Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?     Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,     So things disguise themselves, I cannot see     My own hand held thus broad before my face     And know it again. Answer you? Then that means     Tell over twice what I, the first time, told     Six months ago: twas here, I do believe,     Fronting you same three in this very room,     I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,     Who then . . . nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,     As good as laugh, what in a judge we style     Laughter no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!     Only, I think I apprehend the mood:     There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,     The pens pretence at play with the pursed mouth,     The titter stifled in the hollow palm     Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,     When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,     The sly one, all this we are bound believe!     Well, he can say no other than what he says.     We have been young, too, come, theres greater guilt!     Let him but decently disembroil himself,     Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,     We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!     And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast     As if I were a phantom: now tis Friend,     Collect yourself! no laughing matter more     Counsel the Court in this extremity,     Tell us again! tell that, for telling which,     I got the jocular piece of punishment,     Was sent to lounge a little in the place     Whence now of a sudden here you summon me     To take the intelligence from just your lips     You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,     That she I helped eight months since to escape     Her husband, is retaken by the same,     Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,     (I being disallowed to interfere,     Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,     For you and law were guardians quite enough     O the innocent, without a pert priests help)     And that he has butchered her accordingly,     As she foretold and as myself believed,     And, so foretelling and believing so,     We were punished, both of us, the merry way:     Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?     Pompilia is only dying while I speak!     Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?     My masters, theres an old book, you should con     For strange adventures, applicable yet,     Tis stuffed with. Do you know that there was once     This thing: a multitude of worthy folk     Took recreation, watched a certain group     Of soldiery intent upon a game,     How first they wrangled, but soon fell to play,     Threw dice, the best diversion in the world.     A word in your ear, they are now casting lots,     Ay, with that gesture quaint and cry uncouth,     For the coat of One murdered an hour ago!     I am a priest, talk of what I have learned.     Pompilia is bleeding out her life belike,     Gasping away the latest breath of all,     This minute, while I talk not while you laugh?     Yet, being sobered now, what is it you ask     By way of explanation? Theres the fact!     It seems to fill the universe with sight     And sound, from the four corners of this earth     Tells itself over, to my sense at least.     But you may want it lower set i the scale,     Too vast, too close it clangs in the ear, perhaps;     Youd stand back just to comprehend it more:     Well then, let me, the hollow rock, condense     The voice o the sea and wind, interpret you     The mystery of this murder. God above!     It is too paltry, such a transference     O the storms roar to the cranny of the stone!     This deed, you saw begin why does its end     Surprise you? Why should the event enforce     The lesson, we ourselves learned, she and I,     From the first o the fact, and taught you, all in vain?     This Guido from whose throat you took my grasp,     Was this man to be favoured, now, or feared,     Let do his will, or have his will restrained,     In the relation with Pompilia? say!     Did any other man need interpose     Oh, though first comer, though as strange at the work     As fribble must be, coxcomb, fool thats near     To knave as, say, a priest who fears the world     Was he bound brave the peril, save the doomed,     Or go on, sing his snatch and pluck his flower,     Keep the straight path and let the victim die?     I held so; you decided otherwise,     Saw no such peril, therefore no such need     To stop song, loosen flower, and leave path: Law,     Law was aware and watching, would suffice,     Wanted no priests intrusion, palpably     Pretence, too manifest a subterfuge!     Whereupon I, priest, coxcomb, fribble, and fool,     Ensconced me in my corner, thus rebuked,     A kind of culprit, over-zealous hound     Kicked for his pains to kennel; I gave place,     To you, and let the law reign paramount:     I left Pompilia to your watch and ward,     And now you point me there and thus she lies!     Men, for the last time, what do you want with me?     Is it, you acknowledge, as it were, a use,     A profit in employing me? at length     I may conceivably help the august law?     I am free to break the blow, next hawk that swoops     On next dove, nor miss much of good repute?     Or what if this your summons, after all,     Be but the form of mere release, no more,     Which turns the key and lets the captive go?     I have paid enough in person at Civita,     Am free, what more need I concern me with?     Thank you! I am rehabilitated then,     A very reputable priest. But she     The glory of life, the beauty of the world,     The splendour of heaven, . . . well, Sirs, does no one move?     Do I speak ambiguously? The glory, I say,     And the beauty, I say, and splendour, still say I,     Who, a priest, trained to live my whole life long     On beauty and splendour, solely at their source,     God, have thus recognised my food in one,     You tell me, is fast dying while we talk,     Pompilia, how does lenity to me,     Remit one death-bed pang to her? Come, smile!     The proper wink at the hot-headed youth     Who lets his soul show, through transparent words,     The mundane love thats sin and scandal too!     You are all struck acquiescent now, it seems:     It seems the oldest, gravest signor here,     Even the redoubtable Tommati, sits     Chop-fallen, understands how law might take     Service like mine, of brain and heart and hand,     In good part. Better late than never, law!     You understand of a sudden, gospel too     Has a claim here, may possibly pronounce     Consistent with my priesthood, worthy Christ,     That I endeavoured to save Pompilia?     Then,     You were wrong, you see: thats well to see, though late:     Thats all we may expect of man, this side     The grave: his good is knowing he is bad:     Thus will it be with us when the books ope     And we stand at the bar on judgment-day.     Well then, I have a mind to speak, see cause     To relume the quenched flax by this dreadful light,     Burn my soul out in showing you the truth.     I heard, last time I stood here to be judged,     What is priests-duty, labour to pluck tares     And weed the corn of Molinism; let me     Make you hear, this time, how, in such a case,     Man, be he in the priesthood or at plough,     Mindful of Christ or marching step by step     With . . . whats his style, the other potentate     Who bids have courage and keep honour safe,     Nor let minuter admonition teaze?     How he is bound, better or worse, to act.     Earth will not end through this misjudgment, no!     For you and the others like you sure to come,     Fresh work is sure to follow, wickedness     That wants withstanding. Many a man of blood,     Many a man of guile will clamour yet,     Bid you redress his grievance, as he clutched     The prey, forsooth a stranger stepped between,     And theres the good gripe in pure waste! My part     Is done; i the doing it, I pass away     Out of the world. I want no more with earth.     Let me, in heavens name, use the very snuff     O the taper in one last spark shall show truth     For a moment, show Pompilia who was true!     Not for her sake, but yours: if she is dead,     Oh, Sirs, she can be loved by none of you     Most or least priestly! Saints, to do us good,     Must be in heaven, I seem to understand:     We never find them saints before, at least.     Be her first prayer then presently for you     She had done the good to me . . .     What is all this?     There, I was born, have lived, shall die, a fool!     This is a foolish outset: might with cause     Give colour to the very lie o the man,     The murderer, make as if I loved his wife,     In the way he called love. He is the fool there!     Why, had there been in me the touch of taint,     I had picked up so much of knaves-policy     As hide it, keep one hand pressed on the place     Suspected of a spot would damn us both.     Or no, not her! not even if any of you     Dares think that I, i the face of death, her death     Thats in my eyes and ears and brain and heart,     Lie, if he does, let him! I mean to say,     So he stop there, stay thought from smirching her     The snow-white soul that angels fear to take     Untenderly. But, all the same, I know     I too am taintless, and I bare my breast.     You cant think, men as you are, all of you,     But that, to hear thus suddenly such an end     Of such a wonderful white soul, that comes     Of a man and murderer calling the white black,     Must shake me, trouble and disadvantage. Sirs,     Only seventeen!     Why, good and wise you are!     You might at the beginning stop my mouth:     So, none would be to speak for her, that knew.     I talk impertinently, and you bear,     All the same. This it is to have to do     With honest hearts: they easily may err,     But in the main they wish well to the truth.     You are Christians; somehow, no one ever plucked     A rag, even, from the body of the Lord,     To wear and mock with, but, despite himself,     He looked the greater and was the better. Yes,     I shall go on now. Does she need or not     I keep calm? Calm Ill keep as monk that croons     Transcribing battle, earthquake, famine, plague,     From parchment to his cloisters chronicle.     Not one word more from the point now!     I begin.     Yes, I am one of your body and a priest.     Also I am a younger son o the House     Oldest now, greatest once, in my birth-town     Arezzo, I recognise no equal there     (I want all arguments, all sorts of arms     That seem to serve, use this for a reason, wait!)     Not therefore thrust into the Church, because     O the piece of bread one gets there. We were first     Of Fiesole, that rings still with the fame     Of Capo-in-Sacco our progenitor:     When Florence ruined Fiesole, our folk     Migrated to the victor-city, and there     Flourished, our palace and our tower attest,     In the Old Mercato, this was years ago,     Four hundred, full, no, it wants fourteen just.     Our arms are those of Fiesole itself,     The shield quartered with white and red: a branch     Are the Salviati of us, nothing more.     That were good help to the Church? But better still     Not simply for the advantage of my birth     I the way of the world, was I proposed for priest;     But because theres an illustration, late     I the day, thats loved and looked to as a saint     Still in Arezzo, he was bishop of,     Sixty years since: he spent to the last doit     His bishops-revenue among the poor,     And used to tend the needy and the sick,     Barefoot, because of his humility.     He it was, when the Granduke Ferdinand     Swore he would raze our city, plough the place     And sow it with salt, because we Aretines     Had tied a rope about the neck, to hale     The statue of his father from its base     For hates sake, he availed by prayers and tears     To pacify the Duke and save the town.     This was my fathers fathers brother. You see,     For his sake, how it was I had a right     To the self-same office, bishop in the egg,     So, grew i the garb and prattled in the school,     Was made expect, from infancy almost,     The proper mood o the priest; till time ran by     And brought the day when I must read the vows,     Declare the world renounced and undertake     To become priest and leave probation, leap     Over the ledge into the other life,     Having gone trippingly hitherto up to the height     Oer the wan water. Just a vow to read!     I stopped short awe-struck. How shall holiest flesh     Engage to keep such vow inviolate,     How much less mine, I know myself too weak,     Unworthy! Choose a worthier stronger man!     And the very Bishop smiled and stopped the mouth     In its mid-protestation. Incapable?     Qualmish of conscience? Thou ingenuous boy!     Clear up the clouds and cast thy scruples far!     I satisfy thee theres an easier sense     Wherein to take such vow than suits the first     Rough rigid reading. Mark what makes all smooth,     Nay, has been even a solace to myself!     The Jews who needs must, in their synagogue,     Utter sometimes the holy name of God,     A thing their superstition boggles at,     Pronounce aloud the ineffable sacrosanct,     How does their shrewdness help them? In this wise;     Another set of sounds they substitute,     Jumble so consonants and vowels how     Should I know? that there grows from out the old     Quite a new word that means the very same     And oer the hard place slide they with a smile.     Giuseppe Maria Caponsacchi mine,     Nobody wants you in these latter days     To prop the Church by breaking your back-bone,     As the necessary way was once, we know,     When Dioclesian flourished and his like;     That building of the buttress-work was done     By martyrs and confessors: let it bide,     Add not a brick, but, where you see a chink,     Stick in a sprig of ivy or root a rose     Shall make amends and beautify the pile!     We profit as you were the painfullest     O the martyrs, and you prove yourself a match     For the cruellest confessor ever was,     If you march boldly up and take your stand     Where their blood soaks, their bones yet strew the soil,     And cry Take notice, I the young and free     And well-to-do i the world, thus leave the world,     Cast in my lot thus with no gay young world     But the grand old Church: she tempts me of the two!     Renounce the world? Nay, keep and give it us!     Let us have you, and boast of what you bring.     We want the pick o the earth to practise with,     Not its offscouring, halt and deaf and blind     In soul and body. Theres a rubble-stone     Unfit for the front o the building, stuff to stow     In a gap behind and keep us weather-tight;     Theres porphyry for the prominent place. Good lack!     Saint Paul has had enough and to spare, I trow,     Of ragged run-away Onesimus:     He wants the right-hand with the signet-ring     Of King Agrippa, now, to shake and use.     I have a heavy scholar cloistered up     Close under lock and key, kept at his task     Of letting Fenelon know the fool he is,     In a book I promise Christendom next Spring.     Why, if he covets so much meat, the clown,     As a larks wing next Friday, or, any day,     Diversion beyond catching his own fleas,     He shall be properly swinged, I promise him.     But you, who are so quite another paste     Of a man, do you obey me? Cultivate     Assiduous, that superior gift you have     Of making madrigals (who told me? Ah!)     Get done a Marinesque Adoniad straight     With a pulse o the blood a-pricking, here and there     That I may tell the lady, And hes ours!     So I became a priest: those terms changed all,     I was good enough for that, nor cheated so;     I could live thus and still hold head erect.     Now you see why I may have been before     A fribble and coxcomb, yet, as priest, break word     Nowise, to make you disbelieve me now.     I need that you should know my truth. Well, then,     According to prescription did I live,     Conformed myself, both read the breviary     And wrote the rhymes, was punctual to my place     I the Pieve, and as diligent at my post     Where beauty and fashion rule. I throve apace,     Sub-deacon, Canon, the authority     For delicate play at tarocs, and arbiter     O the magnitude of fan-mounts: all the while     Wanting no whit the advantage of a hint     Benignant to the promising pupil, thus:     Enough attention to the Countess now,     The young one; tis her mother rules the roast,     We know where, and puts in a word: go pay     Devoir to-morrow morning after mass!     Break that rash promise to preach, Passion-week!     Has it escaped you the Archbishop grunts     And snuffles when one grieves to tell his Grace     No soul dares treat the subject of the day     Since his own masterly handling it (ha, ha!)     Five years ago, when somebody could help     And touch up an odd phrase in time of need,     (He, he!) and somebody helps you, my son!     Therefore, dont prove so indispensable     At the Pieve, sit more loose i the seat, nor grow     A fixture by attendance morn and eve!     Arezzos just a haven midway Rome     Romes the eventual harbour, make for port,     Crowd sail, crack cordage! And your cargo be     A polished presence, a genteel manner, wit     At will, and tact at every pore of you!     I sent our lump of learning, Brother Clout,     And Father Slouch, our piece of piety,     To see Rome and try suit the Cardinal.     Thither they clump-clumped, beads and book in hand,     And ever since tis meat for man and maid     How both flopped down, prayed blessing on bent pate     Bald many an inch beyond the tonsures need,     Never once dreaming, the two moony dolts,     Theres nothing moves his Eminence so much     As far from all this awe at sanctitude     Heads that wag, eyes that twinkle, modified mirth     At the closet-lectures on the Latin tongue     A lady learns so much by, we know where.     Why, body o Bacchus, you should crave his rule     For pauses in the elegiac couplet, chasms     Permissible only to Catullus! There!     Now go do duty: brisk, break Priscians head     By reading the days office theres no help.     Youve Ovid in your poke to plaster that;     Amens at the end of all: then sup with me!     Well, after three or four years of this life,     In prosecution of my calling, I     Found myself at the theatre one night     With a brother Canon, in a mood and mind     Proper enough for the place, amused or no:     When I saw enter, stand, and seat herself     A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange, and sad.     It was as when, in our cathedral once,     As I got yawningly through matin-song,     I saw facchini bear a burden up,     Base it on the high-altar, break away     A board or two, and leave the thing inside     Lofty and lone: and lo, when next I looked,     There was the Rafael! I was still one stare,     When Nay, Ill make her give you back your gaze     Said Canon Conti; and at the word he tossed     A paper-twist of comfits to her lap,     And dodged and in a trice was at my back     Nodding from over my shoulder. Then she turned,     Looked our way, smiled the beautiful sad strange smile.     Is not she fair? Tis my new cousin, said he:     The fellow lurking there i the black o the box     Is Guido, the old scapegrace: shes his wife,     Married three years since: how his Countship sulks!     He has brought little back from Rome beside,     After the bragging, bullying. A fair face,     And they do say a pocket-full of gold     When he can worry both her parents dead.     I dont go much there, for the chambers cold     And the coffee pale. I got a turn at first     Paying my duty, I observed they crouched     The two old frightened family spectres, close     In a corner, each on each like mouse on mouse     I the cats cage: ever since, I stay at home.     Hallo, theres Guido, the black, mean, and small,     Bends his brows on us please to bend your own     On the shapely nether limbs of Light-skirts there     By way of a diversion! I was a fool     To fling the sweetmeats. Prudence, for Gods love!     To-morrow Ill make my peace, een tell some fib,     Try if I cant find means to take you there.     That night and next day did the gaze endure,     Burnt to my brain, as sunbeam thro shut eyes,     And not once changed the beautiful sad strange smile.     At vespers Conti leaned beside my seat     I the choir, part said, part sung In ex-cel-sis     Alls to no purpose: I have louted low,     But he saw you staring quia sub dont incline     To know you nearer: him we would not hold     For Hercules, the man would lick your shoe     If you and certain efficacious friends     Managed him warily, but theres the wife:     Spare her, because he beats her, as it is,     Shes breaking her heart quite fast enough jam tu     So, be you rational and make amends     With little Light-skirts yonder in secula     Secu-lo-o-o-o-rum. Ah, you rogue! Every one knows     What great dame she makes jealous: one against one,     Play, and win both!     Sirs, ere the week was out,     I saw and said to myself Light-skirts hides teeth     Would make a dog sick, the great dame shows spite     Should drive a cat mad: tis but poor work this     Counting ones fingers till the sonnets crowned.     I doubt much if Marino really be     A better bard than Dante after all.     Tis more amusing to go pace at eve     I the Duomo, watch the days last gleam outside     Turn, as into a skirt of Gods own robe,     Those lancet-windows jewelled miracle,     Than go eat the Archbishops ortolans,     Digest his jokes. Luckily Lent is near:     Who cares to look will find me in my stall     At the Pieve, constant to this faith at least     Never to write a canzonet any more.     So, next week, twas my patron spoke abrupt,     In altered guise, Young man, can it be true     That after all your promise of sound fruit,     You have kept away from Countess young or old     And gone play truant in church all day long?     Are you turning Molinist? I answered quick     Sir, what if I turned Christian? It might be,     The fact is, I am troubled in my mind,     Beset and pressed hard by some novel thoughts.     This your Arezzo is a limited world;     Theres a strange Pope, tis said, a priest who thinks.     Rome is the port, you say: to Rome I go.     I will live alone, one does so in a crowd,     And look into my heart a little. Lent     Ended, I told friends, I shall go to Rome.     One evening I was sitting in a muse     Over the opened Summa, darkened round     By the mid-March twilight, thinking how my life     Had shaken under me, broke short indeed     And showed the gap twixt what is, what should be,     And into what abysm the soul may slip,     Leave aspiration here, achievement there,     Lacking omnipotence to connect extremes     Thinking moreover . . . oh, thinking, if you like,     How utterly dissociated was I     A priest and celibate, from the sad strange wife     Of Guido, just as an instance to the point,     Nought more, how I had a whole store of strengths     Eating into my heart, which craved employ,     And she, perhaps, need of a fingers help,     And yet there was no way in the wide world     To stretch out mine and so relieve myself     How when the page o the Summa preached its best,     Her smile kept glowing out of it, as to mock     The silence we could break by no one word,     There came a tap without the chamber-door     And a whisper, when I bade who tapped speak out,     And, in obedience to my summons, last     In glided a masked muffled mystery,     Laid lightly a letter on the opened book,     Then stood with folded arms and foot demure,     Pointing as if to mark the minutes flight.     I took the letter, read to the effect     That she, I lately flung the comfits to,     Had a warm heart to give me in exchange,     And gave it, loved me and confessed it thus,     And bade me render thanks by word of mouth,     Going that night to such a side o the house     Where the small terrace overhangs a street     Blind and deserted, not the street in front:     Her husband being away, the surly patch,     At his villa of Vittiano.     And you? I asked:     What may you be? Count Guidos kind of maid     Most of us have two functions in his house.     We all hate him, the lady suffers much,     Tis just we show compassion, furnish aid,     Specially since her choice is fixed so well.     What answer may I bring to cheer the sweet     Pompilia?     Then I took a pen and wrote.     No more of this! That you are fair, I know:     But other thoughts now occupy my mind.     I should not thus have played the insensible     Once on a time. What made you, may one ask,     Marry your hideous husband? Twas a fault,     And now you taste the fruit of it. Farewell.     There! smiled I as she snatched it and was gone     There, let the jealous miscreant, Guidos self,     Whose mean soul grins through this transparent trick,     Be baulked so far, defrauded of his aim!     What fund of satisfaction to the knave,     Had I kicked this his messenger downstairs,     Trussed to the middle of her impudence,     Setting his heart at ease so! No, indeed!     Theres the reply which he shall turn and twist     At pleasure, snuff at till his brain grow drunk,     As the bear does when he finds a scented glove     That puzzles him, a hand and yet no hand,     Of other perfume than his own foul paw!     Last month, I had doubtless chosen to play the dupe,     Accepted the mock-invitation, kept     The sham appointment, cudgel beneath cloak,     Prepared myself to pull the appointers self     Out of the window from his hiding-place     Behind the gown of this part-messenger     Part-mistress who would personate the wife.     Such had seemed once a jest permissible:     Now, I am not i the mood.     Back next morn brought     The messenger, a second letter in hand.     You are cruel, Thyrsis, and Myrtilla moans     Neglected but adores you, makes request     For mercy: why is it you dare not come?     Such virtue is scarce natural to your age:     You must love someone else; I hear you do,     The barons daughter or the Advocates wife,     Or both, alls one, would you make me the third     I take the crumbs from table gratefully     Nor grudge who feasts there. Faith, I blush and blaze!     Yet if I break all bounds, theres reason sure,     Are you determinedly bent on Rome?     I am wretched here, a monster tortures me:     Carry me with you! Come and say you will!     Concert this very evening! Do not write!     I am ever at the window of my room     Over the terrace, at the Ave. Come!     I questioned lifting half the womans mask     To let her smile loose. So, you gave my line     To the merry lady? She kissed off the wax,     And put what paper was not kissed away,     In her bosom to go burn: but merry, no!     She wept all night when evening brought no friend,     Alone, the unkind missive at her breast;     Thus Philomel, the thorn at her breast too,     Sings . . . Writes this second letter? Even so!     Then she may peep at vespers forth? What risk     Do we run o the husband? Ah, no risk at all!     He is more stupid even than jealous. Ah     That was the reason? Why, the mans away!     Beside, his bugbear is that friend of yours,     Fat little Canon Conti. He fears him     How should he dream of you? I told you truth     He goes to the villa at Vittiano tis     The time when Spring-sap rises in the vine     Spends the night there. And then his wifes a child,     Does he think a child outwits him? A mere child:     Yet so full grown, a dish for any duke.     Dont quarrel longer with such cates, but come!     I wrote In vain do you solicit me.     I am a priest: and you are wedded wife,     Whatever kind of brute your husband prove.     I have scruples, in short. Yet should you really show     Sign at the window . . . but nay, best be good!     My thoughts are elsewhere. Take her that!     Again     Let the incarnate meanness, cheat and spy,     Mean to the marrow of him, make his heart     His food, anticipate hells worm once more!     Let him watch shivering at the window ay,     And let this hybrid, this his light-of-love     And lackey-of-lies, a sage economy,     Paid with embracings for the rank brass coin,     Let her report and make him chuckle oer     The break-down of my resolution now,     And lour at disappointment in good time!     So tantalise and so enrage by turns,     Until the two fall each on the other like     Two famished spiders, as the coveted fly     That toys long, leaves their net and them at last!     And so the missives followed thick and fast     For a month, say, I still came at every turn     On the soft sly adder, endlong neath my tread.     I was met i the street, made sign to in the church,     A slip was found i the door-sill, scribbled word     Twixt page and page o the prayer-book in my piece:     A crumpled thing dropped even before my feet,     Pushed through the blind, above the terrace-rail,     As I passed, by day, the very window once.     And ever from corners would be peering up     The messenger, with the self-same demand     Obdurate still, no flesh but adamant?     Nothing to cure the wound, assuage the throe     O the sweetest lamb that ever loved a bear?     And ever my one answer in one tone     Go your ways, temptress! Let a priest read, pray,     Unplagued of vain talk, visions not for him!     In the end, youll have your will and ruin me!     One day, a variation: thus I read:     You have gained little by timidity.     My husband has found out my love at length,     Sees cousin Conti was the stalking-horse,     And you the game he covered, poor fat soul!     My husband is a formidable foe,     Will stick at nothing to destroy you. Stand     Prepared, or better, run till you reach Rome!     I bade you visit me, when the last place     My tyrant would have turned suspicious at,     Or cared to seek you in, was . . . why say, where?     But now alls changed: beside, the seasons past     At the villa, wants the masters eye no more.     Anyhow, I beseech you, stay away     From the window! He might well be posted there.     I wrote You raise my courage, or call up     My curiosity, who am but man.     Tell him he owns the palace, not the street     Under thats his and yours and mine alike.     If it should please me pad the path this eve,     Guido will have two troubles, first to get     Into a rage and then get out again.     Be cautious, though: at the Ave!     You of the court!     When I stood question here and reached this point     O the narrative, search notes and see and say     If some one did not interpose with smile     And sneer, And prithee why so confident     That the husband must, of all needs, not the wife,     Fabricate thus, what if the lady loved?     What if she wrote the letters?     Learned Sir,     I told you theres a picture in our church.     Well, if a low-browed verger sidled up     Bringing me, like a blotch, on his prods point,     A transfixed scorpion, let the reptile writhe,     And then said, See a thing that Rafael made     This venom issued from Madonnas mouth!     I should reply, Rather, the soul of you     Has issued from your body, like from like,     By way of the ordure-corner!     But no less,     I tired of the same black teazing lie     Obtruded thus at every turn; the pest     Was far too near the picture, anyhow:     One does Madonna service, making clowns     Remove their dung-heap from the sacristy.     I will to the window, as he tempts, said I:     Yes, whom the easy love has failed allure,     This new bait of adventure may, he thinks.     While the imprisoned lady keeps afar,     There will they lie in ambush, heads alert,     Kith, kin, and Count mustered to bite my heel.     No mother nor brother viper of the brood     Shall scuttle off without the instructive bruise!     So, I went: crossed street and street: The next streets turn,     I stand beneath the terrace, see, above,     The black of the ambush-window. Then, in place     Of hands throw of soft prelude over lute     And cough that clears way for the ditty last,     I began to laugh already he will have     Out of the hole you hide in, on to the front,     Count Guido Franceschini, show yourself!     Hear what a man thinks of a thing like you,     And after, take this foulness in your face!     The words lay living on my lip, I made     The one turn more and there at the window stood,     Framed in its black square length, with lamp in hand,     Pompilia; the same great, grave, griefful air     As stands i the dusk, on altar that I know,     Left alone with one moonbeam in her cell,     Our Lady of all the Sorrows. Ere I knelt     Assured myself that she was flesh and blood     She had looked one look and vanished.     I thought Just so:     It was herself, they have set her there to watch     Stationed to see some wedding-band go by,     On fair pretence that she must bless the bride,     Or wait some funeral with friends wind past,     And crave peace for the corpse that claims its due.     She never dreams they used her for a snare,     And now withdraw the bait has served its turn.     Well done, the husband, who shall fare the worse!     And on my lip again was Out with thee,     Guido! When all at once she re-appeared;     But, this time, on the terrace overhead,     So close above me, she could almost touch     My head if she bent down; and she did bend,     While I stood still as stone, all eye, all ear.     She began You have sent me letters, Sir:     I have read none, I can neither read nor write;     But she you gave them to, a woman here,     One of the people in whose power I am,     Partly explained their sense, I think, to me     Obliged to listen while she inculcates     That you, a priest, can dare love me, a wife,     Desire to live or die as I shall bid,     (She makes me listen if I will or no)     Because you saw my face a single time.     It cannot be she says the thing you mean;     Such wickedness were deadly to us both:     But good true love would help me now so much     I tell myself, you may mean good and true.     You offer me, I seem to understand,     Because I am in poverty and starve,     Much money, where one piece would save my life.     The silver cup upon the altar-cloth     Is neither yours to give nor mine to take;     But I might take one bit of bread therefrom,     Since I am starving, and return the rest,     Yet do no harm: this is my very case.     I am in that strait, I may not abstain     From so much of assistance as would bring     The guilt of theft on neither you nor me;     But no superfluous particle of aid.     I think, if you will let me state my case,     Even had you been so fancy-fevered here,     Not your sound self, you must grow healthy now     Care only to bestow what I can take.     That it is only you in the wide world,     Knowing me nor in thought nor word nor deed,     Who, all unprompted save by your own heart,     Come proffering assistance now, were strange     But that my whole life is so strange: as strange     It is, my husband whom I have not wronged     Should hate and harm me. For his own souls sake,     Hinder the harm! But there is something more,     And that the strangest: it has got to be     Somehow for my sake too, and yet not mine,      This is a riddle for some kind of sake     Not any clearer to myself than you,     And yet as certain as that I draw breath,     I would fain live, not die oh no, not die!     My case is, I was dwelling happily     At Rome with those dear Comparini, called     Father and mother to me; when at once     I found I had become Count Guidos wife:     Who then, not waiting for a moment, changed     Into a fury of fire, if once he was     Merely a man: his face threw fire at mine,     He laid a hand on me that burned all peace,     All joy, all hope, and last all fear away,     Dipping the bough of life, so pleasant once,     In fire which shrivelled leaf and bud alike,     Burning not only present life but past,     Which you might think was safe beyond his reach.     He reached it, though, since that beloved pair,     My father once, my mother all those years,     That loved me so, now say I dreamed a dream     And bid me wake, henceforth no child of theirs,     Never in all the time their child at all.     Do you understand? I cannot: yet so it is.     Just so I say of you that proffer help:     I cannot understand what prompts your soul,     I simply needs must see that it is so,     Only one strange and wonderful thing more.     They came here with me, those two dear ones, kept     All the old love up, till my husband, till     His people here so tortured them, they fled.     And now, is it because I grow in flesh     And spirit one with him their torturer,     That they, renouncing him, must cast off me?     If I were graced by God to have a child,     Could I one day deny God graced me so?     Then, since my husband hates me, I shall break     No law that reigns in this fell house of hate,     By using letting have effect so much     Of hate as hides me from that whole of hate     Would take my life which I want and must have     Just as I take from your excess of love     Enough to save my life with, all I need.     The Archbishop said to murder me were sin:     My leaving Guido were a kind of death     With no sin, more death, he must answer for.     Hear now what death to him and life to you     I wish to pay and owe. Take me to Rome!     You go to Rome, the servant makes me hear.     Take me as you would take a dog, I think,     Masterless left for strangers to maltreat:     Take me home like that leave me in the house     Where the father and the mother are; and soon     Theyll come to know and call me by my name,     Their child once more, since child I am, for all     They now forget me, which is the worst o the dream     And the way to end dreams is to break them, stand,     Walk, go: then help me to stand, walk and go!     The Governor said the strong should help the weak:     You know how weak the strongest women are.     How could I find my way there by myself?     I cannot even call out, make them hear     Just as in dreams: I have tried and proved the fact.     I have told this story and more to good great men,     The Archbishop and the Governor: they smiled.     Stop your mouth, fair one! presently they frowned,     Get you gone, disengage you from our feet!     I went in my despair to an old priest,     Only a friar, no great man like these two,     But good, the Augustinian, people name     Romano, he confessed me two months since:     He fears God, why then needs he fear the world?     And when he questioned how it came about     That I was found in danger of a sin     Despair of any help from providence,     Since, though your husband outrage you, said he,     That is a case too common, the wives die     Or live, but do not sin so deep as this     Then I told what I never will tell you     How, worse than husbands hate, I had to bear     The love, soliciting to shame called love,     Of his brother, the young idle priest i the house     With only the devil to meet there. This is grave     Yes we must interfere: I counsel, write     To those who used to be your parents once,     Of dangers here, bid them convey you hence!     But, said I, when I neither read nor write?     Then he took pity and promised I will write.     If he did so, why, they are dumb or dead:     Either they give no credit to the tale,     Or else, wrapped wholly up in their own joy     Of such escape, they care not who cries, still     I the clutches. Anyhow, no word arrives.     All such extravagance and dreadfulness     Seems incident to dreaming, cured one way,     Wake me! The letter I received this morn,     Said if the woman spoke your very sense     You would die for me: I can believe it now:     For now the dream gets to involve yourself.     First of all, you seemed wicked and not good,     In writing me those letters: you came in     Like a thief upon me. I this morning said     In my extremity, entreat the thief!     Try if he have in him no honest touch!     A thief might save me from a murderer.     Twas a thief said the last kind word to Christ:     Christ took the kindness and forgave the theft:     And so did I prepare what I now say.     But now, that you stand and I see your face,     Though you have never uttered word yet, well, I know,     Here too has been dream-work, delusion too,     And that at no time, you with the eyes here,     Ever intended to do wrong by me,     Nor wrote such letters therefore. It is false,     And you are true, have been true, will be true.     To Rome then, when is it you take me there?     Each minute lost is mortal. When? I ask.     I answered, It shall be when it can be.     I will go hence and do your pleasure, find     The sure and speedy means of travel, then     Come back and take you to your friends in Rome.     There wants a carriage, money and the rest,     A days work by to-morrow at this time.     How shall I see you and assure escape?     She replied, Pass, to-morrow at this hour.     If I am at the open window, well:     If I am absent, drop a handkerchief     And walk by! I shall see from where I watch,     And know that all is done. Return next eve,     And next, and so till we can meet and speak!     To-morrow at this hour I pass, said I.     She was withdrawn.     Here is another point     I bid you pause at. When I told thus far,     Someone said, subtly, Here at least was found     Your confidence in error, you perceived     The spirit of the letters, in a sort,     Had been the ladys, if the body should be     Supplied by Guido: say, he forged them all!     Here was the unforged fact she sent for you,     Spontaneously elected you to help,     What men call, loved you: Guido read her mind,     Gave it expression to assure the world     The case was just as he foresaw: he wrote,     She spoke.     Sirs, that first simile serves still,     That falsehood of a scorpion hatched, I say,     Nowhere i the world but in Madonnas mouth.     Go on! Suppose, that falsehood foiled, next eve     Pictured Madonna raised her painted hand,     Fixed the face Rafael bent above the Babe,     On my face as I flung me at her feet:     Such miracle vouchsafed and manifest,     Would that prove the first lying tale was true?     Pompilia spoke, and I at once received,     Accepted my own fact, my miracle     Self-authorised and self-explained, she chose     To summon me and signify her choice.     Afterward, oh! I gave a passing glance     To a certain ugly cloud-shape, goblin-shred     Of hell-smoke hurrying past the splendid moon     Out now to tolerate no darkness more,     And saw right through the thing that tried to pass     For truth and solid, not an empty lie:     So, he not only forged the words for her     But word for me, made letters he called mine:     What I sent, he retained, gave these in place,     All by the mistress-messenger! As I     Recognised her, at potency of truth,     So she, by the crystalline soul, knew me,     Never mistook the signs. Enough of this     Let the wraith go to nothingness again,     Here is the orb, have only thought for her!     Thought? nay, Sirs, what shall follow was not thought:     I have thought sometimes, and thought long and hard.     I have stood before, gone round a serious thing,     Tasked my whole mind to touch and clasp it close,     As I stretch forth my arm to touch this bar.     God and man, and what duty I owe both,     I dare to say I have confronted these     In thought: but no such faculty helped here.     I put forth no thought, powerless, all that night     I paced the city: it was the first Spring.     By the invasion I lay passive to,     In rushed new things, the old were rapt away;     Alike abolished the imprisonment     Of the outside air, the inside weight o the world     That pulled me down. Death meant, to spurn the ground,     Soar to the sky, die well and you do that.     The very immolation made the bliss;     Death was the heart of life, and all the harm     My folly had crouched to avoid, now proved a veil     Hiding all gain my wisdom strove to grasp:     As if the intense centre of the flame     Should turn a heaven to that devoted fly     Which hitherto, sophist alike and sage,     Saint Thomas with his sober grey goose-quill,     And sinner Plato by Cephisian reed,     Would fain, pretending just the insects good,     Whisk off, drive back, consign to shade again.     Into another state, under new rule     I knew myself was passing swift and sure;     Whereof the initiatory pang approached,     Felicitous annoy, as bitter-sweet     As when the virgin-band, the victors chaste,     Feel at the end the earthly garments drop,     And rise with something of a rosy shame     Into immortal nakedness: so I     Lay, and let come the proper throe would thrill     Into the ecstacy and outthrob pain.     I the grey of dawn it was I found myself     Facing the pillared front o the Pieve mine,     My church: it seemed to say for the first time     But am not I the Bride, the mystic love     O the Lamb, who took thy plighted troth, my priest,     To fold thy warm heart on my heart of stone     And freeze thee nor unfasten any more?     This is a fleshly woman, let the free     Bestow their life-blood, thou art pulseless now!     See! Day by day I had risen and left this church     At the signal waved me by some foolish fan,     With half a curse and half a pitying smile     For the monk I stumbled over in my haste,     Prostrate and corpse-like at the altar-foot     Intent on his corona: then the church     Was ready with her quip, if word conduced,     To quicken my pace nor stop for prating There!     Be thankful you are no such ninny, go     Rather to teach a black-eyed novice cards     Than gabble Latin and protrude that nose     Smoothed to a sheeps through no brains and much faith!     That sort of incentive! Now the church changed tone     Now, when I found out first that life and death     Are means to an end, that passion uses both,     Indisputably mistress of the man     Whose form of worship is self-sacrifice     Now, from the stone lungs sighed the scrannel voice     Leave that passion, come be dead with me!     As if, i the fabled garden, I had gone     On great adventure, plucked in ignorance     Hedge-fruit, and feasted to satiety,     Laughing at such high fame for hips and haws,     And scorned the achievement: then come all at once     O the prize o the place, the thing of perfect gold,     The apples self: and, scarce my eye on that,     Was ware as well o the seven-fold dragons watch.     Sirs, I obeyed. Obedience was too strange,     This new thing that had been struck into me     By the look o the lady, to dare disobey     The first authoritative word. Twas Gods.     I had been lifted to the level of her,     Could take such sounds into my sense. I said     We two are cognisant o the Master now;     It is she bids me bow the head: how true,     I am a priest! I see the function here;     I thought the other way self-sacrifice:     This is the true, seals up the perfect sum.     I pay it, sit down, silently obey.     So, I went home. Dawn broke, noon broadened, I     I sat stone-still, let time run over me.     The sun slanted into my room, had reached     The west. I opened book, Aquinas blazed     With one black name only on the white page.     I looked up, saw the sunset: vespers rang:     She counts the minutes till I keep my word     And come say all is ready. I am a priest     Duty to God is duty to her: I think     God, who created her, will save her too     Some new way, by one miracle the more,     Without me. Then, prayer may avail perhaps.     I went to my own place i the Pieve, read     The office: I was back at home again     Sitting i the dark. Could she but know but know     That, were there good in this distinct from Gods,     Really good as it reached her, though procured     By a sin of mine, I should sin: God forgives.     She knows it is no fear withholds me: fear?     Of what? Suspense here is the terrible thing.     If she should, as she counts the minutes, come     On the fantastic notion that I fear     The world now, fear the Archbishop, fear perhaps     Count Guido, he who, having forged the lies,     May wait the work, attend the effect, I fear     The sword of Guido! Let God see to that     Hating lies, let not her believe a lie!     Again the morning found me. I will work,     Tie down my foolish thoughts. Thank God so far!     I have saved her from a scandal, stopped the tongues     Had broken else into a cackle and hiss     Around the noble name. Duty is still     Wisdom: I have been wise. So the day wore.     At evening But, achieving victory,     I must not blink the priests peculiar part,     Nor shrink to counsel, comfort: priest and friend     How do we discontinue to be friends?     I will go minister, advise her seek     Help at the source, above all, not despair:     There may be other happier help at hand.     I hope it, wherefore then neglect to say?     There she stood leaned there, for the second time,     Over the terrace, looked at me, then spoke:     Why is it you have suffered me to stay     Breaking my heart two days more than was need?     Why delay help, your own heart yearns to give?     You are again here, in the self-same mind,     I see here, steadfast in the face of you,     You grudge to do no one thing that I ask.     Why then is nothing done? You know my need.     Still, through Gods pity on me, there is time     And one day more: shall I be saved or no?     I answered Lady, waste no thought, no word     Even to forgive me! Care for what I care     Only! Now follow me as I were fate!     Leave this house in the dark to-morrow night,     Just before daybreak: theres new moon this eve     It sets, and then begins the solid black.     Descend, proceed to the Torrione, step     Over the low dilapidated wall,     Take San Clemente, theres no other gate     Unguarded at the hour: some paces thence     An inn stands; cross to it; I shall be there.     She answered, If I can but find the way.     But I shall find it. Go now!     I did go,     Took rapidly the route myself prescribed,     Stopped at Torrione, climbed the ruined place,     Proved that the gate was practicable, reached     The inn, no eye, despite the dark, could miss,     Knocked there and entered, made the host secure:     With Caponsacchi it is ask and have;     I know my betters. Are you bound for Rome?     I get swift horse and trusty man, said he.     Then I retraced my steps, was found once more     In my own house for the last time: there lay     The broad pale opened Summa. Shut his book,     Theres other showing! Twas a Thomas too     Obtained, more favoured than his namesake here,     A gift, tied faith fast, foiled the tug of doubt,     Our Ladys girdle; down he saw it drop     As she ascended into heaven, they say:     He kept that safe and bade all doubt adieu.     I too have seen a lady and hold a grace.     I know not how the night passed: morning broke:     Presently came my servant. Sir, this eve     Do you forget? I started. How forget?     What is it you know? With due submission, Sir,     This being last Monday in the month but one     And a vigil, since to-morrow is Saint George,     And feast day, and moreover day for copes,     And Canon Conti now away a month,     And Canon Crispi sour because, forsooth,     You let him sulk in stall and bear the brunt     Of the octave. . . . Well, Sir, tis important!     True!     Hearken, I have to start for Rome this night.     No word, lest Crispi overboil and burst!     Provide me with a laic dress! Throw dust     I the Canons eye, stop his tongues scandal so!     See theres a sword in case of accident.     I knew the knave, the knave knew me.     And thus     Through each familiar hindrance of the day     Did I make steadily for its hour and end,     Felt times old barrier-growth of right and fit     Give way through all its twines and let me go;     Use and wont recognised the excepted man,     Let speed the special service, and I sped     Till, at the dead between midnight and morn,     There was I at the goal, before the gate,     With a tune in the ears, low leading up to loud,     A light in the eyes, faint that would soon be flare,     Ever some spiritual witness new and new     In faster frequence, crowding solitude     To watch the way o the warfare, till, at last,     When the ecstatic minute must bring birth,     Began a whiteness in the distance, waxed     Whiter and whiter, near grew and more near,     Till it was she: there did Pompilia come:     The white I saw shine through her was her souls,     Certainly, for the body was one black,     Black from head down to foot. She did not speak,     Glided into the carriage, so a cloud     Gathers the moon up. By San Spirito,     To Rome, as if the road burned underneath!     Reach Rome, then hold my head in pledge, I pay     The run and the risk to hearts content! Just that,     I said, then, in another tick of time,     Sprang, was beside her, she and I alone.     So it began, our flight thro dusk to clear,     Through day and night and day again to night     Once more, and to last dreadful dawn of all.     Sirs, how should I lie quiet in my grave     Unless you suffer me wring, drop by drop,     My brain dry, make a riddance of the drench     Of minutes with a memory in each,     Recorded motion, breath or look of hers,     Which poured forth would present you one pure glass,     Mirror you plain, as Gods sea, glassed in gold,     His saints, the perfect soul Pompilia? Men,     You must know that a man gets drunk with truth     Stagnant inside him! Oh, theyve killed her, Sirs!     Can I be calm?     Calmly! Each incident     Proves, I maintain, that action of the flight     For the true thing it was. The first faint scratch     O the stone will test its nature, teach its worth     To idiots who name Parian, coprolite.     After all, I shall give no glare at best     Only display you certain scattered lights     Lamping the rush and roll of the abyss     Nothing but here and there a fire-point pricks     Wavelet from wavelet: well!     For the first hour     We both were silent in the night, I know:     Sometimes I did not see nor understand.     Blackness engulphed me, partial stupor, say     Then I would break way, breathe through the surprise,     And be aware again, and see who sat     In the dark vest with the white face and hands.     I said to myself I have caught it, I conceive     The mind o the mystery: tis the way they wake     And wait, two martyrs somewhere in a tomb     Each by each as their blessing was to die;     Some signal they are promised and expect,     When to arise before the trumpet scares:     So, through the whole course of the world they wait     The last day, but so fearless and so safe!     No otherwise, in safety and not fear,     I lie, because she lies too by my side.     You know this is not love, Sirs, it is faith,     The feeling that theres God, he reigns and rules     Out of this low world: that is all; no harm!     At times she drew a soft sigh music seemed     Always to hover just above her lips     Not settle, break a silence music too.     In the determined morning, I first found     Her head erect, her face turned full to me,     Her soul intent on mine through two wide eyes.     I answered them. You are saved hitherto.     We have passed Perugia, gone round by the wood,     Not through, I seem to think, and opposite     I know Assisi; this is holy ground.     Then she resumed. How long since we both left     Arezzo? Years and certain hours beside.     It was at . . . ah, but I forget the names!     Tis a mere post-house and a hovel or two,     I left the carriage and got bread and wine     And brought it her. Does it detain to eat?     They stay perforce, change horses, therefore eat!     We lose no minute: we arrive, be sure!     She said I know not where theres a great hill     Close over, and the stream has lost its bridge,     One fords it. She began I have heard say     Of some sick body that my mother knew,     Twas no good sign when in a limb diseased     All the pain suddenly departs, as if     The guardian angel discontinued pain     Because the hope of cure was gone at last:     The limb will not again exert itself,     It needs be pained no longer: so with me,     My soul whence all the pain is past at once:     All pain must be to work some good in the end.     True, this I feel now, this may be that good,     Pain was because of, otherwise, I fear!     She said, a long while later in the day,     When I had let the silence be, abrupt     Have you a mother? She died, I was born.     A sister then? No sister. Who was it     What woman were you used to serve this way,     Be kind to, till I called you and you came?     I did not like that word. Soon afterward     Tell me, are men unhappy, in some kind     Of mere unhappiness at being men,     As women suffer, being womanish?     Have you, now, some unhappiness, I mean,     Born of what may be mans strength overmuch,     To match the undue susceptibility,     The sense at every pore when hate is close?     It hurts us if a baby hides its face     Or child strikes at us punily, calls names     Or makes a mouth, much more if stranger men     Laugh or frown, just as that were much to bear!     Yet rocks split, and the blow-ball does no more,     Quivers to feathery nothing at a touch;     And strength may have its drawback, weakness scapes.     Once she asked, What is it that made you smile,     At the great gate with the eagles and the snakes,     Where the company entered, tis a long time since?     Forgive I think you would not understand:     Ah, but you ask me, therefore, it was this.     That was a certain bishops villa-gate,     I knew it by the eagles, and at once     Remembered this same bishop was just he     People of old were wont to bid me please     If I would catch preferment: so, I smiled     Because an impulse came to me, a whim     What if I prayed the prelate leave to speak,     Began upon him in his presence-hall     What, still at work so grey and obsolete?     Still rocheted and mitred more or less?     Dont you feel all that out of fashion now?     I find out when the day of things is done!     At eve we heard the angelus: she turned     I told you I can neither read nor write.     My life stopped with the play-time; I will learn,     If I begin to live again: but you     Who are a priest wherefore do you not read     The service at this hour? Read Gabriels song,     The lesson, and then read the little prayer     To Raphael, proper for us travellers!     I did not like that, neither, but I read.     When we stopped at Foligno it was dark.     The people of the post came out with lights:     The driver said, This time to-morrow, may     Saints only help, relays continue good,     Nor robbers hinder, we arrive at Rome.     I urged, Why tax your strength a second night?     Trust me, alight here and take brief repose!     We are out of harms reach, past pursuit: go sleep     If but an hour! I keep watch, guard the while     Here in the doorway. But her whole face changed,     The misery grew again about her mouth,     The eyes burned up from faintness, like the fawns     Tired to death in the thicket, when she feels     The probing spear o the huntsman. Oh, no stay!     She cried, in the fawns cry, On to Rome, on, on     Unless tis you who fear, which cannot be!     We did go on all night; but at its close     She was troubled, restless, moaned low, talked at whiles     To herself, her brow on quiver with the dream:     Once, wide awake, she menaced, at arms length     Waved away something Never again with you!     My soul is mine, my body is my souls:     You and I are divided ever more     In soul and body: get you gone! Then I     Why, in my whole life I have never prayed!     Oh, if the God, that only can, would help!     Am I his priest with power to cast out fiends?     Let God arise and all his enemies     Be scattered! By morn, there was peace, no sigh     Out of the deep sleep.     When she woke at last,     I answered the first look Scarce twelve hours more,     Then, Rome! There probably was no pursuit,     There cannot now be peril: bear up brave!     Just some twelve hours to press through to the prize     Then, no more of the terrible journey! Then,     No more o the journey: if it might but last!     Always, my life-long, thus to journey still!     It is the interruption that I dread,     With no dread, ever to be here and thus!     Never to see a face nor hear a voice!     Yours is no voice; you speak when you are dumb;     Nor face, I see it in the dark. I want     No face nor voice that change and grow unkind.     That I liked, that was the best thing she said.     In the broad day, I dared entreat, Descend!     I told a woman, at the garden-gate     By the post-house, white and pleasant in the sun,     It is my sister, talk with her apart!     She is married and unhappy, you perceive;     I take her home because her head is hurt;     Comfort her as you women understand!     So, there I left them by the garden-wall,     Paced the road, then bade put the horses to,     Came back, and there she sat: close to her knee,     A black-eyed child still held the bowl of milk,     Wondered to see how little she could drink,     And in her arms the womans infant lay.     She smiled at me How much good this has done!     This is a whole nights rest and how much more!     I can proceed now, though I wish to stay.     How do you call that tree with the thick top     That holds in all its leafy green and gold     The sun now like an immense egg of fire?     (It was a million-leaved mimosa.) Take     The babe away from me and let me go!     And in the carriage, Still a day, my friend;     And perhaps half a night, the woman fears.     I pray it finish since it cannot last.     There may be more misfortune at the close,     And where will you be? God suffice me then!     And presently for there was a roadside-shrine     When I was taken first to my own church     Lorenzo in Lucina, being a girl,     And bid confess my faults, I interposed,     But teach me what fault to confess and know!     So, the priest said You should bethink yourself:     Each human being needs must have done wrong!     Now, be you candid and no priest but friend     Were I surprised and killed here on the spot,     A runaway from husband and his home,     Do you account it were in sin I died?     My husband used to seem to harm me, not . . .     Not on pretence he punished sin of mine,     Nor for sins sake and lust of cruelty,     But as I heard him bid a farming-man     At the villa take a lamb once to the wood     And there ill-treat it, meaning that the wolf     Should hear its cries, and so come, quick be caught,     Enticed to the trap: he practised thus with me     That so, whatever were his gain thereby,     Others that I might become prey and spoil.     Had it been only between our two selves,     His pleasure and my pain, why, pleasure him     By dying, nor such need to make a coil!     But this was worth an effort, that my pain     Should not become a snare, prove pain threefold     To other people strangers or unborn     How should I know? I sought release from that     I think, or else from, dare I say, some cause     Such as is put into a tree, which turns     Away from the northwind with what nest it holds,     The woman said that trees so turn: now, friend,     Tell me, because I cannot trust myself!     You are a man: what have I done amiss?     You must conceive my answer, I forget     Taken up wholly with the thought, perhaps,     This time she might have said, might, did not say     You are a priest. She said, my friend.     Day wore,     We passed the places, somehow the calm went,     Again the restless eyes began to rove     In new fear of the foe mine could not see:     She wandered in her mind, addressed me once     Gaetano! that is not my name: whose name?     I grew alarmed, my head seemed turning too:     I quickened pace with promise now, now threat:     Bade drive and drive, nor any stopping more.     Too deep i the thick of the struggle, struggle through!     Then drench her in repose though deaths self pour     The plenitude of quiet, help us, God,     Whom the winds carry!     Suddenly I saw     The old tower, and the little white-walled clump     Of buildings and the cypress-tree or two,     Already Castelnuovo Rome! I cried,     As good as Rome, Rome is the next stage, think!     This is where travellers hearts are wont to beat.     Say you are saved, sweet lady! Up she woke.     The sky was fierce with colour from the sun     Setting. She screamed out No, I must not die!     Take me no farther, I should die: stay here!     I have more life to save than mine!     She swooned.     We seemed safe: what was it foreboded so?     Out of the coach into the inn I bore     The motionless and breathless pure and pale     Pompilia, bore her through a pitying group     And laid her on a couch, still calm and cured     By deep sleep of all woes at once. The host     Was urgent Let her stay an hour or two!     Leave her to us, all will be right by morn!     Oh, my foreboding! But I could not choose.     I paced the passage, kept watch all night long.     I listened, not one movement, not one sigh.     Fear not: she sleeps so sound! they said but I     Feared, all the same, kept fearing more and more,     Found myself throb with fear from head to foot,     Filled with a sense of such impending woe,     That, at first pause of night, pretence of grey,     I made my mind up it was morn. Reach Rome,     Lest hell reach her! A dozen miles to make,     Another long breath, and we emerge! I stood     I the court-yard, roused the sleepy grooms. Have out     Carriage and horse, give haste, take gold! said I.     While they made ready in the doubtful morn,     Twas the last minute, needs must I ascend     And break her sleep; I turned to go.     And there     Faced me Count Guido, there posed the mean man     As master, took the field, encamped his rights,     Challenged the world: there leered new triumph, there     Scowled the old malice in the visage bad     And black o the scamp. Soon triumph suppled the tongue     A little, malice glued to his dry throat,     And he part howled, part hissed . . . oh, how he kept     Well out o the way, at arms length and to spare!     My salutation to your priestship! What?     Matutinal, busy with book so soon     Of an April day thats damp as tears that now     Deluge Arezzo at its darlings flight?     Tis unfair, wrongs feminity at large,     To let a single dame monopolize     A heart the whole sex claims, should share alike:     Therefore I overtake you, Canon! Come!     The lady, could you leave her side so soon?     You have not yet experienced at her hands     My treatment, you lay down undrugged, I see!     Hence this alertness hence no death-in-life     Like what held arms fast when she stole from mine.     To be sure, you took the solace and repose     That first night at Foligno! news abound     O the road by this time, men regaled me much,     As past them I came halting after you,     Vulcan pursuing Mars, as poets sing,     Still at the last here pant I, but arrive,     Vulcan and not without my Cyclops too,     The Commissary and the unpoisoned arm     O the Civil Force, should Mars turn mutineer.     Enough of fooling: capture the culprits, friend!     Here is the lover in the smart disguise     With the sword, he is a priest, so mine lies still:     There upstairs hides my wife the runaway,     His leman: the two plotted, poisoned first,     Plundered me after, and eloped thus far     Where now you find them. Do your duty quick!     Arrest and hold him! Thats done: now catch her!     During this speech of that man, well, I stood     Away, as he managed, still, I stood as near     The throat of him, with these two hands, my own,     As now I stand near yours, Sir, one quick spring,     One great good satisfying gripe, and lo!     There had he lain abolished with his lie,     Creation purged o the miscreate, man redeemed,     A spittle wiped off from the face of God!     I, in some measure, seek a poor excuse     For what I left undone, in just this fact     That my first feeling at the speech I quote     Was not of what a blasphemy was dared,     Not what a bag of venomed purulence     Was split and noisome, but how splendidly     Mirthful, what ludicrous a lie was launched!     Would Molires self wish more than hear such man     Call, claim such woman for his own, his wife,     Even though, in due amazement at the boast,     He had stammered, she moreover was divine?     She to be his, were hardly less absurd     Than that he took her name into his mouth,     Licked, and then let it go again, the beast,     Signed with his slaver. Oh, she poisoned him,     Plundered him, and the rest! Well, what I wished     Was, that he would but go on, say once more     So to the world, and get his meed of men,     The fists reply to the filth. And while I mused,     The minute, oh the misery, was gone!     On either idle hand of me there stood     Really an officer, nor laughed i the least.     They rendered justice to his reason, laid     Logic to heart, as twere submitted them     Twice two makes four.     And now, catch her! he cried.     That sobered me. Let myself lead the way     Ere you arrest me, who am somebody,     And, as you hear, a priest and privileged,     To the ladys chamber! I presume you men     Expert, instructed how to find out truth,     Familiar with the guise of guilt. Detect     Guilt on her face when it meets mine, then judge     Between us and the mad dog howling there!     Up we all went together, in they broke     O the chamber late my chapel. There she lay,     Composed as when I laid her, that last eve,     O the couch, still breathless, motionless, sleeps self,     Wax-white, seraphic, saturate with the sun     O the morning that now flooded from the front     And filled the window with a light like blood.     Behold the poisoner, the adulteress,     And feigning sleep too! Seize, bind! Guido hissed.     She started up, stood erect, face to face     With the husband: back he fell, was buttressed there     By the window all a-flame 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 Gods, 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 door-way, 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 saviour? That I baulk you of,     Since see how God can help at last and worst!     She sprung at the sword that hung beside him, seized,     Drew, brandished it, the sunrise burned for joy     O the blade, Die, cried she, devil, in Gods 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 explode     One listeners indignation, that a scribe     Did sit down, set himself to write indeed,     And 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,     I took the 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.     Pompilias 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? Twere 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 day-break 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 manuvre! 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 hes 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 bravos dress     To have a hand in the new crime; on the old,     Judgments 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 a friend of the court and for pure friendships sake     Have told my tale to the end, nay, not the end     For, wait Ill end not leave you that excuse!     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 colour the tale takes, theres change perhaps;     Tis 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 thro Rome,     Put in his mouth by Pasquin. Nor perhaps     Did you return these answers, verse, and prose,     Signed, sealed and sent the lady? Theres 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? Bembos 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? Tis alleged you climbed . . .     Flew on a broomstick to the man i the moon!     Who witnessed or will testify this trash?      The trusty servant, Margheritas 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 favours you the circumstance     That this same messenger . . . how shall we say? . . .     Sub imputatione meretricis     Laborat, which makes accusation null:     We waive this womans: nought 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!     So     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 had just romanced a little, sown 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 Franceschinis face,     You had counselled me withdraw for my own sake,     Baulk 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 Helen!     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 well copy and send his Eminence!     Mind one iambus in the final foot!     Hell 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 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 the law and the 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,     Whats now forced on you by this flare of fact     As if Saint Peter failed to recognise     Nero as no apostle, John or James,     Till someone burned a martyr, make 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 hells 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 liars 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,     Heres the exceptional conduct that should claim     To be exceptionally judged on rules     Which, understood, make no exception here     Why play instead into the devils 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 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 priests 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 worlds musk still unbrushed     From the rochet; Ill no more of these good things:     Theres a crack somewhere, something thats 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, theres 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 out     O the thoughts of me, I had him in arms 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! Twas 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     Hill-side, 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, creations verge,     From what just is to absolute nothingness     Lo, what is this he meets, strains onward still?     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 devils-fun,     Or fondle this the other while malice aches     Both teach, both learn detestability!     Kiss him the kiss, Iscariot! Pay that back,     That snatch 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 oer slimy-smooth with jelly-filth     O the verse-and-prose pollution in loves 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, for ever and ever more!     Why, Sirs, whats 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 ladys 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 tis 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! Shes 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 honour, ay,     Yet shirks, the coward, in a clowns disguise,     Away from the scene, endeavours 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, heres 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 penmans error, else     A slip i the phrase, as when we say of you     Charged with injustice which may either be     Or not be, tis 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, Guidos kinsfolk both,     And when abandoned by them, not before,     Turned to me. Thats 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 Moors skin, what is black by blacker still?     Conti had come here and told truth. And so     With Guillichini; hes 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 husbands 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     Thats 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 authorise!     This is their Rotas 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 are     So very pitiable, she and I,     Who had conceivably been otherwise.     Forget distemperature and idle heat!     Apart from truths sake, whats 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 comets rush     But a roses birth, not by the grandeur, God     But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!     Mere delectation, meet for a minutes 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!