Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Dying, I do think “Credible!” you’d cry —

  Did not the priest’s voice come to break the spell:

  They questioned him apart, as the custom is,

  When first the matter made a noise at Rome,

  And he, calm, constant then as she is now,

  For truth’s sake did assert and reassert

  Those letters called him to her and he came,

  — Which damns the story credible otherwise.

  Why should this man, — mad to devote himself,

  Careless what comes of his own fame, the first, —

  Be studious thus to publish and declare

  Just what the lightest nature loves to hide,

  Nor screen a lady from the byword’s laugh

  “First spoke the lady, last the cavalier!”

  — I say, — why should the man tell truth just here

  When graceful lying meets such ready shrift?

  Or is there a first moment for a priest

  As for a woman, when invaded shame

  Must have its first and last excuse to show?

  Do both contrive love’s entry in the mind

  Shall look, i’ the manner of it, a surprise,

  That after, once the flag o’ the fort hauled down,

  Effrontery may sink drawbridge, open gate,

  Welcome and entertain the conqueror?

  Or what do you say to a touch of the devil’s worst?

  Can it be that the husband, he who wrote

  The letter to his brother I told you of,

  I’ the name of her it meant to criminate, —

  What if he wrote those letters to the priest?

  Further the priest says, when it first befell,

  This folly o’ the letters, that he checked the flow,

  Put them back lightly each with its reply.

  Here again vexes new discrepancy:

  There never reached her eye a word from him;

  He did write but she could not read — she could

  Burn what offended wifehood, womanhood,

  So did burn: never bade him come to her,

  Yet when it proved he must come, let him come,

  And when he did come though uncalled, she spoke

  Prompt by an inspiration: thus it was.

  Will you go somewhat back to understand?

  When first, pursuant to his plan, there sprung,

  Like an uncaged beast, Guido’s cruelty

  On the weak shoulders of his wife, she cried

  To those whom law appoints resource for such,

  The secular guardian — that’s the Governor,

  And the Archbishop, — that’s the spiritual guide,

  And prayed them take the claws from out her flesh.

  Now, this is ever the ill consequence

  Of being noble, poor, and difficult,

  Ungainly, yet too great to disregard, —

  That the born peers and friends hereditary

  Though disinclined to help from their own store

  The opprobrious wight, put penny in his poke

  From purse of theirs or leave the door ajar

  When he goes wistful by at dinner-time, —

  Yet, if his needs conduct him where they sit

  Smugly in office, judge this, bishop that,

  Dispensers of the shine and shade o’ the place —

  And if, the friend’s door shut and purse undrawn,

  The potentate may find the office-hall

  Do as good service at no cost — give help

  By-the-bye, pay up traditional dues at once

  Just through a feather-weight too much i’ the scale,

  A finger-tip forgot at the balance-tongue, —

  Why, only churls refuse, or Molinists.

  Thus when, in the first roughness of surprise

  At Guido’s wolf-face whence the sheepskin fell,

  The frightened couple, all bewilderment,

  Rushed to the Governor, — who else rights wrong?

  Told him their tale of wrong and craved redress —

  Why, then the Governor woke up to the fact

  That Guido was a friend of old, poor Count! —

  So, promptly paid his tribute, promised the pair,

  Wholesome chastisement should soon cure their qualms

  Next time they came and prated and told lies:

  Which stopped all prating, sent them dumb to Rome.

  Well, now it was Pompilia’s turn to try:

  The troubles pressing on her, as I said,

  Three times she rushed, maddened by misery,

  To the other mighty man, sobbed out her prayer

  At footstool of the Archbishop — fast the friend

  Of her husband also! Oh, good friends of yore!

  So, the Archbishop, not to be outdone

  By the Governor, break custom more than he,

  Thrice bade the foolish woman stop her tongue,

  Unloosed her hands from harassing his gout,

  Coached her and carried her to the Count again,

  — His old friend should be master in his house,

  Rule his wife and correct her faults at need!

  Well, driven from post to pillar in this wise,

  She, as a last resource, betook herself

  To one, should be no family-friend at least,

  A simple friar o’ the city; confessed to him,

  Then told how fierce temptation of release

  By self-dealt death was busy with her soul,

  And urged that he put this in words, write plain

  For one who could not write, set down her prayer

  That Pietro and Violante, parent-like

  If somehow not her parents, should for love

  Come save her, pluck from out the flame the brand

  Themselves had thoughtlessly thrust in so deep

  To send gay-coloured sparkles up and cheer

  Their seat at the chimney-corner. The good friar

  Promised as much at the moment; but, alack,

  Night brings discretion: he was no one’s friend,

  Yet presently found he could not turn about

  Nor take a step i’ the case and fail to tread

  On someone’s toe who either was a friend,

  Or a friend’s friend, or friend’s friend thrice-removed,

  And woe to friar by whom offences come!

  So, the course being plain, — with a general sigh

  At matrimony the profound mistake, —

  He threw reluctantly the business up,

  Having his other penitents to mind.

  If then, all outlets thus secured save one,

  At last she took to the open, stood and stared

  With her wan face to see where God might wait —

  And there found Caponsacchi wait as well

  For the precious something at perdition’s edge.

  He only was predestinate to save, —

  And if they recognised in a critical flash

  From the zenith, each the other, her need of him,

  His need of . . . say, a woman to perish for,

  The regular way o’ the world, yet break no vow,

  Do no harm save to himself, — if this were thus?

  How do you say? It were improbable;

  So is the legend of my patron-saint.

  Anyhow, whether, as Guido states the case,

  Pompilia, — like a starving wretch i’ the street

  Who stops and rifles the first passenger

  In the great right of an excessive wrong, —

  Did somehow call this stranger and he came, —

  Or whether the strange sudden interview

  Blazed as when star and star must needs go close

  Till each hurts each and there is loss in heaven —

  Whatever way in this strange world it was, —

  Pompilia and Caponsacchi met, in fine,

  She at her window, he i’ the street beneath,

  And underst
ood each other at first look.

  All was determined and performed at once

  And on a certain April evening, late

  I’ the month, this girl of sixteen, bride and wife

  Three years and over, — she who hitherto

  Had never taken twenty steps in Rome

  Beyond the church, pinned to her mother’s gown,

  Nor, in Arezzo, knew her way through street

  Except what led to the Archbishop’s door, —

  Such an one rose up in the dark, laid hand

  On what came first, clothes and a trinket or two,

  Belongings of her own in the old day, —

  Stole from the side o’ the sleeping spouse — who knows?

  Sleeping perhaps, silent for certain, — slid

  Ghost-like from great dark room to great dark room,

  In through the tapestries and out again

  And onward, unembarrassed as a fate,

  Descended staircase, gained last door of all,

  Sent it wide open at first push of palm,

  And there stood, first time, last and only time,

  At liberty, alone in the open street, —

  Unquestioned, unmolested found herself

  At the city gate, by Caponsacchi’s side,

  Hope there, joy there, life and all good again,

  The carriage there, the convoy there, light there

  Broadening into a full blaze at Rome

  And breaking small what long miles lay between;

  Up she sprang, in he followed, they were safe.

  The husband quotes this for incredible,

  All of the story from first word to last:

  Sees the priest’s hand throughout upholding hers,

  Traces his foot to the alcove, that night,

  Whither and whence blindfold he knew the way,

  Proficient in all craft and stealthiness;

  And cites for proof a servant, eye that watched

  And ear that opened to purse secrets up,

  A woman-spy, — suborned to give and take

  Letters and tokens, do the work of shame

  The more adroitly that herself, who helped

  Communion thus between a tainted pair,

  Had long since been a leper thick in spot,

  A common trull o’ the town: she witnessed all,

  Helped many meetings, partings, took her wage

  And then told Guido the whole matter. Lies!

  The woman’s life confutes her word, — her word

  Confutes itself: “Thus, thus and thus I lied.”

  “And thus, no question, still you lie,” we say.

  “Ay, but at last, e’en have it how you will,

  “Whatever the means, whatever the way, explodes

  “The consummation” — the accusers shriek:

  “Here is the wife avowedly found in flight,

  “And the companion of her flight, a priest;

  “She flies her husband, he the church his spouse:

  “What is this?”

  Wife and priest alike reply

  “This is the simple thing it claims to be,

  “A course we took for life and honour’s sake,

  “Very strange, very justifiable.”

  She says, “God put it in my head to fly,

  “As when the martin migrates: autumn claps

  “Her hands, cries ‘Winter’s coming, will be here,

  “‘Off with you ere the white teeth overtake!

  “‘Flee!’ So I fled: this friend was the warm day,

  “The south wind and whatever favours flight;

  “I took the favour, had the help, how else?

  “And so we did fly rapidly all night,

  “All day, all night — a longer night — again,

  “And then another day, longest of days,

  “And all the while, whether we fled or stopped,

  “I scarce know how or why, one thought filled both,

  “‘Fly and arrive!’ So long as I found strength

  “I talked with my companion, told him much,

  “Knowing that he knew more, knew me, knew God

  “And God’s disposal of me, — but the sense

  “O’ the blessed flight absorbed me in the main,

  “And speech became mere talking through a sleep,

  “Till at the end of that last longest night

  “In a red daybreak, when we reached an inn

  “And my companion whispered ‘Next stage — Rome!’

  “Sudden the weak flesh fell like piled-up cards,

  “All the frail fabric at a finger’s touch,

  “And prostrate the poor soul too, and I said,

  “‘But though Count Guido were a furlong off,

  “‘Just on me, I must stop and rest awhile!’

  “Then something like a white wave o’ the sea

  “Broke o’er my brain and buried me in sleep

  “Blessedly, till it ebbed and left me loose,

  “And where was I found but on a strange bed

  “In a strange room like hell, roaring with noise,

  “Ruddy with flame, and filled with men, in front

  “Whom but the man you call my husband, ay —

  “Count Guido once more between heaven and me,

  “For there my heaven stood, my salvation, yes —

  “That Caponsacchi all my heaven of help,

  “Helpless himself, held prisoner in the hands

  “Of men who looked up in my husband’s face

  “To take the fate thence he should signify,

  “Just as the way was at Arezzo: then,

  “Not for my sake but his who had helped me —

  “I sprang up, reached him with one bound, and seized

  “The sword o’ the felon, trembling at his side,

  “Fit creature of a coward, unsheathed the thing

  “And would have pinned him through the poison-bag

  “To the wall and left him there to palpitate,

  “As you serve scorpions, but men interposed —

  “Disarmed me, gave his life to him again

  “That he might take mine and the other lives,

  “And he has done so. I submit myself!”

  The priest says — oh, and in the main result

  The facts asseverate, he truly says,

  As to the very act and deed of him,

  However you mistrust the mind o’ the man —

  The flight was just for flight’s sake, no pretext

  For aught except to set Pompilia free:

  He says “I cite the husband’s self’s worst charge

  “In proof of my best word for both of us.

  “Be it conceded that so many times

  “We took our pleasure in his palace: then,

  “What need to fly at all? — or flying no less,

  “What need to outrage the lips sick and white

  “Of a woman, and bring ruin down beside,

  “By halting when Rome lay one stage beyond?”

  So does he vindicate Pompilia’s fame,

  Confirm her story in all points but one —

  This; that, so fleeing and so breathing forth

  Her last strength in the prayer to halt awhile,

  She makes confusion of the reddening white

  Which was the sunset when her strength gave way,

  And the next sunrise and its whitening red

  Which she revived in when her husband came:

  She mixes both times, morn and eve, in one,

  Having lived through a blank of night ‘twixt each

  Though dead-asleep, unaware as a corpse,

  She on the bed above; her friend below

  Watched in the doorway of the inn the while,

  Stood i’ the red o’ the morn, that she mistakes,

  In act to rouse and quicken the tardy crew

  And hurry out the horses, have the stage

  Over, the last league, reach Rome
and be safe:

  When up came Guido.

  Guido’s tale begins —

  How he and his whole household, drunk to death

  By some enchanted potion, poppied drugs

  Plied by the wife, lay powerless in gross sleep

  And left the spoilers unimpeded way,

  Could not shake off their poison and pursue,

  Till noontide, then made shift to get on horse

  And did pursue: which means, he took his time,

  Pressed on no more than lingered after, step

  By step, just making sure o’ the fugitives,

  Till at the nick of time, he saw his chance,

  Seized it, came up with and surprised the pair.

  How he must needs have gnawn lip and gnashed teeth,

  Taking successively at tower and town,

  Village and roadside, still the same report,

  “Yes, such a pair arrived an hour ago,

  “Sat in the carriage just where your horse stands,

  “While we got horses ready, — turned deaf ear

  “To all entreaty they would even alight;

  “Counted the minutes and resumed their course.”

  Would they indeed escape, arrive at Rome,

  Leave no least loop to let damnation through,

  And foil him of his captured infamy,

  Prize of guilt proved and perfect? So it seemed:

  Till, oh the happy chance, at last stage, Rome

  But two short hours off, Castelnuovo reached,

  The guardian angel gave reluctant place,

  Satan stepped forward with alacrity,

  Pompilia’s flesh and blood succumbed, perforce

  A halt was, and her husband had his will,

  Perdue he couched, counted out hour by hour

  Till he should spy in the east a signal-streak —

  Night had been, morrow was, triumph would be.

  Do you see the plan deliciously complete?

  The rush upon the unsuspecting sleep,

  The easy execution, the outcry

  Over the deed, “Take notice all the world!

  “These two dead bodies, locked still in embrace, —

  “The man is Caponsacchi and a priest,

  “The woman is my wife: they fled me late,

  “Thus have I found and you behold them thus,

  “And may judge me: do you approve or no?”

  Success did seem not so improbable,

  But that already Satan’s laugh was heard,

  His back turned on Guido — left i’ the lurch,

  Or rather, baulked of suit and service now,

  That he improve on both by one deed more,

  Burn up the better at no distant day,

  Body and soul one holocaust to hell.

  Anyhow, of this natural consequence

  Did just the last link of the long chain snap:

  For his eruption was o’ the priest, alive