Chapter 81

I felt there was just one thing Guido claimedI had no right to give nor he to take;We being in estrangement, soul from soul:Till, when I sought help, the Archbishop smiled,Inquiring into privacies of life,—Said I was blamable—(he stands for God)Nowise entitled to exemption there.Then I obeyed,—as surely had obeyedWere the injunction "Since your husband bids,Swallow the burning coal he proffers you!"But I did wrong, and he gave wrong adviceThough he were thrice Archbishop,—that, I know!—Now I have got to die and see things clear.Remember I was barely twelve years old—A child at marriage: I was let aloneFor weeks, I told you, lived my child-life stillEven at Arezzo, when I woke and foundFirst ... but I need not think of that again—Over and ended! Try and take the senseOf what I signify, if it must be so.After the first, my husband, for hate's sake,Said one eve, when the simpler crueltySeemed somewhat dull at edge and fit to bear,"We have been man and wife six months almost:How long is this your comedy to last?Go this night to my chamber, not your own!"At which word, I did rush—most true the charge—And gain the Archbishop's house—he stands for God—And fall upon my knees and clasp his feet,Praying him hinder what my estranged soulRefused to bear, though patient of the rest:"Place me within a convent," I implored—"Let me henceforward lead the virgin lifeYou praise in her you bid me imitate!"What did he answer? "Folly of ignorance!Know, daughter, circumstances make or marVirginity,—'t is virtue or 't is vice.That which was glory in the Mother of GodHad been, for instance, damnable in EveCreated to be mother of mankind.Had Eve, in answer to her Maker's speech'Be fruitful, multiply, replenish earth'—Pouted 'But I choose rather to remainSingle'—why, she had spared herself forthwithFurther probation by the apple and snake,Been pushed straight out of Paradise! For see—If motherhood be qualified impure,I catch you making God command Eve sin!—A blasphemy so like these Molinists',I must suspect you dip into their books."Then he pursued "'T was in your covenant!"No! There my husband never used deceit.He never did by speech nor act imply"Because of our souls' yearning that we meetAnd mix in soul through flesh, which yours and mineWear and impress, and make their visible selves,—All which means, for the love of you and me,Let us become one flesh, being one soul!"He only stipulated for the wealth;Honest so far. But when he spoke as plain—Dreadfully honest also—"Since our soulsStand each from each, a whole world's width between,Give me the fleshly vesture I can reachAnd rend and leave just fit for hell to burn!"—Why, in God's name, for Guido's soul's own sakeImperilled by polluting mine,—I say,I did resist; would I had overcome!My heart died out at the Archbishop's smile;—It seemed so stale and worn a way o' the world,As though 't were nature frowning—"Here is Spring,The sun shines as he shone at Adam's fall,The earth requires that warmth reach everywhere:What, must your patch of snow be saved forsoothBecause you rather fancy snow than flowers?"Something in this style he began with me.Last he said, savagely for a good man,"This explains why you call your husband harsh,Harsh to you, harsh to whom you love. God's Bread!The poor Count has to manage a mere childWhose parents leave untaught the simplest thingsTheir duty was and privilege to teach,—Goodwives' instruction, gossips' lore: they laughAnd leave the Count the task,—or leave it me!"Then I resolved to tell a frightful thing."I am not ignorant,—know what I say,Declaring this is sought for hate, not love.Sir, you may hear things like almighty God.I tell you that my housemate, yes—the priestMy husband's brother, Canon Girolamo—Has taught me what depraved and misnamed loveMeans, and what outward signs denote the sin,For he solicits me and says he loves,The idle young priest with naught else to do.My husband sees this, knows this, and lets be.Is it your counsel I bear this beside?""—More scandal, and against a priest this time!What, 't is the Canon now?"—less snappishly—"Rise up, my child, for such a child you are,The rod were too advanced a punishment!Let 's try the honeyed cake. A parable!'Without a parable spake he not to them.'There was a ripe round long black toothsome fruit,Even a flower-fig, the prime boast of May;And, to the tree, said ... either the spirit o' the fig,Or, if we bring in men, the gardener,Archbishop of the orchard—had I timeTo try o' the two which fits in best: indeedIt might be the Creator's self, but thenThe tree should bear an apple, I suppose,—Well, anyhow, one with authority said,'Ripe fig, burst skin, regale the fig-pecker—The bird whereof thou art a perquisite!''Nay,' with a flounce, replied the restif fig,'I much prefer to keep my pulp myself:He may go breakfastless and dinnerless,Supperless of one crimson seed, for me!'So, back she flopped into her bunch of leaves.He flew off, left her,—did the natural lord,—And lo, three hundred thousand bees and waspsFound her out, feasted on her to the shuck:Such gain the fig's that gave its bird no bite!The moral,—fools elude their proper lot,Tempt other fools, get ruined all alike.Therefore go home, embrace your husband quick!Which if his Canon brother chance to see,He will the sooner back to book again."So, home I did go; so, the worst befell:So, I had proof the Archbishop was just man,And hardly that, and certainly no more.For, miserable consequence to me,My husband's hatred waxed nor waned at all,His brother's boldness grew effrontery soon,And my last stay and comfort in myselfWas forced from me: henceforth I looked to GodOnly, nor cared my desecrated soulShould have fair walls, gay windows for the world.God's glimmer, that came through the ruin-top,Was witness why all lights were quenched inside:Henceforth I asked God counsel, not mankind.So, when I made the effort, freed myself,They said—"No care to save appearance here!How cynic,—when, how wanton, were enough!"—Adding, it all came of my mother's life—My own real mother, whom I never knew,Who did wrong (if she needs must have done wrong)Through being all her life, not my four years,At mercy of the hateful: every beastO' the field was wont to break that fountain-fence,Trample the silver into mud so murkHeaven could not find itself reflected there.Now they cry, "Out on her, who, plashy pool,Bequeathed turbidity and bitternessTo the daughter-stream where Guido dipt and drank!"Well, since she had to bear this brand—let me!The rather do I understand her now,—From my experience of what hate calls love,—Much love might be in what their love called hate.If she sold ... what they call, sold ... me, her child—I shall believe she hoped in her poor heartThat I at least might try be good and pure,Begin to live untempted, not go doomedAnd done with ere once found in fault, as she.Oh and, my mother, it all came to this?Why should I trust those that speak ill of you,When I mistrust who speaks even well of them?Why, since all bound to do me good, did harm,May not you, seeming as you harmed me most,Have meant to do most good—and feed your childFrom bramble-bush, whom not one orchard-treeBut drew bough back from, nor let one fruit fall?This it was for you sacrificed your babe?Gained just this, giving your heart's hope awayAs I might give mine, loving it as you,If ... but that never could be asked of me!There, enough! I have my support again,Again the knowledge that my babe was, is,Will be mine only. Him, by death, I giveOutright to God, without a further care,—But not to any parent in the world,—So to be safe: why is it we repine?What guardianship were safer could we choose?All human plans and projects come to naught:My life, and what I know of other lives,Prove that: no plan nor project! God shall care!And now you are not tired? How patient thenAll of you,—oh yes, patient this long whileListening, and understanding, I am sure!Four days ago, when I was sound and wellAnd like to live, no one would understand.People were kind, but smiled, "And what of him,Your friend, whose tonsure the rich dark-brown hides?There, there!—your lover, do we dream he was?A priest too—never were such naughtiness!Still, he thinks many a long think, never fear,After the shy pale lady,—lay so lightFor a moment in his arms, the lucky one!"And so on: wherefore should I blame you much?So we are made, such difference in minds,Such difference too in eyes that see the minds!That man, you misinterpret and misprise—The glory of his nature, I had thought,Shot itself out in white light, blazed the truthThrough every atom of his act with me:Yet where I point you, through the crystal shrine,Purity in quintessence, one dew-drop,You all descry a spider in the midst.One says, "The head of it is plain to see,"And one, "They are the feet by which I judge,"All say, "Those films were spun by nothing else."Then, I must lay my babe away with God,Nor think of him again for gratitude.Yes, my last breath shall wholly spend itselfIn one attempt more to disperse the stain,The mist from other breath fond mouths have made,About a lustrous and pellucid soul:So that, when I am gone but sorrow stays,And people need assurance in their doubtIf God yet have a servant, man a friend,The weak a savior, and the vile a foe,—Let him be present, by the name invoked,Giuseppe-Maria Caponsacchi!There,Strength comes already with the utterance!I will remember once more for his sakeThe sorrow: for he lives and is belied.Could he be here, how he would speak for me!I had been miserable three drear yearsIn that dread palace and lay passive now,When I first learned there could be such a man.Thus it fell: I was at a public play,In the last days of Carnival last March,Brought there I knew not why, but now know well.My husband put me where I sat, in front;Then crouched down, breathed cold through me from behind,Stationed i' the shadow,—none in front could see,—I, it was, faced the stranger-throng beneath,The crowd with upturned faces, eyes one stare,Voices one buzz. I looked but to the stage,Whereon two lovers sang and interchanged"True life is only love, love only bliss:I love thee—thee I love!" then they embraced.I looked thence to the ceiling and the walls,—Over the crowd, those voices and those eyes,—My thoughts went through the roof and out, to RomeOn wings of music, waft of measured words,—Set me down there, a happy child again,Sure that to-morrow would be festa-day,Hearing my parents praise past festas more,And seeing they were old if I was young,Yet wondering why they still would end discourseWith "We must soon go, you abide your time,And,—might we haply see the proper friendThrow his arm over you and make you safe!"Sudden I saw him; into my lap there fellA foolish twist of comfits, broke my dreamAnd brought me from the air and laid me low,As ruined as the soaring bee that's reached(So Pietro told me at the Villa once)By the dust-handful. There the comfits lay:I looked to see who flung them, and I facedThis Caponsacchi, looking up in turn.Ere I could reason out why, I felt sure,Whoever flung them, his was not the hand,—Up rose the round face and good-natured grinOf one who, in effect, had played the prank,From covert close beside the earnest face,—Fat waggish Conti, friend of all the world.He was my husband's cousin, privilegedTo throw the thing: the other, silent, grave,Solemn almost, saw me, as I saw him.There is a psalm Don Celestine recites,"Had I a dove's wings, how I fain would flee!"The psalm runs not "I hope, I pray for wings,"—Not "If wings fall from heaven, I fix them fast,"—Simply "How good it were to fly and rest,Have hope now, and one day expect content!How well to do what I shall never do!"So I said, "Had there been a man like that,To lift me with his strength out of all strifeInto the calm, how I could fly and rest!I have a keeper in the garden hereWhose sole employment is to strike me lowIf ever I, for solace, seek the sun.Life means with me successful feigning death,Lying stone-like, eluding notice so,Foregoing here the turf and there the sky.Suppose that man had been instead of this!"Presently Conti laughed into my ear,—Had tripped up to the raised place where I sat—"Cousin, I flung them brutishly and hard!Because you must be hurt, to look austereAs Caponsacchi yonder, my tall friendA-gazing now. Ah, Guido, you so close?Keep on your knees, do! Beg her to forgive!My cornet battered like a cannon-ball.Good-by, I'm gone!"—nor waited the reply.That night at supper, out my husband broke,"Why was that throwing, that buffoonery?Do you think I am your dupe? What man would dareThrow comfits in a stranger lady's lap?'T was knowledge of you bred such insolenceIn Caponsacchi; he dared shoot the bolt,Using that Conti for his stalking-horse.How could you see him this once and no more,When he is always haunting hereaboutAt the street-corner or the palace-side,Publishing my shame and your impudence?You are a wanton,—I a dupe, you think?O Christ, what hinders that I kill her quick?"Whereat he drew his sword and feigned a thrust.All this, now,—being not so strange to me,Used to such misconception day by dayAnd broken-in to bear,—I bore, this time.More quietly than woman should perhaps;Repeated the mere truth and held my tongue.Then he said, "Since you play the ignorant,I shall instruct you. This amour,—commencedOr finished or midway in act, all's one,—'T is the town-talk; so my revenge shall be.Does he presume because he is a priest?I warn him that the sword I wear shall pinkHis lily-scented cassock through and through,Next time I catch him underneath your eaves!"But he had threatened with the sword so oftAnd, after all, not kept his promise. AllI said was, "Let God save the innocent!Moreover, death is far from a bad fate.I shall go pray for you and me, not him;And then I look to sleep, come death or, worse,Life." So, I slept.There may have elapsed a week,When Margherita,—called my waiting-maid,Whom it is said my husband found too fair—Who stood and heard the charge and the reply,Who never once would let the matter restFrom that night forward, but rang changes stillOn this the thrust and that the shame, and howGood cause for jealousy cures jealous fools,And what a paragon was this same priestShe talked about until I stopped my ears,—She said, "A week is gone; you comb your hair,Then go mope in a corner, cheek on palm,Till night comes round again,—so, waste a weekAs if your husband menaced you in sport.Have not I some acquaintance with his tricks?Oh no, he did not stab the serving-manWho made and sang the rhymes about me once!For why? They sent him to the wars next day.Nor poisoned he the foreigner, my friend,Who wagered on the whiteness of my breast,—The swarth skins of our city in dispute:For, though he paid me proper compliment,The Count well knew he was besotted withSomebody else, a skin as black as ink,(As all the town knew save my foreigner)—He found and wedded presently,—'Why needBetter revenge?'—the Count asked. But what's here?A priest that does not fight, and cannot wed,Yet must be dealt with! If the Count took fireFor the poor pastime of a minute,—me—What were the conflagration for yourself,Countess and lady-wife and all the rest?The priest will perish; you will grieve too late:So shall the city-ladies' handsomestFrankest and liberalest gentlemanDie for you, to appease a scurvy dogHanging's too good for. Is there no escape?Were it not simple Christian charityTo warn the priest be on his guard,—save himAssured death, save yourself from causing it?I meet him in the street. Give me a glove,A ring to show for token! Mum's the word!"I answered, "If you were, as styled, my maid,I would command you: as you are, you say,My husband's intimate,—assist his wifeWho can do nothing but entreat 'Be still!'Even if you speak truth and a crime is plannedLeave help to God as I am forced to do!There is no other help, or we should craze,Seeing such evil with no human cure.Reflect that God, who makes the storm desist,Can make an angry violent heart subside.Why should we venture teach him governance?Never address me on this subject more!"Next night she said, "But I went, all the same,—Ay, saw your Caponsacchi in his house,And come back stuffed with news I must outpour.I told him, 'Sir, my mistress is a stone:Why should you harm her for no good you get?For you do harm her—prowl about our placeWith the Count never distant half the street,Lurking at every corner, would you look!'T is certain she has witched you with a spell.Are there not other beauties at your beck?We all know, Donna This and Monna ThatDie for a glance of yours, yet here you gaze!Go make them grateful, leave the stone its cold!'And he—oh, he turned first white and then red,And then—'To her behest I bow myself,Whom I love with my body and my soul:Only a word i' the bowing! See, I writeOne little word, no harm to see or hear!Then, fear no further!' This is what he wrote.I know you cannot read,—therefore, let me!'My idol!'" ...But I took it from her handAnd tore it into shreds. "Why, join the restWho harm me? Have I ever done you wrong?People have told me 't is you wrong myself:Let it suffice I either feel no wrongOr else forgive it,—yet you turn my foe!The others hunt me and you throw a noose!"She muttered, "Have your wilful way!" I slept.Whereupon ... no, I leave my husband out!It is not to do him more hurt, I speak.Let it suffice, when misery was most,One day, I swooned and got a respite so.She stooped as I was slowly coming to,This Margherita, ever on my trace,And whispered—"Caponsacchi!"If I drowned,But woke afloat i' the wave with upturned eyes,And found their first sight was a star! I turned—For the first time, I let her have her will,Heard passively,—"The imposthume at such head,One touch, one lancet-puncture would relieve,—And still no glance the good physician's wayWho rids you of the torment in a trice!Still he writes letters you refuse to hear.He may prevent your husband, kill himself,So desperate and all fordone is he!Just hear the pretty verse he made to-day!A sonnet from Mirtillo. 'Peerless fair....'All poetry is difficult to read,—The sense of it is, anyhow, he seeksLeave to contrive you an escape from hell,And for that purpose asks an interview.I can write, I can grant it in your name,Or, what is better, lead you to his house.Your husband dashes you against the stones;This man would place each fragment in a shrine:You hate him, love your husband!"I returned,"It is not true I love my husband,—no,Nor hate this man. I listen while you speak,—Assured that what you say is false, the same:Much as when once, to me a little child,A rough gaunt man in rags, with eyes on fire,A crowd of boys and idlers at his heels,Rushed as I crossed the Square, and held my headIn his two hands, 'Here 's she will let me speak!You little girl, whose eyes do good to mine,I am the Pope, am Sextus, now the Sixth;And that Twelfth Innocent, proclaimed to-day,Is Lucifer disguised in human flesh!The angels, met in conclave, crowned me!'—thusHe gibbered and I listened; but I knewAll was delusion, ere folk interposed,'Unfasten him, the maniac!' Thus I knowAll your report of Caponsacchi false,Folly or dreaming: I have seen so muchBy that adventure at the spectacle,The face I fronted that one first, last time:He would belie it by such words and thoughts.Therefore while you profess to show him me,I ever see his own face. Get you gone!""—That will I, nor once open mouth again,—No, by Saint Joseph and the Holy Ghost!On your head he the damage, so adieu!"And so more days, more deeds I must forget,Till ... what a strange thing now is to declare!Since I say anything, say all if true!And how my life seems lengthened as to serve!It may be idle or inopportune,But, true?—why, what was all I said but truth,Even when I found that such as are untrueCould only take the truth in through a lie?Now—I am speaking truth to the Truth's self:God will lend credit to my words this time.It had got half through April. I aroseOne vivid daybreak,—who had gone to bedIn the old way my wont those last three years,Careless until, the cup drained, I should die.The last sound in my ear, the over-night,Had been a something let drop on the slyIn prattle by Margherita, "Soon enoughGayeties end, now Easter 's past: a week,And the Archbishop gets him back to Rome,—Every one leaves the town for Rome, this Spring,—Even Caponsacchi, out of heart and hope,Resigns himself and follows with the flock."I heard this drop and drop like rain outsideFast-falling through the darkness while she spoke:So had I heard with like indifference,"And Michael's pair of wings will arrive firstAt Rome, to introduce the company,And bear him from our picture where he fightsSatan,—expect to have that dragon looseAnd never a defender!"—my sole thoughtBeing still, as night came, "Done, another day!How good to sleep and so get nearer death!"—When, what, first thing at daybreak, pierced the sleepWith a summons to me? Up I sprang alive,Light in me, light without me, everywhereChange! A broad yellow sunbeam was let fallFrom heaven to earth,—a sudden drawbridge lay,Along which marched a myriad merry motes,Mocking the flies that crossed them and re-crossedIn rival dance, companions new-born too.On the house-eaves, a dripping shag of weedShook diamonds on each dull gray lattice-square,As first one, then another bird leapt by,And light was off, and lo was back again,Always with one voice,—where are two such joys?—The blessed building-sparrow! I stepped forth,Stood on the terrace,—o'er the roofs, such sky!My heart sang, "I too am to go away,I too have something I must care about,Carry away with me to Rome, to Rome!The bird brings hither sticks and hairs and wool,And nowhere else i' the world; what fly breaks rank,Falls out of the procession that befits,From window here to window there, with allThe world to choose,—so well he knows his course?I have my purpose and my motive too,My march to Rome, like any bird or fly!Had I been dead! How right to be alive!Last night I almost prayed for leave to die,Wished Guido all his pleasure with the swordOr the poison,—poison, sword, was but a trick,Harmless, may God forgive him the poor jest!My life is charmed, will last till I reach Rome!Yesterday, but for the sin,—ah, nameless beThe deed I could have dared against myself!Now—see if I will touch an unripe fruit,And risk the health I want to have and use!Not to live, now, would he the wickedness,—For life means to make haste and go to RomeAnd leave Arezzo, leave all woes at once!"Now, understand here, by no means mistake!Long ago had I tried to leave that houseWhen it seemed such procedure would stop sin;And still failed more the more I tried—at firstThe Archbishop, as I told you,—next, our lordThe Governor,—indeed I found my way,I went to the great palace where he rules,Though I knew well 't was he who,—when I gaveA jewel or two, themselves had given me,Back to my parents,—since they wanted bread,They who had never let me want a nosegay,—heSpoke of the jail for felons, if they keptWhat was first theirs, then mine, so doubly theirs,Though all the while my husband's most of all!I knew well who had spoke the word wrought this:Yet, being in extremity, I fledTo the Governor, as I say,—scarce opened lipWhen—the cold cruel snicker close behind—Guido was on my trace, already there,Exchanging nod and wink for shrug and smile,And I—pushed back to him and, for my pains,Paid with ... but why remember what is past?I sought out a poor friar the people callThe Roman, and confessed my sin which cameOf their sin,—that fact could not be repressed,—The frightfulness of my despair in God:And feeling, through the grate, his horror shake,Implored him, "Write for me who cannot write,Apprise my parents, make them rescue me!You bid me be courageous and trust God:Do you in turn dare somewhat, trust and write,'Dear friends, who used to be my parents once,And now declare you have no part in me,This is some riddle I want wit to solve,Since you must love me with no difference.Even suppose you altered,—there's your hate,To ask for: hate of you two dearest onesI shall find liker love than love found here,If husbands love their wives. Take me awayAnd hate me as you do the gnats and fleas,Even the scorpions! How I shall rejoice!'Write that and save me!" And he promised—wroteOr did not write; things never changed at all:He was not like the Augustinian here!Last, in a desperation I appealedTo friends, whoever wished me better days,To Guillichini, that 's of kin,—"What, I—Travel to Rome with you? A flying goutBids me deny my heart and mind my leg!"Then I tried Conti, used to brave—laugh backThe louring thunder when his cousin scowledAt me protected by his presence: "You—Who well know what you cannot save me from,—Carry me off! What frightens you, a priest?"He shook his head, looked grave—"Above my strength!Guido has claws that scratch, shows feline teeth;A formidabler foe than I dare fret:Give me a dog to deal with, twice the size!Of course I am a priest and Canon too,But ... by the bye ... though both, not quite so boldAs he, my fellow-Canon, brother-priest,The personage in such ill odor hereBecause of the reports—pure birth o' the brain!Our Caponsacchi, he 's your true Saint GeorgeTo slay the monster, set the Princess free,And have the whole High-Altar to himself:I always think so when I see that pieceI' the Pieve, that 's his church and mine, you know:Though you drop eyes at mention of his name!"That name had got to take a half-grotesqueHalf-ominous, wholly enigmatic sense,Like any by-word, broken bit of songBorn with a meaning, changed by mouth and mouthThat mix it in a sneer or smile, as chanceBids, till it now means naught but uglinessAnd perhaps shame.—All this intends to say,That, over-night, the notion of escapeHad seemed distemper, dreaming; and the name,—Not the man, but the name of him, thus madeInto a mockery and disgrace,—why, sheWho uttered it persistently, had laughed,"I name his name, and there you start and winceAs criminal from the red tongs' touch!"—yet now,Now, as I stood letting morn bathe me bright,Choosing which butterfly should bear my news,—The white, the brown one, or that tinier blue,—The Margherita, I detested so,In she came—"The fine day, the good Spring time!What, up and out at window? That is best.No thought of Caponsacchi?—who stood thereAll night on one leg, like the sentry crane,Under the pelting of your water-spout—Looked last look at your lattice ere he leaveOur city, bury his dead hope at Rome.Ay, go to looking-glass and make you fine,While he may die ere touch one least loose hairYou drag at with the comb in such a rage!"I turned—"Tell Caponsacchi he may come!""Tell him to come? Ah, but, for charity,A truce to fooling! Come? What,—come this eve?Peter and Paul! But I see through the trick!Yes, come, and take a flower-pot on his head.Flung from your terrace! No joke, sincere truth?"How plainly I perceived hell flash and fadeO' the face of her,—the doubt that first paled joy,Then, final reassurance I indeedWas caught now, never to be free again!What did I care?—who felt myself of forceTo play with silk, and spurn the horsehair-springe."But—do you know that I have bade him come,And in your own name? I presumed so much,Knowing the thing you needed in your heart.But somehow—what had I to show in proof?He would not come: half-promised, that was all,And wrote the letters you refused to read.What is the message that shall move him now?""After the Ave Maria, at first dark,I will be standing on the terrace, say!""I would I had a good long lock of hairShould prove I was not lying! Never mind!"Off she went—"May he not refuse, that 's all—Fearing a trick!"I answered, "He will come."And, all day, I sent prayer like incense upTo God the strong, God the beneficent,God ever mindful in all strife and strait,Who, for our own good, makes the need extreme,Till at the last he puts forth might and saves.An old rhyme came into my head and rangOf how a virgin, for the faith of God,Hid herself, from the Paynims that pursued,In a cave's heart; until a thunderstone,Wrapped in a flame, revealed the couch and prey:And they laughed—"Thanks to lightning, ours at last!"And she cried, "Wrath of God, assert his love!Servant of God, thou fire, befriend his child!"And lo, the fire she grasped at, fixed its flash,Lay in her hand a calm cold dreadful swordShe brandished till pursuers strewed the ground,So did the souls within them die away,As o'er the prostrate bodies, sworded, safe,She walked forth to the solitudes and Christ:So should I grasp the lightning and be saved!And still, as the day wore, the trouble grewWhereby I guessed there would be born a star,Until at an intense throe of the dusk,I started up, was pushed, I dare to say,Out on the terrace, leaned and looked at lastWhere the deliverer waited me: the sameSilent and solemn face, I first descriedAt the spectacle, confronted mine once more.So was that minute twice vouchsafed me, soThe manhood, wasted then, was still at watchTo save me yet a second time: no changeHere, though all else changed in the changing world!I spoke on the instant, as my duty bade,In some such sense as this, whatever the phrase."Friend, foolish words were borne from you to me;Your soul behind them is the pure strong wind,Not dust and feathers which its breath may bear:These to the witless seem the wind itself,Since proving thus the first of it they feel.If by mischance you blew offence my way,The straws are dropt, the wind desists no whit,And how such strays were caught up in the streetAnd took a motion from you, why inquire?I speak to the strong soul, no weak disguise.If it be truth,—why should I doubt it truth?—You serve God specially, as priests are bound,And care about me, stranger as I am,So far as wish my good, that—miracleI take to imitate he wills you serveBy saying me,—what else can he direct?Here is the service. Since a long while now,I am in course of being put to death:While death concerned nothing but me, I bowedThe head and bade, in heart, my husband strike.Now I imperil something more, it seems,Something that 's trulier me than this myself,Something I trust in God and you to save.You go to Rome, they tell me: take me there,Put me back with my people!"

I felt there was just one thing Guido claimed

I had no right to give nor he to take;

We being in estrangement, soul from soul:

Till, when I sought help, the Archbishop smiled,

Inquiring into privacies of life,

—Said I was blamable—(he stands for God)

Nowise entitled to exemption there.

Then I obeyed,—as surely had obeyed

Were the injunction "Since your husband bids,

Swallow the burning coal he proffers you!"

But I did wrong, and he gave wrong advice

Though he were thrice Archbishop,—that, I know!—

Now I have got to die and see things clear.

Remember I was barely twelve years old—

A child at marriage: I was let alone

For weeks, I told you, lived my child-life still

Even at Arezzo, when I woke and found

First ... but I need not think of that again—

Over and ended! Try and take the sense

Of what I signify, if it must be so.

After the first, my husband, for hate's sake,

Said one eve, when the simpler cruelty

Seemed somewhat dull at edge and fit to bear,

"We have been man and wife six months almost:

How long is this your comedy to last?

Go this night to my chamber, not your own!"

At which word, I did rush—most true the charge—

And gain the Archbishop's house—he stands for God—

And fall upon my knees and clasp his feet,

Praying him hinder what my estranged soul

Refused to bear, though patient of the rest:

"Place me within a convent," I implored—

"Let me henceforward lead the virgin life

You praise in her you bid me imitate!"

What did he answer? "Folly of ignorance!

Know, daughter, circumstances make or mar

Virginity,—'t is virtue or 't is vice.

That which was glory in the Mother of God

Had been, for instance, damnable in Eve

Created to be mother of mankind.

Had Eve, in answer to her Maker's speech

'Be fruitful, multiply, replenish earth'—

Pouted 'But I choose rather to remain

Single'—why, she had spared herself forthwith

Further probation by the apple and snake,

Been pushed straight out of Paradise! For see—

If motherhood be qualified impure,

I catch you making God command Eve sin!

—A blasphemy so like these Molinists',

I must suspect you dip into their books."

Then he pursued "'T was in your covenant!"

No! There my husband never used deceit.He never did by speech nor act imply"Because of our souls' yearning that we meetAnd mix in soul through flesh, which yours and mineWear and impress, and make their visible selves,—All which means, for the love of you and me,Let us become one flesh, being one soul!"He only stipulated for the wealth;Honest so far. But when he spoke as plain—Dreadfully honest also—"Since our soulsStand each from each, a whole world's width between,Give me the fleshly vesture I can reachAnd rend and leave just fit for hell to burn!"—Why, in God's name, for Guido's soul's own sakeImperilled by polluting mine,—I say,I did resist; would I had overcome!

No! There my husband never used deceit.

He never did by speech nor act imply

"Because of our souls' yearning that we meet

And mix in soul through flesh, which yours and mine

Wear and impress, and make their visible selves,

—All which means, for the love of you and me,

Let us become one flesh, being one soul!"

He only stipulated for the wealth;

Honest so far. But when he spoke as plain—

Dreadfully honest also—"Since our souls

Stand each from each, a whole world's width between,

Give me the fleshly vesture I can reach

And rend and leave just fit for hell to burn!"—

Why, in God's name, for Guido's soul's own sake

Imperilled by polluting mine,—I say,

I did resist; would I had overcome!

My heart died out at the Archbishop's smile;—It seemed so stale and worn a way o' the world,As though 't were nature frowning—"Here is Spring,The sun shines as he shone at Adam's fall,The earth requires that warmth reach everywhere:What, must your patch of snow be saved forsoothBecause you rather fancy snow than flowers?"Something in this style he began with me.Last he said, savagely for a good man,"This explains why you call your husband harsh,Harsh to you, harsh to whom you love. God's Bread!The poor Count has to manage a mere childWhose parents leave untaught the simplest thingsTheir duty was and privilege to teach,—Goodwives' instruction, gossips' lore: they laughAnd leave the Count the task,—or leave it me!"Then I resolved to tell a frightful thing."I am not ignorant,—know what I say,Declaring this is sought for hate, not love.Sir, you may hear things like almighty God.I tell you that my housemate, yes—the priestMy husband's brother, Canon Girolamo—Has taught me what depraved and misnamed loveMeans, and what outward signs denote the sin,For he solicits me and says he loves,The idle young priest with naught else to do.My husband sees this, knows this, and lets be.Is it your counsel I bear this beside?""—More scandal, and against a priest this time!What, 't is the Canon now?"—less snappishly—"Rise up, my child, for such a child you are,The rod were too advanced a punishment!Let 's try the honeyed cake. A parable!'Without a parable spake he not to them.'There was a ripe round long black toothsome fruit,Even a flower-fig, the prime boast of May;And, to the tree, said ... either the spirit o' the fig,Or, if we bring in men, the gardener,Archbishop of the orchard—had I timeTo try o' the two which fits in best: indeedIt might be the Creator's self, but thenThe tree should bear an apple, I suppose,—Well, anyhow, one with authority said,'Ripe fig, burst skin, regale the fig-pecker—The bird whereof thou art a perquisite!''Nay,' with a flounce, replied the restif fig,'I much prefer to keep my pulp myself:He may go breakfastless and dinnerless,Supperless of one crimson seed, for me!'So, back she flopped into her bunch of leaves.He flew off, left her,—did the natural lord,—And lo, three hundred thousand bees and waspsFound her out, feasted on her to the shuck:Such gain the fig's that gave its bird no bite!The moral,—fools elude their proper lot,Tempt other fools, get ruined all alike.Therefore go home, embrace your husband quick!Which if his Canon brother chance to see,He will the sooner back to book again."

My heart died out at the Archbishop's smile;

—It seemed so stale and worn a way o' the world,

As though 't were nature frowning—"Here is Spring,

The sun shines as he shone at Adam's fall,

The earth requires that warmth reach everywhere:

What, must your patch of snow be saved forsooth

Because you rather fancy snow than flowers?"

Something in this style he began with me.

Last he said, savagely for a good man,

"This explains why you call your husband harsh,

Harsh to you, harsh to whom you love. God's Bread!

The poor Count has to manage a mere child

Whose parents leave untaught the simplest things

Their duty was and privilege to teach,—

Goodwives' instruction, gossips' lore: they laugh

And leave the Count the task,—or leave it me!"

Then I resolved to tell a frightful thing.

"I am not ignorant,—know what I say,

Declaring this is sought for hate, not love.

Sir, you may hear things like almighty God.

I tell you that my housemate, yes—the priest

My husband's brother, Canon Girolamo—

Has taught me what depraved and misnamed love

Means, and what outward signs denote the sin,

For he solicits me and says he loves,

The idle young priest with naught else to do.

My husband sees this, knows this, and lets be.

Is it your counsel I bear this beside?"

"—More scandal, and against a priest this time!

What, 't is the Canon now?"—less snappishly—

"Rise up, my child, for such a child you are,

The rod were too advanced a punishment!

Let 's try the honeyed cake. A parable!

'Without a parable spake he not to them.'

There was a ripe round long black toothsome fruit,

Even a flower-fig, the prime boast of May;

And, to the tree, said ... either the spirit o' the fig,

Or, if we bring in men, the gardener,

Archbishop of the orchard—had I time

To try o' the two which fits in best: indeed

It might be the Creator's self, but then

The tree should bear an apple, I suppose,—

Well, anyhow, one with authority said,

'Ripe fig, burst skin, regale the fig-pecker—

The bird whereof thou art a perquisite!'

'Nay,' with a flounce, replied the restif fig,

'I much prefer to keep my pulp myself:

He may go breakfastless and dinnerless,

Supperless of one crimson seed, for me!'

So, back she flopped into her bunch of leaves.

He flew off, left her,—did the natural lord,—

And lo, three hundred thousand bees and wasps

Found her out, feasted on her to the shuck:

Such gain the fig's that gave its bird no bite!

The moral,—fools elude their proper lot,

Tempt other fools, get ruined all alike.

Therefore go home, embrace your husband quick!

Which if his Canon brother chance to see,

He will the sooner back to book again."

So, home I did go; so, the worst befell:So, I had proof the Archbishop was just man,And hardly that, and certainly no more.For, miserable consequence to me,My husband's hatred waxed nor waned at all,His brother's boldness grew effrontery soon,And my last stay and comfort in myselfWas forced from me: henceforth I looked to GodOnly, nor cared my desecrated soulShould have fair walls, gay windows for the world.God's glimmer, that came through the ruin-top,Was witness why all lights were quenched inside:Henceforth I asked God counsel, not mankind.

So, home I did go; so, the worst befell:

So, I had proof the Archbishop was just man,

And hardly that, and certainly no more.

For, miserable consequence to me,

My husband's hatred waxed nor waned at all,

His brother's boldness grew effrontery soon,

And my last stay and comfort in myself

Was forced from me: henceforth I looked to God

Only, nor cared my desecrated soul

Should have fair walls, gay windows for the world.

God's glimmer, that came through the ruin-top,

Was witness why all lights were quenched inside:

Henceforth I asked God counsel, not mankind.

So, when I made the effort, freed myself,They said—"No care to save appearance here!How cynic,—when, how wanton, were enough!"—Adding, it all came of my mother's life—My own real mother, whom I never knew,Who did wrong (if she needs must have done wrong)Through being all her life, not my four years,At mercy of the hateful: every beastO' the field was wont to break that fountain-fence,Trample the silver into mud so murkHeaven could not find itself reflected there.Now they cry, "Out on her, who, plashy pool,Bequeathed turbidity and bitternessTo the daughter-stream where Guido dipt and drank!"

So, when I made the effort, freed myself,

They said—"No care to save appearance here!

How cynic,—when, how wanton, were enough!"

—Adding, it all came of my mother's life—

My own real mother, whom I never knew,

Who did wrong (if she needs must have done wrong)

Through being all her life, not my four years,

At mercy of the hateful: every beast

O' the field was wont to break that fountain-fence,

Trample the silver into mud so murk

Heaven could not find itself reflected there.

Now they cry, "Out on her, who, plashy pool,

Bequeathed turbidity and bitterness

To the daughter-stream where Guido dipt and drank!"

Well, since she had to bear this brand—let me!The rather do I understand her now,—From my experience of what hate calls love,—Much love might be in what their love called hate.If she sold ... what they call, sold ... me, her child—I shall believe she hoped in her poor heartThat I at least might try be good and pure,Begin to live untempted, not go doomedAnd done with ere once found in fault, as she.Oh and, my mother, it all came to this?Why should I trust those that speak ill of you,When I mistrust who speaks even well of them?Why, since all bound to do me good, did harm,May not you, seeming as you harmed me most,Have meant to do most good—and feed your childFrom bramble-bush, whom not one orchard-treeBut drew bough back from, nor let one fruit fall?This it was for you sacrificed your babe?Gained just this, giving your heart's hope awayAs I might give mine, loving it as you,If ... but that never could be asked of me!

Well, since she had to bear this brand—let me!

The rather do I understand her now,—

From my experience of what hate calls love,—

Much love might be in what their love called hate.

If she sold ... what they call, sold ... me, her child—

I shall believe she hoped in her poor heart

That I at least might try be good and pure,

Begin to live untempted, not go doomed

And done with ere once found in fault, as she.

Oh and, my mother, it all came to this?

Why should I trust those that speak ill of you,

When I mistrust who speaks even well of them?

Why, since all bound to do me good, did harm,

May not you, seeming as you harmed me most,

Have meant to do most good—and feed your child

From bramble-bush, whom not one orchard-tree

But drew bough back from, nor let one fruit fall?

This it was for you sacrificed your babe?

Gained just this, giving your heart's hope away

As I might give mine, loving it as you,

If ... but that never could be asked of me!

There, enough! I have my support again,Again the knowledge that my babe was, is,Will be mine only. Him, by death, I giveOutright to God, without a further care,—But not to any parent in the world,—So to be safe: why is it we repine?What guardianship were safer could we choose?All human plans and projects come to naught:My life, and what I know of other lives,Prove that: no plan nor project! God shall care!

There, enough! I have my support again,

Again the knowledge that my babe was, is,

Will be mine only. Him, by death, I give

Outright to God, without a further care,—

But not to any parent in the world,—

So to be safe: why is it we repine?

What guardianship were safer could we choose?

All human plans and projects come to naught:

My life, and what I know of other lives,

Prove that: no plan nor project! God shall care!

And now you are not tired? How patient thenAll of you,—oh yes, patient this long whileListening, and understanding, I am sure!Four days ago, when I was sound and wellAnd like to live, no one would understand.People were kind, but smiled, "And what of him,Your friend, whose tonsure the rich dark-brown hides?There, there!—your lover, do we dream he was?A priest too—never were such naughtiness!Still, he thinks many a long think, never fear,After the shy pale lady,—lay so lightFor a moment in his arms, the lucky one!"And so on: wherefore should I blame you much?So we are made, such difference in minds,Such difference too in eyes that see the minds!That man, you misinterpret and misprise—The glory of his nature, I had thought,Shot itself out in white light, blazed the truthThrough every atom of his act with me:Yet where I point you, through the crystal shrine,Purity in quintessence, one dew-drop,You all descry a spider in the midst.One says, "The head of it is plain to see,"And one, "They are the feet by which I judge,"All say, "Those films were spun by nothing else."

And now you are not tired? How patient then

All of you,—oh yes, patient this long while

Listening, and understanding, I am sure!

Four days ago, when I was sound and well

And like to live, no one would understand.

People were kind, but smiled, "And what of him,

Your friend, whose tonsure the rich dark-brown hides?

There, there!—your lover, do we dream he was?

A priest too—never were such naughtiness!

Still, he thinks many a long think, never fear,

After the shy pale lady,—lay so light

For a moment in his arms, the lucky one!"

And so on: wherefore should I blame you much?

So we are made, such difference in minds,

Such difference too in eyes that see the minds!

That man, you misinterpret and misprise—

The glory of his nature, I had thought,

Shot itself out in white light, blazed the truth

Through every atom of his act with me:

Yet where I point you, through the crystal shrine,

Purity in quintessence, one dew-drop,

You all descry a spider in the midst.

One says, "The head of it is plain to see,"

And one, "They are the feet by which I judge,"

All say, "Those films were spun by nothing else."

Then, I must lay my babe away with God,Nor think of him again for gratitude.Yes, my last breath shall wholly spend itselfIn one attempt more to disperse the stain,The mist from other breath fond mouths have made,About a lustrous and pellucid soul:So that, when I am gone but sorrow stays,And people need assurance in their doubtIf God yet have a servant, man a friend,The weak a savior, and the vile a foe,—Let him be present, by the name invoked,Giuseppe-Maria Caponsacchi!

Then, I must lay my babe away with God,

Nor think of him again for gratitude.

Yes, my last breath shall wholly spend itself

In one attempt more to disperse the stain,

The mist from other breath fond mouths have made,

About a lustrous and pellucid soul:

So that, when I am gone but sorrow stays,

And people need assurance in their doubt

If God yet have a servant, man a friend,

The weak a savior, and the vile a foe,—

Let him be present, by the name invoked,

Giuseppe-Maria Caponsacchi!

There,Strength comes already with the utterance!I will remember once more for his sakeThe sorrow: for he lives and is belied.Could he be here, how he would speak for me!

There,

Strength comes already with the utterance!

I will remember once more for his sake

The sorrow: for he lives and is belied.

Could he be here, how he would speak for me!

I had been miserable three drear yearsIn that dread palace and lay passive now,When I first learned there could be such a man.Thus it fell: I was at a public play,In the last days of Carnival last March,Brought there I knew not why, but now know well.My husband put me where I sat, in front;Then crouched down, breathed cold through me from behind,Stationed i' the shadow,—none in front could see,—I, it was, faced the stranger-throng beneath,The crowd with upturned faces, eyes one stare,Voices one buzz. I looked but to the stage,Whereon two lovers sang and interchanged"True life is only love, love only bliss:I love thee—thee I love!" then they embraced.I looked thence to the ceiling and the walls,—Over the crowd, those voices and those eyes,—My thoughts went through the roof and out, to RomeOn wings of music, waft of measured words,—Set me down there, a happy child again,Sure that to-morrow would be festa-day,Hearing my parents praise past festas more,And seeing they were old if I was young,Yet wondering why they still would end discourseWith "We must soon go, you abide your time,And,—might we haply see the proper friendThrow his arm over you and make you safe!"

I had been miserable three drear years

In that dread palace and lay passive now,

When I first learned there could be such a man.

Thus it fell: I was at a public play,

In the last days of Carnival last March,

Brought there I knew not why, but now know well.

My husband put me where I sat, in front;

Then crouched down, breathed cold through me from behind,

Stationed i' the shadow,—none in front could see,—

I, it was, faced the stranger-throng beneath,

The crowd with upturned faces, eyes one stare,

Voices one buzz. I looked but to the stage,

Whereon two lovers sang and interchanged

"True life is only love, love only bliss:

I love thee—thee I love!" then they embraced.

I looked thence to the ceiling and the walls,—

Over the crowd, those voices and those eyes,—

My thoughts went through the roof and out, to Rome

On wings of music, waft of measured words,—

Set me down there, a happy child again,

Sure that to-morrow would be festa-day,

Hearing my parents praise past festas more,

And seeing they were old if I was young,

Yet wondering why they still would end discourse

With "We must soon go, you abide your time,

And,—might we haply see the proper friend

Throw his arm over you and make you safe!"

Sudden I saw him; into my lap there fellA foolish twist of comfits, broke my dreamAnd brought me from the air and laid me low,As ruined as the soaring bee that's reached(So Pietro told me at the Villa once)By the dust-handful. There the comfits lay:I looked to see who flung them, and I facedThis Caponsacchi, looking up in turn.Ere I could reason out why, I felt sure,Whoever flung them, his was not the hand,—Up rose the round face and good-natured grinOf one who, in effect, had played the prank,From covert close beside the earnest face,—Fat waggish Conti, friend of all the world.He was my husband's cousin, privilegedTo throw the thing: the other, silent, grave,Solemn almost, saw me, as I saw him.

Sudden I saw him; into my lap there fell

A foolish twist of comfits, broke my dream

And brought me from the air and laid me low,

As ruined as the soaring bee that's reached

(So Pietro told me at the Villa once)

By the dust-handful. There the comfits lay:

I looked to see who flung them, and I faced

This Caponsacchi, looking up in turn.

Ere I could reason out why, I felt sure,

Whoever flung them, his was not the hand,—

Up rose the round face and good-natured grin

Of one who, in effect, had played the prank,

From covert close beside the earnest face,—

Fat waggish Conti, friend of all the world.

He was my husband's cousin, privileged

To throw the thing: the other, silent, grave,

Solemn almost, saw me, as I saw him.

There is a psalm Don Celestine recites,"Had I a dove's wings, how I fain would flee!"The psalm runs not "I hope, I pray for wings,"—Not "If wings fall from heaven, I fix them fast,"—Simply "How good it were to fly and rest,Have hope now, and one day expect content!How well to do what I shall never do!"So I said, "Had there been a man like that,To lift me with his strength out of all strifeInto the calm, how I could fly and rest!I have a keeper in the garden hereWhose sole employment is to strike me lowIf ever I, for solace, seek the sun.Life means with me successful feigning death,Lying stone-like, eluding notice so,Foregoing here the turf and there the sky.Suppose that man had been instead of this!"

There is a psalm Don Celestine recites,

"Had I a dove's wings, how I fain would flee!"

The psalm runs not "I hope, I pray for wings,"—

Not "If wings fall from heaven, I fix them fast,"—

Simply "How good it were to fly and rest,

Have hope now, and one day expect content!

How well to do what I shall never do!"

So I said, "Had there been a man like that,

To lift me with his strength out of all strife

Into the calm, how I could fly and rest!

I have a keeper in the garden here

Whose sole employment is to strike me low

If ever I, for solace, seek the sun.

Life means with me successful feigning death,

Lying stone-like, eluding notice so,

Foregoing here the turf and there the sky.

Suppose that man had been instead of this!"

Presently Conti laughed into my ear,—Had tripped up to the raised place where I sat—"Cousin, I flung them brutishly and hard!Because you must be hurt, to look austereAs Caponsacchi yonder, my tall friendA-gazing now. Ah, Guido, you so close?Keep on your knees, do! Beg her to forgive!My cornet battered like a cannon-ball.Good-by, I'm gone!"—nor waited the reply.

Presently Conti laughed into my ear,

—Had tripped up to the raised place where I sat—

"Cousin, I flung them brutishly and hard!

Because you must be hurt, to look austere

As Caponsacchi yonder, my tall friend

A-gazing now. Ah, Guido, you so close?

Keep on your knees, do! Beg her to forgive!

My cornet battered like a cannon-ball.

Good-by, I'm gone!"—nor waited the reply.

That night at supper, out my husband broke,"Why was that throwing, that buffoonery?Do you think I am your dupe? What man would dareThrow comfits in a stranger lady's lap?'T was knowledge of you bred such insolenceIn Caponsacchi; he dared shoot the bolt,Using that Conti for his stalking-horse.How could you see him this once and no more,When he is always haunting hereaboutAt the street-corner or the palace-side,Publishing my shame and your impudence?You are a wanton,—I a dupe, you think?O Christ, what hinders that I kill her quick?"Whereat he drew his sword and feigned a thrust.

That night at supper, out my husband broke,

"Why was that throwing, that buffoonery?

Do you think I am your dupe? What man would dare

Throw comfits in a stranger lady's lap?

'T was knowledge of you bred such insolence

In Caponsacchi; he dared shoot the bolt,

Using that Conti for his stalking-horse.

How could you see him this once and no more,

When he is always haunting hereabout

At the street-corner or the palace-side,

Publishing my shame and your impudence?

You are a wanton,—I a dupe, you think?

O Christ, what hinders that I kill her quick?"

Whereat he drew his sword and feigned a thrust.

All this, now,—being not so strange to me,Used to such misconception day by dayAnd broken-in to bear,—I bore, this time.More quietly than woman should perhaps;Repeated the mere truth and held my tongue.

All this, now,—being not so strange to me,

Used to such misconception day by day

And broken-in to bear,—I bore, this time.

More quietly than woman should perhaps;

Repeated the mere truth and held my tongue.

Then he said, "Since you play the ignorant,I shall instruct you. This amour,—commencedOr finished or midway in act, all's one,—'T is the town-talk; so my revenge shall be.Does he presume because he is a priest?I warn him that the sword I wear shall pinkHis lily-scented cassock through and through,Next time I catch him underneath your eaves!"But he had threatened with the sword so oftAnd, after all, not kept his promise. AllI said was, "Let God save the innocent!Moreover, death is far from a bad fate.I shall go pray for you and me, not him;And then I look to sleep, come death or, worse,Life." So, I slept.

Then he said, "Since you play the ignorant,

I shall instruct you. This amour,—commenced

Or finished or midway in act, all's one,—

'T is the town-talk; so my revenge shall be.

Does he presume because he is a priest?

I warn him that the sword I wear shall pink

His lily-scented cassock through and through,

Next time I catch him underneath your eaves!"

But he had threatened with the sword so oft

And, after all, not kept his promise. All

I said was, "Let God save the innocent!

Moreover, death is far from a bad fate.

I shall go pray for you and me, not him;

And then I look to sleep, come death or, worse,

Life." So, I slept.

There may have elapsed a week,When Margherita,—called my waiting-maid,Whom it is said my husband found too fair—Who stood and heard the charge and the reply,Who never once would let the matter restFrom that night forward, but rang changes stillOn this the thrust and that the shame, and howGood cause for jealousy cures jealous fools,And what a paragon was this same priestShe talked about until I stopped my ears,—She said, "A week is gone; you comb your hair,Then go mope in a corner, cheek on palm,Till night comes round again,—so, waste a weekAs if your husband menaced you in sport.Have not I some acquaintance with his tricks?Oh no, he did not stab the serving-manWho made and sang the rhymes about me once!For why? They sent him to the wars next day.Nor poisoned he the foreigner, my friend,Who wagered on the whiteness of my breast,—The swarth skins of our city in dispute:For, though he paid me proper compliment,The Count well knew he was besotted withSomebody else, a skin as black as ink,(As all the town knew save my foreigner)—He found and wedded presently,—'Why needBetter revenge?'—the Count asked. But what's here?A priest that does not fight, and cannot wed,Yet must be dealt with! If the Count took fireFor the poor pastime of a minute,—me—What were the conflagration for yourself,Countess and lady-wife and all the rest?The priest will perish; you will grieve too late:So shall the city-ladies' handsomestFrankest and liberalest gentlemanDie for you, to appease a scurvy dogHanging's too good for. Is there no escape?Were it not simple Christian charityTo warn the priest be on his guard,—save himAssured death, save yourself from causing it?I meet him in the street. Give me a glove,A ring to show for token! Mum's the word!"I answered, "If you were, as styled, my maid,I would command you: as you are, you say,My husband's intimate,—assist his wifeWho can do nothing but entreat 'Be still!'Even if you speak truth and a crime is plannedLeave help to God as I am forced to do!There is no other help, or we should craze,Seeing such evil with no human cure.Reflect that God, who makes the storm desist,Can make an angry violent heart subside.Why should we venture teach him governance?Never address me on this subject more!"

There may have elapsed a week,

When Margherita,—called my waiting-maid,

Whom it is said my husband found too fair—

Who stood and heard the charge and the reply,

Who never once would let the matter rest

From that night forward, but rang changes still

On this the thrust and that the shame, and how

Good cause for jealousy cures jealous fools,

And what a paragon was this same priest

She talked about until I stopped my ears,—

She said, "A week is gone; you comb your hair,

Then go mope in a corner, cheek on palm,

Till night comes round again,—so, waste a week

As if your husband menaced you in sport.

Have not I some acquaintance with his tricks?

Oh no, he did not stab the serving-man

Who made and sang the rhymes about me once!

For why? They sent him to the wars next day.

Nor poisoned he the foreigner, my friend,

Who wagered on the whiteness of my breast,—

The swarth skins of our city in dispute:

For, though he paid me proper compliment,

The Count well knew he was besotted with

Somebody else, a skin as black as ink,

(As all the town knew save my foreigner)—

He found and wedded presently,—'Why need

Better revenge?'—the Count asked. But what's here?

A priest that does not fight, and cannot wed,

Yet must be dealt with! If the Count took fire

For the poor pastime of a minute,—me—

What were the conflagration for yourself,

Countess and lady-wife and all the rest?

The priest will perish; you will grieve too late:

So shall the city-ladies' handsomest

Frankest and liberalest gentleman

Die for you, to appease a scurvy dog

Hanging's too good for. Is there no escape?

Were it not simple Christian charity

To warn the priest be on his guard,—save him

Assured death, save yourself from causing it?

I meet him in the street. Give me a glove,

A ring to show for token! Mum's the word!"

I answered, "If you were, as styled, my maid,

I would command you: as you are, you say,

My husband's intimate,—assist his wife

Who can do nothing but entreat 'Be still!'

Even if you speak truth and a crime is planned

Leave help to God as I am forced to do!

There is no other help, or we should craze,

Seeing such evil with no human cure.

Reflect that God, who makes the storm desist,

Can make an angry violent heart subside.

Why should we venture teach him governance?

Never address me on this subject more!"

Next night she said, "But I went, all the same,—Ay, saw your Caponsacchi in his house,And come back stuffed with news I must outpour.I told him, 'Sir, my mistress is a stone:Why should you harm her for no good you get?For you do harm her—prowl about our placeWith the Count never distant half the street,Lurking at every corner, would you look!'T is certain she has witched you with a spell.Are there not other beauties at your beck?We all know, Donna This and Monna ThatDie for a glance of yours, yet here you gaze!Go make them grateful, leave the stone its cold!'And he—oh, he turned first white and then red,And then—'To her behest I bow myself,Whom I love with my body and my soul:Only a word i' the bowing! See, I writeOne little word, no harm to see or hear!Then, fear no further!' This is what he wrote.I know you cannot read,—therefore, let me!'My idol!'" ...

Next night she said, "But I went, all the same,

—Ay, saw your Caponsacchi in his house,

And come back stuffed with news I must outpour.

I told him, 'Sir, my mistress is a stone:

Why should you harm her for no good you get?

For you do harm her—prowl about our place

With the Count never distant half the street,

Lurking at every corner, would you look!

'T is certain she has witched you with a spell.

Are there not other beauties at your beck?

We all know, Donna This and Monna That

Die for a glance of yours, yet here you gaze!

Go make them grateful, leave the stone its cold!'

And he—oh, he turned first white and then red,

And then—'To her behest I bow myself,

Whom I love with my body and my soul:

Only a word i' the bowing! See, I write

One little word, no harm to see or hear!

Then, fear no further!' This is what he wrote.

I know you cannot read,—therefore, let me!

'My idol!'" ...

But I took it from her handAnd tore it into shreds. "Why, join the restWho harm me? Have I ever done you wrong?People have told me 't is you wrong myself:Let it suffice I either feel no wrongOr else forgive it,—yet you turn my foe!The others hunt me and you throw a noose!"

But I took it from her hand

And tore it into shreds. "Why, join the rest

Who harm me? Have I ever done you wrong?

People have told me 't is you wrong myself:

Let it suffice I either feel no wrong

Or else forgive it,—yet you turn my foe!

The others hunt me and you throw a noose!"

She muttered, "Have your wilful way!" I slept.

Whereupon ... no, I leave my husband out!It is not to do him more hurt, I speak.Let it suffice, when misery was most,One day, I swooned and got a respite so.She stooped as I was slowly coming to,This Margherita, ever on my trace,And whispered—"Caponsacchi!"

Whereupon ... no, I leave my husband out!

It is not to do him more hurt, I speak.

Let it suffice, when misery was most,

One day, I swooned and got a respite so.

She stooped as I was slowly coming to,

This Margherita, ever on my trace,

And whispered—"Caponsacchi!"

If I drowned,But woke afloat i' the wave with upturned eyes,And found their first sight was a star! I turned—For the first time, I let her have her will,Heard passively,—"The imposthume at such head,One touch, one lancet-puncture would relieve,—And still no glance the good physician's wayWho rids you of the torment in a trice!Still he writes letters you refuse to hear.He may prevent your husband, kill himself,So desperate and all fordone is he!Just hear the pretty verse he made to-day!A sonnet from Mirtillo. 'Peerless fair....'All poetry is difficult to read,—The sense of it is, anyhow, he seeksLeave to contrive you an escape from hell,And for that purpose asks an interview.I can write, I can grant it in your name,Or, what is better, lead you to his house.Your husband dashes you against the stones;This man would place each fragment in a shrine:You hate him, love your husband!"

If I drowned,

But woke afloat i' the wave with upturned eyes,

And found their first sight was a star! I turned—

For the first time, I let her have her will,

Heard passively,—"The imposthume at such head,

One touch, one lancet-puncture would relieve,—

And still no glance the good physician's way

Who rids you of the torment in a trice!

Still he writes letters you refuse to hear.

He may prevent your husband, kill himself,

So desperate and all fordone is he!

Just hear the pretty verse he made to-day!

A sonnet from Mirtillo. 'Peerless fair....'

All poetry is difficult to read,

—The sense of it is, anyhow, he seeks

Leave to contrive you an escape from hell,

And for that purpose asks an interview.

I can write, I can grant it in your name,

Or, what is better, lead you to his house.

Your husband dashes you against the stones;

This man would place each fragment in a shrine:

You hate him, love your husband!"

I returned,"It is not true I love my husband,—no,Nor hate this man. I listen while you speak,—Assured that what you say is false, the same:Much as when once, to me a little child,A rough gaunt man in rags, with eyes on fire,A crowd of boys and idlers at his heels,Rushed as I crossed the Square, and held my headIn his two hands, 'Here 's she will let me speak!You little girl, whose eyes do good to mine,I am the Pope, am Sextus, now the Sixth;And that Twelfth Innocent, proclaimed to-day,Is Lucifer disguised in human flesh!The angels, met in conclave, crowned me!'—thusHe gibbered and I listened; but I knewAll was delusion, ere folk interposed,'Unfasten him, the maniac!' Thus I knowAll your report of Caponsacchi false,Folly or dreaming: I have seen so muchBy that adventure at the spectacle,The face I fronted that one first, last time:He would belie it by such words and thoughts.Therefore while you profess to show him me,I ever see his own face. Get you gone!"

I returned,

"It is not true I love my husband,—no,

Nor hate this man. I listen while you speak,

—Assured that what you say is false, the same:

Much as when once, to me a little child,

A rough gaunt man in rags, with eyes on fire,

A crowd of boys and idlers at his heels,

Rushed as I crossed the Square, and held my head

In his two hands, 'Here 's she will let me speak!

You little girl, whose eyes do good to mine,

I am the Pope, am Sextus, now the Sixth;

And that Twelfth Innocent, proclaimed to-day,

Is Lucifer disguised in human flesh!

The angels, met in conclave, crowned me!'—thus

He gibbered and I listened; but I knew

All was delusion, ere folk interposed,

'Unfasten him, the maniac!' Thus I know

All your report of Caponsacchi false,

Folly or dreaming: I have seen so much

By that adventure at the spectacle,

The face I fronted that one first, last time:

He would belie it by such words and thoughts.

Therefore while you profess to show him me,

I ever see his own face. Get you gone!"

"—That will I, nor once open mouth again,—No, by Saint Joseph and the Holy Ghost!On your head he the damage, so adieu!"

"—That will I, nor once open mouth again,—

No, by Saint Joseph and the Holy Ghost!

On your head he the damage, so adieu!"

And so more days, more deeds I must forget,Till ... what a strange thing now is to declare!Since I say anything, say all if true!And how my life seems lengthened as to serve!It may be idle or inopportune,But, true?—why, what was all I said but truth,Even when I found that such as are untrueCould only take the truth in through a lie?Now—I am speaking truth to the Truth's self:God will lend credit to my words this time.

And so more days, more deeds I must forget,

Till ... what a strange thing now is to declare!

Since I say anything, say all if true!

And how my life seems lengthened as to serve!

It may be idle or inopportune,

But, true?—why, what was all I said but truth,

Even when I found that such as are untrue

Could only take the truth in through a lie?

Now—I am speaking truth to the Truth's self:

God will lend credit to my words this time.

It had got half through April. I aroseOne vivid daybreak,—who had gone to bedIn the old way my wont those last three years,Careless until, the cup drained, I should die.The last sound in my ear, the over-night,Had been a something let drop on the slyIn prattle by Margherita, "Soon enoughGayeties end, now Easter 's past: a week,And the Archbishop gets him back to Rome,—Every one leaves the town for Rome, this Spring,—Even Caponsacchi, out of heart and hope,Resigns himself and follows with the flock."I heard this drop and drop like rain outsideFast-falling through the darkness while she spoke:So had I heard with like indifference,"And Michael's pair of wings will arrive firstAt Rome, to introduce the company,And bear him from our picture where he fightsSatan,—expect to have that dragon looseAnd never a defender!"—my sole thoughtBeing still, as night came, "Done, another day!How good to sleep and so get nearer death!"—When, what, first thing at daybreak, pierced the sleepWith a summons to me? Up I sprang alive,Light in me, light without me, everywhereChange! A broad yellow sunbeam was let fallFrom heaven to earth,—a sudden drawbridge lay,Along which marched a myriad merry motes,Mocking the flies that crossed them and re-crossedIn rival dance, companions new-born too.On the house-eaves, a dripping shag of weedShook diamonds on each dull gray lattice-square,As first one, then another bird leapt by,And light was off, and lo was back again,Always with one voice,—where are two such joys?—The blessed building-sparrow! I stepped forth,Stood on the terrace,—o'er the roofs, such sky!My heart sang, "I too am to go away,I too have something I must care about,Carry away with me to Rome, to Rome!The bird brings hither sticks and hairs and wool,And nowhere else i' the world; what fly breaks rank,Falls out of the procession that befits,From window here to window there, with allThe world to choose,—so well he knows his course?I have my purpose and my motive too,My march to Rome, like any bird or fly!Had I been dead! How right to be alive!Last night I almost prayed for leave to die,Wished Guido all his pleasure with the swordOr the poison,—poison, sword, was but a trick,Harmless, may God forgive him the poor jest!My life is charmed, will last till I reach Rome!Yesterday, but for the sin,—ah, nameless beThe deed I could have dared against myself!Now—see if I will touch an unripe fruit,And risk the health I want to have and use!Not to live, now, would he the wickedness,—For life means to make haste and go to RomeAnd leave Arezzo, leave all woes at once!"

It had got half through April. I arose

One vivid daybreak,—who had gone to bed

In the old way my wont those last three years,

Careless until, the cup drained, I should die.

The last sound in my ear, the over-night,

Had been a something let drop on the sly

In prattle by Margherita, "Soon enough

Gayeties end, now Easter 's past: a week,

And the Archbishop gets him back to Rome,—

Every one leaves the town for Rome, this Spring,—

Even Caponsacchi, out of heart and hope,

Resigns himself and follows with the flock."

I heard this drop and drop like rain outside

Fast-falling through the darkness while she spoke:

So had I heard with like indifference,

"And Michael's pair of wings will arrive first

At Rome, to introduce the company,

And bear him from our picture where he fights

Satan,—expect to have that dragon loose

And never a defender!"—my sole thought

Being still, as night came, "Done, another day!

How good to sleep and so get nearer death!"—

When, what, first thing at daybreak, pierced the sleep

With a summons to me? Up I sprang alive,

Light in me, light without me, everywhere

Change! A broad yellow sunbeam was let fall

From heaven to earth,—a sudden drawbridge lay,

Along which marched a myriad merry motes,

Mocking the flies that crossed them and re-crossed

In rival dance, companions new-born too.

On the house-eaves, a dripping shag of weed

Shook diamonds on each dull gray lattice-square,

As first one, then another bird leapt by,

And light was off, and lo was back again,

Always with one voice,—where are two such joys?—

The blessed building-sparrow! I stepped forth,

Stood on the terrace,—o'er the roofs, such sky!

My heart sang, "I too am to go away,

I too have something I must care about,

Carry away with me to Rome, to Rome!

The bird brings hither sticks and hairs and wool,

And nowhere else i' the world; what fly breaks rank,

Falls out of the procession that befits,

From window here to window there, with all

The world to choose,—so well he knows his course?

I have my purpose and my motive too,

My march to Rome, like any bird or fly!

Had I been dead! How right to be alive!

Last night I almost prayed for leave to die,

Wished Guido all his pleasure with the sword

Or the poison,—poison, sword, was but a trick,

Harmless, may God forgive him the poor jest!

My life is charmed, will last till I reach Rome!

Yesterday, but for the sin,—ah, nameless be

The deed I could have dared against myself!

Now—see if I will touch an unripe fruit,

And risk the health I want to have and use!

Not to live, now, would he the wickedness,—

For life means to make haste and go to Rome

And leave Arezzo, leave all woes at once!"

Now, understand here, by no means mistake!Long ago had I tried to leave that houseWhen it seemed such procedure would stop sin;And still failed more the more I tried—at firstThe Archbishop, as I told you,—next, our lordThe Governor,—indeed I found my way,I went to the great palace where he rules,Though I knew well 't was he who,—when I gaveA jewel or two, themselves had given me,Back to my parents,—since they wanted bread,They who had never let me want a nosegay,—heSpoke of the jail for felons, if they keptWhat was first theirs, then mine, so doubly theirs,Though all the while my husband's most of all!I knew well who had spoke the word wrought this:Yet, being in extremity, I fledTo the Governor, as I say,—scarce opened lipWhen—the cold cruel snicker close behind—Guido was on my trace, already there,Exchanging nod and wink for shrug and smile,And I—pushed back to him and, for my pains,Paid with ... but why remember what is past?I sought out a poor friar the people callThe Roman, and confessed my sin which cameOf their sin,—that fact could not be repressed,—The frightfulness of my despair in God:And feeling, through the grate, his horror shake,Implored him, "Write for me who cannot write,Apprise my parents, make them rescue me!You bid me be courageous and trust God:Do you in turn dare somewhat, trust and write,'Dear friends, who used to be my parents once,And now declare you have no part in me,This is some riddle I want wit to solve,Since you must love me with no difference.Even suppose you altered,—there's your hate,To ask for: hate of you two dearest onesI shall find liker love than love found here,If husbands love their wives. Take me awayAnd hate me as you do the gnats and fleas,Even the scorpions! How I shall rejoice!'Write that and save me!" And he promised—wroteOr did not write; things never changed at all:He was not like the Augustinian here!Last, in a desperation I appealedTo friends, whoever wished me better days,To Guillichini, that 's of kin,—"What, I—Travel to Rome with you? A flying goutBids me deny my heart and mind my leg!"Then I tried Conti, used to brave—laugh backThe louring thunder when his cousin scowledAt me protected by his presence: "You—Who well know what you cannot save me from,—Carry me off! What frightens you, a priest?"He shook his head, looked grave—"Above my strength!Guido has claws that scratch, shows feline teeth;A formidabler foe than I dare fret:Give me a dog to deal with, twice the size!Of course I am a priest and Canon too,But ... by the bye ... though both, not quite so boldAs he, my fellow-Canon, brother-priest,The personage in such ill odor hereBecause of the reports—pure birth o' the brain!Our Caponsacchi, he 's your true Saint GeorgeTo slay the monster, set the Princess free,And have the whole High-Altar to himself:I always think so when I see that pieceI' the Pieve, that 's his church and mine, you know:Though you drop eyes at mention of his name!"

Now, understand here, by no means mistake!

Long ago had I tried to leave that house

When it seemed such procedure would stop sin;

And still failed more the more I tried—at first

The Archbishop, as I told you,—next, our lord

The Governor,—indeed I found my way,

I went to the great palace where he rules,

Though I knew well 't was he who,—when I gave

A jewel or two, themselves had given me,

Back to my parents,—since they wanted bread,

They who had never let me want a nosegay,—he

Spoke of the jail for felons, if they kept

What was first theirs, then mine, so doubly theirs,

Though all the while my husband's most of all!

I knew well who had spoke the word wrought this:

Yet, being in extremity, I fled

To the Governor, as I say,—scarce opened lip

When—the cold cruel snicker close behind—

Guido was on my trace, already there,

Exchanging nod and wink for shrug and smile,

And I—pushed back to him and, for my pains,

Paid with ... but why remember what is past?

I sought out a poor friar the people call

The Roman, and confessed my sin which came

Of their sin,—that fact could not be repressed,—

The frightfulness of my despair in God:

And feeling, through the grate, his horror shake,

Implored him, "Write for me who cannot write,

Apprise my parents, make them rescue me!

You bid me be courageous and trust God:

Do you in turn dare somewhat, trust and write,

'Dear friends, who used to be my parents once,

And now declare you have no part in me,

This is some riddle I want wit to solve,

Since you must love me with no difference.

Even suppose you altered,—there's your hate,

To ask for: hate of you two dearest ones

I shall find liker love than love found here,

If husbands love their wives. Take me away

And hate me as you do the gnats and fleas,

Even the scorpions! How I shall rejoice!'

Write that and save me!" And he promised—wrote

Or did not write; things never changed at all:

He was not like the Augustinian here!

Last, in a desperation I appealed

To friends, whoever wished me better days,

To Guillichini, that 's of kin,—"What, I—

Travel to Rome with you? A flying gout

Bids me deny my heart and mind my leg!"

Then I tried Conti, used to brave—laugh back

The louring thunder when his cousin scowled

At me protected by his presence: "You—

Who well know what you cannot save me from,—

Carry me off! What frightens you, a priest?"

He shook his head, looked grave—"Above my strength!

Guido has claws that scratch, shows feline teeth;

A formidabler foe than I dare fret:

Give me a dog to deal with, twice the size!

Of course I am a priest and Canon too,

But ... by the bye ... though both, not quite so bold

As he, my fellow-Canon, brother-priest,

The personage in such ill odor here

Because of the reports—pure birth o' the brain!

Our Caponsacchi, he 's your true Saint George

To slay the monster, set the Princess free,

And have the whole High-Altar to himself:

I always think so when I see that piece

I' the Pieve, that 's his church and mine, you know:

Though you drop eyes at mention of his name!"

That name had got to take a half-grotesqueHalf-ominous, wholly enigmatic sense,Like any by-word, broken bit of songBorn with a meaning, changed by mouth and mouthThat mix it in a sneer or smile, as chanceBids, till it now means naught but uglinessAnd perhaps shame.

That name had got to take a half-grotesque

Half-ominous, wholly enigmatic sense,

Like any by-word, broken bit of song

Born with a meaning, changed by mouth and mouth

That mix it in a sneer or smile, as chance

Bids, till it now means naught but ugliness

And perhaps shame.

—All this intends to say,That, over-night, the notion of escapeHad seemed distemper, dreaming; and the name,—Not the man, but the name of him, thus madeInto a mockery and disgrace,—why, sheWho uttered it persistently, had laughed,"I name his name, and there you start and winceAs criminal from the red tongs' touch!"—yet now,Now, as I stood letting morn bathe me bright,Choosing which butterfly should bear my news,—The white, the brown one, or that tinier blue,—The Margherita, I detested so,In she came—"The fine day, the good Spring time!What, up and out at window? That is best.No thought of Caponsacchi?—who stood thereAll night on one leg, like the sentry crane,Under the pelting of your water-spout—Looked last look at your lattice ere he leaveOur city, bury his dead hope at Rome.Ay, go to looking-glass and make you fine,While he may die ere touch one least loose hairYou drag at with the comb in such a rage!"

—All this intends to say,

That, over-night, the notion of escape

Had seemed distemper, dreaming; and the name,—

Not the man, but the name of him, thus made

Into a mockery and disgrace,—why, she

Who uttered it persistently, had laughed,

"I name his name, and there you start and wince

As criminal from the red tongs' touch!"—yet now,

Now, as I stood letting morn bathe me bright,

Choosing which butterfly should bear my news,—

The white, the brown one, or that tinier blue,—

The Margherita, I detested so,

In she came—"The fine day, the good Spring time!

What, up and out at window? That is best.

No thought of Caponsacchi?—who stood there

All night on one leg, like the sentry crane,

Under the pelting of your water-spout—

Looked last look at your lattice ere he leave

Our city, bury his dead hope at Rome.

Ay, go to looking-glass and make you fine,

While he may die ere touch one least loose hair

You drag at with the comb in such a rage!"

I turned—"Tell Caponsacchi he may come!""Tell him to come? Ah, but, for charity,A truce to fooling! Come? What,—come this eve?Peter and Paul! But I see through the trick!Yes, come, and take a flower-pot on his head.Flung from your terrace! No joke, sincere truth?"

I turned—"Tell Caponsacchi he may come!"

"Tell him to come? Ah, but, for charity,

A truce to fooling! Come? What,—come this eve?

Peter and Paul! But I see through the trick!

Yes, come, and take a flower-pot on his head.

Flung from your terrace! No joke, sincere truth?"

How plainly I perceived hell flash and fadeO' the face of her,—the doubt that first paled joy,Then, final reassurance I indeedWas caught now, never to be free again!What did I care?—who felt myself of forceTo play with silk, and spurn the horsehair-springe.

How plainly I perceived hell flash and fade

O' the face of her,—the doubt that first paled joy,

Then, final reassurance I indeed

Was caught now, never to be free again!

What did I care?—who felt myself of force

To play with silk, and spurn the horsehair-springe.

"But—do you know that I have bade him come,And in your own name? I presumed so much,Knowing the thing you needed in your heart.But somehow—what had I to show in proof?He would not come: half-promised, that was all,And wrote the letters you refused to read.What is the message that shall move him now?"

"But—do you know that I have bade him come,

And in your own name? I presumed so much,

Knowing the thing you needed in your heart.

But somehow—what had I to show in proof?

He would not come: half-promised, that was all,

And wrote the letters you refused to read.

What is the message that shall move him now?"

"After the Ave Maria, at first dark,I will be standing on the terrace, say!"

"After the Ave Maria, at first dark,

I will be standing on the terrace, say!"

"I would I had a good long lock of hairShould prove I was not lying! Never mind!"

"I would I had a good long lock of hair

Should prove I was not lying! Never mind!"

Off she went—"May he not refuse, that 's all—Fearing a trick!"

Off she went—"May he not refuse, that 's all—

Fearing a trick!"

I answered, "He will come."And, all day, I sent prayer like incense upTo God the strong, God the beneficent,God ever mindful in all strife and strait,Who, for our own good, makes the need extreme,Till at the last he puts forth might and saves.An old rhyme came into my head and rangOf how a virgin, for the faith of God,Hid herself, from the Paynims that pursued,In a cave's heart; until a thunderstone,Wrapped in a flame, revealed the couch and prey:And they laughed—"Thanks to lightning, ours at last!"And she cried, "Wrath of God, assert his love!Servant of God, thou fire, befriend his child!"And lo, the fire she grasped at, fixed its flash,Lay in her hand a calm cold dreadful swordShe brandished till pursuers strewed the ground,So did the souls within them die away,As o'er the prostrate bodies, sworded, safe,She walked forth to the solitudes and Christ:So should I grasp the lightning and be saved!

I answered, "He will come."

And, all day, I sent prayer like incense up

To God the strong, God the beneficent,

God ever mindful in all strife and strait,

Who, for our own good, makes the need extreme,

Till at the last he puts forth might and saves.

An old rhyme came into my head and rang

Of how a virgin, for the faith of God,

Hid herself, from the Paynims that pursued,

In a cave's heart; until a thunderstone,

Wrapped in a flame, revealed the couch and prey:

And they laughed—"Thanks to lightning, ours at last!"

And she cried, "Wrath of God, assert his love!

Servant of God, thou fire, befriend his child!"

And lo, the fire she grasped at, fixed its flash,

Lay in her hand a calm cold dreadful sword

She brandished till pursuers strewed the ground,

So did the souls within them die away,

As o'er the prostrate bodies, sworded, safe,

She walked forth to the solitudes and Christ:

So should I grasp the lightning and be saved!

And still, as the day wore, the trouble grewWhereby I guessed there would be born a star,Until at an intense throe of the dusk,I started up, was pushed, I dare to say,Out on the terrace, leaned and looked at lastWhere the deliverer waited me: the sameSilent and solemn face, I first descriedAt the spectacle, confronted mine once more.

And still, as the day wore, the trouble grew

Whereby I guessed there would be born a star,

Until at an intense throe of the dusk,

I started up, was pushed, I dare to say,

Out on the terrace, leaned and looked at last

Where the deliverer waited me: the same

Silent and solemn face, I first descried

At the spectacle, confronted mine once more.

So was that minute twice vouchsafed me, soThe manhood, wasted then, was still at watchTo save me yet a second time: no changeHere, though all else changed in the changing world!

So was that minute twice vouchsafed me, so

The manhood, wasted then, was still at watch

To save me yet a second time: no change

Here, though all else changed in the changing world!

I spoke on the instant, as my duty bade,In some such sense as this, whatever the phrase.

I spoke on the instant, as my duty bade,

In some such sense as this, whatever the phrase.

"Friend, foolish words were borne from you to me;Your soul behind them is the pure strong wind,Not dust and feathers which its breath may bear:These to the witless seem the wind itself,Since proving thus the first of it they feel.If by mischance you blew offence my way,The straws are dropt, the wind desists no whit,And how such strays were caught up in the streetAnd took a motion from you, why inquire?I speak to the strong soul, no weak disguise.If it be truth,—why should I doubt it truth?—You serve God specially, as priests are bound,And care about me, stranger as I am,So far as wish my good, that—miracleI take to imitate he wills you serveBy saying me,—what else can he direct?Here is the service. Since a long while now,I am in course of being put to death:While death concerned nothing but me, I bowedThe head and bade, in heart, my husband strike.Now I imperil something more, it seems,Something that 's trulier me than this myself,Something I trust in God and you to save.You go to Rome, they tell me: take me there,Put me back with my people!"

"Friend, foolish words were borne from you to me;

Your soul behind them is the pure strong wind,

Not dust and feathers which its breath may bear:

These to the witless seem the wind itself,

Since proving thus the first of it they feel.

If by mischance you blew offence my way,

The straws are dropt, the wind desists no whit,

And how such strays were caught up in the street

And took a motion from you, why inquire?

I speak to the strong soul, no weak disguise.

If it be truth,—why should I doubt it truth?—

You serve God specially, as priests are bound,

And care about me, stranger as I am,

So far as wish my good, that—miracle

I take to imitate he wills you serve

By saying me,—what else can he direct?

Here is the service. Since a long while now,

I am in course of being put to death:

While death concerned nothing but me, I bowed

The head and bade, in heart, my husband strike.

Now I imperil something more, it seems,

Something that 's trulier me than this myself,

Something I trust in God and you to save.

You go to Rome, they tell me: take me there,

Put me back with my people!"

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