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Robert Browning - The Ring And The Book - Chapter IX - Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius
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“Where needs have been no trick!” 

                                My answer? Faugh!
Nimis incongrue! Too absurdly put!
Sententiam ego teneo contrariam,
Trick, I maintain, had no alternative.
The heavens were bound with brass,—Jove far at feast
(No feast like that thou didst not ask me to,
Arcangeli,—I heard of thy regale!)
With the unblamed Æthiop,—Hercules spun wool
I’ the lap of Omphale, while Virtue shrieked—
The brute came paddling all the faster. You
Of Troy, who stood at distance, where’s the aid
You offered in the extremity? Most and least,
Gentle and simple, here the Governor,
There the Archbishop, everywhere the friends,
Shook heads and waited for a miracle,
Or went their way, left Virtue to her fate.
Just this one rough and ready man leapt forth!
—Was found, sole anti-Fabius (dare I say)
To restore things, with no delay at all,
Qui, haud cunctando, rem restituit! He,
He only, Caponsacchi ’mid a crowd,
Caught Virtue up, carried Pompilia off
Thro’ the gaping impotence of sympathy
In ranged Arezzo: what you take for pitch,
Is nothing worse, belike, than black and blue,
Mere evanescent proof that hardy hands
Did yeoman’s service, cared not where the gripe
Was more than duly energetic: bruised,
She smarts a little, but her bones are saved
A fracture, and her skin will soon show sleek.
How it disgusts when weakness, false-refined,
Censures the honest rude effective strength,—
When sickly dreamers of the impossible
Decry plain sturdiness which does the feat
With eyes wide open! 

                                Did occasion serve,
I could illustrate, if my lords allow;
Quid vetat, what forbids, I aptly ask
With Horace, that I give my anger vent,
While I let breathe, no less, and recreate
The gravity of my Judges, by a tale—
A case in point—what though an apologue
Graced by tradition,—possibly a fact?
Tradition must precede all scripture, words
Serve as our warrant ere our books can be:
So, to tradition back we needs must go
For any fact’s authority: and this
Hath lived so far (like jewel hid in muck)
O’ the page of that old lying vanity
Called “Sepher Toldoth Yeschu:” God be praised,
I read no Hebrew,—take the thing on trust:
But I believe the writer meant no good
(Blind as he was to truth in some respects)
To our pestiferous and schismatic . . . well,
My lords’ conjecture be the touchstone, show
The thing for what it is! The author lacks
Discretion, and his zeal exceeds: but zeal,—
How rare in our degenerate day! Enough!
Here is the story,—fear not, I shall chop
And change a little, else my Jew would press
All too unmannerly before the Court. 

It happened once,—begins this foolish Jew,
Pretending to write Christian history,—
That three, held greatest, best and worst of men,
Peter and John and Judas, spent a day
In toil and travel through the country-side
On some sufficient business—I suspect,
Suppression of some Molinism i’ the bud.
Foot-sore and hungry, dropping with fatigue,
They reached by nightfall a poor lonely grange,
Hostel or inn: so, knocked and entered there.
“Your pleasure, great ones?”—“Shelter, rest and food!”
For shelter, there was one bare room above;
For rest therein, three beds of bundled straw:
For food, one wretched starveling fowl, no more—
Meat for one mouth, but mockery for three.
“You have my utmost.” How should supper serve?
Peter broke silence. “To the spit with fowl!
“And while ’tis cooking, sleep!—since beds there be,
“And, so far, satisfaction of a want.
“Sleep we an hour, awake at supper-time,
“Then each of us narrate the dream he had,
“And he whose dream shall prove the happiest, point
“The clearliest out the dreamer as ordained
“Beyond his fellows to receive the fowl,
“Him let our shares be cheerful tribute to,
“His the entire meal, may it do him good!”
Who could dispute so plain a consequence?
So said, so done: each hurried to his straw,
Slept his hour’s-sleep and dreamed his dream, and woke.
“I,” commenced John, “dreamed that I gained the prize
“We all aspire to: the proud place was mine,
“Throughout the earth and to the end of time
“I was the Loved Disciple: mine the meal!”
“But I,” proceeded Peter, “dreamed, a word
“Gave me the headship of our company,
“Made me the Vicar and Vice-regent, gave
“The keys of Heaven and Hell into my hand,
“And o’er the earth, dominion: mine the meal!”
“While I,” submitted in soft under-tone
The Iscariot—sense of his unworthiness
Turning each eye up to the inmost white—
With long-drawn sigh, yet letting both lips smack,
“I have had just the pitifullest dream
“That ever proved man meanest of his mates,
“And born foot-washer and foot-wiper, nay
“Foot-kisser to each comrade of you all!
“I dreamed I dreamed; and in that mimic dream
“(Impalpable to dream as dream to fact)
“Methought I meanly chose to sleep no wink
“But wait until I heard my brethren breathe;
“Then stole from couch, slipped noiseless to the door,
“Slid downstairs, furtively approached the hearth,
“Found the fowl duly brown, both back and breast,
“Hissing in harmony with the cricket’s chirp,
“Grilled to a point; said no grace but fell to,
“Nor finished till the skeleton lay bare.
“In penitence for which ignoble dream,
“Lo, I renounce my portion cheerfully!
“Fie on the flesh—be mine the etherial gust,
“And yours the sublunary sustenance!
“See, that whate’er be left, ye give the poor!”
Down the two scuttled, one on other’s heel,
Stung by a fell surmise; and found, alack,
A goodly savour, both the drumstick-bones,
And that which henceforth took the appropriate name
O’ the merry-thought, in memory of the fact
That to keep wide awake is our best dream. 

So,—as was said once of Thucydides
And his sole joke, “The lion, lo, hath laughed!”—
Just so, the Governor and all that’s great
I’ the city, never meant that Innocence
Should starve thus while Authority sat at meat.
They meant to fling a bone at banquet’s end,
Wished well to our Pompilia—in their dreams,
Nor bore the secular sword in vain—asleep:
Just so the Archbishop and all good like him
Went to bed meaning to pour oil and wine
I’ the wounds of her, next day,—but long ere day,
They had burned the one and drunk the other: while
Just so, again, contrariwise, the priest
Sustained poor Nature in extremity
By stuffing barley-bread into her mouth,
Saving Pompilia (grant the parallel)
By the plain homely and straightforward way
Taught him by common-sense. Let others shriek
“Oh what refined expedients did we dream
“Proved us the only fit to help the fair!”
He cried “A carriage waits, jump in with me!” 

And now, this application pardoned, lords,—
This recreative pause and breathing-while,—
Back to beseemingness and gravity!
For Law steps in: Guido appeals to Law,
Demands she arbitrate,—does well for once.
O Law, of thee how neatly was it said
By that old Sophocles, thou hast thy seat
I’ the very breast of Jove, no meanlier throned!
Here is a piece of work now, hitherto
Begun and carried on, concluded near,
Without an eye-glance cast thy sceptre’s way;
And, lo the stumbling and discomfiture!
Well may you call them “lawless,” means men take
To extricate themselves through mother-wit
When tangled haply in the toils of life!
Guido would try conclusions with his foe,
Whoe’er the foe was and whate’er the offence;
He would recover certain dowry-dues:
Instead of asking Law to lend a hand,
What pother of sword drawn and pistol cocked,
What peddling with forged letters and paid spies,
Politic circumvention!—all to end
As it began—by loss of the fool’s head,
First in a figure, presently in a fact.
It is a lesson to mankind at large.
How other were the end, would men be sage
And bear confidingly each quarrel straight,
O Law, to thy recipient mother-knees!
How would the children light come and prompt go,
This, with a red-cheeked apple for reward,
The other, peradventure red-cheeked too
I’ the rear, by taste of birch for punishment.
No foolish brawling murders any more!
Peace for the household, practice for the Fisc,
And plenty for the exchequer of my lords!
Too much to hope, in this world: in the next,
Who knows? Since, why should sit the Twelve enthroned
To judge the tribes, unless the tribes be judged?
And ’tis impossible but offences come:
So, all’s one lawsuit, all one long leet-day! 

Forgive me this digression—that I stand
Entranced awhile at Law’s first beam, outbreak
O’ the business, when the Count’s good angel bade
“Put up thy sword, born enemy to the ear,
“And let Law listen to thy difference!”
And Law does listen and compose the strife,
Settle the suit, how wisely and how well!
On our Pompilia, faultless to a fault,
Law bends a brow maternally severe,
Implies the worth of perfect chastity,
By fancying the flaw she cannot find.
Superfluous sifting snow, nor helps nor harms:
’Tis safe to censure levity in youth,
Tax womanhood with indiscretion, sure!
Since toys, permissible to-day, become
Follies to-morrow: prattle shocks in church:
And that curt skirt which lets a maiden skip,
The matron changes for a trailing robe.
Mothers may risk thus much with half-shut eyes
Nodding above their spindles by the fire,
On the chance to hit some hidden fault, else safe.
Just so, Law hazarded a punishment—
If applicable to the circumstance,
Why, well—if not so apposite, well too.
“Quit the gay range o’ the world,” I hear her cry,
“Enter, in lieu, the penitential pound:
“Exchange the gauds of pomp for ashes, dust:—
“Leave each mollitious haunt of luxury,
“The golden-garnished silken-couched alcove,
“The many-columned terrace that so tempts
“Feminine soul put foot forth, nor stop ear
“To fluttering joy of lover’s serenade,
“Leave these for cellular seclusion; mask
“And dance no more, but fast and pray; avaunt—
“Be burned, thy wicked townsman’s sonnet-book!
“Welcome, mild hymnal by . . . some better scribe!
“For the warm arms, were wont enfold thy flesh,
“Let wire-shirt plough and whip-cord discipline!”
If such an exhortation proved, perchance,
Inapplicable, words bestowed in waste,
What harm, since law has store, can spend nor miss? 

And so, our paragon submits herself,
Goes at command into the holy house
And, also at command, comes out again:
For, could the effect of such obedience prove
Too certain, too immediate? Being healed,
Go blaze abroad the matter, blessed one!
Art thou sound forthwith? Speedily vacate
The step by pool-side, leave Bethesda free
To patients plentifully posted round,
Since the whole need not the physician! Brief,
She may betake her to her parents’ place.
Welcome her, father, with wide arms once more,
Motion her, mother, to thy breast again!
For why? The law relinquishes its charge,
Grants to your dwelling-place a prison’s style,
But gives you back Pompilia; golden days,
Redeunt Saturnia regna! Six weeks slip,
And she is domiciled in house and home
As though she thence had never budged at all.
And thither let the husband, joyous—ay,
But contrite also—quick betake himself,
Proud that his dove which lay among the pots
Hath mued those dingy feathers,—moulted now,
Shows silver bosom clothed with yellow gold.
Quick, he shall tempt her to the perch she fled,
Bid to domestic bliss the truant back! 

O let him not delay! Time fleets how fast,
And opportunity, the irrevocable,
Once flown will flout him! Is the furrow traced?
If field with corn ye fail preoccupy,
Darnel for wheat and thistle-beards for grain,
Infelix lolium, carduus horridus,
Will grow apace in combination prompt,
Defraud the husbandman of his desire.
Already—hist—what murmurs ’monish now
The laggard?—doubtful, nay, fantastic bruit
Of such an apparition, such return
Interdum, to anticipate the spouse,
Of Caponsacchi’s very self! ’Tis said
When nights are lone and company is rare,
His visitations brighten winter up.
If so they did—which nowise I believe—
How can I?—proof abounding that the priest,
Once fairly at his relegation place
Never once left it—still, admit he stole
A midnight march, would fain see friend again,
Find matter for instruction in the past,
Renew the old adventure in such chat
As cheers a fireside! He was lonely too,
He, too, must need his recreative hour.
Should it amaze the philosophic mind
If one, was wont the enpurpled cup to quaff,
Have feminine society at will,
Being debarred abruptly from all drink
Save at the spring which Adam used for wine,
Dread harm to just the health he hoped to guard,
And, meaning abstinence, gain malady?
Ask Tozzi, now physician to the Pope!
“Little by little break”—(I hear he bids
Master Arcangeli my antagonist,
Who loves good cheer—and may indulge too much—
So I explain the logic of the plea
Wherewith he opened our proceedings late)—
“Little by little break a habit, Don!
“Become necessity to feeble flesh!”
And thus, nocturnal taste of intercourse
(Which never happened,—but, suppose it did)
May have been used to dishabituate
By sip and sip this drainer to the dregs
O’ the draught of conversation,—heady stuff,
Brewage which broached, it took two days and nights
To properly discuss o’ the journey, Sirs!
Such is the second-nature, men call use,
That undelightful objects get to charm
Instead of chafe: the daily colocynth
Tickles the palate by repeated dose,
Old sores scratch kindly, the ass makes a push,
Although the mill-yoke-wound be smarting yet,
For mill-door bolted on a holiday—
And must we marvel if the impulse urge
To talk the old story over now and then,
The hopes and fears, the stoppage and the haste,—
Subjects of colloquy to surfeit once?
“Here did you bid me twine a rosy wreath!”
“And there you paid my lips a compliment!”
“There you admired the tower could be so tall!”
“And there you likened that of Lebanon
“To the nose o’ the beloved!”—Trifles—still,
“Forsan et hœc olim,”—such trifles serve
To make the minutes pass in winter-time, 

Husband, return then, I re-counsel thee!
For, finally, of all glad circumstance
Should make a prompt return imperative,
What i’ the world awaits thee, dost suppose?
O’ the sudden, as good gifts are wont befall,
What is the hap of the unconscious Count?
That which lights bonfire and sets cask a-tilt,
Dissolves the stubborn’st heart in jollity.
O admirable, there is born a babe,
A son, an heir, a Franceschini last
And best o’ the stock! Pompilia, thine the palm!
Repaying incredulity with faith,
Ungenerous thrift of each marital debt
With bounty in profuse expenditure,
Pompilia will not have the old year end
Without a present shall ring in the new—
Bestows upon her parsimonious lord
An infant for the apple of his eye,
Core of his heart, and crown completing life,
The summum bonum of the earthly lot!
“We,” saith ingeniously the sage, “are born
“Solely that others may be born of us.”
So, father, take thy child, for thine that child,
Oh nothing doubt! In wedlock born, law holds
Baseness impossible, since “filius est
Quem nuptiœ demonstrant,” twits the text
Whoever dares to doubt. 

                            Yet doubt he dares!
O faith where art thou flown from out the world?
Already on what an age of doubt we fall!
Instead of each disputing for the prize,
The babe is bandied here from that to this.
Whose the babe? “Cujum pecus?” Guido’s lamb?
“An Melibœi?” Nay, but of the priest!
“Non sed Ægonis!” Some one must be sire:
And who shall say in such a puzzling strait,
If there were not vouchsafed some miracle
To the wife who had been harassed and abused
More than enough by Guido’s family
For non-production of the promised fruit
Of marriage? What if Nature, I demand,
Touched to the quick by taunts upon her sloth,
Had roused herself, put forth recondite power,
Bestowed this birth to vindicate her sway?
Like to the favour, Maro memorised,
Was granted Aristæus when his hive
Lay empty of the swarm, not one more bee—
Not one more babe to Franceschini’s house—
And lo, a new birth filled the air with joy,
Sprung from the bowels of the generous steed!
Just so a son and heir rejoiced the Count!
Spontaneous generation, need I prove
Were facile feat to Nature at a pinch?
Let whoso doubts, steep horsehair certain weeks,
In water, there will be produced a snake;
A second product of the horse, which horse
Happens to be the representative—
Now that I think on’t—of Arezzo’s self
The very city our conception blessed!
Is not a prancing horse the City-arms?
What sane eye sees not such coincidence?
Cur ego, boast thou, my Pompilia, then,
Desperem fieri sine conjuge
Mater—how well the Ovidian distich suits!—
Et parere intacto dummodo
Casta viro? but language baffles here.
Note, further, as to mark the prodigy,
The babe in question neither took the name
Of Guido, from the sire presumptive, nor
Giuseppe, from the sire potential, but
Gaetano—last saint of the hierarchy,
And newest namer for a thing so new:
What other motive could have prompted choice? 

Therefore be peace again: exult, ye hills!
Ye vales rejoicingly break forth in song!
Incipe, parve puer, begin, small boy,
Risu cognoscere patrem, with a smile
To recognise thy parent! Nor do thou
Boggle, oh parent, to return the grace—
Nec anceps hare, pater, puero
Cognoscendo—one might well eke out the prayer!
In vain! The perverse Guido doubts his eyes
Distrusts assurance, lets the devil drive;
Because his house is swept and garnished now,
He, having summoned seven like himself,
Must hurry thither, knock and enter in,
And make the last worse than the first, indeed!
Is he content? We are. No further blame
O’ the man and murder! They were stigmatised
Befittingly: the Court heard long ago
My mind o’ the matter, which, outpouring full,
Has long since swept, like surge i’ the simile
Of Homer, overborne both dyke and dam,
And whelmed alike client and advocate:
His fate is sealed, his life as good as gone,
On him I am not tempted to waste word.
Yet though my purpose holds,—which was and is
And solely shall be to the very end,
To draw the true effigiem of a saint,
Do justice to perfection in the sex,—
Yet, let not some gross pamperer o’ the flesh
And niggard in the spirit’s nourishment,
Whose feeding hath offuscated his wit
Rather than law,—he never had, to lose—
Let not such advocate object to me
I leave my proper function of attack!
“What’s this to Bacchus?”—(in the classic phrase,
Well used, for once) he hiccups probably.
O Advocate o’ the poor, thou born to make
Their blessing void—beati pauperes!
By painting saintship I depicture sin,
Beside the pearl, I prove how black the jet,
And through Pompilia’s virtue, Guido’s crime. 

Back to her, then,—with but one beauty more,
End we our argument,—one crowning grace
Pre-eminent ’mid agony and death.
For to the last Pompilia played her part,
Used the right means to the permissible end,
And, wily as an eel that stirs the mud
Thick overhead, so baffling spearman’s thrust,
She, while he stabbed her, simulated death,
Delayed, for his sake, the catastrophe,
Obtained herself a respite, four days’ grace,
Whereby she told her story to the world,
Enabled me to make the present speech,
And, by a full confession, saved her soul. 

Yet hold, even here would malice leer its last,
Gurgle its choaked remonstrance: snake, hiss free!
Oh, that’s the objection? And to whom?—not her
But me, forsooth—as, in the very act
Of both confession and, what followed close,
Subsequent talk, chatter and gossipry,
Babble to sympathising he and she
Whoever chose besiege her dying bed,—
As this were found at variance with my tale,
Falsified all I have adduced for truth,
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!
—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?” 

Your “this,” friend, is extraneous to the law,
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,
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
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
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!
—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,
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
End nor beginning;—better estimate
Exorbitantly, than disparage aught
Of the efficacity of the act, I hope! 

Solvuntur tabulœ? May we laugh and go?
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
“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
“How can you call Pompilia innocent?
“If they be innocent, have I been just?” 

Gently, O mother, judge men!—whose mistake
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.
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
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!”
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 the residue to flask once more,
Lay it low where it may deposit lees,
I’ the cellar: thence produce it presently,
Three years the brighter and the better! 

                                                    Thus,
Law’s son, have I bestowed my filial help,
And thus I end, tenax proposito;
Point to point as I purposed have I drawn
Pompilia, and implied as terribly
Guido: so, gazing, let the world crown Law—
Able once more, despite my impotence,
And helped by the acumen of the Court,
To eliminate, display, make triumph truth!
What other prize than truth were worth the pains? 

There’s my oration—much exceeds in length
That famed Panegyric of Isocrates,
They say it took him fifteen years to pen.
But all those ancients could say anything!
He put in just what rushed into his head,
While I shall have to prune and pare and print.
This comes of being born in modern times
With priests for auditory. Still, it pays.
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