Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

Incline to a certain haunt of doubtful fame

  Which fronted Guido’s palace by mere chance;

  While — how do accidents sometimes combine!

  Pompilia chose to cloister up her charms

  Just in a chamber that o’erlooked the street,

  Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind.

  This passage of arms and wits amused the town.

  At last the husband lifted eyebrow, — bent

  On day-book and the study how to wring

  Half the due vintage from the worn-out vines

  At the villa, tease a quarter the old rent

  From the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon, —

  Pricked up his ear a-singing day and night

  With “ruin, ruin;” — and so surprised at last —

  Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps.

  Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange,

  Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rife

  In his head at once again are word and wink,

  Mum here and budget there, the smell o’ the fox,

  The musk o’ the gallant. “Friends, there’s falseness here!”

  The proper help of friends in such a strait

  Is waggery, the world over. Laugh him free

  O’ the regular jealous-fit that’s incident

  To all old husbands that wed brisk young wives,

  And he’ll go duly docile all his days.

  “Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when?

  “How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care!

  “Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it,

  “Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself.

  “And — what, it’s Caponsacchi means you harm?

  “The Canon? We caress him, he’s the world’s,

  “A man of such acceptance, — never dream,

  “Though he were fifty times the fox you fear,

  “He’d risk his brush for your particular chick,

  “When the wide town’s his hen-roost! Fie o’ the fool!”

  So they dispensed their comfort of a kind.

  Guido at last cried “Something is in the air,

  “Under the earth, some plot against my peace:

  “The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead,

  “How it should come of that officious orb

  “Your Canon in my system, you must say:

  “I say — that from the pressure of this spring

  “Began the chime and interchange of bells,

  “Ever one whisper, and one whisper more,

  “And just one whisper for the silvery last,

  “Till all at once a-row the bronze-throats burst

  “Into a larum both significant

  “And sinister: stop it I must and will.

  “Let Caponsacchi take his hand away

  “From the wire! — disport himself in other paths

  “Than lead precisely to my palace-gate, —

  “Look where he likes except one window’s way

  “Where cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill,

  “Happens to lean and say her litanies

  “Every day and all day long, just my wife —

  “Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!”

  Admire the man’s simplicity, “I’ll do this,

  “I’ll not have that, I’ll punish and prevent!” —

  ‘Tis easy saying. But to a fray, you see,

  Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth:

  The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight.

  Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well,

  The way to put suspicion to the blush!

  At first hint of remonstrance, up and out

  I’ the face of the world, you found her: she could speak,

  State her case, — Franceschini was a name,

  Guido had his full share of foes and friends —

  Why should not she call these to arbitrate?

  She bade the Governor do governance,

  Cried out on the Archbishop — why, there now,

  Take him for sample! Three successive times,

  Had he to reconduct her by main force

  From where she took her station opposite

  His shut door, — on the public steps thereto,

  Wringing her hands, when he came out to see,

  And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot, —

  Back to the husband and the house she fled:

  Judge if that husband warmed him in the face

  Of friends or frowned on foes as heretofore!

  Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk,

  Or lacked the customary compliment

  Of cap and bells, the luckless husband’s fit!

  So it went on and on till — who was right?

  One merry April morning, Guido woke

  After the cuckoo, so late, near noonday,

  With an inordinate yawning of the jaws,

  Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongue

  And teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk;

  And found his wife flown, his scrutoire the worse

  For a rummage, — jewelry that was, was not,

  Some money there had made itself wings too, —

  The door lay wide and yet the servants slept

  Sound as the dead, or dosed which does as well.

  In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul,

  Had not so much as spoken all her life

  To the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at him

  Between her fingers while she prayed in church, —

  This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years

  (Such she was grown to by this time of day)

  Had simply put an opiate in the drink

  Of the whole household overnight, and then

  Got up and gone about her work secure,

  Laid hand on this waif and the other stray,

  Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doors

  In company of the Canon who, Lord’s love,

  What with his daily duty at the church,

  Nightly devoir where ladies congregate,

  Had something else to mind, assure yourself,

  Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be,

  Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt!

  Well, anyhow, albeit impossible,

  Both of them were together jollily

  Jaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this,

  While Guido was left go and get undrugged,

  Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanks

  When neighbours crowded round him to condole.

  “Ah,” quoth a gossip, “well I mind me now,

  “The Count did always say he thought he felt

  “He feared as if this very chance might fall!

  “And when a man of fifty finds his corns

  “Ache and his joints throb, and foresees a storm,

  “Though neighbours laugh and say the sky is clear,

  “Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!”

  Then was the story told, I’ll cut you short:

  All neighbours knew: no mystery in the world,

  The lovers left at nightfall — over night

  Had Caponsacchi come to carry off

  Pompilia, — not alone, a friend of his,

  One Guillichini, the more conversant

  With Guido’s housekeeping that he was just

  A cousin of Guido’s and might play a prank —

  (Have you not too a cousin that’s a wag?)

  — Lord and a Canon also, — what would you have?

  Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-heads

  That stand and stiffen ‘mid the wheat o’ the Church! —

  This worthy came to aid, abet his best.

  And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged,

  The lady led downstairs and out of doors

  Guided and guarded till, the city passed,

  A carriage la
y convenient at the gate

  Good-bye to the friendly Canon; the loving one

  Could peradventure do the rest himself.

  In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest,

  “Whip, driver! — Money makes the mare to go,

  “And we’ve a bagful. Take the Roman road!”

  So said the neighbours. This was eight hours since.

  Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths,

  Shook off the relics of his poison-drench,

  Got horse, was fairly started in pursuit

  With never a friend to follow, found the track

  Fast enough, ‘twas the straight Perugia way,

  Trod soon upon their very heels, too late

  By a minute only at Camoscia, at

  Chiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitives

  Just ahead, just out as he galloped in,

  Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh,

  Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last post

  Before Rome, — as we say, in sight of Rome

  And safety (there’s impunity at Rome

  For priests, you know) at — what’s the little place?

  What some call Castelnuovo, some just call

  The Osteria, because o’ the post-house inn,

  There, at the journey’s all but end, it seems,

  Triumph deceived them and undid them both,

  Secure they might foretaste felicity

  Nor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised.

  There did they halt at early evening, there

  Did Guido overtake them: ‘twas day-break;

  He came in time enough, not time too much,

  Since in the courtyard stood the Canon’s self

  Urging the drowsy stable grooms to haste

  Harness the horses, have the journey end,

  The trifling four-hour’s-running, so reach Rome.

  And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs,

  Still on the couch where she had spent the night,

  One couch in one room, and one room for both.

  So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby.

  Sir, what’s the sequel? Lover and beloved

  Fall on their knees? No impudence serves here?

  They beat their breasts and beg for easy death,

  Confess this, that, and the other? — anyhow

  Confess there wanted not some likelihood

  To the supposition as preposterous,

  That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyes

  Had noticed, straying o’er the prayer-book’s edge,

  More of the Canon than that black his coat,

  Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim:

  And that, O Canon, thy religious care

  Had breathed too soft a benedicite

  To banish trouble from a lady’s breast

  So lonely and so lovely, nor so lean!

  This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err.

  Not to such ordinary end as this

  Had Caponsacchi flung the cassock far,

  Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier;

  The die was cast: over shoes over boots:

  And just as she, I presently shall show,

  Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life,

  Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white,

  So, in the inn-yard, bold as ‘twere Troy-town,

  There strutted Paris in correct costume,

  Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed,

  Even to a wicked-looking sword at side,

  He seemed to find and feel familiar at.

  Nor wanted words as ready and as big

  As the part he played, the bold abashless one.

  “I interposed to save your wife from death,

  “Yourself from shame, the true and only shame:

  “Ask your own conscience else! — or, failing that,

  “What I have done I answer, anywhere,

  “Here, if you will; you see I have a sword:

  “Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt,

  “At Rome, by all means, — priests to try a priest.

  “Only, speak where your wife’s voice can reply!”

  And then he fingered at the sword again.

  So, Guido called, in aid and witness both,

  The Public Force. The Commissary came,

  Officers also; they secured the priest;

  Then, for his more confusion, mounted up

  With him, a guard on either side, the stair

  To the bed-room where still slept or feigned a sleep

  His paramour and Guido’s wife: in burst

  The company and bade her wake and rise.

  Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang upright

  I’ the midst and stood as terrible as truth,

  Sprang to her husband’s side, caught at the sword

  That hung there useless, since they held each hand

  O’ the lover, had disarmed him properly.

  And in a moment out flew the bright thing

  Full in the face of Guido, — but for help

  O’ the guards who held her back and pinioned her

  With pains enough, she had finished you my tale

  With a flourish of red all round it, pinked her man

  Prettily; but she fought them one to six.

  They stopped that, — but her tongue continued free:

  She spat forth such invective at her spouse,

  O’erfrothed him with such foam of murderer,

  Thief, pandar — that the popular tide soon turned,

  The favour of the very sbirri, straight

  Ebbed from the husband, set toward his wife,

  People cried “Hands off, pay a priest respect!”

  And “persecuting fiend” and “martyred saint”

  Began to lead a measure from lip to lip.

  But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things,

  And the question “Prithee, friend, how comes my purse

  “I’ the poke of you?” — admits of no reply.

  Here was a priest found out in masquerade,

  A wife caught playing truant if no more;

  While the Count, mortified in mien enough,

  And, nose to face, an added palm in length,

  Was plain writ “husband” every piece of him:

  Capture once made, release could hardly be.

  Beside, the prisoners both made appeal,

  “Take us to Rome!”

  Taken to Rome they were;

  The husband trooping after, piteously,

  Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now —

  No honour set firm on its feet once more

  On two dead bodies of the guilty, — nay,

  No dubious salve to honour’s broken pate

  From chance that, after all, the hurt might seem

  A skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar:

  For Guido’s first search, — ferreting, poor soul,

  Here, there, and everywhere in the vile place

  Abandoned to him when their backs were turned,

  Found, — furnishing a last and best regale, —

  All the love-letters bandied twixt the pair

  Since the first timid trembling into life

  O’ the love-star till its stand at fiery full.

  Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair,

  Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names; — was nought

  Wanting to prove, if proof consoles at all,

  That this had been but the fifth act o’ the piece

  Whereof the due proemium, months ago

  These playwrights had put forth, and ever since

  Matured the middle, added ‘neath his nose.

  He might go cross himself: the case was clear.

  Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there plead

  Each party its best, and leave the law do right,

  Let her shine forth and show, as God in heaven,

  Vice prostra
te, virtue pedestalled at last,

  The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gaze

  When once authority has knit the brow

  And set the brain behind it to decide

  Between the wolf and sheep turned litigants?

  “This is indeed a business” law shook head:

  “A husband charges hard things on a wife,

  “The wife as hard o’ the husband: whose fault here?

  “A wife that flies her husband’s house, does wrong:

  “The male friend’s interference looks amiss,

  “Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife,

  “On the other hand, be jeopardised at home —

  “Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly,

  “An apprehension she is jeopardised, —

  “And further, if the friend partake the fear,

  “And, in a commendable charity

  “Which trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts, —

  “What do they but obey the natural law?

  “Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin,

  “And circumstances that concur i’ the close

  “Hint as much, loudly — yet scarce loud enough

  “To drown the answer ‘strange may yet be true:’

  “Innocence often looks like guiltiness.

  “The accused declare that in thought, word, and deed,

  “Innocent were they both from first to last

  “As male-babe haply laid by female-babe

  “At church on edge of the baptismal font

  “Together for a minute, perfect-pure.

  “Difficult to believe, yet possible,

  “As witness Joseph, the friend’s patron-saint.

  “The night at the inn — there charity nigh chokes

  “Ere swallow what they both asseverate;

  “Though down the gullet faith may feel it go,

  “When mindful of what flight fatigued the flesh

  “Out of its faculty and fleshliness,

  “Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure:

  “So long a flight necessitates a fall

  “On the first bed, though in a lion’s den.

  “And the first pillow, though the lion’s back:

  “Difficult to believe, yet possible.

  “Last come the letter’s bundled beastliness —

  “Authority repugns give glance to twice,

  “Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall;

  “Yet here a voice cries ‘Respite!’ from the clouds —

  “The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim,

  “Abominate the horror: ‘Not my hand’

  “Asserts the friend — ’Nor mine’ chimes in the wife,

  “‘Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.’

  “Illiterate — for she goes on to ask,

  “What if the friend did pen now verse now prose,

  “Commend it to her notice now and then?