Guido's first step was to take pen, inditeA letter to the Abate,—not his own,His wife's,—she should re-write, sign, seal and send.She liberally told the household-news,Rejoiced her vile progenitors were gone,Revealed their malice—how they even laidA last injunction on her, when they fled,That she should forthwith find a paramour,Complot with him to gather spoil enough,Then burn the house down,—taking previous careTo poison all its inmates overnight,—And so companioned, so provisioned too,Follow to Rome and there join fortunes gay.This letter, traced in pencil-characters,Guido as easily got retraced in inkBy his wife's pen, guided from end to end,As if it had been just so much Chinese.For why? That wife could broider, sing perhaps,Pray certainly, but no more read than writeThis letter, "which yet write she must," he said,"Being half courtesy and compliment,Half sisterliness: take the thing on trust!"She had as readily retraced the wordsOf her own death-warrant,—in some sort 't was so.This letter the Abate in due courseCommunicated to such curious soulsIn Rome as needs must pry into the causeOf quarrel, why the Comparini fledThe Franeceschini, whence the grievance grew,What the hubbub meant: "Nay,—see the wife's own word,Authentic answer! Tell detractors tooThere 's a plan formed, a programme figured here—Pray God no after-practice put to proof,This letter cast no light upon, one day!"So much for what should work in Rome: back nowTo Arezzo, follow up the project there,Forward the next step with as bold a foot,And plague Pompilia to the height, you see!Accordingly did Guido set himselfTo worry up and down, across, around,The woman, hemmed in by her household-bars,Chase her about the coop of daily life,Having first stopped each outlet thence save oneWhich, like bird with a ferret in her haunt,She needs must seize as sole way of escapeThough there was tied and twittering a decoyTo seem as if it tempted,—just the plumeO' the popinjay, not a real respite thereFrom tooth and claw of something in the dark,—Giuseppe Caponsacchi.Now beginsThe tenebrific passage of the tale:How hold a light, display the cavern's gorge?How, in this phase of the affair, show truth?Here is the dying wife who smiles and says,"So it was,—so it was not,—how it was,I never knew nor ever care to know—"Till they all weep, physician, man of law,Even that poor old bit of battered brassBeaten out of all shape by the world's sins,Common utensil of the lazar-house—Confessor Celestino groans, "'T is truth,All truth and only truth: there 's something here,Some presence in the room beside us all,Something that every lie expires before:No question she was pure from first to last."So far is well and helps us to believe:But beyond, she the helpless, simple-sweetOr silly-sooth, unskilled to break one blowAt her good fame by putting finger forth,—How can she render service to the truth?The bird says, "So I fluttered where a springeCaught me: the springe did not contrive itself,That I know: who contrived it, God forgive!"But we, who hear no voice and have dry eyes,Must ask,—we cannot else, absolving her,—How of the part played by that same decoyI' the catching, caging? Was himself caught first?We deal here with no innocent at least,No witless victim,—he 's a man of the ageAnd priest beside,—persuade the mocking worldMere charity boiled over in this sort!He whose own safety too,—(the Pope 's apprised—Good-natured with the secular offence,The Pope looks grave on priesthood in a scrape)—Our priest's own safety therefore, maybe life,Hangs on the issue! You will find it hard.Guido is here to meet you with fixed foot,Stiff like a statue—"Leave what went before!My wife fled i' the company of a priest,Spent two days and two nights alone with him:Leave what came after!" He stands hard to throw.Moreover priests are merely flesh and blood;When we get weakness, and no guilt beside,'T is no such great ill-fortune: finding gray,We gladly call that white which might be black,Too used to the double-dye. So, if the priest,Moved by Pompilia's youth and beauty, gaveWay to the natural weakness ... Anyhow,Here be facts, charactery; what they spellDetermine, and thence pick what sense you may!There was a certain young bold handsome priestPopular in the city, far and wideFamed, since Arezzo 's but a little place,As the best of good companions, gay and graveAt the decent minute; settled in his stall,Or sidling, lute on lap, by lady's couch,Ever the courtly Canon: see in himA proper star to climb and culminate,Have its due handbreadth of the heaven at Rome,Though meanwhile pausing on Arezzo's edge,As modest candle does 'mid mountain fog,To rub off redness and rusticityEre it sweep chastened, gain the silver-sphere!Whether through Guido's absence or what else,This Caponsacchi, favorite of the town,Was yet no friend of his nor free o' the house,Though both moved in the regular magnates' march:Each must observe the other's tread and haltAt church, saloon, theatre, house of play.Who could help noticing the husband's slouch,The black of his brow—or miss the news that buzzedOf how the little solitary wifeWept and looked out of window all day long?What need of minute search into such springsAs start men, set o' the move?—machineryOld as earth, obvious as the noonday sun.Why, take men as they come,—an instance now,—Of all those who have simply gone to seePompilia on her deathbed since four days,Half at the least are, call it how you please,In love with her—I don't except the priestsNor even the old confessor whose eyes runOver at what he styles his sister's voiceWho died so early and weaned him from the world.Well, had they viewed her ere the paleness pushedThe last o' the red o' the rose away, while yetSome hand, adventurous 'twixt the wind and her,Might let shy life run back and raise the flowerRich with reward up to the guardian's face,—Would they have kept that hand employed all dayAt fumbling on with prayer-hook pages? No!Men are men: why then need I say one wordMore than that our mere man the Canon hereSaw, pitied, loved Pompilia?This is why;This startling why: that Caponsacchi's self—Whom foes and friends alike avouch, for goodOr ill, a man of truth whate'er betide,Intrepid altogether, reckless tooHow his own fame and fortune, tossed to the winds,Suffer by any turn the adventure take,Nay, more—not thrusting, like a badge to hide,'Twixt shirt and skin a joy which shown is shame—But flirting flag-like i' the face o' the worldThis tell-tale kerchief, this conspicuous loveFor the lady,—oh, called innocent love, I know!Only, such scarlet fiery innocenceAs most folk would try muffle up in shade,——'T is strange then that this else abashless mouthShould yet maintain, for truth's sake which is God's,That it was not he made the first advance,That, even ere word had passed between the two,Pompilia penned him letters, passionate prayers,If not love, then so simulating loveThat he, no novice to the taste of thyme,Turned from such over-luscious honey-clotAt end o' the flower, and would not lend his lipTill ... but the tale here frankly outsoars faith:There must be falsehood somewhere. For her part,Pompilia quietly constantly aversShe never penned a letter in her lifeNor to the Canon nor any other man,Being incompetent to write and read:Nor had she ever uttered word to him, nor heTo her till that same evening when they met,She on her window-terrace, he beneathI' the public street, as was their fateful chance,And she adjured him in the name of GodTo find out, bring to pass where, when and howEscape with him to Rome might be contrived.Means were found, plan laid, time fixed, she avers,And heart assured to heart in loyalty,All at an impulse! All extemporizedAs in romance-books! Is that credible?Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouthDying, I do think "Credible!" you 'd cry—Did not the priest's voice come to break the spell.They questioned him apart, as the custom is,When first the matter made a noise at Rome,And he, calm, constant then as she is now,For truth's sake did assert and reassertThose letters called him to her and he came,—Which damns the story credible otherwise.Why should this man—mad to devote himself,Careless what comes of his own fame, the first—Be studious thus to publish and declareJust what the lightest nature loves to hide,So screening lady from the byword's laugh"First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!"—I say,—why should the man tell truth just nowWhen graceful lying meets such ready shrift?Or is there a first moment for a priestAs for a woman, when invaded shameMust have its first and last excuse to show?Do both contrive love's entry in the mindShall look, i' the manner of it, a surprise,That after, once the flag o' the fort hauled down,Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate,Welcome and entertain the conqueror?Or what do you say to a touch of the devil's worst?Can it be that the husband, he who wroteThe letter to his brother I told you of,I' the name of her it meant to criminate,—What if he wrote those letters to the priest?Further the priest says, when it first befell,This folly o' the letters, that he checked the flow,Put them back lightly each with its reply.Here again vexes new discrepancy:There never reached her eye a word from him;He did write but she could not read—could justBurn the offence to wifehood, womanhood,So did burn: never bade him come to her,Yet when it proved he must come, let him come,And when he did come though uncalled,—why, spokePrompt by an inspiration: thus it chanced,Will you go somewhat back to understand?When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprang,Like an uncaged beast, Guido's crueltyOn soul and body of his wife, she criedTo those whom law appoints resource for such,The secular guardian,—that 's the Governor,And the Archbishop,—that 's the spiritual guide,And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh.Now, this is ever the ill consequenceOf being noble, poor and difficult,Ungainly, yet too great to disregard,—This—that born peers and friends hereditary,—Though disinclined to help from their own storeThe opprobrious wight, put penny in his pokeFrom private purse or leave the door ajarWhen he goes wistful by at dinner-time,—Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sitSmugly in office, judge this, bishop that,Dispensers of the shine and shade o' the place—And if, friend's door shut and friend's purse undrawn,Still potentates may find the office-seatDo as good service at no cost—give helpBy-the-bye, pay up traditional dues at onceJust through a feather-weight too much i' the scale,Or finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue,—Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists.Thus when, in the first roughness of surpriseAt Guido's wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell,The frightened couple, all bewilderment,Rushed to the Governor,—who else rights wrong?Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress—Why, then the Governor woke up to the factThat Guido was a friend of old, poor Count!—So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pairWholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualmsNext time they came, wept, prated and told lies:So stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome.Well, now it was Pompilia's turn to try:The troubles pressing on her, as I said,Three times she rushed, maddened by misery,To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayerAt footstool of the Archbishop—fast the friendOf her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore!So, the Archbishop, not to be outdoneBy the Governor, break custom more than he,Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue,Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout,Coached her and carried her to the Count again,—His old friend should be master in his house,Rule his wife and correct her faults at need!Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise,She, as a last resource, betook herselfTo one, should be no family-friend at least,A simple friar o' the city; confessed to him,Then told how fierce temptation of releaseBy self-dealt death was busy with her soul,And urged that he put this in words, write plainFor one who could not write, set down her prayerThat Pietro and Violante, parent-likeIf somehow not her parents, should for loveCome save her, pluck from out the flame the brandThemselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deepTo send gay-colored sparkles up and cheerTheir seat at the chimney-corner. The good friarPromised as much at the moment; but, alack,Night brings discretion: he was no one's friend,Yet presently found he could not turn aboutNor take a step i' the ease and fail to treadOn some one's toe who either was a friend,Or a friend's friend, or friend's friend thrice-removed,And woe to friar by whom offences come!So, the course being plain,—with a general sighAt matrimony the profound mistake,—He threw reluctantly the business up,Having his other penitents to mind.If then, all outlets thus secured save one,At last she took to the open, stood and staredWith her wan face to see where God might wait—And there found Caponsacchi wait as wellFor the precious something at perdition's edge,He only was predestinate to save,—And if they recognized in a critical flashFrom the zenith, each the other, her need of him,His need of ... say, a woman to perish for,The regular way o' the world, yet break no vow,Do no harm save to himself,—if this were thus?How do you say? It were improbable;So is the legend of my patron-saint.Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case,Pompilia—like a starving wretch i' the streetWho stops and rifles the first passengerIn the great right of an excessive wrong—Did somehow call this stranger and he came,—Or whether the strange sudden interviewBlazed as when star and star must needs go closeTill each hurts each and there is loss in heaven—Whatever way in this strange world it was,—Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine,She at her window, he i' the street beneath,And understood each other at first look.All was determined and performed at once.And on a certain April evening, lateI' the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wifeThree years and over,—she who hithertoHad never taken twenty steps in RomeBeyond the church, pinned to her mother's gown,Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through streetExcept what led to the Archbishop's door,—Such an one rose up in the dark, laid handOn what came first, clothes and a trinket or two,Belongings of her own in the old day,—Stole from the side o' the sleeping spouse—who knows?Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain,—slidGhost-like from great dark room to great dark room,In through the tapestries and out againAnd onward, unembarrassed as a fate,Descended staircase, gained last door of all,Sent it wide open at first push of palm,And there stood, first time, last and only time,At liberty, alone in the open street,—Unquestioned, unmolested found herselfAt the city gate, by Caponsacchi's side,Hope there, joy there, life and all good again,The carriage there, the convoy there, light thereBroadening ever into blaze at RomeAnd breaking small what long miles lay between;Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe.The husband quotes this for incredible,All of the story from first word to last:Sees the priest's hand throughout upholding hers,Traces his foot to the alcove, that night,Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way,Proficient in all craft and stealthiness;And cites for proof a servant, eye that watchedAnd ear that opened to purse secrets up,A woman-spy,—suborned to give and takeLetters and tokens, do the work of shameThe more adroitly that herself, who helpedCommunion thus between a tainted pair,Had long since been a leper thick in spot,A common trull o' the town: she witnessed all,Helped many meetings, partings, took her wageAnd then told Guido the whole matter. Lies!The woman's life confutes her word,—her wordConfutes itself: "Thus, thus and thus I lied.""And thus, no question, still you lie," we say."Ay, but at last, e'en have it how you will,Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodesThe consummation"—the accusers shriek:"Here is the wife avowedly found in flight,And the companion of her flight, a priest;She flies her husband, he the church his spouse:What is this?"Wife and priest alike reply,"This is the simple thing it claims to be,A course we took for life and honor's sake,Very strange, very justifiable."She says, "God put it in my head to fly,As when the martin migrates: autumn clapsHer hands, cries 'Winter 's coming, will be here,Off with you ere the white teeth overtake!Flee!' So I fled: this friend was the warm day,The south wind and whatever favors flight;I took the favor, had the help, how else?And so we did fly rapidly all night,All day, all night—a longer night—again,And then another day, longest of days,And all the while, whether we fled or stopped,I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both,'Fly and arrive!' So long as I found strengthI talked with my companion, told him much,Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew GodAnd God's disposal of me,—but the senseO' the blessed flight absorbed me in the main,And speech became mere talking through a sleep,Till at the end of that last longest nightin a red daybreak, when we reached an innAnd my companion whispered 'Next stage—Rome!'Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards,All the frail fabric at a finger's touch,And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said,'But though Count Guido were a furlong off,Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!'Then something like a huge white wave o' the seaBroke o'er my brain and buried me in sleepBlessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose,And where was I found but on a strange bedIn a strange room like hell, roaring with noise,Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in frontWho but the man you call my husband? ay—Count Guido once more between heaven and me,For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes—That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help,Helpless himself, held prisoner in the handsOf men who looked up in my husband's faceTo take the fate thence he should signify,Just as the way was at Arezzo. Then,Not for my sake but his who had helped me—I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seizedThe sword o' the felon, trembling at his side,Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thingAnd would have pinned him through the poison-bagTo the wall and left him there to palpitate,As you serve scorpions, but men interposed—Disarmed me, gave his life to him againThat he might take mine and the other lives;And he has done so. I submit myself!"The priest says—oh, and in the main resultThe facts asseverate, he truly says,As to the very act and deed of him,However you mistrust the mind o' the man—The flight was just for flight's sake, no pretextFor aught except to set Pompilia free.He says, "I cite the husband's self's worst chargeIn proof of my best word for both of us.Be it conceded that so many timesWe took our pleasure in his palace: then,What need to fly at all?—or flying no less,What need to outrage the lips sick and whiteOf a woman, and bring ruin down beside,By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?"So does he vindicate Pompilia's fame,Confirm her story in all points but one—This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forthHer last strength in the prayer to halt a while,She makes confusion of the reddening whiteWhich was the sunset when her strength gave way,And the next sunrise and its whitening redWhich she revived in when her husband came:She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one,Having lived through a blank of night 'twixt eachThough dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse,She on the bed above; her friend belowWatched in the doorway of the inn the while,Stood i' the red o' the morn, that she mistakes,In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crewAnd hurry out the horses, have the stageOver, the last league, reach Rome and be safe:When up came Guido.Guido's tale begins—How he and his whole household, drunk to deathBy some enchanted potion, poppied drugsPlied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleepAnd left the spoilers unimpeded way,Could not shake off their poison and pursue,Till noontide, then made shift to get on horseAnd did pursue: which means he took his time,Pressed on no more than lingered after, stepBy step, just making sure o' the fugitives,Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance,Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair.How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth,Taking successively at tower and town,Village and roadside, still the same report:"Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago,Sat in the carriage just where now you stand,While we got horses ready,—turned deaf earTo all entreaty they would even alight;Counted the minutes and resumed their course."Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome,Leave no least loop-hole to let murder through,But foil him of his captured infamy,Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed:Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, RomeBut two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached,The guardian angel gave reluctant place,Satan stepped forward with alacrity,Pompilia's flesh and blood succumbed, perforceA halt was, and her husband had his will.Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hourTill he should spy in the east a signal-streak—Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be.Do you see the plan deliciously complete?The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep,The easy execution, the outcryOver the deed, "Take notice all the world!These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace,—The man is Caponsacchi and a priest,The woman is my wife: they fled me late.Thus have I found and you behold them thus,And may judge me: do you approve or no?"Success did seem not so improbable,But that already Satan's laugh was heard,His black back turned on Guido—left i' the lurchOr rather, balked of suit and service now,Left to improve on both by one deed more,Burn up the better at no distant day,Body and soul one holocaust to hell.Anyhow, of this natural consequenceDid just the last link of the long chain snap:For an eruption was o' the priest, aliveAnd alert, calm, resolute and formidable,Not the least look of fear in that broad brow—One not to be disposed of by surprise,And armed moreover—who had guessed as much?Yes, there stood he in secular costumeComplete from head to heel, with sword at side,He seemed to know the trick of perfectly.There was no prompt suppression of the manAs he said calmly, "I have saved your wifeFrom death; there was no other way but this;Of what do I defraud you except death?Charge any wrong beyond, I answer it."Guido, the valorous, had met his match,Was forced to demand help instead of flight,Bid the authorities o' the place lend aidAnd make the best of a broken matter so.They soon obeyed the summons—I suppose,Apprised and ready, or not far to seek—Laid hands on Caponsacchi, found in fault,A priest yet flagrantly accoutred thus,—Then, to make good Count Guido's further charge,Proceeded, prisoner made lead the way,In a crowd, upstairs to the chamber-door,Where wax-white, dead asleep, deep beyond dream,As the priest laid her, lay Pompilia yet.And as he mounted step and step with the crowdHow I see Guido taking heart again!He knew his wife so well and the way of her—How at the outbreak she would shroud her shameIn hell's heart, would it mercifully yawn—How, failing that, her forehead to his foot,She would crouch silent till the great doom fell,Leave him triumphant with the crowd to seeGuilt motionless or writhing like a worm!No! Second misadventure, this worm turned,I told you: would have slain him on the spotWith his own weapon, but they seized her hands:Leaving her tongue free, as it tolled the knellOf Guido's hope so lively late. The pastTook quite another shape now. She who shrieked,"At least and forever I am mine and God's,Thanks to his liberating angel Death—Never again degraded to be yoursThe ignoble noble, the unmanly man,The beast below the beast in brutishness!"—This was the froward child, "the restif lambUsed to be cherished in his breast," he groaned—"Eat from his hand and drink from out his cup,The while his fingers pushed their loving wayThrough curl on curl of that soft coat—alas,And she all silverly baaed gratitudeWhile meditating mischief!"—and so forth.He must invent another story now!'The ins and outs o' the rooms were searched: he foundOr showed for found the abominable prize—Love-letters from his wife who cannot write,Love-letters in reply o' the priest—thank God!—Who can write and confront his characterWith this, and prove the false thing forged throughout:Spitting whereat, he needs must spatter whomBut Guido's self?—that forged and falsifiedOne letter called Pompilia's, past dispute:Then why not these to make sure still more sure?So was the case concluded then and there:Guido preferred his charges in due form,Called on the law to adjudicate, consignedThe accused ones to the Prefect of the place.(Oh mouse-birth of that mountain-like revenge!)And so to his own place betook himselfAfter the spring that failed,—the wildcat's way.The captured parties were conveyed to Rome;Investigation followed here i' the court—Soon to review the fruit of its own work,From then to now being eight months and no more.Guido kept out of sight and safe at home:The Abate, brother Paolo, helped mostAt words when deeds were out of question, pushedNearest the purple, best played deputy,So, pleaded, Guido's representativeAt the court shall soon try Guido's self,—what's more,The court that also took—I told you, Sir—That statement of that couple, how a cheatHad been i' the birth of the babe, no child of theirs.That was the prelude; this, the play's first act:Whereof we wait what comes, crown, close of all.Well, the result was something of a shadeOn the parties thus accused,—how otherwise?Shade, but with shine as unmistakable.Each had a prompt defence: Pompilia first—"Earth was made hell to me who did no harm:I only could emerge one way from hellBy catching at the one hand held me, soI caught at it and thereby stepped to heaven:If that be wrong, do with me what you will!"Then Caponsacchi with a grave grand sweepO' the arm as though his soul warned baseness off—"If as a man, then much more as a priestI hold me bound to help weak innocence:If so my worldly reputation burst,Being the bubble it is, why, burst it may:Blame I can bear though not blameworthiness.But use your sense first, see if the miscreant proved,The man who tortured thus the woman, thusHave not both laid the trap and fixed the lureOver the pit should bury body and soul!His facts are lies: his letters are the fact—An infiltration flavored with himself!As for the fancies—whether ... what is it you say?The lady loves me, whether I love herIn the forbidden sense of your surmise,—If, with the midday blaze of truth above,The unlidded eye of God awake, aware,You needs must pry about and trace the birthOf each stray beam of light may traverse night,To the night's sun that 's Lucifer himself,Do so, at other time, in other place,Not now nor here! Enough that first to lastI never touched her lip nor she my hand,Nor either of us thought a thought, much lessSpoke a word which the Virgin might not hear.Be such your question, thus I answer it."Then the court had to make its mind up, spoke."It is a thorny question, yea, a taleHard to believe, but not impossible:Who can be absolute for either side?A middle course is happily open yet.Here has a blot surprised the social blank,—Whether through favor, feebleness or fault,No matter, leprosy has touched our robeAnd we unclean must needs be purified.Here is a wife makes holiday from home,A priest caught playing truant to his church,In masquerade moreover: both allegeEnough excuse to stop our lifted scourgeWhich else would heavily fall. On the other hand,Here is a husband, ay and man of mark,Who comes complaining here, demands redressAs if he were the pattern of desert—The while those plaguy allegations frown,Forbid we grant him the redress he seeks.To all men be our moderation known!Rewarding none while compensating each,Hurting all round though harming nobody,Husband, wife, priest, scot-free not one shall 'scape,Yet priest, wife, husband, boast the unbroken headFrom application of our excellent oil:So that, whatever be the fact, in fine,We make no miss of justice in a sort.First, let the husband stomach as he may,His wife shall neither be returned him, no—Nor branded, whipped and caged, but just consignedTo a convent and the quietude she craves;So is he rid of his domestic plague:What better thing can happen to a man?Next, let the priest retire—unshent, unshamed.Unpunished as for perpetrating crime,But relegated (not imprisoned, Sirs!)Sent for three years to clarify his youthAt Civita, a rest by the way to Rome:There let his life skim off its last of leesNor keep this dubious color. Judged the cause:All parties may retire, content, we hope."That 's Rome's way, the traditional road of law;Whither it leads is what remains to tell.The priest went to his relegation-place,The wife to her convent, brother PaoloTo the arms of brother Guido with the newsAnd this beside—his charge was countercharged;The Comparini, his old brace of hates,Were breathed and vigilant and venomous now—Had shot a second bolt where the first stuck,And followed up the pending dowry-suitBy a procedure should release the wifeFrom so much of the marriage-bond as barredEscape when Guido turned the screw too muchOn his wife's flesh and blood, as husband may.No more defence, she turned and made attack,Claimed now divorce from bed and board, in short:Pleaded such subtle strokes of cruelty,Such slow sure siege laid to her body and soul,As, proved,—and proofs seemed coming thick and fast,—Would gain both freedom and the dowry backEven should the first suit leave them in his grasp:So urged the Comparini for the wife.Guido had gained not one of the good thingsHe grasped at by his creditable planO' the flight and following and the rest: the suitThat smouldered late was fanned to fury new,This adjunct came to help with fiercer fire,While he had got himself a quite new plague —Found the world's face an universal grinAt this last best of the Hundred Merry TalesOf how a young and spritely clerk devisedTo carry off a spouse that moped too much,And cured her of the vapors in a trice:And how the husband, playing Vulcan's part,Told by the Sun, started in hot pursuitTo catch the lovers, and came halting up,Cast his net, and then called the Gods to seeThe convicts in their rosy impudence—Whereat said Mercury, "Would that I were Mars!"Oh it was rare, and naughty all the same!Brief, the wife's courage and cunning,—the priest's showOf chivalry and adroitness,—last not least,The husband—how he ne'er showed teeth at all,Whose bark had promised biting; but just sneakedBack to his kennel, tail 'twixt legs, as 't were,—All this was hard to gulp down and digest.So pays the devil his liegeman, brass for gold.But this was at Arezzo: here in RomeBrave Paolo bore up against it all—Battled it out, nor wanting to himselfNor Guido nor the House whose weight he borePillar-like, by no force of arm but brain.He knew his Rome, what wheels to set to work;Plied influential folk, pressed to the earOf the efficacious purple, pushed his wayTo the old Pope's self,—past decency indeed,—Praying him take the matter in his handsOut of the regular court's incompetence.But times are changed and nephews out of dateAnd favoritism unfashionable: the PopeSaid, "Render Cæsar what is Cæsar's due!"As for the Comparini's counter-plea,He met that by a counter-plea again,Made Guido claim divorce—with help so farBy the trial's issue: for, why punishmentHowever slight unless for guiltinessHowever slender?—and a molehill servesMuch as a mountain of offence this way.So was he gathering strength on every sideAnd growing more and more to menace—whenAll of a terrible moment came the blowThat beat down Paolo's fence, ended the playO' the foil and brought Mannaia on the stage.
Guido's first step was to take pen, inditeA letter to the Abate,—not his own,His wife's,—she should re-write, sign, seal and send.She liberally told the household-news,Rejoiced her vile progenitors were gone,Revealed their malice—how they even laidA last injunction on her, when they fled,That she should forthwith find a paramour,Complot with him to gather spoil enough,Then burn the house down,—taking previous careTo poison all its inmates overnight,—And so companioned, so provisioned too,Follow to Rome and there join fortunes gay.This letter, traced in pencil-characters,Guido as easily got retraced in inkBy his wife's pen, guided from end to end,As if it had been just so much Chinese.For why? That wife could broider, sing perhaps,Pray certainly, but no more read than writeThis letter, "which yet write she must," he said,"Being half courtesy and compliment,Half sisterliness: take the thing on trust!"She had as readily retraced the wordsOf her own death-warrant,—in some sort 't was so.This letter the Abate in due courseCommunicated to such curious soulsIn Rome as needs must pry into the causeOf quarrel, why the Comparini fledThe Franeceschini, whence the grievance grew,What the hubbub meant: "Nay,—see the wife's own word,Authentic answer! Tell detractors tooThere 's a plan formed, a programme figured here—Pray God no after-practice put to proof,This letter cast no light upon, one day!"So much for what should work in Rome: back nowTo Arezzo, follow up the project there,Forward the next step with as bold a foot,And plague Pompilia to the height, you see!Accordingly did Guido set himselfTo worry up and down, across, around,The woman, hemmed in by her household-bars,Chase her about the coop of daily life,Having first stopped each outlet thence save oneWhich, like bird with a ferret in her haunt,She needs must seize as sole way of escapeThough there was tied and twittering a decoyTo seem as if it tempted,—just the plumeO' the popinjay, not a real respite thereFrom tooth and claw of something in the dark,—Giuseppe Caponsacchi.Now beginsThe tenebrific passage of the tale:How hold a light, display the cavern's gorge?How, in this phase of the affair, show truth?Here is the dying wife who smiles and says,"So it was,—so it was not,—how it was,I never knew nor ever care to know—"Till they all weep, physician, man of law,Even that poor old bit of battered brassBeaten out of all shape by the world's sins,Common utensil of the lazar-house—Confessor Celestino groans, "'T is truth,All truth and only truth: there 's something here,Some presence in the room beside us all,Something that every lie expires before:No question she was pure from first to last."So far is well and helps us to believe:But beyond, she the helpless, simple-sweetOr silly-sooth, unskilled to break one blowAt her good fame by putting finger forth,—How can she render service to the truth?The bird says, "So I fluttered where a springeCaught me: the springe did not contrive itself,That I know: who contrived it, God forgive!"But we, who hear no voice and have dry eyes,Must ask,—we cannot else, absolving her,—How of the part played by that same decoyI' the catching, caging? Was himself caught first?We deal here with no innocent at least,No witless victim,—he 's a man of the ageAnd priest beside,—persuade the mocking worldMere charity boiled over in this sort!He whose own safety too,—(the Pope 's apprised—Good-natured with the secular offence,The Pope looks grave on priesthood in a scrape)—Our priest's own safety therefore, maybe life,Hangs on the issue! You will find it hard.Guido is here to meet you with fixed foot,Stiff like a statue—"Leave what went before!My wife fled i' the company of a priest,Spent two days and two nights alone with him:Leave what came after!" He stands hard to throw.Moreover priests are merely flesh and blood;When we get weakness, and no guilt beside,'T is no such great ill-fortune: finding gray,We gladly call that white which might be black,Too used to the double-dye. So, if the priest,Moved by Pompilia's youth and beauty, gaveWay to the natural weakness ... Anyhow,Here be facts, charactery; what they spellDetermine, and thence pick what sense you may!There was a certain young bold handsome priestPopular in the city, far and wideFamed, since Arezzo 's but a little place,As the best of good companions, gay and graveAt the decent minute; settled in his stall,Or sidling, lute on lap, by lady's couch,Ever the courtly Canon: see in himA proper star to climb and culminate,Have its due handbreadth of the heaven at Rome,Though meanwhile pausing on Arezzo's edge,As modest candle does 'mid mountain fog,To rub off redness and rusticityEre it sweep chastened, gain the silver-sphere!Whether through Guido's absence or what else,This Caponsacchi, favorite of the town,Was yet no friend of his nor free o' the house,Though both moved in the regular magnates' march:Each must observe the other's tread and haltAt church, saloon, theatre, house of play.Who could help noticing the husband's slouch,The black of his brow—or miss the news that buzzedOf how the little solitary wifeWept and looked out of window all day long?What need of minute search into such springsAs start men, set o' the move?—machineryOld as earth, obvious as the noonday sun.Why, take men as they come,—an instance now,—Of all those who have simply gone to seePompilia on her deathbed since four days,Half at the least are, call it how you please,In love with her—I don't except the priestsNor even the old confessor whose eyes runOver at what he styles his sister's voiceWho died so early and weaned him from the world.Well, had they viewed her ere the paleness pushedThe last o' the red o' the rose away, while yetSome hand, adventurous 'twixt the wind and her,Might let shy life run back and raise the flowerRich with reward up to the guardian's face,—Would they have kept that hand employed all dayAt fumbling on with prayer-hook pages? No!Men are men: why then need I say one wordMore than that our mere man the Canon hereSaw, pitied, loved Pompilia?This is why;This startling why: that Caponsacchi's self—Whom foes and friends alike avouch, for goodOr ill, a man of truth whate'er betide,Intrepid altogether, reckless tooHow his own fame and fortune, tossed to the winds,Suffer by any turn the adventure take,Nay, more—not thrusting, like a badge to hide,'Twixt shirt and skin a joy which shown is shame—But flirting flag-like i' the face o' the worldThis tell-tale kerchief, this conspicuous loveFor the lady,—oh, called innocent love, I know!Only, such scarlet fiery innocenceAs most folk would try muffle up in shade,——'T is strange then that this else abashless mouthShould yet maintain, for truth's sake which is God's,That it was not he made the first advance,That, even ere word had passed between the two,Pompilia penned him letters, passionate prayers,If not love, then so simulating loveThat he, no novice to the taste of thyme,Turned from such over-luscious honey-clotAt end o' the flower, and would not lend his lipTill ... but the tale here frankly outsoars faith:There must be falsehood somewhere. For her part,Pompilia quietly constantly aversShe never penned a letter in her lifeNor to the Canon nor any other man,Being incompetent to write and read:Nor had she ever uttered word to him, nor heTo her till that same evening when they met,She on her window-terrace, he beneathI' the public street, as was their fateful chance,And she adjured him in the name of GodTo find out, bring to pass where, when and howEscape with him to Rome might be contrived.Means were found, plan laid, time fixed, she avers,And heart assured to heart in loyalty,All at an impulse! All extemporizedAs in romance-books! Is that credible?Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouthDying, I do think "Credible!" you 'd cry—Did not the priest's voice come to break the spell.They questioned him apart, as the custom is,When first the matter made a noise at Rome,And he, calm, constant then as she is now,For truth's sake did assert and reassertThose letters called him to her and he came,—Which damns the story credible otherwise.Why should this man—mad to devote himself,Careless what comes of his own fame, the first—Be studious thus to publish and declareJust what the lightest nature loves to hide,So screening lady from the byword's laugh"First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!"—I say,—why should the man tell truth just nowWhen graceful lying meets such ready shrift?Or is there a first moment for a priestAs for a woman, when invaded shameMust have its first and last excuse to show?Do both contrive love's entry in the mindShall look, i' the manner of it, a surprise,That after, once the flag o' the fort hauled down,Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate,Welcome and entertain the conqueror?Or what do you say to a touch of the devil's worst?Can it be that the husband, he who wroteThe letter to his brother I told you of,I' the name of her it meant to criminate,—What if he wrote those letters to the priest?Further the priest says, when it first befell,This folly o' the letters, that he checked the flow,Put them back lightly each with its reply.Here again vexes new discrepancy:There never reached her eye a word from him;He did write but she could not read—could justBurn the offence to wifehood, womanhood,So did burn: never bade him come to her,Yet when it proved he must come, let him come,And when he did come though uncalled,—why, spokePrompt by an inspiration: thus it chanced,Will you go somewhat back to understand?When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprang,Like an uncaged beast, Guido's crueltyOn soul and body of his wife, she criedTo those whom law appoints resource for such,The secular guardian,—that 's the Governor,And the Archbishop,—that 's the spiritual guide,And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh.Now, this is ever the ill consequenceOf being noble, poor and difficult,Ungainly, yet too great to disregard,—This—that born peers and friends hereditary,—Though disinclined to help from their own storeThe opprobrious wight, put penny in his pokeFrom private purse or leave the door ajarWhen he goes wistful by at dinner-time,—Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sitSmugly in office, judge this, bishop that,Dispensers of the shine and shade o' the place—And if, friend's door shut and friend's purse undrawn,Still potentates may find the office-seatDo as good service at no cost—give helpBy-the-bye, pay up traditional dues at onceJust through a feather-weight too much i' the scale,Or finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue,—Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists.Thus when, in the first roughness of surpriseAt Guido's wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell,The frightened couple, all bewilderment,Rushed to the Governor,—who else rights wrong?Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress—Why, then the Governor woke up to the factThat Guido was a friend of old, poor Count!—So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pairWholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualmsNext time they came, wept, prated and told lies:So stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome.Well, now it was Pompilia's turn to try:The troubles pressing on her, as I said,Three times she rushed, maddened by misery,To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayerAt footstool of the Archbishop—fast the friendOf her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore!So, the Archbishop, not to be outdoneBy the Governor, break custom more than he,Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue,Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout,Coached her and carried her to the Count again,—His old friend should be master in his house,Rule his wife and correct her faults at need!Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise,She, as a last resource, betook herselfTo one, should be no family-friend at least,A simple friar o' the city; confessed to him,Then told how fierce temptation of releaseBy self-dealt death was busy with her soul,And urged that he put this in words, write plainFor one who could not write, set down her prayerThat Pietro and Violante, parent-likeIf somehow not her parents, should for loveCome save her, pluck from out the flame the brandThemselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deepTo send gay-colored sparkles up and cheerTheir seat at the chimney-corner. The good friarPromised as much at the moment; but, alack,Night brings discretion: he was no one's friend,Yet presently found he could not turn aboutNor take a step i' the ease and fail to treadOn some one's toe who either was a friend,Or a friend's friend, or friend's friend thrice-removed,And woe to friar by whom offences come!So, the course being plain,—with a general sighAt matrimony the profound mistake,—He threw reluctantly the business up,Having his other penitents to mind.If then, all outlets thus secured save one,At last she took to the open, stood and staredWith her wan face to see where God might wait—And there found Caponsacchi wait as wellFor the precious something at perdition's edge,He only was predestinate to save,—And if they recognized in a critical flashFrom the zenith, each the other, her need of him,His need of ... say, a woman to perish for,The regular way o' the world, yet break no vow,Do no harm save to himself,—if this were thus?How do you say? It were improbable;So is the legend of my patron-saint.Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case,Pompilia—like a starving wretch i' the streetWho stops and rifles the first passengerIn the great right of an excessive wrong—Did somehow call this stranger and he came,—Or whether the strange sudden interviewBlazed as when star and star must needs go closeTill each hurts each and there is loss in heaven—Whatever way in this strange world it was,—Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine,She at her window, he i' the street beneath,And understood each other at first look.All was determined and performed at once.And on a certain April evening, lateI' the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wifeThree years and over,—she who hithertoHad never taken twenty steps in RomeBeyond the church, pinned to her mother's gown,Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through streetExcept what led to the Archbishop's door,—Such an one rose up in the dark, laid handOn what came first, clothes and a trinket or two,Belongings of her own in the old day,—Stole from the side o' the sleeping spouse—who knows?Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain,—slidGhost-like from great dark room to great dark room,In through the tapestries and out againAnd onward, unembarrassed as a fate,Descended staircase, gained last door of all,Sent it wide open at first push of palm,And there stood, first time, last and only time,At liberty, alone in the open street,—Unquestioned, unmolested found herselfAt the city gate, by Caponsacchi's side,Hope there, joy there, life and all good again,The carriage there, the convoy there, light thereBroadening ever into blaze at RomeAnd breaking small what long miles lay between;Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe.The husband quotes this for incredible,All of the story from first word to last:Sees the priest's hand throughout upholding hers,Traces his foot to the alcove, that night,Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way,Proficient in all craft and stealthiness;And cites for proof a servant, eye that watchedAnd ear that opened to purse secrets up,A woman-spy,—suborned to give and takeLetters and tokens, do the work of shameThe more adroitly that herself, who helpedCommunion thus between a tainted pair,Had long since been a leper thick in spot,A common trull o' the town: she witnessed all,Helped many meetings, partings, took her wageAnd then told Guido the whole matter. Lies!The woman's life confutes her word,—her wordConfutes itself: "Thus, thus and thus I lied.""And thus, no question, still you lie," we say."Ay, but at last, e'en have it how you will,Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodesThe consummation"—the accusers shriek:"Here is the wife avowedly found in flight,And the companion of her flight, a priest;She flies her husband, he the church his spouse:What is this?"Wife and priest alike reply,"This is the simple thing it claims to be,A course we took for life and honor's sake,Very strange, very justifiable."She says, "God put it in my head to fly,As when the martin migrates: autumn clapsHer hands, cries 'Winter 's coming, will be here,Off with you ere the white teeth overtake!Flee!' So I fled: this friend was the warm day,The south wind and whatever favors flight;I took the favor, had the help, how else?And so we did fly rapidly all night,All day, all night—a longer night—again,And then another day, longest of days,And all the while, whether we fled or stopped,I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both,'Fly and arrive!' So long as I found strengthI talked with my companion, told him much,Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew GodAnd God's disposal of me,—but the senseO' the blessed flight absorbed me in the main,And speech became mere talking through a sleep,Till at the end of that last longest nightin a red daybreak, when we reached an innAnd my companion whispered 'Next stage—Rome!'Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards,All the frail fabric at a finger's touch,And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said,'But though Count Guido were a furlong off,Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!'Then something like a huge white wave o' the seaBroke o'er my brain and buried me in sleepBlessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose,And where was I found but on a strange bedIn a strange room like hell, roaring with noise,Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in frontWho but the man you call my husband? ay—Count Guido once more between heaven and me,For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes—That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help,Helpless himself, held prisoner in the handsOf men who looked up in my husband's faceTo take the fate thence he should signify,Just as the way was at Arezzo. Then,Not for my sake but his who had helped me—I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seizedThe sword o' the felon, trembling at his side,Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thingAnd would have pinned him through the poison-bagTo the wall and left him there to palpitate,As you serve scorpions, but men interposed—Disarmed me, gave his life to him againThat he might take mine and the other lives;And he has done so. I submit myself!"The priest says—oh, and in the main resultThe facts asseverate, he truly says,As to the very act and deed of him,However you mistrust the mind o' the man—The flight was just for flight's sake, no pretextFor aught except to set Pompilia free.He says, "I cite the husband's self's worst chargeIn proof of my best word for both of us.Be it conceded that so many timesWe took our pleasure in his palace: then,What need to fly at all?—or flying no less,What need to outrage the lips sick and whiteOf a woman, and bring ruin down beside,By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?"So does he vindicate Pompilia's fame,Confirm her story in all points but one—This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forthHer last strength in the prayer to halt a while,She makes confusion of the reddening whiteWhich was the sunset when her strength gave way,And the next sunrise and its whitening redWhich she revived in when her husband came:She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one,Having lived through a blank of night 'twixt eachThough dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse,She on the bed above; her friend belowWatched in the doorway of the inn the while,Stood i' the red o' the morn, that she mistakes,In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crewAnd hurry out the horses, have the stageOver, the last league, reach Rome and be safe:When up came Guido.Guido's tale begins—How he and his whole household, drunk to deathBy some enchanted potion, poppied drugsPlied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleepAnd left the spoilers unimpeded way,Could not shake off their poison and pursue,Till noontide, then made shift to get on horseAnd did pursue: which means he took his time,Pressed on no more than lingered after, stepBy step, just making sure o' the fugitives,Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance,Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair.How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth,Taking successively at tower and town,Village and roadside, still the same report:"Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago,Sat in the carriage just where now you stand,While we got horses ready,—turned deaf earTo all entreaty they would even alight;Counted the minutes and resumed their course."Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome,Leave no least loop-hole to let murder through,But foil him of his captured infamy,Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed:Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, RomeBut two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached,The guardian angel gave reluctant place,Satan stepped forward with alacrity,Pompilia's flesh and blood succumbed, perforceA halt was, and her husband had his will.Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hourTill he should spy in the east a signal-streak—Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be.Do you see the plan deliciously complete?The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep,The easy execution, the outcryOver the deed, "Take notice all the world!These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace,—The man is Caponsacchi and a priest,The woman is my wife: they fled me late.Thus have I found and you behold them thus,And may judge me: do you approve or no?"Success did seem not so improbable,But that already Satan's laugh was heard,His black back turned on Guido—left i' the lurchOr rather, balked of suit and service now,Left to improve on both by one deed more,Burn up the better at no distant day,Body and soul one holocaust to hell.Anyhow, of this natural consequenceDid just the last link of the long chain snap:For an eruption was o' the priest, aliveAnd alert, calm, resolute and formidable,Not the least look of fear in that broad brow—One not to be disposed of by surprise,And armed moreover—who had guessed as much?Yes, there stood he in secular costumeComplete from head to heel, with sword at side,He seemed to know the trick of perfectly.There was no prompt suppression of the manAs he said calmly, "I have saved your wifeFrom death; there was no other way but this;Of what do I defraud you except death?Charge any wrong beyond, I answer it."Guido, the valorous, had met his match,Was forced to demand help instead of flight,Bid the authorities o' the place lend aidAnd make the best of a broken matter so.They soon obeyed the summons—I suppose,Apprised and ready, or not far to seek—Laid hands on Caponsacchi, found in fault,A priest yet flagrantly accoutred thus,—Then, to make good Count Guido's further charge,Proceeded, prisoner made lead the way,In a crowd, upstairs to the chamber-door,Where wax-white, dead asleep, deep beyond dream,As the priest laid her, lay Pompilia yet.And as he mounted step and step with the crowdHow I see Guido taking heart again!He knew his wife so well and the way of her—How at the outbreak she would shroud her shameIn hell's heart, would it mercifully yawn—How, failing that, her forehead to his foot,She would crouch silent till the great doom fell,Leave him triumphant with the crowd to seeGuilt motionless or writhing like a worm!No! Second misadventure, this worm turned,I told you: would have slain him on the spotWith his own weapon, but they seized her hands:Leaving her tongue free, as it tolled the knellOf Guido's hope so lively late. The pastTook quite another shape now. She who shrieked,"At least and forever I am mine and God's,Thanks to his liberating angel Death—Never again degraded to be yoursThe ignoble noble, the unmanly man,The beast below the beast in brutishness!"—This was the froward child, "the restif lambUsed to be cherished in his breast," he groaned—"Eat from his hand and drink from out his cup,The while his fingers pushed their loving wayThrough curl on curl of that soft coat—alas,And she all silverly baaed gratitudeWhile meditating mischief!"—and so forth.He must invent another story now!'The ins and outs o' the rooms were searched: he foundOr showed for found the abominable prize—Love-letters from his wife who cannot write,Love-letters in reply o' the priest—thank God!—Who can write and confront his characterWith this, and prove the false thing forged throughout:Spitting whereat, he needs must spatter whomBut Guido's self?—that forged and falsifiedOne letter called Pompilia's, past dispute:Then why not these to make sure still more sure?So was the case concluded then and there:Guido preferred his charges in due form,Called on the law to adjudicate, consignedThe accused ones to the Prefect of the place.(Oh mouse-birth of that mountain-like revenge!)And so to his own place betook himselfAfter the spring that failed,—the wildcat's way.The captured parties were conveyed to Rome;Investigation followed here i' the court—Soon to review the fruit of its own work,From then to now being eight months and no more.Guido kept out of sight and safe at home:The Abate, brother Paolo, helped mostAt words when deeds were out of question, pushedNearest the purple, best played deputy,So, pleaded, Guido's representativeAt the court shall soon try Guido's self,—what's more,The court that also took—I told you, Sir—That statement of that couple, how a cheatHad been i' the birth of the babe, no child of theirs.That was the prelude; this, the play's first act:Whereof we wait what comes, crown, close of all.Well, the result was something of a shadeOn the parties thus accused,—how otherwise?Shade, but with shine as unmistakable.Each had a prompt defence: Pompilia first—"Earth was made hell to me who did no harm:I only could emerge one way from hellBy catching at the one hand held me, soI caught at it and thereby stepped to heaven:If that be wrong, do with me what you will!"Then Caponsacchi with a grave grand sweepO' the arm as though his soul warned baseness off—"If as a man, then much more as a priestI hold me bound to help weak innocence:If so my worldly reputation burst,Being the bubble it is, why, burst it may:Blame I can bear though not blameworthiness.But use your sense first, see if the miscreant proved,The man who tortured thus the woman, thusHave not both laid the trap and fixed the lureOver the pit should bury body and soul!His facts are lies: his letters are the fact—An infiltration flavored with himself!As for the fancies—whether ... what is it you say?The lady loves me, whether I love herIn the forbidden sense of your surmise,—If, with the midday blaze of truth above,The unlidded eye of God awake, aware,You needs must pry about and trace the birthOf each stray beam of light may traverse night,To the night's sun that 's Lucifer himself,Do so, at other time, in other place,Not now nor here! Enough that first to lastI never touched her lip nor she my hand,Nor either of us thought a thought, much lessSpoke a word which the Virgin might not hear.Be such your question, thus I answer it."Then the court had to make its mind up, spoke."It is a thorny question, yea, a taleHard to believe, but not impossible:Who can be absolute for either side?A middle course is happily open yet.Here has a blot surprised the social blank,—Whether through favor, feebleness or fault,No matter, leprosy has touched our robeAnd we unclean must needs be purified.Here is a wife makes holiday from home,A priest caught playing truant to his church,In masquerade moreover: both allegeEnough excuse to stop our lifted scourgeWhich else would heavily fall. On the other hand,Here is a husband, ay and man of mark,Who comes complaining here, demands redressAs if he were the pattern of desert—The while those plaguy allegations frown,Forbid we grant him the redress he seeks.To all men be our moderation known!Rewarding none while compensating each,Hurting all round though harming nobody,Husband, wife, priest, scot-free not one shall 'scape,Yet priest, wife, husband, boast the unbroken headFrom application of our excellent oil:So that, whatever be the fact, in fine,We make no miss of justice in a sort.First, let the husband stomach as he may,His wife shall neither be returned him, no—Nor branded, whipped and caged, but just consignedTo a convent and the quietude she craves;So is he rid of his domestic plague:What better thing can happen to a man?Next, let the priest retire—unshent, unshamed.Unpunished as for perpetrating crime,But relegated (not imprisoned, Sirs!)Sent for three years to clarify his youthAt Civita, a rest by the way to Rome:There let his life skim off its last of leesNor keep this dubious color. Judged the cause:All parties may retire, content, we hope."That 's Rome's way, the traditional road of law;Whither it leads is what remains to tell.The priest went to his relegation-place,The wife to her convent, brother PaoloTo the arms of brother Guido with the newsAnd this beside—his charge was countercharged;The Comparini, his old brace of hates,Were breathed and vigilant and venomous now—Had shot a second bolt where the first stuck,And followed up the pending dowry-suitBy a procedure should release the wifeFrom so much of the marriage-bond as barredEscape when Guido turned the screw too muchOn his wife's flesh and blood, as husband may.No more defence, she turned and made attack,Claimed now divorce from bed and board, in short:Pleaded such subtle strokes of cruelty,Such slow sure siege laid to her body and soul,As, proved,—and proofs seemed coming thick and fast,—Would gain both freedom and the dowry backEven should the first suit leave them in his grasp:So urged the Comparini for the wife.Guido had gained not one of the good thingsHe grasped at by his creditable planO' the flight and following and the rest: the suitThat smouldered late was fanned to fury new,This adjunct came to help with fiercer fire,While he had got himself a quite new plague —Found the world's face an universal grinAt this last best of the Hundred Merry TalesOf how a young and spritely clerk devisedTo carry off a spouse that moped too much,And cured her of the vapors in a trice:And how the husband, playing Vulcan's part,Told by the Sun, started in hot pursuitTo catch the lovers, and came halting up,Cast his net, and then called the Gods to seeThe convicts in their rosy impudence—Whereat said Mercury, "Would that I were Mars!"Oh it was rare, and naughty all the same!Brief, the wife's courage and cunning,—the priest's showOf chivalry and adroitness,—last not least,The husband—how he ne'er showed teeth at all,Whose bark had promised biting; but just sneakedBack to his kennel, tail 'twixt legs, as 't were,—All this was hard to gulp down and digest.So pays the devil his liegeman, brass for gold.But this was at Arezzo: here in RomeBrave Paolo bore up against it all—Battled it out, nor wanting to himselfNor Guido nor the House whose weight he borePillar-like, by no force of arm but brain.He knew his Rome, what wheels to set to work;Plied influential folk, pressed to the earOf the efficacious purple, pushed his wayTo the old Pope's self,—past decency indeed,—Praying him take the matter in his handsOut of the regular court's incompetence.But times are changed and nephews out of dateAnd favoritism unfashionable: the PopeSaid, "Render Cæsar what is Cæsar's due!"As for the Comparini's counter-plea,He met that by a counter-plea again,Made Guido claim divorce—with help so farBy the trial's issue: for, why punishmentHowever slight unless for guiltinessHowever slender?—and a molehill servesMuch as a mountain of offence this way.So was he gathering strength on every sideAnd growing more and more to menace—whenAll of a terrible moment came the blowThat beat down Paolo's fence, ended the playO' the foil and brought Mannaia on the stage.
Guido's first step was to take pen, inditeA letter to the Abate,—not his own,His wife's,—she should re-write, sign, seal and send.She liberally told the household-news,Rejoiced her vile progenitors were gone,Revealed their malice—how they even laidA last injunction on her, when they fled,That she should forthwith find a paramour,Complot with him to gather spoil enough,Then burn the house down,—taking previous careTo poison all its inmates overnight,—And so companioned, so provisioned too,Follow to Rome and there join fortunes gay.This letter, traced in pencil-characters,Guido as easily got retraced in inkBy his wife's pen, guided from end to end,As if it had been just so much Chinese.For why? That wife could broider, sing perhaps,Pray certainly, but no more read than writeThis letter, "which yet write she must," he said,"Being half courtesy and compliment,Half sisterliness: take the thing on trust!"She had as readily retraced the wordsOf her own death-warrant,—in some sort 't was so.This letter the Abate in due courseCommunicated to such curious soulsIn Rome as needs must pry into the causeOf quarrel, why the Comparini fledThe Franeceschini, whence the grievance grew,What the hubbub meant: "Nay,—see the wife's own word,Authentic answer! Tell detractors tooThere 's a plan formed, a programme figured here—Pray God no after-practice put to proof,This letter cast no light upon, one day!"
Guido's first step was to take pen, indite
A letter to the Abate,—not his own,
His wife's,—she should re-write, sign, seal and send.
She liberally told the household-news,
Rejoiced her vile progenitors were gone,
Revealed their malice—how they even laid
A last injunction on her, when they fled,
That she should forthwith find a paramour,
Complot with him to gather spoil enough,
Then burn the house down,—taking previous care
To poison all its inmates overnight,—
And so companioned, so provisioned too,
Follow to Rome and there join fortunes gay.
This letter, traced in pencil-characters,
Guido as easily got retraced in ink
By his wife's pen, guided from end to end,
As if it had been just so much Chinese.
For why? That wife could broider, sing perhaps,
Pray certainly, but no more read than write
This letter, "which yet write she must," he said,
"Being half courtesy and compliment,
Half sisterliness: take the thing on trust!"
She had as readily retraced the words
Of her own death-warrant,—in some sort 't was so.
This letter the Abate in due course
Communicated to such curious souls
In Rome as needs must pry into the cause
Of quarrel, why the Comparini fled
The Franeceschini, whence the grievance grew,
What the hubbub meant: "Nay,—see the wife's own word,
Authentic answer! Tell detractors too
There 's a plan formed, a programme figured here
—Pray God no after-practice put to proof,
This letter cast no light upon, one day!"
So much for what should work in Rome: back nowTo Arezzo, follow up the project there,Forward the next step with as bold a foot,And plague Pompilia to the height, you see!Accordingly did Guido set himselfTo worry up and down, across, around,The woman, hemmed in by her household-bars,Chase her about the coop of daily life,Having first stopped each outlet thence save oneWhich, like bird with a ferret in her haunt,She needs must seize as sole way of escapeThough there was tied and twittering a decoyTo seem as if it tempted,—just the plumeO' the popinjay, not a real respite thereFrom tooth and claw of something in the dark,—Giuseppe Caponsacchi.
So much for what should work in Rome: back now
To Arezzo, follow up the project there,
Forward the next step with as bold a foot,
And plague Pompilia to the height, you see!
Accordingly did Guido set himself
To worry up and down, across, around,
The woman, hemmed in by her household-bars,
Chase her about the coop of daily life,
Having first stopped each outlet thence save one
Which, like bird with a ferret in her haunt,
She needs must seize as sole way of escape
Though there was tied and twittering a decoy
To seem as if it tempted,—just the plume
O' the popinjay, not a real respite there
From tooth and claw of something in the dark,—
Giuseppe Caponsacchi.
Now beginsThe tenebrific passage of the tale:How hold a light, display the cavern's gorge?How, in this phase of the affair, show truth?Here is the dying wife who smiles and says,"So it was,—so it was not,—how it was,I never knew nor ever care to know—"Till they all weep, physician, man of law,Even that poor old bit of battered brassBeaten out of all shape by the world's sins,Common utensil of the lazar-house—Confessor Celestino groans, "'T is truth,All truth and only truth: there 's something here,Some presence in the room beside us all,Something that every lie expires before:No question she was pure from first to last."So far is well and helps us to believe:But beyond, she the helpless, simple-sweetOr silly-sooth, unskilled to break one blowAt her good fame by putting finger forth,—How can she render service to the truth?The bird says, "So I fluttered where a springeCaught me: the springe did not contrive itself,That I know: who contrived it, God forgive!"But we, who hear no voice and have dry eyes,Must ask,—we cannot else, absolving her,—How of the part played by that same decoyI' the catching, caging? Was himself caught first?We deal here with no innocent at least,No witless victim,—he 's a man of the ageAnd priest beside,—persuade the mocking worldMere charity boiled over in this sort!He whose own safety too,—(the Pope 's apprised—Good-natured with the secular offence,The Pope looks grave on priesthood in a scrape)—Our priest's own safety therefore, maybe life,Hangs on the issue! You will find it hard.Guido is here to meet you with fixed foot,Stiff like a statue—"Leave what went before!My wife fled i' the company of a priest,Spent two days and two nights alone with him:Leave what came after!" He stands hard to throw.Moreover priests are merely flesh and blood;When we get weakness, and no guilt beside,'T is no such great ill-fortune: finding gray,We gladly call that white which might be black,Too used to the double-dye. So, if the priest,Moved by Pompilia's youth and beauty, gaveWay to the natural weakness ... Anyhow,Here be facts, charactery; what they spellDetermine, and thence pick what sense you may!There was a certain young bold handsome priestPopular in the city, far and wideFamed, since Arezzo 's but a little place,As the best of good companions, gay and graveAt the decent minute; settled in his stall,Or sidling, lute on lap, by lady's couch,Ever the courtly Canon: see in himA proper star to climb and culminate,Have its due handbreadth of the heaven at Rome,Though meanwhile pausing on Arezzo's edge,As modest candle does 'mid mountain fog,To rub off redness and rusticityEre it sweep chastened, gain the silver-sphere!Whether through Guido's absence or what else,This Caponsacchi, favorite of the town,Was yet no friend of his nor free o' the house,Though both moved in the regular magnates' march:Each must observe the other's tread and haltAt church, saloon, theatre, house of play.Who could help noticing the husband's slouch,The black of his brow—or miss the news that buzzedOf how the little solitary wifeWept and looked out of window all day long?What need of minute search into such springsAs start men, set o' the move?—machineryOld as earth, obvious as the noonday sun.Why, take men as they come,—an instance now,—Of all those who have simply gone to seePompilia on her deathbed since four days,Half at the least are, call it how you please,In love with her—I don't except the priestsNor even the old confessor whose eyes runOver at what he styles his sister's voiceWho died so early and weaned him from the world.Well, had they viewed her ere the paleness pushedThe last o' the red o' the rose away, while yetSome hand, adventurous 'twixt the wind and her,Might let shy life run back and raise the flowerRich with reward up to the guardian's face,—Would they have kept that hand employed all dayAt fumbling on with prayer-hook pages? No!Men are men: why then need I say one wordMore than that our mere man the Canon hereSaw, pitied, loved Pompilia?
Now begins
The tenebrific passage of the tale:
How hold a light, display the cavern's gorge?
How, in this phase of the affair, show truth?
Here is the dying wife who smiles and says,
"So it was,—so it was not,—how it was,
I never knew nor ever care to know—"
Till they all weep, physician, man of law,
Even that poor old bit of battered brass
Beaten out of all shape by the world's sins,
Common utensil of the lazar-house—
Confessor Celestino groans, "'T is truth,
All truth and only truth: there 's something here,
Some presence in the room beside us all,
Something that every lie expires before:
No question she was pure from first to last."
So far is well and helps us to believe:
But beyond, she the helpless, simple-sweet
Or silly-sooth, unskilled to break one blow
At her good fame by putting finger forth,—
How can she render service to the truth?
The bird says, "So I fluttered where a springe
Caught me: the springe did not contrive itself,
That I know: who contrived it, God forgive!"
But we, who hear no voice and have dry eyes,
Must ask,—we cannot else, absolving her,—
How of the part played by that same decoy
I' the catching, caging? Was himself caught first?
We deal here with no innocent at least,
No witless victim,—he 's a man of the age
And priest beside,—persuade the mocking world
Mere charity boiled over in this sort!
He whose own safety too,—(the Pope 's apprised—
Good-natured with the secular offence,
The Pope looks grave on priesthood in a scrape)—
Our priest's own safety therefore, maybe life,
Hangs on the issue! You will find it hard.
Guido is here to meet you with fixed foot,
Stiff like a statue—"Leave what went before!
My wife fled i' the company of a priest,
Spent two days and two nights alone with him:
Leave what came after!" He stands hard to throw.
Moreover priests are merely flesh and blood;
When we get weakness, and no guilt beside,
'T is no such great ill-fortune: finding gray,
We gladly call that white which might be black,
Too used to the double-dye. So, if the priest,
Moved by Pompilia's youth and beauty, gave
Way to the natural weakness ... Anyhow,
Here be facts, charactery; what they spell
Determine, and thence pick what sense you may!
There was a certain young bold handsome priest
Popular in the city, far and wide
Famed, since Arezzo 's but a little place,
As the best of good companions, gay and grave
At the decent minute; settled in his stall,
Or sidling, lute on lap, by lady's couch,
Ever the courtly Canon: see in him
A proper star to climb and culminate,
Have its due handbreadth of the heaven at Rome,
Though meanwhile pausing on Arezzo's edge,
As modest candle does 'mid mountain fog,
To rub off redness and rusticity
Ere it sweep chastened, gain the silver-sphere!
Whether through Guido's absence or what else,
This Caponsacchi, favorite of the town,
Was yet no friend of his nor free o' the house,
Though both moved in the regular magnates' march:
Each must observe the other's tread and halt
At church, saloon, theatre, house of play.
Who could help noticing the husband's slouch,
The black of his brow—or miss the news that buzzed
Of how the little solitary wife
Wept and looked out of window all day long?
What need of minute search into such springs
As start men, set o' the move?—machinery
Old as earth, obvious as the noonday sun.
Why, take men as they come,—an instance now,—
Of all those who have simply gone to see
Pompilia on her deathbed since four days,
Half at the least are, call it how you please,
In love with her—I don't except the priests
Nor even the old confessor whose eyes run
Over at what he styles his sister's voice
Who died so early and weaned him from the world.
Well, had they viewed her ere the paleness pushed
The last o' the red o' the rose away, while yet
Some hand, adventurous 'twixt the wind and her,
Might let shy life run back and raise the flower
Rich with reward up to the guardian's face,—
Would they have kept that hand employed all day
At fumbling on with prayer-hook pages? No!
Men are men: why then need I say one word
More than that our mere man the Canon here
Saw, pitied, loved Pompilia?
This is why;This startling why: that Caponsacchi's self—Whom foes and friends alike avouch, for goodOr ill, a man of truth whate'er betide,Intrepid altogether, reckless tooHow his own fame and fortune, tossed to the winds,Suffer by any turn the adventure take,Nay, more—not thrusting, like a badge to hide,'Twixt shirt and skin a joy which shown is shame—But flirting flag-like i' the face o' the worldThis tell-tale kerchief, this conspicuous loveFor the lady,—oh, called innocent love, I know!Only, such scarlet fiery innocenceAs most folk would try muffle up in shade,——'T is strange then that this else abashless mouthShould yet maintain, for truth's sake which is God's,That it was not he made the first advance,That, even ere word had passed between the two,Pompilia penned him letters, passionate prayers,If not love, then so simulating loveThat he, no novice to the taste of thyme,Turned from such over-luscious honey-clotAt end o' the flower, and would not lend his lipTill ... but the tale here frankly outsoars faith:There must be falsehood somewhere. For her part,Pompilia quietly constantly aversShe never penned a letter in her lifeNor to the Canon nor any other man,Being incompetent to write and read:Nor had she ever uttered word to him, nor heTo her till that same evening when they met,She on her window-terrace, he beneathI' the public street, as was their fateful chance,And she adjured him in the name of GodTo find out, bring to pass where, when and howEscape with him to Rome might be contrived.Means were found, plan laid, time fixed, she avers,And heart assured to heart in loyalty,All at an impulse! All extemporizedAs in romance-books! Is that credible?Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouthDying, I do think "Credible!" you 'd cry—Did not the priest's voice come to break the spell.They questioned him apart, as the custom is,When first the matter made a noise at Rome,And he, calm, constant then as she is now,For truth's sake did assert and reassertThose letters called him to her and he came,—Which damns the story credible otherwise.Why should this man—mad to devote himself,Careless what comes of his own fame, the first—Be studious thus to publish and declareJust what the lightest nature loves to hide,So screening lady from the byword's laugh"First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!"—I say,—why should the man tell truth just nowWhen graceful lying meets such ready shrift?Or is there a first moment for a priestAs for a woman, when invaded shameMust have its first and last excuse to show?Do both contrive love's entry in the mindShall look, i' the manner of it, a surprise,That after, once the flag o' the fort hauled down,Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate,Welcome and entertain the conqueror?Or what do you say to a touch of the devil's worst?Can it be that the husband, he who wroteThe letter to his brother I told you of,I' the name of her it meant to criminate,—What if he wrote those letters to the priest?Further the priest says, when it first befell,This folly o' the letters, that he checked the flow,Put them back lightly each with its reply.Here again vexes new discrepancy:There never reached her eye a word from him;He did write but she could not read—could justBurn the offence to wifehood, womanhood,So did burn: never bade him come to her,Yet when it proved he must come, let him come,And when he did come though uncalled,—why, spokePrompt by an inspiration: thus it chanced,Will you go somewhat back to understand?
This is why;
This startling why: that Caponsacchi's self—
Whom foes and friends alike avouch, for good
Or ill, a man of truth whate'er betide,
Intrepid altogether, reckless too
How his own fame and fortune, tossed to the winds,
Suffer by any turn the adventure take,
Nay, more—not thrusting, like a badge to hide,
'Twixt shirt and skin a joy which shown is shame—
But flirting flag-like i' the face o' the world
This tell-tale kerchief, this conspicuous love
For the lady,—oh, called innocent love, I know!
Only, such scarlet fiery innocence
As most folk would try muffle up in shade,—
—'T is strange then that this else abashless mouth
Should yet maintain, for truth's sake which is God's,
That it was not he made the first advance,
That, even ere word had passed between the two,
Pompilia penned him letters, passionate prayers,
If not love, then so simulating love
That he, no novice to the taste of thyme,
Turned from such over-luscious honey-clot
At end o' the flower, and would not lend his lip
Till ... but the tale here frankly outsoars faith:
There must be falsehood somewhere. For her part,
Pompilia quietly constantly avers
She never penned a letter in her life
Nor to the Canon nor any other man,
Being incompetent to write and read:
Nor had she ever uttered word to him, nor he
To her till that same evening when they met,
She on her window-terrace, he beneath
I' the public street, as was their fateful chance,
And she adjured him in the name of God
To find out, bring to pass where, when and how
Escape with him to Rome might be contrived.
Means were found, plan laid, time fixed, she avers,
And heart assured to heart in loyalty,
All at an impulse! All extemporized
As in romance-books! Is that credible?
Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouth
Dying, I do think "Credible!" you 'd cry—
Did not the priest's voice come to break the spell.
They questioned him apart, as the custom is,
When first the matter made a noise at Rome,
And he, calm, constant then as she is now,
For truth's sake did assert and reassert
Those letters called him to her and he came,
—Which damns the story credible otherwise.
Why should this man—mad to devote himself,
Careless what comes of his own fame, the first—
Be studious thus to publish and declare
Just what the lightest nature loves to hide,
So screening lady from the byword's laugh
"First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!"
—I say,—why should the man tell truth just now
When graceful lying meets such ready shrift?
Or is there a first moment for a priest
As for a woman, when invaded shame
Must have its first and last excuse to show?
Do both contrive love's entry in the mind
Shall look, i' the manner of it, a surprise,
That after, once the flag o' the fort hauled down,
Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate,
Welcome and entertain the conqueror?
Or what do you say to a touch of the devil's worst?
Can it be that the husband, he who wrote
The letter to his brother I told you of,
I' the name of her it meant to criminate,—
What if he wrote those letters to the priest?
Further the priest says, when it first befell,
This folly o' the letters, that he checked the flow,
Put them back lightly each with its reply.
Here again vexes new discrepancy:
There never reached her eye a word from him;
He did write but she could not read—could just
Burn the offence to wifehood, womanhood,
So did burn: never bade him come to her,
Yet when it proved he must come, let him come,
And when he did come though uncalled,—why, spoke
Prompt by an inspiration: thus it chanced,
Will you go somewhat back to understand?
When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprang,Like an uncaged beast, Guido's crueltyOn soul and body of his wife, she criedTo those whom law appoints resource for such,The secular guardian,—that 's the Governor,And the Archbishop,—that 's the spiritual guide,And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh.Now, this is ever the ill consequenceOf being noble, poor and difficult,Ungainly, yet too great to disregard,—This—that born peers and friends hereditary,—Though disinclined to help from their own storeThe opprobrious wight, put penny in his pokeFrom private purse or leave the door ajarWhen he goes wistful by at dinner-time,—Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sitSmugly in office, judge this, bishop that,Dispensers of the shine and shade o' the place—And if, friend's door shut and friend's purse undrawn,Still potentates may find the office-seatDo as good service at no cost—give helpBy-the-bye, pay up traditional dues at onceJust through a feather-weight too much i' the scale,Or finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue,—Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists.Thus when, in the first roughness of surpriseAt Guido's wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell,The frightened couple, all bewilderment,Rushed to the Governor,—who else rights wrong?Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress—Why, then the Governor woke up to the factThat Guido was a friend of old, poor Count!—So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pairWholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualmsNext time they came, wept, prated and told lies:So stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome.Well, now it was Pompilia's turn to try:The troubles pressing on her, as I said,Three times she rushed, maddened by misery,To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayerAt footstool of the Archbishop—fast the friendOf her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore!So, the Archbishop, not to be outdoneBy the Governor, break custom more than he,Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue,Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout,Coached her and carried her to the Count again,—His old friend should be master in his house,Rule his wife and correct her faults at need!Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise,She, as a last resource, betook herselfTo one, should be no family-friend at least,A simple friar o' the city; confessed to him,Then told how fierce temptation of releaseBy self-dealt death was busy with her soul,And urged that he put this in words, write plainFor one who could not write, set down her prayerThat Pietro and Violante, parent-likeIf somehow not her parents, should for loveCome save her, pluck from out the flame the brandThemselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deepTo send gay-colored sparkles up and cheerTheir seat at the chimney-corner. The good friarPromised as much at the moment; but, alack,Night brings discretion: he was no one's friend,Yet presently found he could not turn aboutNor take a step i' the ease and fail to treadOn some one's toe who either was a friend,Or a friend's friend, or friend's friend thrice-removed,And woe to friar by whom offences come!So, the course being plain,—with a general sighAt matrimony the profound mistake,—He threw reluctantly the business up,Having his other penitents to mind.
When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprang,
Like an uncaged beast, Guido's cruelty
On soul and body of his wife, she cried
To those whom law appoints resource for such,
The secular guardian,—that 's the Governor,
And the Archbishop,—that 's the spiritual guide,
And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh.
Now, this is ever the ill consequence
Of being noble, poor and difficult,
Ungainly, yet too great to disregard,—
This—that born peers and friends hereditary,—
Though disinclined to help from their own store
The opprobrious wight, put penny in his poke
From private purse or leave the door ajar
When he goes wistful by at dinner-time,—
Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sit
Smugly in office, judge this, bishop that,
Dispensers of the shine and shade o' the place—
And if, friend's door shut and friend's purse undrawn,
Still potentates may find the office-seat
Do as good service at no cost—give help
By-the-bye, pay up traditional dues at once
Just through a feather-weight too much i' the scale,
Or finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue,—
Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists.
Thus when, in the first roughness of surprise
At Guido's wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell,
The frightened couple, all bewilderment,
Rushed to the Governor,—who else rights wrong?
Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress—
Why, then the Governor woke up to the fact
That Guido was a friend of old, poor Count!—
So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pair
Wholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualms
Next time they came, wept, prated and told lies:
So stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome.
Well, now it was Pompilia's turn to try:
The troubles pressing on her, as I said,
Three times she rushed, maddened by misery,
To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayer
At footstool of the Archbishop—fast the friend
Of her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore!
So, the Archbishop, not to be outdone
By the Governor, break custom more than he,
Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue,
Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout,
Coached her and carried her to the Count again,
—His old friend should be master in his house,
Rule his wife and correct her faults at need!
Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise,
She, as a last resource, betook herself
To one, should be no family-friend at least,
A simple friar o' the city; confessed to him,
Then told how fierce temptation of release
By self-dealt death was busy with her soul,
And urged that he put this in words, write plain
For one who could not write, set down her prayer
That Pietro and Violante, parent-like
If somehow not her parents, should for love
Come save her, pluck from out the flame the brand
Themselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deep
To send gay-colored sparkles up and cheer
Their seat at the chimney-corner. The good friar
Promised as much at the moment; but, alack,
Night brings discretion: he was no one's friend,
Yet presently found he could not turn about
Nor take a step i' the ease and fail to tread
On some one's toe who either was a friend,
Or a friend's friend, or friend's friend thrice-removed,
And woe to friar by whom offences come!
So, the course being plain,—with a general sigh
At matrimony the profound mistake,—
He threw reluctantly the business up,
Having his other penitents to mind.
If then, all outlets thus secured save one,At last she took to the open, stood and staredWith her wan face to see where God might wait—And there found Caponsacchi wait as wellFor the precious something at perdition's edge,He only was predestinate to save,—And if they recognized in a critical flashFrom the zenith, each the other, her need of him,His need of ... say, a woman to perish for,The regular way o' the world, yet break no vow,Do no harm save to himself,—if this were thus?How do you say? It were improbable;So is the legend of my patron-saint.
If then, all outlets thus secured save one,
At last she took to the open, stood and stared
With her wan face to see where God might wait—
And there found Caponsacchi wait as well
For the precious something at perdition's edge,
He only was predestinate to save,—
And if they recognized in a critical flash
From the zenith, each the other, her need of him,
His need of ... say, a woman to perish for,
The regular way o' the world, yet break no vow,
Do no harm save to himself,—if this were thus?
How do you say? It were improbable;
So is the legend of my patron-saint.
Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case,Pompilia—like a starving wretch i' the streetWho stops and rifles the first passengerIn the great right of an excessive wrong—Did somehow call this stranger and he came,—Or whether the strange sudden interviewBlazed as when star and star must needs go closeTill each hurts each and there is loss in heaven—Whatever way in this strange world it was,—Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine,She at her window, he i' the street beneath,And understood each other at first look.All was determined and performed at once.And on a certain April evening, lateI' the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wifeThree years and over,—she who hithertoHad never taken twenty steps in RomeBeyond the church, pinned to her mother's gown,Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through streetExcept what led to the Archbishop's door,—Such an one rose up in the dark, laid handOn what came first, clothes and a trinket or two,Belongings of her own in the old day,—Stole from the side o' the sleeping spouse—who knows?Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain,—slidGhost-like from great dark room to great dark room,In through the tapestries and out againAnd onward, unembarrassed as a fate,Descended staircase, gained last door of all,Sent it wide open at first push of palm,And there stood, first time, last and only time,At liberty, alone in the open street,—Unquestioned, unmolested found herselfAt the city gate, by Caponsacchi's side,Hope there, joy there, life and all good again,The carriage there, the convoy there, light thereBroadening ever into blaze at RomeAnd breaking small what long miles lay between;Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe.
Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case,
Pompilia—like a starving wretch i' the street
Who stops and rifles the first passenger
In the great right of an excessive wrong—
Did somehow call this stranger and he came,—
Or whether the strange sudden interview
Blazed as when star and star must needs go close
Till each hurts each and there is loss in heaven—
Whatever way in this strange world it was,—
Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine,
She at her window, he i' the street beneath,
And understood each other at first look.
All was determined and performed at once.
And on a certain April evening, late
I' the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wife
Three years and over,—she who hitherto
Had never taken twenty steps in Rome
Beyond the church, pinned to her mother's gown,
Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through street
Except what led to the Archbishop's door,—
Such an one rose up in the dark, laid hand
On what came first, clothes and a trinket or two,
Belongings of her own in the old day,—
Stole from the side o' the sleeping spouse—who knows?
Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain,—slid
Ghost-like from great dark room to great dark room,
In through the tapestries and out again
And onward, unembarrassed as a fate,
Descended staircase, gained last door of all,
Sent it wide open at first push of palm,
And there stood, first time, last and only time,
At liberty, alone in the open street,—
Unquestioned, unmolested found herself
At the city gate, by Caponsacchi's side,
Hope there, joy there, life and all good again,
The carriage there, the convoy there, light there
Broadening ever into blaze at Rome
And breaking small what long miles lay between;
Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe.
The husband quotes this for incredible,All of the story from first word to last:Sees the priest's hand throughout upholding hers,Traces his foot to the alcove, that night,Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way,Proficient in all craft and stealthiness;And cites for proof a servant, eye that watchedAnd ear that opened to purse secrets up,A woman-spy,—suborned to give and takeLetters and tokens, do the work of shameThe more adroitly that herself, who helpedCommunion thus between a tainted pair,Had long since been a leper thick in spot,A common trull o' the town: she witnessed all,Helped many meetings, partings, took her wageAnd then told Guido the whole matter. Lies!The woman's life confutes her word,—her wordConfutes itself: "Thus, thus and thus I lied.""And thus, no question, still you lie," we say.
The husband quotes this for incredible,
All of the story from first word to last:
Sees the priest's hand throughout upholding hers,
Traces his foot to the alcove, that night,
Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way,
Proficient in all craft and stealthiness;
And cites for proof a servant, eye that watched
And ear that opened to purse secrets up,
A woman-spy,—suborned to give and take
Letters and tokens, do the work of shame
The more adroitly that herself, who helped
Communion thus between a tainted pair,
Had long since been a leper thick in spot,
A common trull o' the town: she witnessed all,
Helped many meetings, partings, took her wage
And then told Guido the whole matter. Lies!
The woman's life confutes her word,—her word
Confutes itself: "Thus, thus and thus I lied."
"And thus, no question, still you lie," we say.
"Ay, but at last, e'en have it how you will,Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodesThe consummation"—the accusers shriek:"Here is the wife avowedly found in flight,And the companion of her flight, a priest;She flies her husband, he the church his spouse:What is this?"
"Ay, but at last, e'en have it how you will,
Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodes
The consummation"—the accusers shriek:
"Here is the wife avowedly found in flight,
And the companion of her flight, a priest;
She flies her husband, he the church his spouse:
What is this?"
Wife and priest alike reply,"This is the simple thing it claims to be,A course we took for life and honor's sake,Very strange, very justifiable."She says, "God put it in my head to fly,As when the martin migrates: autumn clapsHer hands, cries 'Winter 's coming, will be here,Off with you ere the white teeth overtake!Flee!' So I fled: this friend was the warm day,The south wind and whatever favors flight;I took the favor, had the help, how else?And so we did fly rapidly all night,All day, all night—a longer night—again,And then another day, longest of days,And all the while, whether we fled or stopped,I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both,'Fly and arrive!' So long as I found strengthI talked with my companion, told him much,Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew GodAnd God's disposal of me,—but the senseO' the blessed flight absorbed me in the main,And speech became mere talking through a sleep,Till at the end of that last longest nightin a red daybreak, when we reached an innAnd my companion whispered 'Next stage—Rome!'Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards,All the frail fabric at a finger's touch,And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said,'But though Count Guido were a furlong off,Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!'Then something like a huge white wave o' the seaBroke o'er my brain and buried me in sleepBlessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose,And where was I found but on a strange bedIn a strange room like hell, roaring with noise,Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in frontWho but the man you call my husband? ay—Count Guido once more between heaven and me,For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes—That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help,Helpless himself, held prisoner in the handsOf men who looked up in my husband's faceTo take the fate thence he should signify,Just as the way was at Arezzo. Then,Not for my sake but his who had helped me—I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seizedThe sword o' the felon, trembling at his side,Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thingAnd would have pinned him through the poison-bagTo the wall and left him there to palpitate,As you serve scorpions, but men interposed—Disarmed me, gave his life to him againThat he might take mine and the other lives;And he has done so. I submit myself!"
Wife and priest alike reply,
"This is the simple thing it claims to be,
A course we took for life and honor's sake,
Very strange, very justifiable."
She says, "God put it in my head to fly,
As when the martin migrates: autumn claps
Her hands, cries 'Winter 's coming, will be here,
Off with you ere the white teeth overtake!
Flee!' So I fled: this friend was the warm day,
The south wind and whatever favors flight;
I took the favor, had the help, how else?
And so we did fly rapidly all night,
All day, all night—a longer night—again,
And then another day, longest of days,
And all the while, whether we fled or stopped,
I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both,
'Fly and arrive!' So long as I found strength
I talked with my companion, told him much,
Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew God
And God's disposal of me,—but the sense
O' the blessed flight absorbed me in the main,
And speech became mere talking through a sleep,
Till at the end of that last longest night
in a red daybreak, when we reached an inn
And my companion whispered 'Next stage—Rome!'
Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards,
All the frail fabric at a finger's touch,
And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said,
'But though Count Guido were a furlong off,
Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!'
Then something like a huge white wave o' the sea
Broke o'er my brain and buried me in sleep
Blessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose,
And where was I found but on a strange bed
In a strange room like hell, roaring with noise,
Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in front
Who but the man you call my husband? ay—
Count Guido once more between heaven and me,
For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes—
That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help,
Helpless himself, held prisoner in the hands
Of men who looked up in my husband's face
To take the fate thence he should signify,
Just as the way was at Arezzo. Then,
Not for my sake but his who had helped me—
I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seized
The sword o' the felon, trembling at his side,
Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thing
And would have pinned him through the poison-bag
To the wall and left him there to palpitate,
As you serve scorpions, but men interposed—
Disarmed me, gave his life to him again
That he might take mine and the other lives;
And he has done so. I submit myself!"
The priest says—oh, and in the main resultThe facts asseverate, he truly says,As to the very act and deed of him,However you mistrust the mind o' the man—The flight was just for flight's sake, no pretextFor aught except to set Pompilia free.He says, "I cite the husband's self's worst chargeIn proof of my best word for both of us.Be it conceded that so many timesWe took our pleasure in his palace: then,What need to fly at all?—or flying no less,What need to outrage the lips sick and whiteOf a woman, and bring ruin down beside,By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?"So does he vindicate Pompilia's fame,Confirm her story in all points but one—This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forthHer last strength in the prayer to halt a while,She makes confusion of the reddening whiteWhich was the sunset when her strength gave way,And the next sunrise and its whitening redWhich she revived in when her husband came:She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one,Having lived through a blank of night 'twixt eachThough dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse,She on the bed above; her friend belowWatched in the doorway of the inn the while,Stood i' the red o' the morn, that she mistakes,In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crewAnd hurry out the horses, have the stageOver, the last league, reach Rome and be safe:When up came Guido.Guido's tale begins—How he and his whole household, drunk to deathBy some enchanted potion, poppied drugsPlied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleepAnd left the spoilers unimpeded way,Could not shake off their poison and pursue,Till noontide, then made shift to get on horseAnd did pursue: which means he took his time,Pressed on no more than lingered after, stepBy step, just making sure o' the fugitives,Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance,Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair.How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth,Taking successively at tower and town,Village and roadside, still the same report:"Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago,Sat in the carriage just where now you stand,While we got horses ready,—turned deaf earTo all entreaty they would even alight;Counted the minutes and resumed their course."Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome,Leave no least loop-hole to let murder through,But foil him of his captured infamy,Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed:Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, RomeBut two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached,The guardian angel gave reluctant place,Satan stepped forward with alacrity,Pompilia's flesh and blood succumbed, perforceA halt was, and her husband had his will.Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hourTill he should spy in the east a signal-streak—Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be.Do you see the plan deliciously complete?The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep,The easy execution, the outcryOver the deed, "Take notice all the world!These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace,—The man is Caponsacchi and a priest,The woman is my wife: they fled me late.Thus have I found and you behold them thus,And may judge me: do you approve or no?"
The priest says—oh, and in the main result
The facts asseverate, he truly says,
As to the very act and deed of him,
However you mistrust the mind o' the man—
The flight was just for flight's sake, no pretext
For aught except to set Pompilia free.
He says, "I cite the husband's self's worst charge
In proof of my best word for both of us.
Be it conceded that so many times
We took our pleasure in his palace: then,
What need to fly at all?—or flying no less,
What need to outrage the lips sick and white
Of a woman, and bring ruin down beside,
By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?"
So does he vindicate Pompilia's fame,
Confirm her story in all points but one—
This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forth
Her last strength in the prayer to halt a while,
She makes confusion of the reddening white
Which was the sunset when her strength gave way,
And the next sunrise and its whitening red
Which she revived in when her husband came:
She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one,
Having lived through a blank of night 'twixt each
Though dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse,
She on the bed above; her friend below
Watched in the doorway of the inn the while,
Stood i' the red o' the morn, that she mistakes,
In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crew
And hurry out the horses, have the stage
Over, the last league, reach Rome and be safe:
When up came Guido.
Guido's tale begins—
How he and his whole household, drunk to death
By some enchanted potion, poppied drugs
Plied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleep
And left the spoilers unimpeded way,
Could not shake off their poison and pursue,
Till noontide, then made shift to get on horse
And did pursue: which means he took his time,
Pressed on no more than lingered after, step
By step, just making sure o' the fugitives,
Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance,
Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair.
How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth,
Taking successively at tower and town,
Village and roadside, still the same report:
"Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago,
Sat in the carriage just where now you stand,
While we got horses ready,—turned deaf ear
To all entreaty they would even alight;
Counted the minutes and resumed their course."
Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome,
Leave no least loop-hole to let murder through,
But foil him of his captured infamy,
Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed:
Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, Rome
But two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached,
The guardian angel gave reluctant place,
Satan stepped forward with alacrity,
Pompilia's flesh and blood succumbed, perforce
A halt was, and her husband had his will.
Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hour
Till he should spy in the east a signal-streak—
Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be.
Do you see the plan deliciously complete?
The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep,
The easy execution, the outcry
Over the deed, "Take notice all the world!
These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace,—
The man is Caponsacchi and a priest,
The woman is my wife: they fled me late.
Thus have I found and you behold them thus,
And may judge me: do you approve or no?"
Success did seem not so improbable,But that already Satan's laugh was heard,His black back turned on Guido—left i' the lurchOr rather, balked of suit and service now,Left to improve on both by one deed more,Burn up the better at no distant day,Body and soul one holocaust to hell.Anyhow, of this natural consequenceDid just the last link of the long chain snap:For an eruption was o' the priest, aliveAnd alert, calm, resolute and formidable,Not the least look of fear in that broad brow—One not to be disposed of by surprise,And armed moreover—who had guessed as much?Yes, there stood he in secular costumeComplete from head to heel, with sword at side,He seemed to know the trick of perfectly.There was no prompt suppression of the manAs he said calmly, "I have saved your wifeFrom death; there was no other way but this;Of what do I defraud you except death?Charge any wrong beyond, I answer it."Guido, the valorous, had met his match,Was forced to demand help instead of flight,Bid the authorities o' the place lend aidAnd make the best of a broken matter so.They soon obeyed the summons—I suppose,Apprised and ready, or not far to seek—Laid hands on Caponsacchi, found in fault,A priest yet flagrantly accoutred thus,—Then, to make good Count Guido's further charge,Proceeded, prisoner made lead the way,In a crowd, upstairs to the chamber-door,Where wax-white, dead asleep, deep beyond dream,As the priest laid her, lay Pompilia yet.
Success did seem not so improbable,
But that already Satan's laugh was heard,
His black back turned on Guido—left i' the lurch
Or rather, balked of suit and service now,
Left to improve on both by one deed more,
Burn up the better at no distant day,
Body and soul one holocaust to hell.
Anyhow, of this natural consequence
Did just the last link of the long chain snap:
For an eruption was o' the priest, alive
And alert, calm, resolute and formidable,
Not the least look of fear in that broad brow—
One not to be disposed of by surprise,
And armed moreover—who had guessed as much?
Yes, there stood he in secular costume
Complete from head to heel, with sword at side,
He seemed to know the trick of perfectly.
There was no prompt suppression of the man
As he said calmly, "I have saved your wife
From death; there was no other way but this;
Of what do I defraud you except death?
Charge any wrong beyond, I answer it."
Guido, the valorous, had met his match,
Was forced to demand help instead of flight,
Bid the authorities o' the place lend aid
And make the best of a broken matter so.
They soon obeyed the summons—I suppose,
Apprised and ready, or not far to seek—
Laid hands on Caponsacchi, found in fault,
A priest yet flagrantly accoutred thus,—
Then, to make good Count Guido's further charge,
Proceeded, prisoner made lead the way,
In a crowd, upstairs to the chamber-door,
Where wax-white, dead asleep, deep beyond dream,
As the priest laid her, lay Pompilia yet.
And as he mounted step and step with the crowdHow I see Guido taking heart again!He knew his wife so well and the way of her—How at the outbreak she would shroud her shameIn hell's heart, would it mercifully yawn—How, failing that, her forehead to his foot,She would crouch silent till the great doom fell,Leave him triumphant with the crowd to seeGuilt motionless or writhing like a worm!No! Second misadventure, this worm turned,I told you: would have slain him on the spotWith his own weapon, but they seized her hands:Leaving her tongue free, as it tolled the knellOf Guido's hope so lively late. The pastTook quite another shape now. She who shrieked,"At least and forever I am mine and God's,Thanks to his liberating angel Death—Never again degraded to be yoursThe ignoble noble, the unmanly man,The beast below the beast in brutishness!"—This was the froward child, "the restif lambUsed to be cherished in his breast," he groaned—"Eat from his hand and drink from out his cup,The while his fingers pushed their loving wayThrough curl on curl of that soft coat—alas,And she all silverly baaed gratitudeWhile meditating mischief!"—and so forth.He must invent another story now!'The ins and outs o' the rooms were searched: he foundOr showed for found the abominable prize—Love-letters from his wife who cannot write,Love-letters in reply o' the priest—thank God!—Who can write and confront his characterWith this, and prove the false thing forged throughout:Spitting whereat, he needs must spatter whomBut Guido's self?—that forged and falsifiedOne letter called Pompilia's, past dispute:Then why not these to make sure still more sure?
And as he mounted step and step with the crowd
How I see Guido taking heart again!
He knew his wife so well and the way of her—
How at the outbreak she would shroud her shame
In hell's heart, would it mercifully yawn—
How, failing that, her forehead to his foot,
She would crouch silent till the great doom fell,
Leave him triumphant with the crowd to see
Guilt motionless or writhing like a worm!
No! Second misadventure, this worm turned,
I told you: would have slain him on the spot
With his own weapon, but they seized her hands:
Leaving her tongue free, as it tolled the knell
Of Guido's hope so lively late. The past
Took quite another shape now. She who shrieked,
"At least and forever I am mine and God's,
Thanks to his liberating angel Death—
Never again degraded to be yours
The ignoble noble, the unmanly man,
The beast below the beast in brutishness!"—
This was the froward child, "the restif lamb
Used to be cherished in his breast," he groaned—
"Eat from his hand and drink from out his cup,
The while his fingers pushed their loving way
Through curl on curl of that soft coat—alas,
And she all silverly baaed gratitude
While meditating mischief!"—and so forth.
He must invent another story now!'
The ins and outs o' the rooms were searched: he found
Or showed for found the abominable prize—
Love-letters from his wife who cannot write,
Love-letters in reply o' the priest—thank God!—
Who can write and confront his character
With this, and prove the false thing forged throughout:
Spitting whereat, he needs must spatter whom
But Guido's self?—that forged and falsified
One letter called Pompilia's, past dispute:
Then why not these to make sure still more sure?
So was the case concluded then and there:Guido preferred his charges in due form,Called on the law to adjudicate, consignedThe accused ones to the Prefect of the place.(Oh mouse-birth of that mountain-like revenge!)And so to his own place betook himselfAfter the spring that failed,—the wildcat's way.The captured parties were conveyed to Rome;Investigation followed here i' the court—Soon to review the fruit of its own work,From then to now being eight months and no more.Guido kept out of sight and safe at home:The Abate, brother Paolo, helped mostAt words when deeds were out of question, pushedNearest the purple, best played deputy,So, pleaded, Guido's representativeAt the court shall soon try Guido's self,—what's more,The court that also took—I told you, Sir—That statement of that couple, how a cheatHad been i' the birth of the babe, no child of theirs.That was the prelude; this, the play's first act:Whereof we wait what comes, crown, close of all.Well, the result was something of a shadeOn the parties thus accused,—how otherwise?Shade, but with shine as unmistakable.Each had a prompt defence: Pompilia first—"Earth was made hell to me who did no harm:I only could emerge one way from hellBy catching at the one hand held me, soI caught at it and thereby stepped to heaven:If that be wrong, do with me what you will!"Then Caponsacchi with a grave grand sweepO' the arm as though his soul warned baseness off—"If as a man, then much more as a priestI hold me bound to help weak innocence:If so my worldly reputation burst,Being the bubble it is, why, burst it may:Blame I can bear though not blameworthiness.But use your sense first, see if the miscreant proved,The man who tortured thus the woman, thusHave not both laid the trap and fixed the lureOver the pit should bury body and soul!His facts are lies: his letters are the fact—An infiltration flavored with himself!As for the fancies—whether ... what is it you say?The lady loves me, whether I love herIn the forbidden sense of your surmise,—If, with the midday blaze of truth above,The unlidded eye of God awake, aware,You needs must pry about and trace the birthOf each stray beam of light may traverse night,To the night's sun that 's Lucifer himself,Do so, at other time, in other place,Not now nor here! Enough that first to lastI never touched her lip nor she my hand,Nor either of us thought a thought, much lessSpoke a word which the Virgin might not hear.Be such your question, thus I answer it."
So was the case concluded then and there:
Guido preferred his charges in due form,
Called on the law to adjudicate, consigned
The accused ones to the Prefect of the place.
(Oh mouse-birth of that mountain-like revenge!)
And so to his own place betook himself
After the spring that failed,—the wildcat's way.
The captured parties were conveyed to Rome;
Investigation followed here i' the court—
Soon to review the fruit of its own work,
From then to now being eight months and no more.
Guido kept out of sight and safe at home:
The Abate, brother Paolo, helped most
At words when deeds were out of question, pushed
Nearest the purple, best played deputy,
So, pleaded, Guido's representative
At the court shall soon try Guido's self,—what's more,
The court that also took—I told you, Sir—
That statement of that couple, how a cheat
Had been i' the birth of the babe, no child of theirs.
That was the prelude; this, the play's first act:
Whereof we wait what comes, crown, close of all.
Well, the result was something of a shade
On the parties thus accused,—how otherwise?
Shade, but with shine as unmistakable.
Each had a prompt defence: Pompilia first—
"Earth was made hell to me who did no harm:
I only could emerge one way from hell
By catching at the one hand held me, so
I caught at it and thereby stepped to heaven:
If that be wrong, do with me what you will!"
Then Caponsacchi with a grave grand sweep
O' the arm as though his soul warned baseness off—
"If as a man, then much more as a priest
I hold me bound to help weak innocence:
If so my worldly reputation burst,
Being the bubble it is, why, burst it may:
Blame I can bear though not blameworthiness.
But use your sense first, see if the miscreant proved,
The man who tortured thus the woman, thus
Have not both laid the trap and fixed the lure
Over the pit should bury body and soul!
His facts are lies: his letters are the fact—
An infiltration flavored with himself!
As for the fancies—whether ... what is it you say?
The lady loves me, whether I love her
In the forbidden sense of your surmise,—
If, with the midday blaze of truth above,
The unlidded eye of God awake, aware,
You needs must pry about and trace the birth
Of each stray beam of light may traverse night,
To the night's sun that 's Lucifer himself,
Do so, at other time, in other place,
Not now nor here! Enough that first to last
I never touched her lip nor she my hand,
Nor either of us thought a thought, much less
Spoke a word which the Virgin might not hear.
Be such your question, thus I answer it."
Then the court had to make its mind up, spoke."It is a thorny question, yea, a taleHard to believe, but not impossible:Who can be absolute for either side?A middle course is happily open yet.Here has a blot surprised the social blank,—Whether through favor, feebleness or fault,No matter, leprosy has touched our robeAnd we unclean must needs be purified.Here is a wife makes holiday from home,A priest caught playing truant to his church,In masquerade moreover: both allegeEnough excuse to stop our lifted scourgeWhich else would heavily fall. On the other hand,Here is a husband, ay and man of mark,Who comes complaining here, demands redressAs if he were the pattern of desert—The while those plaguy allegations frown,Forbid we grant him the redress he seeks.To all men be our moderation known!Rewarding none while compensating each,Hurting all round though harming nobody,Husband, wife, priest, scot-free not one shall 'scape,Yet priest, wife, husband, boast the unbroken headFrom application of our excellent oil:So that, whatever be the fact, in fine,We make no miss of justice in a sort.First, let the husband stomach as he may,His wife shall neither be returned him, no—Nor branded, whipped and caged, but just consignedTo a convent and the quietude she craves;So is he rid of his domestic plague:What better thing can happen to a man?Next, let the priest retire—unshent, unshamed.Unpunished as for perpetrating crime,But relegated (not imprisoned, Sirs!)Sent for three years to clarify his youthAt Civita, a rest by the way to Rome:There let his life skim off its last of leesNor keep this dubious color. Judged the cause:All parties may retire, content, we hope."That 's Rome's way, the traditional road of law;Whither it leads is what remains to tell.
Then the court had to make its mind up, spoke.
"It is a thorny question, yea, a tale
Hard to believe, but not impossible:
Who can be absolute for either side?
A middle course is happily open yet.
Here has a blot surprised the social blank,—
Whether through favor, feebleness or fault,
No matter, leprosy has touched our robe
And we unclean must needs be purified.
Here is a wife makes holiday from home,
A priest caught playing truant to his church,
In masquerade moreover: both allege
Enough excuse to stop our lifted scourge
Which else would heavily fall. On the other hand,
Here is a husband, ay and man of mark,
Who comes complaining here, demands redress
As if he were the pattern of desert—
The while those plaguy allegations frown,
Forbid we grant him the redress he seeks.
To all men be our moderation known!
Rewarding none while compensating each,
Hurting all round though harming nobody,
Husband, wife, priest, scot-free not one shall 'scape,
Yet priest, wife, husband, boast the unbroken head
From application of our excellent oil:
So that, whatever be the fact, in fine,
We make no miss of justice in a sort.
First, let the husband stomach as he may,
His wife shall neither be returned him, no—
Nor branded, whipped and caged, but just consigned
To a convent and the quietude she craves;
So is he rid of his domestic plague:
What better thing can happen to a man?
Next, let the priest retire—unshent, unshamed.
Unpunished as for perpetrating crime,
But relegated (not imprisoned, Sirs!)
Sent for three years to clarify his youth
At Civita, a rest by the way to Rome:
There let his life skim off its last of lees
Nor keep this dubious color. Judged the cause:
All parties may retire, content, we hope."
That 's Rome's way, the traditional road of law;
Whither it leads is what remains to tell.
The priest went to his relegation-place,The wife to her convent, brother PaoloTo the arms of brother Guido with the newsAnd this beside—his charge was countercharged;The Comparini, his old brace of hates,Were breathed and vigilant and venomous now—Had shot a second bolt where the first stuck,And followed up the pending dowry-suitBy a procedure should release the wifeFrom so much of the marriage-bond as barredEscape when Guido turned the screw too muchOn his wife's flesh and blood, as husband may.No more defence, she turned and made attack,Claimed now divorce from bed and board, in short:Pleaded such subtle strokes of cruelty,Such slow sure siege laid to her body and soul,As, proved,—and proofs seemed coming thick and fast,—Would gain both freedom and the dowry backEven should the first suit leave them in his grasp:So urged the Comparini for the wife.Guido had gained not one of the good thingsHe grasped at by his creditable planO' the flight and following and the rest: the suitThat smouldered late was fanned to fury new,This adjunct came to help with fiercer fire,While he had got himself a quite new plague —Found the world's face an universal grinAt this last best of the Hundred Merry TalesOf how a young and spritely clerk devisedTo carry off a spouse that moped too much,And cured her of the vapors in a trice:And how the husband, playing Vulcan's part,Told by the Sun, started in hot pursuitTo catch the lovers, and came halting up,Cast his net, and then called the Gods to seeThe convicts in their rosy impudence—Whereat said Mercury, "Would that I were Mars!"Oh it was rare, and naughty all the same!Brief, the wife's courage and cunning,—the priest's showOf chivalry and adroitness,—last not least,The husband—how he ne'er showed teeth at all,Whose bark had promised biting; but just sneakedBack to his kennel, tail 'twixt legs, as 't were,—All this was hard to gulp down and digest.So pays the devil his liegeman, brass for gold.But this was at Arezzo: here in RomeBrave Paolo bore up against it all—Battled it out, nor wanting to himselfNor Guido nor the House whose weight he borePillar-like, by no force of arm but brain.He knew his Rome, what wheels to set to work;Plied influential folk, pressed to the earOf the efficacious purple, pushed his wayTo the old Pope's self,—past decency indeed,—Praying him take the matter in his handsOut of the regular court's incompetence.But times are changed and nephews out of dateAnd favoritism unfashionable: the PopeSaid, "Render Cæsar what is Cæsar's due!"As for the Comparini's counter-plea,He met that by a counter-plea again,Made Guido claim divorce—with help so farBy the trial's issue: for, why punishmentHowever slight unless for guiltinessHowever slender?—and a molehill servesMuch as a mountain of offence this way.So was he gathering strength on every sideAnd growing more and more to menace—whenAll of a terrible moment came the blowThat beat down Paolo's fence, ended the playO' the foil and brought Mannaia on the stage.
The priest went to his relegation-place,
The wife to her convent, brother Paolo
To the arms of brother Guido with the news
And this beside—his charge was countercharged;
The Comparini, his old brace of hates,
Were breathed and vigilant and venomous now—
Had shot a second bolt where the first stuck,
And followed up the pending dowry-suit
By a procedure should release the wife
From so much of the marriage-bond as barred
Escape when Guido turned the screw too much
On his wife's flesh and blood, as husband may.
No more defence, she turned and made attack,
Claimed now divorce from bed and board, in short:
Pleaded such subtle strokes of cruelty,
Such slow sure siege laid to her body and soul,
As, proved,—and proofs seemed coming thick and fast,—
Would gain both freedom and the dowry back
Even should the first suit leave them in his grasp:
So urged the Comparini for the wife.
Guido had gained not one of the good things
He grasped at by his creditable plan
O' the flight and following and the rest: the suit
That smouldered late was fanned to fury new,
This adjunct came to help with fiercer fire,
While he had got himself a quite new plague —
Found the world's face an universal grin
At this last best of the Hundred Merry Tales
Of how a young and spritely clerk devised
To carry off a spouse that moped too much,
And cured her of the vapors in a trice:
And how the husband, playing Vulcan's part,
Told by the Sun, started in hot pursuit
To catch the lovers, and came halting up,
Cast his net, and then called the Gods to see
The convicts in their rosy impudence—
Whereat said Mercury, "Would that I were Mars!"
Oh it was rare, and naughty all the same!
Brief, the wife's courage and cunning,—the priest's show
Of chivalry and adroitness,—last not least,
The husband—how he ne'er showed teeth at all,
Whose bark had promised biting; but just sneaked
Back to his kennel, tail 'twixt legs, as 't were,—
All this was hard to gulp down and digest.
So pays the devil his liegeman, brass for gold.
But this was at Arezzo: here in Rome
Brave Paolo bore up against it all—
Battled it out, nor wanting to himself
Nor Guido nor the House whose weight he bore
Pillar-like, by no force of arm but brain.
He knew his Rome, what wheels to set to work;
Plied influential folk, pressed to the ear
Of the efficacious purple, pushed his way
To the old Pope's self,—past decency indeed,—
Praying him take the matter in his hands
Out of the regular court's incompetence.
But times are changed and nephews out of date
And favoritism unfashionable: the Pope
Said, "Render Cæsar what is Cæsar's due!"
As for the Comparini's counter-plea,
He met that by a counter-plea again,
Made Guido claim divorce—with help so far
By the trial's issue: for, why punishment
However slight unless for guiltiness
However slender?—and a molehill serves
Much as a mountain of offence this way.
So was he gathering strength on every side
And growing more and more to menace—when
All of a terrible moment came the blow
That beat down Paolo's fence, ended the play
O' the foil and brought Mannaia on the stage.