[Flings it from him.
As they shall learn—these silk and velvet Signors,
Whose condescending ducats buy the dreams
Of the immortal!
Or no!... I meant not that—to wound a kindness.
Bellini. Your ways have ever been the ways of wounding.
Giorgione. And to the end must be. (Brokenly)
For now my hand
Is palsied! I can never paint again.
Colour and shaping light turn in my soul
To chaos and to blindness—to despair!
The brush I lift, to sterile pain more loth!
I yearn and impotence alone arises.
That picture has dried beauty's vein within me
And left me ... Ah!... She shall atone it! (calls) Gigia!
Shameless she is and shall be seen it!—Gigia!—
[Bitterly.
Aretino, who is the tongue of lewdness,
And Titian, who trips to it, may gloat,
[Gigia hobbles in.
But they——
Bellini. Giorgione! you have sent for them?
Giorgione (to Gigia). Whoever seeks my door is bidden—all!
Gigia. Yes, Messer Giorgio.
Giorgione (as she delays). Go.
Gigia.Before I speak?
Giorgione. Of what?
Gigia. How can I tell you, if I may
Not speak? And you should hear.... (Crossing herself) It is the plague.
A whisper is about
That it has broken out at last in Venice.
[Giorgione staring at her, trembles and seems slowly stricken—while his eyes fill as with some evil irrecoverable remembrance.
Bellini (fearing for him). Giorgione!
Giorgione. Oh!... and yet ... nothing ... a dream
That came to me last night—as if from death.
Bellini. Then, O my son, it is a premonition,
A pall against this purpose! that you may
Not let these ribald two—
Aretino, this poet and depraver,
And Titian snared within his pagan senses,
Enter and gaze upon.... O boy, you will not!
Despoil the picture,
Scatter it to the seas,
And vow never again to paint another,
Tho that would break my heart, but promise me——
[A knocking interrupts, and a voice without calls lustily:
Voice: The gods of paint and passion ever gird us!