Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays Part 61

FOMa. What face?

VAR. The face looked in at the window!

AST. Whose face?

VAR. It is the man that we have seen watching us in the cemetery.

PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Oh, Heaven preserve me from this man!

FOMa. [_opening the street door_]. There is n.o.body there.

AST. This is a false alarm.

FOMa. People who tire their eyes by staring at window-panes at night often see faces looking in through them.

PRAS. Oh, Hospodi!

AST. Spiridon will be returning soon. Have you the money ready?

PRAS. The money? Yes, yes! I will get it ready. It is not here. Come, Varvara. [_They put on coats and shawls._]

AST. If it is in the bank we must wait till the daytime.

PRAS. My money in the bank? I am not so foolish. [_She lights the lantern._] Get the spade, Varvara. [_Varvara goes out and fetches a spade._] It is buried in the field, in a place that no one knows but myself.

AST. Are you not afraid to go out?

PRAS. Afraid? No, I am not afraid.

FOMa. But your supper--you have not eaten your supper.

PRAS. How can I think of supper at such a moment?

FOMa. No supper? Oh, what a wonderful thing is a mother's love!

PRAS. [_to Asteryi and Foma_]. Stay here till we return.

VAR. [_drawing back_]. I am afraid, Praskovya Petrovna.

PRAS. Nonsense, there is nothing to fear.

FOMa. [_throwing his coat over his back_]. I will go with you to the corner of the street.

AST. [_shuffling the cards_]. I must try one for myself.

FOMa. [_mockingly_]. What's the use? It will never come out.

AST. [_cheerfully_]. Oh, it never does to be discouraged.

[_Exeunt Praskovya, Varvara, and Foma. Asteryi plays patience.

Everything is silent and monotonous again. The clock ticks._]

FOMa. [_reenters, dancing and singing roguishly to the tune of the Russian folksong, "Vo sadu li v vogorode"_]:

In the shade there walked a maid As fair as any flower, Picking posies all of roses For to deck her bower.

AST. Don't make such a noise.

FOMa. I can't help it. I'm gay. I have a sympathetic soul. I rejoice with Praskovya Petrovna. I think she is mad, but I rejoice with her.

AST. So do I; but I don't disturb others on that account.

FOMa. Come, old grumbler, have a mouthful of vodka.

[_Melodramatically._] A gla.s.s of wine with Caesar Borgia! [_Singing._]

As she went adown the bent She met a merry fellow, He was drest in all his best In red and blue and yellow.

So he was a saint, was he, that son of hers? Well, well, of what advantage is that? Saints are not so easy to love as sinners. You and I are not saints, are we, Asteryi Ivanovitch?

AST. I do not care to parade my halo in public.

FOMa. Oh, as for me, I keep mine in a box under the bed; it only frightens people. Do you think he would have remained a saint all this time if he had lived?

AST. Who can say?

FOMa. Nonsense! He would have become like the rest of us. Then why make all this fuss about him? Why go on for twenty years sacrificing her own life to a fantastic image?

AST. Why not, if it please her to do so?

FOMa. Say what you please, but all the same she is mad; yes, Praskovya is mad.

AST. We call every one mad who is faithful to their ideas. If people think only of food and money and clothing we call them sane, but if they have ideas beyond those things we call them mad. I envy Praskovya.

Praskovya has preserved in her old age what I myself have lost. I, too, had ideas once, but I have been unfaithful to them; they have evaporated and vanished.

FOMa. What ideas were these?

AST. Liberty! Political regeneration!

FOMa. Ah, yes; you were a sad revolutionary once, I have been told.

AST. I worshiped Liberty, as Praskovya worships her Sasha. But I have lived my ideals down in the dull routine of my foolish, aimless life as an office hack, a clerk in the District Council, making copies that no one will ever see of doc.u.ments that no one ever wants to read....

Suddenly there comes the Revolution; there is fighting in the streets; men raise the red flag; blood flows. I might go forth and strike a blow for that Liberty which I loved twenty years ago. But no, I have become indifferent. I do not care who wins, the Government or the Revolutionaries; it is all the same to me.

FOMa. You are afraid. One gets timid as one gets older.

AST. Afraid? No. What have I to be afraid of? Death is surely not so much worse than life? No, it is because my idea is dead and cannot be made to live again, while Praskovya, whose routine as a lodging-house keeper is a hundred times duller than mine, is still faithful to her old idea. Let us not call her mad; let us rather worship her as something holy, for her fidelity to an idea in this wretched little town where ideas are as rare as white ravens.

FOMa. She has no friends to love?