Mother.If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easingThe utmost heaviness of music's heart.Luigi.Here in the archway?Mother.Oh, no, no—in farther,Where the echo is made, on the ridge.Luigi.Here surely, then.How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up!5Hark—"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voiceWhose body is caught and kept by—what are those?Mere withered wall flowers, waving overhead?They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hairThat lean out of their topmost fortress—look10And listen, mountain men, to what we say,Hand under chin of each grave earthy face.Up and show faces all of you!—"All of you!"That's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz,Come down and meet your fate? Hark—"Meet your fate!"15Mother.Let him not meet it, my Luigi—do notGo to his City! Putting crime aside,Half of these ills of Italy are feigned:Your Pellicos and writers for effect,Write for effect.20Luigi.Hush! Say A writes, and B.Mother.These A's and B's write for effect, I say.Then, evil is in its nature loud, while goodIs silent; you hear each petty injury,None of his virtues; he is old beside,Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why25Do A and B not kill him themselves?Luigi.They teachOthers to kill him—me—and, if I fail,Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed,I could not teach that: mine's the lesser task.Mother, they visit night by night—Mother.—You, Luigi?30Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?Luigi.Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,You may assure yourself I say and sayEver to myself! At times—nay, even as nowWe sit—I think my mind is touched, suspect35All is not sound; but is not knowing thatWhat constitutes one sane or otherwise?I know I am thus—so, all is right again.I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,And see men merry as if no Italy40Were suffering; then I ponder—"I am rich,Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me,More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble.No, trouble's a bad word; for as I walkThere's springing and melody and giddiness,45And old quaint turns and passages of my youth,Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves,Return to me—whatever may amuse me,And earth seems in a truce with me, and heavenAccords with me, all things suspend their strife,50The very cicala laughs, "There goes he, and there!Feast him, the time is short; he is on his wayFor the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!"And in return for all this, I can tripCheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go55This evening, mother!Mother.But mistrust yourself—Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him!
Mother.If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easingThe utmost heaviness of music's heart.
Luigi.Here in the archway?
Mother.Oh, no, no—in farther,Where the echo is made, on the ridge.
Luigi.Here surely, then.How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up!5Hark—"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voiceWhose body is caught and kept by—what are those?Mere withered wall flowers, waving overhead?They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hairThat lean out of their topmost fortress—look10And listen, mountain men, to what we say,Hand under chin of each grave earthy face.Up and show faces all of you!—"All of you!"That's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz,Come down and meet your fate? Hark—"Meet your fate!"15
Mother.Let him not meet it, my Luigi—do notGo to his City! Putting crime aside,Half of these ills of Italy are feigned:Your Pellicos and writers for effect,Write for effect.20
Luigi.Hush! Say A writes, and B.
Mother.These A's and B's write for effect, I say.Then, evil is in its nature loud, while goodIs silent; you hear each petty injury,None of his virtues; he is old beside,Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why25Do A and B not kill him themselves?
Luigi.They teachOthers to kill him—me—and, if I fail,Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed,I could not teach that: mine's the lesser task.Mother, they visit night by night—
Mother.—You, Luigi?30Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?
Luigi.Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,You may assure yourself I say and sayEver to myself! At times—nay, even as nowWe sit—I think my mind is touched, suspect35All is not sound; but is not knowing thatWhat constitutes one sane or otherwise?I know I am thus—so, all is right again.I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,And see men merry as if no Italy40Were suffering; then I ponder—"I am rich,Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me,More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble.No, trouble's a bad word; for as I walkThere's springing and melody and giddiness,45And old quaint turns and passages of my youth,Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves,Return to me—whatever may amuse me,And earth seems in a truce with me, and heavenAccords with me, all things suspend their strife,50The very cicala laughs, "There goes he, and there!Feast him, the time is short; he is on his wayFor the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!"And in return for all this, I can tripCheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go55This evening, mother!
Mother.But mistrust yourself—Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him!
Luigi.Oh, there I feel—am sure that I am right!Mother.Mistrust your judgment, then, of the mere meansTo this wild enterprise. Say you are right—60How should one in your state e'er bring to passWhat would require a cool head, a cold heart,And a calm hand? You never will escape.Luigi.Escape? To even wish that would spoil all.The dying is best part of it. Too much65Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine,To leave myself excuse for longer life:Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy,That I might finish with it ere my fellowsWho, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay?70I was put at the board-head, helped to allAt first; I rise up happy and content.God must be glad one loves his world so much.I can give news of earth to all the deadWho ask me:—last year's sunsets, and great stars75Which had a right to come first and see ebbThe crimson wave that drifts the sun away—Those crescent moons with notched and burning rimsThat strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,Impatient of the azure—and that day80In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm—May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights—Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!Mother.(He will not go!)Luigi.You smile at me? 'Tis true—Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,85Environ my devotedness as quaintlyAs round about some antique altar wreatheThe rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.Mother.See now: you reach the city, you must crossHis threshold—how?Luigi.Oh, that's if we conspired!90Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess—But guess not how the qualities most fitFor such an office, qualities I have,Would little stead me, otherwise employed,Yet prove of rarest merit only here.95Everyone knows for what his excellenceWill serve, but no one ever will considerFor what his worst defect might serve; and yetHave you not seen me range our coppice yonderIn search of a distorted ash?—I find100The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow.Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned manArriving at the palace on my errand!No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up—White satin here, to set off my black hair;105In I shall march—for you may watch your life outBehind thick walls, make friends there to betray you;More than one man spoils everything. March straight—Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for.Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on110Through guards and guards—I have rehearsed it allInside the turret here a hundred timesDon't ask the way of whom you meet, observe!But where they cluster thickliest is the doorOf doors; they'll let you pass—they'll never blab115Each to the other, he knows not the favorite,Whence he is bound and what's his business now.Walk in—straight up to him; you have no knife:Be prompt, how should he scream? Then, out with you!Italy, Italy, my Italy!120You're free, you're free! Oh, mother, I could dreamThey got about me—Andrea from his exile,Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave!Mother.Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotismThe easiest virtue for a selfish man125To acquire: he loves himself—and next, the world—If he must love beyond—but naught between:As a short-sighted man sees naught midwayHis body and the sun above. But youAre my adored Luigi, ever obedient130To my least wish, and running o'er with love;I could not call you cruel or unkind.Once more, your ground for killing him!—then go!Luigi.Now do you try me, or make sport of me?How first the Austrians got these provinces—135(If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon)—Never by conquest but by cunning, forThat treaty whereby—Mother.Well?Luigi.(Sure, he's arrived,The telltale cuckoo; spring's his confidant,And he lets out her April purposes!)140Or—better go at once to modern time,He has—they have—in fact, I understandBut can't restate the matter; that's my boast:Others could reason it out to you, and proveThings they have made me feel.Mother.Why go tonight?145Morn's for adventure. Jupiter is nowA morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi!Luigi."I am the bright and morning-star," saith God—And, "to such an one I give the morning-star."The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's gift150Of the morning-star?Mother.Chiara will love to seeThat Jupiter an evening-star next June.Luigi.True, mother. Well for those who live through June!Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pompsThat triumph at the heels of June the god155Leading his revel through our leafy world.Yes, Chiara will be here.Mother.In June: remember,Yourself appointed that month for her coming.Luigi.Was that low noise the echo?Mother.The night-wind.She must be grown—with her blue eyes upturned160As if life were one long and sweet surprise:In June she comes.Luigi.We were to see togetherThe Titian at Treviso. There, again![From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—A king lived long ago,In the morning of the world,165When earth was nigher heaven than now.And the king's locks curled,Disparting o'er a forehead fullAs the milk-white space 'twixt horn and hornOf some sacrificial bull—170Only calm as a babe new-born:For he was got to a sleepy mood,So safe from all decrepitude,Age with its bane, so sure gone by,(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)175That, having lived thus long, there seemedNo need the king should ever die.Luigi.No need that sort of king should ever die!Among the rocks his city was:Before his palace, in the sun,180He sat to see his people pass,And judge them every oneFrom its threshold of smooth stone.They haled him many a valley-thiefCaught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief185Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat,Spy-prowler, or rough pirate foundOn the sea-sand left aground;And sometimes clung about his feet,With bleeding lid and burning cheek,190A woman, bitterest wrong to speakOf one with sullen thickset brows:And sometimes from the prison-houseThe angry priests a pale wretch brought,Who through some chink had pushed and pressed195On knees and elbows, belly and breast,Worm-like into the temple—caughtHe was by the very god,Whoever in the darkness strodeBackward and forward, keeping watch200O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch!These, all and everyone,The king judged, sitting in the sun.Luigi.That king should still judge sitting in the sun!His councilors, on left and right,205Looked anxious up—but no surpriseDisturbed the king's old smiling eyes,Where the very blue had turned to white.'Tis said, a Python scared one dayThe breathless city, till he came,210With forky tongue and eyes on flame,Where the old king sat to judge alway;But when he saw the sweepy hairGirt with a crown of berries rareWhich the god will hardly give to wear215To the maiden who singeth, dancing bareIn the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,At his wondrous forest rites—Seeing this, he did not dareApproach that threshold in the sun,220Assault the old king smiling there.Such grace had kings when the world begun![Pippapasses.
Luigi.Oh, there I feel—am sure that I am right!
Mother.Mistrust your judgment, then, of the mere meansTo this wild enterprise. Say you are right—60How should one in your state e'er bring to passWhat would require a cool head, a cold heart,And a calm hand? You never will escape.
Luigi.Escape? To even wish that would spoil all.The dying is best part of it. Too much65Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine,To leave myself excuse for longer life:Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy,That I might finish with it ere my fellowsWho, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay?70I was put at the board-head, helped to allAt first; I rise up happy and content.God must be glad one loves his world so much.I can give news of earth to all the deadWho ask me:—last year's sunsets, and great stars75Which had a right to come first and see ebbThe crimson wave that drifts the sun away—Those crescent moons with notched and burning rimsThat strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,Impatient of the azure—and that day80In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm—May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights—Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!
Mother.(He will not go!)
Luigi.You smile at me? 'Tis true—Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,85Environ my devotedness as quaintlyAs round about some antique altar wreatheThe rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.
Mother.See now: you reach the city, you must crossHis threshold—how?
Luigi.Oh, that's if we conspired!90Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess—But guess not how the qualities most fitFor such an office, qualities I have,Would little stead me, otherwise employed,Yet prove of rarest merit only here.95Everyone knows for what his excellenceWill serve, but no one ever will considerFor what his worst defect might serve; and yetHave you not seen me range our coppice yonderIn search of a distorted ash?—I find100The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow.Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned manArriving at the palace on my errand!No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up—White satin here, to set off my black hair;105In I shall march—for you may watch your life outBehind thick walls, make friends there to betray you;More than one man spoils everything. March straight—Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for.Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on110Through guards and guards—I have rehearsed it allInside the turret here a hundred timesDon't ask the way of whom you meet, observe!But where they cluster thickliest is the doorOf doors; they'll let you pass—they'll never blab115Each to the other, he knows not the favorite,Whence he is bound and what's his business now.Walk in—straight up to him; you have no knife:Be prompt, how should he scream? Then, out with you!Italy, Italy, my Italy!120You're free, you're free! Oh, mother, I could dreamThey got about me—Andrea from his exile,Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave!
Mother.Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotismThe easiest virtue for a selfish man125To acquire: he loves himself—and next, the world—If he must love beyond—but naught between:As a short-sighted man sees naught midwayHis body and the sun above. But youAre my adored Luigi, ever obedient130To my least wish, and running o'er with love;I could not call you cruel or unkind.Once more, your ground for killing him!—then go!
Luigi.Now do you try me, or make sport of me?How first the Austrians got these provinces—135(If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon)—Never by conquest but by cunning, forThat treaty whereby—
Mother.Well?
Luigi.(Sure, he's arrived,The telltale cuckoo; spring's his confidant,And he lets out her April purposes!)140Or—better go at once to modern time,He has—they have—in fact, I understandBut can't restate the matter; that's my boast:Others could reason it out to you, and proveThings they have made me feel.
Mother.Why go tonight?145Morn's for adventure. Jupiter is nowA morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi!
Luigi."I am the bright and morning-star," saith God—And, "to such an one I give the morning-star."The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's gift150Of the morning-star?
Mother.Chiara will love to seeThat Jupiter an evening-star next June.
Luigi.True, mother. Well for those who live through June!Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pompsThat triumph at the heels of June the god155Leading his revel through our leafy world.Yes, Chiara will be here.
Mother.In June: remember,Yourself appointed that month for her coming.
Luigi.Was that low noise the echo?
Mother.The night-wind.She must be grown—with her blue eyes upturned160As if life were one long and sweet surprise:In June she comes.
Luigi.We were to see togetherThe Titian at Treviso. There, again!
[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—
A king lived long ago,In the morning of the world,165When earth was nigher heaven than now.And the king's locks curled,Disparting o'er a forehead fullAs the milk-white space 'twixt horn and hornOf some sacrificial bull—170Only calm as a babe new-born:For he was got to a sleepy mood,So safe from all decrepitude,Age with its bane, so sure gone by,(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)175That, having lived thus long, there seemedNo need the king should ever die.
Luigi.No need that sort of king should ever die!
Among the rocks his city was:Before his palace, in the sun,180He sat to see his people pass,And judge them every oneFrom its threshold of smooth stone.They haled him many a valley-thiefCaught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief185Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat,Spy-prowler, or rough pirate foundOn the sea-sand left aground;And sometimes clung about his feet,With bleeding lid and burning cheek,190A woman, bitterest wrong to speakOf one with sullen thickset brows:And sometimes from the prison-houseThe angry priests a pale wretch brought,Who through some chink had pushed and pressed195On knees and elbows, belly and breast,Worm-like into the temple—caughtHe was by the very god,Whoever in the darkness strodeBackward and forward, keeping watch200O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch!These, all and everyone,The king judged, sitting in the sun.
Luigi.That king should still judge sitting in the sun!
His councilors, on left and right,205Looked anxious up—but no surpriseDisturbed the king's old smiling eyes,Where the very blue had turned to white.'Tis said, a Python scared one dayThe breathless city, till he came,210With forky tongue and eyes on flame,Where the old king sat to judge alway;But when he saw the sweepy hairGirt with a crown of berries rareWhich the god will hardly give to wear215To the maiden who singeth, dancing bareIn the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,At his wondrous forest rites—Seeing this, he did not dareApproach that threshold in the sun,220Assault the old king smiling there.Such grace had kings when the world begun!
[Pippapasses.
Luigi.And such grace have they, now that the world ends!The Python at the city, on the throne,And brave men, God would crown for slaying him,225Lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey.Are crowns yet to be won in this late time,Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach?Tis God's voice calls; how could I stay? Farewell!
Luigi.And such grace have they, now that the world ends!The Python at the city, on the throne,And brave men, God would crown for slaying him,225Lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey.Are crowns yet to be won in this late time,Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach?Tis God's voice calls; how could I stay? Farewell!
Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from the Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. PoorGirlssitting on the steps.
1st Girl.There goes a swallow to Venice—the stout seafarer!Seeing those birds fly makes one wish for wings.Let us all wish; you wish first!2nd Girl.I? This sunsetTo finish.3rd Girl.That old—somebody I know,Grayer and older than my grandfather,5To give me the same treat he gave last week—Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumblingThe while some folly about how well I fare,Let sit and eat my supper quietly:10Since had he not himself been late this morning,Detained at—never mind where—had he not—"Eh, baggage, had I not!"—2nd Girl.How she can lie!3rd Girl.Look there—by the nails!
1st Girl.There goes a swallow to Venice—the stout seafarer!Seeing those birds fly makes one wish for wings.Let us all wish; you wish first!
2nd Girl.I? This sunsetTo finish.
3rd Girl.That old—somebody I know,Grayer and older than my grandfather,5To give me the same treat he gave last week—Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumblingThe while some folly about how well I fare,Let sit and eat my supper quietly:10Since had he not himself been late this morning,Detained at—never mind where—had he not—"Eh, baggage, had I not!"—
2nd Girl.How she can lie!
3rd Girl.Look there—by the nails!
2nd Girl.What makes your fingers red?3rd Girl.Dipping them into wine to write bad words with15On the bright table: how he laughed!1st Girl.My turn.Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wearA long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;20And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats—ah, I should say,This is away in the fields—miles!3rd Girl.Say at onceYou'd be at home—she'd always be at home!Now comes the story of the farm among25The cherry orchards, and how April snowedWhite blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,They've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage,Made a dunghill of your garden!1st Girl.They destroy30My garden since I left them? Well—perhapsI would have done so—so I hope they have!A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;They called it mine, I have forgotten why,It must have been there long ere I was born:35Cric—cric—I think I hear the wasps o'erheadPricking the papers strung to flutter thereAnd keep off birds in fruit-time—coarse long papers,And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.
2nd Girl.What makes your fingers red?
3rd Girl.Dipping them into wine to write bad words with15On the bright table: how he laughed!
1st Girl.My turn.Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wearA long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;20And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats—ah, I should say,This is away in the fields—miles!
3rd Girl.Say at onceYou'd be at home—she'd always be at home!Now comes the story of the farm among25The cherry orchards, and how April snowedWhite blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,They've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage,Made a dunghill of your garden!
1st Girl.They destroy30My garden since I left them? Well—perhapsI would have done so—so I hope they have!A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;They called it mine, I have forgotten why,It must have been there long ere I was born:35Cric—cric—I think I hear the wasps o'erheadPricking the papers strung to flutter thereAnd keep off birds in fruit-time—coarse long papers,And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.
3rd Girl.How her mouth twitches! Where was I?—before40She broke in with her wishes and long gownsAnd wasps—would I be such a fool!—Oh, here!This is my way: I answer everyoneWho asks me why I make so much of him—(If you say, "you love him"—straight "he'll not be gulled!")45"He that seduced me when I was a girlThus high—had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,Brown, red, white"—as the case may be; that pleases!See how that beetle burnishes in the path!There sparkles he along the dust; and, there—50Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled at least!1st Girl.When I was young, they said if you killed oneOf those sunshiny beetles, that his friendUp there would shine no more that day nor next.2nd Girl.When you were young? Nor are you young, that's true.55How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?No matter, so you keep your curious hair.I wish they'd find a way to dye our hairYour color—any lighter tint, indeed,60Than black—the men say they are sick of black,Black eyes, black hair!4th Girl.Sick of yours, like enough.Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreysAnd ortolans? Giovita, of the palace,Engaged (but there 's no trusting him) to slice me65Polenta with a knife that had cut upAn ortolan.2nd Girl.Why, there! Is not that PippaWe are to talk to, under the window—quick!—Where the lights are?1st Girl.That she? No, or she would sing,For the Intendant said—3rd Girl.Oh, you sing first!70Then, if she listens and comes close—I'll tell you—Sing that song the young English noble made,Who took you for the purest of the pure,And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!2nd Girl[sings].You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry75Your love's protracted growing:June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike80And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.85What's death? You'll love me yet!3rd Girl[toPippa,who approaches.] Oh, you maycome closer—we shall not eat you! Why, you seem thevery person that the great rich handsome Englishman hasfallen so violently in love with. I'll tell you all about it.90
3rd Girl.How her mouth twitches! Where was I?—before40She broke in with her wishes and long gownsAnd wasps—would I be such a fool!—Oh, here!This is my way: I answer everyoneWho asks me why I make so much of him—(If you say, "you love him"—straight "he'll not be gulled!")45"He that seduced me when I was a girlThus high—had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,Brown, red, white"—as the case may be; that pleases!See how that beetle burnishes in the path!There sparkles he along the dust; and, there—50Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled at least!
1st Girl.When I was young, they said if you killed oneOf those sunshiny beetles, that his friendUp there would shine no more that day nor next.
2nd Girl.When you were young? Nor are you young, that's true.55How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?No matter, so you keep your curious hair.I wish they'd find a way to dye our hairYour color—any lighter tint, indeed,60Than black—the men say they are sick of black,Black eyes, black hair!
4th Girl.Sick of yours, like enough.Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreysAnd ortolans? Giovita, of the palace,Engaged (but there 's no trusting him) to slice me65Polenta with a knife that had cut upAn ortolan.
2nd Girl.Why, there! Is not that PippaWe are to talk to, under the window—quick!—Where the lights are?
1st Girl.That she? No, or she would sing,For the Intendant said—
3rd Girl.Oh, you sing first!70Then, if she listens and comes close—I'll tell you—Sing that song the young English noble made,Who took you for the purest of the pure,And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!
2nd Girl[sings].
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry75Your love's protracted growing:June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike80And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.85What's death? You'll love me yet!
3rd Girl[toPippa,who approaches.] Oh, you maycome closer—we shall not eat you! Why, you seem thevery person that the great rich handsome Englishman hasfallen so violently in love with. I'll tell you all about it.90
Scene.—Inside the Palace by the Duomo.Monsignor,dismissing hisAttendants.
Monsignor.Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chieflydesire life now, that I may recompense every one of you.Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared?Benedicto benedicatur—ugh, ugh! Where wasI? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is5mild, very unlike winter weather; but I am a Sicilian, youknow, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used to crossin procession the great square on Assumption Day, youmight see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in10two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselvesin a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To theIntendant.] Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apartment.]I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo.Intendant.Uguccio—15Monsignor.... 'guccio Stefani, man! of Ascoli,Fermo and Fossombruno—what I do need instructingabout are these accounts of your administration of mypoor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through athird part of your accounts; take some of these dainties20before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to thatdegree? For me, a crust and water suffice.Intendant.Do you choose this especial night to questionme?Monsignor.This night, Ugo. You have managed my25late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother—fourteen years and a month, all but three days. Onthe Third of December, I find him—Intendant.If you have so intimate an acquaintancewith your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning30so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back.Monsignor.Aye, aye, ugh, ugh—nothing but disappointmentshere below! I remark a considerable paymentmade to yourself on this Third of December. Talkof disappointments! There was a young fellow here,35Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, thatthe Church might be a gainer by us both; he was goingon hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to mesome marvelous change that has happened in his notionsof Art. Here's his letter: "He never had a clearly conceived40Ideal within his brain till today. Yet since his handcould manage a chisel, he has practiced expressing othermen's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attainedto, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious handwill pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce45with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let thenovel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. Thereis but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type toas chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor,and paint, not carve, its characteristics"—strike out, I50dare say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo?Intendant.Is Correggio a painter?Monsignor.Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, whyfoolish? He may—probably will—fail egregiously; butif there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some55such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who haveconceived and perfected an Ideal through some otherchannel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventionalroads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo? Ifyou have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo!60Intendant.Sir, I can submit no longer to this courseof yours. First, you select the group of which I formedone—next you thin it gradually—always retaining mewith your smile—and so do you proceed till you havefairly got me alone with you between four stone walls.65And now then? Let this farce, this chatter, end now;what is it you want with me?Monsignor.Ugo!Intendant.From the instant you arrived, I felt yoursmile on me as you questioned me about this and the70other article in those papers—why your brother shouldhave given me this villa, thatpodere—and your nod atthe end meant—what?Monsignor.Possibly that I wished for no loud talkhere. If once you set me coughing, Ugo!—75Intendant.I have your brother's hand and seal to all Ipossess: now ask me what for! what service I did him—ask me!Monsignor.I would better not: I should rip up olddisgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the80way, Maffeo of Forli (which, I forgot to observe, isyour true name), was the interdict ever taken off you,for robbing that church at Cesena?Intendant.No, nor needs be; for when I murderedyour brother's friend, Pasquale, for him—85Monsignor.Ah, he employed you in that business,did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villaand thatpodere, for fear the world should find out myrelations were of so indifferent a stamp? Maffeo, my familyis the oldest in Messina, and century after century90have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves withevery wickedness under heaven: my own father—rest hissoul!—I have, I know, a chapel to support that it mayrest; my dear two dead brothers were—what you knowtolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivaled them95in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I cameout from among them, and so am not partaker of theirplagues. My glory springs from another source; or iffrom this, by contrast only—for I, the bishop, am thebrother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some100of their wrong, however; so far as my brother's ill-gottentreasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequencesof his crime—and not onesoldoshall escape me. Maffeo,the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knavespick up and commit murders with; what opportunities105the virtuous forego, the villainous seize. Because, topleasure myself, apart from other considerations, myfood would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and mycouch straw—am I therefore to let you, the offscouringof the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating110a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominationsso unaccountably and exclusively associated withit? Must I let villas andpoderigo to you, a murdererand thief, that you may beget by means of them othermurderers and thieves? No—if my cough would but115allow me to speak!Intendant.What am I to expect? You are going to punish me?Monsignor.Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannotafford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries ofsin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in.120How should I dare to say—Intendant."Forgive us our trespasses"?Monsignor.My friend, it is because I avow myself avery worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line ofconduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed,125as it were, a-pardoning?—I?—who have no symptomof reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousestefforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much lesskeep others out. No: I do trespass, but will not doublethat by allowing you to trespass.130Intendant.And suppose the villas are not yourbrother's to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hastyenough just now!Monsignor.1, 2—No. 3!—aye, can you read the substanceof a letter, No. 3, I have received from Rome? It135is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicionI have that a certain child of my late elder brother, whowould have succeeded to his estates, was murdered ininfancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my lateyounger brother—that the Pontiff enjoins on me not140merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment,but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritagefor the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever,whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are nowgnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing145up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voicebrings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself.But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raisingmy voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story?The heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's150ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and thelife of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? Didyou throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now!Intendant.So old a story, and tell it no better?When did such an instrument ever produce such an155effect? Either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely,he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer'spower so thoroughly; the child is always ready to produce—asyou say—howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever.Monsignor.Liar!160Intendant.Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise!I shall sleep soundly tonight at least, though the gallowsawait me tomorrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo ofCesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I payhis annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I165remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop—you!Monsignor.I see through the trick, caitiff! I wouldyou spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however—seventimes sifted.Intendant.And how my absurd riches encumbered170me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions.Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die!Sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like your brotherI frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir,I will make away with her for you—the girl—here close175at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do notspeak—know nothing of her nor of me! I see her everyday—saw her this morning. Of course there is to be nokilling; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every threeyears, and I can entice her thither—have indeed begun180operations already. There's a certain lusty, blue-eyed,florid-complexioned English knave I and the Police employoccasionally. You assent, I perceive—no, that's notit—assent I do not say—but you will let me convert mypresent havings and holdings into cash, and give me time185to cross the Alps? Tis but a little black-eyed, prettysinging Felippa, gay, silk-winding girl. I have kept herout of harm's way up to this present; for I always intendedto make your life a plague to you with her. 'Tisas well settled once and forever. Some women I have190procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel,off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled!—youconceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain?[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing.Overhead the tree-tops meet,Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet;195There was naught above me, naught below,My childhood had not learned to know:For, what are the voices of birds—Aye, and of beasts—but words, our words,Only so much more sweet?200The knowledge of that with my life begun.But I had so near made out the sun,And counted your stars, the seven and one;Like the fingers of my hand:Nay, I could all but understand205Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges;And just when out of her soft fifty changesNo unfamiliar face might overlook me—Suddenly God took me.[Pippapasses.
Monsignor.Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chieflydesire life now, that I may recompense every one of you.Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared?Benedicto benedicatur—ugh, ugh! Where wasI? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is5mild, very unlike winter weather; but I am a Sicilian, youknow, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used to crossin procession the great square on Assumption Day, youmight see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in10two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselvesin a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To theIntendant.] Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apartment.]I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo.
Intendant.Uguccio—15
Monsignor.... 'guccio Stefani, man! of Ascoli,Fermo and Fossombruno—what I do need instructingabout are these accounts of your administration of mypoor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through athird part of your accounts; take some of these dainties20before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to thatdegree? For me, a crust and water suffice.
Intendant.Do you choose this especial night to questionme?
Monsignor.This night, Ugo. You have managed my25late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother—fourteen years and a month, all but three days. Onthe Third of December, I find him—
Intendant.If you have so intimate an acquaintancewith your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning30so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back.
Monsignor.Aye, aye, ugh, ugh—nothing but disappointmentshere below! I remark a considerable paymentmade to yourself on this Third of December. Talkof disappointments! There was a young fellow here,35Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, thatthe Church might be a gainer by us both; he was goingon hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to mesome marvelous change that has happened in his notionsof Art. Here's his letter: "He never had a clearly conceived40Ideal within his brain till today. Yet since his handcould manage a chisel, he has practiced expressing othermen's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attainedto, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious handwill pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce45with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let thenovel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. Thereis but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type toas chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor,and paint, not carve, its characteristics"—strike out, I50dare say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo?
Intendant.Is Correggio a painter?
Monsignor.Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, whyfoolish? He may—probably will—fail egregiously; butif there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some55such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who haveconceived and perfected an Ideal through some otherchannel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventionalroads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo? Ifyou have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo!60
Intendant.Sir, I can submit no longer to this courseof yours. First, you select the group of which I formedone—next you thin it gradually—always retaining mewith your smile—and so do you proceed till you havefairly got me alone with you between four stone walls.65And now then? Let this farce, this chatter, end now;what is it you want with me?
Monsignor.Ugo!
Intendant.From the instant you arrived, I felt yoursmile on me as you questioned me about this and the70other article in those papers—why your brother shouldhave given me this villa, thatpodere—and your nod atthe end meant—what?
Monsignor.Possibly that I wished for no loud talkhere. If once you set me coughing, Ugo!—75
Intendant.I have your brother's hand and seal to all Ipossess: now ask me what for! what service I did him—ask me!
Monsignor.I would better not: I should rip up olddisgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the80way, Maffeo of Forli (which, I forgot to observe, isyour true name), was the interdict ever taken off you,for robbing that church at Cesena?
Intendant.No, nor needs be; for when I murderedyour brother's friend, Pasquale, for him—85
Monsignor.Ah, he employed you in that business,did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villaand thatpodere, for fear the world should find out myrelations were of so indifferent a stamp? Maffeo, my familyis the oldest in Messina, and century after century90have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves withevery wickedness under heaven: my own father—rest hissoul!—I have, I know, a chapel to support that it mayrest; my dear two dead brothers were—what you knowtolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivaled them95in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I cameout from among them, and so am not partaker of theirplagues. My glory springs from another source; or iffrom this, by contrast only—for I, the bishop, am thebrother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some100of their wrong, however; so far as my brother's ill-gottentreasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequencesof his crime—and not onesoldoshall escape me. Maffeo,the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knavespick up and commit murders with; what opportunities105the virtuous forego, the villainous seize. Because, topleasure myself, apart from other considerations, myfood would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and mycouch straw—am I therefore to let you, the offscouringof the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating110a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominationsso unaccountably and exclusively associated withit? Must I let villas andpoderigo to you, a murdererand thief, that you may beget by means of them othermurderers and thieves? No—if my cough would but115allow me to speak!
Intendant.What am I to expect? You are going to punish me?
Monsignor.Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannotafford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries ofsin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in.120How should I dare to say—
Intendant."Forgive us our trespasses"?
Monsignor.My friend, it is because I avow myself avery worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line ofconduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed,125as it were, a-pardoning?—I?—who have no symptomof reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousestefforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much lesskeep others out. No: I do trespass, but will not doublethat by allowing you to trespass.130
Intendant.And suppose the villas are not yourbrother's to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hastyenough just now!
Monsignor.1, 2—No. 3!—aye, can you read the substanceof a letter, No. 3, I have received from Rome? It135is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicionI have that a certain child of my late elder brother, whowould have succeeded to his estates, was murdered ininfancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my lateyounger brother—that the Pontiff enjoins on me not140merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment,but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritagefor the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever,whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are nowgnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing145up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voicebrings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself.But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raisingmy voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story?The heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's150ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and thelife of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? Didyou throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now!
Intendant.So old a story, and tell it no better?When did such an instrument ever produce such an155effect? Either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely,he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer'spower so thoroughly; the child is always ready to produce—asyou say—howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever.
Monsignor.Liar!160
Intendant.Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise!I shall sleep soundly tonight at least, though the gallowsawait me tomorrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo ofCesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I payhis annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I165remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop—you!
Monsignor.I see through the trick, caitiff! I wouldyou spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however—seventimes sifted.
Intendant.And how my absurd riches encumbered170me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions.Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die!
Sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like your brotherI frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir,I will make away with her for you—the girl—here close175at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do notspeak—know nothing of her nor of me! I see her everyday—saw her this morning. Of course there is to be nokilling; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every threeyears, and I can entice her thither—have indeed begun180operations already. There's a certain lusty, blue-eyed,florid-complexioned English knave I and the Police employoccasionally. You assent, I perceive—no, that's notit—assent I do not say—but you will let me convert mypresent havings and holdings into cash, and give me time185to cross the Alps? Tis but a little black-eyed, prettysinging Felippa, gay, silk-winding girl. I have kept herout of harm's way up to this present; for I always intendedto make your life a plague to you with her. 'Tisas well settled once and forever. Some women I have190procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel,off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled!—youconceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain?
[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing.
Overhead the tree-tops meet,Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet;195There was naught above me, naught below,My childhood had not learned to know:For, what are the voices of birds—Aye, and of beasts—but words, our words,Only so much more sweet?200The knowledge of that with my life begun.But I had so near made out the sun,And counted your stars, the seven and one;Like the fingers of my hand:Nay, I could all but understand205Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges;And just when out of her soft fifty changesNo unfamiliar face might overlook me—Suddenly God took me.
[Pippapasses.