Chapter 72

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,I feel I can stand somehow, half sit downWithout help, make shift to even speak, you see,Fortified by the sip of ... why, 't is wine,Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my headTo save my neck, there's work awaits me still.How cautious and considerate ... aie, aie, aie,Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heartAn ordinary matter. Law is law.Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,I have been put to the rack: all's over now,And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,Being past my prime of life, and out of health.In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.Needs must the Court be slow to understandHow this quite novel form of taking pain,This getting tortured merely in the flesh,Amounts to almost an agreeable changeIn my case, me fastidious, plied too muchWith opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.Four years have I been operated onI' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—My self-respect, my care for a good name,Pride in an old one, love of kindred—justA mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,That looked up to my face when days were dim,And fancied they found light there—no one spot,Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.That, and not this you now oblige me with,That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!The poor old noble House that drew the ragsO' the Franceschini's once superb arrayClose round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside outAnd teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!Show men the lucklessness, the improvidenceOf the easy-natured Count before this Count,The father I have some slight feeling for,Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friendsThen proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,Properly push his child to wall one day!Mimic the tetchy humor, furtive glance,And brow where half was furious, half fatigued,O' the same son got to be of middle age,Sour, saturnine,—your humble servant here,—When things grow cross and the young wife, he findsTake to the window at a whistle's bid,And yet demurs thereon, preposterous fool!—Whereat the worthies judge he wants adviceAnd beg to civilly ask what's evil here,Perhaps remonstrate on the habit they deemHe's given unduly to, of beating her:... Oh, sure he beats her—why says John so else,Who is cousin to George who is sib to Tecla's selfWho cooks the meal and combs the lady's hair?What! 'T is my wrist you merely dislocateFor the future when you mean me martyrdom?—Let the old mother's economy alone,How the brocade-strips saved o' the seamy sideO' the wedding-gown buy raiment for a year?—How she can dress and dish up—lordly dishFit for a duke, lamb's head and purtenance—With her proud hands, feast household so a week?No word o' the wine rejoicing God and man,The less when three-parts water? Then, I say,A trifle of torture to the flesh, like yours,While soul is spared such foretaste of hell-fire,Is naught. But I curtail the catalogueThrough policy,—a rhetorician's trick,—Because I would reserve some choicer pointsO' the practice, more exactly parallel(Having an eye to climax) with what gift,Eventual grace the Court may have in storeI' the way of plague—what crown of punishments.When I am hanged or headed, time enoughTo prove the tenderness of only that,Mere heading, hanging,—not their counterpart,Not demonstration public and preciseThat I, having married the mongrel of a drab,Am bound to grant that mongrel-brat, my wife,Her mother's birthright-license as is just,—Let her sleep undisturbed, i' the family style,Her sleep out in the embraces of a priest,Nor disallow their bastard as my heir!Your sole mistake—dare I submit so muchTo the reverend Court?—has been in all this painsTo make a stone roll down hill,—rack and wrenchAnd rend a man to pieces, all for what?Why—make him ope mouth in his own defence,Show cause for what he has done, the irregular deed,(Since that he did it, scarce dispute can be)And clear his fame a little, beside the luckOf stopping even yet, if possible,Discomfort to his flesh from noose or axe—For that, out come the implements of law!May it content my lords the gracious CourtTo listen only half so patient-longAs I will in that sense profusely speak,And—fie, they shall not call in screws to help!I killed Pompilia Franceschini, Sirs;Killed too the Comparini, husband, wife,Who called themselves, by a notorious lie,Her father and her mother to ruin me.There's the irregular deed: you want no moreThan right interpretation of the same,And truth so far—am I to understand?To that then, with convenient speed,—becauseNow I consider,—yes, despite my boast,There is an ailing in this omoplateMay clip my speech all too abruptly short,Whatever the good-will in me. Now for truth!I' the name of the indivisible Trinity!Will my lords, in the plentitude of their light,Weigh well that all this trouble has come on meThrough my persistent treading in the pathsWhere I was trained to go,—wearing that yokeMy shoulder was predestined to receive,Born to the hereditary stoop and crease?Noble, I recognized my nobler still,The Church, my suzerain; no mock-mistress, she;The secular owned the spiritual: mates of mineHave thrown their careless hoofs up at her call"Forsake the clover and come drag my wain!"There they go cropping: I protruded noseTo halter, bent my back of docile beast,And now am whealed, one wide wound all of me,For being found at the eleventh hour o' the dayPadding the mill-track, not neck-deep in grass:—My one fault, I am stiffened by my work,—My one reward, I help the Court to smile!I am representative of a great line,One of the first of the old familiesIn Arezzo, ancientest of Tuscan towns.When my worst foe is fain to challenge this,His worst exception runs—not first in rankBut second, noble in the next degreeOnly; not malice' self maligns me more.So, my lord opposite has composed, we know,A marvel of a book, sustains the pointThat Francis boasts the primacy 'mid saints;Yet not inaptly hath his argumentObtained response from yon my other lordIn thesis published with the world's applause—Rather 't is Dominic such post befits:Why, at the worst, Francis stays Francis still,Second in rank to Dominic it may be,Still, very saintly, very like our Lord;And I at least descend from Guido onceHomager to the Empire, naught below—Of which account as proof that, none o' the lineHaving a single gift beyond brave blood,Or able to do aught but give, give, giveIn blood and brain, in house and land and cash,Not get and garner as the vulgar may,We became poor as Francis or our Lord.Be that as it likes you, Sirs,—whenever it chancedMyself grew capable anyway of remark,(Which was soon—penury makes wit premature)This struck me, I was poor who should be richOr pay that fault to the world which trifles notWhen lineage lacks the flag yet lifts the pole:On, therefore, I must move forthwith, transferMy stranded self, born fish with gill and finFit for the deep sea, now left flap bare-backedIn slush and sand, a show to crawlers vileReared of the low-tide and aright therein.The enviable youth with the old name,Wide chest, stout arms, sound brow and pricking veins,A heartful of desire, man's natural load,A brainful of belief, the noble's lot,—All this life, cramped and gasping, high and dryI' the wave's retreat,—the misery, good my lords,Which made you merriment at Rome of late,—It made me reason, rather—muse, demand—Why our bare dropping palace, in the streetWhere such-an-one whose grandfather sold tripeWas adding to his purchased pile a fourthTall tower, could hardly show a turret sound?Why Countess Beatrice, whose son I am,Cowered in the winter-time as she spun flax,Blew on the earthen basket of live ash,Instead of jaunting forth in coach and sixLike such-another widow who ne'er was wed?I asked my fellows, how came this about?"Why, Jack, the sutler's child, perhaps the camp's,Went to the wars, fought sturdily, took a townAnd got rewarded as was natural.She of the coach and six—excuse me there!Why, don't you know the story of her friend?A clown dressed vines on somebody's estate,His boy recoiled from muck, liked Latin more,Stuck to his pen and got to be a priest,Till one day ... don't you mind that telling tractAgainst Molinos, the old Cardinal wrote?He penned and dropped it in the patron's desk,Who, deep in thought and absent much of mind,Licensed the thing, allowed it for his own;Quick came promotion,—suum cuique, Count!Oh, he can pay for coach and six, be sure!""—Well, let me go, do likewise: war's the word—-That way the Franceschini worked at first,I'll take my turn, try soldiership."—"What, you?The eldest son and heir and prop o' the house,So do you see your duty? Here's your post,Hard by the hearth and altar. (Roam from roof,This youngster, play the gypsy out of doors,And who keeps kith and kin that fall on us?)Stand fast, stick tight, conserve your gods at home!""—Well then, the quiet course, the contrary trade!We had a cousin amongst us once was Pope,And minor glories manifold. Try the Church,The tonsure, and,—since heresy's but half-slainEven by the Cardinal's tract he thought he wrote,—Have at Molinos!"—"Have at a fool's head!You a priest? How were marriage possible?There must be Franceschini till time ends—That's your vocation. Make your brothers priests,Paul shall be porporate, and Girolamo stepRed-stockinged in the presence when you choose,But save one Franceschini for the age!Be not the vine but dig and dung its root,Be not a priest but gird up priesthood's loins,With one foot in Arezzo stride to Rome,Spend yourself there and bring the purchase back!Go hence to Rome, be guided!"So I was.I turned alike from the hillside zigzag threadOf way to the table-land a soldier takes,Alike from the low-lying pasture-placeWhere churchmen graze, recline and ruminate,—Ventured to mount no platform like my lordsWho judge the world, bear brain I dare not brag—But stationed me, might thus the expression serve,As who should fetch and carry, come and go,Meddle and make i' the cause my lords love most—The public weal, which hangs to the law, which holdsBy the Church, which happens to be through God himself.Humbly I helped the Church till here I stand,—Or would stand but for the omoplate, you see!Bidden qualify for Rome, I, having a field,Went, sold it, laid the sum at Peter's foot:Which means—I settled home-accounts with speed,Set apart just a modicum should sufficeTo hold the villa's head above the wavesOf weed inundating its oil and wine,And prop roof, stanchion wall o' the palace soAs to keep breath i' the body, out of heartAmid the advance of neighboring loftiness—(People like building where they used to beg)—Till succored one day,—shared the residueBetween my mother and brothers and sisters there,Black-eyed babe Donna This and Donna That,As near to starving as might decently be,—Left myself journey-charges, change of suit,A purse to put i' the pocket of the GroomO' the Chamber of the patron, and a gloveWith a ring to it for the digits of the nieceSure to be helpful in his household,—thenStarted for Rome, and led the life prescribed.Close to the Church, though clean of it, I assumedThree or four orders of no consequence,—They cast out evil spirits and exorcise,For example; bind a man to nothing more,Give clerical savor to his layman's-salt,Facilitate his claim to loaf and fishShould miracle leave, beyond what feeds the flock,Fragments to brim the basket of a friend—While, for the world's sake, I rode, danced and gamed,Quitted me like a courtier, measured mineWith whatsoever blade had fame in fence,—Ready to let the basket go its roundEven though my turn was come to help myself,Should Dives count on me at dinner-timeAs just the understander of a jokeAnd not immoderate in repartee.Utrique sic paratus, Sirs, I said,"Here," (in the fortitude of years fifteen,So good a pedagogue is penury)"Here wait, do service,—serving and to serve!And, in due time, I nowise doubt at all,The recognition of my service comes.Next year I'm only sixteen. I can wait."I waited thirty years, may it please the Court:Saw meanwhile many a denizen o' the dungHop, skip, jump o'er my shoulder, make him wingsAnd fly aloft,—succeed, in the usual phrase.Every one soon or late comes round by Rome:Stand still here, you'll see all in turn succeed.Why, look you, so and so, the physician here,My father's lacquey's son we sent to school,Doctored and dosed this Eminence and that,Salved the last Pope his certain obstinate sore,Soon bought land as became him, names it now:I grasp bell at his griffin-guarded gate,Traverse the half-mile avenue,—a term,A cypress, and a statue, three and three,—Deliver message from my Monsignor,With varletry at lounge i' the vestibuleI 'm barred from, who bear mud upon my shoe.My father's chaplain's nephew, Chamberlain,—Nothing less, please you!—courteous all the same,—He does not see me though I wait an hourAt his staircase-landing 'twixt the brace of busts,A noseless Sylla, Marius maimed to match,My father gave him for a hexastichMade on my birthday,—but he sends me down,To make amends, that relic I prize most—The unburnt end o' the very candle, Sirs,Purfled with paint so prettily round and round,He carried in such state last Peter's-day,—In token I, his gentleman and squire,Had held the bridle, walked his managed muleWithout a tittup the procession through.Nay, the official,—one you know, sweet lords!—Who drew the warrant for my transfer lateTo the New Prisons from Tordinona,—heGraciously had remembrance—" Francesc ... ha?His sire, now—how a thing shall come about!—Paid me a dozen florins above the fee,For drawing deftly up a deed of saleWhen troubles fell so thick on him, good heart,And I was prompt and pushing! By all means!At the New Prisons be it his son shall lie,—Anything for an old friend!" and thereatSigned name with triple flourish underneath.These were my fellows, such their fortunes now,While I—kept fasts and feasts innumerable,Matins and vespers, functions to no endI' the train of Monsignor and Eminence,As gentleman-squire, and for my zeal's rewardHave rarely missed a place at the table-footExcept when some Ambassador, or such like,Brought his own people. Brief, one day I feltThe tick of time inside me, turning-pointAnd slight sense there was now enough of this:That I was near my seventh climacteric,Hard upon, if not over, the middle life,And, although fed by the east-wind, fulsome-fineWith foretaste of the Land of Promise, stillMy gorge gave symptom it might play me false;Better not press it further,—be contentWith living and dying only a nobleman,Who merely had a father great and rich,Who simply had one greater and richer yet,And so on back and back till first and bestBegan i' the night: I finish in the day."The mother must be getting old," I said;"The sisters are well wedded away, our nameCan manage to pass a sister off, at need,And do for dowry: both my brothers thrive—Regular priests they are, nor, bat-like, 'bide'Twixt flesh and fowl with neither privilege.My spare revenue must keep me and mine.I am tired: Arezzo's air is good to breathe;Vittiano,—one limes flocks of thrushes there;A leathern coat costs little and lasts long:Let me bid hope good-by, content at home!"Thus, one day, I disbosomed me and bowed.Whereat began the little buzz and thrillO' the gazers round me; each face brightened up:As when at your Casino, deep in dawn,A gamester says at last, "I play no more,Forego gain, acquiesce in loss, withdrawAnyhow:" and the watchers of his ways,A trifle struck compunctious at the word,Yet sensible of relief, breathe free once more,Break up the ring, venture polite advice—"How, Sir? So scant of heart and hope indeed?Retire with neither cross nor pile from play?—So incurious, so short-casting?—give your chanceTo a younger, stronger, bolder spirit belike,Just when luck turns and the fine throw sweeps all?"Such was the chorus: and its goodwill meant—"See that the loser leave door handsomely!There 's an ill look,—it 's sinister, spoils sport,When an old bruised and battered year-by-yearFighter with fortune, not a penny in poke,Reels down the steps of our establishmentAnd staggers on broad daylight and the world,In shagrag beard and doleful doublet, dropsAnd breaks his heart on the outside: people prate'Such is the profit of a trip upstairs!'Contrive he sidle forth, balked of the blowBest dealt by way of moral, bidding downNo curse but blessings rather on our headsFor some poor prize he bears at tattered breast,Some palpable sort of kind of good to setOver and against the grievance: give him quick!"Whereon protested Paul, "Go hang yourselves!Leave him to me. Count Guido and brother of mine,A word in your ear! Take courage, since faint heartNe'er won ... aha, fair lady, don't men say?There 's asors, there 's a right Virgilian dip!Do you see the happiness o' the hint? At worst,If the Church want no more of you, the CourtNo more, and the Camp as little, the ingrates,—come,Count you are counted: still you've coat to back,Not cloth of gold and tissue, as we hoped,But cloth with sparks and spangles on its friezeFrom Camp, Court, Church, enough to make a shine,Entitle you to carry home a wifeWith the proper dowry, let the worst betide!Why, it was just a wife you meant to take!"Now, Paul's advice was weighty: priests should know:And Paul apprised me, ere the week was out,That Pietro and Violante, the easy pair,The cits enough, with stomach to be more,Had just the daughter and exact the sumTo truck for the quality of myself: "She 's young,Pretty and rich: you 're noble, classic, choice.Is it to be a match?" "A match," said I.Done! He proposed all, I accepted all.And we performed all. So I said and didSimply. As simply followed, not at first,But with the outbreak of misfortune, stillOne comment on the saying and doing—"What?No blush at the avowal you dared buyA girl of age beseems your granddaughter,Like ox or ass? Are flesh and blood a ware?Are heart and soul a chattel?"Softly, Sirs!Will the Court of its charity teach poor meAnxious to learn, of any way i' the world,Allowed by custom and convenience, saveThis same which, taught from my youth up, I trod?Take me along with you; where was the wrong step?If what I gave in barter, style and stateAnd all that hangs to Franceschinihood,Were worthless,—why, society goes to ground,Its rules are idiot's-rambling. Honor of birth,—If that thing has no value, cannot buySomething with value of another sort,You 've no reward nor punishment to giveI' the giving or the taking honor; straightYour social fabric, pinnacle to base,Comes down a-clatter like a house of cards.Get honor, and keep honor free from flaw,Aim at still higher honor,—gabble o' the goose!Go bid a second blockhead like myselfSpend fifty years in guarding bubbles of breath,Soapsuds with air i' the belly, gilded brave,Guarded and guided, all to break at touchO' the first young girl's hand and first old fool's purse!All my privation and endurance, allLove, loyalty and labor dared and did,Fiddle-de-dee!—why, doer and darer both,—Count Guido Franceschini had hit the markFar better, spent his life with more effect,As a dancer or a prizer, trades that pay!On the other hand, bid this buffoonery cease,Admit that honor is a privilege,The question follows, privilege worth what?Why, worth the market-price,—now up, now down,Just so with this as with all other ware:Therefore essay the market, sell your name,Style and condition to who buys them best!"Does my name purchase," had I dared inquire,"Your niece, my lord?" there would have been rebuffThough courtesy, your Lordship cannot else—"Not altogether! Rank for rank may stand:But I have wealth beside, you—poverty;Your scale flies up there: bid a second bid,Rank too and wealth, too!" Reasoned like yourself!But was it to you I went with goods to sell?This time 't was my scale quietly kissed the ground,Mere rank against mere wealth—some youth beside,Some beauty too, thrown into the bargain, justAs the buyer likes or lets alone. I thoughtTo deal o' the square: others find fault, it seems:The thing is, those my offer most concerned,Pietro, Violante, cried they fair or foul?What did they make o' the terms? Preposterous terms?Why then accede so promptly, close with suchNor take a minute to chaffer? Bargain struck,They straight grew bilious, wished their money back,Repented them, no doubt: why, so did I,So did your Lordship, if town-talk be true,Of paying a full farm's worth for that pieceBy Pietro of Cortona—probablyHis scholar Ciro Ferri may have retouched—You caring more for color than design—Getting a little tired of cupids too.That 's incident to all the folk who buy!I am charged, I know, with gilding fact by fraud;I falsified and fabricated, wroteMyself down roughly richer than I prove,Rendered a wrong revenue,—grant it all!Mere grace, mere coquetry such fraud, I say:A flourish round the figures of a sumFor fashion's sake, that deceives nobody.The veritable back-bone, understoodEssence of this same bargain, blank and bare,Being the exchange of quality for wealth,—What may such fancy-flights be? Flecks of oilFlirted by chapmen where plain dealing grates.I may have dripped a drop—"My name I sell;Not but that I too boast my wealth"—as they,"—We bring you riches; still our ancestorWas hardly the rapscallion, folk saw flogged,But heir to we know who, were rights of force!"They knew and I knew where the back-bone lurkedI' the writhings of the bargain, lords, believe!I paid down all engaged for, to a doit,Delivered them just that which, their life long,They hungered in the hearts of them to gain—Incorporation with nobility thusIn word and deed: for that they gave me wealth.But when they came to try their gain, my gift,Quit Rome and qualify for Arezzo, takeThe tone o' the new sphere that absorbed the old,Put away gossip Jack and goody JoanAnd go become familiar with the Great,Greatness to touch and taste and handle now,—Why, then,—they found that all was vanity,Vexation, and what Solomon describes!The old abundant city-fare was best,The kindly warmth o' the commons, the glad clapOf the equal on the shoulder, the frank grinOf the underling at all so many spoonsFire-new at neighborly treat,—best, best and bestBeyond compare!—down to the loll itselfO' the pot-house settle,—better such a benchThan the stiff crucifixion by my daisUnder the piecemeal damask canopyWith the coroneted coat-of-arms a-top!Poverty and privation for pride's sake,All they engaged to easily brave and bear,—With the fit upon them and their brains a-work,—Proved unendurable to the sobered sots.A banished prince, now, will exude a juiceAnd salamander-like support the flame:He dines on chestnuts, chucks the husks to helpThe broil o' the brazier, pays the due baioc,Goes off light-hearted: his grimace beginsAt the funny humors of the christening-feastOf friend the money-lender,—then he 's touchedBy the flame and frizzles at the babe to kiss!Here was the converse trial, opposite mind:Here did a petty nature split on rockOf vulgar wants predestinate for such—One dish at supper and weak wine to boot!The prince had grinned and borne: the citizen shrieked,Summoned the neighborhood to attest the wrong,Made noisy protest he was murdered,—stonedAnd burned and drowned and hanged,—then broke away,He and his wife, to tell their Rome the rest.And this you admire, you men o' the world, my lords?This moves compassion, makes you doubt my faith?Why, I appeal to ... sun and moon? Not I!Rather to Plautus, Terence, Boccaccio's Book,My townsman, frank Ser Franco's merry Tales,—To all who strip a vizard from a face,A body from its padding, and a soulFrom froth and ignorance it styles itself,—If this be other than the daily hapOf purblind greed that dog-like still drops bone,Grasps shadow, and then howls the case is hard!So much for them so far: now for myself,My profit or loss i' the matter: married am I:Text whereon friendly censors burst to preach.Ay, at Rome even, long ere I was leftTo regulate her life for my young brideAlone at Arezzo, friendliness outbroke(Sifting my future to predict its fault)"Purchase and sale being thus so plain a point,How of a certain soul bound up, maybe,I' the barter with the body and money-bags?From the bride's soul what is it you expect?"Why, loyalty and obedience,—wish and willTo settle and suit her fresh and plastic mindTo the novel, not disadvantageous mould!Father and mother shall the woman leave,Cleave to the husband, be it for weal or woe:There is the law: what sets this law asideIn my particular case? My friends submit"Guide, guardian, benefactor,—fee, faw, fum,The fact is you are forty-five years old,Nor very comely even for that age:Girls must have boys." Why, let girls say so then,Nor call the boys and men, who say the same.Brute this and beast the other as they do!Come, cards on table! When you chant us nextEpithalamium full to overflowWith praise and glory of white womanhood,The chaste and pure—troll no such lies o'er lip!Put in their stead a crudity or two,Such short and simple statement of the caseAs youth chalks on our walls at spring of year!No! I shall still think nobler of the sex,Believe a woman still may take a manFor the short period that his soul wears flesh,And, for the soul's sake, understand the faultOf armor frayed by fighting. Tush, it temptsOne's tongue too much! I 'll say—the law's the law:With a wife I look to find all wifeliness,As when I buy, timber and twig, a tree—I buy the song o' the nightingale inside.Such was the pact: Pompilia from the firstBroke it, refused from the beginning dayEither in body or soul to cleave to mine,And published it forthwith to all the world.No rupture,—you must join ere you can break,—Before we had cohabited a monthShe found I was a devil and no man,—Made common cause with those who found as much,Her parents, Pietro and Violante,—movedHeaven and earth to the rescue of all three.In four months' time, the time o' the parents' stay,Arezzo was a-ringing, bells in a blaze,With the unimaginable story rifeI' the mouth of man, woman and child—to witMy misdemeanor. First the lighter side,Ludicrous face of things,—how very poorThe Franceschini had become at last,The meanness and the misery of each shiftTo save a soldo, stretch and make ends meet.Next, the more hateful aspect,—how myselfWith cruelty beyond Caligula'sHad stripped and beaten, robbed and murdered them,The good old couple, I decoyed, abused,Plundered and then cast out, and happily so,Since,—in due course the abominable comes,—Woe worth the poor young wife left lonely here!Repugnant in my person as my mind,I sought,—was ever heard of such revenge?—To lure and bind her to so cursed a couch,Such co-embrace with sulphur, snake and toad,That she was fain to rush forth, call the stonesO' the common street to save her, not from hateOf mine merely, but ... must I burn my lipsWith the blister of the lie?... the satyr-loveOf who but my own brother, the young priest,Too long enforced to lenten fare belike,Now tempted by the morsel tossed him fullI' the trencher where lay bread and herbs at best.Mark, this yourselves say!—this, none disallows,Was charged to me by the universal voiceAt the instigation of my four-months' wife!—And then you ask, "Such charges so preferred,(Truly or falsely, here concerns us not)Pricked you to punish now if not before?—Did not the harshness double itself, the hateHarden?" I answer, "Have it your way and will!"Say my resentment grew apace: what then?Do you cry out on the marvel? When I findThat pure smooth egg which, laid within my nest,Could not but hatch a comfort to us all,Issues a cockatrice for me and mine,Do you stare to see me stamp on it? Swans are soft:Is it not clear that she you call my wife,That any wife of any husband, caughtWhetting a sting like this against his breast,—Speckled with fragments of the fresh-broke shell,Married a month and making outcry thus,—Proves a plague-prodigy to God and man?She married: what was it she married for,Counted upon and meant to meet thereby?"Love," suggests some one, "love, a little wordWhereof we have not heard one syllable."So, the Pompilia, child, girl, wife, in one,Wanted the beating pulse, the rolling eye,The frantic gesture, the devotion dueFrom Thyrsis to Neæra! Guido's love—Why not Provençal roses in his shoe,Plume to his cap, and trio of guitarsAt casement, with a bravo close beside?Good things all these are, clearly claimableWhen the fit price is paid the proper way.Had it been some friend's wife, now, threw her fanAt my foot, with just this pretty scrap attached."Shame, death, damnation—fall these as they may,So I find you, for a minute! Come this eve!"—Why, at such sweet self-sacrifice,—who knows?I might have fired up, found me at my post,Ardent from head to heel, nor feared catch cough.Nay, had some other friend's ... say, daughter, trippedUpstairs and tumbled flat and frank on me,Bareheaded and barefooted, with loose hairAnd garments all at large,—cried "Take me thus!Duke So-and-So, the greatest man in Rome—To escape his hand and heart have I broke bounds,Traversed the town and reached you!"—Then, indeed,The lady had not reached a man of ice!I would have rummaged, ransacked at the wordThose old odd corners of an empty heartFor remnants of dim love the long disused,And dusty crumblings of romance! But here,We talk of just a marriage, if you please—The every-day conditions and no more;Where do these bind me to bestow one dropOf blood shall dye my wife's true-love-knot pink?Pompilia was no pigeon, Venus' pet,That shuffled from between her pressing papsTo sit on my rough shoulder,—but a hawk,I bought at a hawk's price and carried homeTo do hawk's service—at the Rotunda, say,Where, six o' the callow nestlings in a row,You pick and choose and pay the price for such.I have paid my pound, await my penny's worth,So, hoodwink, starve and properly train my bird,And, should she prove a haggard,—twist her neck!Did I not pay my name and style, my hopeAnd trust, my all? Through spending these amissI am here! 'T is scarce the gravity of the CourtWill blame me that I never piped a tune,Treated my falcon-gentle like my finch.The obligation I incurred was justTo practise mastery, prove my mastership:—Pompilia's duty was—submit herself,Afford me pleasure, perhaps cure my bile.Am I to teach my lords what marriage means,What God ordains thereby and man fulfilsWho, docile to the dictate, treads the house?My lords have chosen the happier part with PaulAnd neither marry nor burn,—yet priestlinessCan find a parallel to the marriage-bondIn its own blessed, special ordinanceWhereof indeed was marriage made the type:The Church may show her insubordinate,As marriage her refractory. How of the MonkWho finds the claustral regimen too sharpAfter the first month's essay? What 's the modeWith the Deacon who supports indifferentlyThe rod o' the Bishop when he tastes its smartFull four weeks? Do you straightway slacken holdOf the innocents, the all-unwary onesWho, eager to profess, mistook their mind?—Remit a fast-day's rigor to the MonkWho fancied Francis' manna meant roast quails,—Concede the Deacon sweet society,He never thought the Levite-rule renounced,—Or rather prescribe short chain and sharp scourgeCorrective of such peccant humors? This—I take to be the Church's mode, and mine.If I was over-harsh,—the worse i' the wifeWho did not win from harshness as she ought,Wanted the patience and persuasion, loreOf love, should cure me and console herself.Put case that I mishandle, flurry and frightMy hawk through clumsiness in sportsmanship,Twitch out five pens where plucking one would serve—What, shall she bite and claw to mend the case?And, if you find I pluck five more for that,Shall you weep "How he roughs the turtle there"?

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,

I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down

Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,

Fortified by the sip of ... why, 't is wine,

Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,

So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!

Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head

To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.

How cautious and considerate ... aie, aie, aie,

Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart

An ordinary matter. Law is law.

Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,

From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,

I have been put to the rack: all's over now,

And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:

If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,

The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,

Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,

Being past my prime of life, and out of health.

In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.

Needs must the Court be slow to understand

How this quite novel form of taking pain,

This getting tortured merely in the flesh,

Amounts to almost an agreeable change

In my case, me fastidious, plied too much

With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)

To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,

And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.

Four years have I been operated on

I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—

My self-respect, my care for a good name,

Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just

A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,

That looked up to my face when days were dim,

And fancied they found light there—no one spot,

Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.

That, and not this you now oblige me with,

That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!

The poor old noble House that drew the rags

O' the Franceschini's once superb array

Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—

Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out

And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!

Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence

Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,

The father I have some slight feeling for,

Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends

Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,

Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,

Properly push his child to wall one day!

Mimic the tetchy humor, furtive glance,

And brow where half was furious, half fatigued,

O' the same son got to be of middle age,

Sour, saturnine,—your humble servant here,—

When things grow cross and the young wife, he finds

Take to the window at a whistle's bid,

And yet demurs thereon, preposterous fool!—

Whereat the worthies judge he wants advice

And beg to civilly ask what's evil here,

Perhaps remonstrate on the habit they deem

He's given unduly to, of beating her:

... Oh, sure he beats her—why says John so else,

Who is cousin to George who is sib to Tecla's self

Who cooks the meal and combs the lady's hair?

What! 'T is my wrist you merely dislocate

For the future when you mean me martyrdom?

—Let the old mother's economy alone,

How the brocade-strips saved o' the seamy side

O' the wedding-gown buy raiment for a year?

—How she can dress and dish up—lordly dish

Fit for a duke, lamb's head and purtenance—

With her proud hands, feast household so a week?

No word o' the wine rejoicing God and man,

The less when three-parts water? Then, I say,

A trifle of torture to the flesh, like yours,

While soul is spared such foretaste of hell-fire,

Is naught. But I curtail the catalogue

Through policy,—a rhetorician's trick,—

Because I would reserve some choicer points

O' the practice, more exactly parallel

(Having an eye to climax) with what gift,

Eventual grace the Court may have in store

I' the way of plague—what crown of punishments.

When I am hanged or headed, time enough

To prove the tenderness of only that,

Mere heading, hanging,—not their counterpart,

Not demonstration public and precise

That I, having married the mongrel of a drab,

Am bound to grant that mongrel-brat, my wife,

Her mother's birthright-license as is just,—

Let her sleep undisturbed, i' the family style,

Her sleep out in the embraces of a priest,

Nor disallow their bastard as my heir!

Your sole mistake—dare I submit so much

To the reverend Court?—has been in all this pains

To make a stone roll down hill,—rack and wrench

And rend a man to pieces, all for what?

Why—make him ope mouth in his own defence,

Show cause for what he has done, the irregular deed,

(Since that he did it, scarce dispute can be)

And clear his fame a little, beside the luck

Of stopping even yet, if possible,

Discomfort to his flesh from noose or axe—

For that, out come the implements of law!

May it content my lords the gracious Court

To listen only half so patient-long

As I will in that sense profusely speak,

And—fie, they shall not call in screws to help!

I killed Pompilia Franceschini, Sirs;

Killed too the Comparini, husband, wife,

Who called themselves, by a notorious lie,

Her father and her mother to ruin me.

There's the irregular deed: you want no more

Than right interpretation of the same,

And truth so far—am I to understand?

To that then, with convenient speed,—because

Now I consider,—yes, despite my boast,

There is an ailing in this omoplate

May clip my speech all too abruptly short,

Whatever the good-will in me. Now for truth!

I' the name of the indivisible Trinity!Will my lords, in the plentitude of their light,Weigh well that all this trouble has come on meThrough my persistent treading in the pathsWhere I was trained to go,—wearing that yokeMy shoulder was predestined to receive,Born to the hereditary stoop and crease?Noble, I recognized my nobler still,The Church, my suzerain; no mock-mistress, she;The secular owned the spiritual: mates of mineHave thrown their careless hoofs up at her call"Forsake the clover and come drag my wain!"There they go cropping: I protruded noseTo halter, bent my back of docile beast,And now am whealed, one wide wound all of me,For being found at the eleventh hour o' the dayPadding the mill-track, not neck-deep in grass:—My one fault, I am stiffened by my work,—My one reward, I help the Court to smile!

I' the name of the indivisible Trinity!

Will my lords, in the plentitude of their light,

Weigh well that all this trouble has come on me

Through my persistent treading in the paths

Where I was trained to go,—wearing that yoke

My shoulder was predestined to receive,

Born to the hereditary stoop and crease?

Noble, I recognized my nobler still,

The Church, my suzerain; no mock-mistress, she;

The secular owned the spiritual: mates of mine

Have thrown their careless hoofs up at her call

"Forsake the clover and come drag my wain!"

There they go cropping: I protruded nose

To halter, bent my back of docile beast,

And now am whealed, one wide wound all of me,

For being found at the eleventh hour o' the day

Padding the mill-track, not neck-deep in grass:

—My one fault, I am stiffened by my work,

—My one reward, I help the Court to smile!

I am representative of a great line,One of the first of the old familiesIn Arezzo, ancientest of Tuscan towns.When my worst foe is fain to challenge this,His worst exception runs—not first in rankBut second, noble in the next degreeOnly; not malice' self maligns me more.So, my lord opposite has composed, we know,A marvel of a book, sustains the pointThat Francis boasts the primacy 'mid saints;Yet not inaptly hath his argumentObtained response from yon my other lordIn thesis published with the world's applause—Rather 't is Dominic such post befits:Why, at the worst, Francis stays Francis still,Second in rank to Dominic it may be,Still, very saintly, very like our Lord;And I at least descend from Guido onceHomager to the Empire, naught below—Of which account as proof that, none o' the lineHaving a single gift beyond brave blood,Or able to do aught but give, give, giveIn blood and brain, in house and land and cash,Not get and garner as the vulgar may,We became poor as Francis or our Lord.Be that as it likes you, Sirs,—whenever it chancedMyself grew capable anyway of remark,(Which was soon—penury makes wit premature)This struck me, I was poor who should be richOr pay that fault to the world which trifles notWhen lineage lacks the flag yet lifts the pole:On, therefore, I must move forthwith, transferMy stranded self, born fish with gill and finFit for the deep sea, now left flap bare-backedIn slush and sand, a show to crawlers vileReared of the low-tide and aright therein.The enviable youth with the old name,Wide chest, stout arms, sound brow and pricking veins,A heartful of desire, man's natural load,A brainful of belief, the noble's lot,—All this life, cramped and gasping, high and dryI' the wave's retreat,—the misery, good my lords,Which made you merriment at Rome of late,—It made me reason, rather—muse, demand—Why our bare dropping palace, in the streetWhere such-an-one whose grandfather sold tripeWas adding to his purchased pile a fourthTall tower, could hardly show a turret sound?Why Countess Beatrice, whose son I am,Cowered in the winter-time as she spun flax,Blew on the earthen basket of live ash,Instead of jaunting forth in coach and sixLike such-another widow who ne'er was wed?I asked my fellows, how came this about?"Why, Jack, the sutler's child, perhaps the camp's,Went to the wars, fought sturdily, took a townAnd got rewarded as was natural.She of the coach and six—excuse me there!Why, don't you know the story of her friend?A clown dressed vines on somebody's estate,His boy recoiled from muck, liked Latin more,Stuck to his pen and got to be a priest,Till one day ... don't you mind that telling tractAgainst Molinos, the old Cardinal wrote?He penned and dropped it in the patron's desk,Who, deep in thought and absent much of mind,Licensed the thing, allowed it for his own;Quick came promotion,—suum cuique, Count!Oh, he can pay for coach and six, be sure!""—Well, let me go, do likewise: war's the word—-That way the Franceschini worked at first,I'll take my turn, try soldiership."—"What, you?The eldest son and heir and prop o' the house,So do you see your duty? Here's your post,Hard by the hearth and altar. (Roam from roof,This youngster, play the gypsy out of doors,And who keeps kith and kin that fall on us?)Stand fast, stick tight, conserve your gods at home!""—Well then, the quiet course, the contrary trade!We had a cousin amongst us once was Pope,And minor glories manifold. Try the Church,The tonsure, and,—since heresy's but half-slainEven by the Cardinal's tract he thought he wrote,—Have at Molinos!"—"Have at a fool's head!You a priest? How were marriage possible?There must be Franceschini till time ends—That's your vocation. Make your brothers priests,Paul shall be porporate, and Girolamo stepRed-stockinged in the presence when you choose,But save one Franceschini for the age!Be not the vine but dig and dung its root,Be not a priest but gird up priesthood's loins,With one foot in Arezzo stride to Rome,Spend yourself there and bring the purchase back!Go hence to Rome, be guided!"

I am representative of a great line,

One of the first of the old families

In Arezzo, ancientest of Tuscan towns.

When my worst foe is fain to challenge this,

His worst exception runs—not first in rank

But second, noble in the next degree

Only; not malice' self maligns me more.

So, my lord opposite has composed, we know,

A marvel of a book, sustains the point

That Francis boasts the primacy 'mid saints;

Yet not inaptly hath his argument

Obtained response from yon my other lord

In thesis published with the world's applause

—Rather 't is Dominic such post befits:

Why, at the worst, Francis stays Francis still,

Second in rank to Dominic it may be,

Still, very saintly, very like our Lord;

And I at least descend from Guido once

Homager to the Empire, naught below—

Of which account as proof that, none o' the line

Having a single gift beyond brave blood,

Or able to do aught but give, give, give

In blood and brain, in house and land and cash,

Not get and garner as the vulgar may,

We became poor as Francis or our Lord.

Be that as it likes you, Sirs,—whenever it chanced

Myself grew capable anyway of remark,

(Which was soon—penury makes wit premature)

This struck me, I was poor who should be rich

Or pay that fault to the world which trifles not

When lineage lacks the flag yet lifts the pole:

On, therefore, I must move forthwith, transfer

My stranded self, born fish with gill and fin

Fit for the deep sea, now left flap bare-backed

In slush and sand, a show to crawlers vile

Reared of the low-tide and aright therein.

The enviable youth with the old name,

Wide chest, stout arms, sound brow and pricking veins,

A heartful of desire, man's natural load,

A brainful of belief, the noble's lot,—

All this life, cramped and gasping, high and dry

I' the wave's retreat,—the misery, good my lords,

Which made you merriment at Rome of late,—

It made me reason, rather—muse, demand

—Why our bare dropping palace, in the street

Where such-an-one whose grandfather sold tripe

Was adding to his purchased pile a fourth

Tall tower, could hardly show a turret sound?

Why Countess Beatrice, whose son I am,

Cowered in the winter-time as she spun flax,

Blew on the earthen basket of live ash,

Instead of jaunting forth in coach and six

Like such-another widow who ne'er was wed?

I asked my fellows, how came this about?

"Why, Jack, the sutler's child, perhaps the camp's,

Went to the wars, fought sturdily, took a town

And got rewarded as was natural.

She of the coach and six—excuse me there!

Why, don't you know the story of her friend?

A clown dressed vines on somebody's estate,

His boy recoiled from muck, liked Latin more,

Stuck to his pen and got to be a priest,

Till one day ... don't you mind that telling tract

Against Molinos, the old Cardinal wrote?

He penned and dropped it in the patron's desk,

Who, deep in thought and absent much of mind,

Licensed the thing, allowed it for his own;

Quick came promotion,—suum cuique, Count!

Oh, he can pay for coach and six, be sure!"

"—Well, let me go, do likewise: war's the word—-

That way the Franceschini worked at first,

I'll take my turn, try soldiership."—"What, you?

The eldest son and heir and prop o' the house,

So do you see your duty? Here's your post,

Hard by the hearth and altar. (Roam from roof,

This youngster, play the gypsy out of doors,

And who keeps kith and kin that fall on us?)

Stand fast, stick tight, conserve your gods at home!"

"—Well then, the quiet course, the contrary trade!

We had a cousin amongst us once was Pope,

And minor glories manifold. Try the Church,

The tonsure, and,—since heresy's but half-slain

Even by the Cardinal's tract he thought he wrote,—

Have at Molinos!"—"Have at a fool's head!

You a priest? How were marriage possible?

There must be Franceschini till time ends—

That's your vocation. Make your brothers priests,

Paul shall be porporate, and Girolamo step

Red-stockinged in the presence when you choose,

But save one Franceschini for the age!

Be not the vine but dig and dung its root,

Be not a priest but gird up priesthood's loins,

With one foot in Arezzo stride to Rome,

Spend yourself there and bring the purchase back!

Go hence to Rome, be guided!"

So I was.I turned alike from the hillside zigzag threadOf way to the table-land a soldier takes,Alike from the low-lying pasture-placeWhere churchmen graze, recline and ruminate,—Ventured to mount no platform like my lordsWho judge the world, bear brain I dare not brag—But stationed me, might thus the expression serve,As who should fetch and carry, come and go,Meddle and make i' the cause my lords love most—The public weal, which hangs to the law, which holdsBy the Church, which happens to be through God himself.Humbly I helped the Church till here I stand,—Or would stand but for the omoplate, you see!Bidden qualify for Rome, I, having a field,Went, sold it, laid the sum at Peter's foot:Which means—I settled home-accounts with speed,Set apart just a modicum should sufficeTo hold the villa's head above the wavesOf weed inundating its oil and wine,And prop roof, stanchion wall o' the palace soAs to keep breath i' the body, out of heartAmid the advance of neighboring loftiness—(People like building where they used to beg)—Till succored one day,—shared the residueBetween my mother and brothers and sisters there,Black-eyed babe Donna This and Donna That,As near to starving as might decently be,—Left myself journey-charges, change of suit,A purse to put i' the pocket of the GroomO' the Chamber of the patron, and a gloveWith a ring to it for the digits of the nieceSure to be helpful in his household,—thenStarted for Rome, and led the life prescribed.Close to the Church, though clean of it, I assumedThree or four orders of no consequence,—They cast out evil spirits and exorcise,For example; bind a man to nothing more,Give clerical savor to his layman's-salt,Facilitate his claim to loaf and fishShould miracle leave, beyond what feeds the flock,Fragments to brim the basket of a friend—While, for the world's sake, I rode, danced and gamed,Quitted me like a courtier, measured mineWith whatsoever blade had fame in fence,—Ready to let the basket go its roundEven though my turn was come to help myself,Should Dives count on me at dinner-timeAs just the understander of a jokeAnd not immoderate in repartee.Utrique sic paratus, Sirs, I said,"Here," (in the fortitude of years fifteen,So good a pedagogue is penury)"Here wait, do service,—serving and to serve!And, in due time, I nowise doubt at all,The recognition of my service comes.Next year I'm only sixteen. I can wait."

So I was.

I turned alike from the hillside zigzag thread

Of way to the table-land a soldier takes,

Alike from the low-lying pasture-place

Where churchmen graze, recline and ruminate,

—Ventured to mount no platform like my lords

Who judge the world, bear brain I dare not brag—

But stationed me, might thus the expression serve,

As who should fetch and carry, come and go,

Meddle and make i' the cause my lords love most—

The public weal, which hangs to the law, which holds

By the Church, which happens to be through God himself.

Humbly I helped the Church till here I stand,—

Or would stand but for the omoplate, you see!

Bidden qualify for Rome, I, having a field,

Went, sold it, laid the sum at Peter's foot:

Which means—I settled home-accounts with speed,

Set apart just a modicum should suffice

To hold the villa's head above the waves

Of weed inundating its oil and wine,

And prop roof, stanchion wall o' the palace so

As to keep breath i' the body, out of heart

Amid the advance of neighboring loftiness—

(People like building where they used to beg)—

Till succored one day,—shared the residue

Between my mother and brothers and sisters there,

Black-eyed babe Donna This and Donna That,

As near to starving as might decently be,

—Left myself journey-charges, change of suit,

A purse to put i' the pocket of the Groom

O' the Chamber of the patron, and a glove

With a ring to it for the digits of the niece

Sure to be helpful in his household,—then

Started for Rome, and led the life prescribed.

Close to the Church, though clean of it, I assumed

Three or four orders of no consequence,

—They cast out evil spirits and exorcise,

For example; bind a man to nothing more,

Give clerical savor to his layman's-salt,

Facilitate his claim to loaf and fish

Should miracle leave, beyond what feeds the flock,

Fragments to brim the basket of a friend—

While, for the world's sake, I rode, danced and gamed,

Quitted me like a courtier, measured mine

With whatsoever blade had fame in fence,

—Ready to let the basket go its round

Even though my turn was come to help myself,

Should Dives count on me at dinner-time

As just the understander of a joke

And not immoderate in repartee.

Utrique sic paratus, Sirs, I said,

"Here," (in the fortitude of years fifteen,

So good a pedagogue is penury)

"Here wait, do service,—serving and to serve!

And, in due time, I nowise doubt at all,

The recognition of my service comes.

Next year I'm only sixteen. I can wait."

I waited thirty years, may it please the Court:Saw meanwhile many a denizen o' the dungHop, skip, jump o'er my shoulder, make him wingsAnd fly aloft,—succeed, in the usual phrase.Every one soon or late comes round by Rome:Stand still here, you'll see all in turn succeed.Why, look you, so and so, the physician here,My father's lacquey's son we sent to school,Doctored and dosed this Eminence and that,Salved the last Pope his certain obstinate sore,Soon bought land as became him, names it now:I grasp bell at his griffin-guarded gate,Traverse the half-mile avenue,—a term,A cypress, and a statue, three and three,—Deliver message from my Monsignor,With varletry at lounge i' the vestibuleI 'm barred from, who bear mud upon my shoe.My father's chaplain's nephew, Chamberlain,—Nothing less, please you!—courteous all the same,—He does not see me though I wait an hourAt his staircase-landing 'twixt the brace of busts,A noseless Sylla, Marius maimed to match,My father gave him for a hexastichMade on my birthday,—but he sends me down,To make amends, that relic I prize most—The unburnt end o' the very candle, Sirs,Purfled with paint so prettily round and round,He carried in such state last Peter's-day,—In token I, his gentleman and squire,Had held the bridle, walked his managed muleWithout a tittup the procession through.Nay, the official,—one you know, sweet lords!—Who drew the warrant for my transfer lateTo the New Prisons from Tordinona,—heGraciously had remembrance—" Francesc ... ha?His sire, now—how a thing shall come about!—Paid me a dozen florins above the fee,For drawing deftly up a deed of saleWhen troubles fell so thick on him, good heart,And I was prompt and pushing! By all means!At the New Prisons be it his son shall lie,—Anything for an old friend!" and thereatSigned name with triple flourish underneath.These were my fellows, such their fortunes now,While I—kept fasts and feasts innumerable,Matins and vespers, functions to no endI' the train of Monsignor and Eminence,As gentleman-squire, and for my zeal's rewardHave rarely missed a place at the table-footExcept when some Ambassador, or such like,Brought his own people. Brief, one day I feltThe tick of time inside me, turning-pointAnd slight sense there was now enough of this:That I was near my seventh climacteric,Hard upon, if not over, the middle life,And, although fed by the east-wind, fulsome-fineWith foretaste of the Land of Promise, stillMy gorge gave symptom it might play me false;Better not press it further,—be contentWith living and dying only a nobleman,Who merely had a father great and rich,Who simply had one greater and richer yet,And so on back and back till first and bestBegan i' the night: I finish in the day."The mother must be getting old," I said;"The sisters are well wedded away, our nameCan manage to pass a sister off, at need,And do for dowry: both my brothers thrive—Regular priests they are, nor, bat-like, 'bide'Twixt flesh and fowl with neither privilege.My spare revenue must keep me and mine.I am tired: Arezzo's air is good to breathe;Vittiano,—one limes flocks of thrushes there;A leathern coat costs little and lasts long:Let me bid hope good-by, content at home!"Thus, one day, I disbosomed me and bowed.Whereat began the little buzz and thrillO' the gazers round me; each face brightened up:As when at your Casino, deep in dawn,A gamester says at last, "I play no more,Forego gain, acquiesce in loss, withdrawAnyhow:" and the watchers of his ways,A trifle struck compunctious at the word,Yet sensible of relief, breathe free once more,Break up the ring, venture polite advice—"How, Sir? So scant of heart and hope indeed?Retire with neither cross nor pile from play?—So incurious, so short-casting?—give your chanceTo a younger, stronger, bolder spirit belike,Just when luck turns and the fine throw sweeps all?"Such was the chorus: and its goodwill meant—"See that the loser leave door handsomely!There 's an ill look,—it 's sinister, spoils sport,When an old bruised and battered year-by-yearFighter with fortune, not a penny in poke,Reels down the steps of our establishmentAnd staggers on broad daylight and the world,In shagrag beard and doleful doublet, dropsAnd breaks his heart on the outside: people prate'Such is the profit of a trip upstairs!'Contrive he sidle forth, balked of the blowBest dealt by way of moral, bidding downNo curse but blessings rather on our headsFor some poor prize he bears at tattered breast,Some palpable sort of kind of good to setOver and against the grievance: give him quick!"Whereon protested Paul, "Go hang yourselves!Leave him to me. Count Guido and brother of mine,A word in your ear! Take courage, since faint heartNe'er won ... aha, fair lady, don't men say?There 's asors, there 's a right Virgilian dip!Do you see the happiness o' the hint? At worst,If the Church want no more of you, the CourtNo more, and the Camp as little, the ingrates,—come,Count you are counted: still you've coat to back,Not cloth of gold and tissue, as we hoped,But cloth with sparks and spangles on its friezeFrom Camp, Court, Church, enough to make a shine,Entitle you to carry home a wifeWith the proper dowry, let the worst betide!Why, it was just a wife you meant to take!"

I waited thirty years, may it please the Court:

Saw meanwhile many a denizen o' the dung

Hop, skip, jump o'er my shoulder, make him wings

And fly aloft,—succeed, in the usual phrase.

Every one soon or late comes round by Rome:

Stand still here, you'll see all in turn succeed.

Why, look you, so and so, the physician here,

My father's lacquey's son we sent to school,

Doctored and dosed this Eminence and that,

Salved the last Pope his certain obstinate sore,

Soon bought land as became him, names it now:

I grasp bell at his griffin-guarded gate,

Traverse the half-mile avenue,—a term,

A cypress, and a statue, three and three,—

Deliver message from my Monsignor,

With varletry at lounge i' the vestibule

I 'm barred from, who bear mud upon my shoe.

My father's chaplain's nephew, Chamberlain,—

Nothing less, please you!—courteous all the same,

—He does not see me though I wait an hour

At his staircase-landing 'twixt the brace of busts,

A noseless Sylla, Marius maimed to match,

My father gave him for a hexastich

Made on my birthday,—but he sends me down,

To make amends, that relic I prize most—

The unburnt end o' the very candle, Sirs,

Purfled with paint so prettily round and round,

He carried in such state last Peter's-day,—

In token I, his gentleman and squire,

Had held the bridle, walked his managed mule

Without a tittup the procession through.

Nay, the official,—one you know, sweet lords!—

Who drew the warrant for my transfer late

To the New Prisons from Tordinona,—he

Graciously had remembrance—" Francesc ... ha?

His sire, now—how a thing shall come about!—

Paid me a dozen florins above the fee,

For drawing deftly up a deed of sale

When troubles fell so thick on him, good heart,

And I was prompt and pushing! By all means!

At the New Prisons be it his son shall lie,—

Anything for an old friend!" and thereat

Signed name with triple flourish underneath.

These were my fellows, such their fortunes now,

While I—kept fasts and feasts innumerable,

Matins and vespers, functions to no end

I' the train of Monsignor and Eminence,

As gentleman-squire, and for my zeal's reward

Have rarely missed a place at the table-foot

Except when some Ambassador, or such like,

Brought his own people. Brief, one day I felt

The tick of time inside me, turning-point

And slight sense there was now enough of this:

That I was near my seventh climacteric,

Hard upon, if not over, the middle life,

And, although fed by the east-wind, fulsome-fine

With foretaste of the Land of Promise, still

My gorge gave symptom it might play me false;

Better not press it further,—be content

With living and dying only a nobleman,

Who merely had a father great and rich,

Who simply had one greater and richer yet,

And so on back and back till first and best

Began i' the night: I finish in the day.

"The mother must be getting old," I said;

"The sisters are well wedded away, our name

Can manage to pass a sister off, at need,

And do for dowry: both my brothers thrive—

Regular priests they are, nor, bat-like, 'bide

'Twixt flesh and fowl with neither privilege.

My spare revenue must keep me and mine.

I am tired: Arezzo's air is good to breathe;

Vittiano,—one limes flocks of thrushes there;

A leathern coat costs little and lasts long:

Let me bid hope good-by, content at home!"

Thus, one day, I disbosomed me and bowed.

Whereat began the little buzz and thrill

O' the gazers round me; each face brightened up:

As when at your Casino, deep in dawn,

A gamester says at last, "I play no more,

Forego gain, acquiesce in loss, withdraw

Anyhow:" and the watchers of his ways,

A trifle struck compunctious at the word,

Yet sensible of relief, breathe free once more,

Break up the ring, venture polite advice—

"How, Sir? So scant of heart and hope indeed?

Retire with neither cross nor pile from play?—

So incurious, so short-casting?—give your chance

To a younger, stronger, bolder spirit belike,

Just when luck turns and the fine throw sweeps all?"

Such was the chorus: and its goodwill meant—

"See that the loser leave door handsomely!

There 's an ill look,—it 's sinister, spoils sport,

When an old bruised and battered year-by-year

Fighter with fortune, not a penny in poke,

Reels down the steps of our establishment

And staggers on broad daylight and the world,

In shagrag beard and doleful doublet, drops

And breaks his heart on the outside: people prate

'Such is the profit of a trip upstairs!'

Contrive he sidle forth, balked of the blow

Best dealt by way of moral, bidding down

No curse but blessings rather on our heads

For some poor prize he bears at tattered breast,

Some palpable sort of kind of good to set

Over and against the grievance: give him quick!"

Whereon protested Paul, "Go hang yourselves!

Leave him to me. Count Guido and brother of mine,

A word in your ear! Take courage, since faint heart

Ne'er won ... aha, fair lady, don't men say?

There 's asors, there 's a right Virgilian dip!

Do you see the happiness o' the hint? At worst,

If the Church want no more of you, the Court

No more, and the Camp as little, the ingrates,—come,

Count you are counted: still you've coat to back,

Not cloth of gold and tissue, as we hoped,

But cloth with sparks and spangles on its frieze

From Camp, Court, Church, enough to make a shine,

Entitle you to carry home a wife

With the proper dowry, let the worst betide!

Why, it was just a wife you meant to take!"

Now, Paul's advice was weighty: priests should know:And Paul apprised me, ere the week was out,That Pietro and Violante, the easy pair,The cits enough, with stomach to be more,Had just the daughter and exact the sumTo truck for the quality of myself: "She 's young,Pretty and rich: you 're noble, classic, choice.Is it to be a match?" "A match," said I.Done! He proposed all, I accepted all.And we performed all. So I said and didSimply. As simply followed, not at first,But with the outbreak of misfortune, stillOne comment on the saying and doing—"What?No blush at the avowal you dared buyA girl of age beseems your granddaughter,Like ox or ass? Are flesh and blood a ware?Are heart and soul a chattel?"

Now, Paul's advice was weighty: priests should know:

And Paul apprised me, ere the week was out,

That Pietro and Violante, the easy pair,

The cits enough, with stomach to be more,

Had just the daughter and exact the sum

To truck for the quality of myself: "She 's young,

Pretty and rich: you 're noble, classic, choice.

Is it to be a match?" "A match," said I.

Done! He proposed all, I accepted all.

And we performed all. So I said and did

Simply. As simply followed, not at first,

But with the outbreak of misfortune, still

One comment on the saying and doing—"What?

No blush at the avowal you dared buy

A girl of age beseems your granddaughter,

Like ox or ass? Are flesh and blood a ware?

Are heart and soul a chattel?"

Softly, Sirs!Will the Court of its charity teach poor meAnxious to learn, of any way i' the world,Allowed by custom and convenience, saveThis same which, taught from my youth up, I trod?Take me along with you; where was the wrong step?If what I gave in barter, style and stateAnd all that hangs to Franceschinihood,Were worthless,—why, society goes to ground,Its rules are idiot's-rambling. Honor of birth,—If that thing has no value, cannot buySomething with value of another sort,You 've no reward nor punishment to giveI' the giving or the taking honor; straightYour social fabric, pinnacle to base,Comes down a-clatter like a house of cards.Get honor, and keep honor free from flaw,Aim at still higher honor,—gabble o' the goose!Go bid a second blockhead like myselfSpend fifty years in guarding bubbles of breath,Soapsuds with air i' the belly, gilded brave,Guarded and guided, all to break at touchO' the first young girl's hand and first old fool's purse!All my privation and endurance, allLove, loyalty and labor dared and did,Fiddle-de-dee!—why, doer and darer both,—Count Guido Franceschini had hit the markFar better, spent his life with more effect,As a dancer or a prizer, trades that pay!On the other hand, bid this buffoonery cease,Admit that honor is a privilege,The question follows, privilege worth what?Why, worth the market-price,—now up, now down,Just so with this as with all other ware:Therefore essay the market, sell your name,Style and condition to who buys them best!"Does my name purchase," had I dared inquire,"Your niece, my lord?" there would have been rebuffThough courtesy, your Lordship cannot else—"Not altogether! Rank for rank may stand:But I have wealth beside, you—poverty;Your scale flies up there: bid a second bid,Rank too and wealth, too!" Reasoned like yourself!But was it to you I went with goods to sell?This time 't was my scale quietly kissed the ground,Mere rank against mere wealth—some youth beside,Some beauty too, thrown into the bargain, justAs the buyer likes or lets alone. I thoughtTo deal o' the square: others find fault, it seems:The thing is, those my offer most concerned,Pietro, Violante, cried they fair or foul?What did they make o' the terms? Preposterous terms?Why then accede so promptly, close with suchNor take a minute to chaffer? Bargain struck,They straight grew bilious, wished their money back,Repented them, no doubt: why, so did I,So did your Lordship, if town-talk be true,Of paying a full farm's worth for that pieceBy Pietro of Cortona—probablyHis scholar Ciro Ferri may have retouched—You caring more for color than design—Getting a little tired of cupids too.That 's incident to all the folk who buy!I am charged, I know, with gilding fact by fraud;I falsified and fabricated, wroteMyself down roughly richer than I prove,Rendered a wrong revenue,—grant it all!Mere grace, mere coquetry such fraud, I say:A flourish round the figures of a sumFor fashion's sake, that deceives nobody.The veritable back-bone, understoodEssence of this same bargain, blank and bare,Being the exchange of quality for wealth,—What may such fancy-flights be? Flecks of oilFlirted by chapmen where plain dealing grates.I may have dripped a drop—"My name I sell;Not but that I too boast my wealth"—as they,"—We bring you riches; still our ancestorWas hardly the rapscallion, folk saw flogged,But heir to we know who, were rights of force!"They knew and I knew where the back-bone lurkedI' the writhings of the bargain, lords, believe!I paid down all engaged for, to a doit,Delivered them just that which, their life long,They hungered in the hearts of them to gain—Incorporation with nobility thusIn word and deed: for that they gave me wealth.But when they came to try their gain, my gift,Quit Rome and qualify for Arezzo, takeThe tone o' the new sphere that absorbed the old,Put away gossip Jack and goody JoanAnd go become familiar with the Great,Greatness to touch and taste and handle now,—Why, then,—they found that all was vanity,Vexation, and what Solomon describes!The old abundant city-fare was best,The kindly warmth o' the commons, the glad clapOf the equal on the shoulder, the frank grinOf the underling at all so many spoonsFire-new at neighborly treat,—best, best and bestBeyond compare!—down to the loll itselfO' the pot-house settle,—better such a benchThan the stiff crucifixion by my daisUnder the piecemeal damask canopyWith the coroneted coat-of-arms a-top!Poverty and privation for pride's sake,All they engaged to easily brave and bear,—With the fit upon them and their brains a-work,—Proved unendurable to the sobered sots.A banished prince, now, will exude a juiceAnd salamander-like support the flame:He dines on chestnuts, chucks the husks to helpThe broil o' the brazier, pays the due baioc,Goes off light-hearted: his grimace beginsAt the funny humors of the christening-feastOf friend the money-lender,—then he 's touchedBy the flame and frizzles at the babe to kiss!Here was the converse trial, opposite mind:Here did a petty nature split on rockOf vulgar wants predestinate for such—One dish at supper and weak wine to boot!The prince had grinned and borne: the citizen shrieked,Summoned the neighborhood to attest the wrong,Made noisy protest he was murdered,—stonedAnd burned and drowned and hanged,—then broke away,He and his wife, to tell their Rome the rest.And this you admire, you men o' the world, my lords?This moves compassion, makes you doubt my faith?Why, I appeal to ... sun and moon? Not I!Rather to Plautus, Terence, Boccaccio's Book,My townsman, frank Ser Franco's merry Tales,—To all who strip a vizard from a face,A body from its padding, and a soulFrom froth and ignorance it styles itself,—If this be other than the daily hapOf purblind greed that dog-like still drops bone,Grasps shadow, and then howls the case is hard!

Softly, Sirs!

Will the Court of its charity teach poor me

Anxious to learn, of any way i' the world,

Allowed by custom and convenience, save

This same which, taught from my youth up, I trod?

Take me along with you; where was the wrong step?

If what I gave in barter, style and state

And all that hangs to Franceschinihood,

Were worthless,—why, society goes to ground,

Its rules are idiot's-rambling. Honor of birth,—

If that thing has no value, cannot buy

Something with value of another sort,

You 've no reward nor punishment to give

I' the giving or the taking honor; straight

Your social fabric, pinnacle to base,

Comes down a-clatter like a house of cards.

Get honor, and keep honor free from flaw,

Aim at still higher honor,—gabble o' the goose!

Go bid a second blockhead like myself

Spend fifty years in guarding bubbles of breath,

Soapsuds with air i' the belly, gilded brave,

Guarded and guided, all to break at touch

O' the first young girl's hand and first old fool's purse!

All my privation and endurance, all

Love, loyalty and labor dared and did,

Fiddle-de-dee!—why, doer and darer both,—

Count Guido Franceschini had hit the mark

Far better, spent his life with more effect,

As a dancer or a prizer, trades that pay!

On the other hand, bid this buffoonery cease,

Admit that honor is a privilege,

The question follows, privilege worth what?

Why, worth the market-price,—now up, now down,

Just so with this as with all other ware:

Therefore essay the market, sell your name,

Style and condition to who buys them best!

"Does my name purchase," had I dared inquire,

"Your niece, my lord?" there would have been rebuff

Though courtesy, your Lordship cannot else—

"Not altogether! Rank for rank may stand:

But I have wealth beside, you—poverty;

Your scale flies up there: bid a second bid,

Rank too and wealth, too!" Reasoned like yourself!

But was it to you I went with goods to sell?

This time 't was my scale quietly kissed the ground,

Mere rank against mere wealth—some youth beside,

Some beauty too, thrown into the bargain, just

As the buyer likes or lets alone. I thought

To deal o' the square: others find fault, it seems:

The thing is, those my offer most concerned,

Pietro, Violante, cried they fair or foul?

What did they make o' the terms? Preposterous terms?

Why then accede so promptly, close with such

Nor take a minute to chaffer? Bargain struck,

They straight grew bilious, wished their money back,

Repented them, no doubt: why, so did I,

So did your Lordship, if town-talk be true,

Of paying a full farm's worth for that piece

By Pietro of Cortona—probably

His scholar Ciro Ferri may have retouched—

You caring more for color than design—

Getting a little tired of cupids too.

That 's incident to all the folk who buy!

I am charged, I know, with gilding fact by fraud;

I falsified and fabricated, wrote

Myself down roughly richer than I prove,

Rendered a wrong revenue,—grant it all!

Mere grace, mere coquetry such fraud, I say:

A flourish round the figures of a sum

For fashion's sake, that deceives nobody.

The veritable back-bone, understood

Essence of this same bargain, blank and bare,

Being the exchange of quality for wealth,—

What may such fancy-flights be? Flecks of oil

Flirted by chapmen where plain dealing grates.

I may have dripped a drop—"My name I sell;

Not but that I too boast my wealth"—as they,

"—We bring you riches; still our ancestor

Was hardly the rapscallion, folk saw flogged,

But heir to we know who, were rights of force!"

They knew and I knew where the back-bone lurked

I' the writhings of the bargain, lords, believe!

I paid down all engaged for, to a doit,

Delivered them just that which, their life long,

They hungered in the hearts of them to gain—

Incorporation with nobility thus

In word and deed: for that they gave me wealth.

But when they came to try their gain, my gift,

Quit Rome and qualify for Arezzo, take

The tone o' the new sphere that absorbed the old,

Put away gossip Jack and goody Joan

And go become familiar with the Great,

Greatness to touch and taste and handle now,—

Why, then,—they found that all was vanity,

Vexation, and what Solomon describes!

The old abundant city-fare was best,

The kindly warmth o' the commons, the glad clap

Of the equal on the shoulder, the frank grin

Of the underling at all so many spoons

Fire-new at neighborly treat,—best, best and best

Beyond compare!—down to the loll itself

O' the pot-house settle,—better such a bench

Than the stiff crucifixion by my dais

Under the piecemeal damask canopy

With the coroneted coat-of-arms a-top!

Poverty and privation for pride's sake,

All they engaged to easily brave and bear,—

With the fit upon them and their brains a-work,—

Proved unendurable to the sobered sots.

A banished prince, now, will exude a juice

And salamander-like support the flame:

He dines on chestnuts, chucks the husks to help

The broil o' the brazier, pays the due baioc,

Goes off light-hearted: his grimace begins

At the funny humors of the christening-feast

Of friend the money-lender,—then he 's touched

By the flame and frizzles at the babe to kiss!

Here was the converse trial, opposite mind:

Here did a petty nature split on rock

Of vulgar wants predestinate for such—

One dish at supper and weak wine to boot!

The prince had grinned and borne: the citizen shrieked,

Summoned the neighborhood to attest the wrong,

Made noisy protest he was murdered,—stoned

And burned and drowned and hanged,—then broke away,

He and his wife, to tell their Rome the rest.

And this you admire, you men o' the world, my lords?

This moves compassion, makes you doubt my faith?

Why, I appeal to ... sun and moon? Not I!

Rather to Plautus, Terence, Boccaccio's Book,

My townsman, frank Ser Franco's merry Tales,—

To all who strip a vizard from a face,

A body from its padding, and a soul

From froth and ignorance it styles itself,—

If this be other than the daily hap

Of purblind greed that dog-like still drops bone,

Grasps shadow, and then howls the case is hard!

So much for them so far: now for myself,My profit or loss i' the matter: married am I:Text whereon friendly censors burst to preach.Ay, at Rome even, long ere I was leftTo regulate her life for my young brideAlone at Arezzo, friendliness outbroke(Sifting my future to predict its fault)"Purchase and sale being thus so plain a point,How of a certain soul bound up, maybe,I' the barter with the body and money-bags?From the bride's soul what is it you expect?"Why, loyalty and obedience,—wish and willTo settle and suit her fresh and plastic mindTo the novel, not disadvantageous mould!Father and mother shall the woman leave,Cleave to the husband, be it for weal or woe:There is the law: what sets this law asideIn my particular case? My friends submit"Guide, guardian, benefactor,—fee, faw, fum,The fact is you are forty-five years old,Nor very comely even for that age:Girls must have boys." Why, let girls say so then,Nor call the boys and men, who say the same.Brute this and beast the other as they do!Come, cards on table! When you chant us nextEpithalamium full to overflowWith praise and glory of white womanhood,The chaste and pure—troll no such lies o'er lip!Put in their stead a crudity or two,Such short and simple statement of the caseAs youth chalks on our walls at spring of year!No! I shall still think nobler of the sex,Believe a woman still may take a manFor the short period that his soul wears flesh,And, for the soul's sake, understand the faultOf armor frayed by fighting. Tush, it temptsOne's tongue too much! I 'll say—the law's the law:With a wife I look to find all wifeliness,As when I buy, timber and twig, a tree—I buy the song o' the nightingale inside.

So much for them so far: now for myself,

My profit or loss i' the matter: married am I:

Text whereon friendly censors burst to preach.

Ay, at Rome even, long ere I was left

To regulate her life for my young bride

Alone at Arezzo, friendliness outbroke

(Sifting my future to predict its fault)

"Purchase and sale being thus so plain a point,

How of a certain soul bound up, maybe,

I' the barter with the body and money-bags?

From the bride's soul what is it you expect?"

Why, loyalty and obedience,—wish and will

To settle and suit her fresh and plastic mind

To the novel, not disadvantageous mould!

Father and mother shall the woman leave,

Cleave to the husband, be it for weal or woe:

There is the law: what sets this law aside

In my particular case? My friends submit

"Guide, guardian, benefactor,—fee, faw, fum,

The fact is you are forty-five years old,

Nor very comely even for that age:

Girls must have boys." Why, let girls say so then,

Nor call the boys and men, who say the same.

Brute this and beast the other as they do!

Come, cards on table! When you chant us next

Epithalamium full to overflow

With praise and glory of white womanhood,

The chaste and pure—troll no such lies o'er lip!

Put in their stead a crudity or two,

Such short and simple statement of the case

As youth chalks on our walls at spring of year!

No! I shall still think nobler of the sex,

Believe a woman still may take a man

For the short period that his soul wears flesh,

And, for the soul's sake, understand the fault

Of armor frayed by fighting. Tush, it tempts

One's tongue too much! I 'll say—the law's the law:

With a wife I look to find all wifeliness,

As when I buy, timber and twig, a tree—

I buy the song o' the nightingale inside.

Such was the pact: Pompilia from the firstBroke it, refused from the beginning dayEither in body or soul to cleave to mine,And published it forthwith to all the world.No rupture,—you must join ere you can break,—Before we had cohabited a monthShe found I was a devil and no man,—Made common cause with those who found as much,Her parents, Pietro and Violante,—movedHeaven and earth to the rescue of all three.In four months' time, the time o' the parents' stay,Arezzo was a-ringing, bells in a blaze,With the unimaginable story rifeI' the mouth of man, woman and child—to witMy misdemeanor. First the lighter side,Ludicrous face of things,—how very poorThe Franceschini had become at last,The meanness and the misery of each shiftTo save a soldo, stretch and make ends meet.Next, the more hateful aspect,—how myselfWith cruelty beyond Caligula'sHad stripped and beaten, robbed and murdered them,The good old couple, I decoyed, abused,Plundered and then cast out, and happily so,Since,—in due course the abominable comes,—Woe worth the poor young wife left lonely here!Repugnant in my person as my mind,I sought,—was ever heard of such revenge?—To lure and bind her to so cursed a couch,Such co-embrace with sulphur, snake and toad,That she was fain to rush forth, call the stonesO' the common street to save her, not from hateOf mine merely, but ... must I burn my lipsWith the blister of the lie?... the satyr-loveOf who but my own brother, the young priest,Too long enforced to lenten fare belike,Now tempted by the morsel tossed him fullI' the trencher where lay bread and herbs at best.Mark, this yourselves say!—this, none disallows,Was charged to me by the universal voiceAt the instigation of my four-months' wife!—And then you ask, "Such charges so preferred,(Truly or falsely, here concerns us not)Pricked you to punish now if not before?—Did not the harshness double itself, the hateHarden?" I answer, "Have it your way and will!"Say my resentment grew apace: what then?Do you cry out on the marvel? When I findThat pure smooth egg which, laid within my nest,Could not but hatch a comfort to us all,Issues a cockatrice for me and mine,Do you stare to see me stamp on it? Swans are soft:Is it not clear that she you call my wife,That any wife of any husband, caughtWhetting a sting like this against his breast,—Speckled with fragments of the fresh-broke shell,Married a month and making outcry thus,—Proves a plague-prodigy to God and man?She married: what was it she married for,Counted upon and meant to meet thereby?"Love," suggests some one, "love, a little wordWhereof we have not heard one syllable."So, the Pompilia, child, girl, wife, in one,Wanted the beating pulse, the rolling eye,The frantic gesture, the devotion dueFrom Thyrsis to Neæra! Guido's love—Why not Provençal roses in his shoe,Plume to his cap, and trio of guitarsAt casement, with a bravo close beside?Good things all these are, clearly claimableWhen the fit price is paid the proper way.Had it been some friend's wife, now, threw her fanAt my foot, with just this pretty scrap attached."Shame, death, damnation—fall these as they may,So I find you, for a minute! Come this eve!"—Why, at such sweet self-sacrifice,—who knows?I might have fired up, found me at my post,Ardent from head to heel, nor feared catch cough.Nay, had some other friend's ... say, daughter, trippedUpstairs and tumbled flat and frank on me,Bareheaded and barefooted, with loose hairAnd garments all at large,—cried "Take me thus!Duke So-and-So, the greatest man in Rome—To escape his hand and heart have I broke bounds,Traversed the town and reached you!"—Then, indeed,The lady had not reached a man of ice!I would have rummaged, ransacked at the wordThose old odd corners of an empty heartFor remnants of dim love the long disused,And dusty crumblings of romance! But here,We talk of just a marriage, if you please—The every-day conditions and no more;Where do these bind me to bestow one dropOf blood shall dye my wife's true-love-knot pink?Pompilia was no pigeon, Venus' pet,That shuffled from between her pressing papsTo sit on my rough shoulder,—but a hawk,I bought at a hawk's price and carried homeTo do hawk's service—at the Rotunda, say,Where, six o' the callow nestlings in a row,You pick and choose and pay the price for such.I have paid my pound, await my penny's worth,So, hoodwink, starve and properly train my bird,And, should she prove a haggard,—twist her neck!Did I not pay my name and style, my hopeAnd trust, my all? Through spending these amissI am here! 'T is scarce the gravity of the CourtWill blame me that I never piped a tune,Treated my falcon-gentle like my finch.The obligation I incurred was justTo practise mastery, prove my mastership:—Pompilia's duty was—submit herself,Afford me pleasure, perhaps cure my bile.Am I to teach my lords what marriage means,What God ordains thereby and man fulfilsWho, docile to the dictate, treads the house?My lords have chosen the happier part with PaulAnd neither marry nor burn,—yet priestlinessCan find a parallel to the marriage-bondIn its own blessed, special ordinanceWhereof indeed was marriage made the type:The Church may show her insubordinate,As marriage her refractory. How of the MonkWho finds the claustral regimen too sharpAfter the first month's essay? What 's the modeWith the Deacon who supports indifferentlyThe rod o' the Bishop when he tastes its smartFull four weeks? Do you straightway slacken holdOf the innocents, the all-unwary onesWho, eager to profess, mistook their mind?—Remit a fast-day's rigor to the MonkWho fancied Francis' manna meant roast quails,—Concede the Deacon sweet society,He never thought the Levite-rule renounced,—Or rather prescribe short chain and sharp scourgeCorrective of such peccant humors? This—I take to be the Church's mode, and mine.If I was over-harsh,—the worse i' the wifeWho did not win from harshness as she ought,Wanted the patience and persuasion, loreOf love, should cure me and console herself.Put case that I mishandle, flurry and frightMy hawk through clumsiness in sportsmanship,Twitch out five pens where plucking one would serve—What, shall she bite and claw to mend the case?And, if you find I pluck five more for that,Shall you weep "How he roughs the turtle there"?

Such was the pact: Pompilia from the first

Broke it, refused from the beginning day

Either in body or soul to cleave to mine,

And published it forthwith to all the world.

No rupture,—you must join ere you can break,—

Before we had cohabited a month

She found I was a devil and no man,—

Made common cause with those who found as much,

Her parents, Pietro and Violante,—moved

Heaven and earth to the rescue of all three.

In four months' time, the time o' the parents' stay,

Arezzo was a-ringing, bells in a blaze,

With the unimaginable story rife

I' the mouth of man, woman and child—to wit

My misdemeanor. First the lighter side,

Ludicrous face of things,—how very poor

The Franceschini had become at last,

The meanness and the misery of each shift

To save a soldo, stretch and make ends meet.

Next, the more hateful aspect,—how myself

With cruelty beyond Caligula's

Had stripped and beaten, robbed and murdered them,

The good old couple, I decoyed, abused,

Plundered and then cast out, and happily so,

Since,—in due course the abominable comes,—

Woe worth the poor young wife left lonely here!

Repugnant in my person as my mind,

I sought,—was ever heard of such revenge?

—To lure and bind her to so cursed a couch,

Such co-embrace with sulphur, snake and toad,

That she was fain to rush forth, call the stones

O' the common street to save her, not from hate

Of mine merely, but ... must I burn my lips

With the blister of the lie?... the satyr-love

Of who but my own brother, the young priest,

Too long enforced to lenten fare belike,

Now tempted by the morsel tossed him full

I' the trencher where lay bread and herbs at best.

Mark, this yourselves say!—this, none disallows,

Was charged to me by the universal voice

At the instigation of my four-months' wife!—

And then you ask, "Such charges so preferred,

(Truly or falsely, here concerns us not)

Pricked you to punish now if not before?—

Did not the harshness double itself, the hate

Harden?" I answer, "Have it your way and will!"

Say my resentment grew apace: what then?

Do you cry out on the marvel? When I find

That pure smooth egg which, laid within my nest,

Could not but hatch a comfort to us all,

Issues a cockatrice for me and mine,

Do you stare to see me stamp on it? Swans are soft:

Is it not clear that she you call my wife,

That any wife of any husband, caught

Whetting a sting like this against his breast,—

Speckled with fragments of the fresh-broke shell,

Married a month and making outcry thus,—

Proves a plague-prodigy to God and man?

She married: what was it she married for,

Counted upon and meant to meet thereby?

"Love," suggests some one, "love, a little word

Whereof we have not heard one syllable."

So, the Pompilia, child, girl, wife, in one,

Wanted the beating pulse, the rolling eye,

The frantic gesture, the devotion due

From Thyrsis to Neæra! Guido's love—

Why not Provençal roses in his shoe,

Plume to his cap, and trio of guitars

At casement, with a bravo close beside?

Good things all these are, clearly claimable

When the fit price is paid the proper way.

Had it been some friend's wife, now, threw her fan

At my foot, with just this pretty scrap attached.

"Shame, death, damnation—fall these as they may,

So I find you, for a minute! Come this eve!"

—Why, at such sweet self-sacrifice,—who knows?

I might have fired up, found me at my post,

Ardent from head to heel, nor feared catch cough.

Nay, had some other friend's ... say, daughter, tripped

Upstairs and tumbled flat and frank on me,

Bareheaded and barefooted, with loose hair

And garments all at large,—cried "Take me thus!

Duke So-and-So, the greatest man in Rome—

To escape his hand and heart have I broke bounds,

Traversed the town and reached you!"—Then, indeed,

The lady had not reached a man of ice!

I would have rummaged, ransacked at the word

Those old odd corners of an empty heart

For remnants of dim love the long disused,

And dusty crumblings of romance! But here,

We talk of just a marriage, if you please—

The every-day conditions and no more;

Where do these bind me to bestow one drop

Of blood shall dye my wife's true-love-knot pink?

Pompilia was no pigeon, Venus' pet,

That shuffled from between her pressing paps

To sit on my rough shoulder,—but a hawk,

I bought at a hawk's price and carried home

To do hawk's service—at the Rotunda, say,

Where, six o' the callow nestlings in a row,

You pick and choose and pay the price for such.

I have paid my pound, await my penny's worth,

So, hoodwink, starve and properly train my bird,

And, should she prove a haggard,—twist her neck!

Did I not pay my name and style, my hope

And trust, my all? Through spending these amiss

I am here! 'T is scarce the gravity of the Court

Will blame me that I never piped a tune,

Treated my falcon-gentle like my finch.

The obligation I incurred was just

To practise mastery, prove my mastership:—

Pompilia's duty was—submit herself,

Afford me pleasure, perhaps cure my bile.

Am I to teach my lords what marriage means,

What God ordains thereby and man fulfils

Who, docile to the dictate, treads the house?

My lords have chosen the happier part with Paul

And neither marry nor burn,—yet priestliness

Can find a parallel to the marriage-bond

In its own blessed, special ordinance

Whereof indeed was marriage made the type:

The Church may show her insubordinate,

As marriage her refractory. How of the Monk

Who finds the claustral regimen too sharp

After the first month's essay? What 's the mode

With the Deacon who supports indifferently

The rod o' the Bishop when he tastes its smart

Full four weeks? Do you straightway slacken hold

Of the innocents, the all-unwary ones

Who, eager to profess, mistook their mind?—

Remit a fast-day's rigor to the Monk

Who fancied Francis' manna meant roast quails,—

Concede the Deacon sweet society,

He never thought the Levite-rule renounced,—

Or rather prescribe short chain and sharp scourge

Corrective of such peccant humors? This—

I take to be the Church's mode, and mine.

If I was over-harsh,—the worse i' the wife

Who did not win from harshness as she ought,

Wanted the patience and persuasion, lore

Of love, should cure me and console herself.

Put case that I mishandle, flurry and fright

My hawk through clumsiness in sportsmanship,

Twitch out five pens where plucking one would serve—

What, shall she bite and claw to mend the case?

And, if you find I pluck five more for that,

Shall you weep "How he roughs the turtle there"?

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