Angelo

Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their hornsAverted from the sun; seven moons, old moons,Westward their sun-averted horns had set;Since Angelo had brought his young bride home,Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan halls.And much the folk had marvelled on that daySeeing the bride how young and fair she was,How all unlike the groom; for she had knownTwenty and five soft summers woo the world,He twice as many winters take 't by storm.And in those half-an-hundred winters,--ay,And in the summer's blaze, and blush of spring,And pomp of grave and grandiose autumntides,--Full many a wind had beat upon his heart,Of grief and frustrate hope full many a wind,And rains full many, but no rains could dampThe fuel that was stored within; which layUnlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch,Until a chance spark fall'n from Lucia's eyesKindled the fuel, and the fire was love:Not such as rises blown upon the wind,Goaded to flame by gusts of phantasy,But still, and needing no replenishment,Unquenchable, that would not be put out.

Albeit the lady Lucia's bosom lackedThe ore had made her heart a richer mineThan earth's auriferous heart unsunned; from herLove went not out, in whom there was no love.Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bitHer kind lord's bosom with its stinging frost.Because he loved the fields and forests, madeFew banquetings for highborn winebibbers,Eschewed the city and led no sumptuous life,She, courtly, sneered at his uncourtliness,Deeming his manners of a bygone mode.And for that he was gentle overmuch,And overmuch forbearant, she despised,Mocked, slighted, taunted him, and of her scornMade a sharp shaft to wound his life at will.She filled her cup with hate and bade him drink,And he returned it brimming o'er with love.

And so seven moons had waxed and waned since theseWere wedded. And it chanced, one morn of SpringLucia bespake her spouse in even moreUngentle wise than was her wont, and he,For the first time, reproved her;--not as oneThat having from another ta'en ill wordsWill e'en cry quits and barter words as ill;But liker as a father, whom his childWith insolent lips hath wounded, chides the childLess than he knows it had been wise to do,Saying within himself: "The time will comeWhen thou wilt think on thy dead father, howThou might'st have spoken gentlier unto himOne day, when yet thy father was alive:So shall thy heart rebuke thy heart enow:"--Ev'n thus did Angelo reprove his wife.

But though the words from his rough-bearded lipsWere like sweet water from the mouth of someRock-fountain hewn with elemental hands,They fell as water cast i' the fire, to beConsumed with hissing rage. Her wrath, let loose,Blew to and fro, and hither and thither, likeA wind that seems to have forgotten whenceIt came, and whither it was bidden blow.She cursed the kinsfolk who had willed that sheShould wed with him; and cursed herself that gaveEar to the utterance of their will; and cursedThe day on which their will became her deed:Saying--and this he knew not until now--"Fool, I should ne'er have wedded thee at all,No, neither thee nor any like to thee,Had not my father wellnigh forced me to 't."And he that hearkened, the Lord Angelo,Spake not a word, but bowed his head, and wentForth of his castle to the forest nigh,And roamed all day about the forest, filledWith grief, and marvelling at her lack of love.

But that which sorelier bruised his breast than ev'nLucia's exceeding lack of love for him,Was this new knowledge, that in taking herTo wife--in the very act of taking herTo wife--himself had crossed the secret willOf her whose will in all things it had beenHis soul's most perfect bliss to gratify.Wherefore, to make atonement, in some sort,For this one wrong he deemed that he had doneThe woman--this one crossing of her will--He knelt him down under the brooding shadeOf a huge oak, and vowed 'fore heaven a vow:To wit, that Lucia never afterwardShould in his hearing utter forth a wishFor aught of earthly but himself would seeThat wish fulfilled, if such fulfilment wereAn end that mortal man could compass. ThenUprising, he beheld the sinking sunA vast round eye gaze in upon the woodThrough leafy lattice of its nether boughs:Whereat he turned him castlewards, and ownedA lighter heart than he had borne that day.

Homeward his face no sooner had he setThan through the woods came riding unto himA stranger, of a goodly personage,Young, and right richly habited, who stayedHis horse, and greeted Angelo, and said:"I pray you, sir, direct me how to findAn hostel, if there be such hereabouts;For I have ridden far, and lost my wayAmong these woods, and twilight is at hand."Then he that heard replied to him that asked,Saying: "The nearest inn is farther henceThan mine own house; make therefore mine own houseYour inn for this one night, and unto suchPoor entertainment as my house affordsYou are most welcome." So the stranger thankedIn courtly speeches the Lord Angelo,Gladly accepting hospitalitiesThat were so gladly proffered; and the twoFared on together, host and guest that wereTo be, until they reached the castle, whereAngelo dwelt, and where his fathers livedBefore him, lords of land, in olden days.

And entering in, the castle's later lordLed the young signor to the chamber whereThe lady Lucia sat, who rose to giveThe stranger courteous welcome. (When she chose,Of looks and lips more gracious none than she.)But soon as she beheld the young man's face,A sudden pallor seized her own, and backShe started, wellnigh swooning, but regainedHer wonted self as suddenly, declared'Twas but a momentary sickness wentArrow-like through her, sharp, but therewithalBrief as the breath's one ebb and flow; and which,Passing, had left her painless as before.And truly, from that moment she appearedMore brightly beautiful, if AngeloErred not, than she had looked for many a day.

So in brief while the stranger-guest sat down,With host and hostess, to a table chargedWith delicate meats, and fragrant fruits, and wine.And when the meal was over, and themselvesWere with themselves alone--the serving-menHaving withdrawn--a cheerful converse roseConcerning divers matters old and new.And Angelo that evening let his tongueRange more at freedom than he used; for thoughNo man was less to prating given than he,Yet, when he liked his listener, he could makeHis mouth discourse in such a wise that fewHad failed to give delighted audience.For he had learning, and, besides the loreWon from his books, a better wisdom owned--A knowledge of the stuff whence books are made,The human mind and all it feeds upon.And, in his youth a wanderer, he had roamedO'er many countries, not as one who seesWith eyes alone, and hearkens but with ears;Rather as who would slake the thirst of the soulBy sucking wisdom from the breasts of the world.

Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words;Till Angelo, from telling of his ownYoung days and early fortunes good and ill,Was with remembrance smitten, as it chanced,Of some old grief 'twas grief to think upon.And so he changed his theme o' the sudden, donnedA shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry,And said: "My wife, sir, hath a pretty giftOf singing and of luting: it may beIf you should let your tongue turn mendicant--Not for itself but for its needy kin,Your ears--she might be got to give an almsFor those twin brethren." Whereupon the guestUnto his hostess turned and smiling said:"That were indeed a golden alms your voiceCould well afford, and never know itselfThe poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin."And she made answer archly: "I have oftHeard flatterers of a woman's singing sayHer voice was silvery:--to compare 't with goldIs sure a new conceit. But, sir, you praiseMy singing, who have not yet heard me sing."And he: "I take it that a woman's speechIs to her singing what a bird's low chirpIs to its singing: and if PhilomelChirp in the hearing of the woodman, heKnows 'tis the nightingale that chirps, and soExpects nought meaner than its sovereign song.Madam, 'tis thus your speaking-voice hath givenEarnest of what your singing-voice will be;And therefore I entreat you not to dashThe expectations you have raised so high,By your refusal." And she answered him:"Nay, if you think to hear a nightingale,I doubt refusal could not dash them moreThan will compliance. But in very truth,The boon you crave so small and worthless is,'Twere miserly to grudge it. Where's my lute?"

So saying, she bethought her suddenly--Or feigned to have bethought her suddenly--How she had left the lute that afternoonLying upon an arbour-seat, when sheGrew tired of fingering the strings of it--Down in the garden, where she wont to walk,Her lute loquacious to the trees' deaf trunks.And Angelo, right glad to render herSuch little graceful offices of love,And gladder yet with hope to hear her singWho had denied his asking many a time,Awaited not another word, but roseAnd said, "Myself will bring it," and beforeShe could assent or disapprove, was gone.

Scarce had he left the chamber when beholdHis wife uprose, and his young stranger-guestUprose, and in a trice they cast their armsAbout each other, kissed each other, calledEach other dear and love, till Lucia said:"Why cam'st thou not before, my Ugo, whomI loved, who lovedst me, for many a day,For many a paradisal day, ere yetI saw that lean fool with the grizzled beardWho's gone a-questing for his true wife's lute?"And he made answer: "I had come erenow,But that my father, dying, left a loadOf cumbrous duties I had needs perform--Dry, peevish, crabbèd business at the best,Impertinences indispensable,Accumulated dulness, if you will,Such as I would not irk your ears withal:Howbeit I came at last, and nigh a weekHave tarried in the region hereabouts,Unknown--and yearning for one glimpse of you,One word, one kiss from you, if even it wereOne only and the last; until, to-day,Roaming the neighbouring forest, I espiedYour husband, guessed it was your husband, feignedI was a traveller who had lost myselfAmong the woods, received from him--ah, nowYou laugh, and truly 'tis a famous jest--A courteous invitation to his house,Deemed it were churlish to refuse, and so--And so am here, your Ugo, with a heartThe loyal subject of your sovereign heart,As in old days." Therewith he sat him down,And softly drawing her upon his kneeMade him a zone of her lascivious arms.

But thus encinctured hardly had he satA moment, when, returning, AngeloStood at the threshold of the room, and heldThe door half opened, and so standing sawThe lovers, and they saw not him; for halfThe chamber lay in shadow, by no lampLighted, or window to admit the moon:And there the entrance was, and Angelo.

And listening to their speech a little space,The fugitive brief moments were to himA pyramid of piled eternities.For while he hearkened, Ugo said: "My love,Answer me this one question, which may seemIdle, yet is not;--how much lov'st thou me?"And she replied: "I love thee just as muchAs I do hate my husband, and no more."Then he: "But prithee how much hatest thouThy husband?" And she answered: "Ev'n as muchAs I love thee. To hate him one whit moreThan that, were past the power of Lucia's hate."And Ugo: "If thou lovest me so much,Grant me one gift in token of thy love."Then she: "What would'st thou?" And he answered her:"Even thyself; no poorer gift will I."But Lucia said: "Nay, have I not bestowedMy love, which is my soul, my richer self?My poorer self, which is my body, howCan I bestow, when 'tis not in mine ownPossession, being his property forsooth,Who holds the ecclesiastic title-deed?...Yet--but I know not ... if I grant this boon,Bethink thee, how wilt carry hence the gift?Quick. For the time is all-too brief to waste."And Ugo spake with hurrying tongue: "Right so:To-morrow, therefore, when the sun hath set,Quit thou the castle, all alone, and hasteTo yonder tarn that lies amid the treesHaply a furlong westward from your house--The gloomy lakelet fringed with pines--and thereUpon the hither margin thou shalt findMe, and two with me, mounted all, and armed,With a fourth steed to bear thee on his back:And thou shalt fly with me, my Lucia, tillThou reach my castle in the mountain'd North,Whose mistress I will make thee, and mine own."Then Lucia said: "But how if AngeloPursue and overtake us?" WhereuponUgo replied: "Pursue he may,--o'ertakeHe shall not, save he saddle him the wind.Besides--to grant the impossible--if heWere to o'ertake us, he could only striveTo win you back with argument; whereinMy servants, at their master's bidding, couldDebate with him on more than equal terms:Cold steel convinces warmest disputants.Or, if to see the bosom maritalImpierced, would make your own consorted heartBleed sympathetic, some more mild--" But she,The beauteous Fury, interrupted himWith passionate-pallid lips: "Reproach me notBeforehand--even in jest reproach me not--With imputation of such tendernessFor him and his life--when thou knowest howI hate, hate, hate him,--when thou knowest howI wish, and wish, and wish, that he were dead."

Then Angelo bethought him of his vow;And stepping forward stood before the twain;And from his girdle plucked a dagger forth;And spake no word, but pierced his own heart through.