And heart assured to heart in loyalty, (920)
All at an impulse! All extemporised
As in romance-books! Is that credible?
Well, yes: as she avers this with calm mouth
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, (930)
—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 (940)
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, (950)
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, (960)
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?
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, (970)
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 (980)
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 (990)
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. (1000)
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, (1010)
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 (1020)
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 (1030)
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
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