Poems

by Julia C. R. Dorr

A MATER DOLOROSA

Then down the street came Giacomo, flushed With wine and laughter. I can see him now, With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo, Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crew Of merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long, So long ago it was! Yet I can see Just how the campanile shone that night Like molten silver, while its carven saints Prayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow crept Over the moon’s face; and it grew so dark That the red star in Giacomo’s cap Paled and went out, and Giulio’s shoulder-clasp Lost all the lustre of its burnished gold, And faded out of sight. Strange, how we lose So much we would remember, and yet keep Trifles like this until the day of doom! They had swept past me where I stood in shade When Giacomo turned. Just then the moon Shone out again, illumining the place, And he paused laughing, catching sight of me There 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 have A model for his picture. Go you then To-morrow to his studio and say Giacomo sent you. At the convent there, Near Santa Croce.” So I thither went Early next morning, trembling as I stole Into the master’s presence. A grave man Of most unworldly aspect, with bowed head And 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 eye For minutes that seemed hours scanned my face, Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemed As if the judgment-day had come, and God Sat on the great white throne! At length he spoke, Nodding as one content—“To-morrow morn I pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bring A little child with thee—some fair, sweet child Whose eyes are like the morning?” Then I said, Bethinking me of Beppo’s little boy Whose mother died last week—“Yes, I will come Surely, my father, and will bring with me The fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,” Softly he answered, and a sudden light Made his pale face all glorious. At the door I paused, and looking backward saw him bow Before the easel as before a shrine. I know not if he prayed, but never saint Had aspect more divine. Next day I went With 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 hair Fell 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 held Him 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 spoke He turned back to the easel; but I sprang From the low pedestal, and, with the boy Still 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 stooped And raised me from the ground, and took the child In unaccustomed arms all tenderly, Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand. “But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing else Ever paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen, Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.” Then suddenly I saw it all—the light Dim 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 gloom Like a lone star! Then in the hush a voice Chanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still. I who had been a sinner, could I dare Thus to mock God and man? Low at his feet Again I fell, and there I told him all As he had been my soul’s confessor, poured My very heart out. Signor, life is hard And cruel to child-women, when the street Is their sole nursing mother. I had had No friend, no home, save when old Barbara In some rare mood of pity let me creep Under her wing for shelter. Then she died, And even that poor semblance of a home Was mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on, Out of the dust and moil I grew as tall And fair as lily in a garden plot, Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!— God knows how girls are tempted when false love Comes with beguiling words and tender lips, Promising all things, and their barren lives Break into sudden bloom as when a bud Unfolds its shining petals in the sun 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 hands Into the shining masses of my hair, Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted up My wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good; And even in that dark hour a thrill of joy Ran through my soul as the pure lips met mine. Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the child Clasped to my bosom, daring not to raise My eyes to the face above me. Well I knew It 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 hand Fell as in benediction. Then he said “Arise, my daughter, and come thou with me Where bide the holy sisters of St. Clare, Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of all The saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer, Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soul Of 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 arm Down the long cloisters strode he, and across The 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 tale Told unto me this day. Farewell! ”The gate Swung to with iron clang, and Nello’s arms Half strangled me as round my neck he clung, Awed by the holy stillness. Since that hour I with the humble sisters of St. Clare Have given myself to deeds of mercy, works Meet for repentance, ministering still Unto all souls that suffer, even as now 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 found Oftener than elsewhere at the studio Of old Fra Alessandro. He became A painter, Signor, and men call him great. I know not if he is—but you can see His pictures yonder in San Spirito. You’ve seen them? seen my face there? now you know Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you Through all these weeks of languor? It may be. I am too old to care now, have outlived Youth and its petty consciousness. My face Is mine no longer. It is God’s alone. A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!