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SCENE I.—VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an arm-chair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing near her.
JULIA. IT grieves me that I find you still so weak | |
And suffering.
VITTORIA. No, not suffering; only dying. | |
| Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; | |
| We shudder for a moment, then awake | |
| In the broad sunshine of the other life. | 5 |
| I am a shadow, merely, and these hands, | |
| These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husband | |
| Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud of | |
| Because he thought them so, are faded quite,— | |
All beauty gone from them.
JULIA. Ah, no, not that. | 10 |
| Paler you are, but not less beautiful. | |
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VITTORIA, folding her hands. O gentle spirit, unto the third circle | |
| Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, | |
| Who living for the faith and dying for it, | |
| Have gone to their reward, I do not mourn | 15 |
| For thee as being dead, but for myself | |
| That I am still alive. A little longer | |
| Have patience with me, and if I am wanting | |
| To thy well-being as thou art to mine, | |
| Have patience; I will come to thee ere long. | 20 |
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JULIA. Do not give way to these foreboding thoughts. | |
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VITTORIA. Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold | |
| What change comes o’er our features when we die. | |
| Thank you. And now sit down beside me here. | |
| How glad I am that you have come to-day, | 25 |
| Above all other days, and at the hour | |
When most I need you.
JULIA. Do you ever need me? | |
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VITTORIA. Always, and most of all to-day and now. | |
| Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, | |
| One afternoon, upon the castle terrace | 30 |
| At Ischia, on the day before you left me? | |
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JULIA. Well I remember; but it seems to me | |
| Something unreal that has never been, | |
| Something that I have read of in a book, | |
Or heard of some one else.
VITTORIA. Ten years and more | 35 |
| Have passed since then; and many things have happened | |
| In those ten years, and many friends have died: | |
| Marco Flaminio, whom we all admired | |
| And loved as our Catullus; dear Valdesso, | |
| The noble champion of free thought and speech; | 40 |
| And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend. | |
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JULIA. Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death | |
| O’ercomes me now, as it o’ercame me then. | |
| Let me forget it; for my memory | |
| Serves me too often as an unkind friend, | 45 |
| And I remember things I would forget, | |
| While I forget the things I would remember. | |
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VITTORIA. Forgive me; I will speak of him no more. | |
| The good Fra Bernardino has departed, | |
| Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, | 50 |
| Fearing Caraffa’s wrath, because he taught | |
| That He who made us all without our help | |
| Could also save us without aid of ours. | |
| Renée of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, | |
| That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds | 55 |
| That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata | |
| Banished from court because of this new doctrine. | |
| Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought | |
Locked in your breast.
JULIA. I will be very prudent. | |
| But speak no more, I pray; it wearies you. | 60 |
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VITTORIA. Yes, I am very weary. Read to me. | |
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JULIA. Most willingly. What shall I read?
VITTORIA. Petrarca’s | |
| Triumph of Death. The book lies on the table, | |
| Beside the casket there. Read where you find | |
| The leaf turned down. ’T was there I left off reading. | 65 |
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JULIA reads. “Not as a flame that by some force is spent, | |
| But one that of itself consumeth quite, | |
| Departed hence in peace the soul content, | |
| In fashion of a soft and lucent light | |
| Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes, | 70 |
| Keeping until the end its lustre bright. | |
| Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows | |
| That without wind on some fair hill-top lies, | |
| Her weary body seemed to find repose. | |
| Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes, | 75 |
| When now the spirit was no longer there, | |
| Was what is dying called by the unwise. | |
| E’en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair.” | |
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| Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?— | |
| She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; | 80 |
| Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something | |
| Above her in the air. I can see naught | |
| Except the painted angels on the ceiling. | |
| Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!— | |
| She only smiles, and stretches out her hands. [The mirror falls and breaks. | 85 |
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VITTORIA. Call my confessor!— | |
| Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! | |
Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.
JULIA. Holy Virgin! | |
| Her body sinks together,—she is dead! [Kneels, and hides her face in Vittoria’s lap. | |
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SCENE II.—JULIA GONZAGA, MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA. Hush! make no noise.
MICHAEL ANGELO. How is she?
JULIA. Never better. | 90 |
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MICHAEL ANGELO. Then she is dead!
JULIA. Alas! yes, she is dead! | |
| Even death itself in her fair face seems fair. | |
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MICHAEL ANGELO. How wonderful! The light upon her face | |
| Shines from the windows of another world. | |
| Saints only have such faces. Holy Angels! | 95 |
| Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest! [Kisses Vittoria’s hand. | |
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