Chapter 78

She started up, stood erect, face to faceWith the husband: back he fell, was buttressed thereBy the window all aflame with morning-red,He the black figure, the opprobrious blurAgainst all peace and joy and light and life."Away from between me and hell!" she cried:"Hell for me, no embracing any more!I am God's, I love God, God—whose knees I clasp,Whose utterly most just award I take,But bear no more love-making devils: hence!"I may have made an effort to reach her sideFrom where I stood i' the doorway,—anyhowI found the arms, I wanted, pinioned fast,Was powerless in the clutch to left and rightO' the rabble pouring in, rascalityEnlisted, rampant on the side of hearth,Home and the husband,—pay in prospect too!They heaped themselves upon me. "Ha!—and himAlso you outrage? Him, too, my sole friend,Guardian and savior? That I balk you of,Since—see how God can help at last and worst!"She sprang at the sword that hung beside him, seized,Drew, brandished it, the sunrise burned for joyO' the blade," Die," cried she, "devil, in God's name!"Ah, but they all closed round her, twelve to one—The unmanly men, no woman-mother made,Spawned somehow! Dead-white and disarmed she lay.No matter for the sword, her word sufficedTo spike the coward through and through: he shook,Could only spit between the teeth—"You see?You hear? Bear witness, then! Write down ... but no—Carry these criminals to the prison-house,For first thing! I begin my search meanwhileAfter the stolen effects, gold, jewels, plate,Money and clothes, they robbed me of and fled,With no few amorous pieces, verse and prose,I have much reason to expect to find."When I saw that—no more than the first mad speech,Made out the speaker mad and a laughing-stock,So neither did this next device explodeOne listener's indignation,—that a scribeDid sit down; set himself to write indeed,While sundry knaves began to peer and pryIn corner and hole,—that Guido, wiping browAnd getting him a countenance, was fastLosing his fear, beginning to strut freeO' the stage of his exploit, snuff here, sniff there,—Then I took truth in, guessed sufficientlyThe service for the moment. "What I say,Slight at your peril! We are aliens here,My adversary and I, called noble both;I am the nobler, and a name men know.I could refer our cause to our own courtIn our own country, but prefer appealTo the nearer jurisdiction. Being a priest,Though in a secular garb,—for reasons goodI shall adduce in due time to my peers,—I demand that the Church I serve, decideBetween us, right the slandered lady there.A Tuscan noble, I might claim the Duke:A priest, I rather choose the Church,—bid RomeCover the wronged with her inviolate shield."There was no refusing this: they bore me off,They bore her off, to separate cells o' the sameIgnoble prison, and, separate, thence to Rome.Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on meThe last time in this life: not one sight since,Never another sight to be! And yetI thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome:It seems I simply sent her to her death.You tell me she is dying now, or dead;I cannot bring myself to quite believeThis is a place you torture people in:What if this your intelligence were justA subtlety, an honest wile to workOn a man at unawares? 'T were worthy you.No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)That vision in the blood-red daybreak—thatLeap to life of the pale electric swordAngels go armed with,—that was not the lastO' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—Know the manœuvre! Also herself saidI had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?Let me see for myself if it be so!Though she were dying, a Priest might be of use,The more when he 's a friend too,—she called meFar beyond "friend." Come, let me see her—indeedIt is my duty, being a priest: I hopeI stand confessed, established, proved a priest?My punishment had motive that, a priestI, in a laic garb, a mundane mode,Did what were harmlessly done otherwise.I never touched her with my finger-tipExcept to carry her to the couch, that eve,Against my heart, beneath my head, bowed low,As we priests carry the paten: that is why—To get leave and go see her of your grace—I have told you this whole story over again.Do I deserve grace? For I might lock lips,Laugh at your jurisdiction: what have youTo do with me in the matter? I supposeYou hardly think I donned a bravo's dressTo have a hand in the new crime; on the old,Judgment's delivered, penalty imposed,I was chained fast at Civita hand and foot—She had only you to trust to, you and Rome,Rome and the Church, and no pert meddling priestTwo days ago, when Guido, with the right,Hacked her to pieces. One might well be wroth;I have been patient, done my best to help:I come from Civita and punishmentAs friend of the court—and for pure friendship's sakeHave told my tale to the end,—nay, not the end—For, wait—I 'll end—not leave you that excuse!When we were parted,—shall I go on there?I was presently brought to Rome—yes, here I stoodOpposite yonder very crucifix—And there sat you and you, Sirs, quite the same.I heard charge, and bore question, and told taleNoted down in the book there,—turn and seeIf, by one jot or tittle, I vary now!I' the color the tale takes, there's change perhaps;'T is natural, since the sky is different,Eclipse in the air now; still, the outline stays.I showed you how it came to be my partTo save the lady. Then your clerk producedPapers, a pack of stupid and impureBanalities called letters about love—Love, indeed,—I could teach who styled them so,Better, I think, though priest and loveless both!"—How was it that a wife, young, innocent,And stranger to your person, wrote this page?"—"—She wrote it when the Holy Father wroteThe bestiality that posts through Rome,Pat in his mouth by Pasquin." "Nor perhapsDid you return these answers, verse and prose,Signed, sealed and sent the lady? There 's your hand!""—This precious piece of verse, I really judge,Is meant to copy my own character,A clumsy mimic; and this other prose,Not so much even; both rank forgery:Verse, quotha? Bembo's verse! When Saint John wroteThe tract 'De Tribus,' I wrote this to match.""—How came it, then, the documents were foundAt the inn on your departure?"—"I opine,Because there were no documents to findIn my presence,—you must hide before you find.Who forged them hardly practised in my view;Who found them waited till I turned my back.""—And what of the clandestine visits paid,Nocturnal passage in and out the houseWith its lord absent? 'T is alleged you climbed" ..."—Flew on a broomstick to the man i' the moon!Who witnessed or will testify this trash?""—The trusty servant, Margherita's self,Even she who brought you letters, you confess,And, you confess, took letters in reply:Forget not we have knowledge of the facts!""—Sirs, who have knowledge of the facts, defrayThe expenditure of wit I waste in vain,Trying to find out just one fact of all!She who brought letters from who could not write,And took back letters to who could not read,—Who was that messenger, of your charity?""—Well, so far favors you the circumstanceThat this same messenger ... how shall we say? ...Sub imputatione meretricisLaborat,—which makes accusation null:We waive this woman's:—naught makes void the next.Borsi, called Venerino, he who drove,O' the first night when you fled away, at lengthDeposes to your kissings in the coach,—Frequent, frenetic" ... "When deposed he so?""After some weeks of sharp imprisonment" ..."Granted by friend the Governor, I engage"—"—For his participation in your flight!At length his obduracy melting madeThe avowal mentioned" ... "Was dismissed forthwithTo liberty, poor knave, for recompense.Sirs, give what credit to the lie you can!For me, no word in my defence I speak,And God shall argue for the lady!"SoDid I stand question, and make answer, stillWith the same result of smiling disbelief,Polite impossibility of faithIn such affected virtue in a priest;But a showing fair play, an indulgence, even,To one no worse than others after all—Who had not brought disgrace to the order, playedDiscreetly, ruffled gown nor ripped the clothIn a bungling game at romps: I have told you, Sirs—If I pretended simply to be pureHonest and Christian in the case,—absurd!As well go boast myself above the needsO' the human nature, careless how meat smells,Wine tastes,—a saint above the smack! But onceAbate my crest, own flaws i' the flesh, agreeTo go with the herd, be hog no more nor less,Why, hogs in common herd have common rights:I must not be unduly borne upon,Who just romanced a little, sowed wild oats,But 'scaped without a scandal, flagrant fault.My name helped to a mirthful circumstance:"Joseph" would do well to amend his plea:Undoubtedly—some toying with the wife,But as for ruffian violence and rape,Potiphar pressed too much on the other side!The intrigue, the elopement, the disguise,—well charged!The letters and verse looked hardly like the truth.Your apprehension was—of guilt enoughTo be compatible with innocence,So, punished best a little and not too much.Had I struck Guido Franceschini's face,You had counselled me withdraw for my own sake,Balk him of bravo-hiring. Friends came round,Congratulated, "Nobody mistakes!The pettiness o' the forfeiture definesThe peccadillo: Guido gets his share:His wife is free of husband and hook-nose,The mouldy viands and the mother-in-law.To Civita with you and amuse the time,Travesty us 'De Raptu Helenæ!'A funny figure must the husband cutWhen the wife makes him skip,—too ticklish, eh?Do it in Latin, not the Vulgar, then!Scazons—we 'll copy and send his Eminence.Mind—one iambus in the final foot!He 'll rectify it, be your friend for life!"Oh, Sirs, depend on me for much new lightThrown on the justice and religion hereBy this proceeding, much fresh food for thought!And I was just set down to study theseIn relegation, two short days ago,Admiring how you read the rules, when, clap.A thunder comes into my solitude—I am caught up in a whirlwind and cast here,Told of a sudden, in this room where so lateYou dealt out law adroitly, that those scales,I meekly bowed to, took my allotment from,Guido has snatched at, broken in your hands,Metes to himself the murder of his wife,Full measure, pressed down, running over now!Can I assist to an explanation?—Yes,I rise in your esteem, sagacious Sirs,Stand up a renderer of reasons, notThe officious priest would personate Saint GeorgeFor a mock Princess in undragoned days.What, the blood startles you? What, after allThe priest who needs must carry sword on thighMay find imperative use for it? Then, there wasA Princess, was a dragon belching flame,And should have been a Saint George also? Then,There might be worse schemes than to break the bondsAt Arezzo, lead her by the little hand,Till she reached Rome, and let her try to live?But you were law and gospel,—would one pleaseStand back, allow your faculty elbow-room?You blind guides who must needs lead eyes that see!Fools, alike ignorant of man and God!What was there here should have perplexed your witFor a wink of the owl-eyes of you? How miss, then,What 's now forced on you by this flare of fact—As if Saint Peter failed to recognizeNero as no apostle, John or James,Till some one burned a martyr, made a torchO' the blood and fat to show his features by!Could you fail read this cartulary arightOn head and front of Franceschini there,—Large-lettered like hell's masterpiece of print,—That he, from the beginning pricked at heartBy some lust, letch of hate against his wife,Plotted to plague her into overt sinAnd shame, would slay Pompilia body and soul,And save his mean self—miserably caughtI' the quagmire of his own tricks, cheats and lies?—That himself wrote those papers,—from himselfTo himself,—which, i' the name of me and her,His mistress-messenger gave her and me,Touching us with such pustules of the soulThat she and I might take the taint, be shownTo the world and shuddered over, speckled so?—That the agent put her sense into my words,Made substitution of the thing she hoped,For the thing she had and held, its opposite,While the husband in the background bit his lipsAt each fresh failure of his precious plot?—That when at the last we did rush each on each,By no chance but because God willed it so—The spark of truth was struck from out our souls—Made all of me, descried in the first glance,Seem fair and honest and permissible loveO' the good and true—as the first glance told meThere was no duty patent in the worldLike daring try be good and true myself,Leaving the shows of things to the Lord of ShowAnd Prince o' the Power of the Air. Our very flight,Even to its most ambiguous circumstance,Irrefragably proved how futile, false ...Why, men—men and not boys—boys and not babes—Babes and not beasts—beasts and not stocks and stones!—Had the liar's lie been true one pin-point speck,Were I the accepted suitor, free o' the place,Disposer of the time, to come at a callAnd go at a wink as who should say me nay,—What need of flight, what were the gain therefromBut just damnation, failure or success?Damnation pure and simple to her the wifeAnd me the priest—who bartered private blissFor public reprobation, the safe shadeFor the sunshine which men see to pelt me by:What other advantage—we who led the daysAnd nights alone i' the house—was flight to find?In our whole journey did we stop an hour,Diverge a foot from strait road till we reachedOr would have reached—but for that fate of ours—The father and mother, in the eye of Rome,The eye of yourselves we made aware of usAt the first fall of misfortune? And indeedYou did so far give sanction to our flight,Confirm its purpose, as lend helping hand,Deliver up Pompilia not to himShe fled, but those the flight was ventured for.Why then could you, who stopped short, not go onOne poor step more, and justify the means,Having allowed the end?—not see and say,"Here 's the exceptional conduct that should claimTo be exceptionally judged on rulesWhich, understood, make no exception here"—Why play instead into the devil's handsBy dealing so ambiguously as gaveGuido the power to intervene like me,Prove one exception more? I saved his wifeAgainst law: against law he slays her now:Deal with him!I have done with being judged.I stand here guiltless in thought, word and deed,To the point that I apprise you,—in contemptFor all misapprehending ignoranceO' the human heart, much more the mind of Christ,—That I assuredly did bow, was blessedBy the revelation of Pompilia. There!Such is the final fact I fling you, Sirs,To mouth and mumble and misinterpret: there!"The priest 's in love," have it the vulgar way!Unpriest me, rend the rags o' the vestment, do—Degrade deep, disenfranchise all you dare—Remove me from the midst, no longer priestAnd fit companion for the like of you—Your gay Abati with the well-turned legAnd rose i' the hat-rim, Canons, cross at neckAnd silk mask in the pocket of the gown,Brisk bishops with the world's musk still unbrushedFrom the rochet; I 'll no more of these good things:There 's a crack somewhere, something that 's unsoundI' the rattle!For Pompilia—be advised,Build churches, go pray! You will find me there,I know, if you come,—and you will come, I know.Why, there 's a Judge weeping! Did not I sayYou were good and true at bottom? You see the truth—I am glad I helped you: she helped me just so.But for Count Guido,—you must counsel there!I bow my head, bend to the very dust,Break myself up in shame of faultiness.I had him one whole moment, as I said—As I remember, as will never outO' the thoughts of me,—I had him in arm's reachThere,—as you stand, Sir, now you cease to sit,—I could have killed him ere he killed his wife,And did not: he went off alive and wellAnd then effected this last feat—through me!Me—not through you—dismiss that fear! 'T was youHindered me staying here to save her,—notFrom leaving you and going back to himAnd doing service in Arezzo. Come,Instruct me in procedure! I conceive—In all due self-abasement might I speak—How you will deal with Guido: oh, not death!Death, if it let her life be: otherwiseNot death,—your lights will teach you clearer! ICertainly have an instinct of my ownI' the matter: bear with me and weigh its worth!Let us go away—leave Guido all aloneBack on the world again that knows him now!I think he will be found (indulge so far!)Not to die so much as slide out of life,Pushed by the general horror and common hateLow, lower,—left o' the very ledge of things,I seem to see him catch convulsivelyOne by one at all honest forms of life,At reason, order, decency and use—To cramp him and get foothold by at least;And still they disengage them from his clutch."What, you are he, then, had Pompilia onceAnd so forwent her? Take not up with us!"And thus I see him slowly and surely edgedOff all the table-land whence life upspringsAspiring to be immortality,As the snake, hatched on hill-top by mischance,Despite his wriggling, slips, slides, slidders downHillside, lies low and prostrate on the smoothLevel of the outer place, lapsed in the vale:So I lose Guido in the loneliness,Silence and dusk, till at the doleful end,At the horizontal line, creation's verge,From what just is to absolute nothingness—Whom is it, straining onward still, he meets?What other man deep further in the fate,Who, turning at the prize of a footfallTo flatter him and promise fellowship,Discovers in the act a frightful face—Judas, made monstrous by much solitude!The two are at one now! Let them love their loveThat bites and claws like hate, or hate their hateThat mops and mows and makes as it were love!There, let them each tear each in devil's-fun,Or fondle this the other while malice aches—Both teach, both learn detestability!Kiss him the kiss, Iscariot! Pay that back,That smatch o' the slaver blistering on your lip,By the better trick, the insult he spared Christ—Lure him the lure o' the letters, Aretine!Lick him o'er slimy-smooth with jelly-filthO' the verse-and-prose pollution in love's guise!The cockatrice is with the basilisk!There let them grapple, denizens o' the dark,Foes or friends, but indissolubly bound,In their one spot out of the ken of GodOr care of man, forever and evermore!Why, Sirs, what 's this? Why, this is sorry and strange!Futility, divagation: this from meBound to be rational, justify an actOf sober man!—whereas, being moved so much,I give you cause to doubt the lady's mind:A pretty sarcasm for the world! I fearYou do her wit injustice,—all through me!Like my fate all through,—ineffective help!A poor rash advocate I prove myself.You might be angry with good cause: but sureAt the advocate,—only at the undue zealThat spoils the force of his own plea, I think?My part was just to tell you how things stand,State facts and not be flustered at their fume.But then 't is a priest speaks: as for love,—no!If you let buzz a vulgar fly like thatAbout your brains, as if I loved, forsooth,Indeed, Sirs, you do wrong! We had no thoughtOf such infatuation, she and I:There are many points that prove it: do be just!I told you,—at one little roadside-placeI spent a good half-hour, paced to and froThe garden; just to leave her free awhile,I plucked a handful of Spring herb and bloom:I might have sat beside her on the benchWhere the children were: I wish the thing had been,Indeed: the event could not be worse, you know:One more half-hour of her saved! She 's dead now, Sirs!While I was running on at such a rate,Friends should have plucked me by the sleeve: I wentToo much o' the trivial outside of her faceAnd the purity that shone there—plain to me,Not to you, what more natural? Nor am IInfatuated,—oh, I saw, be sure!Her brow had not the right line, leaned too much,Painters would say; they like the straight-up Greek:This seemed bent somewhat with an invisible crownOf martyr and saint, not such as art approves.And how the dark orbs dwelt deep underneath,Looked out of such a sad sweet heaven on me!The lips, compressed a little, came forward too,Careful for a whole world of sin and pain.That was the face, her husband makes his plea,He sought just to disfigure,—no offenceBeyond that! Sirs, let us be rational!He needs must vindicate his honor,—ay,Yet shirks, the coward, in a clown's disguise,Away from the scene, endeavors to escape.Now, had he done so, slain and left no traceO' the slayer,—what were vindicated, pray?You had found his wife disfigured or a corpse,For what and by whom? It is too palpable!Then, here 's another point involving law:I use this argument to show you meantNo calumny against us by that titleO' the sentence,—liars try to twist it so:What penalty it bore, I had to payTill further proof should follow of innocence—Probationis ob defectum,—proof?How could you get proof without trying us?You went through the preliminary form,Stopped there, contrived this sentence to amuseThe adversary. If the title ranFor more than fault imputed and not proved,That was a simple penman's error, elseA slip i' the phrase,—as when we say of you"Charged with injustice"—which may either beOr not be,—'t is a name that sticks meanwhile.Another relevant matter: fool that I am!Not what I wish true, yet a point friends urge:It is not true,—yet, since friends think it helps,—She only tried me when some others failed—Began with Conti, whom I told you of,And Guillichini, Guido's kinsfolk both,And when abandoned by them, not before,Turned to me. That 's conclusive why she turned.Much good they got by the happy cowardice!Conti is dead, poisoned a month ago:Does that much strike you as a sin? Not much,After the present murder,—one mark moreOn the Moor's skin,—what is black by blacker still?Conti had come here and told truth. And soWith Guillichini; he 's condemned of courseTo the galleys, as a friend in this affair,Tried and condemned for no one thing i' the world,A fortnight since by who but the Governor?—The just judge, who refused Pompilia helpAt first blush, being her husband's friend, you know.There are two tales to suit the separate courts,Arezzo and Rome: he tells you here, we fledAlone, unhelped,—lays stress on the main fault,The spiritual sin, Rome looks to: but elsewhereHe likes best we should break in, steal, bear off,Be fit to brand and pillory and flog—That 's the charge goes to the heart of the Governor:If these unpriest me, you and I may yetConverse, Vincenzo Marzi-Medici!Oh, Sirs, there are worse men than you, I say!More easily duped, I mean; this stupid lie,Its liar never dared propound in Rome,He gets Arezzo to receive,—nay more,Gets Florence and the Duke to authorize!This is their Rota's sentence, their GrandukeSigns and seals! Rome for me henceforward—Rome,Where better men are,—most of all, that manThe Augustinian of the Hospital,Who writes the letter,—he confessed, he says,Many a dying person, never oneSo sweet and true and pure and beautiful.A good man! Will you make him Pope one day?Not that he is not good too, this we have—But old,—else he would have his word to speak,His truth to teach the world: I thirst for truth,But shall not drink it till I reach the source.Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we areSo very pitiable, she and I,Who had conceivably been otherwise.Forget distemperature and idle heat!Apart from truth's sake, what 's to move so much?Pompilia will be presently with God;I am, on earth, as good as out of it,A relegated priest; when exile ends,I mean to do my duty and live long.She and I are mere strangers now: but priestsShould study passion; how else cure mankind,Who come for help in passionate extremes?I do but play with an imagined lifeOf who, unfettered by a vow, unblessedBy the higher call,—since you will have it so,—Leads it companioned by the woman there.To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,Out of the low obscure and petty world—Or only see one purpose and one willEvolve themselves i' the world, change wrong to right:To have to do with nothing but the true,The good, the eternal—and these, not aloneIn the main current of the general life,But small experiences of every day,Concerns of the particular hearth and home:To learn not only by a comet's rushBut a rose's birth,—not by the grandeur, God,—But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!Mere delectation, meet for a minute's dream!—Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the placeOf Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,Dreams, "Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!"—Then smilingly, contentedly, awakesTo the old solitary nothingness.So I, from such communion, pass content ...O great, just, good God! Miserable me!

She started up, stood erect, face to face

With the husband: back he fell, was buttressed there

By the window all aflame with morning-red,

He the black figure, the opprobrious blur

Against all peace and joy and light and life.

"Away from between me and hell!" she cried:

"Hell for me, no embracing any more!

I am God's, I love God, God—whose knees I clasp,

Whose utterly most just award I take,

But bear no more love-making devils: hence!"

I may have made an effort to reach her side

From where I stood i' the doorway,—anyhow

I found the arms, I wanted, pinioned fast,

Was powerless in the clutch to left and right

O' the rabble pouring in, rascality

Enlisted, rampant on the side of hearth,

Home and the husband,—pay in prospect too!

They heaped themselves upon me. "Ha!—and him

Also you outrage? Him, too, my sole friend,

Guardian and savior? That I balk you of,

Since—see how God can help at last and worst!"

She sprang at the sword that hung beside him, seized,

Drew, brandished it, the sunrise burned for joy

O' the blade," Die," cried she, "devil, in God's name!"

Ah, but they all closed round her, twelve to one

—The unmanly men, no woman-mother made,

Spawned somehow! Dead-white and disarmed she lay.

No matter for the sword, her word sufficed

To spike the coward through and through: he shook,

Could only spit between the teeth—"You see?

You hear? Bear witness, then! Write down ... but no—

Carry these criminals to the prison-house,

For first thing! I begin my search meanwhile

After the stolen effects, gold, jewels, plate,

Money and clothes, they robbed me of and fled,

With no few amorous pieces, verse and prose,

I have much reason to expect to find."

When I saw that—no more than the first mad speech,Made out the speaker mad and a laughing-stock,So neither did this next device explodeOne listener's indignation,—that a scribeDid sit down; set himself to write indeed,While sundry knaves began to peer and pryIn corner and hole,—that Guido, wiping browAnd getting him a countenance, was fastLosing his fear, beginning to strut freeO' the stage of his exploit, snuff here, sniff there,—Then I took truth in, guessed sufficientlyThe service for the moment. "What I say,Slight at your peril! We are aliens here,My adversary and I, called noble both;I am the nobler, and a name men know.I could refer our cause to our own courtIn our own country, but prefer appealTo the nearer jurisdiction. Being a priest,Though in a secular garb,—for reasons goodI shall adduce in due time to my peers,—I demand that the Church I serve, decideBetween us, right the slandered lady there.A Tuscan noble, I might claim the Duke:A priest, I rather choose the Church,—bid RomeCover the wronged with her inviolate shield."There was no refusing this: they bore me off,They bore her off, to separate cells o' the sameIgnoble prison, and, separate, thence to Rome.Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on meThe last time in this life: not one sight since,Never another sight to be! And yetI thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome:It seems I simply sent her to her death.You tell me she is dying now, or dead;I cannot bring myself to quite believeThis is a place you torture people in:What if this your intelligence were justA subtlety, an honest wile to workOn a man at unawares? 'T were worthy you.No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)That vision in the blood-red daybreak—thatLeap to life of the pale electric swordAngels go armed with,—that was not the lastO' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—Know the manœuvre! Also herself saidI had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?Let me see for myself if it be so!Though she were dying, a Priest might be of use,The more when he 's a friend too,—she called meFar beyond "friend." Come, let me see her—indeedIt is my duty, being a priest: I hopeI stand confessed, established, proved a priest?My punishment had motive that, a priestI, in a laic garb, a mundane mode,Did what were harmlessly done otherwise.I never touched her with my finger-tipExcept to carry her to the couch, that eve,Against my heart, beneath my head, bowed low,As we priests carry the paten: that is why—To get leave and go see her of your grace—I have told you this whole story over again.Do I deserve grace? For I might lock lips,Laugh at your jurisdiction: what have youTo do with me in the matter? I supposeYou hardly think I donned a bravo's dressTo have a hand in the new crime; on the old,Judgment's delivered, penalty imposed,I was chained fast at Civita hand and foot—She had only you to trust to, you and Rome,Rome and the Church, and no pert meddling priestTwo days ago, when Guido, with the right,Hacked her to pieces. One might well be wroth;I have been patient, done my best to help:I come from Civita and punishmentAs friend of the court—and for pure friendship's sakeHave told my tale to the end,—nay, not the end—For, wait—I 'll end—not leave you that excuse!

When I saw that—no more than the first mad speech,

Made out the speaker mad and a laughing-stock,

So neither did this next device explode

One listener's indignation,—that a scribe

Did sit down; set himself to write indeed,

While sundry knaves began to peer and pry

In corner and hole,—that Guido, wiping brow

And getting him a countenance, was fast

Losing his fear, beginning to strut free

O' the stage of his exploit, snuff here, sniff there,—

Then I took truth in, guessed sufficiently

The service for the moment. "What I say,

Slight at your peril! We are aliens here,

My adversary and I, called noble both;

I am the nobler, and a name men know.

I could refer our cause to our own court

In our own country, but prefer appeal

To the nearer jurisdiction. Being a priest,

Though in a secular garb,—for reasons good

I shall adduce in due time to my peers,—

I demand that the Church I serve, decide

Between us, right the slandered lady there.

A Tuscan noble, I might claim the Duke:

A priest, I rather choose the Church,—bid Rome

Cover the wronged with her inviolate shield."

There was no refusing this: they bore me off,

They bore her off, to separate cells o' the same

Ignoble prison, and, separate, thence to Rome.

Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on me

The last time in this life: not one sight since,

Never another sight to be! And yet

I thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome:

It seems I simply sent her to her death.

You tell me she is dying now, or dead;

I cannot bring myself to quite believe

This is a place you torture people in:

What if this your intelligence were just

A subtlety, an honest wile to work

On a man at unawares? 'T were worthy you.

No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!

That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,

That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)

That vision in the blood-red daybreak—that

Leap to life of the pale electric sword

Angels go armed with,—that was not the last

O' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—

Know the manœuvre! Also herself said

I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?

Let me see for myself if it be so!

Though she were dying, a Priest might be of use,

The more when he 's a friend too,—she called me

Far beyond "friend." Come, let me see her—indeed

It is my duty, being a priest: I hope

I stand confessed, established, proved a priest?

My punishment had motive that, a priest

I, in a laic garb, a mundane mode,

Did what were harmlessly done otherwise.

I never touched her with my finger-tip

Except to carry her to the couch, that eve,

Against my heart, beneath my head, bowed low,

As we priests carry the paten: that is why

—To get leave and go see her of your grace—

I have told you this whole story over again.

Do I deserve grace? For I might lock lips,

Laugh at your jurisdiction: what have you

To do with me in the matter? I suppose

You hardly think I donned a bravo's dress

To have a hand in the new crime; on the old,

Judgment's delivered, penalty imposed,

I was chained fast at Civita hand and foot—

She had only you to trust to, you and Rome,

Rome and the Church, and no pert meddling priest

Two days ago, when Guido, with the right,

Hacked her to pieces. One might well be wroth;

I have been patient, done my best to help:

I come from Civita and punishment

As friend of the court—and for pure friendship's sake

Have told my tale to the end,—nay, not the end—

For, wait—I 'll end—not leave you that excuse!

When we were parted,—shall I go on there?I was presently brought to Rome—yes, here I stoodOpposite yonder very crucifix—And there sat you and you, Sirs, quite the same.I heard charge, and bore question, and told taleNoted down in the book there,—turn and seeIf, by one jot or tittle, I vary now!I' the color the tale takes, there's change perhaps;'T is natural, since the sky is different,Eclipse in the air now; still, the outline stays.I showed you how it came to be my partTo save the lady. Then your clerk producedPapers, a pack of stupid and impureBanalities called letters about love—Love, indeed,—I could teach who styled them so,Better, I think, though priest and loveless both!"—How was it that a wife, young, innocent,And stranger to your person, wrote this page?"—"—She wrote it when the Holy Father wroteThe bestiality that posts through Rome,Pat in his mouth by Pasquin." "Nor perhapsDid you return these answers, verse and prose,Signed, sealed and sent the lady? There 's your hand!""—This precious piece of verse, I really judge,Is meant to copy my own character,A clumsy mimic; and this other prose,Not so much even; both rank forgery:Verse, quotha? Bembo's verse! When Saint John wroteThe tract 'De Tribus,' I wrote this to match.""—How came it, then, the documents were foundAt the inn on your departure?"—"I opine,Because there were no documents to findIn my presence,—you must hide before you find.Who forged them hardly practised in my view;Who found them waited till I turned my back.""—And what of the clandestine visits paid,Nocturnal passage in and out the houseWith its lord absent? 'T is alleged you climbed" ..."—Flew on a broomstick to the man i' the moon!Who witnessed or will testify this trash?""—The trusty servant, Margherita's self,Even she who brought you letters, you confess,And, you confess, took letters in reply:Forget not we have knowledge of the facts!""—Sirs, who have knowledge of the facts, defrayThe expenditure of wit I waste in vain,Trying to find out just one fact of all!She who brought letters from who could not write,And took back letters to who could not read,—Who was that messenger, of your charity?""—Well, so far favors you the circumstanceThat this same messenger ... how shall we say? ...Sub imputatione meretricisLaborat,—which makes accusation null:We waive this woman's:—naught makes void the next.Borsi, called Venerino, he who drove,O' the first night when you fled away, at lengthDeposes to your kissings in the coach,—Frequent, frenetic" ... "When deposed he so?""After some weeks of sharp imprisonment" ..."Granted by friend the Governor, I engage"—"—For his participation in your flight!At length his obduracy melting madeThe avowal mentioned" ... "Was dismissed forthwithTo liberty, poor knave, for recompense.Sirs, give what credit to the lie you can!For me, no word in my defence I speak,And God shall argue for the lady!"SoDid I stand question, and make answer, stillWith the same result of smiling disbelief,Polite impossibility of faithIn such affected virtue in a priest;But a showing fair play, an indulgence, even,To one no worse than others after all—Who had not brought disgrace to the order, playedDiscreetly, ruffled gown nor ripped the clothIn a bungling game at romps: I have told you, Sirs—If I pretended simply to be pureHonest and Christian in the case,—absurd!As well go boast myself above the needsO' the human nature, careless how meat smells,Wine tastes,—a saint above the smack! But onceAbate my crest, own flaws i' the flesh, agreeTo go with the herd, be hog no more nor less,Why, hogs in common herd have common rights:I must not be unduly borne upon,Who just romanced a little, sowed wild oats,But 'scaped without a scandal, flagrant fault.My name helped to a mirthful circumstance:"Joseph" would do well to amend his plea:Undoubtedly—some toying with the wife,But as for ruffian violence and rape,Potiphar pressed too much on the other side!The intrigue, the elopement, the disguise,—well charged!The letters and verse looked hardly like the truth.Your apprehension was—of guilt enoughTo be compatible with innocence,So, punished best a little and not too much.Had I struck Guido Franceschini's face,You had counselled me withdraw for my own sake,Balk him of bravo-hiring. Friends came round,Congratulated, "Nobody mistakes!The pettiness o' the forfeiture definesThe peccadillo: Guido gets his share:His wife is free of husband and hook-nose,The mouldy viands and the mother-in-law.To Civita with you and amuse the time,Travesty us 'De Raptu Helenæ!'A funny figure must the husband cutWhen the wife makes him skip,—too ticklish, eh?Do it in Latin, not the Vulgar, then!Scazons—we 'll copy and send his Eminence.Mind—one iambus in the final foot!He 'll rectify it, be your friend for life!"Oh, Sirs, depend on me for much new lightThrown on the justice and religion hereBy this proceeding, much fresh food for thought!

When we were parted,—shall I go on there?

I was presently brought to Rome—yes, here I stood

Opposite yonder very crucifix—

And there sat you and you, Sirs, quite the same.

I heard charge, and bore question, and told tale

Noted down in the book there,—turn and see

If, by one jot or tittle, I vary now!

I' the color the tale takes, there's change perhaps;

'T is natural, since the sky is different,

Eclipse in the air now; still, the outline stays.

I showed you how it came to be my part

To save the lady. Then your clerk produced

Papers, a pack of stupid and impure

Banalities called letters about love—

Love, indeed,—I could teach who styled them so,

Better, I think, though priest and loveless both!

"—How was it that a wife, young, innocent,

And stranger to your person, wrote this page?"—

"—She wrote it when the Holy Father wrote

The bestiality that posts through Rome,

Pat in his mouth by Pasquin." "Nor perhaps

Did you return these answers, verse and prose,

Signed, sealed and sent the lady? There 's your hand!"

"—This precious piece of verse, I really judge,

Is meant to copy my own character,

A clumsy mimic; and this other prose,

Not so much even; both rank forgery:

Verse, quotha? Bembo's verse! When Saint John wrote

The tract 'De Tribus,' I wrote this to match."

"—How came it, then, the documents were found

At the inn on your departure?"—"I opine,

Because there were no documents to find

In my presence,—you must hide before you find.

Who forged them hardly practised in my view;

Who found them waited till I turned my back."

"—And what of the clandestine visits paid,

Nocturnal passage in and out the house

With its lord absent? 'T is alleged you climbed" ...

"—Flew on a broomstick to the man i' the moon!

Who witnessed or will testify this trash?"

"—The trusty servant, Margherita's self,

Even she who brought you letters, you confess,

And, you confess, took letters in reply:

Forget not we have knowledge of the facts!"

"—Sirs, who have knowledge of the facts, defray

The expenditure of wit I waste in vain,

Trying to find out just one fact of all!

She who brought letters from who could not write,

And took back letters to who could not read,—

Who was that messenger, of your charity?"

"—Well, so far favors you the circumstance

That this same messenger ... how shall we say? ...

Sub imputatione meretricis

Laborat,—which makes accusation null:

We waive this woman's:—naught makes void the next.

Borsi, called Venerino, he who drove,

O' the first night when you fled away, at length

Deposes to your kissings in the coach,

—Frequent, frenetic" ... "When deposed he so?"

"After some weeks of sharp imprisonment" ...

"Granted by friend the Governor, I engage"—

"—For his participation in your flight!

At length his obduracy melting made

The avowal mentioned" ... "Was dismissed forthwith

To liberty, poor knave, for recompense.

Sirs, give what credit to the lie you can!

For me, no word in my defence I speak,

And God shall argue for the lady!"

Did I stand question, and make answer, still

With the same result of smiling disbelief,

Polite impossibility of faith

In such affected virtue in a priest;

But a showing fair play, an indulgence, even,

To one no worse than others after all—

Who had not brought disgrace to the order, played

Discreetly, ruffled gown nor ripped the cloth

In a bungling game at romps: I have told you, Sirs—

If I pretended simply to be pure

Honest and Christian in the case,—absurd!

As well go boast myself above the needs

O' the human nature, careless how meat smells,

Wine tastes,—a saint above the smack! But once

Abate my crest, own flaws i' the flesh, agree

To go with the herd, be hog no more nor less,

Why, hogs in common herd have common rights:

I must not be unduly borne upon,

Who just romanced a little, sowed wild oats,

But 'scaped without a scandal, flagrant fault.

My name helped to a mirthful circumstance:

"Joseph" would do well to amend his plea:

Undoubtedly—some toying with the wife,

But as for ruffian violence and rape,

Potiphar pressed too much on the other side!

The intrigue, the elopement, the disguise,—well charged!

The letters and verse looked hardly like the truth.

Your apprehension was—of guilt enough

To be compatible with innocence,

So, punished best a little and not too much.

Had I struck Guido Franceschini's face,

You had counselled me withdraw for my own sake,

Balk him of bravo-hiring. Friends came round,

Congratulated, "Nobody mistakes!

The pettiness o' the forfeiture defines

The peccadillo: Guido gets his share:

His wife is free of husband and hook-nose,

The mouldy viands and the mother-in-law.

To Civita with you and amuse the time,

Travesty us 'De Raptu Helenæ!'

A funny figure must the husband cut

When the wife makes him skip,—too ticklish, eh?

Do it in Latin, not the Vulgar, then!

Scazons—we 'll copy and send his Eminence.

Mind—one iambus in the final foot!

He 'll rectify it, be your friend for life!"

Oh, Sirs, depend on me for much new light

Thrown on the justice and religion here

By this proceeding, much fresh food for thought!

And I was just set down to study theseIn relegation, two short days ago,Admiring how you read the rules, when, clap.A thunder comes into my solitude—I am caught up in a whirlwind and cast here,Told of a sudden, in this room where so lateYou dealt out law adroitly, that those scales,I meekly bowed to, took my allotment from,Guido has snatched at, broken in your hands,Metes to himself the murder of his wife,Full measure, pressed down, running over now!Can I assist to an explanation?—Yes,I rise in your esteem, sagacious Sirs,Stand up a renderer of reasons, notThe officious priest would personate Saint GeorgeFor a mock Princess in undragoned days.What, the blood startles you? What, after allThe priest who needs must carry sword on thighMay find imperative use for it? Then, there wasA Princess, was a dragon belching flame,And should have been a Saint George also? Then,There might be worse schemes than to break the bondsAt Arezzo, lead her by the little hand,Till she reached Rome, and let her try to live?But you were law and gospel,—would one pleaseStand back, allow your faculty elbow-room?You blind guides who must needs lead eyes that see!Fools, alike ignorant of man and God!What was there here should have perplexed your witFor a wink of the owl-eyes of you? How miss, then,What 's now forced on you by this flare of fact—As if Saint Peter failed to recognizeNero as no apostle, John or James,Till some one burned a martyr, made a torchO' the blood and fat to show his features by!Could you fail read this cartulary arightOn head and front of Franceschini there,—Large-lettered like hell's masterpiece of print,—That he, from the beginning pricked at heartBy some lust, letch of hate against his wife,Plotted to plague her into overt sinAnd shame, would slay Pompilia body and soul,And save his mean self—miserably caughtI' the quagmire of his own tricks, cheats and lies?—That himself wrote those papers,—from himselfTo himself,—which, i' the name of me and her,His mistress-messenger gave her and me,Touching us with such pustules of the soulThat she and I might take the taint, be shownTo the world and shuddered over, speckled so?—That the agent put her sense into my words,Made substitution of the thing she hoped,For the thing she had and held, its opposite,While the husband in the background bit his lipsAt each fresh failure of his precious plot?—That when at the last we did rush each on each,By no chance but because God willed it so—The spark of truth was struck from out our souls—Made all of me, descried in the first glance,Seem fair and honest and permissible loveO' the good and true—as the first glance told meThere was no duty patent in the worldLike daring try be good and true myself,Leaving the shows of things to the Lord of ShowAnd Prince o' the Power of the Air. Our very flight,Even to its most ambiguous circumstance,Irrefragably proved how futile, false ...Why, men—men and not boys—boys and not babes—Babes and not beasts—beasts and not stocks and stones!—Had the liar's lie been true one pin-point speck,Were I the accepted suitor, free o' the place,Disposer of the time, to come at a callAnd go at a wink as who should say me nay,—What need of flight, what were the gain therefromBut just damnation, failure or success?Damnation pure and simple to her the wifeAnd me the priest—who bartered private blissFor public reprobation, the safe shadeFor the sunshine which men see to pelt me by:What other advantage—we who led the daysAnd nights alone i' the house—was flight to find?In our whole journey did we stop an hour,Diverge a foot from strait road till we reachedOr would have reached—but for that fate of ours—The father and mother, in the eye of Rome,The eye of yourselves we made aware of usAt the first fall of misfortune? And indeedYou did so far give sanction to our flight,Confirm its purpose, as lend helping hand,Deliver up Pompilia not to himShe fled, but those the flight was ventured for.Why then could you, who stopped short, not go onOne poor step more, and justify the means,Having allowed the end?—not see and say,"Here 's the exceptional conduct that should claimTo be exceptionally judged on rulesWhich, understood, make no exception here"—Why play instead into the devil's handsBy dealing so ambiguously as gaveGuido the power to intervene like me,Prove one exception more? I saved his wifeAgainst law: against law he slays her now:Deal with him!

And I was just set down to study these

In relegation, two short days ago,

Admiring how you read the rules, when, clap.

A thunder comes into my solitude—

I am caught up in a whirlwind and cast here,

Told of a sudden, in this room where so late

You dealt out law adroitly, that those scales,

I meekly bowed to, took my allotment from,

Guido has snatched at, broken in your hands,

Metes to himself the murder of his wife,

Full measure, pressed down, running over now!

Can I assist to an explanation?—Yes,

I rise in your esteem, sagacious Sirs,

Stand up a renderer of reasons, not

The officious priest would personate Saint George

For a mock Princess in undragoned days.

What, the blood startles you? What, after all

The priest who needs must carry sword on thigh

May find imperative use for it? Then, there was

A Princess, was a dragon belching flame,

And should have been a Saint George also? Then,

There might be worse schemes than to break the bonds

At Arezzo, lead her by the little hand,

Till she reached Rome, and let her try to live?

But you were law and gospel,—would one please

Stand back, allow your faculty elbow-room?

You blind guides who must needs lead eyes that see!

Fools, alike ignorant of man and God!

What was there here should have perplexed your wit

For a wink of the owl-eyes of you? How miss, then,

What 's now forced on you by this flare of fact—

As if Saint Peter failed to recognize

Nero as no apostle, John or James,

Till some one burned a martyr, made a torch

O' the blood and fat to show his features by!

Could you fail read this cartulary aright

On head and front of Franceschini there,—

Large-lettered like hell's masterpiece of print,—

That he, from the beginning pricked at heart

By some lust, letch of hate against his wife,

Plotted to plague her into overt sin

And shame, would slay Pompilia body and soul,

And save his mean self—miserably caught

I' the quagmire of his own tricks, cheats and lies?

—That himself wrote those papers,—from himself

To himself,—which, i' the name of me and her,

His mistress-messenger gave her and me,

Touching us with such pustules of the soul

That she and I might take the taint, be shown

To the world and shuddered over, speckled so?

—That the agent put her sense into my words,

Made substitution of the thing she hoped,

For the thing she had and held, its opposite,

While the husband in the background bit his lips

At each fresh failure of his precious plot?

—That when at the last we did rush each on each,

By no chance but because God willed it so—

The spark of truth was struck from out our souls—

Made all of me, descried in the first glance,

Seem fair and honest and permissible love

O' the good and true—as the first glance told me

There was no duty patent in the world

Like daring try be good and true myself,

Leaving the shows of things to the Lord of Show

And Prince o' the Power of the Air. Our very flight,

Even to its most ambiguous circumstance,

Irrefragably proved how futile, false ...

Why, men—men and not boys—boys and not babes—

Babes and not beasts—beasts and not stocks and stones!—

Had the liar's lie been true one pin-point speck,

Were I the accepted suitor, free o' the place,

Disposer of the time, to come at a call

And go at a wink as who should say me nay,—

What need of flight, what were the gain therefrom

But just damnation, failure or success?

Damnation pure and simple to her the wife

And me the priest—who bartered private bliss

For public reprobation, the safe shade

For the sunshine which men see to pelt me by:

What other advantage—we who led the days

And nights alone i' the house—was flight to find?

In our whole journey did we stop an hour,

Diverge a foot from strait road till we reached

Or would have reached—but for that fate of ours—

The father and mother, in the eye of Rome,

The eye of yourselves we made aware of us

At the first fall of misfortune? And indeed

You did so far give sanction to our flight,

Confirm its purpose, as lend helping hand,

Deliver up Pompilia not to him

She fled, but those the flight was ventured for.

Why then could you, who stopped short, not go on

One poor step more, and justify the means,

Having allowed the end?—not see and say,

"Here 's the exceptional conduct that should claim

To be exceptionally judged on rules

Which, understood, make no exception here"—

Why play instead into the devil's hands

By dealing so ambiguously as gave

Guido the power to intervene like me,

Prove one exception more? I saved his wife

Against law: against law he slays her now:

Deal with him!

I have done with being judged.I stand here guiltless in thought, word and deed,To the point that I apprise you,—in contemptFor all misapprehending ignoranceO' the human heart, much more the mind of Christ,—That I assuredly did bow, was blessedBy the revelation of Pompilia. There!Such is the final fact I fling you, Sirs,To mouth and mumble and misinterpret: there!"The priest 's in love," have it the vulgar way!Unpriest me, rend the rags o' the vestment, do—Degrade deep, disenfranchise all you dare—Remove me from the midst, no longer priestAnd fit companion for the like of you—Your gay Abati with the well-turned legAnd rose i' the hat-rim, Canons, cross at neckAnd silk mask in the pocket of the gown,Brisk bishops with the world's musk still unbrushedFrom the rochet; I 'll no more of these good things:There 's a crack somewhere, something that 's unsoundI' the rattle!

I have done with being judged.

I stand here guiltless in thought, word and deed,

To the point that I apprise you,—in contempt

For all misapprehending ignorance

O' the human heart, much more the mind of Christ,—

That I assuredly did bow, was blessed

By the revelation of Pompilia. There!

Such is the final fact I fling you, Sirs,

To mouth and mumble and misinterpret: there!

"The priest 's in love," have it the vulgar way!

Unpriest me, rend the rags o' the vestment, do—

Degrade deep, disenfranchise all you dare—

Remove me from the midst, no longer priest

And fit companion for the like of you—

Your gay Abati with the well-turned leg

And rose i' the hat-rim, Canons, cross at neck

And silk mask in the pocket of the gown,

Brisk bishops with the world's musk still unbrushed

From the rochet; I 'll no more of these good things:

There 's a crack somewhere, something that 's unsound

I' the rattle!

For Pompilia—be advised,Build churches, go pray! You will find me there,I know, if you come,—and you will come, I know.Why, there 's a Judge weeping! Did not I sayYou were good and true at bottom? You see the truth—I am glad I helped you: she helped me just so.

For Pompilia—be advised,

Build churches, go pray! You will find me there,

I know, if you come,—and you will come, I know.

Why, there 's a Judge weeping! Did not I say

You were good and true at bottom? You see the truth—

I am glad I helped you: she helped me just so.

But for Count Guido,—you must counsel there!I bow my head, bend to the very dust,Break myself up in shame of faultiness.I had him one whole moment, as I said—As I remember, as will never outO' the thoughts of me,—I had him in arm's reachThere,—as you stand, Sir, now you cease to sit,—I could have killed him ere he killed his wife,And did not: he went off alive and wellAnd then effected this last feat—through me!Me—not through you—dismiss that fear! 'T was youHindered me staying here to save her,—notFrom leaving you and going back to himAnd doing service in Arezzo. Come,Instruct me in procedure! I conceive—In all due self-abasement might I speak—How you will deal with Guido: oh, not death!Death, if it let her life be: otherwiseNot death,—your lights will teach you clearer! ICertainly have an instinct of my ownI' the matter: bear with me and weigh its worth!Let us go away—leave Guido all aloneBack on the world again that knows him now!I think he will be found (indulge so far!)Not to die so much as slide out of life,Pushed by the general horror and common hateLow, lower,—left o' the very ledge of things,I seem to see him catch convulsivelyOne by one at all honest forms of life,At reason, order, decency and use—To cramp him and get foothold by at least;And still they disengage them from his clutch."What, you are he, then, had Pompilia onceAnd so forwent her? Take not up with us!"And thus I see him slowly and surely edgedOff all the table-land whence life upspringsAspiring to be immortality,As the snake, hatched on hill-top by mischance,Despite his wriggling, slips, slides, slidders downHillside, lies low and prostrate on the smoothLevel of the outer place, lapsed in the vale:So I lose Guido in the loneliness,Silence and dusk, till at the doleful end,At the horizontal line, creation's verge,From what just is to absolute nothingness—Whom is it, straining onward still, he meets?What other man deep further in the fate,Who, turning at the prize of a footfallTo flatter him and promise fellowship,Discovers in the act a frightful face—Judas, made monstrous by much solitude!The two are at one now! Let them love their loveThat bites and claws like hate, or hate their hateThat mops and mows and makes as it were love!There, let them each tear each in devil's-fun,Or fondle this the other while malice aches—Both teach, both learn detestability!Kiss him the kiss, Iscariot! Pay that back,That smatch o' the slaver blistering on your lip,By the better trick, the insult he spared Christ—Lure him the lure o' the letters, Aretine!Lick him o'er slimy-smooth with jelly-filthO' the verse-and-prose pollution in love's guise!The cockatrice is with the basilisk!There let them grapple, denizens o' the dark,Foes or friends, but indissolubly bound,In their one spot out of the ken of GodOr care of man, forever and evermore!

But for Count Guido,—you must counsel there!

I bow my head, bend to the very dust,

Break myself up in shame of faultiness.

I had him one whole moment, as I said—

As I remember, as will never out

O' the thoughts of me,—I had him in arm's reach

There,—as you stand, Sir, now you cease to sit,—

I could have killed him ere he killed his wife,

And did not: he went off alive and well

And then effected this last feat—through me!

Me—not through you—dismiss that fear! 'T was you

Hindered me staying here to save her,—not

From leaving you and going back to him

And doing service in Arezzo. Come,

Instruct me in procedure! I conceive—

In all due self-abasement might I speak—

How you will deal with Guido: oh, not death!

Death, if it let her life be: otherwise

Not death,—your lights will teach you clearer! I

Certainly have an instinct of my own

I' the matter: bear with me and weigh its worth!

Let us go away—leave Guido all alone

Back on the world again that knows him now!

I think he will be found (indulge so far!)

Not to die so much as slide out of life,

Pushed by the general horror and common hate

Low, lower,—left o' the very ledge of things,

I seem to see him catch convulsively

One by one at all honest forms of life,

At reason, order, decency and use—

To cramp him and get foothold by at least;

And still they disengage them from his clutch.

"What, you are he, then, had Pompilia once

And so forwent her? Take not up with us!"

And thus I see him slowly and surely edged

Off all the table-land whence life upsprings

Aspiring to be immortality,

As the snake, hatched on hill-top by mischance,

Despite his wriggling, slips, slides, slidders down

Hillside, lies low and prostrate on the smooth

Level of the outer place, lapsed in the vale:

So I lose Guido in the loneliness,

Silence and dusk, till at the doleful end,

At the horizontal line, creation's verge,

From what just is to absolute nothingness—

Whom is it, straining onward still, he meets?

What other man deep further in the fate,

Who, turning at the prize of a footfall

To flatter him and promise fellowship,

Discovers in the act a frightful face—

Judas, made monstrous by much solitude!

The two are at one now! Let them love their love

That bites and claws like hate, or hate their hate

That mops and mows and makes as it were love!

There, let them each tear each in devil's-fun,

Or fondle this the other while malice aches—

Both teach, both learn detestability!

Kiss him the kiss, Iscariot! Pay that back,

That smatch o' the slaver blistering on your lip,

By the better trick, the insult he spared Christ—

Lure him the lure o' the letters, Aretine!

Lick him o'er slimy-smooth with jelly-filth

O' the verse-and-prose pollution in love's guise!

The cockatrice is with the basilisk!

There let them grapple, denizens o' the dark,

Foes or friends, but indissolubly bound,

In their one spot out of the ken of God

Or care of man, forever and evermore!

Why, Sirs, what 's this? Why, this is sorry and strange!Futility, divagation: this from meBound to be rational, justify an actOf sober man!—whereas, being moved so much,I give you cause to doubt the lady's mind:A pretty sarcasm for the world! I fearYou do her wit injustice,—all through me!Like my fate all through,—ineffective help!A poor rash advocate I prove myself.You might be angry with good cause: but sureAt the advocate,—only at the undue zealThat spoils the force of his own plea, I think?My part was just to tell you how things stand,State facts and not be flustered at their fume.But then 't is a priest speaks: as for love,—no!If you let buzz a vulgar fly like thatAbout your brains, as if I loved, forsooth,Indeed, Sirs, you do wrong! We had no thoughtOf such infatuation, she and I:There are many points that prove it: do be just!I told you,—at one little roadside-placeI spent a good half-hour, paced to and froThe garden; just to leave her free awhile,I plucked a handful of Spring herb and bloom:I might have sat beside her on the benchWhere the children were: I wish the thing had been,Indeed: the event could not be worse, you know:One more half-hour of her saved! She 's dead now, Sirs!While I was running on at such a rate,Friends should have plucked me by the sleeve: I wentToo much o' the trivial outside of her faceAnd the purity that shone there—plain to me,Not to you, what more natural? Nor am IInfatuated,—oh, I saw, be sure!Her brow had not the right line, leaned too much,Painters would say; they like the straight-up Greek:This seemed bent somewhat with an invisible crownOf martyr and saint, not such as art approves.And how the dark orbs dwelt deep underneath,Looked out of such a sad sweet heaven on me!The lips, compressed a little, came forward too,Careful for a whole world of sin and pain.That was the face, her husband makes his plea,He sought just to disfigure,—no offenceBeyond that! Sirs, let us be rational!He needs must vindicate his honor,—ay,Yet shirks, the coward, in a clown's disguise,Away from the scene, endeavors to escape.Now, had he done so, slain and left no traceO' the slayer,—what were vindicated, pray?You had found his wife disfigured or a corpse,For what and by whom? It is too palpable!Then, here 's another point involving law:I use this argument to show you meantNo calumny against us by that titleO' the sentence,—liars try to twist it so:What penalty it bore, I had to payTill further proof should follow of innocence—Probationis ob defectum,—proof?How could you get proof without trying us?You went through the preliminary form,Stopped there, contrived this sentence to amuseThe adversary. If the title ranFor more than fault imputed and not proved,That was a simple penman's error, elseA slip i' the phrase,—as when we say of you"Charged with injustice"—which may either beOr not be,—'t is a name that sticks meanwhile.Another relevant matter: fool that I am!Not what I wish true, yet a point friends urge:It is not true,—yet, since friends think it helps,—She only tried me when some others failed—Began with Conti, whom I told you of,And Guillichini, Guido's kinsfolk both,And when abandoned by them, not before,Turned to me. That 's conclusive why she turned.Much good they got by the happy cowardice!Conti is dead, poisoned a month ago:Does that much strike you as a sin? Not much,After the present murder,—one mark moreOn the Moor's skin,—what is black by blacker still?Conti had come here and told truth. And soWith Guillichini; he 's condemned of courseTo the galleys, as a friend in this affair,Tried and condemned for no one thing i' the world,A fortnight since by who but the Governor?—The just judge, who refused Pompilia helpAt first blush, being her husband's friend, you know.There are two tales to suit the separate courts,Arezzo and Rome: he tells you here, we fledAlone, unhelped,—lays stress on the main fault,The spiritual sin, Rome looks to: but elsewhereHe likes best we should break in, steal, bear off,Be fit to brand and pillory and flog—That 's the charge goes to the heart of the Governor:If these unpriest me, you and I may yetConverse, Vincenzo Marzi-Medici!Oh, Sirs, there are worse men than you, I say!More easily duped, I mean; this stupid lie,Its liar never dared propound in Rome,He gets Arezzo to receive,—nay more,Gets Florence and the Duke to authorize!This is their Rota's sentence, their GrandukeSigns and seals! Rome for me henceforward—Rome,Where better men are,—most of all, that manThe Augustinian of the Hospital,Who writes the letter,—he confessed, he says,Many a dying person, never oneSo sweet and true and pure and beautiful.A good man! Will you make him Pope one day?Not that he is not good too, this we have—But old,—else he would have his word to speak,His truth to teach the world: I thirst for truth,But shall not drink it till I reach the source.

Why, Sirs, what 's this? Why, this is sorry and strange!

Futility, divagation: this from me

Bound to be rational, justify an act

Of sober man!—whereas, being moved so much,

I give you cause to doubt the lady's mind:

A pretty sarcasm for the world! I fear

You do her wit injustice,—all through me!

Like my fate all through,—ineffective help!

A poor rash advocate I prove myself.

You might be angry with good cause: but sure

At the advocate,—only at the undue zeal

That spoils the force of his own plea, I think?

My part was just to tell you how things stand,

State facts and not be flustered at their fume.

But then 't is a priest speaks: as for love,—no!

If you let buzz a vulgar fly like that

About your brains, as if I loved, forsooth,

Indeed, Sirs, you do wrong! We had no thought

Of such infatuation, she and I:

There are many points that prove it: do be just!

I told you,—at one little roadside-place

I spent a good half-hour, paced to and fro

The garden; just to leave her free awhile,

I plucked a handful of Spring herb and bloom:

I might have sat beside her on the bench

Where the children were: I wish the thing had been,

Indeed: the event could not be worse, you know:

One more half-hour of her saved! She 's dead now, Sirs!

While I was running on at such a rate,

Friends should have plucked me by the sleeve: I went

Too much o' the trivial outside of her face

And the purity that shone there—plain to me,

Not to you, what more natural? Nor am I

Infatuated,—oh, I saw, be sure!

Her brow had not the right line, leaned too much,

Painters would say; they like the straight-up Greek:

This seemed bent somewhat with an invisible crown

Of martyr and saint, not such as art approves.

And how the dark orbs dwelt deep underneath,

Looked out of such a sad sweet heaven on me!

The lips, compressed a little, came forward too,

Careful for a whole world of sin and pain.

That was the face, her husband makes his plea,

He sought just to disfigure,—no offence

Beyond that! Sirs, let us be rational!

He needs must vindicate his honor,—ay,

Yet shirks, the coward, in a clown's disguise,

Away from the scene, endeavors to escape.

Now, had he done so, slain and left no trace

O' the slayer,—what were vindicated, pray?

You had found his wife disfigured or a corpse,

For what and by whom? It is too palpable!

Then, here 's another point involving law:

I use this argument to show you meant

No calumny against us by that title

O' the sentence,—liars try to twist it so:

What penalty it bore, I had to pay

Till further proof should follow of innocence—

Probationis ob defectum,—proof?

How could you get proof without trying us?

You went through the preliminary form,

Stopped there, contrived this sentence to amuse

The adversary. If the title ran

For more than fault imputed and not proved,

That was a simple penman's error, else

A slip i' the phrase,—as when we say of you

"Charged with injustice"—which may either be

Or not be,—'t is a name that sticks meanwhile.

Another relevant matter: fool that I am!

Not what I wish true, yet a point friends urge:

It is not true,—yet, since friends think it helps,—

She only tried me when some others failed—

Began with Conti, whom I told you of,

And Guillichini, Guido's kinsfolk both,

And when abandoned by them, not before,

Turned to me. That 's conclusive why she turned.

Much good they got by the happy cowardice!

Conti is dead, poisoned a month ago:

Does that much strike you as a sin? Not much,

After the present murder,—one mark more

On the Moor's skin,—what is black by blacker still?

Conti had come here and told truth. And so

With Guillichini; he 's condemned of course

To the galleys, as a friend in this affair,

Tried and condemned for no one thing i' the world,

A fortnight since by who but the Governor?—

The just judge, who refused Pompilia help

At first blush, being her husband's friend, you know.

There are two tales to suit the separate courts,

Arezzo and Rome: he tells you here, we fled

Alone, unhelped,—lays stress on the main fault,

The spiritual sin, Rome looks to: but elsewhere

He likes best we should break in, steal, bear off,

Be fit to brand and pillory and flog—

That 's the charge goes to the heart of the Governor:

If these unpriest me, you and I may yet

Converse, Vincenzo Marzi-Medici!

Oh, Sirs, there are worse men than you, I say!

More easily duped, I mean; this stupid lie,

Its liar never dared propound in Rome,

He gets Arezzo to receive,—nay more,

Gets Florence and the Duke to authorize!

This is their Rota's sentence, their Granduke

Signs and seals! Rome for me henceforward—Rome,

Where better men are,—most of all, that man

The Augustinian of the Hospital,

Who writes the letter,—he confessed, he says,

Many a dying person, never one

So sweet and true and pure and beautiful.

A good man! Will you make him Pope one day?

Not that he is not good too, this we have—

But old,—else he would have his word to speak,

His truth to teach the world: I thirst for truth,

But shall not drink it till I reach the source.

Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we areSo very pitiable, she and I,Who had conceivably been otherwise.Forget distemperature and idle heat!Apart from truth's sake, what 's to move so much?Pompilia will be presently with God;I am, on earth, as good as out of it,A relegated priest; when exile ends,I mean to do my duty and live long.She and I are mere strangers now: but priestsShould study passion; how else cure mankind,Who come for help in passionate extremes?I do but play with an imagined lifeOf who, unfettered by a vow, unblessedBy the higher call,—since you will have it so,—Leads it companioned by the woman there.To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,Out of the low obscure and petty world—Or only see one purpose and one willEvolve themselves i' the world, change wrong to right:To have to do with nothing but the true,The good, the eternal—and these, not aloneIn the main current of the general life,But small experiences of every day,Concerns of the particular hearth and home:To learn not only by a comet's rushBut a rose's birth,—not by the grandeur, God,—But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!Mere delectation, meet for a minute's dream!—Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the placeOf Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,Dreams, "Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!"—Then smilingly, contentedly, awakesTo the old solitary nothingness.So I, from such communion, pass content ...

Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we are

So very pitiable, she and I,

Who had conceivably been otherwise.

Forget distemperature and idle heat!

Apart from truth's sake, what 's to move so much?

Pompilia will be presently with God;

I am, on earth, as good as out of it,

A relegated priest; when exile ends,

I mean to do my duty and live long.

She and I are mere strangers now: but priests

Should study passion; how else cure mankind,

Who come for help in passionate extremes?

I do but play with an imagined life

Of who, unfettered by a vow, unblessed

By the higher call,—since you will have it so,—

Leads it companioned by the woman there.

To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,

Out of the low obscure and petty world—

Or only see one purpose and one will

Evolve themselves i' the world, change wrong to right:

To have to do with nothing but the true,

The good, the eternal—and these, not alone

In the main current of the general life,

But small experiences of every day,

Concerns of the particular hearth and home:

To learn not only by a comet's rush

But a rose's birth,—not by the grandeur, God,—

But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!

Mere delectation, meet for a minute's dream!—

Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,

Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the place

Of Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,

Dreams, "Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!"—

Then smilingly, contentedly, awakes

To the old solitary nothingness.

So I, from such communion, pass content ...

O great, just, good God! Miserable me!

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