You see, the man was Aretine, had touchO' the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit;Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refinedThat shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust:Allow that such an one may take revenge,You don't expect he 'll catch up stone and fling,Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter-staff?Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow,When out of temper at the dinner spoilt,On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,—Substitute for the clown a nobleman,And you have Guido, practising, 't is said,Immitigably from the very first,The finer vengeance: this, they say, the factO' the famous letter shows—the writing tracedAt Guido's instance by the timid wifeOver the pencilled words himself writ first—Wherein she, who could neither write nor read,Was made unblushingly declare a taleTo the brother, the Abate then in Rome,How her putative parents had impressed,On their departure, their enjoinment; bade"We being safely arrived here, follow, you!Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all,And then by means o' the gallant you procureWith ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue,Some brave youth ready to dare, do and die,You shall run off and merrily reach RomeWhere we may live like flies in honey-pot:"—Such being exact the programme of the courseImputed her as carried to effect.They also say,—to keep her straight therein,All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain,On either side Pompilia's path of life,Built round about and over against by fear,Circumvallated month by month, and weekBy week, and day by day, and hour by hour,Close, closer and yet closer still with pain,No outlet from the encroaching pain save justWhere stood one savior like a piece of heaven,Hell's arms would strain round but for this blue gap.She, they say further, first tried every chink,Every imaginable break i' the fire,As way of escape: ran to the Commissary,Who bade her not malign his friend her spouse;Flung herself thrice at the Archbishop's feet,Where three times the Archbishop let her lie,Spend her whole sorrow and sob full heart forth,And then took up the slight load from the groundAnd bore it back for husband to chastise,—Mildly of course,—but natural right is right.So went she slipping ever yet catching at help,Missing the high till come to lowest and last,To wit, a certain friar of mean degree,Who heard her story in confession, wept,Crossed himself, showed the man within the monk."Then, will you save me, you the one i' the world?I cannot even write my woes, nor putMy prayer for help in words a friend may read,—I no more own a coin than have an hourFree of observance,—I was watched to church,Am watched now, shall be watched back presently,—How buy the skill of scribe i' the marketplace?Pray you, write down and send whatever I sayO' the need I have my parents take me hence!"The good man rubbed his eyes and could not choose—Let her dictate her letter in such a senseThat parents, to save breaking down a wall,Might lift her over: she went back, heaven in heart.Then the good man took counsel of his couch,Woke and thought twice, the second thought the best:"Here am I, foolish body that I be,Caught all but pushing, teaching, who but I,My betters their plain duty,—what, I dareHelp a case the Archbishop would not help,Mend matters, peradventure, God loves mar?What hath the married life but strifes and plaguesFor proper dispensation? So a foolOnce touched the ark,—poor Uzzah that I am!Oh married ones, much rather should I bid,In patience all of ye possess your souls!This life is brief and troubles die with it:Where were the prick to soar up homeward else?"So saying, he burnt the letter he had writ,SaidAvefor her intention, in its place,Took snuff and comfort, and had done with all.Then the grim arms stretched yet a little moreAnd each touched each, all but one streak i' the midst,Whereat stood Caponsacchi, who cried, "This way,Out by me! Hesitate one moment moreAnd the fire shuts out me and shuts in you!Here my hand holds you life out!" WhereuponShe clasped the hand, which closed on hers and drewPompilia out o' the circle now complete.Whose fault or shame but Guido's?—ask her friends.But then this is the wife's—Pompilia's tale—Eve's ... no, not Eve's, since Eve, to speak the truth,Was hardly fallen (our candor might pronounce)When simply saying in her own defence"The serpent tempted me and I did eat."So much of paradisal nature, Eve's!Her daughters ever since prefer to urge"Adam so starved me I was fain acceptThe apple any serpent pushed my way."What an elaborate theory have we here,Ingeniously nursed up, pretentiouslyBrought forth, pushed forward amid trumpet-blast,To account for the thawing of an icicle,Show us there needed Ætna vomit flameEre run the crystal into dewdrops! Else,How, unless hell broke loose to cause the step,How could a married lady go astray?Bless the fools! And 't is just this way they are blessed,And the world wags still,—because fools are sure—Oh, not of my wife nor your daughter! No!But of their own: the case is altered quite.Look now,—last week, the lady we all love,—Daughter o' the couple we all venerate,Wife of the husband we all cap before,Mother o' the babes we all breathe blessings on,—Was caught in converse with a negro page.Hell thawed that icicle, else "Why was it—Why?" asked and echoed the fools. "Because, you fools,—"So did the dame's self answer, she who could,With that fine candor only forthcomingWhen 't is no odds whether withheld or no—"Because my husband was the saint you say,And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith,Stupid self-satisfaction, you so praise,—Saint to you, insupportable to me.Had he,—instead of calling me fine names,Lucretia and Susanna and so forth,And curtaining Correggio carefullyLest I be taught that Leda had two legs,——But once never so little tweaked my noseFor peeping through my fan at Carnival,Confessing thereby, 'I have no easy task—I need use all my powers to hold you mine,And then,—why 't is so doubtful if they serve,'That—take this, as an earnest of despair!'Why, we were quits: I had wiped the harm away,Thought, 'The man fears me!' and foregone revenge."We must not want all this elaborate workTo solve the problem why young Fancy-and-fleshSlips from the dull side of a spouse in years,Betakes it to the breast of Brisk-and-boldWhose love-scrapes furnish talk for all the town!Accordingly, one word on the other sideTips over the piled-up fabric of a tale.Guido says—that is, always, his friends say—It is unlikely, from the wickedness,That any man treat any woman so.The letter in question was her very own,Unprompted and unaided: she could write—As able to write as ready to sin, or free,When there was danger, to deny both facts.He bids you mark, herself from first to lastAttributes all the so-styled torture justTo jealousy,—jealousy of whom but justThis very Caponsacchi! How suits hereThis with the other alleged motive, Prince?Would Guido make a terror of the manHe meant should tempt the woman, as they charge?Do you fright your hare that you may catch your hare?Consider too, the charge was made and metAt the proper time and place where proofs were plain—Heard patiently and disposed of thoroughlyBy the highest powers, possessors of most light,The Governor for the law and the ArchbishopFor the gospel: which acknowledged primacies,'T is impudently pleaded, he could warpInto a tacit partnership with crime—He being the while, believe their own account,Impotent, penniless and miserable!He further asks—Duke, note the knotty point!—How he—concede him skill to play such partAnd drive his wife into a gallant's arms—Could bring the gallant to play his part tooAnd stand with arms so opportunely wide?How bring this Caponsacchi,—with whom, friendsAnd foes alike agree, throughout his lifeHe never interchanged a civil wordNor lifted courteous cap to—him, how bendTo such observancy of beck and call,—To undertake this strange and perilous featFor the good of Guido, using, as the lure,Pompilia whom, himself and she avouch,He had nor spoken with nor seen, indeed,Beyond sight in a public theatre,When she wrote letters (she that could not write!)The importunate shamelessly-protested loveWhich brought him, though reluctant, to her feet,And forced on him the plunge which, howsoe'erShe might swim up i' the whirl, must bury himUnder abysmal black: a priest contriveNo better, no amour to be hushed up,But open flight and noonday infamy?Try and concoct defence for such revolt!Take the wife's tale as true, say she was wronged,—Pray, in what rubric of the breviaryDo you find it registered—the part of a priestIs—that to right wrongs from the church he skip,Go journeying with a woman that 's a wife,And be pursued, o'ertaken and captured ... how?In a lay-dress, playing the kind sentinelWhere the wife sleeps (says he who best should know)And sleeping, sleepless, both have spent the night!Could no one else be found to serve at need—No woman—or if man, no safer sortThan this not well-reputed turbulence?Then, look into his own account o' the case!He, being the stranger and astonished one,Yet received protestations of her loveFrom lady neither known nor cared about:Love, so protested, bred in him disgustAfter the wonder,—or incredulity,Such impudence seeming impossible.But, soon assured such impudence might be,When he had seen with his own eyes at lastLetters thrown down to him i' the very streetFrom behind lattice where the lady lurked,And read their passionate summons to her side—Why then, a thousand thoughts swarmed up and in,—How he had seen her once, a moment's space,Observed she was both young and beautiful,Heard everywhere report she suffered muchFrom a jealous husband thrice her age,—in short,There flashed the propriety, expediencyOf treating, trying might they come to terms,—At all events, granting the interviewPrayed for, one so adapted to assistDecision as to whether he advance,Stand or retire, in his benevolent mood!Therefore the interview befell at length;And at this one and only interview,He saw the sole and single course to take—Bade her dispose of him, head, heart and hand,Did her behest and braved the consequence,Not for the natural end, the love of manFor woman whether love be virtue or vice,But, please you, altogether for pity's sake—Pity of innocence and helplessness!And how did he assure himself of both?Had he been the house-inmate, visitor,Eye-witness of the described martyrdom,So, competent to pronounce its remedyEre rush on such extreme and desperate course—Involving such enormity of harm,Moreover, to the husband judged thus, doomedAnd damned without a word in his defence?Not he! the truth was felt by instinct here,—Process which saves a world of trouble and time.There 's the priest's story: what do you say to it,Trying its truth by your own instinct too,Since that 's to be the expeditious mode?"And now, do hear my version," Guido cries:"I accept argument and inference both.It would indeed have been miraculousHad such a confidency sprung to birthWith no more fanning from acquaintanceshipThan here avowed by my wife and this priest.Only, it did not: you must substituteThe old stale unromantic way of fault,The commonplace adventure, mere intrigueIn prose form with the unpoetic tricks,Cheatings and lies: they used the hackney chairSatan jaunts forth with, shabby and serviceable,No gilded jimcrack-novelty from below,To bowl you along thither, swift and sure.That same officious go-between, the wenchWho gave and took the letters of the two,Now offers self and service back to me:Bears testimony to visits night by nightWhen all was safe, the husband far and away,—To many a timely slipping out at largeBy light o' the morning-star, ere he should wake.And when the fugitives were found at last,Why, with them were found also, to belieWhat protest they might make of innocence,All documents yet wanting, if need were,To establish guilt in them, disgrace in me—The chronicle o' the converse from its riseTo culmination in this outrage: read!Letters from wife to priest, from priest to wife,—Here they are, read and say where they chime inWith the other tale, superlative purityO' the pair of saints! I stand or fall by these."But then on the other side again,—how sayThe pair of saints? That not one word is theirs—No syllable o' the batch or writ or sentOr yet received by either of the two."Found," says the priest, "because he needed them,Failing all other proofs, to prove our fault:So, here they are, just as is natural.Oh yes—we had our missives, each of us!Not these, but to the full as vile, no doubt:Hers as from me,—she could not read, so burnt,—Mine as from her,—I burnt because I read.Who forged and found them?Cui profuerint!"(I take the phrase out of your Highness' mouth)"He who would gain by her fault and my fall,The trickster, schemer and pretender—heWhose whole career was lie entailing lieSought to be sealed truth by the worst lie last!"Guido rejoins—"Did the other end o' the taleMatch this beginning! 'T is alleged I proveA murderer at the end, a man of forcePrompt, indiscriminate, effectual: good!Then what need all this trifling woman's-work,Letters and embassies and weak intrigue,When will and power were mine to end at onceSafely and surely? Murder had come firstNot last with such a man, assure yourselves!The silentacquetta, stilling at command—A drop a day i' the wine or soup, the dose,—The shattering beam that breaks above the bedAnd beats out brains, with nobody to blameExcept the wormy age which eats even oak,—Nay, the stanch steel or trusty cord,—who caresI' the blind old palace, a pitfall at each step,With none to see, much more to interposeO' the two, three, creeping-house-dog-servant-thingsBorn mine and bred mine? Had I willed gross death,I had found nearer paths to thrust him preyThan this that goes meandering here and thereThrough half the world and calls down in its courseNotice and noise,—hate, vengeance, should it fail,Derision and contempt though it succeed!Moreover, what o' the future son and heir?The unborn babe about to be called mine,—What end in heaping all this shame on him,WereIindifferent to my own black share?Would I have tried these crookednesses, say,Willing and able to effect the straight?""Ay, would you!"—one may hear the priest retort,"Being as you are, i' the stock, a man of guile,And ruffianism but an added graft.You, a born coward, try a coward's arms,Trick and chicane,—and only when these failDoes violence follow, and like fox you biteCaught out in stealing. Also, the disgraceYou hardly shrunk at, wholly shrivelled her:You plunged her thin white delicate hand i' the flameAlong with your coarse horny brutish fist,Held them a second there, then drew out both—Yours roughed a little, hers ruined through and through.Your hurt would heal forthwith at ointment's touch—Namely, succession to the inheritanceWhich bolder crime had lost you: let things change,The birth o' the boy warrant the bolder crime,Why, murder was determined, dared and done.For me," the priest proceeds with his reply,"The look o' the thing, the chances of mistake,All were against me,—that, I knew the first:But, knowing also what my duty was,I did it: I must look to men more skilledIn reading hearts than ever was the world."Highness, decide! Pronounce, Her Excellency!Or ... even leave this argument in doubt,Account it a fit matter, taken upWith all its faces, manifold enough,To ponder on—what fronts us, the next stage,Next legal process? Guido, in pursuit,Coming up with the fugitives at the inn,Caused both to be arrested then and thereAnd sent to Rome for judgment on the case—Thither, with all his armory of proofs,Betook himself: 't is there we 'll meet him now,Waiting the further issue.Here you smile:"And never let him henceforth dare to plead—Of all pleas and excuses in the worldFor any deed hereafter to be done—His irrepressible wrath at honor's wound!Passion and madness irrepressible?Why, Count and cavalier, the husband comesAnd catches foe i' the very act of shame!There 's man to man,—nature must have her way,—We look he should have cleared things on the spot.Yes, then, indeed—even though it prove he erred—Though the ambiguous first appearance, mountOf solid injury, melt soon to mist,Still,—had he slain the lover and the wife—Or, since she was a woman and his wife,Slain him, but stript her naked to the skin,Or at best left no more of an attireThan patch sufficient to pin paper to,Some one love-letter, infamy and all,As passport to the Paphos fit for such,Safe-conduct to her natural home the stews,—Good! One had recognized the power o' the pulse.But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law—Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm,For scrivener's pen to poke and play about—Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps,Oh, let us hear no syllable o' the rage!Such rage were a convenient afterthoughtFor one who would have shown his teeth belike,Exhibited unbridled rage enough,Had but the priest been found, as was to hope,In serge, not silk, with crucifix, not sword:Whereas the gray innocuous grub, of yore,Had hatched a hornet, tickle to the touch,The priest was metamorphosed into knight.And even the timid wife, whose cue was—shriek,Bury her brow beneath his trampling foot,—She too sprang at him like a pythoness:So, gulp down rage, passion must be postponed,Calm be the word! Well, our word is—we brandThis part o' the business, howsoever the restBefall.""Nay," interpose as prompt his friends—"This is the world's way! So you adjudge rewardTo the forbearance and legalityYourselves begin by inculcating—ay,Exacting from us all with knife at throat!This one wrong more you add to wrong's amount,—You publish all, with the kind comment here,'Its victim was too cowardly for revenge.'"Make it your own case,—you who stand apart!The husband wakes one morn from heavy sleep,With a taste of poppy in his mouth,—rubs eyes,Finds his wife flown, his strong-box ransacked too,Follows as he best can, overtakes i' the end.You bid him use his privilege: well, it seemsHe 's scarce cool-blooded enough for the right move—Does not shoot when the game were sure, but standsBewildered at the critical minute,—sinceHe has the first flash of the fact aloneTo judge from, act with, not the steady lightsOf after-knowledge,—yours who stand at easeTo try conclusions: he 's in smother and smoke,You outside, with explosion at an end:The sulphur may be lightning or a squib—He 'll know in a minute, but till then, he doubts.Back from what you know to what he knew not!Hear the priest's lofty "I am innocent,"The wife's as resolute "You are guilty!" Come!Are you not staggered?—pause, and you lose the move!Naught left you but a low appeal to law,"Coward" tied to your tail for compliment!Another consideration: have it your way!Admit the worst: his courage failed the Count,He 's cowardly like the best o' the burgessesHe 's grown incorporate with,—a very cur,Kick him from out your circle by all means!Why, trundled down this reputable stair,Still, the church-door lies wide to take him in,And the court-porch also: in he sneaks to each,—"Yes, I have lost my honor and my wife,And, being moreover an ignoble hound,I dare not jeopardize my life for them!"Religion and Law lean forward from their chairs,"Well done, thou good and faithful servant!" Ay,Not only applaud him that he scorned the world,But punish should he dare do otherwise.If the case be clear or turbid,—you must say!Thus, anyhow, it mounted to the stageIn the law-courts,—let 's see clearly from this point!—Where the priest tells his story true or false,And the wife her story, and the husband his,All with result as happy as before.The courts would nor condemn nor yet acquitThis, that or the other, in so distinct a senseAs end the strife to either's absolute loss:Pronounced, in place of something definite,"Each of the parties, whether goat or sheepI' the main, has wool to show and hair to hide.Each has brought somehow trouble, is somehow causeOf pains enough,—even though no worse were proved.Here is a husband, cannot rule his wifeWithout provoking her to scream and scratchAnd scour the fields,—causelessly, it may be:Here is that wife,—who makes her sex our plague,Wedlock, our bugbear,—perhaps with cause enough:And here is the truant priest o' the trio, worstOr best—each quality being conceivable.Let us impose a little mulct on each.We punish youth in state of pupilageWho talk at hours when youth is bound to sleep,Whether the prattle turn upon Saint RoseOr Donna Olimpia of the Vatican:'T is talk, talked wisely or unwisely talked,I' the dormitory where to talk at allTransgresses, and is mulct: as here we mean.For the wife,—let her betake herself, for rest,After her run, to a House of Convertites—Keep there, as good as real imprisonment:Being sick and tired, she will recover so.For the priest, spritely strayer out of bounds,Who made Arezzo hot to hold him,—RomeProfits by his withdrawal from the scene.Let him be relegate to Civita,Circumscribed by its bounds till matters mend:There he at least lies out o' the way of harmFrom foes—perhaps from the too friendly fair.And finally for the husband, whose rash ruleHas but itself to blame for this ado,—If he be vexed that, in our judgments dealt,He fails obtain what he accounts his right,Let him go comforted with the thought, no less,That, turn each sentence howsoever he may,There 's satisfaction to extract therefrom.For, does he wish his wife proved innocent?Well, she 's not guilty, he may safely urge,Has missed the stripes dishonest wives endure—This being a fatherly pat o' the cheek, no more.Does he wish her guilty? Were she otherwiseWould she be locked up, set to say her prayers,Prevented intercourse with the outside world,And that suspected priest in banishment,Whose portion is a further help i' the case?Oh, ay, you all of you want the other thing,The extreme of law, some verdict neat, complete,—Either, the whole o' the dowry in your pokeWith full release from the false wife, to boot,And heading, hanging for the priest, beside—Or, contrary, claim freedom for the wife,Repayment of each penny paid her spouse,Amends for the past, release for the future! SuchIs wisdom to the children of this world;But we 've no mind, we children of the light,To miss the advantage of the golden mean,And push things to the steel point." Thus the courts.Is it settled so far? Settled or disturbed,Console yourselves: 't is like ... an instance, now!You 've seen the puppets, of Place Navona, play,—Punch and his mate,—how threats pass, blows are dealt,And a crisis comes: the crowd or clap or hissAccordingly as disposed for man or wife—When down the actors duck awhile perdue,Donning what novel rag-and-feather trimBest suits the next adventure, new effect:And,—by the time the mob is on the move,With something like a judgmentproandcon,—There 's a whistle, up again the actors popIn t' other tatter with fresh-tinselled staves,To re-engage in one last worst fight moreShall show, what you thought tragedy was farce.Note, that the climax and the crown of thingsInvariably is, the devil appears himself,Armed and accoutred, horns and hoofs and tail!Just so, nor otherwise it proved—you 'll see:Move to the murder, never mind the rest!Guido, at such a general duck-down,I' the breathing-space,—of wife to convent here,Priest to his relegation, and himselfTo Arezzo,—had resigned his part perforceTo brother Abate, who bustled, did his best,Retrieved things somewhat, managed the three suits—Since, it should seem, there were three suits-at-lawBehoved him look to, still, lest bad grow worse:First civil suit,—the one the parents brought,Impugning the legitimacy of his wife,Affirming thence the nullity of her rights:This was before the Rota,—Molinès,That 's judge there, made that notable decreeWhich partly leaned to Guido, as I said,—But Pietro had appealed against the sameTo the very court will judge what we judge now—Tommati and his fellows,—Suit the first.Next civil suit,—demand on the wife's partOf separation from the husband's bedOn plea of cruelty and risk to life—Claims restitution of the dowry paid,Immunity from paying any more:This second, the Vicegerent has to judge.Third and last suit,—this time, a criminal one,—Answer to, and protection from, both these,—Guido's complaint of guilt against his wifeIn the Tribunal of the Governor,Venturini, also judge of the present cause.Three suits of all importance plaguing himBeside a little private enterpriseOf Guido's,—essay at a shorter cut.For Paolo, knowing the right way at Rome,Had, even while superintending these three suitsI' the regular way, each at its proper court,Ingeniously made interest with the PopeTo set such tedious regular forms aside,And, acting the supreme and ultimate judge,Declare for the husband and against the wife.Well, at such crisis and extreme of straits,—The man at bay, buffeted in this wise,—Happened the strangest accident of all."Then," sigh friends, "the last feather broke his back,Made him forget all possible remediesSave one—he rushed to, as the sole reliefFrom horror and the abominable thing.""Or rather," laugh foes, "then did there befallThe luckiest of conceivable events,Most pregnant with impunity for him,Which henceforth turned the flank of all attack,And bade him do his wickedest and worst."—The wife's withdrawal from the Convertites,Visit to the villa where her parents lived,And birth there of his babe. Divergence here!I simply take the facts, ask what they show.First comes this thunderclap of a surprise:Then follow all the signs and silencesPremonitory of earthquake. Paolo firstVanished, was swept off somewhere, lost to Rome:(Wells dry up, while the sky is sunny and blue.)Then Guido girds himself for enterprise,Hies to Vittiano, counsels with his steward,Comes to terms with four peasants young and bold,And starts for Rome the Holy, reaches herAt very holiest, for 't is Christmas Eve,And makes straight for the Abate's dried-up font,The lodge where Paolo ceased to work the pipes.And then, rest taken, observation madeAnd plan completed, all in a grim week,The five proceed in a body, reach the place,—Pietro's, at the Paolina, silent, lone,And stupefied by the propitious snow.'T is one i' the evening: knock: a voice, "Who 's there?""Friends with a letter from the priest your friend."At the door, straight smiles old Violante's self.She falls,—her son-in-law stabs through and through,Reaches through her at Pietro—"With your sonThis is the way to settle suits, good sire!"He bellows, "Mercy for heaven, not for earth!Leave to confess and save my sinful soul,Then do your pleasure on the body of me!"—"Nay, father, soul with body must take its chance!"He presently got his portion and lay still.And last, Pompilia rushes here and thereLike a dove among the lightnings in her brake,Falls also: Guido's, this last husband's-act.He lifts her by the long dishevelled hair,Holds her away at arm's length with one hand,While the other tries if life come from the mouth—Looks out his whole heart's hate on the shut eyes,Draws a deep satisfied breath, "So—dead at last!"Throws down the burden on dead Pietro's knees,And ends all with "Let us away, my boys!"And, as they left by one door, in at the otherTumbled the neighbors—for the shrieks had piercedTo the mill and the grange, this cottage and that shed.Soon followed the Public Force; pursuit beganThough Guido had the start and chose the road:So, that same night was he, with the other four,Overtaken near Baccano,—where they sankBy the wayside, in some shelter meant for beasts,And now lay heaped together, nuzzling swine,Each wrapped in bloody cloak, each grasping stillHis unwiped weapon, sleeping all the sameThe sleep o' the just,—a journey of twenty milesBrought just and unjust to a level, you see.The only one i' the world that suffered aughtBy the whole night's toil and trouble, flight and chase,Was just the officer who took them, HeadO' the Public Force,—Patrizj, zealous soul,Who, having but duty to sustain weak flesh,Got heated, caught a fever and so died:A warning to the over-vigilant,—Virtue in a chafe should change her linen quick,Lest pleurisy get start of providence.(That 's for the Cardinal, and told, I think!)Well, they bring back the company to Rome.Says Guido, "By your leave, I fain would askHow you found out 't was I who did the deed?What put you on my trace, a foreigner,Supposed in Arezzo,—and assuredly safeExcept for an oversight: who told you, pray?""Why, naturally your wife!" Down Guido dropsO' the horse he rode,—they have to steady and stayAt either side the brute that bore him bound,So strange it seemed his wife should live and speak!She had prayed—at least so people tell you now—For but one thing to the Virgin for herself,Not simply, as did Pietro 'mid the stabs,—Time to confess and get her own soul saved,—But time to make the truth apparent, truthFor God's sake, lest men should believe a lie:Which seems to have been about the single prayerShe ever put up, that was granted her.With this hope in her head, of telling truth,—Being familiarized with pain, beside,—She bore the stabbing to a certain pitchWithout a useless cry, was flung for deadOn Pietro's lap, and so attained her point.Her friends subjoin this—have I done with them?—And cite the miracle of continued life(She was not dead when I arrived just now)As attestation to her probity.Does it strike your Excellency? Why, your Highness,The self-command and even the final prayer,Our candor must acknowledge explicableAs easily by the consciousness of guilt.So, when they add that her confession runsShe was of wifehood one white innocenceIn thought, word, act, from first of her short lifeTo last of it; praying, i' the face of death,That God forgive her other sins—not this,She is charged with and must die for, that she failedAnyway to her husband: while thereonComments the old Religious—"So much good,Patience beneath enormity of ill,I hear to my confusion, woe is me,Sinner that I stand, shamed in the walk and gaitI have practised and grown old in, by a child!"—Guido's friends shrug the shoulder, "Just the sameProdigious absolute calm in the last hourConfirms us,—being the natural resultOf a life which proves consistent to the close.Having braved heaven and deceived earth throughout,She braves still and deceives still, gains therebyTwo ends, she prizes beyond earth or heaven:First sets her lover free, imperilled soreBy the new turn things take: he answers yetFor the part he played: they have summoned him indeed:The past ripped up, he may be punished still:What better way of saving him than this?Then,—thus she dies revenged to the uttermostOn Guido, drags him with her in the dark,The lower still the better, do you doubt?Thus, two ways, does she love her love to the end,And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such priceTo pay for these,—lovers and haters hold."
You see, the man was Aretine, had touchO' the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit;Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refinedThat shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust:Allow that such an one may take revenge,You don't expect he 'll catch up stone and fling,Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter-staff?Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow,When out of temper at the dinner spoilt,On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,—Substitute for the clown a nobleman,And you have Guido, practising, 't is said,Immitigably from the very first,The finer vengeance: this, they say, the factO' the famous letter shows—the writing tracedAt Guido's instance by the timid wifeOver the pencilled words himself writ first—Wherein she, who could neither write nor read,Was made unblushingly declare a taleTo the brother, the Abate then in Rome,How her putative parents had impressed,On their departure, their enjoinment; bade"We being safely arrived here, follow, you!Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all,And then by means o' the gallant you procureWith ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue,Some brave youth ready to dare, do and die,You shall run off and merrily reach RomeWhere we may live like flies in honey-pot:"—Such being exact the programme of the courseImputed her as carried to effect.They also say,—to keep her straight therein,All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain,On either side Pompilia's path of life,Built round about and over against by fear,Circumvallated month by month, and weekBy week, and day by day, and hour by hour,Close, closer and yet closer still with pain,No outlet from the encroaching pain save justWhere stood one savior like a piece of heaven,Hell's arms would strain round but for this blue gap.She, they say further, first tried every chink,Every imaginable break i' the fire,As way of escape: ran to the Commissary,Who bade her not malign his friend her spouse;Flung herself thrice at the Archbishop's feet,Where three times the Archbishop let her lie,Spend her whole sorrow and sob full heart forth,And then took up the slight load from the groundAnd bore it back for husband to chastise,—Mildly of course,—but natural right is right.So went she slipping ever yet catching at help,Missing the high till come to lowest and last,To wit, a certain friar of mean degree,Who heard her story in confession, wept,Crossed himself, showed the man within the monk."Then, will you save me, you the one i' the world?I cannot even write my woes, nor putMy prayer for help in words a friend may read,—I no more own a coin than have an hourFree of observance,—I was watched to church,Am watched now, shall be watched back presently,—How buy the skill of scribe i' the marketplace?Pray you, write down and send whatever I sayO' the need I have my parents take me hence!"The good man rubbed his eyes and could not choose—Let her dictate her letter in such a senseThat parents, to save breaking down a wall,Might lift her over: she went back, heaven in heart.Then the good man took counsel of his couch,Woke and thought twice, the second thought the best:"Here am I, foolish body that I be,Caught all but pushing, teaching, who but I,My betters their plain duty,—what, I dareHelp a case the Archbishop would not help,Mend matters, peradventure, God loves mar?What hath the married life but strifes and plaguesFor proper dispensation? So a foolOnce touched the ark,—poor Uzzah that I am!Oh married ones, much rather should I bid,In patience all of ye possess your souls!This life is brief and troubles die with it:Where were the prick to soar up homeward else?"So saying, he burnt the letter he had writ,SaidAvefor her intention, in its place,Took snuff and comfort, and had done with all.Then the grim arms stretched yet a little moreAnd each touched each, all but one streak i' the midst,Whereat stood Caponsacchi, who cried, "This way,Out by me! Hesitate one moment moreAnd the fire shuts out me and shuts in you!Here my hand holds you life out!" WhereuponShe clasped the hand, which closed on hers and drewPompilia out o' the circle now complete.Whose fault or shame but Guido's?—ask her friends.But then this is the wife's—Pompilia's tale—Eve's ... no, not Eve's, since Eve, to speak the truth,Was hardly fallen (our candor might pronounce)When simply saying in her own defence"The serpent tempted me and I did eat."So much of paradisal nature, Eve's!Her daughters ever since prefer to urge"Adam so starved me I was fain acceptThe apple any serpent pushed my way."What an elaborate theory have we here,Ingeniously nursed up, pretentiouslyBrought forth, pushed forward amid trumpet-blast,To account for the thawing of an icicle,Show us there needed Ætna vomit flameEre run the crystal into dewdrops! Else,How, unless hell broke loose to cause the step,How could a married lady go astray?Bless the fools! And 't is just this way they are blessed,And the world wags still,—because fools are sure—Oh, not of my wife nor your daughter! No!But of their own: the case is altered quite.Look now,—last week, the lady we all love,—Daughter o' the couple we all venerate,Wife of the husband we all cap before,Mother o' the babes we all breathe blessings on,—Was caught in converse with a negro page.Hell thawed that icicle, else "Why was it—Why?" asked and echoed the fools. "Because, you fools,—"So did the dame's self answer, she who could,With that fine candor only forthcomingWhen 't is no odds whether withheld or no—"Because my husband was the saint you say,And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith,Stupid self-satisfaction, you so praise,—Saint to you, insupportable to me.Had he,—instead of calling me fine names,Lucretia and Susanna and so forth,And curtaining Correggio carefullyLest I be taught that Leda had two legs,——But once never so little tweaked my noseFor peeping through my fan at Carnival,Confessing thereby, 'I have no easy task—I need use all my powers to hold you mine,And then,—why 't is so doubtful if they serve,'That—take this, as an earnest of despair!'Why, we were quits: I had wiped the harm away,Thought, 'The man fears me!' and foregone revenge."We must not want all this elaborate workTo solve the problem why young Fancy-and-fleshSlips from the dull side of a spouse in years,Betakes it to the breast of Brisk-and-boldWhose love-scrapes furnish talk for all the town!Accordingly, one word on the other sideTips over the piled-up fabric of a tale.Guido says—that is, always, his friends say—It is unlikely, from the wickedness,That any man treat any woman so.The letter in question was her very own,Unprompted and unaided: she could write—As able to write as ready to sin, or free,When there was danger, to deny both facts.He bids you mark, herself from first to lastAttributes all the so-styled torture justTo jealousy,—jealousy of whom but justThis very Caponsacchi! How suits hereThis with the other alleged motive, Prince?Would Guido make a terror of the manHe meant should tempt the woman, as they charge?Do you fright your hare that you may catch your hare?Consider too, the charge was made and metAt the proper time and place where proofs were plain—Heard patiently and disposed of thoroughlyBy the highest powers, possessors of most light,The Governor for the law and the ArchbishopFor the gospel: which acknowledged primacies,'T is impudently pleaded, he could warpInto a tacit partnership with crime—He being the while, believe their own account,Impotent, penniless and miserable!He further asks—Duke, note the knotty point!—How he—concede him skill to play such partAnd drive his wife into a gallant's arms—Could bring the gallant to play his part tooAnd stand with arms so opportunely wide?How bring this Caponsacchi,—with whom, friendsAnd foes alike agree, throughout his lifeHe never interchanged a civil wordNor lifted courteous cap to—him, how bendTo such observancy of beck and call,—To undertake this strange and perilous featFor the good of Guido, using, as the lure,Pompilia whom, himself and she avouch,He had nor spoken with nor seen, indeed,Beyond sight in a public theatre,When she wrote letters (she that could not write!)The importunate shamelessly-protested loveWhich brought him, though reluctant, to her feet,And forced on him the plunge which, howsoe'erShe might swim up i' the whirl, must bury himUnder abysmal black: a priest contriveNo better, no amour to be hushed up,But open flight and noonday infamy?Try and concoct defence for such revolt!Take the wife's tale as true, say she was wronged,—Pray, in what rubric of the breviaryDo you find it registered—the part of a priestIs—that to right wrongs from the church he skip,Go journeying with a woman that 's a wife,And be pursued, o'ertaken and captured ... how?In a lay-dress, playing the kind sentinelWhere the wife sleeps (says he who best should know)And sleeping, sleepless, both have spent the night!Could no one else be found to serve at need—No woman—or if man, no safer sortThan this not well-reputed turbulence?Then, look into his own account o' the case!He, being the stranger and astonished one,Yet received protestations of her loveFrom lady neither known nor cared about:Love, so protested, bred in him disgustAfter the wonder,—or incredulity,Such impudence seeming impossible.But, soon assured such impudence might be,When he had seen with his own eyes at lastLetters thrown down to him i' the very streetFrom behind lattice where the lady lurked,And read their passionate summons to her side—Why then, a thousand thoughts swarmed up and in,—How he had seen her once, a moment's space,Observed she was both young and beautiful,Heard everywhere report she suffered muchFrom a jealous husband thrice her age,—in short,There flashed the propriety, expediencyOf treating, trying might they come to terms,—At all events, granting the interviewPrayed for, one so adapted to assistDecision as to whether he advance,Stand or retire, in his benevolent mood!Therefore the interview befell at length;And at this one and only interview,He saw the sole and single course to take—Bade her dispose of him, head, heart and hand,Did her behest and braved the consequence,Not for the natural end, the love of manFor woman whether love be virtue or vice,But, please you, altogether for pity's sake—Pity of innocence and helplessness!And how did he assure himself of both?Had he been the house-inmate, visitor,Eye-witness of the described martyrdom,So, competent to pronounce its remedyEre rush on such extreme and desperate course—Involving such enormity of harm,Moreover, to the husband judged thus, doomedAnd damned without a word in his defence?Not he! the truth was felt by instinct here,—Process which saves a world of trouble and time.There 's the priest's story: what do you say to it,Trying its truth by your own instinct too,Since that 's to be the expeditious mode?"And now, do hear my version," Guido cries:"I accept argument and inference both.It would indeed have been miraculousHad such a confidency sprung to birthWith no more fanning from acquaintanceshipThan here avowed by my wife and this priest.Only, it did not: you must substituteThe old stale unromantic way of fault,The commonplace adventure, mere intrigueIn prose form with the unpoetic tricks,Cheatings and lies: they used the hackney chairSatan jaunts forth with, shabby and serviceable,No gilded jimcrack-novelty from below,To bowl you along thither, swift and sure.That same officious go-between, the wenchWho gave and took the letters of the two,Now offers self and service back to me:Bears testimony to visits night by nightWhen all was safe, the husband far and away,—To many a timely slipping out at largeBy light o' the morning-star, ere he should wake.And when the fugitives were found at last,Why, with them were found also, to belieWhat protest they might make of innocence,All documents yet wanting, if need were,To establish guilt in them, disgrace in me—The chronicle o' the converse from its riseTo culmination in this outrage: read!Letters from wife to priest, from priest to wife,—Here they are, read and say where they chime inWith the other tale, superlative purityO' the pair of saints! I stand or fall by these."But then on the other side again,—how sayThe pair of saints? That not one word is theirs—No syllable o' the batch or writ or sentOr yet received by either of the two."Found," says the priest, "because he needed them,Failing all other proofs, to prove our fault:So, here they are, just as is natural.Oh yes—we had our missives, each of us!Not these, but to the full as vile, no doubt:Hers as from me,—she could not read, so burnt,—Mine as from her,—I burnt because I read.Who forged and found them?Cui profuerint!"(I take the phrase out of your Highness' mouth)"He who would gain by her fault and my fall,The trickster, schemer and pretender—heWhose whole career was lie entailing lieSought to be sealed truth by the worst lie last!"Guido rejoins—"Did the other end o' the taleMatch this beginning! 'T is alleged I proveA murderer at the end, a man of forcePrompt, indiscriminate, effectual: good!Then what need all this trifling woman's-work,Letters and embassies and weak intrigue,When will and power were mine to end at onceSafely and surely? Murder had come firstNot last with such a man, assure yourselves!The silentacquetta, stilling at command—A drop a day i' the wine or soup, the dose,—The shattering beam that breaks above the bedAnd beats out brains, with nobody to blameExcept the wormy age which eats even oak,—Nay, the stanch steel or trusty cord,—who caresI' the blind old palace, a pitfall at each step,With none to see, much more to interposeO' the two, three, creeping-house-dog-servant-thingsBorn mine and bred mine? Had I willed gross death,I had found nearer paths to thrust him preyThan this that goes meandering here and thereThrough half the world and calls down in its courseNotice and noise,—hate, vengeance, should it fail,Derision and contempt though it succeed!Moreover, what o' the future son and heir?The unborn babe about to be called mine,—What end in heaping all this shame on him,WereIindifferent to my own black share?Would I have tried these crookednesses, say,Willing and able to effect the straight?""Ay, would you!"—one may hear the priest retort,"Being as you are, i' the stock, a man of guile,And ruffianism but an added graft.You, a born coward, try a coward's arms,Trick and chicane,—and only when these failDoes violence follow, and like fox you biteCaught out in stealing. Also, the disgraceYou hardly shrunk at, wholly shrivelled her:You plunged her thin white delicate hand i' the flameAlong with your coarse horny brutish fist,Held them a second there, then drew out both—Yours roughed a little, hers ruined through and through.Your hurt would heal forthwith at ointment's touch—Namely, succession to the inheritanceWhich bolder crime had lost you: let things change,The birth o' the boy warrant the bolder crime,Why, murder was determined, dared and done.For me," the priest proceeds with his reply,"The look o' the thing, the chances of mistake,All were against me,—that, I knew the first:But, knowing also what my duty was,I did it: I must look to men more skilledIn reading hearts than ever was the world."Highness, decide! Pronounce, Her Excellency!Or ... even leave this argument in doubt,Account it a fit matter, taken upWith all its faces, manifold enough,To ponder on—what fronts us, the next stage,Next legal process? Guido, in pursuit,Coming up with the fugitives at the inn,Caused both to be arrested then and thereAnd sent to Rome for judgment on the case—Thither, with all his armory of proofs,Betook himself: 't is there we 'll meet him now,Waiting the further issue.Here you smile:"And never let him henceforth dare to plead—Of all pleas and excuses in the worldFor any deed hereafter to be done—His irrepressible wrath at honor's wound!Passion and madness irrepressible?Why, Count and cavalier, the husband comesAnd catches foe i' the very act of shame!There 's man to man,—nature must have her way,—We look he should have cleared things on the spot.Yes, then, indeed—even though it prove he erred—Though the ambiguous first appearance, mountOf solid injury, melt soon to mist,Still,—had he slain the lover and the wife—Or, since she was a woman and his wife,Slain him, but stript her naked to the skin,Or at best left no more of an attireThan patch sufficient to pin paper to,Some one love-letter, infamy and all,As passport to the Paphos fit for such,Safe-conduct to her natural home the stews,—Good! One had recognized the power o' the pulse.But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law—Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm,For scrivener's pen to poke and play about—Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps,Oh, let us hear no syllable o' the rage!Such rage were a convenient afterthoughtFor one who would have shown his teeth belike,Exhibited unbridled rage enough,Had but the priest been found, as was to hope,In serge, not silk, with crucifix, not sword:Whereas the gray innocuous grub, of yore,Had hatched a hornet, tickle to the touch,The priest was metamorphosed into knight.And even the timid wife, whose cue was—shriek,Bury her brow beneath his trampling foot,—She too sprang at him like a pythoness:So, gulp down rage, passion must be postponed,Calm be the word! Well, our word is—we brandThis part o' the business, howsoever the restBefall.""Nay," interpose as prompt his friends—"This is the world's way! So you adjudge rewardTo the forbearance and legalityYourselves begin by inculcating—ay,Exacting from us all with knife at throat!This one wrong more you add to wrong's amount,—You publish all, with the kind comment here,'Its victim was too cowardly for revenge.'"Make it your own case,—you who stand apart!The husband wakes one morn from heavy sleep,With a taste of poppy in his mouth,—rubs eyes,Finds his wife flown, his strong-box ransacked too,Follows as he best can, overtakes i' the end.You bid him use his privilege: well, it seemsHe 's scarce cool-blooded enough for the right move—Does not shoot when the game were sure, but standsBewildered at the critical minute,—sinceHe has the first flash of the fact aloneTo judge from, act with, not the steady lightsOf after-knowledge,—yours who stand at easeTo try conclusions: he 's in smother and smoke,You outside, with explosion at an end:The sulphur may be lightning or a squib—He 'll know in a minute, but till then, he doubts.Back from what you know to what he knew not!Hear the priest's lofty "I am innocent,"The wife's as resolute "You are guilty!" Come!Are you not staggered?—pause, and you lose the move!Naught left you but a low appeal to law,"Coward" tied to your tail for compliment!Another consideration: have it your way!Admit the worst: his courage failed the Count,He 's cowardly like the best o' the burgessesHe 's grown incorporate with,—a very cur,Kick him from out your circle by all means!Why, trundled down this reputable stair,Still, the church-door lies wide to take him in,And the court-porch also: in he sneaks to each,—"Yes, I have lost my honor and my wife,And, being moreover an ignoble hound,I dare not jeopardize my life for them!"Religion and Law lean forward from their chairs,"Well done, thou good and faithful servant!" Ay,Not only applaud him that he scorned the world,But punish should he dare do otherwise.If the case be clear or turbid,—you must say!Thus, anyhow, it mounted to the stageIn the law-courts,—let 's see clearly from this point!—Where the priest tells his story true or false,And the wife her story, and the husband his,All with result as happy as before.The courts would nor condemn nor yet acquitThis, that or the other, in so distinct a senseAs end the strife to either's absolute loss:Pronounced, in place of something definite,"Each of the parties, whether goat or sheepI' the main, has wool to show and hair to hide.Each has brought somehow trouble, is somehow causeOf pains enough,—even though no worse were proved.Here is a husband, cannot rule his wifeWithout provoking her to scream and scratchAnd scour the fields,—causelessly, it may be:Here is that wife,—who makes her sex our plague,Wedlock, our bugbear,—perhaps with cause enough:And here is the truant priest o' the trio, worstOr best—each quality being conceivable.Let us impose a little mulct on each.We punish youth in state of pupilageWho talk at hours when youth is bound to sleep,Whether the prattle turn upon Saint RoseOr Donna Olimpia of the Vatican:'T is talk, talked wisely or unwisely talked,I' the dormitory where to talk at allTransgresses, and is mulct: as here we mean.For the wife,—let her betake herself, for rest,After her run, to a House of Convertites—Keep there, as good as real imprisonment:Being sick and tired, she will recover so.For the priest, spritely strayer out of bounds,Who made Arezzo hot to hold him,—RomeProfits by his withdrawal from the scene.Let him be relegate to Civita,Circumscribed by its bounds till matters mend:There he at least lies out o' the way of harmFrom foes—perhaps from the too friendly fair.And finally for the husband, whose rash ruleHas but itself to blame for this ado,—If he be vexed that, in our judgments dealt,He fails obtain what he accounts his right,Let him go comforted with the thought, no less,That, turn each sentence howsoever he may,There 's satisfaction to extract therefrom.For, does he wish his wife proved innocent?Well, she 's not guilty, he may safely urge,Has missed the stripes dishonest wives endure—This being a fatherly pat o' the cheek, no more.Does he wish her guilty? Were she otherwiseWould she be locked up, set to say her prayers,Prevented intercourse with the outside world,And that suspected priest in banishment,Whose portion is a further help i' the case?Oh, ay, you all of you want the other thing,The extreme of law, some verdict neat, complete,—Either, the whole o' the dowry in your pokeWith full release from the false wife, to boot,And heading, hanging for the priest, beside—Or, contrary, claim freedom for the wife,Repayment of each penny paid her spouse,Amends for the past, release for the future! SuchIs wisdom to the children of this world;But we 've no mind, we children of the light,To miss the advantage of the golden mean,And push things to the steel point." Thus the courts.Is it settled so far? Settled or disturbed,Console yourselves: 't is like ... an instance, now!You 've seen the puppets, of Place Navona, play,—Punch and his mate,—how threats pass, blows are dealt,And a crisis comes: the crowd or clap or hissAccordingly as disposed for man or wife—When down the actors duck awhile perdue,Donning what novel rag-and-feather trimBest suits the next adventure, new effect:And,—by the time the mob is on the move,With something like a judgmentproandcon,—There 's a whistle, up again the actors popIn t' other tatter with fresh-tinselled staves,To re-engage in one last worst fight moreShall show, what you thought tragedy was farce.Note, that the climax and the crown of thingsInvariably is, the devil appears himself,Armed and accoutred, horns and hoofs and tail!Just so, nor otherwise it proved—you 'll see:Move to the murder, never mind the rest!Guido, at such a general duck-down,I' the breathing-space,—of wife to convent here,Priest to his relegation, and himselfTo Arezzo,—had resigned his part perforceTo brother Abate, who bustled, did his best,Retrieved things somewhat, managed the three suits—Since, it should seem, there were three suits-at-lawBehoved him look to, still, lest bad grow worse:First civil suit,—the one the parents brought,Impugning the legitimacy of his wife,Affirming thence the nullity of her rights:This was before the Rota,—Molinès,That 's judge there, made that notable decreeWhich partly leaned to Guido, as I said,—But Pietro had appealed against the sameTo the very court will judge what we judge now—Tommati and his fellows,—Suit the first.Next civil suit,—demand on the wife's partOf separation from the husband's bedOn plea of cruelty and risk to life—Claims restitution of the dowry paid,Immunity from paying any more:This second, the Vicegerent has to judge.Third and last suit,—this time, a criminal one,—Answer to, and protection from, both these,—Guido's complaint of guilt against his wifeIn the Tribunal of the Governor,Venturini, also judge of the present cause.Three suits of all importance plaguing himBeside a little private enterpriseOf Guido's,—essay at a shorter cut.For Paolo, knowing the right way at Rome,Had, even while superintending these three suitsI' the regular way, each at its proper court,Ingeniously made interest with the PopeTo set such tedious regular forms aside,And, acting the supreme and ultimate judge,Declare for the husband and against the wife.Well, at such crisis and extreme of straits,—The man at bay, buffeted in this wise,—Happened the strangest accident of all."Then," sigh friends, "the last feather broke his back,Made him forget all possible remediesSave one—he rushed to, as the sole reliefFrom horror and the abominable thing.""Or rather," laugh foes, "then did there befallThe luckiest of conceivable events,Most pregnant with impunity for him,Which henceforth turned the flank of all attack,And bade him do his wickedest and worst."—The wife's withdrawal from the Convertites,Visit to the villa where her parents lived,And birth there of his babe. Divergence here!I simply take the facts, ask what they show.First comes this thunderclap of a surprise:Then follow all the signs and silencesPremonitory of earthquake. Paolo firstVanished, was swept off somewhere, lost to Rome:(Wells dry up, while the sky is sunny and blue.)Then Guido girds himself for enterprise,Hies to Vittiano, counsels with his steward,Comes to terms with four peasants young and bold,And starts for Rome the Holy, reaches herAt very holiest, for 't is Christmas Eve,And makes straight for the Abate's dried-up font,The lodge where Paolo ceased to work the pipes.And then, rest taken, observation madeAnd plan completed, all in a grim week,The five proceed in a body, reach the place,—Pietro's, at the Paolina, silent, lone,And stupefied by the propitious snow.'T is one i' the evening: knock: a voice, "Who 's there?""Friends with a letter from the priest your friend."At the door, straight smiles old Violante's self.She falls,—her son-in-law stabs through and through,Reaches through her at Pietro—"With your sonThis is the way to settle suits, good sire!"He bellows, "Mercy for heaven, not for earth!Leave to confess and save my sinful soul,Then do your pleasure on the body of me!"—"Nay, father, soul with body must take its chance!"He presently got his portion and lay still.And last, Pompilia rushes here and thereLike a dove among the lightnings in her brake,Falls also: Guido's, this last husband's-act.He lifts her by the long dishevelled hair,Holds her away at arm's length with one hand,While the other tries if life come from the mouth—Looks out his whole heart's hate on the shut eyes,Draws a deep satisfied breath, "So—dead at last!"Throws down the burden on dead Pietro's knees,And ends all with "Let us away, my boys!"And, as they left by one door, in at the otherTumbled the neighbors—for the shrieks had piercedTo the mill and the grange, this cottage and that shed.Soon followed the Public Force; pursuit beganThough Guido had the start and chose the road:So, that same night was he, with the other four,Overtaken near Baccano,—where they sankBy the wayside, in some shelter meant for beasts,And now lay heaped together, nuzzling swine,Each wrapped in bloody cloak, each grasping stillHis unwiped weapon, sleeping all the sameThe sleep o' the just,—a journey of twenty milesBrought just and unjust to a level, you see.The only one i' the world that suffered aughtBy the whole night's toil and trouble, flight and chase,Was just the officer who took them, HeadO' the Public Force,—Patrizj, zealous soul,Who, having but duty to sustain weak flesh,Got heated, caught a fever and so died:A warning to the over-vigilant,—Virtue in a chafe should change her linen quick,Lest pleurisy get start of providence.(That 's for the Cardinal, and told, I think!)Well, they bring back the company to Rome.Says Guido, "By your leave, I fain would askHow you found out 't was I who did the deed?What put you on my trace, a foreigner,Supposed in Arezzo,—and assuredly safeExcept for an oversight: who told you, pray?""Why, naturally your wife!" Down Guido dropsO' the horse he rode,—they have to steady and stayAt either side the brute that bore him bound,So strange it seemed his wife should live and speak!She had prayed—at least so people tell you now—For but one thing to the Virgin for herself,Not simply, as did Pietro 'mid the stabs,—Time to confess and get her own soul saved,—But time to make the truth apparent, truthFor God's sake, lest men should believe a lie:Which seems to have been about the single prayerShe ever put up, that was granted her.With this hope in her head, of telling truth,—Being familiarized with pain, beside,—She bore the stabbing to a certain pitchWithout a useless cry, was flung for deadOn Pietro's lap, and so attained her point.Her friends subjoin this—have I done with them?—And cite the miracle of continued life(She was not dead when I arrived just now)As attestation to her probity.Does it strike your Excellency? Why, your Highness,The self-command and even the final prayer,Our candor must acknowledge explicableAs easily by the consciousness of guilt.So, when they add that her confession runsShe was of wifehood one white innocenceIn thought, word, act, from first of her short lifeTo last of it; praying, i' the face of death,That God forgive her other sins—not this,She is charged with and must die for, that she failedAnyway to her husband: while thereonComments the old Religious—"So much good,Patience beneath enormity of ill,I hear to my confusion, woe is me,Sinner that I stand, shamed in the walk and gaitI have practised and grown old in, by a child!"—Guido's friends shrug the shoulder, "Just the sameProdigious absolute calm in the last hourConfirms us,—being the natural resultOf a life which proves consistent to the close.Having braved heaven and deceived earth throughout,She braves still and deceives still, gains therebyTwo ends, she prizes beyond earth or heaven:First sets her lover free, imperilled soreBy the new turn things take: he answers yetFor the part he played: they have summoned him indeed:The past ripped up, he may be punished still:What better way of saving him than this?Then,—thus she dies revenged to the uttermostOn Guido, drags him with her in the dark,The lower still the better, do you doubt?Thus, two ways, does she love her love to the end,And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such priceTo pay for these,—lovers and haters hold."
You see, the man was Aretine, had touchO' the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit;Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refinedThat shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust:Allow that such an one may take revenge,You don't expect he 'll catch up stone and fling,Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter-staff?Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow,When out of temper at the dinner spoilt,On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,—Substitute for the clown a nobleman,And you have Guido, practising, 't is said,Immitigably from the very first,The finer vengeance: this, they say, the factO' the famous letter shows—the writing tracedAt Guido's instance by the timid wifeOver the pencilled words himself writ first—Wherein she, who could neither write nor read,Was made unblushingly declare a taleTo the brother, the Abate then in Rome,How her putative parents had impressed,On their departure, their enjoinment; bade"We being safely arrived here, follow, you!Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all,And then by means o' the gallant you procureWith ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue,Some brave youth ready to dare, do and die,You shall run off and merrily reach RomeWhere we may live like flies in honey-pot:"—Such being exact the programme of the courseImputed her as carried to effect.
You see, the man was Aretine, had touch
O' the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit;
Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refined
That shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust:
Allow that such an one may take revenge,
You don't expect he 'll catch up stone and fling,
Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter-staff?
Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow,
When out of temper at the dinner spoilt,
On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,—
Substitute for the clown a nobleman,
And you have Guido, practising, 't is said,
Immitigably from the very first,
The finer vengeance: this, they say, the fact
O' the famous letter shows—the writing traced
At Guido's instance by the timid wife
Over the pencilled words himself writ first—
Wherein she, who could neither write nor read,
Was made unblushingly declare a tale
To the brother, the Abate then in Rome,
How her putative parents had impressed,
On their departure, their enjoinment; bade
"We being safely arrived here, follow, you!
Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all,
And then by means o' the gallant you procure
With ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue,
Some brave youth ready to dare, do and die,
You shall run off and merrily reach Rome
Where we may live like flies in honey-pot:"—
Such being exact the programme of the course
Imputed her as carried to effect.
They also say,—to keep her straight therein,All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain,On either side Pompilia's path of life,Built round about and over against by fear,Circumvallated month by month, and weekBy week, and day by day, and hour by hour,Close, closer and yet closer still with pain,No outlet from the encroaching pain save justWhere stood one savior like a piece of heaven,Hell's arms would strain round but for this blue gap.She, they say further, first tried every chink,Every imaginable break i' the fire,As way of escape: ran to the Commissary,Who bade her not malign his friend her spouse;Flung herself thrice at the Archbishop's feet,Where three times the Archbishop let her lie,Spend her whole sorrow and sob full heart forth,And then took up the slight load from the groundAnd bore it back for husband to chastise,—Mildly of course,—but natural right is right.So went she slipping ever yet catching at help,Missing the high till come to lowest and last,To wit, a certain friar of mean degree,Who heard her story in confession, wept,Crossed himself, showed the man within the monk."Then, will you save me, you the one i' the world?I cannot even write my woes, nor putMy prayer for help in words a friend may read,—I no more own a coin than have an hourFree of observance,—I was watched to church,Am watched now, shall be watched back presently,—How buy the skill of scribe i' the marketplace?Pray you, write down and send whatever I sayO' the need I have my parents take me hence!"The good man rubbed his eyes and could not choose—Let her dictate her letter in such a senseThat parents, to save breaking down a wall,Might lift her over: she went back, heaven in heart.Then the good man took counsel of his couch,Woke and thought twice, the second thought the best:"Here am I, foolish body that I be,Caught all but pushing, teaching, who but I,My betters their plain duty,—what, I dareHelp a case the Archbishop would not help,Mend matters, peradventure, God loves mar?What hath the married life but strifes and plaguesFor proper dispensation? So a foolOnce touched the ark,—poor Uzzah that I am!Oh married ones, much rather should I bid,In patience all of ye possess your souls!This life is brief and troubles die with it:Where were the prick to soar up homeward else?"So saying, he burnt the letter he had writ,SaidAvefor her intention, in its place,Took snuff and comfort, and had done with all.Then the grim arms stretched yet a little moreAnd each touched each, all but one streak i' the midst,Whereat stood Caponsacchi, who cried, "This way,Out by me! Hesitate one moment moreAnd the fire shuts out me and shuts in you!Here my hand holds you life out!" WhereuponShe clasped the hand, which closed on hers and drewPompilia out o' the circle now complete.Whose fault or shame but Guido's?—ask her friends.
They also say,—to keep her straight therein,
All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain,
On either side Pompilia's path of life,
Built round about and over against by fear,
Circumvallated month by month, and week
By week, and day by day, and hour by hour,
Close, closer and yet closer still with pain,
No outlet from the encroaching pain save just
Where stood one savior like a piece of heaven,
Hell's arms would strain round but for this blue gap.
She, they say further, first tried every chink,
Every imaginable break i' the fire,
As way of escape: ran to the Commissary,
Who bade her not malign his friend her spouse;
Flung herself thrice at the Archbishop's feet,
Where three times the Archbishop let her lie,
Spend her whole sorrow and sob full heart forth,
And then took up the slight load from the ground
And bore it back for husband to chastise,—
Mildly of course,—but natural right is right.
So went she slipping ever yet catching at help,
Missing the high till come to lowest and last,
To wit, a certain friar of mean degree,
Who heard her story in confession, wept,
Crossed himself, showed the man within the monk.
"Then, will you save me, you the one i' the world?
I cannot even write my woes, nor put
My prayer for help in words a friend may read,—
I no more own a coin than have an hour
Free of observance,—I was watched to church,
Am watched now, shall be watched back presently,—
How buy the skill of scribe i' the marketplace?
Pray you, write down and send whatever I say
O' the need I have my parents take me hence!"
The good man rubbed his eyes and could not choose—
Let her dictate her letter in such a sense
That parents, to save breaking down a wall,
Might lift her over: she went back, heaven in heart.
Then the good man took counsel of his couch,
Woke and thought twice, the second thought the best:
"Here am I, foolish body that I be,
Caught all but pushing, teaching, who but I,
My betters their plain duty,—what, I dare
Help a case the Archbishop would not help,
Mend matters, peradventure, God loves mar?
What hath the married life but strifes and plagues
For proper dispensation? So a fool
Once touched the ark,—poor Uzzah that I am!
Oh married ones, much rather should I bid,
In patience all of ye possess your souls!
This life is brief and troubles die with it:
Where were the prick to soar up homeward else?"
So saying, he burnt the letter he had writ,
SaidAvefor her intention, in its place,
Took snuff and comfort, and had done with all.
Then the grim arms stretched yet a little more
And each touched each, all but one streak i' the midst,
Whereat stood Caponsacchi, who cried, "This way,
Out by me! Hesitate one moment more
And the fire shuts out me and shuts in you!
Here my hand holds you life out!" Whereupon
She clasped the hand, which closed on hers and drew
Pompilia out o' the circle now complete.
Whose fault or shame but Guido's?—ask her friends.
But then this is the wife's—Pompilia's tale—Eve's ... no, not Eve's, since Eve, to speak the truth,Was hardly fallen (our candor might pronounce)When simply saying in her own defence"The serpent tempted me and I did eat."So much of paradisal nature, Eve's!Her daughters ever since prefer to urge"Adam so starved me I was fain acceptThe apple any serpent pushed my way."What an elaborate theory have we here,Ingeniously nursed up, pretentiouslyBrought forth, pushed forward amid trumpet-blast,To account for the thawing of an icicle,Show us there needed Ætna vomit flameEre run the crystal into dewdrops! Else,How, unless hell broke loose to cause the step,How could a married lady go astray?Bless the fools! And 't is just this way they are blessed,And the world wags still,—because fools are sure—Oh, not of my wife nor your daughter! No!But of their own: the case is altered quite.Look now,—last week, the lady we all love,—Daughter o' the couple we all venerate,Wife of the husband we all cap before,Mother o' the babes we all breathe blessings on,—Was caught in converse with a negro page.Hell thawed that icicle, else "Why was it—Why?" asked and echoed the fools. "Because, you fools,—"So did the dame's self answer, she who could,With that fine candor only forthcomingWhen 't is no odds whether withheld or no—"Because my husband was the saint you say,And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith,Stupid self-satisfaction, you so praise,—Saint to you, insupportable to me.Had he,—instead of calling me fine names,Lucretia and Susanna and so forth,And curtaining Correggio carefullyLest I be taught that Leda had two legs,——But once never so little tweaked my noseFor peeping through my fan at Carnival,Confessing thereby, 'I have no easy task—I need use all my powers to hold you mine,And then,—why 't is so doubtful if they serve,'That—take this, as an earnest of despair!'Why, we were quits: I had wiped the harm away,Thought, 'The man fears me!' and foregone revenge."We must not want all this elaborate workTo solve the problem why young Fancy-and-fleshSlips from the dull side of a spouse in years,Betakes it to the breast of Brisk-and-boldWhose love-scrapes furnish talk for all the town!
But then this is the wife's—Pompilia's tale—
Eve's ... no, not Eve's, since Eve, to speak the truth,
Was hardly fallen (our candor might pronounce)
When simply saying in her own defence
"The serpent tempted me and I did eat."
So much of paradisal nature, Eve's!
Her daughters ever since prefer to urge
"Adam so starved me I was fain accept
The apple any serpent pushed my way."
What an elaborate theory have we here,
Ingeniously nursed up, pretentiously
Brought forth, pushed forward amid trumpet-blast,
To account for the thawing of an icicle,
Show us there needed Ætna vomit flame
Ere run the crystal into dewdrops! Else,
How, unless hell broke loose to cause the step,
How could a married lady go astray?
Bless the fools! And 't is just this way they are blessed,
And the world wags still,—because fools are sure
—Oh, not of my wife nor your daughter! No!
But of their own: the case is altered quite.
Look now,—last week, the lady we all love,—
Daughter o' the couple we all venerate,
Wife of the husband we all cap before,
Mother o' the babes we all breathe blessings on,—
Was caught in converse with a negro page.
Hell thawed that icicle, else "Why was it—
Why?" asked and echoed the fools. "Because, you fools,—"
So did the dame's self answer, she who could,
With that fine candor only forthcoming
When 't is no odds whether withheld or no—
"Because my husband was the saint you say,
And,—with that childish goodness, absurd faith,
Stupid self-satisfaction, you so praise,—
Saint to you, insupportable to me.
Had he,—instead of calling me fine names,
Lucretia and Susanna and so forth,
And curtaining Correggio carefully
Lest I be taught that Leda had two legs,—
—But once never so little tweaked my nose
For peeping through my fan at Carnival,
Confessing thereby, 'I have no easy task—
I need use all my powers to hold you mine,
And then,—why 't is so doubtful if they serve,
'That—take this, as an earnest of despair!'
Why, we were quits: I had wiped the harm away,
Thought, 'The man fears me!' and foregone revenge."
We must not want all this elaborate work
To solve the problem why young Fancy-and-flesh
Slips from the dull side of a spouse in years,
Betakes it to the breast of Brisk-and-bold
Whose love-scrapes furnish talk for all the town!
Accordingly, one word on the other sideTips over the piled-up fabric of a tale.Guido says—that is, always, his friends say—It is unlikely, from the wickedness,That any man treat any woman so.The letter in question was her very own,Unprompted and unaided: she could write—As able to write as ready to sin, or free,When there was danger, to deny both facts.He bids you mark, herself from first to lastAttributes all the so-styled torture justTo jealousy,—jealousy of whom but justThis very Caponsacchi! How suits hereThis with the other alleged motive, Prince?Would Guido make a terror of the manHe meant should tempt the woman, as they charge?Do you fright your hare that you may catch your hare?Consider too, the charge was made and metAt the proper time and place where proofs were plain—Heard patiently and disposed of thoroughlyBy the highest powers, possessors of most light,The Governor for the law and the ArchbishopFor the gospel: which acknowledged primacies,'T is impudently pleaded, he could warpInto a tacit partnership with crime—He being the while, believe their own account,Impotent, penniless and miserable!He further asks—Duke, note the knotty point!—How he—concede him skill to play such partAnd drive his wife into a gallant's arms—Could bring the gallant to play his part tooAnd stand with arms so opportunely wide?How bring this Caponsacchi,—with whom, friendsAnd foes alike agree, throughout his lifeHe never interchanged a civil wordNor lifted courteous cap to—him, how bendTo such observancy of beck and call,—To undertake this strange and perilous featFor the good of Guido, using, as the lure,Pompilia whom, himself and she avouch,He had nor spoken with nor seen, indeed,Beyond sight in a public theatre,When she wrote letters (she that could not write!)The importunate shamelessly-protested loveWhich brought him, though reluctant, to her feet,And forced on him the plunge which, howsoe'erShe might swim up i' the whirl, must bury himUnder abysmal black: a priest contriveNo better, no amour to be hushed up,But open flight and noonday infamy?Try and concoct defence for such revolt!Take the wife's tale as true, say she was wronged,—Pray, in what rubric of the breviaryDo you find it registered—the part of a priestIs—that to right wrongs from the church he skip,Go journeying with a woman that 's a wife,And be pursued, o'ertaken and captured ... how?In a lay-dress, playing the kind sentinelWhere the wife sleeps (says he who best should know)And sleeping, sleepless, both have spent the night!Could no one else be found to serve at need—No woman—or if man, no safer sortThan this not well-reputed turbulence?
Accordingly, one word on the other side
Tips over the piled-up fabric of a tale.
Guido says—that is, always, his friends say—
It is unlikely, from the wickedness,
That any man treat any woman so.
The letter in question was her very own,
Unprompted and unaided: she could write—
As able to write as ready to sin, or free,
When there was danger, to deny both facts.
He bids you mark, herself from first to last
Attributes all the so-styled torture just
To jealousy,—jealousy of whom but just
This very Caponsacchi! How suits here
This with the other alleged motive, Prince?
Would Guido make a terror of the man
He meant should tempt the woman, as they charge?
Do you fright your hare that you may catch your hare?
Consider too, the charge was made and met
At the proper time and place where proofs were plain—
Heard patiently and disposed of thoroughly
By the highest powers, possessors of most light,
The Governor for the law and the Archbishop
For the gospel: which acknowledged primacies,
'T is impudently pleaded, he could warp
Into a tacit partnership with crime—
He being the while, believe their own account,
Impotent, penniless and miserable!
He further asks—Duke, note the knotty point!—
How he—concede him skill to play such part
And drive his wife into a gallant's arms—
Could bring the gallant to play his part too
And stand with arms so opportunely wide?
How bring this Caponsacchi,—with whom, friends
And foes alike agree, throughout his life
He never interchanged a civil word
Nor lifted courteous cap to—him, how bend
To such observancy of beck and call,
—To undertake this strange and perilous feat
For the good of Guido, using, as the lure,
Pompilia whom, himself and she avouch,
He had nor spoken with nor seen, indeed,
Beyond sight in a public theatre,
When she wrote letters (she that could not write!)
The importunate shamelessly-protested love
Which brought him, though reluctant, to her feet,
And forced on him the plunge which, howsoe'er
She might swim up i' the whirl, must bury him
Under abysmal black: a priest contrive
No better, no amour to be hushed up,
But open flight and noonday infamy?
Try and concoct defence for such revolt!
Take the wife's tale as true, say she was wronged,—
Pray, in what rubric of the breviary
Do you find it registered—the part of a priest
Is—that to right wrongs from the church he skip,
Go journeying with a woman that 's a wife,
And be pursued, o'ertaken and captured ... how?
In a lay-dress, playing the kind sentinel
Where the wife sleeps (says he who best should know)
And sleeping, sleepless, both have spent the night!
Could no one else be found to serve at need—
No woman—or if man, no safer sort
Than this not well-reputed turbulence?
Then, look into his own account o' the case!He, being the stranger and astonished one,Yet received protestations of her loveFrom lady neither known nor cared about:Love, so protested, bred in him disgustAfter the wonder,—or incredulity,Such impudence seeming impossible.But, soon assured such impudence might be,When he had seen with his own eyes at lastLetters thrown down to him i' the very streetFrom behind lattice where the lady lurked,And read their passionate summons to her side—Why then, a thousand thoughts swarmed up and in,—How he had seen her once, a moment's space,Observed she was both young and beautiful,Heard everywhere report she suffered muchFrom a jealous husband thrice her age,—in short,There flashed the propriety, expediencyOf treating, trying might they come to terms,—At all events, granting the interviewPrayed for, one so adapted to assistDecision as to whether he advance,Stand or retire, in his benevolent mood!Therefore the interview befell at length;And at this one and only interview,He saw the sole and single course to take—Bade her dispose of him, head, heart and hand,Did her behest and braved the consequence,Not for the natural end, the love of manFor woman whether love be virtue or vice,But, please you, altogether for pity's sake—Pity of innocence and helplessness!And how did he assure himself of both?Had he been the house-inmate, visitor,Eye-witness of the described martyrdom,So, competent to pronounce its remedyEre rush on such extreme and desperate course—Involving such enormity of harm,Moreover, to the husband judged thus, doomedAnd damned without a word in his defence?Not he! the truth was felt by instinct here,—Process which saves a world of trouble and time.There 's the priest's story: what do you say to it,Trying its truth by your own instinct too,Since that 's to be the expeditious mode?"And now, do hear my version," Guido cries:"I accept argument and inference both.It would indeed have been miraculousHad such a confidency sprung to birthWith no more fanning from acquaintanceshipThan here avowed by my wife and this priest.Only, it did not: you must substituteThe old stale unromantic way of fault,The commonplace adventure, mere intrigueIn prose form with the unpoetic tricks,Cheatings and lies: they used the hackney chairSatan jaunts forth with, shabby and serviceable,No gilded jimcrack-novelty from below,To bowl you along thither, swift and sure.That same officious go-between, the wenchWho gave and took the letters of the two,Now offers self and service back to me:Bears testimony to visits night by nightWhen all was safe, the husband far and away,—To many a timely slipping out at largeBy light o' the morning-star, ere he should wake.And when the fugitives were found at last,Why, with them were found also, to belieWhat protest they might make of innocence,All documents yet wanting, if need were,To establish guilt in them, disgrace in me—The chronicle o' the converse from its riseTo culmination in this outrage: read!Letters from wife to priest, from priest to wife,—Here they are, read and say where they chime inWith the other tale, superlative purityO' the pair of saints! I stand or fall by these."
Then, look into his own account o' the case!
He, being the stranger and astonished one,
Yet received protestations of her love
From lady neither known nor cared about:
Love, so protested, bred in him disgust
After the wonder,—or incredulity,
Such impudence seeming impossible.
But, soon assured such impudence might be,
When he had seen with his own eyes at last
Letters thrown down to him i' the very street
From behind lattice where the lady lurked,
And read their passionate summons to her side—
Why then, a thousand thoughts swarmed up and in,—
How he had seen her once, a moment's space,
Observed she was both young and beautiful,
Heard everywhere report she suffered much
From a jealous husband thrice her age,—in short,
There flashed the propriety, expediency
Of treating, trying might they come to terms,
—At all events, granting the interview
Prayed for, one so adapted to assist
Decision as to whether he advance,
Stand or retire, in his benevolent mood!
Therefore the interview befell at length;
And at this one and only interview,
He saw the sole and single course to take—
Bade her dispose of him, head, heart and hand,
Did her behest and braved the consequence,
Not for the natural end, the love of man
For woman whether love be virtue or vice,
But, please you, altogether for pity's sake—
Pity of innocence and helplessness!
And how did he assure himself of both?
Had he been the house-inmate, visitor,
Eye-witness of the described martyrdom,
So, competent to pronounce its remedy
Ere rush on such extreme and desperate course—
Involving such enormity of harm,
Moreover, to the husband judged thus, doomed
And damned without a word in his defence?
Not he! the truth was felt by instinct here,
—Process which saves a world of trouble and time.
There 's the priest's story: what do you say to it,
Trying its truth by your own instinct too,
Since that 's to be the expeditious mode?
"And now, do hear my version," Guido cries:
"I accept argument and inference both.
It would indeed have been miraculous
Had such a confidency sprung to birth
With no more fanning from acquaintanceship
Than here avowed by my wife and this priest.
Only, it did not: you must substitute
The old stale unromantic way of fault,
The commonplace adventure, mere intrigue
In prose form with the unpoetic tricks,
Cheatings and lies: they used the hackney chair
Satan jaunts forth with, shabby and serviceable,
No gilded jimcrack-novelty from below,
To bowl you along thither, swift and sure.
That same officious go-between, the wench
Who gave and took the letters of the two,
Now offers self and service back to me:
Bears testimony to visits night by night
When all was safe, the husband far and away,—
To many a timely slipping out at large
By light o' the morning-star, ere he should wake.
And when the fugitives were found at last,
Why, with them were found also, to belie
What protest they might make of innocence,
All documents yet wanting, if need were,
To establish guilt in them, disgrace in me—
The chronicle o' the converse from its rise
To culmination in this outrage: read!
Letters from wife to priest, from priest to wife,—
Here they are, read and say where they chime in
With the other tale, superlative purity
O' the pair of saints! I stand or fall by these."
But then on the other side again,—how sayThe pair of saints? That not one word is theirs—No syllable o' the batch or writ or sentOr yet received by either of the two."Found," says the priest, "because he needed them,Failing all other proofs, to prove our fault:So, here they are, just as is natural.Oh yes—we had our missives, each of us!Not these, but to the full as vile, no doubt:Hers as from me,—she could not read, so burnt,—Mine as from her,—I burnt because I read.Who forged and found them?Cui profuerint!"(I take the phrase out of your Highness' mouth)"He who would gain by her fault and my fall,The trickster, schemer and pretender—heWhose whole career was lie entailing lieSought to be sealed truth by the worst lie last!"
But then on the other side again,—how say
The pair of saints? That not one word is theirs—
No syllable o' the batch or writ or sent
Or yet received by either of the two.
"Found," says the priest, "because he needed them,
Failing all other proofs, to prove our fault:
So, here they are, just as is natural.
Oh yes—we had our missives, each of us!
Not these, but to the full as vile, no doubt:
Hers as from me,—she could not read, so burnt,—
Mine as from her,—I burnt because I read.
Who forged and found them?Cui profuerint!"
(I take the phrase out of your Highness' mouth)
"He who would gain by her fault and my fall,
The trickster, schemer and pretender—he
Whose whole career was lie entailing lie
Sought to be sealed truth by the worst lie last!"
Guido rejoins—"Did the other end o' the taleMatch this beginning! 'T is alleged I proveA murderer at the end, a man of forcePrompt, indiscriminate, effectual: good!Then what need all this trifling woman's-work,Letters and embassies and weak intrigue,When will and power were mine to end at onceSafely and surely? Murder had come firstNot last with such a man, assure yourselves!The silentacquetta, stilling at command—A drop a day i' the wine or soup, the dose,—The shattering beam that breaks above the bedAnd beats out brains, with nobody to blameExcept the wormy age which eats even oak,—Nay, the stanch steel or trusty cord,—who caresI' the blind old palace, a pitfall at each step,With none to see, much more to interposeO' the two, three, creeping-house-dog-servant-thingsBorn mine and bred mine? Had I willed gross death,I had found nearer paths to thrust him preyThan this that goes meandering here and thereThrough half the world and calls down in its courseNotice and noise,—hate, vengeance, should it fail,Derision and contempt though it succeed!Moreover, what o' the future son and heir?The unborn babe about to be called mine,—What end in heaping all this shame on him,WereIindifferent to my own black share?Would I have tried these crookednesses, say,Willing and able to effect the straight?"
Guido rejoins—"Did the other end o' the tale
Match this beginning! 'T is alleged I prove
A murderer at the end, a man of force
Prompt, indiscriminate, effectual: good!
Then what need all this trifling woman's-work,
Letters and embassies and weak intrigue,
When will and power were mine to end at once
Safely and surely? Murder had come first
Not last with such a man, assure yourselves!
The silentacquetta, stilling at command—
A drop a day i' the wine or soup, the dose,—
The shattering beam that breaks above the bed
And beats out brains, with nobody to blame
Except the wormy age which eats even oak,—
Nay, the stanch steel or trusty cord,—who cares
I' the blind old palace, a pitfall at each step,
With none to see, much more to interpose
O' the two, three, creeping-house-dog-servant-things
Born mine and bred mine? Had I willed gross death,
I had found nearer paths to thrust him prey
Than this that goes meandering here and there
Through half the world and calls down in its course
Notice and noise,—hate, vengeance, should it fail,
Derision and contempt though it succeed!
Moreover, what o' the future son and heir?
The unborn babe about to be called mine,—
What end in heaping all this shame on him,
WereIindifferent to my own black share?
Would I have tried these crookednesses, say,
Willing and able to effect the straight?"
"Ay, would you!"—one may hear the priest retort,"Being as you are, i' the stock, a man of guile,And ruffianism but an added graft.You, a born coward, try a coward's arms,Trick and chicane,—and only when these failDoes violence follow, and like fox you biteCaught out in stealing. Also, the disgraceYou hardly shrunk at, wholly shrivelled her:You plunged her thin white delicate hand i' the flameAlong with your coarse horny brutish fist,Held them a second there, then drew out both—Yours roughed a little, hers ruined through and through.Your hurt would heal forthwith at ointment's touch—Namely, succession to the inheritanceWhich bolder crime had lost you: let things change,The birth o' the boy warrant the bolder crime,Why, murder was determined, dared and done.For me," the priest proceeds with his reply,"The look o' the thing, the chances of mistake,All were against me,—that, I knew the first:But, knowing also what my duty was,I did it: I must look to men more skilledIn reading hearts than ever was the world."
"Ay, would you!"—one may hear the priest retort,
"Being as you are, i' the stock, a man of guile,
And ruffianism but an added graft.
You, a born coward, try a coward's arms,
Trick and chicane,—and only when these fail
Does violence follow, and like fox you bite
Caught out in stealing. Also, the disgrace
You hardly shrunk at, wholly shrivelled her:
You plunged her thin white delicate hand i' the flame
Along with your coarse horny brutish fist,
Held them a second there, then drew out both
—Yours roughed a little, hers ruined through and through.
Your hurt would heal forthwith at ointment's touch—
Namely, succession to the inheritance
Which bolder crime had lost you: let things change,
The birth o' the boy warrant the bolder crime,
Why, murder was determined, dared and done.
For me," the priest proceeds with his reply,
"The look o' the thing, the chances of mistake,
All were against me,—that, I knew the first:
But, knowing also what my duty was,
I did it: I must look to men more skilled
In reading hearts than ever was the world."
Highness, decide! Pronounce, Her Excellency!Or ... even leave this argument in doubt,Account it a fit matter, taken upWith all its faces, manifold enough,To ponder on—what fronts us, the next stage,Next legal process? Guido, in pursuit,Coming up with the fugitives at the inn,Caused both to be arrested then and thereAnd sent to Rome for judgment on the case—Thither, with all his armory of proofs,Betook himself: 't is there we 'll meet him now,Waiting the further issue.Here you smile:"And never let him henceforth dare to plead—Of all pleas and excuses in the worldFor any deed hereafter to be done—His irrepressible wrath at honor's wound!Passion and madness irrepressible?Why, Count and cavalier, the husband comesAnd catches foe i' the very act of shame!There 's man to man,—nature must have her way,—We look he should have cleared things on the spot.Yes, then, indeed—even though it prove he erred—Though the ambiguous first appearance, mountOf solid injury, melt soon to mist,Still,—had he slain the lover and the wife—Or, since she was a woman and his wife,Slain him, but stript her naked to the skin,Or at best left no more of an attireThan patch sufficient to pin paper to,Some one love-letter, infamy and all,As passport to the Paphos fit for such,Safe-conduct to her natural home the stews,—Good! One had recognized the power o' the pulse.But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law—Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm,For scrivener's pen to poke and play about—Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps,Oh, let us hear no syllable o' the rage!Such rage were a convenient afterthoughtFor one who would have shown his teeth belike,Exhibited unbridled rage enough,Had but the priest been found, as was to hope,In serge, not silk, with crucifix, not sword:Whereas the gray innocuous grub, of yore,Had hatched a hornet, tickle to the touch,The priest was metamorphosed into knight.And even the timid wife, whose cue was—shriek,Bury her brow beneath his trampling foot,—She too sprang at him like a pythoness:So, gulp down rage, passion must be postponed,Calm be the word! Well, our word is—we brandThis part o' the business, howsoever the restBefall.""Nay," interpose as prompt his friends—"This is the world's way! So you adjudge rewardTo the forbearance and legalityYourselves begin by inculcating—ay,Exacting from us all with knife at throat!This one wrong more you add to wrong's amount,—You publish all, with the kind comment here,'Its victim was too cowardly for revenge.'"Make it your own case,—you who stand apart!The husband wakes one morn from heavy sleep,With a taste of poppy in his mouth,—rubs eyes,Finds his wife flown, his strong-box ransacked too,Follows as he best can, overtakes i' the end.You bid him use his privilege: well, it seemsHe 's scarce cool-blooded enough for the right move—Does not shoot when the game were sure, but standsBewildered at the critical minute,—sinceHe has the first flash of the fact aloneTo judge from, act with, not the steady lightsOf after-knowledge,—yours who stand at easeTo try conclusions: he 's in smother and smoke,You outside, with explosion at an end:The sulphur may be lightning or a squib—He 'll know in a minute, but till then, he doubts.Back from what you know to what he knew not!Hear the priest's lofty "I am innocent,"The wife's as resolute "You are guilty!" Come!Are you not staggered?—pause, and you lose the move!Naught left you but a low appeal to law,"Coward" tied to your tail for compliment!Another consideration: have it your way!Admit the worst: his courage failed the Count,He 's cowardly like the best o' the burgessesHe 's grown incorporate with,—a very cur,Kick him from out your circle by all means!Why, trundled down this reputable stair,Still, the church-door lies wide to take him in,And the court-porch also: in he sneaks to each,—"Yes, I have lost my honor and my wife,And, being moreover an ignoble hound,I dare not jeopardize my life for them!"Religion and Law lean forward from their chairs,"Well done, thou good and faithful servant!" Ay,Not only applaud him that he scorned the world,But punish should he dare do otherwise.If the case be clear or turbid,—you must say!
Highness, decide! Pronounce, Her Excellency!
Or ... even leave this argument in doubt,
Account it a fit matter, taken up
With all its faces, manifold enough,
To ponder on—what fronts us, the next stage,
Next legal process? Guido, in pursuit,
Coming up with the fugitives at the inn,
Caused both to be arrested then and there
And sent to Rome for judgment on the case—
Thither, with all his armory of proofs,
Betook himself: 't is there we 'll meet him now,
Waiting the further issue.
Here you smile:
"And never let him henceforth dare to plead—
Of all pleas and excuses in the world
For any deed hereafter to be done—
His irrepressible wrath at honor's wound!
Passion and madness irrepressible?
Why, Count and cavalier, the husband comes
And catches foe i' the very act of shame!
There 's man to man,—nature must have her way,—
We look he should have cleared things on the spot.
Yes, then, indeed—even though it prove he erred—
Though the ambiguous first appearance, mount
Of solid injury, melt soon to mist,
Still,—had he slain the lover and the wife—
Or, since she was a woman and his wife,
Slain him, but stript her naked to the skin,
Or at best left no more of an attire
Than patch sufficient to pin paper to,
Some one love-letter, infamy and all,
As passport to the Paphos fit for such,
Safe-conduct to her natural home the stews,—
Good! One had recognized the power o' the pulse.
But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law—
Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm,
For scrivener's pen to poke and play about—
Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps,
Oh, let us hear no syllable o' the rage!
Such rage were a convenient afterthought
For one who would have shown his teeth belike,
Exhibited unbridled rage enough,
Had but the priest been found, as was to hope,
In serge, not silk, with crucifix, not sword:
Whereas the gray innocuous grub, of yore,
Had hatched a hornet, tickle to the touch,
The priest was metamorphosed into knight.
And even the timid wife, whose cue was—shriek,
Bury her brow beneath his trampling foot,—
She too sprang at him like a pythoness:
So, gulp down rage, passion must be postponed,
Calm be the word! Well, our word is—we brand
This part o' the business, howsoever the rest
Befall."
"Nay," interpose as prompt his friends—
"This is the world's way! So you adjudge reward
To the forbearance and legality
Yourselves begin by inculcating—ay,
Exacting from us all with knife at throat!
This one wrong more you add to wrong's amount,—
You publish all, with the kind comment here,
'Its victim was too cowardly for revenge.'"
Make it your own case,—you who stand apart!
The husband wakes one morn from heavy sleep,
With a taste of poppy in his mouth,—rubs eyes,
Finds his wife flown, his strong-box ransacked too,
Follows as he best can, overtakes i' the end.
You bid him use his privilege: well, it seems
He 's scarce cool-blooded enough for the right move—
Does not shoot when the game were sure, but stands
Bewildered at the critical minute,—since
He has the first flash of the fact alone
To judge from, act with, not the steady lights
Of after-knowledge,—yours who stand at ease
To try conclusions: he 's in smother and smoke,
You outside, with explosion at an end:
The sulphur may be lightning or a squib—
He 'll know in a minute, but till then, he doubts.
Back from what you know to what he knew not!
Hear the priest's lofty "I am innocent,"
The wife's as resolute "You are guilty!" Come!
Are you not staggered?—pause, and you lose the move!
Naught left you but a low appeal to law,
"Coward" tied to your tail for compliment!
Another consideration: have it your way!
Admit the worst: his courage failed the Count,
He 's cowardly like the best o' the burgesses
He 's grown incorporate with,—a very cur,
Kick him from out your circle by all means!
Why, trundled down this reputable stair,
Still, the church-door lies wide to take him in,
And the court-porch also: in he sneaks to each,—
"Yes, I have lost my honor and my wife,
And, being moreover an ignoble hound,
I dare not jeopardize my life for them!"
Religion and Law lean forward from their chairs,
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant!" Ay,
Not only applaud him that he scorned the world,
But punish should he dare do otherwise.
If the case be clear or turbid,—you must say!
Thus, anyhow, it mounted to the stageIn the law-courts,—let 's see clearly from this point!—Where the priest tells his story true or false,And the wife her story, and the husband his,All with result as happy as before.The courts would nor condemn nor yet acquitThis, that or the other, in so distinct a senseAs end the strife to either's absolute loss:Pronounced, in place of something definite,"Each of the parties, whether goat or sheepI' the main, has wool to show and hair to hide.Each has brought somehow trouble, is somehow causeOf pains enough,—even though no worse were proved.Here is a husband, cannot rule his wifeWithout provoking her to scream and scratchAnd scour the fields,—causelessly, it may be:Here is that wife,—who makes her sex our plague,Wedlock, our bugbear,—perhaps with cause enough:And here is the truant priest o' the trio, worstOr best—each quality being conceivable.Let us impose a little mulct on each.We punish youth in state of pupilageWho talk at hours when youth is bound to sleep,Whether the prattle turn upon Saint RoseOr Donna Olimpia of the Vatican:'T is talk, talked wisely or unwisely talked,I' the dormitory where to talk at allTransgresses, and is mulct: as here we mean.For the wife,—let her betake herself, for rest,After her run, to a House of Convertites—Keep there, as good as real imprisonment:Being sick and tired, she will recover so.For the priest, spritely strayer out of bounds,Who made Arezzo hot to hold him,—RomeProfits by his withdrawal from the scene.Let him be relegate to Civita,Circumscribed by its bounds till matters mend:There he at least lies out o' the way of harmFrom foes—perhaps from the too friendly fair.And finally for the husband, whose rash ruleHas but itself to blame for this ado,—If he be vexed that, in our judgments dealt,He fails obtain what he accounts his right,Let him go comforted with the thought, no less,That, turn each sentence howsoever he may,There 's satisfaction to extract therefrom.For, does he wish his wife proved innocent?Well, she 's not guilty, he may safely urge,Has missed the stripes dishonest wives endure—This being a fatherly pat o' the cheek, no more.Does he wish her guilty? Were she otherwiseWould she be locked up, set to say her prayers,Prevented intercourse with the outside world,And that suspected priest in banishment,Whose portion is a further help i' the case?Oh, ay, you all of you want the other thing,The extreme of law, some verdict neat, complete,—Either, the whole o' the dowry in your pokeWith full release from the false wife, to boot,And heading, hanging for the priest, beside—Or, contrary, claim freedom for the wife,Repayment of each penny paid her spouse,Amends for the past, release for the future! SuchIs wisdom to the children of this world;But we 've no mind, we children of the light,To miss the advantage of the golden mean,And push things to the steel point." Thus the courts.
Thus, anyhow, it mounted to the stage
In the law-courts,—let 's see clearly from this point!—
Where the priest tells his story true or false,
And the wife her story, and the husband his,
All with result as happy as before.
The courts would nor condemn nor yet acquit
This, that or the other, in so distinct a sense
As end the strife to either's absolute loss:
Pronounced, in place of something definite,
"Each of the parties, whether goat or sheep
I' the main, has wool to show and hair to hide.
Each has brought somehow trouble, is somehow cause
Of pains enough,—even though no worse were proved.
Here is a husband, cannot rule his wife
Without provoking her to scream and scratch
And scour the fields,—causelessly, it may be:
Here is that wife,—who makes her sex our plague,
Wedlock, our bugbear,—perhaps with cause enough:
And here is the truant priest o' the trio, worst
Or best—each quality being conceivable.
Let us impose a little mulct on each.
We punish youth in state of pupilage
Who talk at hours when youth is bound to sleep,
Whether the prattle turn upon Saint Rose
Or Donna Olimpia of the Vatican:
'T is talk, talked wisely or unwisely talked,
I' the dormitory where to talk at all
Transgresses, and is mulct: as here we mean.
For the wife,—let her betake herself, for rest,
After her run, to a House of Convertites—
Keep there, as good as real imprisonment:
Being sick and tired, she will recover so.
For the priest, spritely strayer out of bounds,
Who made Arezzo hot to hold him,—Rome
Profits by his withdrawal from the scene.
Let him be relegate to Civita,
Circumscribed by its bounds till matters mend:
There he at least lies out o' the way of harm
From foes—perhaps from the too friendly fair.
And finally for the husband, whose rash rule
Has but itself to blame for this ado,—
If he be vexed that, in our judgments dealt,
He fails obtain what he accounts his right,
Let him go comforted with the thought, no less,
That, turn each sentence howsoever he may,
There 's satisfaction to extract therefrom.
For, does he wish his wife proved innocent?
Well, she 's not guilty, he may safely urge,
Has missed the stripes dishonest wives endure—
This being a fatherly pat o' the cheek, no more.
Does he wish her guilty? Were she otherwise
Would she be locked up, set to say her prayers,
Prevented intercourse with the outside world,
And that suspected priest in banishment,
Whose portion is a further help i' the case?
Oh, ay, you all of you want the other thing,
The extreme of law, some verdict neat, complete,—
Either, the whole o' the dowry in your poke
With full release from the false wife, to boot,
And heading, hanging for the priest, beside—
Or, contrary, claim freedom for the wife,
Repayment of each penny paid her spouse,
Amends for the past, release for the future! Such
Is wisdom to the children of this world;
But we 've no mind, we children of the light,
To miss the advantage of the golden mean,
And push things to the steel point." Thus the courts.
Is it settled so far? Settled or disturbed,Console yourselves: 't is like ... an instance, now!You 've seen the puppets, of Place Navona, play,—Punch and his mate,—how threats pass, blows are dealt,And a crisis comes: the crowd or clap or hissAccordingly as disposed for man or wife—When down the actors duck awhile perdue,Donning what novel rag-and-feather trimBest suits the next adventure, new effect:And,—by the time the mob is on the move,With something like a judgmentproandcon,—There 's a whistle, up again the actors popIn t' other tatter with fresh-tinselled staves,To re-engage in one last worst fight moreShall show, what you thought tragedy was farce.Note, that the climax and the crown of thingsInvariably is, the devil appears himself,Armed and accoutred, horns and hoofs and tail!Just so, nor otherwise it proved—you 'll see:Move to the murder, never mind the rest!
Is it settled so far? Settled or disturbed,
Console yourselves: 't is like ... an instance, now!
You 've seen the puppets, of Place Navona, play,—
Punch and his mate,—how threats pass, blows are dealt,
And a crisis comes: the crowd or clap or hiss
Accordingly as disposed for man or wife—
When down the actors duck awhile perdue,
Donning what novel rag-and-feather trim
Best suits the next adventure, new effect:
And,—by the time the mob is on the move,
With something like a judgmentproandcon,—
There 's a whistle, up again the actors pop
In t' other tatter with fresh-tinselled staves,
To re-engage in one last worst fight more
Shall show, what you thought tragedy was farce.
Note, that the climax and the crown of things
Invariably is, the devil appears himself,
Armed and accoutred, horns and hoofs and tail!
Just so, nor otherwise it proved—you 'll see:
Move to the murder, never mind the rest!
Guido, at such a general duck-down,I' the breathing-space,—of wife to convent here,Priest to his relegation, and himselfTo Arezzo,—had resigned his part perforceTo brother Abate, who bustled, did his best,Retrieved things somewhat, managed the three suits—Since, it should seem, there were three suits-at-lawBehoved him look to, still, lest bad grow worse:First civil suit,—the one the parents brought,Impugning the legitimacy of his wife,Affirming thence the nullity of her rights:This was before the Rota,—Molinès,That 's judge there, made that notable decreeWhich partly leaned to Guido, as I said,—But Pietro had appealed against the sameTo the very court will judge what we judge now—Tommati and his fellows,—Suit the first.Next civil suit,—demand on the wife's partOf separation from the husband's bedOn plea of cruelty and risk to life—Claims restitution of the dowry paid,Immunity from paying any more:This second, the Vicegerent has to judge.Third and last suit,—this time, a criminal one,—Answer to, and protection from, both these,—Guido's complaint of guilt against his wifeIn the Tribunal of the Governor,Venturini, also judge of the present cause.Three suits of all importance plaguing himBeside a little private enterpriseOf Guido's,—essay at a shorter cut.For Paolo, knowing the right way at Rome,Had, even while superintending these three suitsI' the regular way, each at its proper court,Ingeniously made interest with the PopeTo set such tedious regular forms aside,And, acting the supreme and ultimate judge,Declare for the husband and against the wife.Well, at such crisis and extreme of straits,—The man at bay, buffeted in this wise,—Happened the strangest accident of all."Then," sigh friends, "the last feather broke his back,Made him forget all possible remediesSave one—he rushed to, as the sole reliefFrom horror and the abominable thing.""Or rather," laugh foes, "then did there befallThe luckiest of conceivable events,Most pregnant with impunity for him,Which henceforth turned the flank of all attack,And bade him do his wickedest and worst."—The wife's withdrawal from the Convertites,Visit to the villa where her parents lived,And birth there of his babe. Divergence here!I simply take the facts, ask what they show.
Guido, at such a general duck-down,
I' the breathing-space,—of wife to convent here,
Priest to his relegation, and himself
To Arezzo,—had resigned his part perforce
To brother Abate, who bustled, did his best,
Retrieved things somewhat, managed the three suits—
Since, it should seem, there were three suits-at-law
Behoved him look to, still, lest bad grow worse:
First civil suit,—the one the parents brought,
Impugning the legitimacy of his wife,
Affirming thence the nullity of her rights:
This was before the Rota,—Molinès,
That 's judge there, made that notable decree
Which partly leaned to Guido, as I said,—
But Pietro had appealed against the same
To the very court will judge what we judge now—
Tommati and his fellows,—Suit the first.
Next civil suit,—demand on the wife's part
Of separation from the husband's bed
On plea of cruelty and risk to life—
Claims restitution of the dowry paid,
Immunity from paying any more:
This second, the Vicegerent has to judge.
Third and last suit,—this time, a criminal one,—
Answer to, and protection from, both these,—
Guido's complaint of guilt against his wife
In the Tribunal of the Governor,
Venturini, also judge of the present cause.
Three suits of all importance plaguing him
Beside a little private enterprise
Of Guido's,—essay at a shorter cut.
For Paolo, knowing the right way at Rome,
Had, even while superintending these three suits
I' the regular way, each at its proper court,
Ingeniously made interest with the Pope
To set such tedious regular forms aside,
And, acting the supreme and ultimate judge,
Declare for the husband and against the wife.
Well, at such crisis and extreme of straits,—
The man at bay, buffeted in this wise,—
Happened the strangest accident of all.
"Then," sigh friends, "the last feather broke his back,
Made him forget all possible remedies
Save one—he rushed to, as the sole relief
From horror and the abominable thing."
"Or rather," laugh foes, "then did there befall
The luckiest of conceivable events,
Most pregnant with impunity for him,
Which henceforth turned the flank of all attack,
And bade him do his wickedest and worst."
—The wife's withdrawal from the Convertites,
Visit to the villa where her parents lived,
And birth there of his babe. Divergence here!
I simply take the facts, ask what they show.
First comes this thunderclap of a surprise:Then follow all the signs and silencesPremonitory of earthquake. Paolo firstVanished, was swept off somewhere, lost to Rome:(Wells dry up, while the sky is sunny and blue.)Then Guido girds himself for enterprise,Hies to Vittiano, counsels with his steward,Comes to terms with four peasants young and bold,And starts for Rome the Holy, reaches herAt very holiest, for 't is Christmas Eve,And makes straight for the Abate's dried-up font,The lodge where Paolo ceased to work the pipes.And then, rest taken, observation madeAnd plan completed, all in a grim week,The five proceed in a body, reach the place,—Pietro's, at the Paolina, silent, lone,And stupefied by the propitious snow.'T is one i' the evening: knock: a voice, "Who 's there?""Friends with a letter from the priest your friend."At the door, straight smiles old Violante's self.She falls,—her son-in-law stabs through and through,Reaches through her at Pietro—"With your sonThis is the way to settle suits, good sire!"He bellows, "Mercy for heaven, not for earth!Leave to confess and save my sinful soul,Then do your pleasure on the body of me!"—"Nay, father, soul with body must take its chance!"He presently got his portion and lay still.And last, Pompilia rushes here and thereLike a dove among the lightnings in her brake,Falls also: Guido's, this last husband's-act.He lifts her by the long dishevelled hair,Holds her away at arm's length with one hand,While the other tries if life come from the mouth—Looks out his whole heart's hate on the shut eyes,Draws a deep satisfied breath, "So—dead at last!"Throws down the burden on dead Pietro's knees,And ends all with "Let us away, my boys!"
First comes this thunderclap of a surprise:
Then follow all the signs and silences
Premonitory of earthquake. Paolo first
Vanished, was swept off somewhere, lost to Rome:
(Wells dry up, while the sky is sunny and blue.)
Then Guido girds himself for enterprise,
Hies to Vittiano, counsels with his steward,
Comes to terms with four peasants young and bold,
And starts for Rome the Holy, reaches her
At very holiest, for 't is Christmas Eve,
And makes straight for the Abate's dried-up font,
The lodge where Paolo ceased to work the pipes.
And then, rest taken, observation made
And plan completed, all in a grim week,
The five proceed in a body, reach the place,
—Pietro's, at the Paolina, silent, lone,
And stupefied by the propitious snow.
'T is one i' the evening: knock: a voice, "Who 's there?"
"Friends with a letter from the priest your friend."
At the door, straight smiles old Violante's self.
She falls,—her son-in-law stabs through and through,
Reaches through her at Pietro—"With your son
This is the way to settle suits, good sire!"
He bellows, "Mercy for heaven, not for earth!
Leave to confess and save my sinful soul,
Then do your pleasure on the body of me!"
—"Nay, father, soul with body must take its chance!"
He presently got his portion and lay still.
And last, Pompilia rushes here and there
Like a dove among the lightnings in her brake,
Falls also: Guido's, this last husband's-act.
He lifts her by the long dishevelled hair,
Holds her away at arm's length with one hand,
While the other tries if life come from the mouth—
Looks out his whole heart's hate on the shut eyes,
Draws a deep satisfied breath, "So—dead at last!"
Throws down the burden on dead Pietro's knees,
And ends all with "Let us away, my boys!"
And, as they left by one door, in at the otherTumbled the neighbors—for the shrieks had piercedTo the mill and the grange, this cottage and that shed.Soon followed the Public Force; pursuit beganThough Guido had the start and chose the road:So, that same night was he, with the other four,Overtaken near Baccano,—where they sankBy the wayside, in some shelter meant for beasts,And now lay heaped together, nuzzling swine,Each wrapped in bloody cloak, each grasping stillHis unwiped weapon, sleeping all the sameThe sleep o' the just,—a journey of twenty milesBrought just and unjust to a level, you see.The only one i' the world that suffered aughtBy the whole night's toil and trouble, flight and chase,Was just the officer who took them, HeadO' the Public Force,—Patrizj, zealous soul,Who, having but duty to sustain weak flesh,Got heated, caught a fever and so died:A warning to the over-vigilant,—Virtue in a chafe should change her linen quick,Lest pleurisy get start of providence.(That 's for the Cardinal, and told, I think!)
And, as they left by one door, in at the other
Tumbled the neighbors—for the shrieks had pierced
To the mill and the grange, this cottage and that shed.
Soon followed the Public Force; pursuit began
Though Guido had the start and chose the road:
So, that same night was he, with the other four,
Overtaken near Baccano,—where they sank
By the wayside, in some shelter meant for beasts,
And now lay heaped together, nuzzling swine,
Each wrapped in bloody cloak, each grasping still
His unwiped weapon, sleeping all the same
The sleep o' the just,—a journey of twenty miles
Brought just and unjust to a level, you see.
The only one i' the world that suffered aught
By the whole night's toil and trouble, flight and chase,
Was just the officer who took them, Head
O' the Public Force,—Patrizj, zealous soul,
Who, having but duty to sustain weak flesh,
Got heated, caught a fever and so died:
A warning to the over-vigilant,
—Virtue in a chafe should change her linen quick,
Lest pleurisy get start of providence.
(That 's for the Cardinal, and told, I think!)
Well, they bring back the company to Rome.Says Guido, "By your leave, I fain would askHow you found out 't was I who did the deed?What put you on my trace, a foreigner,Supposed in Arezzo,—and assuredly safeExcept for an oversight: who told you, pray?""Why, naturally your wife!" Down Guido dropsO' the horse he rode,—they have to steady and stayAt either side the brute that bore him bound,So strange it seemed his wife should live and speak!She had prayed—at least so people tell you now—For but one thing to the Virgin for herself,Not simply, as did Pietro 'mid the stabs,—Time to confess and get her own soul saved,—But time to make the truth apparent, truthFor God's sake, lest men should believe a lie:Which seems to have been about the single prayerShe ever put up, that was granted her.With this hope in her head, of telling truth,—Being familiarized with pain, beside,—She bore the stabbing to a certain pitchWithout a useless cry, was flung for deadOn Pietro's lap, and so attained her point.Her friends subjoin this—have I done with them?—And cite the miracle of continued life(She was not dead when I arrived just now)As attestation to her probity.
Well, they bring back the company to Rome.
Says Guido, "By your leave, I fain would ask
How you found out 't was I who did the deed?
What put you on my trace, a foreigner,
Supposed in Arezzo,—and assuredly safe
Except for an oversight: who told you, pray?"
"Why, naturally your wife!" Down Guido drops
O' the horse he rode,—they have to steady and stay
At either side the brute that bore him bound,
So strange it seemed his wife should live and speak!
She had prayed—at least so people tell you now—
For but one thing to the Virgin for herself,
Not simply, as did Pietro 'mid the stabs,—
Time to confess and get her own soul saved,—
But time to make the truth apparent, truth
For God's sake, lest men should believe a lie:
Which seems to have been about the single prayer
She ever put up, that was granted her.
With this hope in her head, of telling truth,—
Being familiarized with pain, beside,—
She bore the stabbing to a certain pitch
Without a useless cry, was flung for dead
On Pietro's lap, and so attained her point.
Her friends subjoin this—have I done with them?—
And cite the miracle of continued life
(She was not dead when I arrived just now)
As attestation to her probity.
Does it strike your Excellency? Why, your Highness,The self-command and even the final prayer,Our candor must acknowledge explicableAs easily by the consciousness of guilt.So, when they add that her confession runsShe was of wifehood one white innocenceIn thought, word, act, from first of her short lifeTo last of it; praying, i' the face of death,That God forgive her other sins—not this,She is charged with and must die for, that she failedAnyway to her husband: while thereonComments the old Religious—"So much good,Patience beneath enormity of ill,I hear to my confusion, woe is me,Sinner that I stand, shamed in the walk and gaitI have practised and grown old in, by a child!"—Guido's friends shrug the shoulder, "Just the sameProdigious absolute calm in the last hourConfirms us,—being the natural resultOf a life which proves consistent to the close.Having braved heaven and deceived earth throughout,She braves still and deceives still, gains therebyTwo ends, she prizes beyond earth or heaven:First sets her lover free, imperilled soreBy the new turn things take: he answers yetFor the part he played: they have summoned him indeed:The past ripped up, he may be punished still:What better way of saving him than this?Then,—thus she dies revenged to the uttermostOn Guido, drags him with her in the dark,The lower still the better, do you doubt?Thus, two ways, does she love her love to the end,And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such priceTo pay for these,—lovers and haters hold."
Does it strike your Excellency? Why, your Highness,
The self-command and even the final prayer,
Our candor must acknowledge explicable
As easily by the consciousness of guilt.
So, when they add that her confession runs
She was of wifehood one white innocence
In thought, word, act, from first of her short life
To last of it; praying, i' the face of death,
That God forgive her other sins—not this,
She is charged with and must die for, that she failed
Anyway to her husband: while thereon
Comments the old Religious—"So much good,
Patience beneath enormity of ill,
I hear to my confusion, woe is me,
Sinner that I stand, shamed in the walk and gait
I have practised and grown old in, by a child!"—
Guido's friends shrug the shoulder, "Just the same
Prodigious absolute calm in the last hour
Confirms us,—being the natural result
Of a life which proves consistent to the close.
Having braved heaven and deceived earth throughout,
She braves still and deceives still, gains thereby
Two ends, she prizes beyond earth or heaven:
First sets her lover free, imperilled sore
By the new turn things take: he answers yet
For the part he played: they have summoned him indeed:
The past ripped up, he may be punished still:
What better way of saving him than this?
Then,—thus she dies revenged to the uttermost
On Guido, drags him with her in the dark,
The lower still the better, do you doubt?
Thus, two ways, does she love her love to the end,
And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such price
To pay for these,—lovers and haters hold."