Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

III.

Ere spring in the heart of pansies burned, Or the buttercup had loosed its gold, Nine was busy as ever of old With fireside cares; but was not the same, For from the hour when she had turned To clasp the Image the fathers brought To her dying-bed, a single thought Had taken possession of her brain: A purpose, as steady as the flame Of a lamp in some cathedral crypt, Had lighed her on her bed of pain;

The thirst and the fever, they had slipt Away like visions, but this had stayed— To have the Bambino brought again, To have it, and keep it for her own! That was the secret dream which made Life for her now—in the streets, alone, At night, and morning, and when she prayed.

How should she wrest it from the hand Of the jealous Church? How keep the Child? Flee with it into some distant land— Like mother Mary from Herod's ire? Ah, well, she knew not; she only knew It was written down in the Book of Fate That she should have her heart's desire, And very soon now, for of late, In a dream, the little thing had smiled Up in her face, with one eye's blue Peering from underneath her breast, Which the baby fingers had softly prest Aside, to look at her! Holy one! But that should happen ere all was done.

Lying dark in the woman's mind— Unknown, like a seed in fallow ground—Was the germ of a plan, confused and blind At first, but which, as the weeks rolled round, Reached light, and flowered,—a subtile flower, Deadly as nightshade. In that same hour She sought the husband and said to him,

With crafty tenderness in her eyes And treacherous archings of her brows, "Filippo, mio, thou lov'st me well? Truly? Then get thee to the house Of the long-haired Jew Ben Raphaim— Seller of curious tapestries, (Ah, he hath everything to sell!) The cunning carver of images— And bid him to carve thee to the life A bambinetto like that they gave In my arms, to hold me from the grave When the fever pierced me like a knife. Perhaps, if we set the image there By the Cross, the saints would hear the prayer Which in all these years they have not heard."

Then the husband went, without a word, To the crowded Ghetto; for since the days Of Nina's illness, the man had been A tender husband—with lover's ways Striving, as best he might, to wean The wife from her sadness, and to bring Back to the home whence it had fled The happiness of that laughing spring When they, like a pair of birds, had wed.

The image! It was a woman's whim— They were full of whims. But what to him Were a dozen pieces of silver spent, If it made her happy? And so he went

To the house of the Jew Ben Raphaim. And the carver heard, and bowed, and smiled, And fell to work as if he had known The thought that lay in the woman's brain, And somehow taken it for his own: For even before the month was flown He had carved a figure so like the Child Of Ara-Cœli, you'd not have told, Had both been decked with jewel and chain And dressed alike in a dress of gold, Which was the true one of the twain.

When Nina beheld it first, her heart Stood still with wonder. The skilful Jew Had given the eyes the tender blue, And the cheeks the delicate olive hue, And the form almost the curve and line Of the Image the good Apostle made Immortal with his miraculous art, What time the sculptor1 1.1 dreamed in the shade Under the skies of Palestine. The bright new coins that clinked in the palm Of the carver in wood were blurred and dim Compared with the eyes that looked at him From the low sweet brows, so seeming calm; Then he went his way, and her joy broke free,

And Filippo smiled to hear Nina singIn the old, old fashion— carolling Like a very thrush, with many a trill And long-drawn, flute-like, honeyed note, Till the birds in the farthest mulberry, Each outstretching its amber bill, Answered her with melodious throat.

Thus sped two days; but on the third Her singing ceased, and there came a change As of death on Nina; her talk grew strange, Then she sunk in a trance, nor spoke nor stirred; And the husband, wringing his hands dismayed, Watched by the bed; but she breathed no word That night, nor until the morning broke, When she roused from the spell, and feebly laid Her hand on Filippo's arm, and spoke: "Quickly, Filippo! get thee gone To the holy fathers, and beg them send The Bambino hither" —her cheeks were wan And her eyes like coals— "O, go, my friend, Or all is said!" Through the morning's gray Filippo hurried, like one distraught, To the monks, and told his tale; and they, Straight after matins, came and brought The Miracle Child, and went their way.

Once more in her arms was the Infant laid, After these weary months, once more! Yet the woman seemed like a thing of stone

While the dark-robed fathers knelt and prayed; But the instant the holy friars were gone She arose, and took the broidered gown From the Baby Christ, and the yellow crown And the votive brooches and rings it wore, Till the little figure, so gay before In its princely apparel, stood as bare As your ungloved hand. With tenderest care, At her feet, 'twixt blanket and counterpane, She hid the Babe; and then, reaching down To the coffer wherein the thing had lain, Drew forth Ben Raphaim's manikin In haste, and dressed it in robe and crown, With lace and bawble and diamond-pin. This finished, she turned to stone again, And lay as one would have thought quite dead, If it had not been for a spot of red Upon either cheek. At the close of day The Capuchins came, with solemn tread, And carried the false bambino away!

Over the vast Campagna's plain, At sunset, a wind began to blow (From the Apennines it came, they say), Softly at first, and then to grow— As the twilight gathered and hurried by—To a gale, with sudden tumultuous rain And thunder muttering far away. When the night was come, from the blackened sky The spear-tongued lightning slipped like a snake,

And the great clouds clashed, and seemed to shake The earth to its centre. Then swept down Such a storm as was never seen in Rome By any one living in that day. Not a soul dared venture from his home, Not a soul in all the crowded town. Dumb beasts dropped dead, with terror, in stall; Great chimney-stacks were overthrown, And about the streets the tiles were blown Like leaves in autumn. A fearful night, With ominous voices in the air! Indeed, it seemed like the end of all. In the convent, the monks for very fright Went not to bed, but each in his cell Counted his beads by the taper's light, Quaking to hear the dreadful sounds, And shrivelling in the lightning's glare. It appeared as if the rivers of Hell Had risen, and overleaped their bounds.

In the midst of this, at the convent door, Above the tempest's raving and roar Came a sudden knocking! Mother of Grace, What a desperate wretch was forced to face Such a night as that was out-of-doors? Across the echoless, stony floors Into the windy corridors The monks came flocking, and down the stair, Silently, glancing each at each, As if they had lost the power of speech.

Yes—it was some one knocking there! And then— strange thing!—untouched by a soul The bell of the convent 'gan to toll! It curdled the blood beneath their hair. Reaching the court, the brothers stood Huddled together, pallid and mute, By the massive door of iron-clamped wood, Till one old monk, more resolute Than the others—a man of pious will— Stepped forth, and letting his lantern rest On the pavement, crouched upon his breast And peeped through a chink there was between The cedar door and the sunken sill. At the instant a flash of lightning came, Seeming to wrap the world in flame. He gave but a glance, and straight arose With his face like a corpse's. What had he seen? Two dripping, little pink-white toes! Then, like a man gone suddenly wild, He tugged at the bolts, flung down the chain, And there, in the night and wind and rain— Shivering, piteous, and forlorn, And naked as ever it was born—On the threshold stood the SAINTED CHILD!

"LEGEND OF ARA-CŒLI." Page 163.

" Since then," said Fra Gervasio, "We have never let the Bambino go Unwatched—no, not by a prince's bed. Ah, signor, it made a dreadful stir." "And the woman—Nina—what of her?

Had she no story?" He bowed his head,And knitting his meagre fingers, so— "In that night of wind and wrath," said he, "There was wrought in Rome a mystery. What know I, signor? They found her dead!"

Notes

• 1 1.1

  According to a monastic legend, the Santissimo Bambino was carved by a pilgrim, out of a tree which grew on the Mount of Olives, and painted by St. Luke while the pilgrim was sleeping over his work.