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 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
97
VIOLANTE.
(Ravenna, A. D. 1500.)
[_]
The main incident of this poem has been suggested by Boccaccio, though it is said not to be of his invention. He has treated it in a comic manner, quite opposite to the one here employed.
Lean closer yet, Fiametta. Catch my hand
Right firmly and hold it to your smooth cool palm,
Not mindful if the fever of it burn
Your clinging fingers, nor if spasms of pain
Jar it within your clasp. For a little space
Bear with me, cara mia, innocent one,
Just sixteen, with the great eyes and rich hair.
To-morrow, if you are leaning o'er my bed,
I shall be white and wordless, though you raved!
Right firmly and hold it to your smooth cool palm,
Not mindful if the fever of it burn
Your clinging fingers, nor if spasms of pain
Jar it within your clasp. For a little space
Bear with me, cara mia, innocent one,
Just sixteen, with the great eyes and rich hair.
To-morrow, if you are leaning o'er my bed,
I shall be white and wordless, though you raved!
Oh, it is well they have not brought a priest!
Let them not bring one, for I truly fear
I should go mad and spit at him, once brought.
Fiametta, look you, I am wholly damned,
Steeped horribly in red sin past cleansing change,
Damned to the inmost core of this poor soul,
Streaked thick with guiltiest mirk from brow to heel,
Doomed and damned utterly! Child, it could avail
Nothing if I got holiest rites of church
At the last hour, being what I am. So, now,
Taunt me, I pray you, with no sight of priest!
Nay, only let me lie and brokenly gasp
In your alarmed ear this strange terrible tale
Of my supreme crime ... Surely at its end
The effort will have left me power no more
Than just for one fleet farewell. After this,
Though a million organs groaned my requiem up
To high God through a million censers' fumes,
My spirit in anguish would be writhing still!
Let them not bring one, for I truly fear
I should go mad and spit at him, once brought.
Fiametta, look you, I am wholly damned,
Steeped horribly in red sin past cleansing change,
Damned to the inmost core of this poor soul,
Streaked thick with guiltiest mirk from brow to heel,
Doomed and damned utterly! Child, it could avail
Nothing if I got holiest rites of church
At the last hour, being what I am. So, now,
Taunt me, I pray you, with no sight of priest!
Nay, only let me lie and brokenly gasp
98
Of my supreme crime ... Surely at its end
The effort will have left me power no more
Than just for one fleet farewell. After this,
Though a million organs groaned my requiem up
To high God through a million censers' fumes,
My spirit in anguish would be writhing still!
Lean closer yet, Fiametta ... close, close, close!
Lean, though you loathe me when I have told you all
The appalling truth ... What maiden more than I
Stood eminent for piety's eager zeal
In service of all reverent prayerful ways?
While Giulia wasted hours in how to make
The red flower glow its loveliest from her curls;
While plump Francesca strained the bodice-cord
To lend her opulent bust a prouder curve;
While gay Ninetta babbled of her loves,
And flashed from shadowing ambush a full smile
On many a passing gallant; while for these
The frivolous mood begot the flippant act,
And life went singing lightly, plume in cap,—
I always, I, Violante, thought no thought
That was not wed with Heavenly services,
Ave and fast and patient watch of self,
Penance, retirement, prayer, till people said
They looked to see the vague aureola rim
My tresses, and so crown me thoroughly saint!
Lean, though you loathe me when I have told you all
The appalling truth ... What maiden more than I
Stood eminent for piety's eager zeal
In service of all reverent prayerful ways?
While Giulia wasted hours in how to make
The red flower glow its loveliest from her curls;
While plump Francesca strained the bodice-cord
To lend her opulent bust a prouder curve;
While gay Ninetta babbled of her loves,
And flashed from shadowing ambush a full smile
On many a passing gallant; while for these
The frivolous mood begot the flippant act,
And life went singing lightly, plume in cap,—
I always, I, Violante, thought no thought
That was not wed with Heavenly services,
Ave and fast and patient watch of self,
Penance, retirement, prayer, till people said
They looked to see the vague aureola rim
My tresses, and so crown me thoroughly saint!
Was not I pure, Fiametta? For you know
The unwearied worship that I poured like wine
Within my golden chalice of love to God!
Nor did one pulse of vanity stir my blood
When murmured praise for spotlessness divine
Met me and broke about me, wave on wave.
Nay, to mine ears that in devout dreams heard
The choric seraphim, all such praises came
Like echo of echo, meriting slight care.
For what to me the applausive heed of men,
The dross of mortal eulogy and the dust?
Alone desirable was Heaven, alone
Adorable the body and blood of Christ,
His grace of sheltering help, His peerless fame!
The unwearied worship that I poured like wine
Within my golden chalice of love to God!
99
When murmured praise for spotlessness divine
Met me and broke about me, wave on wave.
Nay, to mine ears that in devout dreams heard
The choric seraphim, all such praises came
Like echo of echo, meriting slight care.
For what to me the applausive heed of men,
The dross of mortal eulogy and the dust?
Alone desirable was Heaven, alone
Adorable the body and blood of Christ,
His grace of sheltering help, His peerless fame!
Lean close, lean close, Fiametta ... Even as oil
Under the large serene flame of my faith,
Dwelt Guido's counsel, godlier, as it seemed,
For stainless vicarship of God on earth,
Than whatsoever man wore priestly guise,
In sanctitude of godliest office. Him
I held in hours confessional, or in hours
Of fervent pupilage, for a soul rare-graced
By strength and purity to meet the full
Bewildering glory of Heaven and falter not,
Weak-sighted for no qualms of timid shame.
He seemed the firm aerial stair that led
In stately spiral up to Heavenly peace,—
The voice wherewith God clothed His living thought,
His inexhaustible wisdom. Utter truth,
Chastity, eloquence, faith, sympathy,
Seemed wedded to all the man's least word or work,
Looked at me from his steadfast limpid eyes,
Made visible language of his white wide brow
Affirmed its kingly presence and calm power
By countless gentle and intangible ways,
That were not and still were, mysteriously!
Under the large serene flame of my faith,
Dwelt Guido's counsel, godlier, as it seemed,
For stainless vicarship of God on earth,
Than whatsoever man wore priestly guise,
In sanctitude of godliest office. Him
I held in hours confessional, or in hours
Of fervent pupilage, for a soul rare-graced
By strength and purity to meet the full
Bewildering glory of Heaven and falter not,
Weak-sighted for no qualms of timid shame.
He seemed the firm aerial stair that led
In stately spiral up to Heavenly peace,—
The voice wherewith God clothed His living thought,
His inexhaustible wisdom. Utter truth,
Chastity, eloquence, faith, sympathy,
Seemed wedded to all the man's least word or work,
Looked at me from his steadfast limpid eyes,
Made visible language of his white wide brow
100
By countless gentle and intangible ways,
That were not and still were, mysteriously!
He never gave me one faint flower of praise,
Just as he never, by one slight thorn of blame
Touched me, until that morning when I knelt
Before him in the solemn shadowy void
Of the still church. Then, even as one might say,
Right in my lap he dropt a marvellous bloom
Whose color and odor made me gasp for joy!
Just as he never, by one slight thorn of blame
Touched me, until that morning when I knelt
Before him in the solemn shadowy void
Of the still church. Then, even as one might say,
Right in my lap he dropt a marvellous bloom
Whose color and odor made me gasp for joy!
Lean closer yet, Fiametta ... All that night
I lay awake and heard the inaudible
Darkness going past me as a great throng goes.
The ecstatic memory of Guido's words
To sweet monotony of low murmuring
Shaped itself, and with ever-visitant flow
Throbbed through the chamber's dumb tranquility.
For hark you, he had told me I was beloved
Of Gabriel, God's best angel, and that he,
Even this same spirit of such high holiness,
Now yearned to assume what shape would least o'erwhelm
With its exceeding splendor these frail eyes,
And so make evident, past all dream of doubt,
The boundless honor of his angelic love!
Nay, too, in Guido's vision, as he said,
Were named the very place and hour whereat
This rare miraculous meeting should be held!
I lay awake and heard the inaudible
Darkness going past me as a great throng goes.
The ecstatic memory of Guido's words
To sweet monotony of low murmuring
Shaped itself, and with ever-visitant flow
Throbbed through the chamber's dumb tranquility.
For hark you, he had told me I was beloved
Of Gabriel, God's best angel, and that he,
Even this same spirit of such high holiness,
Now yearned to assume what shape would least o'erwhelm
With its exceeding splendor these frail eyes,
And so make evident, past all dream of doubt,
The boundless honor of his angelic love!
Nay, too, in Guido's vision, as he said,
Were named the very place and hour whereat
This rare miraculous meeting should be held!
The place—that desolate ruin near the sea,
From whose gray vine-twined solitude one views
By a glance valleyward our placid town;
The hour—mid-watch on one of these late-past
Mild, lordly, and lucid nights of the June moon.
And I should await him there and then; and he
Would come (O passionate thought!)—would come to meet
Me, the elect, the all-favored, Violante,
Judged worthy in soul of high seraphic heed.
Yea, worthy as was that Thecla, she who made
The assailant beasts cower meekly while she stood
Naked in reach of their red rabid mouths.
Worthy as was Veronica, who bore
On virginal bleeding brows the thorn-crown's weight,
In beatific agony Heaven-conferred,
And bare on bosom and feet and hands through years
The five wounds of Christ's passion.
Vanity!
Why, now, Fiametta, did I reek of it,
I, the calm mirror of whose guileless heart,
No tenderest breath of self-love ever blurred!
Oh, to my thought, until the Archangel kept
That bond of gracious deifying tryst,
All intermediate hours were shod with lead!
You are mindful yet, sweet sister, how I locked
My chamber, nor would open to any call?
You thought me prisoned thus for fast and prayer,
For rigor of solemn penance, nor once dreamed
'Twas vanity bade me dwell aloof that day!
Such vanity as had made me hold my face
Too sacred for your violative look,
Your touch of hands a soilure, and your chance words
An insolence ... Oh, shame! unspeakable shame!
Noiseless and brave, on the next night, I stole
Forth from the dead-still house, and hurrying thence
Through many a moonlit street, got past the town
And gained the slumberous olive-slopes that led
By countless green gradations to the dark
Wreck of what once was haughtiest masonry.
The immense austere half-crumbled power of stone
Loomed vague in the wide wan moonlight. All the sea,
Beyond its marge of clear-cut prominent cliff,
Beamed like a pearl in luminous amplitude,
Save where one blaze of narrowing silver cleft
Its blue calm like a great fallen scarf of light.
From whose gray vine-twined solitude one views
101
The hour—mid-watch on one of these late-past
Mild, lordly, and lucid nights of the June moon.
And I should await him there and then; and he
Would come (O passionate thought!)—would come to meet
Me, the elect, the all-favored, Violante,
Judged worthy in soul of high seraphic heed.
Yea, worthy as was that Thecla, she who made
The assailant beasts cower meekly while she stood
Naked in reach of their red rabid mouths.
Worthy as was Veronica, who bore
On virginal bleeding brows the thorn-crown's weight,
In beatific agony Heaven-conferred,
And bare on bosom and feet and hands through years
The five wounds of Christ's passion.
Vanity!
Why, now, Fiametta, did I reek of it,
I, the calm mirror of whose guileless heart,
No tenderest breath of self-love ever blurred!
Oh, to my thought, until the Archangel kept
That bond of gracious deifying tryst,
All intermediate hours were shod with lead!
You are mindful yet, sweet sister, how I locked
My chamber, nor would open to any call?
You thought me prisoned thus for fast and prayer,
For rigor of solemn penance, nor once dreamed
'Twas vanity bade me dwell aloof that day!
Such vanity as had made me hold my face
Too sacred for your violative look,
Your touch of hands a soilure, and your chance words
An insolence ... Oh, shame! unspeakable shame!
102
Forth from the dead-still house, and hurrying thence
Through many a moonlit street, got past the town
And gained the slumberous olive-slopes that led
By countless green gradations to the dark
Wreck of what once was haughtiest masonry.
The immense austere half-crumbled power of stone
Loomed vague in the wide wan moonlight. All the sea,
Beyond its marge of clear-cut prominent cliff,
Beamed like a pearl in luminous amplitude,
Save where one blaze of narrowing silver cleft
Its blue calm like a great fallen scarf of light.
Deep in the shadow of the ruin I plunged,
And waited, silent amid silence, then,
For what should follow, faithful every way
To Guido's charges ... and at length I saw
A glimmer of white robes in the dubious dusk,
And heard the long sweet murmur “Violante,”
And knew the murmurer neared me with slow steps
Yet utterly soundless; and at this I fell
Abject, being smitten to the bone with awe ...
[OMITTED]
Well, I have learned what Heaven means, Fiametta,
Eaten of it fruitwise, caught its keenest bliss,
Had it and held it just for a few fleet hours ...
Now, as the price of this my arrogant gain,
(Since I, a mortal, have felt immortal joys)
Hell yawns to entomb me in its dread duress!
[OMITTED]
I know not when, amid the ineffable
Delight of that sweet meeting, slumber came
To o'ermaster and annul my thought ... I slept
Dreamlessly at the last,—then suddenly woke.
And waited, silent amid silence, then,
For what should follow, faithful every way
To Guido's charges ... and at length I saw
A glimmer of white robes in the dubious dusk,
And heard the long sweet murmur “Violante,”
And knew the murmurer neared me with slow steps
Yet utterly soundless; and at this I fell
Abject, being smitten to the bone with awe ...
[OMITTED]
Well, I have learned what Heaven means, Fiametta,
Eaten of it fruitwise, caught its keenest bliss,
Had it and held it just for a few fleet hours ...
Now, as the price of this my arrogant gain,
(Since I, a mortal, have felt immortal joys)
Hell yawns to entomb me in its dread duress!
[OMITTED]
I know not when, amid the ineffable
Delight of that sweet meeting, slumber came
103
Dreamlessly at the last,—then suddenly woke.
The ruin was bathed in dawn ... I rose and stood
Beset with blithe tumultuous memories,
Till at my feet the gleam of a white robe drew
Both glad eyes eagerly groundward. One soft cry
Burst from my lips as kneeling I thought to see,
Clear under lavish light, the Archangel's face ...
And saw instead (lean close, close, close, Fiametta,
For the room darkens grimly and swart shapes
Of devil and imp seem girding at me now,
There, here, and everywhere!) ... I saw, instead,
Guido, abruptly wakened of my cry
From slumber ... Guido, garbed with terrible art;
Guido, the man,—not Gabriel, the divine!
Beset with blithe tumultuous memories,
Till at my feet the gleam of a white robe drew
Both glad eyes eagerly groundward. One soft cry
Burst from my lips as kneeling I thought to see,
Clear under lavish light, the Archangel's face ...
And saw instead (lean close, close, close, Fiametta,
For the room darkens grimly and swart shapes
Of devil and imp seem girding at me now,
There, here, and everywhere!) ... I saw, instead,
Guido, abruptly wakened of my cry
From slumber ... Guido, garbed with terrible art;
Guido, the man,—not Gabriel, the divine!
Ah, me! what incommunicable despair
Rushed on me then! He rose and widely spread
Both arms out toward me, but I shrieked and held
Before my fallen face two repelling hands,
While all the compassing morn seemed sown with cries
Of “Lost, lost, lost,” from contumelious fiends;
And like the suddenness of a lightning-bolt
My infinite vanity and gross conceit,
The bold enormity of my utter crime
In having dared to esteem myself a soul
So exalted, flashed upon me! O the pang
Of that discovery! O the awful hate
Of self! the levelling overthrow! the shame!
Rushed on me then! He rose and widely spread
Both arms out toward me, but I shrieked and held
Before my fallen face two repelling hands,
While all the compassing morn seemed sown with cries
Of “Lost, lost, lost,” from contumelious fiends;
And like the suddenness of a lightning-bolt
My infinite vanity and gross conceit,
The bold enormity of my utter crime
In having dared to esteem myself a soul
So exalted, flashed upon me! O the pang
Of that discovery! O the awful hate
Of self! the levelling overthrow! the shame!
I think you would have blushed to have called me pure
Ever at any time, had you but known
The curses I flung at Guido ere I turned
And left him grovelling for my pardon, prone
Reedwise before the tempest of my wrath!
Then hither I sped, and here through three wild days,
Three feverish days of torture, I have lain
And known that surely I am accurst beyond
All expiatory hope. High up in Heaven,
How the chaste eyes of Gabriel must have blazed
Their holiest anger down on my vast guilt!
For what was I, a pitiable mean worm—
Mean among loftier creatures, all most mean,—
That I should arrogate to my small poor self
Such wonder of gracious privilege, and trust
The all-worshipful would worship menial me?
Ever at any time, had you but known
104
And left him grovelling for my pardon, prone
Reedwise before the tempest of my wrath!
Then hither I sped, and here through three wild days,
Three feverish days of torture, I have lain
And known that surely I am accurst beyond
All expiatory hope. High up in Heaven,
How the chaste eyes of Gabriel must have blazed
Their holiest anger down on my vast guilt!
For what was I, a pitiable mean worm—
Mean among loftier creatures, all most mean,—
That I should arrogate to my small poor self
Such wonder of gracious privilege, and trust
The all-worshipful would worship menial me?
I cannot feel your clasp, Fiametta, now,
Nor see your face except by fitful gleams,
Dead-pale, with tragic eyes and tremulous mouth.
They have won my soul, these fiends, and wait for it ...
The room is populous with them, and I breathe
Hot horrid wastures from their gibbering midst,
The sulphurous prelude of Hell's denser fumes.
Farewell, Fiametta ... God be good to thee!
Fra Guido, I think, has hope of getting grace,
If he try hard, and shirk no pain of shrift.
Tell him I said he has not done monstrous wrong
Like me, being reverent all the while of him
Whose august name he used irreverently.
His sin was villanous brutal base deceit,
Lecherous and treacherous, an infamy!
But mine ... Oh, God, the blasphemous egotism!
Farewell, Fiametta ... I must pay its price!
Nor see your face except by fitful gleams,
Dead-pale, with tragic eyes and tremulous mouth.
They have won my soul, these fiends, and wait for it ...
The room is populous with them, and I breathe
Hot horrid wastures from their gibbering midst,
The sulphurous prelude of Hell's denser fumes.
Farewell, Fiametta ... God be good to thee!
Fra Guido, I think, has hope of getting grace,
If he try hard, and shirk no pain of shrift.
Tell him I said he has not done monstrous wrong
Like me, being reverent all the while of him
Whose august name he used irreverently.
His sin was villanous brutal base deceit,
Lecherous and treacherous, an infamy!
But mine ... Oh, God, the blasphemous egotism!
Farewell, Fiametta ... I must pay its price!
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