_Ottima._ Here's the wine; I brought it when we left the house above, 55 And gla.s.ses 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, 60 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 pa.s.s--at first, I say, I used-- Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me, 65 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; 70 Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes!

Do you remember last d.a.m.ned 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 75 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? 80

_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, 85 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 90 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? 95

_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 100 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 105 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 110 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 115 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. 120

_Ottima._ This dusty pane might serve for looking-gla.s.s.

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s of yours, 125 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-- 130 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; 135 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 140 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! 145

_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? 150 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, 155 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 160 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? 165 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. 170 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, 175 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 180 Nipped by the first frost.

_Sebald._ You would always laugh At my wet boots: I had to stride through gra.s.s 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, 185 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; 190 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 G.o.d's messenger through the close wood screen Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, 195 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 200 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.