Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays Part 3

DIANORA.

His voice is all he has, the strange monk, Yet people flock, hang on his words like bees Upon the dark sweet blossoms, and they say "This man is not like others--he Does shake our souls, his voice melts into s.p.a.ce, Floats down to us, and penetrates our being-- We are all like children when we hear his voice."-- Oh, if a judge could have his lofty brow, Who would not kneel upon the steps to read Each sentence from his clear and s.h.i.+ning brow.

How sweet to kneel upon the honest step And know one's fate were safe within that hand, Within those kingly, good and n.o.ble hands.

And oh, his merriment! How exquisite!

To see such people merry is a joy, --He took me by the hand and drew me on.

My blood ran magic, backward stretched my hand.

The laughing throng upon it closely hung A sinuous chain, we flew along arbored walks Down through a deep and steep and narrow path Cool as a well, and bordered very close With cypresses that lived a century-- Then down the brightest slope.

Up to my knees the wild, warm flowers kissed Where we were running like a breeze in May.

Then he released me, and along he leapt Upon the marble stairs between cascades; Astride he sat upon the dolphin's back And held himself up on the arms of fauns, Upon the dripping Triton's shoulders stood Mounting always; high, higher still he clomb, The wildest, handsomest of all the G.o.ds!-- Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth, They sparkled, foamed, and showered the air with spray, Falling on me. The waves' tumultuous din Drowned out, engulfed the entire world, Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth, They sparkled, foamed and showered their spray on me.

[_Pause--footsteps are heard in the distance._]

DIANORA. s.h.!.+ Footsteps! No, it is so much too soon--And yet--and yet--[_long waiting_] they come.

[_Pause._]

They do not come-- Oh, no, they do not come--They're shuffling steps, They shuffle down the vineyard--now they reel-- There are the steps! A drunkard, verily!

Stay in the street, intoxicated one.

What would you do within our garden gates?-- No moon s.h.i.+nes here to-night--were there a moon I were not here--no, no, I were not here.

The little stars are flick'ring restlessly, They cannot light the way for a drunken one, But one not drunken from a musty wine.

His footsteps are as light as wind on gra.s.s And surer than the tread of the young lion.

[_Pause._]

These hours are martyrdom! No, no, no, no, They're not--no, they are beautiful and good, And lovely and so sweet! He comes, he comes; A long, long way already he has walked-- The last tall tree down there has seen him come--- It could--if that dark strip of woodland boughs Did not obscure the road--and 'twere not dark--

[_Pause._]

He comes--as certainly as I do now Upon this hook bend this frail ladder--comes.

As surely as I now do let it down In rustling murmur in the leaves enmeshed, As certainly as it now swaying hangs, Quivering softly as I bend me low, Myself aquiver with a greater thrill--

[_She remains for a long time bent over the bal.u.s.trade. Suddenly she seems to hear the curtain between her balcony and the room thrown back. She turns her head and her features are distorted in deathly fear and terror. Messer Braccio stands silently in the door. He wears a simple, dark green robe, carries no weapons--his shoes are low. He is very tall and strong. His face resembles the portraits of aristocrats and captains of mercenaries. He has an extremely large forehead and small dark eyes, closely cropped, curly black hair and a small beard that covers his cheeks and chin._]

DIANORA [_wants to speak, but is unable to utter a sound_].

MESSER BRACCIO [_beckons to her to pull up the ladder_].

DIANORA [_does so like an automaton and drops the bundle, as in a trance, at her feet_].

BRACCIO [_looks at her quietly, reaches with his right hand to his left hip, also with his left hand; notices that he has no dagger. He moves his lips impatiently, glances toward the garden, then over his shoulders. He lifts his right hand for a moment and examines his palm, then walks firmly and quickly back into the room_].

DIANORA [_looks after him incessantly; she cannot take her eyes away from him. As the curtain closes behind his retreating form, she pa.s.ses her fingers excitedly over her face and through her hair, then folds her hands and murmurs a prayer, her lips wildly convulsed. Then she throws her arms backwards and folds them above the stone pillar, in a gesture that indicates a desperate resolve and a triumphant expectancy_].

BRACCIO [_steps into the doorway again, carrying an armchair, which he places in the opening of the door. He seats himself on it, facing his wife. His face does not change. From time to time he raises his right hand mechanically and examines the little wound upon his palm_].

BRACCIO [_his tone is cold, rather disdainful. He points with his foot and eyes to the ladder_]. Who?

DIANORA [_raises her shoulders, and drops them slowly_].

BRACCIO. I know!

DIANORA [_raises her shoulders and drops them slowly. Her teeth are clenched_].

BRACCIO [_moves his hand, barely glances at his wife, and looks again into the garden_]. Palla degli Albizzi!

DIANORA [_between her teeth_]. How ugly the most beautiful name becomes when uttered by unseemly tongue.

BRACCIO [_looks at her as though he were about to speak, but remains silent. Pause_].

BRACCIO. How old are you?

DIANORA [_does not answer_].

BRACCIO. Fifteen and five. You are twenty years old.

DIANORA [_does not answer. Pause_].

DIANORA [_almost screaming_]. My father's name was Bartholomeno Colleone--you can let me say the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary, and then kill me, but not let me stand here like a fettered beast.

BRACCIO [_looks at her as though surprised; does not answer--glances at his hand_].

DIANORA [_strokes back her hair slowly, folds her elbows over her breast, stares at him, then drops her arms, seems to divine his plan.

Her voice is completely changed and is like a string that is stretched to the breaking-point_].

One of my women I desire, who will--

[_She stops; her voice seems to give out._]

First braid my hair--'tis tangled, disarranged.

BRACCIO. You often help yourself without a maid.

DIANORA [_presses her lips together, says nothing, smoothes her hair at the temples, folds her hands_].

I have no children. My mother I saw once-- I saw her once, just before she died.

My father led me and my sister to A vaulted, high, severe and gloomy room.

The suff'rer I saw not; her hand alone Hung like a greeting to me--that I kissed.

About my father I remember this.

He wore an armor of green burnished gold With darker clasps--two always helped him mount Upon his horse, for he was very old-- I hardly knew Medea. Not much joy, Had she, my sister. Thin of hair, Her forehead and her temples older seemed, Much older, than her mouth and her hands to me-- She always held a flower in her hand.-- O Lord, have mercy unto these sweet souls As unto mine, and bid them welcome me, Greeting me kindly when I come to Thee.

I cannot kneel--there is no s.p.a.ce to kneel.

BRACCIO [_rises, pushes the chair into the room to make s.p.a.ce for her.

She does not notice him_].

DIANORA.