IV.—NIGHT. 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!
Monsignor. . . . ’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.
Intendant. Do you choose this especial night to question me?
Monsignor. 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 3rd of December, I find him . . .
Intendant. 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.
Monsignor. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh,—nothing but disappointments here below! I remark a considerable payment made to yourself on this 3rd 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 ldeals; 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?
Intendant. Is Correggio a painter?
Monsignor. 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!
Intendant. 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?
Intendant. 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?
Monsignor. Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here: if once you set me coughing, Ugo!—
Intendant. I have your brother’s hand and seal to all I possess: now ask me what for! what service I did him—ask me!
Monsignor. 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?
Intendant. No, nor needs be: for when I murdered your brother’s friend, Pasquale, for him . . .
Monsignor. Ah, he employed you in that business, did be? 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 spring 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 villainous seize. Because, to pleasure myself, apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sack cloth, 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!
Intendant. What am I to expect? you are going
to punish me?
Monsignor. —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 . . .
Intendant. ‘Forgive us our trespasses’?
Monsignor. 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.
Intendant. And suppose the villas are not your brother’s to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hasty enough just now!
Monsignor. 1, 2—No. 3!—ay, can you read the substance of a letter, No. 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 brother—that the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the faking all pains, as guardian of that 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 that 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!
Intendant. 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.
Intendant. Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise! I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows await me tomorrow; 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!
Monsignor. I see through the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however-seven times sifted.
Intendant. And how my absurd riches encumbered me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possesions. 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 or 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 you with her! ’Tis as well settled once and for ever: some women I have procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled!—you conceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain?
From without is heard the voice of PIPPA, singing—
Overhead the tree-tops meet,|
Flowers and grass spring ’neath one’s feet;
There was nought above me, and nought 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!
Monsignor. [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 its tomb,
Wile winter away;
But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray,
How fare they?
Ha, ha, best thanks for your counsel, my Zanze—
‘Feast upon lampreys, quaff the Breganze’—
The summer of life’s 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 she 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 English-coloured hair, at all events.
Well, if old Luca keeps 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 pass’d 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 pluckt you!
See—call this flower a heart’s-ease now!
And 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,
The old proportions and their fitness,
Here remain, unchanged, unmoved now—
So, 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 colour too—
For she swilled Breganze wine
Till her nose turned deep carmine—
’Twas but white when wild she grew
And only by this Zanze’s eyes
Of which we could not change the size,
The magnitude of what’s achieved
Otherwise, may be perceived!’
Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day!
How could that red sun drop in that blackcloud!
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 Howlet, far 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 broider 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,
Though I passed by them all, and felt no sign.
[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 is the same with God—
With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we: there is no last nor first.