Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  “Good bye, I’m gone!” — nor waited the reply.

  That night at supper, out my husband broke,

  “Why was that throwing, that buffoonery?

  “Do you think I am your dupe? What man would dare

  “Throw comfits in a stranger lady’s lap?

  “‘Twas knowledge of you bred such insolence

  “In Caponsacchi; he dared shoot the bolt,

  “Using that Conti for his stalking-horse.

  “How could you see him this once and no more,

  “When he is always haunting hereabout

  “At the street-corner or the palace-side,

  “Publishing my shame and your impudence?

  “You are a wanton, — I a dupe, you think?

  “O Christ, what hinders that I kill her quick?”

  Whereat he drew his sword and feigned a thrust.

  All this, now, — being not so strange to me,

  Used to such misconception day by day

  And broken-in to bear, — I bore, this time,

  More quietly than woman should perhaps:

  Repeated the mere truth and held my tongue.

  Then he said, “Since you play the ignorant,

  “I shall instruct you. This amour, — commenced

  “Or finished or midway in act, all’s one, —

  “‘Tis the town-talk; so my revenge shall be.

  “Does he presume because he is a priest?

  “I warn him that the sword I wear shall pink

  “His lily-scented cassock through and through,

  “Next time I catch him underneath your eaves!”

  But he had threatened with the sword so oft

  And, after all, not kept his promise. All

  I said was, “Let God save the innocent!

  “Moreover, death is far from a bad fate.

  “I shall go pray for you and me, not him;

  “And then I look to sleep, come death or, worse,

  “Life.” So, I slept.

  There may have elapsed a week,

  When Margherita, — called my waiting-maid,

  Whom it is said my husband found too fair —

  Who stood and heard the charge and the reply,

  Who never once would let the matter rest

  From that night forward, but rang changes still

  On this the thrust and that the shame, and how

  Good cause for jealousy cures jealous fools,

  And what a paragon was this same priest

  She talked about until I stopped my ears, —

  She said, “A week is gone; you comb your hair,

  “Then go mope in a corner, cheek on palm,

  “Till night comes round again, — so, waste a week

  “As if your husband menaced you in sport.

  “Have not I some acquaintance with his tricks?

  “Oh no, he did not stab the serving-man

  “Who made and sang the rhymes about me once!

  “For why? They sent him to the wars next day.

  “Nor poisoned he the foreigner, my friend,

  “Who wagered on the whiteness of my breast, —

  “The swarth skins of our city in dispute:

  “For, though he paid me proper compliment,

  “The Count well knew he was besotted with

  “Somebody else, a skin as black as ink,

  “(As all the town knew save my foreigner)

  “He found and wedded presently, — ’Why need

  “‘Better revenge?’ — the Count asked. But what’s here?

  “A priest, that does not fight, and cannot wed,

  “Yet must be dealt with! If the Count took fire

  “For the poor pastime of a minute, — me —

  “What were the conflagration for yourself,

  “Countess and lady-wife and all the rest?

  “The priest will perish; you will grieve too late:

  “So shall the city-ladies’ handsomest,

  “Frankest and liberalest gentleman

  “Die for you, to appease a scurvy dog

  “Hanging’s too good for. Is there no escape?

  “Were it not simple Christian charity

  “To warn the priest be on his guard, — save him

  “Assured death, save yourself from causing it?

  “I meet him in the street. Give me a glove,

  “A ring to show for token! Mum’s the word!”

  I answered, “If you were, as styled, my maid,

  “I would command you: as you are, you say,

  “My husband’s intimate, — assist his wife

  “Who can do nothing but entreat ‘Be still!’

  “Even if you speak truth and a crime is planned,

  “Leave help to God as I am forced to do!

  “There is no other course, or we should craze,

  “Seeing such evil with no human cure.

  “Reflect that God, who makes the storm desist,

  “Can make an angry violent heart subside.

  “Why should we venture teach Him governance?

  “Never address me on this subject more!”

  “ — Ay, saw your Caponsacchi in his house,

  “And come back stuffed with news I must outpour.

  “I told him, ‘Sir, my mistress is a stone:

  “‘Why should you harm her for no good you get?

  “‘For you do harm her — prowl about our place

  “‘With the Count never distant half the street,

  “‘Lurking at every corner, would you look!

  “‘‘Tis certain she has witched you with a spell.

  “‘Are there not other beauties at your beck?

  “‘We all know, Donna This and Monna That

  “‘Die for a glance of yours, yet here you gaze!

  “‘Go make them grateful, leave the stone its cold!’

  “And he — oh, he turned first white and then red,

  “And then — ’To her behest I bow myself,

  “‘Whom I love with my body and my soul:

  “‘Only, a word i’ the bowing! See, I write

  “‘One little word, no harm to see or hear!

  “‘Then, fear no further!’ This is what he wrote.

  “I know you cannot read, — therefore, let me!

  “‘My idol!’” . . .

  But I took it from her hand

  And tore it into shreds. “Why join the rest

  “Who harm me? Have I ever done you wrong?

  “People have told me ‘tis you wrong myself:

  “Let it suffice I either feel no wrong

  “Or else forgive it, — yet you turn my foe!

  “The others hunt me and you throw a noose!”

  She muttered, “Have your wilful way!” I slept.

  Whereupon . . . no, I leave my husband out!

  It is not to do him more hurt, I speak.

  Let it suffice, when misery was most,

  One day, I swooned and got a respite so.

  She stooped as I was slowly coming to,

  This Margherita, ever on my trace,

  And whispered — ”Caponsacchi!”

  If I drowned,

  But woke afloat i’ the wave with upturned eyes,

  And found their first sight was a star! I turned —

  For the first time, I let her have her will,

  Heard passively, — ”The imposthume at such head,

  “One touch, one lancet-puncture would relieve, —

  “And still no glance the good physician’s way

  “Who rids you of the torment in a trice!

  “Still he writes letters you refuse to hear.

  “He may prevent your husband, kill himself,

  “So desperate and all foredone is he!

  “Just hear the pretty verse he made to-day!

  “A sonnet from Mirtillo. ‘Peerless fair . . . ’

  “All poetry is difficult to read,

  “ — The sense of it is, anyhow, he
seeks

  “Leave to contrive you an escape from hell,

  “And for that purpose asks an interview.

  “I can write, I can grant it in your name,

  “Or, what is better, lead you to his house.

  “Your husband dashes you against the stones;

  “This man would place each fragment in a shrine:

  “You hate him, love your husband!”

  I returned,

  “It is not true I love my husband, — no,

  “Nor hate this man. I listen while you speak,

  “ — Assured that what you say is false, the same:

  “Much as when once, to me a little child,

  “A rough gaunt man in rags, with eyes on fire,

  “A crowd of boys and idlers at his heels,

  “Rushed as I crossed the Square, and held my head

  “In his two hands, ‘Here’s she will let me speak!

  “‘You little girl, whose eyes do good to mine,

  “‘I am the Pope, am Sextus, now the Sixth;

  “‘And that Twelfth Innocent, proclaimed to-day,

  “‘Is Lucifer disguised in human flesh!

  “‘The angels, met in conclave, crowned me!’ — thus

  “He gibbered and I listened; but I knew

  “All was delusion, ere folks interposed

  “‘Unfasten him, the maniac!’ Thus I know

  “All your report of Caponsacchi false,

  “Folly or dreaming; I have seen so much

  “By that adventure at the spectacle,

  “The face I fronted that one first, last time:

  “He would belie it by such words and thoughts.

  “Therefore while you profess to show him me,

  “I ever see his own face. Get you gone!”

  “ — That will I, nor once open mouth again, —

  “No, by Saint Joseph and the Holy Ghost!

  “On your head be the damage, so adieu!”

  And so more days, more deeds I must forget,

  Till . . . what a strange thing now is to declare!

  Since I say anything, say all if true!

  And how my life seems lengthened as to serve!

  It may be idle or inopportune,

  But, true? — why, what was all I said but truth,

  Even when I found that such as are untrue

  Could only take the truth in through a lie?

  Now — I am speaking truth to the Truth’s self:

  God will lend credit to my words this time.

  It had got half through April. I arose

  One vivid daybreak, — who had gone to bed

  In the old way my wont those last three years,

  Careless until, the cup drained, I should die.

  The last sound in my ear, the over-night,

  Had been a something let drop on the sly

  In prattle by Margherita, “Soon enough

  “Gaieties end, now Easter’s past: a week,

  “And the Archbishop gets him back to Rome, —

  “Everyone leaves the town for Rome, this Spring, —

  “Even Caponsacchi, out of heart and hope,

  “Resigns himself and follows with the flock.”

  I heard this drop and drop like rain outside

  Fast-falling through the darkness while she spoke:

  So had I heard with like indifference,

  “And Michael’s pair of wings will arrive first

  “At Rome to introduce the company,

  “Will bear him from our picture where he fights

  “Satan, — expect to have that dragon loose

  “And never a defender!” — my sole thought

  Being still, as night came, “Done, another day!

  “How good to sleep and so get nearer death!” —

  When, what, first thing at daybreak, pierced the sleep

  With a summons to me? Up I sprang alive,

  Light in me, light without me, everywhere

  Change! A broad yellow sun-beam was let fall

  From heaven to earth, — a sudden drawbridge lay,

  Along which marched a myriad merry motes,

  Mocking the flies that crossed them and recrossed

  In rival dance, companions new-born too.

  On the house-eaves, a dripping shag of weed

  Shook diamonds on each dull grey lattice-square,

  As first one, then another bird leapt by,

  And light was off, and lo was back again,

  Always with one voice, — where are two such joys? —

  The blessed building-sparrow! I stepped forth,

  Stood on the terrace, — o’er the roofs, such sky!

  My heart sang, “I too am to go away,

  “I too have something I must care about,

  “Carry away with me to Rome, to Rome!

  “The bird brings hither sticks and hairs and wool,

  “And nowhere else i’ the world; what fly breaks rank,

  “Falls out of the procession that befits,

  “From window here to window there, with all

  “The world to choose, — so well he knows his course?

  “I have my purpose and my motive too,

  “My march to Rome, like any bird or fly!

  “Had I been dead! How right to be alive!

  “Last night I almost prayed for leave to die,

  “Wished Guido all his pleasure with the sword

  “Or the poison, — poison, sword, was but a trick,

  “Harmless, may God forgive him the poor jest!

  “My life is charmed, will last till I reach Rome!

  “Yesterday, but for the sin, — ah, nameless be

  “The deed I could have dared against myself!

  “Now — see if I will touch an unripe fruit,

  “And risk the health I want to have and use!

  “Not to live, now, would be the wickedness, —

  “For life means to make haste and go to Rome

  “And leave Arezzo, leave all woes at once!”

  Now, understand here, by no means mistake!

  Long ago had I tried to leave that house

  When it seemed such procedure would stop sin;

  And still failed more the more I tried — at first

  The Archbishop, as I told you, — next, our lord

  The Governor, — indeed I found my way,

  I went to the great palace where he rules,

  Though I knew well ‘twas he who, — when I gave

  A jewel or two, themselves had given me,

  Back to my parents, — since they wanted bread,

  They who had never let me want a nosegay, — he

  Spoke of the jail for felons, if they kept

  What was first theirs, then mine, so doubly theirs,

  Though all the while my husband’s most of all!

  I knew well who had spoke the word wrought this:

  Yet, being in extremity, I fled

  To the Governor, as I say, — scarce opened lip

  When — the cold cruel snicker close behind —

  Guido was on my trace, already there,

  Exchanging nod and wink for shrug and smile,

  And I — pushed back to him and, for my pains,

  Paid with . . . but why remember what is past?

  I sought out a poor friar the people call

  The Roman, and confessed my sin which came

  Of their sin, — that fact could not be repressed, —

  The frightfulness of my despair in God:

  And, feeling, through the grate, his horror shake,

  Implored him, “Write for me who cannot write,

  “Apprise my parents, make them rescue me!

  “You bid me be courageous and trust God:

  “Do you in turn dare somewhat, trust and write

  “‘Dear friends, who used to be my parents once,

  “‘And now declare you have no part in me,

  “‘This is some riddle I want wit to s
olve,

  “‘Since you must love me with no difference.

  “‘Even suppose you altered, — there’s your hate,

  “‘To ask for: hate of you two dearest ones

  “‘I shall find liker love than love found here,

  “‘If husbands love their wives. Take me away

  “‘And hate me as you do the gnats and fleas,

  “‘Even the scorpions! How I shall rejoice!’

  “Write that and save me!” And he promised — wrote

  Or did not write; things never changed at all:

  He was not like the Augustinian here!

  Last, in a desperation I appealed

  To friends, whoever wished me better days,

  To Guillichini, that’s of kin, — ”What, I —

  “Travel to Rome with you? A flying gout

  “Bids me deny my heart and mind my leg!”

  Then I tried Conti, used to brave — laugh back

  The louring thunder when his cousin scowled

  At me protected by his presence: “You —

  “Who well know what you cannot save me from, —

  “Carry me off! What frightens you, a priest?”

  He shook his head, looked grave — ”Above my strength!

  “Guido has claws that scratch, shows feline teeth;

  “A formidabler foe than I dare fret:

  “Give me a dog to deal with, twice the size!

  “Of course I am a priest and Canon too,

  “But . . . by the bye . . . though both, not quite so bold

  “As he, my fellow-Canon, brother-priest,

  “The personage in such ill odour here

  “Because of the reports — pure birth o’ the brain —

  “Our Caponsacchi, he’s your true Saint George

  “To slay the monster, set the Princess free,

  “And have the whole High-Altar to himself:

  “I always think so when I see that piece

  “I’ the Pieve, that’s his church and mine, you know:

  “Though you drop eyes at mention of his name!”

  That name had got to take a half-grotesque

  Half-ominous, wholly enigmatic sense,

  Like any bye-word, broken bit of song

  Born with a meaning, changed by mouth and mouth

  That mix it in a sneer or smile, as chance

  Bids, till it now means nought but ugliness

  And perhaps shame.

  — All this intends to say,

  That, over-night, the notion of escape

  Had seemed distemper, dreaming; and the name, —

  Not the man, but the name of him, thus made

  Into a mockery and disgrace, — why, she

  Who uttered it persistently, had laughed,

  “I name his name, and there you start and wince

  “As criminal from the red tongs’ touch!” — yet now,