"But we left this man

Many another way, and there's his fault,"

'T is answered--"He himself preferred our arm

O' the law to fight his battle with. No doubt

We did not open him an armory

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 aglow with ire,

Boiling with irrepressible rage, and so

May try explosives and discard cold steel,--

So hires assassins, plots, plans, executes!

Is this the honest self-forgetting rage

We are called to pardon? Does the furious bull

Pick out four help-mates 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_--drops first, deluge since,--which 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, "Oh, 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,

Which otherwise were safe and secret now.

Why, here you have the awfullest 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 seems 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,

'T was 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!)

V

COUNT GUIDO FRANCESCHINI

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, 't is 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,

Nor 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, 't is 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 their patron's shoe,

Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,

Properly push his child to wall one day!

Mimic the tetchy humor, 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 grow 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! 'T is 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--what 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-license 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 omoplate

May clip my speech all too abruptly short,

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 recognized 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 't is 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 Guido once

Homager to the Empire, naught 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 became 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:

On, therefore, I must move forthwith, transfer

My stranded self, born fish with gill and fin

Fit for the deep sea, now left flap 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 Countess Beatrice, 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 sutler'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 hillside zigzag 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 omoplate, 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 hold the villa's head above the waves

Of weed inundating its oil and wine,

And prop roof, stanchion wall o' the palace so

As to keep breath i' the body, out of heart

Amid the advance of neighboring loftiness--

(People like building where they used to beg)--

Till succored 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 savor 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 birthday,--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, bat-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-by, 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 goodwill 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, balked 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. Honor 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 honor; straight

Your social fabric, pinnacle to base,

Comes down a-clatter like a house of cards.

Get honor, and keep honor free from flaw,

Aim at still higher honor,--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 labor 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 honor 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 't was 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 color 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, folk 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 handle 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 neighborly 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 piecemeal 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 humors 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 neighborhood 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, maybe,

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, not 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 chant 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 armor 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 misdemeanor. 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! 'T is 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 rigor 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 humors? 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 "How he roughs the turtle there"?

Such was the starting; now of the further step.

In lieu of taking penance in good part,

The Monk, with hue and cry, summons a mob

To make a bonfire of the convent, say,--

And the Deacon's pretty piece of virtue (save

The ears o' the Court! I try to save my head)

Instructed by the ingenuous postulant,

Taxes the Bishop with adultery, (mud

Needs must pair off with mud, and filth with filth)--

Such being my next experience. Who knows not--

The couple, father and mother of my wife,

Returned to Rome, published before my lords,

Put into print, made circulate far and wide

That they had cheated me who cheated them?

Pompilia, I supposed their daughter, drew

Breath first 'mid Rome's worst rankness, through the deed

Of a drab and a rogue, was by-blow bastard-babe

Of a nameless strumpet, passed off, palmed on me

As the daughter with the dowry. Daughter? Dirt

O' the kennel! Dowry? Dust o' the street! Naught more

Naught less, naught else but--oh--ah--assuredly

A Franceschini and my very wife!

Now take this charge as you will, for false or true,--

This charge, preferred before your very selves

Who judge me now,--I pray you, adjudge again,

Classing it with the cheats or with the lies,

By which category I suffer most!

But of their reckoning, theirs who dealt with me

In either fashion,--I reserve my word,

Justify that in its place; I am now to say,

Whichever point o' the charge might poison most,

Pompilia's duty was no doubtful one.

You put the protestation in her mouth,

"Henceforward and forevermore, avaunt

Ye fiends, who drop disguise and glare revealed

In your own shape, no longer father mine

Nor mother mine! Too nakedly you hate

Me whom you looked as if you loved once,--me

Whom, whether true or false, your tale now damns,

Divulged thus to my public infamy,

Private perdition, absolute overthrow.

For, hate my husband to your hearts' content,

I, spoil and prey of you from first to last,

I who have done you the blind service, lured

The lion to your pitfall,--I, thus left

To answer for my ignorant bleating there,

I should have been remembered and withdrawn

From the first o' the natural fury, not flung loose

A proverb and a byword men will mouth

At the cross-way, in the corner, up and down

Rome and Arezzo,--there, full in my face,

If my lord, missing them and finding me,

Content himself with casting his reproach

To drop i' the street where such impostors die.

Ah, but--that husband, what the wonder were!--

If, far from casting thus away the rag

Smeared with the plague, his hand had chanced upon,

Sewn to his pillow by Locusta's wile,--

Far from abolishing, root, stem and branch,

The misgrowth of infectious mistletoe

Foisted into his stock for honest graft,--

If he repudiate not, renounce nowise,

But, guarding, guiding me, maintain my cause

By making it his own, (what other way?)

--To keep my name for me, he call it his,

Claim it of who would take it by their lie,--

To save my wealth for me--or babe of mine

Their lie was framed to beggar at the birth--

He bid them loose grasp, give our gold again:

If he become no partner with the pair

Even in a game which, played adroitly, gives

Its winner life's great wonderful new chance,--

Of marrying, to wit, a second time,--

Ah, if he did thus, what a friend were he!

Anger he might show,--who can stamp out flame

Yet spread no black o' the brand?--yet, rough albeit

In the act, as whose bare feet feel embers scorch,

What grace were his, what gratitude were mine!"

Such protestation should have been my wife's.

Looking for this, do I exact too much?

Why, here 's the--word for word so much, no more--

Avowal she made, her pure spontaneous speech

To my brother the Abate at first blush,

Ere the good impulse had begun to fade:

So did she make confession for the pair,

So pour forth praises in her own behalf.

"Ay, the false letter," interpose my lords--

"The simulated writing,--'t was a trick:

You traced the signs, she merely marked the same,

The product was not hers but yours." Alack,

I want no more impulsion to tell truth

From the other trick, the torture inside there!

I confess all--let it be understood--

And deny nothing! If I baffle you so,

Can so fence, in the plentitude of right,

That my poor lathen dagger puts aside

Each pass o' the Bilboa, beats you all the same,--

What matters inefficiency of blade?

Mine and not hers the letter,--conceded, lords!

Impute to me that practice!--take as proved

I taught my wife her duty, made her see

What it behoved her see and say and do,

Feel in her heart and with her tongue declare,

And, whether sluggish or recalcitrant,

Forced her to take the right step, I myself

Was marching in marital rectitude!

Why, who finds fault here, say the tale be true?

Would not my lords commend the priest whose zeal

Seized on the sick, morose or moribund,

By the palsy-smitten finger, made it cross

His brow correctly at the critical time?

--Or answered for the inarticulate babe

At baptism, in its stead declared the faith,

And saved what else would perish unprofessed?

True, the incapable hand may rally yet,

Renounce the sign with renovated strength,--

The babe may grow up man and Molinist,--

And so Pompilia, set in the good path

And left to go alone there, soon might see

That too frank-forward, all too simple-straight

Her step was, and decline to tread the rough,

When here lay, tempting foot, the meadow-side,

And there the coppice rang with singing-birds!

Soon she discovered she was young and fair,

That many in Arezzo knew as much,--

Yes, this next cup of bitterness, my lords,

Had to begin go filling, drop by drop,

Its measure up of full disgust for me,

Filtered into by every noisome drain--

Society's sink toward which all moisture runs.

Would not you prophesy--"She on whose brow is stamped

The note of the imputation that we know,--

Rightly or wrongly mothered with a whore,--

Such an one, to disprove the frightful charge,

What will she but exaggerate chastity,

Err in excess of wifehood, as it were,

Renounce even levities permitted youth,

Though not youth struck to age by a thunderbolt?

Cry 'wolf' i' the sheepfold, where's the sheep dares bleat,

Knowing the shepherd listens for a growl?"

So you expect. How did the devil decree?

Why, my lords, just the contrary of course!

It was in the house from the window, at the church

From the hassock,--where the theatre lent its lodge,

Or staging for the public show left space,--

That still Pompilia needs must find herself

Launching her looks forth, letting looks reply

As arrows to a challenge; on all sides

Ever new contribution to her lap,

Till one day, what is it knocks at my clenched teeth

But the cup full, curse-collected all for me?

And I must needs drink, drink this gallant's praise,

That minion's prayer, the other fop's reproach.

And come at the dregs to--Caponsacchi! Sirs,

I,--chin deep in a marsh of misery,

Struggling to extricate my name and fame

And fortune from the marsh would drown them all,

My face the sole unstrangled part of me,--

I must have this new gad-fly in that face,

Must free me from the attacking lover too!

Men say I battled ungracefully enough--

Was harsh, uncouth and ludicrous beyond

The proper part o' the husband: have it so!

Your lordships are considerate at least--

You order me to speak in my defence

Plainly, expect no quavering tuneful trills

As when you bid a singer solace you,--

Nor look that I shall give it, for a grace,

_Stans pede in uno:_--you remember well

In the one case, 'tis a plainsong too severe,

This story of my wrongs,--and that I ache

And need a chair, in the other. Ask you me

Why, when I felt this trouble flap my face,

Already pricked with every shame could perch,--

When, with her parents, my wife plagued me too,--

Why I enforced not exhortation mild

To leave whore's-tricks and let my brows alone,

With mulct of comfits, promise of perfume?

"Far from that! No, you took the opposite course,

Breathed threatenings, rage and slaughter!" What you will!

And the end has come, the doom is verily here,

Unhindered by the threatening. See fate's flare

Full on each face of the dead guilty three!

Look at them well, and now, lords, look at this!

Tell me: if on that day when I found first

That Caponsacchi thought the nearest way

To his church was some half-mile round by my door,

And that he so admired, shall I suppose,

The manner of the swallows' come-and-go

Between the props o' the window overhead,--

That window happening to be my wife's,--

As to stand gazing by the hour on high,

Of May-eves, while she sat and let him smile,--

If I,--instead of threatening, talking big,

Showing hair-powder, a prodigious pinch,

For poison in a bottle,--making believe

At desperate doings with a bauble-sword,

And other bugaboo-and-baby-work,--

Had, with the vulgarest household implement,

Calmly and quietly cut off, clean through bone,

But one joint of one finger of my wife,

Saying, "For listening to the serenade,

Here's your ring-finger shorter a full third:

Be certain I will slice away next joint,

Next time that anybody underneath

Seems somehow to be sauntering as he hoped

A flower would eddy out of your hand to his,

While you please fidget with the branch above

O' the rose-tree in the terrace!"--had I done so,

Why, there had followed a quick sharp scream, some pain,

Much calling for plaister, damage to the dress,

A somewhat sulky countenance next day,

Perhaps reproaches,--but reflections too!

I don't hear much of harm that Malchus did

After the incident of the ear, my lords!

Saint Peter took the efficacious way;

Malchus was sore but silenced for his life:

He did not hang himself i' the Potter's Field

Like Judas, who was trusted with the bag

And treated to sops after he proved a thief.

So, by this time, my true and obedient wife

Might have been telling beads with a gloved hand;

Awkward a little at pricking hearts and darts

On sampler possibly, but well otherwise:

Not where Rome shudders now to see her lie.

I give that for the course a wise man takes;

I took the other however, tried the fool's,

The lighter remedy, brandished rapier dread

With cork-ball at the tip, boxed Malchus' ear

Instead of severing the cartilage,

Called her a terrible nickname and the like,

And there an end: and what was the end of that?

What was the good effect o' the gentle course?

Why, one night I went drowsily to bed,

Dropped asleep suddenly, not suddenly woke,

But did wake with rough rousing and loud cry,

To find noon in my face, a crowd in my room,

Fumes in my brain, fire in my throat, my wife

Gone God knows whither,--rifled vesture-chest,

And ransacked money-coffer. "What does it mean?"

The servants had been drugged too, stared and yawned,

"It must be that our lady has eloped!"

--"Whither and with whom?"--"With whom but the Canon's self?

One recognizes Caponsacchi there!"--

(By this time the admiring neighborhood

Joined chorus round me while I rubbed my eyes)

"'T is months since their intelligence began,--

A comedy the town was privy to,--

He wrote and she wrote, she spoke, he replied,

And going in and out your house last night

Was easy work for one ... to be plain with you ...

Accustomed to do both, at dusk and dawn

When you were absent,--at the villa, you know,

Where husbandry required the master-mind.

Did not you know? Why, we all knew, you see!"

And presently, bit by bit, the full and true

Particulars of the tale were volunteered

With all the breathless zeal of friendship--"Thus

Matters were managed: at the seventh hour of night" ...

--"Later, at daybreak" ... "Caponsacchi came" ...

--"While you and all your household slept like death,

Drugged as your supper was with drowsy stuff" ...

--"And your own cousin Guillichini too--

Either or both entered your dwelling-place,

Plundered it at their pleasure, made prize of all,

Including your wife" ... --"Oh, your wife led the way,

Out of doors, on to the gate" ... --"But gates are shut,

In a decent town, to darkness and such deeds:

They climbed the wall--your lady must be lithe--

At the gap, the broken bit" ... --"Torrione, true!

To escape the questioning guard at the proper gate,

Clemente, where at the inn, hard by, 'the Horse,'

Just outside, a calash in readiness

Took the two principals, all alone at last,

To gate San Spirito, which o'erlooks the road,

Leads to Perugia, Rome and liberty."

Bit by bit thus made-up mosaic-wise,

Flat lay my fortune,--tessellated floor,

Imperishable tracery devils should foot

And frolic it on, around my broken gods,

Over my desecrated hearth.

So much

For the terrible effect of threatening, Sirs!

Well, this way I was shaken wide awake,

Doctored and drenched, somewhat unpoisoned so.

Then, set on horseback and bid seek the lost,

I started alone, head of me, heart of me

Fire, and each limb as languid ... ah, sweet lords,

Bethink you!--poison-torture, try persuade

The next refractory Molinist with that!...

Floundered through day and night, another day

And yet another night, and so at last,

As Lucifer kept falling to find hell,

Tumbled into the court-yard of an inn

At the end, and fell on whom I thought to find,

Even Caponsacchi,--what part once was priest,

Cast to the winds now with the cassock-rags:

In cape and sword a cavalier confessed,

There stood he chiding dilatory grooms,

Chafing that only horseflesh and no team

Of eagles would supply the last relay,

Whirl him along the league, the one post more

Between the couple and Rome and liberty.

'T was dawn, the couple were rested in a sort,

And though the lady, tired,--the tenderer sex,--

Still lingered in her chamber,--to adjust

The limp hair, look for any blush astray,--

She would descend in a twinkling,--"Have you out

The horses therefore!"

So did I find my wife.

Is the case complete? Do your eyes here see with mine?

Even the parties dared deny no one

Point out of all these points.

What follows next?

"Why, that then was the time," you interpose,

"Or then or never, while the fact was fresh,

To take the natural vengeance: there and thus

They and you,--somebody had stuck a sword

Beside you while he pushed you on your horse,--

'T was requisite to slay the couple, Count!"

Just so my friends say--"Kill!" they cry in a breath,

Who presently, when matters grow to a head

And I do kill the offending ones indeed,--

When crime of theirs, only surmised before,

Is patent, proved indisputably now,--

When remedy for wrong, untried at the time,

Which law professes shall not fail a friend,

Is thrice tried now, found threefold worse than null,--

When what might turn to transient shade, who knows?

Solidifies into a blot which breaks

Hell's black off in pale flakes for fear of mine,--

Then, when I claim and take revenge--"So rash?"

They cry--"so little reverence for the law?"

Listen, my masters, and distinguish here!

At first, I called in law to act and help:

Seeing I did so, "Why, 't is clear," they cry,

"You shrank from gallant readiness and risk,

Were coward: the thing's inexplicable else."

Sweet my lords, let the thing be! I fall flat,

Play the reed, not the oak, to breath of man.

Only, inform my ignorance! Say I stand

Convicted of the having been afraid,

Proved a poltroon, no lion but a lamb,--

Does that deprive me of my right of lamb

And give my fleece and flesh to the first wolf?

Are eunuchs, women, children, shieldless quite

Against attack their own timidity tempts?

Cowardice were misfortune and no crime!

--Take it that way, since I am fallen so low

I scarce dare brush the fly that blows my face,

And thank the man who simply spits not there,--

Unless the Court be generous, comprehend

How one brought up at the very feet of law

As I, awaits the grave Gamaliel's nod

Ere he clench fist at outrage,--much less, stab!

--How, ready enough to rise at the right time,

I still could recognize no time mature

Unsanctioned by a move o' the judgment-seat,

So, mute in misery, eyed my masters here

Motionless till the authoritative word

Pronounced amercement. There 's the riddle solved:

This is just why I slew nor her nor him,

But called in law, law's delegate in the place,

And bade arrest the guilty couple, Sirs!

We had some trouble to do so--you have heard

They braved me,--he with arrogance and scorn,

She, with a volubility of curse,

A conversancy in the skill of tooth

And claw to make suspicion seem absurd,

Nay, an alacrity to put to proof

At my own throat my own sword, teach me so

To try conclusions better the next time,--

Which did the proper service with the mob.

They never tried to put on mask at all:

Two avowed lovers forcibly torn apart,

Upbraid the tyrant as in a playhouse scene,

Ay, and with proper clapping and applause

From the audience that enjoys the bold and free.

I kept still, said to myself, "There 's law!" Anon

We searched the chamber where they passed the night,

Found what confirmed the worst was feared before,

However needless confirmation now--

The witches' circle intact, charms undisturbed

That raised the spirit and succubus,--letters, to wit,

Love-laden, each the bag o' the bee that bore

Honey from lily and rose to Cupid's hive,--

Now, poetry in some rank blossom-burst,

Now, prose,--"Come here, go there, wait such a while.

He 's at the villa, now he 's back again:

We are saved, we are lost, we are lovers all the same!"

All in order, all complete,--even to a clue

To the drowsiness that happed so opportune--

No mystery, when I read, "Of all things, find

What wine Sir Jealousy decides to drink--

Red wine? Because a sleeping-potion, dust

Dropped into white, discolors wine and shows."

--"Oh, but we did not write a single word!

Somebody forged the letters in our name!--"

Both in a breath protested presently.

Aha, Sacchetti again!--"Dame,"--quoth the Duke,

"What meaneth this epistle, counsel me,

I pick from out thy placket and peruse,

Wherein my page averreth thou art white

And warm and wonderful 'twixt pap and pap?"

"Sir," laughed the Lady, "'t is a counterfeit!

Thy page did never stroke but Dian's breast,

The pretty hound I nurture for thy sake:

To lie were losel,--by my fay, no more!"

And no more say I too, and spare the Court.

Ah, the Court! yes, I come to the Court's self;

Such the case, so complete in fact and proof,

I laid at the feet of law,--there sat my lords,

Here sit they now, so may they ever sit

In easier attitude than suits my haunch!

In this same chamber did I bare my sores

O' the soul and not the body,--shun no shame,

Shrink from no probing of the ulcerous part,

Since confident in Nature,--which is God,--

That she who, for wise ends, concocts a plague,

Curbs, at the right time, the plague's virulence too:

Law renovates even Lazarus,--cures me!

Cæsar thou seekest? To Cæsar thou shalt go!

Cæsar 's at Rome: to Rome accordingly!

The case was soon decided: both weights, cast

I' the balance, vibrate, neither kicks the beam,

Here away, there away, this now and now that.

To every one o' my grievances law gave

Redress, could purblind eye but see the point.

The wife stood a convicted runagate

From house and husband,--driven to such a course

By what she somehow took for cruelty,

Oppression and imperilment of life--

Not that such things were, but that so they seemed:

Therefore, the end conceded lawful, (since

To save life there 's no risk should stay our leap)

It follows that all means to the lawful end

Are lawful likewise,--poison, theft and flight.

As for the priest's part, did he meddle or make,

Enough that he too thought life jeopardized;

Concede him then the color charity

Casts on a doubtful course,--if blackish white

Or whitish black, will charity hesitate?

What did he else but act the precept out,

Leave, like a provident shepherd, his safe flock

To follow the single lamb and strayaway?

Best hope so and think so,--that the ticklish time

I' the carriage, the tempting privacy, the last

Somewhat ambiguous accident at the inn,

--All may bear explanation: may? then, must!

The letters,--do they so incriminate?

But what if the whole prove a prank o' the pen,

Flight of the fancy, none of theirs at all,

Bred of the vapors of my brain belike,

Or at worst mere exercise of scholar's-wit

In the courtly Caponsacchi: verse, convict?

Did not Catullus write less seemly once?

Yet _doctus_ and unblemished he abides.

Wherefore so ready to infer the worst?

Still, I did righteously in bringing doubts

For the law to solve,--take the solution now!

"Seeing that the said associates, wife and priest,

Bear themselves not without some touch of blame

--Else why the pother, scandal and outcry

Which trouble our peace and require chastisement?

We, for complicity in Pompilia's flight

And deviation, and carnal intercourse

With the same, do set aside and relegate

The Canon Caponsacchi for three years

At Civita in the neighborhood of Rome:

And we consign Pompilia to the care

Of a certain Sisterhood of penitents

I' the city's self, expert to deal with such."

Word for word, there 's your judgment! Read it, lords,

Re-utter your deliberate penalty

For the crime yourselves establish! Your award--

Who chop a man's right-hand off at the wrist

For tracing with forefinger words in wine

O' the table of a drinking-booth that bear

Interpretation as they mocked the Church!

--Who brand a woman black between the breasts

For sinning by connection with a Jew:

While for the Jew's self--pudency be dumb!--

You mete out punishment such and such, yet so

Punish the adultery of wife and priest!

Take note of that, before the Molinists do,

And read me right the riddle, since right must be!

While I stood rapt away with wonderment,

Voices broke in upon my mood and muse.

"Do you sleep?" began the friends at either ear,

"The case is settled,--you willed it should be so--

None of our counsel, always recollect!

With law's award, budge! Back into your place!

Your betters shall arrange the rest for you.

We 'll enter a new action, claim divorce:

Your marriage was a cheat themselves allow:

You erred i' the person,--might have married thus

Your sister or your daughter unaware.

We 'll gain you, that way, liberty at least,

Sure of so much by law's own showing. Up

And off with you and your unluckiness--

Leave us to bury the blunder, sweep things smooth!"

I was in humble frame of mind, be sure!

I bowed, betook me to my place again.

Station by station I retraced the road,

Touched at this hostel, passed this post-house by,

Where, fresh-remembered yet, the fugitives

Had risen to the heroic stature: still--

"That was the bench they sat on,--there 's the board

They took the meal at,--yonder garden-ground

They leaned across the gate of,"--ever a word

O' the Helen and the Paris, with "Ha! you 're he,

The ... much-commiserated husband?" Step

By step, across the pelting, did I reach

Arezzo, underwent the archway's grin,

Traversed the length of sarcasm in the street,

Found myself in my horrible house once more,

And after a colloquy ... no word assists!

With the mother and the brothers, stiffened me

Straight out from head to foot as dead man does,

And, thus prepared for life as he for hell,

Marched to the public Square and met the world.

Apologize for the pincers, palliate screws?

Ply me with such toy-trifles, I entreat!

Trust who has tried both sulphur and sops-in-wine!

I played the man as I best might, bade friends

Put non-essentials by and face the fact.

"What need to hang myself as you advise?

The paramour is banished,--the ocean's width,

Or the suburb's length,--to Ultima Thule, say,

Or Proxima Civitas, what 's the odds of name

And place? He 's banished, and the fact 's the thing.

Why should law banish innocence an inch?

Here 's guilt then, what else do I care to know?

The adulteress lies imprisoned,--whether in a well

With bricks above and a snake for company,

Or tied by a garter to a bedpost,--much

I mind what 's little,--least 's enough and to spare!

The little fillip on the coward's cheek

Serves as though crab-tree cudgel broke his pate.

Law has pronounced there 's punishment, less or more:

And I take note o' the fact and use it thus--

For the first flaw in the original bond,

I claim release. My contract was to wed

The daughter of Pietro and Violante. Both

Protest they never had a child at all.

Then I have never made a contract: good!

Cancel me quick the thing pretended one.

I shall be free. What matter if hurried over

The harbor-boom by a great favoring tide,

Or the last of a spent ripple that lifts and leaves?

The Abate is about it. Laugh who wins!

You shall not laugh me out of faith in law!

I listen, through all your noise, to Rome!"

Rome spoke.

In three months letters thence admonished me,

"Your plan for the divorce is all mistake.

It would hold, now, had you, taking thought to wed

Rachel of the blue eye and golden hair,

Found swarth-skinned Leah cumber couch next day:

But Rachel, blue-eyed golden-haired aright,

Proving to be only Laban's child, not Lot's,

Remains yours all the same forevermore.

No whit to the purpose is your plea: you err

I' the person and the quality--nowise

In the individual,--that 's the case in point!

You go to the ground,--are met by a cross-suit

For separation, of the Rachel here,

From bed and board,--she is the injured one,

You did the wrong and have to answer it.

As for the circumstance of imprisonment

And color it lends to this your new attack,

Never fear, that point is considered too!

The durance is already at an end;

The convent-quiet preyed upon her health,

She is transferred now to her parents' house

--No-parents, when that cheats and plunders you,

But parentage again confessed in full,

When such confession pricks and plagues you more--

As now--for, this their house is not the house

In Via Vittoria wherein neighbors' watch

Might incommode the freedom of your wife,

But a certain villa smothered up in vines

At the town's edge by the gate i' the Pauline way,

Out of eye-reach, out of ear-shot, little and lone,

Whither a friend,--at Civita, we hope,

A good half-dozen-hours' ride off,--might, some eve,

Betake himself, and whence ride back, some morn,

Nobody the wiser: but be that as it may,

Do not afflict your brains with trifles now.

You have still three suits to manage, all and each

Ruinous truly should the event play false.

It is indeed the likelier so to do,

That brother Paul, your single prop and stay,

After a vain attempt to bring the Pope

To set aside procedures, sit himself

And summarily use prerogative,

Afford us the infallible finger's tact

To disentwine your tangle of affairs,

Paul,--finding it moreover past his strength

To stem the irruption, bear Rome's ridicule

Of ... since friends must speak ... to be round with you ...

Of the old outwitted husband, wronged and wroth,

Pitted against a brace of juveniles--

A brisk priest who is versed in Ovid's art

More than his 'Summa,' and a gamesome wife

Able to act Corinna without book,

Beside the waggish parents who played dupes

To dupe the duper--(and truly divers scenes

Of the Arezzo palace, tickle rib

And tease eye till the tears come, so we laugh;

Nor wants the shock at the inn its comic force,

And then the letters and poetry--_merum sal!_)

--Paul, finally, in such a state of things,

After a brief temptation to go jump

And join the fishes in the Tiber, drowns

Sorrow another and a wiser way:

House and goods, he has sold all off, is gone,

Leaves Rome,--whether for France or Spain, who knows?

Or Britain almost divided from our orb.

You have lost him anyhow."

Now,--I see my lords

Shift in their seat,--would I could do the same!

They probably please expect my bile was moved

To purpose, nor much blame me: now, they judge,

The fiery titillation urged my flesh

Break through the bonds. By your pardon, no, sweet Sirs!

I got such missives in the public place;

When I sought home,--with such news, mounted stair

And sat at last in the sombre gallery,

('T was Autumn, the old mother in bed betimes,

Having to bear that cold, the finer frame

Of her daughter-in-law had found intolerable--

The brother, walking misery away

O' the mountain-side with dog and gun belike,)

As I supped, ate the coarse bread, drank the wine

Weak once, now acrid with the toad's-head-squeeze,

My wife's bestowment,--I broke silence thus:

"Let me, a man, manfully meet the fact,

Confront the worst o' the truth, end, and have peace!

I am irremediably beaten here,--

The gross illiterate vulgar couple,--bah!

Why, they have measured forces, mastered mine,

Made me their spoil and prey from first to last.

They have got my name,--'t is nailed now fast to theirs,

The child or changeling is anyway my wife;

Point by point as they plan they execute,

They gain all, and I lose all--even to the lure

That led to loss,--they have the wealth again

They hazarded awhile to hook me with,

Have caught the fish and find the bait entire:

They even have their child or changeling back

To trade with, turn to account a second time.

The brother, presumably might tell a tale

Or give a warning,--he, too, flies the field,

And with him vanish help and hope of help.

They have caught me in the cavern where I fell

Covered my loudest cry for human aid

With this enormous paving-stone of shame.

Well, are we demigods or merely clay?

Is success still attendant on desert?

Is this, we live on, heaven and the final state,

Or earth which means probation to the end?

Why claim escape from man's predestined lot

Of being beaten and baffled?--God's decree,

In which I, bowing bruised head, acquiesce.

One of us Franceschini fell long since

I' the Holy Land, betrayed, tradition runs,

To Paynims by the feigning of a girl

He rushed to free from ravisher, and found

Lay safe enough with friends in ambuscade

Who flayed him while she clapped her hands and laughed:

Let me end, falling by a like device.

It will not be so hard. I am the last

O' my line which will not suffer any more.

I have attained to my full fifty years,

(About the average of us all, 't is said,

Though it seems longer to the unlucky man)

--Lived through my share of life; let all end here,

Me and the house and grief and shame at once.

Friends my informants,--I can bear your blow!"

And I believe 't was in no unmeet match

For the stoic's mood, with something like a smile,

That, when morose December roused me next,

I took into my hand, broke seal to read

The new epistle from Rome. "All to no use!

Whate'er the turn next injury take," smiled I,

"Here 's one has chosen his part and knows his cue.

I am done with, dead now; strike away, good friends!

Are the three suits decided in a trice?

Against me,--there 's no question! How does it go?

Is the parentage of my wife demonstrated

Infamous to her wish? Parades she now

Loosed of the cincture that so irked the loin?

Is the last penny extracted from my purse

To mulct me for demanding the first pound

Was promised in return for value paid?

Has the priest, with nobody to court beside,

Courted the Muse in exile, hitched my hap

Into a rattling ballad-rhyme which, bawled

At tavern-doors, wakes rapture everywhere,

And helps cheap wine down throat this Christmas time,

Beating the bagpipes? Any or all of these!

As well, good friends, you cursed my palace here

To its old cold stone face,--stuck your cap for crest

Over the shield that 's extant in the Square,--

Or spat on the statue's cheek, the impatient world

Sees cumber tomb-top in our family church:

Let him creep under covert as I shall do,

Half below-ground already indeed. Good-by!

My brothers are priests, and childless so; that 's well--

And, thank God most for this, no child leave I--

None after me to bear till his heart break

The being a Franceschini and my son!"

"Nay," said the letter, "but you have just that!

A babe, your veritable son and heir--

Lawful,--'t is only eight months since your wife

Left you,--so, son and heir, your babe was born

Last Wednesday in the villa,--you see the cause

For quitting Convent without beat of drum,

Stealing a hurried march to this retreat

That 's not so savage as the Sisterhood

To slips and stumbles: Pietro's heart is soft,

Violante leans to pity's side,--the pair

Ushered you into life a bouncing boy:

And he 's already hidden away and safe

From any claim on him you mean to make--

They need him for themselves,--don't fear, they know

The use o' the bantling,--the nerve thus laid bare

To nip at, new and nice, with finger-nail!"

Then I rose up like fire, and fire-like roared.

What, all is only beginning not ending now?

The worm which wormed its way from skin through flesh

To the bone and there lay biting, did its best,--

What, it goes on to scrape at the bone's self,

Will wind to inmost marrow and madden me?

There 's to be yet my representative,

Another of the name shall keep displayed

The flag with the ordure on it, brandish still

The broken sword has served to stir a jakes?

Who will he be, how will you call the man?

A Franceschini,--when who cut my purse,

Filched my name, hemmed me round, hustled me hard

As rogues at a fair some fool they strip i' the midst,

When these count gains, vaunt pillage presently:--

But a Caponsacchi, oh, be very sure!

When what demands its tribute of applause

Is the cunning and impudence o' the pair of cheats,

The lies and lust o' the mother, and the brave

Bold carriage of the priest, worthily crowned

By a witness to his feat i' the following age,--

And how this threefold cord could hook and fetch

And land leviathan that king of pride!

Or say, by some mad miracle of chance,

Is he indeed my flesh and blood, this babe?

Was it because fate forged a link at last

Betwixt my wife and me, and both alike

Found we had henceforth some one thing to love,

Was it when she could damn my soul indeed

She unlatched door, let all the devils o' the dark

Dance in on me to cover her escape?

Why then, the surplusage of disgrace, the spilth

Over and above the measure of infamy,

Failing to take effect on my coarse flesh

Seasoned with scorn now, saturate with shame,--

Is saved to instil on and corrode the brow,

The baby-softness of my first-born child--

The child I had died to see though in a dream,

The child I was bid strike out for, beat the wave

And baffle the tide of troubles where I swam,

So I might touch shore, lay down life at last

At the feet so dim and distant and divine

Of the apparition, as 't were Mary's babe

Had held, through night and storm, the torch aloft,--

Born now in very deed to bear this brand

On forehead and curse me who could not save!

Rather be the town-talk true, Square's jest, street's jeer

True, my own inmost heart's confession true,

And he the priest's bastard and none of mine!

Ay, there was cause for flight, swift flight and sure!

The husband gets unruly, breaks all bounds

When he encounters some familiar face,

Fashion of feature, brow and eyes and lips

Where he least looked to find them,--time to fly!

This bastard then, a nest for him is made,

As the manner is of vermin, in my flesh--

Shall I let the filthy pest buzz, flap and sting,

Busy at my vitals and, nor hand nor foot

Lift, but let be, lie still and rot resigned?

No, I appeal to God,--what says himself,

How lessons Nature when I look to learn?

Why, that I am alive, am still a man

With brain and heart and tongue and righthand too--

Nay, even with friends, in such a cause as this,

To right me if I fail to take my right.

No more of law; a voice beyond the law

Enters my heart, _Quis est pro Domino?_

Myself, in my own Vittiano, told the tale

To my own serving-people summoned there:

Told the first half of it, scarce heard to end

By judges who got done with judgment quick

And clamored to go execute her 'hest--

Who cried, "Not one of us that dig your soil

And dress your vineyard, prune your olive-trees,

But would have brained the man debauched our wife,

And staked the wife whose lust allured the man,

And paunched the Duke, had it been possible,

Who ruled the land, yet barred us such revenge!"

I fixed on the first whose eyes caught mine, some four

Resolute youngsters with the heart still fresh,

Filled my purse with the residue o' the coin

Uncaught-up by my wife whom haste made blind,

Donned the first rough and rural garb I found,

Took whatsoever weapon came to hand,

And out we flung and on we ran or reeled

Romeward. I have no memory of our way,

Only that, when at intervals the cloud

Of horror about me opened to let in life,

I listened to some song in the ear, some snatch

Of a legend, relic of religion, stray

Fragment of record very strong and old

Of the first conscience, the anterior right,

The God's-gift to mankind, impulse to quench

The antagonistic spark of hell and tread

Satan and all his malice into dust,

Declare to the world the one law, right is right.

Then the cloud re-encompassed me, and so

I found myself, as on the wings of winds,

Arrived: I was at Rome on Christmas Eve.

Festive bells--everywhere the Feast o' the Babe,

Joy upon earth, peace and good will to man!

I am baptized. I started and let drop

The dagger. "Where is it, his promised peace?"

Nine days o' the Birth-Feast did I pause and pray

To enter into no temptation more.

I bore the hateful house, my brother's once,

Deserted,--let the ghost of social joy

Mock and make mouths at me from empty room

And idle door that missed the master's step,--

Bore the frank wonder of incredulous eyes,

As my own people watched without a word,

Waited, from where they huddled round the hearth

Black like all else, that nod so slow to come.

I stopped my ears even to the inner call

Of the dread duty, only heard the song

"Peace upon earth," saw nothing but the face

O' the Holy Infant and the halo there

Able to cover yet another face

Behind it, Satan's which I else should see.

But, day by day, joy waned and withered off:

The Babe's face, premature with peak and pine,

Sank into wrinkled ruinous old age,

Suffering and death, then mist-like disappeared,

And showed only the Cross at end of all,

Left nothing more to interpose 'twixt me

And the dread duty,--for the angels' song,

"Peace upon earth," louder and louder pealed,

"O Lord, how long, how long be unavenged?"

On the ninth day, this grew too much for man.

I started up--"Some end must be!" At once,

Silence: then, scratching like a death-watch-tick,

Slowly within my brain was syllabled,

"One more concession, one decisive way

And but one, to determine thee the truth,--

This way, in fine, I whisper in thy ear:

Now doubt, anon decide, thereupon act!"

"That is a way, thou whisperest in my ear!

I doubt, I will decide, then act," said I--

Then beckoned my companions: "Time is come!"

And so, all yet uncertain save the will

To do right, and the daring aught save leave

Right undone, I did find myself at last

I' the dark before the villa with my friends,

And made the experiment, the final test,

Ultimate chance that ever was to be

For the wretchedness inside. I knocked--pronounced

The name, the predetermined touch for truth,

"What welcome for the wanderer? Open straight--"

To the friend, physician, friar upon his rounds,

Traveller belated, beggar lame and blind?

No, but--"to Caponsacchi!" And the door

Opened.

And then,--why, even then, I think,

I' the minute that confirmed my worst of fears,

Surely,--I pray God that I think aright!--

Had but Pompilia's self, the tender thing

Who once was good and pure, was once my lamb

And lay in my bosom, had the well-known shape

Fronted me in the doorway,--stood there faint

With the recent pang, perhaps, of giving birth

To what might, though by miracle, seem my child,--

Nay more, I will say, had even the aged fool

Pietro, the dotard, in whom folly and age

Wrought, more than enmity or malevolence,

To practise and conspire against my peace,--

Had either of these but opened, I had paused.

But it was she the hag, she that brought hell

For a dowry with her to her husband's house,

She the mock-mother, she that made the match

And married me to perdition, spring and source

O' the fire inside me that boiled up from heart

To brain and hailed the Fury gave it birth,--

Violante Comparini, she it was,

With the old grin amid the wrinkles yet,

Opened: as if in turning from the Cross,

With trust to keep the sight and save my soul,

I had stumbled, first thing, on the serpent's head

Coiled with a leer at foot of it.

There was the end!

Then was I rapt away by the impulse, one

Immeasurable everlasting wave of a need

To abolish that detested life. 'T was done:

You know the rest and how the folds o' the thing,

Twisting for help, involved the other two

More or less serpent-like: how I was mad,

Blind, stamped on all, the earth-worms with the asp,

And ended so.

You came on me that night,

Your officers of justice,--caught the crime

In the first natural frenzy of remorse?

Twenty miles off, sound sleeping as a child

On a cloak i' the straw which promised shelter first,

With the bloody arms beside me,--was it not so?

Wherefore not? Why, how else should I be found?

I was my own self, had my sense again,

My soul safe from the serpents. I could sleep:

Indeed and, dear my lords, I shall sleep now,

Spite of my shoulder, in five minutes' space,

When you dismiss me, having truth enough!

It is but a few days are passed, I find,

Since this adventure. Do you tell me, four?

Then the dead are scarce quiet where they lie,

Old Pietro, old Violante, side by side

At the church Lorenzo,--oh, they know it well!

So do I. But my wife is still alive,

Has breath enough to tell her story yet,

Her way, which is not mine, no doubt at all.

And Caponsacchi, you have summoned him,--

Was he so far to send for? Not at hand?

I thought some few o' the stabs were in his heart,

Or had not been so lavish: less had served.

Well, he too tells his story,--florid prose

As smooth as mine is rough. You see, my lords,

There will be a lying intoxicating smoke

Born of the blood,--confusion probably,--

For lies breed lies--but all that rests with you!

The trial is no concern of mine; with me

The main of the care is over: I at least

Recognize who took that huge burden off,

Let me begin to live again. I did

God's bidding and man's duty, so, breathe free;

Look you to the rest! I heard Himself prescribe,

That great Physician, and dared lance the core

Of the bad ulcer; and the rage abates,

I am myself and whole now: I proved cured

By the eyes that see, the ears that hear again,

The limbs that have relearned their youthful play,

The healthy taste of food and feel of clothes

And taking to our common life once more,

All that now urges my defence from death.

The willingness to live, what means it else?

Before,--but let the very action speak!

Judge for yourselves, what life seemed worth to me

Who, not by proxy but in person, pitched

Head-foremost into danger as a fool

That never cares if he can swim or no--

So he but find the bottom, braves the brook.

No man omits precaution, quite neglects

Secrecy, safety, schemes not how retreat,

Having schemed he might advance. Did I so scheme?

Why, with a warrant which 't is ask and have,

With horse thereby made mine without a word,

I had gained the frontier and slept safe that night.

Then, my companions,--call them what you please,

Slave or stipendiary,--what need of one

To me whose right-hand did its owner's work?

Hire an assassin yet expose yourself?

As well buy glove and then thrust naked hand

I' the thorn-bush. No, the wise man stays at home,

Sends only agents out, with pay to earn:

At home, when they come back,--he straight discards

Or else disowns. Why use such tools at all

When a man's foes are of his house, like mine,

Sit at his board, sleep in his bed? Why noise,

When there 's the _acquetta_ and the silent way?

Clearly my life was valueless.

But now

Health is returned, and sanity of soul

Nowise indifferent to the body's harm.

I find the instinct bids me save my life;

My wits, too, rally round me; I pick up

And use the arms that strewed the ground before,

Unnoticed or spurned aside: I take my stand,

Make my defence. God shall not lose a life

May do him further service, while I speak

And you hear, you my judges and last hope!

You are the law: 't is to the law I look.

I began life by hanging to the law,

To the law it is I hang till life shall end.

My brother made appeal to the Pope, 't is true.

To stay proceedings, judge my cause himself

Nor trouble law,--some fondness of conceit

That rectitude, sagacity sufficed

The investigator in a case like mine,

Dispensed with the machine of law. The Pope

Knew better, set aside my brother's plea

And put me back to law,--referred the cause

_Ad judices meos_,--doubtlessly did well.

Here, then, I clutch my judges,--I claim law--

Cry, by the higher law whereof your law

O' the land is humbly representative,--

Cry, on what point is it, where either accuse,

I fail to furnish you defence? I stand

Acquitted, actually or virtually,

By every intermediate kind of court

That takes account of right or wrong in man,

Each unit in the series that begins

With God's throne, ends with the tribunal here.

God breathes, not speaks, his verdicts, felt not heard,

Passed on successively to each court I call

Man's conscience, custom, manners, all that make

More and more effort to promulgate, mark

God's verdict in determinable words,

Till last come human jurists--solidify

Fluid result,--what's fixable lies forged,

Statute,--the residue escapes in fume,

Yet hangs aloft, a cloud, as palpable

To the finer sense as word the legist welds.

Justinian's Pandects only make precise

What simply sparkled in men's eyes before,

Twitched in their brow or quivered on their lip,

Waited the speech they called but would not come.

These courts then, whose decree your own confirms,--

Take my whole life, not this last act alone,

Look on it by the light reflected thence!

What has Society to charge me with?

Come, unreservedly,--favor none nor fear,--

I am Guido Franceschini, am I not?

You know the courses I was free to take?

I took just that which let me serve the Church,

I gave it all my labor in body and soul

Till these broke down i' the service. "Specify?"

Well, my last patron was a Cardinal.

I left him unconvicted of a fault--

Was even helped, by way of gratitude,

Into the new life that I left him for,

This very misery of the marriage,--he

Made it, kind soul, so far as in him lay--

Signed the deed where you yet may see his name.

He is gone to his reward,--dead, being my friend

Who could have helped here also,--that, of course!

So far, there's my acquittal, I suppose.

Then comes the marriage itself--no question, lords,

Of the entire validity of that!

In the extremity of distress, 't is true,

For after-reasons, furnished abundantly,

I wished the thing invalid, went to you

Only some months since, set you duly forth

My wrong and prayed your remedy, that a cheat

Should not have force to cheat my whole life long.

"Annul a marriage? 'T is impossible!

Though ring about your neck be brass not gold,

Needs must it clasp, gangrene you all the same!"

Well, let me have the benefit, just so far,

O' the fact announced,--my wife then is my wife,

I have allowance for a husband's right.

I am charged with passing right's due bound,--such acts

As I thought just, my wife called cruelty,

Complained of in due form,--convoked no court

Of common gossipry, but took her wrongs--

And not once, but so long as patience served--

To the town's top, jurisdiction's pride of place,

To the Archbishop and the Governor.

These heard her charge with my reply, and found

That futile, this sufficient: they dismissed

The hysteric querulous rebel, and confirmed

Authority in its wholesome exercise,

They, with directest access to the facts.

"--Ay, for it was their friendship favored you,

Hereditary alliance against a breach

I' the social order: prejudice for the name

Of Franceschini!"--So I hear it said:

But not here. You, lords, never will you say

"Such is the nullity of grace and truth,

Such the corruption of the faith, such lapse

Of law, such warrant have the Molinists

For daring reprehend us as they do,--

That we pronounce it just a common case,

Two dignitaries, each in his degree

First, foremost, this the spiritual head, and that

The secular arm o' the body politic,

Should, for mere wrongs' love and injustice' sake,

Side with, aid and abet in cruelty

This broken beggarly noble,--bribed perhaps

By his watered wine and mouldy crust of bread--

Rather than that sweet tremulous flower-like wife

Who kissed their hands and curled about their feet

Looking the irresistible loveliness

In tears that takes man captive, turns" ... enough!

Do you blast your predecessors? What forbids

Posterity to trebly blast yourselves

Who set the example and instruct their tongue?

You dreaded the crowd, succumbed to the popular cry,

Or else, would nowise seem defer thereto

And yield to public clamor though i' the right!

You ridded your eye of my unseemliness,

The noble whose misfortune wearied you,--

Or, what 's more probable, made common cause

With the cleric section, punished in myself

Maladroit uncomplaisant laity,

Defective in behavior to a priest

Who claimed the customary partnership

I' the house and the wife. Lords, any lie will serve!

Look to it,--or allow me freed so far!

Then I proceed a step, come with clean hands

Thus far, re-tell the tale told eight months since.

The wife, you allow so far, I have not wronged,

Has fled my roof, plundered me and decamped

In company with the priest her paramour:

And I gave chase, came up with, caught the two

At the wayside inn where both had spent the night,

Found them in flagrant fault, and found as well,

By documents with name and plan and date,

The fault was furtive then that 's flagrant now,

Their intercourse a long established crime.

I did not take the license law's self gives

To slay both criminals o' the spot at the time,

But held my hand,--preferred play prodigy

Of patience which the world calls cowardice,

Rather than seem anticipate the law

And cast discredit on its organs,--you.

So, to your bar I brought both criminals,

And made my statement: heard their countercharge,

Nay,--their corroboration of my tale,

Nowise disputing its allegements, not

I' the main, not more than nature's decency

Compels men to keep silence in this kind,--

Only contending that the deeds avowed

Would take another color and bear excuse.

You were to judge between us; so you did.

You disregard the excuse, you breathe away

The color of innocence and leave guilt black;

"Guilty" is the decision of the court,

And that I stand in consequence untouched,

One white integrity from head to heel.

Not guilty? Why then did you punish them?

True, punishment has been inadequate--

'T is not I only, not my friends that joke,

My foes that jeer, who echo "inadequate"--

For, by a chance that comes to help for once,

The same case simultaneously was judged

At Arezzo, in the province of the Court

Where the crime had its beginning but not end.

They then, deciding on but half o' the crime,

The effraction, robbery,--features of the fault

I never cared to dwell upon at Rome,--

What was it they adjudged as penalty

To Pompilia,--the one criminal o' the pair

Amenable to their judgment, not the priest

Who is Rome's? Why, just imprisonment for life

I' the Stinche. There was Tuscany's award

To a wife that robs her husband: you at Rome--

Having to deal with adultery in a wife

And, in a priest, breach of the priestly vow--

Give gentle sequestration for a month

In a manageable Convent, then release,

You call imprisonment, in the very house

O' the very couple, which the aim and end

Of the culprits' crime was--just to reach and rest

And there take solace and defy me: well,--

This difference 'twixt their penalty and yours

Is immaterial: make your penalty less--

Merely that she should henceforth wear black gloves

And white fan, she who wore the opposite--

Why, all the same the fact o' the thing subsists.

Reconcile to your conscience as you may,

Be it on your own heads, you pronounced but half

O' the penalty for heinousness like hers

And his, that pays a fault at Carnival

Of comfit-pelting past discretion's law,

Or accident to handkerchief in Lent

Which falls perversely as a lady kneels

Abruptly, and but half conceals her neck!

I acquiesce for my part: punished, though

By a pin-point scratch, means guilty: guilty means

--What have I been but innocent hitherto?

Anyhow, here the offence, being punished, ends.

Ends?--for you deemed so, did you not, sweet lords?

That was throughout the veritable aim

O' the sentence light or heavy,--to redress

Recognized wrong? You righted me, I think?

Well then,--what if I, at this last of all,

Demonstrate you, as my whole pleading proves,

No particle of wrong received thereby

One atom of right?--that cure grew worse disease?

That in the process you call "justice done"

All along you have nipped away just inch

By inch the creeping climbing length of plague

Breaking my tree of life from root to branch,

And left me, after all and every act

Of your interference,--lightened of what load?

At liberty wherein? Mere words and wind!

"Now I was saved, now I should feel no more

The hot breath, find a respite from fixed eye

And vibrant tongue!" Why, scarce your back was turned,

There was the reptile, that feigned death at first,

Renewing its detested spire and spire

Around me, rising to such heights of hate

That, so far from mere purpose now to crush

And coil itself on the remains of me,

Body and mind, and there flesh fang content,

Its aim is now to evoke life from death,

Make me anew, satisfy in my son

The hunger I may feed but never sate,

Tormented on to perpetuity--

My son, whom dead, I shall know, understand,

Feel, hear, see, never more escape the sight

In heaven that 's turned to hell, or hell returned

(So rather say) to this same earth again,--

Moulded into the image and made one,

Fashioned of soul as featured like in face,

First taught to laugh and lisp and stand and go

By that thief, poisoner and adulteress

I call Pompilia, he calls ... sacred name,

Be unpronounced, be unpolluted here!

And last led up to the glory and prize of hate

By his ... foster-father, Caponsacchi's self,

The perjured priest, pink of conspirators,

Tricksters and knaves, yet polished, superfine,

Manhood to model adolescence by!

Lords, look on me, declare,--when, what I show,

Is nothing more nor less than what you deemed

And doled me out for justice,--what did you say?

For reparation, restitution and more,--

Will you not thank, praise, bid me to your breasts

For having done the thing you thought to do,

And thoroughly trampled out sin's life at last?

I have heightened phrase to make your soft speech serve,

Doubled the blow you but essayed to strike,

Carried into effect your mandate here

That else had fallen to ground: mere duty done.

Oversight of the master just supplied

By zeal i' the servant. I, being used to serve,

Have simply ... what is it they charge me with?

Blackened again, made legible once more

Your own decree, not permanently writ,

Rightly conceived but all too faintly traced.

It reads efficient, now, comminatory,

A terror to the wicked, answers so

The mood o' the magistrate, the mind of law.

Absolve, then, me, law's mere executant!

Protect your own defender,--save me, Sirs!

Give me my life, give me my liberty,

My good name and my civic rights again!

It would be too fond, too complacent play

Into the hands o' the devil, should we lose

The game here, I for God: a soldier-bee

That yields his life, exenterate with the stroke

O' the sting that saves the hive. I need that life.

Oh, never fear! I 'll find life plenty use

Though it should last five years more, aches and all!

For, first thing, there 's the mother's age to help--

Let her come break her heart upon my breast,

Not on the blank stone of my nameless tomb!

The fugitive brother has to be bidden back

To the old routine, repugnant to the tread,

Of daily suit and service to the Church,--

Through gibe and jest, those stones that Shimei flung!

Ay, and the spirit-broken youth at home,

The awe-struck altar-ministrant, shall make

Amends for faith now palsied at the source,

Shall see truth yet triumphant, justice yet

A victor in the battle of this world!

Give me--for last, best gift--my son again,

Whom law makes mine,--I take him at your word,

Mine be he, by miraculous mercy, lords!

Let me lift up his youth and innocence

To purify my palace, room by room

Purged of the memories, lend from his bright brow

Light to the old proud paladin my sire

Shrunk now for shame into the darkest shade

O' the tapestry, showed him once and shrouds him now!

Then may we,--strong from that rekindled smile,--

Go forward, face new times, the better day.

And when, in times made better through your brave

Decision now,--might but Utopia be!--

Rome rife with honest women and strong men,

Manners reformed, old habits back once more,

Customs that recognize the standard worth,--

The wholesome household rule in force again,

Husbands once more God's representative,

Wives like the typical Spouse once more, and Priests

No longer men of Belial, with no aim

At leading silly women captive, but

Of rising to such duties as yours now,--

Then will I set my son at my right-hand

And tell his father's story to this point,

Adding, "The task seemed superhuman, still

I dared and did it, trusting God and law:

And they approved of me: give praise to both!"

And if, for answer, he shall stoop to kiss

My hand, and peradventure start thereat,--

I engage to smile, "That was an accident

I' the necessary process,--just a trip

O' the torture-irons in their search for truth,--

Hardly misfortune, and no fault at all."

VI

GIUSEPPE CAPONSACCHI

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?

Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,--

So things disguise themselves,--I cannot see

My own hand held thus broad before my face

And know it again. Answer you? Then that means

Tell over twice what I, the first time, told

Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,

Fronting you same three in this very room,

I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,

Who then ... nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,

As good as laugh, what in a judge we style

Laughter--no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!

Only,--I think I apprehend the mood:

There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,

The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,

The titter stifled in the hollow palm

Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,

When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,

"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!

Well, he can say no other than what he says.

We have been young, too,--come, there's greater guilt!

Let him but decently disembroil himself,

Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,--

We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!"

And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast

As if I were a phantom: now 't is--"Friend,

Collect yourself!"--no laughing matter more--

"Counsel the Court in this extremity,

Tell us again!"--tell that, for telling which,

I got the jocular piece of punishment,

Was sent to lounge a little in the place

Whence now of a sudden here you summon me

To take the intelligence from just--your lips!

You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,--

That she I helped eight months since to escape

Her husband, was retaken by the same,

Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,--

(I being disallowed to interfere,

Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,

For you and law were guardians quite enough

O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)--

And that he has butchered her accordingly,

As she foretold and as myself believed,--

And, so foretelling and believing so,

We were punished, both of us, the merry way:

Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?

Pompilia is only dying while I speak!

Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?

My masters, there 's an old book, you should con

For strange adventures, applicable yet,

'T is stuffed with. Do you know that there was once

This thing: a multitude of worthy folk

Took recreation, watched a certain group

Of soldiery intent upon a game,--

How first they wrangled, but soon fell to play,

Threw dice,--the best diversion in the world.

A word in your ear,--they are now casting lots,

Ay, with that gesture quaint and cry uncouth,

For the coat of One murdered an hour ago!

I am a priest,--talk of what I have learned.

Pompilia is bleeding out her life belike,

Gasping away the latest breath of all,

This minute, while I talk--not while you laugh.

Yet, being sobered now, what is it you ask

By way of explanation? There 's the fact!

It seems to fill the universe with sight

And sound,--from the four corners of this earth

Tells itself over, to my sense at least.

But you may want it lower set i' the scale,--

Too vast, too close it clangs in the ear, perhaps;

You 'd stand back just to comprehend it more.

Well then, let me, the hollow rock, condense

The voice o' the sea and wind, interpret you

The mystery of this murder. God above!

It is too paltry, such a transference

O' the storm's roar to the cranny of the stone!

This deed, you saw begin--why does its end

Surprise you? Why should the event enforce

The lesson, we ourselves learned, she and I,

From the first o' the fact, and taught you, all in vain?

This Guido from whose throat you took my grasp,

Was this man to be favored, now, or feared,

Let do his will, or have his will restrained,

In the relation with Pompilia?--say!

Did any other man need interpose

--Oh, though first comer, though as strange at the work

As fribble must be, coxcomb, fool that 's near

To knave as, say, a priest who fears the world--

Was he bound brave the peril, save the doomed,

Or go on, sing his snatch and pluck his flower,

Keep the straight path and let the victim die?

I held so; you decided otherwise,

Saw no such peril, therefore no such need

To stop song, loosen flower, and leave path. Law,

Law was aware and watching, would suffice,

Wanted no priest's intrusion, palpably

Pretence, too manifest a subterfuge!

Whereupon I, priest, coxcomb, fribble and fool,

Ensconced me in my corner, thus rebuked,

A kind of culprit, over-zealous hound

Kicked for his pains to kennel; I gave place

To you, and let the law reign paramount:

I left Pompilia to your watch and ward,

And now you point me--there and thus she lies!

Men, for the last time, what do you want with me?

Is it,--you acknowledge, as it were, a use,

A profit in employing me?--at length

I may conceivably help the august law?

I am free to break the blow, next hawk that swoops

On next dove, nor miss much of good repute?

Or what if this your summons, after all,

Be but the form of mere release, no more,

Which turns the key and lets the captive go?

I have paid enough in person at Civita,

Am free,--what more need I concern me with?

Thank you! I am rehabilitated then,

A very reputable priest. But she--

The glory of life, the beauty of the world,

The splendor of heaven, ... well, Sirs, does no one move?

Do I speak ambiguously? The glory, I say,

And the beauty, I say, and splendor, still say I,

Who, priest and trained to live my whole life long

On beauty and splendor, solely at their source,

God,--have thus recognized my food in her,

You tell me, that 's fast dying while we talk,

Pompilia! How does lenity to me

Remit one death-bed pang to her? Come, smile!

The proper wink at the hot-headed youth

Who lets his soul show, through transparent words,

The mundane love that's sin and scandal too!

You are all struck acquiescent now, it seems:

It seems the oldest, gravest signor here,

Even the redoubtable Tommati, sits

Chopfallen,--understands how law might take

Service like mine, of brain and heart and hand,

In good part. Better late than never, law!

You understand of a sudden, gospel too

Has a claim here, may possibly pronounce

Consistent with my priesthood, worthy Christ,

That I endeavored to save Pompilia?

Then,

You were wrong, you see: that 's well to see, though late:

That 's all we may expect of man, this side

The grave: his good is--knowing he is bad:

Thus will it be with us when the books ope

And we stand at the bar on judgment-day.

Well then, I have a mind to speak, see cause

To relume the quenched flax by this dreadful light,

Burn my soul out in showing you the truth.

I heard, last time I stood here to be judged,

What is priest's-duty,--labor to pluck tares

And weed the corn of Molinism; let me

Make you hear, this time, how, in such a case,

Man, be he in the priesthood or at plough,

Mindful of Christ or marching step by step

With ... what 's his style, the other potentate

Who bids have courage and keep honor safe,

Nor let minuter admonition tease?--

How he is bound, better or worse, to act.

Earth will not end through this misjudgment, no!

For you and the others like you sure to come,

Fresh work is sure to follow,--wickedness

That wants withstanding. Many a man of blood,

Many a man of guile will clamor yet,

Bid you redress his grievance,--as he clutched

The prey, forsooth a stranger stepped between,

And there 's the good gripe in pure waste! My part

Is done; i' the doing it, I pass away

Out of the world. I want no more with earth.

Let me, in heaven's name, use the very snuff

O' the taper in one last spark shall show truth

For a moment, show Pompilia who was true!

Not for her sake, but yours: if she is dead,

Oh, Sirs, she can be loved by none of you

Most or least priestly! Saints, to do us good,

Must be in heaven, I seem to understand:

We never find them saints before, at least.

Be her first prayer then presently for you--

She has done the good to me ...

What is all this?

There, I was born, have lived, shall die, a fool!

This is a foolish outset:--might with cause

Give color to the very lie o' the man,

The murderer,--make as if I loved his wife

In the way he called love. He is the fool there!

Why, had there been in me the touch of taint,

I had picked up so much of knaves'-policy

As hide it, keep one hand pressed on the place

Suspected of a spot would damn us both.

Or no, not her!--not even if any of you

Dares think that I, i' the face of death, her death

That 's in my eyes and ears and brain and heart,

Lie,--if he does, let him! I mean to say,

So he stop there, stay thought from smirching her

The snow-white soul that angels fear to take

Untenderly. But, all the same, I know

I too am taintless, and I bare my breast.

You can't think, men as you are, all of you,

But that, to hear thus suddenly such an end

Of such a wonderful white soul, that comes

Of a man and murderer calling the white black,

Must shake me, trouble and disadvantage. Sirs,

Only seventeen!

Why, good and wise you are!

You might at the beginning stop my mouth:

So, none would be to speak for her, that knew.

I talk impertinently, and you bear,

All the same. This it is to have to do

With honest hearts: they easily may err,

But in the main they wish well to the truth.

You are Christians; somehow, no one ever plucked

A rag, even, from the body of the Lord,

To wear and mock with, but, despite himself,

He looked the greater and was the better. Yes,

I shall go on now. Does she need or not

I keep calm? Calm I 'll keep as monk that croons

Transcribing battle, earthquake, famine, plague,

From parchment to his cloister's chronicle.

Not one word more from the point now!

I begin.

Yes, I am one of your body and a priest.

Also I am a younger son o' the House

Oldest now, greatest once, in my birth-town

Arezzo, I recognize no equal there--

(I want all arguments, all sorts of arms

That seem to serve,--use this for a reason, wait!)

Not therefore thrust into the Church, because

O' the piece of bread one gets there. We were first

Of Fiesole, that rings still with the fame

Of Capo-in-Sacco our progenitor:

When Florence ruined Fiesole, our folk

Migrated to the victor-city, and there

Flourished,--our palace and our tower attest,

In the Old Mercato,--this was years ago,

Four hundred, full,--no, it wants fourteen just.

Our arms are those of Fiesole itself,

The shield quartered with white and red: a branch

Are the Salviati of us, nothing more.

That were good help to the Church? But better still--

Not simply for the advantage of my birth

I' the way of the world, was I proposed for priest;

But because there 's an illustration, late

I' the day, that 's loved and looked to as a saint

Still in Arezzo, he was bishop of,

Sixty years since: he spent to the last doit

His bishop's-revenue among the poor,

And used to tend the needy and the sick,

Barefoot, because of his humility.

He it was,--when the Granduke Ferdinand

Swore he would raze our city, plough the place

And sow it with salt, because we Aretines

Had tied a rope about the neck, to hale

The statue of his father from its base

For hate's sake,--he availed by prayers and tears

To pacify the Duke and save the town.

This was my father's father's brother. You see,

For his sake, how it was I had a right

To the selfsame office, bishop in the egg,

So, grew i' the garb and prattled in the school,

Was made expect, from infancy almost,

The proper mood o' the priest; till time ran by

And brought the day when I must read the vows,

Declare the world renounced, and undertake

To become priest and leave probation,--leap

Over the ledge into the other life,

Having gone trippingly hitherto up to the height

O'er the wan water. Just a vow to read!

I stopped short awe-struck. "How shall holiest flesh

Engage to keep such vow inviolate,

How much less mine? I know myself too weak,

Unworthy! Choose a worthier stronger man!"

And the very Bishop smiled and stopped my mouth

In its mid-protestation. "Incapable?

Qualmish of conscience? Thou ingenuous boy!

Clear up the clouds and cast thy scruples far!

I satisfy thee there 's an easier sense

Wherein to take such vow than suits the first

Rough rigid reading. Mark what makes all smooth,

Nay, has been even a solace to myself!

The Jews who needs must, in their synagogue,

Utter sometimes the holy name of God,

A thing their superstition boggles at,

Pronounce aloud the ineffable sacrosanct,--

How does their shrewdness help them? In this wise;

Another set of sounds they substitute,

Jumble so consonants and vowels--how

Should I know?--that there grows from out the old

Quite a new word that means the very same--

And o'er the hard place slide they with a smile.

Giuseppe Maria Caponsacchi mine,

Nobody wants you in these latter days

To prop the Church by breaking your backbone,--

As the necessary way was once, we know,

When Diocletian flourished and his like.

That building of the buttress-work was done

By martyrs and confessors: let it bide,

Add not a brick, but, where you see a chink,

Stick in a sprig of ivy or root a rose

Shall make amends and beautify the pile!

We profit as you were the painfullest

O' the martyrs, and you prove yourself a match

For the cruellest confessor ever was,

If you march boldly up and take your stand

Where their blood soaks, their bones yet strew the soil,

And cry 'Take notice, I the young and free

And well-to-do i' the world, thus leave the world,

Cast in my lot thus with no gay young world

But the grand old Church: she tempts me of the two!'

Renounce the world? Nay, keep and give it us!

Let us have you, and boast of what you bring.

We want the pick o' the earth to practise with,

Not its offscouring, halt and deaf and blind

In soul and body. There 's a rubble-stone

Unfit for the front o' the building, stuff to stow

In a gap behind and keep us weather-tight;

There 's porphyry for the prominent place. Good lack!

Saint Paul has had enough and to spare, I trow,

Of ragged runaway Onesimus:

He wants the right-hand with the signet-ring

Of King Agrippa, now, to shake and use.

I have a heavy scholar cloistered up,

Close under lock and key, kept at his task

Of letting Fénelon know the fool he is,

In a book I promise Christendom next Spring.

Why, if he covets so much meat, the clown,

As a lark's wing next Friday, or, any day,

Diversion beyond catching his own fleas,

He shall be properly swinged, I promise him.

But you, who are so quite another paste

Of a man,--do you obey me? Cultivate

Assiduous that superior gift you have

Of making madrigals--(who told me? Ah!)

Get done a Marinesque Adoniad straight

With a pulse o' the blood a-pricking, here and there,

That I may tell the lady, 'And he 's ours!'"

So I became a priest: those terms changed all,

I was good enough for that, nor cheated so;

I could live thus and still hold head erect.

Now you see why I may have been before

A fribble and coxcomb, yet, as priest, break word

Nowise, to make you disbelieve me now.

I need that you should know my truth. Well, then,

According to prescription did I live,

--Conformed myself, both read the breviary

And wrote the rhymes, was punctual to my place

I' the Pieve, and as diligent at my post

Where beauty and fashion rule. I throve apace,

Sub-deacon, Canon, the authority

For delicate play at tarocs, and arbiter

O' the magnitude of fan-mounts: all the while

Wanting no whit the advantage of a hint

Benignant to the promising pupil,--thus:

"Enough attention to the Countess now,

The young one; 't is her mother rules the roast,

We know where, and puts in a word: go pay

Devoir to-morrow morning after mass!

Break that rash promise to preach, Passion-week!

Has it escaped you the Archbishop grunts

And snuffles when one grieves to tell his Grace

No soul dares treat the subject of the day

Since his own masterly handling it (ha, ha!)

Five years ago,--when somebody could help

And touch up an odd phrase in time of need,

(He, he!)--and somebody helps you, my son!

Therefore, don't prove so indispensable

At the Pieve, sit more loose i' the seat, nor grow

A fixture by attendance morn and eve!

Arezzo 's just a haven midway Rome--

Rome 's the eventual harbor,--make for port,

Crowd sail, crack cordage! And your cargo be

A polished presence, a genteel manner, wit

At will, and tact at every pore of you!

I sent our lump of learning, Brother Clout,

And Father Slouch, our piece of piety,

To see Rome and try suit the Cardinal.

Thither they clump-clumped, beads and book in hand,

And ever since 't is meat for man and maid

How both flopped down, prayed blessing on bent pate

Bald many an inch beyond the tonsure's need,

Never once dreaming, the two moony dolts,

There 's nothing moves his Eminence so much

As--far from all this awe at sanctitude--

Heads that wag, eyes that twinkle, modified mirth

At the closet-lectures on the Latin tongue

A lady learns so much by, we know where.

Why, body o' Bacchus, you should crave his rule

For pauses in the elegiac couplet, chasms

Permissible only to Catullus! There!

Now go to duty: brisk, break Priscian's head

By reading the day's office--there 's no help.

You 've Ovid in your poke to plaster that;

Amen 's at the end of all: then sup with me!"

Well, after three or four years of this life,

In prosecution of my calling, I

Found myself at the theatre one night

With a brother Canon, in a mood and mind

Proper enough for the place, amused or no:

When I saw enter, stand, and seat herself

A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange and sad.

It was as when, in our cathedral once,

As I got yawningly through matin-song,

I saw _facchini_ bear a burden up,

Base it on the high-altar, break away

A board or two, and leave the thing inside

Lofty and lone: and lo, when next I looked,

There was the Rafael! I was still one stare,

When--"Nay, I 'll make her give you back your gaze"--

Said Canon Conti; and at the word he tossed

A paper-twist of comfits to her lap,

And dodged and in a trice was at my back

Nodding from over my shoulder. Then she turned,

Looked our way, smiled the beautiful sad strange smile.

"Is not she fair? 'T is my new cousin," said he:

"The fellow lurking there i' the black o' the box

Is Guido, the old scapegrace: she 's his wife,

Married three years since: how his Countship sulks!

He has brought little back from Rome beside,

After the bragging, bullying. A fair face,

And--they do say--a pocketful of gold

When he can worry both her parents dead.

I don't go much there, for the chamber 's cold

And the coffee pale. I got a turn at first

Paying my duty: I observed they crouched

--The two old frightened family spectres--close

In a corner, each on each like mouse on mouse

I' the cat's cage: ever since, I stay at home.

Hallo, there 's Guido, the black, mean and small,

Bends his brows on us--please to bend your own

On the shapely nether limbs of Light-skirts there

By way of a diversion! I was a fool

To fling the sweetmeats. Prudence, for God's love!

To-morrow I 'll make my peace, e'en tell some fib,

Try if I can't find means to take you there."

That night and next day did the gaze endure,

Burnt to my brain, as sunbeam through shut eyes,

And not once changed the beautiful sad strange smile.

At vespers Conti leaned beside my seat

I' the choir,--part said, part sung--"_In ex-cel-sis_--

All 's to no purpose; I have louted low,

But he saw you staring--_quia sub_--don't incline

To know you nearer; him we would not hold

For Hercules,--the man would lick your shoe

If you and certain efficacious friends

Managed him warily,--but there 's the wife:

Spare her, because he beats her, as it is,

She 's breaking her heart quite fast enough--_jam tu_--

So, be you rational and make amends

With little Light-skirts yonder--_in secula_

_Secu-lo-o-o-o-rum_. Ah, you rogue! Every one knows

What great dame she makes jealous: one against one,

Play, and win both!"

Sirs, ere the week was out,

I saw and said to myself, "Light-skirts hides teeth

Would make a dog sick,--the great dame shows spite

Should drive a cat mad: 't is but poor work this--

Counting one's fingers till the sonnet 's crowned.

I doubt much if Marino really be

A better bard than Dante after all.

'T is more amusing to go pace at eve

I' the Duomo,--watch the day's last gleam outside

Turn, as into a skirt of God's own robe,

Those lancet-windows' jewelled miracle,--

Than go eat the Archbishop's ortolans,

Digest his jokes. Luckily Lent is near:

Who cares to look will find me in my stall

At the Pieve, constant to this faith at least--

Never to write a canzonet any more."

So, next week, 't was my patron spoke abrupt,

In altered guise, "Young man, can it be true

That after all your promise of sound fruit,

You have kept away from Countess young or old

And gone play truant in church all day long?

Are you turning Molinist?" I answered quick:

"Sir, what if I turned Christian? It might be.

The fact is, I am troubled in my mind,

Beset and pressed hard by some novel thoughts.

This your Arezzo is a limited world;

There 's a strange Pope,--'t is said, a priest who thinks.

Rome is the port, you say: to Rome I go.

I will live alone, one does so in a crowd,

And look into my heart a little." "Lent

Ended,"--I told friends,--"I shall go to Rome."

One evening I was sitting in a muse

Over the opened "Summa," darkened round

By the mid-March twilight, thinking how my life

Had shaken under me,--broke short indeed

And showed the gap 'twixt what is, what should be,--

And into what abysm the soul may slip,

Leave aspiration here, achievement there,

Lacking omnipotence to connect extremes--

Thinking moreover ... oh, thinking, if you like,

How utterly dissociated was I

A priest and celibate, from the sad strange wife

Of Guido,--just as an instance to the point,

Naught more,--how I had a whole store of strengths

Eating into my heart, which craved employ,

And she, perhaps, need of a finger's help,--

And yet there was no way in the wide world

To stretch out mine and so relieve myself,--

How when the page o' the "Summa" preached its best,

Her smile kept glowing out of it, as to mock

The silence we could break by no one word,--

There came a tap without the chamber-door,

And a whisper, when I bade who tapped speak out,

And, in obedience to my summons, last

In glided a masked muffled mystery,

Laid lightly a letter on the opened book,

Then stood with folded arms and foot demure,

Pointing as if to mark the minutes' flight.

I took the letter, read to the effect

That she, I lately flung the comfits to,

Had a warm heart to give me in exchange,

And gave it,--loved me and confessed it thus,

And bade me render thanks by word of mouth,

Going that night to such a side o' the house

Where the small terrace overhangs a street

Blind and deserted, not the street in front:

Her husband being away, the surly patch,

At his villa of Vittiano.

"And you?"--I asked:

"What may you be?" "Count Guido's kind of maid--

Most of us have two functions in his house.

We all hate him, the lady suffers much,

'T is just we show compassion, furnish help,

Specially since her choice is fixed so well.

What answer may I bring to cheer the sweet

Pompilia?"

Then I took a pen and wrote:

"No more of this! That you are fair, I know:

But other thoughts now occupy my mind.

I should not thus have played the insensible

Once on a time. What made you--may one ask--

Marry your hideous husband? 'T was a fault,

And now you taste the fruit of it. Farewell."

"There!" smiled I as she snatched it and was gone--

"There, let the jealous miscreant,--Guido's self,

Whose mean soul grins through this transparent trick,--

Be balked so far, defrauded of his aim!

What fund of satisfaction to the knave,

Had I kicked this his messenger down stairs,

Trussed to the middle of her impudence,

And set his heart at ease so! No, indeed!

There 's the reply which he shall turn and twist

At pleasure, snuff at till his brain grow drunk,

As the bear does when he finds a scented glove

That puzzles him,--a hand and yet no hand,

Of other perfume than his own foul paw!

Last month, I had doubtless chosen to play the dupe,

Accepted the mock-invitation, kept

The sham appointment, cudgel beneath cloak,

Prepared myself to pull the appointer's self

Out of the window from his hiding-place

Behind the gown of this part-messenger

Part-mistress who would personate the wife.

Such had seemed once a jest permissible:

Now, I am not i' the mood."

Back next morn brought

The messenger, a second letter in hand.

"You are cruel, Thyrsis, and Myrtilla moans

Neglected but adores you, makes request

For mercy: why is it you dare not come?

Such virtue is scarce natural to your age:

You must love some one else; I hear you do,

The Baron's daughter or the Advocate's wife,

Or both,--all 's one, would you make me the third--

I take the crumbs from table gratefully

Nor grudge who feasts there. 'Faith, I blush and blaze!

Yet if I break all bounds, there 's reason sure.

Are you determinedly bent on Rome?

I am wretched here, a monster tortures me:

Carry me with you! Come and say you will!

Concert this very evening! Do not write!

I am ever at the window of my room

Over the terrace, at the _Ave_. Come!"

I questioned--lifting half the woman's mask

To let her smile loose. "So, you gave my line

To the merry lady?" "She kissed off the wax,

And put what paper was not kissed away

In her bosom to go burn: but merry, no!

She wept all night when evening brought no friend,

Alone, the unkind missive at her breast;

Thus Philomel, the thorn at her breast too,

Sings" ... "Writes this second letter?" "Even so!

Then she may peep at vespers forth?"--"What risk

Do we run o' the husband?"--"Ah,--no risk at all!

He is more stupid even than jealous. Ah--

That was the reason? Why, the man 's away!

Beside, his bugbear is that friend of yours,

Fat little Canon Conti. He fears him,

How should he dream of you? I told you truth:

He goes to the villa at Vittiano--'t is

The time when Spring-sap rises in the vine--

Spends the night there. And then his wife 's a child:

Does he think a child outwits him? A mere child:

Yet so full-grown, a dish for any duke.

Don't quarrel longer with such cates, but come!"

I wrote, "In vain do you solicit me.

I am a priest: and you are wedded wife,

Whatever kind of brute your husband prove.

I have scruples, in short. Yet should you really show

Sign at the window ... but nay, best be good!

My thoughts are elsewhere."--"Take her that!"

--"Again

Let the incarnate meanness, cheat and spy,

Mean to the marrow of him, make his heart

His food, anticipate hell's worm once more!

Let him watch shivering at the window--ay,

And let this hybrid, this his light-of-love

And lackey-of-lies,--a sage economy,--

Paid with embracings for the rank brass coin,--

Let her report and make him chuckle o'er

The breakdown of my resolution now,

And lour at disappointment in good time!

--So tantalize and so enrage by turns,

Until the two fall each on the other like

Two famished spiders, as the coveted fly,

That toys long, leaves their net and them at last!"

And so the missives followed thick and fast

For a month, say,--I still came at every turn

On the soft sly adder, endlong 'neath my tread.

I was met i' the street, made sign to in the church,

A slip was found i' the door-sill, scribbled word

'Twixt page and page o' the prayer-book in my place.

A crumpled thing dropped even before my feet,

Pushed through the blind, above the terrace-rail,

As I passed, by day, the very window once.

And ever from corners would be peering up

The messenger, with the selfsame demand,

"Obdurate still, no flesh but adamant?

Nothing to cure the wound, assuage the throe

O' the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear?"

And ever my one answer in one tone--

"Go your ways, temptress! Let a priest read, pray,

Unplagued of vain talk, visions not for him!

In the end, you 'll have your will and ruin me!"

One day, a variation: thus I read:

"You have gained little by timidity.

My husband has found out my love at length,

Sees cousin Conti was the stalking-horse,

And you the game he covered, poor fat soul!

My husband is a formidable foe,

Will stick at nothing to destroy you. Stand

Prepared, or better, run till you reach Rome!

I bade you visit me, when the last place

My tyrant would have turned suspicious at,

Or cared to seek you in, was ... why say, where?

But now all 's changed: beside, the season 's past

At the villa,--wants the master's eye no more.

Anyhow, I beseech you, stay away

From the window! He might well be posted there."

I wrote--"You raise my courage, or call up

My curiosity, who am but man.

Tell him he owns the palace, not the street

Under--that 's his and yours and mine alike,

If it should please me pad the path this eve,

Guido will have two troubles, first to get

Into a rage and then get out again.

Be cautious, though: at the _Ave!_"

You of the court

When I stood question here and reached this point

O' the narrative,--search notes and see and say

If some one did not interpose with smile

And sneer, "And prithee why so confident

That the husband must, of all needs, not the wife,

Fabricate thus,--what if the lady loved?

What if she wrote the letters?"

Learned Sir,

I told you there 's a picture in our church.

Well, if a low-browed verger sidled up

Bringing me, like a blotch, on his prod's point,

A transfixed scorpion, let the reptile writhe,

And then said, "See a thing that Rafael made--

This venom issued from Madonna's mouth!"

I should reply, "Rather, the soul of you

Has issued from your body, like from like,

By way of the ordure-corner!"

But no less,

I tired of the same long black teasing lie

Obtruded thus at every turn; the pest

Was far too near the picture, anyhow:

One does Madonna service, making clowns

Remove their dung-heap from the sacristy.

"I will to the window, as he tempts," said I:

"Yes, whom the easy love has failed allure,

This new bait of adventure tempts,--thinks he.

Though the imprisoned lady keeps afar,

There will they lie in ambush, heads alert,

Kith, kin, and Count mustered to bite my heel.

No mother nor brother viper of the brood

Shall scuttle off without the instructive bruise!"

So I went: crossed street and street: "The next street's turn,

I stand beneath the terrace, see, above,

The black of the ambush-window. Then, in place

Of hand's throw of soft prelude over lute,

And cough that clears way for the ditty last,"--

I began to laugh already--"he will have

'Out of the hole you hide in, on to the front,

Count Guido Franceschini, show yourself!

Hear what a man thinks of a thing like you,

And after, take this foulness in your face!'"

The words lay living on my lip, I made

The one turn more--and there at the window stood,

Framed in its black square length, with lamp in hand,

Pompilia; the same great, grave, griefful air

As stands i' the dusk, on altar that I know,

Left alone with one moonbeam in her cell,

Our Lady of all the Sorrows. Ere I knelt--

Assured myself that she was flesh and blood--

She had looked one look and vanished.

I thought--"Just so:

It was herself, they have set her there to watch--

Stationed to see some wedding-band go by,

On fair pretence that she must bless the bride,

Or wait some funeral with friends wind past,

And crave peace for the corpse that claims its due.

She never dreams they used her for a snare,

And now withdraw the bait has served its turn.

Well done, the husband, who shall fare the worse!"

And on my lip again was--"Out with thee,

Guido!" When all at once she reappeared;

But, this time, on the terrace overhead,

So close above me, she could almost touch

My head if she bent down; and she did bend,

While I stood still as stone, all eye, all ear.