"That is my tale told truly. Now you know,
Sir, of what fashion I am made: a woman
Gentle, you see, and mild eyed. If I sinned
Surely there was temptation, and I sought
Such reparation as I could. There are here
Tigresses, and not women, black of brow
And strong of arm, who have struck down or stabbed
Husband, or child, or lover, not as I,
But driven by rage and jealousy, and drink!
These creatures of the devil, as I pass
I see them shrink and shudder. The young priest
Of the prison, a well-favoured lad he is,
When I confessed to him bore on his brow
Cold drops of agony; the Sister grew
So pale at what I told her, that I thought
She was like to swoon away, until I soothed her.
Poor wretch, she has much to learn; and here I am,
And shall be till my hair turns grey, my eyes
Grow dim, and I have clean forgotten all
That brought me here, and all my former life
Fades like a once-heard tale. In the long nights,
As I lie alone in my cell like any nun,
I wake sometimes with a start, and seem to hear
That rusty lock turn, and those echoing feet
Down that dark passage, and I seem to see
The dreadful stare of those despairing eyes,
And then there sounds, a plunge in the deep, and I
Lie shivering till the dawn. I have no comfort
Except the holy Mass; for see you, sir,
I was devout until they scoffed at me.
And now I know there is a hell indeed,
Since this place is on earth. I do not think
I have much cause to fear death, should it come;
For whoso strives for Duty, all the Saints
And the Madonna needs must love, and I,
I have done what penitence could do; and here
What have I of reward?—my children taken
As clean from me as if they were dead indeed,
Trained to forget their mother. Sir, I see,
Beyond these shallow phantasms of life;
And this I hold, that one whose conscience shows
As clear as mine must needs be justified.
I love the holy Mass, and take the Host
As often as I may, being of good heart.
For what was it she did in Holy Writ,
The Kenite's wife of old? I do not read
That women shrunk from her because she drave
The nail through her guest's brain; nay, rather, praise
Was hers: yet was she not betrayed as I,
Nor yet repentant of her wrong and seeking
To do what good was left. But look you, sir,
If I was once repentant, that is past:
I hate those black-browed women, who turn from me,
That smooth priest and that poor fool with her cross,
And that strange pink-and-whiteness of the nun.
And sometimes when they come I let them hear
Such things as make the pious hypocrites turn
And cross themselves. And for this tigress crew,
If I might only steal to their cells at night
With a knife, I would teach them, what it is to stab;
Or even without one, that these little hands
Can strangle with the best.
Ah, you draw back,
You too are shocked forsooth. Listen, you wretch,
Who are walking free while I am prisoned here:
How many thoughts of murder have you nursed
Within your miserable heart! how many
Low, foul desires which would degrade the brute!
Do you think I do not know you men? What was it
That kept your hands unstained, but accident?—
Accident, did I say? or was it rather
Cowardice, that you feared the stripes of the law,
And did not dare to do your will or die?—
Accident! then, I pray you, where the merit
To have abstained? Or if you claim, indeed,
Such precious self-restraint as keeps your feet
From straying, where the credit? since it came
A gift as much unearned as other's ill,
Which lurked for them a little tiny speck
Hidden in the convolutions of the brain,
To grow with their growth, and wax with their years, and leave
The wretch at last in Hell. Do you deem it just,
The Potter with our clay upon His wheel
Should shape it in such form? I love not God,
Being such; I hate Him rather: I, His creature,
I do impugn His justice or His power,
I will not feign obedience—I, a woman,
Of a soft nature, who would love my love,
And my child, and nothing more; who am, instead,
A murderess, as they tell me, pining here
In hell before my time."
Even as she spake
I seemed to be again as when I saw
The murderess of old time; and once again
Within this modern prison, blank and white,
There came the viewless trouble in the air
Which took her, and the sweep of wings unseen,
And terrible sounds which swooped on her and hushed
Her voice and seemed to occupy her soul
With horror and despair; and as I passed
The crucifix within the corridor,
"How long?" I cried, "How long?"
AT THE END.
When the five gateways of the soul
Are closing one by one,
When our being's currents slowly roll
And life nigh done,
What shall our chiefest comfort be
Amid this misery?
Not to have stores heaped up on high
Of gold and precious things,
Not to have flown from sky to sky
On Fame's wide wings,—
All these things for a space do last,
And then are overpast.
Nor to have worked with patient brain
In senate or in mart,
To have gained the meed which those attain
Who have played their part,—
Effort is fair, success is sweet,
But leave life incomplete.
Nor to have said, as the fool said,
"Be merry, soul, rejoice;
"Thou hast laid up store for many days."
Oh, foolish voice!
Already at thy gate the feet
Of the corpse-bearers meet.
Nor to have heaped up precious store
Of all the gains of time,
Of long-dead sages' treasured lore,
Or deathless rhyme,—
Learning's a sweet and comely maid,
But Death makes her afraid.