Rosamund. Er—talking of lunch, as I'm hostess here, perhaps I should ask you men if you'd like a drink.
James and Gerald [looking hopefully at each other]. Well, yes.
Rosamund. I have some beautiful lemonade.
James AND Gerald [still looking at each other, but with a different expression]. Oh, that will be delightful! [Lemonade and glasses produced.]
Gerald. I drink to the happy pair.
Rosamund [a little sinister]. And I—to Madge.
James. And I—to a good woman—Mrs. Pet [looking at her fixedly]. All men like a good woman, but she shouldn't be too good—it's a strain on the system. [General consumption of lemonade, the men bravely swallowing it down, Rosamund rests her head on James's shoulder.]
Rosamund. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only ordered lunch for two at the Savoy.
Gerald. Well, that's right. By that time you and James, if I may call him so, will be one, and me makes two.
[Curtain.]
THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE
A Play
By George Calderon
Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd.
All rights reserved.
The Little Stone House is founded on a story by the same author, published anonymously some years ago in Temple Bar.
The agents for amateur rights in this play are Messrs. Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York, and Joseph Williams, Ltd., 32 Great Portland Street, London, from whom a license to play it in public must be obtained.
It was first performed for the Stage Society at the Aldwych Theatre, London, January 29, 1911, with the following cast:
| Praskóvya, a lodging-house keeper | Mrs. Saba Raleigh |
| Varvára, her servant | Miss Eily Malyon |
| Astéryi, a lodger | Mr. Franklin Dyall |
| Fomá, a lodger | Mr. Stephen T. Ewart |
| Spiridón, a stonemason | Mr. Leon M. Lion |
| A Stranger | Mr. O. P. Heggie |
| A Corporal | Mr. E. Cresfan |
Scene: Small provincial town in Russia.
Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Messrs. Sidgwick and
Jackson, Ltd., publishers of the English edition.
THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE
A Play
By George Calderon
[Praskóvya's sitting-room. Street door in porch and a curtainless window at the back. It is night; the light of an oil-lamp in the street dimly shows snow-covered houses and falling snow. The room is plainly furnished: a bed, a curtain on a cord, some books, eikons on a shelf in the corner with a wick in a red glass bowl burning before them, paper flowers, and Easter eggs on strings. A photograph of a man of twenty hangs by the eikons. There are doors to kitchen and to the lodgers' rooms.
Varvára is discovered sitting by a lamp darning stockings.
There is an atmosphere of silence, solitude, and Russian monotony. The clock ticks. A man is seen passing in the street; his feet make no sound on the snowy ground. There is the sound of a concertina and a man who laughs in the distance out of doors. Then silence again.
Enter Astéryi, stout and lazy; gray hair thrown untidily back, a rough beard. He is in slippers and dirty dressing-gown, with a big case full of Russian cigarettes in his pocket.]
Ast. Is Praskóvya Petróvna not at home?
Var. [rising]. She is not at home, Astéryi Ivanovitch. She has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaléimon's in the Marsh. It is the festival of the translation of St. Pantaléimon's relics. [Varvára sits again. Astéryi walks to and fro smoking a cigarette.] Will you not have your game of patience as usual?
Ast. Without Praskóvya Petróvna?
Var. She would be sorry if you missed your game because she was late. You can play again when she returns; she likes to watch you.
Ast. Very well.
[Varvára gets a pack of cards. Astéryi sits at a table at one side and plays.]
Var. Shall I prepare the samovar?
Ast. Not yet; I will wait. How greasy these cards are [laying out a patience].
Var. No wonder, Astéryi Ivanovitch. It is two years since you bought this pack.
A Voice [without]. Varvára! Varvára! There is no water in my jug.
Ast. There is one of the lodgers calling you.
Var. It is the schoolmaster.
Ast. Better not keep him waiting; he is an angry man.
Var. I will go. Excuse me, please.
[Exit Varvára. The clock ticks again. Astéryi pauses and meditates, then murmurs, "Oh, Hóspodi!" as if in surprise at being so terribly bored. The concertina plays a few notes. A knock at the street door.]
Ast. Who's there? Come in, come in!
[Enter Spiridón, a man with a cringing, crafty manner, in a sheepskin coat with snow on it. He stands by the door, facing the eikon, crossing himself with large gestures and bowing very low towards it.]
Spir. [looking round]. Good-day, sir, good-day. [Crossing himself again.] May the holy saints preserve all in this house.
Ast. Ah! it's you, Spiridón?
Spir. Yes, sir. It is Spiridón the stonemason.
Ast. What brings you here, Spiridón?
Spir. Is Praskóvya Petróvna not at home?
Ast. No, she has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaléimon's in the Marsh.
Spir. The service is late to-night.
Ast. Yes.... You are a hard man, Spiridón.
Spir. Me, sir!
Ast. And you lose money by your hardness. Praskóvya Petróvna is a poor woman. For years she has been saving up money to build a stone house over the grave of her son in the Tróitski Cemetery. You say that you will build it for 500 roubles, but you ask too much. By starving herself and pinching in every way she has saved up 400 roubles at last, and if you