Iii.—Evening

SCENE.--Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo. LUIGI and hisMother entering.

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!Hark--"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--lookAnd 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!"

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.

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. WhyDo 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?Ah, 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, suspectAll 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 ItalyWere 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,And 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,The 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 goThis 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--How 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 muchHave 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?I 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 starsWhich 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 dayIn 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,Environ 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!Then 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.Everyone 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 findThe 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;In 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) onThrough 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 blabEach 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!You'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 manTo 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 obedientTo 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--(If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon)--Never by conquest but by cunning, forThat treaty whereby--

Luigi. (Sure, he's arrived,The telltale cuckoo; spring's his confidant,And he lets out her April purposes!)Or--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?Morn'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 giftOf 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 godLeading 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 upturnedAs if life were one long and sweet surprise:In June she comes.

Luigi. We were to see togetherThe Titian at Treviso. There, again!

A king lived long ago,In the morning of the world,When 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--Only 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)That, 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,He 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-chiefSwarthy 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,A 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 pressedOn 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 watchO'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,Looked 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,With 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 wearTo 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,Assault the old king smiling there.Such grace had kings when the world begun!

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,Lurk 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, while PIPPA is passing from the Turret to theBishop's Brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. Poor Girlssitting 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!

3rd Girl. That old--somebody I know,Grayer and older than my grandfather,To 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:Since had he not himself been late this morning,Detained at--never mind where--had he not--"Eh, baggage, had I not!"--

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;And 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 amongThe 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 destroyMy 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:Cric--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?--beforeShe 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!")"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--Your 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.How 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,Than 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 mePolenta 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?

3rd Girl. Oh, you sing first!Then, 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!

You'll love me yet!--and I can tarryYour 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 strikeAnd 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.What's death? You'll love me yet!

Monsignor. This night, Ugo. You have managed mylate 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. 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.And now then? Let this farce, this chatter, end now;what is it you want with me?

Intendant. From the instant you arrived, I felt yoursmile on me as you questioned me about this and theother article in those papers--why your brother shouldhave given me this villa, that podere--and your nod atthe end meant--what?

Monsignor. I would better not: I should rip up olddisgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By theway, 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. 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.How should I dare to say--

Intendant. And how my absurd riches encumberedme! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions.Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die!

Overhead the tree-tops meet,Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet;There 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?The 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 understandWherefore through heaven the white moon ranges;And just when out of her soft fifty changesNo unfamiliar face might overlook me--Suddenly God took me.

Monsignor [springing up]. My people--one andall--all-within there! Gag this villain--tie him hand andfoot! He dares--I know not half he dares--butremove him--quick! Miserere mei, Domine! Quick, I say!

SCENE.--PIPPA'S chamber again. She enters it.

The bee with his comb,The mouse at her dray,The grub in his tomb,While winter away;But the firefly and hedge-shrew and lobworm, I pray,How fare they?Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my Zanze!"Feast upon lampreys, quaff Breganze"--The summer of life so easy to spend,And care for tomorrow so soon put away!But winter hastens at summer's end,And firefly, hedge-shrew, lobworm, pray,How fare they?No bidding me then to--what did Zanze say?"Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoesMore like"--what said she?--"and less like canoes!"How pert that girl was!--would I be those pert,Impudent, staring women! It had done me,However, surely no such mighty hurtTo learn his name who passed that jest upon me:No foreigner, that I can recollect,Came, as she says, a month since, to inspectOur silk-mills--none with blue eyes and thick ringsOf raw-silk-colored hair, at all events.Well, if old Luca keep his good intents,We shall do better, see what next year brings!I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appearMore destitute than you perhaps next year!Bluph--something! I had caught the uncouth nameBut for Monsignor's people's sudden clatterAbove us--bound to spoil such idle chatterAs ours; it were indeed a serious matterIf silly talk like ours should put to shameThe pious man, the man devoid of blame,The--ah, but--ah, but, all the same,No mere mortal has a rightTo carry that exalted air;Best people are not angels quite:While--not the worst of people's doings scareThe devil; so there's that proud look to spare!Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! forI have just been the holy Monsignor:And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother,And you too, Luigi!--how that Luigi startedOut of the turret--doubtlessly departedOn some good errand or another,For he passed just now in a traveler's trim,And the sullen company that prowledAbout his path, I noticed, scowledAs if they had lost a prey in him.And I was Jules the sculptor's bride,And I was Ottima beside,And now what am I?--tired of fooling.Day for folly, night for schooling!New Year's day is over and spent,Ill or well, I must be content.Even my lily's asleep, I vow:Wake up--here's a friend I've plucked you!Call this flower a heart's-ease now!Something rare, let me instruct you,Is this, with petals triply swollen,Three times spotted, thrice the pollen;While the leaves and parts that witnessOld proportions and their fitness,Here remain unchanged, unmoved now;Call this pampered thing improved now!Suppose there's a king of the flowersAnd a girl-show held in his bowers--"Look ye, buds, this growth of ours,"Says he, "Zanze from the Brenta,I have made her gorge polentaTill both cheeks are near as bouncingAs her--name there's no pronouncing!See this heightened color too,For she swilled Breganze wineTill her nose turned deep carmine;'Twas but white when wild she grew.And only by this Zanze's eyesOf which we could not change the size,The magnitude of all achievedOtherwise, may be perceived."

Oh, what a drear, dark close to my poor day!How could that red sun drop in that black cloud?Ah, Pippa, morning's rule is moved away,Dispensed with, never more to be allowed!Day's turn is over, now arrives the night's.O lark, be day's apostleTo mavis, merle, and throstle,Bid them their betters jostleFrom day and its delights!But at night, brother owlet; over the woods,Toll the world to thy chantry;Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoodsFull complines with gallantry:Then, owls and bats,Cowls and twats,Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods,Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry!Now, one thing I should like to really know:How near I ever might approach all theseI only fancied being, this long day--Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, soAs to--in some way ... move them--if you please,Do good or evil to them some slight way.For instance, if I windSilk tomorrow, my silk may bindAnd border Ottima's cloak's hem.Ah me, and my important part with them,This morning's hymn half promised when I rose!True in some sense or other, I suppose.God bless me! I can pray no more tonight.No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right.All service ranks the same with God--With God, whose puppets, best and worst,Are we; there is no last nor first.