ACT I

 

The parlor in the house of COMMENDATORE AGAZZI. A door, the general entrance, at the back; doors leading to the wings, left and right. LAUDISI is a man nearing the forties, quick and energetic in his movements. He is smartly dressed. in good taste. At this moment he is wearing a semi-formal street Suit: a sack coat, of a violet cast, with black lapels, and with black braid around the edges; trousers of a light but different color.

AMALIA, AGAZZI'S wife, is LAUDISI'S sister. She is a woman of forty-five more or less. Her hair is already quite grey. SIGNORA AGAZZI is always showing a certain sense her own importance from the position occupied by her husband in the community; but she gives you to understand that if she had a free rein she would be quite capable of playing her own part in the world and, perhaps, do it somewhat better than COMMENDATORE AGAZZI. DINA is the daughter of AMALIA and AGAZZI. She is nineteen. Her general manner is that of a young person conscious of understanding everything better than papa and mamma; but this defect must not be exaggerated to the extent of concealing her attractiveness and charm as a good-looking winsome girl. As the curtain rises LAUDISI is walking briskly up and down the parlor to give vent to his irritation.

 

Laudisi. I see, I see! So he did take the matter up with the prefect!

Amalia. But Lamberto dear, please remember that the man is a subordinate of his.

Laudisi. A subordinate of his . . . very well! But subordinate in the office, not at home nor in society!

Dina. And he hired an apartment for that woman, his mother-in-law, right here in this very building, and on our floor.

Laudisi. And why not, pray? He was looking for an apartment; the apartment was for rent, so he leased it -- for his mother-in-law. You mean to say that a mother-in law is in duty bound to make advances to the wife an daughter of the man who happens to be her son-in-law's superior on his job?

Amalia. That is not the way it is, Lamberto. We didn't ask her to call on us. Dina and I took the first step by calling on her and -- she refused to receive us!

Laudisi. Well, is that any reason why your husband should go and lodge a complaint with the man's boss? Do you expect the government to order him to invite you to tea?

Amalia. I think he deserves all he gets! That is not the way to treat two ladies. I hope he gets fired! The idea!

Laudisi. Oh, you women! I say, making that complaint is a dirty trick. By Jove! If people see fit to keep to themselves in their own houses, haven't they a right to?

Amalia. Yes, but you don't understand! We were trying to do her a favor. She is new in the town. We wanted to make her feel at home.

Dina. Now, now, uncle dear, don't be so cross! Perhaps we did go there out of curiosity more than anything else; but it's all so funny, isn't it! Don't you think it was natural to feel just a little bit curious?

Laudisi. Natural be damned! It was none of your business!

Dina. Now, see here, uncle, let's suppose -- here you are right here minding your own business and quite indifferent to what other people are doing all around you. Very well! I come into the room and right here on this table, under your very nose, and with a long face like an undertaker's, or, rather, with the long face of that jail bird you are defending, I set down -- well, what? -- anything -- a pair of dirty old shoes!

Laudisi. I don't see the connection.

Dina. Wait, don't interrupt me! I said a pair of old shoes. Well, no, not a pair of old shoes -- a flat iron, a rolling pin, or your shaving brush for instance -- and I walk. out again without saying a word to anybody! Now I leave it to you, wouldn't you feel justified in wondering just a little, little, bit as to what in the world I meant by it?

Laudisi. Oh, you're irresistible, Dina! And you're clever, aren't you? But you're talking with old uncle. remember! You see, you have been putting all sorts of crazy things on the table here; and you did it with the idea of making me ask what it's all about; and, of course,. since you were doing all that on purpose, you can't blame me if I do ask, why those old shoes just there, on that table, dear? But what's all that got to do with it? You'll have to show me now that this Mr. Ponza of ours, that jailbird as you say, or that rascal, that boor, as your father calls him, brought his mother-in-law to the apartment next to ours with the idea of stringing us all! You've got to show me that he did it on purpose!

Dina. I don't say that he did it on purpose -- not at all! But you can't deny that this famous Mr. Ponza has come to this town and done a number of things which are unusual, to say the least; and which he must have known were likely to arouse a very natural curiosity in everybody. Look uncle, here is a man: he comes to town to fill an important public position, and -- what does he do? Where does he go to live? He hires an apartment on the top floor, if your please, of that dirty old tenement out there on the very outskirts of the town. Now, I ask you -- did you ever see the place? Inside?

Laudisi. I suppose you went and had a look at it?

Dina. Yes, uncle dear, I went -- -with mamma! And we weren't the only ones, you know. The whole town has been to have a look at it. It's a five story tenement with an interior court so dark at noontime you can hardly see your hand before your face. Well, there is an iron balcony built out from the fifth story around the courtyard. A basket is hanging from the railing . . . They let it up and down -- on a rope! [translator: quite customary in Italy]

Laudisi. Well, what of it?

Dina [looking at him with astonished indignation]. What of it? Well, there, if you please, is where he keeps his wife!

Amalia. While her mother lives here next door to us! Laudisi. A fashionable apartment, for his mother-in-law, in the residential district!

Amalia. Generous to the old lady, eh? But he does that to keep her from seeing her daughter!

Laudisi. How do you know that? How do you know that the old lady, rather, does not prefer this arrangement, just to have more elbow room for herself?

Dina. No, no, uncle, you're wrong. Everybody knows that it is he who is doing it.

Amalia. See here, Lamberto, everybody understands, if a girl, when she marries, goes away from her mother to live with her husband in some other town. But supposing this poor mother can't stand being separated from her daughter and follows her to the place, where she herself is also a complete stranger. And supposing now she not only does not live with her daughter, but is not even allowed to see her? I leave it to you . . . is that so easy to understand?

Laudisi. Oh say, you have about as much imagination as so many mud turtles. A mother-in-law and a son-in-law! Is it so hard to suppose that either through her fault or his fault or nobody's fault, they should find it hard to get along together and should therefore consider it wiser to live apart?

Dina [with another look of pitying astonishment at her uncle]. How stupid of you, uncle! The trouble is not between the mother-in-law and the son-in-law, but be. tween the mother and the daughter.

Laudisi. How do you know that?

Dina. Because he is as thick as pudding with the old lady; because they are always together, arm in arm, and as loving as can be. Mother-in-law and son-in-law, if you please! Whoever heard the like of that?

Amalia. And he comes here every evening to see how the old lady is getting on!

Dina. And that is not the worst of it! Sometimes he comes during the daytime, once or twice!

Laudisi. How scandalous! Do you think he is making love to the old woman?

Dina. Now don't be improper, uncle. No, we will acquit him of that. She is a poor old lady, quite on her last legs.

Amalia. But he never, never, never brings his wife! A daughter kept from seeing her mother! The idea!

Laudisi. Perhaps the young lady is not well; perhaps she isn't able to go out.

Dina. Nonsense! The old lady goes to see her!

Amalia. Exactly! And she never gets in! She can see her only from a distance. Now will you explain to me why, in the name of common sense, that poor mother should be forbidden ever to enter her daughter's house?

Dina. And if she wants to talk to her she has to shout up from the courtyard!

Amalia. Five stories, if you please! . . . And her daughter comes out and looks down from the balcony up there. The poor old woman goes into the courtyard and pulls a string that leads up to the balcony; a bell rings; the girl comes out and her mother talks up at her, her head thrown back, just as though she were shouting from out of a well. . . .

[There is a knock at the door and the BUTLER enters.]

Butler. Callers, madam!

Amalia. Who is it, please?

Butler. Signor Sirelli, and the Signora with another lady, madam.

Amalia. Very well, show them in.

[The BUTLER bows and withdraws.]

SIRELLI, SIGNORA SIRELLI, SIGNORA CINI appear in the doorway, rear.

SIRELLI, also a man of about forty, is a bald, fat gentle. man with some pretensions to stylish appearance that do not quite succeed: the overdressed provincial.

SIGNORA SIRELLI, his wife, plump, petite, a faded blonde, still young and girlishly pleasing. She, too, is somewhat overdressed with the provincial's fondness for display. She has the aggressive curiosity of the small-town gossip. She is chiefly occupied in keeping her husband in his place.

SIGNORA CINI is the old provincial lady of affected manners, who takes malicious delight in the failings of others, all the while affecting innocence and inexperience regarding the waywardness of mankind.

Amalia [as the visitors enter, and taking SIGNORA SIRELLI's hands effusively]. Dearest! Dearest!

Signora Sirelli. I took the liberty of bringing my good friend, Signora Cini, along. She was so anxious to know you!

Amalia. So good of you to come, Signora! Please make yourself at home! My daughter Dina, Signora Cini, and this is my brother, Lamberto Laudisi.

Sirelli [bowing to the ladies]. Signora, Signorina. [HE goes over and shakes hands with LAUDISI.]

Signora Sirelli. Amalia dearest, we have come here as to the fountain of knowledge. We are two pilgrims athirst for the truth!

Amalia. The truth? Truth about what?

Signora Sirelli. Why . . . about this blessed Mr. Ponza of ours, the new secretary at the prefecture. He is the talk of the town, take my word for it, Amalia.

Signora Cini. And we are all just dying to find out!

Amalia. But we are as much in the dark as the rest of you, I assure you, madam.

Sirelli [to his wife]. What did I tell you? They know no more about it than I do. In fact, I think they know less about it than I do. Why is it this poor woman is not allowed to see her daughter? Do you know the reason, you people, the real reason?

Amalia. Why, I was just discussing the matter with my brother.

Laudisi. And my view of it is that you're all a pack of gossips!

Dina. The reason is, they say, that Ponza will not allow her to.

Signora Cini. Not a sufficient reason, if I may say so, Signorina.

Signora Sirelli. Quite insufficient! There's more to it than that!

Sirelli. I have a new item for you, fresh, right off the ice: he keeps her locked up at home!

Amalia. His mother-in-law?

Sirelli. No, no, his wife!

Signora Cini. Under lock and key!

Dina. There, uncle, what have you to say to that? And you've been trying to defend him all along!

Sirelli [staring in astonishment at LAUDISI]. Trying to defend that man? Really . . .

Laudisi. Defending him? No! I am not defending anybody. All I'm saying, if you ladies will excuse me, is that your curiosity is unbearable if only because it's quite useless.

Sirelli. Useless? Useless?

Laudisi. Useless!

Signora Cini. But we're trying to get somewhere -- we are trying to find out!

Laudisi. Excuse me, what can you find out? What can we really know about other people -- who they are -- what they are -- what they are doing, and why they are doing it?

Signora Sirelli. How can we know? Why not? By asking, of course! You tell me what you know, and I tell you what I know.

Laudisi. In that case, madam, you ought to be the best informed person in the world. Why, your husband knows more about what others are doing than any other man -- or woman, for that matter -- in this neighborhood.

Sirelli [deprecating but pleased]. Oh I say, I say . . .

Signora Sirelli [to her husband]. No dear, he's right, he's right. [Then turning to AMALIA.] The real truth, Amalia, is this: for all my husband says he knows, I never manage to keep posted on anything!

Sirelli. And no wonder! The trouble is -- that woman never trusts me! The moment I tell her something she is convinced it is not quite as I say. Then, sooner or later, she claims that it can't be as I say. And at last she is certain it is the exact opposite of what I say!

Signora Sirelli. Well, you ought to hear all he tells me!

Laudisi [laughing aloud]. May I speak, madam? Let me answer your husband. My dear Sirelli, how do you expect your wife to be satisfied with things as you explain. them to her, if you, as is natural, represent them as they seem to you?

Signora Sirelli. And that means -- as they cannot possibly be!

Laudisi. Why no, Signora, now you are wrong. From your husband's point of view things are, I assure you, exactly as he represents them.

Sirelli. As they are in reality!

Signora Sirelli. Not at all! You are always wrong.

Sirelli. No, not a bit of it! It is you who are always wrong. I am always right.

Laudisi. The fact is that neither of you is wrong. May I explain? I will prove it to you. Now here you are, you, Sirelli, and Signora Sirelli, your wife, there; and here I am. You see me, don't you?

Sirelli. Well . . . er . . . yes.

Laudisi. Do you see me, or do you not?

Sirelli. Oh, I'll bite! Of course I see you.

Laudisi. So you see me! But that's not enough. Come here!

Sirelli [smiling, he obeys, but with a puzzled expression on his face as though he fails to understand what LAUDISI is driving at]. Well, here I am!

Laudisi. Yes! Now take a better look at me . . . Touch me! That's it -- that's it! Now you are touching me, are you not? And you see me! You're sure you see me?

Sirelli. Why, I should say . . .

Laudisi. Yes, but the point is, you're sure! Of course you're sure! Now if you please, Signora Sirelli, you come here -- or rather . . . no . . . [Gallantly.] it is my place to come to you! [He goes over to SIGNORA SIRELLI and kneels chivalrously on one knee.] You see me, do you not, madam? Now that hand of yours . . . touch me! A pretty hand, on my word! [He pats her hand.]

Sirelli. Easy! Easy!

Laudisi. Never mind your husband, madam! Now, you have touched me, have you not? And you see me? And you are absolutely sure about me, are you not? Well now, madam, I beg of you; do not tell your husband, nor my sister, nor my niece, nor Signora Cini here, what you think of me; because, if you were to do that, they would all tell you that you are completely wrong. But, you see, you are really right; because I am really what you take me to be; though, my dear madam, that does not prevent me from also being really what your husband, my sister, my niece, and Signora Cini take me to be -- because they also are absolutely right!

Signora Sirelli. In other words you are a different person for each of us.

Laudisi. Of course I'm a different person! And you, madam, pretty as you are, aren't you a different person, too?

Signora Sirelli [hastily]. No siree! I assure you, as far as I'm concerned, I'm always the same always, yesterday, today, and forever!

Laudisi. Ah, but so am I, from my point of view, believe me! And, I would say that you are all mistaken unless you see me as I see myself; but that would be an inexcusable presumption on my part -- as it would be on yours, my dear madam!

Sirelli. And what has all this rigmarole got to do with it, may I ask?

Laudisi. What has it got to do with it? Why . . . I find all you people here at your wits' ends trying to find out who and what other people are; just as though other people had to be this, or that, and nothing else.

Signora Sirelli. All you are saying is that we can never find out the truth! A dreadful idea!

Signora Cini. I give up! I give up! If we can't believe even what we see with our eyes and feel with our fingers . . .

Laudisi. But you must understand, madam! All I'm saying is that you should show some respect for what other people see and feel, even though it be the exact opposite of what you see and feel.

Signora Sirelli. The way to answer you is to refuse to talk with you. See, I turn my back on you! You're driving me mad!

Laudisi. Oh, I beg your pardon. Don't let me interfere with your party. Please go on! Pray continue your argument about Signora Frola and Signor Ponza -- I promise not to interrupt again!

Amalia. You're right for once, Lamberto; and I think it would be even better if you should go into the other room.

Dina. Serves you right, uncle! Into the other room with you, into the other room!

Laudisi. No, I refuse to budge! Fact is, I enjoy hearing you gossip; but I promise not to say anything more, don't fear! At the very most, with your permission, I shall indulge in a laugh or two.

Signora Sirelli. How funny . . . and our idea in coming here was to find out . . . But really, Amalia, I thought this Ponza man was your husband's secretary at the Provincial building.

Amalia. He is his secretary -- in the office. But here at home what authority has Agazzi over the fellow?

Signora Sirelli. Of course! I understand! But may I ask . . . haven't you even tried to see Signora Frola, next door?

Dina. Tried? I should say we had! Twice, Signora!

Signora Cini. Well . . . so then . . . you have probably talked to her . . .

Dina. We were not received, if you please!

Signora Sirelli, Sirelli, Signora Cini [in chorus]. Not received? Why! Why! Why!

Dina. This very forenoon!

Amalia. The first time we waited fully fifteen minutes at the door. We rang and rang and rang, and no one came. Why, we weren't even able to leave our cards! So we went back today . . .

Dina [throwing up her hands in an expression of horror]. And he came to the door.

Signora Sirelli. Why yes, with that face of his . . . you can tell by just looking at the man . . . Such a face! Such a face! You can't blame people for talking! And then, with that black suit of his . . . Why, they all dress in black. Did you ever notice? Even the old lady! And the man's eyes, too! . . .

Sirelli [with a glance of pitying disgust at his wife]. What do you know about his eyes? You never saw his eyes! And you never saw the woman. How do you know she dresses in black? Probably she dresses in black . . . By the way, they come from a village in the next county. Had you heard that? A village in Marsica! [translator's note: a region in Abruzzi. In 1915 there was a great earthquake there; the town of Avezzano, e.g., was destroyed.]

Amalia. Yes, the village that was destroyed a short time ago.

Sirelli. Exactly! By an earthquake! Not a house left standing in the place.

Dina. And all their relatives were lost, I have heard. Not one of them left in the world!

Signora Cini [impatient to get on with the story]. Very well, very well, so then . . . he came to the door . . .

Amalia. Yes . . . And the moment I saw him in front of me with that weird face of his I had hardly enough gumption left to tell him that we had just come to call on his mother-in-law, and he . . . well . . . not a word, not a word . . . not even a "thank you," if you please!

Dina. That is not quite fair, mama: . . . he did bow!

Amalia. Well, yes, a bow . . . if you want to call it that. Something like this! . . .

Dina. And his eyes! You ought to see his eyes -- the eyes of a devil, and then some! You never saw a man with eyes like that!

Signora Cini. Very well, what did he say, finally?

Dina. He seemed quite taken aback.

Amalia. He was all confused like; he hitched about for a time; and at last he said that Signora Frola was not feeling well, but that she would appreciate our kindness in having come; and then he just stood there, and stood there, apparently waiting for us to go away.

Dina. I never was more mortified in my life!

Sirelli. A boor, a plain boor, I say! Oh, it's his fault, I am telling you. And . . . who knows? Perhaps he has got the old lady also under lock and key.

Signora Sirelli. Well, I think something should be done about it! . . . After all, you are the wife of a superior of his. You can refuse to be treated like that.

Amalia. As far as that goes, my husband did take it rather badly -- as a lack of courtesy on the man's part; and he went straight to the prefect with the matter, insisting on an apology.

[SIGNOR AGAZZI, commendatore and provincial councillor, appears in the doorway rear.]

Dina. Oh goody, here's papa now!

[AGAZZI is well on toward fifty. He has the harsh, authoritarian manner of the provincial of importance. Red hair and beard, rather unkempt; gold-rimmed eyeglasses.]

Agazzi. Oh Sirelli, glad to see you! [He steps forward and bows to the company.]

Agazzi. Signora! . . . [He shakes hands with SIGNORA SIRELLI.]

Amalia [introducing SIGNORA CINI]. My husband, Signora Cini!

Agazzi [with a bow and taking her hand]. A great pleasure, madam! [Then turning to his wife and daughter in a mysterious voice.] I have come back from the office to give you some real news! Signora Frola will be here shortly.

Signora Sirelli [clapping her hands delightedly]. Oh, the mother-in-law! She is coming? Really? Coming here?

Sirelli [going over to AGAZZI and pressing his hand warmly as an expression of admiration]. That's the talk, old man, that's the talk. What's needed here is some show of authority.

Agazzi. Why I had to, you see, I had to! . . . I can't let a man treat my wife and daughter that way! . . .

Sirelli. I should say not! I was just expressing myself to that effect right here.

Signora Sirelli. And it would have been entirely proper to inform the prefect also . . .

Agazzi [anticipating]. . . . of all the talk that is going around on this fine gentleman's account? Oh, leave that to me! I didn't miss the opportunity.

Sirelli. Fine! Fine!

Signora Cini. And such talk!

Amalia. For my part, I never heard of such a thing. Why, do you know, he has them both under lock and key!

Dina. No, mamma, we are not quite sure of that. We are not quite sure about the old lady, yet.

Amalia. Well, we know it about his wife, anyway.

Sirelli. And what did the prefect have to say?

Agazzi. Oh the prefect . . . well, the prefect . . . he was very much impressed, very much impressed, with what I had to say.

Sirelli. I should hope so!

Agazzi. You see, some of the talk had reached his ears already. And he agrees that it is better, as a matter of his own official prestige, for all this mystery in connection with one of his assistants to be cleared up, so that once and for all we shall know the truth.

Laudisi [bursts out laughing].

Amalia. That is Lamberto's usual contribution. He laughs!

Agazzi. And what is there to laugh about?

Signora Sirelli. Why he says that no one can ever know the truth.

[The BUTLER appears at the door in back set.] The Butler. Excuse me, Signora Frola!

Sirelli. Ah, here she is now!

Agazzi. Now we'll see if we can settle it!

Signora Sirelli. Splendid! Oh, I am so glad I came. Amalia [rising]. Shall we have her come in?

Agazzi. Wait, you keep your seat, Amalia! Let's have her come right in here. [Turning to the butler.] Show her in!

[Exit BUTLER.]

 

[A moment later all rise as SIGNORA FROLA enters, and AMALIA steps forward, holding out her hand in greeting. SIGNORA FROLA is a slight, modestly but neatly dressed old lady, very eager to talk and apparently fond of people. There is a world of sadness in her eyes, tempered however, by a gentle smile that is constantly playing about her lips.]

 

Amalia. Come right in, Signora Frola! [She takes the old lady's hand and begins the introduction.] Mrs. Sireili, a good friend of mine; Signora Cini; my husband; Mr. Sirelli; and this is my daughter, Dina; my brother Lamberto Laudisi. Please take a chair, Signora!

Signora Frola. Oh, I am so very, very sorry! I have come to excuse myself for having been so negligent of my social duties. You, Signora Agazzi, were so kind, so very kind, to have honored me with a first call -- when really it was my place to leave my card with you!

Amalia. Oh, we are just neighbors, Signora Frola! Why stand on ceremony? I just thought that you, being new in town and all alone by yourself, would perhaps like to have a little company.

Signora Frola. Oh, how very kind of you it was!

Signora Sirelli. And you are quite alone, aren't you?

Signora Frola. Oh no! No! I have a daughter, married, though she hasn't been here very long, either.

Sirelli. And your daughter's husband is the new secretary at the prefecture, Signor Ponza, I believe?

Signora Frola. Yes, yes, exactly! And I hope that Signor Agazzi, as his superior, will be good enough to excuse me -- and him, too!

Agazzi. I will be quite frank with you, madam! I was a bit put out.

Signora Frola [interrupting]. And you were quite right! But I do hope you will forgive him. You see, we are still -- what shall I say -- still so upset by the terrible things that have happened to us . . .

Amalia. You went through the earthquake, didn't you?

Signora Sirelli. And you lost all your relatives?

Signora Frola. Every one of them! All our family -- yes, madam. And our village was left just a miserable ruin, a pile of bricks and stones and mortar.

Sirelli. Yes, we heard about it.

Signora Frola. It wasn't so bad for me, I suppose. I had only one sister and her daughter, and my niece had no family. But my poor son-in-law had a much harder time of it. He lost his mother, two brothers, and their wives, a sister and her husband, and there were two little ones, his nephews.

Sirelli. A massacre!

Signora Frola. Oh, one doesn't forget such things! You see, lt sort of leaves you with your feet off the ground.

Amalia. I can imagine.

Signora Sirelli. And all over-night with no warning at all! It's a wonder you didn't go mad.

Signora Frola. Well, you see, we haven't quite gotten our bearings yet; and we do things that may seem impolite, without in the least intending to. I hope you understand!

Agazzi. Oh please, Signora Frola, of course!

Amalia. In fact it was partly on account of your trouble that my daughter and I thought we ought to go to see you first.

Signora Sirelli [literally writhing with curiosity]. Yes, of course, since they saw you all alone by yourself, and yet . . . excuse me, Signora Frola . . . if the question doesn't seem impertinent . . . how is it that when you have a daughter here in town and after a disaster like the one you have been through . . . I should think you people would all stand together, that you would need one another.

Signora Frola. Whereas I am left here all by myself? Sirelli. Yes, exactly. It does seem strange, to tell the honest truth.

Signora Frola. Oh, I understand -- of course! But you know, I have a feeling that a young man and a young woman who have married should be left a good deal to themselves.

Laudisi. Quite so, quite so! They should be left to themselves. They are beginning a life of their own, a life different from anything they have led before. One should not interfere in these relations between a husband and a wife!

Signora Sirelli. But there are limits to everything, Laudisi, if you will excuse me! And when it comes to shutting one's own mother out of one's life . . .

Laudisi. Who is shutting her out of the girl's life? Here, if I have understood the lady, we see a mother who understands that her daughter cannot and must not remain so closely associated with her as she was before, for now the young woman must begin a new life on her own account.

Signora Frola [with evidence of keen gratitude and relief]. You have hit the point exactly, sir. You have said what I would like to have said. You are exactly right! Thank you!

Signora Cini. But your daughter, I imagine, often comes to see you . . .

Signora Frola [hesitating, and manifestly ill at ease]. Why yes . . . I . . . I . . . we do see each other, of course!

Sirelli [quickly pressing the advantage]. But your daughter never goes out of her house! At least no one in town has ever seen her.

Signora Cini. Oh, she probably has her little ones to take care of.

Signora Frola [speaking up quickly]. No, there are no children yet, and perhaps there won't be any, now. You see, she has been married seven years. Oh, of course, she has a lot to do about the house; but that is not the reason, really. You know, we women who come from the little towns in the country -- we are used to staying indoors much of the time.

Agazzi. Even when your mothers are living in the same town, but not in your house? You prefer staying indoors to going and visiting your mothers?

Amalia. But it's Signora Frola probably who visits her daughter.

Signora Frola [quickly]. Of course, of course, why not! I go there once or twice a day.

Sirelli. And once or twice a day you climb all those stairs up to the fifth story of that tenement, eh?

Signora Frola [growing pale and trying to conceal under a laugh the torture of that cross-examination]. Why . . . er . . . to tell the truth, I don't go up. You're right, five flights would be quite too much for me. No, I don't go up. My daughter comes out on the balcony in the courtyard and . . . well . . . we see each other . . . and we talk!

Signora Sirelli. And that's all, eh? How terrible! You never see each other more intimately than that?

Dina. I have a mamma and certainly I wouldn't expect her to go up five flights of stairs to see me, either; but at the same time I could never stand talking to her that way, shouting at the top of my lungs from a balcony on the fifth story. I am sure I should want a kiss from her occasionally, and feel her near me, at least.

Signora Frola [with evident signs of embarrassment and confusion]. And you're right! Yes, exactly . . . quite right! I must explain. Yes . . . I hope you people are not going to think that my daughter is something she really is not. You must not suspect her of having so little regard for me and for my years, and you mustn't believe that I, her mother, am . . . well . . . five, six, even more stories to climb would never prevent a real mother, even if she were as old and infirm as I am, from going to her daughter's side and pressing her to her heart with a real mother's love . . . oh no!

Signora Sirelli [triumphantly]. There you have it, there you have it, just as we were saying!

Signora Cini. But there must be a reason, there must be a reason!

Amalia [pointedly to her brother]. Aha, Lamberto, now you see, there is a reason, after all! Sirelli [insisting]. Your son-in-law, I suppose?

Signora Frola. Oh please, please, please, don't think badly of him. He is such a very good boy. Good is no name for it, my dear sir. You can't imagine all he does for me! Kind, attentive, solicitous for my comfort, everything! And as for my daughter -- I doubt if any girl ever had a more affectionate and well-intentioned husband. No, on that point I am proud of myself! I could not have found a better man for her.

Signor Sirelli. Well then . . . What? What? What?

Signora Cini. So your son-in-law is not the reason?

Agazzi. I never thought it was his fault. Can you imagine a man forbidding his wife to call on her mother, or preventing the mother from paying an occasional visit to her daughter?

Signora Frola. Oh, it's not a case of forbidding! Who ever dreamed of such a thing! No, it's we, Commendatore, I and my daughter, that is. Oh, please, believe me! We refrain from visiting each other of our own accord, out of consideration for him, you understand.

Agazzi. But excuse me . . . how in the world could he be offended by such a thing? I don't understand.

Signora Frola. Oh, please don't be angry, Signor Agazzi. You see it's a . . . what shall I say . . . a feeling . . . that's it, a feeling, which it would perhaps be very hard for anyone else to understand; and yet, when you do understand it, it's all so simple, I am sure . . . so simple . . . and believe me, my dear friends, it is no slight sacrifice that I am making, and that my daughter is making, too.