Fra Giacomo.Alas, Fra Giacomo,Too late!—but follow me;[511]Hush![512]draw the curtain[513]—so!—She is dead,[514]quite dead, you see.Poor little lady! she liesWith the light gone out of her eyes,But her features still wear[515]that softGray, meditative expression,Which you[516]must have noticed oft,And admired, too, at confession.How saintly she looks[517]and how meek!Though this[518]be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breath[519]As I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive, religious face,She has gone to a holier place![520]And I hardly appreciated her—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly,[521]I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated[522]herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,[523]Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down—But first, if you please, your blessing![524]Wine?[525]No?Come, come, you must!You’ll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint[526]up stairs!My heart[527]is aching so!And I feel so weary and sadThrough the blow that I have had—You’ll sit,[528]Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank you)For the sake of that saint[529],—nay, nay![530]Here’s the wine[531]—as you love me, stay!’Tis Montepulciano!—Thank you.[532]Heigho! ’Tis now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich,[533]not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coal[534]Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.Your pardon![535]—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gabardine:Of the church,[536]Fra Giacomo,I’m a faithful upholder,[537]you know.But (humor me![538]) she was as sweetAs the saints in yon[539]convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I’ll confess, though, before we were oneI deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.[540]I was wrong[541]—I was blind as a bat—Brute[542]that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]Yourself,[544]for example: you’ve seen her?Spite[545]her modest and pious demeanor,And the manner so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,[546]Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?[547]Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human!Pray speak,[548]for between you and meYou’re not a bad judge of a woman!A jest—but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]’Tis hardly becoming to jest,And that saint upstairs[551]at rest—Her soul may be listening, too!Well may your visage[552]turn yellow—I was always a brute[553]of a fellow!To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]That golden-haired angel—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not[555]that she seemed to scornOr dislike[556]her husband’s society;But the claims of hersoul[557]supersededAll that I[558]asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far away[559]From the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters.[560]Poor dove, she so fluttered[561]in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor a place in the heavenly roll,[562]I (brute[563]that I was!) suspectedHer manner[564]of saving her soul.So half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer![565]) but flingOn my shoulders[566]the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way[567]—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face;In the father confessor’s place.Eheu! benedicite![568]In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive, gray expressionShe sighfully knelt[569]at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails into my hand,[570]And heard with averted head[571]What I’d guessed,[572]and could understand.Every word was a serpent’s sting,But wrapt[573]in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all![574]Sit down![575]More wine,[576]Fra Giacomo!One cup—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa,[577]but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink![578]’twill bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;[579]Come, drink again to the saint[580]Whose virtues you loved to paint,Who stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender gray expressionYou used to admire at confession,LiesPOISONED,[581]overhead!Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]Face to face,[584]soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts in a finePleasant fashion,[585]over our wine.Stir not,[586]and seek not to fly—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano[587]for givingYou death in such delicate sips;’Tis not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this![588]and this! and this!* * * * *Cover him over, Pietro,[589]And bury him in the court below[590]—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you,[591]then to the convent[592]go—Bid every bell[593]in the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594]soul.—Robert Buchanan.Gestures.[511]H. O.[512]L. P. H. O.[513]Sp.[514]D. O.[515]P. D. O.[516]L. H. O.[517]Look to D. O.[518]B. H. O.[519]Stoop.[520]A. O.[521]P. D. O.[522]V. H. O.[523]Ind. A. O.[524]Kneel.[525]H. O.[526]L. A. O.[527]Sp.[528]H. O.[529]L. A. O.[530]P. H. O.[531]H. O.[532]Bow and sit at left of a table.[533]B. H. O.[534]Lean forward.[535]P. H. O.[536]L. H. O.[537]A. O.[538]V. Con.[539]L. H. L.[540]A. O.[541]P. H. O.[542]B. Cli. D.[543]B. H. O.[544]H. O.[545]V. H. O.[546]H. O.[547]P. H. O.[548]H. O.[549]V. H. O.[550]P. H. O.[551]L. A. O.[552]H. O.[553]B. Cli. D.[554]V. Con.[555]B. H. O. Con.[556]V. H. O.[557]L. H. O.[558]To left.[559]L. H. L.[560]Hand applied.[561]Sp.[562]A. O.[563]Cli. D.[564]H. O.[565]V. H. O.[566]Sp.[567]L. H. O.[568]B. V. Par. H. O.[569]D. E.[570]Sp.[571]Sp.[572]Ind. H. O.[573]Sp.[574]Fist on table.[575]Rise and P. H. O.[576]Offer wine.[577]P. H. O.[578]B. H. O.[579]H. O.[580]L. A. O. sustained.[581]L. Point up forcibly.[582]P. H. O.[583]D. O.[584]Fold arms and face to right.[585]B. H. O.[586]P. H. E.[587]Point to table.[588]Cross to right and stab.[589]Look to left and P. D. O.[590]D. L.[591]L. Ind. H. O.[592]L. H. L.[593]L. A. O.[594]L. Point up.
Fra Giacomo.Alas, Fra Giacomo,Too late!—but follow me;[511]Hush![512]draw the curtain[513]—so!—She is dead,[514]quite dead, you see.Poor little lady! she liesWith the light gone out of her eyes,But her features still wear[515]that softGray, meditative expression,Which you[516]must have noticed oft,And admired, too, at confession.How saintly she looks[517]and how meek!Though this[518]be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breath[519]As I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive, religious face,She has gone to a holier place![520]And I hardly appreciated her—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly,[521]I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated[522]herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,[523]Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down—But first, if you please, your blessing![524]Wine?[525]No?Come, come, you must!You’ll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint[526]up stairs!My heart[527]is aching so!And I feel so weary and sadThrough the blow that I have had—You’ll sit,[528]Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank you)For the sake of that saint[529],—nay, nay![530]Here’s the wine[531]—as you love me, stay!’Tis Montepulciano!—Thank you.[532]Heigho! ’Tis now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich,[533]not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coal[534]Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.Your pardon![535]—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gabardine:Of the church,[536]Fra Giacomo,I’m a faithful upholder,[537]you know.But (humor me![538]) she was as sweetAs the saints in yon[539]convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I’ll confess, though, before we were oneI deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.[540]I was wrong[541]—I was blind as a bat—Brute[542]that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]Yourself,[544]for example: you’ve seen her?Spite[545]her modest and pious demeanor,And the manner so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,[546]Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?[547]Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human!Pray speak,[548]for between you and meYou’re not a bad judge of a woman!A jest—but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]’Tis hardly becoming to jest,And that saint upstairs[551]at rest—Her soul may be listening, too!Well may your visage[552]turn yellow—I was always a brute[553]of a fellow!To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]That golden-haired angel—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not[555]that she seemed to scornOr dislike[556]her husband’s society;But the claims of hersoul[557]supersededAll that I[558]asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far away[559]From the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters.[560]Poor dove, she so fluttered[561]in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor a place in the heavenly roll,[562]I (brute[563]that I was!) suspectedHer manner[564]of saving her soul.So half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer![565]) but flingOn my shoulders[566]the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way[567]—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face;In the father confessor’s place.Eheu! benedicite![568]In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive, gray expressionShe sighfully knelt[569]at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails into my hand,[570]And heard with averted head[571]What I’d guessed,[572]and could understand.Every word was a serpent’s sting,But wrapt[573]in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all![574]Sit down![575]More wine,[576]Fra Giacomo!One cup—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa,[577]but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink![578]’twill bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;[579]Come, drink again to the saint[580]Whose virtues you loved to paint,Who stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender gray expressionYou used to admire at confession,LiesPOISONED,[581]overhead!Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]Face to face,[584]soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts in a finePleasant fashion,[585]over our wine.Stir not,[586]and seek not to fly—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano[587]for givingYou death in such delicate sips;’Tis not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this![588]and this! and this!* * * * *Cover him over, Pietro,[589]And bury him in the court below[590]—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you,[591]then to the convent[592]go—Bid every bell[593]in the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594]soul.—Robert Buchanan.Gestures.[511]H. O.[512]L. P. H. O.[513]Sp.[514]D. O.[515]P. D. O.[516]L. H. O.[517]Look to D. O.[518]B. H. O.[519]Stoop.[520]A. O.[521]P. D. O.[522]V. H. O.[523]Ind. A. O.[524]Kneel.[525]H. O.[526]L. A. O.[527]Sp.[528]H. O.[529]L. A. O.[530]P. H. O.[531]H. O.[532]Bow and sit at left of a table.[533]B. H. O.[534]Lean forward.[535]P. H. O.[536]L. H. O.[537]A. O.[538]V. Con.[539]L. H. L.[540]A. O.[541]P. H. O.[542]B. Cli. D.[543]B. H. O.[544]H. O.[545]V. H. O.[546]H. O.[547]P. H. O.[548]H. O.[549]V. H. O.[550]P. H. O.[551]L. A. O.[552]H. O.[553]B. Cli. D.[554]V. Con.[555]B. H. O. Con.[556]V. H. O.[557]L. H. O.[558]To left.[559]L. H. L.[560]Hand applied.[561]Sp.[562]A. O.[563]Cli. D.[564]H. O.[565]V. H. O.[566]Sp.[567]L. H. O.[568]B. V. Par. H. O.[569]D. E.[570]Sp.[571]Sp.[572]Ind. H. O.[573]Sp.[574]Fist on table.[575]Rise and P. H. O.[576]Offer wine.[577]P. H. O.[578]B. H. O.[579]H. O.[580]L. A. O. sustained.[581]L. Point up forcibly.[582]P. H. O.[583]D. O.[584]Fold arms and face to right.[585]B. H. O.[586]P. H. E.[587]Point to table.[588]Cross to right and stab.[589]Look to left and P. D. O.[590]D. L.[591]L. Ind. H. O.[592]L. H. L.[593]L. A. O.[594]L. Point up.
Alas, Fra Giacomo,Too late!—but follow me;[511]Hush![512]draw the curtain[513]—so!—She is dead,[514]quite dead, you see.Poor little lady! she liesWith the light gone out of her eyes,But her features still wear[515]that softGray, meditative expression,Which you[516]must have noticed oft,And admired, too, at confession.How saintly she looks[517]and how meek!Though this[518]be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breath[519]As I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive, religious face,She has gone to a holier place![520]And I hardly appreciated her—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly,[521]I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated[522]herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,[523]Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down—But first, if you please, your blessing![524]Wine?[525]No?Come, come, you must!You’ll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint[526]up stairs!My heart[527]is aching so!And I feel so weary and sadThrough the blow that I have had—You’ll sit,[528]Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank you)For the sake of that saint[529],—nay, nay![530]Here’s the wine[531]—as you love me, stay!’Tis Montepulciano!—Thank you.[532]Heigho! ’Tis now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich,[533]not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coal[534]Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.Your pardon![535]—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gabardine:Of the church,[536]Fra Giacomo,I’m a faithful upholder,[537]you know.But (humor me![538]) she was as sweetAs the saints in yon[539]convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I’ll confess, though, before we were oneI deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.[540]I was wrong[541]—I was blind as a bat—Brute[542]that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]Yourself,[544]for example: you’ve seen her?Spite[545]her modest and pious demeanor,And the manner so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,[546]Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?[547]Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human!Pray speak,[548]for between you and meYou’re not a bad judge of a woman!A jest—but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]’Tis hardly becoming to jest,And that saint upstairs[551]at rest—Her soul may be listening, too!Well may your visage[552]turn yellow—I was always a brute[553]of a fellow!To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]That golden-haired angel—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not[555]that she seemed to scornOr dislike[556]her husband’s society;But the claims of hersoul[557]supersededAll that I[558]asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far away[559]From the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters.[560]Poor dove, she so fluttered[561]in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor a place in the heavenly roll,[562]I (brute[563]that I was!) suspectedHer manner[564]of saving her soul.So half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer![565]) but flingOn my shoulders[566]the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way[567]—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face;In the father confessor’s place.Eheu! benedicite![568]In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive, gray expressionShe sighfully knelt[569]at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails into my hand,[570]And heard with averted head[571]What I’d guessed,[572]and could understand.Every word was a serpent’s sting,But wrapt[573]in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all![574]Sit down![575]More wine,[576]Fra Giacomo!One cup—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa,[577]but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink![578]’twill bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;[579]Come, drink again to the saint[580]Whose virtues you loved to paint,Who stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender gray expressionYou used to admire at confession,LiesPOISONED,[581]overhead!Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]Face to face,[584]soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts in a finePleasant fashion,[585]over our wine.Stir not,[586]and seek not to fly—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano[587]for givingYou death in such delicate sips;’Tis not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this![588]and this! and this!* * * * *Cover him over, Pietro,[589]And bury him in the court below[590]—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you,[591]then to the convent[592]go—Bid every bell[593]in the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594]soul.—Robert Buchanan.
Alas, Fra Giacomo,Too late!—but follow me;[511]Hush![512]draw the curtain[513]—so!—She is dead,[514]quite dead, you see.Poor little lady! she liesWith the light gone out of her eyes,But her features still wear[515]that softGray, meditative expression,Which you[516]must have noticed oft,And admired, too, at confession.How saintly she looks[517]and how meek!Though this[518]be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breath[519]As I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive, religious face,She has gone to a holier place![520]And I hardly appreciated her—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly,[521]I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated[522]herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,[523]Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down—But first, if you please, your blessing![524]Wine?[525]No?Come, come, you must!You’ll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint[526]up stairs!My heart[527]is aching so!And I feel so weary and sadThrough the blow that I have had—You’ll sit,[528]Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank you)For the sake of that saint[529],—nay, nay![530]Here’s the wine[531]—as you love me, stay!’Tis Montepulciano!—Thank you.[532]Heigho! ’Tis now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich,[533]not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coal[534]Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.Your pardon![535]—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gabardine:Of the church,[536]Fra Giacomo,I’m a faithful upholder,[537]you know.But (humor me![538]) she was as sweetAs the saints in yon[539]convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I’ll confess, though, before we were oneI deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.[540]I was wrong[541]—I was blind as a bat—Brute[542]that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]Yourself,[544]for example: you’ve seen her?Spite[545]her modest and pious demeanor,And the manner so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,[546]Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?[547]Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human!Pray speak,[548]for between you and meYou’re not a bad judge of a woman!A jest—but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]’Tis hardly becoming to jest,And that saint upstairs[551]at rest—Her soul may be listening, too!Well may your visage[552]turn yellow—I was always a brute[553]of a fellow!To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]That golden-haired angel—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not[555]that she seemed to scornOr dislike[556]her husband’s society;But the claims of hersoul[557]supersededAll that I[558]asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far away[559]From the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters.[560]Poor dove, she so fluttered[561]in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor a place in the heavenly roll,[562]I (brute[563]that I was!) suspectedHer manner[564]of saving her soul.So half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer![565]) but flingOn my shoulders[566]the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way[567]—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face;In the father confessor’s place.Eheu! benedicite![568]In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive, gray expressionShe sighfully knelt[569]at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails into my hand,[570]And heard with averted head[571]What I’d guessed,[572]and could understand.Every word was a serpent’s sting,But wrapt[573]in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all![574]Sit down![575]More wine,[576]Fra Giacomo!One cup—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa,[577]but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink![578]’twill bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;[579]Come, drink again to the saint[580]Whose virtues you loved to paint,Who stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender gray expressionYou used to admire at confession,LiesPOISONED,[581]overhead!Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]Face to face,[584]soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts in a finePleasant fashion,[585]over our wine.Stir not,[586]and seek not to fly—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano[587]for givingYou death in such delicate sips;’Tis not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this![588]and this! and this!* * * * *Cover him over, Pietro,[589]And bury him in the court below[590]—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you,[591]then to the convent[592]go—Bid every bell[593]in the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594]soul.—Robert Buchanan.
Alas, Fra Giacomo,
Too late!—but follow me;[511]
Hush![512]draw the curtain[513]—so!—
She is dead,[514]quite dead, you see.
Poor little lady! she lies
With the light gone out of her eyes,
But her features still wear[515]that soft
Gray, meditative expression,
Which you[516]must have noticed oft,
And admired, too, at confession.
How saintly she looks[517]and how meek!Though this[518]be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breath[519]As I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive, religious face,She has gone to a holier place![520]And I hardly appreciated her—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly,[521]I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated[522]herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,[523]Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down—But first, if you please, your blessing![524]
How saintly she looks[517]and how meek!
Though this[518]be the chamber of death,
I fancy I feel her breath[519]
As I kiss her on the cheek.
With that pensive, religious face,
She has gone to a holier place![520]
And I hardly appreciated her—
Her praying, fasting, confessing,
Poorly,[521]I own, I mated her;
I thought her too cold, and rated[522]her
For her endless image-caressing.
Too saintly for me by far,
As pure and as cold as a star,[523]
Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—
But made for a heavenly crown.
Ay, father, let us go down—
But first, if you please, your blessing![524]
Wine?[525]No?Come, come, you must!You’ll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint[526]up stairs!My heart[527]is aching so!And I feel so weary and sadThrough the blow that I have had—You’ll sit,[528]Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank you)For the sake of that saint[529],—nay, nay![530]Here’s the wine[531]—as you love me, stay!’Tis Montepulciano!—Thank you.[532]
Wine?[525]No?Come, come, you must!
You’ll bless it with your prayers,
And quaff a cup, I trust,
To the health of the saint[526]up stairs!
My heart[527]is aching so!
And I feel so weary and sad
Through the blow that I have had—
You’ll sit,[528]Fra Giacomo?
My friend! (and a friend I rank you)
For the sake of that saint[529],—nay, nay![530]
Here’s the wine[531]—as you love me, stay!
’Tis Montepulciano!—Thank you.[532]
Heigho! ’Tis now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich,[533]not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coal[534]Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.Your pardon![535]—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gabardine:Of the church,[536]Fra Giacomo,I’m a faithful upholder,[537]you know.But (humor me![538]) she was as sweetAs the saints in yon[539]convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I’ll confess, though, before we were oneI deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.[540]I was wrong[541]—I was blind as a bat—Brute[542]that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]Yourself,[544]for example: you’ve seen her?Spite[545]her modest and pious demeanor,And the manner so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,[546]Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?[547]Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human!Pray speak,[548]for between you and meYou’re not a bad judge of a woman!
Heigho! ’Tis now six summers
Since I won that angel and married her:
I was rich,[533]not old, and carried her
Off in the face of all comers.
So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!
A tenderer morsel, I swear,
Never made the dull black coal[534]
Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.
Your pardon![535]—nay, keep your chair!
I wander a little, but mean
No offence to the gray gabardine:
Of the church,[536]Fra Giacomo,
I’m a faithful upholder,[537]you know.
But (humor me![538]) she was as sweet
As the saints in yon[539]convent windows,
So gentle, so meek, so discreet,
She knew not what lust does or sin does.
I’ll confess, though, before we were one
I deemed her less saintly, and thought
The blood in her veins had caught
Some natural warmth from the sun.[540]
I was wrong[541]—I was blind as a bat—
Brute[542]that I was, how I blundered!
Though such a mistake as that
Might have occurred as pat
To ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]
Yourself,[544]for example: you’ve seen her?
Spite[545]her modest and pious demeanor,
And the manner so nice and precise,
Seemed there not color and light,[546]
Bright motion and appetite,
That were scarcely consistent withice?[547]
Externals implying, you see,
Internals less saintly than human!
Pray speak,[548]for between you and me
You’re not a bad judge of a woman!
A jest—but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]’Tis hardly becoming to jest,And that saint upstairs[551]at rest—Her soul may be listening, too!Well may your visage[552]turn yellow—I was always a brute[553]of a fellow!To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]That golden-haired angel—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not[555]that she seemed to scornOr dislike[556]her husband’s society;But the claims of hersoul[557]supersededAll that I[558]asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far away[559]From the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters.[560]Poor dove, she so fluttered[561]in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor a place in the heavenly roll,[562]I (brute[563]that I was!) suspectedHer manner[564]of saving her soul.So half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer![565]) but flingOn my shoulders[566]the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way[567]—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face;In the father confessor’s place.Eheu! benedicite![568]In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive, gray expressionShe sighfully knelt[569]at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails into my hand,[570]And heard with averted head[571]What I’d guessed,[572]and could understand.Every word was a serpent’s sting,But wrapt[573]in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all![574]Sit down![575]
A jest—but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]
’Tis hardly becoming to jest,
And that saint upstairs[551]at rest—
Her soul may be listening, too!
Well may your visage[552]turn yellow—
I was always a brute[553]of a fellow!
To think how I doubted and doubted,
Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]
That golden-haired angel—and solely
Because she was zealous and holy!
Noon and night and morn
She devoted herself to piety;
Not[555]that she seemed to scorn
Or dislike[556]her husband’s society;
But the claims of hersoul[557]superseded
All that I[558]asked for or needed,
And her thoughts were far away[559]
From the level of sinful clay,
And she trembled if earthly matters
Interfered with heravesandpaters.[560]
Poor dove, she so fluttered[561]in flying
Above the dim vapors of hell—
Bent on self-sanctifying—
That she never thought of trying
To save her husband as well.
And while she was duly elected
For a place in the heavenly roll,[562]
I (brute[563]that I was!) suspected
Her manner[564]of saving her soul.
So half for the fun of the thing,
What did I (blasphemer![565]) but fling
On my shoulders[566]the gown of a monk—
Whom I managed for that very day
To get safely out of the way[567]—
And seat me, half sober, half drunk,
With the cowl thrown over my face;
In the father confessor’s place.
Eheu! benedicite![568]
In her orthodox sweet simplicity,
With that pensive, gray expression
She sighfully knelt[569]at confession,
While I bit my lips till they bled,
And dug my nails into my hand,[570]
And heard with averted head[571]
What I’d guessed,[572]and could understand.
Every word was a serpent’s sting,
But wrapt[573]in my gloomy gown,
I sat, like a marble thing,
As she told me all![574]Sit down![575]
More wine,[576]Fra Giacomo!One cup—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa,[577]but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink![578]’twill bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;[579]Come, drink again to the saint[580]Whose virtues you loved to paint,Who stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender gray expressionYou used to admire at confession,LiesPOISONED,[581]overhead!
More wine,[576]Fra Giacomo!
One cup—if you love me! No?
What, have these dry lips drank
So deep of the sweets of pleasure—
Sub rosa,[577]but quite without measure—
That Montepulciano tastes rank?
Come, drink![578]’twill bring the streaks
Of crimson back to your cheeks;[579]
Come, drink again to the saint[580]
Whose virtues you loved to paint,
Who stretched on her wifely bed,
With the tender gray expression
You used to admire at confession,
LiesPOISONED,[581]overhead!
Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]Face to face,[584]soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts in a finePleasant fashion,[585]over our wine.Stir not,[586]and seek not to fly—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano[587]for givingYou death in such delicate sips;’Tis not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this![588]and this! and this!* * * * *Cover him over, Pietro,[589]And bury him in the court below[590]—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you,[591]then to the convent[592]go—Bid every bell[593]in the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594]soul.—Robert Buchanan.
Sit still[582]—or by Heaven, you die![583]
Face to face,[584]soul to soul, you and I
Have settled accounts in a fine
Pleasant fashion,[585]over our wine.
Stir not,[586]and seek not to fly—
Nay, whether or not, you are mine!
Thank Montepulciano[587]for giving
You death in such delicate sips;
’Tis not every monk ceases living
With so pleasant a taste on his lips;
But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,
Take this![588]and this! and this!
* * * * *
Cover him over, Pietro,[589]
And bury him in the court below[590]—
You can be secret, lad, I know!
And, hark you,[591]then to the convent[592]go—
Bid every bell[593]in the convent toll,
And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594]soul.
—Robert Buchanan.
Gestures.