Admitted not one peccadillo here,
Pretended to perfection, first and last,
O’ the whole procedure—perfect in the end,
Perfect i’ the means, perfect in everything,
Leaving a lawyer nothing to excuse,
Reason away and show his skill about! (1440)
—A flight, impossible to Adamic flesh,
Just to be fancied, scarcely to be wished,
And, anyhow, unpleadable in court!
“How reconcile,” gasps Malice, “that with this?”
Comes of men’s outside meddling, the unskilled
Interposition of such fools as press
Out of their province. Must I speak my mind?
Far better had Pompilia died o’ the spot
Than found a tongue to wag and shame the law, (1450)
Shame most of all herself,—did friendship fail,
And advocacy lie less on the alert.
Listen how these protect her to the end!
Do I credit the alleged narration? No!
Lied our Pompilia then, to laud herself?
Still, no;—clear up what seems discrepancy?
The means abound,—art’s long, though time is short,
So, keeping me in compass, all I urge
Is—since, confession at the point of death,
Nam in articulo mortis, with the Church (1460)
Passes for statement honest and sincere,
Nemo presumitur reus esse,—then,
If sure that all affirmed would be believed,
’Twas charity, in one so circumstanced,
To spend her last breath in one effort more
For universal good of friend and foe,
And,—by pretending utter innocence,
Nay, freedom from each foible we forgive,—
Re-integrate—not solely her own fame,
But do the like kind office for the priest (1470)
Whom the crude truth might treat less courteously,
Indeed, expose to peril, abbreviate
The life and long career of usefulness
Presumably before him: while her lord,
Whose fleeting life is forfeit to the law,—
What mercy to the culprit if, by just
The gift of such a full certificate
Of his immitigable guiltiness,
She stifled in him the absurd conceit
Of murder as it were a mere revenge! (1480)
—Stopped confirmation of that jealousy
Which, had she but acknowledged the first flaw,
The faintest foible, might embolden him
To battle with his judge, baulk penitence,
Bar preparation for impending fate.
Whereas, persuade him he has slain a saint
Who sinned not in the little she did sin,
You urge him all the brisklier to repent
Of most and least and aught and everything!
Next,—if this view of mine, content ye not, (1490)
Lords, nor excuse the genial falsehood here,
’Tis come to our Triarii, last resource,
We fall back on the inexpugnable,
Submit you,—she confessed before she talked!
The sacrament obliterates the sin:
What is not,—was not, in a certain sense.
Let Molinists distinguish, “Souls washed white
“Were red once, still show pinkish to the eye!”
We say, abolishment is nothingness
And nothingness has neither head nor tail (1500)
End nor beginning;—better estimate
Exorbitantly, than disparage aught
Of the efficacity of the act, I hope!
Well,—not before (in filial gratitude
To Law, who, mighty mother, waves adieu)
We take on us to vindicate Law’s self—
For,—yea, Sirs,—curb the start, curtail the stare!—
Remains that we apologize for haste
I’ the Law, our lady who here bristles up (1510)
“And my procedure? Did the Court mistake?
“(Which were indeed a misery to think)
“Did not my sentence in the former stage
“O’ the business bear a title plain enough?
“Decretum”—I translate it word for word—
“‘Decreed: the priest, for his complicity
“‘I’ the flight and deviation of the dame,
“‘As well as for unlawful intercourse,
“‘Is banished three years:’ crime and penalty,
“Declared alive. If he be taxed with guilt (1520)
“How can you call Pompilia innocent?
“If they be innocent, have I been just?”
Is in the poor misapprehensiveness.
The Titulus a-top of your decree
Was but to ticket there the kind of charge
You in good time would arbitrate upon.
Title is one thing,—arbitration’s self,
Probatio, quite another possibly.
Subsistit, there holds good the old response. (1530)
Responsio tradita, we must not stick,
Quod non sit attendendus Titulus,
To the Title, sed Probatio, but to Proof,
Resultans ex processu, and result
O’ the Trial, and the style of punishment,
Et pœna per sententiam imposita;
All is tentative, till the sentence come,
Mere indication of what men expect,
And nowise an assurance they shall find.
Lords, what if we permissibly relax (1540)
The tense bow, as the law-god Phœbus bids,
Relieve our gravity at close of speech?
I traverse Rome, feel thirsty, need a draught,
Look for a wine-shop, find it by the bough
Projecting as to say “Here wine is sold!”
So much I know,—“sold:” but what sort of wine?
Strong, weak, sweet, sour, home made or foreign drink?
That much must I discover by myself.
“Wine is sold,” quoth the bough, “but good or bad,
“Find, and inform us when you smack your lips!” (1550)
Exactly so, Law hangs her title forth,
To show she entertains you with such case
About such crime: come in! she pours, you quaff.
You find the Priest good liquor in the main,
But heady and provocative of brawls.
Remand
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |