Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays - Various

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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 passes 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 space to kneel.

      Braccio [rises, pushes the chair into the room to make space for her. She does not notice him].

      Dianora.

      There's more—I must remember—Bergamo,

       Where I was born—the house in Feltre where

       The uncles and the cousins were....

       Then they put me upon a gallant steed

       Caparisoned most splendidly—they rode,

       Cousins and many others by my side.

       And so I came here, from whence I now go....

      [She has leaned back and looked up at the glittering stars upon the black sky—she shudders].

      I wanted something else—

      [She searches her memory.]

      In Bergamo where I was taught to walk

       Upon the path that brought me here, I was

       Often—most frequently through pride,—and now

       I am contrite and would go to confession

       For all those errors, and some graver ones;—

       When I [She ponders.]—three days after Saint Magdalen Was riding homeward from the chase with him. This man, here, who's my husband—others too— Upon the bridge an old lame beggar lay. I knew that he was old and ill and sore And there was something in his tired eyes Reminded me of my dead father—but Nevertheless—only because the one Riding beside me touched my horse's bridle, I did not pull aside, but let the dust My horse kicked up, blind, choke that poor old man. Yes, so close I rode that with his hands He had to lift aside his injured leg. This I remember, this I now regret.

      Braccio. The one beside you held your horse's bridle? [He looks at her.]

      Dianora [answers his look, understands him, says trenchantly]:

      Yes! Then as often since—as often since—

       And yet how rarely after all!

       How meager is all joy—a shallow stream

       In which you're forced to kneel, that it may reach

       Up to your shoulders—

      Braccio.

      Of my servants who,—of all your women,

       Who knew of these things?

      Dianora [is silent].

      Braccio [makes a disdainful gesture].

      Dianora.

      Falsely, quite falsely, you interpret now

       My silence. How can I tell you who might know?—

       But if you think that I am one of those

       Who hides behind her hireling's her joy,

       You know me ill. Now note—note and take heed.

       Once may a woman be—yes, once she may

      

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