Vittoria
499
Luigi.I have been happy.Of yourselfAnd all you did in the long summer daysWill you not tell me? Paint for me the placeThat I may see it.
Vittoria.may see it. There are no steep rocksAs here, where the convent walls make oneWith the great piles of stone that meet the sea;Only a long green slope and a gray wall,And, by the water, a small crescent beach,Shaped like a waxing moon. Two poplar trees,Close to it, cut the blue; and, higher up,Ilex and cypresses, and yellow wallsWhere the house stands. There are white marble bustsOf kings and poets in the ilex shade,Green moss on chin and forehead. All day longOn the gray dial in the grass the sunCounts off the hours.
Luigi.nts off the hours.Meanwhile—you?
Vittoria.nts off the hours.Meanwhile—you?I sitEmbroidering at the window, and I hearThe fountain trickling in the inner court.When the brief shadow of the orange-treeIs just beneath it, saying it is noon,I go to sit, in the hall paved with stone,At our great table. There I serve the bread,The cheese, the salad, and the purple grapes,And for my father pour red wine or white,As he may choose. So all the days. No oneGoes ever from us, no one ever comes.
Luigi. And are you happy?
Vittoria.And are you happy?I have been, and yetForever waiting, waiting with a senseOf mystery, for it has always seemedThat some new footfall on the floor might bringThe tidings that would make me understand.Life is so shut away!
Luigi.is so shut away! It is for all!All share the shadow where we grope our way.We study deeply and we think; we watch,Wandering freely on the open ways,But no one of us knows.
Vittoria (shaking her head). Nay, you are wise;It is not hidden from you as from me.Your eyes are those of one who understands.
Luigi (looking always at her). I too have waited, but more easilyThan you can find shall I find what I seek.For finer souls like yours the search is long.
Vittoria But I forget my father! There he sits,His eyes fixed on the distant city: soHe watches all the time, and counts the spires,Almost invisible, then looks at me,Saying, “Within an hour I must start.”And yet he does not, neither will he tellWhat is his message, nor the reason whyI may not go with him. I long to shareHis glorious mission, and I fain would hearThe beat of footsteps in that narrow street.Only a maiden am I, yet may serve!And I am young and strong, while he is old;Why must I linger here and let him go?
Luigi. Nay, I will go for him! Old and infirmHe must not travel all that way alone.If he will trust his message, I with prideWill carry it
Vittoria.carry itYou are most courteousTo aid an old man and a helpless girl.How can we thank you?
Luigi.can we thank you? For my great rewardI claim the service only. [There is a sound of a bell. The monks go
shuffling two by two along the cloister, and enter
the chapel door. Then comes a sudden burst
of organ music, and many voices, chanting.
Vitoria listens, and her cheeks are wet with
tears.
shuffling two by two along the cloister, and enter
the chapel door. Then comes a sudden burst
of organ music, and many voices, chanting.
Vitoria listens, and her cheeks are wet with
tears.
Vittoria. Oh, tell me what it is! The sweetness hurts.Who has the power to touch our ears like this?
Luigi. It is the mid-day prayer. What troubles you?Is it the music?
Vittoria (reddening). I know not the word,And never yet have heard this pleading sound,Being most ignorant.
Luigi (looking at the father). I understand!Listen! They pray.
Vittoria.They pray. Of praying I know naught,[The music begins again.Oh, more than anything I ever heardIt seems that this might be the voice to speakThe words for which I waited, tell me allThe secret meaning I have missed before.And yet it makes me sad, as in the springThe new leaves sadden me.[Luigi watches her as she listens, forgetting him.
Luigi.new leaves sadden me. Men’s purposesAre ever their defeat! He who would keepHer childhood in her, has prevailed to makeThinker and poet, with soft-shadowed eyes,Wiser than other maidens’, yet with mouthMore smiling. Tall and very fair she movesAmong the garden lilies, with white browsAnd fine-wrought cheek and nostril, her brown hairSmooth in the noon-day sunshine. Would her faceHave been all gladness at my going henceIf she had understood?
Scene II.—Several days later, Murmur of the
service, as always. The father watches his
daughter and the scholar who pace the garden
paths between red roses growing over graves.
service, as always. The father watches his
daughter and the scholar who pace the garden
paths between red roses growing over graves.
Father. How her eyes follow him! When he is nearShe blossoms like a flower in the sun,Wistful and tender all her face has grown,As it has never been. She knows it not,And yet she loves him.[From the chapel comes the sound of the creed:Credo in spiritum sanctum, . . . sanctorum
communionem, carnis resurrectionem, vitam
aternam.
communionem, carnis resurrectionem, vitam
aternam.
Father.yet she loves him.It is very strangeThat my last moments should be sweet like this.Yonder the monks are praying, but their prayersMean naught to me. Here, in the sun, my childLearns love for this young stranger. Prayer nor loveIs mine, yet I am glad for both, and warmI go between them. Still I linger hereFor joy to see, my great task unfulfilled.They love as we loved in the garden thereWhere fountains played, and where the roses stood,
