Imaginary Conversations and Poems Part 29

_Ternissa._ No, no! I do not want them: only I was imagining how pleasant it is to converse as we are doing, and how sorry I should be to pore over a book instead of it. Books always make me sigh, and think about other things. Why do you laugh, Leontion?

_Epicurus._ She was mistaken in saying bad authors may amuse our idleness. Leontion knows not then how sweet and sacred idleness is.

_Leontion._ To render it sweet and sacred, the heart must have a little garden of its own, with its umbrage and fountains and perennial flowers--a careless company! Sleep is called sacred as well as sweet by Homer; and idleness is but a step from it. The idleness of the wise and virtuous should be both, it being the repose and refreshment necessary for past exertions and for future; it punishes the bad man, it rewards the good; the deities enjoy it, and Epicurus praises it. I was indeed wrong in my remark; for we should never seek amus.e.m.e.nt in the foibles of another, never in coa.r.s.e language, never in low thoughts. When the mind loses its feeling for elegance, it grows corrupt and grovelling, and seeks in the crowd what ought to be found at home.

_Epicurus._ Aspasia believed so, and bequeathed to Leontion, with every other gift that Nature had bestowed upon her, the power of delivering her oracles from diviner lips.

_Leontion._ Fie! Epicurus! It is well you hide my face for me with your hand. Now take it away; we cannot walk in this manner.

_Epicurus._ No word could ever fall from you without its weight; no breath from you ought to lose itself in the common air.

_Leontion._ For shame! What would you have?

_Ternissa._ He knows not what he would have nor what he would say. I must sit down again. I declare I scarcely understand a single syllable. Well, he is very good, to tease you no longer. Epicurus has an excellent heart; he would give pain to no one; least of all to you.

_Leontion,_ I have pained him by this foolish book, and he would only a.s.sure me that he does not for a moment bear me malice. Take the volume; take it, Epicurus! tear it in pieces.

_Epicurus._ No, Leontion! I shall often look with pleasure on this trophy of brave humanity; let me kiss the hand that raises it!

_Ternissa._ I am tired of sitting: I am quite stiff: when shall we walk homeward?

_Epicurus._ Take my arm, Ternissa!

_Ternissa._ Oh! I had forgotten that I proposed to myself a trip as far up as the pinasters, to look at the precipice of Oreithyia. Come along! come along! how alert does the sea air make us! I seem to feel growing at my feet and shoulders the wings of Zethes or Calais.

_Epicurus._ Leontion walks the nimblest to-day.

_Ternissa._ To display her activity and strength, she runs before us.

Sweet Leontion, how good she is! but she should have stayed for us: it would be in vain to try to overtake her.

No, Epicurus! Mind! take care! you are crus.h.i.+ng these little oleanders--and now the strawberry plants--the whole heap. Not I, indeed. What would my mother say, if she knew it? And Leontion! she will certainly look back.

_Epicurus._ The fairest of the Eudaimones never look back: such are the Hours and Love, Opportunity and Leontion.

_Ternissa._ How could you dare to treat me in this manner? I did not say again I hated anything.

_Epicurus._ Forgive me!

_Ternissa._ Violent creature!

_Epicurus._ If tenderness is violence. Forgive me; and say you love me.

_Ternissa._ All at once? could you endure such boldness?

_Epicurus._ p.r.o.nounce it! whisper it.

_Ternissa._ Go, go. Would it be proper?

_Epicurus._ Is that sweet voice asking its heart or me? let the worthier give the answer.

_Ternissa._ O Epicurus! you are very, very dear to me; and are the last in the world that would ever tell you were called so.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] The Attic month of Puanepsion had its commencement in the latter days of October; its name is derived from +puana+, the legumes which were offered in sacrifice to Apollo at that season.

[8] The thirteenth of Elaphebolion was the tenth of April.

DANTE AND BEATRICE

_Dante._ When you saw me profoundly pierced with love, and reddening and trembling, did it become you, did it become you, you whom I have always called _the most gentle Bice_, to join in the heartless laughter of those girls around you? Answer me. Reply unhesitatingly.

Requires it so long a s.p.a.ce for dissimulation and duplicity? Pardon!

pardon! pardon! My senses have left me; my heart being gone, they follow.

_Beatrice._ Childish man! pursuing the impossible.

_Dante._ And was it this you laughed at? We cannot touch the hem of G.o.d's garment; yet we fall at His feet and weep.

_Beatrice._ But weep not, gentle Dante! fall not before the weakest of His creatures, willing to comfort, unable to relieve you. Consider a little. Is laughter at all times the signal or the precursor of derision? I smiled, let me avow it, from the pride I felt in your preference of me; and if I laughed, it was to conceal my sentiments.

Did you never cover sweet fruit with worthless leaves? Come, do not drop again so soon so faint a smile. I will not have you grave, nor very serious. I pity you; I must not love you: if I might, I would.

_Dante._ Yet how much love is due to me, O Bice, who have loved you, as you well remember, even from your tenth year. But it is reported, and your words confirm it, that you are going to be married.

_Beatrice._ If so, and if I could have laughed at that, and if my laughter could have estranged you from me, would you blame me?

_Dante._ Tell me the truth.

_Beatrice._ The report is general.

_Dante._ The truth! the truth! Tell me, Bice.

_Beatrice._ Marriages, it is said, are made in heaven.

_Dante._ Is heaven then under the paternal roof?

_Beatrice._ It has been to me hitherto.

_Dante._ And now you seek it elsewhere.

_Beatrice._ I seek it not. The wiser choose for the weaker. Nay, do not sigh so. What would you have, my grave pensive Dante? What can I do?

_Dante._ Love me.

_Beatrice._ I always did.