I hate this house. It's dingy, dank, and cold.
The ragged, threadbare carpets smell of mold.
The curtains faded, stained with years of smoke.
The tiny, barren garden is a joke.
Two third-rate, lazy servants who do chores.
My tedious aunt, who scolds, complains, and bores.
I take a walk in town and I can hear
The vulgar people gossip, point, and sneer.
The shopkeepers can barely be polite
They clearly wish that I were out of sight.
The middle classes stay away from me
To show their pure respectability.
No one dares speak to the adulteress
Lest I infect them with my wickedness.
Wherever you may search, you'll never find
A heroine more tragic or more blind.
In all the world, from Iceland to Bombay,
In opera, novel, poem, myth, or play,
A lover so romantic, so betrayed,
A woman who so great a price has paid.
Insane with overwhelming adoration
I gave up wealth, position, reputation.
The mistress of the Sotherton estate —
A mile from the front door to the gate! —
The leader in the world of style and fashion,
Now ruined by my ill-considered passion.
I'm now the butt of mocking and derision,
A captive in this horrid little prison.
The ancient, noble Bertram family
Have, every one of them, abandoned me.
My brutal, tyrant father that I hate,
Who sentenced me to this appalling state,
My coward sister and my silly mother,
My wastrel and my pompous, preaching brother
Have one and all succumbed beneath the spell
Cast by that harpy from the depths of Hell.
I curse the day that first I ever saw
My cousin Fanny, now my sister-in-law.
My selfish aunt, pretending to be nice,
Arranged for us to bring up Fanny Price.
I loathed her when I met her, I recall
Malnourished, poor, uneducated, small,
Hostile, timid, weak — the incarnation
Of all that's odious in a poor relation.
Afraid of everything; she cried, of course,
The first time Father put her on a horse.
Resentful of her place as poor dependent,
The ingrate plotted to become ascendant.
Abetted by my brother Edmund, she
Became a preacher of morality.
Though cowardly and pusillanimous,
She sat in sullen judgement over us.
She wouldn't even join us in our play;
"I cannot act" was all the prig would say.
With sermonizing and pathetic whine.
She stole the heart that should, that must, be mine.
Aunt Norris, when she thinks of Fanny, curses
In language not appropriate for verses.
Of course, I do not in the least object.
Her maledictions might have some effect.
But when she turns on him, I tell her "Hush.
Do not defame the man I love so much."
Some afternoon I'll look out, and I'll just
Make out, far down the road, a cloud of dust.
With lover's intuition, I'll discern
That little cloud betokens his return.
How long I wait! How slowly moves the clock!
At last I'll hear his well-remembered knock.
He'll call, "Maria? Agatha? My dear?
I've come, my love, my darling. I am here."
I'll come out when he's waited there a while,
But speak no word, just an indifferent smile.
In part, to tease, to make him wonder why
And partly, if I speak to him, — I'll die!
He'll weep hot tears of shame, his heart will break
When he sees all I've suffered for his sake.
He'll humbly plead with me to be his wife,
Then I can say, "I'll love you all my life!"
Once more he'll press my hand against his heart.
And, Henry, from that hour we'll never part.