I cannot hear the nightingales any longer.
The Daughter. I think some one has come into the garden, grandfather.
The Grandfather. Who is it?
The Daughter. I do not know; I can see no one.
The Uncle. Because there is no one there.
The Daughter. There must be some one in the garden; the nightingales have suddenly ceased singing.
The Grandfather. But I do not hear any one coming.
The Daughter. Some one must be passing by the pond, because the swans are ruffled.
Another Daughter. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly.
The Father. You cannot see any one.
The Daughter. No one, father.
The Father. But the pond lies in the moonlight....
The Daughter. Yes; I can see that the swans are ruffled.
The Uncle. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must have come in by the little gate.
The Father. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark.
The Daughter. I can see the watchdog right at the back of his kennel. The swans are crossing to the other bank!...
The Uncle. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [He calls.] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there.
The Daughter. I am sure that some one has come into the garden. You will see.
The Uncle. But she would answer me!
The Grandfather. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, Ursula?
The Daughter. I cannot hear one anywhere.
The Grandfather. But there is no noise.
The Father. There is a silence of the grave.
The Grandfather. It must be a stranger that is frightening them, for if it were one of the family they would not be silent.
The Uncle. How much longer are you going to discuss these nightingales?
The Grandfather. Are all the windows open, Ursula?
The Daughter. The glass door is open, grandfather.
The Grandfather. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the room.
The Daughter. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the rose-leaves are falling.
The Father. Well, shut the door. It is late.
The Daughter. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door.
The Two Other Daughters. We cannot shut the door.
The Grandfather. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children?
The Uncle. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will go and help them.
The Eldest Daughter. We cannot manage to shut it quite.
The Uncle. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There must be something in the way.
The Father. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow.
The Grandfather. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow.
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the cellar.
The Grandfather. He will make a noise in the house.
The Daughter. I will tell him to work quietly.
[Suddenly the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside.]
The Grandfather [with a shudder]. Oh!
The Uncle. What is that?
The Daughter. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot quite see; he is in the shadow of the house.
The Father. It is the gardener going to mow.
The Uncle. He mows by night?
The Father. Is not to-morrow Sunday?—Yes.—I noticed that the grass was very long round the house.
The Grandfather. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise....
The Daughter. He is mowing near the house.
The Grandfather. Can you see him, Ursula?
The Daughter. No, grandfather. He is standing in the dark.
The Grandfather. I am afraid he will wake my daughter.
The Uncle. We can scarcely hear him.
The Grandfather. It sounds as if he were mowing inside the house.
The Uncle. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger.
The Father. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this evening.
The Uncle. It wants filling.
The Father. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the window was shut.
The Uncle. I fancy the chimney is dirty.
The Father. It will burn better presently.
The Daughter. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three nights.
The Father. He has been so much worried.
The Uncle. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to reason.
The Father. It is quite excusable at his age.
The Uncle. God knows what we shall be like at his age!
The Father. He is nearly eighty.
The Uncle. Then he has a right to be strange.
The Father. He is like all blind people.
The Uncle. They think too much.
The Father. They have too much time to spare.
The Uncle. They have nothing else to do.
The Father. And, besides, they have no distractions.
The Uncle. That must be terrible.
The Father. Apparently one gets used to it.
The Uncle. I cannot imagine it.
The Father. They are certainly to be pitied.
The Uncle. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish midday from midnight, or summer from winter—and always darkness, darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable?
The Father. Apparently so.
The Uncle. But he is not absolutely blind?
The Father. He can perceive a strong light.
The Uncle. Let us take care of our poor eyes.
The Father. He often has strange ideas.
The Uncle. At times he is not at all amusing.
The Father. He says absolutely everything he thinks.
The Uncle. But he was not always like this?
The Father. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too much; she answers all his questions....
The Uncle. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken kindness to him.
[Ten o'clock strikes.]
The Grandfather [waking up]. Am I facing the glass door?
The Daughter. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather?
The