A Forgiveness

I am indeed the personage you know.     As for my wife, what happened long ago     You have a right to question me, as I     Am bound to answer.     (Son, a fit reply!     The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,     At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)     Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place     I had as still I have. I ran lifes race,     With the whole world to see, as only strains     His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains     Of good appall him: happy to excess,     Work freely done should balance happiness     Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof     Housed she who made home heaven, in heavens behoof     I went forth every day, and all day long     Worked for the world. Look, how the laborers song     Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe     Of laboring flesh and blood, She loves me so!     One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve     That work grew play and vanished. I deserve     Haply my heaven an hour before the time!     I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime     Surprised me passing through the postern-gate     Not the main entry where the menials wait     And wonder why the worlds affairs allow     The master sudden leisure. That was how     I took the private garden-way for once.     Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce     Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.     My fancies in the natural order ran:     A spy, perhaps a foe in ambuscade,     A thief, more like, a sweetheart of some maid     Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps.     Stand there! I bid.     Whereat my man but wraps     His face the closelier with uplifted arm     Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm     This and that pedestal as, stretch and stoop,     Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group     Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged     Each side the pathway, till the gates exchanged     For safety: one step thence, the street, you know!     Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,     Near on admiringly, I breathed again,     And back to that last fancy of the train     A danger risked for hope of just a word     With which of all my nest may be the bird     This poacher covets for her plumage, pray?     Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay     For such adventure, while Juanas grave     Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!     He had the eye, could single from my brood     His proper fledgeling!     As I turned, there stood     In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.     Whether one bound had brought her, at first sight     Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be     Next moment, of the venturous man and me,     Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:     Whether impelled because her death no day     Could come so absolutely opportune     As now at joys height, like a year in June     Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;     Or whether hungry for my hate, who knows?     Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste     Our tingling true relation, hate embraced     By hate one naked moment: anyhow     There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now     The woman who made heaven within my house.     Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse     As well as love, you are to recollect!     Stay! she said. Keep at least one soul unspecked     With crime, thats spotless hitherto, your own!     Kill me who court the blessing, who alone     Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!     The man lay helpless in the toils I cast     About him, helpless as the statue there     Against that strangling bell-flowers bondage: tear     Away and tread to dust the parasite,     But do the passive marble no despite!     I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike     At one blow both infinitudes alike     Out of existence, hate and love! Whence love?     Thats safe inside my heart, nor will remove     For any searching of your steel, I think.     Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink     Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,     At every form wherein your love took shape;     At each new provocation of your kiss.     Kill me!     We went in.     Next day after this,     I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke,     Easily, after all.     The lifted cloak     Was screen sufficient: I concern myself     Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf,     Whateer the ignoble kind, may prowl and brave     Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave     Detected by my households vigilance.     Enough of such! As for my love-romance,     I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes     And wake and wonder how the film could rise     Which changed for me a barbers basin straight     Into, Mambrinos helm? I hesitate     Nowise to say, Gods sacramental cup!     Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,     Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?     To me, a warning I was overbold     In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked     Only to die, if I remember, staked     His life upon the basins worth, and lost:     While I confess torpidity at most     In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,     Still should I work on, still repair my fault     Ere I took rest in death, no fear at all!     Now, work no word before the curtain fall!     The curtain? That of death on life, I meant:     My word, permissible in deaths event,     Would be, truth, soul to soul; for, other-wise,     Day by day, three years long, there had to rise     And, night by night, to fall upon our stage,     Ours, doomed to public play by heritage,     Another curtain, when the world, perforce     Our critical assembly, in due course     Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame     To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game     If, suffered to set foot behind our scene,     The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,     Gallant and lady, but a minute since     Enarming each the other, would evince     No sign of recognition as they took     His way and her way to whatever nook     Waited them in the darkness either side     Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride     Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit     Of sympathetic rapture, every whit     Earned as the curtain fell on her and me,     Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see     But calm and concord: where a speech was due     There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,     Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,     Where foreign and domestic cares combine,     Theres audience every day and all day long;     But finally the last of the whole throng     Who linger lets one see his back. For her,     Why, liberty and liking: I aver,     Liking and liberty! For me, I breathed,     Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed     Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task     Of personation till next day bade mask,     And quietly betook me from that world     To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled     In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.     Three years I worked, each minute of each hour     Not claimed by acting: work I may dispense     With talk about, since work in evidence,     Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?     After three years, this way, all unawares,     Our acting ended. She and I, at close     Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows     Of bending male and female loyalty,     Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high     At arms length did the twisted tapers flare     Herald his passage from our palace, where     Such visiting left glory evermore.     Again the ascent in public, till at door     As we two stood by the saloon, now blank     And disencumbered of its guests, there sank     A whisper in my ear, so low and yet     So unmistakable!     I half forget     The chamber you repair to, and I want     Occasion for one short word, if you grant     That grace, within a certain room yon: called     Our Study, for you wrote there while I scrawled     Some paper full of faces for my sport.     That room I can remember. Just one short     Word with you there, for the remembrance sake!     Follow me thither I I replied.     We break     The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp     I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp     Blind disused serpentining ways afar     From where the habitable chambers are,     Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,     Always in silence, till I reach the lone     Chamber sepulchred for my very own     Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy,     Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,     Proof-positive of ownership; in youth     I garnered up my gleanings here uncouth     But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;     Finally, this became in after-years     My closet of entrenchment to withstand     Invasion of the foe on every hand,     The multifarious herd in bower and hall,     State-room, rooms whatsoeer the style, which call     On masters to be mindful that, before     Men, they must look like men and something more.     Here, when our lord the kings bestowment ceased     To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,     I touched ambitions height, twas here, released     From glory (always symbolled by a chain!)     No sooner was I privileged to gain     My secret domicile than glad I flung     That last toy on the table gazed where hung     On hook my fathers gift, the arquebus     And asked myself, Shall I envisage thus     The new prize and the old prize, when I reach     Another years experience? own that each     Equalled advantage, sportsmans, states-mans tool?     That brought me down an eagle, this, a fool!     Into which room on entry, I set down     The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown     Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace.     Each of us looked the other in the face.     She spoke. Since I could die now . . .     (To explain     Why that first struck me, know, not once again     Since the adventure at the porphyrys edge     Three years before, which sundered like a wedge     Her soul from mine, though daily, smile to smile,     We stood before the public, all the while     Not once bad I distinguished, in that face     I paid observance to, the faintest trace     Of feature more than requisite for eyes     To do their duty by and recognize:     So did I force mine to obey my will     And pry no further. There exists such skill,     Those know who need it. What physician shrinks     From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks     No plague so long as thirst for knowledge not     An idler impulse prompts inquiry. What,     And will you disbelieve in power to bid     Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid     A child from scrutiny thats just and right     In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,     Reported daily she it was not how     Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)     Since I could die now of the truth concealed,     Yet dare not, must not die, so seems revealed     The Virgins mind to me, for death means peace     Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease     Of life and punishment the truth avowed     May haply lengthen, let me push the shroud     Away, that steals to muffle ere is just     My penance-fire in snow! I dare I must     Live, by avowal of the truth, this truth,     I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpents tooth     That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite     Than all preceding torture, proves me right!     I loved you yet I lost you! May I go     Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?     I think there never was such, how express?     Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,     As in those arms of Eastern workmanship,     Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,     Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,     Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays     Love still at work with the artificer     Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,     Except for loves sake, that a blade should writhe     And bicker like a flame? now play the scythe     As if some broad neck tempted, now contract     And needle off into a fineness lacked     For just that puncture which the heart demands?     Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands     Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold     Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!     Fancy my favorite, which I seem to grasp     While I describe the luxury. No asp     Is diapered more delicate round throat     Than this below the handle! These denote     These mazy lines meandering, to end     Only in flesh they open, what intend     They else but water-purlings, pale contrast     With the life-crimson where they blend at last?     And mark the handles dim pellucid green,     Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,     Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks     A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks     Pure from the mine: seen this way, glassy blank,     But turn them, lo, the inmost fire, that shrank     From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!     Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game     Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men     War-wearied get amusement from that pen     And paper we grow sick of, statesfolk tired     Of merely (when such measures are required)     Dealing out doom to people by three words,     A signature and seal: we play with swords     Suggestive of quick process. That is how     I came to like the toys described you now,     Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed     The table, even, while my wife pursued     Her purpose to its ending. Now you know     This shame, my three years torture, let me go,     Burn to the very ashes! You, I lost,     Yet you, I loved!     The thing I pity most     In men is, action prompted by surprise     Of anger: men? nay, bulls, whose onset lies     At instance of the firework and the goad!     Once the foe prostrate, trampling once bestowed,     Prompt follows placability, regret,     Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet     Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse     Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse     My veins at this occasion for resolve.     Had that devolved which did not then devolve     Upon me, I had done, what now to do     Was quietly apparent.     Tell me who     The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!     No, never! All was folly in his case,     All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied.     And yet you loved me?     Loved you. Double-dyed     In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave     Your heart and soul away from me to slave     At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,     I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,     What you rejected could be prized beyond     Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond     Look on, a fatal word to.     And you still     Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?     Conjecture, well or ill! I had three years     To spend in learning you.     We both are peers     In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent     Ere thus much of yourself I learn, who went     Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind     To bear upon your action, uncombined     Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived     Of every purer particle, survived     At last in native simple hideousness,     Utter contemptibility, nor less     Nor more. Contemptibility, exempt     How could I, from its proper due, contempt?     I have too much despised you to divert     My life from its set course by help or hurt     Of your all-despicable life, perturb     The calm I work in, by mens mouths to curb,     Which at such news were clamorous enough     Mens eyes to shut before my broidered stuff     With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall     Blank where a scutcheon hung, by, worse than all,     Each days procession, my paraded life     Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife     Now that my life (which means my work) was grown     Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone     Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby     Of good and praise would how rewardingly!     Fall at your feet, a crown I hoped to cast     Before your love, my love should crown at last.     No love remaining to cast crown before,     My love stopped work now: but contempt the more     Impelled me task as ever head and hand,     Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand     Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.     Therefore I kept my memory down by stress     Of daily work I had no mind to stay     For the worlds wonder at the wife away.     Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,     For I despised you! But your words retrieve     Importantly the past. No hate assumed     The mask of love at any time! There gloomed     A moment when love took hates semblance, urged     By causes you declare; but loves self purged     Away a fancied wrong I did both loves     Yours and my own: by no hates help, it proves,     Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise     High by how many a grade! I did despise     I do but hate you. Let hates punishment     Replace contempts! First step to which ascent     Write down your own words I re-utter you!     I loved my husband and I hated who     He was, I took up as my first chance, mere     Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!     Here     Lies paper!     Would my blood for ink suffice!     It may: this minion from a land of spice.     Silk, feather-every bird of jewelled breast     This poniards beauty, neer so lightly prat     Above your heart there . . .     Thus?     It flows, I see.     Dip there the point and write!     Dictate to me!     Nay, I remember.     And she wrote the words.     I read them. Then Since love, in you, affords     License for hate, in me, to quench (I say)     Contempt why, hate itself has passed away     In vengeance foreign to contempt. Depart     Peacefully to that death which Eastern art     Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true!     Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you     Dead in our chamber!     True as truth the tale.     She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale     Her cheek was ere it wore days paint-disguise,     And what a hollow darkened neath her eyes,     Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst     Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!     Immersed     In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?     For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps     Still plain I seem to see! about his head     The idle cloak, about his heart (instead     Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude     My vengeance in the cloisters solitude?     Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow     The cloak then, Father as your grate helps now!