As if he had been in earnest: that, you know,
Was nothing like the object of his charge.
Yes, when I got my maid to supplicate
The priest, whose name she read when she would read
Those feigned false letters I was forced to hear
Though I could read no word of, — he should cease
Writing, — nay, if he minded prayer of mine,
Cease from so much as even pass the street
Whereon our house looked, — in my ignorance
I was just thwarting Guido’s true intent;
Which was, to bring about a wicked change
Of sport to earnest, tempt a thoughtless man
To write indeed, and pass the house, and more,
Till both of us were taken in a crime.
He ought not to have wished me thus act lies,
Simulate folly, — but, — wrong or right, the wish, —
I failed to apprehend its drift. How plain
It follows, — if I fell into such fault,
He also may have overreached the mark,
Made mistake, by perversity of brain,
In the whole sad strange plot, this same intrigue
To make me and my friend unself ourselves,
Be other man and woman than we were!
Think it out, you who have the time! for me, —
I cannot say less; more I will not say.
Leave it to God to cover and undo!
Only, my dulness should not prove too much!
— Not prove that in a certain other point
Wherein my husband blamed me, — and you blame,
If I interpret smiles and shakes of head, —
I was dull too. Oh, if I dared but speak!
Must I speak? I am blamed that I forwent
A way to make my husband’s favour come.
That is true: I was firm, withstood, refused . . .
— Women as you are, how can I find the words?
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 blameable — (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, — ’tis virtue or ‘tis 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 “‘Twas 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 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 fleshy 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 ‘twere 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 nought 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, ‘tis 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 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, saved 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 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-back bough 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 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 nought,
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 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 chrystal 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 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 saviour 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 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 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 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.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 110