crucible.

Your sneer is false. The love that melted me was not Vera's—it was the love America showed me—the day she gathered me to her breast. Many countries have gathered us. Holland took us when we were driven from Spain—but we did not become Dutchmen. Turkey took us when Germany oppressed us, but we have not become Turks. These countries were not in the making. They were [Pg 97] old civilisations stamped with the seal of creed. In such countries the Jew may be right to stand out.

But here in this new secular Republic we must look forward——. Yes, I will calm myself—but how else shall I calm myself save by forgetting all that nightmare of religions and races, save by holding out my hands with prayer and music toward the Republic of Man and the Kingdom of God!

The Past I cannot mend—its evil outlines are stamped in immortal rigidity. Take away the hope that I can mend the Future, and you make me mad. You are mad already—your dreams are mad—the Jew is hated here as everywhere—you are false to your race. Flag of our great Republic, guardian of our homes, whose stars and——. Would you stay and break my mother's heart? You know she would mourn for you with the rending of garments and the seven days' sitting on the floor.

You have cast off the God of our fathers! Go, then—I'll hide the truth—she must never suspect—lest she mourn you as dead. Frau Quixano rushes in, carrying David's violin and bow. Kathleen looks in, grinning. Then she starts dancing to the music, and Kathleen slips in and joyously dances beside her.

It rises again upon the picture of Frau Quixano fallen back into a chair, exhausted with laughter, fanning herself with her apron, while Kathleen has dropped breathless across the arm of the armchair; David is still playing on, and Mendel , his false nose torn off, stands by, glowering. The curtain falls again and rises upon a final tableau of David in his cloak and hat, stealing out of the door with his violin, casting a sad farewell glance at the old woman and at the home which has [Pg ] sheltered him.

April, about a month later. The scene changes to Miss Revendal's sitting-room at the Settlement House on a sunny day. Simple, pretty furniture: a sofa, chairs, small table, etc. An open piano with music. Flowers and books about. Fine art reproductions on walls. The fireplace is on the left. A door on the left leads to the hall, and a door on the right to the interior.

The Baron is a tall, stern, grizzled man of military bearing, with a narrow, fanatical forehead and martinet manners, but otherwise of honest and distinguished appearance, with a short, well-trimmed white beard and well-cut European clothes. Although his dignity is diminished by the constant nervous suspiciousness of the Russian official, it is never lost; his nervousness, despite its comic side, being visibly the tragic shadow of his position.

His English has only a touch of the foreign in accent and vocabulary and is much superior to his wife's, which comes to her through her French. The Baroness is pretty and dressed in red in the height of Paris fashion, but blazes with barbaric jewels at neck and throat and wrist.

She gestures freely with her hand, which, when ungloved, glitters with heavy rings. She is much younger than the Baron and self-consciously fascinating. Her parasol, which matches her costume, suggests the sunshine without. Quincy Davenport [Pg ] is in a smart spring suit with a motor dust-coat and cap, which last he lays down on the mantelpiece.

Gardens, forsooth! We plant a tub and call it Paradise. No, Baron. New York is the great stone desert. No taste, Baroness, modern sculpture and menageries! Think of the Medici gardens at Rome. Then she takes out a dainty cigarette-case, pulls off her right-hand glove, exhibiting her rings, and chooses a cigarette.

The Baron , seeing this, [Pg ] produces his match-box. And now, dear Baron Revendal, having brought you safely to the den of the lioness—if I may venture to call your daughter so—I must leave you to do the taming, eh? Don't mention it. I'll just have my auto take me to the Club, and then I'll send it back for you.

Quite impossible. What is to prevent an anarchist sitting next to you and shooting out your brains? But I saw desperadoes spying as we came off your yacht. No—they are circulating my appearance to all the gang in the States. They took snapshots. The Baroness looks equally anxious. Only some poor devil come to the Settlement. Ze Intellectuals and ze Bund , zey all hate my husband because he is faizful to Christ.

They have their branches here—the refugees are the leaders—it is a diabolical network. Well, anyhow, we're not in Russia, eh? No, no, Baron, you're quite safe. Still, you can keep my automobile as long as you like—I've plenty. But surely no gentleman would sit in the public car, squeezed between working-men and shop-girls, not to say Jews and Blacks.

It is done here. But we shall change all that. Already we have a few taxi-cabs. Give us time, my dear Baron, give us time. You mustn't judge us by your European standard. By the European standard, Mr. Davenport, you put our hospitality to the shame. From the moment you sent your yacht for us to Odessa——. Pray, don't ever speak of that again—you know how anxious I was to get you to New York.

Those Jew-vermin—all my life I have suffered from them! But this supreme insult Vera shall not put on the blood of the Revendals—not if I have to shoot her down with my own hand—and myself after! No, no, Baron, that's not done here. Besides, if you shoot her down, where do I come in, eh? Oh, Baron! Surely you have guessed that it is not merely Jew-hate, but—er—Christian love.

But you are married! It ees a vonderful country! But your vife— hein? She's mad to get back on the stage—I'll run a theatre for her. It's your daughter's consent that's the real trouble—she won't see me because I lost my temper and told her to stop with her Jew. So I look to you to straighten things out. You go too quick, Katusha. What influence have I on Vera? And you she has never even seen!

To kick out the Jew-beast is one thing Have you? The papers only boomed one—four or five years ago—about Easter time, I think——. I daresay. That's the lies they spread in the West. They have the Press in their hands, damn 'em.

But you see I was on the spot. I had charge of the whole district. Yes, and I hurried a regiment up to teach the blaspheming brutes manners——. I—I say, old chap, I mean Baron, you'd better not say that here. Second class! Shall we allow these bigots to mock at all we hold sacred?

The Jews are the deadliest enemies of our holy autocracy and of the only orthodox Church. Their Bund is behind all the Revolution. Well, I'd keep it dark if I were you. Kishineff is a back number, and we don't take much stock in the new massacres. Still, we're a bit squeamish— [Pg ] —. Well, of course, I always felt there was another side to it, but still——.

Perhaps he has right, Alexis. Our Ambassador vonce told me ze Americans are more sentimental zan civilised. Ah, let them wait till they have ten million vermin overrunning their country—we shall see how long they will be sentimental. Think of it! A burrowing swarm creeping and crawling everywhere, ugh! They ruin our peasantry with their loans and their drink shops, ruin our army with their revolutionary propaganda, ruin our professional classes by snatching all the prizes and professorships, ruin our commercial [Pg ] classes by monopolising our sugar industries, our oil-fields, our timber-trade Why, if we gave them equal rights, our Holy Russia would be entirely run by them.

One-third will be baptized, one-third massacred, the other third emigrated here. Thank you, my dear Baron,—you've already sent me one Jew too many. We're going to stop all alien immigration. Well, don't let us waste our time on the Jew-problem Get rid of this little fiddler. Then I may have a look in. Adieu, Baron. Not serious, Baron? Why, to marry her is the only thing I have ever wanted that I couldn't get. It is torture! Baroness, I rely on your sympathy. Silence, Katusha. I only tolerated the man in Europe because he was a link with Vera.

I am sick of your scruples. You are ze only poor official in Bessarabia. All your life you have served ze Tsar, and you cannot afford a single automobile. A millionaire son-in-law is just vat you owe me.

Yes, ven I married you, I vas tinking you had a good position. I did not know you were too honest to use it. You vere not open viz me, Alexis. Nobody is visible. He closes it shamefacedly. If you thought less about your precious safety, and more about me and Vera——. You do not know Vera. You saw I was even afraid to give my name. She might have sent me away as she sent away the Tsar's plate of mutton. Did I never tell you?

When she was only a school-girl—at the Imperial High School—the Tsar on his annual visit tasted the food, and Vera, as the show pupil, was given the honour of finishing his Majesty's plate.

And then you think I can impose a husband on her. No, Katusha, I have to win her love for myself, not for millionaires. Because you zink zey are your soldiers. Right Veel! He looks yearningly toward the door.

It opens. Enter Vera with inquiring gaze. The Baroness wished to see America. Katusha, this is my daughter. Do you remember when you last saw me? You did not claim me as a daughter then. It was horrible. I hated you for the devil of rebellion that had entered into your soul. But I thanked God when you escaped. I think I was more sorry for you than for myself. I hope, at least, no suspicion fell on you.

But it did—an avalanche of suspicion. He is still buried under it. Vy else did they make Skovaloff Ambassador instead of him? Even now he risks everyting to see you again. Ah, mon enfant , you owe your fazer a grand reparation! Alexis, you are interrupting— [Pg ] —. I fear, father, we have grown too estranged—our ideas are so opposite——. Not with bombs, perhaps. I thank Heaven I was caught before I had done any practical work. But if you think I accept the order of things, you are mistaken.

In Russia I fought against the autocracy——. Here I fight against the poverty. No, father, a woman who has once heard the call will always be a wild creature. I do not believe in Revolutions carried on at a safe distance. I have found my life-work in America. No, father, your Vera belongs to Russia with her mother and the happy days of childhood. But for their sakes——. Oh, no, ve have not seen David. So Mr. Davenport has been talking to you! But you all seem to forget one small point—bigamy is not permitted even to millionaires.

And do you think I would take another woman's leavings? No, not even if she were dead. I beg your pardon—I wasn't even thinking of you. Father, to put an end at once to this absurd conversation, let me inform you I am already engaged. Yes—even as you esteem nobility—by pedigree. In Spain his ancestors were hidalgos, favourites at the Court of Ferdinand and Isabella; but in the great expulsion of they preferred exile in Poland to baptism. God in heaven—are you married already? But not being unemployed millionaires like Mr.

Davenport, we hold even our troth eternal. Our poverty, not your prejudice, stands in the way of our marriage. But David is a musician of genius, and some day——. A fiddler in a beer-hall! She prefers a fiddler to a millionaire of ze first families of America! First families! I told you David's family came to Poland in —some months before America was discovered. No more than David has become a Christian. We were already at one—all honest people are. Surely, father, all religions must serve the same God—since there is only one God to serve.

Oh, Vera, Verotschka , my dearest darling, I had sooner you had remained buried in Siberia than that——. For you, father, I was as though buried in Siberia. Why did you come here to stab yourself afresh? I wish to God I had come here earlier. I wish I had not been so nervous of Russian spies. Ah, Verotschka , if you only knew how I have pored over the newspaper pictures of you, and the reports of your life in this Settlement!

I know, I know—and yet sometimes I felt as if I could risk Siberia myself to read your dear, dainty handwriting again. Father, if you love me so much, surely you will love David a little too—for my sake.

Then so is any love from me to you. You have chosen to come back into my life, and after our years of pain and separation I would gladly remember only my old childish affection. But not if you hate David. You must make your choice. I don't ask you to carry mountains, but to drop the mountains you carry—the mountains of prejudice. Wait till you see him. Then you will hear him—he is going to make music for all the world.

You can't escape him, papasha , you with your love of music, any more than you escaped Rubinstein. Rubinstein vas not a Jew.

But his parents vere baptized soon after his birth. I had it from his patroness, ze Grande Duchesse Helena Pavlovna. And did the water outside change the blood within? Rubinstein was our Court pianist and was decorated by the Tsar.

And you, the Tsar's servant, dare to say you could not meet a Rubinstein. You practically said so. David will be even greater than Rubinstein. Come, father, I'll telephone for him; he is only round the corner. He shall bring his violin and play to you. You see, little father, you are already less frowning—now take that last wrinkle out of your forehead.

Never mind! David will smooth it out with his music as his Biblical ancestor smoothed that surly old Saul. Silence, Katusha! Oh, my little Vera, I little thought when I let you study music at Petersburg——. That I should marry a musician. But you see, little father, it all ends in music after all. Now I will go and perform on the telephone, I'm not angel enough to bear one in here. You are in her hands as vax! She is the only child I have ever had, Katusha.

Her baby arms curled round my neck; in her baby sorrows her wet face nestled against little father's. And a hook-nosed brat to call you grandpapa, and nestle his greasy face against yours. Just before she reaches the door, it opens, and the servant ushers in Herr Pappelmeister with his umbrella.

The Baroness's tone changes instantly to a sugared society accent. Charmed to meet you, Herr— [Pg ] —. Ah, yes, yes, charmed—why do you never bring your orchestra to Russia, Herr Pappelmeister? It never occurred to me to go to Russia—she seems so uncivilised. Vy, ve have ze finest restaurants in ze vorld! And ze best telephones! Yes, and the most beautiful ballets—Russia is affrightfully misunderstood. Pappelmeister murmurs in deprecation. Re-enter Vera from the hall. She is gay and happy.

But you vill vant to talk to your fader, and all I vant is Mr. Quixano's address. De Irish maiden at de house says de bird is flown. But I will produce the bird. That's a nasty one for the critics. But tell father what a genius Da—Mr.

Quixano is. I have a headache. You muz excuse me. Herr Pappelmeister, au plaisir de vous revoir. The Baroness turns and glares at the Baron. Exeunt Baron and Baroness. It is no more Mr. Davenport's orchestra. He fired [Pg ] me, don't you remember? Now I boss—how say you in American? Ja , my own band. Ven I left dat comic opera millionaire, dey all shtick to me almost to von man. All egsept de Christian—he vas de von man.

He shtick to de millionaire. So I lose my brincipal first violin. You do not broduce him. You clap de hands—but you do not broduce him. But I said I have to know everything first. Will he get a good salary?

No, but de Christian had—he get de same—I mean salary, ha! Den he can be independent—vedder de fool-public like his American symphony or not— nicht wahr? Nein, nein, mein liebes Kind! I fear I haf not de correct shape for an angel. A knock at the door from the hall. David , bare-headed, carrying his fiddle, opens the door, and stands staring in amazement at Pappelmeister. Yes—my state-room on the top deck! But three other passengers aren't squeezed in, and it never pitches and tosses.

It's heavenly. Vat on earth does one go to a beer-hall for? For vawter! 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.

You must not refuse. Oh, that butcher's face—there it is—hovering in the air, that narrow, fanatical forehead, that——. No man ever dared break down under me. My baton will beat avay all dese faces and fancies. Out with your violin! Don't you jump for joy? But what certainty is there your Carnegie Hall audience would understand me? It would be the same smart set. Ach, nein. Of course, some—ve can't keep peoble out merely because dey pay for deir seats.

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. The immigrants will not understand my music with their brains or their ears, but with their hearts and their souls.

My American Symphony! Played to the People! Under God's sky! On Independence Day! With all the——. Dat has to be seen. You must permit me to invite— [Pg ] —. Gott bewahre! But I'd like to invite all de persons in New York who really undershtand music. I haf alvays mein umbrella. Never mind—ve settle de pound of flesh to-morrow.

Lebe wohl! Yes—not to think of your salary. It looks as if you didn't really love me. Just when I was so happy to think that now we shall be able to marry. But I want to be before! I want you to love me first, before everything. And you won't grow tired of me—not even when you are world-famous——? Oh, 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——. 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. Yes, but only Time can heal it. But father seems half-reconciled already! Dear little father, if only he were not so narrow about Holy Russia! 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. I am dazed—I cannot realise that all our troubles have melted away—it is so sudden. 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——. We Jews are cheerful in gloom, mistrustful in joy. It is our tragic history——.

But you have come to end the tragic history; to throw off the coils of the centuries. 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. 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 ]. Don't be anxious—I shall be better soon—I oughtn't to have talked about it—the hallucination has never been so complete. She motions him back. This is the work of your Holy Russia. It is flesh and blood. No, it is stone—the man of stone! 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? For crimes beyond human penalty, for obscenities beyond human utterance, for——. Would to heaven I were!

What David said. It was the mob that massacred— you had no hand in it. And you looked on with that cold face of hate—while my mother—my sister— [Pg ] —. 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. But you could have stopped them. Who can stop a flood? I did my duty.

A soldier's duty is not so pretty as a musician's. 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——. Yes, it is true.

Even Christianity did not invent hatred. But not till Holy Church arose were we burnt at the stake, and not till Holy Russia arose were our babes torn limb from limb. Oh, it is too much! Delivered from Egypt four thousand years ago, to be slaves to the Russian Pharaoh to-day.

O God, shall we always be broken on the wheel of history? How long, O Lord, how long? Look up, little Vera! You saw how papasha loves you—how he was ready to hold out his hand—and how this cur tried to bite it. Be calm—tell him a daughter of Russia cannot mate with dirt. Father, I will be calm. I will speak without passion or blindness. I will tell David the truth. I was never absolutely sure of my love for him—perhaps that was why I doubted his love for me—often after our enchanted moments there would come a nameless uneasiness, some vague instinct, relic of the long centuries of Jew-loathing, some strange shrinking from his Christless creed——.

Easy words to you. You never saw that red flood bearing the mangled breasts of women and the spattered brains of babes and sucklings. The Baron turns away in gloomy impotence. At last David begins to speak quietly, almost dreamily.

It was your Easter, and the air was full of holy bells and the streets of holy processions—priests in black and girls in white and waving palms and crucifixes, and everybody exchanging Easter eggs and kissing one 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 [Pg ] 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——.

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

Don't echo that babble. You came to these arms often enough when they were fresh from the battlefield. 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——. You thought you were ordering your soldiers to fire at the Jews, but it was my heart they pierced.

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 At the same moment David , who has reached the door leading to the hall, now feeling subconsciously [Pg ] 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. 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. 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 ]. Saturday, July 4, evening. The Roof-Garden of the Settlement House, showing a beautiful, far-stretching panorama of New York, with its irregular sky-buildings on the left, and the harbour with its Statue of Liberty on the right. Everything is wet and gleaming after rain.

Parapet at the back. Elevator on the right. Entrance from the stairs on the left. In the sky hang heavy clouds through which thin, golden lines of sunset are just beginning to labour. David is discovered on a bench, hugging his violin-case to his breast, gazing moodily at the sky.

A muffled sound of applause comes up from below and continues with varying intensity through the early part of the scene. Through it comes the noise of the elevator ascending. Mendel steps out and hurries forward. Yes, there's a damper over everything. Nonsense—the rain hasn't damped your triumph in the least.