Mother and Son
burnt. At the head of the table lies a closed book between the pages of which is visible a handkerchief; next to it is a small, silver snuff-box. In one corner of the room stands a walking-stick with a silver knob. A long pipe hangs near it.
When compared with its surroundings, the portrait of the old rabbi seems modern, but the silver-haired patriarchial head, with its pale, stern visage, harmonizes well with the austere environment, and the whole scene is pervaded with a death-like chill and dignity. One feels as if here a cold, scholarly spirit had lived on for decades, had here thought and pondered and suddenly become stilled forever.
Upon the rise of the curtain the scene remains unoccupied. Moshele enters hurriedly, but stops short as if overcome with the death-like stillness of the room and the train of old memories, which the familiar surroundings have awakened in him. He is clean-shaven, dressed in the prevailing European fashion for traveling, and carries a small traveling-bag. He looks about—slowly, humbly and a happy satisfied calm spreads over his face. Suddenly his glance falls upon the portrait of his father, and a tremor runs through his body. He approaches it hesitatingly, and as he gazes at its expression of frozen sternness, he stiffens and gradually the happiness fades from his face.
The door at the right opens quietly, while Moshele is thus absorbed, and Gitele comes in. As she sees him, her face becomes radiant and a soft, glad cry escapes her. She runs to him.
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