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Robert Browning - The Ring And The Book - Chapter VII - PompiliaRobert Browning - The Ring And The Book - Chapter VII - Pompilia
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“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 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 him 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 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, “Forgoing 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 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 bye, 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 dare “Throw comfits in a stranger lady’s lap? “’Twas 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 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,—commenced “Or finished or midway in act, all’s one,— “’Tis 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 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 course, 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!” “—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! “‘’Tis 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 hand And tore it into shreds. “Why join the rest “Who harm me? Have I ever done you wrong? “People have told me ’tis 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!”                                             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 foredone 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 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 folks 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 be 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 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 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 “Gaieties end, now Easter’s past: a week, “And the Archbishop gets him back to Rome,— “Everyone 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, “Will 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 sun-beam 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 recrossed In rival dance, companions new-born too. On the house-eaves, a dripping shag of weed Shook diamonds on each dull grey 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 be 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 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 ’twas 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 odour 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-grotesque Half-ominous, wholly enigmatic sense, Like any bye-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 nought but ugliness And perhaps shame.                             —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?” 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 the 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 hair “Should 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 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 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, 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. “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 intimate He wills you serve “By saving 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!”                                             He replied— The first word I heard ever from his lips, All himself in it,—an eternity Of speech, to match the immeasurable depths O’ the soul that then broke silence—“I am yours.” So did the star rise, soon to lead my step, Lead on, nor pause before it should stand still Above the House o’ the Babe,—my babe to be, That knew me first and thus made me know him, That had his right of life and claim on mine, And would not let me die till he was born, But pricked me at the heart to save us both, Saying “Have you the will? Leave God the way!” And the way was Caponsacchi—“mine,” thank God! He was mine, he is mine, he will be mine. No pause i’ the leading and the light! I know, Next night there was a cloud came, and not he: But I prayed through the darkness till it broke And let him shine. The second night, he came. “The plan is rash; the project desperate: “In such a flight needs must I risk your life, “Give food for falsehood, folly or mistake, “Ground for your husband’s rancour and revenge”— So he began again, with the same face. I felt that, the same loyalty—one star Turning now red that was so white before— One service apprehended newly: just A word of mine and there the white was back! “No, friend, for you will take me! ’Tis yourself “Risk all, not I,—who let you, for I trust “In the compensating great God: enough! “I know you: when is it that you will come?” “To-morrow at the day’s dawn.” Then I heard What I should do: how to prepare for flight And where to fly.                     That night my husband bade “—You, whom I loathe, beware you break my sleep “This whole night! Couch beside me like the corpse “I would you were!” The rest you know, I think— How I found Caponsacchi and escaped. And this man, men call sinner? Jesus Christ! Of whom men said, with mouths Thyself mad’st once, “He hath a devil”—say he was Thy saint, My Caponsacchi! Shield and show—unshroud In Thine own time the glory of the soul If aught obscure,—if ink-spot, from vile pens Scribbling a charge against him—(I was glad Then, for the first time, that I could not write)— Flirted his way, have flecked the blaze!                                                         For me, ’Tis otherwise: let men take, sift my thoughts —Thoughts I throw like the flax for sun to bleach! I did think, do think, in the thought shall die, That to have Caponsacchi for my guide, Ever the face upturned to mine, the hand Holding my hand across the world,—a sense That reads, as only such can read, the mark God sets on women, signifying so She should—shall peradventure—be divine; Yet ’ware, the while, how weakness mars the print And makes confusion, leaves the thing men see, —Not this man,—who from his own soul, re-writes The obliterated charter,—love and strength Mending what’s marred: “So kneels a votarist, “Weeds some poor waste traditionary plot “Where shrine once was, where temple yet may be, “Purging the place but worshipping the while, “By faith and not by sight, sight clearest so,— “Such way the saints work,”—says Don Celestine. But I, not privileged to see a saint Of old when such walked earth with crown and palm, If I call “saint” what saints call something else— The saints must bear with me, impute the fault To a soul i’ the bud, so starved by ignorance, Stinted of warmth, it will not blow this year Nor recognise the orb which Spring-flowers know. But if meanwhile some insect with a heart Worth floods of lazy music, spendthrift joy— Some fire-fly renounced Spring for my dwarfed cup, Crept close to me with lustre for the dark, Comfort against the cold,—what though excess Of comfort should miscall the creature—sun? What did the sun to hinder while harsh hands Petal by petal, crude and colourless, Tore me? This one heart brought me all the Spring! Is all told? There’s the journey: and where’s time To tell you how that heart burst out in shine? Yet certain points do press on me too hard. Each place must have a name, though I forget: How strange it was—there where the plain begins And the small river mitigates its flow— When eve was fading fast, and my soul sank, And he divined what surge of bitterness, In overtaking me, would float me back Whence I was carried by the striding day— So,—“This grey place was famous once,” said he— And he began that legend of the place As if in answer to the unspoken fear, And told me all about a brave man dead, Which lifted me and let my soul go on! How did he know too,—at that town’s approach By the rock-side,—that in coming near the signs, Of life, the house-roofs and the church and tower, I saw the old boundary and wall o’ the world Rise plain as ever round me, hard and cold, As if the broken circlet joined again, Tightened itself about me with no break,— As if the town would turn Arezzo’s self,— The husband there,—the friends my enemies, All ranged against me, not an avenue I try, but would be blocked and drive me back On him,—this other, . . . oh the heart in that! Did not he find, bring, put into my arms A new-born babe?—and I saw faces beam Of the young mother proud to teach me joy, And gossips round expecting my surprise At the sudden hole through earth that lets in heaven. I could believe himself by his strong will Had woven around me what I thought the world We went along in, every circumstance, Towns, flowers and faces, all things helped so well! For, through the journey, was it natural Such comfort should arise from first to last? As I look back, all is one milky way; Still bettered more, the more remembered, so Do new stars bud while I but search for old, And fill all gaps i’ the glory, and grow him— Him I now see make the shine everywhere. Even at the last when the bewildered flesh, The cloud of weariness about my soul Clogging too heavily, sucked down all sense,— Still its last voice was, “He will watch and care; “Let the strength go, I am content: he stays!” I doubt not he did stay and care for all— From that sick minute when the head swam round, And the eyes looked their last and died on him, As in his arms he caught me and, you say, Carried me in, that tragical red eve, And laid me where I next returned to life In the other red of morning, two red plates That crushed together, crushed the time between, And are since then a solid fire to me,— When in, my dreadful husband and the world Broke,—and I saw him, master, by hell’s right, And saw my angel helplessly held back By guards that helped the malice—the lamb prone, The serpent towering and triumphant—then Came all the strength back in a sudden swell, I did for once see right, do right, give tongue The adequate protest: for a worm must turn If it would have its wrong observed by God. I did spring up, attempt to thrust aside That ice-block ’twixt the sun and me, lay low The neutraliser of all good and truth. If I sinned so,—never obey voice more O’ the Just and Terrible, who bids us—“Bear!” Not—“Stand by, bear to see my angels bear!” I am clear it was on impulse to serve God Not save myself,—no—nor my child unborn! Had I else waited patiently till now?— Who saw my old kind parents, silly-sooth And too much trustful, for their worst of faults, Cheated, brow-beaten, stripped and starved, cast out Into the kennel: I remonstrated, Then sank to silence, for,—their woes at end, Themselves gone,—only I was left to plague. If only I was threatened and belied, What matter? I could bear it and did bear; It was a comfort, still one lot for all: They were not persecuted for my sake And I, estranged, the single happy one. But when at last, all by myself I stood Obeying the clear voice which bade me rise, Not for my own sake but my babe unborn, And take the angel’s hand was sent to help— And found the old adversary athwart the path— Not my hand simply struck from the angel’s, but The very angel’s self made foul i’ the face By the fiend who struck there,—that I would not bear, That only I resisted! So, my first And last resistance was invincible. Prayers move God; threats, and nothing else, move men! I must have prayed a man as he were God When I implored the Governor to right My parents’ wrongs: the answer was a smile. The Archbishop,—did I clasp his feet enough, Hide my face hotly on them, while I told More than I dared make my own mother known? The profit was—compassion and a jest. This time, the foolish prayers were done with, right Used might, and solemnised the sport at once. All was against the combat: vantage, mine? The runaway avowed, the accomplice-wife, In company with the plan-contriving priest? Yet, shame thus rank and patent, I struck, bare, At foe from head to foot in magic mail, And off it withered, cobweb-armoury Against the lightning! ’Twas truth singed the lies And saved me, not the vain sword nor weak speech! You see, I will not have the service fail! I say, the angel saved me: I am safe! Others may want and wish, I wish nor want One point o’ the circle plainer, where I stand Traced round about with white to front the world. What of the calumny I came across, What o’ the way to the end?—the end crowns all. The judges judged aright i’ the main, gave me The uttermost of my heart’s desire, a truce From torture and Arezzo, balm for hurt With the quiet nuns,—God recompense the good! Who said and sang away the ugly past. And, when my final fortune was revealed, What safety while, amid my parents’ arms, My babe was given me! Yes, he saved my babe: It would not have peeped forth, the bird-like thing, Through that Arezzo noise and trouble: back Had it returned nor ever let me see! But the sweet peace cured all, and let me live And give my bird the life among the leaves God meant him! Weeks and months of quietude, I could lie in such peace and learn so much— Begin the task, I see how needful now, Of understanding somewhat of my past,— Know life a little, I should leave so soon. Therefore, because this man restored my soul, All has been right; I have gained my gain, enjoyed As well as suffered,—nay, got foretaste too Of better life beginning where this ends— All through the breathing-while allowed me thus, Which let good premonitions reach my soul Unthwarted, and benignant influence flow And interpenetrate and change my heart, Uncrossed by what was wicked,—nay, unkind. For, as the weakness of my time drew nigh, Nobody did me one disservice more, Spoke coldly or looked strangely, broke the love I lay in the arms of, till my boy was born, Born all in love, with nought to spoil the bliss A whole long fortnight: in a life like mine A fortnight filled with bliss is long and much. All women are not mothers of a boy, Though they live twice the length of my whole life, And, as they fancy, happily all the same. There I lay, then, all my great fortnight long, As if it would continue, broaden out Happily more and more, and lead to heaven: Christmas before me,—was not that a chance? I never realised God’s birth before— How he grew likest God in being born. This time I felt like Mary, had my babe Lying a little on my breast like hers. So all went on till, just four days ago— The night and the tap.                                 O it shall be success To the whole of our poor family! My friends . . . Nay, father and mother,—give me back my word! They have been rudely stripped of life, disgraced Like children who must needs go clothed too fine, Carry the garb of Carnival in Lent: If they too much affected frippery, They have been punished and submit themselves, Say no word: all is over, they see God Who will not be extreme to mark their fault Or he had granted respite: they are safe. For that most woeful man my husband once, Who, needing respite, still draws vital breath, I—pardon him? So far as lies in me, I give him for his good the life he takes, Praying the world will therefore acquiesce. Let him make God amends,—none, none to me Who thank him rather that, whereas strange fate Mockingly styled him husband and me wife, Himself this way at least pronounced divorce, Blotted the marriage-bond: this blood of mine Flies forth exultingly at any door, Washes the parchment white, and thanks the blow. We shall not meet in this world nor the next, But where will God be absent? In His face Is light, but in His shadow healing too: Let Guido touch the shadow and be healed! And as my presence was importunate,— My earthly good, temptation and a snare,— Nothing about me but drew somehow down His hate upon me,—somewhat so excused Therefore, since hate was thus the truth of him,— May my evanishment for evermore Help further to relieve the heart that cast Such object of its natural loathing forth! So he was made; he nowise made himself: I could not love him, but his mother did. His soul has never lain beside my soul; But for the unresisting body,—thanks! He burned that garment spotted by the flesh! Whatever he touched is rightly ruined: plague It caught, and disinfection it had craved Still but for Guido; I am saved through him So as by fire; to him—thanks and farewell! Even for my babe, my boy, there’s safety thence— From the sudden death of me, I mean; we poor Weak souls, how we endeavour to be strong! I was already using up my life,— This portion, now, should do him such a good, This other go to keep off such an ill! The great life; see, a breath and it is gone! So is detached, so left all by itself The little life, the fact which means so much. Shall not God stoop the kindlier to His work, His marvel of creation, foot would crush, Now that the hand He trusted to receive And hold it, lets the treasure fall perforce? The better; He shall have in orphanage His own way all the clearlier: if my babe Outlive the hour—and he has lived two weeks— It is through God who knows I am not by. Who is it makes the soft gold hair turn black, And sets the tongue, might lie so long at rest, Trying to talk? Let us leave God alone! Why should I doubt He will explain in time What I feel now, but fail to find the words? My babe nor was, nor is, nor yet shall be Count Guido Franceschini’s child at all— Only his mother’s, born of love not hate! So shall I have my rights in after-time. It seems absurd, impossible to-day; So seems so much else not explained but known. Ah! Friends, I thank and bless you every one! No more now: I withdraw from earth and man To my own soul, compose myself for God. Well, and there is more! Yes, my end of breath Shall bear away my soul in being true! He is still here, not outside with the world, Here, here, I have him in his rightful place! ’Tis now, when I am most upon the move, I feel for what I verily find—again The face, again the eyes, again, through all, The heart and its immeasurable love Of my one friend, my only, all my own, Who put his breast between the spears and me. Ever with Caponsacchi! Otherwise Here alone would be failure, loss to me— How much more loss to him, with life debarred From giving life, love locked from love’s display, The day-star stopped its task that makes night morn! O lover of my life, O soldier-saint, No work begun shall ever pause for death! Love will be helpful to me more and more I’ the coming course, the new path I must tread, My weak hand in thy strong hand, strong for that! Tell him that if I seem without him now, That’s the world’s insight! Oh, he understands! He is at Civita—do I once doubt The world again is holding us apart? He had been here, displayed in my behalf The broad brow that reverberates the truth, And flashed the word God gave him, back to man! I know where the free soul is flown! My fate Will have been hard for even him to bear: Let it confirm him in the trust of God, Showing how holily he dared the deed! And, for the rest,—say, from the deed, no touch Of harm came, but all good, all happiness, Not one faint fleck of failure! Why explain? What I see, oh, he sees and how much more! Tell him,—I know not wherefore the true word Should fade and fall unuttered at the last— It was the name of him I sprang to meet When came the knock, the summons and the end. “My great hurt, my strong hand are back again!” I would have sprung to these, beckoning across Murder and hell gigantic and distinct O’ the threshold, posted to exclude me heaven: He is ordained to call and I to come! Do not the dead wear flowers when dressed for God? Say,—I am all in flowers from head to foot! Say,—not one flower of all he said and did, Might seem to flit unnoticed, fade unknown, But dropped a seed has grown a balsam-tree Whereof the blossoming perfumes the place At this supreme of moments! He is a priest; He cannot marry therefore, which is right: I think he would not marry if he could. Marriage on earth seems such a counterfeit, Mere imitation of the inimitable: In heaven we have the real and true and sure. ’Tis there they neither marry nor are given In marriage but are as the angels: right, Oh how right that is, how like Jesus Christ To say that! Marriage-making for the earth, With gold so much,—birth, power, repute so much, Or beauty, youth so much, in lack of these! Be as the angels rather, who, apart, Know themselves into one, are found at length Married, but marry never, no, nor give In marriage; they are man and wife at once When the true time is: here we have to wait Not so long neither! Could we by a wish Have what we will and get the future now, Would we wish ought done undone in the past? So, let him wait God’s instant men call years; Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul, Do out the duty! Through such souls alone God stooping shows sufficient of His light For us i’ the dark to rise by. And I rise.
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