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Page 43
He drew a sudden breath,
Checking his words upon the very lip.
"I know," she said, "I feared so much from him.
I wrote; I urged him with my utmost stress
Of reasons and of prayers, I even begged
By pity to myself, so that he wrote
'It shall be as you will, since you'll not take
Even the service from me of my death,
Since you believe I shall be more a curse
Dead than alive. You put it mincingly
Out of a present pity for a foe
(You think me that) fallen so utterly.
But there the gist lies - even more a curse
Dead than alive, unless some seemly bout
Of sickness come to play the scavenger
And sweep me from your path. If I died so
You'd have no ghost to dog you: that would serve,
And so we'll pray for that end, you and I.'
"This is the letter see, and added here
In postscript 'Would thou couldst have said
Thy just farewell with but a little grief,
A little show of having loved me once;
But that thou couldst not. And I thank thee much
That thou hast been the least harsh possible.'
It is the end of all he was to me,
Or I to him. I know but this much since:
He had his pardon some five years ago -
Carlo was dead then - that the journals told.
"We lived in Florence then; but at the news
We fled to Paris, safelier out of sweep
Of chance winds blowing him upon our track,
And it was there my father died - ah me!
My dear dear father! never the same man
After that heavy trouble, to the last
Gentle to me, but turning a cold face
Distrustful, nearly bitter, to all else,
And oftenest silent. Sometimes he would sit
Seeming to sleep, then suddenly would hiss
A vehement word of scorn, or break aloud
Into tumultuous anger. Even in sleep
He'd cry out on Emilio, storm at him
As basest of all hypocrites, or fret
And reason with him and rebuke, as though
He stood there claiming me for his again.
Ah me, my father! 'twas an evil day
When first you bade him come, a lurid cloud
Into the sunshine of our simple home.
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