Chapter 68

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,Though she 's not dead yet, she 's as good as stretchedSymmetrical beside the other two;Though he 's not judged yet, he 's the same as judged,So do the facts abound and superabound:And nothing hinders that we lift the caseOut of the shade into the shine, allowQualified persons to pronounce at last,Nay, edge in an authoritative wordBetween this rabble's-brabble of dolts and foolsWho make up reasonless unreasoning Rome."Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to testThe truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alikeI' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"Law 's a machine from which, to please the mob,Truth the divinity must needs descendAnd clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!Hammer into their noddles who was whoAnd what was what. I tell the simpletons,"Could law be competent to such a feat'T were done already: what begins next weekIs end o' the Trial, last link of a chainWhereof the first was forged three years agoWhen law addressed herself to set wrong right,And proved so slow in taking the first stepThat ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,Retarded sentence, till this deed of deathIs thrown in, as it were, last bale to boatCrammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.To hear the rabble and brabble, you 'd call the caseFused and confused past human finding out.One calls the square round, t' other the round square—And pardonably in that first surpriseO' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:But now we 've used our eyes to the violent hueCan't we look through the crimson and trace lines?It makes a man despair of history,Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle awayWith the leash of lawyers, two on either side—One barks, one bites,—Masters ArcangeliAnd Spreti,—that 's the husband's ultimate hopeAgainst the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!Why, Excellency, we and his Highness hereWould settle the matter as sufficientlyAs ever will Advocate This and Fiscal ThatAnd Judge the Other, with even—a word and a wink—We well know who for ultimate arbiter.Let us beware o' the basset-table—lestWe jog the elbow of Her Eminence,Jostle his cards,—he 'll rap you out a ... st!By the window-seat! And here 's the Marquis too!Indulge me but a moment: if I fail—Favored with such an audience, understand!—To set things right, why, class me with the mobAs understander of the mind of man!The mob,—now, that 's just how the error comes!Bethink you that you have to deal withplebs,The commonalty; this is an episodeIn burgess-life,—why seek to aggrandize,Idealize, denaturalize the class?People talk just as if they had to doWith a noble pair that ... Excellency, your ear!Stoop to me, Highness,—listen and look yourselves!This Pietro, this Violante, live their lifeAt Rome in the easy way that 's far from worstEven for their betters,—themselves love themselves,Spend their own oil in feeding their own lampThat their own faces may grow bright thereby.They get to fifty and over: how 's the lamp?Full to the depth o' the wick,—moneys so much;And also with a remnant,—so much moreOf moneys,—which there 's no consuming now,But, when the wick shall moulder out some day,Failing fresh twist of tow to use up dregs,Will lie a prize for the passer-by,—to wit,Any one that can prove himself the heir,Seeing, the couple are wanting in a child:Meantime their wick swims in the sate broad bowlO' the middle rank,—not raised a beacon's heightFor wind to ravage, nor dropped till lamp graze groundLike cresset, mudlarks poke now here now there,Going their rounds to probe the ruts i' the roadOr fish the luck o' the puddle. Pietro's soulWas satisfied when crony smirked, "No wineLike Pietro's, and he drinks it every day!"His wife's heart swelled her bodice, joyed its fillWhen neighbors turned heads wistfully at church,Sighed at the load of lace that came to pray.Well, having got through fifty years of flare,They burn out so, indulge so their dear selves,That Pietro finds himself in debt at last,As he were any lordling of us all:And, now that dark begins to creep on day,Creditors grow uneasy, talk aside,Take counsel, then importune all at once.For if the good fat rosy careless man,Who has not laid a ducat by, decease—Let the lamp fall, no heir at hand to catch—Why, being childless, there 's a spilth i' the streetO' the remnant, there 's a scramble for the dregsBy the stranger: so, they grant him no long dayBut come in a body, clamor to be paid.What 's his resource? He asks and straight obtainsThe customary largess, dole dealt outTo, what we call our "poor dear shamefaced ones,"In secret once a month to spare the shameO' the slothful and the spendthrift,—pauper-saintsThe Pope puts meat i' the mouth of, ravens they,And providence he—just what the mob admires!That is, instead of putting a prompt footOn selfish worthless human slugs whose slimeHas failed to lubricate their path in life,Why, the Pope picks the first ripe fruit that fallsAnd gracious puts it in the vermin's way.Pietro could never save a dollar? StraightHe must be subsidized at our expense:And for his wife—the harmless household sheepOne ought not to see harassed in her age—Judge, by the way she bore adversity,O' the patient nature you ask pity for!How long, now, would the roughest market-man,Handling the creatures huddled to the knife,Harass a mutton ere she made a mouthOr menaced biting? Yet the poor sheep here,Violante, the old innocent burgess-wife,In her first difficulty showed great teethFit to crunch up and shallow a good round crime.She meditates the tenure of the Trust,Fidei commissumis the lawyer-phrase,These funds that only want an heir to take—Goes o'er the gamut o' the creditor's cryBy semitones from whine to snarl high upAnd growl down low, one scale in sundry keys,—Pauses with a little compunction for the faceOf Pietro frustrate of its ancient cheer,—Never a bottle now for friend at need,—Comes to a stop on her own frittered laceAnd neighborly condolences thereat,Then makes her mind up, sees the thing to do:And so, deliberate, snaps house-book clasp,Posts off to vespers, missal beneath arm,Passes the proper San Lorenzo by,Dives down a little lane to the left, is lostIn a labyrinth of dwellings best unnamed,Selects a certain blind one, black at base,Blinking at top,—the sign of we know what,—One candle in a casement set to winkStreetward, do service to no shrine inside,—Mounts thither by the filthy flight of stairs,Holding the cord by the wall, to the tip-top,Gropes for the door i' the dark, ajar of course,Raps, opens, enters in: up starts a thingNaked as needs be—"What, you rogue, 't is you?Back,—how can I have taken a farthing yet?Mercy on me, poor sinner that I am!Here 's ... why, I took you for Madonna's selfWith all that sudden swirl of silk i' the place!What may your pleasure be, my bonny dame?"Your Excellency supplies aught left obscure?One of those women that abound in Rome,Whose needs oblige them eke out one poor tradeBy another vile one: her ostensible workWas washing clothes, out in the open airAt the cistern by Citorio; her true trade—Whispering to idlers, when they stopped and praisedThe ankles she let liberally shineIn kneeling at the slab by the fountain-side,That there was plenty more to criticiseAt home, that eve, i' the house where candle blinkedDecorously above, and all was doneI' the holy fear of God and cheap beside.Violante, now, had seen this woman wash,Noticed and envied her propitious shape,Tracked her home to her house-top, noted too,And now was come to tempt her and proposeA bargain far more shameful than the firstWhich trafficked her virginity awayFor a melon and three pauls at twelve years old.Five minutes' talk with this poor child of Eve,Struck was the bargain, business at an end—"Then, six months hence, that person whom you trust,Comes, fetches whatsoever babe it be;I keep the price and secret, you the babe,Paying beside for mass to make all straight:Meantime, I pouch the earnest-money-piece."Down-stairs again goes fumbling by the ropeViolante, triumphing in a flourish of fireFrom her own brain, self-lit by such success,—Gains church in time for theMagnificat,And gives forth "My reproof is taken away,And blessed shall mankind proclaim me now,"So that the officiating priest turns roundTo see who proffers the obstreperous praise:Then home to Pietro, the enraptured-muchBut puzzled-more when told the wondrous news—How orisons and works of charity,(Beside that pair of pinners and a coif,Birthday surprise last Wednesday was five weeks)Had borne fruit in the autumn of his life,—They, or the Orvieto in a double dose.Anyhow, she must keep house next six months,Lie on the settle, avoid the three-legged stool,And, chiefly, not be crossed in wish or whim,And the result was like to be an heir.Accordingly, when time was come about,He found himself the sire indeed of thisFrancesca Vittoria Pompilia and the restO' the names whereby he sealed her his, next day.A crime complete in its way is here, I hope?Lies to God, lies to man, every way liesTo nature and civility and the mode:Flat robbery of the proper heirs thus foiledO' the due succession,—and, what followed thence,Robbery of God, through the confessor's earDebarred the most noteworthy incidentWhen all else done and undone twelvemonth throughWas put in evidence at Easter-time.All other peccadillos!—but this oneTo the priest who comes next day to dine with us?'T were inexpedient; decency forbade.Is so far clear? You know Violante now,Compute her capability of crimeBy this authentic instance? Black hard coldCrime like a stone you kick up with your footI' the middle of a field?I thought as much.But now, a question,—how long does it lie,The bad and barren bit of stuff you kick,Before encroached on and encompassed roundWith minute moss, weed, wild-flower—made aliveBy worm, and fly, and foot of the free bird?Your Highness,—healthy minds let bygones be,Leave old crimes to grow young and virtuous-likeI' the sun and air; so time treats ugly deeds:They take the natural blessing of all change.There was the joy o' the husband silly-sooth,The softening of the wife's old wicked heart,Virtues to right and left, profusely paidIf so they might compensate the saved sin.And then the sudden existence, dewy-dear,O' the rose above the dungheap, the pure childAs good as new created, since withdrawnFrom the horror of the pre-appointed lotWith the unknown father and the mother knownToo well,—some fourteen years of squalid youth,And then libertinage, disease, the grave—Hell in life here, hereafter life in hell:Look at that horror and this soft repose!Why, moralist, the sin has saved a soul!Then, even the palpable grievance to the heirs—'Faith, this was no frank setting hand to throatAnd robbing a man, but ... Excellency, by your leave,How did you get that marvel of a gem,The sapphire with the Graces grand and Greek?The story is, stooping to pick a stoneFrom the pathway through a vineyard—no-man's-land—To pelt a sparrow with, you chanced on this:Why now, do those five clowns o' the familyO' the vinedresser digest their porridge worseThat not one keeps it in his goatskin pouchTo do flint's-service with the tinder-box?Don't cheat me, don't cheat you, don't cheat a friend!But are you so hard on who jostles justA stranger with no natural sort of claimTo the havings and the holdings (here's the point)Unless by misadventure, and defectOf that which ought to be—nay, which there 's noneWould dare so much as wish to profit by—Since who dares put in just so many words"May Pietro fail to have a child, please God!So shall his house and goods belong to me,The sooner that his heart will pine betimes"?Well then, God does n't please, nor heart shall pine!Because he has a child at last, you see,Or selfsame thing as though a child it were,He thinks, whose sole concern it is to think:If he accepts it why should you demur?Moreover, say that certain sin there seem,The proper process of unsinning sinIs to begin well-doing somehow else.Pietro,—remember, with no sin at allI' the substitution,—why, this gift of GodFlung in his lap from over ParadiseSteadied him in a moment, set him straightOn the good path he had been straying from.Henceforward no more wilfulness and waste,Cuppings, carousings,—these a sponge wiped out.All sort of self-denial was easy nowFor the child's sake, the chatelaine to be,Who must want much and might want who knows what?And so, the debts were paid, habits reformed,Expense curtailed, the dowry set to grow.As for the wife,—I said, hers the whole sin:So, hers the exemplary penance. 'T was a textWhereon folk preached and praised, the district through:"Oh, make us happy and you make us good!It all comes of God giving her a child:Such graces follow God's best earthly gift!"Here you put by my guard, pass to my heartBy the home-thrust—"There 's a lie at base of all."Why, thou exact Prince, is it a pearl or no,Yon globe upon the Principessa's neck?That great round glory of pellucid stuff,A fish secreted round a grain of grit!Do you call it worthless for the worthless core?(She does n't, who well knows what she changed for it.)So, to our brace of burgesses again!You see so far i' the story, who was right,Who wrong, who neither, don't you? What, you don't?Eh? Well, admit there 's somewhat dark i' the case,Let 's on—the rest shall clear, I promise you.Leap over a dozen years: you find, these passed,An old good easy creditable sire,A careful housewife's beaming bustling face,Both wrapped, up in the love of their one child,The strange tall pale beautiful creature grownLily-like out o' the cleft i' the sun-smit rockTo bow its white miraculous birth of budsI' the way of wandering Joseph and his spouse,—So painters fancy: here it was a fact.And this their lily,—could they but transplantAnd set in vase to stand by Solomon's porch'Twixt lion and lion!—this Pompilia of theirs,Could they see worthily married, well bestowed,In house and home! And why despair of thisWith Rome to choose from, save the topmost rank?Themselves would help the choice with heart and soul,Throw their late savings in a common heapTo go with the dowry, and be followed in timeBy the heritage legitimately hers:And when such paragon was found and fixed,Why, they might chant their "Nunc dimittis" straight.Indeed the prize was simply full to a fault,Exorbitant for the suitor they should seek,And social class should choose among, these cits.Yet there 's a latitude: exceptional whiteAmid the general brown o' the species, lurksA burgess nearly an aristocrat,Legitimately in reach: look out for him!What banker, merchant, has seen better days,What second rate painter a-pushing up,Poet a-slipping down, shall bid the bestFor this young beauty with the thumping purse?Alack, were it but one of such as theseSo like the real thing that they pass for it,All had gone well! Unluckily, poor souls,It proved to be the impossible thing itself;Truth and not sham: hence ruin to them all.For, Guido Franceschini was the headOf an old family in Arezzo, oldTo that degree they could afford be poorBetter than most: the case is common too.Out of the vast door 'scutcheoned overhead,Creeps out a serving-man on SaturdaysTo cater for the week,—turns up anonI' the market, chaffering for the lamb's least leg,Or the quarter-fowl, less entrails, claws and comb:Then back again with prize,—a liver beggedInto the bargain, gizzard overlooked.He 's mincing these to give the beans a taste,When, at your knock, he leaves the simmering soup,Waits on the curious stranger-visitant,Napkin in half-wiped hand, to show the rooms,Point pictures out have hung their hundred years,"Priceless," he tells you,—puts in his place at onceThe man of money: yes, you 're banker-kingOr merchant-kaiser, wallow in your wealthWhile patron, the house-master, can't affordTo stop our ceiling-hole that rain so rots:But he 's the man of mark, and there 's his shield,And yonder 's the famed Rafael, first in kind,The painter painted for his grandfather,And you have paid to see: "Good morning, Sir!"Such is the law of compensation. StillThe poverty was getting nigh acute;There gaped so many noble mouths to feed,Beans must suffice unflavored of the fowl.The mother,—hers would be a spun-out lifeI' the nature of things; the sisters had done wellAnd married men of reasonable rank:But that sort of illumination stops,Throws back no heat upon the parent-hearth.The family instinct felt out for its fireTo the Church,—the Church traditionally helpsA second son: and such was Paolo,Established here at Rome these thirty years,Who played the regular game,—priest and Abate,Made friends, owned house and land, became of useTo a personage: his course lay clear enough.The youngest caught the sympathetic flame,And, though unfledged wings kept him still i' the cage,Yet he shot up to be a Canon, soClung to the higher perch and crowed in hope.Even our Guido, eldest brother, wentAs far i' the way o' the Church as safety seemed,He being Head o' the House, ordained to wive,—So, could but dally with an Order or twoAnd testify good-will i' the cause: he cliptHis top-hair and thus far affected Christ.But main promotion must fall otherwise,Though still from the side o' the Church: and here was heAt Rome, since first youth, worn threadbare of soulBy forty-six years' rubbing on hard life,Getting fast tired o' the game whose word is—"Wait!"When one day,—he too having his CardinalTo serve in some ambiguous sort, as serveTo draw the coach the plumes o' the horses' heads,—The Cardinal saw fit to dispense with him,Ride with one plume the less; and off it dropped.Guido thus left,—with a youth spent in vainAnd not a penny in purse to show for it,—Advised with Paolo, bent no doubt in chafeThe black brows somewhat formidably, growled"Where is the good I came to get at Rome?Where the repayment of the servitudeTo a purple popinjay, whose feet I kiss,Knowing his father wiped the shoes of mine?""Patience," pats Paolo the recalcitrant—"Yon have not had, so far, the proper luck,Nor do my gains suffice to keep us both:A modest competency is mine, not more.You are the Count however, yours the style,Heirdom and state,—you can't expect all good.Had I, now, held your hand of cards ... well, well—What 's yet unplayed, I 'll look at, by your leave,Over your shoulder,—I who made my game,Let 's see, if I can't help to handle yours.Fie on you, all the Honors in your fist,Countship, Househeadship,—how have you misdealt!Why, in the first place, these will marry a man!Notum tonsoribus!To the Tonsor then!Come, clear your looks, and choose your freshest suit,And, after function 's done with, down we goTo the woman-dealer in perukes, a wenchI and some others settled in the shopAt Place Colonna: she 's an oracle. Hmm!'Dear, 't is my brother: brother, 't is my dear.Dear, give us counsel! Whom do you suggestAs properest party in the quarter roundFor the Count here?—he is minded to take wife,And further tells me he intends to slipTwenty zecchines under the bottom-scalpOf his old wig when he sends it to reviveFor the wedding: and I add a trifle too.You know what personage I 'm potent with.'"And so plumped out Pompilia's name the first.She told them of the household and its ways,The easy husband and the shrewder wifeIn Via Vittoria,—how the tall young girl,With hair black as yon patch and eyes as bigAs yon pomander to make freckles fly,Would have so much for certain, and so much moreIn likelihood,—why, it suited, slipt as smoothAs the Pope's pantoufle does on the Pope's foot."I 'll to the husband!" Guido ups and cries."Ay, so you 'd play your last court-card, no doubt!"Puts Paolo in with a groan—"Only, you see,'T is I, this time, that supervise your lead.Priests play with women, maids, wives, mothers —why?These play with men and take them off our hands.Did I come, counsel with some cut-beard gruffOr rather this sleek young-old barberess?Go, brother, stand you rapt in the ante-roomOf Her Efficacity my CardinalFor an hour,—he likes to have lord-suitors lounge,—While I betake myself to the gray mare,The better horse,—how wise the people's word!—And wait on Madam Violante."Said and done,He was at Via Vittoria in three skips:Proposed at once to fill up the one wantO' the burgess-family which, wealthy enough,And comfortable to heart's desire, yet crouchedOutside a gate to heaven,—locked, bolted, barred,Whereof Count Guido had a key he keptUnder his pillow, but Pompilia's handMight slide behind his neck and pilfer thence.The key was fairy; its mere mention madeViolante feel the thing shoot one sharp rayThat reached the womanly heart: so—"I assent!Yours be Pompilia, hers and ours that keyTo all the glories of the greater life!There 's Pietro to convince: leave that to me!"Then was the matter broached to Pietro; thenDid Pietro make demand and get responseThat in the Countship was a truth, but inThe counting up of the Count's cash, a lie.He thereupon stroked grave his chin, looked great,Declined the honor. Then the wife wiped tear,Winked with the other eye turned Paolo-ward,Whispered Pompilia, stole to church at eve,Found Guido there and got the marriage done,And finally begged pardon at the feetOf her dear lord and master. WhereuponQuoth Pietro—"Let us make the best of things!""I knew your love would license us," quoth she:Quoth Paolo once more, "Mothers, wives and maids,These be the tools wherewith priests manage men,"Now, here take breath and ask,—which bird o' the braceDecoyed the other into clapnet? WhoWas fool, who knave? Neither and both, perchance.There was a bargain mentally proposedOn each side, straight and plain and fair enough;Mind knew its own mind: but when mind must speak,The bargain have expression in plain terms,There came the blunder incident to words,And in the clumsy process, fair turned foul.The straight backbone-thought of the crooked speechWere just—"I Guido truck my name and rankFor so much money and youth and female charms.—We Pietro and Violante give our childAnd wealth to you for a rise i' the world thereby."Such naked truth while chambered in the brainShocks nowise: walk it forth by way of tongue,—Out on the cynical unseemliness!Hence was the need, on either side, of a lieTo serve as decent wrappage: so, Guido givesMoney for money,—and they, bride for groom,Having, he, not a doit, they, not a childHonestly theirs, but this poor waif and stray.According to the words, each cheated each;But in the inexpressive barter of thoughts,Each did give and did take the thing designed,The rank on this side and the cash on that—Attained the object of the traffic, so.The way of the world, the daily bargain struckIn the first market! Why sells Jack his ware?"For the sake of serving an old customer."Why does Jill buy it? "Simply not to breakA custom, pass the old stall the first time."Why, you know where the gist is of the exchange:Each sees a profit, throws the fine words in.Don't be too hard o' the pair! Had each pretenceBeen simultaneously discovered, striptFrom off the body o' the transaction, justAs when a cook (will Excellency forgive?)Strips away those long rough superfluous legsFrom either side the crayfish, leaving folkA meal all meat henceforth, no garnishry,(With your respect, Prince!)—balance had been kept,No party blamed the other,—so, starting fair,All subsequent fence of wrong returned by wrongI' the matrimonial thrust and parry, at leastHad followed on equal terms. But, as it chanced,One party had the advantage, saw the cheatOf the other first and kept its own concealed:And the luck o' the first discovery fell, beside,To the least adroit and self-possessed o' the pair.'Twas foolish Pietro and his wife saw firstThe nobleman was penniless, and screamed"We are cheated!"Such unprofitable noiseAngers at all times: but when those who plague,Do it from inside your own house and home,Gnats which yourself have closed the curtain round,Noise goes too near the brain and makes you mad.The gnats say, Guido used the candle-flameUnfairly,—worsened that first bad of his,By practising all kinds of crueltyTo oust them and suppress the wail and whine,—That speedily he so scared and bullied them,Fain were they, long before five months had passed,To beg him grant, from what was once their wealth,Just so much as would help them back to Rome,Where, when they finished paying the last doitO' the dowry, they might beg from door to door.So say the Comparini—as if it cameOf pure resentment for this worse than bad,That then Violante, feeling conscience prick,Confessed her substitution of the childWhence all the harm fell,—and that Pietro firstBethought him of advantage to himselfI' the deed, as part revenge, part remedyFor all miscalculation in the pact.On the other hand, "Not so!" Guido retorts—"I am the wronged, solely, from first to last,Who gave the dignity I engaged to give,Which was, is, cannot but continue gain.My being poor was a by-circumstance,Miscalculated piece of untowardness,Might end to-morrow did heaven's windows ope,Or uncle die and leave me his estate.You should have put up with the minor flaw,Getting the main prize of the jewel. If wealth,Not rank, had been prime object in your thoughts,Why not have taken the butcher's son, the boyO' the baker or candlestick-maker? In all the rest,It was yourselves broke compact and played false,And made a life in common impossible.Show me the stipulation of our bondThat you should make your profit of being insideMy house, to hustle and edge me out o' the same,First make a laughing-stock of mine and me,Then round us in the ears from morn to night(Because we show wry faces at your mirth)That you are robbed, starved, beaten and what not!You fled a hell of your own lighting-up,Pay for your own miscalculation too:You thought nobility, gained at any price,Would suit and satisfy,—find the mistake,And now retaliate, not on yourselves, but me.And how? By telling me, i' the face of the world,I it is have been cheated all this while,Abominably and irreparably,—my nameGiven to a cur-cast mongrel, a drab's brat,A beggar's by-blow,—thus depriving meOf what yourselves allege the whole and soleAim on my part i' the marriage,—money, to wit.This thrust I have to parry by a guardWhich leaves me open to a counter-thrustOn the other side,—no way but there's a passClean through me. If I prove, as I hope to do,There's not one truth in this your odious taleO' the buying, selling, substituting—proveYour daughter was and is your daughter,—well,And her dowry hers and therefore mine,—what then?Why, where's the appropriate punishment for thisEnormous lie hatched for mere malice' sakeTo ruin me? Is that a wrong or no?And if I try revenge for remedy,Can I well make it strong and bitter enough?"I anticipate however—only ask,Which of the two here sinned most? A nice point!Which brownness is least black,—decide who can,Wager-by-battle-of-cheating! What do you say,Highness? Suppose, your Excellency, we leaveThe question at this stage, proceed to the next,Both parties step out, fight their prize upon,In the eye o' the world?They brandish law 'gainst law;The grinding of such blades, each parry of each,Throws terrible sparks off, over and above the thrusts,And makes more sinister the fight, to the eye,Than the very wounds that follow. Beside the taleWhich the Comparini have to re-assert,They needs must write, print, publish all abroadThe straitnesses of Guido's household life—The petty nothings we bear privatelyBut break down under when fools flock to jeer.What is it all to the facts o' the couple's case,How helps it prove Pompilia not their child,If Guido's mother, brother, kith and kinFare ill, lie hard, lack clothes, lack fire, lack food?That's one more wrong than needs.On the other hand,Guido,—whose cue is to dispute the truthO' the tale, reject the shame it throws on him,—He may retaliate, fight his foe in turnAnd welcome, we allow. Ay, but he can't!He's at home, only acts by proxy here;Law may meet law,—but all the gibes and jeers,The superfluity of naughtiness,Those libels on his House,—how reach at them?Two hateful faces, grinning all aglow,Not only make parade of spoil they filched,But foul him from the height of a tower, you see.Unluckily temptation is at hand—To take revenge on a trifle overlooked,A pet lamb they have left in reach outside,Whose first bleat, when he plucks the wool away,Will strike the grinners grave: his wife remains,Who, four months earlier, some thirteen years old,Never a mile away from mother's houseAnd petted to the height of her desire,Was told one morning that her fate had come,She must be married—just as, a month before,Her mother told her she must comb her hairAnd twist her curls into one knot behind.These fools forgot their pet lamb, fed with flowers,Then 'ticed as usual by the bit of cake,Out of the bower into the butchery.Plague her, he plagues them threefold: but how plague?The world may have its word to say to that:You can't do some things with impunity.What remains ... well, it is an ugly thought ...But that he drive herself to plague herself—Herself disgrace herself and so disgraceWho seek to disgrace Guido?There's the clueTo what else seems gratuitously vile,If, as is said, from this time forth the rackWas tried upon Pompilia: 't was to wrenchHer limbs into exposure that brings shame.The aim o' the cruelty being so crueller still,That cruelty almost grows compassion's selfCould one attribute it to mere returnO' the parents' outrage, wrong avenging wrong.They see in this a deeper deadlier aim,Not to vex just a body they held dear,But blacken too a soul they boasted white,And show the world their saint in a lover's arms,No matter how driven thither,—so they say.On the other hand, so much is easily said,And Guido lacks not an apologist.The pair had nobody but themselves to blame,Being selfish beasts throughout no less, no more:—Cared for themselves, their supposed good, nought else,And brought about the marriage; good proved bad,As little they cared for her its victim—nay,Meant she should stay behind and take the chance,If haply they might wriggle themselves free.They baited their own hook to catch a fishWith this poor worm, failed o' the prize, and thenSought how to unbait tackle, let worm floatOr sink, amuse the monster while they 'scaped.Under the best stars Hymen brings above,Had all been honesty on either side,A common sincere effort to good end,Still, this would prove a difficult problem, Prince!—Given, a fair wife, aged thirteen years,A husband poor, care-bitten, sorrow-sunk,Little, long-nosed, bush-bearded, lantern-jawed,Forty-six years old,—place the two grown one,She, cut off sheer from every natural aid,In a strange town with no familiar face—He, in his own parade-ground or retreatIf need were, free from challenge, much less checkTo an irritated, disappointed will—How evolve happiness from such a match?'T were hard to serve up a congenial dishOut of these ill-agreeing morsels, Duke,By the best exercise of the cook's craft,Best interspersion of spice, salt and sweet!But let two ghastly scullions concoct messWith brimstone, pitch, vitriol and devil's dung—Throw in abuse o' the man, his body and soul,Kith, kin and generation, shake all slabAt Rome, Arezzo, for the world to nose,Then end by publishing, for fiend's arch-prank,That, over and above sauce to the meat's self,Why, even the meat, bedevilled thus in dish,Was never a pheasant but a carrion-crow—Prince, what will then the natural loathing be?What wonder if this?—the compound plague o' the pairPricked Guido,—not to take the course they hoped,That is, submit him to their statement's truth,Accept its obvious promise of relief,And thrust them out of doors the girl againSince the girl's dowry would not enter there,—Quit of the one if balked of the other: no!Rather did rage and hate so work in him,Their product proved the horrible conceitThat he should plot and plan and bring to passHis wife might, of her own free will and deed,Relieve him of her presence, get her gone,And yet leave all the dowry safe behind,Confirmed his own henceforward past dispute,While blotting out, as by a belch of hell,Their triumph in her misery and death.

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,

Though she 's not dead yet, she 's as good as stretched

Symmetrical beside the other two;

Though he 's not judged yet, he 's the same as judged,

So do the facts abound and superabound:

And nothing hinders that we lift the case

Out of the shade into the shine, allow

Qualified persons to pronounce at last,

Nay, edge in an authoritative word

Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools

Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.

"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test

The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike

I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"

Law 's a machine from which, to please the mob,

Truth the divinity must needs descend

And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!

Hammer into their noddles who was who

And what was what. I tell the simpletons,

"Could law be competent to such a feat

'T were done already: what begins next week

Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain

Whereof the first was forged three years ago

When law addressed herself to set wrong right,

And proved so slow in taking the first step

That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,

On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,

Retarded sentence, till this deed of death

Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat

Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?

'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!

Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."

Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.

To hear the rabble and brabble, you 'd call the case

Fused and confused past human finding out.

One calls the square round, t' other the round square—

And pardonably in that first surprise

O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:

But now we 've used our eyes to the violent hue

Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?

It makes a man despair of history,

Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!

Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away

With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—

One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli

And Spreti,—that 's the husband's ultimate hope

Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,

Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!

Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here

Would settle the matter as sufficiently

As ever will Advocate This and Fiscal That

And Judge the Other, with even—a word and a wink—

We well know who for ultimate arbiter.

Let us beware o' the basset-table—lest

We jog the elbow of Her Eminence,

Jostle his cards,—he 'll rap you out a ... st!

By the window-seat! And here 's the Marquis too!

Indulge me but a moment: if I fail

—Favored with such an audience, understand!—

To set things right, why, class me with the mob

As understander of the mind of man!

The mob,—now, that 's just how the error comes!Bethink you that you have to deal withplebs,The commonalty; this is an episodeIn burgess-life,—why seek to aggrandize,Idealize, denaturalize the class?People talk just as if they had to doWith a noble pair that ... Excellency, your ear!Stoop to me, Highness,—listen and look yourselves!

The mob,—now, that 's just how the error comes!

Bethink you that you have to deal withplebs,

The commonalty; this is an episode

In burgess-life,—why seek to aggrandize,

Idealize, denaturalize the class?

People talk just as if they had to do

With a noble pair that ... Excellency, your ear!

Stoop to me, Highness,—listen and look yourselves!

This Pietro, this Violante, live their lifeAt Rome in the easy way that 's far from worstEven for their betters,—themselves love themselves,Spend their own oil in feeding their own lampThat their own faces may grow bright thereby.They get to fifty and over: how 's the lamp?Full to the depth o' the wick,—moneys so much;And also with a remnant,—so much moreOf moneys,—which there 's no consuming now,But, when the wick shall moulder out some day,Failing fresh twist of tow to use up dregs,Will lie a prize for the passer-by,—to wit,Any one that can prove himself the heir,Seeing, the couple are wanting in a child:Meantime their wick swims in the sate broad bowlO' the middle rank,—not raised a beacon's heightFor wind to ravage, nor dropped till lamp graze groundLike cresset, mudlarks poke now here now there,Going their rounds to probe the ruts i' the roadOr fish the luck o' the puddle. Pietro's soulWas satisfied when crony smirked, "No wineLike Pietro's, and he drinks it every day!"His wife's heart swelled her bodice, joyed its fillWhen neighbors turned heads wistfully at church,Sighed at the load of lace that came to pray.Well, having got through fifty years of flare,They burn out so, indulge so their dear selves,That Pietro finds himself in debt at last,As he were any lordling of us all:And, now that dark begins to creep on day,Creditors grow uneasy, talk aside,Take counsel, then importune all at once.For if the good fat rosy careless man,Who has not laid a ducat by, decease—Let the lamp fall, no heir at hand to catch—Why, being childless, there 's a spilth i' the streetO' the remnant, there 's a scramble for the dregsBy the stranger: so, they grant him no long dayBut come in a body, clamor to be paid.

This Pietro, this Violante, live their life

At Rome in the easy way that 's far from worst

Even for their betters,—themselves love themselves,

Spend their own oil in feeding their own lamp

That their own faces may grow bright thereby.

They get to fifty and over: how 's the lamp?

Full to the depth o' the wick,—moneys so much;

And also with a remnant,—so much more

Of moneys,—which there 's no consuming now,

But, when the wick shall moulder out some day,

Failing fresh twist of tow to use up dregs,

Will lie a prize for the passer-by,—to wit,

Any one that can prove himself the heir,

Seeing, the couple are wanting in a child:

Meantime their wick swims in the sate broad bowl

O' the middle rank,—not raised a beacon's height

For wind to ravage, nor dropped till lamp graze ground

Like cresset, mudlarks poke now here now there,

Going their rounds to probe the ruts i' the road

Or fish the luck o' the puddle. Pietro's soul

Was satisfied when crony smirked, "No wine

Like Pietro's, and he drinks it every day!"

His wife's heart swelled her bodice, joyed its fill

When neighbors turned heads wistfully at church,

Sighed at the load of lace that came to pray.

Well, having got through fifty years of flare,

They burn out so, indulge so their dear selves,

That Pietro finds himself in debt at last,

As he were any lordling of us all:

And, now that dark begins to creep on day,

Creditors grow uneasy, talk aside,

Take counsel, then importune all at once.

For if the good fat rosy careless man,

Who has not laid a ducat by, decease—

Let the lamp fall, no heir at hand to catch—

Why, being childless, there 's a spilth i' the street

O' the remnant, there 's a scramble for the dregs

By the stranger: so, they grant him no long day

But come in a body, clamor to be paid.

What 's his resource? He asks and straight obtainsThe customary largess, dole dealt outTo, what we call our "poor dear shamefaced ones,"In secret once a month to spare the shameO' the slothful and the spendthrift,—pauper-saintsThe Pope puts meat i' the mouth of, ravens they,And providence he—just what the mob admires!That is, instead of putting a prompt footOn selfish worthless human slugs whose slimeHas failed to lubricate their path in life,Why, the Pope picks the first ripe fruit that fallsAnd gracious puts it in the vermin's way.Pietro could never save a dollar? StraightHe must be subsidized at our expense:And for his wife—the harmless household sheepOne ought not to see harassed in her age—Judge, by the way she bore adversity,O' the patient nature you ask pity for!How long, now, would the roughest market-man,Handling the creatures huddled to the knife,Harass a mutton ere she made a mouthOr menaced biting? Yet the poor sheep here,Violante, the old innocent burgess-wife,In her first difficulty showed great teethFit to crunch up and shallow a good round crime.She meditates the tenure of the Trust,Fidei commissumis the lawyer-phrase,These funds that only want an heir to take—Goes o'er the gamut o' the creditor's cryBy semitones from whine to snarl high upAnd growl down low, one scale in sundry keys,—Pauses with a little compunction for the faceOf Pietro frustrate of its ancient cheer,—Never a bottle now for friend at need,—Comes to a stop on her own frittered laceAnd neighborly condolences thereat,Then makes her mind up, sees the thing to do:And so, deliberate, snaps house-book clasp,Posts off to vespers, missal beneath arm,Passes the proper San Lorenzo by,Dives down a little lane to the left, is lostIn a labyrinth of dwellings best unnamed,Selects a certain blind one, black at base,Blinking at top,—the sign of we know what,—One candle in a casement set to winkStreetward, do service to no shrine inside,—Mounts thither by the filthy flight of stairs,Holding the cord by the wall, to the tip-top,Gropes for the door i' the dark, ajar of course,Raps, opens, enters in: up starts a thingNaked as needs be—"What, you rogue, 't is you?Back,—how can I have taken a farthing yet?Mercy on me, poor sinner that I am!Here 's ... why, I took you for Madonna's selfWith all that sudden swirl of silk i' the place!What may your pleasure be, my bonny dame?"Your Excellency supplies aught left obscure?One of those women that abound in Rome,Whose needs oblige them eke out one poor tradeBy another vile one: her ostensible workWas washing clothes, out in the open airAt the cistern by Citorio; her true trade—Whispering to idlers, when they stopped and praisedThe ankles she let liberally shineIn kneeling at the slab by the fountain-side,That there was plenty more to criticiseAt home, that eve, i' the house where candle blinkedDecorously above, and all was doneI' the holy fear of God and cheap beside.Violante, now, had seen this woman wash,Noticed and envied her propitious shape,Tracked her home to her house-top, noted too,And now was come to tempt her and proposeA bargain far more shameful than the firstWhich trafficked her virginity awayFor a melon and three pauls at twelve years old.Five minutes' talk with this poor child of Eve,Struck was the bargain, business at an end—"Then, six months hence, that person whom you trust,Comes, fetches whatsoever babe it be;I keep the price and secret, you the babe,Paying beside for mass to make all straight:Meantime, I pouch the earnest-money-piece."Down-stairs again goes fumbling by the ropeViolante, triumphing in a flourish of fireFrom her own brain, self-lit by such success,—Gains church in time for theMagnificat,And gives forth "My reproof is taken away,And blessed shall mankind proclaim me now,"So that the officiating priest turns roundTo see who proffers the obstreperous praise:Then home to Pietro, the enraptured-muchBut puzzled-more when told the wondrous news—How orisons and works of charity,(Beside that pair of pinners and a coif,Birthday surprise last Wednesday was five weeks)Had borne fruit in the autumn of his life,—They, or the Orvieto in a double dose.Anyhow, she must keep house next six months,Lie on the settle, avoid the three-legged stool,And, chiefly, not be crossed in wish or whim,And the result was like to be an heir.

What 's his resource? He asks and straight obtains

The customary largess, dole dealt out

To, what we call our "poor dear shamefaced ones,"

In secret once a month to spare the shame

O' the slothful and the spendthrift,—pauper-saints

The Pope puts meat i' the mouth of, ravens they,

And providence he—just what the mob admires!

That is, instead of putting a prompt foot

On selfish worthless human slugs whose slime

Has failed to lubricate their path in life,

Why, the Pope picks the first ripe fruit that falls

And gracious puts it in the vermin's way.

Pietro could never save a dollar? Straight

He must be subsidized at our expense:

And for his wife—the harmless household sheep

One ought not to see harassed in her age—

Judge, by the way she bore adversity,

O' the patient nature you ask pity for!

How long, now, would the roughest market-man,

Handling the creatures huddled to the knife,

Harass a mutton ere she made a mouth

Or menaced biting? Yet the poor sheep here,

Violante, the old innocent burgess-wife,

In her first difficulty showed great teeth

Fit to crunch up and shallow a good round crime.

She meditates the tenure of the Trust,

Fidei commissumis the lawyer-phrase,

These funds that only want an heir to take—

Goes o'er the gamut o' the creditor's cry

By semitones from whine to snarl high up

And growl down low, one scale in sundry keys,—

Pauses with a little compunction for the face

Of Pietro frustrate of its ancient cheer,—

Never a bottle now for friend at need,—

Comes to a stop on her own frittered lace

And neighborly condolences thereat,

Then makes her mind up, sees the thing to do:

And so, deliberate, snaps house-book clasp,

Posts off to vespers, missal beneath arm,

Passes the proper San Lorenzo by,

Dives down a little lane to the left, is lost

In a labyrinth of dwellings best unnamed,

Selects a certain blind one, black at base,

Blinking at top,—the sign of we know what,—

One candle in a casement set to wink

Streetward, do service to no shrine inside,—

Mounts thither by the filthy flight of stairs,

Holding the cord by the wall, to the tip-top,

Gropes for the door i' the dark, ajar of course,

Raps, opens, enters in: up starts a thing

Naked as needs be—"What, you rogue, 't is you?

Back,—how can I have taken a farthing yet?

Mercy on me, poor sinner that I am!

Here 's ... why, I took you for Madonna's self

With all that sudden swirl of silk i' the place!

What may your pleasure be, my bonny dame?"

Your Excellency supplies aught left obscure?

One of those women that abound in Rome,

Whose needs oblige them eke out one poor trade

By another vile one: her ostensible work

Was washing clothes, out in the open air

At the cistern by Citorio; her true trade—

Whispering to idlers, when they stopped and praised

The ankles she let liberally shine

In kneeling at the slab by the fountain-side,

That there was plenty more to criticise

At home, that eve, i' the house where candle blinked

Decorously above, and all was done

I' the holy fear of God and cheap beside.

Violante, now, had seen this woman wash,

Noticed and envied her propitious shape,

Tracked her home to her house-top, noted too,

And now was come to tempt her and propose

A bargain far more shameful than the first

Which trafficked her virginity away

For a melon and three pauls at twelve years old.

Five minutes' talk with this poor child of Eve,

Struck was the bargain, business at an end—

"Then, six months hence, that person whom you trust,

Comes, fetches whatsoever babe it be;

I keep the price and secret, you the babe,

Paying beside for mass to make all straight:

Meantime, I pouch the earnest-money-piece."

Down-stairs again goes fumbling by the rope

Violante, triumphing in a flourish of fire

From her own brain, self-lit by such success,—

Gains church in time for theMagnificat,

And gives forth "My reproof is taken away,

And blessed shall mankind proclaim me now,"

So that the officiating priest turns round

To see who proffers the obstreperous praise:

Then home to Pietro, the enraptured-much

But puzzled-more when told the wondrous news—

How orisons and works of charity,

(Beside that pair of pinners and a coif,

Birthday surprise last Wednesday was five weeks)

Had borne fruit in the autumn of his life,—

They, or the Orvieto in a double dose.

Anyhow, she must keep house next six months,

Lie on the settle, avoid the three-legged stool,

And, chiefly, not be crossed in wish or whim,

And the result was like to be an heir.

Accordingly, when time was come about,He found himself the sire indeed of thisFrancesca Vittoria Pompilia and the restO' the names whereby he sealed her his, next day.A crime complete in its way is here, I hope?Lies to God, lies to man, every way liesTo nature and civility and the mode:Flat robbery of the proper heirs thus foiledO' the due succession,—and, what followed thence,Robbery of God, through the confessor's earDebarred the most noteworthy incidentWhen all else done and undone twelvemonth throughWas put in evidence at Easter-time.All other peccadillos!—but this oneTo the priest who comes next day to dine with us?'T were inexpedient; decency forbade.

Accordingly, when time was come about,

He found himself the sire indeed of this

Francesca Vittoria Pompilia and the rest

O' the names whereby he sealed her his, next day.

A crime complete in its way is here, I hope?

Lies to God, lies to man, every way lies

To nature and civility and the mode:

Flat robbery of the proper heirs thus foiled

O' the due succession,—and, what followed thence,

Robbery of God, through the confessor's ear

Debarred the most noteworthy incident

When all else done and undone twelvemonth through

Was put in evidence at Easter-time.

All other peccadillos!—but this one

To the priest who comes next day to dine with us?

'T were inexpedient; decency forbade.

Is so far clear? You know Violante now,Compute her capability of crimeBy this authentic instance? Black hard coldCrime like a stone you kick up with your footI' the middle of a field?

Is so far clear? You know Violante now,

Compute her capability of crime

By this authentic instance? Black hard cold

Crime like a stone you kick up with your foot

I' the middle of a field?

I thought as much.But now, a question,—how long does it lie,The bad and barren bit of stuff you kick,Before encroached on and encompassed roundWith minute moss, weed, wild-flower—made aliveBy worm, and fly, and foot of the free bird?Your Highness,—healthy minds let bygones be,Leave old crimes to grow young and virtuous-likeI' the sun and air; so time treats ugly deeds:They take the natural blessing of all change.There was the joy o' the husband silly-sooth,The softening of the wife's old wicked heart,Virtues to right and left, profusely paidIf so they might compensate the saved sin.And then the sudden existence, dewy-dear,O' the rose above the dungheap, the pure childAs good as new created, since withdrawnFrom the horror of the pre-appointed lotWith the unknown father and the mother knownToo well,—some fourteen years of squalid youth,And then libertinage, disease, the grave—Hell in life here, hereafter life in hell:Look at that horror and this soft repose!Why, moralist, the sin has saved a soul!Then, even the palpable grievance to the heirs—'Faith, this was no frank setting hand to throatAnd robbing a man, but ... Excellency, by your leave,How did you get that marvel of a gem,The sapphire with the Graces grand and Greek?The story is, stooping to pick a stoneFrom the pathway through a vineyard—no-man's-land—To pelt a sparrow with, you chanced on this:Why now, do those five clowns o' the familyO' the vinedresser digest their porridge worseThat not one keeps it in his goatskin pouchTo do flint's-service with the tinder-box?Don't cheat me, don't cheat you, don't cheat a friend!But are you so hard on who jostles justA stranger with no natural sort of claimTo the havings and the holdings (here's the point)Unless by misadventure, and defectOf that which ought to be—nay, which there 's noneWould dare so much as wish to profit by—Since who dares put in just so many words"May Pietro fail to have a child, please God!So shall his house and goods belong to me,The sooner that his heart will pine betimes"?Well then, God does n't please, nor heart shall pine!Because he has a child at last, you see,Or selfsame thing as though a child it were,He thinks, whose sole concern it is to think:If he accepts it why should you demur?

I thought as much.

But now, a question,—how long does it lie,

The bad and barren bit of stuff you kick,

Before encroached on and encompassed round

With minute moss, weed, wild-flower—made alive

By worm, and fly, and foot of the free bird?

Your Highness,—healthy minds let bygones be,

Leave old crimes to grow young and virtuous-like

I' the sun and air; so time treats ugly deeds:

They take the natural blessing of all change.

There was the joy o' the husband silly-sooth,

The softening of the wife's old wicked heart,

Virtues to right and left, profusely paid

If so they might compensate the saved sin.

And then the sudden existence, dewy-dear,

O' the rose above the dungheap, the pure child

As good as new created, since withdrawn

From the horror of the pre-appointed lot

With the unknown father and the mother known

Too well,—some fourteen years of squalid youth,

And then libertinage, disease, the grave—

Hell in life here, hereafter life in hell:

Look at that horror and this soft repose!

Why, moralist, the sin has saved a soul!

Then, even the palpable grievance to the heirs—

'Faith, this was no frank setting hand to throat

And robbing a man, but ... Excellency, by your leave,

How did you get that marvel of a gem,

The sapphire with the Graces grand and Greek?

The story is, stooping to pick a stone

From the pathway through a vineyard—no-man's-land—

To pelt a sparrow with, you chanced on this:

Why now, do those five clowns o' the family

O' the vinedresser digest their porridge worse

That not one keeps it in his goatskin pouch

To do flint's-service with the tinder-box?

Don't cheat me, don't cheat you, don't cheat a friend!

But are you so hard on who jostles just

A stranger with no natural sort of claim

To the havings and the holdings (here's the point)

Unless by misadventure, and defect

Of that which ought to be—nay, which there 's none

Would dare so much as wish to profit by—

Since who dares put in just so many words

"May Pietro fail to have a child, please God!

So shall his house and goods belong to me,

The sooner that his heart will pine betimes"?

Well then, God does n't please, nor heart shall pine!

Because he has a child at last, you see,

Or selfsame thing as though a child it were,

He thinks, whose sole concern it is to think:

If he accepts it why should you demur?

Moreover, say that certain sin there seem,The proper process of unsinning sinIs to begin well-doing somehow else.Pietro,—remember, with no sin at allI' the substitution,—why, this gift of GodFlung in his lap from over ParadiseSteadied him in a moment, set him straightOn the good path he had been straying from.Henceforward no more wilfulness and waste,Cuppings, carousings,—these a sponge wiped out.All sort of self-denial was easy nowFor the child's sake, the chatelaine to be,Who must want much and might want who knows what?And so, the debts were paid, habits reformed,Expense curtailed, the dowry set to grow.As for the wife,—I said, hers the whole sin:So, hers the exemplary penance. 'T was a textWhereon folk preached and praised, the district through:"Oh, make us happy and you make us good!It all comes of God giving her a child:Such graces follow God's best earthly gift!"

Moreover, say that certain sin there seem,

The proper process of unsinning sin

Is to begin well-doing somehow else.

Pietro,—remember, with no sin at all

I' the substitution,—why, this gift of God

Flung in his lap from over Paradise

Steadied him in a moment, set him straight

On the good path he had been straying from.

Henceforward no more wilfulness and waste,

Cuppings, carousings,—these a sponge wiped out.

All sort of self-denial was easy now

For the child's sake, the chatelaine to be,

Who must want much and might want who knows what?

And so, the debts were paid, habits reformed,

Expense curtailed, the dowry set to grow.

As for the wife,—I said, hers the whole sin:

So, hers the exemplary penance. 'T was a text

Whereon folk preached and praised, the district through:

"Oh, make us happy and you make us good!

It all comes of God giving her a child:

Such graces follow God's best earthly gift!"

Here you put by my guard, pass to my heartBy the home-thrust—"There 's a lie at base of all."Why, thou exact Prince, is it a pearl or no,Yon globe upon the Principessa's neck?That great round glory of pellucid stuff,A fish secreted round a grain of grit!Do you call it worthless for the worthless core?(She does n't, who well knows what she changed for it.)So, to our brace of burgesses again!You see so far i' the story, who was right,Who wrong, who neither, don't you? What, you don't?Eh? Well, admit there 's somewhat dark i' the case,Let 's on—the rest shall clear, I promise you.Leap over a dozen years: you find, these passed,An old good easy creditable sire,A careful housewife's beaming bustling face,Both wrapped, up in the love of their one child,The strange tall pale beautiful creature grownLily-like out o' the cleft i' the sun-smit rockTo bow its white miraculous birth of budsI' the way of wandering Joseph and his spouse,—So painters fancy: here it was a fact.And this their lily,—could they but transplantAnd set in vase to stand by Solomon's porch'Twixt lion and lion!—this Pompilia of theirs,Could they see worthily married, well bestowed,In house and home! And why despair of thisWith Rome to choose from, save the topmost rank?Themselves would help the choice with heart and soul,Throw their late savings in a common heapTo go with the dowry, and be followed in timeBy the heritage legitimately hers:And when such paragon was found and fixed,Why, they might chant their "Nunc dimittis" straight.

Here you put by my guard, pass to my heart

By the home-thrust—"There 's a lie at base of all."

Why, thou exact Prince, is it a pearl or no,

Yon globe upon the Principessa's neck?

That great round glory of pellucid stuff,

A fish secreted round a grain of grit!

Do you call it worthless for the worthless core?

(She does n't, who well knows what she changed for it.)

So, to our brace of burgesses again!

You see so far i' the story, who was right,

Who wrong, who neither, don't you? What, you don't?

Eh? Well, admit there 's somewhat dark i' the case,

Let 's on—the rest shall clear, I promise you.

Leap over a dozen years: you find, these passed,

An old good easy creditable sire,

A careful housewife's beaming bustling face,

Both wrapped, up in the love of their one child,

The strange tall pale beautiful creature grown

Lily-like out o' the cleft i' the sun-smit rock

To bow its white miraculous birth of buds

I' the way of wandering Joseph and his spouse,—

So painters fancy: here it was a fact.

And this their lily,—could they but transplant

And set in vase to stand by Solomon's porch

'Twixt lion and lion!—this Pompilia of theirs,

Could they see worthily married, well bestowed,

In house and home! And why despair of this

With Rome to choose from, save the topmost rank?

Themselves would help the choice with heart and soul,

Throw their late savings in a common heap

To go with the dowry, and be followed in time

By the heritage legitimately hers:

And when such paragon was found and fixed,

Why, they might chant their "Nunc dimittis" straight.

Indeed the prize was simply full to a fault,Exorbitant for the suitor they should seek,And social class should choose among, these cits.Yet there 's a latitude: exceptional whiteAmid the general brown o' the species, lurksA burgess nearly an aristocrat,Legitimately in reach: look out for him!What banker, merchant, has seen better days,What second rate painter a-pushing up,Poet a-slipping down, shall bid the bestFor this young beauty with the thumping purse?Alack, were it but one of such as theseSo like the real thing that they pass for it,All had gone well! Unluckily, poor souls,It proved to be the impossible thing itself;Truth and not sham: hence ruin to them all.

Indeed the prize was simply full to a fault,

Exorbitant for the suitor they should seek,

And social class should choose among, these cits.

Yet there 's a latitude: exceptional white

Amid the general brown o' the species, lurks

A burgess nearly an aristocrat,

Legitimately in reach: look out for him!

What banker, merchant, has seen better days,

What second rate painter a-pushing up,

Poet a-slipping down, shall bid the best

For this young beauty with the thumping purse?

Alack, were it but one of such as these

So like the real thing that they pass for it,

All had gone well! Unluckily, poor souls,

It proved to be the impossible thing itself;

Truth and not sham: hence ruin to them all.

For, Guido Franceschini was the headOf an old family in Arezzo, oldTo that degree they could afford be poorBetter than most: the case is common too.Out of the vast door 'scutcheoned overhead,Creeps out a serving-man on SaturdaysTo cater for the week,—turns up anonI' the market, chaffering for the lamb's least leg,Or the quarter-fowl, less entrails, claws and comb:Then back again with prize,—a liver beggedInto the bargain, gizzard overlooked.He 's mincing these to give the beans a taste,When, at your knock, he leaves the simmering soup,Waits on the curious stranger-visitant,Napkin in half-wiped hand, to show the rooms,Point pictures out have hung their hundred years,"Priceless," he tells you,—puts in his place at onceThe man of money: yes, you 're banker-kingOr merchant-kaiser, wallow in your wealthWhile patron, the house-master, can't affordTo stop our ceiling-hole that rain so rots:But he 's the man of mark, and there 's his shield,And yonder 's the famed Rafael, first in kind,The painter painted for his grandfather,And you have paid to see: "Good morning, Sir!"Such is the law of compensation. StillThe poverty was getting nigh acute;There gaped so many noble mouths to feed,Beans must suffice unflavored of the fowl.The mother,—hers would be a spun-out lifeI' the nature of things; the sisters had done wellAnd married men of reasonable rank:But that sort of illumination stops,Throws back no heat upon the parent-hearth.The family instinct felt out for its fireTo the Church,—the Church traditionally helpsA second son: and such was Paolo,Established here at Rome these thirty years,Who played the regular game,—priest and Abate,Made friends, owned house and land, became of useTo a personage: his course lay clear enough.The youngest caught the sympathetic flame,And, though unfledged wings kept him still i' the cage,Yet he shot up to be a Canon, soClung to the higher perch and crowed in hope.Even our Guido, eldest brother, wentAs far i' the way o' the Church as safety seemed,He being Head o' the House, ordained to wive,—So, could but dally with an Order or twoAnd testify good-will i' the cause: he cliptHis top-hair and thus far affected Christ.But main promotion must fall otherwise,Though still from the side o' the Church: and here was heAt Rome, since first youth, worn threadbare of soulBy forty-six years' rubbing on hard life,Getting fast tired o' the game whose word is—"Wait!"When one day,—he too having his CardinalTo serve in some ambiguous sort, as serveTo draw the coach the plumes o' the horses' heads,—The Cardinal saw fit to dispense with him,Ride with one plume the less; and off it dropped.

For, Guido Franceschini was the head

Of an old family in Arezzo, old

To that degree they could afford be poor

Better than most: the case is common too.

Out of the vast door 'scutcheoned overhead,

Creeps out a serving-man on Saturdays

To cater for the week,—turns up anon

I' the market, chaffering for the lamb's least leg,

Or the quarter-fowl, less entrails, claws and comb:

Then back again with prize,—a liver begged

Into the bargain, gizzard overlooked.

He 's mincing these to give the beans a taste,

When, at your knock, he leaves the simmering soup,

Waits on the curious stranger-visitant,

Napkin in half-wiped hand, to show the rooms,

Point pictures out have hung their hundred years,

"Priceless," he tells you,—puts in his place at once

The man of money: yes, you 're banker-king

Or merchant-kaiser, wallow in your wealth

While patron, the house-master, can't afford

To stop our ceiling-hole that rain so rots:

But he 's the man of mark, and there 's his shield,

And yonder 's the famed Rafael, first in kind,

The painter painted for his grandfather,

And you have paid to see: "Good morning, Sir!"

Such is the law of compensation. Still

The poverty was getting nigh acute;

There gaped so many noble mouths to feed,

Beans must suffice unflavored of the fowl.

The mother,—hers would be a spun-out life

I' the nature of things; the sisters had done well

And married men of reasonable rank:

But that sort of illumination stops,

Throws back no heat upon the parent-hearth.

The family instinct felt out for its fire

To the Church,—the Church traditionally helps

A second son: and such was Paolo,

Established here at Rome these thirty years,

Who played the regular game,—priest and Abate,

Made friends, owned house and land, became of use

To a personage: his course lay clear enough.

The youngest caught the sympathetic flame,

And, though unfledged wings kept him still i' the cage,

Yet he shot up to be a Canon, so

Clung to the higher perch and crowed in hope.

Even our Guido, eldest brother, went

As far i' the way o' the Church as safety seemed,

He being Head o' the House, ordained to wive,—

So, could but dally with an Order or two

And testify good-will i' the cause: he clipt

His top-hair and thus far affected Christ.

But main promotion must fall otherwise,

Though still from the side o' the Church: and here was he

At Rome, since first youth, worn threadbare of soul

By forty-six years' rubbing on hard life,

Getting fast tired o' the game whose word is—"Wait!"

When one day,—he too having his Cardinal

To serve in some ambiguous sort, as serve

To draw the coach the plumes o' the horses' heads,—

The Cardinal saw fit to dispense with him,

Ride with one plume the less; and off it dropped.

Guido thus left,—with a youth spent in vainAnd not a penny in purse to show for it,—Advised with Paolo, bent no doubt in chafeThe black brows somewhat formidably, growled"Where is the good I came to get at Rome?Where the repayment of the servitudeTo a purple popinjay, whose feet I kiss,Knowing his father wiped the shoes of mine?"

Guido thus left,—with a youth spent in vain

And not a penny in purse to show for it,—

Advised with Paolo, bent no doubt in chafe

The black brows somewhat formidably, growled

"Where is the good I came to get at Rome?

Where the repayment of the servitude

To a purple popinjay, whose feet I kiss,

Knowing his father wiped the shoes of mine?"

"Patience," pats Paolo the recalcitrant—"Yon have not had, so far, the proper luck,Nor do my gains suffice to keep us both:A modest competency is mine, not more.You are the Count however, yours the style,Heirdom and state,—you can't expect all good.Had I, now, held your hand of cards ... well, well—What 's yet unplayed, I 'll look at, by your leave,Over your shoulder,—I who made my game,Let 's see, if I can't help to handle yours.Fie on you, all the Honors in your fist,Countship, Househeadship,—how have you misdealt!Why, in the first place, these will marry a man!Notum tonsoribus!To the Tonsor then!Come, clear your looks, and choose your freshest suit,And, after function 's done with, down we goTo the woman-dealer in perukes, a wenchI and some others settled in the shopAt Place Colonna: she 's an oracle. Hmm!'Dear, 't is my brother: brother, 't is my dear.Dear, give us counsel! Whom do you suggestAs properest party in the quarter roundFor the Count here?—he is minded to take wife,And further tells me he intends to slipTwenty zecchines under the bottom-scalpOf his old wig when he sends it to reviveFor the wedding: and I add a trifle too.You know what personage I 'm potent with.'"And so plumped out Pompilia's name the first.She told them of the household and its ways,The easy husband and the shrewder wifeIn Via Vittoria,—how the tall young girl,With hair black as yon patch and eyes as bigAs yon pomander to make freckles fly,Would have so much for certain, and so much moreIn likelihood,—why, it suited, slipt as smoothAs the Pope's pantoufle does on the Pope's foot."I 'll to the husband!" Guido ups and cries."Ay, so you 'd play your last court-card, no doubt!"Puts Paolo in with a groan—"Only, you see,'T is I, this time, that supervise your lead.Priests play with women, maids, wives, mothers —why?These play with men and take them off our hands.Did I come, counsel with some cut-beard gruffOr rather this sleek young-old barberess?Go, brother, stand you rapt in the ante-roomOf Her Efficacity my CardinalFor an hour,—he likes to have lord-suitors lounge,—While I betake myself to the gray mare,The better horse,—how wise the people's word!—And wait on Madam Violante."

"Patience," pats Paolo the recalcitrant—

"Yon have not had, so far, the proper luck,

Nor do my gains suffice to keep us both:

A modest competency is mine, not more.

You are the Count however, yours the style,

Heirdom and state,—you can't expect all good.

Had I, now, held your hand of cards ... well, well—

What 's yet unplayed, I 'll look at, by your leave,

Over your shoulder,—I who made my game,

Let 's see, if I can't help to handle yours.

Fie on you, all the Honors in your fist,

Countship, Househeadship,—how have you misdealt!

Why, in the first place, these will marry a man!

Notum tonsoribus!To the Tonsor then!

Come, clear your looks, and choose your freshest suit,

And, after function 's done with, down we go

To the woman-dealer in perukes, a wench

I and some others settled in the shop

At Place Colonna: she 's an oracle. Hmm!

'Dear, 't is my brother: brother, 't is my dear.

Dear, give us counsel! Whom do you suggest

As properest party in the quarter round

For the Count here?—he is minded to take wife,

And further tells me he intends to slip

Twenty zecchines under the bottom-scalp

Of his old wig when he sends it to revive

For the wedding: and I add a trifle too.

You know what personage I 'm potent with.'"

And so plumped out Pompilia's name the first.

She told them of the household and its ways,

The easy husband and the shrewder wife

In Via Vittoria,—how the tall young girl,

With hair black as yon patch and eyes as big

As yon pomander to make freckles fly,

Would have so much for certain, and so much more

In likelihood,—why, it suited, slipt as smooth

As the Pope's pantoufle does on the Pope's foot.

"I 'll to the husband!" Guido ups and cries.

"Ay, so you 'd play your last court-card, no doubt!"

Puts Paolo in with a groan—"Only, you see,

'T is I, this time, that supervise your lead.

Priests play with women, maids, wives, mothers —why?

These play with men and take them off our hands.

Did I come, counsel with some cut-beard gruff

Or rather this sleek young-old barberess?

Go, brother, stand you rapt in the ante-room

Of Her Efficacity my Cardinal

For an hour,—he likes to have lord-suitors lounge,—

While I betake myself to the gray mare,

The better horse,—how wise the people's word!—

And wait on Madam Violante."

Said and done,He was at Via Vittoria in three skips:Proposed at once to fill up the one wantO' the burgess-family which, wealthy enough,And comfortable to heart's desire, yet crouchedOutside a gate to heaven,—locked, bolted, barred,Whereof Count Guido had a key he keptUnder his pillow, but Pompilia's handMight slide behind his neck and pilfer thence.The key was fairy; its mere mention madeViolante feel the thing shoot one sharp rayThat reached the womanly heart: so—"I assent!Yours be Pompilia, hers and ours that keyTo all the glories of the greater life!There 's Pietro to convince: leave that to me!"

Said and done,

He was at Via Vittoria in three skips:

Proposed at once to fill up the one want

O' the burgess-family which, wealthy enough,

And comfortable to heart's desire, yet crouched

Outside a gate to heaven,—locked, bolted, barred,

Whereof Count Guido had a key he kept

Under his pillow, but Pompilia's hand

Might slide behind his neck and pilfer thence.

The key was fairy; its mere mention made

Violante feel the thing shoot one sharp ray

That reached the womanly heart: so—"I assent!

Yours be Pompilia, hers and ours that key

To all the glories of the greater life!

There 's Pietro to convince: leave that to me!"

Then was the matter broached to Pietro; thenDid Pietro make demand and get responseThat in the Countship was a truth, but inThe counting up of the Count's cash, a lie.He thereupon stroked grave his chin, looked great,Declined the honor. Then the wife wiped tear,Winked with the other eye turned Paolo-ward,Whispered Pompilia, stole to church at eve,Found Guido there and got the marriage done,And finally begged pardon at the feetOf her dear lord and master. WhereuponQuoth Pietro—"Let us make the best of things!""I knew your love would license us," quoth she:Quoth Paolo once more, "Mothers, wives and maids,These be the tools wherewith priests manage men,"

Then was the matter broached to Pietro; then

Did Pietro make demand and get response

That in the Countship was a truth, but in

The counting up of the Count's cash, a lie.

He thereupon stroked grave his chin, looked great,

Declined the honor. Then the wife wiped tear,

Winked with the other eye turned Paolo-ward,

Whispered Pompilia, stole to church at eve,

Found Guido there and got the marriage done,

And finally begged pardon at the feet

Of her dear lord and master. Whereupon

Quoth Pietro—"Let us make the best of things!"

"I knew your love would license us," quoth she:

Quoth Paolo once more, "Mothers, wives and maids,

These be the tools wherewith priests manage men,"

Now, here take breath and ask,—which bird o' the braceDecoyed the other into clapnet? WhoWas fool, who knave? Neither and both, perchance.There was a bargain mentally proposedOn each side, straight and plain and fair enough;Mind knew its own mind: but when mind must speak,The bargain have expression in plain terms,There came the blunder incident to words,And in the clumsy process, fair turned foul.The straight backbone-thought of the crooked speechWere just—"I Guido truck my name and rankFor so much money and youth and female charms.—We Pietro and Violante give our childAnd wealth to you for a rise i' the world thereby."Such naked truth while chambered in the brainShocks nowise: walk it forth by way of tongue,—Out on the cynical unseemliness!Hence was the need, on either side, of a lieTo serve as decent wrappage: so, Guido givesMoney for money,—and they, bride for groom,Having, he, not a doit, they, not a childHonestly theirs, but this poor waif and stray.According to the words, each cheated each;But in the inexpressive barter of thoughts,Each did give and did take the thing designed,The rank on this side and the cash on that—Attained the object of the traffic, so.The way of the world, the daily bargain struckIn the first market! Why sells Jack his ware?"For the sake of serving an old customer."Why does Jill buy it? "Simply not to breakA custom, pass the old stall the first time."Why, you know where the gist is of the exchange:Each sees a profit, throws the fine words in.Don't be too hard o' the pair! Had each pretenceBeen simultaneously discovered, striptFrom off the body o' the transaction, justAs when a cook (will Excellency forgive?)Strips away those long rough superfluous legsFrom either side the crayfish, leaving folkA meal all meat henceforth, no garnishry,(With your respect, Prince!)—balance had been kept,No party blamed the other,—so, starting fair,All subsequent fence of wrong returned by wrongI' the matrimonial thrust and parry, at leastHad followed on equal terms. But, as it chanced,One party had the advantage, saw the cheatOf the other first and kept its own concealed:And the luck o' the first discovery fell, beside,To the least adroit and self-possessed o' the pair.'Twas foolish Pietro and his wife saw firstThe nobleman was penniless, and screamed"We are cheated!"

Now, here take breath and ask,—which bird o' the brace

Decoyed the other into clapnet? Who

Was fool, who knave? Neither and both, perchance.

There was a bargain mentally proposed

On each side, straight and plain and fair enough;

Mind knew its own mind: but when mind must speak,

The bargain have expression in plain terms,

There came the blunder incident to words,

And in the clumsy process, fair turned foul.

The straight backbone-thought of the crooked speech

Were just—"I Guido truck my name and rank

For so much money and youth and female charms.—

We Pietro and Violante give our child

And wealth to you for a rise i' the world thereby."

Such naked truth while chambered in the brain

Shocks nowise: walk it forth by way of tongue,—

Out on the cynical unseemliness!

Hence was the need, on either side, of a lie

To serve as decent wrappage: so, Guido gives

Money for money,—and they, bride for groom,

Having, he, not a doit, they, not a child

Honestly theirs, but this poor waif and stray.

According to the words, each cheated each;

But in the inexpressive barter of thoughts,

Each did give and did take the thing designed,

The rank on this side and the cash on that—

Attained the object of the traffic, so.

The way of the world, the daily bargain struck

In the first market! Why sells Jack his ware?

"For the sake of serving an old customer."

Why does Jill buy it? "Simply not to break

A custom, pass the old stall the first time."

Why, you know where the gist is of the exchange:

Each sees a profit, throws the fine words in.

Don't be too hard o' the pair! Had each pretence

Been simultaneously discovered, stript

From off the body o' the transaction, just

As when a cook (will Excellency forgive?)

Strips away those long rough superfluous legs

From either side the crayfish, leaving folk

A meal all meat henceforth, no garnishry,

(With your respect, Prince!)—balance had been kept,

No party blamed the other,—so, starting fair,

All subsequent fence of wrong returned by wrong

I' the matrimonial thrust and parry, at least

Had followed on equal terms. But, as it chanced,

One party had the advantage, saw the cheat

Of the other first and kept its own concealed:

And the luck o' the first discovery fell, beside,

To the least adroit and self-possessed o' the pair.

'Twas foolish Pietro and his wife saw first

The nobleman was penniless, and screamed

"We are cheated!"

Such unprofitable noiseAngers at all times: but when those who plague,Do it from inside your own house and home,Gnats which yourself have closed the curtain round,Noise goes too near the brain and makes you mad.The gnats say, Guido used the candle-flameUnfairly,—worsened that first bad of his,By practising all kinds of crueltyTo oust them and suppress the wail and whine,—That speedily he so scared and bullied them,Fain were they, long before five months had passed,To beg him grant, from what was once their wealth,Just so much as would help them back to Rome,Where, when they finished paying the last doitO' the dowry, they might beg from door to door.So say the Comparini—as if it cameOf pure resentment for this worse than bad,That then Violante, feeling conscience prick,Confessed her substitution of the childWhence all the harm fell,—and that Pietro firstBethought him of advantage to himselfI' the deed, as part revenge, part remedyFor all miscalculation in the pact.

Such unprofitable noise

Angers at all times: but when those who plague,

Do it from inside your own house and home,

Gnats which yourself have closed the curtain round,

Noise goes too near the brain and makes you mad.

The gnats say, Guido used the candle-flame

Unfairly,—worsened that first bad of his,

By practising all kinds of cruelty

To oust them and suppress the wail and whine,—

That speedily he so scared and bullied them,

Fain were they, long before five months had passed,

To beg him grant, from what was once their wealth,

Just so much as would help them back to Rome,

Where, when they finished paying the last doit

O' the dowry, they might beg from door to door.

So say the Comparini—as if it came

Of pure resentment for this worse than bad,

That then Violante, feeling conscience prick,

Confessed her substitution of the child

Whence all the harm fell,—and that Pietro first

Bethought him of advantage to himself

I' the deed, as part revenge, part remedy

For all miscalculation in the pact.

On the other hand, "Not so!" Guido retorts—"I am the wronged, solely, from first to last,Who gave the dignity I engaged to give,Which was, is, cannot but continue gain.My being poor was a by-circumstance,Miscalculated piece of untowardness,Might end to-morrow did heaven's windows ope,Or uncle die and leave me his estate.You should have put up with the minor flaw,Getting the main prize of the jewel. If wealth,Not rank, had been prime object in your thoughts,Why not have taken the butcher's son, the boyO' the baker or candlestick-maker? In all the rest,It was yourselves broke compact and played false,And made a life in common impossible.Show me the stipulation of our bondThat you should make your profit of being insideMy house, to hustle and edge me out o' the same,First make a laughing-stock of mine and me,Then round us in the ears from morn to night(Because we show wry faces at your mirth)That you are robbed, starved, beaten and what not!You fled a hell of your own lighting-up,Pay for your own miscalculation too:You thought nobility, gained at any price,Would suit and satisfy,—find the mistake,And now retaliate, not on yourselves, but me.And how? By telling me, i' the face of the world,I it is have been cheated all this while,Abominably and irreparably,—my nameGiven to a cur-cast mongrel, a drab's brat,A beggar's by-blow,—thus depriving meOf what yourselves allege the whole and soleAim on my part i' the marriage,—money, to wit.This thrust I have to parry by a guardWhich leaves me open to a counter-thrustOn the other side,—no way but there's a passClean through me. If I prove, as I hope to do,There's not one truth in this your odious taleO' the buying, selling, substituting—proveYour daughter was and is your daughter,—well,And her dowry hers and therefore mine,—what then?Why, where's the appropriate punishment for thisEnormous lie hatched for mere malice' sakeTo ruin me? Is that a wrong or no?And if I try revenge for remedy,Can I well make it strong and bitter enough?"I anticipate however—only ask,Which of the two here sinned most? A nice point!Which brownness is least black,—decide who can,Wager-by-battle-of-cheating! What do you say,Highness? Suppose, your Excellency, we leaveThe question at this stage, proceed to the next,Both parties step out, fight their prize upon,In the eye o' the world?

On the other hand, "Not so!" Guido retorts—

"I am the wronged, solely, from first to last,

Who gave the dignity I engaged to give,

Which was, is, cannot but continue gain.

My being poor was a by-circumstance,

Miscalculated piece of untowardness,

Might end to-morrow did heaven's windows ope,

Or uncle die and leave me his estate.

You should have put up with the minor flaw,

Getting the main prize of the jewel. If wealth,

Not rank, had been prime object in your thoughts,

Why not have taken the butcher's son, the boy

O' the baker or candlestick-maker? In all the rest,

It was yourselves broke compact and played false,

And made a life in common impossible.

Show me the stipulation of our bond

That you should make your profit of being inside

My house, to hustle and edge me out o' the same,

First make a laughing-stock of mine and me,

Then round us in the ears from morn to night

(Because we show wry faces at your mirth)

That you are robbed, starved, beaten and what not!

You fled a hell of your own lighting-up,

Pay for your own miscalculation too:

You thought nobility, gained at any price,

Would suit and satisfy,—find the mistake,

And now retaliate, not on yourselves, but me.

And how? By telling me, i' the face of the world,

I it is have been cheated all this while,

Abominably and irreparably,—my name

Given to a cur-cast mongrel, a drab's brat,

A beggar's by-blow,—thus depriving me

Of what yourselves allege the whole and sole

Aim on my part i' the marriage,—money, to wit.

This thrust I have to parry by a guard

Which leaves me open to a counter-thrust

On the other side,—no way but there's a pass

Clean through me. If I prove, as I hope to do,

There's not one truth in this your odious tale

O' the buying, selling, substituting—prove

Your daughter was and is your daughter,—well,

And her dowry hers and therefore mine,—what then?

Why, where's the appropriate punishment for this

Enormous lie hatched for mere malice' sake

To ruin me? Is that a wrong or no?

And if I try revenge for remedy,

Can I well make it strong and bitter enough?"

I anticipate however—only ask,

Which of the two here sinned most? A nice point!

Which brownness is least black,—decide who can,

Wager-by-battle-of-cheating! What do you say,

Highness? Suppose, your Excellency, we leave

The question at this stage, proceed to the next,

Both parties step out, fight their prize upon,

In the eye o' the world?

They brandish law 'gainst law;The grinding of such blades, each parry of each,Throws terrible sparks off, over and above the thrusts,And makes more sinister the fight, to the eye,Than the very wounds that follow. Beside the taleWhich the Comparini have to re-assert,They needs must write, print, publish all abroadThe straitnesses of Guido's household life—The petty nothings we bear privatelyBut break down under when fools flock to jeer.What is it all to the facts o' the couple's case,How helps it prove Pompilia not their child,If Guido's mother, brother, kith and kinFare ill, lie hard, lack clothes, lack fire, lack food?That's one more wrong than needs.

They brandish law 'gainst law;

The grinding of such blades, each parry of each,

Throws terrible sparks off, over and above the thrusts,

And makes more sinister the fight, to the eye,

Than the very wounds that follow. Beside the tale

Which the Comparini have to re-assert,

They needs must write, print, publish all abroad

The straitnesses of Guido's household life—

The petty nothings we bear privately

But break down under when fools flock to jeer.

What is it all to the facts o' the couple's case,

How helps it prove Pompilia not their child,

If Guido's mother, brother, kith and kin

Fare ill, lie hard, lack clothes, lack fire, lack food?

That's one more wrong than needs.

On the other hand,Guido,—whose cue is to dispute the truthO' the tale, reject the shame it throws on him,—He may retaliate, fight his foe in turnAnd welcome, we allow. Ay, but he can't!He's at home, only acts by proxy here;Law may meet law,—but all the gibes and jeers,The superfluity of naughtiness,Those libels on his House,—how reach at them?Two hateful faces, grinning all aglow,Not only make parade of spoil they filched,But foul him from the height of a tower, you see.Unluckily temptation is at hand—To take revenge on a trifle overlooked,A pet lamb they have left in reach outside,Whose first bleat, when he plucks the wool away,Will strike the grinners grave: his wife remains,Who, four months earlier, some thirteen years old,Never a mile away from mother's houseAnd petted to the height of her desire,Was told one morning that her fate had come,She must be married—just as, a month before,Her mother told her she must comb her hairAnd twist her curls into one knot behind.These fools forgot their pet lamb, fed with flowers,Then 'ticed as usual by the bit of cake,Out of the bower into the butchery.Plague her, he plagues them threefold: but how plague?The world may have its word to say to that:You can't do some things with impunity.What remains ... well, it is an ugly thought ...But that he drive herself to plague herself—Herself disgrace herself and so disgraceWho seek to disgrace Guido?

On the other hand,

Guido,—whose cue is to dispute the truth

O' the tale, reject the shame it throws on him,—

He may retaliate, fight his foe in turn

And welcome, we allow. Ay, but he can't!

He's at home, only acts by proxy here;

Law may meet law,—but all the gibes and jeers,

The superfluity of naughtiness,

Those libels on his House,—how reach at them?

Two hateful faces, grinning all aglow,

Not only make parade of spoil they filched,

But foul him from the height of a tower, you see.

Unluckily temptation is at hand—

To take revenge on a trifle overlooked,

A pet lamb they have left in reach outside,

Whose first bleat, when he plucks the wool away,

Will strike the grinners grave: his wife remains,

Who, four months earlier, some thirteen years old,

Never a mile away from mother's house

And petted to the height of her desire,

Was told one morning that her fate had come,

She must be married—just as, a month before,

Her mother told her she must comb her hair

And twist her curls into one knot behind.

These fools forgot their pet lamb, fed with flowers,

Then 'ticed as usual by the bit of cake,

Out of the bower into the butchery.

Plague her, he plagues them threefold: but how plague?

The world may have its word to say to that:

You can't do some things with impunity.

What remains ... well, it is an ugly thought ...

But that he drive herself to plague herself—

Herself disgrace herself and so disgrace

Who seek to disgrace Guido?

There's the clueTo what else seems gratuitously vile,If, as is said, from this time forth the rackWas tried upon Pompilia: 't was to wrenchHer limbs into exposure that brings shame.The aim o' the cruelty being so crueller still,That cruelty almost grows compassion's selfCould one attribute it to mere returnO' the parents' outrage, wrong avenging wrong.They see in this a deeper deadlier aim,Not to vex just a body they held dear,But blacken too a soul they boasted white,And show the world their saint in a lover's arms,No matter how driven thither,—so they say.

There's the clue

To what else seems gratuitously vile,

If, as is said, from this time forth the rack

Was tried upon Pompilia: 't was to wrench

Her limbs into exposure that brings shame.

The aim o' the cruelty being so crueller still,

That cruelty almost grows compassion's self

Could one attribute it to mere return

O' the parents' outrage, wrong avenging wrong.

They see in this a deeper deadlier aim,

Not to vex just a body they held dear,

But blacken too a soul they boasted white,

And show the world their saint in a lover's arms,

No matter how driven thither,—so they say.

On the other hand, so much is easily said,And Guido lacks not an apologist.The pair had nobody but themselves to blame,Being selfish beasts throughout no less, no more:—Cared for themselves, their supposed good, nought else,And brought about the marriage; good proved bad,As little they cared for her its victim—nay,Meant she should stay behind and take the chance,If haply they might wriggle themselves free.They baited their own hook to catch a fishWith this poor worm, failed o' the prize, and thenSought how to unbait tackle, let worm floatOr sink, amuse the monster while they 'scaped.Under the best stars Hymen brings above,Had all been honesty on either side,A common sincere effort to good end,Still, this would prove a difficult problem, Prince!—Given, a fair wife, aged thirteen years,A husband poor, care-bitten, sorrow-sunk,Little, long-nosed, bush-bearded, lantern-jawed,Forty-six years old,—place the two grown one,She, cut off sheer from every natural aid,In a strange town with no familiar face—He, in his own parade-ground or retreatIf need were, free from challenge, much less checkTo an irritated, disappointed will—How evolve happiness from such a match?'T were hard to serve up a congenial dishOut of these ill-agreeing morsels, Duke,By the best exercise of the cook's craft,Best interspersion of spice, salt and sweet!But let two ghastly scullions concoct messWith brimstone, pitch, vitriol and devil's dung—Throw in abuse o' the man, his body and soul,Kith, kin and generation, shake all slabAt Rome, Arezzo, for the world to nose,Then end by publishing, for fiend's arch-prank,That, over and above sauce to the meat's self,Why, even the meat, bedevilled thus in dish,Was never a pheasant but a carrion-crow—Prince, what will then the natural loathing be?What wonder if this?—the compound plague o' the pairPricked Guido,—not to take the course they hoped,That is, submit him to their statement's truth,Accept its obvious promise of relief,And thrust them out of doors the girl againSince the girl's dowry would not enter there,—Quit of the one if balked of the other: no!Rather did rage and hate so work in him,Their product proved the horrible conceitThat he should plot and plan and bring to passHis wife might, of her own free will and deed,Relieve him of her presence, get her gone,And yet leave all the dowry safe behind,Confirmed his own henceforward past dispute,While blotting out, as by a belch of hell,Their triumph in her misery and death.

On the other hand, so much is easily said,

And Guido lacks not an apologist.

The pair had nobody but themselves to blame,

Being selfish beasts throughout no less, no more:

—Cared for themselves, their supposed good, nought else,

And brought about the marriage; good proved bad,

As little they cared for her its victim—nay,

Meant she should stay behind and take the chance,

If haply they might wriggle themselves free.

They baited their own hook to catch a fish

With this poor worm, failed o' the prize, and then

Sought how to unbait tackle, let worm float

Or sink, amuse the monster while they 'scaped.

Under the best stars Hymen brings above,

Had all been honesty on either side,

A common sincere effort to good end,

Still, this would prove a difficult problem, Prince!

—Given, a fair wife, aged thirteen years,

A husband poor, care-bitten, sorrow-sunk,

Little, long-nosed, bush-bearded, lantern-jawed,

Forty-six years old,—place the two grown one,

She, cut off sheer from every natural aid,

In a strange town with no familiar face—

He, in his own parade-ground or retreat

If need were, free from challenge, much less check

To an irritated, disappointed will—

How evolve happiness from such a match?

'T were hard to serve up a congenial dish

Out of these ill-agreeing morsels, Duke,

By the best exercise of the cook's craft,

Best interspersion of spice, salt and sweet!

But let two ghastly scullions concoct mess

With brimstone, pitch, vitriol and devil's dung—

Throw in abuse o' the man, his body and soul,

Kith, kin and generation, shake all slab

At Rome, Arezzo, for the world to nose,

Then end by publishing, for fiend's arch-prank,

That, over and above sauce to the meat's self,

Why, even the meat, bedevilled thus in dish,

Was never a pheasant but a carrion-crow—

Prince, what will then the natural loathing be?

What wonder if this?—the compound plague o' the pair

Pricked Guido,—not to take the course they hoped,

That is, submit him to their statement's truth,

Accept its obvious promise of relief,

And thrust them out of doors the girl again

Since the girl's dowry would not enter there,

—Quit of the one if balked of the other: no!

Rather did rage and hate so work in him,

Their product proved the horrible conceit

That he should plot and plan and bring to pass

His wife might, of her own free will and deed,

Relieve him of her presence, get her gone,

And yet leave all the dowry safe behind,

Confirmed his own henceforward past dispute,

While blotting out, as by a belch of hell,

Their triumph in her misery and death.

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