Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays. Various
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Uncle. But we are not blind; we are not.
The Father. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This misunderstanding must be put an end to.—Would you?
The Grandfather [becoming suddenly undecided]. No, no, not now—not yet.
The Uncle. You see, you are not reasonable.
The Grandfather. One never knows how much a man has been unable to express in his life!... Who made that noise?
The Eldest Daughter. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather.
The Grandfather. It seems to me to be very unsteady—very!
The Daughter. It is the cold wind troubling it....
The Uncle. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut.
The Daughter. I think it is going out.
The Father. There is no more oil.
The Daughter. It has gone right out.
The Father. We cannot stay like this in the dark.
The Uncle. Why not?—I am quite accustomed to it.
The Father. There is a light in my wife's room.
The Uncle. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has been.
The Father. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from outside.
The Grandfather. Is it light outside?
The Father. Lighter than here.
The Uncle. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark.
The Father. So would I. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of noise....
The Eldest Daughter. That is because we are not talking any more, grandfather.
The Grandfather. But why are you all silent?
The Uncle. What do you want us to talk about?—You are really very peculiar to-night.
The Grandfather. Is it very dark in this room?
The Uncle. There is not much light. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little.
The Father. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the want of air myself. [The girl opens the window.]
The Uncle. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long.
The Grandfather. Is the window open?
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open.
The Grandfather. One would not have thought it was open; there was not a sound outside.
The Daughter. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound.
The Father. The silence is extraordinary!
The Daughter. One could hear an angel tread!
The Uncle. That is why I do not like the country.
The Grandfather. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, Ursula?
The Daughter. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [Here the Uncle begins to pace up and down the room.]
The Grandfather. Who is that walking round us like that?
The Uncle. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about a little. [Silence.]—But I am going to sit down again;—I cannot see where I am going. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. I wish I were out of this place.
The Daughter. Where would you like to go, grandfather?
The Grandfather. I do not know where—into another room, no matter where! no matter where!
The Father. Where could we go?
The Uncle. It is too late to go anywhere else. [Silence. They are sitting, motionless, round the table.]
The Grandfather. What is that I hear, Ursula?
The Daughter. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.—Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace.
The Grandfather. Go and shut the window, Ursula.
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather. [She shuts the window, comes back, and sits down.]
The Grandfather. I am cold. [Silence. The Three Sisters kiss each other.] What is that I hear now?
The Father. It is the three sisters kissing each other.
The Uncle. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. What is that I hear now, Ursula?
The Daughter. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. And that?...
The Daughter. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are trembling a little?...
The Grandfather. I am afraid, too, my children. [Here a ray of moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of some one rising in haste.]
The Grandfather [shuddering with peculiar horror]. Who is that who got up?
The Uncle. No one got up!
The Father. I did not get up!
The Three Daughters. Nor I!—Nor I!—Nor I!
The Grandfather. Some one got up from the table!
The Uncle. Light the lamp!... [Cries of terror are suddenly heard from the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with gradations of horror, until the end of the scene.]
The Father. Listen to the child!
The Uncle. He has never cried before!
The Father. Let us go and see him!
The Uncle. The light! The light! [At this moment, quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left.—Then a deathly silence.—They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly; the light from it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness.]
The Grandfather. Where are you going?—Where are you going?—The girls have left me all alone!
[Curtain.]
INTERLUDE
By Federico More
Translated from the Spanish by Audrey Alden.
Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.
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