PIPPA PASSES

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, than 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 tomorrow;

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 windowpane, He will but press the closer, breathe more warm Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?

And, morning past, if midday shed a gloom O'er Jules and Phene — what care bride and groom Save for their dear selves?‘ Tis 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 twelve-month'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 today? My morn, noon, eve, and night — how spend my day? Tomorrow 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, Someone 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 uncloses, 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 wintertime 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 tonight 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 tonight 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 SCENE.— Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house. LUCA'S wife, OTTIMA, and her paramour, the German SEBALD.

Ottima. Night? Such may be your Rhineland 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, do n't speak then! Sebald. Aye, thus it used to be.

Ever your house was, I remember, shut Till midday; 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! Ottima. Ah, the clear morning! I can see St. 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! Sebald. 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. Ottima. Oh, shut the lattice, pray!

Sebald. 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. Ottima. Best never speak of it.

Sebald. 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.” Ottima. Assuredly if I repented The deed — Sebald. Repent? Who should repent, or why?

What puts that in your head? Did I once say That I repented? Ottima. No; I said the deed — Sebald. “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 cutthroat, you are — Ottima. Here's the wine;

I brought it when we left the house above, And glasses too — wine of both sorts. Black? White then? Sebald. But am not I his cutthroat? What are you? Ottima. 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? Sebald. 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? Ottima. 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.

Sebald.‘ Faith, he is not alive To fondle you before my face. Ottima. Do you Fondle me then! Who means to take your life

For that, my Sebald? Sebald. 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? Ottima. Love! Sebald. 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? Ottima. 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 —

Sebald. “A thing” — there again — “a thing!” Ottima. 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‘ tis 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” —

Sebald. Off, off — take your hands off mine, ‘ Tis the hot evening — off! oh, morning, is it? Ottima. 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 tonight. Sebald. 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. Ottima. 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. Sebald. 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!— aye, 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 — Ottima. See! Sebald. 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! Ottima. My poor lost friend! Sebald. He gave me Life, nothing else; 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 pretense to strike? ‘ Tis not the crime's sake — I'd commit ten crimes Greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone! And you — oh, how feel you? Feel you for me?

Ottima. 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?” Sebald. 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! Ottima. And when I ventured to receive you here, Made you steal hither in the mornings — Sebald. When

I used to look up‘ neath the shrub-house here, Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread To a yellow haze? Ottima. Ah — my sign was, the sun

Inflamed the sear side of yon chestnut-tree Nipped by the first frost. Sebald. You would always laugh At my wet boots: I had to stride through grass

Over my ankles. Ottima. Then our crowning night! Sebald. The July night? Ottima. 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. Sebald. How it came! Ottima. 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 — Sebald. Slower, Ottima! Do not lean on me!

Ottima. Sebald, as we lay, Who said, “Let death come now!‘ Tis right to die! Right to be punished! Naught completes such bliss But woe!” Who said that?

Sebald. How did we ever rise? Was't that we slept? Why did it end? Ottima. 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! Sebald. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now! This way? Will you forgive me — be once more

My great queen? Ottima. Bind it thrice about my brow; Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress, Magnificent in sin. Say that!

Sebald. I crown you My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress, Magnificent — 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! Ottima. 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! Sebald. Leave me! Go, get your clothes on — dress, those shoulders!

Ottima. Sebald? Sebald. Wipe off that paint! I hate you. Ottima. Miserable! Sebald. 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!

Ottima. Speak to me — not of me. Ottima. 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! Sebald. My God! Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades —

I should have known there was no blood beneath! Ottima. You hate me then? You hate me then? Sebald. 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! Ottima. — 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; do n't love me The more because you lean on me, my own Heart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently! Sebald. 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!

Ottima. Not me — to him, O God, be merciful!