A Handbook to the Works of Browning (6th ed.)

by Mrs. Sutherland Orr

Count Guido, with his accomplices, has been condemned to death. His friends have appealed from the verdict, on the ground of his being, though in a minor degree, a priest. The answer to this appeal rests with the head of the Church. The next monologue is therefore that of

THE POPE. The reflections here imagined grow out of a double fact. Innocent the Twelfth refused to shelter Count Franceschini with his accomplices from the judgment of the law, and thus assumed the responsibility of his death. He had reached an age at which so heavy a responsibility could not be otherwise than painful. As Mr. Browning depicts him, his decision is made. From dawn to dark he has been studying the case, piecing together its fragmentary truths, trying its merits with "true sweat of soul." There is no doubt in his mind that Guido deserves to die. But he has to nerve himself afresh before he gives the one stroke of his pen, the one touch to his bell, which shall send this soul into eternity; and that is what we see him doing.

As he says to himself, he is weighed down by years. He lifts the cares of the whole world on a "loaded branch" for which a bird's nest were a "superfluous burthen." Yet this strong man cries to him for life: and he alone has the power to grant it. How easy to reprieve! How hard to deny to this trembling sinner the moment's respite which may save his soul. He wants precedent for such a deed; and he seeks it in the records of the Papacy. It is from the Popes his predecessors that he must learn how to dare, to suffer, and—to judge. But these records tell him how Stephen cursed Formosus; how Romanus and Theodore reinstated the sanctity of Formosus and cursed Stephen; and how John reinstated Stephen and cursed Formosus. They could not all be right. There is no guarantee for infallibility—no test of justice—to be found here.

How, then, would he defend his condemnation of Guido if he himself were now summoned to the judgment-seat? The question is self-answered: no defence would be needed; for God sees into the heart. He appraises the seed of act, which is its motive; not "leafage and branchage, vulgar eyes admire." The Pope knows that his motives will stand the scrutiny of God. How, finally, could he plead his cause with a man like himself: with the man Antonio Pignatelli, his very self? He must, once for all, marshal the facts, and let them plead for him.

Next follows the Pope's version of the story, which differs from those preceding it, in being the summing up of a spiritual judge, who deals not only with facts but with conditions, and who looks at the thing done, in its special reference to the person who did it. As seen in this light, the blacks of the picture are blacker, the whites, whiter, than they appear from the ordinary point of view. Guido has been doubly wicked because his birth, his breeding, and his connection with the Church, had surrounded him with incitements to good, and with opportunities for it. Pompilia is doubly virtuous because she is a mere "chance-sown," "cleft-nurtured" human weed, owing all her goodness to herself. With Guido, the bad end is secured by the worst means. Not satisfied to murder his wife, he must use a jagged instrument with which to torture her flesh. Not satisfied to torment her in the body, he must imperil her soul by placing desperate temptation in her way. With Pompilia the right virtue is always employed for the good end. She is submissive where only her own life is at stake; brave, when a life within her own calls on her for protection. Guido's accomplices: his brothers, his mother, the four youths who helped him to kill his wife: the Governor, and the Archbishop, who abetted his ill-treatment of her, have alike sinned against their age, their character, or their associations.

Caponsacchi has not been faultless. He has failed somewhat in the dignity of his office, somewhat in its decorum; his mode of rescuing the oppressed has had too much the character of an escapade. But the more disciplined soldier of the Church would have erred in the opposite direction. The ear which listens only for the voice of authority becomes obtuse to the cry of suffering. The spirit which only moves to command becomes unfit for spontaneous work. Caponsacchi, standing aloof like a man of pleasure, has proved himself the very champion of God, ready to spring into the arena, at the first thud of the false knight's glove upon the ground. He has shown himself possessed of the true courage which does not shrink from temptation, and does not succumb to it. Such transgressions as his reflect rather on the limits imposed than on the impatience which transgressed them. He must submit to a slight punishment. He must work—be unhappy—bear life. But he ranks next in grace to Pompilia—the "rose" which the old Pope "gathers for the breast of God." Of Count Guido's other victims, Pietro and Violante, the worst that can be said is this: they have halted between good and evil; and, as the way of the world is, suffered through both. The balance of justice once more confirms the Pope's decree.

Yet at this very moment his will relaxes. A sudden dread is upon him—a chill such as comes with the sudden clouding of a long clear sky. The ordeal of a deeper and stranger doubt is yet to be faced. He has judged, as he believed, by the light of Divine truth. Has he been mistaken?

Step by step he tests and reconstructs his belief, tracing it back to its beginning. God, the Infinite, exists. Man, the atom, comprehends him as the conditions of his intelligence permit, but so far truly. Man's mind, like a convex glass, reflects him, in an image, smaller or less small, adequate so far as it goes. As revealed in the order of nature, God is perfect in intelligence and in power; but not so in love; and there has come into the mouths and hearts of men, a tale and miracle of Divine love which makes the evidence of his perfection complete. The Pope believes that tale, whether true in itself, or like man's conception of the infinite, true only for the human mind. He accepts its enigmas as a test of faith: as a sign that life is meant for a training and a passage: as a guarantee of our moral growth, and of the good which evil may produce.

Christianity stands firm. And yet his heart misgives him; for it is not justified by its results. It is not that the sceptical deny its value: that those bent on earthly good reject it with open eyes. The surprise and terror is this: that those who have found the pearl of price—who have named and known it—will still grovel after the lower gain. Such the Aretine bishop who sent Pompilia back to her tormentor; the friar who refused to save her because he feared the world; the nuns who at first testified to her purity, and were ready to prove her one of dishonest life, when they learned that she possessed riches which by so doing they might confiscate to themselves.

Nor is the fault in humanity at large: for love and faith have leapt forth profusely in the olden time, at the summons of "unacknowledged," "uncommissioned" powers of good. Caponsacchi has shown that they do so still. Before Paul had spoken and Felix heard, Euripides had pronounced virtue the law of life, and, in his doctrine of hidden forces, foreshadowed the one God. Euripides felt his way in the darkness. He, the Pope, walking in the glare of noon, might ask support of him. Where does the fault lie? It lies in the excess of certainty—in the too great familiarity with the truth—in that encroachment of earthly natives on the heavenly, which is begotten by the security of belief. Between night and noonday there has been the dawn, with its searching illumination, its thrill of faith, the rapture of self-sacrifice in which anchorite and martyr foretasted the joys of heaven. Now Christianity is hard because it has become too easy; because of the "ignoble confidence," which will enjoy this world and yet count upon the next: the "shallow cowardice," which renders the old heroism impossible.