ROSA.
What a crooked mirror, mother!
NAUM.
Cries.
Mamma, where is father going? I want to live.
ANATHEMA.
Throw away that piece of glass, Rosa. Mankind will reflect your beauty, the world will reflect your beauty—you will see yourself in the world.... Ah, you are still here, musician. Play something for us, please. Such a holiday must not pass without music!
ORGAN-GRINDER.
Shall I play the same?
ANATHEMA.