Chapter 92

Like to Ahasuerus, that shrewd prince,I will begin,—as is, these seven years now,My daily wont,—and read a History(Written by one whose deft right hand was dustTo the last digit, ages ere my birth)Of all my predecessors, Popes of Rome:For though mine ancient early dropped the pen,Yet others picked it up and wrote it dry,Since of the making books there is no end.And so I have the Papacy completeFrom Peter first to Alexander last;Can question each and take instruction so.Have I to dare!—I ask, how dared this Pope?To suffer? Such-an-one, how suffered he?Being about to judge, as now, I seekHow judged once, well or ill, some other Pope;Study some signal judgment that subsistsTo blaze on, or else blot, the page which sealsThe sum up of what gain or loss to GodCame of his one more Vicar in the world.So, do I find example, rule of life;So, square and set in order the next page,Shall be stretched smooth o'er my own funeral cyst.Eight hundred years exact before the yearI was made Pope, men made Formosus Pope,Say Sigebert and other chroniclers.Ere I confirm or quash the Trial hereOf Guido Franceschini and his friends,Read,—How there was a ghastly Trial onceOf a dead man by a live man, and both, Popes:Thus—in the antique penman's very phrase."Then Stephen, Pope and seventh of the name,Cried out, in synod as he sat in state,While choler quivered on his brow and beard,'Come into court, Formosus, thou lost wretch,That claimedst to be late Pope as even I!'"And at the word, the great door of the churchFlew wide, and in they brought Formosus' self,The body of him, dead, even as embalmedAnd buried duly in the VaticanEight months before, exhumed thus for the nonce.They set it, that dead body of a Pope,Clothed in pontific vesture now again,Upright on Peter's chair as if alive."And Stephen, springing up, cried furiously,'Bishop of Porto, wherefore didst presumeTo leave that see and take this Roman see,Exchange the lesser for the greater see,—A thing against the canons of the Church?'"Then one—(a Deacon who, observing forms,Was placed by Stephen to repel the charge,Be advocate and mouthpiece of the corpse)—Spoke as he dared, set stammeringly forthWith white lips and dry tongue,—as but a youth,For frightful was the corpse-face to behold,—How nowise lacked there precedent for this."But when, for his last precedent of all,Emboldened by the Spirit, out he blurts,'And, Holy Father, didst not thou thyselfVacate the lesser for the greater see,Half a year since change Arago for Rome?''—Ye have the sin's defence now, synod mine!'Shrieks Stephen in a beastly froth of rage:'Judge now betwixt him dead and me alive!Hath he intruded, or do I pretend?Judge, judge!'—breaks wavelike one whole foam of wrath."Whereupon they, being friends and followers,Said, 'Ay, thou art Christ's Vicar, and not he!Away with what is frightful to behold!This act was uncanonic and a fault.'"Then, swallowed up in rage, Stephen exclaimed,'So, guilty! So, remains I punish guilt!He is unpoped, and all he did I damn:The Bishop, that ordained him, I degrade:Depose to laics those he raised to priests:What they have wrought is mischief nor shall stand,It is confusion, let it vex no more!Since I revoke, annul and abrogateAll his decrees in all kinds: they are void!In token whereof and warning to the world,Strip me yon miscreant of those robes usurped,And clothe him with vile serge befitting such!Then hale the carrion to the market-place;Let the town-hangman chop from his right handThose same three fingers which he blessed withal;Next cut the head off, once was crowned forsooth:And last go fling them, fingers, head and trunk,To Tiber that my Christian fish may sup!'—Either because of ΙΧΘΥΣ which means FishAnd very aptly symbolizes Christ,Or else because the Pope is Fisherman,And seals with Fisher's-signet."Anyway,So said, so done: himself, to see it done,Followed the corpse they trailed from street to streetTill into Tiber wave they threw the thing.The people, crowded on the banks to see,Were loud or mute, wept or laughed, cursed or jeered,According as the deed addressed their sense;A scandal verily: and out spake a Jew,'Wot ye your Christ had vexed our Herod thus?'"Now when, Formosus being dead a year,His judge Pope Stephen tasted death in turn,Made captive by the mob and strangled straight,Romanus, his successor for a month,Did make protest Formosus was with God,Holy, just, true in thought and word and deed.Next Theodore, who reigned but twenty days,Therein convoked a synod, whose decreeDid reinstate, repope the late unpoped,And do away with Stephen as accursed.So that when presently certain fisher-folk(As if the queasy river could not holdIts swallowed Jonas, but discharged the meal)Produced the timely product of their nets,The mutilated man, Formosus,—savedFrom putrefaction by the embalmer's spice,Or, as some said, by sanctity of flesh,—'Why, lay the body again,' bade Theodore,'Among his predecessors, in the churchAnd burial-place of Peter!' which was done.'And,' addeth Luitprand, 'many of repute,Pious and still alive, avouch to meThat, as they bore the body up the aisle,The saints in imaged row bowed each his headFor welcome to a brother-saint come back.'As for Romanus and this Theodore,These two Popes, through the brief reign granted each,Could but initiate what John came to closeAnd give the final stamp to: he it was,Ninth of the name, (I follow the best guides)Who,—in full synod at Ravenna heldWith Bishops seventy-four, and present tooEude King of France with his Archbishopry,—Did condemn Stephen, anathematizeThe disinterment, and make all blots blank.'For,' argueth here Auxilius in a placeDe Ordinationibus, 'precedentsHad been, no lack, before Formosus long,Of Bishops so transferred from see to see,—Marinus, for example:' read the tract."But, after John, came Sergius, reaffirmedThe right of Stephen, cursed Formosus, nayCast out, some say, his corpse a second time,And here,—because the matter went to ground,Fretted by new griefs, other cares of the age,—Here is the last pronouncing of the Church,Her sentence that subsists unto this day.Yet constantly opinion hath prevailedI' the Church, Formosus was a holy man."Which of the judgments was infallible?Which of my predecessors spoke for God?And what availed Formosus that this cursed,That blessed, and then this other cursed again?"Fear ye not those whose power can kill the bodyAnd not the soul," saith Christ, "but rather thoseCan cast both soul and body into hell!"John judged thus in Eight Hundred Ninety Eight,Exact eight hundred years ago to-dayWhen, sitting in his stead, Vicegerent here,I must give judgment on my own behoof.So worked the predecessor: now, my turn!In God's name! Once more on this earth of God's,While twilight lasts and time wherein to work,I take his staff with my uncertain hand,And stay my six and fourscore years, my dueLabor and sorrow, on his judgment-seat,And forthwith think, speak, act, in place of him—The Pope for Christ. Once more appeal is madeFrom man's assize to mine: I sit and seeAnother poor weak trembling human wretchPushed by his fellows, who pretend the right,Up to the gulf which, where I gaze, beginsFrom this world to the next,—gives way and way,Just on the edge over the awful dark:With nothing to arrest him but my feet.He catches at me with convulsive face,Cries "Leave to live the natural minute more!"While hollowly the avengers echo "Leave?None! So has he exceeded man's due shareIn man's fit license, wrung by Adam's fall,To sin and yet not surely die,—that we,All of us sinful, all with need of grace,All chary of our life,—the minute moreOr minute less of grace which saves a soul,—Bound to make common cause with who craves time,—We yet protest against the exorbitanceOf sin in this one sinner, and demandThat his poor sole remaining piece of timeBe plucked from out his clutch: put him to death!Punish him now! As for the weal or woeHereafter, God grant mercy! Man be just.Nor let the felon boast he went scot-free!"And I am bound, the solitary judge,To weigh the worth, decide upon the plea,And either hold a hand out, or withdrawA foot and let the wretch drift to the fall.Ay, and while thus I dally, dare perchancePut fancies for a comfort 'twixt this calmAnd yonder passion that I have to bear,—As if reprieve were possible for bothPrisoner and Pope,—how easy were reprieve!A touch o' the hand-bell here, a hasty wordTo those who wait, and wonder they wait long,I' the passage there, and I should gain the life!—Yea, though I flatter me with fancy thus,I know it is but Nature's craven-trick.The case is over, judgment at an end,And all things done now and irrevocable:A mere dead man is Franceschini here,Even as Formosus centuries ago.I have worn through this sombre wintry day,With winter in my soul beyond the world's,Over these dismalest of documentsWhich drew night down on me ere eve befell,—Pleadings and counter-pleadings, figure of factBeside fact's self, these summaries, to wit,—How certain three were slain by certain five:I read here why it was, and how it went,And how the chief o' the five preferred excuse,And how law rather chose defence should lie,—What argument he urged by wary wordWhen free to play off wile, start subterfuge,And what the unguarded groan told, torture's featWhen law grew brutal, outbroke, overboreAnd glutted hunger on the truth, at last,—No matter for the flesh and blood between.All 's a clear rede and no more riddle now.Truth, nowhere, lies yet everywhere in these—Not absolutely in a portion, yetEvolvable from the whole: evolved at lastPainfully, held tenaciously by me.Therefore there is not any doubt to clearWhen I shall write the brief word presentlyAnd chink the hand-bell, which I pause to do.Irresolute? Not I, more than the moundWith the pine-trees on it yonder! Some surmise,Perchance, that since man's wit is fallible,Mine may fail here? Suppose it so,—what then?Say,—Guido, I count guilty, there 's no babeSo guiltless, for I misconceive the man!What 's in the chance should move me from my mind?If, as I walk in a rough country-side,Peasants of mine cry, "Thou art he can help,Lord of the land and counted wise to boot:Look at our brother, strangling in his foam,He fell so where we find him,—prove thy worth!"I may presume, pronounce, "A frenzy-fit,A falling-sickness or a fever-stroke!Breathe a vein, copiously let blood at once!"So perishes the patient, and anonI hear my peasants—"All was error, lore!Our story, thy prescription: for there crawledIn due time from our hapless brother's breastThe serpent which had stung him: bleeding slewWhom a prompt cordial had restored to health."What other should I say than "God so willed:Mankind is ignorant, a man am I:Call ignorance my sorrow, not my sin!"So and not otherwise, in after-time,If some acuter wit, fresh probing, soundThis multifarious mass of words and deedsDeeper, and reach through guilt to innocence,I shall face Guido's ghost nor blench a jot."God who set me to judge thee, meted outSo much of judging faculty, no more:Ask him if I was slack in use thereof!"I hold a heavier fault imputableInasmuch as I changed a chaplain once,For no cause,—no, if I must bare my heart,—Save that he snuffled somewhat saying mass.For I am 'ware it is the seed of act,God holds appraising in his hollow palm,Not act grown great thence on the world below,Leafage and branchage, vulgar eyes admire.Therefore I stand on my integrity,Nor fear at all: and if I hesitate,It is because I need to breathe awhile,Rest, as the human right allows, reviewIntent the little seeds of act, my tree,—The thought, which, clothed in deed, I give the worldAt chink of bell and push of arrased door.O pale departure, dim disgrace of day!Winter's in wane, his vengeful worst art thou,To dash the boldness of advancing March!Thy chill persistent rain has purged our streetsOf gossipry; pert tongue and idle earBy this, consort 'neath archway, portico.But wheresoe'er Rome gathers in the gray,Two names now snap and flash from mouth to mouth—(Sparks, flint and steel strike)—Guido and the Pope.By this same hour to-morrow eve—aha,How do they call him?—the sagacious SwedeWho finds by figures how the chances prove,Why one comes rather than another thing,As, say, such dots turn up by throw of dice,Or, if we dip in Virgil here and thereAnd prick for such a verse, when such shall point.Take this Swede, tell him, hiding name and rank,Two men are in our city this dull eve;One doomed to death,—but hundreds in such plightSlip aside, clean escape by leave of lawWhich leans to mercy in this latter time;Moreover in the plenitude of lifeIs he, with strength of limb and brain adroit,Presumably of service here: beside,The man is noble, backed by nobler friends:Nay, they so wish him well, the city's selfMakes common cause with who—house-magistrate,Patron of hearth and home, domestic lord—But ruled his own, let aliens cavil. Die?He 'll bribe a jailer or break prison first!Nay, a sedition may be helpful, giveHint to the mob to batter wall, burn gate,And bid the favorite malefactor march.Calculate now these chances of escape!"It is not probable, but well may be."Again, there is another man, weighed nowBy twice eight years beyond the seven-times-ten,Appointed overweight to break our branch.And this man's loaded branch lifts, more than snow,All the world's cark and care, though a bird's nestWere a superfluous burden: notablyHath he been pressed, as if his age were youth,From to-day's dawn till now that day departs,Trying one question with true sweat of soul,"Shall the said doomed man fitlier die or live?"When a straw swallowed in his posset, stoolStumbled on where his path lies, any puffThat 's incident to such a smoking flax,Hurries the natural end and quenches him!Now calculate, thou sage, the chances here,Say, which shall die the sooner, this or that?"That, possibly, this in all likelihood."I thought so: yet thou tripp'st, my foreign friend!No, it will be quite otherwise,—to-dayIs Guido's last: my term is yet to run.But say the Swede were right, and I forthwithAcknowledge a prompt summons and lie dead:Why, then I stand already in God's faceAnd hear, "Since by its fruit a tree is judged,Show me thy fruit, the latest act of thine!For in the last is summed the first and all,—What thy life last put heart and soul into,There shall I taste thy product." I must pleadThis condemnation of a man to-day.Not so! Expect nor question nor replyAt what we figure as God's judgment-bar!None of this vile way by the barren wordsWhich, more than any deed, characterizeMan as made subject to a curse: no speech—That still bursts o'er some lie which lurks inside,As the split skin across the coppery snake,And most denotes man! since, in all beside,In hate or lust or guile or unbelief,Out of some core of truth the excrescence comes,And, in the last resort, the man may urge"So was I made, a weak thing that gave wayTo truth, to impulse only strong since true,And hated, lusted, used guile, forwent faith."But when man walks the garden of this worldFor his own solace, and, unchecked by law,Speaks or keeps silence as himself sees fit,Without the least incumbency to lie,—Why, can he tell you what a rose is like,Or how the birds fly, and not slip to falseThough truth serve better? Man must tell his mateOf you, me and himself, knowing he lies,Knowing his fellow knows the same,—will think"He lies, it is the method of a man!"And yet will speak for answer "It is truth"To him who shall rejoin "Again a lie!"Therefore these filthy rags of speech, this coilOf statement, comment, query and response,Tatters all too contaminate for use,Have no renewing: He the Truth is, too,The Word. We men, in our degree, may knowThere, simply, instantaneously, as hereAfter long time and amid many lies,Whatever we dare think we know indeed—That I am I, as He is He,—what else?But be man's method for man's life at least!Wherefore, Antonio Pignatelli, thouMy ancient self, who wast no Pope so longBut studiedst God and man, the many yearsI' the school, i' the cloister, in the dioceseDomestic, legate-rule in foreign lands,—Thou other force in those old busy daysThan this gray ultimate decrepitude,—Yet sensible of fires that more and moreVisit a soul, in passage to the sky,Left nakeder than when flesh-robe was new—Thou, not Pope but the mere old man o' the world,Supposed inquisitive and dispassionate,Wilt thou, the one whose speech I somewhat trust,Question the after-me, this self now Pope,Hear his procedure, criticise his work?Wise in its generation is the world.This is why Guido is found reprobate.I see him furnished forth for his career,On starting for the life-chance in our world,With nearly all we count sufficient help:Body and mind in balance, a sound frame,A solid intellect: the wit to seek,Wisdom to choose, and courage wherewithalTo deal in whatsoever circumstanceShould minister to man, make life succeed.Oh, and much drawback! what were earth without?Is this our ultimate stage, or starting-placeTo try man's foot, if it will creep or climb,'Mid obstacles in seeming, points that proveAdvantage for who vaults from low to highAnd makes the stumbling-block a stepping-stone?So, Guido, born with appetite, lacks food:Is poor, who yet could deftly play-off wealth:Straitened, whose limbs are restless till at large.He, as he eyes each outlet of the cirqueAnd narrow penfold for probation, pinesAfter the good things just outside its grate,With less monition, fainter conscience-twitch,Rarer instinctive qualm at the first feelOf greed unseemly, prompting grasp undue,Than nature furnishes her main mankind,—Making it harder to do wrong than rightThe first time, careful lest the common earBreak measure, miss the outstep of life's march.Wherein I see a trial fair and fitFor one else too unfairly fenced about,Set above sin, beyond his fellows here:Guarded from the arch-tempter all must fight,By a great birth, traditionary name,Diligent culture, choice companionship,Above all, conversancy with the faithWhich puts forth for its base of doctrine just,"Man is born nowise to content himself,But please God." He accepted such a rule,Recognized man's obedience; and the Church,Which simply is such rule's embodiment,He clave to, he held on by,—nay, indeed,Near pushed inside of, deep as layman durst,Professed so much of priesthood as might sueFor priest's-exemption where the layman sinned,—Go this arm frocked which, bare, the law would bruise,Hence, at this moment, what's his last resource,His extreme stay and utmost stretch of hopeBut that,—convicted of such crime as lawWipes not away save with a worldling's blood,—Guido, the three-parts consecrate, may 'scape?Nay, the portentous brothers of the manAre veritably priests, protected eachMay do his murder in the Church's pale,Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo!This is the man proves irreligiousestOf all mankind, religion's parasite!This may forsooth plead dinned ear, jaded sense,The vice o' the watcher who bides near the bell,Sleeps sound because the clock is vigilant,And cares not whether it be shade or shine,Doling out day and night to all men else!Why was the choice o' the man to niche himselfPerversely 'neath the tower where Time's own tongueThus undertakes to sermonize the world?Why, but because the solemn is safe too,The belfry proves a fortress of a sort,Has other uses than to teach the hour:Turns sunscreen, paravent and ombrifugeTo whoso seeks a shelter in its pale,—Ay, and attractive to unwary folkWho gaze at storied portal, statued spire,And go home with full head but empty purse.Nor dare suspect the sacristan the thief!Shall Judas—hard upon the donor's heel,To filch the fragments of the basket—pleadHe was too near the preacher's mouth, nor satAttent with fifties in a company?No,—closer to promulgated decree,Clearer the censure of default. Proceed!I find him bound, then, to begin life well;Fortified by propitious circumstance,Great birth, good breeding, with the Church for guide,How lives he? Cased thus in a coat of proof,Mailed like a man-at-arms, though all the whileA puny starveling,—does the breast pant big,The limb swell to the limit, emptinessStrive to become solidity indeed?Bather, he shrinks up like the ambiguous fish,Detaches flesh from shell and outside show,And steals by moonlight (I have seen the thing)In and out, now to prey and now to skulk.Armor he boasts when a wave breaks on beach,Or bird stoops for the prize: with peril nigh,—The man of rank, the much-befriended man,The man almost affiliate to the Church,Such is to deal with, let the world beware!Does the world recognize, pass prudently?Do tides abate and sea-fowl hunt i' the deep?Already is the slug from out its mew,Ignobly faring with all loose and free,Sand-fly and slush-worm at their garbage-feast,A naked blotch no better than they all:Guido has dropped nobility, slipped the Church,Plays trickster if not cut-purse, body and soulProstrate among the filthy feeders—faugh!And when Law takes him by surprise at last,Catches the foul thing on its carrion-prey,Behold, he points to shell left high and dry,Pleads "But the case out yonder is myself!"Nay, it is thou, Law prongs amid thy peers,Congenial vermin; that was none of thee,Thine outside,—give it to the soldier-crab!For I find this black mark impinge the man,That he believes in just the vile of life.Low instinct, base pretension, are these truth?Then, that aforesaid armor, probity,He figures in, is falsehood scale on scale;Honor and faith,—a lie and a disguise,Probably for all livers in this world,Certainly for himself! All say good wordsTo who will hear, all do thereby bad deedsTo who must undergo; so thrive mankind!See this habitual creed exemplifiedMost in the last deliberate act; as last,So, very sum and substance of the soulOf him that planned and leaves one perfect piece,The sin brought under jurisdiction now,Even the marriage of the man: this actI sever from his life as sample, showFor Guido's self, intend to test him by,As, from a cup filled fairly at the fount,By the components we decide enoughOr to let flow as late, or stanch the source.He purposes this marriage, I remark,On no one motive that should prompt thereto—Farthest, by consequence, from ends allegedAppropriate to the action; so they were:The best, he knew and feigned, the worst he took.Not one permissible impulse moves the man,From the mere liking of the eye and ear,To the true longing of the heart that loves,No trace of these: but all to instigate,Is what sinks man past level of the brute,Whose appetite if brutish is a truth.All is the lust for money: to get gold,—Why, lie, rob, if it must be, murder! MakeBody and soul wring gold out, lured withinThe clutch of hate by love, the trap's pretence!What good else get from bodies and from souls?This got, there were some life to lead thereby,—What, where or how, appreciate those who tellHow the toad lives: it lives,—enough for me!To get this good—but with a groan or so,Then, silence of the victims—were the feat.He foresaw, made a picture in his mind,—Of father and mother stunned and echolessTo the blow, as they lie staring at fate's jawsTheir folly danced into, till the woe fell;Edged in a month by strenuous crueltyFrom even the poor nook whence they watched the wolfFeast on their heart, the lamb-like child his prey;Plundered to the last remnant of their wealth,(What daily pittance pleased the plunderer dole,)Hunted forth to go hide head, starve and die,And leave the pale awe-stricken wife, past hopeOf help i' the world now, mute and motionless,His slave, his chattel, to first use, then destroy.All this, he bent mind, how to bring about,Put plain in act and life, as painted plain,So have success, reach crown of earthly good,In this particular enterprise of man,By marriage—undertaken in God's faceWith all these lies so opposite God's truth,For end so other than man's end.Thus schemesGuido, and thus would carry out his scheme:But when an obstacle first blocks the path,When he finds none may boast monopolyOf lies and trick i' the tricking lying world,—That sorry timid natures, even this sortO' the Comparini, want nor trick nor lieProper to the kind,—that as the gor-crow treatsThe bramble-finch so treats the finch the moth,And the great Guido is minutely matchedBy this same couple,—whether true or falseThe revelation of Pompilia's birth,Which in a moment brings his scheme to naught,—Then, he is piqued, advances yet a stage,Leaves the low region to the finch and fly,Soars to the zenith whence the fiercer fowlMay dare the inimitable swoop. I see.He draws now on the curious crime, the fineFelicity and flower of wickedness;Determines, by the utmost exerciseOf violence, made safe and sure by craft.To satiate malice, pluck one last arch-pangFrom the parents, else would triumph out of reach,By punishing their child, within reach yet,Who, by thought, word or deed, could nowise wrongI' the matter that now moves him. So plans he,Always subordinating (note the point!)Revenge, the manlier sin, to interestThe meaner,—would pluck pang forth, but unclenchNo gripe in the act, let fall no money-piece.Hence a plan for so plaguing, body and soul,His wife, so putting, day by day, hour by hour,The untried torture to the untouched place,As must precipitate an end foreseen,Goad her into some plain revolt, most likePlunge upon patent suicidal shame,Death to herself, damnation by reboundTo those whose hearts he, holding hers, holds still:Such plan as, in its bad completeness, shallRuin the three together and alike,Yet leave himself in luck and liberty,No claim renounced, no right a forfeiture,His person unendangered, his good fameWithout a flaw, his pristine worth intact,—While they, with all their claims and rights that cling,Shall forthwith crumble off him every side,Scorched into dust, a plaything for the winds.As when, in our Campagna, there is firedThe nest-like work that overruns a hut;And, as the thatch burns here, there, everywhere,Even to the ivy and wild vine, that boundAnd blessed the home where men were happy once,There rises gradual, black amid the blaze,Some grim and unscathed nucleus of the nest,—Some old malicious tower, some obscene tombThey thought a temple in their ignorance,And clung about and thought to lean upon—There laughs it o'er their ravage,—where are they?So did his cruelty burn life about,And lay the ruin bare in dreadfulness,Try the persistency of torment soUpon the wife, that, at extremity,Some crisis brought about by fire and flame,The patient frenzy-stung must needs break loose,Fly anyhow, find refuge anywhere,Even in the arms of who should front her first,No monster but a man—while nature shrieked"Or thus escape, or die!" The spasm arrived,Not the escape by way of sin,—O God,Who shall pluck sheep thou holdest, from thy hand?Therefore she lay resigned to die,—so farThe simple cruelty was foiled. Why then,Craft to the rescue, let craft supplementCruelty and show hell a masterpiece!Hence this consummate lie, this love-intrigue,Unmanly simulation of a sin,With place and time and circumstance to suit—These letters false beyond all forgery—Not just handwriting and mere authorship,But false to body and soul they figure forth—As though the man had cut out shape and shapeFrom fancies of that other Aretine,To paste below—incorporate the filthWith cherub faces on a missal-page!Whereby the man so far attains his endThat strange temptation is permitted,—see!Pompilia, wife, and Caponsacchi, priest,Are brought together as nor priest nor wifeShould stand, and there is passion in the place,Power in the air for evil as for good,Promptings from heaven and hell, as if the starsFought in their courses for a fate to be.Thus stand the wife and priest, a spectacle,I doubt not, to unseen assemblage there.No lamp will mark that window for a shrine,No tablet signalize the terrace, teachNew generations which succeed the old,The pavement of the street is holy ground:No bard describe in verse how Christ prevailedAnd Satan fell like lightning! Why repine?What does the world, told truth, but lie the more?A second time the plot is foiled; nor, now,By corresponding sin for countercheck,No wile and trick that baffle trick and wile,—The play o' the parents! Here the blot is blanchedBy God's gift of a purity of soulThat will not take pollution, ermine-likeArmed from dishonor by its own soft snow.Such was this gift of God who showed for onceHow he would have the world go white: it seemsAs a new attribute were born of eachChampion of truth, the priest and wife I praise,—As a new safeguard sprang up in defenceOf their new noble nature: so a thornComes to the aid of and completes the rose—Courage to wit, no woman's gift nor priest's,I' the crisis; might leaps vindicating right.See how the strong aggressor, bad and bold,With every vantage, preconcerts surprise,Leaps of a sudden at his victim's throatIn a byway,—how fares he when face to faceWith Caponsacchi? Who fights, who fears now?There quails Count Guido, armed to the chattering teeth,Cowers at the steadfast eye and quiet wordO' the Canon of the Pieve! There skulks crimeBehind law called in to back cowardice!While out of the poor trampled worm the wife,Springs up a serpent!But anon of these!Him I judge now,—of him proceed to note,Failing the first, a second chance befriendsGuido, gives pause ere punishment arrive.The law he called, comes, hears, adjudicates,Nor does amiss i' the main,—secludes the wifeFrom the husband, respites the oppressed one, grantsProbation to the oppressor, could he knowThe mercy of a minute's fiery purge!The furnace-coals alike of public scorn,Private remorse, heaped glowing on his head,What if—the force and guile, the ore's alloy,Eliminate, his baser soul refined—The lost be saved even yet, so as by fire?Let him, rebuked, go softly all his daysAnd, when no graver musings claim their due,Meditate on a man's immense mistakeWho, fashioned to use feet and walk, deigns crawl—Takes the unmanly means—ay, though to endsMan scarce should make for, would but reach through wrong,—May sin, but nowise needs shame manhood so:Since fowlers hawk, shoot, nay and snare the game,And yet eschew vile practice, nor find sportIn torch-light treachery or the luring owl.

Like to Ahasuerus, that shrewd prince,

I will begin,—as is, these seven years now,

My daily wont,—and read a History

(Written by one whose deft right hand was dust

To the last digit, ages ere my birth)

Of all my predecessors, Popes of Rome:

For though mine ancient early dropped the pen,

Yet others picked it up and wrote it dry,

Since of the making books there is no end.

And so I have the Papacy complete

From Peter first to Alexander last;

Can question each and take instruction so.

Have I to dare!—I ask, how dared this Pope?

To suffer? Such-an-one, how suffered he?

Being about to judge, as now, I seek

How judged once, well or ill, some other Pope;

Study some signal judgment that subsists

To blaze on, or else blot, the page which seals

The sum up of what gain or loss to God

Came of his one more Vicar in the world.

So, do I find example, rule of life;

So, square and set in order the next page,

Shall be stretched smooth o'er my own funeral cyst.

Eight hundred years exact before the yearI was made Pope, men made Formosus Pope,Say Sigebert and other chroniclers.Ere I confirm or quash the Trial hereOf Guido Franceschini and his friends,Read,—How there was a ghastly Trial onceOf a dead man by a live man, and both, Popes:Thus—in the antique penman's very phrase.

Eight hundred years exact before the year

I was made Pope, men made Formosus Pope,

Say Sigebert and other chroniclers.

Ere I confirm or quash the Trial here

Of Guido Franceschini and his friends,

Read,—How there was a ghastly Trial once

Of a dead man by a live man, and both, Popes:

Thus—in the antique penman's very phrase.

"Then Stephen, Pope and seventh of the name,Cried out, in synod as he sat in state,While choler quivered on his brow and beard,'Come into court, Formosus, thou lost wretch,That claimedst to be late Pope as even I!'

"Then Stephen, Pope and seventh of the name,

Cried out, in synod as he sat in state,

While choler quivered on his brow and beard,

'Come into court, Formosus, thou lost wretch,

That claimedst to be late Pope as even I!'

"And at the word, the great door of the churchFlew wide, and in they brought Formosus' self,The body of him, dead, even as embalmedAnd buried duly in the VaticanEight months before, exhumed thus for the nonce.They set it, that dead body of a Pope,Clothed in pontific vesture now again,Upright on Peter's chair as if alive.

"And at the word, the great door of the church

Flew wide, and in they brought Formosus' self,

The body of him, dead, even as embalmed

And buried duly in the Vatican

Eight months before, exhumed thus for the nonce.

They set it, that dead body of a Pope,

Clothed in pontific vesture now again,

Upright on Peter's chair as if alive.

"And Stephen, springing up, cried furiously,'Bishop of Porto, wherefore didst presumeTo leave that see and take this Roman see,Exchange the lesser for the greater see,—A thing against the canons of the Church?'

"And Stephen, springing up, cried furiously,

'Bishop of Porto, wherefore didst presume

To leave that see and take this Roman see,

Exchange the lesser for the greater see,

—A thing against the canons of the Church?'

"Then one—(a Deacon who, observing forms,Was placed by Stephen to repel the charge,Be advocate and mouthpiece of the corpse)—Spoke as he dared, set stammeringly forthWith white lips and dry tongue,—as but a youth,For frightful was the corpse-face to behold,—How nowise lacked there precedent for this."But when, for his last precedent of all,Emboldened by the Spirit, out he blurts,'And, Holy Father, didst not thou thyselfVacate the lesser for the greater see,Half a year since change Arago for Rome?''—Ye have the sin's defence now, synod mine!'Shrieks Stephen in a beastly froth of rage:'Judge now betwixt him dead and me alive!Hath he intruded, or do I pretend?Judge, judge!'—breaks wavelike one whole foam of wrath.

"Then one—(a Deacon who, observing forms,

Was placed by Stephen to repel the charge,

Be advocate and mouthpiece of the corpse)—

Spoke as he dared, set stammeringly forth

With white lips and dry tongue,—as but a youth,

For frightful was the corpse-face to behold,—

How nowise lacked there precedent for this.

"But when, for his last precedent of all,

Emboldened by the Spirit, out he blurts,

'And, Holy Father, didst not thou thyself

Vacate the lesser for the greater see,

Half a year since change Arago for Rome?'

'—Ye have the sin's defence now, synod mine!'

Shrieks Stephen in a beastly froth of rage:

'Judge now betwixt him dead and me alive!

Hath he intruded, or do I pretend?

Judge, judge!'—breaks wavelike one whole foam of wrath.

"Whereupon they, being friends and followers,Said, 'Ay, thou art Christ's Vicar, and not he!Away with what is frightful to behold!This act was uncanonic and a fault.'

"Whereupon they, being friends and followers,

Said, 'Ay, thou art Christ's Vicar, and not he!

Away with what is frightful to behold!

This act was uncanonic and a fault.'

"Then, swallowed up in rage, Stephen exclaimed,'So, guilty! So, remains I punish guilt!He is unpoped, and all he did I damn:The Bishop, that ordained him, I degrade:Depose to laics those he raised to priests:What they have wrought is mischief nor shall stand,It is confusion, let it vex no more!Since I revoke, annul and abrogateAll his decrees in all kinds: they are void!In token whereof and warning to the world,Strip me yon miscreant of those robes usurped,And clothe him with vile serge befitting such!Then hale the carrion to the market-place;Let the town-hangman chop from his right handThose same three fingers which he blessed withal;Next cut the head off, once was crowned forsooth:And last go fling them, fingers, head and trunk,To Tiber that my Christian fish may sup!'—Either because of ΙΧΘΥΣ which means FishAnd very aptly symbolizes Christ,Or else because the Pope is Fisherman,And seals with Fisher's-signet.

"Then, swallowed up in rage, Stephen exclaimed,

'So, guilty! So, remains I punish guilt!

He is unpoped, and all he did I damn:

The Bishop, that ordained him, I degrade:

Depose to laics those he raised to priests:

What they have wrought is mischief nor shall stand,

It is confusion, let it vex no more!

Since I revoke, annul and abrogate

All his decrees in all kinds: they are void!

In token whereof and warning to the world,

Strip me yon miscreant of those robes usurped,

And clothe him with vile serge befitting such!

Then hale the carrion to the market-place;

Let the town-hangman chop from his right hand

Those same three fingers which he blessed withal;

Next cut the head off, once was crowned forsooth:

And last go fling them, fingers, head and trunk,

To Tiber that my Christian fish may sup!'

—Either because of ΙΧΘΥΣ which means Fish

And very aptly symbolizes Christ,

Or else because the Pope is Fisherman,

And seals with Fisher's-signet.

"Anyway,So said, so done: himself, to see it done,Followed the corpse they trailed from street to streetTill into Tiber wave they threw the thing.The people, crowded on the banks to see,Were loud or mute, wept or laughed, cursed or jeered,According as the deed addressed their sense;A scandal verily: and out spake a Jew,'Wot ye your Christ had vexed our Herod thus?'

"Anyway,

So said, so done: himself, to see it done,

Followed the corpse they trailed from street to street

Till into Tiber wave they threw the thing.

The people, crowded on the banks to see,

Were loud or mute, wept or laughed, cursed or jeered,

According as the deed addressed their sense;

A scandal verily: and out spake a Jew,

'Wot ye your Christ had vexed our Herod thus?'

"Now when, Formosus being dead a year,His judge Pope Stephen tasted death in turn,Made captive by the mob and strangled straight,Romanus, his successor for a month,Did make protest Formosus was with God,Holy, just, true in thought and word and deed.Next Theodore, who reigned but twenty days,Therein convoked a synod, whose decreeDid reinstate, repope the late unpoped,And do away with Stephen as accursed.

"Now when, Formosus being dead a year,

His judge Pope Stephen tasted death in turn,

Made captive by the mob and strangled straight,

Romanus, his successor for a month,

Did make protest Formosus was with God,

Holy, just, true in thought and word and deed.

Next Theodore, who reigned but twenty days,

Therein convoked a synod, whose decree

Did reinstate, repope the late unpoped,

And do away with Stephen as accursed.

So that when presently certain fisher-folk(As if the queasy river could not holdIts swallowed Jonas, but discharged the meal)Produced the timely product of their nets,The mutilated man, Formosus,—savedFrom putrefaction by the embalmer's spice,Or, as some said, by sanctity of flesh,—'Why, lay the body again,' bade Theodore,'Among his predecessors, in the churchAnd burial-place of Peter!' which was done.'And,' addeth Luitprand, 'many of repute,Pious and still alive, avouch to meThat, as they bore the body up the aisle,The saints in imaged row bowed each his headFor welcome to a brother-saint come back.'As for Romanus and this Theodore,These two Popes, through the brief reign granted each,Could but initiate what John came to closeAnd give the final stamp to: he it was,Ninth of the name, (I follow the best guides)Who,—in full synod at Ravenna heldWith Bishops seventy-four, and present tooEude King of France with his Archbishopry,—Did condemn Stephen, anathematizeThe disinterment, and make all blots blank.'For,' argueth here Auxilius in a placeDe Ordinationibus, 'precedentsHad been, no lack, before Formosus long,Of Bishops so transferred from see to see,—Marinus, for example:' read the tract.

So that when presently certain fisher-folk

(As if the queasy river could not hold

Its swallowed Jonas, but discharged the meal)

Produced the timely product of their nets,

The mutilated man, Formosus,—saved

From putrefaction by the embalmer's spice,

Or, as some said, by sanctity of flesh,—

'Why, lay the body again,' bade Theodore,

'Among his predecessors, in the church

And burial-place of Peter!' which was done.

'And,' addeth Luitprand, 'many of repute,

Pious and still alive, avouch to me

That, as they bore the body up the aisle,

The saints in imaged row bowed each his head

For welcome to a brother-saint come back.'

As for Romanus and this Theodore,

These two Popes, through the brief reign granted each,

Could but initiate what John came to close

And give the final stamp to: he it was,

Ninth of the name, (I follow the best guides)

Who,—in full synod at Ravenna held

With Bishops seventy-four, and present too

Eude King of France with his Archbishopry,—

Did condemn Stephen, anathematize

The disinterment, and make all blots blank.

'For,' argueth here Auxilius in a place

De Ordinationibus, 'precedents

Had been, no lack, before Formosus long,

Of Bishops so transferred from see to see,—

Marinus, for example:' read the tract.

"But, after John, came Sergius, reaffirmedThe right of Stephen, cursed Formosus, nayCast out, some say, his corpse a second time,And here,—because the matter went to ground,Fretted by new griefs, other cares of the age,—Here is the last pronouncing of the Church,Her sentence that subsists unto this day.Yet constantly opinion hath prevailedI' the Church, Formosus was a holy man."

"But, after John, came Sergius, reaffirmed

The right of Stephen, cursed Formosus, nay

Cast out, some say, his corpse a second time,

And here,—because the matter went to ground,

Fretted by new griefs, other cares of the age,—

Here is the last pronouncing of the Church,

Her sentence that subsists unto this day.

Yet constantly opinion hath prevailed

I' the Church, Formosus was a holy man."

Which of the judgments was infallible?Which of my predecessors spoke for God?And what availed Formosus that this cursed,That blessed, and then this other cursed again?"Fear ye not those whose power can kill the bodyAnd not the soul," saith Christ, "but rather thoseCan cast both soul and body into hell!"

Which of the judgments was infallible?

Which of my predecessors spoke for God?

And what availed Formosus that this cursed,

That blessed, and then this other cursed again?

"Fear ye not those whose power can kill the body

And not the soul," saith Christ, "but rather those

Can cast both soul and body into hell!"

John judged thus in Eight Hundred Ninety Eight,Exact eight hundred years ago to-dayWhen, sitting in his stead, Vicegerent here,I must give judgment on my own behoof.So worked the predecessor: now, my turn!

John judged thus in Eight Hundred Ninety Eight,

Exact eight hundred years ago to-day

When, sitting in his stead, Vicegerent here,

I must give judgment on my own behoof.

So worked the predecessor: now, my turn!

In God's name! Once more on this earth of God's,While twilight lasts and time wherein to work,I take his staff with my uncertain hand,And stay my six and fourscore years, my dueLabor and sorrow, on his judgment-seat,And forthwith think, speak, act, in place of him—The Pope for Christ. Once more appeal is madeFrom man's assize to mine: I sit and seeAnother poor weak trembling human wretchPushed by his fellows, who pretend the right,Up to the gulf which, where I gaze, beginsFrom this world to the next,—gives way and way,Just on the edge over the awful dark:With nothing to arrest him but my feet.He catches at me with convulsive face,Cries "Leave to live the natural minute more!"While hollowly the avengers echo "Leave?None! So has he exceeded man's due shareIn man's fit license, wrung by Adam's fall,To sin and yet not surely die,—that we,All of us sinful, all with need of grace,All chary of our life,—the minute moreOr minute less of grace which saves a soul,—Bound to make common cause with who craves time,—We yet protest against the exorbitanceOf sin in this one sinner, and demandThat his poor sole remaining piece of timeBe plucked from out his clutch: put him to death!Punish him now! As for the weal or woeHereafter, God grant mercy! Man be just.Nor let the felon boast he went scot-free!"And I am bound, the solitary judge,To weigh the worth, decide upon the plea,And either hold a hand out, or withdrawA foot and let the wretch drift to the fall.Ay, and while thus I dally, dare perchancePut fancies for a comfort 'twixt this calmAnd yonder passion that I have to bear,—As if reprieve were possible for bothPrisoner and Pope,—how easy were reprieve!A touch o' the hand-bell here, a hasty wordTo those who wait, and wonder they wait long,I' the passage there, and I should gain the life!—Yea, though I flatter me with fancy thus,I know it is but Nature's craven-trick.The case is over, judgment at an end,And all things done now and irrevocable:A mere dead man is Franceschini here,Even as Formosus centuries ago.I have worn through this sombre wintry day,With winter in my soul beyond the world's,Over these dismalest of documentsWhich drew night down on me ere eve befell,—Pleadings and counter-pleadings, figure of factBeside fact's self, these summaries, to wit,—How certain three were slain by certain five:I read here why it was, and how it went,And how the chief o' the five preferred excuse,And how law rather chose defence should lie,—What argument he urged by wary wordWhen free to play off wile, start subterfuge,And what the unguarded groan told, torture's featWhen law grew brutal, outbroke, overboreAnd glutted hunger on the truth, at last,—No matter for the flesh and blood between.All 's a clear rede and no more riddle now.Truth, nowhere, lies yet everywhere in these—Not absolutely in a portion, yetEvolvable from the whole: evolved at lastPainfully, held tenaciously by me.Therefore there is not any doubt to clearWhen I shall write the brief word presentlyAnd chink the hand-bell, which I pause to do.Irresolute? Not I, more than the moundWith the pine-trees on it yonder! Some surmise,Perchance, that since man's wit is fallible,Mine may fail here? Suppose it so,—what then?Say,—Guido, I count guilty, there 's no babeSo guiltless, for I misconceive the man!What 's in the chance should move me from my mind?If, as I walk in a rough country-side,Peasants of mine cry, "Thou art he can help,Lord of the land and counted wise to boot:Look at our brother, strangling in his foam,He fell so where we find him,—prove thy worth!"I may presume, pronounce, "A frenzy-fit,A falling-sickness or a fever-stroke!Breathe a vein, copiously let blood at once!"So perishes the patient, and anonI hear my peasants—"All was error, lore!Our story, thy prescription: for there crawledIn due time from our hapless brother's breastThe serpent which had stung him: bleeding slewWhom a prompt cordial had restored to health."What other should I say than "God so willed:Mankind is ignorant, a man am I:Call ignorance my sorrow, not my sin!"So and not otherwise, in after-time,If some acuter wit, fresh probing, soundThis multifarious mass of words and deedsDeeper, and reach through guilt to innocence,I shall face Guido's ghost nor blench a jot."God who set me to judge thee, meted outSo much of judging faculty, no more:Ask him if I was slack in use thereof!"I hold a heavier fault imputableInasmuch as I changed a chaplain once,For no cause,—no, if I must bare my heart,—Save that he snuffled somewhat saying mass.For I am 'ware it is the seed of act,God holds appraising in his hollow palm,Not act grown great thence on the world below,Leafage and branchage, vulgar eyes admire.Therefore I stand on my integrity,Nor fear at all: and if I hesitate,It is because I need to breathe awhile,Rest, as the human right allows, reviewIntent the little seeds of act, my tree,—The thought, which, clothed in deed, I give the worldAt chink of bell and push of arrased door.

In God's name! Once more on this earth of God's,

While twilight lasts and time wherein to work,

I take his staff with my uncertain hand,

And stay my six and fourscore years, my due

Labor and sorrow, on his judgment-seat,

And forthwith think, speak, act, in place of him—

The Pope for Christ. Once more appeal is made

From man's assize to mine: I sit and see

Another poor weak trembling human wretch

Pushed by his fellows, who pretend the right,

Up to the gulf which, where I gaze, begins

From this world to the next,—gives way and way,

Just on the edge over the awful dark:

With nothing to arrest him but my feet.

He catches at me with convulsive face,

Cries "Leave to live the natural minute more!"

While hollowly the avengers echo "Leave?

None! So has he exceeded man's due share

In man's fit license, wrung by Adam's fall,

To sin and yet not surely die,—that we,

All of us sinful, all with need of grace,

All chary of our life,—the minute more

Or minute less of grace which saves a soul,—

Bound to make common cause with who craves time,

—We yet protest against the exorbitance

Of sin in this one sinner, and demand

That his poor sole remaining piece of time

Be plucked from out his clutch: put him to death!

Punish him now! As for the weal or woe

Hereafter, God grant mercy! Man be just.

Nor let the felon boast he went scot-free!"

And I am bound, the solitary judge,

To weigh the worth, decide upon the plea,

And either hold a hand out, or withdraw

A foot and let the wretch drift to the fall.

Ay, and while thus I dally, dare perchance

Put fancies for a comfort 'twixt this calm

And yonder passion that I have to bear,—

As if reprieve were possible for both

Prisoner and Pope,—how easy were reprieve!

A touch o' the hand-bell here, a hasty word

To those who wait, and wonder they wait long,

I' the passage there, and I should gain the life!—

Yea, though I flatter me with fancy thus,

I know it is but Nature's craven-trick.

The case is over, judgment at an end,

And all things done now and irrevocable:

A mere dead man is Franceschini here,

Even as Formosus centuries ago.

I have worn through this sombre wintry day,

With winter in my soul beyond the world's,

Over these dismalest of documents

Which drew night down on me ere eve befell,—

Pleadings and counter-pleadings, figure of fact

Beside fact's self, these summaries, to wit,—

How certain three were slain by certain five:

I read here why it was, and how it went,

And how the chief o' the five preferred excuse,

And how law rather chose defence should lie,—

What argument he urged by wary word

When free to play off wile, start subterfuge,

And what the unguarded groan told, torture's feat

When law grew brutal, outbroke, overbore

And glutted hunger on the truth, at last,—

No matter for the flesh and blood between.

All 's a clear rede and no more riddle now.

Truth, nowhere, lies yet everywhere in these—

Not absolutely in a portion, yet

Evolvable from the whole: evolved at last

Painfully, held tenaciously by me.

Therefore there is not any doubt to clear

When I shall write the brief word presently

And chink the hand-bell, which I pause to do.

Irresolute? Not I, more than the mound

With the pine-trees on it yonder! Some surmise,

Perchance, that since man's wit is fallible,

Mine may fail here? Suppose it so,—what then?

Say,—Guido, I count guilty, there 's no babe

So guiltless, for I misconceive the man!

What 's in the chance should move me from my mind?

If, as I walk in a rough country-side,

Peasants of mine cry, "Thou art he can help,

Lord of the land and counted wise to boot:

Look at our brother, strangling in his foam,

He fell so where we find him,—prove thy worth!"

I may presume, pronounce, "A frenzy-fit,

A falling-sickness or a fever-stroke!

Breathe a vein, copiously let blood at once!"

So perishes the patient, and anon

I hear my peasants—"All was error, lore!

Our story, thy prescription: for there crawled

In due time from our hapless brother's breast

The serpent which had stung him: bleeding slew

Whom a prompt cordial had restored to health."

What other should I say than "God so willed:

Mankind is ignorant, a man am I:

Call ignorance my sorrow, not my sin!"

So and not otherwise, in after-time,

If some acuter wit, fresh probing, sound

This multifarious mass of words and deeds

Deeper, and reach through guilt to innocence,

I shall face Guido's ghost nor blench a jot.

"God who set me to judge thee, meted out

So much of judging faculty, no more:

Ask him if I was slack in use thereof!"

I hold a heavier fault imputable

Inasmuch as I changed a chaplain once,

For no cause,—no, if I must bare my heart,—

Save that he snuffled somewhat saying mass.

For I am 'ware it is the seed of act,

God holds appraising in his hollow palm,

Not act grown great thence on the world below,

Leafage and branchage, vulgar eyes admire.

Therefore I stand on my integrity,

Nor fear at all: and if I hesitate,

It is because I need to breathe awhile,

Rest, as the human right allows, review

Intent the little seeds of act, my tree,—

The thought, which, clothed in deed, I give the world

At chink of bell and push of arrased door.

O pale departure, dim disgrace of day!Winter's in wane, his vengeful worst art thou,To dash the boldness of advancing March!Thy chill persistent rain has purged our streetsOf gossipry; pert tongue and idle earBy this, consort 'neath archway, portico.But wheresoe'er Rome gathers in the gray,Two names now snap and flash from mouth to mouth—(Sparks, flint and steel strike)—Guido and the Pope.By this same hour to-morrow eve—aha,How do they call him?—the sagacious SwedeWho finds by figures how the chances prove,Why one comes rather than another thing,As, say, such dots turn up by throw of dice,Or, if we dip in Virgil here and thereAnd prick for such a verse, when such shall point.Take this Swede, tell him, hiding name and rank,Two men are in our city this dull eve;One doomed to death,—but hundreds in such plightSlip aside, clean escape by leave of lawWhich leans to mercy in this latter time;Moreover in the plenitude of lifeIs he, with strength of limb and brain adroit,Presumably of service here: beside,The man is noble, backed by nobler friends:Nay, they so wish him well, the city's selfMakes common cause with who—house-magistrate,Patron of hearth and home, domestic lord—But ruled his own, let aliens cavil. Die?He 'll bribe a jailer or break prison first!Nay, a sedition may be helpful, giveHint to the mob to batter wall, burn gate,And bid the favorite malefactor march.Calculate now these chances of escape!"It is not probable, but well may be."Again, there is another man, weighed nowBy twice eight years beyond the seven-times-ten,Appointed overweight to break our branch.And this man's loaded branch lifts, more than snow,All the world's cark and care, though a bird's nestWere a superfluous burden: notablyHath he been pressed, as if his age were youth,From to-day's dawn till now that day departs,Trying one question with true sweat of soul,"Shall the said doomed man fitlier die or live?"When a straw swallowed in his posset, stoolStumbled on where his path lies, any puffThat 's incident to such a smoking flax,Hurries the natural end and quenches him!Now calculate, thou sage, the chances here,Say, which shall die the sooner, this or that?"That, possibly, this in all likelihood."I thought so: yet thou tripp'st, my foreign friend!No, it will be quite otherwise,—to-dayIs Guido's last: my term is yet to run.

O pale departure, dim disgrace of day!

Winter's in wane, his vengeful worst art thou,

To dash the boldness of advancing March!

Thy chill persistent rain has purged our streets

Of gossipry; pert tongue and idle ear

By this, consort 'neath archway, portico.

But wheresoe'er Rome gathers in the gray,

Two names now snap and flash from mouth to mouth—

(Sparks, flint and steel strike)—Guido and the Pope.

By this same hour to-morrow eve—aha,

How do they call him?—the sagacious Swede

Who finds by figures how the chances prove,

Why one comes rather than another thing,

As, say, such dots turn up by throw of dice,

Or, if we dip in Virgil here and there

And prick for such a verse, when such shall point.

Take this Swede, tell him, hiding name and rank,

Two men are in our city this dull eve;

One doomed to death,—but hundreds in such plight

Slip aside, clean escape by leave of law

Which leans to mercy in this latter time;

Moreover in the plenitude of life

Is he, with strength of limb and brain adroit,

Presumably of service here: beside,

The man is noble, backed by nobler friends:

Nay, they so wish him well, the city's self

Makes common cause with who—house-magistrate,

Patron of hearth and home, domestic lord—

But ruled his own, let aliens cavil. Die?

He 'll bribe a jailer or break prison first!

Nay, a sedition may be helpful, give

Hint to the mob to batter wall, burn gate,

And bid the favorite malefactor march.

Calculate now these chances of escape!

"It is not probable, but well may be."

Again, there is another man, weighed now

By twice eight years beyond the seven-times-ten,

Appointed overweight to break our branch.

And this man's loaded branch lifts, more than snow,

All the world's cark and care, though a bird's nest

Were a superfluous burden: notably

Hath he been pressed, as if his age were youth,

From to-day's dawn till now that day departs,

Trying one question with true sweat of soul,

"Shall the said doomed man fitlier die or live?"

When a straw swallowed in his posset, stool

Stumbled on where his path lies, any puff

That 's incident to such a smoking flax,

Hurries the natural end and quenches him!

Now calculate, thou sage, the chances here,

Say, which shall die the sooner, this or that?

"That, possibly, this in all likelihood."

I thought so: yet thou tripp'st, my foreign friend!

No, it will be quite otherwise,—to-day

Is Guido's last: my term is yet to run.

But say the Swede were right, and I forthwithAcknowledge a prompt summons and lie dead:Why, then I stand already in God's faceAnd hear, "Since by its fruit a tree is judged,Show me thy fruit, the latest act of thine!For in the last is summed the first and all,—What thy life last put heart and soul into,There shall I taste thy product." I must pleadThis condemnation of a man to-day.Not so! Expect nor question nor replyAt what we figure as God's judgment-bar!None of this vile way by the barren wordsWhich, more than any deed, characterizeMan as made subject to a curse: no speech—That still bursts o'er some lie which lurks inside,As the split skin across the coppery snake,And most denotes man! since, in all beside,In hate or lust or guile or unbelief,Out of some core of truth the excrescence comes,And, in the last resort, the man may urge"So was I made, a weak thing that gave wayTo truth, to impulse only strong since true,And hated, lusted, used guile, forwent faith."But when man walks the garden of this worldFor his own solace, and, unchecked by law,Speaks or keeps silence as himself sees fit,Without the least incumbency to lie,—Why, can he tell you what a rose is like,Or how the birds fly, and not slip to falseThough truth serve better? Man must tell his mateOf you, me and himself, knowing he lies,Knowing his fellow knows the same,—will think"He lies, it is the method of a man!"And yet will speak for answer "It is truth"To him who shall rejoin "Again a lie!"Therefore these filthy rags of speech, this coilOf statement, comment, query and response,Tatters all too contaminate for use,Have no renewing: He the Truth is, too,The Word. We men, in our degree, may knowThere, simply, instantaneously, as hereAfter long time and amid many lies,Whatever we dare think we know indeed—That I am I, as He is He,—what else?But be man's method for man's life at least!Wherefore, Antonio Pignatelli, thouMy ancient self, who wast no Pope so longBut studiedst God and man, the many yearsI' the school, i' the cloister, in the dioceseDomestic, legate-rule in foreign lands,—Thou other force in those old busy daysThan this gray ultimate decrepitude,—Yet sensible of fires that more and moreVisit a soul, in passage to the sky,Left nakeder than when flesh-robe was new—Thou, not Pope but the mere old man o' the world,Supposed inquisitive and dispassionate,Wilt thou, the one whose speech I somewhat trust,Question the after-me, this self now Pope,Hear his procedure, criticise his work?Wise in its generation is the world.

But say the Swede were right, and I forthwith

Acknowledge a prompt summons and lie dead:

Why, then I stand already in God's face

And hear, "Since by its fruit a tree is judged,

Show me thy fruit, the latest act of thine!

For in the last is summed the first and all,—

What thy life last put heart and soul into,

There shall I taste thy product." I must plead

This condemnation of a man to-day.

Not so! Expect nor question nor reply

At what we figure as God's judgment-bar!

None of this vile way by the barren words

Which, more than any deed, characterize

Man as made subject to a curse: no speech—

That still bursts o'er some lie which lurks inside,

As the split skin across the coppery snake,

And most denotes man! since, in all beside,

In hate or lust or guile or unbelief,

Out of some core of truth the excrescence comes,

And, in the last resort, the man may urge

"So was I made, a weak thing that gave way

To truth, to impulse only strong since true,

And hated, lusted, used guile, forwent faith."

But when man walks the garden of this world

For his own solace, and, unchecked by law,

Speaks or keeps silence as himself sees fit,

Without the least incumbency to lie,

—Why, can he tell you what a rose is like,

Or how the birds fly, and not slip to false

Though truth serve better? Man must tell his mate

Of you, me and himself, knowing he lies,

Knowing his fellow knows the same,—will think

"He lies, it is the method of a man!"

And yet will speak for answer "It is truth"

To him who shall rejoin "Again a lie!"

Therefore these filthy rags of speech, this coil

Of statement, comment, query and response,

Tatters all too contaminate for use,

Have no renewing: He the Truth is, too,

The Word. We men, in our degree, may know

There, simply, instantaneously, as here

After long time and amid many lies,

Whatever we dare think we know indeed

—That I am I, as He is He,—what else?

But be man's method for man's life at least!

Wherefore, Antonio Pignatelli, thou

My ancient self, who wast no Pope so long

But studiedst God and man, the many years

I' the school, i' the cloister, in the diocese

Domestic, legate-rule in foreign lands,—

Thou other force in those old busy days

Than this gray ultimate decrepitude,—

Yet sensible of fires that more and more

Visit a soul, in passage to the sky,

Left nakeder than when flesh-robe was new—

Thou, not Pope but the mere old man o' the world,

Supposed inquisitive and dispassionate,

Wilt thou, the one whose speech I somewhat trust,

Question the after-me, this self now Pope,

Hear his procedure, criticise his work?

Wise in its generation is the world.

This is why Guido is found reprobate.I see him furnished forth for his career,On starting for the life-chance in our world,With nearly all we count sufficient help:Body and mind in balance, a sound frame,A solid intellect: the wit to seek,Wisdom to choose, and courage wherewithalTo deal in whatsoever circumstanceShould minister to man, make life succeed.Oh, and much drawback! what were earth without?Is this our ultimate stage, or starting-placeTo try man's foot, if it will creep or climb,'Mid obstacles in seeming, points that proveAdvantage for who vaults from low to highAnd makes the stumbling-block a stepping-stone?So, Guido, born with appetite, lacks food:Is poor, who yet could deftly play-off wealth:Straitened, whose limbs are restless till at large.He, as he eyes each outlet of the cirqueAnd narrow penfold for probation, pinesAfter the good things just outside its grate,With less monition, fainter conscience-twitch,Rarer instinctive qualm at the first feelOf greed unseemly, prompting grasp undue,Than nature furnishes her main mankind,—Making it harder to do wrong than rightThe first time, careful lest the common earBreak measure, miss the outstep of life's march.Wherein I see a trial fair and fitFor one else too unfairly fenced about,Set above sin, beyond his fellows here:Guarded from the arch-tempter all must fight,By a great birth, traditionary name,Diligent culture, choice companionship,Above all, conversancy with the faithWhich puts forth for its base of doctrine just,"Man is born nowise to content himself,But please God." He accepted such a rule,Recognized man's obedience; and the Church,Which simply is such rule's embodiment,He clave to, he held on by,—nay, indeed,Near pushed inside of, deep as layman durst,Professed so much of priesthood as might sueFor priest's-exemption where the layman sinned,—Go this arm frocked which, bare, the law would bruise,Hence, at this moment, what's his last resource,His extreme stay and utmost stretch of hopeBut that,—convicted of such crime as lawWipes not away save with a worldling's blood,—Guido, the three-parts consecrate, may 'scape?Nay, the portentous brothers of the manAre veritably priests, protected eachMay do his murder in the Church's pale,Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo!This is the man proves irreligiousestOf all mankind, religion's parasite!This may forsooth plead dinned ear, jaded sense,The vice o' the watcher who bides near the bell,Sleeps sound because the clock is vigilant,And cares not whether it be shade or shine,Doling out day and night to all men else!Why was the choice o' the man to niche himselfPerversely 'neath the tower where Time's own tongueThus undertakes to sermonize the world?Why, but because the solemn is safe too,The belfry proves a fortress of a sort,Has other uses than to teach the hour:Turns sunscreen, paravent and ombrifugeTo whoso seeks a shelter in its pale,—Ay, and attractive to unwary folkWho gaze at storied portal, statued spire,And go home with full head but empty purse.Nor dare suspect the sacristan the thief!Shall Judas—hard upon the donor's heel,To filch the fragments of the basket—pleadHe was too near the preacher's mouth, nor satAttent with fifties in a company?No,—closer to promulgated decree,Clearer the censure of default. Proceed!

This is why Guido is found reprobate.

I see him furnished forth for his career,

On starting for the life-chance in our world,

With nearly all we count sufficient help:

Body and mind in balance, a sound frame,

A solid intellect: the wit to seek,

Wisdom to choose, and courage wherewithal

To deal in whatsoever circumstance

Should minister to man, make life succeed.

Oh, and much drawback! what were earth without?

Is this our ultimate stage, or starting-place

To try man's foot, if it will creep or climb,

'Mid obstacles in seeming, points that prove

Advantage for who vaults from low to high

And makes the stumbling-block a stepping-stone?

So, Guido, born with appetite, lacks food:

Is poor, who yet could deftly play-off wealth:

Straitened, whose limbs are restless till at large.

He, as he eyes each outlet of the cirque

And narrow penfold for probation, pines

After the good things just outside its grate,

With less monition, fainter conscience-twitch,

Rarer instinctive qualm at the first feel

Of greed unseemly, prompting grasp undue,

Than nature furnishes her main mankind,—

Making it harder to do wrong than right

The first time, careful lest the common ear

Break measure, miss the outstep of life's march.

Wherein I see a trial fair and fit

For one else too unfairly fenced about,

Set above sin, beyond his fellows here:

Guarded from the arch-tempter all must fight,

By a great birth, traditionary name,

Diligent culture, choice companionship,

Above all, conversancy with the faith

Which puts forth for its base of doctrine just,

"Man is born nowise to content himself,

But please God." He accepted such a rule,

Recognized man's obedience; and the Church,

Which simply is such rule's embodiment,

He clave to, he held on by,—nay, indeed,

Near pushed inside of, deep as layman durst,

Professed so much of priesthood as might sue

For priest's-exemption where the layman sinned,—

Go this arm frocked which, bare, the law would bruise,

Hence, at this moment, what's his last resource,

His extreme stay and utmost stretch of hope

But that,—convicted of such crime as law

Wipes not away save with a worldling's blood,—

Guido, the three-parts consecrate, may 'scape?

Nay, the portentous brothers of the man

Are veritably priests, protected each

May do his murder in the Church's pale,

Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo!

This is the man proves irreligiousest

Of all mankind, religion's parasite!

This may forsooth plead dinned ear, jaded sense,

The vice o' the watcher who bides near the bell,

Sleeps sound because the clock is vigilant,

And cares not whether it be shade or shine,

Doling out day and night to all men else!

Why was the choice o' the man to niche himself

Perversely 'neath the tower where Time's own tongue

Thus undertakes to sermonize the world?

Why, but because the solemn is safe too,

The belfry proves a fortress of a sort,

Has other uses than to teach the hour:

Turns sunscreen, paravent and ombrifuge

To whoso seeks a shelter in its pale,

—Ay, and attractive to unwary folk

Who gaze at storied portal, statued spire,

And go home with full head but empty purse.

Nor dare suspect the sacristan the thief!

Shall Judas—hard upon the donor's heel,

To filch the fragments of the basket—plead

He was too near the preacher's mouth, nor sat

Attent with fifties in a company?

No,—closer to promulgated decree,

Clearer the censure of default. Proceed!

I find him bound, then, to begin life well;Fortified by propitious circumstance,Great birth, good breeding, with the Church for guide,How lives he? Cased thus in a coat of proof,Mailed like a man-at-arms, though all the whileA puny starveling,—does the breast pant big,The limb swell to the limit, emptinessStrive to become solidity indeed?Bather, he shrinks up like the ambiguous fish,Detaches flesh from shell and outside show,And steals by moonlight (I have seen the thing)In and out, now to prey and now to skulk.Armor he boasts when a wave breaks on beach,Or bird stoops for the prize: with peril nigh,—The man of rank, the much-befriended man,The man almost affiliate to the Church,Such is to deal with, let the world beware!Does the world recognize, pass prudently?Do tides abate and sea-fowl hunt i' the deep?Already is the slug from out its mew,Ignobly faring with all loose and free,Sand-fly and slush-worm at their garbage-feast,A naked blotch no better than they all:Guido has dropped nobility, slipped the Church,Plays trickster if not cut-purse, body and soulProstrate among the filthy feeders—faugh!And when Law takes him by surprise at last,Catches the foul thing on its carrion-prey,Behold, he points to shell left high and dry,Pleads "But the case out yonder is myself!"Nay, it is thou, Law prongs amid thy peers,Congenial vermin; that was none of thee,Thine outside,—give it to the soldier-crab!

I find him bound, then, to begin life well;

Fortified by propitious circumstance,

Great birth, good breeding, with the Church for guide,

How lives he? Cased thus in a coat of proof,

Mailed like a man-at-arms, though all the while

A puny starveling,—does the breast pant big,

The limb swell to the limit, emptiness

Strive to become solidity indeed?

Bather, he shrinks up like the ambiguous fish,

Detaches flesh from shell and outside show,

And steals by moonlight (I have seen the thing)

In and out, now to prey and now to skulk.

Armor he boasts when a wave breaks on beach,

Or bird stoops for the prize: with peril nigh,—

The man of rank, the much-befriended man,

The man almost affiliate to the Church,

Such is to deal with, let the world beware!

Does the world recognize, pass prudently?

Do tides abate and sea-fowl hunt i' the deep?

Already is the slug from out its mew,

Ignobly faring with all loose and free,

Sand-fly and slush-worm at their garbage-feast,

A naked blotch no better than they all:

Guido has dropped nobility, slipped the Church,

Plays trickster if not cut-purse, body and soul

Prostrate among the filthy feeders—faugh!

And when Law takes him by surprise at last,

Catches the foul thing on its carrion-prey,

Behold, he points to shell left high and dry,

Pleads "But the case out yonder is myself!"

Nay, it is thou, Law prongs amid thy peers,

Congenial vermin; that was none of thee,

Thine outside,—give it to the soldier-crab!

For I find this black mark impinge the man,That he believes in just the vile of life.Low instinct, base pretension, are these truth?Then, that aforesaid armor, probity,He figures in, is falsehood scale on scale;Honor and faith,—a lie and a disguise,Probably for all livers in this world,Certainly for himself! All say good wordsTo who will hear, all do thereby bad deedsTo who must undergo; so thrive mankind!See this habitual creed exemplifiedMost in the last deliberate act; as last,So, very sum and substance of the soulOf him that planned and leaves one perfect piece,The sin brought under jurisdiction now,Even the marriage of the man: this actI sever from his life as sample, showFor Guido's self, intend to test him by,As, from a cup filled fairly at the fount,By the components we decide enoughOr to let flow as late, or stanch the source.

For I find this black mark impinge the man,

That he believes in just the vile of life.

Low instinct, base pretension, are these truth?

Then, that aforesaid armor, probity,

He figures in, is falsehood scale on scale;

Honor and faith,—a lie and a disguise,

Probably for all livers in this world,

Certainly for himself! All say good words

To who will hear, all do thereby bad deeds

To who must undergo; so thrive mankind!

See this habitual creed exemplified

Most in the last deliberate act; as last,

So, very sum and substance of the soul

Of him that planned and leaves one perfect piece,

The sin brought under jurisdiction now,

Even the marriage of the man: this act

I sever from his life as sample, show

For Guido's self, intend to test him by,

As, from a cup filled fairly at the fount,

By the components we decide enough

Or to let flow as late, or stanch the source.

He purposes this marriage, I remark,On no one motive that should prompt thereto—Farthest, by consequence, from ends allegedAppropriate to the action; so they were:The best, he knew and feigned, the worst he took.Not one permissible impulse moves the man,From the mere liking of the eye and ear,To the true longing of the heart that loves,No trace of these: but all to instigate,Is what sinks man past level of the brute,Whose appetite if brutish is a truth.All is the lust for money: to get gold,—Why, lie, rob, if it must be, murder! MakeBody and soul wring gold out, lured withinThe clutch of hate by love, the trap's pretence!What good else get from bodies and from souls?This got, there were some life to lead thereby,—What, where or how, appreciate those who tellHow the toad lives: it lives,—enough for me!To get this good—but with a groan or so,Then, silence of the victims—were the feat.He foresaw, made a picture in his mind,—Of father and mother stunned and echolessTo the blow, as they lie staring at fate's jawsTheir folly danced into, till the woe fell;Edged in a month by strenuous crueltyFrom even the poor nook whence they watched the wolfFeast on their heart, the lamb-like child his prey;Plundered to the last remnant of their wealth,(What daily pittance pleased the plunderer dole,)Hunted forth to go hide head, starve and die,And leave the pale awe-stricken wife, past hopeOf help i' the world now, mute and motionless,His slave, his chattel, to first use, then destroy.All this, he bent mind, how to bring about,Put plain in act and life, as painted plain,So have success, reach crown of earthly good,In this particular enterprise of man,By marriage—undertaken in God's faceWith all these lies so opposite God's truth,For end so other than man's end.

He purposes this marriage, I remark,

On no one motive that should prompt thereto—

Farthest, by consequence, from ends alleged

Appropriate to the action; so they were:

The best, he knew and feigned, the worst he took.

Not one permissible impulse moves the man,

From the mere liking of the eye and ear,

To the true longing of the heart that loves,

No trace of these: but all to instigate,

Is what sinks man past level of the brute,

Whose appetite if brutish is a truth.

All is the lust for money: to get gold,—

Why, lie, rob, if it must be, murder! Make

Body and soul wring gold out, lured within

The clutch of hate by love, the trap's pretence!

What good else get from bodies and from souls?

This got, there were some life to lead thereby,

—What, where or how, appreciate those who tell

How the toad lives: it lives,—enough for me!

To get this good—but with a groan or so,

Then, silence of the victims—were the feat.

He foresaw, made a picture in his mind,—

Of father and mother stunned and echoless

To the blow, as they lie staring at fate's jaws

Their folly danced into, till the woe fell;

Edged in a month by strenuous cruelty

From even the poor nook whence they watched the wolf

Feast on their heart, the lamb-like child his prey;

Plundered to the last remnant of their wealth,

(What daily pittance pleased the plunderer dole,)

Hunted forth to go hide head, starve and die,

And leave the pale awe-stricken wife, past hope

Of help i' the world now, mute and motionless,

His slave, his chattel, to first use, then destroy.

All this, he bent mind, how to bring about,

Put plain in act and life, as painted plain,

So have success, reach crown of earthly good,

In this particular enterprise of man,

By marriage—undertaken in God's face

With all these lies so opposite God's truth,

For end so other than man's end.

Thus schemesGuido, and thus would carry out his scheme:But when an obstacle first blocks the path,When he finds none may boast monopolyOf lies and trick i' the tricking lying world,—That sorry timid natures, even this sortO' the Comparini, want nor trick nor lieProper to the kind,—that as the gor-crow treatsThe bramble-finch so treats the finch the moth,And the great Guido is minutely matchedBy this same couple,—whether true or falseThe revelation of Pompilia's birth,Which in a moment brings his scheme to naught,—Then, he is piqued, advances yet a stage,Leaves the low region to the finch and fly,Soars to the zenith whence the fiercer fowlMay dare the inimitable swoop. I see.He draws now on the curious crime, the fineFelicity and flower of wickedness;Determines, by the utmost exerciseOf violence, made safe and sure by craft.To satiate malice, pluck one last arch-pangFrom the parents, else would triumph out of reach,By punishing their child, within reach yet,Who, by thought, word or deed, could nowise wrongI' the matter that now moves him. So plans he,Always subordinating (note the point!)Revenge, the manlier sin, to interestThe meaner,—would pluck pang forth, but unclenchNo gripe in the act, let fall no money-piece.Hence a plan for so plaguing, body and soul,His wife, so putting, day by day, hour by hour,The untried torture to the untouched place,As must precipitate an end foreseen,Goad her into some plain revolt, most likePlunge upon patent suicidal shame,Death to herself, damnation by reboundTo those whose hearts he, holding hers, holds still:Such plan as, in its bad completeness, shallRuin the three together and alike,Yet leave himself in luck and liberty,No claim renounced, no right a forfeiture,His person unendangered, his good fameWithout a flaw, his pristine worth intact,—While they, with all their claims and rights that cling,Shall forthwith crumble off him every side,Scorched into dust, a plaything for the winds.As when, in our Campagna, there is firedThe nest-like work that overruns a hut;And, as the thatch burns here, there, everywhere,Even to the ivy and wild vine, that boundAnd blessed the home where men were happy once,There rises gradual, black amid the blaze,Some grim and unscathed nucleus of the nest,—Some old malicious tower, some obscene tombThey thought a temple in their ignorance,And clung about and thought to lean upon—There laughs it o'er their ravage,—where are they?So did his cruelty burn life about,And lay the ruin bare in dreadfulness,Try the persistency of torment soUpon the wife, that, at extremity,Some crisis brought about by fire and flame,The patient frenzy-stung must needs break loose,Fly anyhow, find refuge anywhere,Even in the arms of who should front her first,No monster but a man—while nature shrieked"Or thus escape, or die!" The spasm arrived,Not the escape by way of sin,—O God,Who shall pluck sheep thou holdest, from thy hand?Therefore she lay resigned to die,—so farThe simple cruelty was foiled. Why then,Craft to the rescue, let craft supplementCruelty and show hell a masterpiece!Hence this consummate lie, this love-intrigue,Unmanly simulation of a sin,With place and time and circumstance to suit—These letters false beyond all forgery—Not just handwriting and mere authorship,But false to body and soul they figure forth—As though the man had cut out shape and shapeFrom fancies of that other Aretine,To paste below—incorporate the filthWith cherub faces on a missal-page!

Thus schemes

Guido, and thus would carry out his scheme:

But when an obstacle first blocks the path,

When he finds none may boast monopoly

Of lies and trick i' the tricking lying world,—

That sorry timid natures, even this sort

O' the Comparini, want nor trick nor lie

Proper to the kind,—that as the gor-crow treats

The bramble-finch so treats the finch the moth,

And the great Guido is minutely matched

By this same couple,—whether true or false

The revelation of Pompilia's birth,

Which in a moment brings his scheme to naught,—

Then, he is piqued, advances yet a stage,

Leaves the low region to the finch and fly,

Soars to the zenith whence the fiercer fowl

May dare the inimitable swoop. I see.

He draws now on the curious crime, the fine

Felicity and flower of wickedness;

Determines, by the utmost exercise

Of violence, made safe and sure by craft.

To satiate malice, pluck one last arch-pang

From the parents, else would triumph out of reach,

By punishing their child, within reach yet,

Who, by thought, word or deed, could nowise wrong

I' the matter that now moves him. So plans he,

Always subordinating (note the point!)

Revenge, the manlier sin, to interest

The meaner,—would pluck pang forth, but unclench

No gripe in the act, let fall no money-piece.

Hence a plan for so plaguing, body and soul,

His wife, so putting, day by day, hour by hour,

The untried torture to the untouched place,

As must precipitate an end foreseen,

Goad her into some plain revolt, most like

Plunge upon patent suicidal shame,

Death to herself, damnation by rebound

To those whose hearts he, holding hers, holds still:

Such plan as, in its bad completeness, shall

Ruin the three together and alike,

Yet leave himself in luck and liberty,

No claim renounced, no right a forfeiture,

His person unendangered, his good fame

Without a flaw, his pristine worth intact,—

While they, with all their claims and rights that cling,

Shall forthwith crumble off him every side,

Scorched into dust, a plaything for the winds.

As when, in our Campagna, there is fired

The nest-like work that overruns a hut;

And, as the thatch burns here, there, everywhere,

Even to the ivy and wild vine, that bound

And blessed the home where men were happy once,

There rises gradual, black amid the blaze,

Some grim and unscathed nucleus of the nest,—

Some old malicious tower, some obscene tomb

They thought a temple in their ignorance,

And clung about and thought to lean upon—

There laughs it o'er their ravage,—where are they?

So did his cruelty burn life about,

And lay the ruin bare in dreadfulness,

Try the persistency of torment so

Upon the wife, that, at extremity,

Some crisis brought about by fire and flame,

The patient frenzy-stung must needs break loose,

Fly anyhow, find refuge anywhere,

Even in the arms of who should front her first,

No monster but a man—while nature shrieked

"Or thus escape, or die!" The spasm arrived,

Not the escape by way of sin,—O God,

Who shall pluck sheep thou holdest, from thy hand?

Therefore she lay resigned to die,—so far

The simple cruelty was foiled. Why then,

Craft to the rescue, let craft supplement

Cruelty and show hell a masterpiece!

Hence this consummate lie, this love-intrigue,

Unmanly simulation of a sin,

With place and time and circumstance to suit—

These letters false beyond all forgery—

Not just handwriting and mere authorship,

But false to body and soul they figure forth—

As though the man had cut out shape and shape

From fancies of that other Aretine,

To paste below—incorporate the filth

With cherub faces on a missal-page!

Whereby the man so far attains his endThat strange temptation is permitted,—see!Pompilia, wife, and Caponsacchi, priest,Are brought together as nor priest nor wifeShould stand, and there is passion in the place,Power in the air for evil as for good,Promptings from heaven and hell, as if the starsFought in their courses for a fate to be.Thus stand the wife and priest, a spectacle,I doubt not, to unseen assemblage there.No lamp will mark that window for a shrine,No tablet signalize the terrace, teachNew generations which succeed the old,The pavement of the street is holy ground:No bard describe in verse how Christ prevailedAnd Satan fell like lightning! Why repine?What does the world, told truth, but lie the more?

Whereby the man so far attains his end

That strange temptation is permitted,—see!

Pompilia, wife, and Caponsacchi, priest,

Are brought together as nor priest nor wife

Should stand, and there is passion in the place,

Power in the air for evil as for good,

Promptings from heaven and hell, as if the stars

Fought in their courses for a fate to be.

Thus stand the wife and priest, a spectacle,

I doubt not, to unseen assemblage there.

No lamp will mark that window for a shrine,

No tablet signalize the terrace, teach

New generations which succeed the old,

The pavement of the street is holy ground:

No bard describe in verse how Christ prevailed

And Satan fell like lightning! Why repine?

What does the world, told truth, but lie the more?

A second time the plot is foiled; nor, now,By corresponding sin for countercheck,No wile and trick that baffle trick and wile,—The play o' the parents! Here the blot is blanchedBy God's gift of a purity of soulThat will not take pollution, ermine-likeArmed from dishonor by its own soft snow.Such was this gift of God who showed for onceHow he would have the world go white: it seemsAs a new attribute were born of eachChampion of truth, the priest and wife I praise,—As a new safeguard sprang up in defenceOf their new noble nature: so a thornComes to the aid of and completes the rose—Courage to wit, no woman's gift nor priest's,I' the crisis; might leaps vindicating right.See how the strong aggressor, bad and bold,With every vantage, preconcerts surprise,Leaps of a sudden at his victim's throatIn a byway,—how fares he when face to faceWith Caponsacchi? Who fights, who fears now?There quails Count Guido, armed to the chattering teeth,Cowers at the steadfast eye and quiet wordO' the Canon of the Pieve! There skulks crimeBehind law called in to back cowardice!While out of the poor trampled worm the wife,Springs up a serpent!

A second time the plot is foiled; nor, now,

By corresponding sin for countercheck,

No wile and trick that baffle trick and wile,—

The play o' the parents! Here the blot is blanched

By God's gift of a purity of soul

That will not take pollution, ermine-like

Armed from dishonor by its own soft snow.

Such was this gift of God who showed for once

How he would have the world go white: it seems

As a new attribute were born of each

Champion of truth, the priest and wife I praise,—

As a new safeguard sprang up in defence

Of their new noble nature: so a thorn

Comes to the aid of and completes the rose—

Courage to wit, no woman's gift nor priest's,

I' the crisis; might leaps vindicating right.

See how the strong aggressor, bad and bold,

With every vantage, preconcerts surprise,

Leaps of a sudden at his victim's throat

In a byway,—how fares he when face to face

With Caponsacchi? Who fights, who fears now?

There quails Count Guido, armed to the chattering teeth,

Cowers at the steadfast eye and quiet word

O' the Canon of the Pieve! There skulks crime

Behind law called in to back cowardice!

While out of the poor trampled worm the wife,

Springs up a serpent!

But anon of these!Him I judge now,—of him proceed to note,Failing the first, a second chance befriendsGuido, gives pause ere punishment arrive.The law he called, comes, hears, adjudicates,Nor does amiss i' the main,—secludes the wifeFrom the husband, respites the oppressed one, grantsProbation to the oppressor, could he knowThe mercy of a minute's fiery purge!The furnace-coals alike of public scorn,Private remorse, heaped glowing on his head,What if—the force and guile, the ore's alloy,Eliminate, his baser soul refined—The lost be saved even yet, so as by fire?Let him, rebuked, go softly all his daysAnd, when no graver musings claim their due,Meditate on a man's immense mistakeWho, fashioned to use feet and walk, deigns crawl—Takes the unmanly means—ay, though to endsMan scarce should make for, would but reach through wrong,—May sin, but nowise needs shame manhood so:Since fowlers hawk, shoot, nay and snare the game,And yet eschew vile practice, nor find sportIn torch-light treachery or the luring owl.

But anon of these!

Him I judge now,—of him proceed to note,

Failing the first, a second chance befriends

Guido, gives pause ere punishment arrive.

The law he called, comes, hears, adjudicates,

Nor does amiss i' the main,—secludes the wife

From the husband, respites the oppressed one, grants

Probation to the oppressor, could he know

The mercy of a minute's fiery purge!

The furnace-coals alike of public scorn,

Private remorse, heaped glowing on his head,

What if—the force and guile, the ore's alloy,

Eliminate, his baser soul refined—

The lost be saved even yet, so as by fire?

Let him, rebuked, go softly all his days

And, when no graver musings claim their due,

Meditate on a man's immense mistake

Who, fashioned to use feet and walk, deigns crawl—

Takes the unmanly means—ay, though to ends

Man scarce should make for, would but reach through wrong,—

May sin, but nowise needs shame manhood so:

Since fowlers hawk, shoot, nay and snare the game,

And yet eschew vile practice, nor find sport

In torch-light treachery or the luring owl.

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