Vittoria
By Margaret Sherwood
Dramatis Personæ
| Marco dei Pontarini, an old man. | ||
| Vittoria, his daughter. | ||
| Luigi Montara, a scholar. | ||
| Frate Giacomo, and other monks. | ||
| Teresa, | servants. | |
| Vanni, | ||
ACT I
Scene I.—A road, skirting a southern sea.
Father and daughter are walking along it
hand in hand.
Their servants are behind.
Father and daughter are walking along it
hand in hand.
Their servants are behind.
Vittoria. Let Vanni and Teresa stay awhileTo watch the horses eat, and you and I,Padre carissimo, will climb the hill,To find what lies beyond. I cannot seeA road that thus leads off into the blueWithout a quiver in my feet to goUnto its very end, where surely waitsAll that I wish to know.
Father (smiling sadly). Bambina mia,You know already that the springtime runsSwiftly along our path. Red tulips growClose to the beaten dust. AnemonesMake purple shadows in the living grass—That is enough to know!
Vittoria.That is enough to know! How the sun shines!And see, between the gray-green olive leaves,The sky is blue. Just as they did at homeThe birds sing here: nothing is different,And yet to me it all is strange and new.Adventure lurks for me behind each hillAnd all is mystery. Only the seaIs still the same. Father, you cannot knowMy joy in this! You cannot feel how sweetIs the first step upon the open road.[The father sighs.But you are weary? Father.But you are weary? Nay, yet I shall beWhen we have reached the top. Vittoria.have reached the toOh, what is that? [She points to a distant city visible from the top of the hill. Father. That, daughter, is the city of my birth.Watch her great river shining toward the sea!Its murmur was the first sound in my ears.And look! That golden cross against the blueMarks the cathedral into whose white stoneMy forebears, working, father and then son,Built their own lives. The slender tower thereGuards the grim fortress where my father satAnd helped to rule the city.
Vittoria.d to rule the city. Tell me more!
Father. I see, but you cannot—eyes will not serve—A narrow street that meets the river-bankAnd part way climbs the hill. There you may findIn tiny shops, and studios half hidClose to the eaves, pictures and carvings rare,Statues whose marble is immortal, allBy inspiration in long silence wrought,Sacred with patience of unnumbered years.That narrow street is held in reverenceThroughout the world. Thither throng human soulsAs to a tidal river come the waves.
Vittoria. And never have I seen it, street nor churchNor crowding people. Why, along the seaHave we stayed hidden? Will you tell me now?
Father. Dear, you have asked so often! not to-day.Some day you shall be told.
Vittoria.you shall be told. Oh, I shall beSo wise, my father, when you tell me allThat you have promised—some day!
Father.have promised—some day! Little one,Of all the wisdom of my sixty yearsThe best is shared with you. Be happy, dear,And let the silences be silence: better thusThan turn them into pain.
Vittoria.them into pain. I am contentWith speech or silence, padre mio. BothFrom you are as the voice of God to me.This warm sun makes me sleepy. Will you sitAnd let me find a pillow on your kneeUntil they come?
[They sit down on the rocks by the roadside. Vittoria
puts her head against her father’s knee,
and presently falls asleep. He sits, now looking
down at her, now off in the distance toward
the city of his birth.
puts her head against her father’s knee,
and presently falls asleep. He sits, now looking
down at her, now off in the distance toward
the city of his birth.
Father.they come? Strange that upon one roadSunshine should fall on her face, and from mineThe shadow not be lifted!
Scene II.—There is a footstep on the road.
Luigi Montara approaches, his head bent, a
book under his arm. He stops, then uncovers
his head and advances.
Luigi Montara approaches, his head bent, a
book under his arm. He stops, then uncovers
his head and advances.
Luigi. If some misfortune has befallen youPray let me be of service.
Father.e be of service. Nay, we rest;Our horses are behind. We journey onAfter an hour toward the city gates.
Luigi. Surely not now!
Father.Surely not now! And wherefore?
Luigi.Surely not now! AndKnow you notAll leave the city and none enter now?Within is horror, for the plague is there.Each day the river carries toward the seaScores of dead bodies.
Father.dead bodies. Father. Hush! Oh, hush!
Luigi.You cannot bear to hear it, yet would go?
Cease your vainGo on I must.
Luigi.Go on I muSome weighty matter thenOf life and death
Father (in sudden anger). Cease your vaintalk of death, For she may wake. My daughter never yetHas heard the word “death” spoken. You stand dumb,Uncomprehending. Yet, for nineteen yearsShe has been happy, and she does not dreamThat death is lord of life. See, her cheeks glow,And her eyes, opened, shine. To womanhoodOne child has grown untouched by the great fear.
Luigi (slowly). She is most beautiful.
Father.(slowly). She is most Sir, sit you downAnd help me plan for this day and the next,For I am old, and helpless as a child,And great is my perplexity. Fear not!She will not waken if we whisper.
Luigi.not waken if we whisper. YouAre of the city?
Father.the city? Twenty years agoI was a ruler of my city there:My name is Pontarini.
Luigi.ame is Pontarini. A great name!Great and unstained.
Father.unstained. Father. Your eyes are kind and graveFor one so young. They question me, and I,Because I feel that you will understand,Will tell you what no living man has heard.Yonder in that white city, years ago,I lived with wife and child, absorbed, contentIn that great happiness that tempts the gods.For paradise I would not have exchangedThe room wherein my lady sat, the pathAlong the garden where she made the airHoly by her mere passing. When the child,A year old, could say “madre,” as she playedWith the bright tresses of her mother’s hair,One day my life was ended. By the pallOver my lady’s dust, I made a vowAnd I have kept it. There should be on earthOne life, I swore, all joy. One soul should goBy the great fear unshadowed. We have livedYonder in a walled villa by the sea.Beyond the falling of the leaves, my childKnows naught of the great change. Most carefullyHas she been shielded, and she has not seenThe death of any living thing. The birdsHave ever sung to her: they come and go,Leaving no trace of death. Search through the woodAnd you will never find a tiny boneThat crumbles, showing life for them as aughtBut an eternal song upon the air.She has been happy. Now, upon my heartThe hand of death has fallen. Few the daysAnd few the hours left, above the grassAnd in the sun, for me. I travel onTo bear one message I am bound to giveMy city ere I die.
Vittoria (half wakens, nestles her cheek against
her father’s hand, and murmurs:)
I am so happy here with you. [The two men breathe lightly until she sleeps again.
her father’s hand, and murmurs:)
I am so happy here with you. [The two men breathe lightly until she sleeps again.
Father (piteously).breathe lightly My son,I know not how to act. I have delayed,Have waited, knowing any day might bringThe awful knowledge to her, through the touchOf my dead hand. Often upon my lipsThe words have trembled, but I cannot speak.A coward am I, and I cannot shutThe sunshine from her, cannot take awayThe fragrance from the flowers. That the thoughtWhich blackens all the sky above our heads,And makes the green grass wither, must be hers,Is more than I can bear For all these yearsWhile I have walked with death, she has not seenThe shadow at my side.
Luigi.shadow at my side. Sir, just belowThe crest of yonder hill, a convent standsWhere I have taken refuge. Will you comeAnd bring your daughter to the safety there?In its great quiet you can form some plan.
Father. Monks always prattle of the grave and death—How could I shield my daughter?
Luigi.could I shield my daughter? These are theyVowed unto silence, and they may not speak,In fear of penance. Prithee, let me goTo tell them that you come. You trust me, sir?See, I walk lightly, lest the sleeper wake.
Father (watching him as he goes). The fate
was kind that sent him to our aid.
was kind that sent him to our aid.
Luigi(to himself). What will the eyes be
when the lashes lift,The eyes that know not death?
when the lashes lift,The eyes that know not death?
ACT II
Scene I.—The convent garden. Monks in
white Carmelite robes pace up and down the
cloister, praying.
The father sits at the
refectory door, reading. Vittoria stands
by the garden wall.
white Carmelite robes pace up and down the
cloister, praying.
The father sits at the
refectory door, reading. Vittoria stands
by the garden wall.
Luigi. You look away from all the flowers here,Roses and Easter lilies, daffodils,As if you did not even hear the beesHumming about them. Will you tell at whatYou gaze so steadfastly?
Vittoria..so steadfastly? That great white cliffYonder, with the blue water at its edge,And the sky’s blue above. It is too steepFor any orange-tree or cypressesTo grow along its side. Look, can you see?
Luigi (gazing only at her). I see!
Vittoria.It haunts me, and the long, white,even roadLies like an invitation to pursueAnd find what there is hidden, for it seemsThat something terrible or splendid waitsWithin its shadow. I am but a childLonging to see beyond the farthest hill.Never till yesterday did I set footUpon the highway, and I do not knowThis world that lies beyond our villa wall.Doubtless I seek for much that is not there.
Luigi. And you are sad?
Vittoria.you are sad? My father does not see:Pray, may I not be sad alone with you?
Luigi. You may be what you will. I only askThat I may understand: you puzzle me.
Vittoria.My father always longed to have me gay,For therein was his happiness. I smileEver for him, and I have laughed when sobs‘aught in my throat. Women must learn to beThat which men wish, Teresa says, and hideAll pain and hunger far down in their hearts.Making me happy was my father’s life:To him, I have been happy.
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, Thus, slim and single. So, but more golden-haired.Her mother walked among them. Even soOur faces quivered, and our lips were still.She loves. When will she know? She does not dreamIn this great happiness, how terribleThe guest who comes unbidden, evermoreTo hold the secret chambers of her heart.Nor can she see how close death stands behind,Waiting to cast his shadow on her face.I would have spared her—I was merciful!I would have spared her love and death!
ACT II
Scene I.—The garden. Late afternoon. Father. You would go down for meTo the plague-stricken city, there to doThe service that compels me?
Luigi.that compels me? Sir, at once,And gladly.
Father.gladly.You say you love my daughter.How can you then so lightly turn your faceFrom love and joy, and, for her father’s sake,Venture to certain death?
Luigi.to certain death? Did I not sayI love her?
Father. In your youth and strength you dareFace the great fear unflinching?
Luigi.the great fear unflinching? Torture meNo longer! Let me go at once! No saintAm I, and in this battle I must fightI can acquit myself more valiantlyWith horse beneath me and the road ahead.Maybe I shall return; and death itselfFor me is terrorless. It does not meanYour final shutting of an iron door;I am of those who hold its endless hope,
The father points to Vittoria, who sits at her window embroidering.
Luigi (his hands clenched, and the sound of a sob in his throat). I who would die to serve her cannot letHer father perish, as flies perish.
Father.father perish, as flies perish.Go,Go then and save me.
Luigi (walking swiftly away). I return to hear,Before I start, the message I must bear.
Father. Knowledge of death is in his eyes, and loveIs written on his mouth, and yet he goes.(Calls.) Come back! Come back!
[The scholar turns slowly, not once lifting his eyes to Vittoria’s window.You are pure gold, my son.I did but try you. All I hold most dearIs yours. I longed, upon my dying bed,To say, “He is found worthy, and will keepThe secret for her.” Surely you forgive!Go, and drink deep of joy. What I must doNo man can do for me. Long years ago,In a quick tumult of the city street,I saw one strike, and saw another fall.Suspicion rested on the innocent,Yet no man touched him, and I held my peace,Letting my silence punish other sinsOf him, most guilty. He who struck that blowWas my one friend. Now I am near to deathAnd know that I was wrong. I go to swearThe oath that clears my enemy, and thatMy tongue alone can fashion. You must liveIf you would serve me truly. Does my childKnow of your love?
Luigi.Know of your love? She knows! [There is a loud knock at the convent gate. When it is opened, a horseman, dusty, dishevelled, leans from his horse to say hurried words to the brother who has gone to receive him. Frate Giacomo crosses himself at the news.
Father (looking toward the window and smiling). She does not tremble! Nineteen years of age,Yet not afraid to hear a sudden knockUpon the gate! Through all these years my heartWith each new sound of knocking at the doorHas answered to old sorrow, with a thoughtOf coming pain.
Frate Giacomo (muttering to himself as he hurries from the gate). Four hundred stricken deadWithin the city yesterday, to-day!Four hundred dead! Their bodies in the streetsUnburied and unshriven! For our soulsOra, Maria! Ave Maria! Pray
Father (starting).Oh, I must go, or I shall come too late!Why have I lingered here day after dayWhen precious was each hour? Now it grows late;In early morning will I journey on.No second sunset finds me lingering here.
Luigi. Your strength is spent, and you are old: once moreI pray you, let me go.
Father.pray you, let me go.The seal of deathIs on me. If the plague seize me or no,My days are few. To her I say farewellAs one who journeys only for a day.Perhaps I steal away without a word,For she is wilful, as all maidens are,And eager to go with me. When a thoughtSeizes upon her, all her life is setIn that one way. She is too quick in actAs in resolve. My son, when I am goneGuard well her happiness! You both are young,And is not youth immortal? Live for her,Standing ’twixt her and fear. Give me your oathThat you will guard her, far as in you lies,From knowing aught of death.
Luigi.nowing aught of death.So help me God!
Father. Then I go on content; but ere I startI fain would see you in the chapel thereWedded before the altar. [Luigi bares his head.
Scene II.—The garden, a little later. Vespers in the chapel. The sound of the litany mingles with the sound of the sea.
Vittoria. Teresa waits for me; I must go in.See, all along the west the sky has turnedThe color of these saffron roses here,Yellow, with crimson at the heart. How paleThe one star shines above the cypress-trees!
Luigi. One moment only while we hear them sing!(To himself.) Ah, they are praying for the newly dead. [The monks chantRequiem æternam dona eis, Domine.
Vittoria. I do not understand, but it is sweet—Part of the undreamed beauty that I findFilling a world where all is strange to me:In new hill slopes, new pathways, and in you.
Luigi. Beloved, do not leave me! Tell me whyYou tremble when I speak.
Vittoria.tremble when I speak.It is not you,But through you something great and terribleSpeaks to me, and I bow my head in fear.
Luigi. Are you content? Always mouth smiles, yetSometimes I find your brown eyes hungry still,And then I am afraid that my great loveIs not the message that you longed to hear.And yet, if aught can ever lead your feetWhither they wish to come, it must be love.
Vittoria. It is a message that I wonder at!My lord and lover, if my eyes ask aught,It is more love, and more, and more. I knowBut one need now.
[Again comes the chant of the monks:Requiem eternam dona eis, Domine et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Luigi. For me it is no longer my life bloodBeating within my pulses; it is you.The very green and gold threads of your gownHave woven finest meshes in my brain.Oh, tell me once again before you goThat you do love me, and I will believe!
Vittoria. You ask me that? But fourteen days agoI had not seen you, Now, in all the worldIs naught but you. The sunshine on the grass,The long, green hillside slopes where peach-trees bloom,The music that finds out I know not whatUnknown recesses of my soul, and hurts—All, all is you! I cannot grasp my joy,So great it is, as it comes beating inUpon my heart, like tide-beats in the sea.
Luigi (bending to kiss the hem of her dress). I am unworthy—I!
Vittoria.am unworthy—I!Nay, nay, not you!An ignorant and uninstructed girl,Lo, what am I, that a great heart like yoursShould come to rest on mine? But take me, all,You who are strong and wise, for utterlyI give myself, and there is nothing left.Make of me what you will.
[Again come the requiem, dying in:Requiescat in pace. Amen. Amen.
[Luigi shivers.
Vittoria. And you, too, are afraid?
Luigi.And you, too, are afraid?Through love comes fear.Yet what is there in all the world to dreadWhen you and I love thus?
Vittoria. you and I love thus?One thing aloneIn this great safety of your presence IThink of with fear: that you should go away,That any time I might not see your face.Dear one, you will not, even for a day,Let life be as it was before?
Luigi.life be as it was before?I swearNo sun by day nor thousand stars by nightShall find me anywhere but at your side.My love shall be the shade that every dayKeeps the heat from you; it shall be each nightA cover from the cold. So, hand in hand,We shall go on forever, with our feetKeeping one time along the selfsame road.
[A voice comes from the chapel:Memento mei, Domine, quia ventus est vita mea. . . .Homo natus de muliere, brevi vivens tempore, repletur multis miseriis. Qui quasi flos egreditur, et conteritur, et fugit velut umbra, et nunguam in eodem statu permanet.
Vittoria. Tell me, what does it mean?
Luigi (Passionately, his voice rising to a cry)..It means that love,Love only, lasts forever, eternal,Unchangeable, triumphant over chance.
ACT IV
Scene I.—Frate Giacomo walks in the cloister before the open chapel door. He forgets his prayers, but goes on counting his beads.
Frate Giacomo. They kneel before the altar, their heads bowed—I see them where the holy candles makeA little light in the surrounding gloom,Our Father Ambrose, clad in robe and stole,Reads over them the marriage service. HereIt never yet has sounded. Hark, they speak!“Volo” the young man says, and “Volo” comesThe woman’s softer voice. Who, what are theyThat they should utter in these sacred wallsThe unknown word “desire”? [The sound of chanted prayer and response comes to him. He strains his ears.Oh, what a changeIs wrought here! Great the shock that has been given!Just as before a storm the air is fullOf dull foreboding, my soul waits in fearOf what may come, for they are living stillWhere things may happen, and they have no rightIn this our foretaste of eternal lifeWhose peace they have disturbed. [There is a sudden burst of music, then, in the full triumph of many voices:Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison.
Frate Giacomo.Christe Eleison!God pity thoseWho have no walls to shut temptation out.[The music of the processional begins.Ah, here they come, the lovers hand in hand,One flush upon both faces; after themThe white-haired father, aged, but with eyesStill fierce with love and pain. I go to pray.Pater noster, ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nosa malo. Amen. Amen.
Scene II.—Outside the chapel.
Vittoria. Only a little way, dear father, thenLike two good children we will turn againWithout a word toward home. May we not come?
Father. Your marriage garment, daughter, is too whiteFor the long dusty way.
Vittoria.long dusty way.That can be changed!One moment only and I come in blueAlready dusty from the blessed roadThat led us here.
Father.lead us here. Few minutes have I leftTo linger, dear one. My command is stern
Vittoria. We will not trouble you along the wayNor ask you why you go, nor beg to comeUnto the city, since you tell us nay.Let us go with you to the great white cliff—Only so far!
Father (smiling). Then you will wish to seeThe next cliff and the next!
Vittoria.next cliff and the next! I promise, no!For all my wandering shall I find an endAt the white cliff. [She puts her arms around her father's neck and whispers:Such utter happinessIs mine I cannot bear it! Let me share,If but an hour, my great joy with you.It is for this, this only I would go.A single shadow dims the sun for me—This undreamed gladness is not wholly yoursAs it is mine. Dear, did you ever knowContent like this?
Father (putting his finger on her lip).Hush! hush! If you must goMake ready in all haste.(To himself.) She springs awayLoosening her golden girdle as she moves.Oh, may the radiance upon her faceShine throughout life undimmed! My little one!Alone, from you to the great mysteryI go, not to return. Never againShall I behold your face, above all elseBeloved, save only hers, the unforgotten,Unforgettable!
Scene III.—The road toward the city. Vittoria rides between her father and her lover. The servants are behind.
Vittoria (gayly). The yellow butterflies show us the way!So with you two I could ride endlessly,The fresh wind in our faces, and aheadThis road between the green hills and the sea.
Father. When you are old, bambina, you will wishSometimes to stop and rest.
Vittoriatimes to stop and rest. When we are old!We shall be old together, old and glad—Three white heads nodding early off to sleep!When will the wrinkles come? “Too soon,” you say,“And youth is short?” Then age is very long,But love is longest, surely. You must rest:The sun is growing warm. At the last bendI saw the great white cliff, straight as a lineDropped from a blue sky to a bluer sea,There we shall stop, and you shall go to sleepIn some deep shadow, while we sit near byMaking our plans for all the days to come.Soon you return to us, and I shall hearSome day a knocking at the convent gate.How I shall listen for it! Then we goBack to our villa. Till I see againThe old familiar things, I shall not knowMy blessedness. The dial in the grass,The cypress shade must measure it for me,And all the waves must tell it. Dear, my lord,[She touches her lover's arm.I want old places round me once again.Life is too sacred for the new.
Luigi (looking at the father with eyes of pity).Life is too sacred for the new. We goBeloved, to your villa. May our lifeBeat on like music, pealing strong betweenThe murmur of the fountain and the sea.
Vittoria (laughing). We shall be blessèd. Now the footstep comesFor which I watched, not knowing, and shall fallUpon our floor. Soon shall the wine be pouredIn three slim glasses, not again in two;For three the bread be broken; three carved chairsStand by the table. Wishing no least thing,We shall go on forever. Now I waitTo ask Teresa of the tapestryThat shall be hung in your apartment, sir.[She turns back.
Father. Your eyes still beg for sacrifice, my son.It may not be! The bitterness of deathAlready you have taken. When I seeUnshadowed in my daughter’s eyes the loveThat you have lighted, I go on content.May I but stand at my cathedral gate,And have, from out the numbered minutes leftOf this my life, but time enough to speak!
Luigi. “My heart is full of sadness for you, sir,And full of fear for her. We journey onToward a plague-stricken city. Death may passAt any minute. Walking carelesslyAlong the green grass here she may look upTo see some face borne past. How can I thenFulfil my trust ?
Father (thinking). It may come first to her:Not knowing, she may meet the enemyAnd greet him gladly, as one greets a friend.Oh, they are happy who thus touch his handEre it is laid on the belovèd!
Luigi.it is laid on the belovèd!YetThe risk?
Father. My son, I know not what to say.In the great shadow of approaching changeThis old world startles me as one new-made. I doubt where I was sure, and what was doubtSeems trembling into hope. Blindly, perhaps,Have I done wrong? Had she a right to knowThe secret?
Luigi.secret? It may be.
Father.secret? It may be. Your smile is sad.If I should tell her now, before I go—?Should make her understand, if one may knowWho has not seen
Luigi (hastily). Tell her, but not to-day!Her wedding-day must keep her as she was.I could not have her change, not by one shadeOf color in her cheek or differenceOf thought in her dear eyes.
Father.thought in her dear eyes. No, not to-day!It is enough, if, in the danger hereWe meet the unknown thing, to tell her then.At the first sight she has of death we speak—All that we know.
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, You knew? And yet you shut away from me,For all these many years, this greater hope?Oh, till he came, the sky has seemed so near,And life so little, with no farther reachThan daily custom, endlessly the same!How, having known this once, could you shrink backTo smaller measure? For to grasp one thoughtSo great is knowledge.
Father.great is knowledge. How her eyes scorn me!
Vittoria. Padre, forgive, forgive! Of each white hairI beg forgetfulness for my quick words.Life has so suddenly grown great that IHave lost my way therein. What I have learnedIn the deep silence round him through this hourNothing can take away.
Father.can take away. Her body glowsAs with some knowledge shining through, and sheSeems not to know the very use of tears.When will she learn her loss? Child of my heart,I too must leave you now, not to return:Great service draws me, and my death is near:I may not stay to share this bitter grief.Most cruel has this hour been to you,But, living in the villa by the sea,May the years teach you that the hand that struckWounded in vain attempt to save. Farewell!I would have spared you sorrow like my own!
Vittoria (kissing his hand). Father, you, too? What is this secret, then,That you, my best-beloved, share, while IAm shut outside? Into the glory youFollow his footsteps, leaving me behind.Oh, it means change and splendor; and the thoughtOf hidden beauty waiting to be wonQuickens my pulse. My heart has never stirredSo with a sense of great approach.
Father.with a sense of great approach. Farewell!Go to Teresa, dear, and you are safe.[He speaks to himself as he moves away.Even yet I fear she has no slightest senseOf that which parting means. God, art thou there?Watch over her when I may watch no more!
Vittoria (watching, as he scales the cliff). The poor frail hands can hardly keep their graspTo aid the weary climbing, step by step.When in that wrinkled face the great light breaksThat he calls death, I would that I might see