The God of Vengeance

Preface

By ABRAHAM CAHAN

Editor of the Jewish Daily Forward and author of "Yekl;" "The White Terror and the Red," "The Rise of David Levinsky" etc.

THE birth of Yiddish literature in Russia and the beginning of the great Jewish exodus from that country to America are two effects of one and the same cause. The same anti-semitic crusade that forced the Children of Israel to go beyond the seas in search of a safe home, aroused them to a new sense of their racial self-respect and to an unwonted interest in their native tongue.

Prior to the anti-Jewish riots of 1881 educated Jews were wont to look upon their mother tongue as a jargon beneath the dignity of cultured attention. Yiddish, more especially in its written form, was the language of the untutored. People with modern training spoke and wrote Russian. As for the intellectual class of the Talmudic type, it would carry on its correspondence and, indeed, write its essays, verse and fiction, in the language of Isaiah. One wrote Yiddish to one's mother, for the mothers of those days were not apt to understand anything else. For the rest, the tongue of the Jewish masses was never taken seriously and the very no of a literature in "a gibberish that has not even a grammar" would have seemed ludicrous.

Popular stories and songs were written in Yiddish long before the end of the nineteenth century, but, barring certain exceptions, these were intended exclusively for the most ignorant elements of the populace, and were contemptuously described as "servant-maid literature" (As for Yiddish poetry, it was almost wholly confined to the purposes of the wedding bard.) The exceptions here mentioned belong to the sixties and the seventies, when some brilliant attempts were made in the direction of literature in the better sense of the term by S. J. Abramovitch. But Abramovitch's stories were not even regarded as vanguard swallows heralding the approach of Spring. They aroused an amused sort of admiration. Indeed, it required a peculiar independence of mind to read them at all, and while they were greeted with patronizing applause, it was a long time before they found imitators.

All this changed when the whip of legal discrimination and massacres produced the "national awakening" of the educated Jew. Thousands of enlightened men and women then suddenly made the discovery, as it were, that the speech of their childhood was not a jargon, but a real language,—that instead of being a wretched conglomeration of uncouth words and phrases, it was rich in neglected beauty and possessed a homely vigor full of artistic possibilities. A stimulus was given to writing Yiddish "as the Gentiles do their mother tongues." Abramovitch was hailed as "the father of Yiddish literature" and his example was followed by a number of new writers, several of whom proved to be men of extraordinary gifts.

The movement bears curious resemblance to that of the present literary renaissance of Ireland.

Some truly marvelous results were soon achieved, the list of writers produced by the new literature including the names of men like Rabinovitch (Sholom Aleikhem) and Peretz, whose tales were crowned with immense popularity.

Sholom Ash belongs to a younger group of Yiddish story-tellers and now that Abramovitch, Rabinovitch and Peretz are in their graves (they have all died during the last two years) he is the most popular living producer of Yiddish fiction.

His narratives and plays are alive with a spirit of poetic realism, with a stronger leaning toward the poetic than toward reality, perhaps, but always throbbing with dramatic force and beauty. Sholom Ash's passion for color and melody manifests itself as much in his rich, ravishing style as in the picturesque images it evokes. The "jargon of servant maids" becomes music in his hands.

His "God of Vengeance," which is his strongest play, is one of the best things he has written in any form. Absorbingly interesting and instinct with human sympathy, it mounts to a natural climax of cataclysmal force and great spiritual beauty.

The theme, while thoroughly original and unique, reflects the artistic traditions of the country in which the author was born and bred. It was a matter of course that the young literature of which he is a conspicuous representative should shape itself under the influence of the much older and richer literary treasures of Slavic Russia and Poland. If it was natural for the novel of countries like France, Germany, Norway or Italy to fall under the sway of Turgenev, Tolstoi, Dostoyevski, Chekhov and Gorki, how much more so was it for a non-Russian fiction produced on Russian soil to seek guidance, directly or indirectly, in the same source.

Human sympathy is the watchword. Pity for and interest in the underdog — the soul of Russian art — became, from the very outset, the underlying principle of the new-born Yiddish art. No human being is so utterly brutalized as to possess not a single spark worthy of the artist's sympathetic, though ruthlessly impartial, attention, — this is the basic rule of Yiddish letters.

Himself a creature of the gutter, Yekel Tchaftchovitch, the central figure of "The God of Vengeance," is stirred by the noblest ambition known to a father in the world of orthodox Judaism. Imbedded in the slime that fills Yekel's soul is a jewel of sparkling beauty. But the very income by which he seeks to secure his daughter's spiritual splendor contains the germs of her loathsome fall and of his own crushing defeat.

The clash between Yekel's revolting career and his paternal idealism, and the catastrophe to which it inevitably leads form one of the strongest and most fascinating situations known to the modern drama.

I cannot conclude without a word of well-earned praise for the English version of "The God of Vengeance." Dr. Isaac Goldberg's translation is not only a thoroughly correct and felicitous equivalent of the original, but a piece of art in itself.

New York City, April, 1918.

Introduction

SHOLOM ASH is one of the chief authors in contemporary Yiddish letters,—a literature at present enjoying a renaissance that attests the remarkable vitality of a people long oppressed in intellectual no less than in economic domains,—a literature that has much to teach America in the way of fearlessness before the facts of life, frankness in their interpretation and persistent idealism in face of the most degrading and debasing environment. Indeed, the conjunction of squalid surroundings, sordid occupation and idealistic yearning to be met so frequently in Jewish writers arises most naturally from the peculiar conditions of much of the life in ghettos the world over.

It is interesting to consider Ash's "The God of Vengeance" in connection with a play like "Mrs. Warren's Profession." To be sure, there is no technical resemblance between the two dramas; nor, despite an external similarity in backgrounds, is there any real identity of purpose. Shaw's play is essentially sociological, and is a drama of disillusionment. Ash's piece glows with poetic realism and recounts an individual tragedy not without symbolic power. Yet the essentially (though not conventionally) moral earnestness of both Shaw and Ash brings the circles of their themes in a sense tangent to each other.

Mrs. Warren cherishes no delusions about her dubious profession,—neither the delusion of that sentimentalization of the prostitute which Dumas helped so much to effect and which Augier strove to combat, nor the delusion of the conservative, conventional horror before an institution for the perpetuation of which conservatism and conventionalism are much to blame. If Yekel and his wife (in Ash's play) are not so enlightened as Mrs. Warren in their views upon the traffic off which they live, they are in their own crude way equally sincere in beholding in it a business quite as legitimate as any other. With the same inconsistency with which Hindel implores Heaven for aid in achieving her nefarious aims, after which she promises to be a model wife and mother (See Act Two), Mrs. Warren at the end of Shaw's play swears by Heaven that henceforth she will lead a life of evil.

In the case of Yekel and his wife, as in Mrs. Warren's, another touch of inconsistency is added by the agreement that theirs is not the best of professions. Crofts, too, in the English play, discusses the business with all the matter-of-factness of Ash 's Shloyme, yet considers himself a gentleman none the less.

Rifkele, of course, is no Vivie. Ash's simple-minded Jewish girl is a victim, not a rebel. Yet in either case the daughter is lost to the parents, and the power of money is of no avail to win the child back. And just as Yekel, in his impotence, blasphemously thrusts the Holy Scroll from his household, so does Mrs. Warren, defeated in her attempt to win back her daughter, cry "From this time forth, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I'll do wrong and nothing but wrong. And I'll prosper on it." Perhaps, too, the retribution which in each case is visited upon the parent arises from the fact that both Mrs. Warren and Yekel have, in Vivie's accusatory words, "lived one life and believed in another."

"The God of Vengeance," despite conclusions too easily drawn, is not a sex play. When Ash wishes to deal with sex as sex he is not afraid to handle the subject with all the poetry and power at his command. Such a play as his "Jephthah's Daughter" treats the elemental urge of sex with daring, beauty and Dionysiac abandon. Here, too, a golden symbolism wafts through the piece. Again, in his powerful novel "Mottke the Vagabond," Ash has given us scenes from the underworld of Warsaw that are unparalleled for unflinching truth to detail. "The God of Vengeance," however, despite the sordid environment in which the play takes place, possesses a certain moral beauty,—a beauty much dimmed, perhaps, by the repellant human beings who are its carriers, but a beauty none the less. Its symbolism and its poetry lift it far above the brothel in which it takes place. And what a strong conception is the Holy Scroll, itself one of the chief characters, and how frightfully eloquent in the mysterious, religious power that the dramatist has woven around it!

First produced by the famous director Max Reinhardt, at the Deutsches Theater, Berlin, in 1910, Ash's powerful play quickly made its way to the chief stages of Europe. It has been played all over Germany, Austria, Russia, Poland, Holland, Nor- way, Sweden and Italy. In Italy it created a marked impression during- the entire season of 1916. "The God of Vengeance" has been translated into Hebrew, German, Russian, Polish, Dutch, Swedish, Norwegian, Italian and French.

Ash himself is yet a young man, having been born near Warsaw, some thirty-seven years ago. He is at present settled in New York, where pages flow in rapid succession from his prolific pen. Among his better known works are the following:

THE TOWN. A collection of sketches depicting Yiddish life in the "staedtil" of the Old World. It was this work that brought him into prominence at the age of twenty-four.

MERI and THE ROAD TO SELF. A pair of novels forming a continuous whole, in which the author, with a wealth of color and episode, depicts the wanderings of Jewish souls in search of self- realization. The background, mainly that of the Russian revolution of 1905, shifts to various parts of the globe. The books are rich in poetry and movement, and have been referred to as the epic of the Yiddish part in the revolution of 1905. Besides this the love story of Men Rosenzweig and Misha, and the figures of Rachel and Kovalski the artist, lend to the novels all the charm that love can add to adventure and beautiful language to both.

MOTTKE THE VAGABOND. (Translated into English.) A powerful tale of life in the underworld of Warsaw, and the career of a Yiddish "cellar- child." American critics have found Ash, in this book, comparable in various respects to such authors as Hugo, Dickens and Gorki.

THE SINNER. (Translated into English.) A one-act symbolic play of intense power, which has been likened for its atmosphere to certain of Maeterlinck's dramas. The story, which deals with the refusal of a Jewish grave to receive the corpse of a man who has sinned by marrying out of the faith, is developed with penetrating skill and impartial outlook.

OUR FAITH. A full-length drama upon a theme similar to that just touched upon. The author's refusal to cater to orthodox views shows his artistic independence.

SHORT STORIES. The best of the numerous short stories that Ash has published in his various collections attain a high degree of artistic excellence. That same nervous prose as distinguishes his longer pieces, that same linguistic iridescence,—one might term it,—as he achieves in such remarkable places as Chapter XIII (Part One) of "Meri" and Chapter XLI (Part Two) of "The Road to Self," are encountered often in his many shorter tales.

In his more notable work Ash glows with a spontaneous artistry. It is this part of Ash's work that holds much pleasure in store for an increasing number of American readers who are awakening to the beauties of Yiddish literature.

ISAAC GOLDBERG.

Roxbury, Mass., April, 1918.

Persons of the Drama

YEKEL TCHAFTCHOVITCH, familiarly known as the “Uncle;” the owner of a brothel.

SARAH, his wife; formerly a prostitute.

RIFKELE, their daughter; a young girl of about seventeen.

HINDEL, first girl of the brothel; a girl of some thirty odd years, but much older in appearance.

MANKE, second girl; rather young.

REIZEL, third girl.

BASHA, a country lass, recently arrived.

SHLOYME, a procurer; Hindel's betrothed, a handsome chap of twenty-six.

REB ALI, a matchmaker; neighbor of the “Uncle.”

REB YANKEV, a pious Scribe.

A STRANGER, father of Rifkele's proposed husband.

A POOR WOMAN, blind in one eye.

Poor Men and Women of the neighborhood.

Time: The Present.

1em

Act I

Scene: The "Uncle's" private dwelling on the ground floor of an old wooden house. Below, in the cellar, is the brothel. A flight of rickety wooden stairs, whose creaking announces the coming of all visitors, leads from the outside into the home, which consists of a large room with a low ceiling. The furniture is new, in the cheap Warsaw style, and does not at all harmonize with the old-fashioned structure. On the wall hang pictures embroidered upon canvas, depicting scenes from the Bible, such as "Adam and Eve at the Tree of Knowledge," etc. These are evidently a young girl's handiwork. At the rear, the door leading to the outside. To the right, a door leading to Rifkele's room. At each side of this door, placed against the wall, a bed piled high with bedding. To the left, two low windows, hung with curtains and provided with shutters that close from the inside. Before the windows, pots of flowers; between, a cupboard; at the side of one of the windows, a bureau.

The finishing touches are being put to the cleaning of the room. . . Evidently guests are expected. . . Extra tables and benches have been placed about, laden with baskets of bread, cake, fruit, etc.

An afternoon in early spring.

Act I

Sarah and Rifkele are discovered as the curtain rises. Sarah is a tall, slender, prepossessing woman. Her features have become coarsened, yet they retain traces of her former beauty, which has even now a tone of insolence. On her head lies a wig, through which, from time to time, shows a lock of her alluring hair. She is dressed quite soberly, as befits a mother, yet a vulgar display of jewels spoils this effect. Her movements, too, reveal that she is not quite liberated from the influences of the world out of which she has risen.

Rifkele is a fascinating girl, dressed very neatly and modestly; still in short dresses, with two long braids hanging across her shoulders. She is busy decorating the room.

Rifkele, as she pins some paper flowers to the curtain.

There! That's the way, mamma dear. And now to decorate the mirror. See, mamma dear. Won't this be pretty?

Sarah, busy arranging the table.

Hurry, daughter dear, hurry. Your father has already gone to ask the guests to bring the Holy Scroll home.

Rifkele

Won't that be lovely! We'll have a house full of people. . . There'll be playing and singing. . . Yes, mamma dear?

Sarah

Yes, my darling. It's a sacred event,—a great merit in the eyes of God. . . Not everyone can have a Holy Scroll written. Only a man of dignity, a person of standing.

Rifkele

And will there be girls, too? And dancing? Really, mamma dear? (Suddenly.) I'll have to buy myself a waist, ma. And a pair of white slippers. (Sticking out her shoes.) You can't dance in shoes, can you?

Sarah

When you'll be engaged, in God's good time. Next Passover I'll make you a long dress and buy you slippers. Girls will come, fine young ladies, respectable ones. And you'll chum with them.

Rifkele, stubbornly.

You're always putting things off until Passover. I'm a grown-up girl already. (Looking into the mirror.) See, ma. I'm a big girl. (Showing her hair.) And just see how long my braids are. Why, Manke tells me. . . (Inter herself.) And Manke will be there, too, won't she, mamma dear?

Sarah

No, my darling. Only nice, respectable girls. For you are a respectable child, a decent Jewish daughter. . .

Riflkele

Why not, mamma dear? Manke sketched a David's shield for me on the cover of the Holy Scroll. . . I'm going to embroider it now in silk thread,—a wreath of leaves and a garland of flowers. You'll see how beautiful it'll be, ma. (Points to the pictures on the wall.) A hundred times prettier than these. . .

Sarah, with deep concern.

Woe is me! Don't tell that to your father! He'll scold and fly into a rage when he hears of it.

Rifkele

Why, mamma dear? It's for the Holy Scroll, isn't it?

Sarah

Your father will rave! (Footsteps are heard.) Hush, Rifkele, father is coming.

Yekel, still without.

What? Do they think I'll get down on my knees and beg them? Not on their lives! (En . He is a tall, strong man of about forty, stout; swarthy countenance, covered with dark hair; his black beard cut round. He speaks in loud, gruff tones, at the same time making coarse gestures and grasping the lapel of the man whom he happens to he addressing. Despite this, his face and person beam with a certain frank geniality.) So they won't come! They don't have to!. . . So I got together some poor folks. . . Don't you worry. . . We'll have plenty of customers for our honey-cakes and our geese. (Noticing Rifkele, he sits down.) Come here, my little Rifkele, come to papa.

Sarah, angered, but trying to conceal her feelings, continues to set the table.

Do they think they'll soil their pedigree by coming to you? And when they need to borrow a hundred-rouble note. . . or take a charity contribution. . . they're not at all ashamed of your company then. . . The Gentile is impure, but his money's untainted.

Yekel

She's afraid already. Something new to worry about, eh? Never fear, it'll spoil nothing of yours. . . (Calls Rifkele.) Well, well, come to daddy, won't you?

Rifkele, approaches her father very unwillingly, in fear.

What does papa dear want?

Yekel

Don't be afraid, Rifkele, I won't hurt you. (Takes her hand.) You like your father, don't you?

Rifkele

Nods "yes."

Yekel

Then why are you afraid of him?

Rifkele

I don't know.

Yekel

Don't be afraid of papa. He loves you. Very, very much. Today I'm having a Holy Scroll written. It costs a good deal of money. All for you, my child, all for you. (Rifkele is silent. Pause.) And with God's help, when you are betrothed, I'll buy your sweetheart a gold watch and chain — the chain will weigh half a pound. . . Papa loves you very dearly. (Rifkele is silent. She lowers her head bashfully. Pause.) Don't be ashamed. There's nothing wrong about being engaged. God has ordained it. (Pause.) That's nothing. Everybody gets engaged and married. (Rifkele is silent. Pause.) Well, now. Do you love daddy?

Rifkele, nodding, and speaking softly.

Yes.

Yekel

Well, then. What do you want me to buy you? Tell me, Rifkele. (She makes no reply.) Tell me, now. Don't be afraid. Your daddy loves you. Tell me, like a good little girlie. What shall I buy you? (Rifkele is silent.)

Sarah, busy at the table, to Rifkele.

Well, why don't you answer when your father speaks to you?

Rifkele

I don't know. . .

Sarah, to Yekel.

She wants a silk waist and a pair of white slippers.

Yekel

Is that it? A silk waist and a pair of white slippers? Eh?

Rifkele

Nods "yes."

Yekel

You certainly deserve them. (From his pockets, which jingle with coins, he takes out a gold-piece and offers it to Rifkele.) Here, give this to mamma. And let her buy them for you. (Rifkele takes the money and hands it to her mother. On the stairs outside is heard the noise of the poor folk whom Yekel has invited. Yekel turns to Sarah.) See? You said (He opens the door.) that you would have no guests. (Calls.) Now then. Come in. Come in. (Enter a crowd of poor people, men and women, at first singly, as if they were stealing in; then more boldly, in groups. All greet Yekel, some of them ironically.)

People in the Crowd

Good day to you, host! (To Sarah.) Good day to you, hostess.

Sarah

Puts on an apron, places in it loaves of white bread, rolls, honey-cakes and so forth, and distributes them among the guests.

One of the Poor Men

Long life to you, hostess, and may you live to celebrate joyous events beyond number.

A Woman

May the Holy Scroll bring good fortune and be a blessing to your home.

Yekel, throwing slices of white bread to the poor people. To Sarah.

Give them a whole pound of cake apiece. And a bottle of brandy to take home with them. Let them know that I'm celebrating today. . . Never mind. I can well afford it.

A Woman, Blind in One Eye, praising Yekel and Sarah before her poor neighbors.

This is a house for you, such luck may I have. Nobody ever leaves this place empty-handed. There's always a plate of soup for the sick, a shirt for a poor fellow. What then? Do you think you can get anything over there where the proud purses live? (Sarah, as if not hearing the woman's words, throws into the apron of the latter a few more portions of food. The old woman holds up her apron and continues to talk.) Whenever there's a celebration here. . . whoever you are. . . however humble your trade. . .

Other Poor Folks, among themselves.

That's so. May we know such luck. . . May such good fortune be ours! . .

Yekel, takes out a handful of small change and casts it into Rifkele's apron.

Here, divide this among the poor folks. (Rifkele distributes the money.)

The Blind Woman, now enthusiastic, pointing to Rifkele.

And show me, in the whole town, another girl as respectable as she! . . . (To the other women.) Why, Rabbis haven't such virtuous children! (More softly, yet loud enough for Yekel and Sarah to hear.) God alone knows how such a pure child came to them. . . Imagine, brought up in such a place, — may Heaven not punish us for mentioning it. (Louder.) And they guard her like the apple of their eye. . . They weigh and measure every step she takes. It's a delight to look at her. (Goes over to Yekel.) Never mind. Everybody knows it. (Pointing to Rifkele.) If I had a Rabbi for a son, I'd choose her for his bride.

The Other Women, among themselves.

Everybody knows it. It's the talk of the town.

Yekel

Just wait till I lead her under the wedding canopy, in God's good time. You'll all get a whole goose apiece, and a pickerel just out of the water, and roubles galore. And if I lie, then my name isn't Yekel Tchaftchovitch!

The Blind Woman

And I tell you, it's just as if she had been brought up in a synagogue, — Heaven pardon the word in this place. So pure and modest. . . finer than any child of the most respectable family.

The Other Women

Folks will learn all about it. It's the talk of the town.

Yekel, distributing glasses of brandy. Blurts out, before he realizes what he is saying.

Even though her father is Yekel Tchaftchovitch. . .

Sarah, giving out glasses.

Look at the people before whom he must boast!

Yekel, pouring brandy into glasses. With passionate unrestraint.

It makes no difference to me, — poor or rich. Let everybody know, — let the whole town know. What I am, I am. (Points to his wife.) What she is, she is. . . It's all true, — everything. But let them not breathe a word against my daughter. . . And if anyone dares to do so, I'll break his head with this bottle here. Even if it's the Rabbi himself, it'll make no difference to me ! . . . She's purer than his own daughter. (Pointing to his neck.) You may slash my throat if that isn't so!

Sarah, stops passing around the brandy.

We've heard all that before. . . That's enough. (Rubs her hands and goes to a corner for the broom.) We must clean the room now for our guests. (Turning to the poor folk.) You're not offended, I hope?

The Poor People

Not at all, hostess. May happiness and joy be yours forever. . . (They leave the room singly, uttering profuse blessings. Yekel, behind his wife's back, throws them more food. The last woman speaks to Rifkele, loud enough for the others to hear.) Go, Rifkele, and prepare the robe for the Holy Scroll. Reb Ali will soon come, and the Scribe, too. (Rifkele goes into her room.)

Sarah, sweeping the floor.

To think that he had to boast before such people ! I tell you! . . . And otherwise, do you imagine, they wouldn't have come to you? Make a celebration every day, and every day you'll have them here. In respectable houses people know how to act so that they'll be looked up to. What do you think, — they're all like you, with your "Hello, good brother!" right away? What kind of host are you, anyway?

Yekel

Do you expect respectable folks to come to your home? Have you forgotten who you are, perhaps?

Sarah

"Who you are!" What! Have you stolen anything? You have a business. Everybody has his own business. You don't compel anybody, do you? You may deal in what you please, can't you, if you yourself do no wrong? . . . Just try to give them some money, and see whether they'll take it from you or not!

Yekel

They'll take it from you, all right, but they'll look upon you as a dog, just the same. . . And at the synagogue you'll have the back seat, and they'll never call you up to the altar, to read from the Holy Book.

Sarah

Do you really believe that they're any better than you? You don't need their favors! . . . That's the way of the world these days: if you've got the money, even so pious a Jew as Reb Ali comes to your home, — a Pietist, mind you, — and accepts handsome alms from you. He asks no questions, — whether you got it by theft or by murder. So long as you have the cash. That's the chief point!

Yekel

Don't climb too high, Sarah. Do you hear? Not too high. . . For if you do, some fine day you'll fall and break your neck. (Shakes a warning finger at her.) And don't try to break into the upper crust. Don't, I tell you. You've a home of your own, — stay there. You've got bread, — eat. But don't intrude where you're not wanted. . . Every dog must know his own kennel. (Leaving the table, with a gesture of apprehension.) The whole business is beginning to make me uneasy. . . I'm afraid that this will bring the downfall of our hopes. . .

Sarah, stops her work, placing her arms akimbo.

And you're a man! Shame yourself! I 'm only a woman, but I can say to myself, "The past is gone forever." Whiz! Flown away ! . . . There's nobody to be ashamed of. The whole world isn't any better. Why, if it were, people would have to go about with their heads bowed to the earth. (Coming nearer to him.) In a little while you'll have money. You close up shop and not a rooster crows. . . Who needs to know what we were?

Yekel, meditatively.

That would be best. . . (Pause.) To buy a pack of horses and smuggle them across the border, just like Eisikl Furman did. . . And become a respectable person. . . not have people eye you like a thief.

Sarah, considering the matter.

Just the same it's too bad to go out of our business. . . You'll never make such good money from your horses. Here, at least, it's all cash.

Yekel

That's certainly so.

Sarah, goes into the next room, returns with a tray of plates and begins to arrange them upon the table.

And just see what a daughter we have. Thank God, more decent than all the daughters of the best families in town. She'll marry some highly esteemed fellow, raise a respectable family. . . Isn't that so? Then what's wrong?