“To-day, perchance to-morrow recognised
“The rational man, the type of commonsense.”
There’s Loyola adapted to our time!
Under such guidance Guido plays his part,
He also influencing in due turn
These last clods where I track intelligence
By any glimmer, those four at his beck
Ready to murder any, and, at their own,
As ready to murder him, — these are the world!
And, first effect of the new cause of things,
There they lie also duly, — the old pair
Of the weak head and not so wicked heart,
And the one Christian mother, wife and girl,
— Which three gifts seem to make an angel up, —
The first foot of the dance is on their heads!
Still, I stand here, not off the stage though close
On the exit: and my last act, as my first,
I owe the scene, and Him who armed me thus
With Paul’s sword as with Peter’s key. I smite
With my whole strength once more, then end my part,
Ending, so far as man may, this offence.
And when I raise my arm, what plucks my sleeve?
Who stops me in the righteous function, — foe
Or friend? O, still as ever, friends are they
Who, in the interest of outraged truth
Deprecate such rough handling of a lie!
The facts being proved and incontestable,
What is the last word I must listen to?
Is it “Spare yet a term this barren stock,
“We pray thee dig about and dung and dress
“Till he repent and bring forth fruit even yet?”
Is it “So poor and swift a punishment
“Shall throw him out of life with all that sin?
“Let mercy rather pile up pain on pain
“Till the flesh expiate what the soul pays else?”
Nowise! Remonstrance on all sides begins
Instruct me, there’s a new tribunal now
Higher than God’s, — the educated man’s!
Nice sense of honour in the human breast
Supersedes here the old coarse oracle —
Confirming handsomely a point or so
Wherein the predecessor worked aright
By rule of thumb: as when Christ said, — when, where?
Enough, I find it in a pleading here, —
“All other wrongs done, patiently I take:
“But touch my honour and the case is changed!
“I feel the due resentment, — nemini
“Honorem trado, is my quick retort.”
Right of Him, just as if pronounced to-day!
Still, should the old authority be mute,
Or doubtful, or in speaking clash with new,
The younger takes permission to decide.
At last we have the instinct of the world
Ruling its household without tutelage,
And while the two laws, human and divine,
Have busied finger with this tangled case,
In the brisk junior pushes, cuts the knot,
Pronounces for acquittal. How it trips
Silverly o’er the tongue! “Remit the death!
“Forgive . . . well, in the old way, if thou please,
“Decency and the relics of routine
“Respected, — let the Count go free as air!
“Since he may plead a priest’s immunity, —
“The minor orders help enough for that,
“With Farinacci’s licence, — who decides
“That the mere implication of such man,
“So privileged, in any cause, before
“Whatever court except the Spiritual,
“Straight quashes the procedure, — quash it, then!
“It proves a pretty loophole of escape
“Moreover, that, beside the patent fact
“O’ the law’s allowance, there’s involved the weal
“O’ the Popedom: a son’s privilege at stake,
“Thou wilt pretend the Church’s interest,
“Ignore all finer reasons to forgive!
“But herein lies the proper cogency —
“(Let thy friends teach thee while thou tellest beads)
“That in this case the spirit of culture speaks,
“Civilisation is imperative.
“To her shall we remand all delicate points
“Henceforth, nor take irregular advice
“O’ the sly, as heretofore: she used to hint
“Apologies when law was out of sorts
“Because a saucy tongue was put to rest,
“An eye that roved was cured of arrogance:
“But why be forced to mumble under breath
“What soon shall be acknowledged the plain fact,
“Outspoken, say, in thy successor’s time?
“Methinks we see the golden age return!
“Civilisation and the Emperor
“Succeed thy Christianity and Pope.
“One Emperor then, as one Pope now: meanwhile,
“She anticipates a little to tell thee ‘Take
“‘Count Guido’s life, and sap society,
“‘Whereof the main prop was, is, and shall prove
“‘ — Supremacy of husband over wife!’
“Shall the man rule i’ the house, or may his mate
“Because of any plea dispute the same?
“Oh, pleas of all sorts shall abound, be sure,
“If once allowed validity, — for, harsh
“And savage, for, inept and silly-sooth,
“For, this and that, will the ingenious sex
“Demonstrate the best master e’er graced slave:
“And there’s but one short way to end the coil, —
“By giving right and reason steadily
“To the man and master: then the wife submits.
“There it is broadly stated, — nor the time
“Admits we shift — a pillar? nay, a stake
“Out of its place i’ the tenement, one touch
“Whereto may send a shudder through the heap
“And bring it toppling on our heads perchance.
“Moreover, if this breed a qualm in thee,
“Give thine own feelings play for once, — deal death?
“Thou, whose own life winks o’er the socket-edge,
“Would’st thou it went out in such ugly snuff
“As dooming sons to death, though justice bade?
“Why, on a certain feast, Barabbas’ self
“Was set free not to cloud the general cheer.
“Neither shalt thou pollute thy Sabbath close!
“Mercy is safe and graceful. How one hears
“The howl begin, scarce the three little taps
“O’ the silver mallet ended on thy brow, —
“‘His last act was to sacrifice a Count
“‘And thereby screen a scandal of the Church!
“‘Guido condemned, the Canon justified
“‘Of course, — delinquents of his cloth go free!’
“And so the Luthers and the Calvins come,
“So thy hand helps Molinos to the chair
“Whence he may hold forth till doom’s day on just
“These petit-maître priestlings, — in the choir,
“Sanctus et Benedictus, with a brush
“Of soft guitar-strings that obey the thumb,
“Touched by the bedside, for accompaniment!
“Does this give umbrage to a husband? Death
“To the fool, and to the priest impunity!
“But no impunity to any friend
“So simply over-loyal as these four
“Who made religion of their patron’s cause,
“Believed in him and did his bidding straight,
“Asked not one question but laid down the lives
“This Pope took, — all four lives together made
“Just his own length of days, — so, dead they lie,
“As these were times when loyalty’s a drug,
“And zeal in a subordinate too cheap
“And common to be saved when we spend life!
“Come, ‘tis too much good breath we waste in words:
“The pardon, Holy Father! Spare grimace,
“Shrugs and reluctance! Are not we the world,
“Bid thee, our Priam, let soft culture plead
“Hecuba-like, ‘non tali’ (Virgil serves)
“‘Auxilio,’ and the rest! Enough, it works!
“The Pope relaxes, and the Prince is loth,
“The father’s bowels yearn, the man’s will bends,
“Reply is apt. Our tears on tremble, hearts
“Big with a benediction, wait the word
“Shall circulate thro’ the city in a trice,
“Set every window flaring, give each man
“O’ the mob his torch to wave for gratitude.
“Pronounce it, for our breath and patience fail!”
I will, Sirs: for a voice other than yours
Quickens my spirit. “Quis pro Domino?
“Who is upon the Lord’s side?” asked the Count.
I, who write —
”On receipt of this command,
“Acquaint Count Guido and his fellows four
“They die to-morrow: could it be to-night,
“The better, but the work to do, takes time.
“Set with all diligence a scaffold up,
“Not in the customary place, by Bridge
“Saint Angelo, where die the common sort;
“But since the man is noble, and his peers
“By predilection haunt the People’s Square,
“There let him be beheaded in the midst,
“And his companions hanged on either side:
“So shall the quality see, fear, and learn.
“All which work takes time: till to-morrow, then,
“Let there be prayer incessant for the five!”
For the main criminal I have no hope
Except in such a suddenness of fate.
I stood at Naples once, a night so dark
I could have scarce conjectured there was earth
Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all:
But the night’s black was burst through by a blaze —
Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned and bore,
Through her whole length of mountain visible:
There lay the city thick and plain with spires,
And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea.
So may the truth be flashed out by one blow,
And Guido see, one instant, and be saved.
Else I avert my face, nor follow him
Into that sad obscure sequestered state
Where God unmakes but to remake the soul
He else made first in vain; which must not be.
Enough, for I may die this very night
And how should I dare die, this man let live?
Carry this forthwith to the Governor!
Guido
YOU ARE the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi — two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli — ah, your ancestor it was,
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o’ the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
‘Tis Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched, brown brick bridge yawns over, — yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema’s bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O’erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome’s sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air, — if this your visit simply prove,
When all’s done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset, — pshaw!
That man’s a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let’s all go sleep!
You have my last word, — innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary’s own,
As Mary’s self, — I said, say and repeat, —
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I —
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His dues of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter, — nay,
Mistress, — had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail, — these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me!
Then, there’s the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else, — the impossible fancy! — fail, —
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day:
The knaves! One plea at least would hold, they laughed,
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
Even should the middle mud let anchor go —
And hook my cause on to the Clergy’s, — plea
Which, even if law tipped off my hat and plume,
Would show my priestly tonsure, save me so, —
The Pope moreover, this old Innocent,
Being so meek and mild and merciful,
So fond o’ the poor and so fatigued of earth,
So . . . fifty thousand devils in deepest hell!
Why must he cure us of our strange conceit
Of the angel in man’s likeness, that we loved
And looked should help us at a pinch? He help?
He pardon? Here’s his mind and message — death,
Thank the good Pope! Now, is he good in this,
Never mind, Christian, — no such stuff’s extant, —
But will my death do credit to his reign,
Show he both lived and let live, so was good?
Cannot I live if he but like? ‘The law!’
Why, just the law gives him the very chance,
The precise leave to let my life alone,
Which the angelic soul of him (he says)
Yearns after! Here they drop it in his palm,
My lawyers, capital o’ the cursed kind, —
A life to take and hold and keep: but no!
He sighs, shakes head, refuses to shut hand,
Motions away the gift they bid him grasp,
And of the coyness comes that off I run
And down I go, he best knows whither, — mind,
He knows, and sets me rolling all the same!
Disinterested Vicar of our Lord,
This way he abrogates and disallows,
Nullifies and ignores, — reverts in fine
To the good and right, in detriment of me!
Talk away! Will you have the naked truth?
He’s sick of his life’s supper, — swallowed lies:
So, hobbling
bedward, needs must ease his maw
Just where I sit o’ the door-sill. Sir Abate,
Can you do nothing? Friends, we used to frisk:
What of this sudden slash in a friend’s face,
This cut across our good companionship
That showed its front so gay when both were young?
Were not we put into a beaten path,
Bid pace the world, we nobles born and bred,
The body of friends with each his scutcheon full
Of old achievement and impunity, —
Taking the laugh of morn and Sol’s salute
As forth we fared, pricked on to breathe our steeds
And take equestrian sport over the green
Under the blue, across the crop, — what care?
So we went prancing up hill and down dale,
In and out of the level and the straight,
By the bit of pleasant byeway, where was harm?
Still Sol salutes me and the morning laughs:
I see my grandsire’s hoof-prints, — point the spot
Where he drew rein, slipped saddle, and stabbed knave
For daring throw gibe — much less, stone — from pale,
Then back, and on, and up with the cavalcade;
Just so wend we, now canter, now converse,
Till, ‘mid the jauncing pride and jaunty port,
Something of a sudden jerks at somebody —
A dagger is out, a flashing cut and thrust,
Because I play some prank my grandsire played,
And here I sprawl: where is the company? Gone!
A trot and a trample! only I lie trapped,
Writhe in a certain novel springe just set
By the good old Pope: I’m first prize. Warn me? Why?
Apprize me that the law o’ the game is changed?
Enough that I’m a warning, as I writhe,
To all and each my fellows of the file,
And make law plain henceforward past mistake,
“For such a prank, death is the penalty!”
Pope the Five Hundredth . . . what do I know or care?
Deputes your Eminence and Abateship
To announce that, twelve hours from this time, he needs
I just essay upon my body and soul
The virtue of his bran-new engine, prove
Represser of the pranksome! I’m the first!
Thanks. Do you know what teeth you mean to try
The sharpness of, on this soft neck and throat?
I know it, — I have seen and hate it, — ay,
As you shall, while I tell you: let me talk,
Or leave me, at your pleasure! talk I must:
What is your visit but my lure to talk?
You have a something to disclose? — a smile,
At end of the forced sternness, means to mock
The heart-beats here? I call your two hearts stone!
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 129