| |
| SLOW, underneath the Casa d’Oro’s wall, | |
| Three searchers and three peering shadows came, | |
| Before them and behind them lurked the night, | |
| Save where the torches’ wavering yellow flame | |
| Blew backwards, lighting up the stony face | 5 |
| Of some street statue, or a crucifix: | |
| There was no sound, save where, upon a step, | |
| The water lipped, black as the sluggish Styx. | |
| |
| Like disappointed thieves, they sullen shrunk | |
| To where there sat upon the water-stair, | 10 |
| Resting one foot upon a piled-up boat, | |
| A man wrapped all in black, his tangled hair | |
| Hid half his face, who, crying, “Why, you leave | |
| Your work half done!” chid rough and angrily; | |
| “Rogues, did not Francia say that Tintoret, | 15 |
| The painter, had a daughter dead? Go see!” | |
| |
| Half growling and half mocking, the three knaves | |
| Leaped from the stair into the laden boat, | |
| Joining their master. “Time was made for slaves,” | |
| Cried one in jest: “let the dead woman wait.” | 20 |
| And then they quenched each torch, and thrust the bark | |
| Into the fuller tide and Lido way, | |
| Turned the boat’s head, and, roaring out a song, | |
| They passed,—those searchers, with their ghastly prey. | |
| |
| Alone, in the barred-up and silent house, | 25 |
| Before whose padlocked door a watchman paced, | |
| Sat one beside a bed,—the curtains closed,— | |
| Brooding entranced; a picture, half erased, | |
| Before him on the easel; palette, brush, | |
| Upon the floor; one lamp, against the wall, | 30 |
| Cast flickering shadows on the tapestry | |
| Of the great palace doorway, wide and tall. | |
| |
| All on a sudden Tintoretto rose, | |
| The haggard, bearded man, so worn and pale, | |
| And tore the curtains back, and set the lamp | 35 |
| By the dead face, and raised the veil | |
| That hid her features, now so saintly calm, | |
| And, with a madman’s wild and fevered haste, | |
| Renewed the task that wrung him to the heart, | |
| Muttering, as swiftly the fierce lines he traced:— | 40 |
| |
| “That Titian ’s still before me in the race; | |
| The harpies snatch this angel from my side, | |
| And leave his proud-eyed girl, with lavish hair | |
| And great white shoulders, to enhance his pride, | |
| And serve round sweetmeats to the senators, | 45 |
| Who flock to him by dozens, to hand down | |
| To ages, heedless of the boon, each vacant face, | |
| Steeped in one dull dark fog of golden brown. | |
| |
| “He fills the churches, palaces, and halls; | |
| ’T is he who sweeps the ducats to his lap. | 50 |
| He paints the emperors, cardinals, and popes; | |
| To him the meanest boatman doffs his cap. | |
| Out on the cunning, envious, wily hunks! | |
| But quick to work before those wretches come, | |
| At the first light, to steal my angel hence, | 55 |
| And tear my darling from her father’s home. | |
| |
| “Death took my Lisa first,—’t was half my life; | |
| And now Maria, her own self again, | |
| My hope and solace, my sweet singing-bird, | |
| The soother of my long and bitter pain, | 60 |
| The sun of this old house, the ceaseless joy | |
| Of this whole quarter, very saint and queen, | |
| Pure as the lily in the virgin’s hand. | |
| How calm she lies, how still, and how serene! | |
| |
| “Yet we shall meet in Paradise, and there | 65 |
| She ’ll smile to see St. Luke my wrinkled hand | |
| Grasp at the golden gate, while Titian takes | |
| The lower seat. I have him on the hip. | |
| That hour will pay for all past checks and spurns; | |
| God grant it dawn, and soon, yes, very soon. | 70 |
| Maria cara, bid St. Jerome come | |
| To see my masterpiece: God grant this boon. | |
| |
| “There I shall see my martyrs and my saints, | |
| Ranged in their circles all to welcome me. | |
| Maria cara, they will bring a crown | 75 |
| For thy old father,—Immortality | |
| Is won at last! Stop, the cold cobalt light | |
| Streams through the curtains on my dead child’s bed.” | |
| There was a wrenching at the padlocked door, | |
| And loud arose the cry, “Bring out your dead!” | 80 |
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