Rosa.
No, never again; never shall you lay your hand on me! I know what lies before me now. I am your wife and you will not proclaim me. I am your wife and they insult me, and you bundle them off without a word such as I wanted, as if I were your mistress, who must not be vexed! I know now; last night you soothed me over—you took me in your arms before him; but he is blind—he did not understand—he only suspected something foul; and so it will grow, until his suspicion makes an open accusation; and then you will stand revealed—you will shrink away from me—you will cry, "I have sinned in the sight of the synagogue," and I shall be cast out of doors—a broken plaything, a husk of yesterday!
Rafael.
Rosa! Rosa! Are you not my wife?
Rosa.
Your wife—here in the Ghetto—here among your people? No, to them I am a Christian—to them I cannot be your wife—to them I am a sacrilege—an insult in their teeth! Oh! as one who enters hell I entered here—a steaming hell of avarice; not life—but a sickly poisoned dream of gain, gain—always gain. I thought I saw a bright light shining in this horrid place. I flew to you—I gave you my soul—to find myself—ugh!—only——
Horror! that you should even think such things!
Rosa.
Think such things! You say you love me with all your heart—with all your soul. How great is your soul that dares not the anger of a father who is wrong?—a soul that fears poverty, disinheritance, the hatred of the Ghetto? You fear that you would be cast off, that you would suffer want and ridicule, that your father would never feed you and clothe you again; and when that fear comes into your heart what room is left for me? Love! Ugh! Ugh! What is your love! The love of the way that is easiest, the love of the son of honest Sachel—the love of a Jew!