Sebald. Let me lean out.

I cannot scent blood here,

There, shut the world out!

Foul as the morn may be.

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,

What puts that in your head? Did I once say

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 cut-throat, you are

Ottima.

Here's the wine;

I brought it when we left the house above,

And glasses too-wine of both sorts.

then?

Black? White

Sebald. But am not I his cut-throat? 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 muc 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.

Sebald.

Love!

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 and 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 closeWould you have pored upon it? Why persist In poring now upon it? For 't is 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,

'T is 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 to-night.

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 grey 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 !—ay, 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 despatch 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!