But one not drunken from a musty wine.His footsteps are as light as wind on grass
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 balustrade. 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 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
