BIA. [Simply.] Ay, it is curious. [Catching Octavia's expression.] BIA. Nay, what evil thing Is in your mind, gives you that evil smile? OCT. Only a little thought. BIA. A little thought, I'll warrant you!--You'd have me to believe She loved my husband? OCT. Ay, I know she loved him. BIA. It is a lie! OCT. How dare you say I lie! BIA. Oh, do not be so proud! Let us speak truth At length, a little! We are so garnished up With courtesies, so over-sauced and seasoned, We cannot taste each other! Why do you tell me A thing like that?---You have no love for me! OCT. [Weeping,] I love you too much--you are the only thing I do love! BIA. Nay, it is not love of me For my own self. Else would you do the thing Would make me happiest. You know how I have loved her, Since we were children. You could not be to me What she was; one forgets too many things. You could not know my thought. I loved you dearly; But you were hard to love; one never knew Whether you would be hot or cold to touch. Whilst she and I,--oh, we were two young trees So nearly of a height we had the same world Ever within our vision!--Yet all these years, Even from the time we first went to Fiori, You have been bearing me your little tales,-- "She had done this and that, she was thus and so--", Seeking to stir and poison the clear water Of my deep love for her! And now this thing. Which is not true. But if it had been true, It would not be so out of all reason cruel As that you should have told me of it now. Nay, do not weep. All day 'tis one of us Making the other weep. We are two strange, Unhappy women. Come, let us be at peace. [Pause. Bianca rises suddenly.] Mother, farewell a little while. I go now To her, seeing that she does not come to me. But not to question her, not to demand, "How comes it this? What can you say to that?" Only to sit beside her, as in the old days, And let her lay her quiet on my heart. Scene 3 [The garden at Fiori, same as in Act I, Scene 1. Discovered seated on a stone bench in the sunshine, Beatrice, clad in a loose gown, looking very ill. Fidelio sings off stage.] FID. [Singing.] "Let the little birds sing, Let the little lambs play. Spring is here, and so 'tis spring,-- But not in the old way. I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew,-- There you lifted up your face And blossoms covered you. If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here, and so 'tis spring,-- But not in the old way." BEA. It is a pretty song. There be some things That even the tortured heart's profoundest anguish Cannot bring down from their high place. Music Is one of them. [Enter Grazia carrying a bowl.] GRA. Now, will you drink this broth, Or will you not? I swear upon my shroud-- And 'tis a solemn oath--I never nursed So vaporous a patient!--Come, my bird!