Chapter XXXVI

When Haydn grew less ill, could talk once more,
And proved our prayers for him were not in vain,
The kind physician urged that he and I
Be kept no more apart. My father then,
At first, would not consent. I went to him.
“My father,” said I, “do not fear for me.
If God will give our poor friend health once more
Then have I vow’d that never will I take
A veil, save one that weds me to the Church.”

“My daughter,—what?” he ask’d, “you never take—
Ay, what is this you say?—you wed the Church?—
In God’s name, child, explain yourself.”
“A vow,”
I said, “A vow that I have made the Virgin.”

“What strange, what thoughtless deed is this?” he ask’d.
“You take a vow, one not to be recall’d,
That you will thwart our hopes, our plans for you?—
And shut away, away from all of us,
This face, this form, so cherish’d all these years?—
True?—Is it true?—I would not frighten you:
Poor girl, God knows that you will have enough
To shudder for.—Yet, it bewilders me:
How could you, you who had been wont to be
So trustful and considerate and calm,
How could you do a thing so rash, so wrong,
Nor once consult me?—Tell me this, my child:
What false inducement could have tempted you?”

“Woe me!” I sobb’d, “I marvell’d when you said
I could do so, the time I told you here
That I would rather be a nun than be
That rich man’s wife.”
“You dear, poor girl,” he sigh’d,
“Those words were but a whiff, whiff light as breath
One blows at flies that come to trouble him.
And can it be that they?—I half believe
(My words have conjured cursèd deeds before)
The very atoms of the air, like pools,
Hold spawn-strown vermin-eggs! If one but speak,
But break the silence; if his breath but bear
One faintest puff from passionate heat within,
Lo, breaking open some accursèd shell,
It hatches forth foul broods of venomous life
That come, blown backward by the changing wind,
To haunt him who provok’d their devilish birth!
By day they sting our eyes, and make us weep;
By night steal through unguarded gates of sense,
And sting our souls in dreams!—My heart! and you?—
How could you deem my thoughtless words to be
The voice of so deform’d a wish as this?”

“But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,—
At least, it seem’d—so thought.”
“The priest!” he cried,
“Has he been meddling with your malady?—
My friend?—My friend is he no more.”
“Nay, I,”
I said, “had sought his counsel; even then
He said but little.”
“Little!” he rejoin’d;
“That little was too much! Nay, never more—
Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power—
Yes, now I think of it, it need not all
Be darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there is
May clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,—
He shall an absolution get; yes, yes,
An absolution, that shall make us right.”

And then my father, in his hopeful way,
Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me.
“I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes.
Why, here you stand a woman when I thought
You only were my pet, my little girl.—
But do not cry: no, no; I honor you,
My little woman!—There, forgive me now;
Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child,
The absolution, then, we then shall see,
If your old father can be kind or not.”
With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept;
Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain.
I scarce could think myself that they were vain.