Vittoria
503
ACT V
Scene I.—The roadside, near the white cliff. The father, who has been sleeping in the deep shadow of the ilex-trees, wakens and rubs his eyes. Teresa sits near.
Father. I have been long asleep?
Teresa.I have been long asleep?Sir, it was noonWhen we dismounted. Now the sun is low.
Father. Then precious hours are wasted, when I hadNo minute’s time to lose! Where is my child?Teresa, where my son?
Teresa.Teresa, where my son?I cannot tell.Some hours ago they went to climb the cliffWhere it is highest. Me they told to watchHere by your side. Long has your slumber beenAnd they have not returned. But they are young,And time goes swiftly on one’s wedding-day.
Father. Why came they not to waken me? They knew,They knew, and why did they forget? Too lateWill be my going hence, and I shall dieWith my last message smouldering on my lips,Like fire in burnt-out ashes. O my dear,My little daughter! Give me yet one kiss,One last good-night to sweeten my long sleep!Thou who didst make one life so hard a thingIn the stern face of duty, grant me now,Out of the endless nothingness to be,One short half-hour of my daughter’s face!
Scene II.—On the rocks, halfway down the side of the cliff.
Father. I clamber up and down the rocks, and yet I find them not. Upon these jagged stonesGarments and hands are torn. No path is hereTo guide my foot, and all my strength is spent.Ah, do I see them? There my daughter kneelsBeside her lover, on a ledge of rock:His face is toward the sky. Hasten, O foot,And trembling, weak old hands! How her eyes shineAs with some new-found joy!
Vittoria.some new-foundHush, father, hush!Do not disturb him! For an hour’s timeHe has not stirred.
The father throws himself upon his knees at his daughter’s side.
Father.not stirred.Forehead and hands are cold,And the heart beats not: O my God! my God!Horror of death is here! Was it for thisThe work of all my life was spent, that sheShould find this cruel message written firstUpon the face most loved? My life’s great griefBut still more cruel have I wrought for her.Oh, mine the sin! She hears and heeds me not.
Vittoria. Is he not wonderful? Look, padre, look!For he is thinking. Always when he thinksHe is more beautiful. Now, I can see,He meditates some thought profounder still.I never yet have seen his face so fair.Oh, he is wise, my scholar! Do you think,When his eyes open and he tells me all,Then I can understand?
Father.Then I can understand?How came he here,And you?
Vittoria. His foot slipped yonder at the top;I searched a long time ere I found him here.I called; he did not answer, but I knowThis is so sweet and still a place to think,He simply did not hear.
Father (moaning). All my life longT have been building. Who, who has destroyed?Only a moment, and a quick misstep!O ye above, who play the game of chanceWherein our lives are staked, win, win someone,That we may know the end! Noble he wasAnd young:—was not that cause for death?Because he was beloved he had to die!How can I tell her now?
Vittoria.can I tell her now?Dear father, sayWhat is this terrible new beauty? IDare not to touch his forehead with my lipsTill his eyes open or his fingers stir.
Father. O poveretta! The fingers will not stir;The eyes will never open: this is death.
Vittoria. Death? Is he not my lover? What is death?I must be stupid not to understand.Is he not he, and can he cease to care?
Father. Sweet, my old heart breaks; can I make you know?Bound hand and foot he lies. He cannot move;He will not waken even to speak your name.Waiting forever, you would never seeThe eyelids quiver. All you know and lovedStops, and exists no more, It comes to all:We are but dust that crumbles in the way,The clod from which the grass and violets grow.
Vittoria. How radiant his face is!—Comes to all?We stop and crumble?—But I never knew.
Father. I tried to shield you, dear; and no one knows,For all is mystery. We only seeThe breath dies softly, like a little windThat does not rise again. A swift disease,A sudden fall into the water here,And what was you or I is nothingness.
Vittoria. This is not dust, but glory! See, I bendAnd kiss the face grown wonderful and strange,But mine, mine, mine! My father, do not sayThat he can cease to be. As a mere child,Untouched and ignorant, I might have learnedSuch words by rote. I am a woman now,Who lives and loves, and some great certaintyIs mine, beyond all teaching. There is nowNothing within me able to learn aughtOf that which you call death.
Father.Of that which you call death.Bambina mia,Many there are, and he was of them, soI tell you for his sake—many who holdThat death is not an end, but only birthInto some life beyond, immortal, great,And infinite in meaning; that this dust,Sown in corruption, quickens into lifeSomewhere beyond our ken. I—believe not!They talk of an eternity of love,But they know nothing. How her eyes are fixedUpon his face!
Vittoria.his face!That was the reason, then,He bore the look of one who understands,His eyes more wise than ours, full of loveImmortal, infinitely great. Father,
