_Does the Guardian of the Entrances hear them? The grey rocks are covered with moans; passionate sobs rise to His feet, but the Guardian is motionless, the Guardian is speechless, and the iron Gates are mute._ _The abyss crashes._ _With one blow, as if splitting the earth, a brass roar and shout breaks forth,--and out of the fragments, like a spring from a rock that is split by lightning, a soft, harmonious, bright melody comes forth._ _Then it dies out._ _Silence. Immobility. Expectation, expectation, expectation._ CURTAIN ACT ONE _The south of Russia. A hot summer midday. A wide road near the end of a large, thickly populated city. Starting from the left corner of the stage, the road crosses it diagonally, turning in the rear of the stage to the right. Two high stone posts, of ancient construction, dilapidated and slightly bent, indicate the boundary of the city. On the side of the city line, at the right post, there is a deserted, once yellow sentry-box, the plaster fallen of in spots and the windows tightly boarded and nailed up. On the sides of the road there are several small shops made of cheap wood, separated from one another by narrow passages--in the desperate and ineffectual struggle for existence the little shops seem to be clambering stupidly upon one another. The people are dealing in all sorts of merchandise: candies, sunflower seeds, cheap sausages, herrings; each shop has a small, dirty counter, through which a pipe with two faucets stands out prominently--one of them for soda-water, at a penny a glass,--the other for seltzer. One of the little shops belongs to David Leizer; the others--to the Greek Purikes, to the young Jewess Sonka Zitron, and to the Russian, Ivan Bezkrainy, who, in addition to his business, mends shoes and rubbers; he is the only one who has "real noblemen's" cider for sale._ _The sun is burning mercilessly and the few small trees, with their leaves curled up from the heat, are pining for rain; the dusty road is deserted. Beyond the posts, where the road is turning toward the right, there is a high precipice--the dust-covered tops of trees are seen here and there in the descending distance. And embracing the entire horizon, the sea has stretched itself in a smoky blue strip, sleeping peacefully in the heat and glare of the sun._ _Sarah, David Leizer's wife, an old Jewess, exhausted by life, is seated in front of her little shop. She is mending some rags and is chatting languidly with the other shopkeepers._ SARAH. No one is buying anything. No one is drinking any soda-water; no one is buying any sunflower seeds or any fine candies which melt in the mouth. PURIKES. _Like an echo._ No one is buying anything. SARAH.