VICTORIA.
Always, and most of all to-day and now. Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, One afternoon, upon the castle terrace At Ischia, on the day before you left me?
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
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 Valldesso,
The noble champion of free thought and speech;
And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend.
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, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.
VITTORIA. Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, The good Fra Bernardino has departed, Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught That He who made us all without our help Could also save us without aid of ours. Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds 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.
VITTORIA. Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.
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.