'O Biasia! Is the subject too tender for thy conscience? Alas, dear!
but if thy only hope is in this Commonwealth? Angels are not
monogamous.'
Biasia blushed like a poppy; yet managed to stammer amidst the laughter:
'It is only that he,--that the subject, seems to me too sacred. He
preaches heavenly love--the brotherhood of souls--in all else, one man
one maid.'
Catherine very gravely got upon a stool, and paraphrased Messer Bembo,
voice and manner:--
'I kiss thee, kind Madonna, for thine exposition. A man must put a
fence about his desires, would he be happy. A sweet mate, a cot,
beehives and a garden--he shall find all love's epitome in these. None
can possess the world but in the abstract--a plea for universal
brotherhood. What doth it profit me to own a palace, and live for all
my needs' content in one room of it? Go to and join, and leave
superfluous woman to the preacher.'
Some tittered, some applauded; Biasia hung her head, and would say no
more. Bona cried, 'Come down, thou wickedness!' but indulgently, as if
she half-dreaded attracting to herself the flicker of the little forked
tongue.
'O!' cried Catherine, 'I grant you that, with an angel, the manner
spices the lesson. I will tell you, girls, how he rebuked me yesterday
on this same legend of reciprocity. "How could you take sport," says
he, "of witnessing that poor Montano's punishment?" "Why, very well,"
says I, "seeing he was a man, and therefore my natural enemy." "How is
man so?" says he. "He makes me bear his children for him," says I. "But
I suppose he will be made to suffer _his_ share of the toil in this new
Commonwealth of love." "You talk like a child," he says. "Then," says
I, "I will sing like a woman," and I extemporised--very clever, you will
admit.'
She pinched up her skirts, and put out a little foot, and chirruped, in
no voice at all, but with a sauce of impudence:--
'"Love is give and take," says he,
"Every gander knows--
Wear the prickle for my sake;
For thine, I'll wear the rose."
"_Grazie_, kind and true," says I,
"For that noble dower--
Only, between me and you,
_I_ should like the flower."
"And hast thou not it?" cries St. Bernardo, interrupting me; and, would
you believe it, swinging round his lute, his lips and his finger-tips
join issue in the prettiest nonsense ever conceived for a poor wife's
fooling. Wait, and I will recall it.'