manded from him. He describes himself and his four faithful adherents "reeling Romeward." They arrive on Christmas eve, and the good count tells how his righteous wrath was held in check by the associations of that holy season: Festive bells-everywhere the Feast o' the Babe, Joy upon earth, peace and goodwill to man! I am baptised. I started, and let drop The dagger! But, after a struggle, he overcomes these softer emotions, and steels himself for the discharge of his dreadful task. He suggests that had Pompilia come to the door instead of the hated Violante, he might have relented, even at the last, Had but Pompilia's self, the tender thing, Who once was good and pure, was once my lamb, With the recent pang perhaps of giving birth To what might, though by miracle, seem my child and so on-half cant, half the one glimmer of tenderness in that seared soul. And now, having heard the husband, let us hear the wife; let us bend above the hospital bed, and listen to the sweet, low voice as it begins with childlike, artless tale (Book VII) :— I am just seventeen years and five months old, Lorenzo in Lucina; all my names At length, so many names for one poor child: Pompilia Comparini,—laughable! Also 'tis writ that I was married there This in its place, this which one cares to know, Exactly two weeks. Awhile she babbles on about her boy, explaining how she had called him "Gaetano" after the newest made of the Saints, in the hope that a less busy patron might be more interested in his protégé than ever the old Saints had been in her. Then going back, she briefly tells the story of her luckless marriage, and how Violante had bound her to silence-" Girl-brides never breathe a word." Then comes the miserable life at Arezzo; her husband's hate and brutality; the abominable woman, called her maid, who brings the forged letters, and is for ever whispering the name of Caponsacchi in her ears. In her wretchedness she longs for death, till, of a sudden, the consciousness of approaching motherhood transforms her entire being. It had got half through April. I arose One vivid daybreak, who had gone to bed In the old way, my wont those last three years, My sole thought Being still, as night came, "Done another day! How good to sleep and so get nearer death!" When, what, first thing at daybreak, pierced the sleep With a summons to me? Up I sprang alive, Light in me, light without me, everywhere Change! And now, to the amazement of the woman who had been Guido's vile instrument in plotting her downfall, she bids her summon the priest to her side. The interview that follows is described with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. She speaks right out what she required of him You serve God specially, as priests are bound, You go to Rome they tell me: take me there, And so the plan of flight was arranged and carried through. The journey and the scene at Castelnuovo are lightly touched on; and then her thoughts flit onward to the happy time when her child was born. I ask you what more exquisite picture than this has it ever entered the heart of poet to conceive, or been given to his pen to pourtray. [Read lines 1676 to 1695.] The sweet pathetic voice is sinking lower, and the end is nigh. Some one perhaps whispers Guido's name, and asks if she can forgive before her death. Forgive! she can do much more than that Let him make God amends,-none, none to me She dies in perfect charity with him, nay, excusing him We shall not meet in this world nor the next; She will not blame him even for hating her— I could not love him, but his mother did. And now, having with sweet child-like trust commended her babe to God, she would use her failing breath to thank those who had been so kind to her Ah! Friends, I thank and bless you every one! But, as oft happens, the expiring embers are kindled into a final glow; surely, now, if ever, by the inspiration of a breath Divine! [Read lines 1771 to end.] Meanwhile (Book VI), Guiseppe Caponsacchi is standing before the judges, trembling with wrathful scorn, choking with manifold emotions, exalted, horrified, amazed! These judges are not smiling and smirking now, but very grave! What do they want of him? Why would they hear the story again that they had treated with such good-humoured incredulity six months ago? Or had they merely sent for him to tell him that his relegation to Civita was at an end, and that he was a free man once more? Then the passion of scorn and despair bursts forth Thank you! I am rehabilitated then, A very reputable priest. But she The glory of life, the beauty of the world, move? Well sirs, does no one Do I speak ambiguously? The glory, I say, And the beauty, I say, and the splendour, still I say, Remit one deathbed pang to her? Come, smile! Who lets his soul show through transparent words, You are all struck acquiescent now, it seems: Even the redoubtable Tomati, sits Chopfallen! But anon his mood changes, and he consents to tell the story the judges are now ready enough to listen to with respect. He tells of his frivolous youth, of how lightly he was encouraged to think of his priestly vows by those who were his superiors in the church. Then he describes the change that came over him after he saw Pompilia for the first time. He grew disgusted with the hollow frivolity of his self-indulgent life, and when his patron, the Archbishop, half seriously and half jokingly, asks the meaning of it all, and if he was turning Molinist? the young priest replies, "Sir, what if I turned Christian?" He tells of the forged letters that were brought to him by the odious woman, but by which he was never for a moment imposed upon. Then comes his account of that first meeting. She had, as we already know, actually sent for him; but he had gone to the appointed place thinking to confront Guido and to make an end of these filthy plots. But there, to his amazement, was Pompilia. |