1st Student.Attention! My own post is beneath thiswindow, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide threeor four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm andhis pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five—who's adefaulter? We want everybody, for Jules must not be5suffered to hurt his bride when the jest's found out.2nd Student.All here! Only our poet's away—neverhaving much meant to be present, moonstrike him! Theairs of that fellow, that Giovacchino! He was in violentlove with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in10his suit, so unmolested was it—when suddenly a womanfalls in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy hetakes himself off to Trieste, immortal poem and all—wheretois this prophetical epitaph appended already, asBluphocks assures me—"Here a mammoth-poem lies,15Fouled to death by butterflies." His own fault, thesimpleton! Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knifein your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, bothclassically and intelligibly.—Æsculapius, an Epic. Catalogueof the drugs: Hebe's plaister—One strip Cools20your lip. Phœbus's emulsion—One bottle Clears yourthrottle. Mercury's bolus—One box Cures—3rd Student.Subside, my fine fellow! If the marriagewas over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be herein a minute with his bride.252nd Student.Good!—Only, so should the poet's musehave been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks,etcanibus nostris—and Delia not better known to ourliterary dogs than the boy Giovacchino!1st Student.To the point now. Where's Gottlieb,30the new-comer? Oh—listen, Gottlieb, to what has calleddown this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of whichwe now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are allagreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst outon us in a fury by and by: I am spokesman—the verses35that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche—buteach professes himself alike insulted by this struttingstone-squarer, who came alone from Paris to Munich,and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagnohere, but proceeds in a day or two alone again—oh, alone40indubitably!—to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, takeup his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartlessbunglers!—so he was heard to call us all: now, is Schrammbrutalized, I should like to know? Am I heartless?Gottlieb.Why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose Jules45a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this merecoxcombry, you will have brushed off—what do folksstyle it?—the bloom of his life.Is it too late to alter? These love-letters now, youcall his—I can't laugh at them.504th Student.Because you never read the sham lettersof our inditing which drew forth these.Gottlieb.His discovery of the truth will be frightful.
1st Student.Attention! My own post is beneath thiswindow, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide threeor four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm andhis pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five—who's adefaulter? We want everybody, for Jules must not be5suffered to hurt his bride when the jest's found out.
2nd Student.All here! Only our poet's away—neverhaving much meant to be present, moonstrike him! Theairs of that fellow, that Giovacchino! He was in violentlove with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in10his suit, so unmolested was it—when suddenly a womanfalls in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy hetakes himself off to Trieste, immortal poem and all—wheretois this prophetical epitaph appended already, asBluphocks assures me—"Here a mammoth-poem lies,15Fouled to death by butterflies." His own fault, thesimpleton! Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knifein your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, bothclassically and intelligibly.—Æsculapius, an Epic. Catalogueof the drugs: Hebe's plaister—One strip Cools20your lip. Phœbus's emulsion—One bottle Clears yourthrottle. Mercury's bolus—One box Cures—
3rd Student.Subside, my fine fellow! If the marriagewas over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be herein a minute with his bride.25
2nd Student.Good!—Only, so should the poet's musehave been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks,etcanibus nostris—and Delia not better known to ourliterary dogs than the boy Giovacchino!
1st Student.To the point now. Where's Gottlieb,30the new-comer? Oh—listen, Gottlieb, to what has calleddown this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of whichwe now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are allagreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst outon us in a fury by and by: I am spokesman—the verses35that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche—buteach professes himself alike insulted by this struttingstone-squarer, who came alone from Paris to Munich,and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagnohere, but proceeds in a day or two alone again—oh, alone40indubitably!—to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, takeup his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartlessbunglers!—so he was heard to call us all: now, is Schrammbrutalized, I should like to know? Am I heartless?
Gottlieb.Why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose Jules45a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this merecoxcombry, you will have brushed off—what do folksstyle it?—the bloom of his life.
Is it too late to alter? These love-letters now, youcall his—I can't laugh at them.50
4th Student.Because you never read the sham lettersof our inditing which drew forth these.
Gottlieb.His discovery of the truth will be frightful.
4th Student.That's the joke. But you should havejoined us at the beginning; there's no doubt he loves the55girl—loves a model he might hire by the hour!Gottlieb.See here! "He has been accustomed," hewrites, "to have Canova's women about him, in stone,and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these beingas much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration;60but now he is to have the reality." There you laughagain! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth.1st Student.Schramm! (Take the pipe out of hismouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose the bloom of his youth?65Schramm.Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in thisworld: look at a blossom—it drops presently, having doneits service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, andwhere would be the blossom's place could it continue?As well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body,70because its earliest favorite, whatever it may have firstloved to look on, is dead and done with—as that any affectionis lost to the soul when its first object, whateverhappened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course.Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the75mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! Hasa man done wondering at women?—there follow men,dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering atmen?—there's God to wonder at; and the faculty of wondermay be, at the same time, old and tired enough with80respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently,so far as concerns its novel one. Thus—1st Student.Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again!There you see! Well, this Jules—a wretched fribble—oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the other85day! Canova's gallery—you know: there he marches firstresolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafingan eye; all at once he stops full at thePsiche-fanciulla—cannotpass that old acquaintance without anod of encouragement—"In your new place, beauty?90Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich—I seeyou!" Next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinishedPietàfor half an hour without moving, till up hestarts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into—I say,into—the group; by which gesture you are informed that95precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered inCanova's practice was a certain method of using the drillin the articulation of the knee-joint—and that, likewise,has he mastered at length! Good-by, therefore, to poorCanova—whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor100Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble!5th Student.Tell him about the women; go on to thewomen!1st Student.Why, on that matter he could never besupercilious enough. How should we be other (he said)105than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits wecherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least;he would wait, and love only at the proper time, andmeanwhile put up with thePsiche-fanciulla. Now, Ihappened to hear of a young Greek—real Greek girl at110Malamocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's"hair like sea-moss"—Schramm knows!—white and quietas an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest—adaughter of Natalia, so she swears—that hag Natalia, whohelps us to models at threelirean hour. We selected115this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules receiveda scented letter—somebody had seen his Tydeus at theAcademy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profoundadmirer bade him persevere—would make herself known to himere long. (Paolina, my little friend of theFenice,120transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the mysteriouscorrespondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms—thepale cheeks, the black hair—whatever, in short, hadstruck us in our Malamocco model: we retained her name,too—Phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now,125think of Jules finding himself distinguished from theherd of us by such a creature! In his very first answerhe proposed marrying his monitress: and fancy us overthese letters, two, three times a day, to receive anddispatch! I concocted the main of it: relations were in130the way—secrecy must be observed—in fine, would hewed her on trust, and only speak to her when they wereindissolubly united? St—st—Here they come!6th Student.Both of them! Heaven's love, speaksoftly, speak within yourselves!1355th Student.Look at the bridegroom! Half his hairin storm and half in calm—patted down over the lefttemple—like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it! andthe same old blouse that he murders the marble in!2nd Student.Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal140Scratchy!—rich, that your face may the better set it off.6th Student.And the bride! Yes, sure enough, ourPhene! Should you have known her in her clothes?How magnificently pale!Gottlieb.She does not also take it for earnest, I145hope?1st Student.Oh, Natalia's concern, that is! We settlewith Natalia.6th Student.She does not speak—has evidently letout no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember150the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all thoseverses which are to break the secret to Jules?Gottlieb.How he gazes on her! Pity—pity!1st Student.They go in; now, silence! You three—notnearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate—just155where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passedus singing, is seated!
4th Student.That's the joke. But you should havejoined us at the beginning; there's no doubt he loves the55girl—loves a model he might hire by the hour!
Gottlieb.See here! "He has been accustomed," hewrites, "to have Canova's women about him, in stone,and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these beingas much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration;60but now he is to have the reality." There you laughagain! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth.
1st Student.Schramm! (Take the pipe out of hismouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose the bloom of his youth?65
Schramm.Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in thisworld: look at a blossom—it drops presently, having doneits service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, andwhere would be the blossom's place could it continue?As well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body,70because its earliest favorite, whatever it may have firstloved to look on, is dead and done with—as that any affectionis lost to the soul when its first object, whateverhappened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course.Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the75mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! Hasa man done wondering at women?—there follow men,dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering atmen?—there's God to wonder at; and the faculty of wondermay be, at the same time, old and tired enough with80respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently,so far as concerns its novel one. Thus—
1st Student.Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again!There you see! Well, this Jules—a wretched fribble—oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the other85day! Canova's gallery—you know: there he marches firstresolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafingan eye; all at once he stops full at thePsiche-fanciulla—cannotpass that old acquaintance without anod of encouragement—"In your new place, beauty?90Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich—I seeyou!" Next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinishedPietàfor half an hour without moving, till up hestarts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into—I say,into—the group; by which gesture you are informed that95precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered inCanova's practice was a certain method of using the drillin the articulation of the knee-joint—and that, likewise,has he mastered at length! Good-by, therefore, to poorCanova—whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor100Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble!
5th Student.Tell him about the women; go on to thewomen!
1st Student.Why, on that matter he could never besupercilious enough. How should we be other (he said)105than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits wecherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least;he would wait, and love only at the proper time, andmeanwhile put up with thePsiche-fanciulla. Now, Ihappened to hear of a young Greek—real Greek girl at110Malamocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's"hair like sea-moss"—Schramm knows!—white and quietas an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest—adaughter of Natalia, so she swears—that hag Natalia, whohelps us to models at threelirean hour. We selected115this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules receiveda scented letter—somebody had seen his Tydeus at theAcademy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profoundadmirer bade him persevere—would make herself known to himere long. (Paolina, my little friend of theFenice,120transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the mysteriouscorrespondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms—thepale cheeks, the black hair—whatever, in short, hadstruck us in our Malamocco model: we retained her name,too—Phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now,125think of Jules finding himself distinguished from theherd of us by such a creature! In his very first answerhe proposed marrying his monitress: and fancy us overthese letters, two, three times a day, to receive anddispatch! I concocted the main of it: relations were in130the way—secrecy must be observed—in fine, would hewed her on trust, and only speak to her when they wereindissolubly united? St—st—Here they come!
6th Student.Both of them! Heaven's love, speaksoftly, speak within yourselves!135
5th Student.Look at the bridegroom! Half his hairin storm and half in calm—patted down over the lefttemple—like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it! andthe same old blouse that he murders the marble in!
2nd Student.Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal140Scratchy!—rich, that your face may the better set it off.
6th Student.And the bride! Yes, sure enough, ourPhene! Should you have known her in her clothes?How magnificently pale!
Gottlieb.She does not also take it for earnest, I145hope?
1st Student.Oh, Natalia's concern, that is! We settlewith Natalia.
6th Student.She does not speak—has evidently letout no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember150the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all thoseverses which are to break the secret to Jules?
Gottlieb.How he gazes on her! Pity—pity!
1st Student.They go in; now, silence! You three—notnearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate—just155where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passedus singing, is seated!
Scene—Over Orcana. The house ofJules,who crosses its threshold withPhene:she is silent, on whichJulesbegins—
Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, youAre mine now; let fate reach me how she likes,If you'll not die: so, never die! Sit here—My workroom's single seat. I over-leanThis length of hair and lustrous front; they turn5Like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, lastYour chin—no, last your throat turns: 'tis their scentPulls down my face upon you. Nay, look everThis one way till I change, grow you—I couldChange into you, beloved!You by me,10And I by you; this is your hand in mine,And side by side we sit: all's true. Thank God!I have spoken: speak you!O my life to come!My Tydeus must be carved that's there in clay;Yet how be carved, with you about the room?15Where must I place you? When I think that onceThis roomfull of rough block-work seemed my heavenWithout you! Shall I ever work again,Get fairly into my old ways again,Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,20My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—The live truth, passing and repassing me,Sitting beside me?Now speak!Only first,See, all your letters! Was't not well contrived?25Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keepsYour letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?Ah—this that swam down like a first moonbeamInto my world!Again those eyes completeTheir melancholy survey, sweet and slow,30Of beauty—to the human archetype.On me, with pity, yet some wonder too:As if God bade some spirit plague a world,And this were the one moment of surpriseAnd sorrow while she took her station, pausing35O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:This minion, a Coluthus, writ in redBister and azure by Bessarion's scribe—40Read this line—no, shame—Homer's be the GreekFirst breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!This Odyssey in coarse black vivid typeWith faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,To mark great places with due gratitude;45"He said, and on Antinous directedA bitter shaft"—a flower blots out the rest!Again upon your search? My statues, then!—Ah, do not mind that—better that will lookWhen cast in bronze—an Almaign Kaiser, that,50Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized?I thought you would have seen that here you sitAs I imagined you—Hippolyta,Naked upon her bright Numidian horse.55Recall you this, then? "Carve in bold relief"—So you commanded—"carve, against I come,A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch.60'Praise Those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests,'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle wavesAs erst above our champion: stand up all!'"See, I have labored to express your thought.Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms,65(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,Only consenting at the branch's endThey strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face,The Praiser's, in the center: who with eyesSightless, so bend they back to light inside70His brain where visionary forms throng up,Sings, minding not that palpitating archOf hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wineFrom the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off,Violet and parsley crowns to trample on—75Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,Devoutly their unconquerable hymn.But you must say a "well" to that—say "well!"Because you gaze—am I fantastic, sweet?Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble—marbly80Even to the silence! Why, before I foundThe real flesh Phene, I inured myselfTo see, throughout all nature, varied stuffFor better nature's birth by means of art:With me, each substance tended to one form85Of beauty—to the human archetype.On every side occurred suggestive germsOf that—the tree, the flower—or take the fruit—Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs,90Depending, nestled in the leaves; and justFrom a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang.But of the stuffs one can be master of,How I divined their capabilities!From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk95That yields your outline to the air's embrace,Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom;Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sureTo cut its one confided thought clean outOf all the world. But marble!—'neath my tools100More pliable than jelly—as it wereSome clear primordial creature dug from depthsIn the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,And whence all baser substance may be worked;Refine it off to air, you may—condense it105Down to the diamond—is not metal there,When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised110By the swift implement sent home at once,Flushes and glowings radiate and hoverAbout its track?Phene? what—why is this?That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes!Ah, you will die—I knew that you would die!115
Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, youAre mine now; let fate reach me how she likes,If you'll not die: so, never die! Sit here—My workroom's single seat. I over-leanThis length of hair and lustrous front; they turn5Like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, lastYour chin—no, last your throat turns: 'tis their scentPulls down my face upon you. Nay, look everThis one way till I change, grow you—I couldChange into you, beloved!You by me,10And I by you; this is your hand in mine,And side by side we sit: all's true. Thank God!I have spoken: speak you!O my life to come!My Tydeus must be carved that's there in clay;Yet how be carved, with you about the room?15Where must I place you? When I think that onceThis roomfull of rough block-work seemed my heavenWithout you! Shall I ever work again,Get fairly into my old ways again,Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,20My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—The live truth, passing and repassing me,Sitting beside me?Now speak!Only first,See, all your letters! Was't not well contrived?25Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keepsYour letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?Ah—this that swam down like a first moonbeamInto my world!Again those eyes completeTheir melancholy survey, sweet and slow,30Of beauty—to the human archetype.On me, with pity, yet some wonder too:As if God bade some spirit plague a world,And this were the one moment of surpriseAnd sorrow while she took her station, pausing35O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:This minion, a Coluthus, writ in redBister and azure by Bessarion's scribe—40Read this line—no, shame—Homer's be the GreekFirst breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!This Odyssey in coarse black vivid typeWith faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,To mark great places with due gratitude;45"He said, and on Antinous directedA bitter shaft"—a flower blots out the rest!Again upon your search? My statues, then!—Ah, do not mind that—better that will lookWhen cast in bronze—an Almaign Kaiser, that,50Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized?I thought you would have seen that here you sitAs I imagined you—Hippolyta,Naked upon her bright Numidian horse.55Recall you this, then? "Carve in bold relief"—So you commanded—"carve, against I come,A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch.60'Praise Those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests,'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle wavesAs erst above our champion: stand up all!'"See, I have labored to express your thought.Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms,65(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,Only consenting at the branch's endThey strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face,The Praiser's, in the center: who with eyesSightless, so bend they back to light inside70His brain where visionary forms throng up,Sings, minding not that palpitating archOf hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wineFrom the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off,Violet and parsley crowns to trample on—75Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,Devoutly their unconquerable hymn.But you must say a "well" to that—say "well!"Because you gaze—am I fantastic, sweet?Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble—marbly80Even to the silence! Why, before I foundThe real flesh Phene, I inured myselfTo see, throughout all nature, varied stuffFor better nature's birth by means of art:With me, each substance tended to one form85Of beauty—to the human archetype.On every side occurred suggestive germsOf that—the tree, the flower—or take the fruit—Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs,90Depending, nestled in the leaves; and justFrom a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang.But of the stuffs one can be master of,How I divined their capabilities!From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk95That yields your outline to the air's embrace,Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom;Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sureTo cut its one confided thought clean outOf all the world. But marble!—'neath my tools100More pliable than jelly—as it wereSome clear primordial creature dug from depthsIn the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,And whence all baser substance may be worked;Refine it off to air, you may—condense it105Down to the diamond—is not metal there,When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised110By the swift implement sent home at once,Flushes and glowings radiate and hoverAbout its track?Phene? what—why is this?That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes!Ah, you will die—I knew that you would die!115
Phenebegins, on his having long remained silent.
Now the end's coming; to be sure, it mustHave ended sometime! Tush, why need I speakTheir foolish speech? I cannot bring to mindOne half of it, beside; and do not careFor old Natalia now, nor any of them.120Oh, you—what are you?—if I do not tryTo say the words Natalia made me learn;To please your friends—it is to keep myselfWhere your voice lifted me, by letting thatProceed; but can it? Even you, perhaps,125Cannot take up, now you have once let fall,The music's life, and me along with that—No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are—Above the world.You creature with the eyes!If I could look forever up to them,130As now you let me—I believe all sin,All memory of wrong done, suffering borne,Would drop down, low and lower, to the earthWhence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay—Never to overtake the rest of me,135All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself,Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink,Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so,Above the world!140But you sink, for your eyesAre altering—altered! Stay—"I love you, love"—I could prevent it if I understood:More of your words to me; was 't in the toneOr the words, your power?Or stay—I will repeatTheir speech, if that contents you! Only change145No more, and I shall find it presentlyFar back here, in the brain yourself filled up.Natalia threatened me that harm should followUnless I spoke their lesson to the end,But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.150Your friends—Natalia said they were your friendsAnd meant you well—because, I doubted it,Observing (what was very strange to see)On every face, so different in all else,The same smile girls like me are used to bear,155But never men, men cannot stoop so low;Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceitWhich seems to take possession of the worldAnd make of God a tame confederate,160Purveyor to their appetites—you know!But still Natalia said they were your friends,And they assented though they smiled the more,And all came round me—that thin EnglishmanWith light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;165He held a paper—"What we want," said he,Ending some explanation to his friends,"Is something slow, involved, and mystical,To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his tasteAnd lure him on until, at innermost170Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find—this!—As in the apple's core, the noisome fly;For insects on the rind are seen at once,And brushed aside as soon, but this is foundOnly when on the lips or loathing tongue."175And so he read what I have got by heart:I'll speak it—"Do not die, love! I am yours"—No—is not that, or like that, part of wordsYourself began by speaking? Strange to loseWhat cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?180I am a painter who cannot paint;In my life, a devil rather than saint;In my brain, as poor a creature too:No end to all I cannot do!Yet do one thing at least I can—185Love a man or hate a manSupremely: thus my lore began.Through the Valley of Love I went,In the lovingest spot to abide,And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,190I found Hate dwelling beside.(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)And further, I traversed Hate's grove,In the hatefullest nook to dwell;195But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched LoveWhere the shadow threefold fell.(The meaning—those black bride's-eyes above,Not a painter's lip should tell!)"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask,200'You have black eyes, Love—you are, sure enough,My peerless bride—then do you tell indeedWhat needs some explanation! What means this?'"—And I am to go on, without a word—So I grew wise in Love and Hate,205From simple that I was of late.Once when I loved, I would enlaceBreast, eyelids, hands, feet, form, and faceOf her I loved, in one embrace—As if by mere love I could love immensely!210Once, when I hated, I would plungeMy sword, and wipe with the first lungeMy foe's whole life out like a sponge—As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!But now I am wiser, know better the fashion215How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion;And if I see cause to love more, hate moreThan ever man loved, ever hated before—And seek in the Valley of Love,The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove,220Where my soul may surely reachThe essence, naught less, of each,The Hate of all Hates, the LoveOf all Loves, in the Valley or Grove—I find them the very warders225Each of the other's borders.When I love most, Love is disguisedIn Hate; and when Hate is surprisedIn Love, then I hate most: askHow Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,230Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask—And how, having hated thee,I sought long and painfullyTo reach thy heart, nor prickThe skin but pierce to the quick—235Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straightBy thy bride—how the painter Lutwyche can hate!JulesinterposesLutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt,Hated me: they at Venice—presentlyTheir turn, however! You I shall not meet:240If I dreamed, saying this would wake me.KeepWhat's here, the gold—we cannot meet again,Consider! and the money was but meantFor two years' travel, which is over now,All chance or hope or care or need of it.245This—and what comes from selling these, my castsAnd books and medals, except—let them goTogether, so the produce keeps you safeOut of Natalia's clutches! If by chance(For all's chance here) I should survive the gang250At Venice, root out all fifteen of them,We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.
Now the end's coming; to be sure, it mustHave ended sometime! Tush, why need I speakTheir foolish speech? I cannot bring to mindOne half of it, beside; and do not careFor old Natalia now, nor any of them.120Oh, you—what are you?—if I do not tryTo say the words Natalia made me learn;To please your friends—it is to keep myselfWhere your voice lifted me, by letting thatProceed; but can it? Even you, perhaps,125Cannot take up, now you have once let fall,The music's life, and me along with that—No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are—Above the world.You creature with the eyes!If I could look forever up to them,130As now you let me—I believe all sin,All memory of wrong done, suffering borne,Would drop down, low and lower, to the earthWhence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay—Never to overtake the rest of me,135All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself,Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink,Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so,Above the world!140But you sink, for your eyesAre altering—altered! Stay—"I love you, love"—I could prevent it if I understood:More of your words to me; was 't in the toneOr the words, your power?Or stay—I will repeatTheir speech, if that contents you! Only change145No more, and I shall find it presentlyFar back here, in the brain yourself filled up.Natalia threatened me that harm should followUnless I spoke their lesson to the end,But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.150Your friends—Natalia said they were your friendsAnd meant you well—because, I doubted it,Observing (what was very strange to see)On every face, so different in all else,The same smile girls like me are used to bear,155But never men, men cannot stoop so low;Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceitWhich seems to take possession of the worldAnd make of God a tame confederate,160Purveyor to their appetites—you know!But still Natalia said they were your friends,And they assented though they smiled the more,And all came round me—that thin EnglishmanWith light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;165He held a paper—"What we want," said he,Ending some explanation to his friends,"Is something slow, involved, and mystical,To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his tasteAnd lure him on until, at innermost170Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find—this!—As in the apple's core, the noisome fly;For insects on the rind are seen at once,And brushed aside as soon, but this is foundOnly when on the lips or loathing tongue."175And so he read what I have got by heart:I'll speak it—"Do not die, love! I am yours"—No—is not that, or like that, part of wordsYourself began by speaking? Strange to loseWhat cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?180
I am a painter who cannot paint;In my life, a devil rather than saint;In my brain, as poor a creature too:No end to all I cannot do!Yet do one thing at least I can—185Love a man or hate a manSupremely: thus my lore began.Through the Valley of Love I went,In the lovingest spot to abide,And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,190I found Hate dwelling beside.(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)And further, I traversed Hate's grove,In the hatefullest nook to dwell;195But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched LoveWhere the shadow threefold fell.(The meaning—those black bride's-eyes above,Not a painter's lip should tell!)
"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask,200'You have black eyes, Love—you are, sure enough,My peerless bride—then do you tell indeedWhat needs some explanation! What means this?'"—And I am to go on, without a word—
So I grew wise in Love and Hate,205From simple that I was of late.Once when I loved, I would enlaceBreast, eyelids, hands, feet, form, and faceOf her I loved, in one embrace—As if by mere love I could love immensely!210Once, when I hated, I would plungeMy sword, and wipe with the first lungeMy foe's whole life out like a sponge—As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!But now I am wiser, know better the fashion215How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion;And if I see cause to love more, hate moreThan ever man loved, ever hated before—And seek in the Valley of Love,The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove,220Where my soul may surely reachThe essence, naught less, of each,The Hate of all Hates, the LoveOf all Loves, in the Valley or Grove—I find them the very warders225Each of the other's borders.When I love most, Love is disguisedIn Hate; and when Hate is surprisedIn Love, then I hate most: askHow Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,230Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask—And how, having hated thee,I sought long and painfullyTo reach thy heart, nor prickThe skin but pierce to the quick—235Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straightBy thy bride—how the painter Lutwyche can hate!
Julesinterposes
Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt,Hated me: they at Venice—presentlyTheir turn, however! You I shall not meet:240If I dreamed, saying this would wake me.KeepWhat's here, the gold—we cannot meet again,Consider! and the money was but meantFor two years' travel, which is over now,All chance or hope or care or need of it.245This—and what comes from selling these, my castsAnd books and medals, except—let them goTogether, so the produce keeps you safeOut of Natalia's clutches! If by chance(For all's chance here) I should survive the gang250At Venice, root out all fifteen of them,We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.
[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—
Give her but a least excuse to love me!When—where—How—can this arm establish her above me,255If fortune fixed her as my lady there,There already, to eternally reprove me?("Hist!"—said Kate the Queen;But "Oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'Tis only a page that carols unseen,260Crumbling your hounds their messes!")Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her honor,My heart!Is she poor?—What costs it to be styled a donor?Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.265But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!("Nay, list!"—bade Kate the Queen;And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'Tis only a page that carols unseenFitting your hawks their jesses!")270[Pippapasses.JulesresumesWhat name was that the little girl sang forth?Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renouncedThe crown of Cyprus to be lady hereAt Asolo, where still her memory stays,And peasants sing how once a certain page275Pined for the grace of her so far aboveHis power of doing good to, "Kate the Queen—She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,"Need him to help her!"Yes, a bitter thingTo see our lady above all need of us;280Yet so we look ere we will love; not I,But the world looks so. If whoever lovesMust be, in some sort, god or worshiper,The blessing or the blest-one, queen or page,Why should we always choose the page's part?285Here is a woman with utter need of me—I find myself queen here, it seems!How strange!Look at the woman here with the new soul,Like my own Psyche—fresh upon her lipsAlit the visionary butterfly,290Waiting my word to enter and make bright,Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.This body had no soul before, but sleptOr stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, freeFrom taint or foul with stain, as outward things295Fastened their image on its passiveness;Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuffBe Art—and further, to evoke a soulFrom form be nothing? This new soul is mine!300Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?—saveA wretched dauber, men will hoot to deathWithout me, from their hooting. Oh, to hearGod's voice plain as I heard it first, beforeThey broke in with their laughter! I heard them305Henceforth, not God.To Ancona—Greece—some isle!I wanted silence only; there is clayEverywhere. One may do whate'er one likesIn Art; the only thing is, to make sureThat one does like it—which takes pains to know.310Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends,What the whole world except our love—my own,Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,Ere night we travel for your land—some isle315With the sea's silence on it? Stand aside—I do but break these paltry models upTo begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, I—And save him from my statue meeting him?Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!320Like a god going through his world, there standsOne mountain for a moment in the dusk,Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow;And you are ever by me while I gaze—Are in my arms as now—as now—as now!325Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!
Give her but a least excuse to love me!When—where—How—can this arm establish her above me,255If fortune fixed her as my lady there,There already, to eternally reprove me?("Hist!"—said Kate the Queen;But "Oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'Tis only a page that carols unseen,260Crumbling your hounds their messes!")
Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her honor,My heart!Is she poor?—What costs it to be styled a donor?Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.265But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!("Nay, list!"—bade Kate the Queen;And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'Tis only a page that carols unseenFitting your hawks their jesses!")270
[Pippapasses.
Julesresumes
What name was that the little girl sang forth?Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renouncedThe crown of Cyprus to be lady hereAt Asolo, where still her memory stays,And peasants sing how once a certain page275Pined for the grace of her so far aboveHis power of doing good to, "Kate the Queen—She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,"Need him to help her!"Yes, a bitter thingTo see our lady above all need of us;280Yet so we look ere we will love; not I,But the world looks so. If whoever lovesMust be, in some sort, god or worshiper,The blessing or the blest-one, queen or page,Why should we always choose the page's part?285Here is a woman with utter need of me—I find myself queen here, it seems!How strange!Look at the woman here with the new soul,Like my own Psyche—fresh upon her lipsAlit the visionary butterfly,290Waiting my word to enter and make bright,Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.This body had no soul before, but sleptOr stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, freeFrom taint or foul with stain, as outward things295Fastened their image on its passiveness;Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuffBe Art—and further, to evoke a soulFrom form be nothing? This new soul is mine!300
Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?—saveA wretched dauber, men will hoot to deathWithout me, from their hooting. Oh, to hearGod's voice plain as I heard it first, beforeThey broke in with their laughter! I heard them305Henceforth, not God.To Ancona—Greece—some isle!I wanted silence only; there is clayEverywhere. One may do whate'er one likesIn Art; the only thing is, to make sureThat one does like it—which takes pains to know.310Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends,What the whole world except our love—my own,Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,Ere night we travel for your land—some isle315With the sea's silence on it? Stand aside—I do but break these paltry models upTo begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, I—And save him from my statue meeting him?Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!320Like a god going through his world, there standsOne mountain for a moment in the dusk,Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow;And you are ever by me while I gaze—Are in my arms as now—as now—as now!325Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!
Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from Orcana to the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering withBluphocks,an English vagabond, just in view of the Turret.
Bluphocks.So, that is your Pippa, the little girl whopassed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant'smoney shall be honestly earned:—now, don't make methat sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into thebusiness; we know he can have nothing to do with such5horrors; we know that he is a saint and all that a bishopshould be, who is a great man beside.Oh, were but everyworm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every bough a Christmasfaggot, Every tune a jig!In fact, I have abjured all religions;but the last I inclined to was the Armenian: for10I have traveled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, PrussiaImproper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak hungrysun there), you might remark over a venerable house-porcha certain Chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, amere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of15every bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all; theyoung and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the agedand decrepit, with a sensible alacrity: 'twas the GrandRabbi's abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost notime in learning Syriac—(these are vowels, you dogs—follow20my stick's end in the mud—Celarent, Darii, Ferio!)and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand,a, b, c—I picked it out letter by letter, and what was thepurport of this miraculous posy? Some cherished legendof the past, you'll say—"How Moses hocus-pocussed25Egypt's land with fly and locust"—or, "How to Jonahsounded harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish"—or,"How the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returneda salaam." In no wise! "Shackabrack—Boach—somebodyor other—Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser, and30Ex-chan-ger of—Stolen Goods!" So, talk to me of thereligion of a bishop! I have renounced all bishops saveBishop Beveridge—mean to live so—and die—As someGreek dog-sage, dead and merry, Hellward bound inCharon's wherry with food for both worlds, under and35upper, Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, and never anobolus.(Though thanks to you, or this Intendant throughyou, or this Bishop through his Intendant—I possess aburning pocketful ofzwanzigers)To pay Stygian Ferry!1st Policeman.There is the girl, then; go and deserve40them the moment you have pointed out to us SignorLuigi and his mother. [To the rest.] I have beennoticing a house yonder, this long while—not a shutterunclosed since morning!2nd Policeman.Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills45here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply,says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and thendozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, theforeigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Nevermolest such a household; they mean well.50Bluphocks.Only, cannot you tell me something ofthis little Pippa I must have to do with? One couldmake something of that name. Pippa—that is, short forFelippa—rhyming toPanurge consults Hertrippa—Believestthou, King Agrippa?Something might be done55with that name.2nd Policeman.Put into rhyme that your head and aripe muskmelon would not be dear at half azwanziger!Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon 's overor nearly so.603rd Policeman.Where in this passport of SignorLuigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him sonarrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature?(That English fool's busy watching.)2nd Policeman.Flourish all round—"Put all possible65obstacles in his way"; oblong dot at the end—"Detainhim till further advices reach you"; scratch at bottom—"Sendhim back on pretense of some informality in theabove"; ink-spirt on right-hand side (which is the casehere)—"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I70don't concern myself, but my instructions amount tothis: if Signor Luigi leaves home tonight for Vienna—welland good, the passport deposed with us for ourvisa is really for his own use, they have misinformed theOffice, and he means well; but let him stay over tonight—there75has been the pretense we suspect, the accounts ofhis corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonariare correct, we arrest him at once, tomorrowcomes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocksmakes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the80turret with his mother, no doubt.
Bluphocks.So, that is your Pippa, the little girl whopassed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant'smoney shall be honestly earned:—now, don't make methat sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into thebusiness; we know he can have nothing to do with such5horrors; we know that he is a saint and all that a bishopshould be, who is a great man beside.Oh, were but everyworm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every bough a Christmasfaggot, Every tune a jig!In fact, I have abjured all religions;but the last I inclined to was the Armenian: for10I have traveled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, PrussiaImproper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak hungrysun there), you might remark over a venerable house-porcha certain Chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, amere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of15every bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all; theyoung and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the agedand decrepit, with a sensible alacrity: 'twas the GrandRabbi's abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost notime in learning Syriac—(these are vowels, you dogs—follow20my stick's end in the mud—Celarent, Darii, Ferio!)and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand,a, b, c—I picked it out letter by letter, and what was thepurport of this miraculous posy? Some cherished legendof the past, you'll say—"How Moses hocus-pocussed25Egypt's land with fly and locust"—or, "How to Jonahsounded harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish"—or,"How the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returneda salaam." In no wise! "Shackabrack—Boach—somebodyor other—Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser, and30Ex-chan-ger of—Stolen Goods!" So, talk to me of thereligion of a bishop! I have renounced all bishops saveBishop Beveridge—mean to live so—and die—As someGreek dog-sage, dead and merry, Hellward bound inCharon's wherry with food for both worlds, under and35upper, Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, and never anobolus.(Though thanks to you, or this Intendant throughyou, or this Bishop through his Intendant—I possess aburning pocketful ofzwanzigers)To pay Stygian Ferry!
1st Policeman.There is the girl, then; go and deserve40them the moment you have pointed out to us SignorLuigi and his mother. [To the rest.] I have beennoticing a house yonder, this long while—not a shutterunclosed since morning!
2nd Policeman.Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills45here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply,says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and thendozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, theforeigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Nevermolest such a household; they mean well.50
Bluphocks.Only, cannot you tell me something ofthis little Pippa I must have to do with? One couldmake something of that name. Pippa—that is, short forFelippa—rhyming toPanurge consults Hertrippa—Believestthou, King Agrippa?Something might be done55with that name.
2nd Policeman.Put into rhyme that your head and aripe muskmelon would not be dear at half azwanziger!Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon 's overor nearly so.60
3rd Policeman.Where in this passport of SignorLuigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him sonarrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature?(That English fool's busy watching.)
2nd Policeman.Flourish all round—"Put all possible65obstacles in his way"; oblong dot at the end—"Detainhim till further advices reach you"; scratch at bottom—"Sendhim back on pretense of some informality in theabove"; ink-spirt on right-hand side (which is the casehere)—"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I70don't concern myself, but my instructions amount tothis: if Signor Luigi leaves home tonight for Vienna—welland good, the passport deposed with us for ourvisa is really for his own use, they have misinformed theOffice, and he means well; but let him stay over tonight—there75has been the pretense we suspect, the accounts ofhis corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonariare correct, we arrest him at once, tomorrowcomes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocksmakes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the80turret with his mother, no doubt.
Scene.—Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo.Luigiand hisMotherentering.