XVII

AT THE FOUNTAIN

MARGARET and LISBETH With pitchers.

LISBETH

Hast nothing heard of Barbara?

MARGARET

No, not a word. I go so little out.

LISBETH

It’s true, Sibylla said, to-day. She’s played the fool at last, there’s not a doubt. Such taking-on of airs!

MARGARET

How so?

LISBETH

It stinks!

She’s feeding two, whene’er she eats and drinks.

MARGARET

Ah!

LISBETH

And so, at last, it serves her rightly. She clung to the fellow so long and tightly! That was a promenading! At village and dance parading! As the first they must everywhere shine, And he treated her always to pies and wine, And she made a to-do with her face so fine; So mean and shameless was her behavior, She took all the presents the fellow gave her. ’Twas kissing and coddling, on and on! So now, at the end, the flower is gone.

MARGARET

The poor, poor thing!

LISBETH

Dost pity her, at that?

When one of us at spinning sat, And mother, nights, ne’er let us out the door She sported with her paramour. On the door-bench, in the passage dark, The length of the time they’d never mark. So now her head no more she’ll lift, But do church-penance in her sinner’s shift!

MARGARET

He’ll surely take her for his wife.

LISBETH

He’d be a fool! A brisk young blade Has room, elsewhere, to ply his trade. Besides, he’s gone.

MARGARET

That is not fair!

LISBETH

If him she gets, why let her beware! The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor, And we’ll scatter chaff before her door!

[Exit.

MARGARET (returning home)

How scornfully I once reviled, When some poor maiden was beguiled! More speech than any tongue suffices I craved, to censure others’ vices. Black as it seemed, I blackened still, And blacker yet was in my will; And blessed myself, and boasted high,— And now—a living sin am I! Yet—all that drove my heart thereto, God! was so good, so dear, so true!

XVIII

DONJON

(In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater Dolorosa. Pots of flowers before it.)

MARGARET

(putting fresh flowers in the pots)

Incline, O Maiden,
Thou sorrow-laden,
Thy gracious countenance upon my pain!
The sword Thy heart in,
With anguish smarting,
Thou lookest up to where Thy Son is slain!
Thou seest the Father;
Thy sad sighs gather,
And bear aloft Thy sorrow and His pain!
Ah, past guessing,
Beyond expressing,
The pangs that wring my flesh and bone!
Why this anxious heart so burneth,
Why it trembleth, why it yearneth,
Knowest Thou, and Thou alone!
Where’er I go, what sorrow,
What woe, what woe and sorrow
Within my bosom aches!
Alone, and ah! unsleeping,
I’m weeping, weeping, weeping,
The heart within me breaks.
The pots before my window,
Alas! my tears did wet,
As in the early morning
For thee these flowers I set.
Within my lonely chamber
The morning sun shone red:
I sat, in utter sorrow,
Already on my bed.
Help! rescue me from death and stain!
O Maiden!
Thou sorrow-laden,
Incline Thy countenance upon my pain!