My child is safe; there seems not so much pain.
It comes, most like, that I am just absolved,
Purged of the past, the foul in me, washed fair, —
One cannot both have and not have, you know, —
Being right now, I am happy and colour things.
Yes, every body that leaves life sees all
Softened and bettered: so with other sights:
To me at least was never evening yet
But seemed far beautifuller than its day,
For past is past.
There was a fancy came,
When somewhere, in the journey with my friend,
We stepped into a hovel to get food;
And there began a yelp here, a bark there, —
Misunderstanding creatures that were worth
And vexed themselves and us till we retired.
The hovel is life: no matter what dogs bit
Or cats scratched in the hovel I break from,
All outside is lone field, moon and such peace —
Flowing in, filling up as with a sea
Whereon comes Someone, walks fast on the white,
Jesus Christ’s self, Don Celestine declares,
To meet me and calm all things back again.
Beside, up to my marriage, thirteen years
Were, each day, happy as the day was long:
This may have made the change too terrible.
I know that when Violante told me first
The cavalier, — she meant to bring next morn,
Whom I must also let take, kiss my hand, —
Would be at San Lorenzo the same eve
And marry me, — which over, we should go
Home both of us without him as before,
And, till she bade speak, I must hold my tongue,
Such being the correct way with girl-brides,
From whom one word would make a father blush, —
I know, I say, that when she told me this,
— Well, I no more saw sense in what she said
Than a lamb does in people clipping wool;
Only lay down and let myself be clipped.
And when next day the cavalier who came
(Tisbe had told me that the slim young man
With wings at head, and wings at feet, and sword
Threatening a monster, in our tapestry,
Would eat a girl else, — was a cavalier)
When he proved Guido Franceschini, — old
And nothing like so tall as I myself,
Hook-nosed and yellow in a bush of beard,
Much like a thing I saw on a boy’s wrist,
He called an owl and used for catching birds, —
And when he took my hand and made a smile —
Why, the uncomfortableness of it all
Seemed hardly more important in the case
Than, — when one gives you, say, a coin to spend, —
Its newness or its oldness; if the piece
Weigh properly and buy you what you wish,
No matter whether you get grime or glare!
Men take the coin, return you grapes and figs.
Here, marriage was the coin, a dirty piece
Would purchase me the praise of those I loved:
About what else should I concern myself?
So, hardly knowing what a husband meant,
I supposed this or any man would serve,
No whit the worse for being so uncouth:
For I was ill once and a doctor came
With a great ugly hat, no plume thereto,
Black jerkin and black buckles and black sword,
And white sharp beard over the ruff in front,
And oh so lean, so sour-faced and austere! —
Who felt my pulse, made me put out my tongue,
Then oped a phial, dripped a drop or two
Of a black bitter something, — I was cured!
What mattered the fierce beard or the grim face?
It was the physic beautified the man,
Master Malpichi, — never met his match
In Rome, they said, — so ugly all the same!
However, I was hurried through a storm,
Next dark eve of December’s deadest day —
How it rained! — through our street and the Lion’s-mouth
And the bit of Corso, — cloaked round, covered close,
I was like something strange or contraband, —
Into blank San Lorenzo, up the aisle,
My mother keeping hold of me so tight,
I fancied we were come to see a corpse
Before the altar which she pulled me toward.
There we found waiting an unpleasant priest
Who proved the brother, not our parish friend,
But one with mischief-making mouth and eye,
Paul, whom I know since to my cost. And then
I heard the heavy church-door lock out help
Behind us: for the customary warmth,
Two tapers shivered on the altar. “Quick —
“Lose no time!” — cried the priest. And straightway down
From . . . what’s behind the altar where he hid —
Hawk-nose and yellowness and bush and all,
Stepped Guido, caught my hand, and there was I
O’ the chancel, and the priest had opened book,
Read here and there, made me say that and this,
And after, told me I was now a wife,
Honoured indeed, since Christ thus weds the Church,
And therefore turned he water into wine,
To show I should obey my spouse like Christ.
Then the two slipped aside and talked apart.
And I, silent and scared, got down again
And joined my mother who was weeping now.
Nobody seemed to mind us any more,
And both of us on tiptoe found our way
To the door which was unlocked by this, and wide.
When we were in the street, the rain had stopped,
All things looked better. At our own house-door,
Violante whispered “No one syllable
“To Pietro! Girl-brides never breathe a word!”
“ — Well treated to a wetting, draggle-tails!”
Laughed Pietro as he opened — ”Very near
“You made me brave the gutter’s roaring sea
“To carry off from roost old dove and young,
“Trussed up in church, the cote, by me, the kite!
“What do these priests mean, praying folk to death
“On stormy afternoons, with Christmas close
“To wash our sins off nor require the rain?”
Violante gave my hand a timely squeeze,
Madonna saved me from immodest speech,
I kissed him and was quiet, being a bride.
When I saw nothing more, the next three weeks,
Of Guido — ”Nor the Church sees Christ” thought I:
“Nothing is changed however, wine is wine
“And water only water in our house.
“Nor did I see that ugly doctor since
“The cure of the illness: just as I was cured,
“I am married, — neither scarecrow will return.”
Three weeks, I chuckled — ”How would Giulia stare,
“And Tecla smile and Tisbe laugh outright,
“Were it not impudent for brides to talk!” —
Until one morning, as I sat and sang
At the broidery-frame alone i’ the chamber, — loud
Voices, two, three together, sobbings too,
And my name, “Guido,” “Paolo,” flung like stones
From each to the other! In I ran to see.
There stood the very Guido and the priest
With sly face, — formal but nowise afraid, —
While Pietro seemed all red and angry, scarce
Able to stutter out his wrath in words;
And this it
was that made my mother sob,
As he reproached her — ”You have murdered us,
“Me and yourself and this our child beside!”
The Guido interposed “Murdered or not,
“Be it enough your child is now my wife!
“I claim and come to take her.” Paul put in,
“Consider — kinsman, dare I term you so? —
“What is the good of your sagacity
“Except to counsel in a strait like this?
“I guarantee the parties man and wife
“Whether you like or loathe it, bless or ban.
“May spilt milk be put back within the bowl —
“The done thing, undone? You, it is, we look
“For counsel to, you fitliest will advise!
“Since milk, though spilt and spoilt, does marble good,
“Better we down on knees and scrub the floor,
“Than sigh, ‘the waste would make a syllabub!’
“Help us so turn disaster to account,
“So predispose the groom, he needs shall grace
“The bride with favour from the very first,
“Not begin marriage an embittered man!”
He smiled, — the game so wholly in his hands!
While fast and faster sobbed Violante — ”Ay,
“All of us murdered, past averting now!
“O my sin, O my secret!” and such like.
Then I began to half surmise the truth;
Something had happened, low, mean, underhand,
False, and my mother was to blame, and I
To pity, whom all spoke of, none addressed:
I was the chattel that had caused a crime.
I stood mute, — those who tangled must untie
The embroilment. Pietro cried “Withdraw, my child!
“She is not helpful to the sacrifice
“At this stage, — do you want the victim by
“While you discuss the value of her blood?
“For her sake, I consent to hear you talk:
“Go, child, and pray God help the innocent!”
I did go and was praying God, when came
Violante, with eyes swollen and red enough,
But movement on her mouth for make-believe
Matters were somehow getting right again.
She bade me sit down by her side and hear.
“You are too young and cannot understand,
“Nor did your father understand at first.
“I wished to benefit all three of us,
“And when he failed to take my meaning, — why,
“I tried to have my way at unaware —
“Obtained him the advantage he refused.
“As if I put before him wholesome food
“Instead of broken victual, — he finds change
“I’ the viands, never cares to reason why,
“But falls to blaming me, would fling the plate
“From window, scandalise the neighbourhood,
“Even while he smacks his lips, — men’s way, my child!
“But either you have prayed him unperverse
“Or I have talked him back into his wits:
“And Paolo was a help in time of need, —
“Guido, not much — my child, the way of men!
“A priest is more a woman than a man,
“And Paul did wonders to persuade. In short,
“Yes, he was wrong, your father sees and says;
“My scheme was worth attempting: and bears fruit,
“Gives you a husband and a noble name,
“A palace and no end of pleasant things.
“What do you care about a handsome youth?
“They are so volatile, and teaze their wives!
“This is the kind of man to keep the house.
“We lose no daughter, — gain a son, that’s all:
“For ‘tis arranged we never separate,
“Nor miss, in our grey time of life, the tints
“Of you that colour eve to match with morn.
“In good or ill, we share and share alike,
“And cast our lots into a common lap,
“And all three die together as we lived!
“Only, at Arezzo, — that’s a Tuscan town,
“Not so large as this noisy Rome, no doubt,
“But older far and finer much, say folks, —
“In a great palace where you will be queen,
“Know the Archbishop and the Governor,
“And we see homage done you ere we die.
“Therefore, be good and pardon!” — ”Pardon what?
“You know things, I am very ignorant:
“All is right if you only will not cry!”
And so an end! Because a blank begins
From when, at the word, she kissed me hard and hot,
And took me back to where my father leaned
Opposite Guido — who stood eyeing him,
As eyes the butcher the cast panting ox
That feels his fate is come, nor struggles more, —
While Paul looked archly on, pricked brow at whiles
With the pen-point as to punish triumph there, —
And said “Count Guido, take your lawful wife
“Until death part you!”
All since is one blank,
Over and ended; a terrific dream.
It is the good of dreams — so soon they go!
Wake in a horror of heart-beats, you may —
Cry, “The dread thing will never from my thoughts!”
Still, a few daylight doses of plain life,
Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or bleat and bell
Of goats that trot by, tinkling, to be milked;
And when you rub your eyes awake and wide,
Where is the harm o’ the horror? Gone! So here.
I know I wake, — but from what? Blank, I say!
This is the note of evil: for good lasts.
Even when Don Celestine bade “Search and find!
“For your soul’s sake, remember what is past,
“The better to forgive it,” — all in vain!
What was fast getting indistinct before,
Vanished outright. By special grace perhaps,
Between that first calm and this last, four years
Vanish, — one quarter of my life, you know.
I am held up, amid the nothingness,
By one or two truths only — thence I hang,
And there I live, — the rest is death or dream,
All but those points of my support. I think
Of what I saw at Rome once in the Square
O’ the Spaniards, opposite the Spanish House:
There was a foreigner had trained a goat,
A shuddering white woman of a beast,
To climb up, stand straight on a pile of sticks
Put close, which gave the creature room enough:
When she was settled there he, one by one,
Took away all the sticks, left just the four
Whereon the little hoofs did really rest,
There she kept firm, all underneath was air.
So, what I hold by, are my prayer to God,
My hope, that came in answer to the prayer,
Some hand would interpose and save me — hand
Which proved to be my friend’s hand: and, — best bliss, —
That fancy which began so faint at first,
That thrill of dawn’s suffusion through my dark,
Which I perceive was promise of my child,
The light his unborn face sent long before, —
God’s way of breaking the good news to flesh.
That is all left now of those four bad years.
Don Celestine urged “But remember more!
“Other men’s faults may help me find your own.
“I need the cruelty exposed, explained,
“Or how can I advise you to forgive?”
; He thought I could not properly forgive
Unless I ceased forgetting, — which is true:
For, bringing back reluctantly to mind
My husband’s treatment of me, — by a light
That’s later than my life-time, I review
And comprehend much and imagine more,
And have but little to forgive at last.
For now, — be fair and say, — is it not true
He was ill-used and cheated of his hope
To get enriched by marriage? Marriage gave
Me and no money, broke the compact so:
He had a right to ask me on those terms,
As Pietro and Violante to declare
They would not give me: so the bargain stood:
They broke it, and he felt himself aggrieved,
Became unkind with me to punish them.
They said ‘twas he began deception first,
Nor, in one point whereto he pledged himself,
Kept promise: what of that, suppose it were?
Echoes die off, scarcely reverberate
For ever, — why should ill keep echoing ill,
And never let our ears have done with noise?
Then my poor parents took the violent way
To thwart him, — he must needs retaliate, — wrong,
Wrong, and all wrong, — better say, all blind!
As I myself was, that is sure, who else
Had understood the mystery: for his wife
Was bound in some sort to help somehow there.
It seems as if I might have interposed,
Blunted the edge of their resentment so,
Since he vexed me because they first vexed him;
“I will entreat them to desist, submit,
“Give him the money and be poor in peace, —
“Certainly not go tell the world: perhaps
“He will grow quiet with his gains.”
Yes, say
Something to this effect and you do well!
But then you have to see first: I was blind.
That is the fruit of all such wormy ways,
The indirect, the unapproved of God:
You cannot find their author’s end and aim,
Not even to substitute your good for bad,
Your open for the irregular; you stand
Stupefied, profitless, as cow or sheep
That miss a man’s mind; anger him just twice
By trial at repairing the first fault.
Thus, when he blamed me, “You are a coquette,
“A lure-owl posturing to attract birds,
“You look love-lures at theatre and church,
“In walk, at window!” — that, I knew, was false:
But why he charged me falsely, whither sought
To drive me by such charge, — how could I know?
So, unaware, I only made things worse.
I tried to soothe him by abjuring walk,
Window, church, theatre, for good and all,
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 109