Chapter 77

She began—"You have sent me letters, Sir:I have read none, I can neither read nor write;But she you gave them to, a woman here,One of the people in whose power I am,Partly explained their sense; I think, to meObliged to listen while she inculcatesThat you, a priest, can dare love me, a wife,Desire to live or die as I shall bid,(She makes me listen if I will or no)Because you saw my face a single time.It cannot be she says the thing you mean;Such wickedness were deadly to us both:But good true love would help me now so much—I tell myself, you may mean good and true.You offer me, I seem to understand,Because I am in poverty and starve,Much money, where one piece would save my life.The silver cup upon the altar-clothIs neither yours to give nor mine to take;But I might take one bit of bread therefrom,Since I am starving, and return the rest,Yet do no harm: this is my very case.I am in that strait, I may not dare abstainFrom so much of assistance as would bringThe guilt of theft on neither you nor me;But no superfluous particle of aid.I think, if you will let me state my case,Even had you been so fancy-fevered here,Not your sound self, you must grow healthy now—Care only to bestow what I can take.That it is only you in the wide world,Knowing me nor in thought nor word nor deed,Who, all unprompted save by your own heart,Come proffering assistance now,—were strangeBut that my whole life is so strange: as strangeIt is, my husband whom I have not wrongedShould hate and harm me. For his own soul's sake,Hinder the harm! But there is something more,And that the strangest: it has got to beSomehow for my sake too, and yet not mine,—This is a riddle—for some kind of sakeNot any clearer to myself than you,And yet as certain as that I draw breath,—I would fain live, not die—oh no, not die!My case is, I was dwelling happilyAt Rome with those dear Comparini, calledFather and mother to me; when at onceI found I had become Count Guido's wife:Who then, not waiting for a moment, changedInto a fury of fire, if once he wasMerely a man: his face threw fire at mine,He laid a hand on me that burned all peace,All joy, all hope, and last all fear away,Dipping the bough of life, so pleasant once,In fire which shrivelled leaf and bud alike,Burning not only present life but past,Which you might think was safe beyond his reach.He reached it, though, since that beloved pair,My father once, my mother all those years,That loved me so, now say I dreamed a dreamAnd bid me wake, henceforth no child of theirs,Never in all the time their child at all.Do you understand? I cannot: yet so it is.Just so I say of you that proffer help:I cannot understand what prompts your soul,I simply needs must see that it is so,Only one strange and wonderful thing more.They came here with me, those two dear ones, keptAll the old love up, till my husband, tillHis people here so tortured them, they fled.And now, is it because I grow in fleshAnd spirit one with him their torturer,That they, renouncing him, must cast off me?If I were graced by God to have a child,Could I one day deny God graced me so?Then, since my husband hates me, I shall breakNo law that reigns in this fell house of hate,By using—letting have effect so muchOf hate as hides me from that whole of hateWould take my life which I want and must have—Just as I take from your excess of loveEnough to save my life with, all I need.The Archbishop said to murder me were sin:My leaving Guido were a kind of deathWith no sin,—more death, he must answer for.Hear now what death to him and life to youI wish to pay and owe. Take me to Rome!You go to Rome, the servant makes me hear.Take me as you would take a dog, I think,Masterless left for strangers to maltreat:Take me home like that—leave me in the houseWhere the father and the mother are; and soonThey 'll come to know and call me by my name,Their child once more, since child I am, for allThey now forget me, which is the worst o' the dream—And the way to end dreams is to break them, stand,Walk, go: then help me to stand, walk, and go!The Governor said the strong should help the weak:You know how weak the strongest women are.How could I find my way there by myself?I cannot even call out, make them hear—Just as in dreams: I have tried and proved the fact.I have told this story and more to good great men,The Archbishop and the Governor: they smiled.'Stop your mouth, fair one!'—presently they frowned,'Get you gone, disengage you from our feet!'I went in my despair to an old priest,Only a friar, no great man like these two,But good, the Augustinian, people nameRomano,—he confessed me two months since:He fears God, why then needs he fear the world?And when he questioned how it came aboutThat I was found in danger of a sin—Despair of any help from providence,—'Since, though your husband outrage you,' said he,'That is a case too common, the wives dieOr live, but do not sin so deep as this'—Then I told—what I never will tell you—How, worse than husband's hate, I had to bearThe love—soliciting to shame called love—Of his brother,—the young idle priest i' the houseWith only the devil to meet there. 'This is grave—Yes, we must interfere: I counsel,—writeTo those who used to be your parents once,Of dangers here, bid them convey you hence!''But,' said I, 'when I neither read nor write?'Then he took pity and promised 'I will write.'If he did so,—why, they are dumb or dead:Either they give no credit to the tale,Or else, wrapped wholly up in their own joyOf such escape, they care not who cries, stillI' the clutches. Anyhow, no word arrives.All such extravagance and dreadfulnessSeems incident to dreaming, cured one way,—Wake me! The letter I received this morn,Said—if the woman spoke your very sense—'You would die for me:' I can believe it now:For now the dream gets to involve yourself.First of all, you seemed wicked and not good,In writing me those letters: you came inLike a thief upon me. I this morning saidIn my extremity, entreat the thief!Try if he have in him no honest touch!A thief might save me from a murderer.'T was a thief said the last kind word to Christ:Christ took the kindness and forgave the theft:And so did I prepare what I now say.But now, that you stand and I see your face,Though you have never uttered word yet,—well, I know,Here too has been dream-work, delusion too,And that at no time, you with the eyes here,Ever intended to do wrong by me,Nor wrote such letters therefore. It is false,And you are true, have been true, will be true.To Rome then,—when is it you take me there?Each minute lost is mortal. When?—I ask."I answered, "It shall be when it can be.I will go hence and do your pleasure, findThe sure and speedy means of travel, thenCome back and take you to your friends in Rome.There wants a carriage, money and the rest,—A day's work by to-morrow at this time.How shall I see you and assure escape?"She replied, "Pass, to-morrow at this hour.If I am at the open window, well:If I am absent, drop a handkerchiefAnd walk by! I shall see from where I watch,And know that all is done. Return next eve,And next, and so till we can meet and speak!""To-morrow at this hour I pass," said I.She was withdrawn.Here is another pointI bid you pause at. When I told thus far,Some one said, subtly, "Here at least was foundYour confidence in error,—you perceivedThe spirit of the letters, in a sort,Had been the lady's, if the body should beSupplied by Guido: say, he forged them all!Here was the unforged fact—she sent for you,Spontaneously elected you to help,—What men call, loved you: Guido read her mind,Gave it expression to assure the worldThe case as just as he foresaw: he wrote,She spoke."Sirs, that first simile serves still,—That falsehood of a scorpion hatched, I say,Nowhere i' the world but in Madonna's mouth.Go on! Suppose, that falsehood foiled, next evePictured Madonna raised her painted hand,Fixed the face Rafael bent above the Babe.On my face as I flung me at her feet:Such miracle vouchsafed and manifest,Would that prove the first lying tale was true?Pompilia spoke, and I at once received,Accepted my own fact, my miracleSelf-authorized and self-explained,—she choseTo summon me and signify her choice.Afterward,—oh! I gave a passing glanceTo a certain ugly cloud-shape, goblin-shredOf hell-smoke hurrying past the splendid moonOut now to tolerate no darkness more,And saw right through the thing that tried to passFor truth and solid, not an empty lie:"So, he not only forged the words for herBut words for me, made letters he called mine:What I sent, he retained, gave these in place,All by the mistress-messenger! As IRecognized her, at potency of truth,So she, by the crystalline soul, knew me,Never mistook the signs. Enough of this—Let the wraith go to nothingness again,Here is the orb, have only thought for her!""Thought?" nay, Sirs, what shall follow was not thought:I have thought sometimes, and thought long and hard.I have stood before, gone round a serious thing,Tasked my whole mind to touch and clasp it close,As I stretch forth my arm to touch this bar.God and man, and what duty I owe both,—I dare to say I have confronted theseIn thought: but no such faculty helped here.I put forth no thought,—powerless, all that nightI paced the city: it was the first Spring.By the invasion I lay passive to,In rushed new things, the old were rapt away;Alike abolished—the imprisonmentOf the outside air, the inside weight o' the worldThat pulled me down. Death meant, to spurn the ground,Soar to the sky,—die well and you do that.The very immolation made the bliss;Death was the heart of life, and all the harmMy folly had crouched to avoid, now proved a veilHiding all gain my wisdom strove to grasp:As if the intense centre of the flameShould turn a heaven to that devoted flyWhich hitherto, sophist alike and sage,Saint Thomas with his sober gray goose-quill,And sinner Plato by Cephisian reed,Would fain, pretending just the insect's good,Whisk off, drive back, consign to shade again.Into another state, under new ruleI knew myself was passing swift and sure;Whereof the initiatory pang approached,Felicitous annoy, as bitter-sweetAs when the virgin-band, the victors chaste,Feel at the end the earthly garments drop,And rise with something of a rosy shameInto immortal nakedness: so ILay, and let come the proper throe would thrillInto the ecstasy and outthrob pain.I' the gray of dawn it was I found myselfFacing the pillared front o' the Pieve—mine,My church: it seemed to say for the first time,"But am not I the Bride, the mystic loveO' the Lamb, who took thy plighted troth, my priest,To fold thy warm heart on my heart of stoneAnd freeze thee nor unfasten any more?This is a fleshly woman,—let the freeBestow their life-blood, thou art pulseless now!"See! Day by day I had risen and left this churchAt the signal waved me by some foolish fan,With half a curse and half a pitying smileFor the monk I stumbled over in my haste,Prostrate and corpse-like at the altar-footIntent on hiscorona:then the churchWas ready with her quip, if word conduced,To quicken my pace nor stop for prating—"There!Be thankful you are no such ninny, goRather to teach a black-eyed novice cardsThan gabble Latin and protrude that noseSmooth to a sheep's through no brains and much faith!"That sort of incentive! Now the church changed tone—Now, when I found out first that life and deathAre means to an end, that passion uses both,Indisputably mistress of the manWhose form of worship is self-sacrifice:Now, from the stone lungs sighed the scrannel voice,"Leave that live passion, come be dead with me!"As if, i' the fabled garden, I had goneOn great adventure, plucked in ignoranceHedge-fruit, and feasted to satiety,Laughing at such high fame for hips and haws,And scorned the achievement: then come all at onceO' the prize o' the place, the thing of perfect gold,The apple's self: and, scarce my eye on that,Was 'ware as well o' the seven-fold dragon's watch.Sirs, I obeyed. Obedience was too strange,—This new thing that had been struck into meBy the look o' the lady,—to dare disobeyThe first authoritative word. 'T was God's.I had been lifted to the level of her,Could take such sounds into my sense. I said,"We two are cognizant o' the Master now;She it is bids me bow the head: how true,I am a priest! I see the function here;I thought the other way self-sacrifice:This is the true, seals up the perfect sum.I pay it, sit down, silently obey."So, I went home. Dawn broke, noon broadened, I—I sat stone-still, let time run over me.The sun slanted into my room, had reachedThe west. I opened book,—Aquinas blazedWith one black name only on the white page.I looked up, saw the sunset: vespers rang:"She counts the minutes till I keep my wordAnd come say all is ready. I am a priest.Duty to God is duty to her: I thinkGod, who created her, will save her tooSome new way, by one miracle the more,Without me. Then, prayer may avail perhaps."I went to my own place i' the Pieve, readThe office: I was back at home againSitting i' the dark. "Could she but know—but knowThat, were there good in this distinct from God's,Really good as it reached her, though procuredBy a sin of mine,—I should sin: God forgives.She knows it is no fear withholds me: fear?Of what? Suspense here is the terrible thing.If she should, as she counts the minutes, comeOn the fantastic notion that I fearThe world now, fear the Archbishop, fear perhapsCount Guido, he who, having forged the lies,May wait the work, attend the effect,—I fearThe sword of Guido! Let God see to that—Hating lies, let not her believe a lie!"Again the morning found me. "I will work,Tie down my foolish thoughts. Thank God so far!I have saved her from a scandal, stopped the tonguesHad broken else into a cackle and hissAround the noble name. Duty is stillWisdom: I have been wise." So the day wore.At evening—"But, achieving victory,I must not blink the priest's peculiar part,Nor shrink to counsel, comfort: priest and friend—How do we discontinue to be friends?I will go minister, advise her seekHelp at the source,—above all, not despair:There may be other happier help at hand.I hope it,—wherefore then neglect to say?"There she stood—leaned there, for the second time,Over the terrace, looked at me, then spoke:"Why is it you have suffered me to stayBreaking my heart two days more than was need?Why delay help, your own heart yearns to give?You are again here, in the selfsame mind,I see here, steadfast in the face of you,—You grudge to do no one thing that I ask.Why then is nothing done? You know my need.Still, through God's pity on me, there is timeAnd one day more: shall I be saved or no?"I answered—"Lady, waste no thought, no wordEven to forgive me! Care for what I care—Only! Now follow me as I were fate!Leave this house in the dark to-morrow night,Just before daybreak:—there 's new moon this eve—It sets, and then begins the solid black.Descend, proceed to the Torrione, stepOver the low dilapidated wall,Take San Clemente, there 's no other gateUnguarded at the hour: some paces thenceAn inn stands; cross to it; I shall be there."She answered, "If I can but find the way.But I shall find it. Go now!"I did go,Took rapidly the route myself prescribed,Stopped at Torrione, climbed the ruined place,Proved that the gate was practicable, reachedThe inn, no eye, despite the dark, could miss,Knocked there and entered, made the host secure:"With Caponsacchi it is ask and have;I know my betters. Are you bound for Rome?I get swift horse and trusty man," said he.Then I retraced my steps, was found once moreIn my own house for the last time: there layThe broad pale opened "Summa." "Shut his book,There 's other showing! 'T was a Thomas tooObtained—more favored than his namesake here—A gift, tied faith fast, foiled the tug of doubt,—Our Lady's girdle; down he saw it dropAs she ascended into heaven, they say:He kept that safe and bade all doubt adieu.I too have seen a lady and hold a grace."I know not how the night passed: morning broke,Presently came my servant. "Sir, this eve—Do you forget?" I started. "How forget?What is it you know?" "With due submission, Sir,This being last Monday in the month but one,And a vigil, since to-morrow is Saint George,And feast-day, and moreover day for copes,And Canon Conti now away a month,And Canon Crispi sour because, forsooth,You let him sulk in stall and bear the bruntOf the octave ... Well, Sir, 't is important!""True!Hearken, I have to start for Rome this night.No word, lest Crispi overboil and burst!Provide me with a laic dress! Throw dustI' the Canon's eye, stop his tongue's scandal so!See there 's a sword in case of accident."I knew the knave, the knave knew me.And thusThrough each familiar hindrance of the dayDid I make steadily for its hour and end,—Felt time's old barrier-growth of right and fitGive way through all its twines, and let me go.Use and wont recognized the excepted man,Let speed the special service,—and I spedTill, at the dead between midnight and morn,There was I at the goal, before the gate,With a tune in the ears, low leading up to loud,A light in the eyes, faint that would soon be flare,Ever some spiritual witness new and newIn faster frequence, crowding solitudeTo watch the way o' the warfare,—till, at last,When the ecstatic minute must bring birth,Began a whiteness in the distance, waxedWhiter and whiter, near grew and more near,Till it was she: there did Pompilia come:The white I saw shine through her was her soul's,Certainly, for the body was one black,Black from head down to foot. She did not speak,Glided into the carriage,—so a cloudGathers the moon up. "By San Spirito,To Rome, as if the road burned underneath!Reach Rome, then hold my head in pledge, I payThe run and the risk to heart's content!" Just that,I said,—then, in another tick of time,Sprang, was beside her, she and I alone.So it began, our flight through dusk to clear,Through day and night and day again to nightOnce more, and to last dreadful dawn of all.Sirs, how should I lie quiet in my graveUnless you suffer me wring, drop by drop,My brain dry, make a riddance of the drenchOf minutes with a memory in each,Recorded motion, breath or look of hers,Which poured forth would present you one pure glass,Mirror you plain—as God's sea, glassed in gold,His saints—the perfect soul Pompilia? Men,You must know that a man gets drunk with truthStagnant inside him! Oh, they 've killed her, Sirs!Can I be calm?Calmly! Each incidentProves, I maintain, that action of the flightFor the true thing it was. The first faint scratchO' the stone will test its nature, teach its worthTo idiots who name Parian—coprolite.After all, I shall give no glare—at bestOnly display you certain scattered lightsLamping the rush and roll of the abyss:Nothing but here and there a fire-point pricksWavelet from wavelet: well!For the first hourWe both were silent in the night, I know:Sometimes I did not see nor understand.Blackness engulfed me,—partial stupor, say—Then I would break way, breathe through the surprise,And be aware again, and see who satIn the dark vest with the white face and hands.I said to myself—"I have caught it, I conceiveThe mind o' the mystery: 't is the way they wakeAnd wait, two martyrs somewhere in a tombEach by each as their blessing was to die;Some signal they are promised and expect,—When to arise before the trumpet scares:So, through the whole course of the world they waitThe last day, but so fearless and so safe!No otherwise, in safety and not fear,I lie, because she lies too by my side."You know this is not love, Sirs,—it is faith,The feeling that there 's God, he reigns and rulesOut of this low world: that is all; no harm!At times she drew a soft sigh—music seemedAlways to hover just above her lips,Not settle,—break a silence music too.In the determined morning, I first foundHer head erect, her face turned full to me,Her soul intent on mine through two wide eyes.I answered them. "You are saved hitherto.We have passed Perugia,—gone round by the wood,Not through, I seem to think,—and oppositeI know Assisi; this is holy ground."Then she resumed. "How long since we both leftArezzo?"—"Years—and certain hours beside."It was at ... ah, but I forget the names!'T is a mere post-house and a hovel or two;I left the carriage and got bread and wineAnd brought it her.—"Does it detain to eat?""—They stay perforce, change horses,—therefore eat!We lose no minute: we arrive, be sure!"This was—I know not where—there's a great hillClose over, and the stream has lost its bridge,One fords it. She began—"I have heard sayOf some sick body that my mother knew,'T was no good sign when in a limb diseasedAll the pain suddenly departs,—as ifThe guardian angel discontinued painBecause the hope of cure was gone at last:The limb will not again exert itself,It needs be pained no longer: so with me,—My soul whence all the pain is past at once:All pain must be to work some good in the end.True, this I feel now, this may be that good,Pain was because of,—otherwise, I fear!"She said,—a long while later in the day,When I had let the silence be,—abrupt—"Have you a mother?" "She died, I was born.""A sister then?" "No sister." "Who was it—What woman were you used to serve this way,Be kind to, till I called you and you came?"I did not like that word. Soon afterward—"Tell me, are men unhappy, in some kindOf mere unhappiness at being men,As women suffer, being womanish?Have you, now, some unhappiness, I mean,Born of what may be man's strength overmuch,To match the undue susceptibility,The sense at every pore when hate is close?It hurts us if a baby hides its faceOr child strikes at us punily, calls namesOr makes a mouth,—much more if stranger menLaugh or frown,—just as that were much to bear!Yet rocks split,—and the blow-ball does no more,Quivers to feathery nothing at a touch;And strength may have its drawback, weakness 'scapes."Once she asked, "What is it that made you smile,At the great gate with the eagles and the snakes,Where the company entered, 't is a long time since?""—Forgive—I think you would not understand:Ah, but you ask me,—therefore, it was this.That was a certain bishop's villa-gate,I knew it by the eagles,—and at onceRemember this same bishop was just hePeople of old were wont to bid me pleaseIf I would catch preferment: so, I smiledBecause an impulse came to me, a whim—What if I prayed the prelate leave to speak,Began upon him in his presence-hall—'What, still at work so gray and obsolete?Still rocheted and mitred more or less?Don't you feel all that out of fashion now?I find out when the day of things is done!'"At eve we heard theangelus:she turned—"I told you I can neither read nor write.My life stopped with the play-time; I will learn,If I begin to live again: but you—Who are a priest—wherefore do you not readThe service at this hour? Read Gabriel's song,The lesson, and then read the little prayerTo Raphael, proper for us travellers!"I did not like that, neither, but I read.When we stopped at Foligno it was dark.The people of the post came out with lights:The driver said, "This time to-morrow, maySaints only help, relays continue good,Nor robbers hinder, we arrive at Rome.I urged,—"Why tax your strength a second night?Trust me, alight here and take brief repose!We are out of harm's reach, past pursuit: go sleepIf but an hour! I keep watch, guard the whileHere in the doorway." But her whole face changed,The misery grew again about her mouth,The eyes burned up from faintness, like the fawn'sTired to death in the thicket, when she feelsThe probing spear o' the huntsman. "Oh, no stay!"She cried, in the fawn's cry, "On to Rome, on, on—Unless 't is you who fear,—which cannot be!"We did go on all night; but at its closeShe was troubled, restless, moaned low, talked at whilesTo herself, her brow on quiver with the dream:Once, wide awake, she menaced, at arms' lengthWaved away something—"Never again with you!My soul is mine, my body is my soul's:You and I are divided ever moreIn soul and body: get you gone!" Then I—"Why, in my whole life I have never prayed!Oh, if the God, that only can, would help!Am I his priest with power to cast out fiends?Let God arise and all his enemiesBe scattered!" By morn, there was peace, no sighOut of the deep sleep.When she woke at last,I answered the first look—"Scarce twelve hours more,Then, Rome! There probably was no pursuit,There cannot now be peril: bear up brave!Just some twelve hours to press through to the prize:Then, no more of the terrible journey!" "Then,No more o' the journey: if it might but last!Always, my life long, thus to journey still!It is the interruption that I dread,—With no dread, ever to be here and thus!Never to see a face nor hear a voice!Yours is no voice; you speak when you are dumb;Nor face, I see it in the dark. I wantNo face nor voice that change and grow unkind."That I liked, that was the best thing she said.In the broad day, I dared entreat, "Descend!"I told a woman, at the garden-gateBy the post-house, white and pleasant in the sun,"It is my sister,—talk with her apart!She is married and unhappy, you perceive;I take her home because her head is hurt;Comfort her as you women understand!"So, there I left them by the garden-wall,Paced the road, then bade put the horses to,Came back, and there she sat: close to her knee,A black-eyed child still held the bowl of milk,Wondered to see how little she could drink,And in her arms the woman's infant lay.She smiled at me, "How much good this has done!This is a whole night's rest and how much more!I can proceed now, though I wish to stay.How do you call that tree with the thick topThat holds in all its leafy green and goldThe sun now like an immense egg of fire?"(It was a million-leaved mimosa.) "TakeThe babe away from me and let me go!"And in the carriage, "Still a day, my friend!And perhaps half a night, the woman fears.I pray it finish since it cannot last.There may be more misfortune at the close,And where will you be? God suffice me then!"And presently—for there was a roadside-shrine—"When I was taken first to my own churchLorenzo in Lucina, being a girl,And bid confess my faults, I interposed'But teach me what fault to confess and know."So, the priest said—'You should bethink yourself:Each human being needs must have done wrong!'Now, be you candid and no priest but friend—Were I surprised and killed here on the spot,A runaway from husband and his home,Do you account it were in sin I died?My husband used to seem to harm me, not ...Not on pretence he punished sin of mine,Nor for sin's sake and lust of cruelty,But as I heard him bid a farming-manAt the villa take a lamb once to the woodAnd there ill-treat it, meaning that the wolfShould hear its cries, and so come, quick be caught,Enticed to the trap: he practised thus with meThat so, whatever were his gain thereby,Others than I might become prey and spoil.Had it been only between our two selves,—His pleasure and my pain,—why, pleasure himBy dying, nor such need to make a coil!But this was worth an effort, that my painShould not become a snare, prove pain threefoldTo other people—strangers—or unborn—How should I know? I sought release from that—I think, or else from,—dare I say, some causeSuch as is put into a tree, which turnsAway from the north wind with what nest it holds,—The woman said that trees so turn: now, friend,Tell me, because I cannot trust myself!You are a man: what have I done amiss?"You must conceive my answer,—I forget—Taken up wholly with the thought, perhaps,This time she might have said,—might, did not say—"You are a priest." She said, "my friend."Day wore,We passed the places, somehow the calm went,Again the restless eyes began to roveIn new fear of the foe mine could not see.She wandered in her mind,—addressed me once"Gaetano!"—that is not my name: whose name?I grew alarmed, my head seemed turning too.I quickened pace with promise now, now threat:Bade drive and drive, nor any stopping more."Too deep i' the thick of the struggle, struggle through!Then drench her in repose though death's self pourThe plenitude of quiet,—help us, God,Whom the winds carry!"Suddenly I sawThe old tower, and the little white-walled clumpOf buildings and the cypress-tree or two,—"Already Castelnuovo—Rome!" I cried,"As good as Rome,—Rome is the next stage, think!This is where travellers' hearts are wont to beat.Say you are saved, sweet lady!" Up she woke.The sky was fierce with color from the sunSetting. She screamed out, "No, I must not die!Take me no farther, I should die: stay here!I have more life to save than mine!"She swooned.We seemed safe: what was it foreboded so?Out of the coach into the inn I boreThe motionless and breathless pure and palePompilia,—bore her through a pitying groupAnd laid her on a couch, still calm and curedBy deep sleep of all woes at once. The hostWas urgent, "Let her stay an hour or two!Leave her to us; all will be right by morn!"Oh, my foreboding! But I could not choose.I paced the passage, kept watch all night long.I listened,—not one movement, not one sigh."Fear not: she sleeps so sound!" they said: but IFeared, all the same, kept fearing more and more,Found myself throb with fear from head to foot,Filled with a sense of such impending woe,That, at first pause of night, pretence of gray,I made my mind up it was morn.—"Reach Rome,Lest hell reach her! A dozen miles to make,Another long breath, and we emerge!" I stoodI' the courtyard, roused the sleepy grooms. "Have outCarriage and horse, give haste, take gold!" said I.While they made ready in the doubtful morn,—'T was the last minute,—needs must I ascendAnd break her sleep; I turned to go.And thereFaced me Count Guido, there posed the mean manAs master,—took the field, encamped his rights,Challenged the world: there leered new triumph, thereScowled the old malice in the visage badAnd black o' the scamp. Soon triumph suppled the tongueA little, malice glued to his dry throat,And he part howled, part hissed ... oh, how he keptWell out o' the way, at arm's length and to spare!—"My salutation to your priestship! What?Matutinal, busy with book so soonOf an April day that 's damp as tears that nowDeluge Arezzo at its darling's flight?—'T is unfair, wrongs feminity at large,To let a single dame monopolizeA heart the whole sex claims, should share alike:Therefore I overtake you, Canon! Come!The lady,—could you leave her side so soon?You have not yet experienced at her handsMy treatment, you lay down undrugged, I see!Hence this alertness—hence no death-in-lifeLike what held arms fast when she stole from mine.To be sure, you took the solace and reposeThat first night at Foligno!—news aboundO' the road by this time,—men regaled me much,As past them I came halting after you,Vulcan pursuing Mars, as poets sing,—Still at the last here pant I, but arrive,Vulcan—and not without my Cyclops too,The Commissary and the unpoisoned armO' the Civil Force, should Mars turn mutineer.Enough of fooling: capture the culprits, friend!Here is the lover in the smart disguiseWith the sword,—he is a priest, so mine lies still.There upstairs hides my wife the runaway,His leman: the two plotted, poisoned first,Plundered me after, and eloped thus farWhere now you find them. Do your duty quick!Arrest and hold him! That 's done: now catch her!"During this speech of that man,—well, I stoodAway, as he managed,—still, I stood as nearThe throat of him,—with these two hands, my own,—As now I stand near yours, Sir,—one quick spring,One great good satisfying gripe, and lo!There had he lain abolished with his lie,Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed,A spittle wiped off from the face of God!I, in some measure, seek a poor excuseFor what I left undone, in just this factThat my first feeling at the speech I quoteWas—not of what a blasphemy was dared,Not what a bag of venomed purulenceWas split and noisome,—but how splendidlyMirthful, how ludicrous a lie was launched!Would Molière's self wish more than hear such manCall, claim such woman for his own, his wife,Even though, in due amazement at the boast,He had stammered, she moreover was divine?She to be his,—were hardly less absurdThan that he took her name into his mouth,Licked, and then let it go again, the beast,Signed with his slaver. Oh, she poisoned him,Plundered him, and the rest! Well, what I wishedWas, that he would but go on, say once moreSo to the world, and get his meed of men,The fist's reply to the filth. And while I mused,The minute, oh the misery, was gone!On either idle hand of me there stoodReally an officer, nor laughed i' the least:Nay, rendered justice to his reason, laidLogic to heart, as 'twere submitted them"Twice two makes four.""And now, catch her!" he cried.That sobered me. "Let myself lead the way—Ere you arrest me, who am somebody,Being, as you hear, a priest and privileged,—To the lady's chamber! I presume you—menExpert, instructed how to find out truth,Familiar with the guise of guilt. DetectGuilt on her face when it meets mine, then judgeBetween us and the mad dog howling there!"Up we all went together, in they brokeO' the chamber late my chapel. There she lay,Composed as when I laid her, that last eve,O' the couch, still breathless, motionless, sleep's self,Wax-white, seraphic, saturate with the sunO' the morning that now flooded from the frontAnd filled the window with a light like blood."Behold the poisoner, the adulteress,—And feigning sleep too! Seize, bind!" Guido hissed.

She began—"You have sent me letters, Sir:

I have read none, I can neither read nor write;

But she you gave them to, a woman here,

One of the people in whose power I am,

Partly explained their sense; I think, to me

Obliged to listen while she inculcates

That you, a priest, can dare love me, a wife,

Desire to live or die as I shall bid,

(She makes me listen if I will or no)

Because you saw my face a single time.

It cannot be she says the thing you mean;

Such wickedness were deadly to us both:

But good true love would help me now so much—

I tell myself, you may mean good and true.

You offer me, I seem to understand,

Because I am in poverty and starve,

Much money, where one piece would save my life.

The silver cup upon the altar-cloth

Is neither yours to give nor mine to take;

But I might take one bit of bread therefrom,

Since I am starving, and return the rest,

Yet do no harm: this is my very case.

I am in that strait, I may not dare abstain

From so much of assistance as would bring

The guilt of theft on neither you nor me;

But no superfluous particle of aid.

I think, if you will let me state my case,

Even had you been so fancy-fevered here,

Not your sound self, you must grow healthy now—

Care only to bestow what I can take.

That it is only you in the wide world,

Knowing me nor in thought nor word nor deed,

Who, all unprompted save by your own heart,

Come proffering assistance now,—were strange

But that my whole life is so strange: as strange

It is, my husband whom I have not wronged

Should hate and harm me. For his own soul's sake,

Hinder the harm! But there is something more,

And that the strangest: it has got to be

Somehow for my sake too, and yet not mine,

—This is a riddle—for some kind of sake

Not any clearer to myself than you,

And yet as certain as that I draw breath,—

I would fain live, not die—oh no, not die!

My case is, I was dwelling happily

At Rome with those dear Comparini, called

Father and mother to me; when at once

I found I had become Count Guido's wife:

Who then, not waiting for a moment, changed

Into a fury of fire, if once he was

Merely a man: his face threw fire at mine,

He laid a hand on me that burned all peace,

All joy, all hope, and last all fear away,

Dipping the bough of life, so pleasant once,

In fire which shrivelled leaf and bud alike,

Burning not only present life but past,

Which you might think was safe beyond his reach.

He reached it, though, since that beloved pair,

My father once, my mother all those years,

That loved me so, now say I dreamed a dream

And bid me wake, henceforth no child of theirs,

Never in all the time their child at all.

Do you understand? I cannot: yet so it is.

Just so I say of you that proffer help:

I cannot understand what prompts your soul,

I simply needs must see that it is so,

Only one strange and wonderful thing more.

They came here with me, those two dear ones, kept

All the old love up, till my husband, till

His people here so tortured them, they fled.

And now, is it because I grow in flesh

And spirit one with him their torturer,

That they, renouncing him, must cast off me?

If I were graced by God to have a child,

Could I one day deny God graced me so?

Then, since my husband hates me, I shall break

No law that reigns in this fell house of hate,

By using—letting have effect so much

Of hate as hides me from that whole of hate

Would take my life which I want and must have—

Just as I take from your excess of love

Enough to save my life with, all I need.

The Archbishop said to murder me were sin:

My leaving Guido were a kind of death

With no sin,—more death, he must answer for.

Hear now what death to him and life to you

I wish to pay and owe. Take me to Rome!

You go to Rome, the servant makes me hear.

Take me as you would take a dog, I think,

Masterless left for strangers to maltreat:

Take me home like that—leave me in the house

Where the father and the mother are; and soon

They 'll come to know and call me by my name,

Their child once more, since child I am, for all

They now forget me, which is the worst o' the dream—

And the way to end dreams is to break them, stand,

Walk, go: then help me to stand, walk, and go!

The Governor said the strong should help the weak:

You know how weak the strongest women are.

How could I find my way there by myself?

I cannot even call out, make them hear—

Just as in dreams: I have tried and proved the fact.

I have told this story and more to good great men,

The Archbishop and the Governor: they smiled.

'Stop your mouth, fair one!'—presently they frowned,

'Get you gone, disengage you from our feet!'

I went in my despair to an old priest,

Only a friar, no great man like these two,

But good, the Augustinian, people name

Romano,—he confessed me two months since:

He fears God, why then needs he fear the world?

And when he questioned how it came about

That I was found in danger of a sin—

Despair of any help from providence,—

'Since, though your husband outrage you,' said he,

'That is a case too common, the wives die

Or live, but do not sin so deep as this'—

Then I told—what I never will tell you—

How, worse than husband's hate, I had to bear

The love—soliciting to shame called love—

Of his brother,—the young idle priest i' the house

With only the devil to meet there. 'This is grave—

Yes, we must interfere: I counsel,—write

To those who used to be your parents once,

Of dangers here, bid them convey you hence!'

'But,' said I, 'when I neither read nor write?'

Then he took pity and promised 'I will write.'

If he did so,—why, they are dumb or dead:

Either they give no credit to the tale,

Or else, wrapped wholly up in their own joy

Of such escape, they care not who cries, still

I' the clutches. Anyhow, no word arrives.

All such extravagance and dreadfulness

Seems incident to dreaming, cured one way,—

Wake me! The letter I received this morn,

Said—if the woman spoke your very sense—

'You would die for me:' I can believe it now:

For now the dream gets to involve yourself.

First of all, you seemed wicked and not good,

In writing me those letters: you came in

Like a thief upon me. I this morning said

In my extremity, entreat the thief!

Try if he have in him no honest touch!

A thief might save me from a murderer.

'T was a thief said the last kind word to Christ:

Christ took the kindness and forgave the theft:

And so did I prepare what I now say.

But now, that you stand and I see your face,

Though you have never uttered word yet,—well, I know,

Here too has been dream-work, delusion too,

And that at no time, you with the eyes here,

Ever intended to do wrong by me,

Nor wrote such letters therefore. It is false,

And you are true, have been true, will be true.

To Rome then,—when is it you take me there?

Each minute lost is mortal. When?—I ask."

I answered, "It shall be when it can be.I will go hence and do your pleasure, findThe sure and speedy means of travel, thenCome back and take you to your friends in Rome.There wants a carriage, money and the rest,—A day's work by to-morrow at this time.How shall I see you and assure escape?"

I answered, "It shall be when it can be.

I will go hence and do your pleasure, find

The sure and speedy means of travel, then

Come back and take you to your friends in Rome.

There wants a carriage, money and the rest,—

A day's work by to-morrow at this time.

How shall I see you and assure escape?"

She replied, "Pass, to-morrow at this hour.If I am at the open window, well:If I am absent, drop a handkerchiefAnd walk by! I shall see from where I watch,And know that all is done. Return next eve,And next, and so till we can meet and speak!""To-morrow at this hour I pass," said I.She was withdrawn.Here is another pointI bid you pause at. When I told thus far,Some one said, subtly, "Here at least was foundYour confidence in error,—you perceivedThe spirit of the letters, in a sort,Had been the lady's, if the body should beSupplied by Guido: say, he forged them all!Here was the unforged fact—she sent for you,Spontaneously elected you to help,—What men call, loved you: Guido read her mind,Gave it expression to assure the worldThe case as just as he foresaw: he wrote,She spoke."Sirs, that first simile serves still,—That falsehood of a scorpion hatched, I say,Nowhere i' the world but in Madonna's mouth.Go on! Suppose, that falsehood foiled, next evePictured Madonna raised her painted hand,Fixed the face Rafael bent above the Babe.On my face as I flung me at her feet:Such miracle vouchsafed and manifest,Would that prove the first lying tale was true?Pompilia spoke, and I at once received,Accepted my own fact, my miracleSelf-authorized and self-explained,—she choseTo summon me and signify her choice.Afterward,—oh! I gave a passing glanceTo a certain ugly cloud-shape, goblin-shredOf hell-smoke hurrying past the splendid moonOut now to tolerate no darkness more,And saw right through the thing that tried to passFor truth and solid, not an empty lie:"So, he not only forged the words for herBut words for me, made letters he called mine:What I sent, he retained, gave these in place,All by the mistress-messenger! As IRecognized her, at potency of truth,So she, by the crystalline soul, knew me,Never mistook the signs. Enough of this—Let the wraith go to nothingness again,Here is the orb, have only thought for her!"

She replied, "Pass, to-morrow at this hour.

If I am at the open window, well:

If I am absent, drop a handkerchief

And walk by! I shall see from where I watch,

And know that all is done. Return next eve,

And next, and so till we can meet and speak!"

"To-morrow at this hour I pass," said I.

She was withdrawn.

Here is another point

I bid you pause at. When I told thus far,

Some one said, subtly, "Here at least was found

Your confidence in error,—you perceived

The spirit of the letters, in a sort,

Had been the lady's, if the body should be

Supplied by Guido: say, he forged them all!

Here was the unforged fact—she sent for you,

Spontaneously elected you to help,

—What men call, loved you: Guido read her mind,

Gave it expression to assure the world

The case as just as he foresaw: he wrote,

She spoke."

Sirs, that first simile serves still,—

That falsehood of a scorpion hatched, I say,

Nowhere i' the world but in Madonna's mouth.

Go on! Suppose, that falsehood foiled, next eve

Pictured Madonna raised her painted hand,

Fixed the face Rafael bent above the Babe.

On my face as I flung me at her feet:

Such miracle vouchsafed and manifest,

Would that prove the first lying tale was true?

Pompilia spoke, and I at once received,

Accepted my own fact, my miracle

Self-authorized and self-explained,—she chose

To summon me and signify her choice.

Afterward,—oh! I gave a passing glance

To a certain ugly cloud-shape, goblin-shred

Of hell-smoke hurrying past the splendid moon

Out now to tolerate no darkness more,

And saw right through the thing that tried to pass

For truth and solid, not an empty lie:

"So, he not only forged the words for her

But words for me, made letters he called mine:

What I sent, he retained, gave these in place,

All by the mistress-messenger! As I

Recognized her, at potency of truth,

So she, by the crystalline soul, knew me,

Never mistook the signs. Enough of this—

Let the wraith go to nothingness again,

Here is the orb, have only thought for her!"

"Thought?" nay, Sirs, what shall follow was not thought:I have thought sometimes, and thought long and hard.I have stood before, gone round a serious thing,Tasked my whole mind to touch and clasp it close,As I stretch forth my arm to touch this bar.God and man, and what duty I owe both,—I dare to say I have confronted theseIn thought: but no such faculty helped here.I put forth no thought,—powerless, all that nightI paced the city: it was the first Spring.By the invasion I lay passive to,In rushed new things, the old were rapt away;Alike abolished—the imprisonmentOf the outside air, the inside weight o' the worldThat pulled me down. Death meant, to spurn the ground,Soar to the sky,—die well and you do that.The very immolation made the bliss;Death was the heart of life, and all the harmMy folly had crouched to avoid, now proved a veilHiding all gain my wisdom strove to grasp:As if the intense centre of the flameShould turn a heaven to that devoted flyWhich hitherto, sophist alike and sage,Saint Thomas with his sober gray goose-quill,And sinner Plato by Cephisian reed,Would fain, pretending just the insect's good,Whisk off, drive back, consign to shade again.Into another state, under new ruleI knew myself was passing swift and sure;Whereof the initiatory pang approached,Felicitous annoy, as bitter-sweetAs when the virgin-band, the victors chaste,Feel at the end the earthly garments drop,And rise with something of a rosy shameInto immortal nakedness: so ILay, and let come the proper throe would thrillInto the ecstasy and outthrob pain.

"Thought?" nay, Sirs, what shall follow was not thought:

I have thought sometimes, and thought long and hard.

I have stood before, gone round a serious thing,

Tasked my whole mind to touch and clasp it close,

As I stretch forth my arm to touch this bar.

God and man, and what duty I owe both,—

I dare to say I have confronted these

In thought: but no such faculty helped here.

I put forth no thought,—powerless, all that night

I paced the city: it was the first Spring.

By the invasion I lay passive to,

In rushed new things, the old were rapt away;

Alike abolished—the imprisonment

Of the outside air, the inside weight o' the world

That pulled me down. Death meant, to spurn the ground,

Soar to the sky,—die well and you do that.

The very immolation made the bliss;

Death was the heart of life, and all the harm

My folly had crouched to avoid, now proved a veil

Hiding all gain my wisdom strove to grasp:

As if the intense centre of the flame

Should turn a heaven to that devoted fly

Which hitherto, sophist alike and sage,

Saint Thomas with his sober gray goose-quill,

And sinner Plato by Cephisian reed,

Would fain, pretending just the insect's good,

Whisk off, drive back, consign to shade again.

Into another state, under new rule

I knew myself was passing swift and sure;

Whereof the initiatory pang approached,

Felicitous annoy, as bitter-sweet

As when the virgin-band, the victors chaste,

Feel at the end the earthly garments drop,

And rise with something of a rosy shame

Into immortal nakedness: so I

Lay, and let come the proper throe would thrill

Into the ecstasy and outthrob pain.

I' the gray of dawn it was I found myselfFacing the pillared front o' the Pieve—mine,My church: it seemed to say for the first time,"But am not I the Bride, the mystic loveO' the Lamb, who took thy plighted troth, my priest,To fold thy warm heart on my heart of stoneAnd freeze thee nor unfasten any more?This is a fleshly woman,—let the freeBestow their life-blood, thou art pulseless now!"See! Day by day I had risen and left this churchAt the signal waved me by some foolish fan,With half a curse and half a pitying smileFor the monk I stumbled over in my haste,Prostrate and corpse-like at the altar-footIntent on hiscorona:then the churchWas ready with her quip, if word conduced,To quicken my pace nor stop for prating—"There!Be thankful you are no such ninny, goRather to teach a black-eyed novice cardsThan gabble Latin and protrude that noseSmooth to a sheep's through no brains and much faith!"That sort of incentive! Now the church changed tone—Now, when I found out first that life and deathAre means to an end, that passion uses both,Indisputably mistress of the manWhose form of worship is self-sacrifice:Now, from the stone lungs sighed the scrannel voice,"Leave that live passion, come be dead with me!"As if, i' the fabled garden, I had goneOn great adventure, plucked in ignoranceHedge-fruit, and feasted to satiety,Laughing at such high fame for hips and haws,And scorned the achievement: then come all at onceO' the prize o' the place, the thing of perfect gold,The apple's self: and, scarce my eye on that,Was 'ware as well o' the seven-fold dragon's watch.

I' the gray of dawn it was I found myself

Facing the pillared front o' the Pieve—mine,

My church: it seemed to say for the first time,

"But am not I the Bride, the mystic love

O' the Lamb, who took thy plighted troth, my priest,

To fold thy warm heart on my heart of stone

And freeze thee nor unfasten any more?

This is a fleshly woman,—let the free

Bestow their life-blood, thou art pulseless now!"

See! Day by day I had risen and left this church

At the signal waved me by some foolish fan,

With half a curse and half a pitying smile

For the monk I stumbled over in my haste,

Prostrate and corpse-like at the altar-foot

Intent on hiscorona:then the church

Was ready with her quip, if word conduced,

To quicken my pace nor stop for prating—"There!

Be thankful you are no such ninny, go

Rather to teach a black-eyed novice cards

Than gabble Latin and protrude that nose

Smooth to a sheep's through no brains and much faith!"

That sort of incentive! Now the church changed tone—

Now, when I found out first that life and death

Are means to an end, that passion uses both,

Indisputably mistress of the man

Whose form of worship is self-sacrifice:

Now, from the stone lungs sighed the scrannel voice,

"Leave that live passion, come be dead with me!"

As if, i' the fabled garden, I had gone

On great adventure, plucked in ignorance

Hedge-fruit, and feasted to satiety,

Laughing at such high fame for hips and haws,

And scorned the achievement: then come all at once

O' the prize o' the place, the thing of perfect gold,

The apple's self: and, scarce my eye on that,

Was 'ware as well o' the seven-fold dragon's watch.

Sirs, I obeyed. Obedience was too strange,—This new thing that had been struck into meBy the look o' the lady,—to dare disobeyThe first authoritative word. 'T was God's.I had been lifted to the level of her,Could take such sounds into my sense. I said,"We two are cognizant o' the Master now;She it is bids me bow the head: how true,I am a priest! I see the function here;I thought the other way self-sacrifice:This is the true, seals up the perfect sum.I pay it, sit down, silently obey."

Sirs, I obeyed. Obedience was too strange,—

This new thing that had been struck into me

By the look o' the lady,—to dare disobey

The first authoritative word. 'T was God's.

I had been lifted to the level of her,

Could take such sounds into my sense. I said,

"We two are cognizant o' the Master now;

She it is bids me bow the head: how true,

I am a priest! I see the function here;

I thought the other way self-sacrifice:

This is the true, seals up the perfect sum.

I pay it, sit down, silently obey."

So, I went home. Dawn broke, noon broadened, I—I sat stone-still, let time run over me.The sun slanted into my room, had reachedThe west. I opened book,—Aquinas blazedWith one black name only on the white page.I looked up, saw the sunset: vespers rang:"She counts the minutes till I keep my wordAnd come say all is ready. I am a priest.Duty to God is duty to her: I thinkGod, who created her, will save her tooSome new way, by one miracle the more,Without me. Then, prayer may avail perhaps."I went to my own place i' the Pieve, readThe office: I was back at home againSitting i' the dark. "Could she but know—but knowThat, were there good in this distinct from God's,Really good as it reached her, though procuredBy a sin of mine,—I should sin: God forgives.She knows it is no fear withholds me: fear?Of what? Suspense here is the terrible thing.If she should, as she counts the minutes, comeOn the fantastic notion that I fearThe world now, fear the Archbishop, fear perhapsCount Guido, he who, having forged the lies,May wait the work, attend the effect,—I fearThe sword of Guido! Let God see to that—Hating lies, let not her believe a lie!"

So, I went home. Dawn broke, noon broadened, I—

I sat stone-still, let time run over me.

The sun slanted into my room, had reached

The west. I opened book,—Aquinas blazed

With one black name only on the white page.

I looked up, saw the sunset: vespers rang:

"She counts the minutes till I keep my word

And come say all is ready. I am a priest.

Duty to God is duty to her: I think

God, who created her, will save her too

Some new way, by one miracle the more,

Without me. Then, prayer may avail perhaps."

I went to my own place i' the Pieve, read

The office: I was back at home again

Sitting i' the dark. "Could she but know—but know

That, were there good in this distinct from God's,

Really good as it reached her, though procured

By a sin of mine,—I should sin: God forgives.

She knows it is no fear withholds me: fear?

Of what? Suspense here is the terrible thing.

If she should, as she counts the minutes, come

On the fantastic notion that I fear

The world now, fear the Archbishop, fear perhaps

Count Guido, he who, having forged the lies,

May wait the work, attend the effect,—I fear

The sword of Guido! Let God see to that—

Hating lies, let not her believe a lie!"

Again the morning found me. "I will work,Tie down my foolish thoughts. Thank God so far!I have saved her from a scandal, stopped the tonguesHad broken else into a cackle and hissAround the noble name. Duty is stillWisdom: I have been wise." So the day wore.

Again the morning found me. "I will work,

Tie down my foolish thoughts. Thank God so far!

I have saved her from a scandal, stopped the tongues

Had broken else into a cackle and hiss

Around the noble name. Duty is still

Wisdom: I have been wise." So the day wore.

At evening—"But, achieving victory,I must not blink the priest's peculiar part,Nor shrink to counsel, comfort: priest and friend—How do we discontinue to be friends?I will go minister, advise her seekHelp at the source,—above all, not despair:There may be other happier help at hand.I hope it,—wherefore then neglect to say?"

At evening—"But, achieving victory,

I must not blink the priest's peculiar part,

Nor shrink to counsel, comfort: priest and friend—

How do we discontinue to be friends?

I will go minister, advise her seek

Help at the source,—above all, not despair:

There may be other happier help at hand.

I hope it,—wherefore then neglect to say?"

There she stood—leaned there, for the second time,Over the terrace, looked at me, then spoke:"Why is it you have suffered me to stayBreaking my heart two days more than was need?Why delay help, your own heart yearns to give?You are again here, in the selfsame mind,I see here, steadfast in the face of you,—You grudge to do no one thing that I ask.Why then is nothing done? You know my need.Still, through God's pity on me, there is timeAnd one day more: shall I be saved or no?"I answered—"Lady, waste no thought, no wordEven to forgive me! Care for what I care—Only! Now follow me as I were fate!Leave this house in the dark to-morrow night,Just before daybreak:—there 's new moon this eve—It sets, and then begins the solid black.Descend, proceed to the Torrione, stepOver the low dilapidated wall,Take San Clemente, there 's no other gateUnguarded at the hour: some paces thenceAn inn stands; cross to it; I shall be there."

There she stood—leaned there, for the second time,

Over the terrace, looked at me, then spoke:

"Why is it you have suffered me to stay

Breaking my heart two days more than was need?

Why delay help, your own heart yearns to give?

You are again here, in the selfsame mind,

I see here, steadfast in the face of you,—

You grudge to do no one thing that I ask.

Why then is nothing done? You know my need.

Still, through God's pity on me, there is time

And one day more: shall I be saved or no?"

I answered—"Lady, waste no thought, no word

Even to forgive me! Care for what I care—

Only! Now follow me as I were fate!

Leave this house in the dark to-morrow night,

Just before daybreak:—there 's new moon this eve—

It sets, and then begins the solid black.

Descend, proceed to the Torrione, step

Over the low dilapidated wall,

Take San Clemente, there 's no other gate

Unguarded at the hour: some paces thence

An inn stands; cross to it; I shall be there."

She answered, "If I can but find the way.But I shall find it. Go now!"

She answered, "If I can but find the way.

But I shall find it. Go now!"

I did go,Took rapidly the route myself prescribed,Stopped at Torrione, climbed the ruined place,Proved that the gate was practicable, reachedThe inn, no eye, despite the dark, could miss,Knocked there and entered, made the host secure:"With Caponsacchi it is ask and have;I know my betters. Are you bound for Rome?I get swift horse and trusty man," said he.Then I retraced my steps, was found once moreIn my own house for the last time: there layThe broad pale opened "Summa." "Shut his book,There 's other showing! 'T was a Thomas tooObtained—more favored than his namesake here—A gift, tied faith fast, foiled the tug of doubt,—Our Lady's girdle; down he saw it dropAs she ascended into heaven, they say:He kept that safe and bade all doubt adieu.I too have seen a lady and hold a grace."

I did go,

Took rapidly the route myself prescribed,

Stopped at Torrione, climbed the ruined place,

Proved that the gate was practicable, reached

The inn, no eye, despite the dark, could miss,

Knocked there and entered, made the host secure:

"With Caponsacchi it is ask and have;

I know my betters. Are you bound for Rome?

I get swift horse and trusty man," said he.

Then I retraced my steps, was found once more

In my own house for the last time: there lay

The broad pale opened "Summa." "Shut his book,

There 's other showing! 'T was a Thomas too

Obtained—more favored than his namesake here—

A gift, tied faith fast, foiled the tug of doubt,—

Our Lady's girdle; down he saw it drop

As she ascended into heaven, they say:

He kept that safe and bade all doubt adieu.

I too have seen a lady and hold a grace."

I know not how the night passed: morning broke,Presently came my servant. "Sir, this eve—Do you forget?" I started. "How forget?What is it you know?" "With due submission, Sir,This being last Monday in the month but one,And a vigil, since to-morrow is Saint George,And feast-day, and moreover day for copes,And Canon Conti now away a month,And Canon Crispi sour because, forsooth,You let him sulk in stall and bear the bruntOf the octave ... Well, Sir, 't is important!""True!Hearken, I have to start for Rome this night.No word, lest Crispi overboil and burst!Provide me with a laic dress! Throw dustI' the Canon's eye, stop his tongue's scandal so!See there 's a sword in case of accident."I knew the knave, the knave knew me.

I know not how the night passed: morning broke,

Presently came my servant. "Sir, this eve—

Do you forget?" I started. "How forget?

What is it you know?" "With due submission, Sir,

This being last Monday in the month but one,

And a vigil, since to-morrow is Saint George,

And feast-day, and moreover day for copes,

And Canon Conti now away a month,

And Canon Crispi sour because, forsooth,

You let him sulk in stall and bear the brunt

Of the octave ... Well, Sir, 't is important!"

"True!

Hearken, I have to start for Rome this night.

No word, lest Crispi overboil and burst!

Provide me with a laic dress! Throw dust

I' the Canon's eye, stop his tongue's scandal so!

See there 's a sword in case of accident."

I knew the knave, the knave knew me.

And thusThrough each familiar hindrance of the dayDid I make steadily for its hour and end,—Felt time's old barrier-growth of right and fitGive way through all its twines, and let me go.Use and wont recognized the excepted man,Let speed the special service,—and I spedTill, at the dead between midnight and morn,There was I at the goal, before the gate,With a tune in the ears, low leading up to loud,A light in the eyes, faint that would soon be flare,Ever some spiritual witness new and newIn faster frequence, crowding solitudeTo watch the way o' the warfare,—till, at last,When the ecstatic minute must bring birth,Began a whiteness in the distance, waxedWhiter and whiter, near grew and more near,Till it was she: there did Pompilia come:The white I saw shine through her was her soul's,Certainly, for the body was one black,Black from head down to foot. She did not speak,Glided into the carriage,—so a cloudGathers the moon up. "By San Spirito,To Rome, as if the road burned underneath!Reach Rome, then hold my head in pledge, I payThe run and the risk to heart's content!" Just that,I said,—then, in another tick of time,Sprang, was beside her, she and I alone.So it began, our flight through dusk to clear,Through day and night and day again to nightOnce more, and to last dreadful dawn of all.Sirs, how should I lie quiet in my graveUnless you suffer me wring, drop by drop,My brain dry, make a riddance of the drenchOf minutes with a memory in each,Recorded motion, breath or look of hers,Which poured forth would present you one pure glass,Mirror you plain—as God's sea, glassed in gold,His saints—the perfect soul Pompilia? Men,You must know that a man gets drunk with truthStagnant inside him! Oh, they 've killed her, Sirs!Can I be calm?Calmly! Each incidentProves, I maintain, that action of the flightFor the true thing it was. The first faint scratchO' the stone will test its nature, teach its worthTo idiots who name Parian—coprolite.After all, I shall give no glare—at bestOnly display you certain scattered lightsLamping the rush and roll of the abyss:Nothing but here and there a fire-point pricksWavelet from wavelet: well!For the first hourWe both were silent in the night, I know:Sometimes I did not see nor understand.Blackness engulfed me,—partial stupor, say—Then I would break way, breathe through the surprise,And be aware again, and see who satIn the dark vest with the white face and hands.I said to myself—"I have caught it, I conceiveThe mind o' the mystery: 't is the way they wakeAnd wait, two martyrs somewhere in a tombEach by each as their blessing was to die;Some signal they are promised and expect,—When to arise before the trumpet scares:So, through the whole course of the world they waitThe last day, but so fearless and so safe!No otherwise, in safety and not fear,I lie, because she lies too by my side."You know this is not love, Sirs,—it is faith,The feeling that there 's God, he reigns and rulesOut of this low world: that is all; no harm!At times she drew a soft sigh—music seemedAlways to hover just above her lips,Not settle,—break a silence music too.

And thus

Through each familiar hindrance of the day

Did I make steadily for its hour and end,—

Felt time's old barrier-growth of right and fit

Give way through all its twines, and let me go.

Use and wont recognized the excepted man,

Let speed the special service,—and I sped

Till, at the dead between midnight and morn,

There was I at the goal, before the gate,

With a tune in the ears, low leading up to loud,

A light in the eyes, faint that would soon be flare,

Ever some spiritual witness new and new

In faster frequence, crowding solitude

To watch the way o' the warfare,—till, at last,

When the ecstatic minute must bring birth,

Began a whiteness in the distance, waxed

Whiter and whiter, near grew and more near,

Till it was she: there did Pompilia come:

The white I saw shine through her was her soul's,

Certainly, for the body was one black,

Black from head down to foot. She did not speak,

Glided into the carriage,—so a cloud

Gathers the moon up. "By San Spirito,

To Rome, as if the road burned underneath!

Reach Rome, then hold my head in pledge, I pay

The run and the risk to heart's content!" Just that,

I said,—then, in another tick of time,

Sprang, was beside her, she and I alone.

So it began, our flight through dusk to clear,

Through day and night and day again to night

Once more, and to last dreadful dawn of all.

Sirs, how should I lie quiet in my grave

Unless you suffer me wring, drop by drop,

My brain dry, make a riddance of the drench

Of minutes with a memory in each,

Recorded motion, breath or look of hers,

Which poured forth would present you one pure glass,

Mirror you plain—as God's sea, glassed in gold,

His saints—the perfect soul Pompilia? Men,

You must know that a man gets drunk with truth

Stagnant inside him! Oh, they 've killed her, Sirs!

Can I be calm?

Calmly! Each incident

Proves, I maintain, that action of the flight

For the true thing it was. The first faint scratch

O' the stone will test its nature, teach its worth

To idiots who name Parian—coprolite.

After all, I shall give no glare—at best

Only display you certain scattered lights

Lamping the rush and roll of the abyss:

Nothing but here and there a fire-point pricks

Wavelet from wavelet: well!

For the first hour

We both were silent in the night, I know:

Sometimes I did not see nor understand.

Blackness engulfed me,—partial stupor, say—

Then I would break way, breathe through the surprise,

And be aware again, and see who sat

In the dark vest with the white face and hands.

I said to myself—"I have caught it, I conceive

The mind o' the mystery: 't is the way they wake

And wait, two martyrs somewhere in a tomb

Each by each as their blessing was to die;

Some signal they are promised and expect,—

When to arise before the trumpet scares:

So, through the whole course of the world they wait

The last day, but so fearless and so safe!

No otherwise, in safety and not fear,

I lie, because she lies too by my side."

You know this is not love, Sirs,—it is faith,

The feeling that there 's God, he reigns and rules

Out of this low world: that is all; no harm!

At times she drew a soft sigh—music seemed

Always to hover just above her lips,

Not settle,—break a silence music too.

In the determined morning, I first foundHer head erect, her face turned full to me,Her soul intent on mine through two wide eyes.I answered them. "You are saved hitherto.We have passed Perugia,—gone round by the wood,Not through, I seem to think,—and oppositeI know Assisi; this is holy ground."Then she resumed. "How long since we both leftArezzo?"—"Years—and certain hours beside."It was at ... ah, but I forget the names!'T is a mere post-house and a hovel or two;I left the carriage and got bread and wineAnd brought it her.—"Does it detain to eat?""—They stay perforce, change horses,—therefore eat!We lose no minute: we arrive, be sure!"This was—I know not where—there's a great hillClose over, and the stream has lost its bridge,One fords it. She began—"I have heard sayOf some sick body that my mother knew,'T was no good sign when in a limb diseasedAll the pain suddenly departs,—as ifThe guardian angel discontinued painBecause the hope of cure was gone at last:The limb will not again exert itself,It needs be pained no longer: so with me,—My soul whence all the pain is past at once:All pain must be to work some good in the end.True, this I feel now, this may be that good,Pain was because of,—otherwise, I fear!"

In the determined morning, I first found

Her head erect, her face turned full to me,

Her soul intent on mine through two wide eyes.

I answered them. "You are saved hitherto.

We have passed Perugia,—gone round by the wood,

Not through, I seem to think,—and opposite

I know Assisi; this is holy ground."

Then she resumed. "How long since we both left

Arezzo?"—"Years—and certain hours beside."

It was at ... ah, but I forget the names!

'T is a mere post-house and a hovel or two;

I left the carriage and got bread and wine

And brought it her.—"Does it detain to eat?"

"—They stay perforce, change horses,—therefore eat!

We lose no minute: we arrive, be sure!"

This was—I know not where—there's a great hill

Close over, and the stream has lost its bridge,

One fords it. She began—"I have heard say

Of some sick body that my mother knew,

'T was no good sign when in a limb diseased

All the pain suddenly departs,—as if

The guardian angel discontinued pain

Because the hope of cure was gone at last:

The limb will not again exert itself,

It needs be pained no longer: so with me,

—My soul whence all the pain is past at once:

All pain must be to work some good in the end.

True, this I feel now, this may be that good,

Pain was because of,—otherwise, I fear!"

She said,—a long while later in the day,When I had let the silence be,—abrupt—"Have you a mother?" "She died, I was born.""A sister then?" "No sister." "Who was it—What woman were you used to serve this way,Be kind to, till I called you and you came?"I did not like that word. Soon afterward—"Tell me, are men unhappy, in some kindOf mere unhappiness at being men,As women suffer, being womanish?Have you, now, some unhappiness, I mean,Born of what may be man's strength overmuch,To match the undue susceptibility,The sense at every pore when hate is close?It hurts us if a baby hides its faceOr child strikes at us punily, calls namesOr makes a mouth,—much more if stranger menLaugh or frown,—just as that were much to bear!Yet rocks split,—and the blow-ball does no more,Quivers to feathery nothing at a touch;And strength may have its drawback, weakness 'scapes."

She said,—a long while later in the day,

When I had let the silence be,—abrupt—

"Have you a mother?" "She died, I was born."

"A sister then?" "No sister." "Who was it—

What woman were you used to serve this way,

Be kind to, till I called you and you came?"

I did not like that word. Soon afterward—

"Tell me, are men unhappy, in some kind

Of mere unhappiness at being men,

As women suffer, being womanish?

Have you, now, some unhappiness, I mean,

Born of what may be man's strength overmuch,

To match the undue susceptibility,

The sense at every pore when hate is close?

It hurts us if a baby hides its face

Or child strikes at us punily, calls names

Or makes a mouth,—much more if stranger men

Laugh or frown,—just as that were much to bear!

Yet rocks split,—and the blow-ball does no more,

Quivers to feathery nothing at a touch;

And strength may have its drawback, weakness 'scapes."

Once she asked, "What is it that made you smile,At the great gate with the eagles and the snakes,Where the company entered, 't is a long time since?""—Forgive—I think you would not understand:Ah, but you ask me,—therefore, it was this.That was a certain bishop's villa-gate,I knew it by the eagles,—and at onceRemember this same bishop was just hePeople of old were wont to bid me pleaseIf I would catch preferment: so, I smiledBecause an impulse came to me, a whim—What if I prayed the prelate leave to speak,Began upon him in his presence-hall—'What, still at work so gray and obsolete?Still rocheted and mitred more or less?Don't you feel all that out of fashion now?I find out when the day of things is done!'"

Once she asked, "What is it that made you smile,

At the great gate with the eagles and the snakes,

Where the company entered, 't is a long time since?"

"—Forgive—I think you would not understand:

Ah, but you ask me,—therefore, it was this.

That was a certain bishop's villa-gate,

I knew it by the eagles,—and at once

Remember this same bishop was just he

People of old were wont to bid me please

If I would catch preferment: so, I smiled

Because an impulse came to me, a whim—

What if I prayed the prelate leave to speak,

Began upon him in his presence-hall

—'What, still at work so gray and obsolete?

Still rocheted and mitred more or less?

Don't you feel all that out of fashion now?

I find out when the day of things is done!'"

At eve we heard theangelus:she turned—"I told you I can neither read nor write.My life stopped with the play-time; I will learn,If I begin to live again: but you—Who are a priest—wherefore do you not readThe service at this hour? Read Gabriel's song,The lesson, and then read the little prayerTo Raphael, proper for us travellers!"I did not like that, neither, but I read.

At eve we heard theangelus:she turned—

"I told you I can neither read nor write.

My life stopped with the play-time; I will learn,

If I begin to live again: but you—

Who are a priest—wherefore do you not read

The service at this hour? Read Gabriel's song,

The lesson, and then read the little prayer

To Raphael, proper for us travellers!"

I did not like that, neither, but I read.

When we stopped at Foligno it was dark.The people of the post came out with lights:The driver said, "This time to-morrow, maySaints only help, relays continue good,Nor robbers hinder, we arrive at Rome.I urged,—"Why tax your strength a second night?Trust me, alight here and take brief repose!We are out of harm's reach, past pursuit: go sleepIf but an hour! I keep watch, guard the whileHere in the doorway." But her whole face changed,The misery grew again about her mouth,The eyes burned up from faintness, like the fawn'sTired to death in the thicket, when she feelsThe probing spear o' the huntsman. "Oh, no stay!"She cried, in the fawn's cry, "On to Rome, on, on—Unless 't is you who fear,—which cannot be!"

When we stopped at Foligno it was dark.

The people of the post came out with lights:

The driver said, "This time to-morrow, may

Saints only help, relays continue good,

Nor robbers hinder, we arrive at Rome.

I urged,—"Why tax your strength a second night?

Trust me, alight here and take brief repose!

We are out of harm's reach, past pursuit: go sleep

If but an hour! I keep watch, guard the while

Here in the doorway." But her whole face changed,

The misery grew again about her mouth,

The eyes burned up from faintness, like the fawn's

Tired to death in the thicket, when she feels

The probing spear o' the huntsman. "Oh, no stay!"

She cried, in the fawn's cry, "On to Rome, on, on—

Unless 't is you who fear,—which cannot be!"

We did go on all night; but at its closeShe was troubled, restless, moaned low, talked at whilesTo herself, her brow on quiver with the dream:Once, wide awake, she menaced, at arms' lengthWaved away something—"Never again with you!My soul is mine, my body is my soul's:You and I are divided ever moreIn soul and body: get you gone!" Then I—"Why, in my whole life I have never prayed!Oh, if the God, that only can, would help!Am I his priest with power to cast out fiends?Let God arise and all his enemiesBe scattered!" By morn, there was peace, no sighOut of the deep sleep.

We did go on all night; but at its close

She was troubled, restless, moaned low, talked at whiles

To herself, her brow on quiver with the dream:

Once, wide awake, she menaced, at arms' length

Waved away something—"Never again with you!

My soul is mine, my body is my soul's:

You and I are divided ever more

In soul and body: get you gone!" Then I—

"Why, in my whole life I have never prayed!

Oh, if the God, that only can, would help!

Am I his priest with power to cast out fiends?

Let God arise and all his enemies

Be scattered!" By morn, there was peace, no sigh

Out of the deep sleep.

When she woke at last,I answered the first look—"Scarce twelve hours more,Then, Rome! There probably was no pursuit,There cannot now be peril: bear up brave!Just some twelve hours to press through to the prize:Then, no more of the terrible journey!" "Then,No more o' the journey: if it might but last!Always, my life long, thus to journey still!It is the interruption that I dread,—With no dread, ever to be here and thus!Never to see a face nor hear a voice!Yours is no voice; you speak when you are dumb;Nor face, I see it in the dark. I wantNo face nor voice that change and grow unkind."That I liked, that was the best thing she said.

When she woke at last,

I answered the first look—"Scarce twelve hours more,

Then, Rome! There probably was no pursuit,

There cannot now be peril: bear up brave!

Just some twelve hours to press through to the prize:

Then, no more of the terrible journey!" "Then,

No more o' the journey: if it might but last!

Always, my life long, thus to journey still!

It is the interruption that I dread,—

With no dread, ever to be here and thus!

Never to see a face nor hear a voice!

Yours is no voice; you speak when you are dumb;

Nor face, I see it in the dark. I want

No face nor voice that change and grow unkind."

That I liked, that was the best thing she said.

In the broad day, I dared entreat, "Descend!"I told a woman, at the garden-gateBy the post-house, white and pleasant in the sun,"It is my sister,—talk with her apart!She is married and unhappy, you perceive;I take her home because her head is hurt;Comfort her as you women understand!"So, there I left them by the garden-wall,Paced the road, then bade put the horses to,Came back, and there she sat: close to her knee,A black-eyed child still held the bowl of milk,Wondered to see how little she could drink,And in her arms the woman's infant lay.She smiled at me, "How much good this has done!This is a whole night's rest and how much more!I can proceed now, though I wish to stay.How do you call that tree with the thick topThat holds in all its leafy green and goldThe sun now like an immense egg of fire?"(It was a million-leaved mimosa.) "TakeThe babe away from me and let me go!"And in the carriage, "Still a day, my friend!And perhaps half a night, the woman fears.I pray it finish since it cannot last.There may be more misfortune at the close,And where will you be? God suffice me then!"And presently—for there was a roadside-shrine—"When I was taken first to my own churchLorenzo in Lucina, being a girl,And bid confess my faults, I interposed'But teach me what fault to confess and know."So, the priest said—'You should bethink yourself:Each human being needs must have done wrong!'Now, be you candid and no priest but friend—Were I surprised and killed here on the spot,A runaway from husband and his home,Do you account it were in sin I died?My husband used to seem to harm me, not ...Not on pretence he punished sin of mine,Nor for sin's sake and lust of cruelty,But as I heard him bid a farming-manAt the villa take a lamb once to the woodAnd there ill-treat it, meaning that the wolfShould hear its cries, and so come, quick be caught,Enticed to the trap: he practised thus with meThat so, whatever were his gain thereby,Others than I might become prey and spoil.Had it been only between our two selves,—His pleasure and my pain,—why, pleasure himBy dying, nor such need to make a coil!But this was worth an effort, that my painShould not become a snare, prove pain threefoldTo other people—strangers—or unborn—How should I know? I sought release from that—I think, or else from,—dare I say, some causeSuch as is put into a tree, which turnsAway from the north wind with what nest it holds,—The woman said that trees so turn: now, friend,Tell me, because I cannot trust myself!You are a man: what have I done amiss?"You must conceive my answer,—I forget—Taken up wholly with the thought, perhaps,This time she might have said,—might, did not say—"You are a priest." She said, "my friend."Day wore,We passed the places, somehow the calm went,Again the restless eyes began to roveIn new fear of the foe mine could not see.She wandered in her mind,—addressed me once"Gaetano!"—that is not my name: whose name?I grew alarmed, my head seemed turning too.I quickened pace with promise now, now threat:Bade drive and drive, nor any stopping more."Too deep i' the thick of the struggle, struggle through!Then drench her in repose though death's self pourThe plenitude of quiet,—help us, God,Whom the winds carry!"

In the broad day, I dared entreat, "Descend!"

I told a woman, at the garden-gate

By the post-house, white and pleasant in the sun,

"It is my sister,—talk with her apart!

She is married and unhappy, you perceive;

I take her home because her head is hurt;

Comfort her as you women understand!"

So, there I left them by the garden-wall,

Paced the road, then bade put the horses to,

Came back, and there she sat: close to her knee,

A black-eyed child still held the bowl of milk,

Wondered to see how little she could drink,

And in her arms the woman's infant lay.

She smiled at me, "How much good this has done!

This is a whole night's rest and how much more!

I can proceed now, though I wish to stay.

How do you call that tree with the thick top

That holds in all its leafy green and gold

The sun now like an immense egg of fire?"

(It was a million-leaved mimosa.) "Take

The babe away from me and let me go!"

And in the carriage, "Still a day, my friend!

And perhaps half a night, the woman fears.

I pray it finish since it cannot last.

There may be more misfortune at the close,

And where will you be? God suffice me then!"

And presently—for there was a roadside-shrine—

"When I was taken first to my own church

Lorenzo in Lucina, being a girl,

And bid confess my faults, I interposed

'But teach me what fault to confess and know."

So, the priest said—'You should bethink yourself:

Each human being needs must have done wrong!'

Now, be you candid and no priest but friend—

Were I surprised and killed here on the spot,

A runaway from husband and his home,

Do you account it were in sin I died?

My husband used to seem to harm me, not ...

Not on pretence he punished sin of mine,

Nor for sin's sake and lust of cruelty,

But as I heard him bid a farming-man

At the villa take a lamb once to the wood

And there ill-treat it, meaning that the wolf

Should hear its cries, and so come, quick be caught,

Enticed to the trap: he practised thus with me

That so, whatever were his gain thereby,

Others than I might become prey and spoil.

Had it been only between our two selves,—

His pleasure and my pain,—why, pleasure him

By dying, nor such need to make a coil!

But this was worth an effort, that my pain

Should not become a snare, prove pain threefold

To other people—strangers—or unborn—

How should I know? I sought release from that—

I think, or else from,—dare I say, some cause

Such as is put into a tree, which turns

Away from the north wind with what nest it holds,—

The woman said that trees so turn: now, friend,

Tell me, because I cannot trust myself!

You are a man: what have I done amiss?"

You must conceive my answer,—I forget—

Taken up wholly with the thought, perhaps,

This time she might have said,—might, did not say—

"You are a priest." She said, "my friend."

Day wore,

We passed the places, somehow the calm went,

Again the restless eyes began to rove

In new fear of the foe mine could not see.

She wandered in her mind,—addressed me once

"Gaetano!"—that is not my name: whose name?

I grew alarmed, my head seemed turning too.

I quickened pace with promise now, now threat:

Bade drive and drive, nor any stopping more.

"Too deep i' the thick of the struggle, struggle through!

Then drench her in repose though death's self pour

The plenitude of quiet,—help us, God,

Whom the winds carry!"

Suddenly I sawThe old tower, and the little white-walled clumpOf buildings and the cypress-tree or two,—"Already Castelnuovo—Rome!" I cried,"As good as Rome,—Rome is the next stage, think!This is where travellers' hearts are wont to beat.Say you are saved, sweet lady!" Up she woke.The sky was fierce with color from the sunSetting. She screamed out, "No, I must not die!Take me no farther, I should die: stay here!I have more life to save than mine!"She swooned.We seemed safe: what was it foreboded so?Out of the coach into the inn I boreThe motionless and breathless pure and palePompilia,—bore her through a pitying groupAnd laid her on a couch, still calm and curedBy deep sleep of all woes at once. The hostWas urgent, "Let her stay an hour or two!Leave her to us; all will be right by morn!"Oh, my foreboding! But I could not choose.I paced the passage, kept watch all night long.I listened,—not one movement, not one sigh."Fear not: she sleeps so sound!" they said: but IFeared, all the same, kept fearing more and more,Found myself throb with fear from head to foot,Filled with a sense of such impending woe,That, at first pause of night, pretence of gray,I made my mind up it was morn.—"Reach Rome,Lest hell reach her! A dozen miles to make,Another long breath, and we emerge!" I stoodI' the courtyard, roused the sleepy grooms. "Have outCarriage and horse, give haste, take gold!" said I.While they made ready in the doubtful morn,—'T was the last minute,—needs must I ascendAnd break her sleep; I turned to go.And thereFaced me Count Guido, there posed the mean manAs master,—took the field, encamped his rights,Challenged the world: there leered new triumph, thereScowled the old malice in the visage badAnd black o' the scamp. Soon triumph suppled the tongueA little, malice glued to his dry throat,And he part howled, part hissed ... oh, how he keptWell out o' the way, at arm's length and to spare!—"My salutation to your priestship! What?Matutinal, busy with book so soonOf an April day that 's damp as tears that nowDeluge Arezzo at its darling's flight?—'T is unfair, wrongs feminity at large,To let a single dame monopolizeA heart the whole sex claims, should share alike:Therefore I overtake you, Canon! Come!The lady,—could you leave her side so soon?You have not yet experienced at her handsMy treatment, you lay down undrugged, I see!Hence this alertness—hence no death-in-lifeLike what held arms fast when she stole from mine.To be sure, you took the solace and reposeThat first night at Foligno!—news aboundO' the road by this time,—men regaled me much,As past them I came halting after you,Vulcan pursuing Mars, as poets sing,—Still at the last here pant I, but arrive,Vulcan—and not without my Cyclops too,The Commissary and the unpoisoned armO' the Civil Force, should Mars turn mutineer.Enough of fooling: capture the culprits, friend!Here is the lover in the smart disguiseWith the sword,—he is a priest, so mine lies still.There upstairs hides my wife the runaway,His leman: the two plotted, poisoned first,Plundered me after, and eloped thus farWhere now you find them. Do your duty quick!Arrest and hold him! That 's done: now catch her!"During this speech of that man,—well, I stoodAway, as he managed,—still, I stood as nearThe throat of him,—with these two hands, my own,—As now I stand near yours, Sir,—one quick spring,One great good satisfying gripe, and lo!There had he lain abolished with his lie,Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed,A spittle wiped off from the face of God!I, in some measure, seek a poor excuseFor what I left undone, in just this factThat my first feeling at the speech I quoteWas—not of what a blasphemy was dared,Not what a bag of venomed purulenceWas split and noisome,—but how splendidlyMirthful, how ludicrous a lie was launched!Would Molière's self wish more than hear such manCall, claim such woman for his own, his wife,Even though, in due amazement at the boast,He had stammered, she moreover was divine?She to be his,—were hardly less absurdThan that he took her name into his mouth,Licked, and then let it go again, the beast,Signed with his slaver. Oh, she poisoned him,Plundered him, and the rest! Well, what I wishedWas, that he would but go on, say once moreSo to the world, and get his meed of men,The fist's reply to the filth. And while I mused,The minute, oh the misery, was gone!On either idle hand of me there stoodReally an officer, nor laughed i' the least:Nay, rendered justice to his reason, laidLogic to heart, as 'twere submitted them"Twice two makes four.""And now, catch her!" he cried.That sobered me. "Let myself lead the way—Ere you arrest me, who am somebody,Being, as you hear, a priest and privileged,—To the lady's chamber! I presume you—menExpert, instructed how to find out truth,Familiar with the guise of guilt. DetectGuilt on her face when it meets mine, then judgeBetween us and the mad dog howling there!"Up we all went together, in they brokeO' the chamber late my chapel. There she lay,Composed as when I laid her, that last eve,O' the couch, still breathless, motionless, sleep's self,Wax-white, seraphic, saturate with the sunO' the morning that now flooded from the frontAnd filled the window with a light like blood."Behold the poisoner, the adulteress,—And feigning sleep too! Seize, bind!" Guido hissed.

Suddenly I saw

The old tower, and the little white-walled clump

Of buildings and the cypress-tree or two,—

"Already Castelnuovo—Rome!" I cried,

"As good as Rome,—Rome is the next stage, think!

This is where travellers' hearts are wont to beat.

Say you are saved, sweet lady!" Up she woke.

The sky was fierce with color from the sun

Setting. She screamed out, "No, I must not die!

Take me no farther, I should die: stay here!

I have more life to save than mine!"

She swooned.

We seemed safe: what was it foreboded so?

Out of the coach into the inn I bore

The motionless and breathless pure and pale

Pompilia,—bore her through a pitying group

And laid her on a couch, still calm and cured

By deep sleep of all woes at once. The host

Was urgent, "Let her stay an hour or two!

Leave her to us; all will be right by morn!"

Oh, my foreboding! But I could not choose.

I paced the passage, kept watch all night long.

I listened,—not one movement, not one sigh.

"Fear not: she sleeps so sound!" they said: but I

Feared, all the same, kept fearing more and more,

Found myself throb with fear from head to foot,

Filled with a sense of such impending woe,

That, at first pause of night, pretence of gray,

I made my mind up it was morn.—"Reach Rome,

Lest hell reach her! A dozen miles to make,

Another long breath, and we emerge!" I stood

I' the courtyard, roused the sleepy grooms. "Have out

Carriage and horse, give haste, take gold!" said I.

While they made ready in the doubtful morn,—

'T was the last minute,—needs must I ascend

And break her sleep; I turned to go.

And there

Faced me Count Guido, there posed the mean man

As master,—took the field, encamped his rights,

Challenged the world: there leered new triumph, there

Scowled the old malice in the visage bad

And black o' the scamp. Soon triumph suppled the tongue

A little, malice glued to his dry throat,

And he part howled, part hissed ... oh, how he kept

Well out o' the way, at arm's length and to spare!—

"My salutation to your priestship! What?

Matutinal, busy with book so soon

Of an April day that 's damp as tears that now

Deluge Arezzo at its darling's flight?—

'T is unfair, wrongs feminity at large,

To let a single dame monopolize

A heart the whole sex claims, should share alike:

Therefore I overtake you, Canon! Come!

The lady,—could you leave her side so soon?

You have not yet experienced at her hands

My treatment, you lay down undrugged, I see!

Hence this alertness—hence no death-in-life

Like what held arms fast when she stole from mine.

To be sure, you took the solace and repose

That first night at Foligno!—news abound

O' the road by this time,—men regaled me much,

As past them I came halting after you,

Vulcan pursuing Mars, as poets sing,—

Still at the last here pant I, but arrive,

Vulcan—and not without my Cyclops too,

The Commissary and the unpoisoned arm

O' the Civil Force, should Mars turn mutineer.

Enough of fooling: capture the culprits, friend!

Here is the lover in the smart disguise

With the sword,—he is a priest, so mine lies still.

There upstairs hides my wife the runaway,

His leman: the two plotted, poisoned first,

Plundered me after, and eloped thus far

Where now you find them. Do your duty quick!

Arrest and hold him! That 's done: now catch her!"

During this speech of that man,—well, I stood

Away, as he managed,—still, I stood as near

The throat of him,—with these two hands, my own,—

As now I stand near yours, Sir,—one quick spring,

One great good satisfying gripe, and lo!

There had he lain abolished with his lie,

Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed,

A spittle wiped off from the face of God!

I, in some measure, seek a poor excuse

For what I left undone, in just this fact

That my first feeling at the speech I quote

Was—not of what a blasphemy was dared,

Not what a bag of venomed purulence

Was split and noisome,—but how splendidly

Mirthful, how ludicrous a lie was launched!

Would Molière's self wish more than hear such man

Call, claim such woman for his own, his wife,

Even though, in due amazement at the boast,

He had stammered, she moreover was divine?

She to be his,—were hardly less absurd

Than that he took her name into his mouth,

Licked, and then let it go again, the beast,

Signed with his slaver. Oh, she poisoned him,

Plundered him, and the rest! Well, what I wished

Was, that he would but go on, say once more

So to the world, and get his meed of men,

The fist's reply to the filth. And while I mused,

The minute, oh the misery, was gone!

On either idle hand of me there stood

Really an officer, nor laughed i' the least:

Nay, rendered justice to his reason, laid

Logic to heart, as 'twere submitted them

"Twice two makes four."

"And now, catch her!" he cried.

That sobered me. "Let myself lead the way—

Ere you arrest me, who am somebody,

Being, as you hear, a priest and privileged,—

To the lady's chamber! I presume you—men

Expert, instructed how to find out truth,

Familiar with the guise of guilt. Detect

Guilt on her face when it meets mine, then judge

Between us and the mad dog howling there!"

Up we all went together, in they broke

O' the chamber late my chapel. There she lay,

Composed as when I laid her, that last eve,

O' the couch, still breathless, motionless, sleep's self,

Wax-white, seraphic, saturate with the sun

O' the morning that now flooded from the front

And filled the window with a light like blood.

"Behold the poisoner, the adulteress,

—And feigning sleep too! Seize, bind!" Guido hissed.

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