Rafael.
And that afternoon I went with my father to the synagogue; I did not pray, I could not speak. I only gazed at my father's face, waiting to see it soften into some shade of doubt, of repentance, of remorse. And the dead eyes faced up to the rafters where the sun shone through—they faced up there with the same impassive stare—the same holy calm, as when he stood with his foot on the scales. Ah, when we walked home, how cold and pitiless the sky looked down at me that winter day! We sat at our Sabbath table. He complained that I was silent. He said prayers, he dipped the bread in the salt. The lamplight shone on him, and I stared into his face, and I saw nothing—nothing I had always thought I saw—and my heart was ice; and he rose and stumbled over a stool and fell, and I picked him up—and my heart was still ice. He was no longer blind to me—he was nothing—nothing but a—ah no, no,—what's the use—what's the use?
Sachel.
[Hoarsely.] Have I been different from the others? Aaron, Levy, Isaac, would they not have done the same? Is there any one who would not take advantage of my eyes? No; business is business.
Rafael.
Business,—Aaron, Levy, Isaac! God, how I have despised them all my life!
Esther.
Oh, he would give overweight!
I will quarrel no more with you. When I am gone——