gladly become a priest. Even if only for your mother’s sake.
Petr.—Ach. I am not speaking of that. And please don’t let us talk about it at all. What good is it? Those few strange wishes and ambitions which I had to renounce when I entered the seminary have long since been regretted. Anyway, they were so modest that they were hardly worth while. Listen to me: My present life, from my earliest years until to-day, that petty, monotonous, down trodden life has begun to hurt me—that life for which I was brought up and which could not have ended differently than it's ending now.
Maya.—And have you never thought of that before?
Petr.—Never. Not until now.
Maya.—Why? Your uncle did not urge you to enter the seminary!
Petr.—Who told you that?
Maya.—He himself.
Petr.—And why did you talk about it?
Maya.—Well, just so—why are you looking at me in that way? I was asking Father Matoush if you were happy.
Petr.—Happy! Does any one care about that?
Maya.—Perhaps no one. But some people still might. Your mother
Petr.—Yes, yes, my mother, she verily believes that I am happy.
Maya.—And you said the other day that her belief was sufficient.
Petr.—It was until lately.
Maya.—And your uncle cares about it, also.
Petr.—Yes, yes, it is for their sake that I have become what I am. Anyway, I do not live for any one else in this world.
Maya.—Of course. Besides those two you have no one.
Petr.—So why insist upon thinking about it at all?
Maya.—I understand you. You mean, why should I care to insist upon thinking about it.
Petr (quickly).—Pardon me, Miss, but I did not mean it in that way.
Maya.—I know that you did not mean to offend me. But really, I ought not to disturb you with my sympathy.
Petr.—But no, Miss Maya. I thank you very much for the interest you take in me.
Maya.—Do you believe that it is sincere?
Petr.—I do.
(Quiet. It is growing dark.)
