Part 2 / Act 5 — THE RING AND THE BOOK (continued 2)

Another day that finds her living yet, Little Pompilia, with the patient brow And lamentable smile on those poor lips, And, under the white hospital-array, A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again, Alive i' the ruins. 'Tis a miracle. It seems that, when her husband struck her first, She prayed Madonna just that she might live So long as to confess and be absolved; And whether it was that, all her sad life long Never before successful in a prayer, This prayer rose with authority too dread,— Or whether, because earth was hell to her, By compensation, when the blackness broke She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue, To show her for a moment such things were,— Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks, The friar who took confession from her lip,— When a probationary soul that moved From nobleness to nobleness, as she, Over the rough way of the world, succumbs, Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot, The angels love to do their work betimes, Stanch some wounds here nor leave so much for God. Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved, She lies, with overplus of life beside To speak and right herself from first to last, Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave, Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus, And—with best smile of all reserved for him— Pardon that sire and husband from the heart. A miracle, so tell your Molinists! There she lies in the long white lazar-house. Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt, Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge When the reluctant wicket opes at last, Lets in, on now this and now that pretence, Too many by half,—complain the men of art,— For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first Paid the due visit—justice must be done; They took her witness, why the murder was. Then the priests followed properly,—a soul To shrive; 'twas Brother Celestine's own right, The same who noises thus her gifts abroad. But many more, who found they were old friends, Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk And go forth boasting of it and to boast. Old Monna Baldi chatters like a jay, Swears—but that, prematurely trundled out Just as she felt the benefit begin, The miracle was snapped up by somebody,— Her palsied limb 'gan prick and promise life At touch o' the bedclothes merely,—how much more Had she but brushed the body as she tried! Cavalier Carlo—well, there's some excuse For him—Maratta who paints Virgins so— He too must fee the porter and slip by With pencil cut and paper squared, and straight There was he figuring away at face: "A lovelier face is not in Rome," cried he, "Shaped like a peacock's egg, the pure as pearl, That hatches you anon a snow-white chick." Then, oh that pair of eyes, that pendent hair, Black this and black the other! Mighty fine— But nobody cared ask to paint the same, Nor grew a poet over hair and eyes Four little years ago, when, ask and have, The woman who wakes all this rapture leaned Flower-like from out her window long enough, As ranch uncomplemented as uncropped By comers and goers in Via Vittoria: eh? 'Tis just a flower's fate: past parterre we trip, Till peradventure some one plucks our sleeve— "Yon blossom at the brier's end, that's the rose Two jealous people fought for yesterday And killed each other: see, there's undisturbed A pretty pool at the root, of rival red!" Then cry we, "Ah, the perfect paragon!" Then crave we, "Just one keepsake-leaf for us!" Truth lies between: there's anyhow a child Of seventeen years, whether a flower or weed, Ruined: who did it shall account to Christ— Having no pity on the harmless life And gentle face and girlish form he found, And thus flings back. Go practise if you please With men and women: leave a child alone For Christ's particular love's sake!—so I say. Somebody at the bedside said much more, Took on him to explain the secret cause O' the crime: quoth he, "Such crimes are very rife, Explode nor make us wonder nowadays, Seeing that Antichrist disseminates That doctrine of the Philosophic Sin: Molinos' sect will soon make earth too hot!" "Nay," groaned the Augustinian, "what's there new? Crime will not fail to flare up from men's hearts While hearts are men's and so born criminal; Which one fact, always old yet ever new, Accounts for so much crime that, for my part, Molinos may go whistle to the wind That waits outside a certain church, you know!" Though really it does seem as if she here, Pompilia, living so and dying thus, Has had undue experience how much crime A heart can hatch. Why was she made to learn —Not you, not I, not even Molinos' self— What Guido Franceschini's heart could hold? Thus saintship is effected probably; No sparing saints the process!—which the more Tends to the reconciling us, no saints, To sinnership, immunity and all. For see now: Pietro and Violante's life Till seventeen years ago, all Rome might note And quote for happy—see the signs distinct Of happiness as we yon Triton's trump. What could they be but happy?—balanced so, Nor low i' the social scale nor yet too high, Nor poor nor richer than comports with ease, Nor bright and envied, nor obscure and scorned, Nor so young that their pleasures fell too thick, Nor old past catching pleasure when it fell, Nothing above, below the just degree, All at the mean where joy's components mix. So again, in the couple's very souls You saw the adequate half with half to match, Each having and each lacking somewhat, both Making a whole that had all and lacked naught. The round and sound, in whose composure just The acquiescent and recipient side Was Pietro's, and the stirring striving one Violante's: both in union gave the due Quietude, enterprise, craving and content, Which go to bodily health and peace of mind. But as 't is said a body; rightly mixed, Each element in equipoise, would last Too long and live forever,—accordingly Holds a germ—sand-grain weight too much i' the scale— Ordained to get predominance one day And so bring all to ruin and release,— Not otherwise a fatal germ lurked here: "With mortals much must go, but something stays; Nothing will stay of our so happy selves." Out of the very ripeness of life's core A worm was bred—"Our life shall leave no fruit." Enough of bliss, they thought, could bliss bear seed, Yield its like, propagate a bliss in turn And keep the kind up; not supplant themselves But put in evidence, record they were, Show them, when done with, i' the shape of a child. "'T is in a child, man and wife grow complete, One flesh: God says so: let him do his work!" Now, one reminder of this gnawing want, One special prick o' the maggot at the core, Always befell when, as the day came round, A certain yearly sum,—our Pietro being, As the long name runs, an usufructuary,— Dropped in the common bag as interest Of money, his till death, not afterward, Failing an heir: an heir would take and take, A child of theirs be wealthy in their place To nobody's hurt—the stranger else seized all. Prosperity rolled river-like and stopped, Making their mill go; but when wheel wore out, The wave would find a space and sweep on free And, half-a-mile off, grind some neighbor's corn. Adam-like, Pietro sighed and said no more: Eve saw the apple was fair and good to taste, So, plucked it, having asked the snake advice. She told her husband God was merciful, And his and her prayer granted at the last: Let the old mill-stone moulder,—wheel unworn, Quartz from the quarry, shot into the stream Adroitly, as before should go bring grist— Their house continued to them by an heir, Their vacant heart replenished with a child. We have her own confession at full length Made in the first remorse: 't was Jubilee Pealed in the ear o' the conscience and it woke. She found she had offended God no doubt, So much was plain from what had happened since, Misfortune on misfortune; but she harmed No one i' the world, so far as she could see. The act had gladdened Pietro to the height, Her spouse whom God himself must gladden so Or not at all: thus much seems probable From the implicit faith, or rather say Stupid credulity of the foolish man Who swallowed such a tale nor strained a whit Even at his wife's far-over-fifty years Matching his sixty—and—under. Him she blessed; And as for doing any detriment To the veritable heir,—why, tell her first Who was he? Which of all the hands held up I' the crowd, one day would gather round their gate Did she so wrong by intercepting thus The ducat, spendthrift fortune thought to fling For a scramble just to make the mob break shins? She kept it, saved them kicks and cuffs thereby. While at the least one good work had she wrought, Good, clearly and incontestably! Her cheat— What was it to its subject, the child's self, But charity and religion? See the girl! A body most like—a soul too probably— Doomed to death, such a double death as waits The illicit offspring of a common trull, Sure to resent and forthwith rid herself Of a mere interruption to sin's trade, In the efficacious way old Tiber knows. Was not so much proved by the ready sale O' the child, glad transfer of this irksome chance? Well then, she had caught up this castaway: This fragile egg, some careless wild bird dropped. She had picked from where it waited the footfall, And put in her own breast till forth broke finch Able to sing God praise on mornings now. What so excessive harm was done?—she asked. To which demand the dreadful answer comes— For that same deed, now at Lorenzo's church, Both agents, conscious and inconscious, lie; While she, the deed was done to benefit, Lies also, the most lamentable of things, Yonder where curious people count her breaths, Calculate how long yet the little life Unspilt may serve their turn nor spoil the show, Give them their story, then the church its group. Well, having gained Pompilia, the girl grew I' the midst of Pietro here, Violante there, Each, like a semicircle with stretched arms, Joining the other round her preciousness— Two walls that go about a garden-plot Where a chance sliver, branchlet slipt from bole Of some tongue-leaved eye-figured Eden tree, Filched by two exiles and borne far away, Patiently glorifies their solitude,— Year by year mounting, grade by grade surmount The builded brick-work, yet is compassed still, Still hidden happily and shielded safe,— Else why should miracle have graced the ground? But on the twelfth sun that brought April there What meant that laugh? The coping-stone was reached; Nay, above towered a light tuft of bloom To be toyed with by butterfly or bee, Done good to or else harm to from outside: Pompilia's root, stalk and a branch or two Home enclosed still, the rest would be the world's. All which was taught our couple though obtuse, Since walls have ears, when one day brought a priest, Smooth-mannered soft-speeched sleek-cheeked visitor, The notable Abate Paolo—known As younger brother of a Tuscan house Whereof the actual representative, Count Guido, had employed his youth and age In culture of Rome's most productive plant— A cardinal: but years pass and change comes, In token of which, here was our Paolo brought To broach a weighty business. Might he speak? Yes—to Violante somehow caught alone While Pietro took his after-dinner doze, And the young maiden, busily as befits, Minded her broider-frame three chambers off. So—giving now his great flap-hat a gloss With flat o' the hand between-whiles, soothing now The silk from out its creases o'er the calf, Setting the stocking clerical again, But never disengaging, once engaged, The thin clear gray hold of his eyes on her— He dissertated on that Tuscan house, Those Franceschini,—very old they were— Not rich however—oh, not rich, at least, As people look to be who, low i' the scale One way, have reason, rising all they can By favor of the money-bag! 't is fair— Do all gifts go together? But don't suppose That being not so rich means all so poor! Say rather, well enough—i' the way, indeed, Ha, ha, to fortune better than the best: Since if his brother's patron-friend kept faith, Put into promised play the Cardinalate, Their house might wear the red cloth that keeps warm, Would but the Count have patience—there 's the point! For he was slipping into years apace, And years make men restless—they needs must spy Some certainty, some sort of end assured, Some sparkle, though from topmost beacon-tip, That warrants life a harbor through the haze. In short, call him fantastic as you choose, Guido was home-sick, yearned for the old sights And usual faces,—fain would settle himself And have the patron's bounty when it fell Irrigate far rather than deluge near, Go fertilize Arezzo, not flood Rome. Sooth to say, 't was the wiser wish: the Count Proved wanting in ambition,—let us avouch, Since truth is best,—in callousness of heart, And winced at pin-pricks whereby honors hang A ribbon o'er each puncture: his—no soul Ecclesiastic (here the hat was brushed), Humble but self-sustaining, calm and cold, Having, as one who puts his hand to the plough, Renounced the over-vivid family-feel— Poor brother Guido! All too plain, he pined Amid Rome's pomp and glare for dinginess And that dilapidated palace-shell Vast as a quarry and, very like, as bare— Since to this comes old grandeur nowadays— Or that absurd wild villa in the waste O' the hillside, breezy though, for who likes air, Vittiano, nor unpleasant with its vines, Outside the city and the summer heats. And now his harping on this one tense chord The villa and the palace, palace this And villa the other, all day and all night Creaked like the implacable cicala's cry And made one's ear-drum ache: naught else would serve But that, to light his mother's visage up With second youth, hope, gayety again, He must find straightway, woo and haply win And bear away triumphant back, some wife. Well now, the man was rational in his way: He, the Abate,—ought he to interpose? Unless by straining still his tutelage (Priesthood leaps over elder-brothership) Across this difficulty: then let go, Leave the poor fellow in peace! Would that be wrong? There was no making Guido great, it seems, Spite of himself: then happy be his dole! Indeed, the Abate's little interest Was somewhat nearly touched i' the case, they saw: Since if his simple kinsman so were bent, Began his rounds in Rome to catch a wife, Full soon would such unworldliness surprise The rare bird, sprinkle salt on phœnix' tail, And so secure the nest a sparrow-hawk. No lack of mothers here in Rome,—no dread Of daughters lured as larks by looking-glass! The first name-pecking credit-scratching fowl Would drop her unfledged cuckoo in our nest To gather grayness there, give voice at length And shame the brood ... but it was long ago When crusades were, and we sent eagles forth! No, that at least the Abate could forestall. He read the thought within his brother's word, Knew what he purposed better than himself. We want no name and fame—having our own: No worldly aggrandizement—such we fly: But if some wonder of a woman's-heart Were yet untainted on this grimy earth, Tender and true—tradition tells of such— Prepared to pant in time and tune with ours— If some good girl (a girl, since she must take The new bent, live new life, adopt new modes) Not wealthy (Guido for his rank was poor) But with whatever dowry came to hand,— There were the lady-love predestinate! And somehow the Abate's guardian eye— Scintillant, rutilant, fraternal fire,— Roving round every way had seized the prize —The instinct of us, we, the spiritualty! Come, cards on table; was it true or false That here—here in this very tenement— Yea, Via Vittoria did a marvel hide, Lily of a maiden, white with intact leaf Guessed through the sheath that saved it from the sun? A daughter with the mother's hands still clasped Over her head for fillet virginal, A wife worth Guido's house and hand and heart? He came to see; had spoken, he could no less— (A final cherish of the stockinged calf) If harm were,—well, the matter was off his mind. Then with the great air did he kiss, devout, Violante's hand, and rise up his whole height (A certain purple gleam about the black) And go forth grandly,—as if the Pope came next. And so Violante rubbed her eyes awhile, Got up too, walked to wake her Pietro soon And pour into his ear the mighty news How somebody had somehow somewhere seen Their treetop-tuft of bloom above the wall, And came now to apprise them the tree's self Was no such crab-sort as should go feed swine, But veritable gold, the Hesperian ball Ordained for Hercules to haste and pluck, And bear and give the Gods to banquet with— Hercules standing ready at the door. Whereon did Pietro rub his eyes in turn, Look very wise, a little woeful too, Then, periwig on head, and cane in hand, Sally forth dignifiedly into the Square Of Spain across Babbuino the six steps, Toward the Boat-fountain where our idlers lounge,— Ask, for form's sake, who Hercules might be, And have congratulation from the world. Heartily laughed the world in his fool's-face And told him Hercules was just the heir To the stubble once a cornfield, and brick-heap Where used to be a dwelling-place now burned. Guido and Franceschini; a Count,—ay: But a cross i' the poke to bless the Countship? No! All gone except sloth, pride, rapacity, Humors of the imposthume incident To rich blood that runs thin,—nursed to a head By the rankly-salted soil—a cardinal's court Where, parasite and picker-up of crumbs, He had hung on long, and now, let go, said some, Shaken off, said others,—but in any case Tired of the trade and something worse for wear, Was wanting to change town for country quick, Go home again: let Pietro help him home! The brother, Abate Paolo, shrewder mouse, Had pricked for comfortable quarters, inched Into the core of Rome, and fattened so; But Guido, over-burly for rat's hole Suited to clerical slimness, starved outside, Must shift for himself: and so the shift was this! What, was the snug retreat of Pietro tracked, The little provision for his old age snuffed? "Oh, make your girl a lady, an you list, But have more mercy on our wit than vaunt Your bargain as we burgesses who brag! Why, Goodman Dullard, if a friend must speak. Would the Count, think you, stoop to you and yours Were there the value of one penny-piece To rattle 'twixt his palms—or likelier laugh, Bid your Pompilia help you black his shoe?" Home again, shaking oft the puzzled pate, Went Pietro to announce a change indeed, Yet point Violante where some solace lay Of a rueful sort,—the taper, quenched so soon, Had ended merely in a snuff, not stink— Congratulate there was one hope the less, Not misery the more: and so an end. The marriage thus impossible, the rest Followed: our spokesman, Paolo, heard his fate, Resignedly Count Guido bore the blow: Violante wiped away the transient tear, Renounced the playing Danae to gold dreams, Praised much her Pietro's prompt sagaciousness, Found neighbors' envy natural, lightly laughed At gossips' malice, fairly wrapped herself In her integrity three folds about, And, letting pass a little day or two, Threw, even over that integrity, Another wrappage, namely one thick veil That hid her, matron-wise, from head to foot, And, by the hand holding a girl veiled too, Stood, one dim end of a December day, In Saint Lorenzo on the altar-step— Just where she lies now and that girl will lie— Only with fifty candles' company Now, in the place of the poor winking one Which saw—doors shut and sacristan made sure— A priest—perhaps Abate Paolo—wed Guido clandestinely, irrevocably To his Pompilia aged thirteen years And five months,—witness the church register,— Pompilia, (thus become Count Guido's wife Clandestinely, irrevocably his,) Who all the while had borne, from first to last, As brisk a part i' the bargain, as yon lamb, Brought forth from basket and set out for sale, Bears while they chaffer, wary market-man And voluble housewife, o'er it,—each in turn Patting the curly calm inconscious head, With the shambles ready round the corner there, When the talk's talked out and a bargain struck. Transfer complete, why, Pietro was apprised. Violante sobbed the sobs and prayed the prayers, And said the serpent tempted so she fell, Till Pietro had to clear his brow apace And make the best of matters: wrath at first,— How else? pacification presently, Why not?—could flesh withstand the impurpled one, The very Cardinal, Paolo's patron-friend? Who, justifiably surnamed "a hinge," Knew where the mollifying oil should drop To cure the creak o' the valve,—considerate For frailty, patient in a naughty world. He even volunteered to supervise The rough draught of those marriage-articles Signed in a hurry by Pietro, since revoked: Trust 's politic, suspicion does the harm, There is but one way to browbeat this world, Dumb-founder doubt, and repay scorn in kind,— To go on trusting, namely, till faith move Mountains. And faith here made the mountains move. Why, friends whose zeal cried "Caution ere too late!"— Bade "Pause ere jump, with both feet joined, on slough!"— Counselled "If rashness then, now temperance!"— Heard for their pains that Pietro had closed eyes, Jumped and was in the middle of the mire, Money and all, just what should sink a man. By the mere marriage, Guido gained forthwith Dowry, his wife's right; no rescinding there: But Pietro, why must he needs ratify One gift Violante gave, pay down one doit Promised in first fool's-flurry? Grasp the bag Lest the son's service flag,—is reason and rhyme, Above all when the son's a son-in-law. Words to the wind! The parents cast their lot Into the lap o' the daughter: and the son Now with a right to lie there, took what fell, Pietro's whole having and holding, house and field, Goods, chattels and effects, his worldly worth Present and in perspective, all renounced In favor of Guido. As for the usufruct— The interest now, the principal anon, Would Guido please to wait, at Pietro's death: Till when, he must support the couple's charge, Bear with them, housemates, pensionaries, pawned To an alien for fulfilment of their pact. Guido should at discretion deal them orts, Bread-bounty in Arezzo the strange place,— They who had lived deliciously and rolled Rome's choicest comfit 'neath the tongue before. Into this quag, "jump" bade the Cardinal! And neck-deep in a minute there flounced they. But they touched bottom at Arezzo: there— Four months' experience of how craft and greed, Quickened by penury and pretentious hate Of plain truth, brutify and bestialize,— Four months' taste of apportioned insolence, Cruelty graduated, dose by dose Of ruffianism dealt out at bed and board, And lo, the work was done, success clapped hands. The starved, stripped, beaten brace of stupid dupes Broke at last in their desperation loose, Fled away for their lives, and lucky so; Found their account in casting coat afar And bearing off a shred of skin at least: Left Guido lord o' the prey, as the lion is, And, careless what came after, carried their wrongs To Rome,—I nothing doubt, with such remorse As folly feels, since pain can make it wise, But crime, past wisdom, which is innocence, Needs not be plagued with till a later day. Pietro went back to beg from door to door, In hope that memory not quite extinct Of cheery days and festive nights would move Friends and acquaintance—after the natural laugh, And tributary "Just as we foretold—" To show some bowels, give the dregs o' the cup, Scraps of the trencher, to their host that was, Or let him share the mat with the mastiff, he Who lived large and kept open house so long. Not so Violante: ever ahead i' the march, Quick at the by-road and the cut-across, She went first to the best adviser, God— Whose finger unmistakably was felt In all this retribution of the past. Here was the prize of sin, luck of a lie! But here too was what Holy Year would help, Bound to rid sinners of sin vulgar, sin Abnormal, sin prodigious, up to sin Impossible and supposed for Jubilee' sake: To lift the leadenest of lies, let soar The soul unhampered by a feather-weight. "I will," said she, "go burn out this bad hole That breeds the scorpion, balk the plague at least Of hope to further plague by progeny: I will confess my fault, be punished, yes, But pardoned too: Saint Peter pays for all." So, with the crowd she mixed, made for the dome, Through the great door new-broken for the nonce Marched, muffled more than ever matron-wise, Up the left nave to the formidable throne, Fell into file with this the poisoner And that the parricide, and reached in turn The poor repugnant Penitentiary Set at this gully-hole o' the world's discharge To help the frightfullest of filth have vent, And then knelt down and whispered in his ear How she had bought Pompilia, palmed the babe On Pietro, passed the girl off as their child To Guido, and defrauded of his due This one and that one,—more than she could name, Until her solid piece of wickedness Happened to split and spread woe far and wide: Contritely now she brought the case for cure. Replied the throne—"Ere God forgive the guilt, Make man some restitution! Do your part! The owners of your husband's heritage, Barred thence by this pretended birth and heir,— Tell them, the bar came so, is broken so, Theirs be the due reversion as before! Your husband who, no partner in the guilt, Suffers the penalty, led blindfold thus By love of what he thought his flesh and blood To alienate his all in her behalf,— Tell him too such contract is null and void! Last, he who personates your son-in-law, Who with sealed eyes and stopped ears, tame and mute, Took at your hand that bastard of a whore You called your daughter and he calls his wife,— Tell him, and bear the anger which is just! Then, penance so performed, may pardon be!" Who could gainsay this just and right award? Nobody in the world: but, out o' the world, Who knows?—might timid intervention be From any makeshift of an angel-guide, Substitute for celestial guardianship, Pretending to take care of the girl's self: "Woman, confessing crime is healthy work, And telling truth relieves a liar like you, But how of my quite unconsidered charge? No thought if, while this good befalls yourself, Aught in the way of harm may find out her?" No least thought, I assure you: truth being truth, Tell it and shame the devil! Said and done: Home went Violante, and disbosomed all: And Pietro who, six months before, had borne Word after word of such a piece of news Like so much cold steel inched through his breast-blade, Now at its entry gave a leap for joy, As who—what did I say of one in a quag?— Should catch a hand from heaven and spring thereby Out of the mud, on ten toes stand once more. "What? All that used to be, may be again? My money mine again, my house, my land, My chairs and tables, all mine evermore? What, the girl's dowry never was the girl's, And, unpaid yet, is never now to pay? Then the girl's self, my pale Pompilia child That used to be my own with her great eyes— He who drove us forth, why should he keep her When proved as very a pauper as himself? Will she come back, with nothing changed at all, And laugh, 'But how you dreamed uneasily! I saw the great drops stand here on your brow— Did I do wrong to wake you with a kiss?' No, indeed, darling! No, for wide awake I see another outburst of surprise: The lout-lord, bully-beggar, braggart-sneak, Who, not content with cutting purse, crops ear— Assuredly it shall be salve to mine When this great news red-letters him, the rogue! Ay, let him taste the teeth o' the trap, this fox, Give us our lamb back, golden fleece and all, Let her creep in and warm our breasts again! Why care for the past?—we three are our old selves, And know now what the outside world is worth." And so, he carried case before the courts; And there Violante, blushing to the bone, Made public declaration of her fault, Renounced her motherhood, and prayed the law To interpose, frustrate of its effect Her folly, and redress the injury done. Whereof was the disastrous consequence, That though indisputably clear the case (For thirteen years are not so large a lapse, And still six witnesses survived in Rome To prove the truth o' the tale)—yet, patent wrong Seemed Guido's; the first cheat had chanced on him: Here was the pity that, deciding right, Those who began the wrong would gain the prize. Guido pronounced the story one long lie Lied to do robbery and take revenge: Or say it were no lie at all but truth, Then, it both robbed the right heirs and shamed him Without revenge to humanize the deed: What had he done when first they shamed him thus? But that were too fantastic: losels they, And leasing this world's-wonder of a lie, They lied to blot him though it brand themselves. So answered Guido through the Abate's mouth. Wherefore the court, its customary way, Inclined to the middle course the sage affect. They held the child to be a changeling,—good: But, lest the husband got no good thereby, They willed the dowry, though not hers at all, Should yet be his, if not by right then grace— Part-payment for the plain injustice done. As for that other contract, Pietro's work, Renunciation of his own estate, That must be cancelled—give him back his gifts, He was no party to the cheat at least! So ran the judgment:—whence a prompt appeal On both sides, seeing right is absolute. Cried Pietro, "Is the child no child of mine? Why give her a child's dowry?"—"Have I right To the dowry, why not to the rest as well?" Cried Guido, or cried Paolo in his name: Till law said, "Reinvestigate the case!" And so the matter pends, to this same day. Hence new disaster—here no outlet seemed: Whatever the fortune of the battlefield, No path whereby the fatal man might march Victorious, wreath on head and spoils in hand, And back turned full upon the baffled foe,— Nor cranny whence, desperate and disgraced, Stripped to the skin, he might be fain to crawl Worm-like, and so away with his defeat To other fortune and a novel prey. No, he was pinned to the place there, left alone With his immense hate and, the solitary Subject to satisfy that hate, his wife. "Cast her off? Turn her naked out of doors? Easily said! But still the action pends, Still dowry, principal and interest, Pietro's possessions, all I bargained for,— Any good day, be but my friends alert, May give them me if she continue mine. Yet, keep her? Keep the puppet of my foes— Her voice that lisps me back their curse—her eye They lend their leer of triumph to—her lip I touch and taste their very filth upon?" In short, he also took the middle course Rome taught him—did at last excogitate How he might keep the good and leave the bad Twined in revenge, yet extricable,—nay Make the very hate's eruption, very rush Of the unpent sluice of cruelty relieve His heart first, then go fertilize his field. What if the girl-wife, tortured with due care, Should take, as though spontaneously, the road It were impolitic to thrust her on? If, goaded, she broke out in full revolt, Followed her parents i' the face o' the world, Branded as runaway, not castaway, Self-sentenced and self-punished in the act? So should the loathed form and detested face Launch themselves into hell and there be lost While he looked o'er the brink with folded arms; So should the heaped-up shames go shuddering back O' the head o' the heapers, Pietro and his wife, And bury in the breakage three at once: While Guido, left free, no one right renounced, Gain present, gain prospective, all the gain, None of the wife except her rights absorbed, Should ask law what it was law paused about— If law were dubious still whose word to take, The husband's—dignified and derelict, Or the wife's—the ... what I tell you. It should be. Guido's first step was to take pen, indite A letter to the Abate,—not his own, His wife's,—she should re-write, sign, seal and send. She liberally told the household-news, Rejoiced her vile progenitors were gone, Revealed their malice—how they even laid A last injunction on her, when they fled, That she should forthwith find a paramour, Complot with him to gather spoil enough, Then burn the house down,—taking previous care To poison all its inmates overnight,— And so companioned, so provisioned too, Follow to Rome and there join fortunes gay. This letter, traced in pencil-characters, Guido as easily got retraced in ink By his wife's pen, guided from end to end, As if it had been just so much Chinese. For why? That wife could broider, sing perhaps, Pray certainly, but no more read than write This letter, "which yet write she must," he said, "Being half courtesy and compliment, Half sisterliness: take the thing on trust!" She had as readily retraced the words Of her own death-warrant,—in some sort 't was so. This letter the Abate in due course Communicated to such curious souls In Rome as needs must pry into the cause Of quarrel, why the Comparini fled The Franeceschini, whence the grievance grew, What the hubbub meant: "Nay,—see the wife's own word, Authentic answer! Tell detractors too There 's a plan formed, a programme figured here —Pray God no after-practice put to proof, This letter cast no light upon, one day!" So much for what should work in Rome: back now To Arezzo, follow up the project there, Forward the next step with as bold a foot, And plague Pompilia to the height, you see! Accordingly did Guido set himself To worry up and down, across, around, The woman, hemmed in by her household-bars, Chase her about the coop of daily life, Having first stopped each outlet thence save one Which, like bird with a ferret in her haunt, She needs must seize as sole way of escape Though there was tied and twittering a decoy To seem as if it tempted,—just the plume O' the popinjay, not a real respite there From tooth and claw of something in the dark,— Giuseppe Caponsacchi. Now begins The tenebrific passage of the tale: How hold a light, display the cavern's gorge? How, in this phase of the affair, show truth? Here is the dying wife who smiles and says, "So it was,—so it was not,—how it was, I never knew nor ever care to know—" Till they all weep, physician, man of law, Even that poor old bit of battered brass Beaten out of all shape by the world's sins, Common utensil of the lazar-house— Confessor Celestino groans, "'T is truth, All truth and only truth: there 's something here, Some presence in the room beside us all, Something that every lie expires before: No question she was pure from first to last." So far is well and helps us to believe: But beyond, she the helpless, simple-sweet Or silly-sooth, unskilled to break one blow At her good fame by putting finger forth,— How can she render service to the truth? The bird says, "So I fluttered where a springe Caught me: the springe did not contrive itself, That I know: who contrived it, God forgive!" But we, who hear no voice and have dry eyes, Must ask,—we cannot else, absolving her,— How of the part played by that same decoy I' the catching, caging? Was himself caught first? We deal here with no innocent at least, No witless victim,—he 's a man of the age And priest beside,—persuade the mocking world Mere charity boiled over in this sort! He whose own safety too,—(the Pope 's apprised— Good-natured with the secular offence, The Pope looks grave on priesthood in a scrape)— Our priest's own safety therefore, maybe life, Hangs on the issue! You will find it hard. Guido is here to meet you with fixed foot, Stiff like a statue—"Leave what went before! My wife fled i' the company of a priest, Spent two days and two nights alone with him: Leave what came after!" He stands hard to throw. Moreover priests are merely flesh and blood; When we get weakness, and no guilt beside, 'T is no such great ill-fortune: finding gray, We gladly call that white which might be black, Too used to the double-dye. So, if the priest, Moved by Pompilia's youth and beauty, gave Way to the natural weakness ... Anyhow, Here be facts, charactery; what they spell Determine, and thence pick what sense you may! There was a certain young bold handsome priest Popular in the city, far and wide Famed, since Arezzo 's but a little place, As the best of good companions, gay and grave At the decent minute; settled in his stall, Or sidling, lute on lap, by lady's couch, Ever the courtly Canon: see in him A proper star to climb and culminate, Have its due handbreadth of the heaven at Rome, Though meanwhile pausing on Arezzo's edge, As modest candle does 'mid mountain fog, To rub off redness and rusticity Ere it sweep chastened, gain the silver-sphere! Whether through Guido's absence or what else, This Caponsacchi, favorite of the town, Was yet no friend of his nor free o' the house, Though both moved in the regular magnates' march: Each must observe the other's tread and halt At church, saloon, theatre, house of play. Who could help noticing the husband's slouch, The black of his brow—or miss the news that buzzed Of how the little solitary wife Wept and looked out of window all day long? What need of minute search into such springs As start men, set o' the move?—machinery Old as earth, obvious as the noonday sun. Why, take men as they come,—an instance now,— Of all those who have simply gone to see Pompilia on her deathbed since four days, Half at the least are, call it how you please, In love with her—I don't except the priests Nor even the old confessor whose eyes run Over at what he styles his sister's voice Who died so early and weaned him from the world. Well, had they viewed her ere the paleness pushed The last o' the red o' the rose away, while yet Some hand, adventurous 'twixt the wind and her, Might let shy life run back and raise the flower Rich with reward up to the guardian's face,— Would they have kept that hand employed all day At fumbling on with prayer-hook pages? No! Men are men: why then need I say one word More than that our mere man the Canon here Saw, pitied, loved Pompilia? This is why; This startling why: that Caponsacchi's self— Whom foes and friends alike avouch, for good Or ill, a man of truth whate'er betide, Intrepid altogether, reckless too How his own fame and fortune, tossed to the winds, Suffer by any turn the adventure take, Nay, more—not thrusting, like a badge to hide, 'Twixt shirt and skin a joy which shown is shame— But flirting flag-like i' the face o' the world This tell-tale kerchief, this conspicuous love For the lady,—oh, called innocent love, I know! Only, such scarlet fiery innocence As most folk would try muffle up in shade,— —'T is strange then that this else abashless mouth Should yet maintain, for truth's sake which is God's, That it was not he made the first advance, That, even ere word had passed between the two, Pompilia penned him letters, passionate prayers, If not love, then so simulating love That he, no novice to the taste of thyme, Turned from such over-luscious honey-clot At end o' the flower, and would not lend his lip Till ... but the tale here frankly outsoars faith: There must be falsehood somewhere. For her part, Pompilia quietly constantly avers She never penned a letter in her life Nor to the Canon nor any other man, Being incompetent to write and read: Nor had she ever uttered word to him, nor he To her till that same evening when they met, She on her window-terrace, he beneath I' the public street, as was their fateful chance, And she adjured him in the name of God To find out, bring to pass where, when and how Escape with him to Rome might be contrived. Means were found, plan laid, time fixed, she avers, And heart assured to heart in loyalty, All at an impulse! All extemporized As in romance-books! Is that credible? Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouth Dying, I do think "Credible!" you 'd cry— Did not the priest's voice come to break the spell. They questioned him apart, as the custom is, When first the matter made a noise at Rome, And he, calm, constant then as she is now, For truth's sake did assert and reassert Those letters called him to her and he came, —Which damns the story credible otherwise. Why should this man—mad to devote himself, Careless what comes of his own fame, the first— Be studious thus to publish and declare Just what the lightest nature loves to hide, So screening lady from the byword's laugh "First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!" —I say,—why should the man tell truth just now When graceful lying meets such ready shrift? Or is there a first moment for a priest As for a woman, when invaded shame Must have its first and last excuse to show? Do both contrive love's entry in the mind Shall look, i' the manner of it, a surprise, That after, once the flag o' the fort hauled down, Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate, Welcome and entertain the conqueror? Or what do you say to a touch of the devil's worst? Can it be that the husband, he who wrote The letter to his brother I told you of, I' the name of her it meant to criminate,— What if he wrote those letters to the priest? Further the priest says, when it first befell, This folly o' the letters, that he checked the flow, Put them back lightly each with its reply. Here again vexes new discrepancy: There never reached her eye a word from him; He did write but she could not read—could just Burn the offence to wifehood, womanhood, So did burn: never bade him come to her, Yet when it proved he must come, let him come, And when he did come though uncalled,—why, spoke Prompt by an inspiration: thus it chanced, Will you go somewhat back to understand? When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprang, Like an uncaged beast, Guido's cruelty On soul and body of his wife, she cried To those whom law appoints resource for such, The secular guardian,—that 's the Governor, And the Archbishop,—that 's the spiritual guide, And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh. Now, this is ever the ill consequence Of being noble, poor and difficult, Ungainly, yet too great to disregard,— This—that born peers and friends hereditary,— Though disinclined to help from their own store The opprobrious wight, put penny in his poke From private purse or leave the door ajar When he goes wistful by at dinner-time,— Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sit Smugly in office, judge this, bishop that, Dispensers of the shine and shade o' the place— And if, friend's door shut and friend's purse undrawn, Still potentates may find the office-seat Do as good service at no cost—give help By-the-bye, pay up traditional dues at once Just through a feather-weight too much i' the scale, Or finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue,— Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists. Thus when, in the first roughness of surprise At Guido's wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell, The frightened couple, all bewilderment, Rushed to the Governor,—who else rights wrong? Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress— Why, then the Governor woke up to the fact That Guido was a friend of old, poor Count!— So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pair Wholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualms Next time they came, wept, prated and told lies: So stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome. Well, now it was Pompilia's turn to try: The troubles pressing on her, as I said, Three times she rushed, maddened by misery, To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayer At footstool of the Archbishop—fast the friend Of her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore! So, the Archbishop, not to be outdone By the Governor, break custom more than he, Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue, Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout, Coached her and carried her to the Count again, —His old friend should be master in his house, Rule his wife and correct her faults at need! Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise, She, as a last resource, betook herself To one, should be no family-friend at least, A simple friar o' the city; confessed to him, Then told how fierce temptation of release By self-dealt death was busy with her soul, And urged that he put this in words, write plain For one who could not write, set down her prayer That Pietro and Violante, parent-like If somehow not her parents, should for love Come save her, pluck from out the flame the brand Themselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deep To send gay-colored sparkles up and cheer Their seat at the chimney-corner. The good friar Promised as much at the moment; but, alack, Night brings discretion: he was no one's friend, Yet presently found he could not turn about Nor take a step i' the ease and fail to tread On some one's toe who either was a friend, Or a friend's friend, or friend's friend thrice-removed, And woe to friar by whom offences come! So, the course being plain,—with a general sigh At matrimony the profound mistake,— He threw reluctantly the business up, Having his other penitents to mind. If then, all outlets thus secured save one, At last she took to the open, stood and stared With her wan face to see where God might wait— And there found Caponsacchi wait as well For the precious something at perdition's edge, He only was predestinate to save,— And if they recognized in a critical flash From the zenith, each the other, her need of him, His need of ... say, a woman to perish for, The regular way o' the world, yet break no vow, Do no harm save to himself,—if this were thus? How do you say? It were improbable; So is the legend of my patron-saint. Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case, Pompilia—like a starving wretch i' the street Who stops and rifles the first passenger In the great right of an excessive wrong— Did somehow call this stranger and he came,— Or whether the strange sudden interview Blazed as when star and star must needs go close Till each hurts each and there is loss in heaven— Whatever way in this strange world it was,— Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine, She at her window, he i' the street beneath, And understood each other at first look. All was determined and performed at once. And on a certain April evening, late I' the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wife Three years and over,—she who hitherto Had never taken twenty steps in Rome Beyond the church, pinned to her mother's gown, Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through street Except what led to the Archbishop's door,— Such an one rose up in the dark, laid hand On what came first, clothes and a trinket or two, Belongings of her own in the old day,— Stole from the side o' the sleeping spouse—who knows? Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain,—slid Ghost-like from great dark room to great dark room, In through the tapestries and out again And onward, unembarrassed as a fate, Descended staircase, gained last door of all, Sent it wide open at first push of palm, And there stood, first time, last and only time, At liberty, alone in the open street,— Unquestioned, unmolested found herself At the city gate, by Caponsacchi's side, Hope there, joy there, life and all good again, The carriage there, the convoy there, light there Broadening ever into blaze at Rome And breaking small what long miles lay between; Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe. The husband quotes this for incredible, All of the story from first word to last: Sees the priest's hand throughout upholding hers, Traces his foot to the alcove, that night, Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way, Proficient in all craft and stealthiness; And cites for proof a servant, eye that watched And ear that opened to purse secrets up, A woman-spy,—suborned to give and take Letters and tokens, do the work of shame The more adroitly that herself, who helped Communion thus between a tainted pair, Had long since been a leper thick in spot, A common trull o' the town: she witnessed all, Helped many meetings, partings, took her wage And then told Guido the whole matter. Lies! The woman's life confutes her word,—her word Confutes itself: "Thus, thus and thus I lied." "And thus, no question, still you lie," we say. "Ay, but at last, e'en have it how you will, Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodes The consummation"—the accusers shriek: "Here is the wife avowedly found in flight, And the companion of her flight, a priest; She flies her husband, he the church his spouse: What is this?" Wife and priest alike reply, "This is the simple thing it claims to be, A course we took for life and honor's sake, Very strange, very justifiable." She says, "God put it in my head to fly, As when the martin migrates: autumn claps Her hands, cries 'Winter 's coming, will be here, Off with you ere the white teeth overtake! Flee!' So I fled: this friend was the warm day, The south wind and whatever favors flight; I took the favor, had the help, how else? And so we did fly rapidly all night, All day, all night—a longer night—again, And then another day, longest of days, And all the while, whether we fled or stopped, I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both, 'Fly and arrive!' So long as I found strength I talked with my companion, told him much, Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew God And God's disposal of me,—but the sense O' the blessed flight absorbed me in the main, And speech became mere talking through a sleep, Till at the end of that last longest night in a red daybreak, when we reached an inn And my companion whispered 'Next stage—Rome!' Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards, All the frail fabric at a finger's touch, And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said, 'But though Count Guido were a furlong off, Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!' Then something like a huge white wave o' the sea Broke o'er my brain and buried me in sleep Blessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose, And where was I found but on a strange bed In a strange room like hell, roaring with noise, Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in front Who but the man you call my husband? ay— Count Guido once more between heaven and me, For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes— That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help, Helpless himself, held prisoner in the hands Of men who looked up in my husband's face To take the fate thence he should signify, Just as the way was at Arezzo. Then, Not for my sake but his who had helped me— I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seized The sword o' the felon, trembling at his side, Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thing And would have pinned him through the poison-bag To the wall and left him there to palpitate, As you serve scorpions, but men interposed— Disarmed me, gave his life to him again That he might take mine and the other lives; And he has done so. I submit myself!" The priest says—oh, and in the main result The facts asseverate, he truly says, As to the very act and deed of him, However you mistrust the mind o' the man— The flight was just for flight's sake, no pretext For aught except to set Pompilia free. He says, "I cite the husband's self's worst charge In proof of my best word for both of us. Be it conceded that so many times We took our pleasure in his palace: then, What need to fly at all?—or flying no less, What need to outrage the lips sick and white Of a woman, and bring ruin down beside, By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?" So does he vindicate Pompilia's fame, Confirm her story in all points but one— This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forth Her last strength in the prayer to halt a while, She makes confusion of the reddening white Which was the sunset when her strength gave way, And the next sunrise and its whitening red Which she revived in when her husband came: She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one, Having lived through a blank of night 'twixt each Though dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse, She on the bed above; her friend below Watched in the doorway of the inn the while, Stood i' the red o' the morn, that she mistakes, In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crew And hurry out the horses, have the stage Over, the last league, reach Rome and be safe: When up came Guido. Guido's tale begins— How he and his whole household, drunk to death By some enchanted potion, poppied drugs Plied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleep And left the spoilers unimpeded way, Could not shake off their poison and pursue, Till noontide, then made shift to get on horse And did pursue: which means he took his time, Pressed on no more than lingered after, step By step, just making sure o' the fugitives, Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance, Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair. How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth, Taking successively at tower and town, Village and roadside, still the same report: "Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago, Sat in the carriage just where now you stand, While we got horses ready,—turned deaf ear To all entreaty they would even alight; Counted the minutes and resumed their course." Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome, Leave no least loop-hole to let murder through, But foil him of his captured infamy, Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed: Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, Rome But two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached, The guardian angel gave reluctant place, Satan stepped forward with alacrity, Pompilia's flesh and blood succumbed, perforce A halt was, and her husband had his will. Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hour Till he should spy in the east a signal-streak— Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be. Do you see the plan deliciously complete? The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep, The easy execution, the outcry Over the deed, "Take notice all the world! These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace,— The man is Caponsacchi and a priest, The woman is my wife: they fled me late. Thus have I found and you behold them thus, And may judge me: do you approve or no?" Success did seem not so improbable, But that already Satan's laugh was heard, His black back turned on Guido—left i' the lurch Or rather, balked of suit and service now, Left to improve on both by one deed more, Burn up the better at no distant day, Body and soul one holocaust to hell. Anyhow, of this natural consequence Did just the last link of the long chain snap: For an eruption was o' the priest, alive And alert, calm, resolute and formidable, Not the least look of fear in that broad brow— One not to be disposed of by surprise, And armed moreover—who had guessed as much? Yes, there stood he in secular costume Complete from head to heel, with sword at side, He seemed to know the trick of perfectly. There was no prompt suppression of the man As he said calmly, "I have saved your wife From death; there was no other way but this; Of what do I defraud you except death? Charge any wrong beyond, I answer it." Guido, the valorous, had met his match, Was forced to demand help instead of flight, Bid the authorities o' the place lend aid And make the best of a broken matter so. They soon obeyed the summons—I suppose, Apprised and ready, or not far to seek— Laid hands on Caponsacchi, found in fault, A priest yet flagrantly accoutred thus,— Then, to make good Count Guido's further charge, Proceeded, prisoner made lead the way, In a crowd, upstairs to the chamber-door, Where wax-white, dead asleep, deep beyond dream, As the priest laid her, lay Pompilia yet. And as he mounted step and step with the crowd How I see Guido taking heart again! He knew his wife so well and the way of her— How at the outbreak she would shroud her shame In hell's heart, would it mercifully yawn— How, failing that, her forehead to his foot, She would crouch silent till the great doom fell, Leave him triumphant with the crowd to see Guilt motionless or writhing like a worm! No! Second misadventure, this worm turned, I told you: would have slain him on the spot With his own weapon, but they seized her hands: Leaving her tongue free, as it tolled the knell Of Guido's hope so lively late. The past Took quite another shape now. She who shrieked, "At least and forever I am mine and God's, Thanks to his liberating angel Death— Never again degraded to be yours The ignoble noble, the unmanly man, The beast below the beast in brutishness!"— This was the froward child, "the restif lamb Used to be cherished in his breast," he groaned— "Eat from his hand and drink from out his cup, The while his fingers pushed their loving way Through curl on curl of that soft coat—alas, And she all silverly baaed gratitude While meditating mischief!"—and so forth. He must invent another story now!' The ins and outs o' the rooms were searched: he found Or showed for found the abominable prize— Love-letters from his wife who cannot write, Love-letters in reply o' the priest—thank God!— Who can write and confront his character With this, and prove the false thing forged throughout: Spitting whereat, he needs must spatter whom But Guido's self?—that forged and falsified One letter called Pompilia's, past dispute: Then why not these to make sure still more sure? So was the case concluded then and there: Guido preferred his charges in due form, Called on the law to adjudicate, consigned The accused ones to the Prefect of the place. (Oh mouse-birth of that mountain-like revenge!) And so to his own place betook himself After the spring that failed,—the wildcat's way. The captured parties were conveyed to Rome; Investigation followed here i' the court— Soon to review the fruit of its own work, From then to now being eight months and no more. Guido kept out of sight and safe at home: The Abate, brother Paolo, helped most At words when deeds were out of question, pushed Nearest the purple, best played deputy, So, pleaded, Guido's representative At the court shall soon try Guido's self,—what's more, The court that also took—I told you, Sir— That statement of that couple, how a cheat Had been i' the birth of the babe, no child of theirs. That was the prelude; this, the play's first act: Whereof we wait what comes, crown, close of all. Well, the result was something of a shade On the parties thus accused,—how otherwise? Shade, but with shine as unmistakable. Each had a prompt defence: Pompilia first— "Earth was made hell to me who did no harm: I only could emerge one way from hell By catching at the one hand held me, so I caught at it and thereby stepped to heaven: If that be wrong, do with me what you will!" Then Caponsacchi with a grave grand sweep O' the arm as though his soul warned baseness off— "If as a man, then much more as a priest I hold me bound to help weak innocence: If so my worldly reputation burst, Being the bubble it is, why, burst it may: Blame I can bear though not blameworthiness. But use your sense first, see if the miscreant proved, The man who tortured thus the woman, thus Have not both laid the trap and fixed the lure Over the pit should bury body and soul! His facts are lies: his letters are the fact— An infiltration flavored with himself! As for the fancies—whether ... what is it you say? The lady loves me, whether I love her In the forbidden sense of your surmise,— If, with the midday blaze of truth above, The unlidded eye of God awake, aware, You needs must pry about and trace the birth Of each stray beam of light may traverse night, To the night's sun that 's Lucifer himself, Do so, at other time, in other place, Not now nor here! Enough that first to last I never touched her lip nor she my hand, Nor either of us thought a thought, much less Spoke a word which the Virgin might not hear. Be such your question, thus I answer it." Then the court had to make its mind up, spoke. "It is a thorny question, yea, a tale Hard to believe, but not impossible: Who can be absolute for either side? A middle course is happily open yet. Here has a blot surprised the social blank,— Whether through favor, feebleness or fault, No matter, leprosy has touched our robe And we unclean must needs be purified. Here is a wife makes holiday from home, A priest caught playing truant to his church, In masquerade moreover: both allege Enough excuse to stop our lifted scourge Which else would heavily fall. On the other hand, Here is a husband, ay and man of mark, Who comes complaining here, demands redress As if he were the pattern of desert— The while those plaguy allegations frown, Forbid we grant him the redress he seeks. To all men be our moderation known! Rewarding none while compensating each, Hurting all round though harming nobody, Husband, wife, priest, scot-free not one shall 'scape, Yet priest, wife, husband, boast the unbroken head From application of our excellent oil: So that, whatever be the fact, in fine, We make no miss of justice in a sort. First, let the husband stomach as he may, His wife shall neither be returned him, no— Nor branded, whipped and caged, but just consigned To a convent and the quietude she craves; So is he rid of his domestic plague: What better thing can happen to a man? Next, let the priest retire—unshent, unshamed. Unpunished as for perpetrating crime, But relegated (not imprisoned, Sirs!) Sent for three years to clarify his youth At Civita, a rest by the way to Rome: There let his life skim off its last of lees Nor keep this dubious color. Judged the cause: All parties may retire, content, we hope." That 's Rome's way, the traditional road of law; Whither it leads is what remains to tell. The priest went to his relegation-place, The wife to her convent, brother Paolo To the arms of brother Guido with the news And this beside—his charge was countercharged; The Comparini, his old brace of hates, Were breathed and vigilant and venomous now— Had shot a second bolt where the first stuck, And followed up the pending dowry-suit By a procedure should release the wife From so much of the marriage-bond as barred Escape when Guido turned the screw too much On his wife's flesh and blood, as husband may. No more defence, she turned and made attack, Claimed now divorce from bed and board, in short: Pleaded such subtle strokes of cruelty, Such slow sure siege laid to her body and soul, As, proved,—and proofs seemed coming thick and fast,— Would gain both freedom and the dowry back Even should the first suit leave them in his grasp: So urged the Comparini for the wife. Guido had gained not one of the good things He grasped at by his creditable plan O' the flight and following and the rest: the suit That smouldered late was fanned to fury new, This adjunct came to help with fiercer fire, While he had got himself a quite new plague — Found the world's face an universal grin At this last best of the Hundred Merry Tales Of how a young and spritely clerk devised To carry off a spouse that moped too much, And cured her of the vapors in a trice: And how the husband, playing Vulcan's part, Told by the Sun, started in hot pursuit To catch the lovers, and came halting up, Cast his net, and then called the Gods to see The convicts in their rosy impudence— Whereat said Mercury, "Would that I were Mars!" Oh it was rare, and naughty all the same! Brief, the wife's courage and cunning,—the priest's show Of chivalry and adroitness,—last not least, The husband—how he ne'er showed teeth at all, Whose bark had promised biting; but just sneaked Back to his kennel, tail 'twixt legs, as 't were,— All this was hard to gulp down and digest. So pays the devil his liegeman, brass for gold. But this was at Arezzo: here in Rome Brave Paolo bore up against it all— Battled it out, nor wanting to himself Nor Guido nor the House whose weight he bore Pillar-like, by no force of arm but brain. He knew his Rome, what wheels to set to work; Plied influential folk, pressed to the ear Of the efficacious purple, pushed his way To the old Pope's self,—past decency indeed,— Praying him take the matter in his hands Out of the regular court's incompetence. But times are changed and nephews out of date And favoritism unfashionable: the Pope Said, "Render Cæsar what is Cæsar's due!" As for the Comparini's counter-plea, He met that by a counter-plea again, Made Guido claim divorce—with help so far By the trial's issue: for, why punishment However slight unless for guiltiness However slender?—and a molehill serves Much as a mountain of offence this way. So was he gathering strength on every side And growing more and more to menace—when All of a terrible moment came the blow That beat down Paolo's fence, ended the play O' the foil and brought Mannaia on the stage. Five months had passed now since Pompilia's flight, Months spent in peace among the Convert nuns: This,—being, as it seemed, for Guido's sake Solely, what pride might call imprisonment And quote as something gained, to friends at home,— This naturally was at Guido's charge: Grudge it he might, but penitential fare, Prayers, preachings, who but he defrayed the cost? So, Paolo dropped, as proxy, doit by doit Like heart's blood, till—what 's here? What notice comes? The convent's self makes application bland That, since Pompilia's health is fast o' the wane, She may have leave to go combine her cure Of soul with cure of body, mend her mind Together with her thin arms and sunk eyes That want fresh air outside the convent-wall, Say in a friendly house,—and which so fit As a certain villa in the Pauline way, That happens to hold Pietro and his wife, The natural guardians? "Oh, and shift the care You shift the cost, too; Pietro pays in turn, And lightens Guido of a load! And then, Villa or convent, two names for one thing, Always the sojourn means imprisonment, Domus pro carcere—nowise we relax, Nothing abate: how answers Paolo?" You, What would you answer? All so smooth and fair, Even Paul's astuteness sniffed no harm i' the world. He authorized the transfer, saw it made And, two months after, reaped the fruit of the same, Having to sit down, rack his brain and find What phrase should serve him best to notify Our Guido that by happy providence A son and heir, a babe was born to him I' the villa,—go tell sympathizing friends! Yes, such had been Pompilia's privilege: She, when she fled, was one month gone with child, Known to herself or unknown, either way Availing to explain (say men of art) The strange and passionate precipitance Of maiden startled into motherhood Which changes body and soul by nature's law. So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings come For the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores, And there is born a blood-pulse in her heart To fight if needs be, though with flap of wing, For the wool-flock or the fur-tuft, though a hawk Contest the prize,—wherefore, she knows not yet. Anyhow, thus to Guido came the news. "I shall have quitted Rome ere you arrive To take the one step left,"—wrote Paolo. Then did the winch o' the winepress of all hate, Vanity, disappointment, grudge and greed, Take the last turn that screws out pure revenge With a bright bubble at the brim beside— By an heir's birth he was assured at once O' the main prize, all the money in dispute: Pompilia's dowry might revert to her Or stay with him as law's caprice should point,— But now—now—what was Pietro's shall be hers, What was hers shall remain her own.—if hers, Why then,—oh, not her husband's, but—her heir's! That heir being his too, all grew his at last By this road or by that road, since they join. Before, why, push he Pietro out o' the world,— The current of the money stopped, you see, Pompilia being proved no Pietro's child: Or let it be Pompilia's life he quenched, Again the current of the money stopped,— Guido debarred his rights as husband soon, So the new process threatened;—now, the chance, Now, the resplendent minute! Clear the earth, Cleanse the house, let the three but disappear, A child remains, depositary of all, That Guido may enjoy his own again, Repair all losses by a master-stroke, Wipe out the past, all done all left undone, Swell the good present to best evermore, Die into new life, which let blood baptize! So, i' the blue of a sudden sulphur-blaze, Both why there was one step to take at Rome, And why he should not meet with Paolo there, He saw—the ins and outs to the heart of hell— And took the straight line thither swift and sure. He rushed to Vittiano, found four sons o' the soil, Brutes of his breeding, with one spark i' the clod That served for a soul, the looking up to him Or aught called Franceschini as life, death, Heaven, hell,—lord paramount, assembled these, Harangued, equipped, instructed, pressed each clod With his will's imprint; then took horse, plied spur, And so arrived, all five of them, at Rome On Christmas-Eve, and forthwith found themselves Installed i' the vacancy and solitude Left them by Paolo, the considerate man Who, good as his word, had disappeared at once As if to leave the stage free. A whole week Did Guido spend in study of his part, Then played it fearless of a failure. One, Struck the year's clock whereof the hours are days, And off was rung o' the little wheels the chime "Good will on earth and peace to man:" but, two, Proceeded the same bell, and, evening come, The dreadful five felt finger-wise their way Across the town by blind cuts and black turns To the little lone suburban villa; knocked— "Who may be outside?" called a well-known voice. "A friend of Caponsacchi's bringing friends A letter." That 's a test, the excusers say: Ay, and a test conclusive, I return. What? Had that name brought touch of guilt or taste Of fear with it, aught to dash the present joy With memory of the sorrow just at end,— She, happy in her parents' arms at length, With the new blessing of the two-weeks' babe,— How had that name's announcement moved the wife? Or, as the other slanders circulate, Were Caponsacchi no rare visitant On nights and days whither safe harbor lured, What bait had been i' the name to ope the door? The promise of a letter? Stealthy guests Have secret watchwords, private entrances: The man's own self might have been found inside And all the scheme made frustrate by a word. No: but since Guido knew, none knew so well, The man had never since returned to Rome Nor seen the wife's face more than villa's front, So, could not be at hand to warn or save,— For that, he took this sure way to the end. "Come in," bade poor Violante cheerfully, Drawing the door-bolt: that death was the first, Stabbed through and through. Pietro, close on her heels, Set up a cry—"Let me confess myself! Grant but confession!" Cold steel was the grant. Then came Pompilia's turn. Then they escaped. The noise o' the slaughter roused the neighborhood. They had forgotten just the one thing more Which saves i' the circumstance, the ticket, to wit, Which puts post-horses at a traveller's use: So, all on foot, desperate through the dark Reeled they like drunkards along open road, Accomplished a prodigious twenty miles Homeward, and gained Baccano very near, Stumbled at last, deaf, dumb, blind through the feat, Into a grange and, one dead heap, slept there Till the pursuers hard upon their trace Reached them and took them, red from head to heel, And brought them to the prison where they lie. The couple were laid i' the church two days ago, And the wife lives yet by miracle. All is told. You hardly need ask what Count Guido says, Since something he must say. "I own the deed—" (He cannot choose,—but—) "I declare the same Just and inevitable,—since no way else Was left me, but by this of taking life, To save my honor which is more than life. I exercised a husband's rights." To which The answer is as prompt—"There was no fault In any one o' the three to punish thus: Neither i' the wife, who kept all faith to you, Nor in the parents, whom yourself first duped, Robbed and maltreated, then turned out of doors. You wronged and they endured wrong; yours the fault. Next, had endurance overpassed the mark And turned resentment needing remedy,— Nay, put the absurd impossible case, for once— You were all blameless of the blame alleged And they blameworthy where you fix all blame, Still, why this violation of the law? Yourself elected law should take its course, Avenge wrong, or show vengeance not your right; Why, only when the balance in law's hand Trembles against you and inclines the way O' the other party, do you make protest, Renounce arbitrament, flying out of court, And crying 'Honor's hurt the sword must cure'? Aha, and so i' the middle of each suit Trying i' the courts,—and you had three in play With an appeal to the Pope's self beside,— What, you may chop and change and right your wrongs, Leaving the law to lag as she thinks fit?" That were too temptingly commodious, Count! One would have still a remedy in reserve Should reach the safest oldest sinner, you see! One's honor forsooth? Does that take hurt alone From the extreme outrage? I who have no wife, Being yet sensitive in my degree As Guido,—must discover hurt elsewhere Which, half compounded for in days gone by, May profitably break out now afresh, Need cure from my own expeditious hands. The lie that was, as it were, imputed me When you objected to my contract's clause,— The theft as good as, one may say, alleged, When you, co-heir in a will, excepted, Sir, To my administration of effects, —Aha, do you think law disposed of these? My honor's touched and shall deal death around! Count, that were too commodious, I repeat! If any law be imperative on us all, Of all are you the enemy: out with you From the common light and air and life of man!

True, Excellency—as his Highness says, Though she 's not dead yet, she 's as good as stretched Symmetrical beside the other two; Though he 's not judged yet, he 's the same as judged, So do the facts abound and superabound: And nothing hinders that we lift the case Out of the shade into the shine, allow Qualified persons to pronounce at last, Nay, edge in an authoritative word Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome. "Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!" Law 's a machine from which, to please the mob, Truth the divinity must needs descend And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha! Hammer into their noddles who was who And what was what. I tell the simpletons, "Could law be competent to such a feat 'T were done already: what begins next week Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain Whereof the first was forged three years ago When law addressed herself to set wrong right, And proved so slow in taking the first step That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort, On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game, Retarded sentence, till this deed of death Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers? 'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est! Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be." Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes. To hear the rabble and brabble, you 'd call the case Fused and confused past human finding out. One calls the square round, t' other the round square— And pardonably in that first surprise O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram: But now we 've used our eyes to the violent hue Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines? It makes a man despair of history, Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end! Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away With the leash of lawyers, two on either side— One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli And Spreti,—that 's the husband's ultimate hope Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc, Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow! Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here Would settle the matter as sufficiently As ever will Advocate This and Fiscal That And Judge the Other, with even—a word and a wink— We well know who for ultimate arbiter. Let us beware o' the basset-table—lest We jog the elbow of Her Eminence, Jostle his cards,—he 'll rap you out a ... st! By the window-seat! And here 's the Marquis too! Indulge me but a moment: if I fail —Favored with such an audience, understand!— To set things right, why, class me with the mob As understander of the mind of man! The mob,—now, that 's just how the error comes! Bethink you that you have to deal with plebs, The commonalty; this is an episode In burgess-life,—why seek to aggrandize, Idealize, denaturalize the class? People talk just as if they had to do With a noble pair that ... Excellency, your ear! Stoop to me, Highness,—listen and look yourselves! This Pietro, this Violante, live their life At Rome in the easy way that 's far from worst Even for their betters,—themselves love themselves, Spend their own oil in feeding their own lamp That their own faces may grow bright thereby. They get to fifty and over: how 's the lamp? Full to the depth o' the wick,—moneys so much; And also with a remnant,—so much more Of moneys,—which there 's no consuming now, But, when the wick shall moulder out some day, Failing fresh twist of tow to use up dregs, Will lie a prize for the passer-by,—to wit, Any one that can prove himself the heir, Seeing, the couple are wanting in a child: Meantime their wick swims in the sate broad bowl O' the middle rank,—not raised a beacon's height For wind to ravage, nor dropped till lamp graze ground Like cresset, mudlarks poke now here now there, Going their rounds to probe the ruts i' the road Or fish the luck o' the puddle. Pietro's soul Was satisfied when crony smirked, "No wine Like Pietro's, and he drinks it every day!" His wife's heart swelled her bodice, joyed its fill When neighbors turned heads wistfully at church, Sighed at the load of lace that came to pray. Well, having got through fifty years of flare, They burn out so, indulge so their dear selves, That Pietro finds himself in debt at last, As he were any lordling of us all: And, now that dark begins to creep on day, Creditors grow uneasy, talk aside, Take counsel, then importune all at once. For if the good fat rosy careless man, Who has not laid a ducat by, decease— Let the lamp fall, no heir at hand to catch— Why, being childless, there 's a spilth i' the street O' the remnant, there 's a scramble for the dregs By the stranger: so, they grant him no long day But come in a body, clamor to be paid. What 's his resource? He asks and straight obtains The customary largess, dole dealt out To, what we call our "poor dear shamefaced ones," In secret once a month to spare the shame O' the slothful and the spendthrift,—pauper-saints The Pope puts meat i' the mouth of, ravens they, And providence he—just what the mob admires! That is, instead of putting a prompt foot On selfish worthless human slugs whose slime Has failed to lubricate their path in life, Why, the Pope picks the first ripe fruit that falls And gracious puts it in the vermin's way. Pietro could never save a dollar? Straight He must be subsidized at our expense: And for his wife—the harmless household sheep One ought not to see harassed in her age— Judge, by the way she bore adversity, O' the patient nature you ask pity for! How long, now, would the roughest market-man, Handling the creatures huddled to the knife, Harass a mutton ere she made a mouth Or menaced biting? Yet the poor sheep here, Violante, the old innocent burgess-wife, In her first difficulty showed great teeth Fit to crunch up and shallow a good round crime. She meditates the tenure of the Trust, Fidei commissum is the lawyer-phrase, These funds that only want an heir to take— Goes o'er the gamut o' the creditor's cry By semitones from whine to snarl high up And growl down low, one scale in sundry keys,— Pauses with a little compunction for the face Of Pietro frustrate of its ancient cheer,— Never a bottle now for friend at need,— Comes to a stop on her own frittered lace And neighborly condolences thereat, Then makes her mind up, sees the thing to do: And so, deliberate, snaps house-book clasp, Posts off to vespers, missal beneath arm, Passes the proper San Lorenzo by, Dives down a little lane to the left, is lost In a labyrinth of dwellings best unnamed, Selects a certain blind one, black at base, Blinking at top,—the sign of we know what,— One candle in a casement set to wink Streetward, do service to no shrine inside,— Mounts thither by the filthy flight of stairs, Holding the cord by the wall, to the tip-top, Gropes for the door i' the dark, ajar of course, Raps, opens, enters in: up starts a thing Naked as needs be—"What, you rogue, 't is you? Back,—how can I have taken a farthing yet? Mercy on me, poor sinner that I am! Here 's ... why, I took you for Madonna's self With all that sudden swirl of silk i' the place! What may your pleasure be, my bonny dame?" Your Excellency supplies aught left obscure? One of those women that abound in Rome, Whose needs oblige them eke out one poor trade By another vile one: her ostensible work Was washing clothes, out in the open air At the cistern by Citorio; her true trade— Whispering to idlers, when they stopped and praised The ankles she let liberally shine In kneeling at the slab by the fountain-side, That there was plenty more to criticise At home, that eve, i' the house where candle blinked Decorously above, and all was done I' the holy fear of God and cheap beside. Violante, now, had seen this woman wash, Noticed and envied her propitious shape, Tracked her home to her house-top, noted too, And now was come to tempt her and propose A bargain far more shameful than the first Which trafficked her virginity away For a melon and three pauls at twelve years old. Five minutes' talk with this poor child of Eve, Struck was the bargain, business at an end— "Then, six months hence, that person whom you trust, Comes, fetches whatsoever babe it be; I keep the price and secret, you the babe, Paying beside for mass to make all straight: Meantime, I pouch the earnest-money-piece." Down-stairs again goes fumbling by the rope Violante, triumphing in a flourish of fire From her own brain, self-lit by such success,— Gains church in time for the Magnificat, And gives forth "My reproof is taken away, And blessed shall mankind proclaim me now," So that the officiating priest turns round To see who proffers the obstreperous praise: Then home to Pietro, the enraptured-much But puzzled-more when told the wondrous news— How orisons and works of charity, (Beside that pair of pinners and a coif, Birthday surprise last Wednesday was five weeks) Had borne fruit in the autumn of his life,— They, or the Orvieto in a double dose. Anyhow, she must keep house next six months, Lie on the settle, avoid the three-legged stool, And, chiefly, not be crossed in wish or whim, And the result was like to be an heir. Accordingly, when time was come about, He found himself the sire indeed of this Francesca Vittoria Pompilia and the rest O' the names whereby he sealed her his, next day. A crime complete in its way is here, I hope? Lies to God, lies to man, every way lies To nature and civility and the mode: Flat robbery of the proper heirs thus foiled O' the due succession,—and, what followed thence, Robbery of God, through the confessor's ear Debarred the most noteworthy incident When all else done and undone twelvemonth through Was put in evidence at Easter-time. All other peccadillos!—but this one To the priest who comes next day to dine with us? 'T were inexpedient; decency forbade. Is so far clear? You know Violante now, Compute her capability of crime By this authentic instance? Black hard cold Crime like a stone you kick up with your foot I' the middle of a field? I thought as much. But now, a question,—how long does it lie, The bad and barren bit of stuff you kick, Before encroached on and encompassed round With minute moss, weed, wild-flower—made alive By worm, and fly, and foot of the free bird? Your Highness,—healthy minds let bygones be, Leave old crimes to grow young and virtuous-like I' the sun and air; so time treats ugly deeds: They take the natural blessing of all change. There was the joy o' the husband silly-sooth, The softening of the wife's old wicked heart, Virtues to right and left, profusely paid If so they might compensate the saved sin. And then the sudden existence, dewy-dear, O' the rose above the dungheap, the pure child As good as new created, since withdrawn From the horror of the pre-appointed lot With the unknown father and the mother known Too well,—some fourteen years of squalid youth, And then libertinage, disease, the grave— Hell in life here, hereafter life in hell: Look at that horror and this soft repose! Why, moralist, the sin has saved a soul! Then, even the palpable grievance to the heirs— 'Faith, this was no frank setting hand to throat And robbing a man, but ... Excellency, by your leave, How did you get that marvel of a gem, The sapphire with the Graces grand and Greek? The story is, stooping to pick a stone From the pathway through a vineyard—no-man's-land— To pelt a sparrow with, you chanced on this: Why now, do those five clowns o' the family O' the vinedresser digest their porridge worse That not one keeps it in his goatskin pouch To do flint's-service with the tinder-box? Don't cheat me, don't cheat you, don't cheat a friend! But are you so hard on who jostles just A stranger with no natural sort of claim To the havings and the holdings (here's the point) Unless by misadventure, and defect Of that which ought to be—nay, which there 's none Would dare so much as wish to profit by— Since who dares put in just so many words "May Pietro fail to have a child, please God! So shall his house and goods belong to me, The sooner that his heart will pine betimes"? Well then, God does n't please, nor heart shall pine! Because he has a child at last, you see, Or selfsame thing as though a child it were, He thinks, whose sole concern it is to think: If he accepts it why should you demur? Moreover, say that certain sin there seem, The proper process of unsinning sin Is to begin well-doing somehow else. Pietro,—remember, with no sin at all I' the substitution,—why, this gift of God Flung in his lap from over Paradise Steadied him in a moment, set him straight On the good path he had been straying from. Henceforward no more wilfulness and waste, Cuppings, carousings,—these a sponge wiped out. All sort of self-denial was easy now For the child's sake, the chatelaine to be, Who must want much and might want who knows what? And so, the debts were paid, habits reformed, Expense curtailed, the dowry set to grow. As for the wife,—I said, hers the whole sin: So, hers the exemplary penance. 'T was a text Whereon folk preached and praised, the district through: "Oh, make us happy and you make us good! It all comes of God giving her a child: Such graces follow God's best earthly gift!" Here you put by my guard, pass to my heart By the home-thrust—"There 's a lie at base of all." Why, thou exact Prince, is it a pearl or no, Yon globe upon the Principessa's neck? That great round glory of pellucid stuff, A fish secreted round a grain of grit! Do you call it worthless for the worthless core? (She does n't, who well knows what she changed for it.) So, to our brace of burgesses again! You see so far i' the story, who was right, Who wrong, who neither, don't you? What, you don't? Eh? Well, admit there 's somewhat dark i' the case, Let 's on—the rest shall clear, I promise you. Leap over a dozen years: you find, these passed, An old good easy creditable sire, A careful housewife's beaming bustling face, Both wrapped, up in the love of their one child, The strange tall pale beautiful creature grown Lily-like out o' the cleft i' the sun-smit rock To bow its white miraculous birth of buds I' the way of wandering Joseph and his spouse,— So painters fancy: here it was a fact. And this their lily,—could they but transplant And set in vase to stand by Solomon's porch 'Twixt lion and lion!—this Pompilia of theirs, Could they see worthily married, well bestowed, In house and home! And why despair of this With Rome to choose from, save the topmost rank? Themselves would help the choice with heart and soul, Throw their late savings in a common heap To go with the dowry, and be followed in time By the heritage legitimately hers: And when such paragon was found and fixed, Why, they might chant their "Nunc dimittis" straight. Indeed the prize was simply full to a fault, Exorbitant for the suitor they should seek, And social class should choose among, these cits. Yet there 's a latitude: exceptional white Amid the general brown o' the species, lurks A burgess nearly an aristocrat, Legitimately in reach: look out for him! What banker, merchant, has seen better days, What second rate painter a-pushing up, Poet a-slipping down, shall bid the best For this young beauty with the thumping purse? Alack, were it but one of such as these So like the real thing that they pass for it, All had gone well! Unluckily, poor souls, It proved to be the impossible thing itself; Truth and not sham: hence ruin to them all. For, Guido Franceschini was the head Of an old family in Arezzo, old To that degree they could afford be poor Better than most: the case is common too. Out of the vast door 'scutcheoned overhead, Creeps out a serving-man on Saturdays To cater for the week,—turns up anon I' the market, chaffering for the lamb's least leg, Or the quarter-fowl, less entrails, claws and comb: Then back again with prize,—a liver begged Into the bargain, gizzard overlooked. He 's mincing these to give the beans a taste, When, at your knock, he leaves the simmering soup, Waits on the curious stranger-visitant, Napkin in half-wiped hand, to show the rooms, Point pictures out have hung their hundred years, "Priceless," he tells you,—puts in his place at once The man of money: yes, you 're banker-king Or merchant-kaiser, wallow in your wealth While patron, the house-master, can't afford To stop our ceiling-hole that rain so rots: But he 's the man of mark, and there 's his shield, And yonder 's the famed Rafael, first in kind, The painter painted for his grandfather, And you have paid to see: "Good morning, Sir!" Such is the law of compensation. Still The poverty was getting nigh acute; There gaped so many noble mouths to feed, Beans must suffice unflavored of the fowl. The mother,—hers would be a spun-out life I' the nature of things; the sisters had done well And married men of reasonable rank: But that sort of illumination stops, Throws back no heat upon the parent-hearth. The family instinct felt out for its fire To the Church,—the Church traditionally helps A second son: and such was Paolo, Established here at Rome these thirty years, Who played the regular game,—priest and Abate, Made friends, owned house and land, became of use To a personage: his course lay clear enough. The youngest caught the sympathetic flame, And, though unfledged wings kept him still i' the cage, Yet he shot up to be a Canon, so Clung to the higher perch and crowed in hope. Even our Guido, eldest brother, went As far i' the way o' the Church as safety seemed, He being Head o' the House, ordained to wive,— So, could but dally with an Order or two And testify good-will i' the cause: he clipt His top-hair and thus far affected Christ. But main promotion must fall otherwise, Though still from the side o' the Church: and here was he At Rome, since first youth, worn threadbare of soul By forty-six years' rubbing on hard life, Getting fast tired o' the game whose word is—"Wait!" When one day,—he too having his Cardinal To serve in some ambiguous sort, as serve To draw the coach the plumes o' the horses' heads,— The Cardinal saw fit to dispense with him, Ride with one plume the less; and off it dropped. Guido thus left,—with a youth spent in vain And not a penny in purse to show for it,— Advised with Paolo, bent no doubt in chafe The black brows somewhat formidably, growled "Where is the good I came to get at Rome? Where the repayment of the servitude To a purple popinjay, whose feet I kiss, Knowing his father wiped the shoes of mine?" "Patience," pats Paolo the recalcitrant— "Yon have not had, so far, the proper luck, Nor do my gains suffice to keep us both: A modest competency is mine, not more. You are the Count however, yours the style, Heirdom and state,—you can't expect all good. Had I, now, held your hand of cards ... well, well— What 's yet unplayed, I 'll look at, by your leave, Over your shoulder,—I who made my game, Let 's see, if I can't help to handle yours. Fie on you, all the Honors in your fist, Countship, Househeadship,—how have you misdealt! Why, in the first place, these will marry a man! Notum tonsoribus! To the Tonsor then! Come, clear your looks, and choose your freshest suit, And, after function 's done with, down we go To the woman-dealer in perukes, a wench I and some others settled in the shop At Place Colonna: she 's an oracle. Hmm! 'Dear, 't is my brother: brother, 't is my dear. Dear, give us counsel! Whom do you suggest As properest party in the quarter round For the Count here?—he is minded to take wife, And further tells me he intends to slip Twenty zecchines under the bottom-scalp Of his old wig when he sends it to revive For the wedding: and I add a trifle too. You know what personage I 'm potent with.'" And so plumped out Pompilia's name the first. She told them of the household and its ways, The easy husband and the shrewder wife In Via Vittoria,—how the tall young girl, With hair black as yon patch and eyes as big As yon pomander to make freckles fly, Would have so much for certain, and so much more In likelihood,—why, it suited, slipt as smooth As the Pope's pantoufle does on the Pope's foot. "I 'll to the husband!" Guido ups and cries. "Ay, so you 'd play your last court-card, no doubt!" Puts Paolo in with a groan—"Only, you see, 'T is I, this time, that supervise your lead. Priests play with women, maids, wives, mothers —why? These play with men and take them off our hands. Did I come, counsel with some cut-beard gruff Or rather this sleek young-old barberess? Go, brother, stand you rapt in the ante-room Of Her Efficacity my Cardinal For an hour,—he likes to have lord-suitors lounge,— While I betake myself to the gray mare, The better horse,—how wise the people's word!— And wait on Madam Violante." Said and done, He was at Via Vittoria in three skips: Proposed at once to fill up the one want O' the burgess-family which, wealthy enough, And comfortable to heart's desire, yet crouched Outside a gate to heaven,—locked, bolted, barred, Whereof Count Guido had a key he kept Under his pillow, but Pompilia's hand Might slide behind his neck and pilfer thence. The key was fairy; its mere mention made Violante feel the thing shoot one sharp ray That reached the womanly heart: so—"I assent! Yours be Pompilia, hers and ours that key To all the glories of the greater life! There 's Pietro to convince: leave that to me!" Then was the matter broached to Pietro; then Did Pietro make demand and get response That in the Countship was a truth, but in The counting up of the Count's cash, a lie. He thereupon stroked grave his chin, looked great, Declined the honor. Then the wife wiped tear, Winked with the other eye turned Paolo-ward, Whispered Pompilia, stole to church at eve, Found Guido there and got the marriage done, And finally begged pardon at the feet Of her dear lord and master. Whereupon Quoth Pietro—"Let us make the best of things!" "I knew your love would license us," quoth she: Quoth Paolo once more, "Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools wherewith priests manage men," Now, here take breath and ask,—which bird o' the brace Decoyed the other into clapnet? Who Was fool, who knave? Neither and both, perchance. There was a bargain mentally proposed On each side, straight and plain and fair enough; Mind knew its own mind: but when mind must speak, The bargain have expression in plain terms, There came the blunder incident to words, And in the clumsy process, fair turned foul. The straight backbone-thought of the crooked speech Were just—"I Guido truck my name and rank For so much money and youth and female charms.— We Pietro and Violante give our child And wealth to you for a rise i' the world thereby." Such naked truth while chambered in the brain Shocks nowise: walk it forth by way of tongue,— Out on the cynical unseemliness! Hence was the need, on either side, of a lie To serve as decent wrappage: so, Guido gives Money for money,—and they, bride for groom, Having, he, not a doit, they, not a child Honestly theirs, but this poor waif and stray. According to the words, each cheated each; But in the inexpressive barter of thoughts, Each did give and did take the thing designed, The rank on this side and the cash on that— Attained the object of the traffic, so. The way of the world, the daily bargain struck In the first market! Why sells Jack his ware? "For the sake of serving an old customer." Why does Jill buy it? "Simply not to break A custom, pass the old stall the first time." Why, you know where the gist is of the exchange: Each sees a profit, throws the fine words in. Don't be too hard o' the pair! Had each pretence Been simultaneously discovered, stript From off the body o' the transaction, just As when a cook (will Excellency forgive?) Strips away those long rough superfluous legs From either side the crayfish, leaving folk A meal all meat henceforth, no garnishry, (With your respect, Prince!)—balance had been kept, No party blamed the other,—so, starting fair, All subsequent fence of wrong returned by wrong I' the matrimonial thrust and parry, at least Had followed on equal terms. But, as it chanced, One party had the advantage, saw the cheat Of the other first and kept its own concealed: And the luck o' the first discovery fell, beside, To the least adroit and self-possessed o' the pair. 'Twas foolish Pietro and his wife saw first The nobleman was penniless, and screamed "We are cheated!" Such unprofitable noise Angers at all times: but when those who plague, Do it from inside your own house and home, Gnats which yourself have closed the curtain round, Noise goes too near the brain and makes you mad. The gnats say, Guido used the candle-flame Unfairly,—worsened that first bad of his, By practising all kinds of cruelty To oust them and suppress the wail and whine,— That speedily he so scared and bullied them, Fain were they, long before five months had passed, To beg him grant, from what was once their wealth, Just so much as would help them back to Rome, Where, when they finished paying the last doit O' the dowry, they might beg from door to door. So say the Comparini—as if it came Of pure resentment for this worse than bad, That then Violante, feeling conscience prick, Confessed her substitution of the child Whence all the harm fell,—and that Pietro first Bethought him of advantage to himself I' the deed, as part revenge, part remedy For all miscalculation in the pact. On the other hand, "Not so!" Guido retorts— "I am the wronged, solely, from first to last, Who gave the dignity I engaged to give, Which was, is, cannot but continue gain. My being poor was a by-circumstance, Miscalculated piece of untowardness, Might end to-morrow did heaven's windows ope, Or uncle die and leave me his estate. You should have put up with the minor flaw, Getting the main prize of the jewel. If wealth, Not rank, had been prime object in your thoughts, Why not have taken the butcher's son, the boy O' the baker or candlestick-maker? In all the rest, It was yourselves broke compact and played false, And made a life in common impossible. Show me the stipulation of our bond That you should make your profit of being inside My house, to hustle and edge me out o' the same, First make a laughing-stock of mine and me, Then round us in the ears from morn to night (Because we show wry faces at your mirth) That you are robbed, starved, beaten and what not! You fled a hell of your own lighting-up, Pay for your own miscalculation too: You thought nobility, gained at any price, Would suit and satisfy,—find the mistake, And now retaliate, not on yourselves, but me. And how? By telling me, i' the face of the world, I it is have been cheated all this while, Abominably and irreparably,—my name Given to a cur-cast mongrel, a drab's brat, A beggar's by-blow,—thus depriving me Of what yourselves allege the whole and sole Aim on my part i' the marriage,—money, to wit. This thrust I have to parry by a guard Which leaves me open to a counter-thrust On the other side,—no way but there's a pass Clean through me. If I prove, as I hope to do, There's not one truth in this your odious tale O' the buying, selling, substituting—prove Your daughter was and is your daughter,—well, And her dowry hers and therefore mine,—what then? Why, where's the appropriate punishment for this Enormous lie hatched for mere malice' sake To ruin me? Is that a wrong or no? And if I try revenge for remedy, Can I well make it strong and bitter enough?" I anticipate however—only ask, Which of the two here sinned most? A nice point! Which brownness is least black,—decide who can, Wager-by-battle-of-cheating! What do you say, Highness? Suppose, your Excellency, we leave The question at this stage, proceed to the next, Both parties step out, fight their prize upon, In the eye o' the world? They brandish law 'gainst law; The grinding of such blades, each parry of each, Throws terrible sparks off, over and above the thrusts, And makes more sinister the fight, to the eye, Than the very wounds that follow. Beside the tale Which the Comparini have to re-assert, They needs must write, print, publish all abroad The straitnesses of Guido's household life— The petty nothings we bear privately But break down under when fools flock to jeer. What is it all to the facts o' the couple's case, How helps it prove Pompilia not their child, If Guido's mother, brother, kith and kin Fare ill, lie hard, lack clothes, lack fire, lack food? That's one more wrong than needs. On the other hand, Guido,—whose cue is to dispute the truth O' the tale, reject the shame it throws on him,— He may retaliate, fight his foe in turn And welcome, we allow. Ay, but he can't! He's at home, only acts by proxy here; Law may meet law,—but all the gibes and jeers, The superfluity of naughtiness, Those libels on his House,—how reach at them? Two hateful faces, grinning all aglow, Not only make parade of spoil they filched, But foul him from the height of a tower, you see. Unluckily temptation is at hand— To take revenge on a trifle overlooked, A pet lamb they have left in reach outside, Whose first bleat, when he plucks the wool away, Will strike the grinners grave: his wife remains, Who, four months earlier, some thirteen years old, Never a mile away from mother's house And petted to the height of her desire, Was told one morning that her fate had come, She must be married—just as, a month before, Her mother told her she must comb her hair And twist her curls into one knot behind. These fools forgot their pet lamb, fed with flowers, Then 'ticed as usual by the bit of cake, Out of the bower into the butchery. Plague her, he plagues them threefold: but how plague? The world may have its word to say to that: You can't do some things with impunity. What remains ... well, it is an ugly thought ... But that he drive herself to plague herself— Herself disgrace herself and so disgrace Who seek to disgrace Guido? There's the clue To what else seems gratuitously vile, If, as is said, from this time forth the rack Was tried upon Pompilia: 't was to wrench Her limbs into exposure that brings shame. The aim o' the cruelty being so crueller still, That cruelty almost grows compassion's self Could one attribute it to mere return O' the parents' outrage, wrong avenging wrong. They see in this a deeper deadlier aim, Not to vex just a body they held dear, But blacken too a soul they boasted white, And show the world their saint in a lover's arms, No matter how driven thither,—so they say. On the other hand, so much is easily said, And Guido lacks not an apologist. The pair had nobody but themselves to blame, Being selfish beasts throughout no less, no more: —Cared for themselves, their supposed good, nought else, And brought about the marriage; good proved bad, As little they cared for her its victim—nay, Meant she should stay behind and take the chance, If haply they might wriggle themselves free. They baited their own hook to catch a fish With this poor worm, failed o' the prize, and then Sought how to unbait tackle, let worm float Or sink, amuse the monster while they 'scaped. Under the best stars Hymen brings above, Had all been honesty on either side, A common sincere effort to good end, Still, this would prove a difficult problem, Prince! —Given, a fair wife, aged thirteen years, A husband poor, care-bitten, sorrow-sunk, Little, long-nosed, bush-bearded, lantern-jawed, Forty-six years old,—place the two grown one, She, cut off sheer from every natural aid, In a strange town with no familiar face— He, in his own parade-ground or retreat If need were, free from challenge, much less check To an irritated, disappointed will— How evolve happiness from such a match? 'T were hard to serve up a congenial dish Out of these ill-agreeing morsels, Duke, By the best exercise of the cook's craft, Best interspersion of spice, salt and sweet! But let two ghastly scullions concoct mess With brimstone, pitch, vitriol and devil's dung— Throw in abuse o' the man, his body and soul, Kith, kin and generation, shake all slab At Rome, Arezzo, for the world to nose, Then end by publishing, for fiend's arch-prank, That, over and above sauce to the meat's self, Why, even the meat, bedevilled thus in dish, Was never a pheasant but a carrion-crow— Prince, what will then the natural loathing be? What wonder if this?—the compound plague o' the pair Pricked Guido,—not to take the course they hoped, That is, submit him to their statement's truth, Accept its obvious promise of relief, And thrust them out of doors the girl again Since the girl's dowry would not enter there, —Quit of the one if balked of the other: no! Rather did rage and hate so work in him, Their product proved the horrible conceit That he should plot and plan and bring to pass His wife might, of her own free will and deed, Relieve him of her presence, get her gone, And yet leave all the dowry safe behind, Confirmed his own henceforward past dispute, While blotting out, as by a belch of hell, Their triumph in her misery and death. You see, the man was Aretine, had touch O' the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit; Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refined That shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust: Allow that such an one may take revenge, You don't expect he 'll catch up stone and fling, Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter-staff? Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow, When out of temper at the dinner spoilt, On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,— Substitute for the clown a nobleman, And you have Guido, practising, 't is said, Immitigably from the very first, The finer vengeance: this, they say, the fact O' the famous letter shows—the writing traced At Guido's instance by the timid wife Over the pencilled words himself writ first— Wherein she, who could neither write nor read, Was made unblushingly declare a tale To the brother, the Abate then in Rome, How her putative parents had impressed, On their departure, their enjoinment; bade "We being safely arrived here, follow, you! Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all, And then by means o' the gallant you procure With ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue, Some brave youth ready to dare, do and die, You shall run off and merrily reach Rome Where we may live like flies in honey-pot:"— Such being exact the programme of the course Imputed her as carried to effect. They also say,—to keep her straight therein, All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain, On either side Pompilia's path of life, Built round about and over against by fear, Circumvallated month by month, and week By week, and day by day, and hour by hour, Close, closer and yet closer still with pain, No outlet from the encroaching pain save just Where stood one savior like a piece of heaven, Hell's arms would strain round but for this blue gap. She, they say further, first tried every chink, Every imaginable break i' the fire, As way of escape: ran to the Commissary, Who bade her not malign his friend her spouse; Flung herself thrice at the Archbishop's feet, Where three times the Archbishop let her lie, Spend her whole sorrow and sob full heart forth, And then took up the slight load from the ground And bore it back for husband to chastise,— Mildly of course,—but natural right is right. So went she slipping ever yet catching at help, Missing the high till come to lowest and last, To wit, a certain friar of mean degree, Who heard her story in confession, wept, Crossed himself, showed the man within the monk. "Then, will you save me, you the one i' the world? I cannot even write my woes, nor put My prayer for help in words a friend may read,— I no more own a coin than have an hour Free of observance,—I was watched to church, Am watched now, shall be watched back presently,— How buy the skill of scribe i' the marketplace? Pray you, write down and send whatever I say O' the need I have my parents take me hence!" The good man rubbed his eyes and could not choose— Let her dictate her letter in such a sense That parents, to save breaking down a wall, Might lift her over: she went back, heaven in heart. Then the good man took counsel of his couch, Woke and thought twice, the second thought the best: "Here am I, foolish body that I be, Caught all but pushing, teaching, who but I, My betters their plain duty,—what, I dare Help a case the Archbishop would not help, Mend matters, peradventure, God loves mar? What hath the married life but strifes and plagues For proper dispensation? So a fool Once touched the ark,—poor Uzzah that I am! Oh married ones, much rather should I bid, In patience all of ye possess your souls! This life is brief and troubles die with it: Where were the prick to soar up homeward else?" So saying, he burnt the letter he had writ, Said Ave for her intention, in its place, Took snuff and comfort, and had done with all. Then the grim arms stretched yet a little more And each touched each, all but one streak i' the midst, Whereat stood Caponsacchi, who cried, "This way, Out by me! Hesitate one moment more And the fire shuts out me and shuts in you! Here my hand holds you life out!" Whereupon She clasped the hand, which closed on hers and drew Pompilia out o' the circle now complete. Whose fault or shame but Guido's?—ask her friends. But then this is the wife's—Pompilia's tale— Eve's ... no, not Eve's, since Eve, to speak the truth, Was hardly fallen (our candor might pronounce) When simply saying in her own defence "The serpent tempted me and I did eat." So much of paradisal nature, Eve's! Her daughters ever since prefer to urge "Adam so starved me I was fain accept The apple any serpent pushed my way." What an elaborate theory have we here, Ingeniously nursed up, pretentiously Brought forth, pushed forward amid trumpet-blast, To account for the thawing of an icicle, Show us there needed Ætna vomit flame Ere run the crystal into dewdrops! Else, How, unless hell broke loose to cause the step, How could a married lady go astray? Bless the fools! And 't is just this way they are blessed, And the world wags still,—because fools are sure —Oh, not of my wife nor your daughter! No! But of their own: the case is altered quite. Look now,—last week, the lady we all love,— Daughter o' the couple we all venerate, Wife of the husband we all cap before, Mother o' the babes we all breathe blessings on,— Was caught in converse with a negro page. Hell thawed that icicle, else "Why was it— Why?" asked and echoed the fools. "Because, you fools,—" So did the dame's self answer, she who could, With that fine candor only forthcoming When 't is no odds whether withheld or no— "Because my husband was the saint you say, And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith, Stupid self-satisfaction, you so praise,— Saint to you, insupportable to me. Had he,—instead of calling me fine names, Lucretia and Susanna and so forth, And curtaining Correggio carefully Lest I be taught that Leda had two legs,— —But once never so little tweaked my nose For peeping through my fan at Carnival, Confessing thereby, 'I have no easy task— I need use all my powers to hold you mine, And then,—why 't is so doubtful if they serve, 'That—take this, as an earnest of despair!' Why, we were quits: I had wiped the harm away, Thought, 'The man fears me!' and foregone revenge." We must not want all this elaborate work To solve the problem why young Fancy-and-flesh Slips from the dull side of a spouse in years, Betakes it to the breast of Brisk-and-bold Whose love-scrapes furnish talk for all the town! Accordingly, one word on the other side Tips over the piled-up fabric of a tale. Guido says—that is, always, his friends say— It is unlikely, from the wickedness, That any man treat any woman so. The letter in question was her very own, Unprompted and unaided: she could write— As able to write as ready to sin, or free, When there was danger, to deny both facts. He bids you mark, herself from first to last Attributes all the so-styled torture just To jealousy,—jealousy of whom but just This very Caponsacchi! How suits here This with the other alleged motive, Prince? Would Guido make a terror of the man He meant should tempt the woman, as they charge? Do you fright your hare that you may catch your hare? Consider too, the charge was made and met At the proper time and place where proofs were plain— Heard patiently and disposed of thoroughly By the highest powers, possessors of most light, The Governor for the law and the Archbishop For the gospel: which acknowledged primacies, 'T is impudently pleaded, he could warp Into a tacit partnership with crime— He being the while, believe their own account, Impotent, penniless and miserable! He further asks—Duke, note the knotty point!— How he—concede him skill to play such part And drive his wife into a gallant's arms— Could bring the gallant to play his part too And stand with arms so opportunely wide? How bring this Caponsacchi,—with whom, friends And foes alike agree, throughout his life He never interchanged a civil word Nor lifted courteous cap to—him, how bend To such observancy of beck and call, —To undertake this strange and perilous feat For the good of Guido, using, as the lure, Pompilia whom, himself and she avouch, He had nor spoken with nor seen, indeed, Beyond sight in a public theatre, When she wrote letters (she that could not write!) The importunate shamelessly-protested love Which brought him, though reluctant, to her feet, And forced on him the plunge which, howsoe'er She might swim up i' the whirl, must bury him Under abysmal black: a priest contrive No better, no amour to be hushed up, But open flight and noonday infamy? Try and concoct defence for such revolt! Take the wife's tale as true, say she was wronged,— Pray, in what rubric of the breviary Do you find it registered—the part of a priest Is—that to right wrongs from the church he skip, Go journeying with a woman that 's a wife, And be pursued, o'ertaken and captured ... how? In a lay-dress, playing the kind sentinel Where the wife sleeps (says he who best should know) And sleeping, sleepless, both have spent the night! Could no one else be found to serve at need— No woman—or if man, no safer sort Than this not well-reputed turbulence? Then, look into his own account o' the case! He, being the stranger and astonished one, Yet received protestations of her love From lady neither known nor cared about: Love, so protested, bred in him disgust After the wonder,—or incredulity, Such impudence seeming impossible. But, soon assured such impudence might be, When he had seen with his own eyes at last Letters thrown down to him i' the very street From behind lattice where the lady lurked, And read their passionate summons to her side— Why then, a thousand thoughts swarmed up and in,— How he had seen her once, a moment's space, Observed she was both young and beautiful, Heard everywhere report she suffered much From a jealous husband thrice her age,—in short, There flashed the propriety, expediency Of treating, trying might they come to terms, —At all events, granting the interview Prayed for, one so adapted to assist Decision as to whether he advance, Stand or retire, in his benevolent mood! Therefore the interview befell at length; And at this one and only interview, He saw the sole and single course to take— Bade her dispose of him, head, heart and hand, Did her behest and braved the consequence, Not for the natural end, the love of man For woman whether love be virtue or vice, But, please you, altogether for pity's sake— Pity of innocence and helplessness! And how did he assure himself of both? Had he been the house-inmate, visitor, Eye-witness of the described martyrdom, So, competent to pronounce its remedy Ere rush on such extreme and desperate course— Involving such enormity of harm, Moreover, to the husband judged thus, doomed And damned without a word in his defence? Not he! the truth was felt by instinct here, —Process which saves a world of trouble and time. There 's the priest's story: what do you say to it, Trying its truth by your own instinct too, Since that 's to be the expeditious mode? "And now, do hear my version," Guido cries: "I accept argument and inference both. It would indeed have been miraculous Had such a confidency sprung to birth With no more fanning from acquaintanceship Than here avowed by my wife and this priest. Only, it did not: you must substitute The old stale unromantic way of fault, The commonplace adventure, mere intrigue In prose form with the unpoetic tricks, Cheatings and lies: they used the hackney chair Satan jaunts forth with, shabby and serviceable, No gilded jimcrack-novelty from below, To bowl you along thither, swift and sure. That same officious go-between, the wench Who gave and took the letters of the two, Now offers self and service back to me: Bears testimony to visits night by night When all was safe, the husband far and away,— To many a timely slipping out at large By light o' the morning-star, ere he should wake. And when the fugitives were found at last, Why, with them were found also, to belie What protest they might make of innocence, All documents yet wanting, if need were, To establish guilt in them, disgrace in me— The chronicle o' the converse from its rise To culmination in this outrage: read! Letters from wife to priest, from priest to wife,— Here they are, read and say where they chime in With the other tale, superlative purity O' the pair of saints! I stand or fall by these." But then on the other side again,—how say The pair of saints? That not one word is theirs— No syllable o' the batch or writ or sent Or yet received by either of the two. "Found," says the priest, "because he needed them, Failing all other proofs, to prove our fault: So, here they are, just as is natural. Oh yes—we had our missives, each of us! Not these, but to the full as vile, no doubt: Hers as from me,—she could not read, so burnt,— Mine as from her,—I burnt because I read. Who forged and found them? Cui profuerint!" (I take the phrase out of your Highness' mouth) "He who would gain by her fault and my fall, The trickster, schemer and pretender—he Whose whole career was lie entailing lie Sought to be sealed truth by the worst lie last!" Guido rejoins—"Did the other end o' the tale Match this beginning! 'T is alleged I prove A murderer at the end, a man of force Prompt, indiscriminate, effectual: good! Then what need all this trifling woman's-work, Letters and embassies and weak intrigue, When will and power were mine to end at once Safely and surely? Murder had come first Not last with such a man, assure yourselves! The silent acquetta, stilling at command— A drop a day i' the wine or soup, the dose,— The shattering beam that breaks above the bed And beats out brains, with nobody to blame Except the wormy age which eats even oak,— Nay, the stanch steel or trusty cord,—who cares I' the blind old palace, a pitfall at each step, With none to see, much more to interpose O' the two, three, creeping-house-dog-servant-things Born mine and bred mine? Had I willed gross death, I had found nearer paths to thrust him prey Than this that goes meandering here and there Through half the world and calls down in its course Notice and noise,—hate, vengeance, should it fail, Derision and contempt though it succeed! Moreover, what o' the future son and heir? The unborn babe about to be called mine,— What end in heaping all this shame on him, Were I indifferent to my own black share? Would I have tried these crookednesses, say, Willing and able to effect the straight?" "Ay, would you!"—one may hear the priest retort, "Being as you are, i' the stock, a man of guile, And ruffianism but an added graft. You, a born coward, try a coward's arms, Trick and chicane,—and only when these fail Does violence follow, and like fox you bite Caught out in stealing. Also, the disgrace You hardly shrunk at, wholly shrivelled her: You plunged her thin white delicate hand i' the flame Along with your coarse horny brutish fist, Held them a second there, then drew out both —Yours roughed a little, hers ruined through and through. Your hurt would heal forthwith at ointment's touch— Namely, succession to the inheritance Which bolder crime had lost you: let things change, The birth o' the boy warrant the bolder crime, Why, murder was determined, dared and done. For me," the priest proceeds with his reply, "The look o' the thing, the chances of mistake, All were against me,—that, I knew the first: But, knowing also what my duty was, I did it: I must look to men more skilled In reading hearts than ever was the world." Highness, decide! Pronounce, Her Excellency! Or ... even leave this argument in doubt, Account it a fit matter, taken up With all its faces, manifold enough, To ponder on—what fronts us, the next stage, Next legal process? Guido, in pursuit, Coming up with the fugitives at the inn, Caused both to be arrested then and there And sent to Rome for judgment on the case— Thither, with all his armory of proofs, Betook himself: 't is there we 'll meet him now, Waiting the further issue. Here you smile: "And never let him henceforth dare to plead— Of all pleas and excuses in the world For any deed hereafter to be done— His irrepressible wrath at honor's wound! Passion and madness irrepressible? Why, Count and cavalier, the husband comes And catches foe i' the very act of shame! There 's man to man,—nature must have her way,— We look he should have cleared things on the spot. Yes, then, indeed—even though it prove he erred— Though the ambiguous first appearance, mount Of solid injury, melt soon to mist, Still,—had he slain the lover and the wife— Or, since she was a woman and his wife, Slain him, but stript her naked to the skin, Or at best left no more of an attire Than patch sufficient to pin paper to, Some one love-letter, infamy and all, As passport to the Paphos fit for such, Safe-conduct to her natural home the stews,— Good! One had recognized the power o' the pulse. But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law— Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm, For scrivener's pen to poke and play about— Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps, Oh, let us hear no syllable o' the rage! Such rage were a convenient afterthought For one who would have shown his teeth belike, Exhibited unbridled rage enough, Had but the priest been found, as was to hope, In serge, not silk, with crucifix, not sword: Whereas the gray innocuous grub, of yore, Had hatched a hornet, tickle to the touch, The priest was metamorphosed into knight. And even the timid wife, whose cue was—shriek, Bury her brow beneath his trampling foot,— She too sprang at him like a pythoness: So, gulp down rage, passion must be postponed, Calm be the word! Well, our word is—we brand This part o' the business, howsoever the rest Befall." "Nay," interpose as prompt his friends— "This is the world's way! So you adjudge reward To the forbearance and legality Yourselves begin by inculcating—ay, Exacting from us all with knife at throat! This one wrong more you add to wrong's amount,— You publish all, with the kind comment here, 'Its victim was too cowardly for revenge.'" Make it your own case,—you who stand apart! The husband wakes one morn from heavy sleep, With a taste of poppy in his mouth,—rubs eyes, Finds his wife flown, his strong-box ransacked too, Follows as he best can, overtakes i' the end. You bid him use his privilege: well, it seems He 's scarce cool-blooded enough for the right move— Does not shoot when the game were sure, but stands Bewildered at the critical minute,—since He has the first flash of the fact alone To judge from, act with, not the steady lights Of after-knowledge,—yours who stand at ease To try conclusions: he 's in smother and smoke, You outside, with explosion at an end: The sulphur may be lightning or a squib— He 'll know in a minute, but till then, he doubts. Back from what you know to what he knew not! Hear the priest's lofty "I am innocent," The wife's as resolute "You are guilty!" Come! Are you not staggered?—pause, and you lose the move! Naught left you but a low appeal to law, "Coward" tied to your tail for compliment! Another consideration: have it your way! Admit the worst: his courage failed the Count, He 's cowardly like the best o' the burgesses He 's grown incorporate with,—a very cur, Kick him from out your circle by all means! Why, trundled down this reputable stair, Still, the church-door lies wide to take him in, And the court-porch also: in he sneaks to each,— "Yes, I have lost my honor and my wife, And, being moreover an ignoble hound, I dare not jeopardize my life for them!" Religion and Law lean forward from their chairs, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant!" Ay, Not only applaud him that he scorned the world, But punish should he dare do otherwise. If the case be clear or turbid,—you must say! Thus, anyhow, it mounted to the stage In the law-courts,—let 's see clearly from this point!— Where the priest tells his story true or false, And the wife her story, and the husband his, All with result as happy as before. The courts would nor condemn nor yet acquit This, that or the other, in so distinct a sense As end the strife to either's absolute loss: Pronounced, in place of something definite, "Each of the parties, whether goat or sheep I' the main, has wool to show and hair to hide. Each has brought somehow trouble, is somehow cause Of pains enough,—even though no worse were proved. Here is a husband, cannot rule his wife Without provoking her to scream and scratch And scour the fields,—causelessly, it may be: Here is that wife,—who makes her sex our plague, Wedlock, our bugbear,—perhaps with cause enough: And here is the truant priest o' the trio, worst Or best—each quality being conceivable. Let us impose a little mulct on each. We punish youth in state of pupilage Who talk at hours when youth is bound to sleep, Whether the prattle turn upon Saint Rose Or Donna Olimpia of the Vatican: 'T is talk, talked wisely or unwisely talked, I' the dormitory where to talk at all Transgresses, and is mulct: as here we mean. For the wife,—let her betake herself, for rest, After her run, to a House of Convertites— Keep there, as good as real imprisonment: Being sick and tired, she will recover so. For the priest, spritely strayer out of bounds, Who made Arezzo hot to hold him,—Rome Profits by his withdrawal from the scene. Let him be relegate to Civita, Circumscribed by its bounds till matters mend: There he at least lies out o' the way of harm From foes—perhaps from the too friendly fair. And finally for the husband, whose rash rule Has but itself to blame for this ado,— If he be vexed that, in our judgments dealt, He fails obtain what he accounts his right, Let him go comforted with the thought, no less, That, turn each sentence howsoever he may, There 's satisfaction to extract therefrom. For, does he wish his wife proved innocent? Well, she 's not guilty, he may safely urge, Has missed the stripes dishonest wives endure— This being a fatherly pat o' the cheek, no more. Does he wish her guilty? Were she otherwise Would she be locked up, set to say her prayers, Prevented intercourse with the outside world, And that suspected priest in banishment, Whose portion is a further help i' the case? Oh, ay, you all of you want the other thing, The extreme of law, some verdict neat, complete,— Either, the whole o' the dowry in your poke With full release from the false wife, to boot, And heading, hanging for the priest, beside— Or, contrary, claim freedom for the wife, Repayment of each penny paid her spouse, Amends for the past, release for the future! Such Is wisdom to the children of this world; But we 've no mind, we children of the light, To miss the advantage of the golden mean, And push things to the steel point." Thus the courts. Is it settled so far? Settled or disturbed, Console yourselves: 't is like ... an instance, now! You 've seen the puppets, of Place Navona, play,— Punch and his mate,—how threats pass, blows are dealt, And a crisis comes: the crowd or clap or hiss Accordingly as disposed for man or wife— When down the actors duck awhile perdue, Donning what novel rag-and-feather trim Best suits the next adventure, new effect: And,—by the time the mob is on the move, With something like a judgment pro and con,— There 's a whistle, up again the actors pop In t' other tatter with fresh-tinselled staves, To re-engage in one last worst fight more Shall show, what you thought tragedy was farce. Note, that the climax and the crown of things Invariably is, the devil appears himself, Armed and accoutred, horns and hoofs and tail! Just so, nor otherwise it proved—you 'll see: Move to the murder, never mind the rest! Guido, at such a general duck-down, I' the breathing-space,—of wife to convent here, Priest to his relegation, and himself To Arezzo,—had resigned his part perforce To brother Abate, who bustled, did his best, Retrieved things somewhat, managed the three suits— Since, it should seem, there were three suits-at-law Behoved him look to, still, lest bad grow worse: First civil suit,—the one the parents brought, Impugning the legitimacy of his wife, Affirming thence the nullity of her rights: This was before the Rota,—Molinès, That 's judge there, made that notable decree Which partly leaned to Guido, as I said,— But Pietro had appealed against the same To the very court will judge what we judge now— Tommati and his fellows,—Suit the first. Next civil suit,—demand on the wife's part Of separation from the husband's bed On plea of cruelty and risk to life— Claims restitution of the dowry paid, Immunity from paying any more: This second, the Vicegerent has to judge. Third and last suit,—this time, a criminal one,— Answer to, and protection from, both these,— Guido's complaint of guilt against his wife In the Tribunal of the Governor, Venturini, also judge of the present cause. Three suits of all importance plaguing him Beside a little private enterprise Of Guido's,—essay at a shorter cut. For Paolo, knowing the right way at Rome, Had, even while superintending these three suits I' the regular way, each at its proper court, Ingeniously made interest with the Pope To set such tedious regular forms aside, And, acting the supreme and ultimate judge, Declare for the husband and against the wife. Well, at such crisis and extreme of straits,— The man at bay, buffeted in this wise,— Happened the strangest accident of all. "Then," sigh friends, "the last feather broke his back, Made him forget all possible remedies Save one—he rushed to, as the sole relief From horror and the abominable thing." "Or rather," laugh foes, "then did there befall The luckiest of conceivable events, Most pregnant with impunity for him, Which henceforth turned the flank of all attack, And bade him do his wickedest and worst." —The wife's withdrawal from the Convertites, Visit to the villa where her parents lived, And birth there of his babe. Divergence here! I simply take the facts, ask what they show. First comes this thunderclap of a surprise: Then follow all the signs and silences Premonitory of earthquake. Paolo first Vanished, was swept off somewhere, lost to Rome: (Wells dry up, while the sky is sunny and blue.) Then Guido girds himself for enterprise, Hies to Vittiano, counsels with his steward, Comes to terms with four peasants young and bold, And starts for Rome the Holy, reaches her At very holiest, for 't is Christmas Eve, And makes straight for the Abate's dried-up font, The lodge where Paolo ceased to work the pipes. And then, rest taken, observation made And plan completed, all in a grim week, The five proceed in a body, reach the place, —Pietro's, at the Paolina, silent, lone, And stupefied by the propitious snow. 'T is one i' the evening: knock: a voice, "Who 's there?" "Friends with a letter from the priest your friend." At the door, straight smiles old Violante's self. She falls,—her son-in-law stabs through and through, Reaches through her at Pietro—"With your son This is the way to settle suits, good sire!" He bellows, "Mercy for heaven, not for earth! Leave to confess and save my sinful soul, Then do your pleasure on the body of me!" —"Nay, father, soul with body must take its chance!" He presently got his portion and lay still. And last, Pompilia rushes here and there Like a dove among the lightnings in her brake, Falls also: Guido's, this last husband's-act. He lifts her by the long dishevelled hair, Holds her away at arm's length with one hand, While the other tries if life come from the mouth— Looks out his whole heart's hate on the shut eyes, Draws a deep satisfied breath, "So—dead at last!" Throws down the burden on dead Pietro's knees, And ends all with "Let us away, my boys!" And, as they left by one door, in at the other Tumbled the neighbors—for the shrieks had pierced To the mill and the grange, this cottage and that shed. Soon followed the Public Force; pursuit began Though Guido had the start and chose the road: So, that same night was he, with the other four, Overtaken near Baccano,—where they sank By the wayside, in some shelter meant for beasts, And now lay heaped together, nuzzling swine, Each wrapped in bloody cloak, each grasping still His unwiped weapon, sleeping all the same The sleep o' the just,—a journey of twenty miles Brought just and unjust to a level, you see. The only one i' the world that suffered aught By the whole night's toil and trouble, flight and chase, Was just the officer who took them, Head O' the Public Force,—Patrizj, zealous soul, Who, having but duty to sustain weak flesh, Got heated, caught a fever and so died: A warning to the over-vigilant, —Virtue in a chafe should change her linen quick, Lest pleurisy get start of providence. (That 's for the Cardinal, and told, I think!) Well, they bring back the company to Rome. Says Guido, "By your leave, I fain would ask How you found out 't was I who did the deed? What put you on my trace, a foreigner, Supposed in Arezzo,—and assuredly safe Except for an oversight: who told you, pray?" "Why, naturally your wife!" Down Guido drops O' the horse he rode,—they have to steady and stay At either side the brute that bore him bound, So strange it seemed his wife should live and speak! She had prayed—at least so people tell you now— For but one thing to the Virgin for herself, Not simply, as did Pietro 'mid the stabs,— Time to confess and get her own soul saved,— But time to make the truth apparent, truth For God's sake, lest men should believe a lie: Which seems to have been about the single prayer She ever put up, that was granted her. With this hope in her head, of telling truth,— Being familiarized with pain, beside,— She bore the stabbing to a certain pitch Without a useless cry, was flung for dead On Pietro's lap, and so attained her point. Her friends subjoin this—have I done with them?— And cite the miracle of continued life (She was not dead when I arrived just now) As attestation to her probity. Does it strike your Excellency? Why, your Highness, The self-command and even the final prayer, Our candor must acknowledge explicable As easily by the consciousness of guilt. So, when they add that her confession runs She was of wifehood one white innocence In thought, word, act, from first of her short life To last of it; praying, i' the face of death, That God forgive her other sins—not this, She is charged with and must die for, that she failed Anyway to her husband: while thereon Comments the old Religious—"So much good, Patience beneath enormity of ill, I hear to my confusion, woe is me, Sinner that I stand, shamed in the walk and gait I have practised and grown old in, by a child!"— Guido's friends shrug the shoulder, "Just the same Prodigious absolute calm in the last hour Confirms us,—being the natural result Of a life which proves consistent to the close. Having braved heaven and deceived earth throughout, She braves still and deceives still, gains thereby Two ends, she prizes beyond earth or heaven: First sets her lover free, imperilled sore By the new turn things take: he answers yet For the part he played: they have summoned him indeed: The past ripped up, he may be punished still: What better way of saving him than this? Then,—thus she dies revenged to the uttermost On Guido, drags him with her in the dark, The lower still the better, do you doubt? Thus, two ways, does she love her love to the end, And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such price To pay for these,—lovers and haters hold." But there 's another parry for the thrust. "Confession," cry folks—"a confession, think! Confession of the moribund is true!" Which of them, my wise friends? This public one, Or the private other we shall never know? The private may contain—your casuists teach— The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for, That other public one, so people say. However it be,—we trench on delicate ground, Her Eminence is peeping o'er the cards,— Can one find nothing in behalf of this Catastrophe? Deaf folks accuse the dumb! You criticise the drunken reel, fool's-speech, Maniacal gesture of the man,—we grant! But who poured poison in his cup, we ask? Recall the list of his excessive wrongs, First cheated in his wife, robbed by her kin, Rendered anon the laughing-stock o' the world By the story, true or false, of his wife's birth,— The last seal publicly apposed to shame By the open flight of wife and priest,—why, Sirs, Step out of Rome a furlong, would you know What anotherguess tribunal than ours here, Mere worldly Court without the help of grace, Thinks of just that one incident o' the flight? Guido preferred the same complaint before The court at Arezzo, bar of the Granduke,— In virtue of it being Tuscany Where the offence had rise and flight began,— Selfsame complaint he made in the sequel here Where the offence grew to the full, the flight Ended: offence and flight, one fact judged twice By two distinct tribunals,—what result? There was a sentence passed at the same time By Arezzo and confirmed by the Granduke, Which nothing balks of swift and sure effect But absence of the guilty, (flight to Rome Frees them from Tuscan jurisdiction now) —Condemns the wife to the opprobrious doom Of all whom law just lets escape from death. The Stinche, House of Punishment, for life,— That's what the wife deserves in Tuscany: Here, she deserves—remitting with a smile To her father's house, main object of the flight! The thief presented with the thing he steals! At this discrepancy of judgments—mad, The man took on himself the office, judged; And the only argument against the use O' the law he thus took into his own hands Is ... what, I ask you?—that, revenging wrong, He did not revenge sooner, kill at first Whom he killed last! That is the final charge. Sooner? What's soon or late i' the case?—ask we. A wound i' the flesh no doubt wants prompt redress; It smarts a little to-day, well in a week, Forgotten in a month; or never, or now, revenge! But a wound to the soul? That rankles worse and worse. Shall I comfort you, explaining—"Not this once But now it may be some five hundred times I called you ruffian, pandar, liar and rogue: The injury must be less by lapse of time?" The wrong is a wrong, one and immortal too, And that you bore it those five hundred times, Let it rankle unrevenged five hundred years, Is just five hundred wrongs the more and worse! Men, plagued this fashion, get to explode this way, If left no other. "But we left this man Many another way, and there's his fault," 'T is answered—"He himself preferred our arm O' the law to fight his battle with. No doubt We did not open him an armory To pick and choose from, use, and then reject. He tries one weapon and fails,—he tries the next And next: he flourishes wit and common sense, They fail him,—he plies logic doughtily, It fails him too,—thereon, discovers last He has been blind to the combustibles— That all the while he is aglow with ire, Boiling with irrepressible rage, and so May try explosives and discard cold steel,— So hires assassins, plots, plans, executes! Is this the honest self-forgetting rage We are called to pardon? Does the furious bull Pick out four help-mates from the grazing herd And journey with them over hill and dale Till he find his enemy?" What rejoinder? save That friends accept our bull-similitude. Bull-like,—the indiscriminate slaughter, rude And reckless aggravation of revenge, Were all i' the way o' the brute who never once Ceases, amid all provocation more, To bear in mind the first tormentor, first Giver o' the wound that goaded him to fight: And, though a dozen follow and reinforce The aggressor, wound in front and wound in flank, Continues undisturbedly pursuit, And only after prostrating his prize Turns on the pettier, makes a general prey. So Guido rushed against Violante, first Author of all his wrongs, fons et origo Malorum—drops first, deluge since,—which done, He finished with the rest. Do you blame a bull? In truth you look as puzzled as ere I preached! How is that? There are difficulties perhaps On any supposition, and either side. Each party wants too much, claims sympathy For its object of compassion, more than just. Cry the wife's friends, "Oh, the enormous crime Caused by no provocation in the world!" "Was not the wife a little weak?"—inquire— "Punished extravagantly, if you please, But meriting a little punishment? One treated inconsiderately, say, Rather than one deserving not at all Treatment and discipline o' the harsher sort?" No, they must have her purity itself, Quite angel,—and her parents angels too Of an aged sort, immaculate, word and deed: At all events, so seeming, till the fiend, Even Guido, by his folly, forced from them The untoward avowal of the trick o' the birth, Which otherwise were safe and secret now. Why, here you have the awfullest of crimes For nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly! A dragon born of rose-dew and the moon! Yet here is the monster! Why he's a mere man— Born, bred and brought up in the usual way, His mother loves him, still his brothers stick To the good fellow of the boyish games; The Governor of his town knows and approves, The Archbishop of the place knows and assists: Here he has Cardinal This to vouch for the past, Cardinal That to trust for the future,—match And marriage were a Cardinal's making,—in short, What if a tragedy be acted here Impossible for malice to improve, And innocent Guido with his innocent four Be added, all five, to the guilty three, That we of these last days be edified With one full taste o' the justice of the world? The long and the short is, truth seems what I show:— Undoubtedly no pains ought to be spared To give the mob an inkling of our lights. It seems unduly harsh to put the man To the torture, as I hear the court intends, Though readiest way of twisting out the truth; He is noble, and he may be innocent. On the other hand, if they exempt the man (As it is also said they hesitate On the fair ground, presumptive guilt is weak I' the case of nobility and privilege),— What crime that ever was, ever will be, Deserves the torture? Then abolish it! You see the reduction ad absurdum, Sirs? Her Excellency must pronounce, in fine! What, she prefers going and joining play? Her Highness finds it late, intends retire? I am of their mind: only, all this talk talked, 'T was not for nothing that we talked, I hope? Both know as much about it, now, at least, As all Rome: no particular thanks, I beg! (You'll see, I have not so advanced myself, After my teaching the two idiots here!)