Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  “‘Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote,

  “And kept no more than read, for as they fell

  “She ever brushed the burr-like things away,

  “Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke.

  “As for this fardel, filth, and foolishness,

  “She sees it now the first time: burn it too!

  “While for his part the friend vows ignorance

  “Alike of what bears his name and bear hers:

  “‘Tis forgery, a felon’s masterpiece,

  “And, as ‘tis the fox still finds the stench,

  “Home-manufacturer and the husband’s work.

  “Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend,

  “That certain missives, letters of a sort,

  “Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselves

  “To the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft,

  “In his path: wherefrom he understood just this —

  “That were they verily the lady’s own,

  “Why, she who penned them, since he never saw

  “Save for one minute the mere face of her,

  “Since never had there been the interchange

  “Of word with word between them all their life,

  “Why, she must be the fondest of the frail,

  “And fit she for the ‘apage’ he flung,

  “Her letters for the flame they went to feed.

  “But, now he sees her face and hears her speech,

  “Much he repents him if, in fancy-freak

  “For a moment the minutest measurable,

  “He coupled her with the first flimsy word

  “O’ the self-spun fabric some mean spider-soul

  “Furnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him!

  “Never was such a tangled knottiness,

  “But thus authority cuts the Gordian through,

  “And mark how her decision suits the need!

  “Here’s troublesomeness, scandal on both sides,

  “Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime:

  “Let each side own its fault and make amends!

  “What does a priest in cavalier’s attire

  “Consorting publicly with vagrant wives

  “In quarters close as the confessional

  “Though innocent of harm? ‘Tis harm enough:

  “Let him pay it, and be relegate a good

  “Three years, to spend in some place not too far

  “Nor yet too near, midway twixt near and far,

  “Rome and Arezzo, — Civita we choose,

  “Where he may lounge away time, live at large,

  “Find out the proper function of a priest,

  “Nowise an exile, — that were punishment,

  “But one our love thus keeps out of harm’s way

  “Not more from the husband’s anger than, mayhap

  “His own . . . say, indiscretion, waywardness,

  “And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm.

  “For the wife, — well, our best step to take with her,

  “On her own showing, were to shift her root

  “From the old cold shade and unhappy soil

  “Into a generous ground that fronts the south:

  “Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late,

  “Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-by

  “To the rescue, she should have her fill of shine.

  “Do house and husband hinder and not help?

  “Why then, forget both and stay here at peace,

  “Come into our community, enroll

  “Herself along with those good Convertites,

  “Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made,

  “Accept their administration, well bestow

  “Her body and patiently possess her soul,

  “Until we see what better can be done.

  “Last for the husband: if his tale prove true,

  “Well is he rid of two domestic plagues —

  “The wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would,

  “And friend of hers that undertook the cure.

  “See, what a double load we lift from breast!

  “Off he may go, return, resume old life,

  “Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia there

  “In limbo each and punished for their pains,

  “And grateful tell the inquiring neighbourhood —

  “In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy.”

  The case was closed. Now, am I fair or no

  In what I utter? Do I state the facts,

  Having forechosen a side? I promised you!

  The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sent

  To change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tie

  The clerkly silk round, every plait correct,

  Make the impressive entry on his place

  Of relegation, thrill his Civita,

  As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause,

  Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,

  What with much culture of the sonnet-stave

  And converse with the aborigines,

  Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll,

  And hearts that all awry went pit-a-pat

  And wanted setting right in charity,

  What were a couple of years to while away?

  Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herself

  To the aforesaid Convertites, the sisterhood

  In Via Lungara, where the light ones live,

  Spin, pray, then sing like linnets o’er the flax.

  “Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband’s house

  “Is heaven,” cried she, — was therefore suited so.

  But for Count Guido Franceschini, he —

  The injured man thus righted — found no heaven

  I’ the house when he returned there, I engage,

  Was welcomed by the city turned upside down

  In a chorus of inquiry. “What, back, — you?

  “And no wife? Left her with the Penitents?

  “Ah, being young and pretty, ‘twere a shame

  “To have her whipped in public: leave the job

  “To the priests who understand! Such priests as yours —

  “(Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once)

  “Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him!

  “So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence?

  “Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight!

  “The wiser, ‘tis a word and a blow with him,

  “True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i’-the-Sack

  “That fought at Fiesole ere Florence was:

  “He had done enough, to firk you were too much.

  “And did the little lady menace you,

  “Make at your breast with your own harmless sword?

  “The spitfire! Well, thank God you’re safe and sound,

  “Have kept the sixth commandment whether or no

  “The lady broke the seventh: I only wish

  “I were as saint-like, could contain me so.

  “I am a sinner, I fear I should have left

  “Sir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!”

  You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word,

  Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus?

  Was it enough to make a wise man mad?

  Oh, but I’ll have your verdict at the end!

  Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls,

  Frets awhile, and aches long, then less and less,

  And so is done with. Such was not the scheme

  O’ the pleasant Comparini: on Guido’s wound

  Ever in due succession, drop by drop,

  Came slow distilment from the alembic here

  Set on to simmer by Canidian hate,

  Corrosives keeping the man’s misery raw.

  First fire-drop, — when he thought to make the best

  O’ the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed,

  Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were,

>   Yet what might eke him out result enough

  And make it worth his while he had the right

  And not the wrong i’ the matter judged at Rome.

  Inadequate her punishment, no less

  Punished in some slight sort his wife had been;

  Then, punished for adultery, what else?

  On such admitted crime he thought to seize,

  And institute procedure in the courts

  Which cut corruption of this kind from man,

  Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway:

  He claimed in due form a divorce at least.

  This claim was met now by a counterclaim:

  Pompilia sought divorce from bed and board

  Of Guido, whose outrageous cruelty,

  Whose mother’s malice and whose brother’s hate

  Were just the white o’ the charge, such dreadful depths

  Blackened its centre, — hints of worse than hate,

  Love from that brother, by that Guido’s guile,

  That mother’s prompting. Such reply was made,

  So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprung

  On Guido, who received the bolt in breast;

  But no less bore up, giddily perhaps.

  He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome,

  Brother and friend and fighter on his side:

  They rallied in a measure, met the foe

  Manlike, joined battle in the public courts,

  As if to shame supine law from her sloth:

  And waiting her award, let beat the while

  Arezzo’s banter, Rome’s buffoonery,

  On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike,

  Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip,

  And never mind till he contorts his tail!

  But there was sting i’ the creature; thus it struck.

  Guido had thought in his simplicity —

  That lying declaration of remorse,

  That story of the child which was no child

  And motherhood no motherhood at all,

  — That even this sin might have its sort of good

  Inasmuch as no question could be more,

  Call it false, call the story true, no claim

  Of further parentage pretended now:

  The parents had abjured all right, at least,

  I’ the woman still his wife: to plead right now

  Were to declare the abjuration false:

  He was relieved from any fear henceforth

  Their hands might touch, their breath defile again

  Pompilia with his name upon her yet.

  Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia’s health

  Demanded change after full three long weeks

  Spent in devotion with the Sisterhood, —

  Rendering sojourn, — so the court opined, —

  Too irksome, since the convent’s walls were high

  And windows narrow, nor was air enough

  Nor light enough, but all looked prison-like,

  The last thing which had come in the court’s head.

  Propose a new expedient therefore, — this!

  She had demanded — had obtained indeed,

  By intervention of whatever friends

  Or perhaps lovers — (beauty in distress

  In one whose tale is the town-talk beside,

  Never lacks friendship’s arm about her neck) —

  Not freedom, scarce remitted penalty,

  Solely the transfer to some private place

  Where better air, more light, new food might be —

  Incarcerated (call it, all the same)

  At some sure friend’s house she must keep inside,

  Be found in at requirement fast enough, —

  Domus pro carcere, in Roman style.

  You keep the house i’ the main, as most men do

  And all good women: but free otherwise,

  Should friends arrive, to lodge and entertain.

  And such a domum, such a dwelling-place,

  Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she?

  What house obtained Pompilia’s preference?

  Why, just the Comparini’s — just, do you mark,

  Theirs who renounced all part and lot in her

  So long as Guido could be robbed thereby,

  And only fell back on relationship

  And found their daughter safe and sound again

  So soon as that might stab him: yes, the pair

  Who, as I told you, first had baited hook

  With this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing,

  Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shore

  And gutted him, — now found a further use

  For the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet again

  I’ the way of what new swimmer passed their stand.

  They took Pompilia to their hiding-place —

  Not in the heart of Rome as formerly,

  Under observance, subject to control —

  But out o’ the way, — or in the way, who knows?

  That blind mute villa lurking by the gate

  At Via Paulina, not so hard to miss

  By the honest eye, easy enough to find

  In twilight by marauders: where perchance

  Some muffled Caponsacchi might repair,

  Employ odd moments when he too tried change,

  Found that a friend’s abode was pleasanter

  Than relegation, penance, and the rest.

  Come, here’s the last drop does its worst to wound,

  Here’s Guido poisoned to the bone, you say,

  Your boasted still’s full strain and strength: not so!

  One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birth

  The hoard i’ the heart o’ the toad, hell’s quintessence.

  He learned the true convenience of the change,

  And why a convent wants the cheerful hearts

  And helpful hands which female straits require,

  When, in the blind mute villa by the gate,

  Pompilia — what? sang, danced, saw company?

  — Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir,

  Or Guido’s heir and Caponsacchi’s son.

  I want your word now: what do you say to this?

  What would say little Arezzo and great Rome,

  And what did God say and the devil say

  One at each ear o’ the man, the husband, now

  The father? Why, the overburdened mind

  Broke down, what was a brain became a blaze.

  In fury of the moment — (that first news

  Fell on the Count among his vines, it seems,

  Doing his farm-work) — why, he summoned steward,

  Called in the first four hard hands and stout hearts

  From field and furrow, poured forth his appeal,

  Not to Rome’s law and gospel any more,

  But this clown with a mother or a wife,

  That clodpole with a sister or a son:

  And, whereas law and gospel held their peace,

  What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out?

  All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome,

  At the villa door: there was the warmth and light —

  The sense of life so just an inch inside —

  Some angel must have whispered “One more chance!”

  He gave it: bade the others stand aside:

  Knocked at the door, — ”Who is it knocks?” cried one.

  “I will make,” surely Guido’s angel said,

  “One final essay, last experiment,

  “Speak the word, name the name from out all names

  “Which, if, — as doubtless strong illusions are,

  “And strange disguisings whence even truth seems false,

  “And, for I am a man, I dare not do

  “God’s work until assured I see with God, —

  “If I should bring my lips to breathe that name

  “And they be innocent, — nay, by one touc
h

  “Of innocence redeemed from utter guilt, —

  “That name will bar the door and bid fate pass,

  “I will not say ‘It is a messenger,

  “‘A neighbour, even a belated man,

  “‘Much less your husband’s friend, your husband’s self:’

  “At such appeal the door is bound to ope.

  “But I will say” — here’s rhetoric and to spare!

  Why, Sir, the stumbling-block is cursed and kicked,

  Block though it be; the name that brought offence

  Will bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fire

  Although that fire feed on a taper-wick

  Which never left the altar nor singed fly:

  And had a harmless man tripped you by chance,

  How would you wait him, stand or step aside,

  When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough.

  “Giuseppe Caponsacchi!” Guido cried;

  And open flew the door: enough again.

  Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-wave

  That holds a monster in it, over the house,

  And wiped its filthy four walls free again

  With a wash of hell-fire, — father, mother, wife,

  Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood,

  And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he,

  Haled hither and imprisoned yesternight

  O’ the day all this was.

  Now the whole is known,

  And how the old couple come to lie in state

  Though hacked to pieces, — never, the experts say,

  So thorough a study of stabbing — while the wife

  Viper-like, very difficult to slay,

  Writhes still through every ring of her, poor wretch,

  At the Hospital hard by — survives, we’ll hope,

  To somewhat purify her putrid soul

  By full confession, make so much amends

  While time lasts; since at day’s end die she must.

  For Caponsacchi, — why, they’ll have him here,

  The hero of the adventure, who so fit

  To tell it in the coming Carnival?

  ‘Twill make the fortune of whate’er saloon

  Hears him recount, with helpful cheek, and eye

  Hotly indignant now, now dewy-dimmed,

  The incidents of flight, pursuit, surprise,

  Capture, with hints of kisses all between —

  While Guido, the most unromantic spouse,

  No longer fit to laugh at since the blood

  Gave the broad farce an all too brutal air,

  Why, he and those our luckless friends of his

  May tumble in the straw this bitter day —

  Laid by the heels i’ the New Prison, I hear,

  To bide their trial, since trial, and for the life,

  Follows if but for form’s sake: yes, indeed!

  But with a certain issue: no dispute,