CENCIAJA

I am indeed the personage you know.As for my wife,—what happened long ago—You have a right to question me, as IAm bound to answer.("Son, a fit reply!"The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)Thus then all happened, Father! Power and placeI had as still I have. I ran life's race,With the whole world to see, as only strainsHis strength some athlete whose prodigious gainsOf good appall him: happy to excess,—Work freely done should balance happinessFully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roofHoused she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoofI went forth every day, and all day longWorked for the world. Look, how the laborer's songCheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throeOf laboring flesh and blood—"She loves me so!"One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerveThat work grew play and vanished. "I deserveHaply my heaven an hour before the time!"I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chimeSurprised me passing through the postern-gate—Not the main entry where the menials waitAnd wonder why the world's affairs allowThe master sudden leisure. That was howI took the private garden-way for once.Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconceHimself behind the porphyry vase, a man.My fancies in the natural order ran:"A spy,—perhaps a foe in ambuscade,—A thief,—more like, a sweetheart of some maidWho pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps.""Stand there!" I bid.Whereat my man but wrapsHis face the closelier with uplifted armWhereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarmThis and that pedestal as,—stretch and stoop,—Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the groupOf statues, marble god and goddess rangedEach side the pathway, till the gate's exchangedFor safety: one step thence, the street, you know!Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,Near on admiringly, I breathed again,And—back to that last fancy of the train—"A danger risked for hope of just a wordWith—which of all my nest may be the birdThis poacher covets for her plumage, pray?Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gayFor such adventure, while Juana's grave—Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!He had the eye, could single from my broodHis proper fledgeling!"As I turned, there stoodIn face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.Whether one bound had brought her,—at first sightOf what she judged the encounter, sure to beNext moment, of the venturous man and me,—Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:Whether impelled because her death no dayCould come so absolutely opportuneAs now at joy's height, like a year in JuneStayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;Or whether hungry for my hate—who knows?—Eager to end an irksome lie, and tasteOur tingling true relation, hate embracedBy hate one naked moment:—anyhowThere stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but nowThe woman who made heaven within my house.Ay, she who faced me was my very spouseAs well as love—you are to recollect!"Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspeckedWith crime, that 's spotless hitherto—your own!Kill me who court the blessing, who aloneWas, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!The man lay helpless in the toils I castAbout him, helpless as the statue thereAgainst that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tearAway and tread to dust the parasite,But do the passive marble no despite!I love him as I hate you. Kill me! StrikeAt one blow both infinitudes alikeOut of existence—hate and love! Whence love?That 's safe inside my heart, nor will removeFor any searching of your steel, I think.Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brinkOf speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,At every form wherein your love took shape,At each new provocation of your kiss.Kill me!"We went in.Next day after this,I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke—Easily, after all."The lifted cloakWas screen sufficient: I concern myselfHardly with laying hands on who for pelf—Whate'er the ignoble kind—may prowl and braveCuffing and kicking proper to a knaveDetected by my household's vigilance.Enough of such! As for my love-romance—I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyesAnd wake and wonder how the film could riseWhich changed for me a barbers' basin straightInto—Mambrino's helm? I hesitateNowise to say—God's sacramental cup!Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?To me—a warning I was overboldIn judging metals. The Hidalgo wakedOnly to die, if I remember,—stakedHis life upon the basin's worth, and lost:While I confess torpidity at mostIn here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,Still should I work on, still repair my faultEre I took rest in death,—no fear at all!Now, work—no word before the curtain fall!"The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant:My "word," permissible in death's event,Would be—truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise,Day by day, three years long, there had to riseAnd, night by night, to fall upon our stage—Ours, doomed to public play by heritage—Another curtain, when the world, perforceOur critical assembly, in due courseCame and went, witnessing, gave praise or blameTo art-mimetic. It had spoiled the gameIf, suffered to set foot behind our scene,The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,Gallant and lady, but a minute sinceEnarming each the other, would evinceNo sign of recognition as they tookHis way and her way to whatever nookWaited them in the darkness either sideOf that bright stage where lately groom and brideHad fired the audience to a frenzy-fitOf sympathetic rapture—every whitEarned as the curtain fell on her and me,—Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to seeBut calm and concord: where a speech was dueThere came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,Where foreign and domestic cares combine,There 's audience every day and all day long;But finally the last of the whole throngWho linger lets one see his back. For her—Why, liberty and liking: I aver,Liking and liberty! For me—I breathed,Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathedSmile-like about the mouth, unlearned my taskOf personation till next day bade mask,And quietly betook me from that worldTo the real world, not pageant: there unfurledIn work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.Three years I worked, each minute of each hourNot claimed by acting:—work I may dispenseWith talk about, since work in evidence,Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?After three years, this way, all unawares,Our acting ended. She and I, at closeOf a loud night-feast, led, between two rowsOf bending male and female loyalty,Our lord the king down staircase, while, held highAt arm's length did the twisted tapers' flareHerald his passage from our palace, whereSuch visiting left glory evermore.Again the ascent in public, till at doorAs we two stood by the saloon—now blankAnd disencumbered of its guests—there sankA whisper in my ear, so low and yetSo unmistakable!"I half forgetThe chamber you repair to, and I wantOccasion for one short word—if you grantThat grace—within a certain room you calledOur 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawledSome paper full of faces for my sport.That room I can remember. Just one shortWord with you there, for the remembrance' sake!""Follow me thither!" I replied.We breakThe gloom a little, as with guiding lampI lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by dampBlind disused serpentining ways afarFrom where the habitable chambers are,—Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,—Always in silence,—till I reach the loneChamber sepulchred for my very ownOut of the palace-quarry. When a boy,Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,Proof-positive of ownership; in youthI garnered up my gleanings here—uncouthBut precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;Finally, this became in after-yearsMy closet of entrenchment to withstandInvasion of the foe on every hand—Themultifarious herd in bower and hall,State-room,—rooms whatsoe'er the style, which callOn masters to be mindful that, beforeMen, they must look like men and something more.Here,—when our lord the king's bestowment ceasedTo deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,I touched ambition's height,—'t was here, releasedFrom glory (always symbolled by a chain!)No sooner was I privileged to gainMy secret domicile than glad I flungThat last toy on the table—gazed where hungOn hook my father's gift, the arquebus—And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thusThe new prize and the old prize, when I reachAnother year's experience?—own that eachEqualled advantage—sportsman's—statesman's tool?That brought me down an eagle, this—a fool!"Into which room on entry, I set downThe lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gownHad told me my wife followed, pace for pace.Each of us looked the other in the face.She spoke. "Since I could die now "...(To explainWhy that first struck me, know—not once againSince the adventure at the porphyry's edgeThree years before, which sundered like a wedgeHer soul from mine,—though daily, smile to smile,We stood before the public,—all the whileNot once had I distinguished, in that faceI paid observance to, the faintest traceOf feature more than requisite for eyesTo do their duty by and recognize:So did I force mine to obey my willAnd pry no further. There exists such skill,—Those know who need it. What physician shrinksFrom needful contact with a corpse? He drinksNo plague so long as thirst for knowledge—notAn idler impulse—prompts inquiry. What,And will you disbelieve in power to bidOur spirit back to bounds, as though we chidA child from scrutiny that's just and rightIn manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,Reported daily she it was—not howNor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)"Since I could die now of the truth concealed,Yet dare not, must not die,—so seems revealedThe Virgin's mind to me,—for death means peaceWherein no lawful part have I, whose leaseOf life and punishment the truth avowedMay haply lengthen,—let me push the shroudAway, that steals to muffle ere is justMy penance-fire in snow! I dare—I mustLive, by avowal of the truth—this truth—I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's toothThat, by a prompt new pang more exquisiteThan all preceding torture, proves me right!I loved you yet I lost you! May I goBurn to the ashes, now my shame you know?"I think there never was such—how express?—Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,As in those arms of Eastern workmanship—Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,Yet ever keep a beauty that betraysLove still at work with the artificerThroughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,Except for love's sake, that a blade should writheAnd bicker like a flame?—now play the scytheAs if some broad neck tempted,—now contractAnd needle off into a fineness lackedFor just that puncture which the heart demands?Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our handsEnclose not ivory alone, nor goldRoughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!Fancy my favorite—which I seem to graspWhile I describe the luxury. No aspIs diapered more delicate round throatThan this below the handle! These denote—These mazy lines meandering, to endOnly in flesh they open—what intendThey else but water-purlings—pale contrastWith the life-crimson where they blend at last?And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecksA grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specksPure from the mine: seen this way,—glassy blank,But turn them,—lo, the inmost fire, that shrankFrom sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the gameOf peaceful men is warlike, just as menWar-wearied get amusement from that penAnd paper we grow sick of—statesfolk tiredOf merely (when such measures are required)Dealing out doom to people by three words,A signature and seal: we play with swordsSuggestive of quick process. That is howI came to like the toys described you now,Store of which glittered on the walls and strewedThe table, even, while my wife pursuedHer purpose to its ending. "Now you knowThis shame, my three years' torture, let me go,Burn to the very ashes! You—I lost,Yet you—I loved!"The thing I pity mostIn men is—action prompted by surpriseOf anger: men? nay, bulls—whose onset liesAt instance of the firework and the goad!Once the foe prostrate,—trampling once bestowed,—Prompt follows placability, regret,Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yetBetokened strong will! As no leap of pulsePricked me, that first time, so did none convulseMy veins at this occasion for resolve.Had that devolved which did not then devolveUpon me, I had done—what now to doWas quietly apparent."Tell me whoThe man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!""No, never! All was folly in his case,All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied.""And yet you loved me?""Loved you. Double-dyedIn folly and in guilt, I thought you gaveYour heart and soul away from me to slaveAt statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,What you rejected could be prized beyondLife, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fondLook on, a fatal word to.""And you stillLove me? Do I conjecture well or ill?""Conjecture—well or ill! I had three yearsTo spend in learning you.""We both are peersIn knowledge, therefore: since three years are spentEre thus much of yourselfIlearn—who wentBack to the house, that day, and brought my mindTo bear upon your action, uncombinedMotive from motive, till the dross, deprivedOf every purer particle, survivedAt last in native simple hideousness,Utter contemptibility, nor lessNor more. Contemptibility—exemptHow could I, from its proper due—contempt?I have too much despised you to divertMy life from its set course by help or hurtOf your all-despicable life—perturbThe calm I work in, by—men's mouths to curb,Which at such news were clamorous enough—Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuffWith the huge hole there, my emblazoned wallBlank where a scutcheon hung,—by, worse than all,Each day's procession, my paraded lifeRobbed and impoverished through the wanting wife—Now that my life (which means—my work) was grownRiches indeed! Once, just this worth aloneSeemed work to have, that profit gained therebyOf good and praise would—how rewardingly!—Fall at your feet,—a crown I hoped to castBefore your love, my love should crown at last.No love remaining to cast crown before,My love stopped work now: but contempt the moreImpelled me task as ever head and hand,Because the very fiends weave ropes of sandRather than taste pure hell in idleness.Therefore I kept my memory down by stressOf daily work I had no mind to stayFor the world's wonder at the wife away.Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,For I despised you! But your words retrieveImportantly the past. No hate assumedThe mask of love at any time! There gloomedA moment when love took hate's semblance, urgedBy causes you declare; but love's self purgedAway a fancied wrong I did both loves—Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves,Purgation was attempted. Then, you riseHigh by how many a grade! I did despise—I do but hate you. Let hate's punishmentReplace contempt's! First step to which ascent—Write down your own words I re-utter you!'I loved my husband and I hated—whoHe was, I took up as my first chance, mereMud-ball to fling and make love foul with!' HereLies paper!""Would my blood for ink suffice!""It may: this minion from a land of spice,Silk, feather—every bird of jewelled breast—This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prestAbove your heart there"..."Thus?""It flows, I see.Dip there the point and write!""Dictate to me!Nay, I remember."And she wrote the words,I read them. Then—"Since love, in you, affordsLicense for hate, in me, to quench (I say)Contempt—why, hate itself has passed awayIn vengeance—foreign to contempt. DepartPeacefully to that death which Eastern artImbued this weapon with, if tales be true!Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you—Dead in our chamber!"True as truth the tale.She died ere morning; then, I saw how paleHer cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erstBeloved, in this your church: ay, yours!ImmersedIn thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps—Still plain I seem to see!—about his headThe idle cloak,—about his heart (insteadOf cuirass) some fond hope he may eludeMy vengeance in the cloister's solitude?Hardly, I think! As little helped his browThe cloak then, Father—as your grate helps me now!

I am indeed the personage you know.As for my wife,—what happened long ago—You have a right to question me, as IAm bound to answer.

I am indeed the personage you know.

As for my wife,—what happened long ago—

You have a right to question me, as I

Am bound to answer.

("Son, a fit reply!"The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)

("Son, a fit reply!"

The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,

At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and placeI had as still I have. I ran life's race,With the whole world to see, as only strainsHis strength some athlete whose prodigious gainsOf good appall him: happy to excess,—Work freely done should balance happinessFully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roofHoused she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoofI went forth every day, and all day longWorked for the world. Look, how the laborer's songCheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throeOf laboring flesh and blood—"She loves me so!"

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place

I had as still I have. I ran life's race,

With the whole world to see, as only strains

His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains

Of good appall him: happy to excess,—

Work freely done should balance happiness

Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof

Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof

I went forth every day, and all day long

Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song

Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe

Of laboring flesh and blood—"She loves me so!"

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerveThat work grew play and vanished. "I deserveHaply my heaven an hour before the time!"I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chimeSurprised me passing through the postern-gate—Not the main entry where the menials waitAnd wonder why the world's affairs allowThe master sudden leisure. That was howI took the private garden-way for once.

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve

That work grew play and vanished. "I deserve

Haply my heaven an hour before the time!"

I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime

Surprised me passing through the postern-gate

—Not the main entry where the menials wait

And wonder why the world's affairs allow

The master sudden leisure. That was how

I took the private garden-way for once.

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconceHimself behind the porphyry vase, a man.

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce

Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.

My fancies in the natural order ran:"A spy,—perhaps a foe in ambuscade,—A thief,—more like, a sweetheart of some maidWho pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps."

My fancies in the natural order ran:

"A spy,—perhaps a foe in ambuscade,—

A thief,—more like, a sweetheart of some maid

Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps."

"Stand there!" I bid.

Whereat my man but wrapsHis face the closelier with uplifted armWhereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarmThis and that pedestal as,—stretch and stoop,—Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the groupOf statues, marble god and goddess rangedEach side the pathway, till the gate's exchangedFor safety: one step thence, the street, you know!

Whereat my man but wraps

His face the closelier with uplifted arm

Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm

This and that pedestal as,—stretch and stoop,—

Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group

Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged

Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged

For safety: one step thence, the street, you know!

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,Near on admiringly, I breathed again,And—back to that last fancy of the train—"A danger risked for hope of just a wordWith—which of all my nest may be the birdThis poacher covets for her plumage, pray?Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gayFor such adventure, while Juana's grave—Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!He had the eye, could single from my broodHis proper fledgeling!"

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,

Near on admiringly, I breathed again,

And—back to that last fancy of the train—

"A danger risked for hope of just a word

With—which of all my nest may be the bird

This poacher covets for her plumage, pray?

Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay

For such adventure, while Juana's grave

—Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!

He had the eye, could single from my brood

His proper fledgeling!"

As I turned, there stoodIn face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.Whether one bound had brought her,—at first sightOf what she judged the encounter, sure to beNext moment, of the venturous man and me,—Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:Whether impelled because her death no dayCould come so absolutely opportuneAs now at joy's height, like a year in JuneStayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;Or whether hungry for my hate—who knows?—Eager to end an irksome lie, and tasteOur tingling true relation, hate embracedBy hate one naked moment:—anyhowThere stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but nowThe woman who made heaven within my house.Ay, she who faced me was my very spouseAs well as love—you are to recollect!

As I turned, there stood

In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.

Whether one bound had brought her,—at first sight

Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be

Next moment, of the venturous man and me,—

Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:

Whether impelled because her death no day

Could come so absolutely opportune

As now at joy's height, like a year in June

Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;

Or whether hungry for my hate—who knows?—

Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste

Our tingling true relation, hate embraced

By hate one naked moment:—anyhow

There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now

The woman who made heaven within my house.

Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse

As well as love—you are to recollect!

"Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspeckedWith crime, that 's spotless hitherto—your own!Kill me who court the blessing, who aloneWas, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!The man lay helpless in the toils I castAbout him, helpless as the statue thereAgainst that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tearAway and tread to dust the parasite,But do the passive marble no despite!I love him as I hate you. Kill me! StrikeAt one blow both infinitudes alikeOut of existence—hate and love! Whence love?That 's safe inside my heart, nor will removeFor any searching of your steel, I think.Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brinkOf speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,At every form wherein your love took shape,At each new provocation of your kiss.Kill me!"

"Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked

With crime, that 's spotless hitherto—your own!

Kill me who court the blessing, who alone

Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!

The man lay helpless in the toils I cast

About him, helpless as the statue there

Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear

Away and tread to dust the parasite,

But do the passive marble no despite!

I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike

At one blow both infinitudes alike

Out of existence—hate and love! Whence love?

That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove

For any searching of your steel, I think.

Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink

Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,

At every form wherein your love took shape,

At each new provocation of your kiss.

Kill me!"

We went in.

Next day after this,I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke—Easily, after all.

Next day after this,

I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke—

Easily, after all.

"The lifted cloakWas screen sufficient: I concern myselfHardly with laying hands on who for pelf—Whate'er the ignoble kind—may prowl and braveCuffing and kicking proper to a knaveDetected by my household's vigilance.Enough of such! As for my love-romance—I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyesAnd wake and wonder how the film could riseWhich changed for me a barbers' basin straightInto—Mambrino's helm? I hesitateNowise to say—God's sacramental cup!Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?To me—a warning I was overboldIn judging metals. The Hidalgo wakedOnly to die, if I remember,—stakedHis life upon the basin's worth, and lost:While I confess torpidity at mostIn here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,Still should I work on, still repair my faultEre I took rest in death,—no fear at all!Now, work—no word before the curtain fall!"

"The lifted cloak

Was screen sufficient: I concern myself

Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf—

Whate'er the ignoble kind—may prowl and brave

Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave

Detected by my household's vigilance.

Enough of such! As for my love-romance—

I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes

And wake and wonder how the film could rise

Which changed for me a barbers' basin straight

Into—Mambrino's helm? I hesitate

Nowise to say—God's sacramental cup!

Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,

Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?

To me—a warning I was overbold

In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked

Only to die, if I remember,—staked

His life upon the basin's worth, and lost:

While I confess torpidity at most

In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,

Still should I work on, still repair my fault

Ere I took rest in death,—no fear at all!

Now, work—no word before the curtain fall!"

The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant:My "word," permissible in death's event,Would be—truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise,Day by day, three years long, there had to riseAnd, night by night, to fall upon our stage—Ours, doomed to public play by heritage—Another curtain, when the world, perforceOur critical assembly, in due courseCame and went, witnessing, gave praise or blameTo art-mimetic. It had spoiled the gameIf, suffered to set foot behind our scene,The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,Gallant and lady, but a minute sinceEnarming each the other, would evinceNo sign of recognition as they tookHis way and her way to whatever nookWaited them in the darkness either sideOf that bright stage where lately groom and brideHad fired the audience to a frenzy-fitOf sympathetic rapture—every whitEarned as the curtain fell on her and me,—Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to seeBut calm and concord: where a speech was dueThere came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,Where foreign and domestic cares combine,There 's audience every day and all day long;But finally the last of the whole throngWho linger lets one see his back. For her—Why, liberty and liking: I aver,Liking and liberty! For me—I breathed,Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathedSmile-like about the mouth, unlearned my taskOf personation till next day bade mask,And quietly betook me from that worldTo the real world, not pageant: there unfurledIn work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.Three years I worked, each minute of each hourNot claimed by acting:—work I may dispenseWith talk about, since work in evidence,Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?

The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant:

My "word," permissible in death's event,

Would be—truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise,

Day by day, three years long, there had to rise

And, night by night, to fall upon our stage—

Ours, doomed to public play by heritage—

Another curtain, when the world, perforce

Our critical assembly, in due course

Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame

To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game

If, suffered to set foot behind our scene,

The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,

Gallant and lady, but a minute since

Enarming each the other, would evince

No sign of recognition as they took

His way and her way to whatever nook

Waited them in the darkness either side

Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride

Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit

Of sympathetic rapture—every whit

Earned as the curtain fell on her and me,

—Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see

But calm and concord: where a speech was due

There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,

Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,

Where foreign and domestic cares combine,

There 's audience every day and all day long;

But finally the last of the whole throng

Who linger lets one see his back. For her—

Why, liberty and liking: I aver,

Liking and liberty! For me—I breathed,

Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed

Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task

Of personation till next day bade mask,

And quietly betook me from that world

To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled

In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.

Three years I worked, each minute of each hour

Not claimed by acting:—work I may dispense

With talk about, since work in evidence,

Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?

After three years, this way, all unawares,Our acting ended. She and I, at closeOf a loud night-feast, led, between two rowsOf bending male and female loyalty,Our lord the king down staircase, while, held highAt arm's length did the twisted tapers' flareHerald his passage from our palace, whereSuch visiting left glory evermore.Again the ascent in public, till at doorAs we two stood by the saloon—now blankAnd disencumbered of its guests—there sankA whisper in my ear, so low and yetSo unmistakable!

After three years, this way, all unawares,

Our acting ended. She and I, at close

Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows

Of bending male and female loyalty,

Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high

At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare

Herald his passage from our palace, where

Such visiting left glory evermore.

Again the ascent in public, till at door

As we two stood by the saloon—now blank

And disencumbered of its guests—there sank

A whisper in my ear, so low and yet

So unmistakable!

"I half forgetThe chamber you repair to, and I wantOccasion for one short word—if you grantThat grace—within a certain room you calledOur 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawledSome paper full of faces for my sport.That room I can remember. Just one shortWord with you there, for the remembrance' sake!"

"I half forget

The chamber you repair to, and I want

Occasion for one short word—if you grant

That grace—within a certain room you called

Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled

Some paper full of faces for my sport.

That room I can remember. Just one short

Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!"

"Follow me thither!" I replied.

We breakThe gloom a little, as with guiding lampI lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by dampBlind disused serpentining ways afarFrom where the habitable chambers are,—Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,—Always in silence,—till I reach the loneChamber sepulchred for my very ownOut of the palace-quarry. When a boy,Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,Proof-positive of ownership; in youthI garnered up my gleanings here—uncouthBut precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;Finally, this became in after-yearsMy closet of entrenchment to withstandInvasion of the foe on every hand—Themultifarious herd in bower and hall,State-room,—rooms whatsoe'er the style, which callOn masters to be mindful that, beforeMen, they must look like men and something more.Here,—when our lord the king's bestowment ceasedTo deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,I touched ambition's height,—'t was here, releasedFrom glory (always symbolled by a chain!)No sooner was I privileged to gainMy secret domicile than glad I flungThat last toy on the table—gazed where hungOn hook my father's gift, the arquebus—And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thusThe new prize and the old prize, when I reachAnother year's experience?—own that eachEqualled advantage—sportsman's—statesman's tool?That brought me down an eagle, this—a fool!"

We break

The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp

I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp

Blind disused serpentining ways afar

From where the habitable chambers are,—

Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,—

Always in silence,—till I reach the lone

Chamber sepulchred for my very own

Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy,

Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,

Proof-positive of ownership; in youth

I garnered up my gleanings here—uncouth

But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;

Finally, this became in after-years

My closet of entrenchment to withstand

Invasion of the foe on every hand—The

multifarious herd in bower and hall,

State-room,—rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call

On masters to be mindful that, before

Men, they must look like men and something more.

Here,—when our lord the king's bestowment ceased

To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,

I touched ambition's height,—'t was here, released

From glory (always symbolled by a chain!)

No sooner was I privileged to gain

My secret domicile than glad I flung

That last toy on the table—gazed where hung

On hook my father's gift, the arquebus—

And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thus

The new prize and the old prize, when I reach

Another year's experience?—own that each

Equalled advantage—sportsman's—statesman's tool?

That brought me down an eagle, this—a fool!"

Into which room on entry, I set downThe lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gownHad told me my wife followed, pace for pace.Each of us looked the other in the face.She spoke. "Since I could die now "...

Into which room on entry, I set down

The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown

Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace.

Each of us looked the other in the face.

She spoke. "Since I could die now "...

(To explainWhy that first struck me, know—not once againSince the adventure at the porphyry's edgeThree years before, which sundered like a wedgeHer soul from mine,—though daily, smile to smile,We stood before the public,—all the whileNot once had I distinguished, in that faceI paid observance to, the faintest traceOf feature more than requisite for eyesTo do their duty by and recognize:So did I force mine to obey my willAnd pry no further. There exists such skill,—Those know who need it. What physician shrinksFrom needful contact with a corpse? He drinksNo plague so long as thirst for knowledge—notAn idler impulse—prompts inquiry. What,And will you disbelieve in power to bidOur spirit back to bounds, as though we chidA child from scrutiny that's just and rightIn manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,Reported daily she it was—not howNor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)

(To explain

Why that first struck me, know—not once again

Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge

Three years before, which sundered like a wedge

Her soul from mine,—though daily, smile to smile,

We stood before the public,—all the while

Not once had I distinguished, in that face

I paid observance to, the faintest trace

Of feature more than requisite for eyes

To do their duty by and recognize:

So did I force mine to obey my will

And pry no further. There exists such skill,—

Those know who need it. What physician shrinks

From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks

No plague so long as thirst for knowledge—not

An idler impulse—prompts inquiry. What,

And will you disbelieve in power to bid

Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid

A child from scrutiny that's just and right

In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,

Reported daily she it was—not how

Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)

"Since I could die now of the truth concealed,Yet dare not, must not die,—so seems revealedThe Virgin's mind to me,—for death means peaceWherein no lawful part have I, whose leaseOf life and punishment the truth avowedMay haply lengthen,—let me push the shroudAway, that steals to muffle ere is justMy penance-fire in snow! I dare—I mustLive, by avowal of the truth—this truth—I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's toothThat, by a prompt new pang more exquisiteThan all preceding torture, proves me right!I loved you yet I lost you! May I goBurn to the ashes, now my shame you know?"

"Since I could die now of the truth concealed,

Yet dare not, must not die,—so seems revealed

The Virgin's mind to me,—for death means peace

Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease

Of life and punishment the truth avowed

May haply lengthen,—let me push the shroud

Away, that steals to muffle ere is just

My penance-fire in snow! I dare—I must

Live, by avowal of the truth—this truth—

I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth

That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite

Than all preceding torture, proves me right!

I loved you yet I lost you! May I go

Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?"

I think there never was such—how express?—Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,As in those arms of Eastern workmanship—Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,Yet ever keep a beauty that betraysLove still at work with the artificerThroughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,Except for love's sake, that a blade should writheAnd bicker like a flame?—now play the scytheAs if some broad neck tempted,—now contractAnd needle off into a fineness lackedFor just that puncture which the heart demands?Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our handsEnclose not ivory alone, nor goldRoughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!Fancy my favorite—which I seem to graspWhile I describe the luxury. No aspIs diapered more delicate round throatThan this below the handle! These denote—These mazy lines meandering, to endOnly in flesh they open—what intendThey else but water-purlings—pale contrastWith the life-crimson where they blend at last?And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecksA grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specksPure from the mine: seen this way,—glassy blank,But turn them,—lo, the inmost fire, that shrankFrom sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the gameOf peaceful men is warlike, just as menWar-wearied get amusement from that penAnd paper we grow sick of—statesfolk tiredOf merely (when such measures are required)Dealing out doom to people by three words,A signature and seal: we play with swordsSuggestive of quick process. That is howI came to like the toys described you now,Store of which glittered on the walls and strewedThe table, even, while my wife pursuedHer purpose to its ending. "Now you knowThis shame, my three years' torture, let me go,Burn to the very ashes! You—I lost,Yet you—I loved!"

I think there never was such—how express?—

Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,

As in those arms of Eastern workmanship—

Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,

Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,

Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays

Love still at work with the artificer

Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,

Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe

And bicker like a flame?—now play the scythe

As if some broad neck tempted,—now contract

And needle off into a fineness lacked

For just that puncture which the heart demands?

Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands

Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold

Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!

Fancy my favorite—which I seem to grasp

While I describe the luxury. No asp

Is diapered more delicate round throat

Than this below the handle! These denote

—These mazy lines meandering, to end

Only in flesh they open—what intend

They else but water-purlings—pale contrast

With the life-crimson where they blend at last?

And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,

Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,

Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks

A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks

Pure from the mine: seen this way,—glassy blank,

But turn them,—lo, the inmost fire, that shrank

From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!

Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game

Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men

War-wearied get amusement from that pen

And paper we grow sick of—statesfolk tired

Of merely (when such measures are required)

Dealing out doom to people by three words,

A signature and seal: we play with swords

Suggestive of quick process. That is how

I came to like the toys described you now,

Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed

The table, even, while my wife pursued

Her purpose to its ending. "Now you know

This shame, my three years' torture, let me go,

Burn to the very ashes! You—I lost,

Yet you—I loved!"

The thing I pity mostIn men is—action prompted by surpriseOf anger: men? nay, bulls—whose onset liesAt instance of the firework and the goad!Once the foe prostrate,—trampling once bestowed,—Prompt follows placability, regret,Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yetBetokened strong will! As no leap of pulsePricked me, that first time, so did none convulseMy veins at this occasion for resolve.Had that devolved which did not then devolveUpon me, I had done—what now to doWas quietly apparent.

The thing I pity most

In men is—action prompted by surprise

Of anger: men? nay, bulls—whose onset lies

At instance of the firework and the goad!

Once the foe prostrate,—trampling once bestowed,—

Prompt follows placability, regret,

Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet

Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse

Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse

My veins at this occasion for resolve.

Had that devolved which did not then devolve

Upon me, I had done—what now to do

Was quietly apparent.

"Tell me whoThe man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!""No, never! All was folly in his case,All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied."

"Tell me who

The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!"

"No, never! All was folly in his case,

All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied."

"And yet you loved me?"

"Loved you. Double-dyedIn folly and in guilt, I thought you gaveYour heart and soul away from me to slaveAt statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,What you rejected could be prized beyondLife, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fondLook on, a fatal word to."

"Loved you. Double-dyed

In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave

Your heart and soul away from me to slave

At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,

I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,

What you rejected could be prized beyond

Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond

Look on, a fatal word to."

"And you stillLove me? Do I conjecture well or ill?"

"And you still

Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?"

"Conjecture—well or ill! I had three yearsTo spend in learning you."

"Conjecture—well or ill! I had three years

To spend in learning you."

"We both are peersIn knowledge, therefore: since three years are spentEre thus much of yourselfIlearn—who wentBack to the house, that day, and brought my mindTo bear upon your action, uncombinedMotive from motive, till the dross, deprivedOf every purer particle, survivedAt last in native simple hideousness,Utter contemptibility, nor lessNor more. Contemptibility—exemptHow could I, from its proper due—contempt?I have too much despised you to divertMy life from its set course by help or hurtOf your all-despicable life—perturbThe calm I work in, by—men's mouths to curb,Which at such news were clamorous enough—Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuffWith the huge hole there, my emblazoned wallBlank where a scutcheon hung,—by, worse than all,Each day's procession, my paraded lifeRobbed and impoverished through the wanting wife—Now that my life (which means—my work) was grownRiches indeed! Once, just this worth aloneSeemed work to have, that profit gained therebyOf good and praise would—how rewardingly!—Fall at your feet,—a crown I hoped to castBefore your love, my love should crown at last.No love remaining to cast crown before,My love stopped work now: but contempt the moreImpelled me task as ever head and hand,Because the very fiends weave ropes of sandRather than taste pure hell in idleness.Therefore I kept my memory down by stressOf daily work I had no mind to stayFor the world's wonder at the wife away.Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,For I despised you! But your words retrieveImportantly the past. No hate assumedThe mask of love at any time! There gloomedA moment when love took hate's semblance, urgedBy causes you declare; but love's self purgedAway a fancied wrong I did both loves—Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves,Purgation was attempted. Then, you riseHigh by how many a grade! I did despise—I do but hate you. Let hate's punishmentReplace contempt's! First step to which ascent—Write down your own words I re-utter you!'I loved my husband and I hated—whoHe was, I took up as my first chance, mereMud-ball to fling and make love foul with!' HereLies paper!"

"We both are peers

In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent

Ere thus much of yourselfIlearn—who went

Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind

To bear upon your action, uncombined

Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived

Of every purer particle, survived

At last in native simple hideousness,

Utter contemptibility, nor less

Nor more. Contemptibility—exempt

How could I, from its proper due—contempt?

I have too much despised you to divert

My life from its set course by help or hurt

Of your all-despicable life—perturb

The calm I work in, by—men's mouths to curb,

Which at such news were clamorous enough—

Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff

With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall

Blank where a scutcheon hung,—by, worse than all,

Each day's procession, my paraded life

Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife

—Now that my life (which means—my work) was grown

Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone

Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby

Of good and praise would—how rewardingly!—

Fall at your feet,—a crown I hoped to cast

Before your love, my love should crown at last.

No love remaining to cast crown before,

My love stopped work now: but contempt the more

Impelled me task as ever head and hand,

Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand

Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.

Therefore I kept my memory down by stress

Of daily work I had no mind to stay

For the world's wonder at the wife away.

Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,

For I despised you! But your words retrieve

Importantly the past. No hate assumed

The mask of love at any time! There gloomed

A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged

By causes you declare; but love's self purged

Away a fancied wrong I did both loves

—Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves,

Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise

High by how many a grade! I did despise—

I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment

Replace contempt's! First step to which ascent—

Write down your own words I re-utter you!

'I loved my husband and I hated—who

He was, I took up as my first chance, mere

Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!' Here

Lies paper!"

"Would my blood for ink suffice!"

"It may: this minion from a land of spice,Silk, feather—every bird of jewelled breast—This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prestAbove your heart there"...

"It may: this minion from a land of spice,

Silk, feather—every bird of jewelled breast—

This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest

Above your heart there"...

"Thus?"

"It flows, I see.Dip there the point and write!"

"It flows, I see.

Dip there the point and write!"

"Dictate to me!Nay, I remember."

"Dictate to me!

Nay, I remember."

And she wrote the words,I read them. Then—"Since love, in you, affordsLicense for hate, in me, to quench (I say)Contempt—why, hate itself has passed awayIn vengeance—foreign to contempt. DepartPeacefully to that death which Eastern artImbued this weapon with, if tales be true!Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you—Dead in our chamber!"

And she wrote the words,

I read them. Then—"Since love, in you, affords

License for hate, in me, to quench (I say)

Contempt—why, hate itself has passed away

In vengeance—foreign to contempt. Depart

Peacefully to that death which Eastern art

Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true!

Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you—

Dead in our chamber!"

True as truth the tale.She died ere morning; then, I saw how paleHer cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erstBeloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

True as truth the tale.

She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale

Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,

And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,

Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst

Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

ImmersedIn thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps—Still plain I seem to see!—about his headThe idle cloak,—about his heart (insteadOf cuirass) some fond hope he may eludeMy vengeance in the cloister's solitude?Hardly, I think! As little helped his browThe cloak then, Father—as your grate helps me now!

Immersed

In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?

For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps

—Still plain I seem to see!—about his head

The idle cloak,—about his heart (instead

Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude

My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?

Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow

The cloak then, Father—as your grate helps me now!

Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato.—Italian Proverb.

Mr. Buxton Forman, the editor of Shelley, upon asking Browning the precise value attached to the terminalajain the title of his poem, received the following answer:—

"19Warwick Crescent, W.,July 27, '76.

"Dear Mr. Buxton Forman:There can be no objection to such a simple statement as you have inserted, if it seems worth inserting. 'Fact,' it is. Next: 'aia' is generally an accumulative yet depreciative termination: 'Cenciaja'—a bundle of rags—a trifle. The proverb means 'every poor creature will be pressing into the company of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended anything of the kind. Is it any contribution to 'all connected with Shelley,' if I mention that my 'Book' (The Ring and the Book) [rather the 'old square yellow book' from which the details were taken] has a reference to the reason given by Farinacci, the advocate of the Cenci, of his failure in the defence of Beatrice? 'Fuisse punitam Beatricem (he declares) poenâ ultimi supplicii, non quia ex intervallo occidi mandavit insidiantem suo honori, sed quia ejus exceptionem non probavi tibi.Prout, et idem firmiter sperabatur de sorore Beatrice si propositam excusationem probasset, prout non probavit.' That is, she expected to avow the main outrage, and did not: in conformity with her words, 'That which I ought to confess, that will I confess; that to which I ought to assent, to that I assent; and that which I ought to deny, that will I deny.' Here is another Cenciaja!

"Yours very sincerely,Robert Browning."

May I print, Shelley, how it came to passThat when your Beatrice seemed—by lapseOf many a long month since her sentence fell—Assured of pardon for the parricide—By intercession of stanch friends, or, say,By certain pricks of conscience in the PopeConniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,—Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew"Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent,But said these three words coldly 'She must die;'Subjoining 'Pardon? Paolo Santa CroceMurdered his mother also yestereve.And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!'"—So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled?Shelley, may I condense verbosityThat lies before me, into some few wordsOf English, and illustrate your superbAchievement by a rescued anecdote,No great things, only new and true beside?As if some mere familiar of a houseShould venture to accost the group at gazeBefore its Titian, famed the wide world through,And supplement such pictured masterpieceBy whisper, "Searching in the archives here,I found the reason of the Lady's fate,And how by accident it came to passShe wears the halo and displays the palm:Who, haply, else had never suffered—no,Nor graced our gallery, by consequence."Who loved the work would like the little news:Who lauds your poem lends an ear to meRelating how the penalty was paidBy one Marchese dell' Oriolo, calledOnofrio Santa Croce otherwise,For his complicity in matricideWith Paolo his own brother,—he whose crimeAnd flight induced "those three words—She must die."Thus I unroll you then the manuscript."God's justice"—(of the multiplicityOf such communications extant still,Recording, each, injustice done by GodIn person of his Vicar-upon-earth,Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)—"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,Rests never on the track until it reachDelinquency. In proof I cite the easeOf Paolo Santa Croce."Many timesThe youngster,—having been importunateThat Marchesine Costanza, who remainedHis widowed mother, should supplant the heirHer elder son, and substitute himselfIn sole possession of her faculty,—And meeting just as often with rebuff,—Blinded by so exorbitant a lustOf gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits,Casting about to kill the lady—thus.He first, to cover his iniquity,Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, thenAuthoritative lord, acquainting himTheir mother was contamination—wroughtLike hell-fire in the beauty of their HouseBy dissoluteness and abandonmentOf soul and body to impure delight.Moreover, since she suffered from disease,Those symptoms which her death made manifestHydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sinAbout to bring confusion and disgraceUpon the ancient lineage and high fameO' the family, when published. Duty bound,He asked his brother—what a son should do?Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heardBy letter, being absent at his landOriolo, he made answer, this, no more:"It must behoove a son,—things haply so,—To act as honor prompts a cavalierAnd son, perform his duty to all three,Mother and brothers"—here advice broke off.By which advice informed and fortifiedAs he professed himself—since bound by birthTo hear God's voice in primogeniture—Paolo, who kept his mother companyIn her domain Subiaco, straightway daredHis whole enormity of enterprise,And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead;Whose death demonstrated her innocence,And happened,—by the way,—since Jesus ChristDied to save man, just sixteen hundred years.Costanza was of aspect beautifulExceedingly, and seemed, although in ageSixty about, to far surpass her peersThe coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace.Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight,Foiling thereby the justice of the world:Not God's however,—God, be sure, knows wellThe way to clutch a culprit. Witness here!The present sinner, when he least expects,Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate,Stumbles upon his death by violence.A man of blood assaults a man of bloodAnd slays him somehow. This was afterward:Enough, he promptly met with his deserts,And, ending thus, permits we end with him,And push forthwith to this important point—His matricide fell out, of all the days,Precisely when the law-procedure closedRespecting Count Francesco Cenci's deathChargeable on his daughter, sons and wife."Thus patricide was matched with matricide,"A poet not inelegantly rhymed:Nay, fratricide—those Princes Massimi!—Which so disturbed the spirit of the PopeThat all the likelihood Rome entertainedOf Beatrice's pardon vanished straight,And she endured the piteous death.Now seeThe sequel—what effect commandment hadFor strict inquiry into this last case,When Cardinal Aldobrandini (greatHis efficacy—nephew to the Pope!)Was bidden crush—ay, though his very handGot soil i' the act—crime spawning everywhere!Because, when all endeavor had been usedTo catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain—"Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence,"Throughout his now deserted domicile!Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to findIf haply any scrap of writing, hidIn nook or corner, may convict—who knows?—Brother Onofrio of intelligenceWith brother Paolo, as in brotherhoodIs but too likely: crime spawns everywhere."And, every cranny searched accordingly,There comes to light—O lynx-eyed Cardinal!—Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap,The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer,The word of counsel that—things proving so,Paolo should act the proper knightly part,And do as was incumbent on a son,A brother—and a man of birth, be sure!Whereat immediately the officersProceeded to arrest Onofrio—foundAt football, child's play, unaware of harm,Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seatMonte Giordano; as he left the houseHe came upon the watch in wait for himSet by the Barigel,—was caught and caged.News of which capture being, that same hour,Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our EminenceCommands Taverna, Governor and Judge,To have the process in especial care,Be, first to last, not only presidentIn person, but inquisitor as well,Nor trust the by-work to a substitute:Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrubThe floor of Justice, so to speak,—go tryHis best in prison with the criminal:Promising, as reward for by-work doneFairly on all-fours, that, success obtainedAnd crime avowed, or such connivencyWith crime as should procure a decent death—Himself will humbly beg—which means, procure—The Hat and Purple from his relativeThe Pope, and so repay a diligenceWhich, meritorious in the Cenci-case,Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat.Whereupon did my lord the GovernorSo masterfully exercise the taskEnjoined him, that he, day by day, and weekBy week, and month by month, from first to lastToiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place,Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post,Inquisitor—pressed cushion and scoured plank.Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill,Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends!So that observers laughed as, many a day,He left home, in July when day is flame,Posted to Tordinona-prison, plungedInto a vault where daylong night is ice,There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content,Examining Onofrio: all the stressOf all examination steadilyConverging into one pin-point,—he pushedTentative now of head and now of heart.As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nutThis side and that side till the kernel sound,—So did he press the sole and single point—What was the very meaning of the phrase"Do as beseems an honored cavalier"?Which one persistent question-torture,—pliedDay by day, week by week, and month by month,Morn, noon and night,—fatigued away a mindGrown imbecile by darkness, solitude,And one vivacious memory gnawing thereAs when a corpse is coffined with a snake:—Fatigued Onofrio into what might seemAdmission that perchance his judgment gropedSo blindly, feeling for an issue—aughtWith semblance of an issue from the toilsCast of a sudden round feet late so free,He possibly might have envisaged, scarceRecoiled from—even were the issue death—Even her death whose life was death and worse!Always provided that the charge of crime,Each jot and tittle of the charge were true.In such a sense, belike, he might adviseHis brother to expurgate crime with ... well,With Wood, if blood must follow on "the courseTaken as might beseem a cavalier."Whereupon process ended, and reportWas made without a minute of delayTo Clement, who, because of those two crimesO' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late,Must needs impatiently desire result.Result obtained, he bade the GovernorSummon the Congregation and despatch.Summons made, sentence passed accordingly—Death by beheading. When his death-decreeWas intimated to Onofrio, allMan could do—that did he to save himself.'Twas much, the having gained for his defenceThe Advocate o' the Poor, with natural helpOf many noble friendly persons fainTo disengage a man of family,So young too, from his grim entanglement:But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruledThere must be no diversion of the law.Justice is justice, and the magistrateBears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.So, the Marchese had his head cut off,With Rome to see, a concourse infinite,In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge:Where, demonstrating magnanimityAdequate to his birth and breed,—poor boy!—He made the people the accustomed speech,Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works,And special good behavior as regardsA parent of no matter what the sex,Bidding each son take warning from himself.Truly, it was considered in the boyStark staring lunacy, no less, to snapSo plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashoreBy such an angler as the Cardinal!Why make confession of his privityTo Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips—Or, better, saying "When I counselled him'To do as might beseem a cavalier,'What could I mean but 'Hide our parent's shameAs Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church!Bury it in a convent—ay, beneathEnough dotation to prevent its ghostFrom troubling earth!'" Mere saying thus,—'t is plain,Hot only were his life the recompense.But he had manifestly proved himselfTrue Christian, and in lieu of punishmentGot praise of all men!—so the populace.Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear)And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much,A Cardinal's equipment, some such wordAs this from mouth to ear went saucily:"Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drewFrom Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world.I add: Onofrio left one child behind,A daughter named Valeria, dowered with graceAbundantly of soul and body, doomedTo life the shorter for her father's fate.By death of her, the Marquisate returnedTo that Orsini House from whence it came:Oriolo having passed as donativeTo Santa Croce from their ancestors.And no word more? By all means! Would you knowThe authoritative answer, when folk urged"What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch,Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?"The answer was—"Hatred implacable,By reason they were rivals in their love."The Cardinal's desire was to a dameWhose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride,The simpleton must ostentatiouslyDisplay a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift,Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage;Which ring on finger, as he put forth handTo draw a tapestry, the CardinalSaw and knew, gift and owner, old and young;Whereon a fury entered him—the fireHe quenched with what could quench fire only—blood.Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot,The unwise boy, a certain festal eve,Feigned ignorance of who the wight might beThat pressed too closely on him with a crowd.He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then,To put a face upon the incident,Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay courtI' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend,Ye youth, by this example how may greedVainglorious operate in worldly souls!"So ends the chronicler, beginning with"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,Rests never till it reach delinquency."Ay, or how otherwise had come to passThat Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass

That when your Beatrice seemed—by lapse

Of many a long month since her sentence fell—

Assured of pardon for the parricide—

By intercession of stanch friends, or, say,

By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope

Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,—

Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew

"Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent,

But said these three words coldly 'She must die;'

Subjoining 'Pardon? Paolo Santa Croce

Murdered his mother also yestereve.

And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!'"

—So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled?

Shelley, may I condense verbosity

That lies before me, into some few words

Of English, and illustrate your superb

Achievement by a rescued anecdote,

No great things, only new and true beside?

As if some mere familiar of a house

Should venture to accost the group at gaze

Before its Titian, famed the wide world through,

And supplement such pictured masterpiece

By whisper, "Searching in the archives here,

I found the reason of the Lady's fate,

And how by accident it came to pass

She wears the halo and displays the palm:

Who, haply, else had never suffered—no,

Nor graced our gallery, by consequence."

Who loved the work would like the little news:

Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me

Relating how the penalty was paid

By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called

Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise,

For his complicity in matricide

With Paolo his own brother,—he whose crime

And flight induced "those three words—She must die."

Thus I unroll you then the manuscript.

"God's justice"—(of the multiplicityOf such communications extant still,Recording, each, injustice done by GodIn person of his Vicar-upon-earth,Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)—"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,Rests never on the track until it reachDelinquency. In proof I cite the easeOf Paolo Santa Croce."

"God's justice"—(of the multiplicity

Of such communications extant still,

Recording, each, injustice done by God

In person of his Vicar-upon-earth,

Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)—

"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,

Rests never on the track until it reach

Delinquency. In proof I cite the ease

Of Paolo Santa Croce."

Many timesThe youngster,—having been importunateThat Marchesine Costanza, who remainedHis widowed mother, should supplant the heirHer elder son, and substitute himselfIn sole possession of her faculty,—And meeting just as often with rebuff,—Blinded by so exorbitant a lustOf gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits,Casting about to kill the lady—thus.

Many times

The youngster,—having been importunate

That Marchesine Costanza, who remained

His widowed mother, should supplant the heir

Her elder son, and substitute himself

In sole possession of her faculty,—

And meeting just as often with rebuff,—

Blinded by so exorbitant a lust

Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits,

Casting about to kill the lady—thus.

He first, to cover his iniquity,Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, thenAuthoritative lord, acquainting himTheir mother was contamination—wroughtLike hell-fire in the beauty of their HouseBy dissoluteness and abandonmentOf soul and body to impure delight.

He first, to cover his iniquity,

Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then

Authoritative lord, acquainting him

Their mother was contamination—wrought

Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House

By dissoluteness and abandonment

Of soul and body to impure delight.

Moreover, since she suffered from disease,Those symptoms which her death made manifestHydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sinAbout to bring confusion and disgraceUpon the ancient lineage and high fameO' the family, when published. Duty bound,He asked his brother—what a son should do?

Moreover, since she suffered from disease,

Those symptoms which her death made manifest

Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin

About to bring confusion and disgrace

Upon the ancient lineage and high fame

O' the family, when published. Duty bound,

He asked his brother—what a son should do?

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heardBy letter, being absent at his landOriolo, he made answer, this, no more:"It must behoove a son,—things haply so,—To act as honor prompts a cavalierAnd son, perform his duty to all three,Mother and brothers"—here advice broke off.

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard

By letter, being absent at his land

Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more:

"It must behoove a son,—things haply so,—

To act as honor prompts a cavalier

And son, perform his duty to all three,

Mother and brothers"—here advice broke off.

By which advice informed and fortifiedAs he professed himself—since bound by birthTo hear God's voice in primogeniture—Paolo, who kept his mother companyIn her domain Subiaco, straightway daredHis whole enormity of enterprise,And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead;Whose death demonstrated her innocence,And happened,—by the way,—since Jesus ChristDied to save man, just sixteen hundred years.Costanza was of aspect beautifulExceedingly, and seemed, although in ageSixty about, to far surpass her peersThe coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace.

By which advice informed and fortified

As he professed himself—since bound by birth

To hear God's voice in primogeniture—

Paolo, who kept his mother company

In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared

His whole enormity of enterprise,

And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead;

Whose death demonstrated her innocence,

And happened,—by the way,—since Jesus Christ

Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years.

Costanza was of aspect beautiful

Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age

Sixty about, to far surpass her peers

The coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace.

Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight,Foiling thereby the justice of the world:Not God's however,—God, be sure, knows wellThe way to clutch a culprit. Witness here!The present sinner, when he least expects,Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate,Stumbles upon his death by violence.A man of blood assaults a man of bloodAnd slays him somehow. This was afterward:Enough, he promptly met with his deserts,And, ending thus, permits we end with him,And push forthwith to this important point—His matricide fell out, of all the days,Precisely when the law-procedure closedRespecting Count Francesco Cenci's deathChargeable on his daughter, sons and wife."Thus patricide was matched with matricide,"A poet not inelegantly rhymed:Nay, fratricide—those Princes Massimi!—Which so disturbed the spirit of the PopeThat all the likelihood Rome entertainedOf Beatrice's pardon vanished straight,And she endured the piteous death.

Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight,

Foiling thereby the justice of the world:

Not God's however,—God, be sure, knows well

The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here!

The present sinner, when he least expects,

Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate,

Stumbles upon his death by violence.

A man of blood assaults a man of blood

And slays him somehow. This was afterward:

Enough, he promptly met with his deserts,

And, ending thus, permits we end with him,

And push forthwith to this important point—

His matricide fell out, of all the days,

Precisely when the law-procedure closed

Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death

Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife.

"Thus patricide was matched with matricide,"

A poet not inelegantly rhymed:

Nay, fratricide—those Princes Massimi!—

Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope

That all the likelihood Rome entertained

Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight,

And she endured the piteous death.

Now seeThe sequel—what effect commandment hadFor strict inquiry into this last case,When Cardinal Aldobrandini (greatHis efficacy—nephew to the Pope!)Was bidden crush—ay, though his very handGot soil i' the act—crime spawning everywhere!Because, when all endeavor had been usedTo catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain—"Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence,"Throughout his now deserted domicile!Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to findIf haply any scrap of writing, hidIn nook or corner, may convict—who knows?—Brother Onofrio of intelligenceWith brother Paolo, as in brotherhoodIs but too likely: crime spawns everywhere."

Now see

The sequel—what effect commandment had

For strict inquiry into this last case,

When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great

His efficacy—nephew to the Pope!)

Was bidden crush—ay, though his very hand

Got soil i' the act—crime spawning everywhere!

Because, when all endeavor had been used

To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain—

"Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence,

"Throughout his now deserted domicile!

Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find

If haply any scrap of writing, hid

In nook or corner, may convict—who knows?—

Brother Onofrio of intelligence

With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood

Is but too likely: crime spawns everywhere."

And, every cranny searched accordingly,There comes to light—O lynx-eyed Cardinal!—Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap,The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer,The word of counsel that—things proving so,Paolo should act the proper knightly part,And do as was incumbent on a son,A brother—and a man of birth, be sure!

And, every cranny searched accordingly,

There comes to light—O lynx-eyed Cardinal!—

Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap,

The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer,

The word of counsel that—things proving so,

Paolo should act the proper knightly part,

And do as was incumbent on a son,

A brother—and a man of birth, be sure!

Whereat immediately the officersProceeded to arrest Onofrio—foundAt football, child's play, unaware of harm,Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seatMonte Giordano; as he left the houseHe came upon the watch in wait for himSet by the Barigel,—was caught and caged.

Whereat immediately the officers

Proceeded to arrest Onofrio—found

At football, child's play, unaware of harm,

Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat

Monte Giordano; as he left the house

He came upon the watch in wait for him

Set by the Barigel,—was caught and caged.

News of which capture being, that same hour,Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our EminenceCommands Taverna, Governor and Judge,To have the process in especial care,Be, first to last, not only presidentIn person, but inquisitor as well,Nor trust the by-work to a substitute:Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrubThe floor of Justice, so to speak,—go tryHis best in prison with the criminal:Promising, as reward for by-work doneFairly on all-fours, that, success obtainedAnd crime avowed, or such connivencyWith crime as should procure a decent death—Himself will humbly beg—which means, procure—The Hat and Purple from his relativeThe Pope, and so repay a diligenceWhich, meritorious in the Cenci-case,Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat.

News of which capture being, that same hour,

Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence

Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge,

To have the process in especial care,

Be, first to last, not only president

In person, but inquisitor as well,

Nor trust the by-work to a substitute:

Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub

The floor of Justice, so to speak,—go try

His best in prison with the criminal:

Promising, as reward for by-work done

Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained

And crime avowed, or such connivency

With crime as should procure a decent death—

Himself will humbly beg—which means, procure—

The Hat and Purple from his relative

The Pope, and so repay a diligence

Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case,

Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat.

Whereupon did my lord the GovernorSo masterfully exercise the taskEnjoined him, that he, day by day, and weekBy week, and month by month, from first to lastToiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place,Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post,Inquisitor—pressed cushion and scoured plank.Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill,Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends!So that observers laughed as, many a day,He left home, in July when day is flame,Posted to Tordinona-prison, plungedInto a vault where daylong night is ice,There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content,Examining Onofrio: all the stressOf all examination steadilyConverging into one pin-point,—he pushedTentative now of head and now of heart.As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nutThis side and that side till the kernel sound,—So did he press the sole and single point—What was the very meaning of the phrase"Do as beseems an honored cavalier"?

Whereupon did my lord the Governor

So masterfully exercise the task

Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week

By week, and month by month, from first to last

Toiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place,

Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post,

Inquisitor—pressed cushion and scoured plank.

Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill,

Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends!

So that observers laughed as, many a day,

He left home, in July when day is flame,

Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged

Into a vault where daylong night is ice,

There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content,

Examining Onofrio: all the stress

Of all examination steadily

Converging into one pin-point,—he pushed

Tentative now of head and now of heart.

As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut

This side and that side till the kernel sound,—

So did he press the sole and single point

—What was the very meaning of the phrase

"Do as beseems an honored cavalier"?

Which one persistent question-torture,—pliedDay by day, week by week, and month by month,Morn, noon and night,—fatigued away a mindGrown imbecile by darkness, solitude,And one vivacious memory gnawing thereAs when a corpse is coffined with a snake:—Fatigued Onofrio into what might seemAdmission that perchance his judgment gropedSo blindly, feeling for an issue—aughtWith semblance of an issue from the toilsCast of a sudden round feet late so free,He possibly might have envisaged, scarceRecoiled from—even were the issue death—Even her death whose life was death and worse!Always provided that the charge of crime,Each jot and tittle of the charge were true.In such a sense, belike, he might adviseHis brother to expurgate crime with ... well,With Wood, if blood must follow on "the courseTaken as might beseem a cavalier."

Which one persistent question-torture,—plied

Day by day, week by week, and month by month,

Morn, noon and night,—fatigued away a mind

Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude,

And one vivacious memory gnawing there

As when a corpse is coffined with a snake:

—Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem

Admission that perchance his judgment groped

So blindly, feeling for an issue—aught

With semblance of an issue from the toils

Cast of a sudden round feet late so free,

He possibly might have envisaged, scarce

Recoiled from—even were the issue death

—Even her death whose life was death and worse!

Always provided that the charge of crime,

Each jot and tittle of the charge were true.

In such a sense, belike, he might advise

His brother to expurgate crime with ... well,

With Wood, if blood must follow on "the course

Taken as might beseem a cavalier."

Whereupon process ended, and reportWas made without a minute of delayTo Clement, who, because of those two crimesO' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late,Must needs impatiently desire result.

Whereupon process ended, and report

Was made without a minute of delay

To Clement, who, because of those two crimes

O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late,

Must needs impatiently desire result.

Result obtained, he bade the GovernorSummon the Congregation and despatch.Summons made, sentence passed accordingly—Death by beheading. When his death-decreeWas intimated to Onofrio, allMan could do—that did he to save himself.'Twas much, the having gained for his defenceThe Advocate o' the Poor, with natural helpOf many noble friendly persons fainTo disengage a man of family,So young too, from his grim entanglement:But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruledThere must be no diversion of the law.Justice is justice, and the magistrateBears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.

Result obtained, he bade the Governor

Summon the Congregation and despatch.

Summons made, sentence passed accordingly

—Death by beheading. When his death-decree

Was intimated to Onofrio, all

Man could do—that did he to save himself.

'Twas much, the having gained for his defence

The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help

Of many noble friendly persons fain

To disengage a man of family,

So young too, from his grim entanglement:

But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled

There must be no diversion of the law.

Justice is justice, and the magistrate

Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.

So, the Marchese had his head cut off,With Rome to see, a concourse infinite,In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge:Where, demonstrating magnanimityAdequate to his birth and breed,—poor boy!—He made the people the accustomed speech,Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works,And special good behavior as regardsA parent of no matter what the sex,Bidding each son take warning from himself.Truly, it was considered in the boyStark staring lunacy, no less, to snapSo plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashoreBy such an angler as the Cardinal!Why make confession of his privityTo Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips—Or, better, saying "When I counselled him'To do as might beseem a cavalier,'What could I mean but 'Hide our parent's shameAs Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church!Bury it in a convent—ay, beneathEnough dotation to prevent its ghostFrom troubling earth!'" Mere saying thus,—'t is plain,Hot only were his life the recompense.But he had manifestly proved himselfTrue Christian, and in lieu of punishmentGot praise of all men!—so the populace.

So, the Marchese had his head cut off,

With Rome to see, a concourse infinite,

In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge:

Where, demonstrating magnanimity

Adequate to his birth and breed,—poor boy!—

He made the people the accustomed speech,

Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works,

And special good behavior as regards

A parent of no matter what the sex,

Bidding each son take warning from himself.

Truly, it was considered in the boy

Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap

So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore

By such an angler as the Cardinal!

Why make confession of his privity

To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips—

Or, better, saying "When I counselled him

'To do as might beseem a cavalier,'

What could I mean but 'Hide our parent's shame

As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church!

Bury it in a convent—ay, beneath

Enough dotation to prevent its ghost

From troubling earth!'" Mere saying thus,—'t is plain,

Hot only were his life the recompense.

But he had manifestly proved himself

True Christian, and in lieu of punishment

Got praise of all men!—so the populace.

Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear)And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much,A Cardinal's equipment, some such wordAs this from mouth to ear went saucily:"Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drewFrom Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world.

Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good

(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear)

And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much,

A Cardinal's equipment, some such word

As this from mouth to ear went saucily:

"Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew

From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world.

I add: Onofrio left one child behind,A daughter named Valeria, dowered with graceAbundantly of soul and body, doomedTo life the shorter for her father's fate.By death of her, the Marquisate returnedTo that Orsini House from whence it came:Oriolo having passed as donativeTo Santa Croce from their ancestors.

I add: Onofrio left one child behind,

A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace

Abundantly of soul and body, doomed

To life the shorter for her father's fate.

By death of her, the Marquisate returned

To that Orsini House from whence it came:

Oriolo having passed as donative

To Santa Croce from their ancestors.

And no word more? By all means! Would you knowThe authoritative answer, when folk urged"What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch,Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?"The answer was—"Hatred implacable,By reason they were rivals in their love."The Cardinal's desire was to a dameWhose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride,The simpleton must ostentatiouslyDisplay a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift,Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage;Which ring on finger, as he put forth handTo draw a tapestry, the CardinalSaw and knew, gift and owner, old and young;Whereon a fury entered him—the fireHe quenched with what could quench fire only—blood.Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot,The unwise boy, a certain festal eve,Feigned ignorance of who the wight might beThat pressed too closely on him with a crowd.He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then,To put a face upon the incident,Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay courtI' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend,Ye youth, by this example how may greedVainglorious operate in worldly souls!"

And no word more? By all means! Would you know

The authoritative answer, when folk urged

"What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch,

Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?"

The answer was—"Hatred implacable,

By reason they were rivals in their love."

The Cardinal's desire was to a dame

Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride,

The simpleton must ostentatiously

Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift,

Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage;

Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand

To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal

Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young;

Whereon a fury entered him—the fire

He quenched with what could quench fire only—blood.

Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot,

The unwise boy, a certain festal eve,

Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be

That pressed too closely on him with a crowd.

He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then,

To put a face upon the incident,

Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court

I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend,

Ye youth, by this example how may greed

Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!"

So ends the chronicler, beginning with"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,Rests never till it reach delinquency."Ay, or how otherwise had come to passThat Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

So ends the chronicler, beginning with

"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,

Rests never till it reach delinquency."

Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass

That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

A REMINISCENCE OF A. D. 1676

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