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 ^ ''OF A SURETY I 
 HAVE NOW SET MY 
 FEET ON THAT 
 POINT OF LIFE, BE- 
 YOND THE WHICH 
 HE MUST NOT PASS 
 WHO WOULD RE- 
 TURN." ^ ^ OS ^ oe 
 
 LA VITA NUOVA. 
 
 tSf 
 
THE POINT OF 
 LIFE ^ A PLAY 
 IN THREE ACTS 
 BY AMELIA J. 
 BURR dt di ^ dt 
 
 The hillside PRESS, 
 ENGLEWOOD, NEW 
 JERSEY ^ M-CM-VII 
 

 IliU'.'' '"' '^■""""^'^-'^'^'is] 
 
 U 0': -■■■ 
 
 {JAM/. V ^Y 
 
 7 cr.-r /" 
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 AMELIA J. BURR 
 
 1907 
 
THE POINT OF LIFE, A PLAY IN THREE 
 ACTS BY AMELL\ ]. BURR ^ ^«l ^ -33t 
 
CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY. 
 
 BENVENUTO CELLINI. 
 
 CECCHINO, his brother. 
 
 LIPERATA, their younger sister* 
 
 DOMIZIO, a Florentine merchant. 
 
 LUCL^NA, his wife. 
 
 GIULIA^ her sister. 
 
 MONNA GUICCL\RDA. 
 
 MONNA ANDREA. 
 
 NANDO, Benvenuto^s apprentice. 
 
 COSINO, his errand-boy. 
 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 GAIETTA. 
 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 LEONE. 
 
 FIRST ACT. — Benvenuto's work-room. 
 
 Morning. 
 SECOND ACT. — Liperata's house* 
 
 Night. 
 THIRD ACT. — Benvenuto's upper-room. 
 
 The following day. Late afternoon. 
 
 FLORENCE - t529. 
 
The Point of Life. 
 
 FIRST ACT — Morning. 
 
 i^ *Betft>enuto' s ^work-room* It occupies about 
 t'wo thirds of the stage, the other third being the 
 street, A door and a ^de Icnv l^indcnv open on 
 the street* Beside the 'windo'w is a bench at Hvhich 
 Nando sits t^orking, Cosino, a slim, pretty, impish 
 boy, holders ol^er him, admiring and criticising by 
 turns* In the centre of the room, at the back, are 
 tivo or three steps leading up to a door that stands 
 ajar. On the landing is a tray <with bread, Ji)ine 
 and fruit* (Across the street from Benvenuto's 
 door is Domizio's house, also luith a large Jt>indo<w 
 beside the door, ^ CosiNO leaJ>es his observation, 
 steals up the steps and listens at the door at the 
 back, Nando suspends his Ji)ork and looks up, 
 questioning, CosiNO shakes his head ivith a shrug, 
 takes a fruit from the tray, and comes back eating it, 
 
 COSINO, his mouth full. 
 
 Pity to waste it when it is so good. 
 
 When he is in a working mood like this 
 
 he would not know it from a four-day^s crust. 
 
 - 6- 
 
NANDO. 
 
 I never saw him so absorbed before 
 that he could live on work alone, 
 COSINO, derisively. 
 
 Oho I 
 You never saw him do such work before, 
 NANDO. 
 
 What is it he is making ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 ril not tell. 
 NANDO. 
 
 I do not choose to peep through keyholes, — I ! 
 COSINO, indignantly. 
 
 *T was not the keyhole ! See, the door's ajar. 
 NANDO, coaxing. 
 What is he making ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 Something beautiful 
 NANDO. 
 For whom is it? 
 COSINO. 
 
 Somebody beautiful. 
 NANDO. 
 What, not Favilla? 
 
 -7- 
 
COSINO, 7i>ith concentrated scorn* 
 
 'T is of gold, not brass. 
 After an expectant pause* 
 
 Are you so soon discouraged ? Try again* 
 
 NANDO, <iuith an expressive grimace* 
 
 Oh, if it is a trinket for a woman — I 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 But if it were a trinket for the woman ? 
 
 NANDO. 
 
 The woman, — is there such, — for Benvcnuto ? 
 
 Out on you, imp ! What does a child your age 
 
 know of such difference Wixt **a** and "the"? 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 A child my age, little enough, perhaps, 
 
 but Benvenuto^s servant, — everything ! 
 
 With a flourishing bcnv, he goes out, but returns 
 and pops his head in at the <windo<w to say 
 
 Think you that Monna Luciana there 
 
 fills both my hands with sweetmeats every day 
 
 for my sake, or for his ? Hist, — here she comes. 
 
 Were I her handsome, clumsy husband there, 
 
 I would not go away. 
 
 He perches himself on the'ti>indo<w sill as Luciana 
 and DoMizio come out of their house opposite, 
 pausing at the door* He is dressed for a journey* 
 
 NANDO. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 -8- 
 
Our master is an honest gentleman 
 
 beyond the wont of Florence ; and beside, 
 
 see how she hangs upon her husband^s words 
 
 as if he were the angel Gabriel. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 The angel Gabriel, — hm ! yes, — perhaps. 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Four days at most, remember ! 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Why, dear heart, 
 I said a week at least. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I cannot see 
 why you must go at all. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 It is such journeys 
 that clothe this daintiness in costly silk 
 and hang fair jewels on this broad white brow. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I rather would be folded in your arms 
 than in the richest silk, and on my brow 
 your kiss is all the jewel that I need. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Yet in the matter of the pretty gauds 
 you hold so lightly, now I recollect 
 that you did not disdain the gem I brought 
 
 -9- 
 
from my last journey, — that large topaz, deep 
 
 and lucent as your eyes. 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 When did I ever 
 disdain a gift of yours ? 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Who makes the setting ? 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I gave it to young Benvenuto there 
 across the way ; you bade me give it him. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Florence has not his peer for taste and skill. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 And he so young and wild ! He promised me 
 it should be done to-day. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Would I might stay 
 to see your beauty shame the gem, — but now, 
 I have already lingered here too long : 
 the sooner gone, the sooner come again. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I never was so loth to have you go. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Why, you did not so fondly cling to me 
 when first I left you, — nor in truth did I 
 so long to stay. 
 
 - JO- 
 
LUCIANA. 
 
 To such a love as ours 
 
 the blush of every morning ushers in 
 
 another and a sweeter wedding-day 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 You shiver, sweetheart ; what, are you not well ? 
 
 Your hands are cold. 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 The morning air is fresh. 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 And thoughtless I to keep you standing here I 
 
 But if I go not with one sudden wrench 
 
 I shall not go at all. FareweD, dear love, — 
 
 God keep you safe I — Stay, I forgot the gold 
 
 for Benvenuto ; pay him all he asks. 
 
 This trinket is a wedding-gift to you 
 
 for to-day*s bridal, and I will not stint. 
 
 Again, — and so farewell. 
 
 He embraces her and goes* As he disappears 
 she stands ^watching him and ^waving her hand* 
 All at once her head falls back against the door- 
 casing and the purse falls at her feet* CosiNO 
 darts across and picks it up for her as she 
 recovers herself* 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 What is amiss ? 
 
 Madonna, are you ill ? 
 
 - n - 
 
LUCIANA. 
 
 No^ it is nothing, — 
 a little faintness. Is it you, Cosino ? 
 Thank you. 
 
 She sits on the bench beside the door, 
 COSINO, 
 
 Shall I not call Madonna Giulia ? 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Not for the world* Poor sister ! Yesterday 
 came this same sudden blur upon the world 
 and I lost sense a moment. I could scarce 
 make her believe that it was not the plague. 
 I thought to see her sicken for sheer fright. 
 Since the great horror of a year ago, 
 an aching tooth portends the plague to her, 
 and when she leaves the shelter of the house 
 she draws her breath through spices lest she die. 
 COSINO. 
 
 'T was not a thing to easily forget. 
 I lost my father and my mother then, 
 and nearly all my master's kinsfolk died. 
 I Ve heard Messer Cecchino tell the tale 
 of how my master came from Mantua 
 and found a stranger in his father's house. 
 He is so droll, one nearly dies of laughing, — 
 but Monna Liperata cannot bear 
 
 - 12- 
 
to hear it — she's their sister, did you know ? 
 
 They love her dearly. When her husband died, 
 
 her husband and her baby, in the plague, 
 
 Messer Cecchino found her a new man 
 
 almost before she had had time to grieve. 
 
 There 's a good brother, is he not. Madonna ? 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 She married this new suitor ? 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 Eh, what else ? 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Were I a widow, I could never wed. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 But you are rich. Madonna. Such as we — 
 
 GIULIA, speaking from <within, 
 
 Luciana ! do not stay so long without ! 
 
 The air is evil. 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 No, 't is very sweet 
 
 and full of spring. Come to the door a moment. 
 
 You stifle in the house. 
 
 GiULiA appears at the door <wfth a scarf about 
 her head and a spice balU the odour of <ivhich she 
 inhales frequently, 
 
 GIULIA. 
 
 Pray you, come in. 
 
 - 13- 
 
You want your husband to come home and find 
 
 his house left empty ? 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 As my master did. 
 GIULIA. 
 
 Who 's here? Ah yes, — the goldsmith's errand-boy 
 as saucy as his master* I suppose 
 you came to get your daily dole of sweets* 
 You hop across here like a bird for crumbs. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Indeed, I had forgotten. Wait, Cosino, 
 and I will bring them. She goes into the house* 
 GIULIA. 
 
 Boy, have you no shame 
 to be so idle ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 Why do you live here 
 and show your face at window, if you chide 
 the lad across the street for gazing ? 
 GIULIA. 
 
 Ah, 
 sly little courtier ! What a child you are ! 
 COSINO. 
 
 Not all a child. Madonna I In the sun 
 of my quick master, green fruit ripens soon. 
 
 - 14- 
 
GIULIA. 
 
 So *t is your master's teaching makes your tongue 
 
 so glib in dainty speeches ? Tell me, boy, 
 
 is he the generous lover he is rumoured ? 
 
 COSINO* 
 
 Generous, — ^t is not the word. Say prodigal 1 
 
 GIULIA. 
 
 He is a proper fellow. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 Women's hearts 
 arc meat to him* Even Favilla yonder 
 will take no gold of him« His very glance 
 is deadly as the plague. — 
 GIULIA, crossing herself* 
 
 Be still be still 1 
 III jesting! 
 COSINO. 
 
 Nay, but are you still afraid ? 
 There *s but a memory left, — a woman died 
 here in the street to-day, — 
 GIULIA. 
 
 God save us I where ? 
 Was it the plague ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 Nay, but I scarcely know, — 
 mayhap. But even so, what do you fear ? 
 
 - 15- 
 
you, who may breathe through spices, and need set 
 no foot in common streets. Were it in your house — 
 GIULIA, passionately. 
 Oh, were it in my house, I would not taint 
 my nostrils for one moment with the air 
 the dead had breathed. The grave should take its 
 within the hour, were it my sister's self I [ own 
 
 With a gasp of horror she darts in and slams the 
 door* ^ CosiNO chuckles mischievously* 
 COSINO. 
 
 Were it your sister's self ! Ay, that is true, 
 I 'd swear you would be better than your word. 
 Bah ! that for such a love ! An empty fool, 
 cares but for her own skin. I am right glad 
 I frightened her so soundly. Ah, who *s here ? — 
 Monna Guicciarda, — in a temper too ! 
 This is a busy day. 
 
 Guicciarda sweeps angrily into the shop* 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 Where is your master? 
 NANDO, rising and bowing* 
 
 Busy, at your service. 
 GUICCIARDA, mollified 
 Ah, busy at my service? But he said 
 my platter should be done to-day. 
 
 - J6. 
 
NANDO. 
 
 It is, — 
 behold it. 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 This ? Then how can he be busy 
 at any work of mine ? 
 NANDO. 
 
 I meant not that. 
 The ** busy '* was my master^s part, — the rest 
 my proper courtesy. 
 GUICCIARDA, 
 
 So ! very fine I 
 Why did my servant get no courtesy 
 when he came here a little while ago ? 
 NANDO. 
 
 I had not then finished your work. Madonna* 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 You had not finished it ? — Whose work is this ? 
 NANDO, boJi^mg. 
 My own. 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 All yours ? 
 NANDO. 
 
 I needs must tell the truth. 
 The shaping and design are but my ma sterns. 
 
 - \7 - 
 
GUICCIARDA. 
 
 If I should say all that is in my mind 
 
 I should but waste my breath. But may I ask 
 
 what hindered him from serving me himself ? 
 
 NANDO. 
 
 These three days he has laboured without cease 
 
 and shut himself from everyone. See here — 
 
 here is a Cardinal's platter, — it must wait. 
 
 Here is a golden goblet for a duke, 
 
 his coat of arms half graven. Ah, Madonna, 
 
 believe me, 'tis my master's courtesy 
 
 to ladies that has given you your dish 
 
 albeit with my humble chiselling. 
 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 His courtesy to ladies, — yes, I think 
 
 that I have heard it spoken of. Perhaps 
 
 this special task that now claims all his mind 
 
 betrays that courtesy. 
 
 NANDO. 
 
 I scarce may say. 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 Well, I will take the dish, — and here's your pay,- 
 more than its value. 
 NANDO. 
 
 Some day I shall grow 
 as famous as my master, and your heirs 
 
 - 18- 
 
will thank you for your graciousness. Madonna, 
 
 as I do now* 
 
 GUICCIARDA* 
 
 Whether you ever gain 
 your master^s skill and fame or not, at least 
 you have his impudence already* 
 NANDO* 
 
 Ah! 
 My thanks ! I hear *t was so that he began. 
 
 GuicoARDA, foU<yu)ed by her servant carrying 
 the plate, leaves the shop as Luciana comes to 
 the *unndoTu <with Costno's sti>eetmeats* 
 LUCIANA* 
 
 Ah, Guicciarda ! Will you not come in ? 
 Giulia has some new fear about the plague, 
 and is half mad with terror. Help me cheer her. 
 
 Guicciarda goes in* 
 Cosino ! 
 COSINO. 
 
 Here, Madonna. I was waiting. 
 Luciana gives him the streets* 
 My thanks. — Ah, these are better than the last* 
 LUCL\NA. 
 You are a saucy boy. 
 COSINO. 
 
 If I were not 
 
 - ^^ - 
 
so pretty you would call me impudent. 
 My master says I have a ready wit, 
 but it is not as pointed as his own. 
 
 He throws himself into a, fencing attitude* 
 There *s a keen quality in his that often 
 goes to the very heart. He thinks no more 
 of slipping poniard into throat than I 
 of eating sweetmeats — so ! 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Your master's wit 
 is far too ready, child. If you will take 
 him as your model, let it be his skill, 
 his cunning workmanship and rare device, 
 his faithfulness in labour. — 
 COSINO. 
 
 But all that 
 is not what pleases me so much in him 
 as his wild bravery, — his open heart. — 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 His open heart, — too open, like an inn 
 where any random traveller may lodge. 
 He is a scandal, even here in Florence. 
 Nay, but you are a child. You should not hear 
 such evils named. 
 COSINO, laughing, 
 
 Fm wiser than you think. 
 
 -20- 
 
LUCIANA, yDith grave pity* 
 
 Poor child — your dreams are nourished by his vile- 
 
 your thoughts have fed on it, until at last [ness, — 
 
 you are a lovely little poison-flower 
 
 such as could grow nowhere in all the world 
 
 save in the streets of Florence, — strange perversion 
 
 of childish beauty, — for except your eyes 
 
 you are a child, as other little lads, 
 
 COSINO, resentfully. 
 
 I cannot see why you should pity me. 
 
 Cellini is my master, and for that 
 
 I might be envied by no matter whom, — 
 
 man, boy, or woman either. 
 
 LUCIANA, coldly. 
 
 Go your way, — 
 for since you serve him, you should serve him well. 
 
 She closes the <windo<w* iSP Cosino returns to 
 
 the shop. 
 NANDO. 
 
 I am right glad 'tv/as Monna Guicciarda 
 whose plate I had to finish ; she is far 
 too lazy to protest ; but had it been 
 the queen of Shrews, I would face even her 
 balked in a whim to please him. Luck to him, 
 long life, short love, good fortune ! Benvenuto ! 
 
 -21 - 
 
the king of goldsmiths I That I know is true, 
 since *twas himself who told me. 
 
 CosiNO goes sulkily into the inner room 'without 
 ansiuer* ^ Nando looks after him in comical 
 surprise* 
 NANDO. 
 
 Eh ? What 's wrong ? 
 VOICES WITHOUT, singing. 
 
 Wine and love and laughter, — 
 Who cares what comes after ? 
 Light of heart and light of purse. 
 Take the jest and leave the curse. 
 Leave to friars fast and prayer, — 
 Who with them a heaven would share ? 
 Hell will find us laughing yet. 
 Jolly comrades merry met. 
 
 Enter Cecchino, Beppuccio and Leone 
 arm in arm* 
 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Ho, Nando ! is my brother here ? 
 
 NANDO. 
 
 He is, 
 but very busy, — will not be disturbed. 
 CECCHINO. 
 Fie on him for a crawling ant to toil 
 
 -22- 
 
on such a day ! Beppuccio ! Leone 1 
 come^ let us rout him out. Ho, Benvenuto I 
 BENVENUTO, from the upper room* 
 He is upon a journey. 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 No, Cellini, 
 that will not serve. We know your voice. Come out! 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Go, get you gone. I have no time for folly. 
 CECCHINO. 
 Have you turned virtuous ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 No, that's left for you. 
 LEONE. 
 
 But come ! We will be gay, I promise you. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 I tell you I am working. Let me be. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 We are going to Favilla's. Does that move you ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 To bid you go. 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 What work have you to do 
 that keeps you from Favilla, and the road 
 up to Fiesole ? The almond flowers 
 are sweet in the spring sun. 
 
 -23- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 Go to the devil 
 and take Favilla with you, 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 By your leave, 
 Fiesole were pleasanter, my friend, 
 LEONE. 
 
 Farewell, Cellini ! We will go without you. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Then save your breath to help you on the way* 
 CECCHINO, 
 
 Nay, this is but some new mad whim of yours, 
 ril drag you out ! 
 
 He starts up the steps and the door is slammed 
 in his face; the bolt is shot l^ithin. He shrugs 
 his shoulders* 
 
 In half an hour perhaps 
 he will be weary, and of mellower mind. 
 Now 'tis no use. 
 LEONE. 
 
 We^II try him later, then. — 
 Our merry company would lose its best 
 if he were absent. 
 
 As they go out on the street they meet Liperata. 
 BEPPUCCIO, bo<wing. 
 
 Monna Liperata. 
 
 -24- 
 
LEONE, bcywing* 
 My homage to you. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Sister, 'tis no use* 
 He shut his door right in my face. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 And yet 
 I think that I may open it. Good day, 
 gentlemen, — brother. She passes on* 
 CECCHINO, absent-mindedly. 
 
 Wine and love and laughter, — 
 Who cares — 
 With a sadden glance around after Ltperata, he 
 checks himself* ^ They go out quietly* 
 LIPERATA, entering the shop* 
 
 Is my brother here ? 
 NANDO, pointing at the shut door* 
 Behind that door. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Then easy to be found. 
 She goes up the steps and knocks at the door* 
 BENVENUTO, in an exasperated roar* 
 Who's there? 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 No one but Liperata. 
 
 -25- 
 
BENVENUTO, 
 
 suddenly opening the door and catching her in 
 
 his arms* 
 
 What, 
 you, little sister ? You are always welcome* 
 LIPERATA. 
 Always ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 You never come when you are not. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Discreetly answered. What have you been doing 
 to make you shut your door in Cecco^s face ? 
 BENVENUTO, 
 
 holding up a necklace of fim gold <work lPt>ith a 
 
 topaz pendant. 
 This. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 May I see it closer ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 In a moment. 
 I have a touch or two to give it more. 
 
 He sits dcnvn at the table and adds the finishing 
 touches, singing to himself ivhile Liperata 
 ivatches him under pretence of examining his 
 7i>ork, 
 
 -26- 
 
BENVENUTO, singing, 
 
 I am my own best prize, — 
 
 Fortune and fame may wait 
 If in my own clear eyes 
 
 I be accounted great. 
 That is my high estate, — 
 
 There my ambition lies* 
 I am my proper fate, — 
 
 I am my own best prize* 
 He holds up the 'work and scrutinizes it* Then 
 polishes it softly <with a cloth* 
 I am my own reward. 
 
 Others I do not spurn; 
 Never have I abhorred 
 
 All I did fairly earn. 
 But if the world should turn, 
 
 Rail where it once adored, — 
 Smiling I bid men learn 
 
 I am my own reward. 
 He polishes on mechanically, <ivhile his eyes fix 
 themselves on the opposite house* 
 I am my own content, — 
 
 Love cannot frown on me. 
 What if my soul be spent 
 
 Vainly and secretly? 
 What if I sigh to see 
 
 -27- 
 
Eyes upon others bent ? 
 If I the worthier be, 
 
 I am my own content* 
 <A moment's silence* Then he rouses himself* 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 There, ^t is done now. Is it not beautiful ? 
 I never made a fairer. What could be 
 more admirable than that wreath of flowers 
 whose tendrils hold the topaz like a drop 
 of golden dew that knows itself so fair 
 in its own place that it is loth to fall I 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Nothing could be more beautiful, dear brother. 
 I never saw such cunning workmanship. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 There never was till now. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 For whom is it ? 
 For some great lady ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Great in wealth and beauty 
 and virtue — yes. 
 LIPERATA, 
 
 Will you not tell me more ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 Some day, — perhaps. 
 
 -28- 
 
LIPERATA. 
 
 You love her, Benvenuto. 
 
 BENVENUTO- 
 
 That might be true. 
 LBPERATA. 
 
 And is* Ah, tell me, brother, 
 how do you love her ? Somehow in your eyes 
 I fancy that I read new lore, — and yet 
 I dare not trust my hope. You called her great 
 in virtue — judge you as your father^s son 
 or only as a Florentine ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 I love 
 as I had never thought to love a woman. 
 LIPERATA. 
 Then you will wed her ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Till I saw her face 
 I never wished a woman for my wife. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 You set a fountain laughing in my heart, 
 that flings its joyous drops into my eyes. 
 You cannot know how I have longed for this. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Patience a little longer. Not a word 
 until I bid you. 
 
 -29- 
 
LIPERATA. 
 
 She is not yet won ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Not yet. But I shall speak my love to-day. 
 LIPERATA. 
 God speed your wooing. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Ay. Amen to that. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Is this her name, woven so cunningly 
 among the flowers ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Hush, do not speak it here. 
 LIPERATA. 
 'T is — ( ivhispers. He nods. ) 
 
 I will speak it in my prayers to-night. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 To-night — it may be I will come to-night 
 to sit away a twilight hour with you. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 And may there be good news upon your lips. 
 Your room is always ready. You will be 
 as ever, welcome. I am for the time 
 deserted, save for Nonna. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Good old soul I 
 
 -30- 
 
LIPERATA, 
 
 I would have gladly been alone awhile^ 
 
 but she so loves to feel my need of her, 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Where is your husband^s journey now ? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 To Rome. 
 
 'Twas yesterday he went. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 To Rome — to Rome* 
 Some day perhaps I shall be off to Rome. 
 I stifle in our narrow streets, — I crave 
 wide spaces and great patrons, — but not yet. 
 Rome must have patience for a little longer. 
 Now off about your errands. I must take 
 this jewel to its owner. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 For the world, 
 I would not hinder you. Until to-night. 
 Will you not tell me who she is ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Not yet. 
 Suffice it, that I act the Christian's part, 
 and love my neighbour better than myself. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 A neighbour ? That will serve — until to-night. 
 She goes* 
 
 -31 - 
 
BENVENUTO, drawing a, sigh of relief. 
 
 Well, praise the saints, I did not lie to her, 
 
 but for a moment, I was sorely pressed. 
 
 And now for her — 
 
 He lays his hand on the latcht but stops as her 
 door opens opposite and she comes out ivith 
 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 I was so dazed with anger 
 I said no word. His prentice ! 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Now my hope 
 of wearing my new trinket to your house 
 this afternoon grows small. How shall I fare 
 if you are slighted ? Haply I shall have 
 Cosino^s maiden work. 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 'T would not be strange — 
 Are you not well to-day ? How pale you are I 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I am a little weary, and perhaps 
 a little heavy in my heart as well. 
 My husband left this morning. 
 GUICCIARDA. 
 
 And you grieve 1 
 
 -32- 
 
Beware lest angels snatch you up to heaven 
 
 to join their company before your time. 
 
 She goes out, iKSSf Luciana stands hesitating a 
 moment* Then crosses and knocks at Benvenuto *s 
 door* 
 
 BENVENUTO, 
 
 dismissing Nando ivith a gesture that sends him 
 scurrying in be'wildered haste, opens the door* 
 
 Madonna ! I was on my way to you. 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 My work is done then? 
 
 BENVENUTO, giving her the necklace* 
 
 Does it please you ? 
 
 LUCIANA, gasping in admiration* 
 
 Ah! 
 
 It is a masterpiece, — a miracle. 
 
 But this is your own work. 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 No other hands 
 
 have touched it. 
 
 LUCLVNA. 
 
 Was it this at which you wrought 
 
 when others waited ? 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 This. 
 
 -33- 
 
LUCIANA, 
 
 I scarce can hope 
 to pay you for this web of fairy sunlight 
 in gross, substantial coin, — still less for all 
 your time and kindness, but there is no mint 
 for Spring's bright gold, so I must offer you 
 man^s currency, albeit with some shame. 
 What is your price ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 The smile upon your lips, 
 the quick approval in your eyes. Already 
 you have overpaid me. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Pretty compliments 
 and wrought as deftly as your gold. I crave 
 but a plain answer. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 I have given it. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 What, must I set the price myself ? Then here 
 is what my husband left for your repayment. 
 If 'tis too little, blame yourself, not me, 
 since I am all incapable of judging 
 the value of such work. I can but praise. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Your praise is all I want. As for your gold, 
 I will not take it. Is that plain enough ? 
 
 -34- 
 
LUCIANA. 
 
 Too plain, sir. This is generosity 
 
 that smacks of folly. Have you never heard 
 
 the saying that the devil laughs to see 
 
 the poor give to the rich ? 
 
 BENVENUTO, whimsically. 
 
 Indeed, I know 
 that by your standards I am counted poor. 
 Yet I am minded that he shall for once 
 be merry at my cost. I pity him 
 for all the long monotony of Hell. 
 To suffer for all time is not so hard, 
 if 'tis for pleasant hours one pays, — but ah ! 
 to punish poor weak sinners evermore 
 is a most wretched lot. Pray you. Madonna, 
 grant him a moment's ease, and take my work, 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Were it a trifle — but this costly thing — 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Ay, and the cost is more than you can see. 
 It is because it is so rich a gift 
 that I would have you take it. Day and night 
 my hand and brain have wrought to serve your 
 as Emperor or Pope would not be served, [pleasure 
 My soul is in this fragile mesh of gold 
 that I could grind to pulp beneath my heel, — 
 
 -35- 
 
Cellini^s soul, — the master among masters. 
 Now can you see why it must be a gift ? 
 LUCIANA, shrinking back a. little* 
 I do not understand. 
 BENVENUTO, his eyes upon her. 
 
 What pays for love ? 
 LuciANA stands looking at him for a moment* 
 Then <with a little cry she sinks into a chair, 
 covering her face ^with her hands* 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 How have I been to blame ? What word of mine 
 or look has been your warrant ? Or perhaps 
 you only thought all women were alike. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 I did not ask for payment. 
 LUCIANA, 
 
 Peace — oh, peace ! 
 Am I not shamed enough ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 You do me wrong, 
 I would not pilfer a friend^s light'o^ove, — 
 far less his wife. I am a man of honour. 
 I would but give, — what shame or harm to you 
 in knowing that I love you ? All these days 
 when I have watched you going in and out, 
 you never felt my gaze and turned to meet it* 
 
 -36- 
 
You never saw me in the twilight sit 
 
 night after night to watch your window glow. 
 
 I was to you no more than were the walls 
 
 that housed me. Why is it so strange a thing 
 
 that I should love you ? May not any man 
 
 covet an emperor's crown ? I never thought 
 
 ever to love as I love you, so much 
 
 I honour you. Love was to me a game, 
 
 a sport, a whim, to cast aside at will, 
 
 but you have wound your way into my heart 
 
 as here your name is twined among the flowers. 
 
 If you were mine, what might I not attain 
 
 being so great without you ? — Rail at me, 
 
 for God's sake ! chide me ! show yourself a shrew ! 
 
 but do not sit there with those sweet sad eyes 
 
 that make my blood a fire ! You do not know 
 
 what love like mine may mean. 
 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I guess too well. 
 If love like yours blossomed in noble deeds, 
 in sacrifice and honour, I were proud 
 to know you gave it me. But as it is, 
 I blush to think that I have heard you speak 
 such words to me. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 What have I said to you 
 
 -37- 
 
that is not honourable ? Have I asked 
 aught of your heart save tolerance ? 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 In words, 
 no* *T is the voice in which the words were said* 
 BENVENUTO. 
 And yet you listened. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 You do well to bring 
 my weakness to my mind. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Then you were weak ? 
 Do not take back the words ; for they will be 
 as are remembered riches to a man 
 fallen in poverty unmerited. 
 I am ten thousand times more worth your love 
 than your Domizio, — whereas the miracle 
 if for the moment that were plain to you ? 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I have deserved this, doubtless. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 If your heart 
 for one quick beat answered the pulse of mine, — 
 if for an instant you beheld my face 
 with eyes that crowned it with lovers aureole, 
 tell me, — or no, I will not ask for words ; 
 give me a sign. Will you not take my gift ? 
 
 -38- 
 
LUCIANA. 
 
 Now, more than ever, no. 
 
 BENVENUTO, ^tth elaborate lightness. 
 
 I had not thought 
 you could be so ungenerous. Take the gem 
 
 He <wrenches the topaz from the fragile setting, 
 and bid another set it, who will take 
 your gold in payment ; yet he will not make 
 so fair a work as I have done. Alas, 
 will you not %ivc me even your hand to kiss ? 
 Well, as you will. As ever, at your service. 
 
 He opens the door, and bofvs her out* Then 
 returns and stands weighing the necklace in his 
 hand* Suddenly with a smothered oath he lifts 
 it to fling it on the ground, — then as suddenly 
 sits at the table and boivs his head on his arm, 
 pressing the bit of gold to his lips* 
 BENVENUTO, ^whimsically, to the necklace. 
 She did not understand us, you and me. 
 We meant no harm. She did not understand. 
 Do'wn the street comes a sound of singing* 
 Wine and love and laughter, — 
 Who cares what comes after ? 
 Light of heart and light of purse — 
 Benvenuto thrcnvs the necklace into a casket 
 and turns the key* 
 
 -39- 
 
BENVENUTO- 
 
 Take the jest and leave the curse — 
 
 By all the saints I am I a man or no ? 
 
 cA jdbial company, ftol^Ver-croivned, appear, 
 Cecchino, Beppuccio, Leone and four girls. 
 
 CECCHINO, 
 
 Aht Benvenuto ! Are you wiser now ? 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Ay, truly! 
 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Then you come with us ? 
 
 BENVENUTO, recklessly, 
 
 Why not? 
 
 With a shout they l^elcome htm, and the company 
 dances out singing, his l>oice the loudest of alL 
 In front ofDomizio's house he pauses, looks up 
 at the windoli?, and drawing Favilla roughly to 
 him, kisses her* 
 
 - CURTAIN. - 
 
SECOND ACT - Night. 
 
 S^ Liperata's house, opening at the back on the 
 road to Ftesole* TTirough the ^nd&w almond trees 
 in blossom are seen in the fitful moonlight* There 
 are doors on the right and left. Monna Andrea 
 sits nodding in a large chair* Liperata kneels on a 
 settle by the Tiyindcnv, looking out. Her <work lies 
 beside her* A party passes yi>ith music of guitars 
 and mandolins* 
 
 ANDREA, 'ii>aking with a start* 
 Child, are you sewing ? Put your work away* 
 It has grown dark before I noticed* 
 LIPERATA, turning ivith a smile* 
 
 Ah! 
 you have been drowsing* Long ago I laid 
 my work aside. 
 ANDREA* 
 
 What, drowsy? No, not I* 
 A little lost in thought, perhaps. The old 
 have much to dream of* 
 LIPERATA* 
 
 Then I must be old. 
 
 -41 - 
 
ANDREA. 
 
 Brooding again, dear child ? Fll light the lamp. 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 No, no — a little longer let us sit 
 
 and watch the darkness gather. We may steal 
 
 an idle hour of all this busy day. 
 
 This is the time when toilers are at rest, 
 
 before the noisy revellers go abroad, 
 
 the breathing-space for weary Florence. See, 
 
 light after light comes pricking through the gloom, — 
 
 each of those bright points marks a home — a place 
 
 of common love and light of childish eyes. 
 
 And each one makes the night more beautiful 
 
 for us two women in our unlit house. 
 
 ANDREA. 
 
 Is your heart happy and at peace ? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Why not? 
 ANDREA. 
 
 Somehow to-night brings back the time to me 
 when dazed with sorrows swiftly multiplied, 
 robbed in a day of parents, husband, child, 
 you came to me as might a storm-beat bird. 
 LIPERATA. 
 I was not robbed of them. God took them back. 
 
 -42- 
 
ANDREA. 
 
 I never saw you weep for them but once, 
 
 and that was on your second wedding-day* 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Then it was not for for them. 
 
 ANDREA. 
 
 Wh^t then? 
 
 LIPERATA, half in a ^whisper* 
 
 I think 
 
 it was for all my pretty girlish dreams, 
 
 the dawning joy, the first of everything, 
 
 that never more could be again for me. 
 She rises briskly* 
 
 Shall I not fetch a little pot of coals ? 
 
 The air is chill, for all its scent of spring* 
 
 ANDREA. 
 
 My bones have told me there will be a storm. 
 
 LiPERATA goes into the adjoining room* Her 
 voice comes back through the open door* 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 It must be that delays my brother. 
 
 ANDREA. 
 
 Which 
 
 did you expect to-night, — noisy Cecchino, 
 
 or blustering Benvenuto ? 
 
 -43- 
 
LIPERATA, coming back <with a glol^ing scaldino* 
 
 Ah, poor lads, — 
 why can you not be somewhat tolerant ? 
 ANDREA. 
 
 They are grown men, and should know better ways. 
 LIPERATA, softly. 
 
 Somehow to me they seem but little boys, 
 but little wayward boys. 
 ANDREA* 
 
 To hearts like yours 
 all men are only little wayward boys 
 who need a mother. I remember well 
 you used to mother your own father* 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Ay,- 
 She breaks from her reverie li>ith a smile* 
 *t is Benvenuto I expect to-night. 
 ANDREA. 
 
 Then I *II to bed before he comes, and leave 
 you two to talk at ease. I cannot bear 
 his noisy chaff. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Yet he is fond of you. 
 ANDREA, ironically. 
 Ay, like enough. I am not young or fair, 
 that I should take his roving eye. Good-night. 
 
 -44- 
 
LIPERATA. 
 
 Gcxxi-night, dear Nonna^ if you will. 
 
 She kisses Monna Andrea. The old yeoman 
 stands for a moment peering at her face, dimly 
 lit by the glow of the scaldino* Then she turns 
 a^way, and goes into the adjoining room, left. 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 A moment, — 
 
 take the scaldino* It was to your bones 
 
 the storm sent warning message, not to mine. 
 
 The door closes. Liperata sits down at the 
 Ji>indoTU in the moonlight* After a moment she 
 begins to sing, abstractedly. 
 
 LIPERATA, singing. 
 
 God has set to cheer his children 
 Daisies by the dusty ways. 
 Poppies red between the furrows. 
 Nights between the days. 
 
 Daisies plucked are cast to wither. 
 Shaken poppies at our feet 
 Scatter soon their scarlet petals, — 
 Rest is always sweet. 
 
 ^Neath the touch of Night^s cool fingers 
 Weary eyes, forget to weep, — 
 Take the blessing that she brings you. 
 Sleep — sleep — sleep. 
 
 -45- 
 
LIPERATA. 
 
 GDme^ let me light a lamp^ and make one more 
 
 small cheery star in this our firmament 
 
 She lights the lamp, c/ls she does so, CosiNO'S 
 face peers in at the Tvindo'Uf* He is panting as 
 if from great haste* 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 Whereas Messer Benvenuto? 
 
 LIPERATA, turning zuith a start. 
 
 What 's amiss ? 
 
 He is not here. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 I must look farther then. 
 
 Perhaps he still is at Fiesole. 
 
 LIPERATA, hindered. 
 
 Fiesole ? What *s wrong ? — Cecchino — 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 No,- 
 
 *T is Monna Luciana. She is dead. 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Dead — Luciana ! HT is the name I saw 
 
 wrought in the necklace. Dead ! — Cosino, stay ! 
 
 he may come here before you find him. Tell me, 
 
 when did she die ? 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 To-day. 
 
 -46- 
 
LIPERATA, 
 
 To-<Jay ! Oh, no 1 
 it cannot be! 
 COSINO. 
 
 It is. And on the instant 
 her coward sister, thinking it the plague, 
 thrust her scarce blest into the tomb and fled* 
 *T was half my fault. I frightened her this morning. 
 *Tis at the little church down yonder there 
 they buried her. I must go seek my master. 
 
 He vanishes into the dusk* 
 LIPERATA, sinking into a seat by the ti>indo'W* 
 Oh, my poor Benvenuto ! I had hoped 
 so much from this, — an end to anxious fears 
 for me, to wandering loves for you, — and now — 
 oh, my poor brother ! my poor Benvenuto 1 
 
 She hides her face in her hands, ^ Outside is 
 heard noisy revelry from ti>hich Benvenuto'S 
 T^oice rises in song* 
 BENVENUTO, singing* 
 
 Lovers a breeze that comes and goes. 
 Lovers a game for playing. 
 What^s the odds if no one knows 
 Where lovers feet go straying? 
 Coyness cannot make you dearer, — 
 Youth^s too brief for wasting. 
 
 -47- 
 
Nearer, sweet ! a little nearer I 
 
 Lips were made for tasting. 
 He breaks off into excited speech* 
 No, no — rU go no farther for to-night. 
 I *Vl in to see my sister, — my dear sister, — 
 my little Liperata, — twice a wife 
 but always just a little maid to me. 
 Hey, Liperata I 
 VOICES OUTSIDE. 
 
 Then good-night to you ! 
 We are for Florence I 
 BENVENUTO, appearing in the doorway* 
 
 Liperata, — ho ! 
 why do you leave your door unlocked like this ? 
 LIPERATA, slowly* 
 I thought that you would come. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Best have a care, — 
 this road is full of drunken roisterers. 
 LIPERATA. 
 True, — so it is. 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Whereas Nonna ? Gone to bed I 
 It is too early, — but she^s old. I wonder 
 if ever she sat up a sweet spring night 
 
 -48- 
 
drinking rich wine all golden in the moon ? 
 
 He meditates the subject gravely a moment^ then 
 bursts into boisterous laughter at the picture 
 evoked* 
 
 She would be droll I Eh ? why do you not laugh ? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Oh, Benvenutol 
 
 BENVENUTO, becoming irritable. 
 What a dismal face ! 
 
 What if I am a little warm with wine ? 
 
 Is that a reason you should gloom on me 
 
 with such a pale shocked visage? Or perhaps 
 
 it is because Favilla poured the cup. 
 
 What 's the harm there ? She is a liberal heart, 
 
 no miser of her smiles, no petty prude, — 
 
 what harm to spend a holiday with her ? 
 
 LIPERATA, 
 
 And in what moment of that holiday 
 
 thought you of Luciana ? 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Luciana ! 
 
 'Tis the first moment of the whole long day 
 
 I had forgotten her, — and you recall 
 
 her name to me. Why do you speak of her ? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Oh, Benvenuto! 
 
 -49- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 So you know the truth, — 
 and thus you prelude more reproaches, — well, 
 husband your breath till I transgress indeed. 
 She will have nought of me, — so wish her joy 
 of her Domizio, her kind dull spouse, 
 her household god all made of earthenware. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 What, Benvenuto ! Was she married ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Was, 
 and is, and ever shall be, — so Amen ! 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Then for your sake *tis better she is dead! 
 BENVENUTO, 
 
 looking at her^ dazed^ for a moment 
 Dead ? Who says she is dead ? She is alive 
 and beautiful — too lovely for an angel. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Cosino did not find you then ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Cosino ? 
 What do you mean ? 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Brother, she died to-day. 
 She lies, unseemly hurried to the tomb, 
 already in the little chapel yonder. 
 
 -50- 
 
BENVENUTO, 
 
 suddenly sobered by the took on her face* 
 To-day, — it cannot be — what lie is this ? 
 You jest — {in a sudden groan of agony) 
 
 is this the truth ? 
 LIPERATA, mercilessly* 
 
 Look for yourself. 
 At the sight of his silent pain she softens and 
 stretches out her hands to him* 
 
 Benvenuto ! did you love her so ? 
 BENVENCJTO, in a numb, ef\>en voice* 
 
 1 loved her even as I honoured her, 
 
 and that was much. Where is the chapel, sister ? 
 
 There where the two tall cedars sway like spires 
 
 rocked by an earthquake ? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Do not go to-night* 
 
 You are distraught with grief, — the storm is near, — 
 
 mourn at her grave to-morrow if you will I 
 
 I was too harsh I 
 
 BENVENUTO, in the same mechanical 'boice* 
 While I was revelling 
 
 to-day, she died. Now, while her faithful eyes 
 
 gaze on the face of angels, let me kneel 
 
 beside her in the night and storm alone. 
 
 He kisses Liperata'S forehead and goes out* She 
 follows him to the door, mechanically extending 
 her hand to see if the rain has begun* 
 
 -51 - 
 
LIPERATA, recalling herself 'with a start, 
 
 I must be busy* My poor Benvenuto ! 
 
 I will prepare his room and warm a cup 
 
 of spicy sleeping-draught for him. Poor boy, — 
 
 body and soul will cry for tender care 
 
 when he comes back to me. 
 
 She goes into the room on the right* 
 FA VILLA, speaking outside* 
 
 I tell you, no* 
 I will not leave him here ! 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 The devil take you! 
 Why did you take so long to find it out, 
 then drag us back with a preposterous tale 
 of a lost jewel ? We shall all be drenched. 
 FAVILLA, at the door. 
 Then PII house here. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Not you. You should not cross 
 my sister's threshold. 
 FA VILLA, laughing angrily. 
 
 Why, upon the street 
 we have brushed elbows often, and in truth 
 often enough my foot has passed your door. 
 CECCHINO. 
 That 's not the same. 
 
 -52- 
 
BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 Cecchino *s in the right. 
 Your head is turned with wine. 
 LEONE. 
 
 G)mc back to Florence. 
 The night is young, — what place is this for revel ? 
 FAVILLA, stubbornly. 
 Not without Benvenuto ! 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Come, I say! 
 COSINO, outside. 
 Madonna I oh, madonna ! 
 
 He flings himself in at the door and stops. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 What, Cosino? 
 Why are you here ? 
 COSINO, sullenly alert. 
 
 I came to seek my master. 
 BEPPUCaO. 
 Why, what 's amiss ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 Nando is very ill, 
 and but an hour ago a thief broke in 
 and stole two golden cups and three large plates 
 and a small box of gems — 
 
 -53- 
 
FAVILLA. 
 
 And I '11 be sworn 
 that all this means a message from a woman. 
 COSINO. 
 
 You ought to know him well. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 And so I do. 
 And on the strength of that same lore I wager 
 that even now he 's hiding hereabout. 
 Ho, Benvenuto ! 
 LIPERATA, coming from the inner room* 
 
 Did you wish to see 
 Signor Cellini? 
 CECCHINO, apologetically. 
 
 Sister ! 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 He is gone. 
 FAVILLA. 
 Gone, — *t is a lie ! 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Be still! 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Do you believe me? 
 Her eyes meet Favilla'S unflinchingly* cAfter 
 a moment the letter's gaze falters and she turns 
 a%vay muttering* 
 
 -54- 
 
FAVILLA. 
 
 Yes, I believe you. He might well be gone. 
 
 He is not one to tarry in a hole 
 
 scarce lighted, with a sheet-faced, sullen thing — 
 
 his sister too. — G^me, let *s be going, — fie, — 
 
 why have I wasted time ? Upon my oath 
 
 I '11 find him at my house when I return* 
 
 Come, let 's be going. 
 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Sister — 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 I am glad 
 
 to meet your friends, my brother. Now, good-night* 
 He sowings on his heel abashedly shearing and 
 fo[loJi)s the rest si Liperata stands cold and 
 immovable looking at the door* 
 
 COSINO, eagerly. 
 
 Madonna — 
 
 LIPERATA, musing disgustedly* 
 
 Benvenuto — on her lips 
 
 it sounded horrible, as if one smeared 
 
 filth on a diamond. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 Ah, but hear, Madonna I 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 What would you tell me, child ? 
 
 -55- 
 
COSINO. 
 
 Only this morning, 
 she dropped the purse, — she was a little faint. 
 She said — 
 LIPERATA, stooping to him anxiously. 
 
 Child, are you ill ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 No, no — and then 
 she said that yesterday it was the same — 
 a sudden darkness — and her sister feared — 
 out on her for a chicken-heart ! 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Cosino ! 
 The shock has turned his brain. — Cosino, boy — 
 be still a moment. 
 COSINO. 
 
 So of course you sec 
 it is not strange, although a priest would say 
 it was a miracle. 
 LEPERATA. 
 
 Cosino — what ? 
 what is not strange ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 I told you long ago, — 
 she is alive! 
 
 -56- 
 
LIPERATA. 
 
 Alive! 
 COSINO, 
 
 She was not dead, — 
 she never has been dead ! He is coming here, 
 he brings her here, here in his arms. Madonna ! 
 She is alive — 
 
 He buries his head in Liperata'S dress laughing 
 
 and crying ^th excitement 
 LIPERATA, pressing her hands to her forehead. 
 
 Is not this night a dream ? 
 I shall wake presently. I never thought 
 that Benvenuto loved, — she never died, — 
 that woman never came here. I have dreamed. — 
 
 The storm comes nearer, *^In a flash of lightning 
 
 Benvenuto appears at the door carrying Luciana. 
 It was like this the night my baby died. 
 
 Benvenuto comes in and lays Luqana on the 
 
 settle, a^ The storm breaks, 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 She was not dead — she is alive — alive ! 
 Come, Liperata ! chafe her hands — undo 
 that strangling gown — these tender ministries 
 are best in women's hands. She is alive I 
 LIPERATA, obeying mechanically. 
 But tell me, Benvenuto — 
 
 -57- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 Nay, I scarce 
 can tell myself how it befelL It seems 
 a miracle. As I drew near her tomb 
 I heard a cry of terror — then a gasp, 
 and silence. There I found her in a swoon, — 
 and that is all. See how the tender rose 
 creeps back into her face. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Her eyelids flutter. — 
 Where is her husband ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Gone upon a journey. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 To-morrow we must take her home. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 What home? 
 A house whence all the frightened rats have fled, 
 left desert by the pestilence of fear ? 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Till he returns, she can lodge here with me. 
 We two will care for her, Nonna and L 
 BENVENUTO. 
 Nonna and you. — 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 She has an angeFs face* 
 I do not wonder, brother — 
 
 -58- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 Liperata, — 
 
 I took her from the g^ave* Had I not come, 
 
 she would be dead now as they thought she was. 
 
 Her life that was Domizio's is ended. 
 
 Whose is the new life that has just begun? 
 
 Through the hot damp of the approaching storm 
 
 I bore her in my arms, that precious weight 
 
 warm on my bosom, that soft mist of hair 
 
 fragrant against my face. They buried it, 
 
 the lovely form Domizio held so dear. 
 
 Whose is the body I have raised to life ? 
 
 Whose? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Benvenuto ! 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Is it not my own? 
 Liperata gazes at him thunderstruck across the 
 still unconscious Luciana. X^Cosdmo, fascinated ^ 
 crouches near, gazing at the t^ivo, unnoticed by 
 them, 3^^ pause* 
 
 LUCIANA, opening her eyes* 
 
 Where am I ? 
 
 LIPERATA, 
 
 inlfoluntarily putting her arms about her pro- 
 tectingly* 
 
 With a friend. 
 
 -59- 
 
LUCIANA. 
 
 How came I here? 
 BENVENUTO, 
 I brought you here* 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 There was a deadly darkness, 
 a darkness and a horror of the grave. 
 Nothing beside — nothing beside — 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 'Twas I 
 who took you from the horror of the grave. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 I cannot thank you, sir. What is your name, 
 that I may pray the saints to bless you ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 What, 
 do you not know me ? 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 No. What is your name ? 
 BENVENUTO, hoarsely. 
 My name is Benvenuto. 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 Truly called, 
 and welcome as the smile of God to me. 
 
 c/1 moment's pause, then diffidently* 
 How am I called ? Somehow I have forgotten. 
 I cannot think. 
 
 -60- 
 
BENVENUTO, slowly. 
 
 Your name is Luciana» 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 It is an echo from some far-off time, — 
 some other life. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Some other vanished life* 
 This life is new. Your heart is bom to-night, 
 LUCIANA. 
 
 To-morrow you shall speak to me again* 
 Now I am weary. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 G)me with me* 
 LUCIANA, 
 
 her hand feebly groping for BENVENUTcys. 
 
 With you? 
 Your eyes are kind. Yes, I will go with you* 
 Be near me, Benvenuto. 
 BENVENUTO, kissing her hand fervently. 
 
 While I live. 
 He lifts her from the settle and supports her 
 toward the door. At the door he says intensely. 
 Are you content to lean upon me thus 
 in your new life ? 
 
 She looks at him in imde-eyed ^wonder. Then, 
 as if unconsciously, he dra<ws her to him and 
 
 -6\ - 
 
kisses heff reverently at first, then <unth a fierce 
 exultation* 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Luciana ! 
 LUCIANA, slcywly and dreamily* 
 
 Benvcnuto — 
 LiPERATA dra<ws her into the room and shuts 
 the door* 
 
 COSINO, breathlessly joyful* 
 Master ! 
 
 BENVENUTO, startled* 
 
 Cosino! here! I had forgot you. 
 You heard — you saw — 
 COSINO. 
 
 I am so glad for you ! 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Can you keep silence, boy ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 Always, for you. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Go home, go home. You shall not lack reward. 
 Lock up the shop. I will stay here to-night. 
 COSINO, ^wisely* 
 
 Yes, master, yes. I 'II make all very sure. 
 He goes out* 
 
 -62- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 I will stay here to-night j I will stay here 
 
 upon the threshold of my Paradise* 
 
 Upon the threshold, — nay, why linger there, 
 
 lest deeming me a laggard and a fool 
 
 Fate pluck again back to herself the gift 
 
 that she has dropped into my hand ? Wild night. 
 
 He goes to the door and stands looking out to 
 
 the storm* 
 what is your storm to that which shakes my heart ? 
 With such a blast to whirl me to the clouds, 
 why crawl an hour upon the sordid earth ? 
 To heaven to-night — and then to Rome — to Rome. 
 Now am I truly great, — now do I stand 
 in places where my feet have trod in dreams* 
 Rome shall be richer for my joy. Oh, God, 
 thy justice gives me my deserts at last ! 
 
 LiPERATA returns* 
 LIPERATA* 
 I left her praying. 
 BENVENUTO, 
 
 t^ith a quick leaping step forward* 
 Ah! 
 LIPERATA, staying him* 
 
 What *s in your heart ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 You know full well, — but shall I word it ? 
 
 -63- 
 
LIPERATA, looking into his eyes. 
 
 No. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Her life is mine by right. She has forgotten 
 what lay behind the sepulchre. To me 
 beloi^s this fair new tablet of her mind 
 to write on as I will. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 She may remember, - 
 and under your fine writing may start out 
 her old, dear tale, to stare you both to shame. 
 BENVElSaJTO. 
 
 Be that my care ! I will so compass her 
 with all the flaming wonder of my love 
 that if the past should e^er come back to her, 
 it will but make her turn to me more fondly. 
 LIPERATA. 
 You think you know a woman^s heart. 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 If not, 
 I Ve wasted many an hour. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 In such a school 
 you think to learn such hearts as hers or mine ! 
 How can — Favilla — teach you aught of her ? 
 
 -64- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 Then let her teach me of herself ! Favilla» 
 
 you have seen her? 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 I have seen her. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Then you know 
 how infinitely coarse a thing she is 
 matched with this lady. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 In a dream I see 
 that pale proud face defiled by wine and passion 
 to match the wanton's. That were work for devils 
 and not for you, my brother. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Hold your peace I 
 I will not plead with you. You dwell in Florence, 
 you know our customs j and by all of them 
 she now is mine, to do with as I will ; 
 for my will shall be hers. Stand you aside. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Have you no thought for her ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 One single thought — 
 I love her. Stand aside. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 She loves her husband. 
 
 -65- 
 
BENVENUTO* 
 
 She loved her husband* Now she shall love me. 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 Have you no fear of God ? 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 God sent this chance. 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 God sent it, — that is true. You know so much, 
 and cannot see what you would fling aside ! 
 God sent you a great hour, a golden hour 
 when you might choose to be like other men, 
 or far beyond them, noble and apart. 
 And you have chosen just the common way, — 
 the way all loose-tongued, little-hearted Florence 
 might tread, ignobly joyous. Tread it, you. 
 Who stays you ? Drink your sacramental wine 
 to thrill you to an hour's wild revel. Go, — 
 yet oh, my brother, since you choose this way, 
 I pray for you the time may never come 
 when your true self shall rouse him from his sleep 
 and cry aloud in agony and wrath, — 
 when you shall front the slow accusing vision 
 of what you might have been and would not be, — 
 and hide your face, abashed. Well has it wrought, 
 the evil of these years ; I see you now, 
 tested and failing. Of the man I knew, 
 
 -66- 
 
revered and loved, remains only the name» — 
 
 the name, — ay, and the valiant sounding speech. 
 
 My brother Benvenuto is no more. — 
 
 BENVENUTO, 
 
 Liperata ! 
 
 LIPERATA. 
 
 You have chosen, — Florentine ! 
 <A pause* Si Then Benvenuto dra.'vjs a, long 
 breath and straightens himself* 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Yes, I have chosen. 
 
 Hz takes up his cloaK and flinging it on, strides 
 to the door. At the door he pauses and looks 
 back* 
 
 Guard her well. Good-night* 
 He s^ttyings out into the storm, singing defiantly* 
 I am my own content, — 
 Love cannot frown on me. 
 The lightning shows him passing the 'tiyindo'iv, 
 his head bent, struggling ivith the storm* 4SP 
 Liperata, ^with a sigh of relief and Joy, slips to 
 her knees, her head resting against Luciana's 
 door, her trembling fingers fumbling at her girdle 
 for her rosary* 
 
 - CURTAIN* - 
 -67- 
 
THIRD ACT - 
 
 The following day. Late afternoon. 
 iSS ^envenuto's upper room. Through the JifMo^iv 
 is seen Domizio's Tiyindo'w opposite, CosiNO peers 
 in by the door at the side (L) and comes in on 
 tiptoe. He begins to gather up the dishes from the 
 tablet humming to himself. Gradually his song 
 takes form thus, 
 COSINO, singing. 
 
 Spring is laughing o^er the hills 
 
 In the blossomed almond-tree, 
 
 In the gold of daffodils, 
 
 In the murmur of the bee. 
 
 Joy and beauty 
 
 Now are duty. 
 
 Spring is laughing — why not we ? 
 
 Spring is singing in the brooks^ 
 
 In the leaves that kiss and sigh, — 
 
 In the flash of loving looks, 
 
 Tender pleading, sweet reply. 
 
 Hearts are glowing, 
 
 Youth is going, — 
 
 Spring is singing, — why not I ? 
 
 -68- 
 
At this point the door of Benvenuto's bedroom 
 {R) flies open ivith a slam, and he appears, 
 glo'wering* Cosino leavers a moment but stands 
 his ground* 
 
 COSINO^ propitiatingly* 
 
 See the bright clouds ! The storm is past — out there* 
 Benvenuto ackno<u}ledges the remark only by a 
 fro'wnt and goes to the y^indo^iVt 'where he stands 
 looking sullenly out* 
 
 COSINO, 
 
 Your clothes are dry. I saw to that myself. 
 He 'waits a moment for an ans^wer* 
 
 You know you said you would not come last night* 
 Benvenuto turns groJi>ling; Cosino edges nearer 
 the door, and continues* 
 
 I always thought she loved you, — did she not ? — 
 
 I had not deemed there was a woman born 
 
 who would not thank you for a smile. — 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Be still I 
 
 'Twas my own choice that brought me home. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 I knew 
 
 it must be so. 
 
 He sighs, looks at the untasted dishes, shakes a 
 mystified head, and goes out stoutly* 
 
 -69- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 Had it not been my choice I 
 I have done nobly as befits myself, — 
 but had I done as smaller men would do 
 this hour I might have been in Paradise. 
 There was no more denial left in her. — 
 She was all mine, — her lips gave back my kiss, — 
 and had she ever wakened to the past 
 it would have been in my embrace. But now, — 
 now I will be but as a dream to her. 
 She will not know the great thing I have done. 
 She will go back to him, — her husband. God ! 
 I would not do for thee or all thy angels 
 what I have done that I might stand unstained 
 in my own sight ! Now if I do not work 
 I shall go mad with dreaming. Let the blow 
 of steel on gold drive from my mind that voice, 
 **Be near me, BenvenutoT* 
 
 He draius a. bench to the table and seats himself 
 
 there to Ji>orL 
 
 How to fashion 
 this handle, — were a simple garland best, 
 or some wild shape of goat-foot satyr, twined 
 with grape leaves, leering down into the cup ? 
 That would be newer, rarer, more like me. 
 It shall be that. — She will come home again 
 
 -70- 
 
and I shall see her going in and out, 
 I was far happier when I only dreamed 
 of what I missed. Now when I see her kiss 
 her husband, I shall feel again the stab 
 of that wild pain of joy that thrilled in me 
 how long ago, — only last night ? 
 
 His yi)ork lies unnoticed. He sits, his chin in his 
 
 hands, looking into space* 
 
 It seems 
 longer ago than that. I cannot stay 
 here at her threshold, — I must go away« 
 To Rome. I shall do greater work in Rome. 
 How I shall fill them with astonishment. — 
 But oh, with her, how gladly had I gone, 
 and now I spur my heart with its own pride 
 to thoughts and hopes that I must needs have curbed 
 had I been — nothing but a Florentine. 
 
 The t<u)ilight gathers* As he sits brooding comes 
 
 an insistent knocking from the street* Gradually 
 
 he becomes conscious of it, rises, and goes to the 
 
 ti>indcm)* 
 DOMIZIO, speaking without* 
 How *% this ? Is none within ? What is amiss ? 
 
 CosiNO steals in and comes to Benvenuto. 
 COSINO, ivhispering* 
 He has come back. 
 
 -71 - 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 Be still. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 What ^s wrong, I say ! 
 Where are my people ? 
 NANDO, speaking l^ithout 
 
 Hush, sir, hush, I pray. 
 Come in, and I will tell you everything. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 What do you mean ? What would you tell ? 
 NANDO. 
 
 Come in* 
 (A murmur from the room belo'Wf — then a 
 heavy groan* 
 COSINO. 
 Nando has told him. 
 BENVENUTO, as to himself* 
 
 Once I stabbed a man, — 
 a worthless fellow who had hindered me. 
 He groaned like that when first the knife went in. 
 Go, bid him come to me. 
 COSINO. 
 
 What will you do ? 
 You will not tell him she is living ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Go. 
 
 -72- 
 
Cosnsro goes. Shortly afterward he enters ivtth 
 a lamp, followed by DoMizio. He is stunned 
 by the blotu* CosiNO, obeying a nod from 
 Benvenuto, retires, 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Why did you caD me ? He has told me all. 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 What will you do ? 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 I scarcely know. My world 
 
 is all in shards. Where did they bury her ? 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Would you go mourn for her ? 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 And join her, — ay* 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Are there not roads enough 
 
 by which a man may quit a world that stands 
 
 robbed in a day of all that made it dear ? 
 
 I see my way. 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 You would go kill yourself 
 
 there at her grave — 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Why do you eye me so ? 
 
 -73- 
 
BENVENUTO, 
 Why should I stay you ? 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 li you ever loved 
 beyond the lawless passions that have made 
 your name a by-word, you will stay me not, 
 knowing what life is worth when love is gone. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Knowing what life is worth when love is gone — 
 Tell me, which is the bitterer to bear, — 
 love that was crowned with all accomplished joy, 
 and then is quenched in darkness, — or that love 
 that yields ere it has realized, — resigns 
 its flower yet budded to the hands of fate, 
 and breaks the chalice of its sacrament 
 as yet untasted ? 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 So you too have loved, — 
 and was that last your doom ? I pity you, — 
 I, even I, naked of all my joy, 
 for I have known such heights of happiness 
 as made me like a god. Their memory 
 is mine forever, and will still be mine 
 in that far darkness into which I go. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 And into which I need but let you go. 
 
 -74- 
 
Oh, God, was ever man so tempted ? Say, 
 
 was it not great enough, my sacrifice, 
 
 that I must make it more ? Did I not touch 
 
 the peaks last night ? — Then I will scale them now. 
 
 Mine be that bitterer doom I 
 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 How dark it is 1 
 I must be gone. Where did they bury her ? 
 I must be gone — by which door did I enter ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Come with me. I will guide you where she is. 
 DOMIZIO. 
 
 Sir, you are courteous, but I pray you, leave me 
 when we have reached the place. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 I will not stay 
 to see your meeting — never fear for that, 
 I have a tale to tell you by the way. 
 
 They go out together, iftV* Cosino comes in and 
 
 lights the lamp* 
 COSINO, craning out of the 'lijindotu. 
 They take the road up toward Fiesole. 
 What, will he lead her husband to her ? Nay, 
 can he have tired of her so soon ? These days 
 I cannot comprehend him. 
 
 -75- 
 
CECCHINO, speaking outside. 
 
 Benvenuto ! 
 Where is my brother, Nando ? 
 NANDO, outside. 
 
 He went out 
 a moment since. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Well, I will wait awhile. 
 He comes in ; throvjs himself into a. chair and 
 stretches. 
 Bah, I ^m but half awake I Why must good wine 
 leave such a knavish aching in the head ? 
 Cosino, boy, I am not well. I feel 
 a certain faintness. Does your master keep 
 medicine for such ills ? I know he does, 
 COSINO. 
 
 Have you not pain enough already ? 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Boy, 
 this is to cure the pain I have. 
 COSINO, putting bottle on the table. 
 
 Then here. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Where was your master last night ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 He came home* 
 
 -76- 
 
CECCHINO. 
 Here ! 
 COSINO. 
 
 Yes. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Alone ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 That 's not for me to say. 
 CECCHINO. 
 Then he was not alone ? 
 COSINO. 
 
 How is your pain ? 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Better. Hark you, Cosino, I Ve a plan. 
 COSINO. 
 It is — 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Your master will return to-night ? 
 COSINO. 
 How do I know? 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Surely he will. — I think 
 you know he will, you little rat. My faith, 
 he shall not leave us in the lurch again. 
 We will be ready for him when he comes, 
 and greet his new-loved lady with all mirth. 
 
 -77- 
 
Come now, be busy. Lay the table, boy, 
 
 I will go get good cheer, and call together 
 
 the guests. We shall be gay, I promise you. 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 I doubt if he is pleased* 
 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 A niggard he, — 
 a miser of his pleasures. Never yet 
 had I a love I would not share with him. 
 I '11 fetch Favilla, — oh, there will be sport, — 
 rare sport ! He goes out* 
 COSINO. 
 
 If I can only keep them here, 
 they will not seek him at Fiesole. 
 
 He begins to lay the table* HU. In the street 1>oices 
 are heard singing ** Wine and love and laughter.*' 
 CECCHINO, ivithoatt crying noisily* 
 Go up, go up ! I 'II meet you there anon* 
 Enter Beppuccio, Leone, Favilla, Petronilla 
 and Gaietta. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 So he 's away. Good, — he will find us here 
 when he comes back. 
 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 What if she should come first? 
 FAVILLA. 
 She? Who? 
 
 -78- 
 
PETRONILLA. 
 
 The unknown lady for whose sake 
 last night he gave us all the slip, Cecchino 
 told me but now. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Let me but meet her here I 
 CosiNO slips out* 
 LEONE. 
 
 That would be merry seeing. 
 GAIETTA. 
 
 Where 's the boy ? 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 Gone for the victual, doubtless. For my part 
 I know where Benvenuto keeps his wine. 
 Here, will you drink from such a cup as ne.ver 
 your lips have touched till now ? 
 FAVILLA, taking it. 
 
 It is not finished* 
 LEONE. 
 
 So much the rarer. 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 He is wonderful, — 
 never was such a goldsmith. 
 
 They examine the pieces of ivork about the room* 
 GAIETTA. 
 
 See this casket; 
 
 - 79- 
 
is it not exquisite ? So fair a shell 
 must hold a precious kernel. 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 What is in it? 
 GAIETTA, rattling it. 
 I wonder. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Why, the key is in the lock. 
 PETRONILLA. 
 But who dares open it ? 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Who speaks of daring ? 
 Give it to me. It is a necklace — see. 
 GAIETTA. 
 
 Oh, beautiful ! What curious design. 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 There is a name woven among the flowers. 
 FAVILLA. 
 A name — 
 
 She studies it for a. momentf then looks up <ivith 
 an angry face* 
 
 Cunningly wrought — too cunningly 
 for me to read. — 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 Let me see. 
 cA knock at the half-open door* 
 
 -80- 
 
LEONE. 
 
 Who is there ? 
 <A heMly-veiled lady opens the door and shrinks 
 back affrighted at sight of the company. 
 BEPPUCaO. 
 The lady! 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Of the necklace, by the saints ! 
 THE LADY. 
 
 I seek Signor Cellini, — is he here ? 
 LEONE. 
 
 He 'fl be here presently. Will you come in ? 
 THE LADY. 
 I had not thought — 
 FAVILLA, 
 
 seizing her hand and dra%)ing her into the room* 
 I say you shall come in. 
 You had not thought to find so many here. 
 You thought to keep your tryst even as last night, 
 is it not so? 
 THE LADY. 
 
 Madonna ! 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Innocence ! 
 CECCHINO, outside. 
 Ho, all I — entering* 
 
 How now, who *s this ? 
 
 -81 - 
 
FAVILLA. 
 
 Our new recruit, — 
 your gallant brother's latest lady-love. 
 CECCHINO. 
 What, fairly trapped I Has he not yet come home ? 
 
 He puts dcywn fruit eta^ on the table* 
 Madonna, you are welcome. Till he comes 
 I am your host. 
 THE LADY. 
 
 Let me be gone. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Not yet. 
 We two shall greet him, you and I, together. 
 Put up your veil and let us see your face. 
 THE LADY. 
 No, no! 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Must it be kept for him alone ? 
 I say that I will see what thing it is 
 for which he leaves me. 
 LEONE. 
 
 He will do you harm — 
 Let her alone. You know his anger. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Ay,- 
 I have a pretty anger of my own 
 
 -82- 
 
to match with his. Off with your veil* Madonna, 
 
 and solve this pretty puzzle that I hold. 
 
 THE LADY, starting at sight of the necklace. 
 
 Where did you get that ? 
 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Why, I snatched it — so ! 
 She tears off the >erY, disclosing a pretty, 
 frightened face, closely ^wrapped in a head- 
 kerchief 
 Bah, 'tis a child ! a foolish little toy 
 to dandle on one's knee. 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 Undoubtedly 
 so Benvenuto thinks. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 You sharp-clawed cat, — 
 I *6. not be jealous of a babe unweaned — 
 and yet, — if that rare jewel was for her — 
 Hark you, what is your name ? 
 THE LADY. 
 
 My name ? 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 How now, 
 am I a mincing whisperer like yourself ? 
 Who knows her name ? 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 I seem to know her face. 
 
 -83- 
 
LEONE. 
 
 She has a look of someone I have seen. 
 
 THE LADY. 
 
 Kind sirs, I pray you, stare not on me so. 
 
 Pity me, — let me go. — ni tell you all, 
 
 and never hear another word of love 
 
 from Messer Benvenuto, if you wilL 
 
 I am Cosino's sister. 
 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 By the mass, 
 but you are like him ! 
 LEONE, 
 
 Yes, I see it now. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Speak, was this made for you ? 
 THE LADY. 
 
 'T was not for you, 
 at all events. 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 Brava ! so there 's a tongue 
 behind those pretty lips. 
 THE LADY, simpering. 
 
 Oh, sir, — you shame me ! 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 What, with a word ? Your bashfulness becomes you. 
 Say, will a kiss buy me a blush as well ? 
 
 -84- 
 
THE LADY. 
 
 Let be 1 No man has ever kissed me. 
 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 What? 
 
 Not Benvenuto? 
 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Out upon you, minx, 
 
 with your mock daintiness. I will be sworn 
 
 you are no more a bashful maid than L 
 
 THE LADY, hiding her face. 
 
 Too true, alas ! 
 
 BEPPUCCIO. 
 
 There, you have made her weep. 
 
 See how her sobs shake all her slender body. 
 
 Nay, little one, I *II comfort thee. What ^s this ? 
 
 That was a laugh and not a sob, I swear. 
 
 c/ls he strives to dra*iv her hands from her facet 
 the kerchief falls off disclosing Cosino's closely 
 cropped head, flushed Ji)ith laughter* 
 
 You little mocking devil ! 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 Ah, Favilla! 
 
 You are no more a bashful maid than I ! 
 
 Wouldst kiss me now, Messer Beppuccio ? 
 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 You have befooled us rarely. 
 
 -85- 
 
FAVILLA, 
 
 Little pest, — 
 but where *s your master ? 
 
 COSINO. 
 
 Somewhere else, it seems* 
 Not here* 
 FAVILLA* 
 
 So that was why your trick was played* 
 To hold us here, while he kept merry tryst 
 with last night's lady ! 
 CECCHINO* 
 
 Let us seek him out. 
 GAIETTA* 
 
 Where could you look? He has given us the slip. — 
 Well, let him go to-night. Here is good cheer. — 
 Let us be merry by ourselves. 
 COSINO. 
 
 And I 
 will be his proxy with Favifla here. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Off with you, gnat. G)uld wc but read this name 
 I know that we could trace him. 'T is no use 
 to ask you, little prince of lies. Alas, 
 't is wrought too cunningly. I cannot rest 
 until I find it out. 
 
 -86- 
 
PETRONILLA. 
 
 Why, what falls here 
 upon the gold? A tear? 
 FA VILLA. 
 
 Ay, of vexation. 
 Look closer here. Can no one read it ? 
 
 c/ls she speaks, Benvenuto enters, and stands 
 looking at the company* With the last question, 
 he takes the necklace from her, 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 No. 
 He flings it into the brazier of coals, 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Why, brother, what *s amiss ? Your face is gray. 
 Truly, you look but ill. Is ^t well with you ? 
 BENVENUTO, ^ith an effort. 
 It is most well. 
 FAVILLA. 
 
 Where have you been ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 At work. 
 Now I am weary, — here you have good cheer. 
 We will be merry. 
 CECCHINO. 
 
 Spoken like my brother. 
 To-night you shall not leave us in the lurch. 
 
 -87- 
 
BENVENUTO. 
 
 No, nothing cafls me from the revelry 
 
 to-night, nor shall again. No more to me 
 
 shall come that vision of celestial things 
 
 that lift the soul and break the heart. 
 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 How strange 
 you are to-night. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Mirth and short love for me ! 
 Favilla — 
 FAVILLA, su{lenly. 
 
 Tell me, whose the name that twined 
 among the blossoms in that necklace ? 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Nay, 
 it is forgotten, — fused in searing fire 
 into a molten blank. So — let it go. 
 Henceforth, I see no women in the world 
 but you and such as you. Come, let us drink. 
 LEONE. 
 
 Ay, you *re still pale. See, how your hand is shaking. 
 It must have been work of the mightiest 
 that you have done, to be so strangely spent. 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 The greatest work that I have ever done. 
 The noblest work that I shall ever do. 
 
 -88- 
 
(Across the 'way DoMizio and Luciana enter the 
 room ^th a lamp* As they pass the ivindol:!), 
 she clinging to himt he stoops and kisses her, 
 
 LEONE. 
 
 Where is it? 
 
 GAIETTA. 
 
 Let us see it! 
 
 PETRONILLA. 
 
 Is it done? 
 
 BENVENUTO. 
 
 Yes, it is done, — but not for you to see. 
 
 With a reckless laugh, he flings the shutters of 
 his ^ndoti) together, and stands facing the rest, 
 'who stare at him^ beti>ildered, 
 
 - CURTAIN, - 
 
HERE ENDS THE POINT OF LIFE, A PLAY 
 IN THREE ACTS, BY AMELL^ J. BURR ST 
 SET UP AND PRINTED FROM THE TYPE 
 BY FREDERIC M. BURR AT THE HILL- 
 SIDE PRESS, ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY. 
 PRESSWORK FINISHED IN THE MONTH 
 OF JANUARY, M-CM-VII ^ BORDER OF 
 THE TITLE-PAGE DESIGNED BY MABEL 
 H. DUNCAN ^511^ THREE HUNDRED AND 
 FIFTEEN COPIES ON ITALL\N HAND- 
 MADE PAPER FROM THE OLD MILLS AT 
 FABRL\NO a5& a^* a5& 2*^ a5& 2** «» SAi 
 
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