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 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] 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 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 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 with ice?[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 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 her soul[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 her aves and paters.[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 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,
Lies POISONED,[581] overhead!
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.