A Florentine Juliet

WHAT is it, my Renzo? What is thy desire?To hear my story, hear the whole of it?And with a shamefaced air and reddened cheekThat “others know it all, and why not thou?”Who has been talking to thee of me, then;Setting thee on to question and suspect?Ah, boy, with eyes still full of childish dreams,And yet with manhood on the firm young lip,’Tis a hard thing to ask me, and a strange!A woman does not easily lay bareHer history, which is her very heart,Even to that piece of her she calls her son!Son he may be, but still he is a man,And she, though mother, is a woman still;And men and women are made different,And vainly ’gainst the barrier of sexThey beat and beat,—all their lives long they beat,And never pass, never quite understand!Yet must I do this hard thing for thy sake,Since who shall do it for thee, if not I?Thy father, who had else more fitly told,Is at the wars, the weary, wasting wars;—Long years ago he sailed unto the wars,And, dead or living, comes not back to us.Unhappy is the son who, woman-bred,Knows not the firm feel of a father’s hand;And I, widow or wife, I know not which,Wofulest widow, still more woful wife!Must frame my faltering tongue to tell the tale,And snatch my thoughts back from their present painTo the old days, the hard and cruel days,Full of sharp hatred and stern vengeances,Which yet were beautiful to him and meWho lived and loved each other and were young;But unto thee, born in a softer hour,Come as dim echoes of some warlike peal.

Thou bearest an honorable name, my son,Two mighty houses meet and blend in thee;For I, thy mother, of the warlike lineOf Bardi, lords of Florence in past time,Was daughter, and thy sire IppolitoSprang from the Buondelmonti, their sworn foes;For we were Guelph and they were Ghibelline,And centuries of wrong, and seas of blood,And old traditional hatreds sundered us.Even in my babyhood I heard the nameOf Buondelmonti uttered ’twixt set teethAnd coupled with a curse, and I would pout,And knit my brows, and clench my tiny fistAnd whimper at the very sound of it;Whereat my father, stout Amérigo,Would catch me up and toss me overhead,And swear I was best Bardi of them all;And if his sons but matched his only maidThey’d make quick work of the black GhibellinesAnd of the Buondelmonti!

So I grewTo woman’s stature, and men called me fair,And suitors, like a flight of bees, beganTo hum and cluster wheresoe’er I moved;And then there came the day,—that fateful day,When little Gian, my father’s latest born,Was carried for chrism to the baptistery;And standing, all unaware, beside the font,I looked across the dim and crowded churchAnd saw a face—a dazzling, youthful face!A face that smote my vision like a star;With golden locks, and eyes divinely brightLike San Michele in the picture there—Fixed upon mine.

Had any whispered thenIt was Ippolito, our foeman’s son,At whom I gazed, I should have turned away,My father’s daughter sure had turned away.But nothing warned me, nothing hindered him;We looked upon each other, Fate so willed,And with our eyes our hearts met!

“Cursed cur,”My brother muttered, fingering at his sword,“I’ll teach you to ogle us when this is done!”“Who is it, then?” I whispered, and he told;And with the name I felt my heart like leadTurn cold and cold and suddenly sink down.

And still that tender, radiant gaze wooed mine,And still I felt the enchantment burn and burn,But would not turn my head or look again;And all that night I lay and felt those eyes,And day by day they seemed to follow me,Like unknown planets of some strange new heavenWhose depths I dared not question or explore;And love and hate so strove for masteryWithin my girl’s heart, made their battle-field,That all my forces failed and life grew faint.

He, for his part, set forth with heart afireTo learn my name,—sad knowledge, easy gained,Leaving the learner stricken with a chill!And after that, whenever I might goTo ball or feast, I saw him, only him!And while the other cavaliers pressed roundTo praise my face or dress, or hold my fan,Or bid me to the dance, he stood aloofWith passionate eyes, but never might draw near.For still my brother Piero or my sireWere close behind, with dark set brows intentTo watch him that he did not dare to speak.Only his eyes met mine, and in my cheeksI felt the guilty color grow and grow;And once, when all were masqued, amid the crowdA hand touched mine, and oh, I knew ’twas his!At last, with baffling of his heart-sick hopeAnd long suspense and sorrow, he fell ill;And in a moment when life’s tide ran lowHe told his mother all; she, loving him wellAnd loath to see him perish thus forlorn,Became his ally, spoke him words of cheer,And with my cousin Contessa, her sworn friend,She counsel took; and so, betwixt the two,It came about that on a day of springWhen almond blossoms whitened the brown boughsAnd olives were in bud and all birds sang,We met,—a meeting cunningly contrived,In an old villa garden past the walls.My mother had led me thither, knowing naught,And I, naught knowing, had wandered for a spaceAmong the boskage and the fragrant vines,And, standing by a water-fount of stoneListening the tinkle and the cool, wet splashOf the thin drip, and thinking still of him(For I went thinking of him all the day),I heard the soft throb of a mandolin,And next a voice, divinely sweet it seemed,A voice unheard till then, and yet I knewThe voice for his; and this the song it sang:—

“Ah, thorns so sharp, so strong!Ah, path so hard, so long!What do I care? Thither I fare!My Rose is there!

“Ah, life so dear, so brief!Ah, death, the end of grief!All I can bear, all will I dare!My Rose is there!”

The music ceased, the while spell-bound I stayed;Then came a rustle,—he was at my feet!

Few moments might we stay, and few words speak;But love is swift of tongue! all was arranged,—The plan of our escape, the hour, the place,And that Ippolito, next night but two,With a rope-ladder hidden ’neath his cloak,Should stand beneath my window. Once on groundA priest should wait to bind us quickly one.Then a mad gallop, ere the dawn of day,Would set us safely forth beyond the ruleOf the Black Lily. Next, as hand in handWe stood, our lips met in a first long kiss,And then we parted.

With his vanishingThe thing grew like a dream, and as in dreamI seemed to walk the next day and the next;For all my thoughts were of that coming night,And all my fear was lest it should not come.And all the old-time animosities,And all the hates bred in me from a child,And feudal faiths and loyalties were dead,—I was no more a Bardi; Love ruled all.

It came, the night, and on the stroke of twelveI stood at casement, wrapped in veil, with maskAnd muffling cloak laid ready close beside;And there I stood and watched, and heard the bellsStrike one, two, three, and saw the rose of dawnDeepen to day, and still my love came not.

Then, fearing to be spied, I crept to bed;And lying in a weary trance, half sleep,Heard shouts and cries and noise of joyful stirRun through the palace, and quick echoing feet,And little Cosmo thundering at my door.“Wake, Dianora, here is glorious news!Ippolito, our foeman’s only son,Is caught red-handed on some midnight raid,Taken with a rope-ladder ’neath his cloak,Bound for some theft or felony, no doubt;And as he offers neither excuse nor plea,He is to suffer at the hour of noon,In spite of his proud father’s threats and cries.All that the criminal asks by way of boonIs he may pass our palace as he goesUnto the scaffold. A queer fancy that!But all the better sport it makes for us,And we need neither pity nor deny!So rise, sweet sister, don your bravest gear,For all the household on the balconyWill sit to jeer the fellow as he wends,And in the midst of us one Bardi RoseMust be to grace and enjoy the spectacle,The best that ever Florence saw!”

My boy,Look not so startled! Those were bitter days,I said, and blood had flowed and hearts grown hard,And hatred is contagious as disease.Cosmo, my brother, was but as the rest.He died at nine, ere ever thou wast born,And I have paid for masses for his soul,—For many, many masses have I paid;Heaven will not be hard with a babe like that,The Frate tells me so, and I am sure.

What was I saying? So I rose that dayA traitor unsuspected mid his foes,Who were my friends, hiding ’neath feignèd smilesA purpose desperate as was my hope.I rose, and let them deck me as they would,Put on my jewels, star my hair with pearls,And all the while a voice like funeral dirgeSang in my half-crazed ears, or seemed to sing,The fragment and the cadence of a song.“Ah, death, the end of grief, what do I care?”Then I stood up among my tiring-maids,And saw myself in the long Venice glassA vision of pale splendor, as I movedTo take my station on the balcony,In the mid place, the very front of all,Set like a bride in festival array,Among the laughing, chattering, peering throng,To see the hated foeman of our raceLed past the palace on his way to die!My love, my husband, my Ippolito,Led past our palace on his way to die!Long time we waited, till the fear beganTo stir that some mischance had marred the plan,And the procession by another streetMight pass, and so we miss the spectacle,This was their fear, and my fear was the same;And still I sat and smiled, and while the bellsTolled, and they talked and buzzed, I only prayed.“How if he did not come? Saints, let him come!O pitying Virgin, only grant he come!”

They came at last, the Bargello and his troop,And in the midst my love with hands fast tied,And golden locks uncurled and face all wan,But still with gallant bearing, and his eyesFixed upon mine,—me, for whose sake he died,For whose sweet honor’s sake he silent died.There was a little halt, and then a cryOf fierce joy rang from out our balcony.Now was my time; all sudden sprang I up,And while the astonished crowd kept silence deep,And they, my kin, amazed, sat silent too,I loudly told our tale, our woful tale,And made avowal that ’twas for my sakeIppolito his noble silence kept!Then, while my brother strove to stop my mouth,And fierce hands clutched my gown and seized my arms,I clung and pleaded: “Find the holy Friar,Good people, only send to find the Friar,—Find him, for pity’s sake! He will confirmAll I have said, and prove my truth and his,And save my dear Love, slain for love of me.”

Then a great cry arose, some this way ran,Some that, and suddenly amid the pressA cowl was seen, and Fra Domenico,Breathless with haste, just conscious of our need,Ran in the midst, and then, I know not what,—For all was tumult,—but my love stood free!Free and unbound! and all the populaceShouted our twofold names, “IppolitoAnd Dianora,” and the bells broke out,And with the bells the sun and all the airSeemed full of interlaced and tangled sounds,—Cries and glad pealings and our blended namesOn one side; on the other stormy words,Reproach, and curses.

Then the PodestáAnd many great lords came, and all passed in,And up the stairs, and filled the palace full;And high and low joined in an equal pleaThat the long feud be stanched, and as a pledgeOf lasting peace we two be wedded straight.But still my father frowned and closed his ears,And still my brothers fumbled at their swords;But when Count Buondelmonti, aged and gray,And shattered with the horror just escapedSuspense and heavy sickness, hurried in,And kissed my hands, and knelt before my feetAnd blessèd me, the savior of his son,While with redoubled zeal the PodestáUrged, and the noble lords,—Heaven touched their hearts,—They gave consent; and so the feud was healed,And the next day my Love and I were wed.

And twenty glad years came and fleetly sped.Each like a separate rose which buds and fallsDuly and fragrantly and is not missed.’Twas then he carved as a memorialOn the façade of the old Sta. MariaSopr’ Arno, “Fuccio mi fecé” and the date—“I made myself a robber;” and he laughed,And said I was the treasure that he stole;Ah me! and then he sailed unto the wars,And all the years that have gone by since thenAre as sad night shades steeped in deadly dews.Death hath been busy with us, as thou knowest;Thou art the youngest of my six fair sons,Thou art the only one to close my eyesWhen time shall come and puzzles be explained.How did the old song run? “My Rose is there.”If I shall wake in Paradise one dayAnd find him safe, and safely still my own,Not won away from me by some new face,And see his eyes with the old steadfast look,Why, that will be enough, that will be heaven!But if, instead, I find another thereClose to his side where once I used to rest,No matter who it be, angel or saint,I must cry “Shame!” whate’er the penalty.God will not need to send me down to fires,But only bid me stay in heaven and look!