ANGELO.

Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their horns

Averted 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 day

Seeing the bride how young and fair she was,

How all unlike the groom; for she had known

Twenty 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 damp

The fuel that was stored within; which lay

Unlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch,

Until a chance spark fall'n from Lucia's eyes

Kindled 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 lacked

The ore had made her heart a richer mine

Than earth's auriferous heart unsunned; from her

Love went not out, in whom there was no love.

Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bit

Her kind lord's bosom with its stinging frost.

Because he loved the fields and forests, made

Few 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 scorn

Made 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 these

Were wedded. And it chanced, one morn of Spring

Lucia bespake her spouse in even more

Ungentle wise than was her wont, and he,

For the first time, reproved her;— not as one

That having from another ta'en ill words

Will e'en cry quits and barter words as ill;

But liker as a father, whom his child

With insolent lips hath wounded, chides the child

Less than he knows it had been wise to do,

Saying within himself: “The time will come

When thou wilt think on thy dead father, how

Thou might'st have spoken gentlier unto him

One 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 lips

Were like sweet water from the mouth of some

Rock-fountain hewn with elemental hands,

They fell as water cast i’ the fire, to be

Consumed with hissing rage. Her wrath, let loose,

Blew to and fro, and hither and thither, like

A wind that seems to have forgotten whence

It came, and whither it was bidden blow.

She cursed the kinsfolk who had willed that she

Should wed with him; and cursed herself that gave

Ear to the utterance of their will; and cursed

The 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 went

Forth of his castle to the forest nigh,

And roamed all day about the forest, filled

With grief, and marvelling at her lack of love.

But that which sorelier bruised his breast than ev'n

Lucia's exceeding lack of love for him,

Was this new knowledge, that in taking her

To wife — in the very act of taking her

To wife — himself had crossed the secret will

Of her whose will in all things it had been

His soul's most perfect bliss to gratify.

Wherefore, to make atonement, in some sort,

For this one wrong he deemed that he had done

The woman — this one crossing of her will —

He knelt him down under the brooding shade

Of a huge oak, and vowed‘ fore heaven a vow:

To wit, that Lucia never afterward

Should in his hearing utter forth a wish

For aught of earthly but himself would see

That wish fulfilled, if such fulfilment were

An end that mortal man could compass. Then

Uprising, he beheld the sinking sun

A vast round eye gaze in upon the wood

Through leafy lattice of its nether boughs:

Whereat he turned him castlewards, and owned

A lighter heart than he had borne that day.

Homeward his face no sooner had he set

Than through the woods came riding unto him

A stranger, of a goodly personage,

Young, and right richly habited, who stayed

His horse, and greeted Angelo, and said:

“I pray you, sir, direct me how to find

An hostel, if there be such hereabouts;

For I have ridden far, and lost my way

Among these woods, and twilight is at hand.”

Then he that heard replied to him that asked,

Saying: “The nearest inn is farther hence

Than mine own house; make therefore mine own house

Your inn for this one night, and unto such

Poor entertainment as my house affords

You are most welcome.” So the stranger thanked

In courtly speeches the Lord Angelo,

Gladly accepting hospitalities

That were so gladly proffered; and the two

Fared on together, host and guest that were

To be, until they reached the castle, where

Angelo dwelt, and where his fathers lived

Before him, lords of land, in olden days.

And entering in, the castle's later lord

Led the young signor to the chamber where

The lady Lucia sat, who rose to give

The 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 back

She started, wellnigh swooning, but regained

Her wonted self as suddenly, declared

‘ Twas but a momentary sickness went

Arrow-like through her, sharp, but therewithal

Brief as the breath's one ebb and flow; and which,

Passing, had left her painless as before.

And truly, from that moment she appeared

More brightly beautiful, if Angelo

Erred 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 charged

With delicate meats, and fragrant fruits, and wine.

And when the meal was over, and themselves

Were with themselves alone — the serving-men

Having withdrawn — a cheerful converse rose

Concerning divers matters old and new.

And Angelo that evening let his tongue

Range more at freedom than he used; for though

No man was less to prating given than he,

Yet, when he liked his listener, he could make

His mouth discourse in such a wise that few

Had failed to give delighted audience.

For he had learning, and, besides the lore

Won 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 roamed

O'er many countries, not as one who sees

With eyes alone, and hearkens but with ears;

Rather as who would slake the thirst of the soul

By sucking wisdom from the breasts of the world.

Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words;

Till Angelo, from telling of his own

Young 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, donned

A shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry,

And said: “My wife, sir, hath a pretty gift

Of singing and of luting: it may be

If you should let your tongue turn mendicant —

Not for itself but for its needy kin,

Your ears — she might be got to give an alms

For those twin brethren.” Whereupon the guest

Unto his hostess turned and smiling said:

“That were indeed a golden alms your voice

Could well afford, and never know itself

The poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin.”

And she made answer archly: “I have oft

Heard flatterers of a woman's singing say

Her voice was silvery:— to compare‘ t with gold

Is sure a new conceit. But, sir, you praise

My singing, who have not yet heard me sing.”

And he: “I take it that a woman's speech

Is to her singing what a bird's low chirp

Is to its singing: and if Philomel

Chirp in the hearing of the woodman, he

Knows‘ tis the nightingale that chirps, and so

Expects nought meaner than its sovereign song.

Madam,‘ tis thus your speaking-voice hath given

Earnest of what your singing-voice will be;

And therefore I entreat you not to dash

The 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 more

Than 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 afternoon

Lying upon an arbour-seat, when she

Grew 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 her

Such little graceful offices of love,

And gladder yet with hope to hear her sing

Who had denied his asking many a time,

Awaited not another word, but rose

And said, “Myself will bring it,” and before

She could assent or disapprove, was gone.

Scarce had he left the chamber when behold

His wife uprose, and his young stranger-guest

Uprose, and in a trice they cast their arms

About each other, kissed each other, called

Each other dear and love, till Lucia said:

“Why cam'st thou not before, my Ugo, whom

I loved, who lovedst me, for many a day,

For many a paradisal day, ere yet

I saw that lean fool with the grizzled beard

Who'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 load

Of 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 week

Have tarried in the region hereabouts,

Unknown — and yearning for one glimpse of you,

One word, one kiss from you, if even it were

One only and the last; until, to-day,

Roaming the neighbouring forest, I espied

Your husband, guessed it was your husband, feigned

I was a traveller who had lost myself

Among the woods, received from him — ah, now

You 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 heart

The loyal subject of your sovereign heart,

As in old days.” Therewith he sat him down,

And softly drawing her upon his knee

Made him a zone of her lascivious arms.

But thus encinctured hardly had he sat

A moment, when, returning, Angelo

Stood at the threshold of the room, and held

The door half opened, and so standing saw

The lovers, and they saw not him; for half

The chamber lay in shadow, by no lamp

Lighted, 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 him

A pyramid of piled eternities.

For while he hearkened, Ugo said: “My love,

Answer me this one question, which may seem

Idle, yet is not;— how much lov'st thou me?”

And she replied: “I love thee just as much

As I do hate my husband, and no more.”

Then he: “But prithee how much hatest thou

Thy husband?” And she answered: “Ev'n as much

As I love thee. To hate him one whit more

Than 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 bestowed

My love, which is my soul, my richer self?

My poorer self, which is my body, how

Can I bestow, when‘ tis not in mine own

Possession, 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 haste

To yonder tarn that lies amid the trees

Haply a furlong westward from your house —

The gloomy lakelet fringed with pines — and there

Upon the hither margin thou shalt find

Me, 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, till

Thou reach my castle in the mountain'd North,

Whose mistress I will make thee, and mine own.”

Then Lucia said: “But how if Angelo

Pursue and overtake us?” Whereupon

Ugo replied: “Pursue he may,— o'ertake

He shall not, save he saddle him the wind.

Besides — to grant the impossible — if he

Were to o'ertake us, he could only strive

To win you back with argument; wherein

My servants, at their master's bidding, could

Debate with him on more than equal terms:

Cold steel convinces warmest disputants.

Or, if to see the bosom marital

Impierced, would make your own consorted heart

Bleed sympathetic, some more mild —” But she,

The beauteous Fury, interrupted him

With passionate-pallid lips: “Reproach me not

Beforehand — even in jest reproach me not —

With imputation of such tenderness

For him and his life — when thou knowest how

I hate, hate, hate him,— when thou knowest how

I 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.