All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee;All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem;In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea;Breath and bloom, shade and shine—wonder, wealth, and—how far above them—Truth, that's brighter than gem,5Trust, that's purer than pearl—Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for meIn the kiss of one girl.
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee;All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem;In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea;Breath and bloom, shade and shine—wonder, wealth, and—how far above them—Truth, that's brighter than gem,5Trust, that's purer than pearl—Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for meIn the kiss of one girl.
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,When you set your fancies free,Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,—Pity me?Oh, to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!5What had I on earth to doWith the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel—Being—who?One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward,Never doubted clouds would break,10Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,Sleep to wake.No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work timeGreet the unseen with a cheer!Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,15"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed—fight on, fare everThere as here!"
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,When you set your fancies free,Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,—Pity me?
Oh, to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!5What had I on earth to doWith the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel—Being—who?
One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward,Never doubted clouds would break,10Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work timeGreet the unseen with a cheer!Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,15"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed—fight on, fare everThere as here!"
PERSONS
Pippa.Ottima.Sebald.Foreign Students.Gottlieb.Schramm.Jules.Phene.Austrian Police.Bluphocks.Luigiand his Mother.Poor Girls.Monsignorand his Attendants.
Scene.—A large, mean, airy chamber. A girl,Pippa,from the silk-mills, springing out of bed.
Day!Faster and more fast,O'er night's brim, day boils at last;Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brimWhere spurting and suppressed it lay,5For not a froth-flake touched the rimOf yonder gap in the solid grayOf the eastern cloud, an hour away;But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,10Rose, reddened, and its seething breastFlickered in bounds, grew gold, than overflowed the world.Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,A mite of my twelve hours' treasure,The least of thy gazes or glances15(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure),One of thy choices or one of thy chances,(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)—My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure,Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!20Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good—Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood—All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not25As prosperous ones are treated, those who liveAt hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,In readiness to take what thou wilt give,And free to let alone what thou refusest;For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest30Me, who am only Pippa—old-year's sorrow,Cast off last night, will come again tomorrow;Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrowSufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.All other men and women that this earth35Belongs to, who all days alike possess,Make general plenty cure particular dearth,Get more joy one way, if another, less;Thou art my single day, God lends to leavenWhat were all earth else, with a feel of heaven—40Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones—And let thy morning rain on that superbGreat haughty Ottima; can rain disturbHer Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain45Beats fiercest on her shrub-house windowpane,He will but press the closer, breathe more warmAgainst her cheek; how should she mind the storm?And, morning past, if midday shed a gloomO'er Jules and Phene—what care bride and groom50Save for their dear selves? 'Tis their marriage-day;And while they leave church and go home their way,Hand clasping hand, within each breast would beSunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve55With mist—will Luigi and his mother grieve—The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close,And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,60Receives them. And yet once again, outbreakIn storm at night on Monsignor, they makeSuch stir about—whom they expect from RomeTo visit Asolo, his brothers' home,And say here masses proper to release65A soul from pain—what storm dares hurt his peace?Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to wardThy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.But Pippa—just one such mischance would spoilHer day that lightens the next twelve-month's toil70At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!And here I let time slip for naught!Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caughtWith a single splash from my ewer!You that would mock the best pursuer,75Was my basin over-deep?One splash of water ruins you asleep,And up, up, fleet your brilliant bitsWheeling and counterwheeling,Reeling, broken beyond healing—80Now grow together on the ceiling!That will task your wits.Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to seeMorsel after morsel fleeAs merrily, as giddily ...85Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!90Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the rippleOf ocean, bud there, fairies watch unrollSuch turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperseThick red flame through that dusk green universe!I am queen of thee, floweret!95And each fleshy blossomPreserve I not—saferThan leaves that embower it,Or shells that embosom—From weevil and chafer?100Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,Love thy queen, worship me!—Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,Whate'er I please? What shall I please today?105My morn, noon, eve, and night—how spend my day?Tomorrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk.But, this one day, I have leave to go,And play out my fancy's fullest games;110I may fancy all day—and it shall be so—That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the namesOf the Happiest Four in our Asolo!See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning,Someone shall love me, as the world calls love;115I am no less than Ottima, take warning!The gardens, and the great stone house above,And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,To court me, while old Luca yet reposes;120And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses,I—what now?—give abundant cause for prateAbout me—Ottima, I mean—of late,Too bold, too confident she'll still face downThe spitefullest of talkers in our town.125How we talk in the little town below!But love, love, love—there's better love, I know!This foolish love was only day's first offer;I choose my next love to defy the scoffer;For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally130Out of Possagno church at noon?Their house looks over Orcana valley—Why should not I be the bride as soonAs Ottima? For I saw, beside,Arrive last night that little bride—135Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flashOf the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,Blacker than all except the black eyelash;I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!So strict was she, the veil140Should cover close her palePure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not suchUsed to be tended, flower-like, every feature,As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?145A soft and easy life these ladies lead!Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,Keep that foot its lady primness,Let those ankles never swerve150From their exquisite reserve,Yet have to trip along the streets like me,All but naked to the knee!How will she ever grant her Jules a blissSo startling as her real first infant kiss?155Oh, no—not envy, this!
Day!Faster and more fast,O'er night's brim, day boils at last;Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brimWhere spurting and suppressed it lay,5For not a froth-flake touched the rimOf yonder gap in the solid grayOf the eastern cloud, an hour away;But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,10Rose, reddened, and its seething breastFlickered in bounds, grew gold, than overflowed the world.
Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,A mite of my twelve hours' treasure,The least of thy gazes or glances15(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure),One of thy choices or one of thy chances,(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)—My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure,Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!20
Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good—Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood—All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not25As prosperous ones are treated, those who liveAt hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,In readiness to take what thou wilt give,And free to let alone what thou refusest;For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest30Me, who am only Pippa—old-year's sorrow,Cast off last night, will come again tomorrow;Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrowSufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.All other men and women that this earth35Belongs to, who all days alike possess,Make general plenty cure particular dearth,Get more joy one way, if another, less;Thou art my single day, God lends to leavenWhat were all earth else, with a feel of heaven—40Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones—And let thy morning rain on that superbGreat haughty Ottima; can rain disturbHer Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain45Beats fiercest on her shrub-house windowpane,He will but press the closer, breathe more warmAgainst her cheek; how should she mind the storm?And, morning past, if midday shed a gloomO'er Jules and Phene—what care bride and groom50Save for their dear selves? 'Tis their marriage-day;And while they leave church and go home their way,Hand clasping hand, within each breast would beSunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve55With mist—will Luigi and his mother grieve—The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close,And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,60Receives them. And yet once again, outbreakIn storm at night on Monsignor, they makeSuch stir about—whom they expect from RomeTo visit Asolo, his brothers' home,And say here masses proper to release65A soul from pain—what storm dares hurt his peace?Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to wardThy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.But Pippa—just one such mischance would spoilHer day that lightens the next twelve-month's toil70At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!And here I let time slip for naught!Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caughtWith a single splash from my ewer!You that would mock the best pursuer,75Was my basin over-deep?One splash of water ruins you asleep,And up, up, fleet your brilliant bitsWheeling and counterwheeling,Reeling, broken beyond healing—80Now grow together on the ceiling!That will task your wits.Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to seeMorsel after morsel fleeAs merrily, as giddily ...85Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!90Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the rippleOf ocean, bud there, fairies watch unrollSuch turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperseThick red flame through that dusk green universe!I am queen of thee, floweret!95And each fleshy blossomPreserve I not—saferThan leaves that embower it,Or shells that embosom—From weevil and chafer?100Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,Love thy queen, worship me!
—Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,Whate'er I please? What shall I please today?105My morn, noon, eve, and night—how spend my day?Tomorrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk.But, this one day, I have leave to go,And play out my fancy's fullest games;110I may fancy all day—and it shall be so—That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the namesOf the Happiest Four in our Asolo!
See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning,Someone shall love me, as the world calls love;115I am no less than Ottima, take warning!The gardens, and the great stone house above,And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,To court me, while old Luca yet reposes;120And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses,I—what now?—give abundant cause for prateAbout me—Ottima, I mean—of late,Too bold, too confident she'll still face downThe spitefullest of talkers in our town.125How we talk in the little town below!But love, love, love—there's better love, I know!This foolish love was only day's first offer;I choose my next love to defy the scoffer;For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally130Out of Possagno church at noon?Their house looks over Orcana valley—Why should not I be the bride as soonAs Ottima? For I saw, beside,Arrive last night that little bride—135Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flashOf the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,Blacker than all except the black eyelash;I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!So strict was she, the veil140Should cover close her palePure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not suchUsed to be tended, flower-like, every feature,As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?145A soft and easy life these ladies lead!Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,Keep that foot its lady primness,Let those ankles never swerve150From their exquisite reserve,Yet have to trip along the streets like me,All but naked to the knee!How will she ever grant her Jules a blissSo startling as her real first infant kiss?155Oh, no—not envy, this!
—Not envy, sure!—for if you gave meLeave to take or to refuse,In earnest, do you think I'd chooseThat sort of new love to enslave me?160Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;As little fear of losing it as winning;Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,And only parents' love can last our lives.At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair,165Commune inside our turret; what preventsMy being Luigi? While that mossy lairOf lizards through the wintertime is stirredWith each to each imparting sweet intentsFor this new-year, as brooding bird to bird170(For I observe of late, the evening walkOf Luigi and his mother, always endsInside our ruined turret, where they talk,Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends),Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,175And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;Let me be Luigi! If I only knewWhat was my mother's face—my father, too!Nay, if you come to that, best love of allIs God's; then why not have God's love befall180Myself as, in the palace by the Dome,Monsignor?—who tonight will bless the homeOf his dead brother; and God bless in turnThat heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burnWith love for all men! I tonight at least,185Would be that holy and beloved priest.
—Not envy, sure!—for if you gave meLeave to take or to refuse,In earnest, do you think I'd chooseThat sort of new love to enslave me?160Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;As little fear of losing it as winning;Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,And only parents' love can last our lives.At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair,165Commune inside our turret; what preventsMy being Luigi? While that mossy lairOf lizards through the wintertime is stirredWith each to each imparting sweet intentsFor this new-year, as brooding bird to bird170(For I observe of late, the evening walkOf Luigi and his mother, always endsInside our ruined turret, where they talk,Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends),Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,175And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;Let me be Luigi! If I only knewWhat was my mother's face—my father, too!Nay, if you come to that, best love of allIs God's; then why not have God's love befall180Myself as, in the palace by the Dome,Monsignor?—who tonight will bless the homeOf his dead brother; and God bless in turnThat heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burnWith love for all men! I tonight at least,185Would be that holy and beloved priest.
Now wait!—even I already seem to shareIn God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?What other meaning do these verses bear?All service ranks the same with God:190If now, as formerly he trodParadise, his presence fillsOur earth, each only as God willsCan work—God's puppets, best and worst,Are we; there is no last nor first.195Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?Costs it more pain that this, ye callA "great event," should come to pass,Than that? Untwine me from the massOf deeds which make up life, one deed200Power shall fall short in or exceed!And more of it, and more of it!—oh yes—I will pass each, and see their happiness,And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!205A pretty thing to care aboutSo mightily, this single holiday!But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?—With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,Down the grass path gray with dew,210Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,Where the swallow never flewNor yet cicala dared carouse—No, dared carouse![She enters the street
Now wait!—even I already seem to shareIn God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?What other meaning do these verses bear?
All service ranks the same with God:190If now, as formerly he trodParadise, his presence fillsOur earth, each only as God willsCan work—God's puppets, best and worst,Are we; there is no last nor first.195
Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?Costs it more pain that this, ye callA "great event," should come to pass,Than that? Untwine me from the massOf deeds which make up life, one deed200Power shall fall short in or exceed!
And more of it, and more of it!—oh yes—I will pass each, and see their happiness,And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!205A pretty thing to care aboutSo mightily, this single holiday!But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?—With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,Down the grass path gray with dew,210Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,Where the swallow never flewNor yet cicala dared carouse—No, dared carouse![She enters the street
Scene.—Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house.Luca'swife,Ottima,and her paramour, the GermanSebald.
Sebald[sings].Let the watching lids wink!Day's ablaze with eyes, think!Deep into the night, drink!Ottima.Night? Such may be your Rhineland nights, perhaps;But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink5—We call such light the morning: let us see!Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tallNaked geraniums straggle! Push the latticeBehind that frame!—Nay, do I bid you?—Sebald,It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course10The slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content,Or must I find you something else to spoil?Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is 't full morning?Oh, don't speak then!Sebald.Aye, thus it used to be.Ever your house was, I remember, shut15Till midday; I observed that, as I strolledOn mornings through the vale here; country girlsWere noisy, washing garments in the brook,Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills;But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye.20And wisely; you were plotting one thing there,Nature, another outside. I looked up—Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,Silent as death, blind in a flood of light,Oh, I remember!—and the peasants laughed25And said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife."This house was his, this chair, this window—his!Ottima.Ah, the clear morning! I can see St. Mark's;That black streak is the belfry. Stop: VicenzaShould lie—there's Padua, plain enough, that blue!30Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger!Sebald.Morning?It seems to me a night with a sun added.Where's dew, where's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruisedIn getting through the lattice yestereve,Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark35I' the dust o' the sill.Ottima.Oh, shut the lattice, pray!Sebald.Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,Foul as the morn may be.There, shut the world out!How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curseThe world and all outside! Let us throw off40This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let's outWith all of it.Ottima.Best never speak of it.Sebald.Best speak again and yet again of it.Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood,"For instance—let those two words mean "His blood"45And nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now,"His blood."
Sebald[sings].
Let the watching lids wink!Day's ablaze with eyes, think!Deep into the night, drink!
Ottima.Night? Such may be your Rhineland nights, perhaps;But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink5—We call such light the morning: let us see!Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tallNaked geraniums straggle! Push the latticeBehind that frame!—Nay, do I bid you?—Sebald,It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course10The slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content,Or must I find you something else to spoil?Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is 't full morning?Oh, don't speak then!
Sebald.Aye, thus it used to be.Ever your house was, I remember, shut15Till midday; I observed that, as I strolledOn mornings through the vale here; country girlsWere noisy, washing garments in the brook,Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills;But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye.20And wisely; you were plotting one thing there,Nature, another outside. I looked up—Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,Silent as death, blind in a flood of light,Oh, I remember!—and the peasants laughed25And said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife."This house was his, this chair, this window—his!
Ottima.Ah, the clear morning! I can see St. Mark's;That black streak is the belfry. Stop: VicenzaShould lie—there's Padua, plain enough, that blue!30Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger!
Sebald.Morning?It seems to me a night with a sun added.Where's dew, where's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruisedIn getting through the lattice yestereve,Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark35I' the dust o' the sill.
Ottima.Oh, shut the lattice, pray!
Sebald.Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,Foul as the morn may be.There, shut the world out!How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curseThe world and all outside! Let us throw off40This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let's outWith all of it.
Ottima.Best never speak of it.
Sebald.Best speak again and yet again of it.Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood,"For instance—let those two words mean "His blood"45And nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now,"His blood."
Ottima.Assuredly if I repentedThe deed—Sebald.Repent? Who should repent, or why?What puts that in your head? Did I once sayThat I repented?Ottima.No; I said the deed—50Sebald."The deed" and "the event"—just now it was"Our passion's fruit"—the devil take such cant!Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,I am his cutthroat, you are—Ottima.Here's the wine;I brought it when we left the house above,55And glasses too—wine of both sorts. Black? White then?Sebald.But am not I his cutthroat? What are you?Ottima.There trudges on his business from the DuomoBenet the Capuchin, with his brown hoodAnd bare feet; always in one place at church,60Close under the stone wall by the south entry.I used to take him for a brown cold pieceOf the wall's self, as out of it he roseTo let me pass—at first, I say, I used—Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me,65I rather should account the plastered wallA piece of him, so chilly does it strike.This, Sebald?Sebald.No, the white wine—the white wine!Well, Ottima, I promised no new yearShould rise on us the ancient shameful way;70Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes!Do you remember last damned New Year's day?Ottima.You brought those foreign prints. We looked at themOver the wine and fruit. I had to schemeTo get him from the fire. Nothing but saying75His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him upTo hunt them out.Sebald.'Faith, he is not aliveTo fondle you before my face.Ottima.Do youFondle me then! Who means to take your lifeFor that, my Sebald?80Sebald.Hark you, Ottima!One thing to guard against. We'll not make muchOne of the other—that is, not make moreParade of warmth, childish officious coil,Than yesterday—as if, sweet, I supposedProof upon proof were needed now, now first,85To show I love you—yes, still love you—love youIn spite of Luca and what's come to him—Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,White sneering old reproachful face and all!We'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if90We still could lose each other, were not tiedBy this—conceive you?Ottima.Love!Sebald.Not tied so sure!Because though I was wrought upon, have struckHis insolence back into him—am ISo surely yours?—therefore forever yours?95
Ottima.Assuredly if I repentedThe deed—
Sebald.Repent? Who should repent, or why?What puts that in your head? Did I once sayThat I repented?
Ottima.No; I said the deed—50
Sebald."The deed" and "the event"—just now it was"Our passion's fruit"—the devil take such cant!Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,I am his cutthroat, you are—
Ottima.Here's the wine;I brought it when we left the house above,55And glasses too—wine of both sorts. Black? White then?
Sebald.But am not I his cutthroat? What are you?
Ottima.There trudges on his business from the DuomoBenet the Capuchin, with his brown hoodAnd bare feet; always in one place at church,60Close under the stone wall by the south entry.I used to take him for a brown cold pieceOf the wall's self, as out of it he roseTo let me pass—at first, I say, I used—Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me,65I rather should account the plastered wallA piece of him, so chilly does it strike.This, Sebald?
Sebald.No, the white wine—the white wine!Well, Ottima, I promised no new yearShould rise on us the ancient shameful way;70Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes!Do you remember last damned New Year's day?
Ottima.You brought those foreign prints. We looked at themOver the wine and fruit. I had to schemeTo get him from the fire. Nothing but saying75His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him upTo hunt them out.
Sebald.'Faith, he is not aliveTo fondle you before my face.
Ottima.Do youFondle me then! Who means to take your lifeFor that, my Sebald?80
Sebald.Hark you, Ottima!One thing to guard against. We'll not make muchOne of the other—that is, not make moreParade of warmth, childish officious coil,Than yesterday—as if, sweet, I supposedProof upon proof were needed now, now first,85To show I love you—yes, still love you—love youIn spite of Luca and what's come to him—Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,White sneering old reproachful face and all!We'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if90We still could lose each other, were not tiedBy this—conceive you?
Ottima.Love!
Sebald.Not tied so sure!Because though I was wrought upon, have struckHis insolence back into him—am ISo surely yours?—therefore forever yours?95
Ottima.Love, to be wise (one counsel pays another),Should we have—months ago, when first we loved,For instance that May morning we two stoleUnder the green ascent of sycamores—Ifwe had come upon a thing like that100Suddenly—Sebald."A thing"—there again—"a thing!"Ottima.Then, Venus' body, had we come uponMy husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpseWithin there, at his couch-foot, covered close—Would you have pored upon it? Why persist105In poring now upon it? For 'tis hereAs much as there in the deserted house;You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me,Now he is dead I hate him worse; I hate—Dare you stay here? I would go back and hold110His two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse,Luca, than"—Sebald.Off, off—take your hands off mine,'Tis the hot evening—off! oh, morning, is it?Ottima.There's one thing must be done—you know what thing.Come in and help to carry. We may sleep115Anywhere in the whole wide house tonight.Sebald.What would come, think you, if we let him lieJust as he is? Let him lie there untilThe angels take him! He is turned by thisOff from his face beside, as you will see.120Ottima.This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.Three, four—four gray hairs! Is it so you saidA plait of hair should wave across my neck?No—this way.Sebald.Ottima, I would give your neck,Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,125That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world,So Luca lives again!—aye, lives to sputterHis fulsome dotage on you—yes, and feignSurprise that I return at eve to sup,When all the morning I was loitering here—130Bid me dispatch my business and begone.I would—Ottima.See!Sebald.No, I'll finish. Do you thinkI fear to speak the bare truth once for all?All we have talked of, is at bottom, fineTo suffer; there's a recompense in guilt;135One must be venturous and fortunate—What is one young for, else? In age we'll sighO'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over;Still, we have lived; the vice was in its place.But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn140His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse—Do lovers in romances sin that way?Why, I was starving when I used to callAnd teach you music, starving while you plucked meThese flowers to smell!145Ottima.My poor lost friend!Sebald.He gave meLife, nothing else; what if he did reproachMy perfidy, and threaten, and do more—Had he no right? What was to wonder at?He sat by us at table quietly—Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched?150Could he do less than make pretense to strike?'Tis not the crime's sake—I'd commit ten crimesGreater, to have this crime wiped out, undone!And you—oh, how feel you? Feel you for me?Ottima.Well then, I love you better now than ever,155And best (look at me while I speak to you)—Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth,This mask, this simulated ignorance,This affectation of simplicity,Falls off our crime; this naked crime of ours160May not now be looked over—look it down!Great? Let it be great; but the joys it brought,Pay they or no its price? Come: they or itSpeak not! The past, would you give up the pastSuch as it is, pleasure and crime together?165Give up that noon I owned my love for you?The garden's silence! even the single beePersisting in his toil, suddenly stopped,And where he hid you only could surmiseBy some campanula chalice set a-swing.170Who stammered—"Yes, I love you?"Sebald.And I drewBack; put far back your face with both my handsLest you should grow too full of me—your faceSo seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!Ottima.And when I ventured to receive you here,175Made you steal hither in the mornings—Sebald.WhenI used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,Till the red fire on its glazed windows spreadTo a yellow haze?Ottima.Ah—my sign was, the sunInflamed the sear side of yon chestnut-tree180Nipped by the first frost.Sebald.You would always laughAt my wet boots: I had to stride through grassOver my ankles.Ottima.Then our crowning night!Sebald.The July night?Ottima.The day of it too, Sebald!When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,185Its black-blue canopy suffered descendClose on us both, to weigh down each to each,And smother up all life except our life.So lay we till the storm came.Sebald.How it came!Ottima.Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;190Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;And ever and anon some bright white shaftBurned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there,As if God's messenger through the close wood screenPlunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,195Feeling for guilty thee and me; then brokeThe thunder like a whole sea overhead—Sebald.Slower, Ottima!Do not lean on me!Ottima.Sebald, as we lay,Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die!Right to be punished! Naught completes such bliss200But woe!" Who said that?Sebald.How did we ever rise?Was't that we slept? Why did it end?Ottima.I felt youTaper into a point the ruffled endsOf my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips.My hair is fallen now: knot it again!205Sebald.I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!This way? Will you forgive me—be once moreMy great queen?Ottima.Bind it thrice about my brow;Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,Magnificent in sin. Say that!Sebald.I crown you210My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,Magnificent—[From without is heard the voice ofPippasinging—The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;215The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn:God's in his heaven—All's right with the world!220[Pippapasses.Sebald.God's in his heaven! Do you hear that?Who spoke?You, you spoke!Ottima.Oh—that little ragged girl!She must have rested on the step: we give themBut this one holiday the whole year round.Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?225There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.She stoops to pick my double heartsease—Sh!She does not hear: call you out louder!Sebald.Leave me!Go, get your clothes on—dress, those shoulders!Ottima.Sebald?Sebald.Wipe off that paint! I hate you.230Ottima.Miserable!Sebald.My God, and she is emptied of it now!Outright now!—how miraculously goneAll of the grace—had she not strange grace once?Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,No purpose holds the features up together,235Only the cloven brow and puckered chinStay in their places; and the very hair,That seemed to have a sort of life in it,Drops, a dead web!Ottima.Speak to me—not of me.Sebald.That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle240Broke the delicious indolence—all broken!Ottima.To me—not of me! Ungrateful, perjured cheat!A coward, too: but ingrate's worse than all!Beggar—my slave—a fawning, cringing lie!Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift!245A lie that walks and eats and drinks!Sebald.My God!Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades—I should have known there was no blood beneath!Ottima.You hate me then? You hate me then?Sebald.To thinkShe would succeed in her absurd attempt,250And fascinate by sinning, show herselfSuperior—guilt from its excess superiorTo innocence! That little peasant's voiceHas righted all again. Though I be lost,I know which is the better, never fear,255Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,Nature or trick! I see what I have done,Entirely now! Oh, I am proud to feelSuch torments—let the world take credit thence—I, having done my deed, pay too its price!260I hate, hate—curse you! God's in his heaven!Ottima.—Me!Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself—kill me!Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me—thenYourself—then—presently—first hear me speakI always meant to kill myself—wait, you!265Lean on my breast—not as a breast; don't love meThe more because you lean on me, my ownHeart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently!Sebald.My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feelIs ... is, at swift-recurring intervals,270A hurry-down within me, as of watersLoosened to smother up some ghastly pit:There they go—whirls from a black, fiery sea!Ottima.Not me—to him, O God, be merciful!
Ottima.Love, to be wise (one counsel pays another),Should we have—months ago, when first we loved,For instance that May morning we two stoleUnder the green ascent of sycamores—Ifwe had come upon a thing like that100Suddenly—
Sebald."A thing"—there again—"a thing!"
Ottima.Then, Venus' body, had we come uponMy husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpseWithin there, at his couch-foot, covered close—Would you have pored upon it? Why persist105In poring now upon it? For 'tis hereAs much as there in the deserted house;You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me,Now he is dead I hate him worse; I hate—Dare you stay here? I would go back and hold110His two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse,Luca, than"—
Sebald.Off, off—take your hands off mine,'Tis the hot evening—off! oh, morning, is it?
Ottima.There's one thing must be done—you know what thing.Come in and help to carry. We may sleep115Anywhere in the whole wide house tonight.
Sebald.What would come, think you, if we let him lieJust as he is? Let him lie there untilThe angels take him! He is turned by thisOff from his face beside, as you will see.120
Ottima.This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.Three, four—four gray hairs! Is it so you saidA plait of hair should wave across my neck?No—this way.
Sebald.Ottima, I would give your neck,Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,125That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world,So Luca lives again!—aye, lives to sputterHis fulsome dotage on you—yes, and feignSurprise that I return at eve to sup,When all the morning I was loitering here—130Bid me dispatch my business and begone.I would—
Ottima.See!
Sebald.No, I'll finish. Do you thinkI fear to speak the bare truth once for all?All we have talked of, is at bottom, fineTo suffer; there's a recompense in guilt;135One must be venturous and fortunate—What is one young for, else? In age we'll sighO'er the wild, reckless, wicked days flown over;Still, we have lived; the vice was in its place.But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn140His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse—Do lovers in romances sin that way?Why, I was starving when I used to callAnd teach you music, starving while you plucked meThese flowers to smell!145
Ottima.My poor lost friend!
Sebald.He gave meLife, nothing else; what if he did reproachMy perfidy, and threaten, and do more—Had he no right? What was to wonder at?He sat by us at table quietly—Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched?150Could he do less than make pretense to strike?'Tis not the crime's sake—I'd commit ten crimesGreater, to have this crime wiped out, undone!And you—oh, how feel you? Feel you for me?
Ottima.Well then, I love you better now than ever,155And best (look at me while I speak to you)—Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth,This mask, this simulated ignorance,This affectation of simplicity,Falls off our crime; this naked crime of ours160May not now be looked over—look it down!Great? Let it be great; but the joys it brought,Pay they or no its price? Come: they or itSpeak not! The past, would you give up the pastSuch as it is, pleasure and crime together?165Give up that noon I owned my love for you?The garden's silence! even the single beePersisting in his toil, suddenly stopped,And where he hid you only could surmiseBy some campanula chalice set a-swing.170Who stammered—"Yes, I love you?"
Sebald.And I drewBack; put far back your face with both my handsLest you should grow too full of me—your faceSo seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!
Ottima.And when I ventured to receive you here,175Made you steal hither in the mornings—
Sebald.WhenI used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,Till the red fire on its glazed windows spreadTo a yellow haze?
Ottima.Ah—my sign was, the sunInflamed the sear side of yon chestnut-tree180Nipped by the first frost.
Sebald.You would always laughAt my wet boots: I had to stride through grassOver my ankles.
Ottima.Then our crowning night!
Sebald.The July night?
Ottima.The day of it too, Sebald!When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,185Its black-blue canopy suffered descendClose on us both, to weigh down each to each,And smother up all life except our life.So lay we till the storm came.
Sebald.How it came!
Ottima.Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;190Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;And ever and anon some bright white shaftBurned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there,As if God's messenger through the close wood screenPlunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,195Feeling for guilty thee and me; then brokeThe thunder like a whole sea overhead—
Sebald.Slower, Ottima!Do not lean on me!
Ottima.Sebald, as we lay,Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die!Right to be punished! Naught completes such bliss200But woe!" Who said that?
Sebald.How did we ever rise?Was't that we slept? Why did it end?
Ottima.I felt youTaper into a point the ruffled endsOf my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips.My hair is fallen now: knot it again!205
Sebald.I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!This way? Will you forgive me—be once moreMy great queen?
Ottima.Bind it thrice about my brow;Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,Magnificent in sin. Say that!
Sebald.I crown you210My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,Magnificent—
[From without is heard the voice ofPippasinging—
The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;215The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn:God's in his heaven—All's right with the world!220
[Pippapasses.
Sebald.God's in his heaven! Do you hear that?Who spoke?You, you spoke!
Ottima.Oh—that little ragged girl!She must have rested on the step: we give themBut this one holiday the whole year round.Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?225There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.She stoops to pick my double heartsease—Sh!She does not hear: call you out louder!
Sebald.Leave me!Go, get your clothes on—dress, those shoulders!
Ottima.Sebald?
Sebald.Wipe off that paint! I hate you.230
Ottima.Miserable!
Sebald.My God, and she is emptied of it now!Outright now!—how miraculously goneAll of the grace—had she not strange grace once?Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,No purpose holds the features up together,235Only the cloven brow and puckered chinStay in their places; and the very hair,That seemed to have a sort of life in it,Drops, a dead web!
Ottima.Speak to me—not of me.
Sebald.That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle240Broke the delicious indolence—all broken!
Ottima.To me—not of me! Ungrateful, perjured cheat!A coward, too: but ingrate's worse than all!Beggar—my slave—a fawning, cringing lie!Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift!245A lie that walks and eats and drinks!
Sebald.My God!Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades—I should have known there was no blood beneath!
Ottima.You hate me then? You hate me then?
Sebald.To thinkShe would succeed in her absurd attempt,250And fascinate by sinning, show herselfSuperior—guilt from its excess superiorTo innocence! That little peasant's voiceHas righted all again. Though I be lost,I know which is the better, never fear,255Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,Nature or trick! I see what I have done,Entirely now! Oh, I am proud to feelSuch torments—let the world take credit thence—I, having done my deed, pay too its price!260I hate, hate—curse you! God's in his heaven!
Ottima.—Me!Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself—kill me!Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me—thenYourself—then—presently—first hear me speakI always meant to kill myself—wait, you!265Lean on my breast—not as a breast; don't love meThe more because you lean on me, my ownHeart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently!
Sebald.My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feelIs ... is, at swift-recurring intervals,270A hurry-down within me, as of watersLoosened to smother up some ghastly pit:There they go—whirls from a black, fiery sea!
Ottima.Not me—to him, O God, be merciful!
Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from the hillside to Orcana. Foreign Students of painting and sculpture, from Venice, assembled opposite the house ofJules,a young French statuary, at Possagno.