_It is night on the terrace outside the Hotel Cimarosa. Part of the
garden façade of the hotel is seen at the back of the stage--a bare
white wall, with three French windows giving on to balconies about ten
feet from the ground, and below them, leading from the terrace to the
lounge, a double door of glass, open now, through which a yellow
radiance streams out into the night. On the paved terrace stand two or
three green iron tables and chairs. To the left a mass of dark foliage,
ilex and cypress, in the shadow of which more tables and chairs are set.
At the back to the left a strip of sky is visible between the corner of
the hotel and the dark trees, blue and starry, for it is a marvellous
June evening. Behind the trees the ground slopes steeply down and down
to an old city in the valley below, of whose invisible presence you are
made aware by the sound of many bells wafted up from a score of slender
towers in a sweet and melancholy discord that seems to mourn the passing
of each successive hour. When the curtain rises the terrace is almost
deserted; the hotel dinner is not yet over. A single guest_, COUNT
ALBERTO TIRETTA, _is discovered, sitting in a position of histrionic
despair at one of the little green tables. A waiter stands respectfully
sympathetic at his side_, ALBERTO _is a little man with large lustrous
eyes and a black moustache, about twenty-five years of age. He has the
pathetic charm of an Italian street-boy with an organ--almost as pretty
and sentimental as Murillo's little beggars._
ALBERTO (_making a florid gesture with his right hand and with his left
covering his eyes_). Whereupon, Waiter (_he is reciting a tale of
woes_), she slammed the door in my face. (_He brings down his
gesticulating right hand with a crash on to the table_.)
WAITER. In your face, Signore? Impossible!
ALBERTO. Impossible, but a fact. Some more brandy, please; I am a
little weary. (_The waiter uncorks the bottle he has been holding under
his arm and fills Alberto's glass._)
WAITER. That will be one lira twenty-five, Signore.
ALBERTO (_throwing down a note_). Keep the change.
WAITER (_bowing_). Thank you, Signore. But if I were the Signore I
should beat her. (_He holds up the Cognac bottle and by way of
illustration slaps its black polished flanks._)
ALBERTO. Beat her? But I tell you I am in love with her.
WAITER. All the more reason, then, Signore. It will be not only a stern
disciplinary duty, but a pleasure as well; oh, I assure you, Signore, a
pleasure.
ALBERTO. Enough, enough. You sully the melancholy beauty of my thoughts.
My feelings at this moment are of an unheard-of delicacy and purity.
Respect them, I beg you. Some more brandy, please.
WAITER (_pouring out the brandy_). Delicacy, purity.... Ah, believe me,
Signore ... That will be one lira twenty-five.
ALBERTO (_throwing down another note with the same superbly aristocratic
gesture_). Keep the change.
WAITER. Thank you, Signore. But as I was saying, Signore, delicacy,
purity.... You think I do not understand such sentiments. Alas, Signore,
beneath the humblest shirt-front there beats a heart. And if the
Signore's sentiments are too much for him, I have a niece. Eighteen
years old, and what eyes, what forms!
ALBERTO. Stop, stop. Respect my feelings, Waiter, as well as the ears of
the young lady (_he points towards the glass doors_). Remember she is an
American. (_The Waiter, bows and goes into the hotel_.)