INTRODUCTION

Pippa.Ottima.Sebald.Foreign Students.Gottlieb.Schramm.Jules.Phene.Austrian Police.Bluphocks.Luigiand his mother.Poor Girls.Monsignorand his attendants.

Pippa.

Ottima.

Sebald.

Foreign Students.

Gottlieb.

Schramm.

Jules.

Phene.

Austrian Police.

Bluphocks.

Luigiand his mother.

Poor Girls.

Monsignorand his attendants.

New Year's Day at Asolo in the TrevisanA large mean airy chamber. A girl,Pippa,from the silk-mills, springing out of bed.Day!Faster and more fast,O'er night's brim, day boils at last:Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brimWhere spurting and suppressed it lay,For not a froth-flake touched the rimOf yonder gap in the solid grayOf the eastern cloud, an hour away;But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,Rose, reddened, and its seething breastFlickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.Oh Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure,The least of thy gazes or glances,(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure)One of thy choices or one of thy chances,(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)—My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure,Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good—Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood—All shall be mine! But thou must treat me notAs prosperous ones are treated, those who liveAt hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,In readiness to take what thou wilt give,And free to let alone what thou refusest;For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usestMe, who am only Pippa,—old-year's sorrow,Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow:Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrowSufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.All other men and women that this earthBelongs to, who all days alike possess,Make general plenty cure particular dearth,Get more joy one way, if another, less:Thou art my single day, God lends to leavenWhat were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,—Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones—And let thy morning rain on that superbGreat haughty Ottima; can rain disturbHer Sebald's homage? All the while thy rainBeats fiercest on her shrub-house window-paneHe will but press the closer, breathe more warmAgainst her cheek; how should she mind the storm?And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloomO'er Jules and Phene,—what care bride and groomSave for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day;And while they leave church and go home their way,Hand clasping hand, within each breast would beSunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.Then, for another trial, obscure thy eveWith mist,—will Luigi and his mother grieve—The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,For true content? The cheerful town, warm, closeAnd safe, the sooner that thou art morose,Receives them. And yet once again, outbreakIn storm at night on Monsignor, they makeSuch stir about,—whom they expect from RomeTo visit Asolo, his brothers' home,And say here masses proper to releaseA soul from pain,—what storm dares hurt his peace?Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to wardThy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.But Pippa—just one such mischance would spoilHer day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toilAt wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!And here I let time slip for naught!Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caughtWith a single splash from my ewer!You that would mock the best pursuer,Was my basin over-deep?One splash of water ruins you asleep,And up, up, fleet your brilliant bitsWheeling and counterwheeling,Reeling, broken beyond healing:Now grow together on the ceiling!That will task your wits.Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to seeMorsel after morsel fleeAs merrily, as giddily ...Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the rippleOf ocean, bud there,—fairies watch unrollSuch turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperseThick red flame through that dusk green universe!I am queen of thee, floweret!And each fleshy blossomPreserve I not—(saferThan leaves that embower it,Or shells that embosom)—From weevil and chafer?Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,Love thy queen, worship me!—Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day?My morn, noon, eve and night—how spend my day?To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk:But, this one day, I have leave to go,And play out my fancy's fullest games;I may fancy all day—and it shall be so—That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the namesOf the Happiest Four in our Asolo!See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning,Some one shall love me, as the world calls love:I am no less than Ottima, take warning!The gardens, and the great stone house above,And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,To court me, while old Luca yet reposes:And therefore, till the shrub-house door un-closes,I ... what now?—give abundant cause for prateAbout me—Ottima, I mean—of late,Too bold, too confident she'll still face downThe spitefullest of talkers in our town.How we talk in the little town below!But love, love, love—there's better love, I know!This foolish love was only day's first offer;I choose my next love to defy the scoffer:For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sallyOut of Possagno church at noon?Their house looks over Orcana valley:Why should not I be the bride as soonAs Ottima? For I saw, beside,Arrive last night that little bride—Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flashOf the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,Blacker than all except the black eyelash;I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!—So strict was she, the veilShould cover close her palePure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not suchUsed to be tended, flower-like, every feature,As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?A soft and easy life these ladies lead:Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,Keep that foot its lady primness,Let those ankles never swerveFrom their exquisite reserve,Yet have to trip along the streets like me,All but naked to the knee!How will she ever grant her Jules a blissSo startling as her real first infant kiss?Oh, no—not envy, this!—Not envy, sure!—for if you gave meLeave to take or to refuse,In earnest, do you think I 'd chooseThat sort of new love to enslave me?Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;As little fear of losing it as winning:Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,And only parents' love can last our lives.At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair,Commune inside our turret: what preventsMy being Luigi? While that mossy lairOf lizards through the winter-time is stirredWith each to each imparting sweet intentsFor this new-year, as brooding bird to bird—(For I observe of late, the evening walkOf Luigi and his mother, always endsInside our ruined turret, where they talk,Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)—Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;Let me be Luigi! If I only knewWhat was my mother's face—my father, too!Nay, if you come to that, best love of allIs God's; then why not have God's love befallMyself as, in the palace by the Dome,Monsignor?—who to-night will bless the homeOf his dead brother; and God bless in turnThat heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burnWith love for all men! I, to-night at least,Would be that holy and beloved priest.Now wait!—even I already seem to shareIn God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?What other meaning do these verses bear?All service ranks the same with God:If now, as formerly he trodParadise, his presence fillsOur earth, each only as God willsCan work—God's puppets, best and worst,Are we; there is no last nor first.Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?Costs it more pain that this, ye callA "great event," should come to pass,Than that? Untwine me from the massOf deeds which make up life, one deedPower shall fall short in or exceed!And more of it, and more of it!—oh yes—I will pass each, and see their happiness,And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!A pretty thing to care aboutSo mightily, this single holiday!But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?—With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,Down the grass path gray with dew,Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,Where the swallow never flewNor yet cicala dared carouse—No, dared carouse![She enters the street.

New Year's Day at Asolo in the Trevisan

A large mean airy chamber. A girl,Pippa,from the silk-mills, springing out of bed.

Day!Faster and more fast,O'er night's brim, day boils at last:Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brimWhere spurting and suppressed it lay,For not a froth-flake touched the rimOf yonder gap in the solid grayOf the eastern cloud, an hour away;But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,Rose, reddened, and its seething breastFlickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

Day!

Faster and more fast,

O'er night's brim, day boils at last:

Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim

Where spurting and suppressed it lay,

For not a froth-flake touched the rim

Of yonder gap in the solid gray

Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;

But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,

Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,

Rose, reddened, and its seething breast

Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

Oh Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure,The least of thy gazes or glances,(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure)One of thy choices or one of thy chances,(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)—My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure,Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!

Oh Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,

A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure,

The least of thy gazes or glances,

(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure)

One of thy choices or one of thy chances,

(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)

—My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure,

Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!

Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good—Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood—All shall be mine! But thou must treat me notAs prosperous ones are treated, those who liveAt hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,In readiness to take what thou wilt give,And free to let alone what thou refusest;For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usestMe, who am only Pippa,—old-year's sorrow,Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow:Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrowSufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.All other men and women that this earthBelongs to, who all days alike possess,Make general plenty cure particular dearth,Get more joy one way, if another, less:Thou art my single day, God lends to leavenWhat were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,—Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones—And let thy morning rain on that superbGreat haughty Ottima; can rain disturbHer Sebald's homage? All the while thy rainBeats fiercest on her shrub-house window-paneHe will but press the closer, breathe more warmAgainst her cheek; how should she mind the storm?And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloomO'er Jules and Phene,—what care bride and groomSave for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day;And while they leave church and go home their way,Hand clasping hand, within each breast would beSunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.Then, for another trial, obscure thy eveWith mist,—will Luigi and his mother grieve—The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,For true content? The cheerful town, warm, closeAnd safe, the sooner that thou art morose,Receives them. And yet once again, outbreakIn storm at night on Monsignor, they makeSuch stir about,—whom they expect from RomeTo visit Asolo, his brothers' home,And say here masses proper to releaseA soul from pain,—what storm dares hurt his peace?Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to wardThy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.But Pippa—just one such mischance would spoilHer day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toilAt wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!And here I let time slip for naught!Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caughtWith a single splash from my ewer!You that would mock the best pursuer,Was my basin over-deep?One splash of water ruins you asleep,And up, up, fleet your brilliant bitsWheeling and counterwheeling,Reeling, broken beyond healing:Now grow together on the ceiling!That will task your wits.Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to seeMorsel after morsel fleeAs merrily, as giddily ...Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the rippleOf ocean, bud there,—fairies watch unrollSuch turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperseThick red flame through that dusk green universe!I am queen of thee, floweret!And each fleshy blossomPreserve I not—(saferThan leaves that embower it,Or shells that embosom)—From weevil and chafer?Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,Love thy queen, worship me!

Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,

Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good—

Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,

As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood—

All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not

As prosperous ones are treated, those who live

At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,

In readiness to take what thou wilt give,

And free to let alone what thou refusest;

For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest

Me, who am only Pippa,—old-year's sorrow,

Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow:

Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow

Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.

All other men and women that this earth

Belongs to, who all days alike possess,

Make general plenty cure particular dearth,

Get more joy one way, if another, less:

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven

What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,—

Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!

Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones—

And let thy morning rain on that superb

Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb

Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain

Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane

He will but press the closer, breathe more warm

Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?

And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom

O'er Jules and Phene,—what care bride and groom

Save for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day;

And while they leave church and go home their way,

Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be

Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.

Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve

With mist,—will Luigi and his mother grieve—

The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,

She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,

For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close

And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,

Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak

In storm at night on Monsignor, they make

Such stir about,—whom they expect from Rome

To visit Asolo, his brothers' home,

And say here masses proper to release

A soul from pain,—what storm dares hurt his peace?

Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward

Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.

But Pippa—just one such mischance would spoil

Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil

At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!

And here I let time slip for naught!

Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught

With a single splash from my ewer!

You that would mock the best pursuer,

Was my basin over-deep?

One splash of water ruins you asleep,

And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits

Wheeling and counterwheeling,

Reeling, broken beyond healing:

Now grow together on the ceiling!

That will task your wits.

Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see

Morsel after morsel flee

As merrily, as giddily ...

Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,

Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?

Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?

New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,

Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!

Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple

Of ocean, bud there,—fairies watch unroll

Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse

Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!

I am queen of thee, floweret!

And each fleshy blossom

Preserve I not—(safer

Than leaves that embower it,

Or shells that embosom)

—From weevil and chafer?

Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;

Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,

Love thy queen, worship me!

—Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day?My morn, noon, eve and night—how spend my day?To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk:But, this one day, I have leave to go,And play out my fancy's fullest games;I may fancy all day—and it shall be so—That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the namesOf the Happiest Four in our Asolo!

—Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,

Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day?

My morn, noon, eve and night—how spend my day?

To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,

The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk:

But, this one day, I have leave to go,

And play out my fancy's fullest games;

I may fancy all day—and it shall be so—

That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names

Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!

See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning,Some one shall love me, as the world calls love:I am no less than Ottima, take warning!The gardens, and the great stone house above,And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,To court me, while old Luca yet reposes:And therefore, till the shrub-house door un-closes,I ... what now?—give abundant cause for prateAbout me—Ottima, I mean—of late,Too bold, too confident she'll still face downThe spitefullest of talkers in our town.How we talk in the little town below!But love, love, love—there's better love, I know!This foolish love was only day's first offer;I choose my next love to defy the scoffer:For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sallyOut of Possagno church at noon?Their house looks over Orcana valley:Why should not I be the bride as soonAs Ottima? For I saw, beside,Arrive last night that little bride—Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flashOf the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,Blacker than all except the black eyelash;I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!—So strict was she, the veilShould cover close her palePure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not suchUsed to be tended, flower-like, every feature,As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?A soft and easy life these ladies lead:Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,Keep that foot its lady primness,Let those ankles never swerveFrom their exquisite reserve,Yet have to trip along the streets like me,All but naked to the knee!How will she ever grant her Jules a blissSo startling as her real first infant kiss?Oh, no—not envy, this!

See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning,

Some one shall love me, as the world calls love:

I am no less than Ottima, take warning!

The gardens, and the great stone house above,

And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,

Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,

To court me, while old Luca yet reposes:

And therefore, till the shrub-house door un-closes,

I ... what now?—give abundant cause for prate

About me—Ottima, I mean—of late,

Too bold, too confident she'll still face down

The spitefullest of talkers in our town.

How we talk in the little town below!

But love, love, love—there's better love, I know!

This foolish love was only day's first offer;

I choose my next love to defy the scoffer:

For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally

Out of Possagno church at noon?

Their house looks over Orcana valley:

Why should not I be the bride as soon

As Ottima? For I saw, beside,

Arrive last night that little bride—

Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash

Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,

Blacker than all except the black eyelash;

I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!

—So strict was she, the veil

Should cover close her pale

Pure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,

Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such

Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,

As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?

A soft and easy life these ladies lead:

Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.

Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,

Keep that foot its lady primness,

Let those ankles never swerve

From their exquisite reserve,

Yet have to trip along the streets like me,

All but naked to the knee!

How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss

So startling as her real first infant kiss?

Oh, no—not envy, this!

—Not envy, sure!—for if you gave meLeave to take or to refuse,In earnest, do you think I 'd chooseThat sort of new love to enslave me?Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;As little fear of losing it as winning:Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,And only parents' love can last our lives.At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair,Commune inside our turret: what preventsMy being Luigi? While that mossy lairOf lizards through the winter-time is stirredWith each to each imparting sweet intentsFor this new-year, as brooding bird to bird—(For I observe of late, the evening walkOf Luigi and his mother, always endsInside our ruined turret, where they talk,Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)—Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;Let me be Luigi! If I only knewWhat was my mother's face—my father, too!Nay, if you come to that, best love of allIs God's; then why not have God's love befallMyself as, in the palace by the Dome,Monsignor?—who to-night will bless the homeOf his dead brother; and God bless in turnThat heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burnWith love for all men! I, to-night at least,Would be that holy and beloved priest.

—Not envy, sure!—for if you gave me

Leave to take or to refuse,

In earnest, do you think I 'd choose

That sort of new love to enslave me?

Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;

As little fear of losing it as winning:

Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,

And only parents' love can last our lives.

At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair,

Commune inside our turret: what prevents

My being Luigi? While that mossy lair

Of lizards through the winter-time is stirred

With each to each imparting sweet intents

For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird—

(For I observe of late, the evening walk

Of Luigi and his mother, always ends

Inside our ruined turret, where they talk,

Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)

—Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,

And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;

Let me be Luigi! If I only knew

What was my mother's face—my father, too!

Nay, if you come to that, best love of all

Is God's; then why not have God's love befall

Myself as, in the palace by the Dome,

Monsignor?—who to-night will bless the home

Of his dead brother; and God bless in turn

That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn

With love for all men! I, to-night at least,

Would be that holy and beloved priest.

Now wait!—even I already seem to shareIn God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?What other meaning do these verses bear?

Now wait!—even I already seem to share

In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?

What other meaning do these verses bear?

All service ranks the same with God:If now, as formerly he trodParadise, his presence fillsOur earth, each only as God willsCan work—God's puppets, best and worst,Are we; there is no last nor first.

All service ranks the same with God:

If now, as formerly he trod

Paradise, his presence fills

Our earth, each only as God wills

Can work—God's puppets, best and worst,

Are we; there is no last nor first.

Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?Costs it more pain that this, ye callA "great event," should come to pass,Than that? Untwine me from the massOf deeds which make up life, one deedPower shall fall short in or exceed!

Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?

Costs it more pain that this, ye call

A "great event," should come to pass,

Than that? Untwine me from the mass

Of deeds which make up life, one deed

Power shall fall short in or exceed!

And more of it, and more of it!—oh yes—I will pass each, and see their happiness,And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!A pretty thing to care aboutSo mightily, this single holiday!But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?—With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,Down the grass path gray with dew,Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,Where the swallow never flewNor yet cicala dared carouse—No, dared carouse![She enters the street.

And more of it, and more of it!—oh yes—

I will pass each, and see their happiness,

And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,

Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!

A pretty thing to care about

So mightily, this single holiday!

But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?

—With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,

Down the grass path gray with dew,

Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,

Where the swallow never flew

Nor yet cicala dared carouse—

No, dared carouse![She enters the street.

Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house.Luca'sWifeOttima,and her Paramour, the GermanSebald.Sebald.[sings.]Let the watching lids wink!Day's ablaze with eyes, think!Deep into the night, drink!Ottima.Night? Such may be your Rhine-land nights, perhaps;But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink—We call such light, the morning: let us see!Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tallNaked geraniums straggle! Push the latticeBehind that frame!—Nay, do I bid you?—Sebald,It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of courseThe slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content,Or must I find you something else to spoil?Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is 't full morning?Oh, don't speak then!Seb.Ay, thus it used to be!Ever your house was, I remember, shutTill mid-day; I observed that, as I strolledOn mornings through the vale here; country girlsWere noisy, washing garments in the brook,Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills:But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye!And wisely: you were plotting one thing there,Nature, another outside. I looked up—Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,Silent as death, blind in a flood of light.Oh, I remember!—and the peasants laughedAnd said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife."This house was his, this chair, this window—his.Otti,Ah, the clear morning! I can see Saint Mark's;That black streak is the belfry. Stop: VicenzaShould lie ... there's Padua, plain enough, that blue!Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger!Seb.Morning?It seems to me a night with a sun added.Where 's dew, where 's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruisedIn getting through the lattice yestereve,Droops as it did. See, here 's my elbow's markI' the dust o' the sill.Otti.Oh, shut the lattice, pray!Seb.Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,Foul as the morn may be.There, shut the world out!How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curseThe world and all outside! Let us throw offThis mask: how do you bear yourself? Let 's outWith all of it!Otti.Best never speak of it.Seb.Best speak again and yet again of it,Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood,"For instance—let those two words mean, "His blood"And nothing more. Notice, I 'll say them now,"His blood."Otti.Assuredly if I repentedThe deed—Seb.Repent? Who should repent, or why?What puts that in your head? Did I once sayThat I repented?Otti.No; I said the deed ...Seb."The deed" and "the event"—just now it was"Our passion's fruit"—the devil take such cant!Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,I am his cut-throat, you are ...Otti.Here 's the wine;I brought it when we left the house above,And glasses too—wine of both sorts. Black? White then?Seb.But am not I his cut-throat? What are you?Otti.There trudges on his business from the DuomoBenet the Capuchin, with his brown hoodAnd bare feet; always in one place at church,Close under the stone wall by the south entry.I used to take him for a brown cold pieceOf the wall's self, as out of it he roseTo let me pass—at first, I say, I used:Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me,I rather should account the plastered wallA piece of him, so chilly does it strike.This, Sebald?Seb.No, the white wine—the white wine!Well, Ottima, I promised no new yearShould rise on us the ancient shameful way;Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes!Do you remember last damned New Year's day?Otti.You brought those foreign prints. We looked at themOver the wine and fruit. I had to schemeTo get him from the fire. Nothing but sayingHis own set wants the proof-mark, roused him upTo hunt them out.Seb.'Faith, he is not aliveTo fondle you before my face.Otti.Do youFondle me then! Who means to take your lifeFor that, my Sebald?Seb.Hark you, Ottima!One thing to guard against. We 'll not make muchOne of the other—that is, not make moreParade of warmth, childish officious coil,Than yesterday: as if, sweet, I supposedProof upon proof were needed now, now first,To show I love you—yes, still love you—love youIn spite of Luca and what 's come to him—Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,White sneering old reproachful face and all!We 'll even quarrel, love, at times, as ifWe still could lose each other, were not tiedBy this: conceive you?Otti.Love!Seb.Not tied so sure!Because though I was wrought upon, have struckHis insolence back into him—am ISo surely yours?—therefore forever yours?Otti.Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another,)Should we have—months ago, when first we loved,For instance that May morning we two stoleUnder the green ascent of sycamores—If we had come upon a thing like thatSuddenly ...Seb."A thing"—there again—"a thing!"Otti.Then, Venus' body, had we come uponMy husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpseWithin there, at his couch-foot, covered close—Would you have pored upon it? Why persistIn poring now upon it? For 't is hereAs much as there in the deserted house:You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me,Now he is dead I hate him worse: I hate ...Dare you stay here? I would go back and holdHis two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse,Luca, than" ...Seb.Off, off—take your hands off mine,'T is the hot evening—off! oh, morning is it?Otti.There 's one thing must be done; you know what thing.Come in and help to carry. We may sleepAnywhere in the whole wide house to-night.Seb.What would come, think you, if we let him lieJust as he is? Let him lie there untilThe angels take him! He is turned by thisOff from his face beside, as you will see.Otti.This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.Three, four—four gray hairs! Is it so you saidA plait of hair should wave across my neck?No—this way.Seb.Ottima, I would give your neck,Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world,So Luca lives again!—ay, lives to sputterHis fulsome dotage on you—yes, and feignSurprise that I return at eve to sup,When all the morning I was loitering here—Bid me dispatch my business and begone.I would ...Otti.See!Seb.No, I 'll finish. Do you thinkI fear to speak the bare truth once for all?All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fineTo suffer; there 's a recompense in guilt;One must be venturous and fortunate:What is one young for, else? In age we 'll sighO'er the wild reckless wicked days flown over;Still, we have lived: the vice was in its place.But to have eaten Luca's bread, have wornHis clothes, have felt his money swell my purse—Do lovers in romances sin that way?Why, I was starving when I used to callAnd teach you music, starving while you plucked meThese flowers to smell!Otti.My poor lost friend!Seb.He gave meLife, nothing less: what if he did reproachMy perfidy, and threaten, and do more—Had he no right? What was to wonder at?He sat by us at table quietly:Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched?Could he do less than make pretence to strike?'T is not the crime's sake—I 'd commit ten crimesGreater, to have this crime wiped out, undone!And you—O how feel you? Feel you for me?Otti.Well then, I love you better now than ever,And best (look at me while I speak to you)—Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth,This mask, this simulated ignorance,This affectation of simplicity,Falls off our crime; this naked crime of oursMay not now be looked over: look it down!Great? let it be great; but the joys it brought,Pay they or no its price? Come: they or it!Speak not! The past, would you give up the pastSuch as it is, pleasure and crime together?Give up that noon I owned my love for you?The garden's silence: even the single beePersisting in his toil, suddenly stopped,And where he hid you only could surmiseBy some campanula chalice set a-swing.Who stammered—"Yes, I love you?"Seb.And I drewBack; put far back your face with both my handsLest you should grow too full of me—your faceSo seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!Otti.And when I ventured to receive you here,Made you steal hither in the mornings—Seb.WhenI used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,Till the red fire on its glazed windows spreadTo a yellow haze?Otti.Ah—my sign was, the sunInflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-treeNipped by the first frost.Seb.You would always laughAt my wet boots: I had to stride through grassOver my ankles.Otti.Then our crowning night!Seb.The July night?Otti.The day of it too, Sebald!When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,Its black-blue canopy suffered descendClose on us both, to weigh down each to each,And smother up all life except our life.So lay we till the storm came.Seb.How it came!Otti.Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;And ever and anon some bright white shaftBurned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there,As if God's messenger through the close wood screenPlunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,Feeling for guilty thee and me: then brokeThe thunder like a whole sea overhead—Seb.Yes!Otti.—While I stretched myself upon you, handsTo hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shookAll my locks loose, and covered you with them—You, Sebald, the same you!Seb.Slower, Ottima!Otti.And as we lay—Seb.Less vehemently! Love me!Forgive me! Take not words, mere words, to heart!Your breath is worse than wine. Breathe slow, speak slow!Do not lean on me!Otti.Sebald, as we lay,Rising and falling only with our pants,Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die!Right to be punished! Naught completes such blissBut woe!" Who said that?Seb.How did we ever rise?Was 't that we slept? Why did it end?Otti.I felt youTaper into a point the ruffled endsOf my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips.My hair is fallen now: knot it again!Seb.I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!This way? Will you forgive me—be once moreMy great queen?Otti.Bind it thrice about my brow;Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,Magnificent in sin. Say that!Seb.I crown youMy great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,Magnificent ...[From without is heard the voice ofPippasinging—The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn:God's in his heaven—All's right with the world![Pippapasses.Seb.God's in his heaven! Do you hear that? Who spoke?You, you spoke!Otti.Oh—that little ragged girl!She must have rested on the step: we give themBut this one holiday the whole year round.Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.She stoops to pick my double heartsease ... Sh!She does not hear: call you out louder!Seb.Leave me!Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!Otti.Sebald?Seb.Wipe off that paint! I hate you.Otti.Miserable!Seb.My God, and she is emptied of it now!Outright now!—how miraculously goneAll of the grace—had she not strange grace once?Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,No purpose holds the features up together,Only the cloven brow and puckered chinStay in their places: and the very hair,That seemed to have a sort of life in it,Drops, a dead web!Otti.Speak to me—not of me!Seb.—That round great full-orbed face, where not an angleBroke the delicious indolence—all broken!Otti.To me—not of me! Ungrateful, perjured cheat!A coward too: but ingrate's worse than all!Beggar—my slave—a fawning, cringing lie!Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift!A lie that walks and eats and drinks!Seb.My God!Those morbid olive faultless shoulder-blades—I should have known there was no blood beneath!Otti.You hate me then? You hate me then?Seb.To thinkShe would succeed in her absurd attempt,And fascinate by sinning, show herselfSuperior—guilt from its excess superiorTo innocence! That little peasant's voiceHas righted all again. Though I be lost,I know which is the better, never fear,Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,Nature or trick! I see what I have done,Entirely now! Oh I am proud to feelSuch torments—let the world take credit thence—I, having done my deed, pay too its price!I hate, hate—curse you! God's in his heaven!Otti.—Me!Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself—kill me!Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me—thenYourself—then—presently—first hear me speak!I always meant to kill myself—wait, you!Lean on my breast—not as a breast; don't love meThe more because you lean on me, my ownHeart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently!Seb.My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feelIs ... is, at swift-recurring intervals,A hurry-down within me, as of watersLoosened to smother up some ghastly pit:There they go—whirls from a black fiery sea!Otti.Not me—to him, O God, be merciful!

Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house.Luca'sWifeOttima,and her Paramour, the GermanSebald.

Sebald.[sings.]Let the watching lids wink!Day's ablaze with eyes, think!Deep into the night, drink!

Ottima.Night? Such may be your Rhine-land nights, perhaps;But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink—We call such light, the morning: let us see!Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tallNaked geraniums straggle! Push the latticeBehind that frame!—Nay, do I bid you?—Sebald,It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of courseThe slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content,Or must I find you something else to spoil?Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is 't full morning?Oh, don't speak then!

Ottima.Night? Such may be your Rhine-land nights, perhaps;

But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink

—We call such light, the morning: let us see!

Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tall

Naked geraniums straggle! Push the lattice

Behind that frame!—Nay, do I bid you?—Sebald,

It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course

The slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content,

Or must I find you something else to spoil?

Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is 't full morning?

Oh, don't speak then!

Seb.Ay, thus it used to be!Ever your house was, I remember, shutTill mid-day; I observed that, as I strolledOn mornings through the vale here; country girlsWere noisy, washing garments in the brook,Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills:But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye!And wisely: you were plotting one thing there,Nature, another outside. I looked up—Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,Silent as death, blind in a flood of light.Oh, I remember!—and the peasants laughedAnd said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife."This house was his, this chair, this window—his.

Seb.Ay, thus it used to be!

Ever your house was, I remember, shut

Till mid-day; I observed that, as I strolled

On mornings through the vale here; country girls

Were noisy, washing garments in the brook,

Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills:

But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye!

And wisely: you were plotting one thing there,

Nature, another outside. I looked up—

Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,

Silent as death, blind in a flood of light.

Oh, I remember!—and the peasants laughed

And said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife."

This house was his, this chair, this window—his.

Otti,Ah, the clear morning! I can see Saint Mark's;That black streak is the belfry. Stop: VicenzaShould lie ... there's Padua, plain enough, that blue!Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger!

Otti,Ah, the clear morning! I can see Saint Mark's;

That black streak is the belfry. Stop: Vicenza

Should lie ... there's Padua, plain enough, that blue!

Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger!

Seb.Morning?It seems to me a night with a sun added.Where 's dew, where 's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruisedIn getting through the lattice yestereve,Droops as it did. See, here 's my elbow's markI' the dust o' the sill.

Seb.Morning?

It seems to me a night with a sun added.

Where 's dew, where 's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruised

In getting through the lattice yestereve,

Droops as it did. See, here 's my elbow's mark

I' the dust o' the sill.

Otti.Oh, shut the lattice, pray!

Seb.Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,Foul as the morn may be.There, shut the world out!How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curseThe world and all outside! Let us throw offThis mask: how do you bear yourself? Let 's outWith all of it!

Seb.Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here,

Foul as the morn may be.

There, shut the world out!

How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curse

The world and all outside! Let us throw off

This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let 's out

With all of it!

Otti.Best never speak of it.

Seb.Best speak again and yet again of it,Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood,"For instance—let those two words mean, "His blood"And nothing more. Notice, I 'll say them now,"His blood."

Seb.Best speak again and yet again of it,

Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood,"

For instance—let those two words mean, "His blood"

And nothing more. Notice, I 'll say them now,

"His blood."

Otti.Assuredly if I repentedThe deed—

Otti.Assuredly if I repented

The deed—

Seb.Repent? Who should repent, or why?What puts that in your head? Did I once sayThat I repented?

Seb.Repent? Who should repent, or why?

What puts that in your head? Did I once say

That I repented?

Otti.No; I said the deed ...

Seb."The deed" and "the event"—just now it was"Our passion's fruit"—the devil take such cant!Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,I am his cut-throat, you are ...

Seb."The deed" and "the event"—just now it was

"Our passion's fruit"—the devil take such cant!

Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol,

I am his cut-throat, you are ...

Otti.Here 's the wine;I brought it when we left the house above,And glasses too—wine of both sorts. Black? White then?

Otti.Here 's the wine;

I brought it when we left the house above,

And glasses too—wine of both sorts. Black? White then?

Seb.But am not I his cut-throat? What are you?

Otti.There trudges on his business from the DuomoBenet the Capuchin, with his brown hoodAnd bare feet; always in one place at church,Close under the stone wall by the south entry.I used to take him for a brown cold pieceOf the wall's self, as out of it he roseTo let me pass—at first, I say, I used:Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me,I rather should account the plastered wallA piece of him, so chilly does it strike.This, Sebald?

Otti.There trudges on his business from the Duomo

Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood

And bare feet; always in one place at church,

Close under the stone wall by the south entry.

I used to take him for a brown cold piece

Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose

To let me pass—at first, I say, I used:

Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me,

I rather should account the plastered wall

A piece of him, so chilly does it strike.

This, Sebald?

Seb.No, the white wine—the white wine!Well, Ottima, I promised no new yearShould rise on us the ancient shameful way;Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes!Do you remember last damned New Year's day?

Seb.No, the white wine—the white wine!

Well, Ottima, I promised no new year

Should rise on us the ancient shameful way;

Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes!

Do you remember last damned New Year's day?

Otti.You brought those foreign prints. We looked at themOver the wine and fruit. I had to schemeTo get him from the fire. Nothing but sayingHis own set wants the proof-mark, roused him upTo hunt them out.

Otti.You brought those foreign prints. We looked at them

Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme

To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying

His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up

To hunt them out.

Seb.'Faith, he is not aliveTo fondle you before my face.

Seb.'Faith, he is not alive

To fondle you before my face.

Otti.Do youFondle me then! Who means to take your lifeFor that, my Sebald?

Otti.Do you

Fondle me then! Who means to take your life

For that, my Sebald?

Seb.Hark you, Ottima!One thing to guard against. We 'll not make muchOne of the other—that is, not make moreParade of warmth, childish officious coil,Than yesterday: as if, sweet, I supposedProof upon proof were needed now, now first,To show I love you—yes, still love you—love youIn spite of Luca and what 's come to him—Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,White sneering old reproachful face and all!We 'll even quarrel, love, at times, as ifWe still could lose each other, were not tiedBy this: conceive you?

Seb.Hark you, Ottima!

One thing to guard against. We 'll not make much

One of the other—that is, not make more

Parade of warmth, childish officious coil,

Than yesterday: as if, sweet, I supposed

Proof upon proof were needed now, now first,

To show I love you—yes, still love you—love you

In spite of Luca and what 's come to him

—Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts,

White sneering old reproachful face and all!

We 'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if

We still could lose each other, were not tied

By this: conceive you?

Otti.Love!

Seb.Not tied so sure!Because though I was wrought upon, have struckHis insolence back into him—am ISo surely yours?—therefore forever yours?

Seb.Not tied so sure!

Because though I was wrought upon, have struck

His insolence back into him—am I

So surely yours?—therefore forever yours?

Otti.Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another,)Should we have—months ago, when first we loved,For instance that May morning we two stoleUnder the green ascent of sycamores—If we had come upon a thing like thatSuddenly ...

Otti.Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another,)

Should we have—months ago, when first we loved,

For instance that May morning we two stole

Under the green ascent of sycamores—

If we had come upon a thing like that

Suddenly ...

Seb."A thing"—there again—"a thing!"

Otti.Then, Venus' body, had we come uponMy husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpseWithin there, at his couch-foot, covered close—Would you have pored upon it? Why persistIn poring now upon it? For 't is hereAs much as there in the deserted house:You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me,Now he is dead I hate him worse: I hate ...Dare you stay here? I would go back and holdHis two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse,Luca, than" ...

Otti.Then, Venus' body, had we come upon

My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse

Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close—

Would you have pored upon it? Why persist

In poring now upon it? For 't is here

As much as there in the deserted house:

You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me,

Now he is dead I hate him worse: I hate ...

Dare you stay here? I would go back and hold

His two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse,

Luca, than" ...

Seb.Off, off—take your hands off mine,'T is the hot evening—off! oh, morning is it?

Seb.Off, off—take your hands off mine,

'T is the hot evening—off! oh, morning is it?

Otti.There 's one thing must be done; you know what thing.Come in and help to carry. We may sleepAnywhere in the whole wide house to-night.

Otti.There 's one thing must be done; you know what thing.

Come in and help to carry. We may sleep

Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night.

Seb.What would come, think you, if we let him lieJust as he is? Let him lie there untilThe angels take him! He is turned by thisOff from his face beside, as you will see.

Seb.What would come, think you, if we let him lie

Just as he is? Let him lie there until

The angels take him! He is turned by this

Off from his face beside, as you will see.

Otti.This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.Three, four—four gray hairs! Is it so you saidA plait of hair should wave across my neck?No—this way.

Otti.This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass.

Three, four—four gray hairs! Is it so you said

A plait of hair should wave across my neck?

No—this way.

Seb.Ottima, I would give your neck,Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world,So Luca lives again!—ay, lives to sputterHis fulsome dotage on you—yes, and feignSurprise that I return at eve to sup,When all the morning I was loitering here—Bid me dispatch my business and begone.I would ...

Seb.Ottima, I would give your neck,

Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours,

That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world,

So Luca lives again!—ay, lives to sputter

His fulsome dotage on you—yes, and feign

Surprise that I return at eve to sup,

When all the morning I was loitering here—

Bid me dispatch my business and begone.

I would ...

Otti.See!

Seb.No, I 'll finish. Do you thinkI fear to speak the bare truth once for all?All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fineTo suffer; there 's a recompense in guilt;One must be venturous and fortunate:What is one young for, else? In age we 'll sighO'er the wild reckless wicked days flown over;Still, we have lived: the vice was in its place.But to have eaten Luca's bread, have wornHis clothes, have felt his money swell my purse—Do lovers in romances sin that way?Why, I was starving when I used to callAnd teach you music, starving while you plucked meThese flowers to smell!

Seb.No, I 'll finish. Do you think

I fear to speak the bare truth once for all?

All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fine

To suffer; there 's a recompense in guilt;

One must be venturous and fortunate:

What is one young for, else? In age we 'll sigh

O'er the wild reckless wicked days flown over;

Still, we have lived: the vice was in its place.

But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn

His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse—

Do lovers in romances sin that way?

Why, I was starving when I used to call

And teach you music, starving while you plucked me

These flowers to smell!

Otti.My poor lost friend!

Seb.He gave meLife, nothing less: what if he did reproachMy perfidy, and threaten, and do more—Had he no right? What was to wonder at?He sat by us at table quietly:Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched?Could he do less than make pretence to strike?'T is not the crime's sake—I 'd commit ten crimesGreater, to have this crime wiped out, undone!And you—O how feel you? Feel you for me?

Seb.He gave me

Life, nothing less: what if he did reproach

My perfidy, and threaten, and do more—

Had he no right? What was to wonder at?

He sat by us at table quietly:

Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched?

Could he do less than make pretence to strike?

'T is not the crime's sake—I 'd commit ten crimes

Greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone!

And you—O how feel you? Feel you for me?

Otti.Well then, I love you better now than ever,And best (look at me while I speak to you)—Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth,This mask, this simulated ignorance,This affectation of simplicity,Falls off our crime; this naked crime of oursMay not now be looked over: look it down!Great? let it be great; but the joys it brought,Pay they or no its price? Come: they or it!Speak not! The past, would you give up the pastSuch as it is, pleasure and crime together?Give up that noon I owned my love for you?The garden's silence: even the single beePersisting in his toil, suddenly stopped,And where he hid you only could surmiseBy some campanula chalice set a-swing.Who stammered—"Yes, I love you?"

Otti.Well then, I love you better now than ever,

And best (look at me while I speak to you)—

Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth,

This mask, this simulated ignorance,

This affectation of simplicity,

Falls off our crime; this naked crime of ours

May not now be looked over: look it down!

Great? let it be great; but the joys it brought,

Pay they or no its price? Come: they or it!

Speak not! The past, would you give up the past

Such as it is, pleasure and crime together?

Give up that noon I owned my love for you?

The garden's silence: even the single bee

Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped,

And where he hid you only could surmise

By some campanula chalice set a-swing.

Who stammered—"Yes, I love you?"

Seb.And I drewBack; put far back your face with both my handsLest you should grow too full of me—your faceSo seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!

Seb.And I drew

Back; put far back your face with both my hands

Lest you should grow too full of me—your face

So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!

Otti.And when I ventured to receive you here,Made you steal hither in the mornings—

Otti.And when I ventured to receive you here,

Made you steal hither in the mornings—

Seb.WhenI used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,Till the red fire on its glazed windows spreadTo a yellow haze?

Seb.When

I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here,

Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread

To a yellow haze?

Otti.Ah—my sign was, the sunInflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-treeNipped by the first frost.

Otti.Ah—my sign was, the sun

Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree

Nipped by the first frost.

Seb.You would always laughAt my wet boots: I had to stride through grassOver my ankles.

Seb.You would always laugh

At my wet boots: I had to stride through grass

Over my ankles.

Otti.Then our crowning night!

Seb.The July night?

Otti.The day of it too, Sebald!When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,Its black-blue canopy suffered descendClose on us both, to weigh down each to each,And smother up all life except our life.So lay we till the storm came.

Otti.The day of it too, Sebald!

When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat,

Its black-blue canopy suffered descend

Close on us both, to weigh down each to each,

And smother up all life except our life.

So lay we till the storm came.

Seb.How it came!

Otti.Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;And ever and anon some bright white shaftBurned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there,As if God's messenger through the close wood screenPlunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,Feeling for guilty thee and me: then brokeThe thunder like a whole sea overhead—

Otti.Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;

Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;

And ever and anon some bright white shaft

Burned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there,

As if God's messenger through the close wood screen

Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,

Feeling for guilty thee and me: then broke

The thunder like a whole sea overhead—

Seb.Yes!

Otti.—While I stretched myself upon you, handsTo hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shookAll my locks loose, and covered you with them—You, Sebald, the same you!

Otti.—While I stretched myself upon you, hands

To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook

All my locks loose, and covered you with them—

You, Sebald, the same you!

Seb.Slower, Ottima!

Otti.And as we lay—

Seb.Less vehemently! Love me!Forgive me! Take not words, mere words, to heart!Your breath is worse than wine. Breathe slow, speak slow!Do not lean on me!

Seb.Less vehemently! Love me!

Forgive me! Take not words, mere words, to heart!

Your breath is worse than wine. Breathe slow, speak slow!

Do not lean on me!

Otti.Sebald, as we lay,Rising and falling only with our pants,Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die!Right to be punished! Naught completes such blissBut woe!" Who said that?

Otti.Sebald, as we lay,

Rising and falling only with our pants,

Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die!

Right to be punished! Naught completes such bliss

But woe!" Who said that?

Seb.How did we ever rise?Was 't that we slept? Why did it end?

Seb.How did we ever rise?

Was 't that we slept? Why did it end?

Otti.I felt youTaper into a point the ruffled endsOf my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips.My hair is fallen now: knot it again!

Otti.I felt you

Taper into a point the ruffled ends

Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips.

My hair is fallen now: knot it again!

Seb.I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!This way? Will you forgive me—be once moreMy great queen?

Seb.I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!

This way? Will you forgive me—be once more

My great queen?

Otti.Bind it thrice about my brow;Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,Magnificent in sin. Say that!

Otti.Bind it thrice about my brow;

Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,

Magnificent in sin. Say that!

Seb.I crown youMy great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,Magnificent ...

Seb.I crown you

My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,

Magnificent ...

[From without is heard the voice ofPippasinging—

The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn:God's in his heaven—All's right with the world![Pippapasses.

The year's at the spring

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hillside's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn:

God's in his heaven—

All's right with the world![Pippapasses.

Seb.God's in his heaven! Do you hear that? Who spoke?You, you spoke!

Seb.God's in his heaven! Do you hear that? Who spoke?

You, you spoke!

Otti.Oh—that little ragged girl!She must have rested on the step: we give themBut this one holiday the whole year round.Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.She stoops to pick my double heartsease ... Sh!She does not hear: call you out louder!

Otti.Oh—that little ragged girl!

She must have rested on the step: we give them

But this one holiday the whole year round.

Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?

There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.

She stoops to pick my double heartsease ... Sh!

She does not hear: call you out louder!

Seb.Leave me!Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!

Seb.Leave me!

Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!

Otti.Sebald?

Seb.Wipe off that paint! I hate you.

Otti.Miserable!

Seb.My God, and she is emptied of it now!Outright now!—how miraculously goneAll of the grace—had she not strange grace once?Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,No purpose holds the features up together,Only the cloven brow and puckered chinStay in their places: and the very hair,That seemed to have a sort of life in it,Drops, a dead web!

Seb.My God, and she is emptied of it now!

Outright now!—how miraculously gone

All of the grace—had she not strange grace once?

Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,

No purpose holds the features up together,

Only the cloven brow and puckered chin

Stay in their places: and the very hair,

That seemed to have a sort of life in it,

Drops, a dead web!

Otti.Speak to me—not of me!

Seb.—That round great full-orbed face, where not an angleBroke the delicious indolence—all broken!

Seb.—That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle

Broke the delicious indolence—all broken!

Otti.To me—not of me! Ungrateful, perjured cheat!A coward too: but ingrate's worse than all!Beggar—my slave—a fawning, cringing lie!Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift!A lie that walks and eats and drinks!

Otti.To me—not of me! Ungrateful, perjured cheat!

A coward too: but ingrate's worse than all!

Beggar—my slave—a fawning, cringing lie!

Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift!

A lie that walks and eats and drinks!

Seb.My God!Those morbid olive faultless shoulder-blades—I should have known there was no blood beneath!

Seb.My God!

Those morbid olive faultless shoulder-blades—

I should have known there was no blood beneath!

Otti.You hate me then? You hate me then?

Seb.To thinkShe would succeed in her absurd attempt,And fascinate by sinning, show herselfSuperior—guilt from its excess superiorTo innocence! That little peasant's voiceHas righted all again. Though I be lost,I know which is the better, never fear,Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,Nature or trick! I see what I have done,Entirely now! Oh I am proud to feelSuch torments—let the world take credit thence—I, having done my deed, pay too its price!I hate, hate—curse you! God's in his heaven!

Seb.To think

She would succeed in her absurd attempt,

And fascinate by sinning, show herself

Superior—guilt from its excess superior

To innocence! That little peasant's voice

Has righted all again. Though I be lost,

I know which is the better, never fear,

Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,

Nature or trick! I see what I have done,

Entirely now! Oh I am proud to feel

Such torments—let the world take credit thence—

I, having done my deed, pay too its price!

I hate, hate—curse you! God's in his heaven!

Otti.—Me!Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself—kill me!Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me—thenYourself—then—presently—first hear me speak!I always meant to kill myself—wait, you!Lean on my breast—not as a breast; don't love meThe more because you lean on me, my ownHeart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently!

Otti.—Me!

Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself—kill me!

Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me—then

Yourself—then—presently—first hear me speak!

I always meant to kill myself—wait, you!

Lean on my breast—not as a breast; don't love me

The more because you lean on me, my own

Heart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently!

Seb.My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feelIs ... is, at swift-recurring intervals,A hurry-down within me, as of watersLoosened to smother up some ghastly pit:There they go—whirls from a black fiery sea!

Seb.My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feel

Is ... is, at swift-recurring intervals,

A hurry-down within me, as of waters

Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit:

There they go—whirls from a black fiery sea!

Otti.Not me—to him, O God, be merciful!

Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from the hillside to Oreana. Foreign Students of painting and sculpture, from Venice, assembled opposite the house ofJules,a young French statuary, at Passagno.1st Student.Attention! My own post is beneath this window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide three or four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five—who's a defaulter? We want everybody, for Jules must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest's found out.2d Stud.All here! Only our poet's away—never having much meant to be present, moonstrike him! The airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino! He was in violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested was it,—when suddenly a woman falls in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy he takes himself off to Trieste, immortal poem and all: whereto is this prophetical epitaph appended already, as Bluphocks assures me,—"Here a mammoth-poem lies, Fouled to death by butterflies." His own fault, the simpleton! Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly.—Æsculapius, an Epic. Catalogue of the drugs: Hebe's plaister—One strip Cools your lip. Phœbus' emulsion—One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus—One box Cures ...3d Stud.Subside, my fine fellow! If the marriage was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a minute with his bride.2d Stud.Good!—only, so should the poet's muse have been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks,et canibus nostris... and Delia not better known to our literary dogs than the boy Giovacchino!1st Stud.To the point, now. Where's Gottlieb, the new-comer? Oh,—listen, Gottlieb, to what has called down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst out on us in a fury by and by: I am spokesman—the verses that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche—but each professes himself alike insulted by this strutting stone-squarer, who came along from Paris to Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again—oh, alone indubitably!—to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers!—so he was heard to call us all. Now, is Schramm brutalized, I should like to know? Am I heartless?Gottlieb.Why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose Jules a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you will have brushed off—what do folks style it?—the bloom of his life. Is it too late to alter? These love-letters now, you call his—I can't laugh at them.4th Stud.Because you never read the sham letters of our inditing which drew forth these.Gott.His discovery of the truth will be frightful.4th Stud.That's the joke. But you should have joined us at the beginning: there's no doubt he loves the girl—loves a model he might hire by the hour!Gott.See here! "He has been accustomed," he writes, "to have Canova's women about him, in stone, and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these being as much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration: but now he is to have the reality." There you laugh again! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth.1st Stud.Schramm! (Take the pipe out of his mouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose the bloom of his youth?Schramm.Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this world: look at a blossom—it drops presently, having done its service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and where would be the blossom's place could it continue? As well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body, because its earliest favorite, whatever it may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with—as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first object, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course. Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! Has a man done wondering at women?—there follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at men?—there's God to wonder at: and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one. Thus ...1st Stud.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 other day! Canova's gallery—you know: there he marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafing an eye: all at once he stops full at thePsiche-fanciulla—cannot pass that old acquaintance without a nod of encouragement—"In your new place, beauty? Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich—I see you!" Next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinishedPietàfor half an hour without moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into—I say, into—the group; by which gesture you are informed that precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered in Canova's practice was a certain method of using the drill in the articulation of the knee-joint—and that, likewise, has he mastered at length! Good-by, therefore, to poor Canova—whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble!5th Stud.Tell him about the women: go on to the women!1st Stud.Why, on that matter he could never be supercilious enough. How should we be other (he said) than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we cherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least: he would wait, and love only at the proper time, and meanwhile put up with thePsiche-fanciulla. Now, I happened to hear of a young Greek—real Greek girl at Malamocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's "hair like sea-moss"—Schramm knows!—white and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest,—a daughter of Natalia, so she swears—that hag Natalia, who helps us to models at threelirean hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules received a scentedletter—somebody had seen his Tydeus at the Academy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profound admirer bade him persevere—would make herself known to him ere long. (Paolina, my little friend of theFenice, transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the mysterious correspondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms—the pale cheeks, the black hair—whatever, in short, had struck us in our Malamocco model: we retained her name, too—Phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the herd of us by such a creature! In his very first answer he proposed marrying his monitress: and fancy us over these letters, two, three times a day, to receive and dispatch! I concocted the main of it: relations were in the way—secrecy must be observed—in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only speak to her when they were indissolubly united? St—st—Here they come!6th Stud.Both of them! Heaven's love, speak softly, speak within yourselves!5th Stud.Look at the bridegroom! Half his hair in storm and half in calm,—patted down over the left temple,—like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it: and the same old blouse that he murders the marble in.2d Stud.Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal Scratchy!—rich, that your face may the better set it off.6th Stud.And the bride! Yes, sure enough, our Phene! Should you have known her in her clothes? How magnificently pale!Gott.She does not also take it for earnest, I hope?1st Stud.Oh, Natalia's concern, that is! We settle with Natalia.6th Stud.She does not speak—has evidently let out no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses which are to break the secret to Jules?Gott.How he gazes on her! Pity—pity!1st Stud.They go in: now, silence! You three,—not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate: just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us singing, is seated!

Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from the hillside to Oreana. Foreign Students of painting and sculpture, from Venice, assembled opposite the house ofJules,a young French statuary, at Passagno.

1st Student.Attention! My own post is beneath this window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide three or four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five—who's a defaulter? We want everybody, for Jules must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest's found out.

2d Stud.All here! Only our poet's away—never having much meant to be present, moonstrike him! The airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino! He was in violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested was it,—when suddenly a woman falls in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy he takes himself off to Trieste, immortal poem and all: whereto is this prophetical epitaph appended already, as Bluphocks assures me,—"Here a mammoth-poem lies, Fouled to death by butterflies." His own fault, the simpleton! Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly.—Æsculapius, an Epic. Catalogue of the drugs: Hebe's plaister—One strip Cools your lip. Phœbus' emulsion—One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus—One box Cures ...

3d Stud.Subside, my fine fellow! If the marriage was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a minute with his bride.

2d Stud.Good!—only, so should the poet's muse have been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks,et canibus nostris... and Delia not better known to our literary dogs than the boy Giovacchino!

1st Stud.To the point, now. Where's Gottlieb, the new-comer? Oh,—listen, Gottlieb, to what has called down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst out on us in a fury by and by: I am spokesman—the verses that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche—but each professes himself alike insulted by this strutting stone-squarer, who came along from Paris to Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again—oh, alone indubitably!—to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers!—so he was heard to call us all. Now, is Schramm brutalized, I should like to know? Am I heartless?

Gottlieb.Why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose Jules a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you will have brushed off—what do folks style it?—the bloom of his life. Is it too late to alter? These love-letters now, you call his—I can't laugh at them.

4th Stud.Because you never read the sham letters of our inditing which drew forth these.

Gott.His discovery of the truth will be frightful.

4th Stud.That's the joke. But you should have joined us at the beginning: there's no doubt he loves the girl—loves a model he might hire by the hour!

Gott.See here! "He has been accustomed," he writes, "to have Canova's women about him, in stone, and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these being as much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration: but now he is to have the reality." There you laugh again! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth.

1st Stud.Schramm! (Take the pipe out of his mouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose the bloom of his youth?

Schramm.Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this world: look at a blossom—it drops presently, having done its service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and where would be the blossom's place could it continue? As well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body, because its earliest favorite, whatever it may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with—as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first object, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course. Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! Has a man done wondering at women?—there follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at men?—there's God to wonder at: and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one. Thus ...

1st Stud.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 other day! Canova's gallery—you know: there he marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafing an eye: all at once he stops full at thePsiche-fanciulla—cannot pass that old acquaintance without a nod of encouragement—"In your new place, beauty? Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich—I see you!" Next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinishedPietàfor half an hour without moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into—I say, into—the group; by which gesture you are informed that precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered in Canova's practice was a certain method of using the drill in the articulation of the knee-joint—and that, likewise, has he mastered at length! Good-by, therefore, to poor Canova—whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble!

5th Stud.Tell him about the women: go on to the women!

1st Stud.Why, on that matter he could never be supercilious enough. How should we be other (he said) than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we cherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least: he would wait, and love only at the proper time, and meanwhile put up with thePsiche-fanciulla. Now, I happened to hear of a young Greek—real Greek girl at Malamocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's "hair like sea-moss"—Schramm knows!—white and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest,—a daughter of Natalia, so she swears—that hag Natalia, who helps us to models at threelirean hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules received a scentedletter—somebody had seen his Tydeus at the Academy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profound admirer bade him persevere—would make herself known to him ere long. (Paolina, my little friend of theFenice, transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the mysterious correspondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms—the pale cheeks, the black hair—whatever, in short, had struck us in our Malamocco model: we retained her name, too—Phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the herd of us by such a creature! In his very first answer he proposed marrying his monitress: and fancy us over these letters, two, three times a day, to receive and dispatch! I concocted the main of it: relations were in the way—secrecy must be observed—in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only speak to her when they were indissolubly united? St—st—Here they come!

6th Stud.Both of them! Heaven's love, speak softly, speak within yourselves!

5th Stud.Look at the bridegroom! Half his hair in storm and half in calm,—patted down over the left temple,—like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it: and the same old blouse that he murders the marble in.

2d Stud.Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal Scratchy!—rich, that your face may the better set it off.

6th Stud.And the bride! Yes, sure enough, our Phene! Should you have known her in her clothes? How magnificently pale!

Gott.She does not also take it for earnest, I hope?

1st Stud.Oh, Natalia's concern, that is! We settle with Natalia.

6th Stud.She does not speak—has evidently let out no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses which are to break the secret to Jules?

Gott.How he gazes on her! Pity—pity!

1st Stud.They go in: now, silence! You three,—not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate: just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us singing, is seated!

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