| |
| ALAS, Fra Giacomo, | |
| Too late!—but follow me; | |
| Hush! draw the curtain,—so!— | |
| She is dead, quite dead, you see. | |
| Poor little lady! she lies | 5 |
| With the light gone out of her eyes, | |
| But her features still wear that soft | |
| Gray meditative expression, | |
| Which you must have noticed oft, | |
| And admired too, at confession. | 10 |
| How saintly she looks, and how meek! | |
| Though this be the chamber of death, | |
| I fancy I feel her breath | |
| As I kiss her on the cheek. | |
| With that pensive religious face, | 15 |
| She has gone to a holier place! | |
| And I hardly appreciated her,— | |
| Her praying, fasting, confessing, | |
| Poorly, I own, I mated her; | |
| I thought her too cold, and rated her | 20 |
| For her endless image-caressing. | |
| Too saintly for me by far, | |
| As pure and as cold as a star, | |
| Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,— | |
| But made for a heavenly crown. | 25 |
| Ay, father, let us go down,— | |
| But first, if you please, your blessing. | |
| |
| Wine? No? Come, come, you must! | |
| You ’ll bless it with your prayers, | |
| And quaff a cup, I trust, | 30 |
| To the health of the saint up stairs? | |
| My heart is aching so! | |
| And I feel so weary and sad, | |
| Through the blow that I have had,— | |
| You ’ll sit, Fra Giacomo? | 35 |
| My friend! (and a friend I rank you | |
| For the sake of that saint,)—nay, nay! | |
| Here ’s the wine,—as you love me, stay!— | |
| ’T is Montepulciano!—Thank you. | |
| |
| Heigh-ho! ’T is now six summers | 40 |
| Since I won that angel and married her: | |
| I was rich, not old, and carried her | |
| Off in the face of all comers. | |
| So fresh, yet so brimming with soul! | |
| A tenderer morsel, I swear, | 45 |
| Never made the dull black coal | |
| Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare. | |
| Your pardon!—nay, keep your chair! | |
| I wander a little, but mean | |
| No offence to the gray gaberdine; | 50 |
| Of the church, Fra Giacomo, | |
| I ’m a faithful upholder, you know, | |
| But (humor me!) she was as sweet | |
| As the saints in your convent windows, | |
| So gentle, so meek, so discreet, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| I was wrong,—I was blind as a bat,— | |
| Brute that I was, how I blundered! | |
| Though such a mistake as that | |
| Might have occurred as pat | |
| To ninety-nine men in a hundred. | 65 |
| Yourself, for example? you ’ve seen her? | |
| Spite her modest and pious demeanor, | |
| And the manners so nice and precise, | |
| Seemed there not color and light, | |
| Bright motion and appetite, | 70 |
| That were scarcely consistent with ice? | |
| Externals implying, you see, | |
| Internals less saintly than human?— | |
| Pray speak, for between you and me | |
| You ’re not a bad judge of a woman! | 75 |
| A jest,—but a jest!—Very true: | |
| ’T is hardly becoming to jest, | |
| And that saint up stairs at rest,— | |
| Her soul may be listening, too! | |
| I was always a brute of a fellow! | 80 |
| Well may your visage turn yellow,— | |
| To think how I doubted and doubted, | |
| Suspected, grumbled at, flouted | |
| That golden-haired angel,—and solely | |
| Because she was zealous and holy! | 85 |
| Noon and night and morn | |
| She devoted herself to piety; | |
| Not that she seemed to scorn | |
| Or dislike her husband’s society; | |
| But the claims of her soul superseded | 90 |
| All that I asked for or needed, | |
| And her thoughts were far away | |
| From the level of sinful clay, | |
| And she trembled if earthly matters | |
| Interfered with her aves and paters. | 95 |
| Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying | |
| Above the dim vapors of hell— | |
| Bent on self-sanctifying— | |
| That she never thought of trying | |
| To save her husband as well. | 100 |
| And while she was duly elected | |
| For place in the heavenly roll, | |
| I (brute that I was!) suspected | |
| Her manner of saving her soul. | |
| So, half for the fun of the thing, | 105 |
| What did I (blasphemer!) but fling | |
| On my shoulders the gown of a monk— | |
| Whom I managed for that very day | |
| To get safely out of the way— | |
| And seat me, half sober, half drunk, | 110 |
| With the cowl thrown over my face, | |
| In the father confessor’s place. | |
| Eheu! benedicite! | |
| In her orthodox sweet simplicity, | |
| With that pensive gray expression, | 115 |
| She sighfully knelt at confession, | |
| While I bit my lips till they bled, | |
| And dug my nails in my hand, | |
| And heard with averted head | |
| What I ’d guessed and could understand. | 120 |
| Each word was a serpent’s sting, | |
| But, wrapt in my gloomy gown, | |
| I sat, like a marble thing, | |
| As she told me all!—SIT DOWN! | |
| |
| More wine, Fra Giacomo! | 125 |
| One cup,—if you love me! No? | |
| What, have these dry lips drank | |
| So deep of the sweets of pleasure— | |
| Sub rosa, but quite without measure— | |
| That Montepulciano tastes rank? | 130 |
| Come, drink! ’t will bring the streaks | |
| Of crimson back to your cheeks; | |
| Come, drink again to the saint | |
| Whose virtues you loved to paint, | |
| Who, stretched on her wifely bed, | 135 |
| With the tender, grave expression | |
| You used to admire at confession, | |
| Lies poisoned, overhead! | |
| |
| Sit still,—or by heaven, you die! | |
| Face to face, soul to soul, you and I | 140 |
| Have settled accounts, in a fine | |
| Pleasant fashion, over our wine. | |
| Stir not, and seek not to fly,— | |
| Nay, whether or not, you are mine! | |
| Thank Montepulciano for giving | 145 |
| You death in such delicate sips; | |
| ’T is not every monk ceases living | |
| With so pleasant a taste on his lips; | |
| But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss, | |
| Take this! and this! and this! | 150 |
| |
| Cover him over, Pietro, | |
| And bury him in the court below,— | |
| You can be secret, lad, I know! | |
| And, hark you, then to the convent go,— | |
| Bid every bell of the convent toll, | 155 |
| And the monks say mass for your mistress’ soul. | |
| |
