Chapter 7

"A Roman murder-case:Position of the entire criminal causeOf Guido Franceschini, nobleman,With certain Four the cut-throats in his pay,Tried, all five, and found guilty and put to deathBy 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 'scapeThe customary forfeit."

"A Roman murder-case:

Position of the entire criminal cause

Of Guido Franceschini, nobleman,

With certain Four the cut-throats 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."

The book proved to be one of those contemporary records of famous trials which were not uncommon in Italy, and which are said to be still preserved in many Italian libraries. It contained the printed pleadings for and against the accused, the judicial sentence, and certain manuscript letters describing the efforts made on Guido's behalf and his final execution. This book (with a contemporary pamphlet which Browning afterwards met with in London) supplied the outlines of the poem to which it helped to give a name.

The story itself is a tragic one, rich in material for artistic handling, though not for the handling of every artist. But its importance is relatively inconsiderable. "I fused my live soul and that inert stuff," says the poet, and

"Thence bit by bit I dugThe ingot 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,Makes 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 djereedAnd binds the loose, one bar without a break."

"Thence bit by bit I dug

The ingot 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,

Makes 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."

The story, in brief, is this. Pompilia, the supposed daughter of Pietro and Violante Comparini, an aged burgher couple of Rome, has been married, at the age of thirteen, to Count Guido Franceschini, an impoverishedmiddle-aged nobleman of Arezzo. The arrangement, in which Pompilia is, of course, quite passive, has been made with the expectation, on the part of Guido, of a large dowry; on the part of the Comparini of an aristocratic alliance, and a princely board at Guido's palace. No sooner has the marriage taken place than both parties find that they have been tricked. Guido, disappointed of his money, and unable to reach the pair who have deceived him, vents his spite on the innocent victim, Pompilia. At length Pompilia, knowing that she is about to become a mother, escapes from her husband, aided by a good young priest, Giuseppe Caponsacchi, a canon of Arezzo; and a few months afterwards, at the house of her supposed parents, she gives birth to a son. A fortnight after the birth of his heir, Guido, who has been waiting till his hold on the dowry is thus secured, takes with him four cut-throats, steals by night to Rome, and kills his wife and the aged Comparini, leaving the child alive. He is captured the same night, and brought to judgment at Rome. When the poem opens, the case is being tried before the civil courts. No attempt is made to dispute the fact of Guido's actual committal of the deed; he has been caught red-handed, and Pompilia, preserved almost by miracle, has survived her wounds long enough to tell the whole story. The sole question is, whether the act had any justification; it being pretended by Guido that his wife had been guilty of adultery with the priest Caponsacchi, and that his deed was a simple act of justice. He was found guilty by the legal tribunal, and condemned to death; Pompilia's innocence being confirmed beyond a doubt. Guido then appealed to the Pope, who confirmed the judicial sentence. Thewhole of the poem takes place between the arrest and trial of Guido, and the final sentence of the Pope; at the time, that is, when the hopes and fears of the actors, and the curiosity of the spectators, would be at their highest pitch.

The first book, entitledThe Ring and the Book, gives the facts of the story, some hint of the author's interpretation of them, and the outlines of his plan. We are not permitted any of the interest of suspense. Browning shows us clearly from the first the whole bearing and consequence of events, as well as the right and wrong of them. He has written few finer passages than the swift and fiery narrative of the story, lived through in vision on the night of his purchase of the original documents. But complete and elaborate as this is, it is merely introductory, a prologue before the curtain rises on the drama. First we have three representative specimens of public opinion:Half-Rome,The Other Half-Rome, andTertium Quid; each speaker presenting the complete case from his own point of view. "Half-Rome" takes the side of Guido. We are allowed to see that the speaker is a jealous husband, and that his judgment is biased by an instinctive sympathy with the presumably jealous husband, Guido. "The Other Half-Rome" takes the side of the wife, "Little Pompilia with the patient eyes," now lying in the hospital, mortally wounded, and waiting for death. This speaker is a bachelor, probably a young man, and his judgment is swayed by the beauty and the piteousness of the dying girl. The speech of "Half-Rome," being as it is an attempt to make light of the murder, and the utterance of a somewhat ridiculous personage, is exceedinglyhumorous and colloquial; that of the "Other Half-Rome" is serious, earnest, sometimes eloquent. No contrast could be more complete than that presented by these two "sample-speeches." The objects remain the same, but we see them through different ends of the telescope. Either account taken by itself is so plausible as to seem almost morally conclusive. But in both instances we have down-right apology and condemnation, partiality bred of prejudice.Tertium Quidpresents us with a reasoned and judicial judgment, impartiality bred of contempt or indifference; this being—

"What the superior social section thinks,In person of some man of qualityWho,—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 saloonWhere 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 ...How quality dissertated on the case."

"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 ...

How quality dissertated on the case."

"Tertium Quid" deals with the case very gently, mindful of his audience, to whom, at each point of the argument calling for judgment, he politely refers the matter, and passes on. He speaks in a tone of light and well-bred irony, with the aristocratic contempt for theplebs, the burgesses, Society's assumption of Exclusive Information. He gives the general view of things, clearly, neutrally, with no vulgar emphasis of black andwhite. "I simply take the facts, ask what they mean."

So far we have had rumour alone, the opinions of outsiders; next come the three great monologues in which the persons of the drama, Count Guido, Caponsacchi, and Pompilia, bear witness of themselves.

"The imaginary occasion," says Mrs. Orr, "is that of Count Guido's trial, and all the depositions which were made on the previous one are transferred to this. The author has been obliged in every case to build up the character from the evidence, and to re-mould and expand the evidence in conformity with the character. The motive, feeling, and circumstance set forth by each separate speaker, are thus in some degree fictitious; but they are always founded upon fact, and the literal fact of a vast number of details is self-evident."[40]

These three monologues (with the second of Guido) are by far the most important in the book.

First comesCount Guido Franceschini. The two monologues spoken by him are, for sheer depth of human science, the most marvellous of all: "every nerve of the mind is touched by the patient scalpel, every vein and joint of the subtle and intricate spirit divided and laid bare."[41]Under torture, he has confessed to the murder of his wife. He is now permitted to defend himself before the judges.

"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 subduedNear to mock-mildness now, so mournful seemsThe obtuser sense truth fails to satisfy;Now, moved, from pathos at the wrong endured,To passion...Also his tongue at times is hard to curb;Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase.And never once does he detach his eyeFrom those ranged there to slay him or to save,But does his best man's-service for himself."

"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...

Also his tongue at times is hard to curb;

Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase.

And never once does he detach his eyeFrom those ranged there to slay him or to save,But does his best man's-service for himself."

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."

His speech is a tissue of falsehoods and prevarications: if he uses a fact, it is only to twist it into a form of self-justification. He knows it is useless to deny the murder; his aim, then, is to explain and excuse it. Every device attainable by the instinct and the brain of hunted humanity he finds and uses. Now he slurs rapidly over an inconvenient fact; now, with the frank audacity of innocence, proclaims and blazons it abroad; now he is rhetorically eloquent, now ironically pathetic; always contriving to shift the blame upon others, and to make his own course appear the only one plausible or possible, the only one possible, at least, to a high-born, law-abiding son of the Church. Every shift and twist is subtly adapted to his audience of Churchmen, and the gradation of his pleading no less subtly contrived. No keener and subtler special pleading has ever been written, in verse certainly, and possibly in lawyers' prose; and it is poetry of the highest order of dramatic art.

Covering a narrower range, but still more significant within its own limits, the speech ofGiuseppe Caponsacchi, the priest who assisted Pompilia in her flight to Rome (given now in her defence before the judges who have heard the defence of Guido) is perhaps the most passionate and thrilling piece of blank verse ever written byBrowning. Indeed, I doubt if it be an exaggeration to say that such fire, such pathos, such splendour of human speech, has never been heard or seen in English verse since Webster. In tone and colour the monologue is quite new, exquisitely modulated to a surprising music. The lighter passages are brilliant: the eloquent passages full of a fine austerity; but it is in those passages directly relating to Pompilia that the chief greatness of the work lies. There is in these appeals a quivering, thrilling, searching quality of fervid pathetic directness: I can give no notion of it in words; but here are a few lines, torn roughly out of their context, which may serve in some degree to illustrate my meaning:—

"Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on meThe last time in this life: not one sight since,Never another sight to be! And yetI thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome:It seems I simply sent her to her death.You tell me she is dying now, or dead;I cannot bring myself to quite believeThis is a place you torture people in:What if this your intelligence were justA subtlety, an honest wile to workOn a man at unawares? 'Twere worthy you.No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)That vision of the pale electric swordAngels go armed with,—that was not the lastO' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—Know the manoeuvre! Also herself saidI had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?Let me see for myself if it be so!Though she were dying a priest might be of use,The more when he's a friend too,—she called meFar beyond 'friend.'"

"Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on me

The last time in this life: not one sight since,

Never another sight to be! And yet

I thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome:

It seems I simply sent her to her death.

You tell me she is dying now, or dead;

I cannot bring myself to quite believe

This is a place you torture people in:

What if this your intelligence were just

A subtlety, an honest wile to work

On a man at unawares? 'Twere worthy you.

No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!

That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,

That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)

That vision of the pale electric sword

Angels go armed with,—that was not the last

O' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—

Know the manoeuvre! Also herself said

I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?

Let me see for myself if it be so!

Though she were dying a priest might be of use,

The more when he's a friend too,—she called me

Far beyond 'friend.'"

Severed from its connection, much of the charm of the passage vanishes away: always the test of the finest dramatic work; but enough remains to give some faint shadow of the real beauty of the work. Observe how the rhythm trembles in accord with the emotion of the speaker: now slow, solemn, sad, with something of the quiet of despair; now strenuously self-deluding and feverishly eager: "Let me see for myself if it be so!" a line which has all the flush and gasp in it of broken sudden utterance. And the monologue ends in a kind of desperate resignation:—

"Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we areSo very pitiable, she and I,Who had conceivably been otherwise.Forget distemperature and idle heat;Apart from truth's sake, what's to move so much?Pompilia will be presently with God;I am, on earth, as good as out of it,A relegated priest; when exile ends,I mean to do my duty and live long.She and I are mere strangers now: but priestsShould study passion; how else cure mankind,Who come for help in passionate extremes?I do but play with an imagined life.Mere delectation, fit for a minute's dream!—Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the placeOf Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,Dreams, 'Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!'—Then smilingly, contentedly, awakesTo the old solitary nothingness.So I, from such communion, pass content ...O great, just, good God! Miserable me!"

"Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we are

So very pitiable, she and I,

Who had conceivably been otherwise.

Forget distemperature and idle heat;

Apart from truth's sake, what's to move so much?

Pompilia will be presently with God;

I am, on earth, as good as out of it,

A relegated priest; when exile ends,

I mean to do my duty and live long.

She and I are mere strangers now: but priests

Should study passion; how else cure mankind,

Who come for help in passionate extremes?

I do but play with an imagined life.

Mere delectation, fit for a minute's dream!—Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the placeOf Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,Dreams, 'Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!'—Then smilingly, contentedly, awakesTo the old solitary nothingness.So I, from such communion, pass content ...

Mere delectation, fit for a minute's dream!—

Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,

Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the place

Of Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,

Dreams, 'Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!'—

Then smilingly, contentedly, awakes

To the old solitary nothingness.

So I, from such communion, pass content ...

O great, just, good God! Miserable me!"

From the passionate defence of Caponsacchi, we pass to the death-bed ofPompilia. Like Shakespeare, Browning makes all his heroines young; and this child of seventeen, who has so much of the wisdom of youth, tells on her death-bed, to the kind people about her, the story of her life, in a simple, child-like, dreamy, wondering way, which can be compared, so far as I know, with nothing else ever written.

"Then a soul sighs its lowest and its lastAfter the loud ones;"

"Then a soul sighs its lowest and its last

After the loud ones;"

and we have here the whole heart of a woman, the whole heart and the very speech and accent of the most womanly of women. No woman has ever written anything so close to the nature of women, and I do not know what other man has come near to this strange and profoundly manly intuition, this "piercing and overpowering tenderness which glorifies," as Mr. Swinburne has said, "the poet of Pompilia." AllThe Ring and the Bookis a leading up to this monologue, and a commentary round it. It is a song of serene and quiet beauty, beautiful as evening-twilight. To analyse it is to analyse a rose's perfume: to quote from it is to tear off the petal of a rose. Here, however, for their mere colour and scent, are a few lines. Pompilia is speaking of the birth of her child.

"A whole long fortnight: in a life like mineA fortnight filled with bliss is long and much.All women are not mothers of a boy,Though they live twice the length of my whole life,And, as they fancy, happily all the same.There I lay, then, all my great fortnight long,As if it would continue, broaden outHappily more and more, and lead to heaven:Christmas before me,—was not that a chance?I never realized God's birth before—How He grew likest God in being born.This time I felt like Mary, had my babeLying a little on my breast like hers."

"A whole long fortnight: in a life like mine

A fortnight filled with bliss is long and much.

All women are not mothers of a boy,

Though they live twice the length of my whole life,

And, as they fancy, happily all the same.

There I lay, then, all my great fortnight long,

As if it would continue, broaden out

Happily more and more, and lead to heaven:

Christmas before me,—was not that a chance?

I never realized God's birth before—

How He grew likest God in being born.

This time I felt like Mary, had my babe

Lying a little on my breast like hers."

With a beautiful and holy confidence she now "lays away her babe with God," secure for him in the future. She forgives the husband who has slain her: "I could not love him, but his mother did." And with her last breath she blesses the friend who has saved her:—

"O lover of my life, O soldier-saint,No work begun shall ever pause for death.So, let him wait God's instant men call years;Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,Do out the duty! Through such souls aloneGod stooping shows sufficient of His lightFor us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise."

"O lover of my life, O soldier-saint,No work begun shall ever pause for death.

"O lover of my life, O soldier-saint,

No work begun shall ever pause for death.

So, let him wait God's instant men call years;Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,Do out the duty! Through such souls aloneGod stooping shows sufficient of His lightFor us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise."

So, let him wait God's instant men call years;

Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul,

Do out the duty! Through such souls alone

God stooping shows sufficient of His light

For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise."

AfterPompilia, we have the pleadings and counterpleadings of the lawyers on either side:Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator(the counsel for the defendant), andJuris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius,Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus(public prosecutor). Arcangeli,—

"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 the devotion of the hearth,Still captive in those dear domestic ties!"—

"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 the devotion of the hearth,

Still captive in those dear domestic ties!"—

is represented, with fine grotesque humour, in the very act of making his speech, pre-occupied, all the while he "wheezes out law and whiffles Latin forth," with a birthday-feast in preparation for his eight-year-old son, little Giacinto, the pride of his heart. The effect is very comic, though the alternation or intermixture of lawyer's-Latin and domestic arrangements produces something which is certainly, and perhaps happily, without parallel in poetry. His defence is, and is intended to be, mere quibbling.Causâ honorisis the whole pith and point of his plea: Pompilia's guilt he simply takes for granted. Bottini, the exact opposite in every way of his adversary,—

"A man of ready smile and facile tear,Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck,And language—ah, the gift of eloquence!Language that goes as easy as a gloveO'er good and evil, smoothens both to one"—

"A man of ready smile and facile tear,

Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck,

And language—ah, the gift of eloquence!

Language that goes as easy as a glove

O'er good and evil, smoothens both to one"—

Bottini presents us with a full-blown speech, intended to prove Pompilia's innocence, though really in every word a confession of her utter depravity. His sole purpose is to show off his cleverness, and he brings forward objections on purpose to prove how well he can turn them off; assumes guilt for the purpose of arguing it into comparative innocence.

"Yet for the sacredness of argument, ...Anything, anything to let the wheelsOf argument run glibly to their goal!"

"Yet for the sacredness of argument, ...

Anything, anything to let the wheels

Of argument run glibly to their goal!"

He pretends to "paint a saint," whom he can still speak of, in tones of earnest admiration, as "wily as an eel." His implied concessions and merely parenthetic denials, his abominable insinuations and suggestions, come, evidently enough, from the instincts of a grovelling mind,literally incapable of appreciating goodness, as well as from professional irritation at one who will

"Leave a lawyer nothing to excuse,Reason away and show his skill about."

"Leave a lawyer nothing to excuse,

Reason away and show his skill about."

The whole speech is a capital bit of satire and irony; it is comically clever and delightfully exasperating.

After the lawyers have spoken, we have the final judgment, the summing-up and laying bare of the whole matter, fact and motive, in the soliloquy ofThe Pope. Guido has been tried and found guilty, but, on appeal, the case had been referred to the Pope, Innocent XII. His decision is made; he has been studying the case from early morning, and now, at the

"DimDroop 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,"

"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,"

he passes the actors of the tragedy in one last review, nerving himself to pronounce the condemnation which he feels, as judge, to be due, but which he shrinks from with the natural shrinking of an aged man about to send a strong man to death before him. Pompilia he pronounces faultless and more,—

"My rose, I gather for the breast of God;"

Caponsacchi, not all without fault, yet a true soldier of God, prompt, for all his former seeming frivolousness, to spring forward and redress the wrong, victorious, too, over temptation:—

"Was the trial sore?Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time!Why comes temptation but for man to meetAnd master and make crouch beneath his foot,And so be pedestalled in triumph? Pray'Lead us into no such temptation, Lord!'Yea, but, O Thou, whose servants are the bold,Lead such temptations by the head and hair,Reluctant dragons, up to who dares fight,That so he may do battle and have praise!"

"Was the trial sore?

Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time!

Why comes temptation but for man to meet

And master and make crouch beneath his foot,

And so be pedestalled in triumph? Pray

'Lead us into no such temptation, Lord!'

Yea, but, O Thou, whose servants are the bold,

Lead such temptations by the head and hair,

Reluctant dragons, up to who dares fight,

That so he may do battle and have praise!"

For Guido he can see no excuse, can find no loophole for mercy, and but little hope of penitence or salvation, and he signs the death-warrant.

"For the main criminal I have no hopeExcept in such a suddenness of fate.I stood at Naples once, a night so dark,I could have scarce conjectured there was earthAnywhere, sky or sea or world at all:But the night's black was burst through by a blaze—Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned and bore,Through her whole length of mountain visible:There lay the city thick and plain with spires,And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea.So may the truth be flashed out by one blow,And Guido see; one instant, and be saved."

"For the main criminal I have no hope

Except in such a suddenness of fate.

I stood at Naples once, a night so dark,

I could have scarce conjectured there was earth

Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all:

But the night's black was burst through by a blaze—

Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned and bore,

Through her whole length of mountain visible:

There lay the city thick and plain with spires,

And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea.

So may the truth be flashed out by one blow,

And Guido see; one instant, and be saved."

The whole monologue is of different order from all the others. Every one but this expresses a more or less partial and fragmentary view.Tertium Quidalone makes any pretence at impartiality, and his is the result of indifference, not of justice. The Pope's speech is long, slow, discoursive, full of aged wisdom, dignity and nobility. The latter part of it, containing some of Browning's most characteristic philosophy, is by no means out of place, but perfectly coherent and appropriate to the character of the speaker.

Last of all comes the second and final speech ofGuido, "the same man, another voice," as he "speaks and despairs, the last night of his life," before the Cardinal Acciaiuoli and Abate Panciatichi, two old friends, who have come to obtain his confession, absolve him, and accompany him to the scaffold:—

"The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before,That pried and tried and trod so gingerly,Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth join;Then you know how the bristling fury foams.They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red,While his feet fumble for the filth below;The other, as beseems a stouter heart,Working his best with beads and cross to banThe enemy that come in like a floodSpite of the standard set up, verilyAnd in no trope at all, against him there:For at the prison-gate, just a few stepsOutside, already, in the doubtful dawn,Thither, from this side and from that, slow sweepAnd settle down in silence solidly,Crow-wise, the frightful Brotherhood of Death."

"The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before,

That pried and tried and trod so gingerly,

Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth join;

Then you know how the bristling fury foams.

They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red,

While his feet fumble for the filth below;

The other, as beseems a stouter heart,

Working his best with beads and cross to ban

The enemy that come 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."

We have here the completed portrait of Guido, a portrait perhaps unsurpassed as a whole by any of Browning's studies in the complexities of character. In his first speech he fought warily, and with delicate skill of fence, for life. Here, says Mr. Swinburne, "a close and dumb soul compelled into speech by mere struggle and stress of things, labours in literal translation and accurate agony at the lips of Guido." Hopeless, but impelled by the biting frenzy of despair, he pours out on his awe-stricken listeners a wild flood of entreaty, defiance, ghastly and anguished humour, flattery, satire, raving blasphemy and foaming impenitence. His desperate venom and blasphemous raillery is part despair, part calculated horror. In hislast revolt against death and all his foes, he snatches at any weapon, even truth, that may serve his purpose and gain a reprieve:—

"I thought you would not slay impenitence,But teazed, from men you slew, contrition first,—I thought you had a conscience ...Would you sendA soul straight to perdition, dying frankAn atheist?"

"I thought you would not slay impenitence,

But teazed, from men you slew, contrition first,—

I thought you had a conscience ...

Would you send

A soul straight to perdition, dying frank

An atheist?"

How much of truth there is in it all we need not attempt to decide. It is not likely that Guido could pretend to be much worse than he really was, though he unquestionably heightens the key of his crime, working up to a pitch of splendid ferocity almost sublime, from a malevolence rather mean than manly. At the last, struck suddenly, as he sees death upon him, from his pretence of defiant courage, he hurls down at a blow the whole structure of lies, and lays bare at once his own malignant cowardice and the innocence of his murdered wife:—is it with a touch of remorse, of saving penitence?

"Nor is it in me to unhate my hates,—I use up my last strength to strike once moreOld Pietro in the wine-house-gossip-face,To trample underfoot the whine and wileOf beast Violante,—and I grow one gorgeTo loathingly reject Pompilia's palePoison my hasty hunger took for food.A strong tree wants no wreaths about its trunk,No cloying cups, no sickly sweet of scent,But sustenance at root, a bucketful.How else lived that Athenian who died so,Drinking hot bull's blood, fit for men like me?I lived and died a man, and take man's chance,Honest and bold: right will be done to such.Who are these you have let descend my stair?Ha, their accursed psalm! Lights at the sill!Is it 'Open' they dare bid you? Treachery!Sirs, have I spoken one word all this whileOut of the world of words I had to say?Not one word! All was folly—I laughed and mocked!Sirs, my first true word, all truth and no lie,Is—save me notwithstanding! Life is all!I was just stark mad,—let the madman livePressed by as many chains as you please pile!Don't open! Hold me from them! I am yours,I am the Granduke's,—no, I am the Pope's!Abate,—Cardinal,—Christ,—Maria,—God, ...Pompilia, will you let them murder me?"

"Nor is it in me to unhate my hates,—

I use up my last strength to strike once more

Old Pietro in the wine-house-gossip-face,

To trample underfoot the whine and wile

Of beast Violante,—and I grow one gorge

To loathingly reject Pompilia's pale

Poison my hasty hunger took for food.

A strong tree wants no wreaths about its trunk,

No cloying cups, no sickly sweet of scent,

But sustenance at root, a bucketful.

How else lived that Athenian who died so,

Drinking hot bull's blood, fit for men like me?

I lived and died a man, and take man's chance,

Honest and bold: right will be done to such.

Who are these you have let descend my stair?

Ha, their accursed psalm! Lights at the sill!

Is it 'Open' they dare bid you? Treachery!

Sirs, have I spoken one word all this while

Out of the world of words I had to say?

Not one word! All was folly—I laughed and mocked!

Sirs, my first true word, all truth and no lie,

Is—save me notwithstanding! Life is all!

I was just stark mad,—let the madman live

Pressed by as many chains as you please pile!

Don't open! Hold me from them! I am yours,

I am the Granduke's,—no, I am the Pope's!

Abate,—Cardinal,—Christ,—Maria,—God, ...

Pompilia, will you let them murder me?"

The coward's agony of the fear of death has never been rendered in words so truthful or so terrible.

Last of all comes the Epilogue, entitledThe Book and the Ring, giving an account of Count Guido's execution, in the form of contemporary letters, real and imaginary; with an extract from the Augustinian's sermon on Pompilia, and other documents needed to wind off the threads of the story.

The Ring and the Bookwas the first important work which Browning wrote after the death of his wife, and her memory holds in it a double shrine: at the opening an invocation, at the close a dedication. I quote the invocation: the words are sacred, and nothing remains to be said of them except that they are worthy of the dead and of the living.

"O lyric Love, half-angel and half-birdAnd 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 earthReached 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 dueTo 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 interchangeOf grace, some splendour once thy very thought,Some benediction anciently thy smile:—Never conclude, but raising hand and headThither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearnFor all hope, all sustainment, all reward,Their utmost up and on,—so blessing backIn 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!"

"O lyric Love, half-angel and half-bird

And all a wonder and a wild desire,—

Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,

Took sanctuary within the holier blue,

And sang a kindred soul out to his face,—

Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart—

When the first summons from the darkling earth

Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,

And bared them of the glory—to drop down,

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

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

Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!

Never may I commence my song, my due

To God who best taught song by gift of thee,

Except with bent head and beseeching hand—

That still, despite the distance and the dark,

What was, again may be; some interchange

Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,

Some benediction anciently thy smile:

—Never conclude, but raising hand and head

Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn

For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,

Their utmost up and on,—so blessing back

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[40]

Handbook, p. 93.

[41]

Swinburne,Essays and Studies, p. 220.

18. BALAUSTION'S ADVENTURE: including a Transcript from Euripides.

[Published in August, 1871. Dedication: "To the Countess Cowper.—If I mention the simple truth: that this poem absolutely owes its existence to you,—who not only suggested, but imposed on me as a task, what has proved the most delightful of May-month amusements—I shall seem honest, indeed, but hardly prudent; for, how good and beautiful ought such a poem to be!—Euripides might fear little; but I, also, have an interest in the performance: and what wonder if I beg you to suffer that it make, in another and far easier sense, its nearest possible approach to those Greek qualities of goodness and beauty, by laying itself gratefully at yourfeet?—R. B., London, July 23, 1871." (Poetical Works, 1889, Vol. XI. pp. 1-122).]

The episode which supplies the title ofBalaustion's Adventurewas suggested by the familiar story told by Plutarch in his life of Nicias: that after the ruin of the Sicilian expedition, those of the Athenian captives who could repeat any poetry of Euripides were set at liberty, or treated with consideration, by the Syracusans. In Browning's poem, Balaustion tells her four girl-friends the story of her "adventure" at Syracuse, where, shortly before, she had saved her own life and the lives of a ship's-company of her friends by reciting the play ofAlkestisto the Euripides-loving townsfolk. After a brief reminiscence of the adventure, which has gained her (besides life, and much fame, and the regard of Euripides) a lover whom she is shortly to marry, she repeats, for her friends, the whole play, adding, as she speaks the words of Euripides, such other words of her own as may serve to explain or help to realise the conception of the poet. In other words, we have a transcript or re-telling in monologue of the whole play, interspersed with illustrative comments; and after this is completed Balaustion again takes up the tale, presents us with a new version of the story of Alkestis, refers by anticipation to a poem of Mrs. Browning and a picture of Sir Frederick Leighton, and ends exultantly:—

"And all came—glory of the golden verse,And passion of the picture, and that fineFrank outgush of the human gratitudeWhich saved our ship and me, in Syracuse,—Ay, and the tear or two which slipt perhapsAway from you, friends, while I told my tale,—It all came of the play which gained no prize!Why crown whom Zeus has crowned in soul before?"

"And all came—glory of the golden verse,

And passion of the picture, and that fine

Frank outgush of the human gratitude

Which saved our ship and me, in Syracuse,—

Ay, and the tear or two which slipt perhaps

Away from you, friends, while I told my tale,

—It all came of the play which gained no prize!

Why crown whom Zeus has crowned in soul before?"

It will thus be seen that the "Transcript from Euripides" is the real occasion of the poem, Balaustion's adventure, though graphically described, and even Balaustion herself, though beautifully and vividly brought before us, being of secondary importance. The "adventure," as it has been said, is the amber in which Browning has embalmed theAlkestis. The play itself is rendered in what is rather an interpretation than a translation; an interpretation conceived in the spirit of the motto taken from Mrs. Browning'sWine of Cyprus:—

"Our Euripides, the human,With his droppings of warm tears,And his touches of things commonTill they rose to touch the spheres."

"Our Euripides, the human,

With his droppings of warm tears,

And his touches of things common

Till they rose to touch the spheres."

Browning has no sympathy with those who impute to Euripides a sophistic rather than a pathetic intention; and it is conceivable that the "task" which Lady Cowper imposed upon him was to show, by some such method of translation and interpretation, the warm humanity, deep pathos, right construction and genuine truth to nature of the drama. With this end in view, Browning has woven the thread of the play into a sort of connected narrative, translating, with almost uniform literalness of language, the whole of the play as it was written by Euripides, but connecting it by comments, explanations, hints and suggestions; analyzing whatever may seem not easily to be apprehended, or not unlikely to be misapprehended; bringing out by a touch or a word some delicate shade of meaning, some subtle finenessof idea or intention.[42]A more creative piece of criticism can hardly be found, not merely in poetry, but even in prose. Perhaps it shares in some degree the splendid fault of creative criticism by occasionally lending, not finding, the noble qualities which we are certainly made to see in the work itself.

The translation, though not literal in form, is literal in substance, and it is rendered into careful and expressive blank verse. Owing to the scheme on which it is constructed, the choruses could not be rendered into lyrical verse; while, for the same reason, a few passages here and there are omitted, or only indicated by a word or so in passing. The omitted passages are very few in number; but it is not always easy to see why they should have been omitted.[43]Browning's canon of translation is "to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence to our language," and here, certainly, he has observed his rule. Notwithstanding the greater difficulty of the metrical form, and the far greater temptation to "brighten up" a version by the use of paraphrastic but sonorous effects, it is improbable that any prose translation could be more faithful. And not merely is Browning literal in the sense of following the original word for word, he gives the exact root-meaning of words which a literal translator would consider himself justifiedin taking in their general sense. Occasionally a literality of this sort is less easily intelligible to the general reader than the more obvious word would have been; but, except in a very few instances, the whole translation is not less clear and forcible than it is exact. Whether or not theAlkestisof Browning is quite theAlkestisof Euripides, there is no doubt that this literal, yet glorified and vivified translation of a Greek play has added a new poem to English literature.

The blank verse ofBalaustion's Adventureis somewhat different from that of its predecessor,The Ring and the Book: to my own ear, at least, it is by no means so original or so fine. It is indeed more restrained, but Browning seems to be himself working under a sort of restraint, or perhaps upon a theory of the sort of versification appropriate to classical themes. Something of frank vigour, something of flexibility and natural expressiveness, is lost, but, on the other hand, there is often a rich colour in the verse, a lingering perfume and sweetness in the melody, which has a new and delicate charm of its own.

FOOTNOTES:

[42]

Note, for instance, the admirable exposition and defence of the famous and ill-famed altercation between Pheres and Admetos: one of the keenest bits of explanatory analysis in Mr. Browning's works. Or observe how beautifully human the dying Alkestis becomes as he interprets for her, and how splendid a humanity the jovial Herakles puts on.

[43]

The two speeches of Eumelos, not without a note of pathos, are scarcely represented by—"The children's tears ran fastBidding their father note the eye-lids' stare,Hands'-droop, each dreadful circumstance of death."

The two speeches of Eumelos, not without a note of pathos, are scarcely represented by—

"The children's tears ran fastBidding their father note the eye-lids' stare,Hands'-droop, each dreadful circumstance of death."

"The children's tears ran fast

Bidding their father note the eye-lids' stare,

Hands'-droop, each dreadful circumstance of death."

19. PRINCE HOHENSTIEL-SCHWANGAU, SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY.

[Published in December, 1871. (Poetical Works, Vol. XI. pp. 123-210).]

Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau[44]is a blank verse monologue, supposed to be spoken, in a musing day-dream, by Louis Napoleon, while Emperor of the French, and calling himself, to the delight of ironical echoes, the "Saviour of Society." The work is equally distant in spirit from the branding satire and righteous wrath of Victor Hugo'sChâtimentsandNapoléon le Petit, and from Lord Beaconsfield'scouleur de roseportrait, inEndymion, of the nominally pseudonymous Prince Florestan. It is neither a denunciation nor a eulogy, nor yet altogether an impartial delineation. It is an "apology," with much the same object as those of Bishop Blougram or Mr. Sludge, the Medium: "by no means to prove black white or white black, or to make the worse appear the better reason, but to bring a seeming monster and perplexing anomaly under the common laws of nature, by showing how it has grown to be what it is, and how it can with more or less of self-illusion reconcile itself to itself."[45]

The poem is very hard reading, perhaps as a whole the hardest intellectual exercise in Browning's work, but this arises not so much from the obscurity of its ideas and phrases as from the peculiar complexity of its structure. To apprehend it we must put ourselves at a certain standpoint, which is not easy to reach. The monologue as a whole represents, as we only learn at the end, not a direct speech to a real person in England, but a mere musing over a cigar in the palace in France. It is divided into two distinct sections, which need to be kept clearly apart in the mind. The first section, up to the line, more than half-way through, "Something like this the unwritten chapter reads," is a direct self-apology. Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau puts forward what he represents as his theory of practice. It is founded on the principle oflaisser-faire, and resolves itself intoconformity: concurrence with things as they are, with society as it is. He finds existing institutions, not indeed perfect, but sufficiently good for practical purposes; and he conceives his mission to be that of a builder on existing foundations, that of a social conservator, not of a social reformer: "to do the best with the least change possible." On his own showing, he has had this single aim in view from first to last, and on this ground, that of expediency, he explains and defends every act of his tortuous and vacillating policy. He has had his ambitions and ideals of giving freedom to Italy, for example, but he has set them aside in the interests of his own people and for what he holds to be their more immediate needs. So far the direct apology. He next proceeds to show what he might have done, but did not, the ideal course as it is held; commenting the while, as "Sagacity," upon the imaginary new version of his career. His comments represent his real conduct, and they are such as he assumes would naturally be made on the "ideal" course by the very critics who have censured his actual temporising policy. The final pages contain an involuntary confession that, even in his own eyes, Prince Hohenstiel is not quite satisfied with either his conduct or his defence of it.

To separate the truth from the falsehood in this dramatic monologue has not been Browning's intention, and it need not be ours. It may be repeated that Browning is no apologist for Louis Napoleon: he simply calls him to the front, and, standing aside, allows him to speak for himself.[46]In his speech under these circumstances wefind just as much truth entangled with just as much sophistry as we might reasonably expect. Here, we get what seems the genuine truth; there, in what appears to the speaker a satisfactory defence, we see that he is simply exposing his own moral defect; again, like Bishop Blougram, he "says true things, but calls them by wrong names." Passages of the last kind are very frequent; are, indeed, to be found everywhere throughout the poem; and it is in these that Browning unites most cleverly the vicarious thinking due to his dramatic subject, and the good honest thought which we never fail to find dominant in his most exceptional work. The Prince gives utterance to a great deal of very true and very admirable good sense; we are at liberty to think him insincere in his application of it, but an axiom remains true, even if it be wrongly applied.

The versification of the poem is everywhere vigorous, and often fine; perhaps the finest passage it contains is that referring to Louis Napoleon's abortive dreams on behalf of Italy.

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