Five months had passed now since Pompilia's flight,Months spent in peace among the Convert nuns:This,—being, as it seemed, for Guido's sakeSolely, what pride might call imprisonmentAnd quote as something gained, to friends at home,—This naturally was at Guido's charge:Grudge it he might, but penitential fare,Prayers, preachings, who but he defrayed the cost?So, Paolo dropped, as proxy, doit by doitLike heart's blood, till—what 's here? What notice comes?The convent's self makes application blandThat, since Pompilia's health is fast o' the wane,She may have leave to go combine her cureOf soul with cure of body, mend her mindTogether with her thin arms and sunk eyesThat want fresh air outside the convent-wall,Say in a friendly house,—and which so fitAs a certain villa in the Pauline way,That happens to hold Pietro and his wife,The natural guardians? "Oh, and shift the careYou shift the cost, too; Pietro pays in turn,And lightens Guido of a load! And then,Villa or convent, two names for one thing,Always the sojourn means imprisonment,Domus pro carcere—nowise we relax,Nothing abate: how answers Paolo?"You,What would you answer? All so smooth and fair,Even Paul's astuteness sniffed no harm i' the world.He authorized the transfer, saw it madeAnd, two months after, reaped the fruit of the same,Having to sit down, rack his brain and findWhat phrase should serve him best to notifyOur Guido that by happy providenceA son and heir, a babe was born to himI' the villa,—go tell sympathizing friends!Yes, such had been Pompilia's privilege:She, when she fled, was one month gone with child,Known to herself or unknown, either wayAvailing to explain (say men of art)The strange and passionate precipitanceOf maiden startled into motherhoodWhich changes body and soul by nature's law.So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings comeFor the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores,And there is born a blood-pulse in her heartTo fight if needs be, though with flap of wing,For the wool-flock or the fur-tuft, though a hawkContest the prize,—wherefore, she knows not yet.Anyhow, thus to Guido came the news."I shall have quitted Rome ere you arriveTo take the one step left,"—wrote Paolo.Then did the winch o' the winepress of all hate,Vanity, disappointment, grudge and greed,Take the last turn that screws out pure revengeWith a bright bubble at the brim beside—By an heir's birth he was assured at onceO' the main prize, all the money in dispute:Pompilia's dowry might revert to herOr stay with him as law's caprice should point,—But now—now—what was Pietro's shall be hers,What was hers shall remain her own.—if hers,Why then,—oh, not her husband's, but—her heir's!That heir being his too, all grew his at lastBy this road or by that road, since they join.Before, why, push he Pietro out o' the world,—The current of the money stopped, you see,Pompilia being proved no Pietro's child:Or let it be Pompilia's life he quenched,Again the current of the money stopped,—Guido debarred his rights as husband soon,So the new process threatened;—now, the chance,Now, the resplendent minute! Clear the earth,Cleanse the house, let the three but disappear,A child remains, depositary of all,That Guido may enjoy his own again,Repair all losses by a master-stroke,Wipe out the past, all done all left undone,Swell the good present to best evermore,Die into new life, which let blood baptize!So, i' the blue of a sudden sulphur-blaze,Both why there was one step to take at Rome,And why he should not meet with Paolo there,He saw—the ins and outs to the heart of hell—And took the straight line thither swift and sure.He rushed to Vittiano, found four sons o' the soil,Brutes of his breeding, with one spark i' the clodThat served for a soul, the looking up to himOr aught called Franceschini as life, death,Heaven, hell,—lord paramount, assembled these,Harangued, equipped, instructed, pressed each clodWith his will's imprint; then took horse, plied spur,And so arrived, all five of them, at RomeOn Christmas-Eve, and forthwith found themselvesInstalled i' the vacancy and solitudeLeft them by Paolo, the considerate manWho, good as his word, had disappeared at onceAs if to leave the stage free. A whole weekDid Guido spend in study of his part,Then played it fearless of a failure. One,Struck the year's clock whereof the hours are days,And off was rung o' the little wheels the chime"Good will on earth and peace to man:" but, two,Proceeded the same bell, and, evening come,The dreadful five felt finger-wise their wayAcross the town by blind cuts and black turnsTo the little lone suburban villa; knocked—"Who may be outside?" called a well-known voice."A friend of Caponsacchi's bringing friendsA letter."That 's a test, the excusers say:Ay, and a test conclusive, I return.What? Had that name brought touch of guilt or tasteOf fear with it, aught to dash the present joyWith memory of the sorrow just at end,—She, happy in her parents' arms at length,With the new blessing of the two-weeks' babe,—How had that name's announcement moved the wife?Or, as the other slanders circulate,Were Caponsacchi no rare visitantOn nights and days whither safe harbor lured,What bait had been i' the name to ope the door?The promise of a letter? Stealthy guestsHave secret watchwords, private entrances:The man's own self might have been found insideAnd all the scheme made frustrate by a word.No: but since Guido knew, none knew so well,The man had never since returned to RomeNor seen the wife's face more than villa's front,So, could not be at hand to warn or save,—For that, he took this sure way to the end."Come in," bade poor Violante cheerfully,Drawing the door-bolt: that death was the first,Stabbed through and through. Pietro, close on her heels,Set up a cry—"Let me confess myself!Grant but confession!" Cold steel was the grant.Then came Pompilia's turn.Then they escaped.The noise o' the slaughter roused the neighborhood.They had forgotten just the one thing moreWhich saves i' the circumstance, the ticket, to wit,Which puts post-horses at a traveller's use:So, all on foot, desperate through the darkReeled they like drunkards along open road,Accomplished a prodigious twenty milesHomeward, and gained Baccano very near,Stumbled at last, deaf, dumb, blind through the feat,Into a grange and, one dead heap, slept thereTill the pursuers hard upon their traceReached them and took them, red from head to heel,And brought them to the prison where they lie.The couple were laid i' the church two days ago,And the wife lives yet by miracle.All is told.You hardly need ask what Count Guido says,Since something he must say. "I own the deed—"(He cannot choose,—but—) "I declare the sameJust and inevitable,—since no way elseWas left me, but by this of taking life,To save my honor which is more than life.I exercised a husband's rights." To whichThe answer is as prompt—"There was no faultIn any one o' the three to punish thus:Neither i' the wife, who kept all faith to you,Nor in the parents, whom yourself first duped,Robbed and maltreated, then turned out of doors.You wronged and they endured wrong; yours the fault.Next, had endurance overpassed the markAnd turned resentment needing remedy,—Nay, put the absurd impossible case, for once—You were all blameless of the blame allegedAnd they blameworthy where you fix all blame,Still, why this violation of the law?Yourself elected law should take its course,Avenge wrong, or show vengeance not your right;Why, only when the balance in law's handTrembles against you and inclines the wayO' the other party, do you make protest,Renounce arbitrament, flying out of court,And crying 'Honor's hurt the sword must cure'?Aha, and so i' the middle of each suitTrying i' the courts,—and you had three in playWith an appeal to the Pope's self beside,—What, you may chop and change and right your wrongs,Leaving the law to lag as she thinks fit?"That were too temptingly commodious, Count!One would have still a remedy in reserveShould reach the safest oldest sinner, you see!One's honor forsooth? Does that take hurt aloneFrom the extreme outrage? I who have no wife,Being yet sensitive in my degreeAs Guido,—must discover hurt elsewhereWhich, half compounded for in days gone by,May profitably break out now afresh,Need cure from my own expeditious hands.The lie that was, as it were, imputed meWhen you objected to my contract's clause,—The theft as good as, one may say, alleged,When you, co-heir in a will, excepted, Sir,To my administration of effects,—Aha, do you think law disposed of these?My honor's touched and shall deal death around!Count, that were too commodious, I repeat!If any law be imperative on us all,Of all are you the enemy: out with youFrom the common light and air and life of man!
Five months had passed now since Pompilia's flight,Months spent in peace among the Convert nuns:This,—being, as it seemed, for Guido's sakeSolely, what pride might call imprisonmentAnd quote as something gained, to friends at home,—This naturally was at Guido's charge:Grudge it he might, but penitential fare,Prayers, preachings, who but he defrayed the cost?So, Paolo dropped, as proxy, doit by doitLike heart's blood, till—what 's here? What notice comes?The convent's self makes application blandThat, since Pompilia's health is fast o' the wane,She may have leave to go combine her cureOf soul with cure of body, mend her mindTogether with her thin arms and sunk eyesThat want fresh air outside the convent-wall,Say in a friendly house,—and which so fitAs a certain villa in the Pauline way,That happens to hold Pietro and his wife,The natural guardians? "Oh, and shift the careYou shift the cost, too; Pietro pays in turn,And lightens Guido of a load! And then,Villa or convent, two names for one thing,Always the sojourn means imprisonment,Domus pro carcere—nowise we relax,Nothing abate: how answers Paolo?"You,What would you answer? All so smooth and fair,Even Paul's astuteness sniffed no harm i' the world.He authorized the transfer, saw it madeAnd, two months after, reaped the fruit of the same,Having to sit down, rack his brain and findWhat phrase should serve him best to notifyOur Guido that by happy providenceA son and heir, a babe was born to himI' the villa,—go tell sympathizing friends!Yes, such had been Pompilia's privilege:She, when she fled, was one month gone with child,Known to herself or unknown, either wayAvailing to explain (say men of art)The strange and passionate precipitanceOf maiden startled into motherhoodWhich changes body and soul by nature's law.So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings comeFor the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores,And there is born a blood-pulse in her heartTo fight if needs be, though with flap of wing,For the wool-flock or the fur-tuft, though a hawkContest the prize,—wherefore, she knows not yet.Anyhow, thus to Guido came the news."I shall have quitted Rome ere you arriveTo take the one step left,"—wrote Paolo.Then did the winch o' the winepress of all hate,Vanity, disappointment, grudge and greed,Take the last turn that screws out pure revengeWith a bright bubble at the brim beside—By an heir's birth he was assured at onceO' the main prize, all the money in dispute:Pompilia's dowry might revert to herOr stay with him as law's caprice should point,—But now—now—what was Pietro's shall be hers,What was hers shall remain her own.—if hers,Why then,—oh, not her husband's, but—her heir's!That heir being his too, all grew his at lastBy this road or by that road, since they join.Before, why, push he Pietro out o' the world,—The current of the money stopped, you see,Pompilia being proved no Pietro's child:Or let it be Pompilia's life he quenched,Again the current of the money stopped,—Guido debarred his rights as husband soon,So the new process threatened;—now, the chance,Now, the resplendent minute! Clear the earth,Cleanse the house, let the three but disappear,A child remains, depositary of all,That Guido may enjoy his own again,Repair all losses by a master-stroke,Wipe out the past, all done all left undone,Swell the good present to best evermore,Die into new life, which let blood baptize!So, i' the blue of a sudden sulphur-blaze,Both why there was one step to take at Rome,And why he should not meet with Paolo there,He saw—the ins and outs to the heart of hell—And took the straight line thither swift and sure.He rushed to Vittiano, found four sons o' the soil,Brutes of his breeding, with one spark i' the clodThat served for a soul, the looking up to himOr aught called Franceschini as life, death,Heaven, hell,—lord paramount, assembled these,Harangued, equipped, instructed, pressed each clodWith his will's imprint; then took horse, plied spur,And so arrived, all five of them, at RomeOn Christmas-Eve, and forthwith found themselvesInstalled i' the vacancy and solitudeLeft them by Paolo, the considerate manWho, good as his word, had disappeared at onceAs if to leave the stage free. A whole weekDid Guido spend in study of his part,Then played it fearless of a failure. One,Struck the year's clock whereof the hours are days,And off was rung o' the little wheels the chime"Good will on earth and peace to man:" but, two,Proceeded the same bell, and, evening come,The dreadful five felt finger-wise their wayAcross the town by blind cuts and black turnsTo the little lone suburban villa; knocked—"Who may be outside?" called a well-known voice."A friend of Caponsacchi's bringing friendsA letter."That 's a test, the excusers say:Ay, and a test conclusive, I return.What? Had that name brought touch of guilt or tasteOf fear with it, aught to dash the present joyWith memory of the sorrow just at end,—She, happy in her parents' arms at length,With the new blessing of the two-weeks' babe,—How had that name's announcement moved the wife?Or, as the other slanders circulate,Were Caponsacchi no rare visitantOn nights and days whither safe harbor lured,What bait had been i' the name to ope the door?The promise of a letter? Stealthy guestsHave secret watchwords, private entrances:The man's own self might have been found insideAnd all the scheme made frustrate by a word.No: but since Guido knew, none knew so well,The man had never since returned to RomeNor seen the wife's face more than villa's front,So, could not be at hand to warn or save,—For that, he took this sure way to the end."Come in," bade poor Violante cheerfully,Drawing the door-bolt: that death was the first,Stabbed through and through. Pietro, close on her heels,Set up a cry—"Let me confess myself!Grant but confession!" Cold steel was the grant.Then came Pompilia's turn.Then they escaped.The noise o' the slaughter roused the neighborhood.They had forgotten just the one thing moreWhich saves i' the circumstance, the ticket, to wit,Which puts post-horses at a traveller's use:So, all on foot, desperate through the darkReeled they like drunkards along open road,Accomplished a prodigious twenty milesHomeward, and gained Baccano very near,Stumbled at last, deaf, dumb, blind through the feat,Into a grange and, one dead heap, slept thereTill the pursuers hard upon their traceReached them and took them, red from head to heel,And brought them to the prison where they lie.The couple were laid i' the church two days ago,And the wife lives yet by miracle.All is told.You hardly need ask what Count Guido says,Since something he must say. "I own the deed—"(He cannot choose,—but—) "I declare the sameJust and inevitable,—since no way elseWas left me, but by this of taking life,To save my honor which is more than life.I exercised a husband's rights." To whichThe answer is as prompt—"There was no faultIn any one o' the three to punish thus:Neither i' the wife, who kept all faith to you,Nor in the parents, whom yourself first duped,Robbed and maltreated, then turned out of doors.You wronged and they endured wrong; yours the fault.Next, had endurance overpassed the markAnd turned resentment needing remedy,—Nay, put the absurd impossible case, for once—You were all blameless of the blame allegedAnd they blameworthy where you fix all blame,Still, why this violation of the law?Yourself elected law should take its course,Avenge wrong, or show vengeance not your right;Why, only when the balance in law's handTrembles against you and inclines the wayO' the other party, do you make protest,Renounce arbitrament, flying out of court,And crying 'Honor's hurt the sword must cure'?Aha, and so i' the middle of each suitTrying i' the courts,—and you had three in playWith an appeal to the Pope's self beside,—What, you may chop and change and right your wrongs,Leaving the law to lag as she thinks fit?"That were too temptingly commodious, Count!One would have still a remedy in reserveShould reach the safest oldest sinner, you see!One's honor forsooth? Does that take hurt aloneFrom the extreme outrage? I who have no wife,Being yet sensitive in my degreeAs Guido,—must discover hurt elsewhereWhich, half compounded for in days gone by,May profitably break out now afresh,Need cure from my own expeditious hands.The lie that was, as it were, imputed meWhen you objected to my contract's clause,—The theft as good as, one may say, alleged,When you, co-heir in a will, excepted, Sir,To my administration of effects,—Aha, do you think law disposed of these?My honor's touched and shall deal death around!Count, that were too commodious, I repeat!If any law be imperative on us all,Of all are you the enemy: out with youFrom the common light and air and life of man!
Five months had passed now since Pompilia's flight,Months spent in peace among the Convert nuns:This,—being, as it seemed, for Guido's sakeSolely, what pride might call imprisonmentAnd quote as something gained, to friends at home,—This naturally was at Guido's charge:Grudge it he might, but penitential fare,Prayers, preachings, who but he defrayed the cost?So, Paolo dropped, as proxy, doit by doitLike heart's blood, till—what 's here? What notice comes?The convent's self makes application blandThat, since Pompilia's health is fast o' the wane,She may have leave to go combine her cureOf soul with cure of body, mend her mindTogether with her thin arms and sunk eyesThat want fresh air outside the convent-wall,Say in a friendly house,—and which so fitAs a certain villa in the Pauline way,That happens to hold Pietro and his wife,The natural guardians? "Oh, and shift the careYou shift the cost, too; Pietro pays in turn,And lightens Guido of a load! And then,Villa or convent, two names for one thing,Always the sojourn means imprisonment,Domus pro carcere—nowise we relax,Nothing abate: how answers Paolo?"You,What would you answer? All so smooth and fair,Even Paul's astuteness sniffed no harm i' the world.He authorized the transfer, saw it madeAnd, two months after, reaped the fruit of the same,Having to sit down, rack his brain and findWhat phrase should serve him best to notifyOur Guido that by happy providenceA son and heir, a babe was born to himI' the villa,—go tell sympathizing friends!Yes, such had been Pompilia's privilege:She, when she fled, was one month gone with child,Known to herself or unknown, either wayAvailing to explain (say men of art)The strange and passionate precipitanceOf maiden startled into motherhoodWhich changes body and soul by nature's law.So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings comeFor the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores,And there is born a blood-pulse in her heartTo fight if needs be, though with flap of wing,For the wool-flock or the fur-tuft, though a hawkContest the prize,—wherefore, she knows not yet.Anyhow, thus to Guido came the news."I shall have quitted Rome ere you arriveTo take the one step left,"—wrote Paolo.Then did the winch o' the winepress of all hate,Vanity, disappointment, grudge and greed,Take the last turn that screws out pure revengeWith a bright bubble at the brim beside—By an heir's birth he was assured at onceO' the main prize, all the money in dispute:Pompilia's dowry might revert to herOr stay with him as law's caprice should point,—But now—now—what was Pietro's shall be hers,What was hers shall remain her own.—if hers,Why then,—oh, not her husband's, but—her heir's!That heir being his too, all grew his at lastBy this road or by that road, since they join.Before, why, push he Pietro out o' the world,—The current of the money stopped, you see,Pompilia being proved no Pietro's child:Or let it be Pompilia's life he quenched,Again the current of the money stopped,—Guido debarred his rights as husband soon,So the new process threatened;—now, the chance,Now, the resplendent minute! Clear the earth,Cleanse the house, let the three but disappear,A child remains, depositary of all,That Guido may enjoy his own again,Repair all losses by a master-stroke,Wipe out the past, all done all left undone,Swell the good present to best evermore,Die into new life, which let blood baptize!So, i' the blue of a sudden sulphur-blaze,Both why there was one step to take at Rome,And why he should not meet with Paolo there,He saw—the ins and outs to the heart of hell—And took the straight line thither swift and sure.He rushed to Vittiano, found four sons o' the soil,Brutes of his breeding, with one spark i' the clodThat served for a soul, the looking up to himOr aught called Franceschini as life, death,Heaven, hell,—lord paramount, assembled these,Harangued, equipped, instructed, pressed each clodWith his will's imprint; then took horse, plied spur,And so arrived, all five of them, at RomeOn Christmas-Eve, and forthwith found themselvesInstalled i' the vacancy and solitudeLeft them by Paolo, the considerate manWho, good as his word, had disappeared at onceAs if to leave the stage free. A whole weekDid Guido spend in study of his part,Then played it fearless of a failure. One,Struck the year's clock whereof the hours are days,And off was rung o' the little wheels the chime"Good will on earth and peace to man:" but, two,Proceeded the same bell, and, evening come,The dreadful five felt finger-wise their wayAcross the town by blind cuts and black turnsTo the little lone suburban villa; knocked—"Who may be outside?" called a well-known voice."A friend of Caponsacchi's bringing friendsA letter."
Five months had passed now since Pompilia's flight,
Months spent in peace among the Convert nuns:
This,—being, as it seemed, for Guido's sake
Solely, what pride might call imprisonment
And quote as something gained, to friends at home,—
This naturally was at Guido's charge:
Grudge it he might, but penitential fare,
Prayers, preachings, who but he defrayed the cost?
So, Paolo dropped, as proxy, doit by doit
Like heart's blood, till—what 's here? What notice comes?
The convent's self makes application bland
That, since Pompilia's health is fast o' the wane,
She may have leave to go combine her cure
Of soul with cure of body, mend her mind
Together with her thin arms and sunk eyes
That want fresh air outside the convent-wall,
Say in a friendly house,—and which so fit
As a certain villa in the Pauline way,
That happens to hold Pietro and his wife,
The natural guardians? "Oh, and shift the care
You shift the cost, too; Pietro pays in turn,
And lightens Guido of a load! And then,
Villa or convent, two names for one thing,
Always the sojourn means imprisonment,
Domus pro carcere—nowise we relax,
Nothing abate: how answers Paolo?"
You,
What would you answer? All so smooth and fair,
Even Paul's astuteness sniffed no harm i' the world.
He authorized the transfer, saw it made
And, two months after, reaped the fruit of the same,
Having to sit down, rack his brain and find
What phrase should serve him best to notify
Our Guido that by happy providence
A son and heir, a babe was born to him
I' the villa,—go tell sympathizing friends!
Yes, such had been Pompilia's privilege:
She, when she fled, was one month gone with child,
Known to herself or unknown, either way
Availing to explain (say men of art)
The strange and passionate precipitance
Of maiden startled into motherhood
Which changes body and soul by nature's law.
So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings come
For the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores,
And there is born a blood-pulse in her heart
To fight if needs be, though with flap of wing,
For the wool-flock or the fur-tuft, though a hawk
Contest the prize,—wherefore, she knows not yet.
Anyhow, thus to Guido came the news.
"I shall have quitted Rome ere you arrive
To take the one step left,"—wrote Paolo.
Then did the winch o' the winepress of all hate,
Vanity, disappointment, grudge and greed,
Take the last turn that screws out pure revenge
With a bright bubble at the brim beside—
By an heir's birth he was assured at once
O' the main prize, all the money in dispute:
Pompilia's dowry might revert to her
Or stay with him as law's caprice should point,—
But now—now—what was Pietro's shall be hers,
What was hers shall remain her own.—if hers,
Why then,—oh, not her husband's, but—her heir's!
That heir being his too, all grew his at last
By this road or by that road, since they join.
Before, why, push he Pietro out o' the world,—
The current of the money stopped, you see,
Pompilia being proved no Pietro's child:
Or let it be Pompilia's life he quenched,
Again the current of the money stopped,—
Guido debarred his rights as husband soon,
So the new process threatened;—now, the chance,
Now, the resplendent minute! Clear the earth,
Cleanse the house, let the three but disappear,
A child remains, depositary of all,
That Guido may enjoy his own again,
Repair all losses by a master-stroke,
Wipe out the past, all done all left undone,
Swell the good present to best evermore,
Die into new life, which let blood baptize!
So, i' the blue of a sudden sulphur-blaze,
Both why there was one step to take at Rome,
And why he should not meet with Paolo there,
He saw—the ins and outs to the heart of hell—
And took the straight line thither swift and sure.
He rushed to Vittiano, found four sons o' the soil,
Brutes of his breeding, with one spark i' the clod
That served for a soul, the looking up to him
Or aught called Franceschini as life, death,
Heaven, hell,—lord paramount, assembled these,
Harangued, equipped, instructed, pressed each clod
With his will's imprint; then took horse, plied spur,
And so arrived, all five of them, at Rome
On Christmas-Eve, and forthwith found themselves
Installed i' the vacancy and solitude
Left them by Paolo, the considerate man
Who, good as his word, had disappeared at once
As if to leave the stage free. A whole week
Did Guido spend in study of his part,
Then played it fearless of a failure. One,
Struck the year's clock whereof the hours are days,
And off was rung o' the little wheels the chime
"Good will on earth and peace to man:" but, two,
Proceeded the same bell, and, evening come,
The dreadful five felt finger-wise their way
Across the town by blind cuts and black turns
To the little lone suburban villa; knocked—
"Who may be outside?" called a well-known voice.
"A friend of Caponsacchi's bringing friends
A letter."
That 's a test, the excusers say:Ay, and a test conclusive, I return.What? Had that name brought touch of guilt or tasteOf fear with it, aught to dash the present joyWith memory of the sorrow just at end,—She, happy in her parents' arms at length,With the new blessing of the two-weeks' babe,—How had that name's announcement moved the wife?Or, as the other slanders circulate,Were Caponsacchi no rare visitantOn nights and days whither safe harbor lured,What bait had been i' the name to ope the door?The promise of a letter? Stealthy guestsHave secret watchwords, private entrances:The man's own self might have been found insideAnd all the scheme made frustrate by a word.No: but since Guido knew, none knew so well,The man had never since returned to RomeNor seen the wife's face more than villa's front,So, could not be at hand to warn or save,—For that, he took this sure way to the end.
That 's a test, the excusers say:
Ay, and a test conclusive, I return.
What? Had that name brought touch of guilt or taste
Of fear with it, aught to dash the present joy
With memory of the sorrow just at end,—
She, happy in her parents' arms at length,
With the new blessing of the two-weeks' babe,—
How had that name's announcement moved the wife?
Or, as the other slanders circulate,
Were Caponsacchi no rare visitant
On nights and days whither safe harbor lured,
What bait had been i' the name to ope the door?
The promise of a letter? Stealthy guests
Have secret watchwords, private entrances:
The man's own self might have been found inside
And all the scheme made frustrate by a word.
No: but since Guido knew, none knew so well,
The man had never since returned to Rome
Nor seen the wife's face more than villa's front,
So, could not be at hand to warn or save,—
For that, he took this sure way to the end.
"Come in," bade poor Violante cheerfully,Drawing the door-bolt: that death was the first,Stabbed through and through. Pietro, close on her heels,Set up a cry—"Let me confess myself!Grant but confession!" Cold steel was the grant.Then came Pompilia's turn.
"Come in," bade poor Violante cheerfully,
Drawing the door-bolt: that death was the first,
Stabbed through and through. Pietro, close on her heels,
Set up a cry—"Let me confess myself!
Grant but confession!" Cold steel was the grant.
Then came Pompilia's turn.
Then they escaped.The noise o' the slaughter roused the neighborhood.They had forgotten just the one thing moreWhich saves i' the circumstance, the ticket, to wit,Which puts post-horses at a traveller's use:So, all on foot, desperate through the darkReeled they like drunkards along open road,Accomplished a prodigious twenty milesHomeward, and gained Baccano very near,Stumbled at last, deaf, dumb, blind through the feat,Into a grange and, one dead heap, slept thereTill the pursuers hard upon their traceReached them and took them, red from head to heel,And brought them to the prison where they lie.The couple were laid i' the church two days ago,And the wife lives yet by miracle.
Then they escaped.
The noise o' the slaughter roused the neighborhood.
They had forgotten just the one thing more
Which saves i' the circumstance, the ticket, to wit,
Which puts post-horses at a traveller's use:
So, all on foot, desperate through the dark
Reeled they like drunkards along open road,
Accomplished a prodigious twenty miles
Homeward, and gained Baccano very near,
Stumbled at last, deaf, dumb, blind through the feat,
Into a grange and, one dead heap, slept there
Till the pursuers hard upon their trace
Reached them and took them, red from head to heel,
And brought them to the prison where they lie.
The couple were laid i' the church two days ago,
And the wife lives yet by miracle.
All is told.You hardly need ask what Count Guido says,Since something he must say. "I own the deed—"(He cannot choose,—but—) "I declare the sameJust and inevitable,—since no way elseWas left me, but by this of taking life,To save my honor which is more than life.I exercised a husband's rights." To whichThe answer is as prompt—"There was no faultIn any one o' the three to punish thus:Neither i' the wife, who kept all faith to you,Nor in the parents, whom yourself first duped,Robbed and maltreated, then turned out of doors.You wronged and they endured wrong; yours the fault.Next, had endurance overpassed the markAnd turned resentment needing remedy,—Nay, put the absurd impossible case, for once—You were all blameless of the blame allegedAnd they blameworthy where you fix all blame,Still, why this violation of the law?Yourself elected law should take its course,Avenge wrong, or show vengeance not your right;Why, only when the balance in law's handTrembles against you and inclines the wayO' the other party, do you make protest,Renounce arbitrament, flying out of court,And crying 'Honor's hurt the sword must cure'?Aha, and so i' the middle of each suitTrying i' the courts,—and you had three in playWith an appeal to the Pope's self beside,—What, you may chop and change and right your wrongs,Leaving the law to lag as she thinks fit?"That were too temptingly commodious, Count!One would have still a remedy in reserveShould reach the safest oldest sinner, you see!One's honor forsooth? Does that take hurt aloneFrom the extreme outrage? I who have no wife,Being yet sensitive in my degreeAs Guido,—must discover hurt elsewhereWhich, half compounded for in days gone by,May profitably break out now afresh,Need cure from my own expeditious hands.The lie that was, as it were, imputed meWhen you objected to my contract's clause,—The theft as good as, one may say, alleged,When you, co-heir in a will, excepted, Sir,To my administration of effects,—Aha, do you think law disposed of these?My honor's touched and shall deal death around!Count, that were too commodious, I repeat!If any law be imperative on us all,Of all are you the enemy: out with youFrom the common light and air and life of man!
All is told.
You hardly need ask what Count Guido says,
Since something he must say. "I own the deed—"
(He cannot choose,—but—) "I declare the same
Just and inevitable,—since no way else
Was left me, but by this of taking life,
To save my honor which is more than life.
I exercised a husband's rights." To which
The answer is as prompt—"There was no fault
In any one o' the three to punish thus:
Neither i' the wife, who kept all faith to you,
Nor in the parents, whom yourself first duped,
Robbed and maltreated, then turned out of doors.
You wronged and they endured wrong; yours the fault.
Next, had endurance overpassed the mark
And turned resentment needing remedy,—
Nay, put the absurd impossible case, for once—
You were all blameless of the blame alleged
And they blameworthy where you fix all blame,
Still, why this violation of the law?
Yourself elected law should take its course,
Avenge wrong, or show vengeance not your right;
Why, only when the balance in law's hand
Trembles against you and inclines the way
O' the other party, do you make protest,
Renounce arbitrament, flying out of court,
And crying 'Honor's hurt the sword must cure'?
Aha, and so i' the middle of each suit
Trying i' the courts,—and you had three in play
With an appeal to the Pope's self beside,—
What, you may chop and change and right your wrongs,
Leaving the law to lag as she thinks fit?"
That were too temptingly commodious, Count!
One would have still a remedy in reserve
Should reach the safest oldest sinner, you see!
One's honor forsooth? Does that take hurt alone
From the extreme outrage? I who have no wife,
Being yet sensitive in my degree
As Guido,—must discover hurt elsewhere
Which, half compounded for in days gone by,
May profitably break out now afresh,
Need cure from my own expeditious hands.
The lie that was, as it were, imputed me
When you objected to my contract's clause,—
The theft as good as, one may say, alleged,
When you, co-heir in a will, excepted, Sir,
To my administration of effects,
—Aha, do you think law disposed of these?
My honor's touched and shall deal death around!
Count, that were too commodious, I repeat!
If any law be imperative on us all,
Of all are you the enemy: out with you
From the common light and air and life of man!