Part 2 / Act 5 — THE RING AND THE BOOK

Do you see this Ring? 'T is Rome-work, made to match (By Castellani's imitative craft) Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn, After a dropping April; found alive Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see, Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There 's one trick, (Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine, Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,— To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap: Since hammer needs must widen out the round, And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers, Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear. That trick is, the artificer melts up wax With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both, Effects a manageable mass, then works: But his work ended, once the thing a ring, Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face, And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume; While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains, The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness, Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore: Prime nature with an added artistry— No carat lost, and you have gained a ring. What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say; A thing's sign: now for the thing signified. Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since? Examine it yourselves! I found this book, Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just, (Mark the predestination!) when a Hand, Always above my shoulder, pushed me once, One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm, Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths, Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time, Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge O' the pedestal where sits and menaces John of the Black Bands with the upright spear, 'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived, His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie. This book,—precisely on that palace-step Which, meant for lounging knaves o' the Medici, Now serves re-venders to display their ware,— 'Mongst odds and ends of ravage, picture-frames White through the worn gilt, mirror-sconces chipped, Bronze angel-heads once knobs attached to chests (Handled when ancient dames chose forth brocade), Modern chalk drawings, studies from the nude, Samples of stone, jet, breccia, porphyry Polished and rough, sundry amazing busts In baked earth (broken, Providence be praised!) A wreck of tapestry, proudly-purposed web When reds and blues were indeed red and blue, Now offered as a mat to save bare feet (Since carpets constitute a cruel cost) Treading the chill scagliola bedward; then A pile of brown-etched prints, two crazie each, Stopped by a conch a-top from fluttering forth —Sowing the Square with works of one and the same Master, the imaginative Sienese Great in the scenic backgrounds—(name and fame None of you know, nor does he fare the worse:) From these ... Oh, with a Lionard going cheap If it should prove, as promised, that Joconde Whereof a copy contents the Louvre!—these I picked this book from. Five compeers in flank Stood left and right of it as tempting more— A dogs-eared Spicilegium, the fond tale O' the Frail One of the Flower, by young Dumas, Vulgarized Horace for the use of schools, The Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody, Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death and Life,— With this, one glance at the lettered back of which, And "Stall!" cried I: a lira made it mine. Here it is, this I toss and take again; Small-quarto size, part print, part manuscript: A book in shape but, really, pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since. Give it me back! The thing 's restorative I' the touch and sight. That memorable day, (June was the month, Lorenzo named the Square), I leaned a little and overlooked my prize By the low railing round the fountain-source Close to the statue, where a step descends: While clinked the cans of copper, as stooped and rose Thick-ankled girls who brimmed them, and made place For marketmen glad to pitch basket down, Dip a broad melon-leaf that holds the wet, And whisk their faded fresh. And on I read Presently, though my path grew perilous Between the outspread straw-work, piles of plait Soon to be flapping, each o'er two black eyes And swathe of Tuscan hair, on festas fine: Through fire-irons, tribes of tongs, shovels in sheaves, Skeleton bedsteads, wardrobe-drawers agape, Rows of tall slim brass lamps with dangling gear,— And worse, cast clothes a-sweetening in the sun: None of them took my eye from off my prize. Still read I on, from written title-page To written index, on, through street and street, At the Strozzi, at the Pillar, at the Bridge; Till, by the time I stood at home again In Casa Guidi by Felice Church, Under the doorway where the black begins With the first stone-slab of the staircase cold, I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth Gathered together, bound up in this book, Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest. "Romana Homicidiorum"—nay, Better translate—"A Roman murder-case: Position of the entire criminal cause Of Guido Franceschini, nobleman, With certain Four the cutthroats in his pay, Tried, all five, and found guilty and put to death By heading or hanging as befitted ranks, At Rome on February Twenty Two, Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight: Wherein it is disputed if, and when, Husbands may kill adulterous wives, yet 'scape The customary forfeit." Word for word, So ran the title-page: murder, or else Legitimate punishment of the other crime, Accounted murder by mistake,—just that And no more, in a Latin cramp enough When the law had her eloquence to launch, But interfilleted with Italian streaks When testimony stooped to mother-tongue,— That, was this old square yellow book about. Now, as the ingot, ere the ring was forged, Lay gold, (beseech you, hold that figure fast!) So, in this book lay absolutely truth, Fanciless fact, the documents indeed, Primary lawyer-pleadings for, against, The aforesaid Five; real summed-up circumstance Adduced in proof of these on either side, Put forth and printed, as the practice was, At Rome, in the Apostolic Chamber's type, And so submitted to the eye o' the Court Presided over by His Reverence Rome's Governor and Criminal Judge,—the trial Itself, to all intents, being then as now Here in the book and nowise out of it; Seeing, there properly was no judgment-bar, No bringing of accuser and accused, And whoso judged both parties, face to face Before some court, as we conceive of courts. There was a Hall of Justice; that came last: For Justice had a chamber by the hall Where she took evidence first, summed up the same, Then sent accuser and accused alike, In person of the advocate of each, To weigh its worth, thereby arrange, array The battle. 'T was the so-styled Fisc began, Pleaded (and since he only spoke in print The printed voice of him lives now as then) The public Prosecutor—"Murder 's proved; With five ... what we call qualities of bad, Worse, worst, and yet worse still, and still worse yet; Crest over crest crowning the cockatrice, That beggar hell's regalia to enrich Count Guido Franceschini: punish him!" Thus was the paper put before the court In the next stage, (no noisy work at all,) To study at ease. In due time like reply Came from the so-styled Patron of the Poor, Official mouthpiece of the five accused Too poor to fee a better,—Guido's luck Or else his fellows',—which, I hardly know,— An outbreak as of wonder at the world, A fury-fit of outraged innocence, A passion of betrayed simplicity: "Punish Count Guido? For what crime, what hint O' the color of a crime, inform us first! Reward him rather! Recognize, we say, In the deed done, a righteous judgment dealt! All conscience and all courage,—there 's our Count Charactered in a word; and, what 's more strange, He had companionship in privilege, Found four courageous conscientious friends: Absolve, applaud all five, as props of law, Sustainers of society!—perchance A trifle over-hasty with the hand To hold her tottering ark, had tumbled else; But that 's a splendid fault whereat we wink, Wishing your cold correctness sparkled so!" Thus paper second followed paper first, Thus did the two join issue—nay, the four, Each pleader having an adjunct. "True, he killed —So to speak—in a certain sort—his wife, But laudably, since thus it happed!" quoth one: Whereat, more witness and the case postponed. "Thus it happed not, since thus he did the deed, And proved himself thereby portentousest Of cutthroats and a prodigy of crime, As the woman that he slaughtered was a saint, Martyr and miracle!" quoted the other to match: Again, more witness, and the case postponed. "A miracle, ay—of lust and impudence; Hear my new reasons!" interposed the first: "—Coupled with more of mine!" pursued his peer. "Beside, the precedents, the authorities!" From both at once a cry with an echo, that! That was a firebrand at each fox's tail Unleashed in a cornfield: soon spread flare enough, As hurtled thither and there heaped themselves From earth's four corners, all authority And precedent for putting wives to death, Or letting wives live, sinful as they seem. How legislated, now, in this respect, Solon and his Athenians? Quote the code Of Romulus and Rome! Justinian speak! Nor modern Baldo, Bartolo be dumb! The Roman voice was potent, plentiful; Cornelia de Sicariis hurried to help Pompeia de Parricidiis; Julia de Something-or-other jostled Lex this-and-that; King Solomon confirmed Apostle Paul: That nice decision of Dolabella, eh? That pregnant instance of Theodoric, oh! Down to that choice example Ælian gives (An instance I find much insisted on) Of the elephant who, brute-beast though he were, Yet understood and punished on the spot His master's naughty spouse and faithless friend; A true tale which has edified each child, Much more shall flourish favored by our court! Pages of proof this way, and that way proof, And always—once again the case postponed. Thus wrangled, brangled, jangled they a month, —Only on paper, pleadings all in print, Nor ever was, except i' the brains of men, More noise by word of mouth than you hear now— Till the court cut all short with "Judged, your cause. Receive our sentence! Praise God! We pronounce Count Guido devilish and damnable: His wife Pompilia in thought, word and deed, Was perfect pure, he murdered her for that: As for the Four who helped the One, all Five— Why, let employer and hirelings share alike In guilt and guilt's reward, the death their due!" So was the trial at end, do you suppose? "Guilty you find him, death you doom him to? Ay, were not Guido, more than needs, a priest, Priest and to spare!"—this was a shot reserved; I learn this from epistles which begin Here where the print ends,—see the pen and ink Of the advocate, the ready at a pinch!— "My client boasts the clerkly privilege, Has taken minor orders many enough, Shows still sufficient chrism upon his pate To neutralize a blood-stain: presbyter, Primæ tonsuræ, subdiaconus, Sacerdos, so he slips from underneath Your power, the temporal, slides inside the robe Of mother Church: to her we make appeal By the Pope, the Church's head!" A parlous plea, Put in with noticeable effect, it seems; "Since straight,"—resumes the zealous orator, Making a friend acquainted with the facts,— "Once the word 'clericality' let fall, Procedure stopped and freer breath was drawn By all considerate and responsible Rome." Quality took the decent part, of course; Held by the husband, who was noble too: Or, for the matter of that, a churl would side With too-refined susceptibility, And honor which, tender in the extreme, Stung to the quick, must roughly right itself At all risks, not sit still and whine for law As a Jew would, if you squeezed him to the wall, Brisk-trotting through the Ghetto. Nay, it seems, Even the Emperor's Envoy had his say To say on the subject; might not see, unmoved, Civility menaced throughout Christendom By too harsh measure dealt her champion here. Lastly, what made all safe, the Pope was kind, From his youth up, reluctant to take life, If mercy might be just and yet show grace; Much more unlikely then, in extreme age, To take a life the general sense bade spare. 'T was plain that Guido would go scatheless yet. But human promise, oh, how short of shine! How topple down the piles of hope we rear! How history proves ... nay, read Herodotus! Suddenly starting from a nap, as it were, A dog-sleep with one shut, one open orb, Cried the Pope's great self,—Innocent by name And nature too, and eighty-six years old, Antonio Pignatelli of Naples, Pope Who had trod many lands, known many deeds, Probed many hearts, beginning with his own, And now was far in readiness for God,— 'T was he who first bade leave those souls in peace, Those Jansenists, re-nicknamed Molinists, ('Gainst whom the cry went, like a frowsy tune, Tickling men's ears—the sect for a quarter of an hour I' the teeth of the world which, clown-like, loves to chew Be it but a straw 'twixt work and whistling-while, Taste some vituperation, bite away, Whether at marjoram-sprig or garlic-clove, Aught it may sport with, spoil, and then spit forth,) "Leave them alone," bade he, "those Molinists! Who may have other light than we perceive, Or why is it the whole world hates them thus?" Also he peeled off that last scandal-rag Of Nepotism; and so observed the poor That men would merrily say, "Halt, deaf and blind, Who feed on fat things, leave the master's self To gather up the fragments of his feast, These be the nephews of Pope Innocent!— His own meal costs but five carlines a day, Poor-priest's allowance, for he claims no more." —He cried of a sudden, this great good old Pope, When they appealed in last resort to him, "I have mastered the whole matter: I nothing doubt. Though Guido stood forth priest from head to heel, Instead of, as alleged, a piece of one,— And further, were he, from the tonsured scalp To the sandaled sole of him, my son and Christ's, Instead of touching us by finger-tip As you assert, and pressing up so close Only to set a blood-smutch on our robe,— I and Christ would renounce all right in him. Am I not Pope, and presently to die, And busied how to render my account, And shall I wait a day ere I decide On doing or not doing justice here? Cut off his head to-morrow by this time, Hang up his four mates, two on either hand, And end one business more!" So said, so done— Rather so writ, for the old Pope bade this, I find, with his particular chirograph, His own no such infirm hand, Friday night; And next day, February Twenty Two, Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight, —Not at the proper head-and-hanging-place On bridge-foot close by Castle Angelo, Where custom somewhat staled the spectacle, ('T was not so well i' the way of Rome, beside, The noble Rome, the Rome of Guido's rank) But at the city's newer gayer end,— The cavalcading promenading place Beside the gate and opposite the church Under the Pincian gardens green with Spring, 'Neath the obelisk 'twixt the fountains in the Square, Did Guido and his fellows find their fate, All Rome for witness, and—my writer adds— Remonstrant in its universal grief, Since Guido had the suffrage of all Rome. This is the bookful; thus far take the truth, The untempered gold, the fact untampered with, The mere ring-metal ere the ring be made! And what has hitherto come of it? Who preserves The memory of this Guido, and his wife Pompilia, more than Ademollo's name, The etcher of those prints, two crazie each, Saved by a stone from snowing broad the Square With scenic backgrounds? Was this truth of force? Able to take its own part as truth should, Sufficient, self-sustaining? Why, if so— Yonder 's a fire, into it goes my book, As who shall say me nay, and what the loss? You know the tale already: I may ask, Rather than think to tell you, more thereof,— Ask you not merely who were he and she, Husband and wife, what manner of mankind, But how you hold concerning this and that Other yet-unnamed actor in the piece. The young frank handsome courtly Canon, now, The priest, declared the lover of the wife, He who, no question, did elope with her, For certain bring the tragedy about, Giuseppe Caponsacchi;—his strange course I' the matter, was it right or wrong or both? Then the old couple, slaughtered with the wife By the husband as accomplices in crime, Those Comparini, Pietro and his spouse,— What say you to the right or wrong of that, When, at a known name whispered through the door Of a lone villa on a Christmas night, It opened that the joyous hearts inside Might welcome as it were an angel-guest Come in Christ's name to knock and enter, sup And satisfy the loving ones he saved; And so did welcome devils and their death? I have been silent on that circumstance Although the couple passed for close of kin To wife and husband, were by some accounts Pompilia's very parents: you know best. Also that infant the great joy was for, That Gaetano, the wife's two-weeks' babe, The husband's first-born child, his son and heir, Whose birth and being turned his night to day— Why must the father kill the mother thus Because she bore his son and saved himself? Well, British Public, ye who like me not, (God love you!) and will have your proper laugh At the dark question, laugh it! I laugh first. Truth must prevail, the proverb vows; and truth —Here is it all i' the book at last, as first There it was all i' the heads and hearts of Rome Gentle and simple, never to fall nor fade Nor be forgotten. Yet, a little while, The passage of a century or so, Decads thrice five, and here 's time paid his tax, Oblivion gone home with her harvesting, And all left smooth again as scythe could shave. Far from beginning with you London folk, I took my book to Rome first, tried truth's power On likely people. "Have you met such names? Is a tradition extant of such facts? Your law-courts stand, your records frown a-row: What if I rove and rummage?" "—Why, you 'll waste Your pains and end as wise as you began!" Every one snickered: "names and facts thus old Are newer much than Europe news we find Down in to-day's Diario. Records, quotha? Why, the French burned them, what else do the French? The rap-and-rending nation! And it tells Against the Church, no doubt,—another gird At the Temporality, your Trial, of course?" "—Quite otherwise this time," submitted I; "Clean for the Church and dead against the world, The flesh and the devil, does it tell for once." "—The rarer and the happier! All the same, Content you with your treasure of a book, And waive what 's wanting! Take a friend's advice! It 's not the custom of the country. Mend Your ways indeed and we may stretch a point: Go get you manned by Manning and new-manned By Newman and, mayhap, wise-manned to boot By Wiseman, and we 'll see or else we won't! Thanks meantime for the story, long and strong, A pretty piece of narrative enough, Which scarce ought so to drop out, one would think, From the more curious annals of our kind. Do you tell the story, now, in off-hand style, Straight from the book? Or simply here and there, (The while you vault it through the loose and large) Hang to a hint? Or is there book at all, And don't you deal in poetry, make-believe, And the white lies it sounds like?" Yes and no! From the book, yes; thence bit by bit I dug The lingot truth, that memorable day, Assayed and knew my piecemeal gain was gold,— Yes; but from something else surpassing that, Something of mine which, mixed up with the mass, Made it bear hammer and be firm to file. Fancy with fact is just one fact the more; To wit, that fancy has informed, transpierced, Thridded and so thrown fast the facts else free, As right through ring and ring runs the djereed And binds the loose, one bar without a break. I fused my live soul and that inert stuff, Before attempting smithcraft, on the night After the day when—truth thus grasped and gained— The book was shut and done with and laid by On the cream-colored massive agate, broad 'Neath the twin cherubs in the tarnished frame O' the mirror, tall thence to the ceiling-top. And from the reading, and that slab I leant My elbow on, the while I read and read, I turned, to free myself and find the world, And stepped out on the narrow terrace, built Over the street and opposite the church, And paced its lozenge-brickwork sprinkled cool; Because Felice-church-side stretched, aglow Through each square window fringed for festival, Whence came the clear voice of the cloistered ones Chanting a chant made for midsummer nights— I know not what particular praise of God, It always came and went with June. Beneath I' the street, quick shown by openings of the sky When flame fell silently from cloud to cloud, Richer than that gold snow Jove rained on Rhodes, The townsmen walked by twos and threes, and talked, Drinking the blackness in default of air— A busy human sense beneath my feet: While in and out the terrace-plants, and round One branch of tall datura, waxed and waned The lamp-fly lured there, wanting the white flower. Over the roof o' the lighted church I looked A bowshot to the street's end, north away Out of the Roman gate to the Roman road By the river, till I felt the Apennine. And there would lie Arezzo, the man's town, The woman's trap and cage and torture-place, Also the stage where the priest played his part, A spectacle for angels,—ay, indeed, There lay Arezzo! Farther then I fared, Feeling my way on through the hot and dense, Romeward, until I found the wayside inn By Castelnuovo's few mean hut-like homes Huddled together on the hill-foot bleak, Bare, broken only by that tree or two Against the sudden bloody splendor poured Cursewise in day's departure by the sun O'er the low house-roof of that squalid inn Where they three, for the first time and the last, Husband and wife and priest, met face to face. Whence I went on again, the end was near, Step by step, missing none and marking all, Till Rome itself, the ghastly goal, I reached. Why, all the while,—how could it otherwise?— The life in me abolished the death of things, Deep calling unto deep: as then and there Acted itself over again once more The tragic piece. I saw with my own eyes In Florence as I trod the terrace, breathed The beauty and the fearfulness of night, How it had run, this round from Rome to Rome— Because, you are to know, they lived at Rome, Pompilia's parents, as they thought themselves, Two poor ignoble hearts who did their best Part God's way, part the other way than God's, To somehow make a shift and scramble through The world's mud, careless if it splashed and spoiled, Provided they might so hold high, keep clean Their child's soul, one soul white enough for three, And lift it to whatever star should stoop, What possible sphere of purer life than theirs Should come in aid of whiteness hard to save. I saw the star stoop, that they strained to touch, And did touch and depose their treasure on, As Guido Franceschini took away Pompilia to be his forevermore, While they sang "Now let us depart in peace, Having beheld thy glory, Guido's wife!" I saw the star supposed, but fog o' the fen, Gilded star-fashion by a glint from hell; Having been heaved up, haled on its gross way, By hands unguessed before, invisible help From a dark brotherhood, and specially Two obscure goblin creatures, fox-faced this, Cat-clawed the other, called his next of kin By Guido the main monster,—cloaked and caped, Making as they were priests, to mock God more,— Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo. These who had rolled the starlike pest to Rome And stationed it to suck up and absorb The sweetness of Pompilia, rolled again That bloated bubble, with her soul inside, Back to Arezzo and a palace there— Or say, a fissure in the honest earth Whence long ago had curled the vapor first, Blown big by nether fires to appall day: It touched home, broke, and blasted far and wide. I saw the cheated couple find the cheat And guess what foul rite they were captured for,— Too fain to follow over hill and dale That child of theirs caught up thus in the cloud And carried by the Prince o' the Power of the Air Whither he would, to wilderness or sea. I saw them, in the potency of fear, Break somehow through the satyr-family (For a gray mother with a monkey-mien, Mopping and mowing, was apparent too, As, confident of capture, all took hands And danced about the captives in a ring) —Saw them break through, breathe safe, at Rome again, Saved by the selfish instinct, losing so Their loved one left with haters. These I saw, In recrudescency of baffled hate, Prepare to wring the uttermost revenge From body and soul thus left them: all was sure, Fire laid and caldron set, the obscene ring traced, The victim stripped and prostrate: what of God? The cleaving of a cloud, a cry, a crash, Quenched lay their caldron, cowered i' the dust the crew, As, in a glory of armor like Saint George, Out again sprang the young good beauteous priest Bearing away the lady in his arms, Saved for a splendid minute and no more. For, whom i' the path did that priest come upon, He and the poor lost lady borne so brave, —Checking the song of praise in me, had else Swelled to the full for God's will done on earth— Whom but a dusk misfeatured messenger, No other than the angel of this life, Whose care is lest men see too much at once. He made the sign, such God-glimpse must suffice, Nor prejudice the Prince o' the Power of the Air, Whose ministration piles us overhead What we call, first, earth's roof and, last, heaven's floor, Now grate o' the trap, then outlet of the cage: So took the lady, left the priest alone, And once more canopied the world with black. But through the blackness I saw Rome again, And where a solitary villa stood In a lone garden-quarter: it was eve, The second of the year, and oh so cold! Ever and anon there flittered through the air A snow-flake, and a scanty couch of snow Crusted the grass-walk and the garden-mould. All was grave, silent, sinister,—when, ha? Glimmeringly did a pack of were-wolves pad The snow, those flames were Guido's eyes in front, And all five found and footed it, the track, To where a threshold-streak of warmth and light Betrayed the villa-door with life inside, While an inch outside were those blood-bright eyes, And black lips wrinkling o'er the flash of teeth, And tongues that lolled—O God that madest man! They parleyed in their language. Then one whined— That was the policy and master-stroke— Deep in his throat whispered what seemed a name— "Open to Caponsacchi!" Guido cried: "Gabriel!" cried Lucifer at Eden-gate. Wide as a heart, opened the door at once, Showing the joyous couple, and their child The two-weeks' mother, to the wolves, the wolves To them. Close eyes! And when the corpses lay Stark-stretched, and those the wolves, their wolf-work done. Were safe-embosomed by the night again, I knew a necessary change in things; As when the worst watch of the night gives way, And there comes duly, to take cognizance, The scrutinizing eye-point of some star— And who despairs of a new daybreak now? Lo, the first ray protruded on those five! It reached them, and each felon writhed transfixed. Awhile they palpitated on the spear Motionless over Tophet: stand or fall? "I say, the spear should fall—should stand, I say!" Cried the world come to judgment, granting grace Or dealing doom according to world's wont, Those world's-bystanders grouped on Rome's cross-road At prick and summons of the primal curse Which bids man love as well as make a lie. There prattled they, discoursed the right and wrong, Turned wrong to right, proved wolves sheep and sheep wolves, So that you scarce distinguished fell from fleece; Till out spoke a great guardian of the fold, Stood up, put forth his hand that held the crook, And motioned that the arrested point decline: Horribly off, the wriggling dead-weight reeled, Rushed to the bottom and lay ruined there. Though still at the pit's mouth, despite the smoke O' the burning, tarriers turned again to talk And trim the balance, and detect at least A touch of wolf in what showed whitest sheep, A cross of sheep redeeming the whole wolf,— Vex truth a little longer:—less and less, Because years came and went, and more and more Brought new lies with them to be loved in turn. Till all at once the memory of the thing,— The fact that, wolves or sheep, such creatures were,— Which hitherto, however men supposed, Had somehow plain and pillar-like prevailed I' the midst of them, indisputably fact, Granite, time's tooth should grate against, not graze,— Why, this proved sandstone, friable, fast to fly And give its grain away at wish o' the wind. Ever and ever more diminutive, Base gone, shaft lost, only entablature, Dwindled into no bigger than a book, Lay of the column; and that little, left By the roadside 'mid the ordure, shards and weeds. Until I haply, wandering that lone way, Kicked it up, turned it over, and recognized, For all the crumblement, this abacus, This square old yellow book,—could calculate By this the lost proportions of the style. This was it from, my fancy with those facts, I used to tell the tale, turned gay to grave, But lacked a listener seldom; such alloy, Such substance of me interfused the gold Which, wrought into a shapely ring therewith, Hammered and filed, fingered and favored, last Lay ready for the renovating wash O' the water. "How much of the tale was true?" I disappeared; the book grew all in all; The lawyers' pleadings swelled back to their size,— Doubled in two, the crease upon them yet, For more commodity of carriage, see!— And these are letters, veritable sheets That brought post-haste the news to Florence, writ At Rome the day Count Guido died, we find, To stay the craving of a client there, Who bound the same and so produced my book. Lovers of dead truth, did ye fare the worse? Lovers of live truth, found ye false my tale? Well, now; there 's nothing in nor out o' the world Good except truth: yet this, the something else, What 's this then, which proves good yet seems untrue? This that I mixed with truth, motions of mine That quickened, made the inertness malleolable O' the gold was not mine,—what 's your name for this? Are means to the end, themselves in part the end? Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too? The somehow may be thishow. I find first Writ down for very A B C of fact, "In the beginning God made heaven and earth;" From which, no matter with what lisp, I spell And speak you out a consequence—that man, Man,—as befits the made, the inferior thing,— Purposed, since made, to grow, not make in turn, Yet forced to try and make, else fail to grow,— Formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain The good beyond him,—which attempt is growth,— Repeats God's process in man's due degree, Attaining man's proportionate result,— Creates, no, but resuscitates, perhaps. Inalienable, the arch-prerogative Which turns thought, act—conceives, expresses too! No less, man, bounded, yearning to be free, May so project his surplusage of soul In search of body, so add self to self By owning what lay ownerless before,— So find, so fill full, so appropriate forms— That, although nothing which had never life Shall get life from him, be, not having been, Yet, something dead may get to live again, Something with too much life or not enough, Which, either way imperfect, ended once: An end whereat man's impulse intervenes, Makes new beginning, starts the dead alive, Completes the incomplete and saves the thing. Man's breath were vain to light a virgin wick,— Half-burned-out, all but quite-quenched wicks o' the lamp Stationed for temple-service on this earth, These indeed let him breathe on and relume! For such man's feat is, in the due degree, —Mimic creation, galvanism for life, But still a glory portioned in the scale. Why did the mage say—feeling as we are wont For truth, and stopping midway short of truth, And resting on a lie—"I raise a ghost"? "Because," he taught adepts, "man makes not man. Yet by a special gift, an art of arts, More insight and more outsight and much more Will to use both of these than boast my mates, I can detach from me, commission forth Half of my soul; which in its pilgrimage O'er old unwandered waste ways of the world, May chance upon some fragment of a whole, Rag of flesh, scrap of bone in dim disuse, Smoking flax that fed fire once: prompt therein I enter, spark-like, put old powers to play, Push lines out to the limit, lead forth last (By a moonrise through a ruin of a crypt) What shall be mistily seen, murmuringly heard, Mistakenly felt: then write my name with Faust's!" Oh, Faust, why Faust? Was not Elisha once?— Who bade them lay his staff on a corpse-face. There was no voice, no hearing: he went in Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain, And prayed unto the Lord: and he went up And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch, And put his mouth upon its mouth, his eyes Upon its eyes, his hands upon its hands, And stretched him on the flesh; the flesh waxed warm: And he returned, walked to and fro the house, And went up, stretched him on the flesh again, And the eyes opened. 'T is a credible feat With the right man and way. Enough of me! The Book! I turn its medicinable leaves In London now till, as in Florence erst, A spirit laughs and leaps through every limb, And lights my eye, and lifts me by the hair, Letting me have my will again with these —How title I the dead alive once more? Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine, Descended of an ancient house, though poor, A beak-nosed bushy-bearded black-haired lord, Lean, pallid, low of stature yet robust, Fifty years old,—having four years ago Married Pompilia Comparini, young, Good, beautiful, at Rome, where she was born, And brought her to Arezzo, where they lived Unhappy lives, whatever curse the cause,— This husband, taking four accomplices, Followed this wife to Rome, where she was fled From their Arezzo to find peace again, In convoy, eight months earlier, of a priest, Aretine also, of still nobler birth, Giuseppe Caponsacchi,—caught her there Quiet in a villa on a Christmas night, With only Pietro and Violante by, Both her putative parents; killed the three, Aged they, seventy each, and she, seventeen, And, two weeks since, the mother of his babe First-born and heir to what the style was worth O' the Guido who determined, dared and did This deed just as he purposed point by point. Then, bent upon escape, but hotly pressed, And captured with his co-mates that same night, He, brought to trial, stood on this defence— Injury to his honor caused the act; And since his wife was false, (as manifest By flight from home in such companionship,) Death, punishment deserved of the false wife And faithless parents who abetted her I' the flight aforesaid, wronged nor God nor man. "Nor false she, nor yet faithless they," replied The accuser; "cloaked and masked this murder glooms; True was Pompilia, loyal too the pair; Out of the man's own heart a monster curled, Which—crime coiled with connivancy at crime— His victim's breast, he tells you, hatched and reared; Uncoil we and stretch stark the worm of hell!" A month the trial swayed this way and that Ere judgment settled down on Guido's guilt; Then was the Pope, that good Twelfth Innocent, Appealed to: who well weighed what went before, Affirmed the guilt and gave the guilty doom. Let this old woe step on the stage again! Act itself o'er anew for men to judge, Not by the very sense and sight indeed— (Which take at best imperfect cognizance, Since, how heart moves brain, and how both move hand, What mortal ever in entirety saw?) —No dose of purer truth than man digests, But truth with falsehood, milk that feeds him now, Not strong meat he may get to bear some day— To wit, by voices we call evidence, Uproar in the echo, live fact deadened down, Talked over, bruited abroad, whispered away, Yet helping us to all we seem to hear: For how else know we save by worth of word? Here are the voices presently shall sound In due succession. First, the world's outcry Around the rush and ripple of any fact Fallen stonewise, plumb on the smooth face of things; The world's guess, as it crowds the bank o' the pool, At what were figure and substance, by their splash: Then, by vibrations in the general mind, At depth of deed already out of reach. This threefold murder of the day before,— Say, Half-Rome's feel after the vanished truth; Honest enough, as the way is: all the same, Harboring in the centre of its sense A hidden germ of failure, shy but sure, To neutralize that honesty and leave That feel for truth at fault, as the way is too. Some prepossession such as starts amiss, By but a hair's breadth at the shoulder-blade, The arm o' the feeler, dip he ne'er so bold; So leads arm waveringly, lets fall wide O' the mark its finger, sent to find and fix Truth at the bottom, that deceptive speck. With this Half-Rome,—the source of swerving, call Over-belief in Guido's right and wrong Rather than in Pompilia's wrong and right: Who shall say how, who shall say why? 'T is there— The instinctive theorizing whence a fact Looks to the eye as the eye likes the look. Gossip in a public place, a sample-speech. Some worthy, with his previous hint to find A husband's side the safer, and no whit Aware he is not Æacus the while,— How such an one supposes and states fact To whosoever of a multitude Will listen, and perhaps prolong thereby The not-unpleasant flutter at the breast, Born of a certain spectacle shut in By the church Lorenzo opposite. So, they lounge Midway the mouth o' the street, on Corso side, 'Twixt palace Fiano and palace Ruspoli, Linger and listen; keeping clear o' the crowd, Yet wishful one could lend that crowd one's eyes, (So universal is its plague of squint) And make hearts beat our time that flutter false: —All for the truth's sake, mere truth, nothing else! How Half-Rome found for Guido much excuse. Next, from Rome's other half, the opposite feel For truth with a like swerve, like unsuccess,— Or if success, by no skill but more luck, This time, through siding rather with the wife Because a fancy-fit inclined that way, Than with the husband. One wears drab, one pink; Who wears pink, ask him "Which shall win the race, Of coupled runners like as egg and egg?" "—Why, if I must choose, he with the pink scarf." Doubtless for some such reason choice fell here. A piece of public talk to correspond At the next stage of the story; just a day Let pass and new day brings the proper change. Another sample-speech i' the market-place O' the Barberini by the Capucins; Where the old Triton, at his fountain-sport, Bernini's creature plated to the paps, Puffs up steel sleet which breaks to diamond dust, A spray of sparkles snorted from his conch, High over the caritellas, out o' the way O' the motley merchandising multitude. Our murder has been done three days ago, The frost is over and gone, the south wind laughs, And, to the very tiles of each red roof A-smoke i' the sunshine, Rome lies gold and glad: So, listen how, to the other half of Rome, Pompilia seemed a saint and martyr both! Then, yet another day let come and go, With pause prelusive still of novelty, Hear a fresh speaker!—neither this nor that Half-Rome aforesaid; something bred of both: One and one breed the inevitable three. Such is the personage harangues you next; The elaborated product, tertium quid: Rome's first commotion in subsidence gives The curd o' the cream, flower o' the wheat, as it were, And finer sense o' the city. Is this plain? You get a reasoned statement of the case, Eventual verdict of the curious few Who care to sift a business to the bran Nor coarsely bolt it like the simpler sort. Here, after ignorance, instruction speaks; Here, clarity of candor, history's soul, The critical mind, in short: no gossip-guess. What the superior social section thinks, In person of some man of quality Who—breathing musk from lace-work and brocade, His solitaire amid the flow of frill, Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back, And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist— Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase 'Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon Where mirrors multiply the girandole: Courting the approbation of no mob, But Eminence This and All-Illustrious That Who take snuff softly, range in well-bred ring, Card-table-quitters for observance' sake, Around the argument, the rational word— Still, spite its weight and worth, a sample-speech. How Quality dissertated on the case. So much for Rome and rumor; smoke comes first: Once let smoke rise untroubled, we descry Clearlier what tongues of flame may spire and spit To eye and ear, each with appropriate tinge According to its food, or pure or foul. The actors, no mere rumors of the act, Intervene. First you hear Count Guido's voice, In a small chamber that adjoins the court, Where Governor and Judges, summoned thence, Tommati, Venturini and the rest, Find the accused ripe for declaring truth. Soft-cushioned sits he; yet shifts seat, shirks touch, As, with a twitchy brow and wincing lip And cheek that changes to all kinds of white, He proffers his defence, in tones subdued Near to mock-mildness now, so mournful seems The obtuser sense truth fails to satisfy; Now, moved, from pathos at the wrong endured, To passion; for the natural man is roused At fools who first do wrong, then pour the blame Of their wrong-doing, Satan-like, on Job. Also his tongue at times is hard to curb; Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase, Rough-raw, yet somehow claiming privilege —It is so hard for shrewdness to admit Folly means no harm when she calls black white! —Eruption momentary at the most, Modified forthwith by a fall o' the fire, Sage acquiescence; for the world 's the world, And, what it errs in, Judges rectify: He feels he has a fist, then folds his arms Crosswise and makes his mind up to be meek. And never once does he detach his eye From those ranged there to slay him or to save, But does his best man's-service for himself, Despite,—what twitches brow and makes lip wince,— His limbs' late taste of what was called the Cord, Or Vigil-torture more facetiously. Even so; they were wont to tease the truth Out of loth witness (toying, trifling time) By torture: 't was a trick, a vice of the age, Here, there and everywhere, what would you have? Religion used to tell Humanity She gave him warrant or denied him course. And since the course was much to his own mind, Of pinching flesh and pulling bone from bone To unhusk truth a-hiding in its hulls, Nor whisper of a warning stopped the way, He, in their joint behalf, the burly slave, Bestirred him, mauled and maimed all recusants, While, prim in place, Religion overlooked; And so had done till doomsday, never a sign Nor sound of interference from her mouth, But that at last the burly slave wiped brow, Let eye give notice as if soul were there, Muttered "'T is a vile trick, foolish more than vile, Should have been counted sin; I make it so: At any rate no more of it for me— Nay, for I break the torture-engine thus!" Then did Religion start up, stare amain, Look round for help and see none, smile and say "What, broken is the rack? Well done of thee! Did I forget to abrogate its use? Be the mistake in common with us both! —One more fault our blind age shall answer for, Down in my book denounced though it must be Somewhere. Henceforth find truth by milder means!" Ah but, Religion, did we wait for thee To ope the book, that serves to sit upon, And pick such place out, we should wait indeed! That is all history: and what is not now, Was then, defendants found it to their cost. How Guido, after being tortured, spoke. Also hear Caponsacchi who comes next, Man and priest—could you comprehend the coil!— In days when that was rife which now is rare. How, mingling each its multifarious wires, Now heaven, now earth, now heaven and earth at once, Had plucked at and perplexed their puppet here, Played off the young frank personable priest; Sworn fast and tonsured plain heaven's celibate, And yet earth's clear-accepted servitor, A courtly spiritual Cupid, squire of dames By law of love and mandate of the mode. The Church's own, or why parade her seal, Wherefore that chrism and consecrative work? Yet verily the world's, or why go badged A prince of sonneteers and lutanists, Show color of each vanity in vogue Borne with decorum due on blameless breast? All that is changed now, as he tells the court How he had played the part excepted at; Tells it, moreover, now the second time: Since, for his cause of scandal, his own share I' the flight from home and husband of the wife, He has been censured, punished in a sort By relegation,—exile, we should say, To a short distance for a little time,— Whence he is summoned on a sudden now, Informed that she, he thought to save, is lost, And, in a breath, bidden re-tell his tale, Since the first telling somehow missed effect, And then advise in the matter. There stands he, While the same grim black-panelled chamber blinks As though rubbed shiny with the sins of Rome Told the same oak for ages—wave-washed wall Against which sets a sea of wickedness. There, where you yesterday heard Guido speak, Speaks Caponsacchi; and there face him too Tommati, Venturini and the rest Who, eight months earlier, scarce repressed the smile, Forewent the wink; waived recognition so Of peccadillos incident to youth, Especially youth high-born; for youth means love, Vows can't change nature, priests are only men, And love likes stratagem and subterfuge: Which age, that once was youth, should recognize, May blame, but needs not press too hard upon. Here sit the old Judges then, but with no grace Of reverend carriage, magisterial port. For why? The accused of eight months since,—the same Who cut the conscious figure of a fool, Changed countenance, dropped bashful gaze to ground, While hesitating for an answer then,— Now is grown judge himself, terrifies now This, now the other culprit called a judge, Whose turn it is to stammer and look strange, As he speaks rapidly, angrily, speech that smites: And they keep silence, bear blow after blow, Because the seeming-solitary man, Speaking for God, may have an audience too, Invisible, no discreet judge provokes. How the priest Caponsacchi said his say. Then a soul sighs its lowest and its last After the loud ones,—so much breath remains Unused by the four-days'-dying; for she lived Thus long, miraculously long, 't was thought, Just that Pompilia might defend herself. How, while the hireling and the alien stoop, Comfort, yet question,—since the time is brief, And folk, allowably inquisitive, Encircle the low pallet where she lies In the good house that helps the poor to die,— Pompilia tells the story of her life. For friend and lover,—leech and man of law Do service; busy helpful ministrants As varied in their calling as their mind, Temper and age: and yet from all of these, About the white bed under the arched roof, Is somehow, as it were, evolved a one,— Small separate sympathies combined and large, Nothings that were, grown something very much: As if the bystanders gave each his straw, All he had, though a trifle in itself, Which, plaited all together, made a Cross Fit to die looking on and praying with, Just as well as if ivory or gold. So, to the common kindliness she speaks, There being scarce more privacy at the last For mind than body: but she is used to bear, And only unused to the brotherly look. How she endeavored to explain her life. Then, since a Trial ensued, a touch o' the same To sober us, flustered with frothy talk, And teach our common sense its helplessness. For why deal simply with divining-rod, Scrape where we fancy secret sources flow, And ignore law, the recognized machine, Elaborate display of pipe and wheel Framed to unchoke, pump up and pour apace Truth till a flowery foam shall wash the world? The patent truth-extracting process,—ha? Let us make that grave mystery turn one wheel, Give you a single grind of law at least! One orator, of two on either side, Shall teach us the puissance of the tongue —That is, o' the pen which simulated tongue On paper and saved all except the sound Which never was. Law's speech beside law's thought? That were too stunning, too immense an odds: That point of vantage law lets nobly pass. One lawyer shall admit us to behold The manner of the making out a case, First fashion of a speech; the chick in egg, The masterpiece law's bosom incubates. How Don Giacinto of the Arcangeli, Called Procurator of the Poor at Rome, Now advocate for Guido and his mates,— The jolly learned man of middle age, Cheek and jowl all in laps with fat and law, Mirthful as mighty, yet, as great hearts use, Despite the name and fame that tempt our flesh, Constant to that devotion of the hearth, Still captive in those dear domestic ties!— How he,—having a cause to triumph with, All kind of interests to keep intact, More than one efficacious personage To tranquillize, conciliate and secure, And above all, public anxiety To quiet, show its Guido in good hands,— Also, as if such burdens were too light, A certain family-feast to claim his care, The birthday-banquet for the only son— Paternity at smiling strife with law— How he brings both to buckle in one bond; And, thick at throat, with waterish under-eye, Turns to his task and settles in his seat And puts his utmost means in practice now: Wheezes out law-phrase, whiffles Latin forth, And, just as though roast lamb would never be, Makes logic levigate the big crime small: Rubs palm on palm, rakes foot with itchy foot, Conceives and inchoates the argument, Sprinkling each flower appropriate to the time, —Ovidian quip or Ciceronian crank, A-bubble in the larynx while he laughs, As he had fritters deep down frying there. How he turns, twists, and tries the oily thing Shall be—first speech for Guido 'gainst the Fisc. Then with a skip as it were from heel to head, Leaving yourselves fill up the middle bulk O' the Trial, reconstruct its shape august, From such exordium clap we to the close; Give you, if we dare wing to such a height, The absolute glory in some full-grown speech On the other side, some finished butterfly, Some breathing diamond-flake with leaf-gold fans, That takes the air, no trace of worm it was, Or cabbage-bed it had production from. Giovambattista o' the Bottini, Fisc, Pompilia's patron by the chance of the hour, To-morrow her persecutor,—composite, he, As becomes who must meet such various calls— Odds of age joined in him with ends of youth. A man of ready smile and facile tear, Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck, And language—ah, the gift of eloquence! Language that goes, goes, easy as a glove, O'er good and evil, smoothens both to one. Rashness helps caution with him, fires the straw, In free enthusiastic careless fit, On the first proper pinnacle of rock Which offers, as reward for all that zeal, To lure some bark to founder and bring gain: While calm sits Caution, rapt with heavenward eye, A true confessor's gaze, amid the glare Beaconing to the breaker, death and hell. "Well done, thou good and faithful!" she approves: "Hadst thou let slip a fagot to the beach, The crew might surely spy thy precipice And save their boat; the simple and the slow Might so, forsooth, forestall the wrecker's fee! Let the next crew be wise and hail in time!" Just so compounded is the outside man, Blue juvenile pure eye and pippin cheek, And brow all prematurely soiled and seamed With sudden age, bright devastated hair. Ah, but you miss the very tones o' the voice, The scrannel pipe that screams in heights of head, As, in his modest studio, all alone, The tall wight stands a-tiptoe, strives and strains, Both eyes shut, like the cockerel that would crow, Tries to his own self amorously o'er What never will be uttered else than so— Since to the four walls, Forum and Mars' Hill, Speaks out the poesy which, penned, turns prose. Clavecinist debarred his instrument, He yet thrums—shirking neither turn nor trill, With desperate finger on dumb table-edge— The sovereign rondo, shall conclude his Suite, Charm an imaginary audience there, From old Corelli to young Haendel, both I' the flesh at Rome, ere he perforce go print The cold black score, mere music for the mind— The last speech against Guido and his gang, With special end to prove Pompilia pure. How the Fisc vindicates Pompilia's fame. Then comes the all but end, the ultimate Judgment save yours. Pope Innocent the Twelfth, Simple, sagacious, mild yet resolute, With prudence, probity and—what beside From the other world he feels impress at times, Having attained to fourscore years and six,— How, when the court found Guido and the rest Guilty, but law supplied a subterfuge And passed the final sentence to the Pope, He, bringing his intelligence to bear This last time on what ball behoves him drop In the urn, or white or black, does drop a black, Send five souls more to just precede his own, Stand him in stead and witness, if need were, How he is wont to do God's work on earth. The manner of his sitting out the dim Droop of a sombre February day In the plain closet where he does such work, With, from all Peter's treasury, one stool, One table and one lathen crucifix. There sits the Pope, his thoughts for company; Grave but not sad,—nay, something like a cheer Leaves the lips free to be benevolent, Which, all day long, did duty firm and fast. A cherishing there is of foot and knee, A chafing loose-skinned large-veined hand with hand,— What steward but knows when stewardship earns its wage, May levy praise, anticipate the lord? He reads, notes, lays the papers down at last, Muses, then takes a turn about the room; Unclasps a huge tome in an antique guise, Primitive print and tongue half obsolete, That stands him in diurnal stead; opes page, Finds place where falls the passage to be conned According to an order long in use: And, as he comes upon the evening's chance, Starts somewhat, solemnizes straight his smile, Then reads aloud that portion first to last, And at the end lets flow his own thoughts forth Likewise aloud, for respite and relief, Till by the dreary relics of the west Wan through the half-moon window, all his light, He bows the head while the lips move in prayer, Writes some three brief lines, signs and seals the same, Tinkles a hand-bell, bids the obsequious Sir Who puts foot presently o' the closet-sill He watched outside of, bear as superscribed That mandate to the Governor forthwith: Then heaves abroad his cares in one good sigh, Traverses corridor with no arm's help, And so to sup as a clear conscience should. The manner of the judgment of the Pope. Then must speak Guido yet a second time, Satan's old saw being apt here—skin for skin, All a man hath that will he give for life. While life was graspable and gainable, And bird-like buzzed her wings round Guido's brow, Not much truth stiffened out the web of words He wove to catch her: when away she flew And death came, death's breath rivelled up the lies, Left bare the metal thread, the fibre fine Of truth, i' the spinning: the true words shone last. How Guido, to another purpose quite, Speaks and despairs, the last night of his life, In that New Prison by Castle Angelo At the bridge-foot: the same man, another voice. On a stone bench in a close fetid cell, Where the hot vapor of an agony, Struck into drops on the cold wall, runs down— Horrible worms made out of sweat and tears— There crouch, wellnigh to the knees in dungeon-straw, Lit by the sole lamp suffered for their sake, Two awe-struck figures, this a Cardinal, That an Abate, both of old styled friends O' the thing part man, part monster in the midst, So changed is Franceschini's gentle blood. The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before, That pried and tried and trod so gingerly, Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth joined; Then you know how the bristling fury foams. They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red, While his feet fumble for the filth below; The other, as beseems a stouter heart, Working his best with beads and cross to ban The enemy that comes in like a flood Spite of the standard set up, verily And in no trope at all, against him there: For at the prison-gate, just a few steps Outside, already, in the doubtful dawn, Thither, from this side and from that, slow sweep And settle down in silence solidly, Crow-wise, the frightful Brotherhood of Death. Black-hatted and black-hooded huddle they, Black rosaries a-dangling from each waist; So take they their grim station at the door, Torches lit, skull-and-crossbones-banner spread, And that gigantic Christ with open arms, Grounded. Nor lacks there aught but that the group Break forth, intone the lamentable psalm, "Out of the deeps, Lord, have I cried to thee!"— When inside, from the true profound, a sign Shall bear intelligence that the foe is foiled, Count Guido Franceschini has confessed, And is absolved and reconciled with God. Then they, intoning, may begin their march, Make by the longest way for the People's Square, Carry the criminal to his crime's award: A mob to cleave, a scaffolding to reach, Two gallows and Mannaia crowning all. How Guido made defence a second time. Finally, even as thus by step and step I led you from the level of to-day Up to the summit of so long ago, Here, whence I point you the wide prospect round— Let me, by like steps, slope you back to smooth, Land you on mother-earth, no whit the worse, To feed o' the fat o' the furrow: free to dwell, Taste our time's better things profusely spread For all who love the level, corn and wine, Much cattle and the many-folded fleece. Shall not my friends go feast again on sward, Though cognizant of country in the clouds Higher than wistful eagle's horny eye Ever unclosed for, 'mid ancestral crags, When morning broke and Spring was back once more, And he died, heaven, save by his heart, unreached? Yet heaven my fancy lifts to, ladder-like,— As Jack reached, holpen of his beanstalk-rungs! A novel country: I might make it mine By chosing which one aspect of the year Suited mood best, and putting solely that On panel somewhere in the House of Fame, Landscaping what I saved, not what I saw: —Might fix you, whether frost in goblin-time Startled the moon with his abrupt bright laugh, Or, August's hair afloat in filmy fire, She fell, arms wide, face foremost on the world, Swooned there and so singed out the strength of things. Thus were abolished Spring and Autumn both, The land dwarfed to one likeness of the land, Life cramped corpse-fashion. Rather learn and love Each facet-flash of the revolving year!— Red, green and blue that whirl into a white, The variance now, the eventual unity, Which make the miracle. See it for yourselves, This man's act, changeable because alive! Action now shrouds, nor shows the informing thought; Man, like a glass ball with a spark a-top, Out of the magic fire that lurks inside, Shows one tint at a time to take the eye: Which, let a finger touch the silent sleep, Shifted a hair's-breadth shoots you dark for bright, Suffuses bright with dark, and baffles so Your sentence absolute for shine or shade. Once set such orbs,—white styled, black stigmatized,— A-rolling, see them once on the other side Your good men and your bad men every one, From Guido Franceschini to Guy Faux, Oft would you rub your eyes and change your names. Such, British Public, ye who like me not, (God love you!)—whom I yet have labored for, Perchance more careful whoso runs may read Than erst when all, it seemed, could read who ran,— Perchance more careless whoso reads may praise Than late when he who praised and read and wrote Was apt to find himself the selfsame me,— Such labor had such issue, so I wrought This arc, by furtherance of such alloy, And so, by one spirt, take away its trace Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring. A ring without a posy, and that ring mine? O lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire,— Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, Took sanctuary within the holier blue, And sang a kindred soul out to his face,— Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart— When the first summons from the darkling earth Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of the glory—to drop down, To toil for man, to suffer or to die,— This is the same voice: can thy soul know change? Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help! Never may I commence my song, my due To God who best taught song by gift of thee, Except with bent head and beseeching hand— That still, despite the distance and the dark, What was, again may be; some interchange Of grace, some splendor once thy very thought, Some benediction anciently thy smile: —Never conclude, but raising hand and head Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, Their utmost up and on,—so blessing back In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I 'd meet.) Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd: This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze: I 'll tell you like a book and save your shins. Fie, what a roaring day we 've had! Whose fault? Lorenzo in Lucina,—here 's a church To hold a crowd at need, accommodate All comers from the Corso! If this crush Make not its priests ashamed of what they show For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out The beggarly transept with its bit of apse Into a decent space for Christian ease, Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine. Listen and estimate the luck they 've had! (The right man, and I hold him.) Sir, do you see, They laid both bodies in the church, this morn The first thing, on the chancel two steps up, Behind the little marble balustrade; Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife On the other side. In trying to count stabs, People supposed Violante showed the most, Till somebody explained us that mistake; His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where, But she took all her stabbings in the face, Since punished thus solely for honor's sake, Honoris causâ, that 's the proper term. A delicacy there is, our gallants hold, When you avenge your honor and only then, That you disfigure the subject, fray the face, Not just take life and end, in clownish guise. It was Violante gave the first offence, Got therefore the conspicuous punishment: While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death Answered the purpose, so his face went free. We fancied even, free as you please, that face Showed itself still intolerably wronged; Was wrinkled over with resentment yet, Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use, Once the worst ended: an indignant air O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned Round and away, rolled from Violante's side Where they had laid it loving-husband-like. If so, if corpses can be sensitive, Why did not he roll right down altar-step, Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church, Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle, Pay back thus the succession of affronts Whereto this church had served as theatre? For see: at that same altar where he lies, To that same inch of step, was brought the babe For blessing after baptism, and there styled Pompilia, and a string of names beside, By his bad wife, some seventeen years ago, Who purchased her simply to palm on him, Flatter his dotage and defraud the heirs. Wait awhile! Also to this very step Did this Violante, twelve years afterward, Bring, the mock-mother, that child-cheat full-grown, Pompilia, in pursuance of her plot, And there brave God and man a second time By linking a new victim to the lie. There, having made a match unknown to him, She, still unknown to Pietro, tied the knot Which nothing cuts except this kind of knife; Yes, made her daughter, as the girl was held, Marry a man, and honest man beside, And man of birth to boot,—clandestinely Because of this, because of that, because O' the devil's will to work his worst for once,— Confident she could top her part at need And, when her husband must be told in turn, Ply the wife's trade, play off the sex's trick And, alternating worry with quiet qualms, Bravado with submissiveness, prettily fool Her Pietro into patience: so it proved. Ay, 't is four years since man and wife they grew, This Guido Franceschini and this same Pompilia, foolishly thought, falsely declared A Comparini and the couple's child: Just at this altar where, beneath the piece Of Master Guido Reni, Christ on cross, Second to naught observable in Rome, That couple lie now, murdered yestereve. Even the blind can see a providence here. From dawn till now that it is growing dusk, A multitude has flocked and filled the church, Coming and going, coming back again, Till to count crazed one. Rome was at the show. People climbed up the columns, fought for spikes O' the chapel-rail to perch themselves upon, Jumped over and so broke the wooden work Painted like porphyry to deceive the eye; Serve the priests right! The organ-loft was crammed, Women were fainting, no few fights ensued, In short, it was a show repaid your pains: For, though their room was scant undoubtedly, Yet they did manage matters, to be just, A little at this Lorenzo. Body o' me! I saw a body exposed once ... never mind! Enough that here the bodies had their due. No stinginess in wax, a row all round, And one big taper at each head and foot. So, people pushed their way, and took their turn, Saw, threw their eyes up, crossed themselves, gave place To pressure from behind, since all the world Knew the old pair, could talk the tragedy Over from first to last: Pompilia too, Those who had known her—what 't was worth to them! Guido's acquaintance was in less request; The Count had lounged somewhat too long in Rome, Made himself cheap; with him were hand and glove Barbers and blear-eyed, as the ancient sings. Also he is alive and like to be: Had he considerately died,—aha! I jostled Luca Cini on his staff, Mute in the midst, the whole man one amaze, Staring amain and crossing brow and breast. "How now?" asked I. "'T is seventy years," quoth he, "Since I first saw, holding my father's hand, Bodies set forth: a many have I seen, Yet all was poor to this I live and see. Here the world 's wickedness seals up the sum: What with Molinos' doctrine and this deed, Antichrist surely comes and doomsday 's near. May I depart in peace, I have seen my see." "Depart then," I advised, "nor block the road For youngsters still behindhand with such sights!" "Why no," rejoins the venerable sire, "I know it 's horrid, hideous past belief, Burdensome far beyond what eye can bear; But they do promise, when Pompilia dies I' the course o' the day,—and she can't outlive night,— They 'll bring her body also to expose Beside the parents, one, two, three abreast; That were indeed a sight which, might I see, I trust I should not last to see the like!" Whereat I bade the senior spare his shanks, Since doctors give her till to-night to live, And tell us how the butchery happened. "Ah But you can't know!" sighs he, "I 'll not despair: Beside I 'm useful at explaining things— As, how the dagger laid there at the feet, Caused the peculiar cuts; I mind its make, Triangular i' the blade, a Genoese, Armed with those little hook-teeth on the edge To open in the flesh nor shut again: I like to teach a novice: I shall stay!" And stay he did, and stay be sure he will. A personage came by the private door At noon to have his look: I name no names: Well then, His Eminence the Cardinal, Whose servitor in honorable sort Guido was once, the same who made the match, (Will you have the truth?) whereof we see effect. No sooner whisper ran he was arrived Than up pops Curate Carlo, a brisk lad, Who never lets a good occasion slip, And volunteers improving the event. We looked he 'd give the history's self some help, Treat us to how the wife's confession went (This morning she confessed her crime, we know) And, maybe, throw in something of the Priest— If he 's not ordered back, punished anew, The gallant, Caponsacchi, Lucifer I' the garden where Pompilia, Eve-like, lured Her Adam Guido to his fault and fall. Think you we got a sprig of speech akin To this from Carlo, with the Cardinal there? Too wary he was, too widely awake, I trow. He did the murder in a dozen words; Then said that all such outrages crop forth I' the course of nature, when Molinos' tares Are sown for wheat, flourish and choke the Church: So slid on to the abominable sect And the philosophic sin—we 've heard all that, And the Cardinal too, (who book-made on the same) But for the murder, left it where he found. Oh but he's quick, the Curate, minds his game! And after all, we have the main o' the fact: Case could not well be simpler,—mapped, as it were, We follow the murder's maze from source to sea, By the red line, past mistake: one sees indeed Not only how all was and must have been, But cannot other than be to the end of time. Turn out here by the Ruspoli! Do you hold Guido was so prodigiously to blame? A certain cousin of yours has told you so? Exactly! Here's a friend shall set you right, Let him but have the handsel of your ear. These wretched Comparini were once gay And galliard, of the modest middle class: Born in this quarter seventy years ago, And married young, they lived the accustomed life, Citizens as they were of good repute: And, childless, naturally took their ease With only their two selves to care about And use the wealth for: wealthy is the word, Since Pietro was possessed of house and land— And specially one house, when good days smiled, In Via Vittoria, the aspectable street Where he lived mainly; but another house Of less pretension did he buy betimes, The villa, meant for jaunts and jollity, I' the Pauline district, to be private there— Just what puts murder in an enemy's head. Moreover,—here's the worm i' the core, the germ O' the rottenness and ruin which arrived,— He owned some usufruct, had moneys' use Lifelong, but to determine with his life In heirs' default: so, Pietro craved an heir, (The story always old and always new) Shut his fool's-eyes fast on the visible good And wealth for certain, opened them owl-wide On fortune's sole piece of forgetfulness, The child that should have been and would not be. Hence, seventeen years ago, conceive his glee When first Violante, 'twixt a smile and blush, With touch of agitation proper too, Announced that, spite of her unpromising age, The miracle would in time be manifest, An heir's birth was to happen: and it did. Somehow or other,—how, all in good time! By a trick, a sleight of hand you are to hear,— A child was born, Pompilia, for his joy, Plaything at once and prop, a fairy-gift, A saints' grace or, say, grant of the good God,— A fiddle-pin's end! What imbeciles are we! Look now: if some one could have prophesied, "For love of you, for liking to your wife, I undertake to crush a snake I spy Settling itself i' the soft of both your breasts. Give me yon babe to strangle painlessly! She 'll soar to the safe: you'll have your crying out, Then sleep, then wake, then sleep, then end your days In peace and plenty, mixed with mild regret, Thirty years hence when Christmas takes old folk"— How had old Pietro sprung up, crossed himself, And kicked the conjurer! Whereas you and I, Being wise with after-wit, had clapped our hands; Nay, added, in the old fool's interest, "Strangle the black-eyed babe, so far so good, But on condition you relieve the man O' the wife and throttle him Violante too— She is the mischief!" We had hit the mark. She, whose trick brought the babe into the world, She it was, when the babe was grown a girl, Judged a new trick should reinforce the old, Send vigor to the lie now somewhat spent By twelve years' service; lest Eve's rule decline Over this Adam of hers, whose cabbage-plot Throve dubiously since turned fools'-paradise, Spite of a nightingale on every stump. Pietro's estate was dwindling day by day, While he, rapt far above such mundane care, Crawled all-fours with his baby pick-a-back, Sat at serene cats'-cradle with his child, Or took the measured tallness, top to toe, Of what was grown a great girl twelve years old: Till sudden at the door a tap discreet, A visitor's premonitory cough, And poverty had reached him in her rounds. This came when he was past the working-time, Had learned to dandle and forgot to dig, And who must but Violante cast about, Contrive and task that head of hers again? She who had caught one fish could make that catch A bigger still, in angler's policy: So, with an angler's mercy for the bait, Her minnow was set wriggling on its barb And tossed to mid-stream; which means, this grown girl With the great eyes and bounty of black hair And first crisp youth that tempts a jaded taste, Was whisked i' the way of a certain man, who snapped. Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine Was head of an old noble house enough, Not over-rich, you can't have everything, But such a man as riches rub against, Readily stick to,—one with a right to them Born in the blood: 'twas in his very brow Always to knit itself against the world, Beforehand so, when that world stinted due Service and suit: the world ducks and defers. As such folks do, he had come up to Rome To better his fortune, and, since many years, Was friend and follower of a cardinal; Waiting the rather thus on providence, That a shrewd younger poorer brother yet, The Abate Paolo, a regular priest, Had long since tried his powers and found he swam With the deftest on the Galilean pool: But then he was a web-foot, free o' the wave, And no ambiguous dab-chick hatched to strut, Humbled by any fond attempt to swim When fiercer fowl usurped his dunghill-top— A whole priest, Paolo, no mere piece of one, Like Guido tacked thus to the Church's tail! Guido moreover, as the head o' the house, Claiming the main prize, not the lesser luck, The centre lily, no mere chickweed fringe. He waited and learned waiting, thirty years; Got promise, missed performance—what would you have? No petty post rewards a nobleman For spending youth in splendid lackey-work, And there 's concurrence for each rarer prize; When that falls, rougher hand and readier foot Push aside Guido spite of his black looks. The end was, Guido, when the warning showed, The first white hair i' the glass, gave up the game, Determined on returning to his town, Making the best of bad incurable, Patching the old palace up and lingering there The customary life out with his kin, Where honor helps to spice the scanty bread. Just as he trimmed his lamp and girt his loins To go his journey and be wise at home, In the right mood of disappointed worth, Who but Violante sudden spied her prey (Where was I with that angler-simile?) And threw her bait, Pompilia, where he sulked— A gleam i' the gloom! What if he gained thus much, Wrung out this sweet drop from the bitter Past, Bore off this rose-bud from the prickly brake To justify such torn clothes and scratched hands, And, after all, brought something back from Rome? Would not a wife serve at Arezzo well To light the dark house, lend a look of youth To the mother's face grown meagre, left alone And famished with the emptiness of hope, Old Donna Beatrice? Wife you want Would you play family-representative, Carry you elder-brotherly, high and right O'er what may prove the natural petulance Of the third brother, younger, greedier still, Girolamo, also a fledgeling priest, Beginning life in turn with callow beak Agape for luck, no luck had stopped and stilled. Such were the pinks and grays about the bait Persuaded Guido gulp down hook and all. What constituted him so choice a catch, You question? Past his prime and poor beside! Ask that of any she who knows the trade. Why first, here was a nobleman with friends, A palace one might run to and be safe When presently the threatened fate should fall, A big-browed master to block doorway up, Parley with people bent on pushing by, And praying the mild Pietro quick clear scores: Is birth a privilege and power or no? Also—but judge of the result desired, By the price paid and manner of the sale. The Count was made woo, win and wed at once: Asked, and was haled for answer, lest the heat Should cool, to San Lorenzo, one blind eve, And had Pompilia put into his arms O' the sly there, by a hasty candle-blink, With sanction of some priest-confederate Properly paid to make short work and sure. So did old Pietro's daughter change her style For Guido Franceschini's lady-wife Ere Guido knew it well; and why this haste And scramble and indecent secrecy? "Lest Pietro, all the while in ignorance, Should get to learn, gainsay and break the match: His peevishness had promptly put aside Such honor and refused the proffered boon, Pleased to become authoritative once. She remedied the wilful man's mistake—" Did our discreet Violante. Rather say, Thus did she lest the object of her game, Guido the gulled one, give him but a chance, A moment's respite, time for thinking twice, Might count the cost before he sold himself, And try the clink of coin they paid him with. But coin paid, bargain struck and business done, Once the clandestine marriage over thus, All parties made perforce the best o' the fact; Pietro could play vast indignation off, Be ignorant and astounded, dupe, poor soul, Please you, of daughter, wife and son-in-law, While Guido found himself in flagrant fault, Must e'en do suit and service, soothe, subdue A father not unreasonably chafed, Bring him to terms by paying son's devoir. Pleasant initiation! The end, this: Guido's broad back was saddled to bear all— Violante, and Pompilia too,— Three lots cast confidently in one lap, Three dead-weights with one arm to lift the three Out of their limbo up to life again. The Roman household was to strike fresh root In a new soil, graced with a novel name, Gilt with an alien glory, Aretine Henceforth and never Roman any more, By treaty and engagement; thus it ran: Pompilia's dowry for Pompilia's self As a thing of course,—she paid her own expense; No loss nor gain there: but the couple, you see, They, for their part, turned over first of all Their fortune in its rags and rottenness To Guido, fusion and confusion, he And his with them and theirs,—whatever rag With coin residuary fell on floor When Brother Paolo's energetic shake Should do the relics justice: since 't was thought, Once vulnerable Pietro out of reach, That, left at Rome as representative, The Abate, backed by a potent patron here, And otherwise with purple flushing him, Might play a good game with the creditor, Make up a moiety which, great or small, Should go to the common stock—if anything, Guido's, so far repayment of the cost About to be,—and if, as looked more like, Nothing,—why, all the nobler cost were his Who guaranteed, for better or for worse, To Pietro and Violante, house and home, Kith and kin, with the pick of company And life o' the fat o' the land while life should last. How say you to the bargain at first blush? Why did a middle-aged not-silly man Show himself thus besotted all at once? Quoth Solomon, one black eye does it all. They went to Arezzo,—Pietro and his spouse, With just the dusk o' the day of life to spend, Eager to use the twilight, taste a treat, Enjoy for once with neither stay nor stint The luxury of lord-and-lady-ship, And realize the stuff and nonsense long A-simmer in their noddles; vent the fume Born there and bred, the citizen's conceit How fares nobility while crossing earth, What rampart or invisible body-guard Keeps off the taint of common life from such. They had not fed for nothing on the tales Of grandees who give banquets worthy Jove, Spending gold as if Plutus paid a whim, Served with obeisances as when ... what God? I 'm at the end of my tether; 't is enough You understand what they came primed to see: While Guido who should minister the sight, Stay all this qualmish greediness of soul With apples and with flagons—for his part, Was set on life diverse as pole from pole: Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye,—what else Was he just now awake from, sick and sage, After the very debauch they would begin?— Suppose such stuff and nonsense really were. That bubble, they were bent on blowing big, He had blown already till he burst his cheeks, And hence found soapsuds bitter to the tongue. He hoped now to walk softly all his days In soberness of spirit, if haply so, Pinching and paring he might furnish forth A frugal board, bare sustenance, no more, Till times, that could not well grow worse, should mend. Thus minded then, two parties mean to meet And make each other happy. The first week, And fancy strikes fact and explodes in full. 'This," shrieked the Comparini, "this the Count, The palace, the signorial privilege, The pomp and pageantry were promised us? For this have we exchanged our liberty, Our competence, our darling of a child? To house as spectres in a sepulchre Under this black stone heap, the street's disgrace, Grimmest as that is of the gruesome town, And here pick garbage on a pewter plate, Or cough at verjuice dripped from earthenware? Oh Via Vittoria, oh the other place I' the Pauline, did we give you up for this? Where's the foregone housekeeping good and gay, The neighborliness, the companionship, The treat and feast when holidays came round, The daily feast that seemed no treat at all, Called common by the uncommon fools we were! Even the sun that used to shine at Rome, Where is it? Robbed and starved and frozen too, We will have justice, justice if there be!" Did not they shout, did not the town resound! Guido's old lady-mother Beatrice, Who since her husband, Count Tommaso's death, Had held sole sway i' the house,—the doited crone Slow to acknowledge, curtsey and abdicate,— Was recognized of true novercal type, Dragon and devil. His brother Girolamo Came next in order: priest was he? The worse! No way of winning him to leave his mumps And help the laugh against old ancestry And formal habits long since out of date, Letting his youth be patterned on the mode Approved of where Violante laid down law. Or did he brighten up by way of change, Dispose himself for affability? The malapert, too complaisant by half To the alarmed young novice of a bride! Let him go buzz, betake himself elsewhere, Nor singe his fly-wings in the candle-flame! Four months' probation of this purgatory, Dog-snap and cat-claw, curse and counterblast, The devil's self were sick of his own din; And Pietro, after trumpeting huge wrongs At church and market-place, pillar and post, Square's corner, street's end, now the palace-step And now the wine-house bench—while, on her side, Violante up and down was voluble In whatsoever pair of ears would perk From goody, gossip, cater-cousin and sib, Curious to peep at the inside of things And catch in the act pretentious poverty At its wits' end to keep appearance up, Make both ends meet,—nothing the vulgar loves Like what this couple pitched them right and left. Then, their worst done that way, both struck tent, marched —Renounced their share o' the bargain, flung what dues Guido was bound to pay, in Guido's face, Left their hearts'-darling, treasure of the twain And so forth, the poor inexperienced bride, To her own devices, bade Arezzo rot, Cursed life signorial, and sought Rome once more. I see the comment ready on your lip, "The better fortune, Guido's—free at least By this defection of the foolish pair, He could begin make profit in some sort Of the young bride and the new quietness, Lead his own life now, henceforth breathe unplagued." Could he? You know the sex like Guido's self. Learn the Violante-nature! Once in Rome, By way of helping Guido lead such life, Her first act to inaugurate return Was, she got pricked in conscience: Jubilee Gave her the hint. Our Pope, as kind as just, Attained his eighty years, announced a boon Should make us bless the fact, held Jubilee— Short shrift, prompt pardon for the light offence, And no rough dealing with the regular crime So this occasion were not suffered slip— Otherwise, sins commuted as before, Without the least abatement in the price. Now, who had thought it? All this while, it seems, Our sage Violante had a sin of a sort She must compound for now or not at all. Now be the ready riddance! She confessed Pompilia was a fable, not a fact: She never bore a child in her whole life. Had this child been a changeling, that were grace In some degree, exchange is hardly theft; You take your stand on truth ere leap your lie: Here was all lie, no touch of truth at all, All the lie hers—not even Pietro guessed He was as childless still as twelve years since. The babe had been a find i' the filth-heap, Sir, Catch from the kennel! There was found at Rome, Down in the deepest of our social dregs, A woman who professed the wanton's trade Under the requisite thin coverture, Communis meretrix and washer-wife: The creature thus conditioned found by chance Motherhood like a jewel in the muck, And straightway either trafficked with her prize Or listened to the tempter and let be,— Made pact abolishing her place and part In womankind, beast-fellowship indeed. She sold this babe eight months before its birth To our Violante, Pietro's honest spouse, Well-famed and widely-instanced as that crown To the husband, virtue in a woman's shape. She it was, bought, paid for, passed off the thing As very flesh and blood and child of her Despite the flagrant fifty years,—and why? Partly to please old Pietro, fill his cup With wine at the late hour when lees are left, And send him from life's feast rejoicingly,— Partly to cheat the rightful heirs, agape, Each uncle's cousin's brother's son of him, For that same principal of the usufruct It vext him he must die and leave behind. Such was the sin had come to be confessed. Which of the tales, the first or last, was true? Did she so sin once, or, confessing now, Sin for the first time? Either way you will. One sees a reason for the cheat: one sees A reason for a cheat in owning cheat Where no cheat had been. What of the revenge? What prompted the contrition all at once, Made the avowal easy, the shame slight? Why, prove they but Pompilia not their child, No child, no dowry! this, supposed their child, Had claimed what this, shown alien to their blood, Claimed nowise: Guido's claim was through his wife, Null then and void with hers. The biter bit, Do you see! For such repayment of the past, One might conceive the penitential pair Ready to bring their case before the courts, Publish their infamy to all the world And, arm in arm, go chuckling thence content. Is this your view? 'T was Guido's anyhow, And colorable: he came forward then, Protested in his very bride's behalf Against this lie and all it led to, least Of all the loss o' the dowry; no! From her And him alike he would expunge the blot, Erase the brand of such a bestial birth, Participate in no hideous heritage Gathered from the gutter to be garnered up And glorified in a palace. Peter and Paul! But that who likes may look upon the pair Exposed in yonder church, and show his skill By saying which is eye and which is mouth Through those stabs thick and threefold,—but for that— A strong word on the liars and their lie Might crave expression and obtain it, Sir! —Though prematurely, since there 's more to come, More that will shake your confidence in things Your cousin tells you,—may I be so bold? This makes the first act of the farce,—anon The sombre element comes stealing in Till all is black or blood-red in the piece. Guido, thus made a laughing-stock abroad, A proverb for the market-place at home, Left alone with Pompilia now, this graft So reputable on his ancient stock, This plague-seed set to fester his sound flesh, What does the Count? Revenge him on his wife? Unfasten at all risks to rid himself The noisome lazar-badge, fall foul of fate, And, careless whether the poor rag was ware O' the part it played, or helped unwittingly, Bid it go burn and leave his frayed flesh free? Plainly, did Guido open both doors wide, Spurn thence the cur-cast creature and clear scores As man might, tempted in extreme like this? No, birth and breeding, and compassion too Saved her such scandal. She was young, he thought, Not privy to the treason, punished most I' the proclamation of it; why make her A party to the crime she suffered by? Then the black eyes were now her very own, Not any more Violante's: let her live, Lose in a new air, under a new sun, The taint of the imputed parentage Truly or falsely, take no more the touch Of Pietro and his partner anyhow! All might go well yet. So she thought, herself, It seems, since what was her first act and deed When news came how these kindly ones at Rome Had stripped her naked to amuse the world With spots here, spots there and spots everywhere? —For I should tell you that they noised abroad Not merely the main scandal of her birth, But slanders written, printed, published wide, Pamphlets which set forth all the pleasantry Of how the promised glory was a dream, The power a bubble, and the wealth—why, dust. There was a picture, painted to the life, Of those rare doings, that superlative Initiation in magnificence Conferred on a poor Roman family By favor of Arezzo and her first And famousest, the Franceschini there. You had the Countship holding head aloft Bravely although bespattered, shifts and straits In keeping out o' the way o' the wheels o' the world, The comic of those home-contrivances When the old lady-mother's wit was taxed To find six clamorous mouths in food more real Than fruit plucked off the cobwebbed family-tree, Or acorns shed from its gilt mouldered frame— Cold glories served up with stale fame for sauce. What, I ask,—when the drunkenness of hate Hiccuped return for hospitality, Befouled the table they had feasted on, Or say,—God knows I'll not prejudge the case,— Grievances thus distorted, magnified, Colored by quarrel into calumny,— What side did our Pompilia first espouse? Her first deliberate measure was, she wrote, Pricked by some loyal impulse, straight to Rome And her husband's brother the Abate there, Who, having managed to effect the match, Might take men's censure for its ill success. She made a clean breast also in her turn, And qualified the couple properly, Since whose departure, hell, she said, was heaven, And the house, late distracted by their peals, Quiet as Carmel where the lilies live. Herself had oftentimes complained: but why? All her complaints had been their prompting, tales Trumped up, devices to this very end. Their game had been to thwart her husband's love And cross his will, malign his words and ways, To reach this issue, furnish this pretence For impudent withdrawal from their bond,— Theft, indeed murder, since they meant no less Whose last injunction to her simple self Had been—what parents'—precept do you think? That she should follow after with all speed, Fly from her husband's house clandestinely, Join them at Rome again, but first of all Pick up a fresh companion in her flight, So putting youth and beauty to fit use,— Some gay dare-devil cloak-and-rapier spark Capable of adventure,—helped by whom She, some fine eve when lutes were in the air. Having put poison in the posset-cup, Laid hands on money, jewels and the like, And, to conceal the thing with more effect, By way of parting benediction too, Fired the house,—one would finish famously I' the tumult, slip out, scurry off and away And turn up merrily at home once more. Fact this, and not a dream o' the devil, Sir! And more than this, a fact none dare dispute, Word for word, such a letter did she write, And such the Abate read, nor simply read But gave all Rome to ruminate upon, In answer to such charges as, I say, The couple sought to be beforehand with. The cause thus carried to the courts at Rome, Guido away, the Abate had no choice But stand forth, take his absent brother's part, Defend the honor of himself beside. He made what head he might against the pair, Maintained Pompilia's birth legitimate And all her rights intact—hers, Guido's now: And so far by his policy turned their flank, (The enemy being beforehand in the place) That,—though the courts allowed the cheat for fact, Suffered Violante to parade her shame, Publish her infamy to heart's content, And let the tale o' the feigned birth pass for proved,— Yet they stopped there, refused to intervene And dispossess the innocents, befooled By gifts o' the guilty, at guilt's new caprice. They would not take away the dowry now Wrongfully given at first, nor bar at all Succession to the aforesaid usufruct, Established on a fraud, nor play the game Of Pietro's child and now not Pietro's child As it might suit the gamester's purpose. Thus Was justice ever ridiculed in Rome: Such be the double verdicts favored here Which send away both parties to a suit Nor puffed up nor cast down,—for each a crumb Of right, for neither of them the whole loaf. Whence, on the Comparini's part, appeal— Counter-appeal on Guido's,—that 's the game: And so the matter stands, even to this hour, Bandied as balls are in a tennis-court, And so might stand, unless some heart broke first, Till doomsday. Leave it thus, and now revert To the old Arezzo whence we moved to Rome. We 've had enough o' the parents, false or true, Now for a touch o' the daughter's quality. The start 's fair henceforth, every obstacle Out of the young wife's footpath, she 's alone, Left to walk warily now: how does she walk? Why, once a dwelling's threshold marked and crossed In rubric by the enemy on his rounds As eligible, as fit place of prey, Baffle him henceforth, keep him out who can! Stop up the door at the first hint of hoof, Presently at the window taps a horn, And Satan 's by your fireside, never fear! Pompilia, left alone now, found herself; Found herself young too, sprightly, fair enough, Matched with a husband old beyond his age (Though that was something like four times her own) Because of cares past, present and to come: Found too the house dull and its inmates dead, So, looked outside for light and life. And love Did in a trice turn up with life and light,— The man with the aureole, sympathy made flesh, The all-consoling Caponsacchi, Sir! A priest—what else should the consoler be? With goodly shoulder-blade and proper leg, A portly make and a symmetric shape, And curls that clustered to the tonsure quite. This was a bishop in the bud, and now A canon full-blown so far: priest, and priest Nowise exorbitantly overworked, The courtly Christian, not so much Saint Paul As a saint of Cæsar's household: there posed he Sending his god-glance after his shot shaft, Apollos turned Apollo, while the snake Pompilia writhed transfixed through all her spires. He, not a visitor at Guido's house, Scarce an acquaintance, but in prime request With the magnates of Arezzo, was seen here, Heard there, felt everywhere in Guido's path If Guido's wife's path be her husband's too. Now he threw comfits at the theatre Into her lap,—what harm in Carnival? Now he pressed close till his foot touched her gown, His hand brushed hers,—how help on promenade? And, ever on weighty business, found his steps Incline to a certain haunt of doubtful fame Which fronted Guido's palace by mere chance; While—how do accidents sometimes combine!— Pompilia chose to cloister up her charms Just in a chamber that o'erlooked the street, Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind. This passage of arms and wits amused the town. At last the husband lifted eyebrow,—bent On day-book and the study how to wring Half the due vintage from the worn-out vines At the villa, tease a quarter the old rent From the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon,— Pricked up his ear a-singing day and night With "ruin, ruin;"—and so surprised at last— Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps. Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange, Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rife In his head at once again are word and wink, Mum here and budget there, the smell o' the fox, The musk o' the gallant. "Friends, there 's falseness here!" The proper help of friends in such a strait Is waggery, the world over. Laugh him free O' the regular jealous-fit that 's incident To all old husbands that wed brisk young wives, And he 'll go duly docile all his days. "Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when? How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care! Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it, Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself. And—what, it 's Caponsacchi means you harm? The Canon? We caress him, he 's the world's, A man of such acceptance,—never dream, Though he were fifty times the fox you fear, He 'd risk his brush for your particular chick, When the wide town 's his hen-roost! Fie o' the fool!" So they dispensed their comfort of a kind. Guido at last cried, "Something is in the air, Under the earth, some plot against my peace. The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead; How it should come of that officious orb Your Canon in my system, you must say: I say—that from the pressure of this spring Began the chime and interchange of bells, Ever one whisper, and one whisper more, And just one whisper for the silvery last, Till all at once a-row the bronze-throats burst Into a larum both significant And sinister: stop it I must and will. Let Caponsacchi take his hand away From the wire!—disport himself in other paths Than lead precisely to my palace-gate,— Look where he likes except one window's way Where, cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill, Happens to lean and say her litanies Every day and all day long, just my wife— Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!" Admire the man's simplicity. "I 'll do this, I 'll not have that, I 'll punish and prevent!"— 'T is easy saying. But to a fray, you see, Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth: The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight. Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well, The way to put suspicion to the blush! At first hint of remonstrance, up and out I' the face of the world, you found her: she could speak, State her case,—Franceschini was a name, Guido had his full share of foes and friends— Why should not she call these to arbitrate? She bade the Governor do governance, Cried out on the Archbishop,—why, there now, Take him for sample! Three successive times Had he to reconduct her by main force From where she took her station opposite His shut door,—on the public steps thereto, Wringing her hands, when he came out to see, And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot,— Back to the husband and the house she fled: Judge if that husband warmed him in the face Of friends or frowned on foes as heretofore! Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk, Or lacked the customary compliment Of cap and bells, the luckless husband's fit! So it went on and on till—who was right? One merry April morning, Guido woke After the cuckoo, so late, near noonday, With an inordinate yawning of the jaws, Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongue And teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk; And found his wife flown, his scritoire the worse For a rummage,—jewelry that was, was not, Some money there had made itself wings too,— The door lay wide and yet the servants slept Sound as the dead, or dozed, which does as well. In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul, Had not so much as spoken all her life To the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at him Between her fingers while she prayed in church,— This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years (Such she was grown to by this time of day) Had simply put an opiate in the drink Of the whole household overnight, and then Got up and gone about her work secure, Laid hand on this waif and the other stray, Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doors In company of the Canon, who, Lord's love, What with his daily duty at the church, Nightly devoir where ladies congregate, Had something else to mind, assure yourself, Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be, Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt! Well, anyhow, albeit impossible, Both of them were together jollily Jaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this, While Guido was left go and get undrugged, Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanks When neighbors crowded round him to condole. "Ah," quoth a gossip, "well I mind me now, The Count did always say he thought he felt He feared as if this very chance might fall! And when a man of fifty finds his corns Ache and his joints throb, and foresees a storm, Though neighbors laugh and say the sky is clear, Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!" Then was the story told, I 'll cut you short: All neighbors knew: on mystery in the world. The lovers left at nightfall—overnight Had Caponsacchi come to carry off Pompilia,—not alone, a friend of his, One Guillichini, the more conversant With Guido's housekeeping that he was just A cousin of Guido's and might play a prank— (Have not you too a cousin that 's a wag?) —Lord and a Canon also,—what would you have? Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-heads That stand and stiffen 'mid the wheat o' the Church!— This worthy came to aid, abet his best. And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged, The lady led downstairs and out of doors Guided and guarded till, the city passed, A carriage lay convenient at the gate. Good-by to the friendly Canon; the loving one Could peradventure do the rest himself. In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest, "Whip, driver! Money makes the mare to go, And we 've a bagful. Take the Roman road!" So said the neighbors. This was eight hours since. Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths, Shook off the relics of his poison-drench, Got horse, was fairly started in pursuit With never a friend to follow, found the track Fast enough, 't was the straight Perugia way, Trod soon upon their very heels, too late By a minute only at Camoscia, reached Chiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitives Just ahead, just out as he galloped in, Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh, Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last post Before Rome,—as we say, in sight of Rome And safety (there 's impunity at Rome For priests you know) at—what 's the little place?— What some call Castelnuovo, some just call The Osteria, because o' the post-house inn,— There, at the journey's all but end, it seems, Triumph deceived them and undid them both, Secure they might foretaste felicity Nor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised. There did they halt at early evening, there Did Guido overtake them: 't was daybreak; He came in time enough, not time too much, Since in the courtyard stood the Canon's self Urging the drowsy stable-grooms to haste Harness the horses, have the journey end, The trifling four-hours' running, so reach Rome. And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs, Still on the couch where she had spent the night, One couch in one room, and one room for both. So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby. Sir, what 's the sequel? Lover and beloved Fall on their knees? No impudence serves here? They beat their breasts and beg for easy death, Confess this, that and the other?—anyhow Confess there wanted not some likelihood To the supposition so preposterous, That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyes Had noticed, straying o'er the prayer-book's edge, More of the Canon than that black his coat, Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim: And that, O Canon, thy religious care Had breathed too soft a benedicite To banish trouble from a lady's breast So lonely and so lovely, nor so lean! This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err. Not to such ordinary end as this Had Caponsacchi flung the cassock far, Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier. The die was cast: over shoes over boots: And just as she, I presently shall show, Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life, Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white, So, in the inn-yard, bold as 't were Troy-town, There strutted Paris in correct costume, Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed, Even to a wicked-looking sword at side, He seemed to find and feel familiar at. Nor wanted words as ready and as big As the part he played, the bold abashless one. "I interposed to save your wife from death, Yourself from shame, the true and only shame: Ask your own conscience else!—or, failing that, What I have done I answer, anywhere, Here, if you will; you see I have a sword: Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt, At Rome, by all means,—priests to try a priest. Only, speak where your wife's voice can reply!" And then he fingered at the sword again. So, Guido called, in aid and witness both, The Public Force. The Commissary came, Officers also; they secured the priest; Then, for his more confusion, mounted up With him, a guard on either side, the stair To the bedroom where still slept or feigned a sleep His paramour and Guido's wife: in burst The company and bade her wake and rise. Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang upright I' the midst and stood as terrible as truth, Sprang to her husband's side, caught at the sword That hung there useless,—since they held each hand O' the lover, had disarmed him properly,— And in a moment out flew the bright thing Full in the face of Guido: but for help O' the guards, who held her back and pinioned her With pains enough, she had finished you my tale With a flourish of red all round it, pinked her man Prettily; but she fought them one to six. They stopped that,—but her tongue continued free: She spat forth such invective at her spouse, O'erfrothed him with such foam of murderer, Thief, pandar—that the popular tide soon turned, The favor of the very sbirri, straight Ebbed from the husband, set towards his wife; People cried "Hands off, pay a priest respect!" And "persecuting fiend" and "martyred saint" Began to lead a measure from lip to lip. But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things, And the question "Prithee, friend, how comes my purse I' the poke of you?"—admits of no reply. Here was a priest found out in masquerade, A wife caught playing truant if no more; While the Count, mortified in mien enough, And, nose to face, an added palm in length, Was plain writ "husband" every piece of him: Capture once made, release could hardly be. Beside, the prisoners both made appeal, "Take us to Rome!" Taken to Rome they were; The husband trooping after, piteously, Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now— No honor set firm on its feet once more On two dead bodies of the guilty,—nay, No dubious salve to honor's broken pate From chance that, after all, the hurt might seem A skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar: For Guido's first search,—ferreting, poor soul, Here, there and everywhere in the vile place Abandoned to him when their backs were turned, Found—furnishing a last and beat regale— All the love-letters bandied 'twixt the pair Since the first timid trembling into life O' the love-star till its stand at fiery full. Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair, Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names,—was naught Wanting to prove, if proof consoles at all, That this had been but the fifth act o' the piece Whereof the due proemium, months ago, These playwrights had put forth, and ever since Matured the middle, added 'neath his nose. He might go cross himself: the case was clear. Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there plead Each party its best, and leave law do each right, Let law shine forth and show, as God in heaven, Vice prostrate, virtue pedestalled at last, The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gaze When once authority has knit the brow And set the brain behind it to decide Between the wolf and sheep turned litigants? "This is indeed a business," law shook head: "A husband charges hard things on a wife, The wife as hard o' the husband: whose fault here? A wife that flies her husband's house, does wrong: The male friend's interference looks amiss, Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife, On the other hand, be jeopardized at home— Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly, An apprehension she is jeopardized,— And further, if the friend partake the fear, And, in a commendable charity Which trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts,— What do they but obey law—natural law? Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin, And circumstances that concur i' the close Hint as much, loudly—yet scarce loud enough To drown the answer 'strange may yet be true': Innocence often looks like guiltiness. The accused declare that in thought, word and deed, Innocent were they both from first to last As male-babe haply laid by female-babe At church on edge of the baptismal font Together for a minute, perfect-pure. Difficult to believe, yet possible, As witness Joseph, the friend's patron-saint. The night at the inn—there charity nigh chokes Ere swallow what they both asseverate; Though down the gullet faith may feel it go, When mindful of what flight fatigued the flesh Out of its faculty and fleshliness, Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure: So long a flight necessitates a fall On the first bed, though in a lion's den, And the first pillow, though the lion's back: Difficult to believe, yet possible. Last come the letters' bundled beastliness— Authority repugns give glance to—nay, Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall; Yet here a voice cries 'Respite!' from the clouds— The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim, Abominate the horror: 'Not my hand' Asserts the friend—'Nor mine' chimes in the wife, 'Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.' Illiterate—for she goes on to ask, What if the friend did pen now verse now prose, Commend it to her notice now and then? 'Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote, And kept no more than read, for as they fell She ever brushed the burr-like things away, Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke. As for this fardel, filth and foolishness, She sees it now the first time: burn it too! While for his part the friend vows ignorance Alike of what bears his name and bears hers: 'Tis forgery, a felon's masterpiece, And, as 'tis said the fox still finds the stench, Home-manufacture and the husband's work. Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend, That certain missives, letters of a sort, Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselves To the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft, In his path: wherefrom he understood just this— That were they verily the lady's own, Why, she who penned them, since he never saw Save for one minute the mere face of her, Since never had there been the interchange Of word with word between them all their life, Why, she must be the fondest of the frail, And fit, she for the 'apage' he flung, Her letters for the flame they went to feed! But, now he sees her face and hears her speech, Much he repents him if, in fancy-freak For a moment the minutest measurable, He coupled her with the first flimsy word O' the self-spun fabric some mean spider-soul Furnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him! Never was such a tangled knottiness, But thus authority cuts the Gordian through, And mark how her decision suits the need! Here's troublesomeness, scandal on both sides, Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime: Let each side own its fault and make amends! What does a priest in cavalier's attire Consorting publicly with vagrant wives In quarters close as the confessional, Though innocent of harm? 'Tis harm enough: Let him pay it,—say, be relegate a good Three years, to spend in some place not too far Nor yet too near, midway 'twixt near and far, Rome and Arezzo,—Civita we choose, Where he may lounge away time, live at large, Find out the proper function of a priest, Nowise an exile,—that were punishment,— But one our love thus keeps out of harm's way Not more from the husband's anger than, mayhap, His own ... say, indiscretion, waywardness, And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm. For the wife,—well, our best step to take with her, On her own showing, were to shift her root From the old cold shade and unhappy soil Into a generous ground that fronts the south: Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late, Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-by To the rescue, she should have her fill of shine. Do house and husband hinder and not help? Why then, forget both and stay here at peace, Come into our community, enroll Herself along with those good Convertites, Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made, Accept their ministration, well bestow Her body and patiently possess her soul, Until we see what better can be done. Last for the husband: if his tale prove true, Well is he rid of two domestic plagues— Both wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would, And friend of hers that undertook the cure. See, what a double load we lift from breast! Off he may go, return, resume old life, Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia there In limbo each and punished for their pains, And grateful tell the inquiring neighborhood— In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy." The case was closed. Now, am I fair or no In what I utter? Do I state the facts, Having forechosen a side? I promised you! The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sent To change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tie The clerkly silk round, every plait correct, Make the impressive entry on his place Of relegation, thrill his Civita, As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause, Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,— What with much culture of the sonnet-stave And converse with the aborigines, Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll, And hearts that all awry went pit-a-pat And wanted setting right in charity,— What were a couple of years to while away? Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herself To the aforesaid Convertites, soft sisterhood In Via Lungara, where the light ones live, Spin, pray, then sing-like linnets o'er the flax. "Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband's house Is heaven," cried she,—was therefore suited so. But for Count Guido Franceschini, he— The injured man thus righted—found no heaven I' the house when he returned there, I engage, Was welcomed by the city turned upside down In a chorus of inquiry. "What, back—you? And no wife? Left her with the Penitents? Ah, being young and pretty, 'twere a shame To have her whipped in public: leave the job To the priests who understand! Such priests as yours— (Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once) Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him! So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence? Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight! The wiser, 'tis a word and a blow with him, True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i'-the-Sack That fought at Fiesole ere Florence was: He had done enough, to firk you were too much. And did the little lady menace you, Make at your breast with your own harmless sword? The spitfire! Well, thank God you're safe and sound, Have kept the sixth commandment whether or no The lady broke the seventh: I only wish I were as saint-like, could contain me so. I, the poor sinner, fear I should have left Sir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!" You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word, Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus? Was it enough to make a wise man mad? Oh, but I'll have your verdict at the end! Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls, Frets awhile, aches long, then grows less and less, And so gets done with. Such was not the scheme O' the pleasant Comparini: on Guido's wound Ever in due succession, drop by drop, Came slow distilment from the alembic here Set on to simmer by Canidian hate, Corrosives keeping the man's misery raw. First fire-drop,—when he thought to make the best O' the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed, Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were, Yet what might eke him out result enough And make it worth while to have had the right And not the wrong i' the matter judged at Rome. Inadequate her punishment, no less Punished in some slight sort his wife had been; Then, punished for adultery, what else? On such admitted crime he thought to seize, And institute procedure in the courts Which cut corruption of this kind from man, Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway: He claimed in due form a divorce at least. This claim was met now by a counterclaim: Pompilia sought divorce from bed and board Of Guido, whose outrageous cruelty, Whose mother's malice and whose brother's hate Were just the white o' the charge, such dreadful depths Blackened its centre,—hints of worse than hate, Love from that brother, by that Guido's guile, That mother's prompting. Such reply was made, So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprung On Guido, who received bolt full in breast; But no less bore up, giddily perhaps. He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome, Brother and friend and fighter on his side: They rallied in a measure, met the foe Manlike, joined battle in the public courts, As if to shame supine law from her sloth: And waiting her award, let beat the while Arezzo's banter, Rome's buffoonery, On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike, Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip, And never mind till he contorts his tail! But there was sting i' the creature; thus it struck. Guido had thought in his simplicity— That lying declaration of remorse, That story of the child which was no child And motherhood no motherhood at all, —That even this sin might have its sort of good Inasmuch as no question more could be,— Call it false, call the story true,—no claim Of further parentage pretended now: The parents had abjured all right, at least, I' the woman owned his wife: to plead right still Were to declare the abjuration false: He was relieved from any fear henceforth Their hands might touch, their breath defile again Pompilia with his name upon her yet. Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia's health Demanded change after full three long weeks Spent in devotion with the Sisterhood,— Which rendered sojourn—so the court opined— Too irksome, since the convent's walls were high And windows narrow, nor was air enough Nor light enough, but all looked prison-like, The last thing which had come in the court's head. Propose a new expedient therefore,—this! She had demanded—had obtained indeed, By intervention of her pitying friends Or perhaps lovers—(beauty in distress, Beauty whose tale is the town-talk beside, Never lacks friendship's arm about her neck)— Obtained remission of the penalty, Permitted transfer to some private place Where better air, more light, new food might soothe— Incarcerated (call it, all the same) At some sure friend's house she must keep inside, Be found in at requirement fast enough,— Domus pro carcere, in Roman style. You keep the house i' the main, as most men do, And all good women: but free otherwise, Should friends arrive, to lodge them and what not? And such a domum, such a dwelling-place, Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she? What house obtained Pompilia's preference? Why, just the Comparini's—just, do you mark, Theirs who renounced all part and lot in her So long as Guido could be robbed thereby, And only fell back on relationship And found their daughter safe and sound again When that might surelier stab him: yes, the pair Who, as I told you, first had baited hook With this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing, Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shore And gutted him,—now found a further use For the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet again I' the way of what new swimmer passed their stand. They took Pompilia to their hiding-place— Not in the heart of Rome as formerly, Under observance, subject to control— But out o' the way,—or in the way, who knows? That blind mute villa lurking by the gate At Via Paulina, not so hard to miss By the honest eye, easy enough to find In twilight by marauders: where perchance Some muffled Caponsacchi might repair, Employ odd moments when he too tried change, Found that a friend's abode was pleasanter Than relegation, penance and the rest. Come, here 's the last drop does its worst to wound, Here 's Guido poisoned to the bone, you say, Your boasted still's full strain and strength: not so! One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birth The hoard i' the heart o' the toad, hell's quintessence. He learned the true convenience of the change, And why a convent lacks the cheerful hearts And helpful hands which female straits require, When, in the blind mute villa by the gate, Pompilia—what? sang, danced, saw company? —Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir, Or Guido's heir and Caponsacchi's son. I want your word now: what do you say to this? What would say little Arezzo and great Rome, And what did God say and the devil say, One at each ear o' the man, the husband, now The father? Why, the overburdened mind Broke down, what was a brain became a blaze. In fury of the moment—(that first news Fell on the Count among his vines, it seems, Doing his farm-work,)—why, he summoned steward, Called in the first four hard hands and stout hearts From field and furrow, poured forth his appeal, Not to Rome's law and gospel any more, But this clown with a mother or a wife, That clodpole with a sister or a son: And, whereas law and gospel held their peace, What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out? All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome, At the villa door: there was the warmth and light— The sense of life so just an inch inside— Some angel must have whispered "One more chance!" He gave it: bade the others stand aside: Knocked at the door,—"Who is it knocks?" cried one. "I will make," surely Guido's angel urged, "One final essay, last experiment, Speak the word, name the name from out all names, Which, if,—as doubtless strong illusions are, And strange disguisings whereby truth seems false, And, since I am but man, I dare not do God's work until assured I see with God,— If I should bring my lips to breathe that name And they be innocent,—nay, by one mere touch Of innocence redeemed from utter guilt,— That name will bar the door and bid fate pass. I will not say 'It is a messenger, A neighbor, even a belated man, Much less your husband's friend, your husband's self:' At such appeal the door is bound to ope. But I will say "—here 's rhetoric and to spare! Why, Sir, the stumbling-block is cursed and kicked, Block though it be; the name that brought offence Will bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fire Although that fire feed on some taper-wick Which never left the altar nor singed a fly: And had a harmless man tripped you by chance, How would you wait him, stand or step aside, When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough. "Giuseppe Caponsacchi!" Guido cried; And open flew the door: enough again. Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-wave That holds a monster in it, over the house, And wiped its filthy four walls free at last With a wash of hell-fire,—father, mother, wife, Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood, And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he, Haled hither and imprisoned yesternight O' the day all this was. Now, Sir, tale is told, Of how the old couple come to lie in state Though hacked to pieces,—never, the expert say, So thorough a study of stabbing—while the wife (Viper-like, very difficult to slay) Writhes still through every ring of her, poor wretch, At the Hospital hard by—survives, we'll hope, To somewhat purify her putrid soul By full confession, make so much amends While time lasts; since at day's end die she must. For Caponsacchi,—why, they'll have him here, As hero of the adventure, who so fit To figure in the coming Carnival? 'Twill make the fortune of whate'er saloon Hears him recount, with helpful cheek, and eye Hotly indignant now, now dewy-dimmed, The incidents of flight, pursuit, surprise, Capture, with hints of kisses all between— While Guido, wholly unromantic spouse, No longer fit to laugh at since the blood Gave the broad farce an all too brutal air, Why, he and those four luckless friends of his May tumble in the straw this bitter day— Laid by the heels i' the New Prison, I hear, To bide their trial, since trial, and for the life, Follows if but for form's sake: yes, indeed! But with a certain issue: no dispute, "Try him," bids law: formalities oblige: But as to the issue,—look me in the face!— If the law thinks to find them guilty, Sir, Master or men—touch one hair of the five, Then I say in the name of all that's left Of honor in Rome, civility i' the world Whereof Rome boasts herself the central source,— There's an end to all hope of justice more. Astræa's gone indeed, let hope go too! Who is it dares impugn the natural law, Deny God's word "the faithless wife shall die"? What, are we blind? How can we fail to learn This crowd of miseries make the man a mark, Accumulate on one devoted head For our example?—yours and mine who read Its lesson thus—"Henceforward let none dare Stand, like a natural in the public way, Letting the very urchins twitch his beard And tweak his nose, to earn a nickname so, Be styled male-Grissel or else modern Job!" Had Guido, in the twinkling of an eye, Summed up the reckoning, promptly paid himself, That morning when he came up with the pair At the wayside inn,—exacted his just debt By aid of what first mattock, pitchfork, axe Came to hand in the helpful stable-yard, And with that axe, if providence so pleased, Cloven each head, by some Rolando-stroke, In one clean cut from crown to clavicle, —Slain the priest-gallant, the wife-paramour, Sticking, for all defence, in each skull's cleft The rhyme and reason of the stroke thus dealt, To wit, those letters and last evidence Of shame, each package in its proper place,— Bidding, who pitied, undistend the skulls,— I say, the world had praised the man. But no! That were too plain, too straight, too simply just! He hesitates, calls law forsooth to help. And law, distasteful to who calls in law When honor is beforehand and would serve, What wonder if law hesitate in turn, Plead her disuse to calls o' the kind, reply (Smiling a little), "'Tis yourself assess The worth of what's lost, sum of damage done. What you touched with so light a finger-tip, You whose concern it was to grasp the thing, Why must law gird herself and grapple with? Law, alien to the actor whose warm blood Asks heat from law whose veins run lukewarm milk,— What you dealt lightly with, shall law make out Heinous forsooth?" Sir, what's the good of law In a case o' the kind? None, as she all but says. Call in law when a neighbor breaks your fence, Cribs from your field, tampers with rent or lease, Touches the purse or pocket,—but wooes your wife? No: take the old way trod when men were men! Guido preferred the new path,—for his pains, Stuck in a quagmire, floundered worse and worse Until he managed somehow scramble back Into the safe sure rutted road once more, Revenged his own wrong like a gentleman. Once back 'mid the familiar prints, no doubt He made too rash amends for his first fault, Vaulted too loftily over what barred him late, And lit i' the mire again,—the common chance, The natural over-energy: the deed Maladroit yields three deaths instead of one, And one life left: for where's the Canon's corpse? All which is the worse for Guido, but, be frank— The better for you and me and all the world, Husbands of wives, especially in Rome. The thing is put right, in the old place,—ay, The rod hangs on its nail behind the door, Fresh from the brine: a matter I commend To the notice, during Carnival that's near, Of a certain what's-his-name and jackanapes Somewhat too civil of eves with lute and song About a house here, where I keep a wife. (You, being his cousin, may go tell him so.)