Part 2 / Act 5 — PACCHIAROTTO

Oh, the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long midsummer day, My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away! And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh between. Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims The body,—the house, no eye can probe,— Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? And there again! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess Died out and away in the leafy wraps! Wall upon wall are between us: life And song should away from heart to heart! I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start— Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That 's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbors, and—forth to thee!

I Query: was ever a quainter Crotchet than this of the painter Giacomo Pacchiarotto Who took "Reform" for his motto? II He, pupil of old Fungaio, Is always confounded (heigho!) With Pacchia, contemporaneous No question, but how extraneous In the grace of soul, the power Of hand,—undoubted dower Of Pacchia who decked (as we know, My Kirkup!) San Bernardino, Turning the small dark Oratory To Siena's Art-laboratory, As he made its straitness roomy And glorified its gloomy, With Bazzi and Beccafumi. (Another heigho for Bazzi: How people miscall him Razzi!) III This Painter was of opinion Our earth should be his dominion Whose Art could correct to pattern What Nature had slurred—the slattern! And since, beneath the heavens, Things lay now at sixes and sevens, Or, as he said, sopra-sotto— Thought the painter Pacchiarotto Things wanted reforming, therefore. "Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore? When earth held one so ready As he to step forth, stand steady In the middle of God's creation And prove to demonstration What the dark is, what the light is, What the wrong is, what the right is, What the ugly, what the beautiful, What the restive, what the dutiful, In Mankind profuse around him? Man, devil as now he found him, Would presently soar up angel At the summons of such evangel, And owe—what would Man not owe To the painter Pacchiarotto? Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto! IV But Man, he perceived, was stubborn, Grew regular brute, once cub born; And it struck him as expedient— Ere he tried, to make obedient The wolf, fox, bear, and monkey By piping advice in one key,— That his pipe should play a prelude To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued, Something not harsh but docile, Man-liquid, not Man-fossil— Not fact, in short, but fancy. By a laudable necromancy He would conjure up ghosts—a circle Deprived of the means to work ill Should his music prove distasteful And pearls to the swine go wasteful. To be rent of swine—that was hard! With fancy he ran no hazard: Pact might knock him o'er the mazard. V So, the painter Pacchiarotto Constructed himself a grotto In the quarter of Stalloreggi— As authors of note allege ye. And on each of the whitewashed sides of it He painted—(none far and wide so fit As he to perform in fresco)— He painted nor cried quiesco Till he peopled its every square foot With Man—from the Beggar barefoot To the Noble in cap and feather; All sorts and conditions together. The Soldier in breastplate and helmet Stood frowningly—hail fellow well met— By the Priest armed with bell, book, and candle. Nor did he omit to handle The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer: Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor— He diversified too his Hades Of all forms, pinched Labor and paid Ease, With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies. VI Which work done, dry,—he rested him, Cleaned palette, washed brush, divested him Of the apron that suits frescanti, And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty, This hand upon hip well planted, That, free to wave as it wanted, He addressed in a choice oration His folk of each name and nation, Taught its duty to every station. The Pope was declared an arrant Impostor at once, I warrant. The Emperor—truth might tax him With ignorance of the maxim "Shear sheep but nowise flay them!" And the Vulgar that obey them, The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling, They failed not of wholesome schooling On their knavery and their fooling. As for Art—where 's decorum? Pooh-poohed it is By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties, And Painters that pester with nudities! VII Now, your rater and debater Is balked by a mere spectator Who simply stares and listens Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens Nor brow grows hot and twitchy, Nor mouth, for a combat itchy, Quivers with some convincing Reply—that sets him wincing? Nay, rather—reply that furnishes Your debater with just what burnishes The crest of him, all one triumph, As you see him rise, hear him cry "Humph! Convinced am I? This confutes me? Receive the rejoinder that suits me! Confutation of vassal for prince meet— Wherein all the powers that convince meet, And mash my opponent to mincemeat!" VIII So, off from his head flies the bonnet, His hip loses hand planted on it, While t' other hand, frequent in gesture, Slinks modestly back beneath vesture, As—hop, skip and jump,—he 's along with Those weak ones he late proved so strong with! Pope, Emperor, lo, he 's beside them, Friendly now, who late could not abide them, King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess; And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges, How minikin-mildly it urges In accents how gentled and gingered Its word in defence of the injured! "Oh, call him not culprit, this Pontiff! Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if Ye take into con-si-der-ation What dangers attend elevation! The Priest—who expects him to descant On duty with more zeal and less cant? He preaches but rubbish he 's reared in. The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling And what not of vice while a stripling. The Lawyer—his lies are conventional. And as for the Poor Sort—why mention all Obstructions that leave barred and bolted Access to the brains of each dolt-head?" IX He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet? Precedence to males in the alphabet! Still, disposed of Man's A B C, there 's X Y Z want assistance,—the Fair Sex! How much may be said in excuse of Those vanities—males see no use of— From silk shoe on heel to laced poll's-hood! What 's their frailty beside our own falsehood? The boldest, most brazen of ... trumpets, How kind can they be to their dumb pets! Of their charms—how are most frank, how few venal! While as for those charges of Juvenal— Quæ nemo dixisset in toto Nisi (ædepol) ore illoto— He dismissed every charge with an "Apage!" X Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee, Right hand disengaged from the doublet —Like landlord, in house he had sublet Resuming of guardianship gestion, To call tenants' conduct in question— Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed With such transformation of visage As fitted the censor of this age. No longer an advocate tepid Of frailty, but champion intrepid Of strength,—not of falsehood but verity,— He, one after one, with asperity Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses, Disposed of sophistic excuses, Forced folly each shift to abandon, And left vice with no leg to stand on. So crushing the force he exerted, That Man at his foot lay converted! XI True—Man bred of paint-pot and mortar! But why suppose folks of this sort are More likely to hear and be tractable Than folks all alive and, in fact, able To testify promptly by action Their ardor, and make satisfaction For misdeeds non verbis sed factis? "With folks all alive be my practice Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O, Farewell to ye!" cried Pacchiarotto, "Let only occasion intérpose!" XII It did so: for, pat to the purpose Through causes I need not examine, There fell upon Siena a famine. In vain did the magistrates busily Seek succor, fetch grain out of Sicily, Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open— Such misery followed as no pen Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter, Emboldened by triumph of recency, How could he do other with decency Than rush in this strait to the rescue, Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue To each and all slips in Man's spelling The law of the land?—slips now telling With monstrous effect on the city, Whose magistrates moved him to pity As, bound to read law to the letter, They minded their hornbook, no better. XIII I ought to have told you, at starting, How certain, who itched to be carting Abuses away clean and thorough From Siena, both province and borough, Had formed themselves into a company Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any Obstruction of scruple, provoking The nicer throat's coughing and choking: Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified Of "Freed Ones"—"Bardotti"—which signified "Spare-Horses" that walk by the wagon The team has to drudge for and drag on. This notable Club Pacchiarotto Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to, As free and accepted "Bardotto." The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye The outrage thus done to society, And noted the advent especially Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally. XIV These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled: Neighed words whereat citizens trembled As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by The Duomo, proposed a way whereby The city were cured of disaster. "Just substitute servant for master, Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty, Unloose Man from overt and covert tie, And straight out of social confusion True Order would spring!" Brave illusion— Aims heavenly attained by means earthy! XV Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy,— Brain practised and tongue no less tutored, In argument's armor accoutred,— Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed Proposals like those to which "Yes" said So glibly each personage painted O' the wall-side where with you 're acquainted. He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick: "Red soon were our State-candle's paly wick, If wealth would become but interfluous, Fill voids up with just the superfluous; If ignorance gave way to knowledge —Not pedantry picked up at college From Doctors, Professors et cætera— (They say: 'kai ta loipa'—like better a Long Greek string of kappas, taus, lambdas, Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass)— No knowledge we want of this quality, But knowledge indeed—practicality Through insight's fine universality! If you shout 'Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie, Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi, Who shieldest the rogue and the clotpoll!' If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole I leave ye to fancy, our Siena's Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas—" (Whoever to scan this is ill able Forgets the town's name 's a dissyllable)— "If, this done, ye did—as ye might—place For once the right man in the right place, If you listened to me" ... XVI At which last "If" There flew at his throat like a mastiff One Spare-Horse—another and another! Such outbreak of tumult and pother, Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering, Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering, Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff Whose impudence ventured the late "If"— That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe, Away from the scene o£ discomfiture— Had he stood there stock-still in a dumb fit—sure Am I he had paid in his person Till his mother might fail to know her son, Though she gazed on him never so wistful, In the figure so tattered and tristful. Each mouth full of curses, each fist full Of cuffings—behold, Pacchiarotto, The pass which thy project has got to, Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot—tow! (The paraphrase—which I much need—is From Horace "per ignes incedis.") XVII Right and left did he dash helter-skelter In agonized search of a shelter. No purlieu so blocked and no alley So blind as allowed him to rally His spirits and see—nothing hampered His steps if he trudged and not scampered Up here and down there in a city That 's all ups and downs, more the pity For folks who would outrun the constable. At last he stopped short at the one stable And sure place of refuge that 's offered Humanity. Lately was coffered A corpse in its sepulchre, situate By St. John's Observance. "Habituate Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows, And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!" So Misery counselled the craven. At once he crept safely to haven Through a hole left unbricked in the structure. Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your Poor client and left him conterminous With—pah!—the thing fetid and verminous! (I gladly would spare you the detail, But History writes what I retail.) XVIII Two days did he groan in his domicile: "Good Saints, set me free and I promise I 'll Abjure all ambition of preaching Change, whether to minds touched by teaching —The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments Created by plaster and pigments,— Or to minds that receive with such rudeness Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness, —The rough folk of fact, life's true specimens Of mind—'hand in posse sed esse mens' As it was, is, and shall be forever Despite of my utmost endeavor. O live foes I thought to illumine, Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in! I need my own light, every spark, as I couch with this sole friend—a carcase!" XIX Two days thus he maundered and rambled; Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled From out his receptacle loathsome. "A spectre!"—declared upon oath some Who saw him emerge and (appalling To mention) his garments a-crawling With plagues far beyond the Egyptian. He gained, in a state past description, A convent of months, the Observancy. XX Thus far is a fact: I reserve fancy For Fancy's more proper employment: And now she waves wing with enjoyment, To tell ye how preached the Superior, When somewhat our painter's exterior Was sweetened. He needed (no mincing The matter) much soaking and rinsing, Nay, rubbing with drugs odoriferous, Till, rid of his garments pestiferous, And, robed by the help of the Brotherhood In odds and ends,—this gown and t' other hood,— His empty inside first well-garnished,— He delivered a tale round, unvarnished. XXI "Ah, Youth!" ran the Abbot's admonishment, "Thine error scarce moves my astonishment. For—why shall I shrink from asserting?— Myself have had hopes of converting The foolish to wisdom, till, sober, My life found its May grow October. I talked and I wrote, but, one morning, Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning: 'Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be! Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be.' Man's work is to labor and leaven— As best he may—earth here with heaven; 'T is work for work's sake that he 's needing: Let, him work on and on as if speeding Work's end, but not dream of succeeding! Because if success were intended, Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended. A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse, Or—what 's the plain truth—just a mill-horse! Earth 's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers: A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging At what don't advance for their tugging. Though round goes the mill, we must still post On and on as if moving the mill-post. So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise, Do all that we can to make men wise! And if men prefer to be foolish, Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish: Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper, And worked as the Master thought proper. Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot; Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot! But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot? Though cured of thy plague, there may linger A pimple I fray with rough finger? So soon could my homily transmute Thy brass into gold? Why, the man 's mute!" XXII "Ay, Father, I 'm mute with admiring How Nature's indulgence untiring Still bids us turn deaf ear to Reason's Best rhetoric—clutch at all seasons And hold fast to what 's proved untenable! Thy maxim is—Man 's not amenable To argument: whereof by consequence— Thine arguments reach me: a non-sequence! Yet blush not discouraged, O Father! I stand unconverted, the rather That nowise I need a conversion. No live man (I cap thy assertion) By argument ever could take hold Of me. 'T was the dead thing, the clay-cold, Which grinned 'Art thou so in a hurry That out of warm light thou must scurry And join me down here in the dungeon Because, above, one 's Jack and one—John, One 's swift in the race, one—a hobbler, One 's a crowned king and one—a capped cobbler, Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious? Why complain? Art thou so unsuspicious That all 's for an hour of essaying Who 's fit and who 's unfit for playing His part in the after-construction —Heaven's Piece whereof Earth 's the Induction? Things rarely go smooth at Rehearsal. Wait patient the change universal, And act, and let act, in existence! For, as thou art clapped hence or hissed hence, Thou hast thy promotion or otherwise. And why must wise thou have thy brother wise Because in rehearsal thy cue be To shine by the side of a booby? No polishing garnet to ruby! All 's well that ends well—through Art's magic. Some end, whether comic or tragic, The Artist has purposed, be certain! Explained at the fall of the curtain— In showing thy wisdom at odds with That folly: he tries men and gods with No problem for weak wits to solve meant, But one worth such Author's evolvement. So, back nor disturb play's production By giving thy brother instruction To throw up his fool's-part allotted! Lest haply thyself prove besotted When stript, for thy pains, of that costume Of sage, which has bred the imposthume I prick to relieve thee of,—Vanity!' XXIII "So, Father, behold me in sanity! I 'm back to the palette and mahlstick: And as for Man—let each and all stick To what was prescribed them at starting! Once planted as fools—no departing From folly one inch, sæculorum In sæcula! Pass me the jorum, And push me the platter—my stomach Retains, through its fasting, still some ache— And then, with your kind Benedicite, Good-by!" XXIV I have told with simplicity My tale, dropped those harsh analytics, And tried to content you, my critics, Who greeted my early uprising! I knew you through all the disguising, Droll dogs, as I jumped up, cried "Heyday! This Monday is—what else but May-day? And these in the drabs, blues, and yellows, Are surely the privileged fellows. So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!" (I threw up the window) "Your pleasure?" XXV Then he who directed the measure— An old friend—put leg forward nimbly, "We critics as sweeps out your chimbly! Much soot to remove from your flue, sir! Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir! And neighbors complain it 's no joke, sir, —You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!" XXVI Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you— Is confident oft she detects you In bringing more filth into my house Than ever you found there! I 'm pious, However: 't was God made you dingy And me—with no need to be stingy Of soap, when 't is sixpence the packet. So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket, Bang drum and blow fife—ay, and rattle Your brushes, for that 's half the battle! Don't trample the grass,—hocus-pocus With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,— And, what with your rattling and tinkling, Who knows but you give me an inkling How music sounds, thanks to the jangle Of regular drum and triangle? Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 't is proven I break rule as bad as Beethoven. "That chord now—a groan or a grunt is 't? Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist. No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled— He thought that he sung while he whistled!" XXVII So, this time I whistle, not sing at all, My story, the largess I fling at all And every the rough there whose aubade Did its best to amuse me,—nor so bad! Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper! You 've Monday, your one day, your fun-day, While mine is a year that 's all Sunday. I 've seen you, times—who knows how many?— Dance in here, strike up, play the zany, Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning You 'll find him decamped next May-morning; Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence With—kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence! Mine 's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord Who lets out the ground here,—my landlord: To him I pay quit-rent—devotion; Nor hence shall I budge, I 've a notion, Nay, here shall my whistling and singing Set all his street's echoes a-ringing Long after the last of your number Has ceased my front-court to encumber While, treading down rose and ranunculus, You Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle us! Troop, all of you—man or homunculus, Quick march! for Xanthippe, my housemaid, If once on your pates she a souse made With what, pan or pot, bowl or skoramis, First comes to her hand—things were more amiss! I would not for worlds be your place in— Recipient of slops from the basin! You, Jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness! While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there, Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there— He 'll think as the pickle he curses, I 've discharged on his pate his own verses! "Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in Your own sauce,[5] ... XXVIII But, back to my Knight of the Pencil, Dismissed to his fresco and stencil! Whose story—begun with a chuckle, And throughout timed by raps of the knuckle,— To small enough purpose were studied If it ends with crown cracked or nose bloodied. Come, critics,—not shake hands, excuse me! But—say have you grudged to amuse me This once in the forty-and-over Long years since you trampled my clover And scared from my house-eaves each sparrow I never once harmed by that arrow Of song, karterotaton belos, (Which Pindar declares the true melos,) I was forging and filing and finishing, And no whit my labors diminishing Because, though high up in a chamber Where none of your kidney may clamber Your hullabaloo would approach me? Was it "grammar" wherein you would "coach" me— You,—pacing in even that paddock Of language allotted you ad hoc, With a clog at your fetlocks,—you—scorners Of me free of all its four corners? Was it "clearness of words which convey thought"? Ay, if words never needed enswathe aught But ignorance, impudence, envy And malice—what word-swathe would then vie With yours for a clearness crystalline? But had you to put in one small line Some thought big and bouncing—as noddle Of goose, born to cackle and waddle And bite at man's heel as goose-wont is, Never felt plague its puny os frontis— You 'd know, as you hissed, spat and sputtered, Clear cackle is easily uttered! XXIX Lo, I 've laughed out my laugh on this mirth-day! Beside, at week's end, dawns my birthday, That hebdome, hieron emar— (More things in a day than you deem are!) —Tei gar Apollona chrusaora Egeinato Leto. So, gray or ray Betide me, six days hence, I 'm vexed here By no sweep, that 's certain, till next year! "Vexed?"—roused from what else were insipid ease! Leave snoring abed to Pheidippides! We 'll up and work! won't we, Euripides?

The figure that thou here seest ... Tut! Was it for gentle Shakespeare put? B. Jonson. (Adapted.)

I—"Next Poet?" No, my hearties, I nor am nor fain would be! Choose your chiefs and pick your parties, Not one soul revolt to me! I, forsooth, sow song-sedition? I, a schism in verse provoke? I, blown up by bard's ambition, Burst—your bubble-king? You joke. Come, be grave! The sherris mantling Still about each mouth, mayhap, Breeds you insight—just a scantling— Brings me truth out—just a scrap. Look and tell me! Written, spoken, Here 's my life-long work: and where —Where 's your warrant or my token I 'm the dead king's son and heir? Here 's my work: does work discover— What was rest from work—my life? Did I live man's hater, lover? Leave the world at peace, at strife? Call earth ugliness or beauty? See things there in large or small? Use to pay its Lord my duty? Use to own a lord at all? Blank of such a record, truly, Here 's the work I hand, this scroll, Yours to take or leave; as duly, Mine remains the unproffered soul. So much, no whit more, my debtors— How should one like me lay claim To that largess elders, betters Sell you cheap their souls for—fame? Which of you did I enable Once to slip inside my breast, There to catalogue and label What I like least, what love best, Hope and fear, believe and doubt of, Seek and shun, respect—deride? Who has right to make a rout of Rarities he found inside? Rarities or, as he 'd rather, Rubbish such as stocks his own: Need and greed (oh, strange) the Father Fashioned not for him alone! Whence—the comfort set a-strutting, Whence—the outcry "Haste, behold! Bard's breast open wide, past shutting, Shows what brass we took for gold!" Friends, I doubt not he 'd display you Brass—myself call orichale,— Furnish much amusement; pray you Therefore, be content I balk Him and you, and bar my portal! Here 's my work outside: opine What 's inside me mean and mortal! Take your pleasure, leave me mine! Which is—not to buy your laurel As last king did, nothing loth. Tale adorned and pointed moral Gained him praise and pity both. Out rushed sighs and groans by dozens, Forth by scores oaths, curses flew: Proving you were cater-cousins, Kith and kindred, king and you! Whereas do I ne'er so little (Thanks to sherris), leave ajar Bosom's gate—no jot nor tittle Grow we nearer than we are. Sinning, sorrowing, despairing, Body-ruined, spirit-wrecked,— Should I give my woes an airing,— Where 's one plague that claims respect? Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I 'll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again. What, like you, he proved—your Pilgrim— This our world a wilderness, Earth still gray and heaven still grim, Not a hand there his might press, Not a heart his own might throb to, Men all rogues and women—say, Dolls which boys' heads duck and bob to, Grown folk drop or throw away? My experience being other, How should I contribute verse Worthy of your king and brother? Balaam-like I bless, not curse. I find earth not gray but rosy, Heaven not grim but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All 's blue. Doubtless I am pushed and shoved by Rogues and fools enough: the more Good luck mine, I love, am loved by Some few honest to the core. Scan the near high, scout the far low! "But the low come close:" what then? Simpletons? My match is Marlowe; Sciolists? My mate is Ben. Womankind—"the cat-like nature, False and fickle, vain and weak"— What of this sad nomenclature Suits my tongue, if I must speak? Does the sex invite, repulse so, Tempt, betray, by fits and starts? So becalm but to convulse so, Decking heads and breaking hearts? Well may you blaspheme at fortune! I "threw Venus" (Ben, expound!) Never did I need importune Her, of all the Olympian round. Blessings on my benefactress! Cursings suit—for aught I know— Those who twitched her by the back tress, Tugged and thought to turn her—so! Therefore, since no leg to stand on Thus I 'm left with,—joy or grief Be the issue,—I abandon Hope or care you name me Chief! Chief and king and Lord's anointed, I?—who never once have wished Death before the day appointed: Lived and liked, not poohed and pished! "Ah, but so I shall not enter, Scroll in hand, the common heart— Stopped at surface: since at centre Song should reach Welt-schmerz, world-smart!" "Enter in the heart?" Its shelly Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft! Such song "enters in the belly And is cast out in the draught." Back then to our sherris-brewage! "Kingship" quotha? I shall wait— Waive the present time: some new age ... But let fools anticipate! Meanwhile greet me—"friend, good fellow, Gentle Will," my merry men! As for making Envy yellow With "Next Poet"—(Manners, Ben!)

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? Do I live in a house you would like to see? Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf? "Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?" Invite the world, as my betters have done? "Take notice: this building remains on view, Its suites of reception every one, Its private apartment and bedroom too; "For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." No: thanking the public, I must decline. A peep through my window, if folk prefer; But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine! I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced And a house stood gaping, naught to balk Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced. The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, The inside gaped: exposed to day, Right and wrong and common and queer, Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay. The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt! "Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth! What a parcel of musty old books about! He smoked,—no wonder he lost his health! "I doubt if he bathed before he dressed. A brasier?—the pagan, he burned perfumes! You see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed: His wife and himself had separate rooms." Friends, the goodman of the house at least Kept house to himself till an earthquake came: 'T is the fall of its frontage permits you feast On the inside arrangement you praise or blame. Outside should suffice for evidence: And whoso desires to penetrate Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense— No optics like yours, at any rate! "Hoity-toity! A street to explore, Your house the exception! 'With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart,' once more!" Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

So, friend, your shop was all your house! Its front, astonishing the street, Invited view from man and mouse To what diversity of treat Behind its glass—the single sheet! What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog; Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: Queer names, too, such a catalogue! I thought "And he who owns the wealth Which blocks the window's vastitude, —Ah, could I peep at him by stealth Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude On house itself, what scenes were viewed! "If wide and showy thus the shop, What must the habitation prove? The true house with no name a-top— The mansion, distant one remove, Once get him off his traffic-groove! "Pictures he likes, or books perhaps; And as for buying most and best, Commend me to these city chaps! Or else he 's social, takes his rest On Sundays, with a Lord for guest. "Some suburb-palace, parked about And gated grandly, built last year: The four-mile walk to keep off gout; Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer: But then he takes the rail, that 's clear. "Or, stop! I wager, taste selects Some out-o'-the-way, some all-unknown Retreat: the neighborhood suspects Little that he who rambles lone Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!" Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence Fit to receive and entertain,— Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,— Nor country-box was soul's domain! Nowise! At back of all that spread Of merchandise, woe 's me, I find A hole i' the wall where, heels by head, The owner couched, his ware behind, —In cupboard suited to his mind. For why? He saw no use of life But, while he drove a roaring trade, To chuckle "Customers are rife!" To chafe "So much hard cash outlaid, Yet zero in my profits made! "This novelty costs pains, but—takes? Cumbers my counter! Stock no more! This article, no such great shakes, Fizzes like wildfire? Underscore The cheap thing—thousands to the fore!" 'T was lodging best to live most nigh (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) Receipt of Custom; ear and eye Wanted no outworld: "Hear and see The bustle in the shop!" quoth he. My fancy of a merchant-prince Was different. Through his wares we groped Our darkling way to—not to mince The matter—no black den where moped The master if we interloped! Shop was shop only: household-stuff? What did he want with comforts there? "Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, So goods on sale show rich and rare! 'Sell and scud home,' be shop's affair!" What might he deal in? Gems, suppose! Since somehow business must be done At cost of trouble,—see, he throws You choice of jewels, every one, Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun! Which lies within your power of purse? This ruby that would tip aright Solomon's sceptre? Oh, your nurse Wants simply coral, the delight Of teething baby,—stuff to bite! Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took Your purchase, prompt your money rang On counter,—scarce the man forsook His study of the "Times," just swang Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang,— Then off made buyer with a prize, Then seller to his "Times" returned; And so did day wear, wear, till eyes Brightened apace, for rest was earned: He locked door long ere candle burned. And whither went he? Ask himself, Not me! To change of scene, I think. Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, Nor all his music—money-chink. Because a man has shop to mind In time and place, since flesh must live, Needs spirit lack all life behind, All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, All loves except what trade can give? I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute! But—shop each day and all day long! Friend, your good angel slept, your star Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! From where these sorts of treasures are, There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!

I Over the ball of it, Peering and prying, How I see all of it, Life there, outlying! Roughness and smoothness, Shine and defilement, Grace and uncouthness: One reconcilement. Orbed as appointed, Sister with brother Joins, ne'er disjointed One from the other. All 's lend-and-borrow; Good, see, wants evil, Joy demands sorrow, Angel weds devil! "Which things must—why be?" Vain our endeavor! So shall things aye be As they were ever. "Such things should so be!" Sage our desistence! Rough-smooth let globe be, Mixed—man's existence! Man—wise and foolish, Lover and scorner, Docile and mulish— Keep each his corner! Honey yet gall of it! There 's the life lying, And I see all of it, Only, I 'm dying! II Could I but live again Twice my life over, Would I once strive again? Would not I cover Quietly all of it— Greed and ambition— So, from the pall of it, Pass to fruition? "Soft!" I 'd say, "Soul mine! Three-score and ten years, Let the blind mole mine Digging out deniers! Let the dazed hawk soar, Claim the sun's rights too! Turf 't is thy walk 's o'er, Foliage thy flight 's to." Only a learner, Quick one or slow one, Just a discerner, I would teach no one. I am earth's native: No rearranging it! I be creative, Chopping and changing it? March, men, my fellows! Those who, above me, (Distance so mellows) Fancy you love me: Those who, below me, (Distance makes great so) Free to forego me, Fancy you hate so! Praising, reviling, Worst head and best head, Past me defiling, Never arrested, Wanters, abounders, March, in gay mixture, Men, my surrounders! I am the fixture. So shall I fear thee, Mightiness yonder! Mock-sun—more near thee, What is to wonder? So shall I love thee, Down in the dark,—lest Glowworm I prove thee, Star that now sparklest!

Here's my case. Of old I used to love him, This same unseen friend, before I knew: Dream there was none like him, none above him,— Wake to hope and trust my dream was true. Loved I not his letters full of beauty? Not his actions famous far and wide? Absent, he would know I vowed him duty; Present, he would find me at his side. Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters, Only knew of actions by hearsay: He himself was busied with my betters; What of that? My turn must come some day. "Some day" proving—no day! Here 's the puzzle. Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain? He 's so busied! If I could but muzzle People's foolish mouths that give me pain! "Letters?" (hear them!) "You a judge of writing? Ask the experts! How they shake the head O'er these characters, your friend's inditing— Call them forgery from A to Z! "Actions? Where 's your certain proof" (they bother) "He, of all you find so great and good, He, he only, claims this, that, the other Action—claimed by men, a multitude?" I can simply-wish. I might refute you, Wish my friend would,—by a word, a wink,— Bid me stop that foolish mouth,—you brute you! He keeps absent,—why, I cannot think. Never mind! Though foolishness may flout me, One thing 's sure enough: 't is neither frost, No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me Thanks for truth—though falsehood, gained—though lost. All my days, I 'll go the softlier, sadlier, For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill Through and through me as I thought "The gladlier Lives my friend because I love him still!" Ah, but there 's a menace some one utters! "What and if your friend at home play tricks? Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters? Mean your eyes should pierce through solid bricks? "What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy? Lay on you the blame that bricks—conceal? Say 'At least I saw who did not see me, Does see now, and presently shall feel'?" "Why, that makes your friend a monster!" say you: "Had his house no window? At first nod, Would you not have hailed him?" Hush, I pray you! What if this friend happened to be—God?

All I can say is—I saw it! The room was as bare as your hand. I locked in the swarth little lady,—I swear, From the head to the foot of her—well, quite as bare! "No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, "taking my stand At this bolt which I draw!" And this bolt—I withdraw it, And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered With—who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered? Impossible! Only—I saw it! All I can sing is—I feel it! This life was as blank as that room; I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed? Walls, ceiling and floor,—not a chance for a weed! Wide opens the entrance; where 's cold now, where 's gloom? No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it, Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing, These fruits of your bearing—nay, birds of your winging! A fairy-tale! Only—I feel it!

Flower—I never fancied, jewel—I profess you! Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower. Save but glow inside and—jewel, I should guess you, Dim to sight and rough to touch: the glory is the dower. You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel— Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime! Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel, Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time!

We were two lovers; let me lie by her, My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe— "I loved him; but my reason bade prefer Duty to love, reject the tempter's bribe Of rose and lily when each path diverged, And either I must pace to life's far end As love should lead me, or, as duty urged, Plod the worn causeway arm-in-arm with friend. So, truth turned falsehood: 'How I loathe a flower, How prize the pavement!' still caressed his ear— The deafish friend's—through life's day, hour by hour, As he laughed (coughing) 'Ay, it would appear!' But deep within my heart of hearts there hid Ever the confidence, amends for all, That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did, When love from life-long exile comes at call. Duty and love, one broad way, were the best— Who doubts? But one or other was to choose, I chose the darkling half, and wait the rest In that new world where light and darkness fuse." Inscribe on mine—"I loved her: love's track lay O'er sand and pebble, as all travellers know. Duty led through a smiling country, gay With greensward where the rose and lily blow. 'Our roads are diverse: farewell, love!' said she: ''T is duty I abide by: homely sward And not the rock-rough picturesque for me! Above, where both roads join, I wait reward. Be you as constant to the path whereon I leave you planted!' But man needs must move, Keep moving—whither, when the star is gone Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love? No stone but I was tripped by, stumbling-block But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock, Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried 'All's well! Duty be mine to tread in that high sphere Where love from duty ne'er disparts, I trust, And two halves make that whole, whereof—since here One must suffice a man—why, this one must!'" Inscribe each tomb thus: then, some sage acquaint The simple—which holds sinner, which holds saint!

Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile! Still melts your moonbeam through me, white awhile, Softening, sweetening, till sweet and soft Increase so round this heart of mine, that oft I could believe your moonbeam-smile has past The pallid limit, lies, transformed at last To sunlight and salvation—warms the soul It sweetens, softens! Would you pass that goal, Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge, And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge The hesitating pallor on to prime Of dawn!—true blood-streaked, sun-warmth, action-time, By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow Of gold above my clay—I scarce should know From gold's self, thus suffused! For gold means love. What means the sad slow silver smile above My clay but pity, pardon?—at the best, But acquiescence that I take my rest, Contented to be clay, while in your heaven The sun reserves love for the Spirit-Seven Companioning God's throne they lamp before, —Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o'er By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon Which smiles me slow forgiveness! Such, the boon I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this—just this Supreme endeavor! As my lips now kiss Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe, My eyes, acquainted with the dust, dare probe Your eyes above for—what, if born, would blind Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find The inert nerve, sting awake the palsied limb, Bid with life's ecstasy sense overbrim And suck back death in the resurging joy— Love, the love whole and sole without alloy! Vainly! The promise withers! I employ Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the word, Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard, And none the more is changed your calm regard: Rather, its sweet and soft grow harsh, and hard— Forbearance, then repulsion, then disdain. Avert the rest! I rise, see!—make, again Once more, the old departure for some track Untried, yet through a world which brings me back Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet, To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet Which smile there—take from his new pilgrimage Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage With love—not placid pardon now—his thirst For a mere drop from out the ocean erst He drank at! Well, the quest shall be renewed. Fear nothing! Though I linger, unembued With any drop, my lips thus close. I go! So did I leave you, I have found you so, And doubtlessly, if fated to return, So shall my pleading persevere and earn Pardon—not love—in that same smile, I learn, And lose the meaning of, to learn once more, Vainly! What fairy track do I explore? What magic hall return to, like the gem Centuply-angled o'er a diadem? You dwell there, hearted; from your midmost home Rays forth—through that fantastic world I roam Ever—from centre to circumference, Shaft upon colored shaft: this crimsons thence, That purples out its precinct through the waste. Surely I had your sanction when I faced, Fared forth upon that untried yellow ray Whence I retrack my steps? They end to-day Where they began, before your feet, beneath Your eyes, your smile: the blade is shut in sheath, Fire quenched in flint; irradiation, late Triumphant through the distance, finds its fate, Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source And tomb of that prismatic glow: divorce Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared, Treading the lambent flamelet: little cared If now its flickering took the topaz tint, If now my dull-caked path gave sulphury hint Of subterranean rage—no stay nor stint To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe, Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe In yellow license. Here I reek suffused With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used With scarlet, purple, every dye o' the bow Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you show Scarce recognition, no approval, some Mistrust, more wonder at a man become Monstrous in garb, nay—flesh disguised as well, Through his adventure. Whatsoe'er befell, I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that vein You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain Earth's sombre stretch beyond your midmost place Of vantage,—trode that tinct whereof the trace On garb and flesh repel you! Yes, I plead Your own permission—your command, indeed, That who would worthily retain the love Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above, Go boldly on adventure, break through bounds O' the quintessential whiteness that surrounds Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge Plainer his foot its pathway all distinct From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked With fear, as exploration manifests What agency it was first tipped the crests Of unnamed wildflower, soon protruding grew Portentous 'mid the sands, as when his hue Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through; Till, last ... but why parade more shame and pain? Are not the proofs upon me? Here again I pass into your presence, I receive Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave ... No, not this last of times I leave you, mute, Submitted to my penance, so my foot May yet again adventure, tread, from source To issue, one more ray of rays which course Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear Dark of the world,—you promise shall return Your pilgrim jewelled as with drops o' the urn The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud-pall Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall O' the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word Tries the adventure: and returns—absurd As frightful—in that sulphur-steeped disguise Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize The arch-heretic was wont to bear away Until he reached the burning. No, I say: No fresh adventure! No more seeking love At end of toil, and finding, calm above My passion, the old statuesque regard, The sad petrific smile! O you—less hard And hateful than mistaken and obtuse Unreason of a she-intelligence! You very woman with the pert pretence To match the male achievement! Like enough! Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff Grind down and grow a whisper,—did man's truth Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth, Its rapier-edge to suit the bulrush-spear Womanly falsehood fights with! O that ear All fact pricks rudely, that thrice-superfine Feminity of sense, with right divine To waive all process, take result stain-free From out the very muck wherein ... Ah me! The true slave's querulous outbreak! All the rest Be resignation! Forth at your behest I fare. Who knows but this—the crimson-quest— May deepen to a sunrise, not decay To that cold sad sweet smile?—which I obey.

And so you found that poor room dull, Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear? Its features seemed unbeautiful: But this I know—'t was there, not here, You plighted troth to me, the word Which—ask that poor room how it heard. And this rich room obtains your praise Unqualified,—so bright, so fair, So all whereat perfection stays? Ay, but remember—here, not there, The other word was spoken!—Ask This rich room how you dropped the mask!

No protesting, dearest! Hardly kisses even! Don't we both know how it ends? How the greenest leaf turns serest, Bluest outbreak—blankest heaven, Lovers—friends? You would build a mansion, I would weave a bower —Want the heart for enterprise. Walls admit of no expansion: Trellis-work may haply flower Twice the size. What makes glad Life's Winter? New buds, old blooms after. Sad the sighing "How suspect Beams would ere mid-Autumn splinter, Rooftree scarce support a rafter, Walls lie wrecked?" You are young, my princess! I am hardly older: Yet—I steal a glance behind! Dare I tell you what convinces Timid me that you, if bolder, Bold—are blind? Where we plan our dwelling Glooms a graveyard surely! Headstone, footstone moss may drape,— Name, date, violets hide from spelling,— But, though corpses rot obscurely, Ghosts escape. Ghosts! O breathing Beauty, Give my frank word pardon! What if I—somehow, somewhere— Pledged my soul to endless duty Many a time and oft? Be hard on Love—laid there? Nay, blame grief that 's fickle, Time that proves a traitor, Chance, change, all that purpose warps,— Death who spares to thrust the sickle Laid Love low, through flowers which later Shroud the corpse! And you, my winsome lady, Whisper with like frankness! Lies nothing buried long ago? Are yon—which shimmer 'mid the shady Where moss and violet run to rankness— Tombs or no? Who taxes you with murder? My hands are clean—or nearly! Love being mortal needs must pass. Repentance? Nothing were absurder. Enough: we felt Love's loss severely; Though now—alas! Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, Only Love's ghost plays truant, And warns us have in wholesome awe Durable mansionry; that's wherefore I weave but trellis-work, pursuant —Life, to law. The solid, not the fragile, Tempts rain and hail and thunder. If bower stand firm at Autumn's close, Beyond my hope,—why, boughs were agile; If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder Wreathing—rose! So, truce to the protesting, So, muffled be the kisses! For, would we but avow the truth, Sober is genuine joy. No jesting! Ask else Penelope, Ulysses— Old in youth! For why should ghosts feel angered? Let all their interference Be faint march-music in the air! "Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard! Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, Laggard pair!" The while you clasp me closer, The while I press you deeper, As safe we chuckle,—under breath, Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,— "So, life can boast its day, like leap-year, Stolen from death!" Ah me—the sudden terror! Hence quick—avaunt, avoid me, You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised! Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error! So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me, Loved—and lied! Ay, dead loves are the potent! Like any cloud they used you, Mere semblance you, but substance they! Build we no mansion, weave we no tent! Mere flesh—their spirit interfused you! Hence, I say! All theirs, none yours the glamour! Theirs each low word that won me, Soft look that found me Love's, and left What else but you—the tears and clamor That 's all your very own! Undone me— Ghost-bereft!

I On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,—woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. II 'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here 's the English can and will!" III Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here 's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech). "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. V "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these —A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there 's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this 'Formidable' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I 've nothing but my life,—here 's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. VII Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fate, Up the English come—too late! VIII So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. IX Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name 's not Damfreville." X Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty 's done. And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since 't is ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,—nothing more. XI Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

I am indeed the personage you know. As for my wife,—what happened long ago— You have a right to question me, as I Am bound to answer. ("Son, a fit reply!" The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth, At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.) Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place I had as still I have. I ran life's race, With the whole world to see, as only strains His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains Of good appall him: happy to excess,— Work freely done should balance happiness Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof I went forth every day, and all day long Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe Of laboring flesh and blood—"She loves me so!" One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve That work grew play and vanished. "I deserve Haply my heaven an hour before the time!" I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime Surprised me passing through the postern-gate —Not the main entry where the menials wait And wonder why the world's affairs allow The master sudden leisure. That was how I took the private garden-way for once. Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man. My fancies in the natural order ran: "A spy,—perhaps a foe in ambuscade,— A thief,—more like, a sweetheart of some maid Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps." "Stand there!" I bid. Whereat my man but wraps His face the closelier with uplifted arm Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm This and that pedestal as,—stretch and stoop,— Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged For safety: one step thence, the street, you know! Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow, Near on admiringly, I breathed again, And—back to that last fancy of the train— "A danger risked for hope of just a word With—which of all my nest may be the bird This poacher covets for her plumage, pray? Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay For such adventure, while Juana's grave —Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave! He had the eye, could single from my brood His proper fledgeling!" As I turned, there stood In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white. Whether one bound had brought her,—at first sight Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be Next moment, of the venturous man and me,— Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey: Whether impelled because her death no day Could come so absolutely opportune As now at joy's height, like a year in June Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose; Or whether hungry for my hate—who knows?— Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste Our tingling true relation, hate embraced By hate one naked moment:—anyhow There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now The woman who made heaven within my house. Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse As well as love—you are to recollect! "Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked With crime, that 's spotless hitherto—your own! Kill me who court the blessing, who alone Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last! The man lay helpless in the toils I cast About him, helpless as the statue there Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear Away and tread to dust the parasite, But do the passive marble no despite! I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike At one blow both infinitudes alike Out of existence—hate and love! Whence love? That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove For any searching of your steel, I think. Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape, At every form wherein your love took shape, At each new provocation of your kiss. Kill me!" We went in. Next day after this, I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke— Easily, after all. "The lifted cloak Was screen sufficient: I concern myself Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf— Whate'er the ignoble kind—may prowl and brave Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave Detected by my household's vigilance. Enough of such! As for my love-romance— I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes And wake and wonder how the film could rise Which changed for me a barbers' basin straight Into—Mambrino's helm? I hesitate Nowise to say—God's sacramental cup! Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up, Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold? To me—a warning I was overbold In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked Only to die, if I remember,—staked His life upon the basin's worth, and lost: While I confess torpidity at most In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt, Still should I work on, still repair my fault Ere I took rest in death,—no fear at all! Now, work—no word before the curtain fall!" The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant: My "word," permissible in death's event, Would be—truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise, Day by day, three years long, there had to rise And, night by night, to fall upon our stage— Ours, doomed to public play by heritage— Another curtain, when the world, perforce Our critical assembly, in due course Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game If, suffered to set foot behind our scene, The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen, Gallant and lady, but a minute since Enarming each the other, would evince No sign of recognition as they took His way and her way to whatever nook Waited them in the darkness either side Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit Of sympathetic rapture—every whit Earned as the curtain fell on her and me, —Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see But calm and concord: where a speech was due There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too, Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine, Where foreign and domestic cares combine, There 's audience every day and all day long; But finally the last of the whole throng Who linger lets one see his back. For her— Why, liberty and liking: I aver, Liking and liberty! For me—I breathed, Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task Of personation till next day bade mask, And quietly betook me from that world To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power. Three years I worked, each minute of each hour Not claimed by acting:—work I may dispense With talk about, since work in evidence, Perhaps in history; who knows or cares? After three years, this way, all unawares, Our acting ended. She and I, at close Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows Of bending male and female loyalty, Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare Herald his passage from our palace, where Such visiting left glory evermore. Again the ascent in public, till at door As we two stood by the saloon—now blank And disencumbered of its guests—there sank A whisper in my ear, so low and yet So unmistakable! "I half forget The chamber you repair to, and I want Occasion for one short word—if you grant That grace—within a certain room you called Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled Some paper full of faces for my sport. That room I can remember. Just one short Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!" "Follow me thither!" I replied. We break The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp Blind disused serpentining ways afar From where the habitable chambers are,— Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,— Always in silence,—till I reach the lone Chamber sepulchred for my very own Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy, Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy, Proof-positive of ownership; in youth I garnered up my gleanings here—uncouth But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears; Finally, this became in after-years My closet of entrenchment to withstand Invasion of the foe on every hand—The multifarious herd in bower and hall, State-room,—rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call On masters to be mindful that, before Men, they must look like men and something more. Here,—when our lord the king's bestowment ceased To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced, I touched ambition's height,—'t was here, released From glory (always symbolled by a chain!) No sooner was I privileged to gain My secret domicile than glad I flung That last toy on the table—gazed where hung On hook my father's gift, the arquebus— And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thus The new prize and the old prize, when I reach Another year's experience?—own that each Equalled advantage—sportsman's—statesman's tool? That brought me down an eagle, this—a fool!" Into which room on entry, I set down The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace. Each of us looked the other in the face. She spoke. "Since I could die now "... (To explain Why that first struck me, know—not once again Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge Three years before, which sundered like a wedge Her soul from mine,—though daily, smile to smile, We stood before the public,—all the while Not once had I distinguished, in that face I paid observance to, the faintest trace Of feature more than requisite for eyes To do their duty by and recognize: So did I force mine to obey my will And pry no further. There exists such skill,— Those know who need it. What physician shrinks From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks No plague so long as thirst for knowledge—not An idler impulse—prompts inquiry. What, And will you disbelieve in power to bid Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid A child from scrutiny that's just and right In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight, Reported daily she it was—not how Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.) "Since I could die now of the truth concealed, Yet dare not, must not die,—so seems revealed The Virgin's mind to me,—for death means peace Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease Of life and punishment the truth avowed May haply lengthen,—let me push the shroud Away, that steals to muffle ere is just My penance-fire in snow! I dare—I must Live, by avowal of the truth—this truth— I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite Than all preceding torture, proves me right! I loved you yet I lost you! May I go Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?" I think there never was such—how express?— Horror coquetting with voluptuousness, As in those arms of Eastern workmanship— Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip, Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways, Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays Love still at work with the artificer Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer, Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe And bicker like a flame?—now play the scythe As if some broad neck tempted,—now contract And needle off into a fineness lacked For just that puncture which the heart demands? Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold! Fancy my favorite—which I seem to grasp While I describe the luxury. No asp Is diapered more delicate round throat Than this below the handle! These denote —These mazy lines meandering, to end Only in flesh they open—what intend They else but water-purlings—pale contrast With the life-crimson where they blend at last? And mark the handle's dim pellucid green, Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean, Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks Pure from the mine: seen this way,—glassy blank, But turn them,—lo, the inmost fire, that shrank From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim! Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men War-wearied get amusement from that pen And paper we grow sick of—statesfolk tired Of merely (when such measures are required) Dealing out doom to people by three words, A signature and seal: we play with swords Suggestive of quick process. That is how I came to like the toys described you now, Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed The table, even, while my wife pursued Her purpose to its ending. "Now you know This shame, my three years' torture, let me go, Burn to the very ashes! You—I lost, Yet you—I loved!" The thing I pity most In men is—action prompted by surprise Of anger: men? nay, bulls—whose onset lies At instance of the firework and the goad! Once the foe prostrate,—trampling once bestowed,— Prompt follows placability, regret, Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse My veins at this occasion for resolve. Had that devolved which did not then devolve Upon me, I had done—what now to do Was quietly apparent. "Tell me who The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!" "No, never! All was folly in his case, All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied." "And yet you loved me?" "Loved you. Double-dyed In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave Your heart and soul away from me to slave At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost, I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, What you rejected could be prized beyond Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond Look on, a fatal word to." "And you still Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?" "Conjecture—well or ill! I had three years To spend in learning you." "We both are peers In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent Ere thus much of yourself I learn—who went Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind To bear upon your action, uncombined Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived Of every purer particle, survived At last in native simple hideousness, Utter contemptibility, nor less Nor more. Contemptibility—exempt How could I, from its proper due—contempt? I have too much despised you to divert My life from its set course by help or hurt Of your all-despicable life—perturb The calm I work in, by—men's mouths to curb, Which at such news were clamorous enough— Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall Blank where a scutcheon hung,—by, worse than all, Each day's procession, my paraded life Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife —Now that my life (which means—my work) was grown Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby Of good and praise would—how rewardingly!— Fall at your feet,—a crown I hoped to cast Before your love, my love should crown at last. No love remaining to cast crown before, My love stopped work now: but contempt the more Impelled me task as ever head and hand, Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand Rather than taste pure hell in idleness. Therefore I kept my memory down by stress Of daily work I had no mind to stay For the world's wonder at the wife away. Oh, it was easy all of it, believe, For I despised you! But your words retrieve Importantly the past. No hate assumed The mask of love at any time! There gloomed A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged By causes you declare; but love's self purged Away a fancied wrong I did both loves —Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves, Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise High by how many a grade! I did despise— I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment Replace contempt's! First step to which ascent— Write down your own words I re-utter you! 'I loved my husband and I hated—who He was, I took up as my first chance, mere Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!' Here Lies paper!" "Would my blood for ink suffice!" "It may: this minion from a land of spice, Silk, feather—every bird of jewelled breast— This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest Above your heart there"... "Thus?" "It flows, I see. Dip there the point and write!" "Dictate to me! Nay, I remember." And she wrote the words, I read them. Then—"Since love, in you, affords License for hate, in me, to quench (I say) Contempt—why, hate itself has passed away In vengeance—foreign to contempt. Depart Peacefully to that death which Eastern art Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true! Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you— Dead in our chamber!" True as truth the tale. She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise, And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes, Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours! Immersed In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps? For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps —Still plain I seem to see!—about his head The idle cloak,—about his heart (instead Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude My vengeance in the cloister's solitude? Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow The cloak then, Father—as your grate helps me now!

May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass That when your Beatrice seemed—by lapse Of many a long month since her sentence fell— Assured of pardon for the parricide— By intercession of stanch friends, or, say, By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,— Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew "Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent, But said these three words coldly 'She must die;' Subjoining 'Pardon? Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother also yestereve. And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!'" —So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled? Shelley, may I condense verbosity That lies before me, into some few words Of English, and illustrate your superb Achievement by a rescued anecdote, No great things, only new and true beside? As if some mere familiar of a house Should venture to accost the group at gaze Before its Titian, famed the wide world through, And supplement such pictured masterpiece By whisper, "Searching in the archives here, I found the reason of the Lady's fate, And how by accident it came to pass She wears the halo and displays the palm: Who, haply, else had never suffered—no, Nor graced our gallery, by consequence." Who loved the work would like the little news: Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me Relating how the penalty was paid By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise, For his complicity in matricide With Paolo his own brother,—he whose crime And flight induced "those three words—She must die." Thus I unroll you then the manuscript. "God's justice"—(of the multiplicity Of such communications extant still, Recording, each, injustice done by God In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)— "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency. In proof I cite the ease Of Paolo Santa Croce." Many times The youngster,—having been importunate That Marchesine Costanza, who remained His widowed mother, should supplant the heir Her elder son, and substitute himself In sole possession of her faculty,— And meeting just as often with rebuff,— Blinded by so exorbitant a lust Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, Casting about to kill the lady—thus. He first, to cover his iniquity, Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then Authoritative lord, acquainting him Their mother was contamination—wrought Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House By dissoluteness and abandonment Of soul and body to impure delight. Moreover, since she suffered from disease, Those symptoms which her death made manifest Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin About to bring confusion and disgrace Upon the ancient lineage and high fame O' the family, when published. Duty bound, He asked his brother—what a son should do? Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard By letter, being absent at his land Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more: "It must behoove a son,—things haply so,— To act as honor prompts a cavalier And son, perform his duty to all three, Mother and brothers"—here advice broke off. By which advice informed and fortified As he professed himself—since bound by birth To hear God's voice in primogeniture— Paolo, who kept his mother company In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared His whole enormity of enterprise, And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead; Whose death demonstrated her innocence, And happened,—by the way,—since Jesus Christ Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years. Costanza was of aspect beautiful Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age Sixty about, to far surpass her peers The coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace. Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight, Foiling thereby the justice of the world: Not God's however,—God, be sure, knows well The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here! The present sinner, when he least expects, Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate, Stumbles upon his death by violence. A man of blood assaults a man of blood And slays him somehow. This was afterward: Enough, he promptly met with his deserts, And, ending thus, permits we end with him, And push forthwith to this important point— His matricide fell out, of all the days, Precisely when the law-procedure closed Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife. "Thus patricide was matched with matricide," A poet not inelegantly rhymed: Nay, fratricide—those Princes Massimi!— Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope That all the likelihood Rome entertained Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight, And she endured the piteous death. Now see The sequel—what effect commandment had For strict inquiry into this last case, When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great His efficacy—nephew to the Pope!) Was bidden crush—ay, though his very hand Got soil i' the act—crime spawning everywhere! Because, when all endeavor had been used To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain— "Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence, "Throughout his now deserted domicile! Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find If haply any scrap of writing, hid In nook or corner, may convict—who knows?— Brother Onofrio of intelligence With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood Is but too likely: crime spawns everywhere." And, every cranny searched accordingly, There comes to light—O lynx-eyed Cardinal!— Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap, The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer, The word of counsel that—things proving so, Paolo should act the proper knightly part, And do as was incumbent on a son, A brother—and a man of birth, be sure! Whereat immediately the officers Proceeded to arrest Onofrio—found At football, child's play, unaware of harm, Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat Monte Giordano; as he left the house He came upon the watch in wait for him Set by the Barigel,—was caught and caged. News of which capture being, that same hour, Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge, To have the process in especial care, Be, first to last, not only president In person, but inquisitor as well, Nor trust the by-work to a substitute: Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub The floor of Justice, so to speak,—go try His best in prison with the criminal: Promising, as reward for by-work done Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained And crime avowed, or such connivency With crime as should procure a decent death— Himself will humbly beg—which means, procure— The Hat and Purple from his relative The Pope, and so repay a diligence Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat. Whereupon did my lord the Governor So masterfully exercise the task Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week By week, and month by month, from first to last Toiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place, Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, Inquisitor—pressed cushion and scoured plank. Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill, Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends! So that observers laughed as, many a day, He left home, in July when day is flame, Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged Into a vault where daylong night is ice, There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content, Examining Onofrio: all the stress Of all examination steadily Converging into one pin-point,—he pushed Tentative now of head and now of heart. As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut This side and that side till the kernel sound,— So did he press the sole and single point —What was the very meaning of the phrase "Do as beseems an honored cavalier"? Which one persistent question-torture,—plied Day by day, week by week, and month by month, Morn, noon and night,—fatigued away a mind Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude, And one vivacious memory gnawing there As when a corpse is coffined with a snake: —Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem Admission that perchance his judgment groped So blindly, feeling for an issue—aught With semblance of an issue from the toils Cast of a sudden round feet late so free, He possibly might have envisaged, scarce Recoiled from—even were the issue death —Even her death whose life was death and worse! Always provided that the charge of crime, Each jot and tittle of the charge were true. In such a sense, belike, he might advise His brother to expurgate crime with ... well, With Wood, if blood must follow on "the course Taken as might beseem a cavalier." Whereupon process ended, and report Was made without a minute of delay To Clement, who, because of those two crimes O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late, Must needs impatiently desire result. Result obtained, he bade the Governor Summon the Congregation and despatch. Summons made, sentence passed accordingly —Death by beheading. When his death-decree Was intimated to Onofrio, all Man could do—that did he to save himself. 'Twas much, the having gained for his defence The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help Of many noble friendly persons fain To disengage a man of family, So young too, from his grim entanglement: But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled There must be no diversion of the law. Justice is justice, and the magistrate Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die. So, the Marchese had his head cut off, With Rome to see, a concourse infinite, In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge: Where, demonstrating magnanimity Adequate to his birth and breed,—poor boy!— He made the people the accustomed speech, Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works, And special good behavior as regards A parent of no matter what the sex, Bidding each son take warning from himself. Truly, it was considered in the boy Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore By such an angler as the Cardinal! Why make confession of his privity To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips— Or, better, saying "When I counselled him 'To do as might beseem a cavalier,' What could I mean but 'Hide our parent's shame As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church! Bury it in a convent—ay, beneath Enough dotation to prevent its ghost From troubling earth!'" Mere saying thus,—'t is plain, Hot only were his life the recompense. But he had manifestly proved himself True Christian, and in lieu of punishment Got praise of all men!—so the populace. Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good (That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much, A Cardinal's equipment, some such word As this from mouth to ear went saucily: "Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world. I add: Onofrio left one child behind, A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace Abundantly of soul and body, doomed To life the shorter for her father's fate. By death of her, the Marquisate returned To that Orsini House from whence it came: Oriolo having passed as donative To Santa Croce from their ancestors. And no word more? By all means! Would you know The authoritative answer, when folk urged "What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch, Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?" The answer was—"Hatred implacable, By reason they were rivals in their love." The Cardinal's desire was to a dame Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride, The simpleton must ostentatiously Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift, Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage; Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young; Whereon a fury entered him—the fire He quenched with what could quench fire only—blood. Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot, The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be That pressed too closely on him with a crowd. He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then, To put a face upon the incident, Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend, Ye youth, by this example how may greed Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!" So ends the chronicler, beginning with "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never till it reach delinquency." Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

"No, boy, we must not"—so began My Uncle (he's with God long since), A-petting me, the good old man! "We must not"—and he seemed to wince, And lost that laugh whereto had grown His chuckle at my piece of news, How cleverly I aimed my stone— "I fear we must not pelt the Jews! "When I was young indeed,—ah, faith Was young and strong in Florence too! We Christians never dreamed of scathe Because we cursed or kicked the crew. But now—well, well! The olive-crops Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks Would always spare religious shops Whenever he o'erflowed his banks! "I 'll tell you"—and his eye regained Its twinkle—"tell you something choice Something may help you keep unstained Your honest zeal to stop the voice Of unbelief with stone-throw—spite Of laws, which modern fools enact, That we must suffer Jews in sight Go wholly unmolested! Fact! "There was, then, in my youth, and yet Is, by our San Frediano, just Below the Blessed Olivet, A wayside ground wherein they thrust Their dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame! Except that, so they will but die, Christians perchance incur no blame In giving hogs a hoist to sty. "There, anyhow, Jews stow away Their dead; and—such their insolence— Slink at odd times to sing and pray As Christians do—all make-pretence!— Which wickedness they perpetrate Because they think no Christians see. They reckoned here, at any rate, Without their host: ha, ha! he, he! "For, what should join their plot of ground But a good Farmer's Christian field? The Jews had hedged their corner round With bramble-bush to keep concealed Their doings: for the public road Ran betwixt this their ground and that The Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed, Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat. "So, properly to guard his store And gall the unbelievers too, He builds a shrine and, what is more, Procures a painter whom I knew, One Buti (he 's with God), to paint A holy picture there—no less Than Virgin Mary free from taint Borne to the sky by angels: yes! "Which shrine he fixed,—who says him nay?— A-facing with its picture-side Not, as you 'd think, the public way, But just where sought these hounds to hide Their carrion from that very truth Of Mary's triumph: not a hound Could act his mummeries uncouth But Mary shamed the pack all round! "Now, if it was amusing, judge! —To see the company arrive, Each Jew intent to end his trudge And take his pleasure (though alive) With all his Jewish kith and kin Below ground, have his venom out, Sharpen his wits for next day's sin, Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt! "Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds Mary, I warrant, soaring brave! And in a trice, beneath the folds Of filthy garb which gowns each knave, Down drops it—there to hide grimace, Contortion of the mouth and nose At finding Mary in the place They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose! "At last, they will not brook—not they!— Longer such outrage on their tribe: So, in some hole and corner, lay Their heads together—how to bribe The meritorious Farmer's self To straight undo his work, restore Their chance to meet and muse on pelf— Pretending sorrow, as before! "Forthwith, a posse, if you please, Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That Almost go down upon their knees To get him lay the picture flat. The spokesman, eighty years of age, Gray as a badger, with a goat's Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:— "'Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil Through life in Florence—why relate To those who lay the burden, spoil Our paths of peace? We bear our fate. But when with life the long toil ends, Why must you—the expression craves Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!— Why must you plague us in our graves? "'Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe! For how can you—the lords of ease By nurture, birthright—e'en conceive Our luxury to lie with trees And turf,—the cricket and the bird Left for our last companionship: No harsh deed, no unkindly word, No frowning brow nor scornful lip! "'Death's luxury, we now rehearse While, living, through your streets we fare And take your hatred: nothing worse Have we, once dead and safe, to bear! So we refresh our souls, fulfil Our works, our daily tasks; and thus Gather you grain—earth's harvest—still The wheat for you, the straw for us. "'What flouting in a face, what harm, In just a lady borne from bier By boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?' You question. Friends, the harm is here— That just when our last sigh is heaved, And we would fain thank God and you For labor done and peace achieved, Back comes the Past in full review! "'At sight of just that simple flag, Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag— Though fangless—forth what needs must strike When stricken sore, though stroke be vain Against the mailed oppressor! Give Play to our fancy that we gain Life's rights when once we cease to live! "'Thus much to courtesy, to kind, To conscience! Now to Florence folk! There 's core beneath this apple-rind, Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk! Beneath this prayer to courtesy, Kind, conscience—there 's a sum to pouch! How many ducats down will buy Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch! "'Removal, not destruction, sirs! Just turn your picture! Let it front The public path! Or memory errs, Or that same public path is wont To witness many a chance befall Of lust, theft, bloodshed—sins enough, Wherein our Hebrew part is small. Convert yourselves!'—he cut up rough. "Look you, how soon a service paid Religion yields the servant fruit! A prompt reply our Farmer made So following: 'Sirs, to grant your suit Involves much danger! How? Transpose Our Lady? Stop the chastisement, All for your good, herself bestows? What wonder if I grudge consent? "'—Yet grant it: since, what cash I take Is so much saved from wicked use. We know you! And, for Mary's sake, A hundred ducats shall induce Concession to your prayer. One day Suffices: Master Buti's brush Turns Mary round the other way, And deluges your side with slush. "'Down with the ducats therefore!' Dump, Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece, Hard gold. Then out of door they stump, These dogs, each brisk as with new lease Of life, I warrant,—glad he 'll die Henceforward just as he may choose, Be buried and in clover lie! Well said Esaias—'stiff-necked Jews!' "Off posts without a minute's loss Our Farmer, once the cash in poke, And summons Buti—ere its gloss Have time to fade from off the joke— To chop and change his work, undo The done side, make the side, now blank, Recipient of our Lady—who, Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank! "Now, boy, you 're hardly to instruct In technicalities of Art! My nephew's childhood sure has sucked Along with mother's-milk some part Of painter's-practice—learned, at least, How expeditiously is plied A work in fresco—never ceased When once begun—a day, each side. "So, Buti—(he 's with God)—begins: First covers up the shrine all round With hoarding; then, as like as twins, Paints, t' other side the burial-ground, New Mary, every point the same; Next, sluices over, as agreed, The old; and last—but, spoil the game By telling you? Not I, indeed! "Well, ere the week was half at end, Out came the object of this zeal, This fine alacrity to spend Hard money for mere dead men's weal! How think you? That old spokesman Jew Was High Priest, and he had a wife As old, and she was dying too, And wished to end in peace her life! "And he must humor dying whims, And soothe her with the idle hope They 'd say their prayers and sing their hymns As if her husband were the Pope! And she did die—believing just —This privilege was purchased! Dead In comfort through her foolish trust! 'Stiff-necked ones,' well Esaias said! "So, Sabbath morning, out of gate And on to way, what sees our arch Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight— The corpse—on shoulder, and so, march! 'Now for it, Buti!' In the nick Of time 't is pully-hauly, hence With hoarding! O'er the wayside quick There 's Mary plain in evidence! "And here 's the convoy halting: right! Oh, they are bent on howling psalms And growling prayers, when opposite! And yet they glance, for all their qualms, Approve that promptitude of his, The Farmer's—duly at his post To take due thanks from every phiz, Sour smirk—nay, surly smile almost! "Then earthward drops each brow again; The solemn task 's resumed; they reach Their holy field—the unholy train: Enter its precinct, all and each, Wrapt somehow in their godless rites; Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo, They lift their faces! What delights The mourners as they turn to go? "Ha, ha! he, he! On just the side They drew their purse-strings to make quit Of Mary,—Christ the Crucified Fronted them now—these biters bit! Never was such a hiss and snort, Such screwing nose and shooting lip! Their purchase—honey in report— Proved gall and verjuice at first sip! "Out they break, on they bustle, where, A-top of wall, the Farmer waits With Buti: never fun so rare! The Farmer has the best: he rates The rascal, as the old High Priest Takes on himself to sermonize— Nay, sneer, 'We Jews supposed, at least, Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!' "'Theft?' cries the Farmer. 'Eat your words! Show me what constitutes a breach Of faith in aught was said or heard! I promised you in plainest speech I 'd take the thing you count disgrace And put it here—and here 't is put! Did you suppose I 'd leave the place Blank therefore, just your rage to glut? "'I guess you dared not stipulate For such a damned impertinence! So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence! As long as I have house and land, To spite you irreligious chaps, Here shall the Crucifixion stand— Unless you down with cash, perhaps!' "So snickered he and Buti both. The Jews said nothing, interchanged A glance or two, renewed their oath To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged From grace, for all our Church can do; Then off they scuttle: sullen jog Homewards, against our Church to brew Fresh mischief in their synagogue. "But next day—see what happened, boy! See why I bid you have a care How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ Such methods of revenge, forbear No outrage on our faith, when free To wreak their malice! Here they took So base a method—plague o' me If I record it in my Book! "For, next day, while the Farmer sat Laughing with Buti, in his shop, At their successful joke,—rat-tat,— Door opens, and they 're like to drop Down to the floor as in there stalks A six-feet-high herculean-built Young he-Jew with a beard that balks Description. 'Help ere blood be spilt!' —"Screamed Buti: for he recognized Whom but the son, no less no more, Of that High Priest his work surprised So pleasantly the day before! Son of the mother, then, whereof The bier he lent a shoulder to, And made the moans about, dared scoff At sober Christian grief—the Jew! "'Sirs, I salute you! Never rise! No apprehension!' (Buti, white And trembling like a tub of size, Had tried to smuggle out of sight The picture's self—the thing in oils, You know, from which a fresco 's dashed Which courage speeds while caution spoils) 'Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed! "'Praised,—ay, and paid too: for I come To buy that very work of yours. My poor abode, which boasts—well, some Few specimens of Art, secures, Haply, a masterpiece indeed If I should find my humble means Suffice the outlay. So, proceed! Propose—ere prudence intervenes!' "On Buti, cowering like a child, These words descended from aloft, In tone so ominously mild, With smile terrifically soft To that degree—could Buti dare (Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice? He asked, thus taken unaware, No more than just the proper price! "'Done!' cries the monster. 'I disburse Forthwith your moderate demand. Count on my custom—if no worse Your future work be, understand, Than this I carry off! No aid! My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews: The burden 's easy, and we 're made, Easy or hard, to bear—we Jews!' "Crossing himself at such escape, Buti by turns the money eyes And, timidly, the stalwart shape Now moving doorwards; but, more wise, The Farmer—who, though dumb, this while Had watched advantage—straight conceived A reason for that tone and smile So mild and soft! The Jew—believed! "Mary in triumph borne to deck A Hebrew household! Pictured where No one was used to bend the neck In praise or bow the knee in prayer! Borne to that domicile by whom? The son of the High Priest! Through what? An insult done his mother's tomb! Saul changed to Paul—the case came pat! "'Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is! Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,— Mary, by miracle,—oh bliss!— My present to your burial-ground? Certain, a ray of light has burst Your vale of darkness! Had you else, Only for Mary's sake, unpursed So much hard money? Tell—oh, tell's!' "Round—like a serpent that we took For worm and trod on—turns his bulk About the Jew. First dreadful look Sends Buti in a trice to skulk Out of sight somewhere, safe—alack! But our good Farmer faith made bold: And firm (with Florence at his back) He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled— "'Ay, sir, a miracle was worked, By quite another power, I trow. Than ever yet in canvas lurked, Or you would scarcely face me now! A certain impulse did suggest A certain grasp with this right-hand, Which probably had put to rest Our quarrel,—thus your throat once spanned! "'But I remembered me, subdued That impulse, and you face me still! And soon a philosophic mood Succeeding (hear it, if you will!) Has altogether changed my views Concerning Art. Blind prejudice! Well may you Christians tax us Jews With scrupulosity too nice! "'For, don't I see,—let 's issue join!— Whenever I 'm allowed pollute (I—and my little bag of coin) Some Christian palace of repute,— Don't I see stuck up everywhere Abundant proof that cultured taste Has Beauty for its only care, And upon Truth no thought to waste? "''Jew, since it must be, take in pledge Of payment'—so a Cardinal Has sighed to me as if a wedge Entered his heart—'this best of all My treasures!' Leda, Ganymede Or Antiope: swan, eagle, ape, (Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed,) And Jupiter in every shape! "'Whereat if I presume to ask 'But, Eminence, though Titian's whisk Of brush have well performed its task, How comes it these false godships frisk In presence of—what yonder frame Pretends to image? Surely, odd It seems, you let confront The Name Each beast the heathen called his god!' "'Benignant smiles me pity straight The Cardinal.' 'Tis Truth, we prize! Art 's the sole question in debate! These subjects are so many lies. We treat them with a proper scorn When we turn lies—called gods forsooth— To lies' fit use, now Christ is born. Drawing and coloring are Truth. "''Think you I honor lies so much As scruple to parade the charms Of Leda—Titian, every touch— Because the thing within her arms Means Jupiter who had the praise And prayer of a benighted world? He would have mine too, if, in days Of light, I kept the canvas furled!' "'So ending, with some easy gibe. What power has logic! I, at once, Acknowledged error in our tribe So squeamish that, when friends ensconce A pretty picture in its niche To do us honor, deck our graves, We fret and fume and have an itch To strangle folk—ungrateful knaves! "'No, sir! Be sure that—what 's its style, Your picture?—shall possess ungrudged A place among my rank and file Of Ledas and what not—be judged Just as a picture! and (because I fear me much I scarce have bought A Titian) Master Buti's flaws Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!' "So, with a scowl, it darkens door— This bulk—no longer! Buti makes Prompt glad re-entry; there 's a score Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes From what must needs have been a trance, Or he had struck (he swears) to ground The bold bad mouth that dared advance Such doctrine the reverse of sound! "Was magic here? Most like! For, since, Somehow our city's faith grows still More and more lukewarm, and our Prince Or loses heart or wants the will To check increase of cold. 'T is 'Live And let live! Languidly repress The Dissident! In short,—contrive Christians must bear with Jews: no less!' "The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture,—pishes, poohs, Purchases, hangs it full in sight In any chamber he may choose! In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! In Mary's bosom, one more sword! No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"