  A DRAMA Sordello did not prove commercially successful, and Browning was reluctant to go on publishing his poetry at his father's expense. "One day," Mr. Gosse says, "as the poet was discussing the matter with Mr. Edward Moxon, the publisher, the latter remarked that at that time he was bringing out some editions of the old Elizabethan dramatists in a comparatively cheap form, and that if Mr. Browning would consent to print his poems as pamphlets, using this cheap type, the expense would be very inconsiderable." Browning accepted the suggestion at once and began the issue of a cheap series of pamphlets, each sixteen octavo pages in double column, printed on poor paper and sold first for a sixpence each, the price afterward being raised to a shilling and then to half a crown. The series consisted of eight numbers under the general fanciful title Bells and Pomegranates. Apparently the passage in Exodus xxviii. 33, "And beneath upon the hem of it [the priest's robe] thou shalt make pomegranates of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, round about the hem thereof; and bells of gold between them round about," suggested the title, but as all sorts of speculations sprang up about its significance, Browning appended the following note to the eighth and final number of the series:—
"R. B." The first number of Bells and Pomegranates contained Pippa Passes. It was published in 1841 and was introduced by the following dedicatory preface:— ADVERTISEMENT Two or three years ago I wrote a Play, about which the chief matter I much care to recollect at present is, that a Pitfull of good-natured people applauded it: ever since, I have been desirous of doing something in the same way that should better reward their attention. What follows, I mean for the first of a series of Dramatical Pieces, to come out at intervals; and I amuse myself by fancying that the cheap mode in which they appear, will for once help me to a sort of Pit-audience again. Of course such a work must go on no longer than it is liked; and to provide against a too certain and but too possible contingency, let me hasten to say now—what, if I were sure of success, I would try to say circumstantially enough at the close—that I dedicate my best intentions most admiringly to the Author of Ion—most affectionately to Sergeant Talfourd. Robert Browning. The phrases in the closing sentence were afterward used by Browning as a dedication when he discarded the advertisement in the collective editions of his poems. PERSONS INTRODUCTIONNew 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 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! 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. I. MORNINGUp the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house. Luca's Wife Ottima, and her Paramour, the German Sebald. 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 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, 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: 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 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, 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." Otti. Assuredly if I repented The deed— 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 ... 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 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 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 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 alive To fondle you before my face. 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 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 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 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 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? 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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— 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 sun Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree Nipped by the first frost. 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 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 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, hands 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! 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? 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 more My 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 you My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress, Magnificent ... [From without is heard the voice of Pippa singing— 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! [Pippa passes. 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 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! 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 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 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! 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 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—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 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, while Pippa is passing from the hillside to Oreana. Foreign Students of painting and sculpture, from Venice, assembled opposite the house of Jules, 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. Phoebus' 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 the Psiche-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 unfinished PietÀ for 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 the Psiche-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 three lire an hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules received a scented 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! II. NOONTalk by the way, while Pippa is passing from Orcana to the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering with Bluphocks, an English vagabond, just in view of the Turret. Bluphocks. 1st Policeman. There is the girl, then; go and deserve them the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his mother. [To the rest.] I have been noticing a house yonder, this long while: not a shutter unclosed since morning! 2d Pol. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Never molest such a household, they mean well. Blup. Only, cannot you tell me something of this little Pippa, I must have to do with? One could make something of that name. Pippa—that is, short for Felippa—rhyming to Panurge consults Hertrippa—Believest thou, King Agrippa? Something might be done with that name. 2d Pol. Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear at half a zwanziger! Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon's over or nearly so. 3d Pol. Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature? (That English fool's busy watching.) 2d Pol. Flourish all round—"Put all possible obstacles in his way;" oblong dot at the end—"Detain him till further advices reach you;" scratch at bottom—"Send him back on pretence of some informality in the above;" III. EVENINGInside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo. Luigi and his Mother entering. Mother. If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing The 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 voice Whose body is caught and kept by ... what are those? Mere withered wallflowers, waving overhead? They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair That lean out of their topmost fortress—look And 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 not Go to his City! Putting crime aside, Half of these ills of Italy are feigned: Your Pellicos and writers for effect, Write for effect. Luigi. Hush! Say A writes, and B. Mother. These A's and B's write for effect, I say. Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good Is silent; you hear each petty injury, None of his virtues; he is old beside, Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why Do A and B kill not him themselves? Luigi. They teach Others 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 say Ever to myself! At times—nay, even as now We sit—I think my mind is touched, suspect All is not sound: but is not knowing that, What 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 Italy Were 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 walk There '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 heaven Accords 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 way For the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!" And in return for all this, I can trip Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go This 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 means To this wild enterprise: say, you are right,— How should one in your state e'er bring to pass What would require a cool head, a cool 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 much Have 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 fellows Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay? I was put at the board-head, helped to all At 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 dead Who ask me:—last year's sunsets, and great stars Which had a right to come first and see ebb The crimson wave that drifts the sun away— Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood, Impatient of the azure—and that day In 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? 'T is true,— Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness, Environ my devotedness as quaintly As round about some antique altar wreathe The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls. Mother. See now: you reach the city, you must cross His 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 fit For such an office, qualities I have, Would little stead me, otherwise employed, Yet prove of rarest merit only here. Every one knows for what his excellence Will serve, but no one ever will consider For what his worst defect might serve: and yet Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder In search of a distorted ash?—I find The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow. Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man Arriving-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 out Behind 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) on Through guards and guards— I have rehearsed it all Inside the turret here a hundred times. Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe! But where they cluster thickliest is the door Of doors; they'll let you pass—they'll never blab Each 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 dream They got about me—Andrea from his exile, Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave! Mother. Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism The easiest virtue for a selfish man To acquire: he loves himself—and next, the world— If he must love beyond,—but naught between: As a short-sighted man sees naught midway His body and the sun above. But you Are my adored Luigi, ever obedient To 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, for That treaty whereby ... Mother. Well? Luigi. (Sure, he 's arrived, The tell-tale 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 understand But can't restate the matter; that's my boast: Others could reason it out to you, and prove Things they have made me feel. Mother. Why go to-night? Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now A 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 gift Of the morning-star? Mother. Chiara will love to see That Jupiter an evening-star next June. Luigi. True, mother. Well for those who live through June! Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pomps That triumph at the heels of June the god Leading 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 upturned As if life were one long and sweet surprise: In June she comes. Luigi. We were to see together The Titian at Treviso. There, again! [From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing— 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 full As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn Of 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 seemed No 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 one From its threshold of smooth stone. They haled him many a valley-thief Caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat, Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found On the sea-sand left aground; And sometimes clung about his feet, With bleeding lip and burning cheek, A woman, bitterest wrong to speak Of one with sullen thickset brows: And sometimes from the prison-house The angry priests a pale wretch brought, Who through some chink had pushed and pressed On knees and elbows, belly and breast, Worm-like into the temple,—caught He was by the very god, Who ever in the darkness strode Backward and forward, keeping watch O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch! These, all and every one, The king judged, sitting in the sun. Luigi. That king should still judge sitting in the sun! His councillors, on left and right, Looked anxious up,—but no surprise Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes Where the very blue had turned to white. 'Tis said, a Python scared one day The 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 hair Girt with a crown of berries rare Which the god will hardly give to wear To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights, At his wondrous forest rites,— Seeing this, he did not dare Approach that threshold in the sun, Assault the old king smiling there. Such grace had kings when the world begun! [Pippa passes. 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? 'T is God's voice calls: how could I stay? Farewell! Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from the Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. Poor Girls sitting 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! 2d Girl. I? This sunset To finish. 3d 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 mumbling The 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!"— 2d Girl. How she can lie! 3d Girl. Look there—by the nails! 2d Girl. What makes your fingers red? 3d Girl. Dipping them into wine to write bad words with On the bright table: how he laughed! 1st Girl. My turn. Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wear A 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! 3d Girl. Say at once You'd be at home: she'd always be at home! Now comes the story of the farm among The cherry orchards, and how April snowed White 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 dung-hill of your garden! 1st Girl. They destroy My garden since I left them? well—perhaps I 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'erhead Pricking the papers strung to flutter there And keep off birds in fruit-time—coarse long papers, And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through. 3d Girl. How her month twitches! Where was I?—before She broke in with her wishes and long gowns And wasps—would I be such a fool!—Oh, here! This is my way: I answer every one Who 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 girl Thus 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 one Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend Up there, would shine no more that day nor next. 2d 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 hair Your 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 lampreys And ortolans? Giovita, of the palace, Engaged (but there's no trusting him) to slice me Polenta with a knife that had cut up An ortolan. 2d Girl. Why, there! Is not that Pippa We are to talk to, under the window,—quick!— Where the lights are? 1st Girl. That she? No, or she would sing, For the Intendant said ... 3d 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! 2d. Girl. [Sings.] You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June reared that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing. I plant a heartfull now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And 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! 3d Girl. [To Pippa who approaches.] Oh, you may come closer—we shall not eat you! Why, you seem the very person that the great rich handsome Englishman has fallen so violently in love with. I 'll tell you all about it. IV. NIGHTInside the Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, dismissing his Attendants. Monsignor. Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chiefly desire life now, that I may recompense every one of you. Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared? Benedicto benedicatur ... ugh, ugh! Where was I? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter-weather: but I am a Sicilian, you know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on Assumption Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To the Intendant.] Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apartment.] I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo. Intendant. Uguccio— Mon. ... 'guccio Stefani, man! of Ascoli, Fermo and Fossombruno;—what I do need instructing about, are these accounts of your administration of my poor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through a third part of your accounts; take some of these dainties before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to that degree? For me, a crust and water suffice. Inten. Do you choose this especial night to question me? Mon. This night, Ugo. You have managed my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother: fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the Third of December, I find him ... Inten. If you have so intimate an acquaintance with your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back. Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh,—nothing but disappointments here below! I remark a considerable payment made to yourself on this Third of December. Talk of disappointments! There was a young fellow here, Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, that the Church might be a gainer by us both: he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me some marvellous change that has happened in his notions of Art. Here's his letter,—"He never had a clearly conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since his hand could manage a chisel, he has practised expressing other men's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. There is but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its characteristics,"—strike out, I dare say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo? Inten. Is Correggio a painter? Mon. Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, why foolish? He may—probably will—fail egregiously; but if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who have conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other channel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventional roads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo? If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo! Inten. Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of yours. First, you select the group of which I formed one,—next you thin it gradually,—always retaining me with your smile,—and so do you proceed till you have fairly 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? Mon. Ugo! Inten. From the instant you arrived, I felt your smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other article in those papers—why your brother should have given me this villa, that podere,—and your nod at the end meant,—what? Mon. Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here. If once you set me coughing, Ugo!— Inten. I have your brother's hand and seal to all I possess: now ask me what for! what service I did him—ask me! Mon. I would better not: I should rip up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way, Maffeo of Forli, (which, I forgot to observe, is your true name,) was the interdict ever taken off you for robbing that church at Cesena? Inten. No, nor needs be: for when I murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, for him ... Mon. Ah, he employed you in that business, did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and that podere, for fear the world should find out my relations were of so indifferent a stamp? Maffeo, my family is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every wickedness under heaven: my own father ... rest his soul!—I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may rest: my dear two dead brothers were,—what you know tolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I came out from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. My glory springs from another source; or if from this, by contrast only,—for I, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of their wrong, however; so far as my brother's ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequences of his crime: and not one soldo shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with; what opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw,—am I therefore to let you, the off-scouring-of the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and exclusively associated with it? Must I let villas and poderi go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means of them other murderers and thieves? No—if my cough would but allow me to speak! Inten. What am I to expect? You are going to punish me? Mon. Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in. How should I dare to say ... Inten. "Forgive us our trespasses"? Mon. My friend, it is because I avow myself a very worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of conduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, as it were, a-pardoning?—I?—who have no symptom of reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less keep others out. No: I do trespass, but will not double that by allowing you to trespass. Inten. And suppose the villas are not your brother's to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hasty enough just now! Mon. 1, 2—N?. 3!—ay, can you read the substance of a letter, N?. 3, I have received from Rome? It is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late younger brother—that the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritage for the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story? The heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and the life of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now! Inten. So old a story, and tell it no better? When did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? Either the child smiles in his face; or, most likely, he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so thoroughly: the child is always ready to produce—as you say—howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever. Mon. Liar! Inten. Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise! I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows await me to-morrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I pay his annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop—you! Mon. I see through the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however—seven times sifted. Inten. And how my absurd riches encumbered me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die! Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like your brother I frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir, I will make away with her for you—the girl—here close at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not speak—know nothing of her nor of me! I see her every day—saw her this morning: of course there is to be no killing; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and I can entice her thither—have indeed begun operations already. There's a certain lusty blue-eyed florid-complexioned English knave, I and the Police employ occasionally. You assent, I perceive—no, that's not it—assent I do not say—but you will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the Alps? 'Tis but a little black-eyed pretty singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of harm's way up to this present; for I always intended to make your life a plague to [From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing— 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 —Ay, 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 understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me— Suddenly God took me. [Pippa passes. Mon. [Springing up.] My people—one and all—all—within there! Gag this villain—tie him hand and foot! He dares ... I know not half he dares—but remove him—quick! Miserere mei, Domine! Quick, I say! 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 fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, 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 to-morrow so soon put away! But winter hastens at summer's end, And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray, How fare they? No bidding me then to ... what did Zanze say? "Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes More 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 hurt To learn his name who passed that jest upon me: No foreigner, that I can recollect, Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect Our silk-mills—none with blue eyes and thick rings Of 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 appear More destitute than you perhaps next year! Bluph ... something! I had caught the uncouth name But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter Above us—bound to spoil such idle chatter As ours: it were indeed a serious matter If silly talk like ours should put to shame The pious man, the man devoid of blame, The ... ah but—ah but, all the same, No mere mortal has a right To carry that exalted air; Best people are not angels quite: While—not the worst of people's doings scare The devil; so there 's that proud look to spare! Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for I have just been the holy Monsignor: And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother, And you too, Luigi!—how that Luigi started Out of the turret—doubtlessly departed On some good errand or another, For he passed just now in a traveller's trim, And the sullen company that prowled About his path, I noticed, scowled As 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 witness Old proportions and their fitness, Here remain unchanged, unmoved now; Call this pampered thing improved now! Suppose there 's a king of the flowers And 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 polenta Till both cheeks are near as bouncing As her ... name there 's no pronouncing! See this heightened color too, For she swilled Breganze wine Till her nose turned deep carmine; 'T was but white when wild she grew. And only by this Zanze's eyes Of which we could not change the size, The magnitude of all achieved Otherwise, 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. Oh lark, be day's apostle To mavis, merle and throstle, Bid them their betters jostle From day and its delights! But at night, brother owlet, over the woods, Toll the world to thy chantry; Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods Full complines with gallantry: Then, owls and bats, Cowls and twats, Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! [After she has begun to undress herself. Now, one thing I should like to really know: How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day: —Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, so As to ... in some way ... move them—if you please, Do good or evil to them some slight way. For instance, if I wind Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind [Sitting on the bedside. And 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. [As she lies down. God bless me! I can pray no more to-night. 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. [She sleeps. |
|
