What remains … well, it is an ugly thought …
But that he drive herself to plague herself—
Herself disgrace herself and so disgrace
Who seek to disgrace Guido?
To what else seems gratuitously vile,
If, as is said, from this time forth the rack
Was tried upon Pompilia: ’twas to wrench
Her limbs into exposure that brings shame.
The aim o’ the cruelty being so crueller still, (690)
That cruelty almost grows compassion’s self
Could one attribute it to mere return
O’ the parents’ outrage, wrong avenging wrong.
They see in this a deeper deadlier aim,
Not to vex just a body they held dear,
But blacken too a soul they boasted white,
And show the world their saint in a lover’s arms,
No matter how driven thither,—so they say.
And Guido lacks not an apologist. (700)
The pair had nobody but themselves to blame,
Being selfish beasts throughout, no less, no more:
—Cared for themselves, their supposed good, nought else,
And brought about the marriage; good proved bad,
As little they cared for her its victim—nay,
Meant she should stay behind and take the chance,
If haply they might wriggle themselves free.
They baited their own hook to catch a fish
With this poor worm, failed o’ the prize, and then
Sought how to unbait tackle, let worm float (710)
Or sink, amuse the monster while they ’scaped.
Under the best stars Hymen brings above,
Had all been honesty on either side,
A common sincere effort to good end,
Still, this would prove a difficult problem, Prince!
—Given, a fair wife, aged thirteen years,
A husband poor, care-bitten, sorrow-sunk,
Little, long-nosed, bush-bearded, lantern-jawed,
Forty-six-years full,—place the two grown one,
She, cut off sheer from every natural aid, (720)
In a strange town with no familiar face—
He, in his own parade-ground or retreat
As need were, free from challenge, much less check
To an irritated, disappointed will—
How evolve happiness from such a match?
’Twere hard to serve up a congenial dish
Out of these ill-agreeing morsels, Duke,
By the best exercise of the cook’s craft,
Best interspersion of spice, salt and sweet!
But let two ghastly scullions concoct mess (730)
With brimstone, pitch, vitriol, and devil’s-dung—
Throw in abuse o’ the man, his body and soul,
Kith, kin, and generation, shake all slab
At Rome, Arezzo, for the world to nose,
Then end by publishing, for fiend’s arch-prank,
That, over and above sauce to the meat’s self,
Why, even the meat, bedevilled thus in dish,
Was never a pheasant but a carrion-crow—
Prince, what will then the natural loathing be?
What wonder if this?—the compound plague o’ the pair
Pricked Guido,—not to take the course they hoped, (741)
That is, submit him to their statement’s truth,
Accept its obvious promise of relief,
And thrust them out of doors the girl again
Since the girl’s dowry would not enter there,
—Quit of the one if baulked of the other: no!
Rather did rage and hate so work in him,
Their product proved the horrible conceit
That he should plot and plan and bring to pass
His wife might, of her own free will and deed, (750)
Relieve him of her presence, get her gone,
And yet leave all the dowry safe behind,
Confirmed his own henceforward past dispute,
While blotting out, as by a belch of hell,
Their triumph in her misery and death.
O’ the subtle air that breeds the subtle wit;
Was noble too, of old blood thrice-refined
That shrinks from clownish coarseness in disgust:
Allow that such an one may take revenge, (760)
You don’t expect he’ll catch up stone and fling,
Or try cross-buttock, or whirl quarter- staff?
Instead of the honest drubbing clowns bestow,
When out of temper at the dinner spoilt,
On meddling mother-in-law and tiresome wife,—
Substitute for the clown a nobleman,
And you have Guido, practising, ’tis said,
Unmitigably from the very first,
The finer vengeance: this, they say, the fact
O’ the famous letter shows—the writing traced (770)
At Guido’s instance by the timid wife
Over the pencilled words himself writ first—
Wherein she, who could neither write nor read,
Was made unblushingly declare a tale
To the brother, the Abate then in Rome,
How her putative parents had impressed,
On their departure, their enjoinment; bade
“We being safely arrived here, follow, you!
“Poison your husband, rob, set fire to all,
“And then by means o’ the gallant you procure (780)
“With ease, by helpful eye and ready tongue,
“The brave youth ready to dare, do, and die,
“You shall run off and merrily reach Rome
“Where we may live like flies in honey-pot:”—
Such being exact the programme of the course
Imputed her as carried to effect.
All sort of torture was piled, pain on pain,
On either side Pompilia’s path of life,
Built round about and over against by fear,
Circumvallated month by month, and week
By week, and day by day, and hour by hour,
Close, closer and yet closer still with pain,
No outlet from the encroaching pain save just
Where stood one saviour like a piece of heaven,
Hell’s arms would
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