University of Virginia Library

Forgive me, Father! Those were wild, bad words,
From the foul bottom of my heart stirred up
By agitation.—Turn not thus away,
I will repent—I think I do repent,—
Yet who can answer, when temptation comes,
For calm resolves? When windy passion swells
The turbulent thoughts, our weakly-builded dykes
Burst, and the overbearing sea, let through,
In one wild rush pours in, and swirls away
Our boasted resolutions, like light chips.

Yet, holy Father! give me now your hand,
And I will try to think of youth and home,
And violets in spring, and all sweet things
I used to love, when I was innocent,
For they may calm me—Yet, no! no! 't is vain!
The great black wall of yesterday shuts out
All other yesterdays that went before;
I cannot overpeer its horror and look down
Into the peaceful garden-plot beyond.

I was not all to blame. You, who have heard
So many tales of passion, lean your ear,
And I will tell you mine—but make the sign,
The blessed sign of the cross, ere I begin.

'T was twilight—and the early lighted lamps
Were flickering down into the Arno's tide
While yet the daylight lingered in the skies,
Silvering and paling—when I saw him first.
I was returning from my work, and paused
Upon the Bridge of Santa Trinitā,
To rest, and think how fair our Florence is,
How sweet the air smelt after that close room,
And how privation, like a darkened tube,
Made joy the sweeter, through its darkness seen.

And I remember, o'er the hazy hills
Far, far away, how exquisitely fair
The twilight seemed that night—my heart was soft
With tender longings, misted with a dim
Sad pleasure—as a mirror with the breath—
(Ah! never will those feelings come again.)
I wondered if the thronging crowd that passed
Felt half the wondrous beauty of the hour;
And I was in a mood to take a stamp
From any passing chance,—even like those clouds
That caught the tenderest thrill of dying light,—
When by some inward sense, I know not what,
I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away
By eyes that had a strange magnetic will,
And so I turned from those far hills to see
A stranger;—no! even then he did not seem
A stranger—but as one I once had known,
Not here in Florence, not in any place,
But somehow in my spirit known and seen,
Elsewhere, I know not where, perhaps in dreams;
I felt his eyes were staying upon me,
And a sweet, serious smile was on his mouth,
Nor could I help but look and smile again.
I know not what it was went to and fro
Between us then, in that swift smile and glance;
But something went that thrilled me through and through,
And fluttered all my thoughts, as when a bird
Shivers with both his wings some peaceful pool:
We neither spoke—but that quick clash of souls
Had struck a spark that set me all a-fire.

With what a turbulent heart I traversed then
The Bridge, and plunged into the narrow streets,
Heavy with shadows, till I gained my room;
Yet there I could not rest—I leaned from out
My balcony above the street and gazed
At every passer-by, the evening long,
Till midnight struck, and all the humming crowd
Poured home from theatre and opera,—
In hopes to see him. Silent grew the streets,
Save here and there, where rang the echoing feet
Of some late walker singing as he went.
The few lamps on the lonely pavement glared,
The still stars stood in the dark river of night,
That flowed between the house-tops far above,
And all was rest.—At last I lit my lamp,
And with a prayer, (I never prayed till then,
It seemed to me—so fervently I prayed,)
Crept to my bed. Half dreaming, I rehearsed
The evening scene—and saw again his smile—
And wondered who he was—and if again
We ere should meet—and what would come of it—
Until at last I wore away to sleep,
Almost when morning was upon the hills.

And days went by—and that one thought of him
Ran through thought's labyrinth, like a silver clue.
Waking, I did not see my work; I sewed
Love's broidery in with every stitch I made;
And I grew silent, sad, and spiritless,
And ceased to talk and jest as I was wont,
Until Beata laughed at me, and said,
Pointing me out to all the other girls,
“Santa Maria! Nina is in love!”
And all of them looked up at me and laughed;
I could have struck her—but I had to laugh.

At last the Festa of the Madonna came,
And in the costume of my native town,
(I am an Albanese, as you know,)
I, and Beata, and the other girls,
Went to the Duomo, as we always do,
To see the grand procession and hear mass;
And there, I kneeling prayed for him and me.
I heard the laboring organ in the dome
Struggle and groan, and, stopping short, give place
Unto the Bishop's harsh and croaking chant;
I heard, at intervals, the crowd's response
Rising around me with a muffled roar,
The steaming censer clicking as it swung,
The sharp, quick tinkle of the bell; at last
The whole crowd rustling sank upon its knees,
And silence reigned—the host was raised—a strain
Of trumpets sounded—and the mass was o'er;
My heart was full—I lingered when they went,
Beata, Maddalena, Bice, all,
And leaned against a pillar in the choir,
Where Michael Angelo's half-finished group
Stands in the shadow—I, in shadow too—
How long I stood I know not, but a voice
That made my blood stop whispered me at last.
I knew that it was he. What could I do?
He knew I loved him—and I knew he loved.
He said to me ... Ah! no, I cannot say
What words he said,—to me they were not words;
But ere we parted it was late at night,
And I was happy,—oh, so happy then,—
It seemed as if this earth could never add
One little drop more to the joy I owned,
For all that passionate torrent pent within
My heart had found its utterance and response.

He was Venetian, and that radiant hair
We black-haired girls so covet haloed round
His sunny northern face and soft blue eyes.
I know not why he loved me—me so black,
With this black skin, that every Roman has,
And these black eyes, black hair, that I so hate.
Why loved he not Beata?—she is fair.—
But yet he often took these cheeks of mine
Between his hands, and, looking in my eyes,
Swore that Beata's body was not worth
One half my finger—and then kissed me full
Upon the mouth as if to seal his oath.
Ah! glorious seal—I feel those lips there now!
And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows
Like a great star—look here—it was the day
He hung this little cross upon my neck,
And pressed his lips, here, just above the eyes.

Ah, well! those days are gone. No! No! No! No!
They are not gone;—I love him madly now,
I love him madly as I loved him then;
And I again would ... No! I will be calm—
Just place your hand upon my forehead here,
It soothes me—I will try to be more calm.

I gave him all—heart, soul and body—all—
Even the great hope of another world
I would have given for one wish of his;
With him this life was all I asked to have—
'T was Paradise—what more or better then
Was there to hope for?—without him the best
Was only hell—is only hell to me.

Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by;
You could not heap a golden cup more full
Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy.
Long mornings in his studio there I sat
And heard his voice—or, when he did not speak
I felt his presence, like a rich perfume,
Fill all my thoughts. At times he 'd rise and come
And sit beside me, take my hands in his,
And call me best and dearest—heaping names
Of love upon me—till beneath their weight
I bent, and clung unto his neck, and wept;
Oh! what glad tears, he kissed them all away.

I was his model—hours and hours I posed
For him to paint his Cleopatra—fierce,
With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips,
A great gold serpent on her rounded arm,
('T was mine, look now how lean and bony 't is,)
And a broad band of gold around her head;
And oft he 'd say, “I am your Antony,
Ready to fling the world away for you;
But you, if I should fall upon my sword,
You 'd live for Cæsar's triumph—would you not?”
And I, a little vexed, although I knew
He did not mean his words, would laugh and say,
“For all your boast, you men are all the same,
You would not risk a kingdom for your love,
You 'd marry weak Octavia—all of you.”

Had I not reason? Yet those foolish words,
They burn here in my memory, like red drops
Of molten brass—those little foolish jests
Were eggs of serpents that now hiss and sting;
I curse my tongue that spoke them—for he loves,
I know he loves me—loves me now as then.

What a long trail of flushed and orient light
Those summer days were! but the autumn came,
The stricken, bleeding autumn came at last.
I saw him grow more serious, day by day,
More fitful, sudden, gusty—something weighed
Upon his mind I could not understand—
I sought to win his secret—but in vain.
“'T is nothing, love,” he 'd say—then rising quick,
With sudden push would dash away his hair
From his grand forehead—to the window go,
And with his back turned to me, stand and stare
For full five minutes in the garden there.
I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask.
I waited as we women have to wait.
At last 't was clear,—two words made all things clear—
“Love, I must go to Venice.” “Must?” “Yes, must!”
“Then I go too.” “No! no! ah! Nina, no—
Four weeks pass swiftly—one short month, and then
I shall return to Florence, and to you.”

Vain were my words, he went—alas, he went
With all the sunshine—and I wore alone
The weary weeks out of that hateful month.
Another month I waited, nervous, fierce
With love's impatience—thinking every day
I heard his voice and step upon the stair,
And listening to the carriages all night,
And straining each back as it passed the house,—
With fits of weeping when it rolled away
In the lone midnight.—When that month was gone
My heart was all a-fire—I could not stay,
Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down
Into a fever—Necklace, earrings, all,
I sold—and on to Venice rushed. How long
That dreary never-ending journey seemed!
I cursed the hills, up which we slowly dragged,
The long flat plains of Lombardy I cursed,
With files of poplars stretching out and out,
That kept me back from Venice—but at last
In a black gondola I swam along
The sea-built city, and my heart was big
With the glad thought that I was near to him.
Yes! gladness came upon me that soft night,
And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on
My dancing heart. One little half-hour more
And I should be again within his arms;
And how he 'd be surprised to see me here,
And laugh at me. In vain I strove to curb
My glad impatience,—I must see him then,
At once, that very night—I could not wait
The tardy morning—'t was a year away.—
I only gave the gondolier his name,
And said, “You know him?” “Yes.” “Then row me quick
To where he is.” He bowed, and on we went
Threading along the grand canal so swift
The oar sprang to the pressure of his arm;
And as we swept along, I leaned me out
And dragged my burning fingers in the wave,
My hurried heart forecasting to itself
Our meeting—what he 'd say, and do, and think,
How I should hang upon his neck, and say,
“I could not longer live without you, dear.”—
In thought like this, I had no heart to list
The idle babbling of a gondolier;
I bade him not to talk, but row—row—row!

At last he paused, stretched out his hand, and said,
“There is the palace.” I was struck aghast—
It flared with lights that from the windows streamed
And trickled down into the black canal—
Faint bursts of music swelled from out the doors—
A swarm of gondolas close huddling thronged
Around the oozy steps. “Stop! stop!” I cried,
For a wild doubt rushed swiftly through my mind,
That scared me—like a strange noise in a wood
A traveller hears at night,—“'T is some mistake;
Why are these lights? This palace is not his,
He owns no palace.” “Pardon,” answered he,
“I fancied the Signora wished to see
The marriage festa—and all Venice knows
The bride receives to-night.” “What bride, whose bride?”
I snapped, impatient. “Count Alberti's bride,
Whose else?” he answered with a shrug. My heart
From its glad singing height dropped like a lark
Shot dead, at those few words. The whole world reeled,
And for a moment I was stunned and crushed;
Then came the wild revulsion of despair;
Then calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain.
“Row to the steps,” I said. He rowed. I leaped
On their wet edge, and stared in at the door,
Where all was hurry, hum, and buzz, and light.
I was so calm—I never was so calm
As then, despairing. Yet one little jet
Of hope was stirring in that stagnant marsh—
That little jet was all that troubled me—
My eyes ran lightning zigzag through the crowd
In search of him—he was not there—ah, God!
I breathed,—he was not there—I inly cursed
My unbelief, and turned me round to go—
There was a sudden murmur near the door,
And I beheld him walking at her side.
Oh! cursed be the hour I saw that sight,
And cursed be the place!—I saw those eyes,
That used to look such passion into mine,
Turned with the self-same look to other eyes
That upward gazed at his—yes, light blue eyes,
Just like Beata's—hers were light blue eyes!—
I saw her smiling—saw him smiling too,
As they advanced—I could not bear her bliss;
My heart stood still, and all the hurrying crowd
Seemed spectral, nothing lived but those two forms;
The Past all broke to pieces with a crash
That stunned me, shattering every power of thought:
I scarcely know what happened then—I know
I felt for the stiletto in my vest,
With purpose that was half mechanical,
As if a demon used my hand for his,
I heard the red blood singing in my brain,
I struck—before me at my feet she fell.

Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth,
Your pearls and splendors, what did they avail
Against the sharp stiletto's little point?
You should have thought of that before you dared—
You, who had all the world beside—to steal
The only treasure that the Roman girl,
The poor despised black Roman, ever had;
You will not smile again, as then you smiled,—
Thank God! you'll never smile again for him.
And I alone of all the crowd stood calm;
I was avenged—avenged until I saw
The dreadful look he gave me as he turned
From her dead face and looked in mine—Ah, God!
It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep.

When will he come, and tell me he forgives
And loves me still? Oh, Father! bid him come,
Come quickly—come and let me die in peace.
Tell him I could not help it, I was mad,
But I repent, I suffer,—he at least
Should pity and forgive. Oh! make him come
And say he loves me, and then let me die.
I shall be ready then to die—but now
I cannot think of God; my heart is hell,
Is hell, until I know he loves me still.