Chapter 80

I am just seventeen years and five months old,And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;'T is writ so in the church's register,Lorenzo in Lucina, all my namesAt length, so many names for one poor child,—Francesca Camilla Vittoria AngelaPompilia Comparini,—laughable!Also 't is writ that I was married thereFour years ago: and they will add, I hope,When they insert my death, a word or two,—Omitting all about the mode of death,—This, in its place, this which one cares to know,That I had been a mother of a sonExactly two weeks. It will be through graceO' the Curate, not through any claim I have;Because the boy was born at, so baptizedClose to, the Villa, in the proper church:A pretty church, I say no word against,Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seemsMy own particular place, I always say.I used to wonder, when I stood scarce highAs the bed here, what the marble lion meant,With half his body rushing from the wall,Eating the figure of a prostrate man—(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)—An ominous sign to one baptized like me,Married, and to be buried there, I hope.And they should add, to have my life complete,He is a boy and Gaetan by name—Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friarDon Celestine will ask this grace for meOf Curate Ottoboni: he it wasBaptized me: he remembers my whole lifeAs I do his gray hair.All these few thingsI know are true,—will you remember them?Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.Oh how good God is that my babe was born,—Better than born, baptized and hid awayBefore this happened, safe from being hurt!That had been sin God could not well forgive:He was too young to smile and save himself.When they took, two days after he was born,My babe away from me to be baptizedAnd hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—The country-woman, used to nursing babes,Said, "Why take on so? where is the great loss?These next three weeks he will but sleep and feed,Only begin to smile at the month's end;He would not know you, if you kept him here,Sooner than that; so, spend three merry weeksSnug in the Villa, getting strong and stout,And then I bring him back to be your own,And both of you may steal to—we know where!"The month—there wants of it two weeks this day!Still, I half fancied when I heard the knockAt the Villa in the dusk, it might prove she—Come to say, "Since he smiles before the time,Why should I cheat you out of one good hour?Back I have brought him; speak to him and judge!"Now I shall never see him; what is worse,When he grows up and gets to be my age,He will seem hardly more than a great boy;And if he asks, "What was my mother like?"People may answer, "Like girls of seventeen"—And how can he but think of this and that,Lucias, Marias, Sofias, who titter or blushWhen he regards them as such boys may do?Therefore I wish some one will please to sayI looked already old though I was young;Do I not ... say, if you are by to speak ...Look nearer twenty? No more like, at least,Girls who look arch or redden when boys laugh,Than the poor Virgin that I used to knowAt our street-corner in a lonely niche,—The babe, that sat upon her knees, broke off,—Thin white glazed clay, you pitied her the more:She, not the gay ones, always got my rose.How happy those are who know how to write!Such could write what their son should read in time,Had they a whole day to live out like me.Also my name is not a common name,"Pompilia," and may help to keep apartA little the thing I am from what girls are.But then how far away, how hard to findWill anything about me have become,Even if the boy bethink himself and ask!No father that ever knew at all,Nor ever had—no, never had, I say!That is the truth,—nor any mother left,Out of the little two weeks that she lived,Fit for such memory as might assist:As good too as no family, no name,Not even poor old Pietro's name, nor hers,Poor kind unwise Violante, since it seemsThey must not be my parents any more.That is why something put it in my headTo call the boy "Gaetano"—no old nameFor sorrow's sake; I looked up to the skyAnd took a new saint to begin anew.One who has only been made saint—how long?Twenty-five years: so, carefuller, perhaps,To guard a namesake than those old saints grow,Tired out by this time,—see my own five saints!On second thoughts, I hope he will regardThe history of me as what some one dreamed,And get to disbelieve it at the last:Since to myself it dwindles fast to that,Sheer dreaming and impossibility,—Just in four days too! All the seventeen years,Not once did a suspicion visit meHow very different a lot is mineFrom any other woman's in the world.The reason must be, 't was by step and stepIt got to grow so terrible and strange.These strange woes stole on tiptoe, as it were,Into my neighborhood and privacy,Sat down where I sat, laid them where I lay;And I was found familiarized with fear,When friends broke in, held up a torch and cried,"Why, you Pompilia in the cavern thus,How comes that arm of yours about a wolf?And the soft length,—lies in and out your feetAnd laps you round the knee,—a snake it is!"And so on.Well, and they are right enough,By the torch they hold up now: for first, observe,I never had a father,—no, nor yetA mother: my own boy can say at least,"I had a mother whom I kept two weeks!"Not I, who little used to doubt ...IdoubtGood Pietro, kind Violante, gave me birth?They loved me always as I love my babe(—Nearly so, that is—quite so could not be—)Did for me all I meant to do for him,Till one surprising day, three years ago,They both declared, at Rome, before some judgeIn some court where the people flocked to hear,That really I had never been their child,Was a mere castaway, the careless crimeOf an unknown man, the crime and care too muchOf a woman known too well,—little to these,Therefore, of whom I was the flesh and blood:What then to Pietro and Violante, bothNo more my relatives than you or you?Nothing to them! You know what they declared.So with my husband,—just such a surprise,Such a mistake, in that relationship!Every one says that husbands love their wives,Guard them and guide them, give them happiness;'T is duty, law, pleasure, religion: well,You see how much of this comes true in mine!People indeed would fain have somehow provedHe was no husband: but he did not hear,Or would not wait, and so has killed us all.Then there is ... only let me name one more!There is the friend,—men will not ask about,But tell untruths of, and give nicknames to,And think my lover, most surprise of all!Do only hear, it is the priest they mean,Giuseppe Caponsacchi: a priest—love,And love me! Well, yet people think he did.I am married, he has taken priestly vows,They know that, and yet go on, say, the same,"Yes, how he loves you!" "That was love"—they say,When anything is answered that they ask:Or else "No wonder you love him"—they say.Then they shake heads, pity much, scarcely blame—As if we neither of us lacked excuse,And anyhow are punished to the full,And downright love atones for everything!Nay, I heard read out in the public courtBefore the judge, in presence of my friends,Letters 't was said the priest had sent to me,And other letters sent him by myself,We being lovers!Listen what this is like!When I was a mere child, my mother ... that 'sViolante, you must let me call her so,Nor waste time, trying to unlearn the word,...She brought a neighbor's child of my own ageTo play with me of rainy afternoons:And, since there hung a tapestry on the wall,We two agreed to find each other outAmong the figures. "Tisbe, that is you,With half-moon on your hair-knot, spear in hand,Flying, but no wings, only the great scarfBlown to a bluish rainbow at your back:Call off your hound and leave the stag alone!""—And there are you, Pompilia, such green leavesFlourishing out of your five finger-ends,And all the rest of you so brown and rough:Why is it you are turned a sort of tree?"You know the figures never were ourselvesThough we nicknamed them so. Thus, all my life,—As well what was, as what, like this, was not,—Looks old, fantastic and impossible:I touch a fairy thing that fades and fades.—Even to my babe! I thought, when he was born,Something began for once that would not end,Nor change into a laugh at me, but stayForevermore, eternally quite mine.Well, so he is,—but yet they bore him off,The third day, lest my husband should lay trapsAnd catch him, and by means of him catch me.Since they have saved him so, it was well done:Yet thence comes such confusion of what wasWith what will be,—that late seems long ago,And, what years should bring round, already come,Till even he withdraws into a dreamAs the rest do: I fancy him grown great,Strong, stern, a tall young man who tutors me,Frowns with the others, "Poor imprudent child!Why did you venture out of the safe street?Why go so far from help to that lone house?Why open at the whisper and the knock?"Six days ago when it was New Year's day,We bent above the fire and talked of him,What he should do when he was grown and great.Violante, Pietro, each had given the armI leant on, to walk by, from couch to chairAnd fireside,—laughed, as I lay safe at last,"Pompilia's march from bed to board is made,Pompilia back again and with a babe,Shall one day lend his arm and help her walk!"Then we all wished each other more New Years.Pietro began to scheme—"Our cause is gained;The law is stronger than a wicked man:Let him henceforth go his way, leave us ours!We will avoid the city, tempt no moreThe greedy ones by feasting and parade,—Live at the other villa, we know where,Still farther off, and we can watch the babeGrow fast in the good air; and wood is cheapAnd wine sincere outside the city gate.I still have two or three old friends will gropeTheir way along the mere half-mile of road,With staff and lantern on a moonless nightWhen one needs talk: they 'll find me, never fear,And I 'll find them a flask of the old sort yet!"Violante said, "You chatter like a crow:Pompilia tires o' the tattle, and shall to bed:Do not too much the first day,—somewhat moreTo-morrow, and, the next, begin the capeAnd hood and coat! I have spun wool enough."Oh what a happy friendly eve was that!And, next day, about noon, out Pietro went—He was so happy and would talk so much,Until Violante pushed and laughed him forthSight-seeing in the cold,—"So much to seeI' the churches! Swathe your throat three times!" she cried,"And, above all, beware the slippery ways,And bring us all the news by supper-time!"He came back late, laid by cloak, staff and hat,Powdered so thick with snow it made us laugh,Rolled a great log upon the ash o' the hearth,And bade Violante treat us to a flask,Because he had obeyed her faithfully,Gone sight-see through the seven, and found no churchTo his mind like San Giovanni—"There 's the fold,And all the sheep together, big as cats!And such a shepherd, half the size of life,Starts up and hears the angel"—when, at the door,A tap: we started up: you know the rest.Pietro at least had done no harm, I know;Nor even Violante, so much harm as makesSuch revenge lawful. Certainly she erred—Did wrong, how shall I dare say otherwise?—In telling that first falsehood, buying meFrom my poor faulty mother at a price,To pass off upon Pietro as his child.If one should take my babe, give him a name,Say he was not Gaetano and my own,But that some other woman made his mouthAnd hands and feet,—-how very false were that!No good could come of that; and all harm did.Yet if a stranger were to represent"Needs must you either give your babe to meAnd let me call him mine forevermore,Or let your husband get him"—ah, my God,That were a trial I refuse to face!Well, just so here: it proved wrong but seemed rightTo poor Violante—for there lay, she said,My poor real dying mother in her rags,Who put me from her with the life and all,Poverty, pain, shame and disease at once,To die the easier by what price I fetched—Also (I hope) because I should be sparedSorrow and sin,—why may not that have helped?My father,—he was no one, any one,—The worse, the likelier,—call him,—he who came,Was wicked for his pleasure, went his way,And left no trace to track by; there remainedNothing but me, the unnecessary life,To catch up or let fall,—and yet a thingShe could make happy, be made happy with,This poor Violante,—who would frown thereat?Well, God, you see! God plants us where we grow.It is not that, because a bud is bornAt a wild brier's end, full i' the wild beast's way,We ought to pluck and put it out of reachOn the oak-tree top,—say, "There the bud belongs!"She thought, moreover, real lies were lies toldFor harm's sake; whereas this had good at heart,Good for my mother, good for me, and goodFor Pietro who was meant to love a babe,And needed one to make his life of use,Receive his house and land when he should die.Wrong, wrong, and always wrong! how plainly wrong!For see, this fault kept pricking, as faults do,All the same at her heart: this falsehood hatched,She could not let it go nor keep it fast.She told me so,—the first time I was foundLocked in her arms once more after the pain,When the nuns let me leave them and go home,And both of us cried all the cares away,—This it was set her on to make amends,This brought about the marriage—simply this!Do let me speak for her you blame so much!When Paul, my husband's brother, found me out,Heard there was wealth for who should marry me,So, came and made a speech to ask my handFor Guido,—she, instead of piercing straightThrough the pretence to the ignoble truth,Fancied she saw God's very finger point,Designate just the time for planting me(The wild-brier slip she plucked to love and wear)In soil where I could strike real root, and grow,And get to be the thing I called myself:For, wife and husband are one flesh, God says,And I, whose parents seemed such and were none,Should in a husband have a husband now,Find nothing, this time, but was what it seemed,—All truth and no confusion any more.I know she meant all good to me, all painTo herself,—since how could it be aught but painTo give me up, so, from her very breast,The wilding flower-tree-branch that, all those years,She had got used to feel for and find fixed?She meant well: has it been so ill i' the main?That is but fair to ask: one cannot judgeOf what has been the ill or well of life,The day that one is dying,—sorrows changeInto not altogether sorrow-like;I do see strangeness but scarce misery,Now it is over, and no danger more.My child is safe; there seems not so much pain.It comes, most like, that I am just absolved,Purged of the past, the foul in me, washed fair,—One cannot both have and not have, you know,—Being right now, I am happy and color things.Yes, everybody that leaves life sees allSoftened and bettered: so with other sights:To me at least was never evening yetBut seemed far beautifuller than its day,For past is past.There was a fancy came,When somewhere, in the journey with my friend,We stepped into a hovel to get food;And there began a yelp here, a bark there,—Misunderstanding creatures that were wrothAnd vexed themselves and us till we retired.The hovel is life: no matter what dogs bitOr cat scratched in the hovel I break from,All outside is lone field, moon and such peace—Flowing in, filling up as with a seaWhereon comes Someone, walks fast on the white,Jesus Christ's self, Don Celestine declares,To meet me and calm all things back again.Beside, up to my marriage, thirteen yearsWere, each day, happy as the day was long:This may have made the change too terrible.I know that when Violante told me firstThe cavalier—she meant to bring next morn,Whom I must also let take, kiss my hand—Would be at San Lorenzo the same eveAnd marry me,—which over, we should goHome both of us without him as before,And, till she bade speak, I must hold my tongue,Such being the correct way with girl-brides,From whom one word would make a father blush,—I know, I say, that when she told me this,—Well, I no more saw sense in what she saidThan a lamb does in people clipping wool;Only lay down and let myself be clipped.And when next day the cavalier who came—(Tisbe had told me that the slim young manWith wings at head, and wings at feet, and swordThreatening a monster, in our tapestry,Would eat a girl else,—was a cavalier)—When he proved Guido Franceschini,—oldAnd nothing like so tall as I myself,Hook-nosed and yellow in a bush of beard,Much like a thing I saw on a boy's wrist,He called an owl and used for catching birds,—And when he took my hand and made a smile—Why, the uncomfortableness of it allSeemed hardly more important in the caseThan—when one gives you, say, a coin to spend—Its newness or its oldness; if the pieceWeigh properly and buy you what you wish,No matter whether you get grime or glare!Men take the coin, return you grapes and figs.Here, marriage was the' coin, a dirty pieceWould purchase me the praise of those I loved:About what else should I concern myself?So, hardly knowing what a husband meant,I supposed this or any man would serve,No whit the worse for being so uncouth:For I was ill once and a doctor cameWith a great ugly hat, no plume thereto,Black jerkin and black buckles and black sword,And white sharp beard over the ruff in front,And oh so lean, so sour-faced and austere!—Who felt my pulse, made me put out my tongue,Then oped a phial, dripped a drop or twoOf a black bitter something,—I was cured!What mattered the fierce beard or the grim face?It was the physic beautified the man,Master Malpichi,—never met his matchIn Rome, they said,—so ugly all the same!However, I was hurried through a storm,Next dark eve of December's deadest day—How it rained!—through our street and the Lion's-mouthAnd the bit of Corso,—cloaked round, covered close,I was like something strange or contraband,—Into blank San Lorenzo, up the aisle,My mother keeping hold of me so tight,I fancied we were come to see a corpseBefore the altar which she pulled me toward.There we found waiting an unpleasant priestWho proved the brother, not our parish friend,But one with mischief-making mouth and eye,Paul, whom I know since to my cost. And thenI heard the heavy church-door lock out helpBehind us: for the customary warmth,Two tapers shivered on the altar. "Quick—Lose no time!" cried the priest. And straightway downFrom ... what 's behind the altar where he hid—Hawk-nose and yellowness and bush and all,Stepped Guido, caught my hand, and there was IO' the chancel, and the priest had opened book,Read here and there, made me say that and this,And after, told me I was now a wife,Honored indeed, since Christ thus weds the Church,And therefore turned he water into wine,To show I should obey my spouse like Christ.Then the two slipped aside and talked apart,And I, silent and scared, got down againAnd joined my mother, who was weeping now.Nobody seemed to mind us any more,And both of us on tiptoe found our wayTo the door which was unlocked by this, and wide.When we were in the street, the rain had stopped,All things looked better. At our own house-door,Violante whispered, "No one syllableTo Pietro! Girl-brides never breathe a word!""—Well treated to a wetting, draggle-tails!"Laughed Pietro as he opened—"Very nearYou made me brave the gutter's roaring seaTo carry off from roost old dove and young,Trussed up in church, the cote, by me, the kite!What do these priests mean, praying folk to deathOn stormy afternoons, with Christmas closeTo wash our sins off nor require the rain?"Violante gave my hand a timely squeeze,Madonna saved me from immodest speech,I kissed him and was quiet, being a bride.When I saw nothing more, the next three weeks,Of Guido—"Nor the Church sees Christ" thought I:"Nothing is changed however, wine is wineAnd water only water in our house.Nor did I see that ugly doctor sinceThat cure of the illness: just as I was cured,I am married,—neither scarecrow will return."Three weeks, I chuckled—"How would Giulia stare,And Tecla smile and Tisbe laugh outright,Were it not impudent for brides to talk!"—Until one morning, as I sat and sangAt the broidery-frame alone i' the chamber,—loudVoices, two, three together, sobbings too,And my name, "Guido," "Paolo," flung like stonesFrom each to the other! In I ran to see.There stood the very Guido and the priestWith sly face,—formal but nowise afraid,—While Pietro seemed all red and angry, scarceAble to stutter out his wrath in words;And this it was that made my mother sob,As he reproached her—"You have murdered us,Me and yourself and this our child beside!"Then Guido interposed, "Murdered or not,Be it enough your child is now my wife!I claim and come to take her." Paul put in,"Consider—kinsman, dare I term you so?—What is the good of your sagacityExcept to counsel in a strait like this?I guarantee the parties man and wifeWhether you like or loathe it, bless or ban.May spilt milk be put back within the bowl—The done thing, undone? You, it is, we lookFor counsel to, you fitliest will advise!Since milk, though spilt and spoilt, does marble good,Better we down on knees and scrub the floor,Than sigh, 'the waste would make a syllabub!'Help us so turn disaster to account,So predispose the groom, he needs shall graceThe bride with favor from the very first,Not begin marriage an embittered man!"He smiled,—the game so wholly in his hands!While fast and faster sobbed Violante—"Ay,All of us murdered, past averting now!O my sin, O my secret!" and such like.Then I began to half surmise the truth;Something had happened, low, mean, underhand,False, and my mother was to blame, and ITo pity, whom all spoke of, none addressed:I was the chattel that had caused a crime.I stood mute,—those who tangled must untieThe embroilment. Pietro cried, "Withdraw, my child!She is not helpful to the sacrificeAt this stage,—do you want the victim byWhile you discuss the value of her blood?For her sake, I consent to hear you talk:Go, child, and pray God help the innocent!"I did go and was praying God, when cameViolante, with eyes swollen and red enough,But movement on her mouth for make-believeMatters were somehow getting right again.She bade me sit down by her side and hear."You are too young and cannot understand,Nor did your father understand at first.I wished to benefit all three of us,And when he failed to take my meaning,—why,I tried to have my way at unaware—Obtained him the advantage he refused.As if I put before him wholesome foodInstead of broken victual,—he finds changeI' the viands, never cares to reason why,But falls to blaming me, would fling the plateFrom window, scandalize the neighborhood,Even while he smacks his lips,—men's way, my child!But either you have prayed him unperverseOr I have talked him back into his wits:And Paolo was a help in time of need,—Guido, not much—my child, the way of men!A priest is more a woman than a man,And Paul did wonders to persuade. In short,Yes, he was wrong, your father sees and says;My scheme was worth attempting: and bears fruit,Gives you a husband and a noble name,A palace and no end of pleasant things.What do you care about a handsome youth?They are so volatile, and tease their wives!This is the kind of man to keep the house.We lose no daughter,—gain a son, that 's all:For 't is arranged we never separate,Nor miss, in our gray time of life, the tintsOf you that color eve to match with morn.In good or ill, we share and share alike,And cast our lots into a common lap,And all three die together as we lived!Only, at Arezzo,—that 's a Tuscan town,Not so large as this noisy Rome, no doubt,But older far and finer much, say folk,—In a great palace where you will be queen,Know the Archbishop and the Governor,And we see homage done you ere we die.Therefore, be good and pardon!"—"Pardon what?You know things, I am very ignorant:All is right if you only will not cry!"And so an end! Because a blank beginsFrom when, at the word, she kissed me hard and hot,And took me back to where my father leanedOpposite Guido—who stood eying him,As eyes the butcher the cast panting oxThat feels his fate is come, nor struggles more,—While Paul looked archly on, pricked brow at whilesWith the pen-point as to punish triumph there,—And said, "Count Guido, take your lawful wifeUntil death part you!"All since is one blank,Over and ended; a terrific dream.It is the good of dreams—so soon they go!Wake in a horror of heart-beats, you may—Cry, "The dread thing will never from my thoughts!"Still, a few daylight doses of plain life,Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or bleat and bellOf goats that trot by, tinkling, to be milked;And when you rub your eyes awake and wide,Where is the harm o' the horror? Gone! So here.I know I wake,—but from what? Blank, I say!This is the note of evil: for good lasts.Even when Don Celestine bade "Search and find!For your soul's sake, remember what is past,The better to forgive it,"—all in vain!What was fast getting indistinct before,Vanished outright. By special grace perhaps,Between that first calm and this last, four yearsVanish,—one quarter of my life, you know.I am held up, amid the nothingness,By one or two truths only—thence I hang,And there I live,—the rest is death or dream,All but those points of my support. I thinkOf what I saw at Rome once in the SquareO' the Spaniards, opposite the Spanish House:There was a foreigner had trained a goat,A shuddering white woman of a beast,To climb up, stand straight on a pile of sticksPut close, which gave the creature room enough:When she was settled there, he, one by one,Took away all the sticks, left just the fourWhereon the little hoofs did really rest,There she kept firm, all underneath was air.So, what I hold by, are my prayer to God,My hope, that came in answer to the prayer,Some hand would interpose and save me—handWhich proved to be my friend's hand: and,—blest bliss,—That fancy which began so faint at first,That thrill of dawn's suffusion through my dark,Which I perceive was promise of my child,The light his unborn face sent long before,—God's way of breaking the good news to flesh.That is all left now of those four bad years.Don Celestine urged, "But remember more!Other men's faults may help me find your own.I need the cruelty exposed, explained,Or how can I advise you to forgive?"He thought I could not properly forgiveUnless I ceased forgetting,—which is true:For, bringing back reluctantly to mindMy husband's treatment of me,—by a lightThat 's later than my lifetime, I reviewAnd comprehend much and imagine more,And have but little to forgive at last.For now,—be fair and say,—is it not trueHe was ill-used and cheated of his hopeTo get enriched by marriage? Marriage gaveMe and no money, broke the compact so:He had a right to ask me on those terms,As Pietro and Violante to declareThey would not give me: so the bargain stood:They broke it, and he felt himself aggrieved,Became unkind with me to punish them.They said 't was he began deception first,Nor, in one point whereto he pledged himself,Kept promise: what of that, suppose it were?Echoes die off, scarcely reverberateForever,—why should ill keep echoing ill,And never let our ears have done with noise?Then my poor parents took the violent wayTo thwart him,—he must needs retaliate,—wrong,Wrong, and all wrong,—better say, all blind!As I myself was, that is sure, who elseHad understood the mystery: for his wifeWas bound in some sort to help somehow there.It seems as if I might have interposed,Blunted the edge of their resentment so,Since he vexed me because they first vexed him;"I will entreat them to desist, submit,Give him the money and be poor in peace,—Certainly not go tell the world: perhapsHe will grow quiet with his gains."Yes, saySomething to this effect and you do well!But then you have to see first: I was blind.That is the fruit of all such wormy ways,The indirect, the unapproved of God:You cannot find their author's end and aim,Not even to substitute your good for bad,Your straight for the irregular; you standStupefied, profitless, as cow or sheepThat miss a man's mind; anger him just twiceBy trial at repairing the first fault.Thus, when he blamed me, "You are a coquette,A lure-owl posturing to attract birds,You look love-lures at theatre and church,In walk, at window!"—that, I knew, was false:But why he charged me falsely, whither soughtTo drive me by such charge,—how could I know?So, unaware, I only made things worse.I tried to soothe him by abjuring walk,Window, church, theatre, for good and all,As if he had been in earnest: that, you know,Was nothing like the object of his charge.Yes, when I got my maid to supplicateThe priest, whose name she read when she would readThose feigned false letters I was forced to hearThough I could read no word of,—he should ceaseWriting,—nay, if he minded prayer of mine,Cease from so much as even pass the streetWhereon our house looked,—in my ignoranceI was just thwarting Guido's true intent;Which was, to bring about a wicked changeOf sport to earnest, tempt a thoughtless manTo write indeed, and pass the house, and more,Till both of us were taken in a crime.He ought not to have wished me thus act lies,Simulate folly: but—wrong or right, the wish—I failed to apprehend its drift. How plainIt follows,—if I fell into such fault,He also may have overreached the mark,Made mistake, by perversity of brain,I' the whole sad strange plot, the grotesque intrigueTo make me and my friend unself ourselves,Be other man and woman than we were!Think it out, you who have the time! for me,—I cannot say less; more I will not say.Leave it to God to cover and undo!Only, my dulness should not prove too much!—Not prove that in a certain other pointWherein my husband blamed me,—and you blame,If I interpret smiles and shakes of head,—I was dull too. Oh, if I dared but speak!Must I speak? I am blamed that I forwentA way to make my husband's favor come.That is true: I was firm, withstood, refused ...—Women as you are, how can I find the words?

I am just seventeen years and five months old,

And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;

'T is writ so in the church's register,

Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names

At length, so many names for one poor child,

—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela

Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!

Also 't is writ that I was married there

Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,

When they insert my death, a word or two,—

Omitting all about the mode of death,—

This, in its place, this which one cares to know,

That I had been a mother of a son

Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace

O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;

Because the boy was born at, so baptized

Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:

A pretty church, I say no word against,

Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems

My own particular place, I always say.

I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high

As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,

With half his body rushing from the wall,

Eating the figure of a prostrate man—

(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)—

An ominous sign to one baptized like me,

Married, and to be buried there, I hope.

And they should add, to have my life complete,

He is a boy and Gaetan by name—

Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar

Don Celestine will ask this grace for me

Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was

Baptized me: he remembers my whole life

As I do his gray hair.

All these few thingsI know are true,—will you remember them?Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

All these few things

I know are true,—will you remember them?

Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,

To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,

Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—

Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,—Better than born, baptized and hid awayBefore this happened, safe from being hurt!That had been sin God could not well forgive:He was too young to smile and save himself.When they took, two days after he was born,My babe away from me to be baptizedAnd hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—The country-woman, used to nursing babes,Said, "Why take on so? where is the great loss?These next three weeks he will but sleep and feed,Only begin to smile at the month's end;He would not know you, if you kept him here,Sooner than that; so, spend three merry weeksSnug in the Villa, getting strong and stout,And then I bring him back to be your own,And both of you may steal to—we know where!"The month—there wants of it two weeks this day!Still, I half fancied when I heard the knockAt the Villa in the dusk, it might prove she—Come to say, "Since he smiles before the time,Why should I cheat you out of one good hour?Back I have brought him; speak to him and judge!"Now I shall never see him; what is worse,When he grows up and gets to be my age,He will seem hardly more than a great boy;And if he asks, "What was my mother like?"People may answer, "Like girls of seventeen"—And how can he but think of this and that,Lucias, Marias, Sofias, who titter or blushWhen he regards them as such boys may do?Therefore I wish some one will please to sayI looked already old though I was young;Do I not ... say, if you are by to speak ...Look nearer twenty? No more like, at least,Girls who look arch or redden when boys laugh,Than the poor Virgin that I used to knowAt our street-corner in a lonely niche,—The babe, that sat upon her knees, broke off,—Thin white glazed clay, you pitied her the more:She, not the gay ones, always got my rose.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,

—Better than born, baptized and hid away

Before this happened, safe from being hurt!

That had been sin God could not well forgive:

He was too young to smile and save himself.

When they took, two days after he was born,

My babe away from me to be baptized

And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

The country-woman, used to nursing babes,

Said, "Why take on so? where is the great loss?

These next three weeks he will but sleep and feed,

Only begin to smile at the month's end;

He would not know you, if you kept him here,

Sooner than that; so, spend three merry weeks

Snug in the Villa, getting strong and stout,

And then I bring him back to be your own,

And both of you may steal to—we know where!"

The month—there wants of it two weeks this day!

Still, I half fancied when I heard the knock

At the Villa in the dusk, it might prove she—

Come to say, "Since he smiles before the time,

Why should I cheat you out of one good hour?

Back I have brought him; speak to him and judge!"

Now I shall never see him; what is worse,

When he grows up and gets to be my age,

He will seem hardly more than a great boy;

And if he asks, "What was my mother like?"

People may answer, "Like girls of seventeen"—

And how can he but think of this and that,

Lucias, Marias, Sofias, who titter or blush

When he regards them as such boys may do?

Therefore I wish some one will please to say

I looked already old though I was young;

Do I not ... say, if you are by to speak ...

Look nearer twenty? No more like, at least,

Girls who look arch or redden when boys laugh,

Than the poor Virgin that I used to know

At our street-corner in a lonely niche,—

The babe, that sat upon her knees, broke off,—

Thin white glazed clay, you pitied her the more:

She, not the gay ones, always got my rose.

How happy those are who know how to write!Such could write what their son should read in time,Had they a whole day to live out like me.Also my name is not a common name,"Pompilia," and may help to keep apartA little the thing I am from what girls are.But then how far away, how hard to findWill anything about me have become,Even if the boy bethink himself and ask!No father that ever knew at all,Nor ever had—no, never had, I say!That is the truth,—nor any mother left,Out of the little two weeks that she lived,Fit for such memory as might assist:As good too as no family, no name,Not even poor old Pietro's name, nor hers,Poor kind unwise Violante, since it seemsThey must not be my parents any more.That is why something put it in my headTo call the boy "Gaetano"—no old nameFor sorrow's sake; I looked up to the skyAnd took a new saint to begin anew.One who has only been made saint—how long?Twenty-five years: so, carefuller, perhaps,To guard a namesake than those old saints grow,Tired out by this time,—see my own five saints!

How happy those are who know how to write!

Such could write what their son should read in time,

Had they a whole day to live out like me.

Also my name is not a common name,

"Pompilia," and may help to keep apart

A little the thing I am from what girls are.

But then how far away, how hard to find

Will anything about me have become,

Even if the boy bethink himself and ask!

No father that ever knew at all,

Nor ever had—no, never had, I say!

That is the truth,—nor any mother left,

Out of the little two weeks that she lived,

Fit for such memory as might assist:

As good too as no family, no name,

Not even poor old Pietro's name, nor hers,

Poor kind unwise Violante, since it seems

They must not be my parents any more.

That is why something put it in my head

To call the boy "Gaetano"—no old name

For sorrow's sake; I looked up to the sky

And took a new saint to begin anew.

One who has only been made saint—how long?

Twenty-five years: so, carefuller, perhaps,

To guard a namesake than those old saints grow,

Tired out by this time,—see my own five saints!

On second thoughts, I hope he will regardThe history of me as what some one dreamed,And get to disbelieve it at the last:Since to myself it dwindles fast to that,Sheer dreaming and impossibility,—Just in four days too! All the seventeen years,Not once did a suspicion visit meHow very different a lot is mineFrom any other woman's in the world.The reason must be, 't was by step and stepIt got to grow so terrible and strange.These strange woes stole on tiptoe, as it were,Into my neighborhood and privacy,Sat down where I sat, laid them where I lay;And I was found familiarized with fear,When friends broke in, held up a torch and cried,"Why, you Pompilia in the cavern thus,How comes that arm of yours about a wolf?And the soft length,—lies in and out your feetAnd laps you round the knee,—a snake it is!"And so on.

On second thoughts, I hope he will regard

The history of me as what some one dreamed,

And get to disbelieve it at the last:

Since to myself it dwindles fast to that,

Sheer dreaming and impossibility,—

Just in four days too! All the seventeen years,

Not once did a suspicion visit me

How very different a lot is mine

From any other woman's in the world.

The reason must be, 't was by step and step

It got to grow so terrible and strange.

These strange woes stole on tiptoe, as it were,

Into my neighborhood and privacy,

Sat down where I sat, laid them where I lay;

And I was found familiarized with fear,

When friends broke in, held up a torch and cried,

"Why, you Pompilia in the cavern thus,

How comes that arm of yours about a wolf?

And the soft length,—lies in and out your feet

And laps you round the knee,—a snake it is!"

And so on.

Well, and they are right enough,By the torch they hold up now: for first, observe,I never had a father,—no, nor yetA mother: my own boy can say at least,"I had a mother whom I kept two weeks!"Not I, who little used to doubt ...IdoubtGood Pietro, kind Violante, gave me birth?They loved me always as I love my babe(—Nearly so, that is—quite so could not be—)Did for me all I meant to do for him,Till one surprising day, three years ago,They both declared, at Rome, before some judgeIn some court where the people flocked to hear,That really I had never been their child,Was a mere castaway, the careless crimeOf an unknown man, the crime and care too muchOf a woman known too well,—little to these,Therefore, of whom I was the flesh and blood:What then to Pietro and Violante, bothNo more my relatives than you or you?Nothing to them! You know what they declared.

Well, and they are right enough,

By the torch they hold up now: for first, observe,

I never had a father,—no, nor yet

A mother: my own boy can say at least,

"I had a mother whom I kept two weeks!"

Not I, who little used to doubt ...Idoubt

Good Pietro, kind Violante, gave me birth?

They loved me always as I love my babe

(—Nearly so, that is—quite so could not be—)

Did for me all I meant to do for him,

Till one surprising day, three years ago,

They both declared, at Rome, before some judge

In some court where the people flocked to hear,

That really I had never been their child,

Was a mere castaway, the careless crime

Of an unknown man, the crime and care too much

Of a woman known too well,—little to these,

Therefore, of whom I was the flesh and blood:

What then to Pietro and Violante, both

No more my relatives than you or you?

Nothing to them! You know what they declared.

So with my husband,—just such a surprise,Such a mistake, in that relationship!Every one says that husbands love their wives,Guard them and guide them, give them happiness;'T is duty, law, pleasure, religion: well,You see how much of this comes true in mine!People indeed would fain have somehow provedHe was no husband: but he did not hear,Or would not wait, and so has killed us all.Then there is ... only let me name one more!There is the friend,—men will not ask about,But tell untruths of, and give nicknames to,And think my lover, most surprise of all!Do only hear, it is the priest they mean,Giuseppe Caponsacchi: a priest—love,And love me! Well, yet people think he did.I am married, he has taken priestly vows,They know that, and yet go on, say, the same,"Yes, how he loves you!" "That was love"—they say,When anything is answered that they ask:Or else "No wonder you love him"—they say.Then they shake heads, pity much, scarcely blame—As if we neither of us lacked excuse,And anyhow are punished to the full,And downright love atones for everything!Nay, I heard read out in the public courtBefore the judge, in presence of my friends,Letters 't was said the priest had sent to me,And other letters sent him by myself,We being lovers!

So with my husband,—just such a surprise,

Such a mistake, in that relationship!

Every one says that husbands love their wives,

Guard them and guide them, give them happiness;

'T is duty, law, pleasure, religion: well,

You see how much of this comes true in mine!

People indeed would fain have somehow proved

He was no husband: but he did not hear,

Or would not wait, and so has killed us all.

Then there is ... only let me name one more!

There is the friend,—men will not ask about,

But tell untruths of, and give nicknames to,

And think my lover, most surprise of all!

Do only hear, it is the priest they mean,

Giuseppe Caponsacchi: a priest—love,

And love me! Well, yet people think he did.

I am married, he has taken priestly vows,

They know that, and yet go on, say, the same,

"Yes, how he loves you!" "That was love"—they say,

When anything is answered that they ask:

Or else "No wonder you love him"—they say.

Then they shake heads, pity much, scarcely blame—

As if we neither of us lacked excuse,

And anyhow are punished to the full,

And downright love atones for everything!

Nay, I heard read out in the public court

Before the judge, in presence of my friends,

Letters 't was said the priest had sent to me,

And other letters sent him by myself,

We being lovers!

Listen what this is like!When I was a mere child, my mother ... that 'sViolante, you must let me call her so,Nor waste time, trying to unlearn the word,...She brought a neighbor's child of my own ageTo play with me of rainy afternoons:And, since there hung a tapestry on the wall,We two agreed to find each other outAmong the figures. "Tisbe, that is you,With half-moon on your hair-knot, spear in hand,Flying, but no wings, only the great scarfBlown to a bluish rainbow at your back:Call off your hound and leave the stag alone!""—And there are you, Pompilia, such green leavesFlourishing out of your five finger-ends,And all the rest of you so brown and rough:Why is it you are turned a sort of tree?"You know the figures never were ourselvesThough we nicknamed them so. Thus, all my life,—As well what was, as what, like this, was not,—Looks old, fantastic and impossible:I touch a fairy thing that fades and fades.—Even to my babe! I thought, when he was born,Something began for once that would not end,Nor change into a laugh at me, but stayForevermore, eternally quite mine.Well, so he is,—but yet they bore him off,The third day, lest my husband should lay trapsAnd catch him, and by means of him catch me.Since they have saved him so, it was well done:Yet thence comes such confusion of what wasWith what will be,—that late seems long ago,And, what years should bring round, already come,Till even he withdraws into a dreamAs the rest do: I fancy him grown great,Strong, stern, a tall young man who tutors me,Frowns with the others, "Poor imprudent child!Why did you venture out of the safe street?Why go so far from help to that lone house?Why open at the whisper and the knock?"

Listen what this is like!

When I was a mere child, my mother ... that 's

Violante, you must let me call her so,

Nor waste time, trying to unlearn the word,...

She brought a neighbor's child of my own age

To play with me of rainy afternoons:

And, since there hung a tapestry on the wall,

We two agreed to find each other out

Among the figures. "Tisbe, that is you,

With half-moon on your hair-knot, spear in hand,

Flying, but no wings, only the great scarf

Blown to a bluish rainbow at your back:

Call off your hound and leave the stag alone!"

"—And there are you, Pompilia, such green leaves

Flourishing out of your five finger-ends,

And all the rest of you so brown and rough:

Why is it you are turned a sort of tree?"

You know the figures never were ourselves

Though we nicknamed them so. Thus, all my life,—

As well what was, as what, like this, was not,—

Looks old, fantastic and impossible:

I touch a fairy thing that fades and fades.

—Even to my babe! I thought, when he was born,

Something began for once that would not end,

Nor change into a laugh at me, but stay

Forevermore, eternally quite mine.

Well, so he is,—but yet they bore him off,

The third day, lest my husband should lay traps

And catch him, and by means of him catch me.

Since they have saved him so, it was well done:

Yet thence comes such confusion of what was

With what will be,—that late seems long ago,

And, what years should bring round, already come,

Till even he withdraws into a dream

As the rest do: I fancy him grown great,

Strong, stern, a tall young man who tutors me,

Frowns with the others, "Poor imprudent child!

Why did you venture out of the safe street?

Why go so far from help to that lone house?

Why open at the whisper and the knock?"

Six days ago when it was New Year's day,We bent above the fire and talked of him,What he should do when he was grown and great.Violante, Pietro, each had given the armI leant on, to walk by, from couch to chairAnd fireside,—laughed, as I lay safe at last,"Pompilia's march from bed to board is made,Pompilia back again and with a babe,Shall one day lend his arm and help her walk!"Then we all wished each other more New Years.Pietro began to scheme—"Our cause is gained;The law is stronger than a wicked man:Let him henceforth go his way, leave us ours!We will avoid the city, tempt no moreThe greedy ones by feasting and parade,—Live at the other villa, we know where,Still farther off, and we can watch the babeGrow fast in the good air; and wood is cheapAnd wine sincere outside the city gate.I still have two or three old friends will gropeTheir way along the mere half-mile of road,With staff and lantern on a moonless nightWhen one needs talk: they 'll find me, never fear,And I 'll find them a flask of the old sort yet!"Violante said, "You chatter like a crow:Pompilia tires o' the tattle, and shall to bed:Do not too much the first day,—somewhat moreTo-morrow, and, the next, begin the capeAnd hood and coat! I have spun wool enough."Oh what a happy friendly eve was that!

Six days ago when it was New Year's day,

We bent above the fire and talked of him,

What he should do when he was grown and great.

Violante, Pietro, each had given the arm

I leant on, to walk by, from couch to chair

And fireside,—laughed, as I lay safe at last,

"Pompilia's march from bed to board is made,

Pompilia back again and with a babe,

Shall one day lend his arm and help her walk!"

Then we all wished each other more New Years.

Pietro began to scheme—"Our cause is gained;

The law is stronger than a wicked man:

Let him henceforth go his way, leave us ours!

We will avoid the city, tempt no more

The greedy ones by feasting and parade,—

Live at the other villa, we know where,

Still farther off, and we can watch the babe

Grow fast in the good air; and wood is cheap

And wine sincere outside the city gate.

I still have two or three old friends will grope

Their way along the mere half-mile of road,

With staff and lantern on a moonless night

When one needs talk: they 'll find me, never fear,

And I 'll find them a flask of the old sort yet!"

Violante said, "You chatter like a crow:

Pompilia tires o' the tattle, and shall to bed:

Do not too much the first day,—somewhat more

To-morrow, and, the next, begin the cape

And hood and coat! I have spun wool enough."

Oh what a happy friendly eve was that!

And, next day, about noon, out Pietro went—He was so happy and would talk so much,Until Violante pushed and laughed him forthSight-seeing in the cold,—"So much to seeI' the churches! Swathe your throat three times!" she cried,"And, above all, beware the slippery ways,And bring us all the news by supper-time!"He came back late, laid by cloak, staff and hat,Powdered so thick with snow it made us laugh,Rolled a great log upon the ash o' the hearth,And bade Violante treat us to a flask,Because he had obeyed her faithfully,Gone sight-see through the seven, and found no churchTo his mind like San Giovanni—"There 's the fold,And all the sheep together, big as cats!And such a shepherd, half the size of life,Starts up and hears the angel"—when, at the door,A tap: we started up: you know the rest.

And, next day, about noon, out Pietro went—

He was so happy and would talk so much,

Until Violante pushed and laughed him forth

Sight-seeing in the cold,—"So much to see

I' the churches! Swathe your throat three times!" she cried,

"And, above all, beware the slippery ways,

And bring us all the news by supper-time!"

He came back late, laid by cloak, staff and hat,

Powdered so thick with snow it made us laugh,

Rolled a great log upon the ash o' the hearth,

And bade Violante treat us to a flask,

Because he had obeyed her faithfully,

Gone sight-see through the seven, and found no church

To his mind like San Giovanni—"There 's the fold,

And all the sheep together, big as cats!

And such a shepherd, half the size of life,

Starts up and hears the angel"—when, at the door,

A tap: we started up: you know the rest.

Pietro at least had done no harm, I know;Nor even Violante, so much harm as makesSuch revenge lawful. Certainly she erred—Did wrong, how shall I dare say otherwise?—In telling that first falsehood, buying meFrom my poor faulty mother at a price,To pass off upon Pietro as his child.If one should take my babe, give him a name,Say he was not Gaetano and my own,But that some other woman made his mouthAnd hands and feet,—-how very false were that!No good could come of that; and all harm did.Yet if a stranger were to represent"Needs must you either give your babe to meAnd let me call him mine forevermore,Or let your husband get him"—ah, my God,That were a trial I refuse to face!Well, just so here: it proved wrong but seemed rightTo poor Violante—for there lay, she said,My poor real dying mother in her rags,Who put me from her with the life and all,Poverty, pain, shame and disease at once,To die the easier by what price I fetched—Also (I hope) because I should be sparedSorrow and sin,—why may not that have helped?My father,—he was no one, any one,—The worse, the likelier,—call him,—he who came,Was wicked for his pleasure, went his way,And left no trace to track by; there remainedNothing but me, the unnecessary life,To catch up or let fall,—and yet a thingShe could make happy, be made happy with,This poor Violante,—who would frown thereat?

Pietro at least had done no harm, I know;

Nor even Violante, so much harm as makes

Such revenge lawful. Certainly she erred—

Did wrong, how shall I dare say otherwise?—

In telling that first falsehood, buying me

From my poor faulty mother at a price,

To pass off upon Pietro as his child.

If one should take my babe, give him a name,

Say he was not Gaetano and my own,

But that some other woman made his mouth

And hands and feet,—-how very false were that!

No good could come of that; and all harm did.

Yet if a stranger were to represent

"Needs must you either give your babe to me

And let me call him mine forevermore,

Or let your husband get him"—ah, my God,

That were a trial I refuse to face!

Well, just so here: it proved wrong but seemed right

To poor Violante—for there lay, she said,

My poor real dying mother in her rags,

Who put me from her with the life and all,

Poverty, pain, shame and disease at once,

To die the easier by what price I fetched—

Also (I hope) because I should be spared

Sorrow and sin,—why may not that have helped?

My father,—he was no one, any one,—

The worse, the likelier,—call him,—he who came,

Was wicked for his pleasure, went his way,

And left no trace to track by; there remained

Nothing but me, the unnecessary life,

To catch up or let fall,—and yet a thing

She could make happy, be made happy with,

This poor Violante,—who would frown thereat?

Well, God, you see! God plants us where we grow.It is not that, because a bud is bornAt a wild brier's end, full i' the wild beast's way,We ought to pluck and put it out of reachOn the oak-tree top,—say, "There the bud belongs!"She thought, moreover, real lies were lies toldFor harm's sake; whereas this had good at heart,Good for my mother, good for me, and goodFor Pietro who was meant to love a babe,And needed one to make his life of use,Receive his house and land when he should die.Wrong, wrong, and always wrong! how plainly wrong!For see, this fault kept pricking, as faults do,All the same at her heart: this falsehood hatched,She could not let it go nor keep it fast.She told me so,—the first time I was foundLocked in her arms once more after the pain,When the nuns let me leave them and go home,And both of us cried all the cares away,—This it was set her on to make amends,This brought about the marriage—simply this!Do let me speak for her you blame so much!When Paul, my husband's brother, found me out,Heard there was wealth for who should marry me,So, came and made a speech to ask my handFor Guido,—she, instead of piercing straightThrough the pretence to the ignoble truth,Fancied she saw God's very finger point,Designate just the time for planting me(The wild-brier slip she plucked to love and wear)In soil where I could strike real root, and grow,And get to be the thing I called myself:For, wife and husband are one flesh, God says,And I, whose parents seemed such and were none,Should in a husband have a husband now,Find nothing, this time, but was what it seemed,—All truth and no confusion any more.I know she meant all good to me, all painTo herself,—since how could it be aught but painTo give me up, so, from her very breast,The wilding flower-tree-branch that, all those years,She had got used to feel for and find fixed?She meant well: has it been so ill i' the main?That is but fair to ask: one cannot judgeOf what has been the ill or well of life,The day that one is dying,—sorrows changeInto not altogether sorrow-like;I do see strangeness but scarce misery,Now it is over, and no danger more.My child is safe; there seems not so much pain.It comes, most like, that I am just absolved,Purged of the past, the foul in me, washed fair,—One cannot both have and not have, you know,—Being right now, I am happy and color things.Yes, everybody that leaves life sees allSoftened and bettered: so with other sights:To me at least was never evening yetBut seemed far beautifuller than its day,For past is past.

Well, God, you see! God plants us where we grow.

It is not that, because a bud is born

At a wild brier's end, full i' the wild beast's way,

We ought to pluck and put it out of reach

On the oak-tree top,—say, "There the bud belongs!"

She thought, moreover, real lies were lies told

For harm's sake; whereas this had good at heart,

Good for my mother, good for me, and good

For Pietro who was meant to love a babe,

And needed one to make his life of use,

Receive his house and land when he should die.

Wrong, wrong, and always wrong! how plainly wrong!

For see, this fault kept pricking, as faults do,

All the same at her heart: this falsehood hatched,

She could not let it go nor keep it fast.

She told me so,—the first time I was found

Locked in her arms once more after the pain,

When the nuns let me leave them and go home,

And both of us cried all the cares away,—

This it was set her on to make amends,

This brought about the marriage—simply this!

Do let me speak for her you blame so much!

When Paul, my husband's brother, found me out,

Heard there was wealth for who should marry me,

So, came and made a speech to ask my hand

For Guido,—she, instead of piercing straight

Through the pretence to the ignoble truth,

Fancied she saw God's very finger point,

Designate just the time for planting me

(The wild-brier slip she plucked to love and wear)

In soil where I could strike real root, and grow,

And get to be the thing I called myself:

For, wife and husband are one flesh, God says,

And I, whose parents seemed such and were none,

Should in a husband have a husband now,

Find nothing, this time, but was what it seemed,

—All truth and no confusion any more.

I know she meant all good to me, all pain

To herself,—since how could it be aught but pain

To give me up, so, from her very breast,

The wilding flower-tree-branch that, all those years,

She had got used to feel for and find fixed?

She meant well: has it been so ill i' the main?

That is but fair to ask: one cannot judge

Of what has been the ill or well of life,

The day that one is dying,—sorrows change

Into not altogether sorrow-like;

I do see strangeness but scarce misery,

Now it is over, and no danger more.

My child is safe; there seems not so much pain.

It comes, most like, that I am just absolved,

Purged of the past, the foul in me, washed fair,—

One cannot both have and not have, you know,—

Being right now, I am happy and color things.

Yes, everybody that leaves life sees all

Softened and bettered: so with other sights:

To me at least was never evening yet

But seemed far beautifuller than its day,

For past is past.

There was a fancy came,When somewhere, in the journey with my friend,We stepped into a hovel to get food;And there began a yelp here, a bark there,—Misunderstanding creatures that were wrothAnd vexed themselves and us till we retired.The hovel is life: no matter what dogs bitOr cat scratched in the hovel I break from,All outside is lone field, moon and such peace—Flowing in, filling up as with a seaWhereon comes Someone, walks fast on the white,Jesus Christ's self, Don Celestine declares,To meet me and calm all things back again.

There was a fancy came,

When somewhere, in the journey with my friend,

We stepped into a hovel to get food;

And there began a yelp here, a bark there,—

Misunderstanding creatures that were wroth

And vexed themselves and us till we retired.

The hovel is life: no matter what dogs bit

Or cat scratched in the hovel I break from,

All outside is lone field, moon and such peace—

Flowing in, filling up as with a sea

Whereon comes Someone, walks fast on the white,

Jesus Christ's self, Don Celestine declares,

To meet me and calm all things back again.

Beside, up to my marriage, thirteen yearsWere, each day, happy as the day was long:This may have made the change too terrible.I know that when Violante told me firstThe cavalier—she meant to bring next morn,Whom I must also let take, kiss my hand—Would be at San Lorenzo the same eveAnd marry me,—which over, we should goHome both of us without him as before,And, till she bade speak, I must hold my tongue,Such being the correct way with girl-brides,From whom one word would make a father blush,—I know, I say, that when she told me this,—Well, I no more saw sense in what she saidThan a lamb does in people clipping wool;Only lay down and let myself be clipped.And when next day the cavalier who came—(Tisbe had told me that the slim young manWith wings at head, and wings at feet, and swordThreatening a monster, in our tapestry,Would eat a girl else,—was a cavalier)—When he proved Guido Franceschini,—oldAnd nothing like so tall as I myself,Hook-nosed and yellow in a bush of beard,Much like a thing I saw on a boy's wrist,He called an owl and used for catching birds,—And when he took my hand and made a smile—Why, the uncomfortableness of it allSeemed hardly more important in the caseThan—when one gives you, say, a coin to spend—Its newness or its oldness; if the pieceWeigh properly and buy you what you wish,No matter whether you get grime or glare!Men take the coin, return you grapes and figs.Here, marriage was the' coin, a dirty pieceWould purchase me the praise of those I loved:About what else should I concern myself?

Beside, up to my marriage, thirteen years

Were, each day, happy as the day was long:

This may have made the change too terrible.

I know that when Violante told me first

The cavalier—she meant to bring next morn,

Whom I must also let take, kiss my hand—

Would be at San Lorenzo the same eve

And marry me,—which over, we should go

Home both of us without him as before,

And, till she bade speak, I must hold my tongue,

Such being the correct way with girl-brides,

From whom one word would make a father blush,—

I know, I say, that when she told me this,

—Well, I no more saw sense in what she said

Than a lamb does in people clipping wool;

Only lay down and let myself be clipped.

And when next day the cavalier who came—

(Tisbe had told me that the slim young man

With wings at head, and wings at feet, and sword

Threatening a monster, in our tapestry,

Would eat a girl else,—was a cavalier)—

When he proved Guido Franceschini,—old

And nothing like so tall as I myself,

Hook-nosed and yellow in a bush of beard,

Much like a thing I saw on a boy's wrist,

He called an owl and used for catching birds,—

And when he took my hand and made a smile—

Why, the uncomfortableness of it all

Seemed hardly more important in the case

Than—when one gives you, say, a coin to spend—

Its newness or its oldness; if the piece

Weigh properly and buy you what you wish,

No matter whether you get grime or glare!

Men take the coin, return you grapes and figs.

Here, marriage was the' coin, a dirty piece

Would purchase me the praise of those I loved:

About what else should I concern myself?

So, hardly knowing what a husband meant,I supposed this or any man would serve,No whit the worse for being so uncouth:For I was ill once and a doctor cameWith a great ugly hat, no plume thereto,Black jerkin and black buckles and black sword,And white sharp beard over the ruff in front,And oh so lean, so sour-faced and austere!—Who felt my pulse, made me put out my tongue,Then oped a phial, dripped a drop or twoOf a black bitter something,—I was cured!What mattered the fierce beard or the grim face?It was the physic beautified the man,Master Malpichi,—never met his matchIn Rome, they said,—so ugly all the same!

So, hardly knowing what a husband meant,

I supposed this or any man would serve,

No whit the worse for being so uncouth:

For I was ill once and a doctor came

With a great ugly hat, no plume thereto,

Black jerkin and black buckles and black sword,

And white sharp beard over the ruff in front,

And oh so lean, so sour-faced and austere!—

Who felt my pulse, made me put out my tongue,

Then oped a phial, dripped a drop or two

Of a black bitter something,—I was cured!

What mattered the fierce beard or the grim face?

It was the physic beautified the man,

Master Malpichi,—never met his match

In Rome, they said,—so ugly all the same!

However, I was hurried through a storm,Next dark eve of December's deadest day—How it rained!—through our street and the Lion's-mouthAnd the bit of Corso,—cloaked round, covered close,I was like something strange or contraband,—Into blank San Lorenzo, up the aisle,My mother keeping hold of me so tight,I fancied we were come to see a corpseBefore the altar which she pulled me toward.There we found waiting an unpleasant priestWho proved the brother, not our parish friend,But one with mischief-making mouth and eye,Paul, whom I know since to my cost. And thenI heard the heavy church-door lock out helpBehind us: for the customary warmth,Two tapers shivered on the altar. "Quick—Lose no time!" cried the priest. And straightway downFrom ... what 's behind the altar where he hid—Hawk-nose and yellowness and bush and all,Stepped Guido, caught my hand, and there was IO' the chancel, and the priest had opened book,Read here and there, made me say that and this,And after, told me I was now a wife,Honored indeed, since Christ thus weds the Church,And therefore turned he water into wine,To show I should obey my spouse like Christ.Then the two slipped aside and talked apart,And I, silent and scared, got down againAnd joined my mother, who was weeping now.Nobody seemed to mind us any more,And both of us on tiptoe found our wayTo the door which was unlocked by this, and wide.When we were in the street, the rain had stopped,All things looked better. At our own house-door,Violante whispered, "No one syllableTo Pietro! Girl-brides never breathe a word!""—Well treated to a wetting, draggle-tails!"Laughed Pietro as he opened—"Very nearYou made me brave the gutter's roaring seaTo carry off from roost old dove and young,Trussed up in church, the cote, by me, the kite!What do these priests mean, praying folk to deathOn stormy afternoons, with Christmas closeTo wash our sins off nor require the rain?"Violante gave my hand a timely squeeze,Madonna saved me from immodest speech,I kissed him and was quiet, being a bride.

However, I was hurried through a storm,

Next dark eve of December's deadest day—

How it rained!—through our street and the Lion's-mouth

And the bit of Corso,—cloaked round, covered close,

I was like something strange or contraband,—

Into blank San Lorenzo, up the aisle,

My mother keeping hold of me so tight,

I fancied we were come to see a corpse

Before the altar which she pulled me toward.

There we found waiting an unpleasant priest

Who proved the brother, not our parish friend,

But one with mischief-making mouth and eye,

Paul, whom I know since to my cost. And then

I heard the heavy church-door lock out help

Behind us: for the customary warmth,

Two tapers shivered on the altar. "Quick—

Lose no time!" cried the priest. And straightway down

From ... what 's behind the altar where he hid—

Hawk-nose and yellowness and bush and all,

Stepped Guido, caught my hand, and there was I

O' the chancel, and the priest had opened book,

Read here and there, made me say that and this,

And after, told me I was now a wife,

Honored indeed, since Christ thus weds the Church,

And therefore turned he water into wine,

To show I should obey my spouse like Christ.

Then the two slipped aside and talked apart,

And I, silent and scared, got down again

And joined my mother, who was weeping now.

Nobody seemed to mind us any more,

And both of us on tiptoe found our way

To the door which was unlocked by this, and wide.

When we were in the street, the rain had stopped,

All things looked better. At our own house-door,

Violante whispered, "No one syllable

To Pietro! Girl-brides never breathe a word!"

"—Well treated to a wetting, draggle-tails!"

Laughed Pietro as he opened—"Very near

You made me brave the gutter's roaring sea

To carry off from roost old dove and young,

Trussed up in church, the cote, by me, the kite!

What do these priests mean, praying folk to death

On stormy afternoons, with Christmas close

To wash our sins off nor require the rain?"

Violante gave my hand a timely squeeze,

Madonna saved me from immodest speech,

I kissed him and was quiet, being a bride.

When I saw nothing more, the next three weeks,Of Guido—"Nor the Church sees Christ" thought I:"Nothing is changed however, wine is wineAnd water only water in our house.Nor did I see that ugly doctor sinceThat cure of the illness: just as I was cured,I am married,—neither scarecrow will return."

When I saw nothing more, the next three weeks,

Of Guido—"Nor the Church sees Christ" thought I:

"Nothing is changed however, wine is wine

And water only water in our house.

Nor did I see that ugly doctor since

That cure of the illness: just as I was cured,

I am married,—neither scarecrow will return."

Three weeks, I chuckled—"How would Giulia stare,And Tecla smile and Tisbe laugh outright,Were it not impudent for brides to talk!"—Until one morning, as I sat and sangAt the broidery-frame alone i' the chamber,—loudVoices, two, three together, sobbings too,And my name, "Guido," "Paolo," flung like stonesFrom each to the other! In I ran to see.There stood the very Guido and the priestWith sly face,—formal but nowise afraid,—While Pietro seemed all red and angry, scarceAble to stutter out his wrath in words;And this it was that made my mother sob,As he reproached her—"You have murdered us,Me and yourself and this our child beside!"Then Guido interposed, "Murdered or not,Be it enough your child is now my wife!I claim and come to take her." Paul put in,"Consider—kinsman, dare I term you so?—What is the good of your sagacityExcept to counsel in a strait like this?I guarantee the parties man and wifeWhether you like or loathe it, bless or ban.May spilt milk be put back within the bowl—The done thing, undone? You, it is, we lookFor counsel to, you fitliest will advise!Since milk, though spilt and spoilt, does marble good,Better we down on knees and scrub the floor,Than sigh, 'the waste would make a syllabub!'Help us so turn disaster to account,So predispose the groom, he needs shall graceThe bride with favor from the very first,Not begin marriage an embittered man!"He smiled,—the game so wholly in his hands!While fast and faster sobbed Violante—"Ay,All of us murdered, past averting now!O my sin, O my secret!" and such like.

Three weeks, I chuckled—"How would Giulia stare,

And Tecla smile and Tisbe laugh outright,

Were it not impudent for brides to talk!"—

Until one morning, as I sat and sang

At the broidery-frame alone i' the chamber,—loud

Voices, two, three together, sobbings too,

And my name, "Guido," "Paolo," flung like stones

From each to the other! In I ran to see.

There stood the very Guido and the priest

With sly face,—formal but nowise afraid,—

While Pietro seemed all red and angry, scarce

Able to stutter out his wrath in words;

And this it was that made my mother sob,

As he reproached her—"You have murdered us,

Me and yourself and this our child beside!"

Then Guido interposed, "Murdered or not,

Be it enough your child is now my wife!

I claim and come to take her." Paul put in,

"Consider—kinsman, dare I term you so?—

What is the good of your sagacity

Except to counsel in a strait like this?

I guarantee the parties man and wife

Whether you like or loathe it, bless or ban.

May spilt milk be put back within the bowl—

The done thing, undone? You, it is, we look

For counsel to, you fitliest will advise!

Since milk, though spilt and spoilt, does marble good,

Better we down on knees and scrub the floor,

Than sigh, 'the waste would make a syllabub!'

Help us so turn disaster to account,

So predispose the groom, he needs shall grace

The bride with favor from the very first,

Not begin marriage an embittered man!"

He smiled,—the game so wholly in his hands!

While fast and faster sobbed Violante—"Ay,

All of us murdered, past averting now!

O my sin, O my secret!" and such like.

Then I began to half surmise the truth;Something had happened, low, mean, underhand,False, and my mother was to blame, and ITo pity, whom all spoke of, none addressed:I was the chattel that had caused a crime.I stood mute,—those who tangled must untieThe embroilment. Pietro cried, "Withdraw, my child!She is not helpful to the sacrificeAt this stage,—do you want the victim byWhile you discuss the value of her blood?For her sake, I consent to hear you talk:Go, child, and pray God help the innocent!"

Then I began to half surmise the truth;

Something had happened, low, mean, underhand,

False, and my mother was to blame, and I

To pity, whom all spoke of, none addressed:

I was the chattel that had caused a crime.

I stood mute,—those who tangled must untie

The embroilment. Pietro cried, "Withdraw, my child!

She is not helpful to the sacrifice

At this stage,—do you want the victim by

While you discuss the value of her blood?

For her sake, I consent to hear you talk:

Go, child, and pray God help the innocent!"

I did go and was praying God, when cameViolante, with eyes swollen and red enough,But movement on her mouth for make-believeMatters were somehow getting right again.She bade me sit down by her side and hear."You are too young and cannot understand,Nor did your father understand at first.I wished to benefit all three of us,And when he failed to take my meaning,—why,I tried to have my way at unaware—Obtained him the advantage he refused.As if I put before him wholesome foodInstead of broken victual,—he finds changeI' the viands, never cares to reason why,But falls to blaming me, would fling the plateFrom window, scandalize the neighborhood,Even while he smacks his lips,—men's way, my child!But either you have prayed him unperverseOr I have talked him back into his wits:And Paolo was a help in time of need,—Guido, not much—my child, the way of men!A priest is more a woman than a man,And Paul did wonders to persuade. In short,Yes, he was wrong, your father sees and says;My scheme was worth attempting: and bears fruit,Gives you a husband and a noble name,A palace and no end of pleasant things.What do you care about a handsome youth?They are so volatile, and tease their wives!This is the kind of man to keep the house.We lose no daughter,—gain a son, that 's all:For 't is arranged we never separate,Nor miss, in our gray time of life, the tintsOf you that color eve to match with morn.In good or ill, we share and share alike,And cast our lots into a common lap,And all three die together as we lived!Only, at Arezzo,—that 's a Tuscan town,Not so large as this noisy Rome, no doubt,But older far and finer much, say folk,—In a great palace where you will be queen,Know the Archbishop and the Governor,And we see homage done you ere we die.Therefore, be good and pardon!"—"Pardon what?You know things, I am very ignorant:All is right if you only will not cry!"

I did go and was praying God, when came

Violante, with eyes swollen and red enough,

But movement on her mouth for make-believe

Matters were somehow getting right again.

She bade me sit down by her side and hear.

"You are too young and cannot understand,

Nor did your father understand at first.

I wished to benefit all three of us,

And when he failed to take my meaning,—why,

I tried to have my way at unaware—

Obtained him the advantage he refused.

As if I put before him wholesome food

Instead of broken victual,—he finds change

I' the viands, never cares to reason why,

But falls to blaming me, would fling the plate

From window, scandalize the neighborhood,

Even while he smacks his lips,—men's way, my child!

But either you have prayed him unperverse

Or I have talked him back into his wits:

And Paolo was a help in time of need,—

Guido, not much—my child, the way of men!

A priest is more a woman than a man,

And Paul did wonders to persuade. In short,

Yes, he was wrong, your father sees and says;

My scheme was worth attempting: and bears fruit,

Gives you a husband and a noble name,

A palace and no end of pleasant things.

What do you care about a handsome youth?

They are so volatile, and tease their wives!

This is the kind of man to keep the house.

We lose no daughter,—gain a son, that 's all:

For 't is arranged we never separate,

Nor miss, in our gray time of life, the tints

Of you that color eve to match with morn.

In good or ill, we share and share alike,

And cast our lots into a common lap,

And all three die together as we lived!

Only, at Arezzo,—that 's a Tuscan town,

Not so large as this noisy Rome, no doubt,

But older far and finer much, say folk,—

In a great palace where you will be queen,

Know the Archbishop and the Governor,

And we see homage done you ere we die.

Therefore, be good and pardon!"—"Pardon what?

You know things, I am very ignorant:

All is right if you only will not cry!"

And so an end! Because a blank beginsFrom when, at the word, she kissed me hard and hot,And took me back to where my father leanedOpposite Guido—who stood eying him,As eyes the butcher the cast panting oxThat feels his fate is come, nor struggles more,—While Paul looked archly on, pricked brow at whilesWith the pen-point as to punish triumph there,—And said, "Count Guido, take your lawful wifeUntil death part you!"

And so an end! Because a blank begins

From when, at the word, she kissed me hard and hot,

And took me back to where my father leaned

Opposite Guido—who stood eying him,

As eyes the butcher the cast panting ox

That feels his fate is come, nor struggles more,—

While Paul looked archly on, pricked brow at whiles

With the pen-point as to punish triumph there,—

And said, "Count Guido, take your lawful wife

Until death part you!"

All since is one blank,Over and ended; a terrific dream.It is the good of dreams—so soon they go!Wake in a horror of heart-beats, you may—Cry, "The dread thing will never from my thoughts!"Still, a few daylight doses of plain life,Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or bleat and bellOf goats that trot by, tinkling, to be milked;And when you rub your eyes awake and wide,Where is the harm o' the horror? Gone! So here.I know I wake,—but from what? Blank, I say!This is the note of evil: for good lasts.Even when Don Celestine bade "Search and find!For your soul's sake, remember what is past,The better to forgive it,"—all in vain!What was fast getting indistinct before,Vanished outright. By special grace perhaps,Between that first calm and this last, four yearsVanish,—one quarter of my life, you know.I am held up, amid the nothingness,By one or two truths only—thence I hang,And there I live,—the rest is death or dream,All but those points of my support. I thinkOf what I saw at Rome once in the SquareO' the Spaniards, opposite the Spanish House:There was a foreigner had trained a goat,A shuddering white woman of a beast,To climb up, stand straight on a pile of sticksPut close, which gave the creature room enough:When she was settled there, he, one by one,Took away all the sticks, left just the fourWhereon the little hoofs did really rest,There she kept firm, all underneath was air.So, what I hold by, are my prayer to God,My hope, that came in answer to the prayer,Some hand would interpose and save me—handWhich proved to be my friend's hand: and,—blest bliss,—That fancy which began so faint at first,That thrill of dawn's suffusion through my dark,Which I perceive was promise of my child,The light his unborn face sent long before,—God's way of breaking the good news to flesh.That is all left now of those four bad years.Don Celestine urged, "But remember more!Other men's faults may help me find your own.I need the cruelty exposed, explained,Or how can I advise you to forgive?"He thought I could not properly forgiveUnless I ceased forgetting,—which is true:For, bringing back reluctantly to mindMy husband's treatment of me,—by a lightThat 's later than my lifetime, I reviewAnd comprehend much and imagine more,And have but little to forgive at last.For now,—be fair and say,—is it not trueHe was ill-used and cheated of his hopeTo get enriched by marriage? Marriage gaveMe and no money, broke the compact so:He had a right to ask me on those terms,As Pietro and Violante to declareThey would not give me: so the bargain stood:They broke it, and he felt himself aggrieved,Became unkind with me to punish them.They said 't was he began deception first,Nor, in one point whereto he pledged himself,Kept promise: what of that, suppose it were?Echoes die off, scarcely reverberateForever,—why should ill keep echoing ill,And never let our ears have done with noise?Then my poor parents took the violent wayTo thwart him,—he must needs retaliate,—wrong,Wrong, and all wrong,—better say, all blind!As I myself was, that is sure, who elseHad understood the mystery: for his wifeWas bound in some sort to help somehow there.It seems as if I might have interposed,Blunted the edge of their resentment so,Since he vexed me because they first vexed him;"I will entreat them to desist, submit,Give him the money and be poor in peace,—Certainly not go tell the world: perhapsHe will grow quiet with his gains."Yes, saySomething to this effect and you do well!But then you have to see first: I was blind.That is the fruit of all such wormy ways,The indirect, the unapproved of God:You cannot find their author's end and aim,Not even to substitute your good for bad,Your straight for the irregular; you standStupefied, profitless, as cow or sheepThat miss a man's mind; anger him just twiceBy trial at repairing the first fault.Thus, when he blamed me, "You are a coquette,A lure-owl posturing to attract birds,You look love-lures at theatre and church,In walk, at window!"—that, I knew, was false:But why he charged me falsely, whither soughtTo drive me by such charge,—how could I know?So, unaware, I only made things worse.I tried to soothe him by abjuring walk,Window, church, theatre, for good and all,As if he had been in earnest: that, you know,Was nothing like the object of his charge.Yes, when I got my maid to supplicateThe priest, whose name she read when she would readThose feigned false letters I was forced to hearThough I could read no word of,—he should ceaseWriting,—nay, if he minded prayer of mine,Cease from so much as even pass the streetWhereon our house looked,—in my ignoranceI was just thwarting Guido's true intent;Which was, to bring about a wicked changeOf sport to earnest, tempt a thoughtless manTo write indeed, and pass the house, and more,Till both of us were taken in a crime.He ought not to have wished me thus act lies,Simulate folly: but—wrong or right, the wish—I failed to apprehend its drift. How plainIt follows,—if I fell into such fault,He also may have overreached the mark,Made mistake, by perversity of brain,I' the whole sad strange plot, the grotesque intrigueTo make me and my friend unself ourselves,Be other man and woman than we were!Think it out, you who have the time! for me,—I cannot say less; more I will not say.Leave it to God to cover and undo!Only, my dulness should not prove too much!—Not prove that in a certain other pointWherein my husband blamed me,—and you blame,If I interpret smiles and shakes of head,—I was dull too. Oh, if I dared but speak!Must I speak? I am blamed that I forwentA way to make my husband's favor come.That is true: I was firm, withstood, refused ...—Women as you are, how can I find the words?

All since is one blank,

Over and ended; a terrific dream.

It is the good of dreams—so soon they go!

Wake in a horror of heart-beats, you may—

Cry, "The dread thing will never from my thoughts!"

Still, a few daylight doses of plain life,

Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or bleat and bell

Of goats that trot by, tinkling, to be milked;

And when you rub your eyes awake and wide,

Where is the harm o' the horror? Gone! So here.

I know I wake,—but from what? Blank, I say!

This is the note of evil: for good lasts.

Even when Don Celestine bade "Search and find!

For your soul's sake, remember what is past,

The better to forgive it,"—all in vain!

What was fast getting indistinct before,

Vanished outright. By special grace perhaps,

Between that first calm and this last, four years

Vanish,—one quarter of my life, you know.

I am held up, amid the nothingness,

By one or two truths only—thence I hang,

And there I live,—the rest is death or dream,

All but those points of my support. I think

Of what I saw at Rome once in the Square

O' the Spaniards, opposite the Spanish House:

There was a foreigner had trained a goat,

A shuddering white woman of a beast,

To climb up, stand straight on a pile of sticks

Put close, which gave the creature room enough:

When she was settled there, he, one by one,

Took away all the sticks, left just the four

Whereon the little hoofs did really rest,

There she kept firm, all underneath was air.

So, what I hold by, are my prayer to God,

My hope, that came in answer to the prayer,

Some hand would interpose and save me—hand

Which proved to be my friend's hand: and,—blest bliss,—

That fancy which began so faint at first,

That thrill of dawn's suffusion through my dark,

Which I perceive was promise of my child,

The light his unborn face sent long before,—

God's way of breaking the good news to flesh.

That is all left now of those four bad years.

Don Celestine urged, "But remember more!

Other men's faults may help me find your own.

I need the cruelty exposed, explained,

Or how can I advise you to forgive?"

He thought I could not properly forgive

Unless I ceased forgetting,—which is true:

For, bringing back reluctantly to mind

My husband's treatment of me,—by a light

That 's later than my lifetime, I review

And comprehend much and imagine more,

And have but little to forgive at last.

For now,—be fair and say,—is it not true

He was ill-used and cheated of his hope

To get enriched by marriage? Marriage gave

Me and no money, broke the compact so:

He had a right to ask me on those terms,

As Pietro and Violante to declare

They would not give me: so the bargain stood:

They broke it, and he felt himself aggrieved,

Became unkind with me to punish them.

They said 't was he began deception first,

Nor, in one point whereto he pledged himself,

Kept promise: what of that, suppose it were?

Echoes die off, scarcely reverberate

Forever,—why should ill keep echoing ill,

And never let our ears have done with noise?

Then my poor parents took the violent way

To thwart him,—he must needs retaliate,—wrong,

Wrong, and all wrong,—better say, all blind!

As I myself was, that is sure, who else

Had understood the mystery: for his wife

Was bound in some sort to help somehow there.

It seems as if I might have interposed,

Blunted the edge of their resentment so,

Since he vexed me because they first vexed him;

"I will entreat them to desist, submit,

Give him the money and be poor in peace,—

Certainly not go tell the world: perhaps

He will grow quiet with his gains."

Yes, say

Something to this effect and you do well!

But then you have to see first: I was blind.

That is the fruit of all such wormy ways,

The indirect, the unapproved of God:

You cannot find their author's end and aim,

Not even to substitute your good for bad,

Your straight for the irregular; you stand

Stupefied, profitless, as cow or sheep

That miss a man's mind; anger him just twice

By trial at repairing the first fault.

Thus, when he blamed me, "You are a coquette,

A lure-owl posturing to attract birds,

You look love-lures at theatre and church,

In walk, at window!"—that, I knew, was false:

But why he charged me falsely, whither sought

To drive me by such charge,—how could I know?

So, unaware, I only made things worse.

I tried to soothe him by abjuring walk,

Window, church, theatre, for good and all,

As if he had been in earnest: that, you know,

Was nothing like the object of his charge.

Yes, when I got my maid to supplicate

The priest, whose name she read when she would read

Those feigned false letters I was forced to hear

Though I could read no word of,—he should cease

Writing,—nay, if he minded prayer of mine,

Cease from so much as even pass the street

Whereon our house looked,—in my ignorance

I was just thwarting Guido's true intent;

Which was, to bring about a wicked change

Of sport to earnest, tempt a thoughtless man

To write indeed, and pass the house, and more,

Till both of us were taken in a crime.

He ought not to have wished me thus act lies,

Simulate folly: but—wrong or right, the wish—

I failed to apprehend its drift. How plain

It follows,—if I fell into such fault,

He also may have overreached the mark,

Made mistake, by perversity of brain,

I' the whole sad strange plot, the grotesque intrigue

To make me and my friend unself ourselves,

Be other man and woman than we were!

Think it out, you who have the time! for me,—

I cannot say less; more I will not say.

Leave it to God to cover and undo!

Only, my dulness should not prove too much!

—Not prove that in a certain other point

Wherein my husband blamed me,—and you blame,

If I interpret smiles and shakes of head,—

I was dull too. Oh, if I dared but speak!

Must I speak? I am blamed that I forwent

A way to make my husband's favor come.

That is true: I was firm, withstood, refused ...

—Women as you are, how can I find the words?

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