Scene III
The following morning—the interior of the house in the forest—Teresa sitting near the fire—Paolo kneeling upon a footstool at her side.
Paol. And now, dear mother, tell me that old tale,
About the little boy who prayed that Jesus
Might come and play with him.
Ter. I will, my love.
[She sings in a low recitative.
1Among green, pleasant meadows,
All in a grove so wild,
Was set a marble image
Of the Virgin and the Child.
There oft, on summer evenings,
A lonely boy would rove,
To play beside the image
That sanctified the grove.
Oft sate his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
And told how the Lord Jesus
Was once a child, like him.
“And now from highest heaven
He doth look down each day,
And sees what’er thou doest,
And hears what thou dost say!”
Thus spoke his tender mother:
And on an evening bright,
When the red, round sun descended
’Mid clouds of crimson light,
Again the boy was playing,
And earnestly said he,
“Oh beautiful child Jesus,
Come down and play with me!
“I will find thee flowers the fairest,
And weave for thee a crown;
I will get the ripe, red strawberries,
If thou wilt but come down!
“Oh Holy, Holy Mother,
Put him down from off thy knee;
For in these silent meadows
There are none to play with me!”
Thus spoke the boy so lonely,
The while his mother heard,
But on his prayer she pondered,
And spoke to him no word.
That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;
She thought she saw young Jesus
There, playing with the boy.
“And for the fruits and flowers
Which thou hast brought to me,
Rich blessings shall be given
A thousand-fold to thee.
“For in the fields of heaven
Thou shalt roam with me at will,
And of bright fruits, celestial,
Shall have, dear child, thy fill!”
Thus tenderly and kindly
The fair child Jesus spoke;
And full of careful musings,
The anxious mother woke.
And thus it was accomplished
In a short month and a day,
The lonely boy, so gentle,
Upon his death-bed lay.
And thus he spoke in dying:
“Oh mother dear, I see
That beautiful child Jesus
A-coming down to me!
“And in his hand he beareth
Bright flowers as white as snow,
And red and juicy strawberries,—
Dear mother, let me go?”
He died—but that fond mother
Her sorrow did restrain,
For she knew he was with Jesus,
And she asked him not again!
Paol. I wish that I had been that boy, dear mother!
Ter. How so, my, Paolo, did not that boy die,
And leave his mother childless?
Paol. Ah, alas,
I had forgotten that! But, mother dear,
Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me,
As I, if thou wert not! It breaks my heart
Only to think of it; and I do pray,
Morning and night, that I may never lose thee!
Ter. My precious child, heaven is so very good,
I do believe it will not sunder us
Who are so dear, so needful to each other!
Paol. Let us not speak of parting! and, indeed,
I will not be a hunter when a man;
I will not leave thee early in a morning,
And keep away from thee for days and days!
I do not love the chase, it frightens me;
The horrid bark of wolves fills me with dread.
I dream of them at night!
Ter. Thou shalt not, love!
And yet, what couldst thou be, if not a hunter,
In these wild regions, Paolo!
Paol. Oh no, mother,
I will be not a hunter! They are fierce,
They have loud angry voices. Dearest mother
I tremble when I hear my father speak;
I wish he was as kind, and spoke as sweetly
As thou dost.
Ter. Hush, my Paolo—say not thus—
Thy father is a bold and skilful hunter,—
A very skilful hunter.
Paol. Yes I know it;
I’ve often heard it said. But tell me why
Men are so stern! If I am e’er a man,
I will be kind and gentle; and the dogs
Shall not start up whene’er they hear my step,
And skulk away from the warm, pleasant hearth.
I will love all things, mother; I will make
All things love me!
Ter. My dearest, gentle boy,
I do believe thou wilt!
Paol. Mother, hast heard
My father goes unto the chase to-day,
And that strange hunter with him!
Ter. Nay, my love,
In this wild storm they will not go to hunt.
Paol. I saw them even now. The sledge is ready,
With the horse harnessed to’t; and, mother dear,
We shall have such a long and quiet day,—
’Twill be so happy! And oh, wilt thou tell me
About thy home at Corinth, and the time
When from the morning to the blessed eve
Thou sangest to the music of thy lute;
Or wander’dst out with kind and merry friends;
Or tendedst thy sweet flowers;—and tell me too
About the bright, blue, restless sea at Corinth—
And sing me songs and hymns in thy Greek tongue,
And hear how I can sing them after thee—
Wilt thou, dear mother?
Ter. I will indeed, my love!
But hark! thy birds are chirping for their meal,
Go, feed them, my sweet boy.
Paol. Yes, I will feed them,
And then there will be nothing all the day
To take me from thy side!
[He goes out.
Ter. Thou dear, dear child!
Thou happy, innocent spirit! ’Tis o’er payment,
A rich o’er payment of my many woes,
To see thee gather up such full enjoyment
Within the narrowed limits of the good
Which thy hard fortune gives thee! And no more
Let me account myself forlorn and stripped,
Whilst I have thee, my boy!
But hark! here comes
My husband!
Enter OLAF, muffled in his hunting dress.
Olaf. Where’s the boy! I hunt to-day.
Ter. Not in this storm, my husband!
Olaf. In this storm.
Where is the boy? I heard him here, just now.
Ter. Why, why the boy? What dost thou want with him?
Olaf. He shall go out with me on this day’s hunt.
Ter. Oh no! not so—he must not go to-day!
Olaf. Why, ’tis a puny, feeble-hearted thing,
Whom thou hast fondled with and fooled, till nought
Of a boy’s spirit is within his heart!
But he shall go with me, and learn to dare
The perils of the forest.
Ter. But this once—
This once, my husband, spare him—and when next
Thou goest to the hunt, he shall go with thee!
Olaf. This day he shall go with me! Thou wouldst teach
The boy rebellion! He shall go with me!
Ter. Nay, say not so—he does not love the chase!
Olaf. ’Tis me he does not love—and for good reason,—
Thou ever keep’st him sitting at thy side,
A caded, dwindled thing that has no spirit!
Look at the other children of the forest;
They are brave, manly boys!
Ter. Alas, my husband,
Thou hast forgotten, ’tis a tender flower
Transplanted to a cold, ungenial clime.
Olaf. Say not another word! Thou hear’st my will!
Enter PAOLO; he runs to his mother’s side.
Ter. Thy father wishes thee to hunt to-day.
Paol. Oh, not to-day, dear mother!
Olaf. And why not?
It ever is the cry, “Oh not to-day!”
I pr’ythee what new fancy’s in thy head,
That thou canst not go with me?
Paol. I besought
My mother to sing me her Corinth songs;
To tell me of the groves and of the flowers,
And of that happy home that was more fair
Than even was ours, in pleasant Italy;
And she has promised that she will, my father.
Olaf. Ha! ha! is’t so?—’Tis even as I thought.
I know wherefore these stories of the past!
Mark me, Teresa, if thou school him thus,
I’ll sunder ye!—Thou need’st not clasp thy hands;
For on my life I’ll do it!
Paol. [weeping.] Father, father,
Part me not from my mother, and indeed
I will go with you.
Ter. [aside to Olaf.] Pray thee, speak him kindly!
Olaf. Come, I’ll be thy companion! I will teach thee
To be a man;—dry up these childish tears!
Ter. My sweet boy, do not weep! Go out this day,
Thy mother prays it of thee, and bring back
A little ermine, we will make it tame;
It shall be thine, my Paolo, and shall love thee.
Paol. I will go, dearest mother—nor will cry
Though the gaunt, hungry wolves bark round about,
[aside.] But, mother dear, will you sit by my side
When we come back, and sing me fast asleep?
I have such horrid dreams of wolves at night.
Ter. I will, indeed I will, my dearest love!
Olaf. Come, come, why all this fondling? We’ll be back
Long ere the night.
Ter. Come, now I’ll put thee on
Thy cloak, and that warm cap of ermine skin
I made for thee last winter! [They go out.
Olaf. How she sways him!
With a sweet word she guides him as she will!
Would that the child loved me but half as well;
Heaven help me! but I am a rough, bad man,
And have deserved neither her love nor his!
But now the sledge is ready.
He goes out.
Notes
1 A free translation of one of Herder’s beautiful legends.