Poems (Dorr)/A Mater Dolorosa
A MATER DOLOROSA
Then down the street came Giacomo, flushedWith wine and laughter. I can see him now,With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo,Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crewOf merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long,So long ago it was! Yet I can seeJust how the campanile shone that nightLike molten silver, while its carven saintsPrayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow creptOver the moon's face; and it grew so darkThat the red star in Giacomo's capPaled and went out, and Giulio's shoulder-claspLost all the lustre of its burnished gold,And faded out of sight. Strange, how we loseSo much we would remember, and yet keepTrifles like this until the day of doom!They had swept past me where I stood in shadeWhen Giacomo turned. Just then the moonShone out again, illumining the place,And he paused laughing, catching sight of meThere by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay!I was young then, and some said I was fair;But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.—Back he came crying, "Little one, take heed!Know you Fra Alessandro? He would haveA model for his picture. Go you thenTo-morrow to his studio and say Giacomo sent you. At the convent there,Near Santa Croce." So I thither wentEarly next morning, trembling as I stoleInto the master's presence. A grave manOf most unworldly aspect, with bowed headAnd pale chin resting on his long, thin hand,He sat before an easel, lost in thought."Giacomo sent me," said I, creeping in,And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned,But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eyeFor minutes that seemed hours scanned my face,Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemedAs if the judgment-day had come, and GodSat on the great white throne! At length he spoke,Nodding as one content—"To-morrow mornI pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bringA little child with thee—some fair, sweet childWhose eyes are like the morning?" Then I said,Bethinking me of Beppo's little boyWhose mother died last week—"Yes, I will comeSurely, my father, and will bring with meThe fairest child in Florence." "It is well,"Softly he answered, and a sudden lightMade his pale face all glorious. At the doorI paused, and looking backward saw him bowBefore the easel as before a shrine.I know not if he prayed, but never saintHad aspect more divine. Next day I wentWith little Nello to the studio.Impatiently the Frate greeted us,Palette in hand. "So!—Thou art come at last?"But as I drew the cap from Nello's head And the moist tendrils of his golden hairFell softly on his forehead, he cried out:"The boy is like an angel! And thy face,Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,As thus, or thus." The child was half afraid;And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I heldHim close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,"O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.And thou and this fair child" Even while he spokeHe turned back to the easel; but I sprangFrom the low pedestal, and, with the boyStill in my arms, I fell down at his feet."Not that, not that, my father!" swift I cried,While my hot forehead touched his garment's hem;"Not that, for God's sake! Paint me otherwise.Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe'er you will,Only not that, not that!" Smiling he stoopedAnd raised me from the ground, and took the childIn unaccustomed arms all tenderly,Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand."But why 'not that,' my daughter? Nothing elseEver paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,Only the Virgin and her Holy Child." Then suddenly I saw it all—the lightDim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,The swinging censers, candles burning clear, With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume,The high white altar, and above a face,My face, pale shining through the scented gloomLike a lone star! Then in the hush a voiceChanted "Hail, Mary"—and my heart stood still.I who had been a sinner, could I dareThus to mock God and man? Low at his feetAgain I fell, and there I told him allAs he had been my soul's confessor, pouredMy very heart out. Signor, life is hardAnd cruel to child-women, when the streetIs their sole nursing mother. I had hadNo friend, no home, save when old BarbaraIn some rare mood of pity let me creepUnder her wing for shelter. Then she died,And even that poor semblance of a homeWas mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on,Out of the dust and moil I grew as tallAnd fair as lily in a garden plot,Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!—God knows how girls are tempted when false loveComes with beguiling words and tender lips,Promising all things, and their barren livesBreak into sudden bloom as when a budUnfolds its shining petals in the sunAnd joys to be a rose!And joys to be a rose!No word he spake,Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale.But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears,Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his handsInto the shining masses of my hair,Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted upMy wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good;And even in that dark hour a thrill of joyRan through my soul as the pure lips met mine. Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the childClasped to my bosom, daring not to raiseMy eyes to the face above me. Well I knewIt was the priest's face, not the painter's, now!Was it his voice that through the silence stole,"A little child shall lead them," murmuring low?Just for one instant on my head a handFell as in benediction. Then he said"Arise, my daughter, and come thou with meWhere bide the holy sisters of St. Clare,Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of allThe saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer,Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soulOf all iniquity, and make it clean."Startled I answered him—"But who will care.For Nello then? His mother died last week,And Beppo's heart is buried in her grave—He cares not for the child, nor gives him love."But with a wide sweep of his beckoning armDown the long cloisters strode he, and acrossThe heated pavement of the market-place,Nor looked to see if we were following him.Until he paused before the convent gate;Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heard.The sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame."Fear not, my child," Fra Alessandro said."Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her,And straightway tell the abbess all the taleTold unto me this day. Farewell!" The gateSwung to with iron clang, and Nello's armsHalf strangled me as round my neck he clung,Awed by the holy stillness.Awed by the holy stillness.Since that hourI with the humble sisters of St. ClareHave given myself to deeds of mercy, works Meet for repentance, ministering stillUnto all souls that suffer, even as nowI minister to you.I minister to you.But what, you ask,Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—God rest his soul!—and the child 'bode with us.But when the lad drew nigh to man's estate—Too old for women's guidance—he was foundOftener than elsewhere at the studioOf old Fra Alessandro. He becameA painter, Signor, and men call him great.I know not if he is—but you can seeHis pictures yonder in San Spirito.You've seen them? seen my face there? now you knowWhence comes the semblance that has puzzled youThrough all these weeks of languor?Through all these weeks of languor?It may be.I am too old to care now, have outlivedYouth and its petty consciousness. My faceIs mine no longer. It is God's alone.A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!