The Lamp and the Bell Part 1

The Lamp and the Bell.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

PROLOGUE

[Anselmo and Luigi]

ANSELMO. What think you,--lies there any truth in the tale The King will wed again?

LUIGI. Why not, Anselmo?

A king is no less lonely than a collier When his wife dies, And his young daughter there, For all her being a princess, is no less A motherless child, and cries herself to sleep Night after night, as noisily as any, You may be sure.

ANSELMO. A motherless child loves not, They say, the second mother. Though the King May find him comfort in another face,-- As it is well he should--the child, I fancy, Is not so lonely as she is distraught With grief for the dead Queen, and will not lightly Be parted from her tears.

LUIGI. If tales be true, The woman hath a daughter, near the age Of his, will be a playmate for the Princess.

CURTAIN

ACT I

Scene 1

[Scene: A garden of the palace at Fiori; four years later.]

[Discovered seated Laura, Francesca and Fidelio, Laura embroidering, Fidelio strumming his flute, Francesca lost in thought.]

LAURA. You,--Fool! If there be two chords to your lute, Give us the other for a time!

FRANCESCA. And yet, Laura, I somewhat fancied that soft sound he made.

'Twas all on the same tone,--but 'twas a sweet tone.

LAURA. 'Tis like you. As for myself, let music change From time to time, or have done altogether.

Sing us the song, Fidelio, that you made Last night,--a song of flowers, and fair skies, And nightingales, and love.

FIDELIO. I know the song.

It is a song of winter.

LAURA. How is that?

FIDELIO. Because it is a song of summer set To a sad tune.

FRANCESCA. [Sadly] Ah, well,--so that it be not A song of autumn, I can bear to hear it.

LAURA. In any case, music. I am in a mood for music.

I am in a mood where if something be not done To startle me, I shall confess my sins.

[Enter Carlotta.]

CARLOTTA. Ha! I will have that woman yet by the hair!

LAURA. What woman, pray, Carlotta?

CAR. Ho! What woman!

Who but that scullery-wench, that onion-monger, That slatternly, pale bakress, that foul witch, The coroneted Fish-Wife of Fiori, Her Majesty, the Queen!

FRA. Hush--hush--Carlotta!

You could be put to death for less than that!

CAR. Not I, my duck. When I am put to death 'Twill be for more! Oh, I will have her yet By the hair! [For the first time noticing Fidelio.]

Fidelio, if you breathe one word Of this, I will scratch the Princess into ribbons, Whom you love better than your wit.

FID. I' faith, I did but hear you say you are a fish-wife, And all the world knows that.

LAU. Fear not, Carlotta, He is as dumb as a prophet. Every second word He utters, eats the one before it. Speak, But softly.

CAR. Nay,'tis nothing.--Nay, by my head, It is a townful! 'Tis the way she has Of saying "that should be done like this, and this Like that!" The woman stirs me to that point I feel like a carrot in a stew,--I boil so I b.u.mp the kettle on all sides!

LAU. My dear, Were you as plump as I you would not dare Become so angry. It would make your stays creak.

CAR. Well, I am done. Fidelio, play me a dirge To put me in good spirits. Merry music Is sure to make me sad.

[Fidelio plays. Pause.]

CAR. 'Tis curious A woman like her should have a child like that-- So gentle and so pretty-mannered. Faith,--

FID. Hush! Hush! Here come the prettiest pair of birds That ever sat together on a bough so close You could not see the sky between. How now, Snow-White and Rose-Red! Are you reconciled One to another?

[Enter Beatrice and Bianca, with their arms about one another.]

BIA. Reconciled, Fidelio?

We had not quarrelled! [Laughter from Fidelio and the ladies.]

BEA. Do not listen to him, Bianca, 'tis but the jingling of his bells.

FIDELIO. Do you make a better jest than that At once, or have the clappers cut from them.

FID. Alas, alas,--all the good jests are made.

I made them yesterday.

CAR. If that be true, You would best become a wise man for a time, My friend,--there are plenty of wise words not yet said!

FID. I shall say them all tomorrow.

LAU. If you do, You will be stoned to death.

FID. Not I. No one Will hear me.--Well, I am off.--I know an old man Who does not know the road runs past his house; And yet his bees make honey. [Exit Fidelio.]