Prostitute. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons, and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes, then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market place. It is my home.
Drunkard. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer. The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street.
Prostitute. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come, and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed.
Beggar [in his sleep]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.
Drunkard [becomes sad, bows his head]. In the daytime I don't mind it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night comes....
Prostitute. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all of us. His mercy is great.
[The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the howling of a dog.]
Drunkard. What's that?
Prostitute. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to come near the fire.
Drunkard. Call him here.