Chapter 76

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—So things disguise themselves,—I cannot seeMy own hand held thus broad before my faceAnd know it again. Answer you? Then that meansTell over twice what I, the first time, toldSix months ago: 't was here, I do believe,Fronting you same three in this very room,I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,Who then ... nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,As good as laugh, what in a judge we styleLaughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,The titter stifled in the hollow palmWhich rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!Well, he can say no other than what he says.We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!Let him but decently disembroil himself,Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!"And now you sit as grave, stare as aghastAs if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—"Counsel the Court in this extremity,Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,I got the jocular piece of punishment,Was sent to lounge a little in the placeWhence now of a sudden here you summon meTo take the intelligence from just—your lips!You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—That she I helped eight months since to escapeHer husband, was retaken by the same,Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—(I being disallowed to interfere,Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,For you and law were guardians quite enoughO' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—And that he has butchered her accordingly,As she foretold and as myself believed,—And, so foretelling and believing so,We were punished, both of us, the merry way:Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?Pompilia is only dying while I speak!Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?My masters, there 's an old book, you should conFor strange adventures, applicable yet,'T is stuffed with. Do you know that there was onceThis thing: a multitude of worthy folkTook recreation, watched a certain groupOf soldiery intent upon a game,—How first they wrangled, but soon fell to play,Threw dice,—the best diversion in the world.A word in your ear,—they are now casting lots,Ay, with that gesture quaint and cry uncouth,For the coat of One murdered an hour ago!I am a priest,—talk of what I have learned.Pompilia is bleeding out her life belike,Gasping away the latest breath of all,This minute, while I talk—not while you laugh.Yet, being sobered now, what is it you askBy way of explanation? There 's the fact!It seems to fill the universe with sightAnd sound,—from the four corners of this earthTells itself over, to my sense at least.But you may want it lower set i' the scale,—Too vast, too close it clangs in the ear, perhaps;You 'd stand back just to comprehend it more.Well then, let me, the hollow rock, condenseThe voice o' the sea and wind, interpret youThe mystery of this murder. God above!It is too paltry, such a transferenceO' the storm's roar to the cranny of the stone!This deed, you saw begin—why does its endSurprise you? Why should the event enforceThe lesson, we ourselves learned, she and I,From the first o' the fact, and taught you, all in vain?This Guido from whose throat you took my grasp,Was this man to be favored, now, or feared,Let do his will, or have his will restrained,In the relation with Pompilia?—say!Did any other man need interpose—Oh, though first comer, though as strange at the workAs fribble must be, coxcomb, fool that 's nearTo knave as, say, a priest who fears the world—Was he bound brave the peril, save the doomed,Or go on, sing his snatch and pluck his flower,Keep the straight path and let the victim die?I held so; you decided otherwise,Saw no such peril, therefore no such needTo stop song, loosen flower, and leave path. Law,Law was aware and watching, would suffice,Wanted no priest's intrusion, palpablyPretence, too manifest a subterfuge!Whereupon I, priest, coxcomb, fribble and fool,Ensconced me in my corner, thus rebuked,A kind of culprit, over-zealous houndKicked for his pains to kennel; I gave placeTo you, and let the law reign paramount:I left Pompilia to your watch and ward,And now you point me—there and thus she lies!Men, for the last time, what do you want with me?Is it,—you acknowledge, as it were, a use,A profit in employing me?—at lengthI may conceivably help the august law?I am free to break the blow, next hawk that swoopsOn next dove, nor miss much of good repute?Or what if this your summons, after all,Be but the form of mere release, no more,Which turns the key and lets the captive go?I have paid enough in person at Civita,Am free,—what more need I concern me with?Thank you! I am rehabilitated then,A very reputable priest. But she—The glory of life, the beauty of the world,The splendor of heaven, ... well, Sirs, does no one move?Do I speak ambiguously? The glory, I say,And the beauty, I say, and splendor, still say I,Who, priest and trained to live my whole life longOn beauty and splendor, solely at their source,God,—have thus recognized my food in her,You tell me, that 's fast dying while we talk,Pompilia! How does lenity to meRemit one death-bed pang to her? Come, smile!The proper wink at the hot-headed youthWho lets his soul show, through transparent words,The mundane love that's sin and scandal too!You are all struck acquiescent now, it seems:It seems the oldest, gravest signor here,Even the redoubtable Tommati, sitsChopfallen,—understands how law might takeService like mine, of brain and heart and hand,In good part. Better late than never, law!You understand of a sudden, gospel tooHas a claim here, may possibly pronounceConsistent with my priesthood, worthy Christ,That I endeavored to save Pompilia?Then,You were wrong, you see: that 's well to see, though late:That 's all we may expect of man, this sideThe grave: his good is—knowing he is bad:Thus will it be with us when the books opeAnd we stand at the bar on judgment-day.Well then, I have a mind to speak, see causeTo relume the quenched flax by this dreadful light,Burn my soul out in showing you the truth.I heard, last time I stood here to be judged,What is priest's-duty,—labor to pluck taresAnd weed the corn of Molinism; let meMake you hear, this time, how, in such a case,Man, be he in the priesthood or at plough,Mindful of Christ or marching step by stepWith ... what 's his style, the other potentateWho bids have courage and keep honor safe,Nor let minuter admonition tease?—How he is bound, better or worse, to act.Earth will not end through this misjudgment, no!For you and the others like you sure to come,Fresh work is sure to follow,—wickednessThat wants withstanding. Many a man of blood,Many a man of guile will clamor yet,Bid you redress his grievance,—as he clutchedThe prey, forsooth a stranger stepped between,And there 's the good gripe in pure waste! My partIs done; i' the doing it, I pass awayOut of the world. I want no more with earth.Let me, in heaven's name, use the very snuffO' the taper in one last spark shall show truthFor a moment, show Pompilia who was true!Not for her sake, but yours: if she is dead,Oh, Sirs, she can be loved by none of youMost or least priestly! Saints, to do us good,Must be in heaven, I seem to understand:We never find them saints before, at least.Be her first prayer then presently for you—She has done the good to me ...What is all this?There, I was born, have lived, shall die, a fool!This is a foolish outset:—might with causeGive color to the very lie o' the man,The murderer,—make as if I loved his wifeIn the way he called love. He is the fool there!Why, had there been in me the touch of taint,I had picked up so much of knaves'-policyAs hide it, keep one hand pressed on the placeSuspected of a spot would damn us both.Or no, not her!—not even if any of youDares think that I, i' the face of death, her deathThat 's in my eyes and ears and brain and heart,Lie,—if he does, let him! I mean to say,So he stop there, stay thought from smirching herThe snow-white soul that angels fear to takeUntenderly. But, all the same, I knowI too am taintless, and I bare my breast.You can't think, men as you are, all of you,But that, to hear thus suddenly such an endOf such a wonderful white soul, that comesOf a man and murderer calling the white black,Must shake me, trouble and disadvantage. Sirs,Only seventeen!Why, good and wise you are!You might at the beginning stop my mouth:So, none would be to speak for her, that knew.I talk impertinently, and you bear,All the same. This it is to have to doWith honest hearts: they easily may err,But in the main they wish well to the truth.You are Christians; somehow, no one ever pluckedA rag, even, from the body of the Lord,To wear and mock with, but, despite himself,He looked the greater and was the better. Yes,I shall go on now. Does she need or notI keep calm? Calm I 'll keep as monk that croonsTranscribing battle, earthquake, famine, plague,From parchment to his cloister's chronicle.Not one word more from the point now!I begin.Yes, I am one of your body and a priest.Also I am a younger son o' the HouseOldest now, greatest once, in my birth-townArezzo, I recognize no equal there—(I want all arguments, all sorts of armsThat seem to serve,—use this for a reason, wait!)Not therefore thrust into the Church, becauseO' the piece of bread one gets there. We were firstOf Fiesole, that rings still with the fameOf Capo-in-Sacco our progenitor:When Florence ruined Fiesole, our folkMigrated to the victor-city, and thereFlourished,—our palace and our tower attest,In the Old Mercato,—this was years ago,Four hundred, full,—no, it wants fourteen just.Our arms are those of Fiesole itself,The shield quartered with white and red: a branchAre the Salviati of us, nothing more.That were good help to the Church? But better still—Not simply for the advantage of my birthI' the way of the world, was I proposed for priest;But because there 's an illustration, lateI' the day, that 's loved and looked to as a saintStill in Arezzo, he was bishop of,Sixty years since: he spent to the last doitHis bishop's-revenue among the poor,And used to tend the needy and the sick,Barefoot, because of his humility.He it was,—when the Granduke FerdinandSwore he would raze our city, plough the placeAnd sow it with salt, because we AretinesHad tied a rope about the neck, to haleThe statue of his father from its baseFor hate's sake,—he availed by prayers and tearsTo pacify the Duke and save the town.This was my father's father's brother. You see,For his sake, how it was I had a rightTo the selfsame office, bishop in the egg,So, grew i' the garb and prattled in the school,Was made expect, from infancy almost,The proper mood o' the priest; till time ran byAnd brought the day when I must read the vows,Declare the world renounced, and undertakeTo become priest and leave probation,—leapOver the ledge into the other life,Having gone trippingly hitherto up to the heightO'er the wan water. Just a vow to read!I stopped short awe-struck. "How shall holiest fleshEngage to keep such vow inviolate,How much less mine? I know myself too weak,Unworthy! Choose a worthier stronger man!"And the very Bishop smiled and stopped my mouthIn its mid-protestation. "Incapable?Qualmish of conscience? Thou ingenuous boy!Clear up the clouds and cast thy scruples far!I satisfy thee there 's an easier senseWherein to take such vow than suits the firstRough rigid reading. Mark what makes all smooth,Nay, has been even a solace to myself!The Jews who needs must, in their synagogue,Utter sometimes the holy name of God,A thing their superstition boggles at,Pronounce aloud the ineffable sacrosanct,—How does their shrewdness help them? In this wise;Another set of sounds they substitute,Jumble so consonants and vowels—howShould I know?—that there grows from out the oldQuite a new word that means the very same—And o'er the hard place slide they with a smile.Giuseppe Maria Caponsacchi mine,Nobody wants you in these latter daysTo prop the Church by breaking your backbone,—As the necessary way was once, we know,When Diocletian flourished and his like.That building of the buttress-work was doneBy martyrs and confessors: let it bide,Add not a brick, but, where you see a chink,Stick in a sprig of ivy or root a roseShall make amends and beautify the pile!We profit as you were the painfullestO' the martyrs, and you prove yourself a matchFor the cruellest confessor ever was,If you march boldly up and take your standWhere their blood soaks, their bones yet strew the soil,And cry 'Take notice, I the young and freeAnd well-to-do i' the world, thus leave the world,Cast in my lot thus with no gay young worldBut the grand old Church: she tempts me of the two!'Renounce the world? Nay, keep and give it us!Let us have you, and boast of what you bring.We want the pick o' the earth to practise with,Not its offscouring, halt and deaf and blindIn soul and body. There 's a rubble-stoneUnfit for the front o' the building, stuff to stowIn a gap behind and keep us weather-tight;There 's porphyry for the prominent place. Good lack!Saint Paul has had enough and to spare, I trow,Of ragged runaway Onesimus:He wants the right-hand with the signet-ringOf King Agrippa, now, to shake and use.I have a heavy scholar cloistered up,Close under lock and key, kept at his taskOf letting Fénelon know the fool he is,In a book I promise Christendom next Spring.Why, if he covets so much meat, the clown,As a lark's wing next Friday, or, any day,Diversion beyond catching his own fleas,He shall be properly swinged, I promise him.But you, who are so quite another pasteOf a man,—do you obey me? CultivateAssiduous that superior gift you haveOf making madrigals—(who told me? Ah!)Get done a Marinesque Adoniad straightWith a pulse o' the blood a-pricking, here and there,That I may tell the lady, 'And he 's ours!'"So I became a priest: those terms changed all,I was good enough for that, nor cheated so;I could live thus and still hold head erect.Now you see why I may have been beforeA fribble and coxcomb, yet, as priest, break wordNowise, to make you disbelieve me now.I need that you should know my truth. Well, then,According to prescription did I live,—Conformed myself, both read the breviaryAnd wrote the rhymes, was punctual to my placeI' the Pieve, and as diligent at my postWhere beauty and fashion rule. I throve apace,Sub-deacon, Canon, the authorityFor delicate play at tarocs, and arbiterO' the magnitude of fan-mounts: all the whileWanting no whit the advantage of a hintBenignant to the promising pupil,—thus:"Enough attention to the Countess now,The young one; 't is her mother rules the roast,We know where, and puts in a word: go payDevoir to-morrow morning after mass!Break that rash promise to preach, Passion-week!Has it escaped you the Archbishop gruntsAnd snuffles when one grieves to tell his GraceNo soul dares treat the subject of the daySince his own masterly handling it (ha, ha!)Five years ago,—when somebody could helpAnd touch up an odd phrase in time of need,(He, he!)—and somebody helps you, my son!Therefore, don't prove so indispensableAt the Pieve, sit more loose i' the seat, nor growA fixture by attendance morn and eve!Arezzo 's just a haven midway Rome—Rome 's the eventual harbor,—make for port,Crowd sail, crack cordage! And your cargo beA polished presence, a genteel manner, witAt will, and tact at every pore of you!I sent our lump of learning, Brother Clout,And Father Slouch, our piece of piety,To see Rome and try suit the Cardinal.Thither they clump-clumped, beads and book in hand,And ever since 't is meat for man and maidHow both flopped down, prayed blessing on bent pateBald many an inch beyond the tonsure's need,Never once dreaming, the two moony dolts,There 's nothing moves his Eminence so muchAs—far from all this awe at sanctitude—Heads that wag, eyes that twinkle, modified mirthAt the closet-lectures on the Latin tongueA lady learns so much by, we know where.Why, body o' Bacchus, you should crave his ruleFor pauses in the elegiac couplet, chasmsPermissible only to Catullus! There!Now go to duty: brisk, break Priscian's headBy reading the day's office—there 's no help.You 've Ovid in your poke to plaster that;Amen 's at the end of all: then sup with me!"Well, after three or four years of this life,In prosecution of my calling, IFound myself at the theatre one nightWith a brother Canon, in a mood and mindProper enough for the place, amused or no:When I saw enter, stand, and seat herselfA lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange and sad.It was as when, in our cathedral once,As I got yawningly through matin-song,I sawfacchinibear a burden up,Base it on the high-altar, break awayA board or two, and leave the thing insideLofty and lone: and lo, when next I looked,There was the Rafael! I was still one stare,When—"Nay, I 'll make her give you back your gaze"—Said Canon Conti; and at the word he tossedA paper-twist of comfits to her lap,And dodged and in a trice was at my backNodding from over my shoulder. Then she turned,Looked our way, smiled the beautiful sad strange smile."Is not she fair? 'T is my new cousin," said he:"The fellow lurking there i' the black o' the boxIs Guido, the old scapegrace: she 's his wife,Married three years since: how his Countship sulks!He has brought little back from Rome beside,After the bragging, bullying. A fair face,And—they do say—a pocketful of goldWhen he can worry both her parents dead.I don't go much there, for the chamber 's coldAnd the coffee pale. I got a turn at firstPaying my duty: I observed they crouched—The two old frightened family spectres—closeIn a corner, each on each like mouse on mouseI' the cat's cage: ever since, I stay at home.Hallo, there 's Guido, the black, mean and small,Bends his brows on us—please to bend your ownOn the shapely nether limbs of Light-skirts thereBy way of a diversion! I was a foolTo fling the sweetmeats. Prudence, for God's love!To-morrow I 'll make my peace, e'en tell some fib,Try if I can't find means to take you there."That night and next day did the gaze endure,Burnt to my brain, as sunbeam through shut eyes,And not once changed the beautiful sad strange smile.At vespers Conti leaned beside my seatI' the choir,—part said, part sung—"In ex-cel-sis—All 's to no purpose; I have louted low,But he saw you staring—quia sub—don't inclineTo know you nearer; him we would not holdFor Hercules,—the man would lick your shoeIf you and certain efficacious friendsManaged him warily,—but there 's the wife:Spare her, because he beats her, as it is,She 's breaking her heart quite fast enough—jam tu—So, be you rational and make amendsWith little Light-skirts yonder—in seculaSecu-lo-o-o-o-rum. Ah, you rogue! Every one knowsWhat great dame she makes jealous: one against one,Play, and win both!"Sirs, ere the week was out,I saw and said to myself, "Light-skirts hides teethWould make a dog sick,—the great dame shows spiteShould drive a cat mad: 't is but poor work this—Counting one's fingers till the sonnet 's crowned.I doubt much if Marino really beA better bard than Dante after all.'T is more amusing to go pace at eveI' the Duomo,—watch the day's last gleam outsideTurn, as into a skirt of God's own robe,Those lancet-windows' jewelled miracle,—Than go eat the Archbishop's ortolans,Digest his jokes. Luckily Lent is near:Who cares to look will find me in my stallAt the Pieve, constant to this faith at least—Never to write a canzonet any more."So, next week, 't was my patron spoke abrupt,In altered guise, "Young man, can it be trueThat after all your promise of sound fruit,You have kept away from Countess young or oldAnd gone play truant in church all day long?Are you turning Molinist?" I answered quick:"Sir, what if I turned Christian? It might be.The fact is, I am troubled in my mind,Beset and pressed hard by some novel thoughts.This your Arezzo is a limited world;There 's a strange Pope,—'t is said, a priest who thinks.Rome is the port, you say: to Rome I go.I will live alone, one does so in a crowd,And look into my heart a little." "LentEnded,"—I told friends,—"I shall go to Rome."One evening I was sitting in a museOver the opened "Summa," darkened roundBy the mid-March twilight, thinking how my lifeHad shaken under me,—broke short indeedAnd showed the gap 'twixt what is, what should be,—And into what abysm the soul may slip,Leave aspiration here, achievement there,Lacking omnipotence to connect extremes—Thinking moreover ... oh, thinking, if you like,How utterly dissociated was IA priest and celibate, from the sad strange wifeOf Guido,—just as an instance to the point,Naught more,—how I had a whole store of strengthsEating into my heart, which craved employ,And she, perhaps, need of a finger's help,—And yet there was no way in the wide worldTo stretch out mine and so relieve myself,—How when the page o' the "Summa" preached its best,Her smile kept glowing out of it, as to mockThe silence we could break by no one word,—There came a tap without the chamber-door,And a whisper, when I bade who tapped speak out,And, in obedience to my summons, lastIn glided a masked muffled mystery,Laid lightly a letter on the opened book,Then stood with folded arms and foot demure,Pointing as if to mark the minutes' flight.I took the letter, read to the effectThat she, I lately flung the comfits to,Had a warm heart to give me in exchange,And gave it,—loved me and confessed it thus,And bade me render thanks by word of mouth,Going that night to such a side o' the houseWhere the small terrace overhangs a streetBlind and deserted, not the street in front:Her husband being away, the surly patch,At his villa of Vittiano."And you?"—I asked:"What may you be?" "Count Guido's kind of maid—Most of us have two functions in his house.We all hate him, the lady suffers much,'T is just we show compassion, furnish help,Specially since her choice is fixed so well.What answer may I bring to cheer the sweetPompilia?"Then I took a pen and wrote:"No more of this! That you are fair, I know:But other thoughts now occupy my mind.I should not thus have played the insensibleOnce on a time. What made you—may one ask—Marry your hideous husband? 'T was a fault,And now you taste the fruit of it. Farewell.""There!" smiled I as she snatched it and was gone—"There, let the jealous miscreant,—Guido's self,Whose mean soul grins through this transparent trick,—Be balked so far, defrauded of his aim!What fund of satisfaction to the knave,Had I kicked this his messenger down stairs,Trussed to the middle of her impudence,And set his heart at ease so! No, indeed!There 's the reply which he shall turn and twistAt pleasure, snuff at till his brain grow drunk,As the bear does when he finds a scented gloveThat puzzles him,—a hand and yet no hand,Of other perfume than his own foul paw!Last month, I had doubtless chosen to play the dupe,Accepted the mock-invitation, keptThe sham appointment, cudgel beneath cloak,Prepared myself to pull the appointer's selfOut of the window from his hiding-placeBehind the gown of this part-messengerPart-mistress who would personate the wife.Such had seemed once a jest permissible:Now, I am not i' the mood."Back next morn broughtThe messenger, a second letter in hand."You are cruel, Thyrsis, and Myrtilla moansNeglected but adores you, makes requestFor mercy: why is it you dare not come?Such virtue is scarce natural to your age:You must love some one else; I hear you do,The Baron's daughter or the Advocate's wife,Or both,—all 's one, would you make me the third—I take the crumbs from table gratefullyNor grudge who feasts there. 'Faith, I blush and blaze!Yet if I break all bounds, there 's reason sure.Are you determinedly bent on Rome?I am wretched here, a monster tortures me:Carry me with you! Come and say you will!Concert this very evening! Do not write!I am ever at the window of my roomOver the terrace, at theAve. Come!"I questioned—lifting half the woman's maskTo let her smile loose. "So, you gave my lineTo the merry lady?" "She kissed off the wax,And put what paper was not kissed awayIn her bosom to go burn: but merry, no!She wept all night when evening brought no friend,Alone, the unkind missive at her breast;Thus Philomel, the thorn at her breast too,Sings" ... "Writes this second letter?" "Even so!Then she may peep at vespers forth?"—"What riskDo we run o' the husband?"—"Ah,—no risk at all!He is more stupid even than jealous. Ah—That was the reason? Why, the man 's away!Beside, his bugbear is that friend of yours,Fat little Canon Conti. He fears him,How should he dream of you? I told you truth:He goes to the villa at Vittiano—'t isThe time when Spring-sap rises in the vine—Spends the night there. And then his wife 's a child:Does he think a child outwits him? A mere child:Yet so full-grown, a dish for any duke.Don't quarrel longer with such cates, but come!"I wrote, "In vain do you solicit me.I am a priest: and you are wedded wife,Whatever kind of brute your husband prove.I have scruples, in short. Yet should you really showSign at the window ... but nay, best be good!My thoughts are elsewhere."—"Take her that!"—"AgainLet the incarnate meanness, cheat and spy,Mean to the marrow of him, make his heartHis food, anticipate hell's worm once more!Let him watch shivering at the window—ay,And let this hybrid, this his light-of-loveAnd lackey-of-lies,—a sage economy,—Paid with embracings for the rank brass coin,—Let her report and make him chuckle o'erThe breakdown of my resolution now,And lour at disappointment in good time!—So tantalize and so enrage by turns,Until the two fall each on the other likeTwo famished spiders, as the coveted fly,That toys long, leaves their net and them at last!"And so the missives followed thick and fastFor a month, say,—I still came at every turnOn the soft sly adder, endlong 'neath my tread.I was met i' the street, made sign to in the church,A slip was found i' the door-sill, scribbled word'Twixt page and page o' the prayer-book in my place.A crumpled thing dropped even before my feet,Pushed through the blind, above the terrace-rail,As I passed, by day, the very window once.And ever from corners would be peering upThe messenger, with the selfsame demand,"Obdurate still, no flesh but adamant?Nothing to cure the wound, assuage the throeO' the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear?"And ever my one answer in one tone—"Go your ways, temptress! Let a priest read, pray,Unplagued of vain talk, visions not for him!In the end, you 'll have your will and ruin me!"One day, a variation: thus I read:"You have gained little by timidity.My husband has found out my love at length,Sees cousin Conti was the stalking-horse,And you the game he covered, poor fat soul!My husband is a formidable foe,Will stick at nothing to destroy you. StandPrepared, or better, run till you reach Rome!I bade you visit me, when the last placeMy tyrant would have turned suspicious at,Or cared to seek you in, was ... why say, where?But now all 's changed: beside, the season 's pastAt the villa,—wants the master's eye no more.Anyhow, I beseech you, stay awayFrom the window! He might well be posted there."I wrote—"You raise my courage, or call upMy curiosity, who am but man.Tell him he owns the palace, not the streetUnder—that 's his and yours and mine alike,If it should please me pad the path this eve,Guido will have two troubles, first to getInto a rage and then get out again.Be cautious, though: at theAve!"You of the courtWhen I stood question here and reached this pointO' the narrative,—search notes and see and sayIf some one did not interpose with smileAnd sneer, "And prithee why so confidentThat the husband must, of all needs, not the wife,Fabricate thus,—what if the lady loved?What if she wrote the letters?"Learned Sir,I told you there 's a picture in our church.Well, if a low-browed verger sidled upBringing me, like a blotch, on his prod's point,A transfixed scorpion, let the reptile writhe,And then said, "See a thing that Rafael made—This venom issued from Madonna's mouth!"I should reply, "Rather, the soul of youHas issued from your body, like from like,By way of the ordure-corner!"But no less,I tired of the same long black teasing lieObtruded thus at every turn; the pestWas far too near the picture, anyhow:One does Madonna service, making clownsRemove their dung-heap from the sacristy."I will to the window, as he tempts," said I:"Yes, whom the easy love has failed allure,This new bait of adventure tempts,—thinks he.Though the imprisoned lady keeps afar,There will they lie in ambush, heads alert,Kith, kin, and Count mustered to bite my heel.No mother nor brother viper of the broodShall scuttle off without the instructive bruise!"So I went: crossed street and street: "The next street's turn,I stand beneath the terrace, see, above,The black of the ambush-window. Then, in placeOf hand's throw of soft prelude over lute,And cough that clears way for the ditty last,"—I began to laugh already—"he will have'Out of the hole you hide in, on to the front,Count Guido Franceschini, show yourself!Hear what a man thinks of a thing like you,And after, take this foulness in your face!'"The words lay living on my lip, I madeThe one turn more—and there at the window stood,Framed in its black square length, with lamp in hand,Pompilia; the same great, grave, griefful airAs stands i' the dusk, on altar that I know,Left alone with one moonbeam in her cell,Our Lady of all the Sorrows. Ere I knelt—Assured myself that she was flesh and blood—She had looked one look and vanished.I thought—"Just so:It was herself, they have set her there to watch—Stationed to see some wedding-band go by,On fair pretence that she must bless the bride,Or wait some funeral with friends wind past,And crave peace for the corpse that claims its due.She never dreams they used her for a snare,And now withdraw the bait has served its turn.Well done, the husband, who shall fare the worse!"And on my lip again was—"Out with thee,Guido!" When all at once she reappeared;But, this time, on the terrace overhead,So close above me, she could almost touchMy head if she bent down; and she did bend,While I stood still as stone, all eye, all ear.

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?

Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—

So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see

My own hand held thus broad before my face

And know it again. Answer you? Then that means

Tell over twice what I, the first time, told

Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,

Fronting you same three in this very room,

I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,

Who then ... nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,

As good as laugh, what in a judge we style

Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!

Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:

There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,

The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,

The titter stifled in the hollow palm

Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,

When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,

"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!

Well, he can say no other than what he says.

We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!

Let him but decently disembroil himself,

Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—

We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!"

And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast

As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,

Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—

"Counsel the Court in this extremity,

Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,

I got the jocular piece of punishment,

Was sent to lounge a little in the place

Whence now of a sudden here you summon me

To take the intelligence from just—your lips!

You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—

That she I helped eight months since to escape

Her husband, was retaken by the same,

Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—

(I being disallowed to interfere,

Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,

For you and law were guardians quite enough

O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—

And that he has butchered her accordingly,

As she foretold and as myself believed,—

And, so foretelling and believing so,

We were punished, both of us, the merry way:

Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?

Pompilia is only dying while I speak!

Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?

My masters, there 's an old book, you should con

For strange adventures, applicable yet,

'T is stuffed with. Do you know that there was once

This thing: a multitude of worthy folk

Took recreation, watched a certain group

Of soldiery intent upon a game,—

How first they wrangled, but soon fell to play,

Threw dice,—the best diversion in the world.

A word in your ear,—they are now casting lots,

Ay, with that gesture quaint and cry uncouth,

For the coat of One murdered an hour ago!

I am a priest,—talk of what I have learned.

Pompilia is bleeding out her life belike,

Gasping away the latest breath of all,

This minute, while I talk—not while you laugh.

Yet, being sobered now, what is it you askBy way of explanation? There 's the fact!It seems to fill the universe with sightAnd sound,—from the four corners of this earthTells itself over, to my sense at least.But you may want it lower set i' the scale,—Too vast, too close it clangs in the ear, perhaps;You 'd stand back just to comprehend it more.Well then, let me, the hollow rock, condenseThe voice o' the sea and wind, interpret youThe mystery of this murder. God above!It is too paltry, such a transferenceO' the storm's roar to the cranny of the stone!

Yet, being sobered now, what is it you ask

By way of explanation? There 's the fact!

It seems to fill the universe with sight

And sound,—from the four corners of this earth

Tells itself over, to my sense at least.

But you may want it lower set i' the scale,—

Too vast, too close it clangs in the ear, perhaps;

You 'd stand back just to comprehend it more.

Well then, let me, the hollow rock, condense

The voice o' the sea and wind, interpret you

The mystery of this murder. God above!

It is too paltry, such a transference

O' the storm's roar to the cranny of the stone!

This deed, you saw begin—why does its endSurprise you? Why should the event enforceThe lesson, we ourselves learned, she and I,From the first o' the fact, and taught you, all in vain?This Guido from whose throat you took my grasp,Was this man to be favored, now, or feared,Let do his will, or have his will restrained,In the relation with Pompilia?—say!Did any other man need interpose—Oh, though first comer, though as strange at the workAs fribble must be, coxcomb, fool that 's nearTo knave as, say, a priest who fears the world—Was he bound brave the peril, save the doomed,Or go on, sing his snatch and pluck his flower,Keep the straight path and let the victim die?I held so; you decided otherwise,Saw no such peril, therefore no such needTo stop song, loosen flower, and leave path. Law,Law was aware and watching, would suffice,Wanted no priest's intrusion, palpablyPretence, too manifest a subterfuge!Whereupon I, priest, coxcomb, fribble and fool,Ensconced me in my corner, thus rebuked,A kind of culprit, over-zealous houndKicked for his pains to kennel; I gave placeTo you, and let the law reign paramount:I left Pompilia to your watch and ward,And now you point me—there and thus she lies!

This deed, you saw begin—why does its end

Surprise you? Why should the event enforce

The lesson, we ourselves learned, she and I,

From the first o' the fact, and taught you, all in vain?

This Guido from whose throat you took my grasp,

Was this man to be favored, now, or feared,

Let do his will, or have his will restrained,

In the relation with Pompilia?—say!

Did any other man need interpose

—Oh, though first comer, though as strange at the work

As fribble must be, coxcomb, fool that 's near

To knave as, say, a priest who fears the world—

Was he bound brave the peril, save the doomed,

Or go on, sing his snatch and pluck his flower,

Keep the straight path and let the victim die?

I held so; you decided otherwise,

Saw no such peril, therefore no such need

To stop song, loosen flower, and leave path. Law,

Law was aware and watching, would suffice,

Wanted no priest's intrusion, palpably

Pretence, too manifest a subterfuge!

Whereupon I, priest, coxcomb, fribble and fool,

Ensconced me in my corner, thus rebuked,

A kind of culprit, over-zealous hound

Kicked for his pains to kennel; I gave place

To you, and let the law reign paramount:

I left Pompilia to your watch and ward,

And now you point me—there and thus she lies!

Men, for the last time, what do you want with me?Is it,—you acknowledge, as it were, a use,A profit in employing me?—at lengthI may conceivably help the august law?I am free to break the blow, next hawk that swoopsOn next dove, nor miss much of good repute?Or what if this your summons, after all,Be but the form of mere release, no more,Which turns the key and lets the captive go?I have paid enough in person at Civita,Am free,—what more need I concern me with?Thank you! I am rehabilitated then,A very reputable priest. But she—The glory of life, the beauty of the world,The splendor of heaven, ... well, Sirs, does no one move?Do I speak ambiguously? The glory, I say,And the beauty, I say, and splendor, still say I,Who, priest and trained to live my whole life longOn beauty and splendor, solely at their source,God,—have thus recognized my food in her,You tell me, that 's fast dying while we talk,Pompilia! How does lenity to meRemit one death-bed pang to her? Come, smile!The proper wink at the hot-headed youthWho lets his soul show, through transparent words,The mundane love that's sin and scandal too!You are all struck acquiescent now, it seems:It seems the oldest, gravest signor here,Even the redoubtable Tommati, sitsChopfallen,—understands how law might takeService like mine, of brain and heart and hand,In good part. Better late than never, law!You understand of a sudden, gospel tooHas a claim here, may possibly pronounceConsistent with my priesthood, worthy Christ,That I endeavored to save Pompilia?

Men, for the last time, what do you want with me?

Is it,—you acknowledge, as it were, a use,

A profit in employing me?—at length

I may conceivably help the august law?

I am free to break the blow, next hawk that swoops

On next dove, nor miss much of good repute?

Or what if this your summons, after all,

Be but the form of mere release, no more,

Which turns the key and lets the captive go?

I have paid enough in person at Civita,

Am free,—what more need I concern me with?

Thank you! I am rehabilitated then,

A very reputable priest. But she—

The glory of life, the beauty of the world,

The splendor of heaven, ... well, Sirs, does no one move?

Do I speak ambiguously? The glory, I say,

And the beauty, I say, and splendor, still say I,

Who, priest and trained to live my whole life long

On beauty and splendor, solely at their source,

God,—have thus recognized my food in her,

You tell me, that 's fast dying while we talk,

Pompilia! How does lenity to me

Remit one death-bed pang to her? Come, smile!

The proper wink at the hot-headed youth

Who lets his soul show, through transparent words,

The mundane love that's sin and scandal too!

You are all struck acquiescent now, it seems:

It seems the oldest, gravest signor here,

Even the redoubtable Tommati, sits

Chopfallen,—understands how law might take

Service like mine, of brain and heart and hand,

In good part. Better late than never, law!

You understand of a sudden, gospel too

Has a claim here, may possibly pronounce

Consistent with my priesthood, worthy Christ,

That I endeavored to save Pompilia?

Then,You were wrong, you see: that 's well to see, though late:That 's all we may expect of man, this sideThe grave: his good is—knowing he is bad:Thus will it be with us when the books opeAnd we stand at the bar on judgment-day.Well then, I have a mind to speak, see causeTo relume the quenched flax by this dreadful light,Burn my soul out in showing you the truth.I heard, last time I stood here to be judged,What is priest's-duty,—labor to pluck taresAnd weed the corn of Molinism; let meMake you hear, this time, how, in such a case,Man, be he in the priesthood or at plough,Mindful of Christ or marching step by stepWith ... what 's his style, the other potentateWho bids have courage and keep honor safe,Nor let minuter admonition tease?—How he is bound, better or worse, to act.Earth will not end through this misjudgment, no!For you and the others like you sure to come,Fresh work is sure to follow,—wickednessThat wants withstanding. Many a man of blood,Many a man of guile will clamor yet,Bid you redress his grievance,—as he clutchedThe prey, forsooth a stranger stepped between,And there 's the good gripe in pure waste! My partIs done; i' the doing it, I pass awayOut of the world. I want no more with earth.Let me, in heaven's name, use the very snuffO' the taper in one last spark shall show truthFor a moment, show Pompilia who was true!Not for her sake, but yours: if she is dead,Oh, Sirs, she can be loved by none of youMost or least priestly! Saints, to do us good,Must be in heaven, I seem to understand:We never find them saints before, at least.Be her first prayer then presently for you—She has done the good to me ...

Then,

You were wrong, you see: that 's well to see, though late:

That 's all we may expect of man, this side

The grave: his good is—knowing he is bad:

Thus will it be with us when the books ope

And we stand at the bar on judgment-day.

Well then, I have a mind to speak, see cause

To relume the quenched flax by this dreadful light,

Burn my soul out in showing you the truth.

I heard, last time I stood here to be judged,

What is priest's-duty,—labor to pluck tares

And weed the corn of Molinism; let me

Make you hear, this time, how, in such a case,

Man, be he in the priesthood or at plough,

Mindful of Christ or marching step by step

With ... what 's his style, the other potentate

Who bids have courage and keep honor safe,

Nor let minuter admonition tease?—

How he is bound, better or worse, to act.

Earth will not end through this misjudgment, no!

For you and the others like you sure to come,

Fresh work is sure to follow,—wickedness

That wants withstanding. Many a man of blood,

Many a man of guile will clamor yet,

Bid you redress his grievance,—as he clutched

The prey, forsooth a stranger stepped between,

And there 's the good gripe in pure waste! My part

Is done; i' the doing it, I pass away

Out of the world. I want no more with earth.

Let me, in heaven's name, use the very snuff

O' the taper in one last spark shall show truth

For a moment, show Pompilia who was true!

Not for her sake, but yours: if she is dead,

Oh, Sirs, she can be loved by none of you

Most or least priestly! Saints, to do us good,

Must be in heaven, I seem to understand:

We never find them saints before, at least.

Be her first prayer then presently for you—

She has done the good to me ...

What is all this?There, I was born, have lived, shall die, a fool!This is a foolish outset:—might with causeGive color to the very lie o' the man,The murderer,—make as if I loved his wifeIn the way he called love. He is the fool there!Why, had there been in me the touch of taint,I had picked up so much of knaves'-policyAs hide it, keep one hand pressed on the placeSuspected of a spot would damn us both.Or no, not her!—not even if any of youDares think that I, i' the face of death, her deathThat 's in my eyes and ears and brain and heart,Lie,—if he does, let him! I mean to say,So he stop there, stay thought from smirching herThe snow-white soul that angels fear to takeUntenderly. But, all the same, I knowI too am taintless, and I bare my breast.You can't think, men as you are, all of you,But that, to hear thus suddenly such an endOf such a wonderful white soul, that comesOf a man and murderer calling the white black,Must shake me, trouble and disadvantage. Sirs,Only seventeen!

What is all this?

There, I was born, have lived, shall die, a fool!

This is a foolish outset:—might with cause

Give color to the very lie o' the man,

The murderer,—make as if I loved his wife

In the way he called love. He is the fool there!

Why, had there been in me the touch of taint,

I had picked up so much of knaves'-policy

As hide it, keep one hand pressed on the place

Suspected of a spot would damn us both.

Or no, not her!—not even if any of you

Dares think that I, i' the face of death, her death

That 's in my eyes and ears and brain and heart,

Lie,—if he does, let him! I mean to say,

So he stop there, stay thought from smirching her

The snow-white soul that angels fear to take

Untenderly. But, all the same, I know

I too am taintless, and I bare my breast.

You can't think, men as you are, all of you,

But that, to hear thus suddenly such an end

Of such a wonderful white soul, that comes

Of a man and murderer calling the white black,

Must shake me, trouble and disadvantage. Sirs,

Only seventeen!

Why, good and wise you are!You might at the beginning stop my mouth:So, none would be to speak for her, that knew.I talk impertinently, and you bear,All the same. This it is to have to doWith honest hearts: they easily may err,But in the main they wish well to the truth.You are Christians; somehow, no one ever pluckedA rag, even, from the body of the Lord,To wear and mock with, but, despite himself,He looked the greater and was the better. Yes,I shall go on now. Does she need or notI keep calm? Calm I 'll keep as monk that croonsTranscribing battle, earthquake, famine, plague,From parchment to his cloister's chronicle.Not one word more from the point now!

Why, good and wise you are!

You might at the beginning stop my mouth:

So, none would be to speak for her, that knew.

I talk impertinently, and you bear,

All the same. This it is to have to do

With honest hearts: they easily may err,

But in the main they wish well to the truth.

You are Christians; somehow, no one ever plucked

A rag, even, from the body of the Lord,

To wear and mock with, but, despite himself,

He looked the greater and was the better. Yes,

I shall go on now. Does she need or not

I keep calm? Calm I 'll keep as monk that croons

Transcribing battle, earthquake, famine, plague,

From parchment to his cloister's chronicle.

Not one word more from the point now!

I begin.Yes, I am one of your body and a priest.Also I am a younger son o' the HouseOldest now, greatest once, in my birth-townArezzo, I recognize no equal there—(I want all arguments, all sorts of armsThat seem to serve,—use this for a reason, wait!)Not therefore thrust into the Church, becauseO' the piece of bread one gets there. We were firstOf Fiesole, that rings still with the fameOf Capo-in-Sacco our progenitor:When Florence ruined Fiesole, our folkMigrated to the victor-city, and thereFlourished,—our palace and our tower attest,In the Old Mercato,—this was years ago,Four hundred, full,—no, it wants fourteen just.Our arms are those of Fiesole itself,The shield quartered with white and red: a branchAre the Salviati of us, nothing more.That were good help to the Church? But better still—Not simply for the advantage of my birthI' the way of the world, was I proposed for priest;But because there 's an illustration, lateI' the day, that 's loved and looked to as a saintStill in Arezzo, he was bishop of,Sixty years since: he spent to the last doitHis bishop's-revenue among the poor,And used to tend the needy and the sick,Barefoot, because of his humility.He it was,—when the Granduke FerdinandSwore he would raze our city, plough the placeAnd sow it with salt, because we AretinesHad tied a rope about the neck, to haleThe statue of his father from its baseFor hate's sake,—he availed by prayers and tearsTo pacify the Duke and save the town.This was my father's father's brother. You see,For his sake, how it was I had a rightTo the selfsame office, bishop in the egg,So, grew i' the garb and prattled in the school,Was made expect, from infancy almost,The proper mood o' the priest; till time ran byAnd brought the day when I must read the vows,Declare the world renounced, and undertakeTo become priest and leave probation,—leapOver the ledge into the other life,Having gone trippingly hitherto up to the heightO'er the wan water. Just a vow to read!

I begin.

Yes, I am one of your body and a priest.

Also I am a younger son o' the House

Oldest now, greatest once, in my birth-town

Arezzo, I recognize no equal there—

(I want all arguments, all sorts of arms

That seem to serve,—use this for a reason, wait!)

Not therefore thrust into the Church, because

O' the piece of bread one gets there. We were first

Of Fiesole, that rings still with the fame

Of Capo-in-Sacco our progenitor:

When Florence ruined Fiesole, our folk

Migrated to the victor-city, and there

Flourished,—our palace and our tower attest,

In the Old Mercato,—this was years ago,

Four hundred, full,—no, it wants fourteen just.

Our arms are those of Fiesole itself,

The shield quartered with white and red: a branch

Are the Salviati of us, nothing more.

That were good help to the Church? But better still—

Not simply for the advantage of my birth

I' the way of the world, was I proposed for priest;

But because there 's an illustration, late

I' the day, that 's loved and looked to as a saint

Still in Arezzo, he was bishop of,

Sixty years since: he spent to the last doit

His bishop's-revenue among the poor,

And used to tend the needy and the sick,

Barefoot, because of his humility.

He it was,—when the Granduke Ferdinand

Swore he would raze our city, plough the place

And sow it with salt, because we Aretines

Had tied a rope about the neck, to hale

The statue of his father from its base

For hate's sake,—he availed by prayers and tears

To pacify the Duke and save the town.

This was my father's father's brother. You see,

For his sake, how it was I had a right

To the selfsame office, bishop in the egg,

So, grew i' the garb and prattled in the school,

Was made expect, from infancy almost,

The proper mood o' the priest; till time ran by

And brought the day when I must read the vows,

Declare the world renounced, and undertake

To become priest and leave probation,—leap

Over the ledge into the other life,

Having gone trippingly hitherto up to the height

O'er the wan water. Just a vow to read!

I stopped short awe-struck. "How shall holiest fleshEngage to keep such vow inviolate,How much less mine? I know myself too weak,Unworthy! Choose a worthier stronger man!"And the very Bishop smiled and stopped my mouthIn its mid-protestation. "Incapable?Qualmish of conscience? Thou ingenuous boy!Clear up the clouds and cast thy scruples far!I satisfy thee there 's an easier senseWherein to take such vow than suits the firstRough rigid reading. Mark what makes all smooth,Nay, has been even a solace to myself!The Jews who needs must, in their synagogue,Utter sometimes the holy name of God,A thing their superstition boggles at,Pronounce aloud the ineffable sacrosanct,—How does their shrewdness help them? In this wise;Another set of sounds they substitute,Jumble so consonants and vowels—howShould I know?—that there grows from out the oldQuite a new word that means the very same—And o'er the hard place slide they with a smile.Giuseppe Maria Caponsacchi mine,Nobody wants you in these latter daysTo prop the Church by breaking your backbone,—As the necessary way was once, we know,When Diocletian flourished and his like.That building of the buttress-work was doneBy martyrs and confessors: let it bide,Add not a brick, but, where you see a chink,Stick in a sprig of ivy or root a roseShall make amends and beautify the pile!We profit as you were the painfullestO' the martyrs, and you prove yourself a matchFor the cruellest confessor ever was,If you march boldly up and take your standWhere their blood soaks, their bones yet strew the soil,And cry 'Take notice, I the young and freeAnd well-to-do i' the world, thus leave the world,Cast in my lot thus with no gay young worldBut the grand old Church: she tempts me of the two!'Renounce the world? Nay, keep and give it us!Let us have you, and boast of what you bring.We want the pick o' the earth to practise with,Not its offscouring, halt and deaf and blindIn soul and body. There 's a rubble-stoneUnfit for the front o' the building, stuff to stowIn a gap behind and keep us weather-tight;There 's porphyry for the prominent place. Good lack!Saint Paul has had enough and to spare, I trow,Of ragged runaway Onesimus:He wants the right-hand with the signet-ringOf King Agrippa, now, to shake and use.I have a heavy scholar cloistered up,Close under lock and key, kept at his taskOf letting Fénelon know the fool he is,In a book I promise Christendom next Spring.Why, if he covets so much meat, the clown,As a lark's wing next Friday, or, any day,Diversion beyond catching his own fleas,He shall be properly swinged, I promise him.But you, who are so quite another pasteOf a man,—do you obey me? CultivateAssiduous that superior gift you haveOf making madrigals—(who told me? Ah!)Get done a Marinesque Adoniad straightWith a pulse o' the blood a-pricking, here and there,That I may tell the lady, 'And he 's ours!'"

I stopped short awe-struck. "How shall holiest flesh

Engage to keep such vow inviolate,

How much less mine? I know myself too weak,

Unworthy! Choose a worthier stronger man!"

And the very Bishop smiled and stopped my mouth

In its mid-protestation. "Incapable?

Qualmish of conscience? Thou ingenuous boy!

Clear up the clouds and cast thy scruples far!

I satisfy thee there 's an easier sense

Wherein to take such vow than suits the first

Rough rigid reading. Mark what makes all smooth,

Nay, has been even a solace to myself!

The Jews who needs must, in their synagogue,

Utter sometimes the holy name of God,

A thing their superstition boggles at,

Pronounce aloud the ineffable sacrosanct,—

How does their shrewdness help them? In this wise;

Another set of sounds they substitute,

Jumble so consonants and vowels—how

Should I know?—that there grows from out the old

Quite a new word that means the very same—

And o'er the hard place slide they with a smile.

Giuseppe Maria Caponsacchi mine,

Nobody wants you in these latter days

To prop the Church by breaking your backbone,—

As the necessary way was once, we know,

When Diocletian flourished and his like.

That building of the buttress-work was done

By martyrs and confessors: let it bide,

Add not a brick, but, where you see a chink,

Stick in a sprig of ivy or root a rose

Shall make amends and beautify the pile!

We profit as you were the painfullest

O' the martyrs, and you prove yourself a match

For the cruellest confessor ever was,

If you march boldly up and take your stand

Where their blood soaks, their bones yet strew the soil,

And cry 'Take notice, I the young and free

And well-to-do i' the world, thus leave the world,

Cast in my lot thus with no gay young world

But the grand old Church: she tempts me of the two!'

Renounce the world? Nay, keep and give it us!

Let us have you, and boast of what you bring.

We want the pick o' the earth to practise with,

Not its offscouring, halt and deaf and blind

In soul and body. There 's a rubble-stone

Unfit for the front o' the building, stuff to stow

In a gap behind and keep us weather-tight;

There 's porphyry for the prominent place. Good lack!

Saint Paul has had enough and to spare, I trow,

Of ragged runaway Onesimus:

He wants the right-hand with the signet-ring

Of King Agrippa, now, to shake and use.

I have a heavy scholar cloistered up,

Close under lock and key, kept at his task

Of letting Fénelon know the fool he is,

In a book I promise Christendom next Spring.

Why, if he covets so much meat, the clown,

As a lark's wing next Friday, or, any day,

Diversion beyond catching his own fleas,

He shall be properly swinged, I promise him.

But you, who are so quite another paste

Of a man,—do you obey me? Cultivate

Assiduous that superior gift you have

Of making madrigals—(who told me? Ah!)

Get done a Marinesque Adoniad straight

With a pulse o' the blood a-pricking, here and there,

That I may tell the lady, 'And he 's ours!'"

So I became a priest: those terms changed all,I was good enough for that, nor cheated so;I could live thus and still hold head erect.Now you see why I may have been beforeA fribble and coxcomb, yet, as priest, break wordNowise, to make you disbelieve me now.I need that you should know my truth. Well, then,According to prescription did I live,—Conformed myself, both read the breviaryAnd wrote the rhymes, was punctual to my placeI' the Pieve, and as diligent at my postWhere beauty and fashion rule. I throve apace,Sub-deacon, Canon, the authorityFor delicate play at tarocs, and arbiterO' the magnitude of fan-mounts: all the whileWanting no whit the advantage of a hintBenignant to the promising pupil,—thus:"Enough attention to the Countess now,The young one; 't is her mother rules the roast,We know where, and puts in a word: go payDevoir to-morrow morning after mass!Break that rash promise to preach, Passion-week!Has it escaped you the Archbishop gruntsAnd snuffles when one grieves to tell his GraceNo soul dares treat the subject of the daySince his own masterly handling it (ha, ha!)Five years ago,—when somebody could helpAnd touch up an odd phrase in time of need,(He, he!)—and somebody helps you, my son!Therefore, don't prove so indispensableAt the Pieve, sit more loose i' the seat, nor growA fixture by attendance morn and eve!Arezzo 's just a haven midway Rome—Rome 's the eventual harbor,—make for port,Crowd sail, crack cordage! And your cargo beA polished presence, a genteel manner, witAt will, and tact at every pore of you!I sent our lump of learning, Brother Clout,And Father Slouch, our piece of piety,To see Rome and try suit the Cardinal.Thither they clump-clumped, beads and book in hand,And ever since 't is meat for man and maidHow both flopped down, prayed blessing on bent pateBald many an inch beyond the tonsure's need,Never once dreaming, the two moony dolts,There 's nothing moves his Eminence so muchAs—far from all this awe at sanctitude—Heads that wag, eyes that twinkle, modified mirthAt the closet-lectures on the Latin tongueA lady learns so much by, we know where.Why, body o' Bacchus, you should crave his ruleFor pauses in the elegiac couplet, chasmsPermissible only to Catullus! There!Now go to duty: brisk, break Priscian's headBy reading the day's office—there 's no help.You 've Ovid in your poke to plaster that;Amen 's at the end of all: then sup with me!"

So I became a priest: those terms changed all,

I was good enough for that, nor cheated so;

I could live thus and still hold head erect.

Now you see why I may have been before

A fribble and coxcomb, yet, as priest, break word

Nowise, to make you disbelieve me now.

I need that you should know my truth. Well, then,

According to prescription did I live,

—Conformed myself, both read the breviary

And wrote the rhymes, was punctual to my place

I' the Pieve, and as diligent at my post

Where beauty and fashion rule. I throve apace,

Sub-deacon, Canon, the authority

For delicate play at tarocs, and arbiter

O' the magnitude of fan-mounts: all the while

Wanting no whit the advantage of a hint

Benignant to the promising pupil,—thus:

"Enough attention to the Countess now,

The young one; 't is her mother rules the roast,

We know where, and puts in a word: go pay

Devoir to-morrow morning after mass!

Break that rash promise to preach, Passion-week!

Has it escaped you the Archbishop grunts

And snuffles when one grieves to tell his Grace

No soul dares treat the subject of the day

Since his own masterly handling it (ha, ha!)

Five years ago,—when somebody could help

And touch up an odd phrase in time of need,

(He, he!)—and somebody helps you, my son!

Therefore, don't prove so indispensable

At the Pieve, sit more loose i' the seat, nor grow

A fixture by attendance morn and eve!

Arezzo 's just a haven midway Rome—

Rome 's the eventual harbor,—make for port,

Crowd sail, crack cordage! And your cargo be

A polished presence, a genteel manner, wit

At will, and tact at every pore of you!

I sent our lump of learning, Brother Clout,

And Father Slouch, our piece of piety,

To see Rome and try suit the Cardinal.

Thither they clump-clumped, beads and book in hand,

And ever since 't is meat for man and maid

How both flopped down, prayed blessing on bent pate

Bald many an inch beyond the tonsure's need,

Never once dreaming, the two moony dolts,

There 's nothing moves his Eminence so much

As—far from all this awe at sanctitude—

Heads that wag, eyes that twinkle, modified mirth

At the closet-lectures on the Latin tongue

A lady learns so much by, we know where.

Why, body o' Bacchus, you should crave his rule

For pauses in the elegiac couplet, chasms

Permissible only to Catullus! There!

Now go to duty: brisk, break Priscian's head

By reading the day's office—there 's no help.

You 've Ovid in your poke to plaster that;

Amen 's at the end of all: then sup with me!"

Well, after three or four years of this life,In prosecution of my calling, IFound myself at the theatre one nightWith a brother Canon, in a mood and mindProper enough for the place, amused or no:When I saw enter, stand, and seat herselfA lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange and sad.It was as when, in our cathedral once,As I got yawningly through matin-song,I sawfacchinibear a burden up,Base it on the high-altar, break awayA board or two, and leave the thing insideLofty and lone: and lo, when next I looked,There was the Rafael! I was still one stare,When—"Nay, I 'll make her give you back your gaze"—Said Canon Conti; and at the word he tossedA paper-twist of comfits to her lap,And dodged and in a trice was at my backNodding from over my shoulder. Then she turned,Looked our way, smiled the beautiful sad strange smile."Is not she fair? 'T is my new cousin," said he:"The fellow lurking there i' the black o' the boxIs Guido, the old scapegrace: she 's his wife,Married three years since: how his Countship sulks!He has brought little back from Rome beside,After the bragging, bullying. A fair face,And—they do say—a pocketful of goldWhen he can worry both her parents dead.I don't go much there, for the chamber 's coldAnd the coffee pale. I got a turn at firstPaying my duty: I observed they crouched—The two old frightened family spectres—closeIn a corner, each on each like mouse on mouseI' the cat's cage: ever since, I stay at home.Hallo, there 's Guido, the black, mean and small,Bends his brows on us—please to bend your ownOn the shapely nether limbs of Light-skirts thereBy way of a diversion! I was a foolTo fling the sweetmeats. Prudence, for God's love!To-morrow I 'll make my peace, e'en tell some fib,Try if I can't find means to take you there."

Well, after three or four years of this life,

In prosecution of my calling, I

Found myself at the theatre one night

With a brother Canon, in a mood and mind

Proper enough for the place, amused or no:

When I saw enter, stand, and seat herself

A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange and sad.

It was as when, in our cathedral once,

As I got yawningly through matin-song,

I sawfacchinibear a burden up,

Base it on the high-altar, break away

A board or two, and leave the thing inside

Lofty and lone: and lo, when next I looked,

There was the Rafael! I was still one stare,

When—"Nay, I 'll make her give you back your gaze"—

Said Canon Conti; and at the word he tossed

A paper-twist of comfits to her lap,

And dodged and in a trice was at my back

Nodding from over my shoulder. Then she turned,

Looked our way, smiled the beautiful sad strange smile.

"Is not she fair? 'T is my new cousin," said he:

"The fellow lurking there i' the black o' the box

Is Guido, the old scapegrace: she 's his wife,

Married three years since: how his Countship sulks!

He has brought little back from Rome beside,

After the bragging, bullying. A fair face,

And—they do say—a pocketful of gold

When he can worry both her parents dead.

I don't go much there, for the chamber 's cold

And the coffee pale. I got a turn at first

Paying my duty: I observed they crouched

—The two old frightened family spectres—close

In a corner, each on each like mouse on mouse

I' the cat's cage: ever since, I stay at home.

Hallo, there 's Guido, the black, mean and small,

Bends his brows on us—please to bend your own

On the shapely nether limbs of Light-skirts there

By way of a diversion! I was a fool

To fling the sweetmeats. Prudence, for God's love!

To-morrow I 'll make my peace, e'en tell some fib,

Try if I can't find means to take you there."

That night and next day did the gaze endure,Burnt to my brain, as sunbeam through shut eyes,And not once changed the beautiful sad strange smile.At vespers Conti leaned beside my seatI' the choir,—part said, part sung—"In ex-cel-sis—All 's to no purpose; I have louted low,But he saw you staring—quia sub—don't inclineTo know you nearer; him we would not holdFor Hercules,—the man would lick your shoeIf you and certain efficacious friendsManaged him warily,—but there 's the wife:Spare her, because he beats her, as it is,She 's breaking her heart quite fast enough—jam tu—So, be you rational and make amendsWith little Light-skirts yonder—in seculaSecu-lo-o-o-o-rum. Ah, you rogue! Every one knowsWhat great dame she makes jealous: one against one,Play, and win both!"Sirs, ere the week was out,I saw and said to myself, "Light-skirts hides teethWould make a dog sick,—the great dame shows spiteShould drive a cat mad: 't is but poor work this—Counting one's fingers till the sonnet 's crowned.I doubt much if Marino really beA better bard than Dante after all.'T is more amusing to go pace at eveI' the Duomo,—watch the day's last gleam outsideTurn, as into a skirt of God's own robe,Those lancet-windows' jewelled miracle,—Than go eat the Archbishop's ortolans,Digest his jokes. Luckily Lent is near:Who cares to look will find me in my stallAt the Pieve, constant to this faith at least—Never to write a canzonet any more."

That night and next day did the gaze endure,

Burnt to my brain, as sunbeam through shut eyes,

And not once changed the beautiful sad strange smile.

At vespers Conti leaned beside my seat

I' the choir,—part said, part sung—"In ex-cel-sis—

All 's to no purpose; I have louted low,

But he saw you staring—quia sub—don't incline

To know you nearer; him we would not hold

For Hercules,—the man would lick your shoe

If you and certain efficacious friends

Managed him warily,—but there 's the wife:

Spare her, because he beats her, as it is,

She 's breaking her heart quite fast enough—jam tu—

So, be you rational and make amends

With little Light-skirts yonder—in secula

Secu-lo-o-o-o-rum. Ah, you rogue! Every one knows

What great dame she makes jealous: one against one,

Play, and win both!"

Sirs, ere the week was out,

I saw and said to myself, "Light-skirts hides teeth

Would make a dog sick,—the great dame shows spite

Should drive a cat mad: 't is but poor work this—

Counting one's fingers till the sonnet 's crowned.

I doubt much if Marino really be

A better bard than Dante after all.

'T is more amusing to go pace at eve

I' the Duomo,—watch the day's last gleam outside

Turn, as into a skirt of God's own robe,

Those lancet-windows' jewelled miracle,—

Than go eat the Archbishop's ortolans,

Digest his jokes. Luckily Lent is near:

Who cares to look will find me in my stall

At the Pieve, constant to this faith at least—

Never to write a canzonet any more."

So, next week, 't was my patron spoke abrupt,In altered guise, "Young man, can it be trueThat after all your promise of sound fruit,You have kept away from Countess young or oldAnd gone play truant in church all day long?Are you turning Molinist?" I answered quick:"Sir, what if I turned Christian? It might be.The fact is, I am troubled in my mind,Beset and pressed hard by some novel thoughts.This your Arezzo is a limited world;There 's a strange Pope,—'t is said, a priest who thinks.Rome is the port, you say: to Rome I go.I will live alone, one does so in a crowd,And look into my heart a little." "LentEnded,"—I told friends,—"I shall go to Rome."

So, next week, 't was my patron spoke abrupt,

In altered guise, "Young man, can it be true

That after all your promise of sound fruit,

You have kept away from Countess young or old

And gone play truant in church all day long?

Are you turning Molinist?" I answered quick:

"Sir, what if I turned Christian? It might be.

The fact is, I am troubled in my mind,

Beset and pressed hard by some novel thoughts.

This your Arezzo is a limited world;

There 's a strange Pope,—'t is said, a priest who thinks.

Rome is the port, you say: to Rome I go.

I will live alone, one does so in a crowd,

And look into my heart a little." "Lent

Ended,"—I told friends,—"I shall go to Rome."

One evening I was sitting in a museOver the opened "Summa," darkened roundBy the mid-March twilight, thinking how my lifeHad shaken under me,—broke short indeedAnd showed the gap 'twixt what is, what should be,—And into what abysm the soul may slip,Leave aspiration here, achievement there,Lacking omnipotence to connect extremes—Thinking moreover ... oh, thinking, if you like,How utterly dissociated was IA priest and celibate, from the sad strange wifeOf Guido,—just as an instance to the point,Naught more,—how I had a whole store of strengthsEating into my heart, which craved employ,And she, perhaps, need of a finger's help,—And yet there was no way in the wide worldTo stretch out mine and so relieve myself,—How when the page o' the "Summa" preached its best,Her smile kept glowing out of it, as to mockThe silence we could break by no one word,—There came a tap without the chamber-door,And a whisper, when I bade who tapped speak out,And, in obedience to my summons, lastIn glided a masked muffled mystery,Laid lightly a letter on the opened book,Then stood with folded arms and foot demure,Pointing as if to mark the minutes' flight.

One evening I was sitting in a muse

Over the opened "Summa," darkened round

By the mid-March twilight, thinking how my life

Had shaken under me,—broke short indeed

And showed the gap 'twixt what is, what should be,—

And into what abysm the soul may slip,

Leave aspiration here, achievement there,

Lacking omnipotence to connect extremes—

Thinking moreover ... oh, thinking, if you like,

How utterly dissociated was I

A priest and celibate, from the sad strange wife

Of Guido,—just as an instance to the point,

Naught more,—how I had a whole store of strengths

Eating into my heart, which craved employ,

And she, perhaps, need of a finger's help,—

And yet there was no way in the wide world

To stretch out mine and so relieve myself,—

How when the page o' the "Summa" preached its best,

Her smile kept glowing out of it, as to mock

The silence we could break by no one word,—

There came a tap without the chamber-door,

And a whisper, when I bade who tapped speak out,

And, in obedience to my summons, last

In glided a masked muffled mystery,

Laid lightly a letter on the opened book,

Then stood with folded arms and foot demure,

Pointing as if to mark the minutes' flight.

I took the letter, read to the effectThat she, I lately flung the comfits to,Had a warm heart to give me in exchange,And gave it,—loved me and confessed it thus,And bade me render thanks by word of mouth,Going that night to such a side o' the houseWhere the small terrace overhangs a streetBlind and deserted, not the street in front:Her husband being away, the surly patch,At his villa of Vittiano.

I took the letter, read to the effect

That she, I lately flung the comfits to,

Had a warm heart to give me in exchange,

And gave it,—loved me and confessed it thus,

And bade me render thanks by word of mouth,

Going that night to such a side o' the house

Where the small terrace overhangs a street

Blind and deserted, not the street in front:

Her husband being away, the surly patch,

At his villa of Vittiano.

"And you?"—I asked:"What may you be?" "Count Guido's kind of maid—Most of us have two functions in his house.We all hate him, the lady suffers much,'T is just we show compassion, furnish help,Specially since her choice is fixed so well.What answer may I bring to cheer the sweetPompilia?"

"And you?"—I asked:

"What may you be?" "Count Guido's kind of maid—

Most of us have two functions in his house.

We all hate him, the lady suffers much,

'T is just we show compassion, furnish help,

Specially since her choice is fixed so well.

What answer may I bring to cheer the sweet

Pompilia?"

Then I took a pen and wrote:"No more of this! That you are fair, I know:But other thoughts now occupy my mind.I should not thus have played the insensibleOnce on a time. What made you—may one ask—Marry your hideous husband? 'T was a fault,And now you taste the fruit of it. Farewell.""There!" smiled I as she snatched it and was gone—"There, let the jealous miscreant,—Guido's self,Whose mean soul grins through this transparent trick,—Be balked so far, defrauded of his aim!What fund of satisfaction to the knave,Had I kicked this his messenger down stairs,Trussed to the middle of her impudence,And set his heart at ease so! No, indeed!There 's the reply which he shall turn and twistAt pleasure, snuff at till his brain grow drunk,As the bear does when he finds a scented gloveThat puzzles him,—a hand and yet no hand,Of other perfume than his own foul paw!Last month, I had doubtless chosen to play the dupe,Accepted the mock-invitation, keptThe sham appointment, cudgel beneath cloak,Prepared myself to pull the appointer's selfOut of the window from his hiding-placeBehind the gown of this part-messengerPart-mistress who would personate the wife.Such had seemed once a jest permissible:Now, I am not i' the mood."Back next morn broughtThe messenger, a second letter in hand."You are cruel, Thyrsis, and Myrtilla moansNeglected but adores you, makes requestFor mercy: why is it you dare not come?Such virtue is scarce natural to your age:You must love some one else; I hear you do,The Baron's daughter or the Advocate's wife,Or both,—all 's one, would you make me the third—I take the crumbs from table gratefullyNor grudge who feasts there. 'Faith, I blush and blaze!Yet if I break all bounds, there 's reason sure.Are you determinedly bent on Rome?I am wretched here, a monster tortures me:Carry me with you! Come and say you will!Concert this very evening! Do not write!I am ever at the window of my roomOver the terrace, at theAve. Come!"

Then I took a pen and wrote:

"No more of this! That you are fair, I know:

But other thoughts now occupy my mind.

I should not thus have played the insensible

Once on a time. What made you—may one ask—

Marry your hideous husband? 'T was a fault,

And now you taste the fruit of it. Farewell."

"There!" smiled I as she snatched it and was gone—

"There, let the jealous miscreant,—Guido's self,

Whose mean soul grins through this transparent trick,—

Be balked so far, defrauded of his aim!

What fund of satisfaction to the knave,

Had I kicked this his messenger down stairs,

Trussed to the middle of her impudence,

And set his heart at ease so! No, indeed!

There 's the reply which he shall turn and twist

At pleasure, snuff at till his brain grow drunk,

As the bear does when he finds a scented glove

That puzzles him,—a hand and yet no hand,

Of other perfume than his own foul paw!

Last month, I had doubtless chosen to play the dupe,

Accepted the mock-invitation, kept

The sham appointment, cudgel beneath cloak,

Prepared myself to pull the appointer's self

Out of the window from his hiding-place

Behind the gown of this part-messenger

Part-mistress who would personate the wife.

Such had seemed once a jest permissible:

Now, I am not i' the mood."

Back next morn brought

The messenger, a second letter in hand.

"You are cruel, Thyrsis, and Myrtilla moans

Neglected but adores you, makes request

For mercy: why is it you dare not come?

Such virtue is scarce natural to your age:

You must love some one else; I hear you do,

The Baron's daughter or the Advocate's wife,

Or both,—all 's one, would you make me the third—

I take the crumbs from table gratefully

Nor grudge who feasts there. 'Faith, I blush and blaze!

Yet if I break all bounds, there 's reason sure.

Are you determinedly bent on Rome?

I am wretched here, a monster tortures me:

Carry me with you! Come and say you will!

Concert this very evening! Do not write!

I am ever at the window of my room

Over the terrace, at theAve. Come!"

I questioned—lifting half the woman's maskTo let her smile loose. "So, you gave my lineTo the merry lady?" "She kissed off the wax,And put what paper was not kissed awayIn her bosom to go burn: but merry, no!She wept all night when evening brought no friend,Alone, the unkind missive at her breast;Thus Philomel, the thorn at her breast too,Sings" ... "Writes this second letter?" "Even so!Then she may peep at vespers forth?"—"What riskDo we run o' the husband?"—"Ah,—no risk at all!He is more stupid even than jealous. Ah—That was the reason? Why, the man 's away!Beside, his bugbear is that friend of yours,Fat little Canon Conti. He fears him,How should he dream of you? I told you truth:He goes to the villa at Vittiano—'t isThe time when Spring-sap rises in the vine—Spends the night there. And then his wife 's a child:Does he think a child outwits him? A mere child:Yet so full-grown, a dish for any duke.Don't quarrel longer with such cates, but come!"

I questioned—lifting half the woman's mask

To let her smile loose. "So, you gave my line

To the merry lady?" "She kissed off the wax,

And put what paper was not kissed away

In her bosom to go burn: but merry, no!

She wept all night when evening brought no friend,

Alone, the unkind missive at her breast;

Thus Philomel, the thorn at her breast too,

Sings" ... "Writes this second letter?" "Even so!

Then she may peep at vespers forth?"—"What risk

Do we run o' the husband?"—"Ah,—no risk at all!

He is more stupid even than jealous. Ah—

That was the reason? Why, the man 's away!

Beside, his bugbear is that friend of yours,

Fat little Canon Conti. He fears him,

How should he dream of you? I told you truth:

He goes to the villa at Vittiano—'t is

The time when Spring-sap rises in the vine—

Spends the night there. And then his wife 's a child:

Does he think a child outwits him? A mere child:

Yet so full-grown, a dish for any duke.

Don't quarrel longer with such cates, but come!"

I wrote, "In vain do you solicit me.I am a priest: and you are wedded wife,Whatever kind of brute your husband prove.I have scruples, in short. Yet should you really showSign at the window ... but nay, best be good!My thoughts are elsewhere."—"Take her that!"—"AgainLet the incarnate meanness, cheat and spy,Mean to the marrow of him, make his heartHis food, anticipate hell's worm once more!Let him watch shivering at the window—ay,And let this hybrid, this his light-of-loveAnd lackey-of-lies,—a sage economy,—Paid with embracings for the rank brass coin,—Let her report and make him chuckle o'erThe breakdown of my resolution now,And lour at disappointment in good time!—So tantalize and so enrage by turns,Until the two fall each on the other likeTwo famished spiders, as the coveted fly,That toys long, leaves their net and them at last!"

I wrote, "In vain do you solicit me.

I am a priest: and you are wedded wife,

Whatever kind of brute your husband prove.

I have scruples, in short. Yet should you really show

Sign at the window ... but nay, best be good!

My thoughts are elsewhere."—"Take her that!"

—"Again

Let the incarnate meanness, cheat and spy,

Mean to the marrow of him, make his heart

His food, anticipate hell's worm once more!

Let him watch shivering at the window—ay,

And let this hybrid, this his light-of-love

And lackey-of-lies,—a sage economy,—

Paid with embracings for the rank brass coin,—

Let her report and make him chuckle o'er

The breakdown of my resolution now,

And lour at disappointment in good time!

—So tantalize and so enrage by turns,

Until the two fall each on the other like

Two famished spiders, as the coveted fly,

That toys long, leaves their net and them at last!"

And so the missives followed thick and fastFor a month, say,—I still came at every turnOn the soft sly adder, endlong 'neath my tread.I was met i' the street, made sign to in the church,A slip was found i' the door-sill, scribbled word'Twixt page and page o' the prayer-book in my place.A crumpled thing dropped even before my feet,Pushed through the blind, above the terrace-rail,As I passed, by day, the very window once.And ever from corners would be peering upThe messenger, with the selfsame demand,"Obdurate still, no flesh but adamant?Nothing to cure the wound, assuage the throeO' the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear?"And ever my one answer in one tone—"Go your ways, temptress! Let a priest read, pray,Unplagued of vain talk, visions not for him!In the end, you 'll have your will and ruin me!"

And so the missives followed thick and fast

For a month, say,—I still came at every turn

On the soft sly adder, endlong 'neath my tread.

I was met i' the street, made sign to in the church,

A slip was found i' the door-sill, scribbled word

'Twixt page and page o' the prayer-book in my place.

A crumpled thing dropped even before my feet,

Pushed through the blind, above the terrace-rail,

As I passed, by day, the very window once.

And ever from corners would be peering up

The messenger, with the selfsame demand,

"Obdurate still, no flesh but adamant?

Nothing to cure the wound, assuage the throe

O' the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear?"

And ever my one answer in one tone—

"Go your ways, temptress! Let a priest read, pray,

Unplagued of vain talk, visions not for him!

In the end, you 'll have your will and ruin me!"

One day, a variation: thus I read:"You have gained little by timidity.My husband has found out my love at length,Sees cousin Conti was the stalking-horse,And you the game he covered, poor fat soul!My husband is a formidable foe,Will stick at nothing to destroy you. StandPrepared, or better, run till you reach Rome!I bade you visit me, when the last placeMy tyrant would have turned suspicious at,Or cared to seek you in, was ... why say, where?But now all 's changed: beside, the season 's pastAt the villa,—wants the master's eye no more.Anyhow, I beseech you, stay awayFrom the window! He might well be posted there."

One day, a variation: thus I read:

"You have gained little by timidity.

My husband has found out my love at length,

Sees cousin Conti was the stalking-horse,

And you the game he covered, poor fat soul!

My husband is a formidable foe,

Will stick at nothing to destroy you. Stand

Prepared, or better, run till you reach Rome!

I bade you visit me, when the last place

My tyrant would have turned suspicious at,

Or cared to seek you in, was ... why say, where?

But now all 's changed: beside, the season 's past

At the villa,—wants the master's eye no more.

Anyhow, I beseech you, stay away

From the window! He might well be posted there."

I wrote—"You raise my courage, or call upMy curiosity, who am but man.Tell him he owns the palace, not the streetUnder—that 's his and yours and mine alike,If it should please me pad the path this eve,Guido will have two troubles, first to getInto a rage and then get out again.Be cautious, though: at theAve!"You of the courtWhen I stood question here and reached this pointO' the narrative,—search notes and see and sayIf some one did not interpose with smileAnd sneer, "And prithee why so confidentThat the husband must, of all needs, not the wife,Fabricate thus,—what if the lady loved?What if she wrote the letters?"Learned Sir,I told you there 's a picture in our church.Well, if a low-browed verger sidled upBringing me, like a blotch, on his prod's point,A transfixed scorpion, let the reptile writhe,And then said, "See a thing that Rafael made—This venom issued from Madonna's mouth!"I should reply, "Rather, the soul of youHas issued from your body, like from like,By way of the ordure-corner!"But no less,I tired of the same long black teasing lieObtruded thus at every turn; the pestWas far too near the picture, anyhow:One does Madonna service, making clownsRemove their dung-heap from the sacristy."I will to the window, as he tempts," said I:"Yes, whom the easy love has failed allure,This new bait of adventure tempts,—thinks he.Though the imprisoned lady keeps afar,There will they lie in ambush, heads alert,Kith, kin, and Count mustered to bite my heel.No mother nor brother viper of the broodShall scuttle off without the instructive bruise!"

I wrote—"You raise my courage, or call up

My curiosity, who am but man.

Tell him he owns the palace, not the street

Under—that 's his and yours and mine alike,

If it should please me pad the path this eve,

Guido will have two troubles, first to get

Into a rage and then get out again.

Be cautious, though: at theAve!"

You of the court

When I stood question here and reached this point

O' the narrative,—search notes and see and say

If some one did not interpose with smile

And sneer, "And prithee why so confident

That the husband must, of all needs, not the wife,

Fabricate thus,—what if the lady loved?

What if she wrote the letters?"

Learned Sir,

I told you there 's a picture in our church.

Well, if a low-browed verger sidled up

Bringing me, like a blotch, on his prod's point,

A transfixed scorpion, let the reptile writhe,

And then said, "See a thing that Rafael made—

This venom issued from Madonna's mouth!"

I should reply, "Rather, the soul of you

Has issued from your body, like from like,

By way of the ordure-corner!"

But no less,

I tired of the same long black teasing lie

Obtruded thus at every turn; the pest

Was far too near the picture, anyhow:

One does Madonna service, making clowns

Remove their dung-heap from the sacristy.

"I will to the window, as he tempts," said I:

"Yes, whom the easy love has failed allure,

This new bait of adventure tempts,—thinks he.

Though the imprisoned lady keeps afar,

There will they lie in ambush, heads alert,

Kith, kin, and Count mustered to bite my heel.

No mother nor brother viper of the brood

Shall scuttle off without the instructive bruise!"

So I went: crossed street and street: "The next street's turn,I stand beneath the terrace, see, above,The black of the ambush-window. Then, in placeOf hand's throw of soft prelude over lute,And cough that clears way for the ditty last,"—I began to laugh already—"he will have'Out of the hole you hide in, on to the front,Count Guido Franceschini, show yourself!Hear what a man thinks of a thing like you,And after, take this foulness in your face!'"

So I went: crossed street and street: "The next street's turn,

I stand beneath the terrace, see, above,

The black of the ambush-window. Then, in place

Of hand's throw of soft prelude over lute,

And cough that clears way for the ditty last,"—

I began to laugh already—"he will have

'Out of the hole you hide in, on to the front,

Count Guido Franceschini, show yourself!

Hear what a man thinks of a thing like you,

And after, take this foulness in your face!'"

The words lay living on my lip, I madeThe one turn more—and there at the window stood,Framed in its black square length, with lamp in hand,Pompilia; the same great, grave, griefful airAs stands i' the dusk, on altar that I know,Left alone with one moonbeam in her cell,Our Lady of all the Sorrows. Ere I knelt—Assured myself that she was flesh and blood—She had looked one look and vanished.

The words lay living on my lip, I made

The one turn more—and there at the window stood,

Framed in its black square length, with lamp in hand,

Pompilia; the same great, grave, griefful air

As stands i' the dusk, on altar that I know,

Left alone with one moonbeam in her cell,

Our Lady of all the Sorrows. Ere I knelt—

Assured myself that she was flesh and blood—

She had looked one look and vanished.

I thought—"Just so:It was herself, they have set her there to watch—Stationed to see some wedding-band go by,On fair pretence that she must bless the bride,Or wait some funeral with friends wind past,And crave peace for the corpse that claims its due.She never dreams they used her for a snare,And now withdraw the bait has served its turn.Well done, the husband, who shall fare the worse!"And on my lip again was—"Out with thee,Guido!" When all at once she reappeared;But, this time, on the terrace overhead,So close above me, she could almost touchMy head if she bent down; and she did bend,While I stood still as stone, all eye, all ear.

I thought—"Just so:

It was herself, they have set her there to watch—

Stationed to see some wedding-band go by,

On fair pretence that she must bless the bride,

Or wait some funeral with friends wind past,

And crave peace for the corpse that claims its due.

She never dreams they used her for a snare,

And now withdraw the bait has served its turn.

Well done, the husband, who shall fare the worse!"

And on my lip again was—"Out with thee,

Guido!" When all at once she reappeared;

But, this time, on the terrace overhead,

So close above me, she could almost touch

My head if she bent down; and she did bend,

While I stood still as stone, all eye, all ear.

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