University of Virginia Library

2. PART II. NOON.

Scene.—Over Orcana. The house of Jules, who crosses its threshold with Phene: she is silent, on which Jules begins—
Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, you
Are mine now; let fate reach me how she likes,
If you'll not die: so, never die! Sit here—
My work-room's single seat. I over-lean
This length of hair and lustrous front; they turn
Like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, last
Your chin—no, last your throat turns: 't is their scent
Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, look ever
This one way till I change, grow you—I could
Change into you, beloved!
You by me,
And I by you; this is your hand in mine,
And side by side we sit: all's true. Thank God!
I have spoken: speak you!
O my life to come!
My Tydeus must be carved that's there in clay;
Yet how be carved, with you about the room?
Where must I place you? When I think that once
This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven
Without you! Shall I ever work again,
Get fairly into my old ways again,
Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,
My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?
Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—
The live truth, passing and repassing me,
Sitting beside me?
Now speak!
Only first,
See, all your letters! Was't not well contrived?
Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keeps
Your letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?
Ah,—this that swam down like a first moonbeam
Into my world!
Again those eyes complete
Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow,
Of all my room holds; to return and rest
On me, with pity, yet some wonder too:
As if God bade some spirit plague a world,
And this were the one moment of surprise
And sorrow while she took her station, pausing
O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!
What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;
Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:
This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red
Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe—
Read this line . . . no, shame—Homer's be the Greek
First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!
This Odyssey in coarse black vivid type
With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,
To mark great places with due gratitude;
“He said, and on Antinous directed
“A bitter shaft” . . . a flower blots out the rest!
Again upon your search? My statues, then!
—Ah, do not mind that—better that will look
When cast in bronze—an Almaign Kaiser, that,
Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.
This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized?
I thought you would have seen that here you sit
As I imagined you,—Hippolyta,
Naked upon her bright Numidian horse.
Recall you this then? “Carve in bold relief”—
So you commanded—“carve, against I come,
“A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,
“Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,
“Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch.
“‘Praise those who slew Hipparchus!’ cry the guests,
“‘While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves
“‘As erst above our champion: stand up, all!’”
See, I have laboured to express your thought.
Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms,
(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,
Only consenting at the branch's end
They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face,
The Praiser's, in the centre: who with eyes
Sightless, so bend they back to light inside
His brain where visionary forms throng up,
Sings, minding not that palpitating arch
Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine
From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off,
Violet and parsley crowns to trample on—
Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,
Devoutly their unconquerable hymn.
But you must say a “well” to that—say “well!”
Because you gaze—am I fantastic, sweet?
Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble—marbly
Even to the silence! Why, before I found
The real flesh Phene, I inured myself
To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff
For better nature's birth by means of art:
With me, each substance tended to one form
Of beauty—to the human archetype.
On every side occurred suggestive germs
Of that—the tree, the flower—or take the fruit,—
Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,
Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs,
Depending, nestled in the leaves; and just
From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang.
But of the stuffs one can be master of,
How I divined their capabilities!
From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk
That yields your outline to the air's embrace,
Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom;
Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure
To cut its one confided thought clean out
Of all the world. But marble!—'neath my tools
More pliable than jelly—as it were
Some clear primordial creature dug from depths
In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,
And whence all baser substance may be worked;
Refine it off to air, you may,—condense it
Down to the diamond;—is not metal there,
When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?
—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,
Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?
Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised
By the swift implement sent home at once,
Flushes and glowings radiate and hover
About its track?
Phene? what—why is this?
That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes!
Ah, you will die—I knew that you would die!

Phene
begins, on his having long remained silent.
Now the end's coming; to be sure, it must
Have ended sometime! Tush, why need I speak
Their foolish speech? I cannot bring to mind
One half of it, beside; and do not care
For old Natalia now, nor any of them.
Oh, you—what are you?—if I do not try
To say the words Natalia made me learn,
To please your friends,—it is to keep myself
Where your voice lifted me, by letting that
Proceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps,
Cannot take up, now you have once let fall,
The music's life, and me along with that—
No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are:
Above the world.
You creature with the eyes!
If I could look for ever up to them,
As now you let me,—I believe, all sin,
All memory of wrong done, suffering borne,
Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth
Whence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay
—Never to overtake the rest of me,
All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,
Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself,
Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink,
Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so,
Above the world!
But you sink, for your eyes
Are altering—altered! Stay—“I love you, love” . . .
I could prevent it if I understood:
More of your words to me: was't in the tone
Or the words, your power?
Or stay—I will repeat
Their speech, if that contents you! Only change
No more, and I shall find it presently
Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up.
Natalia threatened me that harm should follow
Unless I spoke their lesson to the end,
But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.
Your friends,—Natalia said they were your friends
And meant you well,—because, I doubted it,
Observing (what was very strange to see)
On every face, so different in all else,
The same smile girls like me are used to bear,
But never men, men cannot stoop so low;
Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,
That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit
Which seems to take possession of the world
And make of God a tame confederate,
Purveyor to their appetites . . . you know!
But still Natalia said they were your friends,
And they assented though they smiled the more,
And all came round me,—that thin Englishman
With light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;
He held a paper—“What we want,” said he,
Ending some explanation to his friends—
“Is something slow, involved and mystical,
“To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste
“And lure him on until, at innermost
“Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find—this!
“—As in the apple's core, the noisome fly:
“For insects on the rind are seen at once,
“And brushed aside as soon, but this is found
“Only when on the lips or loathing tongue.”
And so he read what I have got by heart:
I'll speak it,—“Do not die, love! I am yours.”
No—is not that, or like that, part of words
Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose
What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?
I am a painter who cannot paint;
In my life, a devil rather than saint;
In my brain, as poor a creature too:
No end to all I cannot do!
Yet do one thing at least I can—
Love a man or hate a man
Supremely: thus my lore began.
Through the Valley of Love I went,
In the lovingest spot to abide,
And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,
I found Hate dwelling beside.
(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,
Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)
And further, I traversed Hate's grove,
In the hatefullest nook to dwell;
But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love
Where the shadow threefold fell.
(The meaning—those black bride's-eyes above,
Not a painter's lip should tell!)
“And here,” said he, “Jules probably will ask,
“‘You have black eyes, Love,—you are, sure enough,
“‘My peerless bride,—then do you tell indeed
“‘What needs some explanation! What means this?’”
—And I am to go on, without a word—
So, I grew wise in Love and Hate,
From simple that I was of late.
Once, when I loved, I would enlace
Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face
Of her I loved, in one embrace—
As if by mere love I could love immensely!
Once, when I hated, I would plunge
My sword, and wipe with the first lunge
My foe's whole life out like a sponge—
As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!
But now I am wiser, know better the fashion
How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion:
And if I see cause to love more, hate more
Than ever man loved, ever hated before—
And seek in the Valley of Love,
The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove,
Where my soul may surely reach
The essence, nought less, of each,
The Hate of all Hates, the Love
Of all Loves, in the Valley or Grove,—
I find them the very warders
Each of the other's borders.
When I love most, Love is disguised
In Hate; and when Hate is surprised
In Love, then I hate most: ask
How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,
Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,—
And how, having hated thee,
I sought long and painfully
To reach thy heart, nor prick
The skin but pierce to the quick—
Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight
By thy bride—how the painter Lutwyche can hate!

Jules
interposes.
Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt,
Hated me: they at Venice—presently
Their turn, however! You I shall not meet:
If I dreamed, saying this would wake me.
Keep
What's here, the gold—we cannot meet again,
Consider! and the money was but meant
For two years' travel, which is over now,
All chance or hope or care or need of it.
This—and what comes from selling these, my casts
And books and medals, except . . . let them go
Together, so the produce keeps you safe
Out of Natalia's clutches! If by chance
(For all's chance here) I should survive the gang
At Venice, root out all fifteen of them,
We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.

[From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing—
[Pippa passes.

Jules
resumes.

Talk 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.

So, that is your Pippa, the little girl who
passed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's
money shall be honestly earned:—now, don't make me
that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into
the business; we know he can have nothing to do with

such horrors: we know that he is a saint and all that a
bishop should be, who is a great man beside. Oh were
but every worm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every bough
a Christmas faggot, Every tune a jig! In fact, I have
abjured all religions; but the last I inclined to, was the
Armenian: for I have travelled, do you see, and at
Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper (so styled because there's
a sort of bleak hungry sun there), you might remark over
a venerable house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription;
and brief as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to
change the mood of every bearded passenger. In they
turned, one and all; the young and lightsome, with no
irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible
alacrity: 't was the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short.
Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriac
—(these are vowels, you dogs,—follow my stick's end
in the mud—Celarent, Darii, Ferio!) and one morning
presented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, c,—I
picked it out letter by letter, and what was the purport
of this miraculous posy? Some cherished legend of
the past, you'll say—“How Moses hocus-pocussed Egypt's
land with fly and locust,”—or, “How to Jonah sounded
harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish,”—or, “How the
angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam,”
In no wise! “Shackabrack—Boach—somebody or other
—Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex-chan-ger of—
Stolen Goods!” So, talk to me of the religion of a
bishop! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop
Beveridge—mean to live so—and die—As some Greek
dog-sage, dead and merry, Hellward bound in Charon's
wherry, With food for both worlds, under and upper,
Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, And never an obolus . . .
(Though thanks to you, or this Intendant through you, or
this Bishop through his Intendant—I possess a burning
pocketful of zwanzigers) . . . To pay the Stygian Ferry!

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!

2nd Policeman.

Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silkmills
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.

Bluphocks.

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.

2nd Policeman.

Put into rhyme that your head and a
ripe musk-melon would not be dear at half a zwanziger!
Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon's over or
nearly so.

3rd Policeman.

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.)

2nd Policeman.

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;” ink-spirt on right-hand side (which is the case
here)—“Arrest him at once.” Why and wherefore, I
don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to
this: if Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for Vienna
—well and good, the passport deposed with us for
our visa is really for his own use, they have misinformed
the Office, and he means well; but let him stay over
to-night—there has been the pretence we suspect, the
accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence
with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once,
to-morrow comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocks
makes the signal, sure enough! That is he,
entering the turret with his mother, no doubt.