SCENE: A hallway, furnished
simply with a small table and
several chairs. The corner to
the left of the actors is hidden
from view by a curtain. There
are doors at the right and the
left. At the rear, the main door,
of glass, is open and leads to a
dark room across which may be
seen a decorated door, likewise
of glass, which affords a view
of a splendidly illuminated
salon. The view includes a table,
sumptuously spread.
NIGHT. The hallway is in
darkness. Some one is snoring
behind the curtain.
Shortly after the rise of the
stage curtain Ferdinando enters
through the door at the right
with a light in his hand. He is
in shirt sleeves, but he has
only to put on his dress-coat
and he will be ready to serve at
the table. He is followed by
Micuccio Bonavino, evidently
just from the country, with his
overcoat collar raised to his
ears, a grimy bag in one hand
and in the other an old valise
and the case oJ a musical
instrument. He is so cold and so
exhausted that he can barely
manage his burden. No sooner has
the light been brought in than
the snoring behind the curtain
ceases.
Dorina. [From within.]
Who is it?
Ferdinando.. [Placing
the light upon the little table.]
Hey, Dorina! Get up! Can't you
see that we have Signor
Bonvicino here?
Micuccio. [Shaking his
head so as to get rid of a drop
at the tip of his nose.] My
name's Bonavino.
Ferdinando.. Bonavino,
Bonavino.
Dorina. [Yawning
behind the curtain.] And
who's he?
Ferdinando.. A relation
of madame's. [To Micuccio.]
And just how may you be related
to madame, please? Cousin, maybe?
Micuccio. [Embarrassed,
hesitant ] Well, really,
there's no relationship. I am .
. . my name's Micuccio Bonavino.
You know that.
Dorina. [Her curiosity
roused, she steps from behind
the curtain, still half asleep.]
A relative of madame's?
Ferdinando.. [Provoked.]
Can't you hear? [To Micuccio.]
Countryman of hers? Then why did
you ask me whether zia
Marta was here? [To Dorina.]
Understand? I took him for a
relative, a nephew. I can't
receive you, my dear fellow.
Micuccio. What? Can't
receive me? Why, I've come all
the way from the country, on
purpose!
Ferdinando.. On purpose?
What for?
Micuccio. To find her!
Ferdinando.. She's not
here. I told you she can't be
found in at this hour.
Micuccio. And if the
train just came in, what can I
do about it? I've been traveling
for two days.
Dorina. [Eyeing him
from head to toe.] And you
look it!
Micuccio. I do, eh? Very
much? How do I look?
Dorina. Ugly, my dear
fellow. No offense.
Ferdinando.. I can't
receive you. Call again tomorrow
and you'll find her. The madame
is at the theatre now.
Micuccio. What do you
mean, call again? Must I go?
Where? I don't know where to go
in this town, at night. I'm a
stranger. If she isn't here, I'll
wait for her. Really now. Can't
I wait for her here?
Ferdinando.. I say No!
Without her permission.
Micuccio. What permission!
You don't know me.
Ferdinando.. That's just
it. Because I don't know you,
I'm not going to get a
bawling-out on account of you!
Micuccio. [Smiting
with a confident air and with
his finger making a negative
sign.] Rest easy.
Dorina. [To
Ferdinando, ironically.]
Indeed, she'll be just in the
proper mood to attend to him
this evening. [To Micuccio.]
Can't you see? [She points to
the illuminated salon in the
rear.] There's a party on
tonight!
Micuccio. So? What party?
Dorina. An evening in [she
yawns] her honor.
Ferdinando.. And we'll
get through, God willing, by
daybreak!
Micuccio. All right, no
matter. I'm sure that the moment
Teresina sees me. . .
Ferdinando.. [To
Dorina.] Understand? He
calls her Teresina, he does.
Plain Teresina. He asked me
whether "Teresina, the singer"
was in.
Micuccio. Well, what of
it? Isn't she a singer? That's
what they call it. Are you
trying to teach me?
Dorina. Then you really
know her well?
Micuccio. Well? Why, we
grew up together!
Ferdinando.. [To
Dorina.] What shall we do?
Dorina. Let him wait.
Micuccio. [Piqued.]
Of course I'll wait. What do you
mean? I came on purpose to . . .
Ferdinando.. Take a seat
there. I wash my hands of it. I
must get things ready. [He
leaves in the direction of the
salon at the rear.]
Micuccio. This is fine,
indeed. As if I were . . .
Perhaps because they see me in
this condition . . . If I were
to tell Teresina when she
returns from the theatre. [He
is seized by a doubt and looks
about him.] Whose house is
this?
Dorina. [Eyeing him
and poking fun at him.] Ours
-- as long as we stay.
Micuccio. So, then,
things are going well. [He
inspects the place anew, staring
into the salon.] Is it a
large house?
Dorina. So so.
Micuccio. And that's a
salon?
Dorina. A reception hall.
Tonight there's a banquet there.
Micuccio. Ah! What a
spread! What bright lights!
Dorina. Beautiful, isn't
it?
Micuccio. [Rubbing his
hands contentedly.] Then
it's true!
Dorina. What?
Micuccio. Eh, it's easily
seen, they're well. . .
Dorina. In good health?
Micuccio. No, I mean well
off. [He rubs his thumb
against his forefinger, in a
manner to suggest the counting
of money.]
Dorina. Why, do you know
who Sina Marnis is?
Micuccio. Sina? Ah, yes,
yes, now I understand. Zia Marta
wrote me about it. Teresina.
Certainly. Tere-sina: Sina . . .
Dorina. But wait a
moment. Now that I think of it.
You [She calls Ferdinando
from the salon.] Do you know
who he is? The fellow that she's
always writing to, the mother .
. .
Micuccio. She can't write,
the poor little thing . . .
Dorina. Yes, yes.
Bonavino. But . . . Domenico.
Your name's Domenico, isn't it?
Micuccio. Domenico or
Micuccio. It's the same thing.
We call it Micuccio where I come
from.
Dorina. You're the fellow
that was so sick, aren't you?
Recently . . .
Micuccio. Terribly, yes.
At death's door. Dead.
Practically dead.
Dorina. And Signora Marta
sent you a money order, didn't
she? We went to the post-office
together.
Micuccio. A money order.
A money order. And that's what
I've come for! I have it here --
the money.
Dorina. Are you returning
it to her?
Micuccio. [Disturbed.]
Money -- nothing! It's not to be
mentioned. But first . . . Will
they be much longer in coming?
Dorina. [Looks at the
clock.] Oh, about . . .
Sometime tonight, I imagine . .
.
Ferdinando.. [Passing
through the hallway, from the
door at the left, carrying
kitchen utensils and shouting
applause.] Bravo! Bravo!
Bis! Bis! Bis!
Micuccio. [Smiling.]
A great voice, eh?
Ferdinando.. [Turning
back.] I should say so. A
voice . . .
Micuccio. [Rubbing his
palms.] I can take the
credit for that! It's my work!
Dorina. Her voice?
Micuccio. I discovered it!
Dorina. What, you? [To
Ferdinando.] Do you hear? He
discovered her voice.
Micuccio. I'm a musician,
I am.
Ferdinando.. Ah! A
musician? Bravo! And what do you
play? The trumpet?
Micuccio. [At first,
in all seriousness, makes a
negative sign with his finger;
then] Who said trumpet? The
piccolo. I belong to the band, I
do. I belong to our communal
band up at my place.
Dorina. And what's the
name of your place? Wait; I'll
recall it.
Micuccio. Palma
Monetchiaro. What else should it
be named?
Ferdinando.. And it was
really you who discovered her
voice?
Dorina. Come now, my boy.
Tell us how you did it, sonny!
Wait and listen to this,
Ferdinando.
Micuccio. [Shrugging
his shoulikrs.] How I did it?
She used to sing . . .
Dorina. And at once, you
being a musician . . . ch?
Micuccio. No . . . not at
once; on the other hand . . .
Ferdinando.. It took you
some time?
Micuccio. She always used
to be singing . . . sometimes
out of pique. . .
Dorina. Really?
Micuccio. And then again,
to . . . to get certain thoughts
out of her mind . . . because .
. .
Ferdinando.. Because what?
Micuccio. Oh, certain
unpleasant things . . .
disappoint- ments, poor little
girl . . . in those days. Her
father had died. . . I, -- yes,
I helped her out a bit . . . her
and her mother, zia
Marta, . . But my mother was
against it . . . and . . . in
short . . .
Dorina. You were fond of
her, then?
Micuccio. I? Of Teresina?
You make me laugh! My mother
insisted on my giving her up
because she didn't have anything,
and had lost her father . . .
while I, come good or evil, had
my position in the band. . .
Ferdinando.. So . . . You're
not related at all, then. Lovers,
maybe?
Micuccio. My parents were
against it! And that's why
Teresina sang out of spite. . .
Dorina. Ah! Just listen
to that. . . And you?
Micuccio. It was heaven!
I can truly say: an inspiration
from heaven! Nobody had ever
noticed it -- not even I. All of
a sudden . . . one morning . . .
Ferdinando.. There's luck
for you!
Micuccio. I'll never
forget it. . . It was a morning
in April. She was at the window,
singing. . . Up in the garret,
beneath the roof!
Ferdinando.. Understand?
Dorina. Hush!
Micuccio. What's wrong
about that? The humblest of folk
can have the greatest of gifts.
Dorina. Of course they
can! As you were saying? She was
at the window singing. . .
Micuccio. I had heard her
sing that little air of ours
surely a hundred thousand times.
Dorina. Little air?
Micuccio. Yes. "All
things in this world below."
That's the name of it.
Ferdinando.. Eh! All
things in this world below, . .
Micuccio. [Reciting
the words.]
All things in this world
below,
Live their day and then
depart;
But this thorn that pricks
my heart,
Darling mine, will never go.
And what a melody! Divine,
impassioned. . . Enough of that.
I had never paid any attention
to it. But that morning. . . It
was as if I were in paradise! An
angel, it seemed that an angel
was singing! That day, after
dinner, ever so quietly, without
letting her or her mother know a
thing about it, I took up into
the garret the leader of our
band, who's a friend of mine,
uh, a very close friend, for
that matter: Saro Malvati, such
a kind-hearted chap, the poor
fellow, . . He hears her, he's a
clever boy, a great leader, so
they all say at Palma, . . And
he says, "Why, this is a
God-given voice!" Imagine our
joy! I hired a piano, and before
it was got up into that attic. .
. Well. Then I bought the music,
and right away the leader began
to give her lessons. . . Just
like that, satisfied with
whatever they could give him
from time to time. What was I?
Same as I am today; a poor,
humble fellow, . . The piano
cost money, the music cost money,
and then Teresina had to eat
decent food. . .
Ferdinando.. Eh, of
course.
Dorina. So that she's had
the strength to sing. . .
Micuccio. Meat, every
day! I can take the credit for
that!
Ferdinando.. The deuce
you say!
Dorina. And so?
Micuccio. And so she
began to learn. You could see it
all from the very beginning, . .
It was written above, in heaven,
you might say. . . And it was
heard throughout the whole
country, that great voice of
hers. . . The people would come
from all around, and stand
beneath the window in the
street, to hear her. . . And
what spirit! She burned, she
really was afire. . . And when
she would finish singing, she'd
grasp me by the arm, like this [he
seizes Ferdinando.] and
would shake me. . . Just like a
madwoman. . . For she already
foresaw. She knew that fame was
hers. . . The leader told us so.
And she didn't know how to show
me her gratefulness. Zia
Marta, on the other hand, poor
woman that she was . . .
Dorina. Was against her
career?
Micuccio. I wouldn't say
that she was against it -- she
didn't believe it, that was it.
The poor old lady had had so
many hard knocks in her life
that she didn't want Teresina to
take it into her head to rise
above the position to which she
had been so long resigned. She
was, in plain words, afraid. And
then she knew what it cost me,
and that my parents. . . But I
broke with them all, with my
father, with my mother, when a
certain teacher came from
outside. . . He used to give
concerts. . . A. . . I can't
remember his name now -- but he
had a fine reputation. . . When
this master heard Teresina and
said that it would be a sin, a
real sin not to have her
continue her studies in a city,
in a great conservatory . . . I
broke with them all. I sold the
farm that had been left to me by
an uncle of mine, a priest, and
sent Teresina to Naples.
Ferdinando.. You?
Micuccio. Yes, I. -- I.
Dorina. [To
Ferdinando.] At his expense,
don't you understand?
Micuccio. I kept her
there for four years, studying.
I haven't seen her since then.
Dorina. Never?
Micuccio. Never. Because
. . . because she began to sing
in the theatres, you see, here
and there. . . She'd fly from
Naples to Rome, from Rome to
Milan, then to Spain, then to
Russia, then back here again, .
.
Ferdinando.. Creating a
furore everywhere!
Micuccio. Eh, I know all
about it! I've got them all
here, in the valise, all the
papers. . . And in here [he
removed from his inside coat
pocket a bundle of letters.]
I have all the letters, hers and
her mother's. . . Here you are:
these are her words when she
sent me the money, that time I
was on the point of death: "Dear
Micuccio, I haven't time to
write to you. I confirm
everything that mamma has said.
Get better at once, become your
old self again, and wish me
well. Teresina."
Ferdinando.. And did she
send you much?
Dorina. A thousand lire
-- wasn't it?
Micuccio. That was it. A
thousand.
Ferdinando.. And that
farm of yours, if I may ask --
that you sold. How much was it
worth?
Micuccio. How much should
it be worth? Not much . . . A
mere strip of land. . .
Ferdinando.. [Winking
to Dorina.] Ah!
Micuccio. But I have the
money right here, I have. I
don't want anything at all. What
little I've done, I've done for
her sake. We had agreed to wait
two, three years, so as to let
her make a place for her- self.
. . Zia Marta kept writing that
to me all the time in her
letters. I speak the plain truth:
I wasn't waiting for the money.
So many years had passed I could
wait a while longer, . . But
seeing that Teresina has sent it
to me, it's a sign she has
enough and to spare; she's made
a place for herself. . .
Ferdinando. . I should
say! And what a place, my dear
sir!
Micuccio. Then it's time
. . .
Dorina. To marry?
Micuccio. I am here.
Ferdinando.. Have you
come to marry Sina Marnis?
Dorina. Hush! That's
their agreement! Can't you
understand anything? Certainly!
To marry her!
Micuccio. I'm not saying
anything. I simply say: I'm
here. I've abandoned everything
and everybody yonder in the
country: family, band,
everything. I went to law
against my parents on account of
those thousand lire, which came
unknown to me, at the time I was
more dead than alive. I had to
tear it out of my mother's
hands, for she wanted to keep
it. Ah, no sirree -- it isn't
the money! Micuccio Bonavino,
money? -- Not at all! Wherever I
may happen to be, even at the
end of the world, I won't
starve. I have my art. I have my
piccolo, and . . .
Top
of page
Dorina. You have? Did you
bring along your piccolo, too?
Micuccio. Sure I did! We're
as one person, my piccolo and I. . .
Ferdinando.. She sings and he
plays. Understand?
Micuccio. Don't you think I
can play in the orchestra?
Ferdinando.. Certainly! Why
not?
Dorina. And, I'll bet you
play well!
Micuccio. So so; I've been
playing for ten years. . .
Ferdinando.. Would you mind
letting us hear something? [About
to take the instrument case.]
Dorina. Yes! Bravo, bravo!
Let's hear something!
Micuccio. Oh, no! What would
you want, at this hour. . .
Dorina. Anything at all!
Please, now!
Ferdinando.. Some little air.
. .
Micuccio. Oh, no. . . Really!
. . .
Ferdinando.. Don't make us
coax you! [He opens the case and
removes the instrument.] Here
you are!
Dorina. Come, now. Let's hear
something. . .
Micuccio. But, really, it's
impossible. . . Like this -- alone.
. .
Dorina. No matter! Come on.
Make a try!
Ferdinando.. If you don't,
I'll play the thing!
Micuccio. For me, if you
wish. . . Shall I play for you the
air that Teresina sang that day, up
in the garret?
Ferdinando and Dorina. Yes,
yes! Bravo! Bravo!
Ferdinando.. "All things in
this world below"?
Micuccio. All things in this
world below. [Micuccio sits down
and begins to play in all
seriousness. Ferdinando and Dorina
do their best to keep from bursting
into laughter. The other waiter, in
dress coat, comes in to listen,
followed by the cook and the
scullion. Ferdinando and Dorina
caution them by signs to listen
quietly and earnestly. Micuccio's
playing is suddenly interrupted by a
loud ringing of the bell.]
Ferdinando.. Oh! Here's
madame!
Dorina. [To the other
waiters.] Be off, now. Open the
door. [To the cook and the
scullion.] And you, clear out!
She said she wanted to have dinner
served as soon as she came back. [The
other waiter, the cook and the
scullion leave.]
Ferdinando.. My dress coat. .
. Where did I put it?
Dorina. There! [She points
to behind the hangings and leaves in
haste.]
[Micuccio arises, his instrument
in his hand, abashed. Ferdinando
finds his coat, puts it on
hurriedly, then, seeing that
Micuccio is about to follow Dorina,
stops him rudely.]
Ferdinando.. You stay here! I
must first let madame know. [Ferdinando
leaves. Micuccio is left in
dejection, confused, oppressed by an
uneasy presentiment.]
Marta's voice. [From
within.] In there, Dorina! In
the drawing room! [Ferdinando,
Dorina and the other waiter enter
from the door at the right and cross
the stage toward the salon in the
background, carrying magnificent
baskets of flowers, wreaths, and so
on. Micuccio sticks his head forward
to get a look into the salon and
catches sight of a large number of
gentlemen, all in evening dress,
conversing confusedly. Dorina
returns in a great hurry, hastening
to the door at the right.]
Micuccio. [Touching her
arm.] Who are they?
Dorina. [Without stopping.]
The guests! [Exit.]
[Micuccio stares again. His
vision becomes clouded. His
stupefaction and his commotion are
so great that he himself does not
realize that his eyes are moist with
tears. He closes them, pulls himself
iogether, as if to resist the
torture inflicted upon him by a
shrill outburst of laughter. It is
Sina Marnis, in the salon. Dorina
returns with two more baskets of
flowers.]
Dorina. [Without stopping,
hastening toward the salon.]
What are you crying about?
Micuccio. I? . . . No. . .
All those people . . . [Enter zia
Marta from the door at the right.
The poor old lady is oppressed by a
hat and a costly, splendid velvet
cloak. As soon as she sees Micuccio
she utters a cry that is at once
suppressed.]
Marta. What! Micuccio, you
here?
Micuccio. [Uncovering his
face and staring at her almost in
fear.] Zia Marta! Good Lord, . .
Like this? You?
Marta. Why, what's wrong with
me?
Micuccio. With a hat? You!
Marta. Ah, . . [Shakes her
head and raises her hand. Then,
disturbed.] But how on earth did
you come? Without a word of warning!
How did it happen?
Micuccio. I. ..I came.. .
Marta. And this evening, of
all others! Oh, heavens, . . Wait. .
. What shall I do? What shall I do?
Do you see how many people we have
here, my son? Tonight is the party
in honor of Teresina. . .
Micuccio. I know.
Marta. Her special evening,
understand? Wait. . . Just wait here
a moment. . .
Micuccio. If you, if you
think that it would be best for me
to go. . .
Marta. No. Wait a moment, I
say. . . [She goes off toward the
salon.]
Micuccio. I wouldn't know
where to go. . . In this strange
city. . .
[Zia Marta returns, and signals
him with her gloved hand to wait.
She enters the salon and suddenly
there is a deep silence. There are
heard clearly these words of Sina
Marnis: "A moment, my friends!"
Micuccio again hides his face in his
hands. But Sina does not come.
Instead, zia Marta enters shortly
afterward, without her hat, without
her gloves, without her cloak, now
less burdened.]
Marta. Here I am. . . Here I
am. . .
Micuccio. And . . . and
Teresina?
Marta. I've told her, . .
I've brought her the news. . . As
soon as . . . as soon as she can get
a moment, she'll come. . . In the
meantime we'll stay here a little
while, eh? Are you satisfied?
Micuccio. As far as I'm
concerned, . .
Marta. I'll keep you company.
. .
Micuccio. Oh, no, . . . if .
. . if you'd rather . . . that is,
if you're needed there. . .
Marta. . . . Not at all. . .
They're having supper now, see?
Admirers of hers. . . The
impresario, . . Her career,
understand? We two will stay here.
Dorina will prepare this little
table for us right away, and . . .
and we'll have supper together, just
you and I, here -- eh? What do you
say? We two, all alone -- eh? We'll
recall the good old times. . . [Dorina
returns through the door at the left
with a tablecloth and other articles
of the table service.]
Marta. Come on, Dorina, . .
Lively, now. . . For me and for this
dear boy of mine. My dear Micuccio!
I can't believe that we're together
again.
Dorina. Here. In the
meantime, please be seated.
Marta. [Sitting down.]
Yes, yes. . . Here, like this, apart
from the others, we two alone, . .
In there, you understand, so many
people. . . She, poor thing, can't
very well leave them. . . Her
career, . . What else can she do?
Have you seen the papers? Wonderful
happenings, my boy! And as for me,
I'm all in a whirl, . . It seems
impossible that I should be sitting
here alone with you tonight. . . [She
rubs her hands and smiles, gazing at
him through tender eyes.]
Micuccio. [In a pensive,
anguished voice.] And, she'll
come? She told you she'd come? I
mean . . . just to get a look at
her, at least. . .
Marta. Of course she'll come!
As soon as she can find a moment to
spare. Didn't I tell you so? Why,
just imagine what pleasure it would
be for her to be here with us, with
you, after such a long time, . . How
many years is it? So many, so many.
. . Ah, my dear boy, it seems an
eternity to me. . . How many things
I've been through, things that . . .
that hardly seem true when I think
of them, . . Who could have
imagined, when . . . when we were
yonder in Palma when you used to
come up into our garret, with its
swallows' nests in the rafters,
remember? They used to fly all over
the house, and my beautiful pots of
basil on the window-sill, . . And
donna Annuzza, donna Annuzza? Our
old neighbor?
Micuccio. Eh, . . [Makes
the sign of benediction with two
fingers, to signify, Dead!]
Marta. Dead? Yes, I imagined
so. . . She was a pretty old lady
even then. . . Older than I. . .
Poor donna Annunzza, with her clove
of garlic, . . Do you remember?
She'd always come with that pretext,
a clove of garlic. Just when we were
about to send her down a bite, and .
. . The poor old lady! And who knows
how many more have passed on eh? at
Palma, . . Ah! At least they rest
yonder, in their last sleep, in our
churchyard, with their beloved ones
and relatives, . . While I. . . Who
knows where I'll leave these bones
of mine? Enough of that. . . Away
with such thoughts! [Dorina
enters with the first course and
stands beside Micuccio, waiting for
him to help himself.] Ah, here's
Dorina. . .
Micuccio. [Looks at
Dorina, then at zia Marta, confused,
perplexed; he raises his hand to
help himself, sees that they are
grimy from the journey and lowers
them, more confused than ever.]
Marta. Here, over here,
Dorina! I'll serve him, . . Leave it
to me. . . [Does so.] There.
. . That's fine, isn't it?
Micuccio. Oh, yes . . .
Thanks . .
Marta. [Who has served
herself.] Here you are . . .
Micuccio. [Winking, and
with his closed fist against his
cheek making a gesture of ecstatic
approval.] Uhm . . Good . . .
Good stuff.
Marta. A special
honor-evening . . . Understand? To
it, now! Let's eat! But first . . .
[She makes the sign of the cross.]
Here I can do it, in your company.
Micuccio. [Likewise makes
the sign of the cross.]
Marta. Bravo, my boy! You,
too . . . Bravo, my Micuccio, the
same as ever, poor fellow! Believe
me . . . When I have to eat in there
. . . without being able to cross
myself . . . it seems to me that the
food can't go down . . . Eat, eat!
Micuccio. Eh, I'm good and
hungry, I am! I . . . I haven't
eaten for two days.
Marta. What do you mean? On
the trip?
Micuccio. I took plenty to
eat along with me . . . I have it
there, in the valise. But . . .
Marta. But what?
Micuccio. I . . . I was
ashamed . . . It . . . it seemed so
little . . .
Marta. Oh, how silly! . . .
Come, now. . . Eat, my poor
Micuccio, . . You certainly must be
famished! Two days . . . And drink .
. . here, drink . . . [She pours
some liquor for him.]
Micuccio. Thanks . . . Yes,
I'll have some . . . [From time
to time, as the two waiters enter
the salon in the background or leave
it with the courses, opening the
door, there comes from inside a wave
of confused words rind outbursts of
laughter. Micuccio raises his head
from his plate, disturbed, and looks
into the sorrowful affectionate eyes
of zia Marta, as if to read in them
an explanation of it all.]
They're laughing.
Marta. Yes . . . Drink . . .
Drink . . . Ah, that good old wine
of ours, Micuccio. If you only knew
how how I long for it! The wine
Michela used to make, Michela, who
lived underneath us . . . What's
become of Michela, my son?
Micuccio. Michela? Oh, she's
fine. She's fine.
Marta. And her daughter
Luzza?
Micuccio. She's married . . .
Has two children already. . .
Marta. Is that so? Really?
She'd always come up to us,
remember? Such a happy nature, too!
Oh, Luzza. And to think of it . . .
Just to think of it . . . Married .
. . And whom did she marry?
Micuccio. Toto Licasi, the
fellow that worked in the customs
house. Remember him?
Marta. Him? Fine . . . And
donna Mariangela is a grandmother! A
grandmother already . . . Fortunate
woman! Two children, did you say?
Micuccio. Two . . yes . . . [He
is disturbed by another roar of
merriment from the salon.]
Marta. Aren't you drinking?
Micuccio. Yes . . . Right
away . . .
Marta. Don't mind them . . .
They're laughing, naturally . . .
There's so many of them there . . .
My dear boy, that's life. What can a
person do? Her career . . . It's the
impresario . . .
Dorina. [Reappears with
another course.]
Marta. Here, Dorina . . . Let
me have your plate, Micuccio . . .
You'll like this . . . [Serving.]
Tell me how much you want . . .
Micuccio. As you please. . .
Marta. [As above.]
Here you are. [Serves herself.
Dorina leaves.]
Micuccio. How well you've
learned! You make my eyes bulge with
astonishmunt!
Marta. I had to, my boy.
Micuccio. When I saw you come
in with that velvet cloak on your
back . . . and that hat on your head
. . .
Marta. Necessity, my son!
Micuccio. I understand . . .
eh! You must keep up appearances!
But if they ever saw you dressed
like that in Palma, zia Marta
. . . --, I
Marta. [Hiding her face in
her hands.] Oh, good heavens,
don't mention it! Believe me . . .
whenever I think of it . . . shame .
. . shame overwhelms me! . . . I
look at myself. I say, "Is this
really I, so bedizened?" . . . And
it seems that it's all a
make-believe . . . as in the
carnival season . . . But what's a
person to do? Necessity, my son!
Micuccio. Of course . . .
certainly . . . once you get into
that life . . . But, she's really
'way up in the world, hey? . . . You
can see that -- really 'way up? . .
. They . . . they pay her well, eh?
Marta. Oh, yes . . . Very
well, . .
Micuccio. How much per
performance?
Marta. It depends. According
to the seasons and the theatres, you
see. . . But let me tell you, my
boy, it costs money. Ah, how much it
costs, this life we lead, . . It
takes all the money we can get! If
you only knew the enormous expenses!
It all goes out as fast as it comes
in, . . Clothes, jewels, expenses of
every sort. . . [A loud outburst
of voices in the salon at the rear
cuts her short.]
Voices. Where? Where? Where?
We want to know! Where?
Sina's voice. A moment! I
tell you, only a moment!
Marta. There! That's she! . .
. Here she comes. . .
Sina. [She comes hastening
in, rustling with silk, sparkling
with gems, her shoulders, bosom and
arms bare. It seems as if the
hallway has suddenly been flooded
with light.]
Micuccio. [Who had just
stretched his hand out toward the
wine glass, sits transfixed, his
face flaming, his eyes distended,
his mouth agape, dazzled and
stupefied, as if in the presence of
a vision. He stammers.]
Teresina, . .
Sina. Micuccio? Where are
you? Ah, there he is. . . Oh, how
are things? Are you all better now?
Fine, fine, . . You were so sick,
weren't you? Oh, I'll see you again
soon. . . Mamma will stay with you
in the meantime. . . Agreed, eh? See
you later. [Dashes out.]
Micuccio. [Stands amazed,
while the reappearance of Sina in
the salon is greeted with loud
shouts.]
Marta. [After a long
silence, in order to break the
stupefaction into which he has
fallen.] Aren't you eating?
Micuccio. [Looks at her
stupidly, without understanding.]
Marta. Eat. [pointing to
the plate.]
Micuccio. [Inserts two
fingers between his neck and his be
grimed, wilted collar, tugging at it
as if to make room for a deep
breath.] Eat? [His fingers
drum against his chin as if in
self-confessed refusal, to signify:
"I've lost my appetite, I can't."
For a while he is silent,
overwhelmed, absorbed in the vision
that has just left him, then he
murmurs:] What she's come to! .
. . It . . . it doesn't seem true. .
. All . . . in that style. . . [He
refers, without scorn, but rather in
a stupor, to Sina's nudity.] A
dream. . . Her voice, . . Her eyes.
. . It's no longer she. . .
Teresina, . . [Realizing that zia
Marta is shaking her head sadly, and
that she, too, has stopped eating,
as if waiting for him.] Fie! . .
. No use thinking about it. . . It's
all over, . . Who knows how long
since! . . . And I, fool that I was
. . . stupid. . . They had told me
so back in the country . . . and I .
. . broke my bones to get here. . .
Thirty-six hours on the train . . .
all for the sake of making a
laughing-stock of myself . . . for
that waiter and that maid there . .
. Dorina, . . How they laughed! . .
. I, and . . . [Several times he
brings his forefingers together, as
a symbol of his union with Sina, and
smiles in melancholy fashion,
shaking his head.] But what else
was I to believe? I came because you
. . . Teresina, had . . . had
promised me. . . But perhaps . . .
Yes, that's it . . . How was she
herself to imagine that one fine day
she'd be where she is now? While I .
. . yonder . . . stayed behind . . .
with my piccolo . . . in the town
square. . . She . . . making such
strides, . . Lord! . . . No use
thinking of that. . . [He turns,
somewhat brusquely, and faces zia
Marta.] If I have done anything
for her, nobody zia Marta,
must suspect that I have come to . .
. to stay. . . [He grows more and
more excited, and jumps to his feet.]
Wait! [He thrusts a hand into his
coat pocket and pulls out a
pocketbook.] I came just for
this: to give you back the money you
sent to me. Do you want to call it a
payment? Restitution? What's the
difference! I see that Teresina has
become a . . . a queen! I see that .
. . nothing! Let's drop it! But this
money, no! I didn't deserve that
from you . . . What's the use! It's
all over, so let's forget it . . .
But money? No! Money to me? Nothing
doing! I'm only sorry that the
amount isn't complete . . .
Marta. [Trembling,
shattered, tears in her eyes.]
What are you saying, my boy? What
are you saying?
Micuccio. [Signals her to
be quiet.] It wasn't I who spent
it. My parents spent it while I was
sick, without my knowledge. But let
that make up for the tiny amount I
spent for her in the early days . .
. Do you remember? It's a small
matter . . . Let's forget it. Here's
the rest. And I'm going.
Marta. What do you mean! So
suddenly? Wait at least until I can
tell Teresina. Didn't you hear her
say that she wanted to come back?
I'll go right away and tell her . .
.
Micuccio. [Holding her
back in her seat.] No. It's
useless. Understand? [From the
salon comes the sound of a piano and
of voices singing a silly, salacious
chorus from a musical comedy,
punctuated by outbursts of laughter.]
Let her stay there . . . She's in
her element, where she belongs . . .
Poor me . . . I've seen her. That
was enough . . . Or rather . . . you
better go there . . . Do you hear
them laughing? I don't want them to
laugh at me . . . I'm going . . .
Marta. [Interpreting
Micuccio's sudden resolution in the
worse sense, that is, as an attitude
of scorn and an access of jealousy.]
But I . . . It's impossible for me
to keep watch over her any more, my
dear boy . . .
Micuccio. [All at once
reading in her eyes the suspicion
that he has not yet formed, his face
darkens and he cries out.] Why?
Marta. [Bewildered, she
hides her face in her hands but
cannot restrain the rush of tears,
as she gasps between sobs.] Yes,
yes. Go, my boy, go . . . She's no
longer fit for you. You're right . .
. If you had only taken my advice .
. .
Micuccio. [With an
outburst, bending over her and
tearing one of her hands from her
face.] Then . . . Ah, then she .
. . she is no longer worthy of me! [The
chorus and the tones of the piano
continue.]
Marta. [Weeping and in
anguish, she nods yes, then raises
her hands in prayer, in so
supplicating, heartbroken a manner
that Micuccio's rage at once
subsides.] For mercy's sake, for
mercy's sake! For pity of me,
Micuccio mine!
Micuccio. Enough, enough . .
. I'm going just the same . . . I'm
all the more determined, now . . .
What a fool I was, zia Marta,
not to have understood. All for this
. . . all . . . all naked . . .
Don't cry . . . What's to be done
about it? It's luck . . . luck . . .
[As he speaks, he takes up his
valise and the little bag and starts
to leave. It suddenly occurs to him
that inside of the little bag there
are the beautiful limes that he had
brought from Sicily for Teresina.]
Oh, look, zia Marta, . . Look here .
. . [Opens the bag and supporting
it on his arm pours out upon the
table the fresh, fragrant fruit.]
Marta. Limes! Our beautiful
limes!
Micuccio. I had brought them
for her . . . [He takes one.]
Suppose I were to start throwing
them at the heads of all those fine
gentlemen in there?
Marta. [Again beseeching
him.] For mercy's sake!
Micuccio. [With a bitter
laugh, thrusting the empty bag into
his pocket.] No, nothing. Don't
be afraid. I leave them for you
alone, zia Marta. And tell
them I paid the duty on them, too .
. . Enough. They're for you only,
remember that. As to her, simply say,
for me, "The best of luck to you!"
[He leaves. The chorus continues.
zia Marta is left weeping alone
before the table, her face buried in
her hands. A long pause, until Sina
Marnis takes it into her head to
make another fleeting appearance in
the hallway.]
Sina. [Surprised, catching
sight of her weeping mother.]
Has he gone?
Marta. [Without looking at
her, nods yes.]
Sina. [Stares vacantly
ahead of her, engrossed, then with a
sigh.] The poor fellow . . .
Marta. Look . . . He had
brought you . . . some limes.
Sina. [Her spirits
returning.] Oh, how beautiful!
Just see . . . how many! What
fragrance! How beautiful, beautiful!
[She presses one arm to her waist
and in her other hand seizes as many
as she can carry, shouting to the
guests in the salon, who come
running in.] Didi! Didi! Rosi!
Gegè! Cornelli! Tarini! Didi!
Marta. [Rising in vehement
protest.] No! Not there! I say
no! Not there!
Sina. [Shrugging her
shoulders and offering the fruit to
the guests.] Let me do as I
please! Here, Didi! Sicilian limes!
Here's some for you, Rosi, Sicilian
limes! Sicilian limes!
CURTAIN
[Translator's note: The new
version (1920) has a different
ending. Sina, instead of gaily
distributing the limes to her
guests, stands in tears before her
former sweetheart, who repudiating
her remorse, thrusts the money into
her bosom and leaves.]
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