Томас Гарди (Харди) (Thomas Hardy)

Reluctant Confession

‘What did you do? Cannot you let me know?’
‘Don’t ask! . . .’Twas midnight, and I’d lost at cards.’
‘Ah. Was it crime – or seemed it to be so?’
‘No – not till afterwards.’
‘But what, then, did you do?’
‘Well – that was the beginning – months ago;
You see, I had lost, and could not pay but – so.
And there flashed from him strange and strong regards
That you only see when scruples smash to shards;
And thus it happened – O it rained and blew! –
But I can’t tell. ’Twas all so lurid in hue!
And what was worst came after, when I knew
What first crossed not my mind,
And he has never divined!’ . . .
‘But he must have, if he proposed it you?’
‘I mean, that – I got rid of what resulted
In a way a woman told me I consulted:
’Tis that he does not know;
Great God, it harrows me so!
I did not mean to. Every night –
In hell-dark dreams
I see an appealing figure in white –
That somehow seems
A newborn child in the clothes I set to make,
But left off, for my own depraved name’s sake!’

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