Chapter XCIX: Prologue (2)

So, truce to the protesting,
So, muffled be the kisses!
For, would we but avow the truth,
Sober is genuine joy. No jesting!
Ask else Penelope, Ulysses--
Old in youth!

For why should ghosts feel angered?
Let all their interference
Be faint march-music in the air!
"Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard!
Up, lovers, dead to all appearance,
Laggard pair!"

The while you clasp me closer,
The while I press you deeper,
As safe we chuckle,--under breath,
Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,--
"So, life can boast its day, like leap-year,
Stolen from death!"

Ah me--the sudden terror!
Hence quick--avaunt, avoid me,
You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised!
Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error!
So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me,
Loved--and lied!

Ay, dead loves are the potent!
Like any cloud they used you,
Mere semblance you, but substance they!
Build we no mansion, weave we no tent!
Mere flesh--their spirit interfused you!
Hence, I say!

All theirs, none yours the glamour!
Theirs each low word that won me,
Soft look that found me Love's, and left
What else but you--the tears and clamor
That 's all your very own! Undone me--
Ghost-bereft!

HERVÉ RIEL

This ballad was printed first in the _Cornhill Magazine_ for March, 1871. In a letter to Mr. George Smith, one of the publishers of the magazine, Browning stated that he intended to devote the proceeds of the poem to the aid of the people of Paris suffering from the Franco-German war. The publisher generously seconded his resolve and paid one hundred pounds for the poem.

I

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French,--woe to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.

II

'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still,
Here 's the English can and will!"

III

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed
they:
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and
scored,
Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
And with flow at full beside?
Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"

IV

Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here 's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?
Better run the ships aground!"
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
"Not a minute more to wait!
Let the Captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.

V

"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these
--A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,
A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

VI

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell
'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 's for?
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there 's a
way!
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this 'Formidable' clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
Right to Solidor past Grève,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave,
--Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I 've nothing but my life,--here 's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.

VII

Not a minute more to wait.
"Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.
Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,
All are harbored to the last,
And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate,
Up the English come--too late!

VIII

So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Grève.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is Paradise for Hell!
Let France, let France's King
Thank the man that did the thing!"
What a shout, and all one word,
"Hervé Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

IX

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard.
Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships,
You must name your own reward.
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content and have! or my name 's not Damfreville."

X

Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty 's done.
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?--
Since 't is ask and have, I may--
Since the others go ashore--
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

XI

Name and deed alike are lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing-smack,
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank!
You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.
So, for better and for worse,
Hervé Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

A FORGIVENESS

I am indeed the personage you know.
As for my wife,--what happened long ago--
You have a right to question me, as I
Am bound to answer.

("Son, a fit reply!"
The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,
At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place
I had as still I have. I ran life's race,
With the whole world to see, as only strains
His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains
Of good appall him: happy to excess,--
Work freely done should balance happiness
Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof
Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof
I went forth every day, and all day long
Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song
Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe
Of laboring flesh and blood--"She loves me so!"

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve
That work grew play and vanished. "I deserve
Haply my heaven an hour before the time!"
I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime
Surprised me passing through the postern-gate
--Not the main entry where the menials wait
And wonder why the world's affairs allow
The master sudden leisure. That was how
I took the private garden-way for once.

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce
Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.

My fancies in the natural order ran:
"A spy,--perhaps a foe in ambuscade,--
A thief,--more like, a sweetheart of some maid
Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps."

"Stand there!" I bid.

Whereat my man but wraps
His face the closelier with uplifted arm
Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm
This and that pedestal as,--stretch and stoop,--
Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group
Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged
Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged
For safety: one step thence, the street, you know!

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,
Near on admiringly, I breathed again,
And--back to that last fancy of the train--
"A danger risked for hope of just a word
With--which of all my nest may be the bird
This poacher covets for her plumage, pray?
Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay
For such adventure, while Juana's grave
--Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!
He had the eye, could single from my brood
His proper fledgeling!"

As I turned, there stood
In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.
Whether one bound had brought her,--at first sight
Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be
Next moment, of the venturous man and me,--
Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:
Whether impelled because her death no day
Could come so absolutely opportune
As now at joy's height, like a year in June
Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;
Or whether hungry for my hate--who knows?--
Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste
Our tingling true relation, hate embraced
By hate one naked moment:--anyhow
There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now
The woman who made heaven within my house.
Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse
As well as love--you are to recollect!

"Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked
With crime, that 's spotless hitherto--your own!
Kill me who court the blessing, who alone
Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!
The man lay helpless in the toils I cast
About him, helpless as the statue there
Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear
Away and tread to dust the parasite,
But do the passive marble no despite!
I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike
At one blow both infinitudes alike
Out of existence--hate and love! Whence love?
That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove
For any searching of your steel, I think.
Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink
Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,
At every form wherein your love took shape,
At each new provocation of your kiss.
Kill me!"

We went in.

Next day after this,
I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke--
Easily, after all.

"The lifted cloak
Was screen sufficient: I concern myself
Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf--
Whate'er the ignoble kind--may prowl and brave
Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave
Detected by my household's vigilance.
Enough of such! As for my love-romance--
I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes
And wake and wonder how the film could rise
Which changed for me a barbers' basin straight
Into--Mambrino's helm? I hesitate
Nowise to say--God's sacramental cup!
Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,
Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?
To me--a warning I was overbold
In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked
Only to die, if I remember,--staked
His life upon the basin's worth, and lost:
While I confess torpidity at most
In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,
Still should I work on, still repair my fault
Ere I took rest in death,--no fear at all!
Now, work--no word before the curtain fall!"

The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant:
My "word," permissible in death's event,
Would be--truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise,
Day by day, three years long, there had to rise
And, night by night, to fall upon our stage--
Ours, doomed to public play by heritage--
Another curtain, when the world, perforce
Our critical assembly, in due course
Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame
To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game
If, suffered to set foot behind our scene,
The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,
Gallant and lady, but a minute since
Enarming each the other, would evince
No sign of recognition as they took
His way and her way to whatever nook
Waited them in the darkness either side
Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride
Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit
Of sympathetic rapture--every whit
Earned as the curtain fell on her and me,
--Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see
But calm and concord: where a speech was due
There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,
Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,
Where foreign and domestic cares combine,
There 's audience every day and all day long;
But finally the last of the whole throng
Who linger lets one see his back. For her--
Why, liberty and liking: I aver,
Liking and liberty! For me--I breathed,
Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed
Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task
Of personation till next day bade mask,
And quietly betook me from that world
To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled
In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.
Three years I worked, each minute of each hour
Not claimed by acting:--work I may dispense
With talk about, since work in evidence,
Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?

After three years, this way, all unawares,
Our acting ended. She and I, at close
Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows
Of bending male and female loyalty,
Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high
At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare
Herald his passage from our palace, where
Such visiting left glory evermore.
Again the ascent in public, till at door
As we two stood by the saloon--now blank
And disencumbered of its guests--there sank
A whisper in my ear, so low and yet
So unmistakable!

"I half forget
The chamber you repair to, and I want
Occasion for one short word--if you grant
That grace--within a certain room you called
Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled
Some paper full of faces for my sport.
That room I can remember. Just one short
Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!"

"Follow me thither!" I replied.

We break
The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp
I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp
Blind disused serpentining ways afar
From where the habitable chambers are,--
Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,--
Always in silence,--till I reach the lone
Chamber sepulchred for my very own
Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy,
Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,
Proof-positive of ownership; in youth
I garnered up my gleanings here--uncouth
But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;
Finally, this became in after-years
My closet of entrenchment to withstand
Invasion of the foe on every hand--The
multifarious herd in bower and hall,
State-room,--rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call
On masters to be mindful that, before
Men, they must look like men and something more.
Here,--when our lord the king's bestowment ceased
To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,
I touched ambition's height,--'t was here, released
From glory (always symbolled by a chain!)
No sooner was I privileged to gain
My secret domicile than glad I flung
That last toy on the table--gazed where hung
On hook my father's gift, the arquebus--
And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thus
The new prize and the old prize, when I reach
Another year's experience?--own that each
Equalled advantage--sportsman's--statesman's tool?
That brought me down an eagle, this--a fool!"

Into which room on entry, I set down
The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown
Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace.
Each of us looked the other in the face.
She spoke. "Since I could die now "...

(To explain
Why that first struck me, know--not once again
Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge
Three years before, which sundered like a wedge
Her soul from mine,--though daily, smile to smile,
We stood before the public,--all the while
Not once had I distinguished, in that face
I paid observance to, the faintest trace
Of feature more than requisite for eyes
To do their duty by and recognize:
So did I force mine to obey my will
And pry no further. There exists such skill,--
Those know who need it. What physician shrinks
From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks
No plague so long as thirst for knowledge--not
An idler impulse--prompts inquiry. What,
And will you disbelieve in power to bid
Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid
A child from scrutiny that's just and right
In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,
Reported daily she it was--not how
Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)

"Since I could die now of the truth concealed,
Yet dare not, must not die,--so seems revealed
The Virgin's mind to me,--for death means peace
Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease
Of life and punishment the truth avowed
May haply lengthen,--let me push the shroud
Away, that steals to muffle ere is just
My penance-fire in snow! I dare--I must
Live, by avowal of the truth--this truth--
I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth
That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite
Than all preceding torture, proves me right!
I loved you yet I lost you! May I go
Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?"

I think there never was such--how express?--
Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,
As in those arms of Eastern workmanship--
Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,
Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,
Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays
Love still at work with the artificer
Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,
Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe
And bicker like a flame?--now play the scythe
As if some broad neck tempted,--now contract
And needle off into a fineness lacked
For just that puncture which the heart demands?
Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands
Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold
Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!
Fancy my favorite--which I seem to grasp
While I describe the luxury. No asp
Is diapered more delicate round throat
Than this below the handle! These denote
--These mazy lines meandering, to end
Only in flesh they open--what intend
They else but water-purlings--pale contrast
With the life-crimson where they blend at last?
And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,
Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,
Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks
A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks
Pure from the mine: seen this way,--glassy blank,
But turn them,--lo, the inmost fire, that shrank
From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!
Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game
Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men
War-wearied get amusement from that pen
And paper we grow sick of--statesfolk tired
Of merely (when such measures are required)
Dealing out doom to people by three words,
A signature and seal: we play with swords
Suggestive of quick process. That is how
I came to like the toys described you now,
Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed
The table, even, while my wife pursued
Her purpose to its ending. "Now you know
This shame, my three years' torture, let me go,
Burn to the very ashes! You--I lost,
Yet you--I loved!"

The thing I pity most
In men is--action prompted by surprise
Of anger: men? nay, bulls--whose onset lies
At instance of the firework and the goad!
Once the foe prostrate,--trampling once bestowed,--
Prompt follows placability, regret,
Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet
Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse
Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse
My veins at this occasion for resolve.
Had that devolved which did not then devolve
Upon me, I had done--what now to do
Was quietly apparent.

"Tell me who
The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!"
"No, never! All was folly in his case,
All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied."

"And yet you loved me?"

"Loved you. Double-dyed
In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave
Your heart and soul away from me to slave
At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,
I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,
What you rejected could be prized beyond
Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond
Look on, a fatal word to."

"And you still
Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?"

"Conjecture--well or ill! I had three years
To spend in learning you."

"We both are peers
In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent
Ere thus much of yourself _I_ learn--who went
Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind
To bear upon your action, uncombined
Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived
Of every purer particle, survived
At last in native simple hideousness,
Utter contemptibility, nor less
Nor more. Contemptibility--exempt
How could I, from its proper due--contempt?
I have too much despised you to divert
My life from its set course by help or hurt
Of your all-despicable life--perturb
The calm I work in, by--men's mouths to curb,
Which at such news were clamorous enough--
Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff
With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall
Blank where a scutcheon hung,--by, worse than all,
Each day's procession, my paraded life
Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife
--Now that my life (which means--my work) was grown
Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone
Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby
Of good and praise would--how rewardingly!--
Fall at your feet,--a crown I hoped to cast
Before your love, my love should crown at last.
No love remaining to cast crown before,
My love stopped work now: but contempt the more
Impelled me task as ever head and hand,
Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand
Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.
Therefore I kept my memory down by stress
Of daily work I had no mind to stay
For the world's wonder at the wife away.
Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,
For I despised you! But your words retrieve
Importantly the past. No hate assumed
The mask of love at any time! There gloomed
A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged
By causes you declare; but love's self purged
Away a fancied wrong I did both loves
--Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves,
Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise
High by how many a grade! I did despise--
I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment
Replace contempt's! First step to which ascent--
Write down your own words I re-utter you!
'_I loved my husband and I hated--who_
_He was, I took up as my first chance, mere_
_Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!_' Here
Lies paper!"

"Would my blood for ink suffice!"

"It may: this minion from a land of spice,
Silk, feather--every bird of jewelled breast--
This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest
Above your heart there"...

"Thus?"

"It flows, I see.
Dip there the point and write!"

"Dictate to me!
Nay, I remember."

And she wrote the words,
I read them. Then--"Since love, in you, affords
License for hate, in me, to quench (I say)
Contempt--why, hate itself has passed away
In vengeance--foreign to contempt. Depart
Peacefully to that death which Eastern art
Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true!
Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you--
Dead in our chamber!"

True as truth the tale.
She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale
Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,
And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,
Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst
Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

Immersed
In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?
For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps
--Still plain I seem to see!--about his head
The idle cloak,--about his heart (instead
Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude
My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?
Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow
The cloak then, Father--as your grate helps me now!

CENCIAJA

Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato.--_Italian Proverb._

Mr. Buxton Forman, the editor of Shelley, upon asking Browning the precise value attached to the terminal _aja_ in the title of his poem, received the following answer:--

"19 WARWICK CRESCENT, W., _July 27, '76_.

"DEAR MR. BUXTON FORMAN: There can be no objection to such a simple statement as you have inserted, if it seems worth inserting. 'Fact,' it is. Next: 'aia' is generally an accumulative yet depreciative termination: 'Cenciaja'--a bundle of rags--a trifle. The proverb means 'every poor creature will be pressing into the company of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended anything of the kind. Is it any contribution to 'all connected with Shelley,' if I mention that my 'Book' (_The Ring and the Book_) [rather the 'old square yellow book' from which the details were taken] has a reference to the reason given by Farinacci, the advocate of the Cenci, of his failure in the defence of Beatrice? 'Fuisse punitam Beatricem (he declares) poenâ ultimi supplicii, non quia ex intervallo occidi mandavit insidiantem suo honori, sed quia ejus exceptionem non probavi tibi. _Prout, et idem firmiter sperabatur de sorore Beatrice si propositam excusationem probasset, prout non probavit._' That is, she expected to avow the main outrage, and did not: in conformity with her words, 'That which I ought to confess, that will I confess; that to which I ought to assent, to that I assent; and that which I ought to deny, that will I deny.' Here is another Cenciaja!

"Yours very sincerely, ROBERT BROWNING."

May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass
That when your Beatrice seemed--by lapse
Of many a long month since her sentence fell--
Assured of pardon for the parricide--
By intercession of stanch friends, or, say,
By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope
Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,--
Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew
"Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent,
But said these three words coldly '_She must die;_'
Subjoining '_Pardon? Paolo Santa Croce_
_Murdered his mother also yestereve._
_And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!_'"
--So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled?
Shelley, may I condense verbosity
That lies before me, into some few words
Of English, and illustrate your superb
Achievement by a rescued anecdote,
No great things, only new and true beside?
As if some mere familiar of a house
Should venture to accost the group at gaze
Before its Titian, famed the wide world through,
And supplement such pictured masterpiece
By whisper, "Searching in the archives here,
I found the reason of the Lady's fate,
And how by accident it came to pass
She wears the halo and displays the palm:
Who, haply, else had never suffered--no,
Nor graced our gallery, by consequence."
Who loved the work would like the little news:
Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me
Relating how the penalty was paid
By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called
Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise,
For his complicity in matricide
With Paolo his own brother,--he whose crime
And flight induced "those three words--She must die."
Thus I unroll you then the manuscript.

"God's justice"--(of the multiplicity
Of such communications extant still,
Recording, each, injustice done by God
In person of his Vicar-upon-earth,
Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)--
"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,
Rests never on the track until it reach
Delinquency. In proof I cite the ease
Of Paolo Santa Croce."

Many times
The youngster,--having been importunate
That Marchesine Costanza, who remained
His widowed mother, should supplant the heir
Her elder son, and substitute himself
In sole possession of her faculty,--
And meeting just as often with rebuff,--
Blinded by so exorbitant a lust
Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits,
Casting about to kill the lady--thus.

He first, to cover his iniquity,
Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then
Authoritative lord, acquainting him
Their mother was contamination--wrought
Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House
By dissoluteness and abandonment
Of soul and body to impure delight.

Moreover, since she suffered from disease,
Those symptoms which her death made manifest
Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin
About to bring confusion and disgrace
Upon the ancient lineage and high fame
O' the family, when published. Duty bound,
He asked his brother--what a son should do?

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard
By letter, being absent at his land
Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more:
"It must behoove a son,--things haply so,--
To act as honor prompts a cavalier
And son, perform his duty to all three,
Mother and brothers"--here advice broke off.

By which advice informed and fortified
As he professed himself--since bound by birth
To hear God's voice in primogeniture--
Paolo, who kept his mother company
In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared
His whole enormity of enterprise,
And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead;
Whose death demonstrated her innocence,
And happened,--by the way,--since Jesus Christ
Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years.
Costanza was of aspect beautiful
Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age
Sixty about, to far surpass her peers
The coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace.

Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight,
Foiling thereby the justice of the world:
Not God's however,--God, be sure, knows well
The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here!
The present sinner, when he least expects,
Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate,
Stumbles upon his death by violence.
A man of blood assaults a man of blood
And slays him somehow. This was afterward:
Enough, he promptly met with his deserts,
And, ending thus, permits we end with him,
And push forthwith to this important point--
His matricide fell out, of all the days,
Precisely when the law-procedure closed
Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death
Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife.
"Thus patricide was matched with matricide,"
A poet not inelegantly rhymed:
Nay, fratricide--those Princes Massimi!--
Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope
That all the likelihood Rome entertained
Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight,
And she endured the piteous death.

Now see
The sequel--what effect commandment had
For strict inquiry into this last case,
When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great
His efficacy--nephew to the Pope!)
Was bidden crush--ay, though his very hand
Got soil i' the act--crime spawning everywhere!
Because, when all endeavor had been used
To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain--
"Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence,
"Throughout his now deserted domicile!
Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find
If haply any scrap of writing, hid
In nook or corner, may convict--who knows?--
Brother Onofrio of intelligence
With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood
Is but too likely: crime spawns everywhere."

And, every cranny searched accordingly,
There comes to light--O lynx-eyed Cardinal!--
Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap,
The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer,
The word of counsel that--things proving so,
Paolo should act the proper knightly part,
And do as was incumbent on a son,
A brother--and a man of birth, be sure!

Whereat immediately the officers
Proceeded to arrest Onofrio--found
At football, child's play, unaware of harm,
Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat
Monte Giordano; as he left the house
He came upon the watch in wait for him
Set by the Barigel,--was caught and caged.

News of which capture being, that same hour,
Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence
Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge,
To have the process in especial care,
Be, first to last, not only president
In person, but inquisitor as well,
Nor trust the by-work to a substitute:
Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub
The floor of Justice, so to speak,--go try
His best in prison with the criminal:
Promising, as reward for by-work done
Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained
And crime avowed, or such connivency
With crime as should procure a decent death--
Himself will humbly beg--which means, procure--
The Hat and Purple from his relative
The Pope, and so repay a diligence
Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case,
Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat.

Whereupon did my lord the Governor
So masterfully exercise the task
Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week
By week, and month by month, from first to last
Toiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place,
Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post,
Inquisitor--pressed cushion and scoured plank.
Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill,
Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends!
So that observers laughed as, many a day,
He left home, in July when day is flame,
Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged
Into a vault where daylong night is ice,
There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content,
Examining Onofrio: all the stress
Of all examination steadily
Converging into one pin-point,--he pushed
Tentative now of head and now of heart.
As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut
This side and that side till the kernel sound,--
So did he press the sole and single point
--What was the very meaning of the phrase
"_Do as beseems an honored cavalier_"?

Which one persistent question-torture,--plied
Day by day, week by week, and month by month,
Morn, noon and night,--fatigued away a mind
Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude,
And one vivacious memory gnawing there
As when a corpse is coffined with a snake:
--Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem
Admission that perchance his judgment groped
So blindly, feeling for an issue--aught
With semblance of an issue from the toils
Cast of a sudden round feet late so free,
He possibly might have envisaged, scarce
Recoiled from--even were the issue death
--Even her death whose life was death and worse!
Always provided that the charge of crime,
Each jot and tittle of the charge were true.
In such a sense, belike, he might advise
His brother to expurgate crime with ... well,
With Wood, if blood must follow on "_the course_
_Taken as might beseem a cavalier_."

Whereupon process ended, and report
Was made without a minute of delay
To Clement, who, because of those two crimes
O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late,
Must needs impatiently desire result.

Result obtained, he bade the Governor
Summon the Congregation and despatch.
Summons made, sentence passed accordingly
--Death by beheading. When his death-decree
Was intimated to Onofrio, all
Man could do--that did he to save himself.
'Twas much, the having gained for his defence
The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help
Of many noble friendly persons fain
To disengage a man of family,
So young too, from his grim entanglement:
But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled
There must be no diversion of the law.
Justice is justice, and the magistrate
Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.

So, the Marchese had his head cut off,
With Rome to see, a concourse infinite,
In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge:
Where, demonstrating magnanimity
Adequate to his birth and breed,--poor boy!--
He made the people the accustomed speech,
Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works,
And special good behavior as regards
A parent of no matter what the sex,
Bidding each son take warning from himself.
Truly, it was considered in the boy
Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap
So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore
By such an angler as the Cardinal!
Why make confession of his privity
To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips--
Or, better, saying "When I counselled him
'_To do as might beseem a cavalier_,'
What could I mean but '_Hide our parent's shame_
_As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church!_
_Bury it in a convent--ay, beneath_
_Enough dotation to prevent its ghost_
_From troubling earth!_'" Mere saying thus,--'t is plain,
Hot only were his life the recompense.
But he had manifestly proved himself
True Christian, and in lieu of punishment
Got praise of all men!--so the populace.

Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good
(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear)
And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much,
A Cardinal's equipment, some such word
As this from mouth to ear went saucily:
"Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew
From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world.

I add: Onofrio left one child behind,
A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace
Abundantly of soul and body, doomed
To life the shorter for her father's fate.
By death of her, the Marquisate returned
To that Orsini House from whence it came:
Oriolo having passed as donative
To Santa Croce from their ancestors.

And no word more? By all means! Would you know
The authoritative answer, when folk urged
"What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch,
Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?"
The answer was--"Hatred implacable,
By reason they were rivals in their love."
The Cardinal's desire was to a dame
Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride,
The simpleton must ostentatiously
Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift,
Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage;
Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand
To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal
Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young;
Whereon a fury entered him--the fire
He quenched with what could quench fire only--blood.
Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot,
The unwise boy, a certain festal eve,
Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be
That pressed too closely on him with a crowd.
He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then,
To put a face upon the incident,
Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court
I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend,
Ye youth, by this example how may greed
Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!"

So ends the chronicler, beginning with
"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,
Rests never till it reach delinquency."
Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass
That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL

A REMINISCENCE OF A. D. 1676

"No, boy, we must not"--so began
My Uncle (he's with God long since),
A-petting me, the good old man!
"We must not"--and he seemed to wince,
And lost that laugh whereto had grown
His chuckle at my piece of news,
How cleverly I aimed my stone--
"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,--ah, faith
Was young and strong in Florence too!
We Christians never dreamed of scathe
Because we cursed or kicked the crew.
But now--well, well! The olive-crops
Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks
Would always spare religious shops
Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I 'll tell you"--and his eye regained
Its twinkle--"tell you something choice
Something may help you keep unstained
Your honest zeal to stop the voice
Of unbelief with stone-throw--spite
Of laws, which modern fools enact,
That we must suffer Jews in sight
Go wholly unmolested! Fact!

"There was, then, in my youth, and yet
Is, by our San Frediano, just
Below the Blessed Olivet,
A wayside ground wherein they thrust
Their dead,--these Jews,--the more our shame!
Except that, so they will but die,
Christians perchance incur no blame
In giving hogs a hoist to sty.

"There, anyhow, Jews stow away
Their dead; and--such their insolence--
Slink at odd times to sing and pray
As Christians do--all make-pretence!--
Which wickedness they perpetrate
Because they think no Christians see.
They reckoned here, at any rate,
Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!

"For, what should join their plot of ground
But a good Farmer's Christian field?
The Jews had hedged their corner round
With bramble-bush to keep concealed
Their doings: for the public road
Ran betwixt this their ground and that
The Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed,
Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.

"So, properly to guard his store
And gall the unbelievers too,
He builds a shrine and, what is more,
Procures a painter whom I knew,
One Buti (he 's with God), to paint
A holy picture there--no less
Than Virgin Mary free from taint
Borne to the sky by angels: yes!

"Which shrine he fixed,--who says him nay?--
A-facing with its picture-side
Not, as you 'd think, the public way,
But just where sought these hounds to hide
Their carrion from that very truth
Of Mary's triumph: not a hound
Could act his mummeries uncouth
But Mary shamed the pack all round!

"Now, if it was amusing, judge!
--To see the company arrive,
Each Jew intent to end his trudge
And take his pleasure (though alive)
With all his Jewish kith and kin
Below ground, have his venom out,
Sharpen his wits for next day's sin,
Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!

"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds
Mary, I warrant, soaring brave!
And in a trice, beneath the folds
Of filthy garb which gowns each knave,
Down drops it--there to hide grimace,
Contortion of the mouth and nose
At finding Mary in the place
They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!

"At last, they will not brook--not they!--
Longer such outrage on their tribe:
So, in some hole and corner, lay
Their heads together--how to bribe
The meritorious Farmer's self
To straight undo his work, restore
Their chance to meet and muse on pelf--
Pretending sorrow, as before!

"Forthwith, a posse, if you please,
Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That
Almost go down upon their knees
To get him lay the picture flat.
The spokesman, eighty years of age,
Gray as a badger, with a goat's
Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage
War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:--

"'_Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil_
_Through life in Florence--why relate_
_To those who lay the burden, spoil_
_Our paths of peace? We bear our fate._
_But when with life the long toil ends,_
_Why must you--the expression craves_
_Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!--_
_Why must you plague us in our graves?_

"'_Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!_
_For how can you--the lords of ease_
_By nurture, birthright--e'en conceive_
_Our luxury to lie with trees_
_And turf,--the cricket and the bird_
_Left for our last companionship:_
_No harsh deed, no unkindly word,_
_No frowning brow nor scornful lip!_

"'_Death's luxury, we now rehearse_
_While, living, through your streets we fare_
_And take your hatred: nothing worse_
_Have we, once dead and safe, to bear!_
_So we refresh our souls, fulfil_
_Our works, our daily tasks; and thus_
_Gather you grain--earth's harvest--still_
_The wheat for you, the straw for us._

"'What flouting in a face, what harm,
In just a lady borne from bier
By boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?'
_You question. Friends, the harm is here--_
_That just when our last sigh is heaved,_
_And we would fain thank God and you_
_For labor done and peace achieved,_
_Back comes the Past in full review!_

"'_At sight of just that simple flag,_
_Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like_
_From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag--_
_Though fangless--forth what needs must strike_
_When stricken sore, though stroke be vain_
_Against the mailed oppressor! Give_
_Play to our fancy that we gain_
_Life's rights when once we cease to live!_

"'_Thus much to courtesy, to kind,_
_To conscience! Now to Florence folk!_
_There 's core beneath this apple-rind,_
_Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk!_
_Beneath this prayer to courtesy,_
_Kind, conscience--there 's a sum to pouch!_
_How many ducats down will buy_
_Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!_

"'_Removal, not destruction, sirs!_
_Just turn your picture! Let it front_
_The public path! Or memory errs,_
_Or that same public path is wont_
_To witness many a chance befall_
_Of lust, theft, bloodshed--sins enough,_
_Wherein our Hebrew part is small._
_Convert yourselves!_'--he cut up rough.

"Look you, how soon a service paid
Religion yields the servant fruit!
A prompt reply our Farmer made
So following: '_Sirs, to grant your suit_
_Involves much danger! How? Transpose_
_Our Lady? Stop the chastisement,_
_All for your good, herself bestows?_
_What wonder if I grudge consent?_

"'--_Yet grant it: since, what cash I take_
_Is so much saved from wicked use._
_We know you! And, for Mary's sake,_
_A hundred ducats shall induce_
_Concession to your prayer. One day_
_Suffices: Master Buti's brush_
_Turns Mary round the other way,_
_And deluges your side with slush._

"'_Down with the ducats therefore!_' Dump,
Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece,
Hard gold. Then out of door they stump,
These dogs, each brisk as with new lease
Of life, I warrant,--glad he 'll die
Henceforward just as he may choose,
Be buried and in clover lie!
Well said Esaias--'_stiff-necked Jews!_'

"Off posts without a minute's loss
Our Farmer, once the cash in poke,
And summons Buti--ere its gloss
Have time to fade from off the joke--
To chop and change his work, undo
The done side, make the side, now blank,
Recipient of our Lady--who,
Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!

"Now, boy, you 're hardly to instruct
In technicalities of Art!
My nephew's childhood sure has sucked
Along with mother's-milk some part
Of painter's-practice--learned, at least,
How expeditiously is plied
A work in fresco--never ceased
When once begun--a day, each side.

"So, Buti--(he 's with God)--begins:
First covers up the shrine all round
With hoarding; then, as like as twins,
Paints, t' other side the burial-ground,
New Mary, every point the same;
Next, sluices over, as agreed,
The old; and last--but, spoil the game
By telling you? Not I, indeed!

"Well, ere the week was half at end,
Out came the object of this zeal,
This fine alacrity to spend
Hard money for mere dead men's weal!
How think you? That old spokesman Jew
Was High Priest, and he had a wife
As old, and she was dying too,
And wished to end in peace her life!

"And he must humor dying whims,
And soothe her with the idle hope
They 'd say their prayers and sing their hymns
As if her husband were the Pope!
And she did die--believing just
--This privilege was purchased! Dead
In comfort through her foolish trust!
'_Stiff-necked ones_,' well Esaias said!

"So, Sabbath morning, out of gate
And on to way, what sees our arch
Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight--
The corpse--on shoulder, and so, march!
'_Now for it, Buti!_' In the nick
Of time 't is pully-hauly, hence
With hoarding! O'er the wayside quick
There 's Mary plain in evidence!

"And here 's the convoy halting: right!
Oh, they are bent on howling psalms
And growling prayers, when opposite!
And yet they glance, for all their qualms,
Approve that promptitude of his,
The Farmer's--duly at his post
To take due thanks from every phiz,
Sour smirk--nay, surly smile almost!

"Then earthward drops each brow again;
The solemn task 's resumed; they reach
Their holy field--the unholy train:
Enter its precinct, all and each,
Wrapt somehow in their godless rites;
Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo,
They lift their faces! What delights
The mourners as they turn to go?

"Ha, ha! he, he! On just the side
They drew their purse-strings to make quit
Of Mary,--Christ the Crucified
Fronted them now--these biters bit!
Never was such a hiss and snort,
Such screwing nose and shooting lip!
Their purchase--honey in report--
Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!

"Out they break, on they bustle, where,
A-top of wall, the Farmer waits
With Buti: never fun so rare!
The Farmer has the best: he rates
The rascal, as the old High Priest
Takes on himself to sermonize--
Nay, sneer, '_We Jews supposed, at least,_
_Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!_'

"'_Theft?_' cries the Farmer. '_Eat your words!_
_Show me what constitutes a breach_
_Of faith in aught was said or heard!_
_I promised you in plainest speech_
_I 'd take the thing you count disgrace_
_And put it here--and here 't is put!_
_Did you suppose I 'd leave the place_
_Blank therefore, just your rage to glut?_

"'_I guess you dared not stipulate_
_For such a damned impertinence!_
_So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate_
_And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!_
_As long as I have house and land,_
_To spite you irreligious chaps,_
_Here shall the Crucifixion stand--_
_Unless you down with cash, perhaps!_'

"So snickered he and Buti both.
The Jews said nothing, interchanged
A glance or two, renewed their oath
To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged
From grace, for all our Church can do;
Then off they scuttle: sullen jog
Homewards, against our Church to brew
Fresh mischief in their synagogue.

"But next day--see what happened, boy!
See why I bid you have a care
How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ
Such methods of revenge, forbear
No outrage on our faith, when free
To wreak their malice! Here they took
So base a method--plague o' me
If I record it in my Book!

"For, next day, while the Farmer sat
Laughing with Buti, in his shop,
At their successful joke,--rat-tat,--
Door opens, and they 're like to drop
Down to the floor as in there stalks
A six-feet-high herculean-built
Young he-Jew with a beard that balks
Description. '_Help ere blood be spilt!_'

--"Screamed Buti: for he recognized
Whom but the son, no less no more,
Of that High Priest his work surprised
So pleasantly the day before!
Son of the mother, then, whereof
The bier he lent a shoulder to,
And made the moans about, dared scoff
At sober Christian grief--the Jew!

"'_Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!_
_No apprehension!_' (Buti, white
And trembling like a tub of size,
Had tried to smuggle out of sight
The picture's self--the thing in oils,
You know, from which a fresco 's dashed
Which courage speeds while caution spoils)
'_Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!_

"'_Praised,--ay, and paid too: for I come_
_To buy that very work of yours._
_My poor abode, which boasts--well, some_
_Few specimens of Art, secures,_
_Haply, a masterpiece indeed_
_If I should find my humble means_
_Suffice the outlay. So, proceed!_
_Propose--ere prudence intervenes!_'

"On Buti, cowering like a child,
These words descended from aloft,
In tone so ominously mild,
With smile terrifically soft
To that degree--could Buti dare
(Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?
He asked, thus taken unaware,
No more than just the proper price!

"'_Done!_' cries the monster. '_I disburse_
_Forthwith your moderate demand._
_Count on my custom--if no worse_
_Your future work be, understand,_
_Than this I carry off! No aid!_
_My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:_
_The burden 's easy, and we 're made,_
_Easy or hard, to bear--we Jews!_'

"Crossing himself at such escape,
Buti by turns the money eyes
And, timidly, the stalwart shape
Now moving doorwards; but, more wise,
The Farmer--who, though dumb, this while
Had watched advantage--straight conceived
A reason for that tone and smile
So mild and soft! The Jew--believed!

"Mary in triumph borne to deck
A Hebrew household! Pictured where
No one was used to bend the neck
In praise or bow the knee in prayer!
Borne to that domicile by whom?
The son of the High Priest! Through what?
An insult done his mother's tomb!
Saul changed to Paul--the case came pat!

"'_Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is!_
_Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,--_
_Mary, by miracle,--oh bliss!--_
_My present to your burial-ground?_
_Certain, a ray of light has burst_
_Your vale of darkness! Had you else,_
_Only for Mary's sake, unpursed_
_So much hard money? Tell--oh, tell's!_'

"Round--like a serpent that we took
For worm and trod on--turns his bulk
About the Jew. First dreadful look
Sends Buti in a trice to skulk
Out of sight somewhere, safe--alack!
But our good Farmer faith made bold:
And firm (with Florence at his back)
He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled--