Hear him read out his writing to himself!
I know he writes as if he spoke: I hear
The hoarse shrill throat, see shut eyes, neck shot-forth,
—I see him strain on tiptoe, soar and pour
Eloquence out, nor stay nor stint at all— (240)
Perorate in the air, and so, to press
With the product! What abuse of type is here!
He’ll keep clear of my cast, my logic-throw,
Let argument slide, and then deliver swift
Some bowl from quite an unguessed point of stand—
Having the luck o’ the last word, the reply!
A plaguy cast, a mortifying stroke:
You face a fellow—cries “So, there you stand?
“But I discourteous jump clean o’er your head!
“You play ship-carpenter, not pilot so,— (250)
“Stop rat-holes, while a sea sweeps through the breach,—
“Hammer and fortify at puny points!
“Do, clamp and tenon, make all tight and safe!
“’Tis here and here and here you ship a sea,
“No good of your stopped leaks and littleness!”
The main defence o’ the murder’s used to death,
By this time, dry bare bones, no scrap to pick:
Safer I worked at the new, the unforeseen,
The nice bye-stroke, the fine and improvised, (260)
Point that can titillate the brain o’ the Bench
Torpid with over-teaching, by this time!
As if Tommati, that has heard, reheard
And heard again, first this side and then that,—
Guido and Pietro, Pietro and Guido din
And deafen, full three years, at each long ear,—
Don’t want amusement for instruction now,
Won’t rather feel a flea run o’er his ribs,
Than a daw settle heavily on his head!
Oh, I was young and had the trick of fence, (270)
Knew subtle pass and push with careless right—
The left arm ever quietly behind back
With the dagger in ’t: not both hands to blade!
Puff and blow, put the strength out, Blunderbore!
That’s my subordinate, young Spreti, now,
Pedant and prig,—he’ll pant away at proof,
That’s his way!
Into one’s choppy fingers this cold day!
I trust Cinuzzo ties on tippet, guards (280)
The precious throat on which so much depends!
Guido must be all goose-flesh in his hole,
Despite the prison-straw: bad Carnival
For captives! no sliced fry for him, poor Count!
The town a-swarm with strangers to amuse,
To edify, to give one’s name and fame
In charge of, till they find, some future day,
Cintino come and claim it, his name too,
Pledge of the pleasantness they owe papa— (290)
Who else was it, cured Rome of her great qualms,
When she must needs have her own judgment?—ay
Since all her topping wits had set to work,
Pronounced already on the case: mere boys,
Twice Cineruggiolo’s age and half his sense,
As good as tell me, when I cross the court,
“Master Arcangeli!” (plucking at my gown)
“We can predict, we comprehend your play,
“We’ll help you save your client.” Tra-la-la!
I’ve travelled ground, from childhood till this hour, (300)
To have the town anticipate my track!
The old fox takes the plain and velvet path,
The young hound’s predilection,—prints the dew,
Don’t he, to suit their pulpy pads of paw?
No! Burying nose deep down i’ the briery bush,
Thus I defend Count Guido.
First, which is foremost in advantage too,
Our murder,—we call, killing,—is a fact
Confessed, defended, made a boast of: good! (310)
To think the Fisc claimed use of torture here,
And got thereby avowal plump and plain
That gives me just the chance I wanted,—scope
Not for brute-force but ingenuity,
Explaining matters, not denying them!
One may dispute,—as I am bound to do,
And shall,—validity of process here:
Inasmuch as a noble is exempt
From torture which plebeians undergo
In such a case: for law is lenient, lax, (320)
Remits the torture to a nobleman
Unless suspicion be of twice the strength
Attaches to a man born vulgarly:
We don’t card silk with comb that dresses wool.
Moreover, ’twas severity undue
In this case, even had the lord been lout.
What utters, on this head, our oracle,
Our Farinacci, my Gamaliel erst,
In those immortal “Questions?” What I quote:
Of all the tools at Law’s disposal, sure (330)
“That named Vigiliarum is the best—
“That is, the worst—to whoso has to bear:
“Lasting, as it may do, from some seven hours
“To ten, (beyond ten, we’ve no precedent;
“Certain have touched their ten but, bah, they died!)
“It does so efficaciously convince
“That,—speaking by much observation here,—
“Out of each hundred cases, by my count,
“Never I knew of patients beyond four
“Withstand its taste, or less than ninety-six (340)
“End by succumbing: only martyrs four,
“Of obstinate silence, guilty or no,—against
“Ninety-six full confessors, innocent
“Or otherwise,—so shrewd a tool have we!”
No marvel either: in unwary hands,
Death on the spot is no rare consequence:
As indeed all but happened in this case
To one of ourselves, our young tough peasant-friend
The accomplice called Baldeschi: they were rough,
Dosed him with torture as you drench a horse, (350)
Not modify your treatment to a man:
So, two successive days he fainted dead,
And only on the third essay, gave up,
Confessed
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