Chapter 61

The cause thus carried to the courts at Rome,Guido away, the Abate had no choiceBut stand forth, take his absent brother's part,Defend the honor of himself beside.He made what head he might against the pair,Maintained Pompilia's birth legitimateAnd all her rights intact—hers, Guido's now:And so far by his policy turned their flank,(The enemy being beforehand in the place)That,—though the courts allowed the cheat for fact,Suffered Violante to parade her shame,Publish her infamy to heart's content,And let the tale o' the feigned birth pass for proved,—Yet they stopped there, refused to interveneAnd dispossess the innocents, befooledBy gifts o' the guilty, at guilt's new caprice.They would not take away the dowry nowWrongfully given at first, nor bar at allSuccession to the aforesaid usufruct,Established on a fraud, nor play the gameOf Pietro's child and now not Pietro's childAs it might suit the gamester's purpose. ThusWas justice ever ridiculed in Rome:Such be the double verdicts favored hereWhich send away both parties to a suitNor puffed up nor cast down,—for each a crumbOf right, for neither of them the whole loaf.Whence, on the Comparini's part, appeal—Counter-appeal on Guido's,—that 's the game:And so the matter stands, even to this hour,Bandied as balls are in a tennis-court,And so might stand, unless some heart broke first,Till doomsday.Leave it thus, and now revertTo the old Arezzo whence we moved to Rome.We 've had enough o' the parents, false or true,Now for a touch o' the daughter's quality.The start 's fair henceforth, every obstacleOut of the young wife's footpath, she 's alone,Left to walk warily now: how does she walk?Why, once a dwelling's threshold marked and crossedIn rubric by the enemy on his roundsAs eligible, as fit place of prey,Baffle him henceforth, keep him out who can!Stop up the door at the first hint of hoof,Presently at the window taps a horn,And Satan 's by your fireside, never fear!Pompilia, left alone now, found herself;Found herself young too, sprightly, fair enough,Matched with a husband old beyond his age(Though that was something like four times her own)Because of cares past, present and to come:Found too the house dull and its inmates dead,So, looked outside for light and life.And loveDid in a trice turn up with life and light,—The man with the aureole, sympathy made flesh,The all-consoling Caponsacchi, Sir!A priest—what else should the consoler be?With goodly shoulder-blade and proper leg,A portly make and a symmetric shape,And curls that clustered to the tonsure quite.This was a bishop in the bud, and nowA canon full-blown so far: priest, and priestNowise exorbitantly overworked,The courtly Christian, not so much Saint PaulAs a saint of Cæsar's household: there posed heSending his god-glance after his shot shaft,Apollos turned Apollo, while the snakePompilia writhed transfixed through all her spires.He, not a visitor at Guido's house,Scarce an acquaintance, but in prime requestWith the magnates of Arezzo, was seen here,Heard there, felt everywhere in Guido's pathIf Guido's wife's path be her husband's too.Now he threw comfits at the theatreInto her lap,—what harm in Carnival?Now he pressed close till his foot touched her gown,His hand brushed hers,—how help on promenade?And, ever on weighty business, found his stepsIncline to a certain haunt of doubtful fameWhich fronted Guido's palace by mere chance;While—how do accidents sometimes combine!—Pompilia chose to cloister up her charmsJust in a chamber that o'erlooked the street,Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind.This passage of arms and wits amused the town.At last the husband lifted eyebrow,—bentOn day-book and the study how to wringHalf the due vintage from the worn-out vinesAt the villa, tease a quarter the old rentFrom the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon,—Pricked up his ear a-singing day and nightWith "ruin, ruin;"—and so surprised at last—Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps.Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange,Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rifeIn his head at once again are word and wink,Mumhere andbudgetthere, the smell o' the fox,The musk o' the gallant. "Friends, there 's falseness here!"The proper help of friends in such a straitIs waggery, the world over. Laugh him freeO' the regular jealous-fit that 's incidentTo all old husbands that wed brisk young wives,And he 'll go duly docile all his days."Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when?How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care!Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it,Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself.And—what, it 's Caponsacchi means you harm?The Canon? We caress him, he 's the world's,A man of such acceptance,—never dream,Though he were fifty times the fox you fear,He 'd risk his brush for your particular chick,When the wide town 's his hen-roost! Fie o' the fool!"So they dispensed their comfort of a kind.Guido at last cried, "Something is in the air,Under the earth, some plot against my peace.The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead;How it should come of that officious orbYour Canon in my system, you must say:I say—that from the pressure of this springBegan the chime and interchange of bells,Ever one whisper, and one whisper more,And just one whisper for the silvery last,Till all at once a-row the bronze-throats burstInto a larum both significantAnd sinister: stop it I must and will.Let Caponsacchi take his hand awayFrom the wire!—disport himself in other pathsThan lead precisely to my palace-gate,—Look where he likes except one window's wayWhere, cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill,Happens to lean and say her litaniesEvery day and all day long, just my wife—Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!"Admire the man's simplicity. "I 'll do this,I 'll not have that, I 'll punish and prevent!"—'T is easy saying. But to a fray, you see,Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth:The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight.Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well,The way to put suspicion to the blush!At first hint of remonstrance, up and outI' the face of the world, you found her: she could speak,State her case,—Franceschini was a name,Guido had his full share of foes and friends—Why should not she call these to arbitrate?She bade the Governor do governance,Cried out on the Archbishop,—why, there now,Take him for sample! Three successive timesHad he to reconduct her by main forceFrom where she took her station oppositeHis shut door,—on the public steps thereto,Wringing her hands, when he came out to see,And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot,—Back to the husband and the house she fled:Judge if that husband warmed him in the faceOf friends or frowned on foes as heretofore!Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk,Or lacked the customary complimentOf cap and bells, the luckless husband's fit!So it went on and on till—who was right?One merry April morning, Guido wokeAfter the cuckoo, so late, near noonday,With an inordinate yawning of the jaws,Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongueAnd teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk;And found his wife flown, his scritoire the worseFor a rummage,—jewelry that was, was not,Some money there had made itself wings too,—The door lay wide and yet the servants sleptSound as the dead, or dozed, which does as well.In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul,Had not so much as spoken all her lifeTo the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at himBetween her fingers while she prayed in church,—This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years(Such she was grown to by this time of day)Had simply put an opiate in the drinkOf the whole household overnight, and thenGot up and gone about her work secure,Laid hand on this waif and the other stray,Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doorsIn company of the Canon, who, Lord's love,What with his daily duty at the church,Nightly devoir where ladies congregate,Had something else to mind, assure yourself,Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be,Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt!Well, anyhow, albeit impossible,Both of them were together jollilyJaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this,While Guido was left go and get undrugged,Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanksWhen neighbors crowded round him to condole."Ah," quoth a gossip, "well I mind me now,The Count did always say he thought he feltHe feared as if this very chance might fall!And when a man of fifty finds his cornsAche and his joints throb, and foresees a storm,Though neighbors laugh and say the sky is clear,Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!"Then was the story told, I 'll cut you short:All neighbors knew: on mystery in the world.The lovers left at nightfall—overnightHad Caponsacchi come to carry offPompilia,—not alone, a friend of his,One Guillichini, the more conversantWith Guido's housekeeping that he was justA cousin of Guido's and might play a prank—(Have not you too a cousin that 's a wag?)—Lord and a Canon also,—what would you have?Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-headsThat stand and stiffen 'mid the wheat o' the Church!—This worthy came to aid, abet his best.And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged,The lady led downstairs and out of doorsGuided and guarded till, the city passed,A carriage lay convenient at the gate.Good-by to the friendly Canon; the loving oneCould peradventure do the rest himself.In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest,"Whip, driver! Money makes the mare to go,And we 've a bagful. Take the Roman road!"So said the neighbors. This was eight hours since.Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths,Shook off the relics of his poison-drench,Got horse, was fairly started in pursuitWith never a friend to follow, found the trackFast enough, 't was the straight Perugia way,Trod soon upon their very heels, too lateBy a minute only at Camoscia, reachedChiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitivesJust ahead, just out as he galloped in,Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh,Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last postBefore Rome,—as we say, in sight of RomeAnd safety (there 's impunity at RomeFor priests you know) at—what 's the little place?—What some call Castelnuovo, some just callThe Osteria, because o' the post-house inn,—There, at the journey's all but end, it seems,Triumph deceived them and undid them both,Secure they might foretaste felicityNor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised.There did they halt at early evening, thereDid Guido overtake them: 't was daybreak;He came in time enough, not time too much,Since in the courtyard stood the Canon's selfUrging the drowsy stable-grooms to hasteHarness the horses, have the journey end,The trifling four-hours' running, so reach Rome.And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs,Still on the couch where she had spent the night,One couch in one room, and one room for both.So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby.Sir, what 's the sequel? Lover and belovedFall on their knees? No impudence serves here?They beat their breasts and beg for easy death,Confess this, that and the other?—anyhowConfess there wanted not some likelihoodTo the supposition so preposterous,That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyesHad noticed, straying o'er the prayer-book's edge,More of the Canon than that black his coat,Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim:And that, O Canon, thy religious careHad breathed too soft abenediciteTo banish trouble from a lady's breastSo lonely and so lovely, nor so lean!This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err.Not to such ordinary end as thisHad Caponsacchi flung the cassock far,Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier.The die was cast: over shoes over boots:And just as she, I presently shall show,Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life,Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white,So, in the inn-yard, bold as 't were Troy-town,There strutted Paris in correct costume,Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed,Even to a wicked-looking sword at side,He seemed to find and feel familiar at.Nor wanted words as ready and as bigAs the part he played, the bold abashless one."I interposed to save your wife from death,Yourself from shame, the true and only shame:Ask your own conscience else!—or, failing that,What I have done I answer, anywhere,Here, if you will; you see I have a sword:Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt,At Rome, by all means,—priests to try a priest.Only, speak where your wife's voice can reply!"And then he fingered at the sword again.So, Guido called, in aid and witness both,The Public Force. The Commissary came,Officers also; they secured the priest;Then, for his more confusion, mounted upWith him, a guard on either side, the stairTo the bedroom where still slept or feigned a sleepHis paramour and Guido's wife: in burstThe company and bade her wake and rise.Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang uprightI' the midst and stood as terrible as truth,Sprang to her husband's side, caught at the swordThat hung there useless,—since they held each handO' the lover, had disarmed him properly,—And in a moment out flew the bright thingFull in the face of Guido: but for helpO' the guards, who held her back and pinioned herWith pains enough, she had finished you my taleWith a flourish of red all round it, pinked her manPrettily; but she fought them one to six.They stopped that,—but her tongue continued free:She spat forth such invective at her spouse,O'erfrothed him with such foam of murderer,Thief, pandar—that the popular tide soon turned,The favor of the verysbirri, straightEbbed from the husband, set towards his wife;People cried "Hands off, pay a priest respect!"And "persecuting fiend" and "martyred saint"Began to lead a measure from lip to lip.But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things,And the question "Prithee, friend, how comes my purseI' the poke of you?"—admits of no reply.Here was a priest found out in masquerade,A wife caught playing truant if no more;While the Count, mortified in mien enough,And, nose to face, an added palm in length,Was plain writ "husband" every piece of him:Capture once made, release could hardly be.Beside, the prisoners both made appeal,"Take us to Rome!"Taken to Rome they were;The husband trooping after, piteously,Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now—No honor set firm on its feet once moreOn two dead bodies of the guilty,—nay,No dubious salve to honor's broken pateFrom chance that, after all, the hurt might seemA skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar:For Guido's first search,—ferreting, poor soul,Here, there and everywhere in the vile placeAbandoned to him when their backs were turned,Found—furnishing a last and beat regale—All the love-letters bandied 'twixt the pairSince the first timid trembling into lifeO' the love-star till its stand at fiery full.Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair,Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names,—was naughtWanting to prove, if proof consoles at all,That this had been but the fifth act o' the pieceWhereof the due proemium, months ago,These playwrights had put forth, and ever sinceMatured the middle, added 'neath his nose.He might go cross himself: the case was clear.Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there pleadEach party its best, and leave law do each right,Let law shine forth and show, as God in heaven,Vice prostrate, virtue pedestalled at last,The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gazeWhen once authority has knit the browAnd set the brain behind it to decideBetween the wolf and sheep turned litigants?"This is indeed a business," law shook head:"A husband charges hard things on a wife,The wife as hard o' the husband: whose fault here?A wife that flies her husband's house, does wrong:The male friend's interference looks amiss,Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife,On the other hand, be jeopardized at home—Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly,An apprehension she is jeopardized,—And further, if the friend partake the fear,And, in a commendable charityWhich trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts,—What do they but obey law—natural law?Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin,And circumstances that concur i' the closeHint as much, loudly—yet scarce loud enoughTo drown the answer 'strange may yet be true':Innocence often looks like guiltiness.The accused declare that in thought, word and deed,Innocent were they both from first to lastAs male-babe haply laid by female-babeAt church on edge of the baptismal fontTogether for a minute, perfect-pure.Difficult to believe, yet possible,As witness Joseph, the friend's patron-saint.The night at the inn—there charity nigh chokesEre swallow what they both asseverate;Though down the gullet faith may feel it go,When mindful of what flight fatigued the fleshOut of its faculty and fleshliness,Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure:So long a flight necessitates a fallOn the first bed, though in a lion's den,And the first pillow, though the lion's back:Difficult to believe, yet possible.Last come the letters' bundled beastliness—Authority repugns give glance to—nay,Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall;Yet here a voice cries 'Respite!' from the clouds—The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim,Abominate the horror: 'Not my hand'Asserts the friend—'Nor mine' chimes in the wife,'Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.'Illiterate—for she goes on to ask,What if the friend did pen now verse now prose,Commend it to her notice now and then?'Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote,And kept no more than read, for as they fellShe ever brushed the burr-like things away,Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke.As for this fardel, filth and foolishness,She sees it now the first time: burn it too!While for his part the friend vows ignoranceAlike of what bears his name and bears hers:'Tis forgery, a felon's masterpiece,And, as 'tis said the fox still finds the stench,Home-manufacture and the husband's work.Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend,That certain missives, letters of a sort,Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselvesTo the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft,In his path: wherefrom he understood just this—That were they verily the lady's own,Why, she who penned them, since he never sawSave for one minute the mere face of her,Since never had there been the interchangeOf word with word between them all their life,Why, she must be the fondest of the frail,And fit, she for the 'apage' he flung,Her letters for the flame they went to feed!But, now he sees her face and hears her speech,Much he repents him if, in fancy-freakFor a moment the minutest measurable,He coupled her with the first flimsy wordO' the self-spun fabric some mean spider-soulFurnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him!Never was such a tangled knottiness,But thus authority cuts the Gordian through,And mark how her decision suits the need!Here's troublesomeness, scandal on both sides,Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime:Let each side own its fault and make amends!What does a priest in cavalier's attireConsorting publicly with vagrant wivesIn quarters close as the confessional,Though innocent of harm? 'Tis harm enough:Let him pay it,—say, be relegate a goodThree years, to spend in some place not too farNor yet too near, midway 'twixt near and far,Rome and Arezzo,—Civita we choose,Where he may lounge away time, live at large,Find out the proper function of a priest,Nowise an exile,—that were punishment,—But one our love thus keeps out of harm's wayNot more from the husband's anger than, mayhap,His own ... say, indiscretion, waywardness,And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm.For the wife,—well, our best step to take with her,On her own showing, were to shift her rootFrom the old cold shade and unhappy soilInto a generous ground that fronts the south:Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late,Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-byTo the rescue, she should have her fill of shine.Do house and husband hinder and not help?Why then, forget both and stay here at peace,Come into our community, enrollHerself along with those good Convertites,Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made,Accept their ministration, well bestowHer body and patiently possess her soul,Until we see what better can be done.Last for the husband: if his tale prove true,Well is he rid of two domestic plagues—Both wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would,And friend of hers that undertook the cure.See, what a double load we lift from breast!Off he may go, return, resume old life,Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia thereIn limbo each and punished for their pains,And grateful tell the inquiring neighborhood—In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy."The case was closed. Now, am I fair or noIn what I utter? Do I state the facts,Having forechosen a side? I promised you!The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sentTo change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tieThe clerkly silk round, every plait correct,Make the impressive entry on his placeOf relegation, thrill his Civita,As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause,Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,—What with much culture of the sonnet-staveAnd converse with the aborigines,Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll,And hearts that all awry went pit-a-patAnd wanted setting right in charity,—What were a couple of years to while away?Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herselfTo the aforesaid Convertites, soft sisterhoodIn Via Lungara, where the light ones live,Spin, pray, then sing-like linnets o'er the flax."Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband's houseIs heaven," cried she,—was therefore suited so.But for Count Guido Franceschini, he—The injured man thus righted—found no heavenI' the house when he returned there, I engage,Was welcomed by the city turned upside downIn a chorus of inquiry. "What, back—you?And no wife? Left her with the Penitents?Ah, being young and pretty, 'twere a shameTo have her whipped in public: leave the jobTo the priests who understand! Such priests as yours—(Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once)Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him!So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence?Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight!The wiser, 'tis a word and a blow with him,True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i'-the-SackThat fought at Fiesole ere Florence was:He had done enough, to firk you were too much.And did the little lady menace you,Make at your breast with your own harmless sword?The spitfire! Well, thank God you're safe and sound,Have kept the sixth commandment whether or noThe lady broke the seventh: I only wishI were as saint-like, could contain me so.I, the poor sinner, fear I should have leftSir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!"You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word,Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus?Was it enough to make a wise man mad?Oh, but I'll have your verdict at the end!Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls,Frets awhile, aches long, then grows less and less,And so gets done with. Such was not the schemeO' the pleasant Comparini: on Guido's woundEver in due succession, drop by drop,Came slow distilment from the alembic hereSet on to simmer by Canidian hate,Corrosives keeping the man's misery raw.First fire-drop,—when he thought to make the bestO' the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed,Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were,Yet what might eke him out result enoughAnd make it worth while to have had the rightAnd not the wrong i' the matter judged at Rome.Inadequate her punishment, no lessPunished in some slight sort his wife had been;Then, punished for adultery, what else?On such admitted crime he thought to seize,And institute procedure in the courtsWhich cut corruption of this kind from man,Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway:He claimed in due form a divorce at least.This claim was met now by a counterclaim:Pompilia sought divorce from bed and boardOf Guido, whose outrageous cruelty,Whose mother's malice and whose brother's hateWere just the white o' the charge, such dreadful depthsBlackened its centre,—hints of worse than hate,Love from that brother, by that Guido's guile,That mother's prompting. Such reply was made,So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprungOn Guido, who received bolt full in breast;But no less bore up, giddily perhaps.He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome,Brother and friend and fighter on his side:They rallied in a measure, met the foeManlike, joined battle in the public courts,As if to shame supine law from her sloth:And waiting her award, let beat the whileArezzo's banter, Rome's buffoonery,On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike,Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip,And never mind till he contorts his tail!But there was sting i' the creature; thus it struck.Guido had thought in his simplicity—That lying declaration of remorse,That story of the child which was no childAnd motherhood no motherhood at all,—That even this sin might have its sort of goodInasmuch as no question more could be,—Call it false, call the story true,—no claimOf further parentage pretended now:The parents had abjured all right, at least,I' the woman owned his wife: to plead right stillWere to declare the abjuration false:He was relieved from any fear henceforthTheir hands might touch, their breath defile againPompilia with his name upon her yet.Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia's healthDemanded change after full three long weeksSpent in devotion with the Sisterhood,—Which rendered sojourn—so the court opined—Too irksome, since the convent's walls were highAnd windows narrow, nor was air enoughNor light enough, but all looked prison-like,The last thing which had come in the court's head.Propose a new expedient therefore,—this!She had demanded—had obtained indeed,By intervention of her pitying friendsOr perhaps lovers—(beauty in distress,Beauty whose tale is the town-talk beside,Never lacks friendship's arm about her neck)—Obtained remission of the penalty,Permitted transfer to some private placeWhere better air, more light, new food might soothe—Incarcerated (call it, all the same)At some sure friend's house she must keep inside,Be found in at requirement fast enough,—Domus pro carcere, in Roman style.You keep the house i' the main, as most men do,And all good women: but free otherwise,Should friends arrive, to lodge them and what not?And such adomum, such a dwelling-place,Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she?What house obtained Pompilia's preference?Why, just the Comparini's—just, do you mark,Theirs who renounced all part and lot in herSo long as Guido could be robbed thereby,And only fell back on relationshipAnd found their daughter safe and sound againWhen that might surelier stab him: yes, the pairWho, as I told you, first had baited hookWith this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing,Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shoreAnd gutted him,—now found a further useFor the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet againI' the way of what new swimmer passed their stand.They took Pompilia to their hiding-place—Not in the heart of Rome as formerly,Under observance, subject to control—But out o' the way,—or in the way, who knows?That blind mute villa lurking by the gateAt Via Paulina, not so hard to missBy the honest eye, easy enough to findIn twilight by marauders: where perchanceSome muffled Caponsacchi might repair,Employ odd moments when he too tried change,Found that a friend's abode was pleasanterThan relegation, penance and the rest.Come, here 's the last drop does its worst to wound,Here 's Guido poisoned to the bone, you say,Your boasted still's full strain and strength: not so!One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birthThe hoard i' the heart o' the toad, hell's quintessence.He learned the true convenience of the change,And why a convent lacks the cheerful heartsAnd helpful hands which female straits require,When, in the blind mute villa by the gate,Pompilia—what? sang, danced, saw company?—Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir,Or Guido's heir and Caponsacchi's son.I want your word now: what do you say to this?What would say little Arezzo and great Rome,And what did God say and the devil say,One at each ear o' the man, the husband, nowThe father? Why, the overburdened mindBroke down, what was a brain became a blaze.In fury of the moment—(that first newsFell on the Count among his vines, it seems,Doing his farm-work,)—why, he summoned steward,Called in the first four hard hands and stout heartsFrom field and furrow, poured forth his appeal,Not to Rome's law and gospel any more,But this clown with a mother or a wife,That clodpole with a sister or a son:And, whereas law and gospel held their peace,What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out?All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome,At the villa door: there was the warmth and light—The sense of life so just an inch inside—Some angel must have whispered "One more chance!"He gave it: bade the others stand aside:Knocked at the door,—"Who is it knocks?" cried one."I will make," surely Guido's angel urged,"One final essay, last experiment,Speak the word, name the name from out all names,Which, if,—as doubtless strong illusions are,And strange disguisings whereby truth seems false,And, since I am but man, I dare not doGod's work until assured I see with God,—If I should bring my lips to breathe that nameAnd they be innocent,—nay, by one mere touchOf innocence redeemed from utter guilt,—That name will bar the door and bid fate pass.I will not say 'It is a messenger,A neighbor, even a belated man,Much less your husband's friend, your husband's self:'At such appeal the door is bound to ope.But I will say "—here 's rhetoric and to spare!Why, Sir, the stumbling-block is cursed and kicked,Block though it be; the name that brought offenceWill bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fireAlthough that fire feed on some taper-wickWhich never left the altar nor singed a fly:And had a harmless man tripped you by chance,How would you wait him, stand or step aside,When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough."Giuseppe Caponsacchi!" Guido cried;And open flew the door: enough again.Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-waveThat holds a monster in it, over the house,And wiped its filthy four walls free at lastWith a wash of hell-fire,—father, mother, wife,Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood,And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he,Haled hither and imprisoned yesternightO' the day all this was.

The cause thus carried to the courts at Rome,

Guido away, the Abate had no choice

But stand forth, take his absent brother's part,

Defend the honor of himself beside.

He made what head he might against the pair,

Maintained Pompilia's birth legitimate

And all her rights intact—hers, Guido's now:

And so far by his policy turned their flank,

(The enemy being beforehand in the place)

That,—though the courts allowed the cheat for fact,

Suffered Violante to parade her shame,

Publish her infamy to heart's content,

And let the tale o' the feigned birth pass for proved,—

Yet they stopped there, refused to intervene

And dispossess the innocents, befooled

By gifts o' the guilty, at guilt's new caprice.

They would not take away the dowry now

Wrongfully given at first, nor bar at all

Succession to the aforesaid usufruct,

Established on a fraud, nor play the game

Of Pietro's child and now not Pietro's child

As it might suit the gamester's purpose. Thus

Was justice ever ridiculed in Rome:

Such be the double verdicts favored here

Which send away both parties to a suit

Nor puffed up nor cast down,—for each a crumb

Of right, for neither of them the whole loaf.

Whence, on the Comparini's part, appeal—

Counter-appeal on Guido's,—that 's the game:

And so the matter stands, even to this hour,

Bandied as balls are in a tennis-court,

And so might stand, unless some heart broke first,

Till doomsday.

Leave it thus, and now revertTo the old Arezzo whence we moved to Rome.We 've had enough o' the parents, false or true,Now for a touch o' the daughter's quality.The start 's fair henceforth, every obstacleOut of the young wife's footpath, she 's alone,Left to walk warily now: how does she walk?Why, once a dwelling's threshold marked and crossedIn rubric by the enemy on his roundsAs eligible, as fit place of prey,Baffle him henceforth, keep him out who can!Stop up the door at the first hint of hoof,Presently at the window taps a horn,And Satan 's by your fireside, never fear!Pompilia, left alone now, found herself;Found herself young too, sprightly, fair enough,Matched with a husband old beyond his age(Though that was something like four times her own)Because of cares past, present and to come:Found too the house dull and its inmates dead,So, looked outside for light and life.

Leave it thus, and now revert

To the old Arezzo whence we moved to Rome.

We 've had enough o' the parents, false or true,

Now for a touch o' the daughter's quality.

The start 's fair henceforth, every obstacle

Out of the young wife's footpath, she 's alone,

Left to walk warily now: how does she walk?

Why, once a dwelling's threshold marked and crossed

In rubric by the enemy on his rounds

As eligible, as fit place of prey,

Baffle him henceforth, keep him out who can!

Stop up the door at the first hint of hoof,

Presently at the window taps a horn,

And Satan 's by your fireside, never fear!

Pompilia, left alone now, found herself;

Found herself young too, sprightly, fair enough,

Matched with a husband old beyond his age

(Though that was something like four times her own)

Because of cares past, present and to come:

Found too the house dull and its inmates dead,

So, looked outside for light and life.

And loveDid in a trice turn up with life and light,—The man with the aureole, sympathy made flesh,The all-consoling Caponsacchi, Sir!A priest—what else should the consoler be?With goodly shoulder-blade and proper leg,A portly make and a symmetric shape,And curls that clustered to the tonsure quite.This was a bishop in the bud, and nowA canon full-blown so far: priest, and priestNowise exorbitantly overworked,The courtly Christian, not so much Saint PaulAs a saint of Cæsar's household: there posed heSending his god-glance after his shot shaft,Apollos turned Apollo, while the snakePompilia writhed transfixed through all her spires.He, not a visitor at Guido's house,Scarce an acquaintance, but in prime requestWith the magnates of Arezzo, was seen here,Heard there, felt everywhere in Guido's pathIf Guido's wife's path be her husband's too.Now he threw comfits at the theatreInto her lap,—what harm in Carnival?Now he pressed close till his foot touched her gown,His hand brushed hers,—how help on promenade?And, ever on weighty business, found his stepsIncline to a certain haunt of doubtful fameWhich fronted Guido's palace by mere chance;While—how do accidents sometimes combine!—Pompilia chose to cloister up her charmsJust in a chamber that o'erlooked the street,Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind.

And love

Did in a trice turn up with life and light,—

The man with the aureole, sympathy made flesh,

The all-consoling Caponsacchi, Sir!

A priest—what else should the consoler be?

With goodly shoulder-blade and proper leg,

A portly make and a symmetric shape,

And curls that clustered to the tonsure quite.

This was a bishop in the bud, and now

A canon full-blown so far: priest, and priest

Nowise exorbitantly overworked,

The courtly Christian, not so much Saint Paul

As a saint of Cæsar's household: there posed he

Sending his god-glance after his shot shaft,

Apollos turned Apollo, while the snake

Pompilia writhed transfixed through all her spires.

He, not a visitor at Guido's house,

Scarce an acquaintance, but in prime request

With the magnates of Arezzo, was seen here,

Heard there, felt everywhere in Guido's path

If Guido's wife's path be her husband's too.

Now he threw comfits at the theatre

Into her lap,—what harm in Carnival?

Now he pressed close till his foot touched her gown,

His hand brushed hers,—how help on promenade?

And, ever on weighty business, found his steps

Incline to a certain haunt of doubtful fame

Which fronted Guido's palace by mere chance;

While—how do accidents sometimes combine!—

Pompilia chose to cloister up her charms

Just in a chamber that o'erlooked the street,

Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind.

This passage of arms and wits amused the town.At last the husband lifted eyebrow,—bentOn day-book and the study how to wringHalf the due vintage from the worn-out vinesAt the villa, tease a quarter the old rentFrom the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon,—Pricked up his ear a-singing day and nightWith "ruin, ruin;"—and so surprised at last—Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps.Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange,Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rifeIn his head at once again are word and wink,Mumhere andbudgetthere, the smell o' the fox,The musk o' the gallant. "Friends, there 's falseness here!"

This passage of arms and wits amused the town.

At last the husband lifted eyebrow,—bent

On day-book and the study how to wring

Half the due vintage from the worn-out vines

At the villa, tease a quarter the old rent

From the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon,—

Pricked up his ear a-singing day and night

With "ruin, ruin;"—and so surprised at last—

Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps.

Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange,

Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rife

In his head at once again are word and wink,

Mumhere andbudgetthere, the smell o' the fox,

The musk o' the gallant. "Friends, there 's falseness here!"

The proper help of friends in such a straitIs waggery, the world over. Laugh him freeO' the regular jealous-fit that 's incidentTo all old husbands that wed brisk young wives,And he 'll go duly docile all his days."Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when?How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care!Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it,Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself.And—what, it 's Caponsacchi means you harm?The Canon? We caress him, he 's the world's,A man of such acceptance,—never dream,Though he were fifty times the fox you fear,He 'd risk his brush for your particular chick,When the wide town 's his hen-roost! Fie o' the fool!"So they dispensed their comfort of a kind.Guido at last cried, "Something is in the air,Under the earth, some plot against my peace.The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead;How it should come of that officious orbYour Canon in my system, you must say:I say—that from the pressure of this springBegan the chime and interchange of bells,Ever one whisper, and one whisper more,And just one whisper for the silvery last,Till all at once a-row the bronze-throats burstInto a larum both significantAnd sinister: stop it I must and will.Let Caponsacchi take his hand awayFrom the wire!—disport himself in other pathsThan lead precisely to my palace-gate,—Look where he likes except one window's wayWhere, cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill,Happens to lean and say her litaniesEvery day and all day long, just my wife—Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!"

The proper help of friends in such a strait

Is waggery, the world over. Laugh him free

O' the regular jealous-fit that 's incident

To all old husbands that wed brisk young wives,

And he 'll go duly docile all his days.

"Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when?

How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care!

Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it,

Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself.

And—what, it 's Caponsacchi means you harm?

The Canon? We caress him, he 's the world's,

A man of such acceptance,—never dream,

Though he were fifty times the fox you fear,

He 'd risk his brush for your particular chick,

When the wide town 's his hen-roost! Fie o' the fool!"

So they dispensed their comfort of a kind.

Guido at last cried, "Something is in the air,

Under the earth, some plot against my peace.

The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead;

How it should come of that officious orb

Your Canon in my system, you must say:

I say—that from the pressure of this spring

Began the chime and interchange of bells,

Ever one whisper, and one whisper more,

And just one whisper for the silvery last,

Till all at once a-row the bronze-throats burst

Into a larum both significant

And sinister: stop it I must and will.

Let Caponsacchi take his hand away

From the wire!—disport himself in other paths

Than lead precisely to my palace-gate,—

Look where he likes except one window's way

Where, cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill,

Happens to lean and say her litanies

Every day and all day long, just my wife—

Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!"

Admire the man's simplicity. "I 'll do this,I 'll not have that, I 'll punish and prevent!"—'T is easy saying. But to a fray, you see,Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth:The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight.Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well,The way to put suspicion to the blush!At first hint of remonstrance, up and outI' the face of the world, you found her: she could speak,State her case,—Franceschini was a name,Guido had his full share of foes and friends—Why should not she call these to arbitrate?She bade the Governor do governance,Cried out on the Archbishop,—why, there now,Take him for sample! Three successive timesHad he to reconduct her by main forceFrom where she took her station oppositeHis shut door,—on the public steps thereto,Wringing her hands, when he came out to see,And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot,—Back to the husband and the house she fled:Judge if that husband warmed him in the faceOf friends or frowned on foes as heretofore!Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk,Or lacked the customary complimentOf cap and bells, the luckless husband's fit!

Admire the man's simplicity. "I 'll do this,

I 'll not have that, I 'll punish and prevent!"—

'T is easy saying. But to a fray, you see,

Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth:

The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight.

Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well,

The way to put suspicion to the blush!

At first hint of remonstrance, up and out

I' the face of the world, you found her: she could speak,

State her case,—Franceschini was a name,

Guido had his full share of foes and friends—

Why should not she call these to arbitrate?

She bade the Governor do governance,

Cried out on the Archbishop,—why, there now,

Take him for sample! Three successive times

Had he to reconduct her by main force

From where she took her station opposite

His shut door,—on the public steps thereto,

Wringing her hands, when he came out to see,

And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot,—

Back to the husband and the house she fled:

Judge if that husband warmed him in the face

Of friends or frowned on foes as heretofore!

Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk,

Or lacked the customary compliment

Of cap and bells, the luckless husband's fit!

So it went on and on till—who was right?One merry April morning, Guido wokeAfter the cuckoo, so late, near noonday,With an inordinate yawning of the jaws,Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongueAnd teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk;And found his wife flown, his scritoire the worseFor a rummage,—jewelry that was, was not,Some money there had made itself wings too,—The door lay wide and yet the servants sleptSound as the dead, or dozed, which does as well.In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul,Had not so much as spoken all her lifeTo the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at himBetween her fingers while she prayed in church,—This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years(Such she was grown to by this time of day)Had simply put an opiate in the drinkOf the whole household overnight, and thenGot up and gone about her work secure,Laid hand on this waif and the other stray,Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doorsIn company of the Canon, who, Lord's love,What with his daily duty at the church,Nightly devoir where ladies congregate,Had something else to mind, assure yourself,Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be,Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt!Well, anyhow, albeit impossible,Both of them were together jollilyJaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this,While Guido was left go and get undrugged,Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanksWhen neighbors crowded round him to condole."Ah," quoth a gossip, "well I mind me now,The Count did always say he thought he feltHe feared as if this very chance might fall!And when a man of fifty finds his cornsAche and his joints throb, and foresees a storm,Though neighbors laugh and say the sky is clear,Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!"Then was the story told, I 'll cut you short:All neighbors knew: on mystery in the world.The lovers left at nightfall—overnightHad Caponsacchi come to carry offPompilia,—not alone, a friend of his,One Guillichini, the more conversantWith Guido's housekeeping that he was justA cousin of Guido's and might play a prank—(Have not you too a cousin that 's a wag?)—Lord and a Canon also,—what would you have?Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-headsThat stand and stiffen 'mid the wheat o' the Church!—This worthy came to aid, abet his best.And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged,The lady led downstairs and out of doorsGuided and guarded till, the city passed,A carriage lay convenient at the gate.Good-by to the friendly Canon; the loving oneCould peradventure do the rest himself.In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest,"Whip, driver! Money makes the mare to go,And we 've a bagful. Take the Roman road!"So said the neighbors. This was eight hours since.

So it went on and on till—who was right?

One merry April morning, Guido woke

After the cuckoo, so late, near noonday,

With an inordinate yawning of the jaws,

Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongue

And teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk;

And found his wife flown, his scritoire the worse

For a rummage,—jewelry that was, was not,

Some money there had made itself wings too,—

The door lay wide and yet the servants slept

Sound as the dead, or dozed, which does as well.

In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul,

Had not so much as spoken all her life

To the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at him

Between her fingers while she prayed in church,—

This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years

(Such she was grown to by this time of day)

Had simply put an opiate in the drink

Of the whole household overnight, and then

Got up and gone about her work secure,

Laid hand on this waif and the other stray,

Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doors

In company of the Canon, who, Lord's love,

What with his daily duty at the church,

Nightly devoir where ladies congregate,

Had something else to mind, assure yourself,

Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be,

Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt!

Well, anyhow, albeit impossible,

Both of them were together jollily

Jaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this,

While Guido was left go and get undrugged,

Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanks

When neighbors crowded round him to condole.

"Ah," quoth a gossip, "well I mind me now,

The Count did always say he thought he felt

He feared as if this very chance might fall!

And when a man of fifty finds his corns

Ache and his joints throb, and foresees a storm,

Though neighbors laugh and say the sky is clear,

Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!"

Then was the story told, I 'll cut you short:

All neighbors knew: on mystery in the world.

The lovers left at nightfall—overnight

Had Caponsacchi come to carry off

Pompilia,—not alone, a friend of his,

One Guillichini, the more conversant

With Guido's housekeeping that he was just

A cousin of Guido's and might play a prank—

(Have not you too a cousin that 's a wag?)

—Lord and a Canon also,—what would you have?

Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-heads

That stand and stiffen 'mid the wheat o' the Church!—

This worthy came to aid, abet his best.

And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged,

The lady led downstairs and out of doors

Guided and guarded till, the city passed,

A carriage lay convenient at the gate.

Good-by to the friendly Canon; the loving one

Could peradventure do the rest himself.

In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest,

"Whip, driver! Money makes the mare to go,

And we 've a bagful. Take the Roman road!"

So said the neighbors. This was eight hours since.

Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths,Shook off the relics of his poison-drench,Got horse, was fairly started in pursuitWith never a friend to follow, found the trackFast enough, 't was the straight Perugia way,Trod soon upon their very heels, too lateBy a minute only at Camoscia, reachedChiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitivesJust ahead, just out as he galloped in,Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh,Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last postBefore Rome,—as we say, in sight of RomeAnd safety (there 's impunity at RomeFor priests you know) at—what 's the little place?—What some call Castelnuovo, some just callThe Osteria, because o' the post-house inn,—There, at the journey's all but end, it seems,Triumph deceived them and undid them both,Secure they might foretaste felicityNor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised.There did they halt at early evening, thereDid Guido overtake them: 't was daybreak;He came in time enough, not time too much,Since in the courtyard stood the Canon's selfUrging the drowsy stable-grooms to hasteHarness the horses, have the journey end,The trifling four-hours' running, so reach Rome.And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs,Still on the couch where she had spent the night,One couch in one room, and one room for both.So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby.

Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths,

Shook off the relics of his poison-drench,

Got horse, was fairly started in pursuit

With never a friend to follow, found the track

Fast enough, 't was the straight Perugia way,

Trod soon upon their very heels, too late

By a minute only at Camoscia, reached

Chiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitives

Just ahead, just out as he galloped in,

Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh,

Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last post

Before Rome,—as we say, in sight of Rome

And safety (there 's impunity at Rome

For priests you know) at—what 's the little place?—

What some call Castelnuovo, some just call

The Osteria, because o' the post-house inn,—

There, at the journey's all but end, it seems,

Triumph deceived them and undid them both,

Secure they might foretaste felicity

Nor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised.

There did they halt at early evening, there

Did Guido overtake them: 't was daybreak;

He came in time enough, not time too much,

Since in the courtyard stood the Canon's self

Urging the drowsy stable-grooms to haste

Harness the horses, have the journey end,

The trifling four-hours' running, so reach Rome.

And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs,

Still on the couch where she had spent the night,

One couch in one room, and one room for both.

So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby.

Sir, what 's the sequel? Lover and belovedFall on their knees? No impudence serves here?They beat their breasts and beg for easy death,Confess this, that and the other?—anyhowConfess there wanted not some likelihoodTo the supposition so preposterous,That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyesHad noticed, straying o'er the prayer-book's edge,More of the Canon than that black his coat,Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim:And that, O Canon, thy religious careHad breathed too soft abenediciteTo banish trouble from a lady's breastSo lonely and so lovely, nor so lean!This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err.Not to such ordinary end as thisHad Caponsacchi flung the cassock far,Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier.The die was cast: over shoes over boots:And just as she, I presently shall show,Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life,Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white,So, in the inn-yard, bold as 't were Troy-town,There strutted Paris in correct costume,Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed,Even to a wicked-looking sword at side,He seemed to find and feel familiar at.Nor wanted words as ready and as bigAs the part he played, the bold abashless one."I interposed to save your wife from death,Yourself from shame, the true and only shame:Ask your own conscience else!—or, failing that,What I have done I answer, anywhere,Here, if you will; you see I have a sword:Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt,At Rome, by all means,—priests to try a priest.Only, speak where your wife's voice can reply!"And then he fingered at the sword again.So, Guido called, in aid and witness both,The Public Force. The Commissary came,Officers also; they secured the priest;Then, for his more confusion, mounted upWith him, a guard on either side, the stairTo the bedroom where still slept or feigned a sleepHis paramour and Guido's wife: in burstThe company and bade her wake and rise.

Sir, what 's the sequel? Lover and beloved

Fall on their knees? No impudence serves here?

They beat their breasts and beg for easy death,

Confess this, that and the other?—anyhow

Confess there wanted not some likelihood

To the supposition so preposterous,

That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyes

Had noticed, straying o'er the prayer-book's edge,

More of the Canon than that black his coat,

Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim:

And that, O Canon, thy religious care

Had breathed too soft abenedicite

To banish trouble from a lady's breast

So lonely and so lovely, nor so lean!

This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err.

Not to such ordinary end as this

Had Caponsacchi flung the cassock far,

Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier.

The die was cast: over shoes over boots:

And just as she, I presently shall show,

Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life,

Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white,

So, in the inn-yard, bold as 't were Troy-town,

There strutted Paris in correct costume,

Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed,

Even to a wicked-looking sword at side,

He seemed to find and feel familiar at.

Nor wanted words as ready and as big

As the part he played, the bold abashless one.

"I interposed to save your wife from death,

Yourself from shame, the true and only shame:

Ask your own conscience else!—or, failing that,

What I have done I answer, anywhere,

Here, if you will; you see I have a sword:

Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt,

At Rome, by all means,—priests to try a priest.

Only, speak where your wife's voice can reply!"

And then he fingered at the sword again.

So, Guido called, in aid and witness both,

The Public Force. The Commissary came,

Officers also; they secured the priest;

Then, for his more confusion, mounted up

With him, a guard on either side, the stair

To the bedroom where still slept or feigned a sleep

His paramour and Guido's wife: in burst

The company and bade her wake and rise.

Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang uprightI' the midst and stood as terrible as truth,Sprang to her husband's side, caught at the swordThat hung there useless,—since they held each handO' the lover, had disarmed him properly,—And in a moment out flew the bright thingFull in the face of Guido: but for helpO' the guards, who held her back and pinioned herWith pains enough, she had finished you my taleWith a flourish of red all round it, pinked her manPrettily; but she fought them one to six.They stopped that,—but her tongue continued free:She spat forth such invective at her spouse,O'erfrothed him with such foam of murderer,Thief, pandar—that the popular tide soon turned,The favor of the verysbirri, straightEbbed from the husband, set towards his wife;People cried "Hands off, pay a priest respect!"And "persecuting fiend" and "martyred saint"Began to lead a measure from lip to lip.

Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang upright

I' the midst and stood as terrible as truth,

Sprang to her husband's side, caught at the sword

That hung there useless,—since they held each hand

O' the lover, had disarmed him properly,—

And in a moment out flew the bright thing

Full in the face of Guido: but for help

O' the guards, who held her back and pinioned her

With pains enough, she had finished you my tale

With a flourish of red all round it, pinked her man

Prettily; but she fought them one to six.

They stopped that,—but her tongue continued free:

She spat forth such invective at her spouse,

O'erfrothed him with such foam of murderer,

Thief, pandar—that the popular tide soon turned,

The favor of the verysbirri, straight

Ebbed from the husband, set towards his wife;

People cried "Hands off, pay a priest respect!"

And "persecuting fiend" and "martyred saint"

Began to lead a measure from lip to lip.

But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things,And the question "Prithee, friend, how comes my purseI' the poke of you?"—admits of no reply.Here was a priest found out in masquerade,A wife caught playing truant if no more;While the Count, mortified in mien enough,And, nose to face, an added palm in length,Was plain writ "husband" every piece of him:Capture once made, release could hardly be.Beside, the prisoners both made appeal,"Take us to Rome!"

But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things,

And the question "Prithee, friend, how comes my purse

I' the poke of you?"—admits of no reply.

Here was a priest found out in masquerade,

A wife caught playing truant if no more;

While the Count, mortified in mien enough,

And, nose to face, an added palm in length,

Was plain writ "husband" every piece of him:

Capture once made, release could hardly be.

Beside, the prisoners both made appeal,

"Take us to Rome!"

Taken to Rome they were;The husband trooping after, piteously,Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now—No honor set firm on its feet once moreOn two dead bodies of the guilty,—nay,No dubious salve to honor's broken pateFrom chance that, after all, the hurt might seemA skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar:For Guido's first search,—ferreting, poor soul,Here, there and everywhere in the vile placeAbandoned to him when their backs were turned,Found—furnishing a last and beat regale—All the love-letters bandied 'twixt the pairSince the first timid trembling into lifeO' the love-star till its stand at fiery full.Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair,Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names,—was naughtWanting to prove, if proof consoles at all,That this had been but the fifth act o' the pieceWhereof the due proemium, months ago,These playwrights had put forth, and ever sinceMatured the middle, added 'neath his nose.He might go cross himself: the case was clear.

Taken to Rome they were;

The husband trooping after, piteously,

Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now—

No honor set firm on its feet once more

On two dead bodies of the guilty,—nay,

No dubious salve to honor's broken pate

From chance that, after all, the hurt might seem

A skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar:

For Guido's first search,—ferreting, poor soul,

Here, there and everywhere in the vile place

Abandoned to him when their backs were turned,

Found—furnishing a last and beat regale—

All the love-letters bandied 'twixt the pair

Since the first timid trembling into life

O' the love-star till its stand at fiery full.

Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair,

Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names,—was naught

Wanting to prove, if proof consoles at all,

That this had been but the fifth act o' the piece

Whereof the due proemium, months ago,

These playwrights had put forth, and ever since

Matured the middle, added 'neath his nose.

He might go cross himself: the case was clear.

Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there pleadEach party its best, and leave law do each right,Let law shine forth and show, as God in heaven,Vice prostrate, virtue pedestalled at last,The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gazeWhen once authority has knit the browAnd set the brain behind it to decideBetween the wolf and sheep turned litigants?"This is indeed a business," law shook head:"A husband charges hard things on a wife,The wife as hard o' the husband: whose fault here?A wife that flies her husband's house, does wrong:The male friend's interference looks amiss,Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife,On the other hand, be jeopardized at home—Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly,An apprehension she is jeopardized,—And further, if the friend partake the fear,And, in a commendable charityWhich trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts,—What do they but obey law—natural law?Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin,And circumstances that concur i' the closeHint as much, loudly—yet scarce loud enoughTo drown the answer 'strange may yet be true':Innocence often looks like guiltiness.The accused declare that in thought, word and deed,Innocent were they both from first to lastAs male-babe haply laid by female-babeAt church on edge of the baptismal fontTogether for a minute, perfect-pure.Difficult to believe, yet possible,As witness Joseph, the friend's patron-saint.The night at the inn—there charity nigh chokesEre swallow what they both asseverate;Though down the gullet faith may feel it go,When mindful of what flight fatigued the fleshOut of its faculty and fleshliness,Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure:So long a flight necessitates a fallOn the first bed, though in a lion's den,And the first pillow, though the lion's back:Difficult to believe, yet possible.Last come the letters' bundled beastliness—Authority repugns give glance to—nay,Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall;Yet here a voice cries 'Respite!' from the clouds—The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim,Abominate the horror: 'Not my hand'Asserts the friend—'Nor mine' chimes in the wife,'Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.'Illiterate—for she goes on to ask,What if the friend did pen now verse now prose,Commend it to her notice now and then?'Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote,And kept no more than read, for as they fellShe ever brushed the burr-like things away,Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke.As for this fardel, filth and foolishness,She sees it now the first time: burn it too!While for his part the friend vows ignoranceAlike of what bears his name and bears hers:'Tis forgery, a felon's masterpiece,And, as 'tis said the fox still finds the stench,Home-manufacture and the husband's work.Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend,That certain missives, letters of a sort,Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselvesTo the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft,In his path: wherefrom he understood just this—That were they verily the lady's own,Why, she who penned them, since he never sawSave for one minute the mere face of her,Since never had there been the interchangeOf word with word between them all their life,Why, she must be the fondest of the frail,And fit, she for the 'apage' he flung,Her letters for the flame they went to feed!But, now he sees her face and hears her speech,Much he repents him if, in fancy-freakFor a moment the minutest measurable,He coupled her with the first flimsy wordO' the self-spun fabric some mean spider-soulFurnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him!Never was such a tangled knottiness,But thus authority cuts the Gordian through,And mark how her decision suits the need!Here's troublesomeness, scandal on both sides,Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime:Let each side own its fault and make amends!What does a priest in cavalier's attireConsorting publicly with vagrant wivesIn quarters close as the confessional,Though innocent of harm? 'Tis harm enough:Let him pay it,—say, be relegate a goodThree years, to spend in some place not too farNor yet too near, midway 'twixt near and far,Rome and Arezzo,—Civita we choose,Where he may lounge away time, live at large,Find out the proper function of a priest,Nowise an exile,—that were punishment,—But one our love thus keeps out of harm's wayNot more from the husband's anger than, mayhap,His own ... say, indiscretion, waywardness,And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm.For the wife,—well, our best step to take with her,On her own showing, were to shift her rootFrom the old cold shade and unhappy soilInto a generous ground that fronts the south:Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late,Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-byTo the rescue, she should have her fill of shine.Do house and husband hinder and not help?Why then, forget both and stay here at peace,Come into our community, enrollHerself along with those good Convertites,Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made,Accept their ministration, well bestowHer body and patiently possess her soul,Until we see what better can be done.Last for the husband: if his tale prove true,Well is he rid of two domestic plagues—Both wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would,And friend of hers that undertook the cure.See, what a double load we lift from breast!Off he may go, return, resume old life,Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia thereIn limbo each and punished for their pains,And grateful tell the inquiring neighborhood—In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy."The case was closed. Now, am I fair or noIn what I utter? Do I state the facts,Having forechosen a side? I promised you!

Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there plead

Each party its best, and leave law do each right,

Let law shine forth and show, as God in heaven,

Vice prostrate, virtue pedestalled at last,

The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gaze

When once authority has knit the brow

And set the brain behind it to decide

Between the wolf and sheep turned litigants?

"This is indeed a business," law shook head:

"A husband charges hard things on a wife,

The wife as hard o' the husband: whose fault here?

A wife that flies her husband's house, does wrong:

The male friend's interference looks amiss,

Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife,

On the other hand, be jeopardized at home—

Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly,

An apprehension she is jeopardized,—

And further, if the friend partake the fear,

And, in a commendable charity

Which trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts,—

What do they but obey law—natural law?

Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin,

And circumstances that concur i' the close

Hint as much, loudly—yet scarce loud enough

To drown the answer 'strange may yet be true':

Innocence often looks like guiltiness.

The accused declare that in thought, word and deed,

Innocent were they both from first to last

As male-babe haply laid by female-babe

At church on edge of the baptismal font

Together for a minute, perfect-pure.

Difficult to believe, yet possible,

As witness Joseph, the friend's patron-saint.

The night at the inn—there charity nigh chokes

Ere swallow what they both asseverate;

Though down the gullet faith may feel it go,

When mindful of what flight fatigued the flesh

Out of its faculty and fleshliness,

Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure:

So long a flight necessitates a fall

On the first bed, though in a lion's den,

And the first pillow, though the lion's back:

Difficult to believe, yet possible.

Last come the letters' bundled beastliness—

Authority repugns give glance to—nay,

Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall;

Yet here a voice cries 'Respite!' from the clouds—

The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim,

Abominate the horror: 'Not my hand'

Asserts the friend—'Nor mine' chimes in the wife,

'Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.'

Illiterate—for she goes on to ask,

What if the friend did pen now verse now prose,

Commend it to her notice now and then?

'Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote,

And kept no more than read, for as they fell

She ever brushed the burr-like things away,

Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke.

As for this fardel, filth and foolishness,

She sees it now the first time: burn it too!

While for his part the friend vows ignorance

Alike of what bears his name and bears hers:

'Tis forgery, a felon's masterpiece,

And, as 'tis said the fox still finds the stench,

Home-manufacture and the husband's work.

Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend,

That certain missives, letters of a sort,

Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselves

To the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft,

In his path: wherefrom he understood just this—

That were they verily the lady's own,

Why, she who penned them, since he never saw

Save for one minute the mere face of her,

Since never had there been the interchange

Of word with word between them all their life,

Why, she must be the fondest of the frail,

And fit, she for the 'apage' he flung,

Her letters for the flame they went to feed!

But, now he sees her face and hears her speech,

Much he repents him if, in fancy-freak

For a moment the minutest measurable,

He coupled her with the first flimsy word

O' the self-spun fabric some mean spider-soul

Furnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him!

Never was such a tangled knottiness,

But thus authority cuts the Gordian through,

And mark how her decision suits the need!

Here's troublesomeness, scandal on both sides,

Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime:

Let each side own its fault and make amends!

What does a priest in cavalier's attire

Consorting publicly with vagrant wives

In quarters close as the confessional,

Though innocent of harm? 'Tis harm enough:

Let him pay it,—say, be relegate a good

Three years, to spend in some place not too far

Nor yet too near, midway 'twixt near and far,

Rome and Arezzo,—Civita we choose,

Where he may lounge away time, live at large,

Find out the proper function of a priest,

Nowise an exile,—that were punishment,—

But one our love thus keeps out of harm's way

Not more from the husband's anger than, mayhap,

His own ... say, indiscretion, waywardness,

And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm.

For the wife,—well, our best step to take with her,

On her own showing, were to shift her root

From the old cold shade and unhappy soil

Into a generous ground that fronts the south:

Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late,

Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-by

To the rescue, she should have her fill of shine.

Do house and husband hinder and not help?

Why then, forget both and stay here at peace,

Come into our community, enroll

Herself along with those good Convertites,

Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made,

Accept their ministration, well bestow

Her body and patiently possess her soul,

Until we see what better can be done.

Last for the husband: if his tale prove true,

Well is he rid of two domestic plagues—

Both wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would,

And friend of hers that undertook the cure.

See, what a double load we lift from breast!

Off he may go, return, resume old life,

Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia there

In limbo each and punished for their pains,

And grateful tell the inquiring neighborhood—

In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy."

The case was closed. Now, am I fair or no

In what I utter? Do I state the facts,

Having forechosen a side? I promised you!

The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sentTo change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tieThe clerkly silk round, every plait correct,Make the impressive entry on his placeOf relegation, thrill his Civita,As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause,Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,—What with much culture of the sonnet-staveAnd converse with the aborigines,Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll,And hearts that all awry went pit-a-patAnd wanted setting right in charity,—What were a couple of years to while away?Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herselfTo the aforesaid Convertites, soft sisterhoodIn Via Lungara, where the light ones live,Spin, pray, then sing-like linnets o'er the flax."Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband's houseIs heaven," cried she,—was therefore suited so.But for Count Guido Franceschini, he—The injured man thus righted—found no heavenI' the house when he returned there, I engage,Was welcomed by the city turned upside downIn a chorus of inquiry. "What, back—you?And no wife? Left her with the Penitents?Ah, being young and pretty, 'twere a shameTo have her whipped in public: leave the jobTo the priests who understand! Such priests as yours—(Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once)Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him!So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence?Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight!The wiser, 'tis a word and a blow with him,True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i'-the-SackThat fought at Fiesole ere Florence was:He had done enough, to firk you were too much.And did the little lady menace you,Make at your breast with your own harmless sword?The spitfire! Well, thank God you're safe and sound,Have kept the sixth commandment whether or noThe lady broke the seventh: I only wishI were as saint-like, could contain me so.I, the poor sinner, fear I should have leftSir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!"You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word,Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus?Was it enough to make a wise man mad?Oh, but I'll have your verdict at the end!

The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sent

To change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tie

The clerkly silk round, every plait correct,

Make the impressive entry on his place

Of relegation, thrill his Civita,

As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause,

Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,—

What with much culture of the sonnet-stave

And converse with the aborigines,

Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll,

And hearts that all awry went pit-a-pat

And wanted setting right in charity,—

What were a couple of years to while away?

Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herself

To the aforesaid Convertites, soft sisterhood

In Via Lungara, where the light ones live,

Spin, pray, then sing-like linnets o'er the flax.

"Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband's house

Is heaven," cried she,—was therefore suited so.

But for Count Guido Franceschini, he—

The injured man thus righted—found no heaven

I' the house when he returned there, I engage,

Was welcomed by the city turned upside down

In a chorus of inquiry. "What, back—you?

And no wife? Left her with the Penitents?

Ah, being young and pretty, 'twere a shame

To have her whipped in public: leave the job

To the priests who understand! Such priests as yours—

(Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once)

Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him!

So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence?

Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight!

The wiser, 'tis a word and a blow with him,

True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i'-the-Sack

That fought at Fiesole ere Florence was:

He had done enough, to firk you were too much.

And did the little lady menace you,

Make at your breast with your own harmless sword?

The spitfire! Well, thank God you're safe and sound,

Have kept the sixth commandment whether or no

The lady broke the seventh: I only wish

I were as saint-like, could contain me so.

I, the poor sinner, fear I should have left

Sir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!"

You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word,

Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus?

Was it enough to make a wise man mad?

Oh, but I'll have your verdict at the end!

Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls,Frets awhile, aches long, then grows less and less,And so gets done with. Such was not the schemeO' the pleasant Comparini: on Guido's woundEver in due succession, drop by drop,Came slow distilment from the alembic hereSet on to simmer by Canidian hate,Corrosives keeping the man's misery raw.First fire-drop,—when he thought to make the bestO' the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed,Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were,Yet what might eke him out result enoughAnd make it worth while to have had the rightAnd not the wrong i' the matter judged at Rome.Inadequate her punishment, no lessPunished in some slight sort his wife had been;Then, punished for adultery, what else?On such admitted crime he thought to seize,And institute procedure in the courtsWhich cut corruption of this kind from man,Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway:He claimed in due form a divorce at least.

Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls,

Frets awhile, aches long, then grows less and less,

And so gets done with. Such was not the scheme

O' the pleasant Comparini: on Guido's wound

Ever in due succession, drop by drop,

Came slow distilment from the alembic here

Set on to simmer by Canidian hate,

Corrosives keeping the man's misery raw.

First fire-drop,—when he thought to make the best

O' the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed,

Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were,

Yet what might eke him out result enough

And make it worth while to have had the right

And not the wrong i' the matter judged at Rome.

Inadequate her punishment, no less

Punished in some slight sort his wife had been;

Then, punished for adultery, what else?

On such admitted crime he thought to seize,

And institute procedure in the courts

Which cut corruption of this kind from man,

Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway:

He claimed in due form a divorce at least.

This claim was met now by a counterclaim:Pompilia sought divorce from bed and boardOf Guido, whose outrageous cruelty,Whose mother's malice and whose brother's hateWere just the white o' the charge, such dreadful depthsBlackened its centre,—hints of worse than hate,Love from that brother, by that Guido's guile,That mother's prompting. Such reply was made,So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprungOn Guido, who received bolt full in breast;But no less bore up, giddily perhaps.He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome,Brother and friend and fighter on his side:They rallied in a measure, met the foeManlike, joined battle in the public courts,As if to shame supine law from her sloth:And waiting her award, let beat the whileArezzo's banter, Rome's buffoonery,On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike,Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip,And never mind till he contorts his tail!But there was sting i' the creature; thus it struck.Guido had thought in his simplicity—That lying declaration of remorse,That story of the child which was no childAnd motherhood no motherhood at all,—That even this sin might have its sort of goodInasmuch as no question more could be,—Call it false, call the story true,—no claimOf further parentage pretended now:The parents had abjured all right, at least,I' the woman owned his wife: to plead right stillWere to declare the abjuration false:He was relieved from any fear henceforthTheir hands might touch, their breath defile againPompilia with his name upon her yet.Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia's healthDemanded change after full three long weeksSpent in devotion with the Sisterhood,—Which rendered sojourn—so the court opined—Too irksome, since the convent's walls were highAnd windows narrow, nor was air enoughNor light enough, but all looked prison-like,The last thing which had come in the court's head.Propose a new expedient therefore,—this!She had demanded—had obtained indeed,By intervention of her pitying friendsOr perhaps lovers—(beauty in distress,Beauty whose tale is the town-talk beside,Never lacks friendship's arm about her neck)—Obtained remission of the penalty,Permitted transfer to some private placeWhere better air, more light, new food might soothe—Incarcerated (call it, all the same)At some sure friend's house she must keep inside,Be found in at requirement fast enough,—Domus pro carcere, in Roman style.You keep the house i' the main, as most men do,And all good women: but free otherwise,Should friends arrive, to lodge them and what not?And such adomum, such a dwelling-place,Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she?What house obtained Pompilia's preference?Why, just the Comparini's—just, do you mark,Theirs who renounced all part and lot in herSo long as Guido could be robbed thereby,And only fell back on relationshipAnd found their daughter safe and sound againWhen that might surelier stab him: yes, the pairWho, as I told you, first had baited hookWith this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing,Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shoreAnd gutted him,—now found a further useFor the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet againI' the way of what new swimmer passed their stand.They took Pompilia to their hiding-place—Not in the heart of Rome as formerly,Under observance, subject to control—But out o' the way,—or in the way, who knows?That blind mute villa lurking by the gateAt Via Paulina, not so hard to missBy the honest eye, easy enough to findIn twilight by marauders: where perchanceSome muffled Caponsacchi might repair,Employ odd moments when he too tried change,Found that a friend's abode was pleasanterThan relegation, penance and the rest.

This claim was met now by a counterclaim:

Pompilia sought divorce from bed and board

Of Guido, whose outrageous cruelty,

Whose mother's malice and whose brother's hate

Were just the white o' the charge, such dreadful depths

Blackened its centre,—hints of worse than hate,

Love from that brother, by that Guido's guile,

That mother's prompting. Such reply was made,

So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprung

On Guido, who received bolt full in breast;

But no less bore up, giddily perhaps.

He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome,

Brother and friend and fighter on his side:

They rallied in a measure, met the foe

Manlike, joined battle in the public courts,

As if to shame supine law from her sloth:

And waiting her award, let beat the while

Arezzo's banter, Rome's buffoonery,

On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike,

Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip,

And never mind till he contorts his tail!

But there was sting i' the creature; thus it struck.

Guido had thought in his simplicity—

That lying declaration of remorse,

That story of the child which was no child

And motherhood no motherhood at all,

—That even this sin might have its sort of good

Inasmuch as no question more could be,—

Call it false, call the story true,—no claim

Of further parentage pretended now:

The parents had abjured all right, at least,

I' the woman owned his wife: to plead right still

Were to declare the abjuration false:

He was relieved from any fear henceforth

Their hands might touch, their breath defile again

Pompilia with his name upon her yet.

Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia's health

Demanded change after full three long weeks

Spent in devotion with the Sisterhood,—

Which rendered sojourn—so the court opined—

Too irksome, since the convent's walls were high

And windows narrow, nor was air enough

Nor light enough, but all looked prison-like,

The last thing which had come in the court's head.

Propose a new expedient therefore,—this!

She had demanded—had obtained indeed,

By intervention of her pitying friends

Or perhaps lovers—(beauty in distress,

Beauty whose tale is the town-talk beside,

Never lacks friendship's arm about her neck)—

Obtained remission of the penalty,

Permitted transfer to some private place

Where better air, more light, new food might soothe—

Incarcerated (call it, all the same)

At some sure friend's house she must keep inside,

Be found in at requirement fast enough,—

Domus pro carcere, in Roman style.

You keep the house i' the main, as most men do,

And all good women: but free otherwise,

Should friends arrive, to lodge them and what not?

And such adomum, such a dwelling-place,

Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she?

What house obtained Pompilia's preference?

Why, just the Comparini's—just, do you mark,

Theirs who renounced all part and lot in her

So long as Guido could be robbed thereby,

And only fell back on relationship

And found their daughter safe and sound again

When that might surelier stab him: yes, the pair

Who, as I told you, first had baited hook

With this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing,

Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shore

And gutted him,—now found a further use

For the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet again

I' the way of what new swimmer passed their stand.

They took Pompilia to their hiding-place—

Not in the heart of Rome as formerly,

Under observance, subject to control—

But out o' the way,—or in the way, who knows?

That blind mute villa lurking by the gate

At Via Paulina, not so hard to miss

By the honest eye, easy enough to find

In twilight by marauders: where perchance

Some muffled Caponsacchi might repair,

Employ odd moments when he too tried change,

Found that a friend's abode was pleasanter

Than relegation, penance and the rest.

Come, here 's the last drop does its worst to wound,Here 's Guido poisoned to the bone, you say,Your boasted still's full strain and strength: not so!One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birthThe hoard i' the heart o' the toad, hell's quintessence.He learned the true convenience of the change,And why a convent lacks the cheerful heartsAnd helpful hands which female straits require,When, in the blind mute villa by the gate,Pompilia—what? sang, danced, saw company?—Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir,Or Guido's heir and Caponsacchi's son.I want your word now: what do you say to this?What would say little Arezzo and great Rome,And what did God say and the devil say,One at each ear o' the man, the husband, nowThe father? Why, the overburdened mindBroke down, what was a brain became a blaze.In fury of the moment—(that first newsFell on the Count among his vines, it seems,Doing his farm-work,)—why, he summoned steward,Called in the first four hard hands and stout heartsFrom field and furrow, poured forth his appeal,Not to Rome's law and gospel any more,But this clown with a mother or a wife,That clodpole with a sister or a son:And, whereas law and gospel held their peace,What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out?

Come, here 's the last drop does its worst to wound,

Here 's Guido poisoned to the bone, you say,

Your boasted still's full strain and strength: not so!

One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birth

The hoard i' the heart o' the toad, hell's quintessence.

He learned the true convenience of the change,

And why a convent lacks the cheerful hearts

And helpful hands which female straits require,

When, in the blind mute villa by the gate,

Pompilia—what? sang, danced, saw company?

—Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir,

Or Guido's heir and Caponsacchi's son.

I want your word now: what do you say to this?

What would say little Arezzo and great Rome,

And what did God say and the devil say,

One at each ear o' the man, the husband, now

The father? Why, the overburdened mind

Broke down, what was a brain became a blaze.

In fury of the moment—(that first news

Fell on the Count among his vines, it seems,

Doing his farm-work,)—why, he summoned steward,

Called in the first four hard hands and stout hearts

From field and furrow, poured forth his appeal,

Not to Rome's law and gospel any more,

But this clown with a mother or a wife,

That clodpole with a sister or a son:

And, whereas law and gospel held their peace,

What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out?

All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome,At the villa door: there was the warmth and light—The sense of life so just an inch inside—Some angel must have whispered "One more chance!"

All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome,

At the villa door: there was the warmth and light—

The sense of life so just an inch inside—

Some angel must have whispered "One more chance!"

He gave it: bade the others stand aside:Knocked at the door,—"Who is it knocks?" cried one."I will make," surely Guido's angel urged,"One final essay, last experiment,Speak the word, name the name from out all names,Which, if,—as doubtless strong illusions are,And strange disguisings whereby truth seems false,And, since I am but man, I dare not doGod's work until assured I see with God,—If I should bring my lips to breathe that nameAnd they be innocent,—nay, by one mere touchOf innocence redeemed from utter guilt,—That name will bar the door and bid fate pass.I will not say 'It is a messenger,A neighbor, even a belated man,Much less your husband's friend, your husband's self:'At such appeal the door is bound to ope.But I will say "—here 's rhetoric and to spare!Why, Sir, the stumbling-block is cursed and kicked,Block though it be; the name that brought offenceWill bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fireAlthough that fire feed on some taper-wickWhich never left the altar nor singed a fly:And had a harmless man tripped you by chance,How would you wait him, stand or step aside,When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough.

He gave it: bade the others stand aside:

Knocked at the door,—"Who is it knocks?" cried one.

"I will make," surely Guido's angel urged,

"One final essay, last experiment,

Speak the word, name the name from out all names,

Which, if,—as doubtless strong illusions are,

And strange disguisings whereby truth seems false,

And, since I am but man, I dare not do

God's work until assured I see with God,—

If I should bring my lips to breathe that name

And they be innocent,—nay, by one mere touch

Of innocence redeemed from utter guilt,—

That name will bar the door and bid fate pass.

I will not say 'It is a messenger,

A neighbor, even a belated man,

Much less your husband's friend, your husband's self:'

At such appeal the door is bound to ope.

But I will say "—here 's rhetoric and to spare!

Why, Sir, the stumbling-block is cursed and kicked,

Block though it be; the name that brought offence

Will bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fire

Although that fire feed on some taper-wick

Which never left the altar nor singed a fly:

And had a harmless man tripped you by chance,

How would you wait him, stand or step aside,

When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough.

"Giuseppe Caponsacchi!" Guido cried;And open flew the door: enough again.Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-waveThat holds a monster in it, over the house,And wiped its filthy four walls free at lastWith a wash of hell-fire,—father, mother, wife,Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood,And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he,Haled hither and imprisoned yesternightO' the day all this was.

"Giuseppe Caponsacchi!" Guido cried;

And open flew the door: enough again.

Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-wave

That holds a monster in it, over the house,

And wiped its filthy four walls free at last

With a wash of hell-fire,—father, mother, wife,

Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood,

And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he,

Haled hither and imprisoned yesternight

O' the day all this was.

Back to Index Next