University of Virginia Library

PASQUA.

Weird old town medieval, say, why wert thou placed by thy founders
Thus out of reach of mankind, high on the Apennines' crest?
Say, were the chestnut-clad slopes, the well-watered valleys, less tempting,
When, in a far-distant time, rose thy high circular walls?
Never since then hast thou changed; thy houses are ever the self-same,
All in thy ramparts is old; man has alone been renewed.
Once a strong mountain republic, and now a town peopled by peasants,
Who, with a simple respect, cling to their homes of the past.
Nought but an arduous bridle-path leads to the bleak mountain plateau,
Yet do thy houses of stone tell of a pride that is gone.
Poor old vestige of time, the birthplace of glories forgotten,
Ill does thy high airy seat suit our wealth-seeking days;
Those who inhabit La Rocca must live in the ways of their fathers;
Humbly, by primitive means, mainly by manual work.
He who aspires to more must stifle the treacherous instinct,
Or from his birthplace depart, never again to return.
Famed is the place for its women; their beauty for miles is a proverb;
Though, in that Apennine tract, many a village might boast.
Race of the Apuan Alps, the fairest that speaks the pure Tuscan,
Who can thy vigour surpass? who to thy beauty attain?
Curly, light-brown is the hair, and yet the complexion is southern,
Warm as the tints of the hills, lit by the fast-sinking sun.
Watch we the women at work in the shade, in the heat of the noon-tide,
Out in the quaint little square, or on the steps of the church,
Sorting the golden cocoons, or twirling the flax on the spindle,
Singing in cadence a chant, nasal, metallic, and strange.
Bare are their arms and their feet; at most on the latter is poised,
Just on the tip of the toe, lightly the white wooden clog.
Look at the maidens that stand, out there by the murmuring fountain,
Patiently waiting their turn, till they the water can get.
See on their heads how they balance the urn-shaped pitcher of copper,
As, with the step of a queen, slowly they turn from the spring.
Beauty they have and to spare; but one who is fairer than they are—
One who is left to herself—fain would I show to you now.
Long might you search at La Rocca, and never discover her equal;
Pasqua, come show us thy face; Pasqua, come show us thy smile!
There all alone is she sitting, within the dark shade of the house-door;
Well does the time-blackened stone circle her form like a frame.
Busy her hands and her eyes in the making of lace on a cushion;
Neatly the threads she directs, nimbly the pins she removes.
Snowy, though coarse, is her shift, and low from her shoulders it falleth;
Prudery, turn up thy eyes; God did not make her for thee.
Dark blue the skirt that she wears, bedraping her limbs in their roundness;
Naked her arms and her feet, nut-brown and braided her hair.
Not with her lace are her thoughts, for see how she frequently, pausing,
Lifts up her eyes from the work, dreamily looks into space;
Where is the prince that shall come to marry this rare village beauty?
Fairy tale, follow thy course! Poesy, fashion her fate!
Poor the chance of the girl if quickly the prince do not fetch her;
Worldliness under the thatch, as in the palace, resides;
Show me the farmer of prudence would marry a portionless maiden;
Beggars may marry for love; peasants must marry for fields.
Pasqua is poor, alas! and earneth a scanty subsistence,
Making her beautiful lace, selling it down in the plain.
Many a summer has passed since her father abandoned La Rocca,
Seeking America's shores, leaving his wife and his child.
Lapo, for that was his name, was owner of one of the houses
Which, in the quaint little place, lean on the turreted wall.
Little of wealth he possessed, but yet, for his wants, all sufficient;
Chestnuts and vines on the slope, which with his hand he could till;
While in a manner monotonous, far from unhappy, the seasons
Passed one by one o'er his head, gently increasing his store.
Lapo would sometimes descend, but only to spend a few hours,
Into the towns of the plain, where there were markets or fairs.
One day, big with his fate, that he thus had come down from La Rocca,
Tools for his vineyard to buy, and at the inn had put up,
Where, in the heat of the day, the peasants were wont to assemble,
Playing at morra or cards, ere they their purchases made;
All who were there were engaged discussing about California,
Where you had only to stoop, gold to pick up in the street;
Great was just then the sensation produced by the newly-found gold-fields.
Listen wherever you would, men talked of nothing but gold.
Gold lay in heaps at the surface, in nuggets as large as potatoes;
Nay, there were lumps in the ground larger than pumpkins by far.
Open to all was the country: the cousin of one of the speakers
Left for the diggings next week; great were his faith and his hope:
Silent and gaping sat Lapo, imbibing the wondrous description,
Holding uneaten his cheese, leaving untasted his wine;
Where was that country? he asked; but no one could give him the answer;
Far, very far, that was all—somewhere right over the sea.
Deeply absorbed in his thoughts was Lapo the ignorant peasant,
When, on his way to his home, through the rich valleys he passed
Picturing unto himself those strange, inexhaustible gold-fields.
Little he looked to the right, little he looked to the left;
Yet all around him was gold; the gold of his own native country.
Labour, the mother of wealth, strewed it with liberal hand;
Golden the waves of the corn, just ripe for the rich second harvest;
Golden the fruit on the trees, golden the load of the vine;
Strung round each cottage in garlands, the maize hung in ponderous ingots,
Fashioned in Nature's own mint, out of her finest red gold;
Out in the gardens the maidens the yellow floss silk were preparing
Leading the soft wavy gold lightly with dexterous hand.
What was not golden, the sun, departing in splendour, was gilding.
Peasant, where was thy soul? Traveller, where were thy eyes?
During the following weeks, the peasant strangely was altered,
Little he cared for his work, which he had hitherto loved.
Oftener far than before, now into the plain he descended,
Staying away many days, leaving his fields all untilled;
Oft was he strangely depressed, oft was he strangely elated,
Never serene and content, as he had formerly been.
Vainly he fought with himself, and strove to forget California;
To it his thoughts would revert, as to the candle the moth.
Little by little the truth, and all that would come in the future,
Dawned on the mind of his wife, filling with anguish her soul.
Soon it was known in the village that Lapo had sold half the vineyard,
Only leaving unsold that which belonged to his wife.
Who does not seek to ennoble the motive of wrong or of folly?
Lapo was kindly of heart, all for his loved ones should be;
Pasqua, the child of his heart, should have a magnificent dower,
All at La Rocca should sit, sharing her rich marriage feast.
Quickly passed by the last days, spent in remonstrance, entreaty;
Who can deter the resolved, or the persuaded dissuade?
Year after year passed away, nor brought any knews of the wand'rer;
Hope was their friend for a time: slowly it turned to despair,
As, with the lapse of the summers, Pasqua grew fairer and fairer,
So did her mother decline, drooping and drooping away.
Broken the stem of her life when bearing its choicest flowers,
After the blow had been struck, never it blossomed again;
Not all the sunshine of Pasqua could waken up hope or exertion;
Far were her heart and her mind, over an ocean unknown.
Small were the fields that were left; but they needed a constant exertion.
Broken in heart and in health, ill could she manage the work.
Debt upon debt was contracted, and pitiless relatives sued her:
Seized was the humble estate, hunger stared in at the door.
Then were they solely supported by Pasqua the beautiful maiden;
Quickly she learnt to make lace, working from morning to night;
Pasqua, the beautiful child, turned into a beautiful woman;
None that La Rocca could show stood by her side unimpaired.
There, by a strange village irony, all named her Pasqua the Dowered;
Even the children would cry, “Wilt thou not give us a share?”
Sadly, nor conscious of malice, the maiden accepted the nickname;
Just as the swan in the tale, living awhile with the ducks.
Never the weary fingers deserted the lace-making cushion,
Cheerfully earning for two, till the necessity ceased.
Azrael, angel of death, when flying one night o'er La Rocca,
Carried the mother away, leaving the daughter alone.
This is the story of Pasqua—of Pasqua as first I beheld her
Guiding the threads of her lace, nimbly removing the pins.
Many a summer has passed, nor has altered the face of La Rocca;
Should you the mountain ascend, all you will find as it was.
There are the women at work in the shade, in the heat of the noontide
Out in the quaint little square, or on the steps of the church
Sorting the golden cocoons, or twirling the flax on the spindle,
Singing in cadence their chant, nasal, metallic, and strange.
There are the girls at the spring, with their urn-shaped pitchers of copper
Patiently waiting their turn, till they the water can get.
Pasqua alone is not there; she long has deserted her village,
Seeking for work in the plain—making no longer her lace.
There, in a noisy city, she earneth her bread as a servant,
Now nor so young nor so fair. Even a Pasqua must fade.