Chapter 74

Then I rose up like fire, and fire-like roared.What, all is only beginning not ending now?The worm which wormed its way from skin through fleshTo the bone and there lay biting, did its best,—What, it goes on to scrape at the bone's self,Will wind to inmost marrow and madden me?There 's to be yet my representative,Another of the name shall keep displayedThe flag with the ordure on it, brandish stillThe broken sword has served to stir a jakes?Who will he be, how will you call the man?A Franceschini,—when who cut my purse,Filched my name, hemmed me round, hustled me hardAs rogues at a fair some fool they strip i' the midst,When these count gains, vaunt pillage presently:—But a Caponsacchi, oh, be very sure!When what demands its tribute of applauseIs the cunning and impudence o' the pair of cheats,The lies and lust o' the mother, and the braveBold carriage of the priest, worthily crownedBy a witness to his feat i' the following age,—And how this threefold cord could hook and fetchAnd land leviathan that king of pride!Or say, by some mad miracle of chance,Is he indeed my flesh and blood, this babe?Was it because fate forged a link at lastBetwixt my wife and me, and both alikeFound we had henceforth some one thing to love,Was it when she could damn my soul indeedShe unlatched door, let all the devils o' the darkDance in on me to cover her escape?Why then, the surplusage of disgrace, the spilthOver and above the measure of infamy,Failing to take effect on my coarse fleshSeasoned with scorn now, saturate with shame,—Is saved to instil on and corrode the brow,The baby-softness of my first-born child—The child I had died to see though in a dream,The child I was bid strike out for, beat the waveAnd baffle the tide of troubles where I swam,So I might touch shore, lay down life at lastAt the feet so dim and distant and divineOf the apparition, as 't were Mary's babeHad held, through night and storm, the torch aloft,—Born now in very deed to bear this brandOn forehead and curse me who could not save!Rather be the town-talk true, Square's jest, street's jeerTrue, my own inmost heart's confession true,And he the priest's bastard and none of mine!Ay, there was cause for flight, swift flight and sure!The husband gets unruly, breaks all boundsWhen he encounters some familiar face,Fashion of feature, brow and eyes and lipsWhere he least looked to find them,—time to fly!This bastard then, a nest for him is made,As the manner is of vermin, in my flesh—Shall I let the filthy pest buzz, flap and sting,Busy at my vitals and, nor hand nor footLift, but let be, lie still and rot resigned?No, I appeal to God,—what says himself,How lessons Nature when I look to learn?Why, that I am alive, am still a manWith brain and heart and tongue and righthand too—Nay, even with friends, in such a cause as this,To right me if I fail to take my right.No more of law; a voice beyond the lawEnters my heart,Quis est pro Domino?Myself, in my own Vittiano, told the taleTo my own serving-people summoned there:Told the first half of it, scarce heard to endBy judges who got done with judgment quickAnd clamored to go execute her 'hest—Who cried, "Not one of us that dig your soilAnd dress your vineyard, prune your olive-trees,But would have brained the man debauched our wife,And staked the wife whose lust allured the man,And paunched the Duke, had it been possible,Who ruled the land, yet barred us such revenge!"I fixed on the first whose eyes caught mine, some fourResolute youngsters with the heart still fresh,Filled my purse with the residue o' the coinUncaught-up by my wife whom haste made blind,Donned the first rough and rural garb I found,Took whatsoever weapon came to hand,And out we flung and on we ran or reeledRomeward. I have no memory of our way,Only that, when at intervals the cloudOf horror about me opened to let in life,I listened to some song in the ear, some snatchOf a legend, relic of religion, strayFragment of record very strong and oldOf the first conscience, the anterior right,The God's-gift to mankind, impulse to quenchThe antagonistic spark of hell and treadSatan and all his malice into dust,Declare to the world the one law, right is right.Then the cloud re-encompassed me, and soI found myself, as on the wings of winds,Arrived: I was at Rome on Christmas Eve.Festive bells—everywhere the Feast o' the Babe,Joy upon earth, peace and good will to man!I am baptized. I started and let dropThe dagger. "Where is it, his promised peace?"Nine days o' the Birth-Feast did I pause and prayTo enter into no temptation more.I bore the hateful house, my brother's once,Deserted,—let the ghost of social joyMock and make mouths at me from empty roomAnd idle door that missed the master's step,—Bore the frank wonder of incredulous eyes,As my own people watched without a word,Waited, from where they huddled round the hearthBlack like all else, that nod so slow to come.I stopped my ears even to the inner callOf the dread duty, only heard the song"Peace upon earth," saw nothing but the faceO' the Holy Infant and the halo thereAble to cover yet another faceBehind it, Satan's which I else should see.But, day by day, joy waned and withered off:The Babe's face, premature with peak and pine,Sank into wrinkled ruinous old age,Suffering and death, then mist-like disappeared,And showed only the Cross at end of all,Left nothing more to interpose 'twixt meAnd the dread duty,—for the angels' song,"Peace upon earth," louder and louder pealed,"O Lord, how long, how long be unavenged?"On the ninth day, this grew too much for man.I started up—"Some end must be!" At once,Silence: then, scratching like a death-watch-tick,Slowly within my brain was syllabled,"One more concession, one decisive wayAnd but one, to determine thee the truth,—This way, in fine, I whisper in thy ear:Now doubt, anon decide, thereupon act!""That is a way, thou whisperest in my ear!I doubt, I will decide, then act," said I—Then beckoned my companions: "Time is come!"And so, all yet uncertain save the willTo do right, and the daring aught save leaveRight undone, I did find myself at lastI' the dark before the villa with my friends,And made the experiment, the final test,Ultimate chance that ever was to beFor the wretchedness inside. I knocked—pronouncedThe name, the predetermined touch for truth,"What welcome for the wanderer? Open straight—"To the friend, physician, friar upon his rounds,Traveller belated, beggar lame and blind?No, but—"to Caponsacchi!" And the doorOpened.And then,—why, even then, I think,I' the minute that confirmed my worst of fears,Surely,—I pray God that I think aright!—Had but Pompilia's self, the tender thingWho once was good and pure, was once my lambAnd lay in my bosom, had the well-known shapeFronted me in the doorway,—stood there faintWith the recent pang, perhaps, of giving birthTo what might, though by miracle, seem my child,—Nay more, I will say, had even the aged foolPietro, the dotard, in whom folly and ageWrought, more than enmity or malevolence,To practise and conspire against my peace,—Had either of these but opened, I had paused.But it was she the hag, she that brought hellFor a dowry with her to her husband's house,She the mock-mother, she that made the matchAnd married me to perdition, spring and sourceO' the fire inside me that boiled up from heartTo brain and hailed the Fury gave it birth,—Violante Comparini, she it was,With the old grin amid the wrinkles yet,Opened: as if in turning from the Cross,With trust to keep the sight and save my soul,I had stumbled, first thing, on the serpent's headCoiled with a leer at foot of it.There was the end!Then was I rapt away by the impulse, oneImmeasurable everlasting wave of a needTo abolish that detested life. 'T was done:You know the rest and how the folds o' the thing,Twisting for help, involved the other twoMore or less serpent-like: how I was mad,Blind, stamped on all, the earth-worms with the asp,And ended so.You came on me that night,Your officers of justice,—caught the crimeIn the first natural frenzy of remorse?Twenty miles off, sound sleeping as a childOn a cloak i' the straw which promised shelter first,With the bloody arms beside me,—was it not so?Wherefore not? Why, how else should I be found?I was my own self, had my sense again,My soul safe from the serpents. I could sleep:Indeed and, dear my lords, I shall sleep now,Spite of my shoulder, in five minutes' space,When you dismiss me, having truth enough!It is but a few days are passed, I find,Since this adventure. Do you tell me, four?Then the dead are scarce quiet where they lie,Old Pietro, old Violante, side by sideAt the church Lorenzo,—oh, they know it well!So do I. But my wife is still alive,Has breath enough to tell her story yet,Her way, which is not mine, no doubt at all.And Caponsacchi, you have summoned him,—Was he so far to send for? Not at hand?I thought some few o' the stabs were in his heart,Or had not been so lavish: less had served.Well, he too tells his story,—florid proseAs smooth as mine is rough. You see, my lords,There will be a lying intoxicating smokeBorn of the blood,—confusion probably,—For lies breed lies—but all that rests with you!The trial is no concern of mine; with meThe main of the care is over: I at leastRecognize who took that huge burden off,Let me begin to live again. I didGod's bidding and man's duty, so, breathe free;Look you to the rest! I heard Himself prescribe,That great Physician, and dared lance the coreOf the bad ulcer; and the rage abates,I am myself and whole now: I proved curedBy the eyes that see, the ears that hear again,The limbs that have relearned their youthful play,The healthy taste of food and feel of clothesAnd taking to our common life once more,All that now urges my defence from death.The willingness to live, what means it else?Before,—but let the very action speak!Judge for yourselves, what life seemed worth to meWho, not by proxy but in person, pitchedHead-foremost into danger as a foolThat never cares if he can swim or no—So he but find the bottom, braves the brook.No man omits precaution, quite neglectsSecrecy, safety, schemes not how retreat,Having schemed he might advance. Did I so scheme?Why, with a warrant which 't is ask and have,With horse thereby made mine without a word,I had gained the frontier and slept safe that night.Then, my companions,—call them what you please,Slave or stipendiary,—what need of oneTo me whose right-hand did its owner's work?Hire an assassin yet expose yourself?As well buy glove and then thrust naked handI' the thorn-bush. No, the wise man stays at home,Sends only agents out, with pay to earn:At home, when they come back,—he straight discardsOr else disowns. Why use such tools at allWhen a man's foes are of his house, like mine,Sit at his board, sleep in his bed? Why noise,When there 's theacquettaand the silent way?Clearly my life was valueless.But nowHealth is returned, and sanity of soulNowise indifferent to the body's harm.I find the instinct bids me save my life;My wits, too, rally round me; I pick upAnd use the arms that strewed the ground before,Unnoticed or spurned aside: I take my stand,Make my defence. God shall not lose a lifeMay do him further service, while I speakAnd you hear, you my judges and last hope!You are the law: 't is to the law I look.I began life by hanging to the law,To the law it is I hang till life shall end.My brother made appeal to the Pope, 't is true.To stay proceedings, judge my cause himselfNor trouble law,—some fondness of conceitThat rectitude, sagacity sufficedThe investigator in a case like mine,Dispensed with the machine of law. The PopeKnew better, set aside my brother's pleaAnd put me back to law,—referred the causeAd judices meos,—doubtlessly did well.Here, then, I clutch my judges,—I claim law—Cry, by the higher law whereof your lawO' the land is humbly representative,—Cry, on what point is it, where either accuse,I fail to furnish you defence? I standAcquitted, actually or virtually,By every intermediate kind of courtThat takes account of right or wrong in man,Each unit in the series that beginsWith God's throne, ends with the tribunal here.God breathes, not speaks, his verdicts, felt not heard,Passed on successively to each court I callMan's conscience, custom, manners, all that makeMore and more effort to promulgate, markGod's verdict in determinable words,Till last come human jurists—solidifyFluid result,—what's fixable lies forged,Statute,—the residue escapes in fume,Yet hangs aloft, a cloud, as palpableTo the finer sense as word the legist welds.Justinian's Pandects only make preciseWhat simply sparkled in men's eyes before,Twitched in their brow or quivered on their lip,Waited the speech they called but would not come.These courts then, whose decree your own confirms,—Take my whole life, not this last act alone,Look on it by the light reflected thence!What has Society to charge me with?Come, unreservedly,—favor none nor fear,—I am Guido Franceschini, am I not?You know the courses I was free to take?I took just that which let me serve the Church,I gave it all my labor in body and soulTill these broke down i' the service. "Specify?"Well, my last patron was a Cardinal.I left him unconvicted of a fault—Was even helped, by way of gratitude,Into the new life that I left him for,This very misery of the marriage,—heMade it, kind soul, so far as in him lay—Signed the deed where you yet may see his name.He is gone to his reward,—dead, being my friendWho could have helped here also,—that, of course!So far, there's my acquittal, I suppose.Then comes the marriage itself—no question, lords,Of the entire validity of that!In the extremity of distress, 't is true,For after-reasons, furnished abundantly,I wished the thing invalid, went to youOnly some months since, set you duly forthMy wrong and prayed your remedy, that a cheatShould not have force to cheat my whole life long."Annul a marriage? 'T is impossible!Though ring about your neck be brass not gold,Needs must it clasp, gangrene you all the same!"Well, let me have the benefit, just so far,O' the fact announced,—my wife then is my wife,I have allowance for a husband's right.I am charged with passing right's due bound,—such actsAs I thought just, my wife called cruelty,Complained of in due form,—convoked no courtOf common gossipry, but took her wrongs—And not once, but so long as patience served—To the town's top, jurisdiction's pride of place,To the Archbishop and the Governor.These heard her charge with my reply, and foundThat futile, this sufficient: they dismissedThe hysteric querulous rebel, and confirmedAuthority in its wholesome exercise,They, with directest access to the facts."—Ay, for it was their friendship favored you,Hereditary alliance against a breachI' the social order: prejudice for the nameOf Franceschini!"—So I hear it said:But not here. You, lords, never will you say"Such is the nullity of grace and truth,Such the corruption of the faith, such lapseOf law, such warrant have the MolinistsFor daring reprehend us as they do,—That we pronounce it just a common case,Two dignitaries, each in his degreeFirst, foremost, this the spiritual head, and thatThe secular arm o' the body politic,Should, for mere wrongs' love and injustice' sake,Side with, aid and abet in crueltyThis broken beggarly noble,—bribed perhapsBy his watered wine and mouldy crust of bread—Rather than that sweet tremulous flower-like wifeWho kissed their hands and curled about their feetLooking the irresistible lovelinessIn tears that takes man captive, turns" ... enough!Do you blast your predecessors? What forbidsPosterity to trebly blast yourselvesWho set the example and instruct their tongue?You dreaded the crowd, succumbed to the popular cry,Or else, would nowise seem defer theretoAnd yield to public clamor though i' the right!You ridded your eye of my unseemliness,The noble whose misfortune wearied you,—Or, what 's more probable, made common causeWith the cleric section, punished in myselfMaladroit uncomplaisant laity,Defective in behavior to a priestWho claimed the customary partnershipI' the house and the wife. Lords, any lie will serve!Look to it,—or allow me freed so far!Then I proceed a step, come with clean handsThus far, re-tell the tale told eight months since.The wife, you allow so far, I have not wronged,Has fled my roof, plundered me and decampedIn company with the priest her paramour:And I gave chase, came up with, caught the twoAt the wayside inn where both had spent the night,Found them in flagrant fault, and found as well,By documents with name and plan and date,The fault was furtive then that 's flagrant now,Their intercourse a long established crime.I did not take the license law's self givesTo slay both criminals o' the spot at the time,But held my hand,—preferred play prodigyOf patience which the world calls cowardice,Rather than seem anticipate the lawAnd cast discredit on its organs,—you.So, to your bar I brought both criminals,And made my statement: heard their countercharge,Nay,—their corroboration of my tale,Nowise disputing its allegements, notI' the main, not more than nature's decencyCompels men to keep silence in this kind,—Only contending that the deeds avowedWould take another color and bear excuse.You were to judge between us; so you did.You disregard the excuse, you breathe awayThe color of innocence and leave guilt black;"Guilty" is the decision of the court,And that I stand in consequence untouched,One white integrity from head to heel.Not guilty? Why then did you punish them?True, punishment has been inadequate—'T is not I only, not my friends that joke,My foes that jeer, who echo "inadequate"—For, by a chance that comes to help for once,The same case simultaneously was judgedAt Arezzo, in the province of the CourtWhere the crime had its beginning but not end.They then, deciding on but half o' the crime,The effraction, robbery,—features of the faultI never cared to dwell upon at Rome,—What was it they adjudged as penaltyTo Pompilia,—the one criminal o' the pairAmenable to their judgment, not the priestWho is Rome's? Why, just imprisonment for lifeI' the Stinche. There was Tuscany's awardTo a wife that robs her husband: you at Rome—Having to deal with adultery in a wifeAnd, in a priest, breach of the priestly vow—Give gentle sequestration for a monthIn a manageable Convent, then release,You call imprisonment, in the very houseO' the very couple, which the aim and endOf the culprits' crime was—just to reach and restAnd there take solace and defy me: well,—This difference 'twixt their penalty and yoursIs immaterial: make your penalty less—Merely that she should henceforth wear black glovesAnd white fan, she who wore the opposite—Why, all the same the fact o' the thing subsists.Reconcile to your conscience as you may,Be it on your own heads, you pronounced but halfO' the penalty for heinousness like hersAnd his, that pays a fault at CarnivalOf comfit-pelting past discretion's law,Or accident to handkerchief in LentWhich falls perversely as a lady kneelsAbruptly, and but half conceals her neck!I acquiesce for my part: punished, thoughBy a pin-point scratch, means guilty: guilty means—What have I been but innocent hitherto?Anyhow, here the offence, being punished, ends.Ends?—for you deemed so, did you not, sweet lords?That was throughout the veritable aimO' the sentence light or heavy,—to redressRecognized wrong? You righted me, I think?Well then,—what if I, at this last of all,Demonstrate you, as my whole pleading proves,No particle of wrong received therebyOne atom of right?—that cure grew worse disease?That in the process you call "justice done"All along you have nipped away just inchBy inch the creeping climbing length of plagueBreaking my tree of life from root to branch,And left me, after all and every actOf your interference,—lightened of what load?At liberty wherein? Mere words and wind!"Now I was saved, now I should feel no moreThe hot breath, find a respite from fixed eyeAnd vibrant tongue!" Why, scarce your back was turned,There was the reptile, that feigned death at first,Renewing its detested spire and spireAround me, rising to such heights of hateThat, so far from mere purpose now to crushAnd coil itself on the remains of me,Body and mind, and there flesh fang content,Its aim is now to evoke life from death,Make me anew, satisfy in my sonThe hunger I may feed but never sate,Tormented on to perpetuity—My son, whom dead, I shall know, understand,Feel, hear, see, never more escape the sightIn heaven that 's turned to hell, or hell returned(So rather say) to this same earth again,—Moulded into the image and made one,Fashioned of soul as featured like in face,First taught to laugh and lisp and stand and goBy that thief, poisoner and adulteressI call Pompilia, he calls ... sacred name,Be unpronounced, be unpolluted here!And last led up to the glory and prize of hateBy his ... foster-father, Caponsacchi's self,The perjured priest, pink of conspirators,Tricksters and knaves, yet polished, superfine,Manhood to model adolescence by!Lords, look on me, declare,—when, what I show,Is nothing more nor less than what you deemedAnd doled me out for justice,—what did you say?For reparation, restitution and more,—Will you not thank, praise, bid me to your breastsFor having done the thing you thought to do,And thoroughly trampled out sin's life at last?I have heightened phrase to make your soft speech serve,Doubled the blow you but essayed to strike,Carried into effect your mandate hereThat else had fallen to ground: mere duty done.Oversight of the master just suppliedBy zeal i' the servant. I, being used to serve,Have simply ... what is it they charge me with?Blackened again, made legible once moreYour own decree, not permanently writ,Rightly conceived but all too faintly traced.It reads efficient, now, comminatory,A terror to the wicked, answers soThe mood o' the magistrate, the mind of law.Absolve, then, me, law's mere executant!Protect your own defender,—save me, Sirs!Give me my life, give me my liberty,My good name and my civic rights again!It would be too fond, too complacent playInto the hands o' the devil, should we loseThe game here, I for God: a soldier-beeThat yields his life, exenterate with the strokeO' the sting that saves the hive. I need that life.Oh, never fear! I 'll find life plenty useThough it should last five years more, aches and all!For, first thing, there 's the mother's age to help—Let her come break her heart upon my breast,Not on the blank stone of my nameless tomb!The fugitive brother has to be bidden backTo the old routine, repugnant to the tread,Of daily suit and service to the Church,—Through gibe and jest, those stones that Shimei flung!Ay, and the spirit-broken youth at home,The awe-struck altar-ministrant, shall makeAmends for faith now palsied at the source,Shall see truth yet triumphant, justice yetA victor in the battle of this world!Give me—for last, best gift—my son again,Whom law makes mine,—I take him at your word,Mine be he, by miraculous mercy, lords!Let me lift up his youth and innocenceTo purify my palace, room by roomPurged of the memories, lend from his bright browLight to the old proud paladin my sireShrunk now for shame into the darkest shadeO' the tapestry, showed him once and shrouds him now!Then may we,—strong from that rekindled smile,—Go forward, face new times, the better day.And when, in times made better through your braveDecision now,—might but Utopia be!—Rome rife with honest women and strong men,Manners reformed, old habits back once more,Customs that recognize the standard worth,—The wholesome household rule in force again,Husbands once more God's representative,Wives like the typical Spouse once more, and PriestsNo longer men of Belial, with no aimAt leading silly women captive, butOf rising to such duties as yours now,—Then will I set my son at my right-handAnd tell his father's story to this point,Adding, "The task seemed superhuman, stillI dared and did it, trusting God and law:And they approved of me: give praise to both!"And if, for answer, he shall stoop to kissMy hand, and peradventure start thereat,—I engage to smile, "That was an accidentI' the necessary process,—just a tripO' the torture-irons in their search for truth,—Hardly misfortune, and no fault at all."

Then I rose up like fire, and fire-like roared.

What, all is only beginning not ending now?

The worm which wormed its way from skin through flesh

To the bone and there lay biting, did its best,—

What, it goes on to scrape at the bone's self,

Will wind to inmost marrow and madden me?

There 's to be yet my representative,

Another of the name shall keep displayed

The flag with the ordure on it, brandish still

The broken sword has served to stir a jakes?

Who will he be, how will you call the man?

A Franceschini,—when who cut my purse,

Filched my name, hemmed me round, hustled me hard

As rogues at a fair some fool they strip i' the midst,

When these count gains, vaunt pillage presently:—

But a Caponsacchi, oh, be very sure!

When what demands its tribute of applause

Is the cunning and impudence o' the pair of cheats,

The lies and lust o' the mother, and the brave

Bold carriage of the priest, worthily crowned

By a witness to his feat i' the following age,—

And how this threefold cord could hook and fetch

And land leviathan that king of pride!

Or say, by some mad miracle of chance,

Is he indeed my flesh and blood, this babe?

Was it because fate forged a link at last

Betwixt my wife and me, and both alike

Found we had henceforth some one thing to love,

Was it when she could damn my soul indeed

She unlatched door, let all the devils o' the dark

Dance in on me to cover her escape?

Why then, the surplusage of disgrace, the spilth

Over and above the measure of infamy,

Failing to take effect on my coarse flesh

Seasoned with scorn now, saturate with shame,—

Is saved to instil on and corrode the brow,

The baby-softness of my first-born child—

The child I had died to see though in a dream,

The child I was bid strike out for, beat the wave

And baffle the tide of troubles where I swam,

So I might touch shore, lay down life at last

At the feet so dim and distant and divine

Of the apparition, as 't were Mary's babe

Had held, through night and storm, the torch aloft,—

Born now in very deed to bear this brand

On forehead and curse me who could not save!

Rather be the town-talk true, Square's jest, street's jeer

True, my own inmost heart's confession true,

And he the priest's bastard and none of mine!

Ay, there was cause for flight, swift flight and sure!

The husband gets unruly, breaks all bounds

When he encounters some familiar face,

Fashion of feature, brow and eyes and lips

Where he least looked to find them,—time to fly!

This bastard then, a nest for him is made,

As the manner is of vermin, in my flesh—

Shall I let the filthy pest buzz, flap and sting,

Busy at my vitals and, nor hand nor foot

Lift, but let be, lie still and rot resigned?

No, I appeal to God,—what says himself,

How lessons Nature when I look to learn?

Why, that I am alive, am still a man

With brain and heart and tongue and righthand too—

Nay, even with friends, in such a cause as this,

To right me if I fail to take my right.

No more of law; a voice beyond the law

Enters my heart,Quis est pro Domino?

Myself, in my own Vittiano, told the taleTo my own serving-people summoned there:Told the first half of it, scarce heard to endBy judges who got done with judgment quickAnd clamored to go execute her 'hest—Who cried, "Not one of us that dig your soilAnd dress your vineyard, prune your olive-trees,But would have brained the man debauched our wife,And staked the wife whose lust allured the man,And paunched the Duke, had it been possible,Who ruled the land, yet barred us such revenge!"I fixed on the first whose eyes caught mine, some fourResolute youngsters with the heart still fresh,Filled my purse with the residue o' the coinUncaught-up by my wife whom haste made blind,Donned the first rough and rural garb I found,Took whatsoever weapon came to hand,And out we flung and on we ran or reeledRomeward. I have no memory of our way,Only that, when at intervals the cloudOf horror about me opened to let in life,I listened to some song in the ear, some snatchOf a legend, relic of religion, strayFragment of record very strong and oldOf the first conscience, the anterior right,The God's-gift to mankind, impulse to quenchThe antagonistic spark of hell and treadSatan and all his malice into dust,Declare to the world the one law, right is right.Then the cloud re-encompassed me, and soI found myself, as on the wings of winds,Arrived: I was at Rome on Christmas Eve.

Myself, in my own Vittiano, told the tale

To my own serving-people summoned there:

Told the first half of it, scarce heard to end

By judges who got done with judgment quick

And clamored to go execute her 'hest—

Who cried, "Not one of us that dig your soil

And dress your vineyard, prune your olive-trees,

But would have brained the man debauched our wife,

And staked the wife whose lust allured the man,

And paunched the Duke, had it been possible,

Who ruled the land, yet barred us such revenge!"

I fixed on the first whose eyes caught mine, some four

Resolute youngsters with the heart still fresh,

Filled my purse with the residue o' the coin

Uncaught-up by my wife whom haste made blind,

Donned the first rough and rural garb I found,

Took whatsoever weapon came to hand,

And out we flung and on we ran or reeled

Romeward. I have no memory of our way,

Only that, when at intervals the cloud

Of horror about me opened to let in life,

I listened to some song in the ear, some snatch

Of a legend, relic of religion, stray

Fragment of record very strong and old

Of the first conscience, the anterior right,

The God's-gift to mankind, impulse to quench

The antagonistic spark of hell and tread

Satan and all his malice into dust,

Declare to the world the one law, right is right.

Then the cloud re-encompassed me, and so

I found myself, as on the wings of winds,

Arrived: I was at Rome on Christmas Eve.

Festive bells—everywhere the Feast o' the Babe,Joy upon earth, peace and good will to man!I am baptized. I started and let dropThe dagger. "Where is it, his promised peace?"Nine days o' the Birth-Feast did I pause and prayTo enter into no temptation more.I bore the hateful house, my brother's once,Deserted,—let the ghost of social joyMock and make mouths at me from empty roomAnd idle door that missed the master's step,—Bore the frank wonder of incredulous eyes,As my own people watched without a word,Waited, from where they huddled round the hearthBlack like all else, that nod so slow to come.I stopped my ears even to the inner callOf the dread duty, only heard the song"Peace upon earth," saw nothing but the faceO' the Holy Infant and the halo thereAble to cover yet another faceBehind it, Satan's which I else should see.But, day by day, joy waned and withered off:The Babe's face, premature with peak and pine,Sank into wrinkled ruinous old age,Suffering and death, then mist-like disappeared,And showed only the Cross at end of all,Left nothing more to interpose 'twixt meAnd the dread duty,—for the angels' song,"Peace upon earth," louder and louder pealed,"O Lord, how long, how long be unavenged?"On the ninth day, this grew too much for man.I started up—"Some end must be!" At once,Silence: then, scratching like a death-watch-tick,Slowly within my brain was syllabled,"One more concession, one decisive wayAnd but one, to determine thee the truth,—This way, in fine, I whisper in thy ear:Now doubt, anon decide, thereupon act!"

Festive bells—everywhere the Feast o' the Babe,

Joy upon earth, peace and good will to man!

I am baptized. I started and let drop

The dagger. "Where is it, his promised peace?"

Nine days o' the Birth-Feast did I pause and pray

To enter into no temptation more.

I bore the hateful house, my brother's once,

Deserted,—let the ghost of social joy

Mock and make mouths at me from empty room

And idle door that missed the master's step,—

Bore the frank wonder of incredulous eyes,

As my own people watched without a word,

Waited, from where they huddled round the hearth

Black like all else, that nod so slow to come.

I stopped my ears even to the inner call

Of the dread duty, only heard the song

"Peace upon earth," saw nothing but the face

O' the Holy Infant and the halo there

Able to cover yet another face

Behind it, Satan's which I else should see.

But, day by day, joy waned and withered off:

The Babe's face, premature with peak and pine,

Sank into wrinkled ruinous old age,

Suffering and death, then mist-like disappeared,

And showed only the Cross at end of all,

Left nothing more to interpose 'twixt me

And the dread duty,—for the angels' song,

"Peace upon earth," louder and louder pealed,

"O Lord, how long, how long be unavenged?"

On the ninth day, this grew too much for man.

I started up—"Some end must be!" At once,

Silence: then, scratching like a death-watch-tick,

Slowly within my brain was syllabled,

"One more concession, one decisive way

And but one, to determine thee the truth,—

This way, in fine, I whisper in thy ear:

Now doubt, anon decide, thereupon act!"

"That is a way, thou whisperest in my ear!I doubt, I will decide, then act," said I—Then beckoned my companions: "Time is come!"

"That is a way, thou whisperest in my ear!

I doubt, I will decide, then act," said I—

Then beckoned my companions: "Time is come!"

And so, all yet uncertain save the willTo do right, and the daring aught save leaveRight undone, I did find myself at lastI' the dark before the villa with my friends,And made the experiment, the final test,Ultimate chance that ever was to beFor the wretchedness inside. I knocked—pronouncedThe name, the predetermined touch for truth,"What welcome for the wanderer? Open straight—"To the friend, physician, friar upon his rounds,Traveller belated, beggar lame and blind?No, but—"to Caponsacchi!" And the doorOpened.And then,—why, even then, I think,I' the minute that confirmed my worst of fears,Surely,—I pray God that I think aright!—Had but Pompilia's self, the tender thingWho once was good and pure, was once my lambAnd lay in my bosom, had the well-known shapeFronted me in the doorway,—stood there faintWith the recent pang, perhaps, of giving birthTo what might, though by miracle, seem my child,—Nay more, I will say, had even the aged foolPietro, the dotard, in whom folly and ageWrought, more than enmity or malevolence,To practise and conspire against my peace,—Had either of these but opened, I had paused.But it was she the hag, she that brought hellFor a dowry with her to her husband's house,She the mock-mother, she that made the matchAnd married me to perdition, spring and sourceO' the fire inside me that boiled up from heartTo brain and hailed the Fury gave it birth,—Violante Comparini, she it was,With the old grin amid the wrinkles yet,Opened: as if in turning from the Cross,With trust to keep the sight and save my soul,I had stumbled, first thing, on the serpent's headCoiled with a leer at foot of it.There was the end!Then was I rapt away by the impulse, oneImmeasurable everlasting wave of a needTo abolish that detested life. 'T was done:You know the rest and how the folds o' the thing,Twisting for help, involved the other twoMore or less serpent-like: how I was mad,Blind, stamped on all, the earth-worms with the asp,And ended so.You came on me that night,Your officers of justice,—caught the crimeIn the first natural frenzy of remorse?Twenty miles off, sound sleeping as a childOn a cloak i' the straw which promised shelter first,With the bloody arms beside me,—was it not so?Wherefore not? Why, how else should I be found?I was my own self, had my sense again,My soul safe from the serpents. I could sleep:Indeed and, dear my lords, I shall sleep now,Spite of my shoulder, in five minutes' space,When you dismiss me, having truth enough!It is but a few days are passed, I find,Since this adventure. Do you tell me, four?Then the dead are scarce quiet where they lie,Old Pietro, old Violante, side by sideAt the church Lorenzo,—oh, they know it well!So do I. But my wife is still alive,Has breath enough to tell her story yet,Her way, which is not mine, no doubt at all.And Caponsacchi, you have summoned him,—Was he so far to send for? Not at hand?I thought some few o' the stabs were in his heart,Or had not been so lavish: less had served.Well, he too tells his story,—florid proseAs smooth as mine is rough. You see, my lords,There will be a lying intoxicating smokeBorn of the blood,—confusion probably,—For lies breed lies—but all that rests with you!The trial is no concern of mine; with meThe main of the care is over: I at leastRecognize who took that huge burden off,Let me begin to live again. I didGod's bidding and man's duty, so, breathe free;Look you to the rest! I heard Himself prescribe,That great Physician, and dared lance the coreOf the bad ulcer; and the rage abates,I am myself and whole now: I proved curedBy the eyes that see, the ears that hear again,The limbs that have relearned their youthful play,The healthy taste of food and feel of clothesAnd taking to our common life once more,All that now urges my defence from death.The willingness to live, what means it else?Before,—but let the very action speak!Judge for yourselves, what life seemed worth to meWho, not by proxy but in person, pitchedHead-foremost into danger as a foolThat never cares if he can swim or no—So he but find the bottom, braves the brook.No man omits precaution, quite neglectsSecrecy, safety, schemes not how retreat,Having schemed he might advance. Did I so scheme?Why, with a warrant which 't is ask and have,With horse thereby made mine without a word,I had gained the frontier and slept safe that night.Then, my companions,—call them what you please,Slave or stipendiary,—what need of oneTo me whose right-hand did its owner's work?Hire an assassin yet expose yourself?As well buy glove and then thrust naked handI' the thorn-bush. No, the wise man stays at home,Sends only agents out, with pay to earn:At home, when they come back,—he straight discardsOr else disowns. Why use such tools at allWhen a man's foes are of his house, like mine,Sit at his board, sleep in his bed? Why noise,When there 's theacquettaand the silent way?Clearly my life was valueless.

And so, all yet uncertain save the will

To do right, and the daring aught save leave

Right undone, I did find myself at last

I' the dark before the villa with my friends,

And made the experiment, the final test,

Ultimate chance that ever was to be

For the wretchedness inside. I knocked—pronounced

The name, the predetermined touch for truth,

"What welcome for the wanderer? Open straight—"

To the friend, physician, friar upon his rounds,

Traveller belated, beggar lame and blind?

No, but—"to Caponsacchi!" And the door

Opened.

And then,—why, even then, I think,

I' the minute that confirmed my worst of fears,

Surely,—I pray God that I think aright!—

Had but Pompilia's self, the tender thing

Who once was good and pure, was once my lamb

And lay in my bosom, had the well-known shape

Fronted me in the doorway,—stood there faint

With the recent pang, perhaps, of giving birth

To what might, though by miracle, seem my child,—

Nay more, I will say, had even the aged fool

Pietro, the dotard, in whom folly and age

Wrought, more than enmity or malevolence,

To practise and conspire against my peace,—

Had either of these but opened, I had paused.

But it was she the hag, she that brought hell

For a dowry with her to her husband's house,

She the mock-mother, she that made the match

And married me to perdition, spring and source

O' the fire inside me that boiled up from heart

To brain and hailed the Fury gave it birth,—

Violante Comparini, she it was,

With the old grin amid the wrinkles yet,

Opened: as if in turning from the Cross,

With trust to keep the sight and save my soul,

I had stumbled, first thing, on the serpent's head

Coiled with a leer at foot of it.

There was the end!

Then was I rapt away by the impulse, one

Immeasurable everlasting wave of a need

To abolish that detested life. 'T was done:

You know the rest and how the folds o' the thing,

Twisting for help, involved the other two

More or less serpent-like: how I was mad,

Blind, stamped on all, the earth-worms with the asp,

And ended so.

You came on me that night,

Your officers of justice,—caught the crime

In the first natural frenzy of remorse?

Twenty miles off, sound sleeping as a child

On a cloak i' the straw which promised shelter first,

With the bloody arms beside me,—was it not so?

Wherefore not? Why, how else should I be found?

I was my own self, had my sense again,

My soul safe from the serpents. I could sleep:

Indeed and, dear my lords, I shall sleep now,

Spite of my shoulder, in five minutes' space,

When you dismiss me, having truth enough!

It is but a few days are passed, I find,

Since this adventure. Do you tell me, four?

Then the dead are scarce quiet where they lie,

Old Pietro, old Violante, side by side

At the church Lorenzo,—oh, they know it well!

So do I. But my wife is still alive,

Has breath enough to tell her story yet,

Her way, which is not mine, no doubt at all.

And Caponsacchi, you have summoned him,—

Was he so far to send for? Not at hand?

I thought some few o' the stabs were in his heart,

Or had not been so lavish: less had served.

Well, he too tells his story,—florid prose

As smooth as mine is rough. You see, my lords,

There will be a lying intoxicating smoke

Born of the blood,—confusion probably,—

For lies breed lies—but all that rests with you!

The trial is no concern of mine; with me

The main of the care is over: I at least

Recognize who took that huge burden off,

Let me begin to live again. I did

God's bidding and man's duty, so, breathe free;

Look you to the rest! I heard Himself prescribe,

That great Physician, and dared lance the core

Of the bad ulcer; and the rage abates,

I am myself and whole now: I proved cured

By the eyes that see, the ears that hear again,

The limbs that have relearned their youthful play,

The healthy taste of food and feel of clothes

And taking to our common life once more,

All that now urges my defence from death.

The willingness to live, what means it else?

Before,—but let the very action speak!

Judge for yourselves, what life seemed worth to me

Who, not by proxy but in person, pitched

Head-foremost into danger as a fool

That never cares if he can swim or no—

So he but find the bottom, braves the brook.

No man omits precaution, quite neglects

Secrecy, safety, schemes not how retreat,

Having schemed he might advance. Did I so scheme?

Why, with a warrant which 't is ask and have,

With horse thereby made mine without a word,

I had gained the frontier and slept safe that night.

Then, my companions,—call them what you please,

Slave or stipendiary,—what need of one

To me whose right-hand did its owner's work?

Hire an assassin yet expose yourself?

As well buy glove and then thrust naked hand

I' the thorn-bush. No, the wise man stays at home,

Sends only agents out, with pay to earn:

At home, when they come back,—he straight discards

Or else disowns. Why use such tools at all

When a man's foes are of his house, like mine,

Sit at his board, sleep in his bed? Why noise,

When there 's theacquettaand the silent way?

Clearly my life was valueless.

But nowHealth is returned, and sanity of soulNowise indifferent to the body's harm.I find the instinct bids me save my life;My wits, too, rally round me; I pick upAnd use the arms that strewed the ground before,Unnoticed or spurned aside: I take my stand,Make my defence. God shall not lose a lifeMay do him further service, while I speakAnd you hear, you my judges and last hope!You are the law: 't is to the law I look.I began life by hanging to the law,To the law it is I hang till life shall end.My brother made appeal to the Pope, 't is true.To stay proceedings, judge my cause himselfNor trouble law,—some fondness of conceitThat rectitude, sagacity sufficedThe investigator in a case like mine,Dispensed with the machine of law. The PopeKnew better, set aside my brother's pleaAnd put me back to law,—referred the causeAd judices meos,—doubtlessly did well.Here, then, I clutch my judges,—I claim law—Cry, by the higher law whereof your lawO' the land is humbly representative,—Cry, on what point is it, where either accuse,I fail to furnish you defence? I standAcquitted, actually or virtually,By every intermediate kind of courtThat takes account of right or wrong in man,Each unit in the series that beginsWith God's throne, ends with the tribunal here.God breathes, not speaks, his verdicts, felt not heard,Passed on successively to each court I callMan's conscience, custom, manners, all that makeMore and more effort to promulgate, markGod's verdict in determinable words,Till last come human jurists—solidifyFluid result,—what's fixable lies forged,Statute,—the residue escapes in fume,Yet hangs aloft, a cloud, as palpableTo the finer sense as word the legist welds.Justinian's Pandects only make preciseWhat simply sparkled in men's eyes before,Twitched in their brow or quivered on their lip,Waited the speech they called but would not come.These courts then, whose decree your own confirms,—Take my whole life, not this last act alone,Look on it by the light reflected thence!What has Society to charge me with?Come, unreservedly,—favor none nor fear,—I am Guido Franceschini, am I not?You know the courses I was free to take?I took just that which let me serve the Church,I gave it all my labor in body and soulTill these broke down i' the service. "Specify?"Well, my last patron was a Cardinal.I left him unconvicted of a fault—Was even helped, by way of gratitude,Into the new life that I left him for,This very misery of the marriage,—heMade it, kind soul, so far as in him lay—Signed the deed where you yet may see his name.He is gone to his reward,—dead, being my friendWho could have helped here also,—that, of course!So far, there's my acquittal, I suppose.Then comes the marriage itself—no question, lords,Of the entire validity of that!In the extremity of distress, 't is true,For after-reasons, furnished abundantly,I wished the thing invalid, went to youOnly some months since, set you duly forthMy wrong and prayed your remedy, that a cheatShould not have force to cheat my whole life long."Annul a marriage? 'T is impossible!Though ring about your neck be brass not gold,Needs must it clasp, gangrene you all the same!"Well, let me have the benefit, just so far,O' the fact announced,—my wife then is my wife,I have allowance for a husband's right.I am charged with passing right's due bound,—such actsAs I thought just, my wife called cruelty,Complained of in due form,—convoked no courtOf common gossipry, but took her wrongs—And not once, but so long as patience served—To the town's top, jurisdiction's pride of place,To the Archbishop and the Governor.These heard her charge with my reply, and foundThat futile, this sufficient: they dismissedThe hysteric querulous rebel, and confirmedAuthority in its wholesome exercise,They, with directest access to the facts."—Ay, for it was their friendship favored you,Hereditary alliance against a breachI' the social order: prejudice for the nameOf Franceschini!"—So I hear it said:But not here. You, lords, never will you say"Such is the nullity of grace and truth,Such the corruption of the faith, such lapseOf law, such warrant have the MolinistsFor daring reprehend us as they do,—That we pronounce it just a common case,Two dignitaries, each in his degreeFirst, foremost, this the spiritual head, and thatThe secular arm o' the body politic,Should, for mere wrongs' love and injustice' sake,Side with, aid and abet in crueltyThis broken beggarly noble,—bribed perhapsBy his watered wine and mouldy crust of bread—Rather than that sweet tremulous flower-like wifeWho kissed their hands and curled about their feetLooking the irresistible lovelinessIn tears that takes man captive, turns" ... enough!Do you blast your predecessors? What forbidsPosterity to trebly blast yourselvesWho set the example and instruct their tongue?You dreaded the crowd, succumbed to the popular cry,Or else, would nowise seem defer theretoAnd yield to public clamor though i' the right!You ridded your eye of my unseemliness,The noble whose misfortune wearied you,—Or, what 's more probable, made common causeWith the cleric section, punished in myselfMaladroit uncomplaisant laity,Defective in behavior to a priestWho claimed the customary partnershipI' the house and the wife. Lords, any lie will serve!Look to it,—or allow me freed so far!Then I proceed a step, come with clean handsThus far, re-tell the tale told eight months since.The wife, you allow so far, I have not wronged,Has fled my roof, plundered me and decampedIn company with the priest her paramour:And I gave chase, came up with, caught the twoAt the wayside inn where both had spent the night,Found them in flagrant fault, and found as well,By documents with name and plan and date,The fault was furtive then that 's flagrant now,Their intercourse a long established crime.I did not take the license law's self givesTo slay both criminals o' the spot at the time,But held my hand,—preferred play prodigyOf patience which the world calls cowardice,Rather than seem anticipate the lawAnd cast discredit on its organs,—you.So, to your bar I brought both criminals,And made my statement: heard their countercharge,Nay,—their corroboration of my tale,Nowise disputing its allegements, notI' the main, not more than nature's decencyCompels men to keep silence in this kind,—Only contending that the deeds avowedWould take another color and bear excuse.You were to judge between us; so you did.You disregard the excuse, you breathe awayThe color of innocence and leave guilt black;"Guilty" is the decision of the court,And that I stand in consequence untouched,One white integrity from head to heel.Not guilty? Why then did you punish them?True, punishment has been inadequate—'T is not I only, not my friends that joke,My foes that jeer, who echo "inadequate"—For, by a chance that comes to help for once,The same case simultaneously was judgedAt Arezzo, in the province of the CourtWhere the crime had its beginning but not end.They then, deciding on but half o' the crime,The effraction, robbery,—features of the faultI never cared to dwell upon at Rome,—What was it they adjudged as penaltyTo Pompilia,—the one criminal o' the pairAmenable to their judgment, not the priestWho is Rome's? Why, just imprisonment for lifeI' the Stinche. There was Tuscany's awardTo a wife that robs her husband: you at Rome—Having to deal with adultery in a wifeAnd, in a priest, breach of the priestly vow—Give gentle sequestration for a monthIn a manageable Convent, then release,You call imprisonment, in the very houseO' the very couple, which the aim and endOf the culprits' crime was—just to reach and restAnd there take solace and defy me: well,—This difference 'twixt their penalty and yoursIs immaterial: make your penalty less—Merely that she should henceforth wear black glovesAnd white fan, she who wore the opposite—Why, all the same the fact o' the thing subsists.Reconcile to your conscience as you may,Be it on your own heads, you pronounced but halfO' the penalty for heinousness like hersAnd his, that pays a fault at CarnivalOf comfit-pelting past discretion's law,Or accident to handkerchief in LentWhich falls perversely as a lady kneelsAbruptly, and but half conceals her neck!I acquiesce for my part: punished, thoughBy a pin-point scratch, means guilty: guilty means—What have I been but innocent hitherto?Anyhow, here the offence, being punished, ends.

But now

Health is returned, and sanity of soul

Nowise indifferent to the body's harm.

I find the instinct bids me save my life;

My wits, too, rally round me; I pick up

And use the arms that strewed the ground before,

Unnoticed or spurned aside: I take my stand,

Make my defence. God shall not lose a life

May do him further service, while I speak

And you hear, you my judges and last hope!

You are the law: 't is to the law I look.

I began life by hanging to the law,

To the law it is I hang till life shall end.

My brother made appeal to the Pope, 't is true.

To stay proceedings, judge my cause himself

Nor trouble law,—some fondness of conceit

That rectitude, sagacity sufficed

The investigator in a case like mine,

Dispensed with the machine of law. The Pope

Knew better, set aside my brother's plea

And put me back to law,—referred the cause

Ad judices meos,—doubtlessly did well.

Here, then, I clutch my judges,—I claim law—

Cry, by the higher law whereof your law

O' the land is humbly representative,—

Cry, on what point is it, where either accuse,

I fail to furnish you defence? I stand

Acquitted, actually or virtually,

By every intermediate kind of court

That takes account of right or wrong in man,

Each unit in the series that begins

With God's throne, ends with the tribunal here.

God breathes, not speaks, his verdicts, felt not heard,

Passed on successively to each court I call

Man's conscience, custom, manners, all that make

More and more effort to promulgate, mark

God's verdict in determinable words,

Till last come human jurists—solidify

Fluid result,—what's fixable lies forged,

Statute,—the residue escapes in fume,

Yet hangs aloft, a cloud, as palpable

To the finer sense as word the legist welds.

Justinian's Pandects only make precise

What simply sparkled in men's eyes before,

Twitched in their brow or quivered on their lip,

Waited the speech they called but would not come.

These courts then, whose decree your own confirms,—

Take my whole life, not this last act alone,

Look on it by the light reflected thence!

What has Society to charge me with?

Come, unreservedly,—favor none nor fear,—

I am Guido Franceschini, am I not?

You know the courses I was free to take?

I took just that which let me serve the Church,

I gave it all my labor in body and soul

Till these broke down i' the service. "Specify?"

Well, my last patron was a Cardinal.

I left him unconvicted of a fault—

Was even helped, by way of gratitude,

Into the new life that I left him for,

This very misery of the marriage,—he

Made it, kind soul, so far as in him lay—

Signed the deed where you yet may see his name.

He is gone to his reward,—dead, being my friend

Who could have helped here also,—that, of course!

So far, there's my acquittal, I suppose.

Then comes the marriage itself—no question, lords,

Of the entire validity of that!

In the extremity of distress, 't is true,

For after-reasons, furnished abundantly,

I wished the thing invalid, went to you

Only some months since, set you duly forth

My wrong and prayed your remedy, that a cheat

Should not have force to cheat my whole life long.

"Annul a marriage? 'T is impossible!

Though ring about your neck be brass not gold,

Needs must it clasp, gangrene you all the same!"

Well, let me have the benefit, just so far,

O' the fact announced,—my wife then is my wife,

I have allowance for a husband's right.

I am charged with passing right's due bound,—such acts

As I thought just, my wife called cruelty,

Complained of in due form,—convoked no court

Of common gossipry, but took her wrongs—

And not once, but so long as patience served—

To the town's top, jurisdiction's pride of place,

To the Archbishop and the Governor.

These heard her charge with my reply, and found

That futile, this sufficient: they dismissed

The hysteric querulous rebel, and confirmed

Authority in its wholesome exercise,

They, with directest access to the facts.

"—Ay, for it was their friendship favored you,

Hereditary alliance against a breach

I' the social order: prejudice for the name

Of Franceschini!"—So I hear it said:

But not here. You, lords, never will you say

"Such is the nullity of grace and truth,

Such the corruption of the faith, such lapse

Of law, such warrant have the Molinists

For daring reprehend us as they do,—

That we pronounce it just a common case,

Two dignitaries, each in his degree

First, foremost, this the spiritual head, and that

The secular arm o' the body politic,

Should, for mere wrongs' love and injustice' sake,

Side with, aid and abet in cruelty

This broken beggarly noble,—bribed perhaps

By his watered wine and mouldy crust of bread—

Rather than that sweet tremulous flower-like wife

Who kissed their hands and curled about their feet

Looking the irresistible loveliness

In tears that takes man captive, turns" ... enough!

Do you blast your predecessors? What forbids

Posterity to trebly blast yourselves

Who set the example and instruct their tongue?

You dreaded the crowd, succumbed to the popular cry,

Or else, would nowise seem defer thereto

And yield to public clamor though i' the right!

You ridded your eye of my unseemliness,

The noble whose misfortune wearied you,—

Or, what 's more probable, made common cause

With the cleric section, punished in myself

Maladroit uncomplaisant laity,

Defective in behavior to a priest

Who claimed the customary partnership

I' the house and the wife. Lords, any lie will serve!

Look to it,—or allow me freed so far!

Then I proceed a step, come with clean hands

Thus far, re-tell the tale told eight months since.

The wife, you allow so far, I have not wronged,

Has fled my roof, plundered me and decamped

In company with the priest her paramour:

And I gave chase, came up with, caught the two

At the wayside inn where both had spent the night,

Found them in flagrant fault, and found as well,

By documents with name and plan and date,

The fault was furtive then that 's flagrant now,

Their intercourse a long established crime.

I did not take the license law's self gives

To slay both criminals o' the spot at the time,

But held my hand,—preferred play prodigy

Of patience which the world calls cowardice,

Rather than seem anticipate the law

And cast discredit on its organs,—you.

So, to your bar I brought both criminals,

And made my statement: heard their countercharge,

Nay,—their corroboration of my tale,

Nowise disputing its allegements, not

I' the main, not more than nature's decency

Compels men to keep silence in this kind,—

Only contending that the deeds avowed

Would take another color and bear excuse.

You were to judge between us; so you did.

You disregard the excuse, you breathe away

The color of innocence and leave guilt black;

"Guilty" is the decision of the court,

And that I stand in consequence untouched,

One white integrity from head to heel.

Not guilty? Why then did you punish them?

True, punishment has been inadequate—

'T is not I only, not my friends that joke,

My foes that jeer, who echo "inadequate"—

For, by a chance that comes to help for once,

The same case simultaneously was judged

At Arezzo, in the province of the Court

Where the crime had its beginning but not end.

They then, deciding on but half o' the crime,

The effraction, robbery,—features of the fault

I never cared to dwell upon at Rome,—

What was it they adjudged as penalty

To Pompilia,—the one criminal o' the pair

Amenable to their judgment, not the priest

Who is Rome's? Why, just imprisonment for life

I' the Stinche. There was Tuscany's award

To a wife that robs her husband: you at Rome—

Having to deal with adultery in a wife

And, in a priest, breach of the priestly vow—

Give gentle sequestration for a month

In a manageable Convent, then release,

You call imprisonment, in the very house

O' the very couple, which the aim and end

Of the culprits' crime was—just to reach and rest

And there take solace and defy me: well,—

This difference 'twixt their penalty and yours

Is immaterial: make your penalty less—

Merely that she should henceforth wear black gloves

And white fan, she who wore the opposite—

Why, all the same the fact o' the thing subsists.

Reconcile to your conscience as you may,

Be it on your own heads, you pronounced but half

O' the penalty for heinousness like hers

And his, that pays a fault at Carnival

Of comfit-pelting past discretion's law,

Or accident to handkerchief in Lent

Which falls perversely as a lady kneels

Abruptly, and but half conceals her neck!

I acquiesce for my part: punished, though

By a pin-point scratch, means guilty: guilty means

—What have I been but innocent hitherto?

Anyhow, here the offence, being punished, ends.

Ends?—for you deemed so, did you not, sweet lords?That was throughout the veritable aimO' the sentence light or heavy,—to redressRecognized wrong? You righted me, I think?Well then,—what if I, at this last of all,Demonstrate you, as my whole pleading proves,No particle of wrong received therebyOne atom of right?—that cure grew worse disease?That in the process you call "justice done"All along you have nipped away just inchBy inch the creeping climbing length of plagueBreaking my tree of life from root to branch,And left me, after all and every actOf your interference,—lightened of what load?At liberty wherein? Mere words and wind!"Now I was saved, now I should feel no moreThe hot breath, find a respite from fixed eyeAnd vibrant tongue!" Why, scarce your back was turned,There was the reptile, that feigned death at first,Renewing its detested spire and spireAround me, rising to such heights of hateThat, so far from mere purpose now to crushAnd coil itself on the remains of me,Body and mind, and there flesh fang content,Its aim is now to evoke life from death,Make me anew, satisfy in my sonThe hunger I may feed but never sate,Tormented on to perpetuity—My son, whom dead, I shall know, understand,Feel, hear, see, never more escape the sightIn heaven that 's turned to hell, or hell returned(So rather say) to this same earth again,—Moulded into the image and made one,Fashioned of soul as featured like in face,First taught to laugh and lisp and stand and goBy that thief, poisoner and adulteressI call Pompilia, he calls ... sacred name,Be unpronounced, be unpolluted here!And last led up to the glory and prize of hateBy his ... foster-father, Caponsacchi's self,The perjured priest, pink of conspirators,Tricksters and knaves, yet polished, superfine,Manhood to model adolescence by!Lords, look on me, declare,—when, what I show,Is nothing more nor less than what you deemedAnd doled me out for justice,—what did you say?For reparation, restitution and more,—Will you not thank, praise, bid me to your breastsFor having done the thing you thought to do,And thoroughly trampled out sin's life at last?I have heightened phrase to make your soft speech serve,Doubled the blow you but essayed to strike,Carried into effect your mandate hereThat else had fallen to ground: mere duty done.Oversight of the master just suppliedBy zeal i' the servant. I, being used to serve,Have simply ... what is it they charge me with?Blackened again, made legible once moreYour own decree, not permanently writ,Rightly conceived but all too faintly traced.It reads efficient, now, comminatory,A terror to the wicked, answers soThe mood o' the magistrate, the mind of law.Absolve, then, me, law's mere executant!Protect your own defender,—save me, Sirs!Give me my life, give me my liberty,My good name and my civic rights again!It would be too fond, too complacent playInto the hands o' the devil, should we loseThe game here, I for God: a soldier-beeThat yields his life, exenterate with the strokeO' the sting that saves the hive. I need that life.Oh, never fear! I 'll find life plenty useThough it should last five years more, aches and all!For, first thing, there 's the mother's age to help—Let her come break her heart upon my breast,Not on the blank stone of my nameless tomb!The fugitive brother has to be bidden backTo the old routine, repugnant to the tread,Of daily suit and service to the Church,—Through gibe and jest, those stones that Shimei flung!Ay, and the spirit-broken youth at home,The awe-struck altar-ministrant, shall makeAmends for faith now palsied at the source,Shall see truth yet triumphant, justice yetA victor in the battle of this world!Give me—for last, best gift—my son again,Whom law makes mine,—I take him at your word,Mine be he, by miraculous mercy, lords!Let me lift up his youth and innocenceTo purify my palace, room by roomPurged of the memories, lend from his bright browLight to the old proud paladin my sireShrunk now for shame into the darkest shadeO' the tapestry, showed him once and shrouds him now!Then may we,—strong from that rekindled smile,—Go forward, face new times, the better day.And when, in times made better through your braveDecision now,—might but Utopia be!—Rome rife with honest women and strong men,Manners reformed, old habits back once more,Customs that recognize the standard worth,—The wholesome household rule in force again,Husbands once more God's representative,Wives like the typical Spouse once more, and PriestsNo longer men of Belial, with no aimAt leading silly women captive, butOf rising to such duties as yours now,—Then will I set my son at my right-handAnd tell his father's story to this point,Adding, "The task seemed superhuman, stillI dared and did it, trusting God and law:And they approved of me: give praise to both!"And if, for answer, he shall stoop to kissMy hand, and peradventure start thereat,—I engage to smile, "That was an accidentI' the necessary process,—just a tripO' the torture-irons in their search for truth,—Hardly misfortune, and no fault at all."

Ends?—for you deemed so, did you not, sweet lords?

That was throughout the veritable aim

O' the sentence light or heavy,—to redress

Recognized wrong? You righted me, I think?

Well then,—what if I, at this last of all,

Demonstrate you, as my whole pleading proves,

No particle of wrong received thereby

One atom of right?—that cure grew worse disease?

That in the process you call "justice done"

All along you have nipped away just inch

By inch the creeping climbing length of plague

Breaking my tree of life from root to branch,

And left me, after all and every act

Of your interference,—lightened of what load?

At liberty wherein? Mere words and wind!

"Now I was saved, now I should feel no more

The hot breath, find a respite from fixed eye

And vibrant tongue!" Why, scarce your back was turned,

There was the reptile, that feigned death at first,

Renewing its detested spire and spire

Around me, rising to such heights of hate

That, so far from mere purpose now to crush

And coil itself on the remains of me,

Body and mind, and there flesh fang content,

Its aim is now to evoke life from death,

Make me anew, satisfy in my son

The hunger I may feed but never sate,

Tormented on to perpetuity—

My son, whom dead, I shall know, understand,

Feel, hear, see, never more escape the sight

In heaven that 's turned to hell, or hell returned

(So rather say) to this same earth again,—

Moulded into the image and made one,

Fashioned of soul as featured like in face,

First taught to laugh and lisp and stand and go

By that thief, poisoner and adulteress

I call Pompilia, he calls ... sacred name,

Be unpronounced, be unpolluted here!

And last led up to the glory and prize of hate

By his ... foster-father, Caponsacchi's self,

The perjured priest, pink of conspirators,

Tricksters and knaves, yet polished, superfine,

Manhood to model adolescence by!

Lords, look on me, declare,—when, what I show,

Is nothing more nor less than what you deemed

And doled me out for justice,—what did you say?

For reparation, restitution and more,—

Will you not thank, praise, bid me to your breasts

For having done the thing you thought to do,

And thoroughly trampled out sin's life at last?

I have heightened phrase to make your soft speech serve,

Doubled the blow you but essayed to strike,

Carried into effect your mandate here

That else had fallen to ground: mere duty done.

Oversight of the master just supplied

By zeal i' the servant. I, being used to serve,

Have simply ... what is it they charge me with?

Blackened again, made legible once more

Your own decree, not permanently writ,

Rightly conceived but all too faintly traced.

It reads efficient, now, comminatory,

A terror to the wicked, answers so

The mood o' the magistrate, the mind of law.

Absolve, then, me, law's mere executant!

Protect your own defender,—save me, Sirs!

Give me my life, give me my liberty,

My good name and my civic rights again!

It would be too fond, too complacent play

Into the hands o' the devil, should we lose

The game here, I for God: a soldier-bee

That yields his life, exenterate with the stroke

O' the sting that saves the hive. I need that life.

Oh, never fear! I 'll find life plenty use

Though it should last five years more, aches and all!

For, first thing, there 's the mother's age to help—

Let her come break her heart upon my breast,

Not on the blank stone of my nameless tomb!

The fugitive brother has to be bidden back

To the old routine, repugnant to the tread,

Of daily suit and service to the Church,—

Through gibe and jest, those stones that Shimei flung!

Ay, and the spirit-broken youth at home,

The awe-struck altar-ministrant, shall make

Amends for faith now palsied at the source,

Shall see truth yet triumphant, justice yet

A victor in the battle of this world!

Give me—for last, best gift—my son again,

Whom law makes mine,—I take him at your word,

Mine be he, by miraculous mercy, lords!

Let me lift up his youth and innocence

To purify my palace, room by room

Purged of the memories, lend from his bright brow

Light to the old proud paladin my sire

Shrunk now for shame into the darkest shade

O' the tapestry, showed him once and shrouds him now!

Then may we,—strong from that rekindled smile,—

Go forward, face new times, the better day.

And when, in times made better through your brave

Decision now,—might but Utopia be!—

Rome rife with honest women and strong men,

Manners reformed, old habits back once more,

Customs that recognize the standard worth,—

The wholesome household rule in force again,

Husbands once more God's representative,

Wives like the typical Spouse once more, and Priests

No longer men of Belial, with no aim

At leading silly women captive, but

Of rising to such duties as yours now,—

Then will I set my son at my right-hand

And tell his father's story to this point,

Adding, "The task seemed superhuman, still

I dared and did it, trusting God and law:

And they approved of me: give praise to both!"

And if, for answer, he shall stoop to kiss

My hand, and peradventure start thereat,—

I engage to smile, "That was an accident

I' the necessary process,—just a trip

O' the torture-irons in their search for truth,—

Hardly misfortune, and no fault at all."

Back to Index Next