A Soul's Tragedy Act First, being what was called the Poetry of Chiappino's life : and Act Second, its Prose |
| 1. |
| 2. | ACT II. |
 | A Soul's Tragedy |  |
ACT II.
Scene.—The Market-place. Luitolfo in disguise mingling with the Populace assembled opposite the Provost's Palace.1st Bystander
[to Luitolfo].
You, a friend of Luitolfo's?
Then, your friend is vanished,—in all probability
killed on the night that his patron the tyrannical Provost
was loyally suppressed here, exactly a month ago, by our
illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour, and new
Provost that is like to be, this very morning,—Chiappino!
Luitolfo.
He the new Provost?
2nd Bystander.
Up those steps will he go, and beneath
yonder pillar stand, while Ogniben, the Pope's
Legate from Ravenna, reads the new dignitary's title to
the people, according to established custom: for which
reason, there is the assemblage you inquire about.
Luitolfo.
Chiappino—the late Provost's successor? Impossible!
But tell me of that presently. What I would
know first of all is, wherefore Luitolfo must so necessarily
have been killed on that memorable night?
3rd Bystander.
You were Luitolfo's friend? So was I.
a milksop. He, with all the opportunities in
the world, furnished by daily converse with our oppressor,
would not stir a finger to help us: and, when Chiappino
rose in solitary majesty and . . . how does one go on
saying? . . . dealt the godlike blow,—this Luitolfo, not
unreasonably fearing the indignation of an aroused and
liberated people, fled precipitately. He may have got
trodden to death in the press at the south-east gate,
when the Provost's guards fled through it to Ravenna,
with their wounded master,—if he did not rather hang
himself under some hedge.
Luitolfo.
Or why not simply have lain perdue in some
quiet corner,—such as San Cassiano, where his estate
was,—receiving daily intelligence from some sure friend,
meanwhile, as to the turn matters were taking here—how,
for instance, the Provost was not dead, after all, only
wounded—or, as to-day's news would seem to prove,
how Chiappino was not Brutus the Elder, after all, only
the new Provost—and thus Luitolfo be enabled to watch
a favourable opportunity for returning? Might it not
have been so?
3rd Bystander.
Why, he may have taken that care of
himself, certainly, for he came of a cautious stock. I'll
tell you how his uncle, just such another gingerly treader
on tiptoes with finger on lip,—how he met his death in the
house in a certain street was infected, he calculates
to pass it in safety by taking plentiful breath, say, when he
shall arrive at the eleventh house; then scouring by, holding
that breath, still he be got so far on the other side as
number twenty-three, and thus elude the danger.—And so
did he begin; but, as he arrived at thirteen, we will say,
—thinking to improve on his precaution by putting up a
little prayer to St. Nepomucene of Prague, this exhausted
so much of his lungs' reserve, that at sixteen it was
clean spent,—consequently at the fatal seventeen he
inhaled with a vigour and persistence enough to suck
you any latent venom out of the heart of a stone—
Ha, ha!
Luitolfo
[aside].
(If I had not lent that man the money
he wanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was
attributable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may
conclude?
3rd Bystander.
Why, he had a house here, and a
woman to whom he was affianced; and as they both pass
naturally to the new Provost, his friend and heir . . .
Luitolfo.
Ah, I suspected you of imposing on me with
your pleasantry! I know Chiappino better.
1st Bystander.
(Our friend has the bile! After all, I
do not dislike finding somebody vary a little this general
gape of admiration at Chiappino's glorious qualities.)
in Faenza since that memorable night?
Luitolfo.
It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino
to have been by profession a hater of that very office of
Provost, you now charge him with proposing to accept.
1st Bystander.
Sir, I'll tell you. That night was indeed
memorable. Up we rose, a mass of us, men, women,
children; out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant;
we were to defy the world: but, next grey morning,
“What will Rome say?” began everybody. You know
we are governed by Ravenna, which is governed by
Rome. And quietly into the town, by the Ravenna road,
comes on muleback a portly personage, Ogniben by
with name, the quality of Pontifical Legate; trots briskly
through the streets humming a “Cur fremuere gentes,”
and makes directly for the Provost's Palace—there it faces
you. “One Messer Chiappino is your leader? I have
known three-and-twenty leaders of revolts!” (laughing
gently to himself)—“Give me the help of your arm from
my mule to yonder steps under the pillar—So! And
now, my revolters and good friends, what do you want?
The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your
wounded Provost; and, having had a little talk with him,
I take on myself to come and try appease the disorderliness,
before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another
method: 't is I come, and not another, from a certain
understand, you are about to experience this unheardof
tyranny from me, that there shall be no heading nor
hanging, no confiscation nor exile: I insist on your
simply pleasing yourselves. And now, pray, what does
please you? To live without any government at all?
Or having decided for one, to see its minister murdered
by the first of your body that chooses to find himself
wronged, or disposed for reverting to first principles and
a justice anterior to all institutions,—and so will you
carry matters, that the rest of the world must at length
unite and put down such a den of wild beasts? As for
vengeance on what has just taken place,—once for all,
the wounded man assures me he cannot conjecture who
struck him; and this so earnestly, that one may be sure
he knows perfectly well what intimate acquaintance could
find admission to speak with him late last evening. I
come not for vengeance therefore, but from pure curiosity
to hear what you will do next.” And thus he ran on, on,
easily and volubly, till he seemed to arrive quite naturally
at the praise of law, order, and paternal government by
somebody from rather a distance. All our citizens were
in the snare, and about to be friends with so congenial
an adviser; but that Chiappino suddenly stood forth,
spoke out indignantly, and set things right again.
Luitolfo.
Do you see? I recognize him there!
Ay but, mark you, at the end of Chiappino's
longest period in praise of a pure republic,—“And
by whom do I desire such a government should be administered,
perhaps, but by one like yourself?”—returns
the Legate: thereupon speaking for a quarter of an hour
together, on the natural and only legitimate government
by the best and wisest. And it should seem there was
soon discovered to be no such vast discrepancy at
bottom between this and Chiappino's theory, place but
each in its proper light. “Oh, are you there?” quoth
Chiappino: “Ay, in that, I agree,” returns Chiappino:
and so on.
Luitolfo.
But did Chiappino cede at once to this?
1st Bystander.
Why, not altogether at once. For
instance, he said that the difference between him and all
his fellows was, that they seemed all wishing to be kings
in one or another way,—“whereas what right,” asked
he, “has any man to wish to be superior to another?”—
whereat, “Ah, sir,” answers the Legate, “this is the death
of me, so often as I expect something is really going to
be revealed to us by you clearer-seers, deeper-thinkers—
this—that your right-hand (to speak by a figure) should
be found taking up the weapon it displayed so ostentatiously,
not to destroy any dragon in our path, as was
prophesied, but simply to cut off its own fellow lefthand:
yourself set about attacking yourself. For see
in knowing the noble nature of the soul, its divine
impulses, and so forth; and with such a knowledge you
stand, as it were, armed to encounter the natural doubts
and fears as to that same inherent nobility, which are
apt to waylay us, the weaker ones, in the road of life.
And when we look eagerly to see them fall before you,
lo, round you wheel, only the left-hand gets the blow;
one proof of the soul's nobility destroys simply another
proof, quite as good, of the same, for you are found
delivering an opinion like this! Why, what is this perpetual
yearning to exceed, to subdue, to be better than,
and a king over, one's fellows,—all that you so disclaim,
—but the very tendency yourself are most proud of, and
under another form, would oppose to it,—only in a lower
stage of manifestation? You don't want to be vulgarly
superior to your fellows after their poor fashion—to have
me hold solemnly up your gown's tail, or hand you an
express of the last importance from the Pope, with all
these bystanders noticing how unconcerned you look the
while: but neither does our gaping friend, the burgess
yonder, want the other kind of kingship, that consists in
understanding better than his fellows this and similar
points of human nature, nor to roll under his tongue this
sweeter morsel still,—the feeling that, through immense
philosophy, he does not feel, he rather thinks, above
Luitolfo.
And the result is . . .
1st Bystander.
Why that, a month having gone by,
the indomitable Chiappino, marrying as he will Luitolfo's
love—at all events succeeding to Luitolfo's wealth—
becomes the first inhabitant of Faenza, and a proper
aspirant to the Provostship; which we assemble here
to see conferred on him this morning. The Legate's
Guard to clear the way! He will follow presently.
Luitolfo
[withdrawing a little].
I understand the drift
of Eulalia's communications less than ever. Yet she
surely said, in so many words, that Chiappino was in
urgent danger: wherefore, disregarding her injunction to
continue in my retreat and await the result of—what she
called, some experiment yet in process—I hastened here
without her leave or knowledge: how could I else? But
if this they say be true—if it were for such a purpose,
she and Chiappino kept me away . . . Oh, no, no! I
must confront him and her before I believe this of them.
And at the word, see!
Enter Chiappino and Eulalia.
Eulalia.
We part here, then? The change in your
principles would seem to be complete.
Chiappino.
Now, why refuse to see that in my present
more adroitly? I had despaired of, what you may call
the material instrumentality of life; of ever being able
to rightly operate on mankind through such a deranged
machinery as the existing modes of government: but
now, if I suddenly discover how to inform these perverted
institutions with fresh purpose, bring the functionary
limbs once more into immediate communication with,
and subjection to, the soul I am about to bestow on
them—do you see? Why should one desire to invent,
as long as it remains possible to renew and transform?
When all further hope of the old organization shall be
extinct, then, I grant you, it may be time to try and
create another.
Eulalia.
And there being discoverable some hope yet
in the hitherto much-abused old system of absolute
government by a Provost here, you mean to take your
time about endeavouring to realize those visions of a
perfect State, we once heard of?
Chiappino.
Say, I would fain realize my conception of
a palace, for instance, and that there is, abstractedly, but
a single way of erecting one perfectly. Here, in the
market-place is my allotted building-ground; here I
stand without a stone to lay, or a labourer to help me,—
stand, too, during a short day of life, close on which the
night comes. On the other hand, circumstances suddenly
to experiment upon—ruinous, if you please, wrongly
constructed at the beginning, and ready to tumble now.
But materials abound, a crowd of workmen offer their
services; here, exists yet a Hall of Audience of originally
noble proportions, there a Guest-chamber of symmetrical
design enough: and I may restore, enlarge, abolish or
unite these to heart's content. Ought I not make the
best of such an opportunity, rather than continue to gaze
disconsolately with folded arms on the flat pavement
here, while the sun goes slowly down, never to rise
again? Since you cannot understand this nor me, it is
better we should part as you desire.
Eulalia.
So, the love breaks away too!
Chiappino.
No, rather my soul's capacity for love widens
—needs more than one object to content it,—and, being
better instructed, will not persist in seeing all the
component parts of love in what is only a single part,
—nor in finding that so many and so various loves are
all united in the love of a woman,—manifold uses in one
instrument, as the savage has his sword, staff, sceptre
and idol, all in one club-stick. Love is a very compound
thing. The intellectual part of my love I shall give to
men, the mighty dead or the illustrious living; and
determine to call a mere sensual instinct by as few fine
names as possible. What do I lose?
Nay, I only think, what do I lose? and, one
more word—which shall complete my instruction—
does friendship go too? What of Luitolfo, the author
of your present prosperity?
Chiappino.
How the author?
Eulalia.
That blow now called yours . . .
Chiappino.
Struck without principle or purpose, as by
a blind natural operation: yet to which all my thought
and life directly and advisedly tended. I would have
struck it, and could not: he would have done his
utmost to avoid striking it, yet did so. I dispute his
right to that deed of mine—a final action with him,
from the first effect of which he fled away,—a mere
first step with me, on which I base a whole mighty
superstructure of good to follow. Could he get good
from it?
Eulalia.
So we profess, so we perform!
Enter Ogniben. Eulalia stands apart.
Ogniben.
I have seen three-and-twenty leaders of
revolts. By your leave, sir! Perform? What does the
lady say of performing?
Chiappino.
Only the trite saying, that we must not
trust profession, only performance.
Ogniben.
She'll not say that, sir, when she knows you
longer; you'll instruct her better. Ever judge of men
of promising is but a moment and cannot be prolonged,
yet, if sincere in its moment's extravagant goodness,
why, trust it and know the man by it, I say—not by his
performance; which is half the world's work, interfere
as the world needs must, with its accidents and circumstances:
the profession was purely the man's own. I
judge people by what they might be,—not are, nor
will be.
Chiappino.
But have there not been found, too, performing
natures, not merely promising?
Ogniben.
Plenty. Little Bindo of our town, for instance,
promised his friend, great ugly Masaccio, once,
“I will repay you!”—for a favour done him. So, when
his father came to die, and Bindo succeeded to the
inheritance, he sends straightway for Masaccio and
shares all with him—gives him half the land, half the
money, half the kegs of wine in the cellar. “Good,”
say you: and it is good. But had little Bindo found
himself possessor of all this wealth some five years
before—on the happy night when Masaccio procured
him that interview in the garden with his pretty cousin
Lisa—instead of being the beggar he then was,—I am
bound to believe that in the warm moment of promise
he would have given away all the wine-kegs and all the
money and all the land, and only reserved to himself
his life in looking and seeing his friend enjoy himself:
he meant fully that much, but the world interfered.—
To our business! Did I understand you just now
within-doors? You are not going to marry your old
friend's love, after all?
Chiappino.
I must have a woman that can sympathize
with, and appreciate me, I told you.
Ogniben.
Oh, I remember! you, the greater nature,
needs must have a lesser one (—avowedly lesser—contest
with you on that score would never do)—such a
nature must comprehend you, as the phrase is, accompany
and testify of your greatness from point to point onward.
Why, that were being not merely as great as yourself,
but greater considerably! Meantime, might not the
more bounded nature as reasonably count on your
appreciation of it, rather?—on your keeping close by
it, so far as you both go together, and then going on by
yourself as far as you please? Thus God serves us.
Chiappino.
And yet a woman that could understand
the whole of me, to whom I could reveal alike the strength
and the weakness—
Ogniben.
Ah, my friend, wish for nothing so foolish!
Worship your love, give her the best of you to see;
be to her like the western lands (they bring us such
strange news of) to the Spanish Court; send her only
birds, and fruits and gems! So shall you, what is unseen
of you, be supposed altogether a paradise by her,—as
these western lands by Spain: though I warrant there
is filth, red baboons, ugly reptiles and squalor enough,
which they bring Spain as few samples of as possible.
Do you want your mistress to respect your body
generally? Offer her your mouth to kis: don't strip
off your boot and put your foot to her lips! You
understand my humour by this time? I help men to
carry out their own principles: if they please to say two
and two make five, I assent, so they will but go on and
say, four and four make ten.
Chiappino.
But these are my private affairs; what I
desire you to occupy yourself about, is my public appearance
presently: for when the people hear that I am
appointed Provost, though you and I may thoroughly
discern—and easily, too—the right principle at bottom
of such a movement, and how my republicanism remains
thoroughly unaltered, only takes a form of expression
hitherto commonly judged (and heretofore by myself)
incompatible with its existence,—when thus I reconcile
myself to an old form of government instead of proposing a new one . . .
Ogniben.
Why, you must deal with people broadly.
Begin at a distance from this matter and say,—New
be revealed to us in the moral world; we know all we
shall ever know: and it is for simply reminding us, by
their various respective expedients, how we do know this
and the other matter, that men get called prophets, poets
and the like. A philosopher's life is spent in discovering
that, of the half-dozen truths he knew when a child, such
an one is a lie, as the world states it in set terms; and
then, after a weary lapse of years, and plenty of hardthinking,
it becomes a truth again after all, as he happens
to newly consider it and view it in a different relation
with the others: and so he restates it, to the confusion
of somebody else in good time. As for adding to the
original stock of truths,—impossible! Thus, you see the
expression of them is the grand business:—you have got
a truth in your head about the right way of governing
people, and you took a mode of expressing it which now
you confess to be imperfect. But what then? There is
truth in falsehood, falsehood in truth. No man ever told
one great truth, that I know, without the help of a good
dozen of lies at least, generally unconscious ones. And as
when a child comes in breathlessly and relates a strange
story, you try to conjecture from the very falsities in it,
what the reality was,—do not conclude that he saw nothing
in the sky, because he assuredly did not see a flying
horse there as he says,—so, through the contradictory
and trust to arrive eventually at, what you call the true
principle at bottom. Ah, what an answer is there! to
what will it not prove applicable?—“Contradictions?
Of course there were,” say you!
Chiappino.
Still, the world at large may call it inconsistency,
and what shall I urge in reply?
Ogniben.
Why, look you, when they tax you with
tergiversation or duplicity, you may answer—you begin
to perceive that, when all's done and said, both great
parties in the State, the advocators of change in the
present system of things, and the opponents of it,
patriot and anti-patriot, are found working together for
the common good; and that in the midst of their efforts
for and against its progress, the world somehow or other
still advances: to which result they contribute in equal
proportions, those who spend their life in pushing it
onward, as those who give theirs to the business of
pulling it back. Now, if you found the world stand still
between the opposite forces, and were glad, I should
conceive you: but it steadily advances, you rejoice to
see! By the side of such a rejoicer, the man who only
winks as he keeps cunning and quiet, and says, “Let
yonder hot-headed fellow fight out my battle! I, for one,
shall win in the end by the blows he gives, and which I
ought to be giving”—even he seems graceful in his
win quite as much by the blows our antagonist gives him,
blows from which he saves me—I thank the antagonist
equally!” Moreover, you may enlarge on the loss of the
edge of party-animosity with age and experience . . .
Chiappino.
And naturally time must wear off such
asperities: the bitterest adversaries get to discover certain
points of similarity between each other, common
sympathies—do they not?
Ogniben.
Ay, had the young David but sat first to dine
on his cheeses with the Philistine, he had soon discovered
an abundance of such common sympathies. He of Gath,
it is recorded, was born of a father and mother, had brothers
and sisters like another man,—they, no more than
the sons of Jesse, were used to eat each other. But, for
the sake of one broad antipathy that had existed from the
beginning, David slung the stone, cut off the giant's head,
made a spoil of it, and after ate his cheeses alone, with
the better appetite, for all I can learn. My friend, as
you, with a quickened eye-sight, go on discovering much
good on the worse side, remember that the same process
should proportionably magnify and demonstrate to you
the much more good on the better side! And when I
profess no sympathy for the Goliaths of our time, and
you object that a large nature should sympathize with
every form of intelligence, and see the good in it, however
of my sympathy, however finelier or widelier
I may extend its action.” I desire to be able, with a
quickened eye-sight, to descry beauty in corruption where
others see foulness only: but I hope I shall also continue
to see a redoubled beauty in the higher forms of matter,
where already everybody sees no foulness at all. I must
retain, too, my old power of selection, and choice of
appropriation, to apply to such new gifts; else they only
dazzle instead of enlightening me. God has his archangels
and consorts with them: though he made too,
and intimately sees what is good in, the worm. Observe,
I speak only as you profess to think and, so, ought to
speak: I do justice to your own principles, that is all.
Chiappino.
But you very well know that the two parties
do, on occasion, assume each other's characteristics.
What more disgusting, for instance, than to see how
promptly the newly emancipated slave will adopt, in his
own favour, the very measures of precaution, which
pressed soreliest on himself as institutions of the tyranny
he has just escaped from? Do the classes, hitherto
without opinion, get leave to express it? there follows
a confederacy immediately, from which—exercise your
individual right and dissent, and woe be to you!
Ogniben.
And a journey over the sea to you! That is
the generous way. Cry—“Emancipated slaves, the first
has been bastinadoed steadily his whole life long, finds
himself let alone and able to legislate, so, begins pettishly,
while he rubs his soles, “Woe be to whoever brings anything
in the shape of a stick this way!”—you, rather than
give up the very innocent pleasure of carrying one to
switch flies with,—you go away, to everybody's sorrow.
Yet you were quite reconciled to staying at home while
the governors used to pass, every now and then, some
such edict as “Let no man indulge in owning a stick
which is not thick enough to chastise our slaves, if need
require!” Well, there are pre-ordained hierarchies among
us, and a profane vulgar subjected to a different law
altogether; yet I am rather sorry you should see it so
clearly: for, do you know what is to—all but save you at
the Day of Judgment, all you men of genius? It is
this: that, while you generally began by pulling down
God, and went on to the end of your life, in one effort at
setting up your own genius in his place,—still, the last,
bitterest concession wrung with the utmost unwillingness
from the experience of the very loftiest of you, was invariably
—would one think it?—that the rest of mankind,
down to the lowest of the mass, stood not, nor ever could
stand, just on a level and equality with yourselves. That
will be a point in the favour of all such, I hope and believe.
Chiappino.
Why, men of genius are usually charged,
the natural inequality of mankind, by themselves
participating in the universal craving after, and
deference to, the civil distinctions which represent it.
You wonder they pay such undue respect to titles and
badges of superior rank.
Ogniben.
Not I (always on your own ground and
showing, be it noted!) Who doubts that, with a weapon
to brandish, a man is the more formidable? Titles and
badges are exercised as such a weapon, to which you and
I look up wistfully. We could pin lions with it moreover,
while in its present owner's hands it hardly prods rats.
Nay, better than a mere weapon of easy mastery and
obvious use, it is a mysterious divining rod that may
serve us in undreamed-of ways. Beauty, strength, intellect
—men often have none of these, and yet conceive
pretty accurately what kind of advantages they would
bestow on the possessor. We know at least what it is
we make up our mind to forego, and so can apply the
fittest substitute in our power. Wanting beauty, we cultivate
good humour; missing wit, we get riches: but the
mystic unimaginable operation of that gold collar and
string of Latin names which suddenly turned poor stupid
little peevish Cecco of our town into natural lord of the
best of us—a Duke, he is now—there indeed is a virtue
to be reverenced!
Ay, by the vulgar: not by Messere Stiatta
the poet, who pays more assiduous court to him than
anybody.
Ogniben.
What else should Stiatta pay court to? He
has talent, not honour and riches: men naturally covet
what they have not.
Chiappino.
No, or Cecco would covet talent, which
he has not, whereas he covets more riches, of which he
has plenty, already.
Ogniben.
Because a purse added to a purse makes the
holder twice as rich: but just such another talent as
Stiatta's, added to what he now possesses, what would
that profit him? Give the talent a purse indeed, to do
something with! But lo, how we keep the good people
waiting! I only desired to do justice to the noble sentiments
which animate you, and which you are too modest
to duly enforce. Come, to our main business: shall we
ascend the steps? I am going to propose you for Provost
to the people; they know your antecedents, and
will accept you with a joyful unanimity: whereon I confirm
their choice. Rouse up! Are you nerving yourself
to an effort? Beware the disaster of Messere Stiatta we
were talking of! who, determining to keep an equal
mind and constant face on whatever might be the fortune
of his last new poem with our townsmen, heard too
plainly “hiss, hiss, hiss,” increase every moment. Till
portentous sounds had all the while been issuing from
between his own nobly clenched teeth, and nostrils
narrowed by resolve.
Chiappino.
Do you begin to throw off the mask?—to
jest with me, having got me effectually into your trap?
Ogniben.
Where is the trap, my friend? You hear
what I engage to do, for my part: you, for yours, have
only to fulfil your promise made just now within doors,
of professing unlimited obedience to Rome's authority
in my person. And I shall authorize no more than the
simple re-establishment of the Provostship and the conferment
of its privileges upon yourself: the only novel
stipulation being a birth of the peculiar circumstances of
the time.
Chiappino.
And that stipulation?
Ogniben.
Just the obvious one—that in the event of the
discovery of the actual assailant of the late Provost . . .
Chiappino.
Ha!
Ogniben.
Why, he shall suffer the proper penalty, of
course; what did you expect?
Chiappino.
Who heard of this?
Ogniben.
Rather, who needed to hear of this?
Chiappino.
Can it be, the popular rumour never
reached you . . .
Ogniben.
Many more such rumours reach me, friend,
best chance. Has the present one sufficiently waited?
Now is its time for entry with effect. See the good
people crowding about yonder palace-steps—which we
may not have to ascend, after all. My good friends!
(nay, two or three of you will answer every purpose)—
who was it fell upon and proved nearly the death of your
late Provost? His successor desires to hear, that his
day of inauguration may be graced by the act of prompt
bare justice we all anticipate. Who dealt the blow that
night, does anybody know?
Luitolfo
[coming forward].
I!
All.
Luitolfo!
Luitolfo.
I avow the deed, justify and approve it, and
stand forth now, to relieve my friend of an unearned
responsibility. Having taken thought, I am grown
stronger: I shall shrink from nothing that awaits me.
Nay, Chiappino—we are friends still: I dare say there
is some proof of your superior nature in this starting
aside, strange as it seemed at first. So, they tell me, my
horse is of the right stock, because a shadow in the path
frightens him into a frenzy, makes him dash my brains
out. I understand only the dull mule's way of standing
stockishly, plodding soberly, suffering on occasion a blow
or two with due patience.
Eulalia.
I was determined to justify my choice,
Henceforth we are undivide, whatever be our fortune.
Ogniben.
Now, in these last ten minutes of silence, what
have I been doing, deem you? Putting the finishing
stroke to a homily of mine, I have long taken thought to
perfect, on the text, “Let whoso thinketh he standeth,
take heed lest he fall.” To your house, Luitolfo! Still
silent, my patriotic friend? Well, that is a good sign
however. And you will go aside for a time? That is
better still. I understand: it would be easy for you to
die of remorse here on the spot and shock us all, but you
mean to live and grow worthy of coming back to us one
day. There, I will tell everybody; and you only do right
to believe you must get better as you get older. All
men do so: they are worst in childhood, improve in
manhood, and get ready in old age for another world.
Youth, with its beauty and grace, would seem bestowed
on us for some such reason as to make us partly endurable
till we have time for really becoming so of ourselves, without
their aid; when they leave us. The sweetest child we
all smile on for his pleasant want of the whole world to
break up, or suck in his mouth, seeing no other good in
it—would be rudely handled by that world's inhabitants,
if he retained those angelic infantine desires when he had
grown six feet high, black and bearded. But, little by
little, he sees fit to forego claim after claim on the world,
portion; and when the octogenarian asks barely a sup of
gruel and a fire of dry sticks, and thanks you as for his
full allowance and right in the common good of life,—
hoping nobody may murder him,—he who began by
asking and expecting the whole of us to bow down in
worship to him,—why, I say he is advanced, far onward,
very far, nearly out of sight like our friend Chiappino
yonder. And now—(ay, good-bye to you! He turns
round the north-west gate: going to Lugo again? Good-bye!)
—and now give thanks to God, the keys of the
Provost's palace to me, and yourselves to profitable
meditation at home! I have known Four-and-twenty
leaders of revolts.
| A Soul's Tragedy | |