The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?

        ’Tis Rome-work, made to match

(By Castellani’s imitative craft)

Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,

After a dropping April; found alive

Spark-like ’mid unearthed slope-side figtree- roots

That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,

Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There’s one trick,

(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device

And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold

As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,

Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear

At beehive-edge when ripened combs o’erflow,—

To bear the file’s tooth and the hammer’s tap:

Since hammer needs must widen out the round,

And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,

Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.

That trick is, the artificer melts up wax

With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold

With gold’s alloy, and, duly tempering both,

Effects a manageable mass, then works.

But his work ended, once the thing a ring,

Oh, there’s repristination! Just a spirt

O’ the proper fiery acid o’er its face,

And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;

While, self- sufficient now, the shape remains,

The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,

Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:

Prime nature with an added artistry—

No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.

What of it? ’Tis a figure, a symbol, say;

A thing’s sign: now for the thing signified.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss

I’ the air, and catch again, and twirl about

By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact

Secreted from man’s life when hearts beat hard,

And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?

Examine it yourselves! I found this book,

Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,

(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,

Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,

One day still fierce ’mid many a day struck calm,

Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,

Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time;

Toward Baccio’s marble,—ay, the basement-ledge

O’ the pedestal where sits and menaces

John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,

’Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,

His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.

This book,—precisely on that palace-step

Which, meant for lounging knaves o’ the Medici,

Now serves re-venders to display their ware,—

’Mongst odds and ends of ravage, picture-frames

White through the worn gilt, mirror-sconces chipped,

Bronze angel-heads once knobs attached to chests,

(Handled when ancient dames chose forth brocade)

Modern chalk drawings, studies from the nude,

Samples of stone, jet, breccia, porphyry

Polished and rough, sundry amazing busts

In baked earth (broken, Providence be praised!)

A wreck of tapestry, proudly-purposed web

When reds and blues were indeed red and blue,

Now offered as a mat to save bare feet

(Since carpets constitute a cruel cost)

Treading the chill scagliola bedward: then

A pile of brown-etched prints, two crazie each,

Stopped by a conch a-top from fluttering forth

—Sowing the Square with works of one and the same

Master, the imaginative Sienese

Great in the scenic backgrounds—(name and fame

None of you know, nor does he fare the worse:)

From these Oh, with a Lionard going cheap

If it should prove, as promised, that Joconde

Whereof a copy contents the Louvre!—these

I picked this book from. Five compeers in flank

Stood left and right of it as tempting more—

A dog’s-eared Spicilegium, the fond tale

O’ the Frail One of the Flower, by young Dumas,

Vulgarised Horace for the use of schools,

The Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody,

Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death and Life,—

With this, one glance at the lettered back of which,

And “Stall!” cried I: a lira made it mine.

Here it is, this I toss and take again;

Small-quarto size, part print part manuscript:

A book in shape but, really, pure crude fact

Secreted from man’s life when hearts beat hard,

And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since.

Give it me back! The thing’s restorative

I’ the touch and sight.

        That memorable day

(June was the month, Lorenzo named the Square)

I leaned a little and overlooked my prize

By the low railing round the fountain-source

Close to the statue, where a step descends:

While clinked the cans of copper, as stooped and rose

Thick-ankled girls who brimmed them, and made place

For marketmen glad to pitch basket down,

Dip a broad melon-leaf that holds the wet,

And whisk their faded fresh. And on I read

Presently, though my path grew perilous

Between the outspread straw-work, piles of plait

Soon to be flapping, each o’er two black eyes

And swathe of Tuscan hair, on festas fine;

Through fire-irons, tribes of tongs, shovels in sheaves,

Skeleton bedsteads, wardrobe-drawers agape,

Rows of tall slim brass lamps with dangling gear,—

And worse, cast clothes a-sweetening in the sun:

None of them took my eye from off my prize.

Still read I on, from written title-page

To written index, on, through street and street,

At the Strozzi, at the Pillar, at the Bridge;

Till, by the time I stood at home again

In Casa Guidi by Felice Church,

Under the doorway where the black begins

With the first stone-slab of the staircase cold,

I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth

Gathered together, bound up in this book,

Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest.

“Romana Homicidiorum”—nay,

Better translate—“A Roman murder-case:

“Position of the entire criminal cause

“Of Guido Franceschini, nobleman,

“With certain Four the cutthroats in his pay,

“Tried, all five, and found guilty and put to death

“By heading or hanging as befitted ranks,

“At Rome on February Twenty-Two,

“Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight:

“Wherein it is disputed if, and when,

“Husbands may kill adulterous wives, yet ’scape

“The customary forfeit.”

        Word for word,

So ran the title-page: murder, or else

Legitimate punishment of the other crime,

Accounted murder by mistake,—just that

And no more, in a Latin cramp enough

When the law had her eloquence to launch,

But interfilleted with Italian streaks

When testimony stooped to mother-tongue,—

That, was this old square yellow book about.

Now, as the ingot, ere the ring was forged,

Lay gold (beseech you, hold that figure fast!)

So, in this book lay absolutely truth,

Fanciless fact, the documents indeed,

Primary lawyer-pleadings for, against,

The aforesaid Five; real summed-up circumstance

Adduced in proof of these on either side,

Put forth and printed, as the practice was,

At Rome, in the Apostolic Chamber’s type,

And so submitted to the eye o’ the Court

Presided over by His Reverence

Rome’s Governor and Criminal Judge,—the trial

Itself, to all intents, being then as now

Here in the book and nowise out of it;

Seeing, there properly was no judgment-bar,

No bringing of accuser and accused,

And whoso judged both parties, face to face

Before some court, as we conceive of courts.

There was a Hall of Justice; that came last:

For justice had a chamber by the hall

Where she took evidence first, summed up the same,

Then sent accuser and accused alike,

In person of the advocate of each,

To weigh that evidence’ worth, arrange, array

The battle. ’Twas the so-styled Fisc began,

Pleaded (and since he only spoke in print

The printed voice of him lives now as then)

The public Prosecutor—“Murder’s proved;

“With five . . . what we call qualities of bad,

“Worse, worst, and yet worse still, and still worse yet;

“Crest over crest crowning the cockatrice,

“That beggar hell’s regalia to enrich

“Count Guido Franceschini: punish him!”

Thus was the paper put before the court

In the next stage (no noisy work at all),

To study at ease. In due time like reply

Came from the so-styled Patron of the Poor,

Official mouthpiece of the five accused

Too poor to fee a better,—Guido’s luck

Or else his fellows’, which, I hardly know,—

An outbreak as of wonder at the world,

A fury fit of outraged innocence,

A passion of betrayed simplicity:

“Punish Count Guido? For what crime, what hint

“O’ the colour of a crime, inform us first!

“Reward him rather! Recognise, we say,

“In the deed done, a righteous judgment dealt!

“All conscience and all courage,—there’s our Count

“Charactered in a word; and, what’s more strange,

“He had companionship in privilege,

“Found four courageous conscientious friends:

“Absolve, applaud all five, as props of law,

“Sustainers of society!—perchance

“A trifle over-hasty with the hand

“To hold her tottering ark, had tumbled else;

“But that’s a splendid fault whereat we wink,

“Wishing your cold correctness sparkled so!”

Thus paper second followed paper first,

Thus did the two join issue—nay, the four,

Each pleader having an adjunct. “True, he killed

“—So to speak—in a certain sort—his wife,

“But laudably, since thus it happed!” quoth one:

Whereat, more witness and the case postponed,

“Thus it happed not, since thus he did the deed,

“And proved himself thereby portentousest

“Of cutthroats and a prodigy of crime,

“As the woman that he slaughtered was a saint,

“Martyr and miracle!” quoth the other to match:

Again, more witness, and the case postponed.

“A miracle, ay—of lust and impudence;

“Hear my new reasons!” interposed the first:

“—Coupled with more of mine!” pursued his peer.

“Beside, the precedents, the authorities!”

From both at once a cry with an echo, that!

That was a firebrand at each fox’s tail

Unleashed in a cornfield: soon spread flare enough,

As hurtled thither and there heaped themselves

From earth’s four corners, all authority

And precedent for putting wives to death,

Or letting wives live, sinful as they seem.

How legislated, now, in this respect,

Solon and his Athenians? Quote the code

Of Romulus and Rome! Justinian speak!

Nor modern Baldo, Bartolo be dumb!

The Roman voice was potent, plentiful;

Cornelia de Sicariis hurried to help

Pompeia de Parricidiis; Julia de

Something-or-other jostled Lex this-and-that;

King Solomon confirmed Apostle Paul:

That nice decision of Dolabella, eh?

That pregnant instance of Theodoric, oh!

Down to that choice example Ælian gives

(An instance I find much insisted on)

Of the elephant who, brute-beast though he were,

Yet understood and punished on the spot

His master’s naughty spouse and faithless friend;

A true tale which has edified each child,

Much more shall flourish favoured by our court!

Pages of proof this way, and that way proof,

And always—once again the case postponed.

Thus wrangled, brangled, jangled they a month,

—Only on paper, pleadings all in print,

Nor ever was, except i’ the brains of men,

More noise by word of mouth than you hear now—

Till the court cut all short with “Judged, your cause.

“Receive our sentence! Praise God! We pronounce

“Count Guido devilish and damnable:

“His wife Pompilia in thought, word, and deed,

“Was perfect pure, he murdered her for that:

“As for the Four who helped the One, all Five—

“Why, let employer and hirelings share alike

“In guilt and guilt’s reward, the death their due!”

So was the trial at end, do you suppose?

“Guilty you find him, death you doom him to?

“Ay, were not Guido, more than needs, a priest,

“Priest and to spare!”—this was a shot reserved;

I learn this from epistles which begin

Here where the print ends,—see the pen and ink

Of the advocate, the ready at a pinch!—

“My client boasts the clerkly privilege,

“Has taken minor orders many enough,

“Shows still sufficient chrism upon his pate

“To neutralise a blood-stain: presbyter,

“Primœ tonsurœ, subdiaconus,

“Sacerdos, so he slips from underneath

“Your power, the temporal, slides inside the robe

“Of mother Church: to her we make appeal

“By the Pope, the Church’s head!”

        A parlous plea,

Put in with noticeable effect, it seems;

“Since straight,”—resumes the zealous orator,

Making a friend acquainted with the facts,—

“Once the word ‘clericality’ let fall,

“Procedure stopped and freer breath was drawn

“By all considerate and responsible Rome.”

Quality took the decent part, of course;

Held by the husband, who was noble too:

Or, for the matter of that, a churl would side

With too-refined susceptibility,

And honour which, tender in the extreme,

Stung to the quick, must roughly right itself

At all risks, not sit still and whine for law

As a Jew would, if you squeezed him to the wall,

Brisk-trotting through the Ghetto. Nay, it seems,

Even the Emperor’s Envoy had his say

To say on the subject; might not see, unmoved,

Civility menaced throughout Christendom

By too harsh measure dealt her champion here.

Lastly, what made all safe, the Pope was kind,

From his youth up, reluctant to take life,

If mercy might be just and yet show grace;

Much more unlikely then, in extreme age,

To take a life the general sense bade spare.

’Twas plain that Guido would go scatheless yet.

But human promise, oh, how short of shine!

How topple down the piles of hope we rear!

How history proves... nay, read Herodotus!

Suddenly starting from a nap, as it were,

A dog-sleep with one shut, one open orb,

Cried the Pope’s great self,—Innocent by name

And nature too, and eighty-six years old,

Antonio Pignatelli of Naples, Pope

Who had trod many lands, known many deeds,

Probed many hearts, beginning with his own,

And now was far in readiness for God,—

’Twas he who first bade leave those souls in peace,

Those Jansenists, re-nicknamed Molinists,

(’Gainst whom the cry went, like a frowsy tune,

Tickling men’s ears—the sect for a quarter of an hour

I’ the teeth of the world which, clown-like, loves to chew

Be it but a straw twixt work and whistling-while,

Taste some vituperation, bite away,

Whether at marjoram- sprig or garlic-clove,

Aught it may sport with, spoil, and then spit forth)

“Leave them alone,” bade he, “those Molinists!

“Who may have other light than we perceive,

“Or why is it the whole world hates them thus?”

Also he peeled off that last scandal-rag

Of Nepotism; and so observed the poor

That men would merrily say, “Halt, deaf, and blind,

Who feed on fat things, leave the master’s self

“To gather up the fragments of his feast,

“These be the nephews of Pope Innocent!—

“His own meal costs but five carlines a day,

“Poor- priest’s allowance, for he claims no more.”

—He cried of a sudden, this great good old Pope,

When they appealed in last resort to him,

“I have mastered the whole matter: I nothing doubt.

“Though Guido stood forth priest from head to heel,

“Instead of, as alleged, a piece of one,—

“And further, were he, from the tonsured scalp

“To the sandaled sole of him, my son and Christ’s,

“Instead of touching us by finger- tip

“As you assert, and pressing up so close

“Only to set a blood-smutch on our robe,—

“I and Christ would renounce all right in him.

“Am I not Pope, and presently to die,

“And busied how to render my account,

“And shall I wait a day ere I decide

“On doing or not doing justice here?

“Cut off his head to-morrow by this time,

“Hang up his four mates, two on either hand,

“And end one business more!”

        So said, so done—

Rather so writ, for the old Pope bade this,

I find, with his particular chirograph,

His own no such infirm hand, Friday night;

And next day, February Twenty-Two,

Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight,

—Not at the proper head-and-hanging place

On bridge-foot close by Castle Angelo,

Where custom somewhat staled the spectacle,

(’Twas not so well i’ the way of Rome, beside,

The noble Rome, the Rome of Guido’s rank)

But at the city’s newer gayer end,—

The cavalcading promenading place

Beside the gate and opposite the church

Under the Pincian gardens green with Spring,

’Neath the obelisk ’twixt the fountains in the Square,

Did Guido and his fellows find their fate,

All Rome for witness, and—my writer adds—

Remonstrant in its universal grief,

Since Guido had the suffrage of all Rome.

This is the bookful; thus far take the truth,

The untempered gold, the fact untampered with,

The mere ring- metal ere the ring be made!

And what has hitherto come of it? Who preserves

The memory of this Guido, and his wife

Pompilia, more than Ademollo’s name,

The etcher of those prints, two crazie each,

Saved by a stone from snowing broad the Square

With scenic backgrounds? Was this truth of force?

Able to take its own part as truth should,

Sufficient, self-sustaining? Why, if so—

Yonder’s a fire, into it goes my book,

As who shall say me nay, and what the loss?

You know the tale already: I may ask,

Rather than think to tell you, more thereof,—

Ask you not merely who were he and she,

Husband and wife, what manner of mankind,

But how you hold concerning this and that

Other yet-unnamed actor in the piece.

The young frank handsome courtly Canon, now,

The priest, declared the lover of the wife,

He who, no question, did elope with her,

For certain bring the tragedy about,

Giuseppe Caponsacchi;—his strange course

I’ the matter, was it right or wrong or both?

Then the old couple, slaughtered with the wife

By the husband as accomplices in crime,

Those Comparini, Pietro and his spouse,—

What say you to the right or wrong of that,

When, at a known name whispered through the door

Of a lone villa on a Christmas night,

It opened that the joyous hearts inside

Might welcome as it were an angel-guest

Come in Christ’s name to knock and enter, sup

And satisfy the loving ones he saved;

And so did welcome devils and their death?

I have been silent on that circumstance

Although the couple passed for close of kin

To wife and husband, were by some accounts

Pompilia’s very parents: you know best.

Also that infant the great joy was for,

That Gaetano, the wife’s two-weeks’ babe,

The husband’s first-born child, his son and heir,

Whose birth and being turned his night to day—

Why must the father kill the mother thus

Because she bore his son and saved himself?

Well, British Public, ye who like me not,

(God love you!) and will have your proper laugh

At the dark question, laugh it! I laugh first.

Truth must prevail, the proverb vows; and truth

—Here is it all i’ the book at last, as first

There it was all i’ the heads and hearts of Rome

Gentle and simple, never to fall nor fade

Nor be forgotten. Yet, a little while,

The passage of a century or so,

Decads thrice five, and here’s time paid his tax,

Oblivion gone home with her harvesting,

And left all smooth again as scythe could shave.

Far from beginning with you London folk,

I took my book to Rome first, tried truth’s power

On likely people. “Have you met such names?

“Is a tradition extant of such facts?

“Your law-courts stand, your records frown a-row:

“What if I rove and rummage?” “—Why, you’ll waste

“Your pains and end as wise as you began!”

Every one snickered: “names and facts thus old

“Are newer much than Europe news we find

“Down in to-day’s Diario. Records, quotha?

“Why, the French burned them, what else do the French?

“The rap-and-rending nation! And it tells

“Against the Church, no doubt,—another gird

“At the Temporality, your Trial, of course?”

“—Quite otherwise this time,” submitted I;

“Clean for the Church and dead against the world,

“The flesh and the devil, does it tell for once.”

“—The rarer and the happier! All the same,

“Content you with your treasure of a book,

“And waive what’s wanting! Take a friend’s advice!

“It’s not the custom of the country. Mend

“Your ways indeed and we may stretch a point:

“Go get you manned by Manning and new-manned

“By Newman and, mayhap, wise-manned to boot

“By Wiseman, and we’ll see or else we won’t!

“Thanks meantime for the story, long and strong,

“A pretty piece of narrative enough,

“Which scarce ought so to drop out, one would think,

“From the more curious annals of our kind.

“Do you tell the story, now, in off-hand style,

“Straight from the book? Or simply here and there,

“(The while you vault it through the loose and large)

“Hang to a hint? Or is there book at all,

“And don’t you deal in.poetry, make-believe,

“And the white lies it sounds like?”

        Yes and no!

From the book, yes; thence bit by bit I dug

The lingot truth, that memorable day,

Assayed and knew my piecemeal gain was gold,—

Yes; but from something else surpassing that,

Something of mine which, mixed up with the mass,

Made it bear hammer and be firm to file.

Fancy with fact is just one fact the more;

To-wit, that fancy has informed, transpierced,

Thridded and so thrown fast the facts else free,

As right through ring and ring runs the djereed

And binds the loose, one bar without a break.

I fused my live soul and that inert stuff,

Before attempting smithcraft, on the night

After the day when,—truth thus grasped and gained,—

The book was shut and done with and laid by

On the cream-coloured massive agate, broad

’Neath the twin cherubs in the tarnished frame

O’ the mirror, tall thence to the ceiling- top.

And from the reading, and that slab I leant

My elbow on, the while I read and read

I turned, to free myself and find the world,

And stepped out on the narrow terrace, built

Over the street and opposite the church,

And paced its lozenge brickwork sprinkled cool;

Because Felice-church-side-stretched, a-glow

Through each square window fringed for festival,

Whence came the clear voice of the cloistered ones

Chanting a chant made for midsummer nights—

I know not what particular praise of God,

It always came and went with June. Beneath

I’ the street, quick shown by openings of the sky

When flame fell silently from cloud to cloud,

Richer than that gold snow Jove rained on Rhodes,

The townsmen walked by twos and threes, and talked,

Drinking the blackness in default of air—

A busy human sense beneath my feet:

While in and out the terrace-plants, and round

One branch of tall datura, waxed and waned

The lamp-fly lured there, wanting the white flower.

Over the roof o’ the lighted church I looked

A bowshot to the street’s end, north away

Out of the Roman gate to the Roman road

By the river, till I felt the Apennine.

And there would lie Arezzo, the man’s town,

The woman’s trap and cage and torture- place,

Also the stage where the priest played his part,

A spectacle for angels,—ay, indeed,

There lay Arezzo! Farther then I fared,

Feeling my way on through the hot and dense,

Romeward, until I found the wayside inn

By Castelnuovo’s few mean hut-like homes

Huddled together on the hill-foot bleak,

Bare, broken only by that tree or two

Against the sudden bloody splendour poured

Cursewise in his departure by the day

On the low house-roof of that squalid inn

Where they three, for the first time and the last,

Husband and wife and priest, met face to face.

Whence I went on again, the end was near,

Step by step, missing none and marking all,

Till Rome itself, the ghastly goal, I reached.

Why, all the while,—how could it otherwise?—

The life in me abolished the death of things,

Deep calling unto deep: as then and there

Acted itself over again once more

The tragic piece. I saw with my own eyes

In Florence as I trod the terrace, breathed

The beauty and the fearfulness of night,

How it had run, this round from Rome to Rome—

Because, you are to know, they lived at Rome,

Pompilia’s parents, as they thought themselves,

Two poor ignoble hearts who did their best

Part God’s way, part the other way than God’s,

To somehow make a shift and scramble through

The world’s mud, careless if it splashed and spoiled,

Provided they might so hold high, keep clean

Their child’s soul, one soul white enough for three,

And lift it to whatever star should stoop,

What possible sphere of purer life than theirs

Should come in aid of whiteness hard to save.

I saw the star stoop, that they strained to touch,

And did touch and depose their treasure on,

As Guido Franceschini took away

Pompilia to be his for evermore,

While they sang “Now let us depart in peace,

“Having beheld thy glory, Guido’s wife!”

I saw the star supposed, but fog o’ the fen,

Gilded star-fashion by a glint from hell;

Having been heaved up, haled on its gross way,

By hands unguessed before, invisible help

From a dark brotherhood, and specially

Two obscure goblin creatures, fox-faced this,

Cat-clawed the other, called his next of kin

By Guido the main monster,—cloaked and caped,

Making as they were priests, to mock God more,—

Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo.

These who had rolled the starlike pest to Rome

And stationed it to suck up and absorb

The sweetness of Pompilia, rolled again

That bloated bubble, with her soul inside,

Back to Arezzo and a palace there—

Or say, a fissure in the honest earth

Whence long ago had curled the vapour first,

Blown big by nether fires to appal day:

It touched home, broke, and blasted far and wide.

I saw the cheated couple find the cheat

And guess what foul rite they were captured for,—

Too fain to follow over hill and dale

That child of theirs caught up thus in the cloud

And carried by the Prince o’ the Power of the Air

Whither he would, to wilderness or sea.

I saw them, in the potency of fear,

Break somehow through the satyr-family

(For a grey mother with a monkey-mien,

Mopping and mowing, was apparent too,

As, confident of capture, all took hands

And danced about the captives in a ring)

—Saw them break through, breathe safe, at Rome again,

Saved by the selfish instinct, losing so

Their loved one left with haters. These I saw,

In recrudescency of baffled hate,

Prepare to wring the uttermost revenge

From body and soul thus left them: all was sure,

Fire laid and cauldron set, the obscene ring traced,

The victim stripped and prostrate: what of God?

The cleaving of a cloud, a cry, a crash,

Quenched lay their cauldron, cowered i’ the dust the crew,

As, in a glory of armour like Saint George,

Out again sprang the young good beauteous priest

Bearing away the lady in his arms,

Saved for a splendid minute and no more.

For, whom i’ the path did that priest come upon,

He and the poor lost lady borne so brave,

—Checking the song of praise in me, had else

Swelled to the full for God’s will done on earth—

Whom but a dusk misfeatured messenger,

No other than the angel of this life,

Whose care is lest men see too much at once.

He made the sign, such God-glimpse must suffice,

Nor prejudice the Prince o’ the Power of the Air,

Whose ministration piles us overhead

What we call, first, earth’s roof and, last, heaven’s floor,

Now grate o’ the trap, then outlet of the cage:

So took the lady, left the priest alone,

And once more canopied the world with black.

But through the blackness I saw Rome again,

And where a solitary villa stood

In a lone garden-quarter: it was eve,

The second of the year, and oh so cold!

Ever and anon there flittered through the air

A snow-flake, and a scanty couch of snow

Crusted the grass-walk and the garden- mould.

All was grave, silent, sinister,—when, ha?

Glimmeringly did a pack of were-wolves pad

The snow, those flames were Guido’s eyes in front,

And all five found and footed it, the track,

To where a threshold- streak of warmth and light

Betrayed the villa-door with life inside,

While an inch outside were those blood- bright eyes,

And black lips wrinkling o’er the flash of teeth,

And tongues that lolled—Oh God that madest man!

They parleyed in their language. Then one whined—

That was the policy and master-stroke—

Deep in his throat whispered what seemed a name—

“Open to Caponsacchi!” Guido cried:

“Gabriel!” cried Lucifer at Eden-gate.

Wide as a heart, opened the door at once,

Showing the joyous couple, and their child

The two-weeks’ mother, to the wolves, the wolves

To them. Close eyes! And when the corpses lay

Stark-stretched, and those the wolves, their wolf-work done,

Were safe-embosomed by the night again,

I knew a necessary change in things;

As when the worst watch of the night gives way,

And there comes duly, to take cognisance,

The scrutinising eye-point of some star—

And who despairs of a new daybreak now?

Lo, the first ray protruded on those five!

It reached them, and each felon writhed transfixed.

Awhile they palpitated on the spear

Motionless over Tophet: stand or fall?

“I say, the spear should fall—should stand, I say!”

Cried the world come to judgment, granting grace

Or dealing doom according to world’s wont,

Those world’s-bystanders grouped on Rome’s cross-road

At prick and summons of the primal curse

Which bids man love as well as make a lie.

There prattled they, discoursed the right and wrong,

Turned wrong to right, proved wolves sheep and sheep wolves,

So that you scarce distinguished fell from fleece;

Till out spoke a great guardian of the fold,

Stood up, put forth his hand that held the crook,

And motioned that the arrested point decline:

Horribly off, the wriggling dead-weight reeled,

Rushed to the bottom and lay ruined there.

Though still at the pit’s mouth, despite the smoke

O’ the burning, tarriers turned again to talk

And trim the balance, and detect at least

A touch of wolf in what showed whitest sheep,

A cross of sheep redeeming the whole wolf,—

Vex truth a little longer:—less and less,

Because years came and went, and more and more

Brought new lies with them to be loved in turn.

Till all at once the memory of the thing,—

The fact that, wolves or sheep, such creatures were,—

Which hitherto, however men supposed,

Had somehow plain and pillar-like prevailed

I’ the midst of them, indisputably fact,

Granite, time’s tooth should grate against, not graze,—

Why, this proved standstone, friable, fast to fly

And give its grain away at wish o’ the wind.

Ever and ever more diminutive,

Base gone, shaft lost, only entablature,

Dwindled into no bigger than a book,

Lay of the column; and that little, left

By the roadside ’mid the ordure, shards, and weeds,

Until I haply, wandering that way,

Kicked it up, turned it over, and recognised,

For all the crumblement, this abacus,

This square old yellow book,—could calculate

By this the lost proportions of the style.

This was it from, my fancy with those facts,

I used to tell the tale, turned gay to grave,

But lacked a listener seldom; such alloy,

Such substance of me interfused the gold

Which, wrought into a shapely ring therewith,

Hammered and filed, fingered and favoured, last

Lay ready for the renovating wash

O’ the water. “How much of the tale was true?”

I disappeared; the book grew all in all;

The lawyers’ pleadings swelled back to their size,—

Doubled in two, the crease upon them yet,

For more commodity of carriage, see!—

And these are letters, veritable sheets

That brought posthaste the news to Florence, writ

At Rome the day Count Guido died, we find,

To stay the craving of a client there,

Who bound the same and so produced my book.

Lovers of dead truth, did ye fare the worse?

Lovers of live truth, found ye false my tale?

Well, now; there’s nothing in nor out o’ the world

Good except truth: yet this, the something else,

What’s this then, which proves good yet seems untrue?

This that I mixed with truth, motions of mine

That quickened, made the inertness malleolable

O’ the gold was not mine,—what’s your name for this?

Are means to the end, themselves in part the end?

Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too?

The somehow may be thishow.

        I find first

Writ down for very A B C of fact,

“In the beginning God made heaven and earth;”

From which, no matter with what lisp, I spell

And speak out a consequence—that man,

Man,—as befits the made, the inferior thing,—

Purposed, since made, to grow, not make in turn,

Yet forced to try and make, else fail to grow,—

Formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain

The good beyond him,—which attempt is growth,—

Repeats God’s process in man’s due degree,

Attaining man’s proportionate result,—

Creates, no, but resuscitates, perhaps.

Inalienable, the arch-prerogative

Which turns thought, act—conceives, expresses too!

No less, man, bounded, yearning to be free,

May so project his surplusage of soul

In search of body, so add self to self

By owning what lay ownerless before,—

So, find so fill full, so appropriate forms—

That, although nothing which had never life

Shall get life from him, be, not having been,

Yet, something dead may get to live again,

Something with too much life or not enough,

Which, either way imperfect, ended once:

An end whereat man’s impulse intervenes,

Makes new beginning, starts the dead alive,

Completes the incomplete and saves the thing.

Man’s breath were vain to light a virgin wick,—

Half-burned-out, all but quite-quenched wicks o’ the lamp

Stationed for temple-service on this earth,

These indeed let him breathe on and relume!

For such man’s feat is, in the due degree,

—Mimic creation, galvanism for life,

But still a glory portioned in the scale.

Why did the mage say,—feeling as we are wont

For truth, and stopping midway short of truth,

And resting on a lie,—“I raise a ghost?”

“Because,” he taught adepts, “man makes not man.

“Yet by a special gift, an art of arts,

“More insight and more outsight and much more

“Will to use both of these than boast my mates,

“I can detach from me, commission forth

“Half of my soul; which in its pilgrimage

“O’er old unwandered waste ways of the world,

“May chance upon some fragment of a whole,

“Rag of flesh, scrap of bone in dim disuse,

“Smoking flax that fed fire once: prompt therein

“I enter, spark-like, put old powers to play,

“Push lines out to the limit, lead forth last

“(By a moonrise through a ruin of a crypt)

“What shall be mistily seen, murmuringly heard,

“Mistakenly felt: then write my name with Faust’s!”

Oh, Faust, why Faust? Was not Elisha once?—

Who bade them lay his staff on a corpse-face.

There was no voice, no hearing: he went in

Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain,

And prayed unto the Lord: and he went up

And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch,

And put his mouth upon its mouth, his eyes

Upon its eyes, his hands upon its hands,

And stretched him on the flesh; the flesh waxed warm:

And he returned, walked to and fro the house,

And went up, stretched him on the flesh again,

And the eyes opened. ’Tis a credible feat

With the right man and way.

        Enough of me!

The Book! I turn its medicinable leaves

In London now till, as in Florence erst,

A spirit laughs and leaps through every limb,

And lights my eye, and lifts me by the hair,

Letting me have my will again with these

—How title I the dead alive once more?

Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine,

Descended of an ancient house, though poor,

A beak-nosed bushy-bearded black-haired lord,

Lean, pallid, low of stature yet robust,

Fifty years old,—having four years ago

Married Pompilia Comparini, young,

Good, beautiful, at Rome, where she was born,

And brought her to Arezzo, where they lived

Unhappy lives, whatever curse the cause,—

This husband, taking four accomplices,

Followed this wife to Rome, where she was fled

From their Arezzo to find peace again,

In convoy, eight months earlier, of a priest,

Aretine also, of still nobler birth,

Giuseppe Caponsacchi,—and caught her there

Quiet in a villa on a Christmas night,

With only Pietro and Violante by,

Both her putative parents; killed the three,

Aged, they, seventy each, and she, seventeen,

And, two weeks since, the mother of his babe

First-born and heir to what the style was worth

O’ the Guido who determined, dared and did

This deed just as he purposed point by point.

Then, bent upon escape, but hotly pressed,

And captured with his co-mates that same night,

He, brought to trial, stood on this defence—

Injury to his honour caused the act;

That since his wife was false (as manifest

By flight from home in such companionship),

Death, punishment deserved of the false wife

And faithless parents who abetted her

I’ the flight aforesaid, wronged nor God nor man.

“Nor false she, nor yet faithless they,” replied

The accuser; “cloaked and masked this murder glooms;

“True was Pompilia, loyal too the pair;

“Out of the man’s own heart this monster curled,

“This crime coiled with connivancy at crime,

“His victim’s breast, he tells you, hatched and reared;

“Uncoil we and stretch stark the worm of hell!”

A month the trial swayed this way and that

Ere judgment settled down on Guido’s guilt;

Then was the Pope, that good Twelfth Innocent,

Appealed to: who well weighed what went before,

Affirmed the guilt and gave the guilty doom.

Let this old woe step on the stage again!

Act itself o’er anew for men to judge,

Not by the very sense and sight indeed—

(Which take at best imperfect cognisance,

Since, how heart moves brain, and how both move hand,

What mortal ever in entirety saw?)

—No dose of purer truth than man digests,

But truth with falsehood, milk that feeds him now,

Not strong meat he may get to bear some day—

To-wit, by voices we call evidence,

Uproar in the echo, live fact deadened down,

Talked over, bruited abroad, whispered away,

Yet helping us to all we seem to hear:

For how else know we save by worth of word?

Here are the voices presently shall sound

In due succession. First, the world’s outcry

Around the rush and ripple of any fact

Fallen stonewise, plumb on the smooth face of things;

The world’s guess, as it crowds the bank o’ the pool,

At what were figure and substance, by their splash:

Then, by vibrations in the general mind,

At depth of deed already out of reach.

This threefold murder of the day before,—

Say, Half-Rome’s feel after the vanished truth;

Honest enough, as the way is: all the same,

Harbouring in the centre of its sense

A hidden germ of failure, shy but sure,

Should neutralise that honesty and leave

That feel for truth at fault, as the way is too.

Some prepossession such as starts amiss,

By but a hair’s-breadth at the shoulder-blade,

The arm o’ the feeler, dip he ne’er so brave;

And so leads waveringly, lets fall wide

O’the mark his finger meant to find, and fix

Truth at the bottom, that deceptive speck.

With this Half-Rome,—the source of swerving, call

Over-belief in Guido’s right and wrong

Rather than in Pompilia’s wrong and right:

Who shall say how, who shall say why? ’Tis there—

The instinctive theorising whence a fact

Looks to the eye as the eye likes the look.

Gossip in a public place, a sample-speech.

Some worthy, with his previous hint to find

A husband’s side the safer, and no whit

Aware he is not Æacus the while,—

How such an one supposes and states fact

To whosoever of a multitude

Will listen, and perhaps prolong thereby

The not-unpleasant flutter at the breast,

Born of a certain spectacle shut in

By the church Lorenzo opposite. So, they lounge

Midway the mouth o’ the street, on Corso side,

’Twixt palace Fiano and palace Ruspoli,

Linger and listen; keeping clear o’ the crowd,

Yet wishful one could lend that crowd one’s eyes,

(So universal is its plague of squint)

And make hearts beat our time that flutter false:

—All for the truth’s sake, mere truth, nothing else!

How Half-Rome found for Guido much excuse.

For truth with a like swerve, like unsuccess,—

Or if success, by no more skill but luck:

This time, though rather siding with the wife,

However the fancy-fit inclined that way,

Than with the husband. One wears drab, one, pink;

Who wears pink, ask him “Which shall win the race,

“Of coupled runners like as egg and egg?”

“—Why, if I must choose, he with the pink scarf.”

Doubtless for some such reason choice fell here.

A piece of public talk to correspond

At the next stage of the story; just a day

Let pass and new day bring the proper change.

Another sample-speech i’ the market-place

O’ the Barberini by the Capucins;

Where the old Triton, at his fountain-sport,

Bernini’s creature plated to the paps,

Puffs up steel sleet which breaks to diamond dust,

A spray of sparkles snorted from his conch,

High over the caritellas, out o’ the way

O’ the motley merchandising multitude.

Our murder has been done three days ago,

The frost is over and gone, the south wind laughs,

And, to the very tiles of each red roof

A-smoke i’ the sunshine, Rome lies gold and glad:

So, listen how, to the other half of Rome,

Pompilia seemed a saint and martyr both!

Then, yet another day let come and go,

With pause prelusive still of novelty,

Hear a fresh speaker!—neither this nor that

Half-Rome aforesaid; something bred of both:

One and one breed the inevitable three.

Such is the personage harangues you next;

The elaborated product, tertium quid:

Rome’s first commotion in subsidence gives

The curd o’ the cream, flower o’ the wheat, as it were,

And finer sense o’ the city. Is this plain?

You get a reasoned statement of the case,

Eventual verdict of the curious few

Who care to sift a business to the bran

Nor coarsely bolt it like the simpler sort.

Here, after ignorance, instruction speaks;

Here, clarity of candour, history’s soul,

The critical mind, in short; no gossip-guess.

What the superior social section thinks,

In person of some man of quality

Who,—breathing musk from lace-work and brocade,

His solitaire amid the flow of frill,

Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back,

And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist,—

Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase

’Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon

Where mirrors multiply the girandole:

Courting the approbation of no mob,

But Eminence This and All-Illustrious That

Who take snuff softly, range in well-bred ring,

Card-table-quitters for observance’ sake,

Around the argument, the rational word—

Still, spite its weight and worth, a sample-speech.

How quality dissertated on the case.

So much for Rome and rumour; smoke comes first:

Once the smoke risen untroubled, we descry

Clearlier what tongues of flame may spire and spit

To eye and ear, each with appropriate tinge

According to its food, pure or impure.

The actors, no mere rumours of the act,

Intervene. First you hear Count Guido’s voice,

In a small chamber that adjoins the court,

Where Governor and Judges, summoned thence,

Tommati, Venturini and the rest,

Find the accused ripe for declaring truth.

Soft-cushioned sits he; yet shifts seat, shirks touch,

As, with a twitchy brow and wincing lip

And cheek that changes to all kinds of white,

He proffers his defence, in tones subdued

Near to mock-mildness, now, so mournful seems

The obtuser sense truth fails to satisfy;

Now, moved, from pathos at the wrong endured,

To passion; for the natural man is roused

At fools who first do wrong, then pour the blame

Of their wrong-doing, Satan-like, on Job.

Also his tongue at times is hard to curb;

Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase,

Rough-raw, yet somehow claiming privilege

—It is so hard for shrewdness to admit

Folly means no harm when she calls black white!

—Eruption momentary at the most,

Modified forthwith by a fall o’the fire,

Sage acquiescence; for the world’s the world,

And, what it errs in, Judges rectify:

He feels he has a fist, then folds his arms

Crosswise and makes his mind up to be meek.

And never once does he detach his eye

From those ranged there to slay him or to save,

But does his best man’s-service for himself,

Despite,—what twitches brow and makes lip wince,—

His limbs’ late taste of what was called the Cord,

Or Vigil-torture more facetiously.

Even so; they were wont to tease the truth

Out of loath witness (toying, trifling time)

By torture: ’twas a trick, a vice of the age,

Here, there, and everywhere, what would you have?

Religion used to tell Humanity

She gave him warrant or denied him course.

And since the course was much to his own mind,

Of pinching flesh and pulling bone from bone

To unhusk truth a-hiding in its hulls,

Nor whisper of a warning stopped the way,

He, in their joint behalf, the burly slave,

Bestirred him, mauled and maimed all recusants,

While, prim in place, Religion overlooked;

And so had done till doomsday, never a sign

Nor sound of interference from her mouth,

But that at last the burly slave wiped brow,

Let eye give notice as if soul were there,

Muttered “’Tis a vile trick, foolish more than vile,

“Should have been counted sin; I make it so:

“At any rate no more of it for me—

“Nay, for I break the torture-engine thus!”

Then did Religion start up, stare amain,

Look round for help and see none, smile and say

“What, broken is the rack? Well done of thee!

“Did I forget to abrogate its use?

“Be the mistake in common with us both!

“—One more fault our blind age shall answer for,

“Down in my book denounced though it must be

“Somewhere. Henceforth find truth by milder means!”

Ah but, Religion, did we wait for thee

To ope the book, that serves to sit upon,

And pick such place out, we should wait indeed!

That is all history: and what is not now,

Was then, defendants found it to their cost.

How Guido, after being tortured, spoke.

Also hear Caponsacchi who comes next,

Man and priest—could you comprehend the coil!—

In days when that was rife which now is rare.

How, mingling each its multifarious wires,

Now heaven, now earth, now heaven and earth at once,

Had plucked at and perplexed their puppet here,

Played off the young frank personable priest;

Sworn fast and tonsured plain heaven’s celibate,

And yet earth’s clear-accepted servitor,

A courtly spiritual Cupid, squire of dames

By law of love and mandate of the mode.

The Church’s own, or why parade her seal,

Wherefore that chrism and consecrative work?

Yet verily the world’s, or why go badged

A prince of sonneteers and lutanists,

Show colour of each vanity in vogue

Borne with decorum due on blameless breast?

All that is changed now, as he tells the court

How he had played the part excepted at;

Tells it, moreover, now the second time:

Since, for his cause of scandal, his own share

I’ the flight from home and husband of the wife,

He has been censured, punished in a sort

By relegation,—exile, we should say,

To a short distance for a little time,—

Whence he is summoned on a sudden now,

Informed that she, he thought to save, is lost,

And, in a breath, bidden re-tell his tale,

Since the first telling somehow missed effect,

And then advise in the matter. There stands he,

While the same grim black-panelled chamber blinks

As though rubbed shiny with the sins of Rome

Told the same oak for ages—wave- washed wall

Whereto has set a sea of wickedness.

There, where you yesterday heard Guido speak,

Speaks Caponsacchi; and there face him too

Tommati, Venturini, and the rest

Who, eight months earlier, scarce repressed the smile,

Forewent the wink; waived recognition so

Of peccadillos incident to youth,

Especially youth high-born; for youth means love,

Vows can’t change nature, priests are only men,

And love needs stratagem and subterfuge:

Which age, that once was youth, should recognise,

May blame, but needs not press too hard against.

Here sit the old Judges then, but with no grace

Of reverend carriage, magisterial port.

For why? The accused of eight months since,—same

Who cut the conscious figure of a fool,

Changed countenance, dropped bashful gaze to ground,

While hesitating for an answer then—

Now is grown judge himself, terrifies now

This, now the other culprit called a judge,

Whose turn it is to stammer and look strange,

As he speaks rapidly, angrily, speech that smites:

And they keep silence, bear blow after blow,

Because the seeming-solitary man,

Speaking for God, may have an audience too,

Invisible, no discreet judge provokes.

How the priest Caponsacchi said his say.

Then a soul sights its lowest and its last

After the loud ones,—so much breath remains

Unused by the four-day’s-dying; for she lived

Thus long, miraculously long, ’twas thought,

Just that Pompilia might defend herself.

How, while the hireling and the alien stoop,

Comfort, yet question,—since the time is brief,

And folk, allowably inquisitive,

Encircle the low pallet where she lies

In the good house that helps the poor to die,—

Pompilia tells the story of her life.

For friend and lover,—leech and man of law

Do service; busy helpful ministrants

As varied in their calling as their mind,

Temper and age: and yet from all of these

About the white bed under the arched roof,

Is somehow, as it were, evolved a one,—

Small separate sympathies combined and large,

Nothings that were, grown something very much:

As if the bystanders gave each his straw,

All he had, though a trifle in itself,

Which, plaited all together, made a Cross

Fit to die looking on and praying with,

Just as well as ivory or gold.

So, to the common kindliness she speaks,

There being scarce more privacy at the last

For mind than body: but she is used to bear,

And only unused to the brotherly look,

How she endeavoured to explain her life.

Then, since a Trial ensued, a touch o’ the same

To sober us, flustered with frothy talk,

And teach our common sense its helplessness.

For why deal simply with divining-rod,

Scrape where we fancy secret sources flow,

And ignore law, the recognised machine,

Elaborate display of pipe and wheel

Framed to unchoak, pump up and pour apace

Truth in a flowery foam shall wash the world?

The patent truth- extracting process,—ha?

Let us make all that mystery turn one wheel,

Give you a single grind of law at least!

One orator, of two on either side,

Shall teach us the puissance of the tongue

—That is, o’ the pen which simulated tongue

On paper and saved all except the sound

Which ever was. Law’s speech beside law’s thought?

That were too stunning, too immense an odds:

That point of vantage, law let nobly pass.

One lawyer shall admit us to behold

The manner of the making out a case,

First fashion of a speech; the chick in egg,

And masterpiece law’s bosom incubates,

How Don Giacinto of the Arcangeli,

Called Procurator of the Poor at Rome,

Now advocate for Guido and his mates,—

The jolly learned man of middle age,

Cheek and jowl all in laps with fat and law,

Mirthful as mighty, yet, as great hearts use,

Despite the name and fame that tempt our flesh,

Constant to that devotion of the hearth,

Still captive in those dear domestic ties!—

How he,—having a cause to triumph with,

All kind of interests to keep intact,

More than one efficacious personage

To tranquillise, conciliate, and secure,

And above all, public anxiety

To quiet, show its Guido in good hands,—

Also, as if such burdens were too light,

A certain family-feast to claim his care,

The birthday-banquet for the only son—

Paternity at smiling strife with law—

How he brings both to buckle in one bond;

And, thick at throat, with waterish under-eye,

Turns to his task and settles in his seat

And puts his utmost means to practice now:

Wheezes out law and whiffles Latin forth,

And, just as though roast lamb would never be,

Makes logic levigate the big crime small:

Rubs palm on palm, rakes foot with itchy foot,

Conceives and inchoates the argument,

Sprinkling each flower appropriate to the time,

—Ovidian quip or Ciceronian crank,

A-bubble in the larynx while he laughs,

As he had fritters deep down frying there.

How he turns, twists, and tries the oily thing

Shall be—first speech for Guido ’gainst the Fisc,

Then with a skip as it were from heel to head,

Leaving yourselves fill up the middle bulk

O’ the Trial, reconstruct its shape august,

From such exordium clap we to the close;

Give you, if we dare wing to such a height,

The absolute glory in some full-grown speech

On the other side, some finished butterfly,

Some breathing diamond-flake with leaf-gold fans,

That takes the air, no trace of worm it was,

Or cabbage-bed it had production from.

Giovambattista o’ the Bottini, Fisc,

Pompilia’s patron by the chance of the hour,

To-morrow her persecutor,—composite, he,

As becomes who must meet such various calls—

Odds of age joined in him with ends of youth.

A man of ready smile and facile tear,

Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck,

And language—ah, the gift of eloquence!

Language that goes as easy as a glove

O’er good and evil, smoothens both to one.

Rashness helps caution with him, fires the straw,

In free enthusiastic careless fit,

On the first proper pinnacle of rock

Which happens, as reward for all that zeal,

To lure some bark to founder and bring gain:

While calm sits Caution, rapt with heavenward eye,

A true confessor’s gaze amid the glare,

Beaconing to the breaker, death and hell.

“Well done, thou good and faithful!” she approves.

“Hadst thou let slip a faggot to the beach,

“The crew had surely spied thy precipice

“And saved their boat; the simple and the slow,

“Who should have prompt forestalled the wrecker’s fee:

“Let the next crew be wise and hail in time!”

Just so compounded is the outside man,

Blue juvenile, pure eye, and pippin cheek,

And brow all prematurely soiled and seamed

With sudden age, bright devastated hair.

Ah, but you miss the very tones o’ the voice,

The scrannel pipe that screams in heights of head,

As, in his modest studio, all alone,

The tall wight stands a-tiptoe, strives and strains,

Both eyes shut, like the cockerel that would crow,

Tries to his own self amorously o’er

What never will be uttered else than so—

To the four walls, for Forum and Mars’ Hill,

Speaks out the poesy which, penned, turns prose.

Clavecinist debarred his instrument,

He yet thrums—shirking neither turn nor trill,

With desperate finger on dumb table-edge—

The sovereign rondo, shall conclude his Suite,

Charm an imaginary audience there,

From old Corelli to young Haendel, both

I’ the flesh at Rome, ere he perforce go print

The cold black score, mere music for the mind—

The last speech against Guido and his gang,

With special end to prove Pompilia pure.

How the Fisc vindicates Pompilia’s fame.

Then comes the all but end, the ultimate

Judgment save yours. Pope Innocent the Twelfth,

Simple, sagacious, mild yet resolute,

With prudence, probity and—what beside

From the other world he feels impress at times,

Having attained to fourscore years and six,—

How, when the court found Guido and the rest

Guilty, but law supplied a subterfuge

And passed the final sentence to the Pope,

He, bringing his intelligence to bear

This last time on what ball behoves him drop

In the urn, or white or black, does drop a black,

Send five souls more to just precede his own,

Stand him in stead and witness, if need were,

How he is wont to do God’s work on earth

The manner of his sitting out the dim

Droop of a sombre February day

In the plain closet where he does such work,

With, from all Peter’s treasury, one stool,

One table, and one lathen crucifix.

There sits the Pope, his thoughts for company;

Grave but not sad,—nay, something like a cheer

Leaves the lips free to be benevolent,

Which, all day long, did duty firm and fast.

A cherishing there is of foot and knee,

A chafing loose-skinned large-veined hand with hand,—

What steward but knows when stewardship earns its wage,

May levy praise, anticipate the lord?

He reads, notes, lays the papers down at last,

Muses, then takes a turn about the room;

Unclasps a huge tome in an antique guise,

Primitive print and tongue half obsolete,

That stands him in diurnal stead; opes page,

Finds place where falls the passage to be conned

According to an order long in use:

And, as he comes upon the evening’s chance,

Starts somewhat, solemnises straight his smile,

Then reads aloud that portion first to last,

And at the end lets flow his own thoughts forth

Likewise aloud, for respite and relief,

Till by the dreary relics of the west

Wan through the half-moon window, all his light,

He bows the head while the lips move in prayer,

Writes some three brief lines, signs and seals the same,

Tinkles a hand-bell, bids the obsequious Sir

Who puts foot presently o’ the closet-sill

He watched outside of, bear as superscribed

That mandate to the Governor forthwith:

Then heaves abroad his cares in one good sigh,

Traverses corridor with no man’s help,

And so to sup as a clear conscience should.

The manner of the judgment of the Pope.

Then must speak Guido yet a second time,

Satan’s old saw being apt here—skin for skin,

All a man hath that will he give for life.

While life was graspable and gainable, free

To bird-like buzz her wings round Guido’s brow,

Not much truth stiffened out the web of words

He wove to catch her: when away she flew

And death came, death’s breath rivelled up the lies,

Left bare the metal thread, the fibre fine

Of truth, i’ the spinning: the true words come last.

How Guido, to another purpose quite,

Speaks and despairs, the last night of his life,

In that New Prison by Castle Angelo

At the bridge-foot: the same man, another voice.

On a stone bench in a close fetid cell,

Where the hot vapour of an agony,

Struck into drops on the cold wall, runs down

Horrible worms made out of sweat and tears—

There crouch, well nigh to the knees in dungeon-straw,

Lit by the sole lamp suffered for their sake,

Two awe-struck figures, this a Cardinal,

That an Abate, both of old styled friends

Of the part-man part-monster in the midst,

So changed is Franceschini’s gentle blood.

The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before,

That pried and tried and trod so gingerly,

Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth join;

Then you know how the bristling fury foams.

They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red,

While his feet fumble for the filth below;

The other, as beseems a stouter heart,

Working his best with beads and cross to ban

The enemy that comes in like a flood

Spite of the standard set up, verily

And in no trope at all, against him there:

For at the prison-gate, just a few steps

Outside, already, in the doubtful dawn,

Thither, from this side and from that, slow sweep

And settle down in silence solidly,

Crow-wise, the frightful Brotherhood of Death.

Black-hatted and black-hooded huddle they,

Black rosaries a-dangling from each waist;

So take they their grim station at the door,

Torches alight and cross- bones-banner spread,

And that gigantic Christ with open arms,

Grounded. Nor lacks there aught but that the group

Break forth, intone the lamentable psalm,

“Out of the deeps, Lord, have I cried to thee!”—

When inside, from the true profound, a sign

Shall bear intelligence that the foe is foiled,

Count Guido Franceschini has confessed,

And is absolved and reconciled with God.

Then they, intoning, may begin their march,

Make by the longest way for the People’s Square,

Carry the criminal to his crime’s reward:

A mob to cleave, a scaffolding to reach,

Two gallows and Mannaia crowning all.

Now Guido made defence a second time.

Finally, even as thus by step and step

I led you from the level of to-day

Up to the summit of so long ago,

Here, whence I point you the wide prospect round—

Let me, by like steps, slope you back to smooth,

Land you on mother-earth, no whit the worse,

To feed o’ the fat o’ the furrow: free to dwell,

Taste our time’s better things profusely spread

For all who love the level, corn and wine,

Much cattle and the many-folded fleece.

Shall not my friends go feast again on sward,

Though cognisant of country in the clouds

Higher than wistful eagle’s horny eye

Ever unclosed for, ’mid ancestral crags,

When morning broke and Spring was back once more,

And he died, heaven, save by his heart, unreached?

Yet heaven my fancy lifts to, ladder-like,—

As Jack reached, holpen of his beanstalk-rungs!

A novel country: I might make it mine

By choosing which one aspect of the year

Suited mood best, and putting solely that

On panel somewhere in the House of Fame,

Landscaping what I saved, not what I saw:

—Might fix you, whether frost in goblin-time

Startled the moon with his abrupt bright laugh,

Or, August’s hair afloat in filmy fire,

She fell, arms wide, face foremost on the world,

Swooned there and so singed out the strength of things.

Thus were abolished Spring and Autumn both,

The land dwarfed to one likeness of the land,

Life cramped corpse-fashion. Rather learn and love

Each facet-flash of the revolving year!—

Red, green, and blue that whirl into a white,

The variance now, the eventual unity,

Which make the miracle. See it for yourselves,

This man’s act, changeable because alive!

Action now shrouds, now shows the informing thought;

Man, like a glass ball with a spark a-top,

Out of the magic fire that lurks inside,

Shows one tint at a time to take the eye:

Which, let a finger touch the silent sleep,

Shifted a hair’s-breadth shoots you dark for bright,

Suffuses bright with dark, and baffles so

Your sentence absolute for shine or shade.

Once set such orbs,—white styled, black stigmatised,—

A-rolling, see them once on the other side

Your good men and your bad men every one,

From Guido Franceschini to Guy Faux,

Oft would you rub your eyes and change your names.

Such, British Public, ye who like me not,

(God love you!)—whom I yet have laboured for,

Perchance more careful whoso runs may read

Than erst when all, it seemed, could read who ran,—

Perchance more careless whoso reads may praise

Than late when he who praised and read and wrote

Was apt to find himself the self-same me,—

Such labour had such issue, so I wrought

This arc, by furtherance of such alloy,

And so, by one spirt, take away its trace

Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring.

A ring without a posy, and that ring mine?

O lyric Love, half-angel and half-bird

And all a wonder and a wild desire,—

Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,

Took sanctuary within the holier blue.

And sang a kindred soul out to his face,—

Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart—

When the first summons from the darkling earth

Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,

And bared them of the glory—to drop down,

To toil for man, to suffer or to die,—

This is the same voice: can thy soul know change?

Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!

Never may I commence my song, my due

To God who best taught song by gift of thee,

Except with bent head and beseeching hand—

That still, despite the distance and the dark,

What was, again may be; some interchange

Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,

Some benediction anciently thy smile:

—Never conclude, but raising hand and head

Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn

For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,

Their utmost up and on,—so blessing back

In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,

Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,

Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I’d meet.)

Be ruled by me and have a care o’the crowd:

This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:

I’ll tell you like a book and save your shins.

Fie, what a roaring day we’ve had! Whose fault?

Lorenzo in Lucina,—here’s a church

To hold a crowd at need, accommodate

All comers from the Corso! If this crush

Make not its priests ashamed of what they show

For temple-room, don’t prick them to draw purse

And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out

The beggarly transept with its bit of apse

Into a decent space for Christian ease,

Why, to-day’s lucky pearl is cast to swine.

Listen and estimate the luck they’ve had!

(The right man, and I hold him.)

        Sir, do you see,

They laid both bodies in the church, this morn

The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,

Behind the little marble balustrade;

Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool

To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife

On the other side. In trying to count stabs,

People supposed Violante showed the most,

Till somebody explained us that mistake;

His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,

But she took all her stabbings in the face,

Since punished thus solely for honour’s sake,

Honoris causâ, that’s the proper term.

A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,

When you avenge your honour and only then,

That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,

Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.

It was Violante gave the first offence,

Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:

While Pietro, who helped merely, his, mere death

Answered the purpose, so his face went free.

We fancied even, free as you please, that face

Showed itself still intolerably wronged;

Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,

Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,

Once the worst ended: an indignant air

O’ the head there was—’ tis said the body turned

Round and away, rolled from Violante’s side

Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.

If so, if corpses can be sensitive,

Why did not he roll right down altar-step.

Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,

Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,

Pay back thus the succession of affronts

Whereto this church had served as theatre?

For see: at that same altar where he lies,

To that same inch of step, was brought the babe

For blessing after baptism, and there styled

Pompilia, and a string of names beside,

By his bad wife, some seventeen years ago,

Who purchased her simply to palm on him,

Flatter his dotage and defraud the heirs.

Wait awhile! Also to this very step

Did this Violante, twelve years afterward,

Bring, the mock-mother, that child-cheat full-grown,

Pompilia in pursuance of her plot.

And there brave God and man a second time

By linking a new victim to the lie.

There, having made a match unknown to him,

She, still unknown to Pietro, tied the knot

Which nothing cuts except this kind of knife;

Yes, made her daughter, as the girl was held,

Marry a man, and honest man beside,

And man of birth to boot,—clandestinely

Because of this, because of that, because

O’ the devil’s will to work his worst for once,—

Confident she could top her part at need

And, when her husband must be told in turn,

Ply the wife’s trade, play off the sex’s trick

And, alternating worry with quiet qualms,

Bravado with submissiveness, quick fool

Her Pietro into patience: so it proved.

Ay, ’tis four years since man and wife they grew,

This Guido Franceschini and this same

Pompilia, foolishly thought, falsely declared

A Comparini and the couple’s child:

Just at this altar where, beneath the piece

Of Master Guido Reni, Christ on cross,

Second to nought observable in Rome,

That couple lie now, murdered yestereve.

Even the blind can see a providence here.

From dawn till now that it is growing dusk,

A multitude has flocked and filled the church,

Coming and going, coming back again,

Till to count crazed one. Rome was at the show.

People climbed up the columns, fought for spikes

O’ the chapel-rail to perch themselves upon,

Jumped over and so broke the wooden work

Painted like porphyry to deceive the eye;

Serve the priests right! The organ-loft was crammed,

Women were fainting, no few fights ensued,

In short, it was a show repaid your pains:

For, though their room was scant undoubtedly,

Yet they did manage matters, to be just,

A little at this Lorenzo. Body o’me!

I saw a body exposed once... never mind!

Enough that here the bodies had their due.

No stinginess in wax, a row all round,

And one big taper at each head and foot.

So, people pushed their way, and took their turn,

Saw, threw their eyes up, crossed themselves, gave place

To pressure from behind, since all the world

Knew the old pair, could talk the tragedy

Over from first to last: Pompilia too,

Those who had known her—what ’twas worth to them!

Guido’s acquaintance was in less request;

The Count had lounged somewhat too long in Rome,

Made himself cheap; with him were hand and glove

Barbers and blear-eyed, as the ancient sings.

Also he is alive and like to be:

Had he considerately died,—aha!

I jostled Luca Cini on his staff,

Mute in the midst, the whole man one amaze,

Staring amain and crossing brow and breast.

“How now?” asked I. “’Tis seventy years,” quoth he,

“Since

I first saw, holding my father’s hand,

“Bodies set forth: a many have I seen,

“Yet all was poor to this I live and see.

“Here the world’s wickedness seals up the sum:

“What with Molinos’ doctrine and this deed,

“Antichrist’s surely come and doomsday near.

“May I depart in peace, I have seen my see.”

“Depart then,” I advised, “nor block the road

“For youngsters still behindhand with such sights!”

“Why no,” rejoins the venerable sire,

“I know it’s horrid, hideous past belief,

“Burdensome far beyond what eye can bear;

“But they do promise, when Pompilia dies

“I’ the course o’ the day,—and she can’t outlive night,—

“They’ll bring her body also to expose

“Beside the parents, one, two, three a-breast;

“That were indeed a sight which, might I see,

“I trust I should not last to see the like!”

Whereat I bade the senior spare his shanks,

Since doctors give her till to-night to live

And tell us how the butchery happened. “Ah,

“But you can’t know!” sighs he. “I’ll not despair:

“Beside I’m useful at explaining things—

“As, how the dagger laid there at the feet,

“Caused the peculiar cuts; I mind its make,

“Triangular i’ the blade, a Genoese,

“Armed with those little hook-teeth on the edge

“To open in the flesh nor shut again:

“I like to teach a novice: I shall stay!”

And stay he did, and stay be sure he will.

A personage came by the private door

At noon to have his look: I name no names:

Well then, His Eminence the Cardinal,

Whose servitor in honourable sort

Guido was once, the same who made the match,

(Will you have the truth?) whereof we see effect.

No sooner whisper ran he was arrived

Than up pops Curate Carlo, a brisk lad,

Who never lets a good occasion slip,

And volunteers improving the event.

We looked he’d give the history’s self some help,

Treat us to how the wife’s confession went

(This morning she confessed her crime, we know)

And, may-be, throw in something of the Priest—

If he’s not ordered back, punished anew,

The gallant, Caponsacchi, Lucifer

I’ the garden where Pompilia, Eve-like, lured

Her Adam Guido to his fault and fall.

Think you we got a sprig of speech akin

To this from Carlo, with the Cardinal there?

Too wary, he was, too widely awake, I trow.

He did the murder in a dozen words;

Then said that all such outrages crop forth

I’ the course of nature, when Molinos’ tares

Are sown for wheat, flourish and choke the Church:

So slid on to the abominable sect

And the philosophic sin—we’ve heard all that,

And the Cardinal too (who book-made on the same),

But, for the murder, left it where he found.

Oh but he’s quick, the Curate, minds his game!

And, after all, we have the main o’ the fact:

Case could not well be simpler,—mapped, as it were,

We follow the murder’s maze from source to sea,

By the red line, past mistake: one sees indeed

Not only how all was and must have been,

But cannot other than be to the end of time.

Turn out here by the Ruspoli! Do you hold

Guido was so prodigiously to blame?

A certain cousin of yours has told you so?

Exactly! Here’s a friend shall set you right,

Let him but have the handsel of your ear.

These wretched Comparini were once gay

And galiard, of the modest middle class:

Born in this quarter seventy years ago,

And married young, they lived the accustomed life,

Citizens as they were of good repute:

And, childless, naturally took their ease

With only their two selves to care about

And use the wealth for: wealthy is the word,

Since Pietro was possessed of house and land—

And specially one house, when good days were,

In Via Vittoria, the aspectable street

Where he lived mainly; but another house

Of less pretension did he buy betimes,

The villa, meant for jaunts and jollity,

I’ the Pauline district, to be private there—

Just what puts murder in an enemy’s head.

Moreover,—and here’s the worm i’ the core, the germ

O’ the rottenness and ruin which arrived,—

He owned some usufruct, had moneys’ use

Lifelong, but to determine with his life

In heirs’ default: so, Pietro craved an heir,

(The story always old and always new)

Shut his fool’s-eyes fast on the visible good

And wealth for certain, opened them owl-wide

On fortune’s sole piece of forgetfulness,

The child that should have been and would not be.

Hence, seventeen years ago, conceive his glee

When first Violante, ’twixt a smile and a blush,

With touch of agitation proper too,

Announced that, spite of her unpromising age,

The miracle would in time be manifest,

An heir’s birth was to happen: and it did.

Somehow or other,—how, all in good time!

By a trick, a sleight of hand you are to hear,—

A child was born, Pompilia, for his joy,

Plaything at once and prop, a fairy-gift,

A saints’ grace or, say, grant of the good God,—

A fiddle-pin’s end! What imbeciles are we!

Look now: if some one could have prophesied,

“For love of you, for liking to your wife,

“I undertake to crush a snake I spy

“Settling itself i’ the soft of both your breasts.

“Give me yon babe to strangle painlessly!

“She’ll soar to the safe: you’ll have your crying out,

“Then sleep, then wake, then sleep, then end your days

“In peace and plenty, mixed with mild regret,

“Thirty years hence when Christmas takes old folk”—

How had old Pietro sprung up, crossed himself,

And kicked the conjuror! Whereas you and I,

Being wise with after-wit, had clapped our hands;

Nay, added, in the old fool’s interest,

“Strangle the black-eyed babe, so far so good,

“But on condition you relieve the man

“O’ the wife and throttle him Violante too—

“She is the mischief!”

        We had hit the mark.

She, whose trick brought the babe into the world,

She it was, when the babe was grown a girl,

Judged a new trick should reinforce the old,

Send vigour to the lie now somewhat spent

By twelve years’ service; lest Eve’s rule decline

Over this Adam of hers, whose cabbage-plot

Throve dubiously since turned fools’-paradise,

Spite of a nightingale on every stump.

Pietro’s estate was dwindling day by day,

While he, rapt far above such mundane care,

Crawled all-fours with his baby pick-a-back,

Sat at serene cats’-cradle with his child,

Or took the measured tallness, top to toe,

Of what was grown a great girl twelve years old:

Till sudden at the door a tap discreet,

A visitor’s premonitory cough,

And poverty had reached him in her rounds.

This came when he was past the working-time,

Had learned to dandle and forgot to dig,

And who must but Violante cast about,

Contrive and task that head of hers again?

She who had caught one fish, could make that catch

A bigger still, in angler’s policy:

So, with an angler’s mercy for the bait,

Her minnow was set wriggling on its barb

And tossed to the mid-stream; that is, this grown girl

With the great eyes and bounty of black hair

And first crisp youth that tempts a jaded taste,

Was whisked i’ the way of a certain man, who snapped.

Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine

Was head of an old noble house enough,

Not over-rich, you can’t have everything,

But such a man as riches rub against,

Readily stick to,—one with a right to them

Born in the blood: ’twas in his very brow

Always to knit itself against the world,

So be beforehand when that stinted due

Service and suit: the world ducks and defers.

As such folks do, he had come up to Rome

To better his fortune, and, since many years,

Was friend and follower of a cardinal;

Waiting the rather thus on providence,

That a shrewd younger poorer brother yet,

The Abate Paolo, a regular priest,

Had long since tried his powers and found he swam

With the deftest on the Galilean pool:

But then he was a web-foot, free o’ the wave,

And no ambiguous dab-chick hatched to strut,

Humbled by any fond attempt to swim

When fiercer fowl usurped his dunghill top—

A whole priest, Paolo, no mere piece of one

Like Guido tacked thus to the Church’s tail!

Guido moreover, as the head o’ the house,

Claiming the main prize, not the lesser luck,

The centre lily, no mere chickweed fringe.

He waited and learned waiting, thirty years;

Got promise, missed performance—what would you have?

No petty post rewards a nobleman

For spending youth in splendid lackey-work,

And there’s concurrence for each rarer prize;

When that falls, rougher hand and readier foot

Push aside Guido spite of his black looks.

The end was, Guido, when the warning showed,

The first white hair i’ the glass, gave up the game,

Determined on returning to his town,

Making the best of bad incurable

Patching the old palace up and lingering there

The customary life out with his kin,

Where honour helps to spice the scanty bread.

Just as he trimmed his lamp and girt his loins

To go his journey and be wise at home,

In the right mood of disappointed worth,

Who but Violante sudden spied her prey

(Where was I with that angler- simile?)

And threw her bait, Pompilia, where he sulked—

A gleam i’ the gloom!

What if he gained thus much,

Wrung out this sweet drop from the bitter Past,

Bore off this rose-bud from the prickly brake,

To justify such torn clothes and scratched hands,

And, after all, brought something back from Rome?

Would not a wife serve at Arezzo well

To light the dark house, lend a look of youth

To the mother’s face grown meagre, left alone

And famished with the emptiness of hope,

Old Donna Beatrice? Wife you want

Would you play family representative,

Carry you elder-brotherly, high and right

O’er what may prove the natural petulance

Of the third brother, younger, greedier still,

Girolamo, also a fledgeling priest,

Beginning life in turn with callow beak

Agape for luck, no luck had stopped and stilled.

Such were the pinks and greys about the bait

Persuaded Guido gulp down hook and all.

What constituted him so choice a catch,

You question? Past his prime and poor beside?

Ask that of any she who knows the trade.

Why first, here was a nobleman with friends,

A palace one might run to and be safe

When presently the threatened fate should fall,

A big-browed master to block door-way up,

Parley with people bent on pushing by

And praying the mild Pietro quick clear scores:

Is birth a privilege and power or no?

Also,—but judge of the result desired,

By the price paid and manner of the sale.

The Count was made woo, win and wed at once:

Asked, and was haled for answer, lest the heat

Should cool, to San Lorenzo, one blind eve,

And had Pompilia put into his arms

O’ the sly there, by a hasty candle-blink,

With sanction of some priest-confederate

Properly paid to make short work and sure.

So did old Pietro’s daughter change her style

For Guido Franceschini’s lady-wife

Ere Guido knew it well; and why this haste

And scramble and indecent secrecy?

“Lest Pietro, all the while in ignorance,

“Should get to learn, gainsay and break the match:

“His peevishness had promptly put aside

“Such honour and refused the proffered boon,

“Pleased to become authoritative once.

“She remedied the wilful man’s mistake—”

Did our discreet Violante. Rather say,

Thus did she, lest the object of her game,

Guido the gulled one, give him but a chance,

A moment’s respite, time for thinking twice,

Might count the cost before he sold himself,

And try the clink of coin they paid him with.

But passed, the bargain struck, the business done,

Once the clandestine marriage over thus,

All parties made perforce the best o’ the fact;

Pietro could play vast indignation off,

Be ignorant and astounded, dupe alike

At need, of wife, daughter, and son-in-law,

While Guido found himself in flagrant fault,

Must e’en do suit and service, soothe, subdue

A father not unreasonably chafed,

Bring him to terms by paying son’s devoir.

Pleasant initiation!

        The end, this:

Guido’s broad back was saddled to bear all—

Pietro, Violante, and Pompilia too,—

Three lots cast confidently in one lap,

Three dead-weights with one arm to lift the three

Out of their limbo up to life again:

The Roman household was to strike fresh root

In a new soil, graced with a novel name,

Gilt with an alien glory, Aretine

Henceforth and never Roman any more,

By treaty and engagement: thus it ran:

Pompilia’s dowry for Pompilia’s self

As a thing of course,—she paid her own expense;

No loss nor gain there: but the couple, you see,

They, for their part, turned over first of all

Their fortune in its rags and rottenness

To Guido, fusion and confusion, he

And his with them and theirs,—whatever rag

With a coin residuary fell on floor

When Brother Paolo’s energetic shake

Should do the relics justice: since ’twas thought,

Once vulnerable Pietro out of reach,

That, left at Rome as representative,

The Abate, backed by a potent patron here,

And otherwise with purple flushing him,

Might play a good game with the creditor,

Make up a moiety which, great or small,

Should go to the common stock—if anything,

Guido’s, so far repayment of the cost

About to be,—and if, as looked more like,

Nothing,—why, all the nobler cost were his

Who guaranteed, for better or for worse,

To Pietro and Violante, house and home,

Kith and kin, with the pick of company

And life o’ the fat o’ the land while life should last.

How say you to the bargain at first blush?

Why did a middle-aged not-silly man

Show himself thus besotted all at once?

Quoth Solomon, one black eye does it all.

They went to Arezzo,—Pietro and his spouse,

With just the dusk o’ the day of life to spend,

Eager to use the twilight, taste a treat,

Enjoy for once with neither stay nor stint

The luxury of Lord-and- lady-ship,

And realise the stuff and nonsense long

A-simmer in their noddles; vent the fume

Born there and bred, the citizen’s conceit

How fares nobility while crossing earth,

What rampart or invisible body- guard

Keeps off the taint of common life from such.

They had not fed for nothing on the tales

Of grandees who give banquets worthy Jove,

Spending gold as if Plutus paid a whim,

Served with obeisances as when . . . what God?

I’m at the end of my tether; ’tis enough

You understand what they came primed to see:

While Guido who should minister the sight,

Stay all this qualmish greediness of soul

With apples and with flagons—for his part,

Was set on life diverse as pole from pole:

Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye,—what else

Was he just now awake from, sick and sage,

After the very debauch they would begin?—

Suppose such stuff and nonsense really were.

That bubble, they were bent on blowing big,

He had blown already till he burst his cheeks,

And hence found soapsuds bitter to the tongue,

He hoped now to walk softly all his days

In soberness of spirit, if haply so,

Pinching and paring he might furnish forth

A frugal board, bare sustenance, no more,

Till times, that could not well grow worse, should mend.

Thus minded then, two parties mean to meet

And make each other happy. The first week,

And fancy strikes fact and explodes in full.

“This,” shrieked the Comparini, “this the Count,

“The palace, the signorial privilege,

“The pomp and pageantry were promised us?

“For this have we exchanged our liberty,

“Our competence, our darling of a child?

“To house as spectres in a sepulchre

“Under this black stone heap, the street’s disgrace,

“Grimmest as that is of the gruesome town,

“And here pick garbage on a pewter plate

“Or cough at verjuice dripped from earthenware?

“Oh Via Vittoria, oh the other place

“I’ the Pauline, did we give you up for this?

“Where’s the foregone housekeeping good and gay,

“The neighbourliness, the companionship,

“The treat and feast when holidays came round,

“The daily feast that seemed no treat at all,

“Called common by the uncommon fools we were!

“Even the sun that used to shine at Rome,

“Where is it? Robbed and starved and frozen too,

“We will have justice, justice if there be!”

Did not they shout, did not the town resound!

Guido’s old lady-mother Beatrice,

Who since her husband, Count Tommaso’s death,

Had held sole sway i’ the house,—the doited crone

Slow to acknowledge, curtsey and abdicate,—

Was recognised of true novercal type,

Dragon and devil. His brother Girolamo

Came next in order: priest was he? The worse!

No way of winning him to leave his mumps

And help the laugh against old ancestry

And formal habits long since out of date,

Letting his youth be patterned on the mode

Approved of where Violante laid down law.

Or did he brighten up by way of change?

Dispose himself for affability?

The malapert, too complaisant by half

To the alarmed young novice of a bride!

Let him go buzz, betake himself elsewhere

Nor singe his fly-wings in the candle-flame!

Four months’ probation of this purgatory,

Dog-snap and cat-claw, curse and counterblast,

The devil’s self had been sick of his own din;

And Pietro, after trumpeting huge wrongs

At church and market-place, pillar and post,

Square’s corner, street’s end, now the palace-step

And now the wine-house bench—while, on her side,

Violante up and down was voluble

In whatsoever pair of ears would perk

From goody, gossip, cater-cousin and sib,

Curious to peep at the inside of things

And catch in the act pretentious poverty

At its wits’ end to keep appearance up,

Make both ends meet,—nothing the vulgar loves

Like what this couple pitched them right and left,—

Then, their worst done that way, they struck tent, marched:

—Renounced their share o’ the bargain, flung what dues

Guido was bound to pay, in Guido’s face,

Left their hearts’- darling, treasure of the twain

And so forth, the poor inexperienced bride,

To her own devices, bade Arezzo rot

And the life signorial, and sought Rome once more.

I see the comment ready on your lip,

“The better fortune, Guido’s—free at least

“By this defection of the foolish pair,

“He could begin make profit in some sort

“Of the young bride and the new quietness,

“Lead his own life now, henceforth breathe unplagued.”

Could he? You know the sex like Guido’s self.

Learn the Violante-nature!

        Once in Rome,

By way of helping Guido lead such life,

Her first act to inaugurate return

Was, she got pricked in conscience: Jubilee

Gave her the hint. Our Pope, as kind as just,

Attained his eighty years, announced a boon

Should make us bless the fact, held Jubilee—

Short shrift, prompt pardon for the light offence,

And no rough dealing with the regular crime

So this occasion were not suffered slip—

Otherwise, sins commuted as before,

Without the least abatement in the price.

Now, who had thought it? All this while, it seems,

Our sage Violante had a sin of a sort

She must compound for now or not at all:

Now be the ready riddance! She confessed

Pompilia was a fable not a fact:

She never bore a child in her whole life.

Had this child been a changeling, that were grace

In some degree, exchange is hardly theft;

You take your stand on truth ere leap your lie:

Here was all lie, no touch of truth at all,

All the lie hers—not even Pietro guessed

He was as childless still as twelve years since.

The babe had been a find i’ the filth-heap, Sir,

Catch from the kennel! There was found a Rome,

Down in the deepest of our social dregs,

A woman who professed the wanton’s trade

Under the requisite thin coverture,

Communis meretrix and washer-wife:

The creature thus conditioned found by chance

Motherhood like a jewel in the muck,

And straightway either trafficked with her prize

Or listened to the tempter and let be,—

Made pact abolishing her place and part

In womankind, beast-fellowship indeed—

She sold this babe eight months before its birth

To our Violante, Pietro’s honest spouse,

Well-famed and widely-instanced as that crown

To the husband, virtue in a woman’s shape.

She it was, bought and paid for, passed the thing

Off as the flesh and blood and child of her

Despite the flagrant fifty years,—and why?

Partly to please old Pietro, fill his cup

With wine at the late hour when lees are left,

And send him from life’s feast rejoicingly,—

Partly to cheat the rightful heirs, agape,

Each uncle’s cousin’s brother’s son of him,

For that same principal of the usufruct

It vext him he must die and leave behind.

Such was the sin had come to be confessed.

Which of the tales, the first or last, was true?

Did she so sin once, or, confessing now,

Sin for the first time? Either way you will.

One sees a reason for the cheat: one sees

A reason for a cheat in owning cheat

Where no cheat had been. What of the revenge?

What prompted the contrition all at once,

Made the avowal easy, the shame slight?

Why, prove they but Pompilia not their child,

No child, no dowry; this, supposed their child,

Had claimed what this, shown alien to their blood,

Claimed nowise: Guido’s claim was through his wife,

Null then and void with hers. The biter bit,

Do you see! For such repayment of the past,

One might conceive the penitential pair

Ready to bring their case before the courts,

Publish their infamy to all the world

And, arm in arm, go chuckling thence content.

Is this your view? ’Twas Guido’s anyhow

And colourable: he came forward then,

Protested in his very bride’s behalf

Against this lie and all it led to, least

Of all the loss o’ the dowry; no! From her

And him alike he would expunge the blot,

Erase the brand of such a bestial birth,

Participate in no hideous heritage

Gathered from the gutter to be garnered up

And glorified in a palace. Peter and Paul!

But that who likes may look upon the pair

Exposed in yonder church, and show his skill

By saying which is eye and which is mouth

Thro’ those stabs thick and threefold,—but for that—

A strong word on the liars and their lie

Might crave expression and obtain it, Sir!

—Though prematurely, since there’s more to come,

More than will shake your confidence in things

Your cousin tells you,—may I be so bold?

This makes the first act of the farce,—anon

The stealing sombre element comes in

Till all is black or blood- red in the piece.

Guido, thus made a laughing-stock abroad,

A proverb for the market-place at home,

Left alone with Pompilia now, this graft

So reputable on his ancient stock,

This plague-seed set to fester his sound flesh,

What did the Count? Revenge him on his wife?

Unfasten at all risks to rid himself

The noisome lazar-badge, fall foul of fate,

And, careless whether the poor rag was ware

O’ the part it played, or helped unwittingly,

Bid it go burn and leave his frayed flesh free?

Plainly, did Guido open both doors wide,

Spurn thence the cur-cast creature and clear scores

As man might, tempted in extreme like this?

No, birth and breeding, and compassion too

Saved her such scandal. She was young, he thought,

Not privy to the treason, punished most

I’ the proclamation of it; why make her

A party to the crime she suffered by?

Then the black eyes were now her very own,

Not any more Violante’s: let her live,

Lose in a new air, under a new sun,

The taint of the imputed parentage

Truely or falsely, take no more the touch

Of Pietro and his partner anyhow!

All might go well yet.

        So she thought, herself,

It seems, since what was her first act and deed

When news came how these kindly ones at Rome

Had stripped her naked to amuse the world

With spots here, spots there, and spots everywhere?

—For I should tell you that they noised abroad

Not merely the main scandal of her birth,

But slanders written, printed, published wide,

Pamphlets which set forth all the pleasantry

Of how the promised glory was a dream,

The power a bubble and the wealth—why, dust.

There was a picture, painted to the life,

Of those rare doings, that superlative

Initiation in magnificence

Conferred on a poor Roman family

By favour of Arezzo and her first

And famousest, the Franceschini there.

You had the Countship holding head aloft

Bravely although bespattered, shifts and straits

In keeping out o’ the way o’ the wheels o’ the world,

The comic of those home-contrivances

When the old lady-mother’s wit was taxed

To find six clamorous mouths in food more real

Than fruit plucked off the cobwebbed family-tree,

Or acorns shed from its gilt mouldered frame—

Cold glories served up with three-pauls’ worth’s sauce.

What, I ask,—when the drunkenness of hate

Hiccuped return for hospitality,

Befouled the table they had feasted on,

Or say,—God knows I’ll not prejudge the case,—

Grievances thus distorted, magnified,

Coloured by quarrel into calumny,—

What side did our Pompilia first espouse?

Her first deliberate measure was, she wrote,

Pricked by some loyal impulse, straight to Rome

And her husband’s brother the Abate there,

Who, having managed to effect the match,

Might take men’s censure for its ill success.

She made a clean breast also in her turn;

She qualified the couple handsomely!

Since whose departure, hell, she said, was heaven,

And the house, late distracted by their peals,

Quiet as Carmel where the lilies live.

Herself had oftentimes complained: but why?

All her complaints had been their prompting, tales

Trumped up, devices to this very end.

Their game had been to thwart her husband’s love

And cross his will, malign his words and ways,

So reach this issue, furnish this pretence

For impudent withdrawal from their bond,—

Theft, indeed murder, since they meant no less

Whose last injunction to her simple self

Had been—what parents’- precept do you think?

That she should follow after with all speed,

Fly from her husband’s house clandestinely,

Join them at Rome again, but first of all

Pick up a fresh companion in her flight,

Putting so youth and beauty to fit use,

Some gay, dare-devil, cloak-and-rapier spark

Capable of adventure,—helped by whom

She, some fine eve when lutes were in the air,

Having put poison in the posset-cup,

Laid hands on money, jewels, and the like,

And, to conceal the thing with more effect,

By way of parting benediction too,

Fired the house,—one would finish famously

I’ the tumult, slip out, scurry off and away

And turn up merrily at home once more.

Fact this, and not a dream o’ the devil, Sir!

And more than this, a fact none dare dispute,

Word for word, such a letter did she write.

And such the Abate read, nor simply read

But gave all Rome to ruminate upon,

In answer to such charges as, I say,

The couple sought to be beforehand with.

The cause thus carried to the courts at Rome,

Guido away, the Abate had no choice

But stand forth, take his absent brother’s part,

Defend the honour of himself beside.

He made what head he might against the pair,

Maintained Pompilia’s birth legitimate

And all her rights intact—hers, Guido’s now—

And so far by his tactics turned their flank,

The enemy being beforehand in the place,

That, though the courts allowed the cheat for fact,

Suffered Violante to parade her shame,

Publish her infamy to heart’s content,

And let the tale o’ the feigned birth pass for proved,—

Yet they stopped there, refused to intervene

And dispossess the innocents, befooled

By gifts o’ the guilty, at guilt’s new caprice:

They would not take away the dowry now

Wrongfully given at first, nor bar at all

Succession to the aforesaid usufruct,

Established on a fraud, nor play the game

Of Pietro’s child and now not Pietro’s child

As it might suit the gamester’s purpose. Thus

Was justice ever ridiculed in Rome:

Such be the double verdicts favoured here

Which send away both parties to a suit

Nor puffed up nor cast down,—for each a crumb

Of right, for neither of them the whole loaf.

Whence, on the Comparini’s part, appeal—

Counter-appeal on Guido’s,—that’s the game:

And so the matter stands, even to this hour,

Bandied as balls are in a tennis-court,

And so might stand, unless some heart broke first,

Till doomsday.

        Leave it thus, and now revert

To the old Arezzo whence we moved to Rome.

We’ve had enough o’ the parents, false or true,

Now for a touch o’ the daughter’s quality.

The start’s fair henceforth—every obstacle

Out of the young wife’s footpath—she’s alone—

Left to walk warily now: how does she walk?

Why, once a dwelling’s doorpost marked and crossed

In rubric by the enemy on his rounds

As eligible, as fit place of prey,

Baffle him henceforth, keep him out who can!

Stop up the door at the first hint of hoof,

Presently at the window taps a horn,

And Satan’s by your fireside, never fear!

Pompilia, left alone now, found herself;

Found herself young too, sprightly, fair enough,

Matched with a husband old beyond his age

(Though that was something like four times her own)

Because of cares past, present, and to come:

Found too the house dull and its inmates dead,

So, looked outside for light and life.

        And lo

There in a trice did turn up life and light,

The man with the aureole, sympathy made flesh,

The all-consoling Caponsacchi, Sir!

A priest—what else should the consoler be?

With goodly shoulderblade and proper leg,

A portly make and a symmetric shape,

And curls that clustered to the tonsure quite.

This was a bishop in the bud, and now

A canon full-blown so far: priest, and priest

Nowise exorbitantly overworked,

The courtly Christian, not so much Saint Paul

As a saint of Cæsar’s household: there posed he

Sending his god-glance after his shot shaft,

Apollos turned Apollo, while the snake

Pompilia writhed transfixed through all her spires.

He, not a visitor at Guido’s house,

Scarce an acquaintance, but in prime request

With the magnates of Arezzo, was seen here,

Heard there, felt everywhere in Guido’s path

If Guido’s wife’s path be her husband’s too.

Now he threw comfits at the theatre

Into her lap,—what harm in Carnival?

Now he pressed close till his foot touched her gown,

His hand brushed hers,—how help on promenade?

And, ever on weighty business, found his steps

Incline to a certain haunt of doubtful fame

Which fronted Guido’s palace by mere chance;

While—how do accidents sometimes combine!

Pompilia chose to cloister up her charms

Just in a chamber that o’erlooked the street,

Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind.

This passage of arms and wits amused the town.

At last the husband lifted eyebrow,—bent

On day-book and the study how to wring

Half the due vintage from the worn-out vines

At the villa, tease a quarter the old rent

From the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon,—

Pricked up his ear a-singing day and night

With “ruin, ruin;”—and so surprised at last—

Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps.

Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange,

Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rife

In his head at once again are word and wink,

Mum here and budget there, the smell o’ the fox,

The musk o’ the gallant. “Friends, there’s falseness here!”

The proper help of friends in such a strait

Is waggery, the world over. Laugh him free

O’ the regular jealous- fit that’s incident

To all old husbands that wed brisk young wives,

And he’ll go duly docile all his days.

“Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when?

“How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care!

“Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it,

“Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself.

“And—what, it’s Caponsacchi means you harm?

“The Canon? We caress him, he’s the world’s,

“A man of such acceptance,—never dream,

“Though he were fifty times the fox you fear,

“He’d risk his brush for your particular chick,

“When the wide town’s his hen-roost! Fie o’ the fool!”

So they dispensed their comfort of a kind.

Guido at last cried “Something is in the air,

“Under the earth, some plot against my peace:

“The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead,

“How it should come of that officious orb

“Your Canon in my system, you must say:

“I say—that from the pressure of this spring

“Began the chime and interchange of bells,

“Ever one whisper, and one whisper more,

“And just one whisper for the silvery last,

“Till all at once a- row the bronze-throats burst

“Into a larum both significant

“And sinister: stop it I must and will.

“Let Caponsacchi take his hand away

“From the wire!—disport himself in other paths

“Than lead precisely to my palace- gate,—

“Look where he likes except one window’s way

“Where cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill,

“Happens to lean and say her litanies

“Every day and all day long, just my wife—

“Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!”

Admire the man’s simplicity, “I’ll do this,

“I’ll not have that, I’ll punish and prevent!”—

’Tis easy saying. But to a fray, you see,

Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth:

The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight.

Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well,

The way to put suspicion to the blush!

At first hint of remonstrance, up and out

I’ the face of the world, you found her: she could speak,

State her case,—Franceschini was a name,

Guido had his full share of foes and friends—

Why should not she call these to arbitrate?

She bade the Governor do governance,

Cried out on the Archbishop—why, there now,

Take him for sample! Three successive times,

Had he to reconduct her by main force

From where she took her station opposite

His shut door,—on the public steps thereto,

Wringing her hands, when he came out to see,

And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot,—

Back to the husband and the house she fled:

Judge if that husband warmed him in the face

Of friends or frowned on foes as heretofore!

Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk,

Or lacked the customary compliment

Of cap and bells, the luckless husband’s fit!

So it went on and on till—who was right?

One merry April morning, Guido woke

After the cuckoo, so late, near noonday,

With an inordinate yawning of the jaws,

Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongue

And teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk;

And found his wife flown, his scrutoire the worse

For a rummage,—jewelry that was, was not,

Some money there had made itself wings too,—

The door lay wide and yet the servants slept

Sound as the dead, or dosed which does as well.

In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul,

Had not so much as spoken all her life

To the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at him

Between her fingers while she prayed in church,—

This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years

(Such she was grown to by this time of day)

Had simply put an opiate in the drink

Of the whole household overnight, and then

Got up and gone about her work secure,

Laid hand on this waif and the other stray,

Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doors

In company of the Canon who, Lord’s love,

What with his daily duty at the church,

Nightly devoir where ladies congregate,

Had something else to mind, assure yourself,

Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be,

Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt!

Well, anyhow, albeit impossible,

Both of them were together jollily

Jaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this,

While Guido was left go and get undrugged,

Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanks

When neighbours crowded round him to condole.

“Ah,” quoth a gossip, “well I mind me now,

“The Count did always say he thought he felt

“He feared as if this very chance might fall!

“And when a man of fifty finds his corns

“Ache and his joints throb, and foresees a storm,

“Though neighbours laugh and say the sky is clear,

“Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!”

Then was the story told, I’ll cut you short:

All neighbours knew: no mystery in the world,

The lovers left at nightfall—over night

Had Caponsacchi come to carry off

Pompilia,—not alone, a friend of his,

One Guillichini, the more conversant

With Guido’s housekeeping that he was just

A cousin of Guido’s and might play a prank—

(Have you not too a cousin that’s a wag?)

—Lord and a Canon also,—what would you have?

Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-heads

That stand and stiffen ’mid the wheat o’ the Church!—

This worthy came to aid, abet his best.

And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged,

The lady led downstairs and out of doors

Guided and guarded till, the city passed,

A carriage lay convenient at the gate

Good-bye to the friendly Canon; the loving one

Could peradventure do the rest himself.

In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest,

“Whip, driver!—Money makes the mare to go,

“And we’ve a bagful. Take the Roman road!”

So said the neighbours. This was eight hours since.

Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths,

Shook off the relics of his poison-drench,

Got horse, was fairly started in pursuit

With never a friend to follow, found the track

Fast enough, ’twas the straight Perugia way,

Trod soon upon their very heels, too late

By a minute only at Camoscia, at

Chiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitives

Just ahead, just out as he galloped in,

Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh,

Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last post

Before Rome,—as we say, in sight of Rome

And safety (there’s impunity at Rome

For priests, you know) at—what’s the little place?

What some call Castelnuovo, some just call

The Osteria, because o’ the post-house inn,

There, at the journey’s all but end, it seems,

Triumph deceived them and undid them both,

Secure they might foretaste felicity

Nor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised.

There did they halt at early evening, there

Did Guido overtake them: ’twas day-break;

He came in time enough, not time too much,

Since in the courtyard stood the Canon’s self

Urging the drowsy stable grooms to haste

Harness the horses, have the journey end,

The trifling four-hour’s-running, so reach Rome.

And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs,

Still on the couch where she had spent the night,

One couch in one room, and one room for both.

So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby.

Sir, what’s the sequel? Lover and beloved

Fall on their knees? No impudence serves here?

They beat their breasts and beg for easy death,

Confess this, that, and the other?—anyhow

Confess there wanted not some likelihood

To the supposition as preposterous,

That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyes

Had noticed, straying o’er the prayer-book’s edge,

More of the Canon than that black his coat,

Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim:

And that, O Canon, thy religious care

Had breathed too soft a benedicite

To banish trouble from a lady’s breast

So lonely and so lovely, nor so lean!

This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err.

Not to such ordinary end as this

Had Caponsacchi flung the cassock far,

Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier;

The die was cast: over shoes over boots:

And just as she, I presently shall show,

Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life,

Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white,

So, in the inn-yard, bold as ’twere Troy-town,

There strutted Paris in correct costume,

Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed,

Even to a wicked-looking sword at side,

He seemed to find and feel familiar at.

Nor wanted words as ready and as big

As the part he played, the bold abashless one.

“I interposed to save your wife from death,

“Yourself from shame, the true and only shame:

“Ask your own conscience else!—or, failing that,

“What I have done I answer, anywhere,

“Here, if you will; you see I have a sword:

“Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt,

“At Rome, by all means,—priests to try a priest.

“Only, speak where your wife’s voice can reply!”

And then he fingered at the sword again.

So, Guido called, in aid and witness both,

The Public Force. The Commissary came,

Officers also; they secured the priest;

Then, for his more confusion, mounted up

With him, a guard on either side, the stair

To the bed-room where still slept or feigned a sleep

His paramour and Guido’s wife: in burst

The company and bade her wake and rise.

Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang upright

I’ the midst and stood as terrible as truth,

Sprang to her husband’s side, caught at the sword

That hung there useless, since they held each hand

O’ the lover, had disarmed him properly.

And in a moment out flew the bright thing

Full in the face of Guido,—but for help

O’ the guards who held her back and pinioned her

With pains enough, she had finished you my tale

With a flourish of red all round it, pinked her man

Prettily; but she fought them one to six.

They stopped that,—but her tongue continued free:

She spat forth such invective at her spouse,

O’erfrothed him with such foam of murderer,

Thief, pandar—that the popular tide soon turned,

The favour of the very sbirri, straight

Ebbed from the husband, set toward his wife,

People cried “Hands off, pay a priest respect!”

And “persecuting fiend” and “martyred saint”

Began to lead a measure from lip to lip.

But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things,

And the question “Prithee, friend, how comes my purse

“I’ the poke of you?”—admits of no reply.

Here was a priest found out in masquerade,

A wife caught playing truant if no more;

While the Count, mortified in mien enough,

And, nose to face, an added palm in length,

Was plain writ “husband” every piece of him:

Capture once made, release could hardly be.

Beside, the prisoners both made appeal,

“Take us to Rome!”

        Taken to Rome they were;

The husband trooping after, piteously,

Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now—

No honour set firm on its feet once more

On two dead bodies of the guilty,—nay,

No dubious salve to honour’s broken pate

From chance that, after all, the hurt might seem

A skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar:

For Guido’s first search,—ferreting, poor soul,

Here, there, and everywhere in the vile place

Abandoned to him when their backs were turned,

Found,—furnishing a last and best regale,—

All the love-letters bandied twixt the pair

Since the first timid trembling into life

O’ the love-star till its stand at fiery full.

Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair,

Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names;—was nought

Wanting to prove, if proof consoles at all,

That this had been but the fifth act o’ the piece

Whereof the due proemium, months ago

These playwrights had put forth, and ever since

Matured the middle, added ’neath his nose.

He might go cross himself: the case was clear.

Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there plead

Each party its best, and leave the law do right,

Let her shine forth and show, as God in heaven,

Vice prostrate, virtue pedestalled at last,

The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gaze

When once authority has knit the brow

And set the brain behind it to decide

Between the wolf and sheep turned litigants?

“This is indeed a business” law shook head:

“A husband charges hard things on a wife,

“The wife as hard o’ the husband: whose fault here?

“A wife that flies her husband’s house, does wrong:

“The male friend’s interference looks amiss,

“Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife,

“On the other hand, be jeopardised at home—

“Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly,

“An apprehension she is jeopardised,—

“And further, if the friend partake the fear,

“And, in a commendable charity

“Which trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts,—

“What do they but obey the natural law?

“Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin,

“And circumstances that concur i’ the close

“Hint as much, loudly—yet scarce loud enough

“To drown the answer ‘strange may yet be true:’

“Innocence often looks like guiltiness.

“The accused declare that in thought, word, and deed,

“Innocent were they both from first to last

“As male-babe haply laid by female-babe

“At church on edge of the baptismal font

“Together for a minute, perfect-pure.

“Difficult to believe, yet possible,

“As witness Joseph, the friend’s patron-saint.

“The night at the inn—there charity nigh chokes

“Ere swallow what they both asseverate;

“Though down the gullet faith may feel it go,

“When mindful of what flight fatigued the flesh

“Out of its faculty and fleshliness,

“Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure:

“So long a flight necessitates a fall

“On the first bed, though in a lion’s den.

“And the first pillow, though the lion’s back:

“Difficult to believe, yet possible.

“Last come the letter’s bundled beastliness—

“Authority repugns give glance to twice,

“Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall;

“Yet here a voice cries ‘Respite!’ from the clouds—

“The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim,

“Abominate the horror: ‘Not my hand’

“Asserts the friend—‘Nor mine’ chimes in the wife,

“ ‘Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.’

“Illiterate—for she goes on to ask,

“What if the friend did pen now verse now prose,

“Commend it to her notice now and then?

“ ’Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote,

“And kept no more than read, for as they fell

“She ever brushed the burr-like things away,

“Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke.

“As for this fardel, filth, and foolishness,

“She sees it now the first time: burn it too!

“While for his part the friend vows ignorance

“Alike of what bears his name and bear hers:

“ ’Tis forgery, a felon’s masterpiece,

“And, as ’tis the fox still finds the stench,

“Home- manufacturer and the husband’s work.

“Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend,

“That certain missives, letters of a sort,

“Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselves

“To the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft,

“In his path: wherefrom he understood just this—

“That were they verily the lady’s own,

“Why, she who penned them, since he never saw

“Save for one minute the mere face of her,

“Since never had there been the interchange

“Of word with word between them all their life,

“Why, she must be the fondest of the frail,

“And fit she for the ‘apage’ he flung,

“Her letters for the flame they went to feed.

“But, now he sees her face and hears her speech,

“Much he repents him if, in fancy-freak

“For a moment the minutest measurable,

“He coupled her with the first flimsy word

“O’ the self-spun fabric some mean spider- soul

“Furnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him!

“Never was such a tangled knottiness,

“But thus authority cuts the Gordian through,

“And mark how her decision suits the need!

“Here’s troublesomeness, scandal on both sides,

“Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime:

“Let each side own its fault and make amends!

“What does a priest in cavalier’s attire

“Consorting publicly with vagrant wives

“In quarters close as the confessional

“Though innocent of harm? ’Tis harm enough:

“Let him pay it, and be relegate a good

“Three years, to spend in some place not too far

“Nor yet too near, midway twixt near and far,

“Rome and Arezzo,—Civita we choose,

“Where he may lounge away time, live at large,

“Find out the proper function of a priest,

“Nowise an exile,—that were punishment,

“But one our love thus keeps out of harm’s way

“Not more from the husband’s anger than, mayhap

“His own . . . say, indiscretion, waywardness,

“And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm.

“For the wife,—well, our best step to take with her,

“On her own showing, were to shift her root

“From the old cold shade and unhappy soil

“Into a generous ground that fronts the south:

“Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late,

“Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-by

“To the rescue, she should have her fill of shine.

“Do house and husband hinder and not help?

“Why then, forget both and stay here at peace,

“Come into our community, enroll

“Herself along with those good Convertites,

“Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made,

“Accept their administration, well bestow

“Her body and patiently possess her soul,

“Until we see what better can be done.

“Last for the husband: if his tale prove true,

“Well is he rid of two domestic plagues—

“The wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would,

“And friend of hers that undertook the cure.

“See, what a double load we lift from breast!

“Off he may go, return, resume old life,

“Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia there

“In limbo each and punished for their pains,

“And grateful tell the inquiring neighbourhood—

“In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy.”

The case was closed. Now, am I fair or no

In what I utter? Do I state the facts,

Having forechosen a side? I promised you!

The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sent

To change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tie

The clerkly silk round, every plait correct,

Make the impressive entry on his place

Of relegation, thrill his Civita,

As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause,

Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,

What with much culture of the sonnet-stave

And converse with the aborigines,

Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll,

And hearts that all awry went pit-a-pat

And wanted setting right in charity,

What were a couple of years to while away?

Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herself

To the aforesaid Convertites, the sisterhood

In Via Lungara, where the light ones live,

Spin, pray, then sing like linnets o’er the flax.

“Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband’s house

“Is heaven,” cried she,—was therefore suited so.

But for Count Guido Franceschini, he—

The injured man thus righted—found no heaven

I’ the house when he returned there, I engage,

Was welcomed by the city turned upside down

In a chorus of inquiry. “What, back,—you?

“And no wife? Left her with the Penitents?

“Ah, being young and pretty, ’twere a shame

“To have her whipped in public: leave the job

“To the priests who understand! Such priests as yours—

“(Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once)

“Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him!

“So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence?

“Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight!

“The wiser, ’tis a word and a blow with him,

“True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i’-the-Sack

“That fought at Fiesole ere Florence was:

“He had done enough, to firk you were too much.

“And did the little lady menace you,

“Make at your breast with your own harmless sword?

“The spitfire! Well, thank God you’re safe and sound,

“Have kept the sixth commandment whether or no

“The lady broke the seventh: I only wish

“I were as saint-like, could contain me so.

“I am a sinner, I fear I should have left

“Sir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!”

You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word,

Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus?

Was it enough to make a wise man mad?

Oh, but I’ll have your verdict at the end!

Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls,

Frets awhile, and aches long, then less and less,

And so is done with. Such was not the scheme

O’ the pleasant Comparini: on Guido’s wound

Ever in due succession, drop by drop,

Came slow distilment from the alembic here

Set on to simmer by Canidian hate,

Corrosives keeping the man’s misery raw.

First fire-drop,—when he thought to make the best

O’ the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed,

Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were,

Yet what might eke him out result enough

And make it worth his while he had the right

And not the wrong i’ the matter judged at Rome.

Inadequate her punishment, no less

Punished in some slight sort his wife had been;

Then, punished for adultery, what else?

On such admitted crime he thought to seize,

And institute procedure in the courts

Which cut corruption of this kind from man,

Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway:

He claimed in due form a divorce at least.

This claim was met now by a counterclaim:

Pompilia sought divorce from bed and board

Of Guido, whose outrageous cruelty,

Whose mother’s malice and whose brother’s hate

Were just the white o’ the charge, such dreadful depths

Blackened its centre,—hints of worse than hate,

Love from that brother, by that Guido’s guile,

That mother’s prompting. Such reply was made,

So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprung

On Guido, who received the bolt in breast;

But no less bore up, giddily perhaps.

He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome,

Brother and friend and fighter on his side:

They rallied in a measure, met the foe

Manlike, joined battle in the public courts,

As if to shame supine law from her sloth:

And waiting her award, let beat the while

Arezzo’s banter, Rome’s buffoonery,

On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike,

Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip,

And never mind till he contorts his tail!

But there was sting i’ the creature; thus it struck.

Guido had thought in his simplicity—

That lying declaration of remorse,

That story of the child which was no child

And motherhood no motherhood at all,

—That even this sin might have its sort of good

Inasmuch as no question could be more,

Call it false, call the story true, no claim

Of further parentage pretended now:

The parents had abjured all right, at least,

I’ the woman still his wife: to plead right now

Were to declare the abjuration false:

He was relieved from any fear henceforth

Their hands might touch, their breath defile again

Pompilia with his name upon her yet.

Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia’s health

Demanded change after full three long weeks

Spent in devotion with the Sisterhood,—

Rendering sojourn,—so the court opined,—

Too irksome, since the convent’s walls were high

And windows narrow, nor was air enough

Nor light enough, but all looked prison-like,

The last thing which had come in the court’s head.

Propose a new expedient therefore,—this!

She had demanded—had obtained indeed,

By intervention of whatever friends

Or perhaps lovers—(beauty in distress

In one whose tale is the town-talk beside,

Never lacks friendship’s arm about her neck)—

Not freedom, scarce remitted penalty,

Solely the transfer to some private place

Where better air, more light, new food might be—

Incarcerated (call it, all the same)

At some sure friend’s house she must keep inside,

Be found in at requirement fast enough,—

Domus pro carcere, in Roman style.

You keep the house i’ the main, as most men do

And all good women: but free otherwise,

Should friends arrive, to lodge and entertain.

And such a domum, such a dwelling-place,

Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she?

What house obtained Pompilia’s preference?

Why, just the Comparini’s—just, do you mark,

Theirs who renounced all part and lot in her

So long as Guido could be robbed thereby,

And only fell back on relationship

And found their daughter safe and sound again

So soon as that might stab him: yes, the pair

Who, as I told you, first had baited hook

With this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing,

Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shore

And gutted him,—now found a further use

For the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet again

I’ the way of what new swimmer passed their stand.

They took Pompilia to their hiding-place—

Not in the heart of Rome as formerly,

Under observance, subject to control—

But out o’ the way,—or in the way, who knows?

That blind mute villa lurking by the gate

At Via Paulina, not so hard to miss

By the honest eye, easy enough to find

In twilight by marauders: where perchance

Some muffled Caponsacchi might repair,

Employ odd moments when he too tried change,

Found that a friend’s abode was pleasanter

Than relegation, penance, and the rest.

Come, here’s the last drop does its worst to wound,

Here’s Guido poisoned to the bone, you say,

Your boasted still’s full strain and strength: not so!

One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birth

The hoard i’ the heart o’ the toad, hell’s quintessence.

He learned the true convenience of the change,

And why a convent wants the cheerful hearts

And helpful hands which female straits require,

When, in the blind mute villa by the gate,

Pompilia—what? sang, danced, saw company?

—Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir,

Or Guido’s heir and Caponsacchi’s son.

I want your word now: what do you say to this?

What would say little Arezzo and great Rome,

And what did God say and the devil say

One at each ear o’ the man, the husband, now

The father? Why, the overburdened mind

Broke down, what was a brain became a blaze.

In fury of the moment—(that first news

Fell on the Count among his vines, it seems,

Doing his farm-work)—why, he summoned steward,

Called in the first four hard hands and stout hearts

From field and furrow, poured forth his appeal,

Not to Rome’s law and gospel any more,

But this clown with a mother or a wife,

That clodpole with a sister or a son:

And, whereas law and gospel held their peace,

What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out?

All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome,

At the villa door: there was the warmth and light—

The sense of life so just an inch inside—

Some angel must have whispered “One more chance!”

He gave it: bade the others stand aside:

Knocked at the door,—“Who is it knocks?” cried one.

“I will make,” surely Guido’s angel said,

“One final essay, last experiment,

“Speak the word, name the name from out all names

“Which, if,—as doubtless strong illusions are,

“And strange disguisings whence even truth seems false,

“And, for I am a man, I dare not do

“God’s work until assured I see with God,—

“If I should bring my lips to breathe that name

“And they be innocent,—nay, by one touch

“Of innocence redeemed from utter guilt,—

“That name will bar the door and bid fate pass,

“I will not say ‘It is a messenger,

“ ‘A neighbour, even a belated man,

“ ‘Much less your husband’s friend, your husband’s self:’

“At such appeal the door is bound to ope.

“But I will say”—here’s rhetoric and to spare!

Why, Sir, the stumbling- block is cursed and kicked,

Block though it be; the name that brought offence

Will bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fire

Although that fire feed on a taper-wick

Which never left the altar nor singed fly:

And had a harmless man tripped you by chance,

How would you wait him, stand or step aside,

When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough.

“Giuseppe Caponsacchi!” Guido cried;

And open flew the door: enough again.

Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-wave

That holds a monster in it, over the house,

And wiped its filthy four walls free again

With a wash of hell-fire,—father, mother, wife,

Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood,

And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he,

Haled hither and imprisoned yesternight

O’ the day all this was.

Now the whole is known,

And how the old couple come to lie in state

Though hacked to pieces,—never, the experts say,

So thorough a study of stabbing—while the wife

Viper-like, very difficult to slay,

Writhes still through every ring of her, poor wretch,

At the Hospital hard by—survives, we’ll hope,

To somewhat purify her putrid soul

By full confession, make so much amends

While time lasts; since at day’s end die she must.

For Caponsacchi,—why, they’ll have him here,

The hero of the adventure, who so fit

To tell it in the coming Carnival?

’Twill make the fortune of whate’er saloon

Hears him recount, with helpful cheek, and eye

Hotly indignant now, now dewy-dimmed,

The incidents of flight, pursuit, surprise,

Capture, with hints of kisses all between—

While Guido, the most unromantic spouse,

No longer fit to laugh at since the blood

Gave the broad farce an all too brutal air,

Why, he and those our luckless friends of his

May tumble in the straw this bitter day—

Laid by the heels i’ the New Prison, I hear,

To bide their trial, since trial, and for the life,

Follows if but for form’s sake: yes, indeed!

But with a certain issue: no dispute,

“Try him,” bids law: formalities oblige:

But as to the issue,—look me in the face!—

If the law thinks to find them guilty, Sir,

Master or men—touch one hair of the five,

Then I say in the name of all that’s left

Of honour in Rome, civility i’ the world

Whereof Rome boasts herself the central source,—

There’s an end to all hope of justice more.

Astræa’s gone indeed, let hope go too!

Who is it dares impugn the natural law?

Deny God’s word “the faithless wife shall die?”

What, are we blind? How can we fail to see,

This crowd of miseries make the man a mark,

Accumulate on one devoted head

For our example, yours and mine who read

Its lesson thus—“Henceforward let none dare

“Stand, like a natural in the public way,

“Letting the very urchins twitch his beard

“And tweak his nose, to earn a nickname so,

“Of the male-Grissel or the modern Job!”

Had Guido, in the twinkling of an eye,

Summed up the reckoning, promptly paid himself,

That morning when he came up with the pair

At the wayside inn,—exacted his just debt

By aid of what first mattock, pitchfork, axe

Came to hand in the helpful stable- yard,

And with that axe, if providence so pleased,

Cloven each head, by some Rolando-stroke,

In one clean cut from crown to clavicle,

—Slain the priest-gallant, the wife-paramour,

Sticking, for all defence, in each skull’s cleft

The rhyme and reason of the stroke thus dealt,

To-wit, those letters and last evidence

Of shame, each package in its proper place,—

Bidding, who pitied, undistend the skulls,—

I say, the world had praised the man. But no!

That were too plain, too straight, too simply just!

He hesitates, calls law forsooth to help.

And law, distasteful to who calls in law

When honour is beforehand and would serve,

What wonder if law hesitate in turn,

Plead her disuse to calls o’ the kind, reply

Smiling a little “ ’Tis yourself assess

“The worth of what’s lost, sum of damage done:

“What you touched with so light a finger-tip,

“You whose concern it was to grasp the thing,

“Why must law gird herself and grapple with?

“Law, alien to the actor whose warm blood

“Asks heat from law whose veins run lukewarm milk,—

“What you dealt lightly with, shall law make out

“Heinous forsooth?”

        Sir, what’s the good of law

In a case o’ the kind? None, as she all but says.

Call in law when a neighbour breaks your fence,

Cribs from your field, tampers with rent or lease,

Touches the purse or pocket,—but wooes your wife?

No: take the old way trod when men were men!

Guido preferred the new path,—for his pains,

Stuck in a quagmire, floundered worse and worse

Until he managed somehow scramble back

Into the safe sure rutted road once more,

Revenged his own wrong like a gentleman.

Once back ’mid the familiar prints, no doubt

He made too rash amends for his first fault,

Vaulted too loftily over what barred him late,

And lit i’ the mire again,—the common chance,

The natural over-energy: the deed

Maladroit yields three deaths instead of one,

And one life left: for where’s the Canon’s corpse?

All which is the worse for Guido, but, be frank—

The better for you and me and all the world,

Husbands of wives, especially in Rome.

The thing is put right, in the old place,—ay,

The rod hangs on its nail behind the door,

Fresh from the brine: a matter I commend

To the notice, during Carnival that’s near,

Of a certain what’s-his-name and jackanapes

Somewhat too civil of eves with lute and song

About a house here, where I keep a wife.

(You, being his cousin, may go tell him so.)

Another day that finds her living yet,

Little Pompilia, with the patient brow

And lamentable smile on those poor lips,

And, under the white hospital-array,

A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise

You’d think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,

Alive i’ the ruins. ’Tis a miracle.

It seems that, when her husband struck her first,

She prayed Madonna just that she might live

So long as to confess and be absolved;

And whether it was that, all her sad life long,

Never before successful in a prayer,

This prayer rose with authority too dread,—

Or whether, because earth was hell to her,

By compensation, when the blackness broke

She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,

To show her for a moment such things were,—

Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,

The friar who took confession from her lip,—

When a probationary soul that moves

From nobleness to nobleness, as she,

Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,

Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,

The angels love to do their work betimes,

Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.

Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,

She lies, with overplus of life beside

To speak and right herself from first to last,

Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,

Care for the boy’s concerns, to save the son

From the sire, her two-weeks’ infant orphaned thus,

And—with best smile of all reserved for him—

Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.

A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.

Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,

Saint Anna’s where she waits her death, to hear

Though but the chink o’ the bell, turn o’ the hinge

When the reluctant wicket opes at last,

Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,

Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—

For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first

Paid the due visit—justice must be done;

They took her witness, why the murder was;

Then the priests followed properly,—a soul

To shrive; ’twas Brother Celestine’s own right,

The same who noises thus her gifts abroad:

But many more, who found they were old friends,

Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

And go forth boasting of it and to boast.

Old Monna Baldi chatters like a jay,

Swears—but that, prematurely trundled out

Just as she felt the benefit begin,

The miracle was snapped up by somebody,—

Her palsied limb ’gan prick and promise life

At touch o’ the bedclothes merely,—how much more

Had she but brushed the body as she tried!

Cavalier Carlo—well, there’s some excuse

For him—Maratta who paints Virgins so—

He too must fee the porter and slip by

With pencil cut and paper squared, and straight

There was he figuring away at face—

“A lovelier face is not in Rome,” cried he,

“Shaped like a peacock’s egg, the pure as pearl,

“That hatches you anon a snow-white chick.”

Then, oh that pair of eyes, that pendent hair,

Black this, and black the other! Mighty fine—

But nobody cared ask to paint the same,

Nor grew a poet over hair and eyes

Four little years ago when, ask and have,

The woman who wakes all this rapture leaned

Flower-like from out her window long enough,

As much uncomplimented as uncropped

By comers and goers in Via Vittoria: eh?

’Tis just a flower’s fate: past parterre we trip,

Till peradventure some one plucks our sleeve—

“Yon blossom at the briar’s end, that’s the rose

“Two jealous people fought for yesterday

“And killed each other: see, there’s undisturbed

“A pretty pool at the root, of rival red!”

Then cry we, “Ah, the perfect paragon!”

Then crave we, “Just one keepsake-leaf for us!”

Truth lies between: there’s anyhow a child

Of seventeen years, whether a flower or weed,

Ruined: who did it shall account to Christ—

Having no pity on the harmless life

And gentle face and girlish form he found,

And thus flings back: go practise if you please

With men and women: leave a child alone

For Christ’s particular love’s sake!—so I say.

Somebody, at the bedside, said much more,

Took on him to explain the secret cause

O’ the crime: quoth he, “Such crimes are very rife,

“Explode nor make us wonder now-a-days,

“Seeing that Antichrist disseminates

“That doctrine of the Philosophic Sin:

“Molinos’ sect will soon make earth too hot!”

“Nay,” groaned the Augustinian, “what’s there new?

“Crime will not fail to flare up from men’s hearts

“While hearts are men’s and so born criminal

“Which one fact, always old yet ever new,

“Accounts for so much crime that, for my part,

“Molinos may go whistle to the wind

“That waits outside a certain church, you know!”

Though really it does seem as if she here,

Pompilia, living so and dying thus,

Has undue experience how much crime

A heart can hatch. Why was she made to learn

—Not you, not I, not even Molinos’ self—

What

Guido Franceschini’s heart could hold?

Thus saintship is effected probably;

No sparing saints the process!—which the more

Tends to the reconciling us, no saints,

To sinnership, immunity and all.

For see now: Pietro and Violante’s life

Till seventeen years ago, all Rome might note

And quote for happy—see the signs distinct

Of happiness as we yon Triton’s trump.

What could they be but happy?—balanced so,

Nor low i’ the social scale nor yet too high,

Nor poor nor richer than comports with ease,

Nor bright and envied, nor obscure and scorned,

Nor so young that their pleasures fell too thick,

Nor old past catching pleasure when it fell,

Nothing above, below the just degree,

All at the mean where joy’s components mix.

So again, in the couple’s very souls

You saw the adequate half with half to match,

Each having and each lacking somewhat, both

Making a whole that had all and lacked nought;

The round and sound, in whose composure just

The acquiescent and recipient side

Was Pietro’s, and the stirring striving one

Violante’s: both in union gave the due

Quietude, enterprise, craving and content,

Which go to bodily health and peace of mind.

But, as ’tis said a body, rightly mixed,

Each element in equipoise, would last

Too long and live for ever,—accordingly

Holds a germ—sand-grain weight too much i’ the scale—

Ordained to get predominance one day

And so bring all to ruin and release,—

Not otherwise a fatal germ lurked here:

“With mortals much must go, but something stays;

“Nothing will stay of our so happy selves.”

Out of the very ripeness of life’s core

A worm was bred—“Our life shall leave no fruit.”

Enough of bliss, they thought, could bliss bear seed,

Yield its like, propagate a bliss in turn

And keep the kind up; not supplant themselves

But put in evidence, record they were,

Show them, when done with, i’ the shape of a child.

“’Tis in a child, man and wife grow complete,

“One flesh: God says so: let him do his work!”

Now, one reminder of this gnawing want,

One special prick o’ the maggot at the core,

Always befell when, as the day came round,

A certain yearly sum,—our Pietro being,

As the long name runs, an usufructuary,—

Dropped in the common bag as interest

Of money, his till death, not afterward,

Failing an heir: an heir would take and take,

A child of theirs be wealthy in their place

To nobody’s hurt—the stranger else seized all.

Prosperity rolled river-like and stopped,

Making their mill go; but when wheel wore out,

The wave would find a space and sweep on free

And, half-a-mile off, grind some neighbour’s corn.

Adam-like, Pietro sighed and said no more:

Eve saw the apple was fair and good to taste,

So, plucked it, having asked the snake advice.

She told her husband God was merciful,

And his and her prayer granted at the last:

Let the old mill-stone moulder,—wheel unworn,

Quartz from the quarry, shot into the stream

Adroitly, should go bring grist as before—

Their house continued to them by an heir,

Their vacant heart replenished with a child.

We have her own confession at full length

Made in the first remorse: ’twas Jubilee

Pealed in the ear o’ the conscience and it woke.

She found she had offended God no doubt,

So much was plain from what had happened since,

Misfortune on misfortune; but she harmed

No one i’ the world, so far as she could see.

The act had gladdened Pietro to the height,

Her husband—God himself must gladden so

Or not at all—(thus much seems probable

From the implicit faith, or rather say

Stupid credulity of the foolish man

Who swallowed such a tale nor strained a whit

Even at his wife’s far- over-fifty years

Matching his sixty-and-under.) Him she blessed,

And as for doing any detriment,

To the veritable heir,—why, tell her first

Who was he? Which of all the hands held up

I’ the crowd, would one day gather round their gate,

Did she so wrong by intercepting thus

The ducat, spendthrift fortune thought to fling

For a scramble just to make the mob break shins?

She kept it, saved them kicks and cuffs thereby.

While at the least one good work had she wrought,

Good, clearly and incontestably! Her cheat—

What was it to its subject, the child’s self,

But charity and religion? See the girl!

A body most like—a soul too probably—

Doomed to death, such a double death as waits

The illicit offspring of a common trull,

Sure to resent and forthwith rid herself

Of a mere interruption to sin’s trade,

In the efficacious way old Tiber knows.

Was not so much proved by the ready sale

O’ the child, glad transfer of this irksome chance?

Well then, she had caught up this castaway:

This fragile egg, some careless wild bird dropped,

She had picked from where it waited the foot-fall,

And put in her own breast till forth broke finch

Able to sing God praise on mornings now.

What so excessive harm was done?—she asked.

To which demand the dreadful answer comes—

For that same deed, now at Lorenzo’s church,

Both agents, conscious and inconscious, lie;

While she, the deed was done to benefit,

Lies also, the most lamentable of things,

Yonder where curious people count her breaths,

Calculate how long yet the little life

Unspilt may serve their turn nor spoil the show,

Give them their story, then the church its group.

Well, having gained Pompilia, the girl grew

I’ the midst of Pietro here, Violante there,

Each, like a semicircle with stretched arms,

Joining the other round her preciousness—

Two walls that go about a garden-plot

Where a chance sliver, branchlet slipt from bole

Of some tongue-leaved eye-figured Eden tree,

Filched by two exiles and borne far away,

Patiently glorifies their solitude,—

Year by year mounting, grade by grade surmounts

The builded brick-work, yet is compassed still,

Still hidden happily and shielded safe,—

Else why should miracle have graced the ground?

But on the twelfth sun that brought April there

What meant that laugh? The coping-stone was reached;

Nay, a light tuft of bloom towered above

To be toyed with by butterfly or bee,

Done good to or else harm to from outside:

Pompilia’s root, stem, and a branch or two

Home enclosed still, the rest would be the world’s.

All which was taught our couple though obtuse,

Since walls have ears, when one day brought a priest,

Smooth-mannered soft-speeched sleek-cheeked visitor,

The notable Abate Paolo—known

As younger brother of a Tuscan house

Whereof the actual representative,

Count Guido, had employd his youth and age

In culture of Rome’s most productive plant—

A cardinal: but years pass and change comes,

In token of which, here was our Paolo brought

To broach a weighty business. Might he speak?

Yes—to Violante somehow caught alone

While Pietro took his after-dinner doze,

And the young maiden, busily as befits,

Minded her broider-frame three chambers off.

So—giving now his great flap-hat a gloss

With flat o’ the hand between-whiles, soothing now

The silk from out its creases o’er the calf,

Setting the stocking clerical again,

But never disengaging, once engaged,

The thin clear grey hold of his eyes on her—

He dissertated on that Tuscan house,

Those Franceschini,—very old they were—

Not rich however—oh, not rich, at least,

As people look to be who, low i’ the scale

One way, have reason, rising all they can

By favour of the money-bag: ’tis fair—

Do all gifts go together? But don’t suppose

That being not so rich means all so poor!

Say rather, well enough—i’ the way, indeed,

Ha, ha, to better fortune than the best,

Since if his brother’s patron-friend kept faith,

Put into promised play the Cardinalate,

Their house might wear the red cloth that keeps warm,

Would but the Count have patience—there’s the point!

For he was slipping into years apace,

And years make men restless—they needs must see

Some certainty, some sort of end assured,

Sparkle, tho’ from the topmost beacon-tip

That warrants life a harbour through the haze.

In short, call him fantastic as you choose,

Guido was home-sick, yearned for the old sights

And usual faces,—fain would settle himself

And have the patron’s bounty when it fell

Irrigate far rather than deluge near,

Go fertilise Arezzo, not flood Rome.

Sooth to say, ’twas the wiser wish: the Count

Proved wanting in ambition,—let us avouch,

Since truth is best,—in callousness of heart,

Winced at those pin-pricks whereby honours hang

A ribbon o’er each puncture: his—no soul

Ecclesiastic (here the hat was brushed)

Humble but self-sustaining, calm and cold,

Having, as one who puts his hand to the plough,

Renounced the over-vivid family-feel—

Poor brother Guido! All too plain, he pined

Amid Rome’s pomp and glare for dinginess

And that dilapidated palace-shell

Vast as a quarry and, very like, as bare—

Since to this comes old grandeur now-a-days—

Or that absurd wild villa in the waste

O’ the hill side, breezy though, for who likes air,

Vittiano, nor unpleasant with its vines,

Outside the city and the summer heats.

And now his harping on this one tense chord

The villa and the palace, palace this

And villa the other, all day and all night

Creaked like the implacable cicala’s cry

And made one’s ear- drum ache: nought else would serve

But that, to light his mother’s visage up

With second youth, hope, gaiety again,

He must find straightway, woo and haply win

And bear away triumphant back, some wife.

Well now, the man was rational in his way—

He, the Abate,—ought he to interpose?

Unless by straining still his tutelage

(Priesthood leaps over elder-brothership)

Across this difficulty: then let go,

Leave the poor fellow in peace! Would that be wrong?

There was no making Guido great, it seems,

Spite of himself: then happy be his dole!

Indeed, the Abate’s little interest

Was somewhat nearly touched i’ the case, they saw:

Since if his simple kinsman so were bent,

Began his rounds in Rome to catch a wife,

Full soon would such unworldliness surprise

The rare bird, sprinkle salt on phœnix’ tail,

And so secure the nest a sparrow- hawk.

No lack of mothers here in Rome,—no dread

Of daughters lured as larks by looking-glass!

The first name-pecking credit-scratching fowl

Would drop her unfledged cuckoo in our nest

To gather greyness there, give voice at length

And shame the brood .. but it was long ago

When crusades were, and we sent eagles forth!

No, that at least the Abate could forestall.

He read the thought within his brother’s word,

Knew what he purposed better than himself.

We want no name and fame—having our own:

No worldly aggrandisement—such we fly:

But if some wonder of a woman’s-heart

Were yet untainted on this grimy earth,

Tender and true—tradition tells of such—

Prepared to pant in time and tune with ours—

If some good girl (a girl, since she must take

The new bent, live new life, adopt new modes)

Not wealthy—Guido for his rank was poor—

But with whatever dowry came to hand,

There were the lady-love predestinate!

And somehow the Abate’s guardian eye—

Scintillant, rutilant, fraternal fire,—

Roving round every way had seized the prize

—The instinct of us, we, the spiritualty!

Come, cards on table; was it true or false

That here—here in this very tenement—

Yea, Via Vittoria did a marvel hide,

Lily of a maiden, white with intact leaf

Guessed thro’ the sheath that saved it from the sun?

A daughter with the mother’s hands still clasped

Over her head for fillet virginal,

A wife worth Guido’s house and hand and heart?

He came to see; had spoken, he could no less—

(A final cherish of the stockinged calf)

If harm were,—well, the matter was off his mind.

Then with the great air did he kiss, devout,

Violante’s hand, and rise up his whole height

(A certain purple gleam about the black)

And go forth grandly,—as if the Pope came next.

And so Violante rubbed her eyes awhile,

Got up too, walked to wake her Pietro soon

And pour into his ear the mighty news

How somebody had somehow somewhere seen

Their tree-top-tuft of bloom above the wall,

And came now to apprise them the tree’s self

Was no such crab-sort as should feed the swine,

But veritable gold, the Hesperian ball

Ordained for Hercules to haste and pluck,

And bear and give the Gods to banquet with—

Hercules standing ready at the door.

Whereon did Pietro rub his eyes in turn,

Look very wise, a little woeful too,

Then, periwig on head, and cane in hand,

Sally forth dignifiedly into the Square

Of Spain across Babbuino the six steps,

Toward the Boat-fountain where our idlers lounge,—

Ask, for form’s sake, who Hercules might be,

And have congratulation from the world.

Heartily laughed the world in his fool’s-face

And told him Hercules was just the heir

To the stubble once a corn-field, and brick-heap

Where used to be a dwelling-place now burned.

Guido and Franceschini; a Count,—ay:

But a cross i’ the poke to bless the Countship? No!

All gone except sloth, pride, rapacity,

Humours of the imposthume incident

To rich blood that runs thin,—nursed to a head

By the rankly-salted soil—a cardinal’s court

Where, parasite and picker-up of crumbs,

He had hung on long, and now, let go, said some,

But shaken off, said others,—in any case

Tired of the trade and something worse for wear,

Was wanting to change town for country quick,

Go home again: let Pietro help him home!

The brother, Abate Paolo, shrewder mouse,

Had pricked for comfortable quarters, inched

Into the core of Rome, and fattened so;

But Guido, over-burly for rat’s hole

Suited to clerical slimness, starved outside,

Must shift for himself: and so the shift was this!

What, was the snug retreat of Pietro tracked,

The little provision for his old age snuffed?

“Oh, make your girl a lady, an you list,

“But have more mercy on our wit than vaunt

“Your bargain as we burgesses who brag!

“Why, Goodman Dullard, if a friend must speak,

“Would the Count, think you, stoop to you and yours

“Were there the value of one penny-piece

“To rattle ’twixt his palms—or likelier laugh,

“Bid your Pompilia help you black his shoe?”

Home again, shaking oft the puzzled pate,

Went Pietro to announce a change indeed,

Yet point Violante where some solace lay

Of a rueful sort,—the taper, quenched so soon,

Had ended merely in a snuff, not stink—

Congratulate there was one hope the less

Not misery the more: and so an end.

The marriage thus impossible, the rest

Followed: our spokesman, Paolo, heard his fate,

Resignedly Count Guido bore the blow:

Violante wiped away the transient tear,

Renounced the playing Danae to gold dreams,

Praised much her Pietro’s prompt sagaciousness,

Found neighbours’ envy natural, lightly laughed

At gossips’ malice, fairly wrapped herself

In her integrity three folds about,

And, letting pass a little day or two,

Threw, even over that integrity,

Another wrappage, namely one thick veil

That hid her, matron-wise, from head to foot,

And, by the hand holding a girl veiled too,

Stood, one dim end of a December day,

In Saint Lorenzo on the altar-step—

Just where she lies now and that girl will lie—

Only with fifty candles’ company

Now—in the place of the poor winking one

Which saw,—doors shut and sacristan made sure,—

A priest—perhaps Abate Paolo—wed

Guido clandestinely, irrevocably

To his Pompilia aged thirteen years

And five months,—witness the church register,—

Pompilia (thus become Count Guido’s wife

Clandestinely, irrevocably his, ),

Who all the while had borne, from first to last,

As brisk a part i’ the bargain, as yon lamb,

Brought forth from basket and set out for sale,

Bears while they chaffer, wary market-man

And voluble housewife, o’er it,—each in turn

Patting the curly calm inconscious head,

With the shambles ready round the corner there,

When the talk’s talked out and a bargain struck.

Transfer complete, why, Pietro was apprised.

Violante sobbed the sobs and prayed the prayers

And said the serpent tempted so she fell,

Till Pietro had to clear his brow apace

And make the best of matters: wrath at first,—

How else? pacification presently,

Why not?—could flesh withstand the impurpled one,

The very Cardinal, Paolo’s patron-friend?

Who, justifiably surnamed “a hinge,”

Knew where the mollifying oil should drop

To cure the creak o’ the valve,—considerate

For frailty, patient in a naughty world,

He even volunteered to supervise

The rough draught of those marriage-articles

Signed in a hurry by Pietro, since revoked:

Trust’s politic, suspicion does the harm,

There is but one way to brow-beat this world,

Dumbfounder doubt, and repay scorn in kind,—

To go on trusting, namely, till faith move

Mountains.

And faith here made the mountains move.

Why, friends whose zeal cried “Caution ere too late!”—

Bade “Pause ere jump, with both feet joined, on slough!—

Counselled “If rashness then, now temperance!”—

Heard for their pains that Pietro had closed eyes,

Jumped and was in the middle of the mire,

Money and all, just what should sink a man.

By the mere marriage, Guido gained forthwith

Dowry, his wife’s right; no rescinding there:

But Pietro, why must he needs ratify

One gift Violante gave, pay down one doit

Promised in first fool’s-flurry? Grasp the bag

Lest the son’s service flag,—is reason and rhyme,

Above all when the son’s a son-in-law.

Words to the wind! The parents cast their lot

Into the lap o’ the daughter: and the son

Now with a right to lie there, took what fell,

Pietro’s whole having and holding, house and field,

Goods, chattels and effects, his worldly worth

Present and in perspective, all renounced

In favour of Guido. As for the usufruct—

The interest now, the principal anon,

Would Guido please to wait, at Pietro’s death:

Till when, he must support the couple’s charge,

Bear with them, housemates, pensionaries, pawned

To an alien for fulfilment of their pact.

Guido should at discretion deal them orts,

Bread-bounty in Arezzo the strange place,—

They who had lived deliciously and rolled

Rome’s choicest comfit ’neath the tongue before.

Into this quag, “jump” bade the Cardinal!

And neck-deep in a minute there flounced they.

But they touched bottom at Arezzo: there—

Four months’ experience of how craft and greed,

Quickened by penury and pretentious hate

Of plain truth, brutify and bestialise,—

Four months’ taste of apportioned insolence,

Cruelty graduated, dose by dose

Of ruffianism dealt out at bed and board,

And lo, the work was done, success clapped hands.

The starved, stripped, beaten brace of stupid dupes

Broke at last in their desperation loose,

Fled away for their lives, and lucky so;

Found their account in casting coat afar

And bearing off a shred of skin at least:

Left Guido lord o’ the prey, as the lion is,

And, careless what came after, carried their wrongs

To Rome,—I nothing doubt, with such remorse

As folly feels, since pain can make it wise,

But crime, past wisdom, which is innocence,

Needs not be plagued with till a later day.

Pietro went back to beg from door to door,

In hope that memory not quite extinct

Of cheery days and festive nights would move

Friends and acquaintance—after the natural laugh,

And tributary “Just as we foretold—”

To show some bowels, give the dregs o’ the cup,

Scraps of the trencher, to their host that was,

Or let him share the mat with the mastiff, he

Who lived large and kept open house so long.

Not so Violante: ever a-head i’ the march,

Quick at the bye-road and the cut-across,

She went first to the best adviser, God—

Whose finger unmistakably was felt

In all this retribution of the past.

Here was the prize of sin, luck of a lie!

But here too was the Holy Year would help,

Bound to rid sinners of sin vulgar, sin

Abnormal, sin prodigious, up to sin

Impossible and supposed for Jubilee’ sake:

To lift the leadenest of lies, let soar

The soul unhampered by a feather-weight.

“I will,” said she, “go burn out this bad hole

“That breeds the scorpion, baulk the plague at least

“Its hope of further creeping progeny:

“I will confess my fault, be punished, yes,

“But pardoned too: Saint Peter pays for all.”

So, with the crowd she mixed, made for the dome,

Through the great door new-broken for the nonce

Marched, muffled more than ever matron-wise,

Up the left nave to the formidable throne,

Fell into file with this the poisoner

And that the parricide, and reached in turn

The poor repugnant Penitentiary

Set at this gully-hole o’ the world’s discharge

To help the frightfullest of filth have vent,

And then knelt down and whispered in his ear

How she had bought Pompilia, palmed the babe

On Pietro, passed the girl off as their child

To Guido, and defrauded of his due

This one and that one,—more than she could name,

Until her solid piece of wickedness

Happened to split and spread woe far and wide:

Contritely now she brought the case for cure.

Replied the throne—“Ere God forgive the guilt,

“Make man some restitution! Do your part!

“The owners of your husband’s heritage,

“Barred thence by this pretended birth and heir,—

“Tell them, the bar came so, is broken so,

“Theirs be the due reversion as before!

“Your husband who, no partner in the guilt,

“Suffers the penalty, led blindfold thus

“By love of what he thought his flesh and blood

“To alienate his all in her behalf,—

“Tell him too such contract is null and void!

“Last, he who personates your son-in-law,

“Who with sealed eyes and stopped ears, tame and mute,

“Took at your hand that bastard of a whore

“You called your daughter and he calls his wife,—

“Tell him, and bear the anger which is just!

“Then, penance so performed, may pardon be!”

Who could gainsay this just and right award?

Nobody in the world: but, out o’ the world,

Who knows?—might timid intervention be

From any makeshift of an angel-guide,

Substitute for celestial guardianship,

Pretending to take care of the girl’s self:

“Woman, confessing crime is healthy work,

“And telling truth relieves a liar like you,

“But what of her my unconsidered charge?

“No thought of, while this good befalls yourself,

“What in the way of harm may find out her?”

No least thought, I assure you: truth being truth,

Tell it and shame the devil!

        Said and done:

Home went Violante and disbosomed all:

And Pietro who, six months before, had borne

Word after word of such a piece of news

Like so much cold steel inched through his breast-blade,

Now at its entry gave a leap for joy,

As who—what did I say of one in a quag?—

Should catch a hand from heaven and spring thereby

Out of the mud, on ten toes stand once more.

“What? All that used to be, may be again?

“My money mine again, my house, my land,

“My chairs and tables, all mine evermore?

“What, the girl’s dowry never was the girl’s,

“And, unpaid yet, is never now to pay?

“Then the girl’s self, my pale Pompilia child

“That used to be my own with her great eyes—

“He who drove us forth, why should he keep her

“When proved as very a pauper as himself?

“Will she come back, with nothing changed at all,

“And laugh ‘But how you dreamed uneasily!

“ ‘I saw the great drops stand here on your brow—

“ ‘Did I do wrong to wake you with a kiss?’

“No, indeed, darling! No, for wide awake

“I see another outburst of surprise:

“The lout-lord, bully-beggar, braggart-sneak,

“Who not content with cutting purse, crops ear—

“Assuredly it shall be salve to mine

“When this great news red-letters him, the rogue!

“Ay, let him taste the teeth o’ the trap, this fox,

“Give us our lamb back, golden fleece and all,

“Let her creep in and warm our breasts again!

“What care for the past?—we three are our old selves,

“Who know now what the outside world is worth.”

And so, he carried case before the courts;

And there Violante, blushing to the bone,

Made public declaration of her fault,

Renounced her motherhood, and prayed the law

To interpose, frustrate of its effect

Her folly, and redress the injury done.

Whereof was the disastrous consequence,

That though indisputably clear the case

(For thirteen years are not so large a lapse,

And still six witnesses survived in Rome

To prove the truth o’ the tale)—yet, patent wrong

Seemed Guido’s; the first cheat had chanced on him:

Here was the pity that, deciding right,

Those who began the wrong would gain the good.

Guido pronounced the story one long lie

Lied to do robbery and take revenge:

Or say it were no lie at all but truth,

Then, it both robbed the right heirs and shamed him

Without revenge to humanise the deed:

What had he done when first they shamed him thus?

But that were too fantastic: losels they,

And leasing this world’s-wonder of a lie,

They lied to blot him though it brand themselves.

So answered Guido through the Abate’s mouth.

Wherefore the court, its customary way,

Inclined to the middle course the sage affect—

They held the child to be a changeling,—good:

But, lest the husband got no good thereby,

They willed the dowry, though not hers at all,

Should yet be his, if not by right then grace—

Part-payment for the plain injustice done.

But then, that other contract, Pietro’s work,

Renunciation of his own estate,

That must be cancelled—give him back his goods,

He was no party to the cheat at least!

So ran the judgment:—whence a prompt appeal

On both sides, seeing right is absolute.

Cried Pietro, “Is Pompilia not my child?

“Why give her my child’s dowry?”—“Have I right

“To the dowry, why not to the rest as well?”

Cried Guido, or cried Paolo in his name:

Till law said “Reinvestigate the case!”

And so the matter pends, unto this day.

Hence new disaster—that no outlet seemed;

Whatever the fortune of the battle-field,

No path whereby the fatal man might march

Victorious, wreath on head and spoils in hand,

And back turned full upon the baffled foe,—

Nor cranny whence, desperate and disgraced,

Stripped to the skin, he might be fain to crawl

Worm- like, and so away with his defeat

To other fortune and the novel prey.

No, he was pinned to the place there, left alone

With his immense hate and, the solitary

Subject to satisfy that hate, his wife.

“Cast her off? Turn her naked out of doors?

“Easily said! But still the action pends,

“Still dowry, principal and interest,

“Pietro’s possessions, all I bargained for,—

“Any good day, be but my friends alert,

“May give them me if she continue mine.

“Yet, keep her? Keep the puppet of my foes—

“Her voice that lisps me back their curse—her eye

“They lend their leer of triumph to—her lip

“I touch and taste their very filth upon?”

In short, he also took the middle course

Rome taught him—did at last excogitate

How he might keep the good and leave the bad

Twined in revenge, yet extricable,—nay

Make the very hate’s eruption, very rush

Of the unpent sluice of cruelty relieve

His heart first, then go fertilise his field.

What if the girl-wife, tortured with due care,

Should take, as though spontaneously, the road

It were impolitic to thrust her on?

If, goaded, she broke out in full revolt,

Followed her parents i’ the face o’ the world,

Branded as runaway not castaway,

Self-sentenced and self-punished in the act?

So should the loathed form and detested face

Launch themselves into hell and there be lost

While he looked o’er the brink with folded arms;

So should the heaped-up shames go shuddering back

O’ the head o’ the heapers, Pietro and his wife,

And bury in the breakage three at once:

While Guido, left free, no one right renounced,

Gain present, gain prospective, all the gain,

None of the wife except her rights absorbed.

Should ask law what it was law paused about—

If law were dubious still whose word to take,

The husband’s—dignified and derelict,

Or the wife’s—the . . . what I tell you. It should be.

Guido’s first step was to take pen, indite

A letter to the Abate,—not his own,

His wife’s,—she should re- write, sign, seal, and send.

She liberally told the household-news,

Rejoiced her vile progenitors were fled,

Revealed their malice—how they even laid

A last injunction on her, when they fled,

That she should forthwith find a paramour,

Complot with him to gather spoil enough

Then burn the house down,—taking previous care

To poison all its inmates overnight,—

And so companioned, so provisioned too,

Follow to Rome and all join fortunes gay.

This letter, traced in pencil-characters,

Guido as easily got retraced in ink

By his wife’s pen, guided from end to end,

As it had been just so much Hebrew, Sir:

For why? That wife could broider, sing perhaps,

Pray certainly, but no more read than write

This letter “which yet write she must,” he said,

“Being half courtesy and compliment,

“Half sisterliness: take the thing on trust!”

She had as readily re-traced the words

Of her own death-warrant,—in some sort ’twas so.

This letter the Abate in due course

Communicated to such curious souls

In Rome as needs must pry into the cause

Of quarrel, why the Comparini fled

The Franceschini, whence the grievance grew,

What the hubbub meant: “Nay,—see the wife’s own word,

“Authentic answer! Tell detractors too

“There’s a plan formed, a programme figured here

“—Pray God no after-practice put to proof,

“This letter cast no light upon, one day!”

So much for what should work in Rome,—back now

To Arezzo, go on with the project there,

Forward the next step with as bold a foot,

And plague Pompilia to the height, you see!

Accordingly did Guido set himself

To worry up and down, across, around,

The woman, hemmed in by her household-bars,—

Chased her about the coop of daily life,

Having first stopped each outlet thence save one

Which, like bird with a ferret in her haunt,

She needs must seize as sole way of escape

Though there was tied and twittering a decoy

To seem as if it tempted,—just the plume

O’ the popinjay, and not a respite there

From tooth and claw of something in the dark,—

Giuseppe Caponsacchi.

        Now begins

The tenebrific passage of the tale:

How hold a light, display the cavern’s gorge?

How, in this phase of the affair, show truth?

Here is the dying wife who smiles and says

“So it was,—so it was not,—how it was,

“I never knew nor ever care to know—”

Till they all weep, physician, man of law,

Even that poor old bit of battered brass

Beaten out of all shape by the world’s sins,

Common utensil of the lazar-house—

Confessor Celestino groans “’Tis truth,

“All truth, and only truth: there’s something else,

“Some presence in the room beside us all,

“Something that every lie expires before:

“No question she was pure from first to last.”

So far is well and helps us to believe:

But beyond, she the helpless, simple- sweet

Or silly-sooth, unskilled to break one blow

At her good fame by putting finger forth,—

How can she render service to the truth?

The bird says “So I fluttered where a springe

“Caught me: the springe did not contrive itself,

“That I know: who contrived it, God forgive!”

But we, who hear no voice and have dry eyes,

Must ask,—we cannot else, absolving her,—

How of the part played by that same decoy

I’ the catching, caging? Was himself caught first?

We deal here with no innocent at least,

No witless victim,—he’s a man of the age

And a priest beside,—persuade the mocking world

Mere charity boiled over in this sort!

He whose own safety too,—(the Pope’s apprised—

Good-natured with the secular offence,

The pope looks grave on priesthood in a scrape)

Our priest’s own safety therefore, may-be life,

Hangs on the issue! You will find it hard.

Guido is here to meet you with fixed foot,

Stiff like a statue—“Leave what went before!

“My wife fled i’ the company of a priest,

“Spent two days and two nights alone with him:

“Leave what came after!” He is hard to throw.

Moreover priests are merely flesh and blood;

When we get weakness, and no guilt beside,

We have no such great ill-fortune: finding grey,

We gladly call that white which might be black,

Too used to the double-dye. So, if the priest,

Moved by Pompilia’s youth and beauty, gave

Way to the natural weakness. . . . Anyhow

Here be facts, charactery; what they spell

Determine, and thence pick what sense you may!

There was a certain young bold handsome priest

Popular in the city, far and wide

Famed, for Arezzo’s but a little place, .

As the best of good companions, gay and grave

At the decent minute; settled in his stall,

Or sideling, lute on lap, by lady’s couch,

Ever the courtly Canon: see in such

A star shall climb apace and culminate,

Have its due handbreadth of the heaven at Rome,

Though meanwhile pausing on Arezzo’s edge,

As modest candle ’mid the mountain fog,

To rub off redness and rusticity

Ere it sweep chastened, gain the silver-sphere.

Whether through Guido’s absence or what else,

This Caponsacchi, favourite of the town,

Was yet no friend of his nor free o’ the house,

Though both moved in the regular magnates’ march—

Each must observe the other’s tread and halt

At church, saloon, theatre, house of play.

Who could help noticing the husband’s slouch,

The black of his brow—or miss the news that buzzed

Of how the little solitary wife

Wept and looked out of window all day long?

What need of minute search into such springs

As start men, set o’ the move?—machinery

Old as earth, obvious as the noonday sun.

Why, take men as they come,—an instance now,—

Of all those who have simply gone to see

Pompilia on her deathbed since four days,

Half at the least are, call it how you please,

In love with her—I don’t except the priests

Nor even the old confessor whose eyes run

Over at what he styles his sister’s voice

Who died so early and weaned him from the world.

Well, had they viewed her ere the paleness pushed

The last o’ the red o’ the rose away, while yet

Some hand, adventurous ’twixt the wind and her,

Might let the life run back and raise the flower

Rich with reward up to the guardian’s face,—

Would they have kept that hand employed the same

At fumbling on with prayer-book pages? No!

Men are men: why then need I say one word

More than this, that our man the Canon here

Saw, pitied, loved Pompilia?

        This is why;

This startling why: that Caponsacchi’s self—

Whom foes and friends alike avouch, for good

Or ill, a man of truth whate’er betide,

Intrepid altogether, reckless too

How his own fame and fortune, tossed to the winds,

Suffer by any turn the adventure take,

Nay, more—not thrusting, like a badge to hide,

’Twixt shirt and skin a joy which shown is shame—

But flirting flag-like i’ the face o’ the world

This tell-tale kerchief, this conspicuous love

For the lady,—oh, called innocent love, I know!

Only, such scarlet fiery innocence

As most men would try muffle up in shade,—

’Tis strange then that this else abashless mouth

Should yet maintain, for truth’s sake which is God’s,

That it was not he made the first advance,

That, even ere word had passed between the two,

Pompilia penned him letters, passionate prayers,

If not love, then so simulating love

That he, no novice to the taste of thyme,

Turned from such over-luscious honey-clot

At end o’ the flower, and would not lend his lip

Till . . . but the tale here frankly outsoars faith:

There must be falsehood somewhere. For her part,

Pompilia quietly constantly avers

She never penned a letter in her life

Nor to the Canon nor any other man,

Being incompetent to write and read:

Nor had she ever uttered word to him, nor he

To her till that same evening when they met,

She on her window-terrace, he beneath

I’ the public street, as was their fateful chance,

And she adjured him in the name of God

Find out and bring to pass where, when and how

Escape with him to Rome might be contrived.

Means found, plan laid and time fixed, she avers,

And heart assured to heart in loyalty,

All at an impulse! All extemporised

As in romance-books! Is that credible?

Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouth

Dying, I do think “Credible!” you’d cry—

Did not the priest’s voice come to break the spell:

They questioned him apart, as the custom is,

When first the matter made a noise at Rome,

And he, calm, constant then as she is now,

For truth’s sake did assert and reassert

Those letters called him to her and he came,

—Which damns the story credible otherwise.

Why should this man,—mad to devote himself,

Careless what comes of his own fame, the first,—

Be studious thus to publish and declare

Just what the lightest nature loves to hide,

Nor screen a lady from the byword’s laugh

“First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!”

—I say,—why should the man tell truth just here

When graceful lying meets such ready shrift?

Or is there a first moment for a priest

As for a woman, when invaded shame

Must have its first and last excuse to show?

Do both contrive love’s entry in the mind

Shall look, i’ the manner of it, a surprise,

That after, once the flag o’ the fort hauled down,

Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate,

Welcome and entertain the conqueror?

Or what do you say to a touch of the devil’s worst?

Can it be that the husband, he who wrote

The letter to his brother I told you of,

I’ the name of her it meant to criminate,—

What if he wrote those letters to the priest?

Further the priest says, when it first befell,

This folly o’ the letters, that he checked the flow,

Put them back lightly each with its reply.

Here again vexes new discrepancy:

There never reached her eye a word from him;

He did write but she could not read—she could

Burn what offended wifehood, womanhood,

So did burn: never bade him come to her,

Yet when it proved he must come, let him come,

And when he did come though uncalled, she spoke

Prompt by an inspiration: thus it was.

Will you go somewhat back to understand?

When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprung,

Like an uncaged beast, Guido’s cruelty

On the weak shoulders of his wife, she cried

To those whom law appoints resource for such,

The secular guardian—that’s the Governor,

And the Archbishop,—that’s the spiritual guide,

And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh.

Now, this is ever the ill consequence

Of being noble, poor, and difficult,

Ungainly, yet too great to disregard,—

That the born peers and friends hereditary

Though disinclined to help from their own store

The opprobrious wight, put penny in his poke

From purse of theirs or leave the door ajar

When he goes wistful by at dinner-time,—

Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sit

Smugly in office, judge this, bishop that,

Dispensers of the shine and shade o’ the place—

And if, the friend’s door shut and purse undrawn,

The potentate may find the office-hall

Do as good service at no cost—give help

By- the-bye, pay up traditional dues at once

Just through a feather-weight too much i’ the scale,

A finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue,—

Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists.

Thus when, in the first roughness of surprise

At Guido’s wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell,

The frightened couple, all bewilderment,

Rushed to the Governor,—who else rights wrong?

Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress—

Why, then the Governor woke up to the fact

That Guido was a friend of old, poor Count!—

So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pair,

Wholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualms

Next time they came and prated and told lies:

Which stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome.

Well, now it was Pompilia’s turn to try:

The troubles pressing on her, as I said,

Three times she rushed, maddened by misery,

To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayer

At footstool of the Archbishop—fast the friend

Of her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore!

So, the Archbishop, not to be outdone

By the Governor, break custom more than he,

Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue,

Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout,

Coached her and carried her to the Count again,

—His old friend should be master in his house,

Rule his wife and correct her faults at need!

Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise,

She, as a last resource, betook herself

To one, should be no family-friend at least,

A simple friar o’ the city; confessed to him,

Then told how fierce temptation of release

By self-dealt death was busy with her soul,

And urged that he put this in words, write plain

For one who could not write, set down her prayer

That Pietro and Violante, parent-like

If somehow not her parents, should for love

Come save her, pluck from out the flame the brand

Themselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deep

To send gay- coloured sparkles up and cheer

Their seat at the chimney-corner. The good friar

Promised as much at the moment; but, alack,

Night brings discretion: he was no one’s friend,

Yet presently found he could not turn about

Nor take a step i’ the case and fail to tread

On someone’s toe who either was a friend,

Or a friend’s friend, or friend’s friend thrice-removed,

And woe to friar by whom offences come!

So, the course being plain,—with a general sigh

At matrimony the profound mistake,—

He threw reluctantly the business up,

Having his other penitents to mind.

If then, all outlets thus secured save one,

At last she took to the open, stood and stared

With her wan face to see where God might wait—

And there found Caponsacchi wait as well

For the precious something at perdition’s edge.

He only was predestinate to save,—

And if they recognised in a critical flash

From the zenith, each the other, her need of him,

His need of . . . say, a woman to perish for,

The regular way o’ the world, yet break no vow,

Do no harm save to himself,—if this were thus?

How do you say? It were improbable;

So is the legend of my patron-saint.

Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case,

Pompilia,—like a starving wretch i’ the street

Who stops and rifles the first passenger

In the great right of an excessive wrong,—

Did somehow call this stranger and he came,—

Or whether the strange sudden interview

Blazed as when star and star must needs go close

Till each hurts each and there is loss in heaven—

Whatever way in this strange world it was,—

Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine,

She at her window, he i’ the street beneath,

And understood each other at first look.

All was determined and performed at once

And on a certain April evening, late

I’ the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wife

Three years and over,—she who hitherto

Had never taken twenty steps in Rome

Beyond the church, pinned to her mother’s gown,

Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through street

Except what led to the Archbishop’s door,—

Such an one rose up in the dark, laid hand

On what came first, clothes and a trinket or two,

Belongings of her own in the old day,—

Stole from the side o’ the sleeping spouse—who knows?

Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain,—slid

Ghost-like from great dark room to great dark room,

In through the tapestries and out again

And onward, unembarrassed as a fate,

Descended staircase, gained last door of all,

Sent it wide open at first push of palm,

And there stood, first time, last and only time,

At liberty, alone in the open street,—

Unquestioned, unmolested found herself

At the city gate, by Caponsacchi’s side,

Hope there, joy there, life and all good again,

The carriage there, the convoy there, light there

Broadening into a full blaze at Rome

And breaking small what long miles lay between;

Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe.

The husband quotes this for incredible,

All of the story from first word to last:

Sees the priest’s hand throughout upholding hers,

Traces his foot to the alcove, that night,

Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way,

Proficient in all craft and stealthiness;

And cites for proof a servant, eye that watched

And ear that opened to purse secrets up,

A woman-spy,—suborned to give and take

Letters and tokens, do the work of shame

The more adroitly that herself, who helped

Communion thus between a tainted pair,

Had long since been a leper thick in spot,

A common trull o’ the town: she witnessed all,

Helped many meetings, partings, took her wage

And then told Guido the whole matter. Lies!

The woman’s life confutes her word,—her word

Confutes itself: “Thus, thus and thus I lied.”

“And thus, no question, still you lie,” we say.

“Ay, but at last, e’en have it how you will,

“Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodes

“The consummation”—the accusers shriek:

“Here is the wife avowedly found in flight,

“And the companion of her flight, a priest;

“She flies her husband, he the church his spouse:

“What is this?”

        Wife and priest alike reply

“This is the simple thing it claims to be,

“A course we took for life and honour’s sake,

“Very strange, very justifiable.”

She says, “God put it in my head to fly,

“As when the martin migrates: autumn claps

“Her hands, cries ‘Winter’s coming, will be here,

“‘Off with you ere the white teeth overtake!

“‘Flee!’ So I fled: this friend was the warm day,

“The south wind and whatever favours flight;

“I took the favour, had the help, how else?

“And so we did fly rapidly all night,

“All day, all night—a longer night—again,

“And then another day, longest of days,

“And all the while, whether we fled or stopped,

“I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both,

“‘Fly and arrive!’ So long as I found strength

“I talked with my companion, told him much,

“Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew God

“And God’s disposal of me,—but the sense

“O’ the blessed flight absorbed me in the main,

“And speech became mere talking through a sleep,

“Till at the end of that last longest night

“In a red daybreak, when we reached an inn

“And my companion whispered ‘Next stage—Rome!’

“Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards,

“All the frail fabric at a finger’s touch,

“And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said,

“‘But though Count Guido were a furlong off,

“‘Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!’

“Then something like a white wave o’ the sea

“Broke o’er my brain and buried me in sleep

“Blessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose,

“And where was I found but on a strange bed

“In a strange room like hell, roaring with noise,

“Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in front

“Whom but the man you call my husband, ay—

“Count Guido once more between heaven and me,

“For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes—

“That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help,

“Helpless himself, held prisoner in the hands

“Of men who looked up in my husband’s face

“To take the fate thence he should signify,

“Just as the way was at Arezzo: then,

“Not for my sake but his who had helped me—

“I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seized

“The sword o’ the felon, trembling at his side,

“Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thing

“And would have pinned him through the poison-bag

“To the wall and left him there to palpitate,

“As you serve scorpions, but men interposed—

“Disarmed me, gave his life to him again

“That he might take mine and the other lives,

“And he has done so. I submit myself!”

The priest says—oh, and in the main result

The facts asseverate, he truly says,

As to the very act and deed of him,

However you mistrust the mind o’ the man—

The flight was just for flight’s sake, no pretext

For aught except to set Pompilia free:

He says “I cite the husband’s self’s worst charge

“In proof of my best word for both of us.

“Be it conceded that so many times

“We took our pleasure in his palace: then,

“What need to fly at all?—or flying no less,

“What need to outrage the lips sick and white

“Of a woman, and bring ruin down beside,

“By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?”

So does he vindicate Pompilia’s fame,

Confirm her story in all points but one—

This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forth

Her last strength in the prayer to halt awhile,

She makes confusion of the reddening white

Which was the sunset when her strength gave way,

And the next sunrise and its whitening red

Which she revived in when her husband came:

She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one,

Having lived through a blank of night ’twixt each

Though dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse,

She on the bed above; her friend below

Watched in the doorway of the inn the while,

Stood i’ the red o’ the morn, that she mistakes,

In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crew

And hurry out the horses, have the stage

Over, the last league, reach Rome and be safe:

When up came Guido.

        Guido’s tale begins—

How he and his whole household, drunk to death

By some enchanted potion, poppied drugs

Plied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleep

And left the spoilers unimpeded way,

Could not shake off their poison and pursue,

Till noontide, then made shift to get on horse

And did pursue: which means, he took his time,

Pressed on no more than lingered after, step

By step, just making sure o’ the fugitives,

Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance,

Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair.

How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth,

Taking successively at tower and town,

Village and roadside, still the same report,

“Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago,

“Sat in the carriage just where your horse stands,

“While we got horses ready,—turned deaf ear

“To all entreaty they would even alight;

“Counted the minutes and resumed their course.”

Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome,

Leave no least loop to let damnation through,

And foil him of his captured infamy,

Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed:

Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, Rome

But two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached,

The guardian angel gave reluctant place,

Satan stepped forward with alacrity,

Pompilia’s flesh and blood succumbed, perforce

A halt was, and her husband had his will,

Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hour

Till he should spy in the east a signal-streak—

Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be.

Do you see the plan deliciously complete?

The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep,

The easy execution, the outcry

Over the deed, “Take notice all the world!

“These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace,—

“The man is Caponsacchi and a priest,

“The woman is my wife: they fled me late,

“Thus have I found and you behold them thus,

“And may judge me: do you approve or no?”

Success did seem not so improbable,

But that already Satan’s laugh was heard,

His back turned on Guido—left i’ the lurch,

Or rather, baulked of suit and service now,

That he improve on both by one deed more,

Burn up the better at no distant day,

Body and soul one holocaust to hell.

Anyhow, of this natural consequence

Did just the last link of the long chain snap:

For his eruption was o’ the priest, alive

And alert, calm, resolute, and formidable,

Not the least look of fear in that broad brow—

One not to be disposed of by surprise,

And armed moreover—who had guessed as much?

Yes, there stood he in secular costume

Complete from head to heel, with sword at side,

He seemed to know the trick of perfectly.

There was no prompt suppression of the man

As he said calmly, “I have saved your wife

“From death; there was no other way but this;

“Of what do I defraud you except death?

“Charge any wrong beyond, I answer it.”

Guido, the valorous, had met his match,

Was forced to demand help instead of fight,

Bid the authorities o’ the place lend aid

And make the best of a broken matter so.

They soon obeyed the summons—I suppose,

Apprized and ready, or not far to seek—

Laid hands on Caponsacchi, found in fault,

A priest yet flagrantly accoutred thus,—

Then, to make good Count Guido’s further charge,

Proceeded, prisoner made lead the way,

In a crowd, upstairs to the chamber-door

Where wax-white, dead asleep, deep beyond dream,

As the priest laid her, lay Pompilia yet.

And as he mounted step by step with the crowd

How I see Guido taking heart again!

He knew his wife so well and the way of her—

How at the outbreak she would shroud her shame

In hell’s heart, would it mercifully yawn—

How, failing that, her forehead to his foot,

She would crouch silent till the great doom fell,

Leave him triumphant with the crowd to see!

Guilt motionless or writhing like a worm?

No! Second misadventure, this worm turned,

I told you: would have slain him on the spot

With his own weapon, but they seized her hands:

Leaving her tongue free, as it tolled the knell

Of Guido’s hope so lively late. The past

Took quite another shape now. She who shrieked

“At least and for ever I am mine and God’s,

“Thanks to his liberating angel Death—

“Never again degraded to be yours

“The ignoble noble, the unmanly man,

“The beast below the beast in brutishness!”—

This was the froward child, “the restif lamb

“Used to be cherished in his breast,” he groaned—

“Eat from his hand and drink from out his cup,

“The while his fingers pushed their loving way

“Through curl on curl of that soft coat—alas,

“And she all silverly baaed gratitude

“While meditating mischief!”—and so forth.

He must invent another story now!

The ins and outs of the room were searched: he found

Or showed for found the abominable prize—

Love-letters from his wife who cannot write,

Love-letters in reply o’ the priest—thank God!—

Who can write and confront his character

With this, and prove the false thing forged throughout:

Spitting whereat he needs must spatter who

But Guido’s self?—that forged and falsified

One letter called Pompilia’s, past dispute:

Then why not these to make sure still more sure?

So was the case concluded then and there:

Guido preferred his charges in due form,

Called on the law to adjudicate, consigned

The accused ones to the Prefect of the place.

(Oh mouse-birth of that mountain-like revenge!)

And so to his own place betook himself

After the spring that failed,—the wildcat’s way.

The captured parties were conveyed to Rome;

Investigation followed here i’ the court—

Soon to review the fruit of its own work,

From then to now being eight months and no more.

Guido kept out of sight and safe at home:

The Abate, brother Paolo, helped most

At words when deeds were out of question, pushed

Nearest the purple, best played deputy,

So, pleaded, Guido’s representative

At the court shall soon try Guido’s self,—what’s more,

The court that also took—I told you, Sir—

That statement of the couple, how a cheat

Had been i’ the birth of the babe, no child of theirs.

That was the prelude; this, the play’s first act:

Whereof we wait what comes, crown, close of all.

Well, the result was something of a shade

On the parties thus accused,—how otherwise?

Shade, but with shine as unmistakable.

Each had a prompt defence: Pompilia first—

“Earth was made hell to me who did no harm:

“I only could emerge one way from hell

“By catching at the one hand held me, so

“I caught at it and thereby stepped to heaven:

“If that be wrong, do with me what you will!”

Then Caponsacchi with a grave grand sweep

O’ the arm as though his soul warned baseness off—

“If as a man, then much more as a priest

“I hold me bound to help weak innocence:

“If so my worldly reputation burst,

“Being the bubble it is, why, burst it may:

“Blame I can bear though not blameworthiness.

“But use your sense first, see if the miscreant here

“The man who tortured thus the woman, thus

“Have not both laid the trap and fixed the lure

“Over the pit should bury body and soul!

“His facts are lies: his letters are the fact—

“An infiltration flavoured with himself!

“As for the fancies—whether. . .what is it you say?

“The lady loves me, whether I love her

“In the forbidden sense of your surmise,—

“If, with the midday blaze of truth above,

“The unlidded eye of God awake, aware,

“You needs must pry about and track the course

“Of each stray beam of light may traverse earth,

“To the night’s sun and Lucifer himself,

“Do so, at other time, in other place,

“Not now nor here! Enough that first to last

“I never touched her lip nor she my hand

“Nor either of us thought a thought, much less

“Spoke a word which the Virgin might not hear.

“Be that your question, thus I answer it.”

Then the court had to make its mind up, spoke.

“It is a thorny question, and a tale

“Hard to believe, but not impossible:

“Who can be absolute for either side?

“A middle course is happily open yet.

“Here has a blot surprised the social blank,—

“Whether through favour, feebleness, or fault,

“No matter, leprosy has touched our robe

“And we’re unclean and must be purified.

“Here is a wife makes holiday from home,

“A priest caught playing truant to his church,

“In masquerade moreover: both allege

“Enough excuse to stop our lifted scourge

“Which else would heavily fall. On the other hand,

“Here is a husband, ay and man of mark,

“Who comes complaining here, demands redress

“As if he were the pattern of desert—

“The while those plaguy allegations frown,

“Forbid we grant him the redress he seeks.

“To all men be our moderation known!

“Rewarding none while compensating each,

“Hurting all round though harming nobody,

“Husband, wife, priest, scot-free not one shall ’scape,

“Yet priest, wife, husband, boast the unbroken head

“From application of our excellent oil:

“So that whatever be the fact, in fine,

“It makes no miss of justice in a sort.

“First, let the husband stomach as he may,

“His wife shall neither be returned him, no—

“Nor branded, whipped, and caged, but just consigned

“To a convent and the quietude she craves;

“So is he rid of his domestic plague:

“What better thing can happen to a man?

“Next, let the priest retire—unshent, unshamed,

“Unpunished as for perpetrating crime,

“But relegated (not imprisoned, Sirs!)

“Sent for three years to clarify his youth

“At Civita, a rest by the way to Rome:

“There let his life skim off its last of lees

“Nor keep this dubious colour. Judged the cause:

“All parties may retire, content, we hope.”

That’s Rome’s way, the traditional road of law;

Whither it leads is what remains to tell.

The priest went to his relegation-place,

The wife to her convent, brother Paolo

To the arms of brother Guido with the news

And this beside—his charge was countercharged;

The Comparini, his old brace of hates,

Were breathed and vigilant and venomous now—

Had shot a second bolt where the first stuck,

And followed up the pending dowry-suit

By a procedure should release the wife

From so much of the marriage-bond as barred

Escape when Guido turned the screw too much

On his wife’s flesh and blood, as husband may.

No more defence, she turned and made attack,

Claimed now divorce from bed and board, in short:

Pleaded such subtle strokes of cruelty,

Such slow sure siege laid to her body and soul,

As, proved,—and proofs seemed coming thick and fast,—

Would gain both freedom and the dowry back

Even should the first suit leave them in his grasp:

So urged the Comparini for the wife.

Guido had gained not one of the good things

He grasped at by his creditable plan

O’ the flight and following and the rest: the suit

That smouldered late was fanned to fury new,

This adjunct came to help with fiercer fire,

While he had got himself a quite new plague—

Found the world’s face an universal grin

At this last best of the Hundred Merry Tales

Of how a young and spritely clerk devised

To carry off a spouse that moped too much,

And cured her of the vapours in a trice:

And how the husband, playing Vulcan’s part,

Told by the Sun, started in hot pursuit

To catch the lovers, and came halting up,

Cast his net and then called the Gods to see

The convicts in their rosy impudence—

Whereat said Mercury, “Would that I were Mars!”

Oh it was rare, and naughty all the same!

Brief, the wife’s courage and cunning,—the priest’s show

Of chivalry and adroitness,—last not least,

The husband—how he ne’er showed teeth at all,

Whose bark had promised biting; but just sneaked

Back to his kennel, tail ’twixt legs, as ’twere,—

All this was hard to gulp down and digest.

So pays the devil his liegeman, brass for gold.

But this was at Arezzo: here in Rome

Brave Paolo bore up against it all—

Battled it out, nor wanting to himself

Nor Guido nor the House whose weight he bore

Pillar-like, not by force of arm but brain.

He knew his Rome, what wheels we set to work;

Plied influential folk, pressed to the ear

Of the efficacious purple, pushed his way

To the old Pope’s self,—past decency indeed,—

Praying him take the matter in his hands

Out of the regular court’s incompetence;

But times are changed and nephews out of date

And favouritism unfashionable: the Pope

Said “Render Cæsar what is Cæsar’s due!”

As for the Comparini’s counter-plea,

He met that by a counter- plea again,

Made Guido claim divorce—with help so far

By the trial’s issue: for, why punishment

However slight unless for guiltiness

However slender?—and a molehill serves

Much as a mountain of offence this way.

So was he gathering strength on every side

And growing more and more to menace—when

All of a terrible moment came the blow

That beat down Paolo’s fence, ended the play

O’ the foil and brought Mannaia on the stage.

Five months had passed now since Pompilia’s flight,

Months spent in peace among the Convert nuns:

This,—being, as it seemed, for Guido’s sake

Solely, what pride might call imprisonment

And quote as something gained, to friends at home,—

This naturally was at Guido’s charge:

Grudge it he might, but penitential fare,

Prayers, preachings, who but he defrayed the cost?

So, Paolo dropped, as proxy, doit by doit

Like heart’s blood, till—what’s here? What notice comes?

The Convent’s self makes application bland

That, since Pompilia’s health is fast o’ the wane,

She may have leave to go combine her cure

Of soul with cure of body, mend her mind

Together with her thin arms and sunk eyes

That want fresh air outside the convent-wall,

Say in a friendly house,—and which so fit

As a certain villa in the Pauline way,

That happens to hold Pietro and his wife,

The natural guardians? “Oh, and shift the care

“You shift the cost, too; Pietro pays in turn,

“And lightens Guido of a load! And then,

“Villa or convent, two names for one thing,

“Always the sojourn means imprisonment,

“Domum pro carcere—nowise we relax,

“Nothing abate: how answers Paolo?”

You,

What would you answer? All so smooth and fair,

Even Paul’s astuteness sniffed no harm i’ the world.

He authorised the transfer, saw it made,

And, two months after, reaped the fruit of the same,

Having to sit down, rack his brain and find

What phrase should serve him best to notify

Our Guido that by happy providence

A son and heir, a babe was born to him

I’ the villa,—go tell sympathising friends!

Yes, such had been Pompilia’s privilege:

She, when she fled, was one month gone with child,

Known to herself or unknown, either way

Availing to explain (say men of art)

The strange and passionate precipitance

Of maiden startled into motherhood

Which changes body and soul by nature’s law.

So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings come

For the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores,

And there is born a blood-pulse in her heart

To fight if needs be, though with flap of wing,

For the wool-flock or the fur- tuft, though a hawk

Contest the prize,—wherefore, she knows not yet.

Anyhow, thus to Guido came the news.

“I shall have quitted Rome ere you arrive

“To take the one step left,”—wrote Paolo.

Then did the winch o’ the winepress of all hate,

Vanity, disappointment, grudge, and greed,

Take the last turn that screws out pure revenge

With a bright bubble at the brim beside—

By an heir’s birth he was assured at once

O’ the main prize, all the money in dispute:

Pompilia’s dowry might revert to her

Or stay with him as law’s caprice should point,—

But now—now—what was Pietro’s shall be hers,

What was hers shall remain her own,—if hers,

Why then,—oh, not her husband’s but—her heir’s!

That heir being his too, all grew his at last

By this road or by that road, since they join.

Before, why, push he Pietro out o’ the world,—

The current of the money stopped, you see,

Pompilia being proved no Pietro’s child:

Or let it be Pompilia’s life he quenched,

Again the current of the money stopped,—

Guido debarred his rights as husband soon,

So the new process threatened;—now, the chance,

Now, the resplendent minute! Clear the earth,

Cleanse the house, let the three but disappear

A child remains, depositary of all,

That Guido may enjoy his own again!

Repair all losses by a master-stroke,

Wipe out the past, all done and left undone,

Swell the good present to best evermore,

Die into new life, which let blood baptise!

So, i’ the blue of a sudden sulphur-blaze,

And why there was one step to take at Rome,

And why he should not meet with Paolo there,

He saw—the ins and outs to the heart of hell—

And took the straight line thither swift and sure.

He rushed to Vittiano, found four sons o’ the soil,

Brutes of his breeding, with one spark i’ the clod

That served for a soul, the looking up to him

Or aught called Franceschini as life, death,

Heaven, hell,—lord paramount, assembled these,

Harangued, equipped, instructed, pressed each clod

With his will’s imprint; then took horse, plied spur,

And so arrived, all five of them, at Rome

On Christmas-Eve, and forthwith found themselves

Installed i’ the vacancy and solitude

Left them by Paolo, the considerate man

Who, good as his word, disappeared at once

As if to leave the stage free. A whole week

Did Guido spend in study of his part,

Then played it fearless of a failure. One,

Struck the year’s clock whereof the hours are days,

And off was rung o’ the little wheels the chime

“Goodwill on earth and peace to man:” but, two,

Proceeded the same bell and, evening come,

The dreadful five felt finger-wise their way

Across the town by blind cuts and black turns

To the little lone suburban villa; knocked—

“Who may be outside?” called a well-known voice.

“A friend of Caponsacchi’s bringing friends

“A letter.”

That’s a test, the excusers say:

        Ay, and a test conclusive, I return.

What? Had that name brought touch of guilt or taste

Of fear with it, aught to dash the present joy

With memory of the sorrow just at end,—

She, happy in her parents’ arms at length

With the new blessing of the two weeks’ babe,—

How had that name’s announcement moved the wife?

Or, as the other slanders circulate,

Were Caponsacchi no rare visitant

On nights and days whither safe harbour lured,

What bait had been i’ the name to ope the door?

The promise of a letter? Stealthy guests

Have secret watchwords, private entrances:

The man’s own self might have been found inside

And all the scheme made frustrate by a word.

No: but since Guido knew, none knew so well,

The man had never since returned to Rome

Nor seen the wife’s face more than villa’s front,

So, could not be at hand to warn or save,—

For that, he took this sure way to the end.

“Come in,” bade poor Violante cheerfully,

Drawing the door-bolt: that death was the first,

Stabbed through and through. Pietro, close on her heels,

Set up a cry—“Let me confess myself!

“Grant but confession!” Cold steel was the grant.

Then came Pompilia’s turn.

Then they escaped.

The noise o’ the slaughter roused the neighbourhood.

They had forgotten just the one thing more

Which saves i’ the circumstance, the ticket to-wit

Which puts post-horses at a traveller’s use:

So, all on foot, desperate through the dark

Reeled they like drunkards along open road,

Accomplished a prodigious twenty miles

Homeward, and gained Baccano very near,

Stumbled at last, deaf, dumb, blind through the feat,

Into a grange and, one dead heap, slept there

Till the pursuers hard upon their trace

Reached them and took them, red from head to heel,

And brought them to the prison where they lie.

The couple were laid i’ the church two days ago,

And the wife lives yet by miracle.

All is told.

You hardly need ask what Count Guido says,

Since something he must say. “I own the deed—”

(He cannot choose,—but—) “I declare the same

“Just and inevitable,—since no way else

“Was left me, but by this of taking life,

“To save my honour which is more than life.

“I exercised a husband’s rights.” To which

The answer is as prompt—“There was no fault

“In any one o’ the three to punish thus:

“Neither i’ the wife, who kept all faith to you,

“Nor in the parents, whom yourself first duped,

“Robbed and maltreated, then turned out of doors.

“You wronged and they endured wrong; yours the fault.

“Next, had endurance overpassed the mark

“And turned resentment needing remedy,—

“Nay, put the absurd impossible case, for once—

“You were all blameless of the blame alleged

“And they blameworthy where you fix all blame,

“Still, why this violation of the law?

“Yourself elected law should take its course,

“Avenge wrong, or show vengeance not your right;

“Why, only when the balance in law’s hand

“Trembles against you and inclines the way

“O’ the other party, do you make protest,

“Renounce arbitrament, flying out of court,

“And crying ‘Honour’s hurt the sword must cure?’

“Aha, and so i’ the middle of each suit

“Trying i’ the courts,—and you had three in play

“With an appeal to the Pope’s self beside,—

“What, you may chop and change and right your wrongs

“Leaving the law to lag as she thinks fit?”

That were too temptingly commodious, Count!

One would have still a remedy in reserve

Should reach the safest oldest sinner, you see!

One’s honour forsooth? Does that take hurt alone

From the extreme outrage? I who have no wife,

Being yet sensitive in my degree

As Guido,—must discover hurt elsewhere

Which, half compounded-for in days gone by,

May profitably break out now afresh,

Need cure from my own expeditious hands.

The lie that was, as it were, imputed me

When you objected to my contract’s clause,—

The theft as good as, one may say, alleged,

When you, co-heir in a will, excepted, Sir,

To my administration of effects,

—Aha, do you think law disposed of these?

My honour’s touched and shall deal death around!

Count, that were too commodious, I repeat!

If any law be imperative on us all,

Of all are you the enemy: out with you

From the common light and air and life of man!

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,

Though she’s not dead yet, she’s as good as stretched

Symmetrical beside the other two;

Though he’s not judged yet, he’s the same as judged,

So do the facts abound and superabound:

And nothing hinders, now, we lift the case

Out of the shade into the shine, allow

Qualified persons to pronounce at last,

Nay, edge in an authoritative word

Between this rabble’s-brabble of dolts and fools

Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.

“Now for the Trial!” they roar: “the Trial to test

“The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike

“I’ the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!”

Law’s a machine from which, to please the mob,

Truth the divinity must needs descend

And clear things at the play’s fifth act—aha!

Hammer into their noddles who was who

And what was what. I tell the simpletons

“Could law be competent to such a feat

“’Twere done already: what begins next week

“Is end o’ the Trial, last link of a chain

“Whereof the first was forged three years ago

“When law addressed herself to set wrong right,

“And proved so slow in taking the first step

“That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,

“On one or the other side,—o’ertook i’ the game,

“Retarded sentence, till this deed of death

“Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat

“Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?

“‘Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!

“‘Huc appelle!’—passengers, the word must be.”

Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.

To hear the rabble and brabble, you’d call the case

Fused and confused past human finding out.

One calls the square round, t’other the round square—

And pardonably in that first surprise

O’ the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:

But now we’ve used our eyes to the violent hue

Can’t we look through the crimson and trace lines?

It makes a man despair of history,

Eusebius and the established fact—fig’s end!

Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away

With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—

One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli

And Spreti,—that’s the husband’s ultimate hope

Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,

Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!

Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here

Would settle the matter as sufficiently

As ever will Advocate This and Fiscal That

And Judge the Other, with even—a word and a wink—

We well know who for ultimate arbiter.

Let us beware o’ the basset-table—lest

We jog the elbow of Her Eminence,

Jostle his cards,—he’ll rap you out a . . st!

By the window-seat! And here’s the Marquis too!

Indulge me but a moment: if I fail

—Favoured with such an audience, understand!—

To set things right, why, class me with the mob

As understander of the mind of man!

The mob,—now, that’s just how the error comes!

Bethink you that you have to deal with plebs,

The commonalty; this is an episode

In burgess-life,—why seek to aggrandise,

Idealise, denaturalise the class?

People talk just as if they had to do

With a noble pair that . . . Excellency, your ear!

Stoop to me, Highness,—listen and look yourselves!

This Pietro, this Violante, live their life

At Rome in the easy way that’s far from worst

Even for their betters,—themselves love themselves,

Spend their own oil in feeding their own lamp

That their own faces may grow bright thereby.

They get to fifty and over: how’s the lamp?

Full to the depth o’ the wick,—moneys so much;

And also with a remnant,—so much more

Of moneys,—which there’s no consuming now,

But, when the wick shall moulder out some day,

Failing fresh twist of tow to use up dregs,

Will lie a prize for the passer-by,—to-wit

Any one that can prove himself the heir,

Seeing the couple are wanting in a child:

Meantime their wick swims in the safe broad bowl

O’ the middle rank,—not raised a beacon’s height

For wind to ravage, nor swung till lamp graze ground

As watchman’s cresset, he pokes here and there,

Going his rounds to probe the ruts i’ the road

Or fish the luck o’ the puddle. Pietro’s soul

Was satisfied when crony smirked, “No wine

“Like Pietro’s, and he drinks it every day!”

His wife’s heart swelled her boddice, joyed its fill

When neighbours turned heads wistfully at church,

Sighed at the load of lace that came to pray.

Well, having got through fifty years of flare,

They burn out so, indulge so their dear selves,

That Pietro finds himself in debt at last,

As he were any lordling of us all:

And, for the dark begins to creep on day,

Creditors grow uneasy, talk aside,

Take counsel, then importune all at once.

For if the good fat rosy careless man,

Who has not laid a ducat by, decease—

Let the lamp fall, no heir at hand to catch—

Why, being childless, there’s a spilth i’ the street

O’ the remnant, there’s a scramble for the dregs

By the stranger: so, they grant him no longer day

But come in a body, clamour to be paid.

What’s his resource? He asks and straight obtains

The customary largess, dole dealt out

To what we call our “poor dear shame-faced ones,”

In secret once a month to spare the shame

O’ the slothful and the spendthrift,—pauper-saints

The Pope puts meat i’ the mouth of, ravens they,

And providence he—just what the mob admires!

That is, instead of putting a prompt foot

On selfish worthless human slugs whose slime

Has failed to lubricate their path in life,

Why, the Pope picks the first ripe fruit that falls

And gracious puts it in the vermin’s way.

Pietro could never save a dollar? Straight

He must be subsidised at our expense:

And for his wife—the harmless household sheep

One ought not to see harassed in her age—

Judge, by the way she bore adversity,

O’ the patient nature you ask pity for!

How long, now, would the roughest marketman,

Handling the creatures huddled to the knife,

Harass a mutton ere she made a mouth

Or menaced biting? Yet the poor sheep here,

Violante, the old innocent burgess-wife,

In her first difficulty showed great teeth

Fit to crunch up and swallow a good round crime.

She meditates the tenure of the Trust,

Fidei commissum is the lawyer-phrase,

These funds that only want an heir to take—

Goes o’er the gamut o’ the creditor’s cry

By semitones from whine to snarl high up

And growl down low, one scale in sundry keys,—

Pauses with a little compunction for the face

Of Pietro frustrate of its ancient cheer,—

Never a bottle now for friend at need,—

Comes to a stop on her own frittered lace

And neighbourly condolences thereat,

Then makes her mind up, sees the thing to do:

And so, deliberately snaps house-book clasp,

Posts off to vespers, missal beneath arm,

Passes the proper San Lorenzo by,

Dives down a little lane to the left, is lost

In a labyrinth of dwellings best unnamed,

Selects a certain blind one, black at base,

Blinking at top,—the sign of we know what,—

One candle in a casement set to wink

Streetward, do service to no shrine inside,—

Mounts thither by the filthy flight of stairs,

Holding the cord by the wall, to the tip-top,

Gropes for the door i’ the dark, ajar of course,

Raps, opens, enters in: up starts a thing

Naked as needs be—“What, you rogue, ’tis you?

“Back,—how can I have taken a farthing yet?

“Mercy on me, poor sinner that I am!

“Here’s . . . why, I took you for Madonna’s self

“With all that sudden swirl of silk i’ the place!

“What may your pleasure be, my bonny dame?”

Your Excellency supplies aught left obscure?

One of those women that abound in Rome,

Whose needs oblige them eke out one poor trade

By another vile one: her ostensible work

Was washing clothes, out in the open air

At the cistern by Citorio; but true trade—

Whispering to idlers when they stopped and praised

The ancles she let liberally shine

In kneeling at the slab by the fountain-side,

That there was plenty more to criticise

At home, that eve, i’ the house where candle blinked

Decorously above, and all was done

I’ the holy fear of God and cheap beside.

Violante, now, had seen this woman wash,

Noticed and envied her propitious shape,

Tracked her home to her house- top, noted too,

And now was come to tempt her and propose

A bargain far more shameful than the first

Which trafficked her virginity away

For a melon and three pauls at twelve years old.

Five minutes’ talk with this poor child of Eve,

Struck was the bargain, business at an end—

“Then, six months hence, that person whom you trust,

“Comes, fetches whatsoever babe it be;

“I keep the price and secret, you the babe,

“Paying beside for mass to make all straight:

“Meantime, I pouch the earnest-money-piece.”

Downstairs again goes fumbling by the rope

Violante, triumphing in a flourish of fire

From her own brain, self-lit by such success,—

Gains church in time for the “Magnificat”

And gives forth “My reproof is taken away,

“And blessed shall mankind proclaim me now,”

So that the officiating priest turns round

To see who proffers the obstreperous praise:

Then home to Pietro, the enraptured-much

But puzzled-more when told the wondrous news—

How orisons and works of charity,

(Beside that pair of pinners and a coif,

Birthday surprise last Wednesday was five weeks)

Had borne fruit in the Autumn of his life,—

They, or the Orvieto in a double dose.

Anyhow, she must keep house next six months,

Lie on the settle, avoid the three-legged stool,

And, chiefly, not be crossed in wish or whim,

And the result was like to be an heir.

Accordingly, when time was come about,

He found himself the sire indeed of this

Francesca Vittoria Pompilia and the rest

O’ the names whereby he sealed her his next day.

A crime complete in its way is here, I hope?

Lies to God, lies to man, every way lies

To nature and civility and the mode:

Flat robbery of the proper heirs thus foiled

O’ the due succession,—and, what followed thence,

Robbery of God, through the confessor’s ear

Debarred the most noteworthy incident

When all else done and undone twelve- month through

Was put in evidence at Easter-time.

All other peccadillos!—but this one

To the priest who comes next day to dine with us?

’Twere inexpedient; decency forbade.

Is so far clear? You know Violante now,

Compute her capability of crime

By this authentic instance? Black hard cold

Crime like a stone you kick up with your foot

I’ the middle of a field?

        I thought as much.

But now, a question,—how long does it lie,

The bad and barren bit of stuff you kick,

Before encroached on and encompassed round

With minute moss, weed, wild-flower—made alive

By worm, and fly, and foot of the free bird?

Your Highness,—healthy minds let bygones be,

Leave old crimes to grow young and virtuous-like

I’ the sun and air; so time treats ugly deeds:

They take the natural blessing of all change.

There was the joy o’ the husband silly-sooth,

The softening of the wife’s old wicked heart,

Virtues to right and left, profusely paid

If so they might compensate the saved sin.

And then the sudden existence, dewy-dear,

O’ the rose above the dungheap, the pure child

As good as new created, since withdrawn

From the horror of the pre-appointed lot

With the unknown father and the mother known

Too well,—some fourteen years of squalid youth,

And then libertinage, disease, the grave—

Hell in life here, hereafter life in hell:

Look at that horror and this soft repose!

Why, moralist, the sin has saved a soul!

Then, even the palpable grievance to the heirs—

’Faith, this was no frank setting hand to throat

And robbing a man, but . . . Excellency, by your leave,

How did you get that marvel of a gem,

The sapphire with the Graces grand and Greek?

The story is, stooping to pick a stone

From the pathway through a vineyard—no-man’s-land—

To pelt a sparrow with, you chanced on this:

Why, now, do those five clowns o’ the family

O’ the vinedresser digest their porridge worse

That not one keeps it in his goatskin pouch

To do flints’-service with the tinder-box?

Don’t cheat me, don’t cheat you, don’t cheat a friend!

But are you so hard on who jostles just

A stranger with no natural sort of claim

To the havings and the holdings (here’s the point)

Unless by misadventure, and defect

Of that which ought to be—nay, which there’s none

Would dare so much as wish to profit by—

Since who dares put in just so many words

“May Pietro fail to have a child, please God!

“So shall his house and goods belong to me,

“The sooner that his heart will pine betimes?”

Well then, God don’t please, nor his heart shall pine!

Because he has a child at last, you see,

Or selfsame thing as though a child it were,

He thinks, whose sole concern it is to think:

If he accepts it why should you demur?

Moreover, say that certain sin there seem,

The proper process of unsinning sin

Is to begin well-doing somehow else.

Pietro,—remember, with no sin at all

I’ the substitution,—why, this gift of God

Flung in his lap from over Paradise

Steadied him in a moment, set him straight

On the good path he had been straying from.

Henceforward no more wilfulness and waste,

Cuppings, carousings,—these a sponge wiped out.

All sort of self-denial was easy now

For the child’s sake, the chatelaine to be,

Who must want much and might want who knows what?

And so, the debts were paid, habits reformed,

Expense curtailed, the dowry set to grow.

As for the wife,—I said, hers the whole sin:

So, hers the exemplary penance. ’Twas a text

Whereon folk preached and praised, the district through:

“Oh, make us happy and you make us good!

“It all comes of God giving her a child:

“Such graces follow God’s best earthly gift!”

Here you put by my guard, pass to my heart

By the home-thrust—“There’s a lie at base of all.”

Why, thou exact Prince, is it a pearl or no,

Yon globe upon the Principessa’s neck?

That great round glory of pellucid stuff,

A fish secreted round glory of pellucid grit!

Do you call it worthless for the worthless core?

(She don’t, who well knows what she changed for it!)

So, to our brace of burgesses again!

You see so far i’ the story, who was right,

Who wrong, who neither, don’t you? What, you don’t?

Eh? Well, admit there’s somewhat dark i’ the case,

Let’s on—the rest shall clear, I promise you.

Leap over a dozen years: you find, these passed,

An old good easy creditable sire,

A careful housewife’s beaming bustling face,

Both wrapped up in the love of their one child,

The strange tall pale beautiful creature grown

Lily-like out o’ the cleft i’ the sun-smit rock

To bow its white miraculous birth of buds

I’ the way of wandering Joseph and his spouse,—

So painters fancy: here it was a fact.

And this their lily,—could they but transplant

And set in vase to stand by Solomon’s porch

’Twixt lion and lion!—this Pompilia of theirs,

Could they see worthily married, well bestowed

In house and home! And why despair of this

With Rome to choose from, save the topmost rank?

Themselves would help the choice with heart and soul,

Throw their late savings in a common heap

Should go with the dowry, to be followed in time

By the heritage legitimately hers:

And when such paragon was found and fixed,

Why, they might chant their “Nunc dimittas” straight.

Indeed the prize was simply full to a fault;

Exorbitant for the suitor they should seek,

And social class to choose among, these cits.

Yet there’s a latitude: exceptional white

Amid the general brown o’ the species, lurks

A burgess nearly an aristocrat,

Legitimately in reach: look out for him!

What banker, merchant, has seen better days,

What second-rate painter a-pushing up,

Poet a-slipping down, shall bid the best

For this young beauty with the thumping purse?

Alack, had it been but one of such as these

So like the real thing they may pass for it,

All had gone well! Unluckily fate must needs

It proved to be the impossible thing itself;

The truth and not the sham: hence ruin to them all.

For, Guido Franceschini was the head

Of an old family in Arezzo, old

To that degree they could afford be poor

Better than most: the case is common too.

Out of the vast door ’scutcheoned overhead,

Creeps out a serving-man on Saturdays

To cater for the week,—turns up anon

I’ the market, chaffering for the lamb’s least leg,

Or the quarter-fowl, less entrails, claws and comb:

Then back again with prize,—a liver begged

Into the bargain, gizzard overlooked,—

He’s mincing these to give the beans a taste,

When, at your knock, he leaves the simmering soup,

Waits on the curious stranger-visitant,

Napkin in half-wiped hand, to show the rooms,

Point pictures out have hung their hundred years,

“Priceless,” he tells you,—puts in his place at once

The man of money: yes, you’re banker-king

Or merchant-kaiser, wallow in your wealth

While patron, the house-master, can’t afford

To stop our ceiling-hole that rain so rots—

But he’s the man of mark, and there’s his shield,

And yonder’s the famed Rafael, first in kind,

The painter painted for his grandfather—

You have paid a paul to see: “Good-morning, Sir!”

Such is the law of compensation. Here

The poverty was getting too acute;

There gaped so many noble mouths to feed,

Beans must suffice unflavoured of the fowl.

The mother,—hers would be a spun-out life

I’ the nature of things; the sisters had done well

And married men of reasonable rank:

But that sort of illumination stops,

Throws back no heat upon the parent-hearth.

The family instinct felt out for its fire

To the Church,—the Church traditionally helps

A second son: and such was Paolo,

Established here at Rome these thirty years,

Who played the regular game,—priest and Abate,

Made friends, owned house and land, became of use

To a personage: his course lay clear enough.

The youngest caught the sympathetic flame,

And, though unfledged wings kept him still i’ the cage,

Yet he shot up to be a Canon, so

Clung to the higher perch and crowed in hope.

Even our Guido, eldest brother, went

As far i’ the way o’ the Church as safety seemed,

He being Head o’ the House, ordained to wive,—

So, could but dally with an Order or two

And testify good-will i’ the cause: he clipt

His top-hair and thus far affected Christ,

But main promotion must fall otherwise,

Though still from the side o’ the Church: and here was he

At Rome, since first youth, worn threadbare of soul

By forty-six years’ rubbing on hard life,

Getting fast tired o’ the game whose word is—“Wait!”

When one day,—he too having his Cardinal

To serve in some ambiguous sort, as serve

To draw the coach the plumes o’ the horses’ heads,—

The Cardinal saw fit to dispense with him,

Ride with one plume the less; and off it dropped.

Guido thus left,—with a youth spent in vain

And not a penny in purse to show for it,

Advised with Paolo, bent no doubt in chafe

The black brows somewhat formidably the while.

“Where is the good I came to get at Rome?

“Where the repayment of the servitude

“To a purple popinjay, whose feet I kiss,

“Knowing his father wiped the shoes of mine?”

“Patience,” pats Paolo the recalcitrant—

“You have not had, so far, the proper luck,

“Nor do my gains suffice to keep us both:

“A modest competency is mine, not more.

“You are the Count however, yours the style,

“Heirdom and state,—you can’t expect all good.

“Had I, now, held your hand of cards . . . well, well—

“What’s yet unplayed, I’ll look at, by your leave,

“Over your shoulder,—I who made my game,

“Let’s see, if I can’t help to handle yours.

“Fie on you, all the Honours in your fist,

“Countship, Househeadship,—how have you misdealt!

“Why, in the first place, they will marry a man!

“Notum tonsoribus! To the Tonsor then!

“Come, clear your looks, and choose your freshest suit,

“And, after function’s done with, down we go

“To the woman- dealer in perukes, a wench

“I and some others settled in the shop

“At Place Colonna: she’s an oracle. Hmm!

“ ‘Dear, ’tis my brother: brother, ’tis my dear.

“ ‘Dear, give us counsel! Whom do you suggest

“ ‘As properest party in the quarter round,

“ ‘For the Count here?—he is minded to take wife,

“ ‘And further tells me he intends to slip

“ ‘Twenty zecchines under the bottom-scalp

“ ‘Of his old wig when he sends it to revive

“ ‘For the wedding: and I add a trifle too.

“ ‘You know what personage I’m potent with.’ ”

And so plumped out Pompilia’s name the first.

She told them of the household and its ways,

The easy husband and the shrewder wife

In Via Vittoria,—how the tall young girl,

With hair black as yon patch and eyes as big

As yon pomander to make freckles fly,

Would have so much for certain, and so much more

In likelihood,—why, it suited, slipt as smooth

As the Pope’s pantoufle does on the Pope’s foot.

“I’ll to the husband!” Guido ups and cries.

“Ay, so you’d play your last court-card, no doubt!”

Puts Paolo in with a groan—“Only, you see,

“ ’Tis I, this time, that supervise your lead.

“Priests play with women, maids, wives, mothers,—why?

“These play with men and take them off our hands.

“Did I come, counsel with some cut-beard gruff

“Or rather this sleek young-old barberess?

“Go, brother, stand you rapt in the ante- room

“Of Her Efficacity my Cardinal

“For an hour,—he likes to have lord-suitors lounge,—

“While I betake myself to the grey mare,

“The better horse,—how wise the people’s word!—

“And wait on Madam Violante.”

        Said and done.

He was at Via Vittoria in three skips:

Proposed at once to fill up the one want

O’ the burgess- family which, wealthy enough,

And comfortable to heart’s desire, yet crouched

Outside a gate to heaven,—locked, bolted, barred,

Whereof Count Guido had a key he kept

Under his pillow, but Pompilia’s hand

Might slide behind his neck and pilfer thence.

The key was fairy; mention of it made

Violante feel the thing shoot one sharp ray

That reached the heart o’ the woman. “I assent:

“Yours be Pompilia, hers and ours that key

“To all the glories of the greater life!

“There’s Pietro to convince: leave that to me!”

Then was the matter broached to Pietro; then

Did Pietro make demand and get response

That in the Countship was a truth, but in

The counting up of the Count’s cash, a lie:

He thereupon stroked grave his chin, looked great,

Declined the honour. Then the wife wiped one—

Winked with the other eye turned Paolo-ward,

Whispered Pompilia, stole to church at eve,

Found Guido there and got the marriage done,

And finally begged pardon at the feet

Of her dear lord and master. Whereupon

Quoth Pietro—“Let us make the best of things!”

“I knew your love would licence us,” quoth she:

Quoth Paolo once more, “Mothers, wives, and maids,

“These be the tools wherewith priests manage men.”

Now, here take breath and ask,—which bird o’ the brace

Decoyed the other into clapnet? Who

Was fool, who knave? Neither and both, perchance.

There was a bargain mentally proposed

On each side, straight and plain and fair enough;

Mind knew its own mind: but when mind must speak,

The bargain have expression in plain terms,

There was the blunder incident to words,

And in the clumsy process, fair turned foul,

The straight backbone-thought of the crooked speech

Were just—“I Guido truck my name and rank

“For so much money and youth and female charms.”—

“We Pietro and Violante give our child

“And wealth to you for a rise i’ the world thereby.”

Such naked truth while chambered in the brain

Shocks nowise: walk it forth by way of tongue,—

Out on the cynical unseemliness!

Hence was the need, on either side, of a lie

To serve as decent wrappage: so, Guido gives

Money for money,—and they, bride for groom,

Having, he, not a doit, they, not a child

Honestly theirs, but this poor waif and stray.

According to the words, each cheated each;

But in the inexpressive barter of thoughts,

Each did give and did take the thing designed,

The rank on this side and the cash on that—

Attained the object of the traffic, so.

The way of the world, the daily bargain struck

In the first market! Why sells Jack his ware?

“For the sake of serving an old customer.”

Why does Jill buy it? “Simply not to break

“A custom, pass the old stall the first time.”

Why, you know where the gist is of the exchange:

Each sees a profit, throws the fine words in.

Don’t be too hard o’ the pair! Had each pretence

Been simultaneously discovered, stripped

From off the body o’ the transaction, just

As when a cook . . . will Excellency forgive?

Strips away those long loose superfluous legs

From either side the crayfish, leaving folk

A meal all meat henceforth, no garnishry,

(With your respect, Prince!)—balance had been kept,

No party blamed the other,—so, starting fair,

All subsequent fence of wrong returned by wrong

I’ the matrimonial thrust and parry, at least

Had followed on equal terms. But, as it chanced,

One party had the advantage, saw the cheat

Of the other first and kept its own concealed:

And the luck o’ the first discovery fell, beside,

To the least adroit and self-possessed o’ the pair.

’Twas foolish Pietro and his wife saw first

The nobleman was penniless, and screamed

“We are cheated!”

        Such unprofitable noise

Angers at all times: but when those who plague,

Do it from inside your own house and home,

Gnats which yourself have closed the curtain round,

Noise goes too near the brain and makes you mad.

The gnats say, Guido used the candle flame

Unfairly,—worsened that first bad of his,

By practise of all kind of cruelty

To oust them and suppress the wail and whine,—

That speedily he so scared and bullied them,

Fain were they, long before five months were out,

To beg him grant, from what was once their wealth,

Just so much as would help them back to Rome

Where, when they had finished paying the last doit

O’ the dowry, they might beg from door to door.

So say the Comparini—as if it were

In pure resentment for this worse than bad,

That then Violante, feeling conscience prick,

Confessed her substitution of the child

Whence all the harm came,—and that Pietro first

Bethought him of advantage to himself

I’ the deed, as part revenge, part remedy

For all miscalculation in the pact.

On the other hand “Not so!” Guido retorts—

“I am the wronged, solely, from first to last,

“Who gave the dignity I engaged to give,

“Which was, is, cannot but continue gain.

“My being poor was a bye-circumstance,

“Miscalculated piece of untowardness,

“Might end to-morrow did heaven’s windows ope,

“Or uncle die and leave me his estate.

“You should have put up with the minor flaw,

“Getting the main prize of the jewel. If wealth,

“Not rank, had been prime object in your thoughts,

“Why not have taken the butcher’s son, the boy

“O’ the baker or candlestick-maker? In all the rest,

“It was yourselves broke compact and played false,

“And made a life in common impossible.

“Show me the stipulation of our bond

“That you should make your profit of being inside

“My house, to hustle and edge me out o’ the same.

“First make a laughing-stock of mine and me,

“Then round us in the ears from morn to night

“(Because we show wry faces at your mirth)

“That you are robbed, starved, beaten, and what not!

“You fled a hell of your own lighting-up,

“Pay for your own miscalculation too:

“You thought nobility, gained at any price,

“Would suit and satisfy,—find the mistake,

“And now retaliate, not on yourselves, but me.

“And how? By telling me, i’ the face of the world,

“I it is have been cheated all this while,

“Abominably and irreparably,—my name

“Given to a cur-cast mongrel, a drab’s brat,

“A beggar’s bye-blow,—thus depriving me

“Of what yourselves allege the whole and sole

“Aim on my part i’ the marriage,—money to-wit.

“This thrust I have to parry by a guard

“Which leaves me open to a counter-thrust

“On the other side,—no way but there’s a pass

“Clean through me. If I prove, as I hope to do,

“There’s not one truth in this your odious tale

“O’ the buying, selling, substituting—prove

“Your daughter was and is your daughter,—well,

“And her dowry hers and therefore mine,—what then?

“Why, where’s the appropriate punishment for this

“Enormous lie hatched for mere malice’ sake

“To ruin me? Is that a wrong or no?

“And if I try revenge for remedy,

“Can I well make it strong and bitter enough?”

I anticipate however—only ask,

Which of the two here sinned most? A nice point!

Which brownness is least black,—decide who can,

Wager-by-battle-of-cheating! What do you say,

Highness? Suppose, your Excellency, we leave

The question at this stage, proceed to the next,

Both parties step out, fight their prize upon,

In the eye o’ the world?

        They brandish law ’gainst law;

The grinding of such blades, each parry of each,

Throws terrible sparks off, over and above the thrusts,

And makes more sinister the fight, to the eye,

Than the very wounds that follow. Beside the tale

Which the Comparini have to re-assert,

They needs must write, print, publish all abroad

The straitnesses of Guido’s household life—

The petty nothings we bear privately

But break down under when fools flock around.

What is it all to the facts o’ the couple’s case,

How helps it prove Pompilia not their child,

If Guido’s mother, brother, kith and kin

Fare ill, lie hard, lack clothes, lack fire, lack food?

That’s one more wrong than needs.

        On the other hand,

Guido,—whose cue is to dispute the truth

O’ the tale, reject the shame it throws on him,—

He may retaliate, fight his foe in turn

And welcome, we allow. Ay, but he can’t!

He’s at home, only acts by proxy here:

Law may meet law,—but all the gibes and jeers,

The superfluity of naughtiness,

Those libels on his House,—how reach at them?

Two hateful faces, grinning all a-glow,

Not only make parade of spoil they filched,

But foul him from the height of a tower, you see.

Unluckily temptation is at hand—

To take revenge on a trifle overlooked,

A pet lamb they have left in reach outside,

Whose first bleat, when he plucks the wool away,

Will strike the grinners grave: his wife remains

Who, four months earlier, some thirteen years old,

Never a mile away from mother’s house

And petted to the height of her desire,

Was told one morning that her fate was come,

She must be married—just as, a month before,

Her mother told her she must comb her hair

And twist her curls into one knot behind.

These fools forgot their pet lamb, fed with flowers,

Then ’ticed as usual by the bit of cake,

Out of the bower into the butchery.

Plague her, he plagues them threefold: but how plague?

The world may have its word to say to that:

You can’t do some things with impunity.

What remains . . . well, it is an ugly thought . . .

But that he drive herself to plague herself—

Herself disgrace herself and so disgrace

Who seek to disgrace Guido?

        There’s the clue

To what else seems gratuitously vile,

If, as is said, from this time forth the rack

Was tried upon Pompilia: ’twas to wrench

Her limbs into exposure that brings shame.

The aim o’ the cruelty being so crueller still,

That cruelty almost grows compassion’s self

Could one attribute it to mere return

O’ the parents’ outrage, wrong avenging wrong.

They see in this a deeper deadlier aim,

Not to vex just a body they held dear,

But blacken too a soul they boasted white,

And show the world their saint in a lover’s arms,

No matter how driven thither,—so they say.

On the other hand, so much is easily said,

And Guido lacks not an apologist.

The pair had nobody but themselves to blame,

Being selfish beasts throughout, no less, no more:

—Cared for themselves, their supposed good, nought else,

And brought about the marriage; good proved bad,

As little they cared for her its victim—nay,

Meant she should stay behind and take the chance,

If haply they might wriggle themselves free.

They baited their own hook to catch a fish

With this poor worm, failed o’ the prize, and then

Sought how to unbait tackle, let worm float

Or sink, amuse the monster while they ’scaped.

Under the best stars Hymen brings above,

Had all been honesty on either side,

A common sincere effort to good end,

Still, this would prove a difficult problem, Prince!

—Given, a fair wife, aged thirteen years,

A husband poor, care-bitten, sorrow-sunk,

Little, long-nosed, bush-bearded, lantern-jawed,

Forty-six-years full,—place the two grown one,

She, cut off sheer from every natural aid,

In a strange town with no familiar face—

He, in his own parade-ground or retreat

As need were, free from challenge, much less check

To an irritated, disappointed will—

How evolve happiness from such a match?

’Twere hard to serve up a congenial dish

Out of these ill-agreeing morsels, Duke,

By the best exercise of the cook’s craft,

Best interspersion of spice, salt and sweet!

But let two ghastly scullions concoct mess

With brimstone, pitch, vitriol, and devil’s-dung—

Throw in abuse o’ the man, his body and soul,

Kith, kin, and generation, shake all slab

At Rome, Arezzo, for the world to nose,

Then end by publishing, for fiend’s arch-prank,

That, over and above sauce to the meat’s self,

Why, even the meat, bedevilled thus in dish,

Was never a pheasant but a carrion-crow—

Prince, what will then the natural loathing be?

What wonder if this?—the compound plague o’ the pair

Pricked Guido,—not to take the course they hoped,

That is, submit him to their statement’s truth,

Accept its obvious promise of relief,

And thrust them out of doors the girl again

Since the girl’s dowry would not enter there,

—Quit of the one if baulked of the other: no!

Rather did rage and hate so work in him,

Their product proved the horrible conceit

That he should plot and plan and bring to pass

His wife might, of her own free will and deed,

Relieve him of her presence, get her gone,

And yet leave all the dowry safe behind,

Confirmed his own henceforward past dispute,

While blotting out, as by a belch of hell,

Their triumph in her misery and death.

You see, the man was Aretine, had touch

O’ the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit;

Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refined

That shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust:

Allow that such an one may take revenge,

You don’t expect he’ll catch up stone and fling,

Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter- staff?

Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow,

When out of temper at the dinner spoilt,

On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,—

Substitute for the clown a nobleman,

And you have Guido, practising, ’tis said,

Unmitigably from the very first,

The finer vengeance: this, they say, the fact

O’ the famous letter shows—the writing traced

At Guido’s instance by the timid wife

Over the pencilled words himself writ first—

Wherein she, who could neither write nor read,

Was made unblushingly declare a tale

To the brother, the Abate then in Rome,

How her putative parents had impressed,

On their departure, their enjoinment; bade

“We being safely arrived here, follow, you!

“Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all,

“And then by means o’ the gallant you procure

“With ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue,

“The brave youth ready to dare, do, and die,

“You shall run off and merrily reach Rome

“Where we may live like flies in honey-pot:”—

Such being exact the programme of the course

Imputed her as carried to effect.

They also say,—to keep her straight therein,

All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain,

On either side Pompilia’s path of life,

Built round about and over against by fear,

Circumvallated month by month, and week

By week, and day by day, and hour by hour,

Close, closer and yet closer still with pain,

No outlet from the encroaching pain save just

Where stood one saviour like a piece of heaven,

Hell’s arms would strain round but for this blue gap.

She, they say further, first tried every chink,

Every imaginable break i’ the fire,

As way of escape: ran to the Commissary,

Who bade her not malign his friend her spouse;

Flung herself thrice at the Archbishop’s feet,

Where three times the Archbishop let her lie,

Spend her whole sorrow and sob full heart forth,

And then took up the slight load from the ground

And bore it back for husband to chastise,—

Mildly of course,—but natural right is right.

So went she slipping ever yet catching at help,

Missing the high till come to lowest and last,

No more than a certain friar of mean degree,

Who heard her story in confession, wept,

Crossed himself, showed the man within the monk.

“Then, will you save me, you the one i’ the world?

“I cannot even write my woes, nor put

“My prayer for help in words a friend may read,—

“I no more own a coin than have an hour

“Free of observance,—I was watched to church,

“Am watched now, shall be watched back presently,—

“How buy the skill of scribe i’ the market- place?

“Pray you, write down and send whatever I say

“O’ the need I have my parents take me hence!”

The good man rubbed his eyes and could not choose—

Let her dictate her letter in such a sense

That parents, to save breaking down a wall,

Might lift her over: she went back, heaven in her heart.

Then the good man took counsel of his couch,

Woke and thought twice, the second thought the best:

“Here am I, foolish body that I be,

“Caught all but pushing, teaching, who but I,

“My betters their plain duty,—what, I dare

“Help a case the Archbishop would not help,

“Mend matters, peradventure, God loves mar?

“What hath the married life but strifes and plagues

“For proper dispensation? So a fool

“Once touched the ark,—poor Hophni that I am!

“Oh married ones, much rather should I bid,

“In patience all of ye possess your souls!

“This life is brief and troubles die with it:

“Where were the prick to soar up homeward else?”

So saying, he burnt the letter he had writ,

Said Ave for her intention, in its place,

Took snuff and comfort, and had done with all.

Then the grim arms stretched yet a little more

And each touched each, all but one streak i’ the midst,

Whereat stood Caponsacchi, who cried, “This way,

“Out by me! Hesitate one moment more

“And the fire shuts out me and shuts in you!

“Here my hand holds you life out!” Whereupon

She clasped the hand, which closed on hers and drew

Pompilia out o’ the circle now complete.

Whose fault or shame but Guido’s?—ask her friends.

But then this is the wife’s—Pompilia’s tale—

Eve’s . . . no, not Eve’s, since Eve, to speak the truth,

Was hardly fallen (our candour might pronounce)

So much of paradisal nature, Eve’s,

When simply saying in her own defence

“The serpent tempted me and I did eat.”

Her daughters ever since prefer to urge

“Adam so starved me I was fain accept

“The apple any serpent pushed my way.”

What an elaborate theory have we here,

Ingeniously nursed up, pretentiously

Brought forth, pushed forward amid trumpet-blast,

To account for the thawing of an icicle,

Show us there needed Ætna vomit flame

Ere run the chrystal into dew-drops! Else,

How, unless hell broke loose to cause the step,

How could a married lady go astray?

Bless the fools! And ’tis just this way they are blessed,

And the world wags still,—because fools are sure

—Oh, not of my wife nor your daughter! No!

But of their own: the case is altered quite.

Look now,—last week, the lady we all love,—

Daughter o’ the couple we all venerate,

Wife of the husband we all cap before,

Mother o’ the babes we all breathe blessings on,—

Was caught in converse with a negro page.

Hell thawed that icicle, else “Why was it—

“Why?” asked and echoed the fools. “Because, you fools,—”

So did the dame’s self answer, she who could,

With that fine candour only forthcoming

When ’tis no odds whether withheld or no—

“Because my husband was the saint you say,

“And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith,

“Stupid self-satisfaction, you so praise,—

“Saint to you, insupportable to me.

“Had he,—instead of calling me fine names,

“Lucretia and Susanna and so forth,

“And curtaining Correggio carefully

“Lest I be taught that Leda had two legs,—

“—But once never so little tweaked my nose

“For peeping through my fan at Carnival,

“Confessing thereby ‘I have no easy task—

“‘I need use all my powers to hold you mine,

“‘And then,—why ’tis so doubtful if they serve,

“‘That—take this, as an earnest of despair!’

“Why, we were quits—I had wiped the harm away,

“Thought ‘The man fears me!’ and foregone revenge.”

We must not want all this elaborate work

To solve the problem why young fancy-and-flesh

Slips from the dull side of a spouse in years,

Betakes it to the breast of brisk-and-bold

Whose love-scrapes furnish talk for all the town!

Accordingly, one word on the other side

Tips over the piled-up fabric of a tale.

Guido says—that is, always, his friends say—

It is unlikely from the wickedness,

That any man treat any woman so.

The letter in question was her very own,

Unprompted and unaided: she could write—

As able to write as ready to sin, or free,

When there was danger, to deny both facts.

He bids you mark, herself from first to last

Attributes all the so-styled torture just

To jealousy,—jealousy of whom but just

This very Caponsacchi! How suits here

This with the other alleged motive, Prince?

Would Guido make a terror of the man

He meant should tempt the woman, as they charge?

Do you fright your hare that you may catch your hare?

Consider too the charge was made and met

At the proper time and place where proofs were plain—

Heard patiently and disposed of thoroughly

By the highest powers, possessors of most light,

The Governor, for the law, and the Archbishop

For the Gospel: which acknowledged primacies,

’Tis impudently pleaded, he could warp

Into a tacit partnership with crime—

He being the while, believe their own account,

Impotent, penniless and miserable!

He further asks—Duke, note the knotty point!—

How he,—concede him skill to play such part

And drive his wife into a gallant’s arms,—

Could bring the gallant to play his part too

And stand with arms so opportunely wide?

How bring this Caponsacchi,—with whom, friends

And foes alike agree, throughout his life

He never interchanged a civil word

Nor lifted courteous cap to—how bend him,

To such observancy of beck and call,

—To undertake this strange and perilous feat

For the good of Guido, using, as the lure,

Pompilia whom, himself and she avouch,

He had nor spoken with nor seen, indeed,

Beyond sight in a public theatre,

When she wrote letters (she that could not write!)

The importunate shamelessly- protested love

Which brought him, though reluctant, to her feet,

And forced on him the plunge which, howsoe’er

She might swim up i’ the whirl, must bury him

Under abysmal black: a priest contrive

No mitigable amour to ’e hushed up,

But open flight and noon-day infamy?

Try and concoct defence for such revolt!

Take the wife’s tale as true, say she was wronged,—

Pray, in what rubric of the breviary

Do you find it registered the part of a priest

That to right wrongs he skip from the church-door,

Go journeying with a woman that’s a wife,

And be pursued, o’ertaken, and captured . . . how?

In a lay-dress, playing the sentinel

Where the wife sleeps (says he who best should know)

And sleeping, sleepless, both have spent the night!

Could no one else be found to serve at need—

No woman—or if man, no safer sort

Than this not well-reputed turbulence?

Then, look into his own account o’ the case!

He, being the stranger and the astonished one,

Yet received protestations of her love

From lady neither known nor cared about:

Love, so protested, bred in him disgust

After the wonder,—or incredulity,

Such impudence seeming impossible.

But, soon assured such impudence might be,

When he had seen with his own eyes at last

Letters thrown down to him i’ the very street

From behind lattice where the lady lurked,

And read their passionate summons to her side—

Why then, a thousand thoughts swarmed up and in,—

How he had seen her once, a moment’s space,

Observed she was so young and beautiful,

Heard everywhere report she suffered much

From a jealous husband thrice her age,—in short

There flashed the propriety, expediency

Of treating, trying might they come to terms,

—At all events, granting the interview

Prayed for, and so adapted to assist

Decision as to whether he advance,

Stand or retire, in his benevolent mood.

Therefore the interview befell at length;

And at this one and only interview,

He saw the sole and single course to take—

Bade her dispose of him, head, heart, and hand,

Did her behest and braved the consequence,

Not for the natural end, the love of man

For woman whether love be virtue or vice,

But, please you, altogether for pity’s sake—

Pity of innocence and helplessness!

And how did he assure himself of both?

Had he been the house-inmate, visitor,

Eye-witness of the described martyrdom

So, competent to pronounce its remedy

Ere rush on such extreme and desperate course,

Involving such enormity of harm,

Moreover, to the husband judged thus, doomed

And damned without a word in his defence?

But no,—the truth was felt by instinct here!

—Process which saves a world of trouble and time,

And there’s his story: what do you say to it,

Trying its truth by your own instinct too,

Since that’s to be the expeditious mode?

“And now, do hear my version,” Guido cries:

“I accept argument and inference both.

“It would indeed have been miraculous

“Had such a confidency sprung to birth

“With no more fanning from acquaintanceship

“Than here avowed by my wife and this priest.

“Only, it did not: you must substitute

“The old stale unromantic way of fault,

“The commonplace adventure, mere intrigue

“In the prose form with the unpoetic tricks,

“Cheatings and lies: they used the hackney chair

“Satan jaunts forth with, shabby and serviceable,

“No gilded jimcrack-novelty from below,

“To bowl you along thither, swift and sure.

“That same officious go-between, the wench

“That gave and took the letters of the two,

“Now offers self and service back to me:

“Bears testimony to visits night by night

“When all was safe, the husband far and away,—

“To many a timely slipping out at large

“By light o’ the morning- star, ere he should wake,

“And when the fugitives were found at last,

“Why, with them were found also, to belie

“What protest they might make of innocence,

“All documents yet wanting, if need were,

“To establish guilt in them, disgrace in me—

“The chronicle o’ the converse from its rise

“To culmination in this outrage: read!

“Letters from wife to priest, from priest to wife,—

“Here they are, read and say where they chime in

“With the other tale, superlative purity

“O’ the pair of saints! I stand or fall by these.”

But then on the other side again,—how say

The pair of saints? That not one word is theirs—

No syllable o’ the batch or writ or sent

Or yet received by either of the two.

“Found,” says the priest, “because he needed them,

“Failing all other proofs, to prove our fault:

“So, here they are, just as is natural.

“Oh yes—we had our missives, each of us!

“Not these, but to the full as vile, no doubt:

“Hers as from me,—she could not read, so burnt,—

“Mine as from her,—I burnt because I read.

“Who forged and found them? Cui profuerint !”

(I take the phrase out of your Highness’ mouth)

“He who would gain by her fault and my fall,

“The trickster, schemer, and pretender—he

“Whose whole career was lie entailing lie

“Sought to be sealed truth by the worst lie last!”

Guido rejoins—“Did the other end o’ the tale

“Match this beginning! ’Tis alleged I prove

“A murderer at the end, a man of force

“Prompt, indiscriminate, effectual: good!

“Then what need all this trifling woman’s work,

“Letters and embassies and weak intrigue,

“When will and power were mine to end at once

“Safely and surely? Murder had come first

“Not last with such a man, assure yourselves!

“The silent acquetta, stilling at command—

“A drop a day i’ the wine or soup, the dose,—

“The shattering beam that breaks above the bed

“And beats out brains, with nobody to blame

“Except the wormy age which eats even oak,—

“Nay, the staunch steel or trusty cord,—who cares

“I’ the blind old palace, a pitfall at each step,

“With none to see, much more to interpose

“O’ the two, three creeping house-dog-servant-things

“Born mine and bred mine?—had I willed gross death,

“I had found nearer paths to thrust him prey

“Than this that goes meandering here and there

“Through half the world and calls down in its course

“Notice and noise,—hate, vengeance, should it fail,

“Derision and contempt though it succeed!

“Moreover, what o’ the future son and heir?

“The unborn babe about to be called mine,—

“What end in heaping all this shame on him,

“Were I indifferent to my own black share?

“Would I have tried these crookednesses, say,

“Willing and able to effect the straight?”

“Ay, would you!”—one may hear the priest retort,

“Being as you are, i’ the stock, a man of guile,

“And ruffianism but an added graft.

“You, a born coward, try a coward’s arms,

“Trick and chicane,—and only when these fail

“Does violence follow, and like fox you bite

“Caught out in stealing. Also, the disgrace

“You hardly shrunk at, wholly shrivelled her:

“You plunged her thin white delicate hand i’ the flame

“Along with your coarse horny brutish fist,

“Held them a second there, then drew out both

“—Yours roughed a little, hers ruined through and through.

“Your hurt would heal forthwith at ointment’s touch—

“Namely, succession to the inheritance

“Which bolder crime had lost you: let things change,

“The birth o’ the boy warrant the bolder crime,

“Why, murder was determined, dared, and done.

“For me,” the priest proceeds with his reply,

“The look o’ the thing, the chances of mistake,

“All were against me,—that, I knew the first:

“But, knowing also what my duty was,

“I did it: I must look to men more skilled

“I’ the reading hearts than ever was the world.”

Highness, decide! Pronounce, Her Excellency!

Or . . . even leave this argument in doubt,

Account it a fit matter, taken up

With all its faces, manifold enough,

To put upon—what fronts us, the next stage.

Next legal process!—Guido, in pursuit,

Coming up with the fugitives at the inn,

Caused both to be arrested then and there

And sent to Rome for judgment on the case—

Thither, with all his armoury of proofs

Betook himself, and there we’ll meet him now,

Waiting the further issue.

        Here some smile

“And never let him henceforth dare to plead,—

“Of all pleas and excuses in the world

“For any deed hereafter to be done,—

“His irrepressible wrath at honour’s wound!

“Passion and madness irrepressible?

“Why, Count and cavalier, the husband comes

“And catches foe i’ the very act of shame:

“There’s man to man,—nature must have her way,—

“We look he should have cleared things on the spot.

“Yes, then, indeed—even tho’ it prove he erred—

“Though the ambiguous first appearance, mount

“Of solid injury, melt soon to mist,

“Still,—had he slain the lover and the wife—

“Or, since she was a woman and his wife,

“Slain him, but stript her naked to the skin

“Or at best left no more of an attire

“Than patch sufficient to pin paper to,

“Some one love-letter, infamy and all,

“As passport to the Paphos fit for such,

“Safe- conduct to her natural home the stews,—

“Good! One had recognised the power o’ the pulse.

“But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law—

“Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm,

“For scrivener’s pen to poke and play about—

“Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps,

“Oh, let us hear no syllable o’ the rage!

“Such rage were a convenient afterthought

“For one who would have shown his teeth belike,

“Exhibited unbridled rage enough,

“Had but the priest been found, as was to hope,

“In serge, not silk, with crucifix, not sword:

“Whereas the grey innocuous grub, of yore,

“Had hatched a hornet, tickle to the touch,

“The priest was metamorphosed into knight.

“And even the timid wife, whose cue was—shriek,

“Bury her brow beneath his trampling foot,—

“She too sprang at him like a pythoness:

“So, gulp down rage, passion must be postponed,

“Calm be the word! Well, our word is—we brand

“This part o’ the business, howsoever the rest

“Befall.”

        “Nay,” interpose as prompt his friends—

“This is the world’s way! So you adjudge reward

“To the forbearance and legality

“Yourselves begin by inculcating—ay,

“Exacting from us all with knife at throat!

“This one wrong more you add to wrong’s amount,—

“You publish all, with the kind comment here,

“‘Its victim was too cowardly for revenge.”’

Make it your own case,—you who stand apart!

The husband wakes one morn from heavy sleep,

With a taste of poppy in his mouth,—rubs eyes,

Finds his wife flown, his strong box ransacked too,

Follows as he best can, overtakes i’ the end.

You bid him use his privilege: well, it seems

He’s scarce cool-blooded enough for the right move—

Does not shoot when the game were sure, but stands

Bewildered at the critical minute,—since

He has the first flash of the fact alone

To judge from, act with, not the steady lights

Of after-knowledge,—yours who stand at ease

To try conclusions: he’s in smother and smoke,

You outside, with explosion at an end:

The sulphur may be lightning or a squib—

He’ll know in a minute, but till then, he doubts.

Back from what you know to what he knew not!

Hear the priest’s lofty “I am innocent,”

The wife’s as resolute “You are guilty!” Come!

Are you not staggered?—pause, and you lose the move!

Nought left you but a low appeal to law,

“Coward” tied to your tail for compliment!

Another consideration: have it your way!

Admit the worst: his courage failed the Count,

He’s cowardly like the best o’ the burgesses

He’s grown incorporate with,—a very cur,

Kick him from out your circle by all means!

Why, trundled down this reputable stair,

Still, the Church-door lies wide to take him in,

And the Court-porch also: in he sneaks to each,—

“Yes, I have lost my honour and my wife,

“And, being moreover an ignoble hound,

“I dare not jeopardise my life for them!”

Religion and Law lean forward from their chairs,

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant!” Ay,

Not only applaud him that he scorned the world,

But punish should he dare do otherwise.

If the case be clear or turbid,—you must say!

Thus, anyhow, it mounted to the stage

In the law-courts,—let’s see clearly from this point!—

Where the priest tells his story true or false,

And the wife her story, and the husband his,

All with result as happy as before.

The courts would nor condemn nor yet acquit

This, that, or the other, in so distinct a sense

As end the strife to either’s absolute loss:

Pronounced, in place of something definite,

“Each of the parties, whether goat or sheep

“I’ the main, has wool to show and hair to hide.

“Each has brought somehow trouble, is somehow cause

“Of pains enough,—even though no worse were proved.

“Here is a husband, cannot rule his wife

“Without provoking her to scream and scratch

“And scour the fields,—causelessly, it may be:

“Here is that wife,—who makes her sex our plague,

“Wedlock, our bugbear,—perhaps with cause enough:

“And here is the truant priest o’ the trio, worst

“Or best—each quality being conceivable.

“Let us impose a little mulct on each.

“We punish youth in state of pupilage

“Who talk at hours when youth is bound to sleep,

“Whether the prattle turn upon Saint Rose

“Or Donna Olimpia of the Vatican:

“ ’Tis talk, talked wisely or unwisely talked,

“I’ the dormitory where to talk at all,

“Transgresses, and is mulct: as here we mean.

“For the wife,—let her betake herself, for rest,

“After her run, to a House of Convertites—

“Keep there, as good as real imprisonment:

“Being sick and tired, she will recover so.

“For the priest, spritely strayer out of bounds,

“Who made Arezzo hot to hold him,—Rome

“Profits by his withdrawal from the scene.

“Let him be relegate to Civita,

“Circumscribed by its bounds till matters mend:

“There he at least lies out o’ the way of harm

“From foes—perhaps from the too friendly fair.

“And finally for the husband, whose rash rule

“Has but itself to blame for this ado,—

“If he be vexed that, in our judgments dealt,

“He fails obtain what he accounts his right,

“Let him go comforted with the thought, no less,

“That, turn each sentence howsoever he may,

“There’s satisfaction to extract therefrom.

“For, does he wish his wife proved innocent?

“Well, she’s not guilty, he may safely urge,

“Has missed the stripes dishonest wives endure—

“This being a fatherly pat o’ the cheek, no more.

“Does he wish her guilty? Were she otherwise

“Would she be locked up, set to say her prayers,

“Prevented intercourse with the outside world,

“And that suspected priest in banishment,

“Whose portion is a further help i’ the case?

“Oh, ay, you all of you want the other thing,

“The extreme of law, some verdict neat, complete,—

“Either, the whole o’ the dowry in your poke

“With full release from the false wife, to boot,

“And heading, hanging for the priest, beside—

“Or, contrary, claim freedom for the wife,

“Repayment of each penny paid her spouse

“Amends for the past, release for the future! Such

“Is wisdom to the children of this world;

“But we’ve no mind, we children of the light,

“To miss the advantage of the golden mean,

“And push things to the steel point.” Thus the courts.

Is it settled so far? Settled or disturbed,

Console yourselves: ’tis like . . . an instance, now!

You’ve seen the puppets, of Place Navona, play,—

Punch and his mate,—how threats pass, blows are dealt,

And a crisis comes: the crowd or clap or hiss

Accordingly as disposed for man or wife—

When down the actors duck awhile perdue,

Donning what novel rag-and-feather trim

Best suits the next adventure, new effect:

And,—by the time the mob is on the move,

With something like a judgment pro and con,—

There’s a whistle, up again the actors pop

In t’other tatter with fresh-tinseled staves,

To re-engage in one last worst fight more

Shall show, what you thought tragedy was farce.

Note, that the climax and the crown of things

Invariably is, the devil appears himself,

Armed and accoutred, horns and hoofs and tail!

Just so, nor otherwise it proved—you’ll see:

Move to the murder, never mind the rest!

Guido, at such a general duck-down,

I’ the breathing-space,—of wife to convent here,

Priest to his relegation, and himself

To Arezzo,—had resigned his part perforce

To brother Abate, who bustled, did his best,

Retrieved things somewhat, managed the three suits—

Since, it should seem, there were three suits-at-law

Behoved him look to, still, lest bad grow worse:

First civil suit,—the one the parents brought,

Impugning the legitimacy of his wife,

Affirming thence the nullity of her rights:

This was before the Rota,—Molines,

That’s judge there, made that notable decree

Which partly leaned to Guido, as I said,—

But Pietro had appealed against the same

To the very court will judge what we judge now—

Tommati and his fellows,—Suit the first.

Next civil suit,—demand on the wife’s part

Of separation from the husband’s bed

On plea of cruelty and risk to life—

Claims restitution of the dowry paid,

Immunity from paying any more:

This second, the Vicegerent has to judge.

Third and last suit,—this time, a criminal one,—

Answer to, and protection from, both these,—

Guido’s complaint of guilt against his wife

In the Tribunal of the Governor,

Venturini, also judge of the present cause.

Three suits of all importance plaguing him,

Beside a little private enterprise

Of Guido’s,—essay at a shorter cut.

For Paolo, knowing the right way at Rome,

Had, even while superintending these three suits

I’ the regular way, each at its proper court,

Ingeniously made interest with the Pope

To set such tedious regular forms aside,

And, acting the supreme and ultimate judge,

Declare for the husband and against the wife.

Well, at such crisis and extreme of straits,

The man at bay, buffeted in this wise,

Happened the strangest accident of all.

“Then,” sigh friends, “the last feather broke his back,

“Made him forget all possible remedies

“Save one—he rushed to, as the sole relief

“From horror and the abominable thing.”

“Or rather,” laugh foes, “then did there befall

“The luckiest of conceivable events,

“Most pregnant with impunity for him,

“Which henceforth turned the flank of all attack,

“And bade him do his wickedest and worst.”

—The wife’s withdrawal from the Convertites,

Visit to the villa where her parents lived,

And birth there of his babe. Divergence here!

I simply take the facts, ask what they show.

First comes this thunderclap of a surprise:

Then follow all the signs and silences

Premonitory of earthquake. Paolo first

Vanished, was swept off somewhere, lost to Rome:

(Wells dry up, while the sky is sunny and blue.)

Then Guido girds himself for enterprise,

Hies to Vittiano, counsels with his steward,

Comes to terms with four peasants young and bold,

And starts for Rome the Holy, reaches her

At very holiest, for ’tis Christmas Eve,

And makes straight for the Abate’s dried-up font,

The lodge where Paolo ceased to work the pipes.

And then, rest taken, observation made

And plan completed, all in a grim week,

The five proceed in a body, reach the place,

—Pietro’s, by the Paolina, silent, lone,

And stupefied by the propitious snow,—

At one in the evening: knock: a voice “Who’s there?”

“Friends with a letter from the priest your friend.”

At the door, straight smiles old Violante’s self.

She falls,—her son-in-law stabs through and through,

Reaches thro’ her at Pietro—“With your son

“This is the way to settle suits, good sire!”

He bellows

        “Mercy for heaven, not for earth!

“Leave to confess and save my sinful soul,

“Then do your pleasure on the body of me!”

—“Nay, father, soul with body must take its chance!”

He presently got his portion and lay still.

And last, Pompilia rushes here and there

Like a dove among lightnings in her brake,

Falls also: Guido’s, this last husband’s-act.

He lifts her by the long dishevelled hair,

Holds her away at arms’ length with one hand,

While the other tries if life come from the mouth—

Looks out his whole heart’s hate on the shut eyes,

Draws a deep satisfied breath, “So—dead at last!”

Throws down the burthen on dead Pietro’s knees,

And ends all with “Let us away, my boys!”

And, as they left by one door, in at the other

Tumbled the neighbours—for the shrieks had pierced

To the mill and the grange, this cottage and that shed.

Soon followed the Public Force: pursuit began

Though Guido had the start and chose the road:

So, that same night was he, with the other four,

Overtaken near Baccano,—where they sank

By the way-side, in some shelter meant for beasts,

And now lay heaped together, nuzzling swine,

Each wrapped in bloody cloak, each grasping still

His unwiped weapon, sleeping all the same

The sleep o’ the just,—a journey of twenty miles

Bringing just and unjust to a level, you see.

The only one i’ the world that suffered aught

By the whole night’s toil and trouble, flight and chase,

Was just the officer who took them, Head

O’ the Public Force,—Patrizj, zealous soul,

Who, having duty to sustain the flesh,

Got heated, caught a fever and so died:

A warning to the over-vigilant,

—Virtue in a chafe should change her linen quick,

Lest pleurisy get start of providence.

(That’s for the Cardinal, and told, I think!)

Well, they bring back the company to Rome.

Says Guido, “By your leave, I fain would ask

“How you found out ’twas I who did the deed?

“What put you on my trace, a foreigner,

“Supposed in Arezzo,—and assuredly safe

“Except for an oversight: who told you, pray?”

“Why, naturally your wife!” Down Guido drops

O’ the horse he rode,—they have to steady and stay,

At either side the brute that bore him, bound,

So strange it seemed his wife should live and speak!

She had prayed—at least so people tell you now—

For but one thing to the Virgin for herself,

Not simply, as did Pietro ’mid the stabs,—

Time to confess and get her own soul saved—

But time to make the truth apparent, truth

For God’s sake, lest men should believe a lie:

Which seems to have been about the single prayer

She ever put up, that was granted her.

With this hope in her head, of telling truth,—

Being familiarised with pain, beside,—

She bore the stabbing to a certain pitch

Without a useless cry, was flung for dead

On Pietro’s lap, and so attained her point.

Her friends subjoin this—have I done with them?—

And cite the miracle of continued life

(She was not dead when I arrived just now)

As attestation to her probity.

Does it strike your Excellency? Why, your Highness,

The self-command and even the final prayer,

Our candour must acknowledge explainable

As easily by the consciousness of guilt.

So, when they add that her confession runs

She was of wifehood one white innocence

In thought, word, act, from first of her short life

To last of it; praying i’ the face of death,

That God forgive her other sins—not this

She is charged with and must die for, that she failed

Anyway to her husband: while thereon

Comments the old Religious—“ So much good,

“Patience beneath enormity of ill,

“I hear to my confusion, woe is me,

“Sinner that I stand, shamed in the walk and gait

“I have practised and grown old in, by a child!”—

Guido’s friends shrug the shoulder, “Just this same

“Prodigious absolute calm in the last hour

“Confirms us,—being the natural result

“Of a life which proves consistent to the close.

“Having braved heaven and deceived earth throughout,

“She braves still and deceives still, gains thereby

“Two ends, she prizes beyond earth or heaven:

“First sets her lover free, imperilled sore

“By the new turn things take: he answers yet

“For the part he played: they have summoned him indeed:

“The past ripped up, he may be punished still:

“What better way of saving him than this?

“Then,—thus she dies revenged to the uttermost

“On Guido, drags him with her in the dark,

“The lower still the better, do you doubt?

“Thus, two ways, does she love her love to the end,

“And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such price

“To pay for these,—lovers and haters hold.”

But there’s another parry for the thrust.

“Confession,” cry folks—“ a confession, think!

“Confession of the moribund is true!”

Which of them, my wise friends? This public one,

Or the private other we shall never know?

The private may contain,—your casuists teach,—

The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for,

That other public one, so people say.

However it be,—we trench on delicate ground,

Her Eminence is peeping o’er the cards,—

Can one find nothing in behalf of this

Catastrophe? Deaf folks accuse the dumb!

You criticise the drunken reel, fool’s-speech,

Maniacal gesture of the man,—we grant!

But who poured poison in his cup, we ask?

Recall the list of his excessive wrongs,

First cheated in his wife, robbed by her kin,

Rendered anon the laughing-stock o’ the world

By the story, true or false, of his wife’s birth,—

The last seal publicly apposed to shame

By the open flight of wife and priest,—why, Sirs,

Step out of Rome a furlong, would you know

What anotherguess tribunal than ours here.

Mere worldly Court without the help of grace,

Thinks of just that one incident o’ the flight?

Guido preferred the same complaint before

The court of Arezzo, bar of the Granduke,—

In virtue of it being Tuscany

Where the offence had rise and flight began,—

Self-same complaint he made in the sequel here

Where the offence grew to the full, the flight

Ended: offence and flight, one fact judged twice

By two distinct tribunals,—what result?

There was a sentence passed at the same time

By Arezzo and confirmed by the Granduke,

Which nothing baulks of swift and sure effect

But absence of the guilty (flight to Rome

Frees them from Tuscan jurisdiction now)

—Condemns the wife to the opprobrious doom

Of all whom law just lets escape from death.

The Stinche, House of Punishment, for life,—

That’s what the wife deserves in Tuscany:

Here, she deserves—remitting with a smile

To her father’s house, main object of the flight!

The thief presented with the thing he steals!

At this discrepancy of judgments—mad,

The man took on himself the office, judged;

And the only argument against the use

O’ the law he thus took into his own hands

Is . . . what, I ask you?—that, revenging wrong,

He did not revenge sooner, kill at first

Whom he killed last! That is the final charge.

Sooner? What’s soon or late i’ the case?—ask we.

A wound i’ the flesh no doubt wants prompt redress;

It smarts a little to-day, well in a week,

Forgotten in a month; or never, or now, revenge!

But a wound to the soul? That rankles worse and worse.

Shall I comfort you, explaining—“ Not this once

“But now it may be some five hundred times

“I called you ruffian, pandar, liar, and rogue:

“The injury must be less by lapse of time?”

The wrong is a wrong, one and immortal too,

And that you bore it those five hundred times,

Let it rankle unrevenged five hundred years,

Is just five hundred wrongs the more and worse!

Men, plagued this fashion, get to explode this way,

If left no other.

        “But we left this man

“Many another way, and there’s his fault,”

’Tis answered—“ He himself preferred our arm

“O’ the law to fight his battle with. No doubt

“We did not open him an armoury

“To pick and choose from, use, and then reject.

“He tries one weapon and fails,—he tries the next

“And next: he flourishes wit and common sense,

“They fail him,—he plies logic doughtily,

“It fails him too,—thereon, discovers last

“He has been blind to the combustibles—

“That all the while he is a-glow with ire,

“Boiling with irrepressible rage, and so

“May try explosives and discard cold steel,—

“So hire assassins, plot, plan, execute!

“Is this the honest self-forgetting rage

“We are called to pardon? Does the furious bull

“Pick out four helpmates from the grazing herd

“And journey with them over hill and dale

“Till he find his enemy?”

        What rejoinder? save

That friends accept our bull-similitude.

Bull-like,—the indiscriminate slaughter, rude

And reckless aggravation of revenge,

Were all i’the way o’ the brute who never once

Ceases, amid all provocation more,

To bear in mind the first tormentor, first

Giver o’ the wound that goaded him to fight:

And, though a dozen follow and reinforce

The aggressor, wound in front and wound in flank,

Continues undisturbedly pursuit,

And only after prostrating his prize

Turns on the pettier, makes a general prey.

So Guido rushed against Violante, first

Author of all his wrongs, fons et origo

Malorum—increasingly drunk,—which justice done?

He finished with the rest. Do you blame a bull?

In truth you look as puzzled as ere I preached!

How is that? There are difficulties perhaps

On any supposition, and either side.

Each party wants too much, claims sympathy

For its object of compassion, more than just.

Cry the wife’s friends, “O the enormous crime

“Caused by no provocation in the world!”

“Was not the wife a little weak?”—inquire—

“Punished extravagantly, if you please,

“But meriting a little punishment?

“One treated inconsiderately, say,

“Rather than one deserving not at all

“Treatment and discipline o’ the harsher sort?”

No, they must have her purity itself,

Quite angel—and her parents angels too

Of an aged sort, immaculate, word and deed,

At all events, so seeming, till the fiend,

Even Guido, by his folly, forced from them

The untoward avowal of the trick o’ the birth,

Would otherwise be safe and secret now.

Why, here you have the awfulest of crimes

For nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly!

A dragon born of rose-dew and the moon!

Yet here is the monster! Why, he’s a mere man—

Born, bred, and brought up in the usual way.

His mother loves him, still his brothers stick

To the good fellow of the boyish games;

The Governor of his town knows and approves,

The Archbishop of the place knows and assists:

Here he has Cardinal This to vouch for the past,

Cardinal That to trust for the future,—match

And marriage were a Cardinal’s making,—in short,

What if a tragedy be acted here

Impossible for malice to improve,

And innocent Guido with his innocent four

Be added, all five, to the guilty three,

That we of these last days be edified

With one full taste o’ the justice of the world?

The long and the short is, truth is what I show:—

Undoubtedly no pains ought to be spared

To give the mob an inkling of our lights.

It seems unduly harsh to put the man

To the torture, as I hear the court intends,

Though readiest way of twisting out the truth;

He is noble, and he may be innocent:

On the other hand, if they exempt the man

(As it is also said they hesitate

On the fair ground, presumptive guilt is weak

I’ the case of nobility and privilege),—

What crime that ever was, ever will be,

Deserves the torture? Then abolish it!

You see the reduction ad absurdum, Sirs?

Her Excellency must pronounce, in fine!

What, she prefers going and joining play?

Her Highness finds it late, intends retire?

I am of their mind: only, all this talk, talked,

’Twas not for nothing that we talked, I hope?

Both know as much about it, now, at least,

As all Rome: no particular thanks, I beg!

(You’ll see, I have not so advanced myself,

After my teaching the two idiots here!)

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,

I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down

Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,

Fortified by the sip of . . . why, ’tis wine,

Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,

So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!

Oh, but one sip’s enough! I want my head

To save my neck, there’s work awaits me still.

How cautious and considerate . . . aie, aie, aie,

Not your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart

An ordinary matter. Law is law.

Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,

From racking, but, since law thinks otherwise,

I have been put to the rack: all’s over now,

And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:

If any harm be, ’tis the shoulder-blade,

The left one, that seems wrong i’ the socket,—Sirs,

Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,

Being past my prime of life, and out of health.

In short I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.

Needs must the Court be slow to understand

How this quite novel form of taking pain,

This getting tortured merely in the flesh,

Amounts to almost an agreeable change

In my case, me fastidious, plied too much

With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)

To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,

And, in and out my heart, the play o’ the probe.

Four years have I been operated on

I’ the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—

My self-respect, my care for a good name,

Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just

A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,

That looked up to my face when days were dim,

And fancied they found light there—no one spot,

Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.

That, and not this you now oblige me with,

That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!

The poor old noble House that drew the rags

O’ the Franceschini’s once superb array

Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—

Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out

And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!

Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence

Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,

The father I have some slight feeling for,

Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends

Then proud to cap and kiss the patron’s shoe,

Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,

Properly push his child to wall one day!

Mimic the tetchy humour, furtive glance

And brow where half was furious half fatigued,

O’ the same son got to be of middle age,

Sour, saturnine,—your humble servant here;—

When things go cross and the young wife, he finds

Take to the window at a whistle’s bid,

And yet demurs thereon, preposterous fool!—

Whereat the worthies judge he wants advice

And beg to civilly ask what’s evil here,

Perhaps remonstrate on the habit they deem

He’s given unduly to, of beating her

. . . Oh, sure he beats her—why says John so else,

Who is cousin to George who is sib to Tecla’s self

Who cooks the meal and combs the lady’s hair?

What? ’Tis my wrist you merely dislocate

For the future when you mean me martyrdom?

—Let the old mother’s economy alone,

How the brocade-strips saved o’ the seamy side

O’ the wedding-gown buy raiment for a year?

—How she can dress and dish up—lordly dish

Fit for a duke, lamb’s head and purtenance—

With her proud hands, feast household so a week?

No word o’ the wine rejoicing God and man

The less when three-parts water? Then, I say,

A trifle of torture to the flesh, like yours,

While soul is spared such foretaste of hell-fire,

Is naught. But I curtail the catalogue

Through policy,—a rhetorician’s trick,—

Because I would reserve some choicer points

O’ the practice, more exactly parallel—

(Having an eye to climax) with what gift,

Eventual grace the Court may have in store

I’ the way of plague—my crown of punishments.

When I am hanged or headed, time enough

To prove the tenderness of only that,

Mere heading, hanging,—not their counterpart,

Not demonstration public and precise

That I, having married the mongrel of a drab,

Am bound to grant that mongrel-brat, my wife,

Her mother’s birthright-licence as is just,—

Let her sleep undisturbed, i’ the family style,

Her sleep out in the embraces of a priest,

Nor disallow their bastard as my heir!

Your sole mistake,—dare I submit so much

To the reverend Court?—has been in all this pains

To make a stone roll down hill,—rack and wrench

And rend a man to pieces, all for what?

Why—make him ope mouth in his own defence,

Show cause for what he has done, the irregular deed,

(Since that he did it, scarce dispute can be)

And clear his fame a little, beside the luck

Of stopping even yet, if possible,

Discomfort to his flesh from noose or axe—

For that, out come the implements of law!

May it content my lords the gracious Court

To listen only half so patient-long

As I will in that sense profusely speak,

And—fie, they shall not call in screws to help!

I killed Pompilia Franceschini, Sirs;

Killed too the Comparini, husband, wife,

Who called themselves, by a notorious lie,

Her father and her mother to ruin me.

There’s the irregular deed: you want no more

Than right interpretation of the same,

And truth so far—am I to understand?

To that then, with convenient speed,—because

Now I consider,—yes, despite my boast,

There is an ailing in this omoplat

May clip my speech all too abruptly close,

Whatever the good-will in me. Now for truth!

I’ the name of the indivisible Trinity!

Will my lords, in the plentitude of their light,

Weigh well that all this trouble has come on me

Through my persistent treading in the paths

Where I was trained to go,—wearing that yoke

My shoulder was predestined to receive,

Born to the hereditary stoop and crease?

Noble, I recognised my nobler still,

The church, my suzerain; no mock-mistress, she;

The secular owned the spiritual: mates of mine

Have thrown their careless hoofs up at her call

“Forsake the clover and come drag my wain!”

There they go cropping: I protruded nose

To halter, bent my back of docile beast,

And now am whealed, one wide wound all of me,

For being found at the eleventh hour o’ the day

Padding the mill-track, not neck-deep in grass:

—My one fault, I am stiffened by my work,

—My one reward, I help the Court to smile!

I am representative of a great line,

One of the first of the old families

In Arezzo, ancientest of Tuscan towns.

When my worst foe is fain to challenge this,

His worst exception runs—not first in rank

But second, noble in the next degree

Only; not malice ’self maligns me more.

So, my lord opposite has composed, we know,

A marvel of a book, sustains the point

That Francis boasts the primacy ’mid saints;

Yet not inaptly hath his argument

Obtained response from yon my other lord

In thesis published with the world’s applause

—Rather ’tis Dominic such post befits:

Why, at the worst, Francis stays Francis still,

Second in rank to Dominic it may be,

Still, very saintly, very like our Lord;

And I at least descend from a Guido once

Homager to the Empire, nought below—

Of which account as proof that, none o’ the line

Having a single gift beyond brave blood,

Or able to do aught but give, give, give

In blood and brain, in house and land and cash,

Not get and garner as the vulgar may,

We become poor as Francis or our Lord.

Be that as it likes you, Sirs,—whenever it chanced

Myself grew capable anyway of remark,

(Which was soon—penury makes wit premature)

This struck me, I was poor who should be rich

Or pay that fault to the world which trifles not

When lineage lacks the flag yet lifts the pole:

Therefore I must make more forthwith, transfer

My stranded self, born fish with gill and fin

Fit for the deep sea, now left bare-backed

In slush and sand, a show to crawlers vile

Reared of the low-tide and aright therein.

The enviable youth with the old name,

Wide chest, stout arms, sound brow and pricking veins,

A heartful of desire, man’s natural load,

A brainful of belief, the noble’s lot,—

All this life, cramped and gasping, high and dry

I’ the wave’s retreat,—the misery, good my lords,

Which made you merriment at Rome of late,—

It made me reason, rather—muse, demand

—Why our bare dropping palace, in the street

Where such-an-one whose grandfather sold tripe

Was adding to his purchased pile a fourth

Tall tower, could hardly show a turret sound?

Why Beatrice Countess, whose son I am,

Cowered in the winter-time as she spun flax,

Blew on the earthen basket of live ash.

Instead of jaunting forth in coach and six

Like such-another widow who ne’er was wed?

I asked my fellows, how came this about?

“Why, Jack, the suttler’s child, perhaps the camp’s,

“Went to the wars, fought sturdily, took a town

“And got rewarded as was natural.

“She of the coach and six—excuse me there!

“Why, don’t you know the story of her friend?

“A clown dressed vines on somebody’s estate,

“His boy recoiled from muck, liked Latin more,

“Stuck to his pen, and got to be a priest,

“Till one day . . . don’t you mind that telling tract

“Against Molinos, the old Cardinal wrote?

“He penned and dropped it in the patron’s desk

“Who, deep in thought and absent much of mind,

“Licensed the thing, allowed it for his own;

“Quick came promotion,—suum cuique, Count!

“Oh, he can pay for coach and six, be sure!”

“—Well, let me go, do likewise: war’s the word—

“That way the Franceschini worked at first,

“I’ll take my turn, try soldiership.”—“What, you?

“The eldest son and heir and prop o’ the house,

“So do you see your duty? Here’s your post,

“Hard by the hearth and altar. (Roam from roof,

“This youngster, play the gypsy out of doors,

“And who keeps kith and kin that fall on us?)

“Stand fast, stick tight, conserve your gods at home!”

“—Well then, the quiet course, the contrary trade!

“We had a cousin amongst us once was Pope,

“And minor glories manifold. Try the Church,

“The tonsure, and,—since heresy’s but half-slain

“Even by the Cardinal’s tract he thought he wrote,—

“Have at Molinos!”—“Have at a fool’s head!

“You a priest? How were marriage possible?

“There must be Franceschini till time ends—

“That’s your vocation. Make your brothers priests,

“Paul shall be porporate, and Girolamo step

“Red- stockinged in the presence when you choose,

“But save one Franceschini for the age!

“Be not the vine but dig and dung its root,

“Be not a priest but gird up priesthood’s loins,

“With one foot in Arezzo stride to Rome,

“Spend yourself there and bring the purchase back!

“Go hence to Rome, be guided!”

So I was.

I turned alike from the hill-side zig-zag thread

Of way to the table-land a soldier takes,

Alike from the low-lying pasture-place

Where churchmen graze, recline, and ruminate,

—Ventured to mount no platform like my lords

Who judge the world, bear brain I dare not brag—

But stationed me, might thus the expression serve,

As who should fetch and carry, come and go,

Meddle and make i’ the cause my lords love most—

The public weal, which hangs to the law, which holds

By the Church, which happens to be through God himself.

Humbly I helped the Church till here I stand,—

Or would stand but for the omoplat, you see!

Bidden qualify for Rome, I, having a field,

Went, sold it, laid the sum at Peter’s foot:

Which means—I settled home-accounts with speed,

Set apart just a modicum should suffice

To keep the villa’s head above the waves

Of weed inundating its oil and wine,

And prop roof, stanchion wall o’ the palace so

It should keep breath i’ the body, hold its own

Amid the advance of neighbouring loftiness—

(People like building where they used to beg)—

Till succoured one day,—shared the residue

Between my mother and brothers and sisters there,

Black-eyed babe Donna This and Donna That,

As near to starving as might decently be,

—Left myself journey-charges, change of suit,

A purse to put i’ the pocket of the Groom

O’ the Chamber of the patron, and a glove

With a ring to it for the digits of the niece

Sure to be helpful in his household,—then

Started for Rome, and led the life prescribed.

Close to the Church, though clean of it, I assumed

Three or four orders of no consequence,

They cast out evil spirits and exorcise,

For example; bind a man to nothing more,

Give clerical savour to his layman’s-salt,

Facilitate his claim to loaf and fish

Should miracle leave, beyond what feeds the flock,

Fragments to brim the basket of a friend—

While, for the world’s sake, I rode, danced, and gamed,

Quitted me like a courtier, measured mine

With whatsoever blade had fame in fence,

—Ready to let the basket go its round

Even though my turn was come to help myself,

Should Dives count on me at dinner-time

As just the understander of a joke

And not immoderate in repartee.

Utrique sic paratus, Sirs, I said

“Here,” (in the fortitude of years fifteen,

So good a pedagogue is penury)

“Here wait, do service,—serving and to serve!

“And, in due time, I nowise doubt at all,

“The recognition of my service comes.

“Next year I’m only sixteen. I can wait.”

I waited thirty years, may it please the Court:

Saw meanwhile many a denizen o’ the dung

Hop, skip, jump o’er my shoulder, make him wings

And fly aloft,—succeed, in the usual phrase.

Every one soon or late comes round by Rome:

Stand still here, you’ll see all in turn succeed.

Why, look you, so and so, the physician here,

My father’s lacquey’s son we sent to school,

Doctored and dosed this Eminence and that,

Salved the last Pope his certain obstinate sore,

Soon bought land as became him, names it now:

I grasp bell at his griffin-guarded gate,

Traverse the half-mile avenue,—a term,

A cypress, and a statue, three and three,—

Deliver message from my Monsignor,

With varletry at lounge i’ the vestibule

I’m barred from, who bear mud upon my shoe.

My father’s chaplain’s nephew, Chamberlain,—

Nothing less, please you!—courteous all the same,

—He does not see me though I wait an hour

At his staircase-landing ’twixt the brace of busts,

A noseless Sylla, Marius maimed to match,

My father gave him for a hexastich

Made on my birth-day,—but he sends me down,

To make amends, that relic I prize most—

The unburnt end o’ the very candle, Sirs,

Purfled with paint so prettily round and round,

He carried in such state last Peter’s day,—

In token I, his gentleman and squire,

Had held the bridle, walked his managed mule

Without a tittup the procession through.

Nay, the official,—one you know, sweet lords!—

Who drew the warrant for my transfer late

To the New Prisons from Tordinona,—he

Graciously had remembrance—“Francesc . . . ha?

“His sire, now—how a thing shall come about!—

“Paid me a dozen florins above the fee,

“For drawing deftly up a deed of sale

“When troubles fell so thick on him, good heart,

“And I was prompt and pushing! By all means!

“At the New Prisons be it his son shall lie,—

“Anything for an old friend!” and thereat

Signed name with triple flourish underneath.

These were my fellows, such their fortunes now,

While I—kept fasts and feasts innumerable,

Matins and vespers, functions to no end

I’ the train of Monsignor and Eminence,

As gentleman-squire, and for my zeal’s reward

Have rarely missed a place at the table- foot

Except when some Ambassador, or such like,

Brought his own people. Brief, one day I felt

The tick of time inside me, turning-point

And slight sense there was now enough of this:

That I was near my seventh climacteric,

Hard upon, if not over, the middle life,

And, although fed by the east-wind, fulsome- fine

With foretaste of the Land of Promise, still

My gorge gave symptom it might play me false;

Better not press it further,—be content

With living and dying only a nobleman,

Who merely had a father great and rich,

Who simply had one greater and richer yet,

And so on back and back till first and best

Began i’ the night; I finish in the day.

“The mother must be getting old,” I said,

“The sisters are well wedded away, our name

“Can manage to pass a sister off, at need,

“And do for dowry: both my brothers thrive—

“Regular priests they are, nor, hat-like, ’bide

“’Twixt flesh and fowl with neither privilege.

“My spare revenue must keep me and mine.

“I am tired: Arezzo’s air is good to breathe;

“Vittiano,—one limes flocks of thrushes there;

“A leathern coat costs little and lasts long:

“Let me bid hope good-bye, content at home!”

Thus, one day, I disbosomed me and bowed.

Whereat began the little buzz and thrill

O’ the gazers round me; each face brightened up:

As when at your Casino, deep in dawn,

A gamester says at last, “I play no more,

“Forego gain, acquiesce in loss, withdraw

“Anyhow:” and the watchers of his ways,

A trifle struck compunctious at the word,

Yet sensible of relief, breathe free once more,

Break up the ring, venture polite advice—

“How, Sir? So scant of heart and hope indeed?

“Retire with neither cross nor pile from play?—

“So incurious, so short-casting?—give your chance

“To a younger, stronger, bolder spirit belike,

“Just when luck turns and the fine throw sweeps all?”

Such was the chorus: and its good will meant—

“See that the loser leave door handsomely!

“There’s an ill look,—it’s sinister, spoils sport,

“When an old bruised and battered year-by-year

“Fighter with fortune, not a penny in poke,

“Reels down the steps of our establishment

“And staggers on broad daylight and the world,

“In shagrag beard and doleful doublet, drops

“And breaks his heart on the outside: people prate

“‘Such is the profit of a trip upstairs!’

“Contrive he sidle forth, baulked of the blow

“Best dealt by way of moral, bidding down

“No curse but blessings rather on our heads

“For some poor prize he bears at tattered breast,

“Some palpable sort of kind of good to set

“Over and against the grievance: give him quick!”

Whereon protested Paul, “Go hang yourselves!

“Leave him to me. Count Guido and brother of mine,

“A word in your ear! Take courage since faint heart

“Ne’er won . . . aha, fair lady, don’t men say?

“There’s a sors, there’s a right Virgilian dip!

“Do you see the happiness o’ the hint? At worst,

“If the Church want no more of you, the Court

“No more, and the Camp as little, the ingrates,—come,

“Count you are counted: still you’ve coat to back,

“Not cloth of gold and tissue, as we hoped,

“But cloth with sparks and spangles on its frieze

“From Camp, Court, Church, enough to make a shine,

“Entitle you to carry home a wife

“With the proper dowry, let the worst betide!

“Why, it was just a wife you meant to take!”

Now, Paul’s advice was weighty: priests should know:

And Paul apprised me, ere the week was out,

That Pietro and Violante, the easy pair,

The cits enough, with stomach to be more,

Had just the daughter and exact the sum

To truck for the quality of myself: “She’s young,

“Pretty and rich: you’re noble, classic, choice.

“Is it to be a match?” “A match,” said I.

Done! He proposed all, I accepted all,

And we performed all. So I said and did

Simply. As simply followed, not at first

But with the outbreak of misfortune, still

One comment on the saying and doing—“What?

“No blush at the avowal you dared buy

“A girl of age beseems your granddaughter,

“Like ox or ass? Are flesh and blood a ware?

“Are heart and soul a chattel?”

        Softly, Sirs!

Will the Court of its charity teach poor me

Anxious to learn, of any way i’ the world,

Allowed by custom and convenience, save

This same which, taught from my youth up, I trod?

Take me along with you; where was the wrong step?

If what I gave in barter, style and state

And all that hangs to Franceschinihood,

Were worthless,—why, society goes to ground,

Its rules are idiot’s-rambling. Honour of birth,—

If that thing has no value, cannot buy

Something with value of another sort,

You’ve no reward nor punishment to give

I’ the giving or the taking honour; straight

Your social fabric, pinnacle to base,

Comes down a-clatter like a house of cards.

Get honour, and keep honour free from flaw,

Aim at still higher honour,—gabble o’ the goose!

Go bid a second blockhead like myself

Spend fifty years in guarding bubbles of breath,

Soapsuds with air i’ the belly, gilded brave,

Guarded and guided, all to break at touch

O’ the first young girl’s hand and first old fool’s purse!

All my privation and endurance, all

Love, loyalty, and labour dared and did,

Fiddle-de-dee!—why, doer and darer both,—

Count Guido Franceschini had hit the mark

Far better, spent his life with more effect,

As a dancer or a prizer, trades that pay!

On the other hand, bid this buffoonery cease,

Admit that honour is a privilege,

The question follows, privilege worth what?

Why, worth the market-price,—now up, now down,

Just so with this as with all other ware:

Therefore essay the market, sell your name,

Style and condition to who buys them best!

“Does my name purchase,” had I dared inquire,

“Your niece, my lord?” there would have been rebuff

Though courtesy, your lordship cannot else—

“Not altogether! Rank for rank may stand:

“But I have wealth beside, you—poverty;

“Your scale flies up there: bid a second bid,

“Rank too, and wealth too!” Reasoned like yourself!

But was it to you I went with goods to sell?

This time ’twas my scale quietly kissed the ground,

Mere rank against mere wealth—some youth beside,

Some beauty too, thrown into the bargain, just

As the buyer likes or lets alone. I thought

To deal o’ the square: others find fault, it seems:

The thing is, those my offer most concerned,

Pietro, Violante, cried they fair or foul?

What did they make o’ the terms? Preposterous terms?

Why then accede so promptly, close with such

Nor take a minute to chaffer? Bargain struck,

They straight grew bilious, wished their money back,

Repented them, no doubt: why, so did I,

So did your lordship, if town-talk be true,

Of paying a full farm’s worth for that piece

By Pietro of Cortona—probably

His scholar Ciro Ferri may have retouched—

You caring more for colour than design—

Getting a little tired of cupids too.

That’s incident to all the folk who buy!

I am charged, I know, with gilding fact by fraud;

I falsified and fabricated, wrote

Myself down roughly richer than I prove,

Rendered a wrong revenue,—grant it all!

Mere grace, mere coquetry such fraud, I say:

A flourish round the figures of a sum

For fashion’s sake, that deceives nobody.

The veritable back-bone, understood

Essence of this same bargain, blank and bare,

Being the exchange of quality for wealth,—

What may such fancy-flights be? Flecks of oil

Flirted by chapmen where plain dealing grates.

I may have dripped a drop—“My name I sell;

“Not but that I too boast my wealth”—as they,

“—We bring you riches; still our ancestor

“Was hardly the rapscallion, folks saw flogged,

“But heir to we know who, were rights of force!”

They knew and I knew where the back-bone lurked

I’ the writhings of the bargain, lords, believe!

I paid down all engaged for, to a doit,

Delivered them just that which, their life long,

They hungered in the hearts of them to gain—

Incorporation with nobility thus

In word and deed: for that they gave me wealth.

But when they came to try their gain, my gift,

Quit Rome and qualify for Arezzo, take

The tone o’ the new sphere that absorbed the old,

Put away gossip Jack and goody Joan

And go become familiar with the Great,

Greatness to touch and taste and handled now,—

Why, then,—they found that all was vanity,

Vexation, and what Solomon describes!

The old abundant city-fare was best,

The kindly warmth o’ the commons, the glad clap

Of the equal on the shoulder, the frank grin

Of the underling at all so many spoons

Fire-new at neighbourly treat,—best, best and best

Beyond compare!—down to the loll itself

O’ the pot-house settle,—better such a bench

Than the stiff crucifixion by my dais

Under the piece-meal damask canopy

With the coroneted coat of arms a-top!

Poverty and privation for pride’s sake,

All they engaged to easily brave and bear,—

With the fit upon them and their brains a-work,—

Proved unendurable to the sobered sots.

A banished prince, now, will exude a juice

And salamander-like support the flame:

He dines on chestnuts, chucks the husks to help

The broil o’ the brazier, pays the due baioc,

Goes off light-hearted: his grimace begins

At the funny humours of the christening-feast

Of friend the money-lender,—then he’s touched

By the flame and frizzles at the babe to kiss!

Here was the converse trial, opposite mind:

Here did a petty nature split on rock

Of vulgar wants predestinate for such—

One dish at supper and weak wine to boot!

The prince had grinned and borne: the citizen shrieked,

Summoned the neighbourhood to attest the wrong,

Made noisy protest he was murdered,—stoned

And burned and drowned and hanged,—then broke away,

He and his wife, to tell their Rome the rest.

And this you admire, you men o’ the world, my lords?

This moves compassion, makes you doubt my faith?

Why, I appeal to . . . sun and moon? Not I!

Rather to Plautus, Terence, Boccaccio’s Book,

My townsman, frank Ser Franco’s merry Tales,—

To all who strip a vizard from a face,

A body from its padding, and a soul

From froth and ignorance it styles itself,—

If this be other than the daily hap

Of purblind greed that dog-like still drops bone,

Grasps shadow, and then howls the case is hard!

So much for them so far: now for myself,

My profit or loss i’ the matter: married am I:

Text whereon friendly censors burst to preach.

Ay, at Rome even, long ere I was left

To regulate her life for my young bride

Alone at Arezzo, friendliness outbroke

(Sifting my future to predict its fault)

“Purchase and sale being thus so plain a point

“How of a certain soul bound up, may-be,

“I’ the barter with the body and money- bags?

“From the bride’s soul what is it you expect?”

Why, loyalty and obedience,—wish and will

To settle and suit her fresh and plastic mind

To the novel, nor disadvantageous mould!

Father and mother shall the woman leave,

Cleave to the husband, be it for weal or woe:

There is the law: what sets this law aside

In my particular case? My friends submit

“Guide, guardian, benefactor,—fee, faw, fum,

“The fact is you are forty-five years old,

“Nor very comely even for that age:

“Girls must have boys.” Why, let girls say so then,

Nor call the boys and men, who say the same,

Brute this and beast the other as they do!

Come, cards on table! When you chaunt us next

Epithalamium full to overflow

With praise and glory of white womanhood,

The chaste and pure—troll no such lies o’er lip!

Put in their stead a crudity or two,

Such short and simple statement of the case

As youth chalks on our walls at spring of year!

No! I shall still think nobler of the sex,

Believe a woman still may take a man

For the short period that his soul wears flesh,

And, for the soul’s sake, understand the fault

Of armour frayed by fighting. Tush, it tempts

One’s tongue too much! I’ll say—the law’s the law:

With a wife, I look to find all wifeliness,

As when I buy, timber and twig, a tree—

I buy the song o’ the nightingale inside.

Such was the pact: Pompilia from the first

Broke it, refused from the beginning day

Either in body or soul to cleave to mine,

And published it forthwith to all the world.

No rupture,—you must join ere you can break,—

Before we had cohabited a month

She found I was a devil and no man,—

Made common cause with those who found as much,

Her parents, Pietro and Violante,—moved

Heaven and earth to the rescue of all three.

In four months’ time, the time o’ the parents’ stay,

Arezzo was a-ringing, bells in a blaze,

With the unimaginable story rife

I’ the mouth of man, woman, and child—to wit

My misdemeanour. First the lighter side,

Ludicrous face of things,—how very poor

The Franceschini had become at last,

The meanness and the misery of each shift

To save a soldo, stretch and make ends meet.

Next, the more hateful aspect,—how myself

With cruelty beyond Caligula’s

Had stripped and beaten, robbed and murdered them.

The good old couple, I decoyed, abused,

Plundered and then cast out, and happily so,

Since,—in due course the abominable comes,—

Woe worth the poor young wife left lonely here!

Repugnant in my person as my mind,

I sought,—was ever heard of such revenge?

—To lure and bind her to so cursed a couch,

Such co-embrace with sulphur, snake and toad,

That she was fain to rush forth, call the stones

O’ the common street to save her, not from hate

Of mine merely, but . . . must I burn my lips

With the blister of the lie? . . . the satyr-love

Of who but my own brother, the young priest,

Too long enforced to lenten fare belike,

Now tempted by the morsel tossed him full

I’ the trencher where lay bread and herbs at best.

Mark, this yourselves say!—this, none disallows,

Was charged to me by the universal voice

At the instigation of my four-months’ wife!—

And then you ask “Such charges so preferred,

“(Truly or falsely, here concerns us not)

“Pricked you to punish now if not before?—

“Did not the harshness double itself, the hate

“Harden?” I answer “Have it your way and will!”

Say my resentment grew apace: what then?

Do you cry out on the marvel? When I find

That pure smooth egg which, laid within my nest,

Could not but hatch a comfort to us all,

Issues a cockatrice for me and mine,

Do you stare to see me stamp on it? Swans are soft:

Is it not clear that she you call my wife,

That any wife of any husband, caught

Whetting a sting like this against his breast,—

Speckled with fragments of the fresh-broke shell,

Married a month and making outcry thus,—

Proves a plague-prodigy to God and man?

She married: what was it she married for,

Counted upon and meant to meet thereby?

“Love” suggests some one, “love, a little word

“Whereof we have not heard one syllable.”

So, the Pompilia, child, girl, wife, in one,

Wanted the beating pulse, the rolling eye,

The frantic gesture, the devotion due

From Thyrsis to Neæra! Guido’s love—

Why not provençal roses in his shoe,

Plume to his cap, and trio of guitars

At casement, with a bravo close beside?

Good things all these are, clearly claimable

When the fit price is paid the proper way.

Had it been some friend’s wife, now, threw her fan

At my foot, with just this pretty scrap attached,

“Shame, death, damnation—fall these as they may,

“So I find you, for a minute! Come this eve!”

—Why, at such sweet self-sacrifice,—who knows?

I might have fired up, found me at my post,

Ardent from head to heel, nor feared catch cough.

Nay, had some other friend’s . . . say, daughter, tripped

Upstairs and tumbled flat and frank on me,

Bareheaded and barefooted, with loose hair

And garments all at large,—cried “Take me thus!

“Duke So-and-So, the greatest man in Rome—

“To escape his hand and heart have I broke bounds,

“Traversed the town and reached you!”—Then, indeed,

The lady had not reached a man of ice!

I would have rummaged, ransacked at the word

Those old odd corners of an empty heart

For remnants of dim love the long disused,

And dusty crumblings of romance! But here,

We talk of just a marriage, if you please—

The every-day conditions and no more;

Where do these bind me to bestow one drop

Of blood shall dye my wife’s true-love-knot pink?

Pompilia was no pigeon, Venus’ pet,

That shuffled from between her pressing paps

To sit on my rough shoulder,—but a hawk,

I bought at a hawk’s price and carried home

To do hawk’s service—at the Rotunda, say,

Where, six o’ the callow nestlings in a row,

You pick and choose and pay the price for such.

I have paid my pound, await my penny’s worth,

So, hoodwink, starve, and properly train my bird,

And, should she prove a haggard,—twist her neck!

Did I not pay my name and style, my hope

And trust, my all? Through spending these amiss

I am here! ’Tis scarce the gravity of the Court

Will blame me that I never piped a tune,

Treated my falcon-gentle like my finch.

The obligation I incurred was just

To practise mastery, prove my mastership:—

Pompilia’s duty was—submit herself,

Afford me pleasure, perhaps cure my bile.

Am I to teach my lords what marriage means,

What God ordains thereby and man fulfils

Who, docile to the dictate, treads the house?

My lords have chosen the happier part with Paul

And neither marry nor burn,—yet priestliness

Can find a parallel to the marriage-bond

In its own blessed special ordinance

Whereof indeed was marriage made the type:

The Church may show her insubordinate,

As marriage her refractory. How of the Monk

Who finds the claustral regimen too sharp

After the first month’s essay? What’s the mode

With the Deacon who supports indifferently

The rod o’ the Bishop when he tastes its smart

Full four weeks? Do you straightway slacken hold

Of the innocents, the all-unwary ones

Who, eager to profess, mistook their mind?—

Remit a fast-day’s rigour to the Monk

Who fancied Francis’ manna meant roast quails,

Concede the Deacon sweet society,

He never thought the levite-rule renounced,—

Or rather prescribe short chain and sharp scourge

Corrective of such peccant humours? This—

I take to be the Church’s mode, and mine,

If I was over-harsh,—the worse i’ the wife

Who did not win from harshness as she ought,

Wanted the patience and persuasion, lore

Of love, should cure me and console herself.

Put case that I mishandle, flurry, and fright

My hawk through clumsiness in sportsmanship,

Twitch out five pens where plucking one would serve—

What, shall she bite and claw to mend the case?

And, if you find I pluck five more for that,

Shall you weep “Now he roughs the turtle there?”