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_ ACT I - SCENE III
[A room in the palace at Fiori. Lorenzo and Beatrice playing chess. Twilight.]
LOR.
You'll not be able to get out of that,
I think, my girl, with both your castles gone.
BEA.
Be not so sure!--I have a horse still, father,
And in a strong position: if I move him here,
You lose your bishop; and if you take my bishop,
You lose your queen.
LOR.
True, but with my two rooks
Set here, where I can push them back and forth,
My king is safe till worms come in and eat him.
BEA.
What say you then to this?--Will you take this pawn,
Or will you not?
LOR.
[Studying the board.]
Od's bones!--where did that come from?
[Enter Octavia.]
OCT.
La, would you lose your eyesight, both of you?--
Fumbling about those chessmen in the dark?
You, Beatrice, at least, should have more wit!
LOR.
"At least"--hm!--Did you hear her say, "at least,"
Bice, my daughter?
BEA.
Ay. But it is true
The twilight comes before one knows it.
LOR.
Ay.
'Tis true, but unimportant. Nevertheless,
I am a tractable old fellow.--Look you,
I will but stay to map the lay of the pieces
Upon this bit of letter. 'Tis from a king
Who could not tell the bishop from the board,--
And yet went blind at forty.--A little chess
By twilight, mark you, and all might have been well.
[Enter Bianca.]
BIA.
Oh,--I've been looking everywhere for you?
OCT.
[Drily.]
For me?
BIA.
Nay, mother,--for Beatrice. Bice,
The rose is out at last upon that bush
That never blossomed before,--and it is white
As linen, just as I said 'twould be!
BEA.
Why, the bud
Was redder than a radish!
BIA.
Ay, I know.
But the blossom's white, pure white. Come out and see!
[Politely.] Would you like to see it, mother?
OCT.
Nay, not now, child.
Some other time.
BEA.
Father, we'll end the game
Tomorrow; and do you not be scheming at it
All night!
LOR.
Nay, I will not unfold the chart.
BEA.
But you remember well enough without;
Promise me not to think of it.
LOR.
I' faith,
You are a desperate woman. Ay, I promise.
[Exeunt Bianca and Beatrice. Octavia seats herself. Pause.]
OCT.
I tell you, as I've told you often before,
Lorenzo, 'tis not good for two young girls
To be so much together!
LOR.
As you say,
Octavia. For myself, I must confess
It seems a natural thing, enough, that youth
Should seek out youth. And if they are better pleased
Talking together than listening to us,
I find it not unnatural. What have we
To say to children?--They are as different
From older folk as fairies are from them.
OCT.
"Talking together," Lorenzo! What have they
To talk about, save things they might much better
Leave undiscussed?--you know what I mean,--lovers,
And marriage, and all that--if that is all!
One never knows--it is impossible
To hear what they are saying; they either speak
In whispers, or burst out in fits of laughter
At some incredible nonsense. There is nothing
So silly as young girls at just that age.--
At just Bianca's age, that is to say.
As for the other,--as for Beatrice,
She's older than Bianca, and I'll not have her
Putting ideas into my daughter's head!
LOR.
Fear not, my love. Your daughter's head will doubtless,
In its good time, put up its pretty hair,
Chatter, fall dumb, go moping in the rain,
Be turned by flattery, be bowed with weeping,
Grow grey, and shake with palsy over a staff,--
All this, my love, as empty of ideas
As even the fondest mother's heart could wish.
OCT.
You mock me, sir?
LOR.
I am but musing aloud,
As is my fashion.--And indeed, my dear,
What is the harm in lovers-and-all-that
That virtuous maidens may not pass the time
With pretty tales about them?--After all,
Were it not for the years of looking forward to it
And looking back upon it, love would be
Only the commonest bird-song in the hedge,--
And men would have more time to think,--and less
To think about.
OCT. That may be. But young girls
Should not be left alone too much together.
They grow too much attached. They grow to feel
They cannot breathe apart. It is unhealthy.
LOR.
It may be true. But as for me, whom youth
Abandoned long ago, I look on youth
As something fresh and sweet, like a young green tree,
Though the wind bend it double.--'Tis you, 'tis I,
'Tis middle age the fungus settles on.
OCT.
Your head is full of images. You have
No answers. I shall do as I spoke of doing,
And separate them for a little while,
Six months, maybe a year. I shall send Bianca
Away within a fortnight. That will cure them.
I know. I know. Such friendships do not last.
CURTAIN _
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