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THE JESTER AND HIS DAUGHTER
SCENE.—A room in the house of BERTUCCIO.
[BERTUCCIO stands for a moment fondly contemplating FIORDELISA. He steps forward.
Ber. My own! | |
| Fio. [Turning suddenly, and flinging herself into his arms with a cry of joy.] My father! Ber. [Embracing her tenderly.] Closer, closer yet! | |
| Let me feel those soft arms about my neck, | |
| This dear cheek on my heart! No—do not stir— | 5 |
| It does me so much good! I am so happy— | |
| These minutes are worth years! | |
| Fio. My own dear father! | |
| Ber. Let me look at thee, darling—why, thou growest | |
| More and more beautiful! Thou’rt happy here? | 10 |
| Hast all that thou desirest—thy lute—thy flowers? | |
| She loves her poor old father?—Blessings on thee— | |
| I know thou dost—but tell me so. | |
| Fio. I love you— | |
| I love you very much! I am so happy | 15 |
| When you are with me. Why do you come so late, | |
| And go so soon? Why not stay always here? | |
| Ber. Why not! Why not! Oh, if I could! To live | |
| Where there ’s no mocking, and no being mock’d: | |
| No laughter, but what’s innocent; no mirth | 20 |
| That leaves an after bitterness like gall. | |
| Fio. Now, you are sad! There ’s that black ugly cloud | |
| Upon your brow—you promis’d, the last time, | |
| It never should come when we were together. | |
| You know, when you ’re sad, I ’m sad too. | 25 |
| Ber. My bird! | |
| I ’m selfish even with thee—let dark thoughts come, | |
| That thy sweet voice may chase them, as they say | |
| The blessed church-bells drive the demons off. | |
| Fio. If I but knew the reason of your sadness, | 30 |
| Then I might comfort you; but I know nothing— | |
| Not even your name. | |
| Ber. I ’d have no name for thee | |
| But “father.” | |
| Fio. In the convent at Cesena, | 35 |
| Where I was rear’d, they us’d to call me orphan. | |
| I thought I had no father, till you came. | |
| And then they needed not to say I had one; | |
| My own heart told me that. | |
| Ber. I often think | 40 |
| I had done well to have left thee there, in the peace | |
| Of that still cloister. But it was too hard! | |
| My empty heart so hunger’d for my child, | |
| For those dear eyes that look no scorn for me, | |
| That voice that speaks respect and tenderness, | 45 |
| Even for me!—My dove—my lily-flower— | |
| My only stay in life!—O God! I thank thee | |
| That thou hast life me this at least! [He weeps. | |
| Fio. Dear father! | |
| You ’re crying now—you must not cry—you must not— | 50 |
| I cannot bear to see you cry. | |
| Ber. Let be! | |
| ’T were better than to see me laugh. | |
| Fio. But wherefore? | |
| You say you are so happy here, and yet | 55 |
| You never come but to weep bitter tears. | |
| And I can but weep, too,—not knowing why. | |
| Why are you sad? Oh, tell me—tell me all! | |
| Ber. I cannot. In this house I am thy father; | |
| Out of it, what I am boots not to say; | 60 |
| Hated, perhaps, or envied—fear’d, I hope, | |
| By many—scorn’d by more—and lov’d by none. | |
| In this one innocent corner of the world | |
| I would but be to thee a father—something | |
| August and sacred! | 65 |
| Fio. And you are so, father. | |
| Ber. I love thee with a love strong as the hate | |
| I bear for all but thee. Come, sit beside me, | |
| With thy pure hand in mine—and tell me still, | |
| “I love you,” and “I love you,”—only that. | 70 |
| Smile on me—so!—thy smile is passing sweet! | |
| Thy mother used to smile so once—O God! | |
| I cannot bear it. Do not smile—it wakes | |
| Memories that tear my heart-strings. Do not look | |
| So like thy mother, or I shall go mad! | 75 |
| Fio. Oh, tell me of my mother! | |
| Ber. [Shuddering.] No, no, no! | |
| Fio. She ’s dead? | |
| Ber. Yes. | |
| Fio. You were with her when she died? | 80 |
| Ber. No!—leave the dead alone—talk of thyself— | |
| Thy life here. Thou heed’st well my caution, girl, | |
| Not to go out by day, nor show thyself | |
| There at the casement. | |
| Fio. Yes; some day, I hope, | 85 |
| You will take me with you, but to see the town; | |
| ’T is so hard to be shut up here alone— | |
| Ber. Thou hast not stirr’d abroad? | |
| Fio. Only to vespers— | |
| You said I might do that with good Brigitta; | 90 |
| I never go forth or come in alone. | |
| Ber. That ’s well. I grieve that thou shouldst live so close. | |
| But if thou knewest what poison’s in the air, | |
| What evil walks the streets; how innocence | |
| Is a temptation, beauty but a bait | 95 |
| For desperate desires!—no man, I hope, | |
| Has spoken to thee? | |
| Fio. Only one. | |
| Ber. Ha! who? | |
| Fio. I know not—’t was against my will. | 100 |
| Ber. You gave | |
| No answer? | |
| Fio. No—I fled. | |
| Ber. He follow’d you? | |
| Fio. A gracious lady gave me kind protection, | 105 |
| And bade her train guard me safe home. | |
| Oh, father, | |
| If you had seen how good she was, how gently | |
| She sooth’d my fears,—for I was sore afraid,— | |
| I ’m sure you ’d love her. | 110 |
| Ber. Did you learn her name? | |
| Fio. I ask’d it, first, to set it in my prayers, | |
| And then that you might pray for her. | |
| Ber. Her name? [Aside.] I pray! | |
| Fio. The Countess Malatesta. | 115 |
| Ber. [Aside.] Count Malatesta’s wife protect my child! | |
| You have not seen her since? | |
| Fio. No, though she urged me | |
| So hard to come to her; and ask’d my name; | |
| And who my parents were; and where I liv’d. | 120 |
| Ber. You did not tell her? | |
| Fio. Who my parents were? | |
| How could I, when I must not know myself? | |
| Ber. Patience, my darling; trust thy father’s love, | |
| That there is reason for this mystery! | 125 |
| The time may come when we may live in peace, | |
| And walk together free, under free heaven; | |
| But that cannot be here—nor now! | |
| Fio. Oh, when— | |
| When shall that time arrive? | 130 |
| Ber. When what I live for | |
| Has been achiev’d! | |
| Fio. What you live for? | |
| Ber. Revenge! | |
| Fio. Oh, do not look so, father! | 135 |
| Ber. Listen, girl. | |
| You ask’d me of your mother; it is time | |
| You should know why all questioning of her | |
| Racks me to madness. Look upon me, child; | |
| Misshapen as I am, there once was one, | 140 |
| Who seeing me despis’d—mock’d, lonely, poor— | |
| Lov’d me, I think, most for my misery; | |
| Thy mother, like thee—just so pure—so sweet. | |
| I was a public notary in Cesena; | |
| Our life was humble, but so happy: thou | 145 |
| Wert in thy cradle then, and many a night | |
| Thy mother and I sate hand in hand together, | |
| Watching thine innocent smiles, and building up | |
| Long plans of joy to come! | |
| Fio. Alas! she died! | 150 |
| Ber. Died! There are deaths ’t is comfort to look back on: | |
| Hers was not such a death. A devil came | |
| Across our quiet life, and mark’d her beauty, | |
| And lusted for her; and when she scorn’d his offers, | |
| Because he was a noble, great and strong, | 155 |
| He bore her from my side—by force—and after | |
| I never saw her more: they brought me news | |
| That she was dead! | |
| Fio. Ah me! | |
| Ber. And I was mad | 160 |
| For years and years, and when my wits came back,— | |
| If e’er they came,—they brought one haunting purpose, | |
| That since has shap’d my life,—to have revenge! | |
| Revenge upon her wronger and his order; | |
| Revenge in kind; to quit him—wife for wife! | 165 |
| Fio. Father, ’t is not for me to question with you; | |
| But think!—revenge belongeth not to man, | |
| It is God’s attribute—usurp it not! | |
| Ber. Preach abstinence to him that dies of hunger; | |
| Tell the poor wretch who perishes of thirst | 170 |
| There ’s danger in the cup his fingers clutch: | |
| But bid me not forswear revenge. No word! | |
| Thou know’st now why I mew thee up so close; | |
| Keep thee out of the streets; shut thee from eyes | |
| And tongues of lawless men—for in these days | 175 |
| All men are lawless. ’T is because I fear | |
| To lose thee, as I lost thy mother. | |
| Fio. Father, | |
| I ’ll pray for her. | |
| Ber. Do—and for me; good night! | 180 |
| Fio. Oh, not so soon—with all these sad, dark thoughts, | |
| These bitter memories. You need my love: | |
| I ’ll touch my lute for you, and sing to it. | |
| Music, you know, chases all evil angels. | |
| Ber. I must go: ’t is grave business calls me hence— | 185 |
| [Aside] ’T is time that I was at my post.—My own, | |
| Sleep in thine innocence. Good! Good night! | |
| Fio. But let me see you to the outer door. | |
| Ber. Not a step further, then. God guard this place, | |
| That here my flower may grow, safe from the blight | 190 |
| Of look or word impure,—a holy thing | |
| Consecrate to my service and my love! | |
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