Champagne
At night it cuddles up to me like a little baby—like a little lamb it lies there close to me, and whole nights through it cries. And do you know over whom she cries?
Dvorah
Over her husband, may his name be blotted out forever, good God!
Gruna
No, Dvorah, over me she cries! (She goes over to the oven and makes an unsuccessful attempt to rekindle the fire. She blows on the embers.) I have made her unfortunate! Her tears fall on my heart like hot lead! They poison my own tears! (She remains very still for a time, worn by her exertions.)
Dvorah
In short?
Gruna
In short…(blowing the embers feverishly) in short, I said to myself: “Enough!” Let my third daughter live! She shall live as she wants to. She earns her living with her needle —sixteen hours a day she works. She hardly earns enough for bread! She wants sweets, too? Let her eat! She wants cake, mischief, fun, to kiss? Let her! You hear, Dvorah? Let her! I can’t give her good things! A husband, surely not! Make a sour lemon of her, I will not! A lung sickness give her—no, no! Let one daughter at least not hate me—not cry over me!
Dvorah (cries out aghast)
But, Gruna, what will people say?
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