The Melting-Pot. Israel Zangwill

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?