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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LEGEND OF FLORENCE: A DOMESTIC SCENE by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT

Poet Analysis

First Line: EVERY WAY SHE OPPOSES ME, EVEN WITH ARMS
Last Line: WHEN DUTY'S DONE. SO CHEER WE AS WE MAY.
@3A chamber hung with purple, and containing a cabinet picture of the Madonna,
but otherwise little furnished. Agolanti is here alone, until the entrance of
Ginevra, while he is speaking, upon which he closes the door over the picture,
hands her a chair, and adjusts another for himself, but continues to stand.@1

@3Ago.@1 Every way she opposes me, even with arms
Of peace and love. I bade remove that picture
From this deserted room. Can she have had it
Brought back this instant, knowing how my anger,
Just though it be, cannot behold unmoved
The face of suffering heaven? O, artifice
In very piety! 'Twere piety to veil it
From our discourse, and look another way.
@3Gin. (Cheerfully.)@1 The world seems glad after its hearty drink
Of rain. I fear'd, when you came back this morning,
The shower had stopp'd you, or that you were ill.
@3Ago.@1 You fear'd! you hoped. What fear you that I fear,
Or hope for that I hope for? A truce, madam,
To these exordiums and pretended interests,
Whose only shallow intent is to delay,
Or to divert, the sole dire subject, -- me.
Soh! you would see the spectacle! you, who start
At openings of doors and falls of pins.
Trumpets and drums quiet a lady's nerves;
And a good hacking blow at a tournament
Equals burnt feathers or hartshorn for a stimulus
To pretty household tremblers.
@3Gin.@1 I express'd
No wish to see the tournament, nor indeed
Any thing, of my own accord; or contrary
To your good judgment.
@3Ago.@1 O, of course not! Wishes
Are never express'd for, or by, contraries;
Nor the good judgment of an anxious husband
Held forth as a pleasant thing to differ with.
@3Gin.@1 It is as easy as sitting in my chair
To say, I will not go: and I will not.
Be pleased to think that settled.
@3Ago.@1 The more easily
As 'tis expected @3I should@1 go, is it not?
And then you will sit happy at receipt
Of letters from Antonio Rondinelli.
@3Gin.@1 Return'd unopen'd, sir.
@3Ago.@1 How many?
@3Gin.@1 Three.
@3Ago.@1 You are correct as to those three. How many
Open'd? Your look, madam, is wondrous logical
Conclusive by mere pathos of astonishment;
And cramm'd with scorn from pure unscornfulness.
I have, 'tis true, strong doubts of your regard
For him, or any one; of your love of power
None, as you know I have reason; though you take
Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it.
Antonio knows these fools you saw but now,
And fools have foolish friendships, and bad leagues
For getting a little power, not natural to them,
Out of their laugh'd-at betters. Be it as it may,
All this, I will not have these prying idlers
Put my domestic troubles to the blush;
Nor you sit thus in ostentatious meekness
Playing the victim with a pretty breath,
And smiles that say "God help me!" Well, madam,
What do @3you@1 say?
@3Gin.@1 I say I will do whatever
You think best, and desire.
@3Ago.@1 And make the worst of it
By whatsoever may mislead, and vex?
There -- now you make a pretty sign, as though
Your silence were compell'd.
@3Gin.@1 What can I say,
Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided?
You should not use me thus. I have not strength for it
So great as you may think. My late sharp illness
Has left me weak.
@3Ago.@1 I've known you weaker, madam,
But never feeble enough to want the strength
Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too!
Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity
Of strength itself; and women can take poor
Advantages, that were in men but cowardice.
@3Gin. (Aside)@1 Dear Heaven! what humblest doubts of our self-knowledge
Should we not feel, when tyranny can talk thus?
@3Ago.@1 Can you pretend, madam, with you surpassing
Candour and heavenly kindness, that you never
Utter'd one gentle-sounding word, not meant
To give the hearer pain? me pain? your husband?
Whom in all evil thoughts you so pretend
To be unlike.
@3Gin.@1 I cannot dare pretend it.
I am a woman, not an angel.
@3Ago.@1 Ay,
See there -- you have! you own it! how pretend then
To make such griefs of every petty syllable,
Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn?
@3Gin.@1 One pain is not a thousand; nor one wrong,
Acknowledged and repented of, the habit
Of unprovoked and unrepented years.
@3Ago.@1 Of unprovoked! Oh, let all provocation
Take every brutish shape it can devise
To try endurance with; taunt it in failure,
Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames,
Make gross the name of mother, call it fool,
Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium
Makes the soul swoon within its range, for want
Of some great answer, terrible as it's wrong,
And it shall be as nothing to this miserable,
Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies,
This angel-mimicking non-provocation
From one too cold to enrage, and weak to tread on!
You never loved me once -- You loved me not --
Never did -- no -- not when before the altar,
With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness
And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband,
Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty,
By, but not for, the man you scorn'd to love!
@3Gin.@1 I scorn'd you not -- and knew not what scorn was --
Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing
But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits.
Oh, could you trust yourself -- But why repeat
What still is thus repeated day by day,
Still ending with the question, "Why repeat?"
[@3Rising and moving about.@1]
You make the blood at last mount to my brain,
And tax me past endurance. What have I done,
Good God! what have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny,
Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none?
@3Ago.@1 I thank you madam, humbly,
That was sincere at least.
@3Gin.@1 I beg your pardon.
Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong.
@3Ago.@1 This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked
And unprovoking, never-answering she!
@3Gin.@1 Nay, nay, say on; I do deserve it -- I
Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry,
Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself
In fellowship there at least.
@3Ago.@1 A taunt in friendliness!
Meekness's happiest condescension!
@3Gin.@1 No,
So help me heaven! I but spoke in consciousness
Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love
In that, would you but know it, and encourage it.
The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil,
Brings charity. Be you but charitable,
And I am grateful, and we both shall learn.
@3Ago.@1 I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,
Nor when we dispute, ever, -- except the wrong
Done to myself by a will far more wilful,
Because less moved, and less ingenuous.
Let them get charity that show it.
@3Gin. (who has reseated herself.)@1 I pray you,
Let Fiordilisa come to me. My lips
Will show you that I faint.
[@3Agolanti rings a bell on the table; Fiordilisa enters to her mistress.@1]
@3Ago.@1 When you have seen your mistress well again,
Go to Matteo; and tell him, from herself,
That 'tis her orders she be excused at present
To all that come, her state requiring it,
And convalescence. Mark you that addition.
She's getting well; but to get well, needs rest. [@3Exit.@1
@3Fior.@1 Needs rest! alas! when will you let her rest,
But in her grave? My lady! My sweet mistress!
[@3Applying a volatile to her temples.@1]
She knows me. He has gone: the Signor's gone.
(@3Aside.@1) She sighs, as though she mourn'd him.
@3Gin. (listening.)@1 What's that?
@3Fior.@1 Nothing, madam; I heard nothing.
@3Gin.@1 Every thing
Gives me a painful wonder; you, your face,
These walls. My hand seems to me not more human
Than animal; and all things unaccountable.
'Twill pass away. What's that? [@3An organ is heard.@1]
@3Fior.@1 Yes, I hear that.
'Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel,
Touching the new organ. In truth, I ask'd him,
Thinking that, as the Signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks to him of religion,
It might have done no harm to you and him, madam,
To hear it while conversing. But he's old
And slow, is the good father.
[@3Ginevra kisses her, and then weeps abundantly.@1]
@3Gin.@1 Thank heaven! thank heaven and the sweet sounds! I have not
Wept, Fiordilisa, now for many a day,
And the sound freshens me; loosens my heart.
[@3Music is heard.@1]
O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,
Pitied of angels surely.
@3Fior.@1 Perhaps, madam,
You will rest here, and try to sleep awhile?
@3Gin.@1 No, Fiordilisa: (@3rising@1) meeting what must be,
Is half commanding it; and in this breath
Of heaven my mind feels duty set erect
Fresh out of tears. Bed is for night, not day,
When duty's done. So cheer we as we may.



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