In Bergamo where I was taught to walk
Upon the path that brought me here, I was
Often—most frequently through pride,—and now
I am contrite and would go to confession
For all those errors, and some graver ones;—
When I [She ponders.]—three days after Saint Magdalen
Was riding homeward from the chase with him.
This man, here, who's my husband—others too—
Upon the bridge an old lame beggar lay.
I knew that he was old and ill and sore
And there was something in his tired eyes
Reminded me of my dead father—but
Nevertheless—only because the one
Riding beside me touched my horse's bridle,
I did not pull aside, but let the dust
My horse kicked up, blind, choke that poor old man.
Yes, so close I rode that with his hands
He had to lift aside his injured leg.
This I remember, this I now regret.
Braccio. The one beside you held your horse's bridle? [He looks at her.]
Dianora [answers his look, understands him, says trenchantly]:
Yes! Then as often since—as often since—
And yet how rarely after all!
How meager is all joy—a shallow stream
In which you're forced to kneel, that it may reach
Up to your shoulders—
Braccio.
Of my servants who,—of all your women,
Who knew of these things?
Dianora [is silent].
Braccio [makes a disdainful gesture].
Dianora.
Falsely, quite falsely, you interpret now
My silence. How can I tell you who might know?—
But if you think that I am one of those
Who hides behind her hireling's her joy,
You know me ill. Now note—note and take heed.
Once may a woman be—yes, once she may
Be as I was for twelve weeks—once she may be
If she had found no need of veil before,
All veiled, protected by her own great pride
As by a shield—she once may rend that veil,
Feel her cheeks crimson, burning in the sun.
Horrible she, who twice could such a thing!
I'm not of these—that surely you must know.
Who knew?—Who guessed? I never hid my thoughts?
Your brother must have known—just as you knew,
Your brother just as you. Ask him, ask him!